He Doesn't Have One

My friend lives up in the hills above Pasadena.  I park my car in front of the home, where workmen are discussing something.  I nod and try to knock on my friend’s door.  He doesn’t have one.  The workmen have it.  They are conferring on how to mount the door.  I walk inside. His children are home, out in the back.  Sorry for not knocking but . . . .  They are lovely and remind me of my own.

The park's wild land seems to come straight to his door.  Yes.  We’ve had bear.  Yes.  We’ve had mountain lions.  Why just the other day we had a baby rattler.  No.  Well, yes.  We had a big fire that came close around the time we moved here.  It cleared out a lot of the underbrush so I don’t think we’ll have any for a while.   Sandwiches.  In a bench seat.  Now I know precisely who he means when he talks about his children and he's met one of mine. 

Later in the day, we’re at UCLA.  It is huge.  I was fined when I parked at LMU.  I now assume every place I park is wrong.  The machine won’t confirm my swipe and I don’t know if I’ve paid for paid for the parking place three times now or never at all.  Let’s go and be quick about it.  I feel overwhelmed by the size of this campus.  I find it hard to imagine my daughter being here.  I try to see it through her eyes. 

There is a Herb Albert concert all.  And after all my tens of thousands of hours spent listening to bop and I can’t place a Herb Albert tune.  Did he make bank with the Tijuana Brass?  Did someone do this in his name?  I grab an iced espresso at the Herb Albert Café.  I don’t think its likely but perhaps I’ll be back to visit this place regularly.

I just found some Herb Albert.  I didn’t like it.  Something from 1959 and something from 1967 and something from 1979 were all watery in different ways.  Someone please steer me to the disc where Herb let’s loose.

Tuesday 7/31/18