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June 27, 2006

Accident on the 405

So odd. I'm rushing around the city preparing the house to rent while I move to New York. It's going to be so much nicer than it was when I was living here. I drove around yesterday and finally found the stone yard in the shadow of LAX. The Mexican guys there fell in love with my Mustang. Nery, the guy that helped me out was super helpful. He gave me the number to his friend Jose the mason. I was going to have regular gardeners lay the flagstone but when I saw the big slabs it came in I knew I needed a trained pro. Jose promised he'd be here at 9. By eleven I thought he was a flake. Around two I finally reached him on the phone. He told me that the stone yard was closed down because Nery had been killed in a car accident that morning. When I told my handyman he told me that the 405 had been a worse mess than usual this morning on account of an accident.

It's so weird. A friend just died of cancer and that so reminded me of my own problems with my kidneys. Then I saw the new Ozon movie about a dying fashion photographer and I thought how fake it was, how I didn't behave at all like that when I thought that I was going to die. And now Nery. He and his buddy kept asking me how fast my car went. They were street racers and pointed to a yellow Lancer in the parking lot. I don't know if it was Nery's or the other guy's.

June 25, 2006

Informant or Instigator?


All of us want to be safe. All of us want our families to be safe. If the seven young men arrested in Miami truly did plan to blow up the Sears tower than we should all rejoice in their interception.

I just want us to have our eyes open to not only the potential for abuse and entrapment from the use of confidential informants, but the F.B.I.’s mixed, troubling record on the use of informants in the past. During the 60s, 70s and 80s the Ku Klux Klan, a domestic terrorism organization with a well-known penchant for murder and bomb making, was so successfully infiltrated that today seeing their white hoods makes you laugh instead of fear for your life. The F.B.I. has flipped so many wiseguys in La Cosa Nostra that they now make more money being extras on The Sopranos than in racketeering.

And yet the F.B.I.’s history of infiltrating civil rights groups, the Black Panther Party and peaceful anti-war groups, along with its “ghetto information project,” represents the most scary, most Orwellian aspects of our federal government. In all of the high-profile Black nationalist cases I’m aware of it was the F.B.I. informant themselves that suggested and lead the planning of the violent action that landed the rest of the group in jail.

This administration, with its active, aggressive contempt for the civil rights of its citizenry needs to be watched very, very carefully. Though this case in Miami doesn’t involve Muslims, if we want to still be able to recognize the America that we live in we cannot allow the war on terror to become a war on Arab-Americans the way the F.B.I. waged war on African-Americans in the 60s.


June 20, 2006

Vegas Baby

I am embarrassed to tell you how many times I quoted the movie "Swingers" in my lost three-day weekend to Las Vegas. I have been in a mad rush to organize all sectors of my life simultaneously, working from seven in the morning to eleven at night, virtually non-stop.

It all began last Tuesday when I put the kids on the plane to their grandma's by themselves. I was a nervous wreck, as you can imagine. I wrote every possible phone and cellphone number I knew on two index cards which I put in ziplock sandwich bags and secreted in Ava and Chet's pockets. I bought them a portable DVD player for the plane and had Ava train at home in assembling and disassembling the battery like a drill sergeant making a new grunt disassemble a rifle blindfolded. Then at the airport I thought I could walk them onto the plane but the gruff stewardess just grabbed their hands and started to yank them into the bowels of the plane. I grabbed them and hugged them and kept waving at them as they disappeared down the jetbridge. They looked so small next to the big, mean stewardess.

Coming home to a big, empty house was odd. As if my parents and my sister had suddenly disappeared and I was a single teenager. Then came the two free nights at the Palm that mysteriously arrived in the mail, a five-hour-drive and three days of staying up way too late and being as bad as a good dad felt he could.

While I was gone the house was being tented for termites. That meant turning the gas off. I left meticulous instructions about where the key was left to turn the gas back on but of course I returned to cold water, no dryer, no stove. Too lazy to go to the gym to shower I took a cold one instead. After two months without my girlfriend and three days in Vegas I could use one.

Progress and Reform

Ever since the Kerry campaign dozens of pundits and bloggers (including myself) have been begging Democrats to define themselves forcefully, yet simply. Last week Pelosi and Reid rolled out their “New Directions” platform. A few months ago they rolled out something else, I forget exactly what. A few months from now I’m sure they’ll roll out another list.

The problem is that Republicans have already written and mercilessly repeated a narrative that the lazy MSM has eagerly swallowed and now parrots: “Democrats are weak on defense, so guilty about their own personal wealth that they want to give it all away to the lazy poor, too intellectual for their own good, and when more than three of them get together they bicker for forty-five minutes about where they’ll go for an hour-long lunch.”

