The Elephant Man

"OMIGOD!!!! BOB!!!! LOOK AT THIS!!!!"

We'd been watching a movie on the teevee, probably something from the film noir genre that has recently captivated us, and she'd been munching on a fresh bowl of popcorn. An outburst of this sort from The Artist is a sign that her creative radar has just scanned a target.

"Quick", she said... "tell me what this looks like to you."

I joined her on the couch and stared down at the piece of popcorn in her hand. It had an unusual shape but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. She saw the questioning look on my face and said "It's the head of an elephant, you dummy. Can't you see it?"

Once she said that, it was clear what she'd seen in that popped kernel of corn that almost made in into her mouth. Yep... two obvious large flappy ears, a truncated trunk and elephant-ish head. An elephant!

"I'm gonna create an art project around it", she declared. "I can make a new shadow box or framed piece. It'll be cool!"

I'm used to this by now. She can see art potential in almost anything, which sets her mind into overdrive to figure out exactly how the project will be developed. She's the only person I know who can walk down an aisle at The Home Depot and point out potential art projects made from miscellaneous hardware items... ON EVERY AISLE.

The Quest Begins.

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Art is a very subjective thing.

Throughout human history, great art is considered crap by some and crappy art is lauded by others. Every true artist understands this brutal fact and lives with the constant realization that no matter how much creative effort they invest in their medium of choice, it will likely as not be met with criticism and derision.

Vincent Van Gogh didn't sell a single painting until the final year of his life. Claude Monet's early attempts at the new style of art known as 'Impressionism' were laughed at and derided as crap when shown at a Paris salon in 1874. It took another two decades before his brilliant talent was finally... finally... recognized.

Claude. Monet.

All artists carry the burden of rejection with them like a gunny sack tossed over their shoulder, filled with negative comments and misinterpretations of their work. Doesn't matter if the medium is paint, granite, ink on paper, music, dance, glass, macaroni, recycled cardboard, plastic flatware or dryer lint. 

The artist's vision knows no bounds except the limitations of their chosen medium. However, their creative output is often limited by society's insatiable need to equate art with a monetary value before it's valued at all.

That's why the vast majority of artists never sell a damned thing, yet they continue to create what they see in their mind's eye. They're driven to do so... it's an almost uncontrollable desire.

It's also why so many artists, after failing to recreate the perfection their mind's eye has seen, suffer from anxiety and depression and occasionally remove themselves from this mortal coil.

Creativity as a crucifix... self-nailing, too!

The amazing woman in my life, referred to here as The Artist, has lived with this burning creativity her entire life. She too carries a gunny sack filled with the veiled criticism and constant rejection of her work. For over three decades, I've witnessed the struggle to realize her passion and become a working artist who actually sells her art, and she's finally achieved that hard-sought goal.

Although she creates commissioned art like a Boss, her personal output isn't for everyone (nor should any art be!) due mostly to the fact that she's semi-demented and has a wonderfully weird sense of humor.

Like all artists, she sees things the rest of us 'normies' don't. That's why she RULES.

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The next day, she had a vision.

"It's 'The Elephant Man'! I'll make a small shadow box using the popcorn as the head and paint the background to match."

My mind began to reel with the myriad possibilities. The misshapen popcorn head did indeed look like an elephant and the unfortunate real-life Joseph Merrick, but I was wary about how it might be perceived or if people would actually understand the reference.

"It'll have to be kind of a small piece", she said. "I'll make sure the head isn't overwhelmed by the size of the box or frame or the background painting."

That same morning, she established it would be a shadow box so a shopping trip was planned to the local craft stores to find what she was looking for. This was a regular occurrence: once the vision is revealed, the challenge is bringing it to reality with exactly the right materials. 

She closely examined the popcorn elephant head. "This thing is pretty delicate. I'll bet it'll fall apart once it dries out, so I'll apply some kind of sealer or coating to make sure it stays in one piece."

I agreed that was probably a good idea and didn't give it a second thought. She's really good with paints and sealers and uses them with discretion. A few minutes later, I heard a terrible sound:

"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!! I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS HAPPENED!!!!!!"

I raced through the house to her studio. She was standing there, head down, obviously dejected, and held up the popcorn elephant head for me to look at.

Only it wasn't a popcorn elephant head any more, just a small shriveled-up food bit. The chemical sealer she'd applied reacted to the popcorn and shrunk it down into an unrecognizable mass.

"My Elephant Man... GONE!" she wailed.

"I'm sorry", I said... "I should have considered what the chemical sealer would do to that organic popcorn."

She sat down, her head still down, shoulders sagging. "Gawd, that head was perfect and I'll never ever find another one like it."

I offered to make some more popcorn, but her massive artist brain was already in overdrive. She was on fire.

"No, this is still a project I can do, just without the popcorn head, which was cool and unusual but the damage would have happened eventually anyways. I can make the head out of something else."

That something else turned out to be paper, a medium she's used for many singular art pieces that have been sold to discriminating clients who love her work and bent perspective. We did our craft store scavenger hunt and found a perfectly sized square wood tray with angled sides to make it a suitable shadow box.

SCORE!

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It happens at every art show where we set up the Misguided Designs display booth. We see four kinds of people:

#1 -- People who casually walk by the booth, barely glancing our way without stopping to look at anything.

#2 -- People who walk by the booth, stop directly in front but don't step in under the canopy. They look inside, grimace with displeasure and continue on.

#3 -- People who walk into the booth, slowly scan the artwork on display and leave without saying a word.

#4 -- People who walk into the booth, start looking at the art on display and say "Omigod... I love this work!" or "This is the best booth in the show, thanks for being here!" or "Hold on... I gotta get someone over here right away to see this!" or "Where in the world did you get the idea for that?". These people linger under the canopy looking at everything, talk with others about how much they enjoy the work, buy one or more pieces and/or talk to The Artist about a special order or commission. Handshakes and hugs, warm fuzzies, money in the till.

