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.