This never happened

This never happened. 

We made a pact. No one would talk about it. 

This never happened. 

But, for the sake of argument, and to perhaps tell a tale, if such a thing did happen, I confess I am not sure if I could say exactly how such a thing might have started. 

And, I can't say specific dates, other than it was probably sometime around 30 years ago?

But at that time, it probably started like it usually did...

Drinking beer at my friend Pete’s house.

This was before cell phones, so how the hell we all found each other on a Saturday night, was luck, and usually a combination of calling around to see who was where, or knowing that so and so might be at this bar, or so and so is having a party, or any other number of pre-arranged clues. But this night, after making some calls, and weighing some options, we left Pete’s house and went to a bar called “Vesuvio”  A bar in San Francisco’s North Beach area that had been there since the fourty’s. A tiny cramped place that had been the home of the beat poets.

So...

I should also explain. Back then I was what some ( including myself) would have called a "scooter boy" We rode Vespas and lambrettas, belonged to clubs, had events. 

 It was a "thing". 

But, back to it being before cell phones, what that also meant was that if you saw a scooter, or scooters, parked outside of some establishment, more than likely, you had friends inside, weather old or about to be...

And so it was this night. 

I don't remember why, but like I said we had gone to Vesuvios. We were drinking beer, and the occasional shot of Ouzo, because, well, I deemed it necessary. After a while, other friends showed up. We had a few more beers, and then they said knew of a house party not far away, so we headed there. 

We hung out there for a bit, but as it was getting close to midnight, and we knew liquor sales cut off time was eminent, we began making plans. 

Maybe this is where the madness began.

Fun Fact: So, in 1989 there was a pretty big earthquake. It was centered in the Santa Cruz Mountains, but it caused destruction all through the bay area. One of the many casualties of this earthquake was the Embarcadero freeway. Several miles of elevated concrete running from one side of San Francisco to the other, the idea being to connect the golden gate bridge with the bay bridge. It has it's own story. People loved it, people hated it, people loved to hate it. Like I said, it had its own story.

But after the earthquake, it was condemned. 

However, it was several years before it was actually torn down.

 I guess this is where the madness truly began.

There were five of us, if memory serves. 

We left the dwindling party, went to a liquor store and bought several cases of beer. We strapped them on the backs of our Scooters, and then lingered outside on the curb, trying to decide where to consume said beer. 

Sure, sitting on a comfy couch and pounding beer after beer had a certain attraction, but it was typical. We did it at home, we did it at parties, and we had just been doing that very activity. 

Now, I can’t say for sure that stimulants were involved, but, they usually were, and the thought of couching it seemed to hold little interest. We wanted adventure. We were feeling mischievous. We needed something to sooth or jittering souls. 

We considered many destinations, and eventually I mentioned the abandoned Embarcadero freeway.

 

Several lanes of empty elevated concrete, spanning several miles far above and along the San Francisco waterfront. "Yeah, but how?" it was a good question, but lucky for me, I already knew.

"Follow me"

Now, I don't remember who originally told me, but I happened to know that all the "on" ramps to said abandoned freeway were not accessible. Barricaded and fenced. But for some reason, the off ramps were only barricaded. But on a scooter, if one was foolish enough to drive the wrong way down a one-way street, and up the off ramp, you could fairly easily get around the barricades. 

From there, the freeway was yours, and that particular night (or technically morning) it was.

It was a surreal thing. We rode up and onto the freeway, at first staying in the appropriate lanes. The first time we stopped, we pulled off the shoulder, parking our scooters as though traffic might need to get by. We started in on the beers. After a couple beers it hit me. I went and got on my scooter and rode it out aways, then came back at full thottle, screeching to a stop in the middle of the freeway, parked it, and walked back over to continue drinking. At first the group seemed confused. But then realized, at this moment, we owned this entire freeway. 

Pretty soon we were racing along in the wrong lanes, setting up obstacle course with bottles, and just generally enjoying the fact that at that moment, there were no rules. Just us, our scooters, miles of empty freeway, and a lot of beer.

We eventually settled down on the side of the freeway to drink and just talk. 

Just bullshit about life and what not. Trading stories, boasting about our sexual exploits, the typical things a bunch of drinking guys will talk about.

