I was now on a mission: Blog away, blog away, blog away all. My last day in California would largely be spent at the computer…updating my various adventures and getting them POSTED. Jen and I developed a system whereby I would write, burn, load to her computer, and post on her internet connection. It was a little time consuming but, I’m sure you’ll agree, worth the effort.
Sher arrived early for a jog with Jen before she was off to Laguna Playhouse. She was needed at work, despite her attempt to take the day off, and (after a jog induced energy burst of housekeeping) she reluctantly set off as I put a second pot of coffee on and frittered away the morning and early afternoon on the keyboard, and not much else.
10 blogs later, she returned, finalized the secret ingredients of her bean dip, chilled it, and took a nap. I packed as she did, creating a hefty donation bag for the Salvation Army of clothes I no longer intended to need.
I donned my new jeans and shoes, woke Jen around 7, and she slinked into one of her quintessential black dittys; unwrapping brie and crackers and then encasing them in cellophane, she pulled out the bean dip, put a tight lid on its pungency, grabbed a bag of Trader Joe’s chips, and off we went to the party of the night: A Trival Pursuit Themed Party at Enrique’s and Kendra’s, where I was to meet her philosophical friend Pi, and get my first taste of an LA gathering.
A few blocks from her house is where we drove, for Jen did not wish to walk carrying all the foodstuffs. We were greeted by Kendra and daughter Isabelle, who was wearing a pink grass skirt and bikini top…Izzy had had a lot of sugar, it seemed, and quickly pulled Jen into the kitchen and den area, where we unloaded the goods, and filled the room with garlic-y goodness. The kitchen counter served as a full bar with a variety of bottles…a mini keg of Heinekin was the only beer, and it had already been tapped out. I opted for Grey Goose and 7 Up as Jen mixed a rum and Coke.
Enrique (or Henry, as I came to learn) is Peruvian but looks as New England as they come. He and Kendra were generous hosts, with a shared spread of ethnic dishes and Thanksgiving leftover sandwiches with a Peruvian twist. I watched their second daughter, Katerina, make up silly dances as she moved in her own Martha Graham induced euphoria to the music in the background. We sampled the food, and a few more drinks in, I loosened up and conversed with others. I met Tom and Rudy while out back for a smoke, always a good ice breaker.
Jen introduced me to Pi, an intelligent middle eastern man clad in a wool cardigan which only further made him look like he’d just finished his thesis; all he needed was a pipe to complete the picture. The sprigs of gray hair on his temporals were an ode to the wisdom of a disciplined individual. The evening in essence would become his; while the rest of the guests got bombed, Pi was destined to sip his club soda and succumb to frustration as the only person in the room taking the game seriously. Soon Jen and I were on the same team (there were only two teams among the forty guests), but I found myself out on the patio for another smoke as my interest in the game waned, and Henry joined me outside.
He pulled out a pack of Dunhills, which he only smokes once a year, and this is the night. The Trivial Pursuit tradition has been going on for several years, and it’s a credit to him and his hospitality. He offered me one of the Triple A Class cigarettes, and I found myself in deep conversation with my host for a good hour. We intermittently chimed in to the game with answers and votes, but mostly kept outside as he downed his scotches and I polished off more Grey Goose.
We were joined by Jen and Rudy and a few others outside, creating our own little clique. Rudy and Jen found themselves tucked into a corner deep in conversation, and then Henry gained interest in a young lady from Iraq, who had escaped during the Gulf War…they became engrossed in political rhetoric…and I suddenly felt the effects of all that vodka; it was time to go.
Jen escorted me out and dropped me off to la la land, and headed back to the par-tay. Incredibly, she somehow managed to wake up at 5 am in order to see me off at John Wayne Airport. We bid farewell, with Jen noting that she was only “half as sad” that I was leaving, for she knew I’d be back soon.
I boarded the flight for Phoenix with a splintering headache. Next time I go to a party in California, I’m bringing beer.
So ends the California Chronicles. I will spare you the details on the flight delays, missed connections, lost luggage – and finding my car back in Philly; my adventure ended as frustratingly as it began…but all things considered, it does make a nice pair of bookends to a world I never knew existed.
And I am now ready to explore it. Let’s begin.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
California Grateful - Day 6, Part Two - "But you MUST be mad," said the Cheshire Cat to Alice, "...otherwise you wouldn't be here." -- Lewis Carroll
I was low on cigarettes, so once we arrived at the apartment, Jen and I walked to the local grocer, “Ralph’s,” to pick them up, along with items needed for Jen to make her infamous black bean dip for a party we were going to on Friday night.
We passed a homeless man on the way in, and while we did not acknowledge him as he begged to us, I was impressed to see Jen peruse through other aisles outside of the Mexican ingredients she needed. Picking up PB&J, a loaf of bread, Doritos and Chips Ahoy, along with napkins and flatware from the salad bar, she asked for them to be bagged separately from her bean dip needs. On the way out, she promptly laid the bag in front of the man, wishing him a good holiday. We continued across the parking lot as I looked at her with admiration. She stared back in wonder at me. “What?” she said, “I’m not THAT heartless. I just don’t give out money.” I chuckled, and soon she was tearing apart the kitchen, chopping up all kinds of ingredients while I blogged away to catch up as best I could.
After some time, we were pressed and dressed, and heading towards Laguna Niguel, a quiet community that Jen recalls gave her little to offer in terms of social life. Here I was about to meet the family tree. Complicated, but not incomprehensible. A new family – and it wasn’t mine. Soon enough, though, I would feel like it was.
Leonard and Carol Dufur reside in a lovely home up a hill in the region of Laguna Niguel, or thereabouts. Leonard is father to Sher and Don; Carol is his second wife. His first wife, Barbara Gray, is Jen’s mother, and Sher and Don’s. Jen’s father, Barbara’s second ex-husband, was enjoying Thanksgiving with the Italian Urbanos. Sher is married to Aaron Pai, of Asian descent, and they of 4 lovely children: Trevor, who should be a model, and is; Taylor, a quirky and fun, spritely surfer; Lindsay, recently married to Scottie, a faux red head (I can spot a bottle job in an instant); and Ashlyn, the quiet one, but eager to laugh when it’s warranted. Don was there with his younger set of children, Cody and Tessa. Their mother, Julie, and her new husband, Chris were also accounted for. Chris’ family was very much available by cel phone, as he spent a lot of time tuning in to them in this manner from the confines of the garage.
Both Carol and Leonard greeted me in their stocking feet and welcomed me with open arms. I instinctively embraced Sher but was cordial with Aaron, who was quiet and reserved like his daughter Ashlyn. Don extended a hearty handshake and his children were polite and well-mannered. Julie hugged me hard as if I hadn’t seen her in years…I rolled with it. No one blinked twice.
They were less enamored of the fact that I was Jen’s guest, for the true guest star of the day was Jen’s hair, which many had not yet seen in its current “Bernice Bobs Her Hair” exhibition. Jen with short hair is a novelty to say the least. I stood off to one side as the compliments flowed. In fact I stood off to one side in general, admiring the family dynamics of smiles and hugs, “in jokes” and sibling meddling (by generation of course)…there was a lot of love going on in that room. I tried to continue being a sponge.
The game on TV gave way to episodes of Family Guy, and I watched from the den as Trevor carved the turkey, with Cody in keen observance next to him, ultimately I suppose, learning the craft from his oldest cousin so that one day, he too may stand in those shoes. Tessa flitted back and forth doing a variety of taste tests before dishes made their way to the elongated table decked out across the living and dining room. Leonard, an artisan as well, had hand cut the plywood pieces and cinched together what had to be a 20’ makeshift table. Carol had decked it out with hand-plucked leaves of orange, gold and maroon. I don’t know where she got them from, but apparently, there are trees in California that change color each fall.
I sat with Don to my left at the foot of the table; he’s a lefty, and needs his space. Jen was to my right, and across from me were newlyweds Scottie and Lindsay. A traditional feast ensued, the only variance of which for me was cranberry mixed with pomegranate, a sweet and crunchy new taste to me.
There was simply no drama. Here I was among a blended family with general love and regard for one another. Leonard proposed a quiet toast, observing that the thing for which he was most grateful was his family, and may we all be together again soon. I was moved by his simplicity, then Cody said the blessing. I ate as well as I ever had; it was in fact my first home-cooked meal since I’d arrived.
Filled to the gills, everyone retired to various cliques of conversation in areas away from the table. I digested as quickly as possible, as the desserts were going fast. On my return to the table, I watched as Jen’s nieces and nephews (young adults, mind you) climbing on top of each other in pseudo-wrestling matches on the living room couch…Jen created miniature bouquets with Carol’s leaves, and her nieces played with the leaves over their eyes, urging Jen to do the same, as they made Chinese mockery of themselves with refrains of “Ching Chong!” to each other…they all laughed in spite of themselves.
Barbara was first to leave, after a few silly photos were taken, and before too long the feast had ended. On the ride home, Jen confided that I had survived the first Thanksgiving without “incident.” Every family has their dramas, but for some reason, I was spared, something for which SHE found herself grateful.
As for me, I was just happy to observe a different family dynamic; a California style Thanksgiving with mirth and laughter, cider and cinnamon, love…and another new memory. I look forward to growing in friendship with this family.
We were home around 8, and Jen continued her bean dip prep as I wrote more and more frenetically. Tomorrow was my last full day here; I planned to rest up for the party with her friends next evening.
The scent of Jen’s bean dip permeated the apartment as I looked at my suitcase…wondering what, if anything, I no longer would need out in this climate.
We passed a homeless man on the way in, and while we did not acknowledge him as he begged to us, I was impressed to see Jen peruse through other aisles outside of the Mexican ingredients she needed. Picking up PB&J, a loaf of bread, Doritos and Chips Ahoy, along with napkins and flatware from the salad bar, she asked for them to be bagged separately from her bean dip needs. On the way out, she promptly laid the bag in front of the man, wishing him a good holiday. We continued across the parking lot as I looked at her with admiration. She stared back in wonder at me. “What?” she said, “I’m not THAT heartless. I just don’t give out money.” I chuckled, and soon she was tearing apart the kitchen, chopping up all kinds of ingredients while I blogged away to catch up as best I could.
After some time, we were pressed and dressed, and heading towards Laguna Niguel, a quiet community that Jen recalls gave her little to offer in terms of social life. Here I was about to meet the family tree. Complicated, but not incomprehensible. A new family – and it wasn’t mine. Soon enough, though, I would feel like it was.
Leonard and Carol Dufur reside in a lovely home up a hill in the region of Laguna Niguel, or thereabouts. Leonard is father to Sher and Don; Carol is his second wife. His first wife, Barbara Gray, is Jen’s mother, and Sher and Don’s. Jen’s father, Barbara’s second ex-husband, was enjoying Thanksgiving with the Italian Urbanos. Sher is married to Aaron Pai, of Asian descent, and they of 4 lovely children: Trevor, who should be a model, and is; Taylor, a quirky and fun, spritely surfer; Lindsay, recently married to Scottie, a faux red head (I can spot a bottle job in an instant); and Ashlyn, the quiet one, but eager to laugh when it’s warranted. Don was there with his younger set of children, Cody and Tessa. Their mother, Julie, and her new husband, Chris were also accounted for. Chris’ family was very much available by cel phone, as he spent a lot of time tuning in to them in this manner from the confines of the garage.
Both Carol and Leonard greeted me in their stocking feet and welcomed me with open arms. I instinctively embraced Sher but was cordial with Aaron, who was quiet and reserved like his daughter Ashlyn. Don extended a hearty handshake and his children were polite and well-mannered. Julie hugged me hard as if I hadn’t seen her in years…I rolled with it. No one blinked twice.
They were less enamored of the fact that I was Jen’s guest, for the true guest star of the day was Jen’s hair, which many had not yet seen in its current “Bernice Bobs Her Hair” exhibition. Jen with short hair is a novelty to say the least. I stood off to one side as the compliments flowed. In fact I stood off to one side in general, admiring the family dynamics of smiles and hugs, “in jokes” and sibling meddling (by generation of course)…there was a lot of love going on in that room. I tried to continue being a sponge.
The game on TV gave way to episodes of Family Guy, and I watched from the den as Trevor carved the turkey, with Cody in keen observance next to him, ultimately I suppose, learning the craft from his oldest cousin so that one day, he too may stand in those shoes. Tessa flitted back and forth doing a variety of taste tests before dishes made their way to the elongated table decked out across the living and dining room. Leonard, an artisan as well, had hand cut the plywood pieces and cinched together what had to be a 20’ makeshift table. Carol had decked it out with hand-plucked leaves of orange, gold and maroon. I don’t know where she got them from, but apparently, there are trees in California that change color each fall.
I sat with Don to my left at the foot of the table; he’s a lefty, and needs his space. Jen was to my right, and across from me were newlyweds Scottie and Lindsay. A traditional feast ensued, the only variance of which for me was cranberry mixed with pomegranate, a sweet and crunchy new taste to me.
There was simply no drama. Here I was among a blended family with general love and regard for one another. Leonard proposed a quiet toast, observing that the thing for which he was most grateful was his family, and may we all be together again soon. I was moved by his simplicity, then Cody said the blessing. I ate as well as I ever had; it was in fact my first home-cooked meal since I’d arrived.
Filled to the gills, everyone retired to various cliques of conversation in areas away from the table. I digested as quickly as possible, as the desserts were going fast. On my return to the table, I watched as Jen’s nieces and nephews (young adults, mind you) climbing on top of each other in pseudo-wrestling matches on the living room couch…Jen created miniature bouquets with Carol’s leaves, and her nieces played with the leaves over their eyes, urging Jen to do the same, as they made Chinese mockery of themselves with refrains of “Ching Chong!” to each other…they all laughed in spite of themselves.
Barbara was first to leave, after a few silly photos were taken, and before too long the feast had ended. On the ride home, Jen confided that I had survived the first Thanksgiving without “incident.” Every family has their dramas, but for some reason, I was spared, something for which SHE found herself grateful.
As for me, I was just happy to observe a different family dynamic; a California style Thanksgiving with mirth and laughter, cider and cinnamon, love…and another new memory. I look forward to growing in friendship with this family.
We were home around 8, and Jen continued her bean dip prep as I wrote more and more frenetically. Tomorrow was my last full day here; I planned to rest up for the party with her friends next evening.
The scent of Jen’s bean dip permeated the apartment as I looked at my suitcase…wondering what, if anything, I no longer would need out in this climate.
California Grateful - Day 6, Part One - Traditions, Old and New
Thanksgiving morning arrived in a mist; the much-needed rain had subsided, but lingered a bit in the morning sun. It was already 9 am Pacific Time, and I figured my own family was preparing to gather together back east…Turkey Day can be a bit of a marathon for the Irish, what with all the football games and parades and such…frankly, I was not missing the hullaballo.
I called my mother in obligatory fashion, for which she was grateful, no pun intended…I have been easing my mom into the idea that her youngest son is about to move 3,000 miles away for a few weeks now; it was time to come clean. She knows deep down this is what I want. Still, it cannot be an easy matter for her to digest. It was hard enough when I moved to Wilmington, in her eyes. She encouraged me to call my brothers (never an easy chore for the prodigal son that I am to them), and with some degree of determination, I did so.
After a few tense phone calls out on the front lawn with more criticism than an episode of Judge Judy, I entered to find Jen lounging on the couch…we talked of family dynamics and the similarities she and I share, both being single, on our own, and…gypsies. The gay uncle and the spinster aunt were in good company with each other, and her empathy was salve to my familial wounds.
But no time for sulking. I was about to experience a time-honored tradition for her: a stroll on Huntington Beach each Thanksgiving morning. We zoomed through Costa Mesa, past some industrial areas, and were quickly pulling in to the sleepy town now yawning and stretching to greet the holiday. Here there is surf, sand – and surfers. Gaggles of them. As we parked, a buff brunette was donning his scuba suit immodestly with a half-hearted attempt at keeping a towel around him. Jen chirped that she’s seen more ass on this beach than she could recount. I was mesmerized by the floor show.
As I looked out over the ocean, I could see perhaps 100 or so surfers in scuba suits; the only distinguishing quality among them was whether the hair on their heads was blond, brown…or grey. Many old school die-hard dudes are prevalent in surfing…holding on screeching and screaming for their youth. I admired their vigor, and could only hope that when I reached their age, I would be living on the wild side still.
