OH, LIKE YOU GIVE A SH*T

Merry X-Mess

2007-12-10T19:58:00.000-08:00

Okay, everyone has Christmas memories. Most of us relate holidays past with toys we received or food we used to eat. In that regard, for me it's the talking GI Joe ("Enemy planes---hit the dirt!") and sugar cookies topped with Duncan Hines frosting sprinkled with what looked like green and red shards of glass. But as we get older, Christmas memories don't seem to stick like they used to. So as we get a couple of weeks out from St. Nick's ninja-like break-in, I'd like to relate one of this season's observations so far before it fades....

Every block has its Griswold house. Mine is two houses down. In the last few years, the family of inflatable holiday characters has grown into a virtual Island Of Misfit Toys. When a Santa-hat-wearing SpongeBob SquarePants appeared on their roof line, I almost crashed into my neighbor's Suburban. The phenomenon of these fan powered mini Macy's New Year's Day balloons will prove to be a fad, I'm sure. I actually enjoy them at night, but when they're unplugged and deflated during the day they look like holiday-themed spent condoms strewn about someone's yard by the likes of Godzilla or King Kong.

Just the other day, my wife and I went for a walk and passed a house with what looked like a vinyl crime scene. I stopped in the middle of the street to take in the carnage. It was as if I were the first person to come upon a Christmas character drug deal gone wrong shootout at the North Pole. Frosty The Snowman was folded flat over the porch rail, but twisted at the waist (or snowball section, as it were) so that his coal smile now looked like an agonized death wince. An elf was looking at me holding a hammer, still smiling but trapped inside a collapsed snowglobe as if he were choked out gangster-style via the ol' plastic bag suffocation method. On the other side of the driveway in the side yard, another snowman---surely one of Frosty's underlings---lay across the hood and wheel well of a Mazda. One of those lighted wire reindeer was knocked over as the other two grazed; probably still in shock, I thought. Then I saw Santa.

Santa lay face down on the frosted lawn, his mitten covered hands palms up at the end of arms that spread away from the torso like wings of a paper airplane and his legs were bent painfully forward at the shins. His deflated head looked like something out of the black and white photos I remember seeing in the Time-Life books depicting dead outlaws of the Old West. I imagine he never saw it coming, that cold blooded shot to the back of the head. Whatever this was, be it a drive-by or calculated attack, the success could not be disputed.

I described to my wife what we may have witnessed and she laughed a little as she looked around the yard. "You're right honey", she said, "it does look like a something a sick, perverted idiot would imagine".

We both laughed and I feigned concern that we should alert the authorities. She looked at me with a furrowed brow, but then put me at ease. "Well, when they all get plugged in tonight, they'll be alright".

I love it. I imagine a Reservoir Dogs scenario for these inflatable characters and she tries to assure me that they'll all be okay come nightfall when the homeowner plugs them back in.

Kind of like putting the top hat back on Frosty's head.

Happy Birthday indeed.

Merry Christmas everyone.

Smile.....life is good

2007-08-28T19:35:00.000-07:00

I have an uncanny knack for hiding my feelings and carrying on in the real world. I can be having the blackest day in my head, feeling low and discouraged or even mean and sour but when I encounter another human I turn it off and engage them as I would normally. I don't feel the need for validation of my morose attitude towards the world and I don't mope around taking solace that others care by saying things like, "what's got you down?" or "who pissed in your Wheaties this morning?" I do this with everyone; family, friends, grocery clerks, whomever I come into contact with and this becomes especially handy in my line of work.

Some sales reps look at their day to day work as a sort of performance and they are on stage in front of clients. I suppose this is true to an extent, but I don't ever want to be disingenuous with clients because I have to cultivate the relationship and I'd certainly rather do this on the merit of my true personality than an act that I have to revive on each visit. In doing this, I have forged true friendships along with strong and successful business relationships that benefit both parties.

Today, I had a day in which I can only describe myself as non-plussed. I wasn't down or depressed, but I wasn't especially happy or excited either. I had a really good workout this morning and a healthy breakfast before working for a while in my home office. Then it was off to a couple of accounts and then maybe pick up the new Heaven and Hell live CD if there was time. I moved through the day like an efficient machine, but as I look back, I find that there was little range in my emotions. Sort of a flat line on the monitor.

As I entered one of my accounts to visit one of my favorite new clients, I changed my internal attitude to greet her. She came out from one of the back offices just beaming. (I was handling something for her that was "saving the day"). She thanked me and said that she was glad to see me, not just for the service, but that I always brighten her day because I'm so pleasant and personable. She added that she was having a somewhat "blah" day where she felt like she was just going through the motions and looked forward to our meeting because she knew that she'd at least have one positive experience today.

I was a bit stunned. I knew that I was in my typical persona, but had no idea that I made that sort of impression on anyone. Ironically, she'd had the same exact effect on me, not because of her compliment, but due to her demeanor. My day instantly got better and my outlook improved a little. We both chatted for a few minutes before I let her return to work. She gave me a really warm smile as we said goodbye. Outside, I glanced up and saw her through the window and waved good-bye with a little flick of the wrist. She noticed me, straighted her back and waved back with enthusiasm and a big grin.

I got in my truck and started to head home. I had a stupid smile on my face. What a difference a little human interaction can make. I began to form cliche thoughts regarding how we humans treat each other. Why not be nice? Why do some people go out of their way to negatively affect someone else's day? Then onto bigger and more important issues; why do we fight? Why can't we all just.....

Okay, I thought, that's enough of that shit. It will only depress you. So I went to Best Buy and bought the new Heaven and Hell live disc and began to daydream about seeing them in October here in Fresno. Traffic was light and I made good time getting home, all the while blasting those Sabbath classics and still with that stupid smile on my face.

Later at home, I was making dumb jokes and basically playing grab ass with my wife. She'd talked to me earlier in the day and noticed that I was a bit melancholy (she's one to take notice) and now commented on my goofy mood. I didn't mention anything specific, but just said that it turned out to be a pretty good day after all.

Thanks, fellow human.

Bluesday The 27th

2007-02-27T22:25:00.001-08:00

Man, what a melancholy day I had. I wasn't depressed. I wasn't happy. I just........was.

I was still a little tired from Sunday night's Who concert (which I may have to write about over on Tony's Hazy Concert Memories) all day Monday, so I was surprised when I had trouble falling asleep last night. Then I tossed and turned for some reason and didn't sleep well all. I began to awake every 30 minutes or so starting around 4am. Thankfully, I got some true slumber between 5:30am and 7:00am, but that got me out of bed much later than I prefer and I felt like I was behind some sort of fictional schedule.

I did a little email recon while I caffeinated myself properly and then skimmed the paper with a light breakfast. A good start, even if I felt like I had some time to make up. My wife called from work and gave me some advice.

I've been job hunting a bit lately and yesterday was draining because I spent most of the day on the computer sending out resumes and corresponding with potential employers. It was productive in the sense of accomplishment, but my brain was a bit frazzled. I wonder now if it contributed to my sleep disorder, but would have guessed I'd slept better being so exhausted. Anyway, my wife noticed that I was out of sorts and suggested that I "take the day off" to get some shopping done and maybe even have what we call a Tony Day.

A Tony Day usually consists of me doing stuff I consider fun but my wife has little or no interest in. For example, browsing for CDs and books to me is a great day out, but for my wife it is The Bataan Death March. I shop for music and words like time is standing still, but when Mary's beside me, she acts like she's standing on hot coals.

Mary thought that a Tony Day might boost my spirits and recharge my battery a bit. I mulled over her suggestion for a moment and agreed. After hanging up with her, I finished up on the computer and decided to put off my visit to the gym until the afternoon. I showered and dressed to head out into the day.

I needed some new running shoes, so that would be my first destination. I think my testosterone drops drastically when I shop for shoes, any kind of shoes, because I fit the stereotype of the woman who can't decide on a pair. To me, buying shoes is very stressful because I never feel like I'm getting an accurate portrayal of the shoes while doing some sort of fashion runway jag up and down the shoe aisle. I feel like an idiot. Someone should invent a machine that can give you the feel of the shoes a few days into the purchase. I mean, most of the time, when you try on a shirt or pair of pants you know what they're gonna feel like in a few days. If anything, they'll feel better after a cycle in the wash. But new shoes are stiff and if you've worn old broken in shoes to try on new ones, you might as well try on a suit of armor after wearing pajamas.

I got really lucky and found a nice pair of Asics that didn't feel like I was trying on ski boots and I was able to get to the fun stuff. I decided to head over to Best Buy to browse around the CDs. I took a quick look at the cellphones because the wife wants an upgrade to Bluetooth technology. Most of the nicer phones have MP3 abilities and video capture functions. I have no problem with that, but can I get a phone that doesn't look like it should have Hello Kitty logos all over it? Hot Pink, Cherry Red, and something that looked like baby barf were the prominent colors. All the black phones looked like the ones that come with candy in them at 7-11.

I headed over to the CD section and dove in without a mental checklist of music I'm always looking for. If anything, I had a taste for something heavy and aggressive to put on the MP3 player for times at the gym, but it would have to be just right. I wasn't in the mood to experiment. Otherwise, I was ready for something to strike my fancy or perhaps find a nice deal on something in my cue of "I'm gonna pick that up someday" titles. A stroll down the first aisle should have told me what was in store for me. Nothing.

