Sat behind Mindy Sterling yesterday at the Globetrotters game at the Forum.  That's the lead, the headline for today's report from Southern California.  That's how we do it here, you know.  "Saw Robert Vaughn outside the Roosevelt just before the earthquake" or "I had a heart transplant this morning and in the next room was that guy from Mod Squad, what was his name?  No, the white one."  So yeah, we did the arena crowd thing with Sterling.  Didn't run any Austin Powers lines or talk improv or industry or god forbid do the autograph thing.  Jesus.  No, us showbiz folk were just out doin' the family thing.  We respect our privacy out here.  Her kid's name is Max.  Husband's Brian.

The L.A. Times sports section had an article on Saturday about the Harlem Globetrotters, and Viv, remembering how Amy convulsed with laughter while watching them on TV, figured a visit to a live game would be in order.  I, of course, had had other plans because I was put on this planet to be the guy who always has other plans.

Those plans were to drive into Santa Barbara alone to check out a couple of camera stores in my search for a new enlarging easel for the darkroom.  Before I actually go ahead and purchase one via mail-order, I thought I'd get my hands on a few different ones to see if I have any preferences.  Even though it was raining, I envisioned a soothing hour's drive along the coast, a therapeutic break from the normal not-always-adult interaction that weekdays offer.

Silly me.

Inglewood is nice too.  And they're doing some road construction on Manchester Blvd.  Manchester -- it harkens of plucky Brits and grey English fogs, doesn't it?  Beneath the cool winter showers of Inglewood, the painted lines on the roadway take on an aura of insouciant vagueness amid the skidding and honking, and the barricades and the flooding beckon drivers to gather in burgeoning brotherhood, especially when there's a bus or two involved.  The whole experience made me want to break out in song.  We are the world.  We are the children.  Unfortunately, the lyric I couldn't get out of my head was "Are we there yet?"  "How much longer?"  "Are we there yet?"  "How much longer?"  Are we there yet?"

The thing is, there will always be enlarging easels.  But there won't always be that pure gushing glee from a girl as she watches athletes who are magical to her.  And that glee, in turn, is magical to me.  I know this because any time I pay $4.00 for a hot dog and don't care, there's gotta be some hocus pocus involved.

After enjoying the game thoroughly, we took the coast route home along PCH as more rain clouds rolled over the beach.  During the most remote stretch of that road, the cliffs come between the car antenna and civilization.  At Amy's request, I popped in "Blue Valentine," a Tom Waits album.  It's her favorite these days, especially the song "Romeo Is Bleeding," a cool dark little number about a Chicano gang member who stabs a sheriff's deputy, drives with his homeboys to a movie theater, and then bleeds to death in the balcony.  I think my efforts to wean her off Barney the purple dinosaur have been successful.  Go me.

Today's adventure involves a sneak preview of "See Spot Run," a new movie from the happy peppy people at Warner Bros.  Some of Amy's friends were invited over to lunch here before the screening.  Pre-teen girls.  Right now they're giggling about nasty Barbies and kitties and kissing and stuff.  For mental health reasons, I have withdrawn from all girl-wrangling duties today.  Add to this the fact that we have an electric keyboard, the Pokemon soundtrack cd, and a big conga drum in the living room, and you will understand why I'm ending this now, getting in the car, and driving to a place, anyplace, where grownups congregate to read or engage in discourse about death and taxes and kissing and stuff.

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