I saw something fairly strange this morning. "Fairly strange" In New York City could be cause for alarm anywhere else. I did what I normally do on a Tuesday when time allows. After parking my car, I strolled up to my breakfast coach. The same "roach coach" that I've been a patron of for some years now. Down Columbus Avenue and to the corner of 67th and Broadway where enterprising Greek woman does very well for herself. I order the same thing almost every time: a double order of home fries. She bags on me whenever it's been days that I don't drop bye.
So, it was after I got my order and I began to walk towards my building that I cast eyes on the most curiously contrasting image and scene. It's a stuffy and somewhat humid morning today. There is a feeling in the air that 90 degrees could be achieved. Garbage trucks have already done their rounds along the Upper West Side, so there are no garbage bags at 10:30 a.m. along the sidewalks. There are construction workers with sweat on their t-shirts, nannies strolling along with their charges, and other people dressed in light clothing walking around one sole item that was not picked up by the New York City Department of Sanitation. It's lying on the edge of the sidewalk nearest the curb at 67th and Columbus by the Starbucks.
It's a brown and dry and dead as can be..........Christmas Tree!!!!
It looked worst than the one Charlie Brown chooses from the Christmas tree lot. People are walking around the damn thing and no one stops to flinch about it. I guess that people are processing other things as they amble bye and they do not stop to spot and gauge the incongruity of that item on the sidewalk. It's May 30th. It's after Memorial Day weekend. The tree was bought or stolen over five months ago.
There is only one explanation. One of the apartments above the Starbucks sidewalk where the tree was, must be a narcotics "shooting gallery"; a crack den. Someone may have shaken off some of their stupor this morning, figured it was warm inside and out, and "enterprisingly" carried the tree down to the sidewalk in between fixes. And that junkie was not Australian nor from Buenos Aires!
Wish I had had a camera.
*!*
If there is an afterlife, and if that afterlife happens to be based on Hindu principles of reincarnation, I would like to come back as a champion colt race horse in the United States. I'd get fed the best feed. I'd have the best medical care. I'd travel. I'd get primped, groomed and bathed. No coming back as a rock star, a president, a captain of industry, a lauded athlete or a billionaire. It's a champion colt for me. Win millions and millions for your owner and then.......RETIREMENT BABY!!!! A champion race horse's retirement!!!!!
I was thinking the other day about what my level of vanity is. The Mega Millions had achieved an inflated amount and a co-worker asked what I'd do with the "moola". I said I would absolutely try to keep the windfall a secret as much as possible. No low life, hillbilly trailer park ostentation for me. Just a few things: a driver, a cook and a maid full time. The driver culled from a disabled pool of the unemployed. The cook would be a young and very recent graduate from some culinary school; someone who wasn't able to find a position with any commercial kitchen establishment. I would want that hasher to creatively sling their imagination at breakfast, lunch and dinner. The maid? All personality. Like a sitcom character. Man or woman, black or white, foreign or domestic, legal or illegal it would not matter. The maid would have to be a trusted superintendent; an Alfred Pennyworth of sorts.
What about the rest of the money? Well, I would stir a little adventure into my life. Go around the country and exact random revenge on dirt bags like Michael Madsen would do on his short-lived TV series "Vengeance Unlimited". I, however, would do it for free and send the videos to the victims of these treacherous scum. Get a couple of retired Pride Fighters to help me do this.
I'd pick up a newspaper from, let's say, Texas. In it there'd be some piece about a middle-aged drunk driver with many priors having killed a family. Only one member having survived. Well, when the hubbub settles down a bit, months after the incident, while he's awaiting trial and he is out on bond, my technicians and I pay him a visit and pop out his eyes so he can't drive any more! It's those little contributions to society that would make it better for everyone else, right? Newspaper piece about a child molester in Moline, Illinois with many priors and guess what? His voice becomes an alto for the rest of his life. Habitual wife/girlfriend beater? No fists, no more problem! Videos to all their victims of me fixing their problems free of charge.
