Monday, March 29, 2010
Al Fresco: A Story You Just Don’t Want To Read
This is one hell of a week, and I need to do whatever I need to do to get through it - to slice and slash, to crush, to dodge, and to exorcise. I wish I could exercise, but there is no time. Exorcism may be the order of the day. In which vein:
Here’s an exorcism essay, one I write to extirpate a wretchedness from my mind. When I am witness to horrors of a certain magnitude, I just can’t live quietly with them in my breast. They keep coming back to me, again and again. They repeat on me something fierce, if you will. And if you won’t, tough. It happens anyway.
These situations arise, more often than not, with regard to something to which I’m exposed for a thankfully brief period of time. People I pass on the sidewalk, or in my car - I see them for such a tiny slice of their lives, yet the unmitigated hideousness of even that minimal exposure is enough to put me into a mental feedback loop from which I cannot extricate myself, much as I wish to, until I actually put the damn thing down in words, flesh out every gruesome aspect of it. There’s something about reducing such experiences to a concrete articulation that robs them of their power over me.
On the other hand, it might just invoke in a reader the same recurring revulsion I felt as a direct observer, that drove me to scratch my scrawls in the first place. To this I say, too bad. I’m writing so I can be rid of something, not so that you can share it with me - but if you want to come along for the ride, due warning and I’m not gonna stop you. But at least I’ll do you this favor: the story is in my extended entry (heh), so you don’t accidentally stumble into it. So if this is the end of your visit today, chag sameach and happy easter, I hope your week is smooth and your nights are quiet. Better me than you, of course, but better somebody than nobody.
I was driving on a fruitless mission to find a grocery store in the southern part of town. I was driving in the wrong direction on the wrong street, and I knew it too, but I was also killing time and seeing the sights, such as they were. I figured, it was a lovely day - I might as well do a little local tourism. When it came time for me to turn around and head back whence I came, I’d probably know it.
So: I’m stopped at a red light; I can see down the side street, along the side of the shop at the corner. Sitting back against the wall of that shop, about forty feet from me, is a large woman. She appears from my admittedly imperfect vantage to be tall, generously proportioned, and extremely expressive. She’s leaning forwards and backwards, rocking, her arms raised up beseechingly, her mouth gaping and clenching like a fish’s. Her abundant hair is various shades of grey, as is the voluminous dress that drapes her voluminous self. Down that sleepy side street out there off Ocean Avenue, she makes a strong visual impression on me as I sit at the stoplight. Something is going on with her. I am hoping the light will last long enough for me to find out what it is.
She rocks back, elbows bent and hands uplifted; then she rocks forward again. Her arms pull in toward her body, her torso curls forward, her chin juts out, her mouth gapes wide - and a large chunk of something shoots out of her maw onto the far side of the sidewalk upon which she sits. This explains a lot for me. She wasn’t emoting, she was regurgitating, with every ounce of power she could bring to the act. I am thinking, perhaps this light has taken too long already - yet I have not averted my gaze, drawn magnetically to the majesty of her emesis. Something tells me, I have not yet seen all that there is to see. And thus, even as the bolus erupts from her bloated, wattley face and describes a soggy arc through the sundrenched morning on a path from heaven to earth like some peristaltic rainbow, she rocks forward again, leaning, reaching, grabbing whatever she’d chucked up back off the footpath, and quickly stuffs it back into her rancid mouth once more for another try.
The light changes; I drive on, but it is already too late. In only a second or two I’d seen much more than I’d wanted to - things better left unseen, if not completely unimagined. But for me, in the blink of an eye, I saw what could not be unseen, and now suddenly I find myself unable to think of anything else. For weeks these recollections returned to me, grotesque and repugnant. I’m hoping I can leave them behind me now that I’ve disgorged them here, with no lurking urge to retrieve and remasticate them yet again. Apparently I didn’t realize at the time when it was time for me to turn back on that drive that particular day, till I’d actually gone too far. Perhaps you, good reader, are feeling likewise just about now. What can I tell you - I know what it’s like.
