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.