I just last month moved to Los Angeles in a 1991 Jeep Cherokee pulling a homemade plywood trailer made out of (among other things) a 1970 pop-up camper and an old chicken shed that is currently parked in a woodshop up the street and is still waiting to be finished with siding.
I spent
the previous 5 months at the family farm in Illinois, where I passed the summer - among other things - chopping down trees,scrapping old farm implements, making furniture, building a dreamcatcher (using feathers from a wild turkey carcass found in the woods), fixing tractors, scavenging in old barns and going to music shows. All in all = success.I flew to California to try to get myself off the ground (ie apt, car, source of income...) and found my Jeep (which has run flawlessly cross-country twice, aside from a front main seal oil leak which my friend and I managed to fix on the street in front of my house) and an apartment and at least a part-time job (music director at a small but progressive and promising church in Glendale that I am determined to wake up and shake up) all within 4 days. Check, check, check.
I drove my Jeep back to Illinois to get my things and say my good-byes and decided to offset my green-guilt by posting an ad on the Craigslist rideshare page, which of course caused me to wonder almost immediately if and how Kerouac circa 2010 would involve an internet posting. There’s something slightly less romantic about the internet in general (see also: dating life...I kid?) and I agree wholeheartedly with the notion that there is a definite tangible quality to another breathing person’s energy that is helpful in making basic day-to-day decisions, such as “Do I want to spend the rest of my life with this person?” or another perennial favorite “Do I want to ride in a small enclosed space for two days and two thousand miles with this person?”
Exhibit A: Ave, (we wound up calling him “Aveda” for short) a long-haired Native American who had made the questionable decision to move from the reservation, where he could get drunk and not process alcohol within the safety of his own people, to Chicago, where he worked as a bartender/“performance artist.”
During the wee hours of the first overnight drive, Ave declared that in his culture, they would call me a medicine man. While this was flattering, I couldn’t help taking less and less from this reference as time progressed: he had also spent the 16 hours on the way to Austin declaring himself the world’s next great pop star. This hypothesis was quickly and devastatingly laid to rest in Bethany’s (see also: raddest girl ever; bethanybauman.com) Austin kitchen during an episode that slew every American Idol reject reel I’ve ever seen (not that I’ve watched that show):
Aforementioned N.A. also ended up sort-of following us out that night, as no one (read: me) had the courage to tell him to climb back into his windowless trailer. In my defense, things had not quite made their abrupt but inevitable turn from hilarious ridiculousness to “Get the crap out of my car.” That diversion was quickly taken, however, in a story involving a guy with a face tattoo from Vegas, photoshop cropping, and a few well-chosen racial epithets uttered by my travel companion on an Austin city street corner.
(PS Aveda, if you’re reading this, I still have a bag of your dirty laundry in my trailer.)
Exhibits B and C involved a self-proclaimed 21-year-old rail-riding anarchist with plans to buy a sailboat in Miami with which to “chill in the Caribbean” and an unhappier-than-expected comic book illustrator and Rainbow Gathering supporter fond of telling half-truths who claimed to be ready to drive overnight and wound up driving literally a total of an hour before pulling over and saying, “Alright guys, I think it’s time to rest my eyes.”
Other blurry memories include trying to help fix a broken-down pickup on the side of the road in the middle of the black Texas night while fending off an angry drunken hitchhiker and the realization for about half of an hour that my truck and trailer had literally been hijacked by previously discussed half-truth-teller determined to be dropped off at his front door. (Just kidding - it wasn’t HIS front door. It of course turned out to be the front door of a stranger who he didn’t actually know but was surely a “friend of a friend”...)
It’s recently been suggested that Kerouac didn’t, in fact, live many of the adventures described in “Travels With Charlie” and that for a large majority of his travels actually stayed in luxurious accommodations with his close friends and relatives.
I don’t blame him one bit.
My apartment I found on the internet, although the fellow moving out of the room I’m renting happened to be a friend of one of the 7 people I knew in LA - a tattoo artist at the parlor up the street where I had just been two weeks previously with three friends getting tats. So I of course wandered in there after I learned this tidbit to try and find out what I’d be getting myself into.
