or How to Move from California to New York in Six Months
I'm a New Yorker by birth, a Californian by choice. Six months back I was sitting in my sunny home in the Silicon Valley, looking out its big picture window traversed by an Asian pear tree and wondering how I could take everything I need and plop it in the middle of Manhattan Island. For almost thirty years, I'd tasted a great deal of what the Golden State had to offer but now I was dreaming of New York City.
My sunny home in the Silicon Valley, California
Dozens of curb appeal renovations, Craigslist offerings and garage sales later, the house was sold and my remaining possessions were in a pod traveling across the United States. On August 10, clutching our one-way tickets, Max and I took a town car to San Francisco International Airport, plopped our butts in first class seats and left California for the bright lights of Broadway. Thirty years ago, I moved to Los Angeles because I couldn't afford to live in New York City and now I was returning ... A STAR!
Within days of arriving, I had my first appointment to see my first apartment in my first building. When I walked into the second floor Upper East Side studio with an alcove, I was faced with a wall of windows traversed by a sidewalk tree in front of the studio's outdoor balcony which opened onto 1st Avenue. There were no pears but Apartment 2D addressed every item on my Apartment Wants list and threw in a 24 hour doorman to boot! I saw options but kept going back to 2D so I made an offer the seller couldn't refuse and soon found myself under contract to become an officer for a corporation in which I own the number of shares that is equal to the square footage of an actual co-op apartment in New York City.
Then the shit hit the fan!
When you get back to your blue-blooded sisters would you tell them that the Ricardo/Mertz investigating committee looked you over and we have no desire to join your phony baloney club!
Buying property in New York City is akin to Lucy Ricardo and Ethel Mertz trying to get into the Society Matrons League; you must be approved before you can proceed. (See I Love Lucy S01E25 Pioneer Women.) In life, the judgment process includes approval of your financials by the building's board of directors (submitted in a board package), and a board interview in which you meet board members for a two (or more) on one. I signed the contract for Apartment 2D on September 12, my board package was approved November 6, the board interview was on December 5 and I took possession of the apartment on December 20. That's 99 days with nothing but a computer, a suitcase, a rental car and a Jack Russell Terrier in the back seat wanting a treat.
Max!
I worked every weekday but, for all intents and purposes, I was homeless. So like a good Jew, I wandered ... and worried that the deal would fall through.
Rented three cars, two of which were Hyundais, and one of which was sideswiped by my best friend. I feigned ignorance and have yet to receive a bill.
Drove up and down the East Coast, going over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, visiting Savannah, and enjoying quality time with family in Florida.
Experienced the horror of life in the hamlet of Holbrook - including an eviction, along with my brother, from his marriage home of 12 years (where I'd been bunking) by his (soon to be ex) wife. My brother's happier than I've seen him in years!
Lived off the breakfast buffets of any number of hotels.
Spent $1200 for two nights in a very chic hotel off Central Park for Max's first trip to New York City. This was on November 25 for a board interview scheduled the next day but postponed five hours before the allotted time because of a fire that lead to the building's evacuation.
A week and a half after the postponed board interview, on December 5, I received a phone call that the new board interview was scheduled for that night at 7:00 PM. It was 2:00 PM and I was in Albany, bunking with friends in their reconverted 19th century tavern (where I learned the fine art of making log fires in the kitchen's wood stove). I showered, changed, grabbed the suitcase and computer, threw Max in the car, drove 138 miles to New York City, and got there with time to spare. The board interview was about 20 minutes long, and conducted by two gentlemen. We discussed my work, courteousness, California, neighbors, the building, respect, New York City, and Max - who was quietly lying under the conference table. I was notified the following day that the sale was approved. Exactly two weeks later I had the keys to my light and airy new studio with an alcove on the Upper East Side of Manhattan...and a home.
OK, maybe it was just a parody of homelessness but it felt weird.
