These Plants Keep Breakin' My Heart

There's one thing that couldn't be truer: most plants are very hard to keep alive. I can't, but mostly don't want to, tell you the dollar amount I've spent on fauna that is now enriching the soil with its deadness. My dead-ass former plants are probably soil in pots that hold very alive plants - likely in some yuppie's condo on Franklin Blvd. Yeah HE knows how to keep it alive.

What all this bio-death is doing is releasing oxygen...great, but I'm convinced there's psychological damage done to a plant owner who keeps losing 'em left and right. I've got one motherfucker hanging in there alright, and to me, he is like the hiker who chopped his own arm off to escape from under that boulder. I can't fathom why he's still alive. For all my supposed shitiness as a plant keeper, he's trucking along, shedding a few brown leaves here and there sure, but keeping it long and flowing in the corner of my room. I'm serious - if anyone dared spray some Windex on him for laughs, I'd start wailing on them like a Milwaukee Adult League hockey coach. And then it'd get REAL weird between us.

There's one case that breaks my heart, see. You all know those classic bamboo-style plants that every schmuck has on his office desk, the kind you can get at IKEA for like a dollar. They sometimes twist around, but mostly they're just straight up bamboo and leaves. Well, you can keep those things alive under the hood of a car, I swear. No water for weeks, occasional light, and some breeze, and that thing's sittin' pretty for a year at least, right? Not mine. I made a mortal cultivation faux pas and put it outside my window in the dead of October. Now, mind you, this is LA, so it MAYBE got to 50 degrees. But it was enough to deal a deadly blow to my lil' bamboozler. By the next morning, that thing looked like E.T. when they pulled it out of the creek. Literally. It was milky brown, wet, and it was mewing like a semi-deranged lamb. I brought it quickly inside, wrapped a towel around it, and pointed my 100 watt lamp in its direction. A week later it looked mildly better, and by January we were looking at a brand-spanking new plant. I thought the Curse of the Plant Widower was finally over.

Until yesterday.

Inexplicably, my bamboo plant is dying. I'm at a complete loss. Its stalks are brown and mushy, the leaves limp and depressing. There's water in there, sure, but that hasn't helped or hurt matters since the beginning. The only thing I can think of is that it has lost the Will to Live. Can they do that? And if so, why put yourself through this mental anguish anymore? These things are like people that die in front of us all the time, and we're just supposed to keep burying them? Fuck that. I'm not buying anymore. I got one, and he's getting it done. When he dies, I'm swearing them off for good. No room in this heart for any more breakin'.

Karate

Growing up a child of a divorced marriage in the late 80s, I claimed to relate to the Karate Kid more than most kids my age. Except, I was living in Delaware, not California. My passion was soccer, not ka-ra-TAY. My skin was breaking out in zits, not golden-brown porcelain like Ralph Maccio's. Despite these major discrepancies, I rooted for the Kid as if I were cheering myself on the big screen (especially the part when he lays game down on Shue, and the whole shower curtain Halloween idea - genius).

So, when the climax of the movie pits him against the ruthless Cobra Kai, I experienced a deep, deep hatred for them as well. I wrote a blog about seeing the blond-haired nemesis Johnny (I still call him that) at a cafe in Studio City and wishing I had the balls to kick his arrogant ass. I told myself that day that if I ever came across an outfit like the Cobra Kai, I would do everything in my power to bring them down.

This weekend I almost did.

One of my job requirements is to take nine kids up to a competition in Mission Hills (much like Reseda, where the Kid lives) and pit them against other teams in a sort of academia olympica, if you will. There are seven events over the course of the day (although the name of the competition would have you believe there were ten), with subjects ranging from Art to Economics. It is a long day, starting at 8:00 AM and ending at 5:00 PM with a Jeopardy-style group competition in front of a packed auditorium.

Let's say my team was the Karate Kid of the competition - a lot of heart, a enigmatic and slightly insane coach (me), and certainly the underdog. And let's say that one of the teams in the competition, a certain large organization who had enough people with them to make two teams, was the Cobra Kai - black and red uniforms, malicious and ruthless coach, and robot-like discipline.

During this Jeopardy-like event at the end of the day, a proctor reads questions out loud, and each team member (there are three per team) has exactly seven seconds to write the correct answer down. Judges then tally up each correct answer per team and post a running tally of the team's score. My kids were about as prepared for this event as I was, since this is my first year as coach. As their names were called to go up, they looked at me like, "Wait, we have to go up? I thought we were done?" The Cobra Kai, on the other hand, meticulously lined themselves up alphabetically, standing with arms crossed, waiting patiently like vultures over a dying gazelle.

My kids took their seats and looked out over the crowd, searching for me and the two parents who had come with us. I gave them a Miyagi glance - knowing, confident, Zen-like. The Cobra Kai sat rigidly in their seats. On cue, they held their pencils upright, waiting for the first question. The proctor announced that the topic would be "climatology". The Cobra Kai shared knowing glances and smirks. My kids looked again over the crowd, searching for support. My heart started to race.

First question, the Cobra Kai all gets it right. My kids score a one. Early deficit, but we're on the board. The Cobra Kai members in the audience yell out a guttural cheer and shake red and black pom-poms. Like a well-oiled machine. The coach doesn't crack a smile, as if he expects nothing less. Second question, Cobra Kai score a perfect three, my kids a two. 6-3. We're doing all we can just to make a dent. The questions are hard, and I can see sweat beading on foreheads.

With two questions to go, we're down 13-10. Our kids have pullled off a miracle in my book. The Cobra Kai prepares for this competition year-round, while my kids met up a few days before. If they pull this off, it will send shock waves up and down the California coast. The proctor reads off a question about the earth's axis. Impossible. If we get one correct answer I'll be thrilled. The judges hold up the scorecard: 14-12!!

We've got one chance to do it. One question left. If we get all three right, we could pull it off. One of my kids glances at me. I give him the Miyagi look. He prepares for the crane kick. The Cobra Kai coach is sweating. He's barking at the other members sitting down to quiet up. Their pom-pom shaking has lost its spunk. Their cheers sound vapid, unenthused. The proctor reads a question about carbon dioxide emission. Seven seconds pass, the proctor calls time, and the judges hold up the cards: 17-15. Cobra Kai win.

***

We drove home as the sun was setting over the 405. I kept thinking about "What if they had prepared more," or "What could I have done better?" Then I saw one of the kids smiling out of the window. He's graduating this year and going on to college. He won't be back next year. Life goes on and on. But for one Saturday in February, this group of kids, with untucked shirts, big smiles and bigger hearts, almost took down the Cobra Kai.

Next year, we got this.