...and I'm glad I went to public school

Sometime when I was in the 9^th grade and attending Palms Junior High School in Los Angeles, California, I began to be concerned about where I’d go to high school. The junior high was highly diverse, and race relations at the campus were challenging enough for a lily white bred kid like me without worrying about making the transition to the predominantly black  Hamilton High several miles to the east. The student body was approximately 27% in the late ‘70s, and many of the neighborhood white families made arrangements to switch to private schools on the west side like St. Monica’s (in Santa Monica) or St. Bernard’s (in Westchester). Many more worked to get some kind of fake address so they could go to theoretically better public schools like University…which was almost in Brentwood in the shadow of UCLA.   

One afternoon while my father was puttering away in the garage, I reasoned it would be a good time to broach the subject with the old man. Though I didn’t recall discussing it with him previously, I was confident he too was aware of the demographic challenges at Hamilton and that he would no doubt share my concerns about being a distinct minority at the new school. More importantly, there was a common understanding that I would play football at Hamilton, and we both knew (or at least I assumed we did) that the existing team that year was 100% African American (including the head coach).

My dad was a gruff, no nonsense WWII vet and union building trades guy, but even with that rough exterior, I knew he’d sympathize with the reality of my dilemma. So, on that afternoon sometime in 1977, I decided to bring it up.

I remember beginning by telling him that it was time to give some consideration to where I’d go to high school, and being almost immediately struck by the fact that my statement didn’t even seem to register with him. He had is back to me as he milled around on the work bench…and though I watched him closely he didn’t really respond. So…I repeated the statement and the rest of the conversation went pretty close to this…

“Why do we need to give any thought to where you’re going to school?”

“Well…many of my friends in the neighbor are switching to private schools like St. Monica’s or St. Bernard’s.”

“Would you like to switch to a private school?” he asked.

“Yeah…maybe” I said… “A lot of the kids are doing that.”

“Well,” he responded, “that’s fine then. You should start making arrangements to switch.”

Like so many things in life, I remember being relieved that the conversation had gone so much easier than I had envisioned.

“Oh…by the way” my dad inquired already knowing the answer, “do they charge tuition at those schools?”

“Yeah…they do” I shot back… “they’re private so they have to.”

“How much does it cost?” he asked.

“I don’t know” I responded… “but I’ll find out for you.”

“Don’t find out for me” he said… “find out for you. You’re the one that is going to be paying it. By the way…just out of curiosity, did you recently come by some windfall of cash I’m not aware of…because just off the top of my head, I’m not really seeing how you’re going to afford this private school scheme of yours.”

“You mean you’re not paying for it?” I asked.

“I already pay taxes into the public school system, so why would I pay additional money to send you to a school miles away from the neighborhood?”

“Because that’s where most of my friends in the neighborhood will be going to school. The schools are just better there.”

“Well, unless you have a plan on paying for it, you better just plan on going to school at Hamilton.”

“Well can’t I at least go to University?...A lot of my friends are going there instead.”

“Did they redraw the district lines so that you can attend University?” he asked.

“No” I responded… “but  a lot of my friends are getting fake addresses so they can go there.”

Now…I could see my dad was getting a little agitated. He turned in disgust and faced me…clearly tiring of my line of questioning.

“Listen…we’re not going to lie so that you can feel more comfortable going to school with a bunch of people that look more like you. Give it up…you’re going to Hamilton.”

“Dad…all my friends are going to different schools that are all better and more equally mixed racially.”

“Well…maybe if all your friends had some guts and went to Hamilton where they’re supposed to, it would be a better mix.”

Then…finally, I decided to play what I was sure would be my best selling point. I was so certain he’d see my side once I laid what I thought was an obvious fact out there for him to consider. I will never, ever, ever forget this exchange.

“Dad…I’m pleading with you. If I go to Hami I might end up being the only white kid on the football team. We've been to some games...and this year there isn't a single white kid on the team. Do you hear me…I'll be the only white kid.”

