I drop off my daughter at her school in West Hollywood and head to my office in Beverly Hills, on Sunset Blvd. I drive past the Ivy almost every day. I weave past the paparazzi and the gawkers and the plastic-ladies-who-lunch while I try to make it to my office on time. And in our office we worry about whether John McTiernan will really go to prison and if so can we squeeze in pre-production first? And who will keep Lindsey sober through the "Dare to Love Me" shoot? On NPR I listen as they tally up the millions raised by each presidential candidate, millions that will be spent on advertising for a year until one or the other is elected. Millions that it seems to me could be better spent...but then what do I know. I really don't know much, just a bare bit of what is happening in Myanmar and in Darfur...and what the government lets us know about Baghdad. But I look at this photo of a monk in Myanmar, a man who wanted only love and compassion and peace for his country and his people, a man who over the last week joined thousands of other bodies hidden in the jungles, and I can't help but be horrified and disgusted by the vapidity that surrounds this town and most of America.
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