Maybe this is where the madness truly began.

I finished a beer, let out a loud belch, and then, rather than put the empty back in the box, I tossed it up over my shoulder. It went up over the guardrail, and disappeared into the darkness. There was enough time for my compatriots to give me a look of disbelief before we heard it shatter somewhere below.

"Ha! Holy shit!" someone said, but soon others followed suit.

It was a random act, but apparently, it wasn't enough to soothe desire of some to create mischief.  Someone in the group decided to see if they could make the shot into the pool of a hotel that was basically some 25+ yards out, and maybe 50 feet below us. They took a run up to the guardrail and launched the bottle as we all held our breath. It sailed through the night sky and eventually splashed down in the pool. We let out a collective whoop, there were some high fives, and "oh yeah"s... 

Now the exact sequence of events over the next several minutes is a bit fuzzy, but it probably went something like this:

I said, "I can do that" I finished the beer I was drinking, took a few steps back, ran up to the guardrail and launched my bottle. It sailed end over end through the darkness, getting smaller and smaller, I lost sight of it until it splashed in the pool. I did a little arms up victory dance, and cracked another beer. 

Another member of the group followed suit. 

Sort of.

The reason I say “sort of”, is that many didn't make it. 

It seemed like it happened in slow motion. Their bottle went of into the darkness until it disappeared. But, then it landed several feet short of the water, and shattered on the pool deck. To my ears it was like a bomb. 

Someone, and it might have been me, said "Oh Fuck!"

We all ducked down and hid behind the guardrail motionless. 

But nothing happened.

Until another member of the group, who had yet to attempt the throw, decided to. This one also missed the mark. Another Bomb. They tried again, but same result. Another member of the group made one into the pool, but at this point, lights came on in the Hotel that had previously been dark.

There was yelling and commotion...

"We gotta get the fuck out of here" I said. 

A couple of the others seemed unconcerned. "No one knows we are up here,” someone said. 

Just then we heard sirens. 

"I am getting the fuck out of here" I grabbed what was left of one of the cases of beer, strapped it on the back of my scooter, and pushed off. I coasted a while then started up my scoot. I was probably a mile away when Pete caught up with me. We pulled off to the side of the freeway, hunkered down and cracked a beer.

 "What the fuck" I said, 

" I know" Pete said, "The other guys went back the way we came. I saw flashing lights down by the hotel, but…"

"Holy shit"

We finished our beers (stowed the bottles near the side of the road this time) and continued along. We went through another barrier, but really didn't know where we were.  Suddenly it became apparent that we were not where we were supposed to be. We were on the freeway, but going the wrong way. We were dodging cars like a game of asteroids. Eventually, we ended up exiting the freeway on an "on" ramp. 

Lucky for us it was about 5:00 am, and there were not that many other people on the road. We made our way onto surface streets, and eventually went back to Pete’s house.

We sat on the couch and opened a couple beers in the growing morning sun.

We clinked our bottles together.

"Holy Shit" I said.

"This never happened" Pete said.

I agreed...

 

 

The Crazy Door

 “Is it open?”

It was CJ asking.

He was wild-eyed, and partly slumped on his bar stool, 

“Is the door open?” he asked. He had mischiviouse smile

It was open all right. 

It was evening, and it was morning, in Vegas.  

 

We arrived in Vegas on a Wednesday afternoon.

The morning started off rough enough, 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 Aarons place and watched “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas”. 

 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 on the floor in my "day" clothes. 

So I dozed in the van until Barstow, where we stopped for lunch.  

If you have never been to Barstow, here is the deal: 

Barstow is a shithole.  

If you are from Barstow, my apologies. 

I am sorry you live in a shithole.  

It was hot. 

Not like, “hey, it sure is warm” hot, but more like a thick wet fucking wool blanket of everything in the world being crappy hot. 

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. 

    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. 

    We roll into Vegas and set about getting our hotel sorted. I decide to sign in as “Raoul Duke”. 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.

      I turn to Aaron, “By Saturday night, this place could well be a Bellagio of vomit”  

Aaron looks around, considering the sheer potential, and chuckles “I think you may be right”   

  We finish our duties, grab a bite to eat and then set off for Frankie’s.   

Frankie’s Baby!

