It’s September (at least for another few hours), and if you’re young or have kids that are, that means back to school. I don’t have to worry about that anymore myself, and yet I still find a way to. Though who among us doesn’t still have those occasional nightmares… the classic “showing up to school naked” or perhaps my personal fave “it’s finals day for a class you forgot to attend all semester.” We all still have those, right? No? Just me? Awesome.
A while back, I started gathering a mishmash of random memories from my school days that I wanted to put out there. Maybe not super relatable, but I don’t keep a diary, so it all goes here. Hope you enjoy. This will all be all your midterm.
Aesthetics Versus Athletics
School always felt somehow like enemy territory. I’m sure that’s mostly the anxiety I had about meeting obligations, but there was also something foreign about it. Large facilities that I only ever saw part of. Classrooms I never personally had classes in. Buildings I didn’t know the purpose of.
And then there was sports. Not that I wasn’t active as a kid. I remember that time of the early evening when the streetlights are about to come on. Playing outside, running in the cold till your gums hurt, itchy from rolling around in the grass. But I also remember passing by campus after school, looking at a jungle of fences and poles, a grass field and a labyrinth of athletics buildings and hallways and locker rooms I knew I’d never see. Shared equipment and rules and practices and competitions I didn’t understand. A club, a camaraderie I just didn’t “get.” Especially mystifying when it was for older kids. In elementary, it was the middles school. In middle school, it was the high school. In high school even, it was college. There was something exclusive about athletics. Jonah was always clued in, but not me. It wasn’t me, it wasn’t my family. And yet school spirit and uniforms and events and rallies all centered around this stuff. These were the heroes, the inner circle of the school. This is what mattered to some people, and to me it was so foreign that I just stayed away. Intimidated by that jungle, I guess. An outsider. That probably makes me sound bitter about wanting to fit in, but I don’t think I experienced it that way. At least not consciously. I got along with everyone, had friends, and generally had a reasonably trauma-free experience. I’m not going to pretend I was somehow above the desire for popularity, but I don’t think I specifically craved the approval or acceptance of people whose interests were so different from mine. (Like who cares if someone who likes shitty music thinks your music is shitty, right? Same idea.)
Anyway, I did eventually have my version of that camaraderie with martial arts in high school and later with bands, and I really appreciated it then.
Hitting The Books
In elementary school, the only books I cared about were at the Scholastic Book Fair. Reviewing each year’s catalog and negotiating a budget with mom was serious business. (That and the little “Santa’s Workshop” event where a bunch of cheap tchotchke booths were set up in the school library where you could Christmas shop for your loved ones. I vaguely remember wire-and-stone beetle jewelry and some kind of metallic angel. My first semi-independent exposure to consumerism.)
In high school, it was getting your issued textbooks each year and wondering what each one might portend for that class’ workload. The cold feel of weighted clay-coated pages. Worn covers with corny 70s city scapes on them, seeming mysterious because they predated my birth. The mandatory hassle of covering each one with a cut up grocery bag. And perhaps unofficially writing a few book reports based on Cliff’s Notes.
Then in college, the books were better — hell, I even kept a few of them. And you didn’t have to cover them. But you had to buy and sell them yourself, which sucks in its own way. I wonder if that’s any easier in today’s world with Amazon and e-books and Wikipedia and piracy?
Your Problems Aren’t Problems
Those JC days are fond memories. Living at home, balancing work and school, and still plenty of time for an active social life. Had some income but still a full course load. An easy commute with easy classes. Listened to a lot of music on the road (my own CDs as well as Alice and Live 105, though remember these were the dark days of post-grunge). Even a modicum of friendship with other commuter classmates. It was like having a second job that was less stressful. I suppose that might have been in part because this is when you start getting treated like an adult. Show up if and when you want. No one on your back. Sink or swim on your own schedule risking only your own neck. It’s how I work best.
And then the later days at Cal were great, too. I had no income since I couldn’t balance it with a real job. That sounds to me now like something that would have terrified me, so maybe I’m remembering it through rose-colored lenses, but I really think that other than the given stress of classes, I felt pretty free. Spending all day on campus, hanging out in libraries, watching movies in the film department to kill time, lunch on the quad and around town. The end was in sight, and I’d put all the pieces in place. There was nothing left to do but stay the course and wait for it to all come together at graduation. Which it mostly did, and I moved on to adult life.
As nice as I seem to remember it being, I can’t even imagine having to go through school in today’s world. More expensive and less valuable. More complex and stressful. I don’t miss that shit. You’d have to literally double my salary for me to even consider going back. I obviously don’t recall it being all that awful at the time, but trying to make room for it here and now, contending with real adult responsibilities? No thanks. Those carefree days are gone. Unless I win the lottery, I don’t see myself loafing around on a campus again. I’m much happier with a steady income and a nightlife. At least I think I am.
“Every beginning is a consequence — every beginning ends some thing.”
Television in San Francisco was just background noise. Comedy Central in the evenings while I was doing something in the other room. Not consciously, but I assume to make the place feel less lonely. Didn’t Palahniuk have something clever about that in Lullaby, about how we’re all scared of silence?
I thought that my lack of attention to television in those years while everyone else was fawning over “Lost” and “Orange Is The New Black” made me a better person. I was a musician. A creative. I didn’t have time for such pedestrian pursuits. But without a drive to keep going, I succumbed, and these days, television is the new band practice.
Oddly, it started in Hawaii. You can only spend so much time at the beach. And without much else to do there, I got turned onto Netflix, Amazon Prime, and later Hulu. And like all of you, I’ve now got lengthy queues in each that I’ll never get through. Shows have gotten better, but not enough that the ol’ boob tube doesn’t still feel like a pathetic recreation. I can’t shake the feeling I should be reading more and creating more. People used to say they had too many books to read or things to do or friends to catch up with. Now it’s they have too much in their queue and aren’t currently accepting any more recommendations.
And now Disney, NBC, CBS, and others are fleeing the big three and trying to start their own thing? Who wants the cost of more separate services and the hassle of maintaining more logins? I predict the upstart services will ultimately still get aggregated under a larger umbrella service for exactly that reason, which essentially amounts to the à la carte cable pricing people have wanted forever. Didn’t they used to say that model leaves less-popular content producers (e.g. educational programming) out in the cold?
I’m now reminded of something else from Lullaby, about how our constant attention to distracting screens withers our imagination. Johnny Marr said something similar on his book tour a couple years ago, about how he’s glad smart phones weren’t around when he was young. All that idle time waiting for a bus left his mind free to try to entertain itself, to create, to come up with the ideas that would become the music of The Smiths. That’s worth considering.
Anyway, on to the other kind of “show.” Live music, that is. I attended a couple of them recently that got me thinking. Giuda has a huge following and must be among the best on the planet at what they do. Jail Weddings is incredible live — as good as any band I’ve seen in a club setting. But here’s the thing… both were killer shows, but they were also relative ghost towns. Maybe I’ve been out of it too long. I’m trying to remember that things happen. Poor promotion, competing shows, bad luck. Could have just been flukes that I caught these shows back-to-back. But it left me uneasy with a harsh reality: being in a band these days ain’t gonna be like it was.
Maybe people have gotten more “virtual” even in just these last few years. I’ve heard my promoter friends complain that no one comes out anymore. They’d rather stay home and watch Netflix in their jammies (a pastime I’ve grown accustomed to myself, if I’m being honest). It’s just harder to get people out of their houses and away from their screens, I guess. I feel it, too.
And then consider that This Charming Band had a built-in tribute/80s/Moz audience. The Rumble Strippers had the built-in rockabilly scene. Not to at all minimize the hustling we did in both cases to get good shows and big crowds, but we had some clear advantages. People had reasons to attend beyond just us. So with all that in mind, not having a leg up like that but instead just forging your own path and doing your own thing? Well, good luck. I’d want my next music project to be more like that and free from the trappings of catty scenes, but that seems like assurance that it’ll be playing empty rooms on weeknights. That might be OK, but it’s not what I’m used to and certainly not something to look forward to. I’m not sure I have the same energy for it anymore, though I suppose my motivations are different now. Back then, I think I was more interested in impressing people. As I mentioned a while back, I feel like these days I have less to say and less interest in who hears it. Maybe that means I should get into the recording side of things rather than hustling to fill venues? More rumination needed.
On a side note, I failed to follow my own recent advice about watching openers, and I missed the chance to see Hammered Satin with Giuda. Next time, for sure! At least I got out of the house and showed up for these bands, though. It was good for them and good for me. But more of a feat than it used to be.
“What did we do before we made facial expressions with punctuation? Oh yeah, we played in the sun.”
I’m not sure what happened, but I think I suddenly like 70s-era Rolling Stones. Early 80s, too.
