I had it today, unlike other days that the truth is mettled or opaque or I am distracted. It reminds me of one of the wisdoms my father passed on to me: ” You can fool the whole world little sweetheart, but you can’t fool yourself.” I was a teen, when he passed on this mantra of living, now, today on a sunny Solana Beach go to the beach or racetrack day, I sit here and contemplate who I was fooling and why.
At some point in my thirties, I decided to outperform convention: marriage, children, my career, and lead without warnings, without proven methods, I thought experimentation was my path. I changed careers, moved to multiple locations, and threw the dice on finances. I can’t truly say no regrets, adventures in livingness brings growth, but the bank account needs growth too!My gang, assures me I’ll get back on the track, thank God for friends that believe in us, right! I don’t need five million followers, just my five fly over me forever friends.
On the track, earlier this week I had a conversation about the Del Mar Horseraces. The race track at Del Mar is on and my friend goes several days a week,
” It‘s really a lot of fun. Why don’t you come sometime and get away from editing?”
” I’ve told you, haven’t I? My dad gambled on everything: horses, sports, the academy awards, and at lunch, if the fly would go out the open window. If I win, I know, I’ll get addicted.”
” Oh, yes, I forgot you mentioned that.”
So, the dice throwing is in remission, going forward: manage impulse, unconventional living, be sensible, pragmatic and use proven methods.
Solana Beach massesare at the beach or the track, and I’m editing. ( deleted 25 pages today because people don’t read 400 page books) You know why I can do it? Because I spent my glorified years going to the beach, the track, partying, parading, and popping.
If youโve read my columns about minimalistic living: adapting to Solana Beach health, wealth and wardrobe conformity (female: leggings, workout bra, or at night show it or stow it. Male, bare-chested or T-shirt with their business logo on the back.) I add this confession, if the community residents were any happier than what Iโve observed Iโd get therapy.
This week I became LEGITIMATE.
My New Mexico driver’s license expired in Sept 2024. I was living in my home in Saratoga, and attempted to gather the fourteen documents to show proof of residence, and get a NY driverโs license. I loved my turquoise NM license plates, and did not think Iโd be there longer than a year, so I didnโt renew. I drove sparingly, as the village was in walking distance and I had Amazon delivery.
In January 2026 I moved into a hotel in Del Mar, CA and my car was transported by an auto moving company. I spent about thirty hours reviewing the documents I needed to get a CA license moving from out of state. I managed to get registration through my CA insurance agent, and CA auto insurance but DMV wanted proof of residence, (hotels not accepted) so I used Uber. I finally found my studio in May, and used all my time furnishing, and avoided the DMV. Friends offered to drive me there, and they or I got sidetracked.
Finally, a friend here said,
โ Loulou youโve got to get it done. Weโll go Monday, this week.โ I bought the cheat sheet, (out of staters have to take the written test) and studied it all weekend. Andrew, my friend, we met at five years old, called and said,
โ Did you get an appointment?โ
โThereโs a line of twenty-five, and besides the dice didnโt roll to seven.โ
โLoulou, forget the dice and the line, they go fast.โ
โ Iโll be over at ten o clock.โ
I panicked and reviewed my folder of documents the online DMV said I needed: Birth certificate, certificate of sale, insurance, registration, social security card, proof of residence , passport, and DMV security code.
My phone maps app was taken over by google so I couldnโt access directions, I kept getting an error. So, I handwrote them on a page and met Andrew.
โ You have the directions on GPS, I donโt know where San Marcos is exactly, do you?โ
โNot to make this more complex, I couldnโt access the app so I wrote them down.โ
โ Thatโs good, you have all your documents?โ
โ Everything but height and weight,” He laughed and we took off on the freeway. Andrew is a conversant man and because we grew up in the same class through high school we can speak, uninhibited.Childhood friends shared innocence, and the rarity of calculated devious behavior. Our trust is dependable and accountable.
