Push, Push, Push

The locker room at the Rose Bowl Aquatic Center is shamefully small. It looks like it was built for a dozen men and/or boys. But every day more like a hundred to two hundred come through. As you might expect, when they're on their way out the two pools, they're wet. Sopping wet. And large puddles can form on the slippery floor.

As I was leaving today I spied a young man with an industrial sized squeegie device to corral all the water into the drains. It's a thankless job that must be repeated over and over ad nauseum. 

This brought to mind two things. 

First my checkered past and the more than 50 manual labor jobs I held working in the kitchens of restaurants, hospitals and college dining halls. In addition to my many cooking duties I was responsible for cleaning up. And pushing that damn mop and the bucket on wheels filled with dirty water.

So glamorous. And equally thankless.

The second thing I remembered was a recent conversation between my two daughters. Both are gainfully employed in the ad business as Producers. It should be noted they got these jobs with little or no nepotistic help from me. Not that I had any clout in the biz. 

If anything, dropping my name could've been a detriment.

Like many "kids" in their 20's they have their up and down days at work, what with all the mishegas and tzuris. On one of their simultaneous down days, they remarked how great it would be to leave work at 5, come home, and not have any contact, thoughts or responsibilities until the sun was well up in the sky the next day.

"What would you do," I inquired.

"Anything," they said, "just something I could do with my hands. With no stress. Something menial."

I quickly pointed out that menial jobs come with less-than-menial pay. 

"Oh no, that wouldn't work," they concurred, remembering they live in LA and NYC, not Des Moines, Iowa.

Looking back on my less-than-storied career, I remember chewing on the same fat. Thinking I'd love to tell the CEO and the Client to bend over, contort themselves and insert their heads into an orifice of their liking. Then I remembered all the years of sweaty, smelly labor I put in and thanked my lucky stars I was able to make a living with nothing but my oft-sodden wits. 

"From the luft," my father would say.

As one of my best friends is about discover, there's something even better than working with your hands or working with your brains...that's not working at all. 

Happy retirement, he who shall not be named.

 

 

Reiki, don't call that number.

As mentioned several times on this blog, now in its 17th year, I am not a woo woo guy. This is especially true when it comes to medicine. I like science. I like things created by science, not some seed fertilized by warthog poop. And I like relying on medical remedies that have been tested, examined and given the green light by smiley men and women in white lab coats. 

My medicine cabinet is exclusively stocked with vials, salves and mouthwashes that have the FDA Seal of Approval. That faith is even extended to Pharmacists, who feel like quasi-doctors. Not that I always follow the dosages religiously. Given my history of dealing with bronchitis I feel that if one spoonful of codeine-enhanced cough syrup will take care of my ticklish lungs with a side order of euphoria, two spoonfuls will be even better.

My dogmatic approach applies elsewhere as well. For instance, if I'm outside or at a BBQ and I'm being bitten up by mosquitos and other gnatty insects, don't break out the citronella and expect that to suffice. I will not support the International Citronella Cartel. No sir. If I'm getting eaten alive, I want something with DDT in it. Something created in a lab to kill those bastards dead. Dead. Dead. 

And not some scented shit that will give the bugs a contact high.

Last week while browsing around a bookstore, I came across this card (see above) by the checkout counter. Maybe you've heard of Reiki. Maybe you haven't. In my 40 plus years of living in Southern California, I had. But had no idea what it was. So I pocketed the postcard ad suspecting it would make good grist for the cynical RoundSeventeen Mill.

I did the research, so you don't have to.

Here, in a photo that speaks 1389 words, is Reiki. 

No really, that it's. 

So if you're thinking, "Wait it's gonna cost me a C-note and a half for an hour's worth of someone laying hands on me?"

I'm not pulling your leg. Even telepathically. Here's is what Wikipedia (I know, not the best sourcing but I don't have time to do a deep dive) says about Reiki.

OK, I can see some value of laying down on a comfortable bed, closing my eyes and having someone rub my belly like I'm some kind of 68 year old Golden Retriever. But consider the second option.

You can have the 'laying on hands' done over the phone. Which conjures up vision of pathetic guys using their phones -- paying good money -- to call those old 976 numbers. 

You may be thinking, "What the hell is wrong with those people on the Left Coast? Can they get any crazier?"

Yes, yes they can. Here's the flip side of the card.

If you're in dire need of Reiki servicing, think how troubled your cat or cockatiel might be.

