Distasteful Rambling

Panda, my bow-legged designer dog, ate the bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips.  Two hours later, she's yacking all over the damn place, chunky bile that smells like chocolate malt.

To the animal hospital, where there are girlie girls in blue scrubs and howling dogs in the back (it sounds like a full moon).  "Sit in this room," and we do.  Panda's behind the scenes and the two of us are sitting quiet in this white and metal room.  Then, she walks in.  First, I just see her thigh-high boots, then her mini dress, and her white lab coat.  She walks in, stilettos puncturing the cheap linoleum floor and... wait a second, she turns, clipboard in her right hand... and her left side's facing me... and she's got no arm.  Her white lab coat is folded back neatly with a safety pin.  Bless her heart.  Suddenly, it's okay.  It's okay that she's dressed like a major slut because she only has one arm.  My heart goes out to her.  And she goes through her clipboard, crossing off the to-do list.  "First," she says in a professional manner, "we're going to induce vomit with an injection of Toxi-ban...then, a Cerenia injection..." and she goes on, spitting out Vet lingo and "fluid maintenance" and "fluid pump" and "fluid what-not."  And bless her soul.  She's got spunk.

Spring Forward Party

First, the magnitude nine, then the tsunami.  And nuclear reactors.  How many is it now?

I'm at Coffee Bean as the world spins to an end, drinking a light roast of house-brew.  It's subtle and sprite; a quick tang, then mellow.  Italian light roast.

Our own technology is our own demise.  "Like Atlantis!"  Exactly like Atlantis, that fool-proof plan.  It's change of course.  And you say, "It's change, of course!"  

And with change, comes death.  And with death, comes birth.  It's one cyclic hum-drum routine of beginning then end, then beginning again.  Yeah, we get it.

So, the Spring Forward Party: morning of, I was in the kitchen roasting vegetables, sweeping the floor, watching CNN.  A pretty typical day, except there's the tsunami, that foaming wave.  Little cars and little buildings swirl and sink in the white froth.  Like breakfast cereal, drowning cheerios. 
That's in the morning.

I'm going to take a shower and the drain's clogged, so I'm up to my ankles in dirty water, strands of hair floating and a daddy long legs all clumped up.

The evening approaches and the floors are swept, the vegetables are roasted, and the tv's off.  (And if I recall correctly, it was tallied at two nuclear power plants and a thousand deaths.)

And the doorball rings!  Oh, goody!  Let me smack some pink on my lips and greet our guests like a proper host: with a hearty welcome!  I scramble to the door, but she gets it first.  "Hello!" and please come in.  I'm out of breath from scrambling.  Drinks?  Let's all go to the main room.  And like a flight attendant, I signal my hands 'this way.'  The clock's ticking and I'm on my second glass of merlot and (later in the night) when everyone's in the living room playing bonfire songs (Greenday's "Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)," naturally) with knee-clapping and tambourine rattles, I've almost forgotten.  The girls are up and twirling and the boys are banging the drums... it's very tribal.  And we're all drinking and falling deeper.

I'm playing the harmonica and stomping my foot and slapping my thigh (my hand and foot are bruised) and they tell me I'm off tune.  It's heart-breaking.

Oh and there's revolution in the Middle East.  That too, but back to the party.

I can't think.  No, siree.  I see him in the kitchen, so, I go, I swagger, and I'm looking straight at him.  "You know," I say, "the world's going to end."  He laughs.
"Honest to god," and I'm smiling, standing against the fridge.  He says something about my hair, but I'm bending my back and swaying my hips forward.  And the moment ends, somebody walks in, just like that- and that's this whole night, a big pause---like a baby right before a big scream, the intake of air, the quiet gulp, and you close your eyes because you're expecting a terrible sound... but nothing... it's just a yawn.  That's this night.  Back into the main room with the camp-fire songs and the kumbayas.

Later, I'm pouring wine into a plastic tumbler.  "Red or white?" I ask her.  "Red stains your teeth," and she's laughing.

It's a drag to wake up the very next morning, with a headache and red teeth- at that!  Another nuclear reactor and a thousand more dead.

The perfect weather for a stroll in the park: it's a bit chilly, so bring a sweater, but the sun's out.

"G" dash "D"

My wine tastes like honey and wood… and it might be the pieces of cork floating in my glass, but I don’t think so.  I hold the stem and keep my pinky in.  It’s a Friday night and I should be out, but I’m too tired.  So, instead I’m typing.  My computer’s broken and Japan’s in shambles.  And this week; this god-damn week. 

Working the polls and all poll workers, and this is a rigid fact, mind you---with no exception, save for my sister and me--- all poll workers are either dirt old or physically handicapped.  Don’t ask me why. 

