Replacement Rooster

I have not yet written that requisite post about the joys of living in Paris - the baguettes, the dusk light bouncing off the Seine, the spring tulips blooming in Jardin du Luxembourg, blah blah blât. Part of the reason that post is missing from this blog is because I secretly despise gay Paris. I mourn my lost City of Angels.

I feel my ache most acutely in the early mornings. In Paris, I am greeted at 5:30 in the morning (thank you, jetlag) by the awakening birds outside my window. Although, I am beginning to suspect that these birds are not, in fact, waking up so much as stumbling home drunk from a long night out at the bird baths and calling out to their friends across the street [translated from bird French] "Yo Larry! You see that tight mockingbitch on the esplanade? Yeah, I was like, 'Tweet.' And she was all, 'Tweet?' And then we ate worms. Hey check out my plume!" [Bird bends over and flashes his nether-feathers.]

The obnoxiously lush secret garden-cum-courtyard in my building attracts these wanton warblers. They mingle in large crowds and "sing" to each other at the slightest sign of daybreak. Though Summer readily approaches (contrary to what the weather would indicate), I can hardly avoid this sound of Spring. Coupled with the annoyingly sonorous clang of St. François Xavier church bells, which awake me during my mid-morning naps (again, apropos jetlag), this Parisian racket does not encourage sleep or affection. Most nights, I fall asleep dreaming of my former home.

Spending every night year-round with my windows flung open, as most Angelos are wont to do, I was lulled into slumber at night by that quintessential Los Angeles institution: the homeless man and his shopping cart. Rattling his iron home down the back alley my window faced, he performed his civic duty of recycling every aluminum can in every dumpster. Since the Los Angeles landscape is a panorama of apartment buildings and Diet Coke-addicts, my friend had much terrain to cover each night. Like an apocalyptic reverse-Santa Claus, he had to retrieve his treasures from all the dumpsters in the city during the dark hours when the town's children slept.

The clang of aluminum echoing off the asphalt. The sweet music of drunk men arguing next door. The soothing sound of my neighbor yelling, "I've called the cops!"
How I miss my Hollywood life.

O L.A.! I will return to you, my love. I will come back for you - right after I finish my baguette . . .