Waiting for the interim. Soup later.

Adductor Spasmodic Dysphonia

2009-11-14T13:26:00.000-08:00

I have this rare disorder. Adductor Spasmodic Dysphonia. ASD for short. Sounds like the name of a grunge band from Seattle. My friend Jaxon calls my disorder "dyspeptic paprika". Close enough.

Basically this disorder is a screw-up between the brain and the vocal chords causing a strained or strangled sounding voice often with vocal breaks. Bobby Kennedy Jr has this disorder...You know who he is: Kennedy family, environmental lawyer...hello?

The first time I saw RFK jr speak on television about a year ago I was devastated. I couldnt watch...the poor guy was grasping desperately for words to express himself. The sounds were so labored it pained me to watch. Now my voice is worse than his....but I have no self-pity and other than the fact that my dating life now sucks worse than ever, I dont really care. Jaxon makes fun of me which hurts a little, but what the hell. Of course I am an easy target these days....I sound like Marge Simpson after helium. This disorder hasnt really kept me quiet, although I've already begin wonder what its like to beg for sex in sign language.

On the other hand, Im otherwise healthy and grateful for that. The disorder started slowly. First time I saw the ENT Dr. my voice was near normal. Despite that I was lucky and got diagnosed after I got the "up your nose with a rubber hose" camera treatment. Thats where they put this mini camera up your nose and then down your throat to watch your vocal chords. Talk about youtube. Woo. If you ever have this procedure done, a bit of advice: "don't swallow". Those cameras are expensive and a little hard to digest. Also the Doctors office really doesnt want them back after you recover them. "What do you mean you won't take it back? it still works fine."

Given the fact that this disorder started slowly and was episodic in nature...you know good days and bad days, I took the traditional American approach to treatment. I call it the disinterested girlfriend dealing with horny boyfriend approach to medical treatment: "ignore it and hope it goes away".

I read through a lot of the literature. Lots of articles with big words. Very little of it made sense to me. I mean I sort of understand the medical literature....but it just didnt resonate with my experience.

The medical literature says that this is most likely a neurological disorder originating in the basal ganglia area of the brain. In other words its a movement disorder like Parkinsons. The medical literature also says there is no known cause and no known cures. Botox injections in the throat help. Needles putting toxic poison in my throat?????? What?? Nooooooo, Im not doing that. No way. They say surgery helps sometimes. Now here is where I get really confused. The theory on the surgery is that the vocal nerve is damaged, so the damaged nerve is severed and a healthy nerve is attached. But I still have moments especially as soon as I wake up in the morning where my phonation is near normal. I can talk okay. If the nerve was damaged, how can I have near normal moments? What happens during sleep that causes the nerve to temporarily function correctly upon awakening. Or what happens during the day to cause the nerve to stop functioning? And can those processes be augmented or inhibited as the case might be? Hmmm?

My intuition tells me that the nerve may have some damage, but its the brains reaction to the damage that causes problems. Once the voice begins to have problems, the brain sends a stronger and perhaps longer signal to the vocal chords to compensate for the weak voice. In this case the brain although well-intended is doing the exact opposite of what needs to be done....the brain needs to send a weaker and shorter signal to the vocal chords. The longer and stronger signal cause the vocal chords to slam shut and produce no sound despite the brains intentions.

So all this leads me to step 1. Im going to try and find a competent biofeedback provider with some expertise in this disorder....hopefully some expertise.

Well...let's see what happens.

Here is a vid of me speaking...Don't ask me why the vid is sideways. My phone is smarter than I am and a little bit insubordinate. Hopefully future vids wont have the same problem.

China Part 1

2009-10-05T17:05:00.000-07:00

Written on Oct 9, 2009

A week ago I got back from my first trip to China...Southern China to be exact. Nanning, BaMa, Beihai, WuMing and PingGuo (the apple city)

The weather was perfect. I packed two light jackets and never even thought about wearing them...lightweight T-shirts were all that was needed even late at night.

I expected China to be an adventure. American perceptions of China are more iconic than real...we imagine bucolic scenes and pagodas....instead of an adventure I got an education. China has transformed itself and fast. I looked for ancient China and saw glimpses, but modern China prevails...modern China is everywhere. China may have assumed possession of Hong Kong in name, but Hong Kong has taken control of China in spirit. Highrises abound both businesses and residences...giant neon signs and zillions of scooters...zillions. Anthills of scooters. Bee swarms of scooters.

The thing about China that struck me the most was the industriousness of the people: China may wait but China never stops...the Chinese people dont stop working, they dont stop for street lights, they dont stop for other traffic, they dont stop passing traffic in front of them even when there are oncoming trucks. They don't close their shops...China moves at a slower speed than the US, but we in the US start and stop...China doesnt stop. They don't stop learning, they don't stop negotiating, they dont stop trying to excel.....THEY DON'T STOP!!!

Bicycle Ride...more thoughts of being 8 yrs old

2009-08-27T16:36:00.000-07:00

Just got back from a 30 mile bicycle ride in the summer heat..both cathartic and transformative.....the sights and smells of Sonoma County: Ripe blackberry, clover grass, wild anise and the cow manure...the manure being a smell that somehow felt comforting, strange I know, but what was stranger was the lady in Sebastopol walking her llama alone the trail...as I rode along I felt like I was 8 yrs old and it was the endless summer vacation....suddenly I could hear the playing cards in my spokes...fwap fwap fwap...and I was sure that when I got home I could turn on the radio and hear Vin Scully's golden voice announcing the Dodger line-up in the brand new Chavez Ravine stadium....Sandy Koufax would be pitching....Johnny Roseboro behind home plate....as a kid I knew nothing of prejudice. Sandy Koufax was jewish and Johnny Roseboro was black...all that mattered to me was that they were the greatest

Riding the Bicycle on the Roof of the Garage.

2009-05-15T08:01:00.000-07:00

Good friends....they hang out together for no particular reason other than they enjoy each others company. My friend Steve Jaxon (aka Jax) was doing a remote yesterday. By remote I mean a live remote radio broadcast from the Wells Fargo Center. I go hang out...well "just because". You know that logic your mother would use when you were eight; the "just because" logic. You would question your mothers decision on something, thinking that you could do some sort of Vulcan mind trick and get your mother caught in a logical contradiction. The sort of logical contradiction that would change the ground rules from that moment forward, forever allowing you the free will to be yourself at eight years old...superior to all other eight year olds, forever able to decide your own fate without parental intervention. "Ooh cake for breakfast." Then your mother would turn Zen-like and respond "just because". A response against which there was no additional argument. The terminus of reason. It was at that precise moment you realized you never would get to ride your bicycle on the roof of the garage after all. Yeah, I was hanging out the remote for no logical reason...I was there, "just because".

The remote broadcast was in conjunction with a Santa Rosa Chamber of Commerce networking event. 60 or 70 local merchants had set-up booths to promote their services and /or products. An event which sounds boring as hell [caution: momentary cynicism ahead] thank god there were no attorneys there....but in the process of hanging out I noticed something...something powerful. There was a vibrancy among the merchants and attendees, a palpable energy...sometimes I wonder why I live in Sonoma County when San Francisco is so close....yesterday I felt more alive than being in San Francisco...yesterday was more reminiscent of being in Manhattan than sleepy Sonoma County. And that vibrancy was driven by women....the women merchants of Santa Rosa were smart, well dressed, sharp and positive...this wasnt West County Birkenstocks and Tie Dye skirts...this was $600 Manolo Blahniks, well-used gym memberships with optimism and initiative. This was sharp independent conscientious women driving local commerce. It wasnt until two hours after the event that something struck me...profoundly struck me....there was no talk of recession or a down economy at that event....nothing symbolic that would indicate any fears about our local economic future...there was only a buzz. I felt truly alive and happy that I was in Sonoma County...it was a "happening place". It was as if the injunction had been lifted and I had been permitted to ride my bike on the roof of the garage after all. Maybe even adding in a pillow case as a cape while I considered riding my bicycle off the edge. Yeah I felt that alive. [Caution:editorial moment ahead] To the extent that Santa Rosa & Sonoma County are able to transcend the world wide recession, I will point to the local women merchants....local women with global awareness making a difference. They are more than our green shoots...from what I saw yesterday, they are our foundation.

Independently, Jax noticed the same thing I did....our observations parallel, providing reciprocal affirmation of our respective thoughts. Uh oh that sounds way too snobbish..."reciprocal affirmation" ??? Okay let me re-phrase that....um, er, we was thinking the same. Yeah, Jax and I was on the same thought page. And while Jax normally harbors a silent disdain for remote broadcasts...this one was a little different. During the course of a three hour broadcast, Jax had maybe 20 or 30 people come up to him...many gushing, "are you Steve Jaxon?" followed by "we love your show". Radio shows are not inherently interactive...its hard to know if your audience likes or appreciates what you do. A comedian on-stage tells a joke and gets instant feedback from audience laughter....A radio show host does not get the same kind of feedback, there is a long long lag between doing your shows and getting any kind of metrics to gauge audience appreciation....as such it easy to become a trifle insecure, to second guess yourself...but to be among a group of people, a sampling of the community and to get that kind of appreciation was tremendously gratifying...Jax doesnt need the ego boost of the appreciation, but the validation that what he is doing has some meaning in peoples lives was about as good as it gets....yeah, Sonoma County was happening yesterday...I might stay for a while. Anybody got a pillow case?

a salsa with matching socks?

2009-05-07T15:02:00.000-07:00

So I'm going to be a judge in the Great Petaluma Chili Cookoff. I wrote a bio...I tried to write a normal bio. I just wasnt feeling it...in the words of Yoda, "incapable was I" of writing a normal bio....I finally ended up with the toned description of my salsa credentials as follows:

Despite his free-spirit Michael is a salsa traditionalist. He believes that a great salsa should remind him of an afternoon in Cabo drinking Pacificos watching the whales or a night in Costa Rica eating fresh ceviche. He believes a champion salsa should remind him of a girl of dubious character named Consuelo.

Actually I think a great salsa should be slutty and tawdry...wearing ripped fishnets like a jammer for the Sonoma County Homewreckers Roller Derby team. A great salsa is like exceptional food...highly evocative. Great food evokes powerful memories: sailing in the Chesapeake, scuba diving in Aruba, walking through the Hong Kong airport your first time, a cabana in Honduras, your first little league baseball uniform,....great food is a chance meeting with intriguing celebrity...noticing Paloma Picasso sitting on the bar stool next to you, Mick Fleetwood asking you directions....great food is hitting a perfect drive on the 18th at Pebble Beach....great food is an insulted girlfriend throwing a drink in your face in public. Okay so great food isnt always perfect, but its memorable.

Yesterday was a little salsa pre-event in studio at KSRO....one salsa stood out before we even started. I could see fire-roasted tomatoes and fresh cilantro...a beautiful contrast in colors.
The other salsas were commercial entries, I was skeptical. And three salsa entries were mango based, one was described as a key lime salsa...I was momentarily enchanted by the words key lime, I could almost taste the key lime pie melting in my mouth...mmmmhhh, but when Laura Sunday called them fruity salsas I snapped to my senses...there is a word for fruity salsas....the word is CHUTNEY!! a salsa that goes better with tea and crumpets is not salsa....I don't want a salsa that tastes good over ice cream....I dont want salsa that listens to Kenny G or has matching socks, I dont want a salsa that has car seat covers...a smooth jazz salsa with sheepskin??? Pass....next entry please

I want a salsa with worn out floorboards and an arrest record....I want a salsa that cheats on her boyfriend....I want a salsa with a secret life....slipping away to Vegas for the weekend to do lap dances for $20 a pop...I want a salsa that likes mud wrestling. I want a salsa that failed economics in college. I want a salsa that has stayed up for three days. I want a salsa that has been to rehab.

There is no such thing as a good christian salsa...no such thing as a salsa that resists temptation...no such thing as a salsa that doesnt kiss and tell, no such thing as a salsa that drives a Volvo at the speed limit.....I want my salsa in a convertible, half-naked causing commotion on Highway 1 near Ft Ross. I want my salsa wearing leopard print to a funereal....I want my salsa doing Jello shots and shooting pool. I want my salsa hung over and bleary eyed. I want my salsa to be grumpy and irritable. I want my salsa throwing chairs like Bobby Knight. I want my salsa to have a golf swing like Charles Barkley.

So with a little bit of trepidation I will head to Petaluma on Saturday...and look for Consuelo...

...to be continued

The competition was fun...pure Americana....the top three finishers were described as follows:

1. A salsa that would get the most beads at Mardi Gras...the full Consuelo.
2. A mean tattooed salsa that hangs around in biker bars looking for a fight...but like Mickey Rourke in Barfly, he loses more bar fights than he wins
3. A genuine suiza tomatillo surprise....

