[sic]

Susan called me at work yesterday afternoon. There was a nervousness to her voice that I picked up immediately and I feared one of our animals had been hurt.

“Joe’s passed away,” she told me. Joe was her tenant, the last of the three renters who occupied the house when she bought it in 1999. He lived upstairs since 1986. She said Joe’s brother was there and there were men in white coats and gloves and by the time I got home at 6 p.m. his body had been removed and all looked like nothing had happened.

I last saw Joe when I came down to the garage to help get the rest of the groceries out of Susan’s car Saturday afternoon. He was on the sidewalk talking with another man I didn’t recognize. I said hi to Joe as I started back up the front steps with the bags and he nodded back at me. Joe was HIV positive and in his 60s and in the last couple years his physical bearing had deteriorated significantly to the point of Susan and I wondering how much longer it would be until he needed hospice care. He moved slower and more stooped whenever I saw him and as of a few weeks ago I noticed a delivery of oxygen tanks standing outside his front door.

Joe’s brother said to Susan that he was told by the attendants that the death looked to be a result of natural causes and that given the condition of the body he may have expired sometime over weekend. Susan said she could smell the decomposition as the whitecoats struggled getting him out of the house. His brother told her he’d opened up the windows and turned on the air conditions to help air the place out. It’s weird to think of Joe’s body right over our heads for two days. Maybe more. And that he might have died while we sat watching television or grilling in the backyard.

Apparently, he was discovered earlier in the day by his weekly housekeeper. Whatever her reaction might have been it was enough to alert our neighbor Ralph across the street who phoned the police and Joe’s brother. The police came, as did the coroner. I’m guessing the whitecoats were mortuary personnel. Ralph told Joe’s brother that when he last talked to Joe he’d mentioned having trouble breathing.

I didn’t know much about Joe in the almost four-years Susan and I have been together here. The extent of our contacts pretty much involved passing each other on the way in or out. Our longest conversations involved him complimenting the Halloween or Christmas decorations or telling me something that wasn’t working properly. I knew he could be a pain in the butt, but he was the type of person that would vent his frustrations in a letter or an email or a voicemail message about Ranger’s barking or a malfunctioning heater other such matters and then follow up with an apology the next day. Most months that he paid his rent, he’d adorn the envelopes with a happy face. He’d worked for the city painting out graffiti. He had a pizza delivered Friday night. He drove an increasingly dinged-up Dodge Neon. He walked with a cane. He like the colors we painted the house last year. On occasions recently he took to listening to the TV with the volume way up. There’s an old Univega bike of his down in the basement.

Joe played a part in Susan and I meeting. He’d taken the picture of her that she’d posted to her match.com profile. It was taken from above, with her looking up into the camera and the light vibrantly illuminating her blond hair. In one of his missives sometime after I moved in during the summer of 2004 expressing his outrage over a rent increase or similar matter he even took a modicum of credit for our relationship because of that snapshot as if it somehow should exempt him from such things. I’m pretty sure he said he was sorry for the outburst shortly thereafter.

Joe’s brother said he hopes to have the place cleared out in a week or so. I can only imagine what a chore that will be packing up and moving 22 years worth of stuff, emotionally as well as physically. And in the meantime, Susan and I are obviously shellshocked not only at the reality check that comes with death, but one that happened so close to home.

Rest in peace, Joe.

I’m throwing in the towel. I had planned on writing something/anything fictional every day for the rest of this year, but after two months, I’m done — at least on a once-every-24-hours basis. In the more immediate time frame, after a morning on the bike and an afternoon helping my baybee in the backyard, I sat down and basically… I got nothing. I could let fly some frivolity at the peril of the Quakzons of Planet Zarneg, but pffft.

I still hope to post my make believings, I just ain’t gonna do it every. single. day. Thanks for reading, be it one entry or all 61.

I deviated the route slightly this morning, taking Vermont all the way down to Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, which I stayed on across to Leimert Park.

At MLK I rolled to a stop before the red light at Normandie and from the sidewalk behind me at my four o’clock walked a petite woman perhaps somewhere in her 40s directly towards me who when I turned to look at her responded to my attention with a very kindly smile that I returned with a head nod as she passed alongside me and then into the crosswalk across my bow.

As she advanced to the other side of MLK my smile disappeared when I saw that strapped behind her to her belt was a sheath that held a long fixed-blade knife, its carved handle sticking straight up and next to it a two-way radio.

It left me realizing how different a world it is down in that area where one would chose not to walk its streets  at 8:30 in the morning without someone on the other end of a walkie-talkie and a ready-to-filet Bowie-type knife on display.

I try to be a firm believer in things happening for a reason — good or bad. Sometimes I’ll get into arguments with myself about that adage over the little things… like what could possibly be the purpose of that ding I got from some sunzabeech in my truck’s door in the parking lot where I work yesterday (answer: all the more reason to ride my bike!), but with the bigger-picture events I pretty much accept it without debate.

