The invitation says this is Sherman’s 80th birthday. But it’s really his second 40th, his fourth 20th, and the eighth time he has turned ten.

On this special night, I want to share the legend of a man who wanted to impress a lady. On their first date, he filled her home with red roses, flew her to Paris, and took her to dinner at Le Cinq. Then he walked with her through the Tuileries at midnight, singing “If I loved you.” Romantic, huh? Well, that guy isn’t Sherman Zell. On our first date, he took me to Fry’s Electronics, and bought himself office supplies. Even so, twenty years ago, I married him. And it has been a non-stop adventure ever since.

Although technically an alta cocker, Sherman is anything but a man who snoozes in a Barcalounger. He takes me ATVing, skiing, and scuba diving. And we’ve seen a good portion of the world together, enjoying all of those activities.

My husband never does anything half-heartedly. It’s always full-throttle and over-the-top. The man is a Schlitz beer commercial. He spends every minute of every day going for the gusto.

Devoted to his hobby of railroading, Sherman is a passionate train buff. He also does his own laundry. The man has so much energy; sometimes I feel like I’m hanging out with a teenage boy. But no matter what, he is always a mensch.

Sherman defines the word generous. He volunteers as a third-grade math teacher at Louise Van Meter School. Every summer, he donates his time for another Boy Scout project, which he underwrites. And he’s currently installing a brand new audio-video system in the sanctuary at this very temple.

My birthday wish for you, Boo Boo, is to keep on crashing through life with me, for another eighty years. Happy birthday. I love you. Mazal tov!

My Bar Mitzvah was one of the happiest occasions in my life, when everyone who was important to me gathered together. Now it’s your turn, Lacy, your Bat Mitzvah, in this Sanctuary full of hope and flowers, with G-d all around us – our family, extended family, friends, two cats, a dog, and all of my dreams for you.

Your mom and I were together for ten years, never expecting to have children. But then, thirteen years ago, at two o’clock on a soft, snowy Valentine’s Day morning, you arrived with your basket of redheaded miracles, filling my clumsy, grateful heart with another blessing every day.

There are so many.

When you were two, I fed you sushi, which you ate, no big deal, while all the other little girls were struggling with squash. At five, you insisted I get my Doctorate in Dollies, so we could play with yours. The following year, I was honored to escort you to a Princess and Tea birthday party, complete with that f’kaktah frilly costume and the floppy, purple hat.

At eight, you took me snowboarding, convinced you were better at it than I was, even though you crashed a dozen times. And at eleven point six, we went to that haunted Halloween house in Bracebridge, where I was more terrified than you’ll ever be.

Not many young ladies are as comfortable on roller coasters, and bungee jumping, as they are curled up with their cats. But they’re not, and could never be, you, an A student who always has a good word for everyone.

It feels like you just got here, Lacy, and yet, you’ll be off to college in five years. I treasure our time together – riding bikes through Queen’s Park, walking over to Yorkville, grabbing a pizza at Nirvana, dessert at The Four Seasons, and especially our family Friday night dinners at home.

Honey, you’ve met the challenges in your life with grace and grit. Blue Mountain knows you can tame her. When she says bring it on, you and your friends on the Ski Cross team do just that, showing those slopes how it’s done when it’s done right, and you rank #12. This commitment to your sport dazzles me. You don’t spend every possible weekend on the mountain because your mom and I tell you to. You’re there because you want to be there.

Unlike most kids, you don’t practice the Jewish religion because we do. You chose to be a Jew, discovering and enjoying our traditions on your own. Nobody in this world could be more pleased by that choice than me.

Every night as I pass your bedroom door, making my list of wishes for your life, as soon as I write one down, another one pops up, with a dozen more. Lacy, I want you to find your way, whichever undiscovered roads you take, and hope you’re smiling with every step, proud of who you are. You’ll make an amazing mom someday. I hope your children bring you as much joy and wonder as you and Muskoka do to your mom and me.

This is the beginning of the adventure called your teens. As you grow into a woman, it’s exciting to know you can be whatever you want to be, flying as high as high goes, then double it, and triple it again. Just promise me one thing: no matter how many mountains you conquer, remember that this guy who tries so hard to be cool in your eyes, will always be here for you, no matter what.

Thank you for making me so proud to be your dad. Happy birthday, Lacy. I love you. L’chaim.

During my scuffling days, when I zigged and zagged around Hollywood in a dented red VW with a leaky sunroof, the good people at ASCAP introduced me to lots of possible writing partners. One of them was Barry Fasman.

At his woodsy home in Laurel Canyon, we wrote one song, In Care of the West Wind. It was gorgeous. We both cried because it was so emotional, as only a Fasman melody could be. But then our demo disappeared. Bam. Gone, and Barry got a gig producing Dusty Springfield, who, ironically, had just cut one of my other songs.