“Well good…I’ll be proud of you ” he said softly as he confidently smiled and looked at me… “maybe you’ll start a trend.”

Well... I ended up the only white kid on the varsity team that year at Hami...and I wouldn't trade my experience at that school for anything in the world.

It’s Friday, and it’s time to spend some time with the people and pets you love doing the things that matter the most. Have a wonderful weekend, and if you get the chance…give someone you care about a big hug.

 

We ain't got time to chat...

 

...and sorry for all the typos and misspellings...didn't have time to proof it even once.

...and today is no ordinary Day

It’s Friday June 6^th, 2014.

Now quick…what does that make you think of?

About 16 years ago, my wife and I were sitting in a park just south of the 210 Freeway in La Crescenta, California. We were at what my mom called at the time a “cousins’ picnic,” which was made up largely by her mostly seventy-something first cousins that were all transplants from North Dakota.

My mom’s cousin Mildred (her husband Bob has passed away) was there with her daughter Pam (Pam was a couple years older than me). So were Alice and Bill, Roy (never married), Paul and Helen, Harlan and Pearl and Delores and Martin. My mom and dad were there too, and for some odd reason, I can still vividly see those Scandinavian ancestors (mostly first cousins once-removed to me) sitting around the wooden picnic tables in the shade on that very hot summer day.

I recall attending somewhat reluctantly, probably only after being shamed into it by my mom who probably said that it would “mean a lot” to the older folks if my wife and I could make the 60 or so mile drive to join the family picnic. It was hard for me to give up a cherished weekend day to go to the gathering, but I remember seeing the smiles as we arrived and feeling glad we’d made the effort.

Not sure this still happens all that much anymore, but in those days, at least for folks of that age (maybe it’s a North Dakota thing), the genders tended to separate after the meal. I recall the women all sitting at the east end of the picnic tables chatting about lost relations or some such, while us men all gathered at the west end to kibitz about the stuff North Dakotans tend to discuss. I’m guessing that every other male there was at least 70 at the time (I was in my early 30s), and having just finished Tom Brokaw’s recent book “The Greatest Generation,” I decided to ask them about the book and how they all felt about the “greatest generation” moniker.

Over the course of my then young life, I’d probably been around most of these characters at least 100 times. They always seemed so old to me, and in all those encounters over all those years, I am fairly certain I’d never heard one of them make any reference to being a veteran. None of them had read Brokaw’s book, and I recall them being almost perplexed and annoyed by the contention that they were somehow special. To a man they believed (my father was especially vehement about this), that my generation (or any other) would be equally up to the task if ever faced with a similar threat. To a man, they seemed to detest the implication that they were somehow better…or that there was anything even remotely extraordinary about what they did.

 

Each one of them had volunteered for some branch of the service and though I had to pull it out of them with repeated questions, they each had amazing wartime stories. My dad reluctantly told of harrowing Kamikaze attacks while on the U.S.S. Ticonderoga, and described in chilling detail the images right after the enemy planes smashed into the deck.

 

My cousin Martin had been one of those cats that sat in the little bubble in the back-bottom of a bomber operating a machine gun. He’d been in missions over Berlin and Paris. I remember him reflecting humbly… “yeah…the last time I saw Paris…it didn’t look too good.”

 

My cousin Harlan (now well into his 90s…and he still drives) nonchalantly told of his boot camp experience, shortly before being shipped off to his first battle experience on an island in the Pacific. I asked him what island and remember him almost whispering “Okinawa.” He described the chaos of the invasion and told of being shot in the leg several times almost immediately after existing the beach landing craft. In what still seems like a remarkably thick Swedish accent, he talked matter-of-factly of getting patched up and sent back to the front several weeks later.

 

I recall asking them if they were scared…and across the board, most of them responded by shrugging their shoulders and say things like “yeah… I s’pose…but the troot is we didn’t tink about it too much.”

On the morning of June 6^th, 1944, an extraordinary generation carried out the invasion of Normandy. This morning, 70 years later to the day, I awoke at 3:55am and rolled out of the comfort of my bed to stumble downstairs to the home gym and hammer out a poorly written blog.

