Jr. High on Life

Before middle schools, there were Junior High Schools. My Jr. High, Helms, ran just 7th and 8th grade. Just long enough to get used to the school, then off to "real" high school. My entire sixth grade year I worried about what to expect once I moved up to seventh grade... Would I get beaten up? Would I be cool? Would I have to shower after PE!?

The summer before seventh grade, our parents were invited to take us to the school for an orientation tour. I couldn't wait to finally see the inside of the school that I had wondered about my entire 12 year life. It was right across the street from the El Portal Shopping Center and from the PE fields I had a perfect view of my beloved Mervyn's Department Store ("When I get my own place, I'm definitely buying my towels there! The prices are great but the quality is really there, you know?"). Things were going to be different at Helms. And, they had a soda machine -ON CAMPUS. In elementary school, it was white or chocolate milk only. Lactose-intolerant? Tough. Drink from the fountain. Jr. High would not only open my mind, but offer me a plethora of adult experiences. Soda, Mervyn's, 7-11, my favorite pet store "Wet-Pets"... I had arrived.

The morning of the tour I was excited and worried sick. I hoped to GOD the other kids were also with their mothers... What if this was the first test to see who was cool? What if the other mothers just dropped their kids off in front and wrote them off as adults? What if my mom told the staff about my bed-wetting until 11? What if I had to shower after the tour!? I was nauseated with an excited dread I'd come to know over the next 10 years of my life.

Mrs. Green was a heavy-set monster who ran the tour. She was also the campus security matron and terrifyingly in control. As it turned out, the other kids had come with their parents and to all of our relief, the parents were separated from the students right off so we could explore the campus. Mrs. Green explained the hallways and how the classrooms were numbered. She showed us the cafeteria and the line-up procedures, where to sit, where to buy peanut butter infused Rice Krispy treats ("That makes 'em healthy") and lastly, the soda machine!!!!! I could NOT wait.

Soda was my passion and it was not allowed at my elementary school. That one could purchase say, a Pepsi... well it had a certain aire of sophistication that I was yearning for. I was already planning on carrying three dollars in quarters, and that was just for the first day of school. Also, Mrs. Green informed us that due to budget cuts, towels would not be provided for showering and thus, showering after PE was optional. Hallelujah! Not a single person would EVER shower at Helms again. And that was fine by me.

The first day of school I purposely took a long path to class just in order to pass the soda machine. I know it seems bizarre but this was literally the most exciting thing about being in Jr. High (to me). Drinking a Pepsi at school, having a pimple, getting braces: these are the things that would make me a man... Unfortunately, the day before school started, the soda machine was removed. Instead, students would be able to purchase a Hawaiian Punch fruit drink at the Rice Krispy cart. I guess some Richmond Unified School District genius assumed that the word, "fruit" made Hawaiian Punch remotely nutritious. In reality, said beverage is no more nutritive than the red hummingbird sugar water people hang outside for the birds. I was crushed. Hawaiian Punched in the gut.

For the next two years I ate the only junk food available to me on campus: Peanut Butter laden Rice Krispy treats and sickeningly sweet Hawaiian Punch. It is sweet in a kind of way that leaves you with a raspy sore throat. I complained DAILY as I purchased and then inhaled the paired "goodies". Yes... I bought them... daily. It was a sacrifice, but I was a young and needed the sugar. My 7th grade year was filled with other disappointments but overall it was a success and I met my best friend Matt with whom I went to college and was post graduate roommates with. As for the soda machine, the school lost a considerable amount of money with it's removal so it was brought back to campus...the year I started high school. Luckily for my pancreas, Richmond High had MANY vending machines, all stocked with sugary crap.

Dinner, Downtown...

Last night my partner Jon and I ate downtown at a cool barbecue "joint". Spring Street Smoke House is Located in the Chinatown area of downtown Los Angeles. It's cheap, fast and GOOD. A roll of paper towels at every table!? A loaf of white bread still in it's plastic bag!? Help yourself! It's effective and practical. Former caterers opened this place and serve their BBQ favorites ("Add two side for 2 bucks!). It was Dee-Lish.

Driving along Broadway we cut over and parked up the block ("There's Phillipe's!") and headed down the street. I was immediately drawn to the old signs in this area, some in Chinese, some in Spanish, some trilingual. Most of them were older than me yet still calling customers to long forgotten businesses...

