Red Light

March 25, 2010

“Oh, you can’t follow the signs like everyone else, can you?” The man yells at me across the three lanes of Union Avenue, a one-way city street that works its way through downtown Pasadena.

The light has just turned red and I am on my hybrid bicycle, methodically rolling in circles in the far right lane, just in front of a few cars. Unfortunately, I’m not one of those masterful urban riders that can stay upright on their bike, remaining perfectly balanced while waiting for the light to change colors. But since I’m determined to remain in my toe clips between lights, I roll in tight circles instead of taking a foot off the pedal.

Surprised by the yelling, I turn to see an older gentlemen, a fellow rider, sitting on his bike and glaring disdainfully in my direction. He is dressed in half biker outfit, half mountain man outfit, an anomaly that I can’t help but notice with fascination. His shirt is a tight fitting jersey material with bright colors, so the vehicles coming up behind will take notice. His pants are of the heavy cargo nature, with bulging pockets and cuffs so wide you can barely see his sneakers. He wears an old helmet, one that I might have seen my Father don when I was a kid. His thick beard and wire-rimmed glasses make him look older than he probably is. I’d still peg his age at sixty-four.

“Huh? What?” I say confused, half wondering if he’s actually talking to me.

“Oh, you’re too good for the law, are you?” He shakes his head back and forth in a look of disgust. His eyes mock me. They seem to reveal something deeper, like a universal anger with young people.

I look into the cars idling between him and myself and peer into several drivers seats, begging someone to give me a look that says, “I know, right, that guy is an idiot.” But it seems it’s just him and me out here on the street, a different fraternity altogether from the car people.

“Huh? What?” I ask with my eyes narrowing together, my face scrunching up in complete state of bewilderment.

He laughs back, deriding my inability to assess the situation.

This is the longest light ever.

I have no idea why he is scolding me, why his demeanor is so harsh. Did he mistake my silly riding circle as a precursor to cycling through the red light? Did he notice my no-hand-signal lane change a few blocks ago?

“I’m stopped, waiting for the light.” I say almost apologetically and immediately I wish I could say something much bolder and more spirited.

“Oh, so you’re one of those guys who knows it all!” Maybe all you need to know about this man is that he starts every sarcastic rant with a drawn out “Ohhhh.” The kind of “oh” that requires you to wave your palms back and forth.

The opposite crosswalk is finally counting down. I watch it tick from ten, nine, eight and as it winds down, my anger ramps up. I want to yell back something fierce, something that will shut this guy up. I want to rebuke his public display of contemptuous madness. I want to ask him if he’s the bicycle police, and start that question with an “oh.” I want to zing this guy so bad that he won’t mess with another rider again. I want to do it just as the light turns, so I can ride off victoriously.

“Huh? What?” THIS is my anticipated zinger.

As the light turns go, I can hear my sixty year-old foe giggling as he pulls away.

We ride together, on opposite sides of the one-way, for one more block until I make a right turn towards the library.

________

Prompt 1 of the workshop…

Introduction to Writing

I won the Young Author’s award in elementary school. My little masterpiece was titled “Baseball Fever” and centered around a young boy who lived and breathed baseball only to have a Mother who despised the game. The idea for this story came from a book I had read only a few months earlier. That book was titled “Baseball Fever” and centered around a young boy who lived and breathed baseball only to have a Father who despised the game.

Despite my innocent plagiarizing and complete unoriginality, the process of writing and editing and imagining acted as a catalyst for me. I was hooked, having found something that drew my zeal as much as trading cards or the uncharted forest behind our house did.

As the story goes, the depth and consistency of my writing always seems to coincide with the depth and consistency of my reading. During boyhood and high school, my stories involved adventure and sports because that’s what I was reading. In College, studying religion, my reading took a textbook and non-fiction turn, which meant term papers and essays on matters of theology. Following College, I wrote sermons. Mixing scripture with historical context, culture and other ancient texts is one thing. Making it applicable and accessible is another. While I no longer preach today, I am indebted to what it taught me about perseverance, deadlines, rough drafts and how to push through the blinking cursor.

It wasn’t until moving to Los Angeles five years ago that I really discovered fiction and creative non-fiction. Suddenly I was introduced to riveting memoirs and breathtaking novels and memorable travel essays – writing more beautiful than I had ever experienced. I devoured as much as I could, from Hemmingway and Steinbeck to Krakauer and Klosterman.

This, of course, has shaped my own writing immensely. The creative and technical bar has been raised considerably and I have found myself struggling to keep developing my craft ever since. This is one of the reasons I’m so excited about this workshop. I long to be in closer proximity to other writers and to polish my skills.

