Late Night Wonders

I am a piano song yet written, a sweet string of soft notes that might flow like poetry from an instrument, into people’s hearts and ears, penetrating their minds and imaginations as gently and strong as the stars shine bright in the night sky over Los Angeles, Arizona, Chicago and Washington, D.C., and other corners of this world.

I am a curious child, held earthbound but always wondering about the stars and where their path might lead me. Let the soil sink beneath my feet, the sand fit into the spaces between my toes, but my eyes will always end up rising to the star-scattered sky. I want to know why things are they way they are: why the orange rind has dimples just so; how sips of honeysuckle from my childhood taste like sugar water in my mouth; how skin can be soft like velvet.

Music monopolizes my mind and makes me freeze my daily tasks. Unpacking my suitcase, I’ll replay a song over and over; robotic; lay down to think about it, feel it, dream it, work my way through it. I wish I could spew music out my mouth the way I pour words onto this page, as easily as if they were dripping from finger, as though I’ve been cut and words flow from my veins, liquid-like, malleable, soft and warm.

I was told once that a person should spend at least a few years in a city in a lifetime. Now, here I am—Los Angeles has taken me in its hand with a tight grip, leading me along on my next adventure. Life is waiting.

Scattered

I'm driving home from the mall in Scottsdale yesterday when I get a call. "Maren's moving," Lisa says. "On Saturday." Saturday was just two days away. "Wait, is this a joke?" I asked. Nope. And like some sappy chick from a Hallmark commercial, I start bawling in the car.

"I don't even know why I'm crying," I sniffled, searching in my purse for a tissue. "I don't even live here anymore!"

"I know," Lisa said.

"God. Why am I crying?!" And where were my tissues? "I just feel....I feel like everything's fallen apart. I'm in LA. Noelle's in London. Tiffany's always gone. And now Maren's in Chicago."

"I know," Lisa said.

"Why am I crying?" I asked again. Then I had to rationalize. "I love Chicago. Maren's gonna love Chicago. This will be great for her. This is exciting."

That night we did dinner at a Mediterranean tapas place in oldtown Scottsdale. We met at Lisa's, and when Maren walked in, I had trouble looking at her eyes. We talked about Lisa's new furniture; Maren tried out the couch. "It's comfortable," she exclaimed. I pulled my jacket in closer to me and grabbed my car keys. "I'll drive, let's go."

We sat in the bar as we waited for a table. I tapped on the stem of my glass of pinot noir and Maren told me, "I don't know you did it, Jo." Her eyes filled with tears.

I told her she could always come home. I told her to think of it like it was a year abroad. I told her that the world is too big to stay in one place; there's too much exploring to do. I told her to imagine herself when she's 80 and wouldn't she regret not moving? Isn't there some truth behind that saying "You'll regret the things you didn't do more than the ones you did?" I explained that she'd make friends fast. I asked her how she would feel if her and her boyfriend broke up after she moved there, would she have regrets? No. I told her I knew I wouldn't either, before I moved to Los Angeles.

"Then go," I said.

I pictured her trudging through the snow. Did she have enough scarves? Gloves? What about a warm jacket? Would she walk to the grocery store or drive? I imagined summers in Chicago, that breeze that nearly knocked me over when I stood by the lake, how the night air would get chilly around me. I thought of the people I met when I was there; that one jolly bartender on State Street, the waitress at the pizza place that remembered me as I came in with a friend for a slice...for the third time in a short weekend. I thought about visiting her for long weekends and exploring the city on my own, like I did in New York. A part of me, a small part, was almost envious of the move; Chicago's always been on my list of cities to go to.

Over hummus and salad we talked about normal things. About Lisa's boyfriend, the guy I'm dating, what to do for New Year's Eve. When we finally left, the crowd at the bar had thinned, the parking garage nearly empty.

"So is this goodbye?" I asked Maren, as I parked outside of Lisa's place.

"I think so, I guess so."

The three of us hugged and shivered in the driveway, in the crisp desert winter air, underneath a sky sprinkled with golden stars. I choked out a few words about how I'm proud of her and told her we'd still have these nights, just not often. And then she was gone.

And then I thought about moving. About how big and wonderful this world is. I thought about where I'd end up with I grew tired of sprawling Los Angeles, with its sand and waves, flip-flopped crowds, its stories and hills and Hollywood secrets. I wondered if I ever would want to settle down, if moving could be addicting, like getting tattoos. And if one moves so much, are they moving to something or moving from something?

