Never Say Neverland

The email was curt, and cryptic. A New York Post writer wanted help on a story about the rumpus outside Michael Jackson's Santa Ynez home. His follow-up phone call was equally cloak-and-dagger: "Drive to 5225 Figueroa Mountain Road and call us when you get there."

It was the one place on this gargantuan planet that I least wanted to spend my day. I had planned several leisurely hours of writing interrupted only by 37 visits to Facebook and a long-awaited lunch with a girlfriend who makes me giggle.

But here's the truly awful thing about being a reporter: When there's something to report, you must report it. It's in the job description. It IS the job description.

So I report:

I spent 10 minutes getting ready. One minute to pack water, snacks, notepads, extra pens, sunscreen, a phone charger, laptop, and maps of the backcountry in case the roads were blocked and I had to hike in (no, of course I wouldn't really have done it, but one must go through the motions so she can say she "tried"). And the remaining nine minutes figuring out what to wear.

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