What if God Smoked and Threw His Butts on You?

So, God is smoking. And God is 23 feet tall or so. He takes his last puff and, ah crap, there's no ashtray next to his throne. God's robes don't have pockets. So, God tosses his cigarette butt down on a cloud. Out of sight. Out of mind. That was so easy, god thinks, who needs antiquated ashtrays? Soon enough, cigarette butts the size of baseball bats are littering earth. They're making the humans sick. We shake our fists at God as we watch 50% of our population become stricken with different types of cancers as a result of this toxic rain. Sure, God loves his people, but hey,can we really expect that he properly dispose of his waste? He's so busy.

Meanwhile, on a more terrestrial level, a preliminary study finds that cigarette butts are toxic to fish. As detrimental as these findings could be due to the sheer number of smoked and tossed butts that make their way into our waterways, I am not the least bit surprised. And for a couple of reasons:

First, as reported in 1994 by the cigarette companies themselves, cigarettes contain 599 additives, which, when burned, create more than 4,000 chemical compounds(1). Second, one of many lessons you learn when running a bait and tackle shop is how difficult it is to keep fish alive. They are highly sensitive creatures and are affected greatly by changes in temperature, light, and environment. Change the chemical components in their water and you’ll find yourself with a tank full of minnows floating belly-up in no time flat.

In my eyes, a fellow human carelessly chucking a still-lit cigarette with a devil may care casualness is the epitome of selfish ignorance. When I call friends out on it, I usually get a slightly embarrassed response and a “sorry”. Then, they sheepishly roll their eyes and nervously giggle. Dear, sweet friend, it’s not fucking funny. Your actions make you look like a cretin.

If you smoke, from this moment forward, don’t even think about littering your cigarette butts. If you know people who smoke, from here on out, do not turn a blind eye when they discard their toxic waste onto the same earth you tread. Richard Gersberg, one of the researchers on the SDSU study said, “You might as well have small vials of toxins -- trillions of them -- in the water." It should have never been an acceptable practice to toss smokes on the ground, but somehow the rapidity and simplicity of the action has allowed it to slip under the radar of the average person’s conscience. Add to that the ubiquity of the cigarette flick throughout the history of motion pictures and we have an entire global population that has been duped into a misconception

However, this blind acceptance is the old reality. It’s time we move towards one where, regardless of whatever habits we subject our own bodies to, we don’t intentionally foul our earth and its ecosystem with their toxic detritus.

BAT December 12th, 1986, Mutagenic Activity of Flavour Compounds. FN AQ2222, BN 400916808-400916815)

Self-Continuance and Fear

I wrote this a while back, but I wasn't ready to post it until I put notice in to my employers that I was making an exit, so here we go...

I know a way to guarantee cognitive dissonance and stir up a lot of discomfort and maybe pain. Go to your corporate job by day and read Krishnamurti by night. Last night I read (over and over and over) that “Any time there is an issue of self-continuance, there is fear….”. And on my bicycle ride into work this morning, it became clear to me that the only thing that gets me out of bed at 4:30 am and to work by 5:30 is fear. Fear. Fear. Fear. If you know me, maybe you can guess what happened right after this realization. I cried. And pedaled and cried and pedaled. I already knew that I didn’t like going to work. I knew that I was only there for a paycheck. I knew I had no aspirations for growing in the firm. But, I didn’t realize that the foundation of it all was fear. Logical fear, yes. Fear that I won’t be able to pay my rent or feed my animals.

It’s shocking and amazing when you can take a new concept or even a sentence, as in this case, and layer it over your current knowledge of a situation to find that under its light, everything has changed. As of this morning it was no longer me working a job I wasn’t happy with, it became me living in fear. What? Me? ME! The one who knows from experience that a person manifests their own destiny. The one who believes in creative freedom and the shaking off of anything that feels like chains.

I look around my office and I don’t see my concerns mirrored in anyone else’s eye. They may have the fear, but they’re not facing it. Before you face it, you have to acknowledge it and it doesn’t feel good. Because when you acknowledge it, it won’t stop poking you in the forehead until you’ve done something to eradicate it. And eradicating it will likely disrupt the pattern of self-continuance that Krishnamurti refers to.

I know that the best stories are when the big mahatma – the one in the corner office with a view and a load of responsibilities – takes the leap and gets out of the business. He starts a charity or a rare plant nursery. He inevitably takes a 90% paycut, but finally learns what its like to put his own child down for a nap. That’s what makes everyone feel good. The light went on in his head and he broke free! Yay! But, no one really cares when an assistant does the same thing, because the assistant has like $1000 in her bank account and goes to work at the plant nursery that the bigwig started.

Often, after painful realizations, radical actions don’t happen. What can happen is that the dissonance of the reality and the desire to break out of the reality sit and stew uncomfortably together until it makes one ill or depressed or both. I know. The fear is strong. It is reinforced daily. For me, it is reinforced by the guarantee of a good paycheck combined with the uncertainty of ever finding what it is that will truly fulfill me. Walking off the job like the person in my fantasies does means leaping into a big black ocean holding nothing but my sewing machine and my weekend itineraries as life preservers.

I’m scared. I’m feeling too rational. And that feeling sucks.

Concerning Your Inalienable Right and Patriotic Duty to Throw Down on the Dance Floor

This Sunday afternoon at Sunset Junction Music Festival, I was soaking up Martin Luther’s genre-bending R&B/rock ‘n’ roll/pop music. His luscious lyrics - just to be alive is a reason to ride/ don’t give up the spirit of the phoenix/ RISE” – struck a chord somewhere deep in my expanding soul. As I watched the clouds behind the stage spread out in magnificent formations, I felt Martin’s songs reverberate from the tips of my toes to the top of my head.


