This blog is not even month old, and there’s already 38 of you out there.
THAT–is amazing.
Most of you are silent. And that’s okay. But I just want you to know you are walking with me through an infancy phase, but that will not always be so. I pray this blog takes us all somewhere we were meant to be. I have a feeling it will . . .
Bless you all.
If you’ve read the comments sections of this blog as of yet, you’ll see where my good friend and erstwhile co-blogger, Steve, sort of gave me the impetus for a book that is, for all points and purposes–already written.
It never occurred to me that the idea of interspersing the back stories as to what, thoughts, motivations, or subpoenas might have been what drove me to write letters to people as varied as Charles Manson and Mother Theresa might actually be the thing that sets it apart from a couple other books that have made the rounds in the last 30 years. None of those really explain anything, and as my friend Tim said, it’s a “joke without a punchline.”
This is especially true with regards to the deep, pathologically-disturbing issues I must have in order to actually make a three-point argument to Manson as to why he continually loses the parole-board.
I got a letter back, but I have to admit, unlike the nature of a writer shopping a manuscript, the more vociferous of return volleys were what made the day.
The San Diego Zoo’s soft refusal to rent me a Bengal Tiger was just that. Disneyland was so disgusted by my “Waco Incident” ride proposal that they mailed me back the original letter, not “wanting to retain it in their files.” They did hedge a bit saying that they have a secret sect of creators already–but I know they thought I was a crank.
General Mills wanted nothing to do with my “lower abdominal region-flavored” dog food–inspired by a rommmate’s dog, Boris–who was perhaps outfitted with the most horrifyingly disgusting skill set I’ve ever witnessed. They at least told me the chances of them arriving at these ideas prior to my letters was extremely high.
I started writing these in 1993-94. I flurried through a ton of them. Turns out I may have sown in the nineties what I might just reap in the right-about-now.
None of this, however time-consuming, kept me from trolling my local paper’s editorial department, who’d never think to vet my informational tribute to free it of the Black Sabbath lyrics I attributed to Merle Haggard:
I see Merle every few years (He lives here). Last time I saw him, I meant to show him this. But I was too busy trying to explain a rumor I started.
I was performing magic for the crowd prior to doors opening for The Cascade Theater’s 1-year restoration gala. I had carte blanche permission from Merle to photograph the show, and I wound up backstage, taking various green-room shots. My shirt and tie made me look all “usher like“ and as I came back out through the curtain to the auditorium, this poor, wavering unhygenic enthusiast in a severe alcoholic haze tried to walk past me.
Mumbling through the dysphonic shroud of beer-on-tap, he blustered,
“Can I go back there and see Merle Hag–”
I instinctively pulled my LG flip phone from my pocket and put my finger up in the classic indication that “I”M getting a call–be with you in minute.” I flipped open the phone, and began to talk to my implicatory mirage.
“Yes. Okay. That’s fine. Hey, why dont we bring Willie in on the other side to prevent him getting caught up for autographs before the show.” I hung up.
“WILLIE NELSON’S HERE?” he asked, nearly falling over.
“Don’t you say a WORD,” I admonished the poor man with his 18 and half minutes of blank, hemispheric analog tape.
Ten minutes later, I’m in the lobby. Mrs. O’Leary’s Cow had done her damage. The entire place had now osmotically absorbed Captain Morgan’s grand extrapolation.
After the concert, I’m standing with Merle. I handed his wife my camera. Merle looks at me and says,
“Somehow, people thought Willie was supposed to be here. I wonder how they got that idea?”
“Ahh, you know how that stuff goes, “ I said. “Seems it only takes one person to get these things going.”
My Dear Lucy,
I wrote this story for you, but when I began it I had not realized that girls grow quicker than books. As a result you are already too old for fairy tales, and by the time it is printed and bound you will be older still. But some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again. You can then take it down from some upper shelf, dust it, and tell me what you think of it. I shall probably be too deaf to hear, and too old to understand, a word you say, but I shall still be,
your affectionate Godfather,
C.S. Lewis
That quote is taken from the dedication page of Lewis’ Lion, Witch and the Wardrobe. I think it sums up something any dedicated father quite frankly doesn’t want to hear: The pavement of childhood: it ends. Fortunately, Clive Staples didn’t leave us hopeless as he closed the inscription. because quite frankly, I’m not equipped to accept any other possibilities.