I think of my parents when I see old signs from this era. Signs from when they would have been in their 30's. My age. I think of their adult lives that I will never understand. I think of their unhappiness, commitment and loneliness and hope there was more to their marriage than what I saw. I think there must have been a time when they were happy and fun and in love. I don't remember that at all really but I'm sure when they were in love, they'd go to some downtown, to some restaurant somewhere and have a nice barbecue dinner... with two sides... for two dollars.

S'mores!

Yesterday during my fifth period class, my student Hasmik returned from the restroom and pronounced Los Feliz was on fire. I ran out of my classroom and sure enough, POOF. Smoke everywhere. I could see it was just north of Los Feliz Boulevard and already HUGE. There were helicopters everywhere. It was INSANELY close. One more hour and we could go home... sigh.

Traffic was a mess of course ("Thanks a LOT fire!") so after school I decided to head home via Silver Lake (the actual reservoir, not the new "cool" area where you can have an old Mercedes converted to run on french-fry oil while you grab a 3 piece across the street at Pollo Loco)... I always listen to NPR on the way home as I like to just decompress and zone out. An interview with Bjork? Perfect. I used to really love Bjork, then I kind of hated her, then I... HOLY SHIT! From the actual "Lake" I had the PERFECT spot to watch Griffith Park incinerate. I pulled over and stared at the growing, breathtakingly beautiful flames.

Fire has always lulled me into a self-indulgent daze. With Bjork droning on about her collaboration with Timbaland, I started thinking of my early LA days in Los Feliz. I met my partner Jon in the Fall of 1997. We were both in relationships with other people and met while he's was working out of his other office up in San Francisco. Jon's a banking lawyer and would work in the Bay Area a few times each month. As it's a small gay world, we kept meeting up. After a few months, things sort of clicked and I came down to visit him. By Sunday, we knew we wanted to be together so I broke up with my partner and he did the same. Something I'm proud of? No. Something I regret? Absolutely not. He's the love of my life and I am the love of his.

I can still remember the unusual torrential rains that January weekend. Exploring the incredible architecture of Los Feliz, driving through Griffith Park, stalking Jon's new neighbor Madonna... it was all too good to be true. After 6 months of commuting between LA and San Francisco, I moved down full-time and became an all too common "Accidental Angeleno". I hated LA pretty quickly thereafter. I was always lost, had no sense of the city and missed my life. I ached to go "home" to the Bay Area. My only solace- my beloved Astro Diner on Fletcher. I'm a soup man, plain and simple. I eat soup everyday if possible and they have it. Spinach Meatball, Split Pea (had that today in fact), Tortilla, the de rigeur Vegetable... all good and all soupy.

After a few years even the soup lost its appeal and Jon agreed to move to San Francisco and head up a new division within his bank. He did this for me. I was back up north all of two months when I realized I had somehow become an Angeleno along the way. I secretly missed Southern California but never said a word. Since Jon had to work in both cities from time to time, we took an apartment near his office in Downtown LA. He'd use it when working down here and I could come down to see my friends.

Downtown had not really been discovered yet and there were no lofts or cool conversions. Just LOTS of rats and lots of crack deals. The building was incredible though. We had one of the three penthouses of the grand central market building at 3rd and Broadway. Before us, Nicholas Cage had all three penthouses knocked together and would throw some pretty amazing parties from what I hear. The caterers had to sign privacy agreements but as we all know, they ALWAYS blab. Thank god. Let's just say people wore a LOT of latex clothing there...

One weekend down in LA, we were having dinner at Houston's in Pasadena. The beans were spilled: I wanted to come back to LA. Like a Perry Mason courtroom drama, it all came out. Jon also wanted to come back, ("Yeah...um... I HATE San Francisco...") and within a few months we were back, living in our dream house in Mt. Washington. A fully restored 1912 Craftsman "Society Bungalow" on 7/10 of an acre.

LA is EVERY cliche' you see in bad teen movies from the 80's (think Valley Girl). Vapid, self-important, pretentious. I love it. It's also chocked full o' wildlife and nature and trees... Watching Griffith Park being destroyed, I dreamily thought to myself, "I love LA". And I do. Bjork? I'm on the fence.

You Can Ring My Bell...

