Topanga Creek Cleanup

An article in the local Topanga newspaper gave details of an Earth Day creek cleanup. It explained the bagging of cans, bottles, and other trash, and then they found a couch which was

Rattlesnakes

I took Isa on a hike in Topanga State Park. The weather was quite warm, so I reminded Isa to be careful of rattlesnakes. About a mile into our hike, a couple warned us that "about a quarter mile up, there's a big one right off the trail, on the left." I thanked them and we kept walking. A few minutes passed and Isa said in a small voice, "Have we gone a quarter of a mile yet?"
I said no, but it seemed prudent to begin treading carefully. Isa then pointed out that the man said "on the left." "His left or our left?" she pleaded.
I was thinking the same thing so we anxiously scanned both sides of the path. Finally, we got to a point where I said we had definitely gone a quarter mile, and we both wanted to turn around, but we pushed further.
We saw a man, wildly waving. "Want to see a big rattler?"
The self-identified amateur herpetologist pointed out the snake, coiled under a bush. The creature looked angry. "I borrowed a walking stick to move him off the trail," he said, "but he keeps coming right back on. He's hungry."
He then told Isa she could take a few steps closer.
"Isa, don't," I said.
He then told me that I should carry a walking stick, 'to better move them off the path, you know.'
I told him I probably wouldn't do such a thing, and we thanked him and took our leave. A half a mile later, I spotted a huge rattler, right on the side of a hill, stretched out like a rope on a cliff. Again, I wanted to turn around but knew our path might be blocked by the other snake.
They say Guam is infested with snakes. However; in all my years of living there, and that includes tromping around in the jungle a lot, I have seen a total of three brown tree snakes, and one of them was in the zoo. The other was in the middle of the road, and about ten feet long. After some discussion and consternation, a group of Navy men decided to run it over with their jeep.
I've had plenty of snake sightings in Topanga. Last year alone I saw several ring-necked snakes, some gopher snakes, and plenty of Western rattlesnakes. Here are some interesting informal statistics: Sixty percent of all rattlesnake bite victims were messing with the snake to some degree; and of those victims, half of them were drinking.

Intonation

This has been bothering me for a great while, and now is just endemic:
Everyone? Here? Raises every statement that they are telling you? As like, a question?

And then there's the 'thank you.' It sounds like "Hank-KYOUU!!" from every female I've come across locally. This was pointed out to me by a screenwriter whose name escapes me, I feel I need to give him credit; hankkyOOOO!!!.
He tells me this intonation has taken the country by storm, I believe him.
So like, I was like, you know? Um. HANKKYOOO!!!!

Poop!

Yesterday, as I was driving, I happily slowed down for a procession of about six horses, walking single file in an orderly line, as far to the side of the road as possible. I have never seen a line of cyclists do this. I've written here and here about my war with cyclists. But up until now, a shot has never been fired. That might be changing.

The puppy is generating a tremendous amount of poop. We don't wrap it up in store bought bags here in Topanga. We return it to the earth, like our antiquated septic systems. My way of disposing of it involves flinging it over the fence, towards Old Topanga Canyon Road. It's not a gentle slope, about a fifty foot drop, there's little margin for error. So far I have succeeded in hitting the sweet spot between the fence and the road, poop clinging precariously to cliff, but it's just a matter of time before I fling one too far. Hundreds of cyclists ride by each week. If anything ever happens, I'm going on record right now that it was an accident.

their least popular stamp

In Topanga, a typical trip to the post office consists of waiting in line, listening to this sort of exchange:



Customer: How much to send this package to Portland?

Person behind counter: When do you need it to get there?

(several minutes later, they have agreed on a class of postage that balances the need for the package to get there with the consideration of cost)

Person behind counter: Do you need any stamps?

Customer: I probably should.

Person behind counter: Would you like to see the book?

Customer: Of course!

(they laugh together)

(later, the customer has settled on something)

Person behind counter: How will you be paying?

(the customer takes out an atm card; the postal clerk seems impressed)

Person behind counter: Would you like to get cash back?

Notice how the postal clerk drives the exchange, not merely catering to the customer's whims, but even suggesting new ones. But this morning, when I went in to buy stamps, something new happened.

Me: I need stamps.

Person behind counter: Would you like to see the book?

Me: No, just give me your least popular stamp.

Person behind counter: Our least popular?

Me: Whatever you need to get rid of.

The postal clerk's actions were swift and decisive, like a vegetarian finally tearing into meat after all these years. She pulled open a drawer, reached in and pulled out a sheet from a plentiful supply. Then she said the two words every American dreads to hear. Here's what the post office says about its least popular stamp:

Calling attention to the essential obligation, shared by all eligible U.S. citizens, the USPS releases a commemorative stamp featuring 12 diverse jury members.

Voting in Topanga Canyon

My old pot dealer's wife checked me in. I said, "I'm John Levenstein, American." She started laughing, then couldn't stop laughing, and things bogged down for a while. The other woman running the polling place put a provisional ballot in the official ballot box by mistake, and then swore us all to secrecy.

