That Sinking Feeling

Ya know, I’ve been stalling on writing this particular blog for awhile. It’s not every day that you have your right leg removed and I thought the occasion should warrant some extra *something*. But really, I got nothin’. It’s been a long two year fight getting the Powers That Be to come over to the winning side and agree that the rest of me was much better off without a certain unspeakable appendage. The last two weeks in the hospital, because I apparently needed to be ill enough from it to fight for my life, has been something I dont ever want to replicate. But it is done. Finally.

Lots of people are asking me if it’s sunk in yet. It sank in 10 years ago when my podiatrist told me that once a diabetic loses a toe the inevitable stop point was a BK (below knee) amputation. I’ve been preparing for it ever since. Hell, I’ve been lobbying for it over the last 18 months as the artist formerly known as my right foot became less and less functional; more a source for pain, clumsiness and ad nauseal doctor appointments than anything that served a purpose to me. The clincher was a month and a half ago when my orthopedic/prosthetic guy fitted me with a Gump-style brace that looked to the casual observer like an actual post-op prosthetic and forced me to walk straight again for the first time in years. It was a taste of bliss to be able to walk with confidence again, and I just knew that an actual, fully functioning foot and ankle were going to be my only future solution, whether I was born with it or not. A chance encounter with a guy looking for beer money because he was a gimp turned into a 15 minute long chat, complete with step by step visual aids on what I could expect over the next 6 months and how much easier everything is now.
By the time I leaned over to my buddy in my backyard, shivering with a 103˚ in sweat clothes during an 80˚ day and asked if he’d mind dropping me by E.R., it was all over but the nonstop fever followed by 4 straight days of hourly vomiting. I was done. Ready, willing and able to get on with it.

Tomorrow is my expected release date. Apparently a bevy of elves has been hard at work at my house, cleaning it from top to bottom, rearranging things and installing gimp stuff. I dont think I will ever be able to wrap my head around just how much I am loved or by how many. The leg, no problem. Comprehending the love people closest to me (with a radius of 50, it seems) express towards me – that’s too much.
Right this minute my idea of bliss involves a freshly lit cigar on my back deck, throwing Jake the Ball and my girl by my side, laughing our asses off. Come to think of it, not much has changed at all. Has it sunk in? Just fine, thanks.

Poker Face Gone Fishin’

This morning I was staring at the very top of my wish list. The October 3 House of Blues New Orleans tour date for my currently favorite band in the world, The Dead Weather.

The ‘Buy Tickets’ button mocked me.

I clicked it with the expectation that such a cool gig could not possibly be anything but sold out.
I was wrong.

I checked my calendar with the surety that Shannon would have the kids that weekend.
Wrong again.

I clicked on the Raiders schedule, positive that I should have $100 50yd line tickets frowning at the idea of being hocked.
They’re in Houston that day.

I called my friend at American Airlines, confident that asking for weekend tickets a month away would be the deal breaker.
$260 round trip.

Clearly these were all signs from God that I should see the greatest band on the planet in a very hip club in the sexiest city in America. Yes to those club tix!
Yes to airfare! And suddenly i was giddy like a schoolgirl with front row Jonas Bros back stage passes. It was a strange and liberating thing to be that goddamn happy about something so… cool!
The only thing that made it even better was the slowly raising curtain on my girl’s face as she stared at the ticket on my lap top, rolling through a cliff notes version of the same hope, suspicion, validation and elation I’d spent the last 3 hours Sherping ahead of her, automatically ten times better because I get to share my adventure with my best friend and partner in crime. Now our date with The Dead Weather only accounts for 3 hours of our Friday through Monday window of hedonistic possibilities, but I think we’ll figure something out.

Because God said so.

http://www.houseofblues.com/tickets/eventdetail.php?eventid=59074

*sigh*

Do You Believe in Miracles? (You Sexy Thang!)

I dont. But then I dont believe in a religious or deital God. My experience with prayer is that when I call something into my conscious mind I become suddenly aware of those things I’m seeking, which were likely all around me the entire time, though I was blind to them. I chuckle at meetings when people say ‘God’s testing me’. Really? You mean you werent already lustful and greedy? God’s flinging temptation upon you? …or was it that you were busy in a 6th step and asking for help with something and now aware in a way you hadnt ever been of just what a lustful, greedy pig you actually are!
Even my one true pearl of an example of a real miracle seems to bear this out for me much more so than the idea of an Omnipotent Father; I was sitting in my bath tub struggling to breathe from pneumonia with the shower running over my head. At the time I was a 2 pack a day guy and had been for 25 years. From my shower I could see the tv in my bedroom and on it was a particular ad campaign being run on endless loop about 8 years back. In it a guy says “I cant get outta bed without a smoke!” then it cuts to a guy laying in bed, covered in sweat, saying “I cant get out of bed”. Cut to some sassy girl, “I tried to quit once and I put on 10 lbs!” fading to another, very gaunt woman with a wrap around her head, “I’ve lost 25 lbs so far”. Now I’d seen that ad a hundred times. It didnt mean squat to me. But right then I felt the full weight of it to my toes. I raised my hands over my head, palms up, lowered my head and said, quietly “God take it.”
And it was gone.
No withdrawal, no craving, no mood swings. And not another cigarette since. I hang out with smokers and neither crave them nor am pious or born again about their smoking. I have sweet freedom. Others would call this a miracle. What I call it is one of two times in my life that I was ever perfectly humble. Now it only lasted a few minutes and I was lucky enough to have prayed during that brief window. What I received was the miracle of lack of ego; for that small stretch of time I had a clear awareness of who I was in relation to you, the rest of the world and the flow of the universe.
I recovered quickly from that precarious state to my regularly scheduled slightly-better-than-slightly-less-than you comfort zone. But I took with it an ability I hadnt had 15 minutes before.

I can not solve my problems with the same level of consciousness I had when i created them. -A. Einstein

Prayer and meditation is the only way i know to raise my consciousness. Knowledge raises my thinking or contemplation. Prayer raises my Energy.

But that’s just me. Your mileage may vary.

