tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85686255970136454512024-03-12T19:47:03.425-07:00maestrotalesmaestrejuanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10708254870212660051noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8568625597013645451.post-82542965572014071842014-02-19T13:23:00.004-08:002014-02-19T13:23:48.599-08:00Bob Gurr<div style="text-align: justify;">
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When I worked for the Betz & Peters Vintage Ferrari Collection I was drawn to (and drew from) a wonderful series of photographs they had of the Ferrari and Pininfarina factories taken by Bob Gurr in 1953. Bob is known to most people as being the original Imagineer at Disney. Walt often spoke about Disneyland as being an experiment in transportation, that each "ride" represented a different mode of getting around that may have applications in the community. Whether you are on the People Mover, the Monorail or Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, you are on a system designed by Bob Gurr. If you're not impressed with submarines, wheels or motors, you might think the audio-animatronic Great Moments with Mr. Lincoln is cool. Another one of Bob's creations. </div>
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A long time ago Matt Stroud introduced me to the work of Herb Ryman. Actually I was very familiar with his work, just never put a name to it. Herb is an incredible artist and is responsible for the "look" of Disneyland and many Disney films. I had friends who were on the Board of the Ryman Foundation and expressed an interest in it. Soon I was invited to show at a gala in the Hollywood Hills along with Chip Foose and, you got it, Bob Gurr. </div>
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I've wanted to talk to him about his '53 Italian trip for years and the opportunity has never come up until now. He is good friends with Randy Ema (who I count as one of my good friends), and I thought I'd use Randy as a key to open the door. Well, it wasn't necessary; Bob's door is wide open and he is fun and accessible guy. We talked about Randy, Bob's work, my work and finally about the '53 trip. This led to further email exchanges and more photos back and forth and eventually some loose ends and mysteries were resolved.<br />
If you get a chance, look Bob and Herb up on the internet. You'll find their hands in every aspect of Disney's uniqueness and success.</div>
maestrejuanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10708254870212660051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8568625597013645451.post-57607805569542088282014-02-19T12:51:00.002-08:002014-02-19T12:51:47.425-08:00Lisa Law<br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I’ve long enjoyed the work of
Lisa Law, her name pops up in the neatest places and her photographs tell
wonderful stories. We were in Santa Fe and I knew this to be where Lisa called
home and after a few calls we met at a gallery opening. Our initial visit was
terrific and was followed by the insider tour of her house and studio. She is
generous with her stories and her hospitality knows no bounds, we had a
terrific time. By this time in our trip to New Mexico we had amassed quite a
group of friends and several of us made our way to a nearby Mexican restaurant
where the stories bounced back and forth around the table as we all got to know
each other. Before leaving town Lisa and I decided to collaborate on an art
project. Now that has been done we hope to another soon. </span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Photography has an element of
opportunism; you have to be there to get your shot. But a great shot needs more
than being in front of a neat subject. There are plenty of awful shots of great
things. In the right hands a photograph of the most mundane things can be
wonderful, but you have to have an eye for beauty and composition and the skill
to capture them. She’s got it. Her images hold up to artistic scrutiny and
coupled with great subjects and events you get a grand package, the work of
Lisa Law.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Lisa Law is a wonderful
photographer who began shooting in the early 60s and today finds herself with a
wonderful archive of iconic photographs. Tip of the iceberg. Once upon a time
there was a house called “the Castle” in LA where musicians, artists and
herbalists found a place where they could just “be themselves”. This was Lisa’s
place for a time, taking care of the guests and keeping the place up until
other ventures beckoned. Other opportunities came in the way of participating
in and shooting concerts, festivals, communal experiments and feeding the
masses at Woodstock. In her driveway is the bus from the Hog Farm days, the
last one still running, and she has run it all over North, Central and South
America. I don’t know how many miles she’s put on it but she keeps it
mechanically maintained; and aesthetically it is both psychedelic and current
in its decoration. She uses it in parades and campaigns in town. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Today Lisa maintains a strong
advocacy for the ideas and ideals of the 60s. She is warm and generous and
humbly speaks with authority about her role in the spiritual awakening. She is
primarily known for her photographs and associations with iconic figures. She
has been in some extraordinary situations and expressed them on film. Watching
her work is a wonder. I don’t know how she does it, her sense of composition
must have become so intuitive that she can shoot from the hip; maybe living in
the wild west has influenced her. I’ve never seen anyone do that
(successfully). She is so non-chalant as she talks about the difference in
digital and analog photography, all the while clicking off these terrific shots
in a most candid way. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">All periods of time have diverse
cultural aspects. The period from the end of the Korean War to the end of the
Viet Nam war is particularly compelling. Once snapped out of the Depression the
nation entered a period of production and prosperity. Young people who grew up
in this time found the material gains were at the cost of spiritual development
and some set out to recapture spiritual awareness. These are the people that
populate Lisa’s life and fill her books. They have a valid story to tell and
can be found in her images. She has two great books, <u>Flashing on the Sixties</u>
and <u>Interviews with Icons</u>, and an excellent movie on the times, <u>Flashing
on the Sixties, A Tribal Document</u>. If you have any interest in the soul of
the 60s I suggest you investigate these sources.</span></span></div>
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maestrejuanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10708254870212660051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8568625597013645451.post-92103093597648583112013-06-18T14:34:00.001-07:002013-06-26T19:57:45.776-07:00Jacobi<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYl3diFkae72yl-7SCZ7CmL2HRShhf52-EIC_UYNVkhJRIrm_LOpEAZ9BQjDSBvZxh3QshSdJck-I4grB6mjcBVqShq5FplSp9yyKn51NIlPaebz2_ufk6jkRE4fmJgmNkODup0cLPJqw/s1600/jaco.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYl3diFkae72yl-7SCZ7CmL2HRShhf52-EIC_UYNVkhJRIrm_LOpEAZ9BQjDSBvZxh3QshSdJck-I4grB6mjcBVqShq5FplSp9yyKn51NIlPaebz2_ufk6jkRE4fmJgmNkODup0cLPJqw/s320/jaco.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> photo by some Wendy's employee in Santa Fe</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #444444;">We tried to figure it out and it came to something close to twenty years since we've seen each other. It's like we never left. Bill Jacobi and I go pretty far back, 45 years or so, and he continues to be a treat. As an artist he's always been an inspiration, he was the first harmonica player to convince me it's an instrument and as a pal he's always been close, even in absentia. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #444444;">We've had some random communications by email in the last few years and before Deb and I made our excursion to Santa Fe he gave me his new email and phone number. Of course I forgot to take it with us and tried to get his info from mutual friends who only had his old info. Then out of the blue, as I'm talking to people at his old job, comes an email from him "Hey Dave... my number is XXX". Right on cue. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #444444;">We met up at an art opening in his town. Bill is just a joy to be around and I was pleased to introduce him to Deb and my friends. I was meeting other friends there too and feared being pulled in too many directions, but Bill fell naturally into the evening and ultimately we had a couple more opportunities to catch up. After the opening we went over to <a href="http://www.flashingonthesixties.com/" target="_blank">Lisa Law</a>'s house, checked out her studio and got "on the bus" that had seen seriously cool action in the 60s. The four of us had dinner that night with Clinton MacKenzie and Kate Johnson at a Mexican restaurant filled with Lisa's photographs. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #444444;">The next few days Bill and I had some one-on-one time over a table at Wendy's. Bill has always been wonderfully obsessive, a true force of nature. Whatever he gets into he goes in deep and takes as much away as he can before evolving to the next area of his interest. He looks good and recently found new accommodations that allow his Zen side to develop. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #444444;">By my recollection it was sometime back in the 80s Bill that was one of the first computer game aficionados on the scene. He was excited about a game that replicated golf. It used a little stick like a golf club with a light on the end and as you swung it over a pad on the floor it would determine shaft speed, angle and all the stuff required for simulating a golf game. Of course he mastered it and in his enthusiasm brought the whole rigmarole over to the house and hooked it up to my TV so we could play. Although interesting technology, I've never gone for the computer game and urged him to join me at the little pitch and putt golf course at the end of the street. Grudgingly he left the electronic club on the couch and once teed up pulls a 7 iron out of my bag and promptly puts the ball on the green. Never hit a real ball before, just smacks it up there ready for a two-putt par. He seemed uninterested, still talking about the video game. The second hole, same thing, pin-high from the tee. I told him how great that was, that people practice for years to have a swing like his and he just scoffed. "There's a (virtual) hole at Pebble Beach that's WAY harder that this and I can <i>ace</i> it, this sucks" and then do a modest chuckle. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #444444;">At Wendy's Bill tells me about the things that
currently capture his imagination and they're amazing. He's so enthusiastic and
filled with wonder and laughter. He finds avenues and trains of thought that are
outside the box. He continues to do what so many of us set out to do so
many years ago. We were all looking for answers, looking anywhere for
clues and keys to our existence. For some folks traditional answers are really no answers at all. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #444444;">Most people find a conventional life or a career is a means to satisfaction. But Bill is still on patrol and I love to hear about his adventures. He has the same humble self-effacing manner about him as always. He can be very serious and the consummate comedian, and we've all learned that some of the heaviest things go down easier with a bit of humor. </span></span></span></div>
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maestrejuanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10708254870212660051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8568625597013645451.post-30190164985044973692013-01-14T15:21:00.000-08:002013-02-03T19:40:53.735-08:00Wavy Gravy<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #444444;">Deb and I were driving around Berkeley. We went by People's Park and stopped to take a picture. Back when it was the real thing Rhoads and I had our picture taken there and thus we started to reminisce on the great heritage of the Berkeley scene. While heading to a favorite bookstore there was a
theater marquee that read <u>Wavy Gravy Ram Dass Acid Test</u>. I assumed that I 'd go but I was in no psychological shape to take acid. At the bookstore there was a
poster for Ram Dass that indicated it was a one man play titled <u>Acid
Test</u>. I walked down to the theater
to find it was abandoned, so what about the Wavy Gravy part? Deb did a little
digging and found that yes, Wavy was going to be performing in town in person
and although we were heading out of the area, we could be back in a few days to
see it. Buying the tickets was no simple operation, but her diligence got us
two reserved seats in the tiny Marsh Theater on Addison.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #444444;">I always like to get places early
and Deb likes to get there just in the nick of time, but since we had
no ticket confirmation we arrived with plenty of time to spare. As we walked up
to the theater an old fellow with a dark coat and white hair struggled to get
out of the passenger seat of a black car. Although I didn’t see his face, I
knew the hobbling figure was the old boy we were there to see. We walked
together, “You’re not a football freak are you?” he asked. “No, just a freak.”
