Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

The Orange County of my youth was a horribly racist place.  The hatred wasn't directed at African Americans, simply because there weren't that many.  My elementary school had only one black student and my high school had maybe six.

No, the hatred was all directed at... the Mexicans.

This was long before "Hispanic" or "Latino" entered the lexicon.  Anyone with brown skin was simply a Mexican.  From Brazil or Puerto Rico?  In Orange County, you were still a Mexican.  And you were despised.  Unless, of course, you were mowing the lawn.  I remember the politicians of the time (all Republican) railing about the coming invasion from the south, the brown horde massing at the border ready to swamp all the was good (and white) in a wave of tortillas and refried beans.

And it turns out, they were partially right.

There was an invasion.

Only it came from the east.

The most shocking thing to me, moving back after 30 years, is how huge the Asian population is here now.  Not that there's anything wrong with that.  I would say that the community where we live is easily 50% Asian.  Same goes for the surrounding areas, including my hometown.  There was a report on the news this morning about the building boom down in Irvine, but the houses being built are all designed for Asian clients, complete with separate wok kitchens and no unlucky "4"'s in any of the addresses.

I'm not sure how exactly it happened, but I think it all began back in the 70's.  I remember a concerted effort at the time by the then new-ish Evangelical churches to "save" the Vietnamese after the fall of Saigon.  They sponsored families by the boat full  and congratulated each other on their good deeds and then were horrified when the Vietnamese did what most immigrants to this country do... prosper and multiply.  Now, central Orange County is home to the largest Vietnamese population in the world outside of Vietnam.  And the old timers continually bitch that the area has been dubbed "Little Saigon".

In the 80's, it was the Koreans.  On my infrequent visits home, I noticed the Methodist church near my folks started offering a service in Korean.  Within a few years, it was a Korean Methodist church, now offering one service still in English.  Now that don't even bother with that.  In fact, most of the churches  in town appear to be fully Korean.

And then, in the 90's, the powers that be actively courted Asian companies to fill the huge void that was left with the end of the Cold War and the disappearance of all the aerospace and defense jobs.

So here we are, living in 奥兰治县.

Awhile back I read an article that happened to mention a rival high school in my hometown.  It's located in the affluent part of town and was lily white when I was in school.  In the article it casually mentioned that the school was "80% minority(Asian)".  How anything that is 80% can be considered a minority is beyond me.  I mentioned this to my rightwing sister over the holidays and it got her dander up.  She and her husband marinate in Fox News and were still licking their wounds over the election.

"I know, it's awful" she said, lowering her voice.

She then went on to tell me tale of one of her (white) colleagues who lives in the school district.

"It's a nightmare" she said. "Her son can't compete.  He has a 3.5 grade point average, which is at the bottom in that school.  No matter what he does, he's beaten out academically.  Can't get into advanced classes, can't get any scholarships.  My friend had to take drastic action."

What did she do? I asked.

"She had to pull him from school.  Enroll him in a school where he at least stood a chance.  A school with more Mexicans."

Old habits die hard.

Me, personally, I think it's great.  I think it's what's helped turn Orange County from a provincial backwater into something approaching cosmopolitan.  The again, I come from multicultural L.A.,  where within a 10 mile drive I had Little Ethiopia, the Jewish Fairfax district, Little Armenia, Philipinotown, Tehrangeles, Koreatown and Japantown.  And probably a dozen other neighborhoods I never explored.  And in time I wouldn't be surprised if Orange County starts looking the same.  It is, after all, the home of "It's a Small World".

Long Time, No See

Yes, I know.  It's been awhile.

One of my friends asked "So, have you abandoned the blog?"

No exactly.

I mistakenly assumed once I had been relieved of my duties with my former employer that there would be scads of time to blog.  It has proved to be just the opposite.  Forced to scramble for work like a cheap Vegas hooker, I haven't had a break in the action in over a month.  Which is a good thing.  If I know one thing about my business, it's that everything will grind to a screeching halt this week for the rest of the year.  Had to bank as much as possible to make it through the lean holiday period and into 2013.

