It's not easy going gray...

It's not easy going gray.



I've been going gray since I was in my mid teens, probably 16 or so. The lady that used to cut my hair in the Northridge shopping center in Salinas, CA (I can't remember her name but she had a punk rock look and clientele and didn't scoff when I wanted to look like a member of the Misfits; devilock and all) once pulled out a stark white horse hair from my scalp and presented it to me as if it were some sort of incriminating evidence. My dad just laughed. His head has been snowy white since I was a lil' kid, so I knew the hereditary inset of going gray early was approaching.

This didn't really hit me until probably the early years in San Francisco, let's say mid to late 90's. That's when the temples started to show and my “Bonnie Raitt” crept in; that perfect stream of silver waterfalling down the forelock of my hair making me resemble the bluesy songstress, or even the lead singer of the Damned which is what I was going for to entice comely goth ladies to come and stroke it and lure them back to my lair, a.k.a, my crappy room on 4th Ave. and Geary. It didn't work. Now I guess you could say I have a perfect “Stacy London” but I hear her's is fake so let's just scratch that one shall we?

Thing is, I never really minded the gray. In fact, I always kind of liked it. But, recently, I've been seeing a LOT of the gray starting to come in. Maybe it's because I turn 39 this year, which means next December I will be (gulp) 40. That's a big turning point in one's life, or so I've been told. Not that I am dreading it or even freaking out over it (well maybe just a little) it's just that age has such a huge burden and stigma attached to it. As a child of the 70s, age 40 always meant single ladies popping pills, mid life crisis', large bushy mustaches, convertibles and chasing girls half your age. It freaked me out. In this 21st century, 40 is but a short jaunt to that midway point in life and, let me tell you, life isn't short, it's pretty long so I'm looking forward to being an old curmudgeon throwing bricks at passing cars and whacking “whippersnappers” in the knees with my cane. It's my right as an old cruster to do so.

But I can live without the bushy mustache. For now.

Anyway, She-Ra and I were at the store recently, buying supplies for dinner and admiring the Fall and Halloween stuff being put on shelves. Earlier that day, after a shower, I looked in the mirror to not just see gray hairs but white. That got me to thinkin'. “Here it comes,” I accepted. “No way of stopping it now.”

That became a topic of conversation all night long. I'm sure She-Ra became weary of me going on about becoming an “old man” and the fact that I will look like Steve Martin in just a few short years. Well, from the hairline up.

“Here,” she said handing over a box with some dudes face on it. “Why don't you give this a whirl.”

It was a hair dye package. “Dark Chestnut Brown – Gray” it said on the box next to that male models smug face. Oh man, I thought, here it is. The first step into a larger, stranger and mothball scented world. After weighing the options and the pros and cons, I figured what the heck and tossed the $10 box of “mature man style” hair dye into the cart. When the lady rang it up, I felt just as embarrassed as when the first time I purchased condoms many moons ago. Perhaps buying gray-away will be how I eventually became comfortable with buying the rubbers. Grab a big box of the stuff, slam it on the counter and shout “Ring 'er up! Got a big weekend ahead of me.” Still, I turned a little red and rolled my eyes when the digital readout announced < Product: Touch of Gray 10.00 > Oh man.

The box sat in the bathroom for over two weeks. Nestled between the Calvin and Hobbes books and some moisturizer, that hair dye box sat there with me and mocked my insecurity and hair. Many a day I would ponder and study the instructions, only to put it back and give a haughty “pffft” before flushing and forgetting it.

Then, a strange thing happened. I woke up this morning and said “Today is the day! Today I will swallow my pride and put some gray hair cover up on my head! It is written! So shall it be done!” Then I tried to part the bath water but that didn't work. So without further adieu, I opened the box and got out the contents.

There was a small tube of the stuff and I was supposed to use the whole thing. Good, because I have a ton of hair and it may take more than one squeezy bottle of dye muck to tame the wild white streams in the locks. There was also a sort of comb thingy that attaches to the squeezy bottle with lil' holes in it so the goo can come out as you brush it through.



There was also some plastic gloves. This might have freaked me out but since my time of being a pizza chef, I use gloves all the time. Before hand, those things always made me feel like some kind of odd doctor about to perform some back alley procedure. Now, eh...feels like home.



After said comb is attached and required gloves are on, it was time to begin the process. I lifted the tube and comb to my hair, squeezed oh-so gently and began to rake it though the brambly trusses of my quaff. For real, I haven't thoroughly “combed” my hair in quite some time; probably since my last hair appointment, which was months ago. My style, my thickness of hair, does not require the constant care and threat of comb or brush. Shampoo, condition, rinse, done! Don't even own a hair dryer thanks. Let ol' Ma Nature take care of that noise.



So I'm combing and I'm squeezing and I'm working through the knots and I'm trying to get the glop evenly distributed, which, of course, causes a few drops to fall on the sink. When first they fall, the drops of the dye are a light amber, but as the oxygen hits, that tawny hue turns to a dense black and when I was done I tried to desperately get the stains out. Kinda didn't work. Not that our cozy water closet isn't already speckled with color from She-Ra's many and frequent dye jobs she gives herself. The sink is just the beginning – there's stains on the mirror, floor and wall that leave a trail of tonsorial permutation. Oh yeah, now it's daddy's turn!



When I look in the mirror I find myself to resemble a slick haired, greasy mob caricature from some bad TV show. So in my worst Jersey accent I start yelling “Hey baby! Fah-ged-a-boud-it! Look at my pinky ring and gold chain! I like convertibles and discos! My penis is very small!”



The instructions said to let it set for a few minutes, so I went into the living room, checked e-mail and did some dopey Facebook thing where I list the 5 things I hate to eat. Olives and that rotten durian fruit were at the top of the list, as were kneecaps, broken glass and shoes. I mean, hey, I don't wanna eat that stuff. Afterwards I hopped in the shower and watched the tub turn a murky brownish-gray haze before twisting its way down the drain.

When I got out I didn't notice anything at first. So I dried off and saw that there was no splotches on the towel. Maybe this stuff is crap. Perhaps it's just a ploy to get dopes like me, insecure and trying to dig their fingernails into what remains of their youth, by making them buy a promise that never comes through. They got my ten bucks and now they have my dignity too. Oh well, I shrugged, I gave it a try.

Then, after the mop had dried and I gave it some time, I was pleased to find that the shocking drifts of white I had grown accustomed to were gone. Wow, alright. I kinda looked like my old self again. Still though, the perfect silver streak down the front had survived, which was a good thing. I like that, always have. So when I meet Stacy London I can go up to her and say “Yeah, I know what not to wear. A fake white streak in your hair beyotch. Take that. Oh yeah, and those shoes are hideous.”

So what have I learned from this experience? Absolutely nothing. I'm growing old, we all are, it's inevitable and that's okay because that's all part and parcel of the great Plan. I can't stop it, you can't stop it, but we can, for a small price, quiet it down a bit. And as for 40? Bring it on sucka! At least I have hair and don't need the mustache, car and barely legal chick to make up for my waning libido and hairline. Those things are doing just fine thank you.



Now, to work on this belly of mine. That's a whole other conquest upon the horizon...

"Being There" end credits

As I worked in the garden today, something kept creeping in and making me laugh. It wasn't a bug or worm or even some nosy neighbor. Maybe it was the fact that I was gardening, but the movie "Being There" with Peter Sellers, his last movie, who played a simple minded gardener, was giving me the giggles as I repotted plants and watered. It wasn't so much the entire movie, which is hysterical in it's own low key way, but more so it was the end credits.

There's a scene in which Peter Sellers is in the hospital after a mild altercation with some street thugs. He's on a gurney and is trying to relay a message that one of the toughs gave him to give to some guy named Raphael. Thing is, the scene never made it into the movie because both Sellers and the other cast members kept cracking up. According to director Hal Ashby, they spent almost 2 days shooting the scene and were never able to get through it correctly. Peter Sellers could barely get through a sentence without busting up.

What's great is that they edited together some of the funniest parts of that scene and put it under the end credits. After a very good and very funny movie, we are treated to absolute hilarity. It's one of the funniest things I've seen (in my opinion) in a movie and I just wanted to share.

I mean, I'm sure you've seen it but still. After I washed off the dirt, I just had to go to YouTube to see if that scene was there.

It was.

Enjoy!

"One Perfect Day"

"One Perfect Day"

An actual happy high school memory.

As usual I woke up long before my wife, shuffled off into the kitchen, started the coffee, fed the cat, filled the dog's bowls with Kibbles 'N Bits and water, then opened the front door to greet the day and check on the garden. At 7am in Tucson, early August, the air is warm and still. Birds chirp and flutter by. A light cool breeze blows in letting us know that autumn is coming and the heavy days of the desert summer heat are waning. A perfect day, I thought.

