TALES FROM THE HELL HOUSE #1

     The Hellhouse was the bottom flat of an old Victorian in San Francisco, on Ashbury St, half a block up from Haight.  it was next door to Janis Joplins old flat. I moved into the Hell house after being politely kicked out of my sisters flat upstairs.  My "room" was actually a closet under the stairs. It was slightly larger than a bed, but was cool in it’s own right. My new housemates were Klutch, Dave, and a Hawaiian guy who was never there. This was in the 80's. I was a punk rocker and a bike messenger. Full of energy and bad ideas. The hell house was perfect for me.
    TALES FROM THE HELL HOUSE are some of the things that went on there.

TALES FROM THE HELL HOUSE #1

 We were sitting in the kitchen on a Saturday afternoon drinking beer when I got an idea.
I chugged down the last of my beer, and then went down the hall and out to the front door. Our door bell had never worked, at least not in the time I had lived there. Knocks often went unnoticed, as we spent a lot of time in the kitchen, which was at the back of the flat.
     I decided it was time to fix this problem,  so I carefully pried the little black button out of the door bell housing and looked inside. The contacts were blueish green with corrosion.
I knew just what to do.
 I then slid out the little sign that said "Bell" and changed it to say "Hell",  and tossed the button aside, replacing it with a thumb tack facing point out.
     I then went back into the kitchen and cracked open another beer. When I told my housemates what I had done, and they both asked “why?”

“This way we’ll know when someone is here” I assured them.

“how do you figure?” they asked

Almost on cue, we heard a scream  and then a string of obscenities coming form the vicinity of the front door.

"Someone is here," I said.

I answered the door  to find friend standing on the porch rubbing his thumb. Cradled in his other arm were some fantastic offerings.
Booze, and Lawn Darts.

    Dangerous game for drunks with no lawn. 

    But then again, I think that applied to most everything we did. 

    Croquet seems fairly tame until you played our version, with a golf style swing in the narrow hallway of our flat. Instead of wickets, we set up a ramp and a series of targets. The only real rule was that the players had to be drunk, and the object was to hit the ball down the hall and up the ramp so that it flew through the air and hit one of the targets. If the target hit was the globe, the reward was to drink a tasty cold beer. Sometimes a player would miss the targets, and the hard wooden ball would careen into the kitchen and destroy something in there. If this were to happen, the penalty was to drink a tasty cold beer. It was a good game. 

     Bowling is pretty safe, unless the pins are replaced by a television set, and you are "bowling" from the third floor balcony. 

     This once lead to the idea of "bowling shots" 

It goes like this:  The "bowler" stands on the third floor balcony, and the "pin boy" on the ground below. The "score keeper" fills the three holes with vodka, then the "bowler" rotates the ball, spilling out the vodka, counts to three and releases the ball. The "pin boy" attempts to catch the vodka, but not the ball, in his mouth. 

     Lucky for us, we argued too long about the scoring system, (if you should gain or lose points for being hit with the ball) and by the time we were drunk enough to do it, no one was able to climb the stairs with the ball. 

    We invented another game called "Ceiling fan pool". The idea was to throw an (empty) egg carton up into the air so that it was hit by the fan, and landed somewhere interesting. This would be met by cheers, and toasts, and more beer. One night, as the hours wore on into morning, the game mutated into "Wadded up newspaper pool", then "Empty beer can pool", then "Full beer can pool", and finally "Anything in your grasp pool".
Interesting note: a ceiling fan missing a blade becomes highly unstable, and will eventually rip itself from the ceiling and even catch on fire.
     The funny thing is that the bowling ball, the croquet set, the ceiling fan, these were all gifts.
From People who knew us. 
From people who should have known better!
Maybe they did it for their own amusement.

One housemate was (god only knows why) given a gas powered weed whacker for his birthday.
Later in a drunken frenzy he "cleaned" his room with it.
Aluminum baseball bats, fireworks, bowling balls, Lawn darts, weed whackers...
Dangerous gifts for dangerous games.
For dangerous people.
Gifts from people who should have known better...
Then again, Maybe they did.

Gnome Roast

   My friend Kenny asked for this tale.  He knows it already 'cause he was there, but I'll tell it now, for you.

It goes like this.
     In the late 80's and early 90s I was a mechanic. I mostly worked on old Vespa scooters, but also "modern" ones like the Yamaha Rivas, Jogs, Zumas, etc. I worked for one of San Francisco's few Scooter shops at the time, which I will not name because, well, you never know.
    Work as a mechanic can be somewhat feast or famine. Many days went by with hardly a break from the wrench, other days were a waiting game. On these slow days, we would amuse ourselves by doing things that were not specifically repair oriented. My supervisor was an English guy who raced motorcycles and drove a hearse. He wore all black, and listened to nine inch nails. He didn't mind our antics, and in fact, he encouraged them. Some times when there was no work to be done, he would shout from his desk, "Oi! Tiki... Blow something up!"
    He was my boss, and  I was obliged to comply.
    Now and then the shock waves from our improvised fireworks would summon the general manager from the front of the building. He would come running back, wild eyed, waving his arms and pleading for us to make it stop.  But for the most part we were able to feign ignorance and blame it on a back-fire or a blow-out.
  Now, the part about the blow-out was not entirely untrue, as we had discovered that in the absence of material more volatile,  you could lock the air compressor hose to the valve stem of an old inner tube, and it will inflate to point of bursting, which, if this were to happen, say in the elevator shaft, creates a quite satisfying "boom" which would cause the sweat shop manager from upstairs to come running down, wild eyed, waving her arms and pleading for us to make it stop.
     One of our proud moments was when we discovered, quite by accident, that our tennis ball canon, modified to accept a lag bolt, was capable of propelling said bolt clean through the cinderblock wall, leaving a cartoon like hole in the perfect shape of the bolt.
     Good times.
      Our general manager was an unaware catalyst to our mayhem. We always seemed to be able to persuade him to buy things that ultimately would be put to bad use.
     One particularly slow day we convinced him that we needed a garden gnome as a mascot, for good luck and to boost moral. We must have seemed sincere, as he went out and bought a us fine concrete garden gnome.
     He placed it at the back entrance to the shop where it sat on its cement barrel, swigging from a mug of beer,  sure to attract a flood of customers.
     As luck would have it, it was also around this time that we discovered that a degreasing gun, properly modified, became a fairly impressive Flame thrower.
      One fine afternoon, our manager came out back to check on the source of shouting and cheering. He came around the corner asking "So, how's our gnome doing...."  and was greeted with this....