Shortly after I moved down to Los Angeles my mother's car was stolen. It was a 1984 Cutlass Supreme in "money green". Her dream car. She bought it after my dad died and was determined to have a brand new car that would not break down on her like the previous used cars she'd had. Also, it was a major source of cheering up! When the police found it ("Well, thank God"), it had been abandoned for whatever reason and was just three blocks from the house. Luckily, it was intact and in fairly good condition. It needed some minor work with the ignition and steering column, but my brother George is a mechanic and was able to fix it quickly.

My favorite part of this episode was my mom's reaction to her car being stolen in the first place. She'd had recently gone on Prozac after MANY years of cajoling ("That's a MIND CONTROL DRUG!"). They apparently had JUST kicked in. She was upset but took the theft in stride and was prepared to get a new car with the insurance money if necessary ("What else can you do?"). When the police came to her door to notify her that it had been found, they described its location, its general condition and reluctantly that some of the thief's possessions had been left in the car; a comb, some food wrappers...a crack pipe...!!

Without missing a beat, my mother cut off the officer and said, "Oh no, that's mine." My mom had a great sense of humor and could deliver a deadpanned line like nobody else. I inherited this trait as my friends can attest. The cops were DUMBFOUNDED and awkwardly exchanged confused glances as my mom held her ground somberly and unblinkingly. Much to their relief, she eventually started laughing and explained that she was joking. She thanked them profusely and had her car back later that day.

As it turned out, my mom's car was a highly coveted car for people into "low-riders", hence the theft. She originally custom ordered it with all the "bells and whistles" including high end spoke rims so it practically WAS an unwitting low-rider from the beginning! Just add some dingle-ball upholstery trim, hydrolic lifts and hit 23rd street to cruise... Horale Homegirl! Si MON! She was asked on a weekly basis is she wanted to sell it. She always declined.

When my mother died last year I thought about her sense of humor often. Cleaning out her house, preparing it to be sold, my sister Terry and I laughed every day as we found things from our childhood, shared memories of growing up on Bush Avenue and remembered our mother. We cried a lot too, but only when we were alone and only in private. There are five kids in my family. There's drug addiction, hurt feelings, distance, love and animosity as is in most I assume. As I learned last year, death compounds these issues. It draws you closer, drives deeper wedges, teaches you a lot about the people in your life and most profoundly, it teaches you about yourself. Dealing with the aftermath of my mother's death was the hardest thing I have ever had to do. I learned SO much about myself and for that, I am profoundly grateful.

Enough Said...

The Lure of Velour...

The first velour shirt I ever owned was from Mervyn's Department Store in San Pablo, California. Soft in a way I had not yet experienced, the shirt called to me like a beautiful, deadly syren. I begged my mother to buy it for me. It was $21.00, a fortune in 1980. Finally, she acquiesced and agreed to buy it as I bounced around the clothing racks. As we approached the register station in "Young Men's" she told me NOT tell my father how much it cost. I swore "to God".

Excited, I was already planning my school picture wearing the shirt. The V-neck reminded me of the comfortable, futuristic uniforms worn by the Robinson family on the Lost in Space reruns I would watch each day at 5 o'clock. People told me I looked like Will Robinson so I HAD to have the shirt. Right? As for the hair, I'd make a trip quick to my older sister Terry's work. She'd recently moved from the Lady Bug Salon to Wild Hair! It would have to be something new and it would HAVE to make a statement.

The v-neck in the fifth grade photo would be SUCH a hit (in my planning and orchestration) that I would of course need to repeat it the next year for my sixth grade photo. I was so excited I was planning TWO years of photos at once. More begging at Mervyn's, ANOTHER trip to Wild Hair, another amazing school picture... IN the meantime though, I had to focus on grade 5. I had a responsibility to a) look good and b) push the fashion boundaries. I was, after all, 10.

Nell Carter's HIT sitcom, "Gimme a Break!" was HUGE (to me). Joey Lawrence was added to the cast as the girls grew older and ratings dropped. Adorable, loved, cutting-edge even, Mr. Lawrence had the best muffin top hair cut in the business, hands-down. Ratings were up and I had to have that haircut. I showed my sister the TV show, "THAT'S what I want!" and she made arrangements to have me come in for a wash and cut.

