tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74929918307722444092024-02-06T20:43:01.241-08:00Tiki King's Mindless RamblingI like to write about stuff, especially after too much coffee. Or just enough Whisky. Some of the stuff here is old, some new. This blog was processed by a nut, and may contain swearing and alcohol and or drug references. It may contain lies, or terrible truths.
If you are sensitive to these things, proceed at your own risk.Tiki Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07344151576187855753noreply@blogger.comBlogger37125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7492991830772244409.post-47957168059317271662023-01-12T19:21:00.062-08:002023-01-30T17:21:45.382-08:00Dirt<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">It comes back to me
almost like a dream, or like an explosion happening in slow motion, time slows down to a trickle, so that each
detail is in sharp glittering relief. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">A balloon
of memory that expands and envelopes me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My dad<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"> and I were on a camping trip, or maybe coming home from one, I don't remember those specifics. We had ridden
about a hundred miles so far, and we were stopped on the side of the road. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">A "Leak
stop" as we called it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My dad had walked off the side of the road and down the dirt shoulder into
a ravine<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">, while I busied
myself picking at the debris in the dirt on the side of the road. Examining bottle caps, pull tabs, chips of glass, garbage, Assorted bits that had been tossed or lost by passing cars over the
years. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"> My little mental diversion was interrupted by my dads voice as he
called up from the ravine.</span><br />
"Hey," He yelled, h<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">is voice slightly muffled by the
bushes, "you gotta see this!"</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
I straitened up and stretched,
and then walked down to where he was, which was in a sort of tunnel made of
blackberry bushes. My mind raced with ideas of what he might of found. An an<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">imal skeleton, or an old wrecked car,
maybe a cache of antique bottles.</span> "What is it?" I asked
excitedly. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He made a sweeping gesture with his arms, "Check it
out." <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That was years ago, and I had pretty much forgotten about <span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">it, until this day.</span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">This day was </span>September 5th, 1981, and I was out with my best friend Linda, and her boyfriend, who was also my good friend, Eric.</div><div class="MsoNormal">
We had been picnicking out in a field by UCSC, and as we were packing
up, Eric said that he knew of some caves nearby, and we decided to go and check
them out. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
fir<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">st one that we went to was
pretty easy. It had a big entrance, and sort of natural steps leading down into
it. The main room was big, and had a mostly level floor. We wandered around in
that first one for a while, looking at what others had left behind on their
visits, which, since it was close to the college, was mostly beer cans and
graffiti. After about a half an
hour, Eric suggested that we go to another cave that he knew of further down
the valley. We agreed and climbed our way back out in to the daylight.</span> We walked
down the hill, and picked up a trail down by the <span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">creek. After about a half a mile, Eric stopped and
pointed up the hillside.</span><br />
"It's up there," He said, "Not
many people know about this one, it's a little harder to find, and not as easy
to get into."<br />
Linda and I nodded, and followed Eric<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"> up the hill to a grove of redwoods.</span><br />
"This
is it." Eric said. I looked down to where he was pointing
and saw a slightly oval hole at the base of one of the trees. The hole was at best two feet in diamete<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">r, and
descended almost straight down into darkness. </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked first at Linda, and then to Eric. "It's easier
than it looks." Eric assured us. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Linda put her backpack on the ground and sat next to it.
"I think I'll wait out here." She sai<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">d.</span><br />
I looked again at the hole. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"All right," said, "Let's do it." </div><div class="MsoNormal">We climbed down. deep into the earth. twisting our way down, spiriling deeper and deeper. It was tricky in spots, but we went and explored for a good hour or so. Sometimes crawing, sometimes slithering, sometimes walking. We were on our way back out when things went wrong. Eric went first. He climbed up and out, then called down to me. </div><div class="MsoNormal">"I'm out," He said, "Come on up!" I started the climb. I
got about half way up when I found that somehow the shaft seemed gotten smaller,
and my hips were pinned against the walls. I pulled, but my hips wo<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">uldn't budge.</span> Panic sparked
in the pit of my stomach and exploded into my chest. I started to feel like it
was getting hard to breath. "Shit," I yelled, "SHIT!" I
pulled at the walls, but I couldn't move. "Help!" I yelled up the
shaf<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">t, "I'm stuck!"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Hold on!" Eric yelled back, “I’ll come
down." </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tried to relax, but had a hard time. There wasn't really
any light, but I closed my eyes anyway, and concentrated on breathing. After a
minute, Eric made it down to where I was <span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">and shined the light in my face.</span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Dude," He said, "You gotta turn
around." </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then my mind replayed the climb down when we had first come
in. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
I was at "the keyhole". a spot where you had to twist in a sort of circle as you passed through...<br />
I
lowered myself back down a bit and found the shelf with my foot, then tur<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">ned around, and I was free. I
climbed up a few feet and looked up at Eric.</span> "Thanks." I said,
"I..." But I couldn't finish. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The yellow beam from Eric’s pen light revealed a scene I had
somehow missed on the way in. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">It</span> was like the ravine, so many years ago with my Dad. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Check it out." My D<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">ad had said,</span> making a sweeping gesture with his arms.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They were everywhere. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Spinning, climbing, hanging.<br />
That time in the ravine they
were shiny black and yellow.<br />
Here, deep in the earth, they were dull and gray. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
Spiders. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
Here in the cave, the wall was a vibrating grey carpet.<br />
I
screamed<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">That was the last of the caves that day.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
I got home that evening just as the day was fading to dusk. I walked up the path to the
front door, and as I looked in the window, time began to slow. I could see my
mother was at the kitchen table with her head in her hands, My moms friend Lou
looked out the window and met my gaze. Her face so blank, it seemed to be
pulling the expression from mine.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Something wasn't right.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I went into the house and my mother was on the phone now.
Lou began to speak, but it was disjointed, rambling...</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Your father” she said, “there was an accident. The hospital
called, your mom is talking to them. They have to…She’s talking to them
now…we’re not sure”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It made no sense.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An accident? Why would the hospital call? Why wouldn’t my
dad just be here calling the insurance company?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mom hung up the phone, and was sobbing hysterically. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“They want to know if he has a mustache” she wailed. “They asked
if he had a mustache…they said his license,.. He doesn’t…oh god…they can’t
tell…” she looked at me. ” We, we might have to go to the hospital, they
wouldn’t tell me how he is, will you come to the hospital with me?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tried to console her. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I think he’s clean shaven on his license. Maybe they
think…Maybe they are not sure it’s him?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I shook my head</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“He’s fine mom, probably just broke his leg or something.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I went to my room and changed clothes. I figured on wearing
a black suit to visit him in the hospital. I thought it would be ironic.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I came out my mom was on the phone again, but at least
now she wasn’t crying.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ok, I thought. Good. He’s Ok. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a knock at the door, and I answered it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was our next door neighbor. We walked
out on the deck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’m sorry” he
said. “I didn’t… I mean…We were on a ride, all of us, we were riding” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s Ok,” I said.” What happened? How is
he?” <br />
He stared at me. It was like he was trying to figure out the question.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Didn’t they...Didn’t they call you? Someone should have
called you…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, moms talking to someone now. But they just told us he
was in an accident. I don’t think it’s that bad, I mean…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He looked at me shaking his head. ”No...No... He’s dead, He…He died” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His expression made it almost a question.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No…no” I reassured him, shaking my head “No, no, he’s just…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Inside the house there was a scream, and then a strange wailing. I
ran inside and watched as my mother sort of slid to the floor and landed in a heap
sobbing. The phone dangled by its cord, slowly twisting back and forth. Lou was
draped over her and they were rocking slowly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It might have been a scene from a movie. <br />
But it wasn't.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I went back out on the deck, my neighbor was gone.<br />
I
stood there for some time. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wasn’t really even thinking. Just standing there on the
deck, listening to the repetitive sound of my mother crying, and waiting for
the next thing to happen.<br />
I tried to grasp that. The next thing?<br />
Was I suppoused to do something?<br />
Do I just wait? What should I do?<br />
I needed to fix it somehow. I asked God to trade us. It made sense. Take me, and bring him back.<br />
I would happiy disolve if he would come riding up the driveway.<br />
I waited.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After a while I saew some lights on the road. A car slowly drove up and parked on the road across from
our house. In the dim light I could make out that it was a Sheriffs car.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A figure got out, and I walked up the driveway to meet him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Is this the Baron residence?” he asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah” I said, ‘is this about my dad?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sheriff looked at the ground. “Maybe we should go
inside” he said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We already know” I told him, “the hospital called us. I
think it was the hospital.” I shrugged “anyway, we already know. He’s dead”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We were both looking towards the house </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Mmm…” he said, patting his leg.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You don’t need to do anything” I told him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hmm?” he asked. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You don’t need to do anything. You came to tell us, and we
know. You’re done, if you want.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Mmm…” he said again.<br />
I don’t think either of us knew exactly
what was supposed to happen next.<br />
He patted his leg again. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He had one job this evening, an important message to deliver. He had
probably been rehearsing it all the way up here, all along the drive. Saying our names. Repeating
the message. He had no doubt been trained on exactly how to deliver it, and
deal with the emotions that come with it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now a 17 year
old kid taken that from him, and I don’t think he had brought anything else.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Really,” I said, “We know...You’re done if you want.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Mmm…” he said again. “Well, Ok.” He walked back
over to the cruiser. “I’m sorry...” he said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I know” I said, “thanks”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t remember much else about that night. At least not
details. Lots of phone calls made and received, a lot of crying. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A lot of crying.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At some point it was the next day, and then the next. <br />
Time passed on its own accord. It was out of my hands.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One evening somewhere in there I saw my neighbor again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So what happened?” I asked Him, “I mean everything, tell me
everything. What...what happened exactly?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We were riding up skyline” he began.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I knew the place. Hwy 35. My dad and I had spent a lot of
summer afternoons up there, twisting through the mountain roads.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Your dad was out in front," he said "We were on the big curves up by page mill road. Like I said, he was up front by a ways. I came around the corner, and it was like an explosion, there were parts everywhere, there was stuff sliding on the road, stuff everywhere. Your dad was lying on the side of the road, I pulled over and ran to where he was, but he died right there”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Did he say anything? what did he say?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
my neighbor took a deep breath. “ No....he kind of made some sounds, and, and kind of shook, and that was it”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That was it.</div><div class="MsoNormal">That, was it.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My dad was riding a late 60’s Kawasaki 500 two stroke. It was set up as a café racer, with drop bars and a small fairing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was fast. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Really fast.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once out on a camping trip, we rode out through Yosemite,
over the pass and out to Mono Lake, then got on highway 167.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
15 miles of straight, flat, empty road.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He swatted my leg. “Should we open it up?” he shouted.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sure” I shouted back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He twisted the throttle, and the bike leapt forward. I was
crouched in, peaking over his shoulder at the speedometer. 70, 80, 90, 100,
110,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tucked in and held on. The bike was making a whining howl that I could feel in my teeth</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was as much a feeling as it was a sound. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To be honest, at some point it stopped being fun, and I just held on and
waited for it to be over.</div><div class="MsoNormal">120? I don't really know. Whatever it was, it was fast.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was probably going fast that day up on skyline.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then out of the blue comes a Honda 750 touring bike, also going too fast around a blind curve in the wrong lane. They hit head on, and
just explode.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that was that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I called my job at the summer camp where I was working and told them that my dad
had been killed in an accident, and I would not be at work for a few days. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My boss said, “Whatever. Look, if you don’t want to work,
why don’t you just quit?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I did.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We made funeral arrangements.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a viewing, which I didn't go to, and I talked my
mother out of going as well.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most of us did not want to remember him that way. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think his
mother and sister went, but I don’t think anyone else did.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember before that, when we were making the arrangements, and the “up-selling” began.<br />
When all was said and done, the funeral director probably thought I was a heartless bastard of a son.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We had already bought a cemetery plot, but they wanted to
sell us a concrete vault.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No” I said, “He wanted to be in the ground”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ah, yes, I understand." the director said, nodding."But the safety and security offered
by a solid concrete liner, is not only peace of mind…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No” I repeated, shaking my head “He wanted to be in the
ground”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yes, and in
many places a vault or liner is required by law, and even if it is not
