Doppelgangers Among Us or Who's That Girl?

(This column first appeared in the Good Times Weekly on August 18th, and can be found on their website here)

A few weeks ago, during a typically foggy, chilly Santa Cruz morning, I decided to take a brisk walk to get the blood moving, revitalize the senses and energize my mental state. It was early in the day and as such I chose to simply hide my comfortable almost-pajamas and disheveled almost-awake self with a black trench coat cinched dramatically at the waist, a pair of extra large sunglasses, and a neatly tied black scarf atop the leftovers of the previous night’s fantastic hairdo. As I headed for the front door, a brief glance in the mirror told me I looked a lot like a movie star in a clichéd disguise, more specifically (and fantastically, in the true sense of the word – the derivative of “fantasy”) I imagined I looked a lot like 1970’s era Elizabeth Taylor dodging the public eye. (Need I remind you that it was very early, and I probably had not yet had my reality-inducing first cup of coffee, so humor me.)

Basking in my newfound, if wholly undeserved confidence, I adopted a slight swagger in my step, thinking, “How would La Liz exercise?”  I committed to my own inner monologue and avoided direct eye contact with strangers, as if I were Someone Important who did not want to be bothered. I reminisced about my marriages to Richard Burton and my perfume empire. My journey led me toward the Boardwalk, and through small groups of early arrivals at the beach: groups of families, friends and a church group or two. My intent to breeze through on the wings of the starlet express was halted mid-step as a teenager muttered, “Is that Rosie O’Donnell?”

My personal Mancini soundtrack skipped a few grooves, my stride de-glamorized as I tripped over the offending comment, and my mouth fell open in shock. Rosie O’Donnell? The reality of my true demeanor fell over me like a breaking wave. Not the kind of wave that lifts you up and carries you like a graceful water goddess to the edge of the sand, but a wave that knocks you over unexpectedly, rolls you on the sea floor and tosses you out with sand in all the wrong places. How could I have been so delusional? Nothing against Ms. O’Donnell, but when one is trying to feign paparazzi dodging, one usually does not adopt a personage that requires dialogue along the lines of, “Yo! Exercising here! A little privacy?!!"

The remainder of my stroll lacked zing. I trudged home to resume life as plain old me. I thought about the mistaken identity perpetrated by the teen (whom I pegged immediately as a Taylor Lautner look-alike), and the doppelganger tribes among us. I admit to being one of those people who regularly says things like, “He’s a Robert de Niro guy,” or “She’s one of the Jessica Tandys” when describing someone. Apparently what I hadn’t considered was that I might be “a Rosie O’Donnell.” Doctor heal thyself? How about “judge pigeonhole thyself.”

Vote Bluto Tuesday For Change Today or I Can’t Believe I Watched the Whole Thing

(This column first appeared in the Good Times Weekly on July 8th, and can be found on their web site here)

The June 8^th election has come and gone, and with the exhale of relief as the primaries fade, comes the gasping inhale of sheer exhilaration as the California general election looms.

From now until November 2^nd it’s campaign free-for-all season! Some of you are pretty excited about this; some of you dread it like a root canal. Still others are making that confused golden retriever face right now, muttering “election?”

Being a fan of overworked clichés, I’d like to say I’m as political as the next guy, but here in Santa Cruz that can be a dangerous statement. Some of the next guys are much more informed, embroiled and passionate than I; some of the next guys don’t believe in voting.  Some of the next guys will rant your ears off on issues that only exist in their beautiful spotless minds. I personally don’t tend to wax political, even in an election year. Let’s just say, to borrow a phrase from the art world, I don’t know politics, but I know what I like. This generally leads me to the candidate and issues I support. But one thing I know for sure – I don’t like campaigns.

As campaign season gets underway, so will the sloughs of similes. Campaigns are like locusts; they come every few years, make a lot of noise and leave a mess. Campaigns are like childbirth; nine months of discomfort, a night of screaming at one’s closest support staff, resulting in at least one crying baby. Campaigns are like baseball; aficionados assemble fantasy teams while the rest of the country tolerates highlight reels. Campaigns are like a cheap buffet; all you can eat, but nothing you can stomach. Campaigns are like Van Halen; someone’s got to sing, and it’s not always David Lee Roth.