I’m currently working on an essay about living in Downtown Los Angeles and several ongoing pieces about being a new father.

Also, I no longer write books based on other books.

____________________

I’m officially part of my first writing workshop…this is the intro we all had to write that answered questions about our writing history. I put it on the blog more for my own archives than anything.

My Perfect Day

How I’d like my typical weekday to go:

6:30am – Roll out of bed, head up to the roof for some exercise. Then run the stairs for 20 minutes.
7 – Warm shower followed by a hearty breakfast consisting of our farmer market eggs, TJ’s delicious sourdough bread and Kari’s delicious home made black beans.
7:30 – Walk over to Lost Souls for 90 minutes of reading and writing.
9 – Come home to a quiet house and spend 30 minutes perusing my favorite websites: NPR, ESPN and 8 blogs I follow.
9:30 – Greet Stella and Kari with kisses and coffee. Maybe plan out the day with Kari so we’re in tune. Play with Stella while Kari showers.
10 – Check my work to do list and work for a few hours. Browse CL to see if any comps come up. Ship a few packages. Email contacts.
Noon – Eat with Kar and Stella – something like avocado sandwiches or leftover curry.
1pm – Hang with Stella while Kari drives around LA picking up comps.
2 – Work while Stella naps.
5 – Finish working, work out a to do list for the following day.
6 – Dinner, long walk with the family.
8 – Stella goes down.
8:03 – Party with Kari: cards, popcorn and some late night Curb Your Enthusiasm.
11:30 – Pick up living room, brush teeth, neatly put clothes away and put on sleep wear.

How my typical weekday actually goes:

6:30am – I’m sound asleep because I can’t set my alarm or Stella will wake up, which will in turn set off several under-the-cover kicks from Kari. I could sleep on the couch in the living room, but the alarm might STILL wake up Stella because we live in a 680 sq foot loft.
7 – Still sleeping.
7:42 – Randomly wake up, check the time and roll out of bed. Skip the shower because every time we shower while Stella is sleeping, she wakes up because her pack n play, which is IN our closet, is on the other side of the shower wall.
8 – Quick work email check finds that eleven messages have come in from the East Coast, three of which demand immediate attention. Get distracted with work until 9am when Stella starts chirping. Run in to get her before she wakes up Kari. Count the run as my exercise.
8:15 – Play with Stella for 45 until she gets boob needy. While bouncing around with her, think of all the creative ideas I could bring to a writing piece I’ve been working on since February. It’s about turning 30, which happened a couple of months ago. Come up with a new goal to have it finished by December 1st.
9 – Wake up Kari to a needy, fussy baby that wants to extract milk from her body.
9:30 – Head back to the computer to write people buyers back who had computers damaged in shipping and optical drives not working. Remember breakfast. Grab some yoghurt and almonds. Look at my latest book sitting on the table (The Unbearable Lightness of Being) and try to remember the plot since I haven’t picked it up in a week.
11 – Hang with Stella while Kari heads out for a few hours of gym or farmers market or groceries. Try to get packages ready for the FedEx pick-up while feeding Stella at the same time. Put an ice cube in her rice and beans because the first bite was OBVIOUSLY too hot.
1pm – Put Stella down, take a few moments to eat leftover curry or avocado sandwiches (!) with Kari.
2:30 – Lift 50 pound Apple computers and transfer them from bedroom to living room and then back again. Count the lifting as my exercise.
3 – Drive to somewhere, buy another computer and bring it home for pictures and listing. Have Kari meet me downstairs on the street with our multi-cart so she can haul it up while I park the Element three blocks away.
6 – Quit working in the middle of listing an item and forget to make a to-do list.
8 – Put Stella down.
8:20 – While Stella is still crying in her pack n play, which we can hear like she is in our living room, Kari heads downstairs for some wine and time off so only one of us has to endure the fussing.
9 – Text Kari that Stella finally fell asleep. Make popcorn, watch shows on-line that we missed the previous week.
12:30am – QUIETLY grab our PJ’s from the bedroom closet (where Stella sleeps), change in the bathroom and crawl into our loft bed without trying to make it squeak.

The Night Before Yesterday

By the time he finished a meeting downstairs, changed out of his suit and brushed his teeth, the nightstand clock on his side of the bedroom read 12:38am. She was already in bed, tired from two monumental days with little to no sleep. Adrenaline was the only reason she was still up, but her adrenal glands were dispensing less and less, making deep sleep more and more inevitable. Her eyelids peered open as he crawled up next to her, but no words were exchanged between them. It was a long day – a long year – and the combination of bed and pillow was all that really mattered.

