Happy Easter 2.0

We've starting spring off with a heat wave here. I'm cutting my blog short this week because I've spent entirely too much time trying to create an audioblog via Gabcast. My family and I went to a lovely Easter service at Covenant Presbyterian Church. Pastors Rob and Adele Langworthy spread the good word with their usual enthusiastic style and the flower laden 8-foot cross was unusually beautiful this year.


Gabcast! Beachify #2

Water, Water Everywhere, As Long as It's Monday, Thursday or Saturday

Just a short blog this week to remind you that Long Beach is serious about its water restrictions. Check it out! They’ve even got a “Report a Water Waster” form on their website.

I got so scared I wrote the word water on my calendar on all the legal watering days from now through December, which put a serious dent in my blogging time. Writing water over and over like that I was suddenly guilt-stricken by the awareness that I was also washing clothes washing dishes and planning a long soak in the tub. I did not feel guilty about my 8-ounce glass of water though. I am proud, proud, proud of my water drinking habit.

Anyway, some of the key points to remember besides the designated watering days is that you should water before 9 AM or after 4 PM are:

• Use a special pressurized cleaning device to clean sidewalks and patios



• Use sprinklers from 10 to 15 minutes.



• Be sure your sprinklers operate efficiently and don't overflow into the street.



• If you use a hose to wash your car, attach a water shut-off nozzle.

These are all fairly easy and common sense practices, and here’s the Long Beach City Ordinance if you’re a detail freak. Remember, the water you save may be your own.

Pow Wow . . . And How

I had a chance to visit the 38th Annual Pow Wow held on the central quad of the CSULB this weekend. The weather was perfect for spectators, maybe a little on the warm side for the feather dancers. If you didn’t make it this year, mark your calendars for 2009. Parking and admission is free and there’s enough food and Native American arts and crafts booths to fill up a pleasant afternoon. The dancing and the drums are the real attractions though. So bring a chair, and enjoy five hours of delightful music, costumes and traditional tribal dances. I find it so inspiring to see the generations dancing together.

There’s a few ground rules at Pow Wows. First, the dancers have specially designated areas where they can stand or sit. Keep away. Also, be aware of little people behind you and don’t block their sight lines. The native people I’ve met there are very easy going and rarely speak out if you’re in their way. Most importantly, ask before you take people’s pictures. Some people don’t like it because it goes against their spiritual traditions. Other people expect a gratuity for the picture.

Wouldn’t you know it? I forgot my camera, but if you’re in the mood, Pow Wows and the Gathering of Nations both have great photos.

And now for all you poetry lovers out there:

POW WOW

Come share the living power of your art.
Give breath to earth and shape the wind to make
The rhythms that you dance to in your heart.

A blood red cry of anguish can impart
The birth of war or death of love’s last ache.
Come share the living power of your art.

Now feel the pulsing drum. Become a part
Of all that’s ever lived. You can’t forsake
The rhythms that you dance to in your heart.

Bright patterned weaves of chanting voices thwart
The lonely howl a single soul can make.
Come share the living power of your art.

The eagle soars. Coyote laughs. The smart
Old storyteller’s words somehow partake
In rhythms that you dance to in your heart.

Come sing, come dance, for mother earth’s sweet sake.
The giver of all life’s own life’s at stake.
Come share the living power of your art,
The rhythms that you dance to in your heart.

Latest on Seadip: The city has produced a video with a brief recap of the history of development in Southeastern Long Beach and some good color-coded maps. Watch it on YouTube. Then you can complete the survey at the city’s SEADIP webpage.

Let’s get the DIP out of SEADIP!

Much to my surprise and delight, I recently found an appeal for action from a neighbor among the reams of flyers for tree trimmers, maid services and pizza delivery bargains that litter my doorstep regularly. Kerrie Aley dropped off a copy of the survey the Long Beach Planning Department has issued about development in southeast Long Beach along with a heartfelt letter. “Your input is critical,” she writes. “Please mail back the survey to the City by March 31, 2008." My husband dug into the survey with energy I rarely see in him after a long day of work, including a few of his own spontaneous recommendations to the City.

