Tara Jepsen

We all know I’m enough of a dick to blog about my relationship with my dad so let’s just hope he doesn’t think to google me for another day. My dad drove from Calistoga to my place in Highland Park last week Thursday. He arrived at night. I immediately get tense around my dad. His brain is like a thousand wind turbines dancing through the It’s a Small World ride at Disneyland so we are a team of mosquitoes drinking Mountain Dew when we’re together. All I can think about is how much guilt I’ll feel for being so annoyed with him all the time when he dies. If we could just pet and talk about cats the whole time we’re together, we might just relax. But until we go to a cat cafe in Japan, that will never happen.

Friday I went to take care of my friends’ kid for a few hours, so my dad stayed at my house. I guess he did wander out and drive up Figueroa, until he saw that it changed into Riverside…then he swung around and sped back to my house. When I got home, I did some cleaning so we could leave for Palm Springs. We loaded up our fitness equipment: his bicycles and my skateboard. This was the best part about planning a trip together: including our joy sports. We got on the 210 at 4:00 which is like putting on pantyhose then dumping a ton of potatoes into them and trying to walk around. We crawled along in his station wagon. At one point we passed a matte black, somewhat bedraggled mini truck that had been dropped to about an inch above the ground. It absolutely was not more than two inches off the ground. The lowest I have ever seen, and I went to Santa Rosa High in the late 80’s. My dad looked over and said, “Look at that trash can.” I said, “I think it’s kinda great.” He said, “Yeah but you see, it’s just a big safety hazard. You can’t turn quickly, if at all, which becomes a problem if you’re trying to avoid an accident. They’re gonna bottom out or scrape with the slightest change in terrain. And fuel economy…well. They threw THAT out the window.” And he said some other stuff, all in harsh tones that you might use for hurting children’s feelings or persecuting old people. So I said, “Isn’t it kind of American to take something like a car and make it your own? And maybe they don’t care about fuel economy, maybe they just want to enjoy the ride.” And he said, “You know what? You’re right.” One thing about my dad, besides his obsession with everyone being stupid and doing stupid things constantly, is that he is willing to admit when he’s wrong. It’s cool.

We got to the MARRIOTTTT because my dad travels constantly and has a billion points there, so we could stay for free. It turned out he only reserved one room for the two of us to share, and people, this is where my very spoiled, Paris Hilton BS comes out. I mean, the heart of it is, I thought I was going to die of ripping my own face off if we shared a room. I needed a break super badly. And part of a hotel room for me is just prancing around naked, watching cable, taking baths and reading tarot cards. None of these things could happen whilst sharing a room. I seriously got so twisted up inside, I didn’t know how to be sane, normal or kind. It was very clear that I don’t work with the homeless or for the UN. I felt so embarrassed for my adverse reaction and then determined to put a room on my credit card if I had to. Can you believe this drama? I sound like I’m reporting losing sequins off a dress or something. I sound like I lost a Faberge egg. I sound like I’m flipping out from losing a diamond-encrusted hair clip (didn’t I use the word “encrusted” in my last post?). If I grew up in a town where everyone lives in close quarters, this wouldn’t be so hard for me. BUT I DIDN’T SO PUT YOUR DUMB SWORD DOWN. I KNOW MY LIMITATIONS (somewhat).

I got my own room.

Ugh. Hang on and I’ll solve this embarrassment by donating money to a cause.

Oh also did I mention there was a women’s motorcycle club in town and staying at the hotel? A profusion of robust women wandered about. Including one lady who was in her late sixties, and had to be topping out at 85 pounds in full leathers and Wranglers. Glorious. She was the only person there who was slimmer than my dad, who could play a praying mantis in a grade school production of whatever play has a praying mantis in it. I don’t know where he stashed his organs but I hope he got a fat check for them. He could also play a way-prettier Rene Zellwagons.

Saturday I skated the Palm Springs skatepark. It is super insanely fun of life. I met some kids who were trying to figure out the pool in the back. There were four of them, probably 14-16 years old. One of the younger ones wanted me to listen to his favorite band whose name I can’t remember but they are from San Diego. We dangled our legs in the bowl and he gave me his ear buds and played songs for me, telling me what songs were fast, what ones were mellow, and what ones were good for skating. He had stick-straight blonde hair and sweet, narrow blue eyes. It was so charming and cute. He eventually left to get lunch. His friends went to skate elsewhere because I think they felt awkward figuring it all out in front of me. I wished they would stay but it was too much for them to be watched by an outsider. I felt bad. It was really great that they were getting into pool skating.

