Bikini Season

Several years ago, I was running three times a week down at Pan Pacific Park when I developed Achilles tendonitis. In order to give my tendons a rest, I decided to switch to swimming for a while. There is a large public pool in the park which made it convenient. I didn't want to get out of the habit of exercising regularly and swimming seemed like the perfect alternative.

But first I had to buy a new bathing suit.

I hadn't bought a bathing suit in a while and I soon discovered that, yet again, Fashion and Marketing, the twin handmaidens of Satan, had conspired to make what was once a simple and ordinary procedure into a ridiculously frustrating waste of time energy and money. For reasons known only to a few, at some point in the mid-nineties the Evil Ones convened and decreed that all men must wear clownishly oversized baggy shorts that hung down well below the knees and billowed like parachutes when you walked.

I don't know why they did this, but I think it had something to do with the whole "Hip Hop" phenomenon that the kids are into.

I first encountered this conspiracy one summer in New York when I went out to buy a pair of short pants and found that the concept of regular "shorts" no longer existed and that the only style available IN THE UNIVERSE was what used to be called "Bermuda Shorts". These so-called "Bermuda Shorts" were originally worn by middle-aged men with beer guts and accessorized with white belts, dark socks and sandals. Often they were plaid.

But no longer. Suddenly everyone was wearing pleated, khaki-colored, Bermuda Shorts from The Gap. Why? Because there weren't any other kinds of shorts available anywhere ON THE PLANET. Almost. I did manage to find one pair without pleats that actually fell just above the knee. The whole point of wearing shorts is to allow cooling breezes to waft up the thigh and ventilate one's undercarriage. If the shorts are too long then the cooling breezes are not able to waft sufficiently. It's madness.

My next encounter with the baggy shorts conspiracy was when I went out shopping for a pair of running shorts. When I was a kid in high school, we wore plain cotton gym shorts. They were not too short, not too long -- they were just right. Nothing fancy, no pockets, no stripes, one color. And they were fine. Later when I got into distance running, I started wearing these skimpy nylon jobs with a built-in lining. Apparently, at the time, I was comfortable enough with my anatomy to appear in public wearing what were little more than glorified panties. But that was long ago.

All I wanted was a pair of plain cotton running shorts like the ones we had in gym class. All I found were gigantic polyester pantaloons in all manner of hideous color combinations with fictional logos and cryptic initials printed on them. I couldn't understand why men would want to wear these oversized pajama bottoms while playing sports. Even professional basketball had adopted this idiotic attire. To me they looked like children playing dress-up in daddy's boxer shorts. Where would it all end?

At last I found a pair of plain black cotton gym shorts and bought them. As soon as I got home, I realized that I should have bought every pair they had. I even went back to the store to get some more. But when I got there I was unable to find the rack where they had been hanging. And when I asked, my questions were met with strange looks and odd behavior. "Oh, we've never carried that style, sir. Now go, go quickly and never tell another living soul what you just told me. Hurry! Go!"

So, years later, when it came time to buy a new bathing suit, I was ready. I knew it wouldn't be easy to find what I wanted. Something we used to call "swim trunks", basically the bathing suit version of the plain cotton gym shorts. But I had a new weapon in my arsenal: the Internet.

Thanks to the Internet, I rarely have to go shopping for clothes at all any more. I just sit at home (or at the office) and search for the exact item I need. When I find it, I buy several of them since I'm fairly sure I will never see it again. I own four blue oxford shirts from L.L. Bean, four pairs of chinos from Eddie Bauer, two fleece tunics from Land's End, etc.

But when it came to bathing suits, none of my usual outlets had what I wanted. All they had were huge baggy "surfer's shorts". I don't see how you are supposed to swim with all of that extra material flapping around you. Whatever happened to 'form follows function?' Whatever happened to practicality? Whatever happened to logic?

But I persevered. I Googled more and more specifically. There had to be someone out there who still appreciated good old-fashioned simplicity. And there was. A company called Dolfin that makes swimwear for swim teams and lifeguards. Naturally they had a lot of the 'Speedo' type suits, but they also had exactly what I was looking for: the standard swim trunk, called 'The Lifeguard'. Not too long, not too short. One color, no stripes, plain, simple, functional, logical. I bought one pair.