I took Max for a walk on the Los Gatos Creek Trail - not just any part of the Los Gatos Creek Trail but the first 2 miles - the Los Gatos Creek trail less taken, as it were. This isolated section begins in downtown San Jose at the former South Pacific Coast Railroad tracks (which transported passengers from Santa Cruz to Alameda in the late 1800s) off Auzerias Avenue. It then runs under Interstate 280, crosses Auzerias Avenue (again) and ends at Lonus Street.
The longer more populous nine mile portion of the trail (where multitudes of runners, cyclists and dog walkers vie for space) begins blocks down at Meridian Avenue and runs along the Los Gatos Creek into the Sierra Azul Mountains. On this short downtown end of the trail, Los Gatos Creek joins with the Guadalupe River - and its trails - which empties into the southern most tip of the San Francisco Bay.
Free-standing low tan wall on left behind tree is part of the original cannery (below)
The first mile is pleasant enough. It wafts through the land on which the Del Monte pineapple cannery used to stand. This land is now home to condominiums and this portion of the Los Gatos Creek Trail has been landscaped.
After crossing the not-too-busy Auzerias Avenue (and before hitting Lonus Street), the trail is trashed and (seemingly) taken over by the homeless and other indigents. It goes underneath Interstate 280 and huge piles of mined rock sprinkle its vista. I was somewhat frightened by everyone I passed and decided not to take out my new iPhone 5 until I was safely back at the condos. As I took the pineapple express back, I watched an old man picking up trash off the ground. I thanked him for doing so but now I understand why this is a trail less taken.
After 18 days away from home I went downstairs to the Queens Lair where Lucy was playing the cello. I said hello. She ignored me and continued to play.
Playing the cello
Two hours later I went downstairs to the Queens Lair where Lucy was sleeping. I scratched her head. She woke up and meowed once before going back to sleep. (Meow translation: where the f*ck you been?)
The Queens's Lair
Two hours later Lucy came upstairs and we got a welcome home picture.
I was in the water closet at my local Starbucks. (Well, it's true.) The toilet seat was down when I walked in, and covered with somebody else's urine. I thought as I peed.
As long as I just hit the bulls-eye and leave no NEW urine on the seat, I would feel no remorse in just washing my hands and walking out the door without wiping this filthy seat. As is often quoted when one visits a national park - leave only footprints, take only memories.
This experience reminded me of my dog Max's desire to sniff the remnants of the recently peed on our daily walks through the neighborhood.
You might think that this picture of Max taken around midnight on Bailey Avenue a few months back is what the title of this entry refers to but in actuality it refers to a cat that walked the grounds of Bailey Avenue, the street on which I live.
Being a fellow who works from home, I got to know this black cat who had no problems catwalking up the driveway and checking out the garden in our backyard - just like the four-legged creatures who live there.
Before I got to know the cat, I assumed it was a territorial stray that was going to take control of the area and browbeat the backyard's rightful feline owner, Lucy, into submission. (Max was not that interested except to chase any interlopers away.) Often I would let Lucy go outside in the early morning light and wait for the inevitable cat fight that would make my heart drop and my feet run outside (with Max a healthy step in front of me) to shoo the cat with violent tendencies away. That day never came.
Lucy's litter box
Soon enough I realized this black cat was just looking for food and fun. So whenever I saw him I laid out some treats and watched from inside the house as he ate. I watched from my desk as he walked around the houses, up and down the street and back again. I watched from the living room couch as he walked past the bird feeder in the front yard - giving the birds that ate there a total ignoration. He was a sweet cat.
It was midnight this past Saturday and I was walking Max for a late night treat. On Bascom Avenue almost to the corner of Bailey, I stopped in my tracks when I saw this black cat lying on the sidewalk dead. It was most probable that he had been hit by a car and crawled off the street onto the sidewalk to die. I started crying uncontrollably. How silly I thought; I barely knew this cat. But the heart knows what it knows. I ran home, tears falling to the sidewalk, to ask George what we should do.
Ultimately George (my ever loving vacuum lover) went and got the cat and we took him to the 24 hour clinic in Campbell. They have a program where, for $44, they take dead animals, cremate them and bring the ashes to a potter's field for animals in Napa, CA. As the receptionist filled out the paperwork he asked me some questions.