We strode along the pier (actually my first pier since I’d arrived…although I’d seen so many…now I was actually ON one) and stopped half-way to take in the view below of the various boys on their boards. It was a goddamn buffet, with a variety of bubble butts and asses afloat on the sea, just ripe for pickin’. The waves were not as terse as I thought they wanted them to be; still, it was interesting to watch them mount their boards and attempt to hang five.
Having completed the perimeter of the pier, we headed up towards the main street in Huntington…but not before observing a quick performance by a bulldog and his owner on one of the promenades…a bulldog who skateboards…not only skateboards, but skateboards on TWO skateboards…a crowd assembled for the quick show, and upon a burst of applause, the dog and owner skated off in the other direction.
Jen’s brother in law, Aaron, and sister Sher, own a surf store on the corner just opposite the beach; they have literally cornered the market, despite a competitive store across from it. We ventured inside, to find all kinds of apparel and surfboards and supplies for the avid surfer. The store pays homage to surf stars and family members, with framed photos on its walls, and concrete impressions in the tiles out front, a la the Hollywood Walk Of Fame.
We continued up the store-lined mall, as Jen pointed out some really great breakfast joints, and before long, we headed back to the beach. I thanked her for including me on the excursion. We agreed that taking this moment to look at the sun, sand and surf is one of those things that really puts everything in perspective and gives one a sense of gratitude. Nature at its finest. And the surfer dudes don’t hurt.
We drove through some of the communities in which she grew up, she showed me her high school (a long and spread out one-story campus, complete with “smoker’s park” to prevent truancy), and soon we were back at the apartment, putting on our Thanksgiving best for the upcoming feast with her family.
Even Aaron Spelling couldn’t have come up with THIS cast of characters.
I called my mother in obligatory fashion, for which she was grateful, no pun intended…I have been easing my mom into the idea that her youngest son is about to move 3,000 miles away for a few weeks now; it was time to come clean. She knows deep down this is what I want. Still, it cannot be an easy matter for her to digest. It was hard enough when I moved to Wilmington, in her eyes. She encouraged me to call my brothers (never an easy chore for the prodigal son that I am to them), and with some degree of determination, I did so.
After a few tense phone calls out on the front lawn with more criticism than an episode of Judge Judy, I entered to find Jen lounging on the couch…we talked of family dynamics and the similarities she and I share, both being single, on our own, and…gypsies. The gay uncle and the spinster aunt were in good company with each other, and her empathy was salve to my familial wounds.
But no time for sulking. I was about to experience a time-honored tradition for her: a stroll on Huntington Beach each Thanksgiving morning. We zoomed through Costa Mesa, past some industrial areas, and were quickly pulling in to the sleepy town now yawning and stretching to greet the holiday. Here there is surf, sand – and surfers. Gaggles of them. As we parked, a buff brunette was donning his scuba suit immodestly with a half-hearted attempt at keeping a towel around him. Jen chirped that she’s seen more ass on this beach than she could recount. I was mesmerized by the floor show.
As I looked out over the ocean, I could see perhaps 100 or so surfers in scuba suits; the only distinguishing quality among them was whether the hair on their heads was blond, brown…or grey. Many old school die-hard dudes are prevalent in surfing…holding on screeching and screaming for their youth. I admired their vigor, and could only hope that when I reached their age, I would be living on the wild side still.
We strode along the pier (actually my first pier since I’d arrived…although I’d seen so many…now I was actually ON one) and stopped half-way to take in the view below of the various boys on their boards. It was a goddamn buffet, with a variety of bubble butts and asses afloat on the sea, just ripe for pickin’. The waves were not as terse as I thought they wanted them to be; still, it was interesting to watch them mount their boards and attempt to hang five.
Having completed the perimeter of the pier, we headed up towards the main street in Huntington…but not before observing a quick performance by a bulldog and his owner on one of the promenades…a bulldog who skateboards…not only skateboards, but skateboards on TWO skateboards…a crowd assembled for the quick show, and upon a burst of applause, the dog and owner skated off in the other direction.
Jen’s brother in law, Aaron, and sister Sher, own a surf store on the corner just opposite the beach; they have literally cornered the market, despite a competitive store across from it. We ventured inside, to find all kinds of apparel and surfboards and supplies for the avid surfer. The store pays homage to surf stars and family members, with framed photos on its walls, and concrete impressions in the tiles out front, a la the Hollywood Walk Of Fame.
We continued up the store-lined mall, as Jen pointed out some really great breakfast joints, and before long, we headed back to the beach. I thanked her for including me on the excursion. We agreed that taking this moment to look at the sun, sand and surf is one of those things that really puts everything in perspective and gives one a sense of gratitude. Nature at its finest. And the surfer dudes don’t hurt.
We drove through some of the communities in which she grew up, she showed me her high school (a long and spread out one-story campus, complete with “smoker’s park” to prevent truancy), and soon we were back at the apartment, putting on our Thanksgiving best for the upcoming feast with her family.
Even Aaron Spelling couldn’t have come up with THIS cast of characters.
Friday, November 28, 2008
California Drifting – Day 5, Part Two – MetroLink to Irvine, Where Zombies Deserve What They Get, and “The Claw” Rules Supreme
Union Station is no more daunting than any other major metropolitan rail system; nonetheless, I had my share of “Midvale School For The Gifted” moments while I attempted to follow signage that was not quite spot on, and fought with ticket machines that were not entirely up to date. A friendly female security guard assisted me upon my beckoning to her that the train I was supposed to be on was not listed on the ticket machine. She walked me through each phase, step by step, until I held in my hand the ticket that matched the time that matched the track that matched the destination: Irvine, not far from Jen, who would be waiting for me after two days apart; I missed my travel agent and our regimented schedule.
Track 8B was littered with all types of individuals and although tired, I attempted some more people watching. The train pulled in (a double decker – now THAT was a novel concept to me) and I found a solo seat against the opposite door. As we embarked, I lost my bearings; the train was pulling back OUT in the direction it came from…it was not continuing in its original direction. I took a moment to breathe, considering that perhaps it just needed to pull in to the station and then would find its way back on track to the south. I checked the pocket schedule I had pulled from the tourist racks as the conductor announced the first stop. All was well. I texted Jen that I was “all aboard” and off I went.
The public transit is neat, clean and quiet – with restrooms…considering MetroLink can actually connect me to Jen, Sean AND Ventura (with a little help from Amtrak), it is, along with the Post Office, going to become another new best friend.
An hour later, after reading all the newspapers I’d been waiting to delve into, we approached Irvine Station, where, just prior to the announcement, Jen called wondering if I was on time/nearby. She would be waiting in the parking lot, and as the doors opened, I stepped into sunny skies once again onto a white concrete plaza. I descended a staircase with the rest of my fellow travelers, who parted from me just as I was able to make out the figure of Jen on a bench across the way. She looked at me with a small degree of wonder; I forgot I was sporting my new threads, and she was duly impressed with Sean’s preliminary makeover. “Cue strut mu--“
--NOT one to fuss, she hurried us into the car, where we spun off to Spectrum Irvine, a combo amusement park with carousel and ferris wheel along with more shops and restaurants. And, I was about to learn: Dave & Busters, where we were about to spend some QT with Jen’s brother Don. (I’ve never been to a Dave & Busters in my life, but I go where my travel agent says.)
Don was due to meet us at 4 PM…and as 4 PM approached, with still no sign of Don, she and I discussed matters of respect when it comes to punctuality. I had already seen Jen’s patience tested with Chris’ tardiness on Monday morning; I’m sure it was insult to injury when it came to a family member. We were just concluding our debate, when Don appeared at the entranceway. He asked if she’d gotten his text, saying he’d be about 10 minutes late. Jen had not checked her phone. It was 9 minutes after 4. And…in we went.
Don educated us on the ins and outs of the D&B point card system, and after the brief tutorial, we were locked and loaded with our swipe cards and found a high top near the end of the bar. After a brief cocktail and some chat, we went off in pursuit of childhood fun on an adult size scale. Jen took her turn at Galactiga, Don went to a shooting range, and I opted for a quick round of Donkey Kong, which I had not endeavored to undertake since 8th grade – and it was evident. Fuckin’ ape.
Jen was making some serious headway with her game, so I let her be and hit one of the coin fountains where you drop a coin at random to knock coins down a level and then into the abyss which ultimately issues you redeemable tickets for the gift shop. My card was not reading properly, so I called for assistance, and a referee clad skater dude set me up with more coins than I’d originally intended (I suppose, to compensate for the delay, but nonetheless ensuring a windfall).
500 tickets later, Jen popped by as I was wrapping up, and we went to find Don, who was shooting deer and bears on some virtual hunting expedition. I couldn’t bring myself to observe further, virtual or not, and as we went back to our table, Jen said, “Go have a smoke, and when you get back, we’ll shoot some zombies; it’s okay to kill them.”
If ever there was a better outlet for passive aggressiveness or projective therapy, Evil Dead III is it. Here Jen and I stood, machine guns hoisted to our shoulders, as we blew apart the freakiest of freaks – piece by wretched piece. Perhaps I was taking matters out on my ex; I will not speak for Jen. Regardless, whatever lay dormant in us was boiling over and we suddenly found ourselves at level eight…a large Bluto sized zombified officer (like Schwartzeneggar with a bad skin condition) was our only nemesis. He carried a club, and knew how to wield it. Despite our incessant reloading, we were both knocked out and the game was over before we could blink. Jen and I stared at each other a moment, breathing heavily. Then we both cheerfully put down our guns, primal instincts buried once again.
After another drink and more conversation (during which I was continually distracted by a bald-headed hot guy who appeared to be a manager making perpetual rounds – what is it with me and the bald men lately??), I left Jen and Don to each other while I redeemed my coupons. I returned with a glittery tattoo of a pair of sunglasses for Jen, just in case she misplaces her current ones (and which happens more than she would like to admit), a kaleidoscope viewer for Don, an artist, so he may always have a fresh perspective on his work, and a glow in the dark keychain for myself. Silly trinkets, but memorable just the same.
But I could not leave well enough alone. I spotted a Claw Grabbing Machine with tacky jewelry in it, and of course, had to have a turn. 3 tries later, I Clawed a ladies’ watch, offering it to Jen, who would, in turn, give it to Don’s daughter. 4 more tries later, and I had a new “Riviera Quartz” silver and black watch for myself….ooooooooh. Don’t mess with The Claw. It is something at which, frankly, I rule.
Our D&B adventure complete, we supped at The Cheesecake Factory (another first for me), window shopped a bit (the candy store with gazillions of types of caramel apples on display drew the siblings into its sweet confection realms), grabbed a coffee to go, and parted company; we would see each other soon enough for Thanksgiving.
The coffee was a weak attempt to keep going, but I think by now I was fairly numb to its effects. On entrance to Jen’s apartment, I dropped my bag, felt an adrenaline drop, and, to Jen’s surprise, went off to bed entirely too soon – even by my own standards.
Track 8B was littered with all types of individuals and although tired, I attempted some more people watching. The train pulled in (a double decker – now THAT was a novel concept to me) and I found a solo seat against the opposite door. As we embarked, I lost my bearings; the train was pulling back OUT in the direction it came from…it was not continuing in its original direction. I took a moment to breathe, considering that perhaps it just needed to pull in to the station and then would find its way back on track to the south. I checked the pocket schedule I had pulled from the tourist racks as the conductor announced the first stop. All was well. I texted Jen that I was “all aboard” and off I went.
The public transit is neat, clean and quiet – with restrooms…considering MetroLink can actually connect me to Jen, Sean AND Ventura (with a little help from Amtrak), it is, along with the Post Office, going to become another new best friend.
An hour later, after reading all the newspapers I’d been waiting to delve into, we approached Irvine Station, where, just prior to the announcement, Jen called wondering if I was on time/nearby. She would be waiting in the parking lot, and as the doors opened, I stepped into sunny skies once again onto a white concrete plaza. I descended a staircase with the rest of my fellow travelers, who parted from me just as I was able to make out the figure of Jen on a bench across the way. She looked at me with a small degree of wonder; I forgot I was sporting my new threads, and she was duly impressed with Sean’s preliminary makeover. “Cue strut mu--“
--NOT one to fuss, she hurried us into the car, where we spun off to Spectrum Irvine, a combo amusement park with carousel and ferris wheel along with more shops and restaurants. And, I was about to learn: Dave & Busters, where we were about to spend some QT with Jen’s brother Don. (I’ve never been to a Dave & Busters in my life, but I go where my travel agent says.)
Don was due to meet us at 4 PM…and as 4 PM approached, with still no sign of Don, she and I discussed matters of respect when it comes to punctuality. I had already seen Jen’s patience tested with Chris’ tardiness on Monday morning; I’m sure it was insult to injury when it came to a family member. We were just concluding our debate, when Don appeared at the entranceway. He asked if she’d gotten his text, saying he’d be about 10 minutes late. Jen had not checked her phone. It was 9 minutes after 4. And…in we went.
Don educated us on the ins and outs of the D&B point card system, and after the brief tutorial, we were locked and loaded with our swipe cards and found a high top near the end of the bar. After a brief cocktail and some chat, we went off in pursuit of childhood fun on an adult size scale. Jen took her turn at Galactiga, Don went to a shooting range, and I opted for a quick round of Donkey Kong, which I had not endeavored to undertake since 8th grade – and it was evident. Fuckin’ ape.
Jen was making some serious headway with her game, so I let her be and hit one of the coin fountains where you drop a coin at random to knock coins down a level and then into the abyss which ultimately issues you redeemable tickets for the gift shop. My card was not reading properly, so I called for assistance, and a referee clad skater dude set me up with more coins than I’d originally intended (I suppose, to compensate for the delay, but nonetheless ensuring a windfall).
500 tickets later, Jen popped by as I was wrapping up, and we went to find Don, who was shooting deer and bears on some virtual hunting expedition. I couldn’t bring myself to observe further, virtual or not, and as we went back to our table, Jen said, “Go have a smoke, and when you get back, we’ll shoot some zombies; it’s okay to kill them.”
If ever there was a better outlet for passive aggressiveness or projective therapy, Evil Dead III is it. Here Jen and I stood, machine guns hoisted to our shoulders, as we blew apart the freakiest of freaks – piece by wretched piece. Perhaps I was taking matters out on my ex; I will not speak for Jen. Regardless, whatever lay dormant in us was boiling over and we suddenly found ourselves at level eight…a large Bluto sized zombified officer (like Schwartzeneggar with a bad skin condition) was our only nemesis. He carried a club, and knew how to wield it. Despite our incessant reloading, we were both knocked out and the game was over before we could blink. Jen and I stared at each other a moment, breathing heavily. Then we both cheerfully put down our guns, primal instincts buried once again.
After another drink and more conversation (during which I was continually distracted by a bald-headed hot guy who appeared to be a manager making perpetual rounds – what is it with me and the bald men lately??), I left Jen and Don to each other while I redeemed my coupons. I returned with a glittery tattoo of a pair of sunglasses for Jen, just in case she misplaces her current ones (and which happens more than she would like to admit), a kaleidoscope viewer for Don, an artist, so he may always have a fresh perspective on his work, and a glow in the dark keychain for myself. Silly trinkets, but memorable just the same.
But I could not leave well enough alone. I spotted a Claw Grabbing Machine with tacky jewelry in it, and of course, had to have a turn. 3 tries later, I Clawed a ladies’ watch, offering it to Jen, who would, in turn, give it to Don’s daughter. 4 more tries later, and I had a new “Riviera Quartz” silver and black watch for myself….ooooooooh. Don’t mess with The Claw. It is something at which, frankly, I rule.
Our D&B adventure complete, we supped at The Cheesecake Factory (another first for me), window shopped a bit (the candy store with gazillions of types of caramel apples on display drew the siblings into its sweet confection realms), grabbed a coffee to go, and parted company; we would see each other soon enough for Thanksgiving.
The coffee was a weak attempt to keep going, but I think by now I was fairly numb to its effects. On entrance to Jen’s apartment, I dropped my bag, felt an adrenaline drop, and, to Jen’s surprise, went off to bed entirely too soon – even by my own standards.
California Drifting – Day 5 – Buddy at 6 AM, and Urbano’s Secret Plot
Sean and Robert have a neighbor downstairs. He is a Doctor with a very busy schedule – and a golden retriever named Buddy. She is as beautiful as can be, getting on in years, and has a bit of a hip condition. Due to the Good Doctor’s busy schedule, he will often bring Buddy up to their back deck, where Sean or Robert will tend to her throughout the day as need dictates. It is an amicable arrangement from which Buddy benefits most of all, having two gay uncles and a daddy.
