Early Blogs

Well, there you have it, 23 days late to make my May post and I’m still going to phone it in with old posts from the past. I do have some interesting stuff (at least to me) to bounce off the public, like the whole "Gonzo Effect", which has gotten ridiculously deeper. Or the next phase of my mad scientist transformation, which has started with the graying of my sideburns. Or even the last three storms that I have had the pleasure to drive through without my Jeep's roof on (it is off for the year, I refuse to follow any kind of logic and put it back on in fear that the shock to the public would be too great). So, buckle up and watch me phone in May. 

The long, ridiculously long, twisted, turning, undulating, skewed, tragically long, eroded road continues like a slow, horizontal, lightning bolt, ripping through the dark parts of my forested future, it continues like a shark continues to feast…with blind, savage, purpose. The fact that we live linear, finite lives avails us the choice to ruin those lives, sometimes, by being scared of our ultimate ends. Religion is making a valiant effort to help salve our mental wounds about the subject, but like all good books, if you don’t think it through before you put pen to paper, you might not get the effect you wanted. So thank you for letting me know that the end isn’t really the end, and that I have somewhere to go and something to do after I am finished here…providing I follow ancient, anachronistic rules, swear lifelong fealty, including the fealty of my children, and hell why not, their children, and am accepted by the correct version of God, laid out via area codes or zip codes. None for me, thank you, I’m full. So, I welcome that glorious end with open arms and indurative brow, continuing to take notes on my travels, hoping to unlock more secrets to the human condition, fueled by the fact that people simply don’t want me to do anything to the human condition. So, act normal and don’t ruin my experiment because as always, I will be watching, studying, not scaring, the “fish” in my life-size, three dimensional, extremely live fishbowl I swim in every day.

Tonight, was tame, compared to past birthdays, but still I don't mind, I was still entertained. The best part of the day...and night, were the two naps I took, waking up with people doing things and talking to me about problems that I had nothing to do with. I love when the world moves on without me...it’s my private little time machine that I made inside my head to salve my savage soul. It is my lovely slumbers that let me continue todays boring progression, until the evening, when the pow-wow between two women and I began. Following tonight's discussion was like hang-gliding through New York City. Trying to concentrate on where I was going while looking at the scenery was near impossible. While being deafened by one of their I-pod, I would interject my one-word contributions towards the conversation; always stopping said conversation like a wall would a car. "What do you mean by that?" I would be asked. Stumped, barely remembering my words and completely forgetting what they were talking about, I would close my eyes and give moderate to passive answers that were so generic, I bored myself. So, I stopped, letting the wave of stories, questions, suggestions and advice wash over me like so many waves had done in the past. I am tired at this point, past caring about the conversation when it turns to being a parent. I am lost in this aspect because of God, and the incredibly smart decision he made when he made me infertile. I have to say "Thank God!" for that and wonder what crazy problems I would be able to talk about if I had had children. I am fairly sure they would have been "good" stories.

But I am content with today’s content so I will say goodnight and put another notch in my belt. I survived another birthday celebration unscathed like so many people, not like me, do every year.

I step back now and again and wonder how I made it out of my child hood, how did I survive that quiet chaos, especially after learning most of my personality traits by mimicking Dad. I move forward into adolescents and am stumped again. I remember the foolishness of that time as I followed my friends around copying the things that they did and covering for them when their parents questioned me. My mind wanders through high school and how I didn't follow anymore, but lead me and my friends into the teenage abyss, forever losing the innocents of youth, once again wondering how I kept it together. My years as a young man were troubled as I fell into and out of marriage along with all other types of addictive idiocy, and even though I can still remember the near past, I had no answers to how I ended up here. I have led an exceptional life, and consider myself to be of high character. I care for my friends, old and new, with the same enthusiasm that a parent would his child. I go out of my way to help people in trouble or need. I try to look at the world with originality and wonder, I try to be what I am supposed to be. But the road I traveled to get here ended on the front door steps of moral turpitude. I could see it back then as clearly as I do now. How did I turn out the way I did while traveling on a road paved with indifference? My Mom. Always saving me from the final step, before I fell. Always teaching by example, never pushing because she knew that wouldn't work. Making subtle suggestions that she knew I wouldn't cognitively catch, but she also knew I would get it eventually because she taught me to. All those horrible times on that wretched road were never as horrible as they could have been, only because she was looking. 

