Hiking In Runyon Canyon -- A Comedic Blog Post

There is this place in LA where the "it" people, the wanna be "it" people, a lot of in-shape college people, and some "never get old never say die" middle-aged people go to hike. It is called Runyon Canyon.

I can't remember exactly where I heard of Runyon Canyon. Probably somewhere on social media.

But, anyway...

One weekend, this past Spring, my daughter Bridget went on a retreat with the young adults of St. Monica Catholic Church in Santa Monica. That is a whole story unto itself, which I shall not tell right now. But, as you may know, because of health issues, Bridget doesn't drive. So, I drove her up to the retreat, which was at a beautiful retreat center in Malibu. And since I didn't want to make two round-trip drives to LA in 48 hours, I decided to just get a hotel room and amuse myself in this wonderful area for a couple of days. And one of the ways I decided to amuse myself was to go hiking in Runyon Canyon.

And it's a very good thing I can laugh at myself.

I am 52 years old. I recently lost 55 pounds, which means I can fit into a cute exercise outfit. That doesn't mean, though, that I am in actual "shape." Because I am not. I don't look too bad, for a 52-year-old, but my workouts consist mostly of walking up and down my stairs with baskets of laundry and strolling around the block with my two greyhounds. Greyhounds, though they may run VERY fast, walk VERY slow. No shit. On the plus side, I am rather tan, due to my Italian heritage. My tan, combined with my weight loss and my cute exercise outfit, gave me the courage to make my way to the hiking trails of Runyon Canyon. I figured that I could sort of blend in with the "it" people and the "in-shape" people, which I did. Other things which gave me the courage to go to Runyon Canyon were that I am, basically and in many ways, not very self-conscious, difficult to embarrass, and rather adventurous. And a little bit divorced from reality. Which is why I really love LA. There are MANY people there who are just like me.

So, early one Saturday morning, this past Spring... (Well, it wasn't that early. Because now that I am 52, I don't do early.)

So, late one Saturday morning, this past Spring, I activated Google Maps on my iPhone and made my way from Santa Monica to Runyon Canyon. And I discovered that Runyon Canyon is actually right smack-dab in the middle of a rather "edgy" LA neighborhood. The people inhabiting this neighborhood are all about 20 years younger than I and worth about 20 million dollars more. (Okay. I am exaggerating. A little.) And the neighborhood is composed of steep hills with practically no parking anywhere to be found. There really isn't a Runyon Canyon hiking trails parking lot. At least as far as I could find. And if there was, I'm sure it was all full. So, I drove around and around and around and finally found a parking spot MANY blocks from the entrance to the hiking trails. And did I mention? All of the streets leading to Runyon Canyon are on steep hills. And you don't walk DOWN to get to the hiking trails. You walk UP. UP and UP and UP. So, I was kind of panic-stricken, for two reasons. The first reason was that I was afraid I would never find my car again, because I was totally disoriented. I did have Google Maps on my iPhone, but this weekend was the first time I had used it without Bridget's help and I wasn't sure what I was doing. I had visions of having to call the LAPD for help finding my car. And I was afraid the LAPD would send hot cops to help me and I would be embarrassed in front of them. I figured that they -- being hot LAPD cops -- would be sophisticated enough to see through my facade of tan skin and cute-workout clothes to the poser that I really was. Secondly, I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to walk up all the hills to get to the actual hiking trails without collapsing from exhaustion, let alone be able to actually hike once I got there. I almost got back in the car to go back to Santa Monica to eat fancy desserts.

But, I said to myself, "NO. You will do this thing, damnit. And you will use your Google maps and not have to call the hot LAPD cops." And I proceeded to walk up ALL THE HILLS to get to the hiking trails.

And I was successful.

Frankly, all the people on the trails were very nice. They smiled and said good morning and were generally cordial. I find that all the LA people are pretty nice to me. LA people have to be nice to every middle-aged person they see who is halfway decently dressed and has a good hair colorist, because that person might -- JUST MIGHT -- be an indie producer who could fund their next project. And do I use that fact to my advantage? Yes. Yes, I do. And I have funded certain indie projects, too. So, I don't feel horrible about it.

I greatly enjoyed my hike. It was a lot of fun. There were many cool dogs, who were happy to see me. I heard interesting people talk about their interesting bosses. There were some darling young couples on first dates. The view was amazing. All in all, it was quite a pleasant experience.

Until...

