Center for Idiocy

The fire outside is lit, waiting for the last of our "Cabin" crew to finish up Bartending to the masses. Those masses that have been cooped up for the last two years, making them more mental than what they were like before. They were pretty mental before, if you need a reference. Then they remember the Caldor fire and begin to feel slighted because they couldn't camp here at the end of last year, giving us a bit of undue angst over almost everything. I want to bring them back to my last day here, show them the sky full of smoke, that darkened the midday sun just enough to see the flames at the top of the western ridge that looks over Silver Lake, then I'd ask them if their picnic table is still a little wobbly, then I'd ask them if one of the twenty-two port-o-potties in our little campsite is too far away for them, then I'd ask them if it was still an inconvenience to close the fucking gate to the boat launch after they went through. I'm sure a couple of them would still not be phased and either steel our combination lock, or simply break it, like they did at the beginning this year. My running joke this year to combat all the questions about smashed tables, downed trees, broken pipes, or unclean firepits is, "All I need is a couple more days...then I'll be ready for opening." They don't get it, or like when they do get it for that matter, but it will remain my little joke until the end of the year, or until I'm ready for opening.

Sidenote: Going over all things websitie, I make two observations. One is the cover page. While my love for liquor still lingers, it does not represent “me” the way it used to. But while trying to come up with a different picture, I realized that my cover picture now represents the amount of liquor I drink, when I do drink...so I'm keeping it. Secondly, my blog has that fated day of my friends jumping off that huge rock at, wait for it…Bear River, or not Silver Lake. Not treasonous, just didn’t have a picture of those four “daredevils” doing something stupid up here. Jesus, just realized that Ashley isn't findable, Mike is a little girl (we don’t talk), Steve is gone, and I haven’t seen Danny since I helped move him in to his old house in Minnesota? Wow, how ‘bout that picture now?

Reflecting back on the first two years I remember maintenance employee's never being alone "on campus" (a way to say "here"), or if it did happen, it was a big deal. Now, in my fifth season, its almost commonplace to work alone, saving the weekend, when everyone is on campus, to get actual work done...and not just maintain the routine. In reflection, I fear it may be my fault. The extra hours needed to make a days work, the choice of coworkers-friends that I have to cover for, the chosen coworkers that bring with them a litany of mental problems and drug use, reserved for the seasonal worker, that I have to chase down and police, and two unprecedented catastrophic seasons with the Covid pandemic and the Caldor fire, have all been dealt with by the work ethic my dad tortured me with from age 14 to 43. Which means that there will be no "catch-up" work to slow down closing, no push list items to get tangled up next years opening process, and no surprises that I am not ready for. My only concern is the maintenance my body needs to keep up with that ridiculous work ethic. I don't know when people are supposed to hit that point of mature concern for their own well being, and I don't know if 55 and a half is too soon or too late to harbor that concern. I do know that George Bernard Shaw's answer, when asked what the most beautiful thing in the world is, said "Youth is the most beautiful thing in this world—and what a pity that it has to be wasted on children!”, which turned into the quote, "Youth is wasted on the young". This is a continuous ringing in my head, which gets louder every time I hurt myself doing everyday things, feel a mystery pain, fix a mistake in the field, correct someone's English or information, or am challenged by someone younger than myself on those or any other instances. At least I am finally caught up, and wait for the "catch 22" coworker that will help me maintain. 

I slack off and stop all my writing projects, letting the problems in my head gain girth, and fervor. I begin to forget about important things in the back room of my house, sitting at my fake desk. I forget about how I got here, and briefly I forget about the friends that I have crossed paths with, shaping my opinions, tweaking my personality, creating little ticks that I can only laugh at now. The feeling of loss begins to grow, I want to call them, but I am no good at that, so I don't. I am horrified by the memory of the night when Mike called me and said that Steve was gone. Being drunk at the time, I ask Mike, "Where'd he go?" But that is the only sentence he would say, repeating it until I finally got it. There, behind the brick barbecue at the VFW in Los Gatos I sat on the ground and tried to cry, desperately recounting and imprinting the last decade of golf trips, Halloweens at Isla Vista, our almost missed visit to Jamaica, his bachelor party, my only spring break spent crazily driving from St. Louis to Tampa Bay, or the inevitable party at the Booksin house where, if we were lucky, a magic shenanigan would unfold, like “the Chicken and the Duck routine”, born from boredom and booze. The feeling of loss scares me, because Steve’s picture is beginning to look like someone I used to know. Suddenly I can’t remember our last conversation, or what his face looks like, or his favorite anything, I panic. It is because of my stoppage of recounting those memories, reliving them so I can jot down the ambiance of a specific evening or event is why the feeling of loss is so profound, and unbearable, it is simply the way my brain is wired. So, on what would have been Steve’s 51st birthday (or possibly the day after?) I begin to write again, keeping one of the biggest influences in my life alive and remember-able.

