traffic school wrap up

I'm sad to report that the final day of traffic school yielded only one strange traffic violator. But he made up for the 30 other milquetoast pawns who signed in at the Courtyard Marriott of Marina Del Rey. An imbalanced man named Tim waddled back and forth from his seat, fetching himself pitcher after pitcher of hotel quality ice water. He was a rotund man who required suspenders for his large jeans. He reminded me of an older Horatio Sanz. He wore a magenta colored tie which upon further review turned out to be of the Spiderman variety with the masked Peter Parker scaling the heights of Tim's white shirt.

He seemed quite pleasant at first; making jokes about war and looking to us, the strangers surrounding him to laugh along. But once Don the gay lion began his traffic school schtick, Tim immediately up and waddled out into the hallway. Around the room, there seemed to be the tacit assumption that as such a large man, he must have an incredible amount of weight on his bladder which requires constant emptying. Incessant emptying. Medically prescribed emptying. He left every 10 minutes, shuffling in front of the entire class. After his 6th or 7th trip, flowing-robes Marcia gently asked him if he would stay during our lunch break in order to make up the time he was spending in (we thought) the restroom. Apparently, he was going to smoke. At this Marcia balked and became stern in her insistence that he stay at lunch to watch some ancillary traffic documentary and that he try to stave off the nicotine craving until the break. Oh, how Tim turned. It became clear to us that his nicotine dependency was trumped by his sanity deficiency. Tim started taking a child's tone and repetition and asked "Is it time for our break yet? We should be due for the break now. I think it's time for a break." A young man who shared a "desk" with Tim stifled his incredulous snicker. I have a feeling my mouth was agape. Tim needed to smoke and when did he need to? NOW.

When the break finally arrived, Tim achieved a personal best for time elapsed while getting outdoors to light up. I got on the cell phone with the boyfriend to recount the absurdity of what I had seen this morning. I saw Marcia in the hotel lobby and gave her a hug. I asked if she had ever had such an odd and troublesome student. She hadn't. But, she handled him with grace and patience. By far, the best lesson learned by this graduate of Lucky Brake Traffic School.

lucky brake traffic school

I set my purse down to reserve my space on a dark green loveseat, one of many sofas arranged in semi-circular rows at the Alliance Francais, an empty room on a busy commercial street with tall ceilings and many cabinets. A most curious venue for Sunday's session of Lucky Brake Traffic School. The punny name alone was enough for me to give them my money. I stood in line to register for the day's class and met Marcia, whom I had spoken to on the phone a few days earlier. She was exactly as I imagined: kind, warm, the type of woman who will be a spinster aunt to countless daughters of girlfriends, who wears brightly colored, parrot-printed, flowing clothes that are easy to launder. She informed me over the phone that for Sunday classes, she brings breakfast pastries and fresh fruit. I imagined warm croissants and sliced melon with berries. Come Sunday, I learned that one man's donuts and slightly green bananas are Marcia's pastries and fruit. When I paid her, she fanned out my change from wad of folded bills in her blue fanny pack. Her posture may have indicated that she was examining her belly button.

When I returned to my purse which I so optimistically left unattended, an older gentleman now occupied the seat next to mine. He wore a hearing aid and liver spots. We smiled at each other but turned back to the front of the room and awaited our savior. Our lord Don entered with his long strawberry blond hair looking like a gay lion. Don knows a lot about a lot and immediately cracked sarcastic jokes to put us at ease. All week, he teaches traffic school to the indignant, wrongfully accused. He was no-nonsense but all-factoids. Did you know that those red-light violation cameras blur out the face of the passenger due to a lawsuit? Apparently, some Speedy Gonzales was caught with his mistress and his wife received the photo ticket in the mail. This was but an amuse-bouche of the fascinating mish mash of information Don has acquired over the years.