I never really responded to them in the past, other than the hits. They were just too “loose” sounding. Lots of good hooks, and every song was rooted in a good idea, but the execution was rough. It left me feeling like the songs were half-baked, whereas I gravitated more towards recordings that sounded pristine and ultra-polished. And I guess that summary of them hasn’t changed for me. But for some reason, these last couple months, that same loose sound is speaking to me. Friends have joked this is because I’m getting old, but I don’t think that’s far off the mark. Something about those recordings sound exhausted and almost desperate. That’s not exactly how I feel, but there is something relatable there vis-à-vis aging.
And if that weren’t enough, I took on Bob Dylan’s whole catalog as well. Another artist I’d been hits-only fan of. It wasn’t as revelatory as my Stones kick, but there were lots of gems, and it’s been fascinating to hear the songs I was familiar with in the context of their respective albums. Listening as his sound changed over the years, through his born-again period (what!?), and the on-and-off-boarding of collaborators like Mark Knopfler. Somewhere on the East Coast, my old friend (and Dylan enthusiast) Jen must be feeling vindicated.
So yeah, EXTRA! EXTRA! READ ALL ABOUT IT! Bob Dylan and The Rolling Stones are actually pretty good. You heard it here first.
In the past, when tackling bands like The Beatles for the first time, I’d keep tabs on which songs stood out as my favorites, what surprises I found, etc. I wish I’d done that for Dylan and the Stones. C’est la vie. (Though I will call out “Sway” as one I’d never heard and has stuck with me for weeks now.)
It’s harder to find new music these days (or perhaps at this age). New bands don’t speak to me as often as they did say ten years ago. I suppose that’s natural. In response to the usual groans and complaints from the older crowd about the Coachella lineup, Aaron Axelsen (who would know) pointed out that if he kept booking the nostalgia acts that we all want to see, 1) no new bands would get a chance to break through and 2) it’d be harder to attract new, young fans. Makes sense of course. The times, they are a-changin’, after all. Popscene isn’t for me anymore, at least not primarily.
In the last several years, there haven’t been many “new” bands that have really rocked my socks. I think my favorite discoveries of the past decade were probably Parenthetical Girls, The National, and The Drums. Speaking of The National, that reminds me… good advice that we should both take: watch opening bands. If you’re like me, you typically try to time it so you show up just in time for the headliner. I’ve been burned by this before, such as when I skipped a little opener called The National at an R.E.M. show back in 2008. Little did I know that five or six years later, they’d become one of my favorite bands. More recently, I’ve caught some openers in SoCal that moved me to buy a lot of their music. Some even eclipse the headliner. Jail Weddings blew me away… sort of Talking Heads meets girl group. (Their new album release party is tomorrow night, and I’ll be there!) Ed Schrader’s Music Beat was another unexpected winner. It would’ve been a shame if I’d missed these bands as I might never have run across them again.
So yeah, try to see opening bands. Just another of a million things older people have told me as I was coming up, which I did not believe, and which turned out to be 100% true.
That’s new bands… as for old bands, I’m in the process of going through and selling and donating even more books and CDs. I can’t remember if I did most of that after I stopped blogging before, but in any event, I’m cutting even deeper this time around. I find myself putting a lot of old Smiths and Morrissey books in the donate pile. These tomes I used to hoard and pore over for This Charming Band. Not that I don’t still love The Smiths and all, but I don’t feel the need to maintain an expertise there anymore. The other night at an Alain Whyte show, I saw some fans (among them a certain old rival tribute singer) flailing around and miming the words to the few Morrissey covers Alain did. I can remember a time when that felt like my community, but years on and from the outside now, that fanaticism struck me as sorta silly. In fairness, I am inordinately gruff as of late. Nonetheless, these changing tastes, I wish I could say it’s a categorical evolution or maturation, but I think it’s just different. Not better or worse. Just different.
“The things you love are as stupid as the things you hate and are easily interchangeable.”
Ripping off my 2008 self ripping off David Byrne? An inauspicious beginning, to be sure.
Well, friends… you’d be forgiven for thinking I’d died, being that my last post was in 2013. But mostly dead is slightly alive! In fact, I was so alive that I could no longer find the time and interest to write about it. The occasional Facebook post has served as a sparse diary in the interim. Apologies for not leaving you a more formal goodbye here at the time.
It seems I’m back, at least for the moment. For a variety of reasons, I guess. A few things left unsaid. Maybe some new things to get off my chest. Lots has happened in the last six years, sure. Left San Francisco during its descent into tech bro madness. Moved to Hawaii. Moved to SoCal. Have lived with a significant other. It’s been a wild ride, and so much different than I could have foreseen back in 2013.
I truly don’t know how this will go. Do I even still have the same writing voice? Will I stick with it for a while or will this single entry simply supplant the last as the last? Do I have anything interesting to say? (Did I ever?) Tune in to find out! Or don’t. I realize commanding an audience on some random independent blog is a tall order these days. As before, I guess I’m doing this more for myself. More a journal than anything else. Record keeping. Chronicling.
I shudder to think what might be going through the mind of those few of you who’d “subscribed” to this blog as you read this latest entry nearly 10 years after you first joined up. I suspect the ol’ unsubscribe is soon to follow, but for what it’s worth: hello, and I hope you’re doing well this decade! No hard feelings. ❤
If I’m being honest, I’m already second-guessing this whole revival. In some ways, I’m a different person than I was years back. For instance, there was a time when I was super motivated to play music. I felt like I had a lot to say, and I wanted the world to hear it. But it’s not like that anymore. I feel like I don’t have much to say, and I don’t really give a shit who hears it. Nothing to prove, no one to impress. Less interested in changing the world. All standard aging stuff, I suppose. Older and wearier now, coming to grips with the fact that the body is beginning its decline. Over the hill, as it were. I’ve long taken for granted that all doors are open to me and that anything is possible. To whatever extent that may have been true in the past, there’s no denying that a turning point has been reached. Not that my cart is careening toward oblivion exactly, but I think it’s fair to say the best one can hope for is to slow it down. Gravity is not in our favor. Keep healthy, take care of yourself, and do your best to hold back the inevitable tide for as long as you can. Is that the full half or the empty half of the glass talking there? I’m not sure yet.
With the focus on my recent retreat last time, I neglected to get into general updates and current events. As you may have noticed, I don’t use this blog as the detailed journal I used to. The highlights though… my last TCB show happened at the end of September, and that was nice. My favorite moment was the closure of getting to announce, “in our seven years together, we’ve performed 71 of The Smiths’ 72 songs” to some cheers… and then playing Golden Lights and getting to announce, “make that 72 of 72.” So that’s a big chapter of my life behind me. In the meantime, I’m on somewhat of a Smiths detox.
What else? The Rumble Strippers spent a weekend (give or take) in the studio recording a half dozen songs. For real this time. Perhaps an EP in the near future? And how about us getting a spot playing Viva Las Vegas 2013? And signing with Tanoa at A-Town? The hits just keep on coming! Jared came to town for a few days, and it was so great to catch up with him and think about how life would be different if he lived here. Oh and it’s December which must mean car trouble. In the last couple years, it’s been drunk drivers, lightning strikes, and wild turkeys. This year, it was me getting rear-ended and pushed into another car. Sandwiched, if you will. So it’s a rental for me for a while…
Recently I’ve been going out more, and all this going out has led me to explore the “spirit” world again. Over the years, it’s often occurred to me that bartending seems like fun. I guess I should probably confirm that with some of the bartenders I know. I don’t see myself ever actually doing that for a living, but it couldn’t hurt to have those skills. And maybe even fill in somewhere part-time just for fun? The classes are more a time commitment than a significant monetary investment. I’d like to know more about making drinks and what all the gadgets behind the counter are for. I also have a minor fascination with the art of beer tap handles and of tiki mugs, though I don’t guess that would help me be better at the job. And am I correct in assuming that serious bartenders generally aspire to have one of their own signature cocktails catch on nationwide? I don’t know about taste, but in terms of pure cleverness, I’ve already got a couple up my sleeve. First, the “Edwyn Collins,” which is similar to a Tom Collins, but also includes orange juice (get it?). More recently, I had the idea for the “Ovaltini,” which would of course be a variation on the martini, but would include either Ovaltine, or maybe malt powder and some other creamy component… Bailey’s, Kahlúa, etc. Maybe the malt flavor could even come from something malty like Guinness? I’ll need to get into a bartending class and experiment.
UPDATE (December 2013): During my trip to Cuba, I had another great idea for a drink. It’d be a shot. A “Tetanus Shot,” which of course would have to be rust colored. More research needed.
By the way, I just saw some interesting variations on my main drink: the White Russian. Did you know there’s such a thing as a “White Mexican” made with horchata? And a “White Cuban” with rum instead of vodka? Yum! Or that there’s actually a name for the White Russian variant I often end up with when bars don’t have cream? It’s called a “Blind Russian,” and it involves substituting Bailey’s for cream. Interesting… I could see nerding out on this kinda stuff, but I’m guessing the local mixologists would just roll their eyes if you started throwing terms like “White Cuban” around when ordering.
