I've got a brilliant-beyond-brilliant idea for the next presidential candidate. All you hopefuls, please feel free and steal this phrase and use it as the catch-phrase to sum up your entire campaign: I'm not him. That is all, please go on with your day.
Edited to add: Totally unrelated, but: This is too good not to share! Special thanks to Chiada for this one.
LOCK. LOCK. Our car doors have a nice, authoritative sound, comforting when you're (I'm) sitting alone in the car on a busy, if a bit seedy, part of downtown Woodland Hills. Never comfortable in the L.A. region - and I'll be honest, for me, anywhere south of Oxnard is more or less La-la land...it all sort of blends together in one, big blob of traffic, ugly billboards and people who go 95 while on the phone, smoking and always without signaling. Not my favorite place, in short. Back to lock, lock.., though -
LOCK. LOCK. I leaned back in my seat and pressed the button for my friend/assistant to see what was going on at home. Outside, the wind was gusting in the near-darkness, and many of the daytime shops were closed or closing. A Bic'd headed, heavy-set pasty guy in tattered jeans and too many piercings/tattoos for civility was pulling the bars shut across a record shop and lingering, taking digital pictures (security? memories? his blaaahhhhg? MySpace?). He didn't return my smile, or perhaps he didn't see me. I could see Scott picking through the merchandise (knives, but he is not one of those crazy knife guys, I swear) in the store to my right, the whole storefront reinforced glass walls.
As I started my conversation, a scrawny woman, maybe in her fifties, maybe younger but beaten down with age, approached the car. Clad in a too-thin sweatshirt, she started for my window. I gave a quick half-smile, ready to shake my head no, I didn't have any money/cigarettes/matches/whatever. She rapped thickened, dirty knuckles on my window and said, "Ess thees chyours?" in an accent I couldn't place. Expecting a ploy to get me to open my door, I tilted my head toward the window, still on the phone, didn't see anything, and gave a half-shake of my head. Adding to my concern, I could see a larger, indistinct figure hovering nearby her, only a shape backlit by the bright store. With my keys and purse clearly on my lap, I was not about to just open the door and bend over some unknown mystery item. Uhh-uhh. Riiiight, I thought, I'll just bend my head over, they'll crack me on the head, and...well, this is L.A., or close enough, home of a thousand ploys to separate an unsuspecting person and their money, or car, or worse.
"Look, I've gotta go, there's some lady talking to me through my window, callyoubackinasec, OK?", I said. (Fortunately, Christie is used to my auctioneer-paced delivery and signed off quickly.)
"Eesss thees chourrs?" I couldn't see anything, and I could see Scott coming out the door of the store. Thank goodness. I hate dealing with homeless people asking me for money and stuff, it always leaves me feeling angry and sickened, as well as ashamed for feeling that way. 'Hurry up, hurry up,' I thought, 'She's about to hold up some awful thing and ask me for-'
"Eet's money, did you drop money?" She was holding a twenty dollar bill. Shame and relief flooded my system completely, a Slurpee headache in July. Scott had stepped out of the car, his wallet full of cash I hadn't used at the dentist. Somehow it had fallen, not on his side of the car, out into traffic and away with the wind, but near the tire on my side.
"Oh my gosh, yes, thank you so much! I really appreciate it, that was so kind!", I said, rolling down the window and opening the door to retrieve it. She smiled, shuffled off with her companion in the cold wind, happy to help, clearly expecting nothing for her good deed. Scott had by this time crossed the pavement, seen her hand me the $20, and pulled his wallet out and inspected the contents. He pulled the car forward and I scooped up the other $40, precisely what he'd dropped.
Sixty dollars isn't much money these days. Sixty dollars probably could have bought her something she wanted or needed, certainly a good dinner or a little treat. We would have argued over who/how it was lost, spent an irritable evening, maybe needled each other in the next day or so about it, but it would have been more an annoyance than a serious problem. On the other hand, a reminder about expecting more bad than good from people was priceless. Especially in the middle of a busy street, on a windy evening in L.A.. Los Angeles, a city full of con artists, criminals, homeless, drug addicts, desperate out-of-work actors, musicians, producers, plastic surgeons, artists, families, elderly, students, hippies, people, human beings.
Or: Off to jolly old Mexico for more bloody dental work, need more meds.
