Tuesday, June 30, 2009

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.

Monday, June 29, 2009

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.

Friday, June 26, 2009

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!

Thursday, June 25, 2009

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.

Monday, June 22, 2009

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.

Sunday, June 21, 2009

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.

Saturday, June 20, 2009

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.

Friday, June 19, 2009

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.

Thursday, June 18, 2009

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.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

In Need of Assitants

My first full day of living in L.A., and I've decided that I need assistants. One to guide me and one to drive me. Yesterday, in my quest for a "regular" grocery store, one that would carry more than organic food and various high-end specialty items, I got lost three times. Who knew finding a dustpan was such a complicated task? Like in Atlanta, the L.A. streets randomly change names. How was I supposed to know that Virgil became Hillhurst or that Rowena turned into Glendale Boulevard? While my Garmin GPS could handle these tasks, I'm trying not to rely upon it too much. I think my brain is like my muscles, and if I don't work out each individual muscle, they seem to atrophy. If I'm going to suffer consequences similar to those from a lobotomy, I want the barbaric procedure from yesteryear that involved a mallet and an ice pick. Sure having the assistants would be similar to using a Garmin, but I would rely upon my mind. I'd question why they were suggesting certain places and why they were taking a specific route, for I am not a man who blindly follows. Controlling, you say? I have been told that I was, but I like to say that I'm aware.

In Ralph's, a regular grocery store off Glendale, I found my dustpan. And I got really lucky, since the CVS was next door, and I was able to purchase a coffee maker. "Do you know if there is a pet store nearby?" I asked the young, hip Asian cashier. "Um. No. Oh wait. I think there's one on the other side of this building," he said. Based on his blank stare and his limited knowledge of the area around him, I tried not to judge or conclude that his brain had atrophied from repeatedly relying on his GPS. "Are you familiar with ice picks?" I wanted to ask, but I'm nicer than that on most days.

Standing outside the small pet store with a pollen mask on, talking on his cellphone, the balding and frantic man paced back and forth. I smiled and he nodded, as I walked past him and into the store. Two seconds in, and I knew why he was wearing the mask. Fish poo, puppy poo, and guinea pig poo mixed with ammonia, the pungent odor made my eyes water, and as my family says about offensive odors, it "cut my breath." With his pollen mask still covering his face, the man came inside and asked, "May I help you?" It's hard to speak when your breath is cut, but I forced it out. "Do you have any pet stairs? I need some so my older cat can climb up on the bed." He shook his head. "You go to Petco." I needed to ask where the Petco was, because Phoebe really needed the stairs, but she had to take one for the team. I was about to pass out, and I bolted from the store without a proper "thank you." I know that was rude, but it was rude of the man to have such a toxic and filthy store.

Eating a late lunch at The Mustard See with my friend Ann, who was delayed in meeting me, due to getting rammed from behind by a large truck, sending her SUV crashing into the car in front of her, I met a fellow filmmaker who was waitressing at the cafe. Cynthia had made a documentary on her mother's plight with a hoarding disorder. My Mother's Garden sounded lik my kind of film, a strong character piece. "Hoarding. That's an obsessive-compulsive disorder," I said, as I pulled out my bottle of Purell and sanitized my hands. She smiled, getting my joke.

Yes, it would have been nice to not had to spend an hour or so driving around lost, and I would have preferred that it wasn't my lungs that were burned to a crisp from the mixture of chemicals and poo. And I would love to have been able to say to Bianca or Raul, "Run and get me a copy of Cynthia's film." But then they would have had all these experiences and not me. Maybe it's best then that I am on a budget and can't afford assistants.

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Living for today...