So anyway, as I said, I’ve been trying to get out more lately. Throwing caution to the wind, and throwing myself to the wolves a bit. And really just trying not to control every little aspect of my life. Pushing myself to ignore the voice that always tries to shoot down new ideas, and then take it easier on myself when I fail. Just cut myself some slack in general and let myself be imperfect and human. A few very small experiments with this have taught me very quickly that life can drop some amazing things into your lap if you just let yourself be open to possibilities. Putting myself in unusual or uncomfortable situations (at least for me) has paid off almost without exception each and every time I’ve tried it over the last few months. Back-to-back days of back-to-back weekends of countless good times, new friends, and uncanny coincidences that would have never happened unless I loosened my grip on the reins a bit. It’s incredible what’s out there waiting for you — all those possibilities — when you just take your damn hands off the wheel for a second. It makes me think about all the opportunities I’ve wasted in life so far by being so rigid.
“For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.”
I’m kicking off a new category of posts here. It’s a category of Memories, and while in a way almost everything I post on this blog could be classified as memories, this category will focus on specific recollections I have that strike me and awaken a certain feeling. You know what I’m talking about, where you smell a scent that you remember from your youth, and suddenly a ton of stuff comes flooding back. I just feel compelled to capture those moments all of a sudden. We’ll see how it goes in the months to come…
It’s funny how very specific (and not necessarily remarkable) moments can stick with you. At the time I had no way of knowing that here some 15 years later I’d find myself thinking about that specific day’s mundane commute. It was just a simple drive home from junior college, one of hundreds of identical drives I would make in my early college career. And yet, here I am about to discuss it.
It was the fall of 1997, during my first semester of college. I was returning from a Saturday morning event that my Native American studies class was putting on. It was early afternoon, and I had the top down in my beat-up old Le Baron. It had rained a little earlier, but the sky had cleared leaving crisp fresh air and my favorite kind of weather: sun shining through dark rain clouds, reflecting off wet pavement and illuminating the emerald hills of 680.
The feeling I get when I think about that drive… it really speaks to that time of my life. These were good years for me. Classes were easy, life was simple, responsibilities were few, and the path ahead of me in the immediate future seemed clear. Every day, throwing my backpack in the backseat, putting the top down and driving home in the sun. Cranking Led Zeppelin or Aimee Mann or whatever else I listened to in those days (that is if I wasn’t tuned to Live 105 or Alice@97.3 and tolerating that horrible era of post-grunge, but I digress). To think of just the simplicity, at least in my memory. And the hope and anticipation of it. I was young, absorbing it all, the world laid out in front of me. So much wonder about what that night, that year, college, love, and life might offer. Basking in the simultaneous notions that 1) there was so much I didn’t know and that absolutely anything could happen for me in the future, and that 2) I was somehow invincible and in control of it all. My every swing was a homerun. And I was just biding my time and preparing for some opportunity for greatness that would reveal itself to me soon. The memory is one of freedom. A sense of wonder that I took for granted then, and that as an adult I don’t think I ever got back.
“What you have become is the price you paid to get what you used to want.”
— Mignon McLaughlin, The Neurotic’s Notebook, 1960
I had intended to write about this some time ago… well, considering it’s been nearly two years since I first cleared out my storage unit (which started in earnest in September 2010, and was conceived at least as far back as April 2008), I have really dropped the ball. (And in letting so much time pass, the Homeric epic I might have initially envisioned will now probably be a little anticlimactic. But let’s give it a go.)
Most of that stuff sat on my living room floor for a few months while I picked through it slowly. I threw away what was irreparably broken or otherwise ruined by time or neglect. I cleaned what was dirty. I kept precious few things, just a couple of office boxes in the end. Not bad, considering I started with something like 39 boxes/buckets of all sizes. For everything that was left, I organized it into piles, bagged it, and labelled it. I gave some things away to friends with young family members who’d enjoy them and to teachers who could use them for their classrooms. I donated many stacks of books and old VHS tapes. The collectible type toys — figures and their vehicles mostly — I gave them to my aunt with the understanding that I’d organize them and tell her what they were, she’d take the time and effort to sell them on eBay, I’d have a clear conscience because they went to someone who could use them, and she’d keep the money. When all was said and done, she built a new deck onto her house with the money she made. Everybody wins!
The reason I’m finally getting around to writing about it is that while I got 99% of it done in the first six months or so, I’ve let the last handful of things sit on my floor in the year or so since. For no good reason, really. I’m in the process now of finally wrapping it up though. I’ve hooked up the VCR to see if there’s anything family-related or worth saving on any of the last few homemade VHS tapes. I’m donating or trashing the last few little things. It’s finally gonna be “done.” Since so much time has gone by now, it’s hard to write about this and convey the same emotional weight it had when I was actually in the midst of it last year. It was cathartic but also difficult to revisit all this stuff and to let it go. These were the artifacts of my childhood. There were memories attached to each one of them, and so much came flooding back each time I’d open another box and start sorting through it. Memories of where and when I got them, where I played with them, and with what friends. The ritual of uncovering each one, dusting it off, and carrying it to the sink. Washing each figure as if preparing it for burial. It was good to let it go and get it out of my life, but it was also good to have one last moment with each one and to experience each of those memories again. I had a lot of mixed feelings dropping them off for donation or watching them disappear from eBay, one by one. I did the modern thing: I took pictures of some of it since a digital picture can evoke the same memory and requires no physical space. And I also kept a pretty extensive list of what I found, which I’m about to present. As for the stuff I remember but did not find, I must have had the sense to sell it off in garage sales years ago before I left home. I’ll warn you that this is for my own benefit. It’s an inventory of all the noteworthy things I found when I cleared out that unit. A list of memories for me to refer to in the future.
A big thanks to my folks for indulging me all this stuff. I know it cost a lot of money, took up a lot of space, and came after no small amount of my whining. But for what it’s worth, it really did mean the world to me in those days. G.I. Joes and the like, they were my gold and silver.
Things I Found (And Only Kept A Little Of)
Army Ants – I know at some point I had a ton of these and distinctly remember playing with them in the sand in the the little park by our house in San Jose. I only found a few in storage though.
Batman (from the 1989 movie, as well as some “new” DC Super Powers)
He-Man (a.k.a. Masters Of The Universe) – I had a ton of these, as well as Castle Grayskull and Snake Mountain, both of which I think I “traded” for with neighborhood kids.
Karate Kid 2 – Specifically just Cobra Kai sensei John Kreese, but who else do you really need? No mercy.
Legos – Hundreds and hundreds of them, from as far back as I can remember. Some may have even been my sister’s. If those things could talk… millions of configurations over the years, and no doubt covered with my tiny fingerprints.
McDonald’s Happy Meal Toys – Too many to mention, but I recall Muppet Babies in cars, Fraggle Rock in vegetable cars, transformers that went from robots into McDonald’s food items, Tiny Toons reversible cars, Mac Tonight (on a motorcycle, boat, jeep, etc.), and Berenstain Bears.
Micro Machines – We’re talking cars, motorcycles, planes, and a few pieces of the little “town” playsets.
Skateboard Smack-Ups – Both of these were part of my brief flirtation with skateboarding in the 80’s. I liked the video games. I collected the decals. I liked the culture. I got a nice board (which was stolen, spotted, and then returned thanks to Jonah’s family… a great story actually). But I had little interest in actually skating myself. Go figure.
Smurfs
Spiderman – This also included some other Marvel figures like Venom and Sabretooth.
Star Wars – This was mainly the figures and a few vehicles, but there was also a Play-Doh set and a giant Darth Vader doll. I can recall dozens of stories about Star Wars toys… like how I used to turn Yoda’s house upside down to make a boat for G.I. Joes, or how I used to chew on Luke’s scarf because it looked so much like chocolate.
Voltron – I had the big robot that split into five little robots and a few of the human characters. I have a vague memory that the big robot was a big deal to get when I was young. It was definitely the “big” present for that year.
Wrestlers – All sorts… some old hard plastic NWA guys, some WWF Thumb Wrestlers, several of the big LJN Wrestling Superstars, and a nearly complete set of the highly-detailed Hasbro wrestlers, ring and all! Those last ones were just cartoony enough to be fun, but still so detailed. Really unique. I remember the magic of picking up my first one… it was Brutus “The Barber” Beefcake at the San Jose Target.
Things I Expected To Find But Did Not
Fireball Island – I did find some of the pieces, but that cool volcano game board was lost. Too bad, it would make such a fun table game at a tiki party.
Star Trek – I had a few figures from the original Star Trek show that I inherited from one of my cousins… don’t know if it was Michael (who also gave me a few pewter AD&D figures I was lusting over) or Steve (who gave me those early NWA wrestlers). In any event, I don’t know where they went, but I bet they’re worth something now.
