Epic epi-pen battle

I went out and fought all afternoon with the old juniper hedge in the driveway, more dead than alive, cleaning out the understory, decades of garbage and debris. Now I am having trouble breathing—suddenly remembering how allergic I am to juniper, and cursing the man who stole my car along with my last expired, but still usable Epi-pen in it.

I'm coughing a lot, dark brown taste at the back of the throat, but so far, no throat swelling. Lots of throat clearing—and swearing. The symptoms will pass, but it sure pisses me off. I usually carry a pen and hope never to use it. Last time I cleaned the hedges out was during the late 1990s. I didn't even think of spiders. Luckily, no bites. That would've really fixed my wagon. The hedge put me over the edge. I once was attacked by an entire hive of enraged paper wasps, my donkey stepped in a gopher hole, where they had hidden their nest, so I’m overly sensitive to stings and insect bites.

When I tried to replace my stolen Epi-pen, I was quoted $800 and change, nearly double the insurance value of my car. Talk about sticker-shock. My last Epi-pen cost me $15. Generally pissed off at that cock-eyed Mylan woman who raised the price of adrenaline to the stratosphere. May she one day be in need of an Epi-pen and may none be available, because no one can afford one—she who raised the price 800-fold for nothing more than greed.

I heard because of the petition and general public outcry, there will be a generic Epi-pen released. The company’s “solution” in the face of overwhelming public outcry is to offer a half-off coupon. But it has not lowered the price ONE CENT. Even at $300 it's obscene, as they cost about a dollar to make. People are going to Canada to get Epi-pens and insulin. And some folks are constructing their own adrenalin kits using insulin needles. Mylan, stop price-gouging the millions of people who need an Epi-pen to save their lives because they have a severe allergic reaction. Petition.

One time I reacted badly to a wasp sting, it immediately swelled to grapefruit size, even with icing it, which means trouble. I will do anything to avoid adrenalin. So I self-medicated, took an allergy pill, gargled a half bottle of liquid Benadryl, and drank lots of ice water, took a cold shower, grabbed bag of ice, and parked outside Memorial Hospital to outwait it. Took about an hour for the swelling in my throat to subside. And to think of nothing but mortal thoughts.

Meanwhile I'm swigging Benadryl, and taking cold showers, cultivating cold thoughts, Theraflu, huh? Needless to say, I never drink gin. Off my list. I am steaming mad, and wanting to kick some shins. But first, I want to breathe normally again.

Fast forward this story to 2020, Jack Gilder gave me one of his late wife’s Epi-pens. Thanks to Jack, I’ve an Epi-pen again, all decked out in a wasp color-themed black and yellow case. May I never need to use it. My favorite part of this updated story with Jack, is that his wife never used hers either, but once saved a person’s life with her epi-pen. Gave me goosebumps.

Garbo’s memory (Photo)

I posted on Facebook an early photo of me reading at Garbo's Cabaret and Niteclub in Guernewood Park, which unleashed an onslaught of memories. Not sure who took the photo, maybe Lee Perron? Most people were afraid of my gear.  To a point and shoot camera.

Randy McAtee asked, Do you recall what you were reading? Weirdly, I did. I was testing out Woman is of the Ocean, a poem written in a trance state. No idea what it was about. Of course Randy Googled it, and got nowhere, which led to my adding many old, if questionable, poems to this blog, as a record keeper.

I think it was the night Jack Crimmons and Elizabeth Herron read. I usually didn’t take color photos, far too expensive. So that narrows down the time frame. Jack might have even taken it. We were all Sonoma State classmates enrolled  in an experimental program called Expressive Arts. One of my projects was connecting with local poets, which led to my becoming an organizer of the series. This photo is where it all began.

Classmate Rebecca Clinton said, Garbo's! I remember getting my FIRST full-body hug from robert bly in that corner pub.

I forgot that Bly came to Garbo's. Didn't he also read? Unfortunately that was also the day I quit being a Robert Bly fan. He was such a colossal piece of shit to me—after all that work I did to put on that workshop/ reading and book party/signing for Calliopea Press. Rilke translations. Organizing, raising the funds, etc.

