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 5:30am 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 6am.

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.

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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 when I was good-and-ready. 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 PCH 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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Perpetual Tea, or, Preparing Our Minds for Anything

When I graduated from college I was a mess. I left UC San Diego with a degree in visual arts and moved in with mom. She lived in Los Angeles. Slowly but surely I stopped rolling cigarettes and the craving for hallucinogens and speed eventually faded. I found work as a security guard but I spent the graveyard shift smoking reefer and sipping pints. Long cold nights in the VW Rabbit, writing big ideas on a tiny notepad, patrolling the scene with only a Maglite 5D for protection. Mom almost bought a Dobermann to keep me company. She was worried. Got a battery powered black and white TV instead. Crap reception mostly. So I would reread what I wrote. Here's an actual note-to-self from 1986:

Character 1 - "Yes, I made dinner. It's chicken. I hope you like chicken."
Character 2 - "Chicken. I like chicken. Chicken is good.”
(Montage of chicken bones with small amounts of moist meat still hanging on. As you see the image of the chicken bones we hear ...)
Character 1 - "You like chicken? Shit, you'd kill for chicken."

So yeah. Thankfully mom's landlord knew a guy that worked in Hollywood. I got the job as a set PA on “Kids Incorporated” and writing copy for the music video show “Night Tracks.” Mom was less worried now and she moved out of Los Angeles and settled in a small town called Springville. By this time I was living in Silverlake with my good friend James. I kept up the PA work for awhile until I landed a job as an assistant production accountant on the “Father Dowling Mysteries” in 1990. I didn't see that coming. But then I worked on another show as an assistant and then another and then another and by 1995 I had moved to NYC to be the production accountant on “New York Undercover.” Oh my god, is this happening to me, will I ever be an artist? I was afraid of my fate. But then I worked on another show as the accountant and then another and then another and then it was 2016.

But let's back up for a second. I was lying in bed with my friend Kat staring at the ceiling. It was my last year in San Diego and we passed our time doing acid, smoking bowls and drinking beers. Kat asked me if I ever meditated. I gave her a long-winded no. But she got me curious. I consider that day lying in that bed with that woman in that city the beginning of my meditation training. When I eventually left San Diego I had a misty vision for myself. I was going to be a visual artist and meditation was destined to show me the way. 

I imagined my future every day I drove around LA delivering scripts and picking up lunch at Le Dome. I kept writing. A friend turned me on to the Siddha Yoga Meditation Center in Santa Monica. I participated in a huge group meditation session with Gurumayi at the Shrine Auditorium. I kept dreaming. I discovered “Lilias, Yoga and You” on PBS. She taught me yoga as I prepared for another day at the office processing accounts payable and auditing petty cash. I took photos. I bought a piano. I created soundtracks. I kept writing. I bought an HD video camera. I made simple movies. I learned how to process payroll, prepare a budget, apply for a tax credit. I kept writing. I was meditating 12 hours a day now. I slept the rest. When someone didn't get their check on time I was meditating. When I grossly miscalculated a production overage I was meditating. And when I say meditating I don't mean smoking weed. I was really meditating. Definitely jacked up on coffee but breathing deeply and moving forward, solving problems, being mindful. I got frustrated. I hated everybody. But I loved everyone. I learned how to paint with oils. I shared my art on social medias. I'd work until 2am perfecting cost reports. I sexted. I stopped eating chicken. I kept making art. And then it was 2016.

When I moved to Lynchburg with my partner Dee I relied on meditation to say goodbye to a city I cherished for two decades, to acknowledge a profession I depended on for 25 years, to rent a truck, to pack a hundred boxes, to throw away a heap of useless and to drive to a town I basically knew nothing about. But our apartment on Main Street. What a dream. It was all the inspiration I needed (besides a thousand tiny kisses every day) to take another photo, to do another downward dog, to just be at the piano, to write, to believe.

When the Bower Center for the Arts offered me a blank wall to express myself I turned to a trusted friend. A companion that allowed me to appreciate the past. An awareness that gave me the courage to acknowledge my fears yet move forward. Meditation showed me the way. 

This is Perpetual Tea, or, Preparing Our Minds for Anything.

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