I got to the downhill railroad-tie staircase with the slippery gravel soil all around it.

You see? I have a bad knee. A REALLY bad knee. A knee that is not at all reliably stable on slippery downhill surfaces.

I took a couple of tentative steps down the railroad-tie staircase and started to slide, my bad knee giving me absolutely no help.

Thankfully, there were large rocks positioned around the railroad tie staircase, so I was able to artfully slide my ass onto one of them, acting like I did the whole thing on purpose in order to sit for a few minutes and enjoy the view.

So, I sat. And sat some more. Rather unsure of how I was going to get the hell down.

A few hot guys of varying ages asked if I was okay and if I needed any help. I said, "No. I'm fine." I don't really know why I said that. I really should have availed myself of the hot guy help. LA guys -- and gals -- really are nice people, you know? A lot of them come from the mid-west in order to become "industry" people, and they bring a lot of those mid-west values and manners with them. I really do love the "industry" people. I have heard that they can be rather cut-throat. They are never cut-throat to me, though, because I am not -- in any way, shape, or form -- their competition. That is very clear to them. So, they are just always really nice to me. And -- in return -- I love them and donate to their very cool Kickstarter projects.

Eventually, I did make my way down the staircase. I descended by scooting my butt from one rock to the next rock, all the time pretending that I was just stopping to enjoy the magnificent view. And once I was safely at the bottom of that evil staircase, I did an inward victory dance and proceeded hiking the rest of the trail. Which -- thanks be to God -- was all downhill from there. I was quite pleased with myself. In fact, I was so pleased with myself that I no longer feared having to call the LAPD to assist me in locating my car. I brazenly whipped out my iPhone and turned on my Google Maps and found it.

A VICTORIOUS MORNING!!!

And then I drove back to Santa Monica and got myself a nice lunch. ;-)

Having An Actor For A Dad...

...just might be the most amazingly cool thing EVER. I guess you could also say this about having a director/producer/writer for a dad.

Why???

Well... Yesterday, I was in Los Angeles for an event. Being that I arrived rather early -- as I am wont to do -- I hung out for a while in this wondrous place called Griffith Park. It was reminiscent of Disneyland in its magicalness. I would like to go back there very soon.

I sat at a picnic table eating my lunch in a spot that was relatively close to a small playground. There was a lovely climbing structure on the playground, which was being occupied by a group of 5 or 6 small children. Also present were a few mommies and a daddy. The daddy appeared to be in his early 30's, and he was very handsome and actor-like. And he engaged the children in the most wonderful game. I have never seen any other daddy do what this particular daddy did, and I thought, "I just love this land of creative people."

What was this game?

The daddy -- in a MOST enthusiastic and energetic way -- told all of the children that they would be playing a game which, to sum it up, was rather like a Game Of Thrones episode, if that show could possibly be happy and about good guys. He told the children -- in a voice that projected all the way across the park, like any good actor would -- what the "tag line" would be, which "characters" each of them (and he) would be playing, and how the drama would unfold. The children laughed and screeched delightedly as they were given their "stage directions." The "play" then commenced, with all the actors -- including the daddy -- participating in a whole-hearted, high-spirited fashion. "So this," I thought to myself, "is how the phenomenon of "being a star" is handed down, generation-unto-generation." I have raised three kids. I have been to LOTS of parks and birthday parties and play dates. And NEVER have I seen anything quite like this. It was astounding. And totally delightful.

I love LA. It is full of incredible people. Sure -- it has its problems -- but, there is no place quite like it in all the world. Every time I go there, I find something new at which to marvel. (Someday, I am going to go to NYC, and I'm sure that will be incredible, too.) ;-)

My Future Hipster Life

How do I know about hipsters?

Because of Shawn Hatosy.

Shawn is one of my top five favorite movie stars. He nails his roles. Always. And his hair is perfect. Always.

If you watch "SouthLAnd," you will immediately recognize Shawn by this perfect hair. He plays Sammy Bryant -- a detective for the first three seasons, and a uniform cop during seasons four and five. But, whether in a suit or a uniform and gun belt, Shawn's hair is consistently flawless.  As are his scenes. And his gun technique. And his driving. Ben McKenzie, who plays Sammy Bryant's partner -- Officer Ben Sherman -- probably wins in the foot chase category. But, nobody outclasses Shawn in the driving department. That's why the director almost always has Shawn drive and Ben jump out of the car and run. Directors are paid to know what's what about these things. And that's why the women characters should want to go out with Sammy Bryant instead of Ben Sherman. I mean dating, after all, involves much more driving than foot chases. That's the way it was in the '80's, at least. Perhaps things have changed???