It’s Friday, and today marks the 70^th anniversary of D-Day. For many, the day will pass without even a thought about that event. For many more that will be reminded by some blurry black and white images during a 30-second news story playing in the background or a quick snippet on their smartphone (there’s no google doodle but there is a reference at the bottom of the page), few will likely have a full understanding of the significance of that day and its overall consequence.

Have a fabulous weekend, and if you’re spending it doing anything other than storming a beach in a hellish hail of gunfire, try to take a minute to feel a little grateful. If you see some old chap shuffling along in plaid pants, a baseball cap and a windbreaker…you just might want to say thank you.

 

A seaside cafe in Arromanches

...and you may want to take a relaxing drive

It was shortly after 3pm when I dropped my boss off at Reagan National airport yesterday…and after seeing her off safely I switched the satellite radio station in her Hybrid Ford off its perpetual public radio feed (Zzzz) to number 71, and settled in for my Seriously Sinatra 90-minute rainy commute to a business event not far over the Bay Bridge on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. Unlike my life in Los Angeles where I spent a good deal of time commuting on a winding two-lane road  through the San Gabriel Mountains, I don’t spend much time on long drives living in DC. So even on a dreary and unseasonable cool inclement afternoon, I was looking forward to some relaxing and scenic windshield time.

Well, you know what they say about getting what you wish for. Over one hour into the drive from DCA airport up 295 to Route 50 for the roughly 65 mile trip, I’d traveled less than eight miles. After another hour…I covered approximately ten additional miles.  At some point there was a digital sign over the expressway that read  “Bay Bridge 24 Miles – Travel Time 86 Minutes.” Now…I’m no math whiz (and judging by the red line that appeared under the word whiz when I tried writing it four times as wiz…I won’t be spending much time on the stage in National Harbor either), but if there was anything to the accuracy of the sing, my anticipated 90-minute leisurely drive was going to take me a minimum of about 3 hours and 30 minutes.  Thankfully my lack of calculation prowess revealed itself again…as I pulled into my destination parking lot 4 hours and 8 minutes later.

I rarely used profanity when I moved to the District of Columbia about 9 ½ years ago, and I never used any that began or included the letter F. Never.  Now, fully entrenched in the big city East Coast culture where I’ve heard professionals use the F-Word in formal meetings, I routinely use curse words for every occasion. I may have even found a way to weave it into greetings like “Happy (expletive deleted) Holidays” and such, so my four-plus hour bumper-to-bumper slog along Route 50 provided me with the perfect opportunity to work through multiple renditions of my four-letter repertoire (had to actually look that word up after trying to spell it 10 times). Ironically though…despite the frustrations associated with the snail-paced commute…I don’t believe I uttered one swearword.  There were multiple opportunities too. I could have screamed an appropriate word at time or two when some jerkoff cut me off, or shared my displeasure with a well-meaning colleague that texted me a “shortcut” that wound me around the scenic Naval Academy that I’m convinced shortened my travel by an additional thirty minutes. Though he called several times to check my deteriorating status, I was cool as a cucumber throughout each conversation.

When I pulled into the parking lot off the long tree-lined winding driveway that provides access to the sprawling pastoral bayside property, I could actually feel my body decompressing. I suspect the soothing sounds of Seriously Sinatra helped prime me for the evening…but walking into the room full of denim wearing sportsmen and sportswomen relaxing and chatting after the camaraderie that comes from an afternoon of rural outdoor activity, I could actually feel my heartbeat slow down. It reminded me of the feeling I get when I hop of my bike and saunter into a roadside café in South Dakota each August, or for that matter, the same feeling one would get if they ever ventured outside the beltway to just about any of the red area that dominates most of the map between the Atlantic and the Pacific Oceans.

I was only at the Eastern Shore event about 90 minutes total…so it was pretty hard to fully assimilate. I still stood out like a sore thumb in my slacks and ironed golf shirt, and while most were drinking long-necked ice-cold Anheuser Busch products, I still couldn’t fully shake my metro-cool and skipped up to the bar for a room-temp glass of Cabernet.