He humiliated me in front of people. I guess he saw me as hired help, a lackey of no import— and that SSU event was my baby. Wouldn't even sign my copy of the book either. So Carol gave me her printer's copy. I probably blocked it from memory. I never could read the book—so beautiful with its embossed irises on cream stock, with purple ink.

In retrospect, I had waited until the very end of the signing, so as not to intrude (and was off in the distance, breaking down the room, folding chairs, etc.,) and he was probably cranky, having kept on his Poet face all those hours. Guess I got the see the poet unmasked.  Not a pretty sight.

Monte Río poet Gail King said, Garbo's was the best ever on the river.  HARD TO REMEMBER BEING SO YOUNG. You remember her name.  I thought her novel gave her the money to buy the bar.  I was all about bars and poetry so a perfect match for me.

Garbo’s was my poetic training ground. I was not into bars, but Monday night was poetry night. And they had great local bands other nights. Uncle Wiggley. Only bar I ever felt safe going to alone. The owner Marjorie Summerfield? what was her story (other than she was a novelist)? "Compression Tested" Nothing about it on the web.

An article I wrote for The Paper in 1988. The Russian River Writers' Guild (RRWG) is the oldest ongoing reading series in the greater Bay Area and north coast. The RRWG has kept the "literatii" entertained in most west county towns, from Monte Rio, its first home, to Occidental, Guerneville, Santa Rosa and Sebastopol. The pen, I found lodged in the spiral spine of an old notebook.

From a FB post, added 8/19

Bushtit gang in the fennel

Is there a bird more ridiculous than the bushtit? A gang landed en masse on the fennel bush looking for seeds, nearly knocking it askew, sounding like cartoon chew toys as it swayed like the mast of a boat in the harbor. Meanwhile the bees carry on, following the mad dance of branches. 

The one, just there, on the edge of the meadow, contemplating the morning mist, where it gathers in the branches, like soft flocks of birds.

Jason, at Binkley Elementary School, Santa Rosa, CA, circa 1981

It was during the early 1980s when developmentally disabled kids were being mainstreamed into the public schools. Not because it seemed like a cool idea, but because we had a governor who decommissioned the state funded mental hospitals, and there were all these kids who were formerly institutionalized, suddenly foisted into the classroom.

Marilyn Stocks was a brilliant 5th grade teacher who was able to successfully integrate Jason, who had Downs Syndrome, into the classroom. He was a big lumbering hulk in an 8th grader's body, and I thought my God, how will I ever teach poetry to him? She said give him a job, he was the class pencil and paper monitor, and he also collected the poetry journals at the end of class. He was the best classroom helper ever. He never forgot, never missed a beat. She said, now take it a step further, have him write poetry too. And so I did.

So I tailored CPITS lessons so that he too could write, and write he did. (We took dictation too.) She said treat him just like another student. The magic began to happen was when he had a poem typed up. The class cheered him on. I try to type up eight to ten kid poems per workshop and then we revise them in class. So by the time I've seen the students five times, the entire class has had a poem typed up, 1.5 times. At the end, we made an anthology of student and Jason proudly read his poem. The class went wild.

Ten years later, I was giving a poetry reading in Santa Rosa, and this man got up to read at open mike, he was celebrating a new chapbook, with a handmade red cover. It was Jason, still writing his poetry a decade later.

NAMESLAKE

We floated like mermaids in the hot springs 

and talked about the process of writing. 

Funny, how names arise. She said, Billy Collins. 

How his voice inhabited hers.

Don't we all take on the mantle 

every time we write?

Susan is shuddering because we are writing 

in the chapel. She perceives all the crosses 
as something evil and sinister, 

whereas I see how the Carmelite nuns 

revered this place as much as they did their religion.

But failing, they saw the light opened their doors, 

those wimpled recluses who sought the light of God.

I am drawn to the past where my namesake, 

María Concepción de Arguello retreated 

to a beach in Carmel, to commune with God, 

rather than marry. Her first love, Count Rezanov, 
who died of a fall from his horse,  
he never came back 
and she waited ten years for his return.

