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Al Martinez• E-mail
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Recent Columns:
This is the season of combustion, where heat, humidity and wind drive fires through the mountains and canyons of Southern California, howling over hillsides thick with oak trees and chaparral, scorching the summery blue skies and burning wild red patterns into the night.
If it weren't for the fact that James Dean was killed about a mile up the road, you probably would have never heard of Cholame.
I am sitting in the lobby of the Ascot Suites inn looking out at Morro Rock and talking to Tank Nelson. Both are imposing sights.
Our cat Ernie killed a mouse the other night and I was terrified.
In the wake of America's diminished reputation around the world, it is encouraging to be reminded that there are good guys among us working to improve our tarnished image. Sometimes they're right next door.
I regret to report today that my dog, Sophie, about whom many have asked, doesn't surf, skateboard, jump-rope, sing, tumble, tap-dance, curtsy or perform any of the other tricks demonstrated or promised on the new television show "Greatest American Dog."
There you've got your Hellboy who is red and there you've got your Incredible Hulk who is green and there you've got your robots who are in love and there you've got your panda who kung fus and there you've got an assemblage of cartoon characters the likes of which haven't been seen since the last Mickey Mouse retrospective.
The face of JonBenet Ramsey emerges once more from the dark archives of her death a dozen years ago.
Lazy days in old L.A. Dream-walking in heat that bounces from 110 in the Valley to 75 at the beach. A soft breeze rustles the new green of the oak trees. Grass on the hillsides turns amber, dying under the relentless beat of the sun.
We were lunching at Musso & Frank's, which is a glorious old restaurant on Hollywood Boulevard once filled with luminaries from the worlds of literature and cinema, but almost empty on this particular day.