...A cross between a Weasel and a Platypus ain't got no...You decide. Play God. Spin The Favored Deity's beverage vessel. You wrote a new song about it, hum me a few bars. Stick to y'er guns. Take a bath in Hubba Bubba. Get stuck to the sheets. Become The HULK on alternate Saturdays/Sundays, perfect ways of making sealing wax, Double your pleasure double y'er FUN! Most of all: "Have Fun!" It will: "wash your car while you're driving it home, to work." (I often quote: "Firesign Theatre." Or, paraphrase them.) Good for the Rumble Seat, good for the noose. "Praise the Lord and pass the Damn Nation." With a Smallpox infected blanket. of course.
Hot Weasel Sex? A Platypus with nice breasts? One of my Buddy, (Sleeve Jobs') favorite nightmares. That and Driving A Laundry Tuck During A Prison Break. My nocturnal admonitions/fantasies/transitory-inside-of the-eyeballs-vacations tend to run to the Oddball Odd side of the table. Eight Ball on the ceiling, the "hard way." I had some weird Bulleit Bourbon dreams.
Last night. I determined it necessary to go: "Gutter trolling." A couple of cheap (reasonably priced) bars in town. Met a couple of nice guys, a couple if menial, gutless poseurs, ended up at Denny's for a cup of "wake-up juice" and a couple pieces of Rye toast.
Cab ride home, with my Girlfriend, a 1959 Magnatone Custom Varsity Lap Steel, finished in Emerald green MOTS. "Mother Of Toilet Seat." (Pearloid) Watching Baltimore and Sandy Eggo duke it out. Now it's and the Green Bay and the N.E., Pat's. Along with Baseball, football as played by Americans, is cool. Not as cool as Rugby,but, acceptable. I know some Ruggers. The Park City Muckers. Howdy, Hack.What-The-Hay?, 'Stains! Yo, Chickenhead! Dogpile Scrum a'comin'. Alamo Bar, afterwards.
I have NEVER liked Green Bay or, the Patriots. Or, Oakland. MY GUYS played like Girl Scouts on Thanksgiving. Screw it. The S.F. Giants won the World Series, FOR THE THIRD TIME IN 5 YEARS. It'll do. A couple more would seal the deal. A couple more 9ers wins would be groovy.
I am amenable to sloth. Sam Clemens (a.k.a. "Mark Twain") once said: "Every so often, I get the urge to exercise. It goes away after I lay down for awhile." I share that sentiment although, I truly Love to suit up and go "walking." I really used to like to "go walking" (with 80+lbs. of gear on my back) at the drop of a hat.
I'm one of those Nutty Guys that takes pleasure in a forced march. Blisters are just sweat that forms under your skin. Good quality boots and moleskin usually prevent that condition. I wear Asolo boots, made in Romania, after wearing many, many, other brands. All the Usual Suspects: Lowa, Alpina, Garmont, Danner, Vasque, etc., etc.. The Asolo's fit my narrow, long, feet well and have a high arch, which I also require. (No, this isn't a dust-up for Asolo Boots) I buy them through an outfit in Wyoming called: Sierra Trading Post. (Also not an Advert, just a friendly recommendation that will save you money) I have two pairs of Asolo "Echo" boots, non-GoreTex. I "seal" the Winter boots (One half-size larger, for heavier socks) with Hubert's Shoe Grease, the favored sealant of Loggers and Woodsmen. F'er my money, there's NOTHING better than their beeswax and Pine Tar concoction for keeping your shoes weather resistant. Not "water-proof" but highly "water-resistant." If you're doing up a pair of all leather boots or shoes, get them "warm," like: In-The-Oven-Warm, lowest temp. setting, first. The Magic Goo soaks in oh-so-much-better.
A few favorite "hikes" I've done. I'll pick my Top 5:
1. The Grand Canyon. I've hiked somewhere in the neighborhood of 1,000 miles in the Grand Canyon. Got caught in "The Worst Snow Storm In 30 Years" there (after partying our tits off with some truly crazed Canadians the night before, as it was New Year's Eve) back in the early 70's. We woke up to a Park Ranger coming through the Camp at Phantom Ranch, on the Colorado River, bottom of The Canyon, telling us, emphatically to: "GET UP AND GET OUT OF THE CANYON, NOW! THERE"S A HUGE SNOW STORM COMING!" It took us (me and two friends) 23 hours to walk out, in knee-deep snow over the Bright Angel Trail. Which, translates to about .5 miles per hour, with "breaks." We ate "Lunch" next to a bundle of Pink Rattle Snakes balled up to stay warm and alive. Yep, "Pink." The only place you'll EVER see one. When we made it to the top, we went to the nearest Hotel, the four star El Tovar. We were allowed to hang out by the huge fireplace for about two hours or so. Then, the Concierge kicked us out. An Underling Employee followed us outside and offered up his Employee Room to us, for the night. My hands were, quite literally, "frozen to my pack-straps" when we first got to the El Tovar. I slept in the bathtub. We found The Truck the next day. And, the Two Kids (about 15 years old) we sent out the shorter, Kaibab Trail, with no gear, just energy food and soup mix, Gookinaide Powder, a stove, tent and extra socks. They had a warm night in the camper. Two Park Service Rangers on horseback gave us BIG Hershey Bars and raisins on the way up and checked on our general physical condition. That was mighty nice of them. I was wearing tennis shoes, with plastic bags in-between layers of socks, as the weather had been beautiful for three weeks before our descent. BIG mistake. NEVER to be repeated. Check out the less used trails.Take a lensatic compass. Never trust The Weather Man. Sight w/the cairns: The Tonto, Hermit's Rest, Yavapai, Roaring Springs and Anasazi Ruins nearby, side trails, etc. You'll thank me for not sending you on a fully aromatic mule piss jaunt, later. Stay AWAY from metal guard rails on the Rim during a thunder storm. Go to the Bright Angel Bar/Saloon/Tavern, whatever. Locals refer to it as: "The B.A.."
2. Denali National Park Backcountry. Ride the Alaska Railway System from Anchorage to Talkeetna, get off, spend the night there. Have breakfast with a Bloody Mary at the Pilot's Wall Of Death Cafe' (Not Its' Real Name). Go Denali "sightseeing" on K-2 Air. Buy a hat. Back on the train. Off at Denali. Get your Wilderness Area Permit and B.R.F.C. (Bear Resistant Food Container) from Park Headquarters.Take the free Park Tour Bus to Wonder Lake. Watch Grizzly cubs tearing up a: "Caution! Recent Bear Activity!" sign, along the way. Also get to watch a Grizzly Boar removing a Beaver from its' pond and eating it. Get off the bus. Wave "Goodbye" to the Hotel Variety Tourists (Whom are all convinced they're watching the beginning of a suicide). Wander off onto a glacier to get away from the Trillions Of Mosquitoes. Hang out with Caribou, who are doing the same. Stay there for about a week or until the food runs low. Come back to Wonder Lake and camp out until the food really does run out. Don't let Bears or Moose kill you. Listen for wolves, you may not "see" any but, they're there. Get back on the bus. See wolves run down a Moose Cow and a Grizzly Boar take a Beaver out of its' Pond and start eating it. Promise to tell Headquarters about it while returning your "B.R.F.C.". Go to the Park Headquarters Campground. (Also chock full of bears) Get beer and/or liquor at General Store. Assist Hiker Gal with "Emergency, naked, tent repair" that seems to be centered somewhere between her knees, lips and hair. If you're a former National Parkie type, like I am, go to the Employee Bar, act Employee-like and get shellacked, on the cheap. It's an old Rail Passenger Car. Way Bitchin'. Tip the shit out of your bartender and make friends with Park Employees that let you stay in their cabin and take an hour long shower. Go rafting for free the next day. Take the Alaska Railway System train back to Anchorage. Have lunch with a Gal that looks like a 19 year old Kirstie Alley (and who's Dad is an Alaska State Trooper. She offers you her phone #...Take it but, scratch that one.) and get caught up in a volcanic eruption of Mt. Spurr. Stay in a modestly priced motel, eat Kentucky Fried Chicken and Chinese take-out for two days and then go to R.E.I. and Darwin's Theory, a Locals Bar on G Street. Buy a T-Shirt. Steal an ashtray. Go back to Homer on the Sterling Highway Shuttle and hit the Salty Dawg Saloon. Eat peanuts and throw the shells on the floor. Peg a Dollar Bill on the wall somewhere with "Denali, '92" on it and your signature. Tell all your fun stories. Meet the most excitingly beautiful Redhead you ever have in your life. Stay at her house instead of going home. Wake up next to the Beautiful Woman with mutual hangovers. Bloody Mary's. Repeat Hot Toddy's-And-Let's-Make-A-Tent drill. Get Redhead's phone #. Go home and listen to the Grateful Dead, eat something, beg the dog (Who's been fed, turned loose/re-housed and petted by the neighbor for the last month) to keep you warm. Nevermind that he was sprayed by a skunk while you were gone. Repeat entire process as needed. Yay! Alaska!
