Flying Into Los Angeleez

In a few days I'll be eligible for Social Security. I won't file for it. My retirement plan consists of passing away and supporting Deb with my life insurance proceeds. There's a major flaw in the plan, which is why I'm bound and determined to enjoy myself as much as possible for as long as possible while continuing to get paid for my advice.

The last few weeks have underscored how capable I am of enjoying myself. On Saturday evening, I returned from a week in Los Angeles. Typically, I have only a weekend to spend and have to severely limit my visits to friends and family. Even a 5-day week was insufficient to do everything I wanted, especially since I was attending a conference for 2-1/2 days, but:

• I was able to join my roommates from my senior year in college for dinner in Long Beach;

• I attended a gala benefiting the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum honoring Sir Ben Kingsley;

• I ate at chi SPACCA, a Hollywood hotspot, at the insistence of a Minneapolis friend who took my phone to make an Open Table reservation 10 days in advance;

• I enjoyed Shabbat dinner with Bruce and Marilyn Mandel's family, marveling at Marilyn's 96 year old mother's apparent rejuvenation since being bed-ridden during my last visit in December;

• I spent hours on Friday afternoon walking the beach at Malibu and photographing surfers;
  

• I grabbed lunch in Manhattan Beach with an old friend from my days representing Minneapolis' Rogue Bar;

• I drove a Tesla down Sunset Boulevard and up Mandeville Canyon (I want a Tesla); and

• I spent a lot of quality time with my blood-brother, Bruce Mandel, who also turns 62 on my birthday and who has been an integral part of my life since we met at age 3.

I am not writing to draw unnecessary attention to my love of food. I did that with all the photographic evidence posted on Facebook. This is another observation about the importance of relationships and of making the most out of life.

Let me elaborate.

In 1973, I transferred to UCLA. Bruce, who rarely takes "no" for an answer, persuaded the school to admit me as a senior. After driving my Datsun 610 across the country, so loaded down the wheels buckled, I answered an ad in the school newspaper and found living quarters in West L.A. with Donald Johnson and Franz Miller, third year law students. We had a magical year, sharing a balcony with Peter Strauss immediately before his Rich Man, Poor Man role made him famous. We frequented greasy spoons and Annie's Doughnuts after Johnny Carson signed off. We all

Donald Johnson & Hon. Franz Miller

shot pilots for Jack Barry quiz shows and I spent three days as a contestant on The Joker's Wild. We spent weekends in Palm Springs at my grandparents' home, flying across the desert in Franz' TR-6 convertible. We graduated but stayed connected. In Long Beach last week, we realized it had been 40 years since we left the apartment on Armacost. Donald is a retired prosecutor; Franz is a judge in Orange County. I'm honored and appreciative to have been allowed to share their lives 40 years ago and more than a little touched that, 40 years later, they would both drive for hours to meet to reminisce.

Attending the benefit for the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum at the table Bruce purchased was like a homecoming.

Sir Ben Kingsley contemplating the six
candles lit in memory of the 6 million Jews
who perished in the Holocaust

In 1978, while working as Legislative Counsel to U.S. Senator Wendell R. Anderson, I was tasked with developing and introducing legislation to establish a national Holocaust memorial in Washington, D.C. I pursued the project passionately in honor of Bruce's parents, both survivors of Nazi concentration camps. Bruce's mom, Ella, is like a mother to me, especially since my mother died when I was 18. One day, I received a call from the White House, asking that I withdraw my legislation because President Carter wished to pursue the establishment of the memorial museum as an accomplishment of his administration. I acquiesced, a street-smart 26 year-old who already understood there was but one response to a Presidential request. Nonetheless, I couldn't help but feel some pride as I watched survivors and supporters and Hollywood elite gather to celebrate the incredible success of the Museum and the important role it plays in preserving the lessons of the Holocaust.

The meal at chi SPACCA was a three hour experience that seemed to pass in the blink of an eye. Bruce and I sampled many of the cured meats the restaurant is famous for.

We shared wonderfully spicy calamari and mouth-watering short ribs. It was our first night together and we caught up on one another's life as brothers do. As we left the restaurant to walk to our car a block away, we noticed a group of men standing outside Mozza, the restaurant connected to chi SPACCA. Bruce thought they were part of a convention, uncharacteristically dressed up on the corner of Melrose and Highland. For me, the street-smarts kicked in. Taking in the scene - everyone dressed alike, short hair, lapel mikes, positioned along the sidewalk, black SUVs parked in front of the restaurant - I immediately had them pegged as a security detail. When, as we walked by we heard them speaking Hebrew, it was confirmed. Later we learned Prime Minister Netanyahu was in town and my guess is he was dining at Mozza. Welcome to L.A.