*Yawn!*

This weekend has been one filled with blankets, fires, naps; a retreat within myself. After going, going, going for five or six days straight, the body needs rest. Friday night after volunteering for The Giving Spirit here in Brentwood, a girlfriend and I went to Venice. I, sleepily, offered to drive. I wore black with my red coat, that bright red coat that everyone says something about. I wonder if people see me in that red pea coat and think I'm a firey woman, or just a brave blond? Venice brought me conversations with crazed artists (when I met this crazy artist, the rumors held true for me: they truly do have crazy, hungry eyes), awkward businessmen from Dubai, a quiet Redsox fan.

Saturday I thought about cleaning, running errands, doing laundry, even working for a bit. I slept in too late. I turned on a Christmas special, reverting back to being 9 years old (Frosty the Snow Man anyone?) and curled up with my book and a blanket. I missed the day and felt guilty. Night swept Brentwood too soon and I ended up an awkward Christmas party in Santa Monica. I was the baby of the group. Then off to a bar, later, with a friend, where I wandered the room and made friends with strangers.

Tonight, I made up for it, my laziness. Suddenly inspired to take a drive to Manhattan Beach, I found an amazing parking spot and shopped for a bit before stopping still on a sidewalk outside a coffee shop. Pulling my jacket in closer to me, I looked out to the water, and it shined back at me--softly--like an old mirror. I watched the sun set on the Pacific by myself as families and couples bustled about me; unfolding lawn chairs, dragging children in little red wagons, sipping steaming coffee, heads down, huddled together in preparation for a Christmas fireworks show.

The sun set quickly, an orange ball that the ocean greedily swept away; a dying fire in the sky; one last glowing ember before blackness rolled over the beach.

Hot & Homeless!

Tonight I am volunteering to put together packages to help the Los Angeles homeless community get through the winter. *Insert Image of Halo Here.*

Sammi: What are you doing tonight, Jo?

Jo: Helping the homeless.

Sammi: Then you want to go out after?

Jo: Yes. Hmm. Wine.

Sammi: Ok cool. I hope there's a lot of hot men there! Talk to you later.

Sammi: Wait. Not hot homeless men....

Jo: I love hot homeless men. So career driven.

Pizza and Wine = Dance Off!

Last night's Pizza and Wine Fest 2007 was great. After three or four bottles of wine, four of us ended up having a Dance Off and DJ-off (my music vs. Roomie's). The pizza turned out great, although I think I can work on the presentation a bit! Check it out:

Say Hello, Wave Goodbye

Life in slow motion somehow it don't feel real.
Snowflakes are falling I'll catch them in my hands
Snowflakes are falling I'll catch them in my hands…
Snowflakes are falling now you're my long lost friend
~David Gray

Last night I was at the Wiltern to see David Gray. I went with a good friend here in Los Angeles. We showed up the theatre late, missing the opening act and running in as the lights dimmed on and off, signaling David was about to take stage. We grabbed a cranberry vodka (literally the only drink the bar had left to offer, other than a lone Corona) and took our seats. As we sat I told her, “I know I will see Chris tonight,” and she just sort of laughed. But I knew.

As his opening song filled the crevices and corners of the theater and our minds, my friend leaned over to say, “This makes me think of ‘Billy,’ David Gray always does.” I didn’t say so at the time, but I thought, me too. Billy is an ex boyfriend of mine (well, we sort of dated, if you even want to call it that)…and hers. As the music played I thought about late nights in college with Billy; wandering down to the bars on Mill Avenue, talking about life and how we both wanted to leave Arizona. I didn’t know at the time, then, that I would be leaving for Los Angeles just a few years later. At the time I didn’t think I was an LA girl, and maybe I am now and maybe I’m not (what is an LA girl, really?) I always envisioned myself enjoying the balmy summers of the east coast or wandering the shops of Michigan Avenue in Chicago. Hell, I even thought of Texas, although I’d never been there. All I knew was that I wondered about the world beyond the borders of Arizona, past the cacti and sand and the magnificent storms of the monsoon season. And I knew, as I’ve always known, that I had some exploring to do.

David Gray sang and I thought about “Chris” - the real ex. Just to add to the irony of the night, not only did my friend and I both date the same guy in college, and now she is one of my closest girlfriends out here in Los Angeles, but “Chris” and “Billy” were and are actually best friends. (Folks, please save your “Joey from Dawson’s Creek jokes for later). David sang and I wondered whether I’ll always feel this alive. He sang and I thought about what it really meant to be young and I thought, maybe there’s something to that saying about thinking young and that’s all that matters. And then he sang the sad songs for me, or at least it felt that way.

