The week in LA went by in a flash. My cell phone died on day two of the trip, which left me feeling strangely lost and isolated. No one could call me; I couldn't call anyone. All I could do was text. The friend I was staying with had no land line, and my attempts to find a payphone I would be willing to touch without gloves proved impossible. So I was in Los Angeles, but cut off from the rest of the world.
Besides the communication problems, I had a blast. I was worried that I would experience some sort of culture shock coming back to the big city, but I slipped right back into the groove of things. I didn't even mind the traffic, which was actually a little light, thanks to a combination of spring break and soaring unemployment.
I spent a day at the Getty, which was beautiful as always. Then spent most of the rest of the trip shopping and going to dinners. I finally got to go to the Americana in Glendale, but was a little disappointed. It's a beautiful development, but I found the store selection lacking. I did get to spend a day at my beloved Fashion Square and happened upon a shoe sale at Macy's. I'm wearing my new shoes right now, and they are fabulous. I didn't get to catch a movie at Arclight, and I never made it to Chin Chin for their Noodles in Peanut Sauce. I did have dinner at Beso, which is a gorgeous restaurant owned by Todd English and Eva Langoria. Lovely food, lovely atmosphere. It's amazing how much Hollywood has transformed, thanks to a string of trendy restaurants, yogurt shops and high-end retail stores.
So, the big question is how do I feel now? I love Los Angeles. The weather was perfect and I had a great time. I'm also aware that I was in vacation mode. It's not like I was going to work, picking up dry cleaning and shopping for groceries. I was relaxing and enjoying the best parts of the city, without the pressure of the daily grind. I do miss it, though. It's hard to leave. But I miss Michael and Henry and Asheville, too. What happens next is not a question that will be resolved easily or soon. But it was good to be back in L.A. It felt like home. I felt like I still belonged here.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Monday, March 16, 2009
Back to La La Land
Couple of quick news items. First, I missed the biggest snowfall of the year in Asheville, because I was in San Francisco for a convention. My flight back even got delayed a day because of ice in Atlanta. Which was nice because I got an extra day in SF, but then by the time I got back, all the snow had melted.
A week after the snowstorm, it was Spring. The temps were in the 80s, I was wearing shorts and putting away all my sweaters. Now it's cold and rainy. So I'm going to Los Angeles.
I was originally supposed to be going to a convention, but it got canceled, so now I'm just going for fun. This is momentous because it will be my first visit back since moving to Asheville. Michael's been back twice now, but this will be my first return, and I'm going alone. I am excited and nervous and anxious. Will LA have passed me by? Have I changed too much to fit in now? Are all the after-school specials right? Can you never go home again?
I'm looking forward to seeing friends and catching up on everything I've missed. But I'm also looking forward to re-immersing myself in my old routines and hang-outs, to see if it makes me long to return to Asheville or unpack and stay in LA. I want to stroll through Fashion Square (the most underrated mall in Los Angeles), have terrible service at Jerry's Famous Deli and catch a movie at Arclight (where latecomers don't ask your whole party to move over so they can sit wherever they want). I want to walk down Ventura, humming "Valley Girl" and see if my favorite toy stores have closed because I moved away. I want to go shoe shopping. In fact, I may get off the plane and go straight to the Kenneth Cole store and stay there for a week. And I want to horde boxes of See's Candies like a Russian grabbing Levis.
It'll be a fun week.
A week after the snowstorm, it was Spring. The temps were in the 80s, I was wearing shorts and putting away all my sweaters. Now it's cold and rainy. So I'm going to Los Angeles.
I was originally supposed to be going to a convention, but it got canceled, so now I'm just going for fun. This is momentous because it will be my first visit back since moving to Asheville. Michael's been back twice now, but this will be my first return, and I'm going alone. I am excited and nervous and anxious. Will LA have passed me by? Have I changed too much to fit in now? Are all the after-school specials right? Can you never go home again?