3. Mount Rainier, Parking lot to the Muir Cabins Station and back. Muir, the staging point for summit climbs. A "walk-up." "Practice Climb For REAL Mountains." I've done the summit, too, but, Muir Station is a "hike" rather than: "a climb." The nice thing about this hike is that you can look down the Cascade Chain all the way to Mt. St. Helens, Mt. Washington, Mt. Jefferson and down into Oregon, on a clear day. The "blockhouse" cabins there are comfy enough to spend some time acclimating to the altitude and there will be other people there doing the same thing you are. Bio-digester outhouses and room to stretch outside and hang out with The Climbers and talk story. Or, you can stay in your own tent. The weather is highly unpredictable, as Rainier: "Makes it's own weather." It's a 14, 410' Stratovolcano. Muir Station is at about 10,000'. It's an 03:00 wake-up to summit the mountain. As a perk on the Muir Station hike, you get to glissade back down the thing. Or sit on your pack and Pack-Boggen. Lots of fun.
4. The Mackenzie River Trail, Mackenzie River District Ranger Station to Santiam Summit, Oregon. About 25 miles or so East of Eugene and Springfield, Oregon, lies the Mackenzie River Trailhead. It's about 30 miles long, in all. The Mackenzie River has Wild River status and there are no "facilities" anywhere on the trail. If you're lucky, you won't even see any other humans on it. Load up at the General Store next to the Ranger Station for last-minute items. There are, however, some of the most gorgeous scenic views and weird, Turquoise colored "pools" along the black, volcanic, riverside you'll ever see, anywhere. Camp wherever you think looks good, a bit off of the trail and give yourself a week or so to do the whole trail. BRING A WATER FILTER! A REALLY GOOD ONE! I gave myself the worst case of Giardia that I've ever had on this hike. Had to cut the ass out of a pair of perfectly good BDU's and walk out, severely dehydrated but, still dripping orange-yellow from my sore/raw behind. Literally. I shit you not. A couple of nearby attractions make this a truly wonderful walkabout. (a.) Cougar Hot Springs. Back in the day, anyway. I have no idea how Hippie Overrun the place is now. It used to be a favorite amongst the Patchouli and Birkenstock Crowd after Grateful Dead shows at Autzen Stadium. There was allot of trash there (no apparent culprits, generic trash) when I went in the 80's and it's probably worse now. Or, "closed." I packed out about 20 lbs. of "Other People's Garbage" ("O.P.G.") when I was there. Cans, bottles, etc.. I went there on two separate occasions and circumstances were different both times. (b.) A side trip into the Three Sisters Wilderness Area and "over the top" into Sisters, Oregon and/or Bend, Oregon. It was "on fire" the last time I was there and Fire Rangers chased me out. The Mackenzie River Trail also connects to the Pacific Crest Trail at Santiam Summit. You can hike to Mt. Hood from there on the PCT.
5. The Grand Tetons/Gros Ventre Range/Yellowstone National Park areas, in general. I worked at a gentrified Dude Ranch/Camp Ground/Resort just outside of Jellystone, on the Snake River. John D. Rockefeller Parkway @ Flagg-Afton Road intersection. There are a zillion good places to hike, anywhere in the area. If you're "up to it" and know what you're doing, climbing the Teton Range is fantastic! It's "Technical" and you don't want to screw up. Otherwise, stick to the well used back-country trails outside and inside Yellowstone. There's a ton of 'em. My experience at The Jellystone Dude Ranch (not its' real name, of course) was horrible, both times I worked there. Actually, I got "fired" both times. (Management didn't even know that I'd worked there twice) Which, was fine with me. I got in a bunch of walking and climbing, both. Fished the Snake River and made out with a couple French Chicks that were on Student Money Working Vacations. I've languished in mildly radioactive hot pools along a few creeks with Grizzly Poo Piles not 50' away, still steaming. (One of the French Chick Adventures) I've sat in camp and listened to wolves bay at the Moon for hours. I've photographed a Bull Moose from "way too close" in a marshy pond, right up until he shook his head and stomped his foot. I got back on the Cushman Tote Goat and went back to Flagg Ranch. Don't have the prints or negatives anymore. Had a really exciting time more than once, in Jackson Hole. One of those times was had in The Million Dollar Cowboy Bar. I used to have waist length hair, very blonde from being in the sun all the time. I'm sitting on my saddle (the barstools are actual Western saddles) and this sawed-off Little Cowboy taps me on the shoulder and says: "Hey, Darlin'. Come here often?" I turned toward him to reveal my Grizzly Adams Beard and asked him: "Hey, Sailor...Got a match?" He groans: "Aw, Fuck You." I reply: "O.K., but, you gotta' kiss me allot first." Thoroughly disgusted, he wanders off, muttering something in Hayseed Latin to himself. I'm ROARING laughing. The Bartender is chuckling. My Friends are all in stitches, nearly involuntarily dismounting. Doc, 1, Sawed Off Cowpoke, 0. The Million Dollar Cowboy Bar, 1,000,000.
Now, get out there and walk! Have fun and: "Thank The Day!",
-Doc
Actually, I'm NOT doing it for The Neighbor's benefit. I actually LOVE this kind of music. Something in my genes. On the other hand, I really dislike HIS "music." It's like a mule kicking my kitchen wall, for hours on end. A six month hitch on a commercial fishing vessel would "cure" that bad habit.
He, (Let's call him: "Lord Baltimore," a famous Pinkerton Detective. Butch Cassidy, et. al.) did, however, piss in my morning coffee and deserves to hear some Lively Polka Music. A "good- natured ribbing," Fish-Boy-Style. It could've been worse. I coulda' hit him with three hours of Frankie Yankovic, Weird Al's Dad.
I understand enough German to make general sense of what's being sung about, I like the way the phrasing of the music wafts through the air like a soothing swish of a paint brush on the back of my consciousness and, given enough volume, it drowns the "Island Hip-Hop In A Waring Blender" coming through the wall.
So. L.B. comes to the door after he figures it out and asks: "What's going on with you? What are you doing?" I reply: "Drowning your crappy music like an infective rat, AGAIN. And, 'writing.' I'll talk to you LATER, if I feel like it." He knocks over Jemimah Puddleduck, my door stop (Just a painted plaster casting of a comical looking duck) and leaves. Just what The Doctor Ordered. Desired effect achieved. It could have been allot worse, trust me. I made a snap decision between Wagner's "Lohengrin" and Yodelling. Yodelling won. Yodelling 1, Island Slop, 0.
