Going Back Behind the Orange Curtain

This is from March 21, 2006, originally written for MetroG.com. The artwork is my obligatory Laguna seascape. 

I’m actually going back to Orange County in a couple of weeks. It takes a lot to get me down there—I’ve only been back six or seven times since moving to West Hollywood. Usually, I go to cover events for IN Los Angeles magazine, and this is no exception—I’ll be there for the 20th anniversary of the AIDS Services Foundation Orange County.
I worked for ASF 16 years ago, as the manager for their thrift shop Dorothy’s on Broadway. Running tiny 900-square foot store in downtown Laguna Beach was the best time I’ve had in my working life. Every day was an adventure, because we never knew what donations would come through our doors. We got a lot of donations too—people were extremely generous. Dorothy’s became a popular local hangout, and it had a circus-like atmosphere—I’d wheel and deal all day long. I figured we had way too many donations—seemingly and endless stream—and the goal was to get money into the cash register. We made a lot of money in my five years of running the store; with sales of $500,000 by the time I left to become editor of the Blade.
Although there’s still a thrift store at the location, it’s no longer associated with ASF, but I’ll always fondly remember those five years. Unfortunately, I’ve lost touch with the wonderful army of volunteers from those days, so I hope some of them will be at the ASF event.
It’s always hard for me to go back to O.C. I was born in L.A., but moved behind the Orange Curtain when I was seven. Today, I tell people that I spent the next 40 years trying to get back up here. I never really felt like I fit in living in O.C., until I moved to Laguna Beach, where I lived for 23 years with my ex. Laguna has changed a lot since 1980, when it was in its last throes of truly being a bohemian art colony. The change would come slowly, with local businesses leaving, rents rising, and increasingly rich residents moving in. Also, development in the communities bordering Laguna, and that awful MTV "reality" show were changing the character of the town.
One of the last times I was in O.C. was for an ASF fundraiser (big surprise), and the visit was bittersweet. I had some time to kill, and I walked around visiting my old haunts. That’s an ironic choice of words, because there were ghosts. Not literal ghosts, but ghosts of my previous lives, previous loves, lost youth, and a town that looks the same but has a different personality. I walked around the old courtyard of shacks where my ex and I first fell in love, looked up the avocado tree where our cat would knock down the fruit so they’d split open for so he could devour them, and remembered our beautiful rose garden. It was sad, but it also made me realize that you truly can’t go home. That trip to Laguna strengthened my resolve to focus on my life here in West Hollywood, where I’ve found so much positive energy and growth.
Perhaps memories are best being just that: vestiges of the past, sepia colored photographs in the recesses of the mind. I still spend too much time living in the past—sometimes with happiness and sometimes with anger. There have been many times in the last few years that I wish I could go back to that shack on Third Street with the avocado tree in the back, or that thrift store on Broadway, but you can’t just click you heels together and say, "There’s no place like home." L.A. is my home now, and as Auntie Mame said, "Life’s an adventure, and most poor sons of bitches are starving to death."