I am the person at a concert who needs a little extra space – a sort of buffer around me, because I jump, spin, and get down to the ground whenever the music dictates that I do so. I have a compulsory physical reaction to music. Sometimes, when I find that I’m the only one moving, I wonder how people around me manage to stay so still. Are they consciously stifling this urge to take the music inside them and transform it into a physical impulse? Or inside their bodies, is there no trigger for the music to activate? Does it simply enter and flow through and out undetected?


I remember the first time I understood what it was to really dance. It was at a little event in Tempe , AZ called Wicca Wednesdays. It was a weekly gathering of hip-hop DJs in a strip mall bar. I went by myself one week and stood like I normally did, drink in hand, doing a little swaying and head bobbing. I was tapping my feet, shifting side to side, moving my hips like so. The music gradually elevated into a realm I wasn’t familiar with and before long it made a connection somewhere deep inside me, in a place that felt spiritual. That night I learned what freedom of movement was. I learned what letting go of physical inhibitions meant. I learned to tap into a higher power that reaches out to us through music, and in my case specifically, through good dance beats. That night changed my life.


When Sarah Silverman was asked what kind of music she likes, she said, “Anything that sounds good in my ear holes”. I couldn’t have said it any better. But I could add “anything that makes my body move” whether it’s my own version of ballet dancing to classical, pop-locking to hip hop or jumping up and down to some live guitar. If my body reacts to it, I know my soul is opening to it and I just ride the wave that comes my way.

I notice the others that do this too. I spot them, get near them and let their energy mingle with mine until we’ve created something larger than the sum of persons involved. It’s not hard to do when most of these soulful dancers are dripping with excess positive energy and joy. It is contagious and I soak it up.


When you’re dancing without inhibition, there is a focused connection happening between you and the music and nothing else. There is input (the beats) and there is output (your sweet ass dance moves) and in certain lucky moments that is all there is. Ego goes away and it takes worry and fear with it. Mr. Miyagi said, “Never trust a spiritual leader who cannot dance.”

And Agnes De Mille – who had a few things to say about dancing – said, “To dance is to be out of yourself. Larger, more beautiful, more powerful.” So why, may I ask, has anyone ever bypassed an opportunity to get down? Why miss a chance to sing, pray, love and give thanks through your feet? If you think dancing’s not really your thing, maybe you haven’t met the music that melts your ego yet. Keep searching. The rewards will be immeasurable.

Hey, Hey, My, My - The Creative Soul Will Never Die

Sewing, quilting, knitting, creating. They run in my bloodline. Only I never fully realized it until now. It should have been obvious. Several of my aunts are expert quilt makers. My mother sewed most of my childhood clothing and dolls. My paternal grandmother still makes purses although she can barely see. My maternal grandmother has presented me with more handmade gifts than I can count over the years, many of which I was too young and too “cool” to fully appreciate at the time. Growing up, I loved to create handmade cards for my mom and I dabbled in furniture painting, all of which gave me tremendous satisfaction. All of which, also, fell away in adulthood.

After a year in college prepping for a major in interior design, I opted for a theatre degree and used the stage as my creative outlet for years. Then, after falling into consciously deciding on a career in investment brokerage and a stint as a small business owner, my creative impulses felt lain to waste. I could barely drum up the energy to make a colored pencil card once a year for my mother.

But, then, one day as I was complaining about x, y, and z for the n^th time that month, I heard a muffled whimper. I listened closer. It was more forceful this time. Then, there was a fist pounding on wood. I scraped at the ground with my bare fingernails until I found it. It was my undying creative soul demanding to be dug out of its early grave. And ever since the moment that I lifted his frail little body into the sunlight, inspiration has been raining down from the sky. I’m currently standing knee deep in plans and schemes. The desire to do something with my hands other than typing is so strong that when a box of discarded business cards landed on my desk recently, a gothic village began to take shape, aided by a glue stick I found. Eventually, the structures became too elaborate to carry on at my desk and too conspicuous to passers-by. Operations have since been relocated to my home and plans blossomed into a line of gothic Christmas villages called Noel Gothique.

I have routinely said that I hate the question, “What’s your passion?”, because I never knew how to answer it. But, the other day, I wrote this sentence without even thinking twice about it: My passions are digging, discovering, dusting off, and rebirthing all forms of discarded objects.

Whoa! There it was. It’s not grandiose and it might not save the world, but those things are what get me really excited. They manifest themselves in picking up furniture off the side of the road, rescuing stray animals, and scavenging through warehouses and thrift stores in search of items worthy of a second chance.

Then, I started a list. It's like a "Makes My Heart Beat Faster" List. It’s just the things that get me really excited. The things that make me feel exuberant. Mine came out like this:

Gypsy Caravans
Vegetarian Cooking
Thrifting
Hats
Writing
Bicycle Knickers
Interior Decorating
Dirigibles
Reusing/UPcycling
Homes on Wheels
Mopeds
Brightly Striped Canvas
Urban Cycling
Linen

Random. Fitting for a renaissance soul like mine.

Here is my first completed project.

I call it La Infanta y Su Precioso. The frame belonged to an ex-boyfriend, the cat broach has been mine since kindergarten, the vine wreath I made while pulling kudzu off the back wall of my store in Tennessee, the doll was discarded by my neighbor’s daughter, and the gears in the background are a broken box top. Who knew that all these wandering objects would find each other and cohabitate so beautifully within the confines of a box destined for the recycling bin?