required, the protection it offers from the elements is…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mom was doe eyed. </div><div class="MsoNormal">“Maybe we should think about it…” she said blankly</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I held her hand, and shook my head, “We don’t need it, the
guys at the cemetery said we don’t”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Very well.” The director said. It was a resigned sigh. He
seemed peeved.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Have you decided on a Casket?” he asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No,” My mom said. “But I know he wanted something simple”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That was the truth. </div><div class="MsoNormal">He had said it himself. I would have
built his casket if I had the time. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Funny thing is, in fact, he actually built the coffin for my grandfather. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Simple pine box, stained dark. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Something simple” I repeated</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ahh, I am sure we have just the thing. Right this way”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He led us through the door that opened into the show room. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’ll let you take a look around,” He said ”…and I’ll be
back in a moment. take your time.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He gestured around the room with his hand, “Please”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Caskets were situated around the room on satin covered
risers. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The waist level were the most expensive, sparkling gold,
bronze or brushed chrome, glossy polished exotic wood, all spilling out heaps
of quilted satin and lace pillows...</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Small easels held signs touting the features.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Beauty and security”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Weather proof”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ultimate protection”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Strong and durable”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Lasting peace of mind”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Luxury”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Knee level were a bit less dramatic.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Floor level looked like fancy painted cardboard</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could not see him in any of them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Neither did my mom. “I don’t know...” she kept repeating</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When the funeral director returned, I asked the dreaded
question. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Don’t you have anything…Simple?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The director got the peeved look again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, I suppose…but a man of his social standing deserves
quality, take this one for example. I am sure he would have wanted something
more like....” He gestured towards a gaudy box that looked like a rosewood Cadillac
with no wheels. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My dad did not even own a suit. When he wasn’t on his motorcycle,
He drove a 52 ford pick up with more rust than paint.<br />
And he loved it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I took the director aside, out of my mothers hearing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I looked him in the eye. “My father is dead." i told him "We are going to bury him. Deep
underground. deep in the earth. He is going to decompose, and the coffin with him. He is going
into the dirt, and returning to the earth. What he would want...and what WE want...is something simple”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The director did his best to gain composure, and not show
the disgust he was obviously feeling.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He lead us to the back of the room.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had overlooked it completely in the flash and glitz.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We do have this…economy model.” He drawled, his expression
was board dismissal, and he did his best to make it seem undesirable.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was a simple pine box. Dark stain, slightly domed lid,
nice simple fixtures. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It had no easel, no luxury features. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mother smiled</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Perfect” I said.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The funeral was on a Wednesday. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have never seen so many people at a funeral. Friends and
family, people he had made art or stained glass for, co-workers, motorcycle friends, local people who just
knew him from his many years at Safeway. They spread out in all directions
through the cemetery. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My cousin, a Mormon deacon, read the eulogy. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
None of us were Mormons, but it didn’t matter</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When it was over, they lowered the casket. The caretaker
stepped on a lever, and It disappeared slowly into the AstroTurf lined hole.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His mother stood beside the hole and mouthed a silent prayer,
and then she picked up a handful of dirt and threw it down onto the coffin. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What the hell? I thought. I had never seen that before, and wondered
about it, but did not know who to ask.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When she left. Everyone followed, back to our house to get
drunk. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stayed behind with my friend Matt. The cemetery workers came, but seemed hesitant to start shoveling with us there, so we wandered down to the gazebo and stayed until the caretakers patted down the last shovel full of fresh earth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then we went to the party.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We made a bit of a stir, because Matt gave me a ride home on
his Motorcycle. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Half the family was proud, the other half shocked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You never know.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You do what you do, but you just never know.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">I have gone back to the day he died many times.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As if I can change it, or find something I am missing to
make it all make sense.</div>
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But it’s always the same.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I close my eyes, and I’m there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I arrive as the two motorcycles collide.</div>
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I am in the road as they both pass through me,
meeting in the middle</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">An
explosion happening in slow motion so that each detail is in sharp relief. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">A balloon
of debris that expands and envelops me.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">A swarm of angry bees made of tiny flying motorcycle parts</span></div>
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At first in silent slow motion, then chaos</div>
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Then I am walking along the dirt shoulder, over <span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">bottle caps and pull-tabs, chips of
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over the years. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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He is laying on the side of the road, cradled in my neighbors arms.<br />
No one notices me.</div>
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In their point in time I am in a cave about 25 miles south,
as the crow flies.</div>
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Deep underground. </div><div class="MsoNormal">In the earth.</div>
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In the dirt.</div>
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But here, now, I drop down on one knee and lean in close
enough to feel his breath.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He looks confused</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He is the only one who can see me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I close my eyes and concentrate on blocking out the chaos.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because this time he will tell me something</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This time he will whisper the secret.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This time it will all make sense.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But he just makes a few garbled
sounds, shakes, and then is gone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I open my eyes, and I am back to wherever I started.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No time has really has passed.<br />
A mere blink.<br />
A fraction of a second.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An eternity.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I swallow the shudder, and go back to living.</div>
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Because,<br />
There is always next time.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Epilogue:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: times;">I still remember the last time we spoke. It is almost as though it were only a moment ago. </span></span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: times;">We passed each other in the Laundry Room. He was going to bed to catch a few hours sleep before his ride that day, I was going out to meet friends.</span></span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: times;"> "Going to Bed?" I asked.</span></span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: times;">"Yeah," He said.</span></span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: times;"> It's funny, I can still remember His sleepy Smile. </span></span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: times;">"I'll see You later." I said. </span></span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: times;">I thought maybe I should have said good night, but it was morning.</span></span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: times;">He nodded, "Yeah," He said, "I'll see You later."</span></span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: times;">And that was that.</span></span></p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: times;"> Now, I close my eyes, and I’m there.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times;">I arrive in the middle of the road, as do the two motorcycles.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times;">Then I am walking along the dirt shoulder<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times;">My father is laying on the side of the road, cradle</span>d in my neighbors arms. I drop down on one knee and lean in close enough to feel his breath.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I close my eyes and concentrate on blocking out the chaos.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then I open my eyes an look at him</div><div class="MsoNormal">He looks confused, like he is the only one who can see me. He make a strange gurgling noise</div><div class="MsoNormal">I shake my head slowly, and hold my finger to my lips</div><div class="MsoNormal">"Shhhhh" I say. I know what I need to do, but I just never want to say good bye</div><div class="MsoNormal">He looks oddley serene</div><div class="MsoNormal">I smile slightly.</div><div class="MsoNormal">"Good night, dad" </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: times;">And that is that.</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>
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Tiki Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07344151576187855753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7492991830772244409.post-22200207562017678312020-12-29T19:15:00.011-08:002023-01-12T17:08:29.567-08:00Hellhouse tales #6. Random is as Random does.<p> So, you should know that were not troublemakers.</p><p>Well, we were involved in trouble from time to time, but not in the sense that we ever set out to hurt anyone. Well, obviously other than ourselves. Well, and of course, willing accomplices. But we did enjoy from time to time making the lives of others just a little more surreal. Weather intentionally, or as an effect of our regular comings and goings. Sometimes people just happened into our path, and were swept up in the madness. I remember at one of our street sales, while we were trying to raise enough to pay the rent, Dave was trying to buy things from people passing by. </p><p>"Hey! how much for your shoes?"</p><p>"Dave, we don't need thier shoes"</p><p>"But look at 'em, I could could turn those around for double what ever we pay for them"</p><p>"Dave, We need rent, we don't need thier shoes"</p><p>(to the passerby) "Common, how much for your shoes?"</p><p>Klutch chimes in: "How about a dance? How much would you pay to cut a rug with this handsome gent?"</p><p>I suppose I should mention, as a part of full disclosure, that was usually after consuming a box of wine. "The silver bag" we called it</p><p>It was a sort of tradition during street sales that, although, as I said, we were trying to raise rent money, sometimes the first profits went to buying some drink. The preferred drink of the street sale was a box of wine. However, we would tear away the cardboard to reveal the mylar bag, which we would throw to each other like a drunken football. When the wine was gone, the bag could be inflated, forming an awesome pillow to pass out on.</p><p>Sometimes I wonder. Did someone buy that house, and if so, did they happen upon our old storage area...</p><p>"What the hell is all this crap? Whats with all these wine bags? ... Hey, bet I could get a couple bucks for those shoes..."</p><p>I can only hope. Those are the questions I must ponder. </p><p>We left our mark, that is certain.</p><p>Another passtime was to go to golden gate park and try to get tourists to take pictures with us. Dave was very good at this. It would start with finding a group that was rotating the photographer. Dave would approach very casually and ask: "Hey, do you want me to take the picture so you can all be in it?"</p><p>Then after a few snaps, he would say, "Klutch, you get in there. oh, thats beautiful! click, click, click...Tiki, come on, get in!"</p><p>People would seem dubious, but would more often than not, just let it happen. Then we would rotate Dave into the session. But, then came the coup de gras. Dave would get one of them to take pictures of just the three of us. </p><p>Not just one, but as many different poses as we could get before they stopped clicking. </p><p>There was once when we even got another random stranger to snap a few of us with the whole group.</p><p>And this was in the days of actual film cameras. They could not simply delete us, We were there for the duration. </p><p>I wonder. Did any of those families put our pictures in thier photo albums?</p><p>"Who are these people?"</p><p>"I don't know. We met them in San Francisco, they were very persuasive"</p>Tiki Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07344151576187855753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7492991830772244409.post-13113701052000560342020-12-26T21:10:00.023-08:002022-09-02T13:48:10.901-07:00The ghost of drunkards past<p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> I moved to San Francisco in the winter of 1986. I loaded up my Datsun B-210 with all my worldly possessions, drove the 87 miles up highway one, carried the boxes up two flights of stairs, stuck them in my new room, then the next day got on a plane to New York. When I returned, I unpacked and settled in. I lived with my sister and her boyfriend, and their housemate Mark in a top floor Flat on Ashbury Street, just up the corner from Haight. The room I lived in faced out on Ashbury, and I spent many a coffee time leaning out the window of that room, watching the comings and goings of people down on the street, pondering who they were, and where they were going. My brother in-law got me a job as a bike messenger. My days were spent pedaling the city, my nights were spent at clubs and bars when I could afford it, but more often I was in my room. My room was pretty standard. As I said, the windows looked out on the street, there were French doors that separated it from the "living Room" and it had a small walk in closet. When I say small, it was probably only 4 foot by 4 foot. It was a strange little room in that it had a counter and a sink with a big mirror over it, and on the opposite side an area to hang clothes. I guess it was a sort of dressing room, I was never quite sure. I decided it was my writing room, and put my old royal deluxe typewriter on the counter over the sink. The sink didn't work anyway, so I figured it was a good place to write. I had wanted to be a writer for some time. I had written several short stories, but to be honest, my writing was atrocious. But I persevered because I had read that Stephen King once said, the best way to become a writer, is to write. So I did. Sometimes late at night, early in the morning, or whenever the mood struck, I would sit in that little room, smoke cigarettes, sip booze, or coffee, or whatever drink was available, and write. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I wrote plays and dissertations, short stories and poems. Observations, critiques, and reviews. Paper moved from one side to the other, from blank to filled, as cigarette butts formed a pyramid in the ashtray. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">One piece that I considered my magnum opus was a play about a man who was steadily loosing touch with reality. A man who fears he is going insane, because he cannot reconcile the things that he is experiencing with his expectations of logic. He prays for some sort of a sign, and is sent a guardian angle, who looks to everyone else like a regular fellow, but to our protagonist he looks like a demon. Horns, fangs, bat wings, the works. I thought it was good. It was filled with existential questions, and angst. Fear and joy, and ultimately a spiritual awakening. When I thought it was finished, I made the mistake of showing someone. They read it, literally laughed out loud, and told me not to quit my day job. </span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Shortly after, I took the typewriter out of the closet and stuck it in the basement storage area. Then I took all my writing out to the back yard, stuck it in a small metal waste paper basket, and burned it. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I didn't shed a tear, I simply watched the words disappear the way you might watch Drano clear a clog, and when it was done, I went about my business. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It would be six years before I started writing again. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But I digress.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Lets rewind a bit...<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Say, a year or so before that fiery judgement day...</span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Late one night, or early one morning, depending on how you look at it, I was working on the demon/guardian play. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I was also drinking.