The gist of the conversation:
I perhaps should have pressed for more information - a sentiment I felt rather sure of when I woke up to my new roommate playing guitar in the living room and belting loud but unintelligible curses a few weeks later at 3am. It turns out he was upset that his bike - more specifically, FIFTH bike - had been stolen that night, and he was distraught over “what it means” and the deeper significance of the incident. (The leading response amongst my peer group thus far is that it meant he should buy a stronger lock, although I have a rather skeptical peer group).
SCENE 1:
Out-of-tune alcoholic racist drunk Native American wannabe popstar
with repressed sexual issues:
“I keep on falling innnnnnnnnnnn--
(pause)
You think I”m gonna say love, don’t you?
(pause)
I got a FEEEEELin, that toNIIIIIIGHT’s gonna be a GOOD NIGHT
Me:
So, this is your Black-eyed Keys medley?
SCENE 2:
Aveda, two drinks in, having awkward “deeps” with an uncomfortable Nico and Luke, whom he just met
Aveda:
“I’m bi.”
Luke:
“Cool.
(Pause)
Joel’s gay.”
SCENE 3:
My foot in Luke’s face.
Aforementioned N.A. also ended up sort-of following us out that night, as no one (read: me) had the courage to tell him to climb back into his windowless trailer. In my defense, things had not quite made their abrupt but inevitable turn from hilarious ridiculousness to “Get the crap out of my car.” That diversion was quickly taken, however, in a story involving a guy with a face tattoo from Vegas, photoshop cropping, and a few well-chosen racial epithets uttered by my travel companion on an Austin city street corner.
(PS Aveda, if you’re reading this, I still have a bag of your dirty laundry in my trailer.)
Exhibits B and C involved a self-proclaimed 21-year-old rail-riding anarchist with plans to buy a sailboat in Miami with which to “chill in the Caribbean” and an unhappier-than-expected comic book illustrator and Rainbow Gathering supporter fond of telling half-truths who claimed to be ready to drive overnight and wound up driving literally a total of an hour before pulling over and saying, “Alright guys, I think it’s time to rest my eyes.”
Other blurry memories include trying to help fix a broken-down pickup on the side of the road in the middle of the black Texas night while fending off an angry drunken hitchhiker and the realization for about half of an hour that my truck and trailer had literally been hijacked by previously discussed half-truth-teller determined to be dropped off at his front door. (Just kidding - it wasn’t HIS front door. It of course turned out to be the front door of a stranger who he didn’t actually know but was surely a “friend of a friend”...)
It’s recently been suggested that Kerouac didn’t, in fact, live many of the adventures described in “Travels With Charlie” and that for a large majority of his travels actually stayed in luxurious accommodations with his close friends and relatives.
I don’t blame him one bit.
**************************************
My apartment I found on the internet, although the fellow moving out of the room I’m renting happened to be a friend of one of the 7 people I knew in LA - a tattoo artist at the parlor up the street where I had just been two weeks previously with three friends getting tats. So I of course wandered in there after I learned this tidbit to try and find out what I’d be getting myself into.
The gist of the conversation:
“Hey man, if you remember me, I just checked out your old room and was thinking of moving in there.”
“Cool.”
“Yea, I was wondering if there was anything I should know about it.”
“It’s pretty cool.”
“Cool.”
I perhaps should have pressed for more information - a sentiment I felt rather sure of when I woke up to my new roommate playing guitar in the living room and belting loud but unintelligible curses a few weeks later at 3am. It turns out he was upset that his bike - more specifically, FIFTH bike - had been stolen that night, and he was distraught over “what it means” and the deeper significance of the incident. (The leading response amongst my peer group thus far is that it meant he should buy a stronger lock, although I have a rather skeptical peer group).
In any event, I let the commotion escalate into a stomping and knocking-things-off-the-walls sort of thing until I finally got up to find him rocking back and forth on the toilet with the door wide open as he alternated between Tourrete’s-inspired moans and enthusiastic wall-pounding. (I, of course, quietly tip-toed back into my bedroom unnoticed).