Despite the nightmarish drive, it ended up being a rewarding epic evening and I’m glad I honored the promise I made to a friend to be there. As  I sat around laughing with colleagues and meeting new business contacts, there was a general sense that life was good. Several of the normally workaholic people I spoke with talked about the almost immediate decompressed feeling that came with “just being outside,” and as you eavesdropped on the laugher and pleasant conversation throughout the evening, it was crystal clear most in attendance were enjoying an absolutely wonderful time.

What’s the f-ing point of all this? Don’t know really, but presume I’m more just trying to fill space as part of my regrettable self-imposed obligation to pound out this sh#tty weekly blog. It could also simply be the best I could come up with between sets at zero four hundred on a Friday morning…or it might suggest there’s some correlation between Frank Sinatra’s music and the need to use profanity.  It might mean it would behoove us to all invest in satellite radio, or that if we have satellite radio, we all need to turn to channel 71…or at least spend some time over at Willie’s Roadhouse on channel 56. It might mean that for every ten trips we make to some exotic European city like Paris…we need to take an unsexy domestic flight to some town like Peoria. Maybe it just means I need to exert a little more effort to curb my increasingly foul mouth…or it might just mean we all need to turn on the radio…and take a drive. Preferably…on some two-lane road…well outside the beltway.

It’s f-ing Friday…so have a wonderful weekend. If you can, please do something that will last the test of time. Spend some time with the people and pets that matter most. Sit on a porch in a rocking chair, chat with some friends, enjoy an ice-cold longneck and listen for the distant unmistakable sound of a slamming screen door. It’s summer, and it’s time to take advantage of the healing that comes from simply “being outside.”

...the road would never bend  

...and this is an especially important weekend

I’m not really sure how or when the longstanding habit started, but for many years as a young man my routine on Memorial Day was always exactly the same. Sometime around 13 or 14 years old, I decided to hop on my 10-speed and make the three or so mile schlep from our modest home in West Los Angeles, California up Westwood Boulevard to the United States National Cemetery in Westwood. The 114 acres of hallowed ground sits in the shadow of the University of California Los Angeles (where I’d eventually embarrass myself on the practice field) and is bordered by famed thoroughfares Wilshire Boulevard on the south and Sepulveda Boulevard to the west. Even after I turned 16 and had the option of driving my shinny ’72 red pinto, I still chose to ride my bike up there most of the time.    

Seems to me I almost always went alone. I can remember a time or two in my early twenties when my girlfriend (now wife) came along, but for the most part it was a pretty solitary thing. I’d usually try to go early…before the place got too packed with other visitors and I’d always ride around the place for a while before getting off the bike. Unless you’ve been to a place like Arlington or some other massive Veteran cemetery, it’s hard to really describe the scene. I’m sure there were exceptions, but in my mind every single headstone was accompanied by a small American flag. The flags were placed there by thousands of volunteers (a lot of Boy Scouts as I recall) in the days leading up to the holiday, and riding and walking by the rows of stones and flags was always a moving experience for me.

                                                                                                                                                                                  

Eventually I’d try to find some spot up on the hill on the northern edge of the property where there weren’t many people around. I’d disembark from the bike and simply walk up and down some of the rows…reading the names of people, the wars where they served and the date that they perished.  As I walked I’d think about the  young men and women in places like Yorktown, Lexington, Concord, Antietam, Hampton Roads, Gettysburg, Flander’s Field, Normandy, Iwo Jima, Okinawa, The Chosin Reservoir, Tet and La Drang Valley. I think about all the young people that fought in those places and that didn’t come home. I think about the terrible conditions they had to endure,  largely so I’d have the freedom to enjoy Memorial Day and go for a bike ride and walk through a cemetery.