When I visited L.A. for a weekend last December to pay condolences to Bruce and Ella on the November passing of Stefan Mandel, father and husband, I made it a point to visit Marilyn's parents, the Pilbergs, at their winter apartment near Beverly Hills. Mrs. Pilberg was being attended to around the clock by Marilyn and her sisters and did not emerge from the bedroom. She is struggling with a cancer diagnosis and it was important to me to pay my respects to her and to her husband as I've known them for nearly 30 years. I was shocked, happily so, when we had dinner on Friday night.

Besides being touched by the beautiful Sabbath table set as part of a weekly ritual, and its corresponding emotional and spiritual connection to my Jewish heritage, I was amazed at the improvement in Mrs. Pilberg's condition and attitude. She lovingly recalled Deb and my visit to Los Angeles 27 years ago with my four year old son in tow. She could not believe that Phillip is nearly 31 and about to become a father.

Mr. and Mrs. Pilberg rejoiced in the presence of Alyssa, Bruce and Marilyn's daughter, and clearly consider the mutual love and respect shared with their granddaughter as one of life's great blessings.

Friday's time on the beach generated a wide variety of memories and contemplation. When I lived in L.A., if I was feeling down, I'd drive to the water in the evening and sit on the sand watching the waves pound the shore, mesmerized by the phosphorescent displays that never ended.

I recall visits after I'd graduated from UCLA in which Bruce's father would love spending hours just lying on a blanket soaking in the sun on a Saturday afternoon. And I'm always amazed at my great fortune at having had the opportunities to travel so widely when I meet someone who has never seen the ocean. All of that was going through my head on Friday as Bruce, in the footsteps of his father, took the time to decompress and enjoy the simple pleasures of walking along the beach.

Not atypically, I had a camera with me. Rather than one of my larger DSLR's, I limited my camera gear this trip to a relatively inexpensive Nikon point & shoot, albeit one that allowed creative interaction. I challenged myself to capture images worthy of sharing to see if I could do so without the use of my fancier equipment. I think I succeeded and earned accolades from my blood-brother, who marveled at the results.

Lunch with Dante Gaudio was an unexpected treat. Thanks to Facebook, I became aware that he was also scheduled to be in L.A. last week. I reached out and we were able to find time and space to catch up before I drove him to the airport for his trip home to Connecticut. When we were last together, I was representing the Rogue, Minneapolis' hottest nightclub, restaurant and bar. Dante had been a bouncer and, at the end, was managing the business with as much skill as anyone I'd worked with. We faced incredible challenges together as the owner relapsed and eventually overdosed on cocaine. My first and only intervention was experienced with Dante and, if there's another, I'm betting there won't be a shotgun involved as necessary protection. Dante and I had a pact. If I ever won the Powerball, he'd be my first hire, serving as my Kato or the guy on Valentine's Day (to my Anthony Franciosa). Eighteen years later, Dante is an executive with a successful electronic publishing company serving the medical community, has four beautiful children and, truth be told, I'll probably end up driving for him.

Los Angeles is a car-lover's paradise. The weather lends itself to enjoying beautiful machinery without concern for snow, ice, salted roadways or lengthy impediments to lowering your convertible's top. I gawk at the abundance of SL's, Aston Martins, Bentleys, Ferraris and Porsches. But since December, when Bruce acquired his Tesla, I feel pity for the owners of these masterpieces. They are doomed to tether to the gas station. Driving by a gas station in the all-electric Tesla fills me with the same sense of sadness that strikes me driving by a building downtown and seeing smokers congregating outside the doorways. If only both sets of poor souls could break free from the needless clutches of gasoline and nicotine, respectively.

While in the Tesla, you immediately appreciate the all-encompassing superiority of the driving experience when compared to more traditional gas burners. As I pulled away from the curb after dinner on Friday, I felt like I was maneuvering a very large electric golf cart. There was no noise and no sense of shifting. However, once I pressed on the accelerator, I recognized it was unlike any golf cart I'd ever driven. In fact, I told Bruce that I had not had that much fun driving since my monthly trips to L.A in the mid-80's to tool around in a friend's Ferrari Testarossa for the weekend. Bruce's car seemed faster and more agile. In the mid-80's I was in my 30's. Last week, I was not and I ignored Bruce's encouragement to drive more aggressively, forcing him to take the rare "no" for an answer.

I'm not going to elaborate any more on my quality time with Bruce, except to share his wife's observation: "I've never seen

Bruce happier than he is when he's with you." Given the 59 years of love I have for my blood-brother, a relationship created by our fathers in about 1956 by pricking our fingers and mixing our blood, Marilyn's observation fills me with incredible joy.

I know my respect for relationships is a recurring theme in my writing. But the gratification realized from enjoying the fruits of inter-personal development nurtured over the years bears regular acknowledgment. Writing about the breadth of my experiences and friendships gives me the opportunity to pause and appreciate what a lucky S.O.B. I am while generating dividends of wonderful memories and thankfulness for other's acceptance and even respect. Happy Birthday to me (and Bruce).