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taking a stand

Posted by cgcopy on April 23, 2015 in it's life

5b9876ab422e5376a14e659405c24c1f-1I rode the New York City subways for years. Uptown, downtown, summer, winter, day, evening. Thousands of times. And never — not once — did a guy ever offer me his seat. Of course, I was in my 20s and 30s then and not in need of a seat (not that I am now, either). But it would have been nice if once — just once (sigh) — a gentleman would have proven that chivalry was still alive and well.

Imagine my surprise, then, when not one but two such gentlemen showed up on the LA subway. B. and I were on our way downtown one day last week to have a most excellent adventure. There we were on the Red line (I don’t know, I’m not sure I can take seriously a subway system that has color names for its lines vs. New York with its no-nonsense-to-the-point numbered trains). Since seats were few and far between, we stood as the train started to roll. As I was getting into my “subway sway,” a buff young guy popped out of his seat (the seat marked “please relinquish for senior or disabled persons”) and motioned me over. “Thanks,” I said, smiling graciously. “But I’m fine standing.” “Please,” he said. “I’m getting off at the next stop.” Not wanting to appear rude, I sat down, knowing full well that the next stop was at least 10 minutes down the track.

At the next stop (11 stops in all), finally, finally, an elderly woman with a cane got on the train. I stood up at warp speed and offered her my seat, which she gratefully accepted. So there I was, standing, holding on with one hand, doing my subway happy dance (in my head, at least).

And then — what are the chances? — it happened again. Another young man started to get up to give me his seat. (Who knew there were so many annoyingly well-mannered guys in LA? Or were they all just on the subway that day?) I couldn’t help it. I had to shut him down. “No, thank you,” I said firmly. “I’m getting out at the next stop.” Fortunately, he didn’t persist — I would have had to kick him in the shins with my cute little sneakers (again, only in my mind). By this point, B. looked so much like the cat that swallowed the canary that there were practically yellow feathers sticking out of his mouth.

When we finally arrived downtown, I was pouting like a child (see, I’m still young).

B: “What’s the matter? Those guys were just trying to be nice.”

Me: “Nice? What’s nice about making a 50-something woman feel old by offering her your seat — your senior-or-disabled-person seat?”

B: (Coughs to cover a laugh) “I’m sure that’s not why they did it. They were just being polite.”

Me: “Really? Did you see them being polite to any of the younger women on the train? That second guy offered me his seat instead of offering it to the pregnant woman standing in the aisle!”

B: (Pivots) “So where do you want to go first? Disney Concert Hall or MOCA?”

Me: “I want to go back to being 30 when no man would even consider offering me his seat!”

It was too pretty a day for me to brood for too much longer. And you know what helped? A guy who didn’t hold the door, one who cut ahead of me in line for a lunch order (okay, those two were just rude) — and one who made a huge effort to pretend he didn’t see me standing next to his seated butt on the train home.

Isn’t it funny how the things we thought we wanted when we were younger turn out to be things we’d rather not have as we get older? And how, while others may perceive us as old enough to deserve some special treatment, we see ourselves as 20 or 30, in our youth, and a little put off by the gesture. (Even if I qualify for the 55+ discount, do I really want it? I guess so.) So to all you very polite young men out there, thank you, but, if you don’t mind (and even if you do), no thank you for now.

I like standing on my own two feet.

ⓒ 2015 Claudia Grossman

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when brenda and eddie met tommy and gina

Posted by cgcopy on March 31, 2015 in coloring outside the lines, music

images-1Here’s a thought: What if Brenda and Eddie from Billy Joel’s Scenes from an Italian Restaurant met Tommy and Gina from Bon Jovi’s Living on a Prayer? What? It could happen. Here’s what we know: Brenda and Eddie are from Long Island, the former King and Queen of the Prom who marry against all advice, get furniture from Sears and then split up (no, not because of the furniture). Tommy and Gina are from Jersey, two blue-collar kids working to make ends meet, Tommy on the docks and Gina in a diner, until the union goes on strike and Tommy’s out of work. I’m thinking that Brenda and Eddie have more money but that Tommy and Gina have more of a work ethic. Here, now, is my imagination at work:

The two couples make a date to go to an Italian restaurant in the City (New York City, where else?). Brenda and Eddie order a bottle of Mateus Rosé (you need to have lived through the ’70s to recognize that name) while Tommy and Gina go with beer. (“Bud if you got it, Pabst if not.”) Brenda is decked out in late-1970s Long Island style — Jordache jeans, Huk-a-Poo shirt (boldly patterned polyester), fake nails, platform shoes, and about a dozen bracelets. Eddie is showing some chest hair — and some neck chains, one with a good-luck horn charm — wearing his polyester shirt, designer jeans and Tony-Manero-Stayin’-Alive shoes. Meanwhile, Tommy and Gina both have the tight-Levi’s-and-t-shirt look with biker boots and big, big hair.