This got me thinking about all the days that pass us by. Being human, we all experience those days that just arrive, do their job and leave without much thought going into it. Then there are those that just don't fit right. Much like putting on wet jeans that are 2 sizes too small, these days annoy, chaff, linger too long and generally piss you off making you wonder “Why the heck did I put these jeans on in the first place?” Replace jeans with “day”...metaphors, I know. Pompous.

But then, gosh darn it, there are some days that just exude sweetness and light. Those days where the jeans are clean, fit perfectly and make the world take note and say “Wow...lookin' good kid!” OK, enough with the jeans thing. I don't even like wearing jeans. I'm more of a baggy shorts kinda guy. Not the silly dumpers that hang past your rumpus and dangle precariously close to the ground usually donned by mentally challenged wannabe gang kids from the suburbs. No. Just past the knee, comfy Dickies that let the world know I am not only a man of leisure but can participate in either Hip Hop or Heavy Metal forays in need be. Universalism is important to me regarding trousers.

You know what I mean though, right? Those rare and wonderful “perfect days”. Breakfast is good, weather is fine, no lines at the bank or Disneyland, found a 20 dollar bill in your pocket you didn't think was there, work or school closed because the day is too awesome, it's your birthday and Van Halen reunited to play your party...stuff like that.

When the kettle whistled and I poured the coffee grounds into the press pot, I started to think about my perfect days. There are a lot. But one, for some reason, stuck in my mind as being the one really great memory of my high school years. High school for me meant very little except getting bad grades, getting teased, going to an institution that shunned the arts and the general zits and outs of what is supposed to be “the best time of my life”. For sensi-boy bookworm D&D and Heavy Metal nerds like myself, those 3 ½ years were hell. I graduated early thanks to a suggestion of my English teacher. Thanks Ms. Favalora!

As I plunged the coffee down before tipping it and the steaming hot coffee into my mug (with a little low fat milk, thanks) a smile came over my face. That one memory started to come back in a wild haze and in the fog of years gone by, I began to recount the steps that lead up to my one perfect day in high school.

OK...here goes.

Let's go back shall we? I'm thinking 1986 or 87. My dad and I were living in Salinas, a mid sized township in central California, about 400 miles North of LA, 200 miles South of San Francisco and just a few miles inland from Carmel and Monterey. We lived in a moderate apartment with a garden, just a few steps away from a Senor Taco (which had the best burgers, go figure), the Northridge Shopping Mall and a sweet drainage ditch we all used to skate called “Iceplant”, because, yes, it was surrounded by iceplants. Clever huh?

Like I mentioned before, it was one of those miracle days. Temperature maybe in the high 70s, marshmallow clouds swam in a lake blue Kool Aid sky and there was virtually no wind. Excellent day to do some serious skateboarding. Now, I was never very good at skateboarding; too clumsy and too afraid of getting seriously hurt I reckon. But my love of it, the scene, my friends and all the trappings kept me firmly planted on a board at any given time. So after my dad dropped me off at the front entrance of my school, North Salinas High, I met up with my friends who were already skating next to the parking lot, doing railslides and grinds and complaining that we all had to sit inside on such a beautiful day.

As the first bell rang and my buddies packed it up and made their way into the dank interior of that building, my friend Geordie made a genius suggestion.

“Let's get out of here,” he said with a wily grin. “I mean, how can we be expected to go to school on a day such as this?”

Geordie and I met a year earlier and had become good friends pretty quickly. Our love of skating, bad movies, getting into trouble and being too smart to be put down by such a place as North High, gave us an instant bond. So after taking in all considerations and realizing that the pros way out voted the cons, I smiled and nodded and off we went.

The two of us skated all the way from the high school, down the main road, found some interesting embankments and curbs, over to the mall where we continued to skate before heading in to get us an Orange Julius.

“Hey, you kids can't bring those things in here!”

It was a security guard. Some overweight oaf in a blue shirt carrying a walkie-talkie protested us carrying our boards though the mall. We told him we do it all the time and we promise not to smash anything. He wasn't convinced. So we assured the guy we'd go away and never to return with skateboards in hand. That seemed to satisfy him. Once he was out of the picture, we giggled and made our way to the Orange Julius stand.

After said nectar of the gods was purchased and consumed, Geordie and I then went into International Imports, a place in the mall that sold strange items from across the globe (which honestly looked more like they fell off of some truck) and had this back area with all sorts of cool things. Beyond the bongs and sexy games and toys, there was a plethora of heavy metal and punk tee shirts and tomes of posters depicting bikini clad girls and rock bands. As we flipped through images of busty girls holding beer bottles or sitting on sports cars, New Kids On The Block and ones with cartoonish snakes and dragons that would give any male bedroom that element of “intimidation”, we realized that we were indoors on such a splendid day.

“Yeah but, North High doesn't have girls running around that look like that!” I noted. Still, once the sweat had dried and we were refreshed from the Orange Julius, we lit out in search of more post school cutting skate adventures.

That lasted for about another hour. By noon we were spent and just wanted to hang out until our friends were released at 3pm. So we headed back to my place and chilled out planning our perfect ditch day.

At this stage of his career, Geordie was a serious “Ferris Bueller's Day Off” fanatic. That movie spoke to him much like a flaming bush upon the holy mountain. Not only did he empathize and identify with the character, but Geordie started to dress like Ferris as well. He had a beret, sweater vest and same sunglasses as depicted in the movie. It was pretty cool. Strange, but cool.

That John Hughes flick also spawned an obsession with The Beatles. It was the weirdest phenomenon. One night I went to bed and woke up the next day a Beatles maniac. Geordie concurred thanks to Ferris dancing to “Twist and Shout” on that parade float. In the throes of listening to very little else besides hardcore punk and thrash metal, The Beatles snuck in and took hold of me. Luckily, my dad had every album they ever released (up to that point) in the US, so we always had hours of fab four fun at our disposal.

“I got an idea,” Geordie said. “Lets rent 'Hard Days Night' and 'Help'.”

Sure. Why not? What little cash we had between us could indeed be spent on renting two awesome movies featuring our favorite non-punk/metal band. So we gathered our stuff and prepared to skate down to the corner video store.

“But wait,” I interrupted, “I'm starving.”

“Yeah. Me too,” Geordie said.

Were we really going to spend the last of our meager pocket change on renting two movies we had seen a million times? Apparently so. A quick check of the fridge indicated a lot of stuff that had to be “cooked” or “prepared”. Screw that noise! We just ditched school to have a leisurely day off to enjoy and exploit the angelhood of our adolescence; doing anything beside skate and slack was off the books. Cooking was the last thing on our agenda.

“Wait a minute!”, I interjected as Geordie considered eating a Swanson Salisbury Steak frozen dinner. “I have an idea!”

My dad, who was still doing local theater at the time, had befriended a guy that owned a small chain of family style seafood restaurants called Skipper's. Skipper's was no more than fried fish bits served up with fried shoestring potatoes and coleslaw that was pretty pricy for the quality of stuff you got. The Skipper's owner had given my dad two “Free Complete Dinner” coupons a while ago during a wrap party for some show they were both involved in.

After going into my dad's bedroom and finding the coupons in his stack of business cards and receipts, I returned to show Geordie our solution to the stomach growlies.

“Thing is,” I started, “I think he's saving these for something.”

“How long have they been there?” Geordie asked.

“I dunno. Year or so.”

Geordie just laughed. “Yeah, he forgot about them. He was saving them for this day. C'mon. Let's go grub!”

We exited the apartment, slammed our boards down and skated to the video store. After trying to sneak into the “adult” section of the place, before being caught by the middle aged lady behind the counter, we darted into the “musicals” area, grabbed the movies and returned to check them out.

“You two don't look eighteen,” she said sternly.

“We're not,” I said.

“We just like sex,” Geordie continued, “and would like to see it on the TV.”

She rang up the movies, we paid then left to skate the few blocks to get to our nearest Skipper's, which was maybe five blocks from the apartment.

Around noontime, Skipper's was booming. Lunching folk craving overpriced deep fried cod and halibut lined up and waited patiently. We didn't care. We took to practicing our ollies while we slowly made our way to the order window, sending loud and echoing “Clack...Blams!” throughout the crowded restaurant.

“Hey! You kids stop that!” cried out what looked like a manager. All day old people were trying to ruin our “Geordie and Mark's Day Off” merrymaking. But we didn't care. When we presented those two coupons to the tired looking girl at the order counter, who literally rolled her eyes at us, we knew that the rest of the afternoon would be spent in Beatles and free fish heaven.

After a while the food arrived in large to-go bags. I am not kidding you, each bag, each dinner, weighed about 5 pounds. Our teenage and penniless eyes grew so wide, all we could do was laugh and skeedadle out of that place pronto for fear of them saying we got the wrong order, that we got the dinner for twenty...and hand over two small buckets of fried sadness.

