My Two Muses

Okay, I've been remiss about blogging lately, as I've been too busy, and I've been getting acclimated to a new way of life. In other words, I have been lacking inspiration. That all changed this week when I was driving to the gym, and I saw an Asian little person gleefully strolling the sidewalk off Hyperion. I'm assuming "little person" is the politically correct term these days; however, I don't know if it is the term to use when referring to both dwarfs and midgets or just dwarfs or just midgets. Please no nasty emails telling me that I am prejudice. I have nothing against little people, since I'm not far from being one myself. Anyway, with her Louise Brooks haircut and her Shirley Temple dress that ended just below her thighs, the wrinkles on her older face increased when she smiled and waved to the cars passing by. Why I became so excited and happy at the sight of this sweet little person is beyond me. Though I must say that I think it had to do with her outfit. To see a grown person, little or not, have no shame and only total comfort about wearing little girl clothes was enough to make me laugh and set my imagination running. I was moving too fast to look to see anything below the knees, but in my mind and to emulate James Frey, I am certain that she was wearing Mary Jane shoes with Bobby socks. And I am certain that she started and stopped a game of hopscotch, deciding instead to capture the attention of the boys down the street who were shooting craps by doing an impromptu tap dance routine.

Two days later, and sick with a cold, I walked to the 99 cent store to buy bottled water. Yes, I have really changed my life, and the 99 cent store has replaced Target and all other "high-end" discount stores. You do what you have to do to make life work and money last. While I thought living in a place with no central air, only a window unit, and having to go to a laundromat to wash and dry my clothes was a bit of a sacrifice, it was nothing compared to giving up Target. Sneezing and coughing, I stood in the checkout line. In front of me, in a deep voice, the woman said, "I want a bag of ice, too." With a little more inspection, I noticed that the attractive Hispanic woman who was wearing a black pantsuit and a wig, perfectly-styled in an homage to Jaclyn Smith's hairstyle, the same hairstyle that Jaclyn has had for the last 30 years or more, was more likely than not born a man. Slowly, the young male cashier checked out her purchases: a loaf of white bread, a squeeze bottle of mayonnaise and a pack of bologna. I watched as the woman handed over the $5 bill to the cashier. I thought to myself how smart it was to be able to buy food for a week, plus a bag of ice, for $5. As the woman left the checkout counter, she walked over to the ice bin and began digging for a bag of ice. The young male said to me, "$5.45." I coughed a few times, as I took the grocery bags that he handed me and headed out the door. Once I was home, I began to unload the bags. Holding the pack of bologna in my hand, I laughed, which was quickly followed by a sneezing attack. Then I immediately felt sad, concocting a story that the poor woman was spending all her money on hormones to complete her sex change and had little to no money for food. And there I stood with the only thing that was keeping her from starvation. What was I to do except take the bologna, loaf of bread and squeeze bottle of mayonnaise and walk my sick tail back to the 99 cent store. Creeping down the street, the sun baking the flowing mucous in my nose, making it thicker, I thought of how the poor woman probably had to buy hormones off the street, dodging bullets and having to sucker-punch random attackers, in order to become the person she was supposed to be. Back in the store, I said to the cashier, "I think you accidentally gave me that lady's bag." He nodded and smiled, "She's still cussing out the manager back there." As soon as he announced over the loudspeaker, "I need the manager up front," I ran out of the store. I was too sick to have a transsexual kick my ass in the 99 cent store. Hurrying up the street, I had visions of her doing those slow-motion, fly-though-the-air kung fu moves from "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon," crashing through the store window, knocking me to the ground, shouting, "Bitch, nobody takes Mama's bologna!"

How lucky I am to have found not one but two muses. I've spent many hours thinking about these two ladies, creating all sorts of scenarios and stories. Some writers get inspired by sex, booze, drugs or travel. All I needed was a little person and a transsexual.

Editing Stories

My car needed a deep cleaning. After a trek across country, and after sitting outside here in L.A. accumulating layers and layers of the black dust that comes from smog, which is what I am breathing and why I'm glad that I'm a shallow breather at times, I had to get a detailed wash and wax for Maude, my Mazda. Several people recommended the car wash in Koreatown, just down the street from me, and with so many using "cheap" and "good" to describe the place, I heeded their suggestions. "Oh, your car so dirty. Inside need cleaning, too. One and one-half hour at least," the assertive and older man said upon examination. "Need to shampoo carpets and mats. Oh, a lot of work I have to do. Only 100 dollar for everything. What air freshener you like? I write down now." A shrewd salesman, for I forgot about the price, as I immediately looked at the list. "New car scent," I said.

Sitting outside the car wash on one of the three wooden benches positioned like a sofa and love seat combo, enjoying the beautiful weather, I did what I love to do, which is people watching. In the past, though, at times, my people watching involved making judgments, instead of simply observing. Of course, we always get a chance to practice our learnings, especially once we think we've mastered the class. I looked toward the road at the sound of the screeching tires in time to see the car strike the curb. The elderly Asian woman got out of the car to inspect the damage. She threw her hands in the air and shouted, "My tire gone!" Okay, the stereotype of all Asians being bad drivers came to mind, but I let it go, knowing that it was an unfair generalization. Accidents happen all the time, and I was in Koreatown, which has a large Asian population, so the chances of the driver being Asian was extremely high. I quickly turned my attention away from the accident, noticing the gold spinning rims on the older model black Mercedes with the tinted windows that was driving into the parking lot. The rap music blared from the Mercedes, but I fought the notion of assuming that it was an African-American driver. While it turned out to be the case, I was still proud of myself for being aware of the impact that a few unique individuals can have on an entire group, particularly a minority group. Thirty minutes later, five minutes after the wrecker pulled away the car with the flat tire, another car hit the curb. Carefully getting out of the car, making sure the fast traffic didn't hit her, the petite, young Asian girl looked scared and confused. Just as she walked around to the front of the car, the tire deflated. She put her hands on the side of her face and started to cry. Okay, I thought to myself, it's another Asian woman. However, I reminded myself that there were a lot of orange cones and caution signs in the road marking the construction area, but they weren't far enough away from the construction, making the merging lanes confusing and dangerous. And, yes, all the car wash workers were Hispanic, and I was in the same parking lot as a taco stand.Though, I wouldn't let myself conclude anything from this.

Getting confirmation of the importance of meeting everyone as an individual, the pretty Hispanic woman, who sat beside me on the middle bench, informed me that she was a lawyer specializing in family law. On the bench next to me was an Eastern Indian, and he didn't own a Burger King or a Holiday Inn Express, he wasn't an IT programmer, and his last name wasn't Patel. He was an auto mechanic and had a last name that I can't recall, but it wasn't Patel. The young African American male who was driving the Mercedes with the spinning rims sat to the left of me. From his cellphone conversations, I learned that he was a med student at UCLA.

After being there for two hours, I was in the zone, witnessing without any preconceived notions all types of people coming and going. How much more interesting was it to let the stories unfold in the moment and to not decide beforehand what the characters thought, how they would act, or what they might say. For years now I've been editing stories that are filled with gross generalizations and ugly stereotypes, changing false attributes of a group to honest characteristics of an individual. I plan to continue to do that, and I'll always use humor to dispel the untruths. I'll also always use humor to be more gentle with myself when I forget some of the edits that I've made in past.

"How much do you tip the guy?" I asked the chubby, caramel-skinned woman who sat down as I was about to leave. She looked at me with no expression and then said, "One dollar for me, since I'm Mexican, and they know me. Five dollars for you, since you are white." I smiled, "Alright then," I said. She laughed, holding her jiggling belly.

Kindness and Compassion Over Breakfast and a Pizza Hut Express

Following an early morning trip to Agape to hear a performance from the great Niki Harris, a wonderful soul, jazz and pop singer, who spent many years as Madonna's backup singer, starving, I wandered into a diner off Venice Boulevard between Mar Vista and Venice. Still high from Niki's rousing numbers and from spending a few minutes chatting with her and other friends, I didn't notice the sign on the door of Pepy's Galley. Only after I sat at the counter next to the cash register and ordered two scrambled eggs, sausage and hashbrowns, did I turn and see the greasy "Cash Only" piece of paper taped to the door that headed into the bowling alley, which shared space with Pepy's Galley. I informed the older, cordial man who was collecting money from the patrons that I needed to find an ATM machine. He patted my hand and shook his head. "No. No. You pay me next time you come." "Are you sure?" I asked, adding, "I think there's a money machine down the street." He smiled, and, with a hint of an indistinguishable accent, said, "You don't make me upset." The young Costa Rican waitress came back over to the counter. "Tell him that I am nice, but he better not make me mad." Smiling, the waitress playfully contradicted him by stating, "Pepy's killed so many people. Killed them with sweetness." I laughed. "So where are you from originally?" I asked Pepy. "Italy. South part. I've been in L.A. since I was 12. I'm 70, so you do the math."