What a dismal experience. It happens to me every once in a while where I get no inspiration to buy anything, even a known commodity or something off of that "I'm gonna...." list. I kept looking. Motorhead's Ace Of Spades? Feh. I'd recently seen a VH1 Classic special on the making of the album and thought I'd better get the reissue with bonus tracks someday. I have the cassette up in the attic gathering dust along with the remnants of my 80s musical heritage and I'd like to upgrade the copy. But not today.

Hmm, there's Blue Oyster Cult's Legacy Edition of the live album Some Enchanted Evening, I thought. The original issue of the LP was one of the first rock records I bought with my own money and it holds a special place in my heart. The expanded version has a few more live tracks on the CD and comes with a bonus DVD from a 1978 concert in Landover, MD. But at almost 30 bucks and the Internet beckoning to have me pay less whenever I want, I passed. Besides, as much as I love BOC and that album, it's not what I was in the mood for. But what was I in the mood for?

This went on for another half hour. Iron Maiden? Shrug. How about that live Sabbath double set with Ozzy? Not today, I'm afraid. Maybe something new. Now, what have I heard lately that would hold my interest? Heavy stuff? Forget it, they all sing like Froggy from The Little Rascals.

Today, I felt empty as I strolled along the Fergie, Ludacris, and Fall Out Boy displays. I thought about it for a moment and realized that it just wasn't my day. I've had times in my life where I had no inclination of going to a record store, but something would will me into the dearly departed Tower Records or even a big chain box store like Best Buy. Those times would be serendipitous and I would explain it to Mary that "God told me to go record shopping today". There are times when I put an LP or CD on and I smile when I remember that I bought it on a day when The Father spoke to me, even if it was to buy that elusive Gillan live LP.

But today, God was busy. Or his GPS signal to me got scrambled because Best Buy didn't have shit. So, nonplussed about the CD hunting, I started to leave when I spied my friend Chris "Lefty" Brown. We talked for a little while and I was glad to have seen him. It reminded me that I have good friends that I don't see enough of. Ironically, he had the day to himself and was in the same frame of mind when it came to shopping. I was running out of Tony Day time and had to get back to hit the gym with Mary. I considered cancelling the workout and having lunch with Lefty, but I really felt like hitting it hard at the gym and I knew that if I ate at that time of day, I'd be looking for a comfy chair instead of a shoulder press machine when I got home.

I did duck into Borders to check on the latest British rock mags before heading home. I love Mojo and the other book-thick magazines from overseas, but at a price that hovers around ten bucks I have to make some decisions. Never a huge Beatles fan, I passed on the MOJO special edition telling the behind the scenes story of the making of Sgt Peppers. The other mags had little to interest me so I checked on the music/performing arts section to see if some books in my "cue" had hit paperback status yet. No luck. Klosterman's Volume IV still sat there with firm covers. Andy Summers' book One Train Later sounds interesting, especially with the Police reunion tour coming up, but I can't hand over $25.00 to read about something I have a marginal interest in.

A little dejected, I left to head home with only what a child would consider horrible Christmas presents; running shoes and new athletic socks. I had the day to myself and a little disposable income to blow and couldn't find a needle for the vein. I think I need another jaunt over to the coast to flip through the endless racks of used CDs and dog eared books. Hey God, I'm listening.

I got home and Mary was ready to hit the gym after a little rest from her hard day at work. I changed and we drove over. I wasn't sure what to expect considering my flat lined attitude, but once I started the workout I turned into a machine of sorts and hit the weights pretty hard. Normally I use the MP3 player strategically, but today I just let it go and instead of the usual Rollins Band or Tool, I punished my body to the sound of The Who's Endless Wire until it played out into the jarring sound of Rage Against The Machine. I had barely noticed what I was listening to until the genre change forced me to recognize my surroundings. Based on how the body feels, it was a good workout. But I was somewhere else during the whole thing.

We got home and had a nice healthy dinner of chicken and steamed vegetables. I was a little unresponsive at times and Mary asked me if my day went like I'd planned. I didn't know what to say. Was I down because I didn't find any "fun" stuff to buy? That scares me because I never want to think of material things as medicine or emotional bandages. I like my stuff, but I'd like to imagine that I could live without shiny new things from time to time.

Having found the right shoes, I chalked up the day as somewhat of a success. But all in all, I felt like I hadn't really done anything. I can have a day when I do nothing, realize it, and be cool with it. But today, I felt like it was a day swirling with missed opportunities; like visiting more with Chris, opening my mind more to something outside of my cerebral fence line when it comes to music and literature, and just shaking the blues to live up the day.

Tomorrow holds promise. I can do something about it. Maybe I'll put on an old scratchy Ventures LP or watch Unforgiven again in between the job hunt and workout. Maybe I'll just roll around in the back yard with the dogs for a while. Or, I could get to work on that mental checklist so that I'm a little more prepared for days like today when I've got thousands of CDs and books at my disposal and walk around like a zombie.

God knows days like these don't come around that often. I just wish he would have said something today.

Shaddup, Shaddup, Shaddup!!!

2007-01-15T21:51:00.000-08:00

Feet up on the ottoman, laptop perched upon the new padded lap desk I got this past Christmas (thanks, Sue), and a cold beer on the end table. I figured that I'd surf a bit and maybe even get some writing done. Normally, I'd put on some music, but for some reason this time I just put on the T.V., possibly to catch up on things after an excellent week on the California coast and Sideways wine country.

I flipped a bit and decided upon Fox News' Hannity and Colmes, if only because they had on a gaggle of talking heads about the recently found kidnapped boys from the creepy pizza parlour manager. I ventured out into cyberspace to check my old favorite haunts (mostly geeky music stuff) and found myself looking up to see a teaser banner going into commercial about child actress Dakota Fanning involved in a rape scene in an upcoming film. Oooh, this should be juicy, I thought. I was a fool to believe that any discussion of this would be civil.

I kept darting about on the web while looking up occasionally to see if the Fanning thing had come up yet. I kept hearing what sounded like the din at a typical mall food court. Too many fucking people talking at one time. I paused at the keyboard once to look at a four way split screen with the quartet of hosts and "experts" all blathering away in a cacophonous racket that made no sense to anyone for about a minute and a half. It was the talk show equivalent to pro wrestling.

Finally, the Dakota Fanning story came up. Hannity and Colmes had on someone from a Christian film panel (blah blah blah) and a UCLA film professor (yak, yak, yak). So, it seems that little miss Fanning has appeared in a film in which her character is raped, not implicitly, but onscreen. This truly has a shocking value, but the details are sketchy. My first thought was that this will be an issue far before anyone has actually seen the film and I was so right that I wanted to high five myself.

Hannity asked a question of the Christian Whatever Group For Family Whatever and this guy got a few seconds to make an admittedly good point about the possible dangers of a depiction of pedophilia. I listened and could not disagree at all with his first salvo. Then, Hannity changes his tone and angles his question to the UCLA guy like a spear to a fish in shallow water. The Prof listens and starts to answer when he's interrupted four words in, not by his "opponent", but by Hannity. I was so fucking pissed that I yelled at the box of wires and tubes, forgetting that my wife was asleep down the hall.

"Shut up, fucker! Shut Up!!! Let him fucking answer the question! Motherfucker. He's not even letting this guy answer the goddamned question. Oh, you fucking bastard." I collected myself and sucked air through my teeth wondering if I'd woken the little woman. No stirring sounds from the bedroom, so I turned back to the fray on the screen.

Now the UCLA guy had gotten a couple more questions thrown his way worded like "So, you're in full support of child porn?" and "What you're saying is, that the depiction of a child being raped can possibly be considered art?". Nice, level playing field that Hannity gives his guests. The Christian Family Values For Americans That Believe In God In Heaven guy got open ended questions like, "What do you make of all this?" and "Does this seem like something that Americans need to see?".

My favorite part was when the UCLA guy asked the Holy Americans For What God Told Us To Watch On T.V. guy if he'd actually seen the movie. (To be fair, it's not out yet and I don't know when it's coming out, but if the news has been leaked, I imagine there are screening versions out there for review). The Divine Patriots Of Godly Movie Censors guy made every move in his repertoire to not answer one simple question.

I'm going to take a thousand liberties with this recreation of the exchange.

UCLA guy: Answer me this, did you actually see the movie?

Godly McChristian: What is important here is that we have to be concerned....

"Did you see the movie?"

"The fact that the scene is depicted on screen......."

"But have you seen the movie? Or the scene for that matter?"

"What we have to focus on here......"

"Sir, have you seen the movie?"

"What America should be concerned with is the value system that is failing us now...."

"That's fine. What I want to know is, have you or has anyone from your organization seen the movie?"

"I think what is important is that we as a nation....."

"Have you seen the movie? It's a one word answer"

Pause.

"Well, I'll say this. I personally have not seen the movie, but...."

"There you go. Now can we discuss this from the same perspective. No one talking here has actually seen the movie, but we can talk about the possible ramifications of a child rape scene in a movie in what must actually be a hypothetical sense because it doesn't exist yet on the cultural horizon."

Hannity then pops off with some shot at UCLA guy yet again with the "so I guess child porn sits okay with you?" and sends all of us into a commercial break and another blathering yell-fest about Iraq or Hillary or whatever. I used to listen to Colmes' radio show before the station he was on here went under and what I want to know is, who castrated him? I didn't even know he was on the show until he teased a segment on Obama and Hillary. I want his job; come into work, have make-up put on, get into a suit that you didn't pay for, ask Hannity what tonight's show is about, and basically hang around like a seagull for your opportunity to get a few words in before being shooed away. I would love that. And, he gets his name on the show without actually doing anything. Nice work if you can get it.