We made small talk, I opened the lobby door for him and he went on into the
theater. We talked to the guy at the desk and found we were the only ones who
bought reserved seats and were therefore front row center with our chairs
accordingly marked. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #444444;">All the essential duties were
now done so there was half an hour to relax. Deb went to a place next door called <u>Cancun</u>
and got some soup. There had been some people milling around that I thought I
recognized as writers so I went to the theater bar hoping to identify them. As I walked in I saw Wavy
pulling up to the bar and order a drink “I got no cash on me, can I get a
drink?” "Your money is no good here"
said the girl behind the bar, “Well, I don’t have any!” he repeated. So I sat next to
him and said hi. I ordered a Diet Coke in a dirty glass. The bartender
questioned such an order. “It’s the only way you can make a drink like that
sound macho.” We were the only two people there. I told Wavy we had some mutual friends from his camp and we had a
few words about that. He looked at me and asked again if I was a football
freak. It turns out that <i>he</i> is and his show starts at precisely the same time
as the 49er Packer game and he’d be missing it. We established that I would watch the score on the iPhone and give him reports during the performance. Then we
started talking. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><br /><span style="color: #444444;">Wavy is a rope that weaves
through a lot of my interests. I’m a long time devotee of Lenny Bruce and
although a fan of Kerouac and Kesey, its Neal Cassady that links the beats to
the hippies, a central protagonist of both generations, and the one who
captured my imagination. Sitting at the bar, talking to this complete stranger, we talked as if returning from a long conversation that had been
interrupted.</span></span>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #444444;">We talked at length about Ram
Dass and his life since the stroke. Wavy suggested I Skype him, he’d enjoy
that. He said Ram Dass’ language skills were greatly improved, although he
still doesn’t speak in stream of consciousness like Lenny Bruce. Lenny and Wavy were
tight; Bruce even managed him for a time. And the day before Lenny died he gave
a yarmulke to Wavy and suggested he sew it into his Tom Mix cowboy hat. The inside of the yarmulke read
"souvenir of Weinstein Mortuary". The next
day Lenny was dead and his body was prepared at Weinstein Mortuary funeral home; then Wavy made little Twilight Zone sounds. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #444444;">He
looked at his watch, seven minutes until show time. I excused myself, told him
I’d leave him with his thoughts and we bid farewell. I went into the theater.
There were maybe six or seven rows of ten folding seats. I went to the two
empty ones front row center where our drinks were poised nicely under the seats
and parked my ass. The stage was filled with little trinkets and toys, tools of
the clown’s trade. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><br /><span style="color: #444444;">While I was checking these out Deb was coming back from the
soup and ran into Wavy in the lobby. They stood and talked for another five
minutes. It may be coincidence, but when I talked to him he talked about things that I'm interested in and when he talked to Deborah he spoke about her second favorite topic, gourmet food! I couldn't help but think he's just very dialed in, even to strangers. Then they entered the theater together, she taking her seat, him lumbering up
to the stage. He took his place on a high stool, uncomfortable looking from the
start. He was beat up from his many back surgeries and beat up by cops and beat
up by being part of the beat generation. Like a lot of small storefront theaters,
the stage was only a low platform and he locked eyes on us, six feet away and in rapt amazement (and his only link to the football game). </span></span>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><br /><span style="color: #444444;">There weren’t a lot
of people there and the entire hour and a half that he spoke he looked at Deb and I, and although the stories were
different, both of us felt like it was evening with Scott Gladden. Wavy is
pretty new to my catalog and it was Gladden who suggested I watch the Wavy
documentary titled <u>Saint Misbehavin’</u>, and that got me hooked (you should
see it too); whatta dude. From his early days as a beat poet to today… its not
that he had his finger on the pulse of positive cultural change, but that his
finger gave pulse to that change. I wont try to describe his role in the world here, but it’s absolutely amazing. </span></span>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><br /><span style="color: #444444;">Another, less amazing thing, happens every once in a while. I've had seemingly random trips turn out to have a theme. It happened with Kesey and now, looking back, it seemed to happen with Wavy Gravy. Our original outing was to Mendicino and outlying areas for a general getaway. We enjoyed looking at the vivid tye-dyed clothes in shop windows around Fort Bragg. The weird signs in Berkeley leading us to Wavy didn't let on that his Camp Winnarainbow is located just outside Mendicino. It seems that whatever we were doing, wherever we were going, it was all connected.</span></span>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span><span style="color: #444444;">Early in his talk he took off his
dark coat that represented the Beat generation to expose the tie-dyed clothes
beneath, “I will always be and will die a hippy.” During his talk he described
Neal Cassady as a best friend and told many tales to support this, including
the time they kidnapped Tiny Tim from the clutches of the FBI. There were a lot of
Tiny Tim stories that shed new light on this weird character. At the end of the
show everyone sang the Wavy Gravy anthem together and everyone shed a tear. </span></span>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><br /><span style="color: #444444;">We sat for a moment debating on
what to do next and just left while Wavy put all his toys in a bag. After
all, leaving was just another interruption to a long conversation.</span></span>
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maestrejuanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10708254870212660051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8568625597013645451.post-84922087190420903022012-04-13T17:16:00.007-07:002012-10-08T12:54:04.405-07:00Nelson<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjELdQrCSB3SRmjKzQvS6kHjzmTSLpJnm22qeGXvJThlo4Yh-4XBMlrUuTFSp74BU4hbtSzqrbXdtReUFRP3CIOp8eL15xEThv5xjG-6RULi1lBFwynE72eqL7wOX3klEqr5YJGFth-hDQ/s1600/luau.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjELdQrCSB3SRmjKzQvS6kHjzmTSLpJnm22qeGXvJThlo4Yh-4XBMlrUuTFSp74BU4hbtSzqrbXdtReUFRP3CIOp8eL15xEThv5xjG-6RULi1lBFwynE72eqL7wOX3klEqr5YJGFth-hDQ/s320/luau.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Times;} h1 {mso-style-next:Normal; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:justify; text-indent:.5in; line-height:150%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; page-break-after:avoid; mso-outline-level:1; font-size:16.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning:0pt; font-weight:normal;} p.MsoBodyText2, li.MsoBodyText2, div.MsoBodyText2 {margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:justify; line-height:150%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:16.0pt; font-family:Times;} p.MsoBodyTextIndent2, li.MsoBodyTextIndent2, div.MsoBodyTextIndent2 {margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:justify; text-indent:.5in; line-height:150%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:14.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:45.0pt 1.25in 9.0pt 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} </style> <span style="font-size: 100%;">One Halloween in the early ‘70s Nelson had a poker party (of course), but before the first ante everyone participated in a backyard haunted maze for the neighborhood kids. Bob had enlisted the help of his friends to dig and build and fill the yard with special effects, ghoulish obstacles and macabre scenes. There were strobe lights, dry-ice fog, eerie music and gory contributions from the meat market while costumed pranksters entertained and frightened scores of unsuspecting trick-or-treaters on one magical night. It was theater.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">No matter how long someone lives it usually seems too short a time. Fate gave Bob a lot of obstacles to overcome, and then he threw in a few of his own. He is among the last of a generation to have a long leash; but there wasn’t a lead long enough for Bob. He continually sought independence, looked for different ways to make money and alternatives to needing money altogether. He was filled with dreams and schemes and ideas for a better life. He pursued these as best he could and in the process did extraordinary things. Like a lot of us from this town, at that time, Nelson had support from home; Delia was always his advocate. Whether taking on the schools or the cops, she stood by his side - as long he was in the right. Bob earned the respect of his friends for his unending struggle for liberation. He earned our friendship because he was funny, exciting and had a heart of gold.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">I’d like to read from Jack Kerouac, the book <u>On the Road</u>, chapter one, paragraph eleven: <i>“...the only ones for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn like fabulous yellow roman candles …”</i> It’s hard to talk about Nelson in terms of regular folks. He has always been out there, always pushing buttons or stretching the limits of convention. One night we were on his bus somewhere. It was late and we were toast. We got to talking about stuff that sometimes comes up when everything is worn out and it was then that Bob shared a philosophic bent to his behavior. He was on a mission, he was testing bounds, pushing limits, his and ours, all the time. He didn’t have time for complacency. No time to relax, there were frontiers to investigate, social and personal experiments to pursue. He might get obnoxious, he could tick you off, he could be a brat, but this was a method to his madness. After that night on the bus, he was fascinating to watch. He knew what he was doing and he would make huge sacrifices get what he, or you, needed. He was excited by life and it’s possibilities and wanted to experience it all, all at once.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">From Friedrich Nietzsche, <u>Thus Spoke Zarathustra</u>, first book, chapter 7/12: <i>“I would only believe in a god who could dance. And when I saw my devil I found him serious, thorough, profound and solemn: it was the spirit of gravity- through him all things fall. Not by wrath does one kill, but by laughter. Come let us kill the spirit of gravity (with laughter)!”</i> Here’s where Bob seemed to excel. No matter how grave, how serious the situation seemed to be, he would laugh it off. When things were dire, whether it be diabetes, hepatitis, bed sores or paralysis, he laughed his cackling laugh and continued on, managing or overcoming almost any problem, laughter being his best medicine.