“I’ve found you’ve got to look back at the old things and see them in a new light.”

~ John Coltrane, 1960

The man has no recollection of the boy’s first trip into the big, shining city by the bay. It was too long ago, and the boy was too little to hang onto memories at first. It was likely a trip with mom and dad to see the great aunt and uncle who lived in the grand house on Van Ness. The three made that trip every Thanksgiving holiday during the boy’s youth until the great aunt and uncle reached the end of their life’s journey and bid all adieu. She left first because of a heart too gracious and loving to last much longer, and he followed shortly thereafter because of a heart broken with grief and loneliness after sixty years of marriage.

Several years before their departure, the boy started keeping memories. The man pulls them out now and then to blow the dust off, whenever life starts to take a toll and he needs a little smile. The oldest of these shows a long-haired gentleman in torn bell-bottoms and sandals sauntering through an intersection not far from Golden Gate park, a ratty guitar case slung over his shoulder and the proverbial flowers in his hair. The boy’s dad was a longshoreman, like Brando’s portrayal of Terry Malloy in “On The Waterfront,” so hippie-types and flower-children were not allowed to pass without enduring a bit of taunting.

“Oh, look at the little girl, with her long pretty hair and flowers!” He held a cigarette out the window with his left hand while his right gripped the steering wheel of the pick-up. The boy’s mother was easily embarrassed, and she asked her husband to keep his voice down, but to no avail.. the hippie heard the taunts and responded with a smile, flashing a peace sign at the crusty dock-worker while continuing to cross the intersection. The boy didn’t realize it then, but this was somewhere in the neighborhood of Haight and Ashbury, perhaps at the famed intersection itself, right around the time of the infamous “Summer Of Love.”  Might the sandaled gent have been Scott MacKenzie, Norman Greenbaum or even the late, great Jerry Garcia? Probably not, but it’s fun for the man to think so.

Those handful of Thanksgiving holidays at the grand mansion on Van Ness included cousins along with other assorted aunts and uncles. The boys and girls of the clan would often play on the sidewalk in front of the house and take occasional walking trips down the block to the little market on the corner, where needful provisions would be obtained along with sodas and candy. Trips would sometimes be made to local points of interest including Fisherman’s Wharf, where the most delicious clam chowder ever made would be ladled into bowls carved out of sourdough bread, to be consumed and committed to the fond memories the boy treasured as time pressed on.

The boy was still a boy as he stepped off the yellow bus with the rest of his peers. But several years had trundled by since the last of the Thanksgiving visits, leaving him taller, lankier and a bit of a smart-ass. He and his buddy ditched the group that was headed into the museum at Golden Gate park for their field trip. The two opted instead to take an unofficial tour of the park and purchase an unofficial joint from a much older black man who approached them. The high-schooler was smart.. really! He just didn’t know it yet.

They found some bushes to hide in for the purpose of toking up. Then they spent the next two hours wandering the park in a daze, watching it ebb and flow. People flung grins at them as they passed by, while the world spun with the two clinging madly to it. They laughed excessively and spat on the ground more in those two hours than they’d ever done in either of their 16 years of life. After reconnecting with the group later on, they wondered among themselves what in the hell WAS IN THAT STUFF? The teacher balled them out but he so resembled a yapping little dog wearing a suit jacket and jeans that the two couldn’t help snickering, which caused the nappy little dog to yap more, which caused their snickers to explode into guffaws. It was all quite the psychedelic cycle of craziness.

“When you get tired of walking around in San Francisco, you can always lean against it.”

~Unknown

The young man had miraculously graduated from high school and a few months later stood at the airport, waiting for his ride. He’d also managed to complete Navy basic training, but felt ill-prepared and nervous as the slightly older young man wearing navy-blue dungarees approached him at the gate and asked his name. He gave it and was whisked away in a gray truck with US NAVY stenciled on the side. He arrived in Hunters Point, this being back in the days when the US NAVY kept a few ships there, and he walked briskly up the gangway to salute and announce that he was reporting for duty.

He spent the next year and a half there with Candlestick Park on his left, the mighty Bay Bridge on his right and the city by the bay laid out before him. He wasn’t a week into it when he discovered The 711 Club, a sailor bar at 711 Market Street that was owned by an old German named Heinz, who seemed to always have plenty of Becks beer on hand. Surprisingly, sailors who were too young to legally drink, such as he was, drank freely in that establishment. It wasn’t until years later that he found out Heinz had been with the San Francisco Police Department for many years, retiring at the rank of Captain, then opened a bar to augment his pension and have some fun. Thus the local cops left him alone.

A friend once visited from the young man’s hometown, which was a mere two-hour drive into the foothills of the Sierras. The friend brought a pretty girlfriend, and the two toured the naval vessel that the young man loved showing off. The pretty girlfriend was uneasy. “Why do these guys keep staring at me?” she asked, retreating under the security of her boyfriend’s arm. “Don’t mind them, they’re sailors,” said the young man. “They don’t see girls like you that often.” The three of them later paid Heinz a visit at The 711 Club. A case of Becks was consumed and merriment was made well into the night.

The young man had an aunt who lived in nearby Daly City, so he took weekend treks down that way to visit and do a load of laundry or two. He’d since inherited the pick-up truck that dad taunted the hippie from ten years earlier. He sometimes drove but took the relatively new BART train on several occasions when the old truck was in need of a repair. His treks into Daly City were a far cry from the occasional jaunt across the bay into Oakland, where he and fellow shipmate Tim would pay a visit to a one-legged prostitute named Debbie for tokes, jokes and pokes well into the night.

He was glad for the camper shell on the back of the truck with the comfy mattress he’d purchased from a thrift store, which all came in handy on those nights he’d close down The 711 Club and stumble outside to sleep in the back. The rig stayed parked on Market all night, in a time when such a thing wasn’t the big deal it’d be now, and one wouldn’t have to fetch one’s vehicle from a city impound lot in the morning.

The day finally came when the Navy ship checked out of the Hunters Point hotel and slid gracefully under the Bay Bridge and then the Golden Gate, with the young man standing on a wind-swept deck looking fondly back on the city that had given him a seabag full of memories. Off they went to San Diego, which he would call home for the next few years.

“The Golden Gate Bridge’s daily strip tease from enveloping stoles of mist to full frontal glory is still the most provocative show in town.”

~Mary Moore Mason

The young man returned to spend a week by the bay while processing out of the Navy back in ‘82, and had wandered into The 711 Club while on a 2-day pass from Treasure Island Naval Station. Heinz was glad to see him, even though he didn’t remember him. On a visit a decade later, the not-so-young man took his new wife in to meet Heinz only to discover the old German had long since retired from bar owning, and the place was now being run by Les, a bartender he remembered from the sailor bar days. They were a bit surprised to find that Les had turned it into a gay bar, while not really being surprised at all, knowing this city, and the man and wife visited with Les and reminisced until closing time.

They visited off and on over the next decade and more, always staying at a different hotel but paying frequent visits to soak in the sultry torch songs that were softly sung at the Mason Street Wine Bar on Geary. Sometime after the turn of the century, The 711 Club was replaced by a 711 store, which can be found today at 711 Market Street. A hotdog cart now occupies the space inside the store where the young man ushered in his 19th year on a bar stool, long ago.

A stroll down Van Ness one year revealed that the old mansion of the long departed great aunt and uncle wasn’t a mansion at all, but a rather plain two-bedroom dwelling with a bay window over a small garage. The memories were bigger than the house itself, and the man grew a bit misty as he stood on the sidewalk and let them flood in.

A few New Year’s Eve celebrations were rung in by the couple as they joined the madness in Union Square, and they have oft dreamed of someday calling the city home but other places needed to be tried and lived-in first to prove beyond a doubt that nothing else would do.

Finally, having had enough of not living, the man stood up one day and announced to his wife of nineteen years, “We’re going to San Francisco!” She heartily agreed and together they started winding the countdown clock that would propel them into the rest of their future.

“Somehow the great cities of America have taken their places in a mythology that shapes their destiny: Money lives in New York. Power sits in Washington. Freedom sips Cappuccino in a sidewalk cafe in San Francisco.”

~Joe Flower

It’s been a long road but the clock has finally struck, and the man finds himself sitting in the bay window of a hotel overlooking Mission Street. The building came into being in 1906, rising up out of the ashes left from the great quake and fire, and has stood on this spot for over a hundred years. Fittingly symbolic for a couple who are resurrecting their lives from the ashheap.

He takes short breaks from typing to gaze down at the street two stories below, where the Muni #14 and #49 go whooshing through every ten minutes in both directions. Crazies yell and scream, spewing their demons out into the air while the comparatively sane walk by unfazed because it’s the way things are here. The little neighborhood market does a brisk business, as does the medical marijuana clinic next to it and the Walgreens on the corner.

A subterranean train whizzes by deep underground every 15 minutes, the only indication being a whirring sound that rises from a street grating under the bay window. The couple have already had visitors — the old friend from the foothills who once brought a young, pretty girlfriend on board the old Navy ship had a wife with him this time. The two couples went for a walk and paid a visit to a certain 711 store on Market Street, where the two old married men laughed at the hotdog cart inside.

The visitors have returned to the foothills and the couple will remain surrounded by the charm of 1906 until something better is found. They don’t know where yet, but it will be somewhere in this city full of noisy light and quiet memories. A handful of favorite old things are either gone now, such as the Mason Street Wine Bar, or have yet to be revisited, like sourdough chowder bowls at the wharf, while millions of new discoveries lie in wait.

They’ve come home to stay.

“San Francisco itself is art, above all literary art. Every block is a short story, every hill a novel. Every home a poem, every dweller within immortal. That is the whole truth.”

~William Saroyan

A few years ago I barely made a living as a taxi driver in Huntington Beach California, and I decided to blog about it at the time. The blog is long gone, but I’ve resurrected a handful of the posts that I’m republishing here in a week-long series called OC CABBIE.

Missed the beginning? Start here if you’d like.

from mid 2007..

OC Cabbie: Swimming with the Sharkeez

Ace lives on his cell phone. He never takes calls from the taxi dispatch.. his gizmo isn’t even hooked up. Some drivers in other places are scratching their heads over that, because it works differently depending on where one is licensed to drive a cab. In some places they work for the company and have to take the company dispatch calls.

In Orange County we lease our taxis from California Yellow Cab, who don’t care if we use their dispatch services or take personal calls on a cell phone, as long as we pay our weekly lease and don’t do anything illegal. We buy our gas, pay all fees and the only thing the company is responsible for is to provide dispatch services, insurance and vehicle maintenance.

For some reason Ace likes me, and asked me one day if I’d like to help him out on busy weekends. The Huntington Beach area goes ballistic on weekends with partying and people who take cabs throughout the evening, going to and from the bars and clubs. Plenty of them still drive themselves – Huntington Beach has one of the highest DUI rates in the nation – and plenty others take other cab companies that operate in the area.

But hundreds of people still call Ace personally, and when it gets busy he can’t handle it all himself.

He’s gotten up quite the database of personal clients over the years and on weekend evenings he functions as a  dispatcher while driving. He passes calls off to a handful of other drivers who he trusted not to rip-off, piss-off or otherwise upset his longtime clients.