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I suppose "working on it" is slightly incorrect. I had rolled in a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter, returned the carriage, but that was as far as I had gotten. I was stuck. I didn't know where to go with the story. I stared at the typewriter keys, my fingers hovering over various letters, but nothing came. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I took a drag on my cigarette, and my gaze followed the smoke up to the mirror.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I stared into my own eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"You’re the problem,” I said to, well, myself. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"you... are... the... problem" <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I shook my head, "how am I to get anything done with you staring at me?"<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My reflection simply blinked, but didn’t answer. (Which I suppose, was good)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I decided to do something. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I took the mirror off the wall and put it behind me, leaned against the wall, tucked behind the jackets and suits, where it could no longer judge me, then I sat back at my typewriter.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That was when I saw it. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">There, on the wall where the mirror had been, was a small door about one and a half feet square. It was outlined in one and a half inch trim that formed a sort of frame, and on the left hand side was a small knob, almost flush with the wall. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> It was all but painted shut.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My mind raced. What could be in there? What if it were some sort of wall safe? Lost through the years, heaped with gold and jewels. </span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Perhaps, but more likely it was some sort of forgotten medicine cabinet.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sole occupants, a rotting band-aid, discarded razor blade, a degrading aspirin...<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I reached up and pulled on the knob. It protested at first, and then popped open with a slight squeak, and a wisp of musty air. To my surprise, there was nothing there. Just a dark hole in the wall. I climbed up on the counter, and held my Zippo lighter up to the opening. A slight breeze came in and caused the flame to flicker, but in the dim light I could see that the opening went into the air space between my house, and the house next door. The gap was maybe a foot or 16 inches at best. I went and found a flashlight, climbed back up on my makeshift desk and peered into the hole. Directly across the gap was another little framed in square, with a knob on the left hand side. I am not sure what was going through my mind at this point, but for what ever reason, I reached through and grasped the knob and gave it a push. To my great surprise, it gave, and opened into what appeared to be a similar closet/dressing room in the house next door. I could not make out what was in the little closet, but the door was ajar and I could see light, and hear voices.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Now what came next, I really have no explanation for. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I took a deep breath, leaned through the hole, and then let out a blood-curdling scream into the house across the way.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Then I reached through and shut their little door, shut the door on my side, and although it probably didn't matter, shut off the light in my closet. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I sat there in the dark. </span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I could barely hear it, but there were muffled frantic voices, and what sounded like doors slamming. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I sat there for a while, pondering. Finally I turned my light back on, and looked at the blank page of my insanity/demon play in the typewriter. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I lit another cigarette, and began to type:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>"I had begun to hear voices. At least I thought I did. They didn't tell me things or give me directions, they were just strange sounds that I could not explain. Although I knew quite well that the mind can create any reality it deems necessary to keep the illusion of sanity, I also knew that the random sounds I would sometimes hear coming from places they could not be coming from, such as say, the closet, had to have some sort of a logical explanation"</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p>Tiki Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07344151576187855753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7492991830772244409.post-56280213937750911362020-10-28T09:57:00.016-07:002023-05-18T18:23:00.361-07:00This Old Hiraeth<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"> I sat up on the roof with my feet dangling over the edge. I cracked a Mickeys big mouth, and took a long sip, lost in my thoughts. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">My dad used to sit up here some times.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"> I was never supposed to be up on the roof as a kid, but sometimes I would sneak up here, and now and then I would find an empty Mickeys bottles tucked up under the eve. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"> I sat and sipped the beer, Looking out towards the road, but not really at anything.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I closed my eyes, but the scene was still there. I watched as a family of five drove slowly up what used to be a dirt road in a yellow 1960s Dodge Dart Swinger.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I could almost still see what it looked like the first time I saw it.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">My parents bought the house when I was 7. We moved in on Mothers day, 1971. It was brand new when we bought it, we were the first people to live there, but we had all lived somewhere else before.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I was the youngest of three kids.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">My family lived there, I lived there, it was rented out for a short time, then my mom moved back in. After she died, my wife, my kid and I moved in.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">But it was nobody’s first house.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">No one was born there.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">No one was carried over the threshold.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">There were no first time buyers.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">It was however, my father’s last house. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">He was killed in a motorcycle accident.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Drove away one morning and never came back.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">One of the renters had that in common. A falling tree crushed her while she was driving home from work, about a mile down the road </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">It was her last house.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">My mother took her last breath in the living room. She had lived many places, but that house was the last.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">My family had always owned it. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">My family, my mother, and then me.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">The surrounding land holds the bones of at least 5 dogs, some 8 or so cats, a couple of hamsters, a parakeet, and a rat</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I always said that once I moved in, I would live there until I took my last breath.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">That when I moved out, it would be in a pine box.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">But I no longer live there, not for over two years now, and I breath on.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">As I write this it is in the process of being sold.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">A casualty of divorce.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">50 years of memories. 50 years of plans.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">50 years of birthdays and holidays, </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">50 years of not knowing exactly where I was going, but certain of where I would be.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">A 50 year long con.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">My Father said it, then my mother, even my sisters.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“This house will be yours someday”</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">No one argued</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Our lives are made of constants, things we believe to be true.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">The fibers that make up the thread of our futures.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">We may not be able to see the cloth they will become, but we believe that the fibers are real. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">We have to believe, we have to have faith. We have to have constants, or the whole thing falls apart. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Gravity, the speed of light, E=Mc2. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Constants, knowns, faith.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">That when you put the key in the door lock and turn it, the door will open. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Until it doesn’t.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Until its not your lock, or your door, or your house.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“This house will be yours someday”</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">It was presented as a truth.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">But, </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">No one knew they were lying.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">It was never mine; I was just allowed to pass through it.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I finished my Mickeys, and tucked the empty beer bottle up under the eve.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Then I climbed down off the roof, got in my car and left.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">It turns out there is one truth.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">To miss-quote Flannery O’Conner:</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Where I come from is gone,</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">And where I thought I was going to, </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Was never there.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Tiki Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07344151576187855753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7492991830772244409.post-52026978217263894492019-11-24T22:30:00.002-08:002020-06-06T23:33:20.526-07:00One Eyed King of the Court of MysteriesMy Friend Maggie came to visit one fine Tuesday afternoon.<br />
Well, if were are going to be honest, she came to visit the Thursday before, we all left for the week-end on a gig, we came back Monday evening, and began the Visit on Tuesday.<br />
We got up too early, as I misunderstood the instructions about what time my Kid had to be at school. So I made some strong Coffee, and we chatted about this and that until it was time to take the kid in.<br />
One of those things was "so, what do you want to do or see?"<br />
"it's your town" she said.<br />
We decided to go to the abalone church. It wasn't a church anymore, it was semi abandoned, and now lay mostly in ruins.<br />
It was originally built by a pair of brothers. Controversial contractors who were known for their eccentricities. Aside from the main house, there were out buildings and spires, grand arches and walls, all covered in abalone shells. They called it, "The court of mysteries". It was their house at first, and later, was bought by a local church who adorned all the spires with Coptic crosses. after they left, it sat abandoned.<br />
When I was in my twenties, it was one of many drinking spots for the under age set, and unfortunately suffered from vandalism. I had not been there in many years, but it seemed like a good place to check out.<br />
We pulled the car up in front and got out. Even in its sorry state, it was a thing of beauty.<br />
We had intended on taking some publicity picture there, but as we walked up to the chain link fence across the entrance, there were a few problems. One, several no trespassing signs, which normally wouldn't be much of a deterrent, but then there was #2, a man sitting on the "porch" of the house, keeping his eye on us as we walked up.<br />
We kept a polite distance, busying ourselves with taking pictures of the archway and some of the spires. Then the man got up and walked down the gravel path to the entry arch.<br />
I knew what was coming. the private property speech. So we took a few steps back towards the road and got ready to leave.<br />
He walked up the the arch a few feet from us. "Hey" he said.<br />
he was wearing a stained tee-shirt and shorts, and flip flops, even though it was winter. But there was something else...<br />
"I know, sorry," I stared "we'll go..."<br />
He interrupted me. "if you godown to the end there, to where the fence ends, just down by the corner of the property, you can come inside. Probably get some better pictures"<br />
I did not expect that.<br />
"Thanks" I said, and gave him a nod.<br />
We went in and took some pictures.<br />
He explained that he was the caretaker, and as long as we just wanted to take some pictures, it was <span style="background-color: yellow;">OK</span> with him.<br />
There was something not quite right.<br />
He looked a little odd.<br />
Maybe got started on the Thunderbird early, I thought.<br />
We went inside the grounds and took a lot of pictures. He acted as a sort of tour guide, giving us tidbits of trivia as we went from structure to structure.<br />
Then as we were about finished, he asked "do you want to see something cool?"<br />
"Sure" we said, almost in unison.<br />
"Follow me" he said, and led us over to the main house.<br />
That was when I heard the narrators voice: "They then followed the stranger into the abandoned building..."<br />
my daydream was interrupted by a voice. "Look at this"the voice said.<br />
it was the caretaker. "you notice anything?" he asked.<br />
He was pointing at a star made of abalone on the wall near the front door.<br />
I shrugged.<br />
"Five pieces" he said, mater of factly.<br />
He was right. The star was made of five pieces of abalone shell.<br />
I shrugged again.<br />
He went on. "Every other deliberate pattern here has seven pieces. all of them. but not this one..." He tapped the star with his finger. "Why?" he asked.<br />
I shrugged again. It did't mean anything to me, but, for him it seemed to be a thing.<br />
He answered his own question. "No one knows." he said, "but I'll tell you, these guys did nothing by accident. it means something..." He turned towards me, and locked me in his gaze.<br />
That was when I saw it.<br />
By god, he had only one eye.<br />
The other socket was occupied by a murky off color orb that did not follow his gaze, but rather remained fixed on a point only it knew.<br />
"It means something, and I am going to figure it out" he said. <br />
He walked over to a big weathered overstuffed recliner that faced out on the property.<br />
"I am the king of the court of mysteries!" he said. He then fell backwards into the chair, his arms stretched wide. "And this is my kingdom!"<br />
His smile was that of a man whose contentment was a dream to most.<br />
I gave him a slight bow.<br />
"your majesty"<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Tiki Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07344151576187855753noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7492991830772244409.post-12645085820459420032016-11-15T17:03:00.045-08:002023-05-16T18:58:40.858-07:00Crazy Door“Is it open?”<br />
It was CJ asking.<br />
He was wild eyed, and partly slumped on his bar stool, <br />
“Is the door open?” he asked.<br />
It was open all right. <br />
It was morning, and it was evening, in Vegas. <br />
We arrived in Vegas on a Wednesday afternoon.<br />
The morning started off rough, The night before we worked on a bottle of of Laphroig and a 12 pack at Aaron's place before heading to the Big Foot Lodge, a rustic Cabin themed bar a few blocks away. A national Forest where the trees are swizzle sticks, and the streams run deep with beer and high proof cider. Later we went back to Aaron's place and watched “Fear and Loathing”. I say watched, but it was mostly trying to focus well enough to grab the bottle of Jameson we were swigging from. Last thing I remember was cutting into a grapefruit and then, waking up in my clothes. So I dozed in my seat until Barstow where we stopped for lunch.<br />
If you have never been to Barstow, here is the deal: <br />
Barstow is a shit hole. <br />
If you live in Barstow, my apologies. <br />
I am sorry you live in a shit hole. <br />
It was hot. Not like, “hey, it sure is warm” hot, but more like a thick wet fucking wool blanket of crappy. Thompson called it bat country, and although I wasn’t seeing any at the moment, my head was certainly swooping around like a blind rodent, perhaps just exercising, getting used to what was to come. <br />
As we continued our trek across the desert, Aaron amused us with a dramatic reading. Today's selection, Thompson's "The Kentucky Derby Is Decadent and Depraved". It predates Fear and Loathing, and is a little less extreme, but it helps set the mood. Vegas appears on the horizon, and now, just as every time we cross this desert, I look out into the sand and scrub, and can’t help but wonder how many bodies are out there? How much of the grit is bone dust? Gambling debts unpaid, mob deals gone bad. Drug dealers, drug addicts, hookers, all in the eternal sleep. I always think that If you could scream “Last Call!” loud enough, and the ghosts all stood up, my guess is it would look like an army. <br />
We roll into Vegas and set about getting our hotel sorted. I decide to sign in as “Raoul Duke”, it seems to mke sense. We dump our suitcases and head off for the Thomas and Mack center, where the international Drum and Bagpipe tattoo will be held. This was one of the reasons we were here, To participate in a grand spectacle, touted by an ex-congressman to be a “uniquely inspiring event” The place is a cavern, seating for 18,000 people. Hundreds of pipers and drummers roam to an fro, talking, farting, practicing, all of them appear uniquely inspired to get this shit done with and start drinking.<br />
I turn to Aaron, “By Saturday night, this place could well be a Belaggio of vomit” <br />
Aaron looks around, considering the sheer potential, and chuckles “I think you may be right” <br />
We finish our duties, grab a bite to eat and then set off for Frankie's. <br />
Frankie's Baby!<br />
A couple times a year, Frankie's is our home away from home in the neon hell of Vegas. <br />