I always wondered where our demo went. And why we never wrote song two.

Three decades later, Ellis Sorkin re-introduced me to Barry, now the producer, who arranged all my songs and tracks, making great records for me, for fifteen years. He found my missing chords, but would never accept co-writing credit. That was the Foz.

Nobody knows this, but several years ago, I was stricken with a horrific foot thing, keeping me in bed and unable to walk for two years. When I couldn’t fight anymore, Foz insisted I call him every morning at 5:30 so we could meditate together. I know that’s what healed me.

I wish I could have done the same for you, Foz. All of us do. But your string lines and melodies are always floating around us, like a shining cape. And as long as we’re singing, you’ll never be gone.

I’m sure everybody in Rock ‘n Roll Heaven is happy to have you conduct the band. But during your next ten, could you ask around for our demo of In Care of the West Wind?

Start with the chorus:

I wrote to you in care of the west wind

I wrote it at midnight

Crying out to the sea

And though the wind has been back every night

There’s never an answer for me.

‘Bye, Foz. I miss you more than Snickers.

Love,

Molly

When we were seven or eight, my best friend, Jaci next door, and I, filled her little red wagon with boxes of Girl Scout cookies. We rang doorbells up and down our street, determined to sell our wares. This was in Ottawa, Canada, where most of the houses on our block were embassies or consulates. The butlers and secretaries who answered their doors had no idea what a Girl Scout was, and were nervous about doing business with us.

Then, one kind woman in a sari, with a red dot on her forehead, smiled, gave us ten dollars, and asked us to please give the cookies to someone who was hungry.

We did.

Yesterday, a group of adorable little girl scouts, one with curly red hair like mine, rang the bell. I handed her the cash I hid in my shoe and asked her to give the cookies to someone who was hungry.

I did that, as I do every year, with tears in my eyes, in honor of Jaci and me. And about this time in March, I bet she’s ringing doorbells again, in Heaven.

Carter and I were blood. It wasn’t just white cells and red cells with some plasma thrown in. It was rock ‘n roll. We go all the way back to Denver, where I was a DJ in the 60’s and Carter was in The Rainy Days. I managed the group, and when “Acapulco Gold” was a smash, I hooked the band up with a guy I knew in Hollywood, named Phil Spector.

In 1967, Carter and Tim Gilbert wrote “Incense and Peppermints,” which I published. Then Carter became the tour manager for the Stones. By the ’70s, he was the A & R guys’ A & R guy at Capitol and lived in a Frank Lloyd Wright mansion.

While I was a DJ at KFWB, Carter turned me on to all the new music – The Kinks, Cream, Buffalo Springfield, and Bobbie Gentry. In the ’80s, he produced four tracks on Tina Turner’s Grammy-winning Private Dancer CD. But all accomplishments aside, his happiest day, and one I shared with him, was when he brought his beautiful baby girl, Crosby, home from the hospital.

No matter what was playing, Carter and I listened and grew together. Even after I became a professor and moved back to the Midwest, we still spoke every other day.

Our friendship was a gift to me. Proud to know him as a man, a musician, and as a party, I’ve established a $5000 ASCAP scholarship for songwriting in his name.

As the orange sun waits a moment longer before setting over my front porch in the Black Hills, seems to me I’ll probably spend the rest of my life dialing Carter’s number. I know, somehow, no matter where he is, he will always call me right back.

Good night, sweet prince. And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest, from an iPhone 4S.

Love,

David Diamond

2020 was the hardest year my family ever had to get through. On April 2nd, my father died. On October 10th, Sam’s mother also passed away. We desperately needed some good news to pull us through. Well, Jerusalem gave that to us, when she announced her engagement to Matthew. Now every single one of us is smiling again.

But let’s go back to the beginning.

I remember the leaves burning red and gold as they do every year. They were especially bright and beautiful that fall. Then, on September 21st, those warm, harvest colors made a perfect setting for the birth of my baby girls, Jerusalem and Monet.

In keeping with our Russian heritage, although I ordered layettes for my daughters, and my friends wanted to give me a shower, I couldn’t pick anything up before the babies were born. Then, because the stores where I shopped for baby clothes were shut for Rosh Hashona, when I gave birth, all Sam and I had to welcome two miracles into our arms was one blanket each from Mount Sinai Hospital.

As a mother, it’s hard for me to talk about Jerusalem without Monet, because my little girls did everything together and we did everything as a family. But today is Jerusalem’s day.

Although very, very smart, my daughters didn’t speak until they were three. The speech therapist quickly found out why. Sam and I speak Russian at home. The girls watched TV in English, and our babysitter was Polish. So wouldn’t you be confused, too, about how to ask for kishka?

