Early Blogs

53 times around the sun, I wonder how many miles is that? It seems like a lot, maybe that's why I’m so worn around the edges, maybe that’s why everything hurts, maybe that’s why I always feel tired. Pondering further on the subject I begin to fix breakfast, which starts with turning the television on. simply to offer me some background filler. Through the sizzle of sausage, I hear Danny Glover, who plays Roger Murtaugh in the Lethal Weapon series mutter, "...and I was going to retire next year at 52", a throw-away line filmed to make the next jump cut less abrasive, but I heard it perfectly through the sizzle of my food, a room away. I stop cooking for a second to fully digest the actual horror that one sentence means to me. I am now older than the guy who coined the phrase, 'I'm too old for this shit' is. The sausage begins to burn as I stand there and imagine that the audiences who are watching this program, along with all the players in the Lethal Weapon world, are saying to each other, "You know what? He is too old for that shit." I take the sausage off the burner and eat two. “Am I too old for…this…shit?” I ask my unseen audience. I get no answer from them, or my agent, or from the sponsors, or the network. So, I ask the first person I see, my roommate, who stumbles into the kitchen. “Am I too old for this shit?” I ask. “Yes, are you cooking breakfast?” I guess there will be no sequels for me. 

...nor is 801 North First Street, yet that is where I decided my court appearance was going to be this morning. I arrived early, before all the city employees crammed their Eco-cars into their personalized permitted parking places (which are the closest bank to the buildings entrances). I did not put my change in the meter yet because I only had enough to cover legal parking for an hour. I sat and reflected on the past two days, starting with my entrance to my old haunt The Branham Lounge, which inspired the line, "The bar is dark. The bar is always dark, even at night", and holding true to my memory, it takes me a couple of steps before I realize nobody is in the bar. 'Good, more face time with the bartender for me.' I think, remembering that I used to love that. I automatically walk down to the end of the bar, not remembering that I used to call our section "Branham South", noisily move the stool so I don't scare whoever is working, and sit down, hoping that that whoever is a cute whoever. Jessica is the bartender, a millennial, and we have a two-drink conversation before somebody else wanders in. Throughout our conversation I felt a growing need to tell her that I did not live in San Jose, it was a weird feeling that tried to nudge the conversation toward the revelation, which was more than likely rooted in my narcissistic tendencies to continually talk about myself. That faded away when parts of the old crew began to show up. Wendy, Todd, Scott, Steely (Dan), and Terry. Quickly I am reminded of "Branham South", and "Cherry Bombs", and what drinking cherry bombs at Branham south usually led to. But this activity is no longer THE event of the day, it is a spacer event designed to pass the time, or collect a friend, before the actual event, and we are all doing something else later. A couple of smokes against the bricks, a couple of stories of old bar buddies gone crazy, and at the end a tragic story of yet another old fashion, hole-in-the-wall, dive bar being renovated to match a kinder, gentler generation that is still scared of the dark. I have no time to think about the death of the Marmist, because it is time to begin moving toward my court room appearance. It's cold, so I am limping, but in my mind’s eye I look totally cool. I cross the first parking lot and something in my head says that the numbers don't match, I pull out my warrant and look at the address, 191 north first street...I look up and see 801 north first street, that's not the same number. I look down the street and see that 70 West Hedding isn't where court is either, that where I will be ending up if I miss today's court date, which I now remember is across from St. James Park. I have 5 minutes to get there, great. Long story short, I speed, cut off a bus, park without paying, and run (yep) all the way to court, trying to build my case the whole time. I guess the oxygen forced into my brain by my morning exercise clears enough of the plaque away to begin to remember things about the case and by the time I sit down in department 3, I know exactly what I did wrong, and why I am responsible, which is stated by the City Representative in his opening sentence. This is why this story belongs here in my Center for Idiocy Blog, as I try to teach by example that if your car is stolen, you have to report it stolen to the officer at your front door when he asks you if your car was stolen, and then if you don't want to be held responsible for the damage that car caused when crashed into some of your old work, you do not say that you don't want to press charges against the person that stole your car. Lesson Learned. 