The Artist creates art for herself and for the #4 people... the ones who have an alternative sense of humor, who see things others don't, who appreciate a slightly bent perspective, who aren't afraid to laugh out loud over a piece that cracks them up.

The rest of them?  They'll catch on eventually... or maybe never.

Not all art is for everyone, nor should it be.

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In the end, 'The Elephant Man' came out really cool, yet another in a line of Misguided Designs mixed-media pieces made from wood, paint and paper.  Sadly, no popcorn was used in the fabrication of this one-of-a-kind art piece.

The greatest joy of my life is being married to The Artist. Though her creative quests, our lives are filled with amazing music and film and art and food, all the things that inspire and intoxicate us with an overwhelming love of life.

Several years ago, we had the chance to take our teenage Niece to visit the L.A. County Museum of Art (LACMA), a very special occasion since she'd never been inside a museum before.

In addition to exhibits revolving around the films of Stanley Kubrick and a display of mid-century modern furniture and sculpture, she had the chance to experience 'Levitated Mass', the massive 240-ton boulder exhibit that allows you to walk underneath it.

The best part of the day? It was watching her walk around LACMA with her jaw perpetually dropped after viewing one incredible exhibit after another. She was experiencing art at its finest for the first time, and it was our way of gifting her with the reality and purpose of art in every medium.

Meaningful art will always elicit an emotional response, whether positive or negative. Dealing with that response is another matter entirely.

Support artists of every type as much as you can. Attend art shows and boutiques and don't be afraid of looking at everything.  Ask questions about what you see... artists love sharing their creative vision with others. You never really know what kind of art will smack you between the eyes and make your jaw drop and the money fly out of your hands.

Don't fear art... embrace it with the zest in which it was created. You won't always 'get it' but that's not really the point. Creative output gives us all a fleeting glimpse into the heart and soul of the person who dragged it out of their psyche and made it real.

As The Artist likes to say:

"I don't dream in color... I dream about color."

Click on this link to see more 'Misguided Designs'.

Lead image, Gracias de Google Images; 'Levitated Mass' image, Gracias de LACMA; Don McLean 'Vincent' video, Muchismas Gracias de YouTube.

"That Is Not My Dog."

I like dogs. Dogs are cool.  

For some reason, dogs are generally drawn to me in a way which can surprise their owners.

"Wow", they'll say... "Spartacus normally doesn't like ANYONE but he seemed to like you enough not to rip you to shreds when you tried to pet him!"

Thanks, Spartacus.

I mention this up front because my next statement tends to piss off dog owners: I really really DO NOT like it when people bring their dogs into places where I'm shopping. This has become a real issue with me lately, and dog owners are aghast and offended when I say how much I wish they'd left Spartacus (or Muffy or Champ or Weensie) at home or in the car instead of dragging them into the store where I'm at.

I remember about fifteen years ago when this phenomenon first became visible here in Orange County (CA) at a notoriously high-end outdoor shopping mall in Newport Beach. First one store, then another and another, starting putting out bowls of water for animals being walked by their owners.

OK, fine... that seems reasonable for the pet owners walking their expensive purebred hounds at an outdoor mall. 

Over time, the water bowls were placed inside the store entrances as a way to get the owners inside the store.  Then all of a sudden, people were bringing their dogs with them while they shopped.

I was horrified at this turn of events.

When did it become OK for people to bring dogs into stores? Once again, I understand a retail shop trying to get customers with dogs into the store, but what about the rest of us?

I'm standing in the 'Just Socks' aisle looking for some wool lederhosen and in you walk with your Doberman (or Chihuahua or Dachshund) on a leash, oblivious to the fact that I may not like dogs or may be allergic to dogs or, even worse, that you dog may not like me or my smell.

I don't know you or your dog, and your dog certainly doesn't know me. What makes you think your dog won't walk by me, dislike something about my clothing or scent or proximity, freak out and bite me?

You don't know and you won't be able to stop them. And that's the problem.

Oh sure... Muffy would NEEEEVER bite someone! She's a good dog!

But Muffy is a dog, and sometimes dogs simply don't like someone and if that person is close enough, the biting begins.



While working my part-time Lot Geek gig at The Home Depot, I notice that many customers bring their dogs of all sizes into the store, which the store seems to be OK with. What gets me are those who put dogs into the shopping baskets, with some actually putting a blanket or dog bed into the basket and then placing Weensie in there too.

If there was ever a reason to regularly disinfect shopping baskets, dog blankets/beds/ass would be one of them

So... OK, I get it.  People love their dogs and take them almost everywhere. But dogs aren't universally loving of other humans, and sometimes they'll chomp down on an unsuspecting human's hand and then a very awkward situation begins. That's because they're DOGS. 

I use the 'dog bites man for no apparent reason' example to highlight the fact that sometimes, humans react to other humans just like dogs do (heh heh heh... dog doo... get it?).

Sometimes, a human simply does not like another human, and for no apparent reason. I recently came face-to-face with this situation in the office where I worked for eight months before getting laid off due to a business downturn.

I'd only been working there a few weeks when they hired a guy temporarily to be our truck driver. He was the future son-in-law of the company CFO and was living with his fiancee' in the CFO's home. The guy had been chronically unemployed, having been fired from a local petting zoo, Home Depot and Disneyland (I swear this is true).

When we initially engaged, he seemed strangely quiet and standoffish, which the CFO said was his normal M.O. as he was very shy and reserved.

However, after a few weeks of putting on my best 'supportive co-worker' face, he wouldn't speak to me and was becoming uncooperative and antagonistic, not consulting me on projects that were my responsibility and going instead to his future Mother-in-law (FMIL) for guidance.

The guy simply did not like me. No reason, no rationale... he never spoke to me. Somehow he'd decided I was the enemy and he would refuse to engage or even acknowledge my existence. The kidz call that 'cancelling out' or 'ghosting' someone... he'd walk in and I'd say "Good Morning" and he'd walk right by, looking straight ahead, ignoring my greeting as if I was invisible.