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">Bob Malgeri may have best summed up Nelson’s character with this poker reference; <i>"I love it when Nelson goes all in with shit for a hand"</i>. Nelson had been dealt a lot of bad hands and yet he went all in with whatever he had. He thought he was the master of bluff and always believed he'd get away with it. Maybe he was just trying to bluff himself. He wasn't supposed to walk again and dealt that horrible hand he got up and fell flat on his face a thousand times, bluffing, making believe he could walk; and eventually he did. He's no fool, so he may be the eternal optimist. Or alchemist. An alchemist does the impossible; the popular notion is that they can turn lead into gold and that's pretty much Nelson. He turned his lead legs into walking tools again. He has also taken a lot of the lead in our lives and turned them to solid-gold memories. The last ten years or so Bob mellowed quite a bit. His pace in Mexico was certainly slow and maybe he brought that back with him. Maybe he had taught us all he could about agitation and was sitting back to see how we would use his example. Maybe he just got tired.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">In the <u>Marriage of Heaven and Hell</u> William Blake suggests, “<i>The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.” </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If this is true we may be surrounded with some of the wisest people outside of Tibet. Sometimes when we’d talk about excessive behavior Bob would get kinda quiet and just rock and grin, saying<i> “One thing for sure, nobody gypped us out of anything.”</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">Picture Nelson riding his Honda chopper down Brea Blvd, dressed in a Santa suit, Janie Uneik on the back throwing treats out to friends they’d pass, cackling all the way… <i>All the world's a stage </i>(from As You Like It 2/7)<i>, And all the men and women merely players …</i> Shakespeare didn’t comment on the directors. Nelson could command a room just by entering it. There was no avoiding his presence and you generally went with the direction he provided. The king of good spirits, there isn't a soul out there who hasn't completely cracked up with Nelson and will continue laughing while reliving the millions of stories and experiences that he gave us, none of them with a yawn or a commonplace thing in them. Life with Nelson was theater.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">from Nelson's funeral April 2012</span></span></div>
maestrejuanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10708254870212660051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8568625597013645451.post-37381155853525412112012-04-11T20:00:00.007-07:002012-04-15T16:53:09.233-07:00Mark<span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmaAXAZHhWFoUPH5k3dr-VrqK5gjfO2wUiZZueFJfnvJSsqB_qd0Mxrp2cKGmeDU4fjPgzHMNXqyDEZpeqXw96_q-Y6Uv5wWmj-2C2Ey37rsDLeE7iEEe0IDtdHYPAJHKCTaPi6Xro7GM/s1600/MRblog.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 318px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmaAXAZHhWFoUPH5k3dr-VrqK5gjfO2wUiZZueFJfnvJSsqB_qd0Mxrp2cKGmeDU4fjPgzHMNXqyDEZpeqXw96_q-Y6Uv5wWmj-2C2Ey37rsDLeE7iEEe0IDtdHYPAJHKCTaPi6Xro7GM/s400/MRblog.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5730346190816876706" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;"><br /></span><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Times;} p.MsoTitle, li.MsoTitle, div.MsoTitle {margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:14.0pt; font-family:Times;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <p style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-family:georgia;" class="MsoTitle"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I like talking about Mark. He had a major positive effect on me and I think everyone had the same feeling after hanging with Mark. When I think of words to describe him I find many of them, trustworthy, modest, agile, loyal, appreciative, honest, are words that apply to all the Rileys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I have been lucky to spend a lot of time with John and Dale and Mark and they, like David and Peggy, all share the quiet principles of hard work and honesty.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Mark always called a spade a spade. If you’d screw up, he might be reluctant to call you on it, but he would, and he‘d pad the blow in a way that made you laugh at yourself; and you could always benefit from his perspective.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">He also was one of the funniest people ever. He could make Jeanne Gladden giggle like a schoolgirl; even strangers would get swept into his distinctive kind of humor. Once we were in the van and passed a boy on a bike when Mark hollers, “Get out of the street!” The kid about fell off his bike and looked up at Mark and just started cracking up. Part of the humor came from the fact that Mark looked like a hard guy, you expected his gruff grunts to be intimidating, but he was just funny. He once said people thought he was tough because he always squinted, then explained he always squinted because he needed glasses.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Although most of our time together was playing, I can’t talk about Mark without including work. He was always willing to work. I don’t think I did anything without him volunteering to help. We’d wax the floors at the VFW almost every week just because he had the time and tools to do it, and because he’d do anything for Rojo. We had a lot of opportunities to work together and he always made it fun, or least more tolerable, with his laborer lingo and biting comments about your skills while keeping his head down and working his tail off.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">He had this great talent for imitating people. Within a few minutes he would recognize the speech or posture or gesture that made someone unique and he’d capture it perfectly. He could mimic anyone, even from movies or TV.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Once Mark, Dale and I were out watching Monday night football and afterward a crew came in to set up for a roving dance contest. Several “ringers” appeared and the organizers were taking entries from the locals. Now, I don’t know if it took courage or if it was a long-time burning desire to enter a dance contest, but Mark signs up. Dale and I were blown away. I’d seen Mark in a lot of different situations, but never on a dance floor. Soon enough he and this partner, someone we’d never seen, were announced; the music starts and he takes the Travolta pose (the one with a hand by his hip and finger pointed in the air).<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Dale and I were cracking up on the inside, just staring on the outside. And then he danced. He mimicked every move from Saturday Night Fever with timing and dignity. It was one of the most amazing performances of anything I have ever seen. You’d swear he’d been practicing for years. Incredibly enough, they went to the second round, the semis, then, exhausted, to the finals where one of the ringer couples won. The crowd booed “fix!” as it was clear to everyone that Mark and the stranger were clearly the top performers. Afterwards he was drained and thirsty and insisted that news of this night not leave the room (later he said I could tell the story).</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Carleen helped him learn to enjoy travel, often with some sort of gambling as bait, and they found new people to laugh with wherever they went. He was usually quiet and not a big grinner, but always the guy people wanted to hang around with.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Once I was going to L.A. with Kusudo to see this poetry professor who was going to read his one-man play about Ludwig, the mad King of Bavaria and Mark came along. So it’s this little storefront theater with little bleachers filled with college students and poetry buffs. The professor, playing the king, comes out in this long purple cape and a gold crown. He starts his reading and everyone is silently riveted to every word.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">And then Mark starts to crack up. A bit later he starts laughing again. All evening he has these bursts of laughter that came and went quickly, but it was only him laughing. Everyone else was hushed the whole time, hanging on every word of the reader; a few seemed annoyed at the laughter, like somebody talking too loud at the movies. Afterwards we went out with the professor for a couple drinks. People came up and told him what a great piece of work it was, praised him and left, and soon it was just us sitting there when the professor says, “I heard one person laughing”. Before anyone could think of a response the guy says “Don’t you think anybody else got it?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Mark was always exactly who he was, never pretentious, always well-grounded and made good decisions. One of those was to marry Carleen who has been a loving and caring wife and mother to Joe. There’ some old video of Mark feeding his six-day old son. On the tape it says “You look like you know what your doing” he looked down at Joe, puts a bottle to his mouth and says “I’m a good actor”.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">He was a model on how to be a friend. He always cared, even if he didn’t like to say it, and always stood by your side, offering to help any way he could. It was hard to rattle him because he had this uncanny ability to know why people did things the strange things they do. He knew more about people than anyone I know.</span><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style=" color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-size:100%;" >For the first time I know what people mean when they say “a part of me went with him”. There are parts of my life that only Mark recognized and he never betrayed the trust. On the other hand, part of Mark will never die. Carleen, Joe, his brothers and sister; all of us continue to carry of big part of him with us. The world is a better place and all of our lives improved because we had the good luck to know Mark. When I die, and if I go to heaven and the old bastard asks me what I did while on the earth I'll tell him, "I hung out with Mark Riley."</span><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <div style="text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-size:100%;" >from Mark's funeral March 2012</span></div><style><!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Times;} p.MsoTitle, li.MsoTitle, div.MsoTitle {margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:16.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} p.MsoBodyText, li.MsoBodyText, div.MsoBodyText {margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:justify; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Times;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --></style>maestrejuanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10708254870212660051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8568625597013645451.post-60782609992425531292011-01-01T14:34:00.000-08:002011-01-01T14:54:29.056-08:00Shoes Make the Man<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">When I was growing up there were few choices in shoes. It wasn’t even footwear yet, just shoes. Working people wore boots. Athletes had cleats. We had hard shoes. We had hard shoes for everything, school, church, playing baseball. There were no options until the early sixties when we discovered tennis shoes. These were pretty primitive canvas/rubber jobs that weren’t that comfortable and didn’t last too long, but these soft shoes were a vast improvement over hard shoes.