I surveyed the room for statistics. Men: 65%, Women: 35%. Ethnicity: Mainly Caucasian (a lot of Russians) with a few Latinos, two Blacks and one Asian. There goes the stereotype. Among the motley conglomeration, a few criminals were of particular note. Peter the trucker didn't seem capable of sharing his experiences without the assertive slamming down of sentences like an emphatic hand on a table. He wrapped his head in a bandana emblazoned with the American flag and wore a yellowing Harley-Davidson t-shirt. Weirdo hippie Daniel, a private school teacher had conspiracy theories about traffic lights and city street layouts who claimed that after going 35 mph, the human body wasn't supposed to be violently stopped at a stop sign or light. He was cited by photo for not stopping at a red light. "It's like Big Brother! Where does it end?" Had his students' parents heard his tirade about the police, attendance would have surely dropped. Barbara sat in front of me, wearing a navy blue t-shirt embroidered with the city of Montreal. She wore matching red shorts which showed off her thick columnar legs and filed her nails while Don spoke.

During our first break of the day, my sofa partner turned to me and asked me if I was from Shanghai or Beijing. I immediately assumed he had an Asian fetish. As the day dragged forward, THAT stereotype also went out the window. Mr. Kriesel, as I came to know him, inquired of my ancestry because he was born in Shanghai, the son of an army man, a lawyer who eventually went on to broker the international release of all major US films in China, Japan, Singapore and Thailand. He was a fighting for anti-piracy rights in China before video cameras were even invented let alone used for bootlegging. William lived there until he was 13 and still speaks and reads Mandarin and Shanghainese. He enlisted in the army at age 17 and became an interpreter for General Stilwell. At a time when Americans were not allowed to travel to China, he was being photographed at meetings with Mao, Chou and Chiang. After his tour, he enrolled at USC to study architecture. He eventually had his own firm with 60 employees. He's been friends with Frank Gehry for over 50 years and has chided him about Bilbao in Spain (shouldn't have built it in stone) and the Walt Disney Concert Hall in Los Angeles (not enough leg room.) This October, he will receive a lifetime achievement award from an architectural group. Perhaps we were drawn to our green couch by our common infraction: he too received a speeding ticket; in Coronado, California where he owns a home. He was driving back to Brentwood, too quickly it seems, where he has lived for as long as he's known Frank, in the home of his own design. He has two children, a lawyer who lives in Paris and a museum curator in Washington, D.C. Between them, they have given him 6 grandchildren. When I asked him what he thought of today's generation, he was incredulous at their collective and innate dexterity with electronics.

When I meet successful people, it is not only their accommplishments which amaze me. The standards and legacy they will leave behind are just as stunning. I sometimes wonder what I will leave behind and to whom. Will I have newspaper articles written about my work? Will websites (aside from this one) be created to track my progress? Will the photos I've framed for myself one day hang for strangers to see? The questions instill in me a sense of purpose and immediate duty. As if I am reminded when I meet another fascinating individual that I too must mold myself into a person I admire. The Shrimp has been accepted to law school at UC Davis and of this, I could not be more proud. She is a person I admire, despite her trepidation. I know that she will leave a legacy of intellectual brilliance and legal acumen. Meow Mix and I will smile and say "Isn't that nice?"

I have another 4 hours of traffic school tomorrow morning. Afterwards, I am scheduled to pick-up a few photos from the developer, one of which the boyfriend has requested so that he may hang it in his apartment. It is a gallery as good as any. In time, perhaps my walls will be covered not only with my photographs, but also with accolades and diplomas. The first of which just might be issued by the Lucky Brake Traffic School. For unparalleled introspection.

in the dawg house

Having been shuffled twice through the City of Los Angeles Metropolitain Courthouse Traffic Court Division, I've never felt more intimate with my fellow man. I could have paid my bail and received a point on my driving record for the next three years but, I had a strong suspicion that a trip downtown and later, a day at traffic school would make a fascinating, blog-worthy study in human behavior.

My first trip to the slammer ended with a misunderstanding and my having to wait in two consecutive lines to have my case re-opened. As I waited in the second line for one of the three open windows (out of a possible 10) to become available, I noticed a young man pacing back and forth, also waiting to see a court clerk. He wore a baseball cap, oversized jeans, shining white running shoes and a delightful denim jacket, also oversized, with "Destruction 562" aibrushed on the back. For jewelry on that fine morning, he selected large diamond encrusted stars for both ears. With the royalties from his recording contract, he should have bribed the cop who pulled him over or retained a lawyer to handle this legal minutia or perhaps hired a stylist to select an appropriate court-going outfit. Some people pay no mind to conventions. They are hip hop, all day, every day. I wondered aloud to two women ahead of me in line "How are you going to come to court looking like that?" They agreed and we became temporary comrades. Women Against Fools.