Very weird.

Then one morning, our off-site Office Manager (I know, I know) requested that I inspect the day's deliveries once the driver had loaded the truck because there'd been 'problems'. I asked the driver to please delay his departure until I had a chance to review the load. 

He went berserk.

He started yelling that there was no reason for me to check his load, and when I told him I was only following orders, he called me a liar. When I climbed up into the truck to begin the inspection, he screamed:

"I DON'T LIKE YOU!! I DON'T LIKE WORKING WITH YOU!! I HATE YOU!! I DON'T RESPECT YOU!! LEAVE ME ALONE!!!"

I asked him please to tell me why he felt that way. Instead of answering, he raced back into the office to complain to his FMIL. I finished my inspection, went inside and while he was complaining away, told him the load looked great and thanks for waiting. He glared at me and left without a word.

A few minutes later, I went in and explained to the CFO what had happened and that I had tried everything possible to engage with the driver.  She said it was inexplicable and that she'd try to reason with him.

That's the last time she ever mentioned it.

Over the final months I spent employed there, the driver's immature behavior caused us all lots of extra work and effort because he refused to follow office protocol for documentation and reporting. His behavior only got worse, so when we lost a million-dollar client and I was told I'd be laid off, I was actually very relieved.

I'll bet he's still working there, also too.

Because I have lots of miles on my odometer, I never once sank to his level of behavior, antagonism or immaturity. I never yelled at or argued with him, was always upbeat and supportive, and did my level-best to make the best of a horrific situation. In the end, it didn't matter but at least I KNOW that I tried, dammit... at least I tried.

What DID bother me was that never... not even once... in my professional career had I encountered a negative co-worker situation that I wasn't able to diffuse and turn around. In fact, I've had the ability to gain the trust of co-workers who were otherwise reviled by everyone else, a gift that I've always been thankful for.

Our current National 2020 Viral Semi-Apocalypse is creating a shit-ton of misery for most regular 'Murricans. One positive side-effect is that for the most part, people standing in lines to buy toilet paper are in upbeat moods, open and talkative across the 6-foot 'social-distancing prerogative', and exuding the classic 'We're all in this together' spirit that gives me faith in human nature.

I know there have been reports of clashes in cues and guns drawn over who gets the last of the Charmin, but overall we hoomans are getting along pretty damned good, helping others in need and lifting each other up when necessary.

We can continue biting each other later... for now, I'll pet Spartacus without fear and be grateful for a shelf full of butt-wipe.

"A positive attitude may not solve all your problems, but it will annoy enough people to make it worth the effort." -- Herm Albright



Lead image, Gracias de Google Images; 'Inspector Clouseau' and 'The Stooges' videos, Muchismas Gracias de YouTube.

Life By The Quarter-Mile

The Admission gate opened at 9AM, but we were always there at the front of the line, waiting… waiting.

Saturday morning circa 1969, ready for a full day of drag race spectating at Irwindale Raceway, hard by the 210 freeway in Irwindale, California.

There with me was younger brother Chuck, neighbors Mike P. and Frank R. and sometimes John E. from up the street. Dad dropped us off at around 8:30 in his ’64 Pontiac LeMans, a sweet 326 c.i. 2-door Aqua-on-Aqua ride. 

On subsequent Saturday morning trips to the drags we’d ride our bikes there, no need for the Dad run since it was only 10 miles away. 

Growing up was COOL.

Each of us had $5 for the day… $1.50 for Admission, $1 for a Pit Pass and $2.50 for enough food to keep us well-fed until Dad picked us up at 9PM when the races were over. Hot dogs and Cokes were $.25 each.

Five bucks to cover a twelve-hour day at the drags... best deal in town!

Once the gates opened, we ran… RAN… up to the Grandstands closest to the Starting Line for a bleacher seat as close as possible to the track. From our raised vantage point, we could see the cars lined up in the Staging Lanes, each line of similarly-classed cars side-by-side with other classes of cars, waiting for their turn to make a qualifying run down the quarter-mile.

A through M-Stock… Super Stock… Motorcycles... Gassers… Funny Cars… Dragsters… multi-colored bolides in every shape and size, engines loping with a wild cam profile cadence, open headers blasting our ears, leaded fuel and alcohol and nitro fumes burning our eyes. They’d roll up to the pre-staging lanes, one car in each lane, then do a short bleach-box burnout so the rear tires would be nice and hot for the start. Then a sloooow forward creep to get staged, mind games, the Staging lights glow and then the Christmas Tree sequences down: Yellow Yellow Yellow GREEN and RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH both cars blast off in a cloud of burning rubber and hot exhaust, straining through the gears and fighting to stay straight all the way to the Finish Line to get the Win light.

We'd sit/stand/jump at every qualie run, shouting out who we thought would win.  After a bunch of cars ran, we'd leave the grandstand and make our way to the Pit Entrance Gate, buy a pass and go in. 

How can I describe the delirium of a 12-going-on 13-year-old walking around all those crazy race cars in the pits, with nothing separating us from the cars and drivers and mechanics? Some cars were on trailers, some were on the ground with their engines in pieces being worked on. Some were being warmed up, the mechanic repeatedly pulling on the throttle arm RAMP RAMP RAMP RAMP to make sure the engine was tuned to within an inch of its life.

The names of the cars and their drivers were the stuff of boyhood dreams: King Kong, Tweety Pie, Skipper's Critter, C&O Hydro, Jungle Jim, Pure Hell, Pure Heaven, Ramchargers, Little Red Wagon, Chi-Town Hustler, Bronco Buster, Gas Ronda, 'Dandy' Dick Landy, Arnie 'The Farmer' Beswick, Stone Woods & Cook, The Hawaiian, 'Big John' Mazmanian, Hemi-Under-Glass, Blue Hell, Hayden Proffitt, Candies & Hughes, 'TV' Tommy Ivo, Don Prudhomme, Tom McEwen, Shirley Shahan.