What's the cat's name?
The cat didn't have a name, I said. He didn't belong to anyone.
Well, I need to put something here.
Can you put two words?
Whatever you want.
Found Cat.
He typed Found Cat and moved on to the next field. After a couple of other questions, I asked HIM a question.
Can I change the cat's name?
Sure, he said.
Midnight. The cat's name was Midnight.
He typed Midnight and moved back down the form.
I'll miss Midnight on Bailey Avenue. I guess he belonged to me.
MARCH 19 UPDATE: Today I received a Certification of Country Burial from Bubbling Well Pet Memorial Park in Napa, CA affirming that Midnight had been interred in a country setting. I didn't know I was going to receive this but I was really glad I did.
For years I've had this idea of writing a book called I'm Walking Max. For years I've been collecting objects d'Max for a Max Museum blog. Finally, I got the bright idea of walking Max online. I took the book, married it with a blog and decided to write a blook.
A less shocking thing about this episode is that I remained objective and did not write that he was an overweight Cau-cau-cau-caucasion man that shared his environment with his seemingly Eastern European wife and a ten year old girl.
A more shocking thing about this episode is that I always thought I was straight acting - you know, no one could tell unless I told them. Go know.
I have lived on the east end of a small one lane street in San Jose, CA for ten years. There is a house on the west end of the street in which a man, a woman and a child live with a dog. I've seen the man outside maybe 20 times in ten years and he nor I have ever attempted a meet and greet although I am friendly with his next-door neighbor (as he seems to be), a neighbor across the street and more households as you might walk closer to the east end of the street. Now I know why.
I took Max out for a walk (as I have done twice a day since I bought the house) and walked by this man's home. Max peed on his lawn. I continued walking and was at the corner (almost three houses away) waiting for Max to pee again when I heard someone yelling.
"You forgot something here."
I didn't know if the sentence was meant for me so I turned to see what was happening. The man in this house had (seemingly as I had not actually witnessed this) passed me driving home, and stopped his car in the middle of the street in front of his house after he saw me walk away with Max. When I turned he was getting out of the car and walking to his lawn.
"Huh?" I replied.
He crouched a little and looked around the lawn.
"I said you forgot..."
He seemingly realized that there was nothing there.
"Never mind."
When I realized what had just happened I yelled back (as I was almost three houses away).
"I am your neighbor why would you think I would not pick up after my dog on your lawn?"
I wanted to continue imploringly but all I could do was pull a bag out of my pocket. "I have bags."
"You know, fuck you." said the man.
"What?"
"I said I'm sorry but fuck you for getting excited."
"That's nice language to be yelling on this street."
"Faggot."
"Asshole."
I turned and walked.
I'd like to file this episode away with a quote from Anne Frank. Unfortunately, with the negative discourse that only grows deeper with each passing day, the intolerance of people towards people, the fear-mongering of those seemingly in charge, and the animosity of difference I'm not sure I still believe it.
I keep my ideals, because in spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart.
When George and I decided to refinish the hardwood floors, I knew it was going to be big and I dreaded it. In the last six months, we have moved from a home in Denver to a home in San Jose. One month later we moved the bulk of our crap to the garage in San Jose to paint the house and then, room by room, back to the house. Now we had to move all the furniture, books, airplanes, DVDs, and pet beds out of the affected living, sitting, dining, and bedding rooms back into the garage. (OK, I had to jimmy a cable box into a bedroom window.) The kitchen and bathroom were usable although we had to jump over the hardwood hallway to get to the bathroom. I felt like Shelley Long at the end of Outrageous Fortune.
A few months back we had completed the renovation of the small basement into a guest room. This turned out a nice twist of fate as there was no other place in the house to sleep. I begged George to put the bed in the middle of the backyard so we could sleep under the stars but he was scared of spiders. Without the basement we'd have had to go to a hotel.