A laundry list of modest ideas won’t re-write that story.

Don’t worry about the MSM habitually harping on Democratic ideas as lacking in specifics. The MSM never asks Republicans for specifics. The GOP is too busy spouting catch phrases like, “cut and run” to let themselves be bogged down by specifics. Rove et al. figured out long ago that voters don’t give a damn about specifics. They care about feelings. The specifics of a piece of legislation are quite complicated. A guiding moral compass is not.

The Democratic message needs to be short, decisive and strong. It needs to be a worldview, a code to live by. Not a list of greatest hits.

Rarely in our history have Americans been so cynical about the political process. Democrats need to win them back by being everything the Republicans have not been: Progressives and Reformers. “Progress and Reform” need to be the Democratic mantra. “Progress and Reform” need to be the two words that Americans associate with the opposition party if the opposition party ever hopes to get another turn at the wheel. Progress on Iraq, on energy independence, on opportunities for the middle class. Reform of the way lobbyists write bills for themselves and against the interests of the American people; reform in the form of hearings to discover how the nation was rushed into a pointless war; reform so that Americans can once again feel that ours is a government of, by and for the people.

The Republican message thrives on fear. Fear has served them well. Yet Americans are now burnt out on fears of things that never materialized. In fact, increasingly, that fear is being replaced by anger at the ones always sounding the false alarm. That’s why the fuel to the Democratic message needs to be hope. Hope is the antidote to fear. Hope is a feeling. Hope is not a list.


June 12, 2006

Cleaning Up and Moving On

The party was a success. Though I had no magician, no Spiderman, no fairy-wings making station, I did have almost thirty howling little girls and boys trashing my house worse than touring rockers. For the adults I had beer and pizza and was prepared to make Vodka tonics, having bought a dozen limes. But in the ensuing juvenile melee I forgot. Chet, just turning four, wanted to open presents the moment the first guest arrived. Ava wanted to light the candles. It was an entire afternoon of telling them to wait. The ice-cream cake was Carvel's in honor of our move to New York.

Their mom left for Germany and then on to India with her boyfriend the day before. Still, I had help from Lucia the nanny and my friend Michele and babysitters Nora and Sean. I exploited their pity mercilessly and had them all working their asses off. Both kids were showered with toys (how I'll get them all to New York who knows). They seemed happy but I think the fact that it was actually a going away party masquerading as early birthday parties weighed on them. I just remember the photo I have of Ava, four years ago, her first after her mom left. I had scored a dream job teaching screenwriting in France and cashed in the business class ticket they offered for four coach ones so Lucia and the kids could come too. After the week-long course was over we flew from Normandy to St. Tropez to visit her godparents. I bought her a little cake but in France you can buy almost roman candles for birthdays and I stuck this cigar-sized thing on the cake and lit it and sparks flew everywhere and we all sang and the look on her face let me know that we were going to be all right, at least one day.

She never had a look like that yesterday at the party.

My parental duties were hardly over. Two of her friends spent the night and in the morning I took them all for French toast. I wanted to stay as far away from the house as possible. Not only was the inside as I'd described, but the outside the guys came at nine in the morning to chop down the Jacaranda tree. They are magical this time of year, loud purple flowers all over the city, but when they're in your yard they just drive you nuts. Flowers dropped like rain. At eleven before the party I swept and I swept again at three right before the guests arrived. I wanted to cut mine down because I want to landscape the front of the house before I rent it out and besides, the boy who used to live in the house had put a bird cage around the trunk and now, a decade later, it was strangling the tree.

In my mania to efficiently do everything that needs to be done before we move I had the guys come the morning after the party not thinking that watching the tree cut down would make her cry uncontrollably. The first thing I did when we three moved in four years ago was string up a plastic tire swing from one of the Jacaranda's low branches. Though the house back then looked like a huge hippie shack, the swing was delightful. Even though it hung just two feet from the wall and the tree trunk it was ours. Ava started crying, "I love that swing and in New York I won't be able to swing and why do you have to cut down the tree." It broke my heart. Her lovely friend Meaghan put her arm around her and consoled her. After breakfast she begged me to hang it somewhere inside the house. Our house is odd and it was almost possible to hang it from the chain link balcony. What I did do instead is hold onto the rope, hang off the balcony and swing her once or twice. Her face ignited as if I'd put a roman candle on a cake.

