I toss out some of the letters I receive, the ones that pose questions I have answered before, or questions too trivial even for me. But I don't reject everything that finds no place in "Straight from the Hip." Some questions are good, but beyond my range of research or interest. They remind me of a moment I happened to see on television when was a kid. Billy Barty, the midget-actor, was interviewing a group of children, when one of them suddenly asked how old he was. "Good question!" Billy Barty replied. "Next question!" And then they cut for a commercial.
Here are two questions I couldn't answer:
Next question:
I also kept the letters that amplified or corrected some of the articles in my column. The following letters have to do with cows, the Sierra, and morphine:
And:
And:
And:
Here I must reply that White's initials stand for Terence Harbury. I somehow forgot to include his last name in the column. And while correcting names, I must note that the author of Psychedelic Drugs Reconsidered is Lester Grinspoon, not Arthur as I had in the column of November 13.
Last are the questions that I have not answered this year because nobody thought of sending them to me. This was a pity as I had the answers already in mind. Here are a few examples which I have no choice but to pose for myself:
On-ramps.
Hillcrest Yes. Freeway on-ramps. Having been raised in Los Angeles, I like the feel of a good ramp in the morning. I left L A. in 1973, when the San Diego-Santa Monica interchange (possibly the most thrilling system of ramps in the world) reached the point of congestion where a driver could only throw up his hands in disgust, causing them to bump the rearview mirror. So I moved to San Diego and have stayed ever since. First I lived in Encinitas, which was dull in every way that has to do with ramps (though the frontage roads were interesting), and then I moved to Golden Hill. I cannot report on the ramps in that neighborhood, for hardly a week had passed before somebody packed nearly all of my possessions, including my underwear and socks, into my Swiss rucksack and hiked out the bedroom window, which induced me to leave as well.
Hillcrest Something that I can only call my deepest intuition led me to an apartment across the street from what was then the El Cortez Hotel, just off the Ash Street exit from southbound Highway 163. It is one of the richest on-ramp locations in the state. Dips and weaves abound in every direction. My favorite was to take the Tenth Street exit from southbound I-5, and then to crank an illegal right turn across Highway 163 and shoot into a one-way alley that leads to Ash Street, and thence home.
Hillcrest Yes. I've settled down, too. Now I live on Hawthorne Street, west of Balboa Park, and have a tidy northbound entrance onto I-5. Southbound, I still go down the hill to the El Cortez neighborhood to take the ramp off Fifth. Best of all, though, is the ramp from Tenth Avenue (near University) in Hillcrest onto northbound 163. Dropping into that tight, black turn, one leaves the street so fast it feels like the first few seconds of a ride at Disneyland, or like riding in an airplane at the instant it leaves the ground. The freeway's merging lane is as fast as some of the classic entrances on the Pasadena Freeway, but here one finds an unexpected note of confidence and understatement. At the off-ramp from northbound 163 onto Washington Street (east), in a wedge of ground to the left of the turn, are two stately Washingtonia palms, botanical natives of California. Washington Street exit — Washingtonia palms: when I saw the two together, I knew I had to stay in a town that cultivates its unique heritage. □
I toss out some of the letters I receive, the ones that pose questions I have answered before, or questions too trivial even for me. But I don't reject everything that finds no place in "Straight from the Hip." Some questions are good, but beyond my range of research or interest. They remind me of a moment I happened to see on television when was a kid. Billy Barty, the midget-actor, was interviewing a group of children, when one of them suddenly asked how old he was. "Good question!" Billy Barty replied. "Next question!" And then they cut for a commercial.
Here are two questions I couldn't answer:
Next question:
I also kept the letters that amplified or corrected some of the articles in my column. The following letters have to do with cows, the Sierra, and morphine:
And:
And:
And:
Here I must reply that White's initials stand for Terence Harbury. I somehow forgot to include his last name in the column. And while correcting names, I must note that the author of Psychedelic Drugs Reconsidered is Lester Grinspoon, not Arthur as I had in the column of November 13.
Last are the questions that I have not answered this year because nobody thought of sending them to me. This was a pity as I had the answers already in mind. Here are a few examples which I have no choice but to pose for myself:
On-ramps.
Hillcrest Yes. Freeway on-ramps. Having been raised in Los Angeles, I like the feel of a good ramp in the morning. I left L A. in 1973, when the San Diego-Santa Monica interchange (possibly the most thrilling system of ramps in the world) reached the point of congestion where a driver could only throw up his hands in disgust, causing them to bump the rearview mirror. So I moved to San Diego and have stayed ever since. First I lived in Encinitas, which was dull in every way that has to do with ramps (though the frontage roads were interesting), and then I moved to Golden Hill. I cannot report on the ramps in that neighborhood, for hardly a week had passed before somebody packed nearly all of my possessions, including my underwear and socks, into my Swiss rucksack and hiked out the bedroom window, which induced me to leave as well.
Hillcrest Something that I can only call my deepest intuition led me to an apartment across the street from what was then the El Cortez Hotel, just off the Ash Street exit from southbound Highway 163. It is one of the richest on-ramp locations in the state. Dips and weaves abound in every direction. My favorite was to take the Tenth Street exit from southbound I-5, and then to crank an illegal right turn across Highway 163 and shoot into a one-way alley that leads to Ash Street, and thence home.
Hillcrest Yes. I've settled down, too. Now I live on Hawthorne Street, west of Balboa Park, and have a tidy northbound entrance onto I-5. Southbound, I still go down the hill to the El Cortez neighborhood to take the ramp off Fifth. Best of all, though, is the ramp from Tenth Avenue (near University) in Hillcrest onto northbound 163. Dropping into that tight, black turn, one leaves the street so fast it feels like the first few seconds of a ride at Disneyland, or like riding in an airplane at the instant it leaves the ground. The freeway's merging lane is as fast as some of the classic entrances on the Pasadena Freeway, but here one finds an unexpected note of confidence and understatement. At the off-ramp from northbound 163 onto Washington Street (east), in a wedge of ground to the left of the turn, are two stately Washingtonia palms, botanical natives of California. Washington Street exit — Washingtonia palms: when I saw the two together, I knew I had to stay in a town that cultivates its unique heritage. □
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