Bohemian Opus

Moving blog to Wordpress

noreply@blogger.com (Patrizia) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 22:35:00 +0000

Hey guys!

I've decided to move my blog over to Wordpress. You can find me here:

http://bohemianopus.wordpress.com

I will be posting over there from now on. I'll leave this blog up for a while.

Luck

noreply@blogger.com (Patrizia) — Thu, 12 Jan 2012 17:39:00 +0000

According to the latest information, January 2012’s Chinese Year of the fire-breathing Dragon will roast 2011’s Year of the Silly Wabbit, and bring forth new beginnings, good fortune and luck.

Chinese New Year always brings back memories of when I lived near San Francisco’s Little Italy. Columbus Avenue cut a diagonal swath separating Little Italy to the north and Chinatown to the south. But, to those of us who lived there, Columbus Avenue was only a small geographical feature, and had no bearing on the melting of the two cultures into one big, spicy fondue. Chinatown’s dragon ended the Italian Columbus Day parade, and Little Italy’s Queen Isabella float always graced the Chinese New Year’s celebration.

While I was there, I taught my Chinese friends how to judge good pasta sauce, swear in Italian and dance the tarantella. My friends on the Chinatown side taught me how to do the lion dance (which I can do quite well), about hong bao (giving of money in red envelopes) and luck. Mostly luck.

Lady Luck hasn’t been too much of a lady lately. It seems she’s been severely distracted and wandering around the planet in a fog. People are in financial trouble, unemployment abounds, Congress and the White House can’t agree on anything and the airbag light in my truck keeps blinking.

The approaching Chinese New Year led me to think about a few proposals I would like to present to Lady Luck should she decide to ride the dragon and give us some relief. I've listed a few possibilities for a better 2012.

Money luck: Hong bao—We all need good luck for more hong bao. This would help the job market to improve and housing prices stabilize. I would also like some lottery hong bao.

Media luck: The 2012 political commercials should all malfunction and be replaced with reruns of “Cheers,” or “Laugh-In.”

Yurt luck: The yurt in Encinitas where we did our yoga (before the city ordered it dismantled) should be resurrected, and classes once again be taught by my favorite teacher. Then, I could finally conquer the headstand.

Geezer luck: No one in my 55-and-older apartment complex should die or be hauled out feet first. In 2012, the ambulances and fire trucks should pass us by and raid the other geezer complex on El Camino.

Luck was always by my side when I lived in San Francisco. My friend, Wendy Chu and I tempted fate plenty of times in her dad’s Jaguar by, among other vehicular maneuvers, making left turns from right lanes. We would also hang out at Jimmy Fong’s restaurant, which was only accessible by climbing a fire escape in a back alley not far from the fortune cookie factory. Jimmy owned the place, and Wendy and I would stay there half the night eating, talking and watching Jimmy practice his stand-up comedy routine.

As was typical in this neighborhood, Jimmy’s family and the Tattaglia family, who owned and operated a pizza parlor on the other side of Columbus Avenue, were good friends. Jimmy’s father and the elder Gaetano Tattaglia would play bocce ball on one side of Columbus Avenue, and then cross over to play mahjong on the other.

Jimmy loved The Godfather movies and could recite whole scenes in Chinese and English complete with all the hand gestures and physical mannerisms that were part of the film. Once, when he had to prepare cold yin and chicken whiskey soup for a red egg and ginger party celebrating the birth of a baby, he went through an entire scene from The Godfather I, while simultaneously cooking.

“Don Corleone, I am honored and grateful that you have invited me to your home on the wedding day of your daughter. And may their first child be a masculine child,” he recited while doing his best Luca Brasi imitation and plucking a freshly killed chicken. This was followed by a passage spoken in Chinese accompanied by chicken feathers flying in the air as he waved his hands.

I enjoy reflecting on where I have been and contemplating where I am going. That is why this whole starting-over-with-a-new-year (or animal) thing is something I anticipate with glee. Whether it is Chinese or American, we could all use a fresh start, which brings me to a few more appropriate items for the dragon.

Relocation feng shui: Hopefully, my most recent move will improve my luck. Although I’m happy to be a wandering nomad, I would really like to stay put for at least a few years and learn to make peace with the fact that apartment living has its drawbacks. This includes overlooking the complaining of some of my neighbors like Jerry, who never sees the glass as half full and has a vendetta against anyone making noise at the swimming pool. Jerry would never have been allowed inside Jimmy Fong’s place.

Computer fu: Fu is the Chinese word for luck. I used to scream the American word represented by these two letters when I was low on computer fu, and my old PC would crash. Computer fu never worked on that old piece-of-crap machine. It now works fine on my Mac. I hope the fu will be with my Mac forever.

Directing the chi: Chi is energy—and we need to put some into improving our lives and the lives of others. We’ve managed to end one war; we still have one more to go. Good chi. How about the wars we fight on a personal level? Maybe we could have a Republicrat Love-In and invite people from both political parties to partake in some 1968-style mellowing out. Maybe Elsie and Jerry from my apartment complex could stop putting contracts out on each other via the community bulletin board.

The rabbit is cooked. The dragon is coming. We may not have everything we want, but we have more than those who have lost their homes, jobs, loved ones or hope.

So, even though it’s a little early, I would like to wish you all a big, fat GUNG HAY FAT CHOY, which means, “May prosperity be with you.” And may you also have a huge dollop of luck.

Peace.

I WON!

noreply@blogger.com (Patrizia) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 17:27:00 +0000

I won second prize at the San Diego Reader!

Here is the link to my story:

http://www.sandiegoreader.com/weblogs/bohemian-opus/2011/dec/29/geezerville/

Sand Dollars

noreply@blogger.com (Patrizia) — Sun, 04 Dec 2011 23:48:00 +0000

Fill my pockets with sand dollars

instead of real ones;

and tell me again that I’m beautiful

even though we both know you are lying.

Capture the sunlight in your smile

and the moonlight in your kiss,

as we stand on the shore

and watch the surf wash over our bare feet.

Fill my pockets with sand dollars

instead of silver coins;

and let us spend them to buy the soft breezes

that brush by your hand that holds mine.

Tell me again about how rich we are

to have each other,

a beautiful son,

and this special place.

Fill my pockets with sand dollars

instead of real ones;

and we will invest them in

a life together of

love,

laughter,

and each other.

How to Make a Cookie Crumble

noreply@blogger.com (Patrizia) — Mon, 07 Feb 2011 00:35:00 +0000

The only thing I have successfully made in the kitchen is a mess—and several small fires.
~ Carrie Bradshaw, Sex and the City

It all started with the rose water.

Well, maybe I should back up. Actually, it all started when I decided to make a bucket list and scribbled in learn to cook somewhere around number 12.

It should have been number 13.

I never learned to cook in my youth because I was more interested in just about anything other than learning the fine art of Italian cuisine from my mother. Fortunately I married Ben; a man who not only enjoyed cooking, but relished all things domestic. So, when I announced my desire to develop some culinary muscle to him, I wasn’t too surprised by his response of several eye rolls followed by the purchase of a fire extinguisher.

Ben doesn’t use recipes, so I had to purchase some cooking guides. I chose two cookbooks: one Mediterranean and one Middle Eastern. Added to those was the Italian one my cousin, Attilio sent to me from Italy. I chose the recipe for Middle Eastern cookies filled with dates and nuts as my first project. The directions looked easy enough. All I had to do was make a trip to the local market, gather the raw materials, mix them together and shove it all into the oven.

Right?

Everything was going as planned except for finding rose water, which no one heard of, let alone carried.

“I need to get rose water,” I shouted to Ben from the kitchen.

“Substitute,” the reply echoed from the living room.

“No, it has to be what is called for in the recipe. I’m not substituting anything.”

An online search revealed a Middle Eastern market in La Jolla that sold rose water. After confirming that they were open and had what I needed, I grabbed Ben and a map and headed out the door for the trek south.

The store was hidden behind a Persian restaurant that had a side path leading to the main entrance. Once inside, the sights and smells of exotic spices and tantalizing treats delighted my senses.

Making my way to the shelf with the rose water, I was captivated by the huge selection of assorted nuts and grains, various cooking equipment and colorful foreign labels. When a young man offered his assistance, I proceeded to bombard him with questions as to the name of each item, how it is cooked, and could he please repeat that word again so I could write it down.

Rose water in hand (along with a bunch of other stuff I didn’t need), Ben and I left the market and decided it might be a good idea to have lunch at the Persian restaurant next door. This way, I could actually find out how the food is supposed to taste.

At the restaurant, I quickly made friends with Zari, the hostess. She listened patiently as I went on and on about my bucket list, wanting to learn to cook and choosing the Middle Eastern cookie recipe. Together, we quickly became animated—she explaining the food and her culture—and me talking about my culinary-challenged childhood, the rose water experience and the nice guy in the market next door. Eventually, we parted with hugs all around, and a promise to return soon.

Back at the apartment, after all the required ingredients were stacked on the counter, the project commenced with the chopping of three kinds of nuts along with dates and some other sticky objects.

“Where’s the automatic chopper?” I asked.

“I chop everything by hand,” Ben replied.

