Should Old Acquaintance Be Forgot?

I’ve never really been much of a New Year’s kind of girl. When I do go out to celebrate, the results are generally disastrous and serve as fodder for my stories of my rotten luck. But I do love the closing scene in “When Harry Met Sally” when Harry starts questioning the lyrics to “Auld Lang Syne”. I can’t hear the song and not think of that scene. They same is true whenever I hear the phrase, “Waiter, there is too much pepper on my paprikash.” To be fair, I am usually the one saying that one and “But baby fish mouth is sweeping the nation”. Great writing should be quoted often regardless of its relevance.

I have been thinking about all my friends this holiday season. Wondering if I am a loon for forging out on my own with little to no safety net. I have been discovering the profound instability of friendships I thought I had here. And I have been thinking, as I usually do around my birthday, of all the men that have drifted in and out of my life. What I never realized is that the poem from which this song derives its lyrics actually is asking a rhetorical question. Should old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind? I guess it depends on the acquaintance.

Before I left LA, I had coffee with an ex-boyfriend. It was benign enough. He managed to make one remark as we were leaving that tweaked my little brain for a week or so. I was recalling the conversation to a friend and she said, “When you go to Nashville, do me a favor and don’t unpack him. Leave him in California.” These were wise words. For me, the believer that I can make anything work, it is difficult to look at anyone or any situation and walk away feeling that I did all I could. That it would never be any different than it is. As I have gotten older, I have become more accustomed to leaving well enough alone. My heart, my trust, my loyalty are easily won. But I am both too young and too old for them to be easily kept.

I have been feeling quite self-absorbed these last few months. Consumed with trying not to feel as unsettled as I actually am. And I know that as I settle, it will be easy to forget those that I love. Or at least forget to keep them an active part of my heart and mind. I think that is the point of the poem. Reminding us not to forget those who have shaped us, loved us, cried with us, laughed with us, etc. As we grow and change and walk down new roads and face new adventures, we must guard against the real danger of forgetting who shared our path. For good and for bad.

I had a chat with the Captain of my store today. (The equivalent of a general manager just keeping with the nautical theme) He was talking about mistakes. Making them, learning from them, and not fearing chastisement for having made them in the first place. He said something that was so lovely; I wanted to write it down. Now I fear that I will not quote it accurately. He said:

We must start each day excited about the adventure of making our next magnificent mistakes while being vigilant not to repeat our old ones.

So that is how I would like to start this New Year on this silly little blog. I want to wish you all blessings and joy in this coming year. And I hope that you look excitedly forward to your next grand mistakes. Remember those that have made you who you are. Don’t unpack the ones that mess with your head. Keep your heart soft. And determine now that this time next year, you will either being crying tears of joy or sorrow as you look back on 2011. Otherwise, you just might have wasted your time.

Merry Christma, drama rod.

For the first time in 17 years, Nashville has had snow on Christmas. I think it is my arrival. They are just so happy to have me they have blanketed the city in snow. It’s just a theory, but I’m going with it.

I was not with my family this Christmas which was like a kind of torture for us all. We are a Christmas family. Hard core. We rival the Griswald’s. It is hard to describe if you have never experienced a Stokes’ Family Christmas. Suffice it to say, we are rad. Even though we were apart, I felt their love surrounding me all day. I love and miss them all terribly. My nephew told my brother “I like all my presents. I just don’t want to talk about it.” Comedy. I was invited to a new friend’s house for dinner. I very comfortably ate all of their delicious food. It is lovely to feel welcome with strangers. The ice on the way home was not as awesome.

Last night, I was doing a little laundry. There was a super cute guy in the laundry room who had misplaced his laundry card. (Card operated machines rather than coin). He asked me if I had some money on my card. Not enough for both of us. So he loaded some cash onto my card. When I returned to put my clothes in the dryer, he was not there. So I left him my card and a little note telling him when finished to return the card to my apartment. Smooth, right? He dropped by. We chatted for a moment. He lingered and eventually departed when I wished him a Merry Christmas. I went back to get my dry laundry and he was there folding his. Yes! I remained true to my drama rod self. Here is how the conversation went:

“So why are you doing laundry on Christmas’ Eve?”
“I hate to break it to you, buddy, but you are doing laundry on Christmas’ Eve. I just moved here from LA. No family and friends so why not laundry? You?”
“Similar story. I moved here from New York.”
“The city?”
“Yeah, Queens.”
“How does someone from Queens end up in Nashville?”
“Well…my soon to be ex wife found out she was pregnant and is from here.”
(L.E. panicked and thinking “Seriously?”)
“But I am glad I moved here cause I like it.”
“Well, that’s good. Merry Christmas again.”

Classic. The story had such potential until there was baby mamma drama.

My birthday is in two days. And year after year, I suffer some type of disappointment that casts a shadow over my birthday. I can catalogue them. It is uncanny. This year was no different and I am not referring to the super cute laundry room guy. But this year unlike any other, I am resolute to be defiant. I will not let this dampen my spirits. I have been brave. And not everything is going to plan yet, but when does it? I shall not be damp!

So to everyone that reads this nonsensical blog, and I know and love you all, Merry Christmas and Happy Birthday! I hope that you have been filled with love and peace today. And I hope that the blessings of your life far outweigh any of your sorrows.

We Are All Just Guessing

Well, I survived my first snow/ice driving in Nashville. It was…daunting. My poor brother had to endure me absolutely losing my crackers as I was stuck in the driveway of my apartment complex. There was no way I was getting in. My engine would soar, make a weird noise and smell, and I would move incrementally. There were some good Samaritans out and they came to my aid. I was in a state. Fit to be tied, if you will. For now, the ice has melted and all will be well until Wednesday night when another storm rolls through.

I had a conversation with a friend Saturday night that has been cooking my noodle a bit. And since I have spent almost the entire day in my apartment, I have had some time to mull it over. It would take a while to recap the conversation. And frankly, I would like to preserve the dignity of my friend by not blasting the contents on the interwebs. Suffice it to say, there were many questions raised regarding the providence and involvement of God in our lives and what all that looks like. As I listened and nodded, understanding the questions more poignantly than I would care to, I expressed the thoughts that have been swimming around in my brain for the last few months. First a little background.

The notion that God has a set plans for my life unraveled a while ago for me. I have never been what my brother calls toothpaste Christian: one that asks for the Almighty’s guidance on every decision including “Aquafresh or Colgate?” As though God gives a rat’s ass which toothpaste I use. However, I was a firm believer in tapping into or suddenly discovering God’s path for me. And my weirdo dreams that come true never discredited the notion. I didn’t sweat the small stuff. In my mid twenties when nothing was going according to any discernable plan, I started to even question the idea that there was any grand purpose or plan. And if there was, I was not terribly convinced that my hopes and dreams made the cut. I had a pastor once tell me he was going to pray that I get a husband. I told him, “Well, that is sweet, but I am not sure that me getting laid is high on his list of priorities.” He smiled at me and said he would pray nevertheless because it was high on his list. I appreciated the sentiment. I made an agreement with myself to be at peace if there was never be a husband and family for me, but that I would never stop looking, hoping, and asking for one. Even in my doubt and substantial discouragement, I still searched for “my path”. Asking God to speak to me, to guide me, to show me what I was meant to do. And if there was no “meant to”, maybe just point me in the direction of what I would enjoy more than what I had already been doing. Oddly enough, he eventually answered. And now I live in Nashville and work at American Eagle. And I am crossing my fingers that I will survive school and like being a nurse. But I do wonder if it is all just a new tablecloth over the rickety old table that has been and is still just me.