Colorforms – I can’t seem to recall any specific sets I had, but I distinctly remember playing with these. And during some camping trip with my aunt’s family, I got hooked on some Smurf-related knockoffs where you’d use a coin to scratch/transfer the characters onto a background. Oh well.
Stuffed Animals – I didn’t necessarily expect to find many of these, but a few that I distinctly remember are a stuffed rabbit in an airplane with string attached (from Easter one year), as well as another pink bunny that was shaped like a ball. I think that one pre-dated me. Might have been my sister’s. And then my old chicken feet slippers. How I loved those!
If you’re curious, there is a favorite. While at times I had major love for all of the things I’ve mentioned, the winner and ultimate toy of my youth was, far and away, G.I. Joe. They were an absolute class act. The attention to detail, every little part, every character unique and deeply developed, every weapon creative and exquisitely crafted. The vehicles and playsets were clever. The diversity was huge. And maybe the best thing about them was that they lent themselves so well to acting as other characters… meaning that when I had just seen the latest action movie, it was easy for me to adapt my stable of G.I. Joes to instead be the characters from Predator or Back To The Future or Cyborg or whatever. And the staircases and coffee tables of our house, along with bunkers and subway train cars fashioned out of odd-shaped Styrofoam packing, provided an endless array of variety for Little Ben.
I guess focused mainly on action figures up there. There was lots of other stuff too, of course. I mentioned the books that I donated. There was my beloved stash of Garbage Pail Kids, as well as a vast collection of sports cards. Baseball, football, hockey, basketball. For a brief time in the early 90’s, I was into sports. But not really playing them too much. Mainly I was into the aesthetics and the idea of them. I loved the artwork like Upper Deck‘s use of Vernon Wells paintings, or the “Visionaries” series from Fleer. Even the colorful and stylized representations on early Skybox cards. I liked the uniforms and team logos. It was all about the imagined versions of sports (think NBA Jam) rather than the actual sports themselves. I could probably write a whole separate blog about my experience with sports cards, but for now I’ll just mention how much I loved Upper Deck in those days. Every little detail of their product. The holograms, the multi-exposure photos. Their foil packs and limited edition cards. Heaven.
There were my old video game systems (Sega Genesis, CD, Saturn, and Dreamcast… I think my original Nintendo maybe too, but not the old Atari 400, which I hope Dad still has somewhere). Some old (but still very cool) comics like The Punisher, Venom-related Spiderman, and Infinity, Inc. There were some late 80’s issues of magazines like Mad and Cracked. It was hilarious to flip through those, as each page jarred a memory. Proof that so much of what you see really is all still up in your brain somewhere. I had a dozen or so issues of WWF Magazine that I gave to Virgil. I found my entire collection of cassettes, which I chronicled here. There were remnants of all manner of sticks, swords, Nerf, Wiffle Ball bats, toy guns (like Entertech), throwing stars, etc. Most of the ones I remember though disappeared long ago. A Gremlins gumball dispenser. My original View-Master, with tons of discs like Pete’s Dragon and Superman. I found old metal lunchboxes… He-Man and McDonald’s, though the Thermos inside each was missing. I found a collection of my mom’s old buttons from work in one of them. Some little rubber ninjas and wrestlers that I remember playing with at Disneyland (which have since gone to Deanna’s classroom). A rubber ape and a couple of rubber monkey face puppets from Cost Plus. Some bigger toys like a red monster truck (reminiscent of The Animal). This is all just what I noted down or remember. There were scores of other trinkets, too many to identify or mention. If I were to take the time to go through this list, I’m sure I’d have more to add.
I also had the experience of exploring my final backpack. After wearing through a new backpack each year of middle school and early high school, the black Eddie Bauer I got sometime around junior year finally lasted… all the way through my entire college career, miraculously. It still has the metal stud my older and cooler punk friend (Jeff?) put on it for me in Physics class. Anyway, I opened it up and had to laugh. Roughly ten years ago, after my last final, I must have come home, dropped it, and never looked at it again. It was still filled with the textbook from my last class, tons of papers, a binder, and my trusty TI-85 calculator, now crusty with corroded decade-old batteries. Yes, that backpack served me well. I haven’t been able to bring myself to dump it yet.
I’ll leave you with a little bit that I wrote as I was going through all this storage unit stuff sometime in the winter of 2010/2011. I didn’t get around to posting it at the time because I naively thought I’d finish the whole task and write about it soon after. It’s more than a year late, but it still captures something essential about this experience for me…
I’m going through my boxes, and I am astounded by all the college paperwork I have. All the transcripts, transfers, requirements, forms. So many hoops to jump through, places to be, papers to write, things to memorize. So complicated, so much responsibility… and no power yet. Hats off to any of you out there going through this right now. It’s a wonder anyone survives that time in their life. I’d have a complete breakdown if I had to do all that today. There’s a reason people have nightmares of showing up to class naked well beyond their college years. Maybe I was just less fragile then, but I’d be in tears today.
All this school paperwork. Class schedules and those little certificates you’d get for being a good student in your middle school science class. What is it that makes me think twice before chucking it? Why is it hard at all?
Today I learned that my mom — bless her — saved every single report card from kindergarten on. I know this because I just found them. Along with what must be every chicken-scrawled paper I ever wrote in elementary school. Seems sad to throw it all out now. I kept some of the early papers and the yearbooks of course. A couple of fawning graded papers from professors telling me how successful I’ll be and a few margin doodles in class notes that were particularly good. The rest? Well like I said, part of me didn’t want to chuck it, but do I really need every little award and report card? And I’m not kidding, there were hundreds.
Writing it and doing it are two different things. In the end, I think I kept more of those early report cards than I let on here. They don’t take up that much space after all, and someday maybe my kids will want to see this stuff. Anyway… thanks, Mom! 🙂
Well friends… I finally got on a plane and returned to Europe. The first time since Jared and I went to Ireland all those years ago. Fitting then that he’s the reason I returned: he got hitched! I spent a couple weeks across the pond, first to visit him in London and see his life out there, and then to Italy for the wedding and festivities. Verizon kinda fucked me with some bad information that led to me finding out just before leaving that my phone actually would not work in Europe. That stressed me out at first, and I considered a loaner or a pay-as-you-go, but in the end I lived without it perfectly fine. Grabbed some free WiFi when I could, and lived without phone the rest of the time. Two weeks was a long time to be gone, and I missed home and people here. But of course it was amazing too.
Part I – Smoke Lingers ‘Round Your Fingers
After a difficult airport goodbye, needless to say I was not looking forward to a 10-hour plane trip. British Airways was great though. Individual screens and on-demand movies made the flight a lot better than it could have been. I finally got to see “The Boat That Rocked,” which seemed appropriate for a trip to London. I was able to sleep, but only a little. I didn’t leave my chair once in the 10 hours. It was 11am local time when I landed, and Jared was kind enough to meet me at the airport. We went to take the train into downtown, but just as we boarded, they announced that there was a fatality on the tracks… which I understand is a common occurrence there (suicides). Jared is experienced enough in travel now to know that this means trains can be stopped for hours, and cabs are about to be in high demand. We caught a cab right away and left. Along the long ride, I learned about cabs in London. It’s nothing like it is in the States. For one, you have a city of 12 million people to memorize if you’re a driver. And they do memorize it. It takes three years of training, and they call it “The Knowledge.” These guys are serious experts. And it’s not a profession popular with immigrants. Literally every taxi driver I saw during my stay in London — and there were many — was an older U.K. native. They apparently have the reputation for being nationalistic and way into football (read: soccer). For instance, when Jared gets in a cab, they ask what hotel he’s going to, and when he explains that he lives in London, they immediately ask “when you going home?” All part of the charm I guess. Also, all the cabs are the same model of car, specifically designed to be cabs. And as such, they are very well laid out for their purpose. I was thoroughly impressed with the efficiency of the whole system. Not to mention that these guys are masters at maneuvering through insanely tight holes in insane traffic. We’re talking regularly operating with a couple inches of room to spare, and at high speed. At least the pedestrians don’t have an automatic right of way… which was amazing to see. Pedestrians didn’t get angry or indignant when a cab sped around a corner in front of them, because they knew it was their bad. So unlike California!
It turns out there was someone holed up in a flat not far from Jared’s place, threatening to set off a bomb or something. The streets were blocked off and the traffic horrendous. We got out of the cab and decided to walk the last half mile or so. Of course it started to rain, and so that walk carrying luggage was not ideal. Logistics were proving to be hit or miss, but eventually we got to his flat right downtown, where he graciously let me stay to save on hotels. After freshening up there (I felt and smelled not so great after the long and humid flight), we set out to sightsee. We were able to go on foot due to his proximity to central London. We had some Indian food at what is apparently the oldest such restaurant in the city. As luck would have it, next to us was a table of retired cabbies, all having lunch and sounding like Michael Caine. At one point a wife called and was greeted with “I told you not to call me now, I’m with my mates!” That’s how you do it, son.