How these four met is complicated. Brenda’s brother’s ex used to date Tommy’s cousin’s brother-in-law who, as it turns out, manages a bowling alley down the shore where all four once attended a birthday party for little Frankie, who is somehow related both to Eddie and Gina.

So the twosomes grab a table at the Italian restaurant and order — meatball heroes with extra gravy all around, except for Brenda, who’s watching her calories and goes with the chicken parmigiana, hold the mozz.

Gina talks about her boss who’s always trying to make a move on her; Brenda advises her on how to make him stop — threaten to tell his wife. Tommy talks about how tough finding work is; Eddie tells him about his newest scheme to make a million without having to lift a finger. The girls compare engagement rings — Brenda’s is pretentiously large (she doesn’t know it’s not real — Eddie’s kind of cheap). Gina’s real diamond is tiny but she loves it (Tommy wishes he could have given her a bigger ring).

It’s 10 o’clock and Gina and Tommy need to get going — her shift at the diner starts at 6 a.m. and he’s got to hit the pavement early, looking for a job. They get on his bike and take off through the tunnel to Jersey, her holding on tight with one hand, waving Brenda and Eddie goodbye with the other. Brenda and Eddie stay for dessert (he orders cannoli, she just picks) and then they, too, call it a night, heading back over the bridge to Long Island in Eddie’s red Camaro with the tinted windows and chrome wheels — Movin’ Out blasting through the speakers.

My guess is that Billy and Jon have had better things to do over the years than put Brenda and Eddie and Tommy and Gina together to see what would happen. My excuse is that I’ve grown so fond of both couples over the years that I just can’t resist seeing them as a quartet. After all, I love a good song. Just sayin’.

ⓒ 2015 Claudia Grossman

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deuces wild

Posted by cgcopy on March 17, 2015 in coloring outside the lines

deuceEver watch couples interact and make up stories about them? (Or is that only me?) For example, those two sitting with their heads together over Caramel Macchiatos? Trying to decide the best way to tell her husband and his wife that they are running off to Tahiti. That distinguished, old-moneyed couple nibbling caviar on toast points? Working on preserving their image of dignity even though she’s not wearing any underwear and he’s just realized it. That pair choosing an engagement ring? Undercover cops on a stakeout.

In other words, you just don’t know what goes on behind coffee cups, caviar or carats.

More than a couple of examples:

Frank and Claire Underwood (Kevin Spacey and Robin Wright). Has there ever been a more ruthless, less ethical yet totally entertaining twosome? Between her cold, calculated lust for power and his sociopathic, take-no-prisoners stance on ruling the world, it’s amazing that this House of Cards can hold them both. And it’s undeniable how much fun these two kids are. They’d be killer on The Newlywed Game. Absolute killer.

“Jeff” Jefferies and Lisa Fremont (James Stewart and Grace Kelly). Sometimes it’s what’s below the surface that tells the biggest story. Spending the summer gazing out a Rear Window, this irrepressible duo manages to solve a hideous murder and catch the perp — but what lies beneath is the cool blonde’s simmering passion and the surprising sexiness of a man with first one, then both legs in a cast.

Danny Ocean and Rusty Ryan (George Clooney and Brad Pitt). Underneath the unflappable exteriors. Beyond the unquestionable good looks. Aside from the sly humor (Danny to Rusty: “Ted Nugent called. He wants his shirt back.”). Two of the sharpest, smartest characters in movie-heist history. And two of the coolest cats since Frank and Dean (and the rest of their Ocean’s Eleven buddies) took Vegas by storm.

Like they say, two for the show.