What train are you riding on? "The" term is bad penny, as in turns up like. "My" term is bad nickel because it is just as worthless and can stick around five times longer. And, I never said you were the one that was trying to create havoc for me, that turned out to be Andy's soon to be ex. I guess being divorced for the second time sent her oxygen starved brain into blame overload. And guess who she thinks is to blame for her retched life choices? Guess who ruined the cement company? Guess who drove their brother to drugs, and their father into a life-changing stroke? (Life changing here is emphasized better if you can picture all of the vacations Caroline and herself will miss out on). No, not Andy's brother's understanding, cool, levelheaded, sweet, well-adjusted, good listening friend Mike Beedy. They blame me. So, when I chose to disappear into the mountains, instead of becoming headline news, I did it for the greater good. If I was the problem, then their lives should have been pure bliss. My point was made when their lives did not change, and set in concrete when their situation worsened. This made me happy, kind of like the first time I got drunk. Then suddenly, the rest of the money the company owed me has been mishandled, resulting in it being gone, then I have someone knocking on my front door serving me papers that say I'm being sued, then more unpleasant mail from Santa Clara County finds my door, then the I.R.S. says that they want to audit me for the past ten years. I began to write my own headline, seeing a picture of my most recent mugshot on the front page of the San Jose Mercury. Luckily for me, I don't tell everyone everything I do, and yes, it always helps when the people who are trying to bury you are dumber than a box of dead kittens. By making certain provisions, I saved my shares in the business and my home when I was going through my divorce, and the provisions I made a month before I quit the company surely saved me from some jail time this time around. So, I'm sorry if your little girl-like feelings got hurt because you were lumped in with the other 200 people that actually knew my family. But I'm sure somewhere in that enormous head of yours, you can find the right tools to ease your mistaken pain and bandage up all those delicate bruises that I strategically, yet unwittingly dealt to you. Unless, of course, you are going to remain being friends with Jeanette, or any other part of that fucked up section of family, in which case I will delete you, again, and then tell everyone I know that you have a small dick. 

"In legend I am a sadistic, slashing, swashbuckling despot who waged war in the guise of sport." - Ty Cobb. I became aware of Ty Cobb when going to Markham Jr. High School, 1980? I was still an introverted, solitudinal boy with only Nate Donovan, Scott Lindbloom, and Larry Kopp as friends. Setting my island more adrift was the fact that Nate ran Cross Country, Scott abstained, and I switched soccer teams, leaving Larry with the old one. My savior, Ty Cobb, showed me a fearless way to approach baseball, which translated perfectly for soccer, if not more so. I was praying on fearful young minds, but I wasn't worried about losing friends, because my friends didn't watch me play. I learned intimidation through the possibilities of "what if" and pain. Ty Cobb still holds the record for most time to steal home, 54, partially because of how he did it (pictured above), but mostly because the catchers had seen this picture and others like it. "What if he does that to me?" How do you defend a rule of sport when your adversary doesn't play by the rules? You don't, you lose. Truth be told, I wasn't a great soccer player, I was never going to play with the Earthquakes, or meet Crazy George (even though I already had in 1974). I couldn't head the ball, something every great defender relies on in the majors, but I made up for that fact by getting into the other players heads. If perchance a ball did go over me, the forward would not be thinking about whether to cross or shoot, but how hard the grass was that day, and most days it was like cement. My point is that even though I don't have a fiery hell awaiting me, and karma is just as goofy as its name sounds, the way the world holds its checks and balances is unfailingly accurate. For instance, I used to drink a lot, so much that it scares me to think about it now, but when pressed to do so, like in birthday situations, I fall back into the act, not realizing that my body isn't ready for it. This is why it takes me a week to recover from a "normal day of drinking". This is also the excuse I will be using in regards to my birthday story which I have not finished yet (original reason for this blog). To tie this whole thing up with the title (secondary idea when ruminating about recovery & most of the meat on this blog), is that I am in a constant state of recovery from my many years of playing baseball and soccer, due to the fact that I accidentally almost did a report on the baseball Hall of Famer, Ty Cobb 36 years ago. My playing style earned me a reputation that even opposing coaches knew about. Riordon's coach once screamed at the ref, "What are you going to do about the Hatchet-man!" What could they do...they could change the rules of the game? This saw an increase of red cards and missed games, broken ankle, broken nose, and broken heart, as my love for the game stepped aside for the type of player like Maradona, who win world cups by knocking the ball in with their hands. But like I say about all the choices I've made, even now when I need an extra half hour in the morning to prepare my body for movement, I would do it all the same. 