For example, take me reconnecting with my old friend Russell last week. After finding me via the internest a week earlier and exchanging emails, last Thursday I biked up from work to Mar Vista where I met his wife Jessica and then he took me out to dinner at this wonderful Japanese grill place called Sakura House on Washington Boulevard where we had a great time climbing over the 17-year wall that had built up between us. Afterward back at his house I did my best not to drool over the two tricked out Harleys he showed me in his garage.

In the course of the evening we talked about a bunch of stuff, including our mutual friend Mark Burton who Russell is still very much in-touch with and who I haven’t seen in about as long as it had been since I’d last seen Russell. Since only a few weeks before that I was participating in that downtown storytellers project at the Music Center in which the downtown story I attempted to share was the one involving Mark’s father, I asked about Mr. Burton and was surprised to learn from Russell that he was still alive considering he’s now well into his 70s and spent the last 21-years of his life in prison.

When I said goodnight to Russell later that night I asked him to pass my regards along to Mark in the hopes that the three of us could get together one day soon and throw back a nostaligic sixer of Mickey’s or Killian’s Red (our beers of choice back then) maybe in our old haunt that I called Crossroads Park (Now Will Rogers Park) in between the Beverly Hills Hotel and the intersections of several of that city’s residential streets.

Russell certainly made good on my request and the next morning I found an enthusiastic email from Mark which I answered. In a follow-up I asked about his mom and sister and (even though I figured it was a sensitive subject) his dad because I wanted him to know how much I appreciated the two of them coming to my rescue back when I was arrested in 1982 for being a stupid 18-year-old with a .22 rifle.

Several days went by and no response came from Mark. I chalked it up to what certainly was his busy work schedule, but by yesterday I finally broached the subject in a quick note to him in hopes that was indeed the case and that I hadn’t offended him.

I was relieved to get his email back saying yes he’d been busy and no there’d been no offense taken, and then I was heartbroken by his news that a large part of the reason he hadn’t been able to respond was that his father, who had been ill for quite some time, had taken a grave turn over the weekend and died early that Tuesday morning up in Vacaville. He told me he’d keep me informed of the funeral plans and when he let me know this morning that his father is to be buried this Sunday at noon I told him I’d be honored to attend.

And while it may not be beers in the park as I’d wished, I want to make that clear that I will be honored to stand with my old friends at the ceremony for Mark’s father, a man who when I stood bitter and brooding at the threshold of a very dark path stepped up to my aid when no one else would or could and turned me from it with quiet kindness and understanding and a helping hand.

UPDATE: If you’re visiting from Jalopnik, welcome and thanks to them for the link love… I think. As to their subheadline sass over asking “who calls a horn a honker,” the answer is: not me. Down near the end of this post “honker” refers not to a horn itself, but is rather the agent noun form of  the verb “honk” and describes the person honking the horn. But seriously, agent nouns? Yeah, you know… walk/walker, talk/talker, misinterpret/misinterpreter. Clear? Clear.

The good news was that the dude was too wasted to carjack me stuck in traffic tonight there on Vermont Avenue next to the USC campus in the middle of a downpour. The bad news was that he was too wasted to walk a straight line out in front of my truck. where he tipped over across the wet hood with a whump before uprighting and feeling his way around to the driver’s side where at first he politely and almost disinterestedly tapped on the window glass but quickly set to hammering at it when I didn’t respond.

I’m pretty sure he would’ve continued with increasing ferocity until it broke had I not rolled it down and when I did he didn’t bother with the exchange of any pleasantries.

“You gotta give me something,” he said furtively and seriously slurred. “I’m hurting, man.”

I suggested that pummeling his fists against my truck might not be the best way to enlist my support and that was the only time he looked directly at me with eyes that were glassy and distant beneath heavy lids.  Then he looked away and said “Huh?” before repeating that I needed to give him something and do it right now.

“Never mind,” I replied, flipping open the center console lid. “I got some change for you if that’ll help. He semi-grunted and wobbled unsteadily on his feet while  swinging his head up and down the street until a scooped up what probably amounted to about a buck’s worth of nickels, dimes and pennies and held it out to him, dropping them into his cupped hands.

“My girlfriend just broke up with me,” he said.

“Smart girl” is what entered my mind, but “Oh man, that sucks!” is what exited my mouth.

“Yeah, she kicked me out!” He blinked slowly and started a portside list but caught himself before gravity fully kicked in.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, trying to sound like I meant it. “Hope that helps.”

