My Letter Is FEATURED in The LA Times!

Alright! I haven't seen a hard copy yet, but a friend called this morning and said my letter (see Blog Entry, "Park it, Angelenos!") is a featured letter to the editor. This means bold-faced, boxed in, and accompanied by a photo. Excellent. Now, I am just waiting for the phone call where the editor says, "I've gone through the archive of your submissions and I'd like to ask you to begin submitting Op-Eds for us."

1 Month until Christmas! What's hot this holiday season? Buying less and loving more. And, of course, matching Christmas sweaters.

Concert Talkers: Death to the Lot of You!

I went to The Decemberists’ concert at the Wiltern last night. A great band, Loch Lamond, opened for them. Overall, it was a great show, save for the Decemberists passing up my most loved songs in favor of more upbeat hits conducive to audience participation and call-and-response. Since I’m not a concert reviewer or music critic, I won’t use this space to rant or rave about them, because all a curious soul has to do is look them up online to experience the unparalelled magic and wonder.

What I want to say briefly here has to do less with singing and more with talking, or with the simultaneous occurrence of the two. Last night I had to ask, as politely as I could, four girls (2 in front, 2 beside me) to stop chatting with each other during the songs. I’m not afraid to do this, even though the live concert is somewhat of a social event and booze is served and dancing and singing along are all part of the fun. But, I do not spend what I consider to be more than a fistful of change to listen to complete strangers’ conversations while the band plays on in the background. When I asked the second girl to stop talking, she turned back to me and very excitedly explained to me why she was talking, what it was she was talking about and that she has a chronic problem – she can’t stop talking! Then she said she was going to the bar and asked me if I wanted anything. Oh my.

I just want to implore all the Chatty Kathies and Jabbering Joes out there to give it a rest for three hours - not even three hours, as you can spill your guts out during the set break and then zip it when the lights go down again. We don’t want to hear about how much you love this song (we love it too!) or how your other friend (whose not even here and doesn’t even know who The Decemberists are) decided to take a weekend intensive at the Learning Annex. No. What I want to hear is this:

In the lowlands, nestled in the heat
A briar cradle rocks it's babe to sleep
Its contents watched by Sycorax
And patagon in paralax
A foretold rumbling sounds below the deep

Loud and clear.

Here's to the the power of engaging yourself in live music.

Park it, Angelenos!

Here's a letter I wrote to the LA Times today in response to an article entitled "Evidence suggests commuters are abandoning transit habit".

It was a sad commentary to see that with the decline in gas prices, comes a return to car-commuting for many residents. It surprises me a little that in a city recognized for being on the vanguard of the "green" movement, a spike in fuel prices would be the only motivating factor for commuters to give mass transit a try. Does the thick, gray smog obscuring the mountains to the north provide no impetus? I think we can all rest assured that oil prices will go back up, and I will not complain. I will breathe easier knowing that fewer cars are on the road, and hopefully, in the future, the children of today's commuters will as well.

I mean, come on people! Where are your principles? One of the reasons for the drop in price at the pump was a decrease in demand! You made that possible by hopping on a commuter train or a bus. And admit it, even though the trip was longer and maybe you had to stand for a portion of it, didn't that crazy homeless man talking back to his am/fm radio make for a great story when you got to work? And didn't you enjoy the time you got to spend reading the paper? Maybe you even snuck in a nap as I like to do.

And lastly, yes, removing your carbon-emitting vehicle from the freeway does improve our air quality in Los Angeles. But, to make any kind of lasting impact, behavioral commitments must be made. Everyone wants to save a buck, no doubt, but isn't it even more grand to save the environment in the process?

Here's to choosing the most noble option, not just the least expensive.

Brilliant Moon, Shifting Sands: A Weekend in Death Valley

Death Valley: Rock. Salt. Sun. Sand. Wind. Ruins. Exploitation. Expanse.

The weather this weekend was incredible. High of 86. Low of 56. The evenings felt balmy. We watched the moon rise every night over the mountains, which allowed us a few extra hours of moonbright playtime.



There was some morning yoga. I was introduced to watsu - water therapy in a warm, spring-fed pool at Furnace Creek Ranch. We ate buttery soft dates from China Farm Date Ranch. We visited a ghost town called Rhyolite. Nothing spectacular, but haunting and fascinating, nonetheless.