The Chicken and the Duck..."They'll get you every time."

A scream from the end of the Booksin house, then uncontrollable laughter. I ignore it because it’s a party. Then another scream and more laughter...then again...and again. I leave the bar to look for this mysterious fun that is being had without me. I turn the corner from the kitchen I feel a wooden decoy duck’s beak in my ear, so I turn around to see Jim with a big smile on his face but before I can say anything, I am hit in the head with a plastic chicken. I turn around to see Steve with a huge smile on his face. Then the duck attacks again, not letting its handler answer my cut-off questions. Its beak finds somewhere else that makes me scream, so I turn and the chicken attacks. This continues longer than it should have and then the accosting stops. "Beware the chicken and duck". Jim says. "They’ll get you every time!” Steve says with crackling foreboding. And like two drunken animal handlers, they bound off to a different section of the house. I stand in shock of what has just transpired, my head full of simple answerable questions. I see the act happen in long form from my frozen vantage point. I will not be asking any questions tonight for fear of being got by the chicken and the duck. The party is long with people meandering in and out most of the night. The only things that remained constant was the chicken, the duck, and me laughing every time I heard a scream.

Sitting at our struggling campfire on the last official night at Plasses Resort, waiting for the kids to get off work, or get back from the off-campus parties they are at, I mimic the campfire while trying to put my head around this year. Our first full year back without masks, or fires, or fallen trees, or drought, or scandal of any type and I cannot come up with any kind of summarization I can pass on to my co-workers. Which is understandable, but with no life crises, no relationship fiascos, no major off-work philanthropic needs to be met, I just sit here and wait, like a “homed” parent, waiting for their kids to come back from vacation. It might just be me. I can’t see the angles of life like I used to, I can’t connect the thoughts in my head with the outside world like I used to. There is no urgency to let anyone know how they are screwing up anymore. It is almost enjoyable to see people fail at clearing the hurdles of life. Some making the same mistakes I had, some only catching a couple with their shoe, while some create a whole new level of fuckupery. “It builds character”, I hear myself saying, all in all sounding more like my father with every old thing that falls out of my mouth. Everyone on the crew is younger than me this year, which is why I think I am cultivating this new persona. They don’t need, or even want a summarization of how the year went, they wouldn’t understand the why behind it, or even know how to use the information I give them…they don’t listen to me anyway. Which is no fault of either of us, it is simply the generation gap doing its thing. They don’t listen to me, just like I didn’t listen to Dad, or Mom, or my teachers, or the police, or the judges or priests. Just like they didn’t listen to their elders, and so on. I could attack their viewpoints, challenge their beliefs, I could ask them why they would blindly, and casually saunter past the valuable lessons they should have been aware of in order to get a running start towards the idea they want to rebel against. Then I remember how well those lectures worked on me, and what I thought of the person giving them after they were done. One gem I did let loose this year after a drunken night, their drunken night, as I passed their fire on my way to bed, I said, “Think like you’ve been here longer.” Which was immediately misinterpreted because I didn’t specify the “here”. While they took the “here” as being Plasses Resort, I meant the “here” to be on planet Earth. It was just another version of, “Act mature.” That was the only time I pseudo-scolded them.

They slowly begin to make their way towards our final fire, I hear them before I see them, which isn’t good at 12am in the morning, but I don’t shoosh them because I know that getting in trouble builds character.

