The Notion of a Tree

I see two people walking through the forest. This particular forest is called Druid Hill Park. I have lived my entire life on the hill and I have seen many things. One person is holding a camera and taking a picture of me. I have been in many pictures. The other appears to be reading a book made from one of my kinfolk. The one shows the other the photo and they both smile. The other reads some words to the one and they laugh. They look happy. 

An old friend of mine broke it down for me. People. I was told that people are happy because of us. At first I was like, whoa, that feels like a big responsibility. But over time it grew on me, this concept of being a provider of peace and love. Once I realized my purpose there was nothing left for me to do but be.  

So today is a day like any other. People come and go. But for me, I just grab my lunchpail and get to work. It's honestly the best job ever, I mean, a job that makes people happy? But then I thought, hey, what do I get out of it? Once again the venerable OG shown the light. I was told to chill the F out. My eyes opened wide and that was it. From that point on I barely said a word. Maybe a sway here and there just for funsies, but other than that, I wanted nothing in return. I was content to just relax and let the world be a beautiful place.

I am tree, hear me roar.

⌘

The New Situation

They made a pact. On Valentine's day they decided to move to a new city every three to five years. This pinky promise was symbolic of their philosophy on being human—the spirit is everlasting but the body breaks down. No big deal, it is what it is. Taste the fruit, feel the pain, dance to the miracle of it all. They pick a place on the map and that's how it starts. They use Google to pretty much scout their new city with virtual walks around the various neighborhoods and then some quality time on Zillow. Once they have three solid options they make appointments to view the properties, and over wine sips, they decide which place is—the one—based mainly on vibes, but also considering cost and square footage. Then comes the UHaul, the boxes, bubble wrap, and packing tape. Each new home has to be smaller than the previous, which is one of their core principles. Essential to the pack is letting go. They donate their unnecessary to Goodwill. And there is some admin, like canceling the utilities and whatnot, and creating a simple spreadsheet to figure out where the money at. Moving is rigorous. They scraped their knees, twisted ankles, and they would get super emotional when they ultimately decided to lighten their load. Saying goodbye to stuff opened up their heart chakras and reminded them why they invoked the pact in the first place. They wanted to spend most of their lives loving each other real good and memorizing the exact feeling of their spiritual essence; because the body doesn't last. So moving to them was simply a metaphor. Life imitating the art of existence.

With each move they got closer and closer to love.

⌘

The Day I Broke Joe's Heart

My parents moved from Pittsburgh to Los Angeles in 1964. Based on old photos, Super 8 movies, and fuzzy memories, I kind of remember a few of our homes back then. There was the duplex on Topanga Canyon. And then there was the house right around the corner on Buenaventura. After that we moved to the "celebrity home" with a pool on Kittridge in Canoga Park which used to be the residence of the Tabatha twins from “Bewitched.” Although the Kittridge pad was epic because of the BBQs, booze, bare bottomed slide rides, and ping pong, my dad used to joke about wanting to live south of the boulevard. He favored the 91364 zip code and was determined to return. In 1977 we did just that and moved to Ensenada Drive in Woodland Hills. This was about the time I became good friends with Joe.

I can't remember if Joe ever walked inside the house on Ensenada. Perhaps it was due to the wayward reputation of the Wiggins boys back in the day. We liked to party. We used to buy a case of Mickey Big Mouths and ice block down the fairways at the nearby Woodland Hills Country Club. We weren't the ideal role models for star athletes to hang out with. Joe was tall and sculpted and the best swimmer in town. My brother was a good swimmer too, and I was scrawny, but scrappy. We all swam together on the El Camino Real High School team. At the peak of our friendship, Joe would pick me up before school at 5:30 a.m. in his dad's Pontiac station wagon. He would patiently idle out front while I lugged my 9’6" Dewey Weber from the side of the house and slid it into the back of the golden, oxidized surf mobile. When I climbed into the front seat, Joe would always have some Beach Boys playing for us, this way we didn't have to talk much. We knew all the lyrics by heart. With every curve along the winding road of Topanga we would pray for a righteous swell. We were stoked either way and would paddle out even if it was flat. We both had vintage longboards and paddling around the Pacific on those beasts was a great shoulder workout, and swimmers needed strong shoulders to break records, which Joe did all the time. It would take us half an hour to get to the beach, pull on our wetsuits, wax the decks, and paddle out. By the time we caught our first wave and were sitting on top of the world, it was 6 a.m.

Waking up early is the standard for serious swimmers. If we weren't surfing before class we would be doing laps at Warner Center Racquet Club. It was brutal. I had a ton of allergies at the time and being soaked in chlorine for a couple of hours before homeroom made for a nonstop runny nose and swole ass eyes. And I was tired, constantly, so my focus and grades were terrible. But surfing was way better than competitive swimming, so when Joe said he'd pick me up tomorrow, I was ready. I'm not sure what kind of student Joe was but I do know that he was extraordinarily talented in the pool, especially at freestyle. I would happily be the teammate that counted his laps when he competed in the 1500 free. I felt proud about that. That's my buddy. Joe continued to swim at a high level and participated in the Olympic trials in 1984.   

I stopped swimming after my senior year in 1981. I then applied to UC San Diego simply because Black's Beach was next door. At first, my application was rejected, but somehow my parents lobbied for me and UCSD changed their mind. I ended up being a garbage student in college as well, but I did manage a 3.2 GPA mainly because I was a visual arts major. Black's Beach was legendary, not only for it’s perfect barrels, but also because it was a nude beach. My kinda people. But Black's was a beach break, so you needed a shortboard, which thankfully my mom bought for me. My shortboard pal at El Camino was Rich, who was basically a skinhead, had a ton of freckles, and loved to box. Rich didn't care much for the Beach Boys. He would blast the Circle Jerks or the Dead Kennedys while we drove to Zuma or County Line in his beat-up Honda Accord.

After I graduated from college, I moved back to LA. Joe and I didn't talk at all during my years at UCSD, but he did invite me to his parents house in Woodland Hills for his birthday party one summer. Joe looked great. He had a wide smile and was super positive and he really rocked the Hawaiian shirt. I cut my own hair into a vicious mohawk and my favorite attire was a faded jean jacket with a red pentagram painted on the back to protect me from the evil forces. We shared some small talk at the party but it was all kind of awkward. We reminisced about our surf days and I told him I didn't really listen to the Beach Boys anymore.

I never talked to Joe after that.

When I revered the Beach Boys back in the late 70s it was simply because the music reeked of summer and surfing and the hope of sex in the sun. It was perfect. When I got my shortboard, things started to change for me. Life began to suck a bit and I just couldn't tolerate all the happy. I wanted to be punk. I was mad as hell and I couldn't take it anymore! My professors convinced me that the USA was an evil empire and racism and oppression was the root of it all. I remember studying at the UCSD library and all I could think about was a Peter Tosh lyric, so I whipped out my ballpoint and violently scratched into the wood, "Everyone is crying out for peace. None is crying out for justice." I felt better and promptly fell asleep in the cubicle.

I am a bit calmer these days but I'm still pretty pissed off. And I'm finally a better student. I read, I study, I practice, and I enjoy it. I'm also listening to the Beach Boys again. I can totally relate to the wonders of Brian Wilson. I've tripped out to Pet Sounds a few times. And yes, the music makes me happy.

Paddling out to the point at Topanga and glancing over at the smiling face of my friend is vivid and lovely, so very, very lovely.

God only knows what I'd be without you, Joe.

⌘