Still, I am infuriated at the Good Doctor. I find it remarkably irresponsible of him to even consider himself a pet owner. Enough soap box. Don’t get me started.
I awoke at 6 AM to the sound of a text message alert; Jen had notified me the night previous that “tomorrow = rain = traffic…can sean take you to the train?” Considering all Jen has done for me this last week, it only made sense not to have her drive two hours to LA on the day before Thanksgiving in the rain, just to pick me up and return and not even enjoy the downtown. Sean considered it a bonus – extra time together.
As I smoked out back, I heard the patter of paws combined with a heavy step ascending nearby. The Good Doctor was dropping Buddy off for the day…the prick. I smiled weakly as he tethered her leash to the banister, then listened for his footsteps to fade away. Buddy stared at me blankly, longingly. I put my hands down low to reach out to her, and she hobbled toward me and nestled between my legs. There we sat and listened to intermittent sprinkles of leftover showers from the previous night’s news-making “flood.”
Now very much awake, I decided to take a quick walk back down to Basix, to see if they had coffee to go, which they did, in a café connected to the restaurant. Another cute barista waited upon me with a smile that should be showcased in a Colgate commercial. I added two shortbread snowballs with powdered sugar to the pair of coffees, and headed back up the now neatly-pruned tree-lined Flores Street.
Sean awoke a few moments after I sat down at the dining room table, and I offered the second cup of coffee to him, which he divided further in two to share with Robert, who trailed behind not long after. Each of them enjoyed the shortbread, and soon Robert was back to work in the kitchen, whipping up more Thanksgiving scents. Sean had asked whether Robert wanted to spend some time with us before he dropped me off at Union Station, but Robert politely declined, encouraging us to enjoy our time; he had far too much to do in the kitchen today. Sean conceded with a sigh, and we headed for Beverly Hills.
The houses are exactly what you think they are, except for one unusual corner home that looks like it came off the set of a Disney Halloween film…we dubbed it the witchy poo house, with its cottage peaks and harvest colored shingles. Sean rides his bike through here often and knows the back roads. We veered onto Rodeo Drive, into the heart of opulence, then down Hollywood Boulevard, past Grauman’s Chinese Theatre and parked to grab lunch and see some of the Hollywood Walk Of Fame.
Standing on Kevin Spacey near the Metro Link that could actually connect me to Union Station without driving, there was a moment of indecision about what to eat and whether we would continue the drive to Union Station itself. Sean wanted to take me back uptown to Filippe’s, home of the original French Dip…but time was fleeting, the highway was jammed, and we took the side roads up through Silver Lake, one of several areas where Sean used to live. He lit up like a firecracker when we passed an authentic Mexican Taco stand he used to patronize, and said it was destined to be: if I was going to take any memory of good Mexican food with me, this was sure to be it.
And it was.
Shortly thereafter (shorter than either of us thought), Union Station approached off of Alameda…Sean joked that he wasn’t stopping, just slowing down enough to boot me out the door. I wondered if he was in cahoots with Jen. Was this a slight attempt to say, “Alright, little bird, time to fly on your own?”
Evidently it was, as I hugged him goodbye from the passenger seat, got out and watched him drive away, and – for the first time since I’d arrived in California – found myself completely and utterly alone.
All part of Jen Urbano’s Secret Plot, I’m sure.
Still, I am infuriated at the Good Doctor. I find it remarkably irresponsible of him to even consider himself a pet owner. Enough soap box. Don’t get me started.
I awoke at 6 AM to the sound of a text message alert; Jen had notified me the night previous that “tomorrow = rain = traffic…can sean take you to the train?” Considering all Jen has done for me this last week, it only made sense not to have her drive two hours to LA on the day before Thanksgiving in the rain, just to pick me up and return and not even enjoy the downtown. Sean considered it a bonus – extra time together.
As I smoked out back, I heard the patter of paws combined with a heavy step ascending nearby. The Good Doctor was dropping Buddy off for the day…the prick. I smiled weakly as he tethered her leash to the banister, then listened for his footsteps to fade away. Buddy stared at me blankly, longingly. I put my hands down low to reach out to her, and she hobbled toward me and nestled between my legs. There we sat and listened to intermittent sprinkles of leftover showers from the previous night’s news-making “flood.”
Now very much awake, I decided to take a quick walk back down to Basix, to see if they had coffee to go, which they did, in a café connected to the restaurant. Another cute barista waited upon me with a smile that should be showcased in a Colgate commercial. I added two shortbread snowballs with powdered sugar to the pair of coffees, and headed back up the now neatly-pruned tree-lined Flores Street.
Sean awoke a few moments after I sat down at the dining room table, and I offered the second cup of coffee to him, which he divided further in two to share with Robert, who trailed behind not long after. Each of them enjoyed the shortbread, and soon Robert was back to work in the kitchen, whipping up more Thanksgiving scents. Sean had asked whether Robert wanted to spend some time with us before he dropped me off at Union Station, but Robert politely declined, encouraging us to enjoy our time; he had far too much to do in the kitchen today. Sean conceded with a sigh, and we headed for Beverly Hills.
The houses are exactly what you think they are, except for one unusual corner home that looks like it came off the set of a Disney Halloween film…we dubbed it the witchy poo house, with its cottage peaks and harvest colored shingles. Sean rides his bike through here often and knows the back roads. We veered onto Rodeo Drive, into the heart of opulence, then down Hollywood Boulevard, past Grauman’s Chinese Theatre and parked to grab lunch and see some of the Hollywood Walk Of Fame.
Standing on Kevin Spacey near the Metro Link that could actually connect me to Union Station without driving, there was a moment of indecision about what to eat and whether we would continue the drive to Union Station itself. Sean wanted to take me back uptown to Filippe’s, home of the original French Dip…but time was fleeting, the highway was jammed, and we took the side roads up through Silver Lake, one of several areas where Sean used to live. He lit up like a firecracker when we passed an authentic Mexican Taco stand he used to patronize, and said it was destined to be: if I was going to take any memory of good Mexican food with me, this was sure to be it.
And it was.
Shortly thereafter (shorter than either of us thought), Union Station approached off of Alameda…Sean joked that he wasn’t stopping, just slowing down enough to boot me out the door. I wondered if he was in cahoots with Jen. Was this a slight attempt to say, “Alright, little bird, time to fly on your own?”
Evidently it was, as I hugged him goodbye from the passenger seat, got out and watched him drive away, and – for the first time since I’d arrived in California – found myself completely and utterly alone.
All part of Jen Urbano’s Secret Plot, I’m sure.
California Drifting – Day 4, Part Three – “It Never Rains In California,” lies The Love Talker…
Robert is a bit more of a cautious driver than some others may be out here, and he depends upon his GPS. Even after all this time, the transplant from the Midwest is guided by a British woman’s voice as he makes his way across the city. We traversed several locales, picking up two other guests of his for the show,(Chris who recently broke up with his BF, Joe, and was due for a distraction, and Ayana, Robert’s dance instructor in Caribbean and Island technique), and, passing through wealthy Hancock Park, we crossed into the Historic Filipino District, now largely inundated by an Asian population that is anything BUT Filipino.
On a triangulated patch of concrete, surrounded by iron gates, sits Son of Semele theatre company, a tiny 25-seat black box where experimental theatre pervades. Outside, a makeshift box office comprised of an empty wooden wine rack and a cash box was only outdone by an unattended concessions table with water, Oreos and Chips Ahoy…and a trusting coffee mug awaiting contributions. I expected the doors to be late, as there was a reviewer from LA weekly coming, and Sean wanted to gather some photos before the house opened to send on should the review be favorable as a Pick Of The Week.
I did not expect the doors to open at 5 to 8, however, and my earlier-consumed margarita was aching for release. Oddly, in the intimate space, one has to walk ACROSS the set to get to the rest room, a peculiar predicament, but…when in Rome…I tried not to disturb the set.
We had front row seats reserved, we four, and the 20 x 20 stage (if that) was simply dominated by a large double bed up left, on which slept an actor, awaiting the start of the performance. The remainder was strewn with mulch on the borders, a small platform up right, a barrel with wash basin down left, and a nightstand with lantern and knickknacks down right. Jutting twigs and leaves interspersed throughout the area, the only height to the set was a simple 4 x 8 flat. I noticed a color scheme of blue and crème, with patterns of diamonds and splashes of red in odd places. Crickets chirped over dark moody music, which segued from recorded to live; the performance began and the lights dimmed.
The Love Talker is a dark piece, in one act, by Deborah Pryor. It follows the seduction of two sisters in an abandoned backwoods cabin by a changeling wood creature of sorts who resembles the Greek God Pan; this is The Love Talker (Sean, scantily clad in a fig leaf and nothing more). He has a devilish sprite called The Red Head, who meddles to no end and causes rifts between the siblings as The Love Talker targets each of them in their own right. Sean, who also directed the piece, chose it for several reasons, according to his director’s notes, but what affected my observance of the piece was his political motivation: “not allowing ancient fears and superstitions to cloud and guide our judgment and decisions. For when we do, the results are always catastrophic.”
Sean has assembled a talented cast and crew, and in the confines of the intimate space, made magical moments with lighting and special effects, as items scraped across platforms on their own, or flew in the air to the shock of the audience. The actors found the honest humor in the piece, and Sean was relieved that the entire play was not so much Midsummer Night’s Dream meets M. Knight Shayamalan. One thing he did not count on however, but which greatly added dimension to the piece, was the thunderstorm that occurred during some of the most maddening parts of the show. That’s correct. It was raining. Hard. And the little black box’s roof was creating a pitter patter effect that made one feel as if there was a wooden cabin roof overhead. It was realistically chilling.
After the bows and while waiting for Sean to pack up, I stood in the triangulated courtyard for a smoke, observing the locals think that the sky was falling. Cars skidded at the intersections, and pedestrians pulled their shirts over their heads in case another wave of droplets was about to hit. Rain is enough of an anomaly here to throw things out of whack. Sean emerged to soak up the mist – truly appreciating its beauty as only he can. With a hearty congratulations on a very moving production, he and I drove back to the apartment while Robert took the other guests home.
Both Sean and I were famished…he from his pre-show adrenaline diet, me from simply having a margarita and nothing more. I asked if we could order a pizza or something, and Sean had to check with Robert to see if the local shop was open and get the name and number…Robert, by then, had just stopped at the market to pick up a few frozen pizzas, figuring we might be hungry. A strange coincidence, and not much later, our stomachs had stopped grumbling. We all three curled up on couches, Sean in Robert’s lap, me with my…pillow. We watched the 10 o’clock news to absorb the heightened media response to the rain; it was after all, the “top story.” Every reporter standing in the “torrential downpours” had on a yellow slicker and Gorton’s Fisherman’s cap…the hyperbole was shameful. Moses parted the Red Sea to less fanfare, for crying out loud.
After a few absurdist man-on-the-street interviews with such in-depth questions as “Whaddya think of this RAIN, huh?” and “Did you ever think you’d see so much RAIN??” the boys switched over to an episode of The Office. By then I had settled into the couch, snuggled up with my pillow, and my heavy lids gave way to dark dreams of beings in the woods beyond mortal comprehension.
On a triangulated patch of concrete, surrounded by iron gates, sits Son of Semele theatre company, a tiny 25-seat black box where experimental theatre pervades. Outside, a makeshift box office comprised of an empty wooden wine rack and a cash box was only outdone by an unattended concessions table with water, Oreos and Chips Ahoy…and a trusting coffee mug awaiting contributions. I expected the doors to be late, as there was a reviewer from LA weekly coming, and Sean wanted to gather some photos before the house opened to send on should the review be favorable as a Pick Of The Week.
I did not expect the doors to open at 5 to 8, however, and my earlier-consumed margarita was aching for release. Oddly, in the intimate space, one has to walk ACROSS the set to get to the rest room, a peculiar predicament, but…when in Rome…I tried not to disturb the set.
We had front row seats reserved, we four, and the 20 x 20 stage (if that) was simply dominated by a large double bed up left, on which slept an actor, awaiting the start of the performance. The remainder was strewn with mulch on the borders, a small platform up right, a barrel with wash basin down left, and a nightstand with lantern and knickknacks down right. Jutting twigs and leaves interspersed throughout the area, the only height to the set was a simple 4 x 8 flat. I noticed a color scheme of blue and crème, with patterns of diamonds and splashes of red in odd places. Crickets chirped over dark moody music, which segued from recorded to live; the performance began and the lights dimmed.
The Love Talker is a dark piece, in one act, by Deborah Pryor. It follows the seduction of two sisters in an abandoned backwoods cabin by a changeling wood creature of sorts who resembles the Greek God Pan; this is The Love Talker (Sean, scantily clad in a fig leaf and nothing more). He has a devilish sprite called The Red Head, who meddles to no end and causes rifts between the siblings as The Love Talker targets each of them in their own right. Sean, who also directed the piece, chose it for several reasons, according to his director’s notes, but what affected my observance of the piece was his political motivation: “not allowing ancient fears and superstitions to cloud and guide our judgment and decisions. For when we do, the results are always catastrophic.”
Sean has assembled a talented cast and crew, and in the confines of the intimate space, made magical moments with lighting and special effects, as items scraped across platforms on their own, or flew in the air to the shock of the audience. The actors found the honest humor in the piece, and Sean was relieved that the entire play was not so much Midsummer Night’s Dream meets M. Knight Shayamalan. One thing he did not count on however, but which greatly added dimension to the piece, was the thunderstorm that occurred during some of the most maddening parts of the show. That’s correct. It was raining. Hard. And the little black box’s roof was creating a pitter patter effect that made one feel as if there was a wooden cabin roof overhead. It was realistically chilling.
After the bows and while waiting for Sean to pack up, I stood in the triangulated courtyard for a smoke, observing the locals think that the sky was falling. Cars skidded at the intersections, and pedestrians pulled their shirts over their heads in case another wave of droplets was about to hit. Rain is enough of an anomaly here to throw things out of whack. Sean emerged to soak up the mist – truly appreciating its beauty as only he can. With a hearty congratulations on a very moving production, he and I drove back to the apartment while Robert took the other guests home.
Both Sean and I were famished…he from his pre-show adrenaline diet, me from simply having a margarita and nothing more. I asked if we could order a pizza or something, and Sean had to check with Robert to see if the local shop was open and get the name and number…Robert, by then, had just stopped at the market to pick up a few frozen pizzas, figuring we might be hungry. A strange coincidence, and not much later, our stomachs had stopped grumbling. We all three curled up on couches, Sean in Robert’s lap, me with my…pillow. We watched the 10 o’clock news to absorb the heightened media response to the rain; it was after all, the “top story.” Every reporter standing in the “torrential downpours” had on a yellow slicker and Gorton’s Fisherman’s cap…the hyperbole was shameful. Moses parted the Red Sea to less fanfare, for crying out loud.
After a few absurdist man-on-the-street interviews with such in-depth questions as “Whaddya think of this RAIN, huh?” and “Did you ever think you’d see so much RAIN??” the boys switched over to an episode of The Office. By then I had settled into the couch, snuggled up with my pillow, and my heavy lids gave way to dark dreams of beings in the woods beyond mortal comprehension.
California REALITY CHECK – Day 4, Part Two – To Do Two Things At Once Is To Do Neither Properly
Sean continued to guide me through the town, and we found ourselves near a park. Not just any park; a park with a history. Between its bushes and trees and behind the walls of its public restrooms are stories of times long since gone for the gay community. I need not go into detail here. You get the gist.
Now it is a family friendly utopia where children play on swings and slides, and mothers with strollers keep their eyes on their offspring as they climb oversized plastic playpens with tunnels and tubes. Sean was somewhat sullen as we took a moment to sit on the swings. I wondered if they would bear my weight, but after a moment, felt secure. Sean, with his 150-lb frame, was fearless as he practiced gymnast moves and played like a pendulum next to me.
He has strong opinions about gay parenting. He views homosexuality as evolution in action, and the natural attraction to the same sex is in direct conflict to the urge to reproduce. We debated the topic for a bit, and he too admitted considering adoption with Robert at one time. He looked out across the park, nostalgic for a time when there were clear delineations of “ownership” to the park. For it to have been usurped in the name of posterity and converted into a different kind of Romper Room is a scar that hasn’t quite healed. “You can’t have it all,” I mused, a fond saying of mine, “Where would you put it??” It was one of those open-ended questions we pondered in silence as we swung away, and children shrieked with delight not 50 feet away.