13th Stepping for Jesus

I’m Neil and I’m a seducer. (Hi Neil) Seduction though, for me doesnt have to have anything to do with sex. I seduce almost habitually and have rarely followed through with sleeping with any of my, um… victims. Does that make me a tease? No. It’s not my focus. Seduction is an incredibly subtle dance, one that I often have an advantage in because it’s usually a woman’s realm. They dont see it coming. My father was an absolute master at this. He always ended up with two scoops of ice cream on his pie. Women adored him. Because he made others around him feel good about themselves. There was often a gentle sexual aspect to his play, though it was barely perceptible and always deniable. Believe me, I took notes, though I doubt I will ever achieve his innate skill. He could just as easily drop a seemingly innocuous comment into the middle of a room then sit back and watch the fur fly an hour later with no one knowing who’d started the ruckus in the first place. All the while his horns cleverly disguised as a smirk on his face.
I cant fairly speak to pops’ motives for doing this. I can say that for myself seduction is often for control. If I can seduce you, I have security.  When I was young I stumbled on to it as a compliment to my first defense mechanism; quiet aloofness. I grew up enjoying the company of women. In fact I was perfectly comfortable in their presence – unless I was attracted to them. Then I was a mum fool.

I once had a friend, Monika, who sat me down one day and explained to me (after swearing me to silence because she’d be struck dead by the XX Godesses for betraying their secrets) how things really worked. I still thank her to this day. Oh did I have fun, the more I practiced and explored this certain charm. I also hurt quite a few people in my eager ignorance as well as having had it blow up in my face. (Hello, crazygirlrestrainingorders!) I started getting laid quite a bit, much to my astonishment, but it was much like climbing on a motorcycle with no training (or so I hear. *cough*). Slowly I began to realize that seduction when applied to other aspects of my life other than sex was quite comforting. It gave me a certain power over you that in my mind, made me safe from you. It also usually made me feel superior. If I could seduce you then I ever so slowly started to lose respect for you. It became a self serving and alternately self defeating weapon that kept me just as alone in my mind as I was when I was 15. Redoubling my efforts I came to a point of one’s too many and a thousand’s never enough. I couldnt achieve any sense of validation from it anymore.

The turning point for me came when I’d had a nervous breakdown as an extension of this same mindset. Because I had no real sense of Humility regarding this skill, nor a belief in the idea that I had value without seducing, when the girl of my dreams walked out on me my house of cards collapsed into a pile of rage, grovelling and depression. I decided that whatever happened I couldnt live like this one more day. I found a therapist, female of course, and promised myself that even if I seduced her, meaning bringing her over to the winning side, that I would continue to be completely honest with her and follow through on her direction. The first time I made her cry tears of empathy I knew I had a choice to make and I chose to stay. I never stay. Loyal to my suffering all those years, abandonment was a hell I knew and worked hard to achieve. The hell I know is better than the one I dont. Making a choice to stay – and respect this woman, became an incredible turning point in my life’s arc. She ended up helping me turn a defect into an asset by installing Humility into it. She helped me see that I am not separate from you, that we are all one in the same, no greater or less than. It was then that i finally saw the power in my father’s charm. He used seduction to connect with those around him, and from the smile that was usually on his face I realized that he allowed himself to be charmed right back, to be a part of it – not apart of it. My girl is forever amused by this. She was my best friend for 20 years before we added ‘lovers’ to our resume’. She’s had a ringside seat for the best and worst of me. There was no seducing her. There was no need. Love comes from an entirely different place than seduction. Though it can often be the match for the fuel.

The thing that’s changed as I’ve gotten older and more comfortable within myself is that I use that gift for the forces of good, offering up a psychic half hit of X and leaving you feeling open, comfortable, slightly vulnerable, intrigued and vaguely aroused, or not. It isnt the point anymore. What’s important is to be one among. Something I’ve always craved and dared not wish for.  I get that now simply by giving. Often now that includes a vaguely warm, safe feeling, though you just cant – quite – put your finger on what it is that makes you want to give me a second scoop.

Do Ya Wanna Party? (Its Party Time!)

…it was 1985 and I was sober but still running drugs from the Mexican border. The DEA was getting on main safe house in the Mojave Desert a little too frequently, so I decided to lay my hat up north and just make the runs when called.  An acquaintance of mine in San Jose had a two bedroom cottage,  in back of a larger place,  downtown that he needed to fill the extra slot in.  The rent was cheap, the neighborhood was crazy; lotsa big Mexican families laughing and yelling at all hours, sirens and the weekly sealing off of entire blocks while the city cops looked for gang crime suspects, and the occasional synchopatic ‘Bap, bap, bap,’ of semi automatic recoil in the distance made the whole vibe seem just about par.

The house was built around the turn of the century and had been in Ross’ Italian family since then.  It was small with modestly ornate trim inside and out, and a cool four-foot porch leading to the front door.  I took it.

Things were laid back there for a person of my ilk back then; Ross was a punkrock skinhead, who brought all kinds of colorful characters around, and the tunes were usually blaring along with the neighbors’.  We threw a  housewarming  party and one of the fliers made its way to the local college radio station where it received heavy rotation just before the party.  Three to four hundred people showed up and enjoyed the live sounds of a surf-punk band that set up in the living room.  At some point, shots were fired and everyone dropped to the ground-except the band, who didn’t miss a beat.  It was like a scene from ‘Dusk Till Dawn’, as my meth running partner jumped the guy with the gun, beat him and went off running down the street throwing knives at the shooters’ buddies, three paddy wagons pull up…and the band played on.  Two days later my Bro turns up again with my 1960 Cadillac like there’s nothing wrong with that.  It was the best of times.

One night, about two weeks after I moved in, I was enjoying a little peace and quiet in the house when I heard the sounds of two people’s feet crunching gravel as they walked up the driveway.  I assumed it was Cholo and Elrod, the two skinheads that were staying with us.  Around dusk, everyone at the house would gather on the porch to watch as these two boxed (until  someone got knocked out, usually Elrod) over who got to sleep on the couch that night.  But then, the footsteps were quiet as I saw two silhouettes through my sheer curtains ascend the wooden steps, the screen door open and slam on the springed hinge, and curiously, the door never opening.  I opened the curtains to nothing.  No one was there. It was entirely weird ‘cuz I knew I wasn’t imagining that.

So, I asked Ross about it the next day, and he gave me a wry smile and said, “I see you’ve met the roommates.”  He told me that they were his Great-Grandparents, who originally built the house, and that apparently they liked me.