That was my big mistake.

Recently I have taken up swimming again. Now that I have my afternoons free, I am able to go down to the West Hollywood Pool for the lap swim. At first I was just trying to get back into the habit of regular exercise. And for a while my old Dolfin trunks served me well. But as I started getting into it a little more, I noticed that the Dolfins had gotten loose and were dragging in the water and as my stroke improved and I stretched out more and more, the Dolfins tended to slip off. I had to stop several times mid-lap and hitch them back up. But no matter how tightly I tied them, they kept sliding back down.

It was time for some new trunks.

Fortunately I knew just where to go, back to Dolfin.com. But to my horror, when I looked they no longer had the same style. Oh they still had a style called The Lifeguard, but the Dolfin people had finally succumbed to the fascist baggy short conspiracy and now the trunks were quite a bit longer and "roomier." I was crushed. Why hadn't I bought six pairs the last time? I had assumed that the good people at Dolfin were immune to the whims of fashion. Sadly, I was wrong.

There was only one choice left: the skimpy nylon "racing" suits. That's what all of the other guys down at the pool wear. They are practical and logical, they don't create excess drag and they don't fall off in the middle of the pool. But they're so damn tight! Keep in mind that most of the other guys at the West Hollywood Pool are gay. And not that I want to promote any stereotypes here, but they are all in amazingly good shape. Most of them work out at a gym in addition to swimming. And most of them are about fifteen years younger than me. And they all have perfect salon tans. So when they wear the tight, skimpy Speedos, it seems appropriate.

I, meanwhile, do my best to keep as much of my body covered as possible, partly out of modesty, partly out of shame, and partly to keep from blinding anyone with the glare from my pale white skin. It's like being back in high school all over again, being the scrawny, hairless, weakling surrounded by a bunch of hulking neanderthals. Only now I am less scrawny and more flabby and the neanderthals all shave their chests and engage in witty banter.

Anyway, I finally found an alternative. There's another middle-aged guy who comes to the pool sometimes and he wears one of those tight little suits, but it's not the super-revealing Speedo style. I went to the sporting goods store to find one of them, they're called 'trainers' and they have the added bonus of an outer shell of nylon between you and the outside world. Kind of like those nylon running shorts I used to wear. It's not much of a difference, but it's something to cling to. So to speak.

Of course now I had to try them on. Because I honestly couldn't see how I would fit into one these things. So I picked three sizes and took them to the dressing room. And that was perhaps one of the most humiliating experiences of all. Bright white fluorescent light. Floor to ceiling mirror. Bare white walls. And me wearing a skimpy nylon bathing suit. I suddenly felt a flood of empathy for all of the poor women who are forced to go through this ritual every year at the start of "bikini season." What they should have is velvet-draped walls, candles and a smoked-glass mirror surrounded by lots of plants so you can partially obscure your reflection. No one should have to go through that.

But then came the real test, wearing the suit in PUBLIC. Usually I am one of the first people in the pool so I can slip in undetected. Getting out of the pool is less of a problem because by the end of the workout I am all pumped up (or as pumped as I ever get) and too tired to care if anyone sees me. But that first few moments before getting in is the true test of my resolve. It's like I'm proclaiming to the world, "Yes, I am pale! Yes I am flabby! Yes, I am stuffed into a tiny garment that embarrassingly highlights my toothpick legs and my shapeless gut! Look upon me if you dare!"

Naturally, the first time I wore the new suit to the pool, I ended up sharing a lane with a slim and sexy young woman. In West Hollywood! I lived here for seven years and I've only seen about a half dozen women total. And let me tell you, it's not easy to suck in your gut while gracefully easing yourself into the water. What a body she had. I bet she didn't have to suffer through the humiliation of the full-length mirror and the bright fluorescent light.

On second thought, maybe she did.

The Coyote

On our journey through life, we may look for signs to tell us where we're headed. We may not find the signs we are hoping for. We may not find any signs at all. Or we may find a sign standing right in front of us in the middle of the road and not know what it means.