One doesn't forget these things very easily.

After crawling around the pits for what seemed like hours, we'd make our way back towards the Grandstand side of the track via the pit access lane, which ran directly behind the Starting Line. If we were lucky and timed it right, we could stand along the access lane chain-link fence during the first Elimination runs of the top classes.

The gassers, funny cars and dragsters would ROMP ROMP ROMP ROMP their way from the staging lanes to the pre-stage boxes, set up and do burnouts to heat the tires, spewing burnt rubber clouds and unburned fuel directly back at us, standing there at the fence line, covering us in bits of rubber and fuel and choking smoke. And we'd stand there, breathing it all in, run after run after run.

IT WAS AWESOME.

Back to the Grandstand side, in the stands or crowded along the fence for the Eliminations, watching car after car, race after race, matching skills and speed and reflexes, one winner to the next round and one loser on the trailer. Sometimes there'd be a break in the action for one of the specialty wheel-standers like the Little Red Wagon, an Irwindale Raceway regular driven by Bill 'Maverick' Golden. 

He'd stage and get the Green and RAAAAAAAAAAAA would pop a wheelie and hold that thing on the rear wheels all the way down the track, letting the fronts down only once he'd crossed through the Finish lights, turn around and RAAAAAAAAAA wheelie all the way back to where we were, dropping down just in time to stop in front of the crowd who were going wild!

The picture right there, with all those people jammed along the fence watching the Little Red Wagon taking off... I could very well be in that picture, jammed up against the fence, blissed out. Free.

Like all good things that must end, the Final Eliminations would be run and the Winners would be crowned and the Trophies would be awarded and the Trophy girls would be kissed and we'd have to leave, the sounds still ringing in our ears and the smells in our noses and absorbed into our clothes. We'd be waiting outside the Main Entrance Gate for Dad to pick us up, or we'd be making the long bike ride back home.  Funny thing... even in the dark of a Summer Saturday night, that long pedal home was exhilarating, the sense of freedom like a drug.

Every Stop light we came to, we'd line up and someone would yell 'YELLOW YELLOW YELLOW GREEEEEEEN' and we'd take off, pedaling like maniacs to beat each other to the next Stop light, where we'd do it again. All the way home.

We kept going to the track regularly until it became a victim of creeping commercialism, the place razed in 1977 to make way for a Budweiser brewing plant. I remember driving there one day with some friends, parking on the Irwindale Avenue overpass (now long gone) that looked down on the track, watching them tear it up. One of the guys brought a couple of beers and we toasted the track that we'd grown up with.

The end of an era.

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I wrote this essay for two reasons.

The first is because I wanted to coalesce memories of foundational experiences from a bygone age when I was young and life seemed simpler, when we were able to enjoy a kind of freedom that doesn't exist any more. 

The second, and more important reason, is because I wanted to thank my Dad for the lifelong gift of my love for motorsports. Dad is the reason we went to Irwindale Raceway... 605 Speedway... Riverside International Raceway... Ontario Motor Speedway... where I was infected at an early age with a passion for racing that has only grown stronger through the years.

Along with so many other positive influences he brought into my life, I can never thank him enough for allowing me to share his love of racing as a small boy, as a youth, as an adult. Every time I'm at the races or watching them on TV, I feel like he's with me even though he lives a thousand miles away.

Thanks, Dad.

"There are only three sports: bullfighting, motor racing, and mountaineering; all the rest are merely games." -- Ernest Hemingway

All images, Gracias de Ron LeForce and Google open source images; 'Irwindale Raceway 1971' video, Muchismas Gracias de YouTube.

Today Is The Greatest Day I've Ever Known

Death and dying is a touchy subject for us hoomans.

Doesn't matter if you're 'saved' and will spend eternity with your Lord and Savior, or you don't have a clue about why in the hell we live just to die. The specter of your life ending, no matter what you say or do, is disturbing and unsettling and scary.

That's because unlike literally every other life form on this planet, we're acutely self-aware of our conscious existence and can comprehend that life and living will eventually end and leave us in a state of rigor, desiccation and decomposition.

That's a lovely mental image, innit?

How we spend our final days is a subject of trial and tribulation, especially when we factor in the serendipity of how we live and how quickly and easily life can be taken from us against our will.

People die all around us, every minute of every hour of every day, in every conceivable way.

Old age.... disease... accidents... suicide... addiction... crime... war... pestilence... ignorance... all of these and many more make up Death's Hit Parade.

And of course, our preference is to choose the method by which we'll end up taking the Dirt Nap if we get the chance to do so. Here's mine:

Once I know I'm toast, I will take in hand a previously-acquired heavy dose of deadly narcotic and drive (or be driven) as far up into the mountains as possible. I'll then ingest the heavy narcotic and begin walking into the forest until I lose consciousness and fall over and die. The local animals will rip and tear me to shreds and eat me all up, then they'll shit me out and I'll become compost for the living forest. Maybe they'll be lucky and get a good high from eating my narcotic-infused organs.

Organically Recycled Hooman... not Soylent Green!



BTW, if you've never seen 'Soylent Green', I suggest you do so. Great social dystopian commentary, and it was Edward G. Robinson's last film.

Here's something to ponder: you know those flocks of birds that are everywhere, all around us, every day? Ever wonder why, with so many thousands of birds all around us, every day... why don't we ever see dead birds lying around everywhere too? They have a short life, maybe a couple of years max, so you'd think our streets and lawns and parks would be littered with crow and sparrow and pigeon carcasses.

But no.

We can never know how aware those birds are of their brief lives, but the conventional wisdom is that when birds feel unwell or sick, they find a secluded place to either recover or die. Their small bodies are then eaten up or simply desiccate and decompose where they fell, becoming organic compost.

Sound familiar?

