The (Un)Civil War: Now Playing!

Note: Devil Incarnate, Douglas Wood, has abused his conjugal privileges and has already posted a rebuttal to my post. You can read it at http://www.douglaswood.net.

I must admit: I didn’t watch the debate Monday Night. I didn’t watch the one on the Thursday either. I saw none of them, in fact. Unconcerned? Uninterested? Not at all. I’m intensely invested in who wins this year’s election. It’s only that the debates, and the endless prognostications leading up to, and equally endless recaps following, these slugfests, have a specific purpose, and one that I find increasingly disquieting: to churn the waters of discord.

Debates as blood sport...

The theatre of politics has taken center stage in this election, produced by the media (both left-and right-leaning varieties), sold by the campaigns of both parties and snapped up eagerly by the electorate like opening night tickets to “Iron Man 3.” The debates have much less to do with substance and all to do with narrative and conflict. Swooping storylines of defeat and resurgence, villainy and heroism, writ large and with the subtlety worthy of Michael Bay. There’s no room for complexity, or nuance; our candidate must be golden like Rocky Balboa, thrown against the ropes but coming up swinging; the Other Guy must possess a hulking maleficence worthy of the Soviet Drago. That’s what sells the tickets!

Better yet, let's make debates into musicals! It worked for Hairspray...

Now, don’t get me wrong: there are serious issues at stake here, ones worth fighting for and promoting. And yes, I understand the intent: to fill campaign coffers and goad a sleepy, nose-picking electorate to the voting booth. It’s just the emotional hyperbole that leaves me anxious and exhausted. We want bipartisanship, but how is that possible when we also demand blood and fear apocalypse? The first election I remember was between McGovern and Nixon (am I dating myself here?). In school we held our own elections and discussed positions. Now, my seven-year-old niece comes home in tears, distraught because it was a fact that if the other guy won there would be the absolute certainty of war. How can fight our way back to the center from that?

Debate #4: Thunderdome! We all know Mel Gibson's 
a Romney man, so does that make Obama Master Blaster?

This tribal drumbeat is further compounded all of our social media, the barrage of constant political updates that ping from our little screens, Liliputian cries of repudiation and outrage, often more interesting in scoring points off of verbal mis-steps and tactical errors than the actual issues. We delight in the crude (but pretty funny) characterization of our Opponent while castigating the Other Side for doing the same thing to Our Man. Behind a thicket of like-minded friends, we more than vilify the opposition; increasingly we cannot even fathom them. The other day a friend on Facebook “liked” the other side; I stared at the post in disbelief. How could he be my friend if he liked that monster? How was he so colossally misinformed? The fact that he, too, was thinking the same thing about me (that is, if he had not already turned off my feed) does not diminish my incomprehension.

Now, this is theatricality used to great effect, 
employing conflict and narrative... with a twist ending! Soylent Green is people!

How is this impasse going to change? I have no earthly idea. I may decry partisan behavior but I'm out there sharing and liking with the rest of my brothers-in-arms. Can one have passion without devolving into bitter enmity? In a couple of weeks the Most Important Election of Our Times will be over, and maybe things will calm down. I doubt this. I’m sure the storyboards are already being prepped for the Most Important Election of Our Times—Part 2! We dearly love a sequel. Unfortunately, that means four more years of partisan roadblocks and government stagnation (remember the whole “house divided” trope?). Maybe, just maybe, we could try curbing our taste for explosions and shoot-outs and get in line for something quieter, something with a little more dialogue. You know, like those grown-up movies. 

Okay, let the comments begin!

Stair Master

From the 7 floors of the outdoors stairs across the street from my house (12 reps) to the 14 floors of the CNN Building  in Hollywood (6 reps) to the 55 floors of the Wells Fargo Building (2 reps). Brown rice, power bars and (shudder) white chicken meat. It has all lead to this: my inaugural Ketchum-Downtown YMCA Stair Climb, up 1700 steps (75 floors) to the top of the U.S. Bank building! 