The last 350 miles of my drive is done. A beautiful apartment in L.A. was waiting for me. My unit is in a building from the 1920s, and what it lacks in modern upgrades is more than made up for by the spectacular views. The iconic Hollywood sign is in clear view, well as clear as it gets in L.A., from the living room window, as is the downtown area. Leaving Kingman, Arizona yesterday, I spoke with a few of the Best Western housekeepers. All of them were originally from California and noted that Kingman was a cheaper place to live. Two of them confessed that they were former party girls and came east seeking a simpler life away from the scene. Yes, I love to find out the origins of people whom I encounter, and I've already found out that Ana, who lives across the street, is from Costa Rica, and her Shitzu, Sunny, is 5 years old. Chico's human mother, Lupe, is from Nicaragua, and they live in the building at the bottom of the hill. In the past, probably in a need to feel safe, I've used this sort of information to concoct a personality profile. Now, I'm on a mission to meet people and not have to write their stories based on our dialogue; however, I'll never cease asking the "where are you from originally" question. Though, I'll save the story writing for the novels, stage plays, and screenplays.

On I-40 between Kingman and the California state line, there aren't many places for "services," a catch-all term for gas, food, and lodging. With my gauge on E, and the fuel light on for more than 25 miles, I got quite nervous. My car noted that it was 89 degrees outside, and I had visions of Shug, Phoebe, and I crawling across the desert in search of water. Dehydrated from the heat, we'd then pass out and get bitten by scorpions and eaten by coyotes. I took a few deep breaths and just practiced what I believed to be true, which was that I'd be fine. Sure enough, as soon as I came back to the present, an exit appeared. Yucca, Arizona, and there was only one small business there. The irony in that the simple, bucolic store was named "Gas, Food, and Diesel" and was on Proving Ground Road wasn't lost on me.

In Ludlow, California, I stopped to buy bottled water. I was parched, and I knew Shug needed to pee. Oh, and, yet again, Phoebe needed to be removed from her used litterbox. Repeating the familial shaming pattern of many generations, I said to Phoebe, "I can't imagine sitting in a box of sand after I've peed and pooped in it." But if truth be known, I thought, there was surely a subculture out there who got into such. I wrote a note to self to do a Google search using the keywords "human," "feces," "urine," and "sandbox," but I haven't done so yet. Once I opened the car door, I felt the 89 degree Mojave Desert heat. Gently pulling Shug's leash, I tried to get her to get out of the car. After briefly touching her foot on the pavement and feeling the heat, she quickly backed up and sat down in the passenger seat. That look of hers said to me, "Oh hell no!"

About 70 miles from Los Angeles, and a low battery message popped up on the screen of my Garmin GPS. The afternoon before when I'd gotten out of the car to get lunch at Dairy Queen, Shug got a case of separation anxiety, and accidentally unplugged the power cord. Whatever she did resulted in it no longer working. Well, I felt myself getting uptight, wondering how I was going to get to my place. My mind started racing a bit, and I was sure that I was going to get lost and get stuck in traffic, and Shug was going to get abducted, and Phoebe was going to be placed in foster car. I remembered to breath, and I got calm. I need to find a Best Buy that's right off the interstate I thought. Within 10 minutes, in Lucerne Valley, and I saw the Best Buy. I ran into the store, not wanting to leave Shug and Phoebe in the locked car by themselves for too long. Visions of Amber Alerts danced in my head. A designated expert in the mobile section of the store led me to the cord. "$128," the cashier said. "That can't be right," I said. "The guy back there said that it was around $19 or $20." After about five minutes of not being able to get the expert to come up front, I showed my tail, even though I tried my best to remain calm. "Ma'am, I've got a dog and a cat in the car, and I don't have time for assing around." She handled the situation with class, appeasing me and telling me that she understood, but the creases in her forehead with the slight frown let me know that I had perpetuated the stereotype of Southerners. She'd surely never heard that someone didn't have time for "assing around."

Right outside San Bernardino, California, on the highest elevation of the highway, I popped in a CD mix made by Monica. John Lennon's "Imagine" started up. My favorite song of all time. "Imagine all the people living for today." That's what I'm trying to do, but I'm sure that I'll falter from time to time. Sure, I'll continue to do a few personality profiles on people whom I meet, and I'll shame Phoebe or Shug again. I'll probably honk the horn at someone who is assing around. Through it all, though, I plan to keep trying to live for today.