...til next year

Texas Style, Kitten with a Whip meets the Grateful Dead

2009-05-01T10:56:00.000-07:00

As mentioned before, one of my best friends, Steve Jaxon, (real name: Stephen Cole Vicario) hosts a live afternoon radio talk show called The Drive (KSRO 1350 AM)...its a talk show that is really Steve's personal canvas and palette...he paints the show with his own guests & music....management is gleefully happy to stay out of Steve's way as the ratings continue to grow....I make small contributions to the show and in exchange get to share the perquisites of Steve's local celebrity status...free passes to many local community events and concerts....the one show alone: Zappa plays Zappa was worth all of my contributions...

This coming Tuesday Steve will have Dan Healy as a guest....Basically Dan is the genius behind the sound of the Grateful Dead...Not many things evoke powerful memories these days....I have had my share of drugs and alcohol...but the mere suggestion of someone connected to the Grateful Dead being on Steves show sent my synapses into overdrive...memories and sensory sensations colliding...images, sounds, people, venues, parking lots....

Growing up in the bay area in the late 60's & early 70's I came to love The Grateful Dead....I dreamed of what it would be like to be backstage....to be friends with the band...to be immersed in the adventure, to be part of the extended Dead Family...it was 1968, I had visited my mathematician uncle in Santa Fe, NM...my uncle put me on a Greyhound bus back to the bay area...I took my seat with a cheap suitcase in tow...on the empty seat next to me was a paperback version of "One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest"....the intro still permanently embossed: "One flew east, one flew west and one flew over the cuckoo's nest"....my personal adventure with the extended Grateful Dead family had begun...being 15 I was happy with six degrees of separation...

20 years later my dream about having at least a peripheral association with the Grateful Dead family came true, [caution:name dropping ahead] In fact, I ran into Ken Kesey...literally ran into him...smacked right into his big barrel chest...I was backstage at a Oakland Auditorium New Years Eve show....yeah those degrees of separation had slowly collapsed through time (thank you Clyde Taff)...unfortunately I was drunk and gacked to the gills when I collided with Kesey.....barely able to mumble an apology let alone use the opportunity to say something so cosmically clever that it would make Kesey pause and then demand I join his weekly LSD poker game..."okay we are now playin 3 card bisquick...one eyed pukers are wild...everybody anteup...potato poker chips only..." in fact I probably would have been forcefully removed from backstage if not for the fact that half of the security personnel had been supplied drugs via yours truly and the Medellin cartel..."hey man its going to be a late show...you got any more of that, uh stuff...?...and don't be smackin in to Ken Kesey anymore...thats not cool"

A few years later with at least one trip to rehab in my personal rear view mirror....I was living in Las Vegas....The Dead were going to play for a few days in Sam Boyd stadium...my bridges had not been completely burned and I scored some all access passes...woohoo laminates: "I rock"...I had been hanging out at Ballys Casino a lot because of a hot Texas cocktail waitress...Teresa Duren from Lufkin Texas...Teresa was a small town girl with breasts that reminded me of Dallas & Ft Worth, killer legs too, sugary Texas voice....God I wanted her bad...She was the embodiment of the adolescent lust I felt the first time I looked at a playboy centerfold...mmmmhhh....mesmerized by the big cities I ignored the signs of our cultural disparity and invited Teresa to go with me to the concert...figuring that if an all access pass didnt impress her enough to sleep with me...nothing would. And when I say I was blinded by cultural disparity...I mean blinded with a capital B...Teresa once told me in a syrupy rural Texas drawl that she "liked sushi...but only the cooked kind of sushi"...I listened but didnt really hear her...the big cities were in the way of my auditory nerve...Teresa's comment about sushi should have been a major clue that Teresa and the Grateful Dead were alternate and antithetical universes....but lured by the big cities and the prospect of sleeping with my personal centerfold, I extended the invitation anyway. Teresa cheerfully accepted....I should have seen it coming: Teresa at a Grateful Dead show was a pure Ellie Mae Clampett disaster...epic, surreal and unfixable...

I picked up Teresa at her Las Vegas condo on a blazing hot Las Vegas afternoon, middle of May...there was Teresa in 112% Halloween style Daisy Duke glory...short short cutoff levis, black 5 inch high heels, long white waxed legs...big teased two-toned Texas hair and a half shirt that showed off most of her stomach and the major urban areas of the big cities...I could see all the way from Dallas to Ft Worth and the surrounding areas....hello Weatherford ...it was major cleavage, Dolly Parton shaking her head cleavage...her look was so wrong that there was no fixing it, the girl had no flip flops and Tie dye in her closet...there was no little change I could suggest that would make it better, her look was pure Hee Haw Hooker...Junior Samples drooling and stammering...I decided to make peace with the surreal....looked right at Teresa...well I sorta looked at her mentally imagining the drive from Ft Worth to Dallas, then taking a big right turn toward San Antonio, wondering if I would get stopped by the Federales if I tried to go "south of the border"....I finally looked up and said..."you look perfect, lets go" hoping that Teresa would be oblivious to her own Anne Margaret, country style "Kitten with a Whip" spectacle once we arrived at the show....yes Teresa understood less about the Grateful Dead than she did about Sushi....

There is a lesson here...while I imply that Teresa was clueless about the Grateful Dead...I was obviously clueless as well....Why was I surprised that a Las Vegas cocktail waitress from rural Texas was dressed like a big hair porn star? It seems we all have blind spots....a few years later I got married....I think I was married six months before I realized two things about my wife that were horribly wrong...two thing I missed...completely missed, two glaring red flags, two things I was clueless about....How the hell could I not know my wife was an NRA member and kept loaded guns unlocked in the house? And while that was egregious enough....(egregious on both our parts) perhaps more egregious was that my wife was of the firm opinion that Roger Moore was a better James Bond than Sean Connery...how could I have over looked that...how could I have been so clueless...???? If I had known about her blasphemous James Bond ideas I would have called off the wedding and sent her for de-programming

So a tarted-up Teresa and I arrive at Sam Boyd stadium for the Grateful Dead....even Bill Walton swallowed his tongue...maybe because Bill could see Dallas and Ft. Worth clearly from his vantage point ....[cue the Bill Walton voice: "Un--bee leave ah bil"] It would have been less a sensation if I had been with Madonna and Jenna Jameson...the thing I found fascinating was the stares from the young hippie guys there with their hippie girl friends...I thought the guys would look at Teresa as some sort of cultural freak of nature....Nooooooooo...the guys were staring at Teresa with mouths open and tongues hanging out....hoping desperately their hippie girlfriends wouldnt see their blatant lust....I can only imagine how the discussion would go later...trying to explain to Sunflower why she should suddenly start shaving her legs and wearing heels....I can only wonder how many young hippie girls stormed out of the yurt later that night angered by their boyfriends mental infidelity

Well thats my long strange trip...oh in case you are wondering....I never did have any fun with Dallas and Ft Worth...never made it down south to San Antonio....who knows I might have been clueless once I got there....Of course I might be in good company, I hear a lot of girls complaining that most guys don't know that The Alamo is right in the center of San Antonio...

April 28, 2009: Blog is glob inside out...sorta...

2009-04-28T12:05:00.000-07:00

Okay...its not time to promise anyone I'll start writing again, but it does seem worthwhile to try and pop out a blog or three...especially as my mind seems verdant enough to spew out an ingenious thought or too (sic) these days...wait wait wait, I think verdant means "lush and green" which means I have used the word out of context or alternately I need to reshape my syntax around the word verdant..., hmm shaping syntax...do I need a lathe for that? Frankly though I don't give a shit about following grammatical rules these days...I'd rather my readers be slightly puzzled and annoyed rather than lulled to sleep by structurally correct commentary...oh who am I kidding...I have no readers....

I went to see Comics Stripped last night in Petaluma...at the fabulous Cinnabar theater....I managed to irritate Ellie the GM, ironically as I was trying to defuse what was only a mildly awkward situation....either my diplomacy skills have been horribly corrupted or Ellie is a trifle brittle these days....I still like her though....her thin features and delicate chin are endlessly fascinating....she is an art subject come to life. I went to Comic Stripped primarily because my friend & compadre, Steve Jaxon was doing a little emcee work.....Steve has a big deep resonant voice....a voice that is almost addictive...like smelling the Cinnabons at the mall, you are drawn in.....and women love his voice...I mean two syllables of love....long long bubble bath love his voice. Oh my oh my....thats much higher praise than anything I could ever ladle out.

I wasn't overwhelmed by Steve's intro though, but the crowd laughed and seemed rapt...so when Steve asked me later about his intro, I employed the same diplomatic skills that seemed to have failed so miserably earlier with Ellie. Fortunately Steve had been drinking Bob Sarlatte's scotch and failed to notice my evasiveness, in fact he actually seemed to be pleased with my answer as I told him content was subordinate to vocal quality and delivery....I then followed that comment with a Marshal McCluhan reference and waved my hands....and presto change-oh: smiles all around!

The fact is that Steve's authoritative delivery and his vocal quality are extraordinary....he does capture peoples attention, I'm constantly in awe of how commanding he can be with a microphone in his hands...I just wasnt overwhelmed with his Bye Bye Birdie reference....of course then again Steve is singularly unimpressed by my fascination with the song: "The girl from Ipanema" or the fact that I watch "American Idol"...so that seems like a fair enough skid row poe...er quid pro quo.

That brings me to natural segue...that kid on American Idol, Adam is absolutely brilliant....let me re-phrase that: he is triple fucking absolutely brilliant with sprinkles...oooh sprinkles...he seems to be the love child of Chris Issak, KD Lang and David Bowie...every time I see the kid I think of David Bowie singing "Little Drummer Boy" with Bing Crosby and thinking he could have pulled it off just as well as David Bowie did...and of course his androgynous look: guyliner and painted fingernails doesnt hurt either....I would love for that kid to discover Dan Hicks song "I scare myself" and cover it....his voice is perfect for that song...

Oops I forgot to mention something...[caution: narrative backtrack ahead] during his time on stage, Bob Sarlatte in an obvious bit of irony mentioned Steve's voice....he called Steve's voice the only human voice that dolphins can hear....muy cle-vah boy that Bob Sarlatte....muy cle-vah.
"...they call him Flipper, Flipper....faster than lightning"....ah Flipper....Lassie with a blowhole...Flipper, er Lassie get help, Timmy's hurt!

Suddenly I feel like a trip to the mall....the Cinnabons are calling...thank god you can smell them for free.

Tomorrows glob preview: Chinese women online. Or not.

I only wish...

2008-04-10T13:21:00.000-07:00

I only wish I could have written this...

Lies I've told my 3 year old recently

Trees talk to each other at night.

All fish are named either Lorna or Jack.

Before your eyeballs fall out from watching too much TV, they get very loose.

Tiny bears live in drain pipes.

If you are very very quiet you can hear the clouds rub against the sky.

The moon and the sun had a fight a long time ago.

Everyone knows at least one secret language.

When nobody is looking, I can fly.

We are all held together by invisible threads.

Books get lonely too.

Sadness can be eaten.

I will always be there.

posted at 11:47 PM by raul
TAGS:
fatherhood, kids, lies

Filed under: fatherhood

Raul, whoever you are, you are brilliant....I sincerely hope you don't mind me re-posting this

just when I start to get old and cranky, I read something like the foregoing and well....and well, I think I will leave that thought unfinished. I can only say that it reminds me of a time I was sitting on a plane next to a young girl and her Mother...as the plane took off and climbed through the clouds, the young girls eyes got very big and she turned and asked..."mommy are we in heaven yet"? "Yes" the Mother replied, "and these clouds are the safest part of heaven"....

Okay Im not sure thats what the girls' Mother really said, but after reading the "lies" above thats what I prefer to remember...."the safest part of heaven"

by the way, now that I know that all fish are named either Lorna and Jack, I smile more.

Great Quote

2008-03-24T09:11:00.001-07:00

From a Raines Cohen T-Shirt: "The day Microsoft makes a product that does not suck will be the day they start making vacuum cleaners."

A Blue Announcement

2008-01-18T10:29:00.000-08:00

Its time...time to get back to writing...I have lost my voice, metaphorically speaking...that is I have lost my writing voice, but 8 or 10 blog entries and I'll "be zen again"...Hey anyone besides me catch Tom Brady saying that he needed to stay zen for another three weeks...Ahhh the Tao of NFL football...what is the sound of no footballs spiraling?

I guess the natural segue would be to ask Tweaker (sic) Siddartha that question..."Tweaker, what is the sound of no footballs spiraling?" Whats that? Blue??? "The sound of no footballs spiraling is Blue?" "Huh?" I have heard of people that hear sounds in color: synesthesia, but not hearing sounds in color...???? Tweaker suffers from anti-synesthesia...??? What? Well I dont know if Tweaker ever suffers...his glazed eyes and permanent grin making him look like he has an all-season pass at happy town...woohoo....hey wait, I wonder if anti-synesthesia is Tweaker's zen super power...stay tuned...