Did she find him in the ashes of the past? 

And the cloistered rooms, where other nuns 

came to join her, first in Carmel, then in Benecia.

Why am I telling you this story of Conchita?

Because of the one who got away?

Because sometimes the only honorable way 

is to retreat from the world.

2. What do you do, when the one you love 

holds words to his breasts, suckles them, 

strokes them, until they become hardened—

as if that were a way out.

My mother tried that more than once.

The dynamics of certain words:

faith, love, suicide, evoke visceral reactions.

Why can't he see that? 

Just the other day he said he was ready 

for his exit strategy, then he stayed out late. 

No phone call, no way to reach him,

the bridge with its red thighs and amber necklaces, 

Ellen Bass workshop

8/19/2016

3 How we floated in the hot springs 

and talked about the process of writing. 

Funny, how names arise. Billy Collins. 

I have been reading for school 

and she said his voice inhabited hers.

Don't we all take on the mantle 

every time we write ?

Susan is shuddering because we are writing 

in the chapel. She can only perceive her horror 

of crosses as something evil and sinister, 

whereas I see how the Carmelite nuns 

revered this place is much as they did their religion.

But failing, they saw the light opens their doors, 

those wimpled recluses who sought he light of God.

I am drawn to the past where my namesake, 

María Concepción de Arguello retreated 

to a beach in Carmel, to commune with God, 

rather than marry. Her first love, Count Rezanov

who died from a fall from his horse, 

never came back and she waited ten years for his return.

Did she find him in the ashes of the past? 

And the cloistered rooms, where other nuns 

came to join her, first in Carmel, then in Benecia.

Why am I telling you this story of Conchita?

Because of the one who got away?

Because sometimes the only honorable way 

is to retreat from the world.

What do you do, when the one you love 

holds words to his breasts, suckles them, 

strokes them, until they become hardened—

as if that were a way out.

My mother tried that more than once.

The dynamics of certain words:

faith, love, suicide, evoke visceral reactions.

Why can't he see that? 

Just the other day he said he was ready 

for his exit strategy, then he stayed out late. 

No phone call, no way to reach him,

the bridge with its red thighs and amber necklaces, 

shrouded in fog the buoys moaning.

While he lifted another pint to his lips, 

at that no-name bar, my mother's old haunt. 

Waiting for open mic. Business as usual. 

The show must go on.

What is my role in all this?

My complicity in it? 

Did I seek out my mother?

After all the things which I most dread, 

I have become, has become me.

Ellen Bass workshop

8/19/2016

POET'S VEST

When I wear the poet's vest,

people stop and stare.

When I walk down the street, 

they follow me. As if mellifluous words 

were trapped in the hemline.

My poet's vest has bolstered me 

through many poetry readings where 

I doubted my words, but they became whole 

and imbued with context. 

My poet's vest made from war-torn Highland

huipils of women no longer alive.

Their voices speak to me 

when I wear the poet's vest. 

Indigo flowers teach the fabric 

of the midnight skies, 

where an Aurora flits and dances 

like a raucous parrots and star clusters 

contemplate the sky's jewels.

My poet's vest, older than all my relationships, 

I bought on sale, it cost a month rent. 

My friends urging me on, saying: it's so you.

It was a great thing to do, I am so frugal, 

especially when it comes to the self, 

I counted out my money, 

friends chipping in $10 here, $5 there. 

Leap of faith that all would work out in the end.

See, I had just given a reading in the gallery 

where the walls were cloud banks. 

All that investment of summer sky 

and night secrets. Susan says 

nichtallaludi, a Greek word 

of hidden muses wanting to dance 

on the tongue of night.

To paint flowers on the tongue

iI was not a feathered cloak,

but it was my passage to another world.

