An old dog at the front door

old_dog_final copy.jpgThere's an old dog scratching at the front door to get in, and it's me.

I have been scratching for the past few years to find a suitable home in which to curl up in the middle of the floor, consider columns I might write if I had a place to publish them and then bark like hell at anyone who passed by.

It's what I do for a living. I bark.

And while the metaphoric use of an old dog to describe my situation breaks down a little, it more or less explains what has been going on in my life since leaving the solitary comforts of the L.A. by God Times. I was sent on my way with a kick and a bone to seek adequate quarters beyond Spring Street, and I have found them at last.

I'm home.

I will remain here as long as I am granted the right to growl a little and bark a lot, growing old in an atmosphere of creative prospects. I am no longer a slave to the rigid forms of newspaper formats and the unlikely leadership of those who with pomp and circumstance pave pathways to the graves of print journalism.

At age 84, I never expected anyone to go all out for the pleasure of my company, even though I am a fairly clean old dog, have had all my shots and, like Asta, the boozy Scottish Terrier from the old Thin Man detective series, I limit my drinks to one martini a day in the evening after six, straight up, hold the olives.

My work here at LA Observed will consist pretty much of the same kind of writing I've been doing since moving south from pathetic little Oakland almost 40 years ago. I will write about Topanga and downtown L.A. because I live in both places. I will write about people because I honor the human condition. I will write about my world because I chose to.

My past is my present, the present my future. Doors close and doors open. The old dog rises, stretches and yawns. The door is ajar. He ambles out, sniffs the air and heads off in no specific direction. What he is looking for he may never find.

But he's never going to stop looking.

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