An older man sat down beside me, and the waitress and Pepy both said, "Good morning, Lollipop." The slightly deaf Lollipop yelled back, "Good morning!" Lollipop looked at my food and said to the waitress, "Give me what he's having." Pepy smiled at me. "Your food good?" I nodded. "Very. Thanks." Lollipop pointed toward Pepy. "That's the nicest man in Los Angeles right there. He's got a lot of money, too. I'm 86, and I've known Pepy for a lot of those years." The waitress brought Lollipop's food and sat it down on the counter. She opened up the ketchup bottle and began pouring it over his eggs and hasbrowns. "Tell me when, Lollipop," she said. He waited until you could barely see the yellow of the eggs and the hashbrowns were unrecognizable, and then said, "That's good, Pretty One."

Once I'd finished eating, Pepy took my ticket and folded it up. Placing it under the corner of my plate, he said, "Here. Put this in your pocket." I extended my hand to him. "Thank you. I'm from Atlanta, and it's so nice to meet good people in L.A." He gripped my hand firmly, "Welcome to L.A. Pepy's place is now your home whenever you want to come."

On a hunt for the bathroom, I made my way into the bowling alley. Next to the Men's room was an ATM. I retrieved cash and returned to pay Pepy. "Oh, you make me mad. But I love you," he said. "Pepy's home is your home. Okay?" "I'll see you soon," I said, knowing that I would. Even though Pepy's Galley is 11 miles from where I live, distance can't keep me from my new home.

A block down the street from Pepy's Galley, in a small strip mall with five stores, I went to the final day of my weekend meditation workshop. Climbing the stairs to the nice spacious room above the Pizza Hut Express, which was next door to a Vietnamese nail salon and a Mexican Deli, I chuckled at the thought of Buddha meditating here. Visualizing Buddha rubbing his round belly as he finished up the chips and salsa, and then seeing him happily consume the last Veggie Lover's slice while getting a pedicure made me giddy. Of course the more I contemplated this, the more I realized that if Buddha were alive today, this is exactly where he'd be meditating, too. There's no better place to cultivate inner peace than in a busy area where most of the people are not at all connected. And surrounded by compassionate people and a wise teacher, cultivate is what I did.

To find such kindness and compassion in a diner situated in a corner of a bowling alley, and again on the second floor of a strip mall, I am grateful. All I had to do was stay open.

Parking Lot Manners

While I know that real estate is expensive in L.A., I do wish the architects and builders would downsize any future structures and make parking lots a bit larger and more manageable. And if I needed more confirmation of this sentiment, I got it today. At an outing to Trader's Joes off Hyperion, easing into the the store lot, I noticed the two drivers having a standoff at the spot that was coming available near the front door. The younger woman in the dirty Honda Accord was facing me, and blocking my movement was the Lexus SUV with slightly tinted windows, which precluded me from seeing the driver. As soon as the octogenarian finally got his Buick out of the way, the action started. Like a sporting contest, the two drivers began inching forward. With their front bumpers touching, neither was going to yield to the other. Then the horn blowing started, the Lexus SUV first followed immediately by the Honda Accord. Three prolonged and noisy blows announced the next round, a face to face encounter. Jumping out of the Lexus SUV, and then slamming the door, the chesty middle-aged woman with dyed blonde hair and a worn and tattered weave shouted, "What's your problem, bitch? I was here first!" The younger woman nearly fell as she hurried out of the Honda. Her thin and toned body was on display thanks to the tight yoga attire. "You saw me with my blinker on! You have no class! Ridiculous to call someone you don't know a bitch!" Walking closer to the younger woman, the blonde started pointing as she screamed, "Don't you tell me I don't have any class! Look at how you're dressed! You look like Olive Oyl in pajamas! The younger woman shook her head and smirked. Getting back in the Honda, she said as she slammed the door, "This isn't worth it. You can have the fucking space. And why don't you take your fake tits and frozen face back to Beverly Hills where you belong?" So what was the blonde to do? The expected. She shot the younger woman a bird and said, "You are a real bitch!"

Once the young woman sped away, I eased my car around the Lexus SUV. I smiled and waved at the blonde who stood with hands on her hip, and if she'd been able to move the frozen muscles, she would have had a scowl on her face. Finding a vacant space in the back of the lot, bypassing a few that were closer to the store's entrance, I carefully looked around to make sure no one else had dibs on the spot. Once parked, sitting in my car with my head down and reading a text message, I felt a slight bump. In my rear view mirror, I saw the runaway grocery cart flush against my trunk. The rocker guy with tattooed sleeves on his arm climbed into the ancient Chevrolet pick-up truck, oblivious to his negligence. What was I to do but text someone familiar with the area and ask him if the Trader Joe's parking lot doubled as a bumper car track?

There has to be a better way to maneuver through small and crowded parking lots here in L.A. With so many traffic rules, I don't think anyone would mind if the city and/or state included a few parking lot manners in the driver's manual. Maybe have three general rules. 1) A parking spot isn't worth a fight, even if it is amusing to bystanders, and one of them decides to write about it in his blog. 2) It isn't cool to let your cart run free, and if it gets away from you, chase it down. 3) If you see a crowded lot, go shop somewhere else. For those not obeying the rules, make them direct traffic at a Wal-Mart during the Christmas holidays.

Art and Reimaging

Accompanied by three friends, I went to an interesting art opening last night. A reimaging of Sharon Tate, a mixed media series created by Jeremy Kenyon Lockyer Corbell, the exhibit was commissioned by the Tate family to return attention to her acting and modeling and away from the grisly death at the hands of the Manson family. The giant photographs sprinkled with paint drippings and marked with intricate drawings and random words hung on the brick walls. Two of the semi-nude, provocative images showcased Sharon Tate's sex appeal, a blend of innocence, natural beauty, and rebel. In a few of the other ones, candid shots, the smiling sweet and pure face screamed of naivete and unbridled joy. Only one of the pictures, the one with a blank stare, hinted at any possible sadness or darkness. Other than the image I had of her from my repeated viewings of "Valley of the Dolls," which was in constant rotation on TBS when I was a kid, whenever I heard Sharon Tate mentioned, my mind went to the movie scenes and photo stills of her lying in a pool of blood on the floor her home. Thanks to the exhibit, I now have new images to conjure up when I hear her name.

After seeing what reimaging did for Sharon Tate, I started thinking about how I could reimage parts of my life. What if I took all those photos of me as a fat kid, the ones where my eyes look like slits cut with a dull knife because the fat on my cheeks had claimed squatter's rights to where my eyes were supposed to reside, and photoshopped them? I'd lengthen my round face into more of an oval shape and evict some of the fat from my cheeks. My curly hair would be straight, giving me that perfect hairstyle I always wanted, the hairstyle where I could actually use the comb I kept in my back pocket instead of the brush with thick bristles.

What if I could go one step farther and reimage parts of my life that are catalogued in my mind? Every time I hear disco music, I'd no longer think of my embarrassing fall as I walked across the dancefloor at my 7th grade prom. The stacked heels were slick, and my baby blue leisure suit was too long. Whenever I smelled fresh apples growing in nature, I'd just think of the juicy taste of them and not unpleasant moments too heinous to discuss. When I'd see pigs, I'd think of my pet Wilbur hanging out in my room with me and not the cooked piece of ham on the breakfast table of my house that he became. And if I touched a public bathroom stall handle, I wouldn't think of germs, diseases, and death, I'd think of how relieved all the people felt once they walked out of the stall.

Now, though, as I am contemplating last night, I wonder how long it will be before life imitates art. We're almost there in some respects. We can change the way we look with surgery. We can change the way we think with therapy, meditation, drugs, etc. Sure, a lot of good can come from changing our looks, thoughts, and memories. However, pretty soon we'll be able to reimage our entire existence.

To quote, MoMo, a beautiful Korean woman and a new friend of mine, who is a brilliant comic book artist and painter (www.boyinthewater.com), "If you have L.A. money, you can make anything beautiful and nice." Since I don't have L.A. money yet, and I've finally gotten to the point where I like myself, my present self and my past self, I think I'll leave the reimaging to the artists.

Twitter-free

I'm more convinced than ever that Casbah Cafe is the right office for me. Today, a reporter, camera in hand, doing a news story on the crash of the Twitter site came rushing through the door and immediately asked me, "So do you Twitter?" I shook my head. "Sorry." He then asked my table mate, a pretty and hip graphic designer, and she said, "No, sorry." Not one of the 15 people in the small cafe was a twitterer. Of course, with all the coffee they had consumed, several were close to being in a twitter. From my upbringing when someone was in a twitter, it meant they were anxiety ridden, nervous, and trembling. I spent many of my earlier years as a twitterer, smoking cigarettes or eating junk food in an attempt to calm my frayed nerves, a by-product of shot adrenal glands, a by-product of too much time immersed in stressful environments. To see that I was surrounded by people who weren't participating in the Twitter phenomenon made me feel that I belonged and was understood. I bore myself, and even blogging about my adventures seems at times egotistical and self-indulgent, though that's not my intent. I am way too humble to think that anyone would want to follow my every move. And with too many days, weeks, months, and years lost to my rescue of other people from their own lives in order to avoid dealing with my own, I have no desire to repeat that pattern again. Though I'm certain that all the celebrity sharings of their daily activities are important and exciting to some, these days, I am way too busy trying to manage my life, being present for each moment.

I know that Twitter has many redeeming qualities. Also, I know that technological advancements are important to our evolution; however, I sometimes wonder if we are reaching a level of diminishing returns when you look at the cost/benefit analysis of our developments. To have instant communication among billions is quite an achievement, but to have instant life saving and healing communication among billions is an even greater achievement.

