Practicing saxophone in public, in a stretch of park between one of the larger local specimens of our city public library system and a Starbucks, not to mention a mile that doesn't seem mile-like from work, was not the most off the wall aspect of my Wednesday. Getting a thumbs up from a guy at the house across the fence helped settle the day, too.

I ran across a saying the other day, my paraphrasing (come on, what else?) going something like the real runner down of religion is not as much the raving nontheist but the casual name service devotee who takes it for granted ("A watch doesn't just come into being, neither did planet Earth, hey, Date-o-rama is on!").

It reminds me of Wednesday's weather here in the infamous San Fernando Valley. We just had a May phenomenon of trailing cold front thickened by the air pulled off the ocean by our rapacious interior heating up and some were complaining. Wednesday arrived and the clouds melted like old grease in a fried potatoes pan the food service is hanging onto (I worked in Robinson's eatery in 1970, it's a veteran analogy), a hazy and warming day leaving at least one "Dan" with a sense of dread and ennui. Back to the religion statement: what amplifies the dust, debris and neglect of our fair suburbs for me is paradise to so, so many here.

I still rent, save your lectures, however well intentioned or not, and we had a housing inspection a couple of weeks ago. Just about every unit was flagged for something. My impression is the leader of the cleaning crew seems to think a single guy should live in a near vacant and spotless place and all the musical instruments and discs are frivolous, go out and spend [your] time in a "real" profession. She's not overly fond of me and this week they have been literally playing wrecking ball with the unit next door with carpentry and drums of bug spray. I think I have kept straightened out the last few years and especially for this last escapade, the sequel arriving in early June.

And indeed no one has said a discouraging word to me. But that hazy atmosphere. There is a music lesson Thursday garnished by a spotty week of practice and I feel, poor soul, intimidated with this crew around. But first comes another love of my life, a group fitness class. I packed work clothes, instrument, and papers and once at the place ran into a brass player from both my bands. He's an accountant at a nearby building materials concern and with the panorama of the gym's second story picture windows framing us, said in an otherwise pleasant tone look for, in a year and a half or two, printing ink priced gasoline (I embellish, I'm good at it!), pension plans collapsing and the dollar bowing to Monopoly money. I took class and headed off to put a little air into the sax.

But first a Federal refund check in the bank. While there, I spied a twenty-something gent in semi-formal black standing in the driveway with a flip phone at his ear. In a possibly Russian accent he was growing more agitated and I caught something about never minding his expenses. What cinematic stereotype did I run across? Was Klaus Kinski coming around the corner waving a Heckler And Koch?

Practicing the instrument felt good, working my way into some higher notes I've been applying to scales and some day songs and my own shyness, then it was off to the market for work food. Two, sue me (find me first) girthy ladies were ahead of me in line and were fretting about limiting the purchase to a certain amount and I had to admire check stand technology: okay, check this in but subtract this, and constant sniping from one about not running a household well. It was my turn and a man came in with two kids howling in a way a hundred of the most depressing visits to markets couldn't equal. And it appeared they were kept on lines.

I only occupy space in paradise.