Lifestyle
L.A. Affairs: I froze my eggs, and he got a vasectomy. Could we still have a love story?
Freezing your eggs isn’t sexy. Neither the existential questions it forces nor the toll it takes on your body are conducive to dating.
Yet when I matched with Graham on an app last February, the transparency was refreshing. He explained he was newly divorced and co-parenting his two children back home in London. He would be in Los Angeles for a few intervals throughout the year, working as an orchestrator on a blockbuster franchise film.
I was equally forthright about starting my first egg-freezing cycle, unsure how I’d respond to all the hormones I was set to inject. He was very considerate and curious; the conversation flowed. I wanted to grab drinks with him before he left town until summer, even if I could not drink. Bloated and fatigued, I met him on a Saturday at a brewery equidistant from my apartment in Palms and his hotel in Century City.
Although I thought he was a great guy, I was in no emotional state to gauge romantic chemistry. The mandatory celibacy aside, preserving my fertility at 35 and pondering what it meant for perspective partners had clouded my usual fervor. I believe he kissed me after walking me to my car, saying he’d love to see me again when he came back, but most of the date went forgotten in the following months.
He returned and reached out in August, where he again found me in quite a funk. I told him I wasn’t sure where I stood with casual dating, but he still insisted on taking me to dinner, no strings attached. I think I surprised us both by wanting to take our encounter further that night.
When I brought up contraception, he revealed he’d had a vasectomy. I can’t recall if he’d previously mentioned not wanting more kids, but either way, I thought nothing of it where I was concerned. I only found it incredibly presumptuous for him to believe he’d never again change a diaper.
We saw each other once or twice a week for the remainder of the month, mostly grabbing dinner or breakfast at the Westfield mall, where it was cheaper to park than to valet at his hotel around the corner, despite all the time inevitably spent searching for my car.
When he moved to a boutique hotel in Burbank, we ate our way down the row of restaurants on that stretch of Riverside Drive. One night over Japanese barbecue, where he neglected to tell me Brendan Fraser was seated opposite us the entire time, we discussed what we were looking for long-term. I noted our arrangement might be working so well because we knew it was temporary. Since we lived in different cities and were in different chapters of our lives, we could just enjoy the time we were allotted, without reconciling opposing ambitions.
He returned to London for a few weeks but was soon back in Los Angeles for a longer stretch. We celebrated his 40th birthday with his work friends at a bar in Venice. He took me to see Dudamel conduct Mahler’s Second Symphony at Walt Disney Concert Hall. We had tea at the Huntington before wandering through its gardens and buying each other kitschy socks at the gift shop. Although there were still boundaries I maintained given the circumstances, our connection felt unexpectedly effortless.
In October, I spoke with my clinic about doing another round of egg-freezing. I was prescribed birth control pills to delay the start while I traveled for some weddings in my homeland, the East Coast. I was glad a second cycle wouldn’t prohibit me from enjoying my last days with Graham, whom I already missed.
But he was working New Zealand hours now as the crew finalized the film. Finishing its soundtrack simultaneously was far more grueling than he anticipated. Never did I imagine one of the world’s most prolific directors would single-handedly be stopping me from getting laid. I managed to steal Graham away for a few hours of Halloween Horror Nights at Universal Studios, but that was neither the time nor the place to reflect on our feelings.
He invited me to an industry concert on his last night in town, where I saw him in his element, conducting the score he’d orchestrated, wearing the socks I’d bought him. The woman seated next to me remarked what a great conductor he was and asked his name. I gave it to her and identified him as my friend, despite how amusing I imagined it would be to say I was sleeping with him.
He’d developed a fondness for L.A.’s many doughnut shops, so I brought a box from Sidecar back to his hotel. As he packed, we casually threw out possible avenues for us to reunite. Maybe at an upcoming gig he had in Miami, or meeting halfway the next time I was in New York? Fate simply did not allow us the time or the energy to tie things up neatly. He returned to his home and his children the next day, and I to a new series of hormone injections.
Despite the ocean and continent that now separated us, it seemed I was losing Graham more to bad timing than to time zones. It’s hard to imagine two people farther apart than one who has surgically altered their body to no longer procreate and the other who was medically pushing their body to new limits for the opportunity to do so.
Once I’d healed from my retrieval, I asked Graham for a call to properly process our time together. A month after we said goodbye at his hotel in Burbank, he spoke to me from his hotel in Paris before the film’s European premiere. Although we couldn’t definitively say when our dynamic shifted into something deeper, we agreed it had. We felt better confirming these feelings were mutual, but we remained at the same impasse that had been there from the start.