Deluge

Last night, there was a tornado warning for our area. It's been raining a lot, and it will never cease to amaze me how Los Angelenos drive in the rain and flood conditions. My commute becomes quite hazardous on days like these. Part of the road I take is carved out of the side of a sheer cliff. In the rain all sorts of things can happen: mudslides, rocks falling down onto the road, trees falling off the cliffs to the road; or, in some cases below the road and taking the road with them. Maybe some of you remember the house-sized boulder that fell on the boulevard a few years ago. When Frank was here over the summer, he spied a "Save The Rock" poster, with a picture of the giant rock in the middle of the road.
"Were they serious?" he asked.
I had to think for a minute.
"I bet they were," I replied. Of course they would want to save the rock.

Zeroville by Steve Erickson

Steve Erickson is a writer who lives in Topanga Canyon and has a huge cult following. His latest book has a main character who's obsessed with film. The book itself has more interesting ideas about movies than I've read in years. Everyone has something to say about movies. Steve Erickson will happily sacrifice a character to get in one more point about movies. But it's never more weight than the narrative can sustain.

The book takes place in the seventies and eighties, weaving a credible show biz rise and fall into a recognizable landscape. There are the rewards of figuring out who's who. Some characters are obvious--Viking Man is clearly John Milius, a great choice as a guide to the scene. Others are either amalgams or more deeply disguised. The main character, Vikar--an Aspergian film editor with a scene from A Place in the Sun tattooed on his head--is the most original creation. His repeated observation, "I believe it is a very good movie," works on many levels, including that of comic catch phrase.

There is also the satisfaction of reading scenes that take place at the Los Angeles revival houses where I used to watch movies when I was growing up. My best friend Robert worked at the Nuart, so junior and senior year of high school I got to see movies there for free. The night before I left for college, we took over the theater and had a screening and a party. I wonder if that's when the contest began.

I went to Yale and Robert went to Berkeley. But we were both racing to see who could be the first to watch every movie that ever won the Oscar for Best Picture.

Long distance calls were expensive, so we'd keep each other updated with elaborate attempts at collect calls, which the other person would then politely refuse. Robert would receive a collect call from "Marty," he would know it meant I'd seen the best picture winner of 1955. Tom Jones was 1963.

Throughout the year, we pushed the limit of what we could get an operator to say.

Yes, I have a collect call from Alla Bouteve...

A collect call from Howgreenwa Smyvalley...

Collect from Fromhere Toetern Ity...

We never paid a penny for a call.

Reading Steve Erickson made me think about that for the first time in years. It made me think about movies and remember that I love them. And it made me realize I've still never seen A Place in the Sun.

Kommune Kutz for Kidz

Isa gets her hair cut at this commune down the street. Yesterday we went and an older woman with long black braids was there with Stardust, Isa's 'hair artist.' Stardust told Isa that the woman was a Chumash medicine woman. Isa excitedly told her that they had been studying the tribe in Social Studies class at school. The week before, I accompanied the class on a hike in the mountains to an old Chumash site. The teacher showed us a mortar hewn into a boulder used to grind the acorns. The ground was littered with acorns. Isa's hand shot up.
"Did they make acorn bread?"
"Well," the teacher answered, "We're not really sure exactly what they did with the acorns. There's no record really of how they lived here."
The aura of mystery about the Chumash that the teacher projected certainly didn't help Isa get the facts she needed. I have no idea why actual Chumash people were not included in her studies, but here was a tribal member, so Isa asked her, "Do you make acorn bread?"
"Absolutely," she said with a chuckle.
"The secret is in the leaching. Actually my husband does most of that."
"Does he use a mortar and pestle?"
The woman laughed. "That's too much work! He uses a blender now. That's the great thing about a blender, anyone can make acorn recipes now, even you can do it."
She promised Isa she'd give her some acorn cakes the next time her husband made them.
I bet the teacher wouldn't like the story about the blender; he prefers his Chumash naked and running in the canyons, pestles in hand.

my war with cyclists (continued)

My wife Bernie doesn't like it when I yell, honk, or otherwise engage cyclists, when our daughter Isa is in the car. The subsequent mass flipping off and indignant screams of "fuck you!" are completely predictable and, in Bernie's opinion, easily avoidable.

That's why I don't yell at cyclists when Isa is in the car...unless Bernie is out of the car. Once I followed a cyclist all the way down Topanga to the ocean, it must have been three miles. He wouldn't let me pass. He's a vehicle. When the road expanded to two lanes, I easily passed him. But then, at PCH, he illegally swerved back in front of me from the right, on a red light, to block me and make the left turn onto the highway ahead of me. "Are you a vehicle, or are you not a vehicle?!" I yelled, fed up with the hypocrisy. He casually flipped me off and rode away. "That one was a little complicated," Isa observed.

I hate cyclists

Cyclists in Topanga Canyon are very aggressive, demanding to be treated like vehicles...if vehicles rode four abreast on winding mountain roads and flipped you off for so much as toot-tooting that you'd please like to pass on a straightaway. Slower traffic is supposed to use turnouts--there are signs posted everywhere. I use them all the time to let faster cars pass me. I have never once seen a cyclist use a turnout. Please note that bicycles are not used here for transportation. This is recreational biking only. So what explains the massive chips on these idiots' shoulders?

Hot Dogs for Peace

Photo: Topanga Memorial Day Parade 2007
Every Friday a peace group stands on Topanga Canyon Blvd. with signs against the Iraq War. They've been out there for four years and counting.

Wild Food

Isa and I went to a "Wild Food Summit" down the street at a "burning man" community. We learned how to forage.