Something about the way he so confidently expresses it, though, haunts me when I read it nonetheless. Because I’ve always been a man haunted by the inevitable. I can see the train coming.
Both my little girls are crafty, creative little geniuses. Both have ridiculous facility with sewing machines, glue guns, and some ridiculous affinity for cutting pieces of paper into nearly irretrievable floor confetti. They literally make a portion of their own clothing. That’s how good they are. Their craftiness, when they were younger, made wanting to sit at my fly vice a fait accompli–it was another craft. Project. Expedition. A colorful aside that again requires sufficient vacuuming at its conclusion. And though both have been down the road of infatuation, it is my younger daughter, Clara, who likes it enough that she received her own vice and kit on her birthday last year.
Clara also has a standard, H2O Fly Shop rod that she won on opening day from the local shop. It was our trip to McCloud that I promised her we would “break it in.” And while the general idea of fly-fishing is an all-consuming love during this season, it was precisely this moment–this little promissory excursion–that governed my streamside thoughts as I routed the McCloud River; This trip is not about some ridiculous trek into solitude. It’s about relationships.
The thoughts that perhaps governed her trip were “ride bike with friends,” “laugh with friends,” “bicker with sister and niece,” etc. It was in these passing asides that I’d say “Clara, remember, I’m taking you to that little dry-fly spot on Thursday.”
“Cool dad, ” she’d say while proving shoes are gratuitous and caucasian feet can be black nonetheless.
Wednesday came around, and as I corralled her for dinner, I reminded her of time frames and plans.
“I know, dad,” was the refrain.
“Sure you still want to do it?” I asked.
“Uh, YE-esss,” she reassured me with that “Hello, McFLY!” kind of diplomacy.
I smiled. Both inside and out.
Thursday, at 4:30, I receive the following, diplomatic encyclical:
“Dad, I don’t want to hurt your feelings or anything . . . ”
She really needn’t have finished that phrase, because I actually cannot confirm I heard it. because another phrase dominated my emotional no-fly zone. My God, I really am losing her. Daddy’s little girl is starting to shove off. The little girl who once wept because she knew we’d not always be “snuggle-bugs” is perhaps beyond the emotional horizon once and for all.
She did wind up going with me, after I expressed to her it was about time with her, and not about whether she caught any fish. I had taught her the “closed loop, 10 and two” sequence that all fly-fishing beginners learn. And now was her chance to do it in real-time, not acting in front of some situational green screen with a phony fly on the end of it.
As it turns out, it really was about “the journey.” Taking the lengthy switchbacks down to Middle Falls, Clara has the ability to locate every territorial creature known to man, spot, chase and sometime capture them. I heard more insight as to her running chipmunk count, lizard run ups, bug lore, and bear-sighting probabilities on the way down to MY focus than anything she might have had to say about those elusive trout in the water.
In an hour’s time, she sustained nine or ten strikes on dry flies. And yes, it jazzed her. She finally managed to insinuate one on to the hook, ask me “what do I do now?” as the fish managed to dis-insunuate himself a moment later. Never have I enjoyed the intermittent need to unhook a wayward backcast from the trees as I did this evening.
After a million presentations: “Dad, my arm is sore. Can we go back now?” she asked. “I don’t feel good. The bright light is making it hard to see.”
“Sure,” I smiled. I knew she was excited to see fish after fish grabbing for her fly. That was good enough for me.
As soon as she realized the Switchback trail was before us again, any and all complaints of erstwhile tendonitis and photophobic nausea vanished. It’s time to start looking for animals again. Before we left the vantage point of the startlingly beautiful Middle Falls, she noticed our rods leaning against the tree and said, “you should take a picture of those like that.” I obliged. back to locating pregnant reptiles.
It was at that moment that I realized it. We both had a blast. We just had a blast with contrasting peaks. I could repeat the entire trip devoid of any fishing, and her little heart would be full of intrigue, mystery and adventure. It just so happened she got to make the water splash with some degree of control as an added deal-sweetener.
“Mom, I got nine strikes, and hooked one!” heard her exclaim as she entered the cabin. I smiled. She then ran down the chipmunk census, and talked about an expended stonefly shell I had brought back with me off a rock “for study.” Of course, I didn’t see it. She did.