Much earlier in the night, along with their two young daughters, they had a long overdue dinner together. He wanted pizza, but she already had something in mind. Home cooking, she suggested with a wry smile. He snickered and loosened his tie, knowing her apt suggestion wasn’t really a suggestion. The little girls giggled at the sound of their Daddy’s sheepish laugh, but more out of relief that Daddy was finally home for a while and less that Mommy had said something humorous.

Their giggling turned into laughing and screaming as he lifted the youngest one up in his arms and threw her over his shoulder. The older one latched onto his leg for dear life and the three proceeded to wrestle for several minutes on the tiled floor, enjoying each others company with every tickle and pinch. When it was over, the girls were both laying on either side of their papa, each throwing one arm over his chest, all breathing heavily from the roughhousing. The three of them laid there quietly for several moments, all taking in the previous day in their own way.

“I love you daddy,” the little one blurted out as if she couldn’t hold it in any longer. He smiled tenderly and squeezed them both tight.

The four of them shared a simple meal of chicken and vegetables and they were all alone, just as the parents intended it to be. The television was turned off and his laptop was closed and they could say anything they wanted, in whatever tone they needed to use. For those two hours, their moderately sized kitchen became an island oasis. The girls told stories from school, including several that included boys, which prompted shared eyebrow-raising glances between the parents. But the real conversation centered on Halloween in 2009 and what it would be like at the White House.

Scattered Confessions of a Car Owner

Regrettably, the gig is up. After one sublime year of living in Los Angeles without a car, we’re roaming the freeways once again in our diminutive sized 95′ Civic hatchback. While it was a necessary purchase, it wasn’t an easy one, especially in light of the post car buying expenses that follow, namely, registration, insurance, parking permits and a never ending engagement to gas.

For me, living car free meant a better environment, less bills and a way to identify and connect with my city more organically. But perhaps more importantly, it was an act of rebellion against conventional life in LA, a city where almost no one gets by without a vehicle.

Suffice it to say, owning a car is a tremendous burden on me. But it’s not all gloom. I will confess there is one area of car owning that I find especially pleasing. The miles per gallon game, of course.

While there are many ways to save gas and increase your mpg, I have found that one in particular has worked more than any other: Driving slow. And by slow, I mean ridiculously slow, like when you took road trips in the early 80’s when the 55 on the speedometer was still in bold red lettering.

I cannot tell you how exhilarating it is to see a cop and not feel afraid. And I have found that driving 55 actually does save you at the pump, certainly helping chip away the annual cost of insurance. On our last tank, the Honda rolled 338 miles on 8.3 gallons of gas for a whopping 40.7 miles per gallon.

The downside is that driving 55mph in the freeway city is like cheering against the Cubs at Wrigley Field. Just two nights ago, on a late night trip to Hollywood, I found myself the cause of a one middle finger, two high-beam light flicks and several beeping horns. So while I no longer pump the brakes at the sight of a dreaded cop, I now fear my fellow drivers with nearly as much apprehension. I understand them only because I used to be like them. It seems I have achieved some kind of role reversal.

So the gig is up and it’s mostly awful. But if you happen to pass me on the 134 or the 110, which you no doubt will, you might just see a tall guy in a small car wearing a slight smile of pleasure, realizing his 55 mph might just be the new rebellion he was looking for.

One Day, A Long Time From Now

Certainly there are better and more convenient places on earth to think about sex. But the truth is, riding on airplanes has always got me thinking about it and that’s what I’m thinking about now.

I first heard of the Mile High Club in High School and it has amped my curiosity on every airplane ride since. Even now, as the sun appears on the horizon and when most people are sipping their coffee, I’m watching the lavatory closely.

I don’t actually know anyone who is part of the club, but I always thought it would be nice to know someone who was.

A friend of mine once met a girl on a plane. It was an international flight so they had plenty of time to strike up a conversation. She was a stewardess, so joining the mile high club was simply out of the question. But meeting up in her hotel room after the flight was not. And that’s what my friend did, which is arguably more ambitious and remarkable than hooking up in the safe environment of the airplane. He went back to her room until his connecting flight left a few hours later. Nothing much happened, but the act will go down in history. He never saw her again and has never forgotten her.

I have flown many times since I first learned about the club and I am still not a member, despite many attempts to lure my wife into the bedroom in the sky. One day, a long time from now, I imagine she will give in.

