My first ever trip to California was to Laguna Beach in the summer of 1985. I stayed in a comfortable though seriously décor-dated condominium (of course I remember that detail) on the ocean side of the Coast Highway in an area known as South Laguna.
The townhome was just steps from the beach and I wasted no time making my way there for my first attempt at west coast bodysurfing. It was a semi-private beach, so it was sparsely populated and I couldn’t wait to get into the water. In a matter of minutes, the waves were bigger than anything I’d ever experienced and all of a sudden I was in the underwater midst of my first ever aquatic summersault. I swear I completed two full rotations before landing in the shallow water, hard on my tailbone, luckily uninjured but exhilarated beyond words. I was instantly hooked on the chilly water and waves of the Pacific. Back in the Northeast, that type of surf activity was usually an indication that foul weather, for instance a hurricane, was approaching.
During that week I frequented downtown Laguna, took a trip to look at Cal State Long Beach as a possible location for a return to school and discovered West Street beach, one of California’s most beautiful beaches with a large section of it frequented by crowds of gay men predominantly there on day trips from Los Angeles, a mere fifty miles and sometimes two hours to the north. I too became one of those Angelenos less than eight months after that first visit.
I can also remember the drive from Laguna to Newport Beach, where we now live, along the Pacific Coast Highway as it meandered it’s way northward through the Irvine Ranch lands: miles of rolling California hills and meadows that unfurled into the ocean along the beach at Crystal Cove State Park.
The first sign of trouble for this stretch of heaven arrived with the construction of Newport Coast Drive, a four-lane thoroughfare that sliced the land in half and opened in November of 1991. In spite of the political and legal wrangling that for lasted for years in an effort to save the land, the once pristine coastline is now dotted with McVillas as far as the eye can see. The hills are now terraced with large tract homes that show about as much individuality as a stadium full of tweens at a Hannah Montana concert. Granted, there are thousands of acres still intact of Crystal Cove State Park and the Laguna Coast Wilderness Park, but the new developments took up what looks to be about half of what had previously been an undeveloped stretch of shoreline along the inland side of the Coast Highway.
Personally, I don’t see the appeal of paying upwards of four million dollars for a 4,000 square foot stucco and flagstone monster when it’s placed directly next door to and amongst what seems to be thousands of similar homes, nearly identical in fact, with their turrets, cupolas and tile roofs. I guess there’s some uniqueness in that perhaps the “home of your dreams” might boast as its color a cool Portofino white while your neighbor’s castello dell’oceano on one side is awash in a Tuscan Sunset tint. On the other side of you, they live in a world of Giotto-inspired murals appliquéd over their Sienna-cotta walls. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if one out of ten or twenty houses was built in this Mediterranean-Italianate-Spanish style, but no, they all are. Each and every one and by the way, if this writing thing doesn’t work out, I may have a future naming paint colors for Benjamin Moore.
Our home is a modest townhouse located in one of Newport Beach’s oldest developments, the Bluffs. The neighborhood is conveniently located in an equidistant position between the Pacific Ocean and the 73, 55 and 405 Freeways (remember, this is Southern California we’re talking about). The Bluff’s hover above the cliffs that overlook the south side of the Upper Newport Bay, which has been a dedicated ecological reserve since it’s protectors won a decade long battle against developers in 1975 (sometimes the good guys do win, especially when the Irvine family’s not involved). The homes in our neighborhood were all built in the 1970s and by Newport Beach standards, are of modest means. Most of the units are under 2000 square feet and most feature patios that back up to either greenbelts or the backs of other units or, for the pricier homes along the perimeter of the development that hug the cliffs, beautiful views of the Upper Bay.
The kicker to me is that these homes in our area list for sale from the mid-$700k’s for units in need of work to nearly a million-plus for those that have been nicely remodeled. For the record, we’re renting a unit that was updated with inexpensive vinyl windows and vinyl bathroom tiles but at least has a nicely updated kitchen, layout and walnut floors and our landlords recently paid just over $900k for the privilege of leasing it to us. This might explain the presence in the area of so many families with school-aged kids as that’s the cheapest price in the whole city that I guess you can pay to get your offspring into Newport schools. I’d imagine too that there are parents here that rent like us but no doubt their kids are sworn to secrecy. I can sympathize as I sometimes find myself needlessly adding when asked if we own our unit that although we don’t, we’re trying to unload a condominium that we do own in San Francisco, you know, one of America’s most expensive cities, and that we also have a vacation home out in the desert in dignified Rancho Mirage and not party-town Palm Springs. Less than two months here and I’m already showing signs of an affluenza infection. Thankfully, I’ve got an ample supply of the antidote at home: Fred.
