Turning 43 yesterday didn’t seem imposing or fretful in the least. Or it didn’t until shortly after lunch. It was around that time when a series of inconvenient truths managed to decry my optimism, undermine my celebratory notions and deflate the air of hope and expectation I held. Hey, I’m entitled. It was my birthday. So there I was going down in flames around 2:30 p.m. as life’s curve balls were gliding over home plate in rapid succession. Strike one. Strike two. Strike three. I’m out.

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I feel like a Peeping-Tom. I feel dirty. My parents raised me better. My transgression? I invaded some lady’s privacy recently. I violated her private space. How? When? Where? HOW? I was in the check out line at a Wal-Mart Superstore. That’s right, the Wal-Mart Superstore Express check-out line. That gives you the when and where. The HOW? Answering involves a little more complexity and a lot more insight into how I process life.

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Even if I say it three times, and tap the heels of my Kenneth Cole’s together, it won’t bring back the Ambassador Hotel. The Oz-like footwork and verbal mantra won’t and can’t whisk me away to the once legendary hotel and its (in)famous Cocoanut Grove nightclub. At the grand age of eighty-five years old, The Ambassador Hotel, was demolished by the Los Angeles Unified School District for the purpose of clearing space for a new elementary, middle and high school.

Senator Bobby Kennedy was assassinated at the hotel. Gone With the Wind swept the 5^th Annual Academy Awards at the Cocoanut Grove ballroom. The 521 room majestic fortress accommodated celebrities, birthed innuendo, harbored secrets and then w