Early Blogs

“As things stand now, I am going to be a writer. I'm not sure that I'm going to be a good one or even a self-supporting one, but until the dark thumb of fate presses me to the dust and says 'you are nothing', I will be a writer.” ~ Hunter S. Thompson

“I find that by putting things in writing I can understand them and see them a little more objectively ... For words are merely tools and if you use the right ones, you can actually put even your life in order, if you don't lie to yourself and use the wrong words.” ~ Hunter S. Thompson

I’ve just awakened from a terrible dream, it’s 5:01am on a Tuesday, April 24th 2018. I’ve been writing for roughly forty years, give or take a day, and continue to have absolutely nothing ready to publish. I am stuck on every storyline and cannot compile, categorize, continue, correlate or create my thoughts to make anything readable. In trying to fight the block and push through, I’ve found that my memory fades, or the feeling fades, or maybe I fade as I sit in the perfect setting, my dream setting to write and completely squander my time. I start a new job up the hill in June, and I fear this will extinguish that forty-year-old fire…and maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe I need to live a little more of life rather than to simply report on it, or smell the roses, or stub my toe, or catch a chicken, that sort of thing. What I am saying is not to expect any kind of regular scheduled writing updates which shouldn’t be that much of a transition as to how things work now.

I’ve been waiting for it to snow so I could start off the New Year with some new pictures of The Center for Idiocy’s HQ. At least that’s the excuse I’m telling myself…and now, I guess, you so I can semi-kick start, or reverse psychologize, or at least passively aggress some new ideas out of my wooded brain. Unfortunately, the snow has not arrived yet, which means that my idle time is spent constructively criticizing the lacksidasical amount of effort I put toward writing instead of actually doing it.

(Chris dozes off)

“I’m not Jesus? Where’d that come from?” I say waking up, remembering that last part of an early morning dream where someone is screaming at me angrily that I am not the son of God. For the life of me I cannot remember what I was doing, or saying in the dream to elicit such a fervent reminder of who I am not, but Damnit, I wish I could…for entertainments sake. With that unimportant sidetrack out of the way, I will now tell you (lie) that I have rewritten, and/or recast, some of the projects I had been working on, so now they are not only incomplete, they are incomplete AND scatterbrained…much like myself.

(Chris’ brain wanders through a quick revolution of old brain straitening answers)

“Aaaaha ha haaa, what would I be vacationing from, Vladimir?” I say pointing at one half of the cat population that lives here at The Center for Idiocy. “Merrrr?” He answers. “No, that’s not really my job, I just kind of do that for people.”

(Chris dozes again, which turns into what some call ‘Falling Back to Sleep’)

Visons of a drunken wedding in Santa Cruz quickly slip away from me, and by the time I finish typing this sentence I can’t even remember the cast members of said dream. My keyboard lies next to the bed on the floor, I can’t remember hearing it hit. Vladimir is sleeping on the bed, having given up on our brief conversation, but on cue he briefly wakes to make sure I’m still there, then fades off again while I am left, stuck trying to remember what I was doing. ‘Lacksidasical amount of effort’ feels wrong to me now, but I leave it in because I’ve wasted too much time on it.