With the peace I've found from slaying the demons of my past, resulting in the restoration of my adrenals to a respectable form, I have no desire to return to the angst. Thus, I am choosing to remain twitter-free for right now, and when at all possible, I'm choosing to socialize and work in twitter-free environments.

Showers and Heads

How many more times do I need to learn that I don't have to stay in painful situations? Last week the plumbers fixed the water flow problem in the apartment that I am subletting. For some unknown reason, they changed the shower head. Even the building manager who sought the plumbers' services does not know why. The old one provided an erratic and awkward but gentle stream of water. With the new head, well, I'm still recovering from the pelting my body took from the punishing device. I think I've had advanced microdermabrasion done on my face. That, along with the soreness around my eyes has made me empathize with Joan Rivers's numerous recoveries from plastic surgery. And "skinning the rabbit" has a whole new meaning for me, after what my penis felt like after trying to properly wash my privates. Direct and strong hits with laser-like precision to my larger head made me wince, but the ones to my other head had me squealing and cursing. Six torture sessions later, and I finally decided that I'd had enough. After calling the building manager and not hearing back from him, I endured one more thrashing, just because that seemed the thing to do at the time. Seeing my grimacing face in the bathroom mirror while slumping over and tenderly cupping little man and his two posse members, I reached my tipping point. "Where are the shower heads?" I asked the man behind the counter at Baller True Value Hardware (a perfect name, given my circumstances).

I've had a history of simply tolerating painful situations. Without getting too psycho-analytical, let's just say that I learned this behavior early in life. In my home in Atlanta, I spent three winters there without any heat, accepting that the heat pump was doing all that it could do. Only when I had to have an inspection for insurance purposes did I discover that the heat pump wasn't installed properly and had never blown anything other than cool air. Oh, and I can't forget that I went for 20 years with a torn, mostly non-existent ACL in my right knee. "Haven't you had a lot of pain?" the orthopedic surgeon asked me two years ago when I decided to get it checked. "It hurts some," I answered. "But I just live with it."

I'm learning, though, and I'm now taking action much quicker than I've ever done. Pretty soon, if I'm lucky, I'll be able to have my actions work in synch with my feelings. As soon as something is painful, I'll immediately address it. I'll let go of the false belief that my fate in life is simply to tolerate and endure. After years of therapy and years of spiritual cultivation, which have raised my awareness of my issues, I can see that I am progressing. Of course, I am a man, and all it takes to expedite the learning curve is a few hits to the heads.

No Need to Generalize

At lunch at a fast food Mexican restaurant called "El Pollo Loco" here in Los Angeles, and I sat eating my flame-grilled chicken. With a view of the counter, I watched the customers enter and order. An extremely tall woman with long, straight Cher-like hair and with a sturdy bone structure that proved the woolly mammoth isn't really extinct but merely evolved stood in front of the cashier. Behind her were two men, and one was wearing a cap with a truck on the front of it with a ponytail that was poking through the opening in the back, and the other was wearing a Nascar cap. Both had on navy work pants and dirty white T-shirts. Rubbing his belly and then adjusting the ponytail, the chubbier one said, "I ain't never seen a woman taller than me." In a voice deeper than mine and my mom's, the woman turned around and said, "You haven't?" Noticing the woman's massive hands and canoe-sized feet that were covered in shoes that had to have been special ordered, I didn't have the heart to tell the fellow that he still had never seen a woman taller than him. "And she's beautiful, too," the shorter man with a few missing teeth stated. Just as I was preparing to swallow a bite of my chicken breast that I'd dipped in the creamy cilantro dressing, the chubbier one said to the shorter one, "Jesse, she could kick your ass, too, if you messed with her." I nearly choked on my food, as I laughed out loud. Following a Cher hair flip, the woman turned around to face the two men and said, "I've been known to do that before." The shorter man replied, "Take him down first. He's got a big-ass mouth." Smiling, the woman leaned her head to the side, giving me a better view of her Adam's apple. She then grabbed her to go order from the hands of the young employee and said to the men on her way toward the door, "Could one of you men open the door for the lady?" The chubbier one nearly pushed the shorter one out of the way in order to do the honors. "Have a good one, Sexy," he said.

Over the past few weeks, I've met a few jaded folks, ones whose dreams haven't turned out as they had planned. I usually ignore their negative views, for I have great compassion for them, understanding how frustrating it is to constantly be told "no." Sometimes, though, one can't remain silent. Following an introduction from the trainer at the local gym, I conversed with a fellow writer in the lobby. "I'm from Oklahoma City. So where are you from?" he asked. I said, "The South. Mountains of North Carolina, rural Georgia, and Atlanta." He smiled and nodded. "Well, L.A. is a lot like Atlanta." I smiled and said, "Yeah, it's a big city, and there are a lot of talented people here." "I wasn't really talking about that," he said, adding, "I haven't really spent any time in Atlanta, but I think the people are nice to your face there but not so nice when you turn around. That's the way L.A. is, too." I paused for a few seconds, and then I said. "Hmm. I've met a lot of very nice, honest, and wonderful people here. And I left a lot of very nice, honest, and wonderful people back in Atlanta." He forced a smile, and then said, "Sorry. And I do know some good people here. "And you've just met a good person from Atlanta," I said. "Have a good rest of the day. I'll see you around."

From the dress and dialogue of the ogling men, I would have never placed them in Los Angeles. In the Northwest? Never. In the Northeast? Never. In the Midwest? Maybe. In the Southwest? Maybe. In the South? For sure! Like the guy from the gym, I, too, am guilty at times of putting the masses in labeled boxes. However, when he slammed "my people" in the South, I became well aware that there is no need to generalize. I had to make him aware of that, too, but I did it in a sweet and Southern way.

Pay Attention to the Signs

In L.A. now for over a month, and I've had to repeat a lesson that I thought I'd learned a long time ago. Driving down from Bronson Canyon and following a wonderful meditation, talking on my cellphone, accepting my birthday wishes from my beautiful, elderly-in-age-only friend and former therapist, Marianne, I heard the horn honks from the car behind me. In my rear view mirror, I saw the driver, a middle-aged woman in sunglasses wearing an overly large straw hat. She was pointing at me and mouthing something. I looked at my odometer, verifying that I was traveling the speed limit. Not able to figure out why the woman honked several more times, I began thinking nasty thoughts, such as "What's your problem, crazy ass lady?" I shrugged my shoulders and threw my hands in the air. She reacted by blowing the horn again. All the while, Marianne was informing me of how wonderful I was, how much she loved me, and how lucky the world was that I was born. Coming to a halt at the stop sign, I scowled at the woman, making sure that she was able to see me in my rear-view mirror. She grabbed a pad of paper from her passenger seat, and I immediately knew that she was writing down my tag number. I continued driving, and she followed behind me. In my ear I was hearing that Marianne loved me with the "passion of her youth," but I was feeling someone hate me with the ire of their youth. I decided to pull over to let the woman pass. She stopped beside me and rolled down her window. "Hold on, Marianne," I said, as I rolled down my window. "You're going to kill yourself or someone else!" the woman shouted. "Get off the cellphone, or park it and talk!" she yelled and then quickly drove away. "Darling, are you still there?" Marianne asked. "I am. I think I just discovered that people out here don't like for you to talk on your cellphone while driving." "Well, darling, I think that is probably very smart not to talk on the phone and try to drive at the same time, don't you?" I laughed. "It is smart, but sometimes I enjoy being dumb."

A few days before, on Sunday, instead of my usual walk, I drove to The Casbah Cafe, because I had another appointment later. With plenty of spaces on the street, I parallel parked. Getting out of the car, I carefully read the sign that said, "No parking 12 till 2 Fridays - Street Cleaning." Safe, or so I thought, I went inside and hung out, wrote, and drank coffee for a few hours. Upon returning to my car, I noticed the ticket on the window that informed me of the parking violation..."No permit to street park." I looked around and saw another sign, just a few feet in front of my car and behind the other one, that said, "Street Parking Only on Saturday and Sunday with Neighborhood Permit." I'm still not sure how I missed the other all-important sign, but I did. And I shamefully accepted that I was now a California criminal, and I paid the $55 fine.

The night of my birthday, driving to a meditation service, I was talking to my friend, Kristen. Yes, I had forgotten about the earlier warning from the angry safety patrol woman. When I saw the blue light and heard the siren, I said to Kristen, "I'm being pulled over, and I don't know why. Talk to you later." The arrogant and fit cop stared at me. "It's illegal to talk on your cellphone while driving." I need to see your license and registration." Nervously, I passed him my license and my insurance card. "I'm new here in L.A., and I didn't know that it was illegal to talk on your phone while driving." He shrugged his shoulders and smirked. "I need to see your registration." "Um...I just gave it to you," I said. He shook his head. "You gave me your license and insurance card. Does this car even belong to you?" I could see where this was headed, and not wanting to further irritate him, I quickly shuffled through the glove compartment, locating the Dekalb County registration information. As the policeman walked behind the car, I sat and waited, fretful, wondering if I was going to get thrown in jail, because I hadn't yet received my new Georgia tag decal. On the side of the curb where I was parked, an older Hispanic man stood in front of a podium with a "Valet" sign on it. The man leaned his head in the direction of the cop and mouthed the words, "Fucker."

