Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Party Party Party: Two Birthdays, No Waiting

It’s been a while since I provided a general update of the wonderfulness that is my everlovin’ life, so strap on your combat fez and get ready for a little birthday joy. YEAH BIRTHDAY! No, not mine. Zach turned five and we, um, “celevated.” On the great day itself the party animal in chief directed us to get sandwiches at a neighborhood sandwich shop.  So, I guess the kid knows how to cut loose. Gets it from me.  We all had cheesesteaks, which the proprietors were wise enough not to call “Philly” cheesesteaks - very tasty, no complaints, but not very brotherly-loverly. The elderly Lebanese (I think) staff sang Happy Birthday to him and we all plowed into our respective beefwads to our hearts’ content. The shop caught Z’s eye a few years ago because of their vintage 1977 windowpainting of a yella sumbarine, in powerful parallel to Z’s own favorite album by the Beatles. I, too, liked their olde-school muralism, as evidenced by their preserved 1977 menu board replete with low low prices and talking foodstuffs: r

Then I went to THE BIRTHDAY CONCERT. No, not Z’s, P’s. Phil Lesh turned seventy incredulous years old, and I was invited with about 8000 of my closest friends to confestivate with him and his team-mates from the Furthur lineup - Bobby and the dude from DSO on guitars, another dude from Black Crows on guitars but mostly vocals, two keyboardists (one of whom is with Particle, which is a very rocking triphop band), as many as three percussionists, and my man Jackie Green, wunderkind extraordinaire wielding a controlling axe and running the stage like a seasoned-with-habenero pro. Three sets plus a little parade; the company of good old friends and some good new ones; a very active “scene” before and after, and a total of 9.5 hours on my recently-healed feets with no ill effects save exhaustion nigh unto moribundity from the hips down. But no, you’re not satisfied. You want some bits of tid, under the general heading of “concert coolness,” dontcha. Well lay a pinch of this atween yer lobes and cogitate on it:

* On our way in, amid the swirling welter of ne’er-do-wells (that’s actually a ne’er-do-welter) looking for a way into the show, there was an old man with long grey hair and a long grey beard, wheeling around his wheelchair, shining a flashlight onto his lap, cheerfully offering to receive oral sex for a ticket. I’d like to know how that worked out for him.

* When we got into the auditorium, we picked seats at about 7 o’clock on the imaginary clock-face of the auditorium floor. At the time it wasn’t really that crowded, so we could actually see lines of tape on the floor - but we didn’t process what that meant till Rick (yeah, that Rick) (no, I didn’t know him either but he’s pretty cool) pointed out that we were sitting on the parade route and a float would come rolling right at us at some point. We figured we’d dodge that juggernaught when the time came, but by then the group had moved on to a less crowded spot. Not uncrowded - just less crowded. Disaster avoided? READ ON IF YOU DARE. I mean, what’s going to stop you?

* The parade floats featured a giant birthday present that did not open up and from which no one emerged naked and covered with glitter. It was just larded with cute little girls (like 10 year olds) and their parents. There was also a wild-looking reflective skull with glowing blue eyes waiting to be paraded around, but when it was parade time, NO SKULL. It hung out backstage and then never hit the floor. Freaking ripoff.

* Lori, Teresa: thanks for making me feel welcome. It’s nice to go to a show as a decrepit codger such as myself, and have so many very lovely young women just introduce themselves and ask me how everything is going. At this kind of show it’s not a come-on, it’s just being neighborly - and there is far too little of that in the world at large these days.

* First set: almost excruciatingly mellow. Thereafter, some seriously blazing old dance tunes. I finally got to hear Easy Wind AND Hard to Handle AND New Speedway Boogie AND Cream Puff War AND the more typical amazoid tuneage such as St Steve and Not Fade and T’Other One and Franklin and et set era. Plus go-go girls!  Just a great, beautifully-constructed play list. Danced my fool feet into mush.