Excited, I plopped in Terry's chair and expectantly looked at her reflection in the mirror. One of her eyes was droopy. She looked exactly like Stevie Nicks when this happened. "You know what would look great?" she asked in almost slow motion. "Eggplant... or... peach colored... highlights..." (my sister took a lot of Qualudes back then). My smile faded and I began to worry. "I think mom would get mad," I whispered. She accepted this and began the "process".

I loved to go to my sister's work for my haircuts. They seemed professional and luxurious. She ALWAYS used Jhirmack shampoo ("GOD, it smells great!") and worked with VERY cool people including some gay guys who laughed all the time. The whole staff doted on me and I loved it. "He likes sauteed mushrooms!? The kid's got class!" Purrrrrrrr. I felt like a grown-up there. My new haircut would leave them all in approving gasps. The problem? I was coming off a year of layered, feathered, 4th grade hair. A muffin-cut requires a LOT of hair. A lot of thick hair which I do not have. As best she could, my sister cut my hair into the general shape of my desired look. Instead of Joey Lawrence though, I looked more like an inbred serial killer with a bowl cut... There were gasps alright, but they only came from me.

By Halloween, I'd have to make some changes....

Home from Germany

I love Berlin. It is my favorite city in Europe and the "sister city" to Los Angeles, my home. Great food, people, beer, PARKING... what more could you ask for? Well, the weather could be better, but this is coming from a spoiled "Angeleno" by way of the East Bay Area of San Francisco. Now when I visit up north, I'm constantly cold. Cold and cranky. I'm shocked by how cold the city can be. And wet.

The first time I went to Germany was in 1994. I was 24 and on a crazy "5 countries in 3 weeks" tour. Book a Eurail train pass and "go for it". Never again. By the time my partner Mike and I arrived in Munich, I was OVER it. Exhausted and living out of suitcase... not for me. I wouldn't return to Germany until 2000. A group of us went to Berlin and LOVED it. Extrememly open and laissez-faire, it puts San Francisco to shame in its acceptance and freedom. Having grown up in the Bay Area, I always thought San Francisco was so unique in it's tolerance of others. In reality, it's a tiny little city with cool "areas". In some areas you are free to be WHATEVER. In other areas, you'll get murdered. The city is 7 square miles. For real. Not too tolerant overall.

Over the years, the quality of living has plummeted in San Francisco, especially in the Castro where I used to live. Homelessness, drugs, potholes, filth... all with the added joy of a dying gay scene and an outrageously expensive cost of living. One time while leaving my apartment on 15th street, smeared on the garage door was human feces (as if the culprit pooped, fell against the door and slid down). Lying on the ground at the end of the trail? A blood filled syringe. Good night? Good morning! A mass exodus to Palm Springs!? Why not?

That San Franciscans flock to Palm Springs still baffles the hell out of me. You could not POSSIBLY find two cities more different than San Francisco and Palm Springs. Don't get me wrong, I love Palm Springs and think it's beautiful-IN THE WINTER. Somewhere in the 90's it became socially acceptable for gay guys to live in Palm Springs FROM San Francisco while holding on to a weird, psychological hatred for LA... With the Dot-Com explosion and soaring real-estate prices, many people cashed out and moved down there. The juxtaposition of city life and desert life is radical though and not for everyone. One summer makes or breaks you in Palm Springs. It can be 120 degress for days. Maybe it's just what the doctor orders to dry out cold, wet, cranky bones... hmmm. Palm Springs anyone?

Cuchi-Cuchi, but not in gross way...

It is my life long dream to meet Charo. No reason, I just love her.

The first time I went to Kauai I was SO excited because I heard she owned a restaurant there, really off the beaten path. I was DEFINITELY buying a t-shirt!! I also heard that when she was on the island, she'd totally hang out there... ("I might get to actually meet her!!") It wasn't until I arrived on the island that I found out she had recently closed her place... she no longer was there... I know it seems weird to be on Kauai and depressed over Charo's absence, but I kind of was... I was really looking forward to it.

Recently, Charo did a Sprint commercial both poking fun at herself and being as outrageous and dramatic as ever. It renewed my mission... TO MEET CHARO! I have set up the TicketMaster artist notification alert e-mails... but if ANYONE hears ANYTHING, let me know.

Confessions of a Prairie Bitch...