I’ve always said that 1978 was my favorite year musically, and with songs like “Love is Like Oxygen” by Sweet, “Always and Forever” by Heatwave, “Reminiscing” by Little River Band, “Blue Bayou” by Linda Ronstadt, and “Life’s Been Good” by Joe Walsh (among many others), I was confident that if I was ever asked to put forth a compelling argument to justify my statement, it would be effortless. Then today I decided to finally update my website, choosing the topic “music you first legally drove to”, to celebrate the first Dodge vehicle I picked up recently. The blog was going to be about how music smelled so much sweeter to the nose of a brand-new driver, adding a list of those songs and maybe slipping in a story or two about my baby blue Lincoln Continental Mark IV and Winchester Drive-in. My faith in my statement began to wane when I looked at the top 100 songs of 1983. “Every Breath You Take” by the Police was the number one song that year, and from there the windfall of memoric song titles buried me underneath my forgotten innocent travels. From Prince’s “Little Red Corvette”, “Sexual Healing by Marvin Gaye, “Man-eater” by Hall and Oats, “Chain Gang” by the Pretenders and David Bowie’s “Let’s Dance” to “Breaking Us in Two” by Joe Jackson, “Rock the Casbah” by the Clash, “Goody Two Shoes” by Adam Ant, “She’s a Beauty” by the Tubes, and “True” by Spandau Ballet (also among many more). Each title simply read with no music accompaniment sent me spiraling into that Lincoln (and that 148 lb. body) in a flash. I could see the roads I used to drive to school, passing places like El Paseo, Winchester Drive In, Vuko’s Liquors, Galactica, and Glazzy Park, I could see friends’ faces laughing in the monstrous back seat and smell the perfume of long forgotten dates, I could taste the overly sweet California Coolers mixed with the stale breath of Jakarta Cloves while KSJO, KOME, KQAK, KFJC, or KSJS played those songs. I can remember wondering why I kept the Deep Purple, Elton John, and Boston 8-track tapes my cousin gave to me in the glove compartment if I don’t listen to them, and I remember when I threw them out of the window on Hwy 17 just after the summit while the Eurythmics, Kinks, and Dexy’s Midnight Runners played on. In short, I have been wrong for whatever amount of time I have been saying that 1978 is my favorite year in music. It still is good music, but that’s all I remember about it. The music from 1983, let’s me time travel and experience the world before the scars of living in it had been dug too deep. 

Still in the grips of a four month long social maelstrom, I sit at my dinner table and work on my computer. Writing, fixing, tweaking, accidentally erasing, and all sorts of stuff when another wave of craziness hits me. "I should go back to school" I say like I'm talking to somebody. "What, why?" A voice from around the corner answers me with adult puzzlement. "I never went." I say to my house guest. Then I tune out and remember those early years of having no summer vacation, no spring break, no "official" time set aside from my work schedule to sew my wild teenage oats. It wasn't the sewing of oats that I missed, it was the chance to create new human contact in the next phase of adult hood, a more mature route than high school, more productive from a sociological point of view. Maybe that's the reason I am the way I am. Being an immature and closed off forty-six-year-old man that quits his family business and moves to the mountains doesn't sound normal to me. My subconscious psychologist takes a break and leaves me wondering how I got onto this subject so suddenly. But I can't lose the feeling that this is the right time to do it. I moment later I look down and there is my phone with the numbers dialed already, I can't remember dialing them. The next thing I know the phone is back on its charger and there are scribbles on a piece of my yellow legal writing paper, but it's not the scribbling of a new story, it's all official like writing with words like "Human Resources", "Student Loan" and other assorted college things. "What just happened?" I ask my friend. "What do you mean?" She answers. "What did I just sign up for?" I say hushed. "Dude, you just enrolled yourself in College." She says and starts laughing. The spring air that was so sweet, slowly rolled away from my house to the road. I wanted to strangle her for laughing, but then a little speck of a lost thought creeps into my head, it starts way down in the ends of my toes and builds mass as it makes its journey to my brain, and as it hits my ears it sparks a memory from high school; January 1985, after school and before soccer practice, that was my scheduled time to meet with Mr. (insert forgotten name here), my guidance counselor. "Journalism huh?" He says and looks at me as if to say "are you bored or something?" My heart falls as he says it reminding me of the discussions I had with my dad about my "hobby". "You don't think I'm good enough?" I say to Mr. Buckland, MR. BUCKLAND! (Ha, remembered) “You've seen all my stuff from Hansfields class last year and this year’s assignments." I say, because he was my English teacher too. "No, I love your stories. You have a real knack at making the reader believe what you’re writing about, but it's not the best you can do…that is what college is for. See, college isn’t just to continue your scholastic learning, it continues to mature the young adult by giving them different things to experience and different perspectives on what that young adult already knows. In your case to see the world with a little more color." He finishes off his practiced "go get em" speech. We sat and talked for an hour and a half about the things I could create if I kept on writing.