* A *different* old guy wound up near my crowd for most of the 2nd set. He was very dapper in a new white cabana shirt with red flames, a pair of black slacks, and a little beret to set off his (typically) long grey hair and beard. His special deal was that he had an oxygen tank and two attendants with flashlights, and the three of them spent a massive part of the show changing tanks and fiddling with gaskets and apertures. Not my cup of tea but who am I to judge. Some guys are just “aperture” guys, and I’ll admit that sometimes a sweet gasket will catch my eye. Good for you, old oxygen-tank dude. But you kind of freaked me out by smoking so close to your tubes…

* At one point Oxygendude went off somewhere else and a young woman took to the chair that had been brought out for him to sit on; she danced on it with wild abandon. When he arrived back she leapt off the chair insisting “I was saving it for you!” Good for you, too, sarong-wearing sorority chick. I mean, I don’t believe you, but you gave up the chair without arguing and I give you full credit for that.  Moreso than I give you credit for physically moving me three times while I literally danced in place, my boots not leaving the floor, because she couldn’t see the band from where she’d relocated right behind me.  Don’t you get it, woman - there is nothing to see up there.  It’s not like any of those dudes actually move around or anything.  Can’t you just settle down and watch me shake my proverbial moneymaker? 

* During the first set I wound up standing next to a girl with bright pink hair and her normally-coiffed friend. At one point during that set Bobby stepped to the mic and announced, “begnyrndulgnc, w’gnapla nuthatoonen tkeofgi.” The pink girl and her friend were nonplussed. I turned to re-capitulate: “Begging your indulgence, we’re going to play another tune in the key of ‘G’.” One of them thanked me. I dismissed her thanks as superfluous - “I speak Bobby.” Finally, the bilingual requirement from college pays off. 

* During the break between sets 2 and 3 I bumped into a colleague from work, who grabbed my hand and dragged me into the depths of the dancepits to meet her other friends. It was crowded and hot and very congenial - it all reminded me of Philly shows and Kaiser shows and the real authentic down-home G.D stuff I remember from when I don’t remember things very well. Then the parade started and the DAMN FLOAT WAS COMING RIGHT AT ME. Mowing me down. Ignominious, to be laid out by a giant birthday present covered with 10-year-old girls, while holding a $14 beer in my hand. Luckily it didn’t quite come to that, but really only because I won a staring contest with it.  It sensed my superhuman intensity and backed the hell off.  I’ma trying it on a puma next.  I mean, when they wheel one out at me during a concert.  Like, at some kind of rave at the wild animal park.  STOP PERSECUTING ME. 

Afterward the show I came back home no later than 3 am, and the next day I tried to elevate my feet for 10 hours straight but those suckers were still dog tired.  However, I needed the rest for Sunday, when we went to Pump It Up for Zach’s birthday party f’shure! Though I was out of bouncing commission what with the healing of the toes and all, the rest of everybody had a great time, and I enjoyed watching them from my lonely perch on the sidelines. Let’s look at these adorable photos and see what everybody else missed:

We’ll start with a young man of infinite energy, considerable concentration, and a tenuous grip on his puckwhacker:

In general the bouncy photos just didn’t come out very well, but I am pleased to share the cautionary tale of my own physician, who attended the party and bounced himself into aerobic hyperextention:

And for the rest, let’s just concentrate on the birthday king with his inflatable throne.  First, he dictates his pizza-eating wishes to the assembled masses:

Then, he gazes in rapt delight at the impossibly-large confection he is tasked with defacing:

And finally, he fights off his brother for a piece of cake, which is typically a losing battle with Jesse but Mom held the young rapscallion back:

All in all it was a great party, a great party, and a great party.  Who am I to complain?  CHUCKLES, DAMMIT.  I’m Chuckles and I’ll complain if I damn well want to.  But I don’t.  So there.  Instead, let’s close with an inspirational image: here’s Jesse, just hanging around.

And with that, the recap concludes.  Coming soon: more goofy crap - but this time, with narrative structure!

Monday, March 08, 2010

Song of the Enchondroma, plus bonus Boot-Wearing Excuses!

Today has been a great day.  I took off from work and Kel drove me to Berkeley for x-rays, which I then hand-delivered to my podiatrist, who told me I was healed-up enough to stop wearing my massive velcro boot.  You gotta know, this is big news for Chuckles!  I’m back into wearing two shoes at the same time, ON MY FEET!  I can walk up and down stairs, haul in the garbage cans, and bathe the boys (non-euphemistically speaking)!  Such a sense of freedom.  Such a sense of relief. 