The announcements are that Im thinking about two new characters: mumbler Moe Merrier the sick sikh and C' Alia, the illegitimate daughter of a Brazilian Samba Dancer with an innate understanding of superstring theory.

Im not sure how Im going to write about a character who understands superstring theory when I barely understand silly string theory, but hey...that's an artistic challenge.

Also, it should be noted that Moe Merrier is an alliterative Thomas Pynchon homage...remember Mucho Maas?? Uh oh Moe is mumbling. Whats that Moe? You say you know the answer to no footballs spiraling question?! Huh...you saw it on Jeopardy? a before and after category? huh? Remember your answer must be phrased in the form of a question! okay...lets hear it... "What is John Cage fighting?"...uh thanks Moe...thanks for playing...we have some lovely parting gifts...

Thanks to all who inspired me to write again...you know who you are.

Steely Dan. Steely Dan. Scream my name.

Blue.

Elizabeth Cook Revisited, Two Syllables of Love

2007-06-28T06:50:00.000-07:00

Okay....I have to say it again...Elizabeth Cook is amazing....I Love her music...I mean luh-ove, thats two syllables of love, love her musisc...Rodney Crowell who produced her album compares her to Lorreta Lynn...I keep thinking she is the new Patsy Cline...yeah I know Rodney knows a (caution:understatement ahead) 'tad more than me' 'bout music....but my perception is that Patsy broke down barriers and Elizabeth in her own sweet way kicks the shit out of any music barriers that get in her way....and each song on Balls (yeah thats the name of the new album) is so distinctive....today I woke up to "What do I do" playing in my head....that song is as pure as it gets...

and I have to put my adoration for Elizabeth Cook in perspective...I'm a quasi ex-hippy kid who was raised in Orange County California...raised on LSD and Pink Floyd, so the fact that a kid who was raised on acid rock is in total love with Elizabeth should be further testament to her greatness...

Wandering Americana & a Barefoot Sundress

2007-06-19T07:24:00.000-07:00

Arrgggh, the re-discovery of Terry Allen has had some ill effects...I cant get the FFA song out of my head...all my conversations are limited to commenting: "he's the blue jacket pride of the FFA and future Father of some President, who'll be another pain in the ass for the USA"...kind of the Americana version of "Its a small world after all..." the mega annoying Disney ditty played during the "small world" theme ride...

On the other hand, I have discovered XM12 and some incredible new artits, er artists, like Elizabeth Cook. I was first impressed by listening to Elizabeth being interviewed (Elizabeth dash Cook not Slash) and then I heard she had covered a Lou Reed song. Huh?? Load the paint ball guns with Red Bull and fire me blissfully. (I am writing this blog and have no idea what that last line means...Red Bull, huh?) But I guess Elizabeth is like that...she makes you think beyond yourself. And the live feed XM12 did from Bonnaroo was incredible...hmm describing Bonnaroo as incredible is somewhat banal, okay Bonnarro was yodel-licious with sprinkles ("oooh sprinkles")...I mean really double yodel-licious...pure music, not over produced or commercialized, simply pure music...I listened to the Klezmer Al-Stars...not something I would do willingly...my perception of Klezmer is something akin to Al-Quaida torture...like the way the keep drug dealers out of the city parks by playing Tchaikovsky...but the Klezmer was brilliant...Grateful Dead type Klezmer...soaring, sometimes meandering and always pure....after listening to the live feed from Bonnaroo, all I wanted to do was take a road trip....start slowly heading to probably Austin, letting myself get Route 66 side-tracked, french fries and a malt, thank you ma'am side-tracked on a search for the new Americana...searching for the ghosts of Bob Wills and Hank Williams. Looking for the new Dwight Yoakam...(caution:stolen image ahead) a barefoot girl in a sundress asleep in the backseat of the car....asleep in the back seat of the car.

Speaking of Americana (I need better segues), I found a friend of Terry Allen who is lovably whacked, peyote leaking into the well water whacked...Jo Carol Pierce...my gah-odd, I love her, yeah two syllables god, she is that good...in my next life, I want to have Jo Carol on speed dial...go over to her house on Sunday for well-water lemonade & Fiddle-fuck Chili...

and she is a modern type girl....with a myspace account...check this out:

http://www.myspace.com/jocarolpierce

A coupla quotes from Jo Carol....

"I need to send this song out to all you guys out in the world who have not had the courtesy to fall in love with the bad girls yet, because y'all really bother me -- although not as much as the ones who did."

"One of the odd things about the borderline tango is that its a waltz"

--Jo Carol Pierce--

...asleep in the backseat of the car...cream-colored sundress...the faint smell of the white gardenias she is a dreamin' about wafting through the car. I look up and could swear the Pine Tree air freshener is smiling...the gardenias reminding him of a girl he once knew...a girl that made him happy...

searching for America...sleepy and barefoot....

...Just a country boy without angels

2007-06-13T10:22:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while I remember Terry Allen....the album "Lubbock on Everything" was brilliant...Im not a music guy...that is I dont have an Ipod...I rarely turn on my stereo...there are very few songs that I have heard that I truly truly love...New Delhi Freight Train (click link for excerpt) is a song I truly love, a song that effortlessly penetrates my crusty soul, transports me....it does what music should do...my guess is that New Delhi Freight Train is what Lowell George listens to in heaven...nah, I'm sure that's what Lowell is listening to...

Lyrics:

New Delhi Freight Train
Some people think that I must be crazy
But my real name is just Jesse James
An I left them half-crocked, hard-knocks of black rock county
Just to ride on that New Delhi Train
Ridin on that New Delhi Freight Train
Ridin down that New Delhi Line
Ridin on that New Delhi Freight Train
Well I left my love behind
Yeah I left my love behind
Yeah I'm just a country boy without angels
ahhh just a country boy without gold
An I been to silver cities load of rainbows
Where I pillaged and I killed and I stole
Ridin on that New Delhi Freight Train
Ridin down that New Delhi Line
Ridin on that New Delhi Freight Train
Well I left my life behind
Yeah I left my life behind
Then I killed a man named smilin Jordan (Jeer-dun)
Yeah I killed him with one of my guns
And I knew that I had did what I had not ought to
But I welcomed the run from what I'd done
Ridin on that New Delhi Freight Train
Ridin down that New Delhi Line
Ridin on that New Delhi Freight Train
Well I left my guns behind
Yeah I left my guns behind

After 7 years, I found my Terry Allen tape....yeah, a cassette, can you believe that? I know its been 7 years because my tape player hasnt been connected for that long....I listened again...save a place in heaven for me Lowell...never mind, I'm already there....

Epilogue:

Doing a little research, it turns out that Terry and Lowell George were friends...not surprising as I can hear the ghost of Dixie Chicken in Terry's music...also I found the entire lyrics to Lubbock on Everything Fuck me, I wish I could write like that...genuis...Jim Harrison probably just listens and shakes his head....and Borges is mumbling "Madre de Dios...."

"No one with access to a convertible, an empty highway
and a good radio station ever should need a psychiatrist."

--Terry Allen--

Fade to Family, Retraction

2007-06-13T09:40:00.000-07:00

The fade to black soprano whack theory described below has been retracted...as my Mother's memory was incorrect...

According to Steve Jaxon Vicario:

Episode one this season...Tony answers Bobby's question (What do you think its like to be whacked?) with : "You never see it coming"

Of course it could still be argued that Tony got whacked because we never saw it....nah!

Fade to Family

2007-06-12T09:51:00.000-07:00

9:38 pm, Monday June 11...I notice a voicemail on the cell phone, call voicemail and hear my Mothers voice. Oh no, my Mother never calls me this late...momentary panic ensues as Im afraid that a family emergency has occurred. Whew. No, everything is fine. My Mother's tone of voice is cheery, confident maybe even smug...as my Mother explains on the voicemail..."I figured out the ending to The Sopranos...Tony did get whacked...it has to do with a conversation between Bobby and Tony...and something David Chase said long ago..."

Huh??? Tony got whacked? wha--at? Did my Mother have magic 3d glasses? Was she able to see the missing 10 seconds? Or do I need to have a talk with my Mother about her prescriptions? "Uh, Mother dear...I need to talk to you about the prozac..."

Okay, before I cast too many aspersions on my Mothers mental state, I should point out that my Mother is fairly brilliant...not too many women in their 70's lacking formal education have a basic understanding of quantum physics or string theory and can do double acrostic puzzles in their heads while making a brioche. 56 across: Eating adds existence (Latin). "Edo ergo sum" she responds whimsically as the garlic mashed potatoes are pulled from the stove. In addition to superstring knitting skills, my Mother may have pulled off the greatest scrabble move in history by spelling "bezique" (yeah look it up, I had to) generating a 10 pt triple letter, triple word and 50 pt bonus all in one move...I'm not quite sure but she may have scored 170 pts on that one scrabble move...scrabble devotees, please genuflect. The point is that if my Mother has a theory....well maybe we should pay attention. Listen carefully. There is probably some intelligent thinking behind her thinking. Of course then again, maybe her medication does need to be re-balanced

Anyway, as an ardent & hardcore puzzle junkie....my Mother looks at everything as a puzzle...she is always going back in her mind, searching for clues to solve, puzzles, riddles and mysteries. Talking to Mother this morning she explained her theory about Tony getting whacked this way...

Before Tony and Bobby got into the fight....or maybe after, Tony asked Bobby to go whack the guy in Canada. Bobby asked Tony what he thought it would be like to get whacked....Tony's reply:

"...fade to black..."

Do anyone else remember that or is my Mother whacked?

I think my dear Mother's theory is a little thin...we need some DNA evidence to support her theory...its a intriguing theory, but still needs more evidence...then again, my very first blog concerning the death of a friend was entitled "Fade to Black"...so if nothing else, Mom's theory generates personal artistic and poetic resonance...so, since I personally have used "fade to black" as a metaphor for death.....well, hmmm. Maybe. What did David Chase say? How does that fit?

Im not sure what to think...as the screen went black, my immediate thought was that the final scene in The Sopranos was a basic affirmation...in the end, all you have is your family....then again, my family thinks differently...all I really know is that I am blessed to have them...my family that is...yeah, I'm blessed...onion rings anyone?

a little creative writing...

2007-05-23T10:42:00.000-07:00

Betty "cup o' cakes" Cooper

Betty's nickname: "Cup o' cakes" was a fancy version of cupcake. But Betty was like that. She was a few degrees fancier. Betty would have woven a sunflower into her name if at all possible. And while Betty knew nothing about metaphysics...Betty lived a metaphysical life. Well metaphysical in an "Our Town" sort of way. Thornton Wilder was secretly proud of Betty. In Betty's mind she saw her name as a woven sunflower...then again "cup o' cakes" was a few degrees fancier.

Faux Tears

2007-04-13T06:33:00.000-07:00

Tweaker Siddhartha appeared again yesterday...as usual he was "gacked to the gills" on crank....grinding his teeth, casting Felllini-esque shadows and spewing buddhist thoughts at Mach II....supersonic koans and meth driven zen riddles...Tweaker asked me if "faux tears ever dry"? I know better than to give Tweaker a verbal response...so I just opened up my palms, pointed first to my eyes and then to the sky...I felt a little guilty misleading a drugged-out monk by implying all of our tears are God's tears, as I think we should all respect the Saffron, but Tweaker was unfazed. He took out some string, artfully wove the string into Cat's Craddle....then Jacob's Ladder...he had me hold onto Jacob's ladder while he snorted another rail and wandered off....

The foregoing is dedicated to the memory of Kurt Vonnegut Jr....I think Kurt is now having eternal lunch with Kilgore Trout.

Grandma Marguerite's 9 iron

2007-04-11T11:46:00.000-07:00

My Grandmother was named Marguerite...I have always loved that name.....anyway I was watching this Filipino gas station attendant practicing his golf swing last Sunday....and well, he had a good swing, smooth fluid....I noticed he had a 9 iron....it brought back memories of Grandma....she told me that whenever my Grandfather was gone, she kept a 9 iron by the side of the bed...I thought for a moment and looked at her and said, "good thinking Grandma, a 9 iron is my best club too"...Grandma perked right up and segued perfectly, "yeah I cant hit a driver, if someone breaks in, I dont want to swing and miss"....absolutely infallible home protection golf logic!!!

thank you for being so incredibly special, Grandma Marguerite...you are still missed and adored

Hope

2007-03-05T12:06:00.000-08:00

I got news this morning that my brother (half brother) had died over the weekend...I have cried some, probably not enough. Mostly I just have a sick feeling inside. My Father didnt know about it so I was entrusted to relay the news to him. He was stoic in the moment, but I know he will be emotionally devastated...if my own reactions are subverted, it will only be because my Father will need my support.