There’s much, much more in the works… My heart is seizing up just contemplating all of the ways to get my hands dirty.

Right now, I am thrilled for having been asked to create more of the yarn flowers seen in the photo to the right for Kelee Katillac. She is a woman who saved herself and her soul through accessing the creativity inside her and now she is a well-known blogger who has published books, been on numerous television programs, and developed a system of healing through creating sanctuary. And, she likes my scrappy little yarn flowers!!! (Maybe it’s Penny’s adorable-ness that really sells them.)

So, big thanks to my craggy, dehydrated, little waif of a creative soul (in my mind, he looks like a dirt-smudged marionette with a top hat) for reminding me that he will always be there no matter what. I think I will offer him some wine and we will convene this afternoon at the craft table.

“Do you want to have children?”

It’s a question that’s raised fairly often in discussions at my age. I’m almost thirty, unmarried, and have never expressed a deep sentiment for children either way. But, when I read editorials like Paul Krugman’s Betraying The Planet, in today’s NY Times, the answer is – in no uncertain terms, “Absolutely not”. And, on top of it, I need an explanation from new parents as to how they were able to face down the science that is readily available to us all – the science that paints a scorching picture of our planet’s future and whose looming deadline seems to creep ever closer – and make a conscious decision to people this planet with more innocents – innocents who, from day one, are also consumers. (Note: I am not trying to make a judgment, I truly want to know how.)

I want to know, as I look down the row of computers to my left – each one populated by mothers and fathers – how they can spend 8-10 hours a day making money instead of making this planet a safer, healthier place for their children to inherit. I want to know what they do in their off-time, their real-world lives to ensure that their children won’t die young in an insane heat wave or enlist in the military in order to fight a war over access to clean drinking water. In short, as someone who has made a conscious decision to add more beings to an already overpopulated planet, how is it possible to do anything without weighing the impact it will eventually have on the planet that your bloodline inherits?

Yes, I desire a family. I desire to inculcate a little person with everything I have learned in my years of trial and error and adventure. I desire cute baby clothes, hearing Mama for the first time, and height charts on the wall. But, who do I desire these things for? Do I feel there is a soul somewhere floating in the ether saying, “Please birth me onto Planet Earth! There’s nowhere else I’d rather be!” Hell no! That’s ridiculous to think that. I want all that stuff solely for selfish reasons. I want to experience my pregnancy. I want a child to strengthen the bond between my future husband and me. I want that child to care for me when I am elderly.

But, what do I want for the child? I want my child to live an enlightened, peaceful life. I want my child to experience the beauty of the natural world. I want my child to know, live, create, and share love. I want an Indigo Child. And I want a world that will match my child’s beauty and purity. But, in order for that to happen, I need to be creating that world in every step I take every day that I live.

So, that is my last question to new parents and parents-to-be. Is that what you’re doing? Are you conscious of how every decision – whether minute or major – is part of the foot print you leave on a planet you ultimately bequeath to your children? Do you use that awareness to lighten that footprint until it’s almost invisible? And if not, at this point, how in the world could you possibly do anything different?

(Note 2: Although the tone of this piece sounds self-righteous at points, please know I am asking myself these very same questions and hoping if anyone reading has found answers that work for them, that they share them with me. - Julie)

Give The Cheap Seats a Chance!

Yesterday, I went to see Anvil: The Story of Anvil at the Regency Fairfax. This retro theater in the center of LA offers a $5 matinee price for all shows before 6:00. I remember when it was $3, then $4. Even at five, this is the cheapest show in town. So, here’s the mysterious thing. Hardly anyone is ever there! It was ironic to be watching a documentary about a band who fears performing for pathetically tiny crowds in a theater with two patrons.

Once I got into the theatre, realized there was only one other person besides myself, and began contemplating how much money this for-profit establishment was losing on the screening of this film, I rushed back out to the lobby during previews and bought myself a popcorn, handing at least $4 of straight profit over to management. The popcorn was stale, of course, being there had been no one else to eat it all afternoon.

So, I would like to take this opportunity to ask everyone to patronize their local discount theaters! Please! Before they are gone and we are forced to see films like Anvil or Every Little Step at the Nuart or the Arclight for $14.50 or to wait for them to come out on DVD. These little cheap seats are there to reward you for your patience by slashing prices and making movie-going affordable again! Sure, the air-conditioning is out in theater 2 and the girl loading the projector is also getting your popcorn, but you can see three second-run movies for the price of one first-run release here!

So, what’s keeping you? Take advantage while you can!

I’ll be there again for The New Twenty on Friday night if you want to join me!

If Sidewalks Could Sprout Leaves

I remember reading in 2003 that future wars would be fought over access to clean water. Ever since then, I have been highly conscious of my water usage. If I’m over at your house and you walk away from the sink to grab something out of the refrigerator and leave the water running, I will jump up from the table and shut it off. Or, if I don’t know you that well, I will cringe on the inside and you will lose major points.

The other day, I returned to a neighborhood where I used to live and when I waved to an old neighbor in his yard, he dropped his water hose on the ground, still running full blast, and came over to engage me in a conversation. I couldn’t focus on anything he was saying, as all my attention was drawn to the gallons of water spewing forth onto his cement walkway. I quickly excused myself so that he could get back to what he was doing (watering non-drought tolerant rose bushes).