Day One Bob La Beau Hardwood Floors worked. At the end of eight horrid hours of industrial noise the men took away huge black tarp bags filled with deep, dark, dirty ashes from the sanding process. Day Two they applied the first coat of varnish. Coat two on Day Three. And one final coat on Day Four. Stir in 48 hours before putting big furniture down (read: bed) and George, Max, Lucy and me have been camping for a week.
It was well worth the time, effort, and inconvenience.
I have been in a literal frenzy around the house these days because we have run out of bags in which to scoop up Max's poop. Safeway bags, The Home Depot, the occasional Ross, Streetlight Records. (Rasputin uses paper bags.) Barnes and Noble - all gone. I am living on the cusp so to speak of having to pick up the stuff with my fingers.
Although there is a history of those who've done worse including Divine famously eating the shit in Pink Flamingos. Although interestingly, I looked up keywords famous scat and got very few links to non-musical scat. Do people use that word anymore?
The pure and simple fact is that we no longer have a stash o' those grocery-type sacks. So, I trundle around searching through the pockets of an unused winter coat (snagged two), running out the front door to catch a sack I see blowing by the window, and using the special bag we got at the Feline Conservation Center in Rosemond, CA from the bottom of the stash box. (I had wanted to keep this bag for eternity just because it was a bag from the Feline Conservation Center in Rosemond, CA. That's my mother in me.)
Georjet and I even brought home a doggie bag of horrible food we ate at a Japanese diner. I asked our waitress if I could get my plate to go and when she left Georjet spoke.
Why would you ask for that? This food was horrible.
I know but we need the poop bags.
I've recently come across a stash of the plastic packing material from our recent move to California. I was going to throw it out but then I realized it came in sheets, like paper towels. I've been picking up poop for eleven years. I can do it with a paper towel; I've done it with a paper towel. These plastic sheets have pulled me out of a few poopie binds.
It's not that I don't know that one can buy poop bags. In fact, the aforementioned mother sent me a box of biodegradable poop bags a while back that is somewhere in the house - if I could only find it. But put out money for the purchase of bags to pick up shit when there are millions of these grocery-type sacks produced that blow around the neighborhood and kill seagulls in landfills? I refuse to buy into this theory of mass consumerism. And its not that I can't afford it. Believe you me, I can afford poop bags.
Soon there will be a few shopping trips in a row - for the right items - and we'll have enough poop bags to keep going for a bit. It's like a drug. But in the meantime I'll be searching for the temporary poop gloves unless I can remember where the biodegradable...OMG, they're in the car for emergencies. I believe this is one.
Since that right turn, I've been driving around San Jose, California in my leased-for-Denver Toyota Tundra, a big honkin' truck with Colorado plates. It was never my intention to drive this big honkin' truck with Colorado plates in California which is why it was leased rather than bought. But here I am driving this big honkin' truck with Colorado plates on little Bailey Avenue with its one little driving lane and its one little parking lane. I'm the California cowboy.
GeorJet with whom I share an insurance plan. We're pinned.
Walk proudly into Fry's (my least favorite store in the Bay Area) with my new moniker to return the Bluetooth ear phone I had bought to adhere to California's Hands Free Cellphone Law. As a technical writer I am applauded for my electronic acuity but the attempt to connect these two pieces of electronicity was so frustrating that the frustration soon eclipsed my desire to speak on the telephone while driving. So I am returning the earphone and calling from the side of the road (as others sociopathically flaunt their own law-breaking activities).
Excellent 1945 B-movie still playing in Barstow, CA in 2008 Watch it online here for free.
I had to give my telephone number to the sales clerk at Fry's to get my money back for the ear phone. After she punched it in the register, she spews names from the database.
Eduardo Caldez. Is that you?
No.
Nancy Miranda.
No but her name comes up when I use my telephone number at Safeway also.
She looks at me.
Robert Prince.
No but your closer. He's an old roommate.
michael teger.
That looks right but it should be capitalized.
I said this jokingly but she clicked one more forward.