This past Tuesday, Chelsea and I worked the polls with Cora.  And Cora’s a senior-citizen with a cat named “Hunky.”  And Cora’s a cunt.  I feel bad for her, but she goes on tangents and loves rules.  “Last year,” she says matter-of-factly, “students worked the polls… and they’re the best.  You send them down the street for a sandwich, and they couldn’t be happier.”   

So, Cora’s picking fights with all the other precinct poll workers, yelling at them to turn their chairs around to face the voting booths, so that they abide by general poll-working law.  She’s on a rampage and by the time the polls open, all the people are sitting at their booths, facing the wall.  Golly gosh, Cora, but your heart goes out to her as she sits, mid-way through the voting day, talking about her indolent mother and she’s laughing nervously, “She’s shriveled to nothing.”  And she’s laughing, but looking straight ahead, “But, uh, no… I was always an inch taller than her, but… no…” And she’s now looking down, fidgeting with some papers, and it’s that moment when I sort of like Cora because she’s kind of vulnerable.  But, she fucks it all up, and starts arguing with a voter about his vote-by-mail registration.   

Cora likes her oatmeal with a packet of Sweet N’ Low, a splash of maple syrup (for flavor), and a pinch of salt.  “Nothing’s sweet unless you have that pinch of salt,” she says.  Cora’s a packet of salt and a pinch of sugar.

At the end of last week, and I don’t remember where we were… probably late-night happy hour on Santa Monica Boulevard, where the sushi’s not that great and there’s too much vinegar in the rice.  Was it U-Zen Sushi where she shared the parable about the monk and the sage?  And the gist of it was that the sage answered the monk with a “God does not exist” retort.  It’s the word “God” that gets lost in translation and I ask her if she’s heard of ‘Yahweh.’  "Who’s Yahweh?"  Never mind. 

And some people say that Los Angeles is a godless city.  And that’s not true at all.  That’s Las Vegas.  No!  It can’t be if you really think about it because it’s a bunch of people, on the very brink of wavering faith, kissing their di before a roll, and, I bet you, hands down, there’s more communication with God at the craps table than there is at the Vatican… and then, god-willing, they win a land-fall and hire a prostitute.

Did you ever notice that religious leaders have the most difficult time with the acceptance of God?  The big “G,” “O,” “D.”  I ask this at U-Zen, or wherever we are, and nobody agrees.  But, it’s true and my dad’s a Rabbi and, for most my life, I went around thinking he didn’t believe in God.  And I’ve asked him countless times, “But, how can you be a Rabbi and not believe in God?”  And it’s not about God, he says.  But, yeah, it kind of is.  There are times, and it’s not when he’s preaching at the pew, but sitting in his lazy boy recliner, when it comes out… when, all of a sudden, he says something, he trip-falls, and says something so darn, undeniably, reverent.  It’s being in the profession of God that you’re two sides of the dime, the most pious and the most blasphemous.  It’s very oxymoronic.  And there’s no such thing as unwavering faith.

And life is one big oxymoron.  My mother, a convert, dubbed by the congregation as “the shiksa rebbetson,” is talking to me, laptop heating up her thighs, playing Snood.  I ask her if she feels Jewish, “Yeah, I guess so.”  And she goes on, “I suppose, I wasn’t one thing or the other… it’s a sense of community.”  And she’s telling me about how she felt it immediately, after meeting my dad, because she always wanted some sort of connection to something… and this was it.  All of a sudden, she’s quiet.
She’s fidgeting with her computer and she’s clicking the mouse, but the screen’s frozen.  “This is so fucked… I don’t know why it’s like this.”

Little Worlds in Los Angeles

LITTLE TEHRAN
On Westwood Boulevard, you walk past store-fronts of carpet shops and small markets with doors opened wide- it smells like dates and cardamon.  Farsi scribbled on neon signs and Persian music plays through scratched radios.

And there's the local ice cream joint: Rose and Saffron Ice Cream.  I like it because it's creamy and sweet... with rose water, saffron, and pistachio, and the best part isn't the ice cream, but the cubes of sweet milk, the white squares amidst a scoop of electric yellow.  We're eating home-churned ice cream out of styrofoam cups and it's not like Baskin Robbins, it's a bit gooier.  When it melts, it's like a thick syrup.  And it's fragrant like perfume.  It's not sweet like artificial candy, but mellow and tart and full-bodied.

CHINATOWN
Yesterday, I was with Austin and Danielle, Downtown.  Something about dim sum and beer.  The dim sum's quasi-cheap and loaded with MSG, curry spice and sweet bread and fried noodles.  Round tables and a parking lot attendant with rhinestone glasses- he's fearless and he gets behind Austin's car, in reverse, and reprimands his driving skills and laughs.  Inside is crowded and it's a dim sum restaurant, but there's no dim sum on the menu.