I have THE LOUDEST STEREO RIG in the building. It's not a Voice of The Theatre P.A. pushed by two Crown DC 300's or anything but, in a 500 sq. ft. place, a Denon 90w per side amp and a pair of Kirksaeter Studio Reference Monitors will flex the glass and the walls. It's not a "power sucker" but, it's very efficient.
O.K., I'm "over it." I can't even stay angry/upset at MYSELF for 5 minutes. A good trick to know. Especially on a boat in the middle of the ocean. Particularly in a homey place like the Bering Sea or The Gulf of Alaska. Once, I got mad at "The Kid," who was one of two of my "regular underlings" when I worked on a vessel flagged: The P/B (Processing Barge) Bering Star. A 240', 55' wide top deck, 5 decks tall above water, "Floating Cannery." I ran the Box House. The only reason I got the job was because I was older and more experienced in a fish plant than 90% of the Crew, including my Boss.
Anyway...The Kid got pissed off at me one day. My general habit is to: "Ask Someone That DOES Know," when I don't. I used to bug the Guy who ran the operation previously for advice/help when something was going haywire with our $30k Box Former, a hydraulic, heated glue spewing, "mandrel/re-former" that turned flat cardboard into "fish boxes" to be filled with Pesce Morte, flash frozen, coded for I.D. purposes and later off-loaded onto a Tramp Freighter bound for Japan. They get the eggs, we get the Herring back for crab bait. Herring for sack-roe production and Pacific Cod, for your Fillet-O-Fish sandwiches, (Originally, one of God's "mistakes." Back when he was doing Bio-Design Engineering With Crayons, much like the Humuhumunukunukuapua'a. The longest word in the Hawai'ian language, by the way. Boy-O, they like consonants. It's allot easier to say: "Painted Triggerfish"). So. The Kid yells at me: "You're just a Lazy Hippie! Why do you always have to go ask someone else how to do stuff?"
I spun around from what I was doing and roared back, menacingly: "Shut The Fuck Up And Do Your Goddamned Job, Kid! When you GROW UP, you can call the shots!" I am a Solid Muthafucka' of a Leo. I ROAR, not YELL. Simultaneously, I sensed a third person in the area and looked over at the open part of our "house" to find the vessel's Chief Engineer standing there, eyebrows raised. He'd: "Heard the whole thing." The Chief Engineer is the One Guy you don't want to cross on a vessel of any considerable size. Anywhere. For ANY REASON, ANYTIME. The Chief Engineer actually "runs the vessel." "Captain," is an honorary title that designates that you did some book learning, probably worked your way into your "bars" and passed your Final Exams. Most of the time. I have worked with a few Captains that were True Sailors and knew the boat and their job, the target object's every nuance, etc., inside out.
I just nodded/wagged my head, tongue in cheek and said; "Mornin', Chief." and went about what I was trying to fix and/or, "adjust." It was very quiet in The Box House for the rest of the day. Later on, in the Galley, The Kid comes up to me, sheepishly, and says: "I was way out of line. I'm sorry." I looked him in the eyes, over my glasses, and replied: "Yes, you were 'out of line' now, let's forget it, eat something and go back to work. Someday, Sunny Jim, this will all beyours. You're not just working with me.You're being TRAINED to be your very own: Lazy Hippie." The Chief had: "straightened him out." No doubt about it. He, The Chief, was a good guy but, very strict and "by the book." It worked for me. Neither of us was on that vessel to: "make new friends and critique their behavioral patterns and/or disorders."
Well, The Kid was. He liked to: "Talk smack about people behind their backs" and found himself a very attractive Hispanic Gal to bunk with. More than a few times, I had to either poke him in the ribs to make him get up at 04:00 or pour freezing cold water in his ear. Woodsy Owl (The Kid was from a small logging town Southeast of Portland, Or. that I'm intimately familiar with.) didn't want to leave the serenity of La Chica Bonita's embrace. She was pleasant, didn't speak a word of English and just wanted to get pregnant and live with Woodsy The Kid, in Lincoln Log, Oregon after their Tour Of Duty was over. (I've wondered, a couple of times, "how" that turned out.) We had work to do though and Midnight was a'wastin'. It was that really fun, "dark all the time" period in Alaska after we left the Ballard Locks in Seattle on January 6, 1992.
I actually "like" that part of Living In Alaska. Many people go nuts, stay drunk all the time or worse, commit suicide, do something stupid and die or turn into Grouchy Hermits. Not me. Ya' just gotta' have some hobbies (crafts, cooking and storing food and wood, gun maintenance or ammunition reloading, making roughed out furniture, playing guitar or another instrument, monitoring weather statistics and logging it's trends, reading and writing, having a Ham Radio/Ship-To-Shore Setup, etc.. A good fire and a cup of Russian tea or good coffee and a book can be your New Best Friends. Phantom four hand Poker games can even be "fun.") and knowing how to ride a snowmobile and/or "mush" or cross-country ski towing a "trailer." I had all three and more, in spades. Being outdoors in -40 Fahrenheit, doesn't bother me. Ya' just gotta' know how to dress for the party. Having a good, BIG, dog doesn't hurt either. (Or a nice Girlfriend that comes over about every two weeks, for the weekend.) Or, a bear that thinks he or she is a dog. Bears "hibernate" though and are, generally, more of a nuisance than Y'er Pals. Go for The Girlfriend or The Dog.
Dogs have to be coddled a bit. Girls "just want to have fun." A dog is a good excuse to go out to play, get freezing cold and coming back inside to towel off and get warm again. A Girlfriend is a good excuse to drink some Hot Toddy's, stoke up the woodstove and not go out there in the first place. Nothing better than watching your or "any" dog try to find the snowball with your smell on it in a big snowbank. Nothing better than waking up next to a pretty Gal with a hangover, having another Toddy and watching the submarine races all over again, making a puptent in the living room and taking a bath in a horse trough. O.K., so it's a tie. Who's Winning? We're All Winning! Throw a log in the wood stove, pour me a drink, I hear sonar.
I love Joel Veitch's stuff! Rathergood is a wonderful diversion. We're All Winners! "We Like The Moon, Stompy," etc.
Shooting Ptarmigan, Snow Hares, etc. and cooking them, smoking the breasts, are necessary skills to have. Fishing, through the ice on a lake or braving the Winter froth at the beach, surf casting, is also a skillset you want to possess. Trapping animals, skinning and curing/tanning fur/leather is handy too. Anything one can glean from the environment and turn into something useful is not only a "creative time waster," it's needed. Get yourself a copy of: "Alone In the Wilderness" and some Robert Service poetry compilations. If you want to know: "What NOT to do" read John Krakauer's "Into The Wild, " about Chris McCandless, the dumb kid who ate berries he was unfamiliar with, found a schoolbus and starved/froze to death when the river rose. Well, he wasn't really "dumb." Just inexperienced.
My plan was to stay aboard the Bering Star for my 6 month contract and then explore the fuck out of Alaska. I'd "been there before" but, quite frankly, had seen very little of the Interior. Mostly, I'd been on wiggly little boats and on-shore in canneries in The Southeast. (That strip of land that runs down the chin of British Columbia and contains villages like Ketchikan and Petersburg, Sitka and Juneau) I really didn't want to work Salmon Season on the Blow-Me Star parked off of Dillingham, Ak. with very little in the way of "shore leave." I had my Able Bodied Seaman's Z-Card and was a licensed Deck and Dock Crane Operator. I knew there'd be better opportunities down the road. Besides, I REALLY wanted to wake up next to a beautiful woman with a hangover REALLY SOON or, I was going to throw my Boss overboard. He was a prick. One of those sanctimonious "Dry Drunk" sober bastards that found out the BIG SECRET TO THE UNIVERSE and knew where the diners "up/out there" hid the keys overnight.