The show ended and I sort of let out an internal sigh of relief that “Chris” and I never ran into each other; I still have some healing to do. But we came down the stairs onto the landing in the lobby and I stopped on the second or third step, knees shaking. He was there, right in front of me, maybe five or so feet away, talking to his friends. I could hardly move. He stood the way he always stands, doing the nod when people are talking and putting on his usual charm. I remember that shirt, I thought. I then grabbed my friend’s arm and said, “Don’t look, just move,” and off we went.

It’s strange passing someone from your past and not saying hi. It was like a movie reel was playing; as though I were seeing a ghost appear in front of me, so real you can almost touch but you’re afraid of what might happen. Or like watching an old sitcom rerun on television and laughing, oh, I remember that show, it was so good. But the whole time you’re watching, you know that show will never air live again.

It had its run.

People Travel in Clusters

I was standing with Flavia today, grabbing a late morning cup of hazelnut, when two women came into the kitchen behind me. They were trying to get into the fridge, so I had to shift my stance a bit. I glanced back and found myself staring into the eyes of Lisa, a woman from my writing class. We both squealed the obligatory exclaim, "OH MY GOD!"

Turns out she's freelancing for my company now (writing). I find this a bit funny since my writing class has become so much like group therapy, and now here we were standing, face to face, unable to hide. I told her that I want a bunch of us to keep in touch; to exchange writing drafts every 4 to 6 weeks or so and to meet for coffee and a good workshop session. She agreed but, "Not the guy who has a sex addiction!" How odd to find her in my kitchen at work, next to my Flavia, I was thinking, when she said aloud, "This is too odd...people must travel in clusters." And then I wondered who else was in my "cluster" that I'm not even aware of yet.

Anyway, tomorrow is the last writing class and we're having a potluck. I'm bringing Jo's World Famous Guacamole. I'm going to sign up for a class for 2008, I'm sure of it...I'm just not sure which class...something in the personal genre, that's all I know.

Tonight: David Gray at the Wiltern.

Ode to Flavia

My morning routine is pretty...routine. Nothing exciting there, but every morning on a weekday, as I stroll off the elevator on to Floor Four I make a beeline away from the receptionist's desk, away from where my desk and work await me, and head to a small kitchen toward the center of my floor, to the Flavia Coffee Machine. Let me back track here to my first encounter with beautiful Flavia. It was Day 2 on the job and I was eyeing Flavia, alone in that kitchen, admiring her fine craftsmanship, the way her many flavors of coffee and frothy treats were so tidy, all in drawers of their own. I counted: 18 coffees, teas, frothy treats. Keep in mind that my company in Arizona forced to you purchase your own coffee every day (suckers) and now I have Flavia.

Since that Day 2, I've been visiting Flavia faithfully each and every morning. Sometimes I turn the corner and duck my head into that small kitchen to find others visiting her, perhaps using all of her cream and sugar. Occasionally, the cups are gone and I'm left to scrounge about for a clean cup, another styrofoam. Flavia has introduced me to several coworkers. I judge every person I meet by what Flavia Flavor they have chosen. There was the time I stood there as my Hazelnut was brewing fresh and I tapped absently on the top of Flavia, tap, tap, tap. Behind me, the art director for our building commented.

"Oh, my, that smells wonderful," she said.
"Yes, it's my FAVORITE," I said. Was that pride in my voice? And what makes me a hazelnut woman?
"Hmmmm," she said. This is weird, I thought. And then:
"I'm Joanna," I said. (And no, I didn't say, "Call me Jo." Hardy har har.)
"I'm Andrea."
"What do you have?"
"Espresso. Straight up. Double," she declared. I nearly trembled in fear. That's hard core.
"Oh, uh...every day?"
"Yes, EVERY DAY," she said.

Then there's always the times when I'm with Flavia and a group strolls in, like their going to the club on a Friday night and lost their way. Damnit! We're in the kitchen again! Or when someone's trying to get into the fridge, and I'm just trying to reach Flavia and I accidentally rub against them on the way to Her. Awkward. I just want my hazelnut. And the time when I was hanging out with Flavia in the afternoon and the HR woman came in and posted a note on the machine. "For XXXX employees only," it read. Our eyes met. "It's hard to be a nazi," she said, and left the room fast.

