Martinez riffs on the aromas of Thanksgiving and is thankful that a woman might be headed for the White House. You might not have noticed, he writes, but the upraised fist of today's political revolution is wearing nail polish.
Grandpa Al Martinez tries a different way to talk about rain and a little girl's response to it. Welcome to the tea party.
Martinez ponders COPD by dawn's early light, skeptical of the notion that the survival rate for its victims is improving. He finally turns to his sister Mary, also a victim of the disease, and she tells him how to handle it: just pretend it isn't there.
Martinez senses warnings in the wind as a new fire season begins in Southern California, predicted to be the worst in a century. He stands on the rooftop of his Topanga home and remembers the howling fire storms of other days, and the sirens that wailed with the rising intensity of a woman's scream.
Sarah Palin, Mickey Mouse, Nikki Finke, Facebook, rage and the art of satire share space with Martinez today.
Even L.A. would do, but I prefer Topanga.
Al Martinez speculates on the future of fingers when over-usage of the human thumb in the digital age eliminates their need. How will we apply an important gesture of human displeasure when the middle finger is gone?
Trying to straighten out his cluttered office, Martinez agonizes over parting with any of his books, feeling as though he is pushing unwanted children out the door. He just can't do it.
Martinez has a cold and imagines himself tended by a wife who responds to his every need, as a woman should, worried by his loud moans and a facial expression of sorrow that would make a coroner cry.
"Love me, love my tree" is the battle cry shaping up in the mountains and canyons of (the) Topanga.
Martinez revisits images of a war fought long ago, reviving the silhouettes that once marched along the mountain tops of the Korean Peninsula, leaving blood and fire in their wake.
A martini ain't a martini if it's made of vodka, but it sure has its lip-smacking qualities. Don't take my word for it. Spin a Billie Holiday CD, hold the chocolate sauce, add an olive if you must and here's looking at you, kid.
Martinez looks at Obama's Hollywood connection as described by Big Ears, his secret source, and discovers, well, actually nothing at all, except that the notion of a parallel universe might be credible after all.
Santa Monica peace activist Jerry Rubin celebrates his 70th birthday and 30 years of ranting against war and other harmful pastimes with a 100-day fast, a party and a new flight for the Sweet Bird of Peace.
Martinez visits a dine-in theater and muses over the possibility of edible movies, Matt Damon's expertise at playing his face and large, gallon-sized cans of martinis, hoo-boy!
Al Martinez observes sex clubs, playing the flute and trolling among the guppies as eroticism raises its puckish head in the 'burbs.
Martinez relates to an angry clown in a wheel chair as a circus parade of humanity flows down the Third Street Promenade.
An old dog scratches at the front door. He's tired of wandering and has work to do. So we open the door and Al Martinez trots in. Home at last.
In his first occasional column for LA Observed, Al Martinez writes about the sweat and ardor behind the blackboards and books at old UC.