Devil May Care: All Together

Thoughts & Reflection

I'm spending my night looking back on the past year. I'll be 30 years old tomorrow. A major setback of 2018 was completing the anxiety-filled applications for PhD programs. I gave it my all and I found I was miserable and that I've never enjoyed traditional schooling. Still, I feel poorly and indebted for the letters of recommendation my professors wrote me. I was not accepted into UCLA or USC and more importantly, I recognized I am not ready to leave Los Angeles. My mind wanders and my focus is broad. My phone distracts me over 50 times per day. Somehow, I ended up with a Master's degree and top grades and published a couple papers, but it doesn't really mean much to me. Looking back, graduate school wasn't that difficult, but the stress and impostor syndrome had caused me incredible angst and grief.

One of my dearest events has been joining a very rad book club. We recently celebrated our one year anniversary and I was able to assist the bartender on making a ‘Brooklyn’, introduced to me by my good friend, Matt. The current book we are reading is "The Master and Margarita". I’m grateful to have attended religious school despite experiencing animosity toward it in my younger years and ditching Judaism for my teenage years. This religious upbringing gave me a basis in which to understand the book’s second chapter with Pontius Pilate and his reluctance to bring Jesus to trial. Having a grasp of history and theology has helped me to understand the characters’ point of view — and mastery of knowledge. This book was written by Mikhail Bulgakov before his death in 1940. It was not published until 1967, well after the death of Stalin. I’m ecstatic to continue indulging in this feast of a novel.

In August 2015, I left my job, packed up my things and took a drive to California with my close friend and colleague, Faraz. We took the southwest route stopping at Sergeant Pepper’s Cafe in Springfield, Illinois for lunch. I had attended the University of Illinois at Springfield for two years during undergrad. The small town campus wasn’t for me and I transferred to Chicago to finish my Bachelor’s degree. 7 years later as we’re on our way to California, I began to wonder why I was moving. I told myself it was because of the weather and I tell other people it’s because of the weather. But, the truth is I longed for change.

Traveling the vast expanse of New Mexico’s serenity, we stopped in Grants, New Mexico. We ate a nearby Mexican spot, explored a windmill technology courses at the local community college. I downed some whiskey and spoke to the maitre' d’ of our motel, a couple with no particular direction. They were several years younger than me, but already married. I told them of my sights and my experiences in Chicago and my intentions to move to Los Angeles. I don’t know if they understood why I was moving, but I think they grasped that Grants, NM, had little to offer. I hope that they found what they’re looking for in another part of the country. We visited Santa Fe, NM, and reenacted the Breaking Bad episode where Jesse goes to the Georgia O’Keefe museum. I’d like to visit Albuquerque again.

We were rained out of the Grand Canyon, but filmed a short video at the largest crater in North America and took a drive through the Petrified Forest. We took a brief hike and examined the wood that had been preserved over millions of years. We stopped in Flagstaff, the Key West of Arizona and spent a night up there. It was a celestial experience touring the planetarium where Pluto was discovered. Post Flagstaff, we headed to Tempe, but that’s enough for tonight. I’ve got work in the morning.

My mantra for the next year is to gather knowledge, break down barriers, and take action. I’m grateful for everyone who’s supported me in my California residency. I don’t plan to stay here forever, but I have no plans to leave. Here’s my story.

Cross-Country with Faraz

Low rez, telling a story at Rosa’s Lounge in Humboldt Park, Chicago (2014)

As we headed along Interstate 44, Faraz and I listened to Barack Obama’s newly released audio book. I don’t recall much of the material, but it surely sounded presidential and bona fide. Faraz had brought along a bluetooth speaker that provided aid to the Buick’s broken tape deck and kaputt CD player. The Buick’s Bose sound system brought our ears in tune with some conservative talk radio and preaching throughout the country roads. When crossing the country, it’s advisable to go in style with a powerful machine.

I bought the Buick Regal from my grandfather for $8000 in 2006, well under market value. I remember taking it for a test drive with my cousin and driving the car throughout high school. The Regal has been my favorite car since I was 17, especially the 1987 Regal Grand National. This car shattered track records and could outpace the latest Ferrari all with its turbocharged 6 cylinder engine. My car’s large 3.8 liter V6 and its 17 gallon tank kept us going throughout our journey.

