We’ve seen a million faces and we rocked them all, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers

Oui, oui
French Foreign Minister Bernard Kouchner has offered to apologize to Iraq if they feel he had meddled in its affairs. Which is not surprising. Apologizing comes naturally to the French. Not as naturally as surrendering, but naturally.

Jesus is gonna pass
In his press conference after pleading guilty to dog fighting, Michael Vick said he has found Jesus. Upon which Jesus replied; “You know what, Mike, thanks but no thanks.””

And in another study . . .
In health news, a study reveals that people who drink too much alcohol are more susceptible to memory loss. In addition, a study reveals that people who drink too much alcohol are susceptible to memory loss. And a study reveals drinking can make you lose your memory.

Uh, no Sir, that’s not, oh forget it
There are fires raging in Greece. It was a little awkward, when informed of the fires in Greece, President Bush said; “Heck, get a diner chef. They’re real good at putting out grease fires.”

The L.A. County Department of Children and Family Services is investigation Britney Spears on charges of bad parenting: poor nutrition, no sleep, bad dental care. Britney had to take time out from working on her book; “How To Destroy A Career For Dummies.”

Since you asked:
As it has been far too long since I have droned boringly about the Eagles, I thought I would correct that.

The other day a piece I read on Glenn Frey reminded me that many of the Avocado Mafia, aka Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, the Birds, Jackson Browne, Don Henley and Glenn Frey, J.D. Souther, Randy Newman, Joni Mitchell, etc, shared apartments in downtrodden Echo Park when they started out in the late Sixties and very early Seventies.

For some reason, this made me feel both disappointed and comforted at the same time.

Forever, I labored under the delusion that all of those artists lived in the very hip and hippy Southern California worlds of Malibu and Laurel Canyon that appear on their album covers. Theirs was the rustic wood and authentic stucco of Cantinas and Saloons of the old west, the Southern California with style and charm like the picture of Jackson Browne on the back of “For Everyman” and the Eagles “Desperado” album. An endless sea of beautiful tan people, Margaritas, turquoise jewelry, white cotton shirts, faded blue jeans, sandy beaches, hand-made tortillas, rose gardens, strummed guitars and gorgeous sunsets

But it turns out their world in late sixties Echo Park ( it has recently undergone artistic- trendy gentrification) was the sleazy and smoggy world of Latin gang graffiti-marked aging strip malls; avocado-colored shag rugs spotted with old cigarette burns in dingy two-story studio apartments with torn screens, popcorn ceilings and the rusty electric unit heater in the wall that never worked; the linoleum ant-ridden kitchen floor with aluminum chairs with cracked vinyl padding in the tiny kitchen that still lingered with the feint smell of the rancid meat that rotted in the freezer when the electricity was cut off.

That was my Southern California in Long Beach, an endless, banal nightmare of stoned idiots - who could only describe good things as bitchin' and bad things as bogus - who went to swap meets to buy tube socks and find spare parts for their El Camino, and I had hoped my beloved sensitive idols had been spared it. But it also made me feel good to know we had that experience in common, as depressing and soul-sapping and dream-crushing as it was.

Ah, but then I moved to beautiful Santa Barbara and my magical land of the lotus eaters reappeared on a dark dessert highway, cool wind in my hair.

Now, knock on wood, thanks to luck and a few changes of location, I have my ideal California back. Backyard barbeques in the gloaming with hot air balloons floating above; picnics above the beach in Del Mar and surfing at La Jolla shores at daybreak as the sun streams over Mount Soledad; concerts by the bay at Humphrey's and bike rides along the the rolling golden hills of the inland valleys.

Welcome to the Hotel California. You can check out any time you want, but you can never leave.