I received a text from Jen, who was scheduled to return to LA to watch Sean’s show with me that evening, asking if I would mind flying solo and she would come get me the next day and we would do downtown LA together. I cleared it with Sean, who has happy for us to have a little more time together. As it turns out, it would be for the best. To have both Jen and Sean at once, two worlds colliding, I might’ve been a little divided in my attention span to each of them. Sean, who has never been a multitasker, concurred: “To do two things at once is to do neither of them properly.” I thought about being gay and having children, and wondered if there was an additional layer to that statement. I was snapped out of this moment when he said with fervor, “Now let’s get you some proper jeans.”
Lesson number three: always bring a second set of eyes with you…and let the second set of eyes pick the jeans out first. Sean pulled seven pairs, from Dolce & Gabbana to Gucci to Classic Levis (dark wash). I was sweating from changing so frequently in the cramped dressing chamber, and by number six we had not one winner…he threw an eighth pair over the door, which I put on immediately since it was handy…nope. And then it happened…what was (originally) Lucky Seven…the dark wash Levis. As they made their way up my thigh I knew immediately. I opened the door and Sean took one look and said, “What do they say?” to which I responded, “They say, ‘yes.’” Sold! For 20 Classic, Well-Tailored, Durable Dark Wash Bucks. More strut music, please.
Back at the apartment, Robert had cocooned himself in the kitchen, closing the doors and quarantining us to do-not-enter status. It was a tradition for them: Robert cooks, Sean hosts. Sean had two more days before his Thanksgiving tasks were due. He singularly gathered his belongings for the show, printed his programs, made some calls to the box office, and as he did so, Robert popped out like a Muppet from the kitchen for a moment, asking if I wanted a margarita. I accepted and a moment later, he obliged. I relaxed for a moment as Sean scurried off to the theatre. Robert cleared up his latest Thanksgiving pre-cooked dish, and I donned my new wardrobe. The clothes were stiff, a foreign feeling to my fleshy folds. I felt like Dorothy from the waist up and the Tin Man from the waist down. Nonetheless, I was soon off to see The Wizard, otherwise known as “The Love Talker.”
Now it is a family friendly utopia where children play on swings and slides, and mothers with strollers keep their eyes on their offspring as they climb oversized plastic playpens with tunnels and tubes. Sean was somewhat sullen as we took a moment to sit on the swings. I wondered if they would bear my weight, but after a moment, felt secure. Sean, with his 150-lb frame, was fearless as he practiced gymnast moves and played like a pendulum next to me.
He has strong opinions about gay parenting. He views homosexuality as evolution in action, and the natural attraction to the same sex is in direct conflict to the urge to reproduce. We debated the topic for a bit, and he too admitted considering adoption with Robert at one time. He looked out across the park, nostalgic for a time when there were clear delineations of “ownership” to the park. For it to have been usurped in the name of posterity and converted into a different kind of Romper Room is a scar that hasn’t quite healed. “You can’t have it all,” I mused, a fond saying of mine, “Where would you put it??” It was one of those open-ended questions we pondered in silence as we swung away, and children shrieked with delight not 50 feet away.
I received a text from Jen, who was scheduled to return to LA to watch Sean’s show with me that evening, asking if I would mind flying solo and she would come get me the next day and we would do downtown LA together. I cleared it with Sean, who has happy for us to have a little more time together. As it turns out, it would be for the best. To have both Jen and Sean at once, two worlds colliding, I might’ve been a little divided in my attention span to each of them. Sean, who has never been a multitasker, concurred: “To do two things at once is to do neither of them properly.” I thought about being gay and having children, and wondered if there was an additional layer to that statement. I was snapped out of this moment when he said with fervor, “Now let’s get you some proper jeans.”
Lesson number three: always bring a second set of eyes with you…and let the second set of eyes pick the jeans out first. Sean pulled seven pairs, from Dolce & Gabbana to Gucci to Classic Levis (dark wash). I was sweating from changing so frequently in the cramped dressing chamber, and by number six we had not one winner…he threw an eighth pair over the door, which I put on immediately since it was handy…nope. And then it happened…what was (originally) Lucky Seven…the dark wash Levis. As they made their way up my thigh I knew immediately. I opened the door and Sean took one look and said, “What do they say?” to which I responded, “They say, ‘yes.’” Sold! For 20 Classic, Well-Tailored, Durable Dark Wash Bucks. More strut music, please.
Back at the apartment, Robert had cocooned himself in the kitchen, closing the doors and quarantining us to do-not-enter status. It was a tradition for them: Robert cooks, Sean hosts. Sean had two more days before his Thanksgiving tasks were due. He singularly gathered his belongings for the show, printed his programs, made some calls to the box office, and as he did so, Robert popped out like a Muppet from the kitchen for a moment, asking if I wanted a margarita. I accepted and a moment later, he obliged. I relaxed for a moment as Sean scurried off to the theatre. Robert cleared up his latest Thanksgiving pre-cooked dish, and I donned my new wardrobe. The clothes were stiff, a foreign feeling to my fleshy folds. I felt like Dorothy from the waist up and the Tin Man from the waist down. Nonetheless, I was soon off to see The Wizard, otherwise known as “The Love Talker.”
California REALITY CHECK – Day 4 – A West Hollywood Extreme Makeover
Turning swiftly, Sean began the promenade up Santa Monica, where he promptly received a call from one of his fellow actors, who was suffering from a sore throat. He assured her that all would be well by evening, to rest her voice and have some jasmine tea. We crossed the lanes of traffic with other pedestrians while cars obligatorily stopped to honor the California right-of-way laws. A moment later, we were window shopping at Out Of The Closet, a hip hand me down thrift shop ten thousand times more couture than any Salvation Army I’d ever seen. Inside, chippy boys in tight clothes with twink-like physiques were bickering over matters such as, “does this ass make my jeans look to small?” or “how daring of you to wear canary yellow with your coloring.” Sean very quickly, in homage to Jen Urbano, pushed my shoulder to guide me then tugged my elbow to the right as we made our way to the belt racks. That’s right. Racks.
I’m fairly full-figured at the hips, but my waist is more slender. Sean immediately pulled a few options, all of which were just not happenin’ for me. He was more fortunate, finding a fun little ditty with Aztec-like metal design plates all around, which of course, fit his 38-still-looks-28-year-old body. He even fastened it over his current belt which beholds the New York City skyline…I grimaced in despair of ever having a waistline ever again.
We abandoned the belt rack for the shoe department, and while there were a few viable options, none of them really felt quite right. Sean emphasized trying BOTH shoes on always, and walking about in them first…okay, lesson one learned. Thank goodness I’d put on fresh socks. Still, nothing piqued my interest to the point where I was ready to abandon my Buster Browns. I treated him to the Aztec belt, a small price for his overnight hospitality, and we headed back out to the Boulevard.
Passing “Circus of Books,” another adult bookstore, but clearly gay male oriented, I wondered what kind of circus really went on inside. Sean regaled some stories of “gays gone by” and how West Hollywood has changed due to a surge in families, including gay families. Gay parents with strollers and young ‘uns are fairly prevalent there now, and the overall dynamic has changed. No matter, he said, as the club scene is still very much intact and the fashion district is indestructible. Case in point, our next stop: Crossroads Trading (now with 17 locations across the country to serve you).
Sean shops here often, as it is a Mecca of designer textiles and footwear without the price tag that causes coronary occlusions. He made a beeline for the shoes area, and I was once again confronted with enough options to make my head spin. All he said to me, with quiet reassurance was, “Don’t be intimidated. Look and listen. One will cry out and you will hear it. And when you try it on, you will respond, ‘Yes.’“ I trusted this advice…lesson number two.
Not much later, just after a few maybes, I was walking out the door sporting a pair of Adam Derrick’s To Boot New York Italian leather ankle boots - chestnut. Retail: $399. Crossroads: $27. Sean couldn’t have been more pleased. They were Italian; imported, well made…they showed the existence of God. I was now walking a little taller down the Boulevard. Cue strut music, please.
We strolled along the south side, past multiple clubs cleaned up from the previous night’s festivities and awaiting to re-open later in the evening for another round of decadence. This scene was never really one in which Sean would partake, but he did tell some humorous tales of when he used to work for a service called “Home James” which provided rides home to the intoxicated; a noble pursuit I wouldn’t have expected to exist in West Hollywood. One time, he took a pair of heterosexual couples home who were on a double date, and when he was trying to get directions from one of the women, she flaked for a moment on which way to go, and turned to her boyfriend, who was making out with her girlfriend’s boyfriend, and said to Sean, “Hold on, I’ll tell you where to go in a minute. *sigh* I hate when he does this.” Sean just smirked into the rear view mirror.
We stopped in a bookstore that caught my eye with a nostalgic window display of Wonder Woman collectibles. Upon entering, we were greeted with a tasteful nude calendar of European athletes and as we flipped through, Sean and I had a series of Madeleine Kahn moments as we both murmured, “yes,”… “yes,”… “yes,”… “no,”… “oh my god, yes,”… “yes,” and so on. Also inside, gifts and cards gave way to adult videos and magazines; the cover of one book in particular was like a train wreck neither of us could stop looking at: The Book Of Big Penises. After opening it to the first page however, I cringed at the sights inside. I opted for the more artistic photo compilation coffee table book, “Broadway Bares.” Much more my speed. Was it not $70, I might have purchased it. We meandered to a clearance bin of G-Storm Undies, on sale for $1.00…here I succeeded in scoring a pair of sea foam briefs – in just my size. Sean clawed through the remaining display, searching for a pair of smalls, to no avail. I jokingly shrugged at his loss. The student was teaching the teacher – for the moment anyway.
I’m fairly full-figured at the hips, but my waist is more slender. Sean immediately pulled a few options, all of which were just not happenin’ for me. He was more fortunate, finding a fun little ditty with Aztec-like metal design plates all around, which of course, fit his 38-still-looks-28-year-old body. He even fastened it over his current belt which beholds the New York City skyline…I grimaced in despair of ever having a waistline ever again.
We abandoned the belt rack for the shoe department, and while there were a few viable options, none of them really felt quite right. Sean emphasized trying BOTH shoes on always, and walking about in them first…okay, lesson one learned. Thank goodness I’d put on fresh socks. Still, nothing piqued my interest to the point where I was ready to abandon my Buster Browns. I treated him to the Aztec belt, a small price for his overnight hospitality, and we headed back out to the Boulevard.
Passing “Circus of Books,” another adult bookstore, but clearly gay male oriented, I wondered what kind of circus really went on inside. Sean regaled some stories of “gays gone by” and how West Hollywood has changed due to a surge in families, including gay families. Gay parents with strollers and young ‘uns are fairly prevalent there now, and the overall dynamic has changed. No matter, he said, as the club scene is still very much intact and the fashion district is indestructible. Case in point, our next stop: Crossroads Trading (now with 17 locations across the country to serve you).
Sean shops here often, as it is a Mecca of designer textiles and footwear without the price tag that causes coronary occlusions. He made a beeline for the shoes area, and I was once again confronted with enough options to make my head spin. All he said to me, with quiet reassurance was, “Don’t be intimidated. Look and listen. One will cry out and you will hear it. And when you try it on, you will respond, ‘Yes.’“ I trusted this advice…lesson number two.
Not much later, just after a few maybes, I was walking out the door sporting a pair of Adam Derrick’s To Boot New York Italian leather ankle boots - chestnut. Retail: $399. Crossroads: $27. Sean couldn’t have been more pleased. They were Italian; imported, well made…they showed the existence of God. I was now walking a little taller down the Boulevard. Cue strut music, please.
We strolled along the south side, past multiple clubs cleaned up from the previous night’s festivities and awaiting to re-open later in the evening for another round of decadence. This scene was never really one in which Sean would partake, but he did tell some humorous tales of when he used to work for a service called “Home James” which provided rides home to the intoxicated; a noble pursuit I wouldn’t have expected to exist in West Hollywood. One time, he took a pair of heterosexual couples home who were on a double date, and when he was trying to get directions from one of the women, she flaked for a moment on which way to go, and turned to her boyfriend, who was making out with her girlfriend’s boyfriend, and said to Sean, “Hold on, I’ll tell you where to go in a minute. *sigh* I hate when he does this.” Sean just smirked into the rear view mirror.
We stopped in a bookstore that caught my eye with a nostalgic window display of Wonder Woman collectibles. Upon entering, we were greeted with a tasteful nude calendar of European athletes and as we flipped through, Sean and I had a series of Madeleine Kahn moments as we both murmured, “yes,”… “yes,”… “yes,”… “no,”… “oh my god, yes,”… “yes,” and so on. Also inside, gifts and cards gave way to adult videos and magazines; the cover of one book in particular was like a train wreck neither of us could stop looking at: The Book Of Big Penises. After opening it to the first page however, I cringed at the sights inside. I opted for the more artistic photo compilation coffee table book, “Broadway Bares.” Much more my speed. Was it not $70, I might have purchased it. We meandered to a clearance bin of G-Storm Undies, on sale for $1.00…here I succeeded in scoring a pair of sea foam briefs – in just my size. Sean clawed through the remaining display, searching for a pair of smalls, to no avail. I jokingly shrugged at his loss. The student was teaching the teacher – for the moment anyway.
California REALITY – Day 3 into 4 – The Sun Comes Up Over Santa Monica Boulevard
He was as tall and trim as I recalled, with a mop top of curls about his brow, and several brushstrokes of stubble across his jaw line. Dressed far more dapper than in the sweatpants and plaid shirts of a college lad from yesteryear, he still looked as youthful and mythic as I remembered. Sean is a striking individual with a mischievously thin grin which often breaks into a great big smile.
We embraced in a long hug as he dropped his bags of props and costumes, and Robert excused himself to heat up a quick meal for Sean. Some performers don’t eat much before a show, and Sean is one of them, so he finds himself remarkably famished as the adrenaline rush drops post-performance. Robert returned with a chicken entrée, and Sean made no apologies as he ravaged it while I relayed the day’s events in Ventura. Both he and Robert are equally aware of Rubicon’s prestige, and I look forward to returning the favor and welcoming them for a visit; I do now, after all, have a guest bedroom.
Robert tidied up the kitchen as he had just purchased a slew of Thanksgiving needs and retired to the bedroom, while Sean and I sat head to toe on one couch and reminisced. We laughed and sparked each others’ memories and time dissipated as we realized that there are just some people in life that don’t ever leave you. And some things…don’t end.
Sean pulled out linens that he laid out for me in preparation for sleep; he too, was tired from the day, and we were going to have the whole day together tomorrow. He wrapped me up on the other couch like a pita sandwich in the comforter he had had back in college; he joked that it was still in excellent condition (and it was, for 20 years’ wear and tear), but there was a tiny waft of musk that still had his scent about it, and I drifted off quickly…from here on in, I was technically “on vacation” and looking forward to just…being.
I was up before either of them, well rested and still bearing a bit of my east coast body clock, I suppose. Now I could get a clear perspective on the layout of the courtyard. An umbrella table with chimenea welcomed me and I had a cigarette. Upon my return, the boys were up now, shamelessly milling about in briefs and boxers. Soon they were online, checking their daily messages from their agents. Sean was slated for an audition at 11 for a commercial for pop music star Spoon. Jeans and tee, plays guitar, must “jump” like David Lee Roth…we had a field day with THAT description. Sean downloaded a few MP3s of Spoon’s music, grabbed his father’s guitar, and started strumming, learning the chords…he noted things were not quite in tune, and quickly dashed to the bedroom for his capo…and his bass guitar…he was not about to “jump” and put his father’s guitar in jeopardy. Here I was, watching an actor – prepare.
We drove (climbed actually) back up winding Laurel Canyon and down into the valley on (where else?) Ventura Boulevard. Sean knows the drill of these things, and they are fleeting at best. Commercials are really impossible to prepare for, so you just go in and give them what they ask for. As he headed in, I walked Ventura less than two blocks, when he called and said he was done. I turned around, and in less than 10 minutes we were back at the Royal Gardens where Robert was already finished with two pumpkin pies, and had prepped a mash of sweet potatoes and cinnamon. The apartment was pungent with the scent of Thanksgiving.
We walked down a full block, along with Robert, to the corner café, Basix, at Santa Monica and Flores. Sean was especially disturbed to watch a series of trees on his street being pruned. Sean is part Native American and has an inherent respect and awe for nature. I tried to tell him not to look, but it’s kind of hard to ignore the sounds of chainsaws.
