Art Can't Hurt You

There is a fair that happens in Hermosa beach every year over labor day weekend. It involves a lot of crowds and arts and crafts, kiddie rides like slides and things that spin, pink puffy cotton candy, giant sausages with grilled onions wrapped in aluminum foil. There is even a beer garden where you can see a Journey cover band that has their very own groupies- not Journey groupies, but Journey cover band groupies.

To make the weekend's festivities more exciting for me, I went down on the Thursday before to add a bit of my own happiness, my own FUNism to the masses. My mission was simple: on either side of the strand entrance, I would put a message of joy and happiness for the fair people to read, to give them a smile, to help them think happy thoughts.


I share my fluffy thoughts with crayola chalk, the stuff kids use to play hopscotch and draw daisy's and dinosaurs on their driveways. Harmless. Good clean fun. Yet somehow, every time I go out with my chalk, I get people telling me that what I am doing is wrong. They just mumble it as they walk by. No one ever tries to actually confront me or discuss my motives or rights to my face, they just mumble words like grafitti and vandalism as they pass me by. These same people would never consider asking a person to pick up garbage they saw some litterbug throw on the street or pick up a cigarette that was tossed out a car window. I wish these closet vigilantes would ask someone to scrape up gum they just spat out their mouth onto the street or sidewalk and leave me and my chalk alone.

Somehow, because I am on my knees and coloring with chalk, I look like the person they should stop, a criminal easy enough to apprehend. Until the police come and put the cuffs on my wrists all I have to say is "Hell no I won't go!" The world needs a few less Starbucks cups laying around next to the McDonald's burger wrappers and a few more chalk daisys and stick people. One more message from the grave of Dr. Seuss saying "Fun is Good" in crayola chalk isn't going to hurt anyone. Sometimes I just have the need to ask the world to smile with me, to say hello! Occasionally I go back later and observe, and most people do get a smile out of it. My soul begs me to share my art. My O.C. D. demands that I bring along handiwipes to keep the dust on my hands to a minimum.

But, this Thursday was different. This time a brave man came right up to me and started a dialog.

As I started to chalk on the strand wall, a restaurant owner came up and asked me what I was doing.
I explained I was playing with chalk.
"Why?" he asks.
"Because it makes me happy" was my reply as I smiled up at him. "Because it's FUN".
"Does it wash off?" he wants to know.
"Of course, it will fade within just a few days, its just sidewalk chalk, like children play with, haven’t you ever played with sidewalk chalk? I ask.
"NO" He says, almost offended that I would assume he could do such a thing.
"Well then, that's our problem!" I declare, as I offer him a piece of beautiful deep blue chalk. "Here-try it."
"NO!" he says loudly and recoils.
"Why?" I ask him.
"I am afraid" he replies.
"You are afraid of chalk?" I ask.
He starts to back away from me as he says in his best grown up voice; "Don't you need a permit to do this? This is city property!"
I smile at him sweetly and reply "I don't need a permit to play with chalk and if this is city property, then it belongs to me." I continued with my message of JOY and left him with his fear of it. He walked back into his restaurant and was left with this message when I walked away.


If you see someone without a smile
Give them one of yours.

More Funism here: The Fun Zone; The Center for the Study of Funism

Father's Day 2011

This Father's Day I made new happy memories hanging out in Carmel Valley with Duke, Chris, Dustin, Jessica and their Mom; Lisa.
Here is a video of the boys jamming out down by the river.

What a beautiful day, what a beautiful life indeed

Riding in L.A.

Nobody walks in LA. We all sit comfortable, or uncomfortable in our little metal and glass cells and strive to stay in our bubble untouched by others.

Today I felt deep concern for a stranger, then overwhelming sadness and loss followed by such joy and hope and levity- in the course of perhaps 25 seconds. It was an entire day of emotions squashed and intensified like the rest of L.A. living.

My morning started with breakfast with my Dad. We ate at a fairly well known place called Joes which is a family style restaurant- that means that we share a bench with other people who are having their own breakfast dates. Typical to all plans made in L.A. we had a date at 8am and so at 8:15 I had to use the cell phone to call to see where he was. "Oh I wish you would have called me" he said, "I had to move my cars- street sweeping" In L.A. cars take precedent over people. Parking tickets cost twice as much as breakfast dates so that just makes sense in numbers. I told my Dad I would wait and sat at that bench alone for 15 minutes. The waitress got my coffee order, but other than that, I had no human contact. There were people sitting next to me, on the same blue vinyl padded bench, an arms length away, I could smell their food and hear them chew, but we didn’t talk. It’s like we were all still in out cars.

