A FEW years ago, I lived at the beach in Santa Monica. It was a two-storey, rectangular beach house, and in the afternoons I would sit on my balcony, smoke a cigar, sip a bourbon, and watch the sun set over the Pacific.
One day, though, I was disturbed by a lot of alarming noise-ambulance-siren noise, small-gathering-crowd noise, squawking-police-radio noise-from the next street over. And then, fluttering above, there appeared several news helicopters. I leaned over the balcony to get a better look-far enough to crane my neck, not far enough to spill my drink-and I suddenly noticed, right below my balcony, a news van pulling up in front of my house, directly in front of my driveway (conveniently marked by a “Do NOT Park Here” sign), and several purposeful people getting out and starting to unload video equipment.
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