</span></span></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">I’m guessing the shoe explosion detonated somewhere in the mid sixties. At least that’s when I saw the blast. By then there was enough variety that there was a hierarchy for your arches. Converse high tops were better than U.S. Keds. Even the Beatles had changed the idea of hard shoes by wearing soft boots. These became the rage and now it was important not only to have the hip shoe, but it must be bought at the right place to be truly correct. Hardy Shoes smoked all the other places. Model 1899 was the regular brown or black suede side zip seven-inch boot and was priced at an ungodly $7.99. Occasionally someone might venture beyond and buy the model 2199 with moccasin lacing for a severe $12.99. Hardy’s had moccasins, go-go boots, high and low boots with or without leather fringe. They were fashion kings of the feet. God pity the poor soul who’s parents bought them the Montgomery Wards or Sears’ imitations of these icons. You might as well die. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">School sports required special footwear. But now it was more than just a piece of the uniform, it was a functional shoe that must offer optimum performance for it’s designated purpose. Not just clodhoppers with cleats. Puma made the lightweight running shoe, but most kids still used inexpensive Keds. Parents reasoned that they were going to outgrow them before they wore out, so why spend the money? The reason you spend the money is that win or loose you’re going to spend most of your time sitting on the bench waiting to compete and you want to look like a winner, not some dork with practical parents.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Scott Drake was the guy who really introduced me to the idea of shoes. He had different pairs for different things. For example, hiking boots. I had never heard of such a thing and it was hard to rationalize that such a thing existed. I understood swim fins were different from biker boots, but this was too highly specialized. Then I saw shoes for rock climbing. Bruce Beckman could walk right up the side of the chimney with these things. It was remarkable.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">As a kid I had to wear some sort of corrective shoe. I don’t know why, too young to care, but even in those naive days I knew they were different than other shoes and therefore pretty rank. Later when I learned about dance shoes I was surprised to see the same rank company, Capezio, had made them. I was once denied admittance to a theater because I had rags on my feet instead of normal attire. The girl took me around the corner to Pick-and-Save and got the cheapest shoe there so we could see the Rainbow Bridge. We made it on time. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">I liked the Beatle boots and when they were no longer available I went to cowboy boots. I still wear the pair I got in 1984. It was just before the Olympics, Jacke Crump and I walked from Union Station to USC one day on a photo expedition. That’s how I broke ‘em in. They’ve been re-soled and re-heeled and polished by Candelaria at the shoeshine stand several times. I still get comments on them at parties.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Even though I acknowledge footwear, it still doesn’t register with me. We went to see Crosby, Still, Nash and Young a couple years ago. We had okay seats and early in the performance Deb leans into me and says, “Look at their shoes.” I’m thinking "we got some quasi-legendary singers up here trying to deliver some sort of message and she’s looking at their shoes". Crosby had deck shoes, Stills had chukka boots and Young had some sort of L.L. Bean work boot thing. Nash had brown loafers with tassels. Suddenly her obscure observation held water. Their footgear seemed to be a reflection of their station in life these days. Shoes had got to the point where even I can get a read on someone’s personality by checking out what’s on their feet. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">One night at open mic we are watching the usual cast of characters pour their guts out to questionable musical accompaniment when a new guy lumbers on to the stage. He’s an old guy, like Merle Haggard or thereabouts, and he does a pretty good job. His fingers are nervous and quiver against the fret board, but the sound comes out secure. He’s got the requisite gravel in his voice and seems appreciative of the audience who is dialed in to his delivery. He leaves the stage to sincere applause and Deb makes a comment about him being a street guy, probably going to an abandoned car for a home and hasn’t had a hot meal since Cincinnati. I tell her “that’s just his persona, he’s playing the part just like all these other wannabes”. “No” she insists, “did you see his shoes?” I didn’t but I got her point. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US;font-family:Times;font-size:12.0pt;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Now I’m no clotheshorse. I’ve sought out counseling on this (see “Cotillion” 2010) and still my wardrobe is wanting at best. The other day I’m at a fast food place and I see a hobo coming my way. He has everything he owns on his back, probably a monkey and the weight of the world there too, he looks beat up and desperate. He glances up at me with longing eyes and starts to pull his chilled hand out of his pocket, hoping for alms. Then he notices my tattered shoes. The hand goes back in the worn coat and he gives me a knowing nod as he walks by.</span></span></span></div></span>maestrejuanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10708254870212660051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8568625597013645451.post-42814800781298871152010-11-18T22:39:00.000-08:002010-11-18T23:44:17.204-08:00Diet Coke…week one.<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">It was a whim, fortified by the challenge of dumping some tonnage; I reluctantly stuck my Wendy’s cup under the Diet Coke spigot for the first time. I have never even been interested in diet drinks. In the old days they caused cancer, which I may get sooner or later, but I don’t want to get it from diet soda. The first diet drink I tried was Tab. It was awful. Then the onslaught of diet drinks. All awful; and they caused cancer to boot.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">I remember Ferree giving me the low-down on cyclamates, the magic sweetening carcinogenic ingredient back in ‘77. He said something like the way we taste requires molecules to go up or down in the papilla of the tongue. The cyclamates go way down and are not washed away by saliva. That’s the lingering after-taste and since it isn’t easily washed away, it’s sitting there causes rot, leading to cancer.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Then they went to saccharine. Same shit, new name. They said it’d only cause cancer if you drank a gallon a day for ten years. Child’s play, I drink way more than that, so I stick with regular pop when I drink pop. Then Sucralose (splenda) in diet drinks and now Aspartame (nutrasweet) in the Coke Zero products. I’m sure they’ll eventually tell us these cause some terminal disease too, but now the crap they put in regular Cokes is horrible too. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">When I was a kid sodas were sweetened with sugar (sucrose). Then around 1985 they were sweetened with fructose (high fructose corn syrup), which is cheaper to make and transport. Some people say it causes problems too, it makes you twice as fat as sugar does and is made by modifying enzymes that somehow screw with you and is generally uncool. Pepsi has gone back to its sugar formula, Coke that is bottled in Mexico is sugar based too.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Anyway, my first diet coke was from the fountain at Wendy’s. It was tolerable. I’m pretty much restricted to fountain drinks anymore, cans and bottles just taste weird these days. So the next day I drank diet again. Then I tried diet at Jack-in-the-Box by my house, awful. Jack-in-the-Box in Brea was fine. I haven’t found any taste consistency yet, but I feel strangely hungry these days. I’m sure part of the way diet drinks work is by the taste, you just want to drink less. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">It doesn’t look as good either. Regular Coke has clear sparkling bubbles that generously fizz at the top of your cup. Diet coke has dull brown foam that fortunately dies quickly from view. When it’s splashing down into your cup it has kind of a dirty look to it, like beach-break waves at Newport.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">So, week one. I’m thinking about it and writing it down. When I started drinking booze I kept notes too. It was a major undertaking and I wanted to document it. Looking back, I’m sure the notes are gibberish, mostly looking for excuses on why I should follow the self-destructive path of the great artists and writers I admired. Of course I was just stupid, being a great drinker doesn’t make you a great artist; but being a great artist might lead you to drink… cause and effect. I wonder how much weight you’d lose with the pre-1903 Coke when there was nine milligrams of cocaine in each glass. You’d be so amped up after a coupe gallons you’d lose tons of weight, and maybe make great art too.</span></span></div></span><!--EndFragment-->maestrejuanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10708254870212660051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8568625597013645451.post-68230926775178455342010-03-21T18:33:00.000-07:002010-10-15T14:48:25.265-07:00One Finger Phil<div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">All week I’ve been doing some work at a friend’s house and using his chop saw. It has seen better days. The link that pulls the guard up when the blade goes down is just hanging and the plastic guard is taped in the up position, leaving the full ten-inch blade exposed. It’s a little un-nerving when cutting little pieces and it takes a little more time to do anything because I want the blade to come to a complete stop before getting my hands in there to retrieve my cut pieces. All week long I kept hearing Dennis Martz’ voice calling me “one finger Phil”.</span></span></span></div><p class="MsoBodyText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><?xml:namespace prefix = o /><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify" class="MsoBodyText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">In the early seventies Brant, Dennis, Bruce and I headed north in Brant’s van. In Bend Oregon Bruce got out and hitchhiked east, ending up in Boston. We proceeded north to a little town called Cle Elum and camped outside town. Eventually they rented a house in the south side of town and every day Brant would disappear. One day he came back and says something typically cryptic like, “Do you want to go to my house?” He had been exploring and found a little town called Roslyn a few miles away and had arranged to buy a house from Guzzi Realty. The house had all the major appliances, was two story and cost around fifty five hundred dollars. We walked the road passed the high school into Roslyn and rooted around his new place. It was a fixer upper, big and dirty and falling apart, but that wasn’t a big issue. We explored until dark, found a French fried potato cutter in the basement and walked back to South Cle Elum where we fried up some greasy spuds.