…the warehouse party let out. 

This is how I do my Henry Miller.

The country, ablaze and abloom in her, makes its home, quite comfortably and with a constant fertility, in the city of my youth and now her well received constant sunshine.

Mt. Baldy in this case. Here’s the masterful view from the top of our Paradise hill. Love LA in the rain, and in those waning hours of a winter’s day that has rained and hailed earlier, then blown out to fantastically, unrealistically clean. What a town.

Here are a couple of the several ways to make your just-my-old-city exotic again.

….while driving. This D-Lux 4 is proving to be a hip-worn gem.

Some of the less benign aspects of our marvelous Indian Summer….

The smoke stank in our house at midnight. The next day people all over the city awoke with burning eyes and the ennuie of ill portent and strange colored skies mixed with the hangover of toxic sky breathing sat down on your chest.

There’s a renaissance on Hollywood Blvd. right now, thought the trickle towards Vine is probably slower than some developers wish. For me, present student of three new theories of the Big Bang, it’s comforting to know that Time’s Arrow, and the inevitable urge toward entropy, and a morality built from the shoes of an animate object that can conceive of his own animated nature as the generous product of the Universe’s Tendency Toward Complexity, for me it’s comforting to know that some things never change, they just moulder and become ever more handsome in their decay and reference to past eras that I can remember – yes! even roller skating these polished sidewalks in youth with lime wheels and silver spandex coverings for my nine-year-old’s brand new skates – and all the shine that has always comes off that street when it’s washed clean and look!….narry an abrasion to the stars or flecked black cement. It’s only the cronies that age, and this smut parlor is aging very well, by Bombay standards. And what better appraisal could you hope to hold old glory, this Boulevard, up to?