I wrote this last year, inspired by someone who really used to make me mad... jh, 072409

We go into the Greek deli and eat spanakopita and drink grainy black coffee
And wax rhapsodic about the ancient culture, the friendly people, the irresistible food
Then we walk outside and you say, “F**king Mexican kids” when you see our tires slashed

We watch a taiko drum concert downtown at a spring festival
Exhilarated by the pounding energy, delighted by the musicians’ exotic, Americanized good looks
Then on the way home, you realize that the “godammed Koreans” didn’t give you back your credit card at the tee shirt shop

“The fat black lady” who sits at a receptionist desk
“The old Chinese guy” who cut you off
“The stupid white girl” who forgot to put the eggs in the bag at the checkout counter
Have all angered you, as representatives of their respective races
With their faults and deficiencies, that surely are evidence of their inferiority to you
A fifth-generation son of Latin descent
Who grew up on Cheerios and chorizo
Mariachis and the Mets
Inheriting the racism
That makes this a small world, after all.

- 032708

(sometimes there is a lot of hang time when i'm covering a story... time to stop and smell the roses... or eat at jack in the box...)

Watts, May 16, 2009

as little as we think we have, there are many more living in the same city with less...

i drove for six blocks looking for a place that looks like it might have a reasonably clean bathroom, Jack in the Box on Central and 103rd seemed to be the only option...

the restaurant has bars across the counter window as if it was a bank... I.D. is required for credit card purchases over $5.00 and a cup of healthful fruit costs disproportionately more than a burrito full of dubious and fatty meat...

i can't eat inside the restaurant... i feel out of place with my linen slacks and notebooks... i settled for a breakfast burrito and orange juice, which i eat in my car with the door open... somehow to shut it makes me feel even more vulnerable in bad neighborhood...

a woman waiting for the bus at the stop in front of me is carrying an imitation Coach bag to accessorize her cheap polyester tunic and plastic hair clip...

Watts seems like it was a nice place to live, a long time ago... the jacaranda trees look exactly like the ones at the end of my family's street on the Westside...

looking through a glass onion...

the Dale Chihuly show at the Desert Botanical Garden in Phoenix last May was astounding... the forms were very much like the real cactus they were nestled in... except a whole lot smoother and not so full of water... http://www.chihuly.com/

i've just seen a face(book)...

the facebook (or fb, as we say) honeymoon is officially over... like with most addictions, i hesitated at first... normally, i shun internet overload... it's all i can do to write emails and keep a blog... but word on the street was that it was about connecting, in a safe, non-threatening kind of way...

it has to be... instead of meeting new unknown people, like most social networking sites, you hook up with people you already know... or have known... and have not communicated with in 20 years... therein lies the rub...

at first, it was kind of exciting to be in touch with people from high school, be able to "meet" friends of my sister who lives in brooklyn, and put up photos that i would only share with close friends and acquaintances... it was even safe to put up pictures of my impossibly photogenic nephews...

then reality set in... a bout of "friending" friends (how do you make a friend out of someone who is already a friend?!) from work led to connections not unlike that old shampoo commercial from the 70s... "and so on, and so on"...

suddenly, my ex-husband and my boss were among my people... then came the high school buddies... i might have looked up one guy i was on the newspaper with in senior year... but of course, he had friends that connected to me... our class president searched for all of the class of '83 and now i'm "friends" with people i never knew, never spoke to, and certainly have not thought of in years...

the funny thing is that fb is like a time machine... everyone seems to assume their old roles once again... i was not popular, but i would not say i was unpopular... sadly, i dated the most unpopular guy in not just my school, but possibly the entire south bay school district... M., a peripheral "friend" who actually knew my two sisters quite well (they were popular!) reminded me of the fact that i publicly humiliated my unpopular, trombone-playing boyfriend in front of the whole marching band when i broke up with him... lamely, i responded with something like, 'i'm glad that amused you'...

what i really should have said to M. (who is still a "friend," although i have not written on his wall, sent him a grapefruit or poked him since) is that i was sorry that he had not grown up more than that despite what seems to be a very harmonious marriage and family life and a successful career...

i finally broke down and told my sister Joselyn about what happened months later... she asked me, 'did he write it on your wall or did he send you a message?'... i really could not remember at that point... but the next time i was on fb, i looked in my inbox to see if he had sent me what she was implying was a more discreet message... then i remembered i had deleted a lot of old messages...

but i don't think that absolves him... what bothered me is that he brought it up at all... it was not my proudest moment... and although my old boyfriend did turn out to be a creep, he did not deserve to be embarrassed in front of his peers... although i really wish i could remember what i did...

i do remember that after one huge and final blowup - he did skulk around my house for a while and pester me at school; this before we knew what stalking meant - i threw a paper bag full of his old love letters (wow, i used to get love letters!) onto the roof of Savon on 190th... for some reason, i thought that would eject him from my life forever... and it did...