My partner Jon and I see a lot of theatre in L.A. This said, we do not see everything. I was bummed to recently miss the Nellie Olsens... an improv group whose show is literally in the basement the Mexican restaurant, Casita del Campo (in Silver Lake). The performance space is the Cavern Club Theater and SHOCKINGLY holds 61 people or so... I count every time I go there, amazed there are that many bodies crammed into such a small space. Oh- and you can drink there too!! Grab a margarita or a Corona (or both) on the way down (the stairs are just past the bar of the restaurant). There's also a bowl of candy at the base of the stairs.... my favorite: the flavored Tootsie Rolls (remember those!? Fruit Punch, etc.) I always dig for them.
Once, my buddy Mario and I went there to see the actress who ACTUALLY played Nellie Olsen (Alison Arngrim) on Little House (I live in L.A., so I drop "on the Prairie"). It was hysterical... she does stand up now for mainly gay audiences. Her father was Liberace's manager (swear to God) and her mother was the voice of Casper the Friendly Ghost. So suffice it say, she's knows her audience. The show started unexpectedly as I was, of course, digging for fruit punch Tootsie Rolls and had to run to my seat. In character as Nellie, she yelled at me to sit down! It terrified me. She later asked for a volunteer and I was "chosen" (uh... forced). The photo says it all...

Totally Artificial Beverage: TAB!

My new FAVORITE show is The Sarah Silverman Program on Comedy Central. It is the most politically incorrect show I've ever seen. THANK GOD. It's stealth in its offensiveness however. Racism, homophobia, antisemitism. etc., all point to the viewer. Are we laughing with the show, at the show, society, ourselves, farts? It's very grey and very blurred. Our protagonist, Sarah, is above all else, self-centered. The show is gaspingly funny and extremely realistic. I love it.

In a recent episode, the bearish gay couple get into a passive-aggressive war over TAB, the diet soda. Instead of just letting go, they spiral into a TAB vortex of their own making. It's outrageous and very relatable. They are the most realistic gay couple I've ever seen on television...and I watch a LOT of C-SPAN.

The image of the two guys trying to out-TAB each other reminded me of a first season episode of one of my favorite TV shows growing up: The Facts of Life. To say I wanted to be Blair Warner would be an understatement. I was her... Snotty, snobbish, superior and condescending. The problem was, no one in my 5th grade class knew it. Not Ms. Pelletreau, not my best friend Roland Dong, no one. I had to come out. They had to know the tallest boy in class whose mom worked as a teacher's aide in room 6, was a Warner.

Blair was rich. I, however, was not. Blair had been to Paris many times. I had been camping many times. Blair went to a private boarding school in upstate New York. I attended Dover Elementary in San Pablo (a tiny town in the San Francisco East Bay Area). Somehow I had to make them UNDERSTAND I was different. It had to be soon and it had to be tasteful, subtle...Blair-like.

One evening I was watching my beloved Facts of Life, desperately waiting for Blair's scene. She usually made a big entrance. Coiffed, decked out in burgundy corduroy knickers, she burst in on the others. Numerous shopping bags in tow, she dropped them and in one line, stole the show. I had my line for school the next day.

I woke up very early from the excitement (to this day I wake up early when excited or worried about something). I could barely eat my usual breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast with a glass of whole milk. I pushed said eggs around nervously sitting at my mom's oval, brown tinted glass coffee table. I'd sit with my legs crossed watching The Today Show on channel 4 until my mom proclaimed it was time to go. It was time. Throw the dishes in the sink ("We'll deal with those later!") and into the red Ford Fury with white vinyl top. We'd drop my sister off at East Bay Christian High School then double back to Dover. I felt like a million bucks!

All morning in class I couldn't decide when to say my witty, stolen line from the night before. Obviously I had to ENTER then say it. I also had to be exhausted for it to make sense. After lunch recess would be perfect. All I had to do is NOT blow it and use the line too early out of nervousness. I had to be patient. I wiggled in my chair like I had to go pee. This went on for 4 hours.

Finally, after lunch recess, the bell rang. The whistles blew, the balls were collected, the jump ropes wound up around forearms and elbows. The kids began to run to their respective classes. I held back. I walked very slowly and very smugly to Room 11. I had to convey an aire of aristocracy, world-weariness, and true exhaustion. I stumbled into class, late. My heart was racing as I staggered to my desk, collapsing into the chair with it's cubby-holed, wrap-around desk. All eyes were on me. I took in a DEEP breath and announced, "I’d give my VISA Card for a TAB!"