On the subject of lovely violence, I have been wondering about how superior I feel to a lot of people around the world. I have evaluated and determined that my genes are well evolved and truly in the path of great emergence. Why? Because I can honestly say that "my kind" does not need society to spend for the cost of policing. In other words, its all those other bastards that are ruining it for a lot of "us" types. Sorry, I'm never going to kill anyone in anger, I'm never going to do anything unethical that would cost or negatively affect other people, I'm never going to become a head of state and cheat and lie or declare a war that would end the lives of young men and women. I'm never going to rob a bank. If every home or business in the world were to be left unlocked and with their windows open, I would never break-in and steal from those who live there or own those establishments. So, the trillions and trillions spent around the world on policing, on security, on weapons and armies because some people are just God-damned fucking assholes (and many of these jerks wear mullets), would not be necessary if there were only "my kind" around the world.
While I'm on this God Complex, I've got some opinions about a couple of professional sports leagues. I guess I've been thinking about this since the NHL and the NBA are both in the showcase portion of their seasons. Both leagues enter their playoffs about the same time of the year.
The "new" NHL has, for me, become un-watchable. The perverted version of hockey that was played professionally in North America up until a couple of years ago is no more. The violence is down and the need for goons is disappearing. I was always of the philosophy that hockey would evolve into the true Rollerball someday. It would have been a sport people would want to watch. Eventually a precedent would have been established in the NHL, where if you were to be assaulted by any player on the rink, deadly force would be an acceptable response. And why not? Dickhead goon dislikes the fact that an opposing player has scored two quick goals. For no reason whatsoever, the cowardly goon sheds the gloves and the stick and assaults the scorer. Scorer high-kicks goon in the neck with the blade of his skate. Goon dies on the rink after his aorta is completely severed. The law and society would and should protect the player being assaulted. He was physically assaulted for Pete's sakes. The NHL could continue profitably if a couple of these human sacrifices were to occur once in a while. Hockey would no longer be a fringe sport further away than The Scripps-Howard Spelling Bee or the NASCAR rain delay.
Currently, a rule that I would consider if I were the dwarfish commissioner of the NHL: A team is playing short-handed because the other team is on a power play. If the short-handed team scores on the fully staffed team, the short handed team should be allowed to bring their player out of the penalty box. The penalty should be immediately pardoned even if it's a major penalty.
And regarding the NBA? No more freakin' ghetto chest-thumping hanging on the rim after a dunk. No exceptions. No hanging on the rim after dunking the ball. Dunk the ball all you want, but if you can't dunk it without having to grab the rim to protect yourself, the offense cedes to the defense. If you can't dunk it cleanly, no dunking allowed period.
There must be many reasons why today I'm not a champion racehorse, a lottery winner or the commissioner of the NBA or the NHL.
I just can't think of any.
*!*
In a few hours I'll be flying out of Newark Liberty International Airport in New Jersey and landing in Phoenix's Sky Harbor International Airport. No wife, no kids, no alarm clock, no commute and no "stackin' cheese". It's time for some communion. It's time to slip "The Ghost of Tom Joad", Chuck Berry and Giant Sand into a car's cd player and to don the sunglasses. It's time to inhale hot rural desert air that grounds me and infuses my spirit. It's time to misbehave with a childhood friend and together conquer lonely Interstate-8 at 85 miles an hour again. No golf, no beach, no fancy hotels. A swimming pool, yes. But, I have to soothe my thirst with the truly naked Sonoran Desert. I have to speak, think and dream in Spanish for four days straight. For me, this is a basal way to regenerate. It is compulsory and it is a way to bind with family and friends over distance.
I have friends. I have good friends. And then, I have close friends. One close friend's name is Julio and he is my oldest friend. I've known him since I was 14 years old. Anyone I deemed a friend before Julio at 14, are now just folks I knew when I was a kid. He and I went to the same high school and graduated from the same university. His life took a different path than mine after college. For a few years there, we lost track of each other. A twenty-something marriage that ended in divorce and then a second marriage for him. A professional cross country re-settlement for me. Events like that will tend to break the link. Our childhood friendship re-ignited, however, after just one phone call some 15 years ago. There is no pretension between us. It's never a contest. I'm embraced by everyone that he knows, and everyone that I know embraces him. I can't pretend with him. There's nothing to think about, as far as we live away from each other, he is my best friend.
