Nadya & Me

When our yellow lab Greta died from bone cancer in April of 2007, Fred and I agreed that we’d wait before getting another dog. The months leading up to her death were definitely very trying on us both. The day she was put down was especially hard as I cried like never before and through the whole weekend. The home care vet was a wonderfully compassionate man and he even made the sign of the cross as he stood over her before administering the lethal barbiturate and phenobarbitol doses. He stood patiently and empathetically as I lay on the rug with her, holding her as I looked into her lifeless eyes. Just think of M’Lynn draped over Shelby’s casket in Steel Magnolias if you need a visual reference.

In comparison, I loved my father tremendously, but when he passed away a decade earlier I can’t say that I ever broke down as I did with Greta that afternoon. Later that same evening we made the mistake of thinking a trip to a nice restaurant would help ease our sorrows, but after a while I got the feeling our server thought that Fred was breaking up with me over dinner as I used my napkin to blot dry the sporadic wells of tears in my eyes.

I had always thought that when the time came for us to say our goodbyes to her, that it would be Fred and not I that would become an emotional wreck. Our previous history with a deceased pet would have indicated as such, for when our cat died in Texas, Fred was a basket case at the vet’s office. As she lay still on the examination table, the veterinarian put his arm around Fred to console him and he actually offered to write him a prescription for Valium, which I didn’t realize an animal doctor could do. I was surprised by how emotional he became over a cat that didn’t do anything other than eat, shit and sleep during the three years she was ours. She had been living under the back porch of the house we had bought in Dallas and she was a declawed, beautiful long-haired and elderly Calico, so she had at one time been someone's indoor pet and I did love her, but apparently not as much as Fred.

It’s been nearly two years now since Greta died and I’ve decided that we’ve waited long enough. (Notice my use of subjective personal pronouns in the second half of the preceeding sentence.) As well, it’s not like I sat up in bed one morning and proclaimed, “I’m ready for another dog.” I began thinking about it when we moved here to Orange County and the owner of the townhouse we ended up renting at first said “okay” to a dog. Then, after the deal had been reached, she changed her mind. I always thought of her as a sneaky be-yotch for doing that, but as luck would have it, when I gave our moving notice to the agent who manages her real estate investments and who lives around the corner, I mentioned that we still were hoping to adopt a lab. She told me that she had a lab, too, and to go ahead and to pretend like we’d never had the conversation. I think she knew after our having lived here for several months that what I had insinuated in conversations during the lease negotiations was true: gay guys over forty make great tenants. We’re really mindful of property and are likely to leave a rental unit in better condition than when we took possession, dog or no dog.

That was almost a month ago and in spite of being registered with four different Labrador Retriever rescue organizations, we’ve not found our girl. My better self says we should just adopt a mixed-breed from a local shelter but I can’t let go of the idea of replacing our yellow lab with a chocolate lab and that someday, dog number two will definitely be a mutt saved from a high-kill shelter. That said, kill-shelters are often where breed-specific rescues find many of the dogs that they work to re-home.

Buying a puppy is out of the question, too, as it should be for anyone considering a new dog. Breeding is a nasty business and for every reputable breeder there are far too many unregulated backyard breeders. Worse yet are the despicable puppy mills found throughout the nation and especially in the states commonly referred to as the "Puppy Mill States": Missouri, Nebraska, Kansas, Iowa, Arkansas, Oklahoma and Pennsylvania. It's been reported that for every semi-healthy dog that comes from a puppy mill, as many as two to three do not survive the substandard and illegal conditions too often encountered by government agencies and animal rights organizations.

In 1996, when we telephoned the Dallas-Fort Worth Lab Rescue to inquire about adopting a “small for the breed” yellow female, the woman on the other end proclaimed, “Oh, I’ve got the perfect girl for you.” So the next day, off to Irving we went and when we laid eyes upon her, it was love at first sight in spite of the fact that she was the biggest female lab I’d ever seen. So, I promised Fred that the new dog would be more typical in size.