Frankie's is a Tiki bar tucked away off the strip and far from the clutter. A fantastic oasis of strong tropical drinks and sixties strippers on the wide screen. A place where it would take a hell of a lot to get tossed out . A place filled with bamboo, thatch, tikis, and a sense of ease. We were OK there. We were us. The Bartender is a friend of ours, and many of the rounds were on the house. We took advantage of that fact. I have a vague memory of explaining to Jim the intensity that sometimes accompanies the perfect buzz, the sharpness, the sense of possibility, the undeniable truth that yes, we can fucking do that! But he just stared with a goofy and slightly confused looking grin. I remember snapping my fingers at him and saying “stay with me, goddamnit, this is important” But the next day he insisted that I was just laughing and muttering gibberish as I zoomed in and out of his focal plain like a weird foreign film through a fish eye lens. But I think it was more the effect that the Mai-Tai’s had on him, because frankly, I knew what I was talking about, and although now i have no idea what it was, goddamn it, it was important.<br />
Eventually we knew it was time to go back to the hotel, as morning would come early, and it would be a long day. Show in the morning, set up in the afternoon, tear down, set up again, and show at night. <br />
But our friend Jay had a plan. He said he knew of a place where you could get the perfect nightcap.<br />
A Bacon martini. <br />
I recoiled with delight, “Yes!” I shouted, “YES!” <br />
So with a promise that we would just grab one, and then go back to the hotel, CJ, and I poured ourselves into Jays truck and headed across town to “The Double Down”, a punk rock dive bar famous for the previously mentioned meat cocktail. <br />
It was indeed a dive, but an odd Vegas dive. A place that had been calculatedly thrashed. Signs advertising drink specials adorned the walls, most done in sharpie or el marko on cardboard. <br />
One advertised that if you puke, you clean. Another offered puke insurance for $20. And yet another was for the “graveyard trifecta” , a Schlitz, “ass juice” and a twinkie for $5. A wall mural advised patrons to “shut up and drink”. it was good advice, and we took it. We sidled up to the bar and Jay ordered a couple bacon martinis and three plastic cups of the “ass juice”. an aptly named beverage, as it was nasty looking, and tasting stuff. My guess was mix of Jaggermister and redbull. Comparatively, the bacon Martini was pleasant. Jay decided we needed one more stop, so we drained the drinks and went around the corner to “Buffalos” a place with a noticeable, and quite intentional, lack of females. We took seats at the bar and ordered. I sized up the bartender. "Rum and Coke," I shouted, "and keep them coming until I say stop..." a word I had no intention of uttering. The big screen TV assaulted us with bubble gum pop, lip-synced by an army of girls who all seemed to resemble Brittany spears. <br />
At this point, I didn’t much care where we were.<br />
I was in a mood. <br />
We knocked back a few of the rum and cokes. The scene was sharpening. Canted slightly sideways perhaps, but everything was becoming very clear. Probably the red bull kicking in. We found ourselves politely deflecting advances by men intrigued by our Kilts. A smooth young man put his arm lightly on my shoulder.<br />
“whatca drinkin?” he asked. <br />
He seemed overly friendly. Something shifted.<br />
I swiveled abruptly on my bar stool, with eyes wide and gritted teeth “Adrenochrome!” I shouted, hoisting my glass, “Fresh squeezed pineal gland” <br />
His smile faltered. The corner of his mouth twitched. <br />
I laughed, but it came out a stuttering hiss through my clenched teeth<br />
“What?” he asked. <br />
He looked confused, scared, and began backing away slowly.<br />
My lips curled inward.<br />
“GODDAMNED RAW FUCKING ADRENAL!”, I yelled at him. <br />
I turned to CJ. “I’m going up!” <br />
“Is it open” he asked, “Is the door open?”<br />
The door he was referring to was the crazy door, and It was indeed open. <br />
“I’m going up!” I repeated, and then climbed my stool to the bar, arms in the air, gyrating to to some blond in a mini kilt singing “Param Pam Pam” <br />
<br />
The crazy door is a funny thing. <br />
Most people can’t see it when they’re sober. Even if they do, It’s there with a sign that says “Do not open”. And you obey the sign, because it must be there for a reason. But after enough drinks the sign is gone, and the knocking starts. Some times you open it up, see who's out there, and invite a few in. Usually a beautiful hostess, who knows where there is a party, just up around the next drink. “Come play” she says, and she does look like she knows a good time. Sometimes it is far less eloquent. sometimes you kick that fucker open and barge on through without looking, and party with whoever, or whatever, is on the other side. <br />
But it is a tricky thing. The more you open it, the easier it opens.<br />
The longer it is open, the harder it is to close. <br />
Thompson was well acquainted with the crazy door. Eventually his was kicked in too many times, and would never close again. A shattered frame on bent hinges. That may have been what finally did him in. <br />
Like I said, It’s tricky.<br />
Some people think theycan do it, think they can somehow stay in control of the door, but they are wrong. Going crazy for entertainment is an animal all to itself. It cannot be tamed, it can not be made to do tricks in the hope that someone will toss a coin. <br />
No, most times the way it works is you grab hold and ride it until it throws you to the ground, or eats you. <br />
sometimes both. <br />
Then there is the rare occasion that it just just swerves toward the curb and tells you to get the fuck off it’s buss. Tonight was such a night. A good thing too. We had work in the morning, and now that was only a few hours off. I had to catch some sleep before it all started up again. Back at the hotel, CJ was in a sorry state.<br />
“What are you going to do?” he asked. he looked like he could barely focus, slowly weaving back and forth as if on the deck of some unseen ship.<br />
“Im going to try and get some fucking sleep. You should do the same”<br />
“I ...I was thinking about going to the casino, you wanna...” <br />
“No” I said, opening my room door and stepping inside.<br />
“I’m kinda hungry. You want to get something to eat?” He asked. <div>He looked sad, pleading.<br />
I grabbed a bag of pretzels from the dresser and threw them, pegging him in the Face.<br />
“Get the fuck out of here!” I said, and shut the door. He was still out there muttering, but I didn’t care.<br />
I fumbled my way into bed and closed my eyes, trying to shut out the crazy.<br />
In the beginning the door will close by itself, usually when you pass out. <br />
But if it's not closed long enough, after a while, it just stops closing. Why bother? they just put up a velvet rope, and the crazy lines up. And that's ok, because they look like a fine bunch, at least through the thick bottom of a rocks glass. So at the end of the night you wave them off and tune out as much as possible, and hope that some sleep comes before the daylight<br />
But, when that daylight comes, they look different.<br />
Your hostess is still there, but now she's bloated, rotten, roughly sewn leather teddy bear with a mummified eels head. “Come play” she hisses, sending out a fine mist that reeks of whisky, sweat and bad breath. A smell you know well because you spent the night with it. tossing and turning in it, marinating, unable to go completely to sleep because of the constant gibbering of the denizens behind the rope. Paranoia begins top creep in as well. sending out wispy tentacles like a fog machine filled with cheap bacon flavored vodka.<br />
I concentrate on the hum of the air conditioner, and a few fitful hours of sleep later was at the breakfast buffet, and then back in the van. <br />
CJ was MIA. <br />
We called his cellphone several times, but he didn’t answer. Finally I went up to his room and pounded on the door. Nothing. I pounded again, and gave it a few kicks, but again, nothing. I was going to start screaming under the door, but maid service was a couple rooms away, and starting to take notice, and the last thing we needed was the cops. I called the front desk and had them ring his room. I could hear the phone ringing through the door. The clerk came back on, “sir, no one is picking up, would...” <br />
I hung up. <br />
“I think he’s dead” I said as I climbed into the van. lucky for him, and us, that mornings gig was more of a dress rehearsal, a warm up performance for local school kids, so CJ going missing was more of an annoyance than tragedy. But if he was dead, that was certainly going to put a twist on the weekend. We speculated on what could have become of him. One thought was that he went back to the casino and got in over his head. Maybe bet too big, couldn’t pay, and was now part of the ghost army of the desert. Another thought was that he found some early morning companionship, got rolled and was now naked and probably dead in a dumpster somewhere. Or a dozen other scenarios, all of which ended up with him dead, because we could think of no other reason to miss the gig. <br />
There was another option which we had not considered, and it turned out to be the case. <br />
He had just slept in. <br />
Doozing peacefully, dead only to the world, his alarm, the phone calls, pounding on his door . As I learned later, about six minutes before they were slated to go on, he woke up, saw the time, and called Aaron. From what I understand it went something like this:<br />
Aaron: “Yeah?”<br />
CJ: “dude, I’m sorry, I...”<br />
Aaron: “FIVE MINUTES.” (click)<br />
<br />
So CJ hauled ass, and made it literally with only seconds to spare. <br />
We played the gig, and then got the hell out of there.<br />
After set-up at the next gig, CJ and I commandeered Keith's rental car and went on a supply run, just a few essentials we were running low on.<br />
The cashier checked out our bounty. Four twelve packs of beer, a dozen grapefruit, and a bag of pretzels, and then gave us an expressionless stare over her glasses, but made no remarks. <br />
Vegas baby!<br />
Back at the hotel, CJ gave the keys back to Keith. <br />
“You didn’t wreck it did you?”<br />
“No,” CJ replied, “but Tiki puked in the trunk”<br />
“Sorry, “ I said, ”but CJ was driving all crazy, and I couldn’t get the lid open fast enough”<br />
“Why the hell were you in the trunk?”<br />
“I wanted a beer, and there’s the whole open container thing”<br />
“Bullshit!” Keith said, but his eyes narrowed, “but you didn’t, really, right?”<br />
I smiled sheepishly and shrugged, and as we headed off with our spoils, Keith headed out to check his car.<br /> Our room had developed a rich patina. Weapons, beer and whisky bottles covered most surfaces, clothing and grapefruit peels littered the floor. The sink was filled with ice and beer, with cases in reserve underneath. I grabbed a Grapefruit from a bag on the night stand and made quick work with a switchblade, hacking it into sixths and handing it out <br />
“No quarter given” I say, tearing into the dripping fruit .<br />
We knew where were are going, but discussed other possible destinations anyway. Maybe more as an excuse to hang out, pound a few beers and a shot or two before heading to Frankies. Jim poured himself an ambitious amount of Jameson in a hotel plastic cup, and set himself up on the dresser. Pretty soon he was on the floor, with an empty cup and a big grin. We decide it was well time to head for Frankies, but Jim begs off and whacks himself into a spin on the door frame then Ping-Pongs down the hall, apparently feeling the full effect of a half a cup of good Irish Whisky. <br />
“Amateur” Aaron mutters, putting on his fez and leather jacket “Let’s go” <br />
At Frankies we grab a table, and then migrate to one of the Hut / booths and settle in. We make a spectacle of ourselves and soon the next table over joins us. Our feeble promise to not stay out too late is crushed beneath the growing pile of swizzle sticks, and again, morning comes too early. <div> The hangover is manageable, but something else is going on. There are dark shapes in the corners, and enemies are everywhere... </div><div> Weird clouds of paranoia induced shadows that flutter just outside my vision. People walk by oblivious to the growing under current, but I know it’s there.</div><div> Holy shit, did that guy have a tail? What the hell... </div><div>
I try and look nonchalant, but I can feel the eyes. <br /> The eyes, boring into me like whisky seeking ticks...<br />
CJ notices my twitchy behavior and asks, “What's going on?” <br />
“They’re gonna fuck us” I tell him, he shakes his head... "shhh..."</div><div>I lower my voice. </div><div>“They’re gonna fuck us and leave us in the desert”<br />
He looks around, and then asks, “Who is?”<br />
“I don’t know” I tell him, it’s almost a whisper. </div><div>You never know who might be listening. </div><div>“I gotta get my head on straight, or this thing is gonna go to hell real quick”<br />
“You're right, “ he says, “We need some booze” <br />
Aaron shows up and I brief him on the situation. He agrees we need to get something going, get our minds in order. We have a couple bottles of high-end single malt, but that seems a bit chewy at the moment. We decide to see if we can scam a couple of drink tickets from the organizer of the event, but she does us one better in the form of all access passes to the VIP tent. Breakfast buffet, full bar... I grab a tall cup of coffee, and fix it up long pour of Jameson. I chug it down and repeat the process.The shadows retreat and soon enough the world begins to look almost right again. <br />
The rest of day went by pretty easy, what with the free booze and food.<br />
<br />
After the show we head back to the hotel. Again we dig into the booze and grapefruit as the troops amass. This time there is no talk of possible destinations. This will be our last night in Vegas and there was no where better to spend it than Frankies. Jim hems and haws, but decides he can’t do it. The night before he had called an ex in his drunken stoupor, said some things without his filter on. He said it was like he was watching himself on the phone but was unable to intervene. I guess it scared him.<br />
Amateur.<div><br /><div>The next day is a repeat of the day before, sans the paranoia. probably due to the well used VIP passes. After the show, we load up and head back home through the desert. As the sun is setting I give a salute to the ghost army of the desert, and thank them for not actually taking CJ. </div><div>I can't say for sure, but I am pretty sure at least one of them gave me a skeletal middle finger.</div><div><br />
<br />
<br /></div></div></div></div>Tiki Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07344151576187855753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7492991830772244409.post-19535826366842736522016-10-08T13:25:00.002-07:002021-03-19T19:01:03.177-07:00Hellhouse Tales # 7. The Strange case of Rich BillHellhouse Tales # 7. The Strange case of Rich Bill<br />
<br />
I remember the first time I met Rich Bill.<br />
We were, as usual, sitting around the kitchen table wishing we had beer. That was one of the two general states at the Hellhouse, drinking beer, or wishing we had beer. This particular afternoon was a transition state, as we were about to go to the liquor store, and were waiting for Dave to get dressed.<br />
There was a voice in the Hall.<br />
"Knock Knock! ... Yo!" said the voice<br />
"In here" Klutch said.<br />
The voices' owner appeared, holding a six pack of Anchor Steam, our favorite beer.<br />
"Hey," he said, "I brought my bike in to the hall, I just got it and kinda don't want to leave it outside."<br />
"What kinda bike?" I asked.<br />
I was a bike messenger, and a bike mechanic, so these things genuinely interested me.<br />
"Come check it out." he said, setting the beer on the table.<br />
We walked into the hall, and there leaning against the wall was one of the sleekest looking race bikes I had ever seen. I was struck by the thinness of the frame.<br />
"Carbon fiber" he said, running a finger down the center tube, "the rims are aircraft aluminum, most of the hardware is titanium alloy. Pretty sweet!"<br />
I agreed, "Pretty sweet."<br />
We went back into the kitchen and grabbed a couple beers. Dave came in, and Bill handed him a beer, "Hey man" he said.<br />
"Hey," Dave said, "Thanks"<br />
That was, as far as I know, when I first met Rich Bill.<br />
Bill settled into a chair. "So, party tonight?"<br />
We were in fact, going to a party that evening, and assumed that, was the party in question.<br />
It turned out he was going as well, and said he would come back after his ride and go with us.<br />
His name wasn't really Rich Bill, That was just our nick-name for him because he seemed to be rich.<br />
He would come around, usually bring beer, shoot the breeze, and show off some new super expensive gadget he had recently acquired. I say show off, but it was more sharing. He was a geniunely nice guy, and well, he always brought beer.<br />
I started seeing him at all the parties. Usually with some exotic expensive booze, some cool gadget, and tales of adventure. Once he showed up to play ultimate, and even had his own custom Frisbee. Seemed everybody was friends with rich bill.<br />
One afternoon, again he came by, brought beer, shot the breeze, and then left, promising to return to accompany us to another Party that evening.<br />
Clutch, Dave and I sat at the kitchen table finishing the beer.<br />
"So, " I asked Dave, "how do you know Rich Bill?"<br />
Dave stared at me, "What do you mean?"<br />
"I mean, originally, is he one of your Colorado buddies?"<br />
Dave looked at me like I was crazy. "I met him through you, he's your friend.."<br />
That made no sense. "He's not my friend. I never saw him before that day he showed up with his new bike. I assumed he was a friend of yours..."<br />
We both looked at clutch, who just shook his head. "I thought you guys knew him..."<br />
We started going through our interactions with him, trying to figure a common thread.<br />
We couldn't find any.<br />
Like I had said, I never saw him before he showed up on his bike. But, he was carrying our favorite beer, asking about a party we were going to. The assumption was that he must be friends with someone we knew, and we each assumed it was each other.<br />
We started making phone calls, but everywhere, it was the same,<br />
"I thought he was a friend of yours..."<br />
Turned out nobody knew Rich Bill.<br />
We began listing the things we knew about him.<br />
It was a short list.<br />
Once you eliminated all the things that we thought we knew, which turned out to be assumptions,<br />
The only thing we could honestly say about Rich Bill was that he seemed to be able to afford, or at least aquire, expensive things., and that he seemed to know, maybe a bit too much about our comings and goings.<br />
I remember I once asked him what he did for a living, and he started giving me a vague non-answer, only to then direct the conversation to something else.<br />
That seems to be the case with the other guys as well.<br />
The only thing we really knew was that we had some questions for him.<br />
We waited for him to show up at the Hellhouse that evening to go with us to the party.<br />
But he didn't show up.<br />
We went to the party, assuming he would be there.<br />
But, again, he never showed up.<br />
In fact, we never saw him again, and to the best of my knowledge, neither did any of our friends.<br />
He vanished as mysteriously as he arrived.<br />
leaving behind only questions,<br />
and empty beer bottles.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Tiki Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07344151576187855753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7492991830772244409.post-76823968447163744372016-05-10T17:10:00.002-07:002016-05-10T17:16:40.015-07:00The Cat, A play in one Act.<style>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Cat, A play in one Act.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An image of a digital clock is projected in red on the black curtains. The clock reads 6:00 am. The curtains part, and there is darkness. Then we hear a
mornfull sound…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hello? Hellooo? Hellooooo? Helloooooooooo?