Once again, I've been reminded that I have to always pay attention to the signs. How convenient that I didn't see the sign that said a neighborhood permit was required to park on the street on the weekends. It sure saved me some time to park there. Yes, the safety patrol woman was a shrew, but she was warning me of danger ahead. And the cop was a genuine asshole; however, he was simply doing his job. Of course, I could have done without the attitude, and I think a warning instead of a ticket would have been nice. Though, who knows if I would have learned my lesson from a mere warning. Maybe the ticket was a sign to never talk on the cellphone again while driving, which may preclude me from a future accident.

Even if I chose not to see the significance of either of the tickets, the fact that my bank account is shrinking in order to pay for the State of California budget shortfall is enough to make me more observant, present, and aware. I don't want my hard earned money being used to pay Arnold's salary or to pay for Michael Jackson's funeral. Yet, a few dollars to fund environmental efforts to clean up the L.A. smog would be okay. Though, I think that initiative may have been cut due to lack of funding.

No Longer Waiting on the World to Change

A couple of days ago when I was up early responding to Shug's nature call, I smiled and said "hello" to the unkempt, balding man who was rummaging through the recycle bins beside the apartment building. He deliberately and repeatedly brushed the few strands of stringy hair from his wrinkled and ruddy face. Repositioning the broken glasses on his nose, he smiled, exposing the rotten teeth, the two remaining top ones. "I like that dog." I nodded. "I like her, too." He retrieved another two cans and placed them in his rusty grocery cart, which was overflowing with loot. "I get up early. If I don't the others get them first. But if they get them before me, I just go to another street." Shug was doing what she does best, sniffing and lollygagging. "Hurry up, girl," I said. "She's not on no watch," he said. "You're right about that." The entire time we were talking, music from an 80s boom box that sat in the child's seat of the grocery cart was playing, and I started humming along to John Mayer's "Waiting on the World to Change." "See you later," I said to the man when I mistakenly thought that Shug was done with her inspection of the sidewalk. He winked at Shug and said, "Look after me, Dog. When you see those two women going through these cans, tell them to leave me some." "Have a good day," I said. The cart had a sticky wheel, and he struggled to turn it around. While Shug continued to sniff the ground, searching for the perfect spot, I watched the man limp down the street, using the worn cart as a walker.

At a birthday lunch for my friend Forrest, founder of http://www.loveangeles.com/, I ran into Cynthia, the first person whom I met in L.A. upon my arrival here. Cynthia is a documentary filmmaker who made a wonderful film about her mother's hoarding disorder. "My Mother's Garden" (http://www.mymothersgardenmovie.com/) is raw and personal and features an attempt by Cynthia to bring her family together to face their mother's illness. After further talks with Cynthia, I realized that she had started several non-profits to help disadvantaged young kids get a chance at a better life. Both Forrest and Cynthia are in their late 20s, and both of them are making big differences in the world. They aren't sitting around waiting for the world to change. They are creating the changes, making them happen.

For the past few weeks, I've been trying to figure out how to best use my talents to make positive changes in the world. Trying to decide how I can best marry my livelihood and my passion has occupied my days. In a sense, I guess that I've been sitting around waiting on the world to change, so I will know what changes to make. Now, though, I'm no longer waiting. And the first thing that I've committed to do is to continue to speak the truth about the injustices and social ills of the world and to continue to act as a voice for those who can't speak for themselves.

Losing My Love

The realization began early one morning last week when I walked out the front door of my apartment building and smelled the offensive odor coming from the trash cans. Although the City Sanitation Department emptied the cans the day before, the building manager had not returned the eight oversized plastic cans to their proper places. In one of my pseudo-Tourette's moments, the words poured from my mouth. "Damn, Shug! It smells like everybody walking down the street took a shit here this morning! Nasty ass people!" Shug pretended not to notice and quickly ran and squatted next to one of the cans. "Oh God," I said to myself, "if she craps there, then I'll just have to get a ticket for not picking up the poop." Well, as fate would have it, she only had to pee, and while it seemed like she was squatting for an eternity, I'm certain that it was no more than 30 minutes. Yet, in those disgusting but glorious moments, I saw how quickly it is for me to lose my love. However, I also saw how quickly it is for me to find it again.

Having my friend Julie in town was a needed treat. I enjoyed sharing my new world with her, and I savored sharing our familiar stories, too. From the beach trips to the hiking venture, we laughed and talked from the heart. Sometimes, though, we spoke from the perverted, gutter part of us. Why not? Anyway, after a sunny and relaxing afternoon at the beach, we strolled down the street to a vegetarian Thai restaurant for dinner. The fake chicken and mixed vegetables made both of us quite happy. And happy I stayed until I heard the dishes hit the floor and felt the wet sensation on my back. Turning to my left, I saw the waiter scurrying around, dropping to the floor, attempting to clean up the broken glass. I then turned and saw the yellow liquid dripping down the back of my chair. I raised my hand to my lower back, and I felt the grossly saturated area, and I knew that the yellow liquid was the culprit. Julie asked, "Did that get you?" I couldn't speak, except to say "Massaman curry." Julie jumped from her chair and came to my rescue. She used her napkin and others brought by the apologetic staff to clean me up. The waiter was oblivious to the fact that he had mistaken me for the InSinkErator disposal, that is, until Julie sternly said, "You got it all over him!" He bowed a few times and said, "I'm sorry. You need more napkins?" "Yes we do," Julie answered for me. Not really angry at all but shocked and irritated, I nevertheless had once again lost my love. However, I found it when Julie sat down and looked at me. She said, "Massaman curry." We both began laughing so hard. In between the laughter, I was able to mimic Julie's statement to the waiter. "You got it all over him!" We laughed even harder.

Tori Amos at the Greek Theatre, an exquisite outdoor venue with trees of many varities all around and massive rocks in the distance, Julie by my side, and I was feeling the love. Of course as luck would have it, Tori's number one annoying fan was sitting behind us. The first twelve times he screamed or squealed, I was a bit amused. I'm not sure how to accurately describe the sound other than to say it conjured up an image of a crazed, bellowing goat with its butt against a blazing brush fire. At times I couldn't control the laughter, but when he let loose with a set of three back to back and extremely loud whoops during Tori's performance of "China," a favorite song of mine, I lost my love. I was nearing the tipping point, preparing to turn around and let the guy know how rude, annoying, and disrespectful he was when Tori began singing a new song. Playing her Steinway with one hand, Tori then turned her body toward the audience. Slightly standing, she began playing the organ with her other hand. The beautiful and ethereal music mixed with the Christ-like image of Tori in her long white dress, her arms stretched and angled, soothed my heart and lifted my soul. At peace, I managed to tolerate the guy and his next 24 bellows.

Maybe someday when I'm operating on a higher vibration and have transcended my ego and all of its offspring of stories and tapes, I'll be able to never lose my love. In the meantime, I am happy just to get it back so quickly after losing it.

I Found an Angel

Walking in the neighborhood, I noticed a smiling young Asian woman sitting on the steps of an apartment building with a whimpering, excited dog by her side. With the tricolor, spotted coat, white, black, and tan, I recognized the breed. "Is that a Mountain Feist?" I asked, as the dog ran toward me, wagging its tail, and then climbing up my legs. Giggling, not understanding, the woman replied, "Angel." I nodded. "So the dog's name is Angel?" I squatted and petted Angel on the head, letting her gnaw on my hand while she danced around. "What kind of dog is she?" I asked once again. "Um...maybe a mixers breed the vet...um...say." Seeing the squirrel playing in the tree on the patio of the apartment building, Angel began barking and pawing at the gate. I pointed toward Angel, "If I needed any more proof, I just got it. Angel is a Mountain Feist, also known as a Squirrel Dog." Laughing, the sweet girl, of Korean origins I'd say if I were a betting man, got up and pushed the gate open, letting Angel seek her fortune. "Angel part squirrel. I think so, too."

I walked down the street chuckling. Here I am on the other side of the country, and I found a Mountain Feist. Nobody in the eastern part of the U.S. where they are prominent knows the breed, so I don't know why I'd expect anyone in L.A. to do so. The only reason I recognize them is that Pop used to label any dog that looked like a mixed breed as an "ole feist dog." I didn't realize they were considered a pure breed of dog until I did some research on them about 10 years ago. I think many people in the South who have a Mountain Feist mistakenly think they have a Jack Russell or a Rat Terrier.

It doesn't matter to me whether a dog has a pedigree or not, but I am inclined to want to work to boost the reputation of the Mountain Feist. Maybe I should call my relatives back east and have one shipped to Paris Hilton. The thought of the starlet with one of the hyperactive but sweet animals makes me a bit apprehensive, though. Can you imagine what the Mountain Feist would do to Paris's miniature Chihuahuas that are dead ringers for floppy-eared squirrels?

On some days I am like Valentine Michael, the character in the novel, "Stranger in a Strange Land." However, I am glad that I don't have to feel that way for too long. I always seem to find a familiar creature, a Mountain Feist, an Angel, if I stay open.