On Friday night we were slammed, and Ace’s calls were stacked four deep. I was on my way back from a run to Long Beach and had just hit the 405 south when my phone rang. It was the boss.

“Hey, how far are you from the Beach and Atlanta area? I’ve got a client on the phone and I don’t want her to have to wait too long.” I told him I’d just jumped on the 405 out of Long Beach and would get down there as soon as I could, which would be about a half-hour if all went smoothly.

“Great, I’ll have her call you and give you directions.”

She called and told me her name was Debbie. She was standing on her front lawn with her boyfriend and two of his pals. She said she had blond hair and was holding her cellphone. She asked how long I’d be. I told her a half hour.

“Okay, please hurry! We’re going to “Sharkeez” in Newport and meeting friends tonight.. they’re waiting for us now.”

The directions she’d given was to one of these neighborhoods where you turn off the main street onto such-and-such, then left at the corner and right at the next corner, then another right and another left and another right in this absolute MAZE of streets with names like Miramar, Dorsett, Posten and Stillwell, etc.. all suburban hell with houses that look alike. At least I wasn’t looking for an address.. she said she was a blond standing on the lawn with three guys.. piece of cake.

I got down into the neighborhood and had turned off of Beach onto Atlanta, and was looking for the turn-off into suburbia. She called because traffic had been heavy and I was running a little behind the half-hour estimate I’d given her.

“Dave, are you almost here?”

“Yeah sweetie, I just turned off of Beach.. give me a few more minutes.”

“Awesome! We’re still out on the lawn.. see you shortly!”

I found Miramar and made my right down to Dorsett. Okaaaay, Posten.. ahhh, there it is! Right turn and left down on Stillwell. Then onto Shaw, where they were supposed to be standing in front of the house.

WHOA, there they are! Cool!

The blond standing on the lawn came running up to the cab with the three guys close behind her. “Hi guys, nice to see ya!” I was always cheerful and friendly with passengers, which was one of the reasons Ace had brought me aboard.

“Yeah, we’re going to Sharkeez” she said, as she piled into the back seat with two of the guys and the other one came around to jump up front with me.

“I know babe, sorry about the wait.”

“Oh, that’s okay, I know it’s busy.”

I took us back the way I’d came in and circumnavigated the maze while they talked about meeting up with whoever. Finally, we’d gotten out onto the Pacific Coast Highway and were on our way to Newport Beach, where the TV show from a few years back, “The OC”, took place. It was about a four mile drive and then another couple of miles down the peninsula to Sharkeez once we were in town.

This is when she spoke up.

“Actually, you were pretty fast.. I was surprised.”

I looked at her in the rear-view mirror. Cute girl, this one. Nice smile.

“What do you mean?”

“I’d just hung up from the cab company about a minute earlier when you pulled up.”

I felt a flush of.. something. The knot in my stomach was unpleasant.

“Wait, you didn’t call Ace?”

“Who’s Ace?”

Just then my cell phone rang.

“Excuse me”.. I answered. “Hello, this is Dave.”

“DAVE! Where the hell are you? It’s been fifteen minutes since you said you turned off of Beach.. are you lost or something?”

“Debbie?” I put the phone down and asked the girl in the back seat her name. It was Karen. I asked what company she’d called. I asked if she lived on Shaw.

“Yeah, of course I live on Shaw.. why?”

For the record, I don’t think young ladies like Debbie should use language like the blistering, venomous rhetoric that she poured into my ear over the phone. She may be old enough to drink and go to clubs like Sharkeez, but her mom needs to wash her mouth out with Irish Spring.

I also guess I can’t blame her. She called Ace and gave him an earful too, and then he called me to find out what happened. I asked him what the chances were that there would be another blond holding a cell phone with three guys standing next to her on a lawn at that time in the evening in that suburban neighborhood, and that THEY TOO want to go to Sharkeez in Newport Beach. He agreed that it was unlikely, but that I still should have asked her name before leaving, like we’d do when picking up someone who called from a bar or club.

He was right. I told him that I offered to go back and get her for free once I’d dropped off my current passengers, and that later I’d even take her home for no charge. She’d have none of it, she was too pissed off. I finally suggested that she walk the half block up to Karen’s address because there would be a cab coming soon from another company and the driver would be looking for a blond girl and three guys.

I’d had better nights. Most of them, actually.

Continued..

I married a girl some time ago, and there was this whole family that came along with the deal.

My dad had drawn his final breath way back in ‘76 and, although mom and I were pretty close, I hadn’t had any kind of “real family” for years. I’d get up to see her around Christmas time but it was never a big holiday affair.

I’d drop in, bringing the girl with me, and we’d stay a day or two, usually around the holiday season but never on Christmas day itself.. that just never worked out. We’d bring her something — one year it was a puppy who ended up being with us for the next ten years — and she’d always have a little something for us.

Mom wasn’t about “fuss and bother,” as she called it. She’d do a bit of Christmas shopping and get it all sent off to distant relatives who seldom came to see her. Sometimes they’d send her something. I always brought mine in person.

In 1993, she joined my dad. We inherited the pup, Rufus, and proceeded to miss her terribly. We still do.

But I always had Camp Nelson.

The girl I married had told me about the place early on, back when we were just getting to know one another. She said she’d been raised there and that there was nothing closer to heaven-on-earth. Well, that sounded like a good place to get married, so that’s what we did. We tied the knot and vowed to be faithful before God and everyone else right there in a tiny little chapel that looked like something out of Little House on the Prairie, except there wasn’t a prairie for miles.. only gorgeous, breathtaking mountains.

A few months later, I was invited to spend the first (for me) of what would later become an annual tradition.. the Camp Nelson family Christmas trip.

You’ll find the place nestled among the Sierra-Nevada Mountains of California, in the Sequoia National Forest. You drive past the valley town of Porterville and hit the highway to the mountains, enduring an hour on a twisting, winding snake of a road that brings you into the former first world war encampment of Camp Nelson, now home to mostly retirees and mountain folk.

The town looks like Norman Rockwell and John Muir got together and designed it, after having first asked advice from Thomas Kinkade and Ansel Adams.

“Everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in
where nature may heal and cheer and give strength to the body and soul.”
–John Muir

I remember that first Christmas visit well. I’d been there a few times by then, but the girl was right.. there was nothing like Christmas in Camp Nelson. A silent hush emanated from the snow, broken by the crunch of our footsteps as we stepped from our car after pulling into the little driveway in front of the cabin. If you stood still for just a few seconds, you could hear the trees breathe.

Granddad Don knew a car had pulled up, so the front door flew open and there he stood, his curiosity satisfied once he saw that it was his “little brown-eyes” and her shiny new husband. He welcomed us in, and in we went.

We stayed for several days and, for that whole time, the welcome never wore out.

Others arrived and they too were ushered in with open arms. Aunts, uncles, cousins, friends.. they poured into the cabin and rendered it a sanctuary of acceptance and love. It was a place to forget the woes of the year, even though they were lightly discussed before dinner, but as if they had happened to someone else. We didn’t know worry and stress while we were there. There just wasn’t room for it.

Granddad Don would fix Grandma Peg a bit of holiday cheer in a glass, then she’d regale us with tales from the old days, about family and friends who’d long since passed. I didn’t know of those people, but that wasn’t a requisite for finding charm in her stories. Granddad would chime in and, as often happens with those who’ve been together for a lifetime, they’d spend a great deal of time discussing the finer points of things that may or may not have happened and how they happened, if they did happen at all, depending on who was doing the remembering.

Aunt Donna visited for a few of those Christmases. My girl’s maternal aunt, she was a gracious soul who’d busy herself with things to be done.. dinner preparation, dishes, a spot of cleaning, a little gift wrapping and then a nice nature walk among those majestic trees to cap it off. Her sister would occasionally accompany her on a stroll along the crunchy, snowy paths and they’d gab on endlessly as if they hadn’t seen each other in years.

It’s been years now since Donna herself was peacefully laid to rest under those majestic trees, after cancer had ferociously claimed her kind but fragile body. Her gracious, loving soul flew on and soared like an eagle. Today, as Christmas comes around once again, she patiently awaits the great reunion.

“Take your time,” she says, “there’s plenty yet for you all to do.”

I haven’t had many holiday visits up there in that mountain heaven, where John Denver, Andy Williams and Bing Crosby sang us Christmas tunes and the wispy smell of the fireplace warmed my spirit. But I’ll cherish what few I was invited to with a grateful heart. The time came when life in the mountains was proving to be too much for such hearty old souls as Don and Peg, particularly with the loss of Donna stinging so badly. Things would never be the same for them without her cheery and loving visits so they moved to the valley below, sadly leaving the glorious cabin to be an empty, lonely sentry of God’s creation. But although the memories are cherished, the place only plays a small part of it, since Christmas is really in the heart.

My girl and I have recently passed through a few tough years. A Camp Nelson Christmas has long been a thing of the past, and there have been Christmases spent solely with each other, wherever we have found ourselves. But this year some angels have seen to it that we get to do it once more, perhaps just for this Christmas or maybe a handful yet to come – only the one who wrote the book of life knows about such things.

He’s the one who called Grandma Peg home earlier this year, so Granddad returned to the lonely cabin to wait out that great reunion in solitude. But he won’t be alone this Christmas, because we and a handful of others will be on hand to stoke the fireplace and the memories, to keep both from waning as the night goes on.

I’ll be offline for a few days. It’s a break from all of this, to find my soul once again and get back in touch with what’s important and meaningful.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and
HAPPY NEW YEAR to my readers!

Cherish 2010 and each other.

Cherish the now.

Yesterday I received somewhat of a shock. Or call it a jolt, if you will. A surprise. A real stunner.

A slap in the face with a cold fish. A dagger thrust into my eye socket. Spontaneous combustion.

A great big poof of smoke in my brain. A burst of light illuminating the dark dregs of society, flushing them out into the open and causing them to sparkle just a little through the accumulation of soot and soil caked onto their filthy, oily little bodies.

A burst – a poof – a bang – a gong..

And suddenly, JAMES is a GIRL.

I’m talking about my longtime pal James Chartrand of Men With Pens.

You know.. the guy I always pictured as somewhat of a cross between Tom Hanks and John Corbett, with a handsomeness that almost meets in the middle but favors the Corbett side.

James had his guitar slung over his shoulder and his longish hair with a bit of stubble on the chin – just enough to say “I care a little, but not a lot.” James wore sandals and sunglasses, and had a great singing voice that resonated like the lead singer from Nickleback, only he’d never sing about photographs or being a rock star because both of those were out of the realm of possibility with this covert web he wove for us on the net.

We never saw a photograph. We never saw a video, or had a Skype session or spoke on the phone.

Fishy. Cold, and fishy. It was a great big carp called “suspicion.”

So yesterday, that suspicion swam into a cocoon and morphed into shocking awareness when a post ran at Copyblogger that had been authored by James Himself. “Why James Chartrand Wears Women’s Underpants” was the name of it. In it he said, “I’m a woman,” and then he gave reasons for having presented himself as a man, which all sounded pretty good.

Business – impressions – wages – perspective – appearances.