I’d like to throw another simile into the ring for consideration: Campaigns are like Popeye cartoons. Not merely because they are poorly colorized and include veiled support for the tobacco industry, but for a host of intricate parallels, to wit:

Cleanliness Is Next To...Solvency? (from the archives)

It’s happening again.  I’m having one of my moments.  My husband is self-employed, which means every now and then “the checks are in the mail” – to us.  Now, as history will prove, the checks really are in the mail.  We’ve never landed in the poor house, never even close.  In every economy we’ve been blessed, and I don’t use that word lightly.  I’m not the serene type of woman I imagine earns the right to use it.  No, I am the type of woman who exhibits what we call “Scarlett O’Hara Moments.”  Perhaps you recognize them.  They occur when the bank account gets a bit lower than desired and I forget to breathe deeply and remember that everything works itself out.  “Scarlett O’Hara Moments” occur when I hyperventilate unnecessarily, fall to my knees, grab two handfuls of dust-bunnies and say to myself, with jelly smeared across my forehead, not “I’ll never be hungry again,” for that would be too optimistic.  No, I say, “If we must be poor, then we will be clean!” for this, at least, seems noble.  My patient husband, recognizing my symptoms, looks forward to the brief bout of domestic organization that inevitably follows.  

I concluded somewhere in my parallel learning curve - HGTV and VH1 - that being rich and sloppy is bohemian, poor and sloppy simply negligent, so with stoic resolve I decide to scrub the entire house and each of the children (even the boys!).  

I'm In For a Lifestyle Change - or - How Selective Hearing Keeps Me Interesting

A recent trip to my general practitioner to address my general malaise brought two magic words that many adult patients have heard during a treatment plan: Lifestyle Change. My involuntary response was immediate and romantic. I was going to have a lifestyle change! Goodbye suburban homemaking, carpooling and Bunco.  Hello, world! I was going to live on a houseboat, take a vow of silence or perhaps become a Cowboy Poet. My mind raced. Okay, to be honest, in light of the subject at hand, maybe my mind sauntered at a casual pace, but it sauntered enthusiastically. Do houseboats have doorbells? Will my motion-sensitive partner join me or will this lifestyle change start a domino effect and throw me into a crazy singles-only-houseboat-community? My kids aren’t water safe. They will be bulky and awkward in their life jackets around the clock.

Next stop, my vow of silence. I consider the communication options in lieu of speaking. I wonder – is writing notes cheating?  Do silent-vow-takers use copious amounts of printed exclamation points and asterisks when angry or does that run counter to the psychological benefits of silence? How will my family react to a non-verbal matriarch, accustomed as they are to having their laundry folded by the loudest human in a one-mile radius? When sneezing do I need to avoid the audible “ah-choo?” 

These thoughts fly by at breakneck speed. I’ve covered lives both nautical and silent in  the time it takes to roll my sleeve down after having my blood pressure checked.  As I re-secure the buttons at my cuff, my flight of fancy banks left: destination, wild west.

Cowboy poets live by guidelines instructing dress as well as prose. If I’m not mistaken there’s an age-old code of bandana-knotting and hat brim folding to master, something akin to the hidden messages in equestrian war memorial statues: hoof  raised, rider died in battle, or some such thing. Maybe it’s: poet’s kerchief  tied on the left, lost a heifer on the trail…or perhaps published by Harper Collins. This lifestyle change is exciting.

Then, it dawns on me.  I realize Dr. Brennan’s intended meaning, and I grudgingly return to the here and now.  She doesn’t want me to raise alpacas or live on water (although drinking more of it would be beneficial). She wants me to walk twenty minutes a day, eat fruits and vegetables (not fried or dipped) and get healthier amounts of sleep. My shoulders droop in disappointment. My life as a houseboat-dwelling-silent-cowboy-poet-monk is fading, and I wonder why my enthusiasm wanes once a truly attainable lifestyle change presents itself. Why am I so ready to try anything other than this doable, achievable task?  I don’t own a houseboat or even a cowboy hat.  I do own shoes that I can walk in, and even a juicer (the Bowflex of the kitchen). I could never in a million years stop talking for even one hour, yet I could most definitely cut processed goods out of my diet little by little and replace them with delicious whole foods. 

Then another “it” dawns on me. The real lifestyle change I need to make is not improving diet and exercise. The lifestyle change I need to make is replacing fantasy with reality, at least every now and then. But an alpaca farm…that must have health benefits, don’t you think?

(Kim Luke is sauntering casually toward a healthier lifestyle in Santa Cruz, CA. Send comments or cowboy poetry to kluke@baymoon.com)

The phrase "far from the public gaze" comes out "public gays" when you're looking for boy backup singers. Good name for an all male choir!