I'm looking forward to seeing friends and catching up on everything I've missed. But I'm also looking forward to re-immersing myself in my old routines and hang-outs, to see if it makes me long to return to Asheville or unpack and stay in LA. I want to stroll through Fashion Square (the most underrated mall in Los Angeles), have terrible service at Jerry's Famous Deli and catch a movie at Arclight (where latecomers don't ask your whole party to move over so they can sit wherever they want). I want to walk down Ventura, humming "Valley Girl" and see if my favorite toy stores have closed because I moved away. I want to go shoe shopping. In fact, I may get off the plane and go straight to the Kenneth Cole store and stay there for a week. And I want to horde boxes of See's Candies like a Russian grabbing Levis.
It'll be a fun week.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Beauty Shop Blog
There's something about a small-town beauty shop. I've been going to big-city salons for years, in my never-ending efforts to tame my wild and woolly hair. In Los Angeles, if there's gossip or news going around the shop, it's usually about a celebrity. Or if the topic of discussion happens to involve regular folks, there's almost zero chance that you actually know them. So it's sort of exhilarating when you've got your head stuck in a sink and you hear, "So-and-so got a new refrigerator" or "So-and-so went camping last weekend" and you actually know who the so-and-sos are!
The gossip isn't particularly scandalous, but it's still an interesting reminder of how much we've integrated into this new environment. If I don't know someone, it's usually clarified with "Oh, you know, she's so-and-so's friend" or "You met him at so-and-so's birthday party." The degrees of separation here are much closer together. It also makes me wonder what's being said once I leave. "Chance got his first gray hair and freaked out right here in this chair. He made me yank it out. Oh, you know Chance. Michael's boyfriend. The quiet one."
It's true. Just as I was starting to feel that I had purchased and applied enough anti-aging products to send me back to infancy, my stylist found a gray hair. She pointed it out, and I said:
"No, that's blonde."
"But you're not blonde."
"Sometimes I'm blonde."
"It's almost white."
"Platinum blonde."
"Um..."
That's when I fell apart and made her yank it out. It was more white than gray, which gives me some hope of being a dashing silver-haired dandy, rather than the creepy old guy down the street with all the action figures. Honestly, I've never shied away from pouring chemicals on my head, so I'm not about to go gray without a fight.
Then the small-town gossip and big-city gossip will meet. "Chance is still dyeing his hair? Even William Shatner finally gave up that fight."
The gossip isn't particularly scandalous, but it's still an interesting reminder of how much we've integrated into this new environment. If I don't know someone, it's usually clarified with "Oh, you know, she's so-and-so's friend" or "You met him at so-and-so's birthday party." The degrees of separation here are much closer together. It also makes me wonder what's being said once I leave. "Chance got his first gray hair and freaked out right here in this chair. He made me yank it out. Oh, you know Chance. Michael's boyfriend. The quiet one."
It's true. Just as I was starting to feel that I had purchased and applied enough anti-aging products to send me back to infancy, my stylist found a gray hair. She pointed it out, and I said:
"No, that's blonde."
"But you're not blonde."
"Sometimes I'm blonde."
"It's almost white."
"Platinum blonde."
"Um..."
That's when I fell apart and made her yank it out. It was more white than gray, which gives me some hope of being a dashing silver-haired dandy, rather than the creepy old guy down the street with all the action figures. Honestly, I've never shied away from pouring chemicals on my head, so I'm not about to go gray without a fight.
Then the small-town gossip and big-city gossip will meet. "Chance is still dyeing his hair? Even William Shatner finally gave up that fight."
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Over There
I haven't written in a while, and I have no reasonable excuse. I've been doing a lot of other writing lately, plus life has been busy. I try not to beat myself up for not writing because of interference from life, because living tends to give me more to write about. Still, when I return to this blog, it never fails to bring up a few issues, both big and small.
As I get older (and older), I've started to question the linear nature of life's timeline. More and more it seems that life is actually circular. Instead of a series of chronological events, I feel like I've been experiencing some sort of spiral or interlocking rings. Or some intricate, but lovely design I might have concocted with my Spirograph as a child. I find my circular travels intersecting with people, places and feelings from other times and other adventures. Perhaps I've never truly left anything behind.
Enemies I loved and friends I betrayed. Lessons I either neglected or refused to learn. Memories I locked away, hoping to unpack someday when the shine was off them, when they were dull and colorless and less painful to look upon.