I don't know how my brother died...he had a very hard life...hard core drug user, prison time, colon cancer surgery recently, but during the last 10 yrs he had rehabilitated himself considerably, getting a degree in counseling and working with troubled youth. But after the cancer surgery, things had been tough. He had some periodic relapses...and well I'm guessing Chemotherapy and heroin are a bad bad combo....so I'll wait for the tox reports and see if I can glean some answers. But I think I know why my brother died....I think he lost hope...no hope killed him...the cancer and/or possible drug use simply took advantage of the loss of hope....

...never give up hope.

Dalva & a Pasta Fagioli recipe

2006-11-14T08:25:00.001-08:00

late Sunday night, well actually early Monday morning, abt 4 am....it was raining in Mendocino and there I am in Dalva's house....okay not *Dalva from the eponymonous book, but I swear Jim Harrison must have been in that house prior to writing the book, if only to absorb Dalva's soul...a truly stunning house 4,000 sq ft house almost completely handcrafted from love, vision, intensity of spirit and wood found only on the property, tongue and groove ceiling, a hand railing on the staircase that took 9 months to craft...and art work inside: dream catchers, original native american paintings and stunning Remington bronzes casually placed throughout the house...also some intricate wood carvings, including some wooden Indians who were the GQ equivalent of cigar store wooden Indians, "looking good there, Chief" ...then I found out that "Dalva" likes soup...and used to sing opera...Opera??? Huh???

I don't know that there is a lesson or a moral from having spent the night at that house....I do know I was awed, but didnt ask many questions...nor was my intellectual curiousity put into hyper-drive, although it should have been...I was viscerally moved, but did not viscerally respond and that's a little sad...there were so many questions that I should have asked, but it was easier to talk about soup...about making soup..."Dalva" has a Pasta Fagioli recipe that she swears by...and well, that was good enough for me...my passion and spirit revived by a Pasta Fagioli recipe....life could be better, but not more interesting...

*Dalva is one of, perhaps the greatest book I have ever read...its a sprawling epic novel (in my opinion, its the great American novel) written about a native American woman who's life and loves, intersect American culture more so than her own, though her native american soul is her permanent foundation....

Thai Soup & Elvis Credentials

2006-11-12T09:08:00.001-08:00

November 12, 2006, Sunday morning ....all of my projects have stalled...arrgghh...I can't do anything about stalled projects, it will be easier pushing string...well, the good news is Pynchon has a new book coming out soon...and today I'm finally going to teach myself how to make Tom Yum Koong (Hot and Sour Thai soup w/ prawns)...I once read a gumbo recipe that required listening to a Neville Brothers album to get the gumbo timing right....what music goes with learning to make Tom Yum? Hmmm...well, I gotta believe Elvis Costello goes with everything...((caution:Elvis to Elvis segue ahead))....which of course reminds me of the lyrics from the Mojo Nixon song...

Elvis is everywhere, man!
He's in everything.
He's in everybody.

Elvis is in your jeans.
He's in your cheesburgers.
Elvis is in Nutty Buddies!
Elvis is in your mom!
He's in everybody.

He's in the young, the old,
the fat, the skinny,
the white, the black
the brown and the blue
people got Elvis in them too.

Elvis is in everybody out there.
Everybody's got Elvis in them.
Everybody except one person that is,
Yeah, one person!
The evil opposite of Elvis,
The Anti-Elvis!
Anti-Elvis got no Elvis in him,
Lemme tell ya.

Michael J. Fox has no Elvis in him.

...poor Michael J. Fox...I think he has earned his Elvis credentials, serious Elvis credentials...Rush Limbaugh is now the anti-Elvis...tag, your it Rush...

My Rules for Life

2006-10-27T07:37:00.000-07:00

My rules for life are as follows:

1. If you are going to get drunk and sing karaoke, make sure and do it in a foreign country with no english speaking witnesses....because well you know, "I'm sitting on schtop ov duh woorld, looking down on creashun"...thank god we're in Korea...

2. Never date anyone who takes more than four types of meds especially if two or more are anti-depressants...trust me on this one.

3. It's okay to follow to "follow yr own voice", "dance to the beat of a different drummer", but when the people at the Star Trek convention start whispering behind your back, calling you weird...well, its time to re-evaluate your life. Might not hurt to get a pair of Levi's Dockers and a haircut, eh Sparky?

Online Dating Rules

2006-08-10T10:49:00.001-07:00

Okay guys...here is some collected wisdom for you...if you happen to be perusing the online dating sites, here are a few things to watch out for...things that scare me away:

a. If her screen name has "pookie" or "snookums" in it...RUN LIKE HELL! I have come to the realization that "pookie" and "snookums" are secret dating code for no blow jobs ever...she might as well scream "I don't suck dick..." Got that??? There will be a test later!

b. If there is a picture of her with a dog, cat, car or stuffed animal...RUN! (see rule a.) okay you might get a blow job if she has dog, cat or car...maybe...but a stuffed animal? Uhh...no!

c. With apologies to STEELY DAN, If there is a black and white picture of her that reminds you of your favorite foreign movie...RUN!!...listen carefully: sultry looks are the visual equivalent of high emotional maintenance, I should probably repeat that statement for those of you still drooling at the pic and not paying attention...by the way how many of you know that STEELY DAN was named after a dildo??? Hmm? Show of hands...anyone??

d. If her opening line starts out with the words "Lonely woman in search of...." RUN UNTIL YOUR LUNGS BURST..."Lonely woman in search of..." is not-so-secret dating code for the fact she cant have an orgasm and even her closest friends wont answer her phone calls after 9pm

e. If her 'favorite travel destination' is a place you can't afford....RUN, unless you want to spend the rest of your life hearing ex-BF stories...same thing with her favorite car, if you can't afford her favorite car...well yr toast...

f. If there is a picture of her in ski clothes, ask yourself if you are willing to sacrifice football season for the rest of your life...

g. If she says she doesnt watch TV (see rule f.)

h. There is no such thing as "no strings attached"....repeat : there is NO such thing as "NO STRINGS ATTACHED"...you might as well date Pinnochio's sister

i. If she says she like Renaissance Faires, RUN...I dont care if yr promised a threesome with Heather Graham, RUN...don't go to the Renaissance Faire unless you get the threesome first....then break up the next morning after you do the threesome...oh, don't forget to ask for Heathers phone number, dreamer.

j. If she has more tattoos or less piercings than you...yr probably fucked but its worth a shot...

k. If her profile says she has bi-tendencies, she already has a bf....probably two...and she definitely has a gf that is smoking hot and makes twice as much money as yr sorry ass. Just sigh and move on. Next.

l. Okay this is the most important rule of all, never and I repeat, NEVER date anyone taking four or more kinds of prescription medications, especially if two or more are anti-depressants...trust me on this one!!!!

m. Everyone online is dysfunctional....I mean dys-funk-shun-uhl...the online possible chance you have, is to find someone whose dysfunction complements your dysfunction....have fun...

More rules to come as I think of them....

Bad Beat

2006-08-02T09:32:00.001-07:00

8:22 am....Tues morning...am getting killed in poker tournaments...getting called by very weak hands who are drawing out on me...last night I pushed all in pre flop with JJ...there was 2,500 in the pot when it came to me....I pushed for 8,500 more...got called by a 5,6 off who barely had me covered and watched in horror as flop of 4,4,2 hit and the 3 came on the turn giving the idiot caller an inside straight...I think it is these horrendous bad beats that has really impacted my game....I have strayed from my game making very poor calls myself..strayed from the basics of the game that served me so well when playing online...yes I have some decent cashes recently, but there was a time I could make final table after final table online....cashing almost nightly.... (caution: apparent non sequitir ahead) I once had a tour of the Don Best Sports Services, Inc. offices in Las Vegas....impressive operation...I will never forget walking out and seeing a car in the parking lot....license plate said BAD BEAT....wonder if that personalized plate is available in Ca....and (at the risk of being totally redundant) the worst part of getting a series of bad beats is that affects your decision making....it destroys science...destroys logic...destroys focus and interferes with solid play....you sometimes think cards don't matter...its all a fucking lottery....night before last, I got all my money in preflop...huge pot in the middle of the tournament, whoever wins the pot takes over chip lead....anyway, I get my money in with 10,10 vs two opponents who hold A, 10 suited and 5,5...flop comes 10, 5, 3 rainbow (all different suits)...A blank K comes on the turn....I'm a 97.7% favorite to take over the chip lead....yeah, you guessed it...the last 5 comes on the river so my opponent makes quads to beat me....BAD BEAT....the problem with being a 41:1 favorite is you only win 41 out of 42 hands...you lose a hand somewhere along the way...I can live with that....I just want to know why I have to lose when all the chips are in the pot and I'm about to become chip leader...BAD BEAT....the only thing I can say is that I have become more stoic, taking the bad beats in stride....I do remember about 3 years ago...taking a bad beat like that and punching a hole in my door...of course I wasn't contented with the hole in the door...so I got in a full-fledged fight with my door...punching untill the door was destroyed...it was at the moment I realized the door might have gotten the best of thing as I had blood all over my hands and some searing pain.....doors put a better fight than you might think...kind of a Tai Chi thing...using yr own force against you....dont fight doors...just pillows, no one seems to get hurt...BAD BEAT....today is another day...maybe it will go my way today...

broken transmissions and frozen pillows

2006-07-10T15:42:00.000-07:00

Burning up today...bicycle ride with no shirt yesterday....riding yesterday, saw a buddhist monk sitting where the drugged out homeless people sit....somehow he looked the homeless part himself...glazed eyes, ruddy skin...tweaker Siddhartha...later when I rode home, tweaker Siddhartha was still there, he smiled at me, a creepy child molester smile made no less so by the saffron robes and flip flops....met jaxon later...he hadnt done his Sinatra homework...no show produced...I think he needs to outsource his show to some Sinatra sweat shop in Burma, because the local Sinatra butter churn isnt working....yeah, thats the way to go, a bunch of 11 yr old Burmese girls producing Sinatra for 31 cents a day...too bad Burma is no longer a country, its now Myannamar....wonder why they changed the name, hmm better not pursue that Constantinople thought pattern...later I had drinks with Jaxon.....I think there is something wrong with his drinking transmission....no 2nd or 3rd gear, when Jaxon drinks he goes from 1st gear to 4th gear seamlessly...the top fuel dragster of drinking...Jaxon generally hits the inebriation line first, but his parachute isnt working....he stops by hitting the concrete retaining wall, crude but effective...I wonder if he made any phone calls when he got home, Ginnie made some excess zinfandel calls the other night....realizing the next morning that we need a new technology....a companion technology to caller ID, the caller alcohol content ID...the phone breathalyzer...I like the idea...its sort of energy efficient, saving about 60 million morning after apologies per year...Ginnie has another theory I like....Ginnie believes that as the batteries in smoke detectors get low they turn into hangover detectors beginning to chirp incessantly in the middle of the night....especially if you made the egregious mistake of somehow combining chianti and kahlua...Chirp chirp chirp....I have taken to putting my chirping smoke detectors in the freezer, but they chirp louder when they are cold....last night I thought I could hear one of those hangover detectors chirping from the freezer...grudgingly (and muttering "fuck fuck fuck" under my breath) I got up...went to the kitchen, heard chirping....went back, got a pillow and muzzled that little sucker and stuck it back in the freezer....10 mins later...Chirp, chirp chirp....Grrrr, oh fuck its the phone low on battery power....jesus now I got two devices working as hangover detectors...Cagney the phone and Lacey the smoke detector making me do the alphabert, er aaplhabet ummm...alphabet backwards....peace restored and alphabet recited to the satisfaction of all I returned to bed....actually even slept decently after that...waking up inspired I proceeded to wash the sheets and pillow cases...hey wait a second there is a pillow missing...d'oh I remember....and there it was, tucked in the freezer...frozen pillow...hmm I think I just found an idiot detector...no batteries required