I wipe away the sleep from my eyes, letting them adjust to which room I slept in last night, this is not my accidental braggadocio which I sometimes forget about, but a pleasant personal game that I play with myself to help facilitate the act of getting up. This morning I lose the bet with my former self, because he has stumped me today. Alien scenery viewed out an alien window, from an alien floor. ‘I could be in Baton Rouge for all I know.’ Is the first incredibly stupid thought that stumbles into my head, pushing the less drunk thought of why I was on the floor, out of the way. Why was I on the floor? Quickly I check for, “Walletkeyswatchphone”. I mumble my checklist while patting the appropriate places, making sure I wasn’t rolled somehow. Putting the “floor” question on the shelf for the time being, I put my memory into reverse, to see where the gear catches. Vague, Nano-second glimpses of drunken activities “piff!” by the window in my mind’s eye, not letting me understand them, finally slowing down, then stopping on me doing shots on my completed deck with my neighbors, who, out of coincidence, are all here this weekend. This is the first time since I moved up here, that this has happened. The coolness of this first-time event quickly wears off, because now I understand that this opens up a bunch of scenarios that have never been available for me to speculate on before. The “alien-ness” of the view out of the window brightens as if smiling, or chuckling while the floor, all of a sudden, gets uncomfortable, daring me to get up and go trampling through, as far as I know, a stranger’s house. I go to push myself up, something I have to do now, and I see a purple sticky note on the floor with my handwriting on it, I recognize it from a habit I’ve picked up from the internet, leaving notes for your sober self to read in the morning about various things like where you stuff is, or where you are, or what you did, which is very helpful for some people. “Ha, Haaaaaaaaa, Ha…you’re an idiot! Good luck getting home.” My former self, a drunken man, is an asshole. 

Still reeling about missing the Super bowl, I sit and try to get this nonsensical website working the way I want when there is a knock at the door. I am met with an old girl type friend towing along another one of her friends who were in town. I cannot explain or even try to understand any and/or all part of their SEVERELY tangented conversation...they've...wait...oh my god, the confusion continues nonstop. My only respite from this madness was the movie "What Dreams May Come", giving me a chance to hide my cries behind the sadness of the movie, and not the incredible confusion that is filling my head. I accept partial responsibility for this torture because I did give them booze, but at the time I thought it was appropriate. I was wrong. It was interesting at the beginning, but after the movie my mind was so awash in the incredible flotsam and jetsam that I could barely stand, let alone walk to the kitchen to get another drink.

The insightful bellows from the family room as I left the couch made me laugh. "BLOG, BLOG, BLOG, BLOG, BLOG, BLOG..." they screamed, so I stopped and decided to share this somewhat interesting, somewhat chaotic day. Every time I get halfway through a sentence, maniacal laughter erupts and I am horrified that I missed some important insight into the female psyche...and I am, at the same time, thankful. Continuing down this warped mountain path that weaves its way around my chair as I type, I play a game and count how many times they change the topic of conversation before said topic is competed to fruition. I am still counting...and counting...and counting. But as I count, I sip on my drink and let this estrogen wave steal me to the bottom of their endless ocean of womanliness.

An hour later they begin to make sense. I get up to fix another drink and need to make three trips to the kitchen before my brain lets me put together the drink puzzle. I sit and complete this blog today with them making complete sense. I laugh with them and bellow from the family room..."BLOG, BLOG, BLOG, and BLOG...BLOG!

Well, aren’t I clever with the new “Flight Recorder” idea? I remember how much of a pain in the ass my dream-log used to be. A daily summary of my life I’m afraid will become awfully boring for the reader (and me) but I was very entertained when reading an old diary Monica brought home from one of the locals. Shit, I thought I didn’t do anything during the day, but his world of anything buried my world of anything, yet it was still fun to read about it. So, who knows, maybe in 100 years I will entertain some poor kid while his Millennial Grandparents lambaste him with stories about how hard they had it when they were his age. Coming to terms with a newly realized life, I wonder what has changed and what has stayed the same. And I wonder if I can tell the difference. 

Maybe it's the weather, maybe it was the full night of sleep last night, maybe it is simply time to flush out the system that controls what I think about from day to day, but whatever reason that deemed it necessary to write again, I'm good with it. I start my last month (favorite month) of work up at Plasse's Resort tomorrow. It is my favorite because everyone should be gone. No residents, no campers, no staff, nobody that needs propane, kayaks, or shit pumped from their trailer. No broken showers to fix, no toilet paper to be restocked, no loud campers to be told to be still, just my closing list of things to do, and a bunch of wild animals that could possibly kill me. Luckily for me my bad taste in music keeps those wild animals at bay, not unlike how it keeps people from wanting a ride, or to spend the night. 