On my second visit, I became even more intimate with (read: sandwiched between) my fellow man: on my right, a man who called strangers "dawg" and who held a fist up to his mouth when he chuckled to himself; on my left, a large, wheezing beast whose right side flopped over our common armrest, claiming it for its master. Earlier, outside the courthouse Mr. Dawg waited in line behind me and struck up a conversation with another gentleman who also felt like "this" was "bullshit." One of the most common things I found amongst people who go to traffic court is that people are pissed off. They aren't pissed off at something terrible like injustice. They are pissed off at inconvenience and probably their own stupidity. When you obtain your driver's license, the State/ County/ City prepares you for what the rules are when you drive on the roads. They give you fair warning. When these people get caught, they feel as if they have been wronged. Apparently, Mr. Dawg and his Commiserator found solace in their hatred of the law. Their conversation veered from the profitability of kitchen installation to the attractiveness of the female officers at this specific courthouse. Mr. Dawg was cited for an expired registration. The Commiserator received a noise violation. I focused on my New York Times Magazine and refused to engage. The word "dawg" was uttered at least 8 times.

I left the courtroom to visit the restroom and when I returned, I squeezed back into my assigned seat. The Wheezer seemed to be asleep or on the verge of it. Mr. Dawg eyed me with what I perceived to be interest in a conversation. I ignored him as a recording was played on the PA system. An English then Spanish voice outlined what was to be expected for the proceedings. Then the Honorable Judge Paul T. Suzuki entered and again reiterated what was expected of the defendants and what we could expect from him and his staff. He clarified that the fines he would assign for various violations would only be about one fourth of the total amount due the Court. After receiving our sentences, we were to see the cashiers in the adjacent room for the final calculation of the cost including various penalty assessment fees, deferred payment fees and one size fits all court fees. Simple. Apparently, the general population of traffic violators insists on a straightforward price tag for their infractions. Case after case, the Judge was indignantly asked for the exact amount. The people would not tolerate sticker shock. When it was Mr. Dawg's turn, he leaned with one arm on the defendant's podium and made his thought proceeses known to the judge and to everyone else in the room.

"So, just tell me, your honor, how much is that gon' be?" He was given a ballpark figure and paused to think. "Aight, let me tell you what I'm gonna do. I'm gon' go ahead and plead guilty now but, I can work it off with community service right?" The thought of Mr. Dawg reaching out to the community made me nauseous.

I paid my fine, albeit in error, prior to my appearance in court. I was there to request traffic school. The judge granted my request which meant I had to then pay for the "privilege" to attend. In the cashier office, I was queued up behind Mr. Dawg who would occasionally shake his head at only God knows what and muffle a "dayam" into his fist. I didn't see the Wheezer again so, I can only imagine his fate. As we neared the front of the line, a young man joined the back of the line wearing a bleached out t-shirt that said something about running from the police. A kindred spirit.

"Yo, dawg, where'd you get that shirt at?" inquired our friend.
"I got it down in Florida."
"It's tight, dawg." Fist to mouth. I prayed that I would never see Mr. Dawg again. 39 dollars and few hours later I was enrolled in traffic school. A very colorful imagination made the prospect appealing. I wondered what sorts of chimeric creatures I would encounter there.

i've grown accustomed to my face

It doesn't happen very often, but about once every two years, I am required to wear make-up. Ironically, it's usually in conjunction with a poetry performance wherein I am supposed to reveal my inner most thoughts. I'm supposed to come with my naked emotions. This daily ritual of women everywhere is foreign and ridiculous; foreign due to its rarity in my life and ridiculous in its long forgotten purpose: to make the wearer more attractive by creating the illusion of a symmetrical face with large eyes, full lips flush with blood, strong cheek bones; all manifestations of estrogen, sexual excitement and good genetics respectively. These exhibitions in turn are all factors which help women find mates, in the most primal sense. And primal it is when men don't realize why they find a certain made-up woman attractive. They just do. Fools. Make-up conceals, distracts and skirts around imperfections. It could be poetry's polar opposite.