I told my friend that I had been wondering how much it would change my theology or my approach to seeking God’s purpose and guidance if there were no heaven. I know this is Evangelical heresy and I am sure I will commit it again before the post is finished. But we spend a lot of time in Christianity focused on doing everything here for a payoff there. Or not doing things, for that matter. And I wonder if we put so much pressure on hearing and doing what God wants because we fear we would be living our lives for ourselves if we did otherwise. But that approach can be paralytic to both our souls and our actions. Meaning, we can stay in a place of inaction waiting to hear before we do. And if we don’t hear, we don’t do. When if we had just done, we might have heard in the doing. Or maybe not. But at least we would be living. Jesus said that he only did what he saw the Father doing. But our only evidence of what the father was doing, was what Jesus was doing. So…how do we figure out what the father is doing? Shouldn’t we just look and see what Jesus did and go from there? Is there a super personalized plan for all of us? Or are we just supposed to do our best with what we have and what we know? He said to store up treasures in heaven. But did he mean that literally? I mean, do I have a credit account in heaven? Or was he speaking figuratively? Was he asking us to devote our lives to the things that matter, to kingdom values, to love, to charity, to generosity, to sacrifice, to being a blessing? What if there was no heaven? Then wouldn’t the point be to live the most Christian life that I can within the confines of my talents and abilities and, frankly, doing the things that I enjoy? Not engaging in behavior because we fear it is a sin, but because we know the damage it does to us and to others. I’m not advocating Christianity as merely a well-developed piece of moral regulations. There has to be room for surprise and mysticism. And we have to be open to that. But I just wonder if we should spend the majority of our time trying to leave every place we are better than when we found it. If God wants to interrupt us, well, he is God. I am sure he can manage it.

I told my friend that the best I can do now is try and do something that has some meaning. He said, “Meaning to you.” Well, yes. If I am striving to apply the values of Jesus’ life to mine, then I feel like most anything I would do will have some meaning. But I would prefer it to have meaning to me too. I’m not saying we all have to dedicate ourselves to humanitarian work. I think there is a reason we are given talents and passions. And I don’t think charity or sacrificial work is the only way to live out a Christian life. There is beauty and importance in art, music, literature, social justice, laughter, love, doing things for the sheer pleasure of it, etc. Hell, there is value in plumbing. I guess my question would be that if I lived my life that way - not excluding God from consultation or guidance, but not dependent on it for movement – would I finish my life a little more satisfied? Feeling like it mattered I was here. That I fulfilled the task that was given to me to do unto the least of these. I’ll tell you this much, I wouldn’t have wasted so much stinking time petrified to move for fear that I wouldn't make the right choice. Or even more time when I was hopeless, believing that there was no plan and no meaning. I would just do. Find who I am, and decide what it means to live out the Gospel in all of my decisions.

Life is short. And as much as Biblical literalism and the notion of the inerrancy of Scripture are comforting, it can be really debilitating and silly. At the end of the day, I think we are all just guessing. So here is my best guess: God is love and light, so I am going to try and be love and light more of the time than not. And try to find things that make me happy in the process.

The DMV and Other Such Nonsense

I had to wait a little while to detox from my day at the DMV before writing about it. I arrived, stood on line, took my number, and then waited almost four hours for an appointment that took ten minutes. It had to be the most inefficient system I have seen in a while. I sat in the waiting room listening to a woman scream that she has never done crack, casually reading my Economist. I almost finished the magazine. If you have ever picked up an Economist, you will know how much time they take to read. Not really a browsing little mag. I was sitting next to some people that were there to sort out a ticket and get their license back. They had both been caught driving without insurance. They bellyached and bitched about the state “nickel and diming you”. I restrained myself, but I wanted to say, “You assholes are driving around without insurance. You deserve every fine and inconvenience you are experiencing.” But I smiled, and placidly returned to my reading. I was astonished that if you have to have insurance to drive, why was I not asked to produce it before getting my license or registering my car. I mean, that’s just logical. Once I had my license, I had to then drive to the county clerk’s office to register my car. For realz? You can’t do both at the Department of Motor Vehicles??? Stupid. They have a blanket cost of $90 dollars to register your vehicle. They didn’t seem to care that the truck is 12 years old. When you live in states that don’t have income tax, people tend to brag about it with wide-eyed enthusiasm. But whether they take it from your check or not, they get their taxes. At least when it is deducted, you don’t quite notice it the same way as when you are paying 10% tax on your soda. Nevertheless, I am licensed and registered and that is good.

I started a part-time job at American Eagle to try and generate a little cash flow in the interim. The training was laughably anemic. I’m pretty sure they taught me to smile, but I can’t be positive. My first shift was on the dreaded black Friday. I was a little nervous because I really detest being unprepared. However, it was crazy boring. I really just stood there, said “All these hoodies are $19.77 and with the 20% discount in the store, that makes them $16.” and then refolded all the disturbed clothes over and over and over and over and over and over again. One of the managers approached me on Saturday to tell me he really thought I could be a top associate. “You have a good head on your shoulders. You’re smart. And you have managed a retail store. I don’t know what your plans are, but there is room to grow here.” It was really quite sweet. And he is a super cool guy so far. But I couldn’t help but laugh wildly on the inside and blast it on Facebook. I mean, honestly, retail management…um…no. I am finding my 19 year old coworkers to be a bit icy, but I didn’t really get the job to make friends. And after cleaning the store today, let me caution all of you from wearing clothes from a store without washing them first. Trust me. I have also recognized a slight ethical dilemma in working here. The major push is sales, obviously. But the tactics to try and get people to buy more than they intend sort of rubs me the wrong way. Without knowing whether or not they can afford it, it makes me really uncomfortable. Because 20% off is nice, but it makes you spend more than maybe you should. And I feel sleazy shoving products in their hands. So I really just avoid that admonishment altogether.

It is nice to have something to do, even if it makes me want to bash my brains in and involves listening to Katy Perry and that stupid “Teenage Dream” song twice an hour. Not that Weezer’s “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” is much better. Activity helps to keep all things in a bit of perspective. Or serves as a distraction, which is just as good.

I am thankful that I got a job. Thankful that I was able to spend Thanksgiving with a friend. Thankful that I am here even if I still don't know why.

Blues Can Make You Feel So Good

Tuesday night, I was invited to a blues showcase at the Bluebird Café. I figured if it wasn’t good, it would at least be fodder for the blog. As my father says, “Good blues can make you feel so good.” There were three acts in this round. Dave Perkins (friend of my new friend), some other guy, and a couple whose band name is Blue Mother Tupelo.