1987 Buick Regal Grand National

I peered down to check my phone as we pulled into a gas station just outside of St. Louis. A former lover’s text appeared and I felt my heart skip. She expressed regret that we were not able to see each other one last time, but wished me well on my journey to California. Reading the text gave me a sickening feeling and I responded with haste and dripping anxiety. This longing feeling of the life and loving relationship I could have had back home lingered throughout our journey. Relentlessly, we carried on. Our next stop was Tulsa, Oklahoma.

Tulsa had a lovely and quaint downtown area. We stopped for a beer at James E. McNellie’s, a friendly Irish pub. We did not engage in any particular conversation while we dined, but enjoyed the satiating meal that an average Irish-American bar could offer. The next day we got in line at 9:00 AM at the best barbecue spot I’d ever been to, Burn Co. BBQ. I sampled the brisket, pulled pork, and even grabbed a strong IPA to wash everything down. My mind had been fixated on this former relationship of mine, but this heavenly indulgence took my thoughts to far away places. Post-BBQ, we stopped at a local coffee roaster. Faraz insisted that we buy the coffee concentrate in case of emergency. When you’re on a road trip with a finite coffee supply, there’s no telling what could go wrong.

The Buick’s windshield suffered a crack from debris flying off a truck. We stopped at a Wal-Mart near Oklahoma City, identified a patching kit, purchased it, and set out to fix the damaged machine. The patch worked exceptionally well and it’s lasted to this day, 4 years later. Inevitably, we continued our travels. Next stop, Amarillo, Texas. Amarillo was a quick venture, but we had a chance to stop by the Cadillac ranch. This work of art consisted of several antique Cadillacs rammed into the ground. There were spray paint cans all over the place. We put our amateur tagging skills to the test and mounted the decorative cars.

With Texas out of the way, we booked it to Albuquerque. Our first stop was at a local brewery for some pub and grub. I remember my traveling partner and I having a minor disagreement. He suggested we tail it back to Santa Fe and spend some time at the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum. While I was convinced we should keep traveling onward and see my old friend, Katlan, when would I ever go to Santa Fe again? Quickly finishing lunch, we took a short detour to Santa Fe. At the museum, I learned that Georgia O’Keeffe was repulsed by her critics stating that her flower’s design looked like that of a labia! While some of her works engendered the perception of vaginal resemblance, Georgia was able to reinvent herself throughout the decades, changing her work to appeal to the masses. This is a sign of a truly gifted artist. Even as O’Keeffe became nearly blind in her late life, she continued to paint and galvanize her audience.

Georgia O’Keeffe, “Grey Line with Black, Blue and Yellow” (1923), oil on canvas (photo by Cliff/Flickr)

I don’t regret my move to Los Angeles, but sometimes I wonder if I've made the right decision. I often ponder of what would have become of me had I never left the City of Steel. It’s been a wild 4 years and I’ve got many more stories to share.

Stars and Bars in New Mexico

“There is a cult of ignorance in the United States, and there always has been. The strain of anti-intellectualism has been a constant thread winding its way through our political and cultural life, nurtured by the false notion that democracy means that my ignorance is just as good as your knowledge”. -Isaac Asimov

After leaving Albuquerque and Santa Fe, the sun was already setting. We were feeling weary from our travels and longed for a hot meal and some entertainment. We checked into our 2-star motel, transferred my valuables out of the car, and settled in, We headed to El Cafecito, a ‘Mexican joint with Southwest flair’ as described on the Google. Shops in the country close early and we made it in the nick of time. I had the fajitas paired with a couple Modelos. Faraz had the enchiladas. We inquired about a local watering hole that was open past 8:30. There’s not a lot to do in a town of 9,000 inhabitants. We were directed to a bar. Its name I cannot recall.

At the bar, I sat down and ordered a Goose Island IPA. Goose Island had been bought out several years ago, but the taste included the nostalgia of a true Chicago beer. The 2016 presidential debates were on, but I came for human connection. I began speaking to another patron. I asked him how he liked it here in Grants and he replied that it was “okay” and that he liked it out in the country. He mentioned a couple restaurants in addition to the KFC, Denny’s, and insert generic chain restaurant here. He showed myself and another customer pictures of the new guns he’d bought. The conversation was casual and talking about guns is what you do in the middle of nowhere. However, it took a quick change.