The circles bring second chances, too. Opportunities to try again, to improve upon history or to make grander, more elegant mistakes. All the opportunities and choices that passed me by or that I let slip through my tentative or tyrannical fingers. Will they present themselves again? And will I recognize them through older, jaded eyes?
A quote from Carrie Fisher echoes in my mind, where I clearly spend way too much time: "After all, nothing is ever really over. Just over there."
As I get older (and older), I've started to question the linear nature of life's timeline. More and more it seems that life is actually circular. Instead of a series of chronological events, I feel like I've been experiencing some sort of spiral or interlocking rings. Or some intricate, but lovely design I might have concocted with my Spirograph as a child. I find my circular travels intersecting with people, places and feelings from other times and other adventures. Perhaps I've never truly left anything behind.
Enemies I loved and friends I betrayed. Lessons I either neglected or refused to learn. Memories I locked away, hoping to unpack someday when the shine was off them, when they were dull and colorless and less painful to look upon.
The circles bring second chances, too. Opportunities to try again, to improve upon history or to make grander, more elegant mistakes. All the opportunities and choices that passed me by or that I let slip through my tentative or tyrannical fingers. Will they present themselves again? And will I recognize them through older, jaded eyes?
A quote from Carrie Fisher echoes in my mind, where I clearly spend way too much time: "After all, nothing is ever really over. Just over there."
Monday, February 2, 2009
Groundhog Day Forecast
I was just beginning to warm up to being cold when the weather changed, and it was suddenly spring. For a few days, I put my winter coat back in the closet and started running around in short sleeves again. I was somewhat disappointed, though. Even though I've been complaining about the cold weather and have taken to singing "California Dreaming" through chattering teeth, the cold weather has been rather fun. The bundling up and the sharp wind that takes your breath away. Plus the hot chocolate. So when it suddenly turned warm again, I was a little sad it had all ended so quickly. Just another reminder that this year-long adventure has practically flown by.
Then this morning, for the first time in years, I read about the annual Punxsutawney Phil Groundhog Day ceremony. I remember taking this ceremony very seriously as a kid. I was always hoping for more winter weather, because that meant more snow and more snow days. Plus the hot chocolate. So I was very pleased to read that Phil saw his shadow and thus predicted six more weeks of winter weather. Then, as if by groundhog magic, yesterday's warm weather turned into today's rain and snow. Both. First it would rain a little, then it would snow a little. So hopefully the winter weather will continue and I'll get to wear more of the sweaters I bought on sale after Christmas.
Then this morning, for the first time in years, I read about the annual Punxsutawney Phil Groundhog Day ceremony. I remember taking this ceremony very seriously as a kid. I was always hoping for more winter weather, because that meant more snow and more snow days. Plus the hot chocolate. So I was very pleased to read that Phil saw his shadow and thus predicted six more weeks of winter weather. Then, as if by groundhog magic, yesterday's warm weather turned into today's rain and snow. Both. First it would rain a little, then it would snow a little. So hopefully the winter weather will continue and I'll get to wear more of the sweaters I bought on sale after Christmas.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Hush
It's almost 2:00 in the morning, and the sounds of winter surround me. A cold, fierce wind is blowing through the mountains of Western North Carolina tonight, and I can hear it first gusting through the big oak tree in the front yard, through the stubborn leaves still clinging to the branches. From the rustling oak tree, it then whispers through the white pine trees all around us. It's soothing and relaxing, and yet I'm wide awake.
I own a sound machine, and every night for I don't know how many years, I turn off the lamp on my nightstand and flip on my sound machine, choosing either a rainstorm or the wind sound to lull me to sleep. I can never sleep in total silence, which is why I subject poor Michael to a fan all year round. The hum, the white noise and my sound machine help me battle the insomnia that seems to overtake me on a seasonal basis.
But here, there are real sounds. Real thunderstorms and wind. Not to mention the quaint and comical rattle and hum of our furnace and the soft snoring of dear Henry the dog. Henry follows us to bed every night, dutifully lies down on his pallet on the floor, takes a short nap until we fall asleep, then he leaves for a cooler (and probably quieter) place to spend the rest of the night. Our bedroom gets surprisingly warm, and now that he's had a taste of the cold weather, Henry prefers the frostier corners of the house. All those years in Southern California...and he was longing for a cold snap.
