Last summer I was in San Pedro for the funeral at sea for my wife's best friend's mother. While we were all waiting for the boat to return from a previous service and pick us up, I saw this boy playing with these birds. I don't know if they were his, or if he was watching them for someone. But he appeared transfixed, hypnotized by observing these living creatures at close hand. Without trying to be poetic or corny, this episode added to the day.
After my curious friend left to go swimming with some others, I turned my attention to this group of birds hiding out from the horrible Hollywood sun in the shade of this tree. These first two didn't care to have anything to do with me and also opted to go into the lake. But that inquiring bird in the back wanted to see what I might be up to.
Look at the colors and patterns on this bird with violet legs and brown raccoon eyes. It approached me appearing nonchalant, but I could see it peering at me from the side.
It turned and looked directly at me. Doesn't it look like it's cocking it's head?
So, it stood there and let me have a good look. I opened up the lens in an attempt to get more detail. It looks like a Dickens' character or Peter Lorre (buried in a nearby mausoleum) wearing a frock coat. It needs the top hat. 
What a face! Look at those Lucy Ricardo lips, that Bob Hope snout, the Mae West dimple it calls a nostril, that Lone Ranger mask, and that Roy Earle haircut. That bird's all Hollywood.
After this bird left me, I decided to move on. I said goodbye once again to John Huston and Darren McGavin. I waved across the lake to Virginia Rappe, that poor lovesick sucker buried next to her who paid for her grave, Chaplin's mother and Tyrone Power. I got back in my Mercury. Opening the door and sliding into the seat, I felt like a juicy calzone being shoved into a pizza oven. I could've not closed the windows and kept the car open to the winds and thieves, but then I wouldn't have been able to lose myself amongst the stones. After driving through the Jewish section of the cemetery, I drove out the Gower street exit and headed north towards Sunset. At that point, I wanted air conditioning, a bookstore, and a martini, not necessarily in that order, but that's what happened. More on that later, that's Part Seven.
After I left John Huston's grave I wandered down to the bridge, thinking about walking across to the island mausoleum. But I spotted a pack of birds hanging around a shady tree lakeside. As is my custom with animals, I slowly walked in their direction and sat down a short distance from them, far enough away to not make any of them nervous, but close enough to invite their curiosity. 
That was how I made friends with my dog BUDDY. He was a rescue. He had been abused by his former owners and possessed a moody disposition. Knowing this, when he was let into the small yard to meet me, I sat down a short distance from him, with my back to his back. Eventually, he started checking me out and, realizing I wasn't going to hurt him, he came to sit next to me. We were friends ever since, right up to the day he died.
This bird felt safe enough with me to come really close. These are all wide angle shots taken at close range. We exchanged looks. The camera noise didn't bother it. The bird walked all the way around me, turned to give me a final look and a squawk goodbye, and then sauntered off and slid into the lake with a group of friends. 
The sun was still bearing down on my back, but the proximity to the lake and the distraction of the birds helped me not to notice. Then I spotted some more birds coming in my direction. But that's Part Six.
After I took the picture I followed her around the small tree and, as my wife puts it, "she spread her wings in flirtation with me." I feel complimented. My wife does the same thing. She stretches a lot.
Well, my new love proved fickle. Our relationship never got off the ground and now that I think of it, she never did either.
After I took her picture, she left me for a place in the sun. We're both better off.
You've got to give me credit. When I was thinking about what to write, I remembered I had an old Polaroid photo of myself here in this spot in 1990. I dug through my storage unit and found the picture. Here I am with three co-workers (the fourth is operating the camera) who I convinced to tour the stars' graves during our lunch hour.
Just after the picture of the four of us was taken, an elderly woman dressed in black came over to us and introduced herself as Valentino's "Lady in Black." We listened to her stories of how she claimed to be the daughter of the original "Lady in Black" and followed her over to the mausoleum where Rudy is buried. Here is a picture of yours truly in 1990 standing in front of Valentino's crypt with the "Lady in Black." I appear to be wearing mostly black myself, but that's not unusual for me.
Okay, enough with 1990. I turned my back on the white bird, that tease, and headed south. But that's Part Four.
