Cubicle Life (Discourse 3)

So I’m not in my cube at the moment … I got the day off, fortunately. But I’m sitting here working over at Coffee Rush, in a little nook, and there are three ladies behind me, apparently planning the layout of an office. They were having some heated discussion on the location of the bathrooms in relation to the main conference room. And I kid you not, I overhead, quite loudly, one lady question the defender of the bathrooms by saying,

“Mary, do you not recall that one time we were in the meeting and the bathrooms were down that long hall and you didn’t make it?”

Don’t Give Your Coins to the Dolphins; Give Them to the People

 I have been here since late Friday night/early Saturday morning, and have yet to venture to Orange County, and I am still not entirely sure that I will. I have found myself to be enjoying Santa Monica quite the bit. As I was explaining to my mom on the phone earlier today, when I’m in Huntington, you can walk around for 15-20 minutes and pretty much see everything, then get settled into a spot you like and do some writing. Here is stimulaton overload – wherever you look, there is something you somehow passed that looks interesting, and the people watching is, well, truly Santa Monica. This does indeed have to be the most liberal city in LA County, if not Southern California. I can talk to people in Mesa about my sexuality or my views on life, and they’ll run; here they’ll barely raise an eyebrow.

After I blogged yesterday morning, I spent some time wandering Third Street Promanade and taking in the city, while still familiarizing myself with it. I walked Ocean Boulvevard from Colorado down to Wilshire, and spent hours taking pictures of this and that, and the bluff that plunges down into PCH just below the Ocean Blvd walkway.

I then met up with Amber, my old Starbuckian co-worker, and we bummed around The Coffee Bean and Ye Old King’s Head Shop (a tea shop, actually) before taking the bridge from Ocean over PCH and down to the Santa Monica Pier. We walked to the end, discussed life, and fatted ourselves up on Popcorn Shrimp and Funnel Cake at Paradise Park. We didn’t ride the ferris wheel or the coaster, but we made fun of the people who paid the $10 to do so. I then walked her back to her car up Broadway, and found myself in a parking garge, on an exterior staircase, nine stories above Santa Monica. More pictures of the city at just after sunset.

I capped off the night by, somehow (and I’m still not sure how this happened) having a three-hour conversation with a homeless dude my age named Chris, from Boston. He came out to L.A. after getting out of prison in Boston (robbing a convenience store) because he always wanted to be an actor. Instead he became a writer, and started writing his life story based on growing up on the streets of Boston, spending time in jail, coming to The Golden State to be an actor, and winding up another homeless bum no one pays mind to on the beach at night. I read some of his stories over some smokes. Damn. I want to try to get some of his work in the Quarterly. Homeless people have potential – Rob Thomas of Matchbox 20 was just another bum in New York, homeless, until some suit made him sing for a $20 bill.

This morning I laid in bed contemplating my day, but quickly made haste back down to the Familia Asian Market on Third for another steamed bun with red beans. Out of boredom and curiosity, I began to look up bus schedules and settled for the Big Blue Bus, #10 Express, that heads straight out from the Promanade to Union Station in Los Angeles. On the bus I met Simion, a drummer for a band, and we talked most of the ride and both had to walk the massive corridors of Union Station, past all the train platforms, to get to the Metro Red Line. Two stops later I was in Pershing Square in the middle of Downtown Los Angeles, having another Jewish pastrami sandwich within sight of Angel’s Flight, thinking about where to take everything from here. Simion joined me for lunch, but was soon headed off to a studio off Figuroa. After bumming around downtown and Bunker Hill a bit more, complete with the now-mandatory, just-for-the-hell-of-it martini at the top of the Bonaventure, I headed back to the subway. and was soon back outside Union Station. I had a half-hour to wait for my bus, so I sat on the steps nearby of the plaza at El Pueblo de Los Angeles Historical Monument, listening to a live maricachi band while admiring the palm trees and Spanish-mission architecture of Union Station, all the whilst chatting with a group of female Japanese foreign-exchange students from UCLA, who were also awaiting their Santa Monica Bus. There is no place quite like Los Angeles. And no matter what one may think from this post, be assured, there are plenty of people I DO NOT talk with, I COMPLETELY ignore; such as the hundreds of citizens who walk around talking to themselves or others violently; usually in another language; or the one lady who sits there and looks at you while you’re eating your pastrami on the Grant Market patio with a sign, that she points in your face, that says, “I’m hungry,” but you look at her and can blatently tell her skinny figure is more Crystal Meth-induced than anything; or any of the three Puerto Ricans who have walked up to me, while I was sitting on the sidewalk on Santa Monica Boulevard, typing or writing, and have said, “You are cute, you can share my bedroom if you need place.” Some people you just don’t have conversations with.