Midway through the chopping and some very loud complaining, Ben had to finish. The preparing of the fluffy stuff (like flour and sugar) seemed to go more smoothly. That is, until I had to mix in the butter. The butter was cold and hard and refused to associate with the loose ingredients. Soon there was flour everywhere and I was crying.

“Is there a problem in there?” came the voice from the other room. I was so distraught, I couldn’t answer.

Quietly entering the kitchen, Ben once again intervened and patiently showed me the proper way to fondle dough. He made everything look so easy, which was really annoying.

The culinary Titanic that by now had hit at least three icebergs was sinking fast. The cooking of the nuts in the rose water and a bunch of other liquids I don’t remember (since I blocked out the whole experience) was a disaster. I cooked the concoction at too high a heat, and the nuts went ballistic.

After the nuts were picked off the ceiling and few other places, everything had to be assembled. The dough had to be flattened into little squares; and the filling spooned into the centers. Then the dough had to be wrapped around the stuffing and made into little balls that were smashed down and put on a cookie sheet. This had to happen not once, not twice but as many times as possible to exhaust both the dough and the filling.

First the dough ran out with lots of filling left. Then the filling ran out with plenty of dough still remaining. For some reason, both things formed a conspiracy to not finish at the same time, which produced stacks and stacks of cookies that just kept growing and growing.

I decided to stop and just get rid of whatever was left (I forget if it was the dough or the stuffing), take some deep breaths and go for a long walk. The kitchen was a disaster, my arms ached and I was a nervous wreck. I felt like Roberto Durán after the 1980 fight with Sugar Ray Leonard. No mas.

But, by the next day, after good night’s sleep, things looked brighter. I decided I would share the cookies with my co-workers and anyone else on the street who would take them. Surprisingly, they received rave reviews, which puffed up my ego and gave me the courage to give cooking another try.

Maybe next time it will be a piece of cake.

The Yurt

noreply@blogger.com (Patrizia) — Fri, 07 Jan 2011 17:02:00 +0000

As I sadly watched the dismantling of the yurt where I practiced yoga, the words of Yogi Berra came to mind, "When you come to a fork in the road, take it."

In spite of the fact that Berra had a habit of mangling quotes, I felt he knew exactly what he was saying with this one—that people and their circumstances do not need to be restricted to or by just one path.

The yurt had stood in the same spot for five years, but a recent building code issue with the City of Encinitas resulted in a mandate to remove the circular tent. Perhaps I would find a fresh start in a new place, or maybe I would wander around doing tree poses in traffic, but whatever happened, it was certain that I would have to blaze a new trail to an old destination.

I discovered the yurt when my previously giddy relationship with Ocean Beach soured and I began flirting with Encinitas. OB and I had become like a bad marriage where the more I complained, the worse the situation got. Maybe it was the drunken frat boys urinating under my window or the vandalism to my truck; it could have been the stabbing that occurred just a few feet from my apartment or maybe I had just grown too old and cranky to live there anymore. Whatever the reason, I had to leave.

Bidding an emotional farewell to the funky hamlet I once loved, I took the north fork to a town where I felt I could quietly collect my thoughts without being serenaded by neighbors who played music that sounded like two trains colliding and skidding down the tracks. I figured that a community that sported a big honkin’ yoga compound with roofs shaped into gigantic gold lotus blossoms might help me to relax enough to sort out decisions about how to organize my priorities and what to do with the rest of my life.

The tango with the yurt began shortly after settling into my new digs. First, I paced back and forth on the front sidewalk, stopping only to read the class schedule tacked to the fence. Soon I mustered enough nerve to sashay through the entrance and down the steps that led to the grassy area where the yurt stood. I paused to smell the flowers in the organic garden where I lingered to drink in the ambiance. The final turn into the structure swept me into a beginner’s class, where I wrapped my legs around the air and lifted my hips into a downward facing dog.

The yurt became a magical spot where all my cares, along with my shoes, were left behind at the door. In this circular place of peace, I morphed from a fighter jet into a horse and buggy that clip clopped to an Eastern tune. Eventually, I would also discover how to calm my mind enough to quiet the 2,000 mouths inside my head that all talked at once. Each week, I looked forward to visiting the quirky sanctuary with the soothing music where my wound-up, high-strung self could melt into a cosmic puddle.

I continued to watch as the yurt was further dismembered, and the doors that opened to everyone were lovingly placed on top of a neatly stacked pile of wood. I stared at the round spot in the grass where at one time so many of us had shared the common goal of trying to reach nirvana on a planet that seemed to have run amok.

Lost in my thoughts, I was startled when a voice called out from somewhere behind the stacks of wood. There, strolling towards me was a muscular young man holding pieces of the structure in his arms.

After a few words of introduction, he extended his hand in welcome and explained that he had come down from the Bay Area to volunteer with the disassembling. He then made the mistake of asking if there was anything he could do to help me. At that point—out of nowhere—one of my internal tires must have hit a nail because all the air gushed out in the form of words that exploded into the space between us. Feelings I had suppressed over the previous months poured out in an emotional dissertation. I went on and on about leaving OB, fear of growing older, the cost of living, my job, my relatives in Jersey and building codes in terms of yurts. I stopped only when I finally ran out of steam.

He gazed up at the sky and then down at the pieces of wood in his hands, drew a deep breath, smiled and softly responded. “Well, yurts are meant to be built, and then taken down and moved somewhere else,” he said. Wise beyond his years, he explained how he saw life as being somewhat like a yurt—in a constant state of transformation and renewal. He went on to relate how inevitably a person will land where he or she is supposed to be, and that an open heart and mind will ultimately allow clarity to dispel all the confusion. The important thing, he went on, is to stay true to who you are in the midst of all the chaos.

As we said our farewells and went our separate ways, I began to mull over his words, and think about the yurt and all of us who had enjoyed the space. Although nothing is certain, we do have the freedom and ability to beam ourselves to wherever we need to be in order to do whatever needs to be done—hopefully with some style and grace.

Eventually my class did find a new spot for our practice. Although it isn’t in the yurt, we can still gather to twist ourselves around ourselves, and look for answers to questions that have not yet been asked.

And we will all keep moving forward as one year with all its well-traveled roads ends a new one ripe with possibilities begins—hopefully, in the direction of our hopes and dreams.

As for me, I’ve decided to take the fork.

All That Jazz

noreply@blogger.com (Patrizia) — Sat, 18 Sep 2010 16:49:00 +0000

My client feels that it was a combination of liquor and jazz that led to the downfall.
~Billy Flynn, from the musical, Chicago

Jazz is the musical equivalent of my life—a hard riff in a Mingus tune.

It was in a dimly lit, smoke-filled room, somewhere in the bowels of Philadelphia where that sweet sound first filled my ears. I wasn’t supposed to be there that day, but, my Uncle Moonie decided his “business” appointment might appear more legitimate to local law enforcement if he had a child in tow.

Uncle Moo was a washed-up, semi-pro fighter with a checkered past. He and his dog Babe, a big, ugly mongrel with bulging pink eyes, spent much of their time sharing companionship and liquor. Both were severely overweight and both had a drinking problem.

While Uncle Moo became immersed in his transaction, I wandered off to investigate a hypnotic sound coming from the adjoining alley. Following the melody to its source, I drifted to a spot where a bearded man sat on a barrel that was propped against a wall. He closed his eyes as he blew into a horn, only slightly opening them when he inhaled. The music was compelling—complicated yet easy. The phrasing formed a kaleidoscope of colors that filled the air with an intoxicating Technicolor brew; and the notes vibrated in a place somewhere deep inside the marrow of my bones.

Hello jazz.

The experience led me to try and learn everything I could about the genre and its musicians. So years later, when construction of a new sports arena in Philadelphia called The Spectrum was completed, and I heard that the Quaker City Jazz Festival would be hosted at the grand opening, I jumped at an opportunity to usher the event. The festival galvanized my love for the music as I met the musicians whom I had previously only seen on television, or heard on 33 1/3 RPM records.

Not long after the festival, global and personal circumstances resulted in my life becoming nomadic; and I took jazz along with me for the ride. Together we swung through New Jersey, grooved in D.C. and bopped all the way to the West Coast.

At the Monterey Jazz Festival, we met Eddie “Cleanhead” Vinson through a couple of New Yorkers living in San Francisco and on their way to Los Angeles. After that, we scatted to Florida where con artists stripped us of our life savings. After that, we beat a path to Texas. But, somewhere between Florida and Texas, jazz got lost.

In Austin, Texas, I thought I had reached the end of the road. Those hot, miserable days were filled with bitter fear and contempt. I looked everywhere for jazz, but only found country and blues—lots of blues.

One sticky, sultry Texas Sunday, I discovered a little park in East Austin that had a bandstand where locals gathered to eat, sing and play music. As I sat under a shady tree, I spotted a figure emerging through a cloud of dust as he slowly walked up the gravel road. He was wearing a colorful fez and dragging something behind him. As he got closer, I could see he had a salt and pepper beard and was slightly built. His skin was the color of dark chocolate, dusted with charcoal. Even though he wore glasses, I could see his eyes told a story of hard times and wisdom that came with a price.