It's 10:30 at night and I just finished cleaning from yesterday's party. I also unpacked all the junk that Phaedre, their mother left for me to take to Social Circle, Atlanta, where her mom lives. Behind everything that is happening here in this house now is the fact that Phaedre is gone for at least six months and who knows if it will be much longer? She had asked for the boxes of loose photos and had put them into albums. I just had to take a break from working while to look at them. Ready to start sobbing at any moment I leafed through them while My Favority Things played on the radio. The book began with shots of me hugging her from behind in Greece, in France, in Venice, Santa Monica, in Spain. It felt like very many lifetimes ago. I have dreams much more real to me than those memories. Then she put in shots of our marriage on the hill behind our old house, oh, and before that one picture from my Vegas bachelor party, two days before our marriage, when I was very, very bad. I wonder what she meant by putting it in there? Then Ava when she was so very little and then lots of shots of Chet beached on his belly with Ava toddling around him. I was so ready to cry but no tears came. I just thought, "Yep, that was how it was."

I'm just too excited about what's coming up ahead of me to give a rat's ass about all the mistakes I've made in almost forty-four years.

June 08, 2006

Last Day of School

When I should be working so hard on my book and on a treatment for an animated feature a producer and I are developing, instead I have been obsessing over a cotton candy machine for Ava and Chet's joint birthday party. How hard could it be to find one in the city of Los Angeles? In fact, it turned out to be damn near impossible. Finally, however, I did find one almost down in San Diego and they're too busy to deliver it. I so want to make this party special for them, but I can't afford to spend thousands on it. Compounding matters, I just returned from Ava's last day of school pool party at the home of a very nice and obscenely successful TV and feature writer-director. No cotton candy machine, thank God, but a snow cone maker (that also made mid-afternoon Margueritas for some like me) a popcorn cart and a hotdog cart. Not one but two lifeguards, a staff of maybe four setting out and clearing mountains of food. And oh, a lovely pool and a huge jumper in the back with a surfboard mounted on a spring and a paid staff to take digital pictures of the kids pretending to ride a wave.

Our party the day after tomorrow will have pizza, water and Pepsi. I splurged at Cosco for the Arrowhead water 35-pack ($5.19) instead of the Cosco bottled water ($3.39) because I'm a hopeless snob. As much as I say I don't care what anybody thinks I do. And as for entertainment, no clown, no magician no nobody. Ava's too old for a dress-up character to show up and Chet would only be interested in Spiderman. A very cute ex-girlfriend of a friend of mine used to play Ariel from the Little Mermaid at kids parties. She said some horny dad would invariably insist on helping her lug her gear out to her car.

As Groucho Marx used to say, "I resemble that remark."

June 06, 2006

Prepping for the Kids' Going Away Party

At first I just wanted to sneak out of town. Between having to rent out my place in L.A., garage my lovely car, find a place in New York, find a school for my kids, figure out how my girlfriend and her Labrador can come over from Milan and figure out how to actually teach screenwriting, my days are quite full. Oh, and I'm behind on turning in my new book, "Father of the Year," a project I've been aching to work on ever since my ex-wife moved out four years ago. It's 9:23pm and I'll probably keep working till eleven.

But my daughter is going to be eight, her birthday is in the summer, and since I am ripping her away from all her friends here in the city where she was born and she will be celebrating her official birthday while we're on a plane for France, the least I could do was throw her a going away/birthday party. So we drove to Party America and filled a shopping cart full of plastic luau acoutrements. You would not believe how many things they can put a Hawaiian print on.

My daughter wanted to rush home to see how many people had responded to our evite but daddy doesn't really cook so I had to feed them something. Sunday, we went out for brunch then all they had the rest of the day were peaches and strawberries from the farmer's market (first of the year and amazing but still, not a real meal). I tried to order them to bed hungry but relented and made us all peanut butter sandwiches. Today, after Party America we went to the Urth cafe. Soup for them, an iced mocha granita for me. My son was literally salivating over my mountain of frozen chocolate coffee ice. I tortured the poor guy. He begged for just a sip but I know that if even a milliliter of caffeine ever touches his four-and-three-quarter-year-old lips the next step will be crystal meth. He'd turn into Pacino in Scarface.

So afterwards I consoled him with one of those boba drinks. Decaf, of course. Those chewy tapioca balls give me the creeps but the kids love them. And then home to stuff gift bags for the party -- which is still five days away.

HuffPo: Haditha Had to Have Happened

Young American men in their late teens and early twenties are shipped far from home to a country where they not only do not speak the language but they cannot even read a single street sign or storefront. They were trained to kill and not get killed themselves, not to police. The two skills couldn’t be more different.

Of course the individual soldiers themselves, if guilty, should spend the rest of their lives behind bars, but Rumsfeld and Cheney, the architects of the war yet two men who never knew war themselves, guaranteed not only the failure of the mission but also the slaughtering of civilians.