Monday, June 15, 2009

Sleeping in a Wigwam

In a Best Western in Kingman, Arizona, and the recurring sound of the truckers airing out their brakes woke me. In a daze, I surveyed the room, unsure of where I was. I thought I'd been sleeping in a wigwam. That's what I'd been dreaming. Back in Holbrook, Arizona yesterday, I'd seen a motel with wigwams out front and a colorful sign encouraging me to stop and "Sleep in a Wigwam." Technically speaking, the structures at the motel were teepees and not wigwams. Both have only one room, but the wigwams have a domed roof. In my dream, living in the wigwam, I had all I needed. There was plenty of space for both me and Shug and Phoebe; however, once I had my first cup of coffee, I realized that I'd spent my whole life sleeping in a wigwam. I'd gotten quite familiar with my home, and now it was time to sleep around, become a dwelling place whore. Try out different resting quarters, and maybe discover the perfect one. Of course, the perfect one may be the wigwam, but how will I know that for certain, unless I explore some other options.

Along I-40, not long after I crossed the Arizona state line, I counted six billboards telling me to "Smile and Say Chee's." Chee's was "Home of the Largest Selection of Native American Gifts." I found myself smiling at the notion that the Native Americans would want to give us gifts, after all that we've done to them. What a better world it would be, if we all could practice a bit of radical forgiveness, forgiveness with compassion and tolerance. I think we all should "Smile and Say Chee's."

"Want to see the Painted Desert and the Petrified Forest," I asked Shug. The ambiguous look meant that it was left up to me to decide. Phoebe weighed in with one of her talking spells. My interpretive skills were now off, because she's using meows that I've never heard before. "28 miles through, and a self driving tour," the cordial female ranger said. The panoramic views of the Painted Desert were spectacular. If I hadn't spent time in Death Valley, California last year, bearing witness to miles and miles of "painted desert," I would have been more impressed. Shug stared out the window for a few minutes, and then she dropped back down in the seat and sighed. About mile 18, and finally I got to see Jasper Forest. I was quite impressed by the petrified trees and such, although, the petrified stumps reminded me of the base of a coffee table that I'd seen once in a craft show in South Georgia. The coffee table was placed right next to the Welcome Home Goose. The speed limit was 45, but I was traveling about 25 miles per hour, until the 20 mile marker. Almost simultaneously, the five cars in front of me seemed to have had enough. Suddenly, we were going 45 again, and I thought how easily we get bored, taking nature for granted.

And speaking of nature, it called on Phoebe around the 24 mile mark. She leaped from the back floorboard into my lap and then across Shug and into the litterbox in the front floorboard. She did have to poop, and yes, she did have to leave it uncovered. All the signs said to not take anything from the Petrified Forest or deposit anything there. Yes, I was praying that by osmosis, Phoebe's turd would hurry and petrify. I seriously considered stopping the car and leaving the offensive excrement on the side of the road, but I was afraid there were cameras or satellites spying on me. That's all I would have needed was to be thrown in jail for leaving cat shit in the Petrified Forest. At the end of the 28 miles, we had to stop at the ranger station for a car inspection. Not wanting the pleasant and eager ranger to think it was me, I quickly grabbed Phoebe from the back floorboard and put her in my lap. "Oh, what a pretty cat," she remarked, unsuccessfully avoiding a scowl.

Arizona is a beautiful state, and while it is the desert, I was surprised to find that Flagstaff was identical in topography to the North Georgia mountains. Tall pine trees grew on the mountain ranges, and I had to wonder if the pines were indigenous to the area. Just outside of Flagstaff, I stopped for gas at Love's convenience store, and I asked the cashier if she was from Flagstaff originally, and she coyly replied, "Nothing in Flagstaff is original, except for me." I guess that went for the pine trees, too.

