Thunderstorm on The Prairie

I went a-walking down a path
through dwindling open space and chirping prairie dogs.
The Gods in the accumulated cumulus grew dark
and the motorways hummed with evening traffic.

Clouds the color of dishwater and soot.
A yellowed petal grinnin’ foolishly at the sky.
Happy to be on board and passing this…
this rumbly-tumbly place in time.

In the distance the crackle of electricity entangles
the sky with root-like, silver tendrils
and the following boom of thunder
sends the heavy earth a-heaving.

On a rise, a tree older than myself
holds firm against the paranoia of the clouds.
Beyond it homes and more homes.
People breathing inside them.
Making pacts with their lovers.
Cooking spaghetti for their kids.

I thought the sky was seconds from pouring on me
so I took a brisk pace for indoors,
only to get there and turn around to see a break in the clouds
and the light from the sun form a halo over the earth
and companion grass.

And if I could reach out and grab it, I’d end up with this: 0

Bright and shinning.

Transcendent.

Music Bloggin: Okkervil River

There’re those bands that you fall in love with, listen to their records like crazy for a month or two, and then forget them forever. Then there are those bands that you fall in love with, listen to them obsessively, move on, but then rediscover again and again.

That’s Okkervil River for me.

They released an EP a few months ago that contained this gem of a tune called The President’s Dead.

Before you run off thinking it’s another anti-Bush protest song, it’s not that at all.

According to lead singer, Will Sheff.

I’m personally not into protest songs. For every one half-decent protest song, there are 500 unbelievably boring, embarrassing, tedious ones. I don’t consider “The President’s Dead” a protest song. For one thing, it’s written from the point of view of a young Republican who is horrified at the assassination described in the song. I tried to write “The President’s Dead” as a song whose narrative and musical accompaniment feints in one direction and then goes somewhere else.

Indeed.

That’s what so charming about the song, it could hit you over the head Thor-Hammer style, and it starts out seeming intent on doing such, instead though, it addresses the universal aspects of a national tragedy of that sort, and then the narrator’s humble place in this world, his simple dreams.

Will Sheff starts by setting the scene, vividly.

The president’s dead, the radio said,
Dear friends, is it not so horrible?
A shot through my heart, like a knife right through bread,
The newspaper said the president’s dead.

The sea doesn’t dry and the sky doesn’t split,
But friends it just seems so wrong, don’t it?
A shot from the crowd, and a shot in the head,
The president’s lying on the tarmac dead.

Focusing on the actual scene does a nice job of staying objective and allowing the listener their own feelings and emotions instead of merely inserting the band’s right away.

He’s lying face down with his black-dressed agents
Guns drawn running around and the early Obit’s
Say he was a good man, you can’t argue with that
Not today you can’t, not now you can’t.

This is true. It’s what happens. A rush of praise. Fawning ink.
Then he sets the heartless scene where American culture steps in.

In the media tent where they spin and they slant,
They just foam at the mouth and they champ at the bit,
Those bloodsuckers can wait until those vulture’s coolin,
The newscaster said, “The President’s dead.”

Then he veers into the more universal aspects of events like this, remember, he never mentions Bush, he could be talking about Kennedy, anyone.

Let’s imagine the way, let’s say 30 years in,
How somebody will say, “What you were doing when…?”
On a beautiful day, I was waking up and
I was lying in bed with my girlfriend
And the eggs on the plate, and the bacon hissin’
And the coffee was great, there was spring on the wind.

Will Sheff has a brilliant talent for prose, for turning subtle rhymes into gorgeous melodies. I love that last image, there was spring on the wind.

More beautiful rhyme.

If you don’t live through a day for the littlest things,
And the littlest ways made you feel you were blessed
If you died right then, well you know you’d be missed,
But there’s no better state to cease to exist
And you wouldn’t feel sad, and you wouldn’t resist
Cause you knew what you had, and were thankful for it

In your own little way, I’m a small quiet man
I’ve got no wars to win, I don’t have a big plan
But I love my new place, and I love my old friends
And I scrimp and save, and one day I’ll have kids.

I guess that part is where the conservative narrator comes in. And he’s making the point, maybe, that one can be a conservative, simple values, just wanting to work hard, raise a family (which one could be liberal and ascribe to the same dream), and not having a big plan. (Bush doctrine?)

If I hadn’t read him say it himself I wouldn’t have pictured that was the case with the narrator. He seems more apolitcal than conservative, but being that it is, I actually appreciate the song more.