Our career waiter convinced me to have the homemade lemonade, which was quite refreshing as the sun warmed me under the awning; it is difficult to get one’s bearings about where exactly west is west and east is east out here. Lunch was a delight, as the “Robert and Sean Show” tuned in, and I was informed of the ins and outs of LA theatre, culture and lifestyles. Robert had a few work matters to tend to and then was going back to continue cooking, and we parted at the corner. Sean, now free for the rest of the day, looked up and down Santa Monica, asking what I wanted to do. I asked if there was a place nearby where I could by a cheap belt, for the one I had on was simply not servicing my waistline…and maybe a pair of shoes. My business Buster Browns were too tight, and the leather had shrunk from a rainy day last summer. My feet hurt.
Sean took a good look at me, eyed me up and down like an elevator: shrunken shoes, khaki pants, a dangling mess of a belt and an outdated pale blue oxford shirt was all the ammunition he needed.
“Patrick,” he said, “Let’s go shopping.”
My eyes widened with fear as I looked up and down the Boulevard and realized where I truly was: West Hollywood.
We embraced in a long hug as he dropped his bags of props and costumes, and Robert excused himself to heat up a quick meal for Sean. Some performers don’t eat much before a show, and Sean is one of them, so he finds himself remarkably famished as the adrenaline rush drops post-performance. Robert returned with a chicken entrée, and Sean made no apologies as he ravaged it while I relayed the day’s events in Ventura. Both he and Robert are equally aware of Rubicon’s prestige, and I look forward to returning the favor and welcoming them for a visit; I do now, after all, have a guest bedroom.
Robert tidied up the kitchen as he had just purchased a slew of Thanksgiving needs and retired to the bedroom, while Sean and I sat head to toe on one couch and reminisced. We laughed and sparked each others’ memories and time dissipated as we realized that there are just some people in life that don’t ever leave you. And some things…don’t end.
Sean pulled out linens that he laid out for me in preparation for sleep; he too, was tired from the day, and we were going to have the whole day together tomorrow. He wrapped me up on the other couch like a pita sandwich in the comforter he had had back in college; he joked that it was still in excellent condition (and it was, for 20 years’ wear and tear), but there was a tiny waft of musk that still had his scent about it, and I drifted off quickly…from here on in, I was technically “on vacation” and looking forward to just…being.
I was up before either of them, well rested and still bearing a bit of my east coast body clock, I suppose. Now I could get a clear perspective on the layout of the courtyard. An umbrella table with chimenea welcomed me and I had a cigarette. Upon my return, the boys were up now, shamelessly milling about in briefs and boxers. Soon they were online, checking their daily messages from their agents. Sean was slated for an audition at 11 for a commercial for pop music star Spoon. Jeans and tee, plays guitar, must “jump” like David Lee Roth…we had a field day with THAT description. Sean downloaded a few MP3s of Spoon’s music, grabbed his father’s guitar, and started strumming, learning the chords…he noted things were not quite in tune, and quickly dashed to the bedroom for his capo…and his bass guitar…he was not about to “jump” and put his father’s guitar in jeopardy. Here I was, watching an actor – prepare.
We drove (climbed actually) back up winding Laurel Canyon and down into the valley on (where else?) Ventura Boulevard. Sean knows the drill of these things, and they are fleeting at best. Commercials are really impossible to prepare for, so you just go in and give them what they ask for. As he headed in, I walked Ventura less than two blocks, when he called and said he was done. I turned around, and in less than 10 minutes we were back at the Royal Gardens where Robert was already finished with two pumpkin pies, and had prepped a mash of sweet potatoes and cinnamon. The apartment was pungent with the scent of Thanksgiving.
We walked down a full block, along with Robert, to the corner café, Basix, at Santa Monica and Flores. Sean was especially disturbed to watch a series of trees on his street being pruned. Sean is part Native American and has an inherent respect and awe for nature. I tried to tell him not to look, but it’s kind of hard to ignore the sounds of chainsaws.
Our career waiter convinced me to have the homemade lemonade, which was quite refreshing as the sun warmed me under the awning; it is difficult to get one’s bearings about where exactly west is west and east is east out here. Lunch was a delight, as the “Robert and Sean Show” tuned in, and I was informed of the ins and outs of LA theatre, culture and lifestyles. Robert had a few work matters to tend to and then was going back to continue cooking, and we parted at the corner. Sean, now free for the rest of the day, looked up and down Santa Monica, asking what I wanted to do. I asked if there was a place nearby where I could by a cheap belt, for the one I had on was simply not servicing my waistline…and maybe a pair of shoes. My business Buster Browns were too tight, and the leather had shrunk from a rainy day last summer. My feet hurt.
Sean took a good look at me, eyed me up and down like an elevator: shrunken shoes, khaki pants, a dangling mess of a belt and an outdated pale blue oxford shirt was all the ammunition he needed.
“Patrick,” he said, “Let’s go shopping.”
My eyes widened with fear as I looked up and down the Boulevard and realized where I truly was: West Hollywood.
California REALITY – Day 3 – Ventura Makes Way to LA “Weakly”
Cindy and I giggled like schoolgirls all the way down the winding roads back into downtown, which took all of a minute. This would be an easy commute by car or on foot. We passed the theatre, where the tech crew continued to work outdoors building wintery flats for the Christmas show. The end of the business day was approaching, and the one thing I needed more than anything else at this moment was a detailed map of the city…but before that, a mental health break: one of the many second-hand bookstores.
Cindy too is an avid reader, and when she saw my reaction at the bookshelves at 2010 Sunset Drive, she suggested we get me something to Christen its shelves. Having no need to transport furniture from one coast to the other, she felt strongly that I needed something tangible to connect with to make this move real. As we passed the “Everything Adult” store (I’m sure I’ll “Christen” that later), we went into a quintessential tattered and torn bookshop, complete with a disinterested spinster counter clerk. We perused the selections in cramped quarters, and after a bit of time I discovered a book of poems, paintings and essays on the life of the artist. Entitled “Ep;phany” (the semi-colon is intentional), it spoke to me and I purchased it on the spot.
Across the street, the Convention and Visitors’ Bureau awaited. Their building signage outside is missing the “A” from Ventura, but you can still see the shadowy mark it has left on the façade. I had a bone to pick with them already, as I had signed up for their mailing list weeks ago, and received no materials, but the front desk clerk, Jill (from Australia), was so charmingly apologetic, it was easy to forgive her. She offered some free materials, but not sufficient a stash to satiate my need for a detailed map. I purchased a comprehensive layout, thanked Jill for her assistance, and told her that when I returned, I would be more than happy to “buy them an A” for out front. She didn’t get it. Crikey.
It was now near 6 pm, and Jen and her entourage were due to pick me up; after checking in, I learned they would be another half hour or so. Rather than infringe upon any more of Cindy’s time, I thanked her profusely for all she’d done. We had another one of those moments of silence, knowing that this was going to be a good thing, and we bid farewell as she dropped me off at Dagnan’s, an authentic Irish pub on the corner of Main and Chestnut.
Jennifer had pointed out this place in the morning when we arrived. It has frosted glass windows in the shape of Irish harps, rich wood floors and tables, and a very friendly staff. A long L-shaped bar on the far end called to me as I took a few moments – finally – to myself. The vast selection of draft beers flummoxed me for a moment, but I honed in on a Stella Artois, and made my way through the cocktail hightops to a corner near one of the frosted harps.
I closed my eyes for a moment and meditated on the day’s events. I would have been remiss if I did not send up a prayer of gratitude, so I tuned everything out just long enough to express my thanks to heaven above, and I felt a swell of emotion fill me as a tear came to my eye from such pure unadulterated joy.
Soon Jennifer, Chris and Lauren arrived from their wine tasting in Los Olivos, and it would seem that the cheese and crackers that accompanied the tasting barely attacked their hunger. Each of them variously ordered a build your own burger, and as they ate, they recounted tales of the day, in particular, Jen’s “report card” from the winery: “Jennifer sometimes gets too aggressive with her ‘swirling.’” I swirled my Stella in agreement.
Back on the LA freeway, we zoomed south as my next port of call awaited: a visit with my college friend Sean, whom I’ve not seen in 20 years. Jen Mapquested directions on her iphone and we were quickly weaving down Laurel Canyon (and I mean weaving; it’s practically a rollercoaster) into one of the many chambers of the heart of LA. It took a few moments longer than expected, and we actually thought we were lost; but as we crossed over Sunset Boulevard in The Valley, we knew we were near. We circled the block, and I called Sean’s partner, Robert (Sean was performing in a show at the moment). He guided us in front of his building, where my entourage of sommeliers relinquished control and left me staring at a pair of cast iron gates as they “swirled” back down The 101 to nurse their tannen-induced headaches.
I approached the courtyard of 1261 N. Flores Street with a bit of trepidation. The Royal Gardens is fairly similar to the Aaron Spelling now-vintage TV hit Melrose Place, with a u-shaped courtyard and terracotta tiles, lush with foliage. All it needed, truly, was a pool. Robert said to go to the far right corner and look up at the oversized windows and I’d see him. And there he was: standing there like the ghost of Hamlet’s father, a warm, amber light glowing behind him.
Robert is a robust man a few years my senior, and he and Sean have been together for well over a decade. Their apartment was vacated by actress Jean Smart before they acquired it, and it has high ceilings and sweeping architectural nooks and crannies, including a curving fireplace that they fill with candles and accent cylinder lamps. As Robert got me a glass of water and we each took a seat on opposing couches, Sean called to relay his completion of the show he was performing in, and that he was on the way.
Robert was more than entertaining, recounting many stories of LA theatre; he is a professional union actor, has worked for Disney in special events, is an acting coach, and like many gay men in LA, is a bit of an activist. He and Sean actually broke ground by being the first domestic partners to receive benefits from Disney – it is documented in their annals – and I was taken with his stories and warm good nature.
We chatted and chatted, and I was facing the entrance through which I’d arrived, expecting Sean to come through it at any moment.
Imagine my surprise when I heard a familiar voice behind me: “Patrick Emmett Michael Hunt O’Hara. How the hell are ya?”
I stood up and turned. There he was. Sean Galuszka, my college friend. 20 years melted away as we embraced, and I felt like a kid again.
Cindy too is an avid reader, and when she saw my reaction at the bookshelves at 2010 Sunset Drive, she suggested we get me something to Christen its shelves. Having no need to transport furniture from one coast to the other, she felt strongly that I needed something tangible to connect with to make this move real. As we passed the “Everything Adult” store (I’m sure I’ll “Christen” that later), we went into a quintessential tattered and torn bookshop, complete with a disinterested spinster counter clerk. We perused the selections in cramped quarters, and after a bit of time I discovered a book of poems, paintings and essays on the life of the artist. Entitled “Ep;phany” (the semi-colon is intentional), it spoke to me and I purchased it on the spot.
Across the street, the Convention and Visitors’ Bureau awaited. Their building signage outside is missing the “A” from Ventura, but you can still see the shadowy mark it has left on the façade. I had a bone to pick with them already, as I had signed up for their mailing list weeks ago, and received no materials, but the front desk clerk, Jill (from Australia), was so charmingly apologetic, it was easy to forgive her. She offered some free materials, but not sufficient a stash to satiate my need for a detailed map. I purchased a comprehensive layout, thanked Jill for her assistance, and told her that when I returned, I would be more than happy to “buy them an A” for out front. She didn’t get it. Crikey.
It was now near 6 pm, and Jen and her entourage were due to pick me up; after checking in, I learned they would be another half hour or so. Rather than infringe upon any more of Cindy’s time, I thanked her profusely for all she’d done. We had another one of those moments of silence, knowing that this was going to be a good thing, and we bid farewell as she dropped me off at Dagnan’s, an authentic Irish pub on the corner of Main and Chestnut.
Jennifer had pointed out this place in the morning when we arrived. It has frosted glass windows in the shape of Irish harps, rich wood floors and tables, and a very friendly staff. A long L-shaped bar on the far end called to me as I took a few moments – finally – to myself. The vast selection of draft beers flummoxed me for a moment, but I honed in on a Stella Artois, and made my way through the cocktail hightops to a corner near one of the frosted harps.
I closed my eyes for a moment and meditated on the day’s events. I would have been remiss if I did not send up a prayer of gratitude, so I tuned everything out just long enough to express my thanks to heaven above, and I felt a swell of emotion fill me as a tear came to my eye from such pure unadulterated joy.
Soon Jennifer, Chris and Lauren arrived from their wine tasting in Los Olivos, and it would seem that the cheese and crackers that accompanied the tasting barely attacked their hunger. Each of them variously ordered a build your own burger, and as they ate, they recounted tales of the day, in particular, Jen’s “report card” from the winery: “Jennifer sometimes gets too aggressive with her ‘swirling.’” I swirled my Stella in agreement.
Back on the LA freeway, we zoomed south as my next port of call awaited: a visit with my college friend Sean, whom I’ve not seen in 20 years. Jen Mapquested directions on her iphone and we were quickly weaving down Laurel Canyon (and I mean weaving; it’s practically a rollercoaster) into one of the many chambers of the heart of LA. It took a few moments longer than expected, and we actually thought we were lost; but as we crossed over Sunset Boulevard in The Valley, we knew we were near. We circled the block, and I called Sean’s partner, Robert (Sean was performing in a show at the moment). He guided us in front of his building, where my entourage of sommeliers relinquished control and left me staring at a pair of cast iron gates as they “swirled” back down The 101 to nurse their tannen-induced headaches.
I approached the courtyard of 1261 N. Flores Street with a bit of trepidation. The Royal Gardens is fairly similar to the Aaron Spelling now-vintage TV hit Melrose Place, with a u-shaped courtyard and terracotta tiles, lush with foliage. All it needed, truly, was a pool. Robert said to go to the far right corner and look up at the oversized windows and I’d see him. And there he was: standing there like the ghost of Hamlet’s father, a warm, amber light glowing behind him.
Robert is a robust man a few years my senior, and he and Sean have been together for well over a decade. Their apartment was vacated by actress Jean Smart before they acquired it, and it has high ceilings and sweeping architectural nooks and crannies, including a curving fireplace that they fill with candles and accent cylinder lamps. As Robert got me a glass of water and we each took a seat on opposing couches, Sean called to relay his completion of the show he was performing in, and that he was on the way.
Robert was more than entertaining, recounting many stories of LA theatre; he is a professional union actor, has worked for Disney in special events, is an acting coach, and like many gay men in LA, is a bit of an activist. He and Sean actually broke ground by being the first domestic partners to receive benefits from Disney – it is documented in their annals – and I was taken with his stories and warm good nature.
We chatted and chatted, and I was facing the entrance through which I’d arrived, expecting Sean to come through it at any moment.
Imagine my surprise when I heard a familiar voice behind me: “Patrick Emmett Michael Hunt O’Hara. How the hell are ya?”
I stood up and turned. There he was. Sean Galuszka, my college friend. 20 years melted away as we embraced, and I felt like a kid again.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
California REALITY – Day 3 – Ventura, Part Three – A Room With A View
Cindy enjoys coffee – a lot. As do I, so we stopped in her favorite brew house, Palermo, for a couple of medium cups of joe, and she wandered through the shop with me, pointing out the various other items for sale: trinkets and candles and books and stationery. I was immediately struck by the friendliness of the staff (Cindy’s a regular, so I’m sure that added to their cheerfulness), and I was welcomed to Ventura by them as Cindy introduced me. She showed me the recent arrival of “Rubicon Java Jackets” for Palermo’s coffee cups; this iteration touted the upcoming Rubicon Family Christmas Show…and we then walked up and down the main strip, as she pointed out bookstores and clubs, pubs and thrift shops, banks and marketplaces. Each side street has its share of hidden gems tucked into alleyways or alcoves, or visibly awaiting patrons with café tables and chairs. Ventura is a very walkable town, and, like Laguna, sees its fair share of population increases as the tourist season arrives each summer.
We loaded up in her Jeep Cherokee and hit some of the other key areas: Harbor Bay, Ventura Pier, Plaza Park, the Post Office (soon to be my best friend; Rubicon does a LOT of mailings), and Pierpont Boulevard, where sailboats await myriad voyages as they sleep in the marina. These various must-sees helped us bide our time to the crux of all appointments for the day: a visit to 2010 Sunset Drive – an apartment lead.