When I was a kid, my Nan-Nan would take me outside on a windy day to stand underneath the pine trees in her yard. "Listen. Do you hear them whispering to each other?" Hearing the pine trees now, I can't help but think of her. She passed away during my freshman year in college, and it's profoundly unfair that her knowledge of me stopped then. I was such a mess. I got better, really. Smarter, more presentable. But she didn't know me past 18, and 18 is not the best I could do. She would have liked Michael, I know. She would have been proud of my education and travels and adventures. But these are silly suppositions in the middle of the night. She might just as well have disliked, disowned and disavowed me. But I'll never know. 18 is frozen in time. But the wind blows through the pines, and they whisper to each other, and I imagine it's a language I'd understand if I just listened hard enough.
I had an irrational fear about living in a cold environment again. I have this theory that cold weather ages you prematurely. I know it seems that cold weather should preserve you somehow. But I imagine the cold, gray weather turning hair and faces cold and gray and wrinkled. I remind myself that in California, people spend the whole year in the summer sun. The sun ages you more than some frigid winter wind blowing around. But like I said, it's irrational. I've been trying not to go outside unless I'm wrapped up and moisturized. I'd hate to return to Los Angeles after a year and hear, "You look so old. Asheville really aged you." Hopefully all the alcohol I've been drinking will counteract the effects of the cold.
You know, I really want to give a shot out to whoever invented the flannel robe. I've never been much of a robe person. I always liked the idea of them, but would always forget to wear them. Here, and especially since the weather turned chilly, I'm apt to wear my robe all day. I'll get dressed and go about my day, but I can't help but put my robe on, too. It's lightweight flannel, but it's warm and comfortable. I'm starting to think about researching smoking jackets, too. Maybe this is who I am now. I'm the guy who comes home and puts on his smoking jacket, but doesn't smoke. Maybe I'll get a pipe for the full effect, and just never actually smoke it. Or maybe I'll blow bubbles with it.
Henry wakes and looks at me with a frown. "Why are you still awake?" He asks. "I should have retreated to the drafty area at the top of the stairs by now." Sorry, Henry. I will go to sleep now, listening to the wind, the furnace, the fan and dreaming of Los Angeles, Nan-Nan and flannel robes.
Good night.
I own a sound machine, and every night for I don't know how many years, I turn off the lamp on my nightstand and flip on my sound machine, choosing either a rainstorm or the wind sound to lull me to sleep. I can never sleep in total silence, which is why I subject poor Michael to a fan all year round. The hum, the white noise and my sound machine help me battle the insomnia that seems to overtake me on a seasonal basis.
But here, there are real sounds. Real thunderstorms and wind. Not to mention the quaint and comical rattle and hum of our furnace and the soft snoring of dear Henry the dog. Henry follows us to bed every night, dutifully lies down on his pallet on the floor, takes a short nap until we fall asleep, then he leaves for a cooler (and probably quieter) place to spend the rest of the night. Our bedroom gets surprisingly warm, and now that he's had a taste of the cold weather, Henry prefers the frostier corners of the house. All those years in Southern California...and he was longing for a cold snap.
When I was a kid, my Nan-Nan would take me outside on a windy day to stand underneath the pine trees in her yard. "Listen. Do you hear them whispering to each other?" Hearing the pine trees now, I can't help but think of her. She passed away during my freshman year in college, and it's profoundly unfair that her knowledge of me stopped then. I was such a mess. I got better, really. Smarter, more presentable. But she didn't know me past 18, and 18 is not the best I could do. She would have liked Michael, I know. She would have been proud of my education and travels and adventures. But these are silly suppositions in the middle of the night. She might just as well have disliked, disowned and disavowed me. But I'll never know. 18 is frozen in time. But the wind blows through the pines, and they whisper to each other, and I imagine it's a language I'd understand if I just listened hard enough.
I had an irrational fear about living in a cold environment again. I have this theory that cold weather ages you prematurely. I know it seems that cold weather should preserve you somehow. But I imagine the cold, gray weather turning hair and faces cold and gray and wrinkled. I remind myself that in California, people spend the whole year in the summer sun. The sun ages you more than some frigid winter wind blowing around. But like I said, it's irrational. I've been trying not to go outside unless I'm wrapped up and moisturized. I'd hate to return to Los Angeles after a year and hear, "You look so old. Asheville really aged you." Hopefully all the alcohol I've been drinking will counteract the effects of the cold.
