Chris Erskine

Well, little girl, should we boogie, should we trot?

The street is foggy. April drips from the trees. So, off we go on this misty morning, White Fang and me, off to see the world.

Wonder what happens when Smartacus goes off to school again in the fall? Will Bittner move in? Will White Fang and I finally marry?

Will I move someplace with a bit more solitude, out of earshot of the freeways, maybe a glistening little lake nearby?

Duluth … I hear great things about Duluth, though free citrus probably doesn’t roll down the street curbs after a storm, the way it often does here. In Duluth, the tundra is always frozen. Each spring, they need to thaw the birds.

To be honest, I find big cities less and less desirable. They are being abandoned by the young and the companies that hire them. Downtown real estate is crashing. And traffic howls all night long.

I don’t go to the Farmers Market for the fruit. I go for the therapy. (photo by Chris Erskine)

My biggest fear in the coming years: Being the oldest driver on the 101.

Yet, I am pinned here by a cruddy pool hall I adore and some very good gobs: my kids, my sidekick Suzanne, my buddies, the esteemed Happy Hour Hiking Club. Its own a gold mine of fellowship.

So, when I tire of trying to find parking at Porto’s — the greatest bakery in the world — or lose patience with the line at Langer’s — the greatest deli in the world — I take solace in knowing I have a productive little gold mine right here in the middle of a fractured world-class city.

FYI, we were at the California Club for Easter brunch — plush carpets, pre-historic oak. It was there that I learned Suzanne’s nickname was Auntie Soup. It’s a short story, and not all that interesting. But “Soup” is a fine nickname. And now I am spared the question: “Why does everyone in your column have a pseudonym but her?”

So, ladies and gents, please welcome Auntie Soup. Cue applause.

Not sure how Soup would do in Duluth. She loves lighthouses, and they are common as 7-Elevens up there. She’s not so fond of snow and slush or Midwestern earnestness.

Anyway, I haven’t left yet, because L.A. still owns me, as I explained before, and I like the yolky breakfasts and the calm you find between 10 and 11 a.m., when all the criminals knock off for the night.

Erskine reads the local paper with a cup of coffee at the Farmers Market. (photo by Andy Kitchen)

The other morning, I sneaked off to the Farmers Market, hitting every pothole between Glendale and the Fairfax District. Which is a lot of potholes, if I may be frank.

I pass lots of razor wire, which I’m pretty sure is just decorative, past the karate academies, the noodle shops and the “8 Barbers, No Waiting” salon on Beverly … all the things I would truly miss if I went screaming off to Duluth.

In this part of town, green turn arrows are like tiny miracles, allowing you to move forward in a sluggish area strangled with stoplights and lawless Uber drivers.

West of Wilton, things get greener, less urban, no graffiti. How do people live like this? Though I like all the sycamores and the one house with the ginormous Corinthian columns (two entire rows of acanthus leaves). I could live there for sure. It’s different in Hancock Park, more stately, with the presumption of safer streets and easy parking.

Me, I don’t presume anything in Los Angeles. I’ve read my Chandler.

Finally, I arrive at the Farmers Market, where I meet an old buddy at Charlie’s, the best little burger joint I know. We order the eggs.

And for 90 minutes, my buddy Martin and I vent, joke, sulk and kvetch about life here.

“Ain’t it grand?” is the eventual subtext.

I’ve brought an agenda so we don’t overlook anything:

Pronouns at the ends of emails. “What about adverbs?” I ask. “Mine are ‘barely, briskly and extremely.’”

March Madness. “Does a Cinderella ever win it all?” No.

The annoying new term “fur babies.” “How about we just call them dogs?”

Soon, the color drains from Martin’s face, so I know that we are making progress. I look lovingly at the bacon he doesn’t eat.

We talk about how movies today completely blow, especially if they’re unfortunate enough to win an Oscar, which in the past few years means they really blow.

It’s a big, rich breakfast agenda. Netflix. The media. Mel Brooks. We don’t even get to my unresolved feelings for Tricia Nixon, which taint everything I’ve done in my life up till now.

We don’t even get to my plans for a new life in Duluth, where you can buy a mansion for 12 bucks, or maybe a nice four-bedroom lighthouse for Auntie Soup.

In Duluth, all my dreams might come true.

Or, maybe they already have.

Email the columnist at Letters@ChrisErskineLA.com