โDo you know why I wore all pink?โ
โCause you โฆ I have no idea.โ
โ Men and women love pink, so if I get a male clerk, heโll like it and so will a female.โ
โ Whereโd you get that tidbit?โ
โMe, people like pink, and a search, pink evokes love and compassion.” Our conversation leaped from old friends to our parentโs, to tech complaints, going canoeing on a lake we passed, diet, aging, politics, antisemitism (we’re both Jewish) and thenโฆ
โ Do we turn here?โ
โ Yes, we go east and then turn on San Marcos Boulevard for one mile and then Rancheros for three miles, and then..
โOkay, two directions at a time.โ
After five miles of driving through residential neighborhoods, I knew we were lost. Andrew listened when I suggested we turn back, and we finally arrived at the DMV.
“My ex wouldnโt listen to my directions for thirty-five years. Thank you for listening! You know men are famous forrefusing driving directions.โ
I was walking the streets, and the descriptive details had since evaporated. I mentally pluck myself out of this moment and open the shades to thought and memory, where all writers meet on some psychic level, the place of imagination and creation, an abnormality of reality.
A passage from Anais Nin’s diary says, โBe careful not to enter the world with any need to seduce, charm, conquer what you do not want, only for the sake of approval. This is what causes the frozen moment before people and cuts all naturalness and trust. The real wonders of life lie in the depths. Exploring the depths for truth is the real wonder which the child and the artist know: magic and power lie in truth.โ
Friends are bookends that bind our stories; some are novellas, some are poems, some are cinematic, and each friend serves as a bookend to our personal history. When Iโve lost my way and need direction my friends motorize me, and when I fly without wings, they ring the bell to come down to earth. At times, arguments arise and my friendships stray, but true-life friends never leave you behind. Sometimes, years may pass, and then one day you receive a call or an email, or send one yourself, and the memory of that particular squabble in history fades away. You can start anew; at the same time, it is not.
The essence of friendship never burns out; it is our galaxy, a kind of celestial agility. Are you experiencing a startling outpouring from friends whoโve left your life only to suddenly show up on your social media or a personal email? Are your friends calling and writing more often?ย I’m always examining some unfamiliar events in life, a new trend, a cultural change.ย Seems like every topic can be mixed with politics, sometimes the mixture is explosive. Iโve halted the political discussions, and so have my friends, as they are more important to my livingness than politics. With one exception, antisemitism, those are excluded!
Mayor Zohran Mamdaniโs immigrant neighborhood map highlights 30 NYC neighborhoods but has sparked controversy for omitting historic Italian, Irish, and Jewish communities.
Overview of the Map
The map, released by Mayor Mamdaniโs Office of Immigrant Affairs, is part of the โNYC Immigrant Enclavesโ guide tied to the cityโs World Cup tourism initiative. It identifies neighborhoods with substantial foreign-born populations, includingย Chinatown, Little Palestine (Bay Ridge, Brooklyn), Little Egypt (Astoria, Queens), and Little Pakistan (Newkirk Plaza, Brooklyn)ย NewsNation+1. The guide highlights 30 neighborhoods in total, aiming to showcase New York Cityโs diverse international communitiesย NewsNation.
Controversy and Omissions
The map has drawn criticism forย excluding historically significant immigrant communities, particularly:
Little Italy (Manhattan)ย and other Italian-American neighborhoods such as Arthur Avenue (Bronx), Bensonhurst (Brooklyn), Howard Beach (Queens), and South Staten Islandย IJR.
Irish-American neighborhoods, including Woodlawn Heights (Bronx) and the western Rockaway peninsula (โIrish Rivieraโ) in Queensย IJR.
Jewish enclaves, including Borough Park, Midwood, Williamsburg, Crown Heights (Brooklyn), and parts of Far Rockaway (Queens), as well as Bukharian Jewish communities in Queensย The Jewish Chronicle. Italian-American and Jewish groups have accused the administration ofย โcultural erasureโ, arguing that these omissions ignore communities that historically shaped New York Cityย The Jewish Chronicle+1. The Italian-American Civil Rights League stated that Little Italy is โsacred groundโ and called for the map to be corrected and for an apology from the mayorย IJR.