I let myself be more vulnerable with him than ever before and shared how important having children was to me and what a source of angst it had been that I still hadn’t. Although he loved his children, whose faces and personalities I’d come to know through his many photos and anecdotes, he’d decided long ago he was done.
Still, he reiterated how grateful he was to have met me and how much I’d enriched his time in L.A. beyond his many hours in the studio. He’s almost certain he’ll be back for work at some point, though he doesn’t know when, much less where either of us will be in our dating lives.
But whenever that moment arrives, if neither of us is lucky to have found someone whose goals better align, with whom things feel just as effortless, he is welcome to share his time in Los Angeles with me.
The author is a writer and producer from New York, living in Los Angeles at the intersection of Palms, Culver City and Cheviot Hills. Find her there or at jamiedeline.com and on Instagram @jamiedeline.
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.
Lifestyle
Richard Pryor’s daughter studies the N-word — a word he used, then disavowed
Comedian Richard Pryor performs on stage at the Los Angeles Hollywood Bowl on Sept. 19, 1977.
Lennox McLendon/Associated Press
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Lennox McLendon/Associated Press
Historian Elizabeth Stordeur Pryor has spent much of her career tracing the N-word through slavery, Jim Crow, the civil rights movement and hip-hop. But what she didn’t tell her audiences was that her father, Richard Pryor, was the comedian who put the word at the center of American comedy in the 1970s.
“I was a scholar of the N-word — and so was he,” Pryor says of her father.
As the child of a white mother and a Black father, Pryor describes her own relationship to the N-word as a “super complicated” one. She remembers teaching a college class in which one of her white students used the word while quoting Blazing Saddles — a film her father co-wrote. Pryor froze: She had vowed never to use the word in her classroom, but suddenly there it was.

“I [was] just kind of like like a deer in the headlights,” Pryor says. “I was really worried about the Black students. … Something I had never considered when I thought about teaching is what happens when the racism that we study and we teach comes in? … How do I work through that in the moment?”
Pryor’s new book, Something We Said: Richard Pryor, A Notorious Word, and Me, is part memoir and part history of one of the most divisive words in the English language. Late in his career, after spending time in Kenya, Richard Pryor vowed never to use the word again.
“One of the things I admire about that moment when he disavows the word is he said, ‘This is for me. I’m not telling you what to do,’” she says. “There is a piece [of him] where he understood that the word had a function in Black culture. He does talk about, though, as an artist, losing control of what the word was doing.”
Interview highlights
On her father’s use of the N-word
[In] one of the first meaningful conversations I ever had with [my dad] as a little girl, he told me, “Don’t let nobody ever call you that.” And then he used it, and then his friends used it. …
I think it’s really important to emphasize that when I’m saying that he used the word that it was in the subversive way, that it was the language of protest, and that he was building on a Black tradition of protest, that Black people had used this word kind of as a slap in the face to white racism. You know, “We know how to take our punches and our knocks, and we’re not afraid of this thing that you’re trying to demean us as.” And so bringing that use, the way that Black people perceived of the N-word, onto stage was really powerful in the 1970s.
On talking about the N-word with her college students
Teaching the word is still incredibly difficult. I have to say, the conversations are always hard, but I feel like it’s important because my students walk away knowing that this is not a conversation, like I said, about free speech. It’s really about how how we interact, how we want to bring as many people as we can to the table. And if we do that, that means that we’re going to be thinking about who we’re sitting at the table with and how things will impact them.
On meeting her dad for the first time when she was 6
We were in Newark, New Jersey, … and my mom is acting kind of … nervous. And we knocked on the door of a hotel room, and he opened in a towel. And I was like, this is my father. Like, not only do I get a father, but I get this guy. What? I just felt like I won. I loved him immediately. Instantly. His eyes were so warm, and he was so handsome. And I just fell head over heels. … I saw my face [in his face]. … He created a bridge immediately between us and invited me to cross over.
On vying for her father’s attention as a kid

I wanted to be smart enough and creative enough, and I would try to show off. I did theater. I did improv. He would come to my plays and come to my performances. [I] tried to get intellectual with him, like when I was in college. And I had a Black awakening and he basically, like, sent me some stuff so I could awake Blackly, I guess. … He sent me the documentary on Malcolm X that had been filmed, I think, in 1972. And then he sent me The Last Poets’ [song] … “N-words are Scared of Revolution,” to listen to. And I did. I felt like he was inviting me into a secret world, and I wanted to go there. …
At the end of his life, when he couldn’t speak anymore, I would go over and read from the narrative of Frederick Douglass to him, and I could see that he was feeling proud … of being read Frederick Douglass by me.