 

Amazing

 

Yesterday I told the tale our recent SAG adventure on Rincon Beach. However I inadvertently omitted a very significant part of the story. Perhaps I was suffering from heat exhaustion. Or perhaps because I knew in the back of my mind that it merited a blog piece of its own.

As we were stationed on one side of the beach pavilion -- hosting a quinceneara party -- there was a very interesting contraption hosting some activity on the other side. Situated perfectly on the bluff was a wood beamed cylinder on wheels. It looked like the log of a giant Sequoia tree or the fusilage of DC  jet.

I would look over and spot people clad only in bathing suits emerging from the rear hatch all day long. They beelined towards to park-provided outdoor showers.

Curiosity got the best of me. I paused from my duties of handing out water and semi frozen orange slices to weary cyclists and sauntered over for a look-see. That's where I met Eli and Joey, who operate the mobile sauna.

They told me all about their traveling sauna aptly named Third Space. You can read more about it here. 

I have a soft spot in my heart for saunas. Being swarthy and of Mediterranean descent and having grown up in New York City, I have no problem working up a good sweat. And I have the not-suitable-for-wearing T-shirts to prove it. But way back in the early 70's I watched my father, a CPA, turn himself into a home schooled carpenter.

With the help of the Time Life Series Books, the predecessor to YouTube videos, he successfully went from amateur woodworker to a man possessed. Pretty sure it was just to avoid throwing the ball or playing catch with his children. In any case, with the zeal of another Jewish Carpenter he began ordering truckloads of wood, securing new power tools that occupied every square inch of double garage in Suffern, NY. And within months put the finishing touches on a new Finnish Sauna right off the Master Bedroom.

No sooner had I shared the Reader's Digest version of my dad's redwood adventure, Eli's eyes lit up and he shared the same story. His father, a carpenter by trade, had ALSO built his own sauna. And he did it back in the early 70's. Perhaps following the same plans in the very popular Time Life books. It was a more ambitious project, an edifice unto its own. Which still stands today, but is mostly used as a tool shed.

What are the chances of that happening? 

One in a million? One in a billion? I could not help feeling that so much of what connects us all lies just beneath the surface. And that conversation and dialogue, not doomscrolling and meme hunting, is the best way to find those connections.

To wit, later that day, Ms. Muse was talking to a young woman. And in the course of their chat discovered they had both lost their mothers to Glioblastoma, a rare but incredibly aggressive brain cancer. They bonded immediately and talked for 20 minutes.

What are the odds that Ms. Muse and I would both run into people, on the same day, with the same parental coincidences?

Next time you're in California, see if you can book some time in the Third Space traveling sauna. There, among the beauty of the Pacific and the cleansing of the pores, you can ponder the magic of being here. In this time and this space.

 

Lycra, law enforcement and licentiousness

Had quite a Saturday last weekend. I had volunteered to spend the day with Ms. Muse, doing SAG duty. No we weren't reading lines for my Shakespearian debut at the Pasadena Playhouse. 

"I am Spartacus!"

SAG means something completely different in the world of cycling -- Support and Gear. It was the umpteenth riding of the Summer of Love, a Century ride that took riders 104 miles from Glendale to Santa Barbara. And we were manning the station just before the Finish Line, about 15 miles south of SB. 

Some of you may be asking why I was not riding. I can count the number of reasons on my left foot. There is no doubt I have the aerobic capacity for an endurance ride. Back in March, I rode 68 miles. Ms. Muse, who is not competitive in the least, did 71. The problem used to be my back, more specifically the searing pain between L5 and S1. But now it's my fat feet, which barely squeeze into EEE sneaker and have to be lubed up to get into a cement-like cycling shoe, which is about a 7 on the Mohs Hardness Scale.

So off to Rincon Beach, north of Ventura, we went. Parked the car and set along a beautiful bluff overlooking the channel. Minutes after lugging out the coolers, the folding table, the 100 lbs. of ice, fresh cut frozen fruit, and enough water to fill a Junior Olympic pool, we sat in our folding chairs awaiting the first cyclist.

Instead we were met by a petite man in khakis named Josh. He walked up to us while running his fingers over the shiny badge he had affixed to his buckle (see photo above). Since the Gestapo-like manhandling of ICE agents and the willingness of law enforcement officers to throw their weight around, I have become quite averse to these power hungry mutts. They're like Assistant Managers at Dennys who deny stragglers the right to use the restroom.