Of course, this story is really about my friend’s story.

Emergency Room

A trip to the Emergency Room has eluded me my entire life. I have never, to my memory, been rushed to the hospital for this or for that.

Our unexpected last day on the trail started at nine thousand feet, near the peak of San Jacinto. We woke up early, hoping to get a head start on the sun. The news from the locals in Idyllwild was that the desert floor, where we were headed, was to reach temperatures above one hundred degrees.

The news from the locals was always bad news.

“You’ve got a storm headed your way.”
“Watch out for the mountain lions. We have plenty of them in these parts.”
“Hope you can find the path in that burned out section.”
“Get ready for fifty mile an hour wind gusts up there tonight.”

Thanks for the news, I always said.

So we left mile 187.3 at 5:15am and started walking. We slowly, ever so annoyingly slowly, lost altitude until we finally reached the desert floor, some eight thousand feet below our starting point. By two pm, we had hiked twenty miles and found ourselves at our water stop. There was a large boulder there, and we both huddled around it for some much needed shade. Since we walked alone much of the day, we traded stories under the rock about how much we hated the days descent. I spoke of cursing flowers and she spoke of yelling at mountains. It was that kind of day. We sulked and ate for three hours under that rock. We left at 5pm, refreshed but still hot, and headed toward Interstate 10 just a few more miles away.

Underneath the freeway, we happened upon two hikers who had set up camp for the night. We chatted for several minutes, keeping the conversation going only for as long as we needed the shade. They spoke of some abandoned cabins just up the trail, maybe a mile away, that we could camp at for the night. So we headed out, relieved to be near the day’s finish line.

But thirty minutes later we were in a Mercedes Benz, whizzing down the freeway at speeds of ninety miles per hour. I lay in the front seat, wheezing and trying to stay conscience. At the Palm Springs Medical Center ER I collapsed into a wheel chair and was rushed to a bed where I was hooked up to oxygen, IV’s and heart monitors. I laid there for six tedious hours, getting tested, giving blood, getting pictures taken of my chest.

The final analysis of what happened to my body was unclear, but it was probably a heat stroke or most likely an electrolyte deficiency. (Believe it or not, a close friend of mine suffered the same fate at the exact same place on the trail a few years back.) Whatever the case, I was told to rest, rest, rest. So just as it was getting past 1am, Julie and I walked slowly out of the hospital and into a motel room where we reunited with Kari. I fell asleep thinking of the abandoned cabin, only an imagination to me now.

In the end, after a series of discussions, we opted to get off the trail. We walked for two weeks and 210 miles, from the border of Mexico to Palm Springs. Though it was less time than I spent walking on the Appalachian Trail, it was the most miles I have hiked in one go. Julie and I shared an incredible adventure out on the trail – experiencing all that we could have hoped for in a walk through the desert. And we salute the men and women we walked with along the way – those who are still walking and will still be walking in September.

_____

Our Last Day In Pictures ::

Early Morning Snow Walking:

Looking Down To Interstate 10:

Julie Walking – Halfway Down:

Shade Under the Boulder:

Looking Up to San Jacinto:

Aisle Two

I’m standing in line at the grocery store. I can already tell I’m in the wrong line. The elderly woman two places ahead of me is meticulously going through her coupons, matching each container and package and bottle to a certain coupon. I count fourteen items. This line is only for those with ten items or less.

Behind me is a young couple. Their red basket is full of sushi and fruit and milk. He is holding the basket. They are talking. Well, she is talking.

I only needed some bacon bits and bread rolls. I set them carefully on the conveyor belt, placing them neatly behind the little plastic divider.

The conveyor belt moves slowly, as the woman with the coupons is watching the screen to make sure all the prices are correct. After all the items have been scanned and bagged, she gets out a checkbook. She didn’t get the checkbook out until after all her items were scanned and bagged.

The shelves of candy scream louder at me the longer I wait in line.

In between the elderly woman and myself is a young family of three. Dad, mom and child. The dad is talking to the mom about something that happened at work. The little boy is staring at the candy. They are after him too, it seems. He glances at me, and then returns back to the candy.

There is no candy mixed in with his parents food.

The man behind me puts his food on the conveyor belt. He forgets to grab the divider, so I add it for him. The woman is still talking about nothing in particular.

The closer it gets to my turn, the louder the candy gets. Just as I’m about to give in to some Rolo’s, I spot a box full of peanut M&M’s. They are on sale. Three for a dollar. These would be perfect for the hike, I think to myself. I grab the whole box and dump all it’s contents next to my bread, just as the family is finishing up their transaction. I bought eighteen packs of peanut M&M’s.