After learning I was from liberal Chicago and headed out to even more liberal Los Angeles, he asked if “I voted for that commie n****r, Barack Obama”. I was taken aback by his blatant racism and disinformation. Obama was certainly not a communist. Everyone knows that aside from your Fox News loving racist uncle. He then showed me his upper arm tattoo of the confederate flag. He was an All American Patriot and was proud that his ancestors fought for the confederacy 160 years ago. Not knowing what I’d gotten myself into and ignoring the racist remark, I tried to explain some of Obama’s policies that benefited his constituents. I was grateful that I was able to purchase a healthcare plan as I’d recently been deemed “too old” to be on my parents’ insurance and that Obama had been the first president to openly support the gay community. I recognized that this conversation was not going to change his mind and we went back to talking about guns. He mentioned that he kept 3 guns in his car at all times in case Obama or his government agents ever came to take them away. I wished I had been able to chastise him for his racism and ignorance, but I was in unknown territory.

The two of us recognized that there was karaoke going on in the other room and ceased conversation. I sang “The Bad Touch”, a classic Bloodhound gang song, while he awkwardly danced with a woman half his height. It was a spectacular sight. After singing, I received some applause and we continued our conversation about guns. He showed me some more pictures of “his babies” and he pointed out a Black man in the bar whom he had taken a liking for — or who was a regular. He claimed with a smile, “That’s a good n****r, right there”. After the second comment, I distanced myself and found another patron to talk to. This patron had overheard our conversation and stated, “I don’t hate Obama, but I sure do love George W. Bush”. I felt surprised by the fact that the rest of the bar patrons didn’t seem to pay attention to this man’s violently inappropriate racism. Even this Bush-loving man was able to make some compromise. It was as if it was commonplace and I’m certain it was. The overt racism would not be tolerated in any major city, but in a ‘simple’ town like Grants and much of the rural United States, that was the norm.

Was there any way to convince this man with a confederate flag tattoo of logic or reason that Barack Obama was not a communist? What point does it hold to inform a coal miner that the work they do is destroying the planet? How could one ever convince an ignoramus that homeless individuals don’t use drugs when all they see are tents filled with ne’er do wells and dregs of society? We touched on the power of persuasion and headed back to the hotel. I poured myself some bourbon as we chatted with the small-town hotel managers. We crashed for the night and made our way onward to Flagstaff and then down to Tempe, AZ. Life sure is different in small towns.

Penultimate

From the nights of alcohol-interrupted sleep in random lodgings across the country, my memory had adopted a peculiar fog.

We grabbed breakfast and beers at the haunted Hotel Monte Vista in Flagstaff, AZ. After finishing our brief, but fulfilling meal, we left post haste to Tempe. Faraz and I headed down the 17 southbound and arrived at the Yucca Tap Room. My old friend from Chicago, Katlan, was finishing up her shift there. We said our greetings and sat down to have a pint. While Katlan was bartending, we were having a friendly conversation with a veteran with a prosthetic leg. After discovering I was from Chicago, he asked me about gun-control and other liberal Chicago policies. I responded referring to Indiana, “Gun control works fine unless you can buy a gun from your neighbor.” Unlike my previous encounter in Grants, and like most normal folks, this man was not overtly racist. He did not feel that gun control worked, but listened to my experiences and was genuinely wanting to learn about our trip cross country.

Lowell Observatory in Flagstaff, AZ. (Where Pluto became a Planet)

After retrieving our friend’s keys, we headed back to stay at her town home for our 2 day Tempe detour. Walking inside, we were instantly ambushed by a tiny dog, Biggie. He was as curious as we were and expressed great interest in our travels. I informed Biggie of our sights at the Petrified National Park, the largest crater on earth, seeing the observatory where Pluto was discovered, and the rest of our incredible journey. After a week of traveling, we were 6 hours from Los Angeles and I was sitting down talking to a dog! We said our goodbyes to Biggie and promised to return after dinner. Heading down to a local venue, we grabbed some food at the diner and participated in a punk and ska show. I joined hands with other members of the cabaret as we catapulted ourselves across the room in glorious battle.