I offered to take her out the following evening, solely contingent on her request. It was never made. I figured that would be the case, as the cumbersome backpack of the “need to wear shoes” alone would perhaps be a buzzkill for someone as free-spirited as Clara. And I was okay with that, because I don’t believe in trying to manufacture a moment anyway.
Back home, we unpacked the hodgepodge of bags, food and protracted laundry. I wasn’t but a few hours before Clara had her vice out, asking me how to tie one of the Kebari flies I’d been playing with. She, of course, opted for pink hackle and glittered ribbing. She calls it the “Pink Poodle Fly.”
Of course I’m going fish that thing. Are you kidding me?
Then, without any pretense, predication, lead up or cajoling, I hear those magic words–those words that perhaps mean something entirely different to each of us in terms of terrestrial focus, but we both know mean something eternal at their core.
“Dad, can you take me fly fishing?”
It may not last forever. But she was given to me for things I believe will.
And I’ll take it.
This post–a repost from a now-dormant blog of mine–2012.
Mind you, I have two entire binders chock FULL of this kind of nonsense. There’s something about placing the administrative/H.R. departments of various organizations in a reflexive, compulsory arm-bar–they MUST answer. Whether or not they are in the mood to do so is another matter. As you’ll see over time, I’ve managed to trip the entire spectrum. Charmin, “Squeezably Soft” toilet paper took my request for user instructions like a champ. The World Society for the Protection of Animals was a bit . . . um, shall we say pensive about my request for spotted owl farm construction guidelines.
Gear any of these letters correctly, and they have zero idea exactly what of pathological concern lies behind the keyboard of the sender–I could be a crackpot, doing these things in the same fashion I was once tossed from an informal baseball game for throwing a “second pop fly” towards the outfielder: he was confronted with an uncomfortable choice.
Unfortunately, that choice also drew a disproportionate amount of attention to me.
So here, I present to you, a simple salvo that came out of a conversation I was having with my friend, Jesse, who really was going to go in with me on a pound of Kopi Luak coffee until he promoted out of my echelon and became a distant, condescending demigod.
Target Starbucks:
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It seems the Seattle bean mavens might have a sense of humor–albeit muted:
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And thus, another closed chapter in a book I COULD write, I‘m Not Changing Much, But Boy Do I Have The Right People On Board To Help.
I just realized something. I’m actually afraid to type the first sentence of the book I have in my head.
In fact, I’m a tad freaked out about it, because I don’t have a reluctant writing bone in my body in any other aspect. What is going on here?
It’s not that I don’t get freaked out in general, because I do. But this particular strain of freaked has a weird, gnawing undercurrent of subtlety that makes it vaguely disturbing.
I’m thinking that sheer size is most of the issue. I can flail away at a thousand-word screed; lift off, gain altitude, approach target, drop sorties, and get back to home base rather deftly. But in those cases, I can still see home base from my target—orientation loss is not something I risk much in these cases.
But now, I have this plan to deliberately drive a section of Americana off the historically-accurate turnpike for the sake of visceral humor, retrograde musical illumination, and to underscore the fact that white people are usually the ruinous culprits at concerts when they try to help a solo performer “keep time” with their abysmal and short-lived clapping outbursts.
Problem is, I’m not sure I have the internal, gyroscopic orientation that was supposedly the hallmark quality possessed by the late stuntman, Dar Robinson. He was legendarily known for his ability to know up from down while plummeting 35 stories during a screen shoot. He also died riding a motorcycle at moderate speeds, so we’ll just leave that here.
So I think I’m afraid of the fall. I’m sure I can leap off the edge of this thing; start some conflagratory point-of-departure that invokes reader interest. But now that I’ve decided to throw an anachronistic boomerang at a section of the past, I better try to figure out just how far the logical arc is going to reach in terms of ”reasonably absurd outcomes.” I know good and well someone will read this book, and immediately cue up a postgraduate outrage chorus over some glaring inconsistency I failed to take into consideration.
