Nothing but Good Feelings

Look outside, what do you see? Nothing but good feelings.

I struggle with the dark passenger. It's true. Even on the best days. But I was raised in Los Angeles in the 70s, a time when booze was lemonade, ashtrays were in airplanes, and getting roasted by the sun was far out. I knew I was moody. But we never talked about mental health when we passed the potatoes. I loved climbing on rocks and running real fast, but I didn’t realize that both of those things helped me avoid confrontation—you know—with people. I never really contemplated why I was an introvert. In fact, introvert? Not in my vocabulary. I didn't know what an alcoholic was. Cancer? I'm a kid, I am invincible. We didn't talk about why people died. They were just … no longer around. I didn't comprehend that being alone was the happiest part of my life. The other parts were terrifying.

I'm not the best friend. Not the best son. Not the best coworker. Not the best partner. But I somehow manage to find my way. It's as though I have an extra compassionate gene, like the hugest C gene ever. That's what I tell myself anyhow. I justify being not the best on one hand with being the absolute best on the other. And I rely on this compassion to offset the melancholy.

It's taken me decades to deconstruct the dark side. Yes, therapy might have been quicker, but in my yoot, sports were better. I still love sports but I also love reading, and pattern recognition, and awareness. I've learned to self-medicate with herbs and a yoga mat. Nothing has really changed in regard to my good feelings. They are extraordinary. And nothing has changed with the darkness. I can name it now and I am prepared. I prepare with a knowing that love is always on the other side.

Look outside what do you see?

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Whose Legs Are These?

I have two legs and my Chevy Colorado has four. I evaluate and maintain the strength of my legs by walking and dancing. Living in Manhattan for over 20 years made me a strong walker. Loving to express my inner feelings by spinning around in circles made me a confident dancer. When my strength is on the decline and my confidence wanes, I often crank up my writing as a means to fill me with hope and lift the spirit. With this new found optimism, I get back on the track, run some laps, and rebuild the endurance to face another day. And then sometimes I'll over do it, tweak the knee, then I'm back on the yoga mat stretching out the hammies so I can walk again. When the tires of my Colorado need help, they communicate with me via the tire pressure monitor system (TPMS). A diminutive light on my dash turns yellow and begs for attention, especially when it is cold outside. But finding the time to put air in the tires is kind of complicated, mainly because most of the air pumps in the Hill City require quarters and I never have change. In fact, I haven't had an actual dollar in my wallet for months. When I look at the tires on the Colorado they look ok. Not too flat. Gauging air pressure from the naked eye is kind of hard for me. But the TPMS light—although tiny—burns bright. I cannot peel my eyes from the yellow icon, which looks exactly like a flat tire. The time to act is now. I will make this a priority, today. I am under pressure to make this right, my tires rely on me, I need to lift them up. I am a decent person. I care about the Colorado. I'm concerned about safety. And that little light is driving me insane. While cruising to the Food Lion, I noticed a gas station that had an "Air" sign and a rolled up blue hose next to it. I pulled in hoping for the best. I asked the attendant how the air works. He said, just use the hose. "Is it free?" I asked. "Sure is," he said. I shook his hand vigorously in gratitude. I was stoked. He was amused at my enthusiasm. I felt empowered. Per Chevy, my front and rear tires should be at 32psi. Cool. I bet these badboys are way under 30psi. I am going to right this wrong. I am going to silence the TPMS warning light. Everybody get out of my way. The attendant asked if I needed an air pressure gauge since the hose didn't have one. Got it, "Yes, please!" I said. He handed over a simple apparatus. I was feeling more and more invigorated by the second. Sheee-it, let's do this. I started with the front left tire, which was closest to me. 36 psi. What?! Ok, ok. Let's try the back left tire. 37 psi. Wait a second. Then I checked the tires on the right. One was at 35 psi and the other was at 36. Hmmm, so this is how it's going to be. Thankfully, the air pressure gauge I borrowed had a bleeder valve, which came in handy. Instead of inflating the tires I ended up deflating them. Weird, and totally counter to my internet research that said cold air decreases tire pressure. I dismissed logic with a flick of my wrist and forged on. If the TPMS light goes out, this is a win day for me. I cranked up the Colorado and continued on my way to the grocery store. Within seconds the little yellow flat ass tire icon was laughing at me. Rat bastard. I pulled into the Food Lion parking lot and shut down the Colorado. I sat in the truck and meditated on my life. The dash was silent and dark. When the days are cold, perhaps this is the time to hibernate. Do less, not more. Let the air out. I felt content, and it was high time to buy that box of bold, dark, jammy red wine. Night was falling. I exited the Chevy and chirped the doors. When I turned to take a loving glance at the Colorado my legs awkwardly tangled and I twisted my ankle. Mother ... fuck. My hysterics echoed off the hills of Boonsboro. I rested for a second on the cold, damp pavement and admired the glowing marquee. F-O-O-D backlit by white fluorescents. Pretty sweet. But it was Saturday wine night and I needed to get off the ground. Dee would be texting me soon. We were planning on a dance party and that’s serious business for us. But tonight—and I can dig it—my vintage spins would be replaced by smooth, subtle, shoulder shimmies.