On the list of things I will miss in Denver is the Denver Public Library. This library system is Blockbuster and Netflix in one. You go online, reserve what you want, and it is transferred to your local branch. I would then pick them up and drop them off on one of my walks with Max. The only DVD I recall them not having was the 7 disc box set of Rainer Werner Fassbinder's German television series Berlin Alexanderplatz. And I'm not being high-falutin'.
Now I go to the San Jose Public Library. When I try to reserve something online I can't. After searching the site I found this answer to a Frequently Asked Question:
Due to staffing budget cuts, Library staff are not able to search for and hold entertainment videos (DVD, VHS or VCD) or music CDs for you.
Online or in branch. So I either search the online, see which branch has the DVD, drive to that branch and hope that, in the time it takes to drive, it was not checked out by another member of the public OR just go to my branch and hope for the best. Sure they have the 7 disc box set of Rainer Fassbinder's German television series Berlin Alexanderplatz in rotation but who has the energy? Thanks Governor Schwarzenegger.
Be it ever so humble
Further down the list, we had a 2900 square foot house, three printers, and a dishwasher in Denver. In San Jose we have 900 square feet, three printers in boxes sitting in the carriage house (and I'm not being high-falutin' - it's a carriage house) and are considering the purchase of a portable dishwasher because it's really hard to go back to using your hands. I now feel that one of the last vestiges of uncivilized behavior is washing dishes by hand. And I am being high-falutin'!
There's no place like home
I think the infamous season-ending episode of the 1980s drama Dallas illustrated it best when, it turns out, Bobby Ewing woke up and discovered that he had dreamt everything that had happened during the year. I feel that sensation as I walk Max around our San Jose neighborhood again and think of Denver. Who knew the Dallas writers were on the cutting edge of clinical psychology?
I won't be the California cowboy much longer. I have to register the big honkin' truck in California come January. After that I'll be just another California resident driving a gas guzzler to his home in San Jose. What a feeling.
My Jack Russell Terrier, Max, uploaded a video made as an ode to his treat ball. He's not the best singer (although back in the day he was considered the Manilow of the dog park) but he's sincere. Max's lyrics are reproduced below.
The tune is Red Rubber Ball as performed by The Seekers and The Cyrkle. It was written by Paul Simon (of Simon and Garfunkel) and Bruce Woodley (of The Seekers). Here is what Max was singing.
Early in my years I found out that I Get so bored so easily - cloth chews I can't abide Nothing comes out, no big payoff, that's a maudlin time Falling treats that satisfy - that's a rockin' climb!
R-uuff, my life is oh so right Yeah, the munchies coming down The morning sun is shinin' all on my treat ball
Boy, what a life all I do is eat And all my toys have food in them - what a fuckin' treat Yea you know it's not the only ball that makes me gay But throw that treat ball on the floor - I'm always gonna play
Woof, my life is oh so right Yeah, the munchies coming down The morning sun is shinin' all on my treat ball
All my pals in grime just grunt and look and stare Roll the ball, some food comes out - am I missing something here? Nothing beats the lasting taste and feelin' in my tum Of nosing my treat ball round the floor; it's more than just a crumb
Yow, my life is oh so right Yeah, the munchies coming down The morning sun is shinin' all on my treat ball
They would be Alpha and Maxi-Me. Alpha wears glasses on his forehead and Maxi-Me wears them on his eyes. (I think they go on the eyes.) Alpha is Alpha because he's from New York. Maxi-Me gets the pillow next to Alpha when we sleep which I get when Maxi-Me is working. He's bigger than me. Maxi-Me.
We spent alot of time in the mover last week. We took a drive to Kalispell, Montana. I don't know what Kalispell, Montana is but I'm glad they didn't leave me alone like they did Lucy, my cat.
Both Alpha and Maxi-Me kept moving around inside the mover. I liked it better when Alpha was behind the steering circle because I could see.
If Maxi-Me was behind the steering circle I was shoved in the back seat with my poop bags. Alpha's boss.
The first day, we made it to Gillette, WY and were looking for a place to sleep. We had to stop a few times. Maxi-Me kept saying No Pets Allowed but I didn't get that 'cause Lucy wasn't with us. After we left the mover, they locked me in the room with that square thing on, showing me a lot of moving color and sound. Sheesh, don't they know it's harder to sleep with that on?
