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page from zine “one page stories”

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link to LA restaurant blog

https://curatedla.wordpress.com/

This is a blog that I will be turning into a zine about the best places in LA to eat

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page from zine “friends and family”

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Panel from zine “friends and family”

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Page from zine “one page stories”

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Zine “Wedding and a funeral”

This is the story of my weekend with a wedding and a funeral.

It was a beautiful October. On Saturday, I flew to Phoenix for my Uncle Henry’s memorial service. He had died five months earlier, but my aunt, his third wife, had waited for the heat to subside before having people in her 800 square foot air-conditionless mobile home. I hadn’t wanted to go, and Sunday was the wedding in LA. When I spoke to my dad on the phone to let him know I wasn’t going, it surprised me that he cared.  My uncle was his brother and the two spoke on the phone occasionally, but 3000 miles and decades of different life decisions separated them.  There was love there, but not like the closeness between my dad and his other two sisters.  After reworking some plans, I booked a flight to Phoenix.

In life, Uncle Henry was colorful and crude.  At the service, everyone used the word ‘interesting’ to sugarcoat the the trail of partying, drug use, and cruel sense of humor that were his trademarks.  I remember a family reunion where he told me how he use to twist my dad’s arm when they were kids, then to prove it he marched over to my unsuspecting 55 year old father and twisted his arm behind his back.  My dad yelled in pain as my uncle turned to me, “See?”

Henry and his wife Maura were two tornados of personality; partiers, adventurers, both with mouths loud enough to make an entire block know when they’re blowing through.  They were the family odd-balls, lacking the decorum with which the rest of my family conducted themselves.  They had no filter, had no problem telling everyone what they were doing wrong, had attitudes of life is short so make it a party.  I loved it.  

Going to see Maura for the first time at her own home in Arizona felt abnormal, like animals at a zoo inviting you to dinner and you sit with your napkin in your lap while the elephants hose themselves down with their trunks– I felt out of place.  Maura was a gracious host; though she could barely stand or walk due to her long list of medical issues, she welcomed us with a smile, a drink (non alcoholic), and gave us a tour of the beautiful handcrafted bowls she sculpted, and scarves my Uncle had weaved.  Coming from LA, it hit me that they had carved themselves a hipster nesting ground; in a house with such little space they made functional items beautiful.  

Soon Donna showed up.  Donna was Henry’s daughter, adopted while he was still married to her biological mother.  I’d heard a lot about Donna growing up, she was the ultimate marker of what not to become, and I could see why.  She was completely tactless, talking about how her life would be great if she was free of her children, one of whom was a young high schooler sitting next to her.  She ended each complaint with a nod to him saying ‘but you know I love you Jake, I’m just kidding’, but also began each complaint the same way.  She talked only about herself, she was rude to Maura, and was quickly becoming my new secret thrill – though Henry was gone, here was Donna!  Here to break the ice by smashing it into pieces with foul language, allusions to the shrooms my uncle would take with her mother, and of course her constant conversation pull back to how great her life would be if she never had kids and oh Jake I didn’t see you there, love you baby.  

Donna’s troubled history revealed a new side of Henry.  He was divorced from her mother for as long as I’ve been alive, and yet always treated Donna as if biologically his.  Though now she talks with worshipful tones of her deceased father, she gave him hell growing up - calling the police on him with false charges, having children with various men who she would then not be able to take care of and Henry and Maura would then become guardians.  Henry would do anything for Donna, and judging by the way her voice shook when she talked about him, she knew it.

The service was humble.  Family and friends set up chairs in the community basketball court, and with a beautiful sun setting over the nearby baseball field, we said goodbye to Henry.  A chaplain gave a short sermon.  My dad and his sisters shared brief words about the brother they lost.  Donna decided not to attend at all, instead she was replaced by her brother Jay, Henry’s biological son and source of her burning jealousy for his blood ties to Henry.  Jay gave the eulogy, and it was an epic half hour therapy session, vulnerability and openness in a man’s bizarre platform to share his feelings with friends and family.  Jay was an alcoholic like his father, Henry emotionally hurt him in many ways and the two had a strained relationship for many years.  Then Jay found his wife through AA, and the two found God.  It was a long speech and maybe 90% about Jay, 10% about Henry the terrible father but also ultimately a good man whom we will all miss and by the way have you heard about Jesus Christ our Lord?  It was a nice eulogy and a beautiful trainwreck.  

Most heartbreaking was the very end of the service.  Maura struggled to stand, she thanked everyone for coming and for sharing lovely memories of – her voice broke and became wracked with sobs.  She managed, just barely, to say a sentence about the husband she lost, and would everyone please enjoy the sandwich buffet set up in the back of the basketball court.  As we ate, a karaoke table was set up and the widow pleaded with everyone to take turns at the mic, and we all tried at least once or twice to sing the classic song of our choice at my uncle’s funeral.  

Fast forward less than 24 hours later.  Sitting on the sidelines, watching my friend say her vows to her husband.  They’re both young, perfect people who made the formal pledge to commit to each other.  And I cried because what I had seen in Arizona showed me what that meant.  My uncle was easily judged, he made questionable decisions and the life he shared with Maura isn’t what a lot of people would want for themselves.  And yet the love in front of me, the couple with no questionable decisions and embraced by all, was between two amateurs– unversed in what it means to love wholeheartedly despite illness, finances, addiction, family.  To love someone else’s child from a previous marriage.  