A couple times a year, Frankie’s is our home away from home in the neon hell of Vegas. 

Frankie’s.

Fuckin' A...

The First time we spent an evening at Frankie’s, it taught us things. 

Our friend Lauren took us there. Seemed innocent enough. A couple tropical drinks in a bamboo paradise... We got a round, then another... I pulled out my ukulele and struggled through a few tunes. More drinks were ordered. We moved to a bigger table, more drinks, then to a booth in the back.  Dark and beautiful, a relaxing oasis... We had a few more drinks, and then a few more. At some point we noticed that we were the only ones there, and that one of the bartenders was vacuuming the floors. 

    It must be getting close to Last call, I thought.

Maybe I said it out loud, because Aaron said, “What the fuck time is it?” 

It was 4 am.

Turns out there is no last call in Vegas. 

We were fucked. 

We had to be up and at the venue in a few hours, so, at our guides’ advice, we pushed on through.

Went to the White cross diner. I remember I got a patty melt. I don’t remember much else. Except that we saw a drunken Viking, marching along the road with a yard long margarita, and a necklace of Mardi gra beads. Somewhere there are pictures...

     But I digress...

 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, and believe me, we have since tested the parameters. (but thoses are other stories) A place filled with bamboo, thatch, Tikis, and a sense of ease. We were OK there. We were us. However, I should probably mention that we were a bit of a sight, Leather Jackets and Kilts in a sea of Hawaiian Shirts. 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, but he just stared with a goofy and slightly confused looking grin. I remember snapping my fingers at him and saying “stay with me, 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 Kahiki Kai’s had on him, because frankly, I knew what I was talking about, and goddamn it, it was important.

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. 

 But our friend Jay had a plan. He said he knew of a place where you could get the perfect nightcap.

A Bacon Martini

I recoiled with delight, “Yes!” I shouted, “YES!” 

So with a promise that we would just grab one, and then go back to the hotel, CJ, and I poured ourselves into Jay’s truck and headed across town to “The Double Down”, a punk rock dive bar famous for the previously mentioned meat cocktail. 

    It was indeed a dive, but an odd Vegas style dive. A place that had been calculatedly thrashed. It looked old, but it really wasn’t. Signs advertising drink specials adorned the walls, most done in sharpie on cardboard. 

   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”.  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”.  Aptly named, as it was nasty lookingand tasting stuff. My first guess was mix of Jagermister and red bull. Comparatively, the bacon Martini was pleasant. Jay decided we needed one more stop, so we drained the drinks and went around the corner to “Buffalo's” 

 After posing for photos with the security guards outside, we went in and ensconsed ourselves at the bar. The place had a noticeable, and apparently quite intentional, lack of females. The few we saw wanted pictures with us. Men in skirts, I guess...

We ordered rum and cokes, downed those and ordered more. The big screen TV assaulted us with bubble gum pop, lip-synced by an army of girls who all seemed to resemble Brittany spears. 

    At this point, I didn’t much care where we were.

We had a few drinks.

I was in a mood. The scene was sharpening. Canted slightly sideways, perhaps, but everything was becoming very clear. Probably the red bull kicking in?. A smooth young man approached me, “whatcha drinkin?” he asked. 

He seemed overly friendly. 

I swiveled on my bar stool, with eyes wide and gritted teeth “Adrenochrome” I shouted, hoisting my glass, “Fresh squeezed pineal gland”  

His smile faltered. The corner of his mouth twitched. 

I laughed, but it came out a stuttering hiss through my clenched teeth

“What?” he asked, his smile seemed to show discomfort. 

He looked confused, scared, and began backing away slowly.

“GODDAMNED RAW FUCKING ADRENAL!”, I yelled. 

Then I turned to CJ. “I'M GOING UP!”

“Is it open” he asked, “Is the door open?”

The door he was referring to was the crazy door, and It was indeed open.  

“I'M GOING UP!” I repeated, and then climbed my barstool up on to the bar, arms waving wildly in the air, gyrating to some blonde in a mini kilt on the big screen singing “Param Pam Pam” 

 

The crazy door is a funny thing. 

   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. 

But it is a tricky thing. The more you open it, the easier it opens.

The longer it is open, the harder it is to close. 

   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. 