When they came back, I could smell food. They were talking about having had iceberg lettuce for a salad. It seems Alpha had a bag of spinach in the car that he retreived and brought into the restaurant. Some lady from New Zealand then wanted to know where Alpha got the greens. He told her but unfortunately had none left to share. The lady was one of six members of a kiwi Harley Davidson gang that had come here (with their bikes) for the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally. None of us thought any more of it...until the next day.
We drove to Devil's Tower the next morning. The entire trip there the mover was bombarded by loud sounds. Maxi-Me said the motorcycles were in full throttle. When we got to Devil's Tower, the cacophony was in surround sound. There were more than 16 motorcycles. (I can only count to 16 - four per paw.) We decided not to stay because it was so loud it ruined the ambiance of the natural setting...or as natural as this setting can get.
America in a Nutshell
Next stop, the lovely C'mon Inn in the town of Bozeman, MT. It was a very nice place to stay. Lots of water in the lobby with secluded hot tubs and waterfalls - none of which I could go in. If you're ever in the midwest, go on in the C'mon Inn.
From Bozeman we drove straight to Kalispell. At this time, we started to smell smoke from the fires that were burning all over the region.
The mover finally stopped for what turned out to be two dark go-sleep's. We met two ladies that live in a house with animals like Alpha and Maxi-Me and me do. They had some animals I had never seen before.
I love the ladies. Look what they gave me when Alpha and Maxi-Me went to Glacier National Park.
I thought I'd let Alpha tell you about Glacier:
In order to do Glacier right you'd need three days minimum. We had one afternoon. And there were so many cars and people that one afternoon that the park rangers were letting everyone in for free. As it was we had to wait almost a half hour to get in the park and they were just waving you by.
We went to Lake MacDonald first. It was quiet (thankfully) and beautiful (obviously) despite the smoke that was hanging in the air from the forest fires burning in the area.
Avalanche Creek is beautiful but, being the most popular trail, the throngs of people were annoying (screaming kids; yuppies with baby carriages navigating a slatted path; a Christian group that had a dog on a leash despite a big sign that said No Dogs On This Trail [Editor: WTF?]) So we decided to leave the sprawling throngs and take a less-travelled road up the east side of the park. As it turns out, we came upon a portion of the park that was felled by fire in 2002 - apropos considering the fires tearing up the region on the other side of this mountain.
From the car, desolation was all around us; the trees were black or fallen. From the car, there was nothing to see. As we drove the sixteen mile road to find the trail on the map we started sensing something. At about mile 8, George voiced what I had been thinking.
'Look at all those baby pine trees. They're 2 feet tall.'
'And those are the trees we have in our backyard, aren't they?'
'Birch. I didn't know they could grow here.'
'And look at those wildflowers.'
We drove a few more miles, found Huckleberry Mountain and got out to walk the trail.
From the road, the skykline of black tree skeletons were ominous. But from the trail you could see something was happening lower on the forest floor. There was a carpet of new growth. The forest was being born again (in a good way). The pine trees were two feet tall and growing. There was a chipmunk. The wildflowers were covering the forest floor in yellow and purple. There goes a butterfly. There are Alpine trees growing. It's raining. The birch trees were fast-growing, some of them six feet tall. Alot of this new growth would probably one day be overtaken by the larger pines and become compost for the florest floor. But right now this was an amazing sight; and considering the western Montana fires that we had been dodging since arriving in the state, this seemed a fitting way to see Glacier. I had expected snow and mooses [Editor: Why isn't it meese like geese?] but George and I got to see something very spectacular, the birth of a new forest.
The next day they locked me in a room again and went for a rafting trip on the Flathead River. Boy. We left the ladies the day after the raft trip and were in the mover for a long time. Some little stuff happened but that's not important. We had a fun time and we're home safe and sound. That's important.
NOTE: You can see pictures of Glacier and the rafting trip by clicking the gallery image.