It may be nothing more than ancient instinctual behavior, but it seems to work pretty well for us hoomans with our streets and lawns and parks that aren't covered in bird carcasses.

Same goes for squirrels and possums and lizards and raccoons and coyotes and all the other 'wild' animals that share our suburban habitat. They may not be cognizant of their place in the grand scheme of things, but they know when the time has come to separate themselves from their group and let nature rule.

It's far more complicated for hoomans. For one thing, our bodies are much larger and take longer to naturally desiccate and decompose. And then there's the smell. And the idea of hoomans seeing other hoomans lying there, dead and decomposing, eyes and mouth wide open, belly distended, taunting their mortality.

That's why 'modern' man buries the dead, to hide the stench and remove the carcass from sight or from being et. All the other ceremonial brouhaha over burials is made-up dogmatic baloney to salve our self-awareness of Death's Hit Parade. 



Ancient man used the same instincts as animals when it came time to croak, walking away from the group to expire alone, unseen and un-smelled and ready to be ripped and torn to shreds and eaten up by the local animals, who then shit out the hooman organic compost.

I... I'm sensing a theme here.

The subject of Final Days came to me while watching the coverage of the untimely death of basketball great Kobe Bryant, his daughter Gianna and several friends and associates. Losing their lives in a helicopter crash was an awful way to go since it's highly likely there were several terror-filled minutes experienced by all aboard before plowing into that Calabasas hillside.

On the other hand, Kobe routinely chopper-commuted from his Newport Beach home to points all over the Southern California for (by his own estimation) over 17 years, putting himself at risk every time he strapped in. Yes... driving the freeways is also dangerous and can lead to a fiery death, but it beats falling out of the sky in a malfunctioning or errant aircraft, watching the impending impact with big eyes and a clenched heart.

This is why we'll never have flying cars as personal transport. Crashing while at ground level dramatically increases the chances for survival.

Here's the thing: much has been made of the fact Kobe and Gianna spent their last morning alive together in church, which brings a sense of comfort to those mourning their loss. Father and daughter spent that morning praying to their deity of choice, not anticipating their impending demise.

It got me thinking about the final day I spent with certain loved ones that I've lost over the last 20 years or so.

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My Grandfather Manuel roamed the earth for 94 years until getting hit by a car on one of his daily walks. He survived but was confined to a wheelchair and decided he'd lived long enough and didn't want to be a burden, so he just stopped eating. After a week or so he slipped into unconsciousness, so our family gathered around him on that final night to cry and share memories and be together. We all crammed into his room as he took his last breaths, watching him leave, wanting him to stay but knowing he could not. Although his life's force left his body in front of our eyes, I could swear it entered all of us and we were energized with his love and the force of his nature.

My wife's Grandmother Lila was another force of nature, irascible and thorny and perfectly wonderful because she really liked me and I her. Well into her 80's, she suffered a series of strokes that left her in a nursing home bed, unable to walk or speak. The last time we saw her alive, it was during the holidays so we took her a small green dinosaur plush doll wearing a Santa Cap. She grabbed that thing and held it tight next to her chest, eyes beaming and glistening and showing a giant smile. She knew we loved her a lot. She passed only days later, and we took home one of the gift plants from her memorial that thrives in our living room, huge and green, and we call it Grandma.  I also have the dino doll too!

At only 64 years old, my Mom spent her final day unconscious in a nursing home, having stroked out the night before, the latest in a series of strokes that resulted from a lifetime abusing alcohol and cigarettes. My Aunt Yolanda (Mom's best friend since grade school), my wife and I spent several hours at Mom's bedside that day, reminiscing and laughing and crying and holding her hands and talking to her and feeling lots of love for each other. Mom passed at 11 that night, and I recall the searing reality of loading her wheelchair and few remaining belongings into my truck the next morning, knowing I'd never see her again.

At only 43 years old, my younger Brother Chuck's lifetime of alcohol abuse meant his health was shot... liver failure, infected bloodstream, gangrene... he was a mess. When I got the call he'd been admitted into the hospital again, I raced up to Northern California to see if I could help. There he was in the hospital bed, skin and eyes yellowed with jaundice, ranting that he'd be fine once he got a new liver. He rejected the idea he'd need to stop drinking for at least 6 months before he'd get on a donor list, calling me stupid for saying that even though we both knew it was true. We'd re-established our brotherly bond only a few years before, but this final visit was filled with acrimony and anger, accusation and denial. I left knowing he'd be gone soon... and sure enough, he was.

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I read a sci-fi story once about a doctor who'd secretly invented a machine that could predict exactly how long a person would live. The machine would take blood samples and the results looked like a long pink tube that could be measured in days. He became famous and then infamous, which forced him to go into hiding because the insurance industry had a bounty on his head since his invention would put them out of business. He held them off long enough to get run over by a bus, because he already knew when his time would come and he wanted to keep the machine out of the hands of those who would exploit it.

We don't know how long our conscious existence will last... the length of our pink tube.

We don't know if there's an afterlife or if reincarnation is a thing or if believers will spend eternity with their savior of choice. Anyone that tells you otherwise is lying because they don't really know either.

We know there are many easy ways to extend our own lives by eating better, sleeping better, taking care of our health... stuff like that. However, we don't do those things and so we die much sooner than we need to, even though we know how not to die sooner. Stoopid hoomans.



I like to say that each day above-ground is a great day, a precious gift, a thing of value not to be squandered. It can be a challenge trying to remember that because life can be distracting and mean and venal and heartbreaking. 

The secret is to think about that last day of conscious existence, that final day of breathing and seeing and loving. 

Chances are, we won't know when that day arrives because death can sneak up behind us and snatch our conscious existence right out from under our feet.

So make sure that today and every waking moment is spent doing something that gives you purpose and meaning, no matter how grand or trivial it may seem. Take each day by the scruff of the neck and shake it... HARD.

I like to think that in the final seconds of his life, Kobe knew in his heart he'd done exactly that.

