Orange County versus L.A.? Well, versus just about everybody? Please. It's a fun game to play; but they started it. Orange County was just sitting there, beachside in her lovely Escada pixie pants, having a Bombay martini, minding her own business and, without provocation, all those other snarky, nasty, jealous little counties started razzing her. La Pauvre! Authoress Jennifer Susannah Devore is one of her most ardent protectors in such silly, verbal contests, most oft set in a grungy bar somewhere other than The O.C. (Psst, we don't call it that.)

Within the pages of her novel, The Darlings of Orange County, she takes the opportunity to give it a direct S/O and, ever so politely, correct the "competition". (Really though, short of Monterey, Carmel and Santa Barbara, Orange County has no competition in California.) Love it or hate it, Orange County counts ... and it doesn't, by a very long stretch.

In the 237 summers which have come and gone since July 4th, 1776, the date has increasingly become a juncture for white sales and auto dealer blowouts. In fact, lost amidst the mall madness and car lot carnivals is a simultaneously fascinating and pedantic period of committee meetings, assignations, rewrites, copies, messengers, vote-taking and gallons of coffee, ale and wine. As I currently scribe the fourth novel in my six-part, historical-fiction series of books, Savannah of Williamsburg, Independence Day takes on a more front-and-center appearance than usual as research takes me through the 1750s, well into the meaty burgeoning of colonial revolution.

Photo courtesy of Colin Swan

Bon Anniversaire, Buon Compleanno and, most importantly, in the language of the Woody Allen's Woody Allen, director Ingmar Bergman, Grattis på födelsedagen! As the venerable auteur has become almost as much a European filmmaker as a New York filmmaker, I offer birthday greetings representing his claimed homes-away-from home of late: Paris, Venice and Stockholm.

Keeping this post short is a necessity, as I am wont to ramble, gush, babble and adulate ad nauseum given the space. If I do not reign myself in, I shall serve only to embarrass myself as I drool sycophantically on my silk sweater.

Ergo, as heroes go I have an extremely short list. I generally look to myself for inspiration and work diligently to outdo said-self where I can. Still, whether one seeks them or not, one tends to have luminaries. At the risk of offending some not on the list, I have to say my Viking tops the list; after that fall, natch, Daddy and, in no particular order, Bill Gates, Benjamin Franklin, Jim Henson, Walt Disney and, yep, Woody Allen.

Whilst I do hope to jolly up at The Carlyle in Manhattan, where every Monday night Woody Allen & The Eddy Davis New Orleans Jazz Band delight local cats and gators with their sassy, swaying syncopations, thus far I have only seen Mr. Allen once, near New York City's Metropolitan Museum of Art.

It was June, so the pavement was hot like melty Velveeta and even though I'd chosen cork wedges for the day, the five-inch heels felt as though they were sticking to the asphalt with each step, like a happy, perky sinosauropteryx oblivious to its coming demise in the Upper East Side Tar Pits. The entire island sagged under a unique kind of humidity that only occurs in summer metropoli, capturing and cooking slowly everything within its concrete ovens. Hindering my movements somewhat, some side streets branching off Fifth Avenue were blocked, clearly a large-scale film shoot in play.

Spying the flimsy, paper, No Parking signs posted up and down a three- or four-block stretch of Fifth Avenue, I noted the standard film permit with all the usual information: dates of shooting, prod. coordinator contact info., NYPD info., permit number, etc. What I also spied immediately was Director: Woody Allen. Fortunately for my dignity, it was too hot to jump and squeal; so I merely nodded to myself and said, "Oh, very cool!" I also saw Title: Untitled. After one reads every biography ever published on the man, every New Yorker piece written by him and viewed most every second of documentary, interview and news report available, one knows he does not name his projects until finished; at least, he does not release the title to the press or public until then. He is very private, which is why even writing this wee salutation is totally anathema to whom he is. Oops. (Thinking back on the date, by the way, I believe they had to have been shooting Melinda and Melinda or Anything Else.)

After clomping down Fifth Avenue for a few blocks, doing my best to raise each step semi-elegantly out of the black oatmeal and hoping to nick a glimpse of the Gilligan-chapeau'd, bespectacled icon, I eventually ended up at The Jewish Museum: beautiful collections, amazing gift shop! Hours later, swamping back down Fifth Avenue, two Jewish charm bead bracelets nestled happily in my pretty, new gift bag, I happened upon a mellow area of the production: few people, one production truck and little movement overall.

They appeared to be shooting B-roll: second unit footage of the neighborhood, background extras, streets, capturing ambient noise, etc. I saw no Woody, no Christina Ricci (if it was Anything Else), no Chloë Sevigny (if it was Melinda and Melinda). Still, it was very cool and as I passed the closed set, open with just enough space to see a production assistant or two and, what I assumed was the second unit director of photography, a nice-looking, slim fellow with a light meter around his neck spied my museum gift bag and, giving me a thumbs up, a cool smile and a hearty chin nod, said, "Thanks for supporting the cause."

Always, man, always. Shalom, brother.

What you have to understand is that good writing isn't necessarily saleable, and a lot of people get rich writing awful bullshit. -Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in America

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(Warning to Savannah of Williamsburg readers, parents, teachers et al: please, note this is NOT a Savannah-title by any means, hence the need for user-registration. No kiddies allowed. Aside from the overall goal of awareness in a world of dwindling standards, it is an endeavour to dip my quill into a new genre. Adults will love it, I promise you ... your children must not. Book IV in the Savannah Series, however, is being written currently and is, as always, completely child-appropriate.)