You can rant or vent or just check off a few boxes by downloading the survey and mailing it to the Planning Department by March 31, 2008. While you’re there you can sign up for email for updates on Planning Department decisions on the area involved, roughly bounded by 7th Street, Marine Stadium, and the Orange County border.

Most people know about the controversy about building a Home Depot at Loynes and Studebaker on the edge of a large tract of undeveloped land. The city has had its eye on the area for years under the aegis of SEADIP (Southeast Area Development and Improvement Plan). After embroiling downtown and northeast Long Beach in various sweetheart deals with large retail outfits that start big and slowly collapse under the weight of their own ambitions, the city appears ready to pave over another quarter of the city. This would be objectionable enough given the track record of past failures, but the area involved here is one of the last viable wetlands in Southern California. My son Tony took the photo above that shows the mix of industry and nature that now exists.

The good news is that a Superior Court judge invalidated the City’s environmental impact report for the Home Depot Center which will delay that project. More information on the decision can be found at the Los Cerritos Wetlands Land Trust website, which includes lots of background information and a cool video.The bad news is that plans for another mixed use condo/retail/ restaurant complex is underway and recommendations from the SEADIP Task Force that may relax requirements for traffic studies in future development.

The report issued by the Los Cerritos Wetlands Study Group in 2005 has some juicy tidbits about the perilous condition of the area. The wetlands once covered 1,500 acres stretching from Cal State Long Beach south and encompassing all of Belmont Shore (that’s one expensive swamp!). Over the years, many toxic substances, some of them carcinogens, have been dumped there and no estimate has ever been made about how much a clean-up would cost.

Jurisdiction over the area is shared by the cities of Long Beach and Seal Beach as well as Los Angeles County, and none of them have stepped up to the plate to enforce any standards. Happily, the natural cycles of the ecosystem can break down many of the toxic elements if monitored and maintained.

Anyone who’s enjoyed the roller coaster effect while driving on Loynes won’t be surprised that the Study Group believed that subsidence was affecting both Loynes and the south part of Studebaker. It recommended that commercial trucks be prohibited. California’s Environmental website CERES has some interesting historical maps and a valuable factsheet about the wetlands.

Three years ago, the Los Cerritos Wetlands Study Group concluded that “one thing is patently clear. . . the taxpaying citizens of District 3 have a strong desire to preserve and restore the Los Cerritos Wetlands." With coordinated effort, we can build on the success of Bolsa Chica wetlands and Colorado Lagoon and restore this rare natural resource into another source of Long Beach pride.

Doughnut Dreams

Only a few minutes to spare this week, so I’m sitting down with a cup of coffee and my favorite pastry to share some memories about the big doughnut on 7th Street and PCH I mention in last week’s post. I remember when it still had the Angel Food Donuts painted on it like the picture in the Peopletron blog. One of the posts there mentioned that the full name of the store was Mrs. Chapman’s Angel Food Donuts and that there were once seventeen of them. The chain began even before Randy’s Donuts as a drive up donut shop. Another post points out it’s now more of a coffee place than a donut shop

I remember taking my boys there in the 90s as a special treat after school. They both went to Lowell Elementary back then, about a half mile away. The lady who ran the shop at the time was Cambodian and always remembered us even though we only came in every other month or so. She would ask the boys about their grades and let them twirl around and the revolving stools. She would laugh when the boys called her Mrs. Chapman.

There were always three old guys who’d show up about the same time we would. The doughnut lady would set up their places with their favorite kind of doughnut even before they got through the door. It was a bit of small town hospitality that always lifted my spirits.

Of course, Cambodians have run most of the donut shops in Southern California since before I moved here in 1982. Metroblogging claims that 95% of the shops are run by Cambodians and that Cambodians don’t even like donuts. Now that’s just sad. The New York Times has a good article on the history of Cambodian donut shops and there’s a fascinating documentary called Cambodian Doughnut Dreams too. Since Long Beach has one of the largest Cambodian populations outside their native country, does that mean we have the best donut shops? Not to mention, we were one of the first cities in the area to get a Krispy Kreme shop.