The express bus ride back from the glass financial district of LA to the Santa Monica Pier was less then adventurous; it was quite boring and the bus was almost empty. I kept fading in and out of conciousness, taking naps, only staying awake just enough to hear my stop being called out.

I stopped by the hostel to freshen up, then ventured to the bluffs agan and walked The California Incline and the bridge across PCH to the beach, and I have to say, Santa Monica Beach is WIDE. Not long, but WIDE. It took me forever, even though I kept my shoes on walking across the sand, this being the kind of beach where you could easily step on a needle or a broken beer bottle (I didn’t see any of either, but it wouldn’t have been unexpected). I found my spot by the Pier and laid down on the incline, using my backpack as a pillow, and kicked off my shoes and socks in favor of the sand between my toes, and took a short nap while watching the sunset. I then walked back up to the Pier, grabbed fish and chips for dinner, and headed back up to the Promanade.

I’m exhausted, but trying to stretch out my night here. I was lucky to get Monday off, but it still seems like I JUST got here. The days have gone by quick; luckily I have another half-day to bum around Santa Monica, and I’ll be leaving later rather than earlier; leaving anytime after 12pm would just be pointless because I would get stuck in Riverside traffic. So I choose to leave later, feeling no need no hurry to get back to everything awaiting me in Mesa – the conversations, the problems, the search for solutions, work, school, et cetera.

I started writing this blog post about two hours ago, listening to a black jazz musician out on the Promanade. I was using the city’s free wifi (which places like Starbucks, Coffee Bean, and Seattle’s Best so cleverly block out, so they can charge a wifi fee). I noticed that I was sitting (yes, again on the sidewalk, kinda), against a middle Promanade planter. I was at this exact planter, in fact this exact spot (I didn’t realize until I had been sitting there ’bout half an hour), that this is the same planter that I came to when I tried to do “Street Evangelism” (I know, I know) back in October 2000, when I stayed with Scott Thomas at Biola University for a week. I came with our friend Moss, and we tried to talk to a guy who was playing guitar, about Christ. Things sure have changed.

Just as an experiment, while I was writing on the Promanade (again, here I am “normal”), I sat my empty coffee cup in front of me and begun reading aloud whilst I was typing. I made $1.75 in about 30 minutes, and gave that to a homeless guy down the street. Fun experiment.

I only quit because my laptop died and I had to come into Starbucks to plug it in and get it re-charged, then go back out onto the street and get the city’s free wi-fi again, then post this.

Thanks for reading. I know I haven’t had aimlessly long, rambling posts in awhile, but hey, there’s only so many times you can write, “Yup, I’m in Mesa, took the 60 today to work. Phoenix was crowded. Came home.”

Eyelids are heavy but I must extend the night. And hell, if I feel like I’m going to pass out, the hostel is two blocks away. But there is no passing out, only more stories, this is L.A., and there is no stopping until the sun comes up over Santa Monica Boulevard.

