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.”
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