I went back to my room and changed into my bikini so I could lie in the sun for a bit, which I handled for about half an hour with a towel over my head. I read W Magazine and drank a green juice. It was heaven. I went to dinner with my dad and one of his old friends at a super gay restaurant in Palm Springs (is there any other kind? Well, yes there will be, when they open that awful HARD ROCK HOTEL later this year. Fuck, why not just stab all the gays in the heart individually? Do they really want Palm Springs to be Vegas? That’s so gross and I’m going to start staying at some other nearby desert town if all the Ed Hardy’s start storming the gates). I want to wear a Proud Bisexual pin when I’m out just so everyone knows. Just kidding. I truly never plan to wear that pin. My LIFE CHOICES are my pin. I tried to get drunk but could only drink one glass of wine in the course of dinner. Back in my room, I listened to a wedding party outside my window. How is it that wedding DJ’s only ever have to buy one set of records and never any more ever because always they will play Footloose and Beat It? Why is this true? What did people listen to before the 70’s and 80’s created all wedding reception music? I’m asking that but truly don’t care about the answer because then I will know something just as stupid as what I already know about wedding music: it is hurtful to women.

I watched the Bondi skate contest on my computah. That was cool.

Sunday I skated the park again, but just for an hour. My dad rode the stationary bike in the work-out center at the hotel because I guess his butt is a mess from sitting on that hard bike seat so much (the one on a stationary bike is flat and wide like sitting on a white woman’s butt). I stopped in to get the car key and he was dripping sweat through his wild eyebrows and pumping the pedals with his french fry legs stuffed into giant paint bucket shoes.

We drove home and my dad said, “I don’t really eat at Denny’s much. Almost never, actually. But you know what I like? Applebee’s.”

Me: Oh really? Why?

Dad: They have some very good salads. Including a good spinach salad. And it’s reliable. When you travel a lot, it’s good to know that your food is going to taste good.”

Me: That makes sense.

In my mind I had some objections. But I at least can shut up about it sometimes even though it shaves years off my life to wrestle with trying not to be the asshole I am so deeply driven to be. I am trying to imagine my dad is someone I barely know, with whom I would be generous and find his antics interesting, charming, or easy to ignore. I want to be a good daughter. But it’s so freaking hard.

I ask again, and evermore, what is life? I don’t claim to have shopped enough or seen enough sunlight refracting off red rocks in remote desert locales from my seat in a hot spring lithium bath to know.

I do know that life feels DEEP lately. We lost Christopher Lee. Suicide.

I don’t want to just be a steward of memories.

I imagine that those who leave this earth by their own hand are finally free from the grief and pain they did not know how to escape. Those of us left here with their memories must daily sweep the same corners, and find ways to make our beds with clear eyes. I feel particular compassion for those of us who were the first to find and name the remaining bodies. The role we’ve played is both regrettable and close to god (or whatever you comfortably call that entity/notion).

PAUSE

I saw Silver Linings Playbook last night. I loved it. I just love a romance. Is that terrible? To some, it is terrible. I’m not looking for penny candy, long nightgowns, candles in iron candle-holders held aloft with a finger loop, or piano lessons in a parlor. I’m just looking for some good lovin’ from a quality human. If that makes me NELLIE OLSON THEN FINE.

Today I met my deeply wonderful friends Ray and Patty at the Venice skatepark. It was fairly busy, and a thick snake of tourists pushed against the railing to watch skateboarding and California happen. I performed skating in a Mellow Way. Snake run many times, middle bowl a few times. Local super-shredders Shane Borland and Chris Russell were out, getting everyone stoked. Toward the end of our tenure at the park, a wonderful, shining, beautiful woman appeared. Like she had ripped herself out of a John Hughes movie. She looked like Brooke Shields meets Kristen Stewart, with olive skin. Thick eyebrows, gorgeous long, dark brown wavy hair blowing out behind her as she skated the snake run. I fell in so much passion with her I couldn’t believe it. As of now I think I will bring her to mind at least once a day for the rest of my life. She was wearing a cream color, collared blouse buttoned all the way to the top. Black tight jeans, navy blue woven belt and black Chuck Taylor high tops. She was so fine it was insane. I was wearing my purple TITS (the band) shirt…”TITS” is written in huge hot pink letters. With ENORMOUS tan shorts (me truly bottoming out with my body dysphoria…bought a pair of size 11 new shorts at the Log Shop’s closing sale. Get it together, lady.) I felt like such a clown next to the vision of what I WANTED to look like. Her eyes were dark and moody and wouldn’t look at anybody while she was skating. She had great skate style. Appeared that she was with some generic-looking skate doodz. I’m sure they’re wonderful people. But who is SHE. I didn’t even know how to ask because I felt like I would just be like, “Hello can I kiss your face into mine?” And she would be like, “GO AWAY GAY CREEP.” and I would never get over it. So I really prevented anything bad from happening in my life ever by just staying away and feeling like Cher next to Joni Mitchell yet again (buffoon to genius).

Unrelated (?) thought: Rihanna’s performance of “Stay” on SNL. Holy bittersweet dysfunctional devotional love from a bruised land. Dear goddess, keep her in your sweet palm and never let her go.

This is the what. I flew up (all over myself) to Santa Rosa from LAX last night in a tiny plane. It departed late. A woman called her husband from the runway and detailed every way in which late airplanes are TERRIBLE. She seemed to really know her shit when it came to the vagaries of privilege. I sincerely hope things have gotten better for her but from what I could tell her life was going to lead to a lot of complaint letters and general confusion regarding her requirements of the world and its unresponsiveness. DADDY HELP! I’m drowning in a sea of taffeta and maraschino cherries without a hairnet!

I arrived and my dad picked me up at the Santa Rosa airport. He had his sweatshirt hood up, which I have never seen him do before. We were twins of spirit, no matter which road home we took, or what we forsook.

My dad has a level of anger and anxiety with regard to customer service that I imagine parallels living in a war-torn country. He thinks the streets are run by hoodlums just waiting to make it confusing to park, packaging the one color of socks he wants with two colors he doesn’t, and ignoring him upon his impressive entry into their boutique cell phone store.

So we walk out of the airport and his VW wagon is parked among rental cars because he couldn’t figure out where to park at the Santa Rosa airport. I’m not sure what everyone else there did, but I’m assuming they all have passcodes to the officers’ parking taj mahal.

I took my dad to his house then drove to St. Helena where I am staying at a bargain motel. I didn’t realize St. Helena had such a thing. I thought bargains were run out of town with Presbyterians. I checked in with a guy who apparently was laid off from a local comic book store owing to his dry humor/flat affect. Or maybe he used to be in the band Yes. It was deeply unclear to me.

I saw people across from the office sitting in a hot tub. It was 11 at night. I love sitting in hot tubs and water in general but I felt disgusted with them, not sure why. It might have been my step-brother and his wife. But I was scared to find out. If it was them I would have felt better and joined them (in spirit–forgot my bikini).

I got to my room and entered to find a tall, monster four-poster bed. I had to start at the door and run at the bed to get up on it. Once I achieved that gay act, I opened a fruit punch gatorade, the giant bag of Ruffles my step-mom gave me and proceeded to watch a show on PBS about the indigenous people of Scandinavia (the Sami), to whom it would appear I am related. Pale skin, Asiatic eyes and voluminous deerskin jackets, living off the land. They showed a Sami man coming across two female deer who died of starvation together in the snow because they were fighting and their antlers got tangled together and they couldn’t get them apart. I’m not immune to metaphor. Though I don’t prefer it.

I woke up this morning feeling like billions of dollars. My skin was REALLY clear. I don’t know why. The lighting at the sink of my motel room is glorious. Nothing like the 15-year-old eco-bulb I bought at Ikea illuminating my mirror at home. It keeps my ego in check though. I can’t just prance around like my rack of antlers is the prettiest of all.

I drove to my dad’s and we went Christmas shopping. No fact of life escaped his critical laser gaze. Everything was poorly designed and uninterested in seducing his expendable dollar. Energetically he is like a chihuahua full of hummingbirds duct taped to a Tilt-a-Whirl. I started staying in the car while he stopped in different places just to get my heart rate back down to a healthy level. To challenge myself I had him stop so I could get coffee. We called my mom on the way and were still talking when we got to coffee. My dad joked, “Oh no, your mom and I have to entertain each other?” Because they are very good friends. I said, “Well you already got divorced, where else could things go?” Then ran inside and purchased my second soy latte of the day (I know, disgusting), bringing my spending total to $12. What a deal!

We drove back to Calistoga. We saw a guy on the side of the road selling fresh honey. My dad said, “Want some fresh honey?” I said, “Yeah!” He said, “I don’t.” and kept driving. I said, “Fresh honey is actually good.” My dad changed the subject.

Now I’m at the house. My niece and nephew are in the living room spazzing out. My dad is watching last night’s Packer game. I’m really looking forward to some wine and gluten-free foodstuffs. My nephew is also gf so there is always a boon of food I can eat. It’s pretty deluxe. I shall continue to report from the front lines/filthy carpet.

