Missives From Obscurity

Abrupt Transitions

The woman at the next table mentioned Seattle, WA. She looks like she just came from the 24 Hour Fitness across the street, with her tasteful little gym bag and snazzy work out outfit or, since she doesn’t look like she’s sweated in them, maybe she’s on her way to exercise. Then again, this being West Hollywood, maybe she’s merely dressed for fitness success, sporty and hip with her bouncy ponytail and impertinent little breasts. Anyway, she’s on her cell phone talking about Seattle. She’s been explaining to whomever she’s speaking to that Seattle is in Washington state… no, no, there are two Washingtons: Washington D.C., the capitol of the United States, and Washington state, which is north of California above Oregon. Oregon is north of California, too. Yeah, Seattle is in Washington. Seattle is the capitol of Washington.

My therapist asked me to write a list of things I like about myself. I don’t know what to write.

Watching the news at the Laundromat put me into a foul mood and I don’t know why, but it’s led me to the eternal question, the eternal question that, as I fold my underwear and towels, I try to evade by stuffing it into the dryer warm laundry, but the eternal question hounds me: why am I here? What is the fucking purpose of my life? I’ve become what I feared most that I would become: a mere cog. Or, no, it’s worse than that, even, I’ve become pointless and empty. Just another pointless, empty creature staggering around this bloody damn city!

I joined a gay men’s depression group. The facilitators, Hal Sparks and Ben Kingsley (because that’s who they look like), took us on our first guided meditation. They asked us to find a quiet place outdoors in our minds, a glen or a meadow or a lagoon, but someplace where it’s peaceful and tranquil. And see it in as rich of detail as possible, the plants, the trees, the rocks, the water, flowers, are there any clouds in the sky? Whatever your place is, envision it fully, embrace it fully, smell it, feel it. Now imagine that in this place there is a cave mouth. Go into the cave and imagine it fully, feel it, is it dark, or light? Is it rocky or mossy? What’s your cave like (in a group of gay men, my answers to myself were all inappropriate)? You come across an animal in the cave. What animal is it? See that animal, feel that animal, this is your inner animal, your inner self. So afterward, we discussed what our inner animals revealed themselves to be. The big, fat, hairy guy saw a bear (big surprise), the mousy little guy who I’ve become convinced is a dyed in the wool NAMBLA member, saw a “precious, just precious” baby seal. There was an Emperor penguin, a bald eagle, a snowy owl, a dolphin and a wolf. Ben Kingsley may just as well have said “You come across an animal in the cave. Insert New Age Current Marketing Favorite Endangered Animal here.” I saw nothing, though. My cave was empty. There was just a fire in the middle of a sandstone cave, with deeper, darker shadows beyond the firelight. But I didn’t want to say that out loud. I lied and said I saw a sea turtle. The other fags ohhed and ahhed appropriately.

I began naked yoga classes. It’s tough, sweaty work, but I enjoy it immensely, the feeling of freedom and moving my body and getting in touch with my physical self… plus, bendy naked guys!

Jesus loves me; ask me about my schadenfreude!

About an hour and a half into my work day my mood soured. Doing what I’m doing at Ascent Media is such a goddamn waste of time! I’ll be working away and suddenly, WHAM!, I realize how fucking pointless and stupid it all is! I spend 40 hours a week reading sheets of paper from which I glean no relevant, nurturing or life sustaining information. All for a paycheck. Being a post production whore isn’t as fulfilling as I had hoped.

This guy in line at Starbuck’s in North Hollywood got into a conversation with the barista. I think they were flirting. They were probably flirting. Heterosexuals are always flirting and frothing at the mouth at each other… they’re so promiscuous! Anyway, Barista girl (an attractive young woman, black hair just alternative enough for Starbuck’s but just not-alternative enough for L.A.) asked him what he was reading (the book was in his hand and he’d been reading in line behind me). By this time I was at a table far enough away to catch most of the conversation, but not all of it. He announced to her that he’s a screenwriter like being a screenwriter is a STUNNING REVELATION OF MY BRILLIANCE when, in North Hollywood, it actually means you’re just like everyone else. The book he was reading was on Buddhism because he wanted to incorporate Buddhist principles into his screenplay (which, I gotta give him points, would be really cool). He mentioned some of the Buddhist principles and she asked him “What’s that?” to which he responded “It’s sort of like being a Jedi.” Strike the points. And I guarantee that will be how he pitches his movie: “It’s about Buddhism. It’s sort of like being a Jedi.”

Life experiences are like quarters… you lose both when you’re sitting on the couch. Jambaism #15. It’s a cheap sentiment, particularly on the side of Jamba Juice cup, but still relevant.

My grandmother celebrated her 100^th birthday on May 21^st. My cousin David and his wife Julia organized a big surprise party at the Pomona Valley Mining Company (which was way more elegant than it’s name suggested). The banquet room we gathered in overlooked Pomona and the 10 freeway from the hills bordering Frank G. Bonelli Park. The tables were draped in white linens and Julia had put together small pink and purple gift bags for each setting. When my dad and my aunt Eleanor brought Grandma into the room, all the assembled family, extended family and friends shouted “surprise!” and sang “Happy Birthday” while my grandmother stood in the doorway, laughing (I assume… I was too far away to actually hear her, but I know her and she was laughing because she was, in fact, taken by surprise) and waving at everyone. She looked very small next to my dad.