I felt unclean after watching that mess. I've seen plenty of it before and usually turn it off a few seconds in. What passes for discourse on television today was derided just a half generation ago as trite daytime talk show hairpulling and chair throwing. Somewhere, years from now, our mindless descendants will erect a statue of Morton Downey Jr. on the Mall in Washington next to Geraldo's, which they paved the Reflecting Pool to build.

Honestly, it turns me off so much that I now see the rantings of sports fans calling in on Monday morning sports talk shows as being rational and concise. No wonder that I watch America's Funniest Home Video reruns instead of this garbage. I used to think that I was polluting my mind and wasting my time by watching TV Land airings of Cheers and The Andy Griffith Show, but now I realize that my conscience rests easier when I laugh at characters written for television than when I laugh at those without character appearing on television.

Last Hurrah By The Sea

2007-01-03T19:31:00.000-08:00

Next week at this time, I'll most likely be leaning on the rail of my room's deck, just having seen the sunset over Morro Rock, pulling on a Cohiba and sipping a glass of port. I'll be able to flick my ash on the gangplanks to a number of commercial and recreational vessels without effort. The patrons of the neighboring restaurant who've paid dearly for their view will wonder if I'm on my own deck or if I've doled out a sucker's dollar to take my stance against the darkness that falls on the Western Shore. They'll be wrong on both counts. For I will be claiming Unit B of Grey's Inn as my own. It's likely that their dinner bill came close to a night's stay at this funky old place and I did not pay ten bucks more than the maroons up the street that have to see the water through power lines, trees, and rooftops.

I'll battle with the glitter-sized tobacco bits that stubbornly march their way to the back of my tongue so that I have to rake them forward with my Upper Central Incisors, just to spit them into the Pacific Ocean's rocky shore. I'll give the seagulls as many crackers as they want, so long as we keep certain Poop Treaty clauses in effect;

Law 1, clause 7: at no time will said poop land upon the givers of bread-based sustenance, especially in their hair.

Law 2, clause 9: in the spirit of the aforementioned treaty between humans and flight-gifted shit-rainers, efforts will be made to avoid deck furniture and open containers of alcohol.

The breezes from the bay will chill me to the bone, but I will be warmer than I'd be at home in Fresno's brown haze during the day and misty fog at night. Odds are good that I'll have sunshine at some time each day, but I don't even care if it rains.

A round or two of golf over in Los Osos will sandwich a day of CD shopping in San Luis Obispo's awesome record stores. I usually experience a little serendipity at least once in Boo Boo's and while Cheap Thrills takes a little more patience because of the huge selection, the payoff is usually worth the grief from Mary for taking so much of our trip flipping through musty old records and CDs. Usually a round or two of craft brew from Downtown Brewery or maybe a tall draft of Firestone before shopping keeps her from looking at her watch every few minutes as I frantically scan thousands of CD spines, looking for familiar or interesting bands at rock bottom prices. Maybe this time over, I'll take her wine tasting first. Who could rush a music geek in paradise with a nice and warm glow from dozens of tiny glasses of wine?

We'll probably catch the BCS game Monday night at Legend's, our favorite haunt in downtown Morro Bay, walking distance from the hotel (and anywhere else we need to be). It's a really cool local bar and once Mary found the last drops of a very limited production of Jameson's Irish Whiskey that really rung her bell and she hasn't been able to find a place anywhere else in the world that has even heard of it. Talk about serendipity. The bartender that we usually see reminds me strongly of the late John Entwhistle and I always punch up some Who on the jukebox in his honor, a little inside joke for Mary and me.

When we return to the real world after a few days of slow life on the coast, it will be a new pace for me as I actively looking for work for the first time since I quit last June. I'm anxious to say the least, but I'm excited at the wide open prospect of not even having the slightest idea of what I'll be doing for a living. Months from now, when my new job is not so new anymore, I'll look back to this time and smile, remembering what it felt like to be on the brink of the complete unknown. I'll also probably wonder if I thought I'd ever be doing "this" for a living, whatever "this" is.

But for now, I look forward to that cigar and port. Oh, who am I trying to kid? It'll be a bottle of Firestone Double Barrel Ale. Port! Sheesh....

C'mon 2007!

2006-12-26T22:00:00.000-08:00

Man, am I ready for a new year. I'm not into numerology, but something tells me that 2006 and all of it's mathematical matches makes up for every unlucky number for me.

I quit my job, my mother had two very invasive surgeries, and then I faced what I thought was possible death or at least certain major injury when some airheaded waste of flesh ran a red light and T-boned me.

Quitting my job will turn out to be the best thing I ever did in my life, of that I am convinced. So, even as dramatic a turn that was for this stable soul, I am sure that everything will be alright. My mother endured a very intense first surgery in July that ultimately resulted in remarkable success, even to the subdued surprise of the surgeons themselves. If that weren't enough, it was to be the easiest of the two surgeries, so we as a family went into the second expecting disappointment. But again, miraculous results, so everything's good there. My accident (or perhaps more accurately described as "her accident"), while resulting in the total loss of a nice and dependable truck, provided me with very little pain and the slack-jawed gaze of those who have seen the photos of the involved vehicles.

All things considered, I can't complain. But then again.........

I have to sometimes stop and take a look back and just say, "damn".

God and I have talked about this. Well, I've talked. So far, He just listens, but that's good enough for me. For now. I can wait to see the promised land for answers. I'm in no hurry, seeing as if I someday get my halo and that condo on a cloud, I'll have blessed eternity to be filled in on the whys and how comes. Oh, and I'll get to see Hendrix jam with Coltrane and Mozart or maybe Stevie Ray Vaughan strum along with an anonymous lute player from the 1700s with Buddy Rich on drums. Like I said, I can wait, but I'm still curious.

All that aside, most of those close to me have understood that I've been a little "grinchy" this holiday season. I usually get into it to some degree, although I've tired of the perfunctory exercises in the last few years. Lights, tree, action. Yawn.

But I do normally enjoy certain routines of the season; walks in the neighborhood on foggy nights that give the Christmas lights a hazy glow through the mist. A "Merry Christmas" instead of a "thank you" from an elderly woman for whom I've held a door. A hug instead of a handshake from an old friend. I could go on, but it might defeat my grinchy point.

This season, I took my mother up to Santa Rosa to see a live show full of holiday music (and classic American standards) performed by her oldest friend's daughter, Elizabeth Pickard. I wouldn't mention her name except to have the four (or perhaps on a busy and bizarre Google day, seven) people that check in on this little blog commit it to memory so as not to miss out on being "in the know" when Beth's on some PBS show that folks talk about just to seem snooty enough even though they haven't donated any funds to support the programs they don't actually watch.

Man, that was kind of a long sentence and one in bad need of some sort of punctuation fairy. Sorry 'bout that. I try to keep this quick and easy so I can someday publish a "bathroom reader" edition of my writings. I love the so called "portable" collections of writings; Thoreau, Twain, Royko, even Rollins. I would call my first collected volume, "The Flushable Tony". Keep those Amazon accounts currents, faithful readers.

Anyway, back to the holiday show. Beth (yeah, I knew her in the familiar "Beth") was joined by her father in this presentation in a duet format, with a few solos sprinkled throughout. Holiday classics came to life for me and lit my little black heart. I actually got chills from time to time when certain notes were reached and I occasionally looked over my shoulder to make sure that I wasn't the only one grinning like Billy Bob Thornton in Slingblade.

Beth is an astounding singer, but every time I've seen her perform, it's been in a genre that wouldn't be my first choice on a menu on a given night. Those of you that know me realize that my first love is rock and roll, served heavy, with a little blues on the side. I'll take an appetizer of jazz from time to time with no argument (especially of the late '50s to mid '70s vintage), and a sprig of pre-70's country western makes for a nice accroutmeant. But then again, venturing off of the ol' familiar menu is good for the cultural palate, and this night caught me off guard.

I'd heard Beth sing from time to time at casual family and friends' gatherings and was duly impressed, but it wasn't until I caught Elizabeth Pickard live couple of years ago at the Empire Plush Room at the York Hotel in San Francisco that I realized the talent I'd rubbed elbows with. Go here to see the parade of Tony Award (not affiliated with Tony's Hazy Concert Memories) winners that regularly play this up-close-and-personal venue. On that night, even among three other very talented ladies, Beth had my eyebrows a full inch and a half above their normal perch.

That night in San Francisco, I was also pulled under the surface and into the supressed memories of my aural past. As the ladies moved into tunes that should have had me shrugging or even wincing, I actually found myself tapping my feet and bobbing my head in a most minimalist's manner, not wanting to acknowledge the fact the I was at all familiar with the songs. My curse was that while I was baptized in rock and roll, it seemed that my musical bloodline was a bit more confused. I strongly remember listening to Creedence, The Mamas and The Papas, and other late sixties and early seventies artists related to rock. But, in some sort of subliminal and perhaps a somewhat demonic manner, I was doused with the arsenic of Rogers and Hammerstein. I may have been able to suppress that memory, but coupled with the bamboo-under-fingernail Striesand drubbings, I was simply now a soldier in the "someday army" that would forever try to coerce those sporting mullets or hightop Reeboks that Guys and Dolls is a great fucking story with two characters that would make for uber cool metal band names (Nathan Detroit or Sky Masterson----I know, how cool would those be? Embrace your inner metal being, people!).