What do you mean, what the hell am I talking about?  Where have you been?  For Gods sake I have been going on about my damn surgery for months now.  But no - you couldn’t be bothered to read any of that, could you?  You were waiting for the movie to come out.  On Blu-Ray.  Well that ain’t gonna happen, chum.  Something about European copyrights, and the Hague Convention, and people not caring very much.  However, you are in luck: I wrote a poem about it instead.  Yes, a poem!  Podiatrist-approved and as gripping as a prehensile toe!  So let me lay it on you so you can keep it forever in your mind:

Song of the Enchondroma

The enchondroma is a cyst
that’s rather cartilaginous
it grows inside a fellow’s bone
and there it lingers all unknown
until persistent low-grade ache
obliges you x-rays to take
Podiatrist or orthopod
will tell you with the voice of God
that you could choose to let it be
and try to live in harmony
with something that will keep on swelling
how much larger, there’s no telling
In time you’ll find that it’s outgrown
the little space inside your bone
Integrity will suffer lossage
just like some overstuffed bone sausage
Better then to cut it out
and biopsy to quash all doubt
and verify that it’s benign
so surgeons thoughtfully design
to drug you up and cut you open
and scoop the sucker out, you’re hopin’
Of course once this has been achieved
of enchondroma you’re relieved
but now you have a vacancy,
a hole where bony stuff should be
but which instead is empty space
so bony stuff they must replace
While you are laid out on your dorsals
they’ll drill some little bony morsels
from someplace you’ve got bone to spare
(the lower tibia won’t care)
So while you’re lying drugged and prone
they stuff those little bits of bone
back into the gaping maw
the tumor occupied before
then stitch you up and send you packing
Enchondroma now you’re lacking
The next six weeks you’ll spend on crutches
and powerful painkillers such as
formulary vicodin
and don’t forget that you are in
a velcro splint to be protective
of the bone erstwhile defective
two months, then you’re finished healing
Doesn’t that just sound appealing?
And that brings me to where there’s no more
to say about the enchondroma.

Now that’s poetry, in the same way as the dog foods that “make their own gravy” actually make gravy.  Which is to say, shut up.  I don’t see you writing any poems about your surgeries.  I think that puts me in the lead. 

Now that I’m finally out of my boot, I will admit that I was getting pretty tired of explaining it to people.  They always figured I’d done something while skiing or skydiving or busting my way into a crackhouse or something, and I always had to explain that it was because I’d had elective surgery, that I hadn’t hurt myself, that everything went great, that I am even more boring than they’d given me credit for.  It’s not like I didn’t have better excuses to wear the boot - I just didn’t have the chutzpah to use them.  But now that it’s all in my past, I think I can share with you some of the reasons for wearing my massive compression boot that I failed to tell anyone while it might have counted for something:

* Lost my foot in a bear trap and it’s only just now growing back
* Related to my second career as a drug mule
* Just a little bit of a podiatric velcro fetish, baby
* My other rocket boot is in the shop
* Built-in metal detector pays for itself in found bus fare
* Right foot is just so powerful that I kept crushing the sidewalk, and wearing the boot is part of my settlement with the city
* Cyber-zombie ninjas got me with an electro-necro shirikin
* Milan couture, dorkbreath

Instead, now I get to say, “what boot?” Unless I’m wearing boots, of course, in which case I’ll say nothing.  In fact, I’ll start now.  Later, dudes. 

