Stars are people too

Wildfires are devastating. They consume more than homes. They also devour memories, history, and a sense of safety. This year, flames tore through Altadena, Malibu and the Palisades, leaving ashes where homes and lives once stood. Yet, instead of compassion, a bizarre and unjustified wave of callousness has reared its ugly head, with people dismissing the losses of celebrities and residents in these areas.

How often in the past week have you seen a post or heard someone say, “They can afford to rebuild” or “They can just move to their other house”? It’s a cavalier, ignorant, jealous, red-state, right-wing, California-hating dismissal that reveals a staggering, although sadly not surprising, lack of empathy and understanding.

Let’s be honest: there’s no faster way to show the world your heart is three sizes too small than by shrugging off someone else’s tragedy with, “Well, they’re rich.”

Not everyone who suffered a loss is rich. Sure, these communities, especially Malibu and the Palisades, are known for luxurious homes. But they’re also home to teachers, small business owners, retirees, and others who’ve built lives there. Some have lived in these neighborhoods for decades—long before they became synonymous with wealth. Losing a home is financially devastating for anyone.

And no, Karen, not everyone has a secret vault of gold coins to dive into when things go south.

Even for those who ar e wealthy, the idea their losses don’t matter is disturbingly cruel. Yes, a celebrity may have the means to rebuild, but wealth doesn’t erase the pain of losing irreplaceable items: photo albums, keepsakes from loved ones, artwork, and more. Money can’t replace that painting your kid made in first grade that held a place of honor on the fridge. Wealth doesn’t shield anyone from the trauma of displacement or the heartbreak of watching a cherished home—and all the memories it held—go up in flames.

To imply their suffering is any less valid because they’re in the public eye is to deny their humanity. And yours.

Many celebrities who’ve lost their homes are still stepping up to help others. They’re donating significant amounts to relief efforts, volunteering their time, and using their platforms to raise awareness and funds for victims. Their losses haven’t stopped them from giving back, which only underscores their humanity and generosity.

A loss is a loss. Home is more than just four walls and a roof. It’s the space where we build our lives, celebrate milestones, and find comfort. When people lose their homes to natural disasters, they’re not just losing a building; they’re losing memories and a piece of their identity. This is true whether you’re living paycheck to paycheck or have a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.We reduce celebrities to their wealth or fame, forgetting that they laugh, cry, and mourn just like the rest of us.

They’re just better lit while doing it.

This mentality often extends to others perceived as “better off” than us. It’s a dangerous way of thinking. Instead of coming together to support those in need, we’ve created a hierarchy of whose suffering is “worthy” of our compassion. Spoiler alert: this isn’t a competition. There are no prizes for being the most dismissive.

Next time you see news of someone’s home destroyed by fire—whether they’re a famous actor or your next-door neighbor—think about what it would mean to lose the place where you’ve built your life.

The last thing we need is for callousness to spread faster than the wildfires.

There goes the neighborhood

We've lived in our home coming up on eighteen years now. In that time, the house to our west—with the one-bedroom guest house in back that's always rented, used as an Airbnb or deducted for tax purposes as a home office—has sold three times. The house next to us to the east—the one with the pool my daughter learned to swim in—has sold five times.

Restless owners? Hot real estate market? Maybe it's us.

I think this up and coming songwriter I'm rather fond of, Bruce Springsteen, put it best: "There are nice guys and assholes on every block in America."

Can I get an amen?

In the ever changing, inherently risky game of neighbor roulette, we've been fortunate to have had some great ones. And, sadly, our luck has occasionally run out and we've had a few monumental assholes (who may or may not still live in one of those houses and not the one to the west—who's to say).

The great neighbors who've passed through are the ones I enjoyed and miss the most. The ones I have common interests with, shared great conversations, and just generally enjoy their company. Which reminds me, Sebastian, as far as all of us here at the ponderosa are concerned you can't get back here fast enough. Make the offer. Get on it will ya?

Like many neighborhoods, mine has a homeowner's association, allegedly there to protect property values, keep tree-lined streets looking respectable and prevent residents from painting their home puke green, neon magenta or that dusty rose color that's really orange.

For $125 a year in dues, some other things they do are tell me how many trees I can have, how tall and what kind they can be, why I can't have a garage sale despite a garage desperately screaming for one, charge me hundreds of dollars for their "architectural committee" to "review" addition and remodel plans, and send out a quarterly newsletter with poorly done 1/4 page ads (Hmm, freelance opportunity?). There's also always a grainy, black and white picture alongside a message from the HOA president, who I wouldn't know if I fell over him at one of the third Thursday of the month association meetings.

Besides fighting lawsuits from homeowners who don't like being told what they can't do, they also spend yearly dues on an annual Labor Day weekend resident get together at the small park by one of the entrances to the neighborhood. Attendance is less and less every year. I don't know whether it's the rubbery hot dogs, the not-quite top 40 band, people going back to their house instead of use the Porta-Potties, dog souvenirs randomly scattered around the park or the fact it's a major holiday weekend and almost everyone is out of town.

I've gone a few times, but I'm not gonna lie—my community spirit is seriously lacking.

Which brings me to my point (see, if you wait long enough...). I'm baffled as to why I signed up for this Nextdoor app that supposedly gives me all the news about what's going on in my neighborhood.

The latest notice is apparently Ava has moved into the hood. Welcome Ava. I'm sure I won't know you from the other 624 families with homes in our development, but I wish you the best and I'm glad you're here. At least I think I am. Unless you're like the meth tweakers that lived in the rented house across the street for years, or share the same asshole tendencies as my neighbor to the east. Then don't bother unpacking.

When Nextdoor isn't announcing new arrivals, it's showing posts from neighbors who need babysitters, want to get rid of furniture, argue about social responsibility for the homeless who wander through the residential streets on the way to the boulevard, packages stolen off of front porches, coyote sightings ("Anyone seen Rags?") and other various neighborly inquiries.

If there were a preference I could set to one update a week instead of one a day, I might spend more time going over it and get more involved in the critical questions, like who parked an RV on the street instead of their driveway—behind the fence. But there isn't. And I won't.

I'll just have to somehow reconcile the fact I've been here over 18 years, and still only know a handful of neighbors beyond my own block.

So you don't get the wrong idea, I'm not saying the Nextdoor app doesn't have anything I'm interested in. After all, the asshole neighbors have two loud, yappy little barking dogs they have to walk.

Perhaps I'll start paying more attention to those coyote sightings.