Last night, I went to a birthday party. It was an eightieth birthday, and I was advised to show up in "business casual," a category that made me blanch and run to the phone to consult with my resident specialist. The birthday boy had told me they had goats, and chickens, and really, lived on a farm. His neighborhood is semi-rural, so this didn't seem strange to me. But then I couldn't find it. I plugged the address into my trusty phone. Still no idea. I turned right, I turned left, and passed a rather long 10-foot stone wall. Finally, I took the driveway through an imposing gate and approached a well-lit Italian-Andalusian villa and voila! I'd arrived. Not much of a farm, though, and I immediately felt seriously underdressed. Half the Jewish community was there, all sitting on one side of the pool, while his remaining family and friends, the food, and the booze, were on the other side. I joined the Jews, of course, after a good look at the food.

In addition to two waterfalls, the house also sported some pets, although I only got to hang out with a thirty-five year old cockatoo: