Palm Tree Rendevous

It reminds me of what a Rocky Mountain Rendezvous must have been like.

The rendezvous was an annual gathering from 1825 through 1840 at which trappers and mountain men sold their furs and hides and replenished their supplies. The large fur companies held these events at various locations throughout the west and northwest. Rendezvous were known to be lively, joyous places, where all were allowed and none exempt. Kind of reminds me of home.

The Coachella Valley and its collective communities are pretty unique in that as’ the season’ come alive so too does the entire valley. Its composure, complexity and personality seem to awaken from its summer doldrums. Much like the early mountain men who came to trade summer experiences and entertain with tall tales, so too the Valley becomes a mecca for travelers escaping the harsh reality of winter back home.

Personal choices, circumstances and seasonal events all conspire to draw people to the desert during the winter months. For many it is a return to their other lives. It’s going back to the flip side of their second life.

Unlike the other valley cities, Palm Springs morphs into a different kind of animal than its desert neighbors. Among the various cities spread out down the Valley, Palm Springs remains unique in its eclectic collection of melting pots and the characters who brew there.

Down valley is more a culture of ‘the seasonal elite’ where folks gather around their country club scene. They love to swap tales from back home, golf, attend social events, become part of high society again and live the illusion that is the ‘Palm Springs Lifestyle.’

There are more social events than a calendar can accommodate. It begins in early January with the Palm Springs International Film Festival then moves on to Food and Wine Week, the Southwest Arts Festival at the Empire Polo Club, Broadway performances at the McCullum Theater, Restaurant Week, Art under the Umbrellas, Modernism Week, Fashion Week and a plethora of social and cultural events. On the tail end of these hedonistic experiences are Coachella, Stagecoach and the beginnings of Splash Summer.

 For the casual outsider, it’s a fascinating smorgasbord of people of similar ages, abilities, interests and opinions brought together in the desert to mix and match and stir up the pot together.  Always a very colorful collection of individuals brought together by a distain for cold weather, old friendships, a love of the desert. Each bringing with them a wealth of life experiences to share.

Unlike those communities down valley, Palm Springs marches to its down tin drummer. There is less of a concentration of ‘casual serious money’ and more ‘real world reality’ performing on stage here.

For many weekend visitors from the coast it can be a quick mix up and a drink. For the younger set it can be a wild weekend or a lost one for that matter. For others, it’s a refreshing change of pace from their normal lives or just an excuse to play golf.

Trendy hotels like the ACE, the Saguaro and soon the Curve all cater toward the hipsters, trendsetters and people in the know. Downtown nightclubs fuel the uninhibited revelers and the more art conscious are drawn to the Art and Design District, the Backstreet Art Gallery and other galleries scattered about town.

Unlike the more refined and cultured blue-hair environment of the Rancho Mirage Library or those in surrounding communities, the Palm Springs library is a gathering spot unique among others. At times it can seem like a world unto its own.

Aside from the usual literary crowd of retirees, snow birds and casual visitors, the library attracts many other seekers. Those include the homeless, the unemployed, the poor, the elderly, local high-schoolers as well as those seeking to improve themselves through self-study. They all crowd the library’s book stacks, magazine racks and computer lab for enlightenment. Parents help their kids with homework or mentor the less fortunate.

When the occasional mood calls my hangouts include Koffi, Starbucks and Ristretto. Each attracts its own curious collection of tourists, local bohemians, camp followers and the occasional visitor looking for companionship.

Aside from the communal gathering spots with a friend I find the most enlightenment in my own private nests about town. It might be a rocky outcropping among the crags and fissures that are the mountains surrounding Palm Springs. It might be a stone bench in back or a wooded trail back home.

Anyplace where I can get lost in my mind and discover the hidden truths lingering there.

My Third Place is Hide and Seek

Communal gathering spots have never held much interest for me. I don’t find inspiration in crowded coffee shops or large arenas. Some would argue that these social gathering spots are the anchor of community life and as such facilitate and foster interpersonal interaction and group consensus. That may be true for the majority of folks but not all of us.

Aside from home (often referred to as one’s first place and the workplace (often referred to as the second place), many folks have a third place or third space for their social gatherings. It’s where they go to socialize among like-minded souls of a similar bent. But my experience has been that group mindset can be wrong as often as it is right. Like-minded souls can still foster perpetuate group-think no matter the logic. 