And screech to a halt, it has.  I have one remaining job, a vanity project for a high powered agency executive in LA.  She's been less than diligent about providing feedback and notes.  I had hoped to have it wrapped up by today, but she just informed me I should have everything I need "first thing in the morning".  On Thanksgiving.  Before she jets out of town to Aspen.

"Ill be checking e-mail between runs, so hopefully I can see something first thing Friday."

Riiiiiight.  I'll just blow off my family Thanksgiving for your little puff piece.  What do you think this is, Walmart?

"I'll be back from Aspen sometime Monday."

OK Honey, break a leg.  No really... break a leg.

The upside of all of this is that it would appear, knock wood, that there will be nothing but time to blog in the coming weeks.

So my apologies for the absence.  I'll make it up to you.  I promise.

Old Habits Die Hard

I had almost forgotten just how racist Orange County was back when I was growing up here.  The decades long Extreme Makeover had shifted OC's image from that of a rightwing backwater to that of a Gold Coast cosmopolitan playground for Nouveau Riche Housewives.  It's debatable whether that's really much of an improvement, but there's no denying it certainly plays better on TV.

But then, occasionally, the mask slips.

The dogs and I set out yesterday on our morning walk and I was shocked to see school was back in session at the high school across the street.  Who the hell starts the school year on a Thursday?  We rounded the corner and ran smack dab into a news truck from one of the local LA stations, strategically placed, antenna mast fully deployed ready to broadcast breaking news.  News of what?  There was no one around to ask so I speculated they were there to cover the asinine school calendar.

Later that day, as I was leaving for school, I noticed there were now three more news trucks parked around our complex representing all the major networks.  What the hell was so newsworthy in our little neighborhood?  They all seemed to be focused on the high school and as I drove to school I tried to figure it out.

Maybe it had something to do with all the recent racial tensions here in Anaheim, brought on by the unfortunate police shootings.  They had been holding various "town halls" in an effort to diffuse the situation, so perhaps they were holding some event in the school gym.

Turns out, I was half right.  It definitely had something to do with racial tensions, and if I had to guess, they aren't going to be getting any better any time soon.

The latest controversy revolves around a high school tradition going back generations, part of the annual "Senior Week" festivities in the Spring...

“Seniores and Señoritas” Day!

Well, that sounds nice... a day to celebrate the area's rich Hispanic history?  What could possibly go wrong with that?

“Pictures from last year's event show students wearing sombreros and fake mustaches. Others dressed up as border patrol agents arresting kids dressed as illegal immigrants.

Some students came as gang members, sporting bandanas and tear drop tattoos on their faces.  There were also students dressed as gardeners, and even one girl who dressed as a pregnant woman pushing a baby stroller.”

Oy vey.

Didn't anyone...the administrators, the teachers, the parents or the students themselves, see a problem with this?

I realize this area, and the high school it represents, are still predominantly lily white, but it's hard to chalk this up simply to racial insensitivity.  I'm afraid it's not a bug, it's a feature.

The really disheartening thing is that last Spring's senior class, the one called on the carpet, was born in 1994, when, one would hope, we had moved beyond a lot of this crap.

It looks like Orange County is going to have to suffer through at least one more generation of bigots.

A Tale of Two Cities

I have to admit I haven't really been paying attention to all the turmoil here in Anaheim.  I say "here" because, technically, that's where we live.  More on that in a minute.

The riots and protests were triggered by Anaheim police shooting and killing two un-armed gang members in the space of one week.  That didn't catch my attention because we'd only recently moved from California's lawless Central Valley where police shootings are so common the rarely raise an eyebrow.  In Hooterville, do you know what we'd call a week with two unprovoked police shootings?  "A slow week."

The police shootings were only a symptom of a bigger problem which gets back to the subject of where exactly we live.  While technically we live in the City of Anaheim, in reality we live in Anaheim Hills.  Big difference.

