So, the ice skating? I flat-out refused to go, because it was windy-cold, and I have weak ankles that would have just been flopping all over the place, and I hate it. But our girl Dana—different Dana—did, and mowed down scores of children, she claims unintentionally.
Dana promised not to mow down my son, but I'm still not going.
Speaking of my son, I finally did get him back, and headed over with him to the Traveling Langstons' gracious canyon home Saturday night to meet up for the OCCCA opening, but it turned out it wasn't Saturday at all. It was still just Thursday, and I was two days early.
When Saturday actually came, we headed over there again, and the OCCCA show was surprisingly good, so I'll actually have something to write about next week besides "Hooked! The Lure and Lore of Sportfishing" at the Newport Harbor Nautical Museum.
But then we went over to the much-vaunted (and much-despised by those who had signed up for spaces, only to have the price double from what they'd been promised) artists' lofts. And they were horrible! Three stories of crap: paintings of old men, mosaics of sandaled feet, and "erotic" photos of antheriums and breasts. Utter, horrific crap—and these people who can afford the half million for a loft are the ones who are supposed to revitalize Santa Ana? Everyone knows rich people have no taste! Ewww!
One space was good, though. It was a gallery run on the "honor system": if you wanted a painting in the unsupervised shop, you were to take it, and leave a check in the lock box. Fabulous!
One summer I didn't leave my Berlin neighborhood for two months because the subway there is run on the honor system, and I sneered (jadedly) that I refused to buy a ticket on the honor system, but at the same time I was too afraid of getting popped by the random ticket-checking Polizeito go anywhere at all. But now I totally do believe in the honor system! And my karma's much better; I'd call it snowy even. I don't even key Hummers! Not even when they're parked in fire lanes!
So there we were in Newport Coast on New Year's Eve, at one of the best parties I've been to in my 30 years.
And you'll forgive me—like Jesus! Seventy times seven!—but I'm all out of space.