Today I am a Man: Confessions of a 50-year-old Bar Mitzvah Boy

This is another golden oldie, written right after my June, 2006 Bar Mitzvah






Remember that episode of The Dick van Dyke show where Buddy Sorrell finally had his Bar Mitzvah because he didn't have one when he was 13? On Saturday, June 3, that was I. (Ironically, Morey Amsterdam, the man who played Buddy, is a distant relative.) I was part of an adult B'Nai Mitzvah at Congregation Kol Ami in West Hollywood: seven of us in our middle ages who decided to have a rite of passage normally reserved for 13-year-olds.
We came to the experience with different needs and perspectives. All but one of us never had this ceremony as children. Nearly half of us were Jews by choice, and many of us have been taking this journey together for the past two years, beginning with adult Hebrew. The current class had been studying together every Tuesday since October, learning everything from ritual and history to theology, concluding with our Torah portions and the sections of the service we'd perform. The last month was the most difficult, as some of us were thoroughly unnerved by having to read our Torah portions in Hebrew from the actual scroll.
But enough of the mechanics of our studies and what led up to Saturday. As is my habit, I arrived early at the Temple that morning, buzzing with nervous energy. As the time approached, however, I relaxed somewhat. Before our friends and relatives arrived, the seven of us agreed we'd meet at the Temple's rooftop garden for a quiet moment of reflection together. Afterwards, I felt centered and ready to face the wave of friends and family filling the Temple, meeting, greeting, schmoozing, and sneaking back to my seat from time to time to go over my Torah portion again.
Finally, the service got started—our big moment. I was the first to deliver a prayer for the service, and as I stood on the Bimah, I was astounded to see that the Temple was filled to standing room only. I knew we had a big crowd, but I wasn't expecting that many. Each of us took turns doing our part of the service, and although we'd said those prayers many times before, it was different: deeper, more meaningful, and communal because the seven of us were bound up in the words together.
Then came the Torah reading, the highlight of any Bar or Bat Mitzvah, the moment all of us looked forward to, and I can't speak for anyone but myself, the moment I was dreading the most. Languages don't come easily to me, and learning Hebrew was especially difficult. Truth be told, I'm still very poor at reading it and can speak it only phonetically. My Torah portion practices in class were unnerving, but I practiced at home endlessly and felt fairly confident I could do it.
First, we took our congregation's four Torah scrolls out of the Ark, said the Shema prayer (our declaration of faith) and paraded the scrolls around the room. It's tradition for Jews to touch the Torah with their prayer book or prayer shawl and kiss it, plus everyone had to kiss us and congratulate us. It was an overwhelmingly joyous moment. The particular scroll I carried had enormous significance to me. I was carrying the Temple's Torah scroll that was rescued from the Holocaust. The first time I attended the Temple's High Holy Days services in 2004, Rabbi Eger told the congregation the story of that scroll. As is the tradition at Kol Ami, that Yom Kippur night, the Torah scrolls were being passed from one member to another, and suddenly it was heading my way. As I held it, I felt the presence of God in my heart for the first time and I knew whatever I went through, I would never be alone. That was the day I decided I was going to have my Bar Mitzvah.
We then took turns reading our portions, and everyone did theirs fabulously. Since I'm a singer, I decided I would do my portion more musically. From what people tell me, I took the cliché “sing out Louise” literally—let's just say they had no problem hearing me in the back. I like to think that I wanted to be sure that my father, who died in December and insisted on paying for the class, would hear me wherever he is. I wish he'd lived to witness my Bar Mitzvah, and I believe in some way, he did. When I was done, I did the blessing after reading the Torah, and as I said the last "amen," you could tell it meant, "thank God I got through it!" As I hugged the Rabbi, she whispered in my ear, "Your father would be so proud." I kind of lost it at that point, but managed to keep my composure until I made it back to my seat.
Next came the Haftorah (a reading from the second part of the Jewish Bible), and a wonderful Dvar Torah from our classmate Julie that not only put our Torah portion into context, but also beautifully summed up the mindset of the class. After a presentation of gifts, a very emotional blessing before the Ark and concluding prayers, it was over. We were greeted to a sea of hugs, kisses, and Mazel Tovs.
The ceremony may have been over, but I think we all recognized that the journey we began in October would never end. The weekend before my Bar Mitzvah, I went to see the film Keeping Up with the Steins, encouraged to by my classmate Reva. I'm glad I did, because it took a lot of the pressure off me. The message I came away from that film and from Saturday with is that a Bar or Bat Mitzvah is not just about that day when you stand before the congregation, your family, and friends and read Torah, it's about the journey. We all chose to participate in that ceremony; none of us were forced to do it as children. We chose to take that journey together, and I think we'll continue on the journey together. I came out of that day feeling like a new person, a little more holy (not holier than thou, but a holiness within me), a lot more centered, and with a deeper understanding of what it means to be a Jew. For me, that's fighting for justice, studying, helping the downtrodden, and making this world a better place than I found it. I feel forever changed by the experience, and although I have plotted out some steps for the future, I never know where this journey will take me. Isn't that half the fun?

Cheapest Eats

Living on unemployment isn't easy, and stretching my food dollar has become one of my main goals. I usually make a huge batch of pasta or chili and living off that for a week, but it one can only eat the same thing for so many meals in a row. I have always been on the lookout for cheap eats, and living in Chinatown affords me lots of opportunities to seek them out. Perhaps the cheapest, and best, I’ve found recently are banh mi—delightful Vietnamese sandwiches that sell for $2-$2.50. Served on a light and crusty French roll and filled with meat and vegetables, you’ll be hard-pressed to find a cheaper or tastier lunch anywhere. The two in my neighborhood are within neighbors: Ba Le, 812 Franklin St. and BC Deli, 818 Franklin St., Oakland. Each sandwich is a meal in itself, with a choice of pork, ham, fish cake, chicken and various combinations, served with cilantro, lightly pickled daikon and carrot, cucumber, peppers on request, onions, a light mustard mayo, and salad dressing. If you’re on a budget, or just want a good lunch, check them out. Also, as if the price wasn’t cheap enough, both places offer a sixth sandwich for free if you buy five. Such a deal!