Reasons We Should/n't Rent out our house, get a gardener and Move to Mexico:
Should:
I don't think my threshold for pain is terribly high, but I believe it's been growing in hellish leaps and bounds the past year or so. Right now the front quadrant of my mouth is doing its best to drive me right out of my head with the exquisitely agonizing sensation that I've come to recognize as "Expensive", or "Ohh, bollocks, not another bloody root canal!". I've talked about our budget forays into the dental world before, so I won't bore you any further with that. Pain itself, though, is an interesting notion these days.
Compared to our recent ancestors, we know nothing whatever of pain in a medical sense... We've got anesthesia for operations, you name it, it'll make you feel alllll better. I happily down a Darvocet (and would gladly take a Valium, if anyone's got some) before I even set foot in the dentists' office, but through some quirk in my system, still require enough Novacaine injections to fell a moose. Our grandparents or great-grandparents suffered bravely through all sorts of hideous procedures with a little laudnum, or a couple of shots...if that. Because there was no alternative, no way around the physical suffering that everyone went through.
I remember my mom telling me a story about her Grandma Daisy. Grandma was on a walk with her older brother. Shoeless for the summer, she somehow managed to step down on a giant railroad nail, which completely pierced her foot. Her brother removed her from the nail, took his chewing tabacco from his mouth, and used it to pack the wound. A little bandaging, and she was as good as new. These days, that little fiasco would have resulted in:
Before I fall into a pasta-induced coma....a note about sleep. I love sleep, sleeping in, snuggling with Scott, Fynn and Edie in bed, telling stories in the dark before bed, having my back tickled, you name it. Our house may be many things, but it is usually a very happy, loving place come bedtime. When I was thinking about marrying Scott (an intense three weeks), one of the many items in his favor was his propensity for staying and getting up late. If it sounds a little shallow, consider this little story:
Mellow John, a night-owl, is married to cheery Jane, an early riser. Jane is up by half-past six, at the gym by seven, working out till eight and showers, grabs a powerbar and is at work from 9 am-5pm, every day. Her husband, John, gets up at nine, works from 10 am-6 pm, and than hits the gym and Trader's for anything they might need. By the time he fights traffic home, showers and begins to feel like a human again, it's after nine, and he won't be ready for bed for hours yet. Jane has been home for a while and is just waiting to say hi, watch Gray's Anatomy and go to bed, exhuasted and entirely unenthused about going back to work the next day. Not surprisingly, John was looking forward to spending a little time with his wife, she's irritated because she needs to sleep, now, and.....we have a Fight. The sort that murmurs on for months and years at a time, without ever being resolved, until Jane wisens up and stops getting up at such an ungodly hour.
No, I'm kidding about that, some people like doing stuff in the morning, greeting the day, being awake for the sunrise on a regular basis, bla bla bla. I call them 'le crazy', and they probably think of me as 'le lazy'. Seriously - don't you married folks find that usually the fights that start small, i.e., "The toilet paper is facing the wrong way....again!" often end with, "...and I hate your mother, too!", tears and recrimination? That, my friends, is why it was so vital to me to find someone who kept the same (crack fiend) hours as I do to spend the rest of my mornings (and nights) with. I dated enough surfers to know that while I am all for 'dawn patrol' in theory, I would be more of a bedside supporter than a chilly, tea-drinking cheerleader. All of which makes it that much more appropriate that I've got my own personal Mr. Sanders.
This post kicks off my official participation in NaBloPoMo. That being said, I have a shameful confession to make: Despite my proclamations of contempt for reality tv, I love, love, love Dr. 90210. That is all. If you haven't seen it, or have been living under a rock/in a garbage pail/sans cable tv and aren't familiar, here's the rundown:
The show tells the stories of the personal and professional lives of a number of Beverly Hills/L.A. plastic surgeons and their patients. The main doctors, Robert Rey, Linda Li (who works with her husband - he's an anesthisiologist) Jason Diamond and Robert Alter, all have slightly different 'takes' on how they approach their patients, and obviously really love their jobs. They do tons of boob jobs, nose jobs, liposuction on almost every part of the body, reconstructive surgeries, and all manner of other things. I invariably end up feeling sorry for Dr. Rey's wife, Haley - she's a tiny little thing with big blue eyes and a sweet smile. She seems weighed down with running after her two kids, a huge house and her ginormous implants, trying desperatly to get a scrap or two of her flamboyant husbands' attention. Between his obsessive workaholism to his pink ties, perfect highlights and daily martial arts, he doesn't seem to have the time or the inclination to be the husband she wishes he could be.
Oddly enough, I notice that the surgeons themselves actually seem to have very "plastic" personalities and interactions with their families, friends and clients. Every smile, every hug, every post-surgery "review" seems so carefully calculated to the last uncomfortable nuance. First the house is too small, than it's too big, first the implants were too big, now they need a lift. Perfection, it seems, is an endless race with the horizon as the finish line - never any closer, no matter how fast you run.
