Replacement Rooster

I have not yet written that requisite post about the joys of living in Paris - the baguettes, the dusk light bouncing off the Seine, the spring tulips blooming in Jardin du Luxembourg, blah blah blât. Part of the reason that post is missing from this blog is because I secretly despise gay Paris. I mourn my lost City of Angels.

I feel my ache most acutely in the early mornings. In Paris, I am greeted at 5:30 in the morning (thank you, jetlag) by the awakening birds outside my window. Although, I am beginning to suspect that these birds are not, in fact, waking up so much as stumbling home drunk from a long night out at the bird baths and calling out to their friends across the street [translated from bird French] "Yo Larry! You see that tight mockingbitch on the esplanade? Yeah, I was like, 'Tweet.' And she was all, 'Tweet?' And then we ate worms. Hey check out my plume!" [Bird bends over and flashes his nether-feathers.]

The obnoxiously lush secret garden-cum-courtyard in my building attracts these wanton warblers. They mingle in large crowds and "sing" to each other at the slightest sign of daybreak. Though Summer readily approaches (contrary to what the weather would indicate), I can hardly avoid this sound of Spring. Coupled with the annoyingly sonorous clang of St. François Xavier church bells, which awake me during my mid-morning naps (again, apropos jetlag), this Parisian racket does not encourage sleep or affection. Most nights, I fall asleep dreaming of my former home.

Spending every night year-round with my windows flung open, as most Angelos are wont to do, I was lulled into slumber at night by that quintessential Los Angeles institution: the homeless man and his shopping cart. Rattling his iron home down the back alley my window faced, he performed his civic duty of recycling every aluminum can in every dumpster. Since the Los Angeles landscape is a panorama of apartment buildings and Diet Coke-addicts, my friend had much terrain to cover each night. Like an apocalyptic reverse-Santa Claus, he had to retrieve his treasures from all the dumpsters in the city during the dark hours when the town's children slept.

The clang of aluminum echoing off the asphalt. The sweet music of drunk men arguing next door. The soothing sound of my neighbor yelling, "I've called the cops!"
How I miss my Hollywood life.

O L.A.! I will return to you, my love. I will come back for you - right after I finish my baguette . . .

Darwin at a Wedding

I am a Good Person.

Tonight, at the rehearsal dinner, my dear Compatriot regaled the table of bridesmaids with one of my classic Anonymous encounters: the tale of another wedding, another time, another bride.

Another win.

In a town called Racine, approximately 70 miles north of Chicago, deep in the anals of Wisconsin, past the cheese stores and porn shops of I-94, stands a plain-folked banquet hall. Inside, a crowd had gathered to celebrate the passing of a girlfriend into the chamber of the betrothed. The groom, a dear man, hailed from the area. Seated at the table with my (obviously, necessarily catty) sorority sisters, we engaged in such classic Wisconsin party games as "First person to spot a Packers jacket gets a buck" and "First person to spot a mullet wins," the latter game being finished as soon as it was announced. It was the kind of reception where cousin Randy bought the girls a round of Buttery Nipple shots and then tried in vain not to stare at our cleavage as we drank them.

Once we were all liquored up, the real games began. Keeping with tradition, near the end of the party the bride tosses her bouquet for all the single ladies to catch. For those of you who don't know, I'm pretty competitive. I like to win. And I'm proud of that. Because the fact is, the world needs winners. The world needs people who take games seriously. The world needs people who rise above the fray and catch that bouquet. The world doesn't need losers. The world needs winners. And I came to play.

Incidentally, there were some other players that evening. One of whom was in a wheelchair.

I am a Good Person.

I took my stance on the left wing of the pack. Crouched down - keep your center of gravity low - better balance. Arms out - wide - straight-arms. It's not a foul if you don't use your elbows. Eyes focused - adrenaline pulsing - ready. I've got sorority girls pressing against my back; I feel the hot breath of female desperation on the back of my neck. The wheelchair crowds my peripheral vision. The bride snaps the bouquet. It's a pouch punt - not a lot of distance - hangs to the right.
The wheelchair has the better angle. But I've got the better vertical.
I leap - stretch - over the girl in the wheelchair -
Caught!

I WIN!
Winner!
I'm the champion!

Now. Some people may say that the playing field was not level. That, perhaps, some of us had certain mobility advantages over others. And other people may say that it's not who won, but how the game was played. You know who those people are? Losers.

I came to play. And I do not apologize for my competitive drive or my superior skillz. The world needs winners. And sometimes, being a Winner means stealing the prize from the handicapped girl.

As is custom, the Winner of the bouquet toss must then dance with the man who catches the garter. Can you guess?

Cousin Randy.

Darwin, may I introduce you to my good friend: Karma.

My Grandfather's Name was Warner Pridemore Quillen Jr.

His friends called him "Pete."
I have a cousin named Pete. This is why.

Until recently, I did not know my grandfather's name. I had heard it, and I knew it was strange and hard to remember, so I didn't.

I did not know my grandfather. I know he died before I was born. I know he died of lung cancer and I know he smoked 2 packs of cigarettes a day. I know my grandmother, so I know why.

These are the things I know.

There could be more, but I never asked. Asking requires words - words I did not have (I was not born with my words I found them in my travels); requires talking, communicating, hearing, listening, face-to-face contact, and many more slippery things that elude my grandfather's clan.

To recap:
My grandfather is dead.
I did not know him.

But, finally, I did that thing I should have done long ago. I did that thing that all people with families should do - that all people who want to know their people should do. That thing that gives us a past and a perspective. That thing I never thought I could do:


I googled my grandfather.

Google knows my grandfather.

In fact, until recently, Google knew more about my grandfather than I did. But no longer. Now, I am moving forward/looking backward. Now, I am winning the war against technology.
Now, I know:

My grandfather's name was Warner Pridemore Quillen Jr.
But his friends called him "Pete."