I sort of feel sad for these kids who have patios instead of yards and who live intermittently amongst retirees and displaced gay guys. I’d think that if I were a parent I’d be plenty satisfied with one of the myriad of inland communities in Orange County that boast Reality TV-worthy schools, a decent yard and ample square feet for the same money that gets you a seventies-style condominium townhouse where we live . I wonder too if at nearby Corona del Mar High School (go Sea Kings! go Sea Queens!) if there’s any socio-economic separation as a result of the disparity between the kids who live in the high six-figure condos “around here” and those who live in the low-to-mid seven digit houses “over there” and if those six-figure daughters who have even ever heard it, empathize with the Johnny Rivers song.
Next week: WWJD- What Would Jesus Drive?
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Orange County Gym Etiquette? Forget-iquette.
Yes, I admit it, I'm a bit of a gym rat. A gym bunny. A gymster. Call it what you will. I like to work out and at my age, one has to work a little harder to prevent body parts from their southward advance. Keep in mind, crow’s feet don’t just appear around the eyes. I can think of one place in particular on men approaching middle-age where they’re as pronounced and perhaps run deeper as whenever we sit, we’re applying even more pressure on them.
I don‘t think, though, that I obsess about my gym habit. In fact, the first thing I typically think about upon arrival is how much more have I got to do before I can leave? An hour-and-fifteen minutes is the most time I’m willing to spend at the gym and I do a very good job of sticking to that.
In San Francisco, I got my gym fix at a terrific facility. Gold's Gym on Brannan Street. My guess would be that it's about 20,000 square feet in size and the equipment is state-of-the-art and exceptionally maintained. The staff is, for the most part, friendly, approachable, but alas, that Gold’s has some lesser qualities, too. One negative is the music in the mornings. I like to call it "K-GYM, Music at the Gym Everyone Can Agree On!” Imagine motivating yourself to exercise while listening to Sarah McLachlan or Wilson Phillips.
Other drawbacks there included the crowds at Happy Hour , the lack of any real discernible ventilation during peak summer heat and the silliness of Saturday mornings, as the gay social set clustered around equipment catching up on the week past and making plans for the night ahead . But, all told, for $45 monthly, it's a great deal at a great gym. (Note to Gold's Gym Management: yes, I'd love an all-franchise, complimentary membership in recognition of the product placement here. Please make it for two.)
Now, take roughly the same amount of money, a little less actually, and move it down here to Orange County and here’s what you get. 24-Hour Fitness at Fashion Island. Even the name sounds off.
"So, tell me. Where do you workout?"
"Fashion Island."
Names and locations aside, it's what's inside that's the downer. It might be all of 5,000 square feet and it’s in need of a thorough cleaning. The space is predominantly taken up by the ample aerobics room and the cardio equipment area which leaves just enough space for a much-to-be-desired free-weight room, stretching area and some of the most antiquated Nautilus equipment I've ever seen. It’s like members should be required to sport a braided pastel headband with matching leggings and hum the tune to Olivia Newton-John's 1981 camp pop hit "Let's Get Physical” to fit in.
Before signing up, I did do a Google search for Newport Beach gyms where I received a list of facilities nearest to our new home. In addition to the nearby 24-Hour Fitness were the requisites; Curves, more 24-Hour Fitness locations as well as the very exclusive Sports Club LA and Equinox, both charging somewhere in the neighborhood of $500 down along with monthly membership fees of about $150. Yikes.
If one is committed to exercising routinely, just about any facility can be adequate. You just have to tailor your time as effectively as you can and try your best to get used to what’s missing and make do with what’s there.