I called Julio a week ago. It's just been a series of staccato e-mail communiqués for a couple of months between us. The phone conversation floated as if we had talked recently. He drones about me. His concern for me always is whether I'm driving people crazy or have plainly begun acting crazy. The reason for this? He's known me since and he knows me now. He claims I'm a different fella' livin' in the big city and all. He believes that I've turned into a bit of a hyperbolic control freak. Wifey agrees with him a lot. If anything, granted, perhaps a better way to describe it, I metamorphosize or "Hulk" into that slightly askew type over a long period of time. Then, a deprogramming of sorts is in order where I then morph back down to the Bill Bixby personality type everyone wants to see. I have a generous vacation and day-off allowance over the course of a work year that is enviable. Yet, some JNJ insiders feel I do not use it wisely.
So, over the phone call, I mention that it's about time to again head out to Mexicali, Baja California, Mexico to see my two elderly uncles, revel with my cousins and their friends, eat their food and drink their ethyl. Before I could say anything else, Julio blurts out ...."LET'S GO, I'LL DRIVE YOU THERE!". I graciously tell him that I can fly to San Diego and then have one of my cousins drive me to Mexicali; that you shouldn't push aside any time away from your sales obligations. I add that a week is somewhat of a short notice. Julio remains unfazed and insists that I fly to Phoenix and together drive down there to stay the three days. He only mentions that he can't do it in June because of a cruise that he and his wife are going on. So he insists that I get on a plane soon.
This will mark the third time that he does this: he drops what he's doing and heads out on a 250 mile road trip to Mexicali with me. Nobody, and I mean nobody, ever picks Mexicali, Mexico for an "r and r" destination except him and me.
Mexicali is a very unusual city. I've had Chinese food in San Francisco, Los Angeles and New York City. This big border city incongruently offers the best Chinese food I've ever eaten. The last time that we were in Mexicali, the trendiest drink being served at Mexicali night clubs was beer mixed with Clamato juice. The last time we were in Mexicali, I did something that would have outraged preservationists and landed 20 or more of us at a slaughter-Q in jail: I ate "Caguama". We also had "menudo" and "tripas de leche". I also drank beer and tequila like a dead man walking. The last time Julio and I were there, we went fishing off San Felipe with the gang. The high level of excess can best be underscored when a ranch hand that my cousin-in-law brought to town to help with a bar-b-q, did a tequila shot up his nose! I've never seen anyone get so drunk so fast ever.
It happens every time we both head to Mexicali, the trip becomes Thompsonesque.
Julio gets excited about doing this and going to this forsaken corner of the world.. And why wouldn't he? We become bacchants the moment his car swings bye the arrivals ramp in Phoenix when he picks me up.
I have some regrets every time I leave Mexicali. Both my uncles are getting elderly. I get a little melancholy when I leave them. I get sad when we pull away from the driveways on Calle Arista and Calle Rio Sonora. My uncles are very fortunate. Both my uncles Louie and Rogelio did very well professionally. They have no needs or wants this late in their lives except their health and youth. One suffers from early Parkinson's and the other underwent open heart surgery in Dallas a couple of years ago. I always leave hoping that I will come back and see them again, but my head tells me that both are on borrowed time. Both Julio and I know that. I remember the last time that we drove away, both Julio and I were silent for a couple of minutes. It wasn't awkward, it wasn't strange, it was how we mourned our departure.
One other thing that I regret, and it's not like it sounds, is that both Julio and I aren't single any longer. With all the beautiful single, married and divorced young "simpatica" Roses that are friends of my cousins Marcia and Claudia, who parade in and out of that one huge kitchen throughout the days that we're there, it's my marriage that protects me. It is my self-preservation. My shield. It keeps Julio and me alive and allows us to keep coming back to do this again.
It keeps us from killing ourselves........from fuckin' our brains off.
*!*
I had overlooked what the date was this morning. It was not obvious until after I had done drop-off. It then came to me when I was doing sixty-five somewhere over The Pulaski Skyway. National Public Radio's Steve Inskeep told me what the day and date was over the air.
Now that I think about it, it's no wonder that my cousin Marcia called way out of a blue left-field just to check up on me yesterday evening. It's no wonder I had a great dinner waiting when I got home and wine to go with it last night. Without asking, I got my back washed and then I also had the best sedative for dessert.
Today it is all very clear. This oversight is all unconscious. It is called "suppression".