© 2015 Claudia Grossman

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oscar, oscar, oscar

Posted by cgcopy on February 24, 2015 in coloring outside the lines

odd coupleIf you’re lucky enough (read “old enough”) to have seen the original Odd Couple TV series, you probably remember this classic line — the three-peat “Oscar, Oscar, Oscar” said by Felix Unger as he bemoaned one of Oscar Madison’s failings (anything from leaving a half-smoked cigar on the dining room table to leaving sweaty socks on the TV set). For a generation of us, especially Neil Simon fans, the words “Oscar, Oscar, Oscar” became a catchphrase for today’s more compact “really?!”

Which got me to thinking, thinking, thinking. What might be Oscar3 worthy in today’s culture?

Grey, Grey, Grey. Whether it’s 50 Shades or Anatomy, enough, enough, enough.

Congress, Congress, Congress. Shame, shame, shame on you. Serious shame.

The Bachelor, the Bachelor, the Bachelor. How many more times do we need to hear how heartbreaking it is for you to have to choose a wife from the three women you’ve narrowed it down to after a (gasp!) 20-minute courtship? Give it up — no one believes you.

Housewives, Housewives, Housewives. Wherever you’re from — New Jersey, Atlanta, Orange County — if we all shut our eyes and click our heels three times, can we send you back home permanently?

Informercial, Infomercial, Informercial. You say, “Wait, don’t order yet…” for the umpteenth time. I say, “Okay, ‘bye.”

Weather Guy, Weather Guy, Weather Guy.  Stop alarming your southern California audience by turning a mildly drizzly day into a “major rain event.” Or else, kindly put your weather report where the sun doesn’t shine.

Brian, Brian, Brian. What were you thinking? And what would Uncle Walter say?

Marcia, Marcia, Marcia. Forget you and Greg as a couple. It’s icky, icky, icky.

Got it? All right, all right, all right.

 

 

© 2015 Claudia Grossman

 

 

 

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write of passage

Posted by cgcopy on February 2, 2015 in searching for myself ... or for some chocolate

vintage-rail-posterI can’t speak for other writers, but I myself have a love / not-so-much relationship with writing. On the one hand, it’s a passion — it’s who I am and what I do. It’s how I earn a living and how I get to be creative. And funny. Touching. And conversational. And, hopefully, maybe even a little inspiring.

But as with many passions, there’s the darker side too (no, we’re not talking Edgar Allan Poe dark, we’re talking am-I-ever-going-to-have-another-creative-thought dark). I once worked with someone who said, “I don’t know how you keep coming up with ideas — don’t you ever run out?” Thanks for the curiosity, I wanted to say, but if I let that thought into my brain, I’m done.

That started me thinking about other writers and their creative wheels. What if those wheels got stuck in neutral in the midst of pens being dipped in ink, typewriters clacking, or laptops clicking … clicking … clickless. To wit:

What if Casablanca writers Julius and Phillip Epstein and Howard Koch had Ilsa Lund take the easier path and stay behind with Rick at the end of the movie? What would that mean to the freedom of the world if she didn’t go with her husband, Victor Laszlo, to keep it safe? And what if Sam really couldn’t remember how to play “As Time Goes By”?

What if Margaret Mitchell had Scarlett O’Hara say “whatever” to Ashley Wilkes and happily marry one of the Tarleton twins? Just think — no spitfire, no petticoats a-showing, no Rhett to not give a damn. Yes, still a Civil War but no, not one of the greatest — albeit shrewdest — female characters of all time.

What if writer L. Frank Baum had made Dorothy’s wish, instead of being to magically return home, simply to get a ruby purse to go with her slippers? What if the yellow brick road, instead of leading to Oz, led to Nordstrom? (You know, she probably could have gotten an amazing pair of emerald slippers during their fabulous women’s shoe sale.)

And what if Mario Puzo, in the midst of everyone going to the mattresses, decided that Michael Corleone should stay out of the “family business”? Just a nice boy marrying a nice girl and having nice kids. Face it, it’s not write.

And so I continue to fuel my wheels. I know there’s another story, another headline, another idea out there. It’s just around the bend, between thoughts of finding my glasses, finishing that assignment, buying stamps and planning our next vacation. I’m on the right track, pretty sure I can see it. In fact, I think I can.

The creative engine that could.