In real life, we've noticed that some of the people we know who've had "work" done seem to actually become noticeably fake and different in the way they talk, walk and act. It's really strange, and honestly more off-putting than if they'd settled for less-plush lips or smaller boobs or a few wrinkles. As with everything, moderation seems to be the key - and the ever more elusive Common Sense.
Personally, I'm not opposed to giving a little, tasteful help where heredity (thanks for the rectangle butt and hips the width of the Brooklyn Bridge, Ma!) age, early sun damage (don't worry Mom, you didn't know any better than to let me lay out with you for hours at a time) or gravity let you down. Provided, of course, you pay for it yourself, don't suddenly start shamelessly flaunting your new boobs around, and are getting the work done solely for your own reasons, not to make someone else happy.
Botoxing your forehead into a Kabuki mask, bleaching your...rear area, or buying your 92 pound daughter/girlfriend implants that are bigger than your combined brains do not fall into my personal criteria of "Good Ideas". Frankly, neither does planning an early C-section so that you a) don't get stretch marks in those last three weeks and b) can get right back to work on people's insecurities straightaway. However, that is just my opinion, and worth exactly what you paid for it.
Chiada and I always used to joke how I'd need a facelift for her wedding - this many years later, I think I'd prefer one for her anniversary. Her silver anniversary, provided that Dr. Rey is still running a practice in one of those gorgeous pink ties.
In other news: Remember the tree that ate my driveway? We were awoken at seven this morning by the dulcet tones of chainsaws, chippers and "Rapido! rapido!". I could just about kiss every Pedro, Jose and Ernesto over there - by this afternoon, we are going to have a mountain view. When I step outside, the air is redolant of pine sap and sawdust, a fresh aromatic scent. It smells like the real thing, and will be just to the right of this:
Dear Fall,
Words cannot sufficiently express my deep appreciation for your recent cooperation. The cloud cover, sans rain or excess breezes, has proved to be the perfect light diffuser for photography. Your gracious use of rain in the wee hours of the morning has served to keep everything looking and smelling clean and tidy outside, and yet has not dampened or soiled anything I've had set up outside.
If you could just keep this up for two more weeks, I will be eternally grateful. Rain, hail, wind, etc will be just fine in November, so long as they don't prevent us from going up to Berkeley and hanging out with our friends somewhere after I turn all of twenty-seven. (Twenty-seven...when did that happen? And how stoked am I that I was clever enough to go ahead and have my 'quarter-life crisis' two years ago, right at the two and a half decade mark.) In closing, I'd also like to thank you for being significantly less depressing than I've traditionally found you to be.
Thanks much and can't wait for the candy corn.
Maya
Dear Edie,
Please stop trying to "Houdini" your way out of every small crack of the door or potential open screen. You are almost pure white and every speck of dirt, spider web, or other gross item shows clearly on your coat. Also, you are not....intensely well-acquainted with The Great Outdoors, and are likely to get eaten, stolen or or run over the second you go outside. This would be A Bad Thing and your father, brother and I would be very, very tramatized by it. Also, stop chewing on the foam padding that lines your papa's DJ coffin. I've been picking up tiny bits of gray foam off the floor for days and your litterbox has been less than its' normal bundle of joy.
PS. We think you're the cutest little girl-squirrel in the world.
Dear Impending Holiday Season/"Winter",
Again may I say how very much Christmas sweaters, egg-nog, Norman Rockwell reproductions, the jolly Coca-Cola Santa Claus ads and those saccarine Christmas movies make me want to hurl. Since we don't have 'real seasons' here, I can't really get behind the cute chunky layered sweater/scarf/nice boots look, and end up just wearing jeans and a sweater and a scowl with sandals like always. Admittedly my heart is made of tar and little peices of ground-up glass, but my vote is to move right from candy and turkey on sale to a more handy month, like April.
PS. You better not rain on the 1st. Death March Day is sacred.
Love, your mom.
Dear Mooshi-Mooshi and other Family Members,
I know you visit me here. Why no comments? Just because you're in the other room doesn't mean you can't show me some love. STOP LURKING, for the love of Pete. It skeeves me out I seee youuuu and don't know what you think about this stuff.
xoxoxo
Maya
Dear Everyone Who Meets Me For More than 2.5 seconds, including the intoxicated new father from Saturday who kept asking me if he or his friend was better looking,
Please try and look past the fact that I have a uterus that is not currently in use and see me as just a person. I also have a brain, many ideas and other interests, and feelings. Despite my somewhat witty responses to your repeated, rather intrusive questioning, said feelings are a bit bruised when you ask me why I'm not/I don't/when am I going to/how can I NOT/how can I say that I know I don't want to have a kid if I don't already haaave one. I was working that particular evening, not trolling around for your unsolicited opinions on my life choices.