Helloooooooooooo?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
( The lights come on suddenly, and you see me getting out of bed) “Jezzus! What? What do you want?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cat: “Oh! Hi friend! I’m hungry!”(weaves in and out of my
feet)” Hungry! Hungry! Hungry! Hungry! I love you! Hungry! Hungry!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: “Damnit! Out of the way, Yes, I’ll feed you!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cat: (stopping every half foot to turn around, causing me to
trip over him) “Are you coming? Over here? Hungry! I love you! Hungry! Hungry!
I love you! Are you coming?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(I pick up his bowl and put food into it) There you go!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cat: "Oh thank you! So Hungry!" (chomp, crunch)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
( I get a cup of coffee and just as I sit on the couch, the
cat comes walking up)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cat: "Oh! Hello friend! I’m so hungry! (weaves in and out of my
feet) Hungry! so hungry! hungry! hungry! I love you! hungry! hungry!"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: “You could not have eaten that fast! “( I go into the kitchen, and the
dog has eaten all the cat food) “Why did you let the dog eat your food?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cat: “Well, I started to eat, but then I wandered over there
and was licking my butt, and well…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: “Fine!” (I give him more food) “There you go!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cat: “Oh thank you! thank you! So hungry!”(chomp, crunch)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(just as I sit
on the couch to drink my coffee, the cat comes walking up)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cat: "Oh! Hi friend! I sure am hungry!" (again, the dog has eaten
his food)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: "If you would just fricking eat, the dog would stop
stealing your food!"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cat: "I started to, but then there was my butt, and…"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: "Ok, This is the last time…. ( I fill his bowl, and stand
there. He takes about three bites, and wanders off, so I put the bowl up where
the dog can't get it. I get my coffee, and go to check my email. As soon as I
sit down, I hear the cat…)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cat: “Hello? Hellooo? Hellooooo? Helloooooooooo?
Helloooooooooooo? Hellooooooooooooooooo?” ( Each vocalization is lower than the previous. It sounds like he is dying)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: “What? What do you want?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cat: “Oh! Hi friend! I’m really hungry!”(weaves in and out of my
feet)” hungry! hungry! hungry! hungry! I love you! hungry! really hungry!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
( we go into the kitchen, I get down his bowl) “there you
go!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cat: (he sniffs it) "It’s old! I want good fresh new food!"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
( I pick up the bowl and shake it, then put it down
again) “there you go!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cat: "Yes! Delicious fresh new food! Yum! (chomp, crunch)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
( again he eats about two bites, and wanders off, so again I
put the bowl up where the dog can't get it, and again go to check my email. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As soon as I sit down, I hear the cat…)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cat: “Hello? Hellooo? Hellooooo? Helloooooooooo?
Helloooooooooooo? Hellooooooooooooooooo?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: “What? What? What do you want?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cat: “Oh! Hi friend! I’m hungry!”(weaves in and out of my
feet)” Hungry! hungry! hungry! hungry! I love you! hungry! hungry!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
( again we go into the kitchen, again I get down his bowl)
“there you go!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cat: (he sniffs it) “It’s old...”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: “Eat your goddamn food!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Again, As soon as I sit down, I hear the cat…)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cat: “Hello? Hellooo? Hellooooo? Helloooooooooo? Helloooooooooooo?
Hellooooooooooooooooo?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I come into the living room, and just stare at him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cat: “Hungry...”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Of course, the dog has eaten his food)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: “Why?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cat: “You didn’t shake it”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Curtains close) </div>
Tiki Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07344151576187855753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7492991830772244409.post-56356778575753308782016-04-21T14:33:00.002-07:002021-03-17T19:33:46.769-07:00Hellhouse tales #5, Too much for MTV<style>
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<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
"Summer of love?!? What utter hippy bullshit!"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
Dave
was on a rant. We had gone down to the liquor store, and it took what seemed
like an eternity just to pick up a 12 pack of Anchor Steam. It was 1989, the anniversary the
"Summer Of Love" and there was a party taking up a good portion of
Golden Gate Park and much of the Haight. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
And, since we lived literally on Ashbury Street. Just a few houses up from
Haight, and a few down from the legendary "dead" house, it was a
wall-to-wall clusterfuck of tripping hippy wanna-bees, frat bros, and assorted
party tourists making Haight street into a sea of pot smoke and tie-dye.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
Dave
let us in and we went into the kitchen. I looked around for something to open a
beer with. We had no bottle openers. It was a rule. You had to be able to open
a beer with whatever was available.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
Dave
grabbed a spoon from the sink, and popped the cap off an anchor steam. Klutch
and I followed suit.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
"Goddamn
hippies!" dave exclaimed, "We should have a huge fucking BBQ! Fill this whole valley with
the smell of roasting meat!! That would show them! Goddamn vegetarians…"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
I
hoisted my beer, "Meat loaf, not war!"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
"Fuck
peace and love" Klutch cheered, "Piece of meat!"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
And
thus, the Summer of Meat began.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
We
formulated a plan.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
We
got good and drunk.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
We
made tee shirts with psychedelic script that said "Summer of Meat"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
We
made buttons that said "USDA Choice", "Meat Loaf, Not war!"
and one that was a peace sign, and under it, "of pork".</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
We
filled a backpack with what was left of the beer, grabbed the
Croquet mallets, and headed out into the crowed.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
We
chanted our Meat slogans, we waved the mallets, we drank beer.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
That
was pretty much it for the plan.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
Then
there was the camera crew.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
There
was a commotion to our left, some sort of reporters...</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
"These
guys, these guys…" said a voice. Suddenly there was a big TV camera in our
faces.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
"Hey!
I am from MTV, and we are here covering the outrageous party that is the summer
of love!"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
He
was using a suave singsong hip announcers voice.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
"You
guys look like you're having a good time…"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
Dave
cut him off</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
"We're
are here to raise meat awareness"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
"More
Meat!" I chanted, "More Meat, kill and eat! More Meat!</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
Klutch
and Dave joined in chanting.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
Our
interviewer just looked confused, and then put on a resigned smile.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
"So!...
What drugs are you guys on?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
Dave
waved his mallet "Drugs are for Hippies! Pure protien and MSG Man! M….S….G!"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
It
became obvious that we were not what the interviewers were looking for, but
they pushed on "So what’s with the Mallets? You guys expecting a problem?"
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
Dave
shook his mallet at him. "Hippies are the problem, more meat, more peace!</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
"Piece
of Meat!" I shouted.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
Our
interviewer shook his head and motioned to the cameraman, who stopped filming.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
Our
interview had ended</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
Dave
didn't care. "This is the problem!" he said, motioning to the crowd
with his mallet. "These people! All these goddamn people!"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
As
they left, and were swallowed up the crowd, Dave shouted after them, "If
it wasn't for vegetarians, there wouldn't be any WAR!</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
But
they were gone.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
I
shrugged. "I guess we are too much for MTV"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
Klutch
nodded, "And we're out of Beer"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
Dave
held his mallet out like a lance "To the liquor store!"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
And
with that, we were gone.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Tiki Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07344151576187855753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7492991830772244409.post-45084204997975480062015-12-30T15:23:00.002-08:002015-12-30T16:38:32.281-08:00…in which none of this ever happened.<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGEqTuPukcTif-NVca4rUb0xGIoYYK_GOIDfyCS7223pnmuBwBN4MwP5S6k3s2SluF5md8JgJgAtOUIgJ2uAfJ8pfWRxL8Z3DguskMld4zdKTrgRk81u5SwZYvD8JiB_Tf-o4idil6Tjs/s1600/lord_buddha_in_abhaya_mudra_ev40.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGEqTuPukcTif-NVca4rUb0xGIoYYK_GOIDfyCS7223pnmuBwBN4MwP5S6k3s2SluF5md8JgJgAtOUIgJ2uAfJ8pfWRxL8Z3DguskMld4zdKTrgRk81u5SwZYvD8JiB_Tf-o4idil6Tjs/s400/lord_buddha_in_abhaya_mudra_ev40.jpg" /></a><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span></div>
So I was granted an audience with the Dali Lama.<br />
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">They brought me in and I sat down on the floor. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">He stared at, or possibly through me.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">After what seemed like a long time, he asked (through an interpreter) </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">”Do you have a question? “</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“yeah,” I said, “but first I thought we could play some Ukulele.”</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> So we went through a few chords, and jammed for a while trying to figure out some old Spot 1019 tunes. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">After a bit, I put down my uke and took a deep breath. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“Great teacher,” I asked him, “Am I Crazy?”</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Without hesitation he replied , “Yes” and went back to strumming,</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">G7-F-C7 , a classic Hawaiian turnaround.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I was taken aback. I thought it would be more, I don’t know, deep.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Something huge and profound like,</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“The Universe is crazy, and you are part of the Universe” or some thing like that. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I guess I looked troubled cause he asked, “Does that trouble you?”</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“Yeah,” I stuttered, “kind of...”</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“Then you are not crazy enough” he said, “Go, and be truly crazy”</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“Well ok then...” I said, and started packing up my stuff.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“Wait” he said</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Here it comes, I thought, enlightenment...</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“Yes?” I asked</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“Show me that B flat again, it’s tricky”</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I looked at him, “Tell you what, holiness, you buy me a rice bowl, and I’ll show you all kinds of chords”</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“Rock and Roll!” he said,</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> And with a high five to the big golden Buddah at the door, we headed off for some chow.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
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<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
Tiki Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07344151576187855753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7492991830772244409.post-89609031613471961372015-07-31T18:14:00.000-07:002015-07-31T18:14:03.127-07:00Nothing important.So, in the band we tend to drink a lot, and sometimes it is water. The venues generally supply us with bottles of what ever is the local discount store deal. So, with up to six of us swilling from identical plastic bottles, it became necessary to mark them so that we knew who's was who's.<br />
Each of us has our mark. Mine is this symbol:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBYzYmX1u-N7L3EFzRyiH-t9no9DIt109hxfo-wEG0DO0kVILbjP16Z8mKpN_N-PzrV8Dvk2Zx9xTrsestSrlu1zMuTmWfqjy5sq2I1_PTqN2KaFo-GwfpJ32q5ASoOxYYFtrM_Fju7eA/s1600/tk_water_bottle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBYzYmX1u-N7L3EFzRyiH-t9no9DIt109hxfo-wEG0DO0kVILbjP16Z8mKpN_N-PzrV8Dvk2Zx9xTrsestSrlu1zMuTmWfqjy5sq2I1_PTqN2KaFo-GwfpJ32q5ASoOxYYFtrM_Fju7eA/s320/tk_water_bottle.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
Once I was asked what the symbol meant. "Oh," I said, "that's the Chinese character for water"<br />
They were impressed.<br />
"I didn't know you knew Chinese" they said.<br />
I was of course being a smart-ass, as no, I do not know Chinese<br />
I could have told them the truth, that it was simply my initials, T.K, and meant "Tiki King"<br />
But instead I decided to joke with them. <br />
However, I recently found out that the Chinese character for water is this:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQrp_eDR1JU2cmaKZeuiYfGsHnUbLE0zHMTfTMRpfoi6Wgtc3yTeHfDPuCzlNB_1a-WTy0M-fn11vvmKzGGzRYa-MNTQadTYbgWVkyUbpYj5zvZX5fUShof2scLBGVCpctgB-0B6IqFO0/s1600/water.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQrp_eDR1JU2cmaKZeuiYfGsHnUbLE0zHMTfTMRpfoi6Wgtc3yTeHfDPuCzlNB_1a-WTy0M-fn11vvmKzGGzRYa-MNTQadTYbgWVkyUbpYj5zvZX5fUShof2scLBGVCpctgB-0B6IqFO0/s1600/water.gif" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
So there you have it.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Like I said, nothing important, but I find it amusing that sometimes you can do your best to mess with someone, and instead life messes with you.</div>
Tiki Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07344151576187855753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7492991830772244409.post-9455324511174283822015-01-24T11:34:00.001-08:002015-06-17T15:24:03.188-07:00Poetry<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Sometime around 1987, I was reading one of my sisters books, a book of poetry written
by a somewhat famous (at the time) avant-garde poet. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I set the book down and
regarded my sister across the table. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“This is crap,” I told her. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She looked up from her newspaper and took a sip of coffee.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I like it” she said, setting her cup back on the table.