8/19/2016

Ellen Bass Workshop

THE SUNLIGHT, TINGED ORANGE

The sunlight, tinged orange
smoke roiling through the bowl of valley
blue shadows, curl of spine
An engine whines in a pocket canyon
a one-note song for lost kin
Harbinger of the fall with chainsaw choruses
But the trees are dying, they are dying
It's not about the smoke,
or the fires raging to the four directions
Black Death, the trees weeping,
their sap collects in amber lakes
Is this what happened when
Precambrian amber was new?
Did the trees die off then too?
Did they weep lachrymosal tears,
where insects clamored
and became stuck in time?
Our tears, the ones unshed, fossilized inside the heart
like occluded smoke, frozen in time
The hum of an air conditioner keeps the smoke at bay
But the trees visit us,
they coat our cars with their secret heartwood
like ladies at their toilette, escaped from the war years,
dusting themselves with lilac-scented talcum
But the powder is gritty, as if from a volcanic eruption
I write my name in the dust on the back window of my car
And taste its acrid ash, the carbon sum of trees
Unshed tears and grief, how do we manifest in in this century,
stuck and frozen in time? The parched earth summons.
At summer's end, naked ladies at the pond
all face east towards the sun. Belladonna,
beauty by any other name Amaryllis,
the scent of funerary offerings.
The sound of a bird singing in the classroom.
Eva cups the phone to the shell of her ear
and talks in low earthtones
only the mountains will understand.

Ellen Bass workshop
8/19/2016 First draft

WHAT WE'VE FORGOTTEN

She says to write about the things I've forgotten
But if I've forgotten them,
how can I possibly remember what was forgotten?
She says the poet wrote an entire booklength poem
on what he remembered, and when he reached the end,
he committed suicide. He remembered enough for a lifetime.
And in this way I realized that the things we've forgotten
have committed an involuntary suicide of memory.
The synapse, gone I imagine the ganglion as large rubber bands
like sergeants standing to attention yelling hoorah
What we remember, what once was forgotten,
gathering proverbial dust on the shelf of memory.
snapping to attention like the nuns with their match boxes,
as we lined up for confirmation, all in rows,
with our blue capes, the color of the sky.

8/19/2016
Ellen Bass Workshop

THE POET’S VEST

When I wear the poet's vest,
people stop and stare.
When I walk down the street,
they follow me. As if mellifluous words
were trapped in the hemline.
My poet's vest has bolstered me
through many poetry readings where
I doubted my words, but they became whole
and imbued with context.
My poet's vest made from war-torn Highland
huipils of women no longer alive.
Their voices speak to me
when I wear the poet's vest.

My poet's vest, older than all my relationships,
I bought on sale, it cost a month’s rent.
My friends urging me on, saying: it's so you.
It was a great thing to do, I am so frugal,
especially when it comes to the self,
I counted out my money,
friends chipping in $10 here, $5 there.
Leap of faith that all would work out in the end.

See, I had just given a reading in the gallery
where the walls were cloud banks.
All that investment of summer sky
and night secrets. Susan says
nichtallaludi, she says it’s a Greek word
of hidden muses wanting to dance
on the jasmine tongue of night.
To paint flowers on the tongue
iI was not a feathered cloak,
but it was my passage to another world.

8/19/2016
Ellen Bass Workshop

Ellen Bass poetry workshop, Presentation Center, Los Gatos

Ellen Bass poetry workshop notes:

What's at the heart of poetry is something we don't know. When we write the poem. if it is a successful poem and we learned something of ourselves that we didn't know before, and the reader is also not the same person after they've heard the poem, then it's successful.

There's not a lot of monetary rewards in poetry, but that I get to teach it gives me a way to grapple with it. She gives us handouts of poems of Joe malar Mark Jody and Sharon Olds.

Ellen continues: We have to enter into the poem it's a state of not knowing.

Ann Sexton said to put your ear to the ground, the pattern is an instrument of discovery. A poem is a flashlight, or a Geiger counter, not a recording device says Billy Collins. And Robert Frost said, No surprise for the riter, no surprise for the reader. Vivian Garnet said to look to the saturation of the story, i.e., the context of the emotional experience.

Ellen elaborated: Truth in memory is not a recording or recital of actual events. What matters is what happens to the writer, and to the reader. The writer is on a voyage of discovery, moving from unerring certainty to thoughtful reconstructed emotion, to self-knowledge. This clarification process leads to empathy, compassion. Poets using your life as a stand-in for all people.