“What moments divine, what rapture serene,

Till clouds came along to disperse the joys we had tasted,

And now when I hear people curse the chance that was wasted,

I know but too well what they mean”

Man, Porter was a master, and try not to feel guilty about your chance that was wasted. Or maybe it’s just an old song, and I’m just bored. Regardless, I pondered to keep peoples’ curses muted because I do know too well what they mean...they’ll be cursing for other reasons soon enough.

I just found this unfinished thought, and for the life of me I cannot remember what the overall premise was going to be about. But I still do love Cole Porter and his songwriting. Aside from the above song, “Love for Sale” is easily my most favorite…but only Shirly Horn’s version. “Well, Chris, how many versions were made?” …a question from the ether of the internet squeaks through my firewall. Well, I will keep this list to the people you probably know, starting from the first recording in 1931; Libby Holman, Kitty Kallen, Jane Russell, Anita O’Day, Dinah Washington, Billy Holliday, Francis Faye, Ethel Ennis, Ella Fitzgerald, Patty Page, Tony Bennett, Gretta Rae, Jo Stafford, Anita O’Day (again), Shirley Bassey, Bobby Darin, Pearl Bailey, Della Reese, Marvin Gaye, Jackie Wilson, Mel Torme, Eartha Kitt, Francis Faye (again), Shirley Horn, Aretha Franklin, Frank Sinatra Jr., Carmen McRae, Joni Metcalf, Liza Minnelli, Peggy Lee, The Manhattan Transfer, Maggie Scott, Mel Torme (again), Faye Carol, Denise Harris, Ella Fitzgerald (again), Simply Red, Dr. John, Fine Young Cannibals, Donna Byrne, Dianne Reeves, Kate Westbrook, Christine Sullivan, Mary Coughlan, Nora York, Elvis Costello, Tito Puente, Janet Seidel, Susie Thorne, Rosie Brown, Stevie Holland, Brenda Reed, Joyce Lyons, Lady Kim, Lupa, Antonella Vitale, Rosana Eckert, Patti LuPone, K.D. Lang, Vanessa Trouble, Sally Night, Sophia Nelson, Nancy Fisher, Faye Carol, Michele Hendricks, The Tiger Lillies, Seal, Cleo, Blake Shaw, Sunny Holliday, to the last recording in 2021 by Tony Bennett & Lady Gaga.

This list is about every tenth artist in 90 years to record “Love for Sale”. I listened to all of them (I could find) and I still stand by Shirly Horn’s rendition as the best. Speaks a lot to Cole Porter’s skill at songwriting too.

I can't even remember the correct title of the Netflix feature, and my will to not be lazy and simply click at the top of the page to find out what I am referring to, is non-existent, so I continue to type yet another end-story. In that dream I had this morning, I saw my story being told as was these two friends who wrote a book on how to become a minimalist or something along those lines, again the research to find out what exactly they wrote about is simply too easy to acquire, therefore making it meaningless to attempt. So, there I was on a national book tour, traveling from store to store to promote and sign copies of my book (sadly I could not see or remember a title). And with every stop, more and more people would show up in support of my mystery topic, so much so that radio stations eventually called for on air interviews. Then more people showed up at the events, and a blurb about my book in the New York Times was printed. I am caught up in the finality of my dream life as Good Morning America calls my hotel room asking for a television interview. I make sure to dress in my usual odd style, to show the people that I am still who I was when I started this writing thing. During the first part of the interview, I relish the softball questions, because I have practiced answering them, but as I finish my answer to the first question of the next set, I flash back to my Center for Idiocy Headquarters and I can see Charles, Monica, and Julie sitting at my bar and we are all lambasting my answers. Even I point out that the me on the television probably rehearsed his questions. I can see and hear each question and then feel the answer begin in the me on television, finishing with the me watching television completely hating the answer. "He is the reason I don't finish any of my stories." I say out loud, hating yet another mundane store-bought answer. I don't recognize that it's me and continue my assault on almost every word the me on television is saying. "That's the problem with Hollywood movies nowadays. The corporate writers that are hired have no soul, they just write to write, cookie-cutting the movies they've seen, trying to add a little bit of every successful part or plot-line so that the ad-execs point to me with a spreadsheet in their hand the next time a fairly interesting script if bought...God I hate that shit-type writer." The others are laughing in agreement when I begin to recognize the so-called writer on the television. Full recognition happens a split second before I wake up.