The next few months were filled with trippy, but benign things like bathroom doors opening while you were showering, dishes suddenly changing from one table to another and the radio occasionally changing stations.  It became completely normal and I actually welcomed their presence.  Once in a while, either Ross or I would bring a girl home that they didn’t approve of and they would rattle their cages.  Usually rolling the toilet paper while they were in the bathroom or catching a quick reflection in the mirror…always in the bathroom, for some reason…and the chick would freak and never come back!  It was pretty funny since we were in on the whole thing, but it was never scary shit.

Then Ross developed a new passion for ‘Death Rock’.  Misfits, 45 Grave and bands like that.  Ironically it was around October.  He started partying in graveyards and doing charcoal etchings of the older and more elaborate headstones of one of the cemeteries, which he proceeded to wallpaper his bedroom with.

Then came the dead roses off the fresh graves…and with them several uninvited guests.

Suddenly things are not chilled on 10th street.  On a daily basis doors start slamming, dishes are flying into walls.  There’s stomping going on in the attic, cold spots in the house.  I remember once, I was talking to some girl in the living room and through my doorway, I watched as the entire contents of the top shelf of my bookcase (about ten feet up) slowly slid forward off the shelf, hovered a foot away, then dropped to the floor.  The insanity was so pervasive  that I didn’t bat an eye.  I just turned a little while we talked so she wouldn’t see the show.

The final straw came late one night as I rolled the Caddy up the long dark gravel driveway and noticed that all the lights were on in the house.  Then as I came to a stop, I noticed the curtains fluttering out with the sills still closed.  Then, as I idled, I noticed all the furniture from the living room in a pile in front of the house, broken to pieces. As I sat assessing options and casually reaching for the .45 under the seat, out comes Ross onto the porch, with an end table over head which he throws out onto the pile, paces back an forth on the porch like a pissed off caged lion, grabs a pillar with both hands and proceeds to slam his head forcefully into it until the house lights illuminate rivulets of blood flying off his head like liquid silly string.  Once he was done showing the pillar who was boss, he staggered over to the corner of the porch and slumped into a ball.

After weighing my options for a minute, I killed the engine and walked up the steps.  As I crouched down and touched Ross’ shoulder, he looked up at me exactly like Pink did when Little Pink approached him in the psych ward in The Wall.  That same vacant and elated look of desperation.  I walked him into the house, brightly lit and completely destroyed, except for any item that belonged to me, which remained untouched.  I sat Ross down and picked up the shattered remains of a phone and tried to dial a number to no avail.  I finally convinced him to go with me to his parents.  When we got there, he picked his lumberjack of a father up off the ground, and yes, his feet were off the ground, and it wasn’t until I physically got between them that he dropped him.  Off to the psych ward we go, where he’s put on a 72, and in the interim, I phone up an old friend who is an old school, fresh-off-the-boat, polish psychic.  She came within ten feet of the house and refused to step foot inside.  The next day, Ross’ mom brought him home, walked around the house and said, “What have you done?  There are at least eight unwelcome spirits here besides your Great-Grandparents, and they’re very pissed off!”  Ross’ mom was a sensitive and practiced the occult versions of the Catholic Church.  She said that Ross had been possessed and we needed to perform a ‘White Mass’ on the house.  I let Ross spend the next couple of days putting the place back together, then we sat down in the living room to talk.  We discussed the ritual required and he filled me in on what had happened; that he had brought several souls home with him with his stealing of the flowers and that they were pretty pissed off and fighting with the grandparents.  He had to perform the ritual to clear the house.  When we both said yes, it’s gotta get done, everything on all four walls in his room came straight down and his closet imploded.  The front door slammed shut and we looked at each other with an “Oh shit!” look.  Then things got interesting.

We went down to the Santa Barbara Candle Shop and in a separate back room were all the actual powders, oils, spells and tokens needed for Catholic Occultism.  San Jose has a huge Mexican population and it never occurred to me how organized this aspect of their culture was.  We picked up peace powder, candles smudge sticks and palm shoots to make crosses to place on every window and door in the house, and headed back.  It was a grey afternoon which added to the ominous vibe of the whole thing.  We taped the crosses to all the openings, mixed some concoction in the bathtub and started washing down the house with it.  ( I made Ross do most of it since it was his mess!) and escorted him to the side yard where we burned all the etchings and flowers in a BBQ.  We went back to the house, which had shit flying all over the place, and got back to cleaning.   The air was just thick, I mean like heavy.  It was an odd feeling, almost like being under water, but not like an anxiety attack, it was much more nebulous.  Cabinets were opening and slamming, things rattling, and you had the constant feeling that people were brushing up against you.  Around dusk, I took a break and went out on the porch and the front door slammed shut and bolted behind me in unison with my pace out.  Then, as I sat out on the stoop smoking a cigarette, around the corner in the darkened yard came a growling noise and the sound of what I’d describe as someone hanging from the gutter and pulling themselves up and down dragging steel toed boots over the wood slats of the wall.  I was so unfazed by anything at this point, that I just casually looked over at the black entrance, took a drag off my cigarette, and grinned as I thought, ” No fucking way you could pay me to check that out.”

The washing and burnings and prayers went on for hours, and we called it a ball game around  1 am and although the crazy shit seemed to abate the later it got, we’d seen that before.  We each stayed elsewhere that night and came back the next day.  It was amazing.  You could breathe.  The entire house seemed lighter in a way you can’t touch, but you know is there.

Ross swore off death rock and confined his partying to the living room from then on, and we lived with the occasional dish rattle and frightened girl in relative harmony.

Sadly, this isnt fiction. It’s all true and annoyingly interferes with my surity that reincarnation and afterlives are all fear-based ego driven crap. Dammit!