Nowadays, adopting through a rescue requires more than a phone call or an email. Applicants are screened fairly well and no dog is released to a home without a prior visit from a representative from the rescue organization. Once vetted, you’re waitlisted for the gender and color of preference and then it’s a waiting game. It should be said that there is no shortage of young and adult labs in need of second chances. The current foreclosure crisis has resulted in an alarming swell of dogs (and cats) at local shelters and the recent, successful movie Marley & Me is sure to add to the problem when in several months, all those families that rushed out to get their own Marley turn them over after discovering how much time and dedication are required to raise and care for any dog, let alone a Labrador Retriever puppy.

I should also add that the most common breeds I’ve seen on shelter websites by far are American Pit Bull Terriers and Chihuahuas. I’m not well versed enough to enter the fray over whether the aggression of Pit Bulls is entirely the result of nature or nurture. As for the Chihuahua’s, I believe their overabundance at shelters is a direct result of the popularity of films like Legally Blonde and it’s Chihuahua co-star and the trend in recent years of fashionistas parading toy-size dogs as accessories.

For just about every night over the last two weeks, upon Fred’s arrival home, I’d open my laptop to show him the photos of the labs I’d seen online that day. Black ones, yellow ones and even a chocolate or two that was either too big or too young for our consideration. But just the other night after presenting him with another potential dog, Fred looked at me earnestly and told me that I was, “as bad as Nadya Suleman”, the bizarre Angelina Jolie-wannabe who's now more commonly known as "octo-mom". Fred’s comparison wasn’t that far off as his fear rested not in my being implanted with a half-dozen chocolate lab embryos, but that by having completed the pre-adoption process with four different rescue groups that he’d come home one night to find several brown-nosed dogs clamoring about as a result of a successful, multiple adoption.

I closed my laptop and chewed on his remark for a while and is often the case with Fred, he was right, though he is still routinely incorrect about driving directions, song lyrics and celebrity sightings (all fortes of mine, the latter two being essentially useless).

I’ve decided to take some of the advice I repeatedly gave a dear friend years ago during his then relentless search for true-love that resulted in two consecutive relationships with clinically diagnosed mentally-ill men followed by cohabitation with a character who was later discovered to be hiding a long rap sheet: the right one will come along when you least expect it and allow it to happen and especially after you’ve stopped your demonic quest for it.

I see now that the same holds true for anyone seeking to adopt a female chocolate Labrador Retriever.

On a Clear Day

When Fred and I pulled into Dallas on the first Saturday of 1995, we stopped to refuel at a gas station in the city. Our first close encounter with a Texan was with a statuesque woman filling up her Bavarian-made sedan while dressed in pressed jeans, kick-ass cowboy boots and a full length fur-coat. I thought to myself, “I’ve got some shopping to do.” But by Monday we were plotting our return to California.

It would not be wrong to say that we didn’t take to the Big D. That January weekend came replete with freezing rain and bitter cold along with the chilly awareness of starting over in an unfamiliar place. Even the common things, like language, felt alien in the land of drawl, but hindsight is a funny thing. Now, when we look back upon those years spent in Texas, our memories are unexpectedly fond. Within just a few months there, we bought a wonderful old brick Tudor home in the city’s M-Streets neighborhood and soon thereafter we furnished it with our Yellow Lab, Greta and the elderly cat that had been living under the back porch, Butterscotch (Fred gets sole credit for that name). It was an ideal location, central to everything including downtown, the hip and funky Lower Greenville area, the fashionable Knox-Henderson shopping district as well as the Oak Lawn section, the hub of all things gay in Dallas.

What we failed to see then, but have recognized long since leaving was that we spent too much of our time focusing on the perceived negatives: the weather and that first hot summer with its forty consecutive days of 100-plus degree temperatures, the pain-in-the-ass that eight pecan trees in your backyard really is along with the persistent corrections from the natives that it’s peh-cahn and not pee-can. There were the ubiquitous conservative politics and all those Cowboys fans and the fact that we were living over a thousand miles in either direction from a legitimate ocean. Neither of us had ever imagined that we would live anywhere other than along the Pacific or Atlantic coasts.