On New Years Day, I went back to Joshua Tree to further my exploration of both the Gram Parsons legend and the mystique of the Mojave desert. I had done some research on Gram following my last trip to Joshua Tree and learned there was one more place I had to see to get a more complete understanding of Gram and his legacy. So I booked a night in Room 8 at the Joshua Tree Inn.

Room 8 is the "Gram Parson's Room" at the Inn. It was the room Gram stayed in when he came to visit Joshua Tree and it is the room he was staying in when he died. It has become a bit of a shrine to Gram and a Mecca to his fans. When I mentioned it to my band, most of whom are big Gram Parson's fans as well as fellow songwriters, they all understood my plan. In fact, it is kind of a rite of passage among certain songwriters to write a song while staying in Room 8.

I had another plan in addition to visiting Room 8. I wanted to shoot some video for a song I wrote called "Somewhere in America". I am hoping to put together a music video for the song and put it up on the internet. I thought the unique and spectacular scenery of Joshua Tree would make an excellent backdrop for the song.

So I loaded up the car with my camera and tripod and my guitar and harmonicas and set out for the desert.

On the way out to Joshua Tree the highway cuts through the San Gorgonio Pass between Mt. San Jacinto on the south and the San Bernardino Mountains to the north. The ocean-driven winds blast through this pass on their way to the desert creating a gigantic wind tunnel. A wind farm covers the eastern slope of the pass with over 4000 windmills, each standing over 100 feet tall, that provide electricity for nearby Palm Springs.

I decided to get a shot of the windmills for my video so I pulled off the highway and set up my camera. Unfortunately, when I looked through the viewfinder, the image was distorted and discolored and looked terrible. I couldn't believe it, here I was in the middle of a wind farm hundreds of miles from the nearest electronics repair shop and now suddenly my camera goes on the fritz. I tried using the view screen on the side of the camera, but it was no better. I've always had a little trouble with the view screen, however, and I sometimes have to give it a little whack with the heel of my hand to get it to close properly. For some reason, this time when I whacked it, it started working again. At least long enough to for me to get my shot of the windmills.

I continued my journey to Joshua Tree and checked-in to the motel. The woman at the desk asked, "are you here for the Gram Parson's experience?" I said, "I guess I am."

Room 8 has been kept just the way it was when Gram stayed here, or pretty close anyway. There are pictures of Gram on the wall as well as some vintage concert posters -- including one for the infamous Rolling Stones Altamont show (where Gram appeared with his band The Flying Burrito Brothers.) The furniture and decor are all early seventies style and there is even a CD of Gram's songs in the CD player. There are also a couple of books for guests to look at. One contains news clippings and other reference material that tell the story of Gram's life and death. The other is a guestbook that is filled with names and messages from the thousands of fans that have stayed there over the years.

My first order of business was to shoot some video while I still had some daylight. I set up the camera and once again the picture was messed up. I tried gently whacking the side of the camera as before and that would fix it momentarily, but then it would go bad again. I was getting pretty frustrated, but I wasn't ready to give up yet. I tried squeezing the camera in the place where I had whacked it. Strangely that worked, too. But I couldn't squeeze the camera and be in the shot at the same time, so I tried wrapping the strap from the camera case around it. That didn't work at all. Finally I thought, maybe it just needs a really good whack. I looked around for something to hit it with and decided on a harmonica. It seemed like just about the right size and weight for the job. I gave it a sharp whack and sure enough, the viewfinder cleared up. I hit 'record', grabbed my guitar sat down in front of the Altamont poster and sang "Somewhere in America". Cool.

Next, I went to the liquor store to get some tequila, because no tribute to Gram is complete without a little of that. I stopped for dinner at the Crossroads cafe and headed back to the room. After a shot or two of tequila, I went outside to do a little exploring. Now, the weather in LA had been pretty mild, but up here in the Mojave it was quite a bit colder and the wind was blowing something fierce. I wandered out past the swimming pool to an old house that must have once been the owner's residence but is now overgrown with weeds and vines. I went through a broken gate and onto a dusty old road that led out into the desert. The moon was high and very bright and there were more stars than I'd ever seen. The night sky looked deep and immense but at the same time felt close and real. I stared up at the stars for several minutes until a strong gust of desert wind chilled me to the bone and I decided to head back.