He stopped and chatted with everyone as he entered the park and made his way to the small stage. There, he took out a trumpet, lifted it to his lips, and began to play. I melted under the first few notes as that familiar feeling of euphoria took over my heavy heart. Jazz was back, and its name was Martin Banks.

I found out Martin was known as “the sage,” and played with such greats as Count Bassie, Maynard Ferguson and David “Fathead” Newman.

When I approached him to introduce myself, Martin was as warm and personable as he was talented, and I found talking to him as smooth as the notes that poured from his trumpet.

Although we would have many more conversations as the years passed; I was always careful to spare him the details about Uncle Moonie, Babe, the Monterey Jazz Festival, and the Floridian con artists. But, I did let him know how his music lifted me up and gave me the strength and optimism to go on.

Martin Banks died in 2004.

Uncle Moonie died of liver failure.

The Philadelphia Spectrum is set to be demolished.

I made it back to California in 2005.

And the beat goes on…

Life in the Mass [Transit] Lane

noreply@blogger.com (Patrizia) — Sun, 25 Jul 2010 02:04:00 +0000

“Stand up straight. Hold your head high. Put your shoulders back. Now, walk like this.”

My very macho, Italian father had my mother’s purse draped over his arm as he swished and pranced back and forth across the living room to show me how to carry myself on a busy street in a not-so-safe city.

“Now, stick your other hand in your pocket and make believe you have a gun in there,” he added.

Why anyone would buy into the charade that a scrawny, 12-year-old carrying a pink patent leather ballet tote was concealing a firearm made no sense to me; but, I followed his instructions.

“Remember, if a man bothers you, kick him in the balls. Got it? Il coglione, figlia mia, il coglione, gabeesh? And point the ‘gun’ in your pocket at any suspicious person who walks toward you.”

I was teetering on the brink of womanhood and starving for independence. This was my first step—to get my father’s approval to let me take the bus by myself to my weekly ballet class. He reluctantly agreed, but would not let me out of the house until he was sure his little princess could morph into Rocky Balboa if necessary.

When his requirements were met, and I was finally given permission to venture out alone, I gleefully skipped down the street to the bus stop. I could hear my father shouting in the distance, “Don’t show any fear! Crooks can smell fear! Keep your head up! Remember the gun—stick your hand in your pocket!” His voice trailed off as I ran for the bus and my first experience using mass transit.

Eventually, I made friends on the bus, and came to appreciate the differences that existed outside of my own Italian culture. I learned not to touch people as an extension of my conversation, or wave my hands in the air as I spoke. I discovered that eating garlic before boarding the bus was not a good idea; and that public displays of emotion were not always appreciated. Even after I got my driver’s license, public transportation remained the School of American Etiquette to me, and my favorite form of early social media. So, it was natural that I would to drift towards riding the trolley when I moved to San Diego.

There are three trolley lines in San Diego: The Orange line, used by many sports fans and aviation types as it loops inland to Petco Park and Gillespie Field; the Blue Line, which heads south through downtown to the Mexican border and carries laborers, artists, musicians, business people and disgruntled lawyers; and the Green Line that runs east to west from Old Town to Santee, and is frequented by those in the retail industry, students, colorful characters, screaming children and florid psychotics.

I ride the Green Line.

That is where I met Teresa. Every part of Teresa was round including her face, which was frozen in a permanent smile. In spite of her girth, she carried herself in an elegant manner, swaying back and forth like a queen leading her royal court.

Teresa’s nature was dignified, poised and calm—the exact opposite of mine, which has always been high-strung, nervous and excitable. I came to look forward to her deep, quiet wisdom covering me like a warm blanket on a cold, winter’s night.

I eventually learned that Teresa had two young daughters; and she worked in a kitchen in San Diego, while her husband remained in Mexico. The family spent a great deal of time either separated from each other or shuttling back and forth between the two countries.

Teresa spoke mostly Spanish and a little English. I speak mostly English, a little Italian and hardly any Spanish; but, that didn’t stop me from befriending her. Sometimes, a bilingual passenger named Anna would join us, making our conversation easier. Anna could flip her gymnastic tongue from English to Spanish and back again with incredible ease. This is how I got to really know Teresa.

As we traveled, our discussions revolved around the usual girly stuff like fashion, food and kids. Culture and language barriers would melt under my latest issue of Vogue. “No mi gusto” I learned to say as I pointed to a photo of something I didn’t like in the magazine. In fact, I felt that mi gusto (I like) and no mi gusto (I don’t like) were very important words, given my highly opinionated personality. Next on my list of words came yo quiero (I want). I would amuse Teresa by becoming animated as I passionately talked about yo quiero-ing this or that thing.

One day on the trolley, the conversation turned to hairstyles. Her hair was cropped short, while mine was long. Teresa gently touched my hair and said, “Es bonita”. I replied with “Thank you.” Then she touched her own hair and said, “My hair long, but then cut para chemo.”

Chemo? She never mentioned this before. So, I pressed for an answer, “Che chemo?” I blurted in Italian, forgetting the Spanish word for what.

“Breast cancer,” she quietly replied. “I fine now,” she added. The words spun around my head and whistled in my ears, breast cancer. Her life was already more difficult than anything I could ever imagine, and now she was fighting breast cancer too? I became overwhelmed with emotion searching for the right words to say.

“Yo quiero,” was all I could muster before my voice cracked, and tears welled. “Quiero para usted…I want for you…” It got worse. Now Teresa was crying.

I switched to English. “Teresa, I want you…to be well. I wish, with all my heart, that your children will have their strong and wonderful mother long past their childhood. I wish for you to have a better life than cooking in some miserable kitchen. I want your family to be able to live together, under the same roof. I want…I wish…”

Smiling, she whispered, “Everything fine,” patting me on the knee. Her bright face looked like the sun peeking through storm clouds after a torrential rain.

Shortly after that, Teresa stopped riding the trolley, and I didn’t see her for a long time. Then one day, there she was again, getting on the Green Line.

“Teresa!” I yelled, drawing stares, “Teresa!” I was so excited to see her. Her hair had grown a little, and she had it pinned on top of her head.

I rushed to her side, squeezed her arm and touched her hair, “Es bonita,” I said.

“Thank you,” she replied.

The Thrill of the Hunt

noreply@blogger.com (Patrizia) — Wed, 21 Apr 2010 22:33:00 +0000

It’s difficult to explain the lure of a garage sale, other than it is an intoxicating, multi-faceted journey to Nirvana for someone like me.

I can’t remember when I first became obsessed with buying other people’s stuff. Maybe it was the trips to the junkyard with my father, who shopped there for auto parts; or, my mother’s obsession for repurposing wealthier relatives’ castoffs; or maybe I was simply born to be a bag lady.

Like a five-star general, leading the troops into battle, my weekly invasions into assorted neighborhoods, searching for the Holy Grail of refuse, are strategically planned.

First, I compile a list. Sales with farm equipment or baby things are ruled out immediately. Next, a map is drawn and marked with red dots to indicate the locations of the best prospects. Exceptionally promising addresses are additionally annotated with stars. Last, the hour each sale begins is penciled in next to its respective red dot.

The perfect scenario is when the garage sales open consecutively along my planned route. If that doesn’t happen, or my plan of attack turns out to have too many problems, I simply ambush the sellers before the sun rises and hope I don’t get shot.

I recently decided to only patronize those crap-a-thons in Ocean Beach. A few bad experiences, like the one I had in Hillcrest, where I got into a huge fight with two gentlemen over a painting of a flamenco dancer, convinced me it might be better if I stayed closer to home.

I’ve come to accept the fact that, most of the time, I’m not going to find anything worth the trip. The biggest catch I ever made was a heavyweight boxing championship belt signed by Muhammad Ali. I stumbled upon this gem hanging on a clothesline, somewhere in Florida, with a sticker on it marked $1.

“This is one dollar?” I asked the attractive, blonde woman behind the table.

“Yup,” she replied, “It belonged to my husband, who left me for another woman. I know he paid a fortune for it, but, today, I’m selling all his possessions for a buck apiece.”

I later sold the belt in Texas to a guy from New York for $1,000.

A few weeks ago, I was making my way to an OB alley sale when I nearly ran over a little old lady, who darted in front of my truck. She had tightly permed, blue hair with a pink scalp showing through the curls. She wore a polyester, pink and blue floral-print track suit. Her frail body resembled a question mark, as she balanced herself between a cane and a shopping cart, which contained, among other things, a bong.

After not buying anything, I continued down the alley and on to the street. At the next stop, the seller told me she recently moved to OB from Michigan. Transplants from the Midwest usually have things like those weird plaid hats with the ear flaps attached; but, this woman actually had some cool stuff.

I was extremely annoyed that the first wave of people, who looked to be mostly dealers in the resale business, had arrived before the advertised opening time. They moved quickly, eyes darting about, snatching the best deals before the competition could beat them to it.

Just then I spotted a real prize – a blouse by the fashion designer, Betsey Johnson. I dove into the pile to retrieve it, and surfaced with both the top and the blue-haired lady (I almost ran over earlier), attached to the other end.