Now, the guy who seemed to have organized the evening, ironic that I can’t remember his name, he sang mostly about food. I have deemed him to be bubblegum blues. He also shook his head in order to produce vibrato. That one stumps me. How do you not develop natural vibrato? Or why don’t you go see an ENT when your vocal cords no longer meet? Anyway, he was enjoyable in a pop blues kind of way. He told a story about a mentor of his named Coot Wilfred. Now, Coot was married to a woman called Susta Baby. She got this name by being the youngest girl in her family. When she went to college, she went by her given name. But when she married Coot she went back to Susta Baby because she didn’t want to be Winifred Wilfred. I turned to my friend and said, “Honestly, are these real words?” Classic southern story.

Dave Perkins was an interesting cat. He is apparently getting his PHD in religion. His music had blatant theological overtones. Which if you have listened to very much blues, if they have a theological bent, it is usually quite simple. But Dave’s music had well developed, conflicted, at times even doubting theological assertions. His was a very intellectual blues. Fantastic, to be sure. Remarkably talented guy. He had some of the smoothest and measured guitar licks I have ever heard. Although he is a bit out of my age range, he is still super cool looking. One of those folks with fashion sense that never expires. He ended his set playing a Robert Johnson tune that the entire group joined. It was…well…not sure I know the right word for it. “Marvelous” will have to do.

Then there was Blue Mother Tupelo. Oh my goodness. We all can appreciate the difference between talented people and those that have the cosmic “it” factor. These two have “it” and then some. The wife of the team sounded like Patty Griffin on steroids. She had that earthy, node-ridden quality to her voice. Her lines just flowed and danced through each song. She doesn’t have a very full or even sonorous voice. It was like coloratura husky. And when she played the tambourine, she looked like a boxer warming up for a fight. Every part of her body was moving and contracting as this 5 foot nothing pixie added percussion to the mix. Her husband was crazy good. He swapped back and forth between his acoustic and a steel string guitar. And when they sang together, they didn’t have harmonies that lived symbiotically. It was as if they were both singing their own melodies that just met up now and then. I was so enraptured with these two that I passed her a note in the middle of the show. It said, “You guys are rad. Best act I have seen in Nashville.” She thought it was so sweet she put it in her shirt “next to my heart.” I talked with both of them after the show like a bumbling fan. Couldn’t find an articulate word in my brain. I was so captured and lifted and mesmerized. I went home and bought one of their records on iTunes. And the best thing happened. I listened to it, loved it, and thought, “This doesn’t come close to the live show.” So much better than having a record that you love and then being profoundly disappointed by the performer live. If you have any interest in Americana/Blues, you need to add Blue Mother Tupelo to your catalogue.

Loneliness Blows

When I was younger, I used to write a lot of poetry. A lot. In fact, I wrote a new poem on the back of every Algebra test in 8th grade. My teacher loved them. She was a math teacher, so I am not sure she had any poetic expertise. I wrote mostly about the boys I liked. And the boys I didn’t like. Occasionally, I wrote on more serious matters like when my uncle died. At 15, I abruptly abandoned poetry. In the name of artistic prowess, I felt that the poetry was becoming a type of therapy. It was not written for its own sake. And I’ll be damned if I was going to be another teenager in black clothes writing about the grim world of my preternatural adolescent experience. Truth be told, I should have kept at it. I needed the outlet and the therapy. But my desire to never be a stereotype kept me from poetry and trendy haircuts I would be ashamed of later in life. Such concern for how the older me would judge the younger me.

I don’t think I have ever outgrown it. I never want to be somebody’s slogan. Always, always, always meaning what I say, wearing my feelings on my face, discontent with disingenuous conversation, and craving deep and cosmic connection. If you have read any previous entries on this blog, you could easily surmise that I am critical and opinionated. And in good faith, I am. I would hope that my critical eye is an effort to always find truth and beauty. However, I confess that a good portion comes from superiority. And I hate that. I hate that separation. I hate the distance it puts between me and whatever I have just observed.

If you could boil my basic theology into one word, it would be “inclusion”. Maybe “subsuming” because I like the sound of that word. I believe with all of my heart that God desires and works to include us in his heart, love, will, and work. And we are to do the same with Him and with others. And anything that begins to separate or distance us from others, from Him, and especially ourselves does more damage than we can know. There is fear in isolation. There is calamity that overcomes the human spirit in isolation. And there is a profound lack of perspective that creeps in and settles in our minds.

I also think that our most basic theologies have a great deal to do with our underlying pathologies. I have never been completely the odd man out. I have always been a part of the circle without ever really being a part of the circle. Just separate enough to be discouraged. And just a part of everything to feel paranoid and dramatic. It is has proven difficult to assimilate and also maintain my fierce devotion to being my own person. I know that I crave inclusion and it greatly influences my view of everything, especially God.

All that to say, and that was a lot to say to get to a very narrow point, loneliness blows. This is the toughest portion of the move. The time when you are no longer part of the place you came from, but not yet a part of the place you are.

I watched a lovely movie the other night where a character prayed this prayer.

“Dear God,

All I can do is stammer to You.
I can do nothing but hold out my heart to You.
You created us in Your likeness.
Our hearts are uneasy
until they find peace in You.

Amen”

That about sums it up.

I Miss the Arclight

I have been to two movies since moving to Nashville. And I have gone to two different theaters. I have become painfully aware of how much the ambiance of the actual theater contributes to the overall experience of the movie. And how much the crappy ambiance can detract from it. I like to sit close to the screen in movie theaters for two reasons; most people sit in the middle or the back surrounding me with empty chairs in the front greatly reducing the chance that I am sitting next to a chatterbox or candy wrapping handicapped individual, and I like to be enveloped in the film. I like to sit so close that I forget I am at the movies. But when the theater sucks, it doesn’t matter how close I am to the screen. If that cloth collage of Charlie Chaplin is in my peripheral vision, it is all over. Who even likes those? So lame.

The first theater I went to was decorated in a lovely purple and green combo, complete with green neon lights running the length of the walls and ceiling. I felt like I was in “Tron” or 1991. I went down the stairs and into a hallway leading to my theater and was accosted with the most revolting smell. It was like a combo of popcorn butter, sweat, decades of foot traffic, and grime. Honestly, I would have preferred to step into a classroom with 25 fifth graders that just had PE. That is how bad it smelled. The theater itself barely shook off the hallway odor. I think I must have just started to ignore it. It greatly inhibited my emersion into “RED”. I went to this theater because it was in the cool part of town. Not really cool like “hip” but cool like “this is where the money is”. And it is completely surrounded by a remolded mall.

After that debacle, I decided that I would risk the theater closer to home. I mean, could it be worse? At least it was built in the last decade. Not much better. The smell wasn’t quite as repugnant. However, the projector was color challenged. Frequently throughout the film the color would be off and it registered most notably on the actor’s faces. They all looked like they had jaundice. Imagine Justin Timberlake with jaundice. Nobody needs to see that. BUT I DID! It really disrupts my experience when anything reminds me that I am in fact, watching a movie. I mean I know I am watching a movie. But when I get distracted by “Is that a really bad make-up artist making them all yellow?” instead of just thinking, “Wow. Armie Hammer turned out way hotter than I would have expected when he was 13”. (I used to go to church with him), well, that is lame.

All that to say, I miss the Arclight and its like-minded affiliates. I even miss the Laemmle theaters.