Josh gave us a warning about being too close to a Quinceanara celebration scheduled for the pavilion and wished us a good day. That is until he came back 10 minutes later with Brian, a much bigger and burlier man who was impervious to the verbal sparring provided by Ms. Muse. In no uncertain terms Brian let us know that we had to relocate to a different spot. 

I played the senior card and let them assist the move 25 yards away. They dutifully schlepped all the support gear over to the US Forest Service-approved site. Nevertheless, the Trumpian/Napoleonic attitudes left a bad taste in my mouth. 

But the day was early. And there were other more pleasant twists to come. 

As the riders started coming in, we started handing out the sliced oranges, pre-cut bananas, iced water and protein bars. As you might expect after biking close 90 miles along California's Communist Coast, the cyclists needed a break. In other words they were in no rush to get back out there and rest their entire body weight on a narrow seat that was 2 inches wide.

And so we talked. And talked. And talked some more. No screens, no distractions, no posing or posturing, just cycling folk, many of whom we had never met before, shooting the shit, sharing shop talk about bikes and enjoying each other's company. It was as if we had rediscovered the art of conversation. 

As more and more cyclists piled in, we were scampering about to keep up with the melting ice, the voracious appetites, the stories of tires going flat, being fixed and then going flat again. And sadly, there was one cyclist who went down. He had a run in with a pick up truck and had to be rushed to the hospital.  As one of the two SAG people on duty, yours truly got elected to walk 1/2 mile to the site of the accident, chat with the Chippies, and fill out an incident report. 

I even had a clipboard!

But the best part of the day was just about to happen. You'll be happy you stuck around for this. While walking back up the bluff, clipboard in hand, I was approached by an older man, shaped like a Weeble. 

"Weebles wobble but they don't fall down."

Truth be told he was probably younger than me. I still don't have an accurate recognition nor acceptance of my own advanced years. 

"Excuse me sir, do you have a minute?"

"Sure buddy what's up?"

At this point I thought he might have a question about the festive kids running around and the large families awaiting the freshly grilled tacos or maybe even a queery about the biking operation we were involved in. But he had something completely different on his mind.

"Do you know where the Nude Beach is?"

"What?"

"The Nude Beach, do you know its location?"

Those words have never been spoken to me in my entire 68 years. I still wasn't completely positive that's what he stopped me for.

"Are you pulling my leg?" I asked.

Then he shot me his puzzled-look face. And held for uncomfortably long time.

"Can't help you, pal. Good luck."

I walked away laughing to myself. Shared the encounter with Sheryl (Ms. Muse) and said, "Do I look like a nudist?"

"I don't know. What do nudists look like?"

"Not me, I hope."

 

 

 

Home sweet home

Years ago, in what now seems like another lifetime, my art director partner and I made a movie for our client, homestore.com. For those who don't know, this was a slipshod shell company that bought the rights to realtor.com, which has all the listings of every house apartment or ADU that's for sale, for rent or for hiding dead bodies in an industrial sized freezer.

It wasn't the sexiest of clients. 

What do you say about online real estate listings? So we decided to dive deep into the attachments people have with their homes. More specifically, we profiled a guy who lived full time on a houseboat in an alligator-filled swamp. A woman who owned a huge treehouse in the deep jungles of the Big Island of Hawaii. And among others, a man and wife who had turned an abandoned missile silo in an underground home in Topeka, Kansas. 

After the missile silo filming, the couple invited the crew to come back that night for their monthly drum circle. I'm convinced to this day they were all swingers and added mouth organs to the various percussive

That's not the point.

As many R17 readers know, I have spent the last two months getting ready and packed for the big move. Out of my own home in Culver City, where I lived with my late wife and two daughters for half my life and the entirety of theirs. To say I was (and still am) inordinately attached to that house would be an understatement. 

I thought I knew the relationship between a home and the person that calls that place home, years ago. But it wasn't until this experience that I have a true measure and understanding of this singular bond.

Yes, it's a bunch of wood, wiring, plumbing, and stucco, but it's also where my girls ran in wild circles in their pajamas around the open floor plan, from the dining room, to the kitchen to the hallway, to the living room and back thru the dining room, over and over again, yipping and yapping and delighting all our dinner guests.

It's where we had so many family gatherings, Birthdays, Mother's Days, Thanksgivings and fast-breaking meals after Yom Kippur. 

"Let's order a few pizzas!"

"That's not how it's done", I was told.

It was where I wanted/needed to be, when for the first time in my life I experienced panic attacks -- and no idea what was happening to me -- while in Germany, where I counted the hours to be at home. My home.

