Broken Monkey

Broken Monkey

The official transcript of my mid-life crisis over the Christmas weekend. Something for everyone, fast cars, rock'n'roll, and Los Angeles.

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For the first time in over 10 years I was going to be far from home for the holidays. Christmas is a time to look back and share with the family, this year I was going to use the time to look forward and work through my mid life crisis. I like to play by the rules and my life expectancy is 74, so this weekend had been marked out in my Outlook calendar long ago. Now a single man at my age is a collection of obsessive compulsive behaviors and a somewhat wounded heart. Most mid-lifer’s start looking for a way to break out and recapture their youth; buy a motorcycle (90% of all new Harley-Davidson bikes are sold to men over 40) or find a young girlfriend. In my position both options have their appeal, but a mid-life crisis is supposed to be a rebellion. Well that presents a problem, I’m not sure I want to rebel, for the first time in a long time I don’t feel like the broken monkey.

An old friend explained this little known theory on human behavior; in a nutshell people fall into one of two buckets. Either the broken monkey bin or happy monkey bin, and we have the option of moving back and forth between the bins over our lifetime. Seems simple enough as long you don’t factor in all the variables, who decides which bin we start in, how do I move from one bin to the next, and what if I like my bin. This and much more swirled in my melon as I headed south to LA from the Silicon Valley. I thought of the road trip adventures I had read about and watched in my youth. Hunter S. Thompson tearing up the highway on the way to Las Vegas and the Brady’s visiting Hawaii; each illustrated the therapeutic value of a trip to a foreign land. I couldn’t think of a more foreign land to visit and work through these issues than LA.

My car had been stretched very little since I bought it last year. Finally I could verify for myself whether I had a touring sedan or not. Oh my yes, it was an amazing drive through what seemed to be a mini-tour of America. The landscapes changed often as the Bay Area gave way to the Pacheco Pass, which fell away as the Central Valley stretched out for as far as I could see. Farms, mountains, lakes, and patches of desert all blurred by as my car cruised easily at 90 for hours, I believe the idea of touring sedan comes from the experience of covering many miles while in the comfort of your living room. I found the hours passed best with the stereo filling my cabin at a level loud enough to hear every part with no distortion. Radiohead’s new Live CD is simply amazing, and coupled with landscapes that remind me of the power of mother earth I was thinking this is the only way to get ready for the superficial world of southern California. Cleanse the mind and get ready to go in. Southern California is a giant magnet. At about 150 miles out the landscape, no the environment changed. Suddenly a haze hung in the air and the power lines and poles became huge and menacing. The highway widened out and the traffic changed from a high speed roll to a competition. Although the speeds were slower the cars were much closer and more aggressive, it seemed much faster. It felt as though the city had it's own gravitational pull, the closer you get the greater the pull. Finally with LA in my sites I was thankful now for having a car large enough to command some respect on the LA freeways. God help those poor souls driving 4 cylinder hand me downs or even new box cars. This is the land of giants, movie stars and swimming pools. America get ready for the next wave of SUVs, I saw them in LA and they are huge. One SUV actually had a car port with an electric buggy parked inside. The downside and perhaps scariest part of driving in soCal is the stop and start freeway. Carefree and 80mph one second then once over a rise it screams to a halt. My poor brake shoes were tested over and over until I was free of LA’s grip and I hit Orange County.

This is an artificial world that is convinced it is main street America. In a way it is the ultimate theme park, a person can lose themselves in its allure and escape the routine that makes up most of what makes up normal life. Normal life for whom? My contemporaries are married and living back east. Long ago they paired off and started their own families. It’s a very long way from upstate New York to Newport Beach. Other friends who share my lot too often lament the race and their current position (or perceived position) as we continue to figure out which bin we are in. For a long time I thought my bin was to be the broken monkey bin. It’s an easy out, deal with it. Then it hit me as I walked out of my buddy’s house and tried to figure which vehicle to drive to Starbuck’s. My own black Infiniti I30, a new Eddie Bauer Expedition, or the Boxter, now this is the type of dilemma most men my age would kill for. Especially since I had spent the previous two days test driving luxury cars. What better way to prep for the holidays? Shopping for anything in Newport Beach is an experience in extravagance. The really, really good kind. I love the way superior service is the expected norm not the exception, but it is at a premium. We started the day picking up a few last minute gifts at the mall. Now the mall in Newport Beach is not like a mall anywhere else in America. For people here shopping is a crucial part of life, at least 4 trips a week to the mall is required each week to maintain residency. The mall is situated like a small city or fortress. We circled in from the freeway and were cleared for landing, valet options everywhere, we opted for self serve and walked in. It was similar to the scene in The Wizard of Oz when Dorothy walks up to the doors of the Emerald City. This mall was instead a shopping city ready to take my money and give me shopping love. All the big boys were there in separate buildings, each unique and all connected by walkways lined with palm trees and fountains. Santa was there in Gucci and the elves wore Bebe and best of all new Jaguars were sprinkled between the stores.