An absence of sympathy shuts down the mind, versus empathy which provides movement. The loneliness of the monster, the innocence of the self.

Quality of discovery. In Joe Millar's poem, there's a foreshadowing of the discovery. I can hear you all now saying: "Oh, I forgot to foreshadow." Everything you do, you can connect to the outside world. Note the use of artless lines; for example, "I should be happier." The physical description conveys emotion. Note the use of realistic dialogue. In real life, people don't answer each other's questions. "Have you ever done it with someone you don't love? Eat slowly, I say."

Write about what is said, and unsaid, versus the Hallmark card. You learn more by focusing on what you can steal from other writers, versus what you don't like. What we want most is to become stronger poets. Ask the poem, What can I learn from you?

Gregory Orr shot his brother in a hunting accident. Which brings us back to poetry. It saves lives. The emotional and the chaotic. Poetry makes order from the chaos of life. The use of our ordinary language. Let's look at Sharon Old's work. Sharon says also try to be accurate. The breast, beautiful but accurate.

In Stephen Dobbins' poem, the end is surprising and inevitable.

Susan Wooldridge mentions that imagery conveys emotions in its specificity. Mark Doty and Stanley Kunitz say avoid clichés.

Some instructions for your writing. Stay open to the new direction, to the leaps of association. Allow yourself to make associations you don't understand.

Dina Metzger: just say yes. Be willing to disturb the story you know. How to lose your story completely, find the story you most love to tell. What was your role? Look for another angle—especially if you were a victim. It's not about what happened to you. You are a stand-in for the human condition. Write to save your life. Use this as an opportunity to look for the real subject.

Richard Hugo said to write of the triggering subject.

Be brave, be willing to not know. Write about what you don't know. Put pressure on the assumptions of the poem. Move the frame off dead center.

Practice asking questions: use investigative questions versus writing in the expository mode or the declarative mode.

Embrace frustration. When you hear the inner censor, say stop, then write about it. Look at it and then let it happen. Don't hold the reins so tight.

Pat D'Arcy Memorial

Still in recovery mode from yesterday's memorial and grand sendoff. We sent Cousin Pat off in style, we did. Neil sang Morning has Broken. Jerry D'Arcy, who lost his twin, gave an eulogy that had us rolling in the aisle with laughter, and then he sang a rendition of Danny Boy that knocked us right outta the ballpark. John McCormack move over. Jerry has some pipes. I get goosebumps thinking of it.

A kilted SFPD bagpiper led us out of the church, and onto the party at the Irish Cultural Center where we ate and drank and told stories. The stories. One favorite: Jerry and Pat moved to Treat Street in Hunter's Point. To say it was a rough hood, is practically gentrification. Anyway, there were some incidents. Then, one morning Jerry heard Pat fire up the chainsaw. Only thing was, there were no trees on Treat St. There was Pat outside cutting up a huge pile of cardboard boxes with a chainsaw. To his way of thinking, it was the most expedient method. There were no more incidents after that. Crazed Irishman with chainsaw drew some serious street cred. 

It must've been quite successful, as the din was so loud we could hardly hear ourselves talk. The PA system didn't work in the church or in the hall. we sang anyway. Lots more men than women, unusual turnout. 

Lovely touch: photos of Pat on every table. 

Afterparty number one was in the pub downstairs, and afterparty number two was in the hotel rooms at Seal Rock Inn. We took armloads of funeral flowers home, rather than let them go to waste (apparently mortuaries don't recycle flowers...they imprison them in a backlot until they rot.) Pat, an arborist, kept Golden Gate Park's trees in fine fettle. Even the trees will miss him.

Funiculì, Funiculà

A flashmob scene of Funiculì, Funiculà had me weeping and cheering; sometimes when I see a gorgeous display of fruit, or Carmen Miranda’s hat, I too feel like singing. I remember the first time I heard Funiculì, Funiculà when I was four years old. It mesmerized me then, it mesmerizes me now.

