Home Sweet Home

My favorite gym faces a runway of the Burbank Airport. Today, while on the treadmill, I watched purple and red Southwest Airlines planes take off and land. In the distance, storm clouds clustered over the Hollywood Hills. It was beautiful enough that I climbed back on that same treadmill after a grueling bout in the nether reaches of the windowless weight room.

Pastoral Burbank makes Mayberry look urban and dangerous by comparison. Our buildings are low enough to allow a panoramic view. Not much ever happens here to distract from the bucolic comfort. This is both wonderful and annoying. Sometimes I’d like to go out to eat without having a “Cheers” experience. Then again, I could do that easily if I was willing to drive more than five minutes to get anywhere.

In contrast, I often spend time in Hollywood proper. There, people are Seen. They Dress. And when they speak, it’s loud and often entertaining. I like the kinetic frenetic absurdity of character-place-activity, but you know what? After a couple of hours I’m ready to click my heels together three times and slog through traffic back to the Californian version of Kansas, and to my little dog too.