PS. I bet your kid is ugly. Yes, I am mean. Maybe that is the best arguement in favor of my non-procreation. I am a mean and evil person who secretly thinks that 96 of out 100 newborn babies are frightenly ugly. Also, I've witnessed the 'miracle of birth' at close hand, twice, and it was miraculous that I didn't scoop out my eyes with a melon baller.
When I compare
What I have lost with what I have gained,
What I have missed with what attained,
Little room do I find for pride.
I am aware
How many days have been idly spent;
How like an arrow the good intent
Has fallen short or been turned aside.
But who shall dare
To measure loss and gain in this wise?
Defeat may be victory in disguise;
The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Well, let's all hope so, right?
......."Maa? Papa? They've LEFT US! Traitors! How could....hey, is that a bird outside?"
For the first time since January, we're off to Monterey. I've got high hopes that we'll leave sometime in the morning, but that never quite seems to work out. The cats will likely do this number for a few minutes and then settle down to biting each other and sleeping. Since S. lived there from age nine till about twenty-eight, there are lots of friends to see and Things to Do. Really, we go up to see family and have an excuse to eat chowder at
I've just been out in our shed and found my Hello Kitty diary from when I was little. I spent about a half hour pouring over the pages, trying to bring back all the memories.
The inner page reads, "To M., with Love to my Little Skipper*. You will always be my little sister. I still have my Hello Kitty Diary, hope you will keep yours till your married + have your kids. Love you lots, Cyndi M." (Note: Spelling and punctuation intact) The facing page reads (my writing) "I got this on March 23rd, 1990. I was given it by Cyndi M, when she was over." Specific yet confusing, really not much has changed in my writing the past seventeen years.
*One of my many absurd nicknames as a kid. Yes, there was a reason. No, I don't skip around everywhere anymore.
Most of the inside is blank. There are a huge number of pages ripped out, and what remains are a few vague entries. I literally had to tear away parts of my childhood that I would savor and remember today, in order to avoid potentially getting in trouble, for what I have no idea. In my quest for privacy in my securely locked diary, I went as far as to write this as the third entry:
(3-24-90) "In this diary, I'm not going to have any "juicy parts, and I'm not going to list anyone's name, only their enitials or the very obious hints about them, or I'm going to say, "this person I know, her in Mrs. Fisher's class is sooo cute' or somthing like that. But any stuff that's not personal will list full names. PS I didn't promise to write every day, but as often as I can." I also remember writing something to/about my sisters: "If Erin and Amy ever read this, they'll find out about how they will have to get glasses and braces and zits when they get big".
I had multiple, moving hiding spots for the little book and its key, and only wrote in it while alone. I was so aware of the fact that my mom might some day find it, decipher the confusing entries and get mad at me for... something, that I rarely wrote. One of the entries seems both funny and telling.
(4/30/90) "Well, sorry about not writing, but the Stumbah kids* were a handful! (I like all little kids, nearly! (I did laundry for a while today. It's so much fun to be a director of a play! (Or at least, part of one) Wheneverr anyone has a question or problem, to actully be in charge!** Well, I've gotta go!"
*These "kids" are now twenty-four and twenty years old, by my best guess. Their parents live around the corner from mine, in Colorado.
**The "being in charge"/"director of a play" part? So reminds me of my job!
There's a mournful three-page entry about the parakeet I cared for dying. Dickie (not my choice of name) was a little blue guy that a friend of ours purchased for her son Andre, who'd been in a motorcycle accident about a year before. (See bottom) Mostly, its sad because I remember the incident - but not the ones I ripped out. I was far too afraid of the repercussions of writing my feelings instead of repressing them. When I came back inside, I looked at S. and said,
"This is the reason that I would never, ever, invade our (hypothetical) kids' policy. This put me off writing for years - it truly scarred the trust I had in my parents' trust in me and the feeling I had that I could come to them if I had a real problem." That and the fact that I'm sure kids don't keep diaries anymore - they're all on MySpace.