Of course, I didn't know Italian, but I could be heard belting out: alguin, alguin, goose a lava talk? Who knew that it was written to commemorate the opening of the first funicular cable car on Mount Vesuvius? I dare you (not to) to sing along. And keep your hands off the fennel.

A friend sang, Harken, harken, joy is in the air—I didn’t know there was an English version. It makes you want to ride a funicular trolley. Too bad Vesuvius dispatched the inspiration of the song. Efforts to build a new funicular have been derailed. Seeing the words, I can’t figure out why I thought the words were alguin, alguin.... And where were the geese, anyway? We know what the lava did. Maybe it wa Take me to the top. No geese or lava involved.

Slim Russell said “That song blared merrily from our old hi-fi, every Sunday, via Mario Lanza's album Be My Love. And just last week  I found myself thinking of it whilst reading Martin Booth's Gweilo: Memories of a Hong Kong Childhood, in which the Peak Cable Car is described in vivid and entertaining detail.”

OMG, it was a Mario Lanza record! I can still see the album cover in my mind's eye, even though I wasn't much more than 4 years old, if that. Amid my aunts and uncles collection of records, Mario Lanza’s Old World Funiculì, Funiculà, was an uneasy compromise that bridged the distance between Nat King Cole, Benny Goodman, and John McCormack. The record player was an impromptu 1950s altar, a station of the cross between our stark entry foyer, and the Victorian living room with its overstuffed armchairs crowned with doilies hiding decades of pomade stains from another era. My grandfather’s sole kingdom.

From a Facebook post, added, rev. 8/19

Droughtful Musings on the LA Basin: Desert, or No?

There's a raging conversation going on at the Facebook California Native Plant Society page: a furor over a LA Times article Will replacing thirsty lawns with drought-tolerant plants make L.A. hotter?

People are tearing up lawns at an unprecedented rate, and the speculation is that using native plants will make LA hotter, and more arid than it already is. I considered it seriously slovenly journalism. Teacup tempestuousness. Not enough news, today?
  
The solution seems simple: plant more street trees. Plant native oaks and sycamores. Focus on native plants instead of exotic plants and lawns.

Native plants are not the problem...it's the sheer square mileage of pavements grey that's the real problem in LA—mind-boggling square mileage of endless freeways and surface streets, shopping mall parking lot of black asphalt, and don't forget all those tarred roofs. sidewalks, bricks, patio pavers. Those stupid lava rocks and Astroturf people use to replace their lawns are not helping the problem. White reflect heat, black absorbs. There's a reason why Greek villages are painted white.

This is the crux of the article in a nutshell:

...what would happen to the city’s overall temperature during the month of July if every lawn were replaced with drought-tolerant plants.... a lawn-less Los Angeles would be up to 3.4 degrees warmer during the day than it is now....

But the scientists also discovered that

transforming lawns to drought-tolerant vegetation has an average nighttime cooling effect of about 5.4 degrees that more than makes up for the daytime warming....

There's concern that the

average summertime temperature be affected if all the city’s vegetation — lawns and trees — were ripped out and replaced with drought-tolerant shrubs.

What they discovered was that

the average daytime air temperatures actually dropped by 0.4 degrees. That’s because, with no trees in Los Angeles, sea breezes would blow through the region unhindered by tree trunks, counteracting the warming you’d expect from the lack of irrigation.... Plants and trees provide shade and transpire moisture to cool the air; gravel and artificial turf don't. ...when it comes to the climate in Los Angeles, nothing is ever simple. Will replacing thirsty lawns with drought-tolerant plants make L.A. hotter?

CNPS member Thomas Yeary is an advocate for repopulating the LA Basin with California native plant species endemic to the area: "Coastal and Alluvial Sage Scrub, Chaparral, Oak Woodland, Gallery Forests, Riparian Corridors, Coastal Prairies, Yellow Pine forest, Southern California Walnut woodlands, Dune scrub, Salt and Fresh water marsh all historically have naturally occurred in the Los Angeles area."