This encounter, in conjunction with the malfunctioning sprinkler across the street that erupts like Old Faithful onto the sidewalk every morning at 5:00 am, gave me an idea for a grassroots website. www.WaterWasteWatch.com is a place where residents of LA can post reports and photos of local water squanderers and cite their physical address. Visitors to the website are encouraged to then send a polite, concise letter to the offender asking them to fix the problem. Templates are included on the website in order to encourage a consistent message and friendly tone. The website also acts as a resource for the recipient of the letter, where he/she can find assistance in taking action to correct the water misuse problem.

I was all ready to give the idea a go when I visited LADWP.com and saw that they have a Water Conservation Team already in place! I was thrilled. Mission accomplished. Move on to next task. You can either call 1-800-LADWP or you can send an e-mail to waterconservationteam@ladwp.com and make your report. Apparently, they then follow up on these cases, issuing warnings and eventually tickets. They are also proactive about catching water wasters and drive around in a “clearly marked Prius” on the lookout for those breaking the law.

It has been six days since I reported the gushing geyser across the street. It’s still going off. I’m not discouraged. It’s only been four business days and the house is currently uninhabited and undergoing intermittent remodeling. But, I have to wonder…if www.WaterWasteWatch.com existed and I had posted photos and a report there (assuming I had done sufficient work to promote the website), would the owner (also assuming he has mail forwarded from this address or checks it frequently) have already received a small stack of letters encouraging him to make a change for everyone’s sake? Would he have been moved by the peer pressure and made a trip to the house over the weekend to turn the sprinkler system off? Perhaps.

There is another seriously malfunctioning sprinkler system on my street (oh, if driveways too could sprout leaves!) and I will send that report in. If I see that neither of these matters are resolved by the time the summer heat – and inevitable drought – sets in, then expect to see Water Waste Watch go live. And expect some water conservation, grass roots style!

Here's to holding everyone, including ourselves, accountable.

The Keyhole in the Laundromat

Who knows why early childhood memories broadside us at completely random moments? Who knows what jostles the small pocket that houses them just before the minute details of light, color and texture spill out and reconstruct themselves before our mind’s eye?

Today, I was sending an e-mail out at work (something about information technology and outsourcing) and without a moment’s notice, I was six years old at the Laundromat on Main Street , peeping through a keyhole into the apartment in the rear of the store. I have no idea the last time this memory surfaced or, honestly, if it ever has since then, but the emotional clarity that accompanied it was surprisingly sharp.

The Laundromat was in Almena, Wisconsin, population 456. It is where I was born and where I would spend the weekend with my dad after my parents were divorced. My dad didn’t have a washing machine, owing to the fact that he had no running water in his dilapidated home. So, every now and then, we would drive the block and a half up Main Street, past the bar, the post office, and the “supper club” (In those days I viewed this as the fancy place to eat, but if I were to see photos of it today, I would probably shudder at the sight.) to the Laundromat.

While waiting for the clothes to finish, surely I got bored and I think my dad even left me alone once in a while when he went to retrieve his mail from a post office box. I would wander towards a door set in the center of the rear wall, tucked back in a small alcove between soap dispensing machines and hard plastic chairs. In my memory, it’s a thick, glass door with curtains on the reverse side. This is where the elderly owners of the Laundromat lived, although I don’t remember ever actually seeing them. I would get my eye right up to the keyhole – the old-fashioned kind that afforded the peeper a moderately decent view – and I would look inside. What I remember most is the light – filtered and dusty – as if the shades were permanently closed. I remember faded greens and a hint of mauve. I remember heavily textured synthetic fabrics. It was like a museum. A room of steadfast relics, void of movement with an almost dollhouse-like quality. A place very unlike my father’s house.

I think of what I would do as a parent if I found my child peeping into someone’s home through the keyhole. I imagine I would tell them to stop immediately and teach them a lesson about personal privacy. That, to me, seems appropriate. But, how could I ever know what I was robbing them of in doing this? How could I know that I was dispossessing them of a mysterious, magical flashback twenty years down the road on a day when they need it most.

It’s amazing to ponder this collection of moments. The keyhole at the Laundromat segues into playing 301 with my dad at the bar next door, drinking Shirley Temples and playing Rosanne Cash’s Tennessee Flat Top Box over and over again on the jukebox. These images, however convoluted or gussied up they’ve become over time, are our histories and when they pop up and give us a jolt like mine did this morning, I know it’s a signal that the time has come for me to tell that part of my story, lest I let it slip away and it chooses not to return to me again in this lifetime. How many moments have already done this? How many memories will not return again before our last day on earth? A great many, I suppose. There’s only room for so many thoughts in our heads. But, as long as they choose to surprise me here and there, root me, and make me grateful for the path I have traveled, then I will honor them by putting the words, as best I can, down on paper.

Here's to telling your story.

See, Mom! Look What I Can Save!

I am a self-professed thrift-store junkie. Spotting a good buy gets my heart racing. I will dig, sift, climb, and linger until I feel confident that I have seen every last item and pondered its each and every use before I leave the store. Some days (but not often) I leave empty-handed and some days I leave utterly triumphant. Yesterday was one of the latter. I went to my favorite Goodwill in search of brown heels, because my dog had snacked on mine all day while I was at work. I left the store without the heels, but in possession of a few unexpected treasures that thoroughly thrilled me.

I cycle to work, so I love knickers. I also love them because almost no one wears them and that makes them even more unique. Knickers are not to be confused with Capri pants (gag). They are shorter and often cuffed at the bottom. Yesterday, I saw a beautiful textured fabric poking out of the overstuffed pants rack, reached in to pull it out and found I was holding a pair of Louis Verdad knickers in my hand, tags still on, with a heart-stopping price of $374. In my size!