When I was growing up in Virginia, my dad worked nights and he would come home at eight in the morning with fresh cooked Krispy Kremes. It almost made waking up to go to school worthwhile. It’s crazy to think that I never connected his bringing home a dozen of those sugary delights home in a box with my taking my boys to Mrs. Chapman’s. Well, my sugary treat is finished and I've learned a little about setting up links. See you next week!

10,000 Small Steps for Mankind, Part 4

• THOUGHTS AND AFTERTHOUGHTS
  
  When I sat down three weeks ago to write about walking to work, I thought I’d eke out a short blog. Now I’m on my fourth week and I still have so much to say.
  
  A major omission from last week was the bus stop at 7th and Bellflower that I pass every day just before I enter the grounds of the Veterans Administration Medical Center. It’s a major hub of bus systems from Long Beach and Orange County and a Passport shuttle bus stop too, so a broad mix of society can be found waiting for the bus any hour of the day. Disabled veterans in their souped-up wheelchairs, drowsy-looking hospital staff still in their scrubs, and intense looking students (most with iPod buds stuffed in their ears) all rub elbows here.
  
  The people don’t do much talking, but the bus does. The GPS systems are programmed now to announce the stop as the bus doors open, which can be a little disconcerting. The voice is authoritative and female and ever so slightly bored. Regularly, I get to take part in the group relay of yelling at a bus to get it to wait for a straggler. On cold winter mornings, the warm air from the buses’ vents is a welcome boost the body temperature.
  
  There’s usually an abandoned grocery cart or two hanging around, but generally the bus stop is well maintained. The benches, made of gleaming white metal tubing, snake around the sidewalk at odd angles. The awnings look like white sails in a strong wind, suspended tautly above the waiting crowd. Mass transit has always been a positive aspect of American cities to me. Getting a bunch of people to all move in the same direction in this day and age should be applauded, and the price is right too. It just seems so much more civilized than the bleats and beeps and other zoo noises I have to contend with in the snarl of traffic seething on 7th and Bellflower and PCH.
  
  Here are a few other random sights and encounters during my walks to work:
  
  ~A bag of oranges left at the edge of a lawn with this note attached – EAT ME!
  
  ~Discovering there’s a distinct pattern of which types of cars yield right of way to pedestrians and which don’t. Be very afraid, I know who you inconsiderate jerks are!
  
  ~A new type of urban art – stenciling. It’s kind of like graffiti, but more succinct. There’s a stencil of a guy with a cigarette in his mouth that shows up all over campus. My favorite says “You are beautiful.”
  
  ~The big doughnut on 7th! Long Beach’s contribution to 1950s gigantic ornamental architecture, it’s about 15 feet in diameter and currently painted with pink frosting.
  
  ~Sparkling beads of water miraculously suspended on the paper-thin petals of a tangerine-colored poppy.
  
  ~A glimpse of “The Beach” painted on the 10 story water tower overlooking the campus. Whoever the genius was who came up with calling CSULB “The Beach” deserves a major promotion. I think the new name has changed the sleepy commuter college into an energetic and innovative place to study.
  
  ~Weekly rituals of the neighborhood – the gi-normous trash bins huddled together like gossiping neighbors on trash day and the mad rush to move cars to the other side of the street on street sweeping day. The only time it’s okay to be seen in your jammies.
  
  ~Odd assortments of litter – a swizzle stick in the middle of the crosswalk on PCH, a paper clip attached neatly to a crumpled hamburger wrapper, and clumps of cigarette butts in the most unexpected places.
  
  ~Yelling directions across three lanes of traffic to a frantic driver who was late for a standardized test being held at CSULB
  
  ~Mysterious unmarked metal boxes planted in the sidewalk here and there that my engineer brother calls “street furniture.” They regulate something, but I’m not sure what. And then there’s the fantastic twisted mass of pipes and valves and junctures that emerges from the ground every now and then from all the underground gas piping system that average Joes like you and me never give much thought. And talking about unfathomables, what are all those weird lines and squiggles spray painted on the streets and sidewalks.
  