One time, I was asked to perform magic tricks at a renaissance fair. Now me, being used to a modern and western approach to sleight-of-hand, I was used to wearing slacks, and also a jacket that at least gave me pockets with which to streamline my act with accessibility times. I knew I was already going to have to wear some balloon-armed pullover blouse-thing with a string tie-off. I knew I was going to have to wear sans-pocket costume pants from their wardrobe. I knew I was going to look like Peter Pan. The feathered-garnished hat was like a giant squelch knob, tuning out whatever remained of my masculinity.
Already struggling with that, I stood behind my table, tossing cards, performing the cups and balls, etc.
“Those cards aren’t from the period,” said one.
“Those cups aren’t from the period,” said another.
“That wand isn’t period, either,” said another Ren-parrot.
For an hour, I endured indignant, routine-stifling interruptions from a smug, self-assured cadre of 15th-century know-it-alls. My preemptive, explanatory caveats meant nothing. I may as well have tried to push Rain Man onto a plane than get Lord & Vassal Inc. to take a card, shut up and move along.
“Guess what?” I said. “This grange hall we’re at isn’t from the period, either. Neither is that Timex Expedition watch you’re wearing. I DO know that Field’s jewelers wedding ring sits in direct contrast to your from-the-period mead goblet, but I quibble.”
I’m not sure they processed that well.
Anyway.
All I know is this. I can launch this literary ship from a thousand ports. I can make the high-seas saga interesting. And funny. In fact, I have time-release moments in mind so visceral, that I’m hoping to release the sinus-cavity-excoriating Kraken for which I am known.
I am now counting. It’s only taken me twenty minutes to write the previous 655 words. Productivity is not my problem.
Meh. Whatever. Into the unknown it is, I guess. Time to get that first sentence out. I know it’s in there.
Somwehere.
By Satan,
Guest Columnist
It’s bad enough that I’m having to cut back on roaming to and fro in the earth as it is–that and trying to swat down any of this horrid nonsense that I am somehow responsible for this one-off, repurposed Vanilla Ice necromancer.
You’re going to have to use your heads, people. I’m not sure where this notion got started, but the slightest whiff of any supposed causal relationship between me and that tattooed nitwit Justin Beiber is a serious charge. I’ve got a reputation to maintain. You think I’m willing to risk the hallowed specter of my dominion—one that drives the Sudan, honor-killings, the Holocaust, Darfur, and the rest of the laundry list of human horrors—against a dopey ignoramus that urinates into mop buckets?
Just what do you think I’m doing in the ninth circle? Planning an ‘N SYNC comeback tour?
Look, I’ve been touring with The Kings Of Leon, to begin with. If you think I’d even have expendable energy or flex time to handle Windswept’s career, you’re nuts. I can’t even maintain the vanguards necessary to keep these guys from hitting the Chivas Regal in the third hour of the day—I certainly don’t have time to keep some cherub-faced YouTube phenom from retroactively plowing off the Donald Sterling expressway.
All I’m saying is: Do the math. Would the guy that brought you the Manson killings really want to risk a PR nightmare like this? Give me some credit. Don’t make me show up on an on an Eagles record cover over this.
I’ll make Jimmy Page go all transcendental at Loch Ness, if you people don’t cut the noise. I don’t engage in foisting gratuitous, audiological torture on people. Not me. Not this Devil.
Okay, I might have been the guy that told Meatloaf, “You can still hit those notes, brother,” But that’s it.
While I am at it, I’d also like to put some space between myself and:
But above all else, this Beiber corollary has got to be put down.
It’s a lie from the pit of . . . um, well . . .
Right around the turn of the millennium, I found myself working for a local Best Western establishment. It was a desk job, and primarily one that involved a ridiculously busy cache of check-ins and telephone reservations.
Even though it fell under the corporate moniker, the Motel was privately owned–and THAT–my fiends is what made that year and a half a golden one: there was room for individuality without some hardscrabble, suffocating Gladys Kravitz waiting to snuff out my procedural DNA.
Most notably for me, was the way I was allowed to approach internal memoranda, correspondence and incident reports. Since we were not a law enforcement organ, our incident reports were primarily for narrative illumination–and not meant for public consumption. That’s not to say it was chock full of salacious material; it just means we were able to put our own flavor to the narrative.
Which of course meant, atrocious and flabbergasting embellishments, over-the-top anthropomorphisms, and a reductionist approach to humanity’s also-rans for the sake of having an opportunistic straw man to roundhouse in the pie-hole.