Back to Christmas of recent past. Beth's father Larry was striking in his suit as he strode along in what I guessed were much practiced steps in front of a mirror. He was visibly nervous but gave off a performer's confidence that, at least for this casual observer, spackled in the holes enough that the subtle touched up nuances of color almost instantly erased any missteps. Larry's casual acknowledgments of missed cues or forgotten lyrics with a smile accompanied by a severely sucked in breath brought us all into the moment and gave everyone an insider's feel to the performance. Looking a bit like a nattily attired and even more charming Kevin Spacey, albeit with more hair, he commanded the floor when it was appropriate and stepped into the shadows when his daughter stunned us with her solos.

To be perfectly honest, I made the trip out of convenience. When I first heard about the performance, my wife and I both planned on attending, but when we mistakenly thought that it would conflict with a birthday celebration for Mary's father, we begged off. Upon the realization that it was a Sunday evening gig, I was back in the fold. I can't begin or pretend to try to describe how glad I am that I was fortunate enough to be there that night.

I found myself further connecting as an adult with my mother's best and most long term friend Barbara (notice the author's avoidance of the phrase "oldest friend" that was used above). She is a wonderfully vibrant woman that defies her time on this globe both to the eye and one's intuition. And while her son, Justin, and I have been pleasantly familiar since childhood, during this short visit, I didn't see him as the kid I knew vaguely during my own childhood, but as a man that carries himself not only with dignity and self worth but also a humility that makes him ultimately approachable and real. It was also a treat to get to know Barbara's husband Brad a little better, man to man. From wine to beer, cigars to whiskey, and points that cover all corners of the Men's Discussion Blueprint and beyond, I found Brad to be easy to talk to without what could have been an awkward struggle to make smalltalk.

After the performance that night, my mother and I gave the players our regards. Beth got hugs from both of us and then we made our way over to Larry to congratulate him on a fine performance as well. While my mom was talking to him, I was trying to whip up something better than "great show" or "you guys were great". A hearty handshake between us had me explaining to Larry that I'd been feeling quite the grinch this season, but his and Beth's performance had me seeing things a bit differently. It came out so naturally that I surprised myself because anything I'd thought of up until that moment seemed contrived or rehearsed. Larry seemed to appreciate my sentiment and for that I was glad.

Retreating to Beth's condo after the show for a champagne toast and a round or two of cocktails cemented the good holiday vibes for me. Good conversation with healthy doses of laughter took us all up until it was time to retire for the evening. My mom and I drove back to our hotel raving not only about the show, but about the interpersonal connections we felt that night. We stopped at the gas station across from our hotel to get her a soda and me a Tall Boy Coors Light. Back in the room, as she watched the local news, I flipped through the free rags that I'd picked up in the lobby; God loves the whore that has to sell the advertising to float these colorful but sadly glorified throwaway tourist pamphlets. I drifted off to sleep with visions of Napa Valley golf courses and blues shows at the Luther Burbank Center For The Performing Arts.

The next day, we met Brad and Barbara for breakfast at a great place called Omelette Express in Santa Rosa. So what did I have? Bacon and eggs. I'm such a rebel, I know. After some good hot coffee on what was one of the region's coldest mornings of recent memory, Brad presented me with a cigar that he and Justin enjoy and a glass tube with some sort of gel that helps to keep your cigars moist and fresh. What a nice gesture, I thought. He also bought breakfast in order to display the fact that they were appreciative of the trip we made to see the show. Furthermore, Barbara gave my mom some audio books that she'd downloaded as we said our goodbyes out at the cars. An embarrassment of riches after such a wonderful weekend.

We exchanged contact info and my mom and I headed home. We both had a warm feeling in our hearts. My mom is always glad to spend time with her chum, and I was glad to get to know Brad and Justin a little better and on a different level.

It's funny; hearing some of those old Christmas standards on a store's Muzak system as I did my last minute Christmas shopping or on the soundtrack to some cheesy T.V. special had me thinking of Beth and Larry's version. I'll take that as a good thing.

This past weekend, Mary and I attended an annual dinner party thrown by friends and that also boosted my spirits for the season. Of course, Christmas day at my parents' was nice, so all in all, this Scrooge survived a potentially down season without a scratch.

Today is December 26th. I took down the tree and all the other signifiers of Christmas. The lights on the house will be down by noon tomorrow. As much as it turned out to be okay, it is over. I just helped it out the door a little early. I'll be happy to celebrate any holiday you want to throw at me in '07 (Groundhog's Day, Secretary's Day, Flag Day, even Boxing Day and I'll read up on Kwaanza too) if it means that there will be a job, no surgeries, and no Astro Vans ramming me in the driver's side door at 40mph.

Happy New Year, indeed.

Handbasket or Bucket?

2006-10-19T21:15:00.000-07:00

A quick one while I'm away..........

Recently, I had the pleasure of hanging out with some great friends that I see far too little of. I feel close to these guys and I know that we could really connect further if the constraints of time would allow. One of these guys is Lefty Brown. You know, the guy whose blog you can link to over on Tony's Hazy Concert Memories.

Anyway, I had just gotten through telling the details of a conundrum I recently found myself dealing with being unemployed. Lefty flattered me with this:

"Tony, of all the people that I positively know for sure are going to hell, you are the most ethical".

I rather like that.

I really don't know why. I guess it's something to hang your hat on at the very least. Kind of like being the best player on the last place team or the only guy in the chess club that's kissed a girl that wasn't your aunt. It's something.

Heavy Metal Memories

2006-10-05T11:41:00.000-07:00

After watching a documentary on VH1 Classic about Heavy Metal and it's impact on society, I was reminded how much Heavy Metal meant to me in my youth. Metal served as the soundtrack to my high school years and the next few after graduation. While I'm not ashamed of most of the music I loved so much, it is a little embarrassing to remember how much importance I put on music in my life back then.

I started out slow enough, getting into rock through friends and by listening to the radio. As I look back, it's apparent to me that depending on what friends I chose (or rather, were chosen by geography), I could have easily been led into such interests as punk, rap, pop, or God help me, modern country music. I'd like to think that I would have eventually drifted towards hard rock, but truth be told, I'm sure I was a product of my surroundings and peers. A scarier thought is that I could have hung around with friends with no interest in music whatsoever.

I love music so much now, that I can hardly fathom a life with little or no interest in music. I don't expect everyone to "get into" it like I do, knowing the musician's bios, line-up changes in a band, etc. But I am genuinely shocked when I find that someone has no regard for any kind of music. It's just something that's on the radio in the background. I can't believe that a person has never said, "oh, I love this song" at one point or another in their life. When someone tells me that they own a whopping 30 or so CDs, I have to try and sound impressed like I'm looking at their kid's drawings on the fridge.

Somehow, eventually, I took off my studded black leather blinders and reached out to appreciate other types of music. Sometimes, I amaze myself at my own varied tastes. I've had CDs in my changer switch from Patsy Cline to Blue Oyster Cult and not blink while the others in the car look at me as if I must be playing a horrible trick on them. I'm glad that I've opened my palate to other forms of music and wonder if I would have still found this path had I been turned onto and fixated with say, early '80s New Wave. I think the fact that Heavy Metal has so many influences (Rock, Blues, Classical, et al) that it borrows from, it lends itself to the discerning listener as a template to discover other forms of music.

Metal: A Headbanger's Journey is a fine film. I came across it while flipping channels and watched a minute or so until I decided to record it on my new DVR. I checked for upcoming air dates and punched it in. Put the DVR alongside such things as answering machines, cellphones, remote controls and the internet as "how did I get along in life before these things?". After recording it, I forgot all about it until I was bored and scrolling through the menu of saved items a few days ago.

I found it to be a film that anyone could enjoy, especially Metal fans of course. But a layman could watch and maybe get an understanding of what the music meant (and means) to fans. It has some insight from fans and performers alike, with other input from industry insiders and so-called experts. It is both deep and meaningless at times, if that is possible. The director interviews many artists from the many sub-genres of Metal and the spots range from honest reflection (Black Sabbath's Tony Iommi) to hilarious severity of intent (Norwegian Black Metal bands).

Speaking of sub-genres; along with my closest friends and fellow Metal freaks, I tended to catorgorize the bands that most casual listeners simply lumped under the term Heavy Metal. Some bands were heavier than others, some simply Hard Rock bands, some we couldn't label but didn't consider them Metal at all regardless. (We probably called them gay). The director and guide along this journey, Sam Dunn, does what I feel is a superb job of putting the music into a flow chart styled genre grid. I can't really disagree with his placements of the bands. In fact, he enlightened me by correctly noting the difference between Black Metal and Death Metal. In the past, I simply put them both in the shit file.

A Google search turned up an official site: http://www.metalhistory.com/. It's full of info and clips. Seems there is a 2 disc DVD out now. I may have to check that out.

For more heartfelt insight into the culture of Heavy Metal, this time focused mainly on 80s Hair Metal, I highly recommend Chuck Klosterman's book Fargo Rock City: A Heavy Metal Odyssey In Rural North Dakota. Although Klosterman is a few years behind me in his coming of age into Metal, I was able to happily relive some of my glory days, the feelings I had back then about music, and also revisit those growing pains. I've read two of Klosterman's other books and enjoyed them because he has a very conversation style of writing and his sense of humor appeals to my sardonic side. I've yet to pick up his latest, but look forward to it.

In the meantime, I'm headed to the gym with Iron Maiden's 1984 masterpiece Powerslave (remastered version with bonus tracks, naturally) blasting on the MP3 player.