  I have a feeling I may return to this topic before long. It’s such a great opportunity to take some time to think, some time to breathe. Give it a try. Park your car about a mile or so from where you work and walk the rest of the way there. Rather than driving 50 miles up to the mountains for a hike in nature, save some time and some gas and discover the great outdoors that lies right outside your front door.
  
  

Groves of Academe

The last part of my trek is more than worth its weight in shoe leather. I have the god fortune to walk in the quiet grounds of the Veterans Administration Medical Center. The broad straight cement walkway runs along a row of stately old magnolia trees on a lawn about fifteen feet wide, separating the vast and jam-packed hospital employee parking lot from the vast and congested Seventh Street. Through some quirk of landscape design, this mini-park is elevated about six or seven feet above the traffic. With my head not nearly in the clouds but my feet not exactly on the ground, I savor a few minutes of serenity before I punch the clock for work.

Cars to the left and buses to the right, but this swath of green seems like a walk in the country. The only people who use it are students and staff walking to the campus of California State Long Beach, which is to say next to nobody. Okay, there are a few miscreant bicyclists and skateboarders whizzing by in spite of several government issue warning signs and a vigilant security guard who enjoys nothing better than giving students a hard time.

Walking just above the roofs of the cars, especially if they’re jammed up at a red light and I’m passing them, creates an oddly euphoric sensation. Seriously, I think they should think about designing bi-level pedestrian walkways. The bikes can use the lower level and pedestrians above. It won’t eliminate the noise and fumes, but it would definitely discourage jaywalking. LOL

After two blocks of serenity, I squeeze through a perilously narrow opening n the cinderblock barrier between the hospital grounds and the university campus. The sidewalk takes a sharp turn and wobbles above the level of the street, contorted by several old eucalyptus trees that have forced the slabs of concrete out of alignment. A rusty guard rail seems as forgotten as the sidewalk, and the lantana shrubs growing on the steep bank leading down to the street are choked with weeds. I have a secret fondness for this homely little corner of the campus that the landscapers forgot. There’s a gaping hole in the cinderblock wall that’s been crudely barricaded on the hospital side. I like to think some frenzied student came barreling through there trying to get to class on time.

For the last block or so I surrounded by the honest, angular red brick buildings of the university. There aren’t any ivy-covered walls, but there’s plenty of ivy-covered ground as well as colorful flower beds. Students pass me by like I’m not there, caught up in conversations on their cell phones or their friends or just walking alone wrapped up in their studies. I feel so luck to be a part of this place, at least for a couple of months.

Cross Roads, or Where Highways Tangle

Everyone knows about Southern California’s insanely clogged freeways, but let me tell you that the surface streets are no walk in the park either. Three days a week on my trek to my part-time job, I trot across a total of eighteen lanes of traffic, breathlessly trying to beat the merciless “don’t walk” signs within inches of the throbbing 5.7-liter engines of every type of gas guzzler known to man.

Only on foot have I begun to appreciate the desolation of the urban Bermuda Triangle formed where Highway 1 (Pacific Coast Highway), Highway 22 (Seventh Street), and Bellflower Boulevard (every bit as wide and congested as the other two officially designated highways) tangle. The photo on Google Maps Street View gives a pretty good indication of what it’s like – blurred and hazy with the sun’s glare on the pavement and in the far corner a dark island marooned in a sea of asphalt.

In Long Beach, Pacific Coast Highway was once State Street, a good all purpose name for a major commercial street. City fathers reluctantly agreed to allow a regional thoroughfare to split their homogeneous little burg into north and south. Perhaps their resistance led to the lax urban planning which resulted in the disjointed conjunction of these three major roads that frustrates drivers in a series of gridlocked intersections that holds up traffic in every direction. The main culprit is Seventh Street, which is limited access Highway 22 to the east until it reaches the Long Beach city limits. Where Seventh meets PCH is the first major intersection that blocks the path of these crazed commuters, and they dart and weave like wide receivers on the ten-yard line trying to beat the light or maneuver into the right turn lane to skirt the backed-up lines of cars.

