Dont Mince Words

You always remember your first.  While I wish I had been old enough to remember the death of icons such as Hendrix and Joplin, my first was John Lennon.  I was in bed when he was gunned down, but I’ll always remember the next day like some people remember the JFK death train when it passed through their town.

We talked about Lennon in every class that day in high school.  Most of us weren’t even Beatles fans.  But for members of Generation X/the lost generation, this was on our watch and the iconic death of someone we could relate to…more so than Elvis who belonged to our parents’ era.

I didn’t have another day like that until Kurt Cobain died.  That one didn’t really bother me, but I was married at the time and my husband was insanely depressed after Kurt blew his brains out.  Several months later we separated.

Of course, I remember where I was when I got the news my father died.  I think everyone remembers the big ones like that.  But what is more impressive is for years afterwards, my admin and a vendor I worked with on that day continued to send “thinking of you” notes and emails.

My I-remember-when rounds out with 9/11.  Yeah, I remember running down Fulton Street while 2,751 people died.  I’m now organizing a trip back for the 10th anniversary.

Imagine all the people, living for today.

I’m not much of a team sports player.  My junior high basketball career was cut short when my father accidently shaved my eyebrow off when he was “clipping” my bangs.  The pre-teen WTF torture from the girls was more than I needed.  I quit college lacrosse when I got popped in the mouth with a ball and hit on by lesbians in the locker room.  My exercise since those days has been limited to classes and gym-related torture.

Stand-up paddleboarding (SUP) has been on my list of things to do for a long time.  To me it combines the best part of surfing – being on a board – without waiting for a wave to have fun.  I rarely took advantage of the beach/water when I lived in Los Angeles because the Santa Monica Bay is a toilet.  Now I’m less than a mile from a cleaner beach, so I really have no excuse.

My morning was perfect.  My instructor taught me to launch with no trouble, but when you are used to east coast rip tides and drop offs anything seems easier.  I had not even attempted to stand up when the sun rose and a dolphin crossed in front of my board.  My core, quads, and wide-ass hips helped me stabilize, not to mention yoga. But I still fell off.  A lot.  The wet suit was nice and being in the water before work was great.

Unlike rollerblading, this is something I see myself doing again.

You know you are leaving Los Angeles when you can comfortably throw out your Thomas Guide, the non-GPS bible to getting around.  I knew I was leaving when the fire trucks arrived.

Your layoff lady of leisure is discontinuing her 61-week underemployment lifestyle.  My nationwide job search finds me relocating to Santa Barbara, California for a marketing position with a consumer electronics company. My seven years and a couple odd months in Los Angeles has been plagued with the usual California cliches:  low-speed chases in the neighborhood, workplace drug deals, and who-do-you-know business card trading.  Between the odd work experiences and the tragic dating scene, I would of smoked a 45cal if it weren’t for my friends.

Those same friends turned out to wish me well with martinis at Lola’s on a record-breaking 112-degree day in West Hollywood.  We were enjoying the nice central air when the electricity went out.  We assumed the production company in the back bar blew a circuit while filming.  We continued to drink by candlelight only to discover that the transformer behind the restaurant blew and was on fire.  In typical LA-fashion, we ignored the drama and continued to drink until we were asked to leave an hour later.

That’s the sum total metaphor of my Los Angeles experience:  with shit swirling everywhere, I chose to focus on my career and my love life.  I got no where.

It is time to evacuate.