Nervous the whole day. Stretch now, or not to stretch now? What should I eat? When? Doug thought it was ridiculous to put so much energy into diet when it was only going to be about 30 minutes of exertion, but I wanted to indulge in the whole marathon vibe.   

Arrived downtown at 4. The place was packed, hordes of people in matching t-shirts, food trucks, a climbing wall, booths galore. A huge screen showed people entering the building, excited, and arriving at the top, considerably sweatier.

My team, the Turtles, were down one member (who landed a pilot) but Sally, Nubia and I were ready and rarin' to go. We get into place at about 5:30. My sister Allison comes with her husband to cheer us on, and tapes us before:

I look up at the building we are about to enter. Are we CRAZY? I get dizzy just looking at it. 

They corral you down the plaza steps, and then one by one you face the doors of the building and a huge timer and then "GO!" you are pushed into the building. And up you go, fast, fast! And then, oh... so... slowly. All I can say is, thank God they were playing "Gangnam Style" before we got into the building, because that was all that was in my head the whole way up. "Hey... Sexy lady..." It's a good pace.

People are moving at different speeds. There are crushed water cups in all the corners of the stairwell, like fall leaves. Kinda gross. I try not to be too pushy, but if you've seen me maneuvering past crowds at the Farmer's Market, well, you can imagine.

And suddenly, I'm at floor 70. Only five more to go! You get your final burst of adrenaline and jog up to the roof. It's pretty amazing.

Nubia, speed demon that she is, joins me two minutes later. We enjoy the view, then go down to the 71st floor for some bananas, water, and apples.

Sally, bad knees and all, arrives moments later, and we exult.

At the bottom, Allison catches us coming out.


We may sound cocky, but forty minutes later, on the way to the restaurant, I can barely walk up one flight of stairs. I eat the most delicious meal I've ever tasted in my LIFE, and then go home and pass out.

Not bad for an old man!

The best thing was-- our team raised $1200 for the downtown Y! Thanks so much to all of you who chipped in; you made it all worth it.

So... what do I do now?

A Lot of Nothing

Oh, Tangaryo,
I pledge myself to you!

I have committed myself to Tangaryo. It may sound like I'm entering into a relationship with some Manga hero, but no, it actually means I'm going to be sitting around a whole lot. 

Tangaryo is a Zen tradition based on the ancient practice of demonstrating your extreme desire for a Buddhist life by sitting outside the temple walls and meditating day and night until the priests decide you are worthy and accept you into the sangha. At the Zen Center I attend they have a day of Tangaryo twice a year— a long, formless period of sitting meditation from 9-4. What makes it different from daily meditation practice or even the meditation retreats I've attended is that there is no structure. No bells to tell you how long you've been sitting, no formal periods of walking around, no dharma talks or chanting. Just. Sitting. 9-4.

You might understand why I'd be so terrified.

Why do it at all, you might ask? Well, I've been sitting every morning (or trying to) before the day begins, an extremely helpful practice, and I thought I'd test my endurance. It's kind of the same reason why I'm climbing 75 flights of stairs later this month (there's still time to donate, by the way). Tangaryo is like a meditation marathon. I'm not saying it's the right reason to do it, but hey, whatever gets you on the mat. And I would like to go deeper into my meditation practice. Also, it gets me out of the house.

It's gay pride, martial arts-style!

Unfortunately, I had forgotten that Benjamin had his XMA (Xtreme Martial Arts) graduation ceremony
the same afternoon. He was graduating to Green Belt. This, however, was not a big deal, I thought. The studio seemed to be holding graduations every other month, and I'd been there for the procession of white-orange-yellow-yellow-with-a-stripe belts. So if I missed a color, what could be the harm in that?

I prepped him about me not coming the day before.

"Is it that important to you?" he asked. I told him I thought it was, since I had signed up. Follow-through! I'm modeling follow-through!

