Planet Smog

Just back from a quick business visit to L.A., my hometown, scene of many childhood victories and disasters, Planet Smog. I am of two minds on SoCal in general and L.A. in particular. On one hand, as I drive down the freeways I notice that the place is all buildings and roads and the occasional sad tree or bush; compared to my present home in Humboldt, L.A. seems gray and garish and crowded and dirty.

On the other hand, it's where I come from, so I have a comfort level in L.A. that I don't seem to feel anywhere else, even a green paradise like Humboldt. It repels and attracts me at the same time. I love the place like a brother--and, like a brother, I seem to constantly get into disputes with it and leave for long periods of time.

The nature of the business is, of course, confidential, but I was at least able to see a few friends. My old friend Leslie and her daughter Helena had lunch with me and I entertained the child as only I am able to do. I'm not sure why, but kids and cats love me dearly. I guess with the kids they see that I am harmless and like to be playful and make funny faces (including the one I usually wear to the rest of the world). I think, too, that I take kids as they are--I don't try to mold them or instruct them or control them. I let them be kids and I let the kid in me be a kid with them. Anyway, I'm very popular with the under-5 set.

Cats? Who can say with cats? All I know is that when I am in the same room with one, no matter who else is in the room, the cat will come to me first, rub my legs, meow to be petted. I suppose I should try to cash in on this--become a cat whisperer or something--but really, I can't see spending my life devoted to cats. Especially since I'm allergid to cat hair dander.

But I digress. L.A. Planet Smog. The Big Tamale. Taco? Avocado? I dunno. NY is the Big Apple, mostly because musicians call gigs "apples" and if you got a gig in NY you were playing the biggest apple of them all. I suppose L.A. would be the Big Orange, except Orange County is right next door and if you told a musician he was playing the Big Orange he would get hopelessly lost and end up at the Block in Orange, a rather large shopping mall which is a monument to our insatiable need to buy unnecessary things.

I was only there for a day or so but I was able to drop in on a poetry reading with some very boring poets, including one who had received his MFA. The MFA boy (he looked 23, was probably 30) read poems about how lonely he was and why all these girlfriends had dumped him. Poor me, boo hoo, except my friend whispered in my ear that he probably used this act to pick up women at the readings, as he was a very good looking young man. The other poet was an old guy from Oregon who once played tenor sax with Chet Baker and Woody Herman--except none of his poems were about jazz or music or even anything interesting. They were mostly polemics about the way he thought the world should be.

We should have known better because he began his set with a long and rather confusing dissertation on his theory of poetry, how the consonants and the vowells had to agree and more stuff that, frankly, I didn't pay much attention to. My theory of poetry is that if you have to think about vowells and consonants while you're writing, you're probably not so much a poet as a crossword puzzle master.

Anyway, I flew out Saturday morning, getting on the plane with moments to spare. I always seem to be red lining it in the city of angels. I suppose I've become immersed in the Humboldt way, where one is rarely late because there's no traffic, no crowds, and damned few clocks.

It was nice to come back to the 'Boldt but, contrary as I am, I'm already missing L.A. Go figure.