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">It wasn’t long after that that Martz bought a place and soon Dale came up from Brea and bought one too. It was a deal too good to pass up. We had a little “Brea north” going for a while and it was idyllic. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">One day we were building a new staircase for Dale’s house. Me, Brant, Dennis, Dale and probably others too (it seems like there was a crowd when I think back on it) were working away. It was community tool chest, you grabbed whatever you needed off the floor or out of the truck and tended to your project. I think I was cutting treads for the stairs. I’d set the tread up on the case, hold the length mark with my thumb, then I’d squat down with the board across my lap, lay the Skill Saw where the cut needed to be, then put it back on the staircase for support while making the cut. This worked fine, but Dennis could see that it was an accident waiting to happen and started calling me “one finger Phil”. I had complete confidence in my technique a scoffed at his reference. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Phil was one of our buddies growing up. He was everyone’s friend and was recently referred to as "one finger Phil", having just lost his digits in a lumber mill accident. He didn’t make it too long into adulthood; a short time later he was killed trying to avoid a deer that had jumped into his car’s path in John Day Oregon.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">The saw I had been using was getting dull, so I picked up another one and set it on the board resting on my thigh. This saw had a different safety switch, or no safety switch, and when I picked it up to go to my staircase cutting station it started running. I wasn’t prepared for it to go. The blade caught the edge of the board, kicking it out from between the blade and my denim covered leg. As durable as Levis are, they are no match for an electric saw with a 7 1/4” blade. It cut through my pants and plowed through my leg. I set the saw down right away. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Well, I looked at the wound and got depressed; I didn’t want that to happen. I announced that I cut my leg and wanted some else to look at it, which was met with the usual calls of “lightweight” and “get over it”. Dennis came over and looked at it. “Wow, you need to go to a doctor.” he said with no alarm in his voice. This was the response I was kind of hoping to hear. The saw had cut deep, the entire depth of the blade, which is about 3 1/2” deep, and ran diagonally across my thigh for about nine inches. A filet. The nerves were all cut too, so there was no sensation of pain. And it didn’t bleed a drop. It wasn’t even red, other than the red color of red meat. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">I don’t remember the particulars, it has been thirty-five years or so, but there are no hospitals up there and so Martz took me to the ranger station. There we found the ideal ranger. He was older than us; we were just out of high school, but young for being a guy in a uniform. He was in the Navy and volunteered for this duty, fixing up errant locals who might have the occasional hunting accident or be bucked off their dirt bike. He assessed the situation quickly and started picking the frayed fabric out of the gash. “How come it doesn’t hurt? I asked. “You cut the main nerve that runs through here, that may be a blessing, but you may never feel anything in your leg again.” He spoke slowly and with authority, and was a very cool guy. “How come there’s no blood?” was the next obvious question. ‘Well, there’s two ways for bleeding to stop, you know about coagulation…” (Of course we knew about coagulation) “But that’s only for small cuts and abrasions. What happens is (at this point he interlocks his fingers at ninety degrees, one set of fingers representing veins and the other layers of skin) your veins and arteries are elastic and when you cut them they retract into the layers of skin, pinching off the blood flow.” As he said this he slid one set of fingers out from between the others which closed together as they left. “You have very elastic veins and they were pinched off before there was a chance to bleed.” I looked at Martz with astonishment.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Now that the wound was clear of debris he got out a syringe. “What’s that for?” “Well it was a dirty wound and I want to stop any infection from spreading” I really liked that he gave the name of the drug, how it worked and why I needed it. “It’s not gonna make me vote any different is it?” “He didn’t even look up “How’d you get so paranoid?” </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Next it was time to sew it up. He started from deep inside, bringing the layers together slowly, row after row, until he got to the top where he used a different pattern of stitching, more decorative. Dennis took me back to the remodeling party and I kind of watched for the next few days, hobbling around on a crutch, trying to stay out of the way and look involved at the same time. Eventually the feeling came back to my leg and there’s still the impression of a great looking scar.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;font-family:Times;font-size:12;" ><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">All week I’m using this chopped up chop saw and I can see how easy it would be to loose a digit in this contraption. Martz’ good-natured voice kept repeating with every stab at the trigger, “Hey Phil”. As a result, the project was finished with no injuries. Thank you Martz for reminding me, this time I listened.</span></span></span></div></span>maestrejuanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10708254870212660051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8568625597013645451.post-88073250998617140322010-03-19T17:17:00.000-07:002010-03-20T18:53:59.942-07:00Rip Van Winkle<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">It must’ve been winter of 1973, between Christmas and New Year when Arizona’s desert snow was deep and drifting against the side of the road. Diane Smith’s parents were out here for the holidays and had some sort of a need to go to Bullhead City. I had some sort of need to go to Phoenix so it came to pass that I would drive everybody to Bullhead, drop them off and take the car down to Phoenix, do my gig, come back and pick ‘em up for the return to Brea. The trip to Bullhead had no memorable moments, and once in Bullhead the most amusing thing to do was take a little ferry across the Colorado River where there was a single casino.</span></span></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">I headed on down to Phoenix, and headed back in the evening. It was very cold. The snow on the mountains in the backdrop continued down to the flatlands, resting on top of the Bob Ross sagebrush and piled high against the roadway. I drove the complex monotony of the highway well into the night,</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> e</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">venly spaced telephone poles keeping time </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">for the music in my head. Then it occurred to me that one of the poles had seemed different. There was a weird bush or scarecrow or something a ways back, and with the carefree spirit that once dominated my actions, I turned around to investigate.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Sure enough, a few miles back there was a forlorn figure. An old man with no coat and bare feet was almost frozen solid, attached to a pole like a tongue to an icebox. I opened the passenger door and hollered for the guy to get in. He moved in small painful gestures and took an inordinate amount of time to pry his frozen limbs into the car. </span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">We sped off, heater cranked up full blast and he shook. He shuddered like nothing I’ve ever felt before; it was like the wheels were going to shake off the car. I had nothing to offer him but a cold beer, which he declined, and the heat from the vents, which he accepted with silent grace. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p>He was a perfect throwback. He had that drawl that you equate with hill people, speaking slowly and clearly with simple words that spoke volumes. He had on a dress flannel shirt, like a Pendleton or something, and those nifty sans-a-belt pants with the built in crease; obviously his go-to-meetin’ attire.</o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">After a time he was able to speak. He thanked me and introduced himself as Gene Van Winkle, a miner up the mountains who liked the drink and was frequently ripped, hence his nickname, Rip Van Winkle. I asked him how he came to be attached to a telephone pole with no shoes a hundred miles from anywhere and he told me his story.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Rip had been married for all eternity. She was a good woman; looked after him, took care of all his needs and was patient with his ways. She passed away just after Thanksgiving. Being lonely he decided to head into the city for a little companionship. He loaded a few provisions in his truck and made his way down the hill to Phoenix. There he was making new acquaintances in a tavern when he was invited to a woman’s room. He went. No sooner that the door closed behind him than he was struck from behind, robbed of his wallet and keys, his coat and his boots, and most regrettably, his wedding ring. He knew he didn’t like city people and had reservations about going off the hill, but loneliness got the better of him and ultimately clouded his judgment. So we rode along for a long while, telling me stories a miner tells until we came to the crossroads where I continue on the 93 and he goes up the hill on 89. Only he had no way to go up the hill. I gave him all my reasons why I couldn’t go up the hill and he gave me all his reasons why I couldn’t leave him there. I had a schedule to keep in someone else’s car, which was low on gas. It was colder now than when I found him and there was no shelter here or chance for another ride. He won and we went up the hill to a little town called Yarnell where he lived in his trailer. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">He opened the door and turned up the heat. We talked a little more, but he was exhausted and I was tired. He went to his room and I slept with one eye open under a pile of Indian blankets on the living room floor. In the morning he made himself coffee and we looked at pictures of the wife. He showed me his outbuildings that contained his prospecting equipment, picks and pans and such. He pulled out a neat piece of petrified rock he had cut and polished and kindly gave it me. I said had to leave, being very late already. “No no, you must take me around to the neighbors so I can tell them the story of how you saved my life.” We filled my gas tank from a 55-gallon drum fitted with a hand crank and spent the better part of the morning going through rock trails. First to one trailer, then another, where Rip would tell his tale and how he was froz’d to the pole and all. The neighbors were all suspicious of a strange car pulling on to their land and even looked at Rip with a bit of trepidation until he told them who I am. Once it was plain I wasn’t a revenuer they warmed like the late morning sun.