San Diego: Kids, Palm Trees & Catwoman
San Diego: The land of $3 bottled water, houses on stilts, and about a dozen black folks.
1.
Riding through San Diego is like watching someone play Grand Theft Auto on the largest television screen ever made. I cannot count how many time I wanted to jump out of the car, run up to one of those houses built on a potential mudslide, and “borrow” the owner’s car.
2.
There are palm trees everywhere, and by everywhere I mean, anywhere a free atom of green-space could be found. Every nook of this city has a palm frond planted in it.
Seeing mountains was a hurdle I’d practiced jumping with my trip to Albuquerque last summer. What I wasn’t prepared for were the smoky layers of range after range, filling each preceding valley’s dip with another dimension of rocky peaks and brush-dotted earth. As the morning progressed, the sun peeled back more and more of the mountains.
3.
My hotel was tucked away on a strip of hotels, framed by precarious hills and freeway. With nothing but other hotels and rental car places as far as could be seen, there wasn’t much sight-seeing to be done. I could have cabbed out to something pretty, but I have to be honest: I enjoyed the down time. between working and being on the road any time I’m not working, I haven’t had a proper day off in weeks. Trust me: after a month of constant be-here/be-there? You take the breaks you’re given.
4.
Californians have a reputation for being weird. Despite the fact that they’ve elected an action movie star as their governor (and not one of the ones with an Oscar), I think the reputation is largely undeserved. I’ve met enough Californians to know that there are probably a Midwest-sized state’s worth of exceptions. I’ve even had one of them in my home for dinner, and he didn’t eat with his toes or anything (though we did ask that Charles Ellik enter through the servant’s entrance).
I have, however, uncovered the reason for what weirdness we can account for: Pacific time. It’s not just that they live with the sunset in their hair and the sea at their backs; it’s that they get all of the cool, late-night television shows earlier than everyone else. They’re watching shows like Prison Break and The Shield over lunch, and well before most children’s bedtimes. Can you imagine how different the second half of your work day would be if you just spent the last 45 minutes watching Vic Mackey pounding some drug dealer in the back of a police car before the board meeting? Let’s just say that Robinson better have his profit report in order before you get to the conference room.
I‘d have investigated what qualifies as late-night entertainment to these people, but their 10:00 pm is my 1:00 am and I shudder to think what vegetable I am most likely to resemble by the end of such a timetable.
Mystery solved.
5.
I didn’t see another black person until I got back to the airport. Not at the school where I was booked, not on the freeway, not working at the hotel…not anywhere. Granted, my itinerary was extremely limited and I’m sure if I had a car to scope out more of the terrain, I’d have found us somewhere. We’d have likely been hidden away in an underground bunker, huddled Jacob the Liar-style around a television set watching reruns of The Boondocks, but I’d have found us, brothers and sisters.
6.
The gig itself was great, and a real challenge for me. I was brought in by a dynamic young teacher - Ms. Givens - to do an entire school day’s-worth of Slam workshopping with 70 middle school students; a group that included sixth, seventh and eighth graders.
Doing a feature comes easy to me. I have enough range in my material that I can read poetry almost anywhere, and have. Workshops are also something I have a penchant for, but not usually with an audience this young or extended over eight hours. Most of my 50 Mistakes presentation was exorcised from the program because a lot of the points were largely irrelevant for this audience, as was a lot of my go-to packet, Performing Poetry. This wasn’t a room filled with frustrated writers or veteran slam poets. This was a room filled with kids who printed their poems on Hello Kitty letterhead and put unicorn stickers on their notebooks. So breaking down the nuances of the poetry publishing industry was, to put it mildly, not germane to our mission for the day. In one of the rare instances in which I have had legitimate use for a cell phone, I had Donielle recite to me a couple dozen writing exercises that I used at our last write-in and all was well. She pulled my fat out the fire that time, since I’d been a dolt and didn’t print that stuff out before leaving.