It’s nice to be able to slip into the other side’s shoes. Not only that, but that’s what makes good art and a good artist, being able to explore all realms of experience, not just their own.

Will Sheff sings the lyrics nonstop, without break or chorus, until it comes to a climax with this last stanza.

I can truthfully say that my day was like that,
‘Til the radio playing on the stand by the bed
Fired out this report and in 3 words they said,
Like 3 shots to my head,

Accompanied by 3 snare hits.

The President’s Dead.

He repeats this line a few times, then rocks out, then it ends abruptly but gently.

It’s a beauty.

The man has a way with words. And melody.

Not bad with the old guitar either.

See and hear it yourself.

Dan Deacon at the EchPlx

EchoPlex, er, whatever they call that new space underneath the Echo. The space, by the way, is pretty awesome, lots of couches to lean on, counters to set drinks on, and places to roam. The sound system is pretty intense near the stage but in the back by the bar, you can actually hold a conversation. It’s the best of both worlds.

I must say, the opening acts bored the shit out of me. I don’t normally go to shows too often to see bands or DJ’s I don’t know, and these acts were the reason why. The first DJ was spinning Daft Punk to an unimpressed room. The second DJ didn’t fare much better with the tunes. Then a skinny, white rapper came out without a shirt on by the name of Juicebox, or Jukebox, or Jewbox, I’m not sure. I’ll give it to him, he screamed into the mic passionately and jumped around the stage full of energy, and sucked royally.

Finally, the only reason I left the house tonight, Dan Deacon, took the stage.

I saw him lumbering through the crowd before the show started and, believe me, Dan Deacon is the least likely rock star you’ve ever seen. He is about 6 1′, stocky, his posture is bent over (probably from making such zanny electronic dance music from his assortment of prehistoric keyboards and drum machines). His shorts were slipping off of his body and his shirt was tucked-in, which emphasized his bulky frame. He wears thick, dorky glasses and is going bald at an early, early age.

But who the hell cares?

Once he has control of the mic he has total control of the crowd and the music. He starts by letting people up on the stage, because he plants himself and his equipment below the stage, in the middle of the masses.

He mentioned that his last LA show only drew approximately 4 people, and that that crowd looked like it was shot with a %2000 gun.

So in other words, he’s blowing up.

After a random countdown of 25. “25. 25. 25. 25″ the music popped off. Crystal Cat was one of the first joints to move us. The crowd jumped and danced and it was thrilling pandemonium from then on out.

Here’s the crystal cat video. Just because.

The show was lively to say the least, and colorful. The projection art helped keep a frantic vibe going, and the crowd was packed tight around him and his equipment, the green glowing skeleton above the people’s heads was the only indication that there was a DJ in the middle of all the dancing freaks.

And I use the term freak lovingly. I’m a freak. We’re all freaks.

Dan Deacon is a freak. God bless him for it.

Dress lightly if you go see him, and be prepared to be entertained.

I don’t know what it is about the music. It’s very dramatic for being nothing but synth lines and elecronic blips and beeps. Maybe it’s because he’s very engaging, humorous, and also probably because he has such an unassuming, unexpected, but very large, presence on stage. Whatever it is, and it’s not just the live shows because I’ve been listening to at home, but I’ve come to really dig on this album, Spiderman of the Rings. And I hate dance music. (It’s a headscratcher)

One last video and then you must go see him.

And now I learn he is fan of the magic bullet too! Awesome.

Oak Springs Trail: Nature Can Do Better

The other day I went on a hike to one of the sources of the LA river as part of my quest to photograph as much of the toilet bowl as I can.

Oak Springs Trail. A couple of miles outside Pacoima, in Little Tujunga Canyon. On the Northern end of the San Fernando Valley, in Angeles National Forest.

The area looked like a Western, probably because many a Western was shot in the area. Kinda amusing, because the real mountains of Arizona, Colorado, Montana are much more interesting.

The trail began promising enough. There wasn’t another car in the parking lot. Big sycamores lined a shady creek. We headed pass a picnic bench that looked like a pleasant enough spot to eat a sandwich or to tie a shoe, which I did, I tied my Sauconys. The path was wide but covered with leaves which I took as a sign that this trail isn’t tread by many hikers.

Cool.

We hadn’t gone a hundred yards when the trail came to an abrupt end against a cliff, a light blue fender lay on the ground, rusted and forgotten.

Huh?