The new X-type reached out and drew us in. Oooh, ahhh, yes boys I’m ready for you. See my lines, see my leather, look 210 ponies tucked underneath. We looked at each other and the plan was hatched. Let’s go get one. In true LA fashion my sidekick whips out the cell phone and we are chatting with a salesman soon. We pull into the dealership and the experience begins. Now I should mention Jim and I are dressed like a couple of 30 something single guys shopping for a Jag two days before Christmas in southern California. Hair gel, leather jackets (hey it’s 65 degrees out there) and designer sunglasses. We are approached by a man who asks for a driver’s license, two minutes later Jim and I have the keys to a Jaguar X-Type. As we pull off the lot I am amazed at how fast and easy it was gain unsupervised access to a brand new Jag. Jim puts the J-shift through it’s paces and we lament the fact that the 2.5 liter motor has to dig down to get off the line. Once up and going the handling was tight and very responsive. Once back on the lot Jim and the salesman go off to crunch some numbers. The Jaguar dealership was a Christmas wonderland.

A giant tree in the center of the all glass building surrounded by Jaguars with big bows on their hoods caused a lump to grow in throat. It was the spirit of Christmas I’m sure. In my warm and fuzzy mood I stumbled upon the customer lounge to find Jim filling out a financing form. Just in case, he assured me, the deal was right. To Jim’s right sat a small brunette who was flipping through a street atlas of Los Angeles. I fiddled with the latte machine and started a conversation. It turned out she was waiting for service to be completed on her pre-owned Jag. She had a beauty that grew as she told us of her journey from Italy to LA. Only three months in the states so her European charm and natural beauty drew both Jim and I in. I had lived in Germany so I spoke of my times in Europe; Jim lived in the area so he countered with his experiences in the immediate area. I swung back with chat about the concert we were going to, Jim countered with an offer to see his Porsche. Lara was only too happy to talk about Nikka Costa and look at Jim’s car. Stalemate! Hey what am thinking, go for the assist. As Jim talks about his car I change my strategy and try to call the House of Blues to buy a ticket for Lara. She was up for meeting us out later and I wanted to try to be the good friend for Jim. Plus Lara was a bright, funny and very articulate young lady; she would be big fun to hang out with. Unfortunately the show was sold out so Jim had to settle for a phone number. Meanwhile out on the showroom floor it was time to go and make the deal. The car Jim wanted wasn’t available yet. I truly believe that if you are considering a car of this caliber everything matters. Black exterior and black interior would not be on the lot until next year. Information and handshakes were exchanged and Jim and I were given rolls of Jaguar wrapping paper before we left. All in all a very positive experience considering we escaped without having to actually buy the car.

The previous experience begged for comparison. The following day Jim and I visited the local Mercedes dealer. Again the level of service was very high but our salesman was from another planet. The Jaguar dealer had a certain quiet reserve and sophistication. Our Mercedes rep was more like a chameleon. He tried to read Jim and then began to share his stories of male addictions and conquests. I couldn’t believe he was actually telling us this stuff. Did he think that we would buy a Mercedes once we knew our sales guy was a reformed crack head with lust issues? While I admired his attempt at a read of Jim he missed on enough points that no deal was going to happen. On the upside we drove more luxury cars and generally enjoyed the scenery. Volvo offered a quick in and out since Jim found none of their models to his liking. I saw a sweet S60 with a special appearance package. Meaty rubber and quiet class made me want to trade in my car but not today. Enough fun with the cars, careful though, after two days in the sun and smog I was thinking that I belonged on these lots. Saturday evening would change all that.

In celebration of my mid-life crisis James and I secured tickets for Nikka Costa at the House of Blues. Nikka is about to break out huge and it was a great opportunity to see an act that everyone will be talking about next year. She's a little Janis Joplin, part Melissa, and all fierce. She and her band were the HOT ticket on the strip. We endured combat valet parking and made our way into the show after being strung out down the strip while security pre-screened us and issued us our wristbands. Once inside the show promptly started and we were treated to almost 2.5 hours of ass kicking, in your face girl funk. The crowd was comprised of every imaginable "type" of music fan. My personal favorites were the three young ladies who spent the entire evening grinding on each other a mere 2 feet from my post.

Unfortunately the mid-life broken monkey voice chimed in to remind me that these women were far too young to be included in my own private Christmas fantasy world. Then the other voice chimed in reminding me that in LA my age and marital status were not a liability. 37 with 2 divorces is actually seen as being progressive. It illustrates no fear of commitment and a willingness to try again. Plus it removes the "gay" question from most introductions. If I was gay I would have had a change heart after seeing Nikka. I was secretly hoping she would notice me through the crowd and offer to spawn my dirty love child. She never saw me, this time. Everyone was talking about how amazing the show was as we waited and watched the 3 stooges try to figure out how to return all the valet parked cars to their proper owners. At least we were able to squeeze out a few more laughs as we waited.

When the valet pulled my car around I again felt the pull of the monkey. Normal happy monkey, two days before Christmas and I had just spent the last 48 hours banging on a few new cars, shopping with the money gods, and finally catching the show of the season on the Sunset Strip with a dear friend of over 20 years. Maybe the bins were mislabeled all along. The final analysis brought me this revelation: The broken monkeys are broken because they want to be. If I spend my time comparing my life and experiences to other people I will always be broken. The best friend you can have is yourself, if you are happy you attract more happiness. Let the other monkeys figure their own way, for me my banana tree is right here in California.

--leftcoastlove--