Tuesday, March 02, 2010

Photos that Look Good, Photos that Make Me Look Bad, and the Kids Who Always Look Great

Let’s start with the plug.  You know about the plugs, right?  There are two kinds.  First you have the shameful ones, like nickle, hair, and toilet.  But then there are the shameless plugs, with their auroral glow and harpsichord accompaniment.  Everybody likes the shameless plug - so here’s mine:

Longtime readers - or the odd actual person from my life - will remember the inestimable Cosmo The Dog.  I wrote about him every so often while he was part of my family; he ran out his time in 2004 and I miss him to this day.  Well, turns out there’s a contest for the best essay about how a dog has changed a person’s life, and I have an essay in it about Cosmo and another dog named Roselle, who together taught me in a burst of awareness what true nobility is.  Here’s the really fun part though: WINNER GETS MONEYS.  So if all, oh, seventy million of you reading this blog (give or take) were to vote for my essay, I would be a big winner and surely appreciative and would gladly reward you all with glorious ribbons of internet cybercoupons (actual value of coupon is below computation).  Vote for Cosmo!  Vote for Chuckles!  Vote for dignity!  And do it like it’s burning a hole in your shorts while you’re wearing them!  (contest ends at the end of the month.  gratitude lasts forever.)

Maybe cybercoupons are not a sufficient draw, for those of you seeking a more tangible benefit than, um, nothing.  Well, how about some entertaining visuals to entice your goad?  Here, suck on these and tell me what they taste like:

Let’s start with the wetlands - wide acres of shining sand ringing the bay and rife with life.  I’ve always loved the way it looks and smells at dusk, when the crepuscular shift seems to bring out the richness of life and beauty.  I snapped this photo from the passenger seat while on my way to a feast of Polish food in Berkeley a few weeks ago.  It’s not quite the same as being there but it gives you a place to start imagining what it would be like:

Wetlands… waterfowl… DINNERTIME.  There’s our segue.  Not long ago we went to Clement Street and picked up, at Zach’s wise suggestion, a roast duck - one of these guys:

I stripped out a bunch of meat for some delicious fried rice, and then we mixed some more into a salad and some other dishes over the next few days.  Then I took everything that was left and boiled it into a rich consomme out of which just this past sunday I made some amazing polenta.  And there’s more where that came from.  Thanks, duck.  We wasted nothing.  Plus, you make a very striking composition, visually and gustatorialy.

Let’s go from the gastromorbid to the sublime.  After we got our duck we decided to take the long way home.  Clement Street is two blocks from my house but we were in the car anyway so why not drive to the top of Twin Peaks and just, um, peek?  And thus was it so, except the photos I took of the trip and view were sort of extremely not good.  Except for one, of Sutro Tower, whereof I lately even here have written.  I tried to instill with my words a sense of its austere grandeur but maybe I should just have started with this:

Yes, it’s a little fuzzy, but still lofty and imposing.  JUST LIKE ME.  And now let’s stick with the Sutro beautyshot at dusk theme: here’s a cameraphone photo I took this past weekend at Sutro Park, on the cliffs over the northwest corner of the city, overlooking the Pacific.  The site was once home to a mansion but all that remains of it is a retaining wall, in which recent rains left this puddle to catch the gleam of reflected sunlight as it poured across the underside of clouds that blanketed the sky like veins of granite:

And now finally, or at least finally for the natures mortes, is this study in color, geometry, urban decay and cosmic renewal: at a vacant lot near City Hall, next to an old brick building painted red, grows rich verdure.  In that raunchy crotch of the mid-market backwash, I was deeply moved by the implacable power of life, by the texture of human handiwork, and by the balance of forces of stopping and going, the green and the red:

Oh that was nice, was it not?  Images like those, they feed the soul.  And I know what you’re wondering: how does a man like me, a man of such depth of literary understanding and nuanced humor, also have the sensitivity to capture poems visually, not just in flowing words?  Oh yes, it’s a good story, and one I’ll tell you if you buy me a fancy meal with expensive wine.  But I can begin by letting you in on some secrets - secrets I thought I’d hidden even from myself.  But when I finally uncovered them a few weeks ago, wedged in the back pages of a photo album I mostly filled up in 1977, the fact I’d hidden them so well filled me with a burning desire to share these unspeakable secrets with the whole world, so you’d better look quick before I get wind of what I’m about to do and pull the plug on the whole ugly affair (that would be one of the shameful plugs, as referenced above):

ITEM: I began life freelancing as a nerd, before I decided to make it both vocation and avocation.  Here is a document that proves it if nothing else does - my A.D. certificate, signed personally by none other than Peter “the Eube” Uberroth, and if you don’t know who I am talking about, well, me and Carl Lewis are very disappointed in your ignorant millenial ass.  Don’t tell me you don’t know who Carl Lewis is.  This is just sad.  Okay, check this out, then.  It will tell you everything you need to know.  About everything.  Meanwhile, the rest of us aged brainies can feast our eyes on this bad boy:

(note: yeah, I photographed the documents instead of scanning them.  That’s because I don’t have a scanner.  And that’s because I’m not cool.  It’s not exactly the same as being a nerd, since many nerds have scanners, but it really doesn’t help, either.)