I opened with a poem - “The End of the Further Adventures of Jimmy Fontaine” - and then proceeded to launch salvo after salvo of writing exercises at them until recess, followed by more exercises until lunch, followed by yet more exercises and performances until; the end of the day. Every student performed at least once (yes, even the crushingly shy kid we all used to make fun of, the one with the voice of a church mouse on helium) and many of them more than once. My goal was to help them build confidence in performing and to open their writing flood gates a little, and these students performed WAY above the call of duty. Many of them had more courage than a lot of adults I’ve workshopped with.
7.
I must mention lunch
The Our Lady of Perpetual Help School has the homiest teachers lounge I have ever seen. They have a couple of long tables put together and covered with picnic-ready red-and0-white gingham table clothes. Their shelves are packed with cooking spices. The tables have a rotating free-for-all selection of cookies, rolls and chips that anyone can partake of. It courts a country-style kitchen warmth, and staff typically have to eat together in a set-up like this, family-style.
For lunch that day they had Mexican food brought in, and the lounge became a buffet of tomato, beef and salsa goodness. They’d rolled out the culinary equivalent of a red carpet and let me tell you, friends: the walk was lovely.
8.
True to form, not five minutes after the gig I was ready to come home.
I’ve tried to combat this feeling on the gigs I’ve done this year, and accomplished this most admirably on the way back from Kansas City last week, which was downright leisurely. (Of course, a ten-hour Midwestern drive of flatlands demands one stop and smell the roses…and the barbecue, wineries and casino felt.) It’s not that I don’t like the places I’m visiting or the people I’ve met; I do. I’d have spent the night in Kalamazoo recently if I didn’t have to work the next morning, for sure. It’s that I hate to put people out, no matter how prepared for my arrival they may be, and find that being a no-fuss guest is as welcome as being a gracious host. I don’t want people to feel as though they have to take time from their jobs or family to make sure I’m okay, or worse, entertained. If you’re an organizer, then you know that most of the stuff that you do - especially the stuff you love doing - starts out as a sacrifice. Just because you’re good at it, have large audiences to show for it, or have fun doing it doesn’t mean it isn’t a sacrifice. Ask your better halves, your children or your boss. I’m sure they’ll be able to frame your fluctuating cash flow, late nights and dramatic rants it in very practical terms for you.
I digress. And because what I ended up doing the rest of the day before I could keave is so utterly banal * compared to everything I wrote above, I’ll leave it to four simple words encapsulate: Catwoman and bad pizza.
9.
For the record, we can all stop showing up at the airport three hours early now.
I blew through ticketing and security in about twenty minutes flat. I’m sure that wouldn‘t have been the scenario if I had been traveling on Christmas Eve, but holidays aside? Airports have really turned that whole anti-terrorism-search-that-doesn’t-really-work thing into an art. In a what-time-zone-is-it panic, I rushed to the airport to return home, cracking a makeshift riding crop made from stolen hotel towels over the cab driver’s seat, screaming, “T minus three hours! Faster, man! Don’t you watch Dateline?!” For my trouble I was rewarded with two and a half hours of leafing through O magazine and reading the wall menu of TCBY Treats about a hundred times.
P.S.) You want to know if I’m still scared of flying. You want to hear about how terrifying the ordeal of flying cross-country with a hip flask of bona fide flight phobia jammed into my back pocket must have been. You people are sick. I say good day to you sirs. I said, good day!
NOTES:
*There is something to be said for watching what makes national-level news outlets through a local-level news outlet. For instance, what was a series of walk-out-fueled marches ignited by the proposal of a ridiculous immigration law in San Diego Land took on more sinister shades, most notably brief, filmed spats between a couple of marchers and the police. I asked Liz if she’d seen that footage (since I’d seen it about a dozen times) and she hadn’t. You always assume you’re not getting the whole story on a national news story, but it’s weird to know, not because you’re cynical or very astute about how these things tend to go, but because the real story is happening in your backyard.
