I am perched on a rock high above Runyon Canyon in
Hollywood. It is 4 o’clock on a gorgeous afternoon, a day
spent locked in the valley once again. The breeze rolls the
smog further and further inland, until the only thing covered
with a brown haze is non-coastal Orange County, presumably
no great loss.

The view right now is the view that got the best of me when
I first fell in love with the city. I, right now, can see as far as
the ocean, San Gorgonio, Burbank and the San Gabriels,
Santa Clarita, the western range that leads to Simi Valley, and
of course, everything from East L.A. to Santa Monica.

I’m not sure why, but I threw out plans for a big day in the
mountains, instead retracing steps and forging new trails, from
La Canada to Calabasas, where I spend the better part of an
afternoon shopping. I make phone calls home, and I’m sorry
I do, so completely unnecessary – which reminds me of how
much I am enjoying doing virtually nothing out here, but driving.

I can say without a doubt, that I have exhausted my options in
the Valley, so now it’s Mulholland, heading west. We’ll see
what we find.

--

The remainder of the day consists of covering more new territory,
In N’ Out Burgers and a near crash in Manhattan Beach.

It was my fault – I ran a yellow light across an eight lane road.
Figures. I cross myself, and soothe wrecked nerves with a
superstar burger at Carl’s Jr, followed by a ride down the 405.
By the time I’m half way home, I’m not seeing straight.

There’s nothing like a little Christian radio on the long drive home.

"Mister Whitaker, why do I feel so funny," queries little Bobby
of the aged gentleman neighbor who has climbed into little Bobby’s
treehouse for a candid discussion of the facts of life.

"Well, little Bobby, God gave us all a little something called a
pituitary gland."

"But I don’t want to be an adolescent," implores little Bobby.

"Well, young man, it’s all part of God’s plan for us," explains
Mr. Whitaker, who may or may not invite little Johnny, off the
air, to learn all about the bad touch. One never knows, when the
neighbor considers one of his tasks to inform the little boy
next door on the facts of life.

"You can always talk to me or your Dad about the feelings
you’re having, son," he says.

Call me crazy, but is a molestation waiting to happen or what –
will kids hearing this be able to discriminate as to which
neighbor gets to come up to the treehouse for a little
mano-a-mano discussion time?

"The Southland’s most powerful voice," signing off. I’m tuned
into a major Los Angeles "family" radio station.