As I went back through the broken gate I heard a rustling sound which I assumed was the wind. All of a sudden a pale white cat leapt out from the scrub and darted up the path in front of me. I know it's supposed to be bad luck if a black cat crosses your path, but what about a white one? Either way, he gave me quite a jolt.

Back in the room, I started looking through the book with the articles about Gram. There was a chapter copied from Marianne Faithfull's book describing a night she and Keith Richards and Gram went out wandering in the desert while on mescaline. At one point, they heard a lonely howling sound and Marianne got a little freaked out. Gram said, "it's all right darlin', just an old coyote."

I read through some of the messages left by the other guests that had stayed in Room 8. I was amazed at how many there were and where they had come from. The night before I was there, a couple had come from Liverpool. The night before that, a guy from Denmark. Before that, a girl from Arizona. They all had something to say to Gram and they all wanted to thank him for his music. I wasn't quite ready to add my comments yet. I still had a song to write.

I worked on the song for about an hour, thinking about all those people who had come to this place for the same reason and all looking for something. After I had about three verses, I decide to get the guitar and work out the chords. I sat at the desk, trying not to sing too loud since it was getting pretty late. The wind was whipping against the cinderblock walls and the little in-room space heater was creaking and groaning. Then I heard another sound. Scratching. At the back door. Scratch, scratch, scratch, then silence. A chill went up my spine. Then again: scratch, scratch -- scratch, scratch. The back door leads to a little walled-in courtyard. It was doubtful anyone would be back there. Unless it was a ghost. Unless it was Gram Parson's ghost!

At about that same moment, I remembered the cat. And almost immediately, I heard a soft 'meow' outside the door. Of course maybe the cat was Gram Parson's ghost. I'll never know, because by the time I got brave enough to go look, it, or he, was gone.

The next morning I copied my song into the guestbook and set out for Joshua Tree.

I spent the whole day singing bits and pieces of "Somewhere in America" into the video camera in front of various rock formations and mountains and stands of Joshua Trees. I had to whack the camera with my harmonica every damn time I turned it on. And every damn time, it worked.

At sundown I was sitting on a low wall overlooking the Coachella Valley and the San Jacinto Mountains. The sun was setting behind me as I tried to look into the camera and sing with icy cold forty-mile-an-hour winds whipping at my face. The camera was shaking on its tripod. What few other folks were up there must have thought I was nuts. I can't say I'd blame them.

As I drove back out of the park, the setting sun lent the evening sky an amazing purple hue. It was overwhelmingly beautiful. As the sky got darker, I saw a shape in the road, standing in the beam of my headlights. I stopped. It was a coyote. He just stood there looking back at me. Just the two of us surrounded by the empty desert and the purple sky. Finally, I honked and he trotted off.

As I headed home to LA, I thought about the coyote.

The coyote is sometimes known as the Trickster. He can appear to help us face the things we have been avoiding. We often trick ourselves by falling into traps of our own device. We think we are safe in those traps because they are familiar. But we are only fooling ourselves. When the coyote finds himself in a trap, he will chew off his own foot in order to be free again.

So what's the trap? How am I fooling myself? Is it this whole fantasy that I have allowed myself to indulge in, quitting my job, pretending to be an artist, tilting at windmills and running around the desert with a video camera making a movie that no one will ever see? Is that the trap?

Maybe.

Or is fear the trap? The last time I was in the desert I saw a jackrabbit. He teaches us about fear. When we are in fear, we dash to the safety of old familiar patterns. Six months ago I broke out of a familiar pattern which I had believed was safe, but was in fact preventing me from being free. I had to chew off my foot.

Now I have to face my fears and try not to fall into the same old traps.

Or maybe I am just fooling myself. It's not always easy to know how to read the signs.


Happy New Year.