Anyhow, we walked through Covent Garden and out to Trafalgar Square, Big Ben, and The Houses Of Parliament. Then along Whitehall to Scotland Yard, and on to Westminster Abbey, St. James’s Park, and Green Park. The parks impressed me with the bravery of their squirrels and pigeons, who will happily take food right from your hand, as well as the beauty of some of the exotic birds there. My favorite was the “coot,” which is unlike any other waterfowl I’ve seen… almost dinosaur-like! By the way, did you know it’s a big deal if you touch one of the Queen’s geese (which apparently live there)? Hearing this reminded me of my continuing confusion over the royal family’s role in England. They’re not really in control, but they’re not normal citizens either. For instance, you can touch Jared’s geese all you want and no one cares. (For some clarification, check out this excellent video on the U.K. vs. England vs. Great Britain, which seems to summarize a very complex system pretty well.) In any event, we finished up at Buckingham Palace, mused about if the guards would shoot us if we stormed the gates, stopped for iced tea, and headed home through Piccadilly Circus. By the time all this walking was done, it was becoming increasingly clear that I might die here. Not only do the cars have the right of way (as I mentioned), but I was constantly looking the wrong way when stepping into the street (damn left side driving countries)! But I’m here, so I guess I survived. So that was Day 1.
Day 2 – In their infinite mercy, Jared and his wife let me sleep late. We headed to Primrose Hill where they had an appointment to see a few flats for sale. Still rainy. The neighborhood seemed like the Noe Valley of London. We walked through a canal there, which would be sketchy in the States but seemed safe enough here. Saw a busker playing Bob Marley. Saw the Pirate Castle, which looked cool from the outside, but we didn’t go in. Jared’s wife split to run errands, and he and I went on to Camden, which I guess is like their Haight. Music and tattoo shops everywhere. Edgier people. Went to The Elephant’s Head pub on Christina’s recommendation, expecting it to be a rockabilly bar of sorts. There was a great jukebox that included a Link Wray album, but the afternoon crowd was decidedly “normal.” After a valiant effort at some London Pride and a bag of U.K.-specific flavored Kettle Brand “crisps,” we moved on. We checked out the Stables Market, which is like Hellboy II‘s “troll market” in almost every way. A crowded, open air food market of all sorts, along with shops selling all manner of art and bootleg t-shirts. On the way home, we’d intended to hit the Natural History Museum, but it was just closing. That evening, we went to an 80’s themed American diner called “The Breakfast Club” and had great food. There’s a refrigerator door there that’s actually the portal to a scenester speakeasy called “The Mayor Of Scaredy Cat Town,” but they would not let us in. Clearly, I’m not American or hip enough. Instead, we had a drink down the street at Ten Bells, owned by a friend of a friend. Turns out, this is the place where Jack The Ripper used to select and stalk his victims. Creepy!
Day 3 – Still sleeping till 1pm, which works out to about 12 hours a night. The three of us went to high tea at The Diamond Jubilee Tea Salon at Fortnum & Mason. It was my first-ever English tea, served with milk and sugar (a.k.a. “white tea”) and it was delicious. I was hooked and ordered it many other places before leaving London. If I recall, the meal included a cheese pie, along with a course of scones, and then two towers of amazing tea cakes. By the time we were done, none of us could indulge in the final course from their “cake carriage.” It was the most enjoyable meal of the trip! Fortnum’s was neat in general. Like a very upscale department store with shades of Brookstone. Their beautiful blue color (which is essentially Tiffany Blue, though I don’t know how the copyright works there) is everywhere there, and it’s lovely. Afterwards, Jared and I met up with a friendly MBA classmate of his from Spain, and we all saw The Avengers 3D, released a week earlier than in the U.S. for some reason. Also renamed “Avengers: Assemble” there I guess to avoid confusion with their old television show. More white tea afterwards, saw Jared’s office building, traded the Spaniard for the wife, and headed to Soho to find a late dinner. The only thing open was Moroccan, which suited me just fine. A long walk home saw us pass perhaps England’s only Baskin Robbins, which was sadly closed at that late hour. Then another night of trying to make my body fall asleep.
Day 4 – Jared and I set out for the Thames, passing St. Paul’s Cathedral and crossing the Millennium Bridge to the Tate Modern. We didn’t go in though, instead taking the opportunity to walk along the south bank. We headed towards The Shard (still under construction), crossing again towards the Gherkin, then on to the Tower Of London. We considered going in (and I’d love to next time), but there was so much to see and not enough time. We continued on to cross Tower Bridge (which I was sure was “London Bridge,” but I was mistaken) , viewing more of the south bank, the HMS Belfast, and the distant skyline of Canary Wharf, where apparently there are a lot of American companies, and I must admit it looks a lot like Chicago. That night, I read in a Starbucks and drank white tea while the happy couple completed their final pre-wedding dance lesson. Afterwards, I had vegetarian bangers and mash with them at The Troubadour.
Day 5 – It was a travel day, and I’ll be damned if I wasn’t up at a decent hour! We had breakfast at a Greek cafe, packed up, and took a very long and stressful cab to London Gatwick, due to traffic which nearly made us late for our flight. But lucky for us, our boy’s extensive business travel and airline status meant that we were rushed through security, and when I say rushed, I mean we were shown to a private screening room, empty but for the standard X-ray and staff to operate it. No one else in there. No line. It was a whole security line (in its own large room) just to the three of us. Needless to say, we no longer had to worry about delays. His status helped both of them get automatic upgrades to first class, and they would have upgraded me too just for being with him (not even on the same reservation), but first class was too full. It was pretty neat to see how he rolls. When it comes to travel, he is fucking elite. It was off to Naples…
Part II – Americano
After a short and pleasant flight, we landed in Naples. I was immediately faced with the stereotype of disorganized and somewhat rude Italy (at least by American standards). From the moment the plane landed, the people all seemed boorish, pushing ahead, not waiting what I would consider their turn. We deboarded the plane to get on a bus, which drove us all of about 100 feet to the other side of the building, where we were let out to go to border control. It was comical. Then people were climbing over each other to be first to get their bag. For example, picture the conveyor belt that disperses checked luggage. Imagine it is 50 feet long. The first 25 feet of it was ridiculously crowded, and the last 25 feet empty. We were near the back of the crowd, and rather than wait just 10 feet down the line to have open and sole access to get their bag, people would climb over us and push people out of the way to get their bag immediately. I don’t know if I’ve described that clearly, but I was too shocked to even laugh. It was so needless.
We had a driver to take us to our destination of Positano, and he was predictably crazy and aggressive when driving, as was everyone else. The hour-long journey included a winding, white knuckle drive that makes Highway 1 look like I-5. I was just about to reach my limit of car sickness when we finally arrived at the hotel. I was so pleased with my room though. Charming and plenty big enough for what I needed, it had tile floors and a drinking fountain next to the toilet. It had a curtain-less shower that let me look out the window to the ocean while bathing. That window view was incredible in ways I can hope to describe. It looked directly out onto the beach and town. I tried to take pictures and video, but there’s just no way to capture it in words… waking up each morning and coming home each night, and throwing open that big double window, breathing in that ocean air, and looking out over the peaceful Mediterranean Sea. It was a postcard come to life.
Day 6 – The next morning, I joined the two of them at the breakfast the hotel offered. I went on to do this a few more times over the next week… lots of good pastries, fruits, etc. Jared showed me around town (what little of it there is). Positano really is beautiful. It seems there are a million passageways and staircases winding through the shops and restaurants. So many ways to get where you’re going… or to get lost. I had delicious granita (and later in the trip, mixed with iced tea). I was tricked into sipping Jared’s disgusting Campari, and again he suckered me into trying limoncello on an empty stomach. It tastes something like kerosene and lemon, and without any food in your system, you can feel it searing its way down through your guts. I tried a lot of limoncello over the course of the trip but never really got used to it. Later in the evening, I explored the town and beach a bit more on my own. I saw many of the town’s infamous stray cats, along with a lone pair of ducks, and an occasional dog. I saw some of the little grocery stores selling produce like huge heirloom tomatoes and and the area’s famous gargantuan lemons — they were the size of cantaloupes. That’s not an exaggeration. It may not surprise you to learn that in addition to the art galleries and women’s clothing and jewelry stores, Positano’s other big export is all manner of lemon-related souvenirs. Anyway, I finished out the night with dinner alone: a plate of gnocchi at Buca Di Bacco.