The Consolation of Winter

I was really angry with myself yesterday for a few reasons. The chief reason being that I completely missed the ending of daylight savings. I look forward to this time of year like most people look forward to Christmas. It isn’t that I don’t like daylight. I am a fan of the sun. Not that much of a fan since I have a delicate complexion and very sensitive eyes. But I don’t begrudge him his time to shine. The reason I love daylight savings is because of the glorious extra hour of sleep. It isn’t just the extra hour. It is the anticipation. It is knowing all day that I get to set my clock one hour earlier. It makes me giddy. It makes me feel all warm and cuddly. I almost always stay up an extra hour or two completely defeating the purpose. But when I wake up the next morning, it feels lovely. This year, in my state of funemployment, I tend lose track of the date and normal cycle of life. Completely missed the daylight savings. I had one alarm go off and then thinking I had slept in until 10, my phone alarm went off alerting me that it was in fact 9 am. I was confused for a moment. And then it occurred to me. I had missed my favorite holiday. It was just an ordinary Saturday night. Broke my heart a little.

Last night as I was falling asleep, taking stock of my day worrying about tomorrow, I interrupted my personal scolding to realize why I enjoy colder weather. Not arctic cold, just crispy cold. I had added a blanket underneath my comforter. Under the weight of my jersey sheets, blanket, and down comforter, I was gloriously replete. When I woke up in the night to use the bathroom (a nightly curse), I snuggled back into my den of hibernation. I sleep better with heavy blankets. I don’t know why. Maybe it is where I register on the autism scale. But the blankets, the weight, the cavern of warmth, this is my consolation. So I missed my favorite day of the year and my silly excitement over the time change. I had weight to comfort me as I slept.

E-I-E-I-Oh No

Well, I am in Music City. So it is only fitting that I go hear music often. I need to find some venues that are not country oriented. The formulaic nature of country songwriting gets on my nerves. I would say the songs are riddled with play on words, but I don’t think that is it. They are more like a turn of phrase that sounds clever but is quite insubstantial. Tonight, I heard “One step closer to nowhere at all.” and “E-I-E-I-OOOO” a song about the lessons you learn living on a farm. I guess. There was a woman who by her third song I had trouble not laughing. In fact, I failed. I chuckled often. She kept jerking her face away from the microphone to spare it the overload. The irony of course was that she neither had a big enough voice to necessitate such a gesture nor was she singing loudly. She also had a machine gun vibrato that made me cringe. There was the odd family sitting a few tables away. If I didn’t know he was a fictional character, I would swear the son was Lenny from “Of Mice and Men”. He walked with a glazed crazed look on his face without moving his arms. There was also a man in a wheelchair that did not use the wheels to move the chair but rather his feet. Why do you need a wheelchair if you have the use of your legs? Very odd, indeed. Then came the third set of musicians. Holy night. There was this girl that has no business being in Nashville. Her voice alone much less her brilliantly quirky music belongs in a different market. Her name was Katie something and she was magnificent. Her voice was half Rachel Yamagata and half Billy Holiday. Intoxicating, really. The kind of work that makes me think I completely wasted my youth. And I am sure my brother will agree with that last sentence.

Cans of Beer

I went to the famous Bluebird Café last night to hear songwriter’s in a round. The Bluebird is interesting. It is this tiny little café in a strip mall with little to no parking. It sits across from an uber suburban mall not unlike The Grove. And yet, it is crazy famous. There were three songwriters. Two women and a married couple. They chit chat between songs and tell stories. The married couple was awesome. They call themselves “Carolina Sings”. I recommend exploring their music. One of the women had a lovely voice and her music was pretty good. Interesting lyrics, but not really any hooks to her songs. I don’t really remember a single song. Kind of like seeing a musical that you remember liking, but don’t walk away humming the music. The other artist was…well, I didn’t care for her. They are embarking on a tour today. The Bluebird was their first night. The café has a $7 minimum purchase of food and/or beverage. I thought a salad sounded lovely. But I forgot were I was. Iceberg lettuce is NOT a reasonable form of lettuce in a house salad. It has its place. Sandwiches, garnish, or even mixed in with darker greens, I suppose. But it was the only lettuce in the bowl. Felt like I was eating damp, crisp cardboard. I need to learn that lesson quickly. Good salads must be made at home. Then there were the cans of beer. None that I ordered, of course. But they were everywhere. Everybody had beer in a can. What self-respecting bar serves beer in a can? You drink canned beer at a frat party, or intertubing, or on your front lawn. You do not drink it in a bar. They should be ashamed of themselves. At one point, Ben of Carolina Sings was introducing the next song. He said it was inspired in reaction to the horrible movie “2012”. I never saw it so I can’t comment. But he showed his age and ignorance when saying that in an epic film like that the casting should be more thoughtful. “John Cusack? Who is that? He has “Serendipity” to his name and that is about it. They should have gotten Denzel.” I’m sorry, what? Serendipity? Are you serious? Have you ever heard of “Better of Dead”, “Say Anything”, “Gross Point Blank.”? Hell, I would put “Must Love Dogs” higher up on the list of credentials than “Serendipity”. I was a bit horrified. The other part that was quite a shift for me was the number of Christian centric songs. Really threw me when someone played a song she wrote for her Old Testament History class in college. When you go to hear music in LA, there is the occasional Christian song that makes an appearance. Usually, it is performed by a new arrival to the city. Geez, I got a terrible review for singing a spiritual a capella at a show. You can still find it with a simple Google search. It was a warning of what not to do. The reviewer failed to mention that the room went ape shit for the song, and it only bothered him. I figured if U2 can sing “40”, Cream can sing “Presence of the Lord”, and Phish can sing “Amazing Grace”, I was pretty safe at a dinky bar on Sunset. But I digress. One of the girls didn’t understand the reference of one of the songs. The other girl said, “Well, Amy, if you ever bothered to pick up a Bible you would know.” And the room erupted in an “Ooh”. Wow. I am in the South. When a “not reading your Bible” quip can provoke such a reaction from the crowd.

All in all, I dug it. The caliber of voices goes dramatically up in the Music City. Reminds me of Austin. LA for being the seat of the record labels really doesn’t provide a plethora of high quality singers. It is usually a find.

Mega Grace

I went to a church service last night with a friend. It’s a mid-week service of a Southern Baptist church aimed primarily for the 18 to 35 age range. There is a smattering of folks on either side of that bracket that attend. I met a woman whose family is from Southern California. She said, “I hear you moved here from LA. What part? Were you really from LA? Because a lot of people say they are from LA and don’t live anywhere near the city proper.” I didn’t know what her definition of “LA proper” was. I felt immediately on the spot to give the right answer. What if my answer was Arcadia? Was I then less from Southern California than her? She who lives in Nashville. We talked about Venice for a while. My friend mentioned that the only time he had been to Venice was during a Hemp festival (didn’t know they had such a thing). He said, “Not exactly the experience I was expecting.” I told him he had the quintessential Venice experience.

I’m not one for mega churches. I am a bit agoraphobic. Can’t really deal with crowds unless I am on the stage in front of them. The last vestiges of the performer in me. I also tend to feel like I am not having a meaningful exchange. The large number of people usually corresponds with less intimacy. Not always, of course, but often enough to make the experience feel generic. This service was fitted with all the usual accommodations for appeal to a younger crowd. Dark room, cool stage lights, bitchin tight band, modern graphics behind the lyrics, etc. It was pleasant enough. The musicians were amazing. The songs were…well…they were fine. There was one lyric that really stumped me. “If grace were an ocean, we’re all sinking.” Hmm…can one drown in grace? Is that really the best metaphor? I empathize with the songwriter. Sometimes you are too close to the song to see that there is just one couplet that needs ten more minutes of thought. I get annoyed with bad metaphors in songs. “Nothing compares to your embrace”. Baloney. God never gave you a hug. And metaphorically, it is odd.