Okay, maybe that’s actually kind of cool, with the Eube’s real-deal John Hancock and those snazzy stars and such.  How could I been a nerd when I was awarded this kind of style?  Especially in a time when Carl Lewis was considered cool?  Oh, I had extra nerd stores saved up.  Let’s cue up Exhibit 2:

It is my Certificate of Participation Recognition for the Logotherapy Essay Contest.  My theme, apparently, was “The Pursuit of Meaning for Youth in the 1980s.” I was awarded this handsome piece of calligraphed construction paper (with foil badge!) in 1982, so this was in the nature of predictive essayism.  I think I said that the search for truth would be conducted by the light of whale-oil lanterns, with long pointed sticks for beating the brushy moors till truth got scared and ran for it, and then we could hunt it down for sport and sustinence.  This is because MTV had only been on the air for two years and there were still only like five teevee channels total.  Yeah, I didn’t win the contest.  That would actually have cut into my nerd cred.  Winning anything is cool.  Losing the logotherapy contest?  You gotta know that’s nerdy. 

And yet somehow, I managed to eke out a bit of coolness that emerged despite my years of nerdy prep.  Here, let me show you it.  But first, cast yourself back into the murky lukewarm seas of my coming-of-age.  I was at Northwestern University for five weeks of intensive theater training before my senior year of high school.  I learned mime and modern dance, sang in harmony while touching other boys, and wore high-cut shorts with contrast piping.  One would think I’d given up any chance of being cool - and I’d have agreed with you, up until that fateful night in late July when I found myself enjoying a conversation with three friends late at night.  That’s truly all it was - conversation, friendship, a laugh and a sigh.  But here’s the crazy thing:

TWO OF MY CONVERSATIONAL PARTNERS WERE FEE-MALES.  I was even in their actual room, with the beds in it where they slept!  Yes, me and some other dude were so cool we just spent a whole night in there talking.  With girls.  One of whom happened to be, as I recall, Jamie Gertz, but that’s just the way that turned out.  She was actually really nice.  And I got busted for it.  I saved the disciplinary slip all this time as proof of some imagined coolness that the paperwork erroneously implies.  Jamie and me, we were just friends.  And I paid the price for it.  And I’d do it again.  But not right now.

Because now it’s time to wrap this up with Insulin Shock Theater: can you withstand the eye-melting cuteness of my brood?  Look upon these punims, and despair!  Or just pinch their pudgybunny cheeks!  It’s all good when you’ve got…

okay what have you got there, son?  Zach off his pushbike at the Sutro Park carriagehouse, securing his marbles.  I particularly like how the duck on the helmet is sharing the joke with you. 

Let’s give Jesse a turn.  Here he is taking the car for a little spin.  You think he doesn’t know how to drive it?  Okay, you are probably right.  But that will not stop him.  NOTHING WILL STOP HIM.  Look at those eyes - fear runs from him.  I’m just glad he’s usually on my side. 

Okay, Z got shorted on that exchange, since he didn’t get to smile for the camera in any way you could see.  Let’s make up for that with a two-shot: Z and the steam-table chickenfeet, which actually looked really good:

That is enough for now.  If I have not persuaded you to vote for my Cosmo story, I have no more persuasion left with which to, um, suase you.  I give and I give and this is the thanks I get.  You break my heart.  Me and Jamie and Carl don’t need that kind of treatment.  We’ve still got the 80’s, dammit.  What do you have?  No don’t tell me.  I’m feeling a little fragile this morning.  Time to search for more meaning, I guess…