“I believe I had this first,” I politely said. She tugged on the top and said something I didn’t understand. I pulled harder gently repeating, “Please release the blouse.” But, she wasn’t giving it up. Then, with the all strength of a longshoreman, she gave a yank, ripped the blouse out of my hands, and flung it into her cart with the bong.

Seething, I got into my truck and drove down the street.

The next vendor was selling some very expensive lingerie. As we all perused the wares, a dog fetched a bunch of panties, and ran away with them. He darted across the street, shaking his head and the panties as cars screeched to avoid him. A huge, disheveled man, who must have had a financial interest in the panties, lumbered after him, successfully retrieving the goods.

I decided not to buy anything there, and left.

Porn videos are usually found at the yard sales closer to the Point Loma border of OB. I don’t buy them; but, I do enjoy hiding behind something and watching the enthusiasts who do.

At the final sale of the day, there was a box of these adult videos being fondled by the usual group of aficionados. As I glanced to the side, I caught a glimpse of the blue-haired lady charging up the sidewalk in the direction of the box.

By now, I believed she was either stalking me, or had hacked into my computer and got my map. Making her way through the shoppers, she scattered the few people scrutinizing the movies by pushing her cart into them. Poking around inside the box with her cane, she pulled out three videos, and tossed them in her basket along with the bong and the Betsey Johnson blouse (that should have been mine).

I decided to call it a day. I was spent. I went home exhausted and frustrated, and swore I would never go to another yard sale again.

But, like any other rummage-sale junkie, when the next Saturday morning rolled around, there I was again, heading out the door at 6 a.m.; and hoping that the blue-haired lady would be staying home; kicking back in my blouse, smoking a bong, and watching porn movies.

The Writing on the Wall

noreply@blogger.com (Patrizia) — Wed, 20 May 2009 18:04:00 +0000

Lately, I’ve been spending a lot of time in North Park. Not only because it is wrapped in that certain kind of funkiness that I love; but because it also has a tiny Russian restaurant that contains the mother load of bathroom graffiti.

Let me explain.

I’ve been interested in the study of Latrinalia (the word for bathroom graffiti coined by the late Alan Dundes) ever since the day I saw a perfectly drawn penis on a bathroom stall in an old department store. The piece was created with an economy of expressive lines, and the execution of the circumcised tip was exquisite. When the store renovated the facilities and the penis was taken down, I felt a peculiar sense of loss.

Shortly after the penis disappeared, I heard the calling to become a foot soldier in the army of nomads who document bathroom-sage wisdom. As I traveled far and wide in search of that illusive commode masterpiece, my quest led me to note some interesting observations: First, these offerings to the porcelain gods seem to be influenced by economic status and social, regional and cultural influences; second, the musings found in the ladies’ rooms are almost always relationship-oriented as opposed to the men’s facilities that boast political and somewhat egotistical statements; and last, sexual commentary is sprinkled in the stalls of both genders.

Although most people would like to think that Latrinalia is a recent art form; this mode of pure self-expression is nothing new. I read somewhere that in the Chauvet Cave in the south of France, the Paleolithic dudes created a work of art with pigments that has been carbon dated to around 25,000 BCE. The illustration is an intricately rendered vagina that surrounds a part of the cave where red clay had seeped through. Fortunately for posterity, it was not painted over by the Paleolithic bathroom police.

Unfortunately for our own progeny, a current-day potty Picasso’s pièce de résistance that is created with a Sharpie marker during a solitary moment of contemplation is looked upon as vandalism and quickly removed.

My expeditions have unearthed some interesting specimens. Take, for instance, the elaborate equations, words of T.S. Eliot and long philosophical and political treatises that I found in a men’s room on the University of California, Berkeley campus (no, I’m not going to reveal how I got away with being in there). Or the lovelorn passage that was edited, complete with proofreader’s marks neatly tucked in the margins that I found in a stall at a publishing house in Texas. Then there was the irate message left behind by someone in a pay toilet in New York City that read, “This better be a hell of shit for 25 cents.”

An entire thesis can be presented solely on the particular way hearts are drawn – like in “Mary (heart) John.”

Back in my old neighborhood, which was mostly Italian, hearts were depicted with jagged rips where the arrow violently pierced the surface. Drops of blood were commonly shown dripping from the tip of the arrow. It was a passionate, over-the-top kind of heart, full of emotion.

In Texas, the illustrated arrows sport feathers, and hearts look more like three-dimensional jelly beans. And of course, nothing in the Lone Star State goes without some representation of the Lone Star inserted somewhere.

In Florida, most of the arrows I saw were either flaccidly lying on top or hidden behind the hearts. Guess Florida is too hot or tired for a good ripping arrow.

I don’t personally add anything to the graf. Although once as a teen, I unintentionally created something; but it wasn’t in a latrine. What happened was that I won a chalk statue of the Blessed Mother at one of the Catholic festivals held in our South Philadelphia neighborhood. Being a fidgety kid, I started tapping the statue on the bricks outside my Aunt Lena’s row house while talking to one of my cousins. When I turned my eyes away from my cousin and towards the wall, I discovered that the tapping was leaving little marks. I curiously pushed one of the marks a bit further and realized I could write things on the brick wall with the Blessed Virgin’s head.One thing led to another, and before I knew it, I began to publicly profess my undying love for Paulie Mastroantonio on the wall (including many hearts with wild, ripping and bloody arrows). It didn’t take long for the entire head of Mother Mary to disappear – worn down by my dramatic, unconscious and lengthy dissertation on life, love and Paulie. After I realized what I had done, and fearful that I would burn in hell forever; I promised all the saints I would never write on another wall.

Then I moved to southern California. I figured this just might be the best fertile ground I could find for some inspiring nuggets to add to my collection. I started in Los Angeles, where I found a lot of political and spiritual messages peppered with some wonderful art and advice on life – a gritty, sort of earthy communication from the streets – both inspirational and entertaining.

Take for example this flash of insight that was penned beneath a shelf that supported two glass religious-icon candles: “Fuck bad relationships & dysfunctional people. Cut them out of your life to make room for inspiring souls.” Or this piece from a coffee house in Santa Monica: “God help the pretentious man who swaythes himself in worthiless projects but bless he who realized his own spirituality.” The latter was accompanied by a bright, brushy Buddha-like drawing with rays coming out of the head.

When I decided to settle in San Diego, I was presented with one of the biggest multi-media “head” challenges since the penis-drawing epiphany. I discovered that this area is severely lacking in Latrinalia. To find anything at all, I had to visit places not fit for a plumber…or a human for that matter.

Eventually, in my darkest hour, salvation came by way of being hired by a local university. Things began to look up. One lucky day at work, in a ladies’ room far from my office, I stumbled upon a few literary regurgitations and a drawing of an alien with the message, “We are not alone.” I got down on my knees (with my camera) in thanks. I knew at that moment, the guiding light of the graffiti gods would shine upon me and take me to the promised land of urban scrawl.

Back to North Park and the Russian restaurant…

My son found this little gem of an eatery; and as part of my Mother’s Day gift, escorted me through its gates to nirvana. It was the Holy Grail. As the French pearly doors slowly opened before me, I was enraptured by the sight of graffiti heaven (I believe angels draped in toilet paper were singing.).

The proprietors had not only encouraged the patrons to leave their marks in the loo, but supported depositing them in the entire establishment! A bonanza of thought-provoking passages splattered the walls like honey bees on the windshield of a speeding car.

My heart began to race. I felt faint. It was all too much. I began indiscriminately snapping photos everywhere. With no place to download, I didn’t want my camera to run out of memory before hitting the john – which, by the way, turned out to fulfill my wildest dreams. Along with the graffiti, there were clippings and posters in both English and Russian. The explosion of words was orgasmic; and after a long, mind-blowing session of picture and note taking, I felt like I could smoke a cigarette – if I smoked.

By the way, I should also mention that the food in this restaurant, which is called the Pomegranate, is delicious!

A Tale of Two Sendoffs

noreply@blogger.com (Patrizia) — Mon, 20 Apr 2009 20:19:00 +0000

His neatly knotted tie looked out of place over his soiled and torn shirt as he spoke to an audience of rag-tag, tie-wearing participants who had done their best to look presentable. The disheveled speaker was conveying a story at a memorial for Hank, a homeless man known for wearing a necktie.

A colorful wreath with a picture of the deceased was at the head of the picnic table where Hank was a regular. Donated food graced the table and shadows danced on the newly mowed lawn in the warm Ocean Beach sun. In the distance, children played in the sand, oblivious to the solemn occasion. Several police officers kept a watchful eye on the group, suspicious of the weary band of ne’er-do wells that had congregated in one corner of the park.

I didn’t know Hank as well as the other homeless people who frequented the area. He stayed mostly in the park alongside of the beach, sitting at the same picnic table nearly every day. Hankster the Prankster, as some called him, was always ready with a kind word, practical joke or food if you were hungry.

As I stood in the midst of society’s castoffs at this simple farewell, my mind did one of those theatrical morphing things and traveled back in time. My mental curtain rose on the scene of a more elaborate funeral that took place during a bitter cold New Jersey winter. My mother had died, and I left Ocean Beach to fly to the East Coast to say my final good-bye.