In a sort of twenty-first century, backwards way, blogging (thus far) feels like a bit of redemption for all of that. No, I don't pour out every little feeling I have onto the page, but I'm also not in fear of being spanked, lectured, cross-examined and humiliated.... without my consent. I think part of one of the entries sums things up - Just give me a soapbox to stand on:
(11/21/90) "It's my life, and I'll take the good and the crappy, I guess. The funny thing is, when I get good and mad, I'm going to SPEW, like an overflowing POT! HA HA! HA!"
Editors' note: Like this entry: Wait till I post some of my craptacular old poetry next week.
____________________________________________________
Sad Accident Story: He'd had a helmet on, hadn't been speeding, the guy just didn't see him. Andre's parents poured years and thousands of dollars into various therapies, some cheap like Dickie, and others costly. None of them made a difference - he's S. age or older, almost forty years old. Andre was around twenty at the time of the accident, and he's been tube-fed, diapered, excercised and tended to every day since that one. Last year his poor mother passed away, leaving his dad to care for his only child alone. Honestly, he is the reason I believe in two things: 1) Under no circumstances is my husband getting a motorcycle or related devices
2) Allowing people in a persistent vegatative state pass away comfortably. It truly would have been better if we could remember Andre fondly instead of wincing and thinking, "Please, please let me die if I get in a bad accident."
This poem, The Quitter, is by Mr. Robert Service - among the boxes (yes, boxes) of cool old poetry books I've got, there's this big old ragged book. The cover is half ripped off, waterstained, hard-loved, tossed in satchels, used and abused ever since 1940 when this version came out. I've read every one of the poems in it. My parents, who are avid backpackers, have used precious space in their packs to bring it with them to the Sierras so they could read it by firelight. My "uncle" Dan memorized a few of the poems, such as the famously long "The Ballad of Sam McGee," which tells the story of a Yukon prospecter from Tennessee who freezes to death, but on his cremation wakes up happy, since its "the first time I've been...warm." Uncle Dan is not a reader of poetry, much less someone who does things like memorize a poem fifteen stanzas long and recite it verbatim from memory.
Mr. Service wrote enjoyable, rough-n-tumble poems about the Yukon, World War I, life in France, death everywhere, and common things. He was a poet for the everyday person who enjoys dreaming of adventures, or the adventurous one who liked a reminder of home. My girlfriend, Nat, memorized The Quitter.
So in honor of Nat and all the people who are fighting their own personal battles
When you're lost in the Wild, and you're scared as a child,
And Death looks you bang in the eye,
And you're sore as a boil, it's according to Hoyle
To cock your revolver and . . . die.
But the Code of a Man says: "Fight all you can,"
And self-dissolution is barred.
In hunger and woe, oh, it's easy to blow . . .
It's the hell-served-for-breakfast that's hard.
"You're sick of the game!" Well, now, that's a shame.
You're young and you're brave and you're bright.
"You've had a raw deal!" I know -- but don't squeal,
Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight.
It's the plugging away that will win you the day,
So don't be a piker, old pard!
Just draw on your grit; it's so easy to quit:
It's the keeping-your-chin-up that's hard.
It's easy to cry that you're beaten -- and die;
It's easy to crawfish and crawl;
But to fight and to fight when hope's out of sight --
Why, that's the best game of them all!
And though you come out of each gruelling bout,
All broken and beaten and scarred,
Just have one more try -- it's dead easy to die,
It's the keeping-on-living that's hard.
Adobe: A sun-dried, unburned brick of clay and straw.
This wall is only a few blocks up the street from my house, and it stretches on for a few blocks in either direction. I never pass up an chance to run my hand lightly over the rough, irregular bricks, so different than the selection at Home Depot that they almost seem like a different item. Usually I stop for a minute or two and pick out some little thing in the bricks; a walnut-sized rock, a shell, a twig the size of my thumb. The stones seem a bit sad to me because I know they were made by poor, hungry Chumash indian laborers. I marvel over the fact that irregular, hand-crafted bricks have withstood the rigors of time, construction, remodels, zoning and rocking earthquakes without even being fired in a kiln. Where the two sides of the wall intersect, there's a prayer for peace set in brightly-colored tile.
The irony of that prayer never fails to hit me - despite the buccolic image projected in the history books, Mission life was often tainted with cruelty and violence. Missions, haciendas and homes for the rich were mostly built by generations of despairingly poor people who lived crammed in amongst each other, competing for a few scraps of food and grinding their corn into meal for tortillas. Meanwhile, a few padres lived on their spraling, extensive properties.
These days, houses like this are generally occupied by a family of four or five at most. Many of the beautiful old Victorian homes have been sub-divided into apartments or pricey offices. (Editors' note: Actually, the light coral one is a graduate research institute. I'm sure it was a private villa at one time.)