To write, to study, read, edit, I sacrificed: family, marriage, children, security, finances, and peace of mind. I am a columnist, and author, that lives with a constant source of material by those sacrifices. They have become my vortex of adventures in livingness to gain material. At times, like now, I question that path–and the answer is, I didn’t choose the path, it chose me.
FREINDS, FAMILY AND FIREWORKS, Not me. Leave out the friends and family. But not the fireworks. I havenโt been here long enough to make new friends, and the ones I would call are out of town or playing homebase to avoid the traffic. The first day free of mind bending, sneezing, coughing and body thrashing over the last two weeks with bronchitis subsided. I even mentioned to a friend. โthe best thing about suffering is when it ends.โ The last time I had the flu was 2011.
New York. I couldnโt abate watching the fleet parade along the Hudson or the fly overs above the Statue of Liberty, or pay very close attention to the historical narrative on the sacrifices our founders lived and died for, so we can celebrate today and tomorrow. What a juxtaposition between the insignificance of being sick and taking a bullet. The day of history and visuals had me looking up every founder, and significant document, dates, places and rendering the Saratoga Battlefield visit with Jx years ago.
“Site of the historic 1777 Battles of Saratoga, which represented the first significant victory for the rebels in the American Revolution. Today, the 3,200-acre park is a popular tourism and recreation site and a wildlife conservation area.”
I took myself out to dinner across the street at the Brigantine, folded into a room filled with chatting staff, guestโs conversation, and a panoramic view of the fairgrounds and Del Mar mountain tops. I sat in the center, unusual for me I usually cling to a wall, but this restaurant has become a sanctuary for socializing, or just being solo, either way Iโve never left disappointed.
โ You dropped this outside the bathroom,โ a young shaggy blonde hair boy of twelve or thirteen handed it to me.
โOh! Thank you so much, that is very thoughtful.โโ He shied, dropped his head in that way that makes adults wonder why we became so different, and left.
Then later on, as I was outside on the terrace enjoying the view of the fair, I noticed him and a woman next to me. We started to talk, I think she liked my necklace or my pants or something and I saw the little boy and I said is that your son? She said yes and I told her the story. She introduced me to her husband, the uncle, the children, the other children’s parents. And when she left, she hugged me. That kind of intervention makes the difference for a single person.
EVENING. After watching the DC extravaganza, I walked outdoors, to the corner, the street was back to back traffic, helicopters, neighborsโ standing on sidewalks and on our property, and I looked up at the start of a Del Mar Fairgrounds fireworks show that stopped me short.
My possessions in Saratoga Springs now appear as decorations ย ย from a former celebration, like side dishes of over 20 years of mixing and matching prints, drapes, sofas, chairs, tables, vases, and artwork. Now they’ve been removed from my experimental minimalistic living.ย A former lifecycle that began twenty-five years ago, and are boxed up in a big POD storage. And I refuse to meet them in the present. Friends ask me, โwhen are you bringing your furniture here?’ I canโt answer in words, it must crystallize like it has this past week, when I missed my wardrobe and art hangings. Within the admired art, clothes, and sixty-two boxes, (I looked at my inventory) are a haunting of memories tied in see thru knots of Dodger, my x. As a confirmed refuser of goodbyes, in any relationship, this one has to be nurtured with precision, and that means, no reminders.
The stark white walls and Amazon assembled furnishing are stationed without emotion, memory or love. Functional, practical and unfamiliar.ย Ive created a new palette, like my first studio in Los Angeles in 1976. Then the others, studios over the years, small, compact, easy to maneuver and clean. Internally, the walls and shelves are cluttered with decisions. The edits on my book from the publisher, when will I find employment? How to engage in new friendships, clubs, gyms, meetups. ย
Singleness in a city, that was once my home for twenty years, evolved through generations, adding new policies, laws, regulations, real estate development, customs, and an impressionable celebration of the arts and culture. It has no resemblance to the San Diego I met in 1983, except for the ocean and the bordering cliffs and seawalls. That is where a continuous rolling of memory waves sear my view, and I see my youthful delight in San Diego. Iโve always been impressed with people who truly live in the present, canโt figure that one out, maybe Iโm just a past time girl.