By virtue of pure timing, luck, no doubt some cowardice and probably the fact that I actually had a choice, I never had to serve our nation in time of war. I wasn’t around for WWII or Korea, and was too young for Vietnam. By the time we went to Iraq I was well past my prime…so for the most part my biggest struggles in life have been crises like having my prized bicycle stolen in childhood, an unflattering Division I college football failure and dealing with the consequence of procrastination with respect to the squirrels I suspected were dwelling in attic of my house. In light of this, the practice of taking a few hours to reflect in Westwood always provided a healthy dose of perspective as a young man…and for obvious reasons, I always returned from the experience a better person…at least for the few days that followed.

Ironically, my wife and I now live on the opposite coast…just miles from Arlington Cemetery. We manage to go over there about twice a year when visitors are in town…but never on Memorial Day weekend. Sometimes we drive by on the Harley, but the lines to enter the place are always insane…so we never seem to get any closer than the off ramp on the George Washington Parkway.

It’s too bad really…because I could use a good Memorial Day dose of the perspective I’d get from those early Westwood pilgrimages. Most of my thinking time these days is spent kvetching over injustices like having to get up early, working too hard, unproductive meetings, the exorbitant cost of manhattans at the St. Regis, and inconsiderate shitheads that block traffic lanes during rush-hour by flipping on their hazard lights and double parking so they can run into the Walgreens to pick up a case of Depends.

I’m guessing a couple of hours in Arlington’s Section 60 would help me with my attitude.

All across this country, people will gather this weekend at barbeques, family gatherings, summer homes, baseball games and a host of other iconic places and events to enjoy the extra day of rest and relaxation provided by Monday’s holiday. Many like me,  will revel in the good life with nary a thought about the multitudes that gave so much. Not sure what you’re doing this Memorial Day Weekend, but whatever it is, spend some time doing something you enjoy with the people that you truly love. Some folks paid a significant price to make it all possible, so out of deference to them, let’s make their sacrifice count.

 

Through many dangers, toils and snares...

...and I've got to change my diet

If you’ve spent much time reading the mindless drivel that appears here each week, you’ve probably read some reference to the fact that I’m an early riser. Not really sure why, but I get up each morning at approximately 3:55am. The bedroom alarm clock is set for 4am, but we keep that clock set about 7 minutes fast and most days my eyes just open about five minutes before the alarm. If nothing else, the cat manages to wake me up minutes before the clock radio kicks into gear. Sometimes I can go weeks without ever being awakened by the radio.  

There used to be a good reason to rise well before dawn, but there really isn’t a good explanation for continuing to get up that early each week day anymore. It probably dates back to my days as an IBEW electrician, where the majority of job sites began at 6am and necessitated an early rise. Now I work in an office environment where the preponderance of folks don’t arrive until 9am…and many some time later (they work later too…often into the evening).

For whatever reason, I still get up really early. My best emails (and hopefully blog posts) are composed in the 4am hour, but it’s also the time I use to exercise. Monday, Wednesday and Fridays I stumble down the stairs, brush my teeth, grab my laptop and saunter down to the basement gym to lift some free weights. It’s a pretty boring, non-rigorous routine really, probably one that violates every fitness rule in the book. It’s sort of the opposite of muscle confusion, where I lift the same weight, the same way, doing the same sets that I’ve probably done for close to 30 some years. In between sets (which are separated by way more time than is recommended), I answer emails from the day before or hammer the Friday blog as I’m doing right now.

On Tuesdays, Thursdays and both days on the weekend…I run. On the week days I go out in the darkness and run 3 miles through the neighbor for time. It’s hilly, and if I’m really on my game I can do it around 24 or less minutes. On Saturday and Sunday I run some longer distances with my wife. That’s not true really. Actually we start together, and I eat her dust for the rest of the way…often finishing as much as 8 or 9 minutes behind her over a 6 mile stretch.

On Saturday and Sundays I also hit the speed bag religiously for about 17 or 18 minutes each day. Sometimes I jump a little rope too…though I don’t have close to the stamina that I did 20 years ago. Then I could do as much as 10  minutes without stopping. Now, I’m lucky to string 60 seconds together without collapsing in exhaustion with a highly irregular heartbeat.