So there you have it.
The gnome disappeared shortly after this, and our general manager never would tell us what happened to it.

Glorious drunks

  A woman and her niece came into my shop carrying a small case.
She said hello, and said she had a surprise for me.
She set the case down on the counter, and opened it up.
     It was, of course an ukulele.
      But not just any ukulele, It was one I had seen before.
      But, let's start over, a little over a year before.
     A man wandered into my shop one day, drunk as could be, but managing to avoid knocking into anything. He went over to the Ukulele wall and stood, weaving slightly.
   "Hello!" I said, and waited. These things can go several ways. usually they look at the Ukuleles, for a minute, ask If I have guitars, strum a few clumsy chords, and then leave.
"Mind if I sit?" he asked.
"Go ahead" I told him. I kept an eye on him, but busied myself at the desk.
He looked absent mindedly at the wall of ukes.
he cleared his throat
"You know he no longer travels but he's still pretty spry, He's not much on talking and he's just too mean to die"
I looked up, "Excuse me?' I asked politely
"Uncle Slayton" he said.
I shook my head."Don't know an Uncle layton"
"James McMurtry?"
I shrugged.
"You never heard of James McMurtry?" he asked
"Yeah, sure," I told him, "I heard of him. I know his dad wrote a bunch of books, "Lonesome Dove" was one..."
He nodded. "Yep. James is a poet, an' a good singer. Saw him up at Don Quixotes."
 Don Quixotes is a night club just up the street from the shop.
"Hmmm..." I said, nodding.
"Sings songs an reads poetry. James McMurtry. He's real good, you should check him out"
I nodded again.
He looked thoughtful for a second, and then cleared his throat.
"You know he no longer travels but he's still pretty spry, He's not much on talking and he's just too mean to die"
"I've heard that one" I said.
He nodded. "can I play the Guitar?" he asked.
"Sure, just be careful"
"you got a pick?"
I handed him one. He made a few rough attempts at playing, and then put the guitar back in it's stand. "Never could play the gee-tar" he said. "Ok to play one of these ukuleles?"
I went over and pulled one of the less expensive models off the wall and tuned it up.
 "Here you go," I said, handing it to him "please be careful with it."
He strummed it a couple times, and then said, "It's my birthday today!"
"Well, happy birthday" I said.
"Yep, It's my birthday so I went up to Don Quixotes and had some drinks"
"Well, Ok then"
"Had some drinks..." he nodded. he looked thoughtfull for a moment. "They told me I have the cancer in my throat, the doctors, they told me..." He tapped a spot under his chin. "I gotta go get it taken care of." He seemed lost in thought for a moment. "I'm all about holistic and organic and natural, ya know? but when they say you have cancer, you gotta get that shit zapped!"
He strummed the uke a couple more times. "It's my birthday so I had some drinks up at Don's... Saw James McMurtry there once..."
I smiled. "That's what you said"
He looked at the ukulele in his hands. "Ok," he said, "I'll take it!" He fished in his pocket and pulled out a credit card and his I.D. " I want the guitar too..." Then he looked up at the wall. "You do these paintings?" he asked.
"Yep"
"well shit!... put one of those on there too..."
I smiled, "Tell you what, uh.." I glanced at the I.D. "Steve? You come back sober, and I'll sell you anything you want, but today I am only gonna take you for 60 bucks, for the uke"
He mulled it over for a few seconds. "Ok, Fair enough"
He signed the slip, gathered his things and shook the ukulele at me. "I'm gonna learn to play it," It sounded like a challenge. "But for now, I gotta go.... Back to Don Quixotes!"
He gave a little wave and left, and I watched him weave his way up the sidewalk and out of sight. I remember thinking that he would be back the next day or so, wanting to return the uke.
But he didn't.
 It was a couple weeks later that he showed up at the shop, this time sober, uke in hand.
I got ready my return policy speech, but to my surprise, he asked what I had in the way of books.
"I have been having a blast with this little guy" he said, "but I think I need some help"
I smiled, "books are right there..." I motioned to the book shelves. "I recommend "Tip's-n-tunes" Good stuff..."
He bought a couple of books, and a few weeks later I loaned him the movie "Rock that Uke"
After that he came in and bought another uke for his wife. I was writing up the sale, and found myself asking, "so how's it going with...?" I knew I had no business asking, but it was out there, and that was that. He looked surprised, but smiled. "good!..yeah, good. Doc says it is responding, so..."
"good deal" I said.
As he was leaving he turned, "Hey, thanks, ya know? thanks for asking"