It took a while to make it back to our apartment, but when we did, we quickly opened the bags and started organizing the ominous lot of food on the area in front of the TV. It was more than a smorgasbord, it was a spread that would make any heathenish Roman run for the vomitorium several times.

“Holy crap,” I said. “That's a lot of food.”

“Whatever!” Geordie cried. “Let's go!”

So after pouring some sodas and grabbing a whole roll of paper towels, I slid in 'Hard Days Night', turned up the stereo and soon we were rocking out to the movie and rocking even harder with our free fried fish fiesta. Our faces literally glistened from the amount of grease we were taking in, as if I needed more zits at that time.

When 'Hard Days Night' ended, I threw on 'Help!' and by the end of that movie, we had eaten every last bite of those two dinners.

“I...(burp)...can't believe we ate the whole thing,” I warbled, half dead in a food coma.

“That was awesome,” Geordie said. “Hey! Look at the time!”

The clock read a little past 3pm. We quickly cleaned up the to-go containers and sloppy plate mess, made sure no crumbs were to be found, shoved the trash into a brown paper shopping bag, grabbed the two movies and headed out. We tossed the incriminating evidence of gluttony into the large dumpster out front, returned the movies to the video store and skated off to the 7-11 near our high school to meet up with our pals that had just gotten out of school.

“You guys ditched,” some of them said when we arrived. “What'd you do?”

“Oh...not much.”

With that the lot of us rolled off and skated in the setting sun until it was time to go home for dinner.

Before we parted, Geordie and I shook hands.

“Good job buddy,” he said. “Fantastic ditch day.”

“Same to you,” I nodded. “Let's do this again shall we?”

He then made the long trek back to his home and I wheeled down the street, up to the apartment and entered to find my dad cooking dinner.

“There you are,” he said stirring something in a pot, the smell of meatloaf filling the air. “Hungry?”

“Sorry. Just been skating with the guys. Um...sure,” I uttered trying to convince myself.

Just then the phone rang. As my dad was busy cooking, I picked it up.

“Hello?”

On the other end came a voice. It was a recorded message from our school principal:

“Hello. This message is to inform you that your son or daughter has missed one or more of their classes today. Please contact us if...”

I had gotten the message before. It was when I was deathly sick with the flu and had to miss about a week of school. That was the time when the Space Shuttle blew up. I actually saw it live as I laid on the couch half conscious from a fever not knowing I had been witness to history and true horror. In my illness, I thought I was watching a bad episode of 'Battlestar Galactica'.

Luckily for me I had great improv skills thanks to some theater training. As the message wore on, I kept saying “Hello?...Hello?” before shrugging and hanging up.

“Who was that?” my dad asked.

“I don't know. They didn't say. Wrong number I guess.”

Whew! I dodged that bullet. After cleaning up, I sat at the table and was served a heaping pile of meat, potatoes and salad. The lingering effects of that fish holocaust was still rumbling in my gut.

“Thanks dad. Looks good.”

My dad sat down, took a sip of wine and asked, “So, how was your day?”

As I played with oven baked meat drenched in ketchup, all I could muster was “Eh. It was alright,” knowing darn well I had the best day ever.

That night as I lay in bed, staring up at my Metallica poster, still reeling from the food and aching from the never ending skateboarding activity, all I could do was smile and sigh. It wasn't a huge day, it definitely wasn't the craziest day filled with wild and near illegal adventures, but it was a day just being a teenage goofball and not being stuck, yet again, behind some desk, listening to old crusters drone about boring crap, staring out the window wishing that I was out in that beautiful promise. That day, with my good friend, I actually was.

And, during my time in high school, it was never to repeat like that ever again, even though I cut school quite often. Not that I'm encouraging cutting classes or ditching responsibilities, but sometimes, when life gives you days such as that one, you just gotta do the right thing and take it all in.

Just don't eat a complete dinner for two from Skipper's all by yourself if you have the chance. Because that was just gross.

"Don't wanna wake grandma" : Book excerpt #6

A haphazard reunion with an old friend goes awry. Back on my home turf of the Monterey Peninsula, I reconnect with another friend after the other one ditches out. We drink, he drives me back to my buddy’s grandmother’s house, where he is living with his fiancé, and hilarity ensues.

Enjoy...


* * *


“Hey, hey, hey!”

I looked over and saw Alexander walk out onto the patio. He hadn’t changed a bit since last I saw him. Long blonde hair pulled back into a tight pony tail, suede shirt coat jacket, western jeans over clunky cowboy boots and still carrying around his saddle bags slung over his shoulder filled with random notebooks and business proposals. Alex and I hugged. I was quite relieved to see him.

Alex and I went inside to get another round of beers, while sneaking in shots of rye, which was always a favorite of his. Alex had all sorts of great stuff going on; his greeting card line, his publishing company and he was even thinking about opening up a café / oddball toy store in the near future.

“But I still have to do contracting and construction to keep the money coming in,” he said.

“Dude, I have to bartend at the strangest place on earth, run by Satan’s alcoholic uncle and staffed by immigrants, drug fiends and beautiful blonde women.”

“What category do you fall under?” Alex asked.

“I haven’t figured that one out yet.”

Back on the patio, the conversation was brisk and lively, except between Dave and myself. He chose to put his attention in his future bride while Alex and I cracked jokes and dug up mischief from the past.

“Remember you drank so much coffee at Tillie Gorts that you ended up tap dancing in the middle of the street for ten minutes after they closed?” I recounted.

“Or the time we went to that strip club in San Francisco and you got that mysterious stain on your pants after that ugly crackwhore lapdanced on you?” said Alex.

“Dude,” I said, “I now live three blocks from that same strip joint. Every time I walk by it I think about that night. Good times.”

The importance of this gathering was the fact that I was here to reconnect with Dave and see if after a decade we were still pals. Turns out the guy I saw just a year ago and keep in semi-contact with, Alex, was far more engaging. Shannon seemed to dominate the conversation anyway, seeing as Dave just went along with what she said or wanted to do. To be witness to that made me a bit uneasy. Dave used to be tough, a fighter, and extremely funny. The few hours I had been there made it apparent that he gave into the disability of both his back and this girl.

About 8pm the Blue Anchor was jumping and filled with people Alex knew. I was a little drunk but feeling great thanks to the energy of reuniting, that familiar smell and feel of my old hometown and an occasional helping hand from my powdery friend. I made sure to do it in small increments, just to keep me going and coherent. Last time I did blow with old friends the result was ugly and I sure as heck didn’t want to revive that embarrassing juncture. So I kept it at a bare minimum.

Dave and Shannon said they had to get going but would leave a key under the backdoor mat for me. I hugged them both, told them I would see them either in a few hours or in the morning and I would be silent as silent could be when coming in. We said our goodbyes and I returned to the little patio party that Alex seemed to have organized.

We ended up bar-hopping later that night around downtown Monterey and I actually started kissing one of Alex’s lady friends around last call. She was a very cute and slightly portly girl, who seemed willing when my hormone fueled drunkenness kicked in, allowing me to pin her to the wall outside some bar and make out with her. It didn’t last very long as Alex pulled me away and drove me to Dave’s grandma’s place.

“Who was that girl?” I slurred heavily.

“I don’t know,” Alex said. “I think she was friends with Jessica.”

“Who’s Jessica?”

“A friend.”

“The one with the face or the one with the boobs?”

“They all had faces and boobs.”

“I like...boobs.”

Alex dropped me off around 2am to which I immediately had to switch into “I’m really drunk but I have to be really quiet” mode. We silently said our goodnights and goodbyes to each other and had a good laugh about the situation and the fact I had forced some random girl to make out with me, which I had never done. Well, at least not in front of him. Alex then drove off and I stood in the bleak chill trying to gather enough chutzpah to enter a house I had only been through once and now had to navigate in total stealth, in abject darkness, hastened by a staggering beer plowed body.

Pacific Grove in the dark early morning hours is a mausoleum. Cold, quiet, tenebrific and dead. In fact, the silence was so loud I felt as if that mild squeak in my left Vans were echoing down the street as I approached the backdoor. The house was pitch black. This was going to take some experienced drunk guy ninja artistry.

The key was, thankfully, under the mat and I gently slid it in the lock and slowly turned the knob which made a distinct “clack” that resonated in eternity. Once inside, I stood wobbly in the kitchen trying to get my eyes adjusted to the dark. Eventually I began my tip toe creep-fest to the “office”, which was a few steps to the left and to the right down the hall if memory served me correctly. I found the room, slowly opened the door to avoid any unwelcome creaks or clicks, located the light switch on the wall and switched it on.

From underneath the desk a swift white furry animal darted out that caused me to scream out in abject terror.