© 2015 Claudia Grossman

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ghost of a chance

Posted by cgcopy on January 26, 2015 in coloring outside the lines

UnknownI  believe in ghosts in a “sure, why not?” kind of way. Or, more precisely, I believe that ghosts exist — but for other people, not me. Stuff moves around your house of its own volition? Okay, a ghost. Those sounds you hear on a windless night that could only be attributed to gusts of wind? You’ve got a ghost. And those weird images that sometimes show up behind you in a mirror? Could be a ghost (or just a really bad reaction to last night’s champagne cocktails).

So imagine my surprise when it became obvious that B. and I have apparently been hosting our very own specter. A mischievous kind of a ghost. Sort of like Casper with a hint of Robin Williams’ impishness. I know, I know. But just hear me out.

Our ghost seems to be a bit light-fingered; that is, things have begun to disappear from our home inexplicably. For example, our phone. One of our cordless phones just up and left. Last seen on the bedroom dresser — then poof! Gone. Thrown out? Nope. We went through the trash piece by piece. We called it, but no answer. Looked everywhere, but no phone to be found. Dial “G” for ghost.

Next up, the bread knife. Oh, sure, I know what you’re saying. People throw out knives all the time. Hard to imagine in this case. We’re talking a knife with a very sharp 8-inch blade. The kind of knife you would be well aware of if you mishandled it. Again, gone in the night (or the daytime), carried off by a ghost with a penchant for either homemade bread or swashbuckling.

And finally, a dinner plate from a fairly new set of dishes. There once were eight, but now only seven live with us. Do you want to tell me how a dinner plate just up and walks away? Did the dish run away with the spoon when the cow jumped over the moon? That’s just silly. I’m picturing a ghost flinging it around. (Talk about the ultimate frisbee. Nice backhand, by the way).

So we’re looking for a ghost who likes to work in the kitchen while on the phone; or one who has taken up 3-object juggling; or one who is calling in for takeout; or one who is collecting random objects for his appearance on Let’s Make a Deal (“I’ll give you $100 if you have … a dinner plate under that ghost costume!”).

In the meantime, I’m trying not to think about ghosts as I sit here and relax. Sipping my iced tea. Listening to the wind chimes tinkling softly in the background.

Except there isn’t even a hint of a breeze.

Uh-oh. Not in Kansas anymore.

© 2015 Claudia Grossman

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duh-ble trouble

Posted by cgcopy on January 6, 2015 in coloring outside the lines

HalloweenRetroLadies-GraphicsFairyEver have one of those “aha” moments, those celebrated moments of our lives that are epiphanies, revealing our own truths, our own selves, our own reasons for being? Not what I’m talking about here. I’m talking about those times when you finally realize something completely obvious, something that everyone else out there probably has known forever while you’ve been the only one in the dark. Moments that make you go “duh.” To wit:

The Two-Alarm Moment

When B. and I first moved in together, we used only one clock radio (to those with a baffled look on their faces, that’s the thing that used to wake us up before our iPods or cell phones). So we set that one alarm to the time that the first one of us had to get up. Then the first one would wake the second one later on.  Beyond the obvious reasons why this scenario didn’t work well (among them, “You’ve been waking yourself up every morning since high school and now all of a sudden you need a wake-up call?”), it required the later sleeper to endure the endless snooze alarms of the early riser. One day, out of the blue, clarity dawned. Two sleepers. Two clock radios. Two obvious. Duh.

The Walk-Don’t-Walk Moment

Remember the Sony Walkman? It was God’s answer to how we could take our music with us wherever we went (sort of). The premise was simple — just open the Walkman, insert the cassette and get your groove on. Except when my brand-new Walkman wouldn’t open. I tried to pry it open from every side; twisted it clockwise and counterclockwise; changed the batteries a couple of times — nothing. Finally, as a last resort, I read the instructions: “Slide to open.” Sheesh.

The Chocolate-Covered Clueless Moment

You know those boxes of chocolate that have like a gazillion different varieties inside and it’s basically a crap shoot to get the one you want? And you know how you have to bite into each one until you find one you like? Or, unlike me, did you already know that there’s a little “candy map” on the inside of the box cover that tells you what’s where? Well, good for you, smarty pants.

The “Hey, We Can Go See Michael Jordan Play!” Moment  

Circa 2001-2002, these two things were true: 1) Michael Jordan was playing for the Washington Wizards, and 2) the LA Clippers weren’t exactly drawing crowds. So, when I found out that the Clippers would be hosting the Wizards, I thought I had discovered the secret of the century — an easy way to watch Michael play.

Me: Guess what? We can get tickets to see Michael Jordan!