About a week later he came in again. He brought his wife's uke in to get restrung as well.
"The wife and I are having the best time playing these darn things. We've been watching James Hill, and, I mean, I know these are cheapies, but I wanna try and get that sound. Amazing!"
Then came the next part.
But it was so conversational, so, "off-hand" that it took a moment to sink in.
"I spent yesterday with my kids up in Oakland, it was good to see them, I gotta go back up tomorrow and take care of some stuff. Doc says my days are numbered, so my wife is taking some time off to...you know, take care of me, until... but we get to play the ukes together more, so..." He managed a very matter of fact smile.
It was like he was telling me his car had broken down, or about how it sure is humid today.
But no. He was telling me that he was on his way out.
I searched for the right thing to say, but there was nothing there.
"Well, " he said, "I'll, uh, see you later..."
he started to walk out, but I stopped him. "Hey, uh, are you going to be in town next week?"
He thought for a moment. "yeah, I think so."
"Come by the shop if you can, on Monday or Tuesday, I want to show you something"
"Will do" he said.

So here is the thing.
Many years ago, I built a little soprano ukulele out of Koa and mahogany. It started out as all Koa, but as I was building it, the top was destroyed as I was routing the binding channel.
Literally tore it off and sent it sailing across the shop like a Frisbee, shattering against the back wall.
 So I made a new top out of Mahogany.
It was sweet, really pretty wood, and a great sound.
Loud, but mellow at the same time.
 I really liked this one, but then decided to sell it, because one, I am not a soprano player,
and two, I was trying to establish myself in the uke-building world.
 So I put it up for sale on my website.
The next day it fell off the wall and cracked the headstock, so I took it off my website and hung it up in my workshop where it stayed for a long time.
One day I decided to fix it.
I was able to repair the crack, and reinforce it so that it was actually stronger than before, and the repair was undetectable. I hung it on the wall, where it stayed for a year or so.
I would play it now and then, but like I said, I am not a soprano guy, so again I decided to sell it.
I thought I should take some new pictures of it, and as I reached for it, I knocked it off the wall.
It fell, this time damaging the sound board. I was able to repair the crack, but I decided not to put it on my website because of the repairs, and potentially have to deal with shipping it back and forth for approval, so again, it went back on the wall.
So then five years go by, and I open my ukulele shop.
I needed some inventory, so I was going through the ukes I had. I took down the little soprano and as I was tuning it up, the ebony saddle broke in half. So, I replaced the saddle, but decided it did not want to be sold, and again, I hung it back up on the wall, where it stayed for some time.
 
Steve came back by the shop on that Tuesday.
"Hey!" I said, "glad you could come by"
I went into the back and came out with a small case. I opened it up, and handed the little soprano uke to him.
I had re-strung it in Low G, and cleaned it up a bit, made it shine. It played beautifully.

He regarded it for a moment, gave it a few strums, and nodded. "Nice"
I told him, "This was the first soprano ukulele I ever built."
I wanted to tell him the story of it's journey. I wanted to tell him here was a time when I thought that little uke was cursed. That it did not want to exist, and should be thrown into a volcano, or burned in a pyre, that it had somehow angered the ukulele gods, and that is why it kept breaking.
But that now, I think it had a job to do, and all the problems were simply a way of making sure it was here and ready when the time came.
I wanted to tell him that story, but, all I said was, "I want to loan this to you for...well, as long as you want to play it"
He smiled. "Really? wow... I...Thanks"
"No problem" I said.
as he was leaving, he turned, "I'll make sure you get it back, after... well..."
I cut him off.."when you are done playing it."
"Thanks" he said again.
He came in a few weeks later just to tell me he was loving the little soprano.
We talked about ukes, and different players, just kinda shooting the breeze.
Then he said "Hey, we should go have a drink some time up at Dons, get away from work ya know?"
"Sure" I said.
He smiled, "whoop it up a little"
I nodded, "Get gloriously drunk"
"I'd like that" he said.
"Me too."

But I never saw him again.
I was hoping that it had turned around, that he was just busy.
But then I read his obituary in the paper.
And that was that.

     Until one day when woman and her niece came into my shop carrying a small case.
     She said hello, and said she had a surprise for me. She set the case down on the counter, and opened it up.
    It was, of course the little soprano ukulele.
    We talked a little,  they thanked me, and told me how much Steven had enjoyed playing.
They looked around a bit and then left.
I stood for a moment looking at the uke, then gave it a little strum.
"Good job" I told it, and then closed the case.

Epilogue:

A man came into my shop one day, and after regarding the wall of ukes, asked if I built any sopranos. I went and got the little uke from the back and showed it to him. He played it a bit, and then told me that it was the best he had ever heard. "How Much?" he asked.
"Well, it's not currently for sale, but if it were, $450.00" I told him.
"Worth every Penny" he said with a sigh, "but I don't have that many pennies"
After he left, I thought, "why not?" So I put a price tag on it and hung it on the wall.
And so began a love affair. He came in at least once a week just to play it, and always seemed to struggle putting back up on it's peg.
One day he had finished playing it, and muttered "Someday..." so I asked, "How much can you afford?"
he thought about it, and said, "well I don't want to be insulting, but maybe $300"
"it's yours" I said.
He bought it, and that was that.
But it wasn't.
One day he came back in and asked if I did repairs.
"Sure" I said, "What have you got?"
"The little Uke I bought, I ...I sat on it..."
"Bring it in" I told him
He brought it in, and it was pretty bad, but I was able to nurse it back to health, it it still played sweet.
When he came to pick it up, he asked how much.
"No Charge" I told him.
He thanked me, and promised to be more careful.
As he walked out of the door, I looked at the little uke,
"Behave yourself" I whispered. "your work is done. time to whoop it up a little"
I haven't seen it since.