Miss Linda Hopkins Loves Me

Last night, awaiting the showing of a pilot for a new television sitcom produced by a friend of mine, I stood in the lobby of the Regent Showcase Theater. I recognized various television stars that were on shows I watched as a kid. Of course, the one I felt compelled to introduce myself to was Marla Gibbs, Florence, from "The Jeffersons" sitcom. My dad, Pop, loved Florence, especially when she hurled sassy and quick insults at Mr. Jefferson. As a son who was desperate to see a softer side of his father, Florence, Marla, gave me that opportunity. To see Pop laugh and leave his troubled world for a few minutes every week was a magical occurrence. So when I shook Ms. Gibbs's hand, I was doing so for both Pop and me.

I almost missed the beginning of the 30 minute episode. Opening the doors to enter into the theater, I saw this beautiful, elderly African American woman struggling up the aisle. Holding on to her walker, she took slow but confident steps. While others were busy scurrying to their seats or networking, oblivious to the older woman, I knew that the least I could do was hold the door open for her. She said to me in a soft voice, "When you got to go, you got to go." I laughed and replied, "That's true." I looked at all the people milling around in the packed lobby, and I knew that the woman needed an escort, someone to clear a path for her. "Do you want me to help you?" I asked. "Yes," she said. Moving through the crowd with my hands out, all I needed was my safety patrol sash and badge. I heard several of the people say, "That's Miss Linda Hopkins." The bathroom was up two flights of stairs. "Let me grab the rail. Then I'll hold your hand, too," she said. A few steps up, and she looked at me and smiled, saying, "I got a better plan. Watch this." She took both hands and wrapped them around the handrail, pulling herself up like she was climbing a rope.

Outside the restroom, waiting, I asked an actor whom I had just met if he knew who the elderly woman was. "Oh, that's Miss Linda Hopkins. She's a well-known blues and gospel singer. Sung on Broadway. Had a hit record or two. Sung with B.B. King. Mahalia Jackson discovered her."

"There you are," she said, coming out of the bathroom. "You gonna laugh at how I get down the stairs. You gonna laugh." I smiled. "Well, my mama has arthritis and knee problems, so she always backs down steps. "That's what I do," she said, laughing. "Do you have arthritis?" I asked. "No. I think it's from the stroke."

We missed the first few minutes of the show. As I held the door open for her to enter the theater, she turned to me and kissed me on the check. "I love you, baby," she said. "Thank you."

After the show I waited in the lobby. I had to say goodbye, and I had to honor the strong connection to her that I felt. "Hey," she said, "I need something to drink." I nodded. "Okay, I'll get it. They have water, wine, Coke, beer, liquor." "Wine," she said. "White." "They only had red," I said, holding the cup. "You want to try it?" She took a sip of the Merlot, scowled and then handed me back the cup. "I'll get my own when I get home." She kissed me on the cheek again. "I love you, baby."

It wasn't until I got home and found the YouTube videos of Miss Linda Hopkins singing that I realized I'd been in the presence of one of God's finest. She may have been known as a blues and gospel singer, but she was nothing more than a brilliant soul singer. Though her voice is now weathered and fragile, the words coming out of her mouth still have as much an impact as her commanding singing voice did, for the words are coming from a precious heart and wise soul.

I implore all of you to take a few minutes to listen to greatness. http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x167e6_linda-hopkins-its-nobodys-business_music
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N22aZuNTLB8
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ErTkQK2Z-U0

Yes, I met Miss Linda Hopkins last night. And Miss Linda Hopkins loves me. And the Miss Linda Hopkins who loves me isn't the famous blues and gospel singer. The Miss Linda Hopkins who loves me is the one who after 84 years here still loves life.

The Surreal World

Last evening on the rooftop patio of a beautiful hotel, French in name and design, Le Petit, and I was over the waxing, almost full, moon. Surrounded by exquisite lighting, a lovely pool, and about twenty-five, physically stunning international hotel guests, my two friends and I sat on a sofa with a fireplace roaring behind us. Feeling cultured and high-brow, I was expecting some classic Jean Cocteau film. Instead, I laughed out loud when I heard the music and watched the opening scenes of a classic film of another sort, "Vacation" with Chevy Chase. While my two friends and I were heartily laughing at some of the lines and scenes, I noticed that many of the idioms and suggestive remarks weren't translating that well with the other audience members. When the young cousin in the film mentions that her father told her she was an expert French kisser, I don't think the Italian male model to my right understood the humor in the crass remark, for I saw him quickly turn away and ogle the Brazilian beauty next to me. Of course, I was eyeing the beautiful Brazilian woman, too. A blind man would have been eyeing something that exquisite looking. Our waitress decided to come check on us again after we were there for about an hour. Upon our arrival, she had asked if we wanted to see a menu, and we declined, instead ordering tea and coffee. From her accent, I discerned that she was French. She decided to come check on us again after we were there for an about an hour. One of my friends decided that she was hungry and asked the pretty and self-assured French waitress if she could see a menu. The waitress scowled and replied, "I ask you a while ago if you want to see a menu and you say no." Aunt Edna died just in time. Even though I found the waitress's abrasive response amusing, I didn't know whether my friends did or not, so Aunt Edna's dead body on the roof of the station wagon in the rain really diverted the attention away from the comportement grossier.

Today, I had a few moments to spare, and I needed to refuel after a weekend of sleep deprivation caused by the antics of the fireworks aficionados. I headed to the beach. A last minute decision, and I didn't have time to eat lunch. I was starving by the time I got close to the ocean. So, I ran into Ralph's grocery store in the chic, expensive Pacific Palisades area. At the prepared foods counter, I spotted fried chicken, tacos, and every unhealthy thing you could possibly eat for lunch. It's quite a misnomer that L.A. is the land of healthy eating habits. I think there may be more places here serving fatty food than there are in any major city in the South. "Are the chicken flautas made with flour or cornmeal," I asked the Latin woman behind the counter. She nodded her head and said, "Chicken. Yes." I smiled. "Are they made with flour of cornmeal?" I asked again. "Chicken," she said, frowning. "Um...the outside. Flour or cornmeal," I clarified. She grunted, and then she picked up one of the chicken flautas with the tongs and walked to the other end of the counter to ask a co-worker. "Flour," the co-worker shouted to me. "You want?" the employee asked, walking back toward me, holding the greasy treat high in the air. "I'll have two corn dogs," I said, as I pointed to the ones inside the case. Back in my car, and driving through an area with million dollar homes, I was happier than ever when I bit into the first of my two corn dogs.

Tonight, on our pre-bedtime walk, Shug and I met our neighborhood coyote again. Is it just me, or is there something strange about a coyote resting on the steps of the house across the narrow street from my apartment building? With front legs crossed, head in the air, looking at Shug and me as if we were the undesirable intruders, the coyote didn't get up for a few seconds. Only after Shug softly barked did Trixie LaRue (a name that I've given the slight and seductive coyote) run up the hill, off to who knows where.

The only predictable thing about L.A. is that it is unpredictable. Indeed, it is a land of contrasts. However, I am okay with that, because it's teaching me to be present with whatever comes my way. How great to be in place where the real world is also the surreal world!

Becoming Phoebe (WWPD)

I know that fireworks and firecrackers are fun and patriotic, but when people begin setting them off at sundown on July 3rd, and they continue lighting them nonstop throughout the night and all day on July 4th, it's friggin' rude. Shug and I have barely slept, and her heart rate has been at an all-time high. I'm quite irritated by the senseless escapades, too, and my irritability index has reached a record high. However, Phoebe had the right answer. She was in a Zen state, not paying any mind to the infinite spectacle. Of course it helps that she's grown rather deaf over the last few years. The only sounds that matter to her are the sounds of her cries for food and attention. She briefly watched the official show out of the big living room window. Within a few minutes, though, she'd had enough, directing her gaze to fly that landed on the coffee table. Wouldn't it be nice to only hear what you wanted to hear and see what you wanted to see. I think I am going to practice becoming Phoebe. To remind myself of my devotion to her way of life, I'm going to have a rubber wrist band made, purple, Phoebe's favorite color. And I'll have the initials WWPD encased in the rubber.

My only venture out of the apartment today was a trip to The Casbah Cafe and Coffeehouse. I thought getting Shug outside was a good idea. Wrong. Her nerves were shot worse than my mama's nerves, which from years of drama, real and unreal, are in terminal disrepair. The pops and booms subsided for a few minutes, long enough for us to get to the coffeehouse, but not long enough for me to drink my decaf americano. Before we had to rush back up the street, I sat at an outdoor table with Shug, panting and trembling, at my feet. A substantial short woman attempted to peddle her ice cream bicycle/cart across the street in front of us. Not coordinated enough to try to sell to the pedestrians and peddle at the same time, she braked in the middle of the street and clumsily climbed off the seat. An irate Hispanic woman, who was probably irritated from lack of sleep, too, honked at the ice cream lady. I couldn't make out all the Spanish, but I clearly heard the words "loca" and "puta." The woman recklessly drug the bike/cart to the corner of the street. After a rest, she unsuccessfully tried to push the bike/cart out of the dip in the sidewalk. The first time that she pushed forward, the bike/cart rolled back toward her. With a harder, unsuccessful push, the bike/cart rolled back and almost knocked her over. The thought to get up and help went through my head, just as an ancient, flamboyant gay man, wearing a straw hat and a rainbow scarf around his neck, who was walking his two ancient, flamboyant Lhasa Apsos, both wearing pink tutus, decided to assist the distressed woman. Together, they managed to get the bike/cart out of the dip in the the sidewalk and into the street. Without regard to grace and the fact that she was a lady, the woman managed to position herself on the seat. As she haphazardly peddled, she massaged her right breast, proclaiming, "It's bruised." She looked toward me and the two men who were at the other outdoor tables and said, "The least you could have done was to get off your ass and help me." No sooner had she chastised us than another irate Hispanic woman came driving down the hill. The honking began and so did the Spanish. Maybe she was becoming Phoebe, too, but the ice cream bicycle/cart woman pretended not to notice the screams and honks. She simply peddled on, struggling to get up the hill, tapping her bell.