Be like Kobe. Live large, kick ass, take names.

"Razors pain you; 
Rivers are damp:
Acids stain you; 
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful; 
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live."
     -- 'Resume' by Dorothy Parker


Lead image, Gracias de Google Images; 'Soylent Green', 'Monty Python & The Holy Grail', 'Monty Python-The Meaning of Life - Death' and Smashing Pumpkins 'Today' videos, Muchismas Gracias de YouTube.

Orange Apron Confidential

Snapshots from the Home Depot parking lot.

Let's Get Loaded

Sometimes I wonder if people arrive at HD with any idea of what they'll wind up walking out with. Here's a few of the more unusual load-outs I've seen:

1. A young-ish couple exits the store with a 12-ft long roll of carpeting, about 3 feet in diameter, on two rolling carts. She hangs with us while he goes out to grab their car... we Lot Geeks joke that he'll drive up in a Prius.

HE DRIVES UP IN A PRIUS.

Seeing the looks on our faces, she says 'Don't worry... he hauls all kinds of giant stuff in his car. He brought home a huge exercise machine in it last week. He'll make it fit." Sure enough, he pops the hatch, lowers half of the the rear seat back, fully reclines the passenger seat (my idea) and we proceed to insert that carpet roll into the car. It gets shoved up against the windshield with only about two feet hanging out of the rear! We're gobsmacked. We tie down the hatch, she gets into the rear seat and they drive away.

2. I get a radio call from the Garden Center to assist a customer with a load-out. A minute later I'm looking at a cart with 50 concrete pavers that the very nice older lady wants me to load into the back seat of her obviously new White Maserati Ghibli. I ask about the trunk and she says the trunk is full so the pavers gotta go into the back seat.  The Italian luxo-sedan Beige leather back seat, that is.

I rustle up some thick clear plastic sheeting and proceed to line the rear seat back, cushion, door panels and floors with the stuff. I even scrounge up some cardboard to place on the seat back and cushion underneath the plastic sheet. Then... gingerly... I start stacking the pavers first in the footwells, then the seat, making sure they're nested so they don't slide around. I decide to also drape plastic on the backside of the front seats... just in case.

After about 10 minutes of mega-careful stacking, the pavers are loaded and the lady seems happy with the result. She tips me $5, jumps into her White Maser and drives off. I'm a wreck about it but then decide not to worry... I mean, it's HER car, right?

3. I'm shagging carts one evening and see an older guy come out of the store, balancing two long sheets of Masonite on a shopping cart and heading out to his dark Green Camry. I snag some carts from the far side of the lot and bring them to the corral near the Green Camry and notice him still trying to load the Masonite into his car. I ask if he needs some help and he politely declines. As I'm hustling more carts around, I keep an eye on him... he tries the rear seat, front seat and the trunk, no dice... the sheets are too long.

After about 20 minutes, he gets out a flashlight and starts looking around inside the trunk and rear seating area. I finally walk over to him and ask again if I can help, and he says yes. I reach up inside the trunk and pull the rear seat back release, which pops the entire rear seat back down, allowing the Masonite sheets to slide into the trunk and finally fit inside so the trunk lid can be lowered. The man is almost giddy.

He says "I knew there was a way to do that, but I've had this car for almost 10 years and never needed to lower the seat back, so I couldn't figure out how to do it!" I tell him the rear seat back releases are semi-hidden up inside the trunk and are hard to find, even in the daytime, that he was on the right track and would have found the release eventually. He thanks me, shakes my hand vigorously, slowly gets in his car and drives away.

Lost and Found

Here's a partial list of some items I've found discarded in the HD lot:

Giant empty glass bottle of cheap whiskey, tossed into the hedges.

Dozens of mini-plastic booze bottles.

Plastic water bottles filled with urine.

Plastic shopping bag heavy with human feces (trust me, I knew it without even looking inside).

Partially-eaten tamales from Der Wienerschnitzel.

Partially-eaten chicken from Popeye's.

Banana peels... everywhere!

Cigarette butts... everywhere!

Water bottle caps... everywhere!

Dozens and dozens of plastic water bottles and aluminum cans.

USB cords.

Used work gloves.

Used rubber gloves.

A Black two-drawer file cabinet.

A power washer, complete with wand, hose and filled with fuel.

Giant overstuffed bags of garbage.

Three perfectly good ladders.

Two giant dog beds.

Hair scrunchies.

A mini-fridge.

AA batteries, usually flattened

A basket filled with new hand tools still in their packaging, likely pilfered from the store and abandoned.

Miscellaneous trimmings from 2 x 4's, drywall, tile and other building materials that were left after being hacked off of freshly-purchased goods being prepped in the lot before going into the truck and out to the jobsite.

NO DIAPERS... so far.

A small hardened mountain of cement that resembles the Devil's Tower from the movie 'Close Encounters of the Third Kind'. Someone had spilled a whole bag of cement onto the lot, didn't clean it up and the ensuing rain turned it into a solid eroded monolith. It's sill there.

The list goes on and on. I guess many customers are OK with dumping their crap out into the lot before they leave.  Who knew?

The Birds

During many of my evening shifts, there are hundreds of crows that fly near the lot on their way to favorite overnight local nesting sites before darkness falls. Last night was different.  At around 4:30pm, I noticed huge flocks (murders?) of crows flying in from all directions and circling directly above the lot, alighting in trees all around the lot and the adjacent greenbelt.

Over the next hour, literally thousands of crows were crowding all the trees, walking on the asphalt lot to pick at food scraps, spinning in the air overhead, lined up on the HD building facade, crowding on top of building roofs across the street... they were everywhere! Even some of the customers would stop to look at the huge cloud of beautiful black birds. The sound of thousands of crows all 'cawing' at the same time was mesmerizing.

I was in heaven, because I love crows.

There was an ebb and flow going on. One minute, the crows would be mostly all stationary, noisily cawing out to each other.  Then all of a sudden, a huge murder would swoop up into the air all at once, boiling out of trees and dive-bombing each other like so many fighter jets.

