If you’ve never read Elizabeth Gilbert’s book, “The Last
American Man”, I suggest you pick it up this Fourth for a bit of
quirky, patriotic fun. It chronicles the true story of a modern day
hero who lives in a teepee in the Appalachian Mountains, eating only
what he himself picks, raises or kills. The guy is an egomaniac and a
genius, and the writing, especially when detailing how he forages in
the woods, is funny and sensitive and page-turningly good.
The only problem with that book is the title. He’s not the last American man. My mother is.
She spends every summer, and most of every fall, wading through rivers
with a fly-fishing rod, and hiking giant, shale-covered mountains to
sleep under the stars. She’s had staring contests with bears and
cougars, weathered lightning storms under scraggly trees, and once
hiked three miles back to her truck with a broken tailbone.
There was a time when I CRAVED greens. I mean it. CRAVED ‘em. Lambs tongue (mache) arugula, romaine, and kale (which I would stem, blanche, squeeze dry and then sauté in olive oil and garlic). Evan Kleiman has a terrific 
Cecilia was a ‘10’ on a scale of one to two. She had unmitigated primal passion. Her sexual appetite was unparalleled and horizontal. It was vertical and diagonal. When I suggested to Cecilia that we spend the Fourth of July in Hawaii, she responded by giving me a fireworks show in the bedroom that went on till daybreak.
We've lived in Pacific Palisades for many years, treasuring its small town qualities as a respite from the congestion of the Los Angeles megalopolis. The 4th of July brings out the best in our community. We celebrate Independence Day by getting together with our neighbors, family, and friends. The celebrations begin in the morning with the 5k/10k run, the parade down Sunset at mid-day, an early evening picnic, and conclude with the night-time fireworks at the high school.