Tag Archives: Los Angeles


Yesterday my life was filled with rain.

I haven’t blogged here lately, because it just seems like sheer gloating. Sorry.

The holiday report from Los Angeles : 73 frikkin degrees, and brilliantly sunny. Breezy. Freezing last night, rain expected by Friday.  There is meteorological variety, diversity and complexity here, versus 40 degrees, black skies, screeching, Valkyrie-flattening winds and sleet 365/24-7. The sun on my face at breakfast this morning, at an outdoor table at Paty’s Coffeeshop, was shamanic healing, with hot buttered sourdough toast.  I am still thawing from 2.5 years in northern frigid stupefaction.


The street I live on is lined with what may be Chinese maples. The neighborhood is old, and the trees must be nearing the century-mark. It is as vivid as anything in the Finger Lakes or other leaf-peeper meccas, but without the annoying woodchuck accents. All over the city there are apparently deciduous trees offering up a spectrum of dark gold, deep muscadine to olive to amber, to copper and persimmon and maraschino-red. More than just palm trees.

And can I just say, breakfast out? Just like that?

Standard diner fare, served steamin’ on the table in moments, full sun, cuppa joe, blue skies over Burbank? Then I dropped off my vintage,  cream-colored cashmere coat at the (shiver and sigh of gratitude and bliss) DRY CLEANER’S on the corner. It’ll be ready at 5 pm tomorrow (not two weeks from now, via decrepit stoner-granny van). I’ll need it for the next chill.


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What is so rare as a day in June?

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways:

…and let me add to this chanson d’amour of rhetorical questions: how could anyone miss the appeal of living in Los Angeles? I just shot this photo from my driveway. By the way, in one either direction, in the adjacent backyards, I see my neighbor’s orange trees. This is because this is an old section of Burbank. Off in the near distance are the Verdugo foothills, often immortalized in Arts and Crafts pottery, “California” pottery, etc. of the 1930s-1940s.  I will test this theory during the dog-days to come, but it seems that perhaps the placement of this house and street relative to the foothills yields constant, cooling breeze– unlike other parts of the San Fernando, i.e. Reseda-Tarzana, in which I have lived in past lives.

Back to the photo. These are two white, 100% cotton blouses, fresh from the washing machine. I bought them today at the American Way Thrift, which is down the street from la casita. One dollar each. Pristine. Spotless. Immaculate. Perfect. With apologies to my pal, Harmony Susalla, advocate-goddess for organic cotton, they give me joy.

I love white cotton shirts. Putting on a clean cotton shirt, especially a white one, gives me hope, even when I have little empirical cause.

And they’re drying in the sunshine. In fact, they’re almost dry.

All of the above would have been impossible in my former life in that dark, cold, raw, howling northerly place where the sun don’t shine — yes, I get the joke.

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