Surprising Day.

Some days end in odd and new ways.

Friday, I got up earlier than usual because I was interviewing by phone for a 5 month long job in Seattle, L.A. and Johannesburg. The interview went very well. (I received an offer later that afternoon.) I then went to the post-office and had my passport renewed. Worst picture ever! I spent the rest of the afternoon on the computer working on my local show that goes into rehearsal soon. I then drove to a meeting for another job, co-stage managing (with my best bud) a scholarship awards show for teenagers. After the meeting the producers were so happy to have hired us they hugged us both... repeatedly. They were grateful. So nice. (And now we have to spend the time to do a really good job! We are paid for 2 days. We'll end up spending 4 days for them. Ah, good will. There is no price one can put on that.)

Left the meeting just after rush hour(s) and went to dinner with my dad. Nothing special, just our usual Friday routine. Some background. My dad lives up a private road that serves 3 family homes. The road is clearly there, though not clearly demarcated. My dad lives on a hill about 14 acres, next to a hill separated by this private road. On the other hill is the Ararat Home, an Armenian retirement community. They've been good neighbors, but on this particular night they were having some kind of "event". Lots of people in and out. We came to the entrance of the only road to my father's house and it was blocked. 2 cars had doubled parked and one had triple parked completely blocking the entrance to the road. It was like the driver thought he'd reached a dead-end. My father and I did the responsible thing, we went up to the Ararat Home and tried to talk to the front desk. Alas, they didn't speak much English. We got through enough to them that the administrator of the building finally came down to speak with us... I'm shortening this for time... lots of frustration occurred, my father is 85 and it was time for him to crawl into bed...I was mad. Well, the administrator went to the party and told us later he'd announced the license plate, make and model number EIGHT times with no response. I told him I would call the police and have it towed. He said, "Yes! the police should be involved." He was clearly as frustrated as we were. We had now been waiting about 30 minutes. I called 311. (Non-life threatening emergency number in LA) got connected to parking enforcement, (they were very busy) and my dad and I settled in. Dogs walked by. People came out to look. We were quite the oblique attraction.

Well. We had noticed a bit earlier a group of about 6 - 7 teenage boys come walking out of the darkness, down an alternate road owned by my dad. They passed our car, chatting. My dad and I decided they were just some kids smoking pot on the lower part of his property. No big deal. Happens from time to time. We laughed about it.

Later, bored, we got out of the car and spoke to the Ararat parking lot attendants, hoping they could help us. 3-4 older teenagers walked by. They were in black pants and shirt sleeves. I looked as they passed and whispered to my dad, "They are wearing yamulkes." Where did they come from? They all walked passed the Ararat Home and seemed unconnected to the charity, party event. Truly, they came out of nowhere. This generated a discussion that of course some Armenians are Jews, but mostly Christians and not too much Muslim.

Time passed, I called 311 again, because we'd now been waiting about an hour and they said they'd send someone as soon as they could, but apparently, every night in Los Angeles, people are parking where they block other peoples' access. Patience.

Then. Another group of men this time walked passed our car. These men were definitely in black pants, tailored shirts, yamulkes and BEARDS! They'd all come from my dad's property. One was easily in his sixties. They didn't even look up at the Ararat home. (We are nowhere there. My dad's home is the most country one can be and still live in L.A. County. My dad's home is behind a storage facility, a football field and a hospital. He does live next door to a Jewish Cemetery. Uh.. It was 10:45 at night. The cemetery was closed. Very few family homes up there. 3 to be precise.) Were did these people come from? Why were they there? Such a mystery.

We'd been waiting about an hour and a half at this point. We lost it. I'd said earlier, "Dad, they are Jews. What are they doing walking across your property?" With the last bunch I said, "Oh, my, god, DAD! They are Hassidic! We have Hassidic Jews walking across your property!" He said, "It's a gang! A gang of Hassidic Jews." We laughed until we cried. We couldn't get our heads around the mystery. (Why? Why were they (as it turned out) repeatedly wandering around on private property?) It all seemed so harmless, we just never said a thing.

After 2 hours sitting in my car, I will say my father and I took way too much pleasure watching, as the police arrived, ticketed 3 cars and towed 2 cars. (Evil Pleasure.) We marveled at how fast those tow-truck drivers got those two huge SUV's up on their flatbeds. We'd arrived at the access road at 9pm. I drove my dad to his door at 11pm. (He actually said to me as I drove him home, "We should hide in the bushes and watch the drama unfold.")

We'd spent most of the time laughing. We'd talked about the arrogance and how counter-intuitive arrogance is to society. I had a cigarette, maybe two. We giggled a long time about the Hassidic gangs roaming private roads at 11pm in Mission Hills. We profusely thanked Stuart, the parking enforcement policeman, who finally came and helped us. (He was supposed to be off by then. He was very apologetic. I hugged him, I was so grateful.)

It was a long day. But, it was a full day.

I wish you all days like I had, last Friday, new and ever surprising.