My buddy and I looked at each other, realized that we weren’t on a trail, or at least, not the trail we were supposed to be on, and retraced our steps through the parking lot, found where we were supposed to be, and headed off again.

Immediately our walk left the shady canyon and ceased being a ‘walk’, and could now safely be called a climb, as we proceeded pretty much vertically up the mountain.

Let’s just say it was steep and leave it at that. You wouldn’t want to be caught leaning back too much, or over the ledge for that matter, as the cliff dropped quickly from the trail through some thorny brush you wouldn’t want to take a tumble in. One of those trails where eventually you begin pushing off of your knee for leverage and because you’re lazy and out of shape. (personally speaking)

And it was hot, dusty and hot.

We thought we were getting an early start, but by the time we stopped for water and trail mix, and Louisiana Fried Chicken, (don’t ask) we hit the trail around 1:15. The sun was directly over our heads and blazing with fury, anytime I looked up at it I thought: this is what it must feel like to be a french fry.

After climbing two ridges and bitching and moaning about it, but admitting to getting a kick out of it anyway and to be appreciating the excercise (which was true), we came across a slight platue and between two hills we could gaze in wonder at the San Fernando Valley from 2000 feet above it.

Eh.

You really couldn’t see anything because of the smog. I didn’t even take a picture. I went looking for it just now and remembered, ‘oh yeah, the vista was depressing, and infuriating.’ After that strenuous climb we were rewarded with miles and miles of brown sky and a blurry city hiding underneath it.

Shortly after that disappointment, however, we crested a hill and the trail sloped into a nice quiet meadow, up ahead was a thicket of green trees and the sound of running water. We had made it.

It isn’t much, but this is Oak Springs, one of the sources for the Porciuncula.

It was nice and shady and there were a few sizable boulders to sit on, at least for a few seconds until the ants began to swarm. There was a fire ring from where someone had set up camp at some point, a shotgun shell on top of the charred logs.

The creek was quiet and idyllic, but not too engaging. I studied the face someone carved into a tree trunk while my buddy entertained himself by taking pictures of the bugs in the water. When I got home I discovered about a dozen of them.

This is one of the better ones.

We had only hiked about a mile and a half, and even though we grumbled about the heat, we weren’t yet ready to give up on the trail, so we continued onward.

The trail swichbacked through more thirsty chaparral and came upon more underwhelming outlooks, with even vaster views of the smog and the ants sputtering around down there in it. The city of Tujunga was right beneath us, crawling up the mountainside with tract homes and wandering cement.

The trail eventually connected with a road that led higher up but we had had enough of this mountain. We spent a few minutes scratching our heads and contemplating the route back; whether we should follow the road down instead of the trail so as to complete a loop.

The problem was we weren’t sure where the road led and the image of us winding up in Tujunga and needing to catch a taxi back to our car compelled us to suck it up and go back the way we came.

Passing a darling flower along the way. Ah, how sweet!

I hate to sound judgmental but this hike was one of the worst I’ve done in awhile. It’s really a charmless mound of dirt with scrubby vegetation intent on sticking sharp twigs in your sock, a dribble of water masquerading as a creek your reward for sizzling under the sun.

There wasn’t any shade to speak of. The trail wasn’t well-maintained. It’s not far away enough to escape the smog. Or the liter.

There’s a reason Angeles Crest Highway, which is just north of where I was, is known more for the bodies they find dumped there than the wilderness.

Still, it’s nice to see it, because it’s there, and it’s home.

A Day on the River: The LA River

I went to check out a portion of the LA River I haven’t photographed yet, the Glendale Narrows, in Atwater Village, 10 minutes from downtown Los Angeles.

The LA river was once a real river system that the Spanish named the Porciuncula. Native Americans lived on the banks long before the missionaries rolled in. Up to the turn of the century it was the only water source for Los Angeles.

Now, well, you know the story.

The Glendale narrows is one of the few spots on the river which still has an earthen bottom. It’s also the part that has seen the most attention towards creating more public access and improvements.

After stopping for a carne assada burrito, I parked just west and uphill of the river, on the edge of Silver Lake and ate it happily, well, most of it, half of it, then I started walking.

Here we go.

I find power lines and God romantic.

A little further downhill I chanced upon some street art; a pleasant surprise and more proof that sometimes protest happens quietly.

The scene reminded me of a cemetery: death of the modern world.

***

This is what we look like from the televisions’ point of view.