Tiptoe Through L.A.

L.A. is known more for its vanity than its creativity. However, I'm quickly seeing that the town is overflowing with really talented people. Musicians, writers, actors, artists, stylists, filmmakers, designers and many other creators walk the streets and populate the coffee houses. What the world sees on the their televisions and in the theaters is not an adequate representation of the depth of imagination and dreams of the innovators here.

Yesterday at The Casbah Cafe and Coffee House, waiting for others to join me for a meeting, I listened as this beautiful woman sat at a table and sang "Have You Ever Seen The Rain?" for two hip, rock musicians. From overhearing the conversation, I discovered that she was auditioning for a back-up singer gig on the two guys upcoming tour. She sang the entire song a capella, and when she finished, all the patrons all clapped. One of the guys then pulled out his computer and played some of the band's music for the woman. She should have been the one auditioning them, since her talent was far superior.

At the table next to me, a thirty-something male sat and quickly opened up the small case. He pulled out the ukulele and quietly began strumming a bit. Watching him write the musical notes on the white paper, I determined that he was either writing a song or a score. My only prior knowledge of the ukulele involved Elvis playing it in "Blue Hawaii," the overweight Hawaiian guy, Israel Kamakawiwo'ole, sitting on the beach singing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" while he played the instrument, and Tiny Tim playing it on "The Tonight Show" while he sang "Tiptoe Through the Tulips" in a shrill voice. And the more the guy next to me strummed and played, the happier I became. How can you not smile when you hear the sweet, joyful sounds coming from the ukulele?

On the other side of me, an older gentleman with a wide, loving smile had his chess set ready for someone to join him for a match. While he waited, he wrote and recited poetry. I asked him what inspired him to write poetry, and he said, "My wife." "That's nice," I said. "Where is your wife now?" I asked. "She's designing costumes for a film." "What do you do?" I inquired. "Write poetry, play chess, drink coffee, and enjoy life. What more do I need to do?" I nodded and smiled. His young opponent arrived, and he immediately began focusing on the match, forgetting his wife, the poetry, and me.

To repay my young neighbor downstairs who assisted me on Sunday when I locked Shug and myself out of the apartment, I took her and her boyfriend to dinner at a vegetarian Thai restaurant down the street. Both of my dinner guests grew up in Northern California to very bohemian, hippie parents. Before we walked to dinner, I had to wait for them to partake of a few hits off the pot pipe. I knew from our earlier conversations that they were singer/songwriters and musicians, and I listened and admired their fresh perspective on life and the world. In discussing their parents, I learned that the boyfriend's father was an English teacher and a writer, and the boyfriend's middle name was Eliot, a product of his father's fondness for the works of T.S. Eliot. And in a discussion about the young girl's family, I learned from the boyfriend that her mother slept in a chicken coop. She corrected him. "It's not a chicken coop." He said, "Well, it looks like one. It's outside, and it's like a coffin made from plywood, and it is inside a coop. She shook her head, correcting him. "It's not a coop. There's no chicken wire around it."

For inspiration, I don't need to go far. How many people get to sit next to a good ukulele player and listen to his creations? Right now, I'm happy tiptoeing through L.A., singing and dancing to whatever music comes my way.

All this sniffing

After 20 days of not washing clothes, I finally headed down to the basement of the apartment complex yesterday. The one washer and one dryer sat staring at me, each begging for $1.50. Not since my college days have I needed so many quarters at one time. And not since my college days have I worn clothes more than two or three times without cleaning them. When I was picking T-shirts and shorts from the dirty clothes basket and sniffing them to see how much stink was too much stink, I had no hesitations or reservations about being a repeat offender. Thank goodness, though, that I went to Target before I left Atlanta. That $60 worth of new underwear came in handy, for I only had to sniff underwear for four days. Yet, I realized that four days was too many days when your selection criteria for which pair you should wear again was based on the degree of butt taint involved. I always chose the pair with zero degree of taint, but I squirted them with Febreeze, Hawaiian Aloha scent, just in case.

The sniffing continues, too, for Phoebe. I think she has developed a touch of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD). I know it's normal for animals to check out scents of new territories, but it has been two weeks. She prances around with her head lifted in the air and her top lip in an Elvis curl. Showing my own OCD behavior, I keep picking her up to make sure that she doesn't have another rodent ulcer, a form of the Herpes virus that shows up in cats. In the past when Phoebe's top lip was protruding, which made her have the same look as a friend of mine had when she used to have too much vodka and was turning into a mean drunk that was getting ready to rip someone a new ass, a rodent ulcer was the culprit. Thus far, that hasn't been the case here. So, I can only assume that it must be the unfamiliar aromas that flow through the open windows. Of course, it may have been my dirty laundry, too. We'll see if Phoebe's sniffing continues now that I have washed garments.

My Shug is a cougar! Nearing 12, 84 in human years, she's still spry and feisty. She's quite cranky at times, too, but her aggression is saved for other dogs and sometimes for strange children. Last night was a night to remember for Shug. On our evening walk, she met Stanley, the pit bull who lives three blocks down. Despite my efforts to keep Shug away from Stanley, fate was too strong. Dragging his owner down the street, Stanley rushed over to us. Instead of growling and snarling, Shug started wagging her tail and smiling. Then the sniffing began. She couldn't get enough of Stanley's private parts. In an attempt to draw attention away from Shug's scandalous behavior, I asked about Stanley's age. "He's almost two," the bearded, outdoorsy guy answered. "He's beautiful, and he's very muscular," I said. "Obviously, your dog thinks so, too," he said, laughing. I've never witnessed two dogs as happy as Shug and Stanley. Pawing and sniffing for what seemed like two lifetimes, Shug forgot about me. "Is this legal?" I jokingly asked Stanley's owner whose name I didn't get because I was in shock over Shug's lascivious behavior. "Stanley's a minor. Not even 14, and Shug's 70 years older than him," I added. Stanley's owner smiled. "Whatever works for him works for me," he said. "Well, you don't have to worry about grand kids, Shug's had her egg bag removed." He smiled an unsure smile, and then he began dragging Stanley away from Shug.

All this sniffing had a purpose. Phoebe has found something more interesting than sleeping. Shug claimed Stanley as her man. And I now have clean underwear, in case I get in an accident, or in case someone decides to claim me as their man.

Freeway of Love

This weekend, due to the kindness of an almost stranger, I saw Aretha Franklin at The Hollywood Bowl, a wonderful outdoor music venue. A diva of enormous proportions she is, but an incredibly talented and lovely one. Watching the Queen of Soul slowly strut across the stage while ad-libbing words and runs to "Respect," I felt such joy, witnessing that true passion never wanes. At 67 years-old, Ms. Aretha Franklin, is still riding on the "Freeway of Love." Maybe not in a pink Cadillac, but I hope to be doing the same when I'm her age.

However, I must say that not a lot of people in L.A. are full of love when driving on the freeways. You can feel the anger and irritation, the second you start down the entrance ramp. The cars move slowly, if they move at all. A cacophonous orchestra of tires squealing, horns blowing, rap music blaring, and various Mexican pop songs challenges the auditory sense. So, instead of contributing to this madness, I just repeat a mantra. "I love all of you. I love all of you." I silently say this over and over. How exciting was I that it seemed to be working. Then, the magic disappeared. Yesterday, on the 101, coming back from brunch in the peaceful haven of Topanga Canyon, I became an official resident of L.A. Two drivers blew the horn at me when I tried to merge into their respective lanes to avoid the accident in front of us. Then the driver in front of me slammed on his brakes for no apparent reason. The driver behind me blew his horn and screamed some obscenity. It happened, and I had no control. "Up your ass, fuck-face!" I shouted. Somewhat embarrassed by my outburst, I flagellated myself but not for too long. "I love all of you. I love all of you," I began repeating.

Wanting company for my drive to the Petco last evening, I invited Shug to come along. She was so eager to leave the apartment, but once we got to my car, she planted her feet firmly on the ground and lowered her head. "Come on, girl, and get in," I said. I rubbed her forehead, and instead of either the sweet, sad, or fearful looks that she uses to manipulate me and get her way, she had a stare that I've never seen. It was a diva stare. An Aretha Franklin stare. If she had opposable thumbs, I know she would have snapped her claws and shrieked, "You must be crazy! My ass ain't getting in no car here in L.A.!" On the walk back to the apartment, I know what Shug was thinking. "You can take your crazy self out on that highway if you want to but leave my panting ass out of it."