In another 350 miles, I'll be in Los Angeles. Though I don't know for sure, as I have only seen the apartment I am subletting in photos, I don't believe I'll be sleeping in a wigwam. However, if it turns out that it is a wigwam, I'll be fine with that, too, for now I know that there are other options and nothing is permanent.

Sunday, June 14, 2009

Fresh, big, and super

Pumping gas yesterday morning in Shamrock, Texas, the strong scent of fresh cow shit wafting across the pavement, I studied Shug's face. Her intense look said either let me roll in it, or get me out of here now. "The only rolling we're going to do is down the exit ramp and on to I-40," I said. I wondered if the Universe was offering me a hint, although not a subtle one. Does it take having shit in my face before I make a change? Maybe so, judging from my past. I have a history of staying with the familiar, even when I'm not happy, a pattern learned in childhood. The old idiom of "better the devil that you know than the devil you don't" has been a truth for me. However, my underlying issue, if that's what you call it, was and is more than one of safety. In my crazy head, I've always assumed that any change I make would disappoint or hurt others, and of course, I put the needs of others first. But not anymore. Shug was my practice case. Everything turned out okay with that. Not even 500 feet away from the gas station and the aroma, and Shug had forgotten. The leftover crumbs from a Happy Hips chicken treat were more interesting to her.

A mammoth cross off I-40 in Groom, Texas nearly caused me to wreck. I've never seen a cross that tall, but what really caught my eye was the convoy of Harley-Davidson riders who were parked before the structure with their heads bowed. Were they repenting for the last evening's debauchery, or just acknowledging Jesus's painful death? As Monica and I have discussed numerous times, why are people so focused on the brutality and hate surrounding Jesus's death? Why not put more focus on His teachings and His life's work. Maybe have someone on the side of the interstate giving out free hugs all in the name of Jesus. Or, maybe have an over-sized billboard that says "God is Love." Monica suggested that a giant Baby Jesus sculpture would get more attention. However, I think a hunky Jesus sculpture would do the trick, one where He is wearing nothing more than that toga-diaper we've seen Him wear in numerous religious paintings. With both of these ideas, our focus would be more on His beauty, joy, and love rather than the hate that surrounded Him.

Near Amarillo, I passed two billboards that let me know that "Top of Texas Catholic Superstore" was off one of the upcoming exits. A Catholic Superstore, now that's a way to mix religion and capitalism I thought. Far better to do it there than in our government. Out of curiosity, I wanted to stop, but I was in no mood to be cynical. After all, was it any of my business if people wanted to buy Joseph statues in bulk?

Crossing the state line into New Mexico, I was astonished by the sudden change in terrain. There was no subtle transition from the farmland to the desert land. While one wasn't superior to the other, I found the immediate shift in my energy and Phoebe's energy quite interesting. Two seconds after honking the horn in acknowledgment of the "Welcome to New Mexico" sign, I felt more peaceful, but Phoebe began her raucous cries. She leaped from my lap on to the pile of clothes in the backseat. Her scowling face and open mouth made me think she was having a delayed response to the cow shit back in Shamrock. Though, by the time we passed through Albuquerque, Phoebe was calm and asleep in the back floorboard; however, I was irritated and tired. "Wherever you go, there you are." I know, damnit!

Gallup, New Mexico and the LaQuinta Inn, my resting place for the night. Gallup is referred to as the "Indian Capital of the World." Cruising down Route 66 toward downtown Gallup, I noticed all the dilapidated buildings and all the shanty houses. Two parking lots full of cars sat out in front of the Navajo Casino. In the backdrop were the colossal rock structures. The red rocks were stunning, and the mass streaked with silver, gold, and pink was heavenly . Shopping in the Albertson's grocery store, I found all the employees, both Hispanics and Native Americans, to be exceedingly polite. Yet, I was overwhelmed by the impoverished attitudes. How ironic I thought. They were surrounded by such natural riches, but all they saw was the poverty.