He looked down at the coins I’d given him and for a moment I thought I saw a look of disapproval pass across his face, but the line of cars in front of me had started moving and a sharp blast of the horn from the vehicle behind us got his attention. Seemingly involuntarily the hand holding my donation rose and with extending middle finger was directed to the honker, which caused the money fell from it to the pavement where it tinkled and rang as it landed on the soaked street.

Taking that as my queue to bid the dude adieu, I hit the gas and put my assailing panhandler in my rearview mirror.

I did it again. I got my hopes up high and huge that I would be The Perfect Choice for a gig in Hollywood I went after. Felt even moreso after I got to the second interview with the new marketing director.

But that second dance was in the middle of December. And a “Happy New Year” follow-up email sent the week after Christmas went unanswered. Seeing the writing on the wall I sent another one to the firm’s HR director about a week ago telling her I was indeed still available and very much interested. That one drew a response but it told me more than I needed to know:

Thanks for the follow up. We have narrowed in on [a] specific candidate though we’re still in the negotiation phase so the decision is not yet final. I will keep you posted.

Awwwww, come on! Didja have to go there with the “yeah we left you behind but we might come back and throw the bone in your general direction if our first and oh-so-infinitely more appealing and probably better qualified not to mention spiffier dresser with flawless skin and perfect teeth and higher IQ and more experience and more pleasing personality and wicked sense of humor along with a better cell phone who’s fluent in five languages turns us down.”

Really, now. A simple blanket blow-off of “We’re still in the process of finalizing our choice” would’ve been fine. Would’ve been better. Because to be frank this entire job searching thing is one big egosuck — especially when you have to hunker down and suffer through repeated rejections no matter how good you think you are. No matter what benefit you might think you’ll be.

So in the days that have passed since being told I was second best (or perhaps third or fourth) I’ve been recovering from the blow. And by recovering I mean trying to dig deep and steel my resolve to stand up and smile and dance with whoever next comes down the CareerBuilder/Monster/JournalismJobs/DotCom pipe.

I do my best to keep the outlook positive. I do my best to know that this isn’t forever and that there is some company out there that will slap me on the back and welcome me inside.

But it gets dreary. It gets mean. It gets scary. I find myself in the car on the way to the store, or walking the dog, or taking a picture or doing something in the backyard, or reading, or sleeping, and suddenly there’s a physical pain I experience as the voice inside my head tells me I don’t have what it takes. That I’m not tough enough or employable enough so why not just give up and become a cabbie or a clerk at Radio Shack. Do something punk, the voice tells me. Anything!

Ahhh, but I can’t do that. I won’t do that. And I’m still telling that voice no. And I’m still telling that voice that as difficult as it is it could be a helluva lot worse and lonelier if I didn’t have the love of my life standing with me. And I’m still telling that voice it is just a matter of time. And as such I pick myself up and go through the motions all over again, albeit a little more wary. A little less enthusiastic.

I applied to two jobs this morning. Two jobs I could and would kick ass at. Let’s see what happens.

A visit to Death Valley this time of year had become a tradition of sorts with me. Well, if not a tradition then at least a streak, with last year’s Veterans Day weekend trip being the “three-peat.” But the string of consecutive November visits to one of my favorite places on earth was drawn to a close when I told Susan about a month ago I was of a mind to forego the annual trek.

Overall, I’ve been back to the magnificent place six additional times since my inaugural visit in February of 2002. And it’s my hope I’ll be back dozens of times to come, but at this time… nah. I’ll just have to live without it. Yes, I can point to our new pup and our trip to Myrtle Beach for Thanksgiving with Susan’s folks as contributing factors leading to the decision, but the truth is I don’t deserve the escape. There are more important matters to attend to. And frankly I’m not so sure how much of an escape it would be. For while the desert can certainly sooth you so can it amplify whatever frequency you’re modulating, and right now there’s no denying I’m broadcasting on a band that’s gotta lotta static.

The original plan had been to keep it simple. Spend today and tonight at Eureka Dunes then pack up Saturday and trek over to Saline Springs for the rest of that day and night before coming home Sunday. Oh well, maybe next year.

But at least I can take some consolation in the fact that the whole of 2006 won’t have gone by without getting me some DV. At least that streak/tradition of annual visits was kept alive at five with the visit Susan and I and my friend Rachel made there for a truly monumental weekend in May. Not only did I hike to the top of the park’s 11,049-foot Telescope Peak, but on the next day — my 42nd Birthday — I got on my mountain bike and with Susan and Rachel bringing up the rear flew downhill 17 miles from the 8,133-foot elevation of the Mahogany Flat campground all the way to the Panamint Valley floor:

I couldn’t think of a better way to celebrate the milestone. And I wouldn’t think of going back until I’m ready to celebrate again.

Download a PDF (1.3 Mb) of my October 2002
Orange Coast magazine travel feature on Death Valley.