I was late for soccer practice that day, the only time I ever was. Driving home I envisioned a future filled with exotic places and interviews done in the heat of battle. The cold city streets I usually drove home on disappeared as the clouds parted their stormy arms letting me see a path that I wanted so much more than anything else I ever did. But, a world full of wants can be cruel and has no time for elaborate dreamers like me. That path ended with me getting expelled from high school, squashing those dreams into the very ends of my toes.

...into the ends of my toes. I am glad to be back on that path again, which saves my temporary roommate from strangulation.

My life is like a porno for the asexual. I wear the latest fashion mutilated with unnecessary swagger that is easy to take off as I help strangers in odd settings repair household items per their request. A soundtrack of horrible music constantly plays in my head. The only difference is that there is no crescendo of sex, I just complete the job at hand, then leave. 

...and I am left with the uneasy feeling that some of my best thoughts will be forgotten. But I made my choice to become a student again in hopes that I can find another job that I loved doing. I've been made offers to sing in lounge type places and now vineyards, I've been asked to come back to the bay area to continue construction, I've been threatened to publish something and yet I still hold my fear of real life close to my chest. Not moving forward seems to be what I do now, and I am comfortable with that, but I know it can't last the forever that I have been allotted. Not one friggen word written in two weeks! I am embarrassed to say the least. But today I spent all day trying to catch up on homework so I could sit at my dinner table and belt out 30,000 words, which should finish "The White Horse". Then re-write, then rinse and repeat, then one final re-write just to make sure. And I'm afraid that my passion is stretched to the point of mundanity and the things I write won't have the same feeling to it. But still, I will tarry over the grindstone just to get the structure down. Not only is my passion wearing away, but once again my sanity as I don't have any answers to the dark questions that are asked me. I feel a bout of depressions looming over the mountains as I struggle to understand a great many things and why I must deal with them. I have even decided to let my 64 Cadillac spend another summer in the garage but only because I cannot give her the appropriate amount of love. THAT saddens me a bit more than it should. For someone who doesn't do much, my plate is full, and I'm still in the line at the buffet. I'm hoping that, like always, when I finish something everything else falls into its logical place. We...will...see... 

One of the perks of getting older is that you can play to your aging body, use it as an excuse to not do things you don’t want to do. I admit that I have already begun to abuse a certain aspect of my failing body, or should I say my alleged failing body. I have become lazy these past seven years and combine that with my aversion to answering the phone and talking to people, I happened upon the “loss of hearing” excuse. It had been staring me in the face, no incorrect pun intended, for the past couple years as my mom’s longtime boyfriend Bill began to lose his hearing. While he fights the problem of hearing conversations, and asking what we said, I embrace my aged ears. “Why didn’t you answer the phone? Didn’t you hear the doorbell? Didn’t you hear me?” These are only some of the questions I am not asked anymore. No more minor decisions to make, no more interrupted programs, gaming, or projects with questions that I wouldn’t want to answer in the first place. No more bump in the night searches, backtracking exits from places I’m bored with because someone is calling my name from the other side of the parking lot, and no more having to turn my stereo down. I can gleefully ignore almost anything…I did say that I am abusing this so-called perk. Another unforeseen aspect of this new trait of mine is that if people think you can’t hear, they are freer with their criticisms or other types of information that you wouldn’t normally hear, which can be a double-edged sword at times. I should feel guilty I think, but the comfort outweighs the guilt by an enormous amount. But why say anything about this, well, it’s because I had a guest last night that had ruined his hearing with gunfire. Between yelling and screaming at him, as he tried to decipher our poorly punctuated chicken scratches, and our unenthusiastic attempts at “charading” our points, which simply confused our conversations more drastically, I felt an inappropriate “Blade” metaphor seep into my consciousness. ‘All of their strengths, none of their weaknesses’. I could hear karma’s pen click adding yet another tally-point to my profile as I marched, now inevitably, towards complete hearing loss. 