Regarding flying

    Morning brings a vaguely coffee scented beverage on a jumbo jet, then fine Sonoma wine on a twin engine turbo prop. The drinks seem to be getting better as the transportation get smaller.
   I begin to wonder what I'll get in the cab, but no, no such luck.
    On the return trip there is a delay, so they offer free beer. The Flight attendant opens a fairly large jug of high end micro brew, but gets no other takers, which results in many free refills for me. 40 minutes later I get to the airport, and find it a challenge to walk without alerting security. I have 4 hours to kill before my connecting flight so I do some absent minded shopping. Airports have almost anything you can imagine in micro packs. 2 aspirin. 2 peptos. a single pack of alka-seltzer, tiny deoderent, a pre-pasted single use toothbrush.
     I amuse myself by going shop to shop looking at all the mini offerings, and as I sober up slightly, I realize I am also hungry, so I try and find some decent food. 

But, at this hour, the only place open is an airport sports bars that offers appetizers, and more booze. "When in Rome" I figure, and take a seat in the corner.

 "Make it tall" the menu says "1 dollar more".  

A seductive printed whisper seeming to wink at me from the page decorated with nachos, hotdogs, hot wings and margaritas.
   "a shot on the side!" it coos, "only a dollar". 

It's like a strip joint for your sobriety, a lap dance for the liver, and I oblige.

    My connecting flight is late, so the flight attendant gives me a couple bottles of Courvoisier, on the house.
Expensive brandy and a mini bag of pretzels. I down them, and then drift off into uneasy dreams of dimly lit theaters, and wake up in a different state, still flying. 

The lights are low, and I can hear soft snoring around me. The flight attendant is back with another bag of pretzels,
"Another drink sir?"
 I manage a sleepy smile. "Sure" I say, and look out the window. The twinkling lights below seem to have star filters, making each pin point a brilliant firework like display. She hands me twin bottles of Brandy, and as I fumble for my wallet, she waves it away with a smile and a wink.
"After Hours" she says.
   I don't argue.
    I pour the bottles into my plastic cup, and then whisper a toast to no one in particular.
   "To flying"

Cake

No Cake for me, thanks.

   I don't like Cake.
   Sure, I know what you're thinking.
"Oh, come on now, everyone likes cake..."
Well, maybe "like" is not the correct word. It's not that I find it unpleasant, or am offended in some way by the taste or texture. It is that, given the choice, I would rather not eat it.
    I guess I should say, "I do not want cake".
   I go to a lot of Parties and other events where there is usually some sort of Cake to mark whatever occasion prompted the get together. At some point, there is a dear friend or family member, or acquaintance, or stranger holding out a plate of what is reall mostly frosting saying "Tiki King! Have some cake!"
I usually smile politely. "Oh, Thanks, but no, thank you"
"Oh come on!" They say, wiggling the plate like some sort of bait, or a biscuit for a dog, "...it's caaaaake!" There seems to be a universal rule that everyone wants cake.
Again, I decline, "No, really, Thank you, but I don't want any"
This will usually escalate things, because I must want some sort of dessert item.
"...do you want some Pie? I could get you some Pie?"
Now it gets tough, because I generally want Pie a little less than I want cake.
It suddenly becomes a challenge, and the room begins to buzz...
"...he didn't want the cake..."
"did you offer pie?..."
"he didn't want pie, either..."
"...Do you want cookies?... hey do we have any cookies?"
"...do you want some coffee or something?..."
It's not like this with say, Caviar...or Haggis.
You can refuse Haggis, and, usually, no one pushes you.
"Oh come on!....everyone wants ground up sheep organs boiled in its own stomach (wiggling the plate)...it's.. got...Oatmeal!"
In fact, I can only count one time that I was chastised for not eating organ meats.
It was at an Argentinean BBQ place. They boasted 17 kinds of roasted meat, generally wrapped in bacon, or stuffed with cheese, skewered on a sword, and broiled over an open flame.
   Unfortunately, three of the seventeen were, sweetbreads, kidneys and liver, all of which cause me to gag.
   Hence, I only ate fourteen of the seventeen kinds of meat.
   Towards the end of the meal, the waiter presented us with swords of BBQd organs. "Rinones!, Mollejas!, Higado!" He had such enthusiasm, It was like a cheer.
   I smiled and raised my hand "No, no, grasias..."
My companions laughed "solamente catorce clases de carne..." they chided, "...¿no muy hambriento?"
I rubbed my stomach, "I'm full, Really, I can't eat another bite"
I did not want to be rude. I also did not want to loose the lunch I had already had... My companions said something aside to the waiter that I did not catch, and he departed with his rejected swords of innards.
     My companions were still chuckling to each other, "solamente catorce clases de carne..."
They mocked me, rolling their eyes
    "Oh!...too full!" they laughed.
After a few minutes the waiter returned with a cart,
and presented us each with a large slice of Cake.

