Thanks for nothing, Powerball

Credit: LA Public Library

Women pirates in costume pull a buried treasure chest from a hole they dug on the beach at the 1928 Pacific Southwest Exposition in Long Beach.

This week’s newsletter does not come to you from the Peter Lawford Memorial Cabana at the Bel Air Hotel. Nor was it written from the front porch of a 10-bedroom “cottage” on Mackinac Island’s West Bluff. Not even from a little beach hut on the Cook Islands.

This week, I did not buy Grandma, Juan, and Auntie Mary a new house in Ladera Heights. I did not buy Julian and me a new house in Mount Washington. I did not start a non-profit finish carpentry training center in downtown LA. I did not give KPCC a $50,000 challenge grant for the next fundraiser.

I didn’t buy a first edition Hound of the Baskervilles. I did not give a random homeless man a hundred-dollar bill. I didn’t buy drinks for everybody at Colombo’s. I didn’t tell my brother James not to worry about his medical bills. I didn’t buy a Manuel Alvarez Bravo photo or a small newspaper in Northern California that I would have renamed the Picayune-Record-Citizen.

 I did not fill up the bathtub with Morgan silver dollars and dive in. I didn’t trade in my yellow 1980 Mercedes 300SD for a blue 1979 Mercedes 6.9. I also didn’t take a booth at Musso&Frank at 11am, start with breakfast and stay through lunch and past dinner, buying food and drinks for any Off-Ramp fan who answered the call on Twitter.

No, I did not win the $588-million Powerball jackpot. Next time, I’m buying a ticket. Or two.

blog comments powered by Disqus