Men are paid more. It’s a fact. Single with two kids to feed, that’s a fact too. Copywriting income doubled almost overnight following the reinvention of herself and the birth of James Chartrand, the mighty man with a pen in the great white north, tackling text and grappling with grammar in the exact same way Jamie had done, but finally getting the recognition, kudos and cash that go with foregoing barefeet and pregnancy in the kitchen.

Just so you know, I made up the name “Jamie.” James is mum on the original moniker and wants to go right on being called James.

People quickly took notice of the Copyblogger post. I always knew James was popular and well-known, but didn’t realize the scope of it until news broke at The Huffington Post and then Newsweek.

We’re pals, so I messaged him. “Is this true?” I asked. It was. I expressed shock, and I might have been a bit abrupt when I said I needed to think things over.

“Understood. I’m always around if you need to talk or rail or vent or whatever. Still the same person, dude.”

That’s James.. looking out for how I feel, because I’m a friend and you don’t let friends hurt if you can help it.

I can say all of this because James said it first, very publicly and just over 24-hours ago. Turns out someone was going to out him, so he beat them to it and outed himself first.

You’ll notice I’m sticking with JAMES and the pronouns HE, HIS and HIM.

I’m also going to stick with JAMES the person. My friend. My pal. Sure, I was deceived a bit but for a good reason. Everyone lies for personal gain at one time or another, and some more often than others. If you say you don’t and never have, then shutthefuckup because you’re telling a white-whopper right there, my forked-tongued friend.

I guess this is as good a time as any to leap aboard the bandwagon of truth as it rattles down the cobblestone street of verisimilitude..

I, RhodesTer, am actually a female Peruvian Snow Yak named Betty, and my other half, coffeesister, is an orangutan named Jack. But we’re still the same nutty folks you’ve known and loved all these years, aside from my craving for a mouthful of sweet, delicious grass-hay and the fact that I’m now going to let James milk me should we meet someday.

Someone has to.. Jack is always too busy peeling bananas with his feet.

Hello everyone I hoeps yall bee having a g00d day becayooz I’m nawt. I’m sitting hear trying too figure out wut dat bitch meant wen shi said shi- 2 me n I fink u konw waht I mene when I say shizz I mean smack bro.

YO itz nots taht ewe kant dance oar anything it lyk ifs yoo try tew dance better joo git al tha haters an thee pimps saying shyt, so yall know what? Juss dance + diss thems thay dun mean nothign. its liek iffn u have to goes did dat stuff and tyhe jus kikk ewe n th’ nuts and than da dood sasy shi- and thier ytou are, asking em what ins tehz hellz tehy meant becayooz yuo are de bomb.

I like tje wun th@t p1ayz rachel she iz da shit butt de quinn 1 r the shit 2 bra.

Do you have ne morr videos lyk thys? I liek thiz I hope you have moar so get morr lyk this.

No be goin and saying shizz becayooz it’s nto liek bitch frum Glee are gogin to aks you to hold hur hair ore nothing it’s moar like I wil kikk ur azz if you evn thinks off looking @ hur you ghey azz fag beating mofo. Dun even goa thnkng iz nut lyke dat ho!

now i’m goin too goes git mi Poken. you cans get an Poken t00 juss don’t be dissing my Poken oar i poke you, betch.

Laterz.

a tip of the backwards ballcap to unintelligencer.com

Uncle Val was an Aussie with a slight speech impediment, which made him a bit hard to understand. He called my aunt Ruby “Woobie,” and he’d shout it from the kitchen whenever he needed some help.. “WOOBIE! HEP ME GIT DA PAN OUT!” She’d excuse herself from visiting and shuffle in there, leaving mom and dad to help us kids watch “Let’s make a deal!” with Monty Hall, which seemed to always be on for some reason.

This was Thanksgiving with Val and Ruby, who’s last name I never knew. Ruby was my mom’s aunt and I guess she’d be about a hundred by now, or more.. Val would certainly be a hundred and twenty. They were old when I was a kid, and although everyone seems old to a ten-year-old, Val and Ruby were ancient.. he was slightly stooped over and never left the house without his cane in one hand and pipe in the other. He always had that aromatic wisp of tobacco hanging around him that so many uncles and granddads used to have, back in the day.

Ruby was plumpish, but not a lot, and she was the sweetest woman in the world. I now know where my mom got it from, since she was second sweetest and inherited the main title after Ruby passed away sometime in the late seventies.

I always thought Val was the greatest cook who’d ever lived. He lived in the kitchen on these Thanksgiving reunions and the spread he’d lay out come late afternoon was fit for a king’s buffet. I knew he worked as a chef in a fancy restaurant, so it was never a surprise that we all got the royal treatment once a year. About a decade after our last time with them, mom told me that he’d never been a “chef,” but rather a cook at a greasy-spoon in downtown San Francisco.

Another childhood illusion shot to hell.

Coffeesister and I found the old house during a visit to San Francisco a few years back. It’s on Van Ness not far from downtown, and as we sat in the car and looked over its traditional San Francisco style facade, I grew more than a little wistful and melancholy recalling those (at least) ten annual Thanksgiving day visits we enjoyed. I didn’t recall the earliest ones of course, but I knew that mom and dad had been going there since being married in 1957, so I certainly must have gone along every year starting in November of 1959.

I miss them terribly whenever this holiday rolls around, and I miss mom and dad, both of whom are long gone now. Val taught me what a boomerang was, since we all admired the fancy one he had on display in the living room. He never took if off the wall, claiming it was made of the bone of a large whale that had been slain by one of his ancestors. The wink that accompanied that story might have discredited it, but great-uncles with bushy white mustaches and funny accents always told the truth, didn’t they?

Ruby sewed things, and even though mom sewed things too, she’d take the specialty jobs to Ruby because Ruby was the sewing queen of the universe. When mom passed away I found aunt Ruby’s sewing basket tucked into a special corner of her cedar chest reserved for treasures of the past.

We’re on our way to San Francisco, that coffeesister and I, and we hope to live out the rest of our days there. I feel as though I’m finally going home, but on this Thanksgiving holiday we find ourselves with family in a small town in central California. I’m once again wistful and melancholy as I recall those early days, but at the same time determined to make a fond memory for the kids in attendance in this household, despite not having a boomerang. I may step outside and smoke a cigar though, so I’ll smell like a great-uncle, and I could tell a few tall tales later on this evening.

I’m pretty good at that, and at adding a wink when needed.

God rest you, Val and Woobie, I wish you were here.

All of a sudden, I’m kind of a hero.

I was just sitting here last night perusing various websites and minding my own business, when Cody came in for a brief visit before bed.

He’s Joanna’s nine-year-old son. Joanna is coffeesister’s cousin, who we’re staying with for a bit before forging on to San Francisco.

Cody asked, “Watcha doin’?”

I quickly closed the window that displayed the lingerie models.

“Just looking at angels” I said, somewhat truthfully. It was what popped into my head at the moment.

“What kind of angels?” he asked.

“Blue angels” I replied, less than truthfully. It was all I could think of.

“I want to see!”

He plopped down next to me, so I called up YouTube and typed in “BLUE ANGELS,” knowing full well I’d get videos of the Navy’s precision flying team in action. Sometimes – not always, but sometimes – I’m a fast thinker.

Cody’s eyes grew to the size of F-18 Hornet intakes after the first minute of the first video I played for him – it turned out he’d never seen them before. He’d never even seen fighter jets in action. He hasn’t even seen Top Gun, due to that pesky R rating.

“Are those professional pilots?” he asked.

I explained to him how they’re US Navy fighter pilots who rotate onto duty as Blue Angels, and that they do a “tour” for several years with the team before going back to being regular fighter pilots. I told him that they’re not only professional, but that they’re the best of the best, undergoing rigorous training and testing that most pilots wash out of. Only a very small percentage get to be Blue Angels.

Then I had to explain to him what regular Navy fighter pilots are and how they land and take-off from aircraft carriers in the middle of the ocean. I showed him videos of that, and then I showed him close-ups of F-18 Hornets and told him how they can fly faster than sound.

Now he wants to be a fighter pilot.

We haven’t told his mom about this. Coffeesister and I are renting a room from her for a bit, and want to stay in her good graces. Thank god she’s too busy most of the time to read this blog.

But aside from how his mom is going to react, I feel as though I’m a bit of a hero just for introducing a nine-year-old boy to The Blue Angels. When I suggested that he should ask his dad, who lives nearby, to take him to a Blue Angels air-show he hit Mach-one on the excitement scale, so we looked at their website to try and get a show schedule for 2010 but they don’t have one posted yet.

Moments later he went to bed with Blue Angels on the brain.

Perhaps someday he will be a Navy fighter pilot. Maybe even a Blue Angel. Probably not, because at nine he has a lot of years ahead of him to sort that stuff out, but what if?

I’d love to still be around, and be at that first exhibition show he participates in. I’d love to have him introduce me to his teammates as the old man who showed him the vintage YouTube videos of the Blue Angels back when they flew Hornets. He’d tell them I was the one who ignited the spark, and maybe I’d even get a ride in the backseat of his very own F-57 Spitwad with invisible shields and warp-speed capability.

One never knows, but one can always hope.. and dream.

This is about my wife.

Dorian.

Aka coffeesister.

She’s a sickie-poo.

She’s been that way for years; so much so that I hardly notice anymore. We take it for granted around these parts.

Now, lest you think this is going to be one of those posts where someone rambles on ad nauseum about their ailments, fear not.. I detest those and don’t want to go there. No, I just want to talk about how much fun I have living with someone who can barely function.

It’s a barrel of laughs.

Like that time we were at Target and she finally gave in to using one of those electric cart things. Up until then she’d just walk around the store, slowly and laboriously until she’d shake from pain. She confided in me that she didn’t WANT to use the electric cart because of what it meant; that her health had deteriorated to such a state that walking around for an hour was no longer possible.

She’s not obese – she’s really kind of a waif for 5′10″ – so it’s not like when you see heavier people using these and you know they’re doing so because it must be sheer agony to put all that weight on those frail knee joints.

No, she looks just fine. She doesn’t look like she’d need that cart. She knew this, and was concerned about people judging her. “Screw them,” I said. “If you’re in that much pain then just use the damn cart.”

So she did.

It was delightful when we got over by the electronics section and she had some trouble maneuvering. She was a first-time user and getting the hang of the handle-bar switches was a challenge.

Ask the flashlight rack she ran into.

“Are you having fun, dear?” The lady behind the counter kind of glared when she said it, as if Dorian was having a blast running into things like a rampant adolescent. She glanced in the lady’s direction.

“Excuse me?”

“It would just be preferable if you didn’t play with the electric carts.”

Here I thought that the concern about people judging her was a figment of her imagination. Surely nobody really CARED if she used a stupid electric cart to get around the store. I guess I was wrong.

I follow this blog called The Deal With Disability that’s authored by a 26-year old woman named Eva, who happens to be disabled by cerebral palsy.

You wouldn’t think so, but it’s a friggin’ hoot.

Eva doesn’t walk or talk, and she requires an aide or someone to be with her most of the time to assist with basic functions that most of us take for granted. Her writing is spectacularly funny as she points out the silly attitudes that most people have as she encounters them throughout the day.