Unlike Hank’s memorial, my father had spared no expense in giving my mother an extravagant sendoff amidst family and friends – the thought of whom caused me to have a panic attack somewhere over Iowa during the flight.

My mother’s side of the family hails from Abruzzi, Italy and my father’s from Calabria. My mother’s family enjoys the opera, fine dining and exquisite clothes; my father’s kin identify with all things "colorful," and sometimes, slightly illegal. I was told my mother’s people refused to speak to her after she married the Calabrese. Now they were all forced to sit together in a stuffy, dimly lit room, darting nasty looks at each other as my mother lay lifeless in a pink chiffon gown.

"You know the funeral cost 12 large," my brother whispered in my ear as he stood beside me at the open casket. Twelve thousand dollars seemed excessive considering the end result was a body being buried in the ground, but I wasn't about to comment.

Aunt Edith had inched her way to the casket and was straining to look up at me. Aunt Edith decided this was the most appropriate time to voice her dissatisfaction with her fifty-something-year marriage to my father’s now deceased brother, Enrico.

"I’m glad your Uncle is dead. He was a louse."

We stood stone-faced at the announcement, letting the words evaporate.

"And your father is a loner," she added, pointing her crooked finger in my face, and then in my father’s direction as she wobbled away.

The sound of everyone applauding the latest orator caused my mind to snap back to the present ceremony. The backdrop of the Pacific Ocean had a cleansing effect. I rubbed my eyes and breathed in the salty air as I looked to the heavens. A Rastafarian drummer softly tapped out a rhythm that synchronized with my heartbeat; and I wondered if Hank could see us. I wondered if he was with my mother, who was probably redesigning his attire and stuffing him with her famous pound cake.

A new speaker began reminiscing about the time he spent in jail with Hank. This time the eulogy turned into a duet as a member of the audience decided to simultaneously join the commentary and give his own loud account of life on the streets. It was almost like a rendition of one of those blues songs where the audience provides backup by testifying; only instead of waiting for the proper lull, the backup was fiercely competing with the lead.

The disjointed account was met with frustration as hunger made the participants fidgety. The bounty, laid out on the table, was giving off a fragrant aroma under the warmth of the sun.

My mind drifted back to my mother’s viewing, where American culture rendered my once outrageous relatives mute. There were no loud, dramatic performances that I remembered as a child. No one was screaming in Italian, starting a fight or crawling into the casket. Only my Aunt Filomena spoke in a shrill voice as she used her walker to race around the funeral parlor showing off pictures of her grandchildren.

"Please just take one item," was the request made as the last speaker finished at Hank’s soiree. "This is not a feed."

At that point, I was cursing myself for not bringing more food. Earlier I had stopped at the seaside restaurant, Newbreak, and bought all their breads and pastries for my contribution to the refreshments. It wasn’t nearly enough; and my heart broke to watch so many starving people limited to one piece of food each. But they complied, and were thankful for whatever they were given.

Back in the New Jersey memory, I recalled everyone convening at a restaurant named The Jersey Diner following my mother’s burial. Limousines that my father hired filled the parking lot, making it look like the Mafia's five families were meeting inside. There was so much to eat that everyone went home with shopping bags of food filled to the brim.

Hank loved to eat. His ample body was a testament to that as well as his lack of a proper diet. Hank had diabetes; and his poor diet, along with the lack of medical care, hastened his death at a relatively early age.

Diabetes also killed my mother, and although she too failed to heed the warnings regarding her diet, she lived to be 83.

Someone once told me that it was because the Libra sun was just a couple of degrees away from Neptune at the time of my birth that I am drawn to the underdog. Whatever it is, I find it as natural as Marilyn Munster did in the 1960’s television show, The Munsters, to circulate among the fringe element, comfortable to look completely out of place. With them, but not of them, my civilian status has long been forgotten as I listen to their stories, accept them as they are and help when I can.

Not so with my relatives. I was never able to join them in some of their values. I don’t care if I have a big fancy house or drive an expensive car. I don’t know how to cook. I know I don’t want a twelve-thousand-dollar funeral. And I can only take so much of the opera.

I think when I go – I’ll go like Hank – in my beloved Ocean Beach surrounded by seagulls, surfers and sidekicks – but with a cool rendition of Herby Hancock’s Maiden Voyage playing on somebody’s sweet saxophone.

And I’ll make sure there’s plenty of food.

Gotta Keep Movin'

noreply@blogger.com (Patrizia) — Fri, 14 Nov 2008 19:24:00 +0000

I sit here in San Diego International Airport’s baggage claim area anxiously awaiting my father’s arrival from New Jersey for my birthday celebration. He plans to stay in Ocean Beach with me only three days because in his words, he’s “gotta keep movin’.”

I am neurotic about being late, so I’m an hour and a half early – and I am nervous.

The last time I saw my father was at my mother’s funeral almost two years ago. He had taken care of her for seven years, refusing to accept any help from the family. The ordeal had taken its toll, and his appearance was shockingly frail. I am wondering what he will look like now. Will he be as gaunt? Or, will he be worse?

The wait is tedious.

My father is 91. The time we have left together is growing short. I’m hoping to convince him to come and live with me in OB, but have no illusions that his stubborn, old Italian ways will allow him to even listen to my proposal.

I see a crowd descending the escalator. His plane must have landed. My heart is beating so fast, I can feel it in my head – and my feet.

I look up and catch sight of him gliding downward on the escalator like some exotic bird searching for a perch. Standing tall, his chin is raised and his eyes scan the area for me.

He looks good, I think to myself. He put on weight. The frailness is gone and his body more closely resembles the one I remember from my youth – strong, straight and muscular. He’s dressed impeccably and wears a newsboy cap, which makes him look like the character, Uncle Junior, from the HBO series, The Sopranos. I cry and laugh at the same time.

I leap from my chair and dart in his direction. Waving my arms wildly, I jump up and down to get his attention. As if in some slow-motion movie, we run towards each other. He hugs me so hard, I feel my ribs bend.

“Where we gonna go first?” he asks. “You know, I gotta keep movin’.”

“We’ll drive to my apartment. Then we’ll take a walk. I want to show you Ocean Beach,” I answer.

After a short time in my cramped studio, we leave the apartment and head toward Collier Park, wending our way to Voltaire Street. I’m holding his hand, much like I did as a child. We look at each other while the surreal landscape opens before us. There is so much to say and so much not to say. We talk about my mother. He cries. Sixty-four years is a long time to be with someone and then lose her.

We talk about food and argue about whether the East or West Coast makes better spaghetti sauce. We talk about why I gave up on becoming a ballerina, lawyer, artist and psychologist. The chatter is punctuated with periods of silence and an occasional hand squeeze.

We walk towards the beach. The discussion has now shifted to politics. He is as much to the right as I am to the left. We debate. I get upset. He laughs and gives me one of his I’m-just-jerking-your-chain looks. Easily we slip back in time. He is my hero. I am his spoiled principessa.

I want to impress him with my town and my life. On Voltaire, I point a finger in a southerly direction and say, “Over there is OB People’s Co-op where I shop.” I’m feeling extremely self-righteous as I preach about the merits of organic food cooperatives. “I refuse to give my money to the major grocery store chains and greedy corporations.” I boast.

“What’s wrong with corporations?” he asks.

I launch into my corporations-are-killing-America speech, and my military-industrial-complex-must-be-stopped lecture.

He listens intently.

“Why don’t you run for president?” he responds. “You would make a good president.”

My father has no limits when it comes to what he thinks I could do.

We turn left on Sunset Cliffs Blvd. and walk past all the churches.

“Is there a Catholic church here?” he wants to know.

“Yes,” I answer, “but we’re going to Little Italy on Sunday so you can hear the Mass in Italian.”

“Italian!” he stops walking a glares at me. His hands are slicing at the air. “I’m an American! I don’t want to speak Italian!”

“But Italian is your native tongue and our heritage...”

He cuts me off. “I’m an American! I fought for this country. THIS is my country.”

Here we go, I thought – first blunder. “We’re Italian-Americans.” I rebut.

“No!” his face is red now. “Only Americans!”

We reach Newport Avenue and I let the Italian Mass discussion drop and start a new topic about education.

“I was a wise guy,” he says while peering in the window at the Portugalia restaurant. “The Army – the Army straightened me out and gave me an education.” He goes on, “Had to drop out in seventh grade to go pick beans in Jersey to feed the family.” He stops walking and lowers his head. “I have regrets,” he confesses in a raspy voice.

I think about his life and how difficult it all must have been living through the Great Depression, World War II, Korea and Vietnam – serving his country and struggling with the world, his family…himself.

We stop at Willie’s shoe shine stand and I introduce him to Willie. Decorated with American and POW flags and all sorts of Marine memorabilia, the stand is a tribute to Willie’s unwavering patriotism. Willie is holding poppies to sell for the veterans in one hand while reaching out for a handshake with the other.

“Marines,” Willie says grabbing my father’s hand.

“Army” my father responds.