When I’m not working out during the week, I’m usually sitting on my expanding derriere in my comfy faux leather chair perched in front of my office computer. It’s mindboggling how long I can sit almost motionless in that chair…staring mindlessly at the computer answering emails or developing PowerPoints. Sometimes I’ve been there so long that when I’m forced to stand to head to meeting to sit down again for an hour, my muscles have actually atrophied. Usually I leave the hour-long meeting to go to yet another meeting destination only to sit yet again. Sometime, if I’m lucky, the back-to-back meetings are in the same room so I don’t even have to move. If I do, it’s often in the afternoon when I force myself to get up to go get a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie. The meetings with cookies are almost worth going to. Sometimes I even have two.

When I’m not at work sitting and eating cookies, I like to be at home. Most weeknights I return from the office at about 6:30 or 7pm. I usually jump in the shower before supper and then come downstairs and open a bottle of red wine. On particularly rough days,  I don’t even mess with a glass. Then, I plop down on the couch with my laptop for the remainder of the evening, getting up only to make it over to the dining room table for dinner after which time I collapse back down on the coach to watch some old movie on TMC before drifting off in a drunken red wine stupor.

On the weekends, when I’m not running or hitting the speed bag, I like to be on the couch watching old movies or NASCAR and working on the laptop while snacking on high-cholesterol snacks.  Oh…I like to wash it all down with more red wine too, but I really do try to keep it down to less than a bottle a sitting and I never start before 10am. Sometimes, on Sunday afternoons…I try to rest up and catch a short nap while I’m sitting there working.

We had our annual health fair about a week ago, and as part of the screening process they checked my BMI. The well-fed technician was so concerned about my readings,  she pulled me away from those in line behind me to give me a more private interpretation of my results. She was almost whispering, and pointing to a point on the blue form where she’d circled my results. One benefit of sitting all day, eating cookies and drinking too much wine is that I also can’t really see…so the number 10 font she pointed to on the results form looked indecipherable to me.

“I can’t see what that says” I said… “I didn’t bring my reading glasses.” 

“Well…you’re right here” she pointed.

“I still can’t see that” I shot back. “Does that begin with the letter O?” I asked.

“Yes”…she whispered.

“Just tell me what it says” I said… “I can’t read it.”

“Well…you’re right here…at the very high-end of the overweight category. You’re not quite in the Obesity Level I category…but you’re close.”

“I’m close to being obese?” I asked… “how close?”

“Well…the Obesity Level I threshold is a BMI reading of 30…you’re at 29.8”

I almost cried. “What’s your BMI?” I asked. “If I’m almost 30 you must be about 60” I said.

OK…I really didn’t really say that…but I was kind of thinking it.

I think I’m going to start sleeping in and eating more cookies. This waking up early and exercising routine is obviously not working.  

It’s Friday, and if you’re lucky you’re on the cusp of a nice two-day break that will be spent with family and friends doing the things you enjoy. If you can, try to take some time to do the things that matter and grab some time just for you. Have a great weekend.

 

Close your eyes and listen...

...and you still look simply marvelous

I ran into an old friend while attending a labor rally in the park earlier this week, and we had a nice conversation talking about the changes in her job and the generally good things going on with her family and in life. She smiled a lot while she talked, and I remember thinking she looked genuinely happy.  It was a particularly pleasant exchange, and it reminded me of the value in catching up with old friends.

Toward the end of the visit she said something I don’t hear much…even from folks that I’ve tried to coach on this subject. “You look really good” she lied…and then added “it was really good to see you.”  

Now this is noteworthy for a couple of reasons. First and foremost, and in a bit for a correction from above, it’s something I NEVER hear. Oh sure, my 84 year-old mother has probably said it a time or two, but she has macular degeneration and admits that people appear mostly as silhouettes to her. But honestly, nobody ever tells me I “look really good.” BTW…thinking back on the exchange, she didn’t used the word “really.” I just added that as part of my tendency to remember things more fondly then they actually occurred.