“JESUS DONKEY BALLS!” I cried. “WHAT THE HOLY CHRIST WAS THAT!?”

Obviously it was a cat, but having it shoot past me like a fuzzy banshee out of a slingshot gave me quite the scare. It was then that I realized that I screamed much too loudly as my intoxication and fear of dark grandma houses took hold. As I sat on the easy chair, trying to regain a normal heart rate, I heard a shuffling from the room next door.

“What the fuck,” whispered Dave coming into the office with nothing but boxer briefs on. Chalk up another phobia: Thick and hearty man junk wobbling in my face at 2am. No bueno!

“I’m sorry man,” I said breathless and whispering. “It was the cat. It was...under the desk... Scared me man. I’m sorry.”

“Are you just getting in?”, Dave asked perturbed.

“Yeah. We went barhopping. You should have been there. It was fun. I made out with some chick.”

Dave looked at me despairingly. He had a hairy chest, which I always knew about, but the newly formed man-gut over those briefs with what looked like a taco shell shoved down the front made me long for the safety of the garage and comfort of the model train table. Foamy toy mountains make great pillows I bet.

“Just keep it down alright?,” Dave murmured. “Don’t wanna wake grandma up.”

“No,” I said. “Don’t wanna wake grandma.”

Dave and I said goodnight and he closed the door. Through the wall, in their bedroom, apparently, I could hear Shannon ask what was going on and Dave saying that I was drunk and got scared by the cat. She didn’t sound pleased. Nor did Dave.

The next day I was happy to find Dave busy with various things, such as a doctors visit and a meeting with his business partners about, something. This was all described to me as I stood in the sterile kitchen drinking his grandma’s horrible coffee shaking from an intense hangover.

“Mark, I hear you made quite the ruckus last night,” his grandma said. She was a nice old lady that looked much older after almost two decades or so of not seeing her. I’m sure the trauma of losing her husband of fifty years recently put on some age. She was sitting on the couch doing a crossword.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Your cat gave me quite a start. I didn’t mean to yell like that.”

“Oh I didn’t hear you dear,” she said. “I’m on so many pills that I could sleep through a bomb if it dropped right here in the living room.”

“That’s awesome.”

"Frieda gives me ecstasy": Book excerpt #5

“Frieda gives me ecstasy”: Book excerpt #5

A girl that I was “sort of” dating decides she wants to do ecstasy with me, not knowing my aversion to psychotropic drugs. The result was pretty interesting.

Enjoy!

* * *



Between work, the club and the radio show, not to mention my own need to hide either in the corner by the big window at the Crowbar or back at the apartment reading, writing and watching bad movies, I really didn’t see much of Frieda. That first night together really freaked me out but when she said she wanted to see me and “do something” together I figured Amanda’s place would be best. I found a night where I didn’t work and Khamish was gone for a few days filming in Oakland.

Frieda came over and looked as cute and sexy as ever. Even knowing what I knew then and her showing up in a multicolored sock cap and North Face jacket, it was good to see her. Although apprehension was looking over my shoulder along with carnal curiosity.

After I took her out for some amazing Thai food and drinks after at the Crowbar, we ended up back at the apartment. There was some kissing, some drinking and me trying to get the vibe if she wanted to do it or not. She didn’t seem all that interested but she did suggest something else.

“Look,” she said, “there’s something I want to do with you but I don’t know if you’ll be into it.”

“What is it?”

She unzipped her jacket that was lying on the floor and produced a tiny ziplock baggie with two large white pills inside.

“It’s X. Have you ever done it?”

I almost did once, ironically, at Burning Man, but warnings from friends and camp mates made me too hesitant to go through with it. They said it would “make me feel good” and make that god forsaken trance music seem more tolerable while at the same time comparing some basic effects to mushrooms and acid. After trying mushrooms once I decided that hallucinogens, even mild ones, are no good for me. I already have enough voices and phantasmagoria in my head thank you, I don’t need some drug to accelerate it and turn me into a drooling buffoon throwing rocks at the moon.

“Will I freak out?” I ask.

“It’s a distinct possibility,” she said. Frieda could even quote Animal House. If I wasn’t so afraid of her, I just might fall for her.

To be quite honest I had been curious about Ecstacy since the early days when it came out and I was exposed to it either at work or in clubs. San Francisco in the late 90s was weird man. All these down and out bars were turned into “lounges” and rock clubs got shut down because dot commie millionaires bought “live work lofts” above them and couldn’t take the full throttle of pseudo bohemian living. I had co-workers, roommates and even bosses that did it. They all claimed it was the bees knees.

So, why not? If it’ll make sex with Frieda even more exciting it’ll make up for all the dry spells I’ve had post Malory and Amanda. Well, except for Nicole but...I didn’t want to think about that.

She handed me a pill. We stood there with those big white aspirin looking things in our palms.

“Are you ready?” she said. “Go.”

Frieda plopped hers in her mouth and after a split second of hesitation I did the same.

“When...um...when does it take effect?”, I asked feeling the chalky horse pill race down my gullet.

“About fifteen or twenty minutes,” she assured “Are you nervous?”

“A little,” I admitted.

“Well don’t be,” Frieda said. “My friend said this was really pure stuff and it’ll just make you feel really really good.”

“That’s what they say.”

So we sat in the bedroom talking, drinking while listening to Portishead and Cocteau Twins when something started happening. After just ten minutes of swallowing the X pill, my body began to get really warm, as if a fever was taking hold. My vision started to blur, my perception began to give out, my knees buckled and my head swam as if I was immersed in a pool of tepid water.

“Something is happening,” I said. “Oh yeah...something is definitely happening!”

Pretty soon the bedroom was awash in a red glaze and I started spinning as the music foamed around me and the lights started to mold and throb. I wasn’t feeling good. I was just tripping balls.

“Jesus Christ!” I said. “You gave me acid. This is acid right? Oh my god. Is X supposed to feel like this?”

Frieda was watching me with concern and confusion while at the same time giggling.

“What are you talking about?” she said. “I don’t even feel anything yet. You’re just being a freak. It can’t hit you that hard that fast.”

Her words spun through my ears and I could take in the information but I could not comprehend. My body was on fire and I felt as if I was in some air pressured submarine. Everything had gotten angular and my extremities twinkled with fairy magic.

“Well...whatever,” I grumbled. “This is...uh...well...this is here. This is...what is this?”

Frieda was on the bed looking up at me. Suddenly her head bobbed down and she slowly craned back up with her eyes shut.

“Oh boy,” she said. “Um...wow. Yeah, this is really good stuff.”

“Is that...good?”

Frieda was silent for a while, what seemed like an eternity. Finally she spoke up.

“OK, Mark,” she began, “this is about as close to an acid trip as I had ever experienced without being on acid.”

“Oh jeeze!” I yelled. “This is not good. My brain is eroding.”

I was so hot that I stripped down to my boxers and started running around the apartment. Everything was crystal clear but had totally changed. The apartment looked more like a maze from Dr. Caligari than a space I was taking care of for Amanda. I started to get into it, but it was too much. I honestly had to have Frieda talk me down.

“Mark, it’s okay. You’re with me.”

You? Who are you? I barely know you! You’re trying to kill me! You’re the devil itself! I’ve heard you scream! No angel would make a ruckus like that!

“It’s just a drug. Just a powerful, wonderful, heavy ass drug.”

That’s right! You’re trying to poison me! That’s it! Lobotomize me with cheap pharmaceuticals and turn me into your sex slave! That actually doesn’t sound too bad except for the lobotomy part!

“Just calm down. Shhhh...”

Frieda then cradled me in her chest and I actually started to relax a bit. For some reason, be it the drug or the fact that I was attracted to her, I was actually thrown into a more reasonable state for the moment. Still reeling from the psychedelia that surrounded and gripped me, I was actually able to clasp into a brief twinkle of clarity.

“Maybe we should go outside and do stuff,” I warbled.

“Uh...no!”

For the next few hours I rode out the effects of that super potent hit of Ecstasy and learned to enjoy it. Music was fun, dancing around was fun and Frieda’s shrill screams of abject lascivious voracity later was actually quite lovely. In fact, she wasn’t loud enough. I do believe I threw the window open and announced to the world of our post orgasmic beatitude.

Take that Phil Collins! Let’s see you drum your way past this chick.

"Phil Collins": Book excerpt #4

“Phil Collins”: Book except #4


Even in the depths of my early morning dreamtime I could hear something. As my mind wandered through abstract images and memories I had collected from the past, a noise was breaking through. A thudding of some kind. Was someone knocking at my door?