I’ve always been suspicious of going with the flow if for no other reason than the fact that alternate views can often be so much more stimulating. Or perhaps I just chose to make up my own mind.

 

My prejudice toward the ‘old men at the coffee shop’ is legendary. I’ve come to see those old codgers as relics well past their prime who seem to be unhappy with anything and everything around them. They talk ‘at’ one another but never ‘to’ one another. They listen only to the extent that they are waiting for a chance to butt in. There are seldom any new ideas exchanged. It’s just the same old same old rehashed and regurgitated back out again. This may not be a fair criticism but I have yet to find any example to prove me wrong. 

Probably my greatest criticism against group-think is the absence of fresh thoughts and ideas. I need a third place to find my inspiration. What I keep looking for are those pockets of time and place that lend themselves to creativity. 

Many folks think that creativity comes from chaining oneself to their desk and just focusing on the computer screen until inspiration hits. Nothing could be further from the truth. It’s moments like that when you need to escape your present reality and create a new one. You need to do anything and everything to distract yourself from the task ahead. By unchaining your mind from the restraint of forced thought, you unleash your subconscious powers. Einstein is quoted as saying that “Creativity is the residue of time wasted.”

Jonah Lehrer, who was recently fired from the New Yorker for making up quotes from Bob Dylan, has nevertheless written an interesting book entitled: “Imagine: How Creativity Works.”

In his book, Lehrer describes how Dylan, being burnt out in his role as political folk music icon, put away his guitar and retreated to upstate New York to paint and write. Yet within a short period of time, he found that he couldn’t stop writing lyrics, churning out 25 pages of lyrics in a short period of time.

Dylan’s moment of insight came out of the blue when he least expected it. Yet I would argue that, in fact, he had set himself up for something new to happen simply by stepping away from the old familiar and exposing himself to something new. 

For myself, it might be on a long distance run, a multi-city bike tour, Hiking the canyons around Palm Springs, a quiet coffee shop or my own morning coffee ritual on the patio. It might even be at the library reading magazines or looking at a picture book.

My ‘third place’ is that neutral ground where I can get away from my roles at home, with the kids, the grandkids, friends and associates and just get to be myself. It is a state of mind located almost anywhere but the old familiar. It can be the high desert, the ocean or the mountains surrounding Palm Springs. Anyplace I can hunker down with my reading or writing material.

It’s that cauldron of unexplainable unexpected elements that come together and become a recipe for creative thought. More often than not, it’s totally unplanned. It might be a song I’ve heard for umpteen times but all of a sudden an image appears in my minds-eye and a story is suddenly born.

Fortunately, inspiration can be found anywhere and everywhere my mind finds it. It’s not the shell but the contents that fascinates me the most. It’s anyplace I can explore, investigate, probe or visit that becomes ripe for creative interpretation. It can often be in the most vapid, esoteric works of art. The non-digital, unplugged works of art fascinate me the most. Over time I’ve come to realize that my ‘third place’ can be found in books and film and music. More often than not, literature of almost any kind takes precedence of other forms of stimulation.

But the best place for my imagination to run wild with my grandchildren. Unencumbered by monetary and social restraints, we’re free to pretend to our hearts content. I’m perfectly adapted to such silliness as I proudly attested to in RidingShotgun with Peter Pan. The old adage of ‘acting your age’ doesn’t apply here.

I’ve engaged with my grandchildren here and in Colorado in silly, nonsensical play of every kind. We’ve flown to the moon and chased pirates across the living room floor. We’ve hidden under a blanket and told scary stories. We’ve gone snipe-hunting on a golf course at night and heard bears and lions and elephants all around us. We’ve chased sharks around the pool and dove for treasure lying on the bottom there. We’ve engaged in a hundred thousand silly unremarkable exercises of horse-play and pretend skits that expanded and grew and nurtured and matured their imagination when they weren’t looking. 

Creativity came under a blanket of stars and on the top of the San Jacinto’s. It came in a handful of squished play dough and scratched across a piece of paper. It came anytime and every time silliness and ‘why not’ was left free to run with wild abandon. 

We went day-dreaming in the middle of the day and found inspiration there. Tall tales kept bursting forth from the little people there. It set my mind to wondering…

And even an old codger can learn from the most uninhibited of us all.