The comments I typically receive are on the other end of the spectrum. “You look tired” is perhaps my favorite, but people slinging insults my way usually don’t stop there. “Have a rough night?” is quite common…or “did you not get much sleep last night” is fairly standard too. “Long weekend?” is another gem I’m asked quite frequently and there are even times when folks have asked things like “you drinking enough water?” or “how’s your health?” One time a good friend wrote me an email after just seeing me after a long absence and pleaded “you really need to take a vacation.”

This practice of friendship has always puzzled me, as I’ve never really appreciated being told I look like crap. I get that only a good friend can tell you when you’ve got spinach in your teeth, but  I’m 52, and trust me, I’m vain enough to recognize when I shave each morning that things are trending terribly the wrong way. I’m also well-aware that this decline is only accelerating, so when you tell me I “look stressed,” that is not helpful news to me. For the most part, those of us that don’t look good are usually fairly aware of it (I got some BMI news yesterday that almost made me cry) so we don’t need friends to remind us of that fact. What we do need good friends to do when we don’t look good is to lie…or at least to practice the astonishingly rare practice of remaining silent. If you think we look tired, keep that little assessment to yourself as we probably already know because we feel tired too.  

Some friends of ours that I hadn’t seen for a long time visited us a few weeks ago while on a college visit with their daughter to George Washington University. As they walked up the steps to the house, I remember being struck at how genuinely good they both looked. I probably hadn’t seen either of them for over 10 years, and to me, they both looked exactly the same. As the family ascended the stairs, the father looked at me, smiled and said “man…look at you…you look great.” Now…initially…it didn’t dawn on me that he was being gracious or good with fiction…and I remember thinking immediately that I’d forgotten how much I loved this couple. I truly do like people that are polished enough or just plain considerate enough to look at me and convincingly say something flattering even if they’re privately thinking “oh my lord…time has not been good to you. Don’t you drink any water or take vacations?”

What’s the point of all this? Not sure I know either but right off the bat two things come to mind. First, as noted in these posts previously and again today, if you’re tempted to help a friend by telling them they look like shit, think of it kind of like hunting defenseless animals, stealing, taking a life or watching NASCAR and do all you can to fight that urge. Second…you know…to be honest…I can’t remember the second thing. I’m tired…and I didn’t get much sleep last night.

Have a great weekend, and if you run into an old friend that looks good, don’t be afraid to tell them. If you run into a friend that doesn’t, don’t be afraid to lie…or to at least remember not to tell them something they probably already know.

Cowboy Girl

...and I'm going to throw on a nice pair of slacks

The surgery was pretty intense, even for a relatively fit twenty-something apprentice electrician in the prime of life. So just before being wheeled out of St. John’s Hospital in Santa Monica, California, my surgeon reminded me to stay off my feet for at least the rest of the week.  Once outside, the hospital orderly asked about my ride and looked about for an awaiting vehicle. “There’s nobody here” I announced, “I’m planning to just take the bus or a cab.”   

I was able to hail a yellow taxi and gingerly entered the backseat for the 8 or so mile ride back to my apartment on Beverly Drive just south of the Beverly Hills’ line (you could live pretty well if you managed your money wisely as an IBEW apprentice). Once at my apartment, I slowly got out of the car and made the painful walk up the blacktop driveway and climbed the brick stairs of the four-plex to my 2 bedroom flat on the front bottom floor. It was an epic April post-rainstorm spring day  in Los Angeles, and the abating  showers left behind streams of morning sunlight, beautiful blue sky, billowy white clouds and palm trees swaying in the light warming east breeze. As I stuck the key in the #1 door, I remember thinking how sad it was that I had to spend such a beautiful spring day off work, lying on my back on the couch of my apartment in pain.