He speculated that 

up to 90% or more of this natural landscape has been modified and in most cases completely removed leaving most species of plants and animals extirpated. This and the disruption of the natural processes of material deposition by creating flood control networks, dams, hardscapes, buildings and storm channels are the real underlying issues that should be addressed here. Non-site specific native vegetation, long term will never work and that's the truth.

Another CNPS member, of the lawn persuasion, said that lawns transpirate and don't reflect the sun so on a hot day so a lawn  is cooler than bare ground.  I like walking barefoot on lawns, but lawns are, for the most part, an abomination in California, where it doesn't rain in summer. It's an east coast thing.

Andrew Glazier said: "I tore my lawn out almost a decade ago. I have more birds in my yard than my birder friends can count. I have butterflies like mad each year. native bees give me loads of fruits and vegetables.... I tear out lawns and plant natives for a living and I can't keep up with demand. I lived in L.A. for many years. I now know the mere existence of water in these great quantities has already been an environmental crime and part of a real estate windfall. L.A. was a desert before."

Thomas Yeary queried the assumption that LA was a vast desert: "When was Los Angeles a desert?" 

Another member chimed in and said that LA is a Mediterranean climate with fickle winter rainfall and no summer rainfall. About half of all years (?) are as dry as a desert but some years are very wet.
  
All this talk about the weather got me to Googling my own assumptions. The LA Basin is Mediterranean, not a desert? I thought: no way! By the time I got done Googling, I did an about face with my own assumptions. Los Angeles Is Not a Desert. Stop Calling It One.

I guess I've always defined LA as desert, because for over two centuries they've exceeded their water supplies—destroying Owens Lake, and Mono Lake in the process of stealing water from the back side of the Sierras. I worked on the Save Mono Lake campaign—with Barbara Boxer. I also live in northern California, where some years, we get so much rain, we could almost join rain forest status. Everything's relative.

The LA Basin may be Mediterranean, and if weather and rainfall are averaged out, then it is Mediterranean. But it is also facing the worst drought in 1,200 years. Maybe we need to define what the process of desertification is. The basin has never traditionally supported a large population because water was not plentiful. 

I was surprised to find there were mountain-fed wetlands in the LA Basin. Imagine marshes south of Wilshire Boulevard, and streams flowing from the Hollywood Hills. Apparently one stream still flows across Wilshire Country Club to Hancock Park. The rancho where Beverly Hills sits, was called Rodeo de las Aguas or the "gathering of the waters." And who knew that La Cienega means springs. But there were also wetlands in Las Vegas too. So what defines a place as Mediterranean?

The LA Basin, a vast alluvial plain, has a Mediterranean climate with winter rains (averaging 12-15" year—much higher in the mountains) with warm summers. Butt much of LA also has desert conditions with extremes—either a profound lack of water, or a deluge with flash floods. The LA River and most groundwater disappeared by 1903; pop. was 100,000.

Still unwilling to let go of the idea that LA isn't a desert, I looked at average rainfall, since water—or a lack of it—seems to be at the crux of the CNPS thread. I discovered that there were quite a few years of little rain—less than 10 inches. Some definitions of desert include an average rainfall of 10" or less—with an average of 7 inches; but some deserts receive 12+ inches a year—The Mojave receives more rainfall than most deserts. So, apparently there's no hard and fast rule. 

That's 27 cumulative years of little rain (only 10 deluge years 20-30") in the past 70 years. Not quite half of all years but 3/7ths of the time LA, with its lack of rainfall qualifies as desert.

2015-2016 - (56% of normal)
2014-2015 - 8.52"
2013-2014 - 6.08"
2012-2013 - 8.69
2008-2009 - 9.08
2006-2007 - 3.21
2003-2004 - 9.25
2001-2002 - 4.42
1998-1999 - 9.09
1993-1994 - 8.11
1989-1990 - 7.35
1988-1989 - 8.08
1986-1987 - 7.66
1980-1981 - 8.96
1975-1976 - 7.21
1971-1972 - 7.17
1969-1970 - 7.74
1963-1964 - 7.93
1962-1963 - 8.38
1960-1961 - 4.85
1959-1960 - 8.18
1958-1959 - 5.58
1956-1957 - 9.54
1952-1953 - 9.46
1950-1951 - 8.21
1948-1949 - 7.99
1947-1948 - 7.22

