Goodbye Tujunga

Well, I'm moving. Despite Tujunga's many charms and pot dispensaries, I am heading out. It's time for me to downsize. I have mixed feelings. On the one hand, no more neighbors begging for money, booze and toilet paper. On the other hand, no more apricot tree, garden or extra room in which to paint. My paintings will get smaller, I will buy apricots at the store and I'm sure I'll be able to find a place for a little container garden. I will miss the kid that walks by every day with the gigantic yellow afro.

My neighbors, the Borrowers, are also moving. They rent the house next to me and the owner is selling it- or rather, has sold it. If I'm lucky, the neighbors will end up living next door to me in my new hood.

So now I begin the task of paring down my belongings.
Shoes. I have so many. I have two feet and a hundred shoes, most of which pinch my broad, hoagie-like feet. Clothes. Millions, ranging five sizes since my body can't decide where on the scale it should stick.
Children's books. I thought I wanted to be a children's book illustrator my whole life, then I had the chance to actually try it and I hated it. God it was boring and stressful at the same time. I have boxes and boxes of children's books that need to go away.
Beads. Why did I ever think it would be a good idea to buy hundreds and thousands of beads for jewelry making? Clasps and jump rings and shiny and matte beads... all gorgeous and untouched. Maybe I'll keep them. Just to look at. And dream.
Knee socks. Tons. All striped. All too small. They sounded like a great idea at the time.
Hello Goodwill.

I guess I'm writing this as a documentary for myself- to sort of keep track of my brain throughout this process.

Wherever I go, rest assured, there will be a diary.

Neighborhood News

My toothless neighbor had a heart attack. With his blue feet and all, and his chain smoking, one wouldn't say he was in the best of health in the first place.

I got home from work last night and Toothless's wife sidled up and vodka'd in my ear, "Toothless had a heart attack". I was like, "WHAT?!" and then I noticed that she was dressed up (aka out of her house dress), and he had eye makeup on. And she seemed chipper. Hmm, dislike your husband much?

She told me it was a mild heart attack and I was glad for that. As much as I make fun of my neighbors, I do like him. He's a sweet man. He's the man who screams at his wiener dog.

I have new neighbors renting the house just to the south of me. A woman, a man and a stepson. The woman is short, stocky and rough- she looks like she should be smoking a cigar and balling up twine on a schooner. The husband looks like a has-been fashion model. He's tall with hair "wings" that bounce and behave as he lopes around the backyard fixing stuff. He wears odd things. I suspect he shops at the Goodwill but not in an ironic way. Think Dolphin shorts.

The stepson mostly stands around in the backyard with a twig or a rock in his hand. Just stands.

So they're digging this hole. It is right outside my kitchen window. It's big enough for a body right now. They haven't dug in a while. Perhaps it's the rain, or maybe they're done and they're just waiting to kill me.

My kitchen sink faces their living room where they sit on the couch and watch TV. So once a year when I do dishes, I essentially look right in at them. It wouldn't be so unnerving if they could tell that I was doing dishes, but the window doesn't begin until about my mid chest. So, for all they know, I'm just standing at the window, watching them watch TV. Ah well. What are they going to do, call the police? Not with that open grave out back.

Maybe Toothless will be back from the hospital tonight when I get home from work. That would be good. I miss his shouts and yips.

Classy

I sunk to a new low and embraced my inner Tujungan today. No I did not smoke meth with the one legged guy who does donuts on his moped in the KFC parking lot.

I bought a battery operated pumpkin pie scented candle.

Here's what happens when your life begins to unravel.

It starts with a CVS being the only "store" in your town. Then, you get yourself a Saturday night alone, add one Atkins bar (hors d'oeuvre), one gluten free beer (cocktail), one battery operated candle (ambiance) and and voila, instant class!

The "best part" is that it is made out of real wax (shamWOW! Buy it today for only $19.99!), so when the candle warms up, the wax foofs out the scent of pumpkin pie spice.

Somebody give me my life back.

80

I drive home to Tujunga at 80 miles per hour every weeknight. My drive is a twelve mile, traffic-free commute. It is always the same, though some nights, it seems to take forever.