White Trash Wedding Rings

Saturday was a fabulous dichotomy of lazy purpose and course corrections. Shannon and I started out with the expectation that since the foot had tanked we’d be pretty much doing nothing and liking whether we liked it or not. We decided to have brunch at Hobee’s outside and our good friend Mike joined us which turned into an extra hour of smoking fine cigars under shady trees and sipping iced tea.
The foot said we could probably manage checking out SNL’s picnic at Kelly park. Thank god the entire thing was enclosed in still more shade trees and we had the pleasure of reconnecting with a couple of folks we hadnt seen in quite a long time.
Next up, over the hill. I justified this to the foot by saying we’d just go, take it easy and enjoy my roommate’s Tower of Power-style band with full horn section on the Esplinade in Capitola – maybe have a nice dinner on the water, but I promised that I wouldnt inconvenience it in any way.
It was a good plan till, in a rare moment of poor impulse control, er, an epiphany, I was suddenly struck with a vision as we crested the summit. Tattoos. We *needed* tattoos! A cherub done old school with ‘Clarence & ‘Bama’ emplazoned in scrollwork. On our pelvises. Yes, yes, I know… but it was A Vision! Quick detour to Staircase. So what does our artiste’, Tim have playing on DVD in his studio? True Romance. No joke.
Two hours later we arrived in Capitola riding an endorphin high just in time to catch Steve’s last two songs. Afterwards we met when of his special education students, a kid of about 8 who has CF and was bundled up in his wheel chair. The unbridled, blissful exuberance in this boy as he relished in Steve’s performance reminded me immediately of how much I’ve forgotten about living in the moment. For all the serendipitous events of the day, this was by far the richest. The kid personified the Joy of Living.
The foot insisted we eat and so we strolled, leisurely along the Esplinade till we found a nice restaurant on the water where we snitched off each other’s potato encrusted halibut and steak with gorganzola pasta. Then up the stairs *slowly* to Mister Toots for a couple of lattes to soak in everything we’d done, saw and shared in that lazy, eventful, hysterically fluid day.
The foot dared me on however! We had tickets awaiting us at the Catalyst for BassNectar and I decided we needed to soak some of that hippy, deep house, dirty, grinding bass work into our tattoos. BassNectar is the perfect Shamanic salve for fresh pelvic ink as it turns out. From up on the 2nd tier much of the subwoofer creates a vibration that physically vibrates that..um, chakra. Who knew!
By 12:30 we were spent, wrecked and blissed out and ready for bed, only to get re-excited about the brand new bed and headboard that were headed our way the next morning. Christenings to follow. Film at 11.
I cant recall such a full, rich lazy day and I have poor impulse control to thank for it. Or is that just living in the moment. I have that silly redhead with the mad twinkle and a little boy seemingly confined by his circumstances to remind me once again amazing things cant happen if I dont just show up and take a chance.
Carpe diem, motherfucker!

God as I (dont) Understand Him

Over the last 26 years, trying on many spiritual hats I more come to believe that the quote aughta read as i dont understand Him.

I was raised by parents of opposite faiths, neither practicing, who’d decided that i should find my own path and so, didnt impress one opinion or another on me unless i asked.

I got sober in Santa Cruz, California in the early 80’s. The New Age capital of the free world. Rehab flooded me with a great deal of eastern and western religious and philosophical directions to explore. I found much of it interesting, though much more from a sociological perspective. And besides, I was watching how many of the practitioners of these esoteric schools of thought were conducting themselves. You could prop up all the crystals, meditations, robes and incense you wanted but too many were still trying to get status, laid and rich. Still, there was a certain… something that i couldnt quite define that kept me open to what might be.

AA meetings were a curious mix of western/christian-influenced buzz phrases and prayers but somehow it never really bothered me. I sorta looked at people who’d freak the fuck out on their presence, particularly the Our Father at the end of the meetings as having a giant chip on their shoulder since they were choosing to ignore the request preceding the prayer, “for those who wish to join us…”. To this day I usually just chime in after they start off the ‘Our Father, who art in heaven’ bit. It just doesnt suit me but I see no reason to shout what does suit me over everyone elses version.

What i did eventually key into was the writings of Emmet Fox. Initially his Sermon on the Mount, which served as the text for many AA groups before the Big Book was written and a very popular reading within the Oxford Movement. It’s basic spin was metaphysical christianity. Fox looked at the bible as a book of metaphors and psychology, not of history. This appealed to me greatly. It also took the principles I’d been studying in AA and took them to a much higher level. Fox dealt in absolutes. I knew that I’d never be able to live up to the ideals that Fox espoused but I treated it as if I had a ball in my hand and threw it across the yard. Sure I’d hit the fence, no big deal. But if I take that same ball and aim for the mountains in the horizon, it’ll never make it that far but just look at how far it DID go just by trying! This school of thought worked great for me for several years, culminating with a workshop done at my home by an elder statesman in AA. He was close to 80 at the time, with 50 years sober and actually studied under Fox in the 1940’s. It was an incredible time. That said, there were things about the teachings that just didnt sit well with me. Reincarnation for one. I just couldnt buy into the premise. To me it seemed (and still does) an outcropping of man’s incredible narcissism. But i wasnt willing to reject the whole teaching for my misgivings about one aspect of them.

Then I had a stroke.
It sucked all connection to God right out of me.
And it broke my heart. The book talks in We Agnostics about the tragedy of the man who had once had faith and lost it. That was me. There was nothing worse than knowing that I had once had a great connection to God and now the line was dead. Not even a busy signal. I spent the next few years sort of wandering aimlessly. Eventually I settled on a red head as my higher power. Oh, bad. She wasnt qualified for and didnt want the job. I had no idea how much I’d invested into her as the source of my peace, serenity and happiness until she walked away. In my wanderings of the latter half of the 1990s after dialing that dead phone so many times, I rejected the God concept altogether, eventually worshipping science because at least there was a tangibility there, and besides wasnt it systematically shedding light on one biblical story after another? But when she left science was cold comfort. I had nothing. And I was broken in a manner that I had never experienced in all my life.

I came to meetings, using a cane because I’d lost some 40 lbs (I weighed 150 to begin with) and sat in the front row. I listened to everyone; newcomers and old, young people and seniors, friends and adversaries, stable and insane because they all had something that I’d lost. Hope. Desperation, the essential ingredient of step one led me to to a recommitment to the steps, to the principles that guided them, that had been omnipresent in every spiritual path I’d ever explored over the years. By 2002 I’d embraced service and the 12th step as my duty, gift and blessing. No longer was it a job I was contractually obligated to. I found it to be the key turned, unlocking the Promises. Gone is my chair from the table of the debating society. I no longer care.

Through my whole sobriety there has been a passage that has always nagged at me. From the solution to fears in the fourth step in How it Works:

“we trust infinite God rather than our finite selves.”