Marzipan, Mascarpone & Mairzy Dotes

2006-06-05T12:09:00.000-07:00

jumbled thoughts...uh whats the difference between mascarpone and marzipan? Thats whats happens when you do an abrupt food seque...moving from Pacifco's and salsa to rich zinfandels and roasted duck salad in minutes....the mind is overcome with sensation, unable to process everything...no place for sensory palate spillage....it was at that moment that I proudly informed everyone that the next verse of "Mairzy Dotes" had something to do with "marzipan, pluto pan and asteroids unsightly"....in fact I was sure of it.... four double lattes into the next morning, the ambien hallucinations were subsiding and the gordian knot of the marzipan lyrics began to unfold. Or untied. Something like that. Whatever. Back in 1972 or so, whacked out on acid, Chris Muir had made up the alternative marzipan lyrics to "Mairzy Dotes" and those lyrics had put themselves in storage in my brain. Stored in some sort of unknown cereberal attic only daring to show themselves after 34 years in hiding...apparently taking advantage of the temporary altered mind state induced by the roasted duck salad to once again manifest themselves. Of course I wasn't sure thats what happened in 1972, but thats the thing about memories, especially acid induced memories; you can't google 1972 acid trips to make sure you got the details right...there is no archived web page that says that was the night in Santa Cruz with the clear light acid we got from Sam...no hyperlinks to the number of times we thought we saw god or the number of times we giggled for hours about our ga--shoes, our cheek muscles sore from laughing...no we are left to our own flawed devices to reconstruct our memories. I'm sure there is a deeper discussion here, something about if our memories are not are memories, then who are we? But I really don't care about the deeper discussion. It's simply not fun. In retrospect, the only acid trip that remains fairly lucid in my mind was the night I decided to quit. No more acid for Mikey. July 4th, 1976. Yes, the bi-centennial. I was on the top of an apartment building on Stanyan St in San Francisco. Close to the Haight. Marty Anderson's apartment building. I looked up at the sky and said to myself, "I quit". Interesting in that there was no concious contemplation of quitting prior to that moment. An unforeseen quantum shift in my personal decision making. Some part of me was adamant that 5 years was enough and it was time to quit. Well I was fairly sucessful at quitting LSD...never quite had much of a desire or curiosity after that, but that roasted duck salad...they have rehab for that???? Maybe an 30 day program? Or a roasted duck 12 step program?..."Hi my name is Michael...." Somebody check on that, will ya?...In the interim, I have to go find the rest of the imaginary lyrics to Mairzy Dotes..."Hello operator?...yes, I need the number for a 1972 acid trip."

Oreo cookie 'tells'. A guide to life.

2005-03-28T08:55:00.000-08:00

6:13 am. Slightly groggy as usual. Toxic internal fog not yet lifted.

Watched Deadwood last night. Ginnie calls it 'Fuckwood'. Either way, it's intense.

Poker. Poker. Poker. Poker has not been good to me this past week. Or I haven't been good to it. Doyle Brunson, greatest holdem player of all time says you can't bluff a bad player. And I better stop doing it, otherwise I'll become one. Bad. And thats not good. (Cue: Puero Rican hooker accent) Jhew know, jhew know bad is not good?

Part of the problem is that winning can be intoxicating. Creates a feeling of invincibility. You can do no wrong. Then you push the boundaries. Try to play your reputation rather than the cards. Boom. Sitting on your ass. Busted out of a tournament.

The only salavtaion to last week is that I am starting to learn some 'tells'. 'Tells' are unconscious actions a player takes that may indicate the strength of their hand. In the movie "Rounders", Teddy-KGB has an oreo cookie tell. Teddy keeps oreos on the poker table. During a big hand, Teddy will grab an oreo. If Teddy has a great hand, he will break the pieces of the oreo next to his ear. Otherwise, he will break the pieces in front of him. Ear equals great hand. Face equals marginal hand.

I played in a private tournament on Saturday night. Picked up two tells in the first hour. I was proud of myself. I made a small bet and Vince raised me. To digress, Vince is a good player. He took second to me in a tournament a week ago. Vince knows the cards and is not afraid of big bets. Huge gambles. Takes risks. I like that about him. We could be partners somehow. Back to the narrative...when Vince raised me his hands were shaking. Trembling. An indication of a big hand. You see when somebody gets a big hand, they get excited. Andrenaline pumps through the body. And the hands tremble. Almost impossible to control. I immediately looked at Vince and told him, "I know you have a big hand, I picked up a tell on you. Fold". Vince showed me AA, best starting hand in holdem, immediately grabbed his sunglasses, put them on...I just laughed. "Sparky, sunglasses ain't gonna help ya".

After the tournament, I told Vince what I saw. He was grateful. Normally you would keep this information to yourself. But as I said we could be partners. And hopefully I can train him to observe me. He can let me know my tells. My weaknesses. The two of us could definitely strengthen each others game. Be better cookies. Mega poker cookies.

If I make it to the final table at the WPT, I'm going to bring some oreos. Play with a cookie while I play a hand. Playing with an oreo on national TV during a big, big, poker tournament. It'll be classic. Fun too. And well, I need to have more fun playing poker, otherwise Ginnie is going to kick my ass. Ker-whack. Thank you darlin, may I have another?

Raise. Call. Fold. Oreo cookie tells. A guide to life.

Happy birthday again, Grace doll

2005-03-24T09:07:00.000-08:00

Thursday morning. Stressed. Too much work to do. Sub-contractor quit on me. Computer not co-operating. Graphics conflict. Performance slow. Two syllables slow. Suh-low. "I think I can, I think I can...." said "The Little Engine that Could".

Can't imagine working on Cathy's computer. Cathy is Jaxon's wife. Her computer is old. 24 dog years. Willard Scott says happy birthday old. Her computer could double as a ringer-washer. A hand-cranked microwave. It's got Windows 98. An operating system borrowed from the Smithsonian. We tried to do some upgrades yesterday, but the computer sat there drooling. Computer Down's syndrome. Not necessarily refusing to cooperate. But unable to comprehend the instructions. Moon-faced innocence. Time for computer euthanasia. Remove the feeding tube. Let the computer die with dignity.

Segue to Jeb Bush. He says he has new evidence in the Terri Schiavo case. Jeb says Terri is not in a vegetative state. That medical science can bring Terri back. Apparently Jeb had this epiphany after a "Weekend at Bernies" marathon on the local cable channel. "Hey Bernie".

Segue to Grace. Precious Grace. Talked to her last night. She turned 13. Told her Happy Birthday. For a day at least her innocence had returned. She was happy to hear my voice. Excited. Like totally. Certainly the idea of additional presents didn't hurt either.

Grace Waters. Now 13-yrs old. Aww. Happy birthday again, Grace doll. Enjoy it. Know that you are loved and adored by all.

The Elusive Part B

2005-03-22T12:48:00.000-08:00

Rain. Moodiness. Grey. Sitting at Starbucks. Doing the NY Times crossword in pen. Showing off. Hoping some passerby will notice. Gasp in disbelief at my crossword prowess. I do the crossword in pen because of an old Bob Newhart show. Bob thought Emily was smarter than hin because she did the crossword in ink. Since then I've sneered at pencils. The crutch of vile crossword dilettantes. Poofters! Anyway, 2 down, 6 letters: California winemaking county. Uh, hey thats us. Cool.

About twenty-five years ago, I was working at the Brass Ass in Cotati, Ca. Working with a Bartender named Jay. Jay was tall. Tall with two syllables. Tah-all. Jay had played basketball and was now coaching. We watched some sports highlights. Basketball. UCLA v. Somebody U. Someone from Somebody U. had started at UCLA on scholarship, then transferred and came back to play against UCLA. The sports announcer then said besides Mr. Someone, only two other basketball players had ever gone to UCLA on Scholarship, then left and returned to play against UCLA. Name the two other players. Cut to station break. Jay thought and fired off a name. Searched his brain for the rest of the answer. Came up blank. Announcer returned from break. Told us the two names. First guy was the guy Jay mentioned. Second guy was Jay. Jay looked at me and said, "Oh yeah, I guess I was the other one". Jay was answer B to the trivia question and couldn't or hadn't figured it out. I've always been thankful Jay missed the question. Otherwise there is no story to tell. No story. Problem is, twenty-five years later, I'm still wondering if there was a lesson or a moral to be gleaned from that story. Some insight. A life lesson that would unlock moments. I'm still searching my brain for the 'rest of the answer'. The elusive part B. It couldn't just be a cool story, could it?

Hey that's us....I mean me. Cool.

Imagine all my Friends

2005-03-22T07:03:00.000-08:00

News flash: Abbey Road Studio to open it's doors to the public for 16 days. Reading through the story, (caution sad moment ahead, a moment of silence appropriate) I noticed it's been almost 25 years since John Lennon died. Imagine.

Segue to Ginnie. She uses 'Imagin' as a screen name. Imagine that. Magnets. Ginnie and I are magnets. Sometimes with our polarity reversed. Must be seasonal. Kinda like flu season. We get sick with each other. That's what happens when the polarity gets dirty. Needs to be cleaned. Clean polarity. Ammonia should work.

Talked to Garry last night. We sang 'King of the Road' together. Channeled Roger Miller together. Sang louder, more off-key with each word. "I know every engineer on every train, An' all of the children, an' all of their names." Telephone karaoke duet nightmare. Bliss. Garry says he has relatives. Duh. I mean he has "hick" relatives. Make that 'rel-tives'. Roger Miller is their God. Makes sense. In the same way that Haitian witch doctors worshipping Harold Stassen makes sense. True story. Anyway, Garry's 'rel-tives' like to get likkered up on Pabst. Switch to Schlitz on payday. Two six packs. Then try to call Roger Miller at home. Try to get Roger Miller to sing "Dang Me" over the phone. "Hey Lukey Lou, Rogers ain't a home, want I should leave a message or something?" "Brrrup" That scene being painful to imagine.

I kind of think Garrys' 'rel-tives' would love Buck. Move over Billy Bass. Buck, the talkin', singin', wall-mounted, stag is here. Buck comes with a wireless microphone. You can talk into the microphone and your voice will be a comin right outta Buck's mouth. "Hot damn." "I'll be a sumbitch." "That damn deer talks just like Lukey Lou." Tony Soprano is going to lose it when he sees Buck. Deep deep psychosis looming. Straight jacket stuff. You just know he will be hearing Big Pussy's voice coming out of Bucks' Mouth. "Okay, but not in the face."

Back to Garry. Garry and I have known each other since we were 6 yrs old. First meeting on the swing sets of Fern Drive elementary school. 1959. It was my first day of school. Garry bullied me. Told me I had to get out of the swing sets. Thank god for friends. Hide the porno when you die, kind of friends. And friends we are. Yes. Can't imagine not being friends.

Other news. Nick, Jaxon's kid is in town. Head nod. 'Sup dude? Nick, is a 15 something punk rocker from Portland. Pretty good punk rocker actually. He has been recorded with his band, The Diskords. They even sell his records (punk rockers like vinyl) in Petaluma. Yes, Petaluma. Swoon.

Nick Vicario

Nick is a great kid. (I'd love to introduce him to Grace, Ginnies daughter. They are both going to be stars.) And while I love bands like The Ramones, Clash, and even the Sex Pistols, it's hard not to be prejudiced against punk rock kids. Stereotype them. Believe that they all have shitty attitudes. Hate adults. Don't listen. Have narrow tastes in music. Should be slapped around. Seriously slapped around. Nick breaks that stereotype. He has room in his life for adults. Even appreciates their advice. Listens to all kind of music. Keeps a very open mind musically. Like his dad. I love that about both of them.

An open mind. Imagine.

Imagine.

Vapors. Mist. Song Included.

2005-03-21T15:28:00.000-08:00

There I was happy. Peacefully clueless. Then it happened. Thunder clap. Vapors. Mist. Without warning, I was channeling Roger Miller. (Cue: fingers snapping) Sing along with me....

"Trailers for sale or rent;
Rooms to let, fifty cents.
No 'phone, no pool, no pets:
I ain't got no cigarettes.
Ah, but two hours of pushin' broom,
Buys an eight by ten, four bed room.
I'm a man of means,
By no means king of the road.

Third boxcar, midnight train,
Destination: Bangor, Maine.
Old worn out suit an' shoes:
I don't pay no union dues.
I smoke old stogies I have found:
Short, but not too big around.
I'm a man of means,
By no means king of the road.

I know every engineer on every train,
An' all of the children, an' all of their names.
An' every handout in every town.
An' every lock that ain't locked when no one's around.

I sing, trailers for sale or rent;
Rooms to let, fifty cents.
No 'phone, no pool, no pets:
I ain't got no cigarettes.
Ah, but two hours of pushin' broom,
Buys an eight by ten, four bed room.
I'm a man of means,
By no means king of the road.

King of the road.

King of the road."

Channeling Roger Miller. Not an altogether unpleasant feeling.

The Player is also the Coach. It Could get Confusing

2005-03-20T08:04:00.000-08:00

Played in the local live tournament last night. 1st place. $1880. As I said, I expect to win. I played well. At least compared to the competition. However I am going to need to play much better to have any chance in Las Vegas. Much better. On second thought, I didn't play that well last night.