On the second day, we went for a short dip in the pool as the temperature reached 110 degrees. Our Midwestern bodies were unprepared for the heat, but we decided to drive into Phoenix anyway. We parked and walked a good mile, sweating instantly and continuously in the desert hellscape. Everyone around had water bottles and we would have done well to follow their example. Faraz and I stumbled upon a small jazz club where musicians were about to perform. We took our seats. The cool air-conditioning and sounds of brass and percussion lifted our spirits. After the concert, we headed to a Thai restaurant. I ordered the “medium” spicy pad Thai and it burned like hell. I grabbed a to-go box with no intention of consuming it. I offered the food to a homeless man and warned him of my stomach pains. He looked into my eyes and asked, “What choice do I have?”

After the acid reflux settled, we headed to a recommended spot, Hanny’s. We enjoyed some expertly-crafted Manhattans and Moscow Mules. As I explored the bar on the way to the bathrooms, I witnessed an empty elevator shaft. There was no elevator in this strange fun-house. I walked upstairs and navigated my way through a maze of mirrors. I bumped into one of the mirrors and felt a slight feeling of panic, but mostly of awe. There were 6 doors and I couldn’t seem to determine which one led to the men’s room. Looking back at the elongated hallway and distant staircase, I took the plunge and seemingly chose the right room as if I was a contestant on a game show. Inside was a standard run-of-the-mill toilet. The walk down was nowhere near as frightful or exciting. Perhaps the climax had already occurred and I was beginning to tire of our road trip. I beckoned toward my companion and we set off to tell Biggie of our Phoenix excursion. Our trip would end tomorrow, but my journey had just begun.

California Watermelon Festival (2019)

This Land was made for You and Me

Faraz and I had arrived in Quartzsite, Arizona. We made our final stop outside California off the 10 at a Love’s Travel Stop. We then stocked up on water and the basics. We’d driven 1881 miles over 7 days and had another 260 to go. We had left Chicago and stopped in Springfield, IL, St. Louis, Tulsa, Amarillo, Albuquerque, Santa Fe, Flagstaff, Phoenix, and a number of small towns, notably Grants, NM.

We passed Joshua Tree National Park where I would head with a former partner 2 years later. The Salton Sea was about an hour southeast of Joshua Tree. I’d make a trip to the Salton Sea and Salvation Mountain with another wonderful person in 2017. We’d explore the bizarre anarchism of Slab City and navigate the East Jesus art gallery in the empty yet serene desert. I’d pass through San Gabriel, LA’s Chinatown, Hollywood, and the Getty — All places that I’d explore over the next four years. I even checked out San Diego and stopped at 8 breweries with some Chicago friends. Here’s a few pictures I’ve taken since the big move showcasing my love for the Golden State.

Hayao Miyazaki Art Show West LA (2016)

(2017 Stock Photo) at Salvation Mountain in Imperial County, CA.

Christmas in Little Tokyo (2018)

Drunk David pouring beer at Eagle Rock Brewery’s Anniversary Party (2016)

Somewhere below the 405 (2018) in the San Fernando Valley

Boomtown Brewery (2019)

There’s more to the story. You caught me in a daydream — a respite from the stresses of unaffordable and bustling Los Angeles. I dropped Faraz off at The Grove in La Brea. He informed me of his mission to head up to Apple HQ in Cupertino. He might have had a meeting with Tim Cook or another Apple big-wig. I wished him well. We hugged and went our separate ways. A week had passed, driving cross-county in a 3600 pound automobile. Our conversation ceased for several months, but we’ve had adventures since then. There’ll be more to come.

I took the 405 northbound to Reseda, where I’d spend the next 8 months. Reseda had a strange familiarity to my old Pilsen neighborhood minus the suburbia. It reminded me of Terminator 2 and John Conner’s home. Coincidentally, that’s where the movie was filmed. I’d get high with the local gangbanger in the alley. He was a nice neighborhood kid to smoke with. We’d share stories of our different journeys and philosophies. Our difference was that I’d been dealt a better hand at birth. My first few months in Reseda were wonderful as I began to settle into Los Angeles. Reality hit and I had to find a job. I’d spend the next year underemployed working one-on-one with Autistic individuals and teaching coding a la Minecraft to elementary school kids.

It’s been an incredible journey. I don’t doubt there are other paths I could have taken, but I chose this one and I’ll continue to give it my all. There’s been misery, heartbreak, and struggle, but with all the bad in the world, I prefer to look toward the light. See you in sunny California!

Pacific Coast La Jolla, San Diego (2015)