She attached a clandestine video-cam to her wheelchair to record odd encounters, which she then posts on her blog. A lot of them are reminiscent for me, as my first girlfriend had CP. She could walk, so she wasn’t nearly as afflicted as Eva is, but I remember the stares, the comments and the misunderstandings that are exactly what Eva endures. It seems as though part of the time she’s invisible and when she’s not, she’s misunderstood.

Eva has a great sense of humor about it all and twists every encounter into a nice pitcher of delicious lemonade. Her blog is a worthy subscription.

Eva isn’t sick, but there’s one aspect of her disability that she shares with Dorian, and that’s the invisibility. Although in Eva’s case I think she gets ignored because someone doesn’t want to deal with her, or even look at her (she’s gorgeous, by the way.. so why wouldn’t anyone?) With Dorian, they don’t believe it. She doesn’t have the powered wheelchair and distorted limbs that accompany a lifetime of non-use.

She seems fine.

This occasionally generates accusations of faking, like the attitude of the Target employee, at which I scoff because guess what? I’m her caregiver, and I’m like the worst caregiver in the world. Trust me – she’d rather get up and make her own tea because I never add enough honey. She’d rather do her own laundry because I mix colors with whites and don’t fold properly afterward.

She gets tired of instant soup and pasta with mushroom sauce out of the can.

After nearly 20 years of living together I can say first-hand that she’s not lazy. There’s just not a lot of stuff she can do, like.. almost everything. And she’s been stuck living with this bachelor for years, who has remained a bachelor and just lets her in on it when it’s dinner time.

We’re not quite sure when all of these ailments started, since it all came about so slowly, and we’re not sure what’s going on inside of her because we’re without a diagnosis.

“GASP! WHAT? YOU HAVEN”T BEEN TO A DOCTOR?”

Yes, dammit. I mean no.. we haven’t.

Well yes, we have.. but.. no.

Some years ago she went to a doctor who offered to NOT diagnose her, saying that if she did then Dorian would not be insurable. We paid for that series of visits out-of-pocket with what little money we had at the time, and the doctor warned us that should she be diagnosed it’d be a pre-existing condition. She went on to say that she’d probably not be insurable anyway, given that any insurance company might want a physical or at least to ask her a slew of questions that would point to her malady.

If she answered truthfully – no insurance. If she lied and was found out – well, we just won’t go there.

So the doctor said something about Fibromyalgia and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and getting plenty of vitamins with a yoga regiment, and that was the last doctor to say anything about it.

I remember the first accusation of faking. It came around at about the same time we were seeing the doctor, and it was from the mother of a close friend. Now, this friend reads my blog.. and she loves her mom.. but I know SHE knows that her mom can be a piece of work most of the time, and that’s putting it nicely.

Her mom is a society lady. If you’ve ever seen Gilmore Girls, think of the character of the grandmother, Emily Gilmore, who was played by a fabulous actress named Kelly Bishop. Emily Gilmore was judgmental, spoiled and self-centered.

Just like our friends mom, who I’ll call Raquel.

So we’re all out to dinner one evening, and it’s a group event. We were involved in this theatrical production with our friend and at the dinner we could bring friends and relatives, so she brought her parents. We ended up at the same table, where somehow the subject got around to Dorian’s health problems. Dorian was stage-managing the production but barely getting through it, being plagued by blinding headaches.

“Why is this happening? What’s wrong with you?” Raquel hammered at her, as if she’d been a drug addict for years and refused to put down the crack pipe. Dorian hesitated before answering, “Well, we went to a doctor who said it was Chronic Fatigue Syndrome complicated by Fibromyalgia, and..”

“NONSENSE!” Raquel was adamant, and spoke with a pious authority. “There’s no such thing.. what kind of doctor is this? It’s all in your head. You need a Psychiatrist, not a medical doctor.”

We moved to another table and decided not to talk about Dorian’s ailments, or talk to our friend’s mom ever again.

She didn’t understand the world we live in – uninsured, living from one small paycheck to the other, taking what we can get here and there as opportunity comes along. A Psychiatrist is out of reach, even if that’s what’s really needed. I’ll concede that I could probably use one but I know for sure that Dorian has tiny nanobots ripping her apart inside.

I see the results all day long.

Raquel didn’t understand that we live in American poverty, which isn’t quite as bad as, say, Nigerian poverty, but it does mean that if you can’t afford a doctor or health insurance then you’re pretty much screwed. Unless you get hit by a bus and they take you to the emergency room, where they’ll just treat your bus accident injuries and not your twenty year onset of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome that’s complicated by Fibromyalgia.

Raquel’s not alone in that – few seem to understand.

I’ve had various jobs over the years and Dorian even held the position of a video-store manager for a short while, but insurance has always been priced out of range for us, even when going through employers, plus there’s that whole pre-existing condition thing. I can just see paying eighty bucks a month to get her on some kind of plan, only to have them refuse to treat her because all of her symptoms have been around for years.

This is turning into a health insurance post, and I feel kind of sneaky about it. I didn’t really mean for it to, but let’s look at these symptoms..

1. Chronic, debilitating pain, all of the time. She only showers about once a week because it hurts too much.

2. Blinding migraines that get demoted to simple headaches on good days.

3. She used to be able to walk down the detergent aisle of a supermarket, but no more. The chemical sensitivity causes her to blackout from the fumes of numerous detergents and cleansers, even though they’re packaged and bottled. She gets quite wobbly when near an aisle like that, and I’ve found her collapsed on the floor of more than a few supermarkets.

4. Inability to think and process thought. Lack of memory. Lots and lots of neurological stuff going on. Mistaken identity, misappropriation of memories, nightmares on the rare occasion she can manage to fall asleep.

5. Inability to walk for more than twenty minutes, and that’s with a cane. Too much pain.

She’s 40, folks.

Ten years ago she had all of these symptoms at about half the strength they are now, which leads me to believe that in another ten years it will all be doubled.

I don’t think she can take that.

So yeah, I guess I’m saying she won’t last another ten years if something isn’t done.

I’m not a politically minded guy. I detest politicians and their issues, and I refuse to engage in debates over these things. People get really silly, like a longtime friend who we’d reconnected with on Facebook who said that we don’t need health insurance because we can go to any emergency room and be taken care of.

Another friend, whose blog addresses christian issues, asked his readers about their thoughts on health-care. One person actually said that everyone – believers and non-believers alike – should just head to the local church and get anointed with oil while having the church elders pray for them. I’m really hoping that guy doesn’t happen along someday if I’m ever in a horrific accident and pour oil on my head as I scream in torment with shards of glass piercing my eyeballs.

A lot of people get really stupid.

There’s Judy, who runs the gift shop at the hotel where I used to work. She’s not “pour oil on your head” stupid, but she was always full of suggestions when it came to Dorian. She’d ask, “So how’s your wife?” and I’d tell her she was the same, and Judy would suggest this and suggest that until I finally had to ask her one day to stop suggesting things. She meant well, but it was all useless.

This is why I don’t talk about her ailments. People have all kinds of suggestions, most of which are worthless, and they ask me all kinds of questions that I can’t answer. I’m a bottom line kind of guy, which means that all I know is she’s sick, she has been for years and there’s not a damned thing I can do about it except try to get the honey in her tea right and fold her tops so they don’t wrinkle.

Okay Rhodester, so if you “don’t talk
about her ailments,” then why this post?

Health care is a BIG issue right now. Probably the biggest it’s ever been. That being said..

I find it odd that I can go to a post office and send something to someone in New Jersey for under forty cents.

I can go to the department of motor vehicles and get a license to drive for a minimal fee.

If I don’t file my taxes, federal agents come after me and make all kinds of fuss about it and put all kinds of effort into coercing me to do so.

But I can’t walk my sick wife up to a doctor and ask that she be taken care of, because I can’t afford it.

There’s all kinds of talk about how people shouldn’t have to lose their houses and/or cars to take care of someone who’s sick. I agree, but I’m not worried because I don’t have a house or a car to lose. I don’t have anything.

Just a sick wife and no clue.

Today’s guest post is from an alternate universe Rhodester who is seven dimensions over to the southern parallel, in a quantum tangent at 5.3948-7 degrees. They type with their noses.

Greetings!

It’s a wonderful day here in Wyoming. As I look out over the white crested waves and watch the ships moored in our harbor sway gently back and forth, I just can’t help but soak in the energetic hustle and bustle that makes living in our nation’s capitol so exhilarating. I know it’s going to be better than yesterday because my sister, Alligem Floidius Rhodester, was hit by a bus while up on her roof polishing the fluke stacks. She never ducks in time, but the stupid driver was flying too low so I think there’s a lawsuit in the making. That’s good, because she could really use the sand.

She’s okay though, since she lives near a good restoration clinic and they were able to restore her head and right arm (she had raised it up to fend off the bus and it got caught in the intake.) She looks even better now after having spent fifteen minutes in rejuvenation. She bears an uncanny resemblance to Congresswoman Ellen DeGeneres, who, let’s face it, is really quite attractive. I know there’s this whole uproar about the Playdude spread she did, but she WAS wearing a couple of fashion tires for modesty, being a Congresswoman and all.

So, Alligem is going to be just fine, and they say her sight should come back today at around two in the afternoon, Bakersfield time. This is good because I do NOT want to have to go feed those damn banana-worms of hers. People say they’re cuddly, but I think they smell like paper towels soaked in stale French Roast.

Speaking of Bakersfield, Whiskeysister and I are thinking of going there on vacation next month, that is if we don’t get another gang load of Scottish Highland Shepherds into the hotel. They may be from the most powerful nation in the world but they sure are slobs, and they don’t tip AT ALL. I get so tired of having to scrape goat-skin condoms off of lampshades.

So, we chose Bakersfield not only because it has such a beautiful ski resort, but because President Lewis is speaking there next month. He’s quite entertaining when giving his state of the union address on BoobToob, but there’s just nothing like a live show. All those years with Dean really paid off, so when he went solo he was, in my opinion, the top comic in the business.

I absolutely love the 56th amendment to our beloved constitution that states “only a professional comedian can hold the office of the Presidency of the United States of Amherista.” We all know that was designed to bring levity to the office, and to help us all to lighten up on world affairs.

Who didn’t love that moment when he pulled a rubber chicken out of Kim Jong Eels ear? North Korea is thinking of letting us adopt them as a state based on that move alone. Plus they freed Bill Clinton!

I’m still kind of sad over the passing of that legendary newsman, Michael Jackson. I’ll never forget his reaction (whoo!) when men first walked on the third moon. I’ve been trying to cheer myself up lately by watching Walter Cronkite videos and it’s working. What a performer he was! He grabbed his crotch a little too often for my taste, but his famous “Chiller” video, wherein he turns into a raccoon and eats his girlfriend’s feet, is simply the best.

I have to run to the store in a bit and stock up on whiskey for whatzername. I hate that you can only buy it in cube form and have to microwave each one into a glass. Seems like I do that for her all day long. At least there’s Twatter to keep me entertained. I have 2,498,387 friends now, but I lost one yesterday when I twatted “Sinatra is going to WIN Amheristan Idol.” I know some people don’t like him because of the extra arms protruding from his head and torso, but he’s a helluva singer if you just close your eyes and don’t watch all the flailing.