Anaheim was once just rural farmland, but the arrival of Disneyland and Interstate 5 turned it into a middle-class bedroom community.  A white middle-class bedroom community.  But that was then and this is now and now the City of Anaheim proper is a mostly Hispanic, working class and low wage.

The trends were obvious even back in the 60's and I have to think the powers-that-be took a look at the fate of next door Santa Ana.  Santa Ana was once quite prosperous and now it's what passes for "the ghetto" in Orange County.  There had to be a way to counteract the prevailing trend and the city officials hit upon a novel solution...

A land grab.

To the east, along the foothills was a huge swath on un-incorporated County land which had already been zoned for upscale planned communities.  The boundaries of this land only touched the Anaheim city limits at one very narrow, itsy bitsy spot, but that was enough.  The City of Anaheim annexed it and overnight had their own version of Beverly Hills.  And the tax revenue and luster that went with it.  If you look at a map of the city, Anaheim Hills shoots off to the east like a barely attached baby's arm.

The people who live here are loath to admit they live in Anaheim.  You always make a special emphasis on the "HILLS" if you mention it at all. A lot of people still refer to it a "Nohl  Ranch", which was the very first community that was built.  I grew up here and dated a girl who lived around the corner and I actually thought it was a separate city when we moved here.  And that's what the locals would like everyone to believe.

And that's really the crux of the issue here.  Anaheim elects all it's city officials on an "at-large" system, not by various wards or districts.  And for years all the city officials have come from Anaheim Hills.  People in the less well off city proper have absolutely no representation in the city.  Things in Anaheim Hills are really quite nice.  Things in the rest of the city, not so much.  And the shootings just triggered some very long simmering (and completely justified) resentment.

We'll see how things play out.  Disney is mortified to have all this going on blocks from their investments.  I expect we'll see a major Mickey Mouse donation for some parks or rec centers or something to keep the natives less restive.

And speaking of Disney gifts, look what I found, at the top of the post!

It's "Andy Anaheim"!

A character created by the Disney folks and given to the city as a mascot in anticipation of the opening of Disneyland.

What is he exactly?  A squirrel?

Maybe they should update it and put a gun in his hand.

...To The Sea

I hadn't seen the ocean in three years.

That was kind of a big deal to me since for all of my adult life, the beach had been therapy. I'd always lived a short distance away and for most of the 90's I lived in Venice Beach, just feet from the sand.  Whenever life or work or love became stressful or overwhelming, I just headed to the beach and watched the sun set or moon rise and all seemed right with the world.

But for nearly three years, we lived in exile hours from the coast.  A few times, in the evening out walking the dogs, a breeze would blow in from the west and I could swear I could smell the salt air, but it was only an illusion and as soon as I realized it I sunk into deep funk.

We've been back near the beach now for nearly four months and I'd yet to see the ocean again.  I had mentioned that last week to the boyfriend and had forgotten about it.

We had decided to stay in town for the weekend and the boyfriend and I had some errands to run.  It was edging up on 11am and I suggested we stop somewhere for breakfast since we were out.  He turned to me and said "we are" and he hopped on the freeway headed west.

We ended up in Sunset Beach which is where the boyfriend had grown up.  It was one of the first sunny days at the coast and we rolled down the windows and opened the sun roof and drank in the sea air and the beautiful day.  He seemed excited to point out all his old haunts and we made our way to the Pantry for brunch.

Afterwards we just aimlessly cruised around.  Sunset Beach, Surfside, Seal beach, into Long Beach.  At one point the boyfriend turned to me and said "let's go to the beach".  I looked at him and said "we already are" and he looked back at me and said "no, REALLY go to the beach... go in the water, lay in the sand."

That sounded crazy.

So I agreed.

We weren't really dressed for it so we stopped at a small surf shop and picked up a couple of cheap towels and trunks.  We drove back to his old neighborhood and parked not far from his old house and walked the half a block to the beach.