Infinite. Meditate on ‘Infinite’. I cant do it. It makes the inside of my skull itch. Its just too fucking big. So how can my finite mind conceive of a God I can understand. It is by definition, sold short. So i quit trying. ‘My own understanding’ is that the principles are universal, throughout all religions, philosophies and premises. They are the road signs to that God that I am ill equipped to understand. What I do understand is that at any given time when I am in the moment, present, practicing Honesty, Openmindedness, Humility, Brotherly Love, Intregrity, Willingness, Courage, Justice, Empathy and so many others I sense a clarity, an almost humming in my chest, barely perceptible but undeniable. It connects me to you and all things. It is never there when I am in ego or fear but always when I am present in a principle. I need no other proof or understanding. God is in the practicing of these road signs right this minute.

(Mar. 19, 2009

Our Boy, Jake

This weekend Shannon and I took our first shared plunge together in domestic commitment and chose a new member of the family. After much interviewing back and forth for months we set our sights on a sweet 4yo Lab-Pittie mix named Jake. After extended interviews with his adoptive family who were having to move from big acreage in Santa Cruz to an apartment and couldnt bear to keep him cooped up we decided to meet Jake yesterday. He and his family came over and everyone sniffed butts with really positive results. He’s absolutely gorgeous with a brown brindle undercoating his Labbie black. My roommate has a 10yo Lab/Ridgeback mix named Brenda and she and Jake immediately started frolicking like old friends. Jake is sure he’s a 70lb lap dog and worships The Ball. He was neglected and abandoned by his first owner and so he has some separation anxiety but no problemo. We’re all very excited to have him as a member of the Gangster Boyscout – Shanwafair brood!

Pinch Me – I’m Dead

I just bought Dead tickets!!! It’s like Christmas morning, 7 years old and Santa brought me the Big Wheel I never got. I actually sort of surprised myself at just how giddy I got when my purchase went through this morning. My first show was the New Years set in Oakland 1980/81 and I have no idea how many times I’ve seen them till my last show in 1994 when I walked away because the vibe had turned decidedly tweaker around the ol’ Deadhead campfire.
Then Jerry died. Life showed up and I got busy with it and put my hippie soul up on a shelf, though it quite often leaked out in other ways. In 2005 I went to Burning Man for the first time and was overwhelmed by a feeling I thought I’d written an epitaph for a decade earlier, only it wasnt the Dead, there wasnt patchouli, and the drugs were much more sophisticated. But hey, no one bathed so there was that and there was this sense of community, love and anything-possible that stirred me alive again. It’s had me chasing down Burner events since, looking forward to soaking up more of that spirit.
The last 18 months have truly been a long, strange trip and now I almost have to chuckle at the irony of the steal your face logo with it’s bolted skull. Being present has more meaning now than maybe any other time in my life. Burning Man re-aquainted me with that ideal and with my myriad body betrayals of late it takes on a decidedly crisp importance. I know the Dead wont be what they were. I am not who I was. But something in the spirit of their music, in Bobby’s voice touches something in me that doesnt change, that remains pure. I see it in the faces of everyone around me too and i cant wait to celebrate it again with them.

Hate X 3

I recall watching Obama’s victory speech in Iowa and the first two things that crossed my mind were chills from the realization that I was watching the Bobby Kennedy of our time and fear for his life. The words, “my god, they’ll kill him for this” passed my lips. I’ve been bracing myself for it ever since.

Whether it’s because he’s black or because he inspires such passion in people it’s also become very apparent that he also inspires much hate. His Secret Service contingent has grown much larger, much quicker than any other candidate. When McCain looked the other way as Palin ramped up the buzz word rhetoric on her stump speeches, death threats against Obama tripled.

I speak about this occasionally with my girl, also an Obama activist, and I worry aloud because it’s the great elephant in the living room (or at least a political mascot with a scoped rifle) and I’m classic for pointing out such things.

This guy is our absolute best hope at getting America back on track. The rest of the world is aching to believe in us again. And here at home people want to silence him. For what? For daring to be black and powerful? For inspiring us to try to rise above our red/blue stalemate? To believe in the Hope of America again? It makes the inside of my skull ache to grasp the fucking backward, mouth breathing ignorance that inspires the following article. It makes me want to scream at the utter stupidity of our species and wonder how we’ve managed to not kill ourselves off already. And then I remember the dancing in the streets across the world November 4th and the electric bliss in that park in Chicago and i dare to hope that maybe, just maybe we could dare the tipping point away from the precipice.

Maybe.
A semi-comprehensive article listing hate crimes and threats against Obama’s life leading up to the election:
www.huffingtonpost.com/greg-m…61.html

44 and Pulling Narcissus from the Mirror

Watching Obama give his acceptance speech last night i was awash in the enormity of what was happening. I wept, happily for the candidate that I’ve been rallying for through endless blogs, frank discussions with friends and aquaintances, especially when they disagreed. Vigilantly guarding my Obama ‘o8 lawn sign, donations to the campaign, donning my Obama shirt at inappropriate places and teaching people how to be a part of our elective process regardless of their voting inclinations, all come to fruition. It felt amazing to have been in it instead of warily bemused as I cast my ballot for once.

I love America. I always have, though I have often been aghast at some of our choices and behaviors. I’ve often scratched my head at the rediculousness that says to Love my country is to blindly follow its policies without question. In my mind to Love something is to care enough to also challenge it to greater heights and call bullshit, yet stand with while doing so. Abbey’s edict, “A patriot must always be ready to defend his country against his government.” has always rung absolutely true in my soul. That questioning those I’ve entrusted to be my voice is the epitome of patriotism. In fact it is my obligation to keep them on their toes.

So when I watch Mr. Obama give his acceptance speech and I’m filled with inspiration and Hope at what might be, my tears are as much for the rest of the world as they are for we as a nation or for my black neighbors, friends and coworkers. Over the last couple of days I’ve found myself eavesdropping on dozens of conversations in restaurants, in line at a store, wherever, all abuzz about the prospect of an Obama presidency. And what the chatter was about is what makes me giddy. While I was watching that speech last night the scenes that made me weep tears of joy, and relief, and pride, and communion was the exuberant reactions of crowds in the streets and pubs in London, Madrid, and Hong Kong. It was as if the world was as relieved as i was that maybe now America was going to be a neighbor it could work together with again after so much hubris and myopia over the last several years.

