Jonathan

I've met aging hippies, aging rockers, aging people who grew up wishing they were rockers, but I'd never met an aging stoner.

What does an aging stoner look like? Well, thirty-something, Pretty youthful appearance with "fashionable" jeans and a baseball cap that never comes off.

Jonathan is originally from upstate New York where he started his own landscaping company. Shoveling snow was not something he wanted to do forever so he moved the company out to Arizona, where he promptly entered the related business of growing pot. He'd grow it and then drive it himself out to Cali for distribution. At one point he mentioned making more than $100k a month. Eh? How illegal was this? "Very."

However much he earned it's clear that he had a lot of money. After enough trips out to California he moved out to San Diego county where he's been ever since. He's not growing anymore, instead he's moved into the next big thing. HYDROPONICS. Has anyone gone more than three days without seeing one of those places lately? How obvious is it? It's like, uh, practically a dispensary. Pot is taking over this state at least, that much is apparent.

Now Jonathan rents a very nice place in a harbor in San Diego where he regularly hosts people out back to hang by the fire. But he doesn't smoke pot anymore. Asked why, he joined the legions of others who mentioned how it makes them anxious and paranoid now. Instead, he "kicks back" with everyone's favorite fungus, every day. Tradeoffs.

A night hanging out is hearing tales of marriage proposals on sinking boats, terribly unfortunate road trips, and many, many women. These days he's living with an on-again-off-again girlfriend who he's been with ever since the day they first met... at a bar. They've got some issues to work out, but things roll along pretty smoothly. Maybe once they can agree on how to raise their new puppy dog, they'll raise the stakes someday. But not too soon...

Damon

Campfire on a dried up lake bed in the middle of the desert. Damon rolls around.

He is the essence of grunge, and by that I mean the hair on his head and face is awkwardly long and black. No that's not a five o'clock shadow, it's laziness. And he's drunk, very.

He's from the Salinas Valley, the son of a correctional officer at Soledad prison. He describes his dad as "one... tough guy, but he's dead now!" And with that he let out a 15-second cackle. A true crazy person's cackle this was, with that really hoarse voice and CREEPY smile. A laugh like that looks like it would straight tire you out, but Damon (and other crazies I've met) always seem so... reinvigorated. Far from expending energy it's more like a refuel.

He's a scenic artist, which basically means he paints cool things for the entertainment industry. He's done a lot of work at Disney, but FUCKING HATES DISNEY. For that matter, he fuckin, fuckin shit man, fuckin hate that fuckin company. Bunch of fuckin assholes, man shit, man. Fuckin, I don't know man. Damon uses R-rated language. He gave me lots of advice for getting into painting street murals and such. He's got lots of friends who do it semi-professionally.

But he's been taking time off. Three years. Now he wants to get into industrial painting. I kept having to ask him to clarify, so industrial painting is painting airplanes, prisons, cars, whatever. If he ever gets around to making a next step, he hopes to make it over to Iraq or Afghanistan and paint a new hospital. I had no clue if this was admirable or not.

"Took" is his nickname. Oh you mean like Toucan? "Ya but don't fuckin call me Took." And you know what, he also has a younger brother nicknamed Pooter. Small world.

I guess that's what I was most stoked about. The odds of meeting a crazy talented at painting, also clinically crazy mofo who also has a younger brother named Pooter, well those odds must be astronomical.

Bill

Fucking Bill. Beer-gut Bill, that's what I'm callin' him. Many times I have encountered Bill. The first I still remember, something about "formaldehyde beards." Tonight, we met.

He's always, always down at the neighborhood jacuzzi from 9 'til closing, sipping a mixed drink or pounding Coor's Light. Goatee. Tribal arm band tattoo. Inappropriate sexual comments are the norm, and despite being around 50 he'll chat up chicks I think are too young for me. Profession? Well back in the 80s he ran nightclubs in various cities across the US (lots of cocaine he says), but these days he's married and working as a real estate appraiser. How many people do I know who have switched into that career since living here? Lots man.

Tonight we chatted about 85 year-old cougars and my hot swimsuit. I rock a white Speedo for those who don't know. Apparently it's not working for me. You know, I like Bill. He's a neighborhood guy, a talker, a guy who brings some conversation and human connection to what is otherwise a very isolated place. We're not talking rocket science, but I'll take him as is.

Angela

Angela. An-JEL-la? Maybe Anhela. I don't think she much cares actually... Well, she's a wonderful old Mexican lady I met at my ESL class. I saw her walking home and offered a ride.

Communication between humans is truly incredible. Get this, she climbs in, extensively gibbers in Spanish, absent-mindedly rubs her knees, and smiles at me.

Oh, you've got bad knees and are very thankful for the ride. Well you're welcome!

Amazing. I probably understood 1-2 words, noticed her facial expressions, the slight grimace as she reached down to touch her knees, then her smile, which I duly returned. In addition I was bringing in outside but related experience with other foreign grandmas, like, my very own Nonna. And I just knew within a second what she was trying to tell me. No language necessary.

As I was observing the ESL class earlier that morning I was thinking about my own experience learning Chinese. I learned many, many words. I could communicate what I wanted very easily by the time I left, but that's not the miracle of communication and language. Listening to others. I mean really listening, picking up on the subtle choice of words that transmit the person's true meaning is what we should be shooting for. I think that should be the focus when we teach.

We chatted in broken Italian/Spanish about San Juan and its best restaurants (she recommends El Molino de Oro). Woman didn't know how to READ until she started coming to the ESL classes. Not even in Espanol. Oh how I wonder what preoccupies her thoughts every day. A meeting of the minds, that's what I want with her. That phrase just made sense in a new, very real way.