Silver And Blechh

2006-09-12T14:04:00.000-07:00

Just got in from a full day of yard work. In my temporary occupation as a Man of Leisure, I've found myself helping out around the house more than ever. Just when you think you carry your weight, you take on a few more tasks and wonder how you'd get it all done alone. I don't know how my wife balances the chores in her life along with work and relaxation. I certainly have a new understanding and respect for her efforts.

Football season is back and I always get excited this time of year. Baseball gets interesting instead of being background noise at backyard barbecues and casual dining establishments. Yesterday, I got a lot done early in the day so I could relax for the Raider game. This year, ESPN kicked off their inaugural season of Monday Night Football with a double header and the Raiders played at 7:00. This gave me plenty of time for the gym and some chores, then I helped my brother in law move a home gym from one house to another. All the while, I was looking forward to a few beers and some football.

What a disappointment. The Raiders looked awful and were blown away. At no time did they even look like they had a chance in the game. My brother in law called and we chatted for a while and I turned the sound down real low. I wasn't paying too close attention, but every time I looked up, Raiders quarterback Aaron Brooks was on his back. I watched to the end just to see how bad it would be. By the end, I was almost laughing. Now I can't even begin to think about looking forward to the games like I used to. As a lifelong fan of the Raiders, I now wonder how long blind faith and being a "true fan" will have me caring. Rooting for the Cubs is cute. Rooting for the Raiders is maybe a little sick.

I'll still watch football. The NFL puts on a pretty good show and I can find a compelling game every week. If the Raiders play like this for the next few years, I may have to break down and get Direct TV and sign up for the Season Ticket package so that I can watch teams that actually convince their fans that they try to win.

Oh well, time to turn my attention back to baseball until Sunday morning. At least baseball teams break your heart slowly over the course of 162 games. The Raiders broke my heart in less than 60 minutes and showed me what to expect over the next 15 games. I may actually see what happens in the world on Sundays in the fall and winter instead of couching jockeying. Are the stores open on Sundays?

Who throws a gauntlet these days?

2006-08-24T22:35:00.000-07:00

My sister, that's who.

After a lengthy conversation with my sister, on my birthday no less, we swerved from to topic to topic, and landed on my lack of writing output. After many observations and reasonable theories as to why I procrastinate and generally have to get off of my ass, we came to a deal. Or, a costly pact for sure.

After listening to her trusted and respected advice, I submitted wholly to the fact that I have something working against me that restricts my creative output. In an effort to get me to produce, my sister offered that I needed something in the way of accountability. She proposed a deal in which I have to email her an extemporaneous writing of five minute's worth effort daily. If I should fail to email her an example of my blathering on and on about whatever hits the gray matter that day, I forfeit 10 CDs from the collection of 2000+.

Suffice to say that she knew where to hit me. My CDs are precious to me and the idea of her coming over here, joyfully dancing and taking ten discs at her discretion might just be the kick in the ass I need to put my shit in motion.

So, when you all read my first book, the dedication will include the following:

.......And to Susan; I want my fucking Dio CDs back. Now.

Wish me luck.

Reality TV Sniper Pegs Another Victim

2006-08-11T17:50:00.000-07:00

Damn it!

All this time, through Survivor and Amazing Race and Big Brother and Wife Swap and Nanny Whatever, I've maintained a stance that I was above the Reality Television craze. Reality.....ha. Packaged goods for the lowest common denominator, I'd say to people. The only reality series I watched all the way through was that fucking Joe Millionaire train wreck just because I bought into the premise of a show that actually was out to humiliate money grubbing, 15 minute getting, ready for my teary-eyed close up airtime whores. But after feeling like I needed a shower (okay, screw the shower--I need a baptism) after each episode, I swore that I would never buy into the reality sales pitch again.

Then I had a beer in a hotel bar in Rockville, Maryland.

My wife and I stayed in a decent hotel in Rockville while my mom recuperated in the hospital following the surgery mentioned in an earlier post on this site. A mere fifteen minutes away and much more affordable than even a dump in pricey Bethesda, we retired one night to the hotel's bar to get a sociable drink before bed instead of a can of beer in front of the telly. It was dead that night in the bar with just two people sitting at the bar and the bartender playing pool with another patron to pass the time between pouring rounds.

Mary and I took seats at the bar, nodded to our neighbors and flagged down the bartender. He walked behind the bar and asked us what we'd have. What we'd have, he did not. No Coors Light in a bottle for me and no Bushmill's or Jameson for Mary. Settling was in our immediate future; Lite Beer from Miller for me and a whiskey sour with Maker's Mark for Mary. Settle on a cheaper hotel and you get a bar stocked just slightly better than a picnic.

Our bartender had an accent I could not place and I'm normally close on that, so I was quietly frustrated as I listened for clues. As we all chatted, he charmed us with stories of his travels through our great country. He once stayed and worked in San Francisco for a few months, the guest of a crazy American woman that wanted him to do things to her that he could not do in good conscience. I told him that while I don't know what the woman looked like, being a male concubine in The City didn't sound all that awful. My wife raised her eyebrows at that statement, but after the bartender said that it wasn't all bad, she shrugged and ordered another Maker's Mark sour. I pointed to my two-thirds empty bottle and he raked the cap off of another Lite.

As he went to serve the two other customers, Mary and I absentmindedly turned our attention to the television that was suspended above us. The sound was down as is appropriate in a bar with a jukebox playing, but the signature strobing lights and quick cut editing of a live music performance caught my attention. Mary asked what was on and I told her I wasn't sure but that it didn't look horrible, but in fact looked like some rocking shit. Definitely not the Grammys or Country Music Awards, which can fool you for a moment before you realize that you're watching musical pablum. We watched for a minute and when the performance ended and the cameras turned to Tommy Lee, I realized what we were watching. Rockstar: Supernova.

I'd heard about this show, but never watched the "replace the guy from the '80s Aussie band who hung himself while jerking off" season. I remember hearing things from respected sources that stated as far as reality television was concerned, it was compelling. Feh, I thought. What's next, Rock Star: Bananarama? INXS was not, is not, and will not be relevant to me or most people except in the most nostalgic way. I like what I remember from INXS and I could see myself enjoying some sort of post-game concert at my local Triple A baseball affiliate stadium or perhaps a county fair show, but as far as trying to sell me on the fact that a new album and/or tour with a game show winner at the helm would appeal to me or the general public was a bit sad. A few months after the "show" ended, I saw that most of their tour dates included just such venues, including a local Indian Casino stop. Indian Casino concerts, for the most part, fill haggard bands' schedules in between county fairs and Tower Records acoustic performances. That's not to say that Indian Casinos don't book viable bands. My wife and I saw Heart play at a local casino last year and they were as hot or hotter than when we saw them way back in '85, and their most recent album Jupiter's Darling is as strong as most in their catalog. But the sad fact is that the majority of folks in the crowd were there to hear nothing more than the hits from their mid '80s MTV resurrection and maybe Barracuda.

When we caught the bartender gazing up at the TV as well, we asked him if he could turn it up. With nobody really listening to the jukebox, he turned it off and found the remote to the TV. A contestant was singing a Stone Temple Pilots song and doing it pretty well. We watched a few more and then my wife recognized one of the singers. "That's Storm", she said excitedly. I leaned forward and squinted a bit and told her that it looked like Storm, but I was pretty sure that these contestants were all unsigned amateurs, much like on American Idol.

********************

We had been turned on to Storm after I read a review of her album, The Calm Years (2001 Taylor Made Records) and picked it up one day. I loved it and listened to it a lot. Even with its heavy sound and aggressive vocals, Mary dug it too. She tends not to enjoy the heavy stuff, but forgives the crunch if the vocals are clear and not shrieked. We have many albums that we both enjoy, but not many heavy ones. Tool, Masters of Reality, Living Colour, and Storm being among the few exceptions. We played the album for friends and relatives and they all liked it but hadn't heard of Storm before. The interest usually died there. Many of these folks are radio listening drones and not interested in an act unless it's been force fed to them by a monopolized mass media outlet. But we kept up with her activities via the Internet and hoped that she would hit it big someday.

We even saw Storm perform live once. After lamenting the fact that she had come through Fresno and played a small club only a few months before we discovered her music, we found out that she was to play at a big annual outdoor music festival in Sacramento called The Sacramento Heritage Festival. This great event takes place over two days and features a huge line up of mostly unsigned or up and coming Northern California acts on several stages in a park setting. We had seen and enjoyed many bands at past festivals including Ozomatli and Mother Hips, so we were very excited to see Storm in that setting. As it turned out, she was to play the "unplugged tent" with just her guitarist on acoustic guitar as accompaniment. Initially, we were disappointed that we wouldn't hear the blunt force trauma attack of her tunes in all their electric glory, but she wowed us all with her dynamic range, stage presence, and overflowing sex appeal. With a bit of raunchiness running through her tunes, she even censored herself due to the little kids dancing and playing in front of the stage. She even played to the kids, encouraging them to sing along and raise their hands. Later, while she was signing autographs, I remember thinking she was very sweet to make sure that kids got stickers and autographs before any of us leering adults.

********************

Anyway, we watched the end of her performance on Rockstar: Supernova and I wasn't quite convinced it was Storm we'd just seen. After all, we were watching a '80s model 19 inch color TV perched at a height of 8 feet that was at least 15 feet away from us. The (mono, natch) speaker was as tinny as a Victrola and didn't carry well past the smack of billiard balls on the table behind us. But then the singer stepped up next to the host, another cookie cutter, generic hot chick holding a microphone who tries oh so hard to feign a glimmer of intelligence and not sound like her banter isn't phonetically spelled on a teleprompter. The host spat out some information that we couldn't make out except for something about a vote. Then a phone number and the word Storm appeared below them on the screen. Mary and I were both excited to see that it was her after all. It was decided then and there that we had to watch the rest of this series.

