Nobody Hobbles in L.A.

Remember the 80’s synth band, Missing Persons? I do because I once waited 4 hours in line to see them at Magic Mountain. And because midwestern tourists keep taking photos with my friend, Ed, because they considered him a “real punk rocker.” This was based on the intentional fallacy that “real punk rockers” wore “Anarchy” arm bands. Though it had been roughly six summers since “real punk rockers” wore armbands, safety pins, mohawks or anything close to what Ed was wearing. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to ruin the main attraction in these peoples’ Christmas letters.

Now where was I? Missing Persons, yes! In 1982, the band famously released the song “Walking in L.A.” that also famously reenforced for the world, the New York-centric indictment of Los Angeles street culture that “nobody walks in L.A.” For good measure, the song also offered the similar, yet not identical dis that “only a nobody walks in L.A.” From the day the song came out, this negative trope about L.A. has been universally accepted as a point of fact. And no amount of miles walked on my Fitbit could dissuade folks from believing that I couldn’t conceivably have gotten that from walking.

So why, you may be asking, am I suddenly pre-occupied with late period Missing Persons? (And don’t get me started on late period/ Top Gun-era Berlin. Seriously. Don’t.)

It’s because a little over a month ago, I broke my ankle in 3 different places. I don’t know what qualifies as a catastrophic injury. But a 3 hour surgery evolved into a 6 hour surgery. And even the O.R. nurses were complaining about having to stay late on my account.

All of this means, that lately, I have been trying to hobble down the streets of Los Angeles with the aid of a walker. And let’s just say, if nobody walks in L.A., for real, NOBODY hobbles in L.A. Relative to what I’m attempting, Ventura Boulevard might as well be the corner of Madison and Broadway. It might as well be the 1st Arrondissement the moment the Louvre swings its doors open. It might as well… you get the point. Compared to people shuffling in walkers, L.A. is a world class walking city.

Two quick things to mention. One, this is not intended as a “woe is me” piece. I don’t have renal failure or Japanese B encephalitis. What I have is annoying, but not tragic. So stop yelling at me that I’m making too big of a fuss.

Second, I sincerely wish I had a more dramatic, more poetic way that I broke my ankle. I wasn’t waging an assault on Franz Klammer’s downhill record at Innsbruck. Nor was I wounded in a vicious knife fight. Lord knows, even if I had been wounded in a dancing knife fight, that might have buttressed my masculinity more than what actually happened.

I broke my ankle from coughing too hard. No, you did not just a read a sentence-long typo. I had bronchitis. I coughed with such intensity that I momentarily blacked out. And the next thing I knew, I was laying on the kitchen floor. And my foot was pointed in the opposite of its God-intended direction. Like Wile E. Coyote at the tail-end of some particularly pernicious Roadrunner prank.

For close to a month, I was bed-bound. In recent walks, I have ventured out a little. And here is what I’ve observed. Los Angeles isnt designed for a guy in a walker. Nor is Los Angeles especially friendly to a guy in a walker. Even though, short of an accident, I’m probably 25 years from needing one for real. It doesn’t matter.

L.A. is based on youth, fitness and beauty. And the myth that those attributes are eternal and immutable. Then here comes Old Man Behar, ambling into their corner gastro-pub. And I’m a reminder, that no matter how much you Soul Cycle, no matter how many pressed juices you guzzle, that old age is a-comin’.

I’m like a Dickensian flash forward. And as we know, the three things people in Los Angeles never want to see are an old person, a heavy person or a Dickensian flash forward.

I’ve lived in Southern California almost my entire life. But I don’t think you’re truly cognizant of how youth-oriented it is, until you’ve tried travelling via walker. Suddenly, you become keenly aware that it’s practically Logan’s Run. Forget other amblers. Where are the people over 30? Were they killed off by government decree?

At first, I had a decent attitude about my rehab period. I was going to be like Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window and use my infirmity to solve neighborhood crimes. Eventually, that’s evolved into my using Twitter to solve global crimes, like trying to prove that a certain U.S. President was a willing asset to our most destructive foreign adversary. So my days haven’t been a total waste.

Lately, friends have been taking me to my local deli. This feels good because there are still some alter cockers there who are nearly double my age. Then again, even they move like 1984 Carl Lewis compared to me these days. In my head, I have vowed to race them to the pickled herring display once my foot heals. But that seems a little petty. Plus, I fear I may still lose.

Next week, I’m venturing out for real. Or back into show business land. I’ll be attending the PGA Awards in Beverly Hills. I’m praying that some movie producers are as old and immobile as I am. Though we all know their wives will be neither. And let’s face it, what are the odds the showrunner of Fuller House wouldn’t be in a walker? I think my foot is behaving pretty age-appropriately for the job I have.

As for now, I’m just relaxing, spending a lot of time talking to Alexa. The gadget, not my old boss. Though I did say hi to her on one of my interminable walks back from the deli bathroom. But truth be told, even my electronic friend seems oddly put off by my continually asking her to play Springsteen B-sides. The news that Nils Lofgren follows me on Twitter didn’t seem to help.

Yeah, I know, I need to get out more. Well, good news: I’ve been upgraded to a knee scooter. People may not hobble in L.A. And ambling in L.A. is clearly frowned upon. But knee-scooting? Look out Los Angeles, here I come!

If we can just figure out how to get it in the car.