We planted our towels and crashed on the sand.  We'd both grown pale over the past many months and the sun felt good.  It was so relaxing to just stare out to sea, watch the seagulls dart and dive, the pelicans slowly cruising up the coast, the waves slowly rolling in.  And then it came time to check out the surf.

What most people don't seem to realize is the the Pacific Ocean is very large... and very cold.  The water temperature usually lags the air temps by several months and I know from my years in Venice that the warmest water was usually in late September and early October.  Dive in in June or July and you were in for a rude surprise.  So I approached the waves with a certain amount of trepidation and was genuinely surprised to discover the water was actually totally bearable.

So there we were like a couple of kids, diving through the waves, drifting aimlessly, bobbing and floating between the swells.  It was bliss.  We must have been in the water an hour before we finally decided to get out.

We dried off in the sun and eventually decided to head home; we'd left the dogs alone far longer than we had planned.  We stopped for frozen yogurt on PCH and then reluctantly jumped back on the freeway.  As we drove along "Unchained Melody" came on the radio...

"Lonely rivers flow
To the sea, to the seaTo the open arms of the sea..."
It was the perfect day.

Haircut Time Machine

After the economic crash and the exile that followed, a decent haircut became a luxury I just couldn't afford.  I was resigned to a lifetime of Supercuts, and in Hooterville I counted myself lucky to escape without a mullet.

Even after the move to OC, things were still unsettled enough that paying more than $15 for a haircut seemed decadent.  And it just so happened there was a Supercuts around the corner.

It's run by an imposing Persian woman.  She speaks slowly in a low, husky voice and definitely gives off the vibe that the salon is really nothing more than a cover for something more nefarious.  She employs four other stylists, all Persian, and it's evidently company policy that at any given time, at least three of them are on a break.

The first time I went in it was mid day and empty.  All five of them were slumped in their barber chairs slowly munching on snacks and lazily leafing through gossip magazines.  It looked like a herd of cows.  For several long seconds everyone ignored me.  Finally the owner looked up and said "it will be about ten minutes."

OK.

So I sat there for ten minutes watching them all chew their cud and flip their pages.  At the ten minute mark, the owner looked at her watch and barked something in Farsi to one of the other stylists who stood up, tossed her magazine to the side and yelled to no one in particular, "NEXT!"

Don's ask me why, but I went back a month later.

This time, the waiting area held about 10 people yet despite the crowd, three of the stylists were "on break" in their chairs.  The owner came over to me to take my name and once again said "it will be about ten minutes."   I doubted that, but I didn't really feel I had any options, so I took my seat.  I could tell immediately that the other people waiting were getting restless and agitated.  At one point a waiting mom charged up to the front desk and started to loudly complain.

"You said it would be ten minutes and we've been here AN HOUR!"

The owner came back up to the desk and sorta, kinda apologized.  "Please, I am so sorry.  It will just be about ten minutes..."

That seemed to be the breaking point and suddenly the waiting area erupted in disgust.  As everyone started arguing I quietly slunk out the door.

So what to do.

A few days later I was driving by a local strip mall and I saw it, a blunt, dull sign saying "The Haircut".

How bad could it be?

Walking through the doors was like passing through a time portal which transported you back nearly 30 years to 1984.  It was "Morning in America" again.  It was magical.

The floor was a dizzying checkerboard of black and white tiles.  The surfaces were all polished chrome and lacquered black and Fleck-Tone paint.  Classic 80's wallpaper - silver and black with geometric shapes in turquoise and hot pink.  Lining the walls were fading Patrick Nadel prints.  You could practically hear the Duran Duran...

"Her name is Rio and she dances on the sand
Just like that river twisting through a dusty land..."

Was the haircut any good?  That's kind of beside the point.  You don't go to "The Haircut" for the haircut, you go for the magic.

To relive your youth.

To escape to a simpler time.

For ten minutes.

Fifteen if you a get a shampoo.

"Oh Rio, Rio dance across the Rio Grande..."

It’s The Water. And So Much More.

It seems impolite to even mention it, being newcomers and all, but...

the water here stinks.

And I mean... stinks.