I moved over to the jeans rack and quickly flipped through the Express denim, the tapered Levi’s, the bell cuts with frayed bottoms until my fingers felt the luxurious denim of a brand new pair (again, tags still attached) of Karl Lagerfeld Slim Fit jeans. My size, to the inch!

I went to the dressing room and both pairs fit beautifully! The Lagerfelds, aside from possibly being the sexiest pair of jeans I have ever worn, were designed to be worn with high heels (or by a woman measuring 5’10” or taller), so I made my way to the shoe rack where I found an ever so gently worn pair of red Via Spiga heels that looked killer with them.

When I was trying on shoes there was a gentleman who had started conversing with me (there definitely are those types who treat Goodwills like community centers). He said, “Now certainly you could find a man who would be willing to buy you a nice, new pair of shoes.” I appreciated his sentient, but explained that besides the fact that I’m not chasing anyone’s money and the fact that I could buy myself a nice new pair of shoes, this is fun for me. Whenever I need something, my immediate reaction is “time to go to the thrift store”. It hasn’t been “time to go to the mall” since high school.

So here are the calculations I came up with.

Retail Values:

Louis Verdad Couture Knickers: $374
Karl Lagerfeld Slim Fit Jeans: $220
Via Spiga Heels: $150 (price adjusted down $40 b/c they are not BRAND new)

TOTAL: $744

Goodwill Prices:

Louis Verdad Couture Knickers: $6.99
Karl Lagerfeld Slim Fit Jeans: $9.99
Via Spiga Heels: $9.99

TOTAL: $26.97

I saved: $717.03

And I was out of the store within 30 minutes.

From my friends who don’t thrift shop, I usually hear that they don’t have the patience to sift through the junk to find the gems. But, if saving over $700 in less than thirty minutes isn’t a good argument for giving it a shot, then I don’t know what is. Which, I’m totally cool with because then, as they say, more for me!

Yeah, You Wish You Could Consume Like Us!

The traders in the room next to me are tuned in to Fox news for nine straight hours every day. They also fancy themselves sideline commentators, which makes it quite obvious to the casual observer that they are not President Obama’s biggest supporters. One woman actually called him Osama, because she “seriously couldn’t remember his name!” (…sigh for humanity…)

This morning, Fox was airing a clip of the president’s most recent speech where he stated (paraphrased from memory) “Americans, no matter how green you say you are, you still are consuming more resources than an average Indian citizen on a daily basis”. To which, one of the traders replied, “I’d like to hear from one of them [Indians] who wouldn’t trade places with one of us in a heartbeat.”

I rolled my eyes and my heart sank, because aside from the fact that he was missing President Obama’s point entirely, which I take to have been a reevaluation of what we truly need to get by in an age of dwindling resources, he was making an arrogant, and too common, assumption that everyone wants to be an American. Still.

I don’t feel the need to overanalyze his statement, and I recognize that we are blessed in many ways to live in this country, but the belief that America is the greatest country in the world is fading like a cut flower sipping at the last drops of water in its vase. And the fact that one of my fellow Americans would dodge the accountability inherent in Obama’s statement and opt for a rebuttal laden with such cocky entitlement is what worries me most about the fate of our nation.

Hitting the Road on the Van's Maiden Voyage

Origin: Hankook Park

Destination: Charmlee County Park, Malibu Creek State Park, and Topanga Canyon

Soundtrack: Fleet Foxes, Zero7, Speedsquare, Camera Obscura, and Midlake

Reading Material: Bohemian Manifesto and a November 2008 issue of Rolling Stone

This weekend marked my inaugural voyage with my 1980 Volkswagen Vanagon. It was not only the first time I took her on the freeway, but also the first time I exposed her to any sort of hill – something that I learned is quite a challenge for her. But, overall, she performed beautifully and unfolded her personality to me over the course of the two days.

The first leg of the journey was making my way to the coast (with my roommate and one of my adventure partners, Erik) via highway 10. Up to this point, I don’t think I’d driven her faster than 40 miles per hour. I was, to say the least, shocked to hear the sound she makes at about 55 when there is any kind of cross wind. It is an incredibly loud beating/thumping noise coming from the front end. Since the engine is housed in the rear, the only conclusion we could come up with is that it is a purely wind related phenomenon. It’s not something I am terribly worried about, but would like to get to the bottom of nonetheless, as it is not a pleasant thing to listen to as you’re cruising down the freeway.

Once on the PCH, we drove alongside another VW Van, more of the Samba bus style, and I shared my first VW bus owner to VW bus owner salute. There were a number of these that followed over the course of the weekend and each was a nice affirmation of my choice of vehicle. Driving up Highway 1 was glorious. The weather was indisputably perfect and our sound system was bumpin’! Zero7 was singing:

So you crash and you burn
Sometimes the road will twist and turn
Some of this, less of that
Forget all about the map, California Roads

Cash it in and throw it all away
Never needed any of it anyway

We arrived at Charmlee just in time for a sunset hike. This time of year, everything is so lush that comparisons to Ireland and Hawaii are unavoidable. Charmlee has unbeatable views of the Pacific, expansive meadows, and lots of rocks and trees where you could tuck yourself away and die to the rest of the world for a while.

We finished just after the sun had dropped behind the mountains and headed back out on the road, going deeper into the canyon. We popped Speedsquare in the stereo and started jamming until – “What? Erik, what’s going on? My gas pedal’s not working. I’m not getting any power!” Our immediate decision was to turn the van around and head back to the coast, which is a 3.5 mile downhill ride. And a good decision it was as we had no cell phone reception in the canyon and because my engine almost immediately cut out. We coasted down with no power brakes and all the lights on my dashboard glowing an ominous red until we reached Hwy 1 and were grateful to find a small, Vanagon sized pull off right before the stop sign. My heart was racing the entire ride down and I had a nagging fear that the brakes were going to fail and send us into the ocean.