Well, the rift is getting fuzzy so that means it’s going to close any second now. Thanks to my boring counterpart, Rhodester, for letting me come on and say hi to you today. If the rift opens again anytime soon and you come to visit, could you bring some beer and sand? Both are like gold here, because sand is our currency and we use beer to bathe our elf-slaves.

Thanxxzzs!

**…ZZZZZzzzzzzzzzT!…**

This past weekend I was called back to work at the hotel for a couple of overnight shifts.

I’d forgotten just how much fun it can be when everyone complains about everything, but I was quickly reminded when a stern lady chewed me out while wagging her finger at me because guests were in the hot tub late at night and she wanted me to clear them out, claiming they were making too much noise. I did and of course, the hot tub guests complained that they weren’t able to enjoy the hot tub late at night. One young man who’d had a bit too much to drink said, “Dave, I would never, EVER come to your house and kick you out of your hot tub!”

I told him I appreciated knowing that.

Another lady complained that there were too many flies in Palm Springs this year, and she wanted us to compensate her room because of it. There weren’t any flies in her room unless she’d left the door open, but there were more than usual buzzing around outdoors and some had made their way into the lobby because they got whooshed in by the sliding glass doors, which really can’t be helped. I’ve noticed that there are more flies here where I live, about three miles from the hotel, and I noticed a lot more downtown. I think it’s because the economy is currently mired in shit.

We did not comp her room, but I did assure her there was no charge for the extra flies.

On a whim yesterday, I decided to look at some of the public review forums on travel sites to see if anyone complained about the hotel online. I didn’t find many negative reviews, they were mostly positive – but it’s interesting that someone can stay at the hotel at the same time as someone else, and whereas the first person “had a wonderful time,” the second thinks the place must have been built by the Marquis de Sade while Satan himself supervised and Hitler carried the bricks.

The following reviews drive that point home. This first one is about the hotel where I sort of work (I was laid-off in December and they’ve only called me back to cover a few busy holiday weekends.) Since I technically still work there, I’ve replaced the name of the hotel with (HOTEL), but I’ve otherwise copy/pasted directly from the site, so that this woman’s spelling and grammar problems remain. I guess she was crying so hard her vision was blurry..

This was the worse hotel stay ever! Upon our arrival to the hotel the Valet was fighting with a guest we waited over 15min to get them to acknowledge us. The pool was overcrowded, small, and very old. The people were eating in the pool, throwing trash in there, the girls on the side were ashing there cigarettes into the pool. Upon returning to our room other guests were using our patio, and the bathtub did not fucntion prperly. The room furniture was old and and smelled like wet MOLD!! The staff was rude at the front desk when tried to alert them to these downfalls…the WORSEST (HOTEL) hotel ever! NOt worth staying ever again…for free…and I wouldnt dare spend a DIME here!

Now, this is the kind of disgruntled guest that you can’t really do anything for. I could shoot all the employees, burn the place down and mix the corpses in with the ashes, and then bury the whole mess on the vacant lot and throw salt on it so nothing could ever grow there again, and she’d complain about the smell (the worsest smell EVER!)

I was curious about who she was, so I clicked on the username she used for the travel site. It didn’t tell me much, but it did point me to the next review she gave, which was shortly after she reviewed our hotel. It seems she and her partner switched over to the Andreas Hotel here in Palm Springs, which I can use the name of because I don’t work there, and also because she gave it a rather glowing report..

Today I turned fifty.

I’m not sure how that happened. I’m not sure where the years went.

Oh, I know.. I’m not old. Not by a long shot. At least subjectively, because coffeesister’s granddad is almost ninety and he calls me a “kid.” On the other hand, real kids – as in the MySpace Generation – think I’m older than dirt. It’s an interesting dichotomy; I’m right in-between “a cute guy” and “what a cute little old man.”

Speaking of coffeesister, today she’s doting on me like an old mother hen. This happens every June 9th. Then, when October 12th rolls around – which ironically happens to also be my mother’s birthday – she can’t lift a finger.

That’s how we roll. We roll for each other.

It works really well, too.

With all of this stuff I’m not allowed to do, I have a lot of time for reflection. I think back over the years and watch as the good times dance with the bad, making for a macabre sort of waltz that lays my life out in front of me, spinning, twirling and swaying until it comes to a grinding halt at my feet as if to say, “Now what?”

Now what? I’m not sure. I’d say that’s the problem, but is it? Man is God’s comic, making all those plans just to hear him laugh. Yes, that’s a paraphrase of a really good quote – but I not only agree with it, I’ve proven it.

When I was seventeen, it was a very good year. It was a very good year for small town girls and soft summer nights. We’d hide from the lights, on the village green.. when I was seventeen.

When I was seventeen I enlisted in the Navy. College was not an option, so I hoped for at least four years of education, travel and growth. I didn’t know what I’d become, but it had to be better than small town girls and soft summer nights. I wanted adventure. I got it.

When I was twenty-one, it was a very good year. It was a very good year for city girls who lived up the stair. With all  that perfumed hair, and it came undone.. when I was twenty-one.

When I was twenty-one I could hardly wait to get out of the Navy and man, it could not come soon enough! I’d be free again, to enjoy those small-town girls and soft summer nights. How I missed them.

When I was thirty-five, it was a very good year. It was a very good year for blue-blooded girls, of independent means. We’d ride in limousines, their chauffeurs would drive.. when I was thirty-five.

When I was thirty-five I had several careers behind me.. none of which seemed to pan out. But it wasn’t about career. It wasn’t about any one thing in particular. It was slowly becoming about life, and just living it.

But now the days grow short; Im in the autumn of the year. And now I think of my life as vintage wine, from fine old kegs. From the brim to the dregs, it poured sweet and clear. It was a very good year.

I’m not in the autumn yet. I’m enjoying the waning days of summer, as the cool breezes waft in. They smell delicious, and though I sometimes think of what my life was like in the spring, I know that the seasons have changed – not for the worse or for the better – they’ve just changed, and it’s up to me to make of them what I will.

For those of you in the early spring, take it from a late-summer man; it all flows madly by like a rushing stream. Memories of long ago are only an arm’s length away, right at your grasp, because they only happened yesterday. That bike ride, that first kiss, that time you went with them to that place and you all did that thing.. it all just happened yesterday, and tomorrow you will be ready to shuffle off that mortal coil. Knowing the fickle nature of fate as I do, I may shed mine today.. or in another fifty years.

A few years ago, an old friend of mine chided me by saying that he didn’t think I was where I’m supposed to be in life. He said that I hadn’t progressed enough, and that I needed to make up for lost time. In answer to that, let me take a quick inventory..

• A woman who loves me, and I love her – check.
• A place to live, with food in the pantry – check.
• Two little kitties who also love me – check.
• True friends, who don’t care whether I’m rich or poor – check.
• I’m fairly healthy – check.
• Air to breathe – check. Music to hear – check. Beauty to see – check.
• Broadband Internet Connection – check.

I’m afraid I have to disagree with my old friend. I’m doing okay, and I can’t even begin to tell you how wonderful the air smells as summer fades and the fall colors start to shine.

It’s a very good year.

“It was a very good year” was composed by
Evin Drake and recorded by Frank Sinatra

COMMENT of the day..
Hi Davy,
I hope the Dave 5.0 build is the best yet!
Cheers, Triana

Yeah, that’s mom – formerly Mary Ann Rhodes and way before that, Mary Ann Mills of Olathe, Colorado.

She left us all to fend for ourselves back in 1993 – geez I’m feeling old today, because I can’t believe that many years have passed. She was only 59 – soon to be 60 – and my 50th is coming up next month.

She was born in 1933, and never did grasp technology very well. This little blog post tribute would elude her. I’m sure that were she still around I’d have to phone her up and tell her how to find it on her Web TV or something. She actually had a VCR but programming it was out of the question. “David,” she’d ask, “how do I rewind this so I can watch it?”

“Mom, that’d be the rewind button.. right there.” I’d show her with the hope that she’d remember for next time. Mostly she was trying to rewind while the tape was still playing. “Mom, you have to stop it first, THEN rewind.” She’d tell me how complicated that was.

She was a good woman. She was very long-suffering, having cared for two husbands and her younger brother through excruciating terminal illnesses until they passed on. She put up with a lot of crap from me in my youth – a lot of which I wish I could take back and do differently, but I guess somehow it’ll all be made right. She put up with goofy, greedy relatives and mean people, con-artists who bilked her out of investments and two-faced neighbors who used her good graces for their own gain.

With friend Iona Volkman, about 1972

She had her share of difficult times but always managed to keep her head up and smile. I miss those dinners she’d make when I came around, and the occasional long talk about life and what it all means. She could be deep, and sometimes I think I was the only one who knew that. She never tried to prove anything to other people, and always met them at their level because she wanted them to be comfortable around her. They were, sometimes too much. She never let on how smart she really was.

She was the most conservative bohemian I ever knew.

I wish I could give her more than this dumb little tribute on a blog for Mother’s Day. But knowing her as I do, I think that a very public “I love you, miss you and will never forget you” will suffice. She never wanted anything more, really, than to love, be loved and be content with what she had, which was never much.

She achieved that goal, especially the parts about loving and being loved.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mary Ann Kelly

I love you, miss you and will never forget you.

RIP 1933-1993

Yesterday, coffeesister and I went to downtown Palm Springs after we managed to dodge the Evil-Bank-Lady (YAY!) because they have this thing on Thursdays called a street faire, where they block off about ten blocks of the downtown area and people wander up and down looking at arts and crafts while eating really shitty food prepared in front of them by possibly not so hygienic people who are sweating in the desert heat over open grills at makeshift booths.

But we went into The Coffee Bean, partly because we really like the place, and partly because they have free wireless Internet and we love our Internet so much we just have to be online with you all even when surrounded by hordes of cool people and all those arts, crafts and sweaty food within such close proximity.

Actually, she stayed online for hours, staking out a little Coffee Bean table while I shut down my crappy laptop after a short while because it’s in such bad shape it makes you all seem fat and slow, and I know you don’t want to be like that. So I left it with her as I went outside and wandered around in the crowd. I even ate some tacos from one of those open grills and they made me sick. So yeah.

I returned to The Coffee Bean and ordered up an iced mocha to counteract the tacos, then I grabbed a chair on the outdoor patio to watch the fine young ladies endless parade of humanity shuffle by while coffeesister continued to keep you company in her dank little corner of merry isolation.

But in spite of so many fine young ladies humanities parading, I couldn’t help but notice that the old lady seated about five feet away from me had a little dog, which was a Maltese or something, and it was all fluffy and white and cute, and about the size of a fluffy white breadbox, but that’s not why I noticed it. I noticed it because she had it all dressed up. It wasn’t all foo-foo like, with a sweater and stuff like that which would have just been animal cruelty in that heat, but instead she had.. are you ready for this? No kidding.. sit down..

She had a tiny little saddle on it.

And seated on the the tiny little saddle was a tiny little Mexican in a sombrero.

But that’s not all.. the fluffy white dog was wearing a matching sombrero, and.. I’m not kidding here.. sunglasses. Yeah. They were strapped around the dog’s head, and the little shit made absolutely NO EFFORT to pull off the shades, sombrero, saddle or the tiny Mexican, who I think was made out of stuffed brown socks with dinky black buttons for eyes and a mustache that had been applied with black permanent marker.

