The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge

            The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge are in town. Normally, I wouldn’t give much attention to them, but for some odd reason with their arrival here in Los Angeles I began to think about their stay.

            I found myself checking the weather reports to see if the sun would shine agreeably on them. I didn’t want the weather to be too hot. Eighty-two degrees is comfortable, with a slight breeze blowing in from the ocean. Hospitable.

            It’s not like me to be concerned. It must be the Chamber of Commerce in me. My lady friend lives just a few blocks away from where the Duke and Duchess are staying. I can hear helicopters flying overhead from time to time. I couldn’t imagine being pestered with no reprieve.

            It would make me happy if they went to Malibu, to enjoy the weather, and frolic in the Pacific Ocean, to let their pallid skin see the sun.

            I happened to see a picture of the couple as they disembarked from their airplane. I must say I was disappointed with the Duke of Cambridge’s suit. The fabric looked like that of a simpleton.

At Her Best

      You’ll be happy to know that I arranged to have a copy-editor edit my blog. I’d like to apologize for the bad grammar, and the overlooked writing. I blame it on my public school education and my general disinterest in school when I was a child. The truth is, I can’t remember but one English class after the fourth grade. I know I took English, but the classes were so unremarkable they left no indelible impression on me. I remember taking a creative writing class in high school. That was big. It changed my life forever, but that's it. The copy-editor should kick in sometime next week.

      I knew I was taking a risk by posting to a blog without an editor, but I figured I’d do the best I could.

      I went out last night and ran into my friend John. We had a drink together and talked about music before going to his house to jam. We played songs we knew and songs we didn’t know, and songs we made up on the spot. It was fun. He had a real nice Taylor acoustic guitar that felt good in my hands. Guitars can make it easy on you, or they can  hold you back. It’s not much different than a relationship, but when the guitar talks, you definitely listen. You want her to talk. You’re disappointed when she doesn’t. It’s not exactly like a relationship, I suppose not even all that similar, but it can be romantic.

      I left John’s house at three in the morning. The streets were quiet. It was Los Angeles at her best.              

My Cabin Window

            It was nearly daylight, and the little vampire was running out of time. He had extracted blood from my elbow, and index finger, but he wanted more. He made the mistake of flying near my ear. The sound of his wings flapping near my head woke me up. I turned on a light and looked for the irritant. Why my blood? You don’t really need it, or do you?

            He was blending into the cedar wood walls. He was no place to be found. I’ll let the fishermen handle him, I thought. The fishermen had their webs cast and were in waiting. I gave a few spiders a pass and let them live peacefully in the higher elevations. Spiders hunt with nets and wait like fishermen. 

           I went back to bed and barricaded myself underneath my pillow and blanket. I heard the mosquito flying overhead. He was ambitious, but he couldn’t get to me. Frustrated, and short on time, he disappeared. I slept hard for hours, until I heard a blue jay squawking outside my cabin window.  

The Fifth of July

The fourth of July, and the bombs were blasting into the night here in Los Angeles. I heard firecrackers going off into morning. Just when I thought everybody was in bed, I’d hear an M-80 go off. It was past two in the morning, and somebody was out there getting their kicks. I admired them for it, they were living, and taking advantage of the once a year opportunity to light fireworks.

            The city sounded like a war zone. I climbed atop Kite Hill and watched from there. The Pasadena area was dead. I could see the fireworks from the Rose Bowl, but beyond that it was dark, and staid.

When I looked toward Los Angeles, the city was positively giddy, alive. The proletariat was going ape.

            Then the Wall Street money came into play. The borrowed money, the leveraged to the point of bankruptcy money, the Dodger stadium money. Their fireworks were sophisticated, organized, polished. The show came to an end, some twenty or thirty minutes later. The working man was still going at it. He hasn't stopped yet, and it's now the fifth of July.

Jessie Sweet

      I walked down the hill to buy some beer. I was walking back up the hill when I spotted a man hiding behind a telephone pole. It was Jessie Sweet. He started to laugh when I noticed him. He had a dog with him, a tiny hairless thing with an attitude.

      “What are you up to?” he asked. 

      “I bought some beer at the market.”

      “Can I have one?”

      “Sure.”

      I gave him a beer and he popped it open right there and then.

      “I see you still have your dog walking gig, “ I said.

      “Yeah, I walked the five of them separately today, this is the fifth, I’m exhausted.”

      He took a sip of his beer. He was wearing a pair of colorful swim trunks and an oddly matched T-shirt with white tennis shoes. He had a pair of sunglasses pulled over his prescription glasses. It was an unusual look, but it somehow worked for him. 

      “Why’d you walk them separately?”

      “So they’d have time to themselves.”

      “That’s nice of you.”

      “It’s the least I can do.”

       Jessie has a heart of gold. The last time I saw him we drove to a Mexican seafood restaurant and ordered a couple of fish burritos from the drive thru window. Somehow I ended up paying for the burritos with my credit card. I signed the slip of paper and gave the merchant copy to the young woman at the window.

       “Did you tip her?” Jessie asked.

       “No, I didn’t tip her. It’s a drive thru window, you don’t tip at a drive thru window."

       “You’re suppose to tip her.”

       “When you go to a McDonalds drive thru do you tip there?” I asked.

       “No.”

       “So why is this restaurant different?”

       “It just is.”

       “You could have told me beforehand."

       “I thought you’d figure it out.”                                                                                                                            

       "My friend didn't know he was suppose to tip you," he yelled to the girl at the window.

       “That’s okay,” the girl said.

       That pretty much sums up my relationship with Jessie. It’s friendship marred by miscommunication, but like I said, he has a heart of gold, so I put up with him in doses.