The other O.C. gym drawback has nothing to do with the cost or the facility. It’s the other people that are working out at the same time you are and the habits they possess. At Gold’s everyone puts everything away, every time. Perhaps it’s because the majority of the members are gay; and imagine then a gym floor filled with well muscled Felix Unger’s fastidiously making sure everything’s in its place. If someone were to leave a weight plate behind on a piece of machinery, then those same men would stop and sniff out the violator like a group of meerkats sensing a looming predator. Okay, that’s a little extreme, but it’s not far off.
The gyms I’ve visited in the O.C. are the antithesis of the San Francisco experience and I think I may have a reasonable explanation as to why and it boils down to entitlement. Many socially and fiscally conservative people think that the American poor believe that they are entitled to government assistance programs and no matter whether that is right or wrong it’s not very different from the sense of entitlement that many (of course, not all) Orange County coastal dwellers possess. The difference, of course, is that here that feeling of privilege stems from the fact that people here can afford pretty much whatever they want, so whether it’s a $1,000 a week Nanny or a gym membership, the idea is that if there’s a monetary transaction involved, then you can rightfully expect to have someone else pick up after you.
Simplistic? Perhaps, but I’ve seen it firsthand and it makes me wonder if I need to be a little less Felix Unger and a little more Oscar Madison in a Mercedes SL500 convertible. I’m not keen on drawing too much attention to myself here, so I won’t overdo the Felix and I’m certainly not in a position to start pulling up to the gym in a German convertible.
So in the meantime, my plan is to just do my thing, which includes wearing my favorite (pardon the term) “wife-beater tank-tops” to the gym in spite of the fact that men in tank-tops here seem to be suspect. I’ll also continue to pick up after myself and mutter under my breath and sometimes over it when confronted with a bench press left behind by my predecessor with plates loaded up on both sides of the bar.
Like the signs at Gold’s proclaim: “If you can lift it, you can put it away.”
Next week: “ Welcome Back Baby, to the Poor Side of Town”
I don‘t think, though, that I obsess about my gym habit. In fact, the first thing I typically think about upon arrival is how much more have I got to do before I can leave? An hour-and-fifteen minutes is the most time I’m willing to spend at the gym and I do a very good job of sticking to that.
In San Francisco, I got my gym fix at a terrific facility. Gold's Gym on Brannan Street. My guess would be that it's about 20,000 square feet in size and the equipment is state-of-the-art and exceptionally maintained. The staff is, for the most part, friendly, approachable, but alas, that Gold’s has some lesser qualities, too. One negative is the music in the mornings. I like to call it "K-GYM, Music at the Gym Everyone Can Agree On!” Imagine motivating yourself to exercise while listening to Sarah McLachlan or Wilson Phillips.
Other drawbacks there included the crowds at Happy Hour , the lack of any real discernible ventilation during peak summer heat and the silliness of Saturday mornings, as the gay social set clustered around equipment catching up on the week past and making plans for the night ahead . But, all told, for $45 monthly, it's a great deal at a great gym. (Note to Gold's Gym Management: yes, I'd love an all-franchise, complimentary membership in recognition of the product placement here. Please make it for two.)
Now, take roughly the same amount of money, a little less actually, and move it down here to Orange County and here’s what you get. 24-Hour Fitness at Fashion Island. Even the name sounds off.
"So, tell me. Where do you workout?"
"Fashion Island."
Names and locations aside, it's what's inside that's the downer. It might be all of 5,000 square feet and it’s in need of a thorough cleaning. The space is predominantly taken up by the ample aerobics room and the cardio equipment area which leaves just enough space for a much-to-be-desired free-weight room, stretching area and some of the most antiquated Nautilus equipment I've ever seen. It’s like members should be required to sport a braided pastel headband with matching leggings and hum the tune to Olivia Newton-John's 1981 camp pop hit "Let's Get Physical” to fit in.
Before signing up, I did do a Google search for Newport Beach gyms where I received a list of facilities nearest to our new home. In addition to the nearby 24-Hour Fitness were the requisites; Curves, more 24-Hour Fitness locations as well as the very exclusive Sports Club LA and Equinox, both charging somewhere in the neighborhood of $500 down along with monthly membership fees of about $150. Yikes.