One hour later, they were all gone.  I cannot WAIT until the next time this happens.

Bitchin' Cars

Here's a partial list of some bitchin' cars I've seen parked in the HD lot:

1969 Corvette LS454, Dark Green with Rallye wheels, totally original.

2019 Ferrari GT Lusso, Dark Gray, brand-spankin' new.

1972 Ford Ranger XLT pick-up, two-tone Silver/Black, giant chrome alloys, totally restored by the son of the original owner.

1974 Oldsmobile Custom Cruiser station wagon, Light Green with alloys, 45k miles, stainless steel exhaust, perfect interior, gorgeous.

1955 Chevrolet Bel-Air hot rod, street slicks, alloys, hood scoop, flared rear fenders, 'push bar' bumpers front and rear, 4-speed, partially-open headers, nasty and rasty street machine.

1972 Volkswagen Westfalia camper van, Red/White, 100% restored.

1965 Ford Mustang Coupe hot rod, alloys and meats, Bright Yellow with yellow dice hanging from the inside rear-view mirror, 4-speed, muffled headers.

1967 MG MGB GT, British Racing Green, spoke wheels, excellent condition, broken down in the lot, owner waited almost 3 hours for a friend to rescue him.

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Although it's only a part-time job, my HD gig gives me much more than the hourly wage. I never thought I'd be thanking HD Founder Bernie Marcus, a hard-core Conservative Republican, for anything... but Thanks, Bernie!

Lead image, Gracias de Google Images; Cake 'Alpha Beta Parking Lot' video, Muchismas Gracias de YouTube.

Stephen Stills Forever

By the time I bought Stephen Stills' first solo LP at Licorice Pizza in Azusa, CA in 1974, it had been in release for over 3 years, had a Billboard Top 100 hit with the opening track 'Love the One You're With' in December 1970, and the album peaked at #3 on the Billboard Top Pop Albums chart in January 1971.

By the way... I still have that original vinyl, think I paid $2.99 for it.

I was late to the listening party but read reviews in CREEM and ROLLING STONE about some of the amazing artists he drafted for this initial solo foray. It reads like a musical Who's Who: Jimi Hendrix, Eric Clapton, Booker T. Jones, Ringo Starr, Dallas Taylor, Rita Coolidge, David Crosby, John Sebastian, Cass Elliott, Graham Nash, among many others.

AYFKM?!?!

In fact, this LP was the only one to ever feature both Hendrix and Clapton on guitar, and it was dedicated to 'James Marshall Hendrix' who died in September 1970, only two months before the LP arrived in record stores.

R.I.P., Jimi and Cass.

Stephen Stills... founding member of both Buffalo Springfield and Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young... also played the memorable guitar on Bill Withers' Grammy-winning monster hit 'Ain't No Sunshine'. 

Wait... WHAT?!

This LP has been a part of my musical lexicon ever since I first spun it, and not just because it contains Superstar DNA. When I played it last year on our new turntable, it proved once again why it has such staying power. Here's a selection of tracks from one of my all-time favorite releases.

"Love The One You're With"

His biggest solo hit, Stephen got the idea for this song from Billy Preston. When Billy said goodbye to someone, he'd add "Well if you can't be with the one you love, just love the one you're with!" Stephen said to him "Hey Billy... do you mind if I use that phrase in a song?" Billy said 'Sure, go ahead!" BOOM... HIT.

Along with Stills, musicians on this excellent pop tune include David Crosby, Graham Nash, Calvin 'Fuzzy' Samuel, Rita Coolidge and John Sebastian.



"Do For The Others"

Written by Stephen for David Crosby about the death of his girlfriend Christine Hinton, this tune spins a melancholy tale of life, death, loss and longing. Sad as the subject matter is, the music is uplifting and beautiful, the harmonies soar and the musicianship is warm and enveloping.

Based on the Personnel breakdown, it seems Stephen played almost all the instruments on this cut. His tool kit includes vocals, guitars, bass, piano, organ, steel drum and percussion. WHEW!



"Old Times Good Times'

There's no mistaking Jimi on guitar as he soars through this cut, with Stephen playing mad keyboards all over the place. The tune drives forward with a speed and style that makes it seem like we're listening in on a private jam session. Knowing Jimi would be gone before the record was released makes it even more heartbreaking to hear him playing so beautifully free.

R.I.P., James Marshall Hendrix.



"Sit Yourself Down"

Based on a gospel-type melody, this tune is about his relationship with Rita Coolidge, who sang back-up on much of this LP. Along with Rita, other back-up singers here include Graham Nash, David Crosby, John Sebastian and Cass Elliott. 



"Go Back Home"

Like Jimi's playing on the previous track, Eric Clapton's signature style on this cut oozes and shreds and cries like no one else. The slow-rolling rhythm of bass and drums propels us towards a crescendo that reverberates long after the tune has ended. Stunning.



"Black Queen"

What can I say? This is simply an amazing display of solo bluesmanship, supposedly recorded while he was 'drunk as a skunk'. Listening to Stephen singing and playing with such abandon, I can totally believe he was blotto but managed to lay down a memorable track anyways.

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The Artist and I have a nice collection of combined vinyl, and the fact there are more than a few duplicates means that we were listening to some of the same music at the same time in our lives before we met.

For those of us of a certain age, we can connect ourselves to times and places via the records we bought, took to parties or to friend's houses, or played during make-out sessions.

I recall taking my copy of Santana's 'Abraxas' (1970) all over the place when I first got it, the cover art causing much grief to many of my friend's Moms, some of whom banned it from their homes. Of course they did.

'Frampton Comes Alive' was absolutely required at every party I ever went to in the 1976, even though nobody really knew who the hell he was.

It all went sideways for me the first time I heard The Ramones' debut LP (1976), and I've been going sideways ever since.  HEY, HO... LET'S GO!!!!