I first noticed it days after we moved in when I did a load of laundry. As I pulled the clothes out of the washer to transfer them into the dryer, I held them close and smelled... industrial solvents.  That's the closest analogy I could come to.  I washed the clothes again and when I pulled them out, same thing.

I assumed a cigarette lighter had been left in a pocket and broken, spilling butane into the wash water, an occupational hazard of being a smoker.  A few dozen fabric sheets would solve the problem and I left it that.

And then, a few weeks later, we opted to replace the cheap rental shower head in the master bathroom with something a bit more deluxe, something with actual settings.  One of which was "mist".

Dear God.  It turned the shower into a gas chamber.  Seriously, a minute more and the coroner would have been involved.  I had to open all the windows to air the house out.

I haven't a clue what the issue is.  I grew up only a few miles from here and don't remember any water issues.  Then again, my folks are life-long soft water enthusiasts, so maybe there's something to be said for filtering your water through 500 pounds of salt.

Things That Go Bang In The Night

There's something oddly comforting about the dull thuds of the nightly Disneyland fireworks.  It must be an Orange County thing.  I imagine in many parts of the world the sound of muffled explosions nearby in the dark would be anything but comforting, but that's how it goes here.

Like clockwork, around 9:40 every night, you can hear what sounds like a small scale war.  When was a child, they used to go off earlier, just before 9:00.  I grew up a few miles north of the Park and I remember my parents sending us to bed around 8:30 and then drifting off to sleep to sound of the explosions.  We used to actually be able to see them from the backyard, but over the years, the trees matured and blocked the view and all we were left with was the sounds.  Or occasionally, when the cloud deck is low, bright bursts of glowing color.

I was hoping when we moved here we'd be able to see them, but sadly the view is blocked by a hill.  Although, when I hear them, I can still picture them in my mind.  I suppose that's enough.

That 70's Show

And now a few words about... Kenos.

Magical Kenos.

We found it quite by accident; the boyfriend found a coupon in the mail for prime rib for $9.95.  How could you possibly go wrong?  It's right down the road from us and from the street it looks a lot like a Carrows.  In fact, once inside, half of the restaurant looks exactly like a Carrows or a Dennys.  But the other half...

... is a time machine.

I couldn't even tell you what the diner portion of the restaurant is like since from the moment we set foot inside we were drawn, like moths to a flame, to the the other side, the Lounge.  Step past the threshold and you are immediately back in the Disco Era.

The first thing you see is the sunken conversation pit surrounding a copper hooded fireplace.  Close your eyes and you can imagine women in their Qiana finery, sipping Harvey Wallbangers as they laugh at the jokes of the men decked out in their wide-collared polyester print shirts, unbuttoned low enough to show off their gold Italian horn necklaces.

The ceilings are low and the room is dark.  Across the far wall is a low slung bar.  The regulars roll around on short tufted club chairs on castors.  Along the other walls and down the middle are deep, high backed naugahyde booths.  Black and white photos of the 60's era Rat Pack are featured above the booths, but make no mistake, the year is 1977.

It was love at first sight, and what's not to love?  Even if we hadn't been seduced by the decor, the food is surprisingly good, the drinks are large and potent and the whole shebang is remarkably cheap.

Not to mention, Friday night is... Karaoke Night!

Our first visit just so happened to be on Friday and it was hard not to be swept up in Karaoke Fever.  Before you knew it, the boyfriend was up there doing a mean rendition of "Come Fly With Me."  He was competing against a 12 year-old singing "Paparazzi".  That's right... a 12 year-old!  In a bar!

It's that type of place.

Ultimately, they both lost out to a couple of regulars, people who obviously LIVE for Friday nights at Keno's.  And who knows, we may soon be two of them.

I told the boyfriend if we ever end up getting married, I want the reception there.

Rock’ n Rollin’

Nothing like a little earthquake to remind you you live in California.

And this one was was centered under "The Land Of Gracious Living™".

It rattled the dogs, but we were nonplussed.  Anything under a 6.0 is negligible.