For me, the temptations to start flailing away with appalling narratives and hyperbolic, anecdotal recaps was almost too much to bear. I would sit around, literally hoping to be hectored by some quixotic transient JUST–to be able to write it up as if the guy had just broken his fetters and wandered out of the Gadarene tombs.
Data in: I’m Dennis, and I fought in World War I.
Data out: My name is Legion.
One day, it was drawn to my attention that the night auditor–named Art–was gaffing the oatmeal for the complimentary breakfast. It was put to me to make sure the proper–and simple–clarifications were made. All I was supposed to do was re-type the instructions that Byron, the boss–had written down for me earlier.
As they say. You had ONE JOB. I’m not sure Art appreciated the fear and trembling by which the following flowed out of this culinary seer:
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Actually. He failed to see the humorous point-of-departure I did.
I wonder why.
In woodshedding the ukulele, I do what most do when marshaling the bloodhounds and hunting down the faint smells of related interests: I start scouring YouTube.
Now, it IS possible for those outside the world of ukulele, to still be able to say, “I’m familiar with Iz’s version of Somewhere over the Rainbow, or acknowledge, “I’ve seen a video of that Jake Shimaku—-whatever you say his name. . . ”
Start naming guys like James Hill, however, and it becomes a matter of:
I of course, start trying to skim ideas off the top. Hill’s percussive take on the Jackson song inspired me to try to find a percussive way to play the main riff from Stevie Wonder’s Superstition.
In the short run, I failed. Actually, I didn’t fail, but I defaulted to a different repeating riff in 4/4 time. The next thing you know I had written an original song that sounds nothing like what it was I thought I was pursuing.
And now, my inspirational catalysts have multiplied yet again. Joey Calfa, and his band, Ukulelien, prove to me that there are people like ME out there. They’re putting it out there for all to see. Most of their videos are wide-angle static shots, but now, after watching many, I am now expecting a fairly consistent rundown: Joey on the Uke, holding down the instrumental genesis for the band’s name and existence: Terry Brennan, who contributes vocals and percussion, underscored by mild contortions of a mellowed-with-time Axl Rose.
Corey J. Feldman plays the U-bass and sings. Tara Lawton, also adding to the percussive side, but also making me take the melodica seriously–which is a fine feat in the harsh light of a musical culture from which “when you throw an accordion in the dumpster without hitting the sides” was the answer to the question, “What’s the definition of perfect pitch? She also contributes vocals.
Nate Searing brings up the drum section. Calfa has amassed a fine group. His occasional tutorials will convince: You can learn the ukulele, and you can make cool music on it, for sure.
Most of their video are them playing straight. They hit splashdown in my consciousness with this AMAZING TAKE on the Super Mario Bros. theme. But my favorite group video happens to be this one, where a devil-may-care approach to the presentation, deliberate lack of aesthetic rhyme or ornamental reason make me appreciate it for what it is–professional tomfoolery at its finest. Not to mention, Calfa’s implied superhero guitar face and syncopated grooving made me literally laugh out loud:
Wait. It just occurred to me. I’ll be they filmed this in October. Nix what I said about “rhyme or reason.”
Check out the rest of their stuff here.
When I first read the book No easy Day by Mark Owen (The infamous release that recounts the mission to kill Osama Bin Laden), he particularly channeled a recurring theme in the life of many: a concept called the “Good Idea Fairy.” This “fairy” was the tendency for the passiviely uninvolved to suddenly involve themselves in a mission at the last minute–a mission that has already been tried, trued, and calibrated–and suddenly change the calculus, throwing everyone’s game off and possibly ruining the entire mission–all in the name of “progress.”
Well, it looks like that diminutive knave showed up at Henson Inc. Because they’ve gaffed the ONE movie–the ONE movie I have actively anticipated on Blu-ray. With ONE three-minute omission.
Somewhat distracted, I didn’t even notice it, as I brought it straight home, and began watching it with my family (which for us is now a 13-year tradition since I first had it loaned to me on VHS in 1999). My eleven-year-old immediately said “Dad! They took the song out!” She then began to sing the melody, and I’m like “they sure did. I wonder why.” Supposedly, the omission was made to accommodate kids. Mine noticed the problem like a noonday mugging. In terms of one-family, anecdotal data: Mission Failed.