When my dad showed up we were engaged in conversation, and I wasn't really aware of anyone around us. Towards the end of our meal, I dropped my purse on the ground and had to bend over to pick up my pen and wallet. I was at the very end of the bench, next to a window, my head below the table to retrieve my belongings. As I pulled myself and my purse back up above the table, a woman walked past the 8 other people sitting on the bench, slid a piece of paper onto my table top and walked away quickly. It was as if we were in Jr. High and she was passing a note, except that when I grabbed what she had left behind, it was simply a sticker sheet with all but 3 stickers missing. (2 of the stickers were Disney witches, and one a Disney warlock, but I am not even going to try to read into that). "Do you know her?" My dad asks. I look at the back of this lady’s head as she rushes out of the restaurant. "I can’t say I have ever seen her before in my life. Perhaps she thought I dropped this out of my purse? " I suggested. "She came over from the other side of the restaurant" My dad explained. I try to re-create the vague image I have of her in my mind- well-dressed, short hair- dyed a bright orange color that is obviously not natural but still socially acceptable in a work environment. "I have no idea who that woman is, or why she would leave this with me" I replied. My dad became frustrated, almost angry. "What the hell was that about? He demands, "Go ask her!" "Dad, I’m not going to chase her, I don’t really care. It doesn’t make any sense to me." My Dad surprised me when he dropped the issue. Letting go is not a family trait, so I suppose we both made great strides in our acceptance of whatever may be will be.
　
I meet my friend at the mall at 10 am. I need to buy a dress for a fancy semi formal function and I am not prepared. I wear combat boots, tights, mini skirts. Everything I own is black. I don’t wear heels. I don't own "Country club casual" but I did like the idea of the chance to get a bit dressed up. I had tried shopping by myself the day before with zero results.



The entire time I am shopping for a posh party frock for this event, I am reminded of shopping with my Mom for my first ever real "Work party" when I was a manager in a restaurant at the age of 21. This particular restaurant we got to wear "costumes" dress up as kitschy waitresses from the 1950"s. I was having the same feelings shopping for the dress today as I did then; I want to look pretty, I want to look dressed up. But I want to look like ME! I don’t want to look like I am wearing my Mother’s clothes. When I show up at the place where people make more than me, and people are older and more established than me, I want to feel confident. I don’t want to feel under dressed or in loaner clothes – I want these folks to look at me and think- "She likes the way she looks." Maybe they would never tattoo their arms and dye their hair pink, but I look beautiful and comfortable and my outfit is congruent with me. I want to feel like Maria in West Side Story when I get dressed for the party.

After trying all the stores that I know are cheaper, more practical, I finally go to the store I love, the store I can’t afford, and I find the dress. No I find TWO dresses that I love and would be pained to leave behind. They are so far out of my budget that I should have never even tried them on. For some reason, the sales person in there was helpful and nice, in spite of my budget clothes I arrive in. She smiled, she helped, and she earned her commission. I suppose these days it shouldn't be important to be these days that the sales competent at her job, in addition to taking my money but it is.

I left my friend and went home to see the dog, leave my 2 new pretty dresses and then go get my boy from school. I was exhausted and ready for a nap, but had a long drive ahead of me. My Mom was still heavy on my mind, but I had pushed her into my subconscious. I was really just aware of the good times, nothing sad or morose. I came to a stoplight that has a very dangerous crosswalk. There was an old woman crossing and something about her build, or her outfit or her pep in her step made me think that perhaps if my mom had lived longer she may have looked like that. I was concerned for her crossing the street and looked all around to make sure no cars were speeding towards her. I rarely do this anymore, but something compelled me to say out loud- "I love you Mom, I’ve been thinking a lot about you." I said it loud enough for the sound of my own voice to suddenly twist my face in pain and bring tears to my eyes, but certainly quiet enough that my stereo and closed windows kept anyone else from hearing what I said. My deep sadness shocked me, my voice shocked me and I wiped the tears from my eyes as quickly as they came. The old woman crossed the street safely and I felt glad for her safety.

Then I felt someone from the car next to me looking at me. It was a young boy- maybe 23 or so, handsome and boyish and full of sparkle in his eyes. He looked right at my twisted face, smiled the most genuine smile as if we were old friends and waved to me in the most cheerful hello. My smile was sudden, involuntary, unexpected and welcome. I smiled and waved back and he seemed satisfied, gave me a nod and turned his head forward again, kind of bopping and dancing to the music in his car. How did he feel me? How did he know I needed a friend? An L.A. friend; only passing in his bubble while I’m in mine.