Jerusalem was only two minutes older, but was and always is the big sister. When the girls were three, Monet was frustrated by not being able to make herself understood using a combination of many languages. And she would start to cry. But Jerusalem stepped right up, held her sister tight, they’d “talk” for a minute, and then Jerusalem calmly turned to us, like she was at the United Nations, translating what they “discussed.”

At four, she was a passionate skier, so every other weekend we drove to Vermont. Jerusalem was very small but carried her own skis and poles just like a pro. She was serious about her sport. Then Sam thought she should try snowboarding, but oh no – Jerusalem wasn’t interested. Not even a little. Eventually, she gave it a shot, became the best, and being Jerusalem, was able to keep up with the boys in High School. And that, from what I understand, was very cool.

When the girls were five or six, we were at the market. I asked them to choose a few apples while I got tomatoes. Half a second later, I heard my children singing “Hava Nagila” to a standing ovation, right there in the Fuji’s.

As a family, we never missed an evening meal together. No matter how late it got, or how hungry Sam and his girls were, Jerusalem always said, “I’ll wait for you.” And she still does.

Although Sam loves his daughters with his whole heart and ten more, he always wanted a boy, too. And now, Matthew, he has you. But who ever thought that boy would be so big – so six foot six? It’s almost like having a second set of twins, but with mustaches.

As lucky as Sam and I have been with our own mishbucha, we couldn’t have picked a more gracious or loving new one for our daughter than the Goldstein’s. Bryna and Dan, like us, I know you don’t want to nag too hard for grandchildren right away, but wasn’t it fun last night, assembling that crib?

My first daughter, my new son – Sam, Monet, and I are a fountain of dreams for you. We want you to love each other, be strong for each other, be there for each other, and believe, that no matter what, you were meant to be together, forever.

Congratulations! Solniyshko! We love you! L’chaim!

Hadassah was the original name of Queen Esther in the Old Testament. Esther means Myrtle tree, which, in Jewish tradition, represents the morning star.

As members of Hadassah, we can make a broken sky whole again with hope – our circle of hope. We do that every time we step up to make a difference.

As your president, I am inspired by the spirit of your philanthropy and service that promises and delivers cutting-edge medicine and care in our hospitals. That spirit stands firm, on the front lines, arms folded, to stop violence against women and children, once and for all. This organization will always honor its commitment to our daycare centers and technical schools. As Hadassah volunteers, it’s never just something to do. It’s the right thing to do.

I have an ambitious agenda. And I need your help. Starting today, we are going to be bold. Bold with a capital B. I challenge us to expand our donor base, strengthen our National platform and our brand. I want the Hadassah Gift Catalog to be as cool as iTunes.

But most important, we need to focus on our mentorship program, through which we gather the wisdom and experience of our mothers and grandmothers, who have been members all of their lives, and are willing to teach the ideals of this organization to our youngest women, who, thank G-d, have never lived in a world without an Israel.

It’s almost 2018, and time to combine our proud legacy with the endless possibilities of our future.

Times are tough, but we’re Jewish women, and we’re tougher. Nobody is stronger than we are, standing together, one voice, one vision.

Now I need you to bring your 100% to the table, and then I need 10% more.

Can I count on you?

Okay – let’s go out there, let’s be bold – so we can keep our morning star, Hadassah, shining brighter than ever.

Appeared on Westside Today

The Brentwood Post Office on Barrington has been privatized. I won it in a crap game.

Starting next week, I will be open 24/7, with valet parking. There will be a two-tiered line system. For the first, you take a number. For the second, numbers are called as they are in Bingo.

Rather than texting rants about how few windows are staffed, you will be distracted by rotating, volunteer, local gourmet chefs serving finger food, with selections from the four nutritional groups: Snickers, Snickers, Snickers, and gum. Inventors and scholars from all disciplines who are campaigning for stamphood when they die, will work the crowd, chatting it up, while Postal Guests mark their ballots.

To keep assault weapons off the premises, celebs in our zip code ordered to do community service, will act like airport screeners. While the practice might initially seem invasive to one’s privacy, we can only pray that Colin Firth blows off traffic school and is assigned to 90049.

Outside, my people will not cite pet owners for leaving poop on the grounds, but will simply spray animal droppings with Bye Bye Do Do, which, according to my patent, makes fecal waste disintegrate and disappear.

With the money I’m saving on not having to dispense combat pay to my workers, I will be able to redecorate and landscape, making the mailing of your tax returns a destination event.

My next community project is Adopt-a-Pot-Hole.

Appeared on Westside Today

I was a healthy, active, independent yogini who took brisk, two-mile walks every day without blinking. Then I had foot surgery.

In spite of the careful plans and reliable caregivers I had in place to help me post-op, everything and everyone went south. Add the helplessness and relentless pain, and baby, this was one nasty writer.

But … then I discovered my neighbors….