By now I was used to the convex noise that permeated from Columbus Avenue. Sirens, busses, honking, religious freaks with megaphones, brakes slamming, late night drunken hollering, early morning delivery trucks, streetcleaners, bands performing in the park and the occasional parade were nothing new to me. By now it had all become white noise, much like the sleep machine I use every night. In a strange way, that constant cacophony was almost comforting. Now I can attest to those in rural states that insist it doesn’t bother them that the train goes by their house several times a day. You just plain get used to it.

I woke up to a new sound though. Khamish never played music loud and if he did it wouldn’t be this early in the morning. A check of the clock said 8:15. No, it wasn’t him. But just to be sure I sprung out of bed to see. His door was closed so I gently knocked. No response. I quietly opened the door to see his room, pleasantly messy as always, but no Khamish. This guy was the best roommate ever.

Pretty soon I noticed the noise was coming from upstairs. I always knew there were people living above Amanda but I never saw them. Up until today, I never really heard them. Once in a while I would hear the upstairs door close but that was about it. Whoever was up there was sure playing some bass heavy music.

Walking halfway down the hall I found the hotspot; the area where it was booming the loudest. The big painting on the wall was even shaking a bit. This person had their music cranked. And at eight in the morning This guy likes to party.

It was then I deciphered the song. It was Phil Collins’ “In The Air Tonight”. I could hear that chiming beat with Phil lightly singing “I can feel it...coming in the air tonight...oh lord.” Then that famous and very distinctive heavy drum beat, boom boom-boom boom-boom boom-boom-boom boom!, and the apartment nearly shook from it’s foundation, which didn’t take much as it was 100+ years old and rickety so I often got rattled when a large truck would idle outside.

For real, the music was deafening. I was tired. I closed out the Crowbar that night and didn’t get to sleep till four. Not that I was doing the drug, it was the fact that I caught Black Belt Jones on the late-late movie when I came home. Jim Kelly is my hero and I just had to make it to the end.

So half asleep and cowering from the loudness that only Phil Collins could provide, I opened the front door, walked upstairs and knocked.

The music was thundering. So I knocked again, louder this time. Nothing. I started pounding on the door. Still nothing. Maybe this dude offed himself and wanted Phil to be the last thing he heard as he exited this world. It’s a good song to do it to. Pretty cathartic and rather symbolic. Still though, I wanted to go back to sleep.

BLAM! BLAM!! BLAM!!! I was hammering the door.

Finally the music cut out. I heard footsteps which stopped right on the other side of the door. A sort of shuffling really.

“Hello?” It was a man’s voice. “Who is it?”

“Um, hi. My name is Mark and I live downstairs.”

A lock unhinged, a chain slid loose. The door opened and standing before me was a frail old man, maybe in his 70s, in a light blue, rather unwashed, terrycloth bathrobe and house slippers. He was taller than me and looked like he hadn’t shaved in a while.

“You know Amanda?” he asked.

“Uh, yes. Yes I do.”

“You her boyfriend?”

That stumped me. “It’s too early to give you an honest response,” I said.

The old man then gave me the once over as I stood there kind of not knowing what should happen next..

“Well,” he grunted, “what do you want?”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, your, um, music...time...but, uh, it’s pretty early sir and it’s really really loud.”

He just looked at me as I stood there in my boxers and Skeletor tee shirt rubbing my hands in solicitude.

“I thought kids your age liked loud rock music,” he said with no air of humor at all. It was almost like he was challenging me.

“Yeah, I do,” I said, “but I’m actually thirty five and need to get some sleep.”

“Thirty five ” the old man shouted. He seemed drunk. “You don’t look a day over twenty.”

“Well, thank you. That’s...that’s nice of you to say.”

The old man leaned in real close and whispered. “What’s your secret?”

“Um, well,” I stammered, caught a bit off guard, “I drink a lot of water and moisturize every day.”

“Moisturize huh?”, he said with suspicion. “Aren’t ladies and fags the only ones to do that?”

“No. Not at all. In fact ladies and, uh...homosexuals...have great skin so why can’t I?”

“Point taken.”

“Plus I don’t smoke. Oh, and heavy metal will set you free!”

“Say again?”

“Never mind.”

The old man leaned his head back and looked around his apartment and the hallway. I really didn’t know if this guy was high on those awesome old people meds that deviant grandchildren always steal or just a nutbag filled with a shovelful of crazy.

“Look,” he said in a low voice, “I’ll turn it down, but just remember...”

He was pointing a finger at me and paused.

“Um...yes sir,” I uttered.

“The wife is out of town for a few days and Phil Collins rocks my shit.”

I blurted out a puff of a laugh, to which I quickly crossed my arms and held my lips as if I was pontificating what he had just said.

“Uh huh,” I twittered. “Well, you know, I was a fan of Miami Vice when I was a kid and this song...”

Slam! The door shut right in my face.

All I could do at that point was go back downstairs and go climb into the bed. I lay there in stone silence and perfect stillness. Sleep didn’t come. I was in too much awe to do so.

"Random Hookup": Book excerpt #3

This piece chronicles the “morning after” a random hookup with a girl I had met at a party. She was someone I would not usually be into but, well, we’ve all been there. I was also in the early stages of my cocaine use and didn’t fully understand it’s harmful effects…in more ways than one.

Enjoy!


* * *


The next day I woke up to a very strange noise. All I heard was something like “beeesh-zoooot-beeeesh-zoooot”. It was like some kind of cyborg breathing, yet with a gurgling too. At first I thought the toilet was backed up and making odd sounds. Maybe it was my stomach because after a night of boozing I am usually famished by morning, that is if I don’t stop somewhere to get a late night burrito or pizza slice. Which I didn’t.

I then realized I was laying next to a naked girl I barely knew. Looking over at her, I made a startling discovery.

Nicole had that aviator mask thing on her face and the machine was activated. I could see the little pumps I thought was the reel to reel tapes bopping up and down. She was on her back, chest exposed, while the other half was under her stark white sheet, with this mask on her making her look like some kind of Sex Vader. I shot up and surveyed the scene.

First thing I noted was that I wasn’t turned on. If some random girl wearing a breathing apparatus with her boobs out made me tingly in any way I would make an appointment with a therapist. But it didn’t. Actually, if the mask was a full blown Darth style I might be inclined to mount her and do my business. But the sound of the machine, that sloshing, compressed air sound, made me a little queasy. So I looked around her room, found my undershirt, shorts, shirt and hoodie, gathered them up and began to look for my shoes and socks. That’s when she woke up.

“Good morning,” she said completely muffled by the mask and whooshing sounds. I could barely make out what she was saying.

“Uh, hi,” I said holding my clothes in a tight ball. “Morning. I uh... Ready for breakfast?”

Nicole then took of the mask and turned the machine off.

“Are you freaked out by this?” she asked. By my deer caught in the headlights expression and stance it was apparent that I was. “Sorry. I have sleep apnea. It’s either this or I don’t breath at night.”

“Uh huh,” I said.

“Whatever. You think I’m a freak.”

“No. It’s cool. I just...I’ve never seen anything like that,” I said. “My dad’s husband has sleep apnea and he...”

“Your dad’s gay?” she said sounding a little perturbed.

“Uh, yeah. They both are.”

“That’s weird.”

I always found it funny that people that live in San Francisco can still be homophobic. I’ve come across it so many times and it still makes me scratch my head and think ‘why don’t you move to Kansas or something?’ They live in the gayest city in the world with a famous gay district making it the Gay Vortex for all other things that are labeled “gay”. San Francisco is queen of Homo Mountian. Stand proud

It was then that I noticed something on the ground. My bag of blow had fallen out and was sitting in the middle of the floor. Nicole got up, put on a big tee shirt, a long one with Tweety bird on it for craps sake, and started toward the door. She walked by me, tickled my tummy and yawned off to the bathroom. The whole time I moved my body so that she wouldn’t see the bag. When she as gone I quickly retrieved it and stuffed it in my wallet. I then got dressed, found my socks and shoes, which were scattered all over the room, without a clue how that happened, and put them on.

When Nicole came back I was tying my shoe.

“You’re in a big hurry huh?” she said. “I thought maybe we could have another quicky before we go out.”

Actually, the last thing on my mind right then was sex. I was hungover, the coke had made me feel chemically dazed and, to be honest with you, I was a little turned off by the whole breathing mask thing and the whole situation.

“I, uh...don’t have another condom,” I said, realizing that I hadn’t used one when we sort of did it. That made me nervous too.

“That’s okay,” she said opening up a drawer on her night stand. “I’ve come prepared.” She lifted out a long row of condoms and wore a sinister smile.

“Can I take a raincheck?” I said. “I didn’t realize how late it was. I have to be at work in an hour.”

She put the condoms back in the drawer. “That’s fine,” she said. “What about breakfast?”

“I don’t think we’ll have time.”

“Whatever.”

Sensing that she was a little upset with me I tried to make some light conversation.

“I see you’re into Mariah Carey,” I said.

