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I live in a house inside a neighborhood. It is part of a community.

Our 8 year-old neighbor girl invited us to a potluck dinner at her elementary school last night. Because I am no longer a curmudgeon, but one half of a hilarious and charming couple, I attended. We ate chili and talked to my neighbor, whom I have spoken to almost not at all in three years. The event was held in honor of the school chorus, and hosted by the indefatigable Music teacher, Mrs. Singleton.

Mrs. Singleton appeared to be in her mid to early teens. Her husband, Mr. Singleton, was the star of the evening when he played a few holiday numbers on the saxophone for the assembled, bedraggled parents + two neighbors. I told Melissa, who doesn’t have a blog name yet, that I felt bad for only bringing a veggie tray and oatmeal cookies since I was slamming down chili, ham, and mac-n-cheese. She said, “Did you notice how many people didn’t bring anything?”

You know, I didn’t notice, but she was right. Lots of people looked like they had just come winging in from bad jobs after picking up the smaller kids. For some of the families there, this Choir Potluck was a bonanza. I forget that these are really hard times, like no joke difficult times. There were tables of food. Cupcakes and chicken wings, rice and some fresh greens from someone’s garden. Kool-aid and my oatmeal cookies, plenty of food really.

The little neighbor girl was shy, but she tracked me down a cup of water because homie ain’t drinking kool-aid. I think she and her mom were shocked to see us. I wanted to tell them, “If you haven’t noticed, there is a new sheriff in town.” We live in this neighborhood now, like– we do our living in it.

Mrs. Singleton, browbeating the tired parents to get their asses out the door and eat chicken wings, that’s more Christmas spirit than I have felt in a long time.

Go Hawks!

Juancho

When I submitted my application to ride the Tour de San Felasco I kissed off all hope of being in good form on January 14, 2012. The Great Magnet despises hubris.

It can’t be helped though, so I hung on to whichever wheel I could get this morning and gutted it out through a grim 1 hour and 15 minutes of ride time for a total of 12 miles, if you can believe Tom’s bike computer- which I for one, can not believe.

I felt really good for the first 18 minutes, then I don’t know what happened. More importantly though, I have made a significant biological discovery. My left leg, often referred to as King in my narrative, is weaker than my right leg, which by default is known as Kong. This, the naming of the legs, we can blame on someone- the Greeks. Not only are they culpable for a global financial collapse, they also introduced writing from left to right. Reading, of course, was forced to fall in line much like I will be forced to fall in line, when the truck points south on January 13th.

I can let go of San Felasco, release the line and watch it drift away, but my asymetrical pins? I can not forget. I am left-handed. Do you suppose my right side is stronger because I expect it to take the brunt of the burden the world hurls my way? Is it protecting my dexterous, nimble left side?

Have I sustained more left-sided injuries over the years and debilitated my left leg’s endurance by eroding the gristle and sinew that binds it together? Is it now loose like an old ball glove, hot dog bun fingers splaying apart?

I do not know why it is, but I must accept it as true. Yoga reveals the truth, and the yogi must accept it. Don’t use the body to get into the posture. Use the posture to get into the body.

Come on King! I need you buddy.

Juancho

The parade was over and the air was cool for such a warm December evening. We sat down right in the road on the front line with the scrambling babies catching beads and candy. We chided sullen majorettes, “Happy faces ladies!” We hooted for middle school bass drum players snatching to pull their pants up between beats.

Walking back to the car we heard the rolling snares and rising tenor of horns coming from a dark parking lot a few blocks ahead. Another competing rhythm rose between the downtown buildings and something stirred in me.

Tigers, coyotes, minks, wolves, and raccoons have all chewed off a limb to escape a trap. I know that feeling.

My decade of pajama-based livelihood has come to an end. Even that description is a euphemism as I have never worn pajamas in my adult life. Let’s just call it what it was- 10 years of boxer shorts and conference calls, occasionally less. I am comfortable facilitating a meeting of Docker-clad office pogues dressed in a ratty towel and a head covered in shaving cream. I divorced my intellect from my appearance when I joined the cyber-commuting universe. Many days I would go from a towel directly to a chamois and cleats without ever wearing pants. After the ride I would return to the same said towel before dropping that for a sleeping bag and going to bed.

Not anymore. It has only been two days and I am at the end of my public wardrobe. I look at myself before leaving for the new office, and I see before me Juancho the deacon, or Juancho waiting for his court-appointed attorney.

I need to hear from the pantsed and khakied veterans. How do keep track of your one true self underneath the JCPenny’s cover model look? I would take a jumpsuit, a smock over business casual. Do you wear a pink tie like Holden Caufield? A black guayabera like Al Sharpton?

I can’t even talk about what this does to the ride schedule. Growing up is tough.

Juancho

The whole family is gathered around watching America’s Next Top Model, a tradition in my family that dates back to the early just a couple minutes ago. I don’t know about you people, but I count on these long-established customs to bring me back in touch with what really matters. Beyond the glow of the elf-like Allison with the very close together eyes (like a Shar-pei, they are bred that way to appear more like a human baby and therefore be more appealing to the human eye) we all warm ourselves by the more intimate coals of the internet. An Ipad for that one, a PC for those two (plebes!) and a smartphone to guide the tweaking of the dressing recipe. We could all hold hands or line out a chain of dominoes down the hall and past the generations of family hanging on the wall. Look at that mullet! And those wide lapels! Sideburns and gingham, or no gingham at all, for better or worse there we all are.

Family.

Give Thanks.

Juancho