We chat until hunger beckons us to find a place for lunch. We backtrack to Sunset Cliffs and decide to eat at Pepe’s. Before we turn the corner, my father pauses and gestures in the direction of the shoe shine stand. “He wears the emblem,” he comments. “It’s on his hat,” he adds. “The Marines…you know they’re the really tough guys,” he says softly.

From Sunset Cliffs, we make a jog to the right, then to the left. We walk through a parking lot and enter Pepe’s through the back entrance, slamming the screen door to the kitchen. Mouth-watering aromas, gastronomic delights and the owners greet us as we make our way to the seating area. I love this place. It’s like home – like family. It’s real Italians cooking real Italian food.

I introduce my father. We eat. We argue again about which coast makes the best spaghetti sauce. We eat so much we can’t breathe.

“I gotta get movin’. The panzo is full,” he says, meaning to say pancio (the Italian word for stomach).

Back on Newport, we stop in Dreamgirls where I introduce him to Bridget. Standing a little straighter, he throws back his shoulders, sticking out his chest. I can tell he likes Bridget. After we leave, he mentions at least three times in about as many minutes how Bridget is a good-looking woman.

It’s exhausting trying to keep up with him as we head back to the apartment. Two of my steps equal one of his. We turn on to Santa Monica Avenue. I continue pointing out places of interest where I spend my time: the post office; the library; McAllister’s CPA where I get my taxes done; and the little place that used to be a restaurant that hired Brazilian musicians to play on sleepy Sunday afternoons.

Approaching Ebers Street, we begin talking about sports. I let him know that I’m now a big Chargers fan. He says the Phillies are going to win the pennant. He becomes animated as he talks about the players. Then we discuss the Philadelphia Eagles and the time, during the holiday season, disappointed Eagles fans threw things from the stands and booed Santa Claus. Santa had to make a mad dash for the exit, leaving his sack of goodies behind and barely escaping with his life. I comment that Santa must not have been from Philly but from some place where the jolly one isn’t a target for attack by angry football fans. We laugh so hard we have to stop and wipe the tears from our eyes.

We trudge up the hill passing Mozana’s bead store before making it home. I can’t wait to sit down. My legs ache. We have coffee and I begin presenting my case about how his life could be so much easier if he were closer to me in distance. I propose my plan for him to stay with me. He puts his hand up in a motion to stop. I’m defeated before I even have a chance to get to the main argument.

I try the next best thing – to get him to extend his time and to stay with me longer.

“Why?” I ask. “Why not stay at least a week?”

“’Cause,” he answers. “I gotta keep movin’.”

Sand

noreply@blogger.com (Patrizia) — Wed, 02 Jul 2008 14:59:00 +0000

In all my memories of earthly delights, I would have to say my relationship with sand is one of the best. As far back as I can remember, the feel, smell, sight, and sometimes taste of this material has always been associated with joy.

I came into the world occupying one of those depressing row houses in South Philadelphia. There was no sand in Philly – only tar, concrete, and brick. The nearby Jersey shore; however, had lots of sand. So it was to there that my family and I would escape on sweltering hot summer days.

Heading over the Benjamin Franklin Bridge to New Jersey, our blue and green 1952 Chevy, painted by a drunken auto body employee, chugged the last few miles to my Aunt Amina’s restaurant in Wildwood. The aroma of tomato sauce, garlic, and fish led us to the kitchen where we would find my aunt, a tiny woman whose speech resembled the sound of a machine gun, performing a culinary ballet. Stirring the contents of huge pots, flipping fish carcasses and twirling pasta, she looked like a symphony conductor gone mad. After some conversation and a few quick kisses, we would grab what food we could with our hands, stuff our mouths and head out the back door to the beach.

The pilgrimage to the shore was a slow, sensuous foreplay that nearly drove me wild with anticipation. I would race ahead to the last grass-covered dune and take in the scene with all of my senses. Multicolored umbrellas dotted the beach and the smell of suntan lotion filled the air. The fishy smell of the brackish salt flats wafted on an occasional breeze while handsome young Casanovas played their guitars and sang sweet songs of love won and lost.

That first step into the sand was like the consummation of a torrid love affair that had been brewing for a lifetime. The warm particles would ooze through my toes sending currents of excitement rippling through my body, culminating in a salt-air nirvana. Pure ecstasy filled my heart as I put one foot in front of the other to reach the wet climax of the Atlantic.

As the years sped by, the sand castles of my childhood gave way to stolen kisses under a weathered boardwalk that provided shelter from the midday sun. The sand, now cool and moist, held the secrets of my youthful indiscretions. The winds of change were shifting, and the landscape of my life was changing as well.

When turbulence came, I traded one coast for another, swapping the soft, shifting sand of my youth for the rocky cliffs of San Francisco. Flowers replaced the umbrellas and the music changed from gentle love songs to angry protests. Yet, in the midst of the sandstorm, I found my way to an oasis where a calming love entered my life.

Twenty toes dug into a course, sand-covered bluff as I became we. Flower petals drifted between us as we sipped sweet wine to a chorus of seals. That day, I made a wish that the sands of time would blow gently through our lives.

When the union produced a beautiful child, I thought about which of nature’s gifts I would show him first. It wasn’t hard. At two days old, I held him in my arms by the ocean and scooped up part of the seaside carpet. As I slowly brought it up to his face for inspection, I whispered softly, Sand.

Walking

noreply@blogger.com (Patrizia) — Sat, 31 May 2008 14:16:00 +0000

I’ve noticed that there are as many different styles of walking as there are people who perform the function. So one sunny day, while relaxing at Dog Beach, I decided to jot down my observations.

With such a cornucopia of walkers passing in front of me, I tried to come up with as many alternatives to the verb walk as I could. A single word doesn’t always work. Sometimes it takes a few. A friend of mine used to describe folks as “walking with their heads,” or “walking with their chests.” I asked her to show me how that would look. She had no problem animating her descriptions for me, which caused me to laugh so hard I had to hold various parts of my anatomy intact.

The first specimen I was able to identify was the “sprinter.” The sprinters are the athletic types, or those aspiring to be athletic, who sprint everywhere; to the shore, back to their towels, in front of the opposite sex, and alongside of their dogs. The male sprinters are more interesting than the female especially if they are trying to keep their bellies in check. Sometimes they do the belly-suck-in sprint, which involves a bit of holding the breath to present a more flat tummy. I always hope they don’t faint from lack of oxygen.

The next category on my list is the “lumberers.” The lumberers are either old, infirmed, lazy, or just plain tired. Their gate is slow and sways from side to side with a heavy kind of pokiness. Everything is an effort. I saw an older dog that was lumbering. Unfortunately, he had a sprinter for an owner. No matter how much the man begged him, the dog would not move any faster. “I ain’t gonna run on no damn beach,” the dog seemed to be saying while lowering his head and rolling his eyes upward in disgust.

Next we come to the “strutters.” This is probably the most populated category. Actually, I think there needs to be some subcategories here. The main group of strutters moves like “wise guys” and pop their weight from one side to the other while including a bit of head action. Everyone in Philly struts. That’s why the Mummers are so popular there. To properly do the Mummers’ Strut takes talent. And guts. Even women strut with a certain “tough guy” bounce in their step. My brother is from Philly and used to strut, but then he moved to Texas and learned to swagger. So now he either swuts or straggers. A very weird combination matched by his Philly accent that has been influenced with a Texas twang.

Another kind of strut is more akin to that of a runway model. This particular type of walk is usually performed by females with great bodies wearing bikinis. They put one foot directly in front of the other, which causes their hips to jut up and down. It’s pretty close to what my older African-American friend used to call “switching” only with much less shoulder movement. I tried to switch when I was very young but couldn’t coordinate my hips with my shoulders and wound up looking as if I had an affliction. My father kept asking me, “What’s the matter with you? You got something wrong with your foot? Your leg? Your ass? What? What? Somebody beat you up? Huh? Tell me who it was, I’ll kill him! I’ll kill him!”

The “swagger” is at the top of my list of favorites. Not too many people on Dog Beach swagger. They saunter, promenade, trudge and stroll, but they don’t swagger. In Texas, swaggering is held to a very high standard. It is an art. If you have bowl legs, you can really get the swaggering going in the right direction. This form of walking is perfected only after much practice and perseverance. Everyone thinks George Bush has a swagger. He doesn’t. He has more of a toddle mixed in with a bit of a saunter. A true swagger can be seen coming over the horizon. It rocks with confidence as it leans from left to right and rivals the strut for arrogance. Thumbs pushed into a waistband with fingers hanging out the front adds a final touch to a perfect swagger.

Some folks “prance.” Owners of small dogs have a tendency to prance. Big burley men and women with pit bulls tend not to prance. They either lumber or strut depending upon their age. It is important beach etiquette and self-defense practice for prancers to leave plenty of room for strutters.

Of course there is still the “shuffle,” “slog” and “traipse.” Because of the sand and dog droppings, the shuffle is very popular at this spot. It is not at all uncommon to see a prancer suddenly break into an arm-flailing shuffle after stepping in a concealed pile of excrement. This event is usually followed by a traipsing to the water for a cleaning and a slogging back. Many times cursing accompanies the entire scenario.