The trip was capped off by a visit to the Amargosa Opera House and Hotel, a place I will surely be returning to. A chambermaid took us through the rooms and told us which tended to have the most paranormal activity. This was once a ghost town, abandoned after the borax mines could no longer support its population. Then, a dancer from New York City came and reopened the opera house, performing dance and musicals for Death Valley tourists. Today, her performing partner has passed away and she mainly tells stories from a chair on stage. It is still a powerful place to visit and the story is beautifully told in this documentary.



And the name of my first born: Rhyolite Esmeralda Golden

Cars and Bikes: The Safety ReMix

Last week, I showed up at a sushi restaurant to meet a group of folks before heading to the Madonna concert. I had just ridden my bike from Santa Monica to Hollywood in rush hour traffic on the evening of the post-election "No On Prop 8" rallies. It was a glorious ride and I was even part of leading the West Hollywood rally at one point until the police escort allowed me to pass him and get on my way to see the Madge-I live in concert.

After relaying my trip to fellow concert-goers, who had just spent two hours tracing pretty much the same exact route sequestered in a limo, one woman said, "Oh my God, I was just saying, 'Who the hell rides their bike in this traffic?'" She then described the anxiety she feels when she approaches a bicycle on a city street and how she doesn't know how to properly pass either. I knew I was talking with people who had never commuted on two wheels before (just as I never had prior to October). Without getting out there and experiencing what it's like to squeeze between a parked SUV and a moving school bus or to rear-end a Prius after he cuts you off to drive in the bike lane (are they not granted enough privileges already?), then it's understandable that a person may not be aware of proper distances and road etiquette when it comes to sharing the road with bikes.

So, this nice little snippet from an article in the NY Times gives a basic understanding of how to maneuver your gas-powered ride around the bi-peds of the city. After all, they may be slowing you down momentarily, but they're doing the city a favor by keeping fewer carbon emissions out of the air you breathe. Read and heed!

If You’re the Driver

• Keep in mind that a bicycle is a vehicle and that a person riding one has the same rights as a driver of any other vehicle. Bicycles are legally entitled to use most roads, though they must ride on the shoulder when the speed limit exceeds 50 miles per hour.
  


• Remember, too, that bicycles are hard to see and, unlike drivers, cyclists are unprotected by seat belts, air bags and steel cages.
  


• When approaching a cyclist, slow down. When passing, clear the bike by at least three feet (five feet if you are driving a truck). Check your rearview mirror and be sure you can see the cyclist clearly before moving back into the lane.
  


• Do not blow your horn behind cyclists. It can frighten riders and cause them to swerve.
  


• Don’t follow closely behind a bicycle, which may have to stop or maneuver suddenly to avoid a road hazard that could cause the cyclist to fall.
  Be especially wary around young cyclists, including those on sidewalks, who may cross intersections or dart into the road from a driveway or midblock without looking.
  


• Most serious crashes occur at intersections. When turning right, signal well ahead of time, turn from the middle of the intersection rather than across the bike path, and make sure no bike is on your right before you turn. Do not pass a cyclist if you will be turning right immediately after.
  


• In bad weather, give cyclists a wider berth, just as you would do for other drivers.
  


• When waiting to turn left or to proceed from a stop sign, yield to a bicycle that has the right of way. More than half of collisions occur when cyclists and drivers are on perpendicular paths, and three-fourths of these accidents result from a failure to yield the right of way.
  


• Before opening your car door, check your mirror to be sure no bike is approaching. A passenger on the driver’s side should open the door just enough to turn around to see if the path is clear.
  


• Like it or not, bicyclists have the right to “take the lane” under certain conditions:
  1. When overtaking a vehicle moving in the same direction.
  2. When getting ready to turn left.
  3. When a lane is too narrow to share with a car or truck.
  4. When there are unsafe conditions on the road like double-parked vehicles, animals, pedestrians and potholes.

To read the whole article, click here.

Here's to mutual respect on the road, resulting in a safe harmonious commute for all travellers.