I wish Saturday May 9, 1998 was still today. I had so much to say and to tell you and to ask you still. There are two of my own now that you could've bounced on your lap.
I miss you.
Driving into Manhattan this evening I could just feel it. There are Friday nights like this through the warmer months.
There was an ugly accident on I-78. By the time I crawled by driving, there were no victims, just a car at rest against a steel light standard with its four doors missing. The doors were askew along the road. The local evening news had word of a couple more.
Somebody got stabbed at a subway station in The Bronx during the evening's rush hour the radio voice said. Traffic on the east side was displaced because of an underground manhole explosion that injured two Consolidated Edison electrical technicians. A noticeable police presence along Manhattan streets was the order of the evening.
Even the dogs could feel "it". A pit bull in a nearby Long Island community, attacked a woman and then attacked a police officer who shot at it not only once but shot at it seven times only to hit the animal four times. The dog is still alive and in stable condition at a local vet.
http://wcbstv.com/local/local_story_125113953.htmlYep, the newspapers will print in red ink, the news radio station will din and the television images will flare colorfully this weekend. I can hear the sirens outside, I can smell it in the air.
It's Spring in New York City. I can feel it.
*!*
I held a dandelion
That said the time had come
To leave upon the wind
Not to return
When summer burned the earth again
It's alright
There comes a time
Got no patience to search
For peace of mind
Layin' low
Want to take it slow
No more hiding or
Disguising truths I've sold
And I feel that time's a wasted go
So where ya going to tomorrow?
And I see that these are lies to come
Would you even care?
And I feel it
And I feel it
If you go down in the streets today baby,
You better open your eyes.
Folk down there really don't care which way the pressure lies.
So I've decided what I'm gonna do now.
So I'm packing my bags for the Misty Mountains
Where the spirits go now,
Over the hills where the spirits fly.
I really don't know.
I, I can remember
Standing, by the wall
And the guns shot above our heads
And we kissed, as though nothing could fall
And the shame was on the other side
Oh we can beat them, for ever and ever
Then we could be Heroes,
Just for one day
I'd gladly lose me to find you
I'd gladly give up all I had
To find you I'd suffer anything and be glad
I'd pay any price just to get you
I'd work all my life and I will
To win you I'd stand naked, stoned and stabbed
I'd call that a bargain
The best I ever had
The best I ever had
What do you get for pretending the danger's not real.
Meek and obedient you follow the leader
Down well trodden corridors into the valley of steel.
What a surprise!
A look of terminal shock in your eyes.
Now things are really what they seem.
No, this is no bad dream.
Hope I can get on that plane soon*!*
For a week now, I have been under siege in my very own home. I've had these unexpected guests show up and squat in my house. It's bad enough having one unexpected guest, but a mother and her children are just too much. These primitive little greenhorns are biting into my comfort zone and forcing me out of my routine. I'm condemned to be ultra quiet during hours that I never have to be. I have to tip-toe around when I get home in the evenings after my day away at work. I can't even prepare a regular meal for myself in the past week. I can only use the microwave or eat right out of the refrigerator or pantry. And, my family are in love with these home crashers. They too are not eating stove prepared meals and haven't for the past week. You should hear the shrieks from them when I accidentally deviate from these recent rules.
What appear to be momma and papa sparrows have nested in the stove's extractor duct and some chicks have hatched in there. The gas burners on the stove put out many BTU's of heat and vent the monoxide out and away, so use of the stove to cook a regular meal has been out of the question according to my 8 and 6 year old's directives. From their elevated swing set's clubhouse in the back yard, they both delight seeing the two adult birds fly in and fly out and return with something for the chicks to eat. They also marvel when the chicks peek out of the vent. It's strange to walk into the kitchen in the mornings recently and to listen to "Chirp Symphony no. 1" emanate from inside the stove's hood.
I cannot reach into the vent itself very easily because it is on the back of the house and up about 17 feet. I hope that chicks can fly sooner than later. I'm not sure how long it takes a chick to fly the coup. I mean that literally, because figuratively, that's a loaded question. I'm not in the mood for heated debating right now.
In a way, these birds nesting where they have may have something to do with me. I believe that the exhaust duct provided a warm and seemingly safe environment for the sparrows to nest there because we are a petless home. The birds did not smell a mammal nearby and figured that they hit the mother load in that exhaust duct.