And wonder, I do. Now my inner-cynic says that there is now one more opportunity to capitalize on guys like me, who will immediately buy a “fixed” version, because the transfer to Blu-ray is immediately noticable in its qualitative aspects, and the 1080p ratios are perfect–the cinematic feel to this thing is fantastic. The sound has also come up a few notches, too. Possibly the best songs ever written for any one of their films.
The fact that this post-Jim film is perhaps better than any film directly handled directly by Jim Henson is actually a testament to Henson himself. Despite the fact that his son was the directorial heir-apparrent, and had never done so before, the sheer weight of trying to go to theater a mere two years after the death of Kermit’s literal soul must have been daunting; merely trying to compensate for the voice of a number of characters–not to mention the subtleties of expression and hand movements that will never be replaced–would have made many buckle and call it a day.
But the standard–along with chronological proximity–guaranteed that Frank Oz and the crew would pour themselves into the legacy like never before. One can also see a contemplative tribute to Henson in the falling star observed by Kermit when he’s troubled about the world in general. This is why many will say this is the best Muppet movie of all time. At least I will.
So why remove the song? The now-omitted “When Love Is Gone,” written by Paul Williams, falls victim to an active decision to “revert” to an original, cinematic state. But this makes no sense, since very few actually saw it in the theaters, and every release to video has included the song (which, by the way is reprised at the end after Scrooge’s tranformation, along with a lyrical one as well–the reprise now sits alone with no referential place). The song provides the romantic, referential sadness inherent in Scrooge’s past. Taking out the song is the equivalent to removing “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” from “Mary Poppins.”
One can only guess that–like I predict with Apple–the inherencies that made them great are but mere echoes; that their decompositional processes started when their true visionaries left us. And yet, I hold out hope for both.
Two stars from me. I certainly hope that Brian Henson and crew will release an ameliorated version sometime, with the same qualities galvanized into this one. It will immediately gain five stars from nearly all. I keep hoping that some “easter egg” hammered within the disc reveals a true version. But quite frankly, even if it does, I’m not inclined to accept entering a whimsical labyrinth to see it.
Somebody, please. Kill the Good Idea Fairy. Thank you.
That being said. I think the somewhat Schadenfreudic meltdown of the infamous, coupled with my own ridiculous gripes, overtly tests the stamina of this once viral meme:
Chances are, if anyone has managed to find themselves under some sort of surveillance, it’s me. Me and Father Guido Sarducci . . . or, Lazlo Toth . . . or, as he is known to his family, Don Novello.
I say that because many years ago, I read this book called The Lazlo Letters. In this book, Lazlo Toth gums up the works of government, corporate offices, and general PR departments with letters bearing the strangest of assertions, requests and tirades.
The book was cool. I also realized: Hey, I have a typewriter too, and like nothing more than trolling people–not for harmful reasons, mind you–just to see if I can plonk people off their A-game.
This happened in the 90’s, when Ralph Nader came to our community college. Now, back then, I was writing for an areas and entertainment local known as The Flying Penguin. Knowing him to be a man of whom grave concern was his hallmark, I showed up with a makeshift press badge–and got in to the press conference.
He took question after question about policy, infrastructure and a host of other subjects that HE finds energizing, but takes a guy like me to the edge of Seppuku.
Finally, after answering some algorithmic, infrastructural conundrum, I raised my hand.
“How tall are you?” I asked. It threw him a bit.
“How tall am I? Six four if I stand up straight. Next.”
I caught him for the follow-up.
“Is it true you published a cookbook with your mom, sir?”
I said it with all the gravity a journo might lay out one of those Benghazi/Iran Contra herrings. This time, he paused and sort of smiled.
“Yes, as a matter of fact I did.”
“Would you mind telling us what that is in case one of us would like to obtain a copy?”
He went on to explain it. And the book really does exist.
It was this moment–that it occurred to me. Reactions to the peripheral sideswipe are awesome.
Which is why I wonder why the Pentegon didn’t just channel 9 this letter I wrote them:
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But instead, they address me as if I’m sitting right there in the war room. Red phone and all:
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That’s why, if anyone wants to see that double-helix of surveilled names, I do.
And I’m looking to see what I’ve been up to.
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Box Number Seven 