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.”