A day filled with fresh cow shit, a big cross, and a superstore, and all I wanted to do was spend time amongst the fresh, big, and super rock formations. It's best if I respect what the cows do naturally, and it's best if I let the worshippers view Jesus however they like. And it's none of my business that people want to purchase cases of St. Francis medals. What is best for me is to know what is best for me.

Friday, June 12, 2009

Extra Fries and a Diet Coke

Greetings from Shamrock, Texas. Not much here other than the Best Western that Shug, Phoebe, and I are calling home for the night and a few fast food restaurants. The young and astute hotel desk clerk, highly efficient and personable, informed me upon check-in that most people in Shamrock don't want to work. "They get government checks. Just lazy," she asserted without me inquiring about such. "So you don't like it here?" I asked. "I love it," she quickly corrected. "There is a nice mix of people, about 50% Hispanic and 50% whites. Hard to get good people to work, though. They left my fries out of the bag the other night at McDonald's. But they were real nice when I went back to get them. Gave me an extra order of them and a Diet Coke." So this is Shamrock, Texas I thought, as I walked back to the car to get Shug and Phoebe. A place with lazy but good people, ones who correct their mistakes by giving you an extra order of fries and a Diet Coke. I know in Asian cultures that balance is important, and it seemed that Shamrock, Texas had a similar ideology. We're in the right place, I said to Shug and Phoebe when I opened the car door.

Trying to leave Forrest City, Arkansas this morning was rather eventful. My paper bag full of gluten-free snacks burst in the parking lot, but a crippled, elderly man did his best to help me collect the treats. He picked up and dropped and then picked up and dropped a bag of my sesame pretzels, leaving me with pretzel crumbs at best. Then I spilled Phoebe's litter box in the floorboard of the car, but I am grateful that it was fresh litter.

Just outside of Stuttgart, Arkansas, and on each side of I-40 were the most verdant fields I have ever seen. While I have yet to visit Ireland, I imagined it would look like this. The plush foliage and sturdy trees reached toward the highway. And the iridescent sky was just short of offering up a rainbow. A sudden grace came over me, and I felt calm and more assured of my decision to move. Shug Avery was asleep in the passenger seat, and her head was resting on my right thigh. Drooling, Phoebe rested on my left thigh. First, Shug raised her head and stared at me. I recognized that look of love. Then Phoebe stood up, wobbling, and turned to me. With squinting eyes and loud purring, she kissed me twice on the lips. For a few minutes, I felt peaceful and full of love. I'm the luckiest man alive I thought. "I'm the luckiest man alive," I said out loud. And I said it again for good measure.

Right after I passed the sign telling me that I was in the Kickapoo Nation area of Oklahoma, the sky darkened, signaling the arrival of the torrential rains, gusty winds, loud thunder, and the low-to-the ground lightning. I drove for a few minutes, until my visibility was non-existent. Then I pulled over and comforted a trembling Shug. I sat and watched the menacing storm. Realizing that I dealt with the difficult weather much better when I simply stopped and accepted it, I had an "aha" moment. When I had kept driving, even when I couldn't see the road, I felt a lot of tension and anxiety. Once I chose to cease fighting, serenity came forth.

Near Clinton, Oklahoma, I noticed a few acres of land with at least 12 very large windmills. I wondered if the power generators belonged to T. Boone Pickens. From an environmental standpoint, from what I could tell, the structures didn't appear to cause any damage to the land. So, for those who argue that T. Boone was an oil man and shouldn't be trusted because of all the past raping of the land that he participated in, I say to remain open and not be so fast to convict and condemn. I'm wondering if maybe the windmills aren't T. Boone's offering of extra fries and a Diet Coke. Aesthetically speaking, I found the windmills quiet pleasing, like contemporary art sculptures on display in the flat lands of Oklahoma.