As of recent times I have found myself "epiphined" more than any time in my life. The first coming in the form of a Muppet named Gonzo. This supposed one of a kind puppet-animal who claims to be of avian decent, before and after he disinherited his alien species, buries his true self by accepting the phylum of "whatever", when anybody dares to ask. More misdirection has evolved with his performance art, love of pluming, and his awkward ongoing relationship with chickens. He moves about backstage with an "unasured" gait, which adds measure to his meek and timid voice when accepting froggish commands. Don’t be fooled, you need to look past all of this, visualize the bigger Muppet picture and realize that he has been in every Muppet movie, even taking away the protagonist title from Kermit at one point...the frog didn't even know. This, along with the forgotten declaration of love for the female pig, is now why he holds all the strings, a veritable "Muppet Master". Even his closest confidant, Rizzo the Rat, doesn't understand how he became a key player in the Muppet Universe...it is because Gonzo said so. Rumors that Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem, Dr. Bunsen Honeydew, and Statler and Waldorf tried to wrestle the "hands that feed" title away from Gonzo in 1988, but those rumors were quickly squashed, along with the original Dr. Teeth, Dr. Bunsen, and S & W, who Gonzo quickly replaced with controllable doppelgangers. I happened upon this revelation while leafing through Animal's first draft of his Memoirs. Digging deeper, while in the right communities, everyone who wants to know about this Muppet Leviathan is free to find out…at a cost. I am the last to want to know.

The second unveiling of old information I should have known, takes the shape of my two wooden placards that rest above or by both of my back doors. The first is a simple warning, "Beware of Owner - he is highly sarcastic", the second being what I thought was written by an unknown author which reads, "O let the hallowed ground not fail beneath my feet, before my life has found what some have found so sweet. Then let come, what come may, what matter if I go mad, I shall have had my day." A nice little poem that expressed my feelings at one point in time, which I found in one of my old, turn of the last century, poem filled library books. But, for some reason, I went looking for this unknown author one night. To my incredibly sheltered surprise I found that those lines are contained in an Alfred Lloyd Tennyson piece, unenthusiastically named "Maude". Although the 10,000+ word "Poem" is still a brilliant and beautiful piece, it would be ridiculous to try to put it on something going over a door. First, I would have a traffic jam of visitors, who would be stuck outside, possibly from season to season, as they tried to feel the intricate love that Al had for this Maude woman. Second, I would have to build either 5 or 6 more stories to my house to fit this glorified love letter over whatever door I thought it would brighten...it's not even the beginning, or the end of the poem. So now it sits out there, showing off its incomplete thought, while I try to figure out how I missed it for so many years.

