Saturday, December 22, 2007

Insanity, Sheer Insanity
I wrapped up a first-series class at 7 p.m. on Thursday and Tara, Rowan and I loaded up the car shortly thereafter. I mainlined a gingerbread latte from Peet's at 8 as the fam percolated out by the curb and then we dropped the hammer out of Portland, heading south on the 5.

I got pulled over at about 2:30 a.m. just outside of Redding, California. The cop clipped me at 90 in a 65, though he wrote out ticket for 85, so I managed to duck the reckless charge. I'll take the rap 'cause hey, 10 minutes earlier he'd have nailed me with the cruise-control pinned just into triple digits.

It was also by far the most pleasant experience with The Man I've ever had. I rolled the window down and the guy says, "I gunned you at 90 in a 65. Can I see your license and registration?"

Five minutes later he returned. "Here's your license. Please sign here." I signed the ticket and that was it --- none of the bullshit cop banter, or third degree, or smart-guy dickwad posturing.

I used to whip a faded blue 1990 Oldsmobile 98 that had a faux wood dash, leather seats, and power doors and windows, all of which were tres luxurious. It was the first car I ever owned made after Reagan was president --- this was only 5 years ago, mind you --- and it was like driving a big, dreamy couch.

I ran it gangster, too, and left the Michigan plates on --- with up-to-date registration, mind you --- and in sunny Encinitas it was trife enough that it was a veritable cop magnet. Every cop in the city pulled me over, ran my license, and then let me go at least once.

Maybe I looked like someone living out of the car, or maybe it was because a massive American car was horrifically out of place in a city where the latest M6 BMW is standard issue. One cop spent 15 minutes asking me where I lived, where I worked, and if I had a history of drug use. That's a lot to infer from merely owning an Oldsmobile.

I finally got one too many "Do you know why I pulled you over?"s and I absolutely hatched on the cop. "Are you fucking kidding me?" I said.

The response left him a bit flat-footed: "Uh?"

"You pulled me over," I said, "Why don't you just fucking tell me why you pulled me over!"

The cop said that my headlight was out, so I told him I was getting out of the car, which I did, and then I inspected my front end. Both headlights were functioning perfectly. The cop suggested maybe the wire was loose, and then he let me go.

I was so angry and yet so nervous that I was twitching, and I had that gross worms-in-the-stomach feeling. Fucking cops.

Of course, nowadays the guy would have just tasered me for raising my voice.

So I'm thinking I might write a letter to the Redding California Highway Patrol office telling them how positive my experience with this cop had been.

We pulled up to the Sacramento airport three hours after the experience in Redding, at maybe 4:30? We boarded the plane for San Diego at 6 and stepped out into the storied cut-glass blue sky of Southern California at 7:30 a.m.

We made it to practice at the studio by 9.

Fucking crazy, I tell you, though I'm taking none of the blame for it 'cause my crazy wife planned the itinerary. God, I love her for that kind of shit.

When he saw us at the studio, Tim's face split open in one of his patented gleamers. "Well look who's here!" he said.

The ensuing hug was worth it, worth all of it.

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Holiday Travel Plans
I'm sure I've lost a ton of e-mail addresses since I've switched over computers, so I'm gonna be posting our December travel plans — we'll be Encinitas December 21–28. Bros and babes: prepare to party down.

Additionally, if any fake rappers desire to engage in rhyme battles, I will be on-hand to serve up all sucker MCs, and if any cyclists are desirous of having their legs torn from their bodies, I will be on-hand to melt off the requisite appendages on my velocipede.

Friday, December 7, 2007

December is Crap Music Month
Current faves include Phil Collins' No Jacket Required and Trance Classics Volumes 1 and 2. No Jacket Required is part of my American Psycho Megamix, which includes the music that was the subject of Patrick Bateman's rather academic reviews, and includes but is not limited to Whitney Houston, Huey Lewis and the News, Madonna, Genesis and INXS.

Also, I am agreement with Bateman in that U2 is truly shitty music and Bono is in fact the devil.

Note: the above list does not include or reflect any sense of "irony."
Portland Versus Encinitas
In case you were wondering about some of the more superficial differences.

Encinitas = "Dude!" "Gnarly!" "Bro!", real estate moguls, breast enhancements, Botox, S6-class Benzos spinning on 20s.

Portland = Subaru nation, the tyranny of trees, standard-issue beards for all men, face tattoos, multiple piercings.

Unfortunately, despite an intrinsic two-hour-daily drive time, I still gotta go with Encinitas, if only because of 360 days a year of bike riding, and because one can hang out with Tim for two hours a day. Although one would undoubtedly be paying $1,850 a month to live in a two-bedroom apartment in (shudder) Village Park, and either teaching yoga at seven or eight gyms throughout North County, or commuting 30 minutes to an office park purgatory, where, if one is lucky, one can gaze longingly at the perfectly landscaped foliage outside the office window.

More Positive Things About Encinitas
The park at Moonlight Beach.
The sense of yoga community.
Muffins from Honey's.
The Community Resource Center thrift store on Second Street --- fifty-cent paperbacks, holler!
Cut-glass blue sky every day all year.
Cresting the hill westwards on Santa Fe Drive and seeing Swami's in all its palm-tree-and-Pacific glory.

More Positive Things About Portland
People are in general really, really nice here.
It rains!
If you're into cycling, this is the place to be.
One million coffee shops plus Powell's Books equals a book-lover's paradise.
You will never, ever feel poor here.
Practicing yoga in the warm flicker of candlelight at Near East.
December 7, 1980, R.I.P.