There is something to be said for timing. This entire experience thus far had been a series of coincidences, happenstances, happy accidents, and sheer timing. Seeking out housing in Ventura was one such experience.
We got lost. Well, not lost so much as out of synch. Cindy, mind you, is still in trial by fire mode, and while she had a sense of where we were going, she berated herself for not getting full fledged Mapquest directions. Still, it was interesting to climb the sloped hills of Ventura as we veered up and down many a side street observing the differing housing options. When one particular curving road put us practically back where we started, Cindy called for guidance. A few moments later, we were roaming past Ventura High School where skateboarders and poseurs abound, and then went up a steep hill; at its apex: Sunset Drive, onto which we turned left. Three houses down, there it was. I gasped.
2010 Sunset Drive sits atop one of the higher crests in Ventura. As we pulled into the driveway, I took in the breathtaking view ahead of the Pacific Ocean, Channel Islands and the soon to be setting sun. I turned to Cindy as she parked and said, “Are you kidding me?” She smiled and shrugged, then tucked our cigarettes away (NO apartment in Ventura allows smoking; a small price to pay). We approached the door and Cindy rang the bell…a moment, and then…she rang again. Behind the frosted glass a figure emerged. The door clicked.
Enter Doris.
Doris Cowart. Late 60s, short cropped white hair, very suntanned, wearing petal pushers and tennis shoes, and a flowing silk shirt with an Asian motif embroidered all about. She immediately struck me as a retired Mary Martin after one too many runs of Peter Pan, as she embraced Cindy and then grabbed my hand and did the same, pulling me into her entrance hall, where I noted we were not alone. Doris’ twenty-some-odd granddaughter was nearby in the entrance, looking somewhat spritely in her mini-sundress as her doe eyes caught mine. She smiled eagerly.
The dialog and banter and welcomes and kibitzing and such went so quickly, it was hard to keep up. Doris just GOES. (There’s an Auntie Mame quality to her that now, in hindsight, I realize I was immediately connected to; this is a woman who LIVES.) She strode past us, telling us to follow along as she headed around the driveway, down a series of stone steps on the side of the house, down to the lower back yard and then to the left along a pebble pathway…her granddaughter caught up quickly, as keeper of the keys, and opened the door to the “apartment” for rent.
“Apartment” is really an understatement. This was clearly a family room at one time, a large open area with brick fireplace and television, multiple bookshelves (which, as an avid reader, immediately caught my eye) – and – it was fully furnished: Desk and business chair, brown leather sofa, loveseat and easy chair set, rugs and coffee table, and a second (albeit outdated) 50s elongated couch. Also included as Doris and granddaughter meandered along: kitchenette and fridge, full bath with double sink; in the master bedroom: a queen-size tempurpedic bed with nightstands, a double closet and wardrobe dresser…not to mention the guest bedroom with a pair of twin beds. Oh. And did I mention the craft closet with gift wrapping station?
The tour continued along the remainder of the pebble pathway, past two lemon trees and a tangerello tree, as we made our way to the garage, where laundry facilities, too, were included. Back in the former family room/now apartment, we all sat down and chatted.
Doris lost her husband last July, and this is an attempt at supplemental income; I also learned that she is an avid volunteer for Rubicon (in the Development Department in which I’ll manage); her granddaughter’s presence was merely a protective measure to insure she was not going to be preyed upon (understandably), and while their “standard lease” (a downloadable copy) was in front of me, there was “no rush.” I perused the lease as Doris recounted countless stories of love and good times “in this room” and I felt honored to have been invited into its quarters. I was grateful to have secured my license in Real Estate two years ago, and everything appeared to be in order. Doris sat next to me, and we connected momentarily as she stated that she was simply ready to welcome a new chapter into her own life, and was I any good with landscaping. I assured her I would do my best, and there with the triple goddess watching over me, granddaughter, Cindy and Doris (Maiden, Mother, and Crone)…I said to myself, “Patrick you’d be a fool right now not to seize the moment.” We agreed to sign the lease. As we did so, the sun cast its last rays into the room before it sank into the Channel Islands; I was now a full fledged resident of Sunset Drive.
With some resistance on behalf of the sloped driveway, Cindy’s Cherokee revved back onto the road, and we waved farewell to Doris.
But not before she’d plucked a pair of ripened lemons for us to take on our continuing journey.
Next Up: California REALITY – Day 3 – Ventura Makes Way to LA “Weakly”
We loaded up in her Jeep Cherokee and hit some of the other key areas: Harbor Bay, Ventura Pier, Plaza Park, the Post Office (soon to be my best friend; Rubicon does a LOT of mailings), and Pierpont Boulevard, where sailboats await myriad voyages as they sleep in the marina. These various must-sees helped us bide our time to the crux of all appointments for the day: a visit to 2010 Sunset Drive – an apartment lead.
There is something to be said for timing. This entire experience thus far had been a series of coincidences, happenstances, happy accidents, and sheer timing. Seeking out housing in Ventura was one such experience.
We got lost. Well, not lost so much as out of synch. Cindy, mind you, is still in trial by fire mode, and while she had a sense of where we were going, she berated herself for not getting full fledged Mapquest directions. Still, it was interesting to climb the sloped hills of Ventura as we veered up and down many a side street observing the differing housing options. When one particular curving road put us practically back where we started, Cindy called for guidance. A few moments later, we were roaming past Ventura High School where skateboarders and poseurs abound, and then went up a steep hill; at its apex: Sunset Drive, onto which we turned left. Three houses down, there it was. I gasped.
2010 Sunset Drive sits atop one of the higher crests in Ventura. As we pulled into the driveway, I took in the breathtaking view ahead of the Pacific Ocean, Channel Islands and the soon to be setting sun. I turned to Cindy as she parked and said, “Are you kidding me?” She smiled and shrugged, then tucked our cigarettes away (NO apartment in Ventura allows smoking; a small price to pay). We approached the door and Cindy rang the bell…a moment, and then…she rang again. Behind the frosted glass a figure emerged. The door clicked.
Enter Doris.
Doris Cowart. Late 60s, short cropped white hair, very suntanned, wearing petal pushers and tennis shoes, and a flowing silk shirt with an Asian motif embroidered all about. She immediately struck me as a retired Mary Martin after one too many runs of Peter Pan, as she embraced Cindy and then grabbed my hand and did the same, pulling me into her entrance hall, where I noted we were not alone. Doris’ twenty-some-odd granddaughter was nearby in the entrance, looking somewhat spritely in her mini-sundress as her doe eyes caught mine. She smiled eagerly.
The dialog and banter and welcomes and kibitzing and such went so quickly, it was hard to keep up. Doris just GOES. (There’s an Auntie Mame quality to her that now, in hindsight, I realize I was immediately connected to; this is a woman who LIVES.) She strode past us, telling us to follow along as she headed around the driveway, down a series of stone steps on the side of the house, down to the lower back yard and then to the left along a pebble pathway…her granddaughter caught up quickly, as keeper of the keys, and opened the door to the “apartment” for rent.
“Apartment” is really an understatement. This was clearly a family room at one time, a large open area with brick fireplace and television, multiple bookshelves (which, as an avid reader, immediately caught my eye) – and – it was fully furnished: Desk and business chair, brown leather sofa, loveseat and easy chair set, rugs and coffee table, and a second (albeit outdated) 50s elongated couch. Also included as Doris and granddaughter meandered along: kitchenette and fridge, full bath with double sink; in the master bedroom: a queen-size tempurpedic bed with nightstands, a double closet and wardrobe dresser…not to mention the guest bedroom with a pair of twin beds. Oh. And did I mention the craft closet with gift wrapping station?
The tour continued along the remainder of the pebble pathway, past two lemon trees and a tangerello tree, as we made our way to the garage, where laundry facilities, too, were included. Back in the former family room/now apartment, we all sat down and chatted.
Doris lost her husband last July, and this is an attempt at supplemental income; I also learned that she is an avid volunteer for Rubicon (in the Development Department in which I’ll manage); her granddaughter’s presence was merely a protective measure to insure she was not going to be preyed upon (understandably), and while their “standard lease” (a downloadable copy) was in front of me, there was “no rush.” I perused the lease as Doris recounted countless stories of love and good times “in this room” and I felt honored to have been invited into its quarters. I was grateful to have secured my license in Real Estate two years ago, and everything appeared to be in order. Doris sat next to me, and we connected momentarily as she stated that she was simply ready to welcome a new chapter into her own life, and was I any good with landscaping. I assured her I would do my best, and there with the triple goddess watching over me, granddaughter, Cindy and Doris (Maiden, Mother, and Crone)…I said to myself, “Patrick you’d be a fool right now not to seize the moment.” We agreed to sign the lease. As we did so, the sun cast its last rays into the room before it sank into the Channel Islands; I was now a full fledged resident of Sunset Drive.
With some resistance on behalf of the sloped driveway, Cindy’s Cherokee revved back onto the road, and we waved farewell to Doris.
But not before she’d plucked a pair of ripened lemons for us to take on our continuing journey.
Next Up: California REALITY – Day 3 – Ventura Makes Way to LA “Weakly”
California REALITY - Day 3 - Ventura, Part Two - The City of Fortune Smiles Upon Me
An hour later, including several frustrating moments on the part of the team as we dealt with an unprepared project manager on the other end of the call, my future coworkers went back to their hives as Cindy and I prepared for lunch with Martha, with whom I would be working intimately on database conversions and software updates. Martha has been with Rubicon since day one and, quite frankly, it shows. Here is a woman that is a blend of Mimi from The Drew Carey Show and Jane Fonda as Judy in 9 to 5, with a touch of Joan Plowright (in just about any of her roles) thrown in for good measure. She is a numbers cruncher, and works on an Access Database system. It will largely be my job (preliminarily) to bring her into the 21st, if not 22nd, century. Martha has the weight of the world mapped out across her wrinkled brow; it is bound to be a stormy sea through which I will need to navigate. I’ll adjust my sails as we go.
We dined at a local sponsor of the theatre, My Florist, a hip, chrome and wood encrusted joint with high ceilings and indoor palms; standing at the back of the dining area was a 20-foot silver plated statue of Atlas, bearing a globe on his back; a fitting place for Martha, if ever there was. A large table of elderly ladies was finishing up what appeared to be their daily dose of tea and scones. There was a bit of a breeze in the air, and we all opted for a soup and sandwich combo. Nearby: a business lunch of several executives, one of whom was showcasing an enormous amount of cleavage. Cindy quipped in wonder how any of her male co-workers could focus on the meeting. I observed a few ladies enter who were seated next to us, one of whom I was surprised to see had even dared to appear in public; she looked like she had been stuffed with so much Botox and collagen, it was a wonder she wasn’t wearing African neck rings to hold up what was now her marshmallow of a head. Her sunken eyes (the only thing untouched by a cosmetologist) darted quickly around the room; maybe it was just nerve damage…I’m not sure, because her face was so “frozen,” but I think, I actually think, she was smiling. Thank heavens I had finished eating, otherwise I’m sure I’d have lost my appetite.
We dropped Martha back off at the theatre, and here was where the meat and potatoes really began: the tour of the town. Cindy went above and beyond the call of duty here; she had done this move herself several months back, but flew solo, and it was trial by fire. Here she was more than happy to hold my hand as we headed to the east side of town, driving down Main Street, past the shops, the restaurants, the galleries and novelty stores, parks, plazas and promenades. It was not long before we reached the “cusp” of downtown where, like any town, things “turn a bit.” Cindy actually lives on the cusp, but her condo is in a new development built to drive out the riff raff – and it’s an excellent start. She lives in minimalist fashion, which works for her, but the layout is spacious and inviting and warm. A pair of decks overlooking the mountains and her courtyard only adds to the ambiance.
She showed me the local shopping centers for basic sundries and such, and then we pulled into a lot near the North shores. Here there is a bike/jog path which she runs often now, and I see why. A few minutes down the path from the lot, the path suddenly opens up onto the beach, with cliffs to the right, jagged rocks bearing down to the beach, and then, to the left, an auspicious view of the entire City of Ventura – coastside. Surfers and bikers, families with strollers, joggers and walkers, all bustled about us as we touched upon the beach and found a suitable rock to house both of us as we chatted and had a smoke. While Cindy and I knew each other back east, I think it is going to be here, out west, where we will bond. There was a moment of silence between us as the waves crashed and the mammoth seagulls swooped across the tides. Two nomads, uprooted from their lives, contemplating change. One might have called it that “awkward silence.” I prefer to look it as…”contentment.”
We walked back the path to the lot, and just before we reached the car, a buff 30-something man with shaved head was peeling off his tank top to go for a jog in his short shorts. As he started his trek past us and as I turned to observe him, pushing my sunglasses down my nose to watch with intensity, I solemnly said to Cindy (without breaking my focus on him), “I feel like Little Orphan Annie when she walks into the Warbucks mansion.” She looked at me quizzically, and to further clarify what I meant, I sang out with gusto in my best Andrea McArdle voice: “I THINK I’M GONNA LIKE IT HERE!”
We dined at a local sponsor of the theatre, My Florist, a hip, chrome and wood encrusted joint with high ceilings and indoor palms; standing at the back of the dining area was a 20-foot silver plated statue of Atlas, bearing a globe on his back; a fitting place for Martha, if ever there was. A large table of elderly ladies was finishing up what appeared to be their daily dose of tea and scones. There was a bit of a breeze in the air, and we all opted for a soup and sandwich combo. Nearby: a business lunch of several executives, one of whom was showcasing an enormous amount of cleavage. Cindy quipped in wonder how any of her male co-workers could focus on the meeting. I observed a few ladies enter who were seated next to us, one of whom I was surprised to see had even dared to appear in public; she looked like she had been stuffed with so much Botox and collagen, it was a wonder she wasn’t wearing African neck rings to hold up what was now her marshmallow of a head. Her sunken eyes (the only thing untouched by a cosmetologist) darted quickly around the room; maybe it was just nerve damage…I’m not sure, because her face was so “frozen,” but I think, I actually think, she was smiling. Thank heavens I had finished eating, otherwise I’m sure I’d have lost my appetite.
We dropped Martha back off at the theatre, and here was where the meat and potatoes really began: the tour of the town. Cindy went above and beyond the call of duty here; she had done this move herself several months back, but flew solo, and it was trial by fire. Here she was more than happy to hold my hand as we headed to the east side of town, driving down Main Street, past the shops, the restaurants, the galleries and novelty stores, parks, plazas and promenades. It was not long before we reached the “cusp” of downtown where, like any town, things “turn a bit.” Cindy actually lives on the cusp, but her condo is in a new development built to drive out the riff raff – and it’s an excellent start. She lives in minimalist fashion, which works for her, but the layout is spacious and inviting and warm. A pair of decks overlooking the mountains and her courtyard only adds to the ambiance.
She showed me the local shopping centers for basic sundries and such, and then we pulled into a lot near the North shores. Here there is a bike/jog path which she runs often now, and I see why. A few minutes down the path from the lot, the path suddenly opens up onto the beach, with cliffs to the right, jagged rocks bearing down to the beach, and then, to the left, an auspicious view of the entire City of Ventura – coastside. Surfers and bikers, families with strollers, joggers and walkers, all bustled about us as we touched upon the beach and found a suitable rock to house both of us as we chatted and had a smoke. While Cindy and I knew each other back east, I think it is going to be here, out west, where we will bond. There was a moment of silence between us as the waves crashed and the mammoth seagulls swooped across the tides. Two nomads, uprooted from their lives, contemplating change. One might have called it that “awkward silence.” I prefer to look it as…”contentment.”
We walked back the path to the lot, and just before we reached the car, a buff 30-something man with shaved head was peeling off his tank top to go for a jog in his short shorts. As he started his trek past us and as I turned to observe him, pushing my sunglasses down my nose to watch with intensity, I solemnly said to Cindy (without breaking my focus on him), “I feel like Little Orphan Annie when she walks into the Warbucks mansion.” She looked at me quizzically, and to further clarify what I meant, I sang out with gusto in my best Andrea McArdle voice: “I THINK I’M GONNA LIKE IT HERE!”
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
California REALITY – Day 3 - Ventura, City of Fortune
It was a bright and brisk Monday morning, and I awoke to the slight din overhead of several airplanes taking off (Costa Mesa has sound ordinances, and overnight no planes may fly…they line up first thing and once 7 am hits, it’s one after another after another). I was pressed and dressed in no time, and sipping coffee on the front stoop.