We are so connected as people, no matter how we surround ourselves in glass and metal and unshared thoughts and grief. He touched my heart with that smile and took my grief from me. He gave me hope. In him I saw myself as a carefree girl before my Mom died. I saw an image of my son a few years from now, with his whole life in front of him and his security around him. In the 50 seconds or less that I was at that crosswalk, I felt concern for a stranger, I felt deep sadness for the loss of someone most dear, I felt gratitude and joy. This was not insignificant. This was not just some moment in time that washes over you. This left a mark deep inside me that has changed me. This moment has given me gratitude. This moment gave me something more. That smile changed the course of my day.



I imagine logically that he must have looked over at me, saw my face filled with grief and he just thought he’d try to say "Hey". But no one says "Hey" in LA. and honestly I don’t think he was looking at me that long. He was watching to see that the old lady got across the street safely also. I think he felt me. I believe he felt my pain and reached right out of his bubble. No one ventures out of their bubble, not even if you are sitting alone next to them for 15 minutes in a restaurant.

I wonder again about the lady at breakfast with the stickers. Did she need a smile? Did I miss the cue I was supposed to see? Did she see me as the person who needed more than I was getting from my own little bubble at that moment? Did I not even know it?

So I gather my emotions, and do the best I can to act like a stable person, a responsible person who can handle the most daunting task of raising a 12-year-old boy. I pick him up and he is excited about his day, excited about the drive we need to take 20 miles away to Hollywood. We talk for a while about school, homework, substitute teachers, what he had for lunch. After a while, when our talk had slowed down and I was off the freeway and on surface streets in Los Angeles, I do what I often do and put on my wax lips. Similar to the feeling I used to get when I was a smoker and would absent-mindedly smoke an entire cigarette and then feel like I never had one; I often forget that I even have them in my mouth.

I had my lips on in the car for a while, and my son had his head down looking at the phone or the ipod or his hands or any of the things that keep tween-aged boys head in a constant downward position. At I stoplight I heard laughing. Next to me were two tough looking dudes, riding low and deep back in the seats of their dark Honda. They looked tough, but they were looking at me with smirks on their face and when I turned my head to look at them they started laughing. I pulled a spare pair of lips from the center console of my car. I rolled down the window and the guy closest to me says, "I was hoping you’d look at me! I tossed him the package of wax lips- "Wear these and make other people smile" I told him.

Their faces changed. These 27 year-old tough guys looked like they were 8 and it was Christmas morning. That man grabbed that package of lips and ripped them open like he just got a new X-box. He put them in his mouth and his eyes were so bright and smiling, he gave me his tough guy pose- head cocked back and flashed me the peace sign, and drove off. I wish I could have caught up with them again and got a photo. I thought of all the other people that would be driving by them and seeing the wax lips and laugh, and then possibly pass me and see me wearing mine.
　
I don’t know why I have such a desperate need to connect with strangers- to try to bring a brief moment of joy. I wear wax lips in public; I make chalk murals in the street. I leave tiny plastic mermaids in unsuspecting places for people to find like treasures. It’s not art, it a movement. It’s FUNISM. Fun as a religion. It's my way of trying to lure the people I meet in to trying to be nice to one another.

We are all here alone in our bubbles. Why does that have to be?
Why are we not waving and smiling when we see some old 40 year old crying in the car next to us? I am so thankful for that young boy's smile today, he changed my mood. Because of him my mood changed quickly and I was able to be a better mother. Because my mood changed I felt inspired to put on my wax lips and then I changed the mood of 2 men that looked like they would have never went out and bought wax lips on their own. Who knows how many people smiled when they saw them with the lips on? Why can’t we all have a little more silliness in our lives? Isn’t it silly to pass thousands of people every day and NEVER make eye contact? Is it any less silly to want to see people smile at you?

Memories of Mom

I can’t remember my mom ever sleeping. My entire life living with her she would go to bed after I did and when I woke up she would be at the kitchen table drinking coffee-already showered, hair already dried. I do remember her owning robes and slippers so I don’t know where that falls into the picture except to say that my mom was modest. I never saw her naked, never saw her in her underpants and only remember seeing her in a swimsuit when I was in my early 20’s. We took a water aerobics class together and when she came out from the dressing room in her modest 1 piece suit I was in awe of her. "Oh my God Mom! Look at you! You are so beautiful, look at that figure"! She laughed at my reaction and told me I had the same body --but it wasn’t true.