Is weather in a Mars and Venus relationship with a person’s hormones? Do the two rule my mental school like so many Type A teenagers with BMW’s? Wait were those the people who really ruled me…? It has been raining for a few days in Los Angeles. It bestows the blues upon a woman to be banished from her board by those woeful angels shedding tears from the sky. After just two days I am dying to ride a skateboard within the bowls of my local skateboarding parks.

I woke up and saw a photo Los Angeles local shredder Froggy had posted showing the Belvedere skatepark was closed owing to graffiti. Dummies. It’s never a skater who does that because you know your park will be closed by the very powerful and enthusiastically punishing city.

It was finally not raining for half a minute so I wanted to skate. I told Froggy’s friend Kevin I would pick him up in East L.A. to hit Channel Street. I didn’t think much of going 40 minutes out of my way to get him (AGAIN, what am I, wonderful?). Something just kills me about people dying to skate and not having access. A weird one-woman non-profit I’m running in my brain. Regardez: The Helpful White Lady strikes again, helming a VW Golf.

We rolled up to Channel. I immediately saw Lisa Whitaker (Meow Skateboards, Girls Skate Network) filming Lizzie Armanto in the first bowl. The bowls were just drying out, after being bailed out by a few people at the park. It turned out one of those people was a foul dude I met at the (completely useless) Torrance park. I really like most people I meet at skateparks (who are not on bikes) (or scooters) (townie time). But this guy is blunder thunder from down under. In a park full of doodz with no helmets he honed in on me, the only femalia, and started relentlessly harassing me about how I needed to wear a helmet. A few other guys I never met who were skating with me told him I was fine. I told him I was fine. He proceeded to enumerate his past injuries in gross detail, a known offense whilst engaging in a risky activity. Have I said all this before or am I sprinting through the Dreamtime?

Kevin, my new friend who traveled with me, immediately spotted Robbie Russo. He was stoked. Then Ronnie Sandoval and Oscar Navarro and Riley Stevens. The shred was on, but it kind of always is at Channel. I moved amongst the bowls and Kevin did his thing. I fell weirdly super hard in the last bowl a couple times. I swear it was the curse of that shitty dude. I would never otherwise say that but I just think he is a bundle of terrible and he seems to follow me from bowl to bowl (just like the CIA does). It felt like someone affixed a suitcase handle to my side, picked me up and shook me like a dirty bath rug. I swear I have a femur in my shoulder now. My neck feels like it’s made from tumbled Lincoln Logs. But true to the eternal rad of Channel, everyone tapped their boards when I fell. I just love that place.

Lizzie Armanto’s mom is learning to skate in her 50’s. Just started. Is that the best thing you ever heard? She looked like a total genius in chartreuse drawstring pants, kneepads and a purple t-shirt. The crowd was entirely patient and stoked when she crawled into the bowl and grabbed a line.

Before leaving I stood in the parking lot and talked to Lisa Whitaker for a bit. I saw a girl with a pitbull puppy on a rope disappear through a hole in the chain link fence under the highway, behind the last bowl. She looked like she was in her late twenties, kinda tall for a gal, white, corduroy skirt over pants sitch. I had seen her drinking Mickey big mouths since we arrived at noon. She emerged about five minutes later with what looked like a three-foot-long (also called a “yard”) black carnival barker mustache. She sat on a bench/ledge and patiently futzed with it for something like fifteen minutes (really hitting it out of the park with MEASUREMENTS today). She finally sorted things out, and slipped her arms into this giant mustache, which was actually big black insect wings a la a child’s Halloween costume. She walked over with her wings on and asked if we wanted to pet her puppy. She was just blowing through town with her dude. The puppy’s name was Indy (duh).

We stayed a few hours, then drove back to L.A. This time I took Kevin to the Gold line because I was running late to join my friend for the Clippers game.

We watched the Clippers vs. the Kings. I love basketball.

We got dressed for dancing at The Catch.

We went to the Catch. The music is always so good. Booming hip hop and a big screen covered in what looks like a Tetris graphic. We danced (I’ll remind you that my policy on dancing is to always give 100 percent on the dance floor. Full athletic engagement) and watched the young queers shake it. I mean, I absolutely didn’t see anyone older than me. Which is fine. But it also meant when I was sitting down and a young go-go dancer walked over to me and wrapped her arms around my legs and said, “I’m a skinny bitch, but you’ve got some meat on you. I want some of this.” all I could do was giggle and not engage. It just didn’t feel right!! How could I get all erotic with a girl in her early twenties in turquoise lame shorts whose girlfriend was upstairs? Then I am the 40-year-old honky lady fighting a young lover! Why would it be a fight? Don’t be dumb! It would! So I kept my integrity and lipstick and just enjoyed her and her friend with the braces, green blazer and engagement ring. Beautiful, beautiful gay people.