Made a few changes to the website last night, hope they are good ones. Today I get to see some of the old crew in San Jose for a birthday party and it reminds me when the late march early April birthday crew would show up at Branham South, the amount of Cherry Bombs that crashed over the bar were innumerable and I remember every next morning, from 36 to 43 years old, I would say that I was never ...going to drink those damned things again, then someone would either wake up on the couch or call on the phone and say "Marmist...Hurry!" By 8am it was too late, by 10am we were all back at the Branham drinking those same friggen drinks. I thought I had escaped them and for a couple years I did, but I have a funny feeling I might find one of those rotten drinks either today or tomorrow. Then Wednesday is the all-day event at the Buckhorn, to break in my first birthday up here. The faces are different but the people are the same and luckily for me they don't know what a cherry bomb is. So, I say adieu and, “Oaf Veeder Zhen” until later today.

Ungh! Finally, home after a well-used weekend. Traveling with pen and paper again, and this weekend did not disappoint...AT ALL, the words are being put to paper not as we speak but pretty darn close. Starting with some guy trying to back door me, asking Val why she was "dating” someone not of the same hue as she continuing with what I call “The Fight", and ending, always ending at the Branham Lounge, sitting in my old, familiar seat in Branham South, laughing, while making weird looking strangers and the bartender laugh. For those of you who may be included in said story need not worry because names have been changed to protect the innocent. But man, it is always good to see familiar faces in familiar places (sounds like a country song). Time moves on for the sated just as it does for the wanting and the feeling of belonging that used to come with that town has now faded completely away, being replaced with a different road all together. Hwy 88 now holds that place. The means to get me home no longer looks out over Fremont, Milpitas and Mount Hamilton but rather Sutter Creek, Pine Grove and the Molklumne Wilderness. I feel the same ease now when I see these new landmarks while the memory of the weekend in San Jose lies in the place of the brain that connects with the terms, "gone away...and "going to see..." I am happy that it (my brain) has finally caught up to me. I am happy to be home.

"How in the fuck did I do that?!" I turn to Roger and Jen after my first tee shot after it goes straight and long, something my drives haven't done in a good 10 years. "I don't know, what did you do?" They say, not paying attention to me but pouring their morning drinks. "I went straight!" I say amazed...as the ball hits the temporary green 23 yards out. I smile like I did the last time I was out here, so many months ago. I stop and take a drag off my smoke, knowing that there are about 99 more strokes I need to do to get through this first round fiasco.

Overcast skies set the mood of the day as we play our mellow round. Laughing while we pass sexual innuendos around like a joint at a party. "Ok, that last one had to be a fluke." I say, knowing that something is bound to go wrong with my game. But another swing, another long and straight drive. Roger looks at me with amazement, because he remembers our Bar Tournament when I had to aim towards southern California to hit the fairway. "I don't know." I say before the ball lands around 250 yards out. All the pain in my shoulder, wrist and knees magically disappears while I’m waiting for them to take their second shot. Now my irons for sure will be like the olden days as I pull my 5 iron out. Jen and Rog watch as I take my swing launching the ball like I've never seen before, flying the green by 15 yards. I watch the ball sail over the green, bewildered. "What the F**K... what’s going on?" I ask rhetorically. But my game is what my game is. My bad parts have become good. But all is not wine and roses as I find the next shot going back over the green to land in sand. "Ok, something is going on." I say, because I am usually good at this part of the game. I post a five after a sandy failure. 3rd Hole I take my 5 iron out, relying on my "6 = 150, 5 = 160" way of remembering my club lengths. Another solid strike and I watch my ball hit the green and slide off the back of the green. A five that I couldn't hit 140 yards with before, now is long.

The rest of the day I wait for my slice to show up...but it never does. I also wait for my "Up and Down" game to show up, which decided to hide somewhere with my slice. But I am happy, ending the day with a drunken 99. Not good but I was straight...and long. Now I just have to re-learn golf and am looking forward very much to playing my buddies at our fallen comrades’ memorial tournament. Until then, then.

The week had finally caught up to me, or so I thought. I close the laptop and sleepily wander over to my easy chair. The fire that had been going all day had warmed the blankets that draped over the back and sides, a ritual that I accidentally came across at the beginning of winter this year. I flip on the television, ready to watch my recorded shows until I fall asleep, which I suspect would be halfway through the first show. I fall into my chair sending the fire warmed blankets flying across my lap and shoulder. "Perfect." I say to them. I have my new addiction in a glass, water, already there waiting for me along with my ashtray and pack of Marlboro "Silvers".

