Literacy and Longing in L. A. by Jennifer Kaufman

debaucherous, bohemian, absolutely beat-ass lifestyle, but one of the girls sneered that Miller was justanother dirty writer who used women for personal indulgence and literary material. The only thing I remember about Henry Miller was flipping through the chapters looking for sex. Isn’t that what everyone did?
    There’s a fine line between interesting literary discussions and pompous bullshit. It’s one of those areas where you’re either fascinated with what someone has to say or you feel that if they don’t shut the hell up that instant you’re going to blow their brains out.
    It’s fitting that when I’m busy thinking about all this, a man dressed in a white silk T-shirt, Armani jeans, and three-thousand-dollar crocodile loafers (which he wears like bedroom slippers, crushing the backs) approaches Fred and pronounces triumphantly that he has finally polished off the Brits and is “doing” the Russians.
    “And just which Russians have you been doing?” Fred answers as he looks in my direction. I know that he’s really talking to me, and as the customer starts rattling off a syllabus of long Russian names ending in “sky” and “kov,” Fred takes my arm and leads me to another aisle.
    “Excuse me, I’ll be back in a minute,” he tells him. “Jesus, this guy is such a pain,” Fred whispers. The man peers around the corner, looking impatient and a bit suspicious.
    “Is there anything else I can find for you?” Fred asks me, hoping to keep the guy at bay.
    I’m beginning to enjoy the game. “My sunglasses, the black cashmere sweater I left in the restaurant the other night, and the key to the trunk of my car, which I haven’t been able to open in three months.”
    Fred’s eyes start to sparkle. The Russian is still hovering. Fred leans into me and says, “How about
Anna Karenina
? There’s a new translation over here. Terrific story. The plot’s a grabber from the first page. Beautiful insatiable drama queen, marries a loser, hooks up with another loser, falls into ruin, confesses all, flees to Italy with her lover. Who can blame them? I don’t want to give away too much.” He hands me the novel and winks.
    I wink back. “Thanks. I’ve read it. Great story, though. Sex, lies, infidelity. Sounds like my neighborhood.” Fred gives me a good long look as the czarist finally snaps and lumbers over. I hand him back the Tolstoy and just as he is about to say more, Darlene comes up behind me and declares, “I’m starved. Let’s go.” She’s obviously been listening to our conversation and in her dingbat mode suggests, “Gee, Dora, maybe you two can have a drink sometime and talk about it.”
    Fred flashes one of those amused half-smiles as he looks Darlene over. I know what he’s thinking. Not your typical Brentwood housewife. Darlene happens to be wearing a pair of jeans with enormous embroidered bells and a tight T-shirt that says “Angel.” Her long blonde hair is even more in need of a dye job than usual. I’m mortified and quickly gather my things to leave. Darlene jabs me with her elbow, and nods in Fred’s direction.
    “Killer smile,” she says in a too-loud voice.
    I push her out the door.
    “Well, that was fun,” Darlene says as we walk to the parking lot. “I think he likes you.”

Ivanhoe
    “I think reading a novel is almost next
    best to having something to do.”
    ~
Margaret Oliphant, Scottish novelist (1827–1897)
~
    W hen an invitation says “festive attire” I am always stumped. What is festive, anyway? Is it about color or mood? My mood is “I don’t want to go,” so I figure I’ll focus on color. I swipe at the clothes lined up in my closet. Grim, grim, grim. I seem to have fallen into the Barneys all black, slightly black, or off-black lately. Nothing festive about that. So I throw on my little black Dolce and add a pilled pink cashmere sweater. That’s the festive part.
    This is the L.A. Public Library’s main fundraiser, not as chic as its New York