So, anyway, back to hipsters. As I said, I know about hipsters because of Shawn. He likes to make jokes about them. Good-natured jokes, of course. Shawn is never, ever mean. I'm not going to explain here what a hipster is. I'm just going to tell you about my goal for the future, which involves hipsters.

Here goes:

Right now, I live in suburbia. It's nice and all. I'm not complaining. I have a typical suburban SoCal house in a typical suburban SoCal neighborhood. I drive a minivan, which is nice because I can fit my two greyhounds into it, as well as my hubs and my three young adult kids (who are all in various phases of living at home). My neighbors are great. The town in which I live is safe and clean. It is a lovely, lovely place to raise a family.

But, it is all a bit dull for my retirement. And when I retire -- no offense to the other retirees, who I'm sure are all fun and exciting -- but, I want to live with the hipsters in Silver Lake.  Because that's where hipsters live -- in Silver Lake.

Silver Lake is this place in LA, which is very "edgy." As far as I understand, there are edgy coffee places and restaurants and club-type establishments and shops. And there are many, many hipsters, who seem to be quite entertaining to be around. Especially when you are -- like -- 60 or 65 or 70 years old. I think there is also a medical marijuana place in Silver Lake, but I don't really want any of that. Because I learned on "SouthLAnd" that medical marijuana is much stronger than regular marijuana. And I just don't see that anybody would be served by me having any of this medical marijuana -- or even regular marijuana. So, I won't go to the medical marijuana place. But, I would like to go to the edgy coffee shops and restaurants and club-type places. I would like to sit and have a glass of wine or a cup of coffee with the hipsters and chat with them about their concerns and their goals for their lives. I would not actually BE a hipster, you see, because I really can't do skinny jeans and I am a miserable failure at wearing scarves (they always fall off when I bend over), but I think I would enjoy the company of the hipsters. And I think they would enjoy the company of me. I might even try some sushi in Silver Lake. Who knows? Maybe Silver Lake -- with all of those "fumes" wafting through the air -- would embolden me enough to let go of my fear of a brain parasite and try some sushi. Especially if it came with saki.

So -- as I imagine it -- when I am 60-ish years old, my hubs and I and any of our kids who want to come and any pets we might have will get some kind of cool place to live in Silver Lake, with hardwood floors and the most modern paint colors and clean windows and some type of little herb garden (to grow basil, NOT marijuana). We will hang my daughter Andrea's photographs on the walls. Maybe we will all go in together and buy a triplex or a little apartment building. That way, if my kids have families of their own, everyone will have a their own space and plenty of privacy. Wouldn't that be nice? We will trade in our minivan for a Subaru and invest in some reusable grocery bags. This abode will be within an old person's walking distance of the trendiest coffee houses and restaurants and bars. I envision myself heading down each morning to get a cup of coffee and staying for a little chat with my hipster friends, who will find me eccentrically fascinating. On most days, I will take an additional walk in order to have lunch or dinner or drinks or listen to music or go shopping for trendy handbags. Being within walking distance of all the fun means that my hubs and my kiddos will never have to worry about their mum getting into a scrape with the cops over having a bit too much saki with her sushi. And the proprietors of all the establishments will have my son's cell phone number handy, in case he might be needed to walk his mum home after her night on the town.

Of course, by the time I retire, there may not be anymore hipsters. But -- if my life experience has taught me anything -- it's that there will be some new and equally fascinating phenomenon to take their place. And this new and equally fascinating phenomenon will probably exist in Silver Lake. And I'm game. ;-)

My Hollywood Miracle

"Where shall we go on vacation?" I asked myself as the summer of 1994 approached.  My husband and I had an almost 2-year-old boy, a 4-year-old girl, and an almost 6-year-old girl at the time.  But, my adventurous spirit was undeterred, and I hatched a plan for the family to vacation in Santa Monica for a week.  A full seven days in one hotel room. You would have grounds to question my sanity.