Mmmuh, trucks...
off ramp...
more trucks...
tail gaiter...
JPL...
La Canada...
La Crescenta...
Tujunga...
Datsun pickup truck with missing taillight...
my exit...
tweaker...
hobo....
clown...
dog...
open field with river stones stacked one on top of the other, like little men, everywhere...
wild horsetails growing out of a swampy spot in the gutter...
enormous lumps in the road...
day laborers...
7-11...
motorcycle guys...
Bonner's Equipment Rental...
auto body shop...
liquor store...
medical supply...
tweaker...
drunk guy...
auto body shop...
liquor store...
medical supply...
tweaker...
drunk guy...
auto body shop...
liquor store...
medical supply...
tweaker...
drunk guy...
apartments...
tree...
more trees...
houses...
home...
neighbor...
"can I borrow three dollars. I'm outa cigarettes".

Medicine

A nap is a sacred thing. A nap should not be interrupted unless there is a big fire.

My neighbor has a sixth sense about naps. This is how it works: When my eyes close, hers pop open and something in her brain tells her, much like a pigeon's homing instinct, to come over to my house and ask for money.

Her hair is always pulled back in a banana clip. Her eyes are a shocking blue...and red. Her brown acrylic cardigan is pilled and stained. It stretches down, over her stomach and covers half the length of her shorts. Her sweater pockets are filled with handmade, beaded jewelry to sell. Stuff she made a few years ago, when she wasn't, as she explains it "depressed" because of all of her "family shit".

The husband doesn't let loose on the details of their lives but the wife does. She is usually drunk on her "medicine" (vodka and milk), so she'll say revealing things as she wanders back down my front path. Most of her remarks make me want to run screaming away from her and this town. And then she'll say "you have such cute shoes" and I'll give her a dollar.

Saturday, after a refreshing 1.5 minute nap, I stood at my front window, wifebeater on, vodka and milk in my sippy cup, and wondered WTF I was doing in this hick town.

Learning something probably.

You're Soaking In It

I hate doing dishes probably more than anything in the world. I'd rather get a mammogram. I'd rather pick up dog doo with my bare hands.

So I swore I'd do the dishes this last Sunday, it being Easter and all. I figured, if there was a Jesus, he'd probably want me to do the dishes. So I took a nap, scraped down the hideous oil painting I'd began the night before, swept the floor and did some laundry. Then I took another lie down. This is when the panic attack hit. The damn dishes. The income taxes, the property taxes, the mortgage, and the dishes. I was snowballing. I promised myself that if I ever got the dishes done, I would never use a dish again. I would buy paper plates (sorry trees) and plastic forks (sorry everything).

I got out of bed, walked past my pile of 2006, 2007 and now 2008 taxes, past my mortgage bill, past my phone where there was a message from my dad wondering what I was going to do about my property taxes, and into the kitchen, and out the back door.

My backyard looked okay. Nothing was on fire, to my disappointment. I turned around and headed back into the kitchen. Turn the water on, just turn the water on, I told myself. I turned the water on. Letting the water run (sorry ocean) I put the few dishes away that were on the drying rack from the last time I did dishes, four months earlier. Then I got down to work.

I made a deal with myself. I'd just wash the dishes that lined my counter and that was all. I'd do the rest, the stuff in the sink, another day. Just get through the overflow, that's all I had to do. Jesus would understand.

I did it. I washed those fucking glasses way deep down inside and all over the outside and on the bottoms. I washed four bowls. I did not wash the silverware. The silverware would wait for the next time.

I dried my hands on a paper towel and felt lighter as I watched my neighbor through the kitchen window. This isn't the neighbor with the blue feet, this is the neighbor to the south. A single woman, who smokes cigarettes with her son like he's her lover. But that's a story for another day.

Maybe I'll take a look at my taxes tonight. Right after I do this one thing to my painting...

Diet Coke

I've got this store down the street from me. When I first bought my house, I was convinced it was going to be a problem. I imagined bikers and gangsters and stick ups, rabid dogs wandering it's porches... and hookers. I can see the "Market" (aka Liquor Store) from the front lawn of my house.

I had just moved from South Pasadena, where I think we had one Liquor store, and the Easter Bunny or my Grandma ran it. I was in a whole new neck of the woods now- in fact this woods didn't even have a neck, just went from shoulders to chinless.

So, I sidled in there shortly after I moved in, parched from unpacking self help books. To my amazement, it was a wonderland! It was bright and cheery. There were bananas and limes on the counter and there was cat food and toilet paper and charcoal briquettes and soup and ice cream. Right there a half a block away!

The owner, Mike, said "Hello" and I said "Hi" back. This was fantastic! Man I had a lot to learn about this town.

I thanked Mike and stepped out into the fragrant May sunshine with my Diet Coke, smack into a hooker, an old biker and his rabid dog. They were sticking up a gangster.