“it’s interesting”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I will admit, I am not a big fan of poetry to begin with,
but even still this felt forced, like someone trying to be “cool.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I dunno… I like art that makes you think, not art that tells
you what to think”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She shrugged “You think you could do better?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen and wrote the
following:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Flitting, Flying, Floating,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">About my head in circles,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Until I hit it with a flaming stick match.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Bulls-eye!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">From where I sit, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I cannot see the people</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Although they may, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Or may not</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Be wandering aimlessly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I throw rocks</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And wonder</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Who might scream?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In agony…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">All the while, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The broom sweeps slowly</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Endlessly</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And I in my chair</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Move a fraction of an inch </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Closer,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To the door."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I slid the paper over to her, and she read it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I like it” she said, “It’s interesting”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s Crap” I
said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She then thumbtacked it to the wall over the table, where it
remained for the next few years before she moved to New York</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Several years later, I received a brochure announcing the
grand re-opening of the Carlton Arms hotel in New York. where each room was
decorated by a different artist. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">People magazine called it "a live-in museum"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Sunday times said it was “a window in New York for artists from around the world"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My sister and brother in law had been working
there and were organizing the opening Gala.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">On the back of the brochure was a poem.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Flitting, flying, floating…</span></div>
Tiki Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07344151576187855753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7492991830772244409.post-31777688520843154922015-01-10T13:48:00.001-08:002016-09-14T15:32:24.252-07:00Ghosts<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times";"> Yesterday I said good-by
to the first home I ever knew. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times";">It had been, over time, the home of my
family, my grandmother, and most recently, my aunt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times";">But now it stood empty. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times";">Everything that could be removed was gone, with the
exception of a few lamps which stood ready to provide illumination for who ever
might need it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times";">It was probably the first time that house had been
empty since the 50’s.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times";"> I stood and looked at the
bare walls, and I felt only tired.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times";"> Most all the memories had
packed it in as well, tucked into ethereal suitcases and carried off by
assorted ghosts. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times";">I had only lived there a short time, maybe three or
four years as a child, but still, it was the first house I ever knew. I walked
into the room that was mine as a child. I closed my eyes and tried to see it,
but nothing came. To be honest, I don’t have a lot of memories about living in
that house, however, those few I do have are fairly vivid. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times";"> The house had one of those
wall furnaces, and when you peered through the louvers you could just make out
the shape of what my very young mind had decided was a suit of armor. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times";">It fascinated me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times";"> One day I was peering in
through the slits. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times";">“I see you in there” I whispered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times";">The suit of armor emitted a low breathy growl, and
out came a blast of heat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times";"> At some point I had seen a
television show in which the ghost of a Knight was wearing a blackened, dusty
suit of armor. When it opened its visor, its face was made of fire.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times";"> I put two and two together
and decided that there must be a ghost-knight in there, held prisoner by the
metal screen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times";"> I don’t remember being afraid really,
but I do remember feeling compelled to periodically check to make sure the
ghost was still trapped in there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times";"> Another memory is
really more of a still image. In this hazy, slightly off kilter photo I am
sitting in the front yard holding half of a broken record album. All about the
lawn there are records, both whole and broken, jutting from the grass like
tombstones, and in the blurry background is a figure (my sister? cousin?
neighbor? I don't know) who is in mid fling, the record having just left their
hand like a Frisbee. It’s a sort of mental Polaroid picture that has no
beginning, and thankfully, no conclusion.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times";"> Another memory is a short
loop of playing with my Johnny West cowboy action figure, galloping the horse
back and forth in the doorway to my room. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times";">And then, of course, there is the Tiki. My uncle
on my dads side was a surfer back then, and had given my dad a three-foot tall
cement Tiki. It crouched under the gnarled pine tree that took up the yard next
to our playhouse, where it stood watch over us for those early years. The Tiki
was magic. Quiet, patient magic, and I knew it. I could hardly play in the yard
without at least once creeping over to look at the Tiki. But it was gone now
as well. Long gone. Eventually the playhouse had rotted away, the tree was cut
down, and the Tiki disappeared. Only it’s ghost remained, a sleeping egg that
would hatch with a vengeance later. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times";">Much later. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times";">But that is another story.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times";"> I opened my eyes and looked
around. Like I said, I just felt tired.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times";"> I left “my” room for what would
probably be the last time, and walked into the hall, pausing to peer into the
furnace. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times";"> “I see you in there” I
whispered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times";">There was no response.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times";">I guess he had already left as well.</span><span style="font-family: "times";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Tiki Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07344151576187855753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7492991830772244409.post-69390150026737077322014-12-11T09:58:00.001-08:002016-09-14T14:11:02.938-07:00Storm, 1992.<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I wrote this in 1992, when I lived up on twin Peaks in San Francisco. I thought this was a good day to publish it...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> I lit my Cigarette from the Candle that
was burning on the nightstand. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It seemed important somehow, right. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I took a drag, and held it for a moment, and
listened to the Storm outside. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As I blew out the Smoke, the House shook, as if a
drunken giant were outside, attempting to steady himself by leaning against the
Wall. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There was a sudden crash as another trashcan
went over, following the example of others out on the Street. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> I got up and walked out into the
darkened living room, and stood, looking out over the City. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Lights twinkled, trees whipped this way and that,
and rain poured against the window like a forgotten sprinkler. The wind shook the
house again, and I watched the big windows flex in and out, almost appearing to
breath. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Damn" I muttered. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went
into the kitchen to make some hot chocolate. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">By the sound of it, the Storm was getting worse. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I hope I can sleep tonight, I thought. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Damn. I must be getting old. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Storms.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> I remember when I was a kid, I always
loved storms. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When they would get bad, my parents always got out
the Sleeping-Bags, and would have us kids sleep under the kitchen table. My
mother was terrified that a window would blow in, or worse, a tree fall on the house.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I loved those nights "camping out" in the
kitchen, peeking out from under the table to watch the sky light up outside,
and hearing the thunder roll through the valley. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes it was so loud the piano in the living room would
hum from the vibrations. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> There was a knock at my door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got up and answered it to find My
House-Mate. "Yeah?" I asked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Some Storm, Huh?" she said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I chuckled, "Yeah, yeah it is." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Say," She asked, " Could You make
sure I wake up, before You go to work in the morning?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Yeah, Ok," I replied,
"Sure". <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> She said thanks, and went back to her room. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I closed my door, sat
back down on the bed, and lit another Cigarette from the candle and listened to
the rain. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And as I sat, I
thought about how in the seconds before I had opened the door, for a fleeting
moment, a tiny ageless spot in my mind had hoped that it would be my parents
with the sleeping bags.
</span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Tiki Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07344151576187855753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7492991830772244409.post-89680702410835514762014-08-20T09:15:00.004-07:002016-09-14T14:22:55.827-07:00 The cautionary tale of the magic muffin.<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I had a strange and vivid dream.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My friend Aaron and I decided to cross the country on vintage Vespa scooters. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">After a few days on the road, we were stopped at an old time gas station in a small town. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The station attendant filled our tanks.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"That's twelve dollars" he told us, returning the hose and nozzle to the gas pump.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I fished around in my pocket, but came up with about thirty cents in change</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I nodded to Aaron, "Dude, you got any cash?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"naw, I thought you had it…"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The attendant looked at us over his glasses. "problem?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"yeah," I said, "we're a little short"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He nodded. "Well, there's a college over across the street, I hear that if you give a motivational speech, they will pay you about twelve bucks"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I thought about it for a moment, "I can do that"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So soon enough I found myself on a large stage in a cavernous auditorium. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As the hall slowly filled, I sat at the back of the stage thinking, what I should talk about?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Then it hit me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I would tell the cautionary tale of the magic muffin.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When the hall was full I approached the podium and the crowd fell silent.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">murmering was replace by polite shuffling as the lights dimmed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I looked out across the room, cleared my throat, and began my speech:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Once upon a time there was a baker.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He baked all sorts of delicious treats.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Cookies, cakes, pastries, tortes. But his favorite thing to create, was muffins.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">One day he decided to make the best muffins ever.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> So he went about gathering all the best, rarest and most delicious ingredients, then baked them at his favorite temperature, for the perfect amount of time, and thought only happy thoughts while they baked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When the timer chimed, he opened the oven, but to his great surprise there was only one very large muffin, and, even more surprising, it seemed to be alive.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It emerged from the oven, politely bowed to the baker, and then went about cleaning the kitchen. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> Once the kitchen was gleaming and spotless, the muffin cooked the baker a dinner that was so delicious, that the baker actually wept.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As time went on, it became apparent that the muffins sole joy was in serving the baker.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As long as the muffin was cooking or cleaning or serving, it was a happy muffin. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> For a long time the baker told no one, because first of all he was afraid no one would believe him, and second of all, he had no way to explain how the muffin did all these things because, although it was magic, it was after all, still just a muffin and as such, had no arms or legs.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> One day the baker could keep his secret no longer, and invited his best friend over for dinner. He told his friend the story, and the friend watched in amazement as the muffin made a meal so spectacular that it brought tears to their eyes, and caused his friend to exclaim, "That is indeed the most magical of muffins!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I stop telling the story for a moment because I notice Aaron waving urgently from a doorway at the side of the stage.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He taps his watch, and whispers loudly "We gotta go man!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I look back over the audience.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> " uh, so... long story short, they ate him, because he was after all, a delicious muffin. Thank you."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I leave via the side door, we climb onto our scooters and ride off into the night.</span>Tiki Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07344151576187855753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7492991830772244409.post-41118978778268642422014-05-22T17:27:00.001-07:002015-12-30T15:32:00.743-08:00Red Nose Day So one Thursday, we were driving from Los Angeles, California to Albuquerque, New Mexico for a gig. We had in our possession a bag of red foam noses, the type generally associated with clowns.<br />
Now first you must know that the majority of us in the van have a particular aversion to clowns, and will in general avoid all association.<br />
However, this was trumped by our desire to cause mischief, and so we all donned the noses, fixed our faces in deadpan expressions, and had a great time watching the the faces of passengers in adjacent cars as we headed down the freeway. Before too long we had to make a pit stop, and found ourselves at a truck stop-store-cafe out in the Arizona desert.<br />
As we parked, Aaron said that the rule was, anyone getting out of the van had to wear a red nose. Turk didn't even hesitate, and was soon across the parking lot and inside the little store. "Gotta do what ya gotta do" I said, and slid out of the van into the bright Arizona Sun. As I neared the door, I could hear people muttering to one and other<br />