The Cultivation of a Generation That Doesn't Really Know How To Do Much of Anything

It’s almost too easy to contrast things about LA and East Tennessee. I mean, how much more polar can you get? But, there are things that are much more subtle than politics, religion, and sexuality. One of these things that I have noticed is a sad lack of self-reliance here in the big city. The people I am thinking of are in their late 20s to early 30s, most are not married or homeowners. They live in communal spaces, sharing a bathroom and a sink full of dirty dishes with roommates. And by and large, they are completely clueless around the house.

They do not know how to cook – a microwave, a pasta pot, and a George Forman grill being the most advanced tools in their culinary arsenal. They do not know how to clean. Well, maybe they would if they just set their minds to it, but they lack the tools (a sturdy mop and bucket, a powerful vacuum cleaner with attachments) to actually execute. And, I am pretty sure that the thought of getting down on all fours and scrubbing a floor is a non-starter for nearly everyone I know here.

They are grooming themselves for either a life of perpetual rentership or a very expensive relationship to the home they will eventually own, as they cannot repair a leaking faucet, patch a wall, or hook up a washer/dryer. Somehow, a person can get away with this these days. Just as a person can expatriate to Prague and never bother to learn Czech. But, I feel like a person who never learns to quilt, mend, hem, make yogurt, repair a car, bicycle, grow food, care for an animal, use a power drill, table saw, or caulk gun or any one of the many tasks that once upon a time not so long ago made up the events of a human being’s day-to-day life, is cheating themselves. When I left for Tennessee, I was in love with the following quote by author Robert Heinlein:

A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects.

Here’s to becoming self-sufficient, learning everything from the mundane to the arduous to the intellectual without granting any of those a superior status.

On Onion Sprouts and Passionfruit That's Lost Its Passion

The Los Angeles Farmer’s Market. Just like the gym, it can be hard to drum up the motivation, but once it’s over, you walk away with the feeling of time well-spent, to say the least.

Rick and I hit the Hollywood Farmer’s Market today. This is the mother of all farmer’s markets. Sprouts, herbs, heirlooms, native plants, raw milk, varietal grapes. To enter without a week’s worth of recipes can lead to lots of overspending and consecutive spoilage. What was I really planning to do with all those persimmons anyway?

Getting to the farmer’s market requires driving, waiting on line at the Sunset and Vine WaMu ATM, parking at the ArcLight, remembering to get validation, and carrying many Chico Bags that just keep getting heavier and more unmanageable as we go. These are the facets of farmer’s marketing that inspire Rick to create excuse after excuse of why he should be doing something else. But, I drag him along anyway. And he carries the bags. And it is good.

I tell Rick, just as I tell myself, that it is important to have gratitude for this weekly opportunity, as small farmers are not doing so hot. Economically, they are struggling and are forced to walk the fine line separating the public’s desire for organic, locally-grown food and their ever-increasing need for affordable offerings. (Been to the grocery section of the 99 Cents Only Store lately?) The farmer’s market is potentially a fleeting experience where our vendor can tell us that we’re not just eating green seedless grapes, but “Prince Johnnies”. And when I pay him the money, he grabs another bunch and adds it to my bag. Just because. I talk to another young couple about the low weight of some pink grapefruit and the dehydrated appearance of passionfruit and we try to decipher if this indicates less juiciness. The sprouts lady tells me onion sprouts make her bleed. I refrain from inquiring further. I talk to the apple vendor who tells me where his farm is located, how to get there, and which apples grow when. Then, he asks if I want to come out and help with pruning and chasing rattlesnakes. On my way out, I drop my remaining change in the guitar case of a waify tween singing an acoustic cover of Rhianna’s “Umbrella” (ella, ella, ay, ay ay). I contrast this to the last time I went to the supermarket and walked back and forth between aisle 7 and 19, unable to find canned pumpkin nor someone to direct me to it. After finding it, I paid at the self check-out and a flat screen thanked me for shopping at my neighborhood Ralph’s.

Here, among the stalls of produce, eggs, and cacti, there is a pulse. There is a cash flow. There is supply and demand. There is no middle man. There is no packaging. There is color, texture, and samples everywhere! There is me, and I’m loving it.

Here’s to farmer’s markets everywhere: intersections of face-to-face human interaction, free market economics, and sustainable practices. Here’s to making them a regular part of our lives.