It was peaceful, but it was after all Monday, so parents were prepping their kids for school, and there was more activity than over the weekend. I tried to sit still and calm my mind…
And then…the lawn sprinklers came on…ALL of them. Scared the shit out of me.
Jen and I awaited her work colleague, Chris, who was going to chauffeur us up the Pacific Coast Highway, through LA, and to San Beunaventure. They would then drop me off and go to Los Olivos, a bit North, for a wine tasting while I toured the town.
I was grateful for the timing, and Chris had a free car rental…and after a few moments of waiting for him (which tested Jen’s patience with him), we were soon flying in the HOV lane, along with their intern, Laura.
The LA freeways are truly not for the faint of heart, nor the timid (of which, I am both, when it comes to driving…I’m a grandma in the right hand lane kind of driver), so I just tried to keep my head down as cars weaved in and out, and motorcyclists showed disregard for any lanes whatsoever, traveling within a hair’s breadth of my door just to gun their engines past us. Chris, however, is a master multitasker who has taken this trip umpteen times, and while he was a bit of a tailgater, he kept up with the Joneses and kept us on schedule. Jen texted me a message (from within the car, mind you): “i hate when he tailgates” to which I responded: “i didn’t know i would need blood pressure meds today” …she smiled and we pressed on.
The City of LA gave way to valleys, and then mountains, and as 11 am approached, we were taking the downtown Ventura exit.
One Right Turn later, we were facing City Hall, which has white, palatial, Parliament Lights advertisement feel to it. Another right turn on Main, and a few blocks later, there it was: Rubicon Theatre Company, my new employer. It was not difficult to find, considering the slew of tech crew outside building the next set for A Rubicon Family Christmas.
It is a charming, converted Church, now 200 seat theatre with VIP balcony and intimate spaces all around. My new boss, Cindy, met us on the side of the building, next to birds of paradise trees (that’s right – TREES) and an 8 foot jade plant archway. She gave me and my cohorts (as fellow theatre workers) the layout of the building, from offices to rehearsal spaces and the theatre itself, and then, I was left in her care. It was not long before we got right to business and I was on a conference call with my new team members in box office, marketing and development. I barely batted an eyelash as I pulled out my notepad and pen.
Nothing like diving right in, huh?
It was peaceful, but it was after all Monday, so parents were prepping their kids for school, and there was more activity than over the weekend. I tried to sit still and calm my mind…
And then…the lawn sprinklers came on…ALL of them. Scared the shit out of me.
Jen and I awaited her work colleague, Chris, who was going to chauffeur us up the Pacific Coast Highway, through LA, and to San Beunaventure. They would then drop me off and go to Los Olivos, a bit North, for a wine tasting while I toured the town.
I was grateful for the timing, and Chris had a free car rental…and after a few moments of waiting for him (which tested Jen’s patience with him), we were soon flying in the HOV lane, along with their intern, Laura.
The LA freeways are truly not for the faint of heart, nor the timid (of which, I am both, when it comes to driving…I’m a grandma in the right hand lane kind of driver), so I just tried to keep my head down as cars weaved in and out, and motorcyclists showed disregard for any lanes whatsoever, traveling within a hair’s breadth of my door just to gun their engines past us. Chris, however, is a master multitasker who has taken this trip umpteen times, and while he was a bit of a tailgater, he kept up with the Joneses and kept us on schedule. Jen texted me a message (from within the car, mind you): “i hate when he tailgates” to which I responded: “i didn’t know i would need blood pressure meds today” …she smiled and we pressed on.
The City of LA gave way to valleys, and then mountains, and as 11 am approached, we were taking the downtown Ventura exit.
One Right Turn later, we were facing City Hall, which has white, palatial, Parliament Lights advertisement feel to it. Another right turn on Main, and a few blocks later, there it was: Rubicon Theatre Company, my new employer. It was not difficult to find, considering the slew of tech crew outside building the next set for A Rubicon Family Christmas.
It is a charming, converted Church, now 200 seat theatre with VIP balcony and intimate spaces all around. My new boss, Cindy, met us on the side of the building, next to birds of paradise trees (that’s right – TREES) and an 8 foot jade plant archway. She gave me and my cohorts (as fellow theatre workers) the layout of the building, from offices to rehearsal spaces and the theatre itself, and then, I was left in her care. It was not long before we got right to business and I was on a conference call with my new team members in box office, marketing and development. I barely batted an eyelash as I pulled out my notepad and pen.
Nothing like diving right in, huh?
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
California Dreamin’ – Day 2 – Laguna Beach – The Haves and Have Nots versus The Don’t Have To
The difference a day makes out here is not so astonishing; it’s an accumulated effect. But a good night’s rest is certainly a good start.
The morning was languid and overcast; it’s Sunday in Orange County, and the haze of the sky adds to the laid-back feeling of the morning. Lounging in PJs and watching TV, futzing on computers, Jen and I are like an old married couple. “Mi Casa Su Casa,” says she, so I feel at home, make coffee…and just chill. I don’t vacation well, I don’t slow down, I don’t stop…I generally just go, go, go…on to the next.
Not now…now it’s time to disengage with all else, and reconnect with myself. Jen has no problem being an excellent role model in this regard. Don’t get me wrong, Jen is VERY engaging, she just knows how to exhibit how important it is to take time to nurture the spirit. I am a sponge in her presence, and have a long way to go before being wrung.
Case in point: my eagerness to check emails and get on the internet. Signals here are very protected, so I need to go to a public place with WiFi…we choose, of course, her favorite coffee house: Buon Giorno.
There I meet the Italian Consulate who so greatly appreciate seeing her and they speak in tongues; “Bella, Bella.” (And she is.) But their WiFi is weak, so I settle for the Sunday LA Times and we come up with alternate plans: Cosi at Metro Point, where I’m sure to get a good signal, and…she can go to DSW Shoes and lose her “sole” for a while as I catch up on matters.
Not much longer, I’m up to date and have just finished creating this blog, when I get the sense that Roy Orbison is about to start playing; a moment later, the doors part, and around the corner comes Jen, almost in slow motion, carrying two very LARGE bags from DSW. Somewhere, in some remote universe, “Pretty Woman” is playing in the background.
After the footwear fashion show of a pair of topaz pumps and kick ass, but classic, black buckle boots, we lunch at the Gypsy Den at “Lab” (the “a” is actually a “star” in the logo), which is a small industrial warehouse-style converted mall. Here there is an eclectic mix of young and old, bohemian and otherwise…and a killer Waldorf chicken salad sandwich. A young family watched their Asian daughter (adopted, I assume) run amok playing with their puppy dog, who seemed nonplussed by her delightful squeals.
And then…more chill, more still, more…”I don’t HAVE to do anything.”
The afternoon eased on, and we finally pulled ourselves together for a road trip through Newport beach, past Fashion Island, and down into Laguna; Jen had some business at work to tend to, and we killed two birds with one stone as I got to see her office (complete with Wine-Tasting cubicle for happy hours) and the formidable Laguna Playhouse, an adobe structure currently producing “Leaving Iowa.” I thought of my friend Suzy at the title…and I just smiled at the thought of her…Suzy does that to me.
Laguna Beach is a destination tourist trap cum beach community cum artist colony cum charming, opulent, and down-to-earth and happening place. Each year, their “Pageant of the Masters” causes the population to quintuple in size, if not more. It is littered with galleries, shops and beachside reataurants. It was here I would see my first sunset over the Pacific – stunning.
We strolled and strolled and strolled and strolled, and settled at The Cliff for a drink on the veranda, overlooking the beach. Next door, we could hear a wedding reception was taking place. Clearly a mix of Italian and West Indian, we had to focus hard when the wedding party began their karaoke-esque tributes to the bride and groom, with such favorites as “Amado Mio,” “All I Ask Of You,” from Phantom, and “many, many more!”
It was nice to just enjoy the deck (they give you fleece blankets in case there’s a chill; Jen donned her serape accordingly) and we just talked and talked and talked. Our temperamental server, Anna, was a little miffed that we only ordered a drink and nothing more; but this wasn’t about her. It was about US…and the 6’5” hunk of a manager who came to check in on us…Jen and I planned on a competition between us, climbing his tall frame, and whoever made it to the top would win.
We strolled back down the main strip, and stopped in an astounding gallery that caught our eyes. The abstract surreal pieces (clearly out of our price range) were only superseded by Jen’s surreal conversation with the docent guarding them…Jen was an Art History major…she knows a thing or two. Clearly, he thought SHE was a work of art, and as they chatted, he offered her his “personal” email on his business card…uh huh…mm hmm. I just stayed off to the side and looked pretty.
We then drove through “The Canyon” which is where, whenever I’m on the phone with Jen, I lose her cause the signal gets lost. Stopping at her brother’s (with whom I’ll spend more time at Thanksgiving), I was introduced to Maggie, his dog, and his two children…we watched San Diego lose (Jen called it), Maggie do her tricks, and had a few freshly baked oatmeal cranberry cookies.
Tomorrow was going to be the big day for me, so we took “The” Toll Road back, grabbed a pizza, and, as I ironed my clothes, watched an episode of Cold Case.
Sweet dreams filled me once again, as Ventura, and all its transformative power, beckoned. My life was about to change – forever.
The morning was languid and overcast; it’s Sunday in Orange County, and the haze of the sky adds to the laid-back feeling of the morning. Lounging in PJs and watching TV, futzing on computers, Jen and I are like an old married couple. “Mi Casa Su Casa,” says she, so I feel at home, make coffee…and just chill. I don’t vacation well, I don’t slow down, I don’t stop…I generally just go, go, go…on to the next.
Not now…now it’s time to disengage with all else, and reconnect with myself. Jen has no problem being an excellent role model in this regard. Don’t get me wrong, Jen is VERY engaging, she just knows how to exhibit how important it is to take time to nurture the spirit. I am a sponge in her presence, and have a long way to go before being wrung.
Case in point: my eagerness to check emails and get on the internet. Signals here are very protected, so I need to go to a public place with WiFi…we choose, of course, her favorite coffee house: Buon Giorno.
There I meet the Italian Consulate who so greatly appreciate seeing her and they speak in tongues; “Bella, Bella.” (And she is.) But their WiFi is weak, so I settle for the Sunday LA Times and we come up with alternate plans: Cosi at Metro Point, where I’m sure to get a good signal, and…she can go to DSW Shoes and lose her “sole” for a while as I catch up on matters.
Not much longer, I’m up to date and have just finished creating this blog, when I get the sense that Roy Orbison is about to start playing; a moment later, the doors part, and around the corner comes Jen, almost in slow motion, carrying two very LARGE bags from DSW. Somewhere, in some remote universe, “Pretty Woman” is playing in the background.
After the footwear fashion show of a pair of topaz pumps and kick ass, but classic, black buckle boots, we lunch at the Gypsy Den at “Lab” (the “a” is actually a “star” in the logo), which is a small industrial warehouse-style converted mall. Here there is an eclectic mix of young and old, bohemian and otherwise…and a killer Waldorf chicken salad sandwich. A young family watched their Asian daughter (adopted, I assume) run amok playing with their puppy dog, who seemed nonplussed by her delightful squeals.
And then…more chill, more still, more…”I don’t HAVE to do anything.”
The afternoon eased on, and we finally pulled ourselves together for a road trip through Newport beach, past Fashion Island, and down into Laguna; Jen had some business at work to tend to, and we killed two birds with one stone as I got to see her office (complete with Wine-Tasting cubicle for happy hours) and the formidable Laguna Playhouse, an adobe structure currently producing “Leaving Iowa.” I thought of my friend Suzy at the title…and I just smiled at the thought of her…Suzy does that to me.
Laguna Beach is a destination tourist trap cum beach community cum artist colony cum charming, opulent, and down-to-earth and happening place. Each year, their “Pageant of the Masters” causes the population to quintuple in size, if not more. It is littered with galleries, shops and beachside reataurants. It was here I would see my first sunset over the Pacific – stunning.
We strolled and strolled and strolled and strolled, and settled at The Cliff for a drink on the veranda, overlooking the beach. Next door, we could hear a wedding reception was taking place. Clearly a mix of Italian and West Indian, we had to focus hard when the wedding party began their karaoke-esque tributes to the bride and groom, with such favorites as “Amado Mio,” “All I Ask Of You,” from Phantom, and “many, many more!”
It was nice to just enjoy the deck (they give you fleece blankets in case there’s a chill; Jen donned her serape accordingly) and we just talked and talked and talked. Our temperamental server, Anna, was a little miffed that we only ordered a drink and nothing more; but this wasn’t about her. It was about US…and the 6’5” hunk of a manager who came to check in on us…Jen and I planned on a competition between us, climbing his tall frame, and whoever made it to the top would win.
We strolled back down the main strip, and stopped in an astounding gallery that caught our eyes. The abstract surreal pieces (clearly out of our price range) were only superseded by Jen’s surreal conversation with the docent guarding them…Jen was an Art History major…she knows a thing or two. Clearly, he thought SHE was a work of art, and as they chatted, he offered her his “personal” email on his business card…uh huh…mm hmm. I just stayed off to the side and looked pretty.
We then drove through “The Canyon” which is where, whenever I’m on the phone with Jen, I lose her cause the signal gets lost. Stopping at her brother’s (with whom I’ll spend more time at Thanksgiving), I was introduced to Maggie, his dog, and his two children…we watched San Diego lose (Jen called it), Maggie do her tricks, and had a few freshly baked oatmeal cranberry cookies.
Tomorrow was going to be the big day for me, so we took “The” Toll Road back, grabbed a pizza, and, as I ironed my clothes, watched an episode of Cold Case.
Sweet dreams filled me once again, as Ventura, and all its transformative power, beckoned. My life was about to change – forever.
California Dreamin' Day 1 - Part Three - Buon Giorno, Flip Flops, Highways and Comfort Food
Coffee was on the agenda; I wasn’t particularly hungry, but caffeine was definitely in order. Jen, who had been receiving texted travel updates from me since 2 AM her time, found herself in similar straints, longing for a latte. We jettisoned a few highways to her darling apartment with a white picket fence and front yard, unloaded the luggage and rested a moment. I chuckled with irony when I observed the name of the street on which her apartment sits: “Broadway.” Only in California.
Her favorite coffee shop, Buon Giorno in Costa Mesa, a short walk from her place, (the walk was also warranted to stretch my cramped-up legs) has an authentic old-world feel to it; rustic colors with pretty tiles and an outdoor patio with umbrella tables. A bright blue-eyed, dark curly-haired barrista greeted us and took my order for coffee in an oversized porcelain mug, an everything-bagel toasted with cream cheese and Jen’s latte. As we made our way to the patio, I could not help but comment to her how “easy on the eyes” he was. I was beginning to like this. She rolled her eyes, as only she can, and smirked at my shamelessness. Nonetheless, she nodded in agreement.
Jen has been working on her “To do” list for this visit for some time now (although I’ve never read it, I’ve already seen her taking copious notes as she adds to and checkmarks items). Each excursion will hold some meaning, I’m sure, whether it be the “must see,” “must do,” or “must learn.” I’m in good hands with Jen. In order to get a quick lay of the land in her neighborhood, she wanted to show me the South
Orange Performing Arts Center, Southwest Plaza and Metro Point…but before that (and here there was much emphasis): my flip flops had to go; that’s right, my oh-so impractical, two dollar Old Navy bright blue flip flops. First shopping excursion: The Surf Shop, to get a pair of industrial strength, arch supporting, thick-soled, basic black (goes with everything) thongs.
My new spats got a good breaking in with a LOT of walking around, window shopping and dodging the natives who know where they’re going. Jen was quick to anticipate a bad turn by me as she would tug my elbow or guide my shoulder in the proper direction we were heading. We grabbed some Soul Food at Memphis, where I was introduced to the unusual flavor of fried spinach. The restaurant (like many places here, I’m learning) features eclectic art from a variety of artists in many mediums. Managing to masticate a maddening tower of meatloaf, we met up with Jen’s good friend, Dean, on his last night before heading off to Hawaii for the holiday (I now realize that Hawaii is, from this geographic stance, not so far away). Determined to stay awake in order to adjust my body clock, we opted for the oddball comedy Zack And Miri Make A Porno. Seems oddball was the order of the day when, as Dean and I were in line for popcorn, a woman of some stature (or was it her hair) barreled in front of us to inform us that she was cutting in line cause some guy had done the same to her…followed shortly by her son, pleading with her to “get inside mom, the popcorn’s inside already.” Clearly mom forgot to take her meds, and some young son has a bestseller true life novel budding inside him…or at least the movie rights.