Signs are everywhere – no trucks, no parking, no left turns, right turns only. All of them are violated as a matter of course, and the only violations that elicit honking from laid back Californians are left turns. There are no signs saying, “Hey, bozo, don’t hang out in the middle of the intersection expecting someone to let you in,” but it’s just as well. Drivers would ignore that one too.

As a pedestrian, I’ve become much more aware of the commercial signs that I’d ignored when I drove through this tangle of streets. The newly opened vitamin shop sports brightly colored fabric banners on the sidewalk in front of the store that flap elegantly in the rush of traffic like heraldic emblems at a medieval joust. A chain motel has a lighted digital display above the manager’s office that seems to change rates daily. Next door, the car wash’s marquee usually gives the hours in stark black and white but adds color to a rainy day with “Closed” spelled out in red.

For years now, two men have positioned themselves in the medians of these busy streets – one on Seventh and the other on PCH. They sell flowers or hold up signs saying “Help me, I’m homeless” to appeal for handouts from drivers trapped in the turn lanes. I actually only walk by the PCH guy. My illogical but surprisingly effective approach to panhandlers is that I save coins I find on the street. If I have some in my pocket, I give them to beggars, but if I have none, I just say no. I’ve only had coins once for the PCH guy, and I couldn’t help but notice the envious look on the face of the man on Seventh Street when I handed them over to his rival. Maybe one day I’ll ask the PCH guy if he ever talks to the Seventh Street guy. Somehow I doubt it. The impersonal paved-over feeling of the place sucks the life out of any inclination toward human contact.

I’d never cross Seventh Street myself. It’s not that I have anything against the other panhandler. It’s just that that side of the street has even more out-of-control traffic than on the side where I’ve chosen to walk. It has one of those gas stations with three entry points, where without even trying, everybody is in the wrong direction and everybody is in somebody else’s way. Next to it is a car wash with only one exit and cars sitting there forever waiting for an opening in traffic. Then, inexplicably, there’s a flower store (I suppose the homeless men get their flowers out of its dumpster) with a cheesy circa 1970 fake stained glass design of red roses above its entrance. I never pass it without wondering who would go to the aggravation of stopping to buy flowers there. Maybe they do a good delivery business.

Even in this urban wasteland, a few signs of life persist. In the rainy season, dandelions sprout in the sidewalks and even in the cracks in the pavement between the lines of cars. Living proof that grass can in fact grow on a busy street. One of the gracefully arching arms of the street lights that reach out over the snarl of traffic about thirty feet overhead is a favorite perch for pigeons. Anywhere from fifteen to fifty birds huddle together on this one pole and none of the others with the inscrutable wisdom of survivors. This particular pole extends out over the intersection where the most egregious violators ignore the yellow light and drift out into ongoing traffic causing a lot of risky maneuvering. I get perverse satisfaction when one of the pigeons anoints the malingerers with a well-aimed splat of bird poop.

10,000 Small Steps for Mankind, Part 1

Part 1, Home Turf

Last summer I heard people talking about the 10,000 steps movement, where people set the goal of walking 10,000 steps (over three miles) a day for mental and physical health and for the environment. I kept putting off starting what sounded like a simple, multi-purpose exercise program. I don’t have the time. I don’t have a good location. I don’t even have a pedometer.

Recently, I had the great good fortune to land a temporary gig about a mile away from where I live. When I discovered that parking assigned to part-timers like me is as far away from my office as my house is, I decided to try walking to work.

Despite the rain that’s been baptizing California lately, I enjoy the walks immensely. I get the heart pumping and the blood flowing without caffeination plus I’m putting the pedometer I got for Christmas to good use. I’ve always enjoyed walking in the evenings, sometimes as much as two miles if the sunset inspired me. Making this long distance trek every day seems to slow down my usually frantic mind to the rhythm of my pace, and fascinating little thought bubbles rise to the surface of my consciousness. I see my world, and especially that part of the world close to home, in a new light.