These are my legs, and these legs love to boogie.

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The Patina of Memory

The other day I was at the Trader Joe's doing some holiday shopping. I was in my typical December mood which I characterize as having enough awareness to drive from Lynchburg to Charlottesville without getting in an accident yet so detached from everything else that I forgot why I was driving to Charlottesville in the first place. I fell in love with TJ's back in the late 80s when I lived in Los Angeles. It reminded me of the Ché Café at my alma mater, UC San Diego. In other words, Cheap Healthy Eats, often vegan. The Ché is still kicking 35 years later and their motto is "Don't be a shit." I can dig it. Anyways, here I am in Virginia pushing my dinky red cart up and down the aisles and moving, obviously, way too slow. I felt hurried and claustrophobic from the giddy-up pace of my contemporaries. To mitigate my inner nerves I found a nice quiet nook to park my scarlet appendage. My intention was to peacefully stow my provisions in this safe place until I was good-and-ready to proceed. Finally, I took a deep breath, released my grip on the cart, put prayer hands to my face just like Stefon does on SNL, and merged back into the flow. While deciding on a 10oz jar of manzanilla olives I couldn't help but notice the free coffee-of-the-day was hazelnut and the nibble bits were super cute squares of lemon meringue pie. So absolutely festive; but I wasn't in the mood because I just had a bowl of soba noodles with tofu and edamame. I crinkled a bag of peanut butter pretzels and a sturdy box of Australian shiraz and returned them to the staging area which already contained triple milled lemon verbena soap, quinoa chips, and some spicy black bean salsa. It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas. My mojo was back. I smiled at everyone as I slow danced around Trader Joe's taking it all in. I did it my way, channeling Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music, twirling while contemplating virgin or extra virgin. Shoppers rushed past me like a time-lapse from Koyaanisqatsi. It was wild! But I also wanted to get downtown and buy a comic book. I just couldn't hang out in TJ's all day reminiscing about old Hollywood. So I navigated my cart to the front of the store and patiently got in line. I mused about the lotus garden at Echo Park, thrift shopping on Melrose, driving along the PCH (Pacific Coast Highway) in my yellow VW Rabbit with a Dewey Weber on the racks. I was thinking about a slice of Tropical Bakery guava cream cheese when I noticed a TJ customer standing beside me. They gave me an up-and-down curious look while sipping from their paper cup full to the brim with hazelnut. We made eye contact and I smiled. But, uh oh, I was feeling self-conscious again. Was it because I was wearing two beanies on my head? I mean, I would wear three beanies in NYC when it was chilly. I liked the dichotomy of being warm and fashionably bankrupt. I don't care. It's my birthday! Well, it wasn't my birthday, but my birthday is in December and this is a December tale, so, I don't care. But sadly, my inner dialogue made the patron spill their coffee all over themselves and the floor. Without hesitation I grabbed a napkin from my pocket and bent down to clean up the mess. I felt subservient. I was a begging monk shining shoes and I was happy as hell. As I curtsied to the nearby trash to chuck the coffee stained hanky the hazelnut patron awarded me with a clean, "Well, you've done your good deed for the day." I smiled. I probably smile way too much. It's one of the oldest tricks in the yoga book. But it didn't feel like a good deed to me. It felt instinctual, natural, compassionate. There was really nothing else to do at that point. When it was finally my turn to check-out I gently pushed my cart forward and realized I was on the wrong side of the check-out line. Eff. I shyly said, "Oops" while looking at the person who just spilled their coffee. And I guess I kind of expected them to correct my wrong by allowing me to get back in line and position my cart accordingly. Instead they said, "Have you never been to TJ's before?" as they pushed their cart ahead of mine. I just mumbled, "Uh, yeah, but," and sighed a little while daydreaming about sunny days in Silverlake, driving the Rabbit to TJ's on Hyperion, dancing to Jane's Addiction at the Lhasa Club, longboarding at Malibu, and eventually remembering that I needed to get back in line if I was ever going to buy that manga. The karma of my good deed sent me to the end of the line. I felt content as I slow rolled my wayward cart to a place that would do no harm. I was confident that I would pay attention this time. With my double beanie head humbly bowed I stared into the bottom of my cart and saw a perfectly wrapped bar of dark chocolate filled with speculoos cookie spread. This was going to be a stocking stuffer for my personal guru, Dee W Sunshine. I knew the chocolate would put a smile on Dee's face. And when you think about it, when you really think about it, especially when it's December and it's your birthday month, and especially when it's the holiday season, and especially when you tend to get depressed and melancholy about it all­—if you put a D at the end of Dee, you get DeeD. I smiled and did the Stefon move again, prayer hands to the face. It all made perfect sense to me. Wow, this is a good day.

Then I heard someone say, "Welcome to Trader Joe's."

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