SHROUD NINE : Getting Lost in the Fog and Playing Other Mind Games in Los Angeles

On foggy days in L.A., the dangers of accidents and delays keep me grounded the way they did one recent morning when my plane was stuck a full hour in Minneapolis. The pilot announced all flights into LAX delayed, diverted or in holding patterns because of the fog.

As I waited for takeoff, I sleepily imagined a futuristic Los Angeles rivaling San Francisco and London with a fog so dense a chainsaw couldn’t slash through it. All roadworthy vehicles would be equipped with a digital radar gizmo (standard appointment, of course) that would reduce accidents by allowing the driver to navigate traffic at normal speeds as it detects stalled trucks, wayward pedestrians, wrong-way drivers and other hazards.

Rather than dispel my fantastic fog, the sun would exacerbate it, giving it a glassy, reflective sheen, increasing reports of eerie sightings and bizarre encounters, muffling and dulling urban violence as the fog’s suggestion of a deeper, more malevolent violence drives tenacious residents further into fluorescent-lit interiors. Tanning parlors and churches would experience an uncanny new boom as their congregations are revitalized. Therapists would unravel fog-related syndromes with sure-fog quick fixes, anti-fog-depression diets and fog-fitness exercise regimens. Our fog would inspire local artists and poets to create new metaphors and fog-inspired works. Fog would go Hollywood, with new lines of trendy fashions, jewelry and cologne. Geneticists and sociologists would clutter talk shows and the Internet, arguing nature over nurture, the discussion fueled by the controversial appearance of fog babies--all born with their eyes wide-open and able to focus. Studies would reveal otherwise normal children born with a peculiarly advanced development of the optic nerve. And, of course, some savvy media hound would christen this new wave of visionaries Generation X-Ray.

Playing in the fog was one of my favorite childhood adventures. The fog transformed the ordinary into the marvelous, the routine into the magical, the poor into the rich. It made the 10-minute walk from my South-Central home to school on Manchester Avenue fun. The shuffle of my oxfords became the hurried clip-clop of a horse-drawn carriage or the pitch-and-yaw of a sargasso-swamped ghost ship. Phantoms, vampires and werewolves were alive on misty moors bubbling with quicksand--images straight out of the afternoon movies. Or TV episodes of “The Twilight Zone” or “Thriller.” It felt so good to be scared.

My foggy-day memories revolve around Mama, home and stuffed animals, that long-ago-lost sense of security defined by oven-fresh cookies and hot chocolate, thick blankets and flannel PJs, hot towels and chest rubs. Everyone, even strangers, always seemed to have nicer dispositions on foggy days. Mean teachers were more tolerant; competitive classmates, more friendly. A foggy Christmas was so thrillingly spooky that even the myth of St. Nicholas took on supernatural probability.

But now the fun has lifted. Fog is more nuisance than nuance. Still, while driving through it, I can appreciate how objects emerge unexpectedly then recede. Drab buildings become artful facades, and densely populated areas become ghost towns. Trees and bushes strike romantic poses, and lion-head palms seem like all-seeing sentinels at eternity’s gate. I enjoy how sound and perception change when those low-level clouds drift ashore, turning every noise into the sinister thump, every street into a deserted sound stage after midnight. Fog is ever the stuff of baleful whistlers, threatening silhouettes and hidden heartbreak. Or perhaps it’s just my imagination. Or maybe fog is the manifestation of Angelenos’ secret desire for a winter with snow.