I'd seen the Green Flash, had my belly shaved and tits painted psychedelic already. Didn't have to get dressed up like a Girl and have pee and/or fish guts dumped on me or anything, Thank God. A rite of passage known as "Becoming A Shellback" for you Land Lubbers. Otherwise known as: "Crossing The Equator, for the first time." Tuna, with a Crazy Crew of Guys From All Over. San Francisco to the bottom of Peru and back. Most of the Guys were Italian and Portuguese. There was a Guy from North Africa and a couple of Europeans. Danish or something. Everybody spoke smatterings of others' languages so, communication wasn't a problem, unless you were being trash-talked-in-quick-step, in a language you weren't all that familiar with. It didn't happen all that often anyway. The goal of every soul aboard the boat was to get off with a nice, BIG, chunk of money. Preferably, alive. And then head for someplace idyllic where you didn't have to Smell Another Guy's Farts for a long time. I chose Montana and Wyoming, Utah and Oregon, Hawai'i, over a span of years of that job and a few others. Warm? Once in awhile. Idyllic? You bet. "Not a fart in a truckload." (Tijuana Horse-Shit Cigarettes Slogan).
The hidden "key" to enjoying Fishing-For-Dollars is: "Being comfortable in your own skin and off-time." Otherwise, it's long periods of tedium punctuated by moments of sheer terror. War. Flannel sheets, a good sleeping bag, a high quality music source and stuff you like to listen to in your rack, good books, A Love Of Sleeping, being an affable conversationalist, having enough socks and underwear, good gloves and boots, Elmer Fudd Hat, sunscreen, good coffee and a way to make it, silk long underwear, good cigarettes if you smoke (my own preference is for either English, Canadian or Turkish fags), a good imagination and a dislike of gambling while onboard. (I shouldered about 140 lbs. of gear onto the Bering Star, for instance.) As regards "gambling:" I used to play Backgammon and Poker-For Match-Sticks with The Guys but, NEVER for money. It creates resentments. There's enough of that already going on, depending upon crew size.
Fish Murdering and Mortician-ing. I almost threw in some "walking," in Denali National Park and shore leave in Central America Stories too. They'll keep. I don't forget much. Yet.
Here's a fine photo of the Blow-Me Star. Icicle Seafoods can sue me all they want. Just leave me my stereo, computer, recorded music and a couple of guitars. Some clothes would be nice, too. The photo of my Ex-Wife and Family Members, stuff like that. The rest of it is all transitory fol-de-rol. Wampeters, Granfalloons et Foma.
(Thanks, Kurt!)
The B-Job-Star, below:
Love, Lust, Saltwater Taffy and Little Chocolate Doughnuts,
(Praise The Lord And Pass The Antibiotics)
-Doc
Doesn't look 240' long, does it? The M/V Impala, in front of it is 120'. Way Bitchin' Camaro of a boat! Huge, Twin Caterpillar V-12 Diesels, Twin Screws, four-person Crew. Great Skipper! I coveted it, many times, in dreams. It was the vessel I "should have been on" rather than the Colossal Garbage Scow it's towing here. The B-Star is the only vessel in the Icicle Fleet that's not under it's own power. It's towed.
Notice the Aleutian Geese flying over and behind the stern. It's your marker for: "Where this is." A bay near The Chain? The Aleutian Peninsula, somewhere? Maybe around Dillingham, too. Lots of good possibilities... I get the very same Aleutian geese flying over my place here. Their Winter/Summer Range is pretty amazingly long. 3-4,000 miles or so.
Full bellies for everyone! Don't do anything stupid. Go ask the guy that had the job before you signed on...
Moving on now to making myself a nice, simple, dinner. Switched over to listening to Ryuichi Sakamoto:
So much for: "Not writing any epic posts." This thing just kinda' got away from me and I kept Editing In.
Forget Thanksgiving. I have declared it National Yodelling Day at my digs. Partially to mask the "Reggae" music (Which, it: "really isn't at all") coming through my kitchen wall. Yea, I live in an apartment building with a Guy That Likes what he thinks is "Reggae" living next door. It ain't. It's that awful "Island meets Reggae meets Hip-Hop, Meets-Trash-Talkin'-Rap." And, it BLOWS DEAD BEARS! So. "Retaliation?" You bet. Yodelling Festival ALL DAY LONG, or, until it stops. Guys That Like Reggae, really hate accordions and yodeling. I know this from experience. Just what: "The Doctor, Ordered."
I recently met one of the men in this "yodeling choir." He lives in the same: "Almost The Pacific Northwest" town that I do and is a delightful man. He whipped out a couple of bars of beautiful riffs while we were in the bank, where I met him. EVERYONE in the joint "stopped what they were doing" and their mouths fell open. We went back to our business. I stopped him outside the bank and we had a very pleasant chat about skiing and The Alps in general. He gave me his business card, which reads: "Will Yodel For Beer." He taught skiing at St. Moritz, Switzerland, teaching along the way. He came the the United States 50 or so years ago. Lake Placid, New York, got married and came to the West Coast to raise his kids a operate a bakery. He was in the '48 Winter Olympics, Ski Jumper. At 86 years young, he's retired. He: knows "Who he is." I: "Know who he is." Some of my family: "Know who he is." Around town, Everybody who's Anybody, knows him.
More:
"I Got Your Old Lady, Too."
-Doc "The Asshole Next Door" Anchovy
(More when I get out of this: "You inserted a video" format.)
I don't get very excited about "Thanksgiving." In reality, it's just another overly commercialized "Holiday" wherein: You get the day off from work. Or, maybe a few days. You get to watch your Weird Uncle get drunk on Tom and/or "Sailor" Jerry's and be inappropriate to somebody in the family, a goat or maybe Salamanders. You get the picture. Grilling a Salamander is inappropriate. Leering at children in a menacing way, for any reason, is inappropriate. "You want me to push you on the swingset? Ever been 'over the falls'? Want to try it?" Not cool. "Hey! Everybody! Who wants to try Uncle Bluto's World Famous Grilled Salamanders?
"Who'd like some Uncle Bluto's Perverted Rice?" (What's long, white, brown or tie-dyed and crawls up your leg at the dinner table?)
Of course, the whole shiteree is basically about selling fancy decorations, I make my own, with my hand and colored pencils. Turkeys, everyone in Palmdale is having a GREAT TIME! and maybe getting dressed up like "Pilgrims and Indians." "Hot Dang! We been waitin' hundreds of years f'er this!"
Sure, YOU wear the funny hat and I'll let YOU pass ME/US a Smallpox infected blanket while YOUR Boys and Girls Clubs are raiding the cornfield and burning OUR houses down. More land for YOU. More food for YOU. What are WE griping about? WE got Smallpox and bigger issues to deal with here... "Civilization, HO!" "Hey, could YOU guys move over a little bit?" "O.K., bring in the stuff."
(Temporarily, Partially, Firesign Theatre)
My Family didn't come to the United States until the 1800's. 1820's on one side and 1898 on the other. We're "off the hook" (In so many ways that I'm not even going to get started...) for that set of capers. We're Ashkenazim Bavarians, Protestant and Catholic Germans, A smattering of Highland Scottish and Tuppence English (depending upon which part of the Family I'm talking about). I'll post a group photo of my Mom's Family sometime. They're the Ashkenazim Bavarians and Protestant, nee Catholic, (Everybody: "Used to be: Catholic, at one time.") Germans.