When news of the looming transfer to Dallas first arrived over Thanksgiving weekend of 1994, we knew that with Fred’s sons in high school and with college on the near horizon, it wasn’t the right time for Fred to ditch an established career for the unknown. So, we packed up our left coast lives and departed with a fair amount of apprehension for the nation's geographic southern center and a landscape that we presumed would lean far to the right.

We soon learned that our fears were, for the most part, unfounded. Dallas quickly revealed itself to be an oasis of tolerance in the vast desert of the evangelical orthodoxy that defines most of Texas and the South. Besides, where else but Dallas could you find a gay country and western bar called the Round Up? Fred and I stood there half- bemused and half-freaked out upon seeing for the first time, a dance floor, nearly as big as a basketball court, crowded with same-sex couples, and a smattering of straight ones, dancing the two-step. We gave up after a few attempts at the necessary synchronization, but we kept our cowboy boots until recently.

In spite of the presence here of nationally recognized evangelical churches like Robert Schuyler’s Crystal Cathedral or Rick Warren’s modish Saddleback Church, the O.C’s variety of conservatism tends to be a bit more in the Goldwater vein as opposed to the biblical brand that’s predominant back in Texas. Dig deep enough and you’ll still uncover plenty of social conservatives in this area. For proof, log onto the letters to the editor page on the Orange County Register website on any given day and peruse the correspondences from the locals. I especially enjoy the ones that don’t think it’s a problem for a Vice Presidential nominee to demonstrate abject cluelessness while twice proclaiming incorrectly that the V.P. presides over the Senate. Just as enthralling are those who write to warn of the slippery slope towards men marrying trees or incestuous matrimony if same-sex marriage is allowed to continue in California.

On a brighter note, we had our first rain of the season yesterday morning and by early afternoon the small storm had passed and we were left with a gorgeous Southern California day. While driving along the Pacific Coast Highway, the clarity with which we could see Santa Catalina Island, 22 miles off-shore, was amazing. The ability to distinguish the precise shape of the island and the vibrancy of its vegetation is typically reserved here for the crystalline days of winter, so this was an early treat.

It also served as a reminder of what is truly wonderful about living here in Southern California. In two words: weather and scenery. It also made me acutely aware of how much I’m in danger of doing the same thing here that I did in Texas; not appreciating where I am until I’m somewhere else.

So, with those good thoughts in my head, I settled into my seat for the remainder of the ride home, letting my eyes take me further up north along the highway to the equally impressive views that are the Palos Verde peninsula and Saddleback Mountain once we turned eastward. In a matter of minutes we were in Newport Beach and as we approached our back bay neighborhood, I could see, planted in the median divider, a dozen strategically placed “Yes on 8” street signs. Nothing can kill a buzz like the realization that there’s a lot of people, likely a majority, in this area who seek to eliminate the newly granted right of same-sex couples to wed via the Mormon Church-sponsored ballot initiative known here as Proposition 8.

Fortunately, it’s slightly behind in the polls, but no matter what the outcome is, we’ll still be here and since winter and its cleansing rains aren’t far off, there’ll be more clear days to come.

Clearing the Bar

When Fred lived just outside of Laguna Beach during the very early 1990s it was somewhat of a different city than it is today. For much of its history, it was known as a welcoming destination for serious artists and embodied, as towns with strong ties to the arts do, a reputation for its embrace of the bohemian, which means in part, there were gay people there.

As Southern California ballooned with development throughout the 20th century, and especially during the second half of it, so too grew the rural areas that border Laguna Beach and what was once a somewhat isolated beach town is now surrounded by the Orange County Suburban Sprawl Machine.

Even in its heyday, Laguna Beach, as a gay destination, never really measured up in terms of population density to nearby Palm Springs or Fort Lauderdale and Provincetown on the east coast. This is true in spite of the fact that it’s home to one of California’s most beautiful beaches, primarily gay West St. beach. It doesn’t seem all that long ago when there were a half-dozen or so gay restaurants and bars that dotted the commercial stretch of the Pacific Coast Highway in town. Today, only one little pub remains.