After a long, awkward silence, Ms. Pelletreau told the class to open our social studies books to chapter 23. Not a word was said in response to what I had said. By anyone. At all. Clearly the 10 and 11 year old students had no idea what a charge card was... but TAB!? Everyone knew that at least... Sure it was pink, sure it was "diet"... but it was a funny line. It should have killed! It had made me laugh all night with hope and envy and admiration. Clearly, they did not get it. Clearly they did not get me. Clearly, my fifth grade class was a pack of philistines…

I HATE Monkeys.

The moment I realized I hate monkeys was probably around 1998. I was watching a National Geographic special on India and they were showing the kind of toddler-sized, beige-ish monkeys with fangs... they were running around stealing things... with their human-like hands and shifty eyes. I almost started crying...okay I DID start crying... but just a little.
After seeing this horror show, I REALLY started to dwell on them. I figured, if they terrify me, I might as well think about them ALL the time... As I shared this newly discovered information with friends, they laughed in a kind of, "Isn't he cute" sort of way. A grown man brought to tears over the televised image of monkeys... adorable.
The next monkey-haunted year I traveled to Tokyo to visit my best "girl" friend Monica. We went to UC Davis together and literally became INSTANT friends. She had married a wealthy American living in Tokyo and moved there. This was to be my second visit to Japan to see her. She needed furniture for their new MASSIVE apartment larger than most suburban homes... so where else? Bali. I stayed a week in Tokyo then off to Hong Kong en route to Indonesia. As we got off the plane in Hong Kong, a woman in a Chanel suit stopped to gaze into the Gucci duty free shop. Then she burped. Not a polite little poot of burp, hand-covered with an embarrassed giggle, no... she literally let out a TGIFridays' Awesome Blossom Pitcher of Rolling Rock Frat Boy BURP. It was not unlike Homer Simpson's buddy Barney letting one rip at Moe's... "Welcome to China," Monica deadpanned.
After two INSANELY opulent nights at the Shangri-La hotel and the worst hangover of my life, we boarded the plane to Denpasar, Bali. Since I fly American Airlines and am Platinum, we were bumped up to first class. Thrilling, except for the fact that I still had a hangover. A very VERY serious hangover... After vomiting in the beautiful restroom (there were ORCHIDS on the counter) I felt much better... away we went!
Bali is BEAUTIFUL. It's everything it's supposed to be and more. Also, exotic, solid teak furniture is dirt cheap. We'd relax a few days then hit the furniture dealers. You secure a cargo container then run around town buying things. It's kind of just...handled. Very honest people (except for the ones who want to bomb you in nightclubs).
Our hotel lobby had the requisite brochures for activities, tours, etc. One immediately grabbed my attention, "Visit the Monkey Forest". UMM..................... I started to sweat a little, and by a little, I mean I looked like a pork chop. We went to the pool to drink. After a nice buzz I decided to go SEE the monkeys. Since I'd never actually encountered a monkey (EVER) It had to be psychosomatic, right? I'm sure if I saw them in person, I'd fall in LOVE with them, right? It would cure me of a self-induced paranoia that probably had something to do with my father...right?
Our driver, Maudi (or something like that) whisked us away to the monkey forest. The monkeys are worshipped as gods the literature stated. As it turns out, they are merely tolerated for tourism purposes... that's a BIG difference. We arrived at the site and it looked like a touristy flea market. Stalls with vendors, carts with candy, Coke, etc. I was starting to relax. Then, out of nowhere, I saw a monkey. A real-life, National Geographic monkey.. it was sitting eating little pieces of dried apple... from a plastic bag, with its hands. I almost passed out. "Are you okay...?" Monica asked tenderly. I took a deep breath and whispered something... we moved on. Next, we were met by a guide to walk us around. She was not at all armed as I thought she should have been. At the airport, guards had machineguns. She must have set hers down (they ARE heavy). I was sure she'd collect it when the tour began...right?
The deeper we went into the tourist attraction, the more monkeys we saw. I became more and more dizzy. We bought little treats to give them. My stress caused me to become VERY shiny. Stuck in my brain to this day is the image of a mother monkey, sitting with her legs crossed nursing her baby. Universal. Mother-love. BUT, in her free hand she was also holding, AND DRINKING a can of Coke. A monkey. The can was as big as her head which only helped to further disorient me. I had to file it away and move on.
We heard screaming. I stopped realizing it was a teenage girl, being a teenage girl. A monkey had jumped from a branch onto her shoulders and was teasing her..."Gotcha!" She was screaming bloody-murder. It was over-the-top and ridiculous... priceless. The one thing that really seems to help a stressful, frightened situation is feeling superior to otheres. I was immediately better and actually kind of laughing...AT her, not WITH her. "Stupidass" I snorted. Then a monkey pounced on MY shoulders.
All time stopped. I was SO confused as to what had happened. Was I getting mugged? There was clearly a man on my back... a heavy man. Then I saw the tail and felt its hands pulling my hair. It was pulling my hair and screeching in my ear. Our guide SPRANG to my defense. She, in fact, DID have a weapon. A Kleenex. One sheet. She waved it half-heartedly at the monkey commanding, "Shoo monkey, shoo. Shoo monkey, shoo". I wanted to KILL her. If the tables were turned, I'd defend her from a vicious attack. Monica laughed HYSTERICALLY. She laughed and took PHOTOS. I was literally whimpering. And Crying. "Get it off...get it off...get it off..." Finally it sprang off. The force of it's kickoff was unreal. They are very strong and very muscular. I was very small and very weak.
We hurried back to the car and got back to the hotel... to say I was merely teased by the monkey would be a huge injustice to both me and victims of assault around the world. We quickly changed and jumped into the pool... thank GOD it had one of those cheesy swim-up bars. We swam RIGHT up. As the bartender made our drinks, he casually asked what we had done that day. When we said we went to see the monkeys he stopped cold, mid cocktail shaker shake. "Monkeys are VERY dirty," he whispered. "Yes they are," I thought. Yes they are.