My first experience with antisemitism was at twenty years old. I was working for a Bank in Beverly Hills in the loan department. One day my supervisor gathered us around and told a joke. I cannot remember it exactly, I do remember that he compared Pizza in the oven to Jews in the Holocaust gas chambers. I told my father. He ordered me to call the President of Gibraltar S & L and repeat the comment. The president was Jewish. I did so. I was assigned a new supervisor, and the supervisor was not fired. .
When I moved to San Diego in 1983, I witnessed derogatory comments about Jews, I don’t look what is the stereotype Jewish female, so people assume I am not. My father had passed and wasn’t there to advise me. If I was in a social or business situation, and offensive Jewish comments were made, I remained silent and never went back to whatever event I had joined. I was more interested in what people thought, then reprimanding them.
That all changed over the years, and I am emboldened to announce my Jewish heritage. I still hear that vapid response, ” I have a really good friend who is Jewish.” Or “You don’t look Jewish.”
I am not prepared for what has mobilized into a national campaign promise from some politicians, antisemitism. What? Are we in Germany? Who started this and who will end it? Are Jews protesting? I don’t see it. How many non-Jews celebrated the return of the hostages, or the end of the Gaza War? Why hasn’t a film been made about this historical event. I hope and pray I’m wrong, but antisemitism is in vogue. And who follows trends, the youth.
Overlapping Fatherโs Day is a mirage of life experiences tucked into memory prescriptions you take on a stormy day. A relic of my history rises and reminds me of the fear I once broke through.
It was 1983, and I was poised on a terrace overlooking the Pacific Ocean in Venice Beach. It was March, the month my father died, and I stared at the horizon at dusk, imagining my freedom taking flight. Where would I go? Without his presence in Los Angeles, and my sister, who had already moved to New York, I was terribly alone. The replacement came in summer flings, with men who had crossed my path; a photographer, a New Jersey computer technician with a brassy voice and Joe Pesci humor, and every few days, Kenny, a former boyfriend, dropped by to smoke his pipe of philosophy and blow long-winded ideas on where I should move.
โI really want to move to Canada,โ I said.
โFor what? To go ice-skating?โ He said between puffs.
โI have family in Vancouver.โ
โWhat family? Youโre an orphan now.โ
โI am not. I have cousins in Vancouver. My fatherโs nephews.โ
โOh, yeah. When was the last time you saw them?โ
โWhen I was twelve.โ
โTerrific! Thatโs a solid-ass plan. So what will you do in Canada?โ
โGet a job in real estate.โ
โLue! Wake up. You canโt get work in Canada unless youโre a citizen. Forget that idea. Youโre better off staying here; look where you are: Santa Monica, the beach at your feet. Are you crazy?โ
โI donโt belong here any longer.โ
โYou donโt belong to anywhere; what you need is to stop trying to be a big shot like your father.โ
โI am not!โ
โWhen was the last time you left the country? When you were eighteen? Go to Rio, youโll have the time of your life, or Italy, or Greece–it doesnโt matter. Just take the chance and see how you land on your feet. Youโre a dreamer; itโs about time you made one of your dreams come true.โ
In the next few weeks, I met with Larry, my boss, who was liquidating his real estate portfolio to retire at 45. Larry wasnโt just an investment visionary; he was passionate about social, political, medical, scientific, and human interests. He was a genius.
โYou can stay here another year–Iโll find something for you to do, but youโll be bored,โ Larry told me.
โLarry, I donโt know where to go.โ I wiped a tear. He ignored it.
โYou have to get out of LA. Youโll never meet anyone here. You think youโll be introduced to someone riding up and down the elevator in Century City. Iโve spent a lot of time in Del Mar and Rancho Santa Fe. Theyโre nice people. You have a chance there; go down, spend a few days, and tell me what you think. Iโll help you. Now, stop crying. โ
I drove down in Dadโs black El Dorado, and parked at Del Mar Beach right next to the lifeguard station at the Poseidon Restaurant. I opened my suitcase, took out a bathing suit, and went into the beach bathroom. The tile was wet and smelled of seaweed and salt. I walked barefoot down to the beach. It was early spring, and the sand was unmarked. A few surfers jogged past me, blonde and bronzed like the Beach Boys. I followed them down to the seashore. In every direction, there was this untouched canvas of light and color; even the beach houses retained their natural sandy simplicity.