The “Vons Debacle” not withstanding, I had a pretty errand-filled day and while I didn’t get new shocks on my truck (not for lack of trying; my mechanic was short personnel today and told me to come back Monday) and left the long-overdue vacuuming to tomorrow (when Susan’s at the salon and the cat’s are galavanting around on their outdoors day), I was able to pick up Susan’s birthday present (and hide it)… which I hadn’t been expecting to do until next week.

The list of stuff is as follows:

• Three-mile walk with dog (some pictures from it are here)
• Grocery shopping
• Truck to mechanic for shocks and an oil/filter change*
• Post office
• Bank
• Barbershop
• Wash dishes
• Take out trash
• Sweep/rake front and back yards
• Laundry
• Vacuum/dust*

*Postponed

So I’ve let the dog out into the backyard to go pee, at about the same time as I do every day, and she trots on out, does her business then goes sniffing around the new look I’ve given the southeast corner before coming back to the grassy area under the tree with the fragrant little blossoms (whose name I still do not know) and sitting down.

Most of the time she comes trotting right back inside after she’s finished, but on occasion she likes to linger a bit. This is one of those occasions so I come out from the backdoor and grab a seat on the low brick wall next to the walkway and Shadow’s just sitting there looking back at me intently with that look she has and I tell her I’m in no rush to get back inside if she isn’t. So she walks her front paws out in front of her and lays down.

And the the wind chimes are chiming and the late-afternoon sun is shining and the pre-dusk blue of the sky is especially vibrant and from the tree boughs above Shadow fall those aromatic little flowers like rain, and she’s still staring at me with this lazer look and before I know it I’m all teared up because of… hell I don’t know. Because it was just so damn beautiful. And because I’m so damn lucky and double damn thankful. For everything. For my wife. For my life. For Shadow. For the backyard. And the sun. And the breeze.

If this were a script, Shadow would rise sensing my emotion and come to me comfortingly, but this isn’t a script and Shadow just relaxes there looking at me and looking around, and scratching behind her ear, and letting out one of her huge sneezes, the kind in which the forward recoil drives her nose into the ground, which of course makes her sneeze again even harder.

And that made me weepy all the more because it was just as it should be, with Shadow at home and comfortable in her backyard for what I hope will be many more years to come. And maybe that’s part of why I got all choked up, too. Because it’s been such a strange journey getting to this point. For me and Shadow. And I’m so blessed that things have worked out the way they have.

Eventually the sounds of Pepper and Jiggy wrestling in the kitchen brings Shadow out of her meditative respose. She rises to cross to the walkway and trots down past me to the screen door where she waits for me to unlatch it so she can enter and disperse the play-fighting felines.

I wipe my eyes and get up to open it for her.

So I hopped the No. 4 MTA bus at 7 a.m. and got down to the Stanley Mosk Courthouse for my jury duty with plenty of time to spare. Once the paperwork was completed and my juror badge was clipped to the collar of my jacket, it was all about filling the void of time that was only broken on a couple occasions with the juror assembly room personnel calling for everyone’s attention over the PA system and reading off a bunch of names.

I didn’t make either of those panels. So in between I plowed through the newspaper, crept through the first few chapters of Curse of the Narrows, listened to some Sounds From The Ground tunes on my iPod and tried to ignore Regis and Kelly being broadcast from the small TV across the aisle.

Finally the PA came to life again asking for everyone’s attention for a panel that came complete with “special instructions” and sure enough my name came up near the end of the roll call.

And what were those special instructions, you ask? That I am to report to Department 309 on the 14th floor of the Central Civil West Courthouse on Commonwealth Avenue near Wilshire at 10 a.m. tomorrow.

While my first instinct was disappointment at being made to abandon such a smooth public commute away from downtown for this less-familiar new place, it didn’t taint the combined relief at 1) landing on a panel, and 2) not having to hang around the jury room anymore.

Of course, other prospective jurors didn’t take it as well as I did. One man expressed his “shock” at not being excused, and another lady tried to protest saying she couldn’t afford to be on a jury. Both were met with stoney, unsympathetic looks from the assembly room workers.

I’m just wary enough to think that I may be in for a longer haul… that this new courthouse might be host to a trial that might be expected to take longer than normal (typically five to seven days) and that despite announcements that all selections are random, my current unemployed status might right up their preliminary alley.

I did manage to squeeze a $14 weekly MTA bus/rail pass out of them before leaving. Technically the passes are only for people who end up on juries, but I pointed out that sense I have to return tomorrow — and to a second location — I should be granted one. They acquiesced, even though I still might not make whatever jury I’m being pitched towards. If not, my service is done and I’m a $14 pass richer. But I’m still hoping I get to use the pass to get me to and from a jury box.

Anyway, with the remainder of the day all mine, I walked through downtown and ended up here at the Central Library where I had a salad and now am debating whether I’m going to head home or hang here awhile.