There's an Ontario Fur Trapper and his Sioux Bride hiding in the woodpile way back in the lineage. So the story went/goes. The part of me that gets stupid and falls down the well with no Lassie to save me when I get drunk. At any rate...What the fuck is this group of people doing celebrating: "Thanksgiving?" Don't ask me. I ain't got a clue. I will have a fairly simple meal and be "Thankful" for all the things I "have" (It's "temporary," trust me.) and lament the part of me that is The Noble Savage, which probably means the Scottish part. The Canadian Sioux part was/is far more civilized and worthy of praise and admiration. Human Beings. Dene'. The People. "What do you mean, 'WE,' Kimosabe?"
Now, if I had my 40 year old body back, I'd be out in the forest or at the beach, camping out and having a flame spitted fish dinner, some fire-roasted or baked potatoes, (fried in a pan is fine, too) a tomato, some type of baked gourd and washing it down with delicious "camp coffee" and a half a bottle of Maker's Mark. Or Wild Turkey. It wouldn't matter. I'm not all that picky about Bourbon. WW2 Surplus Vat 69 would work just as well, too. The coffee has to be the good stuff though. Fish, same. Trout or Salmon, Rock Fish or Tuna, doesn't matter. The fish gets the Chef-Slam-Dances-With-Steelhead treatment: Skewered onto a stick with cross-braces, whittled with one of my favored knives (I got a bunch of 'em) and splayed out, flesh toward fire like a "Fish Angel." (Think: "Anthony Hopkins' 'Deputy Sculpture' from Silence Of The Lambs." That ought to ruin your appetite.) It's a handy trick to know. Learn it. There's got to be a Wiki on the technique out there. I'm going to let you find it.
Alas, tomorrow's meal will be: A nice, thick, pork loin chop, a dab of A-1 Sauce (or gravy) on the side, "twice baked" potato(s) topped with sharp Cheddar cheese, (a bit of the Leek stuff? See below.) and maybe some garlic croutons, Yukon Gold's, of course. A serving of fruit juice (or wine, or both) marinated and sautee'd Leeks with bacon, some sweetened Pumpkin with cream, brown sugar, Molasses, Nutmeg and Cinnamon, baked with no crust. A couple glasses of MOTR Cabernet to wash it all down with. Yea, I know: "Red wine doesn't go with pork." Bite me. I do what I want and I don't care for white wine. Top it all off with 5mg's of Valium (Yea, I know: Valium doesn't go with red wine) a couple hours later and watch ANYTHING but a Holiday Movie. "Benzo Goes To Sleep For 12 Hours?" Sounds great! Who's in it? That "Doc Anchovy" Guy? Far out. The only thing missing from this picture is a Macanudo cigar for dessert. I'll tough it out with a pipeful of something good.
MacBaren's Navy Flake or something. NO, not that Hippie Cabbage. I don't "smoke weed" anymore. I inhaled the shit out of it, as a Nipper, but, them days are long gone. Just don't like it since it began to make me drool and only want to watch cartoons with Jimi Hendrix in the headphones. The "stuff out there" (and I live in the smack-dab-in-the-middle of Marijuana Nirvana) is just too fucking strong. I don't remember hallucinating on buds when I was younger. Lady Finger Hash laced with Opium from Cambodia/Laos, maybe. Well, there was that One Time when I: "Visualized musical notes." Somewhere near Gilroy, Ca., I think. (Coulda' been the: "Garlic Aroma That Would Level Tacoma," too) Gentlemen and Ladies, start your Tribal Fusion Drum Circle. And: "Pass The Antibiotics." Not. So. Here's wishing you all a fine: "Thanksgiving." Don't do anything stupid, like: drive drunk, insult a Native American and get your ass Royally kicked, fart/belch/puke at the table, become Uncle Bluto or fuck up the Sacred Turkey. My "Ex-Mother-In-Law" has never forgiven me for falling asleep while on Turkey Guard Duty and letting the bird get dry. Hey, it was Pittsburgh and it was freezing cold outside and I was tired. The house was nice and warm, the smell of burning flesh was in the air and I was "right where I needed to be," watching the John Wayne (or, was it Randolph Scott?) movie on the inside of my eyelids. Our Lady Of Perpetual Snoring was on my side. Pretty weird for a guy with Bavarian Ashkenazim and Canadian Sioux in the woodpile. Heinz Foods, eat y'er heart out. We'll make gravy outta' ye'r liver... Or, mine. I ain't usin' it.
And, for the longer winded of you, this wonderfully humble offering, as Leo always serves up. This, with Mike Gordon (from that awful band, "Phish") Ew. That band smells funny for days after you listen to them. I like him just fine on this recording. The Phish Phans are the ones high on weed, breaking bottles and yelling at The Guys. Or, maybe it's just a Loud Bartender Revolt In Progress. Whatever... "Stop it! You're messing up the recording!" Leo "schools 'em." Kind of. The Phish Assholes are still yelling and: "Yippy-ing, Whoo-Hoo-ing." Fucking Hippies.
The last time I saw Leo Kottke, I had a Strong Trouperette III in my hands. Just Google: "Strong Trouperette III" if that's Albanian to you. Aw, heck, I'll do it for ya'. I'm such a nice Techie.
The time before that, I was in the audience, (A show I actually paid to see) in Lahaina, Maui, Hi.. Well, Ka'anapali anyways. Me and my Buddy, "Peckerwood." (His "Real Nickname." I gave it to him.) A Leo Kottke song title, coincidentally. See, I told you: "Wonderment" would sneak in here at some point. It ain't much but: It's nearly that magical day when everybody serendipitously becomes: "Thankful-For-Whatever..." "Etch-A-Sketch?" "Flexible Flyers?" "Beeman's Gum?" "Not Stepping In Dogshit?" You get the idea... Leo's banter is always a big bunch of fun, homespun and colloquial. It makes you feel (Or, fall down) like you're Part Of The Family:
I hope Indians never show up at your door, if you're a White Person and they're REALLY HUNGRY.
Wait a minute. Of course I do. Hell, I might be with them. I'll be: The Guy In Warpaint And A Yarmulka.
Then again, it might just be Mormons dressed up in Mil-Spec Combat Gear, wanting to make gravy...Relax.
Out. -Doc, "Is That A Fish In Your Pants Or...?" Anchovy
Every so often, I meet interesting people in the youTube forums. Mostly it's just a bunch of snotty, back-stabbing, cheap-shot, Cellar-Dwelling Brats living in Grandma's basement, with Cheetos and Pepsi smeared all over their Pimply, Fat Boy Shirts and the like but, every so often, something snappy happens.
I fell asleep at about 7p last night and I'm "paying for it now." Up way too danged early, playing with old cassette tape of myself. Tweaking a few takes of "sketches" I've done, years ago. A disjointed, spastic, little slide guitar dance tune, "Ted Kaczynski Shack." It has nothing to do with That Crazy Guy. Instead, it's about a little "Gardener's Shed" I called home for a year or so in Fort Bragg, Ca.. The power was stable and people left me the fuck alone. Pretty much all I cared about that year. It was next door to a radio station, across the street from a health food store (for big bags of good coffee), grocery store, a laundromat, Rite Aid and liquor store within two minutes of the joint. The liquor store had cheap, good cigarettes, nudie magazines and reasonably priced booze. The grocery store was a pretty good, Mom and Pop kind of place, Rite Aid is Rite Aid, everywhere and a liquor store is your New Best Friend at 10:00 in the morning, if you have a hangover.
The Shack was kind of a "rooming house" sort of affair. Shared bathroom (Ew.) but, I lived in back of the main building, away from the smelly Old Guys that occupied the main digs. $300.00 a month w/utils.. 200 sq.ft., (maybe) Tiny House kinda' thang. (You shoulda' seen the look on the DirecTV installer's face) I had my two burner hot plate, a broiler oven and a microwave, Big-Assed Japanese Magnavox Studio Monitor T.V., a shitload of stereo and music gear on racks going up one wall, a bed, a little "deck" to sit outside on and a garden outside my front door. The only thing missing was a bait and tackle shop and a river to dip some preserved minnows into. Think: "Mudshark." The Shack was pretty groovy. There was a beautiful rose bush outside of the one, good-sized, window. A fully functional Twerp Cave. I've called stranger places: "Home."