My Mom had a class and grace I have never seen in another person, ever. I’ve seen actresses try to convey it on screen and they can’t even pretend that as well as my mom lived it. She could accept a compliment or give one in the most genuine way. Years ago I wanted to have this quality that she had but I’ve quit trying.

My Mom’s coffee cups had little feet on them, and delicate handles and rims that tipped slightly out at the top and the material was so thin you could sometimes see through it. She drank from the pot of weak coffee that she would brew in the morning all day long,

My Mom had amazing table manners and even tough she grew up very poor and underprivileged in Detroit, you would have guessed she dined with the Queen every night.

My Mom never complained or gossiped and kept all of her emotions and feelings inside. If I so much as stub a toe, I need to tell every person I meet every detail about it. My Mom was terminally ill with cancer, dealing with a mentally ill son and a fiscally irresponsible ex husband and had a pot-head daughter who occasionally modeled nude for art classes. All anyone knew about My Mom's world unraveling at the end of her life was that her office door was closed more often.

My Mom was an amazing woman; our relationship was often much less than amazing. We mainly didn’t get along, but luckily for me, the last few years of her life she and I made peace. When I think about where she came from- an absent racist, alcoholic father, a meek subservient mother living in poverty- I see that my Mom gave me so much more than she ever had. She gave me so much more than you could ever expect a person of that background would be capable of giving.

My mom rarely spoke of her past and the small amount of information I have I've collected from my grandparents and photos and the very rare fleeting references my mom would make. She never spoke about her heritage much but when she was older and preparing to die she started to mention our Chippewa Indian heritage and tried to help my Grandpa preserve his small percentage of reservation land.

My mom took me to Minnesota to see where I came from and meet other relatives of mine that share the same Chippewa bloodline. But some memory of that place hurt her. Some relative in that group had hurt her and the entire trip went bad in such a way I had never seen. Even then, in her anger/hatred/bitterness she was in such control that I never dare ask for specifics.

When she died and I saw her body she looked like an old wise Indian woman. I had to identify her body and it was difficult because it was as if I was seeing her for the first time. She was just a small, delicate woman, not the giant I knew. Having to identify her body helped me come to terms with the idea that she was only human, when so many of us viewed her as something much greater than that.

Happy Mother’s day Mom. I miss you each and every day.

Quest for Smiles

I like to make life FUN, for myself and other people. I hide toys in people's houses, I do chalk murals on friend's driveways. Recently FUN people have been participating in my new artistic movement, my not-so-secret-society called "The Wax Lips Brigade" if you wanna play, grab some delicious Wax Lips and send me your picture. I update the photos often on Facebook/funism. Life should be FUN so why not wear wax lips while you drive to work? You will be surprised how many people you can make smile.

The Eel

When I was 18 and living on my own I saw a freshwater moray eel at the pet store. I immediately had my boyfriend help me set up a freshwater tank so that I could bring this strange pet home and call my own.

The eel at the time was about 12 inches long, about as thick as my pointer finger and a dark caramel color. He was the most unusual freshwater fish anyone had ever seen and I began to collect other unusual fish for my tank. I had a needle nose gar that ate mini guppies. I had painted glass fish in a variety of fluorescent colors. I had two blue fish that would meet lip to lip and push each other back and forth across the tank- it was if they were fighting with kisses.

The eel looked pretty creepy-always opening and closing his mouth just like the big eels you see at aquariums and on TV shows about the ocean. He would burrow into the colored gravel at the floor of the tank and kind of bob in and out of the decorative lava rocks. His funny eel characteristics made him seem to have much more of personality than most fish that just swim around in tanks.

He began to have other strange habits, like always swimming up to the top of the tank and climbing into the out of tank filter and hiding. I would search the tank and when I noticed he was missing I would have to open the outside filter and dump him back in to the tank. I never wanted to touch him because he was a creepy water snake with a strange tooth filled mouth. He was fun to look at, but I didn't want to touch him.

Another funny thing he did was attempt suicide. Often I would come home from work and find him on the ground, a much darker brown than he was in the water. From being out of the water so long, he would be shriveled up and wrinkled. The first time this happened, I was certain that he was dead, but put him back in the water just in case. He quickly turned the lighter color and wiggle through the water and was as good as new.

