We're now in Santa Monica, where we've been for a few days. We've seen some friends, visited family, been to the L.A. County Museum of Art, where my favorite painting in the world -- "Red Orange White Green Blue" by Ellsworth Kelly -- used to be displayed. Sadly, it's not there anymore, having gone back to the Norton Simon museum.
Ach. That was disappointing - I just googled Ellsworth Kelly and saw a bunch of his other pieces and they're not nearly as nice.
Anyway. Yesterday we went to the beach in Malibu and sat on it for almost three hours. My wife and daughter enjoyed it far more than I did. I can't really get the hang of sitting on a beach. Apparently I am happier when doing something productive.
Last night we had fish tacos with one of our friends and then walked him down to the Promenade where Fahrenheit 9/11 is playing. We didn't go for several reasons: because it would have been hard to get tickets at the last minute (though there were scalpers there -- imagine that, scalping a $9 movie ticket!), because it would have annoyed the baby to sit still in a dark room for two hours, and finally because we weren't interested. Christopher Hitchens tears the movie apart in Slate. Perhaps that's as good as watching it.
Nothing much planned for today and tomorrow. Brunch, I suppose, will happen at some point today. We went to bed so early I got up at 3:00 and couldn't sleep again, so I read The Postman again. It has some redeeming characteristics, but it's clearly more of a concatenation of short stories than a novel. (Though not as bad as Dragonflight, Anne McCaffrey's two-short-stories-sewn-together-into-a-novel.)
Am I rambling? What else do you expect in the morning?