Turns out, we just ran out of gas. We found that out when the tow truck arrived two hours later, gave her a couple gallons, and she started right up. It’s actually pretty easy to run out of gas when your gas gauge is inoperable and you have no idea how much gas was in the tank when you bought the vehicle. I thought it was almost full upon taking possession but in reality, it was nearly empty. Now I know! And the problem of the gas gauge is fixable. I just need to order some small parts from the VW dealer.

We filled up at the next gas station and made it, tired but grateful, to Topanga Canyon. We camped on an overlook across the street from a friend’s cottage where we were able to cook a late dinner that we practically fell asleep over and wash up before retiring to the van. We didn’t experience a restful night’s sleep, likely because we were parked on a slope and were too tired to move a bunch of crap off the bed and sleep the right way. Lesson learned.

The next day was breakfast at Pat’s, a Topanga hideaway with live music and almost as many dogs as people on the patio. We read from Bohemian Manifesto and filled ourselves with coffee in preparation for our hike in Malibu Creek.

This day was the big incline test for the van. I think many people I know would go mildly insane driving her up a hill, but I tried to experience the slowness as a form of meditation on the phrase “It’s about the journey, not the destination”. I think I am going to have a decal of that applied to my windshield just to remind myself anytime I’m thinking I should have bought that little 2002 VW Cabrio Convertible I was eyeing before I set my sights on Miss Vanagon. She frequently tops out at 35 mph on steep inclines, even in 2nd gear.

Most importantly, however, she got us to our destination for the day - Malibu Creek State Park. This place not only draws the aforementioned comparisons, but also evokes images of the Norwegian fjords because of its dramatic green cliffs. We meandered creekside and inhaled deeply to soak up the negative ions, scrambled up the side of a dam, and squeezed through steep rock formations. We invented outrageous stories to explain Penny’s presence in a park where no dogs are allowed.

The weekend was coming to a close. We dropped our friend off at his place and headed back to LA proper. With less cross winds on the way home, she only thumped a little on the freeway heading eastward. We decided to exit Western Avenue, just to experience the stark contrast of where we had been and where we were returning to. We passed Happy Time Book Store, Korea Underwear Discount Center, and Young Dong Café.

And before we knew it, I was backing the van into our driveway in the fabulous enclave of Hankook Park. We thanked her and patted her on the dashboard – she has no name yet, by the way - and set about unpacking. It was a great initial trip and after a few cranks of a wrench and replacing of this and that, the next one should be even better.

Home on The Range

Last Saturday afternoon, I was recovering from a beautiful, yet somewhat brutal desert canyon hike in Anza Borrego State Park . My friend Ben and I had just finished a poolside meal at the Palms Hotel and were mulling over what to do with our evening. We grabbed the laptop, hopped on the hotel’s wi-fi, and searched for “ Slab City , CA ”. We found detailed descriptions, well-laid maps, and a page dedicated to how to hitchhike there.

We were tired, sunburned, cut up and unshowered, but Ben had the sense that Slab City was the place we belonged that night. I hesitated, but agreed after I came to the well-thought out conclusion of “Why not?” I left Ben in town and ran “home” – a patch of desert tucked up in the boulders of Glorieta Canyon – to change shoes and grab a bottle of wine. Descending back into the town of Borrego Springs, I spotted a body in downward dog in the middle of the roundabout known as Christmas Circle. It was Ben, building his reputation as the shirtless, hula-hooping yogi-about-town.

We hit the desert highway with little gas in the tank and upon finding that Ocotillo Wells didn’t have a filling station, almost turned back and scrapped our plans. But, by now, my curiosity had reached the point where there was no going back. Even if it ended up being a drive-by, we were at least going to see what Slab City looked like. When we finally arrived at a gas station in Brawley, Ben asked the cashier if she knew how to get to there. She looked at him as if to ask, “And just what are you getting in to this evening?” We later learned that Slab City, an encampment of all kinds of folks that have laid claim to the concrete slabs and bunkers of a former military base, doesn’t have the greatest reputation among the “city” folk of Brawley. Some view it as a place for derelicts, where drugs, violence and sloth are commonplace. Having seen it featured in Into The Wild recently, I had a completely different take. I envisioned it as a warm place, welcoming and open.

We drove up through Niland , CA , which is basically a power plant, Chinese restaurant and laundromat and began working our way east across the pitch black countryside. To our right appeared a defunct military guard post that now proclaimed “ Slab City : You’re Almost There!” See? Most welcoming.

In the darkness, we could make out a building that looked like a fortress with a cross on it to our left, the pinnacle of Salvation Mountain to our right, and trailers scattered in every direction. We had a nagging fear that these were people that rose and slept with the sun and that we had missed the whole Saturday evening shindig. Until we saw the lights, brightly colored and strung across a large stage, with a sign beckoning travelers to stop and play at The Range. We pulled in and were more than surprised to find a fully-functioning catering truck in the parking lot, serving up corn chowder, tacos, burgers, and pizzas.

We parked our little Toyota sedan in the midst of RVs, Chinooks, and Vanagons and slowly made our way to the stage, feeling increasingly giddy. We walked around the fence constructed entirely of old chrome bumpers and hubcaps and stepped up onto a large, raised concrete slab cum seating area. You have your choice of old car seat, old van seat, old theater seat, or picnic bench for watching the show. I was eyeing people to check if they were eyeing me. They were, but without much suspicion, so I grabbed a chair and immediately relaxed.