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Soon we said our goodbyes. He must’ve in his seventies and I thought I should make my way back to see him sometime. I was rolling down the hill with my petrified pet rock sitting next to me, thinking about his life, needing both isolation and companions, but not too much of either. Even though I liked the idea, I knew I’d never make my way back. This was a secret place, hidden from time; where outcasts and fugitives burrow between the mountain rocks, where I‘d returned an thawed out old man one cold cold night. </span></span></span><o:p></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->maestrejuanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10708254870212660051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8568625597013645451.post-65718262663070401212010-02-28T19:03:00.000-08:002012-10-08T13:16:01.833-07:00Smokes<!--StartFragment--> <br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">Cigarettes are probably the epitome of peer pressure and passage. Smoking had all the elements you needed as a kid; looking for danger, adventure and that cool, older look. Smoking had it all, it was the ticket to acceptance with the rebels who hung out on the campus perimeter who showed up for school but didn’t go in. They just sat on the corner and smoked until some authority figure noticed them. Then they blew smoke in their face. How can you beat that?</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">My first experience with cigarettes came in junior high. Bruce and Joey and I would meet on Brea Blvd. in the morning and walk to school. Brea was a small town then, around fifteen thousand people who had for the most part grown up together. A couple generations of small town folk who went to the same schools and worked in the local businesses and had kids who went to the same schools and played in the fields until the streetlights came on. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">On our way to school we passed through the downtown, a small strip of shops that was typical of any small town, with a bakery, bowling alley, a retread shop and movie house. In front of the drug store there was a stack of newspapers. As the store wasn’t open at this wee hour, trusting people would slide their dime under the door and take a paper. We would then slide the dimes out from under the door and walk to the end of the block to Canning’s hardware store. Along with the nails and wheelbarrows, they sold candy and cigarettes. There we would pass a specially prepared note to Earl the proprietor, which would read something like, “I’m sick today. Please sell cigarettes to my son so he can bring them home to me.” Or “Please sell Bruce a pack of cigarettes for a science experiment at school” Every time we came up with a different ruse, and Mr. Canning would patiently take the note and read it carefully, apparently pondering whether or not it was credible. Of course it was written with twelve-year-old penmanship on torn notebook paper, but he’d play the part, “Sorry boys, you have to be 18 to buy cigarettes.” And we’d leave to think up a plan for the next note.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">One day Joey meets us on the Blvd. and has three or four menthol cigarettes that he took from his mother. We huddled in the alley behind the hardware store to divvie them up. Bruce didn’t take one. Joey would shake the crushed green and white pack at him, “Here” he’d offer again. “I don’t want one.” he’d repeat. While being distracted by how we were going to get matches, I asked him the logical question “We’ve been trying to get cigarettes all year, and we finally get some, and you don’t want one?” I still remember his sincere matter-of-fact response as he shrugged them off, “I think it’s fun trying to get them, but I don’t want to smoke one.” It just never occurred to me that someone who was so obviously cool would not want to smoke of these babies. But I fell for the pressure and smoked. Later, whenever possible, I’d smoke on the way to high-school to get the stink of being hip on me. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">Being illegal to buy cigarettes added to its charm. The best guarantee of getting a pack of cigarettes was to go to Thrifty gas station when Mike Rude was working. He was a little older and had anchored prestigious employment at the gas station behind the Tastee-Freeze. The Freeze was the hang and had tables on either side of its orange roofed a-frame construction; one side was reserved for juicers, the other side for dopers. Often times the over-amped juicers would come over and wail on the laid-back dopers. No matter what side of the Freeze you were on, cigarettes were a common bond. This is where I learned to smoke in earnest. A very wise person in her thirties was asked if it was hard for her to quit smoking. “Not as hard as it was to start” she said. The things you put yourself through under the guise of peer pressure, gasping gagging dizzying smoking. It was great.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">It didn’t take long to figure out that buying cigarettes was for chumps. The really cool guys just bummed them from the guys that paid for them. Somehow it occurred to me to buy cigarettes nobody wanted, so I tried Lucky Strikes. No one wanted the unfiltered smoke, even for free. Not knowing how to smoke properly (after all, I was self taught), tobacco often got in my mouth. So I switched to Old Gold filters; another cigarette no one wanted to bum from me. Plus there were coupons.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">This continued for about ten years. Then I actually quit for a time. I was working at my brother’s auto repair shop and was rolling a tire across the lot when I found myself winded from the effort. I stopped for a spell. Then Scotty offered me a Mexican cigarette, Ovalattos, a novel little bent job. I liked it and went full steam ahead after that. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">Over time I became a very good smoker, sometimes having two or three lit at the same time (one or two in my mouth and one in my hand, or visa versa). Jeanne Gladden was a legendary smoker; she smoked heavy duty Pall Malls. Sometimes when she talked, if the light was just right, you could see little hints of smoke lofting from her mouth. That was my next goal, to have smoke come out of my mouth even when I wasn’t smoking. Way cool. I only smoked when I drank and I smoked three packs a day; so this goal was achieved.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">One night I was editing a video for a time-share promoter and I ran out of smokes. It was late and I wanted to get the job finished before morning, so I studied on how to get cigarettes without getting up from my desk. I could call any number of people and ask them to drop by and, oh yeah, bring some smokes. I could call Johnny O at the liquor store and he’d bring me a carton when he closed up. There were a number of options and I thought, “How many favors would you call in for a smoke?” This was sort of humiliating and I thought for a moment about Joe Lee and his quitting smoking.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">I don’t remember who told me the story, Brant or Jeff, but one night Joe, the Lee patriarch, stood up from the dinner table and made everyone go into the bedroom. There he took the cigarettes out his pocket, put them on the dresser and, in an authorative voice, posed the question to the pack o' nails, “Who’s stronger, me or you?” That took balls, to stand up in front of your family and declare a war of wills against tobacco that was engineered to be addictive. Man vs. science and greed. Well, old Joe won and it always impressed me. I liked that he made it a competition. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">So I figured I wouldn’t smoke at all until morning when the stores open. Morning came, I had gone all night and I thought I’d just see how deep into the day I could go before loosing to tobacco. I made it the day, and the next day too. The third day I was ready to fire up again, but then I felt like that was two days of not smoking wasted, so I’ll go another. I never really set out to quit, so there was never a major psychological struggle, I was just out of cigarettes, for life. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">Although it’s sometimes an effort, twenty five years later, I can look at a pack of cigarettes and answer the question, “Who’s stronger?”</span></span></span></span></div>
maestrejuanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10708254870212660051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8568625597013645451.post-41040167062658869102010-02-22T17:43:00.000-08:002010-02-28T14:55:22.321-08:00Cotillion<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoTitle" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">(This w</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">as a note to a friend who encouraged me to publish my writing.)</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Here's a weird note for you.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Whether working or hang</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">ing out, you always look sharp. </span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">So how'd you g</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">et to be such a snappy dresser? </span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">We both grew up in t-shirts and tankers like everyone this side of the golf course. </span></span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Yet you have evolved to a higher couture while I still haven't gone shopping yet.</span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">The issue comes to mind because I went to another funeral last week. It was for an old guy so I put on the suit and tie, well not the tie, but a clean shirt and shiny shoes. On the way there I decide to get a Big Gulp and while sauntering through the 7-11 parking lot, wearing Sears finest, I'm thinking, "I like being dressed up for a change". But as I fish for change in the side loader pockets I realize I'm not good at wearing these kind of clothes. I have no experience in it. It's a peculiar foreign feeling of being in someone else's shoes. The pants keep moving even after I've stopped and the shirt is a lot tighter than it's supposed to be. When it comes to panache, I'm pretty much a fish outta water (even talking about real clothes makes me use strange words like "panache").</span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">As a clothes horse I'</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">m pretty much a bob tailed nag. </span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Not quite read</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">y for a cotillion. </span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Leaning toward the counter culture, my taste has never quite been at the forefront of fashion. </span></span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Once Doug Storm borrowed my clothes to go on "Let's Make A Deal". His dog "Lucky" ate them and I never got them back.