After 10 hours in the car, I crossed the Texas state line. "God Bless Texas," I said to Shug who raised her head and yawned, then went back to sleep. I noticed the sun bright and vast in front of me. When I started my drive, the sun was behind me. A crying Phoebe tried to climb from the back floorboard into the front seat. I lifted her by the skin on the nape of her neck, much like a mother cat picks up her kittens, and placed her in my lap. I looked up at the sun again. Though the night will come, in the morning when I wake, I knew the light would once again have my back. That was my extra fries and a Diet Coke.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

The Power of Peeing in a Ziploc Container

I'm in my Holiday Inn hotel room in Forrest City, Arkansas. Yes, I'm sitting in my clean boxer briefs, and I would take them off to air out from all the sweating, but I'm too afraid that the previous guest of Room 134 had the same idea. I've seen those special reports on Dateline. Off I was to a late start from Atlanta this morning, due to the cleaning lady's tardiness. Well, really, the true culprit was my inability to properly pack a car. Spacial relations is not my strong suit when trunks and backseats are involved. Frustrated by my inability to find a home for everything, I tossed all sorts of valuables. Shirts, jeans, laundry baskets, trash cans, and Phoebe's old lady steps. Once I found a home for the extra large Fresh Step cat litter jug, I slammed the trunk shut, without regard to what was surely crushed. To thwart another breakdown, and after starting the car, I immediately popped in Eckhart Tolle's The Power of Now Audio Book CD. I was hoping to stay in the moment and not write a negative script about the future, as I drove away from 928 Sycamore for the last time.

I crossed the Alabama line before I knew it. Eckhart was telling me that thoughts are our worst enemy when it comes to living in the present. He's right, but between Phoebe's screams and Shug's incessant panting, I found myself thinking up all sorts of distractions. None were in the future, so at least I was not failing completely. Is it really so horrible that I focused on the one time that I forgot to send Ms. Betty a thank you note?

Birmingham was beautiful. All the rain, and the trees and shrubs were Irish green. I stopped for the first time at the Corner Pantry, and I turned to Shug. She looked at me with that "please don't leave me I'm a former pound puppy who was two days away from being gassed to death after being in the pound for three months" stare. But I have to get some water, I pleaded. You know I drink two gallons a day, and I'm parched. She seemed to relent, but then the monster truck next to me blew it's horn, and Phoebe leapt from my lap into the litter box, which had been used, and she proceeded to lay down in it. Shug's whining started, and she put her paw on my shoulder. Damnit, Eckhart! I thought. What am I supposed to do in this moment? Two minutes, I said to Shug. She yawned, her normal surrender sign. And, yes, I was terribly impatient, actually muttering "hurry up" loud enough for Raj Patel to hear. He completely ignored me, refusing to let me ruin his happy state. I hurried out of the store, and I saw Shug smiling at me through the car window, reminding me of how lovely it is to forget the past. I was in line for at least 10 minutes, but she acted as if 10 minutes was what we'd agreed upon. And Phoebe, well, she was happy as a pig in mud in her dirty litter box.

Passing all the Bingo parlors in Jasper, Alabama, I found myself being present with all the stories that I was creating about who was probably inside the establishments. Tammy was playing her 25 cards while her six children, all by different men, hung out at the snack bar eating nachos and tater tots. Lucille was in the check cashing line, showing her driver's license to the clerk, validating that the social security check was hers and not one she stole from a random mailbox. I was creating character number five when Phoebe jumped from the litter box in the floorboard of the backseat into my lap. I veered off the road, and as the tires hit the uneven pavement, the frightening sound jarred me back to full attention. Thanks Phoebe for your help in bringing me back I said, immediately retracting my thanks once I smelled her.