The little boy sees me dump the candy and has now turned his attention to it. His head is barely above the conveyor belt and at eye level with all the little yellow packs. His mouth is wide open and he is staring at them so longingly I think he might grab them and run as fast as he can. He turns his head slowly and looks at me. His eyes are wild with envy, wishing with his whole life that he was as lucky as me. I smile at him. He turns back to the M&M’s. Then back to me. His Dad pulls him away by the hand and they walk out the exit. His eyes never leave me.

Outside, the elderly woman is standing next to her car looking over her receipt. She looks very annoyed.

California to Minnesota: A Travelogue

I’m all the way back in 27a – a window seat. I hate the back and I dislike the window seat. When you pee twice an hour and you’re prone to brief moments of claustrophobia, window seats at the back of the aircraft just don’t work out. Lucky for me though, the middle seat is unoccupied. That’s one less person to witness me freaking out and one less person to crawl over.

Over California: I just spotted my apartment building from 15,000 feet. I even like it from way up here. Okay, I admit – maybe the window seat is nice for take-off and landing.

Over Nevada: The young woman in front of me is fat and jolly. One of those folks you hope not to sit next to on a flight when you don’t feel like talking or being squeezed to death. I can see that she’s watching a DVD. Something tells me it’s not Fight Club. I take a genre guess. Romantic Comedy. I lean forward and peer over the seat to find Sweet Home Alabama playing.

Over Colorado: It came over the intercom suddenly and clearly. “Ladies and Gentlemen. If there is a Doctor or nurse on board, please press your call button.” This sends people into a mild frenzy. All the fake sleepers sit up. Headsets are removed. I look in front of me at all the little red lights above everyone’s seat. I’m lucky to be in the back of the plane. One light, two lights, three lights! A man slowly stands up and looks mildly annoyed, like this was an interruption to his viewing of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue he just picked up at the airport. A flight attendant moves quickly from the back with a first aid kit and joins the medical guy and they proceed forward, right through the curtain and into first class. The woman behind me snickers to her husband, “Ha! It’s someone in first class.” As If this classist woman believes someone in first class deserves a heart attack or something. Ten minutes later all seems to be okay. But I was nervous for those minutes in limbo. I mean, this is a direct flight that I went out of my way to purchase and the thought of an emergency landing is enough to make me lose my mind – especially because we’d probably have to land in Denver.

Over Colorado: Free food! The advertisement in my seat pocket suggest Sun Country Air was the 2007 “#1 Airline for Customer Satisfaction.” I bet it’s because people love getting the meal. Unexpected free food can drown out any sort of complaint. The guy to my right carefully takes his sandwich out of the plastic and places it neatly on his tray. And then he bows his head down and prays like this ham and cheese sandwich is the last meal he’ll ever eat. I imagine him offering up requests for the person in first class and maybe even for me, the scruffy cut up jeans guy to his left. He’s still praying when the attendant offers me the same sandwich. Unfortunately, the sight of cheese sends my stomach into mayhem. But I take it anyway and offer it to the woman in front of me.

Over Minnesota: I just finished several pages of The Stranger by Camus. It’s number 27 out of 55 books I’m reading in my late twenties that I should have read in my late teens.

“Attention passengers. Please put your seat in the upright position and put all electronic devices away.”

Gym Euphoria

You want to hear something true and only semi-related to the rest of this post? I have never, ever, regretted going to the gym. Not once have I walked out the gym doors after a workout and thought to myself, “Well, that was a waist of time.” (For the record, I always feel this way after eating ice cream, sitting on the Internet for too long or after paying to watch Pirates of the Caribbean 3 a few months ago.)

I like going to the gym. I especially like enduring the sweat and smells at night – late at night – when very few 24-hour fitness patrons are visible. I feel like I have the place to myself. The pool is calm. There are fewer people around to see how little I can actually bench press. And I can hop on the stair climber without waiting in line. It’s like an after hours party at Disney World. But the real benefit about coordinating my workout with Conan’s opening monologue is that I see more obese people at night. And for a variety of reasons, this always gives me pleasure in a classic bittersweet sort of way. Bitter because you don’t see these people during busy hours. I assume at least some come at night to fight off insecurities and stares. But sweet in that there is something inspiring about seeing a middle age fat guy running his ass off on a treadmill.

I admire these people who have somehow managed over the years to get in over their head. I admire the way they run and lift and sweat. And I’m glad they come at night.