"Check this one out..."<br />
"Whoa, here comes another one..."<br />
"I wonder what's going on ?"<br />
I made my way inside and took care of business, then went and got a cold drink.<br />
The lady at the counter gave my the up and down.<br />
"What's with the get-up?" <br />
She was regarding my outfit. Shorts, Hawaiian shirt, fedora, mirrored aviator shades and big red foam nose.<br />
I handed her money for the drink.<br />
"Boss says we gotta wear the nose when we're out in public" I dead-pan<br />
"The Boss?"<br />
"Yep"<br />
apperently this made sense to her. "Well, OK then..."<br />
I grabbed my change and left.<br />
Back at the Van, Turk arrives, but sans nose.<br />
"Where's your nose?" Aaron asks.<br />
"Gave it to the lady at the counter. When I walked up she asked, "Where do i get a nose?" So I gave it to her. Then she asked if I would get in trouble with the boss. I told her I'd deal with it"<br />
I nod, "Nice" <br />
As we are getting into the van, a couple guys next to a big truck towing jet skis are giving us the eye.<br />
Here it comes, I'm thinking.<br />
A guy in wrap around sunglasses and a stretched out tank top motions to us, "What's with the noses?"<br />
Aaron reaches into a bag and produces one, "Red nose day tomorrow, we're gettin' ready"<br />
He lobs it like a softball and the guy catches it, a huge grin blossoming on his face.<br />
"Right on!" the guy says. <br />
We pile into the van and depart.<br />
Sometimes it just happens like that.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Tiki Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07344151576187855753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7492991830772244409.post-85620965324651706282014-02-04T12:41:00.003-08:002020-12-26T18:39:54.153-08:00TALES FROM THE HELL HOUSE #4<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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One night we were sitting in Klutch's room, and as usual, drinking beer and
watching T.V.<br />
I guess the
television was a little too loud, because our upstairs neighbor started pounding
on the floor. We turned the volume down a bit and continued watching.<br />
Again
came the pounding, so the volume went down another couple clicks.<br />
We thought it was pretty
quiet, but it seems our neighbor didn't because again she pounded on the floor.<br />
"What the hell?" Klutch asked, looking up towards the ceiling as a light rain of plaster dust filtered down.<br />
Dave shook his head, "just turn it down a little more" <br />
We
turned the volume down to a level so low that we were literally all huddled inches from the T.V. just to hear it.<br />
Then the pounding started again, and then turned into
stomping, Then Jumping up and down.<br />
Then came the scream. It was like an air raid siren. it started as a low howl,
and grew in pitch and volume, culminating in stomps that accented the
words "SHUT-UP, SHUT-UP, SHUT-UP.....SHUT- THE -FUCK-
UP!" It was so violent that the light
fixture in the ceiling came loose and fell to the floor behind us, shattering on
impact and spraying the room with glass shards.<br />
The crash of the light fixture was followed moments later by a muffled scream from upstairs,<br />
accompanied by frantic pounding foot steps that went in a sort of marching run from room to room, while she continued screaming.<br />
"fuck" Dave muttered. we looked at each other silently. The next move was unclear.<br />
We were cleaning up the broken glass when there was a pounding on the back
door.<br />
We answered it, and found
our up-stairs neighbor standing there in tears, pulling her hair, babbling about no sleep and too
much noise and no one understanding about how hard she tried to be friends but
how she had to work tomorrow…<br />
her eyes were wide and slightly crossed, a mix of anger, confusion, crazy...</div>
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I smirked, “you want to hit me, don't you?”</div>
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It was a taunt, not an offer, but she took it.<br />
she stept into an oddly theatrical martial arts pose, and swiftly punched me in the stomach.<br />
I stumbled backwards and collapsed on the kitchen floor holding
my gut.<br />
All of the stress drained from her face, and was replaced by an odd serene look and a slight smile.</div>
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“Thanks” she said, heading back up the stairs to her flat.</div>
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Klutch and Dave nodded and smiled nervously as she went back upstairs, but after
shutting the door we huddled for a quick house meeting. It was evident that she had gone insane, but the question was should we call someone? a hospital? the cops?<br />
We finally decided it would be best to just torture her in our own special way.<br />
So we gave her a few minutes, then
crept up the stairs with some fireworks, squirt guns and water
balloons.<br />
A battle ensued, and by the end of it we were all soaked, sitting in her destroyed kitchen singing songs and taking turns bare knuckle boxing her refrigerator door.<br />
Aside from the broken light, our swollen knuckles, and taking a punch to the gut, it was a pretty good night.<br />
The next evening she showed up at our back door
again, this time looking very sheepish and holding a six-pack of beer. Her knuckles were wrapped in a
bandage.<br />
"So…?" Dave started to ask.<br />
She cut us off and apologized, then went on to explain that the night before she had been on some kind
of heavy duty mind and reality altering drugs, and she remembered almost nothing about it. <br />
But she said it looked like she had gotten a little crazy in her apartment, and was sorry if she made too much noise. </div>
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“I didn’t… do anything… did I?” She was holding the beer like an offering, her eyes pleading
for us to say no.</div>
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“Nope” I
said, “I mean nothing really. You did come and asked us
to keep it down, 'cause you had to work or something, but…”<br />
She looked relived. "thanks," she said.<br />
I smiled and took the beer.<br />
"Anytime"<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Tiki Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07344151576187855753noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7492991830772244409.post-88238470663935394012014-01-20T15:55:00.002-08:002019-11-24T20:40:25.129-08:00doodle-oodle-ooo! So, let me start by telling you, I am not a particularly superstitious person.<br />
However, I have found that superstitions, luck, religion, karma, and all things otherworldly or unexplainable do not seen to care whether you believe in them or not.<br />
I have seen the impossible happen without a care for my believing, and I have seen a sure thing suddenly and inexplicably evaporate, as though it were the impossible all along.<br />
So, I have come to believe that it is a good idea to respect the idea that<i> </i>sometimes things happen whether you believe they will or not.<br />
Because the truth is, you just never know.<br />
Case in point: The Brady Bunch Tiki.<br />
When I still owned my tiki and Ukulele store, almost everyday a person would come into my shop and, regarding the Tiki necklaces, say:<br />
"These are exactly like that Brady Bunch episode! where Greg finds the Tiki! Did you ever see that one?"<br />
I used to explain that yes, I have seen it, but no, none of my necklaces are "exactly like" that particular Tiki.<br />
I used to tell them that I do not make that design, but they would usually cut me off, calling to their friend, "Hey look, they have those Tiki's like on the Brady Bunch!"<br />
Now I smile and laugh, as thought it is the first time I have hear that one, and neither confirm nor deny, because although what follows actually happened to me, I really can't offer a rational explanation as to why, other than to repeat my previous statement.<br />
<i> </i> Sometimes things happen whether you believe they will or not.<br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"> </span></i><br />
In the very early 90's I was watching a recording of a tongue-in-cheek, Ken Burns style "documentary" about the
Brady Bunch. Part of this documentary was a segment titled "Taboo" in which they talked
about the afore mentioned Tiki. They even showed a short still close up of
the Tiki hanging around Peter Bradys neck.<br />
I was stoked.<br />
Ever since I started my business Tiki King, I was always being asked if I made that Tiki, I always
chuckled, "No way man! It's TABOO! Doodle-oodle-O!" But this documentary
was like a sign. It was time to make that Tiki.<br />
So, which Tiki was it?<br />
I really don't know for sure, but it's true origin was most likely a Hawaiian souvenir shop. It looks much like the many mass produced Tikis of the mid seventies, made by Coco Joe, or maybe H.I.P. It is vaguely Ku shaped, and more than likely cast resin, or permastone. It is said to be currently in the possession of Barry Williams, (who played Greg Brady on the show) He claims to have "rescued" it from a prop room a couple years ago, while producing "Growing Up Brady" at Paramount, and says that he wears it while on tour.<br />
So the big question, is it really taboo?<br />
The logical person would say of course not. It was a hunk of resin, or a chunk of plaster. It was a TV show prop. It was not sacred, it had no <i>manna. </i>There was no reason that it should, or could, cause anything to happen, and it certainly was not really Taboo<i>.</i><br />
But, Sometimes things happen whether you believe they will or not.<br />
So on my day off, I began sketching out the design, using the video as a
guide. <br />
That night I was
riding my Vespa, and got a Flat tire. Not too big of a deal, the Vespa
has a spare tire with it. But it was odd. I had actually never had a
flat before. But as luck would have it, it happened in a parking lot and it only took a few minutes to swap the tire over. It
was a minor inconvenience, and being a scooter mechanic, I was able to get the tire patched up the next day, and all was right again.<br />
As I said, It was a minor inconvenience<br />
So a week later, on my next day off, I finished the sketch and transferred the design to a piece of wood.<br />
That night as I was taking a short cut through the tenderloin, one of the worst parts of town, the engine coughed and sputtered, and then cut out.<br />
Much to my surprise, I was out of gas. This was a surprise, because one, I had never run out of gas before. And two, the Vespa has a reserve tank to keep this sort of thing from happening. Somehow, the switch was on reserve already and so I was forced to push it to the
nearest gas station, which was about three blocks away, UP HILL! and we were late
getting somewhere already. So as I am pushing the Vespa along, trying to
ignore the prostitutes, pushers, addicts and other denizens of the back alleys, I say
to my wife, "Man, I must have angered the gods, or carved the wrong Tiki
or something..."<br />
"It's that Brady Tiki" she laughed, "It's Tabooooo! doodle-oodle-oooo!"<br />
So I
stopped working on the Tiki for a couple weeks, and mulled it over.<br />
But, eventually logic won over. I decided that surely, the flat tire and running out of gas were simply co-incidences, and the Tiki certainly could not really be "Taboo<i>"</i><br />
So one fine day at work, there was a lull in the action, so I got out the piece of wood, the sketch, and picked up my knife.<br />
No sooner had I shaved off a few chips of
wood when I heard a scream. My boss was yelling frantically for me to come
up to the front, and as I got to the door that separated the showroom from the repair shop, I was met by a wall of muddy water. I stood there trying to make sense of the fact that a river was now in our show room, and soon I was standing in a swirling mess of murky water about two feet deep.<br />
Apparently, directly in front of our shop, a
water main from 1906 had decided it was time to burst, and was now sending up a ten foot geyser of
water, sand, mud and cobble stones.<br />
We ran to and fro, trying to move things to the tops of counters and tables, and did all we could to get<br />
things to higher ground.<br />
Oddly enough the flood hardly touched the two stores next to
us, but filled ours with about two feet of water. The result was about several weeks of lost
business, thousands of dollars in damaged merchandise, and gruesome cleanup ( the place had to be gutted, all the
drywall removed. It was a mess)<br />
I told my boss about the Tiki, and although we were in agreement that it was most likely simple co-incidence, we also were in agreement that sometimes things happen whether you believe they will or not, and that the Tiki had to go.<br />
So we ceremoniously burned the drawing, asking the gods for forgivness, and tossed the unfinished Tiki into
the storm drain. As we stood in a moment of silence, a man walked up.<br />
"So how much did you loose?" he asked.<br />
We didn't really know. $10,000,
$20,000, it would be weeks before we added it up.<br />
He then introduced himself as a representative
of the city, and told us that we would be reimbursed for ALL of our
losses. We simply needed to fill out some forms and send them in once we had
totaled it up, and he assured us that everything would be made right.<br />
Here is the thing. Like I said, I am not particularly superstitious.<br />
But, 1st , a flat tire.<br />
Then, being late and running out of gas in a bad area, <br />
Then the flood.<br />
Each incident progressively
much worse than the previous.<br />
Then, after destroying it, all is promised to be made whole.<br />
So is that Tiki Taboo? Would I ever consider giving it another try?<br />
No.<br />
Because I have come to believe that it is a good idea to respect that<i> </i>sometimes things happen whether you believe they will or not<i>, </i>and<i> </i>I do not intend on finding out what would happen next<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Because the truth is, you just never know.</div>
Tiki Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07344151576187855753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7492991830772244409.post-86300170592606746842013-11-03T13:45:00.001-08:002015-01-18T11:37:04.168-08:00TALES FROM THE HELL HOUSE. #2<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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The clock said
3:30 am<br />
It's red numbers had a slight twitch, a blur.<br />
They would shift sideways, then back.<br />
I closed my eyes for what seemed like hours, concentrating on breathing slowly.<br />
3:31 am<br />
“Fuck it”<br />
I decided retaliation was in order.<br />
Earlier that night we were
drinking espresso, and Dave came up with the idea to add “Vivarin” caffeine tablets to the espresso pot, because before the espresso, we had been drinking "<span class="st">Schuss Boomers</span>", an odd concoction of hot Dr. Pepper and rum, and Dave said the rum was
making him too sleepy.<br />
I admit, it seemed like a good idea at the time.<br />
But now I was lying in bed twitching and having strange
tunnel vision hallucinations. </div>
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“Fuck it” </div>
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I turned on
the light and fished around on the top of my dresser until I struck pay-dirt.<br />
A bundle of bottle rockets, a pack of "Black Cat" fire crackers, and a half a pack of "Old Gold" cigarettes.<br />
I unwrapped the pack of fire crackers, unbraided two and set them aside. I took the remainder
with me as I crept down the hall with a cigarette dangling from my mouth, and
an aluminum baseball bat in my hands because, well, you never know.<br />
Outside Dave's door I crouched down, quietly setting the bat on the floor.<br />
Working carefully, I took the fire crackers and untwisted the main fuse, brushing away some of the black
powder to slow the burn.<br />
Then I slowly slid the pack under Daves door
until only the tissue paper fuse remained outside.<br />
I lit it with my cigarette,
grabbed the bat, and retreated to my room.<br />
The click of the deadbolt on my door was
followed by the staccato raping of the fire crackers, and then a few seconds
later, Dave was beating on my door accusing me of being some kind of fucker.<br />
I
thought it was rude of him to beat on my door in the middle of the night, so I began launching bottle rockets out under the door, and then listened to Dave scream and run away, presumably back to his
room.<br />
After a while I figured justice had been mostly served, But we still needed a random element.<br />
So I took the two
remaining fire crackers and crept quietly into the kitchen.<br />
I placed them on
the stove burner under the coffee pot, which had been set up before we went to
bed so that whoever woke up first need only turn on the burner to start the
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Satisfied, I went back to my room and laid down.<br />
Then I reached over and shut off my twitching alarm clock.<br />
I didn't think I'd need it.</div>
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I dozed, having odd uneasy dreams until, right on
schedule,<br />
BANG!.....BANG!</div>
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Time for coffee!</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Tiki Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07344151576187855753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7492991830772244409.post-84286014491225526072013-10-24T15:18:00.004-07:002020-12-26T18:50:38.625-08:00TALES FROM THE HELL HOUSE #1<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.<br />
TALES FROM THE HELL HOUSE are
some of the things that went on there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
TALES FROM THE HELL HOUSE #1</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were sitting
in the kitchen on a Saturday afternoon drinking beer when I got an idea.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
I knew just what to do.<br />
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. <br />
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?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“This way we’ll know when someone is here” I assured them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“how do you figure?” they asked</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Almost on cue, we heard a scream<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and then a string of obscenities coming form the vicinity of