Another guided meditation. Back into the cave… for me, my empty cave with only the crackling fire to keep me company. You come across your spirit animal (when did our animals find religion?). Sit down across from your spirit animal. I sit down on the dirt of my cave and look across the fire pit, toward where the cave goes black with dark. I notice the skeleton of some small rodent tossed carelessly against the wall back there… great, my spirit animal not only was a small rodent, but it died! Hal Sparks is guiding this mediation, and he says “Sit across from your animal and ask it a question. It can be any question you want. Don’t be impatient if the answer doesn’t come right away. If your animal is unresponsive, ask yourself how you feel, how you feel your animal feels.” And at that precise moment I realize that my inner animal, is, in fact, in this cave. It’s watching me from the darkness at the back of the cave. It’s something huge, something with rows of fangs, something most likely deformed and monstrous… and it wants to kill and eat me. When Hal asks what our animals told us, what feelings came up for us, I lie and say my sea turtle just told me to not eat meat.

I gave notice at Ascent Media on June 20^th, on my one year anniversary.

The Monday after her birthday, my grandmother fell and broke her hip. She was admitted to the hospital and came through surgery so well that she amazed the doctors. The primary physician marveled at the excellent condition of her heart. My aunt Eleanor joked that it is the condition of her heart that’s keeping her alive (because for at least the last three years, Grandma Lopez has been telling everyone that she doesn’t know why she’s still alive, and why God won’t take her). A week later, she was moved to a convalescence home, where she stopped eating and drinking. On one of my aunt Eleanor’s visits, Grandma asked her where she was. Eleanor reminded her that she was in a convalescence center and Grandma told her that she thought she was home because the little girl that came into the room asked her if she wanted to go home. My grandmother told the little girl “Yes” and the little girl promised to take her, but then my grandmother woke up in the convalescence home again. On June 14^th, my grandmother passed away.

At work, there is just so goddamned much negative chatter all the time! My headphones died, so I’ve had to listen to all the chit chat between my fellow billers. The Princess runs the gamut of negative to inane, with a couple of side trips to petulant and a stop over in insincere. Ashrafa’s running commentary is, admittedly, hilarious, but she’s so negative. And Queen of Negativity herself, Wilma, doesn’t stop with her negativity about work, about herself, about life, about the world. I think if Wilma had something good and happy happen to her and she actually just gave over to the full enjoyment of the event, her head would explode.

Watching TV with Jim, it dawned on me that something must have happened during the day to put him in this funk that I mistook for post-nap haze. I mean, what was Jim doing napping in the middle of the afternoon when his book was full of errands and there was so much packing to do for our move out of L.A.? I asked him what happened. He got a phone call from his mom telling him that his dad has been diagnosed with late stage colon cancer. His dad has been given at most one to two years left to live.

I recognized Mikhail when I first met him at my naked yoga class, but I couldn’t for the life of me place him. I kind of figured maybe I’d seen him online as I perused personal ads. He’s got striking blue eyes and he’s beautiful in a wolfish sort of way (there are some guys I see who I just think “God, he would make a fucking beautiful werewolf”… Mikhail is like that, dark features, striking blue eyes). He’s trim, lean and I’ve seen him naked! He has a couple of tasteful tattoos, a stylized Egyptian owl on his right shoulder blade, the Japanese character for Mercury on his left hip, and a Greek band around his right ankle. During one of our yoga classes, the instructor had us go into the boat pose. To make the pose last a good amount of time while we strained and struggled to maintain it, the instructor asked us to go around the room and say our name and where we were born. Mikhail said he was born in Ft. Collins, Colorado. Later, I realized where I recognized him from. Jim was packing up some of his stuff and going through some old magazines. Mikhail was on the cover of one of them, and appears in an ad for porn videos. Mikhail is Preston Steele. I don’t know how I expect a porn star to behave, I suppose in a preconceived, stereotypical way (slutty, conceited, but dumb), but Mikhail is nothing like that. And then one day in class I looked across the studio at him and saw him as he was as a kid. It happens sometimes. I just look at person and the child they were shines through, sometimes, I think, because they never outgrew their inner child, they never let go of what makes being a child great. I saw Mikhail walking through the studio and I could vividly imagine him as a kid, the pretty little boy in Ft. Collins, Colorado, his sweetness, his sensitivity, and I imagined, because this is how he is, that he grew up a bit quiet, and reserved, but essentially interested in other people’s well being. And I wondered what his path in life was like, that that kid from Ft. Collins, Colorado, would go on to become a porn star in Los Angeles.

My grandmother’s wake was June 25^th. Her body was so small that there was probably an extra two feet in the coffin. They made her up very nicely with her glasses on, a nice dress and a simple, thin white sweater, exactly the sort of thing she would wear in life, say if she needed to dress up for a wedding. Her funeral was at St. Anthony’s Catholic Church in Upland, CA, complete with the gentle brogue of an Irish priest. I served as one of the pall bearers and nearly lost my composure walking toward the front of the church when I realized that I’ve now borne the bodies of both paternal grandparents. My second cousin, Jude, gave the eulogy. His mother, Julia, the same woman who the previous month hosted my grandmother’s 100^th birthday celebration, read a poem about and to my grandmother. The windows behind the altar looked out on the San Gabriel Mountains in the early morning sunshine. My last memory of my grandmother is hugging her goodbye in her home after her birthday party.

Lasts: The last movie I saw at Grauman’s Chinese restaurant was Superman Returns. My last day at Ascent Media was Friday, July 7^th. I did my laundry for the last time at the Laundromat on Lankershim on July 8^th. I attended my final West Hollywood naked yoga class on July 9^th. I drove Mulholland Drive for the last time (at least as a California resident) on July 10^th. That evening I went to LAX for the last time (ever, ever, ever, I swear to God because I hate that fucking airport!).

Rim job training Academy cadet.

On Tuesday, July 11^th, I drove out of Los Angeles in a U-haul truck, bound for Seattle, WA.

posted by Joe Lopez @ 1:08 PM