Dear Jacque Robinson,
Who loves you, babe? We all do, that’s who. All the Pasadena punditocracy and political observers who have been watching your rise and rise ever since you began campaigning for City Council in your hometown’s District 1. You took on a crowd of better-known, better-financed dudes (and another woman as well) and you surprised them all in the primary. Then you whupped very well-liked and successful businessman Robin Salzer in the general election, and showed your class by — I think I’ve got this right, but I can’t call you to check, see, ‘cause I’m ticked off just now — ensuring that Robin, now a constituent of yours, succeeded his equally highly able wife Ann-Marie Villicana on the important Pasadena Center Operating Board.
So here’s to you, Ms. Robinson. I think you’re doing a fine job. And that you’ll continue to grow with experience on the council and become a legendary leader in Pasadena’s Northwest, addressing youth violence, affordable housing and the important success of John Muir High. And that you’ll shake off these picky-picky blogger questions about some missing details on your campaign finance reports. And that if your longtime mentor President Obama offers you a spot in his administration, you’ll at least think twice before leaving town.
So imagine my surprise when I awoke this morning and spread the Star-News on the dining table and dug into both my morning cereal and staffer Fred Ortega’s front-page story on the proposed expansion of Pasadena’s smoking ordinance, about how in future nasty puffers will only be able to do so . . . well, I’m not sure where. Nowhere, pretty much. That’s just the way o’ the world. And then, this: “Councilwoman Jacque Robinson . . . also suggested the city look into banning smoking at Brookside Golf Course.’’
It’s the one place in the city where a fellow with a lighted cigar is, by definition, hundreds of yards away from anyone who could possibly object. The guys in his foursome already know he favors a stogie on the links, right? The other guys are on other fairways. Case closed. You probably missed my rant on the subject in this space the last time around; maybe you were off at Cal or something.
But for me, it’s like yesterday. And I quote: “When you pass that law against me firing up a fat, stinky Rothschild during my weekly dawn amble on the vast pastures of the back 9 in the arroyo, just who is it you imagine is going to make me put it out? Come and get me, coppers!”
Fondly, Larry
In entirely other news: Eating lunch at Sumi Chang’s Europane the other day — essentially the crossroads of the world, with Gerald Schwarzenbach joining me for a sandwich, and Jim Morris and Laurel Martin coming through — I wandered over to Pasadena novelist Jervey Tervalon’s table. “You see Jonathan’s column this week?” Jervey asked. That would be Jonathan Gold, of the LA Weekly’s Counter Intelligence, the best writer about restaurants in the world. “The one about La Grande Orange?” “Yeah — you know that line: ‘In the first week it was open, a friend of mine managed to eat there five days in a row?’” “I saw that, yeah.” “Well, that would be me.”