A family was setting up to play. Mom was drumming and her son, maybe eight years old, was on guitar playing right next to Dad. I took Ben by the hand and we slowed danced through the first half of Freebird. When the tempo kicked up, we let each other go and became two distinct jumping and kicking entities, much to the inconvenience of the child artists with their sidewalk chalk using the dance floor as their canvas.

A man came over to me, saw that there were two beer cans on the bench where he wanted to sit, picked them up and threw them across the floor. I said, “Not worth much empty, huh?” He replied that, actually, the cans were their largest source of income. This man, whose name escapes me, was the organizer and emcee of the evening’s festivities. He took an instant liking to me and allowed me my fair share of touristy inquiries. When I asked him how he managed to end up here, he replied, “At some point, I just started getting more and more disillusioned, which made me less and less employable. Sooner or later, they just run you out of town.” He left the construction business twelve years ago after he realized that he was building homes that he didn’t have a chance of setting foot in once they were finished. He says he remembers the days of being a Slab City newbie like they were yesterday, but that already he’s the old man on the block.

Soon enough, Ben got his hula hoop out of the car. Whereas he had been a spectacle at a busy trailhead in the park earlier that day - a handsome, muscular man swinging a sparkly blue hoop around his waist - here he was welcome to wave his freak flag without so much as one person batting an eye.

Then, I met Alan. Alan has a small, charming face, long puffy black hair and glasses. He had just wrapped his set on stage and was walking back from the catering truck. I asked him, “Whujya get?” He raved about the corn and bacon chowder and asked me if, please, I would try a little. I refused for reasons of my vegetarian-ness. And before you know it, I’d made another friend. Alan is 24 and he came to Slab City after a 4 year stint in the army, which he says he did in order to “impress his father”. He was adopted at age three and spent his teenage years in and out of boys’ homes. In the army, he was deployed to Guantanamo and says he witnessed some “really fucked-up shit” in the prisons there. Now, he crafts pipes out of marble and sells them when he can to make a little money. He also used to collect scrap from the nearby firing range, claiming to bring in $1200 in three to four days work, but “that shit started to get in my lungs”, he says and has stopped, for now. Alan is well-spoken and very clever. He was thrilled, he told me, that he could still make a girl laugh. When I shared with him, in hushed tones, that I worked for Corporate America, his reaction was beautiful. He looked at me sweetly and said, “They don’t deserve you.”

Alan told me he will be waiting for me next week. It’s Slab City ’s Annual Prom. He says he’ll be in a tux and he’ll even put his hair in a ponytail. If I show up, I’m his date. I don’t even have to bring a dress as there is a rack full of them at The Range and you can just pick whichever one you like. Although, in a last minute request, Alan asked that I arrive in something “provocative”, and I walked away in a fit of laughter.

A stranger gifted me a sweet-smelling wildflower called Stok on the way to the parking lot. Before we could leave, I had to pull a puppy out from under our car and return it to its rightful owner. On the drive home, a moon that looked like a tangerine planet rose over a refinery to the west. Ben and I vowed to return.

Rising Above Mediocrity

I hear and read a lot about this concept in personal development. It’s not new. You can find pages of quotes on mediocrity on the internet.

Here are just a few…

Some men are born mediocre, some men achieve mediocrity, and some men have mediocrity thrust upon them. Author: Joseph Heller

We must overcome the notion that we must be regular. It robs you of the chance to be extraordinary and leads you to the mediocre. Author: Uta Hagen

A steady salary is an invitation to mediocrity. Author: Anonymous

I love these quotes because on the right day they move us act righteously and take risks, feel more deeply and focus more intently. I hate these quotes because on a bad day, they punish us for relapsing, regressing, questioning our direction, second guessing ourselves, watching television and taking naps.

I read these quotes and think, “Am I what you would call ‘mediocre’?” I don’t feel mediocre. In fact, I think I’m fantastic. But, then again, my salary could be considered mediocre. Add to that, my yoga practice. I only practice twice a week. And it’s probably a sign of mediocrity that I eat microwaved leftovers at my desk over lunch hour. The fact that I even have to clock in at all is a bad sign.

Damn. Maybe Uta Hagen would have called me mediocre.

I recently left a relationship that only permitted me to envision my future within a framework of mediocrity. I recently met someone else who assisted in restoring my sightlines to encompass much grander landscapes.

I always remind myself that there are No Regrets, so when I started to regret the fact that I spent the last three years of my life with someone whose monstrous true self was hidden behind clouds of marijuana smoke, I vowed to my crying eyes in the mirror that I wouldn’t waste anymore of my precious, precious time. Which, naturally, led me to question my relationship to my job. Which, against the advice of a smart friend, I voiced to my employers.

From their point of view, quitting without ever trying to succeed is a mediocre move. (One of them even suggested I look at my pattern of boyfriends and figure out why I can’t commit to something for more than a couple years before I run.) In my opinion, perhaps the weaker move would be to build a career on the foundation of a mild to moderate interest in the industry where I am to leave a mark and take a large commission check.

So, once again my Renaissance Soul is reeling, confused and tripping over itself, juggling the options, the input from outsiders, and my inner voice that has yet to learn to speak audibly.