With my roommate being gone for the night, I turn the television up and start the first show, knowing that I will be sleeping out here tonight, next to the fire. Somehow the mood doesn't hit the right kind of ambiance that it had used to do, so I scan the house to see what's wrong. "errrrrrrrCrap!" I semi-scream when I realize that I left the friggen lights on in the kitchen and down the hall. I get up, ruining my automatic blanket dispersers job and head off to close down the house for the night. Each room in the back, I close the door to keep the coldness of the night at bay because I've found out that my house is like a submarine with a hole in the bow, or whatever you call the front of a submarine, and shutting off the leak will keep me from drowning in the elements that would so willfully spread throughout the rest of the "vessel" if it wasn't contained. I steadily walk around the dark house making sure not to hit my toes on anything and my mind begins to ask questions about the new website. What will I post tomorrow? Will you start Fear of Falling again, or work on other projects? How about "The Romance of Romance" That is a fairly new idea of yours, you can start with Rhonda Crabtree and work your way to present. By the time I plop back down in my chair I have come up with 3 different ideas for blogging. Somehow the pad and pencil found their way into my hands and I begin to jot down notes on everything. My first show is already done when I look up but I don't remember watching it. I start it over and continue writing notes and other things on my pad.

The fire makes its trademark shadows on the wall, giving me enough light to write by so I continue with a new found fervor that makes me feel good about writing. Another chapter in Fear of Falling is written, another "Der!" file finds its way to the page,” In Dreams" episodes are cleaned and polished, even "The White Horse" is worked on and I purposely shelved that for a later date, but writing is writing and I don't want to risk forgetting an Idea. I sit and roll through a whole pad and when I hit the last page I look up at the television. It has news on and the time shows me 5:05 am. I look back at it to make sure I screwed up as bad as I did...and it tells me that I did. I am not as mad as I usually get when I do this because it was a productive night. The fire, which has dwindled down to a sliver of its former self, keeps me company as I turn off the television and close my eyes for the morning.

I found myself in a weird place yesterday, and here is how I got there. In a recent conversation, with someone that is quite a bit younger than I am, music slowly became the topic of our conversation. Delighted that our current "life before the microwave oven" conversation was going away, I waited to impress this nubile specimen with my vast knowledge of unknown music. But then she asks me, "What would you call a John Oats cover band?" I had nothing, and she lost interest. Later, at home, I flipped through the channels, in between homework assignments, and see that there is a rockumentary featuring Mr. Oats called "Another Good Road" which was made this year. Unfortunately, it is on a channel that is not included in my cable package. All this was brought on by an inappropriate and fascist question posed by a drunken heretic from a younger generation...curse the young and their unwillingness to understand the necessary evils that accompany the life of a sidekick. My message to them...everyone doesn't get to win. And with that simple message, I have forgotten my original feelings on this whole matter and need to go to the store for more cigarettes. 

I’ve been known to let my “hate” flag wave where others may have not felt comfortable letting it do so. So recently a friend of mine on Facebook simply went away. His page was still there, but his usual witty sarcasm, which was normally strewn haphazardly around the internet, was noticeably absent. I began to imagine why this was, taking into account what kind or type of person he is, or at least I think he is. Did he find a job that keeps him away from his computer? Did he push the limits of social disobedience far enough to earn him jail time? Did he become jaded about all the lives that play out on Facebook so vacuously that he began to hate all of his “friends” and their vapid posts? Or was his life finally filled with enough purpose that he could let his connection to the cyber world, or as he describes it, his history, finally rest peacefully? Shit…I don’t know. That’s the part that I hate. As a seasoned amateur storyteller, I like things to follow the three-act structure; Set up, Conflict, Resolution. Work, Relationships, Life in general for me has been whittled down to fit this three-act structure, which has left some knotted wood shavings on the floor desperately trying to figure out the “why” of it. But he has left me with no resolution, simply popping back up like we’re still in the first act, not even addressing what should have been act two in this situation. Nope, nothing. Just rambling on about some hoo doo third person bullshit he thinks is witty, while using his trademark 8th grade vocabulary that he still has to look up to make sure he’s using it correctly. I cannot…no, I will not accept his secret departure to go unexplained, he either tells me, or I will cry the barbaric yawp (DPS) of the 21st century…UNFRIEND!