I outgrew it, eventually, when I stated acquiring too many possessions to fit into it and bought a '77 BMW. I moved to Noyo Harbor after that. THERE was my riverfront, Ted Shack 2. Eventually, that place changed hands and The Evil Land Speculator From Oakland bought the place. Jacking up all the rents and stealing some of my 100 year old Redwood lumber, salvaged lovingly from a shed behind a Mexican restaurant, meticulously de-square-nailed, sanded and spar varnished (it really was 100 year old wood). I built shelving out of some of that same wood in my current compound: The Anchovy Ranch. Yes, I "name" all my domiciles creatively.
The Ranch is in an Apartment Building Full Of Crazy People in a "residential neighborhood" that's mostly single family homes. With an Out-Of-Town-Landlord/Owner. Just out of the City Limits. The "The End Is Near, Again" bumper sticker above my door scares away the Boogie Men/Women, cats and dogs. I nearly, except for a quick visual inspection, rented the place online. Craig's List. It was built the same year I was born. Solid ground underneath (handy in an Earthquake) and built with "flat-stacked" 2x4 lumber. "Truck Stringers" from one of the mills around here. Oak shit-house kind of place. Wolves cannot: "Huff and puff and blow the place down." They've tried.
House 1, Wolf, 0. Loose the hounds, blow fury and put sail to the headwind! There be Pirates here, Sunny Jim.
I "know" the guy that was the engineer on this album. Another "Internet Friendship." He's mad at me right now because I fucked off editing his book about "all the weird stuff that can kill you" out there in the Real World. It was just: Too Damned Depressing and I knew I was going to run out of red pens. Not like his intention was to "Write The Great American Novel" or anything...
I'm a pretty good Editor. I just didn't want to do the liner notes on Casual Death in The United States. So, I "fucked it off" until he asked me to send the manuscript back to him. I did. I feel about 30% guilty, 70% "relieved." I apologised. It's "over." (In MY World, anyway.)
Recently, I have "struck up a conversation" with a guy in L.A. that's a Gibson Factory Certified guitar technician. He's pretty interesting. He offered to "fix my '57 Les Paul Junior" if it ever needed any fixing. I already have a "Guy" that does that stuff for me, here in town. No names will be mentioned. No sales pitches, advertisements, come-on's, parties, disco's or fooling around. "This ain't no Mudd Club, or CBGB's..." Well, shit yea! There's going to be "fooling around." Lots of it. Doc "Fooling Around" Anchovy should be my full moniker.
No names. Except Hanley. He was a different matter. I feel licensed to talk smack about dead Best Friends anytime I feel like it. Especially if they were my Brothers more than my Friends. Hey, "what are Friends for?" "With Brothers like me, who needs enemies?" All that.
NO IMMEDIATE FAMILY MEMBERS, EVER. That one's: "set in stone." I may refer to them, generically, but their names will NEVER appear here. Most of my Family is either: "Mad at me or, afraid of me." Most of my family members think I'm: "Still riding around with a .45 and an Uzi on the car seat next to me with a trunk full of something illegal."
Note: It's a Dan Wesson Special in .44 Magnum, 3 turn, 10" barrel. Nothing illegal, anywhere around here. Period. Just a bit of "insurance" in a World Gone Mad. Vincent Price meets Dirty Harry in a dark alley and they're arguing near a dumpster, over a bottle of cheap wine. Everybody's got black eyes and bloody noses. It's a big mess... Cops and The Guy With The Bucket And A Mop are on their way to the scene.
The occasional "fronting out" of some musician I happen to know may (or, may not be) mentioned or a song posting of their's here and twain but, other than that, no names. Famous People I Don't Care About are "fair game." Open season, all the time, everytime. "Famous People I DO Care About" get the Family Treatment.
"Just a tar-paper cabin,
-somewhere up in the hills,
Someplace to write my letters,
-someplace where no-one will,
Call me crazy,
Say that I'm insane,
Nobody's got my number.
Nobody knows my name.
Down at The Ted Kaczynski Shack..."
Yes, it's my Copyright. NO, you can't steal the lines. Go sniff the carpet somewhere else. I'm always on the lookout for "Somebody To Sue," to paraphrase The Jefferson's. Or, a Gal named Sue. Something like that.
Nuthin' but Love, Babies. -Doc
p.s.- Wanna' watch a weird movie? "A Beginner's Guide To Endings." Harvey Keitel, Scott Caan, Tricia Helfer, Jason Jones, Paul Costanzo, Wendy Crewson. A Johnathan Sobol film. ****.5 Strange. I'm only a half hour into the thing and I know it's going to be funny, witty, VERY STRANGE and "worth it." Language, irreverence and violence warnings in effect. "Shit! It's: COLD OUT THERE," to quote Tom Waits.
Today, I am wearing my Dear, departed, Buddy, Michael's, Boston Red Sox ballcap. Michael (his real name and one of the few you'll ever read here) passed away, three years ago last night. I thought about it before I went to sleep. I also had an annoying case of heartburn last night, pasta and red sauce with a dairy product afterward. I should: "know better."
A bit of history, all of it true: Michael was allot of things. A couple of my personal favorites were: A United States Marine, a Crew Guy/Drum and Keyboard Techie/Monitors Guy for numerous Bay Area Rock and Roll Bands (too many to mention, in fact), a mostly soft spoken man with a soft spot for dogs, a sport fisherman (although he was lousy at it compared to your's truly), a Friend when you were in need and a pretty nice guy in general. I returned his favors. In both life and in death. Burnt United States Currency (A Federal Offense. Come get me, Coppers.) that he owed me, ceremoniously.
When Michael passed, I was notified. His 105 pound Labrador Retriever, Gracie, (We'll see her, later) was dumped in my apartment's lap and I began the task of grieving, taking Gracie on adventures while putting up with her bad manners, working through all the shit that comes with knowing you're going to have to bury your Friend, doing battle with the Coroner's Office, funeral homes, cemetaries, grieving some more, letting the pain and notion of my own mortality soak in and drinking more than I should have for about a month. It sucked but, it: "had to get done," no matter what else happened.
Gracie is now in the tall grass in Saratoga, Ca.. Got herself a "Ceement Pond" an' everythin'. Eat y'er heart out, Jethro Bodine. I woulda' kept her but, I live in a small place and cooping up a 105 lb. dog just wasn't "right" to do. My Landlord woulda' gigged my ass too.
I also had to educate myself and find some allies when it came to fighting City Hall. I got lucky. I discovered an organization that I can't find enough ways to thank: The Missing In America Project. M.I.A.P., as they're known to the world at large, was absolutely instrumental in getting my Friend properly buried when the bureaucracy was going to simply dump him into an unmarked "group grave" and I found that out. That simply: "Would Not Do." I put on my armor and drew both weapons. My brain and obnoxiously tireless persistence. You DON'T want to mess with me when I am hurt AND angry. Either by itself, fine. Both? Don't do it. Somebody's gonna' need to get a mop.
After awhile, it turned out that Michael has a Daughter. She can add her name in the comments section at page bottom, should she choose to do that. I, out of nothing less than pure respect, will not add her name here. It's not my privilege.
Over time, she and I have talked on the phone and plan to, at some time in the near future, meet in person and take "that ride" to her Dad's gravesite at The Northern California Veterans Cemetery in Igo, Ca.. I've been there already.
