Leaving Old Texas
July 29

Los Angeles

"I'm going to leave old Texas now, ain't got no use for a longhorn cow..."

That's a song from my elementary school days and it pops in my playlist whenever I'm about to move to another city.

It's been over two months since my last entry, well, in the journaling sense. It's been two over stuffed months, and there's no use trying to reconstruct them, especially with X's 'Devil Doll' pumping in the background. I'm listening to a tape I made to keep me company during the long drive ahead to San Francisco. Like other aspects if my life, the cassette contains a mish mash of dots that can't be connected: Till Tuesday, Oleta Adams, X, Elbow, Gomez, etc. and what they cover is a taping that three friends and I did at my old place- INXS, Groove Armada, k.d. lang- to discuss a queer comedy show we wanted to do at the local cable access station. Those ideas are now overlayed with tunes that have no obvious common thread- Sly and the Family Stone, Madonna, Eurythmics, Chili Peppers- except that they all had to be sing along stuff, because we all know, don't play Coltrane, you will sleep at the wheel. The show ideas are still in my head, and in my video notes. Elegently Wasted? We will see.

A collection of songs just like my collection of friends, as much as I have tried to involve them with each other, it's like oil and water, or better yet, oil and balsamic vinegar, with the Rebellion being the special herbs and spices. We had a rugby romp on the beach yesterday. And nobody brought a ball, so I volunteered one of my going away presents, an antique rugby ball the team signed, against the protests of most of the guys, but to me it meant so much more to have my guys' essence as well as their names. And performing with the jukebox inside The Friendship was frosting. That and the impromptu photo session.

Here comes love, it's like honey- the banquet/going away party for me last Friday was Hot Fun in the Summertime, I was sure at some point I was going to break down and bawl, I'm really going to miss my mates, but I was too overstuffed with joy and the excitement swirling all around me. And in true Hollywood fashion, I received my first Oscar, for best performance by a team founder. Now I can get teary eyed, I love them all. Love will not elude us, love is simple.

So, some weeks back, just before I was heading out to collect some plants for a demonstration garden for the parkway in front of my house, the property manager asks me to stop by. He asks me what my plans are. A rather open ended and at the same time highly personal question and I gave some kind of metaphysical answer and then learned that he wanted to know because his brother wanted to make more money off the property and was planning to evict me but also willing to bribe me into leaving my rent controlled cottage voluntarily.

We're like crystal, we break easy, I'm a poor man- less so if I accepted their offer. I was real close to tears at that point, I loved my little house. And while I'm not so crazy about the street, I was planning on staying there for a long time, and the neighborhood was on the upswing, and even though I had suspected for months that there were passive agressive efforts to get me to leave (disappearing plants, broken windows, lack of security lighting, the weeks long crappy paint job, etc.) I was still shocked. The End of another chapter in my life was announced.

So you want to spin the world around, but instead it was spinning me and I had to try to get a grip. At the same time as the news of my landlord's intention, a toothache erupted that necessitated a torturous root canal at the USC dental school. I'll never go through that again. Three roots to excavate, with a search for a possible fourth, endless shots of novocaine that wore off sooner than they were supposed to, resulting in shorter appointments and trip after dreaded trip, I lost count how many times I dragged myself to that building and heard the phrase 'please bear with me'.

Sure, I'm fond of sand dunes and salty air, but my quaint little village was crumbling here and there. I started hunting for a place to live, and not liking what I found. I've got a knack for finding the kind of areas touted as places ideal for those with a 'pioneering spirit', the same way I can sniff out a cruising spot, it's like I've got a fruit fly's nose for urban decay. Could I deal with more gang activity? leaking oil wells? wild dogs?

So, there I was, under the bridge downtown, when it hit me that I may not stay in LA at all. The areas I could afford to live in I didn't want to live in, and as for the really nice places, I'd have to get a roommate. Did I want to do the pioneer thing again? Not really.