What I’ve seen in the wake of the economic meltdown of the last two months wasnt so much an indictment of Trickle Down and deregulation (okay, yes it was) but more so a loud, screeching wake up call for us to see clearly just how interconnected all of us are; coworkers, neighbors, states and countries. When those lending institutions buckled under the weight of unfettered greed and selfishness it didnt just effect an easy to blame, faceless Wall Street. We all watched as the world’s economies got knocked to their knees. The chatter around me that I’m excited about was of Americans talking of issues and circumstances outside of Us and pondering what we can do to make it right, to fix it, to move forward.

In this respect i am so grateful that we’ve chosen a pragmatist who knows something of the world. That has lived in poverty and risen past it’s empty consciousness and realizes very tangibly that he didnt do it alone. That we must work together as a world community to rise above the challenges that are not respectors of Nationalism or colors. Economy and climate are equal opportunity apocalypses in the making. Or like for our grand parents, challenges to be overcome.

Churchill wrote that Americans will always do the right thing – after they’ve exhausted all other options. I think we’re all pretty exhausted. Fired up and ready to go.

That’s Hope I can believe in.

(Nov. 5, 2009)

Why Some Black Guy’s Name is in My Yard 101

I’m a tactically registered republican though socially and politically I vote by issue, not party and am as apt to take a liberal as conservative stance depending on the small print on an issue. I registered (R) mostly because the far right scares me a lot more than the far left and it’s important for me to be able to vote for the more moderate republican in the primaries.

Through the early election season after McCain was clearly the presumptive nominee I told my girl that if Obama won the other nomination it was win/win for me and i could practically close my eyes and poke a hole in either slot on election day. I have a deep distrust of the clintons, they’ve shown me over the last years that they’re very passionate about themselves and that’s about it. Obama appeals to both the very loud pragmatist in me and amazingly even dares my quiet, battle worn, prozac needing idealist to finally raise up again and kick the shit out of the cynic that’s been sitting on his chest for decades.
My girl’s response has been to fill me in on McCain’s real voting record, especially since losing the primary in 2000 to Dubya. I’ve been a big fan of Mac for many years but I’ll be damned if he remotely looks like the guy who’s books I read in the 90’s. His increasing erratic and impulsive, reactionary behavior on the campain trail, to me, speaks to some personal instability that I dont want dealing with foreign governments.

Finally, my choice in Obama over McCain is about their choices in veeps. I cant recall an election when a veep pick was more critical. Each one of these men stands an incredibly high probability of dying in office; mccain at 72 is the oldest man to ever seek office, with two rounds of melanoma under his belt. (the fastest moving of all cancers) And Obama of course because he’s black and instills a robert kennedy-sized crosshair on his back. These undeniabilities make me look much longer at their number twos. And that’s where the choice becomes much starker. In biden I find a windbag, yes but also a stable, capable steward who would likely manage the country’s affairs here and abroad in a way that would still allow me to lay my head on my pillow at night without an anxiety attack. Mrs. Palin? Watch the most recent interview with katie kouric and while you’re listening to her, know that she speaks in tongues, charged women for the cost of post-rape kits while mayor of wisilla, doesnt believe in a woman’s right to choose under any circumstances (with as many as 3 positions opening up in the supreme court in the next presidential cycle), rejects global warming, believes the iraq war was sent to us from god, and most frightening of all – believes in the rapture. en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rapture

Oh hell no.

But hey, that’s just me.

Shaking My Own Hand

Tonight I stared myself in the face and shook my boy’s hand – entirely by accident.
I was adopted and grew up tripping at the idea of no one looking like me with a quiet and unsettling knowing that someone looked like me.
That itch got scratched 15 years ago when I tracked down my birth mother. After a happy reunion and 3 years of magical connection it all went bad and i found myself pretty grateful that my upbringing was the only thing standing between me and my criminal genetics. End of story, book shut.
Until tonight when I bumped into an old drama from 16 years ago wherein a girl turned up pregnant and no one was sure whether it was mine or her husband’s. He slapped down any suggestion that it was anyone’s other than his and frankly, given the times, so be it.
16 years later I crossed paths with that man again and it was all water under the bridge. He introduced me to his son. I looked at him. I looked at his father. I saw a whole bunch of his mom in him. Then I saw a whole lotta nadda of his dad.

Then I noticed the eyes.
And the dark curly hair.
And that square head.
And when i shook his hand goodbye
I realized it fit perfectly in mine,
as if i were shaking my own.

The wheels slowly started to turn and I put pieces into place and it wasnt till the ride home that it really sunk in. That was my boy.
Though i am not his father. That man, looking nothing like him stood beside him tonight. I have no intention of reigniting that fire. It nearly got us both killed a long time ago.
It sure stirred up a cauldron in me though. Regret, relief, longing, pride, sadness and a long dormant ache. One that I get to live with because to scratch it means to do it at everyone else’s expense.
First do no harm.

I’ll happily cheer from a distance for the connection clearly evident between you and your dad. I know him and know he’s raised you well.

Enjoy the ride, my boy.

Decadence, Elegance and Resurrection

I cant begin to describe how in love I am with New Orleans. I’ve often said that I’ve traveled all over the states and many places had their charms but I’d trade none of it for my bay area. I found the exception off the bayou. New Orleans touches something in me that I havent found a voice for yet but I fully intend to visit and revisit till the words come.

Hidden within it’s dense, humid evening air is 400 years of secrets, legends, music, sex, cuisine, corruption, culture and beauty that insists upon slowing down and breathing deeply in every decadent, elegant piece. It becomes a part of you. If not for the complicated obligations holding me here I’d trade this place in for a first floor shop and upstairs apartment on Royal street in a second.