In the morning, before leaving for the Zen Center, I found him awake in his room and went in to kiss him good-bye. I told him that I'm nervous, that I thought it was going to be hard. "You know what you should do?" he said tenderly from his bed.

"What?" I asked, fully expecting the "perseverance" speech I've been doling out to him these past four years.

"You should not do it!" he said. "Your only son is graduating today! You should be at XMA!"

Touché. I go anyway, mumbling something about how important it is to "Do what scares you."

He didn't seem to buy it.

I arrived at the Zen Center, apprehensions intact, but it seemed a pleasant enough bunch I'd be with in the zendo, only eight sitters. The Tangaryo leader is Gessho, a woman perhaps a little older than I am, with a bad back and an affinity for crossword puzzles. I liked her immediately. She went over the history of Tangaryo, about the apocryphal tales of people sitting in the rain and snow, slicing their arms off to prove their devotion. We won't be having to do that, fortunately. Three hours of sitting, a lunch break, and three more hours of sitting. She advised us not to take breaks in our car, to listen to music or check our phones. Use the bathroom, walk in the space if need be, but other than that, just sit. Nothing to it, literally.

Before we commenced, I told Gessho of my conflict, my son's graduation that afternoon. She listened, nodded. There was no finger-shaking, no pursed lips and disappointed sighs. "Well, if you need to go early, you should go," she said. "We believe very strongly in upholding personal commitments. Of course," she says with a smile, "you won't really have done Tangaryo, but you can... do it another time."

And so we began. What can be said about my first three hours? I'm afraid there was no insight. Those moments of stillness, pushing through the thicket of thoughts into an open, clear spaciousness, eluded me. Instead, a fuzziness drifted onto my brain that I found hard to shake. And, as I shifted, trying to find comfort on my kneeling bench, thoughts kept returning to myself as a child, kneeling upright on the plush blue carpeting of the living room, a punishment. This particular agony was meted out by my father when he wanted us to confess, or as retribution for having confessed. How many times did he employ this method, as opposed to the other, hotter extreme? I don't recall. All I remember is the shame of it, kneeling alone in the open space, a pillory without the wood, and how the warm room (much like the temperature in the zendo) would cause a stupor to descend, until it seemed as though you were always and ever kneeling there, time dissolving into motes of dust in the shafts of sunlight heating the room, never knowing when your penance would end. And here I was, forty years later, facing the wall, kneeling again, only this time it was of my own volition. And I controlled the time.

I imagine that the second block of meditation, after lunch, was when all the clarity would start to kick in. Peace and calm would envelop me at last. Or maybe not. Alas, I'm not able to report either way,  because after lunch I was in my car, driving fast down the highway, to get to my son's XMA graduation in time. I made it. He kicked, he swung his bo staff, he got his green belt. I got to drive my kid home. It was a good day for follow-through.

Stairway to Heaven... or Heaving

75 floors. 1700 steps. The tallest building west of the Mississippi. Guess what I'm going to be climbing up on September 28th?

Did you guess the U.S. Bank Building?
You are kee-rect!

I'm going to be a part of the 2012 Stair Climb for the Ketchum-Downtown YMCA. It's an annual fundraiser for their inner-city programs. They do a lot of good for kids & families: after-school programs, summer camps, affordable preschool and daycare, teen counseling... I've been a member of the Y for quite a few years, and I've always been intrigued by the Stair Climb Challenge.

I had a bucket tear!

It's actually pretty amazing that I'm stepping foot on those stairs at all. Around 2008 I was jogging barefoot on the beach and rrrip went my right meniscus (that little colloidal cushion under your knee). Knee surgery followed. I asked the surgeon what I could do post-op. He suggested leg lifts, say, 50 a day.
"For how long?" I inquired.
"Oh, for the rest of your life."
"Anything else?"
"Hmmm... no."

Luckily I found an amazing physical therapist (Derek Plonka, Insight Physical Therapy in Santa Monica) who gave me a wee bit more to work with than that. Through a regimen of icing and strengthening exercises he got me back on track.

