Often on my daily hike, I run into my neighbor walking her dog, and we talk about how I should hike to her place for cocktails some evening.  But the weeks seem to slip by so fast these days…

Finally last week we managed to get together in her darling little home for martinis and a feast of watermelon, sardines, and crackers. I’d already had an exciting day at the laundromat where I learned that one of the laundromat employees had been a world champion saw player...

...so I was pretty sure my day wasn’t gonna get any better, but I was still looking forward to FINALLY having a cocktail with my neighbor.

I show up to the party on time, which is kind of unusual for me, and which starts the evening off with a wonderfully strange vibe...

…and I’m very excited to see the giant loom in her parlor. Because where there’s a loom, there’s a story.

So I’m standing there in her living room with another cocktail party guest while my neighbor is in the kitchen making the martinis, and there’s this fantastic jazz program coming in on the radio. The music is good, and I say to my neighbor in the kitchen, “What station is this?”

KHUM,” she says. “Listen for a minute.”

And I do and it’s wonderful and when the song’s over, the DJ says, “This is Larry on KHUM’s Tuesday Cocktail Hour. It’s always been a dream of mine for people to get together and to actually have a cocktail party during the cocktail hour show.”

“What a nice thought,” I say to the other party guest.

Then the DJ says, “I like to think that out on the Mendocino Coast somewhere, folks are enjoying a lovely drink while they listen to me play some jazz.”

“What do you know?” I say. Weird, is what I'm thinking.

Then the DJ says, “Maybe at this very moment, there’s a group of people - say, in Fort Bragg - listening to the KHUM Cocktail Hour while they have martinis.”

And then I say, “HEY! We’re in Fort Bragg and we’re having martinis!!” By now, I'm beginning to feel like I've stepped into another dimension.

And then the DJ says, “In fact, I have it on good authority that somewhere out there, on some little road off of Simpson Lane in Fort Bragg, there’s a group of people listening to me play jazz while they drink martinis. It took them a while to get together, I hear, but better late than never. Have fun, folks!”


Then my neighbor walks in and hands out the martinis wearing a huge grin as I dance around and hoot with laughter.

I love small towns!

And surreal cocktail parties.

Thanks, neighbor!!


She Goes Through Phases.

She goes through phases

The time has flewn.

What took ages

Ends too soon.

I finish the pages

Under a Harvest Moon.


I Am Not That Kind Of Sparrow.

I am not a pilgrim.

Los Angeles is not my Mecca.

It is a sucking vortex.

It’s also a place where everything is about big. Big time, big tent, big screen, big break, big big big baby!!

That's a whole lot of big for such a cramped space.

I was there last week, and I stayed in the Bonaventure Hotel

Long story.

The Bonaventure is Los Angeles epitomized. It defines the LA skyline, and it’s fair to say that it’s an iconic landmark. It’s also climate controlled and hermetically sealed. A terrarium. In the middle of the lobby is a desert garden with bamboo and ferns springing up across a dry stonescape that runs around the lounge and bar and elevators.

Sparrows have made this indoor garden their home. They flit around the tourists’ suitcases and in and out of the shop doors. They eat handouts from the continental breakfast buffet, and they get their water from the dripping bar sink. They nest in the bamboo and raise chicks who will never breathe air that isn’t climate controlled.

I am not that kind of sparrow.