</span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">My sole suit was purchased to go to the Nixon funeral in 1994. I was working security and they insisted everyone comply with their dress code, a navy blue coat, white shirt, red tie and khaki pants. So I go to Sears and try to put together a winning ensemble. I had no idea what a khaki was, and the clerk wasn't a big help, but when I got to the funeral I saw I was the only one who had complied with the code. Even though my vintage polyester feels good, though tight, I know there is more to dressing nice, more than my thrift store rack has to offer.</span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">How did you become aware of good clothes and what made you want to wear them? You always look great, sharp without a hint of gay, and I want to know how.</span></span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->maestrejuanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10708254870212660051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8568625597013645451.post-68501152631204416392010-01-15T16:48:00.000-08:002010-02-28T14:53:21.280-08:00Death in Venice<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;color:#666666;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">I’m thinking, “My wife is going to come home and find me dead, lying naked on a Venetian floor”. And word will get back to the states “Maestrejuan dead from too much milk. The one thing he did that was healthy; killed him.” Nothing is more extraordinary than leaving your body while on vacation. I started to laugh and knew I was getting better.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">A couple days earlier I had this sensation in my neck. My neck seems to be my health barometer. I always feel things first in my neck. In times of stress my neck feels tense first, and when physically taxed I can feel blood surging through my neck. I noticed the neck thing decades before when I’d take LSD. The first indicator that it was “coming on” was that I could feel the walls of my throat like a peristaltic cylinder. My acid intake was high and my neck had that hollow feeling a lot of the time.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Twenty years ago I had this pain in the base of my mouth and my neck got solid on the side like a flexed muscle and there was an awful taste like poison. A friend who was a new doctor suggested it was Aids or cancer but I knew it was neither; I wasn’t the type. Not being a doctor, I concluded it was wisdom teeth coming in, and the blood or puss or something was causing the irritation and taste. It went away for a full ten years and then came back for a few hours, only to go dormant for another decade. A few days ago it returned with a vengeance. This time my neck had swelled and produced a little golf ball sized lump at the base of my jaw.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Deborah and I had taken an apartment in Venice and everything was un-familiar there, which is the point of foreign travel, I guess. But the one domestic thing I missed was a good old-fashioned glass of American milk. Ever since I was young I drank a lot of milk. In high school kids said I would turn into a cow if I didn’t slow down. Later, as I got deeper and deeper into alcoholism, I would imagine the milk lined my stomach wall and helped keep the booze from eating away my guts. I knew this vitamin-enriched nectar was my last connection to anything nutritious; if not my only hope of salvation. It was my symbol of health. I drew power from it like Sampson drew strength from his hair. Italy had shops where you could buy “drinking milk” but it was the high-test, high-fat thick milk and I was used to non-fat back home.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Now this goiter in my neck had grown to an unprecedented tennis ball size and had cut off my ability to swallow. Then it took my ability to breathe normally and I was semi-conscious for a miserable day. Then one day Deb went out with friends, with my blessings, and I stayed behind in the flat to rest and recuperate.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">They had left while I slept and had conscientiously locked the door for, I guess, my safety. When I woke, I found I was locked in with no chance for escape. I thought about tying the sheets together and shinnying down the four floors to the narrow street below. I thought about a lot of things, and drew a hot bath. </span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">I remembered that years ago I’d gone to get my wisdom teeth pulled and was surprised to find later that only two were gone, two others were still there and caused me some intermittent pain as they went through their growth spurts; but this was ridiculous. Lying in the bath and unable to swallow, breathing shallow through my nose and unable to go out for help, I couldn’t help but thinking this might be it.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">In the bath, physically drained and unable to swallow for days, a mighty thirst had developed. If I put some water in my mouth it might just sort of trickle down, slide through some unfelt opening and at least minimally hydrate me. So I pulled my weak self from the bath and gingerly made my way around the hall and onto the linoleum kitchen floor for a glass of water.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">As I neared the sink I felt my wet feet slide out from under and suddenly my forehead slammed into the sink. In a reflex jerk I snapped my head back smashing my cranium up into the kitchen cabinet above the faucet. This must’ve looked like some kind of slapstick comedy dance and may have knocked me out for a bit. But the fore and aft head banging definitely put me on the floor, bent and feeble, and I’m thinking, “my wife is going to come home and find me dead, lying naked on the kitchen floor”.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">I started laughing at my sorry state and lay there, slowly gathering energy, slowly taking a painful swallow of spit. In no time I was on my feet and cheerily functioning in my normal healthy state. Apparently I had knocked my head hard enough to put my teeth in a better position to displace the poison or whatever was going on in my jaw. Whatever happened in the concussion, it seemed to have cured me.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Eventually everyone came home and all was fine. For the next week I drank a lot of milk, hoping it’s vitamins would rebuild my strength quickly. It was like nothing had ever happened, and then came a recurrence even more severe than before. I was ready for professional help, and we were flying home soon. I’d wait it out and see a doctor I was familiar with.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Arriving at the clinic I found the doctor I liked was gone so they scooted me off to some other guy. In this strange doctor’s office I chose the fewest words possible to explain my wisdom teeth poison theory and he listened earnestly. He was old and kept looking at me with suspicion, like I was faking this and he was on hidden camera, trying to catch him in some dubious act. He asked if I would mind going to an “ear, nose and throat” specialist and I nodded in the affirmative. See a guy who knows about throats? You bet. There the young Asian doctor seemed to have been briefed on my condition and recognized the problem right away. He reached in and squeezed my goiter with authority. “You have a blockage of the saliva gland. Probably a calcium deposit, like a kidney stone.” He gave it a steroid shot, another good squeeze and a prescription for lemonade. “Four eight ounce glasses a day, the acid will break down the calcium and it’ll be fine. Drink it forever.”</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Although a possible cure, that sentence was worse than a jail sentence. Overnight I was to go from high alkaline intake to high acid intake. I assumed the lifetime milk overdose had caused the calcium build up and I knew I had to surrender my only link to any form of nutrition. Doctor Delilah had cut my hair and I felt limp knowing there was no more practical source for healthy intake left in my limited diet.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">For two sorry years I went without as much as a sip of milk… then I had to go see the doctor for something else, maybe just a check-up, and I told him the story. He agreed with everything that had been diagnosed and prescribed, but disagreed with my conclusion about milk causing it. “Your body assimilates the calcium from milk a different way than it produces the calcium that caused the blockage, drink as much low-fat milk as you want.” Well okay! I knew I liked this doctor better that any other. So I’m back to thinking I’m healthy and therefore I am healthy.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">But when I look back at the rag-doll head banging in Venice, I can’t help but think about all the things that had to fall into place for me to hit my head properly to clear the blockage (that I didn’t even know I had). On some level there was a diagnosis and simple remedy bestowed on me. With no conscious effort I had to get the floor wet and there had to be some level of awareness of the cabinetry layout so I’d bang my head properly. I mean when you get down to actual mortality, there’s a lot in play on all sorts of unseen levels.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Some people get glimpses of these powers through their faith, others through drugs, meditation or other means that seem to strip away the immediate limitations that are all around us; things like being confined to our bodies or to the gravity laden earth. Ancestral people used rituals and intoxicants to disorient their perception of the world around them. Modern people may perform their ceremonies in churches and get their hallucinogens on the street; both seem to seek a peek at some world other than this one. </span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">You think about this stuff when you’re wet and naked and helpless in a foreign land. These are the moments you live for. When I was a kid I loved being in Europe, every few hours you had to change your money, speak a different language and order from a different selection of beverages. Everything you learned in one country flew out the train window when you arrived in the next country. This constant disorientation was the lure of international travel. In these homogenized days almost everyone speaks English, everyone uses the same boring Euro-dollar and in even the most remote villages everyone wears Dockers and Nikes and talks on cell phones.</span></span></span></p> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">So this physical malady was the perfect way to get the exhilaration of being in a foreign place. Nothing is more extraordinary than leaving your body while on vacation.</span></span></span><!--EndFragment-->maestrejuanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10708254870212660051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8568625597013645451.post-84809665536540287682010-01-03T16:04:00.000-08:002010-02-28T14:54:20.738-08:00Central Casting<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">In many ways getting old is like getting rich. It doesn’t change you, just exaggerates what you already are. I’m already deficient in face recognition. I used to notice it in the movies. If there were two or more actresses with similar hairstyle or color, I was never sure which character was which. Now it’s crossed gender lines and I can’t tell anyone who looks similar in the movies, like they all come from central casting. Maybe that’s why I don’t like “period” movies, ones that are set in a different time or place, where the costumes are accurate to the era, but confusingly the same style.