We traveled separately.  My husband drove from the San Francisco Bay Area in our 1984 VW Jetta, with all the necessary equipment for life with small children, including a stroller and a porta-crib.  I flew down with the three kids.  I hate long drives, as does my middle child.  So, an airplane ride seemed as though it would be easier.  Ha-Ha.  Actually, the flight was uneventful, except for the part when daughter #2 announced, very loudly, to a very packed aircraft, "I AM GOING TO THROW UP."  I have never seen a flight attendant move so fast.  Thankfully, said daughter did not throw up.  A few sips of water were all that was necessary to quiet her upset tummy.  The really exciting part was the cab ride from LAX to the hotel on Santa Monica Blvd.  I had absolutely no idea how to get around LA, so I put my life and the lives of my children into the hands of a cab driver who barely spoke English.  He literally slammed on the brakes on the freeway when, again, my second child loudly announced her feelings of queasiness.  But, again, we were spared any tragic events and eventually arrived at our destination.  Hubby arrived a couple of hours later with the car and all our stuff.  So, I told myself, we are in for a fun-filled, rejuvenating week in LA.  So exciting!  Ha-Ha.

We did see many sights in the LA area and ate wonderful food.  LA may have crappy air and traffic galore, but it has the BEST food.  Healthy, fresh, flavorful -- even when you're at a place that serves quick informal meals, pizza, or take-out.  After all, there has to be some motivation for all those talented people to consent to live there.

The bottom line, though? This turned into the vacation from hell.  One toilet in the hotel room that clogged at least once a day.  A 4-year-old girl who refused to eat ANYTHING except small packages of cheese and crackers or peanut butter and crackers, until I fortuitously located an IHOP, where she proceeded to make up for lost time.  This 4-year-old girl also got really sick, which necessitated me spending at least an hour on the phone getting an o.k. from the Northern CA Kaiser beauracracy for my little girl to see a doctor in the Southern CA Kaiser beauracracy.  The journey to this approved doctor was at least a 2-hour round trip, in all the traffic.  It turned out that she had Fifth's Disease, which I came down with the following day.  My poor hubby, with all this stress, developed a very painful cold sore.  And, needless to say, with the one toilet constantly clogging up, everyone's pipes became a tad bit unhealthy.  TMI, I know.  There were also all the "normal" stresses of having two adults and three little people in one hotel room for a full seven days -- lack of space, lack of toys (which inspired the kiddos to turn the two double beds into trampolines), and lack of any privacy for the two adults.  And this plot had all been cooked up by me.  My Bad.

But, in the midst of it all came a little miracle.  My Hollywood Miracle.  As I have mentioned before in this blog, I went through a pretty painful faith crisis when my kids were small.  And I was in the middle of this difficult time when we were on vacation in Santa Monica.  I was hanging on by a very thin thread to my Catholicism.  When Sunday rolled around, though, I took a deep breath, and the five of us headed off to Mass -- at Saint Monca's Catholic Community in, of course, Santa Monica.  The Mass that day was held in the gym or parish hall (I can't quite remember which), because a recent earthquake had damaged the beautiful older church.  And I had an experience in which God touched my heart and reminded me that I didn't have to be perfect to be loved by Him.  There were many people there and, for the most part, they were very enthusiastic and welcoming.  And there was the most wonderful choir and band.  It was composed mostly of young adults, who actually sang on key (after all, this was the Land of Talented People).  The selections were primarily modern praise and worship music, which I have always found to be uplifting, comforting, and conducive to prayer.  Many people object to the use of this type of music at Mass.  I will not argue with their reasoning, but these songs were a balm to my weary soul.  And the instrumentalists were amazing.  I will never forget the drummer (I LOVE drums at church) and the bass player who looked like Encino Man.  So cool!  And the priest who said Mass.  Wow!  He said just what I needed to hear that day.  His sermon concerned the twelve apostles -- and he had twelve puppets, one for each of these men.  How I love this Land of Talented People!  And he spoke about each apostle, one by one.  He described each of their individual struggles and faults; his point being that Jesus chose them in spite of these struggles and faults.  And he pointed out that God loves and chooses each of us, too, in spite of our own shortcomings.  On that day, the Lord held onto my hand, even though I was tempted to let go of His.  I have never forgotten this Mass and how it was instrumental in saving my faith.

Saint Monica's still has this amazing musical group.  They play each week at the 5:30 Sunday evening Mass.  I think the same priest might still be there, as well.  I found a sermon online that was recently given at St. Monica's, and it sure sounded like this wonderful person.  His is a voice that I will never forget.  Someday, maybe I'll make my way back there and give a little thanks in front of the altar.