Mark Lives In L.A.

OK. This is really weird.

2008-11-26T12:40:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-12T20:05:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-11-02T21:24:00.001-08:00

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.

2008-11-01T12:27:00.000-07:00

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.

This Ain't No One Night Stand

2008-10-31T08:17:00.000-07:00

Good lord.

Yesterday, Thursday, I lived in San Francisco. Today, Friday, I live in Los Angeles.

Yesterday. Quite the day.

Three strangers walked into my apartment with boxes, tape, enormous rubber bands and blankets, and began deconstructing my life.

Wrapping things in plastic, pulling drawers of clothes out and wrapping them in blankets, carting out boxes with cruel efficiency. All to an endless soundtrack of packing tape being ripped from the reel, like short sharp bursts of ammo; me in the cross-fire. And the moment I had replayed in my mind so many times so suddenly there. They were gone. The truck was gone. My life in San Francisco, was gone.

I stood in my empty apartment and couldn't help feel like I was somehow letting it down. I was leaving it, after all it had done for me. Fireplace flickering, bright light, warmth, a place to host friends and family. I found myself standing there frozen. Unable to just walk out the door. Was I forgetting something? Not possible. There was nothing in the apartment to forget except for a vacuum cleaner I had left for James, who would be taking over the place in a few short days. Still unable to leave, I started vacuuming. Odd, given the fact that I had arranged for professional carpet cleaners to arrive within 48 hours.

When I finished I looked for something else that might need doing. Perhaps a counter needed wiping or some garbage needed removal. But there was only one thing left to do. Lock the door, with me on the other side of it. And so, ridiculously, I uttered the words, "Good bye" aloud, and did just that.

I headed downstairs to my garage, telling myself that I had done a fine job of reversing my car out of that tight spot for almost five years without ever scraping the side of the car and for heaven's sake, don't blow it now. After carefully backing out, I pressed the programmable remote that was coming with me, and watched the door until it was completely, absolutely, one hundred percent closed.

As I drove away I looked back a couple of times. As if somehow, I could take a mouthful of it with me that way. Store it in my cheeks for some difficult day in Los Angeles when I might need it for comfort.

And then, quite literally, as the first drops of winter rain started to fall from a grey sky, I left beautiful San Francisco, destination Los Angeles.

The drive wasn't one I aimed to rush. I sensed a transformation was taking place and I wanted to feel each moment. I had wanted this for as long as I can remember. En route I took a call from a friend. She asked how far out I was from Los Angeles. "Two hundred and fifty miles," I replied. And then it hit me. "Wow. Finally, I can give the answer in miles instead of years."

There were a few short showers through the northern half of the drive. I stopped briefly about halfway down the 5 to top up on gas and grab a little food. Thirty minutes later, I was back in the car and heading south. I can remember the front seat passenger of not one, but two overtaking cars giving me the thumbs up as they passed me. I must have made the trip to L.A. at least twenty times and this had never happened even once. Now, twice in one drive. Perhaps they saw that my car was packed with belongings and could see I was off to a new beginning. On this particular drive everything felt symbolic. It was a welcome sign.

As I approached the Grapevine, where the hills meet the southern end of the central valley, I was awestruck as always by the beauty of it. The sun was setting to my right, and ahead of me, filling the entire horizon, the land rose up suddenly; layered shades of green-grey silhouetted hills folded into each other. And in the middle of it all, dead ahead, were streams of headlights and taillights, descending from and ascending into the giant pass that would take me to my new home.

I crossed Los Angeles City Limits at 6:44 PM. The window was rolled down. Steely Dan was playing. But instead of the cold air I would normally expect at this time of night, there was no bite. Just ventilation.

I sought out Babylon Sisters on my iPhone.

"This ain't no one night stand/It's a real occasion/Close your eyes and you'll be there/It's everything they say/The end of a perfect day"

Thirty minutes later, and having hit absolutely none of the traffic that I had been bracing myself for, I turned the engine off.

I was home. In L.A.