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">We try to go to the movies once a week. Further, we try to see small movies, documentaries and foreign flicks, movies that are experimental or have a limited appeal. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Generally, if I’ve heard of the star, I look for another movie. Of course there’s the odd times when we see movies with friends, that’s the time for mainstream cinema. </span></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">So we went to see </span></span></span><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Amelia</span></span></span></u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">. It was okay, it looks like they spent a lot of money on pretty scenes, but there was no heart. The next week we saw the </span></span></span><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Men Who Stare At Goats</span></span></span></u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">. It was funny and I liked the dialog. On the way home Deb is telling me that she liked Ewan McGregor’s role in </span></span></span><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Amelia</span></span></span></u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">, but didn’t think the guy he played in </span></span></span><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Goats</span></span></span></u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> helped the movie any. I didn’t realize he was in both movies. So I ask, “Who’d he play in </span></span></span><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Amelia</span></span></span></u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">?” “He played the boyfriend” I drew a blank. “The guy she had an affair with and they flew around together…” I was a bit embarrassed, but I had no idea who she was talking about. When I got home I Googled stills from the movie and couldn’t pick him out or figure out who he was in the movie. There was one scene I remembered where he was prominent, but I couldn’t distinguish him from one still to the next. This isn’t good for his career or mine, after all, I paint portraits.</span></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.5in"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">So I’m thinking about this latest affliction and I remember years ago I had taken a young lady to dinner. I didn’t date a lot and certainly had no polish in this activity, but when I returned from a bathroom visit, I had no idea which table to return to, no one looked familiar. So I made the rounds, saying “Hey, how you doin’” to every table, “Everything goin’ good tonight? Alright”, until I got to a table where a young lady says, “Gee, you’re a gregarious one.” So I figured that was my table and finished up the date quickly so I could get back to the bar. Maybe back then my obsession with “disorienting the senses” played a role in the homogenization of strangers, but I haven’t had a drink in almost eighteen years and yet people still look strikingly unfamiliar.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">This might play a part in my sad attempts at name recognition. Maybe I don’t remember people’s names because I’ve never seen their faces before. None of this speaks well for my entertaining skills. I’m self conscious about it; it’s an obvious shortcoming. I rarely introduce people to Deb because I often don’t have a clue as to who they are. I get as far as, “this is the guy from…wherever,” but she’s on her own getting the name. So they shake hands and lean in to each other with anticipation of the next logical word… ”Hank” he blurts out. With great relief I‘ll interject, “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you two had met, this is Hank…” and I think no one notices; dodged another bullet. But this cute little mis-cue is turning into my self-identity. I’m the guy who knows everybody and no one at the same time. I’m the new Mr. Magoo who may as well be blind except that I paint portraits. I may see your every pore and each stray hair in your brow, but apparently, unless you have a nametag, I’ll just deliver the painting to central casting.</span></span></span></div></span>maestrejuanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10708254870212660051noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8568625597013645451.post-8925518540694108032010-01-03T15:16:00.000-08:002012-10-08T13:33:25.974-07:00The Day I Got Old<!--StartFragment--> <br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;">Saturday October 17th, 2009 was the day I got old. I was really fifty-five years, three months and a couple days, but up until that day I was still a spring chicken in my demented mind, free of aches and pains, able to leap tall buildings, stop speeding bullets…</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;">So Saturdays are workdays around the house and this one was typical. My duty was to run speaker wires throughout the house so I could listen to my Hendrix LPs from any room any time. Our house is on a raised foundation, stem wall; pre-1933 Long Beach earthquake, unsecured construction. I’ve been under the house many times for different reasons, plumbing, strapping the floor joists to the foundation, general maintenance junk. I always kind of like being down there, it’s an adventure. I pretend I’m Kirby or someone from the TV show <i>Combat!</i> and Sgt. Saunders has sent me down there to wire up a bomb or tap into the kraut’s communication system. Always something noble and important to convince me that dragging my ass through the dirt and cobwebs and rat crap is something that is for the betterment of man. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;">I haven’t been down there for some time and the last year at work I’ve been pretty complacent physically, a lot of sitting at a desk and not a lot of exercise. I knew I’d added some tonnage recently, my once-a-year funeral clothes were really tight and on the occasion when I’d go past a reflection I was always amused at the fun-house mirror effect but didn’t recognize who was looking back at me… but you know, in my mind’s eye I could still wear the same belt I wore in high school.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;">Anyways, I’m getting prepped to go under the house. I’ve got on my prized Ferrari overalls and I clear the ivy away from the screen door that is the passageway to the underworld. First thing I encounter is a couple black widows. Little ones. They’re the worst kind because you know there’s a big mother lurking somewhere near, watching you clobber her kids and planning her revenge when you’re at your most vulnerable state, probably tonight while I’m trying to sleep.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;">I’ve got my suddenly dim flashlight and a staple gun to tack the wires up off the ground and I’ve got my orders from the Sgt., ready to go. Once under the house </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;">there is a specific route to follow</span></span></span>. There are gas and water lines, sewer lines that go from the floor to who knows where under the soil and old duct-work from an abandoned heating system. You go over to the gas line, shinny underneath and head left, around the drains and you’re in the clear to get to the other side of the house.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;">For some reason I can’t get under the gas line today. I squeeze under to a point and just stop. My belly is putting such a strain on the line it’s starting to bend. “Maybe I go over the gas line and under the water lines…” I’m thinking; so I try that. That is immediately proven to be wrong so I try under again, amazed there is either so much more dirt here than last year or the pipes have drooped considerably. Now I’m trapped under the gas line. I can’t squirm left or wiggle right and the pipe is looking weak. Suddenly I picture the black widow mother licking her chops and saying, “now I’ve got him” and in a big jolt I free myself from the predicament. I’ve still got my work to do and it looks like a </span></span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;">long</span></span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;"> way to belly crawl to the other side of the house. The flashlight is dimmer now and I have to go completely around the perimeter to avoid these damn pipes and it’s gonna take a long time and the krauts are likely to hear me bitching down there and unload their 8 mm machine guns on me and I may never get out of here.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;"> I get to my destination, wires in tow. I left the stapler way back there so it won’t be the clean job I’d hoped. Actually it’s only a few feet away but I can’t get to it because of this new restricted clearance. I feed the wires up to Deborah, who is patiently waiting in the safety of a well lit room, and I begin my trek around the perimeter to get back to this tiny little passage in the concrete wall that I’ll never get through. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;">Well I do get out, filthy and paranoid and looking for fang bites on my bare neck and I can’t shake this creepy feeling that being under the house isn’t as idyllic as it used to be and I’m not as nimble or fast thinking as my dull mind perceives it is and, jeez, I must be getting old. Fat and old. Maybe that’s why all the grey hair and skin that’s starting to look like crepe paper. Then I tripped going up the back step to the kitchen, fell and skinned my shin. Although it didn’t hurt, I was sure I must’ve broke my hip. I noticed I get winded easier than I used to and there’s still that old fart looking at me in the kitchen window reflection.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;">The following Monday I was to jury an art exhibit. There were eighty entries and my job was to whittle the selection down to a reasonable number that the gallery could comfortably hang, maybe forty of fifty, and pick seven award winners. This was a task well suited to my new elderly status, a job where years of exposure to paintings and considerable experience in passing judgment on others would come in handy. I weeded out the crappy, no-effort paintings right away and started on the failed attempts next, followed by the clueless and the downright misled artists who are in need of counseling. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;"> The next week doesn’t offer anything to counter my new status as an old guy. Then Saturday at the gallery I give a little speech and hand out the awards for the exemplary entries. Tim the M.C. had made an impromptu dais for me out of a little step ladder and as I ambled up there, a good twenty inches above all these bright shiny faces with youthful eyes full of hope I realized most of them are over forty and I’m the old guy, some sort of sage on top of a hill to bestow trinkets on the plebeians. This perked me up. Now I’m back to my rightful place above the masses, doing something noble and important, convincing me that dragging my ass through life’s dirt and cobwebs and rat crap may have been something that is for the betterment of man. </span></span></span></span></div>
maestrejuanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10708254870212660051noreply@blogger.com