You know, I really want to give a shot out to whoever invented the flannel robe. I've never been much of a robe person. I always liked the idea of them, but would always forget to wear them. Here, and especially since the weather turned chilly, I'm apt to wear my robe all day. I'll get dressed and go about my day, but I can't help but put my robe on, too. It's lightweight flannel, but it's warm and comfortable. I'm starting to think about researching smoking jackets, too. Maybe this is who I am now. I'm the guy who comes home and puts on his smoking jacket, but doesn't smoke. Maybe I'll get a pipe for the full effect, and just never actually smoke it. Or maybe I'll blow bubbles with it.
Henry wakes and looks at me with a frown. "Why are you still awake?" He asks. "I should have retreated to the drafty area at the top of the stairs by now." Sorry, Henry. I will go to sleep now, listening to the wind, the furnace, the fan and dreaming of Los Angeles, Nan-Nan and flannel robes.
Good night.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
The Nog Test
"Happy holidays!"
"Have a nice holiday!"
Over the years, I've made a concerted effort to wish people "happy holidays" instead of "merry Christmas" because in a multi-cultural environment, you never know who celebrates what, if anything. The other thing is that I love political correctness. I do. Political correctness rose to prominence when I was in college, and my friends and I were very excited about the idea of communicating with others on their own terms, instead of what we'd been taught by the previous generation.
So, truly, I prefer to hear "happy holidays" because it encompasses and embraces everyone. Now, Asheville is a very diverse and accepting community. And I've heard a sprinkling of "happy holidays" around here. But the overwhelming sentiment I've heard from store clerks, waiters, waitresses and the average person on the street is "merry Christmas." And I've honestly bristled each and every time I've heard it. But since it came from such a sincere place, I couldn't help but reciprocate. And I couldn't help be feel a little naughty every single time I said it. So, it's with that tingling feeling of doing something I'm not supposed to be doing that I wish you all a very merry Christmas. Hee hee.
Michael and I are feeling just a little under the weather this Christmas morning, and I can't remember ever being sick on Christmas morning. I think I just need a hot toddy or some nog. Which brings me to the true reason for the season: egg nog.
Because I'm always on a quest to capture the picture-perfect, quintessential Christmas promised to me by Currier & Ives and countless Coca-Cola commercials, a few years ago I decided I really should be making and drinking egg nog. So I went where I always go for instruction...Martha Stewart. Martha has an amazing egg nog recipe. It's rich and creamy and highly flammable. Yes, Martha douses her egg nog in three cups of bourbon, two cups of cognac and half a cup of dark rum. Then, a couple of years ago, I decided to add a half a cup of white chocolate liqueur to the mix, with terrific results. But here's the thing. I made my nog in Los Angeles every year, sometimes for our parties, sometimes for other people's parties, sometimes for family. But no one drank it.
I don't know if it was because it looks just too decadent. Or if people are intimidated by the alcohol content. But every year, I'd make a huge punch bowl full of egg nog, and besides what Michael and I would drink, I'd end up with a full bowl of nog. I think people like the idea of it. Like the look of it. Like the feelings it inspires and the idea that it adds something to a traditional Christmas event. So I made it every year, because not only is it delicious beyond words, but it's also festive.
So when Michael and I decided to have a party here in Asheville for the holidays, I knew I wanted to make my egg nog. In years past, I've tried cutting the alcohol down by half, then by three-quarters, to make it more appealing to revelers. But this year I decided to take a chance and go full strength. I even made this announcement to Michael the night before the party, when I was whisking together the mix. His eyes widened. "Just in case people actually drink it," I reasoned, "I want to extend it a little." Michael shook his head. "You don't usually add alcohol to extend something," he explained.
The guests were arriving while I was still beating the heavy cream into fluffy white clouds to float on top of the nog. Then with a sprinkle of nutmeg on top, it was ready. I ladled the first cup of it for myself, and I thought, "If I'm the only one who drinks it, at least that means more wine and champagne for everyone else." But then, a Christmas miracle occurred. I started noticing several people holding and drinking goblets of egg nog. Then when I went back for more, I noticed a drastic reduction in the contents of the punch bowl. Then not much later, someone told me that if I wanted another cup, I'd better hurry, because it was almost gone. What?! Could this really be possible?