This church was all about grace. Most of the songs featured it as a central theme. The prayer before the sermon was all about grace. The sermon was not about grace. It was about friendship. Although I am still struggling to figure out what the point of the sermon was, it was well delivered. It was just unclear what the take away was. How was I challenged to be a better, godly person? And can I become better or godly without grace?

I’m not sure how I feel about the liberal use of the word or concept of grace. I don’t go to this church. I don’t know their understanding or definition of the concept. And you can’t judge a place or their beliefs after one viewing. But it got me thinking. In general, I wonder about the repetitive use of the word grace. The statements that say, “It’s all about grace” or “I am nothing without grace”. Really, I have trouble with any statement that removes the person from the equation and makes everything either because of or about the divine’s interaction. Seems that the common Protestant definition of grace is the power given to us to see Godly characteristics developed in our lives. I think that concept can get warped into something little more than taking an aspirin. I have a headache, I take an aspirin and my headache goes away. Compared to, I am a bastard, I ask for grace, and I am not a bastard anymore. Not through my merits, of course. It was all God. Nonsense. Even with supernatural assistance, I still have to make the choice and take the steps to not be a bastard anymore. I have to see the behaviors reflect a deficiency in my character. And I have to take measures to see my heart changed not just my behavior modified. My objection to the prolific and common use of any theological concept is that it can often lead to violating the blessed and sacredness of free will. If we do nothing on our own, if nothing is our choice, if we are not partners in this faith journey, then we are puppets. I struggle sometimes to see how to maintain my own identity while walking with God. I have felt that venturing down the road of being a Christ follower meant that I was no longer a participant. Or at least, my participation meant the eradication of my humanity. I don’t think that God wants to eradicate our humanity, but rather our sin. We are to be sanctified, but does that mean we are no longer ourselves? By obeying his commandments, do I loose all sense of self? Is that what he wants?

The worship song that ended the service had a line or two that I can’t recall exactly, but stated that the love of Jesus was all that we needed and all we ever wanted. It was put in the first person. I stopped singing when it got to that line. It isn’t enough for me. It isn’t all I ever want. And I am not sure that it is all he wants me to want. Be willing to forsake all for? Yes. But is forsaking all an obligatory part of accepting or receiving this love? My brilliant sister once said, “The scripture says that ‘Man shall not live by bread alone’. That doesn’t mean we only subsist on the words that proceed from the mouth of God. There is still bread that we require. And it is ok to want and need bread”. He didn’t create us to subsist on his love alone. And I can’t sing that line even if it is hyperbole. It isn’t honest. If it isn’t everything to me, does that mean that I love this world too much? I honestly don’t know. In any case, the service made me think. Even if it was in reaction to it, thinking is always a good thing.

We Like It Hot and Black

On the eve of the mid-term elections, I realize that I have been remiss in exposing our voters to the Coffee Party. People are tired of the same old same old, politics as usual, machine in Washington. Where the old, white men sit around and decide our futures with little to no regard to the wishes of the American people. The real Americans. The ones in the middle. We want change. We need change. We are tired of their slogans. Tired of their rhetoric. Tired of their gridlock and naïve assumption that we don’t know what we like. It is time to fight. It is time to unite.

Now, there are many that have felt the undercurrent of dissatisfaction with the coffee makers of yesteryear. The glass pot. The exposed burner. The water that is heated barely above 70 degrees. Despicable. No wonder we have lost the respect of the Ethiopians, the proud people of Sumatra, and the Columbian farmers that never bowed to the cocaine industry and grew their blessed beans instead. Gone are the days that our cups are filled to the rim with the richness of Brim. Gone are the days that we believe Folgers could ever be the best part of waking up. We must take back our country, our coffee, and our cups. However, our independence cannot and should not ever be expressed with a rejection of our beloved coffee. Our opponents would have you believe tea is a suitable alternative. It has caffeine. It is hot too. These are the ramblings of a party that knows it has no real substance. It only offers opposition. A Tea Party that boasts grass roots activism. I ask you, would you rather taste the leaves of grass or the cherry of a bush? Citizens, a return to pre-revolutionary tastes and traditions is not the solution. We live in trying times. We can’t afford to return to the default beverage of the pasty Brits we overthrew. We are the last superpower. We can’t have all our men sitting around in cardigans, legs crossed, speaking in hushed tones as the sip their tea. TEA!!! Tea is for pussies. And we are a nation of dogs.

We cannot afford to fall victim to their antics. They talk of diversity. You can have green tea, white tea, black tea, oolong tea, etc. But they don’t want you to experience it in its natural and loose form. No, they want to restrain it and place it in a little white bag. Their diversity is little more than a marginal change in the hue of your colored water. They promise immediate and lasting change. With the slightest bit of research, we quickly discover that tea has to be steeped to be enjoyed. Immediate change? I think not. They speak of understanding the plight of the “Average Joe”. Oh really? Is “Joe” another name for tea? Oh right, I forgot. It is another name for COFFEE.

Our platform is simple. We believe in a community gathered around coffee. We believe in supporting awkward first dates. We believe in aiding in late night cramming sessions. We believe in settling the stomach after a big meal. We believe in being used as an excuse to escape the office. We believe in tip jar economics; give out of the generosity of your heart or the pennies you just don’t want in your pocket. We believe in freedom of choice. You are welcome in our Party to prepare your coffee in whatever fashion you see fit. Turkish, French Press, Percolator, Drip, whatever your preference, you are welcome. We believe in fair trade and sustainability. There is substantial research that indicates that a room of well caffeinated 13 year olds creates enough energy to power the United States three times over. We have to start embracing energy alternatives. We believe in welfare and the recognition that everyone deserves quality coffee. That is why we look the other way when the homeless dig a cup out of the trash, bring it in, and ask for their free refill. Yes, you can have your coffee.

We cannot afford our government to be overcome with whispering, pinky in the air, saucer-using jackasses. We must take back our country. So when you vote tomorrow, don’t vote your values. Vote to stay the caffeine headache you are about to get when you have to start drinking tea.

*Written primarily for the enjoyment of Mr. Lamely

Ghetto Copters, "Hikes", and Waving

I met my neighbor the other night. His name is Jeremy. However, in his lovely Southern drawl, it came out Jer-a-mee. Jeremy was standing perched halfway between his living room and porch. I was struggling to hold onto Bartleby’s leash and get out the front door with a bag of garbage and a few empty boxes. Jeremy looked at me with a wide-eyed paranoia and said, “I’m not sure you should go out there. There have been cops circling around. And did you hear the helicopter? It was circlin’, shinin it’s light all over the place.” I said, “Oh, a ghetto copter.” I was just going to walk away when I thought it best to consider my new surroundings. I asked, “Is that unusual?” As earnestly as I have ever heard and his eyes widening even more, he said, “I have never seen that before in my life.” My response, “Oh. I just moved here from LA. Someone was murdered four blocks away from my house. And I lived in a good neighborhood. So…” I peaked in and saw Jeremy’s red suede couches as he said with a twinge of sadness and resignation, “I’ve been to LA. I love it there.” Yes, WEHO is fun.