the front door. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Someone is here," I said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I answered the door to find friend standing on the
porch rubbing his thumb. Cradled in his other arm were some fantastic
offerings.<br />
Booze, and Lawn
Darts.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dangerous game for drunks with no lawn. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But then again, I think that applied to
most everything we did. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bowling is pretty safe, unless
the pins are replaced by a television set, and you are "bowling" from
the third floor balcony. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This once lead to the idea of "bowling shots" </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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". <br />
Interesting note: a ceiling fan missing a blade becomes highly unstable, and
will eventually rip itself from the ceiling and even catch on fire. <br />
The funny thing is that the bowling ball, the croquet set, the ceiling fan,
these were all gifts. <br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">From People who knew us. </span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">From people who should have known better!</span><br />
Maybe they did it for their own amusement. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One housemate was (god only knows why) given a gas powered
weed whacker for his birthday.<br />
Later in a drunken frenzy he "cleaned"
his room with it. <br />
Aluminum baseball bats, fireworks, bowling balls, Lawn darts, weed whackers...<br />
Dangerous gifts for dangerous games.<br />
For dangerous people.<br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gifts from people who should have known better...</span><br />
Then again, Maybe they did.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Tiki Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07344151576187855753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7492991830772244409.post-17544293227501677772013-10-20T14:58:00.001-07:002014-01-20T16:58:52.873-08:00Gnome Roast My friend Kenny asked for this tale. He knows it already 'cause he was there, but I'll tell it now, for you.<br />
<br />
It goes like this. <br />
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. <br />
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!" <br />
He was my boss, and I was obliged to comply. <br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
Good times.<br />
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. <br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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....<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCzP7aglPtbsdh7xIN6_zU_mECuY1kLcm1Q_ifvIPlFimTJO-ohyphenhyphen2lyn9Suogbx8iRWvTl3zg-cUQFtmvIzf0R5NwNPNCWpp0C8cpaxO3nv9IFTVZk-Cz2e2sxKTFztuu2w1S-MWu7vyU/s1600/flaming_gnome_low.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCzP7aglPtbsdh7xIN6_zU_mECuY1kLcm1Q_ifvIPlFimTJO-ohyphenhyphen2lyn9Suogbx8iRWvTl3zg-cUQFtmvIzf0R5NwNPNCWpp0C8cpaxO3nv9IFTVZk-Cz2e2sxKTFztuu2w1S-MWu7vyU/s320/flaming_gnome_low.jpg" height="256" width="320" /></a></div>
So there you have it. <br />
The gnome disappeared shortly after this, and our general manager never would tell us what happened to it. <br />
<br />Tiki Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07344151576187855753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7492991830772244409.post-63712587067314640442013-10-19T14:20:00.001-07:002019-11-24T20:55:15.987-08:00Glorious drunks A woman and her niece came into my shop carrying a small case.<br />
She said hello, and said she had a surprise for me.<br />
She set the case down on the counter, and opened it up.<br />
It was, of course an ukulele. <br />
But not just any ukulele, It was one I had seen before. <br />
But, let's start over, a little over a year before.<br />
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.<br />
"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. <br />
"Mind if I sit?" he asked. <br />
"Go ahead" I told him. I kept an eye on him, but busied myself at the desk.<br />
He looked absent mindedly at the wall of ukes.<br />
he cleared his throat<br />
"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"<br />
I looked up, "Excuse me?' I asked politely<br />
"Uncle Slayton" he said.<br />
I shook my head."Don't know an Uncle layton"<br />
"James McMurtry?" <br />
I shrugged.<br />
"You never heard of James McMurtry?" he asked<br />
"Yeah, sure," I told him, "I heard of him. I know his dad wrote a bunch of books, "Lonesome Dove" was one..."<br />
He nodded. "Yep. James is a poet, an' a good singer. Saw him up at Don Quixotes."<br />
Don Quixotes is a night club just up the street from the shop.<br />
"Hmmm..." I said, nodding.<br />
"Sings songs an reads poetry. James McMurtry. He's real good, you should check him out"<br />
I nodded again.<br />
He looked thoughtful for a second, and then cleared his throat. <br />
"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"<br />
"I've heard that one" I said.<br />
He nodded. "can I play the Guitar?" he asked.<br />
"Sure, just be careful" <br />
"you got a pick?" <br />
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?"<br />
I went over and pulled one of the less expensive models off the wall and tuned it up.<br />
"Here you go," I said, handing it to him "please be careful with it."<br />
He strummed it a couple times, and then said, "It's my birthday today!"<br />
"Well, happy birthday" I said.<br />
"Yep, It's my birthday so I went up to Don Quixotes and had some drinks"<br />
"Well, Ok then"<br />
"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!"<br />
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..."<br />
I smiled. "That's what you said" <br />
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.<br />
"Yep"<br />
"well shit!... put one of those on there too..."<br />
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"<br />
He mulled it over for a few seconds. "Ok, Fair enough"<br />
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!" <br />
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. <br />
But he didn't.<br />
It was a couple weeks later that he showed up at the shop, this time sober, uke in hand.<br />
I got ready my return policy speech, but to my surprise, he asked what I had in the way of books. <br />
"I have been having a blast with this little guy" he said, "but I think I need some help"<br />
I smiled, "books are right there..." I motioned to the book shelves. "I recommend "Tip's-n-tunes" Good stuff..."<br />
He bought a couple of books, and a few weeks later I loaned him the movie "Rock that Uke"<br />
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..."<br />
"good deal" I said.<br />
As he was leaving he turned, "Hey, thanks, ya know? thanks for asking"<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7492991830772244409" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>About a week later he came in again. He brought his wife's uke in to get restrung as well.<br />
"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!"<br />
Then came the next part.<br />
But it was so conversational, so, "off-hand" that it took a moment to sink in.<br />
"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.<br />
It was like he was telling me his car had broken down, or about how it sure is humid today.<br />
But no. He was telling me that he was on his way out.<br />
I searched for the right thing to say, but there was nothing there.<br />
"Well, " he said, "I'll, uh, see you later..."<br />
he started to walk out, but I stopped him. "Hey, uh, are you going to be in town next week?"<br />
He thought for a moment. "yeah, I think so."<br />
"Come by the shop if you can, on Monday or Tuesday, I want to show you something"<br />
"Will do" he said.<br />
<br />
So here is the thing.<br />
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.<br />
Literally tore it off and sent it sailing across the shop like a Frisbee, shattering against the back wall.<br />
So I made a new top out of Mahogany.<br />
It was sweet, really pretty wood, and a great sound.<br />
Loud, but mellow at the same time.<br />
I really liked this one, but then decided to sell it, because one, I am not a soprano player,<br />
and two, I was trying to establish myself in the uke-building world.<br />
So I put it up for sale on my website.<br />
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.<br />
One day I decided to fix it.<br />
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.<br />
I would play it now and then, but like I said, I am not a soprano guy, so again I decided to sell it.<br />
I thought I should take some new pictures of it, and as I reached for it, I knocked it off the wall.<br />
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.<br />
So then five years go by, and I open my ukulele shop.<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Steve came back by the shop on that Tuesday.<br />
"Hey!" I said, "glad you could come by"<br />
I went into the back and came out with a small case. I opened it up, and handed the little soprano uke to him.<br />
I had re-strung it in Low G, and cleaned it up a bit, made it shine. It played beautifully.<br />
<br />
He regarded it for a moment, gave it a few strums, and nodded. "Nice"<br />
I told him, "This was the first soprano ukulele I ever built." <br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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"<br />
He smiled. "Really? wow... I...Thanks" <br />
"No problem" I said. <br />
as he was leaving, he turned, "I'll make sure you get it back, after... well..."<br />
I cut him off.."when you are done playing it."<br />
"Thanks" he said again.<br />
He came in a few weeks later just to tell me he was loving the little soprano. <br />
We talked about ukes, and different players, just kinda shooting the breeze.<br />
Then he said "Hey, we should go have a drink some time up at Dons, get away from work ya know?"<br />
"Sure" I said.<br />
He smiled, "whoop it up a little"<br />
I nodded, "Get gloriously drunk" <br />
"I'd like that" he said.<br />
"Me too." <br />
<br />
But I never saw him again.<br />
I was hoping that it had turned around, that he was just busy. <br />
But then I read his obituary in the paper. <br />
And that was that.<br />
<br />
Until one day when woman and her niece came into my shop carrying a small case.<br />
She said hello, and said she had a surprise for me. She set the case down on the counter, and opened it up. <br />
It was, of course the little soprano ukulele. <br />
We talked a little, they thanked me, and told me how much Steven had enjoyed playing.<br />
They looked around a bit and then left.<br />
I stood for a moment looking at the uke, then gave it a little strum.<br />
"Good job" I told it, and then closed the case.<br />
<br />
Epilogue:<br />
<br />
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.<br />
"Well, it's not currently for sale, but if it were, $450.00" I told him.<br />
"Worth every Penny" he said with a sigh, "but I don't have that many pennies"<br />
After he left, I thought, "why not?" So I put a price tag on it and hung it on the wall.<br />
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.<br />
One day he had finished playing it, and muttered "Someday..." so I asked, "How much can you afford?"<br />
he thought about it, and said, "well I don't want to be insulting, but maybe $300"<br />
"it's yours" I said.<br />
He bought it, and that was that.<br />
But it wasn't.<br />
One day he came back in and asked if I did repairs.<br />
"Sure" I said, "What have you got?"<br />
"The little Uke I bought, I ...I sat on it..."<br />
"Bring it in" I told him<br />
He brought it in, and it was pretty bad, but I was able to nurse it back to health, it it still played sweet.<br />
When he came to pick it up, he asked how much.<br />
"No Charge" I told him. <br />
He thanked me, and promised to be more careful.<br />
As he walked out of the door, I looked at the little uke,<br />
"Behave yourself" I whispered. "your work is done. time to whoop it up a little"<br />
I haven't seen it since.<br />
<br />Tiki Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07344151576187855753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7492991830772244409.post-35656973035190604342013-10-19T14:17:00.002-07:002020-10-29T17:07:57.122-07:00Regarding flying<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7492991830772244409" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a> 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 planes get smaller.<br />
I begin to wonder what I'll get in the cab, but no, no such luck.<br />
On the return trip there is a delay, so they offer free beer. The Flight attendant opens a jug of high end micro brew, and 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 absentminded 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.<br />
I amuse myself by going shop to shop looking at all the mini offerings, and as I sober up slightly, I realize I am hungry, so I try and find some decent food. 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.<br />
"a shot on the side!" it coos, "only a dollar". like a strip joint for your sobriety, a lap dance for the liver.<br />
My connecting flight is late, so the flight attendant gives me Courvoisier, on the house.<br />
Expensive brandy and a mini bag of pretzels. I drift off into uneasy dreams of dimly lit theaters, and wake up in a different state, still flying. The lights are dim, and I can hear soft snoring around me. The flight attendant is back with another bag of pretzels,<br />
"Another drink sir?"<br />
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 display. She hands twin bottles of Brandy, and as I fumble for my wallet, she waves it away with a smile and a wink.<br />
"After Hours" she says.<br />
I don't argue.<br />
I pour the minis into my plastic cup, and then whisper a toast to no one in particular.<br />
"To flying" Tiki Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07344151576187855753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7492991830772244409.post-46459338324015730702013-10-19T14:14:00.001-07:002016-09-17T15:42:24.349-07:00Cake<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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No Cake for me, thanks.<br />
<br />
I don't like Cake. <br />
Sure, I know what you're thinking.<br />
"Oh, come on now, everyone likes cake..."<br />
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.<br />
I guess I should say, "I do not want cake".<br />
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!"<br />
I usually smile politely. "Oh, Thanks, but no, thank you"<br />
"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.<br />
Again, I decline, "No, really, Thank you, but I don't want any" <br />
This will usually escalate things, because I must want some sort of dessert item.<br />
"...do you want some Pie? I could get you some Pie?"<br />
Now it gets tough, because I generally want Pie a little less than I want cake. <br />
It suddenly becomes a challenge, and the room begins to buzz... <br />
"...he didn't want the cake..." <br />
"did you offer pie?..."<br />
"he didn't want pie, either..."<br />
"...Do you want cookies?... hey do we have any cookies?"<br />
"...do you want some coffee or something?..." <br />
It's not like this with say, Caviar...or Haggis.<br />
You can refuse Haggis, and, usually, no one pushes you.<br />
"Oh come on!....everyone wants ground up sheep organs boiled in its own stomach (wiggling the plate)...it's.. got...Oatmeal!"<br />
In fact, I can only count one time that I was chastised for not eating organ meats.<br />
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.<br />
Unfortunately, three of the seventeen were, sweetbreads, kidneys and liver, all of which cause me to gag.<br />
Hence, I only ate fourteen of the seventeen kinds of meat.<br />
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.<br />
I smiled and raised my hand "No, no, grasias..."<br />
My companions laughed "solamente catorce clases de carne..." they chided, "...¿no muy hambriento?"<br />
I rubbed my stomach, "I'm full, Really, I can't eat another bite"<br />
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.<br />
My companions were still chuckling to each other, "solamente catorce clases de carne..."<br />
They mocked me, rolling their eyes<br />
"Oh!...too full!" they laughed.<br />
After a few minutes the waiter returned with a cart,<br />
and presented us each with a large slice of Cake.Tiki Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07344151576187855753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7492991830772244409.post-9644327547463340542013-10-19T14:13:00.002-07:002020-10-29T17:04:38.462-07:00Tijuana, 2 When I came here, I was fully intent on writing the great American novel in all my spare time.<br />
It would be easy.<br />
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.<br />
But it didn't end up that way.<br />
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.<br />
So now here it was, my last night, and I finally got it together to sit down and write. <br />
Maybe it was the sunset. <br />
Four days of gray smog and haze. <br />
Four days that shrugged off into darkness like they were too embarrassed to say good night. <br />
But not tonight.<br />
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.<br />
I took a dozen pictures, but then deleted most of them, because I knew I could not have it, only pass through it. <br />
Being in that moment, at that moment.<br />
An absent minded tear falling in slow motion. <br />
Then gone.<br />
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7492991830772244409" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a> 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.<br />
I couldn't help them.<br />
I came back to my room and ordered room service, raided the mini bar, and decided to write the saddest song ever written.<br />
Outside it was dark, and the horizon twinkled like a fallen Christmas tree. <br />
Sirens wailed in the distance as I sat down at the keyboard. <br />
But this was all I could come up with. <br />
Good night Tijuana, and thanks for the sunset.<br />
<br />
<br />
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