Once inside I flipped on the TV. I can’t recall what I watched, but I’m guessing I was eagerly awaiting the noon hour so I could catch up on Erica Kane, before getting an update on the goings on with the Lord’s in Landview and ultimately the latest from Port Charles at 2pm. As I laid there lamenting my condition, I do distinctly remember asking myself what good it could possibly do me to stay home lying on my back. As I often did at that point in my young life, I remember starting to wonder what some highly recognized and seasoned doctor could know about my health and well-being that a third-year IBEW apprentice like me wouldn’t already know. I started thinking to myself that if I followed his advice, I’d probably start looking like him before long (not a desired outcome) so I may as well call on the wisdom that accompanied my electrical training and get off the couch and go out for a short walk.

I remember putting on some torn light blue UCLA sweat pants from my alma matter, a frayed old red and white flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and some ratty old running shoes. I hadn’t shaved while in the hospital and I even remember my hair wasn’t really combed all that well. I was eager to get outside though, and reasoned that the fresh air and activity would serve me well. I shuffled north up Beverly Drive toward Pico Boulevard, and then turned left and walked westward up the hill towards Beverwill. It was painful and slow, but I remember feeling better as I moved and feeling validated once again that I knew more about post-surgery recovery than my stupid physician. On top of that, I’m guessing my doctor probably couldn’t do any electrical work either.

There was a Ralph’s grocery store at the time on the southeast corner of Pico and Beverwill, and I remember cutting through the two-story parking structure to make my way to an alley that ran east-and-west on the south side of the market. Once in the alley, I paused along a chain link fence and glanced onto a serene scene in the backyard of an older house that was adjacent to the store and fronted Beverwill. The house was older, and the elements in the backyard garden; the fencing, the trellis and vegetation made for an idyllic spring setting. I lingered there glancing and resting up for my walk home, when I could feel the presence of what felt like someone approaching me from the store parking lot. Before I could really turn to put a face to the approaching footsteps, an open hand filled with coins jutted in front of my face and a woman’s voice said “here…take this.”

I’m admittedly not the sharpest tack in the box, and I really had no idea what was happening. I turned toward the attractive young woman (she was older than me at the time) and recall saying “what?”

“Take it” she responded… “just take it.”

I stood there a minute, my eyes alternating between hers and the money, and still recall being totally lost.

“You’re too young to live like this” she said compassionately… “just take the money and get yourself something to eat.”

Bam…it hit me. I knew what was happening now.

“I’m not homeless” I replied… “I live right here in Beverlywood.

“I’m sure you do” she said nicely, “but please…just take it.”

At this point it was kind of frustrating.  I had no identification or anyway to think of that could prove I wasn’t living on the street, so I essentially just started to plead my case.

“Ma’am, I live at 1523 Beverlywood in an apartment. I work as a union electrician and I’m fairly compensated for my work. I must look worse than I realized but I just had surgery so I’m out for a walk trying to feel a little better.” Then it dawned on me that I had my house and car keys, so I held them out and added “see…these are my keys…I even drive a Cadillac” (don’t be too impressed, it was an old ’76 Seville).  

At that point I recognized the first horrific look of embarrassment on her well-intended face. “Oh my god” she said… “I’m so sorry. I’m so embarrassed.”

“You’re embarrassed?” I responded… “imagine how I feel? I’m going to head back home and shave.”

“Comb your hair too” she said (not really…I made that last line up).

She apologized again…and I told her not to sweat it. I hid my face a bit for the rest of the walk home. When I got home, I remember going into the bathroom to better assess how bad I really looked. I should have taken her money.

I read the other day that actor Richard Gere was moved by the generosity of a passerby that mistook him for a homeless man and offered him money. Initially it made me feel a little better about my own similar experience, but as I read further the article revealed that Gere was made up to look homeless as part of a role he’s playing in an current movie. Apparently, they were on break from shooting and he wandered away from the set…only to have someone offer him a handout. Gere was playing a role and had the benefit of costume and makeup folks. I was just being myself and wearing something right out of my closet.

What’s the point of all this? Not sure really. But if you’re headed out in public today, you may want to ditch the torn sweats and run a comb through your hair. Especially if you’re headed to the airport for a cross-country flight (leave your nasty pillow at home too), but that’s another story for another day.

Have a great weekend.

 

...ain't no need to go outside