I have now taken Bartleby on three “hikes”. I don’t think there is a path in the city that is not paved, but I am determined to find it. When we were “hiking” today and I was carrying his poop for two miles, AGAIN, I started to notice something that is really odd to me. Everyone waves at me. Not just a friendly, “Oh hey neighbor” kind of wave. Rather, a make eye contact, smile, enthusiastically wave at you and if I am in a car I will definitely honk. It is really strange. Not that I don’t appreciate the welcome, but I am pretty sure that I have never met any of these people. And I have taken to responding with an obligatory wave without all the smiling and eye contact. This creates a bit of a problem. What happens when I actually meet people who actually see me out and about and they wave and I shine them with my half-assed “I guess?” wave? What happens then, people? I’ll tell you what happens. I become the bitch from LA. Sad day. Sad, sad day.

Coffee and Hipsters

Was it the beatniks that started the coffee shop hipster scene? With their morose poetry and finger snapping? Not sure who started it, but I am glad they did. Yesterday, I visited Crema in downtown Nashville. I made it past the honky tonk downtown area where all the tourists hang out without getting infected by their penchant for visors and black socks with their white tennis shoes. Crema looks like it is in a converted warehouse with a garage door at the end of the room. It was full of late twenties early thirty hipsters. The kind of people that made it through the probationary period on their hipness and graduated to the kind of people who just look cool, pensive, and interesting. The coffee was delicious. The barista took extraordinary care and concern in pouring the steamed milk in the shape of a heart. Nashville hearts L.E. I sat and read for a bit occasionally glancing to see a lovely bridge, giant pile of gravel, and the seats of what I am assuming is the stadium where the Titans play. L.E. hearts city.

This morning I joined a friend for brunch at Bongo Java. Well, a bagel and coffee. It sits across from Belmont University. We sat on the porch on a gorgeous sunny but cool day. This shop too had hipsters. Young ones. The University types that drink their Fair Trade coffee without fully understanding what Fair Trade is and carry their guitars in gig bags in case you didn’t know they were musicians. There was a kid we spotted who alternated between taking a drag of his smoke and snorting nasal spray before offering it to his friend. Who shares nasal spray? They’re young and dangerous! They have punk mullets circa 1976 Sex Pistols. Bongo Java is in an adorable neighborhood. Red brick houses, a thick smattering of trees, and independent clothing exchange stores. Now, I rarely look like I have been dipped in a Thrift Store, but these are my peeps. When I am in that part of town, I begin to feel what I felt on my visit to Nashville last summer: home.

If I could spend every day wasting 4 hours chatting or reading in a coffee shop surrounded by hipsters where I know my t-shirt that says “Balls” will garner an amused smirk or two, I would be a very happy camper.

First Days in Nashville/The Perils of Unemployment

I’m chillin in Nashville now. I got a call this morning that the truck with all my belongings is leaving California today. Super. Looks like I am sleeping on the air mattress for a few more days. The drive from Oklahoma to Nashville was relatively uneventful. I was discouraged to discover that the cleanliness of the public restrooms declined substantially the further southeast I traveled. I mean, really bad. I even watched a person throw a disposable cup out their car window barreling down the interstate at 75 mph. Come on, people. Where is that Southern pride you talk about all the time?

I am living in a fairly central location just a bit south of downtown. It is an apartment compound. There are 632 apartments in this complex. Man, I really wish there was an all caps for numbers. SIX HUNDRED AND THIRTY TWO!!! It is insane. I think that as long as they don’t offer me any Kool Aid, all will be well. The apartment has what appears to be granite countertops and hardwood floors in the bathroom and kitchen. Upon closer examination, one sees these are counterfeit. The hardwood floors are actually linoleum that looks like hard wood floors. And the granite is…I don’t know. Not granite. The neighborhood is nice enough. There is a local Walmart (boo) and a Target close by. There are two Shell stations that are directly across the street from one another. I don’t understand the logic of that one. There are some fascinating highlights in my area. Hair highlights, that is. Really, I think they should be called chunklights. These women have a really dark hair base. Then chunks of hair dyed almost platinum and other chunks that are a brassy pumpkin color. It is not at all attractive. It seems that while they all go to the same person to do their chunklights, they also get their hair cut by the same stylist. Everyone, EVERYONE has essentially the same “hip” bob. It is neither hip nor a real bob.

I took Bartleby on a “hike”. It is in quotations because it was on asphalt and you can’t take dogs on the trails. There are little things that California has on hiking trails that I miss. Things like trashcans, waterspouts, and even dog poop bag dispensers for your convenience. Instead, I walked for two miles carrying his poo. We had a near miss when my 63-pound lapdog almost dragged me into the mossy lake where neither he nor I was allowed to be. I passed eight churches in the 2.5-mile stretch leading to the hiking area. Three churches had adjacent lot lines. I am in the South, yo.

They are all really friendly. I will give them that. When drivers cut you off or do something inconsiderate, which is often, they all wave at you. Just a little, “Oh hey, I cut you off” wave. The roads all have the same name. There is a Franklin Pike Circle on one side of the freeway and another once you cross over the freeway. One would think they connect eventually and maybe they do. I might have not driven on it long enough. But how confusing is that? You don’t want the Franklin Pike Circle after the freeway; you want the one before the freeway. Right. Ok. Not that Google maps specifies that or anything. The directions of North, South, East, and West are a bit squidgy. Everything does not travel in an absolute direction. I know this is not unique to Nashville, but at least in LA you have the oceans and mountains to help maintain your compass.

I haven’t really done anything since I got here except for the numerous and costly trips to Target. I hate this stage of moving. The stage where you have to buy baseline products and end up spending more money than you want. I did track down the one Trader Joe’s in town. Thank the Lord. It’s a nice and spacious Trader Joe’s.

Having had a stretch of unemployment once before I have identified some behaviors to watch out for. When you have very little to do, you tend to stretch activities out over several days. Today, I will go to the post office. Tomorrow, I will go to the grocery store. You eventually start to feel like you can’t possibly do several activities in one day. It is the trap of unemployment. You spread things out as so you have at least a little activity each day, but it bites you in the ass in the end. You also have to be mindful of the money you are spending. Which means it is better not to leave the house. You tend to spend money when you venture out. Another double-edged sword of unemployment especially in a new town. You need to get out, conversely; you need to watch what you spend. This one proves problematic for me. I am barely an extrovert. I need quite a bit of solitude to recharge. However, I am also a very relational person. And I need contact. Quality contact. I can feel the solitude closing in on me a bit. All in due time. A part time job should do the trick.

