Orange is Not the New Black

Driving out to the airport on a freezing, rainy March morning under a  sky barely awake via the Grand Central and the infamous Van Wyck, it’s easy to envision a world consisting mainly of Dunkin’ Donuts and Marriotts- a complete study in shades of grey and charcoal in concrete for weary travelers and millennial Willy Lomans.

But grimy and non inspiring as the pathway to the friendly skies may appear along the underside of Queens at six in the morning in the last weeks of winter (and does anyone ever actually use the Van Wyck except for this express purpose???), the area is indisputably located in the shadowy if far flung orbit of the Big Apple, still close enough to catch a whiff.

Arriving in LA six or seven or eight hours later depending on the security lines and the flight tracks and the delays and the cabs and the freeways and the traffic, you find yourself gazing up at those weirdly tall, thirsty and ominously looming palm trees, and suddenly  you’re longing for even those dismal, far edges of the borough boonies, the place where snow removal lags. The weather of course is better in SoCal, but civilization as you once knew it hours earlier  lies somewhere on the other side of the continent, three thousand miles and three time zones away; however at least it's still there and the effects of weather can be highly overrated.

Okay, okay, I’ll admit it. No use trying to weasel out of this. I am decidedly not one of those people who waxes all warm and fuzzy about the west coast vibe, particularly that part of the desert-scape seven hours or so south of the Bay Area. I find the entire golden state  kinda’ lacking in that special, glittery ambience that would make me wanna drop my season tickets to the ABT, sell my apartment on a leafy street a stone’s throw from Gotham and move out there the very next day. The Bay Area doesn’t fare much better in my view either, San Francisco coming off as a rather dinky, unconvincing stage set posing as a real town with its dearth of grown up architecture and micro climates every ten miles or so, most of them damp and windy.  

But I really do draw the line at burritos for breakfast, especially when this delicacy constitutes an airport breakfast at the dismal time warp known as LAX. And frankly, health food concerns aside, if I never see another avocado again it may be too soon- as in, did they really have to plunk the entire contents of a giant puckered Haas, whole, unsliced, unseasoned, unlimed and completely untethered, into the delicate bed of my mesclun salad, somewhat like a softball landing on a bunch of daffodils? I mean, they’re just so cavalier about the whole ubiquitous avocado thing over there in that jumble of freeways and malls, probably ‘cause they’re crazy, mad sick of them too.

How many burritos can you put on the head of a pin, or rather, on the side of a bagel? I wouldn’t actually know as finding an example of that essential New York staple, much less a real live bialy or convincing slice of pizza, becomes a pointless endeavor in the wilds of “OC”- the County of the Oranges an hour south of LA, an hour north of San Diego, and basically in the middle of nowhere, though not that far from Disneyland.

Here are some recent headlines from that dazzling journalistic sharpshooter, the Orange County Register:

-Surf Etiquette 101: Before you hit the waves you need to know these rules. . . .

-Octegenarian Jewel Thief Not Ashamed

-After Some Cry Foul, Dana Point Says No to Backyard Chickens

The first two stories appeared on 4/7and the last on 4/8/15, should you require more detail. . . .