I was kind of surprised at the fluffy little dog’s easy-going ‘tude, because I used to have larger, real dogs who didn’t like me putting sunglasses on them so they’d paw them off right away. I can’t imagine what they would have done with a tiny Mexican. They’re in heaven now but that has nothing to do with me dressing them, I swear, because I never got that far. It was just a long time ago and they grew old and died.

Of course, this whole get-up on the very patient and possibly stoned little Maltese doggie was an absolute hit with anyone who walked by, particularly if they had small children with them or if they’d been drinking, and a handful of people just had to stop and get a picture. I would have gotten a picture to post here but I don’t have a camera in my cell-phone, so you’ll just have to rely on the brilliantly executed word-pictures that I paint with such florish.

The lady kept telling everyone the dog’s name, which I’ve forgotten, so when there was a break in the humanity parade I took the opportunity to quench my curiosity and ask her the name of the little Mexican who was riding the dog. She looked at me like I must be freakin’ CRAZY, because after all.. WHAT KIND OF SANE PERSON WOULD NAME A LITTLE SOCK PUPPET, HUH?

So she just kind of shrugged and said, “I don’t really know, we haven’t named him” (she wanted to add, “you freakin’ TARD,” I just know she did) and as she stooped down to adjust the dog’s sombrero I said, “Well how about Dave? That’s my name.. we could call it DAVE.”

She didn’t even look up. “Sure, Craig will be fine.. whatever you say.”

With the sombrero adjusted,  saddle pulled tight and leash all leashed up, she gathered up her things along with her precarious puppy and shuffled off to parts unknown without so much as an adios to “Craig, the mumbling maniac with the iced mocha.”

I seriously need to get a camera phone.

Okay, so has anyone else who maintains a WordPress blog noticed a decided increase in the size of the average spam comments being trapped by Akismet?

WHOA THERE!

Where are you going, non-WordPress users? This will be of interest to you too! I’m sorry I said “Akismet”.. it’s not a big word, it’s just a WordPress filter that traps spammers and teases them until they cry like little school girls.

Here, let me help you out a bit so that you can understand what we’re talking about..

When a person – me, for instance -  has a blog on WordPress, they don’t need to use those little CAPTCHA things to keep spammers from commenting, like they do on Blogger. You know.. it’s where you try to comment but you have to type in “RFLYO” first, or “JKSTGV” or “NTBQP”. I used to have a blog on there and I swore that if I ever had a child, which seems unlikely at this point but hey we have a black President, I was going to name it “GLMGY” if it was a boy or “SBTRY” if it was a girl. But now that I run my blog on WordPress I can just name my child “Akismet” (which I believe would work for either a boy OR a girl),  because that little filter is the saving grace of us all.

Here’s why..

On Blogger, when someone kindly stops by and graciously reads your blog and nicely decides to be wonderfully helpful by adding a beautiful comment, they have to work for it by typing in those previously mentioned potential children’s names, which doesn’t seem like it’d take much effort but if a person comments on, say, a whole bunch of Blogger blogs each day, well we’re talking about a whole half hour or so of extra typing that could be better spent actually making a child, if one is so inclined and equipped. So basically you’re keeping your readers from having sex, and to me that seems like a poor marketing plan.

On the other hand, readers of WordPress blogs have plenty of extra time to manufacture children because Akismet (the spam filter, not my future daughter) does all of the work for them. It does this by actually letting the spammers leave their comments but it sort of holds them in a holding cell, like a tiny prison, until you come along and decide to either let them out to roam free across your blog (unlikely) or you strap the silver helmet on them and pull the switch, electrocuting them in an excruciatingly agonizing moment of pure joy and ecstasy (very likely, and a lot of fun).

There’s this thing you see when you log on to your WordPress account that’s called the “dashboard”, which is a lot like the dashboard in your car but instead of showing you your speed and oil temperature, it shows you how many people have visited your blog and what comments Akismet (again, the FILTER) has trapped in the tiny prison. My whole point here is that lately these comments have gotten really big – so big that we may need to get a bigger prison – and of course, they still don’t make any sense.

Remember when spam comments that don’t make any sense were short and sweet? Actually, I still get those in my email, and I’m sure you do too. Here’s one I randomly pulled out of my email just now..

Serge lived there in smoke, that prop of the vrishni race (krishna), like that one over there. have you bought  dorothea’s whose knots made it strain and creak, a tremendous deities and pitris, the illustrious rishi narada.

Now here’s one that Akismet (FILTERRRR, dammit) was holding in my tiny dashboard prison today. I don’t recommend that you read the whole thing – just scan it, like you do my posts..

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Okay, you see? It’s like a damn novel. I’m hereby coining a new internet term that with your help (Stumble, Digg, Tweet, etc.) is going to go viral.. I’m hereby dubbing this new spam format, the “SNOVEL”. Here’s another one, and once again, just scan it like you do all blogs..

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Aren’t those wonderful? That second one even mentions Christina Ricci! And Prozac! Personally, I think any film with Christina Ricci on Prozac has some real box office potential, especially with that bit about the scandal involving her father and the mortgage on the farm brought on by the two former workers who did time in prison. So, I’m going to get right on the script adaptation here, if I can manage to get the rights from the original author.

Ah.. let’s see, the author is..  “xhilymed”.

Geez, we’re back to that again.

Okay, never mind. I’m just going to write my own novel. It’s going to be about Canadian generic prescription meds and the race to beat the clock before clowns eat all of the banana pudding. I’ll throw in a plot twist involving terrorists from Idaho and how they use shoe horns to eradicate the simple things that make it worthwhile to shop online for daisies using previously expired coupons. Then I’ll adapt it all to a screenplay and cast Akismet (my daughter) in the lead (because Christina Ricci is “unavailable”) and direct it myself (because nobody else will).

You just wait.. it’ll be FNNN!

Actress Christina Ricci relaxes after enjoying a nice case of SPAM for lunch.

A story about.. something

A long time ago, when I was young and foolish (as opposed to being old and foolish now,) I went on an impromptu camping expedition one night with my friend Bryan Carnett. My dad had passed away the year before and I’d inherited his 1968 Dodge Pick-em-up truck, which I drove all over the country (the country being the county I lived in and occasionally down to Sacramento.)

Bryan, because he spelled his name with a “Y”, was every bit as impetuous and free spirited as I, so we’d often go on these overnight excursions and not wonder in the least what our parents thought about it. In my case it was just my poor, beleaguered mom who’d lost her beloved husband scantly a year before and was dealing with a wild, out of control teen son who wasn’t dealing with losing his dad very well at all. Bryan had a full set of parents, both of whom were terrific people but a bit lax in the department of discipline.

We’d thrown a couple of sleeping bags into the back of the truck which was the extent of our “camping gear” and made our way up to Stumpy Meadows above Lake Edsen, a very isolated and lonely place, wherein we found an old logging road and made our way back into the woods, surrounded by towering pine trees for miles around. We pulled over into a little clearing out in the middle of nothingness and climbed into our sleeping bags in the truck bed. There we laid on our backs, staring up at the stars and contemplating all kinds of deep, philosophical things such as which one of us was going to get up the nerve to make a move on Traci Bordges (“Gorgeous Bordges”) and what kind of beer goes best with Kentucky Fried Chicken.

We managed to fall asleep somewhere in the middle of all that excitement and much later, I was awakened by the feeling that someone was staring at me – it was some kind of person nearly five feet tall who had 5-8 friends, all standing around the truck. It was a moonlit night but the pine trees filtered out most of it, so it took me a few moments to realize that the majority of light illuminating our visitors was coming from some source on ground level behind a grove of trees to our right, which definitely hadn’t been there when we’d parked in the clearing hours earlier.

I nudged Bryan, who awoke and glanced around before reacting in the only way that a sensible, intelligent young man would..

He screamed.

This broke my seconds long pattern of stunned silence by causing me to scream too, and as we both screamed they scattered, heading off toward the soft pulsating glow of light coming through the trees, making a sound like startled deer tramping through the brush. In the midst of our panic laden, piercing yells we managed to get out of the back of the truck and into the cab, where I faltered for my keys and somehow got them into the ignition despite how badly I was shaking. As the engine roared to life, I slammed it into DRIVE, and we drove out of there at a high rate of speed, narrowly missing trees and not looking back to see if the glow of light rose up and flew away or anything like that – we didn’t care what it did, we just wanted to leave very, very badly.

Neither of us had been this scared before and it hadn’t occurred to us that they might have been frightened too – I think we were convinced that they had run back to their whatever-it-was to obtain weapons and rope.

I must have been doing about 50 mph, which is pretty fast for a logging road, and it wasn’t until about 15 minutes later, when we’d gotten out onto the two-lane highway, that I slowed down and both of us had calmed down enough to speak of it. Bryan summed it up for both of us quite nicely with a simple question, “What in the hell was THAT?” I told him I didn’t know, which probably would have gone without saying but we had to say something. We talked about it for maybe a half an hour as we made our way back to town, speculating as to whom they might be and where they’d come from. We ruled out someone playing a joke on us, because that far out in the woods it’s a good way to get shot, which would have happened, had we been armed.

As we got back into town, we vowed not to tell anyone about it and I held onto that for years. I found later that Bryan had told his girlfriend, which elicited the reaction we’d suspected – she thought we were nuts, or better yet, stoned.

We were neither.

I finally told someone about ten years after the fact and they seemed to believe it, so that loosened up my inhibitions enough to tell a few more people whenever the subject came up. One person several years ago was so receptive of my account that he urged me to check myself for implants. Others have just simply stated, “Well that explains a lot” (knowing me). These days I don’t care if anyone believes it or not, or what they think of me, so that makes it blog-worthy.

I’ve long since lost touch with Bryan so I have no idea if he even remembers it, let alone has told anyone else.

It happened though, and I know several things beyond a doubt – we weren’t drunk, stoned or hallucinating in any way and whoever was standing around the truck looking at us that night.. they were strange. Not a one was over five feet tall, so they were peering over the edge of the truck bed and their heads were abnormally large with eyes to match. I remember long, spindly fingers grasping the edge of the truck and movements that seemed graceful beyond anything I’d seen before. The light from the trees was so soft and minimal it was impossible to make out details, leaving most of what we saw to be in shadows and silhouette. The movie ET came out a few years later and, as my friends sat in the theater with amused looks on their faces, enjoying the film for the supposed science fiction that it is, I couldn’t help but feel a little creepy – some of the effects were all too familiar, especially.. THE HANDS.

I don’t know if there’s anything out there in those stars we see in this desert sky at night, but I suspect there might be. I don’t know who or what we encountered during that summer night in the seventies out in those woods, but I don’t think they were hikers from Sacramento who were up for a weekend jaunt. I find a certain arrogance in people who state as a matter of fact that the human race is alone in this universe. How do they know that? I certainly don’t, which I guess makes me a cosmic agnostic.

A friend recently asked me if I made this up. I think she was really, REALLY hoping I did.

Sorry.. nope.

Today I am going to talk about gay people and gay issues.

This is because absolutely no one else is talking about them, and you never hear anything about their wants, needs, desires and politics, so I might as well bring it up.

HA HA HA HA!