1.
Riding through San Diego is like watching someone play Grand Theft Auto on the largest television screen ever made. I cannot count how many time I wanted to jump out of the car, run up to one of those houses built on a potential mudslide, and “borrow” the owner’s car.
2.
There are palm trees everywhere, and by everywhere I mean, anywhere a free atom of green-space could be found. Every nook of this city has a palm frond planted in it.
Seeing mountains was a hurdle I’d practiced jumping with my trip to Albuquerque last summer. What I wasn’t prepared for were the smoky layers of range after range, filling each preceding valley’s dip with another dimension of rocky peaks and brush-dotted earth. As the morning progressed, the sun peeled back more and more of the mountains.
3.
My hotel was tucked away on a strip of hotels, framed by precarious hills and freeway. With nothing but other hotels and rental car places as far as could be seen, there wasn’t much sight-seeing to be done. I could have cabbed out to something pretty, but I have to be honest: I enjoyed the down time. between working and being on the road any time I’m not working, I haven’t had a proper day off in weeks. Trust me: after a month of constant be-here/be-there? You take the breaks you’re given.
4.
Californians have a reputation for being weird. Despite the fact that they’ve elected an action movie star as their governor (and not one of the ones with an Oscar), I think the reputation is largely undeserved. I’ve met enough Californians to know that there are probably a Midwest-sized state’s worth of exceptions. I’ve even had one of them in my home for dinner, and he didn’t eat with his toes or anything (though we did ask that Charles Ellik enter through the servant’s entrance).
I have, however, uncovered the reason for what weirdness we can account for: Pacific time. It’s not just that they live with the sunset in their hair and the sea at their backs; it’s that they get all of the cool, late-night television shows earlier than everyone else. They’re watching shows like Prison Break and The Shield over lunch, and well before most children’s bedtimes. Can you imagine how different the second half of your work day would be if you just spent the last 45 minutes watching Vic Mackey pounding some drug dealer in the back of a police car before the board meeting? Let’s just say that Robinson better have his profit report in order before you get to the conference room.
I‘d have investigated what qualifies as late-night entertainment to these people, but their 10:00 pm is my 1:00 am and I shudder to think what vegetable I am most likely to resemble by the end of such a timetable.
Mystery solved.
5.
I didn’t see another black person until I got back to the airport. Not at the school where I was booked, not on the freeway, not working at the hotel…not anywhere. Granted, my itinerary was extremely limited and I’m sure if I had a car to scope out more of the terrain, I’d have found us somewhere. We’d have likely been hidden away in an underground bunker, huddled Jacob the Liar-style around a television set watching reruns of The Boondocks, but I’d have found us, brothers and sisters.
6.
The gig itself was great, and a real challenge for me. I was brought in by a dynamic young teacher - Ms. Givens - to do an entire school day’s-worth of Slam workshopping with 70 middle school students; a group that included sixth, seventh and eighth graders.
Doing a feature comes easy to me. I have enough range in my material that I can read poetry almost anywhere, and have. Workshops are also something I have a penchant for, but not usually with an audience this young or extended over eight hours. Most of my 50 Mistakes presentation was exorcised from the program because a lot of the points were largely irrelevant for this audience, as was a lot of my go-to packet, Performing Poetry. This wasn’t a room filled with frustrated writers or veteran slam poets. This was a room filled with kids who printed their poems on Hello Kitty letterhead and put unicorn stickers on their notebooks. So breaking down the nuances of the poetry publishing industry was, to put it mildly, not germane to our mission for the day. In one of the rare instances in which I have had legitimate use for a cell phone, I had Donielle recite to me a couple dozen writing exercises that I used at our last write-in and all was well. She pulled my fat out the fire that time, since I’d been a dolt and didn’t print that stuff out before leaving.