“Fuck yeah,” Nicole said with all seriousness. “Mimi is the bomb yo.”

“Yeah,” I uttered. “I had this poster of Lita Ford when I was a kid on the ceiling above my bed. You know, the one where she’s topless, looking at you over her shoulder, in uber tight leather pants and holding that white pointy guitar with fog in the background? It was awesome.”

“Who’s Lita Ford?” she asked.

“I gotta go.”

I didn’t have to work that day but I needed to split. We kissed goodbye, exchanged numbers and I left. It was late afternoon on a Friday so I walked up to the 540, ordered a Bloody Mary, drank it while talking to the daytime bartender Richie who called me a cab when I was finished. I went back to the apartment to find camera equipment all over the place.

“What the heck is going on?” I asked.

There was a bunch of people I didn’t know scurrying around the place. There was a big digital camera pointed down the hall, with lights, flags, cables on the ground and Khamish coming out of his room.

“Is this okay,” he asked. “We need a quick scene of a girl coming out of a bedroom. I didn’t know when you were coming home so...is this okay?”

I actually didn’t care at all. Khamish was never around and for that I rewarded him with letting his film crew do some shooting in the place. Turns out he wanted the girl coming out Amanda’s bedroom, looking distressed, and then walking past the camera.

“That’s it,” he said. “We’ll be done in a few hours.”

“That’s cool man,” I said. “I’ll go catch a movie or something. What’s playing?”

Most of the crew just shrugged. But they took a half hour break to let me shower, change and get my stuff together. I needed to see some big dumb movies anyway. My brain had turned to mush.

Book excerpt #2: "Crazy boss"

When I moved back to San Francisco I needed a job...fast. Then I met "Jack".

Enjoy...

* * *


The phone rang much too early. I heard the digital bleeping from Amanda’s phone in my dream, which cut through some kind of action involving Charo and a roller disco contest. Sometimes I wish I just had falling, flying or sex dreams. Mine usually involve characters from the pop culture vault and some kind of forgotten fad in a cartoonish landscape. Come to think of it, I’ve always liked my dreams.

The phone lay on the night stand, which was still cluttered with some of Amanda’s stuff. Cleaning and organizing her place had proven to be a serious undertaking. I don’t think she threw anything away. I mean, what’s with all the boots and vibrators?

After half blindly reaching for the phone, I let out a groggy, “Hello?”

There was a pause. If nobody answers me within 5 seconds, for the most part, I just hang up, figuring it to be some kind of salesman or telemarketer that can’t pronounce my last name. I usually get a “Hello, Mister Whit...Wha...Whit-takker?” Because there are 2 T’s in my last name it always throws people off. Guys like Forest Whitaker are lucky. One T in then name gets it pronounced correctly. Two and I sound like I have some kind of stuttering inducing sur name, which is good because only people I care to speak to know how to pronounce it. Otherwise, phones are the devil.

“Yes,” said a guttural and stammering mans voice, “is this Mark Whit-takk-er?”

“Oh jeeze,” I said. “I knew it. What are you trying to sell me? If it’s not some coffee or aspirin then go die.”

Another pause. Just as I was about to hang up the man came back.

“My name is Jack Roth and I’m the owner of Bill’s bar. You, uh, submitted a resume?”

I shot up and cleared my throat.

“Oh yes, hello mister Roth. Thanks for calling me back. I, um...”

“Yes I realize that’s it’s early,” he said sounding as if he didn’t care that I told him to go die, “but I was wondering if you could come in today for an interview?”

“Oh. Today? Uh, yeah, sure. No problem. What, uh, what time is good for you?”

“Let’s say after lunch,” said Mr. Roth with a weird sputter in his voice. “You can’t come anytime before or during lunch because we get busy. And I need to be here and ready if anything gets out of hand. Understand?”

This guy sounded wacko. But, according to Hal, the owner was indeed a nut job. It didn’t matter, I definitely needed some kind of income coming in. So I gave him a “yes, of course I understand.”

“Good. Let’s say 2 o’clock. Is that good for you?”

I looked at the clock which read 9:45. “Yeah, that’s perfect. I’ll be there at two.”

“Oh and if you have any references please bring them,” he said sounding a bit irked. “You forgot to include them on this, well...what’s the word I’m looking for here? Interesting resume.”

He then let out a weird breathy laugh. Not really knowing what to do I just laughed right along.

“Ha ha,” I said. “Yeah, well, no problem. I have references. In fact, I have...”

“Have you ever bartended before?” he interrupted.

“Um, yeah...I...”

“Good. We can talk about that when you come in.”

Click.

I sat there in bed holding the phone for a while. Slowly I set the receiver down and wondered what just happened. Coming back to San Francisco and taking care of an estranged girlfriends apartment is one thing. Possibly bartending in a huge ghost ship of a place with Captain Crazy Britches at the helm really began to worry me. So I just laid back down and tried to go back to sleep, which never came.

About ten minutes to 2:00 I strolled into Bill’s. The place was deserted except for a few grubby guys at the bar sucking down light beers and watching some kind of sport on that ancient television. The bartender on duty was an attractive thin blonde girl who looked totally out of place here. Hal was alright, a bit young, but better suited to serve smelly beer guzzlers in a spooky wharf side establishment than a good looking blonde in a clean white tank top. Maybe I had this place figured out all wrong. There must be an undercurrent of cash and coolness that I just wasn’t picking up on.

“Can I help you?” she asked in a strange accent. British, I wondered. Australian? Jersey?

“Yeah, my name is Mark I have an interview with Jack.”

“Oh right,” she said coming around the bar. “My name is Mindy.” She stuck out her right hand which I shook. She had a stronger grip than I did. “Jack is right inside there.”

She pointed to a door directly under the TV and to the left of the bar. Mindy walked up and knocked on it. I heard a muffled “What?” to which she opened the door and told him I was here. Mindy then gestured for me to go inside, which I did.

And, wouldn’t you know it, the crazy guy in the corner talking about broken glass was the owner. That both totally amused me and sent me almost running away screaming at the same time.

“Come in,” he grumbled. “Sit down.”

His office was no bigger than a broom closet and just as cluttered. Shelves on either side of his muddled desk with a smaller, black and white TV on it showing the exact same game as in the main bar, was crammed with all sorts of old bar taps, tools, holiday decorations, invoices, pest control cans, whatnots, gewgaws, this and that and a coffee mug that said “I’m so horny even the crack of dawn looks good.” Looking around I saw that there was no place to sit, except for an old milk crate which he gestured toward and I hunkered down on. It smelled too, like a combination of stale work boot and old man fart. Mindy shut the door behind me and I felt as if she had sealed my coffin.

“So, tell me a little about yourself,” Jack said. He had this rumbling voice that indicated a combination of age, madness, alcohol abuse and yelling at the television when his team fumbled a ball. Plus his eyes were sunken, yellow and appeared to be leaking a bit. He was unshaven, he had a huge gut protruding from a cheap flannel under a puffy work vest. Even sitting down I could see that he was extremely tall. Jack frightened me. Almost as much as being broke.

“Well, let’s see,” I began. “I just moved back from Palm Springs...”

“What the hell were you doing there?” he demanded.

“Um, well, I was living with my dad and writing for this local paper.”

“Is that what you do,” he asked almost inquisitory. “You a writer?”

“Well, sort of, I’m also a DJ...”

“Says here you write a lot,” Jack said picking up my resume that was perched to his left. “I don’t need a goddam writer. What I need is a bartender.”

Before walking down to Bill’s I had made a quicky bar resume with some “references”. Basically the few restaurants and one bar I worked at briefly became year long endeavors and the references were Jose and Kevin and a few made up ones with fake phone numbers. If this guy actually calls any of my references I’d be shocked. But, you never know. By the look of it, Jack was just wacky enough to do so. And probably in the middle of the night. So I gave him some speech about how my “writing gigs” were in-between my real jobs, which were being a server and bartender, as I handed him the new resume.

“Why the hell didn’t you hand this one to me in the first place?”

He had a good question and, in a way, he got me. I then came up with a quick and brilliant explanation which involved me just coming back from an interview with a publishing house down the street and, you know, they might offer me a job so better nab me up quick buddy.

“What publishing house?” he asked, again, sounding totally incriminating.

“Uh, Fields & Cohen,” I said. For some reason Mindy Cohen and Kim Fields of “Facts of Life” came to mind. Maybe it was because the bartender was named Mindy. Maybe it was due to the fact that I always had a crush on Jo. Then why not call it “Polniaczek Press”? I couldn’t figure out either of them.

“Never heard of it,” Jack said.

“It’s small. It’s...new.”

“Here’s the thing,” he started, adjusting his lumbering body in a squeaky chair holding on for dear life, “the outside bar is getting more popular. They got bands and singers and all sorts of acts on that new stage of theirs outside. Have you seen the stage yet?”