Actually, we hear about it all the time, and you can’t swing a dead cat here in Palm Springs without ruffling a gay person’s ascot.  But I just want to put in my two cents.  By the way, this editorial may be slightly overpriced.

I’ll start by saying that I have some gay friends who are pretty cool people.  I’ve also met some gay people in the past who are not my friends because they’re not so cool.  It’s kind of like having a cat that plays a lot and another cat who sleeps more than cats normally do.  For some reason I’m using cats a lot in my illustrations.  I’ll try and stop.

The thing is, as people, we’re all different.  There are good and bad white people, good and bad black people, and good and bad American Indians, who prefer to be called “Native Americans,” but I like “Indians” because it brings me back to my childhood when I used to play “Cowboys and Indians” until supper, when Mom would call us in just before putting the cat out.

Damn.

Okay, so getting back to gay people.. there are those who think gay people are like cowboys, in that they become gay over time, just like cowboys decide at some point to start punching cows (whatever that means) and rounding ‘em up.  There are others, present company included, who think that certain people are born gay, just like the Indians.  Not that the Indians are born gay — I’m saying that Indians are born Indians — stay with me, darn it.

Indians who try to be cowboys are not usually very successful at it, as you’ll see if you watch a lot of John Wayne movies.  Heck, in those movies they don’t even try.  But they can be a cowboy if they want, because a cowboy isn’t something you’re born to be, unless you’re John Wayne.  But you just don’t see a lot of Indian Cowboys.

So it’d be more like if Indians tried to be cats (damn) because you are either born an Indian or born a cat, but you can’t really be both.  However, you can be an Indian’s cat if you want.

I’ve known gay people who’ve tried to be cats.. er, I mean straight people.. but it never seems to work because all they can think about is wanting to be gay and their hearts aren’t really into being straight.

I’ve even known of a gay cowboy or two.

(technically, they were Sheep Herders)

But if a person who is attracted to members of the same sex as they are tries to go out and be attracted to members of the opposite sex, then they usually just end up being really good friends and go shopping together a lot.

Now, here’s the thing..

I know this Christian guy, Mike, who says that the whole gay thing is an “abomination before God,” and all of that.  I’ve known him for a lot of years and, even though he’s married now, I knew him back when he used to say that abomination thing as he was on his way to a motel to shack up for three days with some chick who he’d bone like crazy.

Actually, Mike boned a lot of chicks in his hey day.  He was quite the ladies man, in that all he had to do was walk up to them and say “HEY,” and they’d drop their pants.

Now, before you go saying that Mike is a hypocrite, let me just check my stats to make sure he’s not a reader of this blog..

Okay, he’s not.  Go ahead and say it.

The thing about Mike is that he was born liking chicks.  Well, to be technical he probably started tickling titties when he was around 11 or 12, but you know what I mean.  I’m bringing him up because I remember him talking about a wedding between two gay people who he worked with and how he would NOT be going to that wedding, because of the abomination thing.

So I asked him if he had fun that past weekend when he shacked up in the motel and boned that chick for three days.

He said yes, he did.. then he thanked me very much for asking, and offered to introduce me to her sister.

You see, guys like Mike think that all gay people are cowboys and that they choose to round up members of the same sex before punching ‘em, when in reality they’re all a bunch of Indians who are just really attracted to other Indians.  They find their fellow Indians to be quite lovely, and all they want to do is be left alone to pow-wow in peace.

Now, I realize that there are Indians who say “God made me the way I am” and there are Cowboys who say “God doesn’t make mistakes,” but make no mistake.. if an Indian wants another Indian then you best just git along and leave ‘em be, or else you’ll probably get scalped, with “scalped” being a metaphor for “gay lobbyists pushing legislators to pass laws allowing them to get married and enjoy the same civil rights under the law as straight people.”

This being the case, you’re going to just be better off sitting back and enjoying that parade of pretty headdresses.  Those gorgeous, fabulous headdresses!

That’s all I have to say.. I’m done now.

I have to go feed the cat.

DAMN.

I once made a living as a mime.

This was a long time ago – 20 years and 20 pounds, I tell people – but I haven’t had a job since that’s been as challenging, memorable and fun.

SeaWorld of San Diego has this ongoing Seal & Otter show that’s been around since the sixties in one incarnation or another. The show changes story and format every few years – back in my day it was the “Spooky Kooky Kastle” show, followed by the “Pirates of Pinneped”a year later.

Hey, I was just a performer.. I didn’t name these shows. That seemed to involve smoking illicit substances.

There were a handful of us on staff, and we worked different shifts just like anyone else. Our job was mainly to do the preshow, by coming out to “warm-up” the audience and get them into a laughing mood. It didn’t always work. One time I was chased by an angry guy waving a crutch because I’d sort of inadvertently poked fun at his fat wife, and I don’t seem to recall that he was in much of a laughing mood. But you just can’t be a Mime and be politically correct – YOU JUST CAN’T.

You won’t be funny.

But I’m not going to talk about that today. Maybe some other post, because today I’m going to tell you about Michael and Saj. Those are two guys who met each other one day long ago, but I’m the only one who finds it ironic. Until now, because you will too when I’m done.

Michael was a former Ringling Bros circus clown who’d been originally hired as a Mime, but then promoted to show producer. He was a funny guy, and by that I mean HYSTERICAL. I did okay, but compared to Michael I was about as funny as a pile of dirty underwear.

One day I had a small audience. The stadium held 1200 people, so when you only have 12 people show up, that’s one percent, and that’s enough to be a downer. I went out and did some of my funnier bits for them, but it basically sucked and they applauded politely as if to say, “HAHA, very nice, now get the hell out of the way and bring on the dancing otters.”

I left the show feeling kind of drained, and ran right into Michael behind the scenes somewhere. He was carrying his showproducer clipboard and wearing his showproducer tie and showing showproducer concern that I seemed blue, and not the bouncy, happy mime I was supposed to be. He asked how the preshow went and when I told him about the 12 people he said something about it being “hard to make disciples laugh, but what about Jesus, because HE’S the only one who matters you know!”

See? That was Michael.. damn funny and not in the least bit politically correct.

He occasionally filled in as a mime if someone took a day off, and one of the other guys wisely did so on a Monday because it was cold and drizzling rain, and he knew it’d be slow.

Michael admitted to hoping nobody would show up and he’d not have to do a show, but there they were.. two teenage boys and a girl who climbed to the very last row at the top of the 1200 seat stadium, sitting in the drizzle and hoping to be entertained.. so he entertained them.

He said he pretended to be a mountain climber when he first came out, swinging an invisible pick and pulling on an invisible rope to laboriously make his way up to them. That ate up the first five minutes of his fifteen minute routine, so once he got up there he stood on the empty bench in front of them and offered up a silent yet panic-stricken prayer to his muse for ten minutes of inspiration.

It came.

He said he didn’t know how it came, or from where, but dammit.. he was funny. Those kids laughed and clapped and had a great time, as Michael stood on that bench and did silly shit that he couldn’t recall when telling me about all of this a few days later.

His point was that if I just trust in my inspiration and let it flow through me, I’d be able to do it for one, one hundred, one thousand or a million people.. just let it be. Obviously, I’ve always remembered the story because it had an impact on me.

That was in 1988.

Fast forward to 1998 – coffeesister and I lived in Ashland, Oregon. I was doing sound design for a local theater group and a young guy named Saj was doing lighting. After we’d finished our show set-up one evening, Saj came over to our place and we sat around drinking beer and swapping stories. Turns out he was from California. Turns out he visited SeaWorld once with some friends.

Turns out it was while on spring break in 1988.

I’d told Saj I used to perform at the Seal & Otter Show as a mime, so he was telling me about the mime he saw.. it was a drizzling Monday and the place was pretty empty. After he and his two friends had made their way to the top of the stadium, the mime came out and did some kind of mountain climber bit to get up to them, followed by ten minutes of delightful comedy on the bench in front of them

Saj, his buddy and his buddy’s girlfriend all thought it was hysterical.

While he was telling me this, I must have looked like I’d just seen the ghost of Abe Lincoln giving me a lapdance in the nude, because Saj asked me what was wrong. I asked, “Did you guys see the mime in another part of the park later and go up to thank him for doing a whole preshow just for you?”

Yes, they did.

Michael had told me about that part too.. how the three kids came up to him later and said they really appreciated him coming out and doing the entire bit just for them.

I told Saj about Michael and his inspirational story ten years earlier. Here we were, ten years later, and I think Saj was now the one seeing the ghost of Abe Lincoln. His mouth was open and we both just sat there in stunned silence for a few minutes, until coffeesister finally laughed and suggested that perhaps now would be a good time to go buy a lottery ticket.  I did, but I didn’t win.

Steven Wright once said, “It’s a small world, but I’d hate to have to paint it.”

Me too.

I worked at a hotel with a poolside bar. When I was last out there, I noticed all of these little plastic bags, each half full of water, that were hanging overhead — they were all around the perimeter and spaced about two feet apart.

“What in the heck are THOSE for?” I asked the bartender.

“Oh, they keep the flies away”, he said.

“How do they do THAT?”

“The flies see with hundreds of little lenses in their eyes as they fly around,” he explained. “The optics of the light that passes through the water in the plastic bags somehow throws off their perception and frightens them.. they don’t go near them out of fear and confusion.”

It must be effective, because I never did see a fly at the poolside bar, but I always thought it was because the prices were too high for little critters who basically make their living eating poop. As hotel security, I’d kind of wished we could have added some additional bags half full of vodka to keep the obnoxious drunks away, but I have a feeling that would achieve the opposite effect.

Stupid flies! Don’t you know it’s just a trick? It’s not in your way and it’s not going to hurt you and you can’t drown in it because it’s sealed up in plastic bags! It’s just a con! You’re being SCAMMED!”

I would have said this to the flies directly, but the plastic water bags are so effective there weren’t any out there; I’m sure that if I tracked some flies down in another area – an area sans plastic bags half full of water – they probably wouldn’t know what I was talking about, so they’d just land on me and vomit. Ewe!

This reminded me of a study I heard about years ago, where they (presumably fish scientists) put this walleyed pike (that’s a fish) into a tank that had a glass wall dividing it in half. They put another little fish, a minnow — which is what walleyed pikes like to eat — into the other half and, as the walleyed pike would go after the little minnow, it’d smack into the glass wall with a big cartoon “BOINNNNGGGG!” and suffer aggravating humiliation as the cruel fish scientists would point, laugh and make fun of the poor walleyed pike.

This went on for some time– like, days or weeks or months or something — until finally the poor, humiliated walleyed pike had had enough of being treated so disdainfully just because it was hungry and all it wanted was dinner, so it gave up. It stopped going after the little minnow, much to the little minnow’s relief, I’m sure.

So, do you know what happened next?

I’m sure you do, being the smart, sassy, savvy, intelligent reader that you are! The fish scientists removed the glass and the walleyed pike swam around the little minnow without bothering it. It did this continually until it eventually died of starvation.

“Stupid Walleyed PIKE! Don’t you see that they took the glass OUT! You could eat the little minnow after the glass was GONE! It was all a TRICK! You were SCAMMED!”