Why is it taking so long to unpack? This year, the first normal year back, seemed very, very long. I don’t know why. My mild hatred of children grew exponentially also but that is not a mystery to be included here. Or should it. I look around my empty house, my roommate being away at her aunts, and underneath all of my flotsam I remember an extremely clean home when I arrived, but I don’t remember how my stuff from the resort became an all-encompassing conversation piece for the brave souls that have dropped by looking for Monica. That’s not like me. The usual skin-crawling affect that haunts me when there is disorder, isn’t there. That in itself bothers me. Even the music that I am listening to this morning seems very milquetoast, not my usual blend of publicly hated music, and I don’t mind it. This better not be me growing up, it better be the first steps in my final decent into complete, old man, madness. I’m going to have a drink and see if that snaps me back from the ledge of this weird abyss.

...

Ok, everybody calm down, two loads of laundry, my three drink max, the organizing of all the junk drawers around the house, and a soundtrack made from the in-between time of music after Modern Rock - before Grunge. Mine taken from my secret stash of cassette tape recordings (11 in all) of KFJC, KSJS, and KSCU around the years 87 to 94.

Echobelly - Bellyache 7 Year Bitch - M.I.A.

Plastic Berered - Ca Plame Por Moi Kill Dozer - Knuckles the Dog

Bad Religion - Struck a Nerve The The - Bluer than Midnight

Orphans Tragedy – Cows The Nails - 88 Lines about 44 Women

Prime Movers - Strong as I Am Primus - Jerry was a Racecar Driver

Frueur - Doot, Doot That Dog - This Boy

Ween - Push the Little Daisies Toy Dolls - Nellie the Elephant

Sparks – Change Jim Carrol Band - All My Friends Die

Daisy Chainsaw - Love Your Money Soul Coughing - Bus to Beelzebub

Pop Will Eat Itself – Underbelly The Rose Chronicles - Awaiting Eternity.

These songs being but a fraction of the most overlooked subsection of music in recent times somehow became my anthem music, and has never failed at distracting the cold stare of the void long enough for me to escape whatever I was waring with at the time. All the while a very close, and very angry thunderstorm rages outside setting my psyche as right as it has ever been…as right as it could possibly be. Back in this “normal” state I realize why I found myself in such a confusing and unfamiliar funk. Work. Of course it was work…work and guilt. The beginning of the year started and I left our big chainsaw on the ground while I helped someone with something, only to come back to see that it was gone. In an effort to be more environmentally conscious, the bosses bought me, not only a new electric chainsaw to replace the one I got stolen, but also an electric trimmer, and an electric pressure washer. Still reeling from the theft of the chainsaw, I go and pop the front tire off the backhoe. Shortly after that I attack the long grass in the meadow with the trimmer, only to burn out the motor in that and that was how I started. Then one of my new workers turned out to be just like me twenty years ago, which gave me some insights into my life that I didn’t really need or want to know. By the time the campers left, I felt tired…of everything. So much so that I sent my guys home early, not realizing the amount of work that was left…then the tire popped off again, giving me the unique opportunity to log by hand. Then I ran over my new chainsaw. That is how I ended. That is why it took so long to unpack.

In my head, I was still up there working around my problems, fighting the shadows of guilt, while hiding from the wild outside and everything that I imagined was in it. Home now, I am glad to be, but deep inside my bones, if I'm not paying attention to something, I feel the pull of that wild outside, wanting to claim it as mine and willing to challenge whatever is inside.

Good morning, or…afternoon all.  Usually, nowadays on Facebook, I go directly into the Cambodian Monkey videos to watch them get “weened” in order to fulfill some sort of weird adoptive jealousy syndrome I must have, but something happened today, so I decided to post.  Whilst watching said stress relieving medium, I decided to reminisce with some old music also, kind of like having a double shot of espresso, or ordering a shot of whiskey with your beer, hoping the two might compliment each other…and they did for a while.  Halfway through Charlie Sexton’s “Pictures for Pleasure” album from 1985 my stupid mind decided to ask the question…”I wonder how old Charlie Sexton is?”  A question that has, numerous times now, epiphanied me far beyond the original question.  Well, goddamit, “Beats So Lonely” spent 34 weeks at number one, and was easily one of my favorite songs from the 80’s but I don’t know now.  Because this mind of mine has decided to wage this age war against me, trying to remind me how old I am at every given moment, I have lowered my expectations when hoping for queried information so as not to give this old body any kind of ismsu777 or heart related jolts.  “He was probably born in ‘64 or ’65.”  I say.”  Rationalizing the music industry hurdles that one would have to go through back then, even if you were a phenom.  I’m sure that most already know, having quickly googled it after seeing the question mid paragraph, and are now either laughing wildly at the fact that he is a year (or more) younger than I am, or are like me looking at your screen in shocked disbelief.  The only solace I offer for the rest of you is that if you graduated in ’85 or ’86 like my buddy underclassman Charlie Sexton would have, do not read his bio, and do not look at a picture of him now…they will both make you have feelings.  Just thought I’d stop by and ruin your day, that’s all.