Tijuana, 2

    When I came here, I was fully intent on writing the great American novel in all my spare time.
     It would be easy.
    The words would flow, sweet and expertly combined, like a perfect martini. And when I was finished they would parade me through the city while children laughed and ran along side, and old women prayed and waved rosaries.
    But it didn't end up that way.
     Even my back up plan of just getting shitfaced drunk every night and passing out on top of my rented sheets didn't quite pan out.
    So now here it was, my last night, and I finally got it together to sit down and write.
    Maybe it was the sunset.
    Four days of gray smog and haze.
    Four days that shrugged off into darkness like they were too embarrassed to say good night.
    But not tonight.
    The sun shed its sickly yellow coat just in time to go down, and filled the sky with glowing orange. A whole horizon on fire, like a still photograph of a huge explosion, bellowing pink and yellow smoke.
    I took a dozen pictures, but then deleted most of them, because I knew I could not have it, only pass through it.
    Being in that moment, at that moment.
   An absent minded tear falling in slow motion.
   Then gone.
    I went downstairs and stood in front of the hotel bar. Inside a silent couple sat staring past each other, and a tired business man held down the bar, frowning into his cell phone.
    I couldn't help them.
    I came back to my room and ordered room service, raided the mini bar, and decided to write the saddest song ever written.
    Outside it was dark, and the horizon twinkled like a fallen Christmas tree.
    Sirens wailed in the distance as I sat down at the keyboard.
     But this was all I could come up with.
    Good night Tijuana, and thanks for the sunset.

Perfect

      Life is full of moments. Clocks tick, time passes, and sadly, a lot of life goes by almost unnoticed. 
      But there are moments that stand out, that burn into your memory because they are living poetry.
     I remember once many years ago when I was single, I was alone on a Christmas eve. All of my family were living far away. My friends were all off, presumably with their families, and I was alone.   
     I put on some music and poured a shot of Rum. Chrissie Hynde was on, singing about Christmas. "Through the years we all will be together, if the fates allow..." I stared into my shot glass, and watched as single tear traced the contour of my cheek, and the fell, seemingly in slow motion, landing in the rum, sending tiny waves to the edges of the glass. It was a moment that was so perfectly sad, that it actually cheered me up.
     Not all of these moments are sad, quite the opposite. One such moment came years ago at Ukefest west, during the performance by James Hill.
     He was playing his first song "Miserlou" and there came a spot at which he paused for maybe an eighth of a second, or maybe even less.
    And in that moment I realized that the entire crowd was dead silent for the first time that evening.   
     550 people who had been talking and eating, clinking forks and glasses, drinking and socializing.   
     550 people who were now focused on the stage.
    It seemed as if time stopped. Forks hovered above plates. Glasses were held motionless, conversations were paused.
    550 talking, laughing, eating, drinking people were now living statues, frozen in sheer awe of what was probably some of the best Ukulele playing they had ever heard.
    I remember thinking, "Good God! there really are no limits..."
    Somewhere, on a giant, silent, cosmic clock, the second hand clicked forward starting time again, and James's hand came down in slow motion striking the next cord, and you could almost see a wave sweep through the crowd.
    He finished the song, and people went wild, I assume they were feeling the same giddy excitement that I did. As I stood there cheering, I realized that I had just experienced a perfect musical moment. A moment that showed the beauty of how far it was possible to go. A moment that, oddly enough, was a fraction of a second of silence.

Fleamarket

         Now Listen: The flea market can be a magical place. Sometimes full of treasures for next to nothing, sometimes full of dreams in need of only minor restoration. But on this particular day, at this particular flea Market there seemed no magic at all. I had found nothing of even remote interest, which was odd for me, and was half-way through the middle Row when a peculiar table seemed to stand out. Why? I don't know. It was strewn with junk, and I do mean junk. Broken bits of useless and rusty machinery, cracked Pottery, dirty slats of wood, trash. This was truly a collection of garbage, that even I, a Human Pack-Rat, would have thrown away without a second thought. Perhaps that's why I had to look closer. But still, I saw nothing of interest, and was turning to look at the next table, when it caught my eye. A small Bit of bright orange and yellow almost hidden beneath a board in the rubble. As I picked this object up, I was hit by the freight train of memory, instantly transported back to childhood. I was four years old, and holding the very same object. A small orange plastic Oscar-Mayer Weiner mobile whistle. My dad had given it to Me, and I was marching about the Lawn, Furiously tooting the only two notes the Whistle was able to produce, and singing proudly the Oscar-Mayer Wiener song. I was a King! I was Oscar himself! I was on top of the world.
      I lost the whistle some point later that same Day, and was crushed. Odd. I never forgot that afternoon. With a blink it was the present again and my daydream was being interrupted by a voice.
     "Have a hotdog" the voice said.
     It was came from the inside of a dark van, the owner simply a dark shape with a Cheshire cat smile
    "I will," I replied, "How much?"
    "I said HAVE a hotdog" and then the voice added "It's Yours, Take It."
    "Thank You," I said to the unseen speaker, "thank you."
     As I walked away, I became more and more sure that if I were to turn and look back, I would see only an empty Stall. Perhaps a crushed Can, or a dirty Nacho Plate, or simply dust swirling in a lazy whirlwind.
    I didn't look back
    "Thank You" I said quietly, and continued on my way.