Bridge Ices Before Road

I left Albuquerque around 9 am. Possibly the worst hotel bed I have ever slept in. I mean, they just threw a sheet over a collection of mattress coils. Nevertheless, we rose, packed the truck, and headed east. Now, I understand the ecological value of desert plants not blowing in the wind. How else would they stay rooted? It is less than helpful when trying to gauge the wind gusts on the highways. I stopped for gas in Tucumcari. Oh my goodness. It is the town that New Mexico forgot. The Route 66 museum looks like it is about to fall down. The townies are…interesting. I was standing behind a gentleman in the Circle K who was wearing very short cut off jean shorts and a white t-shirt desperately trying to cover his large belly. He kept bending over. Each time revealing his gentlemanly parts obscured from view by his whitey tighties. Thank the Lord.

As I entered Texas, I saw the largest cross IN THE WORLD!!! I am not really sure the point of it, but it had lots of visitors. There were a gamillion cops just chillin waiting for anyone driving 5 miles over the speed limit.

Then came Oklahoma. I did two things in Oklahoma. 1. Tried to figure out the plentiful road signs that said, “Bridge ices before road”. I eventually surmised that it means the ice starts on the road before the bridge. Or maybe after. (Maybe I didn’t figure it out.) 2. Listening to quite a bit of Christian radio. I had the choice between Country, Christian, or Latino stations. And since I am tired of driving, I went with the station that would keep me awake. I don’t really listen to Christian music. I feel it lacks poetry. It usually comes in two forms; declaration or supplication. There isn’t a whole lot more to it. But Christian talk radio…well, that makes my head explode most of the time and I just can’t resist it. I heard a pastor in San Diego talking about the voting season approaching. He told his church “Blessed is the nation whose God is the Lord”. He told them to vote their values. He told them that our country has been going astray for a while and about some book he read comparing us to Nazi Germany. He says that we are moving away from being a Christian nation to our own peril. I have a really hard time with this argument mostly because I can’t see when we were a Christian nation. We can’t simply claim that because the men who founded the nation were primarily Christians, that they were establishing a Christian nation. Walmart is a pretty good example of how far Christians can diverge from Kingdom values in their work. Were we a Christian nation when they wrote a constitution outlining the separation of church and state guaranteeing religious freedom to all? Were we a Christian nation when we engaged in the capture, relocation, and in many cases slaughtering of the indigenous people? Or how about when we fought a war defending our rights to enslave an entire color of people? Were we a Christian nation when we didn’t allow women to vote? Or when we relegated the hardest labor in our land to the immigrants because there was no other work we would give them. I suppose you could argue that we were once a more wholesome nation. That there was a time when a higher standard of ethics governed our conduct. But those ethics were reserved for certain people. I doubt that many black people would argue a higher ethic governed the Civil Rights movement. And I’m sure those that fought and died in Vietnam would not exactly call that a Christian war. My point is that we have never been a Christian nation. It is possible that we were a more moral nation at certain points and those morals might be derived from the Judeo Christian tradition. I think that it is like that sign I saw before every bridge on I-40. The ice is morality or Christian values. It can be the road before the bridge, on the bridge, and after the bridge. The road is the road. Just because there has been or is some ice on it, doesn’t mean the road is ice. The road is the road.

38 Miles of Arizona

So, I left Visalia on Monday morning. I have been taking an alternate route to Nashville in hopes of avoiding Arizona. There are two reasons for this avoidance. A. I have driven that route so many stinkin times that I am sick of it. I don’t want any turquoise jewelry or moccasins. 2. I really don’t like two pieces of legislation they have passed recently. My disagreement led me to an Arizona boycott. But between Vegas and Utah, there really aren’t any choices. So I had to pass through the treacherous Arizona for 38 miles. It was a gorge and I passed at sunset. It was magnificent. Unlike anything I had ever seen. I proceeded to get stupid lost in Utah (thank you Google maps). Eventually, we settled for the night. The morning drive through Utah was unbelievable. There were these pockets of fog in the Valleys and perched in the tops of the rocks. It was so beautiful that there were view points every 10 miles or so. The weird thing about Utah was that there was a Ranch Road exit every 60 miles. I mean, how many Ranch Roads could there be? The little towns were quaint. Almost like they were take off the Pleasantville set and plopped down in Utah. Then came Colorado. You could smell the granola in the air. The towns weren’t that different then Utah except the shops are just a smidge cooler. And I have to be honest Durango is intoxicating. The hillsides are covered in shades of golden and red leaves. The clouds spread shade gently across the landscape. It was amazing. It was like I can’t even imagine what it looks like with snow. I did spot to choice church marquis signs. One said, “Jesus paid the price, you keep the change.” And another said, “If you feel like you are sitting on Heaven, Heaven is probably sitting on you.” What? If I hadn’t been going 75 mph, I totally would have stopped for a picture. Now I am settled in Albuquerque. I am going to take a shower and attempt to sleep with my hyper sensitive dog barking every few seconds.

Visalia Beautiful

My first stop on my journey to Tennessee has been a visit to my lovely friend, Ally in Visalia, CA. She has a beautiful house with a walk-in closet that would make the inventor of the walk-in closet blush with pride and wonder. Visalia is sandwiched between Bakersfield and Fresno. Fruit country. With a faint smell of dairy cow poop in the morning. Ally has a three-month-old baby girl with long eyelashes and the cutest dimples ever. There is a steady stream of visitors in her house fighting to hold the baby. One visitor, whose relation to Ally will remain discreet in this post, has a very interesting idiosyncrasy in her speech. She tends to reverse the placement of her adjectives and nouns. When talking about the baby, she described her as “rotten spoiled.” When talking about the architectural style in Nashville, it was “country old.” And she said it with such conviction. I find this fascinating. It’s like she has Post-Descriptive Stress Disorder or Adjective Misplacement Syndrome. I recognize that “rotten” and “spoiled” have similar definitions. Or at least one leads to the other. It is the spoiling of your children that can make them rotten. However, “country” has a large spectrum. You have to narrow it down. But the reversal of country and old is a mistake silly. You can’t have country old or city old or modern mid-century. It just doesn't make any sense. She did it so many times in one afternoon it was hard not to laugh. I’m a big fan of adjectives. They are one of the most effective means of precision in communication. Their misplacement seems like a crime ignorant

Budder Blues and Abitor Dreams

When I was little, I could never say brother. So I took to calling my brother “Budder”. It was cute, endearing, and pretty much the only thing I called him for a while. I was not particularly good at sleeping in my own bed. Always wanted to cuddle. In fact, the family said that I cuddled like Velcro. It was never enough to be near. I had to be practically inside. My brother never refused to let me sleep in his bed. Sometimes we would play a game. While they were in my sister’s room after tucking me in, I would sneak into Josh’s bed and hide. The game was to see if my parents could tell I was under the covers. This was a risky game considering that I was terribly claustrophobic. So much so that if you sat on my legs, I would scream that my legs were suffocating. But my brother never turned me away. And he never has. My brother is my greatest antagonist and my greatest champion. We have our own silly language that annoys most every person we meet. His love is constant. He is kind, aggravatingly meddlesome, and always, always on my side. Even if that means telling me my side is not the right side. He is pushes me to make better choices, to love more fully, and to believe in myself. He is a firm believer in the making of your own fate. And as I said goodbye to him tonight he told me to have hope and make the life I want to live. Josh is my protector, my safety, and my dearest friend.