After taking a few shots of the impromptu outdoor installation I crossed the street to the entrance of the trail, a place they obviously spent some money on, designing a snazzy gate with a sculpture of a heron.

But pop below the street and this is what greets you.

I walked a little bit down the path, a couple of people on bikes passed me with barely a glance. There weren’t any hikers out there but me, it’s not really a trail despite being in my book of LA hikes. It was fully cemented and I had to keep checking over my shoulder for suspicious characters.

Graffiti was everywhere, which added a nice touch to the urban vibe. The thing I don’t understand is: why do they have to write on the trees? It’s not like there is a lack of cement down here.

***

On the flat part of the ground there, there was a drainage pipe that lead into an abyss that inevitably sets one to conjuring something horribly morbid, at least I did.

I passed in front of it hoping to get a good picture of the darkness. I pictured it being a closely-cropped window into a dark secret. As I got in front of the hole I could see a body in there, dead or alive, real or imagined, I wasn’t sure, so I snapped the picture on the run, too chicken-shit to focus.

I kept walking, quickly.

As I neared a bridge I could see a bunch of junk lined up underneath. This was definitely some bedouin’s encampment. My camera was in my hand ready to document the findings but I saw hands and arms moving in the shadows so I put it away, respectful not to take pictures of a person’s home in front of them.

I wouldn’t want to be treated in some gawkish, zoo-like manner even if I did live on the streets.

I came upon a man and woman sitting casually on a couch, engaged in mid-day conversation. I greeted them with a smile and the woman said hi, seemed comfortable with me passing through. The man drank water silently from an old 40 bottle. I tried to take in as much as I could without slowing my steps and appearing to stare. There were boxes of children toys, old chairs, piles of books, even what looked like cupboards filled with pet food.

There seemed to be separate rooms organized around the pillars and boxes of junk. (which I apologize for calling it that twice now because I’m sure it is anything but junk to these people) What I’m trying to say is there was architecture. There was a sense of home about it. It all looked quite domesticated; except for being under a bridge and next to a river that smelt like shit.

Believe me, these folks’ dwelling was way more interesting than the river, and I wished I could have stayed and taken pictures, talked with them about their life, learned a little something; but instead, I kept ‘hiking’.

A little later I saw a couple of tall birds wading in the water.

If you look to the right, you can see one swimming in the water. That’s not a duck. It’s a heron.

The thing is, that’s not the bird’s natural color, or coat. I’ve never seen a heron with black feathers that reflected light. The sign at the front of the trail showed a picture of two birds that looked like this one in size and shape.

Except neither of the two in the picture were covered in oil.

Disappointing.

The highlight of the walk, if you could call it that, was where the river narrowed into a chute, causing a rapid of sort.

Here’s a panorama of the scene.

I left the river and walked back through the neighborhood to get a sense of the community. The area felt old school, it had a La Bamba sort of vibe: heavy industry, a bunch of dried lawns, an arid hillside, slanting sun, an ice cream truck that played Yankee Doodle Dandy with a Salsa beat, sharp-angled shadows, electric lines cluttering an otherwise blue sky.

The neighborhood looked starved for water, which is strange because a 100 years ago this was probably the most verdant patch in the valley due to the river coming together with the Arroyo Seco here.

A man on a bike I had a passed along the river was riding in my direction again. We exchanged polite nods. I bet he was wondering what I was up to like I was wondering the same of him. Was he just riding around? Traveling somewhere? Looking for trouble.

What is this gringo doing walking around the hood? What’s he taking pictures of? And what’s with the goofy grin?

I took a picture of him over my shoulder… because I’m creepy like that.

Notice that his head is decapitated by the sunlight.

Underneath the freeway there were murals that looked like they were drawn by children. It pleased me to see them relatively free of graffiti.

Again, notice the sharp angles. The contrast of shadow and bright light. A freeway. An ominous bridge. Power lines. Children’s drawings. This is what Los Angeles looks like when you walk the tract.

I retraced my steps, reached my car, and navigated back onto the 5 freeway which skirts the river into the San Fernando Valley. I took the 5 to the 134 and then that to the 101, and finally exited at Coldwater Canyon, which always makes me wonder if there is once a reason for that name. LA has an inventory of streams that we’ve covered up and hidden, built over, chained-up.

Sometimes when you are driving, like Beverly Blvd., by the country club near Rossmore, a cloud of mist will appear on an other-wise clear night. Those are caused by streams that still flow, only underground and out of sight.