Tijuana

        The paved over dust of the bones of the Conquistadors, a savage under current that whispers of fierce Aztec gods and bull fights. Projects long ago started and never realized, crumbling like ruins. Cinder block temples with Rebar sprouting like pampas grass from the unfinished foundations, as plentiful as the shacks made from cut up billboards and old pallets.
      I felt like if you knew where to listen, the stories would ooze from the shattered pavement like the sweat that you can never really wash off. The odd juxtaposition of sever decay and proud beauty leaves you unsure if you should cry for these People, or bow before the warriors they once were.
You can almost still see it there, deep in the eyes.
      I write from my desk at the Hotel Lucerna, in Tijuana, Mexico.
     Rumor has it that El Presidente stays here. Good enough for me then, I guess.
    The light breeze carries the sound of the fountain up three stories and mixes it with distant jackhammers and shouts in Spanish. All the while, the gossamer curtains billow like some exotic movie set.
      I feel special somehow, important. As if something here is going to define my fate, or end up immortalized in a song. "Down in Mexico they say..."
     I haven't just sat and written in a while. I feel like I need a bottle of Tequila for this to be right
    A bottle of Tequila and a cigar burning slowly in the ashtray.
    Times like this make me miss smoking.
     I look down over the balcony and see my travel companions on the veranda below, So I head down to the Hotel bar for a glass of Anjeo and a half dozen cerveza, then off to get some dinner.
    We were given bread and a salsa made of habanera peppers. The waiter knew we were not from here and warned us. "be careful" he said raising an eyebrow, "Muy caliente...hot".
     The sound of construction was winding down, replaced by the drone of the cars that waxed and waned on the road outside the hotel walls.
      After dinner we settled in by the pool to soak up the warm night.
The waiter took good care of us.
"Una mas cerveza?"
It was a question.
It was an answer.
A coyote call in a paved over desert.
A quiet howl to a Moon that was once sacrificed to.
We drank it all in.

Big and Small

Big, Small. Big, Small.
     My mind chewed on that one as I lay in bed, the sound of music and laughing outside my door drifting off just in time for sunrise, and I caught a couple winks before construction began outside. I had a big night, and I was in for a small amount of sleep. Earplugs, I thought, next time remember earplugs.
     I was at a big gathering centered around a small instrument.
     I was at the 2003 Ukulele Expo in Providence, Rhode island, which oddly enough, is the smallest state.
    The trip here had been fairly uneventful. I got up Monday morning at 4:00am. My flight did not leave until 6:45, so I figured I was OK. The airline recommended that I get there at least 30 minutes before departure, which I did with time to spare. I checked my bags , which was surprisingly quick, then wandered off to find my way to the gate. Then came security. The line was big. Each time I turned a corner, it stretched on to the next. I finally got to the end, where a helpfully security person was chanting,"45 minutes to security check point" I looked at the big clock on the wall, then at my ticket . The big clock said 6:00am. My ticket said 6:40am. "Crap!" I muttered. It became a chant. "Crap, crap, crap, rap, crap, crap..."
   The line moved a few small steps and stopped, moved and stopped, finally making it to the check point. I was lucky to get through with out a body cavity search, and was putting my shoes back on as they announced the final boarding call for my flight. I began chanting again, in rhythm with my jogging,"Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap, crap..." I reached the gate as they were closing the door.
We landed in Minneapolis for a plane change, and took to the air again. The flight was smooth. I ordered a couple double Rum and Cokes and sat back to write. There is something different about drinking on an airplane. I don't know if it is the altitude or that the bottles look so small that I always order extra, but I always get hammered with relatively little effort, and also sober up quickly and smoothly. So there I was, I cruising along, jotting down some notes about the trip when I glanced out of the window and saw that we were now over the Ocean. No big deal, except that this portion of flight was from Minneapolis to Rhode Island, and last time I looked at a globe, there was no ocean between the two. Then I realized that I was not looking at the Ocean, I was looking at a big lake.
Lake Michigan, by my quick figuring.
     If you have never seen the great lakes, then you have no idea what I was seeing. I grew up in California, and biggest land locked body of water I ever saw was Lake Tahoe. but now here looking and seeing no land anywhere made me feel lost. For a moment I felt very small. Sure this awe may have been partially Rum inspired, but still, it was one big lake, and I was impressed.

We arrived in Rhode Island, and were hit with humidity that only someone who is from there or been there can really understand. It was like being draped with a hot wet blanket. We caught a cab to the college, and maybe it was the "I am a tourist" tee shirt I was wearing, but our $20 cab ride took a "short cut" and ended up costing over $40. But, we were there, and other than getting out of my now wet clothes, and getting the Ukuleles unpacked, not much else mattered. I got my room key and settled in. I had a roommate, but they had not arrived yet. The room was bleak, but the price was right, and I was fairly sure I would only be in it while sleeping, so that was fine. I took a shower and put on fresh clothes, but was immediately soaked again upon stepping outside. I decided right there that this weekend was going to be spent in the air conditioned sanctuary of the college facilities.

My first stop was the screening of "Rock that Uke" (which I enjoyed thoroughly) and then it was time to see who was who. There were a lot of familiar faces, the Santa Cruz Ukulele scene being well represented, and a lot of familiar names. But I was meeting many people face to face for the first time, though I had done business with some or corresponded online. On the other hand, I was not hard to spot, Being at the time the only one wearing a fez. It amused me that the first thing most people said was "you're a lot taller than I imagined". I would just smile. True, I am a pretty big guy, and with my fez I top out at about 6"6' or so. I am sometimes startled at my own reflection when I see just how small a Ukulele looks while I am playing it. I guess that is what they were seeing now. But all around were small Ukes and Big smiles, and it was hours before it hit me that all I had to eat since 4:00 am this morning was a bagel.

