An Atheist.


An atheist who gives his money to the poor is closer to God than a religious man who does not.

An atheist doesn’t justify his actions in God’s name.

An atheist doesn’t need to run for political office shouting out how “devout” he is.

An atheist won’t blow himself up on a bus to kill unbelievers.

An atheist doesn’t talk about “family values” in terms of magical belief systems.

An atheist might work to establish justice in his own lifetime, because he knows it’s his only life.

An atheist believes in protecting the environment because it’s heaven on Earth.

An atheist doesn’t need to practice tolerance for other religions, because to him all humans are divine.

An atheist knows that Man created God in his image and he mostly understands the psychology behind it, even if he doesn’t accept it.

The Light and Dark Family.


In our extended family, we generally have the dark side of things relatives and the light side of things relatives.

The light side is blonder and some of them have green or blue eyes. When you ask them how things are going, they always say, “Oh, everything is great!” They refuse to tell you when they are going into the hospital for surgery. You only find out weeks later when they have recovered and are walking around.

The dark side always is looking for something to be wrong, if not with them, then with you. “You should really be on anti-depressants,” my cousin of no medical training says.

They are constantly irritated with one another, and if they aren’t cheering for their sister to fail in business, they are pointing out how weird her kids are. They often call up with stories about how infuriating my elderly Aunt is. They make jokes out of their ailing step-father in the nursing home.

The light side sticks together even when they hate each other. One fat cousin of mine, a hausfrau from the Land of Lincoln, is hated by some for her arrogance and narrow mindedness. Yet she celebrated New Years together in Palm Springs along with four generations of family. They make lots of money in a very boring but profitable business that has been around since the Second World War. Their money is generously spent on each other. Like my Chicago cousin who rented an apartment in Rome for 10 days and invited a dozen people to come there for vacation. I’m sure nobody fought or argued in the Eternal City.

The dark side also has some wealth, but they don’t seem to enjoy it very much. They have mental illnesses and physical disabilities that come and go and infringe on what should be a gloriously lush existence of vacations, restaurants and theater going. If they are do lay on a beach, you will hear how they were bitten by stingray or twisted their ankle in the sand.

The light side has marriages that have lasted over 65 years. They fought and survived on Iwo Jima, and then they had grandkids at 50, and great-grandkids at 75. They lived to coach Little League and still laugh and make love only 15 years shy of 100.

The dark side cracked up in their 20’s, and smoked pot, and had divorce and disintegration, and a generally pessimistic view of life. They endure, but never laugh with the bitter taste of tears. The dark ones came to Hollywood in search of some grand punctuation mark in a life full of dashes and commas and run on sentences.

The light ones live in the far West corner of the San Fernando Valley, and love The Olive Garden and walking around Topangaa Plaza for exercise. They have a backyard of astroturf where the two German Shepards play and drop big brown shits around the plastic covered swimming pool. They regularly vacation in a Vegas timeshare and gamble and smoke and never get sick.

To tell you the truth, I’m a combination of both sides.

Bergamot Station: Dark Mood in a Sunny Place.


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I am temporarily (as usual) working in a new neighborhood of LA. This time, it’s near Olympic and 26th in east Santa Monica.

MTV. Pimp My Ride.

I went out to lunch at Bergamot Station, that corrugated steel collection of art galleries and exhibition spaces built on land that probably was once industrial. As always, the weather is glorious around here. You step outside into windy sunshine, with jasmine and ocean scented breezes. Young workers out for lunch, in their untucked shirts and droopy jeans, fall into Bergamot.

They have a cafe there, at the very end of the little street, serving healthy stuff like avocado and turkey on multi grain bread with lentil or pea soup on the side and a vinaigrette dressing on the dainty greens. Apple juice comes with our without bubbles, green tea is iced or hot, and I suppose that even the grape sodas come from free range grapes.

I saw some framed black and white photos, and a handsome, lean, Brilliantine Latino UPS driver delivering boxes, and a fat man in a convertible Mercedes, along my walk.

Then I spotted something from a long time ago that once hung near the Dan Ryan Expressway in Chicago: A giant neon sign of red lips that read, “Magikist”. Chicago was once full of such signs, the vulgarity of the Windy City in the mid-20th Century, now seen as some magical epoch of innocent pride and civic culture.

As a boy, I would ride in the back of my parent’s 1966 Blue Pontiac Catalina Coupe,taking it all in. My mind absorbed all signs in those days, unlike today when I cannot even remember what street is one block north of mine in Van Nuys.

These are dark days for me. I have no plans for the future. Only a vague sense that I have to survive because other people want me to. In the sunny breezes of Bergamot, I saw interpretations and creations of art that made me want to rethink how I think and feel.

Dad near the garage.



Dad near the garage.
Originally uploaded by hereinvannuys.

My father in a reflective moment near his garage in Woodcliff Lake, NJ.

Maple leaves turning in Park Ridge.


Once you leave the East Coast and start a life on the West Coast, you are supposed to repress all memories that you had about autumn. Spring is always present in Los Angeles, as is summer and the winter of rain.

But fall with the glorious colors, the bite in the air, the vivid blue against the orange, red, rust and gold….we don’t have that in Southern California.

A family emergency brought me back to Woodcliff Lake, NJ and despite the sad nature of the visit, I have been experiencing a glorious fall. I arrived just as the leaves were changing.

I wish I could say that I will try to forget fall as I return to Los Angeles to resume some dismal task that will be enacted in the pea soup of smog and 90 degree temperatures. I will try and forget these few weeks in October and how good the air smelled and how lovely the woods looked.

Go west young man and return east older and sadder.

Scent of a House.



The NY Times writes today about the explosion of the home fragrance market, the air fresheners, candles, sprays, rocks, sticks and even Elton John branded smells that consumers are crazy for.

Marcel Proust wrote:

“But, when nothing subsists from a distant past, after the death of others, after the destruction of objects, only the senses of smell and taste, weaker but more enduring, more intangible, more persistent, more faithful, continue for a long time, like souls, to remember, to wait, to hope, on the ruins of all the rest, to bring without flinching, on their nearly impalpable droplet, the immense edifice of memory.”

What smells good to me? Ivory soap, Tide Detergent, Downy fabric softener, Safeguard, Murphy’s Oil Soap and Pine Sol. If a house is dirty, sprinkling artificial vanilla into the carpeting and lighting $2.49 Glade lemon candles won’t clean it up.

But there are the glorious memories of smells that stick with me: Evelyn Marx’s Guerlain perfuming her Lincolnwood ranch house; the first bottle of English Leather I purchased for $6.00 that I wore the night I lost my virginity; the freshly laundered shirts from the Chinese owned dry cleaner on Touhy in Chicago; the old bar of Cashmere Bouquet soap that sat in Bubby’s bathtub for years; the cold January air that blew across Lake Michigan and over Aunt Millie’s house in Glencoe; and the first May night I spent in the new house in Woodcliff Lake, NJ surrounded by enormous trees and singing crickets.