A plausible explanation for the mini-exodus of gay people from Laguna is quite possibly the result of a real estate market that skyrocketed beginning in the mid-1990s. Laguna Beach will likely not be immune to the steps backward that have cursed (or blessed, depending on your perspective) home values throughout California and the nation. Simply put, most of the younger gay population couldn’t afford to live in Laguna any longer during the boom.

What’s left in terms of a gay population in Laguna rests primarily with those who came long ago, bought homes, stayed and quadrupled their housing investments and now find themselves sitting on a cushy retirement nest egg. These queer-men’s quagmire is that the only way to tap into that money is to sell (if you can), cash out and then leave.

As well, we’ve found that the proverbial gay radar doesn’t get a lot of work down here since there’s no longer as many of us around. It's not to suggest that there aren't any new arrivals, it's just that many of those moving to the O.C. seem to have the ability to assimilate extremely well as they’re typically a little more conservative in manner and have often and unknowingly succumbed to the Tommy Bahama sense of style that pervades the male half of the landscape here. Nobody’s gay radar is potent enough to penetrate through that.

When the radar does get a little work it springs up like a car’s gas gauge when it’s filled from empty. That little needle darts to the “F” for full in a panic and it’s not unlike my gay radar whenever I encounter one of us in an unexpected place.

For instance, not too long ago, two O.C. blonde boys (and easily discernible former brunettes) were approaching us in our car from the opposite direction in a very swanky Mercedes convertible. We could sense them from several hundred feet away, as they likely could us, and when we passed one another we all couldn’t help but stare. It wasn’t a case of adulation; we were all just so surprised to see our own kind in the neighborhood. It was the equivalent of running into someone from your hometown at the airport in a far-away place, like Paraguay.

There shouldn’t be any doubt that gay radar works best between, well, gay people. Some heterosexuals are fortunate enough to have a milder version, typically acquired through close friendships with gay guys. If you’re around one of us long enough in public, you’ll slowly develop the ability to spot those of us who are adept at blending in. When a straight friend points out that there’s an obviously gay guy checking out fragrances at Saks in patent leather D&G sandals and a lace-patterned, French-cuffed and untucked white dress shirt, their emerging radar actually loses some of its acuity.

Here’s another case in point regarding the lack of gay radar in heterosexuals. Recently, after Fred and I had seen the movie The Dark Knight, we were both in serious need of a recuperative vodka-based beverage. (On a morbid aside, anyone who thinks that Heath Ledger’s sad and untimely death was accidental is naïve as that performance in that role could have sucked the life out of even the most stable and grounded among us.) So, we decided to try and have dinner at a local and upscale popular eatery in an effort to cheer up.

Fred and I walked in to the handsome bar and lounge area and took the last two remaining bar seats as opposed to waiting for a table. We settled in for a cocktail followed by dinner and a glass of wine, which is sort of a dining ritual for us and I was actually quite impressed by the fact that their wines-by-the-glass list contained over thirty selections. Someone is paying attention to the beverage program there. We noticed right away that everyone at the bar was attractive in that Knot's Landing Southern California way and they were a lively bunch, too. The conversations were happening across the different groups seated at the bar and eventually an affluent middle-aged couple and a single, handsome gentleman in his fifties with a Rolex the size of a drink coaster began to broach conversation on my side. The two men were reveling in the apparent college football blowout of Ohio State at the hands of the locally beloved Trojans of USC that was playing on the big flat panel T.V. above us. I chimed in that I thought that the looming lopsided victory was to be somewhat expected considering that the Buckeye’s star running back was out for the season. They agreed and I thought I was surely about to be asked if I golf, so I turned my attention back to my drink.

Seated next to Fred when we arrived was a very attractive young blonde woman, perhaps in her thirties who was naturally in some parts and unnaturally in others, a knock-out.

