Sunset Smog

6:30 am. LA. I'm sitting on what used to be a balcony, but is now an enclosed extension of our hotel room at the Andaz Hyatt in West Hollywood. This hotel used to be known as the "Riot Hyatt," because rock n' roll bands stayed here and threw things off the balconies and tore up the place. Robert Plant once stood on one of the balconies and declared "I am a golden god!"

This is the giant billboard we can see from our 12th floor room. Notice the strategically placed fronds which hide at least two sweat socks worth of package. We noticed it immediately upon alighting from the car and the concierge told us the view is best (or worst) from the 5th floor.

Yesterday as we drove in from the airport in an SUV stuffed to the gills with luggage and family, we passed the Beverley Hills sign, and the Troubadour, and the Viper Room and the hotel where Whitney Houston recently passed away. Mythologized places which are just grass and soil and concrete but I did feel a petite frisson of excitement--not what I'd feel upon viewing the Parthenon, say, or the absolute, wordless awe I felt at the edge of the Grand Canyon or in the Painted Desert, places so achingly beautiful that you almost don't believe what you are seeing.  But all of this is a part of  the more ridiculous side of our shared history, the worship of fame and artifice, a giant entertainment industry, palm trees and sun.

The balcony window is stamped with "No one wants advice--only corroboration." It's a groovy hotel. You dig?

And my babies, my nieces, are more beautiful than anything in the natural or man made world. My heart aches with their love and sweetness. Their mom, my good friend Kai, has the most joyfully infectious laugh and a wonderful sense of the absurd, and she and my brother have created a stable foundation for my girls, even 3000 miles away.  So we could be in Coshocton or Sevastopol and I'd feel this sense of Auntie JoJo peace.


Dig.