Then the other meniscus tore. This time, I opted for no surgery, only physical therapy.

After a year, I was solid on my two feet.

And then my back went out. Bulging lumbar disc. Back to Derek.

GETTING OLD IS SO FUN!!

"Let me sample that creme anglais
one more time, okay?"

After two years of timid exercise and overzealous baking classes, things were getting, let us say, out of proportion.





I needed a change, so I swallowed the "Results and Recovery" Kool-Aid of P90X guru Tony Horton. Surprise surprise, with his exercise programs I achieved both results and recovery! All the dread plyometric exercises made my leg muscles stronger than ever, and my knees feel protected and safe. Awwww....

Before THAT all goes south (really, I'm just two lemon meringue pies and a Bûche Nöel away from disaster) I thought I'd give myself a challenge and go stepping for a cause. I've been running up and down the stairs across the street from where I live, and just last week I trained with the Hollywood Y up and down the CNN building--15 floors five times. I made it!

But I need your help. I'm part of a grand team: author Sally Nemeth (who, as a veteran of these climbs, is the Van Helsing of our group), voice-over goddess Kari Wahlgren, and housekeeper extraordinaire Nubia Avendaño. We call ourselves TEAM TURTLE. Slow and steady! Slow and steady! Our team has to raise $500, and we'd like to get it to $700 by the generosity of our friends. Could you throw a few bones our way to give us incentive? Go to my pledge page, it's really easy. Any amount will help.

Thanks so much.

Update: Due to the incredible and RAPID generosity of a few people, we've blown past our goal and have moved the goalposts (is that a thing? ) up to $1000. Thank you thank you!

The City Mouse Chills Out

You can hardly blame me if I had reservations. A canoe trip. In the Ozarks. 107 degree temperatures. With in-laws. Chance of storm showers. Sound like fun to you?

I am, by nature, not to be found in Nature. I am much more likely to be found in Coffee House. Preferably one with wifi.  I am a creature of concrete and meters, with very occasional forays to a temperate beach. Doug's whole family knows this about me, and yet, with perverse delight, insist I come with them. So, we made the trek to Southern Illinois. Two days in Godfrey, and two days camping three hours south in Missouri. "Can't wait to see you camping," his mother told me with uncharacteristic glee, as she welcomed me to her home. You and me both.

Illinois was in the midst of an unprecedented heat wave. Even Benjamin lasted only minutes in the sun. I sought solace in a nice iced frappuccino, and this was when I realized, to my infinite horror, that Godfrey Illinois differs from Los Angeles in one crucial aspect: it is bereft of coffee establishments. I entered "coffeehouse" into my Yelp iphone app and it diverted me to St. Louis. I pled with Siri: "Where can I get a cup of coffee?" and she pretty much shrugged. I may have also heard a faint metallic snicker.

Starbucks! Starbucks!
Why hast thou forsaken me?

The City Mouse is dumfounded. Truly, it is beyond urban comprehension. I could throw a stone in any direction from my house and it would land in a grande soy double-shot mocha. Surely, people drink coffee in Southern Illinois. Made to order, overpriced iced coffee beverages are a basic human need, right after food, clothing and internet access. How could there NOT  be a coffee shop? Where do all the wannabe screenwriters sit and check out their Twitter accounts? And what about Starbucks and their evil corporate pursuit of world domination? Isn't Godfrey, Illinois deserving of evil corporate domination? Don't folks here know what they're missing? Do we need to organize a "Coffee for Godfrey" benefit concert? By all that is good and holy, get me a frappuccino!!! (1 pump, no whip).

(The caffeine crisis was averted by a trip to Schnucks, which sold bottled Starbucks. I was later told that there is a perfectly nice Panera not too far away. I took this, much like the white ovoid robot in "Wall-E" views the green seedling, as a sign that civilization is possible.)