After I swam in the ocean, I went back to the bathroom, changed into dry clothes, and walked into town. A man with a beard rode past me on a horse and waved. I picked up a Reader and read the rental advertisements on the patio of Carlos and Charlieโs, the corner cafรฉ. A roommate advertisement caught my eye: โRoommate Wanted to Share large two-bedroom overlooking Torrey Pines Reserve.โ I called, and a man who went by the name of Smokey answered the phone. He invited me to come by for a look. His voice was predominantly ranch-friendly, so I took a drive over. It did occur to me on the drive that I was taking that chance Ken was blowing in my ear, and I was listening to Larry, who told me that people in San Diego were different.
โHi, Iโm Smokey. Come inโwould you like something to drink? Too early for cocktails, unless you want one.โ
โNo thanks. How long have you lived here?โ
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His eyes were animal-alert, his face tanned, and his hair cut short but made to look long. His smile was unfiltered with hidden motives, and he was bull-legged.
โI moved from Pittsburgh; Iโll never go back except to see my folks. This is paradise. Donโt you think? Iโve lived here for two years. I rent out one room, because I hate full-time work. Iโm more entrepreneurial. You donโt have to worry about my motives. I have a girlfriend, and Iโm in love with her. She doesnโt stay here. I go to her house. Youโll have your space, and if you need a friend, Iโm here. Come out on the balcony.โ
I followed Smokey, and we stood on the terrace overlooking the lagoon and marshlands of the reserve. To the west, the ocean and the stump of Torrey Pines Mountain.
โWait till sunset; youโll never want to leave. Come look at your room. I can help you move if you want.โ
The room was downstairs, his upstairs, and a stairway of trust in between.
STILL A MYSTERY WHO SHOT BENJAMIN “BUGSY” SIEGEL .ย ย
ย JUNE 20,1947
Several years ago, I received an email from a reporter in Las Vegas. George Knapp had read some of my memoir posted on my website and asked for an exclusive interview. He asked about my fatherโs relationship with Ben Siegel “Bugsy” and what I knew about their friendship, and why Ben Siegel was shot. I declined the interview, butGeorge persevered. Three weeks later I agreed to the interview, because my father was not there to stop me.
We met in Del Mar at the Inn Auberge. I showed up with a notepad to remind me what not to say, a photograph of my father when he was a producer for Cecil B. De Mille, and a borrowed calmness that comes when I am approaching an extremely anxious situation.
My first interview about Dad was not anything like I imagined. George approached the subject with respect, and I relaxed and began talking, and talking, and talking. The only time I hesitated was when he asked if I knew who killed Ben, and I had to answer swiftly, โI think Bush did it.โ He was not too impressed with the answer; but it saved me from theorizing.
At the end of the interview, I walked out of the hotel without regret. I said what I felt should be told; that my fatherโs best friend was Ben Siegel. If he loved Ben and my mother loved Ben, than there is a lot more to โBugsyโ than what the public has been told. The interview aired on a Friday night, and my life was no different from before. George got a call from someone who claimed my father once told him, Virginia Hillโs brother was the shooter. It sounds like my father; he enjoyed sending people down the wrong path. He always said, โYou donโt inherit friends,โ and so I declined to remain friends with family members of his group, because I respected hisorders, even after he died.
I doubt any of his mob friends are still alive today. Many people have claimed they knew my father, but in essence, what they mean is they met at Ciroโs, or had a game of cards, or went to the racetrack. My fatherโs only friends were connected to organized crime. I learned this when he died; three people showed up for the service. He warned me to keep away from reporters, and not to trust anyone. Still, strange incidents followed his death that I was unprepared to handle.