You only need to look at them to see that for each one, a small army of household staff (gardeners, cleaners, chef/nutritionist, au pair/tutor) are Required. Most of these people don't "live in" (much to pretentious! - plus ....identity theft) so each night the well-tended little group settles in for a sleep. I don't pretend to say that they don't have their problems (St. Barts or four-star Costa Rican eco-friendly resort for spring break? Botox or fruit-acid peel?).
I just think the problems are a bit different at times. It can be positively bewildering to go for a walk with all the one-way streets. Fortunately, there are extra street signs posted ON THE GROUND. Heaven forbid mum turns the baby jogger down the wrong street and end up in the wrong neighborhood!
Back to the problems, though. You know, Real Problems such as: What to do with the antique water tower in the back yard? (City Planning Comission generally disallows tearing them down) Solution: These funky towers can be tastefully transformed into home offices with a view, posh guest-bedrooms (good for guests who snore) kids' playhouses, and art studios - great for plein-aire or photography. 
Or another pressing dilemma: What to plant in the city parkway so as to subtly discourage children from playing, skating or walking on your side of the street? Answers below.
You can see all these sights on the tour (Red Trolley, runs every couple of hours, relatively cheap and informative) if you come to town. I admit, I pass by them often without a second thought all the time. Sometimes it can be hard to live amongst such plenty and be grateful for what you have. I admit to having regular twinges of yard/house envy. Until I get to the adobe walls - and then I thank goodness that we're here and its now - and I'm not standing over a wooden brick form, mixing up straw and rocks for the Padre.
"Dear Prudence,
Won't you come out to play? The sun is out, the sky is blue, its beautiful,
and so are you.." So go the words of a wonderful song that I've always loved, in fact S. was just playing it on his new seven-string guitar. The wonderful thing about being married/involved with a musician of any kind: The music. If I awake one day and suddenly MUST hear a bootlegged version of the Jesus & Mary Chain's "Just Like Honey", I know just the guy who has is it on hand for my Listening Pleasure. Do we need to own six copies of Echo & the Bunnymen's "Ocean Rain" (in this house referred to as, 'the best album .. ever" by some), so as to have the live versions, the older version, the studio version, and the twentieth-anniversary edition, plus the 'regular' one? I don't know...but we do.
My house is really more of a glorified music supply area, dedicated to the making of, listening to, revising and study of ROCK n' ROLL. Were someone to break in (heaven forbid!) with evil intent, they could actually be killed in an avalanche of CD's that live in S' "office". Now that would be a story for the masses, wouldn't it? "Intruder Killed in Freak Home Electronics Accident".
Hold on, I have to say something: Orville Redenbachers' Mini-Bags? 100% perfect.
Ok, we're back to the regularly scheduled programming.
In my exhaustive (ha!) studies, I've discovered there are a few types of musician:
a) The Brooding, troubled Musician. While great to have around if you happen to live in a dank, smoky bar that smells of disenfectant and despair, this type tends not to do so well in social situations. Situations such as work, making New Friends, going on a regular date without drama, and cheering you up when you're having a bad day. Females of the species may eschew regular deodarant/showering, apply eyeliner by the pound and apply copius "rriot grrl"-type bumper stickers to any vehicle they may own. Fantastic if you need to know names and artists on obscure record labels and hold long conversations on the merits of say, The Smiths vs. The Cure, or the merits of Charles Mingus' "Goodbye, Pork Pie Hat" as appropriate background music for occasions ranging from funerals to cocktails with friends.
b) The Jam-Star. This one totes an instrument around with them most times, and is willing to pick up and play anywhere, any time. The Golden Retriver of musicians - s/he may not be the brightest of the bunch, but is always eager to please. Knows a little Bob Marley, some Eagles, a few riffs of Metallica, a smattering of Jack Johnson and a dozen or so semi-obscure songs/artists, but is totally willing to stretch this knowledge out for...hourrrs. Perfect for beach days, barbeques and the like - but if you give 'em an open mike or an audience, you're responsible. All effects are severely hightened by alcohol.
c) The Serious Musician. This is their career, man, its serious business. So what if they are in their eighth year as a waitress/coffee server/bartender - they're just waiting for their big break. Did you get the last demo CD? Have you seen the new flier for the next show? Are you coming, and bringing friends? May or may not accept critiques with sufficient dispassion to make needed changes. American Idol is for posers! (well, I do agree with that part) Popular singers, songwriters and musicians are often critiqued for thier various flaws, such as selling out or bad collaborations.
d) Truly, Madly, Deeply Talented. Real genius meets real life. For the most part, disaster ensues, unless they are somehow sheltered by fortunate circumstances. Shaving and rational thought completely optional. Think Vincent Van Gogh..... without his brother, Theo.