I was duly caffeinated when we made our trip to the southeast Ozarks. THE SOUTHEAST OZARKS. Somewhere, in the back of my lizard brain, I heard the ominous buzz of giant mosquitos and twanging banjoes. My inner Ned Beatty was frightened. Luckily, I had my ten-year-old son with me, and I had to show him, by example, not to be frightened by new experiences and that challenges were to be embraced. It was not unlike me encouraging him to handle the worms in my compost bin without him knowing that I, in actuality, have a mortal fear of earthworms (childhood annelid trauma, best left for another post).

The day was sunny, but not lethal. Montauk State Park is not the desolate wilderness I was expecting, but more in line with the Pocono Mountain camp I used to attend every summer in my remote adolescence. Ah, Spruce Lake Christian retreat, if you could see me now! I have fond memories of that camp; when we weren't being converted or testifying, we had a full slate of outdoor activities and cookouts. I can remember all those Christian camp songs to this day, and will unleash them, full-throated, upon Doug if he provokes me. I also recall with fondness how I would get asthma attacks at 2 am whilst sleeping in the communal tent, and how the next morning the other boys would exclaim "Last night did you hear that woman screaming?"

This time, there is no tent in my future. While Doug's siblings and their families were pitching tents in the campground and his mother was staying at The Lodge, Doug had reserved us a cabin. This proved to be a good move; as we arrived at the campgrounds the promised rainstorm began. We left his family to hurriedly erect their tents and drove to our "cabin." This "cabin" was more like a rental condo in the woods, four units to a building. We had a full kitchen, living room with a Pullman bed for Benjamin, bathroom and a separate bedroom. Air conditioning. Balcony for grilling.

It was roughing it! We had no cable!

The City Mouse is overjoyed.

Dinner was cooked and eaten out of the rain in our "cabin," and though there were twelve packed into the space it didn't feel too crowded, not when there was another room to retreat to. Our phones got no reception at all and there was no wifi, but I was perfectly happy with this conception of Roughing It. I got a LOT of reading done. We slept, slightly warm and unassailed by bugs, Facebook posts or the New York Times daily crossword.

And the day of the float trip? Miraculously, the rain had cooled everything down and it was a perfect 85 degrees and SUNNY. We were driven to the dock site in a repurposed school bus driven by a man with questionable teeth and a growth in the back of his neck the size and shape of a Mandarin orange. Doug, Benj and I were in one canoe, Doug steering in the back and me up front finally using the muscles God and P90X has granted me. We set off.

It was a revelation. I hadn't realized how much of a Californian I've become until  this float trip. The ocean is in constant, roiling motion; the sound and movement of the water is a reminder of the ever-changing nature of the world, the steady pulse of destruction and creation. The journey down the Current River offered a meditation of a completely different sort. For long stretches it was completely still and serene. My paddle dipped quietly in the current. Each small movement—the sudden eddy around a stone, the fish flicking on the surface, the rustle of a river otter along the bank—commanded my attention and kept me in the present. I was in Nature, and I was part of Nature, one with the muskrats, snakes and crawdads. Sure, there were lots of others on the river: families on kayaks, raucous high school kids, old-time fishermen, even a pod of giant women lounging with beers on inflatable rafts, but a dozen strokes later the canoe sailed around the bend into silence once more. Peace.

And the water! So crystalline. We swam in a section where spring waters merged into the river, and jumping in was like drinking a tall glass of cold water on a hot summer day, but WITH YOUR ENTIRE BODY. It was also the oddest phenomena to come up to the surface and realize that it tasted, not like salt, not like chlorine, but like, well, WATER.

My brave boy...

The best part? Watching Benjamin soak it all in. He saw other kids jump off a twelve-foot cliff into the river and without any hesitation followed them in, then made instant friends on a rope tied to a tree swinging out into the water. This, I thought, is what a summer vacation looks like. 


The City Mouse is converted.

* This post written at the Starbucks at Gower & Sunset, southwest corner *