This is the view from the top of my street. Sometimes I love L.A. so much it hurts. Like when it has rained through the night and the next morning the entire city wakes up shiny and you can't help but gulp down the air and smile at the funny palm trees lining the street or the observatory sitting like a crown on top of Griffith Park. Those are the mornings when the corner coffee shop with its broken wicker chairs and Frank Sinatra soundtrack couldn't be quainter, when the disaffected hipsters eating brunch on the corner with their shaggy hair and big sunglasses actually smile, when you read Fante and nod smuggly at the L.A. landmarks. Those are the mornings when you feel all has shaken into its correct slot, all is right in the world. Like this Sunday morning. There is no better combination than coffee and the New York Times. This was my happy thought this weekend. Boy if you took one brief look at this blog, you might think that i was bi-polar jumping from melancholy to bliss in back to back bloggings. Don't we all feel that way?