The human body is capable of an unending repertoire of walking styles. Each one is an individual dance of personal expression. Each one is like a kinesthetic work of art, unique and beautiful. Each one is a joy to watch while sitting in the warm sand at Dog Beach.

The Bookcase

noreply@blogger.com (Patrizia) — Wed, 02 Jan 2008 17:00:00 +0000

The day after Christmas, baby Jesus figurines were 50 percent off the original price. Purchasing baby Jesus netted an additional 75 percent off Mary and Joseph. The wise men could be had for pennies on the dollar and mangers were practically free. Sales were everywhere.

At the same time the retail establishment was throwing merchandise out on the sidewalk, I became obsessed with scooping up bargains to improve my home environment. The craving to set a new domestic stage was as strong as a heroin addiction, with interior design being the drug. I envisioned everything in my studio apartment in a different place. The smell of new wood made me high, and I trembled at the sight of wall paint. There was a phoenix waiting in the wings to stylishly rise out of the ashes I hoped to make.

Everything I needed to do to create a new setting hinged on procuring a bookcase. The bookcase would be the Holy Grail that allowed everything else to fall into place or the trash. So, off I went to Target to get an assemble-it-yourself, made-in-China, faux wood piece that, along with the Christmas tree balls, was on sale.

Once home, I cracked open the box. All the pieces had little labels with numbers corresponding to the drawings. I pulled out the instructions and felt a rush as I read the words that sounded as if they came out of a fortune cookie, “You will find this to be an exciting and rewarding project.” I drafted my husband, Ben, who was happily munching organic mixed nuts and watching television, to help. I asked him, “How hard could it be?” Then added, “Monk (our son) used to put these things together perfectly in five minutes.”

The assembly went along swimmingly as long as the bookcase was prone. However, once we were able to stand the thing on its feet, we realized we put the back on wrong. “No problem.” Ben said, “We’ll just unscrew it and put it on correctly.” Having made the change, we once again stood the piece upright. Next came putting the molding on the front. That’s when we realized the holes for the molding were in the back. We had put it together backwards. “Guess we need to take it apart,” Ben said with a facial expression that resembled a person who just found a dead dog.

I have to stop here and talk about locking cams. The instructions require these suckers be used after every assembly. For example: “Attach panel No. 2 to rail No. 9. Insert locking cam. Screw...” I think locking cams are possessed. I swear I saw evil spirits in their faces when it became necessary to unlock their little asses to undo and then redo construction. But, our determination won and once again everything was in pieces.

We managed to get the thing back together with the front and the molding in the right place. This time we were ready to put the top, which had dowels and some other little screw things hanging beneath it, in place. That’s when I noticed we put the rails on upside down. It was then my world began to spin out of control. I can’t remember what happened next except for screaming, “Put the frigging thing back in the truck in pieces and take it back to effing Target!!! Tell them I want my effing money back because I can’t get the effing thing together!! Ben, always the calm one in our relationship, now had an entire morning invested and was determined to finish. “Come on, we can do this,” he said like a corner man trying to convince his battered boxer to get back in the ring.

Again we took it apart and put it back together. By now I was so intimate with it that I knew where every piece belonged. Parts Nos. 2 and 7 were properly in the front, the molding fit perfectly, all the hanging stuff slid nicely into their waiting holes. It was finished. It was beautiful. It was like giving birth.

My books now have an elegant home; we took three hauls of castoffs to Goodwill; and the new arrangement has given us more space. The New Year may now begin with everything quiet on the home front once again.

A Place Called Home

noreply@blogger.com (Patrizia) — Mon, 10 Sep 2007 16:08:00 +0000

A newborn lives in a trailer that overlooks the Pacific. His father takes care of him while his mother works. His parents believe love is more important than money and learning more important than possessions. They teach him about Gauguin, tide pools, and Jazz. They show him poverty, wealth, and love. He crawls into the lap of a musician who has severely deformed hands. The musician carefully wraps the child's tiny fingers around a pair of drum sticks. Together they play the drums and share the common thread of music that weaves their two worlds together.

Fast forward nine years.

The child is bored. At school, he is sprawled out on the floor instead of sitting in his chair. He is crying in the corner where he is forced to sit. The small hand he uses to pick up the guitar is stamped with a happy face, which proves he behaved that day. He strums, and the music sooths his soul.

Fast forward nine years.

High school has been difficult. His parents arrange for him to take the bus to a school in a wealthy neighborhood where children of the well-heeled decide the fate of those who attend. He is not accepted. The elite gang of jocks has decreed he is not one of them. He is too small, too puny, and too poor. They go off and take designer drugs in the well-manicured park by the school. He starts a band. The music clears his path.

Fast forward nine years.

The strict music teacher stands in front of his class. He remembers his childhood and the tricks he would play. He remembers his troubles in school and how he could have easily dropped out. He remembers the laughter and the pain. He remembers the music.

The children, with clean, pressed clothes and neatly combed hair, sit on the floor in front of him. They do not wear sneakers endorsed by famous athletes. In fact, some of their footwear is falling apart, leaving pieces of shoes on the rug. Their expressive eyes fall on the teacher and his director Will, who pours his heart and soul into the children and the music.

The teacher looks back into the eyes of the children. They are eyes that tell many stories. Sad eyes. Eager eyes. Knowing eyes. Frightened eyes that have seen more than their years. The eyes glance at the map on the wall that shows a world much different from theirs. The eyes move to a television screen that flashes images of how other cultures live, work, and sing—the ears of the children hear the music.

It is the end of the day. A quartet of teens practices. Over and over they struggle—to get it right—to hear the sound. The teacher uses his fingers, now strong and steady, to gently guide their malleable digits up and down and around the instruments to make the music—the music of life.

The teacher is my son; the place is A Place Called Home, an outreach center in South Central Los Angeles. The setting is the Music Department. The children are American children—swarthy little angels—trying to mend their broken wings and fly into the American dream without crashing. The center is seeing to it that they succeed.

Justice

noreply@blogger.com (Patrizia) — Thu, 03 May 2007 16:13:00 +0000

There are several things I dread seeing in my mailbox: a doctor’s bill; a jury summons; and an invitation to another birthday party for my 86-year-old aunt Filomena in Jersey. Recently I received them all. I disputed the bill, called aunt Filomena and declined and began plotting a strategy to get out of the summons.

As I held the notice in my hand, I realized I was probably more qualified than anyone to sit on a jury. My mind did a slow fade and morphed back to my childhood. In a dingy courtroom in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, I’m sitting in the gallery next to my grandfather, a community organizer and advocate for immigrants coming to America from Italy.

A spiritual man, my grandfather was always ready with words of wisdom and philosophical parables to answer my seemingly endless questions, which is why I followed him everywhere—including political conventions and court cases—instead of going to the playground or park.

The vivid memory continues as the scene unfolds in my mind. I’m holding my grandfather’s hand and watching a judge swing his gavel high into the air before slamming it down hard.

“Ninety-nine years!” he shouts. “Does the defendant have anything to say?”

The defendant is a short, stocky man with thinning hair and dark olive skin that had taken on a grayish hue. His black bushy eyebrows cover his eyes like awnings and he has a dark mole on his cheek that dances as his facial muscles twitch. He is shackled and manacled as he stands before the judge attempting to adjust his posture. Throwing his head back, his chest out and peering down his nose he replies in a thick accent.

“Judge,” he pauses, “noan-a be stingy. Give a hundred!”

With his words still hanging in the air, the man is led out of the courtroom.

I watch my grandfather shake his head and lower it as he fingers the brim of the hat he holds in his lap. A lock of his thick hair falls on his sweaty forehead and his sad eyes reflect more than he could tell me at my tender age.

My attention drifts back to the jury notice in my hand. I am annoyed. I just started a new job. I am going to have to rearrange my schedule, transportation and work. We the People can be a huge pain when we get in trouble with the law, I think to myself.

The day I report for my civic duty, my schedule is still in disarray and I’m even more perturbed. I will have to work extra hours to catch up when I return to my job. Entering the courthouse, I pass through the security check and make my way to the jury lounge. Time immediately begins to stand still. Already three hours have passed since my appointed time and I am getting fidgety.

Trying to make the best of the situation, and amuse myself, I begin people watching. There is a huge guy sitting next to me who is fast asleep and snoring with his mouth open and eyes rolled back in his head. A muscular woman with a five-o’clock shadow doesn’t respond to my greeting. I see a scrawny, wild-eyed man going in and out of the door, talking to himself. Then there is this guy who is preaching, and immediately clears a 15-foot distance around himself as the other potential jurors back away.

I begin to develop a fear that I will be called and have to go to the bathroom. I try to decide how I will make sure my bladder is emptied. I begin obsessing over this and make many trips to the ladies’ room.

It is close to the end of the day before I finally hear my assigned number called and I enter the courtroom. I catch a glimpse of the defendant. He is a slender young man with dark hair, and magnetically beautiful eyes. He is wearing a white shirt that is too large for him. His lawyer has his arm around him and is whispering. The potential jurors are told that an illegal drug was found in his vehicle during a routine traffic stop.