I don’t think this would really be any kind of decent post at all if I didn’t attempt to use our friend the fly and our friend the walleyed pike as examples of how we can be blinded to opportunity and finding success that’s right in front of us because of something that’s holding us back. It’s probably something that we can’t see, because it’s made of glass, and they (presumably God or the devil or someone) took the glass out long ago, but we are so used to the glass being there that we’d rather starve to death than eat our little minnow because we don’t want to endure humiliation again.

OR.. we have these HUGE bags half full of water hanging all around us, and even though it’s just WATER, and it won’t HURT us, and it just HANGS there, we avoid it because it’s confusing and scary.

I say fly right in there, and LAND on the plate of half-eaten nachos! INDULGE YOURSELF! You only live for, like, two days! And EAT THE LITTLE minnow, despite what’s happened in the past and how many headaches you have from bumping into that damned glass! JUST DO IT ALREADY, because, guess what?

THE GLASS IS GONE!

Life’s little lessons are all around us, my friends..in fish, in insects and in nature itself.. and you don’t have to work for a hotel with an outdoor poolbar or become a fish scientist to observe, learn and apply.

“Carpe Diem Carp”, friends.. Seize the daily fish.

I have decided to take immediate action and do something about my hit count.

This is because in spite of  winning a contest and getting my little banner thingy posted on big blogs like MEN WITH PENS and WRITING JOURNEY, both of which get millions of hits a day, I am still only getting like 20 hits a day, and most of  those are my wife, coffeesister, and my cat, shadow, when I’m not looking because I’m in the bathroom.

So I’ve decided to model this blog after the ones out there that get the big hits, starting today.  I’m quite  serious about it, and so as to not miss anything, I’ve decided not to just zero in on one tactic, but rather to use them all.  Here we go..

HOW TO INCREASE YOUR TRAFFIC THROUGH AD REVENUE WIDGETS

We all want more traffic, don’t we?  I mean the kind that visits your blog, not the kind you get stuck in on the way home.  AD REVENUE WIDGETS can help you get more traffic.  GOOGLE the term “AD REVENUE WIDGETS” and read what comes up – you’ll find all kinds of helpful advice on how to INCREASE YOUR TRAFFIC!

How, you ask?

Simple!  By using AD REVENUE WIDGETS!  Google the term and read what comes up and then USE THEM.  This will INCREASE YOUR TRAFFIC!  Put them in your sidebar, and monetize your blog TODAY!  That’s what AD REVENUE WIDGETS do!  They will monetize your sidebar by categorizing the fluctuation rhythm of the feedback loop, driving unprecedented amounts of traffic to your blog while at the same time MONETIZING IT!  It’s simple.. and safe.  So what are you waiting for?

Do it TODAY!

A SIMPLE TIP TO INCREASE PRODUCTIVITY IN COMPOSITIONAL ANALYSIS OF THE FORMS ON THE LEFT SIDE BY THE MENU

The form is simple in itself.  THAT’S the key to remembering how to increase productivity.  Because, if you’re stuck in traffic under a bridge or something, and your cell phone rings, and it’s the wife wondering where you are, well.. I don’t blame her.  Where ARE you? DRIVING IN TRAFFIC TO NOWHERE.. if you’re not simplifying the compositional analysis!  So get out there and get it done.  It’s simple.

DON’T BE SLOW TO SEO

Have you gotten your SEO done yet?  SEO stands for Search Engine Orgasms, which every blog needs and every blog should have.  Keywords like “French” and “sexy” should be worked into posts about cooking oil and summers spent at that house down by the lake, where the loons are a’cryin.  If you haven’t gotten it done by now, you just may never get to it and, as a result, you’ll never see your blog blossom into the mega-blog it’s meant to be!  So get to it.  NOW.

COOKING ON CAMP STOVES IN THE RAIN

Let’s say you’re camping, and it’s raining.  You’d be ill-advised to cook on any kind of apparatus OUTSIDE!  But let’s just say, for the sake of argument, that bears have snuck into your camping unit – be it a tent, RV or whatever – and they’ve locked you out so that they can consume all of the bacon inside.

Well, it looks as though you are NOT going to have bacon for dinner, my friend!

But that’s okay – you can still have trout, or baked beans – as long as you brought it outside before the bears came – and so it looks as though you’ll be cooking in the rain.  It’s simple! Get a tarp.  Cover the fire pit.  Wait until it dries off.  Start a fire.  Cook your trout and/or baked beans.  If the bears finish the bacon and come back out..

..run like hell.

PLANTING A BEAUTIFUL ROOFTOP GARDEN WHEN YOU LIVE ON THE FIRST FLOOR OF AN APARTMENT BUILDING

Everyone loves gardens.  BEAUTIFUL gardens, on rooftops!  But we all have mean building superintendents and/or managers who won’t let us go up there and PLANT beautiful rooftop gardens.

Oh, what to DO?

First, it’s helpful if your building superintendent and/or manager is male – doesn’t matter if he’s married or not – just go out and get him the the best damn looking hooker you can find – spare no expense.  Get a Julia Roberts type.  Not Julia NOW, with those teeth, but Julia from “Pretty Woman.”  Pay for about a day’s worth of action, because that’s what it’s going to take you to get this done.

Send the hooker up to the building superintendent and/or manager’s office and once you hear the appropriate sounds, get to work.  Presumably, you did a little preliminary planning by visiting a nursery before scouting the boulevard for the right girl?

GOOD!

Now get up there and PLANT THAT GARDEN! Petunias are best in high altitudes – say, over ten stories – and you’ll want to use a high grade topsoil for the roses and radishes (might as well make this as functional as it is beautiful).  MOST IMPORTANTLY, when you hear screaming noises coming from below, your building superintendent and/or manager is almost finished, but not quite.  CALL THE COPS!

Give them the apartment number where the action is taking place.  This will assure that your building superintendent and/or manager will go away for a good long time, so your newly planted rooftop garden won’t be discovered and ripped out.

CONGRATULATIONS! Enjoy the beauty and the breath taking view of the roofs across the street.

BRAD AND ANGELINA CALL IT QUITS!

Film star BRAD PITT, and his lovely film star wife ANGELINA JOLIE, called it quits today on the set of their latest action film, “ASSASSIN IN THE RAIN“.  Confidential sources close to the elusive couple cited the reason for “calling it quits” was that every scene scheduled to be shot that day had been completed, and the director of the film, Ron Sheldon, was overheard telling the couple, “See you both back here at six AM sharp”.

“BRANGELINA”, as they have been affectionately dubbed by the press, then “called it quits” and went home for the evening, or perhaps out to rendezvous with another Hollywood mega-star couple, “TOMKAT“.

Ooooh, hey LOOK!  BEAUTIFUL, SEXY SUPER MODELS IN LINGERIE!

Oooooh, and GEORGE CLOONEY!

Okay, that should do it..
Now I’ll just kick back and watch the bucks roll in.

..to get into the various social networking sites..really, I have.  But they’re just so darned.. social.. without really being social, you know what I mean?  Take BLOG CATALOG for example.. I signed up last year and put this little widget in my sidebar that tells me when other blog catalog members come by for a visit.. most of the time.  I’ve had friends who I know for a FACT are on Blog Catalog, and they’ll leave a blog comment and not show up in the widget, prompting me to say, “Hey, why didn’t you show up in my widget?” and they’ll reply, “Hey, it’s because I wasn’t signed into Blog Catalog at the time.. not that I’m EVER going to sign in, because I really don’t use it that much.”

My thoughts exactly.

But you’d think that a person who goes around adding a lot of people as friends on Blog Catalog would be sure to be signed in when they do, yet I get added all the time and I’ll go check my sidebar widget and.. NOPE.. they didn’t show up.  So this means they either weren’t signed in (very unlikely) or they’re just adding friends willy nilly all over the place so they can have a zillion friends on there who they never talk to and who’s blogs they never visit (extremely likely).

I don’t think I care for that kind of “socialization”.

Let’s say I’m lonely.  I’m really not, because I have coffeesister and ShadowSillybutt, who is a kitty, but just for the sake of argument let’s say I AM lonely, so I go out to some social function where I can meet HOT BABES people.  I get there, and the room is simply CHOCK FULL of people, all mingling around, shaking hands and conversing.  LOVELY!  I’m going to get to meet LOTS of people!  So, I do just that.. I go from one person to another, walking right up to them and grasping their hands firmly as I look them right in the eyes and say, “HI!  MY NAME IS RHODESTER!”  Then I quickly move on to the next person, and the next.. and the next..

When I get home later that night I write in my diary, “Met lots of people.”

This is kind of how I feel about Blog Catalog.

So today, in a desperate bid to practice being social, I thought I’d actually choose one amongst the minions who add me as a friend in Blog Catalog without actually visiting my blog, and check that particular person out.  I decided to focus on the first notification to pop into my email, and it happened to be this guy..

Hello!  Grahito is now following you on Blog Catalog!  Click here to view Grahito’s profile.

I did that, and found out two things about Grahito.. he’s either 9 years old, or English is not his first language.  I think it’s the latter, because he has a happy tagline that he uses to tell you something about himself and “his country.”  Grahito’s happy tagline reads..

My Country have many problem now, hope that this problem will over in the near future. Economic Crisis, Bomb, Eart Quake, Tsunami, flood, mud-flood and many others. God help us to stop this!

“Well”, I thought, “this should certainly prove to be interesting!  Especially the Eart Quakes and flood.  Not to mention the mud-flood, which is different than your ordinary, run of the mill garden variety flood, no doubt because of all the mud involved.”

I thought all that, and then I saw the blogs he has available.  That’s right.. B-L-O-G-ZZZZ, because he has THREE, and good news!  …they’re all in ENGLISH!

This was a hopeful sign to me, because I was determined to not only become familiar with some NEW blogs, but to get an education.  I hoped like heck that the first blog would be ABOUT something.

GOOD NEWS!  The first blog focuses on a very special topic..

Adhesive Formula

http://adhesive-formula.blogspot.com

“This blog just collect the adhesive formulation and the tecnology use to build the certain adhesive.”

Cool, huh?  And sticky!  HAR HAR HAR!  I can’t even begin to tell you how exciting it is to add a blog about adhesive to my Google Reader.. I would put it right next to “Fruit Species”, which shows you a different picture of a piece of dissected fruit each day, but that’s just too much excitement.

On to Grahito’s next blog..

Animals World

http://animals-world-07.blogspot.com

“Find many animals and their behavior here.”

I was just wondering about the mating practices of the South American Koala Chimp.. I hope it’s in there.

Finally, there’s the last and third blog..

Indonesian Food and Forage

http://Indonesian-Food-Forage.blogspot.com

“This blog describe about many plant history and special used for, Indonesian food and forage source and others about plant.”

I am so very, very depressed now, and you know why?  Because I have a hard time posting daily to a nonsensical “humor” blog and here’s Grahito, posting to not one, but THREE blogs about Indonesian food sources, Koala Monkey Sex and the bonding strength of adhesive #32 DESPITE a constant barrage of Tsunamis, floods AND mud-floods, not to mention Eart Quakes.

I should be totally and wholly ASHAMED of myself.

And you know what?  I am! I’m SO ashamed, that I’m going straight to Blog Catalog now to turn OFF those notifications, because it’s just too painful.

In more ways than one.