God bless 85 year-old Frances-down-the-hall, who walks slower than I did, and still insisted on driving through the midnight rain for Tylenol. Mr. Rock ‘n Roll himself next door, heard me crying, asked for a grocery list, got everything on it plus an extra bag of M & M’s for emergencies, then refused to let me pay him.

Pilates women with cell phones in one hand and double espressos in the other, who drive roaring SUVs that would just as soon plow down Jesus than miss a light, stopped and smiled while I shuffled through nervous crosswalks. Restaurants delivered meals without minimum charges. The cute fire department opened heavy doors for me, and I honestly felt our community pulling for my healing.

It’s the last thing I expected. It’s the first thing I’ll remember.

Appeared on Westside Today

Mayor Villaraigosa has made it clear the city doesn’t have money to pave or repair any streets in L.A., not even his.

In Santa Barbara, I lived on a private lane of eight houses. Private meant that when the road disappeared into a sinkhole every March 3rd, each homeowner had to repair his own portion of the street himself. Since all the neighbors but me seemed to be in Witness Protection, it was easy to interest somebody’s brother-in-law twice removed, in borrowing gigantic yellow machinery from Casmalia, and uncovering leftover slurry from the city yard. All cash. Two days.

Done.

Our Brentwood roads can be repaired the same way. Since the coral trees on San Vicente have been adopted, now let’s adopt the streets themselves. Block by block. Sidewalks and meridians, too. With plaques. Maybe badges. The paperwork would include maintenance agreements and spark competition to be the most beautiful.

We could also auction parking meters, each of which could be decorated by a different, commissioned, local artist, and become a world-class installation like LACMA’s lamp posts, with the revenue going into the maintenance fund.

Slurry up, Brentwood. Somebody got a steamroller?

Appeared on Westside Today

There is no place to park in Brentwood.

Even though there’s an occasional empty blue space reserved for disabled drivers, we’ve all seen the yutz in the Maserati who roars into these spots, oblivious to the frail, walking-impaired motorist behind him, desperate for a space. Maserati Guy feels he has the right to stop wherever and whenever he wants, because his car has the most testosterone on the block.

Seeing the growing fleet of parking enforcement vehicles on San Vicente, staffed by uniformed workers who love their jobs more than anyone in America, I assume the City of Los Angeles makes most of it’s nut from citing selfish drivers who take disabled spaces. First offense: $250. Second: $500. Third time, toast.

However, I would hope the fine wouldn’t be the reason for observing the law. Nonetheless, someday, Maserati Guy is going to get a badly needed brain transplant, and feel the agony of every baby shuffle step he has to take, parking three blocks from CVS to buy morphine and a Fleet enema.

When it’s his turn for the walker with the yellow tennis balls, let’s see who’s upset at whom for taking his blue parking spot.

Appeared on Westside Today

My fifth white Lexus lease was ending. For eleven months, I searched for new transportation. Determined to be environmentally responsible, I started with the hybrids. Feeling like I was single-handedly rescuing all Polar Bears and ice, the reality is, seats in green cars trash my back.

I could have put a deposit on a round, cute convertible, and in ten months when it arrived, pay as much over sticker for that $24,000 vehicle as a Bentley.

Instead, I rode up and down, up and down Santa Monica and Wilshire, test-driving 22 other automobiles. I rented many of them, all yellow, a day at a time, since car people only let me ride one exit on freeways, and confined my bump research to the single block in the County that’s been paved since FDR.

At the fancy dealerships, there were no cars on any lots, so I was caravanned to satellite garages. Descending three somber, airless levels into the bowels of the earth, salespeople with bad suits and matching flashlights weren’t authorized to drive anything under $85,000 up the ramps to daylight, but suggested I visit their URLs for color swatches.

Danny, my lawyer and unhusband, suggested a scooter. But look for me ripping six on the 405, saving the planet, on my Segway.

Appeared on Westside Today

Brentwood is becoming a landfill of our own making. And the folks who used to pick up after us are gone. Living in a lean, green time, with the environment our priority, it’s heartbreaking to witness San Vicente Boulevard, the Grand Dame of our city, becoming a slum, as trash cans outside our many fine and fast food restaurants spill over onto the sidewalk.

Along the path surrounding The Brentwood Country Club, as graceful coral trees and stately eucalyptus sigh in disgust, joggers toss their bottles and snack packs into the bushes, as if keeping our city sparkling clean were someone else’s responsibility. Barrington Avenue is a waste dump altogether. Dog poop, soda cans, and abandoned furniture make that street an embarrassment to all of us. But the alley stretching from Barrington to Montana should be cordoned off with yellow police tape. There, rotting food, plastic bags, coupons, burrito wrappers, condoms, cups, hats, and human waste play a symphony of shame.

It is tantamount to a crime scene. Our whole town is. Let’s make Brentwood beautiful again. If we all pitch in, it’s done.

Pick up your trash.