LITTLE TOKYO
After, we drive around and we search for this beer festival, or maybe it's not... I'm not sure what it is, but we never find it and instead we park around Little Tokyo and there's an outside cultural concert that just finished and everybody's getting ready to leave, disrobing the stage and disassembling the chairs, as costumed drummers in palm leaves and head-dresses walk by.  We walk forward and there's a manicured zen garden and fountain.  "Take a picture of it," Danielle says...but, "it's too pretty," Austin says.  And it's too picture perfect as an Asian boy hop-scotches over a small bridge as his mother follows.

Chinatown's grimy with cheap knock-offs, boom boxes, and a guy in the street who's playing the Guzheng, but Little Tokyo is prim and proper and clean with lamp posts and 14 year old girls who sing karaoke in the smack-middle of a square.  It's very yin and yang.

Down one narrow passage-way, between two brick buildings with fire escapes, is an open patio.  It's a weird time, late afternoon, right before it gets dark, so we sit and order two dark beers on tap and one spicy ginger brew.  We talk about Leonard Nimoy, Slash, and Martha Washington, and, before we know it, the sky dims and when you look up, strings of lights sparkle.

Barcelona: Waiting for Eurail

Barcelona, Catalunya, with lisps and melting buildings and Las Ramblas.  I get lost in Barcelona and I'm stuck in this city for much longer than expected because I'm waiting for my Rail Pass, but I can't communicate with the Spanish Post Office to coordinate the retrieval of my Express package.

A chandelier swaying from a high ceiling

I remember being stuck in southern Spain six years before with my mom and sister, eating ketchup and water--- and Granada and Tariffa and Seville, then driving to Portugal (where we meet the Turnbulls)... and in Granada, sitting inside this old building of musk and straw and spit, on the second floor, with this rickety old ladder, drinking cream tea after seeing the Alhambra at night and the sky is black and all the stars are bright and bats fly overhead--- and the god damn gypsies, who chase you with bundles of rosemary and sage in each hand.

And now, six years later, I'm back in Spain, but this time in Barcelona.  For the first few days, I'm by myself, but then I stay with Nicola and Duncan and their giant two year old daughter who's awfully smart (and awfully cheeky).  In Barcelona, there's a beach, but all the sand is imported from Morocco, or so they say, and it's not really sand because it's not grainy, and it sticks to you like glitter.  Afterwards, we drink cerveza and eat seafood on the ocean-front as tanned limbs prance by.

I eat Mexican food in Spain and, to be completely honest, it's not that great, a bit bland, and I drink margarita with salt on the brim. 

One night, I sort of mingle with a bunch of English-teachers-in-training at the Stock Market Bar and the prices rise and lower every three minutes and the trick is to order the drinks that have crashed, highlighted in red, that are dirt cheap.  I find this out after I've ordered my two drinks.  I'm speaking to this guy with a goatee, curly brown hair, and an Irish accent.  He says, "Yeah, man," a lot and he's talking about his crazy Spanish ex girlfriend.  Yes, I'm sure he's Irish and I'm waiting for a pause in-between his crazy ex-girlfriend rant so I can interject, "And where in Ireland are you from?"  I want to impress him with my accent GPS skills.  "No," he says, "Toronto."  And I finish my Strongbow and get the hell out of there--- and, for some reason, I can't get my bearings in Barcelona.  And Toronto, what an asshole.

So, Spain is the gateway for me.  I walk a lot and I buy gogi berries at the candy shop, sitting on a bench at the Arc de Triomf, thinking about where to go next.  Pakistani men hug me at the zoo and I keep walking straight, trying to find the Picasso Museum, but I walk too far and reach the ocean and then get lost inside of a Catholic Church.  Spain's dirty and the people are dark and skinny.  And my last day in Barcelona, a drizzling Monday afternoon, I finally find the Picasso Museum after weeks of searching, which is apparently closed on Mondays, and it's down a narrow alley where the buildings are ancient and squeezed too tight and tapas are over-priced.

Around 4 PM, one early evening, I'm sitting in this posh restaurant, in the no-smoking section, in an isolated dark room with cracked red leather, next to two silver men, one German and one Spaniard, who are smoking it up, drinking cognac (probably...how typical) in wide, short glasses.  "Should we stop smoking?" they ask me as they exhale rings of smoke and the waiter, with his left arm bent forward, a towel hanging from it, and his right arm behind his back, looking like a caricature, stares right at me.  "No, please don't," I say and my voice sounds small.  They buy me a champagne, except it's not champagne because it's Spanish... and I'm already drinking a pequena jug of wine... but I'm too polite to say 'no.'  I'm eating salmon carpaccio and the slices are so thin that they're transparent, like fogged pink glass, and I'm getting drunk...too drunk and I don't want to be.  "On the house," they tell me and they serve me a shot glass of coffee "con whiskey," but I suck it back.