When we returned to California later that week, I programmed the series into our DVR, another one of those "how did I get by without this before?" contraptions. Since that night in the bar in Rockville (and how appropriate that we were in a town called Rockville?), we have been glued to the idiot box watching and debating the worth of the performances. I suppose the show is not that different from other reality genre programs, but at least this one is right up my alley; live rock and roll. I usually call the voting correctly and the band members, Tommy Lee, Jason Newsted, and Gilby Clarke, along with uh, helper/co-host (?) Dave Navarro normally echo my comments seconds after I make them following each contestant's performance--albeit much less articulately of course (I'm polishing my fingernails on my chest as I type that).

So, now I'm watching and enjoying a reality television show. Or a game show. Or a new version of Star Search. Or complete shit. At this point, I'm able to enjoy it on face value. I don't see Supernova as the next Led Zeppelin. Trust me as a fan of "supergroups". I've loved and lost many; The Firm's first album (out of an abundance of two) fought very hard in the pecking order of the soundtrack to my senior year in high school. Jimmy Page's post Zep project beat out Dio's Last In Line, Deep Purple's Perfect Strangers, and narrowly overtook Iron Maiden's Powerslave, but lost in a photo finish to Whitesnake's Slide It In. And yes, I wore a mullet.

Supernova will get a very talented lead singer and much press. I believe they'll play high profile theater sized venues promoting the subsequent album. After that? It's hard to say right now, but I can't see anything long term coming from this sort of format. With the hand picked and pumped up audience, careful and clever editing, and the diminishing effect of people actually being real on reality television, this has all the makings of an utterly forgettable experiment. How long do you think the new INXS will last? If this were a more realistic, documentary style of program that showed true auditions in some sort of practice studio not in front of an audience, I would put more credence into it.

But credence or not, I'll be there next week rooting for Storm and trying to put a hex on that damn Zayra.

Back On California Time

2006-08-01T19:14:00.000-07:00

I'm back in California after a grueling two weeks in Bethesda, Maryland. The loved one I eluded to in earlier posts is my mother. She had a very complicated surgery on one of her kidneys at the National Cancer Institute at the National Institute of Health. As it turns out, she is afflicted by a rare syndrome that manifests slow growing tumors on her kidneys. After some time thinking they were benign, she was told that they were indeed a form of cancer and had to be removed, with the possibility of losing a kidney looming as well.

The NCI made her part of a study of the syndrome, so all of her expenses were paid, including travel, hospital stay, all medical care, and anything related to her visit to the Institute. The staff at the NIH is top shelf and she was to be handled by experts in the field. So going in, we felt confident and positive. As it turns out, the surgery was a complete success, the kidney was saved, and my mom is now home along with the rest of us. But the surgery was delayed by a week due to an infection that would have wreaked havoc had they gone in on schedule, so we had some time to kill until the infection was taken care of. I may write more about our experience at the NIH in the future, but I thought I'd relate some details of our unintentional vacation.

My wife Mary and I, along with my sister Susan, flew into Dulles Airport in D.C. on Saturday, July 8th and drove to my Aunt Carol's house in northern Virginia. We would stay with her Saturday and Sunday night, then head into a hotel nearer the hospital in Bethesda on Monday. My mom's surgery was scheduled for Tuesday morning.

We spent a leisurely first evening at my aunt's with dinner and conversation. My parents would be arriving in Maryland on Sunday evening, so Susan, Mary and I spent that day in Washington D.C. and would meet everyone for dinner that night.

We did a whirlwind tour of the major monuments and buildings. One of the first we stopped at was the Supreme Court Building. I had Mary take a cell phone photo of me sitting on the steps looking dejected and then send it along to her sister Jean. Last year while we were in San Francisco with Jean and her husband (both now appearing in the epic Black Crowes saga on Tony Hazy Concert Memories), I did the same while singing a few bars of the Schoolhouse Rock tune I'm Just A Bill as I sat on the steps of some government building. Jean thought it was funny at the time, so we sent her the cell photo. She replied right away, texting "Is Tony just a bill?". We replied, "No, I'm a law! Oh yeah!". I had to use the Supreme Court as my set piece because you can't get close to the steps of the Capitol Building post 9/11, but as a prop the court building did just fine.

I have to say, I think I've adjusted to the minor inconveniences of heightened security that we Americans now endure. But it is a little sad to not be able to walk up the steps of the Capitol Building and also spot a soldier armed with an automatic rifle at the top of them.

The first museum we spent any amount of measurable time in was the fairly new American Indian Museum. The exterior is modeled to look like the walls of a canyon and it is a beautiful tribute to our land's native inhabitants. But to be perfectly honest, we really only ducked in there because we all needed a restroom and it was the first museum we came upon on the Mall. All of our off color comments about having to pee-pee in a tee-pee or poo-poo in a papoose became running jokes that seemed hilarious when you're jet lagging. For the record; we ran up and down the many floors of that place and not a tee-pee could be found.

Another museum we spent some time in was the Air and Space Museum. Very cool exhibits of rockets, space capsules, historic aircraft, and the technology behind these machines abound here. You can even touch a piece of moon rock, which at first seems hokey, but when you stop to think about how far away the hunk of rock floats from which this sliver was cut, it can be a little humbling. One of the best parts of the day was spent in the flight simulators. Much like the arcade rides where the riders tumble and spin in an enclosed capsule while viewing a video screen, these were much more sophisticated with touchy joystick controls and awesome graphics.

We paid the fee and got into what looked like a massive laundromat washing machine. We had to take everything out of our pockets and put them in a lock box so as not to lose anything while turning upside down. The attendant was all smiles as she explained the controls and buckled us in. I was the pilot and Mary would be the gunner. The lady shut the clam shell-like door and our video screen came to life. I took the controls and instantly plunged us into the ground. Then straight up into the air, losing all sense of where the ground now was. Mary was telling me to look out, pull up, and anything else she could think of to coach me. It took me a moment to get my bearings and then we were cruising. I tested the joystick a little and was able to maneuver fairly well now and we spotted enemy tanks on the ground and jets in the air with us. Mary blasted away and destroyed many targets. It seemed a little too easy and I became bored, so I looked at my wife and said, "Hey Mary".

"What?", she said, never taking her eyes off of the poor bastards she was annihilating on the screen.

"Barrelroll!", I yelled. I yanked the joystick hard to the left and sent us reeling ass over tea kettle over and over. Mary screamed and laughed and cussed me out at high volume. I stabilized the jet and caught my breath from laughing. "You bastard", she yelled. I yelled barrelroll again and sent us over the other way, this time doubling the number of rolls. Neither of us could stop laughing, but whenever Mary caught her breath, she exhaled many insults and curses that would give any movie an NC-17 rating. The screen said that our time was up and the machine took over, levelling us out and lowering the capsule. We were crying from laughing, but when the lady opened the lid, she was not smiling at all. We looked around and saw the people waiting in line for the next ride. All of the adults either looked pissed or shocked or both. Most of the kids were smiling big. I guess they could hear every word.

We popped into the Museum Of American History for a short time. We saw the flag that inspired the Star Spangled Banner and also the flag that is in the moving photo of New York firefighters draping it over the side of a building on 9/11. Even with these patriotic items at our disposal, most Americans linger more at the exhibits of Fonzie's jacket and Archie Bunker's chair. I guess we're all products of a pop culture society, but I would hope that does not cause us to confuse the significance of Thomas Jefferson with that of Kermit the Frog.

There is an exhibit on the development of American musical instruments that was closed. I was disappointed because it sounded interesting, but there was a nice gift shop with t-shirts, books, CDs (many were tempting Smithsonian Folkways recordings--the most I've ever seen in one place, naturally), and many trinkets. I bought a Fender guitar hat featuring a cool logo and upon checking out at the register, I spied a little display of small instruments for sale. Harmonicas, kazoos, whistles, and even the musical spoons were all for sale, but what caught my eye was the jaw harp. The jaw harp is that twangy metal device used in many movie soundtracks to signify when characters have gotten themselves into the backwoods or a hick town. Snoopy played one in one of those old Peanuts features and I'm sure there's one on a Who song that I can't quite recall. I've always wanted one, just in the way I want to get a didgeridoo someday.

I slapped down an extra eight bucks for the harp against my wife's wishes. Her question was to when I would ever play it. I tried to tell her to rest assured that I would play it all the time. Then she rolled her eyes and groaned at the prospect of me twanging away at this thing incessantly to her utter dismay. I was loving the idea and even if I'd had second thoughts, I was now buying it for the promise of a fun summer annoying the hell out of Mary. We exited the museum and I sat down on a bench to put my new toys in my sister's bag. Mary challenged me to make some noise with the harp.

I opened the little box and took out the metal object. Both Susan and Mary started to make fun of me when I quickly read over the tiny directions sheet. I protested that I had no idea how to work the damn thing and just needed to glance at the illustrations to get started. I placed the harp in position as directed and put my thumb on the "twanger" or "tongue" and plucked. Nothing. I figured that I didn't pluck hard enough and tugged a little further. The "twanger" snapped me right in the front teeth with a thwack and I yelped a little as my head rocked back from the surprise shot to the chops. Susan and Mary almost fell over from cackling at my misfortune, but I was determined to get some sound out of this thing so I gave it another pluck. This time, the infernal instrument clipped me right on the bottom lip. "Nnngggh", I groaned as I cupped my hand over my mouth. Susan and Mary were inconsolable and barely able to stand. I decided that these lessons should be continued later in private and if I thought that it would be so damn funny to watch me play, I would have put out a hat for tips.