If one is committed to exercising routinely, just about any facility can be adequate. You just have to tailor your time as effectively as you can and try your best to get used to what’s missing and make do with what’s there.
The other O.C. gym drawback has nothing to do with the cost or the facility. It’s the other people that are working out at the same time you are and the habits they possess. At Gold’s everyone puts everything away, every time. Perhaps it’s because the majority of the members are gay; and imagine then a gym floor filled with well muscled Felix Unger’s fastidiously making sure everything’s in its place. If someone were to leave a weight plate behind on a piece of machinery, then those same men would stop and sniff out the violator like a group of meerkats sensing a looming predator. Okay, that’s a little extreme, but it’s not far off.
The gyms I’ve visited in the O.C. are the antithesis of the San Francisco experience and I think I may have a reasonable explanation as to why and it boils down to entitlement. Many socially and fiscally conservative people think that the American poor believe that they are entitled to government assistance programs and no matter whether that is right or wrong it’s not very different from the sense of entitlement that many (of course, not all) Orange County coastal dwellers possess. The difference, of course, is that here that feeling of privilege stems from the fact that people here can afford pretty much whatever they want, so whether it’s a $1,000 a week Nanny or a gym membership, the idea is that if there’s a monetary transaction involved, then you can rightfully expect to have someone else pick up after you.
Simplistic? Perhaps, but I’ve seen it firsthand and it makes me wonder if I need to be a little less Felix Unger and a little more Oscar Madison in a Mercedes SL500 convertible. I’m not keen on drawing too much attention to myself here, so I won’t overdo the Felix and I’m certainly not in a position to start pulling up to the gym in a German convertible.
So in the meantime, my plan is to just do my thing, which includes wearing my favorite (pardon the term) “wife-beater tank-tops” to the gym in spite of the fact that men in tank-tops here seem to be suspect. I’ll also continue to pick up after myself and mutter under my breath and sometimes over it when confronted with a bench press left behind by my predecessor with plates loaded up on both sides of the bar.
Like the signs at Gold’s proclaim: “If you can lift it, you can put it away.”
Next week: “ Welcome Back Baby, to the Poor Side of Town”
Friday, August 1, 2008
How, but more importantly, why?
So, just how does a same-sex couple from San Francisco, America’s “Sanctuary City” in so many ways, end up here in the county that chose George Bush over John Kerry in 2004 by 59% to 40%? Here’s how: my partner of nearly fifteen years, Fred, was transferred from his position in San Francisco with a large boutique hotel company (California’s largest) this past April. It's no secret to anyone who knows him that he's a Southern Californian at heart, even though he's a native Long Islander and has lived in D.C., Atlanta, Orange County, Dallas, San Francisco and now, Orange County again.
I entered his life in February of 1994 at the tail end of his first O.C. habitation. I had lived in Southern California for several years, in L.A., but by the early ‘90s was ready for a change and after a few weekend trips to San Francisco, I knew it’s where I wanted to be. After living there for a little more than a year, I met Fred during one of his business trips there, and, at risk of perpetuating a cliché, our chance meeting took place at a gym. After finally getting Fred to talk to me on the street outside of the gym as we both departed, we chatted on the corner of Grove and Hayes Streets for a while. He then invited me to join him as he was on his way to have dinner with a former co-worker at the venerable Zuni Café. As it turned out, his friend and I shared a mutual acquaintance so we vaguely knew one another. During dinner, Fred’s friend spoke at length about someone in Southern California that he thought would be a perfect match for Fred. As he extolled his virtues, Fred would embarrassingly look across the table at me. Ultimately, it was explained that we’d just met and that I was essentially crashing their dinner plans. Awkward to say the least, but the rest, is history.
We spent the rest of the year flying up and down the coast alternately to see one another, but by Thanksgiving of that year, Fred got the news that he was to be transferred to Dallas at the first of the New Year. He asked me to go with him and in gay terms, it was the moment our relationship became official. We arrived in Dallas on a cold, rainy January Saturday in 1995 and by Monday we were plotting our return back west. Intentions aside, we ended up spending three years in the Big D before being transferred on to Austin. Our California homecoming finally came when Fred returned in the spring of 1999 to accept a position with his current employer. I followed at the end of that same year as I couldn’t go back with him right away. I was then enrolled at the University of Texas and was preparing for my December graduation. Within two days of my commencement I was on the road and on my way out of Texas for good, completing the drive to San Francisco in a brisk twenty hours. The Lone Star State insisted on giving me a going away gift during my journey as I approached the New Mexico border: a speeding ticket just about an hour outside of El Paso. I guess it was their way of saying, “The feeling’s mutual.”