A man Iโd never heard of called and informed me, โYour Dad and Ben buried a safe deposit box in downtown Los Angeles. You should look for the key, there may be a lot of cash.โ My father was not about to leave this world without telling me he had stashed money in a safe deposit box. I will bet every dollar on that. Another man, posing as a friend, came to my aid offering help settling the estate. A few weeks later another man I had never heard of, placed a claim on the estate for an old gambling debt of $5,000. The two of them were conspiring. Had I known gambling debts are erased when the bettor dies, I would not have allowed my sister to sell his Patek Philippe diamond and ruby pocket watch, which I suspect belonged to Ben Siegel at one time. The end of my fatherโs life was as mysterious as when he was living. That is how he liked it, and that is how he lived it.ย ย
I had to wait until my father was in his seventies to go to the racetrack with him. He took me to Santa Anita, we sat in the clubhouse, and he watched the track from behind tinted dark sunglasses. He was quiet and observant. He watched me eat and then handed me a twenty-dollar bill to bet on the Exacta. He told me how to bet and which horses to bet. I walked away from the cashier thinking I would be a big winner. Instead, I walked away a big loser. This was a setup, he picked the losing horses, so I’d get the lesson ” Even your old Dad loses at the track, remember that.’ There wasnโt anything exciting about going to the track, he made sure of that. I suppose he was concerned, that I had inherited a taste for betting.Lucky for me; I discovered Dad’sย ย gambling didn’t pay off. When he was with Siegel in the forties, controlling the wire service he’d bet up to $50,000 in one day. And lose it on the next gamble. I don’t bet on sports, or gamble in casinos. I do gamble on life, and aim for the outlandish, improbable questionable odds.ย
Photo: Leaving Beverly Hills Police Department day after the murder.
A momentary connection occurred to me last night after watching, โThere Will Be Bloodโ about drilling for oil. The oil derrick is the outline, or the notes scribbled in a journal. Then the pipes are set in place, like words in a sentence, then paragraphs. Our characters come into view some muscular and brazen like the drillers, welders, rig workers and mud loggers. Once those elements are configured in the oil field or in sensory perception the story begins. The paragraphs build into pages and the pages build a story.
The writer digs for substance for soulful spiritual contemplation and he builds on it. Sometimes it comes like a gush of oil. Other times it bubbles at the surface and goes nowhere. When the bubbles recede, we move on to another location internally and externally and we begin to dig for a new well story.
These ruminations came to me after watching the film, especially poignant to me as my father at the age of fifty left a life of gambling and mafia assorted activities and learned to be an oil producer. He was introduced to Howard Hughes through Meyer Lansky and Frank Costello and Howard introduced Dad to a wildcatter in Houston named Lenoir Josey. My mother and father moved to Houston from Los Angeles in 1949 and into the Shamrock Hotel, that being the hotel used in the film Giant, and Edna Ferber’s book, about Glenn McCarthy, played brilliantly by James Dean. He built the Shamrock, and it opened on St Patrick’s Day 1949 (the pool was so large you could water ski across) Glenn became close friends with my father. I met him once in Los Angeles at a lunch with Dad. He was broken, by his loss of fortune. and friends. I recall a face withered by disappointments.
Josey as my father referred to him took my father under his wing and tutored him in the business of oil engineering and oil production It was a gamble and my father a life long gambler on everything loved being in the oil business. I didnโt intend to wave my fatherโs story into this but intentions in writing as many things in life surprise us.
If J. Edgar Hoover hadn’t refused my fatherโs request to reside in Houston to continue the oil business I would have been born in Texas. My father was forced to move back to Los Angeles and as Hoover predicted he went back to gambling. During his time with Josey, he amassed twelve oil leases in states across the Southwest and Midwest and when he died that part of his life was handed down to his children in royalty leasehold interests. That was when oil was $17 a barrel. But Josey had passed and his son no longer honored the handshake agreement between his father and mine and forced us to sell our leasehold interests for a shameful amount.
LUELLEN SMILEY ADVENTURERS IN LIVINGNESS 