I am taken with the sense of family that permeates each subculture I passed through there. Everyone is somehow interconnected. It was almost as if I hadnt known I was holding my breath when confronted with NOLA’s playful, gregarious, baudy warmth. Sitting outside our hotel the first night three old women stepped out to hail a cab from the 50th anniversary party they’d been attending. They chatted as if they knew us about how nice it was to see the judges again and chuckled wistfully that they’d all outlived their husbands, dubbing themselves the First Widows’ Club. As one passed me to sit on a marble landing I told her to hang on. She set her hand on my thigh, looked me in the eye with a twinkle and this elderly woman of old Nawlins money said in a purposely lusty voice, “You said hold on” to bursts of cackles amongst them.
Later in the week we were sitting in a seedy bar having amazing red beans, rice and andoulie sausage when the bartender suddenly bolted out the door shouting after someone. She brought him back in, slapped him and gave him the business about slipping out the back on his tab a few nights back. He sheepishly paid up as she waved him off, saying not to do it again. She came right over to ask how we were as if we were regulars. This sort of casual, sensual familiarity played out over and over during our stay. It called to me all week long. It truly is the Big Easy and even as it still tries to find its footing post Katrina, (the upper and lower 9th wards made me cry in their ever-present X marked shacks acknowledging searches and bodies like so many poor man’s makeshift crypts) it is a stunning city in all it’s forms. Wherever we went we were welcomed warmly. people thanked us for coming and pleaded for us to let people know that Nawlins had survived. Indeed only half of it’s original 600,000 inhabitants ever came back. Only 1 in 10 remain in the 9th ward where people were handed down shotgun shacks and row houses generationally and had no insurance.

NOLA is San Francisco’s sensual, traveled great aunt, chuckling sweetly at it’s angst-fueled reinvention of the sexual wheel. Patting it’s chilly, damp, activist, no left turn allowing kin on the knee she proffers assuredly, “Oh honey, you just go have fun!” with the wink of a worldly retired whore. I cant wait to know her biblically again.

Ding! Dong! The Witch is Dead!

Yes, I know it’s childish. Aint it great? Fuck you Hillary, and your little dog (er, husband) too.

I was hesitant to post this for fear that it would cue Hillary grabbing Obama’s ankle and dragging him down after he’s killed her 5 times already, ala Jason. Apparently though it appears the Congressional townsfolk have lit the torches and glommed their pitchforks. Enough’s enough.

The real horror for me through this whole primary has been the specter of sexism. It was pointed out to me awhile back that slaves technically got the right to vote 60 years before women in this country. (though Jim Crow shut that down) That comment, watching Hillary wield the charge of sexism as a weapon and using it to court favor in a blink got me thinking. I watch my boss, a 60yo white woman who runs a company, a fervent 2nd wave feminist (thanks Shannon) turn on the southern charm at will, bust balls in boardrooms and reflexively (and angrily) take the politically accepted feminist stance on everything, come hell or high water. She, like Hillary seems almost cartoonish to me in her rage and manipulativeness.
Now being ‘white guy’ I am absolutely positive that I am blind to and propagate sexist behavior all the time. Sexism has been brought front and center at the national watercooler. I see it more than I used to and it also makes me aware that it isnt even close to striking a socially conscious nerve in our society yet as other civil rights groups have done.
The 3rd wavers I know seem to have tossed the ‘Woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle’ mantra. They’re mellower. As Obama and all of us who support him see the world a little less color-focused, 3rd wave feminists seem to have reclaimed some classic femininity and owned it as a choice, not a duty hoisted upon them while still working towards raising awarenesses and breaking ceilings. Hillary is to feminism what Rev. Wright was to race relations; as Obama pointed out in his amazing speech on race a couple of months ago www.youtube.com/watch they see the injustice. They fight against it. But they can not envision a society without it. At some point that makes them a liability to their own cause. Einstein said “I can not solve my problems with the same level of thinking I had when I created them”. Hillary and my boss exemplify the old way to me. Like Rev. Wright, they both still fight the battles of the 60’s using activism tactics from the 70’s.
The horror for me though has been in listening to and watching Hillary supporters reactionary vitriol. They have seemed hell bent on backing Mrs. Clinton as a messiah in spite of the facts: She parses and sidesteps as good as Bill and refuses culpability as bluntly as Dubya. The Clinton’s are as insular and paranoid as the current administration and with the upcoming landslide in congressional seats would’ve created similar disasters inherent with a dynasty with no checks and balances. It has boggled my mind that they can not see how deadly this combination of traits; her ease with lying, inability to admit she’s erred, and paranoid us v. them mentality would’ve only continued to harm our national psyche. Consequences be damned – she’s our girl!
No better than the jury in the O.J. trial.

The only way i see us not ready for a woman as president is that no 3rd waver has made it to a place of political prominence yet. I just bet President Obama helps pave that way and I cant wait to vote for her 8 years from now.

State of the Gangster Nation

Bitch and Ye Shall Receive.
Or so it seemed yesterday when I walked into my bosses office after being out on disability since december and collecting 2/3 a paycheck for way too long. 30 minutes later I walked out with a 10% raise, a new zippy Mac laptop loaded with Adobe’s latest graphics programs, a flex schedule with a minimum of 3 days a week working from home and a strong potential for salary in a month.
Today my doc okayed me for precisely that job description and I should be rolling back in after the 3 day weekend the federal government tends to throw me for my birthday every year.
Not that I’m outta the woods yet. I’m still fighting the mrsa and my insurance company for the one magic pill that keeps it at bay. (@$110 a piece, twice a day) The wounds on my foot are still open and connected to a pump 20 hours a day. But hell, I may as well get paid while I’m busy being a gimp!
Oh yes and then there’s the redhead.
Have I mentioned that everything I was ever told about dating a friend ruining the friendship is officially utter bullshit? Dating my best friend has proven 16 months later to be one of the single best decisions of my life. God bless her patience with my sick, gimpy ass over the last few months but it sure has been nice to be with someone who has 20 years of reading me and knowing just how to communicate with and love me.
Trudge is defined as slow purposeful progress. My health and career footing seem to really exemplify that right now. My love life and my friendships bely that weightiness altogether. Sunday night a dozen of us crowded around the oversized picnic table in my backyard smoking cigars among other things, laughing to tears till I’m sure we annoyed the neighbors, my girl at my side. I remember just how I am blessed, truly.
Turning 44 never looked so good to me. Surrendering to a life I never thought possible was the best decision I never knew I made. Fuck the Ruby Slippers, I’ll keep rolling with the Flying Monkeys.

(May 21, 2008)

Presently Adrift

Presently adrift
anchored in this coil
barely containing the fairly bursting
cacophony of fear, loss, and sadness
grief for what hasnt yet transpired
except unleashed
with the simple words uttered
she has breast cancer.

My lovely, loyal friend
an ever present beaconed buoy
sometimes called lover,
friend, truth teller
and once, savior -
strung out and sent from God.

I wonder how I might ever
pay her back.
I know only
that I
must.