I always figured that if and when we were able to go back west and knowing Fred’s preference for Southern California, that’s where we would wind up. His pickle with where I lived when we first met was the weather and he’ll never forget (or stop mentioning) that July 4th in the city when he needed his winter coat. I've personally always preferred the Bay Area to L.A., but since any relocation back would likely be the result of Fred's work, it was only fitting that we go wherever his career took us. In other words, the breadwinner gets to pick. Much to my surprise and welcome, the position was in San Francisco. So, if you're still with me that brings us full circle to where we are now: Newport Beach, or as I've long heard it referred to: New-Porsche Beach. Truer words were never spoken and we’re here because his company is in the midst of a major expansion beyond the Bay Area, primarily in Los Angeles and Orange Counties and for me to complain would be selfish. After nearly nine years in my element, it’s Fred’s turn.
Next week: Orange County gym etiquette? Forget-iquette.
I entered his life in February of 1994 at the tail end of his first O.C. habitation. I had lived in Southern California for several years, in L.A., but by the early ‘90s was ready for a change and after a few weekend trips to San Francisco, I knew it’s where I wanted to be. After living there for a little more than a year, I met Fred during one of his business trips there, and, at risk of perpetuating a cliché, our chance meeting took place at a gym. After finally getting Fred to talk to me on the street outside of the gym as we both departed, we chatted on the corner of Grove and Hayes Streets for a while. He then invited me to join him as he was on his way to have dinner with a former co-worker at the venerable Zuni Café. As it turned out, his friend and I shared a mutual acquaintance so we vaguely knew one another. During dinner, Fred’s friend spoke at length about someone in Southern California that he thought would be a perfect match for Fred. As he extolled his virtues, Fred would embarrassingly look across the table at me. Ultimately, it was explained that we’d just met and that I was essentially crashing their dinner plans. Awkward to say the least, but the rest, is history.
We spent the rest of the year flying up and down the coast alternately to see one another, but by Thanksgiving of that year, Fred got the news that he was to be transferred to Dallas at the first of the New Year. He asked me to go with him and in gay terms, it was the moment our relationship became official. We arrived in Dallas on a cold, rainy January Saturday in 1995 and by Monday we were plotting our return back west. Intentions aside, we ended up spending three years in the Big D before being transferred on to Austin. Our California homecoming finally came when Fred returned in the spring of 1999 to accept a position with his current employer. I followed at the end of that same year as I couldn’t go back with him right away. I was then enrolled at the University of Texas and was preparing for my December graduation. Within two days of my commencement I was on the road and on my way out of Texas for good, completing the drive to San Francisco in a brisk twenty hours. The Lone Star State insisted on giving me a going away gift during my journey as I approached the New Mexico border: a speeding ticket just about an hour outside of El Paso. I guess it was their way of saying, “The feeling’s mutual.”
I always figured that if and when we were able to go back west and knowing Fred’s preference for Southern California, that’s where we would wind up. His pickle with where I lived when we first met was the weather and he’ll never forget (or stop mentioning) that July 4th in the city when he needed his winter coat. I've personally always preferred the Bay Area to L.A., but since any relocation back would likely be the result of Fred's work, it was only fitting that we go wherever his career took us. In other words, the breadwinner gets to pick. Much to my surprise and welcome, the position was in San Francisco. So, if you're still with me that brings us full circle to where we are now: Newport Beach, or as I've long heard it referred to: New-Porsche Beach. Truer words were never spoken and we’re here because his company is in the midst of a major expansion beyond the Bay Area, primarily in Los Angeles and Orange Counties and for me to complain would be selfish. After nearly nine years in my element, it’s Fred’s turn.
Next week: Orange County gym etiquette? Forget-iquette.
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