I opened with a poem - “The End of the Further Adventures of Jimmy Fontaine” - and then proceeded to launch salvo after salvo of writing exercises at them until recess, followed by more exercises until lunch, followed by yet more exercises and performances until; the end of the day. Every student performed at least once (yes, even the crushingly shy kid we all used to make fun of, the one with the voice of a church mouse on helium) and many of them more than once. My goal was to help them build confidence in performing and to open their writing flood gates a little, and these students performed WAY above the call of duty. Many of them had more courage than a lot of adults I’ve workshopped with.
7.
I must mention lunch
The Our Lady of Perpetual Help School has the homiest teachers lounge I have ever seen. They have a couple of long tables put together and covered with picnic-ready red-and0-white gingham table clothes. Their shelves are packed with cooking spices. The tables have a rotating free-for-all selection of cookies, rolls and chips that anyone can partake of. It courts a country-style kitchen warmth, and staff typically have to eat together in a set-up like this, family-style.
For lunch that day they had Mexican food brought in, and the lounge became a buffet of tomato, beef and salsa goodness. They’d rolled out the culinary equivalent of a red carpet and let me tell you, friends: the walk was lovely.
8.
True to form, not five minutes after the gig I was ready to come home.
I’ve tried to combat this feeling on the gigs I’ve done this year, and accomplished this most admirably on the way back from Kansas City last week, which was downright leisurely. (Of course, a ten-hour Midwestern drive of flatlands demands one stop and smell the roses…and the barbecue, wineries and casino felt.) It’s not that I don’t like the places I’m visiting or the people I’ve met; I do. I’d have spent the night in Kalamazoo recently if I didn’t have to work the next morning, for sure. It’s that I hate to put people out, no matter how prepared for my arrival they may be, and find that being a no-fuss guest is as welcome as being a gracious host. I don’t want people to feel as though they have to take time from their jobs or family to make sure I’m okay, or worse, entertained. If you’re an organizer, then you know that most of the stuff that you do - especially the stuff you love doing - starts out as a sacrifice. Just because you’re good at it, have large audiences to show for it, or have fun doing it doesn’t mean it isn’t a sacrifice. Ask your better halves, your children or your boss. I’m sure they’ll be able to frame your fluctuating cash flow, late nights and dramatic rants it in very practical terms for you.
I digress. And because what I ended up doing the rest of the day before I could keave is so utterly banal * compared to everything I wrote above, I’ll leave it to four simple words encapsulate: Catwoman and bad pizza.
9.
For the record, we can all stop showing up at the airport three hours early now.
I blew through ticketing and security in about twenty minutes flat. I’m sure that wouldn‘t have been the scenario if I had been traveling on Christmas Eve, but holidays aside? Airports have really turned that whole anti-terrorism-search-that-doesn’t-really-work thing into an art. In a what-time-zone-is-it panic, I rushed to the airport to return home, cracking a makeshift riding crop made from stolen hotel towels over the cab driver’s seat, screaming, “T minus three hours! Faster, man! Don’t you watch Dateline?!” For my trouble I was rewarded with two and a half hours of leafing through O magazine and reading the wall menu of TCBY Treats about a hundred times.
P.S.) You want to know if I’m still scared of flying. You want to hear about how terrifying the ordeal of flying cross-country with a hip flask of bona fide flight phobia jammed into my back pocket must have been. You people are sick. I say good day to you sirs. I said, good day!
NOTES:
*There is something to be said for watching what makes national-level news outlets through a local-level news outlet. For instance, what was a series of walk-out-fueled marches ignited by the proposal of a ridiculous immigration law in San Diego Land took on more sinister shades, most notably brief, filmed spats between a couple of marchers and the police. I asked Liz if she’d seen that footage (since I’d seen it about a dozen times) and she hadn’t. You always assume you’re not getting the whole story on a national news story, but it’s weird to know, not because you’re cynical or very astute about how these things tend to go, but because the real story is happening in your backyard.