While stopped at the light I offered a homeless woman “my old burrito”. When her eyebrows formed a worried, upside down V and she looked askance at the paper bag I held out the window I explained it was only an hour or so old, from lunch. She laughed and took it.

The light turned green. I guided my car towards the hills and then veered west for a mile or so, passing the river again along the way, and then pulled into my building.

Home at last.

If I had a canoe I could have taken a more direct route. Straight up the Porciuncula. Like the Gabriellino Indians long before.

As I’m writing this I look out the window at a sky humans have seen for a thousand years. An ancient people used to sit by the Porciuncula and watch the stars appear in orbit long before the Ventura Freeway, the Galleria, Mulholland, all of this shit was here.

Those people have disappeared, leaving me in their place.

If you’re interested in taking a guided tour of the whole river, click here.

A Clean Cut and a Piece of Land

I went to get a haircut today.

It had been awhile.

Besides being too lazy and broke to go too often, I always feel awkward getting my haircut, some stranger hovering over you and touching you, that hospital-like gown they make you wear. I’m not a massage kinda guy either. You know how horrifying it was to get your hair cut the first time, it’s still like that for me.

I just cover it up now and don’t scream and shout.

So because of these strange and varrying factors it had been a while. In fact when I went to use a coupon I received on my last visit the girl at the counter handed it back to me and told me it was expired. I looked down and saw that, true enough, it had expired almost two months ago.

You can see I was long overdue.

Anyway, before any of that happened I had to get the haircut. So the girl who later told me my coupon was expired called out for Lisa, told her she had a customer. Lisa spun around from where she was stationed in front of a computer. She shut down the Myspace page she had been looking at and greeted me, “oh, hi again.”

I didn’t recognize her so I was caught off guard that she had recognized me, so I tried to cover it up. “Oh, you cut my hair last time, right?”

“Yeah.”

Immediately, inexplicably, I felt embarrassed for the condition my hair was in. It was too long; brittle, scraggly strings were creeping down the back of my neck like bougainvillea, a fact I avoided by never having to partake in the viewing of the back of my head, and my bangs were molesting my eyes, a crime illustrated by my need to blow them off of my eyebrows every ten seconds. The hair around the ears was uneven because I had cut it myself with the sideburn portion of my razor, in other words, my do’ was a total mess.

It made no sense but I felt like she had entrusted me to hold on to, and take care of, a valuable art project of hers and I let her down; returning with her statue melted and defaced, her painting with a tear in the middle smelling like dog urine.

I could see her looking upon her previous work with less than pride.

I wished I had gotten a different person. Why hadn’t the girl called out for Mike or Susan, someone who couldn’t judge me for how long it’s been since I’ve been in, or how I’ve tried to trim back my bangs with the same pair of scissors I use to open up bags of vegetables.

Last time she had seen me my hair was nice and short. I must have been a disappointment walking in there.

I sat in the chair with a guilty grin and told her I was growing my hair out. She looked at me appropriately baffled.

“I need the sides trimmed, though, and maybe the bangs,” I elaborated. “The neck, I’m sure, is unconscionable.”

It was a strange choice of words, I admit, but the look she gave me was like I had just admitted to intentionally running over a puppy on the way here, and that I would have made it sooner but I had to reverse over it to make sure it was dead.

She shrugged. “Okay. No sweat.”

She commenced with the snipping and cutting and scraping. She uses an old-fashion barber’s razor on my neck, that’s where the scraping comes in. It gets it off nice and clean.

I joked, “you do it old school, huh?”

She obliged me with a quick, almost condescending, chuckle. “Yeah.”

While she continued doing her thing I stared at the floor, at her tools on the counter, and at the calculatedly-placed rock & roll posters on the wall, anywhere but at my reflection in the mirror.

I hate watching myself get a haircut. I look captured, terrified.

Thankfully, ten minutes later I was out of the chair, my hair looking nice and cropped, handing the girl at the counter an expired coupon. After that small embarrassing impediment, I paid up and on my way out told Lisa thanks.

“See ya next time,” she hollered back, looking over her shoulder, the pink Myspace page returning to the screen.

Walking out, the blinding sun fractured my eyes and I quickly dug into my shirt pocket for my shades to protect them from the glare. It’s the first time in a long while I’ve seen the same person for a haircut twice in a row, since I used to go to Roy the barber, with my dad, in the late 80’s.