After the tournament, I saw an image of basketball coach, Bobby Knight, on Television. Bobby is known for verbally abusing the players he coaches. Demanding excellence. And even when his players win games, he pushes them harder. Relentlessly driving them. Screaming in the locker room after games. Fiercely intense.

That's what it was like in my brain. Poker players for the most part have to both play and coach themselves. And the 'coach' in me was not allowing the 'player' in me to take any solace in the win last night. I was verbally chastising myself. Screaming at myself. "You think you can fuckin win (get in the money) in Vegas playing that way"? And the fact is I could see many mistakes in my game. Like an amateur golfer who can win the local club championship despite making mistakes he knows would kill him at the pro level. Fortunately, none of the local players were good enough to take advantage of my mistakes.

This self-chastisement was partly a carry over from Friday. Friday I took 6th out of 554 players. $2278. Normally a solid achievement. But the fact is, I was happy with 6th. I should never be happy with 6th. Never! Once I got to 6th, I basically stopped playing. Stopped fighting. Abandoned the strategy that got me to that position. Absolutely unforgivable. And the difference between 6th and 1st was over $9,000. And we all know that I could use the extra cash.

The only mitigating factor about last night was that I am still having a lot of difficulty seeing the cards. And I was able to win despite being very confused about what cards were on the table. (Caution: digression ahead) Hmm, that is interesting, could confusion be an asset somehow? I mean how can the other players "read me", if I don't know for sure what I have when I bet? The confusion strategy. Hmm. Something to mull.

On the other hand, Lasik surgery is probably a better option. A better strategy. Clarity, not confusion.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note to self: Keep pushing yourself. Demand excellence. Demand it. But make sure that you continue to build confidence in the process. Don't let the relentless drive toward exellence undermine any confidence gained. And remember to have a little fun. Being stuck in a room with Bobby Knight is no fun. Uh uh. No fun.

The Psychic Cashier

2005-03-16T04:36:00.000-08:00

Standing in line at Trader Joes. Staring into space. Trying to remember my PIN number. $41.31 the cashier said. Thanks. It's nice to have psychic cashiers who know your thoughts and have answers. Of course, I suddenly realized it was all coincidence. Serendipity. My food total was the same as my PIN Number. Basically 10,000-1 odds. I'll need to save some of that for the big Las Vegas poker tournament. Either that or bring the cashier along. Or maybe I can acquire some of that ability. Knowing the thoughts of the other players would certainly be helpful.

I actually think there are a couple of methods for "knowing the thoughts" of the other players. When we read, we may "say the words silently" as we read. This is known as sub-vocalization. Speed reading techniques discourage this as is slows down reading. Some people are perceptive enough to pick up on "sub-vocalization". To hear what others are saying silently. This ability to perceive sub-vocalized sounds has also explained some "ESP" abilities.

The other method for knowing a players thoughts is to "see" his cards. To utilize remote viewing techniques. (See McGoneagle.) World class poker player and all-around brat, Phil Hellmuth, alludes to something very similar to remote viewing in his book. Basically Phil advocates attempting to visualize your opponents cards. And coming back to coincidence, remote viewing techniques were first developed at Stanford Research Institute (SRI) in Palo Alto. Know where Phil Hellmuth lives? Yep, Palo Alto. Coincidence? Serendipity?

Phil says that with practice, you can "see" an opponents cards. Phil says he has stunned opponents by saying, let me guess, you had two red queens?!....and the opponent will stammer back, saying "how'd you know that?"

Now if I can get that down and then visualize the cards to be dealt....that would be an unstoppable combination.

$41.31 said the cashier.

Poker Results-1st

2005-03-13T12:27:00.000-08:00

1st

Poker Results-3rd

2005-03-13T12:22:00.000-08:00

3rd

Poker Results-Last

2005-03-13T12:20:00.000-08:00

Last

Tarzan Tivo Near the Oleander

2005-03-12T09:56:00.000-08:00

Figuring out Tivo. Scrolling through movie titles. Jackpot. Electricity. "Tarzan and the Slave Girl" is on this week. Yes. Yes, you can petition the lord with prayer. Uh, oh, it's the Spanish language version. Despair. Oh well. Dump "L.A. Confidential" anyway, record "El Tarzan". How could I pass up any movie with 'slave girl' in the title? Even if it is 'en espanol'. Tarzan and the jungle bondage bitch v. Russell Crowe et al. No contest. Kim Basinger v. Jane in a two piece leather outfit. C'mon. B-movie heaven.

Of course my all-time favorite B-movie is "Chained Heat". Shower scenes in the womens prison. Linda Blair, Sybil Danning.....oh baby, oh baby.

Back a few years, when I had a few dollars, I turned down a blind date with Linda Blair. Yes, "The Exorcist", Linda Blair. A friend of mine was dating her house mate and Linda had heard all about me. Linda's house mate, Dana, had described me to Linda. Dana then told me that Linda was out of her mind. Huh? Why do I want to go out with a psycho? Dana also mentioned that Linda was a freak. Loved sex. Dana had recently come home and found Linda fucking some guy. On the front lawn. Near the oleander. Nature girl.

At the time I was fairly wealthy and Linda's career was in disarray. And 'splendor in the grass', hadn't landed Linda any new work. I weighed the situation. Psycho v. easy sex. Oleander. Nature. Hmm. I told Dana, "Okay, but only if she autographs my VHS copy of "Chained Heat" ". Pre DVD era blind date.

Not sure why the date never happened. It may have been that I got married that week. Unplanned. "We did WHAT, last night?" But more likely the date never happened because I was a little too arrogant. Okay, way too arrogant. Augmented by Dana saying she had no shape to her butt. A flat ass. Pass.

And now fast forward. Linda's career is rehabilitated and I am living in near poverty. Goodbye arrogance. Hello humility.

I'm sure there is a moral here. A lesson to be learned. Besides the fact that I should've gone out with her. Imagine the the bragging rights if I had, uh, "mowed her lawn". "Did I ever tell you about the time...?"

A lesson to be learned. Something to ponder. I wonder if I can get Oleander to grow in the apartment.

A Bad Month for Lasagna

2005-03-12T09:29:00.000-08:00

Not much of much happened yesterday. The big moment of the day being when Jaxon used the word 'temerity' in context. Darryl and I more than impressed. "Wow, a "T" bomb", all genuflect. In general though, it was epilogue Thursday. A day when no new story lines were developed, just follow-up from days past....well Graham made an appearance in his leathers and wasn't drinking. Graham riding a Harley. Hmm might as well be Frasiers' brother, Niles, on a Harley. Incongruous? Oh yeah! Seeing Graham on a Harley, is a "what's wrong with this picture?" moment. Lucky for us is the fact that Grahams' inability to define himself helps us to define ourselves. We may not always know who we are, but we are getting more certain of who we aren't. Guns for example. We aren't gun owners and we are certain of that. Certain.

We filtered out of the bar before our self-imposed curfew. 6 pm. The curfew being appropriate for guys in their early 50's. The 80's something crowd is generally gone by 4:30. I'm sure there is a law in physics that describes this. Drinks divided by age squared equals curfew. Or I could claim responsibility. Call it the 'Hayes self-imposed curfew law'.

I came home, put a pizza in the oven and promptly (caution: euphemism ahead) fell asleep. Waking up two hours later to pizza apocalypse. Apartment filled with smoke. This morning I surveyed the damage. Pulled something resembling a lava flow out of the oven. Obsidian pita bread. Brittle. Consuelo, the maid, is not gonna be happy about the oven. "Senor Hayes, que es este?"

Pizza Apocalypse

I don't really have a maid. But I decided long ago, that I would only hire a maid if her name was Consuelo. Wanted: Maid. Qualifications: Must answer to Consuelo.

Prior to falling asleep, Detective Jaxon called. He cracked the "dead mouse case". Indictments are pending. There has been a sour stench in the Saturn for days. Maybe weeks. The gag-reflex smell being attributed to a dead mouse in the air conditioning unit. Turns out the mouse was an impostor. A decoy. After pulling some groceries out of the back seat, Detective Jaxon discovered some Trader Joes lasagna under the front seat. Circa December 2004. Bad month for car lasagna. Ewwww. In business I always used to say "never attribute to malice what can be attributed to incompetence". I think there is a connection between that saying and the mouse incident, I just can't articulate it right now....I'll work on it. Hmm. I changed my mind. There is no connection. It's a cool saying though. By the way, good work, Detective Jaxon.

Epilogue Thursday. Our lives better defined by one more day. Temerity included.

The ex-Mr. Schmooshed

2005-03-09T20:14:00.000-08:00

Well I got Tivo...about time I joined the Tivo party. Got the 80 hr one...well because bigger is better. "Hey honey look, what do you think, big huh?" Installed it myself. Geek credentials intact. Jaxon says installation is easy, it is operation that is difficult. Jaxon is coming over today to give me a Tivo lesson. He says I need remedial remote. I should feel insulted, but then again I failed trash night at Ginnies.

During installation everyone called....Garry, just because. Ginnie, just because we miss each other and Jaxon called in full mid life-crisis. Jaxon had just gotten in a fight with his biggest client. Two old Italians, under and over medicated, yelling at each other. "Fuck you". "No, fuck you". So we went to the bar early. Premature pensioners staring in the semi-darkness.

Jaxons client, presumably former client, owns a string of auto body repair shops and Jaxon has produced his radio and TV commercials for years. Jaxon's catch phrase, "if you schmoosh your car..." has helped his client be hugely successful. The catch phrase established a small business owners dream; brand identity. In fact the first guy that walked into the bar, looked at Jaxon and said, "Hey, it's 'Mr. Schmoosh' ". "The ex-Mr. Schmoosh", I replied. A comment too obtuse for 2:30 pm bar denizens.

I bought Jaxon drinks and pointed out that every time he has falling out with a client or employer, something better comes along. Jaxon is hugely talented, but largely oblivious to his own talent. I love that about him. And Jaxon also recognizes developing talent. Jaxon put a young Steve Kimock on stage for the first time. Letting him play in Jaxon's band. "Allright, let little Stevie wonder boy, have a solo". I'll bet those tapes of the old shows would be a fans wet dream. "C'mon Jaxon, let me put em on Ebay". Anyway, Jaxon has an offer of sorts to become the morning co-host of a huge SF radio station...discretion prevents further details. For six figures a year, all he would have to do is wake up cranky every morning.....at least he can bitch about it to me. Good thing he can't see me rolling my eyes while we are on the phone.

Two drinks later we were laughing and riffing as usual. We went out to his car and looked under the hood. Looking for a dead mouse in the air conditioning unit....."Uh, Jax, I don't see nothing....maybe we should get an 'Acme dead mouse detector' at the Warner Brothers store". "Or we could make one out a clothes hanger and a AA battery, what do you think MacGyver?". The hood slammed shut and for no particular reason, the conversation drifted, segued. Quantum segue, as Jaxon began describing the years when famed 60's LSD maker, Augustus Stanley Owsley III had lived down the road in Cotati. Somehow it all made sense. Disassociative sense, but sense nonetheless. Unique context keeping friendship deep.

If the co-host offer materializes, Jaxon should do it. He is big market material. No more Mr Schmoosh. Hello Mr. 57 Thunderbird. Hello portholes. Hello San Francisco. Two months from now, he will wake up thinking "Aww fuck, its early, but I'm rich and I don't have to deal with Gene". And that's not so bad.

Aunt Luisa

2005-03-09T07:51:00.000-08:00

She hears Guy Lombardo...she just can't find them....Check out the movie.
Amazing talent at Blur Studios.....

An apple wood antidote

2005-03-06T10:23:00.000-08:00

Headline of the Press Democrat had something about Police Tasers...which I read as Poetic Lasers. Am I now reading in anagrams or is is latent dyslexia?

Went to the bookstore with Ginnie. Thought about getting a book by Jim Harrison. My all-time favorite author. The book was 'True North'. This morning I noticed a copy of True North by the bed. I had purchased the book months ago. The fact that I didn't remember was disconcerting. More disconcerting is that the loss of memory incident is simply a harbinger of things to come. "Wrong way, Grandpa. Wrong way".

Got a copy of Mind Hacks today. I can't wait to try a few exercises. I love neurophysiology. It explains why some people are criminals. Not all, but some. Some people are physiologically incapable of self censoring. Of suppressing violent thoughts. We all have violent thoughts, but most of us have a shut- off valve that prevents anti-social or criminal thoughts from becoming manifest. Apparently a few of us were built by low bid electricians and we are missing key wiring. The shut-off valve wiring.

I even entertained thoughts of going back to school...getting a Phd in neurophysiology. Uh, yeah right, like that's going to happen.....of course it would be nice to know exactly how I am going to degenerate and lose my memory through time.....

Okay, okay, I guess that is kind of creepy.