One of the many things I love about S. is the fact that he is simutaneously all and none of these choices. He might spend a few hours a night practicing, but rarely broods. He refers to music as his "surfing", meaning that it is his hobby, his entertainment, his escape; but doesn't use it to escape from life's responsibilities. When I see how much fun he has, just sitting around in his boxers and playing guitar, it makes me wish I had talent of any kind. Lately he's been taking some lessons and I've really noticed the difference.
Plus, there's nothing better than being one of the girls "with the band" - call me a shameless groupie if you will, its all music to my ears.
People, I need serious help with my HTML issues. My apologies for the current (funky) template. I'm workin' on it, since I've been laboring under the misguided thought that the beeeyouuutiful template (if I do say so meself) that I could see for the last week or so... was visible to y'all. Turns out, not so much. My apologies for any headaches this one may cause you in the meanwhile.
Am quite busy with work and trying to get well, but will be back with stories soon.
I'm relaxing at The Daily Grind, our local coffee-house/My Other Office, just after what I'm fairly certain was a great meeting with a new client. Yes, I'm mellow with non-fat chai latte and sated with the (fattening, to be sure) tender apple-filled croissant I just ate... but from where I sit - Let me describe what I see:
-The Working guys that just walked in the door - they look like painters (all-white clothes, slight spatters) on their break. Two burly Mexican gents that are placidly aware of the fact that they are here to be served, not to serve.
-Cute couple (he looks like he's on a work break, and in fact just smiled at me, she looks like she's coming or going to class at City College) noshing on smoothies. They have the comraderie of two good friends, but you can never be sure.
-French (at least I THINK) gents wearing expensive trainers, synching their laptop with their digital pictures. Although they may find the coffee oooookay, its the technology that's keeping them here.
-Scarily thing lady who might weigh eighty pounds. Oddly, she's brought her own breakfast, although it looks to be an effort to spoon a few Cheerios into her mouth. She's almost asleep, but still chewing. I don't even have a conjecture, but at least she's TRYING to eat.
-Local "Muffia" (power mums) who meet in their perfect blonded/blended highlights and chat, surely, about things like tennis lessons, Botox and how to get the most for your money out of the cleaner. Ok, ok, I'll be nice - maybe they are discussing the latest benefit or charity dinner. I don't envy them their lives, even though I've got about five hundred bucks to my name at this point. There's far too much stress in trying to appear 30 and know every trend when you aren't, and don't care.
-Students (through the window) of what appears to be molecular or cellular biology. These cute, close-cropped boys are just the thing if you ever need a mitochondrial DNA check, but not much for a night out on the town...check please!
-Older couple, seated outside, he in a red baseball cap, light tan and handsome white beard/goatee, she in a casual striped shirt. I don't take them for Gramps n' Gran - more like older polital activist types, doubtless discussing what S.B. used to be like and how to rejuvenate Mission Creek for the steehead trout to spawn in.
-S. and my favorite coffee-house dude, Scott ("Scotty!!!" I call him) who hooked me up with my current Internet Access. He's a die-hard Clipper fan (wearing the T-shirt today), which makes for a lot of back and forth banter between he and my husband. For the last six or eight years, he's been here, waking at four-thirty to come and make lattes and coffees and schlep bagels to we the hungry masses. The only time I've ever seen him in less than a cheery mood was after a particularly bad Clippers/Lakers loss. This morning he informed me he'll be there tonight. I wonder why he's been here so long every time I come in, but always quit wondering after he hands me my drink. S. comes here most days for his single cup of coffee, and most of the time he gets it from our guy, Scotty.
*Biology guy just flashed me his book and a charming smile. Wonder if he knows I'm writing about him?
-Various owners of assorted dogs file in and out, their canine companions wait for them on the outdoor patio, so I don't know who belongs to whom. I let out a tiny squeee! when I saw the half-ground red hound puppy this morning - all nose and legs in five directions, she just wanted to be loved.
-Overgrown college guys: One in trousers and a button-up shirt, looks like he might have parents who came here from India or ?, v. handsome with cocoa skin and carefully mussed hair... on second inspection, a bit TOO carefully mussed, if you know what I mean. The other is clinging to his keg-standing days by only his newsboy cap and day-old stubble.
