Summer’s deafening crescendo

Lazy days in old L.A. Dream-walking in heat that bounces from 110 in the Valley to 75 at the beach. A soft breeze rustles the new green of the oak trees. Grass on the hillsides turns amber, dying under the relentless beat of the sun.

Mellow crowds at the Santa Monica Pier. The Silver Man, a human statue, performs, glowing in the salty sunlight of a touristy day, standing rigidly still, then moving abruptly. Squeals and screams. A fisherman looks up, looks away.

The video arcade is an island of cacophony. Things ding, bong, klink and click. Kids shout. Some scream. Outside, the Ferris wheel spins like a clock in space. The miniature roller coaster dips and turns. At Bubba Gump, another cold beer. More shrimp.

On a beach in Malibu, the surfer dudes refigure the 1st Amendment as the paparazzi redefine personal privacy. They clash. Life in the Golden Ghetto gets exciting. Pow! Wham! Thuck! Slap! Are pictures of Matthew McConaughey worth a cut lip? Is there a movie in this?

Now uniforms patrol the sand. Guns slung at their waists. Somber and sweaty, vowing to maintain peace. Protect the blond blue eyes. Keep America beautiful.

At a coin laundry in Woodland Hills, a homeless guy enters carrying a black plastic bag. He looks around, finds an empty washer, dumps a load in it and then strips, ever so discreetly, tossing those garments in too. A woman backs away. Another scampers out the back door. Wrapped in a ratty old blanket, the homeless guy sits, reads an abandoned back page of The Wall Street Journal, waits for his clothes to dry, re-dresses and leaves without saying a word.

A man has to clean up for the summer.

Along the avenues of the Valley, the jacaranda trees shed their lavender blooms. The streets are littered with petals, creating soft colors on the overheated landscapes. The blooms glory in the few days given them each year, dancing in the warm breezes of the season. Ballerinas on an open stage.

In gardens that line the streets, flowers wilt under triple-digit temperatures. Morning is abrupt and awesome. The mercury rises with the intensity of a scream. How hot can it get? Hotter. The ground sizzles.

It’s a season of diets. Trim for that bikini look. Lose pounds. Lose inches. Regain self-esteem. Flatten the abs. Enhance the boobs. Look young.

On television and in print the diet hucksters howl. Buy an AB fat-blasting system. Be beautiful and healthy with a CardioTwister. Eat Lean Cuisine. Go Jenny Craig. Try the Lap-Band System. Tie off your gut. Suck out the fat. Buy a Bender Ball. Transform your body. Try Naturopathics. Be skinny. Be loved. Be sexy. Belong!

In the mountains, deer amble into open yards and eat the roses. Even animal lovers damn the deer. A mountain lion drags away a pet goat. Another is seen strolling along a busy street at twilight. What to do about it? Nothing. Animals have their rights. Shoot one and you end up in the slammer. I see a bobcat along a fire trail. He turns, looks at me, scowls, moves on. An unreconstituted hippie wanders Topanga Canyon Boulevard. He turns, looks at me, smiles dimly, moves on.

Firefighters warn that it’s the worst fire season ever. Flames light the night in Malibu and Goleta. The rest of Southern California waits, tense, sniffing the wind for signs of smoke.

We hire a crew that does “selective brush clearing.” Like hell. Three men hit a brushy area like rural revolutionaries. Machetes, chain saws and blowers. The bilingual boss gets them there and leaves. Not one of the workers speaks English.

They’re supposed to cut this, save that, trim this, leave that alone, love this, hate that. They nod, grin, then level a hillside. Everything goes. Stuff that could burn, stuff that would never burn. They denude it, ask for water, get paid and take off. They leave a war zone. Nothing lives on the slope. The firefighters love it. We start all over again.

That night, dinner at Hal’s Bar and Grill. The place is jammed. The din of the crowd exceeds the roar of a departing jetliner. “This is nothing,” a waiter shouts over the cacophony. “You ought to see it on weekends.”

I look around. Mouths move. Words fly. Sounds merge into a loud, steady hum, like an approaching flight of killer bees. Mouths move at the bar. Mouths move at the booths. Mouths move at the tables.

Outside, a lingering twilight as warm and sweet as honey in rum stretches toward the night. Sunset’s colors tremble and fade on the horizon. The young are jazzed by the coming darkness. They flock to Hal’s like moths to a light. They tease. They flirt. They drink.

And they talk. Talk, talk, talk, talk, talk, talk, talk.

“What in the hell could they possibly have to say to each other?” I ask. “Don’t sweat it,” Cinelli says. “Drink your martini. Eat your olive. Relax.”

Summer in the city.

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