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.