We later made our way to the Lincoln Memorial, which is bigger and much more impressive than I ever thought it would be. Then we visited the Korean War Memorial. This is a very haunting exhibit featuring larger than life sculptures of a platoon of soldiers walking through a rice paddy. I think we may have spent the most time of all looking into the faces of these soldiers. Of course, we visited the Vietnam Memorial which was as moving as I'd ever seen on television. People were there leaving items in memory, making rubbings of the names of loved ones on the wall, and simply reflecting as they walked slowly along the memorial reading names aloud. Very moving indeed.

We took many photos of course and none were so fun as the ones we took of the Washington Monument from a distance with my wife and/or sister in various poses. Hey, it's not our fault that our elders built it with such a phallic presence.

We wrapped up the day watching the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. As we walked quietly and with dignity along the paths in Arlington National Cemetery, Susan mentioned that we'd have to pick up the pace if we were to see the Tomb Of The Undead Soldier. Just as she realized what she'd said, I replied, "Shit, there's zombies in this graveyard?" We all snickered and stifled giggles, but regained our composure as we approached the viewing area of the Tomb. It is indeed a solemn ceremony taken very seriously by the few honored by having the detail. I was glad to witness it and I will forever look differently at any sitting president as he places a wreath upon it on Memorial Day.

We got the call that my parents had landed and checked in with the hospital staff. It was a bit late on a Sunday night, so when we finally drove into Bethesda from D.C., many places were closed or closing soon. We ended up in a diner of the greasy spoon variety. I love places like that, but it wasn't quite what the others had in mind. A very gruff, but funny (and ultimately very friendly) waitress kept us entertained with her manner and we ate the comfort food that she slung at us with glee. A real thick chocolate shake split between Mary and I put a nice cap on the day.

After a long, hot, sticky day in the nation's capitol, we were all glad to get back to the air conditioning and comfortable beds of my aunt's house. The jet lag and humidity had really taken it out of us and we all slept in the next day. Monday was to be a prep day for my mom at the hospital with final tests and blood work, so we didn't have to be there too early. As it would turn out, we really didn't need to be there for another week due to the infection, but who knew then?

Mountain View, CA On $200 A Day

2006-07-03T19:14:00.000-07:00

This past weekend, I learned how to spread a mere $200 or so throughout an entire day in Mountain View, CA. No travel brochure or guide could have possibly helped me in this feat. My skills at budgeting funds come naturally. It's a gift, I suppose.

So how did I manage a full day on just two bills? You see, the secret is to buy just one $20 I Love Vagina t-shirt and then you have the rest to spend on hideously overpriced beer and food. To be honest, I can't be sure how much I spent, but I had a wallet full of greenbacks on Saturday morning and come "free continental breakfast" time on Sunday, I had 15 one dollar bills.

Ozzfest, I'm glad you come around only once a year, but I'm glad you come around.

More tales to tell later over on the other blog. In the meantime, I look forward now to the trip back to Bethesda for the surgery date. The family member going under the knife will have most of the immediate family back there for support. All indications are positive for the procedure, so in some way, in spite of the heavy nature of the visit, I'm actually looking forward to the travel. I'll be seeing relatives I don't see enough of due to the 3,000 miles between us, I'll be spitting distance from the nation's capital with some time to explore, and I might even catch an Orioles game. Actually, I'm also looking forward to the flights. I love air travel. All jokes aside about air travel being a bus in the sky with waitresses, I still get a little giddy looking out of a 12 inch window seeing things that humans might not have been designed to see from that vantage point. And, that initial feeling we all get at liftoff can't be found anywhere else. Speed and flight = joy.

At the risk of sounding like, or more likely worse than, a hack stand-up comic on the Boise to Dayton circuit, there are some things that I'm not looking forward to. I can already feel the pain in my knees from trying sit comfortably for hours at a time in a space designed by some twisted soul who probably would be better suited at coming up with ways to get suspects to talk in a police station. Trust me, after 4 hours in those torture seats, I'm ready to spill anything you want to hear. Oh, and watching a censored version of the latest crapfest from Hollywood with headphones that barely compete sonically with toy stethoscopes makes me thank goodness for my MP3 player. While the other passengers smile weakly at the 2 decent jokes in the whole movie, I'll be rocking out with the Rollins Band, preparing for the July 28th show up at the Warfield.

I'll also have my nose in a book, most likely trying to finish the heartbreaking Ghost Rider: Tales From The Healing Road by Neil Peart. I've had this book for a while now, but I put it down about half way through. It's pretty heavy stuff, dealing with Peart's loss of his daughter and wife in a span of 10 months. The book details his decision to hit the road on his motorcycle to find some meaning to his life. His writing is honest and eloquent, collecting styles such as journal entries, letters to friends from the road, and thoughts written post-ride. I put it down for some lighter reading, or so I thought when I plowed through Helene Stapinski's Baby Plays Around , the story of a freelance journalist joining a rock band. I flipped through it at a book outlet and thought it looked pretty good. But alas, the writer gets personal and dives into subjects such as loyalty and infidelity. The passages dealing with the struggling relationship with her husband were heart wrenching and I always breathed easier when the story turned back to the music, the clubs, and the band. Anyway, I'm going to give Ghost Rider another shot, but with the point of my trip being a serious surgery that will most likely get emotional from time to time, I'd better pack a Mojo magazine as well for a good distraction.

I'll be taking my laptop as well, so I might even post from the road. At the very least, I'll have yet another distraction back at the hotel. Having access to my email has become yet another convenience that I'm sure I won't remember living without, much like cellphones and answering machines.

Thanks for stopping by........

Tony

Trapfalls

2006-06-28T18:20:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I know it's been a while and those of you that either check this site and wonder why or just stumble upon it after some wild Google chase probably tsk and click away as fast as your index finger will take you.

I don't blame you. There hasn't been much to see here since I started it with the best of intentions to at least post up the hum-drum stuff of everyday life. I had hoped to create some sort of crossover effect with my other blog as well. All those things will happen still, I'm sure, but just not at the rate I predicted.

Bumps in the road happen even when you plot the most logical and safe course. I'm not naive enough to believe that I have such a charmed life that life itself won't turn on me from time to time, testing my will, testing my grip. But I find that you can be caught unawares very easily.

Without going into deeper detail (yet), I will tell you folks that this summer has already proven itself to be one of significance in my life.

I found out that a loved one has cancer, but an operation promises a positive outcome. Regardless, it weighs heavy on my mind and heavier on my heart. I can only wait, pray, be there, and be.

Two weeks ago, I quit my job of sixteen years. I left in the middle of the day with no advance notice. I do not have a job lined up. Again, without too many details, I can say that it was the single most liberating thing I have done in my life. With the support of my wife, family, and friends, I have no doubt that I did the right thing for my future. And for my own mental well being. I am frightened, but also excited, to venture forth into a new career and therefore a new way of life.

Less significant things have also been rocketing around my little bubble of a life, but they have also played into my current condition; the plan to possibly sell the house and rent for awhile until the market benefits us, a relationship with a old friend that dissolved into bitter and hurtful nothingness only to recently come to the forefront at a most inconvenient time, and all the other little things we all have to deal with everyday.

So there you go. I only post this all up here to explain what could be observed as laziness. I am enjoying some writing away from the blogs and I hope that this spills over to both of my sites. I've also been reading some entertaining non-fiction that seems to have re-energized my enthusiasm to finally get serious and just write it all down.

I can't say when I'll post again and, in fact, I should shy away from doing so because it's embarrassing to reread my old posts with grandiose promises of output. But I'll be back and I'll hope that you'll keep checking back, no matter the reason. I'll take all comers.

There is a new post on Tony's Hazy Concert Memories (part of kicking my own ass into posting up again).

The Butterfly In The Hailstorm

2006-05-29T14:49:00.000-07:00

After a pause in the playback sequence, I'm back into the fray of telling whoever strays onto this site about my dealings with myself in my own world. Am I living life in my world or am I just doing time in yours? Are you all bit players in my award-winning adaption of existence or am I a character actor in your made-for-television melodrama? I guess we'll all figure it out when God's Neilson ratings come out in the end.

The camping trip was great, but not all that I imagined. I planned on getting some quality writing done on the laptop from time to time, but it just didn't happen.

I left Fresno at a good time on that Wednesday morning, loaded down with all the gear and provisions needed for a family getaway, even though I'd be staying by myself for the first few nights. Mary and I decided that it would be easier for me to just haul all of the stuff needed for the whole weekend than her trying to fill in the gaps. Hitting the road alongside the workaday drones that resembled myself on any other day made me feel triumphant, if only for a moment. I smiled as I listened to some sports talk radio, thinking that I'd only hear snippets of the show if I were working. I enjoyed the AM stuff knowing that I'd loaded the 10-disc changer with enough of a eclectic mix to suit whatever mood I might be in for the drive between the areas where I can get valley AM stations and finally pull in KPIG. After a while, when the local ESPN affiliate would fade, I decided that I'd pass on yet another spin of the new TOOL album and click over to the Jim White disc, No Such Place. Ironically, I'd picked up this CD used over in San Luis Obispo after hearing a track on the old K-Otter. At that time, I found the song 10 Miles To Go On A 9 Mile Road a bit funky but somehow sliding right into their wide-open and virtually non existent playlist. Seeing Jim White's name in Boo-Boo Records' used rack made me exclaim out loud, "Whoa shit, three ninety-nine!". Suddenly aware of the volume of my voice, I remember looking around with an expression as if I'd stepped on a kitten. But no one reacts to that kind of enthusiasm in a wax geek's haven like Boo Boo Records.