Saint Joseph of Starbucks

Every morning at 5:00 am, in the Starbucks located in the heart of Palm Springs, Saint Joseph awaits to council, advise and administer to the daily needs of his flock.

He appears at his corner table. Always the same table, always the same time, always the same place. Seven days a week since at least 2000 when I first started going to Palm Springs.

The only variable is his entourage for that particular day and the host of visiting dignitaries who shuffle by for their coffee fix and always find time to stop at his office for a

brief exchange of wisdom before melting into the night once again.

Joseph is an older gentleman, probably in his mid-seventies. He’s always cheerful, ready with a smile and a laugh. He has a pleasant demeanor that never varies with the seasons or time of day. I don’t know if Joseph is married or gay or straight. And it hardly matters, especially in a place like Palm Springs.  He is a councilor, advisor, cheerleader, friend, listener and seeker of the good in everyone he meets.

For many people, Joseph is their early morning elixir for what ails them on that particular day. Unlike the old men who gather at coffee shops around the world to blather on about nothing and expose their ignorance with Monday morning quarterbacking, second-guessing politicians and berating the government, Joseph is articulate, thoughtful and intelligent.

His entourage varies from day to day as do his visitors.

There is an older woman who is usually at his side. I can’t tell if they’re married, living together or just friends in need of companionship. She seems to be the yin for his yang.

And an old curmudgeon who is usually bitching about something and is always countered by Joseph’s calm response. The man is like a bad cliché but he doesn’t know it or seem to care. He just keeps embarrassing himself with his statements. Joseph is the man’s patient sounding board. I sometimes think Joseph’s nickname should be chuckles for his quick wit and logical response to the man’s anal chattering on about nothing.

Others come and go. A few linger but most just sit or stand for a little while in Joseph’s corner and then move on with their lives.

The conversations vary by the day. One time it might be the local news sprinkled with criticism of national politics. The next might be the weather; summer is hot, the rest of the year is wonderful. The conversations are open, honest and usually bent toward the left, which is not surprising considering the community that hosts them.

One time Joseph and his merry band of mischief-makers moved all the furniture around to suit their taste that day. They called themselves “Interior Desiccators.” Management wasn’t pleased and moved the furniture back in place. The next day, the game began again. Joseph won and management capitulated.

Another day, they dissected a local play. They decided it was Dr. Cold Fingers who was the proctologist. They ran lines of their own: “If you twitter my…I’ll google your”…and “two pickles short of a hamburger. ” None of it was really funny except that it was five in the morning and the caffeine hadn’t worked its magic yet. So they thought themselves hilarious.

Crossword puzzles are always a hit and usually completed in short order with a host of quick minds attacking the empty blocks. Often times, arguments arise and the dictionary (part of Joseph’s arsenal of support material) settles the answer.

The cadre of visitors varies each day but some stand out in my mind.

There is the younger woman who lives in her wheelchair. She moves around by using her crutches as walking sticks. She has the sad eyes of a fawn that has just lost her mother. But she has many friends at Starbucks and she relishes their company. They relish hers.

Then there is the muscle man, built solid as a rock, who walks a toy poodle. The dog is his trusted companion and he loves that animal. Dogs come and go. There’s even a dish of water for them outside every morning.

A day laborer stops by often. He always wears a knit hat even in 125-degree summer heat. And he always seems to be moving from one job to another.

There is always the man in one corner with his flashlight, scanning the pages of the LA Times and NY Times because the damn lighting is so bad inside.

Numerous gay men come by. Many of them argue like any old married couple. The arguments are always the same, only the gender is different.

A Black businessman with a ready smile is there every morning. He is always impeccably dressed in a white shirt and tie even in the stifling summer heat.

For a short while, there was even a guy who took a fancy to me. His gaydar must have been out of whack that week.

By 7:00 or 7:30, Joseph is gone. I have absolutely no idea where he goes off. But it doesn’t really matter. Joseph is sure to be back the next day, same place, same time. There will be the same flock of casual friends who look forward to his ready smile, quick wit and easy to swallow dose of friendship. For many folks, that’s all that’s needed to face another day and their reality, if only for a moment in time.

Starbucks reminds me of the Triangle Bar on the West Bank and the Amsterdam Coffee houses of my past. Only now I’m just a casual observer, taking a lot of notes.

And thinking what a wonderful play this story would make.