Running Through The Heat

It's hot today here in Los Angeles. This happens a lot, and those of us without air conditioning complain. Born and raised in this city, I always remember the heat as a constant. In my youth we also had terrible smog during the heat, so that breathing actually hurt your throat and lungs--every breath a new hurt. Visibility actually diminished to numbers of blocks, not miles, and the heat along with smog stayed trapped in a massive smelting pot I called home. In the parlance I've learned to love, "It was fucked-up." Wiser,or more economically confident people lived near the ocean which offered a huge improvement in the air quality and temperatures. Later, I also moved to Venice Beach and the Ocean Park community of Santa Monica, and later still, moved to Ventura, about 60 miles up the Coast. At that time (late '80's) Ventura was a sleepy beach town. Often during the Spring until mid Summer, it was foggy and cool--something to do with the heat coming down from the scorching Ojai Valley and hitting the Ocean's cool front made a wall of fog.

The fog bank was not very deep, often already exhausted only a quarter of a mile inland, but the shoreline was downright cold and gray. Think of the late scene in INTERIORS when Geraldine Page takes her last walk into the ocean. Those who drove into Ventura to sunbathe were always disappointed and complained bitterly about the town's weather. Some I knew sold their homes and moved to beach cities further South because of the gray pattern. But on days like today, when the temperature is probably over the century mark, how I fondly recall my days in Ventura and weather which begged you to sleep late on the weekends cuddled in a blanket rather than taking cold showers or standing in line at a local pharmacy to buy those small area fans. Once, I remember a heat wave in Los Angeles which prompted me to take my daughter and attend a matinee of THE BLUE LAGOON at the Cinerama Dome. Their air conditioning and the prospects of South Pacific cinematography ruled out any thought of aesthetics. We may have stayed twice, that's how hot L.A. can become. Yes, that BLUE LAGOON. Yes, twice.

Sure, I wish I lived in a 1920's Spanish house in the Hollywood Hills with plaster walls two feet thick, and icy forced air. Throw in a swimming pool, a landscaped patio with a view of the L.A. basin and the city lights. Yeah, go ahead throw in some starlets dressed in a few tattoos, and maybe a chauffeur who will drive to fetch Sushi and Henry's Tacos. However, as of today God's still asleep on the job and I still live in a hot tri-plex within audio distance of a major freeway and no air conditioning. However, I can always feel grateful that I'm not picking vegetables in Bakersfield, or running a race through the oil fields of Southern Iran, like the boys in Amir Naderi's film from the early 80's, THE RUNNER:





The sequence I referred to from Woody Allen's INTERIORS is toward the end of this montage I found on YouTube which has been remixed to P.J. Harvey's song "Rid of Me." I think it works well. The subject of Heat also brings to mind a favorite Jack Gilbert poem from his early collection, MONOLITHOS:

NEW YORK SUMMER

I'd walk her home after work
buying roses and talking of Bechsteins.
She was full of soul.
Her small room was gorged with heat
and there were no windows.
She'd take off everything
but her pants
and take the pins from her hair
throwing them on the floor
with a great noise.
Like Crete.
We wouldn't make love.
She'd get on the bed
with those nipples
and we'd lie
sweating
and talking of my best friend.
They were in love.
When I got quiet
she'd put on usually Debussy
and
leaning down to the small ribs
bite me.
Hard.

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