Someone even sloshed a couple of more cups of rum into the empty bowl to get the last remnants of whipped cream. For the first time ever, the egg nog was a huge hit! I don't know if it was the atmosphere or the chill outside or what, but I had an empty punch bowl only about halfway through the evening. I had found my egg nog crowd. Next year: chocolate shavings on top.
"Have a nice holiday!"
Over the years, I've made a concerted effort to wish people "happy holidays" instead of "merry Christmas" because in a multi-cultural environment, you never know who celebrates what, if anything. The other thing is that I love political correctness. I do. Political correctness rose to prominence when I was in college, and my friends and I were very excited about the idea of communicating with others on their own terms, instead of what we'd been taught by the previous generation.
So, truly, I prefer to hear "happy holidays" because it encompasses and embraces everyone. Now, Asheville is a very diverse and accepting community. And I've heard a sprinkling of "happy holidays" around here. But the overwhelming sentiment I've heard from store clerks, waiters, waitresses and the average person on the street is "merry Christmas." And I've honestly bristled each and every time I've heard it. But since it came from such a sincere place, I couldn't help but reciprocate. And I couldn't help be feel a little naughty every single time I said it. So, it's with that tingling feeling of doing something I'm not supposed to be doing that I wish you all a very merry Christmas. Hee hee.
Michael and I are feeling just a little under the weather this Christmas morning, and I can't remember ever being sick on Christmas morning. I think I just need a hot toddy or some nog. Which brings me to the true reason for the season: egg nog.
Because I'm always on a quest to capture the picture-perfect, quintessential Christmas promised to me by Currier & Ives and countless Coca-Cola commercials, a few years ago I decided I really should be making and drinking egg nog. So I went where I always go for instruction...Martha Stewart. Martha has an amazing egg nog recipe. It's rich and creamy and highly flammable. Yes, Martha douses her egg nog in three cups of bourbon, two cups of cognac and half a cup of dark rum. Then, a couple of years ago, I decided to add a half a cup of white chocolate liqueur to the mix, with terrific results. But here's the thing. I made my nog in Los Angeles every year, sometimes for our parties, sometimes for other people's parties, sometimes for family. But no one drank it.
I don't know if it was because it looks just too decadent. Or if people are intimidated by the alcohol content. But every year, I'd make a huge punch bowl full of egg nog, and besides what Michael and I would drink, I'd end up with a full bowl of nog. I think people like the idea of it. Like the look of it. Like the feelings it inspires and the idea that it adds something to a traditional Christmas event. So I made it every year, because not only is it delicious beyond words, but it's also festive.
So when Michael and I decided to have a party here in Asheville for the holidays, I knew I wanted to make my egg nog. In years past, I've tried cutting the alcohol down by half, then by three-quarters, to make it more appealing to revelers. But this year I decided to take a chance and go full strength. I even made this announcement to Michael the night before the party, when I was whisking together the mix. His eyes widened. "Just in case people actually drink it," I reasoned, "I want to extend it a little." Michael shook his head. "You don't usually add alcohol to extend something," he explained.
The guests were arriving while I was still beating the heavy cream into fluffy white clouds to float on top of the nog. Then with a sprinkle of nutmeg on top, it was ready. I ladled the first cup of it for myself, and I thought, "If I'm the only one who drinks it, at least that means more wine and champagne for everyone else." But then, a Christmas miracle occurred. I started noticing several people holding and drinking goblets of egg nog. Then when I went back for more, I noticed a drastic reduction in the contents of the punch bowl. Then not much later, someone told me that if I wanted another cup, I'd better hurry, because it was almost gone. What?! Could this really be possible?
Someone even sloshed a couple of more cups of rum into the empty bowl to get the last remnants of whipped cream. For the first time ever, the egg nog was a huge hit! I don't know if it was the atmosphere or the chill outside or what, but I had an empty punch bowl only about halfway through the evening. I had found my egg nog crowd. Next year: chocolate shavings on top.
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