While she waited for an equally lovely and physically equipped raven-haired lady friend to arrive she initiated a conversation with Fred regarding her red wine which somehow prompted Fred to inquire about the brace that covered her hand and forearm. She explained that she had taken a spill on her motorcycle but that it wasn’t a big deal and they chatted for a few minutes up to the point where single young women at bars work in an investigative glance at the ring fingers of their new acquaintance. Though nothing adorns Fred’s traditional wedding ring finger, his right hand index finger has sported a white-gold and platinum “commitment ring” for almost fifteen years and since my right hand made its way to and from the bar as I ate and drank, my matching ring eliminated any possibility of gold banded ambiguity.

The first clue for the group to my left was my taking Fred’s soup spoon from him and helping myself to a taste of his crab chowder. Rolexman and the couple to his left zeroed in on that. In their defense they didn’t squirm or giggle or raise their eyebrows. They just became really quiet and the next words they each uttered were to the bartender: check please.

As for the young ladies, they made their way into the crowd in search of men with a little more x-chromosome and a little less y.

According to Fred I’m just a wee bit paranoid in situations like that, and he could very well be right, but I still suspect that in the matter of a half hour, we were the reason that the bar on our end had been cleared of all but two customers and, in some ways, it's a great metaphor for what it feels like to live here. We're not exactly welcome, but nor are we unwelcome. It's sort of like limbo, or like the military's "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy except they don't kick you out. They just pay their tab and leave.

Of Cats and Coyotes

We’ve had our housecat, Gigi, a brown and white tabby for over six years and, like most cats, everything as it relates to our relationship is essentially on her terms. Unlike our Yellow Lab Greta, who passed away last year and who’s every breath revolved around food, attention from us and more food, Gigi is like a self-employed independent contractor. When she’s in the mood for a little affection, she’ll let you know. When she’s not, she’ll reluctantly sit there in your lap with her ears angled back and her eyes pursed with impatience as she waits for you to pause long enough for her to spring up and away.

Back in San Francisco, she was essentially an indoor cat. During our four years on Harrison Street, she had access to our roomy patio that was separated by a sheet metal fence from our neighbor’s, who had converted his outdoor space into a veritable mini-jungle with potted palms, bamboo trees, bromeliads and more. Gigi could spend all day over there playing her little game of rain forest panther. Once we moved to Union Square, her only outside access was reduced to a Juliette terrace off of the living room that measured perhaps forty square feet with two potted plants on either end that served as the flora to Gigi’s fauna.

That all changed upon arrival here in Newport Beach. Our townhouse has an enormous back patio that runs the entire width of the unit and beyond and overlooks one of the many greenbelts that run between the clusters of homes.

For the first time in several years, Gigi has had the great outdoors at her disposal and she took advantage of it from the first moment the patio doors were opened for her. Without hesitation she started the exploration of her new territory and within days she was an expert on the lay of the surrounding land.

Apparently, Gigi had quickly made her presence known amongst the local feline personalities as two began to routinely appear at the edge of the patio looking for her. It made me a little nervous for her as she’s a small girl and if her interactions with either bigger cat were to devolve into a scuffle, she’d no doubt be on the losing end.

Then, one night I was in the kitchen and was finishing cleaning up after dinner when, while standing at the sink I heard the howls of what sounded like an ordinary cat fight. I figured, okay, my concern about Gigi versus the big cats had materialized, so I quickly removed my apron, just kidding, and ran out the front door to save Gigi from what I expected to be one or both of the cats that had begun hanging around.

I wasn’t prepared for what I saw as I approached the spot from where the noise had come. There on the side of our quiet street at the opposite curb was what looked like at first to be a medium-sized scrappy dog and for a brief moment I even thought it might be a fox as a result of it’s really big and pointed ears. My confusion rapidly gave way to the realization that Gigi had become entangled in a life or death confrontation with a coyote who was intent on having her for dinner.

I yelled as I ran towards the coyote and it was enough to frighten him off and away from Gigi, who then darted past me towards the back patio. I ran after her to find her cowered in the far corner near one of the doors, trembling and hissing at the same time. I scooped her up and brought her inside. At that point, we didn’t think that her altercation with the coyote had gone very far, but she stayed there on the sofa all night long in a, pardon the pun, catatonic stupor.