The Eichlers

It's no secret that the boyfriend and I hate being renters.  Once you've owned several homes, being forced to rent feels like being kicked several steps down the evolutionary ladder.  But now that there's the slightest glimmer of hope that our prospects are improving, we did what any delusional person would do...  we started looking at homes to buy.

One of the passions the boyfriend and I share is anything featuring mid-century modern design, particularly residential architecture.  Our house in LA was a lesser Lloyd Wright, all walls of glass and cantilevered decks.  It was also a money pit, a fact that is slowly getting lost to to the shifting sands of time.  Which is why we can so blithely go looking for new fixer-upper challenges.

On Tuesday I received an e-mail from the boyfriend with a magical subject line... "An Eichler!"

Joseph Eichler was a homebuilder who specialized in building tracts of elegant mid-century modern homes during the 50's and early 60's.  He built them all over the place, but the vast majority of them are in Northern California.  There are, however, three tracts not far from here in the city of Orange.  And one of those homes was for sale.  We decided to go check it out once the boyfriend came home from work.

The boyfriend has a distain for maps, no sense of direction and a short fuse, usually not a good combination.  He did, however, have a vague sense of where the houses were which proved to be not enough, and after driving around for an hour on an Eichler snipe hunt with no success, we were about to throw up our hands and head home.  Luckily, my new best friend Siri, on my iPhone, was able to provide us with just enough additional information to lead us to Nirvana.

And Nirvana it was, a tract of over 100 Eichler homes, most lovingly restored to mid-century glory.  It's more than a little ironic that homes that were initially designed to be an inexpensive alternative to the masses now take hundreds of thousands of dollars in renovations to get them back to how they looked when they sold for $12,000.  We quickly found the house listed for sale and it was a beauty.  I'm assuming it was being sold by the estate of the original owners because the house was in absolutely pristine, mint condition.  We peered through the original aluminum casement windows at the glass enclosed atrium, the linoleum floors, the state-of-the-art, turquoise kitchen appliances, the original globe lights hanging in the eaves... it was heaven.

And at nearly $600,000, it was way out of our league.

We heaved a sigh of resignation and went home.

And then yesterday came another email... "More Eichlers!!!!"

The boyfriend had discovered another cache of "lesser known" Eichlers and it happened to be smack dab in my hometown (how did I not know of this?).  And one of those was for sale for only $285K!

Last night, off we went to check it out.

Well, there's a reason they're "lesser known".

First of all, the tract is in what was known even in my youth as "The Bad Part of Town".  As we slowly cruised the neighborhood, clots of shifty looking characters milled about and it suddenly occurred to me that this isn't the type of neighborhood you slowly cruise around.  Because it really was "The 'Hood".  Which is why I didn't know about... we were always afraid to venture into this part of town.  All of the houses, even the less molested ones, sported burglar bars and heavy security gates.  In our brief tour we passed four squad cars in various stages of arresting people.

If only they had been the Design Police, because then everyone in the neighborhood would be under arrest.  What these people had done to their poor little Eichlers was beyond belief.  Who knew you could do so much damage with so little stucco and fake brick.  Home Depot should be charged as an accessory... to murder.

Crimes against humanity, I say.

There were only a handful that were still salvageable, and then there, in the wilderness, was one house that had obviously been meticulously restored by some intrepid pioneers, probably some gays hoping to be the tip of the spear in a neighborhood gentrification.  Well, good luck with that.  This neighborhood has been a cesspool for over 40 years and no amount of sage green paint and tasteful landscaping was going to change that.  I don't really see the point of buying a home in a neighborhood you might one day feel safe in.  In twenty years.  Maybe.

So the dream is deferred. As I sit here working in our little fake Spanish rental, I'll throw on some Sinatra and pretend.  One day...

The Land Of Gracious Living™

There's a "Richard Nixon Freeway"... who knew?

I sure as hell didn't and I grew up here.

Like the Nixon Administration itself, it's unnaturally short.  Only about three miles, if that.  I must say it's quite lovely, two words not normally associated with our 38th President.