Two weeks ago, the biannual make-up event occured as I had my first poetry gig since I made my pledge. It was a filmed event so as part of the "talent" for the night, I needed to be "camera ready." If left to my own devices, I may have inadvertently given myself a look that could be best described as Marilyn Manson-esque. I am an extraordinarily lazy person when it comes to personal grooming; if you see me with clean hair, it is likely that I am going to a wedding reception or a grand opening of a new Jamba Juice. I tried to get into a routine of wearing make-up a few years ago. I researched fashion magazine product lists and asked stylish women for their favorite brands. I bought a new lipstick and mascara. I would forget to re-apply my lipstick during the day and by 4pm would look like a 5 year-old with a red popsicle dependency. The mascara made my precious few eyelashes fall out leaving me with bald lids. I stopped trying after a few attempts and resigned to leave the painting of my face in the hands of professionals.

I waited patiently in the tiny dressing room while the other girls took their turn under the deft palette of Valerie Noble, a superior make-up artist who is intelligent, wise and lovely to be in the presence of. She used to be a hairdresser but turned to make-up a few years ago and loves what she does. We discussed the care and cleaning of brushes. Make-up artists are incredibly giving people. I assume they have to be in order to beautify strangers for a living. When it was my turn, I ambled into the fold-out chair. I sat bemusedly as Valerie applied her various flesh tinted foundations to my face. The brush was soft and silky. Admittedly, I was excited when she opened a small pink plastic case of false eyelashes. I had only gotten them once before when I was shot for a different poetry gig. As I looked down to hold my eyelids steady, she dipped each set of 4-5 lashes into the glue and applied them along my natural lash line. The glue was cold but warmed up when it dried. Every so often, she would survey the progress and would say "Wow." It made me feel special. After the eyelashes, mascara, blush and lip gloss were carefully added to the canvas of my visage. Valerie finally presented me with a mirror and as I held it, I looked into the face of someone who was beautiful and sparkly. It wasn't me; it was the magic of an artist's impression of me. In this make-up, I wasn't afraid of the spotlight or stage fright. I was afraid of smearing myself.

My evaluation of my performance was satisfactory. The boyfriend observed the proceedings along with two of our friends, The Duke and Penny, who had never seen live spoken word before. It had been a long time since I'd been in the company of poetry newbies. They soaked up the words with open-minds. They were the best kind of audience a poet can hope for, the kind that has no idea what to expect thus will accept everything in relation to the whole collection of poems and form their opinions for the first time at the end of the night. After the show, I met the three of them at a bar across the street where we discussed the highlights and low, LOWlights of the show and I was fascinated by their reactions to certain poets. Penny was generous with praise. The Duke was a little more discerning. However, poet friends of mine like Ratpack Slim and Shihan whom I admire and am honored to know were among their favorites. A few less than stellar poets, whom I also had the regrettable fortune of watching became the butts of our jokes. Poetry is subjective like any art but unlike something more specialized like say, sculpting, we have all been asked to write a poem at least once in our lives. Even if it was a rhymed couplet in elementary school on the intricate topic of one's "favorite color," we are all poets thus, we each have the license to critique. Perhaps they weren't able to comprehensively articulate their preferences, but the Duke and Penny both knew who they liked and who they didn't like. Couldn't explain it, they just did. But enough about that bullshit, I want to talk about my make-up.

During intermission, Valerie came up to a few of us poets and wished us well for the rest of the performance and told us that she had to leave. The boyfriend happened to be standing next to me so, I introduced them. She asked how he liked my make-up since I had mentioned that he had never seen me with it on before. Unprompted by me via dirty look or clandestine elbow jab (he was too far away) the boyfriend told her that I looked beautiful but that he liked me the way I am. She smiled and said that he was a keeper. I told her that I loved her work. She gave me her card. I hope to see her again.

When I returned home that evening, I was obsessed with my new face. I stared at my fake eyelashes with such intensity that I glimpsed Narcissus' rapture. I took photo after photo of this face because I knew that it would not be seen again for another two years. Prolonging the beauty was not an option. The boyfriend advised me to indulge and keep the make-up on overnight. Although I am no expert, the idea sounded disgusting. I lingered in front of the bathroom mirror, dreading the goodbye. Then, like a jaded nurse with an old band-aid, I slathered my face with soap, plucked off each lash and washed off every pigmented brushstroke. I watched the lashes fall into the sink. Tiny black feathers that swiveled and swirled as they slid down the drain. The old me was again in the mirror. The one who prefers to be behind the camera's lens. The real me.