Flowers

I generally try to shy away from tight alleyways and other places that would be hard to flee.

That's not true. That didn't happen.

Up ahead was a narrow outdoor stairway. It bordered a creek which seemed to ascend into the trees. Piece of cake, "my day's workout" I told myself. Halfway up a shirtless, dreadlocked, tattooed black man noticed me coming and became noticeably more excited. I stereotype, so this didn't seem good.

He rushed up. He needed my help.

Now I felt the need to at least listen here, and when I slowed he held up his elbow. All I could see was blood and all I could notice was its size, swollen up. All he was asking was for me to wrap it up with this scarf, "you know, like they do in the hospital."

It was at this point where, curiously, my mind was worried about my defenseless self having both my hands tied up in a task, while I was somehow elsewhere. "How strange this is" I thought, and I smiled.

"Can you help me out man? Mah arm's all swolled up. Yeah, yeah." And a billion other only partially relevant statements flooded from him while I did my work. His name was Flowers, and pretty soon I knew what happened, where he worked, what he was doing the night before, and how old he was. And we still had to walk the other half of the stairs.

By the top I had a better picture of what he thought about things. He was a "doctor of the streets" but his wife worked at a hospital. I knew she was going to take care of him. And I knew he was on his way to take care of that 40oz beer in the plastic bag.

"You know how to get to Laney College?" I asked him.

"Yeah," he said, "I'm going that way, you can follow me."

Melinda

You know what I love about Norcal people? Everything. Okay okay, in particular...

Acceptance and respect for diverse peoples.

Unselfish drive to leave a place, or a community, or just a random bunch of strangers, whatever you want to call it, better off.

Melinda was a Norcal person. And among the twenty-some-odd peoples I met on my first time allegedly "living it up" at a Hollywood nightclub, she alone gave me hope.

Norcal people can look good really casually. She was dressed in a simple black cocktail dress, in stark contrast to the, uh, abundant sluts in every direction. And she was a beautiful woman, the kind of girl with slight "imperfections" that make most women hate themselves but which I find totally enchanting and sexy.

After chatting with her and her French girlfriend for a while they introduced their friends. That guy? "Oh that's our boyfriend" they said.

What.

"Oh yeah, that's our boyfriend over there!" And the French one just bounced up and down, nodding, winking, and smiling in affirmation.

Your boyfriend? As in y'alls boyfriend? Yeah she said, it's a three-person polyamorous relationship. Wow, another first. The origins were so deliciously complicated she sounded like she was pitching an HBO show. Unfortunately I was so blown away by this concept that I had difficulty listening and remembering. I did gather that every two-person combination was tried at least once previously.

To hear her tell it, they're all just really good friends who are always there for each other, even sexually. My first thought was threesome, but I got the sense that those were somewhat rare.

"Everyone always gives him so much credit" Melinda said, "but it's not the fantasy everyone's thinking about. It's tougher to be emotionally available for two women than one."

Truth. That added such a rich layer. Why be in love with two different people? I can perhaps see having feelings for and acting out bisexual impulses, but committing to a relationship with two women?

Anywho Melinda studied art history at UCLA and is now the guerilla marketer for a new "fast casual organic restaurant" called Tendergreens. She said they're trying to bring healthy, delicious, organic fine dining to the masses, because everyone deserves access to it. I told you she oozed Norcal. And she even picks the art they display, part of work with vibes with her passion.

Hearing her talk made me reconsider everything I thought I knew about what relationships are and why we have them. Didn't think I'd find that in Hollywood.

Jorge

It wasn't much of a scenic overlook, but it was still a welcome break for us all. This was West Texas, a land of clay-colored canyons and bluffs, and I was sitting atop a hill gazing upon it. Around me roamed a troop of young Mexican children.

Their father, Jorge, he looked very Mexican. Sharply cut black hair, a thick black moustache, blue jeans and a tucked in white undershirt. And a straw hat.

I started counting the kids out loud when Jorge interrupted me.

"Seven. I been busy man."

Ha! What a wink he gave me. "Busier than me!" I told him.

We shot the breeze a little, where we're coming from and where we're going. I mostly sat and exchanged smiles with all the kids. The youngest was in Jorge's lap, and the rest took turns crawling all over him. A young girl watched as her baby sister engaged a stone step. She poked it with her fingers. She gestured and pointed. I'm pretty sure she didn't think to go up it.

After some silence Jorge started his family prayers.

"Hail Mary full of grace..."

And the kids mumbled a response under their breaths.

Then a second time. Each iteration with different lyrics.

And again, a mumbled response from the kids, speaking as one.

After a third prayer we all enjoyed the silence and the smiles for a couple minutes more before they were off.

Warmed my heart right up.

An Endangered Species

"...the backs of their heads, I don't know how he done it.
Everyone of them chickens.
He was about three feet tall.
So I done shot him. (everyone laughs, including a haunting cackle from grandma in the corner)
And I finds out later he was an endangered species and I wasn't supposed to kill him.
Ha ha!
Oh well."

-Old man, Texas

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.