These suicide attempts became a regular course of events. When my boyfriend moved in with me I explained to him the coming home ritual. First thing when we came home we had to check to see if the eel was still in the tank. If the eel was gone, we had to check the filter and if he wasn’t there we had to search the floor. I told him no matter what the eel looked like, no matter how dead he seemed we had to put him back in the water and he would come back to life. Sometimes he would be out of the tank for hours before we put him in the water, but each time he could come back to life. Re-animated eel.

The suicidal eel carried on like this for years. I had to move into my Mom’s condo for a few months, and I brought my fish tank with me. My Mom, who didn’t like snakes wasn’t very keen on me moving a water snake into her house. I assured her that he didn’t bite. He never did bite me, but he did have those creepy teeth. I explained to her it’s suicidal ways, and asked he to please follow the eel suicide watch protocol and put him back into the tank if she found him. She said there was no way she could pick him up and put him in the water. I suggested she use rubber dish gloves, even tongs or salad forks if she had to.

For the few months I lived with my Mom she never had to pick up the eel. I only had to grab him off the floor a few times myself and was always happy that my Mom’s small dog didn’t eat him while he was on the floor.

I was leaving on a trip for a week, and assured my Mom that the eel would be on his best behavior. I left knowing the eel may be successful in his suicide attempt with me gone and my mom in charge of re-animating him. I left hoping for the best.

When I returned, the eel wasn’t in the tank. He wasn’t in the filter and he wasn’t on the floor. When my Mom came home from work I asked what happened and she told me he had made his final jump to the death. She found him on the floor the day after I left. He was dark brown and wrinkled and she decided it was pointless to put him back in the tank. She figured he was past the point of re-animation.

Not knowing if I wanted to bury him or flush him or trash him, my Mom grabbed him with a paper towel wrapped him up and put him in a zip lock bag and then put him in the freezer. He was in the freezer for several days before I got home from my trip.

I had this eel for many years and we had been through a lot together. He had taught me something about perseverance and having a strong will to live. I decided I wanted to stretch him out and seal him on a plaque. As I unzipped the bag and unrolled the paper towel, the thought occurred to me that maybe he still wanted to live. I opened the fish tank lid and let his frozen wrinkled brown paper towel lint covered body fall into the water.

He sunk to the bottom and I was sad knowing that he had his last fling. I always joked that he was trying to evolve and live on land and that one day he may just sprout legs and walk away. I was sad that I didn’t get to witness his evolution. I was sad that my Mom didn’t put him in the water when she first found him.

Just when I was about to pull him out of the tank, he moved very slowly. His next movement was a bit faster and then in a rapid jerking motion he burrowed his body completely into the gravel floor covering. A few more wiggles and he emerged from the gravel without any lint on him, and back to his beautiful dark caramel color. He slid through the water like he had never been frozen for days. He had survived another attempt.

What if we could push ourselves out of our comfort zone like the eel? What if we tried to just leave our normal world and risk all to try a different way? Perhaps the eel is a good example of striving to "live outside of the box" and surviving against all odds? Imagine if we had the ability to survive for hours or days completely out of our natural element? Most days I feel like I can’t survive a chill for more than 10 minutes without my sweater.

Or maybe he is a bad example- maybe he really was a quitter and suicidal? Maybe I prolonged his life years longer than he wanted? Imagine if every time we felt like jumping ship, someone came along and picked us up? Would we be grateful? Would we feel inspired to make something better of our life? Would we just come to expect it and throw ourselves out of the water at every chance, knowing the safety net is there?

Who knows what the lesson of the eel is. Perhaps it’s different for each of us. There probably isn't a lesson here at all. I just know that he was a survivor and a super cool and interesting pet. I have never seen another one in a pet store, or I would set up a tank just to have another one.

The eel lived for several more years. I had a new roommate who had pets of his own; cats. The eel jumped out several times and became a live plaything for the cats. I would come home and find him scraped and scarred in another room, carry him to the tank and re-animate him.

Eventually the cats won. The eel just couldn’t beat them up and eventually they did too much damage. One day I put him in the water and he just didn’t revive. He was done. I wanted to keep him around as a conversation piece. I wanted him around to bring up his story and tell people about his amazing eel life.

I tried attaching his body to a plaque and coated him with resin, but I didn’t know what I was doing so he shriveled up to just a twig compared to what he once was. I said goodbye and put him in the trash.

Jaan Pehechaan Ho