I Was Baptized in a Jacuzzi

I can barely remember any religion when I was growing up in Los Angeles. I do remember that my mom was kicked out of Saint Mel's for some reason, so my brother and I stopped going to CCD after like, one or two weeks. But I don't think she was embarrassed by it. That was back in the early 70s. I never associated religion with any of my childhood friends. I did go to a bar mitzvah, so I knew about being Jewish vs being Catholic. It felt the same to me. I took communion a few times. Then I barely thought about religion for about a decade. I did like being in nature though. Camping and such. And I liked nothing more than surfing. It felt miraculous. The perfect combination of joy, being by yourself, and the science of it all. But I was never really alone. There was a camaraderie. I had the world. My college roommate took a class called Cultural Traditions. That got me thinking. But I was really into beers and smoking weed and tripping and dancing and connecting with that inner joy. The same feeling I'd get at Malibu. The singular all comforting bliss of being. Not of the self but of the whole. Light in the head and warm in the heart. These people I would meet on the dance floor were into yoga and meditation. So I read about the Buddha and Taoism. I started my asana journey with Lilias on PBS. I began chanting in Santa Monica. And by the time I moved to NYC in 1995 I realized there were 600 languages spoken in the city and 4,000 religions in the world. And then I would go to a bar and smoke a joint and find a dance floor. I would raise my hands in the air and smile in the knowing that this right here is everything. This world beat. This community. This love. 

Church.

⌘

Total and Absolute Love

"How long do we have to keep watching this crap?" - The opening line of The Longest Yard spoken by Anitra Ford.

Anitra was talking about football, right? 

I saw The Longest Yard when it was first released in 1974. I remember enjoying the film. I was also a budding football fan back then, and since I was born in Pittsburgh, loyal to the Steelers as documented by my golden corduroy suit. I loved sitting in that bean bag, surrounded by family and laughter. Here we go! 

Everyone in my family is a ridiculous Steeler fan. Everyone, except my brother. He was partial to the home team, and still is: the Los Angeles Rams. Although he's been living in Las Vegas for a couple of decades, there is no way he will be drinking that Raiderade. John loves a good four quarters as much as anyone and I've never seen him root against the Steelers, because, how could he, I mean, the entire family is wacko for the black and gold. 

My family lived in the San Fernando Valley in 1974, but my first memory of watching a Steeler game was in Pittsburgh, 1975. The Steelers were playing the Vikings in Super Bowl IX. My Grandma was really sick and she was in the hospital, which is why we traveled back to PA. We watched the game on the TV in her room. Grandma was cool.

Ever since 1975, watching the Steelers is like being home for Thanksgiving. Everyone is at the table. The food is good, the drinks are bottomless, and the TV ... is ... on. You get hoarse watching the game. Veins pop out of your head. And I haven't watched a game with the family since we lost to the Packers in the Super Bowl, 2011. The Mendenhall fumble. Damn. Most of my family lives in California, so I've been watching the games with my gentle partner, Elle, who tames my enthusiasm, in a good way. That's the thing about our family and the Steelers; it's family bonding even if we aren't physically in the same room. We watch together, in our hearts. It may seem like a bunch of hut-hut, but it's just our way of showing total and absolute love towards each other. 

Silver Linings Playbook (SLP) does a wonderful job of depicting family football love. SLP came out in 2012. I hate to be a spoiler, but Bradley Cooper and Jennifer Lawrence fall in love at the end. That ain't a fluke. Silver Linings Playbook was produced nearly 40 years after The Longest Yard. Jennifer Lawrence was not only the smartest football person in the room, but she was also the lead character. She was fierce. And she was a woman.

There were only two women in The Longest Yard. Burt Reynolds assaulted the first woman and we never saw her again. He ended up in prison for the offense. While in prison Burt had sex with the other woman—and we never saw her again. When I recently rewatched The Longest Yard, I realized the film is an abusive sausage party full of rage and hate. But I remember enjoying the film on the bean bag. I was eleven years old, it was the 70s, and I was truly energized by the revenge aspect of the picture. I was oblivious to the depiction of women in the film and I had no idea that rage wasn't an act of loving kindness. And neither was the hatred inspired Jim Crow racism that was prevalent in the movie. The San Fernando Valley was full of White people in the 70s. If it wasn't for busing and my parents having an interracial couple as their best friends, I knew absolutely nothing about the Black experience. And btw, the husband of my parents besties played in the NFL for the Chicago Bears. Football love. 

Anitra knew. 

The script of The Longest Yard was written by Tracy Keenan Wynn, who also wrote the screenplay for The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman, a story that depicts the struggles of Blacks as seen through the eyes of Miss Pittman, a slave at the end of the Civil War. Before the Civil War, Blacks were enslaved for 242 years. After the Civil War, Blacks were enslaved by Jim Crow laws until 1965. After Jim Crow, Blacks were enslaved by prisons, which continues today.

When Anitra said, "How long do we have to keep watching this crap?" I like to believe she was referring to hate and rage and how one of its byproducts is killing the soul of America.  

By the end of the film, the Blacks and Whites rallied around each other to defeat the oppressor. As an eleven year old, I could definitely see the good in that. 