Paparazzi Starbucks

Sometimes... okay EVERY time, I leave Starbuck's I have a weird fantasy that I'm being observed by photographers THEN secretly photographed to appear in either US Weekly or the Star... "Leaving a Local LA Starbuck's, Eric looks spring-like in his Juicy Couture Lime Tracksuit!" This fantasy also happens (and in fact BEGAN at) the Los Feliz Coffee Bean on Hillhurst. I used to see Gwen Stefani there (a LOT) getting a latte and I think that's where the "fantasy" began. What a pain in the ASS it must be to have someone recording your EVERY coffee purchase... poor starlettes....
Back to me... I almost ALWAYS head back to my car, iced latte in tow with a knowing smirk that SOMEWHERE in the parking lot, a photographer is ready to POUNCE on my image. GOT IT. Run back home, upload to the service... Eric's image for the MASSES...

One day... one day...

Into the Breeches...

The most rewarding aspect of being a year-round, inner-city public school teacher is by far the look of glee on the teachers faces as we leave for our two month breaks (we get TWO a year). So for those of you who are bad at math... that's FOUR months off a year (with Christmas and holidays, it's closer to 4.75 months off a year... paid). Well actually, our pay is defered so it's my money spread over 12 months. All I know is I can access my pay via ATM anywhere in the world thanks to electronic deposit.
Today I did nothing. Nada. Zilch. Well I did do some laundry, but my heart was not in it. I phoned it in. Fabric softener? You bet. Pulling the laundry out snuggling it, eyes squinty, deep inhalation? Not today. No, today I was lazy. I was functioning, but lazy. I made and took some calls. I surfed the web (hate that term). Had a sandwich (turkey and cheddar). It was beautiful.
Back to the surfing-of the internet variety. The internet not ONLY supports Joycean stream-of-consciousness, tangential thinking.... it also can really keep you connected to people in your life. I'm not talking about the people you see everyday: "Dude that was SO funny today LOL" or "WTF, pass the peas..." No, I'm talking about reconnecting with people you truly love but just lose contact with. It happens. Life happens. YEARS happen. The beauty of friendship though, is that NO time passes. Nothing changes. Love it. Doubleplusgood. Oh- I also talked to some girl named Traci... something about Fresno... Love you Traci! ;-)

The Proverbial Bone