unfortunately, even though i can't remember half my passwords, or accidentally delete lots of things i regret, the internet appears to be forever... although the old letters on the drugstore roof have by now completely vaporized, every hasty word or social faux pas can go out to a few million of my fellow fb-ers in the blink of an eye...

my kind of town...

the other night in our writing group, Brenda said that cities had genders... she said that New York was very masculine, all loud and brash and in your face... interestingly, she thought that Washington D.C. was like a powerful woman, which i liked very much...

i realized the other day that my last lover wasn't a man, it was a city...

driving down Venice Boulevard to get my sister a birthday gift, it dawned on me that Los Angeles was my on-again, off-again mainstay, the one i returned to whenever i was bereft of love...

i met "him" through my sister, who has lived on the Westside for ten years... she would regale our younger sister and i with tales of his many attractions... under the respectable guise of visiting her, i would furtively experience his charms: bright lights, beautiful shops, great restaurants... and somehow, i didn't mind sharing him with the thousands of other star-struck, Prada-pursuing girls that lined up in their cars, all on their way to work, auditions, or Yogurtland...

his pedigree is fascinating... i could delve into one of many ethnic enclaves within minutes and ingratiate myself to his Japanese, Chinese, Ethiopian, Greek or Persian relatives... i could listen to them speak their language, eat their food, and marvel at how they have made a niche for themselves in this teeming Manhattan of the West...

although our relationship is largely physical - and mostly centered around finding the best bakery in town - there is an intellectual side to it...

although the independent bookstores are tragically closing one by one, a few hang on... i stumbled into one on Sawtelle where a half-dozen of his malcontented and erudite friends were having what turned out to be a regular weekly salon, a hybrid of literary criticism and group therapy... and although some of the museums seem to tout their exhibitions as tawdrily as the latest blockbuster film, great art can be seen in his halls...

he has his faults... he's narcissistic and a night owl... i always have to drive, he never picks up the check and often charges me a fee for parking in the wrong spot... but when i'm standing in line at Sprinkles while jonesing for a red velvet cupcake, gazing at the view from the Getty Center, or walking at dusk on the Third Street Promenade, enjoying being alone in crowd, he's mine, all mine...

the streets of santa monica...

04.27.09

On Friday night, I had the option of going to a play on campus, where I would be surrounded by the glow of art and the friends and acquaintances who were busily creating it. But I had my fill of the Hills in the last few days, days that were filled with the usual difficulty of putting together a weekly publication almost singlehandedly. All I could think of was the long drive home to the Westside, so I decided to get it over with.

I called Shiho to see if she wanted to grab some dinner. My erstwhile plan was to drop by Beadniks, a bead shop on the Promenade, to drop off a resume. I had decided that I need a part-time job to help with saving up for a new apartment, a laptop, travel. I had cobbled together a resume that highlighted my jewelry making skills, including my recent experience teaching beading at David’s studio, a credential that I hoped would not be made much of, since I have not spoken to him since December.

I wandered into the shop and asked for Ermie, one of the proprietors who had answered my email query about employment. I gave her my resume and chatted with her and two employees who were trying to decide how best to display one of their recent necklace creations. It’s been so long since I’ve looked for a job, even a part-time commitment such as this. After we chatted, I browsed the shop and started to wonder if it’s such a great idea to work at a place that you would enjoy being a customer as familiarity breeds contempt. I could see myself getting overwhelmed and beleaguered at the prospect of having to help visitors come up with innovative jewelry designs while neglecting my own muse. I left them cordially, but feeling undecided as to whether or not I would return with a completed application.

I met Shiho at Anthropologie, an establishment whose French flea market aesthetic belies the upscale pricing of its wares. Still, I am very fond of this look and blithely told my freelancing and therefore spending cash-free friend to simply look upon shopping the Promenade as visiting a museum, to get ideas and then purchase similar items from more recession-friendly merchants.

We walked several blocks to Musha, a trendy Japanese fusion restaurant that she had warned me would have a very long wait on a Friday night. It was getting late and I was starting to get rather hungry, but felt optimistic that we would be seated relatively soon. When we got there, the host told us that it would be a 35-40 minute wait. When someone puts it in numbers, it becomes all too daunting, so we left and settled for Wahoo’s Fish Tacos next door, where despite the friendlier prices and perfectly fine food, nobody was waiting to dine.

Shiho is one of my oldest friends. In the approximately 15 years we have been friends, she has not had a boyfriend. In those same 15 years, she has watched me fumble from relationship to relationship to failed marriage to disastrous rebound relationship. And yet, she still seeks my advice on how to attract men.

An admirer once said I was cursed, that there would always be men wanting me because of my looks, intellect, humor and personality. I have to admit that I enjoy a certain popularity among those who have recently acquired either their drivers’ licenses or Medicare. Guys my age don’t seem to be all that interested, and frankly, where we were about ten years younger, I was not at all interested in them. Now that the playing field is narrowing, I find myself feeling on the sidelines. They are all taken, recovering from being taken, or perpetually single for very good reasons.

