OK. This is really weird.

Last night and today the strangest thing happened in Los Angeles.

Water fell from the sky. Seriously! Little Droplets!

I don't quite understand. I like it though. People are referring to it as rain. Apparently it happens here once in a while. How quaint!

Still feeling incredibly chipper about the move. So far, not a single person in a Bentley has cut me off, nor have I been mistaken for a gang member in the wrong non-neutral territory. And if that wasn't already enough reason to celebrate, the fires are out, the sun spends most of it's time hanging out in my neighborhood and Sam the landlord has agreed that a rolling bamboo shade may be suspended on my landing so that I don't roast like a spitted-pig when I'm out there to catch some sun. After all, it's a jewish neighborhood and that wouldn't be kosher.

Best yet, I joined a gym where there are several people that I have judged to be less attractive than me. I can't tell you in this town just how good that feels.

Not too much other excitement to report. Looking forward to picking up a pumpkin pie at Joan's On Third for tomorrow's Thanksgiving dinner at Debbie.

This year there's lot's to give thanks for.

Los Angeles Is Burning

Yesterday, as the gardener outside the window mowed the lawn, I caught the scent of freshly cut grass as it wafting up into my office window. I remember it so clearly because it's a smell that had been all but lost to me in my years in San Francisco. One grassless block after another; homes built right up to the sidewalk. Charming in their own right, but hardly green, nor particularly leafy.

As the day wore on, the smell of grass became  all but forgotten. In it's place, there now lingers the incredibly powerful smell of smoke. It's thick enough to taste. When I first became conscious of it, I thought, if only for an innocent moment, that it must be a fireplace.

Right. Except that it was ninety two degrees earlier today. Indeed, as I write this at well past ten in the evening, it's still over seventy outside. This wasn't a romantic and cozy fireplace. It was, and is, the smoldering smell of homes, landscapes and dreams, and perhaps even life itself going up in smoke.

On Thursday, Montecito, which is not only one of my favorite places on earth, but also home to a number of family members, burned through the night. Modest houses and mighty mansions alike, some that had stood for the better part of a century, were brought down to the same fiery playing field by indiscriminate wind-tossed embers.

Thankfully, my cousins are all safe and their properties managed to narrowly escape the brunt of the fire. But now, with the worst hopefully over for them, I can smell the northern fringe of Los Angeles, the very city I live in, burning. I'm far from the fire itself. I'm safe. But being so new to this city, I must say, it makes for a rather dramatic introduction.

It so happens I wrote a couple of songs some time ago that feel appropriate right about now. The first, Chimp In Space, was about getting a sense of our proper place in the natural order. The other, Today The Water Came, was about how disaster can bring about new and perhaps better beginnings.

Let's hope that for those that have recently lost so much, such a beginning lies ahead.

June. In November.

We had a little rain overnight. At one point, with the temperature at only 70 degrees, Debbie-the-wonder-host and I took Brillo out for his walk. Thankfully Debbie had her sweater on. You know. So she wouldn't perish in the cold.

Having defied the odds by narrowly surviving such frigid conditions, we headed to what will undoubtedly become a regular haunt of mine -- Jan's Coffeeshop, an American classic; booths with pea green studded upholstery, blue haired ladies with drawn on eyebrows, a long counter with perhaps ten or more swivel seats and bottomless cups of muddy coffee.

At the risk of sounding a little uncouth saying this, I still find myself feeling more at home reading a menu with items like Turkey sausage patties, Greak Salad, 3 eggs (your way) and home fries then I do with one boasting Caramelized Belgian Endive, 
Curried "Brunoise" of Banana, Micro-Cilantro 
and "Gastrique de Vinaigre de Clos Chatart". 

I didn't even know a Banana had a Brunoise and I've eaten a million of them. I know it's all supposed to sound mouth watering but honestly, to me, it does have the rather read like a who's who of harmful bacteria. Not to mention about three bucks a word. I know. I'm a peasant.

Good to know I have Jan's nearby. Real food served by fantastically flawed, real people.

Having downed our food and swilled our  coffee, Debbie and I got in the car and ran a few errands. Most important of these was picking up a new pair of Onion Goggles.

I turned on the car's air-conditioner. On November 2nd. 'Nuff said.

Meet Sam.

Today I took possession of my new place. Although I won't actually move in until my belongings arrive on Tuesday, I had arranged for the cable guy to hook me up.

Sam, the landlord, was waiting with the keys. He's an older Jewish man who looks and sounds rather like Mel Brooks when he plays, well, an older Jewish man.

He's the kind of guy that wants to trust you. You can see it. But he needs time. He's got that genetic condition that seems to impact almost all Jews, including me. It's the DNA ingrained expectation that given any situation, the worst possible outcome is also the most likely. And so, until he knows  he can trust me, he'll remain a little stand-offish. Warm, but arm's length warm. And yet, glimpses of the softer, kinder man are always there near the surface. "Just don't do anytink vit the cables on da outsite of da buildink until you check vit me foist ok?...And drive carefully!"

With the cable installed I lingered a little. So this is it, I thought. The beginning. Of something. I just don't quite know what that something is.