I can attest to this; on one our many excursions over to Morro Bay, Mary and I found ourselves (of course) at Boo Boo to graze over the used CD selection. I found a copy of a somewhat obscure CD that I already had at home and wanted to pick up for a friend. Nervada, by Lars Vegas, is a funky swing-style album with bizarre lyrics and great horns. In fact, one of the horn players featured on a few tracks is Dana Colley of Morphine fame and that's what I mentioned to the clerk at the register when he remarked that Lars Vegas was a pretty cool name for a band. A big Morphine fan, he was surprised that he hadn't heard of the album and asked if he could pop it in the store's CD player while he calculated our tally (we had a pretty big stack--hunting was good that day I recall). The first notes of the bleating horns came out strong over the store's speakers. Five seconds into the first song, a guy seated at the listening station ripped off his headphones and screamed, "Oh I fucking love this album!". He gazed up at the speakers with a wistful smile and nodded to the beat for a second, then calmly put his headphones back on, spun in his chair, and returned to whatever he was listening to before his aural orgasm. Do that in a restaurant and people will stare at you until they finish their meal, but in Boo Boo, hardly anyone shrugged.

The drive was pretty good with little traffic. Out in the farmlands of the Central Valley, I had to pass a few tractors and hay trucks and that's no easy feat with ten year old Ford Ranger loaded with camping gear. Passing through Kettleman City, I tired of the growing static on ESPN Radio and hit play to check out the Jim White disc after not listening to it in some time. It was enjoyable and got me in the mood for the type of stuff I'd be listening to on the Pig. As varied as my musical tastes can be, going from TOOL to Country Joe McDonald could be a little jarring to the gears in my head, so opted for the Jim White to ease the transition.

The truck was doing great and I headed into Paso Robles, reminding myself that I look at that town as the point in which I leave the dry, dusty, and smoggy valley and enter the winding passageway to the coast. A quick jaunt on Interstate 101 through Paso Robles always seems disjointed from the rest of the drive because you're thrown into a caustic mix of traffic made up of locals, truckers, and state travellers who've been speeding along that route the whole time. After not seeing much traffic and never being passed all day so far, the cars screaming by in the fast lane as I pressed the gas to keep it to at least 70mph in the slow lane made me feel like a butterfly in a hailstorm. Quickly enough, though, I exited onto State Route 46 west towards Highway 1. This route is prettier than taking SR41, winding it's way through rolling hills textured with vineyards, wineries, and farmhouses. I smiled as I saw the sign for Jack Creek Road. I have no idea where Jack Creek Road leads, but I do know that it's the spot in which I can first pull in KPIG's signal. One time heading over, I tested the signal, listening to abhorrent static and jolting snippets of hip hop from what I assume is a Paso Robles station. I laughed at the hip hop as it gave way to the sounds of glorious Americana, real music, written and played by real musicians. Alas, it is bittersweet to hear KPIG's signal fade and become conquered by the staccato beats of rap on the way home. Cherishing those last notes on the Pig is like getting every drop left from your Slurpee on a hot summer's day.

Route 46 plunked me down onto Highway 1 and I took the left turn to head south towards Morro Bay. I reached back and slid open the window behind my seat and then rolled down my windows a bit to breathe in the sea breeze. Soon I passed through Harmony, a town that Mary and I joke about retiring to one day. If that were the case, the state of California would have to replace the highway sign signifying the population (18). I was alone on the two-lane strip that splits grassy hills and from time to time is covered by a beautiful canopy of trees over the roadway before you hit Cayucos and 1 becomes a four-lane. This is also when you can first get a clear look at the ocean on this route. There is a high spot on 46 before you get to 1 where on a clear day you can see a wide view of the bay, Morro Rock, and way over to Los Osos, but it's usually too foggy/cloudy even in the summertime to see that far. Besides, only the passenger has the luxury to gaze around at that high point, because the road curves lazily enough to lull the driver into a straight line and over the edge and down the hillside. Suffice it to say, I only glanced in that direction when I was there just to affirm that it was indeed too foggy to see the ocean.

So as I approached Cayucos (there's a great Dread Zeppelin story that takes place there that I will have to write about sometime over on Tony's Hazy Concert Memories), I would look over to the water from time to time, watching waves crash against the rocky shore. I'm not a sun worshiper or a beach person, so to speak, but I love the ocean. Many of us are drawn to the coastlines of this country without really knowing why. If I believed in reincarnation, I'd say I was a fisherman on a cutter or perhaps a sailor of some sort. I'm attracted to boats and harbors, but really know nothing about boating or sailing. I can't say why I have this affinity, but I can lean on the rail of a dock for hours just watching boats of all sizes rise and fall with the gentle tide.

Highway 1 ducks between hills and away from the water a bit as you enter Morro Bay. My favorite little town in California, Morro Bay is a quiet place situated between the college town atmosphere of San Luis Obispo and the smaller coastal villages up north. For me, it represents the best of the Central Coast; close enough to San Luis Obispo for my city needs (CD and book shops, nightlife, maybe a sportsbar or two) and quaint enough in and of itself to suit my desire to truly get away to a quiet little place where I can feel distant enough from the tug of life's responsibilities. As I approached the exit towards the Morro Bay State Park Campground, I smiled and turned up the Widespread Panic tune that KPIG was playing. I thanked God out loud for the opportunity to take this trip, for I know that not everyone has the chance to get away by themselves for awhile.

More to come...................

Welcome To The Infinite Stream Of Crapola

2006-05-06T11:27:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone and welcome to Oh, Like You Give A Sh*t, my other blog. As much as I told myself that I would never do this, I'm attempting a more traditional journal entry styled blog and for a couple of reasons--neither of which has anything to do with the notion that readers will find my drivel utterly mesmerizing.

The first reason is to simply practice writing. I have plans to write something in a longer form in the future and in order to do that, I need to write in all sorts of different ways and not get bogged down into one project. This directly relates to my primary blog, Tony's Hazy Concert Memories. That blog site is almost entirely devoted to (hopefully) humorous concert stories and recollections and I tend to edit myself to death before I post (publish). I also do not write there often enough because of the self-imposed standards and expectations. Many times, I leave a storyline hanging for too long because I have to be mentally ready to attempt those tales. I think that a journal styled blog will keep me interested, more willing to write, and it might even produce some ideas for other projects.

The second reason is that typing is easier than writing longhand. I have kept a journal from time to time, mostly of my travels. I recently read over some pages and actually found them enjoyable. But I remember that while I was writing in those pages, I was thinking that I wasn't getting all of my ideas down on paper due to the effort required to write everything down while trying to keep things readable.

I hope that Hazy readers will come on over from time to time and, conversely, if people should wander onto Give A Sh*t, they'll head on over to the concert stories site for some laughs.

As always, please leave a comment if you feel like it. In the near future, I'll be tweaking this site with some bells and whistles and you'll be able to email me directly as well. (You can do that now over on Hazy.)

Anyway, this coming week, I'm on vacation and I plan to use my new laptop to get some creative writing projects done or at least underway. One project is a plan to rewrite and expand upon one of my older concert stories from the other blog and submit it for publication somewhere. I'll let you guess which one if you want to peruse the archives over there. Look at it as a game.

This vacation will find me camping over on the central California coast. Once a year, I make a solo trek over to Morro Bay or San Simeon and camp out. I like the solitude, using the time to hike, read, or whatever suits me at the moment. And when I'm in the area, I also listen to the best station in the nation, KPIG. I can say that the Pig is now the best anywhere because KOTR went under a couple of years ago. But KPIG is simulcast out of Santa Cruz on KOTR's old signal and they shared a very similar format (free format, that is--a rarity these days in modern radio), so at least the spirit of independent radio is still alive and well. While my first love will always be The Otter, I'm now shacking up with a PIG.

I'll also take an afternoon and head into Boo Boo Records in San Luis Obispo. This is probably my favorite record store anywhere besides Record Explosion in NYC, where I spent my high school graduation money on Whitesnake and Ian Gillan import LPs in 1985. Boo Boo is an independent store and the used CD hunting is always good. It's a good bet that I'll drop at least a bill in there this time as usual. I'm hoping to score used or even promo copies of some new releases from Pearl Jam, Wolfmother, and maybe The Black Keys. Wish me luck.

A couple of days into my trip, my wife's sister and her husband will join me in their travel trailer, then on Friday, my wife will drive over and spend the weekend as well. We also have a couple of friends coming in too, so it looks like an old fashioned big time around the campfire. I might even have a beer or two.

Thanks for checking in and come back often. I'd love to hear from you if you have a moment. Any feedback is welcome and I'll always try to respond to questions or comments when I can.

See you soon................Tony

How In The Hell Did You Possibly Find This Blog?

2006-05-01T20:37:00.000-07:00

Just putting in some text to get this new blog started. I can't imagine that this is interesting to anyone besides me tonight. Oh, what the future brings. When I'm published and patted on the back many a time over, I'll try to look back on this Mayday 2006 with fondness, but as work looms large tomorrow, I'll settle for a good night's slumber only to survive the labor which is better known as the 8-10 hour interruption in my day.

Get to know me.....

Tony