Newlyweds can never imagine for themselves a finish line where one of them stands alone in a basketball court, sobbing in front of a few dozen people, thanking them for being there and taking the time to remember someone who was so important to that one person.  And then to imagine that life is expected to go on, but now you don’t have that one person in the world who was yours.  Maybe there’ll be another, but the thought is so crushing, so overwhelmingly wrong.  

My uncle made mistakes, had problems. But he and Maura were happy - they made promises to each other years ago about keeping each other happy - and they’d done it.  And at the end it hurt Maura in ways that I won’t understand for a long time.  It reduced her to an inexpressible pain that reared its head whenever Henry was mentioned, and retreated back to its depths whenthe world asked Maura to be a good hostess.  And when I think about what a good marriage is, I’ll think of her struggling to stand at the end of the service, the end of the final farewell and the beginning of an era where she alone will think of Henry constantly while the rest of the world forgets.  

And I look at the couple in front of me, the beautiful pair of strong individuals who are making these promises while never really understanding what any of it means.  And I cried for Henry, but mostly I cried for Maura.  Because anyone can make a vow, but she kept hers.  

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2 pages from zine “one head you one head me”

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2 pages from zine “one head you one head me”

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Page from zine, “page long stories”

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Zine story

Two brothers ran silently into the night.  They ran through dark alleyways, behind abandoned buildings and away from the rays of dim streetlamps.  They ran fast, both very aware of the the night’s unusually bright moon.  In the distance, a voice yelled out, “Stop!” over and over until what was once unintelligible became the alarmingly loud voice of a very large and angry man.  

Elias was the first to catch his breath.  The younger of the two, he didn’t stand more than four feet tall and couldn’t run as well as his six foot brother Emmanuel.  “You’ll get us killed” said Emmanuel, holding the package tightly under his arm.  “I can’t run anymore!” Elias cried, wheezing and clutching his sides.  The package was heavy and Emanuelle felt desperate to protect its contents, yet it was his plan that had failed and instead of sneaking into the nearby safe house, they had been discovered and chased down a street and into a city they knew nothing about.  The older brother weighed his options.  

The police were a block away, half a block, a few feet.  Elias was still bent over gasping for air when he felt himself being pushed under a street lamp.  Emmanuel’s voice rang out in an imitation of a much younger boy’s, “Help!  I’m being robbed!” Elias’ alarm scared him to momentarily forget his pain and stand straight, eyes wide as he watched his brother disappear into the shadows.  Elias made a movement to go after him, but a burly man in uniform had caught up, waving his police stick.  

“Did you yell about a robbery?  Was it a kid around eighteen years old?”  The man barked.  He was tall and round, with a bushy mustache that covered his whole upper lip.  Elias felt blank, he knew he was inches away from being beaten to death by the stick or worse if the officer knew what he had helped do.  Time seemed to stop and his voice bounced around in his emptied head, “What did Emanuelle do?  What was he -” and with a sickening skip of his heartbeat, he realized his coat pocket felt heavier and bulkier than a moment ago.  Emanuelle had shoved the package onto him before running.  

Elias was still reeling, but it was as if his brain had kicked into survival mode and focus enough to ignore the tremendous obstacle of not appearing terrified.

“There was a boy, I don’t know how old, but he had long hair and was about as tall as you, and he took my bike,” Elias said, his voice shrank to a childish squeak.  He had described Emanuelle accurately, his brain told him that it was important to let the officer match the fake robber with the real Emanuelle.  

“What color is your bike?  Was he with anyone?  Was he holding anything?” The officer demanded.  Elias shrugged.  “It was a green bike with a blue stripe and a basket on the back.  I didn’t see anyone else and I think he threw something in that dumpster over there.”  The officer stopped.  He waved two men behind him towards the dumpster “Though, I don’t know why he would have done that,” the officer sighed under his breath.

“Will you help me get my bike back or not?” Elias demanded, his confidence growing now that it didn’t seem like he was a suspect.  

“You can get another bike.  What’s your name?” the officer barked.  Elias had now recovered completely.  “I want my bike!  Help me get my bike!  You’re the police!” The officer had already started marching away towards the dumpster.  Elias turned to walk away but the officer had pointed at one of his men and ordered him, “Help the kid find his damned bike.  If you haven’t found it in twenty minutes tell him you filed a report and go.”  Elias froze, he had wanted to immediately find his brother and rid himself of the parcel that ultimately owned his life.  

A young man stepped out of the officer’s ranks. He had on a simpler uniform and a serious expression on his face. Elias knew that look, his life had been mired in enough police encounters to know the type exactly. This guys new and he wants to show off for his fat boss, Elias thought desperately, if this punk catches that I’m holding on to anything, I’m dead.

The young officer grabbed Elias by the shoulder. “What direction did he go?” he asked. Elias pointed east, the opposite direction his brother had actually gone. He broke into a jog, acting as though maybe they could still get the bike back that didn’t exist. The officer followed, “Hey wait up kid.” Kid, Elias moaned, and how old are you?

Elias lead the officer forward for a moment until his heart sank. He had led them to a dark and isolated alleyway that ended in a brick wall. Would the officer realize he had lied? He had to think quickly again. “What’s your name officer?” Elias stood as tall as he could. The officer spoke briskly. “Daplin. Officer Daplin. And I know there’s no bike.”

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Page from zine of future careers. This page is A - Accidental astronaut

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Back of zine “Follow Me”

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Cover of zine “Follow me”