We have a 60 gallon aquarium in the family room and my five year old son has a hermit crab habitat on his dresser drawer. Fish and hermit crabs do not qualify as pets according to the hoards of people telling me that I should get a pet for the home. The chorus of boos begin with the 5 year old all the way to my general manager boss who brings up the subject of getting a pet up every time he sees my wife.
It's not like it sounds. I love animals and everyone who knows me knows that I do. I believe that cruel animal abuse deserves The Death Penalty for human beings. To get a cat would be out of the question. I have not been around one that I'm not allergic to, but then I've not lived among lions or tigers. I have known tigresses, but have never lived with one. Perhaps I should have an allergist check me for lion and tiger sensitivity. My apprehension about incorporating a dog, however, is complicated and to some degree selfish.
"Royal Canine Fio Hey Dude" was his official name according to the American Kennel Club. "Fio" for short. When I was twenty-five years old, three years before I was married, before Rottweilers were commonly known, I don't know why I did this, but I plunked down a small fortune to get this high-end bred animal. Fio became an extension of me for 13 years. When people called to touch base, Fio was always part of the conversation. Fio was the most fortunate of dogs because he lived like a human being. At the very least, he possessed a twenty-five word vocabulary, was always well groomed, and if I had to travel, Fio would ALWAYS fly on the plane with me. Not "in" the plane, but on the plane's cargo hold.
It got to the point that when my wife and I were on vacation, and we stayed at hotels, some hotel's staff that we had been to previously would recognize us and the dog and embrace his stay. When I moved from Tucson to New York City in 1989, the dog was part of our excursion here. Tucson to San Diego to Vancouver via the Pacific Coast Highway. To New York City via Canada and all stops in between. Five weeks on the road with the dog. American Airlines once forgot about him on the tarmac as my plane pulled away from the gate. He eventually reaching his destination 4 hours later than I did. One time at NWK Liberty, a heavy snow delay created a shortage of cargo handlers and I was asked to go on the tarmac and help load Fio into the plane. He pee'd on the jet's tires for good luck that time.
The luckiest dog and the best trained dog I've ever known anyone to own personally. A natural sentinel. He outlived his litter. He ate the best food and had the best veterinary care around. Essentially, he was like a person with special needs. He was like a first son.
Early in 1998, Fio was diagnosed with cancer and my veterinarian then refused to sign-off on him to fly on a plane any longer. It was then, at a later age, whenever it became necessary, he ended up having to stay in a kennel. But, a carefully chosen one. It was more like a dog spa. I needed to travel over Thanksgiving weekend one time and boarded him at this kennel where not only did he get bathed and groomed, but the dog was also served a Thanksgiving dinner of his own: turkey, bread and carrots. Some dog, huh?
Fifteen months after his diagnosis, after some significant weight loss, with heightened discomfort, and he no longer able to even go to the corner and back any longer, I decided that it was time for him to rest. I made an appointment with the vet to be the last appointment of the day on a Saturday. When our turn came to pass, the veterinarian's office locked their doors. Wifey and I stood by the dog on the examination table and we petted him and soft talked him for as long as we wanted to. We fed him a couple of croissants in pieces. A short while later, Wifey became inconsolable and she left the examination room. I was left there alone and I called the doctor. The doctor entered and enabled his rest and his legend. My man/beast relationship was over. He was really my dog. He bonded to me the strongest and I was his main caregiver.
As soon as possible after that Saturday evening, the house was painted inside, all the carpeting was replaced and the wood flooring was refinished. Shoes have not been worn in my home since September 1999. It's great. You can walk in white socks and the white socks stay white. No hair. No smell. No mess. No vet bills and no grooming appointments. No dog sitting. No having to buy the 40 pound bag of Science Diet or Eukanuba.
I happen to like this dog ownership liberation situation. I do not want that responsibility yet again. I do not want to end up being the dog's primary caregiver. I do not want to tackle and wrestle with that first year of ownership. I don't need the worries. I don't need the hassles. I do not want to give up my canine libertine ways.
Honestly, I just don't want to get emotionally attached to a living being who doesn't complain, who doesn't anger, who does not compete, who does not divide time, who always greets you at the door, who is always happy and easily pleased.
It's too painful when that companion is gone.
*!*