When Fred went downstairs the next morning he yelled up to me that there was blood on the sofa. While looking her over, I noticed too that her collar, I.D. tag and little bell had somehow disappeared. I wondered to myself if the little chime might have assisted the coyote in tracking her down. I could only imagine how her assailant managed to remove such a secure little band from around her neck without taking her head off along with it.

I was the first person through the door at a local animal hospital when they opened and after a short while, the veterinarian came out of the examination room to inform me that she had indeed been bitten by the coyote, but that most importantly, the bites had not penetrated any of her organs, which was a very good thing. He told me as well that had the coyote had just a few more seconds alone with her, he would have easily won the battle. He went on to say that housecats rarely survive encounters that close.

When she was brought out, both sides of the back half of her torso had been shaved down to reveal very evident teeth marks; two smaller punctures on one side, the lower canines, and on the other side, larger marks made from the upper canines of the coyote. Gigi was still trancelike and petrified as I took her home with the caretaking instructions: keep her from hiding, force feed her, give her an antibiotic pill daily, apply hot towel compresses to both sides twice daily to induce drainage and the pièce-de-résistance: stick Q-tips into the puncture wounds to remove any infectious puss. Couldn’t I just pay someone to do that for me? I guess I could, but during these economically mindful times, remuneration for cleaning the puss out of your cat’s wounds is one of the first luxuries to go.

I can neither blame the coyote nor say that we weren’t warned. Even in an area as developed as coastal Orange County, there is wildlife to be aware of, especially considering our proximity to the Upper Newport Bay Ecological Reserve. As well, a good friend of ours who’s lived in the area for many years, upon hearing the news of our moving to within just a couple of miles of her house, told us to be wary of letting the cat out at night. Just last year she received a 6am visit from the police and when she opened the door, the officer stood there holding up her cat’s collar and i.d. tag, but no cat.

Gigi’s been through a lot, including having to endure my fingers shoving wet food and antibiotic pills down her throat, piping hot (doctor’s orders) compresses applied to her wounds and most recently, shunts inserted in between both sets of punctures to keep the wounds from closing prematurely. They’ve since been removed and if it wasn’t for her peculiar front-half fur, back-half skinned cat appearance, you’d never know anything out of the ordinary had happened for she’s back to eating just kibble, trying to nestle between Fred and I for space in the middle of the night and cutting short any unwanted attention. After several days of being afraid to even go near the back patio doors, she’s once again taken to standing there, staring longingly out at her from-now-on forbidden Eden.

I feel somewhat guilty keeping her inside for the foreseeable future, but we’ve learned that when cats encounter coyotes, they either just disappear or the owners receive ominous visits from the police who likely only knew where to go as a result of the information engraved on the pet’s I.D. tag . Gigi may have lost her collar in the melee, but at least she’s alive and home, albeit with a new little necklace, sans the bell.

WWJD- What Would Jesus Drive?

As I mentioned in my last blog installment, we live very close to Corona del Mar High School. We moved into our home in late June after the school year had finished so we were unaware until just this week how busy the nearby streets become during session. We know now.

I do most of my writing at the Newport Beach Public Library, as I unfortunately have yet to develop the fortitude to overlook the distractions of home (television, internet, refrigerator and cat). On a recent afternoon, as I was headed home I was made aware of the importance of coordinating travel time around the end of the school day and conversely, the start of it in the morning. The cars lined up and out onto the area’s major thoroughfare, Jamboree Boulevard. It reminded me of what it’s like when you’re waiting to park at a large arena or coliseum for a concert or sporting event. What really struck me were the luxury cars that were waiting in line in front of me, behind me and seemingly all around me.