We commiserated over our current manless state, she demurring as usual with the fact that she wants to have a bona fide job before tackling this dilemma. Fifteen years ago, she said she didn’t want a boyfriend at all so that she could pursue her dream of being a freelance illustrator, which is what she is now. Now that she is one, she complains of not making enough money with the enterprise, which does not surprise me. Creative people are never paid what they are worth. But I envy the fact that she went after this dream and got it, something I have yet to achieve with my own writing.

You could say that I am equally dismissive of my day job as she is of her independence. I am a public affairs writer at a four-year university. I am privileged to meet and write about some really exceptional people there. But I often feel like little more than a PR hack, having to put the best face on the dull, corporate posturing of campus events and politics.

I have always baited Shiho with the proposal that I go along on one of her speed dating adventures, purely for observational reasons. I would never take anyone seriously that I met at such an event. She always reminded me that I had a boyfriend, which up until now, I always did. I said that I had already fulfilled her stern recommendation of last winter that I stay single for at least three months. She agreed, and said that she had heard of a meet-up group that gathered over ethnic food under $10. I accepted with more enthusiasm for the prospect of cheap, exotic eats than the possibility of meeting a single gourmet male who is as disillusioned as I am.

We strolled back to the Promenade’s main drag sipping tea, catching up with the news of our respective lives and commiserating over our lot as the token spinsters of our circle. Actually, I vehemently forbade her from ever using that word again, for its conjuring of eccentric, vaguely unattractive females who are meekly resigned to their position. We are neither of us unattractive, although I have to admit we are both rather eccentric. And as for resignation, the fear of the end of every hope is beginning to loom for me for the first time. I hate to think of how many years she may have been feeling it before.

When Dorothy Parker wrote that nothing eases the heart like a satin gown, it’s evident she did not live in West Los Angeles. There is gastronomic therapy within reach, especially for despondent females with a sweet tooth. Although we had decided on our Spartan dessert of green tea (me) and a nonfat mocha (Shiho), we realized as we marched toward the ocean that the infamous Xooro, a trendy purveyor of pretentiously artisanal churros, was in our path. We decided to splurge.

We walked into the antiseptic, overly-lit shop, where a digital screen rotated between menus. We both were intrigued by the maple bacon confection, salty and sweet combinations being a trend du jour in confectionery these days. We decided to split one and waited for our order.

I was still trying to absorb the menu screen should there be a return visit, or should I be so overwhelmed by our dessert’s quality that I would want to order another one on the spot. The offerings of “Mexican” and “Spanish” hot cocoas caught my eye and I asked the young man behind the counter what the difference was.

“Mexican cocoa is made with grandma cocoa,” he said.

“You mean ‘Abuelita,’? I asked, referring to a popular product available in most grocery stores in Los Angeles.

“Uh, yeah,” he said, half-smiling at my recognition.

I continued to ask questions in my exasperating customer way, inquiring about the health benefits of the rice bran oil they use to fry the churros and the actual size of the pastries. At some point, he excused himself and returned a few minutes later bearing a paper wrapped cylinder on a plate. The end that was exposed looked like it had been coated in sawdust and there were two plastic forks on the plate.

We proceeded to unwrap the churro and tapped ineffectually at it with a plastic fork. Finally, I broke it in half and took a bite. He had warned us that the maple filling would have turned to liquid and would run out of the pastry tunnel, which indeed it had. The “sawdust” was the bacon component of the churro, which lent it a slightly salty taste, but did not fill my craving for the chewy, sweet smokiness of actual pork product. And the pastry itself was not too sweet, but was sort of tough on the outside, lacking the yeasty welcome of regular dough.

Still, it was dessert, so we made the best of it. I was sort of disappointed that they had, as our host had described earlier, increased the size of the pastry, but I guess for $3.65, people expected more than just an 8-inch churro. We finished and left Xooro without regrets, but also without anticipation of a return visit.

I was turning into my usual pumpkin self after 9:30, so we headed back to pick up her bike from the rack and she walked me to my car in the structure. On the way there, I noticed that under an sign that read, “Design Within Reach” on the window of a tony furniture store, there was a homeless person sleeping mummy-style in an unfurled sleeping bag. I said nothing until we had crossed the street and then embarked on one of my diatribes about the travesty of how some of the highest priced real estate in America provides a literal bedroom community for the disenfranchised.

Throughout the evening, she had congratulated me on my uncanny sense of direction and recognition of landmarks, which I rely on in lieu of my lack of mapreading skills. When she had left, I paced the three floors of the parking structure in a panic because I could not find my car, which I had parked there three hours before. In a flash of remembrance of the last time this happened, I realized that my car was in the parking structure on the next block and sauntered over, where the car was exactly where I had left it, in what would be considered a perfect parking spot right next to the elevator.

my funny valentine... 2/11/09