At first it was weird… I was weird, but now I realize it’s better. She knows the topography of my scalp. The wonky spots and all.

It’s a nice feeling knowing your barber knows your hair, it’s comforting.

Although I don’t know if Lisa would like being called a barber, nevertheless my hair is now hers to deal with every couple of months.

Afterwards I went to the nursery and picked up some new plants for my balcony.

I had two jasmine plants going but I killed one of them and the other is on a ventilator and doesn’t have much time left, the chaplain is hovering, oh that’s just a bee, anyway…

It’s a hot balcony, the sun is anything but subtle out there in the mornings. Putting it lightly, it’s a tough neighborhood for plants: the Oakland of orchids, Detroit of dandelions.

My wife loves lavender and it was only $8 at Armstrong’s so I scooped it up along with some cacti I needed.

There it is to the left. Pretty. Fragrant.

Doomed.

To surround the lavender and give it some contrast, I got some plants with little white flowers to cover the ground.

Their name escapes me, and frankly, never interested me.

There’s not a lot of room out on the balcony either. It’s only about two feet wide, maybe eight feet long. I wish I could say I’m hopeful they’re going to take off and flourish in their new home, but I just don’t know.

I go out there in the morning with coffee and a book sometimes. I would love to have the fresh smell of lavender accompany me.

I’ve been thinking about growing my own herbs lately too: basil, thyme, maybe cilantro.

Man, I yearn for land.

I don’t need a lot. Just a spot to drop some tomatoes. Maybe a little lawn for the sheep dog to roll around on.

While I dream for some land I wonder if that land dreams for me.

******************************

When you’re in your little room,
and you’re working on something good.
But if it’s really good,
you’re gonna need a bigger room.

And when you’re in the bigger room,
you might not know what to do.
You might have to think of, how you got started,
sitting in your little room.
——- Jack White

The Valley Was a Dusty Clod of Dirt Today

The sun is setting on another Saturday in the San Fernando Valley.

The valley was in its normal hazily embarrassing mood.

To the north the russet-colored Verdugo Mountains stood jacked up from the valley floor. Without enough moisture to support trees they stand over Burbank like a party pooper with its arms crossed, reminding us that we’re living in a desert.

Traffic was like gnats in the woods; unavoidable but still annoying.

The mansions and the palm trees and the beauty salons lie. This is ugly land.

If it wasn’t for William Mulholland it would look more like Grapes of Wrath than Less than Zero.

When Mulholland flipped the water switch that gave this valley life he famously said: “There it is. Take it.”

Looks like we took it and made a mess of it.

I did the Saturday, domesticated-husband, shopping-thing with the wife.

Target was busy, of course. All the families jammed in with their shopping carts made me claustrophobic after about twenty minutes.

We spent too much money, but much more importantly, we wasted too much time standing in the aisle wondering whether we should buy the 8 pack of toilet paper or the 12 pack, because this one is a double roll while the other one is triple ply, but this third one has a cute bear on the packaging. What’s a consumer to do?

We spent 10 minutes alone debating whether or not to buy an air filter. And if so, which one? Because one was filtered with the help of Febreeze and the other was assisted by the good folks at Arm and Hammer, both trusted brands in my household.

We couldn’t decide. So we got neither.

On a hopeful note. There are a couple of amazing concerts this year at the Hollywood Bowl. One features The Decemberist, Band of Horses, and Andrew Bird. The other is Bright Eyes. The LA Philharmonic will be supporting both of them.

That’s a choice I don’t mind making.

If you hadn’t heard yet. I love the Hollywood Bowl.

There’s nothing like picnicking before a show, drinking wine while overlooking the rush hour on the 101, pitying those fools, and then watching a world class musical act under the open stars, in a perfect natural amphitheater, with the city just below but out of sight.

When you live in an ugly land you have to have a little musical oasis to survive.

The sun is down now and the clouds are purple. Telephone lines are strung outside my window. Squirrels are running along them, performing a teetering tightrope dance. A crow picks up and flies away, leaving one last cantankerous caw in the air like an old man guffawing at the price of milk.

Maybe that was what it was doing.

Or maybe it remembered that it was Saturday night and it had somewhere to go and it was telling me, “see you later, loser.”

Fucking crows. So rude.

Am I really about to do this? In Defense of Paris Hilton

I can’t believe this is happening but I just can’t listen to it anymore.