Kind of a happy ending I guess.

Love rules.

⌘

The Day I Broke Joe's Heart

My parents moved from Pittsburgh to Los Angeles in 1964. Based on old photos, Super 8 movies, and fuzzy memories, I kind of remember a few of our homes back then. There was the duplex on Topanga Canyon. And then there was the house right around the corner on Buenaventura. After that we moved to the "celebrity home" with a pool on Kittridge in Canoga Park which used to be the residence of the Tabatha twins from “Bewitched.” Although the Kittridge pad was epic because of the BBQs, booze, bare bottomed slide rides, and ping pong, my dad used to joke about wanting to live south of the boulevard. He favored the 91364 zip code and was determined to return. In 1977 we did just that and moved to Ensenada Drive in Woodland Hills. This was about the time I became good friends with Joe.

I can't remember if Joe ever walked inside the house on Ensenada. Perhaps it was due to the wayward reputation of the Wiggins boys back in the day. We liked to party. We used to buy a case of Mickey Big Mouths and ice block down the fairways at the nearby Woodland Hills Country Club. We weren't the ideal role models for star athletes to hang out with. Joe was tall and sculpted and the best swimmer in town. My brother was a good swimmer too, and I was scrawny, but scrappy. We all swam together on the El Camino Real High School team. At the peak of our friendship, Joe would pick me up before school at 5:30am in his dad's Pontiac station wagon. He would patiently idle out front while I lugged my 9’6" Dewey Weber from the side of the house and slid it into the back of the golden, oxidized surf mobile. When I climbed into the front seat, Joe would always have some Beach Boys playing for us, this way we didn't have to talk much. We knew all the lyrics by heart. With every curve along the winding road of Topanga we would pray for a righteous swell. We were stoked either way and would paddle out even if it was flat. We both had vintage longboards and paddling around the Pacific on those beasts was a great shoulder workout, and swimmers needed strong shoulders to break records, which Joe did all the time. It would take us half an hour to get to the beach, pull on our wetsuits, wax the decks, and paddle out. By the time we caught our first wave and were sitting on top of the world, it was 6am.

Waking up early is the standard for serious swimmers. If we weren't surfing before class we would be doing laps at Warner Center Racquet Club. It was brutal. I had a ton of allergies at the time and being soaked in chlorine for a couple of hours before homeroom made for a nonstop runny nose and swole ass eyes. And I was tired, constantly, so my focus and grades were terrible. But surfing was way better than competitive swimming, so when Joe said he'd pick me up tomorrow, I was ready. I'm not sure what kind of student Joe was but I do know that he was extraordinarily talented in the pool, especially at freestyle. I would happily be the teammate that counted his laps when he competed in the 1500 free. I felt proud about that. That's my buddy. Joe continued to swim at a high level and participated in the Olympic trials in 1984.   

I stopped swimming after my senior year in 1981. I then applied to UC San Diego simply because Black's Beach was next door. At first, my application was rejected, but somehow my parents lobbied for me and UCSD changed their mind. I ended up being a garbage student in college as well, but I did manage a 3.2 GPA mainly because I was a visual arts major. Black's Beach was legendary, not only for it’s perfect barrels, but also because it was a nude beach. My kinda people. But Black's was a beach break, so you needed a shortboard, which thankfully my mom bought for me. My shortboard pal at El Camino was Rich, who was basically a skinhead, had a ton of freckles, and loved to box. Rich didn't care much for the Beach Boys. He would blast the Circle Jerks or the Dead Kennedys while we drove to Zuma or County Line in his beat-up Honda Accord.

After I graduated from college, I moved back to LA. Joe and I didn't talk at all during my years at UCSD, but he did invite me to his parents house in Woodland Hills for his birthday party one summer. Joe looked great. He had a wide smile and was super positive and he really rocked the Hawaiian shirt. I cut my own hair into a vicious mohawk and my favorite attire was a faded jean jacket with a red pentagram painted on the back to protect me from the evil forces. We shared some small talk at the party but it was all kind of awkward. We reminisced about our surf days and I told him I didn't really listen to the Beach Boys anymore.

I never talked to Joe after that.

When I revered the Beach Boys back in the late 70s it was simply because the music reeked of summer and surfing and the hope of sex in the sun. It was perfect. When I got my shortboard, things started to change for me. Life began to suck a bit and I just couldn't tolerate all the happy. I wanted to be punk. I was mad as hell and I couldn't take it anymore! My professors convinced me that the USA was an evil empire and racism and oppression was the root of it all. I remember studying at the UCSD library and all I could think about was a Peter Tosh lyric, so I whipped out my ballpoint and violently scratched into the wood, "Everyone is crying out for peace. None is crying out for justice." I felt better and promptly fell asleep in the cubicle.

I am a bit calmer these days but I'm still pretty pissed off. And I'm finally a better student. I read, I study, I practice, and I enjoy it. I'm also listening to the Beach Boys again. I can totally relate to the wonders of Brian Wilson. I've tripped out to Pet Sounds a few times. And yes, the music makes me happy.

Paddling out to the point at Topanga and glancing over at the smiling face of my friend is vivid and lovely, so very, very lovely.

God only knows what I'd be without you, Joe.

⌘