Lifestyle
L.A. Affairs: A single comment about my boyfriend shattered my friend circle
Sunday nights: an apartment overlooking the Pacific, Manchego and hummus, then down to the rec room for ping-pong. That was our ritual — sometimes four of us, sometimes six or seven, paddles rotating. I’d insisted on one rule: no politics.
Meredith lived just up the street. In Los Angeles, where friendships often hinge on traffic patterns, that proximity mattered. She collected people like her dog collected burrs — random encounters in the park that somehow stuck. We were her strays, but for those hours each week, we became a small tribe bound by the sound of a ball against wood.
This past March, we held a celebration of life for Peanut, Meredith’s ancient mutt who’d been our Sunday mascot. My boyfriend José came with me. Cara found us in a big armchair at the edge of the party — José and I snug together while 30-some people mingled, drinks in hand.
“You two look so beautiful together,” she said, pulling out her phone. “It’s all about love, guys. I did ayahuasca once, and that’s what I learned. It’s all about love.”
José smiled his careful smile, the one he uses when white people need him to validate their enlightenment.
We stayed for the slideshow: Peanut as a puppy, Peanut at the beach, Peanut gray-muzzled and dignified. Many of the photos were mine — Meredith and Peanut together on the couch, at the park. One she’d taken of Peanut flopped in my arms. When Meredith wept, I rose to hold her. José and I walked home together, the ocean wind sharp against our faces.
Sunday evening, our regular game. José had headed back to his place. Between matches, while the others went upstairs for more wine, Cara sat beside me.
We were alone, still breathing hard.
“How are things with you and José?”
ICE was grabbing Latinos off the street. No one was asking for papers.
That’s when I told her about his status. How he’d been brought here at 11. How I worried about him having Indigenous Mexican features, how I asked him to carry his DACA work permit — always. How we’d added each other on Find My on our iPhones.
We were seated close, knee-to-knee. She nodded like she understood.
“I’m sorry, but people like José need to be deported.”
She swiped her paddle — emphatic, like swatting away not a ball but a body.
“It’s the only way we’ll fix the immigration system. Do it right.”
I had no words. The ball had rolled under the couch. I could see its white curve in the shadow.
I wrote to Cara the next morning. Months earlier, she’d hosted me at her home for Thanksgiving — her gay son and his husband at the table, her granddaughter pulling me into a game. When I left, Cara pressed a plate of leftovers into my hands at the door.
I wrote: “If someone told you your son’s marriage should be annulled to restore the sanctity of marriage, that wouldn’t be political — it would be personal. That’s how I feel about José.”
Her reply arrived before I’d finished my coffee. Links, statistics, a YouTube video about the menace at the border, arguments untethered from José or the immigrants who make up the fabric of life in Los Angeles.
Meredith never replied to my texts. Conflict overwhelmed her. I’d asked her to understand, not take sides.
When I told José what Cara said, his fury was immediate: “Never tell anyone!”
He was right. I’d made him feel vulnerable, handed her the ammunition.
I never went back.
What haunts me are those nights when the ball flew between us. The satisfying pock of paddle on ball, battling through long rallies, and breaking into dance moves with Chrissy after a perfect slam. Most of us hadn’t played since we were teens; the giddiness felt like freedom — competition without consequence.
Sometimes we’d play until nearly midnight — just one more game, nobody wanting to yield. We could vanquish each other over the net, but not dare threaten each other’s tightly held politics.
I took a certain pride in maintaining this friendship across the divide. “We just keep it about ping-pong,” I’d tell José, as if I’d discovered some secret to coexistence. I loved ping-pong too much to jeopardize it. Keith and I were the token liberals, José and I the token gay couple. The former journalist in the group, I’d insisted on no politics, and I’d kept insisting. If someone started to say something, I’d shut it down: “Don’t ruin this.”
When Chrissy played — just new to ping-pong — we slowed the game, made allowances. But politics? I knew we couldn’t go there.
Months later, after I’d stopped going, I ran into Keith at Trader Joe’s. He’d stopped going too. “I couldn’t stomach their politics anymore,” he said.
Ping-pong had been Switzerland.