There are apple wood smoked sausages in the refrigerator. Mmm good. Mmm, happy thoughts. An apple wood antidote for creepiness.

One is not enough, Taxi Cindy and Lisbon Leslie

2005-03-05T16:40:00.000-08:00

Had drinks with Jaxon last night. Guys being guys. Bigger lies each week. Combined with sarcasm and self-deprecation. We used to boast of sexual prowess, now we boast of dysfunction. "Oh yeah, I couldn't get it up with a crane and six blue tabs". Unlike the 70's, blue tabs now being Viagra, not LSD. It's all simply material....Ginnie knows what I mean by material. As does Jax. Everything is invented so we can laugh....why else live. Hmm? Why else wake up? Certainly humor lasts longer than sex and is less confusing.

I confessed my nervousness about the big poker tournament to Jaxon. Two drinks later I'm a talking like a Puerto Rican hooker.."Jhew know, if I win da tournament, I gonna need an agent","Jhew you know any agents, Senor Jaxon?".....Jaxon (God love him for being a friend) said "I love you, but you ain't gonna fucking win".....He slapped me in the face so hard I should of paid his bar tab...."Thank you Sir, may I have another"

My game plan was to have drinks with Jaxon, make shit up, get mexican food, avoid arrest and head home. Sidetracked. Off to play cards.....more beers. Did well at cards.....and interestingly enough won a huge pot with a 2,4 off suit. Big blind special. Of course as the evening progressed I got cocky, talkative and well.....obnoxious. I volunteered to quit the game and management called that bluff instantly. Apparently the "F' word repeatedly, has some consequences.

Next thing I know I'm in a cab confessing my life away from the back seat.....somewhere there is a Sonoma County cab driver who knows my PIN number, the secret bank account in Aruba and all my ex-wives. I think I might have even slipped and told her about the night I never talk about....the night in Portugal. Lisbon Leslie. Too much Bud Light truth serum. Also, I think I confessed to six or eight phantom capital crimes. Just because. Cindy, the cab driver tells me she has a 13 yr old son. "I shlove kidsh" I mutter incomprehensively from the back seat. Hmm, another kid I promised to put through college. Damn kid better find a hot girl friend who likes older men..."oh yeah, dance for Daddy"

Seriously I do remember volunteering to tutor her (that would be taxi Cindy) son in math. Seems like something I should do. Really something I should do....to take my knowledge and mathematical gifts and give them to a child. Giving can sometimes be selfish. As I'm sure that it would mean more to me than him, if in fact I could make a difference. A-B equalling a life enhanced. Two lives. Because one (life enhanced) is not enough.

Something I should do.

What do you think, Leslie? Time to share the secrets?

In need of a non-saline solution

2005-03-04T08:32:00.000-08:00

Cornchips for dinner. Dehydration this morning. Connection? Pfft. My quad latte even abandoned our friendship this morning over the corn chip issue.....looking at me shrugging his shoulders....I looked back at the quad latte and thought "yeah, I know its my own damn fault....I could have had shrimp last night". But I picked a fight with myself instead.

Even though it's six weeks away, playing in the big poker tournament is beginning to stress me...out. Emotional claustrophobia. Forget the Santa jokes, I'm in a crowded elevator. I almost snapped at Ginnie last night...never done that. Don't plan on it. Body and mind abducted. Dr. evil stress blood sugar. Or Dr. evil cholesterol. Note to self: get lipitor from Jaxon asap.

The fact that I'm stressed is a double edged sword....the good news is that I'm stressed because I know what needs to be done to play well. And god is there is a lot to do. Bad news is that I'm not sure I can get it all done without collateral damage. My own collateral. Better watch those dangling participles....they could get hurt.

One key issue is a purely physical. Playing in live games, from some seat positions, I can't see the cards on the table. Or see them well enough to read them. Brings new meaning to "betting in the blind". It's bad. I wear glasses, but my glasses help my vision for things 100 ft away. Not 5 ft. I have known about this for awhile. Same problem playing golf. I see three golf balls. "Hit the middle one" my friends say. Tried going to Target a couple months ago. Tried on reading glasses. 2x, 4x etc. Since my eyes require different correction all the reading glasses did was make me sick to my stomach. Just about yacked on the saline solutions. In need of plan B. And of course I don't want to spend $300 at the optometrist for a possible non-saline solution. Arrggh.

Sigh and double sigh. See saw. She sees.

Love is permanent. Manifestation is a cell phone signal. Mostly full bars, but sometimes dropped completely only to return moments later....confusing for all.

Is it later yet? Of course it is.....no waiting for the interim today. Soup is ready.

What's New, Pussycat?

2005-02-24T06:11:00.000-08:00

Somewhere Raymond Chandler is smiling....legendary blues musician, 'Deaf' Willie is coming from Detroit to play in Cotati this Friday. Deaf Willy is the love child of a Chandler novel and a lonely saxophone. Only with more whiskey. Funny whiskey. Well, not funny whiskey, Johnny Carson whiskey.

I first heard Deaf Willy 23 years ago. We have been friends ever since. I love Deaf Willy, but am willing to risk our frindship and reveal a secret. Shh. Don't tell. Quiet. {{Whispers}} Deaf Willy is not deaf. He is dyslexic and that's why he has to 'sign' the blues. Has to.

More later....including the story of the Tom Jones-Deaf Willy secret tapes.

Damn good soup

2005-02-22T09:59:00.000-08:00

Lazy today. Thought I might head into the office, but aborted that thought upon opening my eyes. 9:20 am. Mixed feelings about sleeping in....am I being lazy or just paying attention to the rest my body needs? I have gone years waking up early....unresolved conflict. Good thing its not keeping me up at night....{{smirk}}

Had dinner with Dad last night. Entertaining. He ran an idea by me about him becoming a partner in a small hotel in Mexico. Apparently the hotel is very secluded and could become an ideal "swingers" destination. Which would triple the room rates. Fortunately this was not my Dads idea. Someone else's speculation. Innovative marketing though. And Dad had the themes worked out. Week 1 would be straight couples, Week 2 lesbian couples, then gay men. I guess week 4 would be "All Skate" as they use to say at the roller rinks when they let everyone on the floor. For the most part I kept my mouth shut not wanting to overly engage in the conversation. Preferring to keep most of my knowledge to myself in Dad's presence. Actually my knowledge, details omitted, is more peripheral than actual. Discretion prevailed nonetheless.

And of course I had the soup last night before the entree. I was obliged. Destined thematically. It was roasted tomato, red pepper and mountains o' garlic. I think I'm still hallucinating. You know a soup is good when you start seeing vapor trails. Culinary psilocybin. "Hey Dad, you look like Jesus". "What?"...uh never mind.

Later the garlic fueled dreams kicked in.....last thing I remember was being about 15 and ready to play football. Our team was losing and coach wouldn't put me in. I couldn't stand it. Was pacing the sidelines, desperate to play. I was 1st team....outside linebacker. I'd kill those guys. Coach finally put me in...I only remember one play....slow motion of course. I made the tackle despite smudged glasses and some undiagnosed chin strap problem. Then 9:20 am. Eyes open.

The dream was plenty comfort. {{This soup metaphor theme I started may be more powerful, more prophetic than I realized}} Even with 3rd grade interpretation skills, the dream was very positive. I'm ready to and dying to get back in the game. Whatever it is. Whatever the "game' is. I just have to remember not to overlook the small details to succeed.

Damn good soup.

Storm Coming

2005-02-21T16:21:00.000-08:00

Talked to Ginnie and Jaxon today. Everyone seemed morose earlier. No longer second guessing Hunter S. Thompson. Prematurely ready for that Jim Jones cocktail party. Helloo....Guyana. I'm sure our collective attitude is related to the constant rain and clouds....but now the mood is lighter. As are the skies. Although NOAA just issued a severe thunderstorm warning. Nickel size hail coming. I just heard it on the radio. I'm listening to Jaxon, he is live on air this week. In fact, I just called in to give him the answer to a trivia question....I didn't win anything. I want big money gifts. Who else knows the guy (Earle Hagen) that wrote the Andy Griffith theme song? Hmm? Bastard! Oops better be nice, I need to borrow some Lipitor. Psst, can you gimme 140 milligrams till the end of the week?

Ironically I think a really good thunderstorm will be cathartic. A cleansing. I went through two class 5 hurricanes while living in the Virgin Islands. Wow. Never forgotten that.

Uh oh...I just looked out the window. Those are some badass clouds out there....I can hear the thunder in the distance.....thunder closer....this is going to be good....

Two hours later....storm passed too quickly. No drama. Oh well.

Going to meet Dad for dinner.

Dark Introspective Thoughts

2005-02-21T07:23:00.000-08:00

Hunter S. Thompson dead. Hard to believe he would commit suicide. But there is definitely precedent. Richard Brautigan, Sylvia Plath. Ernest Hemingway. Others. Sigh. I guess we know today "For whom the Bell Jar Tolls".

The death of Hunter S. Thompson tempered my mood. Last night I watched "The Simpsons" drop in a Thomas Pynchon reference. It was brilliant. The bag over Pynchons head. The "Gravity's Rainbow Cookbook". Very obscure stuff though. Watching the Thomas Pynchon scene was disheartening though. I was alone. The moment needed to be shared with someone, anyone, who recognized its brilliance. Laughing at an inside joke by yourself is....well the only word that comes to mind is pathetic.

Yesterday in the Jacuzzi I had a brief moment of mortality. Realizing I'm 51 and well....where am I? I never did go through a mid-life crisis per se. No conscious angst. My three year party boy stint in Las Vegas could certainly be construed as a mid-life crisis. But yesterday, I wondered if a real crisis was looming.

In response, I vowed to myself to become more focused. More tenacious. At least with respect to "micro battery business plan." I have never really stopped to think about it that much...but I'm sure that what I use to define myself is process. Dynamic process. Right now, I'm only engaged in a few minor processes. Win or lose, I want to be engaged in a major process. Something that will shake the world. I think that if I would have had children, I might not feel that way. Or at least I would have the process of raising my children to engage me. But since I don't, I need a figurative birth. Something I can give life to and will in turn give life back to me....

Saturday on Sunday & Psychotropic Zen Poker

2005-02-20T10:58:00.000-08:00

Its Sunday. I know that. Feels like Saturday though. Apparently the weekday gods have overslept. Or just experimenting to see if anyone notices. Sundays are quiet. Saturdays are loud. There's about 20 decibels difference. Saturdays are Chinese hot and sour soup. Sunday is miso. Saturdays are Spike television. Sundays are A&E. Somebody switched menus and programming feeds. Hmm, soup. Maybe later. That interim thing.

Sigh. Still miss Clyde. I drove by his old place the other day. The tears came without warning. I only tried to hold them back so as to avoid an emotional wreck on the freeway.

I have a big poker tournament later today. $100,000 total. I have won this same tournament before. It was $50,000 then. {{Thank you, thank you}} Takes perfect decision making and some luck along the way. Some people have said poker is really a zen exercise. The Thursday night game with the boys certainly isn't. Cigars and beer avoid saffron robes. But big tournament poker has definite zen elements to it. To win, you must transcend contradiction. Understand that Saturday on Sunday is adopted quantum physics. {{Whatever the hell that means.}} The other thing about tournament poker is jungle patience. It's required. And a killer instinct. Stone cold, no conscience, no remorse, taste blood, killer instinct. A pacing cold-war Russian assassin. Eyes vacant.

Actually the image that I get when I am winning is a semi truck. A huge overloaded semi crawling up the I5 grapevine in compound low gearing. I start in Bakersfield and head south toward LA. Diesel engines cranking. Inching, inexorably toward the summit. Angeles national forest looming. A sign of victory.

I also notice that drinking water helps me win. Carrot juice too. I'm sure there is science that explains this. It's not psuedo coincidence.

It also helps if you become slowly insane during the tournament. I'm serious. Start with a generous amount of psychotropic drugs that control insanity. Provide temporary rationality. Then let the drugs wear off during the tournament....turn into a raging, unpredictable, drooling schizophrenic. Make people afraid of you. Very. Nothing like a truck driver, in a carrot juice induced psychosis, weaving between lanes to clear the freeway. Make everyone pull over in a panic. Push the chips this way please.

Well maybe a jacuzzi will turn the noise down. Turn Sunday back into Sunday. But if I have to order from the wrong menu....at least I get to eat. So, I'm grateful.

Tournament results later. Hopefully I'll do well. If I get knocked out early though, I do have plans. Going to clean the espresso machine. I don't wake to wake up again and start out the wrong day with a dirty quad latte.

Update: Finsished in 475th place out of 487. 13th out of the tournament. My A,K got beat by a 9,3. Hmm. The truck never even made it out of Bakersfield.