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Tuesday, March 23, 2010
SDG: One Stomp at a Time
It’s been a long time since I’ve gone out on a run around the neighborhood, and there are too many things I miss about it to count. Apart from the sense of vibrant vitality, the rush of enegy, the pure somatic joy of making my body work the way it’s supposed to, there are plenty of things I grew used to seeing - landmarks I’ve come to recognize and appreciate in subtle ways, changes in the physical environment from hour to hour and season to season, the evolution of which gave me a sense of riding the catbird seat on time’s gentle juggernaut, and - of particular pertinence to this jotting - some characters I only saw and got to know while out pounding pavement.
Whether they’re around at other times in other epicycles of my perigrinations I don’t know; I can say for sure only that I don’t notice them at other times. They’re my running buddies, and when I’m not running, those relationships atrophy. I don’t even notice I’ve missed them; there’s just a vacancy in my social environment that makes my world a little duller and my soul a little less full.
These are people I like to see, but not necessarily ones I want to know. The roller disco dude at 6th and JFK; the speed walker who bathes in perfume, the guy who walks his bike with his cat in the basket… they add texture; they’re environmentally entertaining. When I no longer see them for a while, the “fun quotient” of my little world suffers somewhat. Not so much as I’d notice it, typically. Just enough so that, if they happen to come back into my life, I appreciate it.
Which brings me to Stompdancing Guy.
SDG was a fixture of my park runs for several years. I’ve seen him on the east side of the park and at the west end miles away, in the rose garden and the museum concourse and all kinds of other spots too. He was peripatetic, but consistent - and you must know by now how I value that particular combination of qualities. I never sought him out and never wanted to connect withhim personally when I found him, but he cheered me up whenever and whereever I encountered him and that is worth a lot.
SDG always presented himself in similar fashion: standing on a bench in knee-length jams and a stretched-out t-shirt. His hair was shaggy and too long for the way it was cut, hanging darkly over his moon-like face. His body was bulky with a round belly and heavy hands. His calves were large and muscular as they emerged from the bottom of his oversized shorts, and his feet were shod in tired-looking running shoes. Headphones or earbuds were stuck on either side of his head, his face wore a slack-eyed and beatific expression, and he. was. stomping.
The motion was vigorous and regular, unvarying and emphatic. One foot would slam down onto the bench on which he stood, and the other rose up to nearly knee-height, a big step that went nowhere as the up-foot came slamming back down again in place and the down-foot came back up. Up and down, back and forth, body rocking, hair swaying, head nodding. The action was as unvarying as the costume. Whereever he was, he remained consistent. I liked it.
It’s been a while, as I mentioned, since I’ve put myself in a position to see my old acquaintences of the running path. Between having no time, no energy, competing priorities and a bum foot, I’d almost forgotten what I was missing - my vague sense of loss was getting vaguer week by week. I knew that I wasn’t getting my aerobic quotient, but what that meant to me kept getting harder to pinpoint. But the other aspect of my loss, the socio-emotional deficit, festered within me to the same extent that I was inattentive to it, a rate that increased geometrically till I was utterly unconscious of how badly I missed it. But a few weeks ago I got a reminder from SDG, for which I am, I think, extremely grateful.
I was heading up the big boulevard that runs through the park and presidio, and adjacent to which I keep my humble abode. A busline plies this boulevard, furnished with spare wooden benches. Upon one of these, one street north of the spring bloom of the rose garden, I re-encountered SDG - a living, stomping testament to the passage and constancy of time.
He was looking a little worse for wear, it can’t be denied. His hair was longer and greasier, his shoes and shorts shabbier, his body flabbier and his skin more leathery. It looked to me as if the months since I’d last seen him hadn’t been easy ones for him. It showed most of all in his dancing. His rhythm was slower, his feet rose less high and fell less emphatically. I couldn’t even see headphones - he might have been dancing without any accompaniment whatsoever.
But dance he did, undeterred by the indignities and hardships he’d obviously endured. He was up on his bench, stomping his stomps regardless. To me, it was an act of defiance, a declaration of independence. It made me want to go running again. I’ll be slower and flatfooted, but obviously that shouldn’t be an impediment. The important thing is to get back on my metaphorical bench and start stomping. If SDG can do it, so can I.
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!