Thanksgiving Day, eight months later. I was walking on the Santa Monica Pier, having called off my dinner plans because of a cold. Around me: Jamaican steel drums, an electrified sitar, Mexican women selling churros, Chinese immigrants painting tourists’ names in calligraphy. Meredith’s childhood friend called from their dinner table. “Everyone misses you,” he said. I could hear laughter in the background, the clink of glasses. As if I’d simply stopped showing up.
The ping-pong table was never neutral territory. We could be intimate about everything — sex, drugs, the messy details of our lives — everything except the beliefs that would actually tear us apart. All those Sunday nights, we’d been speaking in serves and returns while our politics waited under our tongues.
When the ball stopped bouncing, we had no other language.
I walk past Meredith’s building on the bluff a few times a week. My Stiga paddle sits in a drawer. Sometimes I imagine the table, the net taut as a border fence. Evidence of civility’s limit. The no-man’s-land I knew not to cross.
The last rally Meredith and I played went on for minutes. Back and forth, neither of us missing, the ball blurring between us in that hypnotic rhythm that makes everything else disappear. When it finally ended — I can’t remember who won — we just stood there, paddles lowered, breathing hard.
The ball rolled toward the corner, that familiar sound growing quieter as it slowed. Neither of us moved to retrieve it.
I still track José’s blue dot moving through the city. Not for safety — for love.
The author is a ghostwriter, writing coach and former Times contributor. He teaches creative writing at Mighty Words Studio.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
Editor’s note: On April 3, L.A. Affairs Live, our new storytelling competition show, will feature real dating stories from people living in the Greater Los Angeles area. Tickets for our first event are on sale now via the Next Fun Thing.
Lifestyle
L.A. Times Concierge: ‘Our anniversary trip to Paris fell through! Help us plan an L.A. escapade that feels special’
My husband and I celebrate our 40th wedding anniversary in April! Years ago we planned to go to Paris (as we did on our 25th), but now our 17-year-old dog can’t be left alone with a dog sitter for that long. And look, our cat is 15! Any recommendations for a special dinner (we live in the Pasadena/Highland Park area) and maybe a little escapade where we would only be gone for shorter bursts? Hints: We love theater, movies, the beach, laughing and food that is divine, but not so rich you can’t stand up after. I also can’t eat dairy. — Diane Kelber
Looking for things to do in L.A.? Ask us your questions and our expert guides will share highly specific recommendations.
Here’s what we suggest:
First and foremost, congratulations on 40 years of marriage! That’s a milestone definitely worth celebrating. Also, I hear you on not wanting to leave your dog for an extended period of time. Although you won’t be able to make it to Paris this time, hopefully we can bring glimpses of the romantic city to you here in L.A. I’ve compiled a list of spots for you to create your own adventure.
If you look closely enough, you can find slices of Europe in L.A. Or as my colleague Christopher Reynolds once put it, places that aim to “feed travel dreams or remind someone of home.” A prime example of this are the many French restaurants in the city where you can indulge in as many macarons, steak frites and beef bourguignon as you’d like. Two standout spots are Camélia and Pasjoli, both featured on the L.A. Times list of 101 Best Restaurants. Located in the downtown Arts District, Camélia merges French and Japanese cuisines. On the menu is uni pasta, hanger steak au poivre and a dry-aged burger with fries, which restaurant critic Bill Addison says doesn’t require any twists because “it’s simply a fantastic burger.”
Restaurant critic Jenn Harris says the Santa Monica-based Pasjoli “straddles the line between destination dining and the kind of neighborhood restaurant everybody wants to have down the street.” The eatery is best known for its tableside pressed duck, which the chef prepares in a theatrical fashion during dinner service. But if you’re not into duck, there are several other popular dishes on the menu, including French onion soup, steak frites, sole meuniere and what Harris calls “the best grilled cheese sandwich in the known universe” (though this might be a better option for your husband).
If you prefer a more laid-back vibe that makes you feel like you’ve been teleported to Saint-Germain-des-Prés in Paris, check out Figaro Bistrot in Los Feliz. As I wrote in a guide about neighborhood, the restaurant embodies the Parisian way of dining: guests linger over wine and good conversation.
Another L.A. spot that is reminiscent of Europe is the the Getty Center in Brentwood. Designed by architect Richard Meier, the sprawling hilltop complex is gleaming with manicured gardens, breathtaking city views and a museum, making it the perfect backdrop for a romantic date. Bring a blanket, your favorite snacks and have a picnic on the lawn near the central garden. The best part is that it’s free to visit (though reservations are required and parking rates vary depending on the time of day). For a more intimate experience, check out the Getty Villa in Malibu, modeled after the Villa dei Papiri in Herculaneum, Italy.