On Richard Pryor’s upbringing with a sex worker mother and the first laugh that changed everything.
Oh, my dad. He told me a story about being 5 years old and, I don’t know why, but he’s wearing a little cowboy suit, and he was in front of the house and all the people were there, his grandmother, all the sex workers, and his father and his uncle. And he slipped in dog poop and they just start cracking up. And so he got up and he made himself slip in it again, and they couldn’t stop laughing. And so he did it again and again. And it’s pretty painful to think of the lengths that he felt that he needed to go to get their adoration and attention.
Anna Bauman and Thea Chaloner produced and edited this interview for broadcast. Bridget Bentz, Molly Seavy-Nesper and Meghan Sullivan adapted it for the web.
Lifestyle
Hoover Dam, challenged by drought, now wears a U.S. flag the size of a football field
Nope, it’s not AI. It’s just a really big flag with bright lights, draped on Hoover Dam for the next several weeks.
As a display to mark the 250th anniversary of U.S. independence, the states of Nevada and Arizona and the federal Bureau of Reclamation teamed up to hang and illuminate an enormous American flag on the dam on Memorial Day.
The display, scheduled to be in place through July 4, is visible to anyone crossing between Arizona and Nevada on U.S. Route 93, which goes across the top of the dam. The flag is 150 feet tall and 300 feet long, spread on the south-facing side of the dam and lit by 550 LED lights (powered by dam-generated electricity).
A wider view of the illuminated U.S. flag at Hoover Dam.
(Michael Bittle)
It’s a spectacle that comes at a challenging moment for Hoover Dam, as experts warn that Lake Mead’s dwindling water levels could threaten the dam’s ability to generate hydropower. “Slap a flag on it, that’ll fix it,” suggested one of several Reddit commenters who were moved to snarkiness by the flag image.
The dam, a frequent day-trip destination from Las Vegas, stands 35 miles east of the Las Vegas Strip, about 295 miles northeast of Los Angeles. The site features a visitor center and overlook, and guided and self-guided tours.
Installation of the display involved dozens of riggers and two cranes. The flag, which is roughly the dimensions of a football field, has been previously used for celebrations at Indianapolis Colts and Las Vegas Raiders football games.
Within two days after it was hung, gusts of wind up to 50 mph prompted organizers to lower the flag last Wednesday as the National Weather Service declared a wind advisory for the area. Organizers raised the flag again late Friday.
Strong winds are not uncommon in the area. Organizers said weather “may periodically require the flag to be temporarily lowered.” Updates on the flag’s status can be found on the Hoover Dam Facebook page.
The Las Vegas Convention and Visitors Authority paid for the display. A spokeswoman said the cost, including flag, production, installation costs and six weeks of lighting, will be between $750,000 and $1 million.
The dam, a five-year construction job that was completed in 1936 during the depths of the Great Depression, is often hailed as one of the nation’s most impressive works of infrastructure. Though this is not the first time a flag has been draped on it, organizers have called the display “the most ambitious long-duration installation ever attempted at Hoover Dam.”
Lifestyle
Is your neighborhood riddled with dog poop? : It’s Been a Minute
Is dog poop a scourge in your area?
borisz/simplehappyart/Getty Images/Photo Illustration by NPR
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borisz/simplehappyart/Getty Images/Photo Illustration by NPR
Left-behind dog poop is annoying. But it’s also a sign of anti-sociality.
Spotting unidentified poop outside is an unfortunate and unavoidable part of being alive, but in some cities, there’s a scourge being left behind by some people’s four-legged friends. Manuela López-Restrepo, writer and producer at All Things Considered, couldn’t stop noticing it – and she wondered if it might be a sign of something deeper going on. Paired with dogs popping up in places they maybe shouldn’t be – she wondered: can dogs be a vector for anti-social behavior? And what would it look like for people – and their pets – to share space more harmoniously?
Manuela shares her reporting with Brittany and they get deeper into the story of the dookie.
For more episodes about culture and how we share public space, check out:
The Coldplay kiss cam & moral surveillance
Crime is down. Why don’t people feel safe?
In search of a safe place to cry…
Support Public Media. Join NPR Plus.
Follow Brittany on Instagram: @bmluse
For handpicked podcast recommendations every week, subscribe to NPR’s Pod Club newsletter at npr.org/podclub.
This episode was concepted and reported by Manuela López-Restrepo. It was produced by Liam McBain. It was edited by Neena Pathak. We had engineering support from David Greenburg. Our Supervising Producer is Cher Vincent. Our Executive Producer is Barton Girdwood. Our VP of Programming is Yolanda Sangweni.
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