We found ourselves driving on it over the weekend on the way to the mall.  It passes through the the town of Yorba Linda (home of the Nixon Library and Gift Shop - check out the paper shredders) and a sign as you enter informs you that Yorba Linda is "The Land Of Gracious Living™".

"Gracious Living".

Doesn't that sound marvelous?

Who wouldn't want to live graciously?

Like Martha Stewart?

It got me to thinking.  With so many dreams and aspirations ground into dust over the past couple of years, it's hard to focus on the long term goals we need to meet to hopefully dig ourselves out of the hole we're in.  Just the thought of it is so daunting it's tempting just to throw in the towel.  What I needed, I thought, were some short term, attainable goals...

A simple goal...

Like...

 Living Graciously.

How hard could that be?  If you're creative, you can probably do it on the cheap too.  It certainly couldn't hurt to try.

If it got Martha through prison, it can probably work for us.

Sadly, You Can Go Home Again

If you had told me, thirty years ago, that one day I'd be living back in Orange County, I would've thought you were smoking crack.

Actually, the year would've been 1982 and I don't think we yet had crack, but you get the idea.

I was leaving Orange County for the bright lights and big city of college life and I wasn't looking back.  Sure, I'd visit from time to time, to see my folks and mock whichever high school classmates were left behind, but there was no way I'd live here again.

Or so I thought.

Much was lost in the Great Recession, not the least of which was my career, my partner's job and the home in the Hollywood Hills.  Simply to survive, we had to take what work we could find, which is how we found ourselves banished to “The Place Which Shall Not Be Named”, an ass backward cow town the name of which I can't even type for fear of triggering PTSD.  When, quite out of the blue, job prospects arose back in the good 'ole OC, we jumped at the opportunity.  Compared to Bumfuck, Orange County now seemed like the French Riviera.

And so, here we are.

Turns out there's a reason they coined the term “The More Things Change, The More They Stay The Same”... it's true!  I was shocked at how quickly I've regained my OC navigational skills.  Every day is like a new case of deja vu.  We've ended up living just down the street from my old girlfriend, the one I lost my virginity to.  Shame she isn't around to meet the boyfriend.  And we're close to my folks, which I love.  When I left this place for school, we were barely on speaking terms and now I meet them for lunch at least once a week.  Strange times.

Of course, there have been a lot of changes over the past thirty years.  For one thing, there are Toll Roads, the purpose of which escapes me.  I wouldn't want to drive to Riverside in the best of times and I'm certainly not going to pay $4.00 to do it.  My sister informs me that it shaves 30 minutes of the drive to her house.  Now there's a choice... 30 minutes stuck in traffic or an additional 30 minutes in the company of her family.  I'd call that a toss up.

But by far the greatest change in the past thirty years has been to the whole concept of “Orange County”.  When I left here this place was known as the home of Disneyland and the birthplace of the John Birch Society (and the reactionary Rightwing politics we know and love today).  There was a reason we referred to living “behind the Orange Curtain”.

And now look at it!

It's had an Extreme Makeover!

It's the New Gold Coast!

Actually, the transformation was already beginning when I still lived here.  What happened was that people with money discovered that despite the fact it was more than a little backwards, it had the one thing that Los Angeles ran out of decades ago... undeveloped coastline!  So the McMansions went up, the Nouveau Riche moved in and they demanded the same level of shopping and dining experiences found in more cosmopolitan locales.  And before you knew it, Orange County was, dare I say it, stylish.


Oh sure, there were sacrifices.  Chief among them was the pristine coastline, the view of which is now blocked by Faux Chateaus and phony Tuscan Villas.  And sadly too, Laguna Beach.  It was once my favorite place in the world, a quaint artists’ colony where I spent many a summer.  Now it's chock full of insufferable One Percenters.  Oh well, can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs.

So here we are, the adventure continues.  Now that the dust of the move has settled, it's time to see what life in OC has to offer.

Besides “Housewives”.