Our cousin named my sister Abitor. Actually, he named his imaginary sister Abitor but the name stuck for Abbi too. We weren’t close as kids as much as we tried. And we did try. You couldn’t find more opposite creatures with such a close genetic match. We became close as we entered our teen years. Abbi is the loveliest sister you could imagine. She knows that being touched is not a want for me, but a need. And her touch is gentle, kind, and soothing. When I try to describe Abbi to others, I usually come up short. There is a magic to her that can’t quite be described. It has to be experienced. Because when you are around Abbi, you feel her grace. I think our differences are what make our relationship so amazing. She balances me. In fact, there are several people that I became friends with simply because they reminded me of my sister. She is sweet. Not like cheerleader sweet, more like warm cookies when you are sad sweet. Abbi is consummately supportive of me. Completely willing to believe the veracity of my mystic ways. And she too pushes me to believe in myself by simply reminding me to ask the question “What do I want?” Abbi is my comfort, my repose, and my dearest friend.

My siblings have weathered my darkest hours with patience and love. They have served me, loved me, challenged me, and rescued me. There are not two more dependable people in the world. And I know that I derive a great deal of security simply from the notion that there is someplace where I am fully understood.

We were always close siblings. However, in the last eight years, we had the remarkable gift of living in the greater Los Angeles area. It was here that we became friends. We are a unique bunch. Highly opinionated, often loud, determined to make the world around us sparkle, and we communicate in a mixture of made up words (with really long back stories) and movie quotes. Our collective amp goes to 11. Josh has often said that it is the three of us against the world. Nobody quite understands us like us. And nobody thinks we are as awesome as we do. I would feel a little sorry for the folks that have married into our family if I didn’t think they were actually lucky to have us. We have had our fights and rumblings. And between the three of us, we eventually come to an understanding. When two of us are arguing, the third party usually brokers peace and clarity too. Sadly, that is usually Abbi. Whatever damage has been done is easily repaired and mostly forgotten. Well, maybe not forgotten, but we don’t hold grudges. There is so much love between us. And we generally adore being with each other. I hate that we are all going to be in different states. Relegating the sharing of our lives to phone calls and short visits. But I know this unequivocally; I have the best siblings ever.

Love to Hate and Love Again

I have started this blog to document my inevitable culture shock to moving from LA to Nashville.  I think everything I write should be taken with a mountain of salt.  And all you grammar hounds are going to have to accept my poor use of punctuation and fragments.  They are there on purpose.  As a start, I thought I should have a summation of my feelings about LA.

  

Last week, it rained.  I think it was the first real rain in about 9 months or so.  When I was at Trader Joes, a woman in line said,  “We don’t have seasons here.  It is nice to FINALLY have some weather.”  She said it with such disdain that I chuckled.  Most people in LA list the weather in the top three reasons for living here.  And yet, we all reserve the right to complain that we don’t have seasons.  See “Gray in LA” by Loudon Wainwright.  Having left Los Angeles once before, I know one thing for certain: This is a place that I love to hate.   This time, it seems that I have made my way from love to hate back to love again.

I have come to terms with my proclivity for destructive relationships.  My unwavering belief that I can make anything work has taken its toll.  Strengths Finder calls it “Restorative”, and it is in my top five.  This proclivity has never been limited to romance.  I have a string of crap jobs that sucked my soul to show for it.  As much as I believe LA to be filled with an alarming amount of self-serving, vapid people, with traffic that makes driving steak knives into your eyes seem appealing, and where you will pay insane rent to live in a hovel, I have learned to love the insanity that is Los Angeles.  I love to hate it.  And I love to hate the love/hate thing I have with it.

The beauty is in the contradiction.   As is the comedy.

I used to live in Korea town, walking distance from the Wiltern.  It was a 1920’s building with fire escape ladders on the outside of the building, wood floors, an exposed brick wall, and cabinets that wouldn’t shut because they have been painted over so many times.  A Bohemian wonderland.  I shared a wall with the rickety old elevator that had that whole double door thing.  It made a not so low hum whenever in use.  And I had to reset the breaker in the hallway every time I used my hair dryer.  I loved this apartment.  It made me feel like a hipster just living there.  But when I walked around the neighborhood, shopped in the grocery stores, or tried to get a drink at the local bars (unsuccessfully, I might add), I was gawked at like an alien.  It was as if I stepped into a Korea that had never seen a white girl.  And I might enjoy the stories of getting stranded in my apartment by the marathon or the section 8 crazy that almost burned down the building by leaving a tortilla on the burner or coming home to see the crack whore that lived upstairs giving a blow job to her dealer in the lobby a little more than I should.  This would make a normal person move.  But when I think about it, there is a sparkle in my eyes.  Not entirely unlike a “Those were the days” twinkle that emerges when my dad talks about his pot smoking teen years. 

I also mostly hate the near death experiences that wait for me in the form of the Santa Monica Big Blue Bus darting and weaving the two lane roads with little to no regard for fellow motorists.  It irritates me, for sure.  And yet, it is an annoyance I expect and eventually have found comforting.  Like living close to an airport where the plane noise makes you nuts until you realize you can’t sleep without it.

Then there are the things that I just plain love, like downtown LA…the library, Union Station, the obnoxious stairs at Bunker Hill, the Orpheum (best LA venue in my opinion). I love downtown LA.  I love to show it to other people.  I love that Century city was built in response to anti-Semitism.  All the Jews took their toys and built their own damn city.  I love Hollywood.  Well, actually, I love to hate Hollywood.  If it didn’t take 45 minutes to drive three blocks, I would really dig it.  I think the fact that there are actually food establishments that serve both donuts and Chinese food pure comedy.  I mean seriously.  Who wants a donut that smells not so faintly of Chicken Chow Mein?  I do love the subway stations.  Especially, Hollywood and Vine.  It has old film reels decorating the ceiling.  I LOVE Venice and all the hippies that work from home so they can’t possibly cross the street in an orderly fashion.  I love the Lazy Daisy Café that sits across from a Famer’s Market in the park on Saturdays.  I love Molly Malone’s.  I love staring at the ocean at night until you start to see neon blue in the waves.  Serenity unlike any other.  I love the ingenuity of the city.  I love that you can feel the energy of so many people that have come to do something great.  So many people that continue to strive even in the face of abject failure.  I love to see detail in the architecture.  Nuance matters.  I am a city girl through and through.  Part of the reason why is that I have a deep appreciation for the limitless potential of the human spirit.  There is wonder in the accomplishments of man.  And I see that expressed in the Biltmore, the U.S. Bank building, the LA Athletic Club, the Getty, the Santa Monica Pier, etc. etc.  Cities can make me simultaneously feel completely insignificant and wholly unique.  I know that nature can too, but it is so quiet out there that I get bored.

When people ask me where I am from, I struggle to answer.  Because although I did not spend my childhood in LA, I certainly know that this is the place where I grew up. I have breathed heartbreak with the smog.  I have been brave and been a coward.  I have learned how to strive to be the hero of my own story.  It feels like I have lived five lifetimes in LA.  Some lifetimes that I would never repeat.  And some that have nostalgia as warm as socks from the dryer.  LA is a part of me, but it has never been particularly good to me.  In the words of Patty Griffin “Tonight I cry for the love that I have lost and the love I never found”

I love you, LA.   And I will miss you terribly.  So I will take a lesson from your natural cycle.  Sometimes you have to shake things up, burn them down, and wash them away to find new life.