This event was hard to forget until I arose a couple of weeks later to start my day. I have a daily morning habit of making the most important breakfast bagel sandwich known to hu[wo]mankind, and I headed to the kitchen to do just that when I noticed the ENTIRE CONTENTS OF THE REFRIGERATOR AND FREEZER ON THE KITCHEN FLOOR. And we’re not talking typical bachelorhood apartment here; this is Michelle Obama-approved rations for at least the perimeter guards: fresh produce, broken bottles of Pelegrino, milk, eggs, 20 frozen chicken breasts... I had a slight recollection of some disturbance mildly disrupting my previous night’s sleep (an occurrence I’d been getting used to) but was fairly confused by the fact that my small-framed roommate (with M.S.!!!!!) who has trouble walking a city block had somehow managed to tip over the refrigerator, let alone somehow return it to an upright stance.
This event was hard to forget until I arose a couple of weeks later to start my day. I have a daily morning habit of making the most important breakfast bagel sandwich known to hu[wo]mankind, and I headed to the kitchen to do just that when I noticed the ENTIRE CONTENTS OF THE REFRIGERATOR AND FREEZER ON THE KITCHEN FLOOR. And we’re not talking typical bachelorhood apartment here; this is Michelle Obama-approved rations for at least the perimeter guards: fresh produce, broken bottles of Pelegrino, milk, eggs, 20 frozen chicken breasts... I had a slight recollection of some disturbance mildly disrupting my previous night’s sleep (an occurrence I’d been getting used to) but was fairly confused by the fact that my small-framed roommate (with M.S.!!!!!) who has trouble walking a city block had somehow managed to tip over the refrigerator, let alone somehow return it to an upright stance.
Of course, the most absurd part of this story was the conclusion: in typical non-confrontational fashion, I cleaned up the mess and cooked my breakfast, then spent the rest of the day avoiding him. When I finally went in his studio to speak to him about the rent check that happened to be due that day (and yes, I paid it...), he paused after this conversation, looked up at me a bit emptily, and asked, “So...did something happen in the kitchen last night?”
So now what?
I am a recent Los Angeles transplant.
I have less than $200 in my bank account.
I’m strangely OK with that.
I have very little jobnessness.
I know this will change.
(I am reminded of the time I went to visit New York City for a week and ended up staying...this story involves sleeping on the couch of someone I’d just met, needing work, making a list of the - say - 12 people I knew in New York, remembering a woman I had randomly met in the Long Beach airport two years previously, crossing the street to get a bagel, and crossing the street on my return as the same woman “happened” to be crossing in the crosswalk right next to me with her friend Jonathon, who she had told me two years previously that I “just absolutely had to meet” and who subsequently connected me to a job putting together Broadway orchestras....But that is another story entirely.)
I have blockage and expectations and emotional attachment to people and unhealthy situations.
But I am happy. I am writing. I am playing. I am participating whenever possible and healthy.
I am doing my best to help without getting in the way.
I am doing my best to be a source of insight and not resentment.
I am cooking dinner and visiting the dogpark and accidentally attending fancy parties.
I am celebrating the New Year alone, but together.
I am doing what I know to be right, and righting what I know.
****************************************************
So now what?
I am a recent Los Angeles transplant.
I have less than $200 in my bank account.
I’m strangely OK with that.
I have very little jobnessness.
I know this will change.
(I am reminded of the time I went to visit New York City for a week and ended up staying...this story involves sleeping on the couch of someone I’d just met, needing work, making a list of the - say - 12 people I knew in New York, remembering a woman I had randomly met in the Long Beach airport two years previously, crossing the street to get a bagel, and crossing the street on my return as the same woman “happened” to be crossing in the crosswalk right next to me with her friend Jonathon, who she had told me two years previously that I “just absolutely had to meet” and who subsequently connected me to a job putting together Broadway orchestras....But that is another story entirely.)
I have blockage and expectations and emotional attachment to people and unhealthy situations.
But I am happy. I am writing. I am playing. I am participating whenever possible and healthy.
I am doing my best to help without getting in the way.
I am doing my best to be a source of insight and not resentment.
I am cooking dinner and visiting the dogpark and accidentally attending fancy parties.
I am celebrating the New Year alone, but together.
I am doing what I know to be right, and righting what I know.
I have no direction
but a very powerful compass.
I’m noticing the bumps less.
Upon further reflection,
this leap of faith is trumpless.
The preceding tales are all absolutely 100% true.
curious about what this all means
curious about the wanderlust in his genes
curiously, he follows as he leans
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