For instance, the street I live on looks very different at eight in the morning than it does in the evening when I used to walk when everyone’s home from work and tucked safe in their Barca-Loungers or wherever. No soft blue video glow flickers from the windows, but there’s plenty of action, let me tell you.

It’s kitty rush hour, for one thing. All these determined little felines cross my path (none black, at least so far), scampering home for morning treats or scraps left over from the night before. Women, mostly Hispanic, pull rattling old compact cars up to the curb and hop out to unpack cleaning supplies. The house cleaners all have cheery hellos for me, but barely make eye contact with each other. Is it professional rivalry or something else?

Talking about rivalry, the contractors and their crews make no bones about whose daddy is who as they arrive on the scene. Between the oversized vehicles and high volume (in sound and size) equipment, these guys put the whole package on display. Being a woman of a certain age, I only receive hurried glances, not wolf whistles, but I know the exaggerated grunts and thumps and engine noise are meant to impress any passerby with just how macho these guys are. Thankfully, the refinancing fiasco has greatly diminished the remodeling frenzy. For a while there, parking was at a premium because of all the painters’, roofers’, and various other outsized vehicles clogging the narrow neighborhood streets.

My morning walk has noticeably improved my dog radar. There are three regulars. Two are wonderfully ugly mutts so obviously thrilled to play the role of guard dog they always make me smile. The third, a flinty-eyed bulldog, purebred for battle, scares the pants off me, especially since the fence around his yard is made of rickety lattice. He’s trained me to walk on the other side of the street, which reduces his howls and snaps to a low-level warning growl. Between the dogs and cats and cleaners and contractors and the occasional possum waddling home to his secret lair, I’m left to wonder who this place belongs to – the hard-working beings on the scene every weekday morning or the ones who slave away to pay the mortgages on these all-American dream homes and only get to enjoy them two days out of the week?

After four blocks of manicured lawns and suburban bounty, I have a short jaunt along Pacific Coast Highway. But get this – it’s on a dirt path! PCH is surprisingly quiet at this time of day, so this short stretch of my walk on the rutted clay under the feathery branches of acacia trees is almost like stepping back in time into the adobe days of Rancho Los Cerritos. What was it like back then with green hills and views all the way to the ocean? Now, we can only guess.

My first brush with urban encroachment is the sloping expanse of the Denny’s parking lot. Usually, one of the employees is outside sweeping the steps for the breakfast rush. (It’s mostly retirees cashing in on the senior specials who don’t get started until nine or so.) I guess I fit the customer profile, because the Denny’s people always greet me warmly and then look surprised as I walk past the entrance. Maybe one day I’ll leave early and stop in for the French Toast Extravaganza, which they’ve been advertising with three color posters in their windows for weeks. Something about being up close and personal with a three foot tall slice of fried bread with a gallon of syrup dripping off of it that just makes a person hungry.

Next week – Part 2, Cross Roads, or How Two Highways Tangle

A View from the Top

Things sure are looking up on Signal Hill. Every time I visit Home Depot, I look forward to taking a detour up the graceful bend of Skyline Drive to Hilltop Park and looking for changes. The park is almost 5 years old now, but the landscaping and monuments still seem fresh. I love to read about the hill’s place in the history of the area.

Before white people settled, it was a lookout point for the native people and the Long Beach coastline was named Bay of Smokes by Spanish explorers who spotted the watch fires on Signal Hill’s summit. The fresh water supply attracted farmers and some persisted in growing crops and roses even the oil boom of 1921, when there were so many oil derricks along the city’s steep ridge, it was called Porcupine Hill. In the panic after the 1933 earthquake, many people rushed to the top of Signal Hill to escape the tidal wave that was rumored to be capable of devastating the lowlands along the shore of Long Beach.

In the fifties, a soapbox derby event was held annually on the death-defying slope of Hill Street. Members of a Model T Ford club used to parade up the hill to show off the reliability of their old Tin Lizzies. I’ve even heard that skate board competitions used to be held there. It boggle the mind.