Lastly, an attack on my musical taste nearly lays me out with its truth, and my not seeing it. My ex, with whom I still talk to, during another one of our short "discussions" about why my music sucks so much, told me that I like stripper music. Her insight into my musical taste, compartmentalized so judiciously (and incorrectly at that point) the type of music I liked, which left me perplexed on how I couldn't see the connection. There had to be a reason why. "I'll get back to you on that." I said, and quietly stormed off to my office to do some research. I take a trip back in time to see if my musical tastes were, in fact, influenced by any kind of stripping mandate. My pet Langolier rides the path I ask it to, bringing me back to 1977. 4 months into my 10th year, my number one favorite song of all time is released, which prompted me to begin to like music overall. But is this primer song, or the ones that followed, a song that would be chosen by an exotic dancer for her set? I don’t know. I write the songs down and venture out into my mountain community, which luckily for me are where a good measured proportion of ex-strippers retire. This private cross section of untapped stripper knowledge is easy to find because it's the Buckhorn Bar, my local drinkery. I walk in with my list of songs ranging from 1977 to 1997, figuring 20 years of song choices should be a big enough testing bracket. I begin my interrogation with the locals whom I know have this special type of knowledge, I start with my all-time favorite song, Dancing Queen. The more seasoned ex-stripper exclaims, "I love that song." "Me too, but did you dance to it?" I ask. "Of Course, how could you not." My heart drops, sensing that my ex may be right. I continue with my list, naming songs from each year, not always ringing positive on my first choice, but somehow, always eliciting an agreeable head shake. Love is Like Oxygen - yes, Chuck E's in Love - yes, Magic by Olivia Newton John - yes, Hot in the City - yes, Little Red Corvette - yes, Warrior by Scandal - yes, Addicted to Love - yes, and I continued, my jaw dropping with every hit. Not only that, but I could now see how my taste changed, mimicking the tastes of the erotic dancing sect. My list of 100 songs hit on 90% of the songs the three generations of strippers over those first twenty years. I discontinued the test, with an awful smirk. "Shit, I like stripper music." I say, thanking the ladies for their time. "You have good taste." They say in agreement. Always the last to know.

During all the turmoil in THE world, and in MY world, there are gems that are hidden in the dark parts of everyone's memories that can serve to erase the foreboding events like Brussels, Clinton or Trump, Court, IRS, and the such. The “B” movie Corvette Summer helped me out of a wallowing depression today. The only thing I remembered from this 1978 movie about a boy and his car, was the weirdness of an actor I had only known as Luke Skywalker being distraught over losing a modified corvette stingray…he had a speeder, a light saber, and a couple of droids for god’s sake. But as the movie ended having "taped over" the turmoil of present day, it reminded me of how much I love the ends of things. The ends of movie's, the end of summer, the end of the school year, the ends of relationships, even the summation of one’s life. It’s not just the idea of beginning something new, starting over, having a clean slate, or just the accomplishment of finishing something. That perfect summarization of things completed will always be represented by Howard Shore’s “Waltz in A”, or the song at the end of Saturday Night Life for me. Even if an end is unwanted, that song somehow makes it alright. 

On the heel s of my aunt’s birthday party, I stuck around and was served four more shots by Stevo, the bartender. Four more shots of Fernet-Branca, an ex-drinkers’ way to seemingly continue not to drink. My brother, Andy, and I finish our round at the Main Event and set off down main street to the only other bar that exists in Jackson. It was 9pm and like the Main Event, the Fargo was empty except for the bartender. Nevertheless, we sit and continue to wait for our younger cousins, who assured us they were on their way. By the end of our second drink my old man eyes begin to shut, and I decide that I can no longer wait for the younger cousins who, the last time I saw them, had not been bitten by the maladies of being a grown woman. I drop Andy off at Mom's house and begin my trek up the hill. The mountain air should be cold, or at least cool, but it is a comfortable, hair-disturbing temperature, reserved for rides home from the beach. I take the back roads that only locals know to stay off the dreaded hwy 88, the choice I make is well worth the risk of running into an aberrant sheriff who is either on the job, or off. When I get home I decide, very carefully, to break open the last known bottle of Aparicio's Reserve. A wine made thirty years previously, from the then burgeoning vineyards of the Livermore Valley. Remembering the last two bottles, one of which floored my father with an over-the-top alcohol content, and the second, which we decided would be better put to use cleaning engine parts, I swiftly open the bottle...with the cork intact, and let it breath (mostly to see if the fumes were toxic). The color was perfect, the smell of Livermore earth with a hint of hwy. 680 asphalt, and the taste which rubbed elbows with some of the finer $5.99 select wines of the bay area. Amazed I quickly drank the first glass with the numbers 9-1- dialed just in case. With my finger paused over the 1 button, nothing bad happens. I drink two more glasses and with a slight buzz, end the night. I made a pretty decent bottle of wine...or this is all just a hallucination brought on by a chemical experiment masquerading as a bottle of wine, in which case I made a pretty decent bottle of wine.