Day 7 – These first few days were pretty tame. Relaxing and eating, you know. Read a lot. Took naps in the middle of the day, which I generally never do. I took showers just for the ambiance and relaxation. Sat in my window ledge and admired the view. This particular day, I had a giant plate of caprese for lunch down at Covo Dei Saraceni which was so massive that I couldn’t even look at caprese the rest of the trip. Picked up some Euros from the ATM, though virtually all of my valuables and important documents stayed locked in the room safe for the trip. Picked up some Italian cookies and water for the room. In the evening, we had our first massive dinner, this time on the lower level of Buca Di Bacco. I experienced my first quattro formaggi pizza of the trip. Got to meet up with Jared’s just-arrived parents as well as get to know some of his many brilliant and interesting international friends. People from every corner of the globe doing big things with their lives. Mostly I talked to a South African newlywed living in Singapore. Oh, and Jared casually dropped a request that I be his best man… at the wedding happening in about 36 hours.
Day 8 – The next day basically consisted of two big meals. First was the rehearsal brunch, of which I was now a part given my best man status. It was a gut-busting several-course meal outdoors at the Michelin-starred Hotel Palazzo Murat. Then for dinner that night, anyone in town for the wedding descended on Chez Black (noted for celebrity clientele like Denzel Washington). It was another plate of gnocchi sorrentino, which is the only way they seem to prepare it in Positano. It’s basically a sauce of tomato and mozzarella. Now, I’m not complaining, because gnocchi in Italy is still gnocchi in Italy. I’m just saying by the end of the trip, it started to taste like Chef Boyardee. Of course throughout this time, there was more cookie buying and no small amount of hastily scribbling an emergency best man speech on hotel stationery. By the way, that’s my room pictured below in white…
Day 9 – Wedding day. Jared and his bride had spent the night apart, and so in the morning we were just killing time together. In the early afternoon, I got dressed up in my suit and headed down to the cathedral with him. The ceremony was beautiful. Hard to go wrong in a place like that. Got to pelt them with rice and flower petals. Some confused tourists sat in the church to watch the ceremony and stood outside taking pictures of us taking pictures. I don’t know how they thought that was appropriate, but such are the perils of wedding in Positano I guess. We retired to Covo for pre-reception cocktails. I got a chance to talk with a few more of Jared’s friends from Brussels and Genoa. Super cool guys who may join Jared and the Spaniard for a tip to SF for a triathlon. I had a sip of 20 year old cognac that the bride’s family had brought. The reception included many delicious courses of dinner and dessert, as well as some entertaining Armenian customs and folk dancing, also courtesy of the bride’s family. I delivered my speech, which was well-received (in that about two dozen folks who had ignored me thus far made a point to come and introduce themselves). I danced my ass off, demonstrating that I have the moves like Jagger. After the reception, the heartiest among us continued on to the town’s only nightclub, which was steadily filling up with crazy vacationing Eurotrash. I chatted with a few more of Jared’s friends including one with great music taste, another telling me about real life in Moscow, and another from Australia who’d sailed part of the way to Italy… essentially solo. Thanks to the DJ, I again demonstrated how I still have the moves like Jagger, and about the time I heard a dance remix of The Doobie Brothers’ “Long Train Runnin’,” I realized my one White Russian had done me in! I started to feel dizzy and decided it was time to get back up the hill to my hotel. Luckily, I ran into some buzzed wedding friends staying at the same place, and we all jovially walked together.
Jared has some great friends out there. In another life, I could see myself in that circle. All these guys I mentioned, these successful and handsome international playboys with charming accents… if we get them out to SF for that triathlon or Bay To Breakers next year… ladies, watch out. That reminds me, outside of our wedding party, that night at the club was the only time on the whole trip where there was anything close to a concentration of good-looking people. True, most of it was the European equivalent of the Jersey Shore, but I get the appeal of being young and converging on the only nightclub in town while on a remote vacation, trying to hook up. Good for them. Did I mention it was lonely on this trip? Positano is for lovers. Just ask the giant neon Durex vending machine in the middle of town. I’m not kidding.
My last word on the wedding: damn, I look good in a suit. Sometimes I forget, and cameras don’t ever do it justice. I ought to wear them more often.
Day 10 – The next day was a huge catered goodbye brunch at Murat. So much good food, and they just kept bringing it and bringing it! People started to say their goodbyes, while others planned to stay an extra few days. A big group of us took a day trip to Pompeii by bus, which was brutal and tested the limits of my car sickness. But Pompeii itself was incredible. The amazing craftsmanship and technology there, not to mention the good shape it’s still in. My favorite was the polished white stones they put in their streets to reflect moonlight! Beautiful marble everywhere. They repaired after earthquakes. Used concrete. Had structures in the streets to control and divert traffic. Saw a few of the dogs that live on the grounds and sleep all day. I loved the bath house with a tiny mosaic floor and marble basins so preserved as to look almost new. The size of the neighborhoods too… it really is a whole preserved city which used to hold thousands of people. Alleyways, storefronts. The old barracks and the odeon. And then of course there was the famous brothel, with its preserved “menu” paintings inside, showing the services available there. Among them was a man with two peckers (which Jared and I later referred to constantly as “due pini”). And then there was the brothel street sign in the form of a phallus fresco on right on the side of the building. (It may not surprise you that I purchased a bronze statuette of a disembodied phallus with wings at the souvenir stand.) Pompeii was my kinda town. I wonder what their rents are like. To think that after 260 years of constant excavation, they’re still only 75% of the way done. The mind reels. That night was a challenger for best meal of the trip. Il Capitano served me a bowl of mini zucchini medallions with basil and stir-fried in so much vinegar, they almost tasted like salt and vinegar chips. Yum! And also… weird! It also didn’t hurt that their quattro formaggi pizza included a very strong smoked cheese. Again, we were eating outdoors, admiring the nearly full moon reflecting from a clear sky onto the calm Mediterranean. That huge reflection of the moon makes you feel like you’re in a painting. It’s every night out there, but here in SF, it’s almost unheardof. When is it ever clear out on Ocean Beach? The serenity was only broken up by a fireworks from a private party down the coast. Jared’s brother-in-law suggested it might have been a neighboring town’s annual “Bite This, Positano!” fireworks display.
Day 11 – Somewhere around this time, I had seen enough blue suede loafers that I felt confident in making the call that it is some kind of fashion phenomenon in Europe. Mark my words, it’s a trend, and I’ll bet it comes to the States before long. Anyway, it was time for us to take a day trip to Capri. I survived the boat ride and the white knuckle driving along shear cliffs. In addition to the fancy designer stores and coral jewelers, there were small shops selling homemade limoncello (read: moonshine). We visited the breathtaking Villa San Michele, built by Axel Munthe on the ruins of Tiberius’ own villa. Munthe was an interesting guy, building priceless archealogical artifacts into the walls and furniture of his house. We saw a perfume factory, but ran out of time before we could see the Blue Grotto or do more than snap a few distant photos of the Faraglioni. An average meal back at Caffe Positano finished off the night.
Day 12 – Our last full day in Positano. I joined the happy couple’s respective families at their shared villa for brunch. By this time, my knees were destroyed from all the walking up and down hills and stairs all over this vertical town. We took a last minute boat ride to Amalfi, and there we saw the massive cathedral, full of tombs and relics. Had some great gelato. Had a look at a nice and lewd public drinking fountain. Discovered the shoe art of Inna Panasenko, and finished off with a quiet dinner at Covo with just the families.
Day 13 – Going home. We shared a couple of vans to Naples, said rushed goodbyes, and took our separate flights. I was fortunate enough to share a flight with Jared’s family though. A layover in Frankfurt gave me the chance to compare Germans to Italians, if only for an hour or so. In that time, I got the impression that the Germans are way more organized and polite. That airport was humming along like a machine, and everyone I dealt with at the airport was super nice. I stocked up on a couple of pretzels and a danish, and hit the last leg home. Nearly 12 hours for that last leg, and so I invested $120 in moving to an exit row, which I ended up having to myself. So worth it for a flight that long. I will definitely do that in the future. Had room to stretch out, was right near the bathrooms, and had a screen to watch movies on demand. Which I did. Like four of them, including Chronicle, The Immortals, Anchorman (tip o’ the hat to my previous Ireland trip, and the rest of Sherlock Holmes 2. I didn’t sleep much, but I survived it just fine. And nothing like getting home after a trip like that, and getting back to the loved ones you missed.