"I love all of you. I love all of you." If I repeat this enough, maybe the roads will begin to clear of congestion and disgruntled and hateful drivers. If Aretha can ride on a "Freeway of Love," why oh why can't I? Probably because I'm not driving a pink Cadillac.

Passages

In the kitchen yesterday at 6:15 a.m., feeding Phoebe, who needs to eat every two hours, which contradicts the theory that "old folks" don't eat a lot, I ran into the living area upon hearing Shug Avery bark, a rare occurrence. Perched on the windowsill inside my apartment was a pigeon. With pleasant temperatures and being on the second floor, I leave the windows open, and in the week or so that I've been here, only pterodactyl-sized flies have visited us. The can of opened Fancy Feast, Turkey and Giblets, in hand, I walked further into the living room, resting by the front door. At first, oblivious to Shug's barking and my lurking, the pigeon continued to rest. A delayed reaction, the bird squawked or squealed, I can't decide which word best describes the sounds, and then flew into the air, pooping once on the floor, and pooping again on the windowsill, just for good measure I assumed. Little did I know at the time, that these movements wouldn't be the only significant passages of the day.

Almost with too much clarity, I remember the night Charlie's Angels premiered on TV, a Sunday night, 9 p.m. EST. I was a very young boy sitting on the avocado-green linoleum floor in front of large Zenith console TV. I recall the excitement and awe I felt when Jill Munroe came on the screen. I'd never seen a woman who looked like that, beautiful, wholesome, sexy, with a large, luminous, and inviting smile. The next day in my middle-school classroom Farrah Fawcett was all that both the boys and the girls could talk about. In a week's time, nearly every young girl in school had that feathered hairstyle of Farrah's, and the boys soon followed suit with a modified version. So, long before Farrah got her real wings, she inspired people all over the world to get their own wings. For that, I thank her, along with an acting role that displayed the depth of her acting abilities. The Burning Bed allowed me to see that others knew of a world that I knew, and with a knowledge of that world, I never once doubted Farrah's authenticity. She gave Francine Hughes, and all the abused women in America, a face and a voice.

Having a late lunch with my agent at a quaint restaurant in West Hollywood, the eager waiter, an older gay man with impeccable service skills, came rushing over to our table with his iPhone in hand, telling us that his Twitter friends were saying that Michael Jackson had had a heart attack. "That's sad," I said, and my agent and I kept eating. Within minutes, the waiter was standing at our table, reading us the Twitter posts from his iPhone. "They're saying he has died." Immediately, I sensed that legal, prescription drugs were probably involved; however, I wasn't there to gossip. I quickly got a sense of how almost everyone in L.A. thinks they are part of the entertainment industry whether they are or are not. From the waiter who could barely work for following the news to the patrons of the restaurant who were lamenting Michael Jackson's death to all the people in my neighborhood who were playing his music all evening, he was their kin.

As with Farrah, Michael Jackson was an icon. I remember watching The Jackson 5 cartoon series when I was barely old enough to turn on the TV. And when I bought the "Off The Wall" and the "Thriller" cassette tapes, I was only one of the billions of people worldwide who became addicted to Michael's music. My teen years were happily marked by MTV and Madonna and Michael Jackson videos. Then I watched with dismay, as Michael Jackson became known more as an object of ridicule than a genius entertainer. His many plastic surgeries, painkiller addictions, failed relationships, Bubbles the Chimp, and the many stories of his eccentric behaviors seemed to tarnish his image. However, nothing damaged his image more than the alleged child molestation charges. While I reserve judgment on his guilt or innocence, sexual abuse is a very sensitive subject for me. Thus, just knowing that young boys spent the night and slept in the bed with him makes me highly uncomfortable and suspicious. While I honor Michael Jackson's talent, I refuse to canonize him as many are doing. He wasn't a saint, as none of us are.

Life is nothing more than a series of passages. It's up to me to enjoy each of them as much as I can. Though that was hard to do when the passages involved pigeon shit and the deaths of two great entertainers. Cleaning up the mess, I convinced myself to be happy that the pigeon didn't take aim at my head. Then I made sure to put my focus on the image of Farrah from her famous poster, an image that I found online. And for a few hours last night, I listened to Michael Jackson tunes on AOL Radio. Celebrate life!

Thai Cobb Salad

Having lunch with a fellow novelist at Fred62, a diner in Los Feliz, I had what he had, which was the Thai Cobb Salad. Whether the salad tasted good or not was irrelevant. The creative and playful name sold me on the dish. From the menu, I read aloud all the items included, spinach, shredded chicken, bacon, tomatoes, chopped egg, crushed peanuts, green papaya salad, Sum Tum, and spicy Thai dressing. Separately, I loved all the items, and I risked not knowing what Sum Tum was. The salads quickly arrived, and according to my fellow lunch friend, the square-shape of the salad was normal. Using chopsticks, I was forced to eat slowly, and I relished each delicious bite. A gamble that paid off handsomely for me. Whatever Sum Tum was and is, I loved and love it!

On top of mountain in Griffith Park yesterday, reflecting, I watched three ravens playing and performing in the sky above. While I thought "caw caw" was the only sound that ravens made, I was surprised to learn that they communicate with each other using more sophisticated sounds. In gruffer tones, similar to the croaking of bullfrogs, one of the ravens was extremely vocal, as he or she chased the other two. Once the chaser nipped the tail of the slower flying raven, the "tagged" one began chasing the other two, calling to them in soft, fancy trills.

At the suggestion of a friend, Ann and I attended a meditation and spiritual service at a center in Culver City, down near the L.A. airport. Though I have my own meditation and spiritual practice, which is a cafeteria plan with techniques and tools from many different disciplines, I chose to go. What a beautiful experience. A silent meditation followed by incredible music, dancing, and inspirational words, put a smile on my face. Skeptical of prayers in organized groups, after too many years of hearing words of condemnation and judgment, I found the affirmations of love and joy in the prayers last night especially fulfilling. Of course, after leaving the uplifting gathering, driving on the highway, and a bit lost, I turned to Ann, and inquired, "Where the hell are we, Ann?" She looked at me, much like a mother would an unruly and blasphemous son, and replied, "We just spent two hours praying." Immediately, we both began laughing, and we laughed, and we laughed. How quick we are to leave that state of peace and bliss, but how quickly we can return.

Stepping out of my comfort zone is what I've been doing the last few weeks. I'm taking a ride down an unknown road, living in the moment and not the past or the future. Without strict rules and guidelines, I'm remaining open, enjoying the new, which is sometimes a yummy Thai Cobb salad.

Window Dressings and Duvet Covers

Everywhere you look in L.A., people are hiding behind houses, cars, clothes, friends, tattoos, careers and many other things. However, the window dressings, the displays, are usually creative and spectacular. Without a doubt, all over the world, people are hiding for one reason or another, whether it is for lack of self worth or for fear, real or imagined, and if self-worth and fear aren't the culprits, then shame and guilt are. Though, in other parts of the world, the duvet covers aren't as pretty as the ones in L.A.. And with a pretty duvet cover, who needs to know what the comforter or blanket underneath looks like?

Today alone, I saw a young starlet wearing sunglasses that ate her face, leaving only a pile of hair and a strong chin showing, which resulted in her looking like an oversized nose with bangs and a bob. Yet, the chic sunglasses and funky platform shoes kept my attention. I counted four Mercedes, two of the E class series, a really expensive sporty one, and a common one, when I was crossing the street at the Sunset Junction intersection in Silverlake, a part of L.A. not really known for bling bling. With two of the cars being white and two being black, at least the owners had classic tastes in car colors. At the gym, I noticed a handsome, short older man with his trophy boyfriend, a Brad Pitt look-a-like but younger. Desperate for the women and the men to lust after his prize, I smiled every time I heard the show-off shout to his purchased companion, "Give me six more!" Sitting at the coffee shop this afternoon, I noticed the scruffy twenty-something guy at the table in front of me. A tattoo of an anatomically drawn heart with crows flying out of it covered his right forearm. Noticing the meditation book on his table, I inquired about what type of meditation he practiced. "It varies," he said, serious and distant. "So are those crows or ravens on your arm?" I asked. "They are just blackbirds," he replied, grinning. "Does the drawing mean something to you?" He nodded, adding, "It reminds me that all the blackbirds have left my heart."

Just down from my apartment are these trendy but hip boutiques. When I walk by, I stop and appreciate all the great dresses on display. I imagine my beautiful girlfriends wearing them. And while I am not shallow or sexist or fashion conscious, I really appreciate a woman who knows how to dress herself, particularly when the essence and spirit of the woman is lovely, and the dress simply matches that, as is the case with the women in my life.

I've lost count of how many times people have commented on my Southern accent. One fellow I met at a play the other evening asked me if my accent was real, a question that I've never gotten before. I was speechless for a few seconds, unable to determine whether he was serious or simply being a smart-ass. The former was confirmed when he added, "I've met guys out here who have faked a Southern accent to get attention." I laughed, and then I managed to string together a few sentences. "Well, if I was going for attention, I think I'd need more than a Southern accent. Maybe a mullet and a dip of snuff. But, you know, my daddy and my brother are the same person." I'm sorry to report that he didn't find me as humorous as I found myself.