And that is...where we are left...with this.

Now, THAT, was a birthday.  Dragging myself through the front door, returning from God knows where, slowly closing my eyes with each room I pass, I stop and snicker to myself with the thought of the summary of my 50th birthday.  I'm not worried about unpacking because that problem fixed itself long ago...hell, I'm not even sure I packed in the first place.

I hit the bed and remember the feeling of accomplishment that would tuck me in after the trip during the decade-long "Old Gome Classic" golf trips that Steve, Dan, Mike and I tortured ourselves with, and as I slowly “circle the drain” with my eyes fully closed, I decide that accomplishment is the wrong word for both.  It was more self-awe. Knowing that there wasn't a next level, no next step, nothing after, and nothing left gave me a fulfilled aura of completion.

​That booze-soaked bubble of self-awe saw to protect me in my return from an angry wife, later, a less angry ex-wife, a host of angry girlfriends, worried parents, dejected siblings, and all other sorts of important feelings I should have been feeling during its run, probably like it's trying to do now, but I am old and numb to those kinds of hangovers and don't need the protection anymore, so now it just smells like booze and banana peels.  

My eyes still closed, I go over a list of things a 50-year-old shouldn't do, making sure that every single one is crossed off, because this was that birthday. The birthday that you decide, through trial, that you not only can't do the things you used to do, but more importantly that you shouldn't. 

My time tempting fate, I think, maybe, possibly, might be, almost...done.

My 30 “bonus” years, since things went sideways, have been peppered with so many tragedies I fear Shakespeare might beat Jesus back to this plane just to get an interview, but like the monkey and the cookie jar, I would hold on to that cookie made from addiction, bravado, and stupid-blind luck and do everything exactly the same again…if given the chance. 

Those times and the revealing light they created, bathed me in weird anti-hero hue from which I was judged by…and in turn fed upon, and while I am not proud of every single decision I made, I feel that crossing this age threshold means that it is alright to let that light fade, and eventually fail, having no need to defend my being where I am or why I am here.

With my last dream tucked away, my eyes snap open and scan for the glowing blue light that, for the past six years, have signified absolutely nothing except for what time it is.  On it this morning is an unfamiliar number, a number that started my day for thirty years before my desperate pilgrimage (A journey or search of moral or spiritual significance) to the mountains.  4:30 am, the connecting meaning evaporates the usual morning fog and reminds me that I need to return to San Jose for my dad’s services today.  The actual feeling of loss hasn’t fully enveloped me yet because of the place I put him when I left.  That oubliette in everyone’s head that we store the most unwanted feelings and memories, a place where only a few talented Psychiatrists can gain access to, if there is ever a reason to.  But even there, in that dark place, unseen threads still tied to my conscious let pieces of our history climb out like newly born spiderlings that bite whenever a memory vibrates the threads, reminding me that I was raised by a decent man.  Power, Justice, Loyalty.  Those are the lessons I remember now, but like life imitating art, I never graduated.  Too consumed by my differences to him, I became a rebel.  But where I saw revolutionary and freedom fighter, he saw mutineer and insurgent.  That war over the definition of a word continued up until February 3rd, when he died.  I was too late for enrollment by two days to finish my classes in the lessons I began 48 years ago.  Now I am damned to wave around those three lessons like a three-year-old waves around a sword, sometimes hitting my mark, sometimes ruining everything around it, and as history shows the latter rules the sometimes.  His death should be reason enough, if not the only reason in my undergraduate mindset, to finish what he started and earn use of that sword.  I cannot say that I miss him, because those threads will act like the war-word we share, along with its multiple definitions, permanently connecting me to my father.