-Single Latina-mom-student type, poring carefully over a textbook of some kind. I bet she goes to school and takes care of at least one kid, plus has a job. Yet she still found the energy to smile at me when I looked up at her. She came here to study in the relative peace and quiet of the weird 80's music-medly and the roar of the cappicino and smoothie machines.. imagine what her house sounds like? Ay ay ay ayyy!
-A mom/dad/college-age daughter - are they here checking out schools, or visiting her? Mom is wearing definite mom jeans (you know, 10 inch zipper) and sensible bob, dad sports T-shirt and shorts, athletic shoes. Daughter (acid-green sweater, her mom's hair color) is going with a mix of Tired-from-last-night/Ennui/Why do I have to show you guys EVERYTHING! Gawwwd!, but I can tell she's missed them, or will miss them, when they leave.
Usually when I'm here there are moms with babies, oh, one just came in - baby is barefoot, cutely chubby in a bright-striped shirt, mom is dark-haired and attractive without making you hate her for being stick-thin two weeks post-partum. There are often a contingency of hippie types (all of the patchtouli stink, none of the ideals, no bras ev-ver!) Punk/Club kids and some older, some handicapped and a few just Plain Crazies. For the most part, people are helpful, friendly, not talking (too loudly) on their cell phones. Some people (me) conduct business here, others are here for some private/public time, still others are just trying to get out of the house. Caffenated bevereges in hand, we browse through the abundant reading material (The Independant, real estate journals, health magazines, sections of the L.A. Times, 'zines) and try to wake up or get over last nights' bender.
The tables sit close enough to each other for accidental eavesdropping, and serendipitous chance meetings (better than a bar, sez I). The employees are a mix of Mexican, American and college people, not above singing aloud to a tune they like while they straighten up or make you a mocha. The walls are decorated with their house-brand water and coffee cups, out-of-state car plates, and an assortment of items like old bikes, clocks and a Shell station sign. Even though a security camera is watching, you get the idea that that's just for our own good (if only it had recorded the incredible "muffin top" of this girl outside, she would surely purchase different jeans). Even the three cops that just meandered in for their coffee n' bagels didn't change the relaxed atmosphere all that much.
From where I sit, it is somewhat difficult to remember that not far away, people are homeless for months or years to come after a national Snafu. From here, it doesn't seem like Dick "It was just a beer with lunch" Cheney's thing was such a big deal that it had to be the subject of national news for the last two weeks. It appears that people, in general, get along, or would like to try to improve each other's lives.
Which is why it is important to not sit in coffee houses for extended periods of time - you can get fuzzy from the hum of goodwill, forget that Bad Things are happening, and not look closely at world events.
Overheard while eating at a Thai resturant:
Guy A: "Yeah, Morrocan food is a great date, you know, like a group date with two or three other couples...
Guy B: "Totally dude (not kidding, this is Southern California and I am transcribing in the vernacular here), its kind of a good test, you know... like to see if she's into eating all animal-style and stuff..
Guy C: "Ya, I mean, if she asks for a fork..... (Long pause, sighs of contempt) ... ' "Next!"* '
*Refers to a ridiculous 'reality' TV show that I admit, I watched. Once, and only for anthropological purposes, and to make fun of it. The contestants are one guy or one girl and about ten members of the opposite sex. Most are 23 and under (the influence, it would seem, to want to be on the show) and most are fairly telegenic, but seem to lack a lot in the "Common Courtesy" "Brain" and "Appropriate Undergarments" departments. The date-er (the single person) expresses his/her interests (ie: "Snowboarding, spray-painting and Serious Student") and what they are looking for in a date ("Likes to do stuff", "Cute/hot", "Must have a good body" or the ever-popular request/demand that they are assured of a conquest) The "dates" are measured in minutes, and every minute a date lasts without the dater telling the contestants, "Next!" they get a dollar. Sad AND humiliating.
Guy B: "Ya, totally ...a FORK, dude, a friggin' fork - you know, I travel, dude, I don't want some chick asking for a fork if we go to Thailand or something..."
Guy A: "Once I took this girl to an Indian place (I surely hope none of the ladies these guys are dating have delicate bottom systems) and she looked at the menu and said, ' "What's the most American thing on the menu?" '
Long pause, groans of depair, noshing sounds on the delicious red curry, chicken skewers with peanut sauce and other treats.
Apparently the way to a man's heart is via YOUR stomach - if you can stand the Spicy Noodle with Beef, a side of Thom-Kai-Kai and a flaming chile, love is in the air. Or possibly, the toilet.