My favorite time to visit Signal Hill is just before sunset. It like a 3D geography lesson taking in the San Gabriels to the north and the urban clusters of Westwood and downtown L.A. and of course the Hollywood sign. As sunlight dims, the city lights start to sparkle -- maybe not quite as brilliant as Mulholland Drive, but definitely more expansive. Then looking south, the entire shoreline of Long Beach is visible including the vast harbor and the sun sinking behind Palos Verdes. Surrounded by the mountains and the sea, it’s easy to understand why so many people are drawn to this place of stunning physical beauty and why they put up with so much aggravation to stay here.

The city of Signal Hill seems to be working with developers to plan attractive and livable housing along the steep slopes. What views the multi-story condos must have. Discovery Well Park incorporates basketball court, playgrounds and a community center among still operating grasshopper pumps. Take a walk up the steep slope with the Sierra Club for a great aerobic workout and a quick refresher course in local history.

This is how I summed up the glories of Signal Hill, which appeared in a slightly edited version in the May/June 2006 issue of Westways Magazine:

I love to take visitors to the Discovery Well on Signal Hill, the site where the California oil boom began when a gusher exploded here in 1921. Out-of-towners enjoy learning about this often-overlooked part of history and watching the pumps still in operation bob lazily up and down. Nearby, Panorama Promenade offers an easy ¼ mile stroll with spectacular views of downtown Los Angeles and the Hollywood sign as well as the Pacific coastline and Catalina Island. For a crowd-pleasing finale, I drive my guests down the breath-takingly steep Hill Street, as exciting as any roller coaster.

Home Sweet Beach

Why beachify? Because I want to testify about my hometown, the misunderstood marvel that is Long Beach, California. This city of over 470,000 people (the 34th largest in the United States) is the most overlooked and underrated place to live in Southern California. Sandwiched between the urban sprawl of Los Angeles and Orange County’s suburban wasteland, it creates its own little oasis of beaches, parks, and friendly but stubbornly untrendy people. Here are a few big reasons why I want to write about Long Beach:

Long Beach does not stink. Okay, the port could use a clean-up and our shoreline is not going to win any beauty contests. (Although, did you know that Long Beach hosted the Miss Universe pageant in the 1950s?) Since I moved here 25 years ago, I’ve done my best to keep my cool when people put down my city, calling it rundown, dirty and crime-ridden, but now I’m talking back.

Heads up, all you snobs who cruise by on the 405 and think you know something about the LBC, Long Beach is not a bedroom community that’s seen better days. It began as a farming community when L. A. was still a pipsqueak and then morphed into a world famous seaside resort. Then, oil was discovered, the navy came to town along with big boys like McDonnell Douglas, and the city has been running on its own steam ever since. Long Beach has a long history of people who just want to have fun but don’t mind getting their hands dirty when they have to. My kind of people.

Long Beach been very good to me. Both of my sons were born at Community Hospital, and one even came home swaddled in an oversized Christmas stocking. We’ve made good use of the city’s award-winning parks, libraries, and schools, not to mention the Beach—love that bike path! Some of my current favorite locales are the Marina Farmers’ Market on Sundays, Signal Hill on a clear day, and Marine Stadium at twilight.

In my blog, I want to share the special qualities of these places and so many others that offer serenity in the midst of one of the most densely populated places in the country. Even more, I want to talk to other people who live and work here about what they like best about this city with the heart of a small town. I’ll throw in some history, interviews, and maybe a rant or two, but mostly it’ll be my take on what makes this city hum.

In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a writer. I’ve scribbled in journals for years: poems, stories, plays, you name it. I’ve even been published a few times. In the last two years, I’ve pushed hard to get my writing out there without much success. I have this theory that my style will become more relaxed and fluid if I write here in a blog where no one will ever read it. (I got an idea how hard it will be to get blog readers after I mentioned at work I was starting one, and five people told me their computers were broken within the hour. I mean, I hadn’t even posted anything yet, and they were coming up with lame excuses about why they couldn’t read it.)

I'll be experimenting with styles and formatting as well as posting some photos and stories that got published or should have been. Some of my posts might touch on things that concern me as a writer -- time management, stress reduction, surly editors, etc. So, whoever you are out there reading this, drop me a line and let me know what you think.