Last night was one of those nights that felt much later than it actually was; the green LED clock in my Suzuki said it was only 8:30, but everytime I rounded the corner into a new interstate-side city, I felt like I was about to invade a ghost town of sleepy citizens and 24-hour gas station chan smokers. I only did this once, at about 9pm, when I chose my own stop in Blythe. My custom, 33-day long mix of music in my iPOD playlist seemed to know what to play and when; “California Dreamin’” by The Mamas & The Papas occurred, quite literarly, as I saw the simple “Welcome to California” sign whilst crossing over the Colorado River and past the security checkpoints of the state. It was followed then by the theme song of the trip, u2’s “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For,” then “Traveler’s Lantern” by Dwight Yoakam and Buck Owens, followed by “The Highwaymen” from Willie Nelson, Kris Kristofferson, Waylon Jennings, and Johnny Cash. Only after the following song, “Me & Bobby McGee” as sung by Janis Joplin, did the mix revert back to the random and irrevelent.

I drove fast, initializing my 5-speed for it’s first California adventure, and rode it 297 miles on the Interstate 10 after leaving downtown Phoenix, followed by another 76 miles on the 60 through Riverside and Ontario, before joining it back with the 1-10 within the shadows of Downtown Los Angeles. The massive Library Tower, World Trade Center, and Bonaveture all looked down on me from above, and as I sped my way through East LA, I found this all a comfort, and the smog and fog was welcome.

The 1-10 ended and I spent another half an hour trying to locate Hosteling International’s Santa Monica location, a new facility built, partly, to replace the Colonial Inn and the sudden lack of hostels along the coast. Eventually, I found it, and parked in one of the city’s massive garages adjacent to the Santa Monica Police Department. I walked across Third Street Promanada and took the next hour checking in, and getting familiar with my digs for the weekend. It was now 1am, Pacific Time.

My dormmates were not in yet, so I ventured by myself and chated with a couple boys from Stockholm, the Swedes with their now all-to-familiar accent and me with the same carefully-announciating, English-speaking, slang-ceasing American dialect that I have come to develop when speaking in broken English; this dialect changed slightly to have a more European affair, which is different from the dialect and mannerisms of speaking that I developed in Israel. It’s interesting how something so different could be fallen back on so easily, but if I spoke in such mannerisms among my friends back home, it would lead to confusing questions.

At 1:30am I finished the smoke and the chats with the boys from Stockholm who were here for “university” as they made their way to a party in Marina del Ray. I was invited, but declined, explaining I just wanted to bum around the Pier for the evening. We wished one another well. I split to the right to walk down Santa Monica Boulevard towards Pacific Coast Highway, and was careful not to step on the homeless whom slept in odd positions and litered the street. Gangs of Mexicans encircled the park area, but were all there with their girlfriends, holding one another tight, enjoying the evening. Some college girls were studying a few feet away.

Santa Monica is no Huntington, nor is it intended to be. I almost feel as if I am not weird enough to stroll these streets; that I must be in costume, like the 20-year old in the Tigger outfit waiting for the bus, or the black lady wearing at least 10 Bon Jovi pins who bummed me for a cigarette, or the 80-year old lady wearing wings and a Mardi Gras mask who was digging through trash cans.

I walked under the famous Sport Fishing and Pacific Park neon signs, and down the five-story, steep ramp that you use to access this beach, and down the old wooden pier with the roller coaster and the Ferris Wheel. I stood and smoked, watched the waves crash in on the breaker. Every few minutes, the waves would all silence at once, then there would be a deafening crash again. At about 2:30 I made my way back, became acquainted with my Saudi Arabian roommates who are here, also, for “university”, and fell asleep.

I woke up with the sun. I spent the first hour of the morning in the courtyard between the hostel and Hotel Carmel, discussing with Ali, in his broken English, and with Mary, from Brazil, about “Occupied Palastine” and “The Noble Sanctuary,” maybe more familiar to you and I as “Israel” and “Temple Mount.” His stance was heartidly anti-Israel, and he took a pride and passion for the mosque on the Mount that I had to admire, and we discussed Palastine and Lebannon and the real reason the Israelies quit fighting; we discussed American support of the Jewish settlement; we discussed the new conflicts arising on Temple Mount because of a new ramp being built; we discussed it all; but all in the sense and knowledge of mutual discussion.