And now, after painting, refinishing floors, repairing gutters and stucco, the house is now listed for rent. You can see it here: https://www.cavanaughrealtors.com/homes-for-sale-details/4164-LE-BOURGET-AVENUE-CULVER-CITY-CA-90232/26858089/306/?fbclid=IwY2xjawS9_IhleHRuA2FlbQIxMQBzcnRjBmFwcF9pZBAyMjIwMzkxNzg4MjAwODkyAAEeh7hrPColhtuefQY6beBscve621wrMRJgLX9I-binkNQ0Vz1Ye2zUpnG-9-o_aem_YysaEefB1IjOwEJ6gLBejw

It's sweet and it's bitter. As my sister-in-law put it, "The end of an era."

And as the Stoics & Buddha put it, "A testament to the impermanence of life."

Or, finally, as Dorothy so eloquently put it, "There's no place like home."

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Addendum: If you know of any family looking to rent and take care of my home, please reach out to me or to my realtor.

 

Our 250th birthday may be our last

"Affordability was a loser. Who came up with that?"

"I believe it was Kristi Noem."

"Pretty sure, it was Kristi, too."

"It could've been Pammy."

"All I know it was one of the women," said Hegseth.

"Turns out Americans want cheap eggs. And gas. And utilities."

"Yeah, well I want a ballroom and an arch and a painted pool, we can't all get what we want. I can. But they can't. What else we got?"

"This is an oldie but a goodie" said Miller, "It's got legs and a beard...are you ready for this? Communism. Americans hate Communism. They don't even know what it means, but they know it's dirty, evil and Jew-adjacent."

"I like it."

"Good work people. Let's run that hammer and stickle up the flagpole and see if we can scare the shit out of people. At least until November. Meeting adjourned, get to work," said Chief of Staff Susie Wiles.

And that's how America's newest/oldest boogeyman re-emerged and made its way to the 2026 political landscape. Or, at least how I imagine it. I know it's glib. And without any substance. Or evidence. But that's how this administration runs.

Karl Marx is the GOP's newest Willie Horton. 

The irony here is that while a healthy percentage of Americans abhor Communism, despite knowing nothing about it, the fact is we've been inching there quite steadily -- under the TRUMP REGIME.

To wit:

In just the past two years, our little dictator has taken ownership positions in Intel, Westinghouse, Tik Tak, And more. That's not Free Market Capitalism. That's a commie-inspired fertile field for corruption, double dealing and more corruption.

Lest we forget, there's also the billions of dollars this government gives out in subsidies to Big Pharma, Big Ag, Big Oil, and Big Wall Street firms who have been playing with our retirement money ever since old white men in government figured how to make it look legit.

Moreover, in addition to the economic similarities, there are the more frightful political ones. Communism , in its previous manifestations, looking at you USSR, China, North Korea, have been decidedly authoritarian. Kim Jong Un never won 98% of the vote in the DPRK. Nor did Putin. Or Jinping. 

That simply doesn't happen.

Nor does free speech. Adherence to the Rule of Law. Nor the right of people to dissent and protest. Any of this sound familiar?

Like the strong men he so vocally admires, Trump wants to rule this country with an Iron Fist, albeit a very tiny one.

 

Wake me up from this nightmare.

On the topic of our current "president", Leader of the Free World, Standard Bearer for the American Dream, every day I wake up is a day I hate him more than yesterday. I suspect my sentiments will be on the same trajectory until the day he leaves office. Or, hopefully sooner, the day he leaves this mortal coil.

Yesterday, was no exception.  

It was not very long ago that he posted an AI video of himself piloting a fighter jet over a No Kings protest, while dropping tons of fecal ordinance over everyday Americans. That was followed by another AI video depicting the Obamas is simian form, a racist fuckwhistle if there had ever been one.

Not satisfied with the rage that had produced, he posted pictures of himself as the Pope. Topping that off with a visage of a robed Trump administering aid to the weak and the poor. Though he claimed he was doctor, even the most militant atheist like myself could see he was none other than the son of god, Jesus H. Christ, top spot on the Forbes List of Most Powerful on Earth.

This offended even his most staunchest supporters.

Yet, he persisted.

While America was treated to disturbing video of Patriot Boys or Proud Boys or Peterless Incels -- whatever they call themselves -- marching in sloppy formation through the streets of DC brandishing Confederate Flags, our esteemed leader, the self appointed stable genius, was searching for a new image that would infuriate the masses. 