Through it all, these slices of licorice pizza have stayed with me through the years, sometimes languishing un-played in boxes in the garage for decades until a wild hair makes me race out there to root out a record and spin it incessantly until The Artist starts rolling her eyes.

'Stephen Stills' is a singular gem of an LP. The lyrics and musicianship are first-rate, that Superstar DNA is undeniable, and the collaborative result is as accessible and contemporary as anyone could want. You know that new turntable I mentioned earlier? It can record vinyl and transfer it into an MP3 or direct to disc.

'Nuff said.

Added Bonus Track, because awesome:



"Ain't No Sunshine" -- Bill Withers

His monster 1971 hit, with Stephen on guitar. Still a benchmark of pop music. He says 'I know' 26 times.

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Lead image, Gracias de Google Images; all videos, Gracias de YouTube; Stephen Stills biographical info, Muchismas Gracias de Wikipedia; Long Live Stephen Stills!

To Tree or Not To Tree

As we hurtle at warp speed towards the Christmas holiday, there seems to be nothing more traditional than a family trip to the tree lot. Oh sure, some of you might wander into the local mountains to snatch a free-range tree, or even find a live tree lot near the homestead so you can enjoy the thrill of hacking a living thing away from its roots and watch it die in your living room. At least it'll look nice until New Years, RIGHT?

For most folks who observe this seasonal bacchanal, the local tree lot is where the holidays REALLY begin. 

The Artist and I rarely host a formerly-live tree in our home, preferring instead to showcase an artistic creation/sculpture/installation of her design. Other than the occasional commentary piece, these 'trees' are a an exercise in pure artistic expression, inspired by how the hell should I know?

For the uninitiated, here's a link to her website that shows almost all the 'trees' she's designed since 1988:

                              Misguided Designs Christmas Trees

                                             
                                                   'Mother Nature' -- 2013

Her first creation, 1988's 'Ladder Tree', came about in the aftermath of a horrific auto accident and extended recuperation with the help of a halo brace screwed into her cranium and onto her body for three months. When the halo was finally removed in the Fall of '88, she was in no mood for the upcoming holiday and was inspired by an image in COSMOPOLITAN Magazine of a step ladder decorated for a tiny loft apartment Christmas.

That's how traditions begin, donchaknow?

I mention the tree thingie because, as life can be a convoluted and complex series of events, happenstance finds me working a part-time job evenings and weekends as a Lot Associate at that bastion of DIY-ism, The Home Depot.

Yep, I wear the Orange Apron, wrangle shopping carts and help people load and unload their stuff. Don't judge.

Now, I'm not thrilled at the idea of working a regular 40-hour a week job AND having to spend another 20 hours or so each week shagging carts and loading toilets. The truth is that we need the shekels and I'm grateful that I have the physical stamina and drive to do both gigs without too much fuss, at least for now.

Most of my Orange Apron cohorts at the store are really cool people and appreciate my bent sense of humor and manic energy. The fact that I get to interact with and help people out is a major warm fuzzy, keeping me motivated and upbeat, something my current day job definitely does not do.

And not only that, there's a large Christmas tree lot smack dab in the middle of the parking lot. On most of my shifts this month I've been helping out in the lot by netting trees, handing them out and loading/tying them onto vehicles.

This might seem like drudge work, but surprisingly enough I really LIKE working the tree lot... and not just because some people tip me after I've loaded and tied their tree up for the trip home.

Here's the thing: almost everyone who walks into the tree lot is... HAPPY. They're performing a traditional act that hearkens back to their youth. They're usually sharing this pine-scented task with loved ones... kids, parents, friends, significant others... and the result is walking away with an iconic holiday talisman that signals a benchmark of tradition.


I know... they're just trees, but they MEAN SOMETHING, dammit.

And for me, being in the thrall of double-job 65-hour work weeks and knowing how much The Artist misses me being home evenings and weekends... the Home Depot tree lot has filled me with a surprising amount of Christmas Spirit!

I know many people place heavy religious emphasis on 'The Reason For The Season', but that dogmatic rationale doesn't have any bearing on my love of the holidays. I revel in the idea that at least for a short time at the end of each year, people are generally nicer to each other... more forgiving, more understanding, more empathetic, more compassionate.

I know... they're mostly temporary interpersonal conditions, but they MEAN SOMETHING, dammit!

My Home Depot gig has helped me to feel more connected to people at a time in my life when I really need that kind of positivity, and for THAT I am thankful.

When I take 5 minutes to tie a tree onto the roof of someone's beater Honda or murdered Escalade and they're genuinely grateful and appreciative for my Boy Scout knot-tying skills, it fills me with Stupid Happy.

When an elderly couple holds hands and smile big while I load 10 bags of mulch into the trunk of their Lexus, I'm glad I was the one who got to perform that task.

When I help a carpenter load a full cart of 2 x 4's onto the rack of his truck, maybe saving him 20 minutes on a very long day, I know he'll use those saved minutes to make this country great... and I think you know what I mean.

I also know that when I finally land that far-better full-time day job, I'll most assuredly hang up my Orange Apron, but it will be with no small amount of regret because in just a short time, I've been given so much more than an hourly wage.

And as I joked about back in 2018, when I take my fully-vested retirement in just a couple of years, I will be pleased and proud to un-retire the apron and once again be that HD Lot Geek... the one who sings while pushing around carts and picks up trash and never EVER lets someone load a new toilet by themselves.

I Am That Lot Geek. Don't judge.

The 12 Boy Scout Laws:  A Scout is Trustworthy, Loyal, Helpful, Friendly, Courteous, Kind, Obedient, Cheerful, Thrifty, Brave, Clean, Reverent.



Lead image, Gracias de Google Images; 'Mother Nature' tree image, Muchismas Gracias de Misguided Designs; Hoodoo Gurus 'Little Drummer Boy' video, Gracias de You Tube; Feliz Navidad y Prospero Ano!!!