Just to get out in front of this, here are my thoughts on the day eve of my 56th birthday.  Who would’ve thunk I’d be gazing over the latter half of my fifties…with hope of going further down this rabbit hole.  I never planned for this part of life, I was sure that I was going to fizzle out quick & loud, like a bottle rocket, then possibly explode.  As I try to think of the next thing to say, I chuckle and think, “I don’t do anything quick, or loud anymore…and exploding is simply too messy, why make more work for yourself if you don’t have to.” Ask a young Chris where he thought he would be in the future, “33 max dude, that’s when Jesus died.”  Which, admittedly, is stupid and missing the point, but I never missed a chance to compare myself to Jesus back in the olden times (which is the 80’s for us Gen Xer’s).  That’s why I didn’t listen to Dad when he warned me about playing soccer too long, that’s why I was so frivolous with money, and maybe that’s why I didn’t take relationships seriously.  Seriously, I didn’t want to break a girl’s heart, waste her time, steal those early years from her to clock out at 33, that would be selfish.  And maybe, possibly, that’s why I drank the way I did, trying to hide from my made-up date with the ultimate destiny.  Nope! None of that is true, except the soccer part, and I just have to take aspirin everyday for my knees, no big whoop.  So, what now?  I made it this far with luck & chance, why change horses in the middle of the race. (I can see me saying that with a smirk on my face, but I didn’t mean it to be.  Try to picture a worried brow over pursed lips.)  So, really, what now?  I don’t know, try to get healthier, I guess, and join the throngs of people that are trying to live forever…yeah…and bug the fuck out of them for as long as I can. 

Scene:  Camera pulls in tight on a table of wrinkled and grey alumni.  The table is in the school’s gymnasium, and it’s the only one left.  As the camera pans, you can see the healthy, vegetarian food, scream for its recognition with its faceless voice.  A pitcher of water sits half-empty on the table…or is it half-full.  “Nooooo, that can’t be true, where did you hear that?” One of the alumni says, ending his sentence with a cough.  “From him, he called me yesterday.”  The Old lady says.  “He called you?!, How in the Hell…”  his question is cut off by another old lady, who is obviously deaf, but sees the two talking and feeling the aggravation in the air knows it can only be about one person.  “She went out with him for a couple years.”  She says smiling.  “Shit, if he says luck or chance, I’m leaving.”   Another man from the table contributes.   “Fuck…fuck… …f…”  The first guy says, but his last fuck is interrupted by the side door crashing open, sounding like it might have broken.  A man with a full head of hair with greying temples shouts, “Hey old people.  What.  Is.  Up?” And begins to limp over to the table.  “He didn’t even graduate from here.”  Someone else whispers to the middle of the table.  “Hey guys.” he says, bending over to kiss the woman’s cheek, then points to the guy and quickly says. “Chance, Luck, Bye.”

Just re-watched "Fast Times at Ridgemont High" for the first time in... ... ...decades. I guess I forgot but...Is the whole movie line-to-line quotable? My reason for watching it was due to Facebook posting a screenshot of the girl in the Corvette that Brad saw on his way to deliver lunch to IBM. The scene only being a couple of frames in the movie and the caption being vague like "Memories of the 80's" began yet another unwanted personal journey through my previously polluted (now recovering) brain. That was three days ago, three goddamned days ago.

By this morning I was so tired of racking my brain about what movie I had seen that girl in that I almost convinced myself it was one of my own memories from that time. About two hours ago the answer hit me so hard it knocked the coffee out of my hand. Of course, I had to watch the movie immediately. Two things I gathered from this whole semi-private fiasco; Facebook needs to caption their pictures more precisely for me, and probably those of us who grew up in the 80's, to assure that no members accidental brain aneurysms caused by “overrememberance” keeps them away from all the fantastic commercial content. Secondly, how happy would Spicoli be if he lived today.