I had no frame of reference for it as I can’t think of any place I’ve ever been with such a display of automotive wealth. Not even the auto shows I’ve attended over the years compared as strewn amongst the exhibited luxury and fantasy cars are always the latest domestic models from Detroit. Here, I routinely see Bentleys, 7-series BMWs, L-series Lexus’, gigantic 12-mpg Mercedes SUVs and more. Equally as interesting as the cars are the drivers: more perfectly coiffed blonde and brunette Mom’s than you’d see on a Real Housewives of Orange County marathon. Nor could I miss the glitter of diamonds and gems that adorned the fingers gripping the steering wheels. Noticeable too were the big, over-sized bejeweled Chanel sunglasses that seem like a requisite accessory for the O.C. mom-on-the-go.

I cannot proclaim to know the political or religious affiliations of any of these women, but, hey, this is Orange County after all, so it’s not exactly going out on a limb to predict that the trend is towards the conservative. Nor is it a stretch to imagine that of those who lament the fact that the O.C. is a little red atoll in the big blue sea that is coastal California are more likely to include faith as a major component of their Republicanism. Of course, without getting out of my car and wrapping my knuckles on the driver’s side window so as to ask the question directly, it’s therefore an assumption for which I can’t just be like the President and “trust my gut”. It’s sad to think of just how much better off the country would be if he were like the rest of us and relied on his stomach solely to tell him when it needs to be filled and emptied.

I tried to think of a way that I could lend some credibility to my hypothesis and came up with a silly way to do just that. I decided I’d drive through the parking lot over at the Mariner’s Church. It’s a non-denominational Evangelical Christian Joel Osteen-scale mega-church, located just a few scant miles from where we live. I won’t say that the Mom’s in line to pick up their kids from CDMHS apparently beeline it over to Mariner’s for afterschool Bible study activities, but the half-full lot had its fair share of imports. Though I didn’t see any Bentleys or Maseratis (another area favorite), every other German, Japanese and domestic luxury brand was accounted for. For fun I looked to see if I could spot any opulent autos with conservative bumper stickers, or those little chrome Jesus-fishies that you see often enough. I found a few, but I didn’t see any examples of what I’d hoped to find as well: pious vanity license plates, like GO W GOD or RUSAVED.

I know next to nothing about organized religion as, growing up, it was not a major part of my life. My blue collar parents belonged to the Church of Hard Knocks and Harder Work and only sent me through Catholic Catechism and Confirmation in an effort to placate my father’s mother, a rosary-toting, broken-English speaking French Canadian woman who, when I was little, would give me quarters as long as I promised to not grow my hair long like my older brothers and then in my adolescence, dollar bills when I would fib and tell her I wanted to be a priest. Keep in mind, coins and currency went a lot further in the 1970s, so my paternal grandmother helped keep me for years in fireballs, candy dot paper, red rope licorice and Mary Jane’s (the chewy confection, not the shoes).

That said, I’m no expert on Scripture save for those bits from Leviticus about how my life with Fred is an abomination. I’ve read the counterarguments about the inconclusiveness of those passages in their original Hebrew as well some of the other later proclamations from Leviticus that mandate that naughty, mouthy kids be stoned to death (how did I survive past ten?), rapists marry their victims and that all places of business, especially seafood restaurants, cease operations on the last day of the week. Since there is to this day a disagreement about whether or not the Sabbath is actually Saturday or Sunday, I say, why risk it? Close for the weekend.

From my scant Catholic education I remember too something from the Gospel of Luke about selling your possessions and giving the proceeds to the poor if you are serious about a permanent reservation in the afterlife. Still, prosperous Evangelicals and less prosperous ones who wish to be like them always bring up that stuff about being fruitful and multiplying, which apparently in modern times relates not just to offspring, but private property and retirement accounts.

I can’t speculate as to what Jesus would drive but I’d like to think that it would resemble something more like the little beat-up economy car in the catchy Free Credit Report.com T.V. commercial. I think too that after a good glimpse of the grossly materialistic nature of many of his believers around here, he’d mutter a tsk-tsk and simply skip all the remaining Orange County freeway exits on his way up Interstate 5 to L.A. and the Bay Area.


Next week: The Newfound Popularity of Ice Hockey in Orange County

Welcome Back Baby, to the Poor Side of Town

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?

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”