I glance around room and notice the defendant’s family quietly sitting alone. The father, though old and withered, bears a resemblance to his son. The cuffs of his pants are torn, and his shoes are worn thin. A worried mother, with two younger children, sits next to him. I feel my irritation melt into compassion as I ponder their world that exists beyond my own cocoon.

The jury selection proceeds and creeps closer to where I am sitting. Several people voice their protest over being asked to sit on a drug-related case as they disagree with the fact that drugs should be criminalized. A tattooed woman stands and lectures the lawyers, judge and everyone in the courtroom about the medicinal attributes of marijuana. She is told to sit down, but continues talking for another 10 minutes. She is finally excused. Another hour goes by before the last alternate is chosen from the row in front of me and I am free to go.

In the cool air, I walk down the street to the trolley station trying to sort through the experience. I think about whether or not my being on the jury would have made a difference. I remember the old man’s face and wonder if the family will survive. Would there be someone like my grandfather to help them? The image of the young defendant, his head hung low and his eyes caste downward is burned in my memory.

I stop, mull things over and glance out the window as the trolley leaves the station. I remember that we Americans are a people who all come together in times of crisis, no matter what the color of our skin; that when someone is hurt, we all run to help; that basically we are fair-minded; and that jury duty can be more than a dreaded piece of mail.

Giselle, Guatay, the Airstream and the Chief

noreply@blogger.com (Patrizia) — Thu, 30 Jun 2005 16:21:00 +0000

“That’s it,” my husband, Ben said as he squeezed the last box into the truck before closing the camper shell. “That’s all we can fit.” We were finally leaving Texas and moving back to California to a town whose name we couldn’t even pronounce – Guatay.

I found the ad for our new abode in the San Diego section of a popular online source for classified information. It showed a picture of a 1979 Airstream trailer, with its awning unfurled, parked in a setting that was surrounded by hills. “Trailor on privat poperty in Guatay,” it said. “$365 per monts include water.” I was met with skepticism as I showed Ben the printed page and declared that I had found the Shangri-La to where we would relocate.

It was January and freezing as we made the 1,300-mile trek from Austin, Texas to San Diego. Our Nissan pickup truck labored to climb the last 4,000 feet through the pass to the steep, narrow driveway of our final destination. Feeling as if we had just landed on another planet, we pulled into the narrow space by the Airstream and exhaled a loud sigh of relief.

We were barely out of the truck when we spotted a tiny woman madly waving and running towards us. She wore a brightly colored print skirt and combat boots with argyle knee socks that were visible above the footwear. She donned a Russian Cossack jacket over a man’s sweater, and a large hat that sat on top of a ski cap and tied into a big bow under her chin. Her beady eyes darted back and forth as wisps of curly grey hair poked out of her cap and danced in the wind. Her name was Giselle and she was a former ballerina from Russia. At 80 years of age, she was still agile and graceful. We would find out later, she was also extremely nosey, pushy and outspoken.

“You don’t have to stay here,” she said, in a thick Russian accent. “Zees place may not be suitable for you.” Ben and I shot a confused look at each other as we opened the camper shell to unpack.

“This will be fine,” I answered while surveying my new home and its strange owner. “We were looking for an adventure,” I said, forcing a smile.

Before my journey, I had envisioned Guatay, a town 43 miles east of San Diego that stands at an elevation of 4,000 ft., as a lush, romantic hideaway. Upon my arrival in mid-winter; however, what I found was a cold, desolate and frozen wasteland where I could hear the wildlife rustling in the bushes and the wind whipping through the sparse trees.

We unpacked quickly and collapsed into a heap inside the trailer. Aching and tired, we were anxious to get some rest. Unfortunately, rest was the last thing we would get that night.

The heater had stopped working. To assess the problem, Ben crawled under the console in front of the trailer and removed the fuse box (which wasn’t supposed to be removable). Outside, the fierce wind blew so hard it shook the trailer and seeped through the fuse box hole, blasting us with a teeth-chattering draft. We were miserable.

The next morning we told Giselle about the heater. “I have zee electwic heetah,” she responded. “I go get it.” Minutes later she came scurrying down the little slope, which separated her home from the trailer pad, with a small, radiator-like electric heater. We plugged it into the outlet that evening and basked in the warmth. Just as we were toasty enough to finally peel off our parkas, the electricity abruptly stop flowing.

“When you use zee heetah, you can not use zee lights.” Lights? We were only using a small night light so we could find our way to the bathroom in the darkness.

The following week we experienced an overflowing toilet, pilot lights refusing to ignite, a regurgitating bathtub, more propane problems, a leaking hot water heater and freezing water lines. Although annoying, these inconveniences paled in comparison to the inexplicable visions I was having of a tribal chief who was paying nocturnal visits to me on a regular basis.

I was sure the Airstream was parked on sacred ground – or haunted. Every night, somewhere between midnight and dawn, I would wake up from a sound sleep to see “the chief” as I called him, standing by my bed. He never said anything; just stared out the small window above me into the clear, starry sky. I didn’t know if it was a dream, an apparition, or the pressure of being one notch above homeless causing me to go insane.

The first time he appeared, I screamed and he vanished. The next time, I wanted to get a better look at him, so I held my breath and merely trembled in my sleeping bag. He was tall and muscular, with graying hair pulled back into a braid. He wore fringed buckskin and had a full headdress adorned with elaborate feathers and beads. He was very handsome – fairer than the stereotypical Native American. His blue crescent-shaped eyes matched the soft, early morning sky. His sanguine skin stretched over high cheekbones and curved into his full lips that formed a slightly lopsided grin above his well-defined chin.

“What do you want?” I asked. No answer. “What is your message?” I thought by using the word, “message” it sounded more spiritual and he would respond. Still no answer. “Who are you?” Silence.

After about a month, I told Ben about the chief. Ben wasn’t interested. He was still having his own issues with the fuse box – and now, exorbitant electric bills. Giselle had presented us with a $150 invoice resulting from the use of the electric heater (along with a $50 bill for the collective trash we hauled down the hill every week and a $25 bill to access her Direct TV).

My nightly visions consisted of seeing Ben’s bare posterior sticking out of the trailer’s console while he jiggled fuses; and a mute tribal chief staring out of the window by my bed.

Months passed and by spring, we finally adjusted to life in Guatay. We accepted the Airstream’s ailments along with the long journey to civilization and the proper way to avoid rattlesnakes. We made friends with the propane/grocery/hardware store owner and the workers at the two small cafés where we dined. We personally knew our mail carrier, when he would be at our mailbox (a mile down the road) and when he would be at the post office, which closed for an hour or so every day during lunch. We discovered how life is lived “4,000 feet above care,” and the quickest route to a Laundromat (13 miles away). For an exciting night on the town, we ventured into nearby Descanso or Pine Valley for pizza.

By this time, Giselle had totally invaded our privacy and dictated our eating, living, and working habits. I never knew a tiny, Russian ex-ballerina could be such a Gestapo agent. More than once our intimate moments were interrupted by her pounding at the window. Every day we found a bowl of leftover organic something or other at the door. I would eat my share. Ben would throw his away. Giselle was an avid user of colonics and would always inform us of the latest meal that went into her body where it should have been coming out. I once informed her of a new organic coffee I found only to have her relate, in great detail, how she absorbed the same product while inverted. So much for full-bodied flavor.

The chief was still making his appearances without saying a word. I scoured the library and spoke with locals to try and find out who he was. No one knew. By late spring, I had grown comfortable with his company and chatted in a one-sided conversation. I complimented his outfit and always asked if there was anything he needed. I was hoping to pass Giselle’s leftover organic meals to him, but he never indicated interest in her cuisine.

As the weather became warmer, flowers began to bloom, and the hills became a vivid shade of green. Guatay almost resembled the picture I carried in my mind before that day in January when we first arrived. I watched a beautiful lilac bush that grew by our door sprout little shoots, and then buds. I was anxiously awaiting the blooms when, to my horror, awoke one morning to find the all the stems lopped off. Giselle coyly informed me that she presented the budding flowers as a birthday gift to a friend.

The balmy days lured us into making a daily pilgrimage to the beach. With summer approaching, we couldn’t bear to be away from the sounds and smells of the ocean. Sadly, we would have to leave the shore shortly after noon to make it back to Guatay before rush hour, so the truck could get a running start up the steep grade. When an opportunity presented itself for us to permanently move to the beach, we did.

It was the end of May when we once again packed up the Nissan to head to yet another new home. This time it was to a beautiful apartment with no heating problems. We waited for Giselle so we could say goodbye; but she didn’t arrive before we had to head down the driveway for the last time. Passing through the gate that she was now keeping locked, I noticed a new sign posted at the entrance that threatened trespassers with imprisonment. “She misspelled the word sheriff,” I said quietly as we took the sharp turn to the main road.

Not long after we were in our new home, we received a check from Giselle for $150. It had a note attached that said, “Refund for heet. Hope you not mad.”

We haven’t been back to visit since that warm, sunny day we left. The old Nissan probably wouldn’t make it up the hill these days. But, I often think about Giselle, Guatay, the Airstream and the chief, and wonder how they all are doing.