According to a Zogby poll of servicemen, 90% of U.S. soldiers still think that they were sent to Iraq to punish Saddam for his “involvement” in 9/11. Only 58% think they have a clear mission, 42% aren’t exactly sure what they the hell they are doing over there. Their tragic confusion, ignorance and misinformation comes down directly from the top. Rumsfeld and Cheney refused to even acknowledge the existence of an insurgency for the first two years of the war. To this day they still have not formulated and passed down a plan for effectively combating them. I’ve written this before but George Packer’s New Yorker article on the subject is an absolute must-read. Here is a an excerpt:

“The Pentagon’s strategy in 2003 and 2004 was to combat the insurgency simply by eliminating insurgents—an approach called “kill-capture.” Kalev Sepp, a retired Special Forces officer, who now teaches at the Naval Postgraduate School, in Monterey, California, said of the method, “It’s all about hunting people. I think it comes directly from the Secretary of Defense—‘I want heads on a plate.’”

Or as a sergeant recently told Newsweek, "You can have my job. It's easy. You just have to drive around all day and wait for someone to bomb you. Thing is, you have to hate Arabs."

This doctrine of “kill-capture,” or what another soldier described in The New Yorker as, “breaking down doors and hauling people in,” has failed absolutely. What seems to be having at least a limited success is a more holistic approach to the Iraqi people as practiced by Col. H.R. McMaster in Tal Afar. Yet his way of actually getting to know the people you are supposed to be defending seems to be in a minority in Iraq. More and more of our troops are being cloistered within our permanent super bases (“Forward Operating Bases” or “FOBs”). When these “fobbits” do finally venture out to patrol it is logical that they will be more trigger happy, seeing every Arab face as an enemy.

The saddest irony, as Arianna has mentioned, is that the slaughter at Haditha probably won’t incite the same kind of worldwide scandal as the Abu Ghraib tortures. By now, thanks to the disastrous prosecution of this misguided war, our army is already infamous around the world for its gruesome brutality. Haditha, or the two other open investigations, or the pregnant woman who was just shot at a checkpoint killing her and her unborn child, or the Italian special agent who was shot at a checkpoint while rescuing an Italian journalist, or the new Iraqi ambassador to the U.N.’s cousin who was hauled out of his house in Haditha and shot, have numbed the world to American misdeeds.

Only by pulling out of Iraq can we begin to rebuild our standing around the globe.


June 04, 2006

Moving Back East

Despite this picture of me on the beach in my '73 Mach I, I think my kids and I will be moving back East at the end of the summer. I am thrilled to announce that I will be teaching at Columbia in the graduate school of film. This is a crazy time for me, but wildly creative. The political blogging is one of the most satisfying things I have ever done, but I have also written a play that the Lincoln Center Institute will put up next year. I am in the middle of writing Father of the Year for Rodale and I am developing an hour-long show for Showtime with one of the creators of Huff.

In the midst of these varied projects I am balancing my role as "mommy-daddy." My daughter and her friend were in the middle of a sleepover in a pup tent in the front yard when her friend suddenly got homesick and had to be taken home. When I finallly put my daughter to bed I had a long talk with her in the dark about the challenges ahead. Her mother will be taking off for Europe and then India while her brother and I get ready to move to New York. My little girl is almost eight and has a gaggle of Hilary-Duff-obsessed friends here in California. The move to Manhattan, where I'm from, will be hardest on her.

My son, who is almost five, is about to have a great change of life anyway. He's moving up from preschool to kindergarten. He's so charming, as if perpetually running for public office, that I am sure he will have half of Manhattan in love with him by Halloween.

As for me, I am thrilled at the new opportunity, thrilled to be three-thousand miles closer to my Italian love, and thrilled to be closing the long chapter in my life that began in 1990 when I moved out here with my then ex-wife.

The great Buddy Hackett once said that Los Angeles is a city where you go to sleep by a pool a young man and wake up an old man. My folks were professors. We changed cities every six to eight years. I've lived in Florence, Italy, Fukushima, Japan, Ramatuelle and Paris, France and Santorini, Greece. Never in my life did I think I'd be here in California so long.

Nobody ever does. Just ask the late Mr. Hackett.

June 02, 2006

Welcome to my blog

Here I will not only re-post the political posts I write on the HuffingtonPost, but I will also blog more personally. I am in the middle of writing my newest book, Father of the Year, about my life as a swinging single parent, to be published by Rodale next year.

The book begins four years ago when my wife of eight years, partner of twelve, walked out. Suddenly I found myself alone in the house with our four-year-old daughter and our six-month-old son. Now four years later I can easily say that it was the best thing that ever happened to me.

Today the kids are four and seven, blooming splendidly, and I am deeply in love with an amazing Italian countess. The book will explain how I got here from there. The blog will mainly talk about what's happening now.

I hope you like it.