M.I.A.P. found Michael a great view of Mount Shasta. Not to mention a proper grave stone and all of the rites of passage that go along with the burial of one of our Nation's Finest. They ALL are. And, I'm in no way speaking singularly about Marines here. I shot the whole "transfer" ceremony in black and white, high speed. I have a camera(s) and know how to use one.
90% of the people I know have, in various ways, been touched with a person that died or was scarred by this or that conflict in defense of the United States of America. I am the "estranged" Son of an Air Force "weather prognosticator." I was raised with two Stepfathers, both United States Navy career musicians. My Brothers, Nieces and Nephews, many, many, Friends have all served. I did not choose to enter the military. 1973. Not a great time to be in The Service. I got to sweat out my Senior Year in high school knowing that I was 1-A and #012. Nixon cancelled The Draft three weeks before my 19th Birthday. To be blunt: "I wasn't cut from that cloth." Honestly, I would have been a really lousy soldier. I could list all the reasons "why" that is true but, this isn't: "About me."
Among other things I've already mentioned...Michael was also famous for "forgetting the tent poles on camping trips," "being somewhat inappropriate in a somewhat appropriate way," and "knowing allot more famous people than most people ever will and not getting all stuck on their fame." I'm kind of the same way. One of the reasons we "hit it off" was that we were both Crew Guys. I was a Lighting Designer for Rock and Roll Production about a million years ago. Michael was a Crew Guy. Let it suffice to say that: "There is a camaraderie amongst The Guys Behind The Scenes." You don't have to be famous to have a really good time.
I've rubbed elbows and supped with more Snotty Rich People that were also "famous" than you can shake a snake at. I wasn't all that "impressed" by most of them. There are a few "stand-out's" here and there but, for the most part, I was very aware of their "Caste System" and that I was just a Pawn in their chess game with fame and fortune. I also: "Didn't give two shits about that." I'm as comfortable with a fair paycheck in worn Levi's, a pocket t-shirt with a band's name on it and a pair of Chuck Taylor low-cuts, eating a hamburger as I am in a tuxedo having vintage Champagne with Brie and Duck l'Orange. Just not: "Jemimah, Baby..." There's ONE guy out there that "gets" that joke. Love ya', Pal.
As an aside, I suppose I should include: "The-Great-Jim-Marshall-Lahaina-Rescue-Mission Story." It is, after all, one of my favorite: "Hanley Stories." To wit:
Michael, his older Brother, Peter and I went to a Jefferson Starship show just north of Lahaina, Maui, Hi.. It was April or May of 1993. Something like that. Jim Marshall, if you aren't making a connection with the name, is a really famous/well known/talented, etc., professional photographer. He's "passed on" as well.
Jim was full of Bushmills, piss, "whatever" and vinegar at the Starship venue, an outdoor, "festival-style," affair, photographing the band for their upcoming tour. Lahaina was their "warm up" (pun intended) gig for a Pacific Rimjob/Asia/God-Knows-Where tour. Papa John John Creach, a delightful man, was there with his wife, Sylvia. I'd never met Papa John (or Sylvia) and was excited to do so. Of course, we were all "Backstage Guests w/Slap-On All Access Passes." Michael had worked for various permutations of "The Jeffersons," (as he liked to refer to the entourage, as a group), over many years.
So. Marshall gets likkied up, he's shooting film, probably being obnoxious to someone and a HUGE Samoan Security Guard is kicking him out of the show. Jim's screaming at the guy: "No! You don't understand! I'm THE BAND'S PHOTOGRAPHER!" Michael and I: "Both have our Catcher's Mitts on." The Samoan Guy doesn't care. What do Michael and I get to do? Talk the Samoan out of throttling Marshall and get him the Hell outta' there without getting his cameras busted. They're EXPENSIVE! There will be more photo-op's. They weren't making any more Jim Marshalls though. We hop into the rental Crew Van and head off for Lahaina, running the Maui Cop Gauntlet set up for drunks leaving the show. Hanley doesn't want to drive. I get stuck Doing The Dirty Work. Again.
Marshall has "forgotten" where he's staying in Lahaina. We cruise around for about 45 minutes, illegal as Original Sin in the rental van. Finally, we find the joint. It's tucked into a familiar alley that I, luckily, know about. We get Jim into the room, he whips out a joint and a bottle of Bushmills. Jim's griping that: "Man. Doesn't anybody here know who I am?" schtick. Michael and I realize we're not only missing the show but: We've left Peter to his own devices, which wasn't particularly intelligent, considering circumstances. Pete could get mouthy with just about anyone and he may have been zero'd on the Samoan. We run the gauntlet again, gain entry and get backstage again. Safe at home! Sort of. We still had to make it back to Wailuku, where we lived.
I ended up with Paul Kantner's S.F. 49ers ballcap (he left it next to the hotel pool and forgot about it) outta' the deal but, (shoulda' had him put his marque on it w/a Sharpie) it was still pretty weird, for a non-paying gig. "All's well that ends weird." Something like that...
"I Know, It's Only Rock and Roll but, I Like It, Like It. Yes, I Do..." Believe you me, I've had it weirder and weirder. The Hanley Boys, too. Peter, among other distinctions, had long since been nicknamed "Peter-Peter" by Timothy Leary. You get the picture. They used to live next to Dennis Hopper in New Mexico. Talk about weird...
Michael was also of the Chuck Taylor, ballcap and t-shirt persuasion, although he preferred sturdier footwear. As I said: "I'm wearing his Bo-Sox hat." I'm a Tie-Dyed-In-The-Wool, San Francisco Giants Fan.
A 46th and Vicente, S.F., Ca., Giants Fan. Capital "F" intentional. Period. Multi-generational S.F. Baseball fan, even. The Seals? Get the fuck outta' here. See the 1940 hat on the "about me" Masthead? It's one of two I own. 'Nuff said. WE (The Giants) WON THE FUCKING WORLD SERIES! AGAIN! Have a plate of that!
Joe diMaggio played for the S.F. Seals. His '33 season, 63 game hitting streak, still stands as a milepost in the P.C.L.. Then he went to the N.Y. Yankees. "Traitor." I jest. Although Joe and Vinnie, his brother, too, were from Little Italy in North Beach, San Francisco, Ca., The Yanks paid better. It's Joe's birthday on the 25th. He would be 100 years old if he were alive. He "Got The Girl, for awhile," too.
I digress. (A "rave" snuck in through the side stage door.)
Both Michael and I were/are HUGE baseball fans. He even liked The "Pawtucket Chickens." Boston's "Farm Team." The story also goes: His family owned Hanley Brewery, Providence, R.I., "back when". It shut and locked the doors in 1957. Yep. Like I also said: This is one of the VERY few times that some one of The Usual Suspects doesn't get a pseudonym on this here daisy chain of tomes.
A granite headstone, with my tears upon it, reads:
Michael Francis Hanley
U.S.M.C./Vietnam
12-31-1949 - 11-23-2010
Yea, he never had to worry about having a Birthday Party. 12-31-'49. The Sonofabitch STILL gets 'em and the Whole World is invited. Go figure. I drew the Anniversary of The Atomic Bombing of Hiroshima. My party's not that cool. It's a crooked deal but, that's Poker. "Play 'em as they lay," goes the saying. I have a Hiroshima Carp Japan League Baseball t-shirt. I "bow" on my Birthdays. To the West of here.
See ya' Pal. I'll catch up with ya' in the ether, soon enough. There better be both Bushmills and Jameson (baseball and electric guitars, too) in Heaven...Rest well, Sweet Prince.