http://www.laalmanac.com/weather/we13.htm

IN 1500, about 25 Tongva villages exist in what is now Los Angeles County. Population: 300 to 500. Population didn't increase when the padres founded San Gabriel Mission, the pueblo, etc. Even statehood didn't affect it. The pueblo of old Los Angeles, remained small until the completion of the Santa Fe Railroad 1885. By 1903, the population exploded to 100,000. They sucked the LA River dry. Enter Mulholland, with a dream of water.

Glendora resident,  Thomas Yeary wrote that: "Los Angeles receives plenty of water suited for the natural vegetation, climate and geological processes that take place here. In our San Gabriel Mountains we receive on average between 25-and 50 inches of rainfall annually with El Niño years pushing us up to an average of 70 inches. Snow will usually fall above 4,000 feet elevation between October and April, with most of it coming December through March. There are countless natural springs and water sources in the mountains. Coastal Fog creeps in nightly through the basin into the valleys. We receive summer thunder showers as well. Quite a bit of water compared to the surrounding deserts. Just not at the flick of the switch all year round like so so many :( currently demand it."

LA's water came at a great cost to Eastern Sierra lakes; most are gone, some a re mere puddles of themselves

Most people seem to agree that Southern California is an arid place, and that high water use on plants raises humidity, and creates changes to environments. Certainly taking away all the available groundwater and pumping it to LA Basin has had a huge negative impact on the entire Eastern Sierras. When the wind blows, the region is laden with toxic alkali dust.



For example, Owens Lake, once a vast inland freshwater sea, with an average depth of 250 ft., is now a dry playa with a shallow alkali puddle in the middle. To give you an idea how big it was, Highways 395. 136, and 190 skirt the former shores of Owens Lake. You can see how vast the lake was if you go up Whitney Portal Road. Watch Chinatown too, it covers the LA Water Wars.Andrew Glazier said: "L.A. residents and all folks who care need to drive the Owens valley to Mono Lake once in their lifetime to see where the water running down the gutters comes from. Please do this. You will not regret it."

Owens Lake from Whitney Portal Road. Alabama Hills to the left. 
Road leads to Lone Pine. The White Mountains in the distance.

"William Mulholland, superintendent of the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power (LADWP) planned the 223-mile (359 km) Los Angeles Aqueduct, completed in 1913, which diverted water from the Owens River. The water rights were acquired in a deceitful manner.... Los Angeles acquired a large portion of the water rights to over 300,000 acres (121,000 ha) of land in the valley, almost completely diverting the inflows of water away from Owens Lake....  —Wiki

Alkali storm, Mono Lake. Most of the Eastern Sierra lakes were destroyed by LA Water

"In 1970, LADWP completed a second aqueduct from Owens Valley. More surface water was diverted and groundwater was pumped to feed the aqueduct. Owens Valley springs and seeps dried and disappeared, and groundwater-dependent vegetation began to die. Years of litigation followed. In 1997, Inyo County, Los Angeles, the Owens Valley Committee, the Sierra Club, and other concerned parties signed a Memorandum of Understanding that specified terms by which the lower Owens River would be re-watered by June 2003."  —Wiki

Yeah. Didn't happen. The Owens River, or the LA River have not been re-watered. When it comes to water, LA is thirsty as a desert. C'mon, LA, pull up those lawns, plant some native species. It's the right thing to do.

Patrick D'Arcy, may he ride the wind

An insistent hummingbird keeps buzzing me, or maybe he's after the little palm trees painted on my sunbrella. I am reminded that he is Huitzilopochtli, the Aztec god of war, the sun, and human sacrifice—a messenger god. Something in the air. And I'm not wearing red, they get right in my face if I'm wearing red. Thinking of my cousin Patrick D'Arcy, superb bluesman, and mouth harpist, how his suffering is over. May he ride the wind. (Pat’s twin is Jerry, the singing policeman at the SF Giants games...)