Following the trend of thinking 'outside the box' I considered the towns 'outside of Palm Springs', where rent is cheap and I could split a big place with my friend Syd. We even spent a weekend looking in the desert for available rentals. At my most adventurous I entertained starting an artist colony in some remote town near the Mojave where I could rent a house for $400. Why not? If I was going to get so punk about my living situation, why not throw myself into some inhospitable skeleton of civilization?

Obviously the heat was getting to me, in Palm Springs and back home, where gardening became a chore under the intense sun. Twisting and turning, the feelings were burning and somehow the present situation came to me. I had a friend in San Francisco who at one point last year was going to come south and share my place. He still welcomed the idea of being roommates and offered to pack up and move to LA. But what about San Francisco? What about me packing up and leaving for the city by the bay?

I weighed the pro's and con's of San Francisco vs. Los Angeles. Because of the necessity of driving, the heat and the smog, the bulk of my stuff is now in his apartment in the East Bay, and when I get up there and we save up enough money for a deposit, we're hunting for a place in town. This is the first time I've ever moved back to a city. What next, New York? Boston? mom's?

But the biggest drawback: I was leaving behind the rugby team I started last year and we had a big tournament coming up in, of all places, San Francisco. I would tell the team sometime after the tournament, and it was one long stomach punch for me to hold it in, especially the way we kicked international ass on the pitch. On our first day we shut out the Renegades and the Fog's B-side, and beat the King's Cross Steelers. We were totally stoked.

Rumors flew about us, that we brought up ringers, played dirty, and the next day I was asked to get documentation for my players, and we were told we could use subs from the other teams, but only if it didn't affect the outcome. Tired and beat, and short players, we lost to Manchester and then lost to the Steelers and were eliminated from the tournament, but we were still stoked, and I was teary eyed as we huddled after our last match, as were some of the others, but none of them knew I was both happy for the team and sad that I'd be leaving them soon. Our team photographer took me to the Castro and I washed our uniforms at a laundramat.

We had a great time at the banquet, held in an art gallery downtown. Ironically, it exhibited paintings used in a series of trading cards of the war between Los Angeles and San Francisco. One of my players' wives brought a shot glass in the shape of a penis and we had everybody within reach gulping out of it, even the lesbian referee.

The Kings Cross Steelers performed a Full Monty routine and my level of enthusiasm surprised me as I pushed my way to the front and sat on the floor hollering. Later, at the kangaroo court someone from our team was brought up on charges of being invited to the Sons of Bacchus orgy and instead skipped it to get enough rest for the matches. What a relief when it wasn't me called up there.

The next day, the San Francisco Pride march, and I did the parade route twice. The first time, with Mikes on Bikes, and for the second year in a row I rode my air bike and got lots of laughs. I went back to the staging area and found the rugby teams, and tossed balls around. When the march got going, I repped the Rebellion in the front along with the other teams behind a banner with Alice Hoogan, Mark Bingham's mother.

I spent time near the Fog's beer tent, where a Manchester player insisted we used ringers, I insisted we didn't, but nothing really matters, love is all we need. I met up with my future roomie and we had a meal, then I went to the Mike's on Bike's after party, where I got lassoed into holding the prizes, while James spun witty descriptions.

Then, quicker than a ray of light, I walked over to the Pilsner where some of the ruggers were meeting and hung out with them. The Steelers gave us a flag, cap and tie for our clubhouse, well, for the Rebellion Clubhouse. As much as I'll always be a part of the Rebellion, I'm part of its history now, it's time to move on to using past tense and 'them' instead of 'we'.

And I feel.

So, I'm sitting in my mostly empty house, surrounded by half empty boxes of stuff I'm giving away, stuff I need to take with me, stuff I haven't even put in boxes. I'll finish packing today or tomorrow and clean up the house and on Wednesday or Thursday go in for my penultimate dental appointment then drive out to Palm Springs for a week, then visit my brother and do some gardening for him. Any day now, how's about gettting out of this place, anyway's got a lot of spare time, some of my youth, and all of my senses on overdrive. Eyes on horizon, don't sleep at the wheel.

what I'm reading right now: I'm not, I'm writing.
what songs I can't get out of my head: the old spiritual 'Deep River' and Elbow's 'Any Day Now'

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