Sex Sells. Mooches Galooches Babers

2005-02-18T06:38:00.000-08:00

Mmm. Morning. Quad latte. Reasonably lucid this morning despite bad influence friends last night. Kristin called late last night...kept me up for an hour. She recently quit smoking and felt it was better to torture me than her kids. People who quit smoking get mean. Vicious. And Kristin felt comfortable being mean & vicious to me. That's friendship. That's love.

Woke up in the same rayon shirt I wore last night. Looking at the shirt would explain my wrinkled night mares.

Checked my bank statement online this morning. My match.com membership is good for another month. I don't even remember signing up. Hopefully, I'll remember to cancel. I think I read the other day, that its time to quit online dating when you recognize someone at Home Depot from their online profile. Good advice. Every woman in Trader Joes is beginning to look familar. "Is she the one that likes Sushi and Costa Rica", I wonder to myself. "She looks good". "Ooh, cute butt". "She's been working out". "Why did I not write her"? I continue wondering. Oh yeah, must have been the "No Television" in her profile. My casual interest suddenly replaced by a health vs. taste corn chip decision. Oh yeah, I need salsa too. Ms. "No Television" probably doesn't even like corn chips. {{figuratively rolling eyes}} Or salsa. Or cheese. Or grapes. Mine apparently more sour than hers. The prissy bitch. A trip to the grocery store suddenly transformed into a misogynistic rant. Wait, I love women....contradiction prevails. I'll get the fat filled tasty corn chips.

Sigh. I guess that's why I have to quit online dating. My disqualification filters have gotten overly refined. It's too easy to spot all the reasons indicating sure incompatability. Antique furniture, bad grammar, conservative politics, camping (huh, who goes camping) and the ever popular "walks on the beach". A sure sign of high emotional maintenance in 50ish guythink. Unless 'walk' has become a euphemism for 'fuck' count me out.

My friend Amy got it right. In reply to the question "Where's the best place to go on a date?" Amy said "On a date???, don't you mean with a date? Because the best place to go on date is uh, down". Instantly 26 million men fell in love with her attitude. Amy is now engaged to the man of her dreams. Dry and wet. The "one". She may even leave Indiana. And I'm happy for her. Mooches galooches, babers. Remember you still owe me two bottles of wine and the story of the North Korean state secrets.

To be continued....

A 'mustery' for the incapacitated

2005-02-13T09:29:00.000-08:00

8 shots of tequila. WTF was I thinking. I'm 51, I know better. I know tequila is not my friend. I have managed to stay away for 10 years, from the soul-stealing temptress that is tequila. And who was the little She-devil bitch-wench that started this middle age massacre? Who started the over 50 crowd drinking? It was a party for a friend, an engagement party. I gave an impromptu, though ill-recieved toast. I think the adopted memory theme may have been too abstract. In fact, I'm sure of it. Banker type people don't like abstract. Makes for bad loans. And then segue to motown music and tequila. Oh god does my head hurt. Last time I did that much tequila, I started doing Shakespeare in a Calypso accent. 12th night reggae something or other. I checked though. The "Body Parts Zombies" did not take advantage of my misfortune. Nothing tangible has been taken. Arms, all that good stuff are still intact. No, only intangibles were taken. Pride, self respect. coherence. I last remember launching into a lecture about how I thought 'Cunt' was the most powerful word there is. Yeah, that much tequila. Anyway, I think the cunt lecture should be buried for lack of seductive value. Most women just don't get very hot when you use that word for any reason....it's not a 'wet' word.

And where is my car? Holy bah-jee-bus, where is my car? Did the Body Parts Zombies drive off in my car?

And the worst part about this debauchery is on a pain and suffering hangover scale, I'm only about a 4. There are some knitting needles burning blue-white hot in my temples, but no violent wretching. No prime rib with horseradish memories to clean up. Which means no lesson learned. I could be tempted again. I didn't wake up with any tattoos, piercings, animals or hookers. Hookers don't like the word cunt either. Not actual first hand knowledge. But, I'm guessing.

Fuck, no lesson learned. Cuervo Gold. Hmm. Oh god I could be tempted again. Because the the little B.F. Skinner paradigm has failed. The shock following the action was too weak to diminish the uh, uh,.......where was I? Am I even referencing the right guy?

Where is my car? Holy bah-jee-bus.

Thank you Body Parts Zombies for not stealing anything precious. Please bring my car back. And remind me never to give the cunt lecture again, no matter what. Please. I'll give to your charity. The Body Parts Zombies Childrens Cancer Fund will get a generous donation. They will.

Holy bah-jee-bus. No lesson learned.

Wait, If I don't have a car...then how did I get home? A mustery, er mystery, for the incapacitated!

I'm thinking about a Bloody Mary and a nap. Maybe some soup later. That would be good.

Commentary vs. Instruction

2005-02-12T17:57:00.000-08:00

I remember walking into the UC Berkeley undergraduate library. It was a while ago. Pfft, a long while. I had probably taken some LSD. Most probably. Inside the library doors was a sign that said "Library Entrance". Huh? We are already inside the library! Well, some local wit, I'm guessing a sardonic existentialist, not a ROTC guy, had scrawled the following words on the sign "the banality of this sign is out done only by the boredom which it seeks to preserve".

That is commentary. Biting. Satrical.

Of course I also remember that Emo Phillips said, "Some mornings it's just not worth waking up and chewing through the leather restraints".

That is instruction. More biting. More satirical.

Hedonism now. Defying the laws of physics, postponed.

2005-02-06T07:40:00.000-08:00

Sunday 7:41 am. Sun languishing below Sonoma mountain. Reticent to rise. Quad latte half gone. It's quiet again today. Waking up in a Lorca novel. Senses still filtering most light and noise. Cooperating to maintain the mood. Solitude embraced.

Played poker again last night. I only play in tournaments. Played perfectly. Didn't finish in the money, but hey that's tournament poker. The important thing was re-discovering lost skills. Remembering who you are. Who I am. Online poker is decision making with limited information. Risk reward based on probability fused with randomness. And capriciousness. Like predicting the mood swings of a 13 yr old girl. My decisions were perfect, the results were mixed. Caprice. I can live with that. Easily.

Talked to drag queen Tesla yesterday. As usual, his attention span was less than 10 seconds. No resolution or pertinent information. Defying the laws of physics has been postponed a day. Today maybe. Something to do between now and the game, I suppose.

Yes, the game. Super Bowl later today. Guys together. Our lives bigger lies now than last year. And food. Food food food. Dietary restrictions suspended, like not having to go to school during a snowstorm. Free pass. Cioppino, smoked salmon, fresh crab, cheeses; cambozola bleu and gorgonzola, Sonoma County merlot, pinot, zinfandel, roast pork loin, sourdough bread, pasta marinara from Jaxon, now Jaxon-Vicario. Savor. Enjoy. Laugh. The game is no longer a game, just a catalyst for a mini bacchanalia. Our yearly three hour dance with hedonism. New Orleans sliced thin. We deserve it, more or less.

We deserve it.

Clyde Erman Taff, a tribute.

2005-02-05T10:32:00.000-08:00

This is my first blog...it is a tribute to a friend. A eulogy, if you will. I miss him.

Fade to Black

Clyde was a black hole in space, not because astronomers and all the rest of us could never really identify his location in the universe, but more because of his gravity. Clyde had gravity. Major gravity. And for a select few Clyde had major anti-gravity. As a warning at least half the stories I will tell here are embellished or even made up, but I don't care. I really don't care, as Clyde truly deserves to be remembered as a life embellished. Let me say that one more time, Clyde deserves to be remembered as a life embellished.

Special Effect(s):

the many facets of Clyde...a man who taught himself pyrotechnics, loved to sail, be in Tahiti collecting black pearls, a man who asked asked little and gave more of himself than anyone knew...a man who was comfortable hanging out with drag queens in Oakland, "say sailor, got your paycheck"?, riding harleys with Hells Angels, driving Roger Waters Ferrari in England or getting drunk and trying to pick up German college girls with David Bowie...for the record they didn't score. Apparently, because the girls had never heard of David Bowie. I can just imagine Clyde sitting there laughing his ass off, totally unfazed, telling David, "Hey Ziggy, yeah you, Superstar, tell em your with Duran Duran" and that was the thing about Clyde, he could disrespect you in a way that showed he truly cared.....in contrast to the David Bowie drinking incident Clyde hardly drank at all. But there is a side story here: For 10-15 straight years, Clyde would spend New Years eve at the Grateful Dead Concert. Clyde had a special assignment. Clyde would waltz in around the 28th and 29th of December and be given total creative authority to design the New Years eve special effect. I'd show up with Clyde just to hang out and soak up the perks of friendship. Hey catered food! It wasn't unusual for Clyde to look at me and say, c'mon we are going out to pick up 10,000 glow in the dark ping pong balls, "um okay, Clyde"....anyway, around 11:30pm every new years eve Clyde would disappear for a very private celebration. Clyde would go off and pour a glass of champagne for himself and two guests, one of whom was Bill Graham...Clyde kept most details of that annual moment to himself although he did tell me that it was Bill Graham's only drink of the year. Amazingly or perhaps typically, Clyde was there. Apparently, they would all make a toast and the three of them would only have only one or two sips and go back to work....what did they toast to? My guess is Bill toasted his escape of the Holocaust and Clyde in turn toasted his escape from an ordinary life....Actually I don't really know what transpired as Clyde was always blase about his annual toast with Bill. He never called attention to it, perhaps knowing that his private status with Bill only existed because Bill knew Clyde would keep things to himself. And contrary to the casual perception of Clyde it was that ability of total discretion than in part defined him, as Clyde knew how to keep secrets, secret. How, when where Clyde bonded with Bill to be part of that exclusive inner circle, I never knew, and I am comfortable with that remaining a secret....Clyde was privately generous, giving Christmas and birthday gifts to many children....Clyde lived large, but lived simply......he came to stay with me in Las Vegas and slept on the tile floor of the living room rather than the guest bedroom "um okay, Clyde" We drove to New York together a week after 9/11. Clyde was there to help me with a project I was doing...Clyde asked nothing for his time and even tried to reimburse me for his share of the expenses simply because he loved New York, "Greatest city in the world" Clyde often told me...Clyde saw the world, all of it....while doing pyrotechnics for Pink Floyd, Clyde was in a semi truck and got stopped on the Russian Border. This was back about 20 years ago. So this wasn't Rodney King, "can't we all get along Russia", this was badass Mike Tyson Russia. This was, automatic weapons drawn, I'm going to kill you, Russia. In the back of the semi were 40 tons of explosives and there was American smart ass, Clyde Erman Taff sitting up front of the truck...nothing like shooting off fire works in the dead of winter for Russian Border patrol agents to demonstrate the innocence of your agenda. Special effects. Then the border patrol agents waved goodbye. Do svidanya. Do svidanya, cousin Clyde. Do svidanya, indeed. After finally arriving in Moscow, Clyde discovered that his local work crew at the venue consisted of 400 wide eyed members of the Red Guard. I don't know anyone else in the world who has that credential on their resume. Seems to me shortly thereafter the Russian military begin to destabilize....??? While Clyde generally put on a gruff and sometimes outrageous demeanor, it was only to hide the extreme sensitivity that lied underneath. I remember driving along some marsh with Clyde and Clyde starting pointing out all the birds and naming them. Clyde was a birdwatcher and a member of the Audobon society. Who knew? Snowy Egret, Clyde pointed out to me. Clyde taught me what a Snowy Egret looked like and I have never forgotten it. Thank you Clyde. Thank you. For that, I will even forgive you for making me wear platform shoes in the 70's. Speaking of the 70's, about 30 years ago, Clyde's name came up in conversation with a group of friends....and a relative newcomer asked, who's Clyde? Chris Muir (brains filled with not enough hallucinogens and too much Dr. Suess) looked at the new comer and replied "Oh Clyde is not so much a 'who' question, as a 'what' question". Greatest description of Clyde ever...of course now, I think it is finally appropriate to answer that question. I will tell you the answer to 'what is Clyde?', Clyde is and was special effects, I can expand on the special effects theme, but all of you who knew Clyde will know intuitively what I mean when I say Clyde was special effects or maybe just special effect.....it was never in the nature of my relationship with Clyde to discuss our feelings...too weird, too gay, too whatever...it is only now that I realize how much I loved the guy and never told him....So I'll tell you now...Clyde, I love you....you are truly Special Effects.......and yeah I can hear the silent cynical voices...maybe even Clydes own voice saying "Special Effects? Don't you mean especially affected? Yeah Clyde was affected, but that's why we all loved him, not just me....I'll apologize in advance for the cheesy goodbye, but I am out of words right now....So, aloha and bon voyage, Clyde. Take care my friend. You will be missed. Shows over. Fade to black.