Dont Mince Words

Is it wrong for me to give an eight year-old a quarter and hope he calls me in ten years?

I’ve known sweet Aaron since diapers. We were reunited in Phoenix at Thanksgiving. I chased him around the house yelling, “I’m going to kiss you. Give Aunt Marna some hot loving.” He squealed with equal amounts of excitement and disgust.

When his deadbeat dad didn’t find the time to help him with a homework project, who did he call for help? Cool Aunt Marna. I was asked to assist with his Flat Stanley assignment. His Stanley drawing was coming to LA to visit and Aaron was going to use the pictures I took to write a story.

I went from Pasadena to Hollywood and finished at the beach, snapping pictures of Stanley enjoying LA. I don’t remember homework ever being this fun.

Thanks, Aaron, for thinking of me. Yesterday, a man 30 years older than you decided he didn’t want me. Today, you did and you thanked me. What a difference a day makes.

Don’t forget to call me in 10 years.

Today was a spontaneous day that evolved into a California cliché. That’s OK because I’ll do anything once as long as it doesn’t hurt small children/animals or involve Wolf Blitzer.

Vivian called early in the morning and suggested we hit the Brentwood farmers market. Brentwood is an upscale neighborhood with $1M+ homes and famous folk (Nicole Simpson being a famous dead neighbor). This is not your normal farmers market. In addition to purchasing roses, or artichokes, you can pick up $100 beaded bracelets, or adopt purebred Dalmatians.

While doing the vendor stroll, I stopped in my tracks. The hotdog and sausage grill guy had bratwurst. I was elated. I stepped up to order and heard something I’d never heard before.

“Would you like jalapeno peppers on that?” my apron-wearing sausage vendor asked.

In my mind, I could hear my Fatherland ancestors cleaning and loading their guns at such sacrilege. Where’s the kraut or even the dark mustard? Jalapeno peppers? What the fuck? Oh yeah, I live in California. I decided to roll with the punches and try it. You know, when in Rome…and at least they didn’t offer avocados or sprouts on my brat.

We took our food to go and drove over to Palisades Park on Ocean Avenue and sat on beach chairs under the palms trees. The waves were nice and everyone was out enjoying the great weather. Once I got settled, I unwrapped my brat. The crunchiness of the jalapenos provided a nice balance to my German soul food. Overall, not too bad.

After a brief shopping stint, Vivian asked if I’d be interested in attending a holistic hoolahoop workshop later in the afternoon. I needed a work out and it sounded fun, so I went home, put my hair up in pigtails (it has been 30 years since I’ve ‘hooped), and we headed over to Echo Park for our hoolahoop adventure.

This quite possibly has been the crunchiest moment I’ve had since my CA arrival. This was Burning Man meets The Grateful Dead meets recess. Four of us sat cross legged on batik-printed fabric that formed a circle in the middle of a field with two foot grass. We were the north, south, east, and west points (yes, I was east).

In the middle of the prayer to the fourth Chakra, my left leg feel asleep. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from giggling and thought, “I’m having a Blog moment. Focus so you can remember the details to write about later.”

We rose and went to our entrance table/alter and wrote one positive manifestation (something we want to come into our life) on a piece of paper and one negative manifestation. We lit the negative piece of paper on fire then sage smugged ourselves using Indian-blessed feathers attached to deer antlers. Our positive manifestation was taped to our hoolahoop. We then selected an essential oil, dabbed it on our foreheads and on our hoolahoop. The energy we created from ‘hooping would heat the hoop and remind us of our positive manifestation through aromatherapy.

Enough ceremony. I was ready to get my hoop on. Our leader taught us tricks with 42”+ diameter hoops. After an hour, my hips had created more positive energy than a stripper on a pole. I longingly looked at the leader’s gaunt, rockstar boyfriend who sat on the side of the field drinking a Newcastle Brown. I wanted be there. Screw the hoop, give me the beer. The sunset and the white noise of cars speeding on Route 2 made me sleepy. I was ready to go home. We concluded with some four points sisterhood and positive reaffirmation.

Vivian and I were exhausted walking down the hill to the car. “Thanks for hanging in there. I know this was more crunch than you are used to. I imaged you thinking ‘oh those Californians’ when we said our Chakra prayers,” Vivian said.

“Oh yeah, but I had fun,” I said laughing.

“You are going to Blog this, aren’t you?” she asked.

Today I got to experience another perfect day that began with a bratwurst and ended with sore hips and answered prayers. Only in California.

When did we become passengers to our own creativity? It was probably when child restraint legislation was enacted in the 1980s.

I was born in 1966 and my brother was born in late 1967. We LOVED going into the way back of our Rambler station wagon to play as our parents drove. That was also the best place to be to get tossed around coming home from parties. Dad, probably of questionable sobriety, would take corners too fast. Mom would yell, but my brother and I would giggle as we quickly shifted to the other side of the station wagon yelling “do it again.”

Those were the days…that is until DVD players were installed in cars. Now strapped down kids can watch Finding Nemo instead of singing John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt and playing Punch Buggy. What parents forget is, where there is video, there will also be porn.

According to a recent AP/The Washington Post report, a driver in Schenectady, N.Y. was arrested last month passing a police vehicle while a DVD titled Chocolate Foam played on the passenger-side sun visor and headrests in his Mercedes. The driver was accused of breaking state laws prohibiting watching TV while driving, as well as another law making it illegal to exhibit sexually explicit material in a public place. The same thing happened to Andrea Carlton and her husband as they drove through a Chicago suburb, except they had to explain the porno playing in the other car to their 4 year-old daughter.

What I find disturbing in all this is the overt laziness and lack of imagination. I can’t conceive of watching a porno in a car. What happened to pausing a movie, making out, going to the kitchen and getting a ham sandwich, and going back for round two while the porno plays the boom-chica-boom-boom soundtrack in the background? The last time I was really horny in a car, my boyfriend got a 15 mile blowjob which culminated in emergency roadside assistance on Route 5. My head was hanging out of the back window like a golden retriever sniffing air. It was dark, but the trucker honks indicated they knew what we were up to. It didn’t take a movie showing in a visor to get us there.

I feel sorry for kids who have to watch Finding Nemo in a car, strapped down like a death row inmates. There’s no substitute for passenger interaction. Just ask my brother about Indian burns and titty twisters. The car was our second playground. Kids today get to enjoy cars as their mobile home theater. Some adults appear to enjoy their cars as mobile porn theater, which is OK, as long as they have tinted windows and keep their hands at ten and two.