scs Fairy Tales

By Authors Unknown

A Samhain Saga

It was a dark and stormy night . . . which in SoCal even in mid-October is a sufficiently unusual circumstance to warrant celebration.

As everyone knows, the US economy is currently hanging from the lip; but even with 9,862,049 people in Los Angeles County running on a median income of $53,494 per 2.98 person household, there are still fortunate souls-bank execs, insurance agents, politicians & that ilk - who yet retain enough discretionary income to party.

The theme, of course, is foreordained; the storm occurring as it did in the same month as Halloween.

You would think that folks whose everyday contacts dot a planet- segmenting circle large enough to encompass the Pacific Rim would be too sophisticated to want to play dress-up; except perhaps in the bedroom; tho I suppose that cuts rather the other way, eh . . One must, however, bear in mind that besides all the rich and varied inputs from around the world, these people are also subject by sheer proximity to the influence of Tinsel Town. Indeed, whatever their day job, more than half are moonlighting with a view to becoming or else simply mooning around the contact high exuded by those who have been, however briefly, actors. That being understood, it will come as no surprise that most sport video cameras, plus an entourage of operating personnel sufficient to avoid doing any actual work themselves.

On this particular stormy night, the presenting persiflage of Perseids plus peripheral personnel have puddled themselves on a secluded doorstep far far away at the tip of a long slithery driveway -(Sept fires= October mudslides =dangerous driveway=saleable seclusion)- on top of a nameless hill. (I'm not being coy-the glass of locational fashion shifts so rapidly in Greater Los Angeles, realtors monitor barometric indicators with pogo sticks. I refuse to even try) Elsewhere this would be an ordinary house: Frame cons., 2 bd. + fam.; but because part of it is jacked up on stilts over a compost heap and there is a view, past 3 eucalypti and a freeway, of the Pacific Ocean, it is called an 'organic retreat'- and sells for a mil five. Go figure

So they're having this perfectly lovely party, all dressed up; or down; and the head shots are all logged, and everybody is just about nicely, thank you, when the witching hour arrives: that transcendent moment when one learns unequivocally; perhaps; who is wearing a mask and who is not . .Suddenly . .

THUMP! . . rap rap rap rap rap . .

Now if there is one potent PING! for collecting Angeleno attention, it is just such a sound sequence. Like, I mean, really. There are many euphemisms for "Pacific Rim"- depending on ones geo-political frame of reference and who 'won' the last no-bid; but, for sure, one of the least arguable is, "Ring of Fire". We all know the Big One is coming. Even without thumps, unexplained staccato amongst the furnishings is apt to alert ears and other pink parts to attention like unto a looming claidheamh mòr freeze-framed over the head of the villain to express impending justice just before the fade-to-black at the end of an under-funded Hollywood Hysterical (with a budget, you understand, they'd splash blood and body parts around; but FX cost money). Thumps add emphasis. Trouble is, collecting our attention is as nothing compared to the difficulty of keeping same. I mean, we really are in to that old 'manana' thing, you know? . . right up there with eat ,drink, and be merry . . . Besides, no plaster appears to be actually falling - and, as has been said, it's a lovely party; tho long past the point where filming is prudent; or even possible, the camera men all being blotto;. The key grip and his minions are likewise;(though Himself has retained sufficient dignity to eschew costume). Ditto the non-working guests; an uncharitable few of whom, considering the timing, are beginning to suspect the now invisible host of prankishness, if not worse.

HARK! It comes again: Rap- Rap- Rap- Rap- Rap-

The crowd waxes silent; but there seems to be a good deal of whispery stuff going on anyway. After a course of not altogether straight but nevertheless effective huntery peckery, it is determined that the noise emanates from behind a narrow door on the downhill side of the kitchen-just the direction whence anticipated slippage seems likeliest !!!

SHRIEEEEEEEEEK!

Supports giving way? Or merely mortal agony ... somewhat damped by intervening fill..

RAP! RAP! RAP! RAP! RAP!

Clearly, the Truth is in there! Who will bell .. Ooops .. getting ahead of myself a bit .. The key grip, his sanguine native hue perhaps less sickly'd o'er than that of his fellows- the Glen Fiddich ran out early-honors his calling by a cautious approach to the door; then, pausing only briefly for effect, whips the edge of his kilt up over the knob and yanks...

Disclosing a small room; usual off. plus walk-in; once a serene snuggery but now dominated by madly glowing eyes midst a perfect particulate maelstrom of blue, silver, green, gold and red; the latter echoing sharply patterned ooze on the hand of Mine Host; whom we surprise sitting in the middle of the floor sucking the knuckles of said hand and gazing mournfully at his room-mate, Taji of the glowing eyes; and his two best friends, feigning invisibility from a languorous lounge.

Whereupon, anxiety resolved, everyone heaves a great sigh of relief or what have you and goes off to find another drink and perhaps more of those little sausage thingies on toothpicks.

Our householder, you see, is not nearly so peculiar-given time, place, and circumstance- as may have been surmised. His magnificent mansion, soi disant, being far too large for even the most conspicuous consumer, he quite sensibly shares it with three cats: Taji: black and white domestic long-hair; Sashina: Himalayan hamadryad, and Jerry (eh; his mother named Her!): a dignified tortoise shell of age, grace, and no longer fully retractable claws; two of them queens, and every one of them mortally jealous of his/her prerogatives. This afternoon, with prudent courtesy, he thought to cloister them in the unused room, saving at one fell stroke both their delicate sensibilities and the hides of his guests.

Unfortunately, this is also where he hides the evidence of his only departure from pure Angelenity; the dreadful secret vice, sadly not limited to Hollywood, of actually believing the things he sees on TV. At this festive time of year this compels the purchase of vast quantities of Christmas trinketry which starts being hyped over here round October the first. The thumps ,etc. are of course the audio track from the kitties: unsealing, unreeling and at the last unannealing- as kitties will do- approximately one and three-quarter palette loads of no longer contiguous cardboard cartons once full of ... WRAPPING PAPER!