A group of us went and had a fantastic late night Italian meal, and returned just in time to catch the last of the official Ukulele jam session. After security kicked us out, we made our way back to the dorms where people began to gather in the common room. First beer arrived, then a big bottle of Tequila and a bowl of limes. The atmosphere was electric, charged with the release of all the tensions of travel and anticipation. We drank big and played Ukulele into the small hours of the night. inhibitions were lost and beginners and pros strummed side by side. Solos were taken, lyrics butchered, songs made up, and by the time I stumbled back to my room at 3:30 a new percussion instrument had been created using pistachio shells in the body of a Uke. This was my kind of party.

I caught a couple hours of sleep, and then headed over to the main hall for breakfast. The room was buzzing with activity, and dominated by an actual working 20 foot tall Ukulele. People were having a great time posing in front of it, dwarfed by it size. Saturday was spent showing my Ukuleles, selling stickers and CD's, and again meeting old friends for the first time. It was also a chance to see, and better yet play, some of the finest Ukes available. Not only was it a treat to see them in person, but even more so to meet the amazing Luthiers who had built them. The day was over too fast, and after the Saturday night dinner banquet it was time for the concert.
Ahh the concert.
What do you get when it is about 90 degrees, 90 percent humidity, and you put a couple hundred people in a room with no air conditioning? In this case you got a treat. A top notch group of performers that kept your toes tapping and seemed to be over too soon. Then it was back to the dorms for more beer, more playing, more singing, screaming and mayhem and moonshine.
And it was evening, and it was morning, on the second day.

    I woke up still slightly buzzed and looked at my watch
    7:00
    Outside was a dull gray. it could be 7:00 am or PM, I really could not tell.

   My roommate was still passed out, so I figured it was safe to assume it was morning, and laid back down. I had barely closed my eyes when I heard voices in the hall, and suddenly it was 9:00. I got up and headed over to the main hall for breakfast. I had left all my gear there the night before, so set up was easy. I drank a couple gallons of coffee, and started putting out my Ukuleles. People straggled in, wearing crooked smiles and sunglasses, exhausted and happy. Heaping plates with bagels and pastries, drinking coffee and OJ, bracing for the day. It was not over yet. Sunday was much like Saturday. People went to classes and lectures, wandered and shopped, or sat in small groups, swapping tales from the night before. Today was another open Mic, and many people took advantage of the mass distraction to slip away quietly. None of us wanted to say goodbye.

    The event officially ended at 5:00 PM, but a hand full of us were staying over, and we met in the dorms again that night for one more go around. One by one a small group gathered, bringing food and beer, and refusing to really let it end. I was doing pretty well for having had almost no sleep in three days, but suddenly the couch was became very comfortable. I blinked and the song changed abruptly, and I knew that as much as I hated to leave, it was time to go to bed. I thanked my fellow players and said a quick good bye, and went back to my room.

     I got ready for bed and turned off the light, and for the first time saw that the last inhabitants had covered the ceiling with a glow in the dark constellation. My small cell of a room became the big outdoors, and I fell asleep under the stars.
And it was evening, and it was morning, on the third day

    I awoke excitedly to the sound of singing and Ukuleles playing, but as I sat up it faded, and I realized it was a waking dream. A ghost sound left behind by the shear amount of music that had inhabited the halls over the last few days. It felt a little sad.

     I gathered my things and went to wait for a cab. I went to the common room, now empty, and sat down. The air was thick with the still lingering smell of stale beer, limes and cigarette smoke.
It was oddly comforting.
I got out my Ukulele and began strumming , but after the last three days, it sounded very small.
I said a last silent good-bye to those still sleeping, and those who were already gone, and began my trip home.

    This trip showed me the Great lakes, the worlds biggest Ukulele, and even the mighty Mississippi. But these all seem small against the backdrop of friendship and talent I had the honor of enjoying over the last three days.
I will end this end this by borrowing something I learned watching the film,
"Rock That Uke":

      Neil Armstrong, upon returning from his trip to the moon, had to spend time in quarantine. According to photographs he spent some of that time playing the ukulele. Here was a man who had just traveled farther than any other human being, had tasted the vastness of space, and after that incredibly big journey could still find solace in an instrument so small as the Ukulele.

I am going to go play now.

Running with the dogs

      So one night some time ago, the Pirates showed up at my old house in San Francisco. I don't recall the occasion, we didn't need one.
    We began the evening washing down good rum with cheap beer. I suggested taking the bottle and climbing the Marlboro Man, a 100ft tall Billboard that , back then overlooked the Bay Bridge.
    Another suggestion was to go wander the dark abandon military tunnels at fort Funston.
    All good ideas, but we ended up walking down to the Haight and getting more Beer.
    We picked up a couple 12 packs of I don't remember what, and wandered aimlessly, finally settling down on a curb on Waller street. We sat and drank and waxed philosophical while trying not to decide what to do next. This went on for a couple hours.
    So there we were minding our own business, when from out of the dark came some hippie girl who decided that we were a party, and she was invited. I don't remember why, but at some point she said that she was a vegetarian. This momentarily cleared my fog. A vegetarian! It was my drunken bastard cue, and I took it.
    "Why in Gods name would you damn yourself to a life of mere plant matter?" I asked, (or accused) She said something about murder and poison, and I grinned "yeah, but TASTY GOOD murder and poison." She flashed a look that said I was disgusting. "Come on" I said, baring my teeth "haven't you...haven't you ever run with the Dogs?" I began gesturing wildly. Beer and spit flew in a fine mist.
     "...taken down an Antelope with your bare teeth? fangs clamped into its neck, the taste of spurting blood!...Eat or Be eaten!...WOOF!," I growled, "WOOOF!"
     I began barking and howling, biting at the air, turning and jumping in circles. One by one the pirates joined in. Even the hippie girl was barking along with us.
Then came a voice from above.   
"SHUT THE F**K UP OR I'M CALLING THE COPS!!"
     The pirates looked at each other. "we gotta get out of here."
     "Woof" I agreed.
    "We could go to my place..." It was the Hippie. I didn't trust her.
     "But not all of you..." she added. "My housemates might be asleep. Uh, You, You, and...You." Her last choice was a figure emerging from the darkness, wearing some sort of robes and carrying a big stick. He grinned and nodded, but said nothing.
     "I'm going home" I said.
I picked up what remained of the beer and watched as the four of them headed off down the street."You'll be back!" I yelled after them.
     The rest of us then went back to the house and finished the beer.
Later I awoke to a sound, and opened the eye that was not pressed against the carpet to see the two other Pirates come in.     
"howaazit?" I asked.
     "Lame" they said, almost in unison, "we woke up the roommates, and they got pissed"
    "Woof!" I grunted, and sunk back into the carpet.