“Oh yes,” I said trying to get an angle in. “In fact, that’s how I...”

“Good, because I can’t have a one bartender doing both bars. It’s...it’s just not possible. They just can’t. This place is too big. Have...have you seen this place?”

“Yes, I...”

“It’s just not possible.”

I sat there nodding holding back tears and giggles while at the same time trying not to breath through my nose. What were those other smells? Embalming fluid? Forgotten underwear left for dead under heaping mounds of boxes filled with staining account statements from the Carter administration? Or was it just Jack? He looked like a man that would forget to bathe after giving himself several beer ties and swallowing a slat of chili cheese dogs. Whatever it was it was thick and grim and I wished that Mindy would come back and open the door to release some of the heavy old guy musk stench. But she never did.

“Well,” I began waiting to be interrupted again. “Uh...I’m available. I live right up the street and can...”

“You live right up the street?” Jack almost shouted in surprise. “Where?”

“Columbus and Union.”

“When can you start?”

Jack and I settled on the day after to get me trained and acclimated to the place. As I walked back up Columbus to the apartment I felt a twinge of fear enter my body. I don’t know why, but it felt as if I had sold my soul in some weird way. Then I kept repeating to myself “Its just a job, it’s only temporary” and that seemed to calm me a little. If anything I would walk away with a new experience and some stories. I already knew I could write a whole novella on just Jack alone. That guy was a mess. What threw me off was why he agreed to hire me on the fact that I lived just up the street. That gave me pause and made me shudder a bit.

When I got back to the apartment I saw Khamish walking out of his room. He had the turban, along with an expensive looking tee shirt, some super stiff and hip jeans on and holding onto an expensive looking laptop computer.

“Oh hi.” he said. “I’m just on my way out.”

“I’m just coming in,” I said meeting him midway through the hall.

“Well...see ya,” he said leaving in a hurry.

“Yeah. Okay. See ya.”

Khamish closed the door behind him and was gone. I then found it weird to be living in a place where a guy like Khamish came and went as he pleased. It wasn’t the turban or Hindu thing, far from it. I just found it odd that someone actually did in fact “live” in a tiny room right next to me. Someone that I never saw. Sure I had room mates before, lots of them, but usually I either knew them or I saw them on a regular basis.

Life was becoming quite psychedelic at this point.

Prologue: "Rabbit Every Tuesday"

My idea is to post random sections of my first book "Rabbit Every Tuesday" to get you all going and interested. This is the first few pages, the prologue, before any real action takes place.

Enjoy!


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Prologue



“Come all ye losers don’t you know you’re the children of life?
Follow me now and we can burn down the pillars of time ”
- High On Fire, Hung, Drawn and Quartered




When I woke up I realized I was still in Palm Springs. The ceiling fan was the first clue. Plus I was wrapped up under the heavy quilted bedspread my Dads always favored. Even in a place that reaches 120+ degrees these guys still insist on Arctic ready covers.

My Dad’s house has a specific smell too. The Freon scent from the constantly working central air, mixed with cabinets of antique curios and furniture from musty estate sales houses, combined with a coffee maker always on and sometimes burned and my real Dad having to smoke outside that, still, somehow manages to leak through closed patio doors makes for a familiar yet totally unfamiliar smell. I don’t own many antiques. I have never smoked a cigarette in my life. And my old life back in San Francisco only required the occasional use of a fan. Still, this was home #2 so to speak.

The carpeting is strange too, almost like the floor covering you find in offices. Utilitarian I think they call it. They used to have a small dog, a skiperdee, Lily, but she died a few years back so the non-shaggy “carpet” that helped her move around easily and didn’t leave any traces of that soft black fur she had is a curious addition. My eyes still thick with sleep crust squints a bit as I twist the dark brown bamboo looking stick to open the sun shadowing blinds. These things make the room almost pitch black when in operation. Many a day I have taken a nap, usually from the heat or after a few afternoon cocktails, and have woken up thinking it was midnight; only to discover it was barely dinner time. I guess when you’re retired gay men living in the desert you want very little reminder that the sun bleaches out almost anything it burns on. Even Edwardian bureaus and relics from elegant pomposity past.

The room I was staying in is my Dad’s room. My real dad. He was married once, back in the early 70s, to my mom, obviously, when being an out of the closet homosexual wasn’t so revered an accepted as it is now. He came out to me when I was 13, which freaked me out to no degree but then when I got involved with community theater and realized almost everyone is gay in one way or another I relaxed and just let it be. He is my Dad for craps sake. How many Star Wars toys and video game systems did this guy get me for Christmas and birthdays? C’mon.

His room is actually separate from the rest of the house which is nice. First off, it is filled with posters and artifacts from B-movies of the 50s and 60s. Images of bridge eating dinosaurs from movies like Reptilicus and 3-D glasses with the words House Of Wax on them fill the counter tops and walls of his room. Plus his tiny personal stereo is always equipped with CDs of new wave classics so many a night, after many a beer, I have put on the headphones and blasted away one hit wonders like The Vapors, Wall of Voodoo, Bow Wow Wow, Icicle Works, etc. It’s almost a room that I would have if I were gay, retired and living in Palm Springs. Which is odd to think about.
Second, his room is way down the hall, a few clicks from Dad #2's room, next to the bathroom with patio accessibility. Dad 2 has a finely decorated yet kind of sterile room with the only item of quirky flair is a large cardboard cutout of Joe Montana, a longtime object of lust for him, standing proud and toothy behind the door. The separate rooms came a while back, actually when they moved into this place from their old humongous pad in Monterey, CA, as they both snore and have completely different sleeping patterns. My Dad gets up at like 5 am, everyday, has some coffee, smokes, reads the paper, then goes back to bed at around 7 or 8 only to get up a few hours later. Dad 2, who has sleep apnea, that horrible “are you dead from not breathing?” snoring, gets up at 7 am sharp and stays awake only to complain that he’s tired for most of the day. They are complete opposites that have found and need each other. Plus my Dad is a skinny little short guy who was a wild artist actor hippie married once and had a kid. Dad 2 stretches over 6 ½ feet and practiced medicine and was a socialite and medical board member for years. Never been married, always been outspoken about his sexuality. They are two in-proportioned peas in a happy pod of two different worlds.

Eventually I emerged from the room and headed for the kitchen. A check from the ornate and supposedly owned by W. Randolph Hearst grandfather clock said it’s just past 10 am. I could hear the TV babbling on in the den and smell the coffee, half charred, but always a welcome treat.

“Good morning ” my dad yells from across the room. I hear canned laughter so I know he’s wither watching Will and Grace or Becker. “Nice of you to join us.”

My Dad actually buys decent coffee. He used to be a specific Folgers with that flavor crystals crap drinker but after Oprah praised the taste and company of Peet’s Coffee he’s been hooked. Funny thing is I actually worked as a barista for Peet’s many years ago, right after I had quit doing film production. It was honestly an awesome job and I always brought bags of the stuff when I visited back then. “It’s too strong” he would say. Now look at him.

I joined my Dad in the tight quarters known as the TV room. It’s equipped with two expensive leather recliners, a TV the size of most multi-plex movie screens, surround sound and, of course, antique lamps and tables. Something that I have adopted from my Dad’s home life is the use of ambient light. These guys live in almost relative darkness, using amber lights and hidden light sources to make the house look even more like a show room at night. That or an old movie house which is what my dad is going for. As you sit on one of the recliners you are treated to a widescreen TV that is so immense and close the foot rest that pops out and up could almost hit it. I sit in Dad 2's chair and am treated to, I knew it, Will and Grace with Debra Messing near enough that her boobs actually look sort of big.

“How’d you sleep?” my dad asked.

“Good. I had some dream that Gary Coleman was my boss and he wanted me to carry a big bag of animal fat across the street to some house that involved Mexican gangs and pornography. I wasn’t wearing any pants, as usual, so I don’t know if I was the star of the movie, like some weird fetish thing involving animal blubber, or I was being jumped into some gang but in a kinky way. Either or it was cool to see Gary Coleman.”

“Uh huh,” he uttered, only half listening as the antics of Jack and Karen were taking precedence. “Well...you always did have bizarre dreams.”

It was true. And voices too. Not bad ones that seem to always say “Kill the president’s dog” but more along the lines of wouldn’t a picnic be good right now...who needs this job...go outside...put on a puppet show...Slayer rules. The “voices” are one of the main reasons I never got into drugs. I couldn’t imagine them being any louder or actually taking shape. Beer always seemed to keep them at bay though.

“How’s the book coming along?” he asks.

“Umm...okay. Good. Actually, no. I hate it. It’s going in a weird direction.”