Sure, L.A. is full of superficiality and materialism. Overall, though, I'm finding that it isn't as pretentious and shallow as the stereotype. But at this point in my life, I'm willing to embrace the window dressings and duvet covers when it means I get to surround myself with all the creativity and joy that are here.

Whole Paycheck and a Massage

A trip to Whole Foods yesterday, and after the cashier asked for almost all the money in my checking account in exchange for the one paper bag that was half-full of merchandise, I stopped breathing. The tension ran from the top of my head down to my ankles. Then, putting in my pin number, I noticed the "Massages Here" sign. "Press no, Sir, if you do not want any cash back" the sweet clerk said, the perfect diction giving away the fact that she was surely an actress with lots of voice training. "You can get a massage at Whole Foods?" I asked. "Yes. Many people get them," she answered. "I bet they do. Probably saved a lot of lives, kept them from stroking out, once you robbed them." She smiled. "Maybe so. Here is your receipt." Mesmerized by the concept, quickly walking toward the area for a closer look, I forgot to say "thank you " to the clerk. Both tables had bodies on them, and the masseuses were energetically kneading and rubbing. Two more people, a sexy, tanned brunette and her Italian or Mediterranean male companion, sat in chairs, waiting. A brilliant concept. It's like punching someone in the eye then offering them concealer to cover up the shiner.

When nature calls...

I woke yesterday morning with a bit of apprehension and a touch of funk, questioning why I made the move from Atlanta, wondering how I was going to make a living. After all, four days had passed and I had no clear direction of where my life was headed. Patience is a virtue, and I'm not the most virtuous man at times. The fear and self-doubt had crept up on me, at first appearing like a trickle of water under the door, and within minutes the entire house was flooded. Sitting and meditating in my apartment helped some, but I was still submerged in the stagnant waters. As I've learned from all the other floods, pumps of therapists' voices, prayers, and self-help books, can help some, but nature is the only way to fully get the waters to recede.

Two miles down the road, Griffith Park and the Griffith Park Observatory, and that's where I headed. Finding trails near the Los Angeles Zoo with heavy traffic, I left in search of more privacy. The other day, visiting the Griffith Park Observatory, I had noticed the vacant trails nearby, ones leading into the canyons. That's where I headed. About a mile up in the hills, and I found a secluded spot up on the rocks. Overlooking the city of Los Angeles and with the expansive and clear sky just above me. I began meditating. After about five minutes, I had an unexplained urge to open my eyes and leave a deep, peaceful meditation, and as I did, a beautiful, enormous hawk soared from below. Hanging in flight five feet in front of me, the hawk turned its head and stared at me. My heart skipped a beat, and in the pit of my stomach, I felt some anxiety. I didn't know if the creature viewed me as prey and planned to peck my eyes out, or if I was being acknowledged and seen. Soon the hawk flew away and landed in a tree that jutted from the side of the hill. I returned to my meditation, and I became keenly aware of how I'd been just as scared at the prospect of being seen, as I was at the prospect of being attacked. Upon completion of my meditation, I looked up and witnessed the hawk circling the sky in unison with another hawk. I understood.

A Little Black Veil, a musical about drag queens mourning the loss of Cherise, the Queen of the Drag Bar, was entertaining. My neighbor, Ruth, had told me that friends of hers had written and produced the show, and I decided to attend. Listening to the humorous dialogue and hearing the silly and well-crafted songs, I became aware that my entire day had been filled with reminders that I needed to accept myself more. We are all different, and we are all the same. I am in a foreign land, but I still belong here.

We all instinctively honor the physical calls of nature. When we feel the urge to urinate or defecate, we do it. How much better we'd all be, if we honored the intuitive calls of nature. If we did, we wouldn't be so poisoned by unreleased, toxic thoughts or constipated by trapped, hardened emotions.

Lunching and drinking coffee

I'm convinced that in L.A. people spend the majority of their time lunching and/or drinking coffee. Hanging out on the patios of cafes are lawyers, actors, musicians, accountants, housewives and househusbands. When they are not at the restaurant hotspots eating only a third or so of their fresh organic fare, they are at The Coffee Bean or Starbucks, drinking enough coffee to make them quickly rid their bodies of the ounce of salmon that they have just consumed. Regardless of their dietary habits, which I have generalized, I love that so much time is spent fraternizing. Sure, many are checking either their iPhone or their Blackberry every few seconds, but at least some seconds are spent communicating via the old-fashion way.

While I don't see any downsides from all the lunching, I'm convinced that all the coffee drinking is causing the poor driving habits. I may start a petition to make driving under the influence of extreme caffeine illegal. Most of the drivers here have no concern for others, believing that the roads are made solely for them. And to the drivers, pedestrians are no better than the fly that President Obama killed with such alarming aggression. Unlike in New York City, you don't hear a lot of car horns honking, but you do hear a lot of swearing. I've been called "fucker" a few times now, so I've opted to embrace that I am one. This greatly diminishes the impact, and yesterday, I smiled and waved at the young woman who called me a "stupid fucker." I keep forgetting that it's legal for two cars to turn left once the traffic light has turned red.

Yesterday, I had a two hour lunch meeting followed by two meetings at coffee houses. I was feeling really great about this way of doing busy, until one of the people whom I was meeting with at the coffee house informed me that most of the people who are taking long lunches and hanging out at the coffee houses are unemployed. After a few minutes of having my bubble burst, I found an upside to his revelation. At least, even in unemployment, they could still afford a $15 side salad and a $5 cup of coffee. And, if I have to be unemployed, then that's the type of unemployment I want.

Stuffing a muffin...

Yesterday evening at Intelligista, a happening coffee shop in Silverlake, I sat drinking my decaf machiatto. I'm a light weight when it comes to caffeine, not wanting to ignite the anxiety flames. Observing the crowd, I practiced simply observing and not judging. The young pierced and tattooed threesome were laughing and talking in a loud tone at the table in the corner. They were certainly getting attention. The brooding, rugged hiker in the corner read his magazine, daring anyone to look at him, but desperately wanting people to look at him. A beautiful Latin couple kissed and fondled each other two tables over from me, while the Asian man discussed the fashion business with a statuesque and stunning blond female at the table behind me. Puffy and almost unrecognizable from either too many injections or botched surgery, the movie star moved her hands like a passionate conductor when conversing with her scruffy male companion. After observing these people for a few minutes, I was able to come back to myself and just be. Then my challenge appeared. Incredibly thin and with her hair pulled back in a tight bun, she sat at the table in front of me. The perfect bone structure of her face screamed "I'm a model." Her nationality was disguised, the almond-shaped brown eyes with the sheen and slate-colored hair could have made her Eastern European, Latin, Asian, or American. She sipped her coffee, as she stared at the large muffin on the plate in front of her. After what seemed like ten minutes of her having an out of body experience or being in a catatonic trance, she carefully unfolded a napkin and gently wrapped the muffin. One by one, she took the other three napkins from the table and repeated the wrapping ritual. Once the muffin was covered to her satisfaction, she retrieved the cute, mid-sized, multi-colored vinyl purse from the chair next to her. Forcefully, she pushed the muffin into the purse. Naturally, being in L.A., I fell prey to thinking the obvious and stereotyping, assuming that she was either anorexic or bulimic, thinking that she was angry and resentful and the muffin was her drug. I quickly changed my mind, and then wondered if she had been praying over the muffin, asking God to make it be enough to feed the six orphans she had adopted from Bangladesh. Or, maybe she was a member of some fanatic group who rescued muffins from coffee shops, keeping them from the mouths of the evil muffin eaters. Just as I was getting lost in her world, ignoring my own, she got up from the table and walked off, leaving her full cup of steaming coffee. A part of me wanted to follow her to see where she went next and what she did with the muffin. However, another part of me, the better part of me, wanted to stay put and finish my delicious macchiato. Again, I'm practicing observing without making assumptions or jumping to conclusions. I'm not perfect yet, though.

How nice it was to get to the beach in 20 minutes. Sitting on the sand at Will Rogers State Park and watching the waves, I felt such a connection to L.A. I've heard all the reasons to not like L.A., but it was nice to experience ways that I could appreciate it. Except for few younger men who were playing volleyball about 500 feet, it was only the gulls, the ravens and me.

Dinner on the patio with Ann at King's Road, a small restaurant off Beverly, and I was amazed by the talent of the singers and musicians who were performing inside. Much like Eddie's Attic in Decatur, the audience was really listening and not talking. The patio crowd wasn't as respectful, though. The drunk guy, who was trying to get laid, accosted the hot ladies as they walked by, groping them, resulting in the sassy girl saying "Fucker," and the guy replying, "Snatch." Two other men, in between puffs of their cigarettes, cursed the entertainment industry. When I wasn't distracted by the wonderful music and the patio shenanigans, I stayed focused on my scrumptious fish tacos, one snapper and one lobster, and my interesting conversation with Ann.

It occurred to me before I went to sleep that I'd had a full day, a full day that I'd really loved. I'd been in nature, and I'd been among friends and fellow artists. I'd even managed to not let the nastiness and haughtiness of a few individuals get to me. Except for spending way too much time in the world of the woman who was consumed with stuffing a muffin, I'd made the day all about me.