Dear Mr. Zell

For the first time in ages, I was made to sit still. No, I wasn't at the dentist, nor was I waiting to get my boob smashed by a mammogram. In other words, I wasn't being tortured. No, I was having an unexpected repair done on my ten-year old Volvo and had foolishly agreed to wait in the lobby. There was plenty to do. There were magazines, 4 magpies squawking on The View, and there were newspapers, too. Fortunately, they had the LA Times, which is fairly special since I happened to be in Orange County, also known as behind the Orange Curtain, or as I like to think of it, that place where the women get blonder as they get older.

I read about the changes underfoot at the LA Times. I was amused that they chose to comment on your clothes and colorful language (and that you used to sell Playboy to kids in the suburbs at a mark-up, which should qualify you for an appearance on The Girls Next Door). I suppose if you were poorer, they'd put you on TV with Stacey London, go through your closet, berate you for your clothing and give you 5K to buy new ones. But no, because of your position, your flamboyance is allowed to stand on its own. Frankly, I think we're luckier for it, don't you? Because what we don't need is another suit, and what we can never have again is an Otis Chandler.
I have only one request.
Hire me.
That's right. Me.
The one who got pulled into this because of the Pressmen, the one who writes whatever she damned well pleases, the one who reviews books, writes recipes, tells people about the dumb things she does, uses enough big words to make my late English teacher proud, who knows there's no its' but just its, the one Al Martinez said about, "Kanani, you're a damned fine writer," --heady stuff for a broad from the sticks who came to LA to surf but when she found out Pomona was nowhere near the beach, her response was to transfer to Long Beach. (And wow, was that a long time ago, or what?). Anyway, hire me. Because Al Martinez will never and should never retire. So just hire me now. It's time.