The movie was fun, and interestingly held my attention without any hint of a yawn. When the final credits rolled, my adrenaline dropped. It was time to go to bed.
Parting company with Dean and wishing him safe voyage, we retired to Jen’s apartment, where, upon hitting the pillow, I went quickly and quietly into a very deep and restful night’s sleep.
Well, maybe not quietly. I do, after all, …snore.
Her favorite coffee shop, Buon Giorno in Costa Mesa, a short walk from her place, (the walk was also warranted to stretch my cramped-up legs) has an authentic old-world feel to it; rustic colors with pretty tiles and an outdoor patio with umbrella tables. A bright blue-eyed, dark curly-haired barrista greeted us and took my order for coffee in an oversized porcelain mug, an everything-bagel toasted with cream cheese and Jen’s latte. As we made our way to the patio, I could not help but comment to her how “easy on the eyes” he was. I was beginning to like this. She rolled her eyes, as only she can, and smirked at my shamelessness. Nonetheless, she nodded in agreement.
Jen has been working on her “To do” list for this visit for some time now (although I’ve never read it, I’ve already seen her taking copious notes as she adds to and checkmarks items). Each excursion will hold some meaning, I’m sure, whether it be the “must see,” “must do,” or “must learn.” I’m in good hands with Jen. In order to get a quick lay of the land in her neighborhood, she wanted to show me the South
Orange Performing Arts Center, Southwest Plaza and Metro Point…but before that (and here there was much emphasis): my flip flops had to go; that’s right, my oh-so impractical, two dollar Old Navy bright blue flip flops. First shopping excursion: The Surf Shop, to get a pair of industrial strength, arch supporting, thick-soled, basic black (goes with everything) thongs.
My new spats got a good breaking in with a LOT of walking around, window shopping and dodging the natives who know where they’re going. Jen was quick to anticipate a bad turn by me as she would tug my elbow or guide my shoulder in the proper direction we were heading. We grabbed some Soul Food at Memphis, where I was introduced to the unusual flavor of fried spinach. The restaurant (like many places here, I’m learning) features eclectic art from a variety of artists in many mediums. Managing to masticate a maddening tower of meatloaf, we met up with Jen’s good friend, Dean, on his last night before heading off to Hawaii for the holiday (I now realize that Hawaii is, from this geographic stance, not so far away). Determined to stay awake in order to adjust my body clock, we opted for the oddball comedy Zack And Miri Make A Porno. Seems oddball was the order of the day when, as Dean and I were in line for popcorn, a woman of some stature (or was it her hair) barreled in front of us to inform us that she was cutting in line cause some guy had done the same to her…followed shortly by her son, pleading with her to “get inside mom, the popcorn’s inside already.” Clearly mom forgot to take her meds, and some young son has a bestseller true life novel budding inside him…or at least the movie rights.
The movie was fun, and interestingly held my attention without any hint of a yawn. When the final credits rolled, my adrenaline dropped. It was time to go to bed.
Parting company with Dean and wishing him safe voyage, we retired to Jen’s apartment, where, upon hitting the pillow, I went quickly and quietly into a very deep and restful night’s sleep.
Well, maybe not quietly. I do, after all, …snore.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
California Dreamin’ Day 1 – Part Two – “They got a lot of funky- lookin’ people in this world.” – Whoopi Goldberg
It has been some time since I have traveled. And I forgot how much fun it is to people watch. Atlanta International has got to be the Mecca of people watching. Then again, I’m not a world traveler, so, jury’s out.
The concourses are shaped like the inside of a DNA strand as far as I’m concerned, but their shuttle trains are entertaining. The pre-recorded voiceover explaining the terminal at which you’re arriving is a female fond of phonics: “Now arriving, Terminal B. Terminal B, as in Bravo.” “Now arriving, Terminal C. Terminal C, as in Charlie.” Personally, I would’ve chosen something like C, as in cat, because “Ch” is a dipthong, but I now understand the military references.
Arriving at “D as in Delta” I narrowed the gates down to two: mine, and the one across from it, which contained a “Smoker’s Oasis.” Generally, a true smoker’s oasis is a contained ashtry with a funnel chute to dispense of cigarette butts. This oasis was a little different: it served as a quarantine chamber for those addicted to nicotine. As an addict, it beckoned, despite the shroud of blue smoke encircling its glass-encased boundaries. As the door automatically scooped me into its realm, I was smitten by the kaleidoscope of individuals spinning in and out between swirls of smoke and watched the morning sunshine playfully dancing in pockets of actual oxygen.
Planting myself next to a particularly weary-looking woman in what appeared to be a housecoat and Dr. Scholls, I lit up and relaxed: here is where I could get a sense of exactly who my fellow travelers were today: A biker dude in full leather regalia, a bohemian with an elaborate up-do of dreadlocks, a conservative with a briefcase frantically texting on his blackberry, an elderly woman with a four pronged industrial cane hanging on to dear life, an effeminate young African American male in bedazzled jeans, an average joe in plaid and jeans, a young college girl with a backpack and blatant disregard for anyone’s personal space (and whom apparently must be deaf in one ear as she chatted loudly about some concert she had just seen with her BFF…OMG!)…and me. I was in people-watching HEAVEN.
Boarding the flight for leg two of the trip (after a decent Steak and BLT sandwich from one of the concessionaires), I prepped myself for a more accurate projection of my fellow travelers; these were the folks who were actually GOING to California along with me.
On check-in, I was stopped and issued a new seat; only a slight concern, as I knew my former seat was at the window, and this one was now on the aisle. I prefer the aisle, actually, but still, had thought that Jen had booked my 2nd leg on the window, so I could enjoy the panorama as I embarked west, and moreover, as I landed. It became moot anyway, as this flight was far-less booked, and I found myself with all three seats to myself. Aaaaaah.
This was the longer leg: 4 hours and 38 minutes…not awful, but still – lengthy. As I panned the cabin, I was pleased to see a young family, a hip gay couple, a few varying nationalities, and a general mix of young and old. And then I heard it. Behind me. That familiar squeal combined with screech of a baby. I turned to view a family of West Indian descent across the aisle, clamoring for a pacifier or SOMETHING to get the job done. This was going to be a long one. Shades of Paul Lynde once again. I rolled my eyes to heaven, wondering what I’d done to be in such purgatory. It only got worse when each of the parents, at varying times, tried to sing the child to sleep…loudly, and with Indian lullabies, which are frankly, not very melodic.
My oh-so-satiating meal of “peanuts or cookies” was enhanced by a bag of M&Ms and a cola. I observed the Atlanta inlets give way to Texan plains, fluffy clouds and southwestern deserts. In between fits of restless snoozing and more disturbing Indian lullabies, I sought solace in catalog shopping and Men’s Health magazines.
Without the comfort of my cel phone, I knew not what time it was, nor how much had passed…the in-flight movie trumped the video of the flight tracker, and I was not particularly interested in the choice of “Bonneville.” And then I looked out the window: I saw the tail end of the Rocky Mountains; I was now in the final stretch.
From 35,000 feet up, the Rockies are works of art in and of themselves. The good Lord did a fine job of landscaping when they were created. The swirls of red clay and desert, streams and cerulean blue bodies of water are all interwoven into a canvas that should be cared for a by a museum curator. I could tell from the turbulence that their majesty, coupled with the pacific wind currents, were leading me to my destination: John Wayne airport, Santa Ana, Orange County, California.
When I bid farewell to my mother, she noted that John Wayne resembled my father (or vice versa)…she said, “Dad must be watching over you.” That was of additional comfort on this, the first ever of my cross country flights.
After a slightly bumpy landing (literally), I texted Jen, who was waiting in baggage claim. The West Indian family behind me held a swaddled (and silent) babe. I disembarked and followed my path to meet her. Halfway down the escalator I saw her, grinning like a Cheshire cat; I returned the smile and waved. With a big hug and a tear in my eye, I said, “I’m here!” and she, returning my embrace, welcomed me to California…my new home.
The concourses are shaped like the inside of a DNA strand as far as I’m concerned, but their shuttle trains are entertaining. The pre-recorded voiceover explaining the terminal at which you’re arriving is a female fond of phonics: “Now arriving, Terminal B. Terminal B, as in Bravo.” “Now arriving, Terminal C. Terminal C, as in Charlie.” Personally, I would’ve chosen something like C, as in cat, because “Ch” is a dipthong, but I now understand the military references.
Arriving at “D as in Delta” I narrowed the gates down to two: mine, and the one across from it, which contained a “Smoker’s Oasis.” Generally, a true smoker’s oasis is a contained ashtry with a funnel chute to dispense of cigarette butts. This oasis was a little different: it served as a quarantine chamber for those addicted to nicotine. As an addict, it beckoned, despite the shroud of blue smoke encircling its glass-encased boundaries. As the door automatically scooped me into its realm, I was smitten by the kaleidoscope of individuals spinning in and out between swirls of smoke and watched the morning sunshine playfully dancing in pockets of actual oxygen.
Planting myself next to a particularly weary-looking woman in what appeared to be a housecoat and Dr. Scholls, I lit up and relaxed: here is where I could get a sense of exactly who my fellow travelers were today: A biker dude in full leather regalia, a bohemian with an elaborate up-do of dreadlocks, a conservative with a briefcase frantically texting on his blackberry, an elderly woman with a four pronged industrial cane hanging on to dear life, an effeminate young African American male in bedazzled jeans, an average joe in plaid and jeans, a young college girl with a backpack and blatant disregard for anyone’s personal space (and whom apparently must be deaf in one ear as she chatted loudly about some concert she had just seen with her BFF…OMG!)…and me. I was in people-watching HEAVEN.
Boarding the flight for leg two of the trip (after a decent Steak and BLT sandwich from one of the concessionaires), I prepped myself for a more accurate projection of my fellow travelers; these were the folks who were actually GOING to California along with me.
On check-in, I was stopped and issued a new seat; only a slight concern, as I knew my former seat was at the window, and this one was now on the aisle. I prefer the aisle, actually, but still, had thought that Jen had booked my 2nd leg on the window, so I could enjoy the panorama as I embarked west, and moreover, as I landed. It became moot anyway, as this flight was far-less booked, and I found myself with all three seats to myself. Aaaaaah.
This was the longer leg: 4 hours and 38 minutes…not awful, but still – lengthy. As I panned the cabin, I was pleased to see a young family, a hip gay couple, a few varying nationalities, and a general mix of young and old. And then I heard it. Behind me. That familiar squeal combined with screech of a baby. I turned to view a family of West Indian descent across the aisle, clamoring for a pacifier or SOMETHING to get the job done. This was going to be a long one. Shades of Paul Lynde once again. I rolled my eyes to heaven, wondering what I’d done to be in such purgatory. It only got worse when each of the parents, at varying times, tried to sing the child to sleep…loudly, and with Indian lullabies, which are frankly, not very melodic.
My oh-so-satiating meal of “peanuts or cookies” was enhanced by a bag of M&Ms and a cola. I observed the Atlanta inlets give way to Texan plains, fluffy clouds and southwestern deserts. In between fits of restless snoozing and more disturbing Indian lullabies, I sought solace in catalog shopping and Men’s Health magazines.
Without the comfort of my cel phone, I knew not what time it was, nor how much had passed…the in-flight movie trumped the video of the flight tracker, and I was not particularly interested in the choice of “Bonneville.” And then I looked out the window: I saw the tail end of the Rocky Mountains; I was now in the final stretch.
From 35,000 feet up, the Rockies are works of art in and of themselves. The good Lord did a fine job of landscaping when they were created. The swirls of red clay and desert, streams and cerulean blue bodies of water are all interwoven into a canvas that should be cared for a by a museum curator. I could tell from the turbulence that their majesty, coupled with the pacific wind currents, were leading me to my destination: John Wayne airport, Santa Ana, Orange County, California.
When I bid farewell to my mother, she noted that John Wayne resembled my father (or vice versa)…she said, “Dad must be watching over you.” That was of additional comfort on this, the first ever of my cross country flights.
After a slightly bumpy landing (literally), I texted Jen, who was waiting in baggage claim. The West Indian family behind me held a swaddled (and silent) babe. I disembarked and followed my path to meet her. Halfway down the escalator I saw her, grinning like a Cheshire cat; I returned the smile and waved. With a big hug and a tear in my eye, I said, “I’m here!” and she, returning my embrace, welcomed me to California…my new home.
California Dreamin’ Day 1 – Part One – “An Actor Prepares.” – Uta Hagen
Philadelphia International leaves some things to be desired, none the least of which is effective signage. Trying to locate long term economy parking by following the left lane directional signs is not very practical when the actual exit ramp for it is from the far right lane. It is also not a very walkable environment either, as I discovered at 4 in the morning, when parking shuttles don’t run until 5 (damn you, Jen Urbano for booking the first flight of the day – and thank you too), and you have to walk 8 terminals south to get to your departing gate. Even taxi drivers are not permitted to pick up in areas not relegated to them personally. If only the driver could’ve explained that to me in something other than his native language, which clearly was NOT English.
So, I trudged. A lot, from the start. In the snow. California was calling.
My bag was three pounds overweight (not from overpacking, but from packing damp clothes that my ghetto clothes dryer could not bring itself to finish without another 50 cents; I did not have that kind of time). At $30 a pound, it adds up; but the league of foreigners behind me in the baggage check line also did not leave me the option to unpack anything without further delaying my progress. Again, I trudged on. But not before waiting an additional 10 minutes for the baggage clerk to find change. What kind of place opens up without appropriately stocked till drawers??? Sheesh.
Security was, remarkably, uneventful for me. The poor lad in front of me was deemed a random check, so luckily I was delayed “just enough” by the baggage clerk, so I must now thank her. They did unpack my carry-on because there was a CD/DVD in my laptop. I don’t know why that was considered a security threat; I was just hoping it wasn’t porn. To my relief, it was just an old worn- out Yanni album.
After a $4 (small, mind you) cup of coffee, I boarded, without incident, the first leg of my flight – a fully booked 757. Before long, we were airborne to Atlanta. I got a small tear in my eye knowing this was the journey I was meant to be on, and that not too much longer from now, I would be taking this same flight again, more permanently, and that tugged at my heart for a moment. I drifted off to the first in a series of restless and uncomfortable sleeps.
I awoke on several occasions to the sound of a baby’s screaming behind me; I know it’s uncomfortable for babies to fly, the cabin pressure affects their little bodies differently. All I could think of was the story of Paul Lynde, who, legend has it, endured a similar flight back in the 1960s, and, when finally he had had enough, turned to the doting mother with the screaming child, “If you don’t shut that kid up I’m going to fuck it.” I showed a little more restraint. Before long, we landed in Atlanta.
So, I trudged. A lot, from the start. In the snow. California was calling.
My bag was three pounds overweight (not from overpacking, but from packing damp clothes that my ghetto clothes dryer could not bring itself to finish without another 50 cents; I did not have that kind of time). At $30 a pound, it adds up; but the league of foreigners behind me in the baggage check line also did not leave me the option to unpack anything without further delaying my progress. Again, I trudged on. But not before waiting an additional 10 minutes for the baggage clerk to find change. What kind of place opens up without appropriately stocked till drawers??? Sheesh.
Security was, remarkably, uneventful for me. The poor lad in front of me was deemed a random check, so luckily I was delayed “just enough” by the baggage clerk, so I must now thank her. They did unpack my carry-on because there was a CD/DVD in my laptop. I don’t know why that was considered a security threat; I was just hoping it wasn’t porn. To my relief, it was just an old worn- out Yanni album.
After a $4 (small, mind you) cup of coffee, I boarded, without incident, the first leg of my flight – a fully booked 757. Before long, we were airborne to Atlanta. I got a small tear in my eye knowing this was the journey I was meant to be on, and that not too much longer from now, I would be taking this same flight again, more permanently, and that tugged at my heart for a moment. I drifted off to the first in a series of restless and uncomfortable sleeps.
I awoke on several occasions to the sound of a baby’s screaming behind me; I know it’s uncomfortable for babies to fly, the cabin pressure affects their little bodies differently. All I could think of was the story of Paul Lynde, who, legend has it, endured a similar flight back in the 1960s, and, when finally he had had enough, turned to the doting mother with the screaming child, “If you don’t shut that kid up I’m going to fuck it.” I showed a little more restraint. Before long, we landed in Atlanta.
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