Mike (His "Trigger Name," he used to say) always liked this song:
"Why, 'yes,' the conflicting terminology is there for a reason." Walking, puking, fish moticianing, musical references, sarcasm, offensiveness, somewhat-worldly wonderment and all. Learn to do one of two things: "Accept or pass by." You're the nut reading this shit. I'm the nut writing it. The whole rationale here is to accept it at face value or reap the consequences. Good, bad or indifferent. Your choice, Grasshopper. You can "keep the coin" when you finally snatch it from this keyboard.
Today's lesson/words of advice for young people: "Never get too familiar with strangers. They'll turn on you when you least expect it. A 'courtesy' may turn into a request which, in turn, becomes a demand or robbery." Yea, I'm "sort of" borrowing from Burroughs here. Bill doesn't give two shits. He'd probably welcome the wretched refuse that would: Pick up his money from a cafe' table, to be shot on the sidewalk at his leisure, later.
Yesterday, I was in a Supermarket. The guy ahead of me saw that I only had two items and was going to let me "check out ahead of him." I demurred, feigning "patience." My next mistake was to attempt to engage him in a few humorous pleasantries. He fell silent and surly. I ended our little te'-a'-te' with: "I've run out of material. Excuse me, I mistook you for a human being." Nary a giggle or guffaw to be had in the room. (I know you're out there. I can hear you breathing) Fuck it. I had another pig and chicken show to attend at one of the many government agencies I have monotonous, monochrome dealings with down the block. Time was a'wastin' and the daylight was a'burnin'. Mr. Courtesy obviously had sawdust between his ears anyway... Or: "Talking To Strangers" is a horrible mistake in the first place. Take y'er pick.
To continue the "mistake du jour" theme: I next attempted to engage someone in passing conversation on a city bus. No dice there, either. I was starting to get the idea. The World Was Having A Bad Day and, I just happened to be in the way. In such situations, I revert to becoming "The Walkman Guy" on the bus. Haven't graduated to the iPod thingy yet. Nobody wants to rob you for your Sony Sports Walkman w/Super Bass, anyway. I also have a zillion cassette tapes.
Things soon got better... I decided to head for one of my favorite thrift stores with a dollar and change in my pocket. Some of my best scores in such places have happened in similar circumstances. As I'm cruising through the aisles, I hear my name being spoken. I turn around to find one of my old time friends from down the highway, a little town I used to live in, eyeballing me. "Hey! Pickle Head! (not his real name, of course) What? You up visiting The Little Woman?" P.H. replies: "Yep. That and stalking your mangy ass in the local thrift stores." I'm well known for my penchant of such establishments. Indeed, he was up from Stinky Fishville to visit his girlfriend. Our pleasant and as-per-usual too short conversation happened and I got to walk home with a smile on my face. See? "Walking." I told you it was going to happen. Pickle goes his way and I go mine. "FRESH YARNS FOR EVERYONE! I'm buying." Ring the Skipper's Bell and pass the antibiotics.
At the thrift store, for the enormous sum of $0.94 cents, with Senior Discount applied, was: A "Sun Valley, Idaho, Ski Resort employee baseball cap." In perfect shape, already sized for my average-sized melon. "Safety First!" and "Cultivating Success From The Ground Up! (I feel like I'm listening to a motivational speech while wearing it already) emblazoned upon the cap's side boards. Sun Valley logo on the front. Classic, if you've ever worked around a ski resort or been a ski bum, both of which, I have done, you'd dig it too. And, I, really dig baseball caps, period.
Long story short: I "collect stuff." Anything that blows my skirt up. My home is a Tiny Museum. I'm quite proud of it, in fact. Its' contents are the product of many years of thrift store trolling and sinking the hook at all the right times. Some of it is quite valuable. Some of it is worthless, tacky, kitsch. Most of only means something to me and noone else. Some of it is truly: "Oddball Odd." "Perfecto! Canasta!"
"'Tish, that's French," says Gomez as he kisses his way toward her Morticia-esque face. I like somewhat scary women. When they're smiling.
Yesterday. Seems like it was last week already. And that, Dear Reader, is The Absolute Truth About "Relativity." The rest of Einstein's Theory is pure hypothetical horse patoot. "The older you get, the faster time passes." Fess up. When you were 12, you couldn't wait to be a: "real teenager and turn 13." Now you're saying: "Fuck that shit, I want to be 30 again." Hail Mary all you want. It ain't gonna' happen. And, as an added benefit: You're gonna' start noticing that "Old Person Smell" around yourself. Then: (the really fun part) Rest Home (if you're lucky or whatever that is) and, as a consolation prize: DIAPERS all over again. Trust me, it does get worse. I'll fill you in as time accelerates. If you're already Old, you don't give a shit and wonder what's for dinner and on T.V. tonight. The Price Is Totally Fucked Up? Hell yes! What channel is it on?
Auf Wiedersehen, Damen und Herren. So long and thanks for all the (dead) fish!
R.I.P. Douglas Adams.
I forgot to mention that along with dead fish, there will be some humans that are also dead mentioned throughout these pages. Not that I have any sort of macabre fascination about death or anything. Trust me, it'll come soon enough for everybody.
Let me begin by saying, simply, that this blog has absolutely nothing to do with either "walking" or any "art of fishing" stuff or the like. It is designed to be a series of recollections about working around smelly, dead, fish (O.K., so, there will be fish?) and memories of places I've been, what went down the paths (O.K., so, there will be walking?) and pseudonymic references to some of the weirdo's I have known and some I still know, perhaps even someone I've never met or is purely fictional. Everyone I know is weird and so am I. It's also kind of a daily or semi-daily travelogue of existential angst and delight.
The convoluted blog title and subtitle keeps the rats out of the attic. If you've written a blog yourself, you know what I mean.
There will be insane raves and rants, petulant frenzies and the occasional Poodle droppings involved. Gurry may or may not be hurled. There may a fish in someone's Xtra-Tuff's. Someone may get blisters and/or break their leg, ankle, neck, whatever. Stitches will definitely be involved. Boats will sink and seas will rage. The Peg Legged Sailor will trip while running/walking/crawling toward that last ferry to Vashon Island, Ketchikan, Rangoon or Sausalito...On the way to?
There will also be a few favorite musical links and the like. I'm a guitar player and psychopathic listener of music. All kinds. Just not "Hip-Hop" or "Gangsta' Rap." (That's not really "music" IMHO) I can dig Gil-Scott Heron and the like, instead. "Poetry-In-A-Trainwreck w/bass and drums Slam, maybe b-flat Alto Sax," ya' know?
One of the "hats" I've worn over the years was that threadbare Lighting Designer/Roadie/Techie for Rock and Roll/Sick-Assed Reggae/Jazz Noise Here... Tam O' Shanter. Or one of those awful floppy boot things that golfers wear on the links.
I've had more jobs than many people's large families. I wanted to: "Do everything." I'm 60 years old now. In other words, another one of those assholes that's: "Been there, done that and has all the t-shirts to prove it. I'm not "done" yet. I still have to find another Cabin-In-The-Woods, a good dog and a girlfriend that isn't going to ball my best friend when I'm not looking.
You've been warned. Continue at your own peril or enjoyment. You must be THIS tall to ride this ride.
Over the years, I have written a couple of these things and either run out of steam, interest or been spammed until my eyes fell out by some Chi-Com (or whatever they were) moped hucksters and whatnot. It got tedious and frustrating. Thoughts of a friend's old t-shirt, proclaiming that he'd: "Rather Be Killing Communists" came to mind but, were quickly dismissed. I haven't a "mean bone" in my body.
"Serve me right to suffer. Serve me right to be alone." -Johnny Winter (R.I.P.)
So, anywho...We'll give this crap another spin around the pike and see what kind of flotsam/jetsam washes up onto the beach. Or into the living room...
Wish me a fish. Sharks and shit-eating-bottom-feeders excluded. Steelhead and Sockeye, preferred.