I am not sitting at The Interactive Cafe, behind the Promanade, and am getting ready to begin the day. Nothing is as beautiful as a sunny winter day on the beach.

One Year In Love

Today Justin and I celebrate our One Year Anniversary. It was one year ago tonight that Justin and I first went out to dinner, after much previous phone and email conversation, at TGI Friday’s in Mesa. It has been an incredible year. We have both gone through changes, for the better, and learned much from one another. I can say in confidence that we would not have traded this last year for any other experience. We celebrate with a great, home-made meal and a good bottle of wine tomorrow (he has school until late tonight). May all of your relationships be as great and memorable as ours.  

To you, my love.

Where’s Waldo?

It was too cold out. We were shivering, even though it was early July and it was supposed to be warm and in a warm state with friends while drinking alcohol, free alcohol, the red wine poured into those large red plastic disposable cups that are passed out at post-Church Sunday picnics, the kind families used to hold in Mile Square before it became a place known more for raps than joging, before Fountain Valley cleaned it up and kicked all of the rapists and murderers back to Echo Park, back up north along the interstate, back to where they were expected to be.

Those red plastic cups, the wine poured in for us free, and the Belgian beer – the large amounts of Stella Artois that Sebastin and I bought from the Safeway, the closest grocery store to where we stayed – walking down the hill of Lower Fort Mason, about half a mile along where the 101 turns into Embarcadaro Blvd, in that short space between where the toll lanes for the bright red bridge end and before the faux-facades that lined the street began when it wrapped around Nob Hill and Coit Tower just before it joined the annex road for the Bay Bridge, to drop people off at Treasure Island and Oakland.

We walked back up from the Safeway, which oddly enough had the biggest parking lot that we ever saw along the Marina District, and back up to the Battery that overlooked Alcatraz. We all assembled atop the Battery, next to the World War II-error cannons and bunkers, behind the hostel that used to be used as an infantry for soldiers. We gathered more wine and more burgers from the loading dock in the back, from where the ambulances used to load and unload bodies from.

I was angry at my own stupidity. I had decided to do laundry that night, and my own sweatshirt, my Jack’s Surfboards Sweatshirt that I had acquired not two weeks before in Huntington Beach, was in the wash. I was in a t-shirt and jeans, and the fog had encamped on us this night – not enough fog to cancel the July 4th Fireworks show that we were all gathered for, en masse and hudling together on this Battery, but enough to make the air damp and damn cold.

Sabastain offered me his sweater that was still in his room. He had a much smaller frame than I, so I was confused.

“It’ll fit me?”

“I like them baggy.” Sebastian than proceeded to tell me that it was very much like the purple-and-black-stripped sweater that he was wearing now; that his grandmother in Bolivia hand-knitted these huge sweaters. His sweater didn’t look warm, but I was cold and anything would do. I kept company with Simon from Brighton and Lucas from France; Lucas who pretended not to know English because he hated the Americans, but we all soon grow hatred for him, as the foreigners and I overheard him order his Starbucks in perfect English at the Wharf three days before – whilst Sebastian ran back up one flight of stairs into the hostel kitchen then back down three flights inside to our room in the basement, and returned, with a red-and-white-stripped sweater. I put it on. It was warm. It was the warmest sweater I had ever worn. I remarked to him about what a good knitter his grandmother was. He, in typical European hospitable matter, quickly found a pen and paper from the mass of people and wrote down his grandmother’s name and address in Boliva, and told me if I sent 20 U.S. Dollars (much more to the Bolivians) that his grandmother would knit and send me a similiar sweater. I meant to send away for it, but I lost the address somewhere around Seattle three days later. Sammy from Israel looked at me and remarked that, in my red-and-white get-up and my black hat, and in this large crowd, I looked like Waldo. I had to agree.

We watched the fireworks and drank more wine, than rode the cable cars to Chinatown, and wandered through the alleyways at night, and ate Jasemine rice, then gathered in a circle hours later in Golden Gate Park and smoked. Three more times, strangers compared me to Waldo. Three more times, I had to agree.