Well fuckity duckity (or fuckity doo dah, as Jared would say)… I feel like I should have some big philosophical wrap-up here, but I really don’t. I have effectively gained back all the ground I lost to anxiety years ago in that I have proven to myself that I can handle those logistics. It was my last dragon to slay, the last thing I was telling myself I was too scared to do, and now it’s done. It was amazing to get to spend so much time with Jared again of course. It was lots of fun, and I’ll remember it always, but there were no big revelations for myself or my life plans the way I had hoped. I learned that Jaffa Cakes are delicious, and that London is expensive. Ridiculously and wastefully so. I’m serious. For real. I learned that t-shirts and jeans are not all-purpose wear in Europe the way they are in California — and that I need to pack some nicer clothes next time. I learned that the high school game where you make a circle with your hand below your waist and trick someone into looking at it so you can punch them in the shoulder twice… it’s still fun. I learned that Nicole loves lamb. And thanks to the bride’s family, I learned more Russian than Italian.
previet = hello
paca = goodbye
pajalsta = please
spasibo = thank you
da = yes
nyet = no
fsyo = it’s done
golka = kiss (at least in context?)
zot kinees = shut up = susminna (in Armenian)
I can’t thank enough Jared’s family for treating me like one of their own. It really kept me together on the trip. And of course I can never thank Jared and his wife enough for their extreme generosity and thoughtfulness in making this trip possible for me… and honestly as easy as it could possibly be. They watched out for me and had everything to do with making this vacation as amazing and memorable as it was. I couldn’t have hoped for a better first foray back into international travel after a long hiatus. I love you guys! Come out to California again so I can at least begin to return the favor! And hopefully I won’t let so much time go by before I’m out there again.
“The wild, cruel beast is not behind the bars of the cage. He is in front of it.”
I’ve been giving a lot of thought to life lately. Asking myself if I’m really making the most of my time on earth, or if I’m mindlessly going with the flow because it’s easy or because I assume I have no other choice. I was reading the April 2012 issue of Guitar Player magazine a while back — bear with me — and the editor (Michael Molenda) offered up a gem, just the latest great quote encouraging us to be present and mindful and take the time to sit down and savor life’s great moments. As he put it, “‘Live every day as if it were your last’ often gets rewritten as ‘Make sure every day is crammed with meaningless, self-important crap that allows you to feel busier and more valuable than the person next to you.’” And that pretty much sums up how I’ve been feeling about a lot of the things that I spend my time and energy on. I have this increasing sense that it’s time for some big changes. Some once-every-ten-years kinda changes. That could mean a pretty big shake up. Maui might be one part of it, and just think of all the consequences that might have.
Before I get too deep, how about some more lighthearted updates? I’ve seen some great shows lately. Most astonishing was The Darkness at The Fillmore. That show was jaw-dropping. The ease with which Justin Hawkins seemed to set the stage on fire with his soaring falsetto, acrobatics, and guitar mastery… I mean it was stunning. I saw him drop a plectrum, kick it back up sideways hacky sack style, catch it, and start his solo, all while looking not at all surprised it worked. It is a contender for the best live show I’ve ever seen. Other highlights include Devo (looking very old but not caring… oh, and also sounding amazing), The Buzzcocks, Pulp (another fantastic show), and a one-time reuniting of our old friends Dead Souls. After dragging my feet about it, I finally broke down today and got tickets for Morrissey in Stockton this weekend. Happy birthday, you old diva. You get my money again.
My own music has been good, too. The Rumble Strippers have had a few successful shows and seem to be climbing the ladder a bit. Our name is getting out there. We’re working on new songs. We recorded four songs in an actual studio (which was new to me), including one I wrote. It’s all very promising. And then TCB has an incredible new singer (Michael) who is possibly the best I’ve ever heard outside of Mozzer himself when it comes to those songs. He’s got the moves, the voice, and is a terribly nice person to boot. We’ve got a ton of shows coming up this summer, including trips to Portland, Seattle, and SoCal, and even a date opening for The Polecats. Not to mention the great shows last weekend at Slim’s and The Catalyst! Slim’s had some epic moments like walking on to “Imperfect List,” playing the “Subway Train” intro to “Everyday Is Like Sunday” as well as having David’s help on keys. He also joined us for “Jack The Ripper,” and Nick took on an acoustic guitar for “King Leer” and “Seasick, Yet Still Docked.” We closed with “Now My Heart Is Full,” which Michael ingeniously medley’ed with “I Won’t Share You” and then bowed and walked off while we continued playing. It was perfect. But come to think of it, the last couple months were brutal in terms of shows. I think at one point I had six or seven straight weekends of shows, alternating between TCB and The Rumble Strippers. But I guess that’s a Cadillac worry, as they say.
I had a minor surgery which was new for me as well. No stitches, but dealing with caring for it led me to have my first panic attack in ages. It happened at the hospital. Good times. But at the end of the ordeal, I was left with a better sense of my own resilience and confidence in what I can deal with, and that’s the ultimate antidote for anxiety. Let’s see, what else? Had a fun time at the pinball museum in Alameda thanks to Eden’s surprise party for Margaret. Damn, there was a ton of stuff in past months I never got around to mentioning, including my brief attempts at ice skating and Bikram yoga, as well as ongoing vocal lessons. Then there were two big trips. One was Europe (yes, Europe!), but more on that next time. The other was Viva Las Vegas, which after all these years I finally attended, along with my expert C-Po. I’d intended to write about it last month, but preparing for Europe kept me swamped. I’ll do my best to recall it now…
I’d been waiting to go to Viva since around 2004, but the right situation just never presented itself. C-Po calls it “rockabilly summer camp.” And specifically for vintage-lovin’ girls, it’s the “Fashion Olympics.” Both descriptions are totally accurate, it turns out. We spent most of the time within the Orleans Hotel, as that’s where all the events were anyway. We perused the many, many booths of clothes, jewelry, pomades (where I picked up some Layrite swag), stickers, etc. There was a vegan custom shoe maker from the U.K. that I plan to work with in the future. We gambled and won and then broke even. (Penny slots, dude. It’s the only way to go.) We didn’t stick around for the whole of Elvira’s show, but we caught most of one of Charles Phoenix’s hilariously-narrated slideshows. We took advantage of several free dance lessons, and though I’ve forgotten many of the steps already, I was a damn decent jiver and bopper for a few days there. We skipped the car show due to time constraints, and limited our time at the pool party to a quick walk around it just to get the feel. We took a walk through a fancy mall full of only the highest-end designers’ storefronts. We saw tons of friends and spent a good amount of time with the drummer from Quarter Mile Combo. I heard there were something like 8,500 paid attendees this year. Then there was that damn wristband, pretty and detailed as it was… I did not appreciate having to keep it on 24 hours a day for four days. The “rockabilly summer camp” vibe was really all about all these scene people under one roof, staying in the same hotel as if it were a giant dorm or a sleepover party. And of course everything is open 24 hours a day. Everyone getting all dressed up to be seen each night. It was fun, I can’t deny. And as for that “Fashion Olympics” aspect, I don’t doubt it now. There were countless unique and wonderful outfits. Obviously I don’t know what I’m looking at, but C-Po and her friends all know and recognize who’s bringing it and who’s a poseur. I actually held my own, poseur-wise. You know, part of me was staying away from VLV just to avoid being anonymous in a sea of people who look just like me, and that’s valid. But if I’m being honest with myself, I suppose there was also the fear that I would feel like an imposter among people who are rockabillier than thou. But there was none of that. If anything, I saw more neophytes than veterans, and I felt totally confident and comfortable in my own skin there. It probably helps that I’m old now. In fact, from what I saw, there were lots of badly dressed people, and I looked comparatively great. It was interesting to see all the different directions the neophytes and the veterans alike have taken a relatively small amount of cultural reference and tried to make it look flattering and authentic. What I saw ran the gamut from cherry print everything, to just a flower in the hair, to totally immaculate vintage from head to toe. I saw full-on cat suits, incredible dresses, and even overalls. For the record, I lost track of how many compliments C-Po got on her outfits, from friends and strangers alike. It was an embarrassing amount though, so apparently she really brought it. In terms of this scenester posturing that we’re all guilty of, my favorite moment was in an elevator when a wannabe queen bee — who didn’t know who she was talking to — responded to a casual compliment from C-Po with, “Yeah I don’t know if you know this, but my purse is like super rare. It’s worth like $1300.”
Over the course of the weekend, the dining was hit or miss. Right there in the Orleans, there’s a T.G.I. Friday’s, which disappointed us twice. However, there was a decent Denny’s-esque diner and great Asian place there too. The in-house food court had a Subway and Baskin Robbins, neither of which I took advantage of, but I got the obligatory veggie burger at the Fuddruckers there. Their facade was decorated with jukebox record streamers, a cardboard cut-out of James Dean, and a cringe-worthy banner that read, “Fuddruckers loves rock-a-billy’s. Welcome back!!” There are so many things wrong with that, I don’t even know where to start. We ventured away from the Orleans twice, and it resulted in the best and worst meals of the trip. I’m fairly certain that food poisoning from Garduño’s is what led us to have to stay in sick one night. But then brunch at the Mon Ami Gabi bistro at the Paris was one of the best meals I’ve had all year! Warm brie with black pepper, honey, hazelnuts, and croutons? Crisscut fries with blue cheese dip? Some kind of amazing salad that I can’t remember now? Yes, ma’am. I even did my share of drinking over the weekend, mainly to collect the commemorative mugs, including a boot, a skull, and a bowling pin. I vaguely remember some delicious Sailor Jerry punch.
