I’ve been wanting to write to you, my dedicated followers, for a week;
wanting to call you, my flock, and explain the calling which was as strong as Dyneema®, the world's strongest fiber, or a disciple hearing her Lord’s call or Moses interpreting the burning bush as a clear sign of God Dialogue, or more so, nothing short of a fucking miracle…It’s as if I died, passed GO, collected $200.00, and came back as George Jefferson, except it’s not the East Side I’m moving up to. It’s the West Side; the west coast
and if a trailer park girl can hold her head high, oh the places she will go!
To the west of Prunetucky on the 156, slightly above the town of Monterey, on the California coast, lies the shabby district of Tortilla Flat, inhabited by a loose gang of jobless locals of Mexican-Indian(Cherokee)-Spanish-Caucasian-Trailer descent (who typically claim pure blood).
Tortilla Flat, though unclear of its exact location in Monterey, is thought to be the beautiful ravine and forest area near Jefferson Street & Franklin Street, Iris Canyon Road, all the way to Lobos Street area in New Monterey…
There’s been a “flamingo sighting.”
Those there tend to be soft-hearted, unquestioningly loyal to her kind, and in complete disregard of social conventions and expectations. (Yes, your Honor, guilty as charged.) The gutsy paisanas of Tortilla Flat cheerfully reside in a world of idyllic poverty.
It’s comfortable, people, and the shoe does in fact fit.
Because here’s the deal…
“You can take the girl out of the trailer park, but you can’t take the trailer park out of the girl.”
And according to Steinbeck, (pronouns changed for obvious reasons) “She is a mixture of Spanish, Indian, Mexican and assorted Caucasian bloods. (Assorted is an understatement.) Her ancestors have lived in California for at least a hundred years. (True that.)
She now lives in that uphill district above the town of Monterey called Tortilla Flat, though it isn't flat at all;
still, a girl from a trailer park, writing about the world as she sees it…
Things I like about my new, unabridged urban-Tortilla Flat:
• Weeds in the cracks look beautiful
• People smile at the post office
• You get to walk worry-free across a crosswalk
• You can wear red without getting shot.
• The backed-up septic is someone else’s problem
• Everyone knows what organic tofu is and that there’s silk, firm and extra firm at the neighborhood market that's within walking distance.
• No one uses “ain’t.”
• Deer graze in the yard, but no one has a 44 Carbine to shoot ‘em and then have BBQ.
And here’s how it’s conveyed in 2011:
Text: lft da park
Twitter: WTF? Standing right smack in heaven by the sea
Subject: Moving On Up To The West Side
Flamingo Flight: How Did She Do It?
I'd like to put in a change of address.
While sitting on my “low-flow” toilet, I counted 18 bruises on my thighs from the move. And though the boxes still surround me, it was weird today. I was putting away the contents, after a full day of work in the hospitality industry (details upcoming, and you’ll ache to know) and I was actually singing. Not only was I singing, but also I was shakin it to Van’s Brown-Eyed Girl.
And the mere truth is that I haven’t felt like this in awhile…