For a picturesque date that feels like you’ve been plopped onto a movie set, consider the Gondola Getaway in Long Beach. Here, a gondolier takes you on a loop around an enchanting residential Naples Island. Years ago, I went on a date there and I’ve been wanting to go back ever since.
Now for some rapid fire recommendations: Since you’re into theater, my colleague Lisa Boone suggests the Pasadena Playhouse, a Tony Award-winning theater, which is close to home for you. Times outdoors reporter Jaclyn Cosgrove also recommends drinks and dinner on the charming balcony at Checker Hall in Highland Park. Afterward, you can check out a live show next door at the Lodge Room. And because you love laughing, consider checking out Hollywood Improv, which hosts multiple events throughout the week.
Now, I know that these experiences aren’t Paris, but I hope they might help bring you and your husband a bit of what travelers feel when they’re there: excitement, adventure, passion and most importantly love. And when you’re with that special someone, I think you can capture those emotions no matter where you are. Happy anniversary!
Singer Joe McDonald sings during the concert marking the 40th anniversary of the Woodstock music festival on Aug. 15, 2009 in Bethel, New York. McDonald has died at age 84.
Mario Tama/Getty Images
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Mario Tama/Getty Images
Country Joe McDonald, the singer-songwriter whose Vietnam War protest song became a signature anthem of the 1960s counterculture, has died at 84.
McDonald died on Saturday in Berkeley, Calif., according to a statement released by a publicist. His health had recently declined due to Parkinson’s disease.
Born in 1942, in Washington, D.C., he grew up in El Monte, Calif., outside Los Angeles, according to a biography on his website. As a young man he served in the U.S. Navy before turning to writing and music during the early 1960s, eventually becoming involved in the political and cultural ferment of the Bay Area.
In 1965 he helped form the band Country Joe and the Fish in Berkeley. The group became part of the emerging San Francisco psychedelic music scene, blending folk traditions with electric rock and pointed political commentary.
The band’s best-known song, “I-Feel-Like-I’m-Fixin’-to-Die Rag,” captured the growing anti-war sentiment of the Vietnam era. With its ragtime-influenced rhythm and sharply satirical lyrics about war and political leadership, the song quickly became associated with protests against the conflict.
McDonald delivered the song to some half a million people at the 1969 Woodstock festival in upstate New York. Performing solo, he led the crowd in a form of call-and-response before launching into the anti-war anthem, turning the performance into one of the defining scenes of the festival.
Country Joe and the Fish released several recordings during the late 1960s and toured widely, becoming closely identified with that era’s West Coast rock and protest movements.
McDonald later continued performing and recording as a solo artist, recording numerous albums across a career that spanned more than half a century. His work drew variously from folk, rock and blues traditions and often reflected his long-standing interest in political and social issues.
Although he became widely known for his opposition to the Vietnam War, McDonald frequently emphasized respect for those who served in the U.S. military. After his own service in the Navy, he remained engaged with veterans’ issues and occasionally performed at events connected to veterans and their experiences, according to his website biography.
Maren Morris to Trump Voters
You Got Bamboozled!!!
Published
Country music star Maren Morris is speaking her mind about what she sees as the failures of the Trump administration, and she doesn’t care if she loses fans over it.
According to Maren Morris, if you supported Donald Trump in his presidential elections, you voted for a “dementia ridden, diaper clad, cornball” and “you got bamboozled.”
Not only that … she doesn’t feel bad for the MAGA faithful who may feel disillusioned by their leader.
In a TikTok posted Friday, she said, “The is literally the result of ploying and voting for losers.”
Morris has expressed her dismay at music becoming so political since she’s jumped onto the scene — something she’s benefitted from due to songs like “My Church” — but she’s clearly not shy about her views.
“If you don’t agree with me … you can’t enjoy my music because of my viewpoints? You’re absolutely allowed to do that,” she said. “But I am only here for an iteration of revolutions around the sun, a couple, and so I do feel like I have sacrificed a lot of my mental health, my financial standing, my family, just because I am so deeply concerned and uncomfortable with the weird status quo of country music.”
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