When I feel bad, I turn to Joni Mitchell, because she makes feeling bad seem poetic and archetypal. Was Joni Mitchell mediocre? It would be a challenge to find someone who would answer in the affirmative. Yet, here’s one of her personal lyrics:

Dora says, “Have children.”
Mama and Betsy say, “Find yourself a charity.
Help the needy and the crippled.
Or put some time into ecology.”

Well, there’s a wide, wide world
Of noble causes
And lovely landscapes
To discover

But all I really want
To do right now is
Find another lover.

Sounds like a half-assed goal to me. But, it only makes me question when all these celebrities and philosophers are railing against a general mediocrity, do they even know what they’re talking about? Calling someone mediocre is like calling someone ugly. First, it’s in the eye of the beholder and second, one ugly person is nothing like the next ugly person. It’s truly a personal thing.

If I had to choose one quotation about mediocrity that makes sense in every way it would be the quote by Roberto Begnini “To express gratitude in moderation is a sure sign of mediocrity”. And that is the yardstick I feel comfortable measuring myself against.

Win the War! Win the War!

If you can't tell where this license plate is from, can you just guess based on the bumper sticker?

It's Texas.

The woman driving was finishing off a hamburger as I passed her on the 10 somewhere between Houston and San Antonio. I wondered for a while about this lady and her bumper sticker.

My main quandry was, which war? The war on drugs? The war on poverty? The war in Iraq? Afghanistan? The Congo? The War of the Worlds? Or does she just want to make it clear that whatever war is raging on any given day, this Texan is rooting for the USA?

I gotcha, lady. Let's not worry about the whys, where, or what ifs - let's just win, win, win!

Here's to not over-simplifying things, dubya style.

My Moments in the French Quarter: Le Coeur de New Orleans

Before I left LA for my somewhat dreaded trip back to Tennesee, I told myself that I wanted our one day in New Orleans to be a day of freedom, free from my daily life in Los Angeles and free from the preoccupation of selling a business in the beat-up economy of Tennessee. Lucky for me, New Orleans would have it no other way.

It was my first time in the city and we were directed by our hosts to visit the French Quarter with the limited amount of time that we had. Anyone who has been there before can attest to the fact that this neighborhood is extremely special, to say the least. After the floods, when I saw displaced residents saying that they would return and rebuild, I thought they were crazy. But, you would hear people saying over and over again that there is no place in the world like New Orleans. After a mere half day there, I understand wholeheartedly their sentiments.

Let the earth open up and swallow Phoenix, Dallas, or Knoxville. The surviving residents can then relocate to St. Louis, Minneapolis or Houston where they will find their Best Buy/Safeway/Ross Dress For Less/McDonald's corners and ease right back into the familiarity of it all.

But, oh, to imagine having lived in the magic of the French Quarter all of one's life. To begin and end the day with cafe au lait and beignets. To walk amid jazz bands and horse drawn carriages on the way to work. To have had your first kiss beneath the crumbling balconies of Royale Street. And then, one day, to be whisked away on a crowded bus and plunked down in Lincoln or Wichita! And try as you may to search out the new loft developments and downtown revitalization projects, you would never, ever find the soul of New Orleans there. And at night you would fall asleep only to dream of its sounds and smells.

I understand now.

If you can, before the world ends, find a fabulous lover and a second story flat in the French Quarter. Stay there for at least a week. Love the food, the music, the thick air, the galleries, and a sidewalk hurricane now and then. Then tell me where else in the US of A you could possibly feel so alive.

And now... A Word of Wisdom From My Dentist

I went to the dentist for the first time in over a year yesterday. Despite brushing my teeth, on average, 1.75 times per day, I had a lot of plaque built up on my gum line. So much so, that the scraping was making my gums bleed quite a bit. Sexy, right?

Anyway, my dentist says, "I don't know if you haven't been in for a cleaning in a while because of the filling (read: large hole in one of my molars due to falling out of a faulty filling that he did the previous year) or what, but you have a lot of plaque on your teeth."

I said, "Actually I haven't had insurance for the past year, so I couldn't afford to go to the dentist". He then offered up this string of rhetorical pearls of wisdom, "So what? Is there insurance for food? NO. Do you still buy food?"

Uh, yeah.

I would have responded if he hadn't subsequently huffed out of the room. Plus, I was numbed, drooling, and bleeding. Anyway, I don't understand this logic. Based solely on the number of days that a human being can survive without food vs. without dental care, his argument is ineffective. But, he was probably just upset because he missed me while I was gone. And the 500 dollars that I chose to spend on daily nourishment.

Here's to the eventuality of free health care for all.

Jasmine is back!

If I could, I would build a winter home out of trelliced jasmine vines. I would fall asleep to the scent of night-blooming jasmine and wake to the fragrance of the Confederate variety. One of the saddest things I had to leave behind when we moved to Tennessee was the star jasmine vine I had spent the last year training and pruning, especially because I knew it was just about to bloom and I would miss all the pleasure that the flowers would bring.

But, today on my bike ride into work, I discovered a patch of road on Civic Center Drive in Beverly Hills, where for a brief second, the stellar scent of the flower almost knocks you out. I gasped a reflexive, "Oh my God!'" as I passed through it. So, it's time again for jasmine all over LA to bless us with its presence. The fragrance travels a significant distance, so even if you can't immediately spot the vines, you know they're there, maybe on the other side of a fence or around the corner.

And, alas, I am leaving for Tennessee again for two weeks starting tomorrow. Lucky for me, it has a long growing season. Get yourself one too! They are very drought resistant, grow well in containers and will climb anything. And they will fill your days with aromatherapeutic pleasure!

Here's to taking advantage of the splendid year-round gardening opportunities California has to offer!