He found it. 

A doctored picture of the Obamas stepping off Air Force One, defaced by ugly graffiti including some Arabic writing. Because it's not enough to piss off Black Americans when with a little extra effort you can also throw fuel on the fire of Islamophobia.

My head is spinning from the divisive, petty, hateful antics of a manbaby who in addition to shitting the bed on everything he touches, is also singlehandedly setting this nation back and negating any social progress that had been made in the last hundred years. 

Worse, there are still millions of people who don't look the other way to his tantrums and distractions, but actively support it, with a wink, a nod and maybe the flash of some white supremacist bullshit hand sign that I have not been privy to.

Fuck them and anyone who stands on this side of the political aisle. Seriously.

Freedom BS

Freedom 250, he called it. A misnomer from the King of all Misnomers, the Save America Act, the Big, Beautiful Bill, the Gulf of America.

It's a name borne of white privilege, paternalism, misogyny and unabashed greed. 

Have African Americans, who were uprooted from their lands, shackled to a rafter on a boat and shanghaied 3000 miles to pick cotton, make mint juleps and service Southern men who were anything but gentlemanly, enjoyed freedom fro 250 years? No, they have not. One could argue that they still don't enjoy the same opportunities today as their melanin-free brethren.

Indeed they have lived in the Divided States of America longer and more widespread than many of the ancestors of the early 20th century wave of immigration that brought the Irish, Italians, Germans and the Jews. Yet it was less than 75 years ago, their descendants were denied access to good schools, good neighborhoods, even good water fountains.

Have women enjoyed 250 years of freedom? If freedom means having a voice, pursuing happiness and voting in our elections to gain equal representation? The answer is self evident. Because it took an amendment to the Constitution to grant them that right.

And as of late, there are Bufords and Jethro's and Mike Johnsons, speaking openly about abolishing that amendment and taking that right the vote away. Those women all 115 million of them, would have their vote cast by their husband-cousins. You know according to the Bible, found in your local motels and/or grade schools.

Now, as we begin a new millennium in America we are witnessing the disassembly of the Middle Class. Squeezed out by AI and ruthless bean counters who will do anything and everything to appease the oligarchy.

"We don't have money for your health care or well being, but look at this new shiny Blue (green) bottom of the pool we blew $15 million on. You know what would be great to go with that? An arch. And arch with our savior's (DJT) name on it." 

Should we continue down this horrific path you won't be seeing signs that read HELP WANTED.

They will say HELP NEEDED.

 

What time is it?

Time is a construct, right? It's something you begin to hear quite a bit when you are surrounded by people of a certain age. And by that I mean the numbers start with a five. Or a six. Or even a seven.

This is in addition to the many conversations about bursitis, gastric reflux and even stool consistency. I know it's not pretty, but there is some consolation in the fact that those of us on the Back Nine of Life, look nothing like our predecessors when they had enjoyed an equal number of trips around the sun.

I thank modern medicine and science -- you know that thing that is abhorred by Red Hats and RFK Jr. -- for this. When my grandparent's gait started to fail and they no doubt had pain in their hips and knees, no one said, "hey, why don't you drop by Montifiore Hospital and get some new titanium implants?"

I don't think titanium had even made it to the Periodic Table of Elements in the 1960's. It was a Rare Earth  element found in Greenland or the remote jungles of Panama back then. Before Trump could set his greedy imperialist eyes on them.

And so my grandparents, maybe yours as well, slowed down, pulled up a chair overlooking the Grand Concourse and smoked three packs of cigarettes, instead of two, while whittling away the rest of their time. They didn't have Fit Bits, treadmills or even Chair Yoga. No wonder their spines started arching into unnatural pretzel-like shapes. 

Since I retired, now going on three years, I have nothing but time on my hands. Or so it would seem. The truth is every minute I have is accounted for. From the moment I wake up until a full day later when I slip under the covers with Anna Greenberg, my favorite Sleep Meditation guide on Peloton. 

Perhaps this rambling was brought on by the recent photo's of my classmates at the 50th High School reunion (see yesterday's post.) Or, more likely because I'm reading a book suggested by my friend and school teacher, Paul.

And yes, I purposely framed the book with the aspirin and the One A Day vitamins, for effect. But if Time is a construct, I'm going to do what I can to slow it down and alter my perception of it and savor every minute. 

It starts with not nuking left over pizza and placing it in an oven until it crisps up are regains its original goodness. I don't care how long it takes, I've got time for that.