(Mar. 29, 2008)

A More Perfect Union

This morning I got to watch the most important speech of my generation. The frankest dialog on the state of race in my America that I’ve ever heard. Spoken by, of all people – a politician during a campaign. The Truth in his words brought tears to me several times. Tears I never thought I’d get to shed because no one would dare say them for everyone to hear. Tears of a hundred half finished, frustrated ideas in my own heart being spoken back to me to fruition. This was a turning point on par with remembering where I was when the Towers fell, Armstrong stepped onto the moon, and when OJ was found not guilty. It was that important and that affecting.

Please, pour a cup of coffee, get comfortable and read Barack Obama’s honesty. I promise, you havent heard Truth like this before.

Obama on Race relations in America:

(Mar. 18, 2008)

I’m Gangster Boyscout and I Approve This Message

I started out this morning looking to toss out an amusing ode to my favorite wink and a nod holiday, Steak & a Blow Job day. It’s purely tongue in cheek for me because well, let’s just say my girl is a great fan of celebrating the spirit of said holiday most any day. Feeling a bit lazy and lacking sufficient coffee-induced sarcastic wit i decided to post someone else’s bloginations on the topic. Hence, the title. The two most complete opinions I found on this man’s answer to V-Day couldnt have been more radically opposed:

Snarky Frat Boy Perspective:
“There is a longstanding mantra about the nature of dating: “Girls fake orgasms, guys fake relationships.” As awesome of a t-shirt slogan as that is, it’s not the ideal situation that anyone would like to be in. Women need Valentine’s Day to evaluate their partners. Any tool can buy a Christmas present, and put a reminder in their PDA for a birthday and anniversary. Women need a real test, that’s why they made Valentine’s Day. Men have to show that they love their women, not with one present, one meal, or one bouquet of flowers, but with a culmination of all the cliché crap they’ve learned from years of being subjected to “romantic comedies.” It’s very hard to pull off the perfect timing of dim lighting, chauffeured driving, and muff diving without some hint of true feelings. Women know this, and they expect to be swept off their feet on this annual occasion.

Now if men are going to play into this fairy tale, it’s only fair that they get some tail in return. Men may be known for faking feelings, but so are women. Men have submitted to woman’s relationship sincerity trials for centuries; now it’s time to turn the table (or get under it) and partake in man’s perennial sexual performance test. It’s pretty hard for men to analyze the forthrightness of the female orgasm due to a mix of arrogance, alcohol, and apathy. Therefore, men analyze sexual realness from the only perspective that matters: the penile one. Aside from that, we expect some dinner. It has long been stated that the way to a man’s heart is through his penis and his stomach…” www.pointsincase.com/article…_day.htm

Raging Feminazi Perspective
“Another issue with SABD is it seems to put forward the idea that the other 364 (365 if it’s a leap year) days of the year aren’t men’s days. That’s right: the facts that men make significantly more than women; that men generally don’t need to worry about being raped when walking down the street at night; that men hold the power in society, and so on, are quite plainly being overlooked. Notice my day count: I include Valentine’s Day. “But that’s bullshit! I spent so much money that day, planned weeks ahead, and was stressed out the entire time! How can that be a man’s day,” you say? Well, friend, it is a man’s day because it essentially permits you to treat your lady friend like a second-class citizen for the rest of the year in our fucked up culture. Not only that, but chances are you expected a little something in return and probably got it. In short, stop complaining, you ingrate!…” doingfeminism.wordpress.com/2008…-day/

I found myself sort of put off by either view. I didnt really want to be associated with the simplistic, dumb ass, (did your mouth fall open for extra oxygen intake when you wrote this?) perspective on women, sex and how we relate so I looked for other blogs… hoping for maybe a dry witted, playful brit angle that didnt take itself too seriously. No such luck. The Feminazi blog left me thinking of some of Hillary’s advocates and sure that medication and further therapy beyond ‘journaling’ your issues for the world to guard their testicles from was likely in order.

In the end I’m left thinking I’m a pretty lucky sumbitch – and so is she. If love is compatible neuroses I’ll take mine medium rare.

(March 14, 2008)

Moooovin’ On Up!

…tooowooo the east side!

Check us out!

Now I’m pretty sure not many of ya will give a shit about this blog unless you’re a Raiders fan… okay, a football fan …or maybe a fan of anything other than kink, politics or Burning Man. I know, it’s a tall order on Tribe. But Sis and i have managed to negotiate 50 yard line season tix!!!!! Man have we come a looooong ways from the 4th row from the top of the stadium in 1995, back in the days when Raider games lived up to every scary story you ever heard about em. Those were some hellaciously good times – as long as you werent stupid enough to be an opposing fan.
Ah but times have changed. We made our way out of the nosebleeds a couple of years later with my first amputation and discovered the very fucking groovy world of ‘handicap access’. Behold the 2nd deck. Times changed in the Coli too. The rest of the nineties were all about Oakland trying it’s damnedest to wrest control of the House of Thrills back from the inmates. Every game used up every drop of O.T. available to Oakland PD, Richmond, Pittsburgh, Alameda County Sheriff’s dept and CHP. The wild tailgates, flashing titties, brawls in the seats, live music, (name another team that gets Metallica as a tailgate party band) intimidation, thundering bass-driven hiphop stadium PA and electric maddening ecstatic chaos that was the Black Hole would not go without a fight. No one that came for the game ever forgot the show, though I would never have taken my 6yo niece. This was no family ride.
The new millennium brought Superbowl Dreams. Sis and I tried different sets of gimp seats on for size while the team gelled onfield and the crowd settled from raucous roars of war to haunting chants for the team in unison with one voice, even as we lost. Slowly, families became a part of the community, in direct proportion to the diminished gang activity. We’re still wild to be sure, still a perfect snapshot of the multi-ethnic blue collar of the bay area. There will be no brie or merlot in our house. But my sister can bring her my niece and this makes me happy.
Yesterday we made a final move, to arguably the best seats in the house. Top of the 1st deck, 50 yard line. In the sun. Somebody pinch me! The only down side is that it’s the ‘white section’. I hear rumors of appropriate cheering, ‘clapping’, and zero ethnicity. This will very likely bother me the same way traveling the northwest did. Everything’s pretty, nice, and oh so homogenized and vanilla.
Sis and I will hafta fix that. It IS me, afterall!

KISS MY ASS – I’M A RAIDERS FAN!!!!!!!