B: What?

Me: The Wizards are going to be playing the Clippers out here in a few weeks.

B: And …?

Me: Tickets will be easy to get. No one goes to the Clipper games. It’s not the Lakers. How many people will think of this?

B: I’m thinking, oh, just a few … hundred thousand. It’s Michael Jordan. Staples will be sold out.

Me: No way, I’m gonna check into it.

A couple of days later:

B: How’s that Michael Jordan ticket thing working out for you?

Me: Shut up.

The great thing about these moments? They’re a good way to learn to laugh at yourself. As well as a chance to learn something new (well, new to you, anyway).

Duh-ble the fun.

 

© 2015 Claudia Grossman

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when i grow up

Posted by cgcopy on December 1, 2014 in searching for myself ... or for some chocolate

images-2While still trying to figure out who I want to be when I grow up, there are a number of women who make me want to say, “I’ll have what she’s having.”

First up, Jane Fonda. Seriously, have you seen that woman on the red carpet? She’s absolutely stunning, to say nothing of her talent that just keeps getting better. Sign me up.

Next, Betty White. From Sue Anne Nivens to Rose Nyland to Elka Ostrovsky, her characters light up the TV screen because of her incredible sharpness and brilliant comic timing. Proving that 90-something really is just a number, she steals every scene she’s in. Sorry, Mary, Blanche and the rest of Cleveland.

Georgia O’Keeffe. Untraditional. Uncompromising. Unwilling to settle for anything less than she was meant to be. Her remarkable talent as an artist, and her passion for creating up until the end, are truly inspirational. (I’d have to choose a place a little more peopled than her Ghost Ranch in New Mexico — and I really think a little mascara and blush might have helped — but you get the idea.)

Nora Ephron. A powerhouse writer, humorist, director. Intelligent, witty, intelligent, funny, intelligent, perceptive. And did I say smart? Loved her.

And lastly, a very elderly woman who lived around the corner from us and who, until recently, could be seen outside whenever the weather was good, rolling in her wheelchair, just taking in a beautiful afternoon. She wore a sun hat and a fluorescent traffic vest so that drivers could see her, and whether she knew you or not, she’d smile and wave at anyone who passed by. Her joy at being outdoors was palpable. I like to believe that she was a woman of strength and character — and although I never had a conversation with her, I can’t help but imagine what her back story might have been …

Was her husband a fighter pilot in World War II, who died a hero with her snapshot next to his heart?

Was she a former Radio City Rockette, her kicks perfectly precise, who then retired to sunny California after years of being just one in a long line (literally) of fabulous legs?

Did she carry out espionage for the U.S. government, immersing herself in danger overseas as well as having a torrid love affair with a fellow operative? (Proof that trench coats can be very alluring.)

Could she be the daughter of Anastasia, the only one of Czar Nicolas II’s children rumored to have escaped the murder of the entire Romanov family but never positively identified? And has she been living here for decades, preserving her mother’s secret and her own royal lineage?

Was she the inspiration for “Rosebud”?

Or was her life more ordinary than all that — and extraordinary only to those who loved her?

My guess is the latter, although her embracing of life puts her right up there with Jane, Betty, Georgia and Nora. And maybe that’s the key to growing up gracefully and gratefully. Maybe it’s coming to understand that our days don’t define us — we define our days.

Words to grow by.

 

© 2014 Claudia Grossman

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“s” is for sexy

Posted by cgcopy on November 19, 2014 in coloring outside the lines

steve-mcqueen-by-richard-avedon-1965-1342116672_bOMG it’s finally happened. I’m too old for People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive. Not to date, to appreciate. With the announcement that Chris Hemsworth has claimed this year’s honor, I find myself completely unmoved. Not that Mr. Hemsworth isn’t good-looking. It’s just that he’s young — far too young for my appreciation meter to move even one bit.

Of course, I realize that People is looking to choose celebs whose covers will sell magazines. That’s just good business. And no, I don’t imagine that a cover shot of Al Pacino or Robert Redford today would sell as many magazines as the current titleholder. But when it comes to Sexiest Man Alive, I think I just passed out of People‘s demographic. My choices would have been a tad more mature, a bit more seasoned, a touch more … je ne sais quoi. People has chosen a couple of them before — I’d choose them all now:

George Clooney. Need I say more?