Music was the main attraction for me, of course. I got to see most everything I intended to. Seeing Duane Eddy and The Ventures in person was definitely something I’m glad to say I did. The “legends” show featuring older stars on the verge of senility was interesting. J.D. McPherson was alright. Saw our friend Irving play in The 454’s. I forget who else now. The highlight was The Polecats, who were just full of energy and sounded great. Awesome to see Boz cutting loose and really playing! We even got to meet him and Tim Polecat after the show! Now with all that went on during the weekend, it’s just impossible to see it all. The bands that — in hindsight — I wish I’d seen include: Si Cranstoun (who is apparently Jackie Wilson-esque and amazing), Voola & The Jayhawks (which are all but a Screamin’ Jay Hawkins tribute), Jinx Jones (whom Paul has seen locally and has raved about), and Blind Rage & Violence (a Link Wray tribute). There were tons of other bands too that might have been nice. C-Po knew many of them, but I did not. Seeing the massive list of events for VLV meant seeing a lot of rockabilly band names alongside each other. And that led to some observations, and ultimately to us creating this:
So that was Viva. I’ll definitely be doing it again next year. Which I guess brings us back to the bigger “life” stuff… I didn’t do a “New Year’s” blog this year the way I’ve done in the past, but that’s not because I haven’t been reflecting. As I mentioned, I’m considering some big changes. And I mean big. Virtually no sacred cow is safe. This public forum isn’t really the place for me to get into it, but I’m pondering things. They’re not quite formed into specific resolutions, but instead loosely arranged into areas of my life that are due for an overhaul. A while back at work, it was suggested that each of us take a shot at creating a personal “mission statement” to succinctly sum up what we’re all about. At first, I thought it was kind of a silly exercise, but I admit that when I sat down and really gave it some thought, the end result was pretty valuable. This is what I settled on. My “mission” is:
To search for meaning and understanding, strive for absolute integrity, actively recognize and experience as much joy as possible in every moment of my limited time on earth, and do what I can to protect the right of all living things to do the same.
I wrestled with the precise phrasing of that statement, considering alternatives for nearly every word, and making sure the connotation and message was exactly what I meant to say. Now that was written sometime back in 2011, and though I didn’t intend it, it really fits well as a kind of framework for me to work with as I do some life overhauling to get more aligned with my real goals.
So to search for meaning and understanding makes me think of Spirit Rock, the Buddhist retreat. I’ve been thinking about doing a week out there for almost a year now, and I just know it would be helpful, but I may have to put it off (depending on my vacation time situation what with Europe burning up two weeks). Spirituality is something that I had a real awakening with while I dealt with anxiety a few years ago, and I know that there would be a tremendous benefit to pursuing it further. I really have to make this happen.
Then to strive for absolute integrity, that comes naturally to me. It may not surprise you to hear that “Responsibility” was my #1 strength according to StrengthsFinder. It isn’t always a good thing though, as I hold myself to an unrealistic standard sometimes. That’s where the word “strive” comes in. That’s to remind myself that I should shoot for perfection but remember that I am human too. Another big thing for me here is to continue to get comfortable with anger — allowing myself to experience it, express it, and let it go, rather than tamp it down like I’ve done for years. My progress and small victories there have been kind of amazing. To see how fast you can let something go after you express it. It’s still so foreign to me as I’m used to holding it in until it hardens into resentment. There are many great quotes on that subject. Anyhow, I feel like I’m still making slow progress in this area.
And then to actively recognize and experience as much joy as possible in every moment of my limited time on earth, that’s a loaded one. A lot of key words there. “Actively” because it takes attention and effort to see (or “recognize”) the value in everything you experience. You can’t control everything that happens to you, but you can control how you view it. Easier said than done, but that is the ultimate power to have in your own life. That’s the ultimate goal. Originally, instead of “recognize,” I was playing with variations of “pursue.” I’m at least putting some of this into action this year by travelling. Already VLV and Europe are behind me. With my remaining vacation time, I still would like to try to pull off Cuba later this year, maybe combined with a Florida manatee stopover. New Orleans is off the table for a number of reasons, but I’ll see it and the G.I. Joe convention eventually, even if they’re not at the same place in the future. I’d like to make time to relax and rest and ponder and redistribute my time based on true enjoyment rather than just trying to use it to efficiently complete and endless list of tasks. I want to feed ducks more. I want to finally get an Ocean Beach bonfire going with friends, and throw more events like that to expand the circle of friends. I want to finish my massive house clean and purge of all non-essential material things. I want to purge non-essential commitments and usages of my free time. I want to do something for a living that excites my passions and feels real. I want to live somewhere (Maui?) that helps me “be here now” rather than silently prods me to work on a to do list. That “be here now,” that idea of mindfulness is the really the key. Pursuing happiness through vacations and simplifying my schedule, it’s certainly a valuable use of my time, but it’s too limiting as an overall goal. It’s not enough just to try to improve what happens to you, because you can’t really control everything that happens to you. Vacations are nice, but no amount of vacations or material things is going to guarantee your happiness. The happiness comes from your mindset. It’s easy to be happy on vacation with your friends, but that’s not where you spend the majority of your life. It’s more important to find how to be happy the rest of the time.
And finally, to do what I can to protect the right of all living things to do the same. For this one, I struggle. I need to find something meaningful to do here, and if it doesn’t come in the form of a new career in that field, it might at least be some volunteer time. Ideally though, I would do for a living something that leverages my talents towards a noble cause that matters to me and to the world and makes a real difference, rather than just the accumulation of wealth.
So those are the big plans, somewhat mapped to more actionable items. It’s so easy to get overwhelmed by day-to-day life and commitments while your big plans… your important plans… your life plans… all stay on the back burner. In some ways, that’s the biggest obstacle. Some of these goals have been on my mind for months with no progress or answers yet, but hell if I’m not trying.
The quote of the week is just a question for you to ponder:
“If your life had its own board of directors, who’d be on it?”
New Year’s was quiet, but nice. I hadn’t been to Monterey in a long time, and I forgot all the great little shops and touristy things to do there. We found a great Italian place, ducked into a few storefronts, and bought some candy. Then I got to see my folks New Year’s Day. In fact the only downside at all was the wild turkey prints I found on my car. Sometime during the night, a wild turkey(s) managed to climb or fly up onto my trunk and leave a few prints and talon scratches in the paint (where it apparently slid off the edge). Thanks a bunch, Mother Nature.
If you’ll indulge me getting a little philosophical on you for a paragraph, I had a strange period of wonderment when I was driving out for that short New Year’s vacation the other night. (If you want to know why I never got into drugs, read on. Evidently I am stoney enough while sober.) Maybe I was subconsciously in a reflective year-end mood, but as soon as I hit the freeway, I was struck by the crispness of my vision. The sparkling clear details of the other cars and lights all around me. I mean I really noticed a difference, almost as if I truly were under the influence of something. (This part could all just be due to that brand new windshield.) But then an opera singer was discussing on the radio about how all human voice comes from these most fragile of tiny membranes in our throats. And she sang and I thought of how the sound of opera evokes — at least to my tiny, uncultured brain — images of great white halls and gold and sunlight. All the decadent splendor you see in Greek and Roman period pieces. (Corny, I know, but it is what it is.) And then I arrived at my rural destination and saw how bright the stars shone out there. How much more I could see in the sky when I got away from the city for a bit. You’ve all been camping, you know what I mean. All this was swimming around in my head. The gifts of sight, sound, and speech. The blessing that is being a sensitive creature capable of experiencing all of these wonderful things. And I thought of how easily we could lose any or all of it through accident or illness or age. All of our senses and abilities, and our life itself, we are so fortunate to have them. More fleeting than any of us fully realize until it’s too late.
And we are indeed fragile. I am officially getting wrinkles. Well, the beginning of some creases on my face. Another casualty in my life-long war on lotion. Sure, I wash my hands more than Lady Macbeth, and with the brutally cold weather we’ve been having lately, I would expect (and mourn) my hands to age more rapidly. But my precious face? I guess my good looks are fixin’ to get even more rugged, if you can believe it. For better or worse.
And speaking of aging, I ran across this video the other day. Rosie Hamlin of Rosie & The Originals in 2002. “Angel Baby” was a beautiful enough song as it is, but something about seeing an aged and matronly Rosie singing it as sweetly as ever… it lends a whole new dimension and gravity that make it so much better, but somehow somber too. It moves me in a way that I can’t quite articulate.
NOTE: When I came across this in 2023, the original video I’d embedded here had been deleted off of YouTube. I *think* it was the same as this one on Daily Motion.
Looking forward to a new Smiths night in the Haight, TCB shows at the Blank and Popscene, and Wanda Jackson / Jack White… all within the next couple weeks! And further out are Social Distortion in February and OMD in March. Good times ahead… And the crushing quote of the week was yelled out by a friend between songs at a Swamp Angel show we went to. (Swamp Angel is a new suspiciously Deadbolt-like band from an ex-Deadbolt member.)
