The Walk Home

Funny things can happen when I walk home from the shuttle
through the heart of Hillcrest, especially when the darkness
starts crawling in and filling in the lingering shadows and
the neon starts washing the sidewalks with its strange and
eerie light. This particular Wednesday was no exception.
I expected there to be something interesting coming my
way and I wasn't disappointed. At the corner of University
and 6th. Avenue, outside of City Deli a woman asked me
if I could spare some change for the bus. This wasn't an
unusual request as the avenue is loaded with sad people
in various stages of their demise, some pushing what's
left of their worldly goods around in shopping carts, others
just wandering aimlessly, if they're even able to wander. This
woman seemed somewhat together in that her clothes
seemed fresh and clean, she was walking erect and
carrying a satchel, not unlike my book bag I was carrying
but she did have a somewhat dazed look that is hard to
describe. She looked a little crazy. So, when she asked
me for change for the bus we were both waiting at the
light and I couldn't escape. It was awkward. So, I fished
a dollar bill out of my jean pocket and handed it to her.
She looked startled and said, "That's a lot of money, are
you doing OK." I wasn't sure what she meant, could I
afford that dollar, or was I crazier than she? I nodded
and told her I was doing fine. Then she asked me why
I gave her a dollar bill. "Because you need to take the
bus and this dollar bill might give you bus fare," I
replied. She gave me a funny look and said, "But what
if I'm lying about the bus." What an odd thing to say,
I thought. "Well, I guess you'll have to live with that,"
I told her. "I'm taking you at your word." And with those
parting remarks I crossed the street and continued my
walk home down University Avenue. I never looked
back to see if she even crossed the street and I don't
know if she took the bus. I only know that I wanted
to believe her.

The Fourth Reich?

Hidden in plain sight
The Reich of misplaced dreaming
Broke nazi hipsters








Heading out from Will Rogers State Park, just a sneeze away from the heart of chi chi Brentwood, off of Sunset Boulevard and a half mile up, hikers have before them a matrix of trails, crosscrossing through the Santa Monica mountains, that could keep even the most ambitious trekker busy for days. If you find the right trail that heads toward the top ridge of Topanga Canyon you can see the layout of Los Angeles bow before you; the gentle curve of coastline that sweeps from Santa Monica to the jutting jawline of Palos Verdes and the cluster of urban behemoths that comprise downtown Los Angeles. All the while the birds are singing, the squirrels are scampering, the oak trees are flexing and the hillsides are lush with the native California palette; sages, lemonberry, acacia, manzanita. Since the signage amongst the sage is
casually and sparsely placed, it’s easy to get lost. We did. Our party of five slipped and slid down recently cut rivulets into a stream fed canyon known as Rustic Canyon. There, not really hidden but clearly off the beaten path is an abandoned enclave of long lost dreams of a future Utopia for American National Socialists waiting for their Fuhrer to set them free. Yep, I’m talking Nazis, our own homegrown kind, huddled in a canopied, self-contained community to wait out World War II and pounce on the American mainstream to impose order Nazi style. While the full story behind this boondoggle is a bit sketchy the following is known: In 1933, 50 or so acres of canyon property were purchased from Will Rogers by Winona and Norman Stephens using the front name of “Murphy”. Norman was a wealthy silver miner from Colorado and his wife, Winona was the daughter of a wealthy industrialist and a bit of a kook, believing in the world of metaphysical phenomena. She became acquainted with a German, Herr Schmidt, who claiming to have supernatural powers, apparently imposed them on our gullible Winona and Svengalied her into believing that with Europe collapsing and Germany’s inevitable victory in its march toward world domination, there would be a period of anarchy across our great country. This made sense to Winona and Norman, who spent upwards of $4 million to build a small community for Nazi sympathizers to safely wait out the impending societal breakdown. Prior to running out of money, the Stephens built an impressive infrastructure: terracing hillsides for agriculture, laying out sprinkler systems for orchards, a 500-gallon water tank, power station with double generators, stables, a two-story steel-framed garage and machine shop…Before the actual living quarters were built the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, Herr Schmidt’s sorry ass was arrested and the future home and plans of the Stephens were dashed and abandoned. The 1978 Mandeville Canyon Fire destroyed the abandoned work of the Stephens and what now remains is the burnt out hulk of the machine shop, the generator station completely awash in graffiti and suffocating through overgrown vines, numerous concrete staircases that lead up to overgrown terraced hillsides and what would have been a sustainable garden, and a virtual jungle gym of rusted steel pipes, rebar, bathtubs, window frames, even an old bike hangs garroted in the miasma. The property now belongs to the Santa Monica Parks and Recreation Department which plans on razing what’s left of the compound and replacing it with a benign picnic area. But for now, this fascinating peek into a bygone era and wonderland of eye candy for photo buffs is ripe for the taking. And there’s a more direct way of finding Murphy Camp. Just head upstream from Will’s polo fields.

Why I Learned To Swim at 13

Tiny pigtails slipped quietly
Out of sight, keenly overlooked
Amongst clinks, drinks, poolside cocktails.
Late afternoon piercing the chlorinated cover
She drifted along its silver shaft
Unafraid of the bubbles, wondrous bubbles,
Baby bubbles, eyes wide, still and blue
Faint laughter poking through
Beyond the bubbles, nose bubbles, mouth bubbles
Until a boy’s appearance roiled the stillness
His arms freckled, familiar, brotherly
And she, unknowingly breathless, plucked to safety.
As they shattered the surface in sibling embrace
She cried for her mother.

Illustration is David Hockney's. He's really great!
Check out his web site here

GOOGLE SANTORUM

Aching penises

Look to the lord for relief

While scapegoating Eve.

Jacked up on self-loathing and enraptured by

religious adventurism, Rick Santorum and his

ilk i.e. Michelle Bachman, Rick Perry, Newt Gingrich,

Ron Paul, a virtual Madame Tussaut's cast of waxy,

empty-headed loons, are a shameful reminder

that our country has not only stumbled but is

grotesquely out of joint. I wrote this haiku the

last time Santorum rode his wave of bible-thumping

intolerance back in 2006 when he attempted to

hang on to his senate seat in Pennsylvania while

caught in a vortex of controversy including his

place of residence, Virginia, and the billing of

Pennsylvania for his children's online schooling,

to name just a couple. Hmmm, the lord wasn't able

to shield him from his own righteous corruption.

Gladly, he lost. However, our collective memory

seems to last a nano-second and Rick is back making

a run for the Republican nomination for President.

If I were a religious type of the christian flavor this

might be one of those, "Father, forgive them for they

know not what they do," sort of moments. However,

thankfully I'm not. There is no excuse for such patent

stupidity on the part of a large segment of blind

believers and a knuckle-head like Rick Santorum.

Oh, by the way, google the word, Santorum, for a

good laugh.