People would battle for Flavia. Cross HR boundaries, let the lines blur between companies and floors, forge names and stay up late into the night to create fake badges. Start leaving their lunch in that shitty little refrigerator just to be close to Her. Swap their red swingline stapler just for a mere sip, a warm cup in their hand.

Night Falls in Los Angeles

Night falls early in Los Angeles. It creeps up the walls of the building where I work like a snake unfolding from a long nap, yawning, stretching. Like the blankets that cover me when I sleep at night, it envelops the window I sit next to. And, like the slow creek of an old door, or the soft whispers of an aging house, it slowly and gracefully gives into the darkness, changing from a dusty gray to a black night scattered with lights of buildings and billboards and cars, and the occasional star.

There's a chill, these nights, when you walk to your car by moonlight; a certain briskness that awakens you to the night, as though night and morning casually switched places. The drive home becomes crammed with others eager to get home to the warm, to food, to inside light. Under the awning of the tree-lined streets and bumpy Los Angeles sidewalks, joggers and walkers scatter the night like rats; their breathing and huffing and puffing heard as you lock your car door, walk up your steps.

Houses and apartments, once just regular and perhaps boring, are creeping out from hibernation to don strings of twinkling Christmas lights. From windows and doorways flows music and smells of hearty dinners. Down the street, a group walks to the bars and restaurants on Wilshire, laughing, arms linked. Perhaps, even further down Wilshire, a homeless person sits in a doorstep of an abandoned business, seeking warmth, food, money. Company. A girl waits on the corner to be picked up by her date, maybe, or maybe her parents. Through a window I see a man reading by the light of a lone lamp.

Perhaps, in the dark corners of the night, a secret is being told, hands are being held. Perhaps tears are streaming down someone's face like train tracks. Perhaps, somewhere, in the night, someone is inspired like an artist; awakened from sleep by a dream; or up late, with eyes wide open, wondering about life and this great big world.

Avoiding the Monday Morning Number Crunch

Numbers...on a Monday? I suppose I'll write first, instead.

I'll start with last Thursday night. Banana Man (if you recall - my friend who drives a Banana Boat and enjoys the occasional dress-up in a Banana Suit) and I decided to do happy hour in West Hollywood. Bright idea, we thought. Brilliant. We chose the West Hollywood Standard Hotel, a location on our lists of LA To-Dos (we both really do have lists, by the way). Anyway, this plan fell apart before we could even put it into action. A few things:
1. Banana Man parked his boat so far away that he ended up back in his neighborhood parking zone - he was able to use his permit to park.
2. Valet was 8 bucks an hour.
3. Happy Hour was ruined because....the Standard in Hollywood has no happy hour. I guess this is the most important point here.

So, we wound up across the street at a little shack called Cabo Cantina. For those of you in Arizona, this is just like Dos Gringos - literally. A little shack with good tacos and two-for-one margs that bring back memories of crazy nights in Tijuana...if you have those memories. This was one of several places along our little section of the Sunset Strip that we figured we could get into trouble that night. A Mexican Shack, and just down the way, a restaurant that is literally a train caboose (forget the name) - but with a sign outside advertising the "Best Hot Dogs in LA!" (Damn, they smelled good.) And, further west on the strip, a cowboy's dream: Saddle Ranch.

After eating at the Shack..er, Cabo, we walked down to Saddle Ranch, passing Jon Lovitz on the way, standing beside his beautiful black Mercedes. We entered the Ranch through velvet curtains and I entered cautiously, pushing just my arm through first, wondering if someone was going to smack me in the face upon entry, since you can't see through. After entering said Ranch, Banana Man and I looked at each other with glee - this was our dream: a rugged ranch, complete with hokey chandeliers, a true log cabin feel, and a mechanical bull in the middle of the room.

We sat outside. Our server shows up with crazy slanted eyes and a hat down low, a devious grin.

"So...when do people get on that bull?" I say.

"Oh, in about an hour or so. Once people get drunk, it goes non-stop all night." he says.

"Okay."

He shows up with shots for us.

"I buy my tables SHOTS!" he says, proudly. We drank them, promptly.

About 15 or 20 minutes goes by and our server stops by again.

"What else do you guys want to drink?" he says. I am sipping my wine at a snail's pace. "If you're going to ride the bull, we've got to get you another drink."

"No, I don't think I'm going to ride the bull tonight," I protest.

"They all say that," he said, giving me a knowing look.

I never did ride that bull, that crazy bull. But I think Banana Man and I appreciated the attentive service from our server...and I have no doubt we'll be back to the Ranch on a Friday or Saturday night, perhaps for Banana's birthday party.