Gibby

When I was a kid, I took trip once to state park in Kentucky with my Aunt June and Uncle Gibby. They were always fun to be around because they were so cool and interesting. They were young and hip and funny and had both spent time working as actors which made them way more exciting than ordinary people. And they were both deaf.

At some point during our trip I became aware that my aunt and uncle were upset about something, but I didn't understand what it was. Whenever they came to visit I always had to take a crash course in sign language, but I never really got very far. The best I could do was spell out words with my fingers. I picked up a few of the signs for words here and there, but couldn't keep up any kind of a conversation. Fortunately they could read lips fairly well and were very patient when it came to signing words slowly enough for me to understand. But when they started signing to each other, I was lost.

Eventually it was explained to me that they were upset that the state park had made no accommodations for deaf visitors and they weren't able to understand much of what our tourguide had been saying. There was no written information, very few signs or markers and certainly no simultaneous translation.

I remember feeling bad because I could not help them. I didn't know their language and I was unable to tell them what the guide was saying. I felt guilty. I also remember how mad my Uncle Gibby looked. He wasn't mad at me, of course. But he sure was mad at the folks who ran the state park. And he let them know it. He was very good at communicating, better than most hearing people.

I especially loved watching him communicate with my Dad. They were brothers and so my dad had grown up using sign language. It was always an amazing transformation to watch my normally taciturn father become this incredibly expressive, cheerfully animated chatterbox whenever Uncle Gibby was around. But Gibby seemed to bring that out in everyone. We all loved to talk to Gibby because he was so much fun to talk to. He always had something new to say or a new way to say something. He was interested in everything, and he made you interested in whatever he was talking about. He was a born teacher.

Years later, just after college when I was living with my parents and trying to figure out what to do with myself, Uncle Gibby came for a visit. He was in the area to give a guest lecture at Yale on "gestural communication." At the time I had no idea what that meant. I clumsily questioned him about it using my extremely rusty finger-spelling. He smiled and went to his portfolio and pulled out two pieces of posterboard cut out in the shape of 'thought balloons' like you see in comic strips. He held the first thought balloon up to his head. It had the word 'car' written on it. Gibby frowned and shook his head, 'no, that's not it...' He then held up the second thought balloon. This one had a photograph of a car pasted on it. Gibby's face brightened into a smile and he nodded, 'yes, that's it!' He held out both hands as if he were holding a steering wheel and mimed the act of driving. He then mouthed the word "car."

Suddenly I realized that after all these years I could finally speak his language. I laughed. Of course, "car" is not just a word, it's an idea. Communication isn't just about words and sentences, it's about getting your meaning across, however you can do it.

For the rest of that weekend, Gibby and I talked about anything and everything and it was a blast. We acted things out, used props, made faces, gestures, signs, anything we needed. We had long serious discussions, short exchanges, running jokes; we told stories, shared ideas, communicated... It was great.

At the end of his visit, as we were saying goodbye, Gibby signed something to me. He held his fingers to his chin and swept his arm forward and down to say "Thank you," then he formed the letter "C" with both hands and alternately raised them to his mouth, to say "(for) communicating."

I was so happy I almost cried. I gave him a big hug and thanked him too. I was so glad that he understood what I was trying to do and that he appreciated my attempt. And he knew how much it meant to me.

In that one short weekend, I felt like I was able to make a real connection with this man I had always loved but with whom I'd never had a "real" conversation. I will never forget that wonderful feeling of knowing that we understood each other.

What Gibby taught me during that visit has stayed with me and has opened my mind to a much greater understanding of the act and art of communication. Gibby spent his whole life teaching the world how to communicate better. And he never heard a single word. But he showed the rest of us how to hear and how to speak and how to listen and how to understand. Because he really did love to communicate. He loved to find out what others were thinking. He loved to figure out how to get people to understand things. He loved to learn and he loved to teach.

Those of us who knew him were extremely lucky. I feel like he is with me now and I want to make him proud. I am glad I had a chance to learn from him. I am deeply grateful that he was part of my life.

Thank you, Gibby, for communicating.


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