Stanley Tucci. The smart woman’s choice for sexy. In a subtle — but nonetheless simmering — way.

Denzel Washington. Give me a minute — I need to catch my breath.

Bruce Springsteen. Like you’ve never wanted to strap your hands across his engines?

President Obama. Not a power thing. Not a president thing. Just a cool, smart, sexy thing. (The fact that he adores and respects his wife makes him even more attractive.)

Derek Jeter. First class — RE2PECT all the way.

If we’re talking pre-People‘s list days, at a time when celebrity, glamour and elegance went hand in hand, I would have gone (gladly) with these gentlemen:

Cary Grant. Kind of like George Clooney. Only before.

Humphrey Bogart. I have five words for you: white dinner jacket in Casablanca.

Kirk Douglas. (Circa 1950s) The chin cleft that launched a thousand ships.

Frank Sinatra. (Circa 1950s – early 1960s). Not traditionally handsome, but suave, smooth, a little bit naughty, a heartbreaker. And that voice — swingin’, baby.

Burt Lancaster. Take a look at From Here to Eternity. That beach scene. That kiss. And he looked fabulous in uniform too.

If I were given the assignment to pick just one Sexiest Man Ever, I would go with a classic. Great-looking without looking pretty. Bad-boy enough to be both trouble and charming. Eyes and a smile that could light up a screen — and light a fire — like nobody’s business. And a hell of a driver.

“S” is for Steve McQueen. Number-one with a Bullitt.

© 2014 Claudia Grossman

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wood-a, shoulda, coulda

Posted by cgcopy on November 11, 2014 in coloring outside the lines

I love nature as much as the next person (ok, to a point), and a walk through the famed monarch butterfly preserve near Santa Barbara is always a treat. From November through February, this eucalyptus grove is host to what seems like millions of monarchs on their annual migration. So there we were this weekend. Picture it — the sunlight filtering through the leaves; the sight of butterflies fluttering by or hanging in clusters from the branches; the aroma of eucalyptus perfuming the cool air; the utter silence; the — tap. Tap tap. Tap tap tap. TAP TAP TAP TAP.

The sound came from above and seemed huge in the quiet space. An angel typing in Morse code? A butterfly beatboxing? A forest nymph typing out her memoirs on a vintage Royal manual typewriter? No. Tap. No. Tap. And no. Tap tap.

It was a small, nondescript bird, way up on a tree trunk, tapping away — and leading to this heady dialogue between B. and me:

B:  “It’s a woodpecker.”

Me:  “Can’t be.”

B:  “Sure it is — can’t you hear the pecking noise?”

Me:  “I can, but it’s not a woodpecker.”

B:  “Because …?”

Me.  “It’s tiny, it’s brownish-grey, and it’s not making any other sound.”

B:  (Looking at me quizzically) “Okay, but why, based on that evidence, do you think it’s not a woodpecker?”

Me:  (Looking at B. pityingly) “Do I really have to explain this to you?”

B: “Apparently.”

Me: “Everyone knows that woodpeckers are bright blue with a white ruff around their neck and a big red mohawk.”

B:  “But –“

Me: “And they make that sound — heh, heh, heh, HEH, heh; heh, heh, heh, HEH, heh.”

B:  “How do you know all that?

Me:  “I’ve seen it on TV.”

B: (Gets that bemused look on his face like when Kobe scores 39 points and the Lakers still manage to lose) “What channel — Discovery, National Geographic, Animal Planet?”

Me:  “Not exactly.”

B: “Then what exactly?”

Me:  (Uh-oh, doubt setting in, better pivot) “Why are you interrogating me?”

B: “Really?”

Me: “Okay, none of those channels. I saw it on CN.”

B: “CNN?”

Me: “No. CN — the Cartoon Network.”

B: (Bursts into laughter so loudly that the butterflies flutter en masse) “You think all woodpeckers look and sound like Woody Woodpecker?”

Me: (Confidently) “They do.”  (Less confidently) “They might.”  (In a small voice) “They could …”  (Realizing there’s no such thing as the Easter Bunny) “They don’t?”

Hey, it was an honest mistake. How many woodpeckers have you seen at 50th and Third or Laurel Canyon and Ventura Boulevard?  In Dodger Stadium? At the Met?

Lesson learned: Save the animation for telling funny stories.

That’s all, folks.

 

 

© 2014 Claudia Grossman

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