I don’t have much respect for Paris Hilton, well, actually zero, but I have heard enough of this collective schadenfreude to last me a lifetime. The amount of venom and anger out there is truly extraordinary, specifically for it’s irrational proportion to the crime.

I’m surprised there isn’t a lynch mob outside the jail by now.

It all makes me (gulp) FEEL BAD FOR PARIS HILTON.

Let me start by stating that this is in no way a quixotic attempt at defending her character, her merits as a celebrity, or her worth to the culture at large. I’m merely observing and following my heart’s response to this savage public stoning that is occurring right now.

Seriously. I feel empathy for her.

She’s never done anything wrong to me so why should I feel joy at her suffering? Because she was in a sex tape? Because she’s daft? Because she goes to a lot of parties but still somehow doesn’t have much to say?

Uh, nope. Sorry.

I try to keep the number of people I despise to those that actually have caused damage to the world. You know, like: murderers, presidents, evil oil execs. (sorry for the redundancy)

One may argue Paris has lowered the culture, has set a materialistically shallow model to emulate; but she didn’t do any of that by herself. Her people did. The magazine editors. Paparazzi. The public that buys that shit. There are a lot of culprits involved in the dumbing down of the culture. It didn’t start, nor will it end, with her. I’m sure she didn’t even come up with “that’s hot” by herself.

So go ahead and hate Paris with every ounce of bitterly twisted loathing you’ve got. I’d rather save my outrage for where it counts.

All day at the office I heard women in other rooms yelling updates back and forth about whether Paris was going back in. When the “good” news hit, I heard one of them yell, with feverish joy: “she’s definitely going to serve the whole time now. Stupid bitch!” I wanted to walk up to her, shake her, and ask, “did Paris Hilton shoot your dog, piss on your rug, and fuck your husband? No, then what’s wrong with you? I mean, as a human being?”

Okay, I work in Hollywood so I guess I should expect that gossipy, superior attitude from co-workers, and to expect compassion from this town is my bad; but I read it all day online too.

People are actually treating this as some kind of victory for the working man. Some kind of long awaited justice.

Give me a fucking break!

She just got a glory-seeking, prick of a judge, that’s all.

Let’s look at some of the facts.

Even the sheriff said the penalty was harsh.

Baca also charged that Hilton received a more severe sentence than the usual penalty for such a crime, but said he would not try to overrule Sauer’s decision again.

“The criminal justice system should not create a football out of Ms. Hilton’s status,” the sheriff said grimly at a press conference.

Too late for that.

Forget for a second that Hilton is viewed as some sorta air-headed Hitler, does this sound right?

A member of the county counsel’s staff said Baca was willing to come to court with medical personnel. The judge did not take him up on the offer.

So the judge has a problem with the sheriff and his decision to release her because he thought she was in trouble, but didn’t bother to have him show up to discuss the issue. Sounds like a judge who is feeding off the emotion of the public to punish Paris to the max!!!

This same week Scooter Libby was sentenced to two years in prison, our vice president’s right hand man, for obstructing justice in the investigation of a CIA leak. All done under the shady service of revenge, payback to an anti-war critic.

Yet, Paris Hilton is the individual that is viewed as public enemy number one?

She’s the one everyone is attacking, denouncing, insulting?

What does that say about us?

Every time someone laughed at the picture of her crying in the cop car, or scoffed at the idea that she may be suicidal, or proclaimed how deserving she is of this punishment and mental abuse because — you better sit down for this — she was in a sex tape, or is vapid, I felt more sympathy for Paris Hilton and became less and less hopeful for the future of this country.

What a pack of wolves we have become.

Is there not someone out there willing to say: damn this girl’s life is screwed up right now, let’s chill for a second? Is there a Christian that will pray for Paris?

The worst thing (albeit it in a charmed life) she has ever experienced is happening in the middle of a wrathfully obsessed public eye. The things I’ve heard and read have made me wonder what this girl really did to people? Justice in a robe and a gavel is one thing but this public tarring seems way, way overboard.

There is a rumor that Baca was afraid she would get a staph infection that is going around the prison and it would look bad. That’s a much bigger issue:, our treatment of prisoners and the deplorable conditions they are kept in, there’s something to rally against.

If this is true then yes, Paris was treated differently than the other inmates who weren’t removed from the danger and that’s wrong. That is an important discussion worth getting into. But it’s drowned out in the pointless rancor about what a baby Paris is being, or how she deserves what she gets because she’s spoiled.

Yes, I know, she’s dumb, shallow, materialistic, promiscuous, blah, blah, blah.