On 78 West, and Shug startsed dancing. She needed to pee, and so did I, but there weren't any gas stations or fast food restaurants on any of the exits. I finally pull off a random exit and made a right toward Natural Bridge. I turned onto the first road I came to, and I quickly put on Shug's leash and lead her out of the car. She didn't even make it to the grassy area before she released the horse-like stream. Okay, now what about me, I thought. I'd crossed my legs, as I looked around. We were parked across the road from a mechanic's shop for 18-wheelers. And I wasn't far enough off the highway to keep the people passing by from seeing me. Get in the car I said to Shug. She hopped in, and I realized that I was not going to be able to hold it another minute. I noticed the Ziploc container with the one remaining gluten-free muffin that Monica made me for my trip. I had eaten the other three for breakfast. With lightning speed, I unzipped my pants and aimed into the Ziploc container. The strong flow, and I splashed the steering wheel and my shorts, but I didn't care. All my attention was on how great I felt. Ah, this was what Eckhart meant when he talked about sheer joy. Savoring the sensation, I took a few minutes. Then the thought of what to do with the mixture of urine and blueberry muffin popped into my head. I quickly peeled off the label with Monica's name, and I opened the car door and sat the container on the road. I'm ashamed that I littered, but I can somewhat justify it. You know how southerners love Tupperware, and someone will surely want it. Yes, I know the container wasn't Tupperware, but times are hard.

For the remaining few hours of the drive, I practiced what Eckhart teaches. It's extremely hard to just be and not think. Whenever I hit a pothole in Alabama and Mississippi, and I hit a lot of them, I thought about Atlanta Mayor Shirley Franklin. Passing through Memphis I thought about Elvis and Walking in Memphis, the Marc Cohn song. In Arkansas, all the flat farmland, and I remembered my days visiting friends in Cordele, Georgia, and I thought of the time I stepped in cow manure while running barefoot through the intown streets of Camilla, Georgia. My mind has a script for everything, and it's a story set in either the past or the future.

Though, I'm using this move out West as practice for living in the present and relinquishing my thoughts in favor of just being, I seem to be failing Mr. Tolle's notions in the The Power of Now. Yet, all was not lost today. That incredible feeling from The Power of Peeing in a Ziploc Container is one that I want to repeat.

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

The night before...

Tired and weary from the physical exertion and the many emotional releases, I am sitting naked on the floor with an old T-shirt between me and the cold linoleum. I never thought my last night in Atlanta before my cross-country move to Los Angeles would look like this. To get everything washed by the time I leave in the morning, I don't see any other way. Yes, I pulled the ancient, sheer, and torn UGA Bulldogs T-shirt from the trash. It was either that or use the remaining bubble wrap.

All those years of therapy, and I still feel responsible for the emotions of others. Let's see. How many people did I make sad today? I can think of 10 with no mental exertion, so I'm deciding not to count, remembering the zit theory from when I was young and obsessive-compulsive. I was convinced that if I counted the number of zits on my face I would get another one. So I'd spend hours going back and forth between wanting to know and afraid to know. While I am grateful that so many people care about me enough to miss me, I'm wondering if it would be easier if they were all pissed off at me. Though, if they were, I'm sure that I'd be flagellating myself for making them mad.

Sensing that something is awry, Shug Avery can't get close enough to me. Almost 12 years together, and I'm convinced that she's still embarrassed to see me naked. She's got her butt up against mine, but she refuses to look me in the eye. I've tried to explain to her that worrying and fretting doesn't do any good, but I'm thinking that my poor modeling in her early years contributed to the anxiety. However, I have to say that as I've evolved and grown over the years, so has she. Dogs, like children, tend to mimic the behavior of their owners. And like their parents, they sometimes regress when faced with change.

Phoebe is curled up on the depressed mattress that I'm leaving for my landlord. Every few minutes she wakes and chastizes me for unknown reasons with raucous cries, ones at decibel levels intolerable by the human ear. Nearly 18, and unaware of the long trip ahead, the old, slim girl is resting and dreaming. Her cat naps these days tend to last for most of the day, but that's when she's on my bed. In a moving car? I'll let you know.

I'm being summoned by the dryer buzzer, so I'll need to stand up and pull the T-shirt from my sweaty buttocks. Long hours sitting on a cloth seat, and I'm sure that I'll have five days of pulling and sweating. Tonight, though, I'm sleeping in a clean pair of boxer briefs, and I'm putting the thermostat on 68. I want to practice being cool. You can't live in L.A. and not know how to be cool.