Pumpkinhead.

      Listen: Once upon a time, near a small town off the freeway, not far from where I grew up, there was a little Christmas theme park. A place filled with fiberglass snow hills, storybook rides, and even an ice covered "North Pole". When I was a kid, I loved the place. Not for the "storybooks come to life" aspect, but because they had a magic shop. This treasure trove of a store boasted such wonders as bugs in ice, smoke from your finger tips, hot pepper gum, disappearing ink, you name it. All the best comic book ad page specials. I can't say I cared much for the rickety ex-carnival rides, but I love spending my allowance in that shop. around 1978 I had one of my first jobs at that park. Not at the magic shop as I would have liked, but as a costumed character.
     I was Pumpkinhead.
     My already scarecrow like 6 foot high school physique was topped with an enormous fiberglass head in the shape of a sardonic Jack-o-lantern. My day was spent wandering about the park, entertaining kids, being often kicked and generally abused by younger teens, and more often unintentionally scaring the crap out of toddlers. But hey, it was a job, and besides, some of the Elf chicks were pretty hot. Also, there was the March Hare. Under the giant mute rabbit suit was a cool Hawaiian guy who kept me supplied with dirty pidgin sayings. We would grab some free hot chocolate and hop the storybook train, and as we passed, shout things like "won'poke?" at the clown chicks who filled balloons by the train ride. Between that, and being offered various "job aiding" substances by a guy in a pointy hat and curly toed shoes, it was one of the most surreal jobs a high school kid could have. But, as all good things must come to an end, the place closed down for remodeling in 1978 and despite efforts, never reopened. Seven years later, and now many years ago, the Pirates and I were, as usual, drinking rum. "I hated that head," I said, knocking back a shot "but, in a way it was kinda cool."
     "What happened to it?" asked one of the pirates as he refreshed my shot.
"for all I know?" I held up the glass and gazed through the amber fluid, "it might still be sitting in our old dressing room." I downed the shot and went about lighting a cigarette. When I looked up, The pirates were grinning. I knew the plan but spoke anyway.
    "Lets go get my Head."

    We were on a Mission. We were also drunk. But there we were, wandering through the woods with only a zippo lighter providing a dim flickering light source.
"Damn!" I muttered, and shut the lighter. It was getting too hot to hold, and I had to let it cool down. We had deviated from our original task, and were looking through the old "Storybook Railroad" area, because if memory served, there was a chest of treasure in here somewhere, and well, we were Pirates after all. After a fruitless search we cursed the thieving bastards who took our treasure, and then made our way back to the main area of the park. "guys!" came a hushed voice from the darkness, "check it out" One of the pirates had found the "Alice in Wonderland" mirror maze, and the door was open. This place was basically a series of narrow mirror lined hallways with scenes from Alice behind glass walls, except now the glass and mirrors crunched like gravel under our feet, and all the figures had been decapitated.
      A strange odor, like copper and decay came from the walls which were spattered with a dark substance, and to be honest, I still don't want to know what it was. We found our way out and headed towards the front gate, where under the stairs to the office resided the dressing room, and hopefully, my Head. On the way we noticed that most of the buildings were posted with signs that read "Warning! Electric Shock burglar alarm!" which seemed ludicrous, but, then again, what if? Was a giant comical fiberglass pumpkin worth a trip to the hospital, and possibly Jail? We got to the room which was once the "dressing room" and found no sign, but it was secured with a large chain and padlock. I gave the Padlock a tug, and a light came on in one of the buildings. We made a loud and obvious escape over the front gate and across the parking lot and then crouched in a ditch, smoking cigarettes, and spying back at the park, which remained silent. We decided that our next mission, was more Rum.



       About a year later, a couple of us returned to the park, but found it ransacked and decaying. The once padlocked building was now doorless, so we ventured in and found a large pentagram painted on the wall above some sort of disemboweled animal. We began to feel like it was the part of the movie where the audience was yelling "get out, get out", so we did. My Pumpkin head was gone, so it goes.

     Ah, but wait...

     Listen: Once upon a time some years ago, a woman I worked with was telling a story about a little Christmas theme park just off the freeway. And how as a child, she was traumatized when she saw a giant scarecrow with a big scary pumpkin for a head. "When was this?" I asked, biting my lip. "well," She said, "I was four, so it must have been 1978". I burst out laughing. "What?" she demanded "What?"