“Uh huh.”
Again, Jack and Karen, this time with Harry Connick Jr. Something involving white wine spritzers or whatever. My Dad erupts in laughter.
When I moved here a few weeks back I told myself I would try to write an actual book. For years I had been a contributing writer for a dozen or so underground and heavy metal magazines. It started as a fluke, a favor for a friend really who had become an editor for a small magazine based out of Chico, CA that seemingly blossomed during that whole ‘dot com’ boom of the late 90s. I still penned for a few, mainly the big glossy metal mags like Metal Rage, Mosh and Terror Reign, but I wanted to see if I could actually be a “real” writer. I had started an almost fictional tale of my experiences with all of the random jobs I had worked throughout the years. The book, almost 100 pages in, had U-turned into a blathering mockery of not only the English language but of my own life. I didn’t tell him it had been three days since last I opened the file marked “Das Book” and typed. I really didn’t know what I was doing at this point.

As we sat there watching back to back episodes of Will and Grace I sipped strong burnt coffee sifting through the vapid and conservative Palm Spring’s Sun Times listening to my dad laugh and make idle conversation, the phone rang. My dad got up, walked into the kitchen where the cordless phone lay charging and answered. It was a commercial and my dad always muted the commercials, so I could hear him talking.

“Hello?...Oh yes...hello Amanda...how are you?...that’s good, that’s good...uh-huh...oh really?...oh ...oh, okay...well he’s finally awake and sitting right here....hold on.”

My dad walks into the TV room cupping the receiver and boldly mouthing the word “Amanda” as he hands it to me. Amanda was my sort of girlfriend I had left behind in San Francisco. We talked here and there, emailed often enough and sometimes even phone sexed when the mood hit. Things had taken a left turn for me back in San Francisco, my home for almost 10 years, and when the opportunity to stay with my Dad as Dad #2 was off taking care of ailing friends in Nevada, I put stuff in storage and drove all day with my necessities in the back of the truck to hang out with my father and try to become a novelist. I wasn’t sure what I should do next or where I should actually be. But Amanda was always a welcoming voice.

“Hi baby,” she said in that throaty voice of hers. Amanda had actually been propositioned to do phone sex once but her status as an art teacher would be sullied. It was one of her regular customers at the bar she worked at part time, where we met actually, and she thought about it briefly in times of economic crisis. You think an art teacher can keep a large apartment like she had in San Francisco on that salary? Almost every teacher, artist and musician I knew had a second or third job to keep their lifestyle and home in the city. Amanda was no exception.

“Hey darlin’”, I said. “What’s up?’

“Um...look....” Amanda sounded upset. I could hear the sniffles and tears.

“Oh my god. Are you okay?”

“I’m okay. Yeah. I’m fine,: she said weepily. “It’s my dad. He’s...um...”

“Oh no. Is he dead?”, I said with general concern. Her dad had contracted some kind of stomach cancer a while back and was slowly on his way out. During the months that we were dating there had been many a phone call from her sister and mom regarding her dad’s health. I even drove her and picked her up from the airport when she had to fly to Tucson, AZ to visit and help the family once or twice. This didn’t sound good.

“No, he’s not dead. Uh...,” she paused to sob and blow her nose, “not yet.”

My dad shot me a “what’s going on” look and I gave him the ‘just a second’ finger extension before going back to his room to talk in private.
“Oh man,” I said closing the door behind me. “I’m so sorry. What’s going on?”
“Um...,” she said with a hesitancy. I felt as if something was up and something big and bad was about to happen. “Look...I need to go back home and take care of things.”
“Uh, back to San Francisco?” I asked. “Where are you now?”

“No, no, I’m in San Francisco. I’m at the apartment. I took the day off. I need to go to Tucson and help my family. They need me. My mom and sister can’t handle all of the finances and shit and my dad by themselves. They need my help. I need to be there. I’m going to leave next week.”
“Wait a second,” I said a little too loudly, “what about your apartment? You’re giving that place up? I mean, you need to give your landlord like at least a month before you...”

“That’s why I’m calling you.” She sniffled and paused. “Um...how are things going in Palm Springs?”

Amanda had that voice indicating something was up. She was a great manipulator. If she couldn’t do it with her deep brown eyes or DD chest her voice could get you to do almost anything. Maybe that’s how we started dating in the first place. I don’t remember.

“Um, okay. I guess. Fine.”

“You and your dad doing okay?”

“Uh...yeah. Fine. Great. No worries.”

“Have you ever thought of moving back here?”

There it was I knew it. Yes I had thought a myriad of times about moving back to San Francisco, picking up where I left off and getting back into that heady kinetic groove that the city insists on. I had also considered Los Angeles, which is where I grew up in Glendale. I had friends in LA, good friends, old college buddies. Of course they were scattered all over the place and rarely saw each other and I knew I’d wind up working at a Tower Records and living in a craphole somewhere in Hollywood but, hey, that was an option. So was Austin, TX. And Hollywood, FL where an old pal had a photography business and said I could go work for him. And Delaware where my mom and her side of the family lived. Or Seattle. Or even Dorset, UK where I could be the road manager and technician for Electric Wizard, one of my favorite metal bands. There were loads of options.

“Yeah,” I said a bit craggy, “of course I have considered moving back. Yeah...uh...”

“Well, I kind of need your help.”

I knew what she was going to ask me, and when she asked if I could “take care of the apartment” a thousand voices piped up and shouted a variety of pros and cons at me. Her place was central, Columbus and Union, overlooking Washington Square park, in the heart of North Beach, just up from Fisherman’s Wharf, near everything, thousands of bars and restaurants just a few steps away. It’s the kind of place most people dream about finding when they first move to the city.

But the apartment was dark and angular and cluttered with almost two decades of her living there. Plus she rented out the small extra room to random art students going to the academy a few blocks away. Sure I had some savings and a tiny unemployment check coming every other week but that was it.

Her place was noisy too. The bedroom window overlooking the main drag of Columbus Ave, a busy street stretching all the way from the wharf to downtown, was also over a popular restaurant too. The racket ranged from a dull din at night to outright madness on some days. It was also very old, so the walls were cracked, although some bad art hung covered some of the damage. Cockroaches made appearances on occasion. Did I mention it was noisy?
On the other hand, it was an option, and the only really solid one I had at the moment. It would be easy to slip back into the San Francisco routine. I know I could get a job right off the bat and get my old gigs back too. Sure. Why not? The important this is I’d be helping a friend out who really needed it.
Still, the city reminded me of...”her”. Not Amanda but the biggest heartbreak I had ever experienced and the main reason for wanting to move away. That would be something I’d have to deal with.
“Yeah, okay,” I said with a deep sigh, a million scattered thoughts, hesitancies and emotions all racing at once. “I’ll do it. Of course I’ll do it. For how long?”

“Oh thank you ” Amanda said with general relief and glee. “I’d say a few months, no more than six at most. If that. First months rent is free. That’s taken care of by my family.”

“Well thank you family.”

“When can you come back?”

“I’m thinking the day after tomorrow.”

“I love you.”

“Yeah. I love you too.”

After I hung up I retreated back to the kitchen where I found my dad outside smoking. I opened the sliding glass door and sat on the already hot lawn chair.

“Is everything alright?” my dad asked nervously under mirror shaded glasses. He liked Amanda, better than...”her” he told me and judging by the conversation knew that something was amiss.

“Her dad is dying,” I said. “She needs to be with her family in Tucson Arizona.”

“Oh no. Poor thing.”

“Yeah”. I sipped my coffee and was about to say something that would get the ball rolling and send me into survival and change mode once again. Even in my man-boy uncertainty and general laziness I was always pretty good at adapting and getting back on my feet. At least to a basic minimum where I could go back to my books, beer and movie watching with the hopes of going on a date now and then. My joy and happiness requires very little but are of high difficulty and maintenance.

“She wants me to move back to San Francisco and take care of her place while she’s gone.”

My dad exhaled a deep drag and nodded. “Is that what you want?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” is said in absolute truth. I didn’t know. But I couldn’t stay with my dad much longer, dad 2 was coming back in a few weeks. I had barely scraped what contacts and options I have in LA. Austin? Seattle? Come on, those were towns I had only visited briefly and liked. Delaware? Are you kidding me? Sure it would be great to see my mom on a regular basis as visits are rare due to finances and my absolute hatred of airplanes. So really, in a way, Amanda’s phone call and request had been a blessing.
“So when do you need to leave? If you leave.”

“Day after tomorrow. And yes,” this was the final decision, there was no turning back now, “I am leaving. It’s what needs to happen.”

“Well alright,” my dad said.

I got up and we hugged. I went inside, put on my shorts, vintage bowling shirt with the name “Earl” on the right breast pocket and laced up my shabby Vans skateboard shoes. I needed to take a long walk.

The voices just wouldn’t shut up!