But how many folks are going out tonight for a couple of drinks and then driving home, after spending all week wishing months in jail for Paris? How many men are hoping, praying that they can find a cheap one-night stand this weekend, after spending all week calling her a dumb slut? Sarah Silverman was greeted as a hero for trashing Paris to her face, a comedian who jokes about rape and whose career took off after dating Jimmy Kimmel, who, by the way, was married at the time, and was well known as a “free soul” before settling with Jimmy.

I guess it takes one slut to know another.

Paris may be scum, may be vile, but the way we’re treating her right now is not something to be proud of. Paris Hilton is a real person believe it or not. The more we treat her like a symbol of what’s wrong with America, and rage against her with hate and hypocrisy, the more we become her.

We created her, and now we’re taking pleasure in destroying her.

Who knows? Perhaps she’ll find redemption. Perhaps we will too.

Meanwhile, over in Iraq…

The World Is a Piece of Fruit, You Are a Seed. Let’s Have a Picnic.

I was going to start off with a snappy line about how not much has changed since I last posted when I looked around and realized, holy shit… it’s a whole different world now.

It’s been about a week.

Google Street View has finally put entire cities into a little box.

Scooter Libby is going to jail for a couple of years.

And the Cleveland Cavaliers are in the Finals!

Okay, so maybe the world is pretty much the same; but in a small way this week illustrates how fast technology is evolving, how the Neocons are really just a bunch of crooks, and how Lebron is fucking amazing.

The world might not have changed much for us, but ponder the man in Poland that recently woke up from a coma he had been in since communism ruled his country.

What’s amazing to Grzebski, I’m sure, is that he looks around and sees that so much in his country has gotten better, has improved over the years, yet the inner life of his fellow man seems to have suffered.

According to his wife.

“He was so amazed to see the colorful streets, the goods,” she said. “He says the world is prettier now” than it was 19 years ago, when Poland was still under communist rule.

Listen to his observations about modern life and take heed.

“What amazes me today is all these people who walk around with their mobile phones and never stop moaning. I’ve got nothing to complain about,” said Grzebski.

He must really wonder why everyone is acting so skittish. So hectic. And so beat.

I wouldn’t know what to tell him. All I can say is the world is a piece of fruit, you are a seed, let’s have a picnic.

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I went on a great hike this Sunday.

Cold Creek Preserve. Up in the Santa Monica Mountains. In Malibu.

It was a curvalicious, meandering trek down a mountain side and along a ridge, that started through shady, twiggy trees that bent overhead forming a canopy. They reminded me of a scene from Sleepy Hollow. Except for the blazing heat and all.

About a mile and a half down the road we ran across an abandoned Dodge truck from what looked like the 19th Century. It was rusted and hollowed out, filled with animals. The hike down the mountain is way too steep to drive so it really makes you wonder what the heck it was doing down here.

What’s the story behind it.

A small amble away the trail bottoms out next to a little babbling creek. The creek is fed year-round by the sandstone cliffs that absorb water in the winter and then bleed it out.

This year the creek ran dismally thin, a mere puddle or two, one measly ripple connecting them.

This is me staring at it like a dork.

Still, the hike was beautiful. Quiet. Peaceful.

We passed only one other pair of hikers. Let me repeat that.

Smack dab in the middle of 2 million people, there were only 2 other hikers on this gem of a trail!

There’s even a little waterfall. You can kinda see it here. I was standing on top of it looking down.

I bet the Westfield Fashion Center was jam packed though.

Suckers!

Only problem with the trail was once you got to the bottom you had to hike back up to the top.

No Pain No Gain, they say. Those sado-masochist.

It did give us a chance to check out the rock house some more.

A dude in the 1890’s lived there for awhile in a blasted-out boulder. Not bad digs. Right next to the creek with a view of the canyon. Supposedly he lived there in between wives.

It shows.

It could use a woman’s touch.

Hiking back up to the top also afforded us the opportunity to gaze out at the view again, take in the natural wonder of Southern California, and ponder the fact that we’re surrounded by a sea of seven million people.

Yet, up there we were all alone.

I can’t wait for next Sunday.

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Is it just me, or has Los Angeles seemed a touch more kind and intelligent since Paris Hilton has been locked up?

At least, that was the case until Victoria Beckham moved in.

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The world…
it go round, go round
Everybody know now, know now
You sell your soul…
You going down, going down
– Nanoo Nanuck 2013