So this is life.

You all know I usually spend my weekends in a swirling nest of fast cars, hot women and cocaine. Well, this was a holiday weekend, so I did things a little differently. Today I drove my white economy car out to Norco for a gal’s skateboarding bowl jam. I almost skipped it. I had a lot of reasons to avoid this event, including: there would be no one with whom I could fall in love (BESIDES MYSELF, but I had already done that upon waking up and seeing my hand laid delicately on the sheets), it was an hour drive, I’m out of gluten-free beer, and the bowl is made of skatelite. Only one of those is true with regard to my hesitation. So I realized I was letting skatelite get in the way of meeting new skateboarding women and men. So I drove out.

First I listened to Gillian Welch in the car. Then I realized I wasn’t meeting friends at a hot springs to cry all day so I switched to Light Asylum. I effectively was pumping myself up, booming tunes like a city buffoon into the sky of an agrarian locale called NORCO, which is also the name of a painkiller akin to vicodin. Good information; you’re welcome. I rolled into town and saw many people riding horses. I also saw vintage cars. I also saw a lot of homes that looked like they were the model home that enticed buyers into the area. Being enticed by a model home seems like getting into art because you saw a rad Monet poster. But carry on, I salute you, available minds of California.

I parked in front of a home that was vaguely Spanish style but not really. I saw green tarps strung up in the backyard so I knew I found the right place, as I had seen photos of the tarps protecting the bowl from the sun.

I walked up and met a guy with long, honey blonde hair and bangs named Kevin. In his 30’s, I suspect. I walked into the house, whose front room was sparsely populated with a poofy sectional couch, cuckoo clock and low round table covered in a variety of chip bags, a jar of liquid cheese and a jar of salsa. It rips me up not to be able to eat liquid cheese owing to my dairy allergy. DAIRY ALLERGY. DAIRY ALLERGY. DAIRY ALLERGY. I stepped out into the back and saw a giant garbage can full of crushed aluminum beer cans. I walked up some wood stairs and there was the bowl. Elbow shape, two cradles, metal coping and pool coping. Some people might have taken a picture but I was living my life and having anxiety about how slippery the surface would be. I feel like I hurt myself worse on skatelite than concrete. A bunch of guys were cleaning out the bowl exceptionally diligently. I felt grateful. There were young skater girls dying to get into the bowl. I was the oldest woman skating, and I think the oldest skater, period. This is neither here nor there, it is just a fact like how my couch is a little dirty (I’m going to vacuum it tomorrow).

We skated. There was a well-known skater girl, probably about fifteen years old, and she was not cheering on other people or stoking anyone out with verbal encouragement or joy. At first I thought BUMMER. Then I thought, if that was a dude, I would not be AS disappointed, though I would still be like COME ON. I realized again what a sexist race car driver I am. I then felt glad she didn’t feel like she needed to be on a PR campaign to be loved by all via Price is Right spokesmodel efforts. Then I thought about the fact that she is something like fifteen (I think) and that all kids that age are sociopaths and then I was just glad I didn’t get emotionally scarred by her. JOURNEYS.

I looked over and my friend was on the ground, sitting on the tail of her board and acting like she was riding a bronco (ostensibly it was bucking). I didn’t understand how this came about, and was thankful for the random moment.

After a couple hours a bunch of us left to skate Chino. Oh Chino. I really do like that park. I especially enjoy the pool in back with the pool coping. I had a lot of fun there, though I did catch a glimpse of my shadow at one point and was disturbed by my flapping arms. When will my style be awesome? When will I stop resembling an oil rig whilst rousting about the bowl?

I did not yell at a single child today. This is especially notable when you consider the boon of scooters at the Chino park.

For the rest of my life I will use the word “boon” and it will make me laugh because it is a reference to a Carole Murphy line:

“The fruit compote was of particular note owing to the boon of cherries.”

I still think that is one of the funniest lines Beth and I have ever written.

I just hosted a small party to watch Liz and Dick. Now I sit with a bag of conventional baby carrots, a bag of lentil chips and a glass of champagne, writing to you. My kitten is across the room with his big belly rolled to the ceiling. I hope all is well in your world.