Like I said, It’s tricky.

Going crazy for entertainment is an animal all to itself. It cannot be tamed; it cannot be made to do tricks in the hope that someone will toss a coin. 

No, most times the way it works is you grab hold and ride it until it throws you to the ground, or eats you. 

Sometimes both. 

   Then there is the rare occasion that it just swerves toward the curb and tells you to get the fuck off its bus. Tonight was such a night. The bus was Jays truck, but he pretty much just swung into the parking lot and said “get out”

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.

 “What are you...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.

“I’m going to try and get some fucking sleep. You should do the same”

“I ...I was thinking about going to the Casino, you wanna...” 

“No” I said, opening my room door and stepping inside.

“I’m kinda hungry. You want to get something to eat?” He asked. 

He looked sad, pleading.

I grabbed a bag of pretzels from the dresser and threw them, pegging him in the Face.

“Get the fuck out of here!” I said, and shut the door. He was still out there muttering, but I didn’t care.

I fumbled my way into bed and closed my eyes, trying to shut out the crazy.

     In the beginning the door will close by itself, usually when you pass out. 

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

    But, when that daylight comes, they look different.

Your hostess is still there, but now she is a bloated, rotten, leather teddy bear with an eel’s 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.

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. 

   CJ was missing. 

   We called his cell phone 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...” I hung up. 

“I think he’s dead,” I said as I climbed into the van. Lucky for him, and us, that morning’s 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. 

There was another option, which we had not considered, and it turned out to be the case. He had just slept in. dozing 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 called Aaron. From what I understand it went something like this:

Aaron: “Yeah?”

CJ: “dude, I’m sorry, I...”

Aaron: “FIVE MINUTES.” (click)

 

 So CJ hauled ass, and made it literally with only seconds to spare. 

We played the gig, and then got the hell out of there.

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.

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.  

Vegas baby!

Back at the hotel, CJ gave the keys back to Keith. 

“You didn’t wreck it did you?”

“No,” CJ replied, “but Tiki puked in the trunk”

“Sorry, “ I said, ”but CJ was driving all crazy, and I couldn’t get the lid open fast enough”

“Why the hell were you in the trunk?”

“I wanted a beer, and there’s the whole open container thing”

“Bullshit!” Keith said, but his eyes narrowed, “but you didn’t, really, right?”

I smiled sheepishly and shrugged, and we headed off with our spoils.

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 

 “No quarter given” I say, tearing into the dripping fruit.

We knew where we were 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 Frankie’s. 

Jim poured himself an ambitious amount of Jameson in a hotel paper 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 Frankie’s, 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. 

“Amateur” Aaron mutters, putting on his fez and leather jacket  “Let’s go” 

       At Frankie’s 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. My alarm is a screech that pretty much just tells me I am fucked. I take a shower, but keep hearing someone talking. Whispers. Hissing eel whispers. The goddamn denizens behind the crazy door. Fuck.

The physical aspect of the hangover is manageable, but something else is going on. There are dark shapes in the corners, and enemies are everywhere…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. 

I can see it, even if they can’t

Holy shit, did that guy have a tail?

What the hell... 

   I try and look nonchalant, but I can feel the eyes. 

The eyes, the god damn eyes, weird alien insects, boring into my mind like whisky seeking ticks...

    CJ notices my twitchy behavior and asks, “What's going on?” 

I duck down slightly, “They’re going to fuck us” I tell him, “They’re gonna fuck us and leave us in the desert”

He looks around, and then asks, “Who is?”

“I don’t know” I tell him, it’s almost a whisper. You never know who might be listening. “we need to get out of here, I got to get my head on straight, or this thing is gonna go to hell real quick”

“Your right, “ he says, “We need some booze” 

Aaron shows up and I brief him on the situation. He agrees we need to get something going, get ourselves in order. He seems to understand the threat. There are plenty of weapons available, those fuckers wouldn't stand a chance in an open fight. But maybe we just some strong drink, regroup. Figure out a plan to deal with these bastards. Aaron mentions that we have a couple bottles of high-end single malt in the van, 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, Just get a couple beers in the mix before we launch the assault.

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 several times.

The shadows retreat and soon enough the world begins to look almost right again. 

Navigating the next few mornings ended up easy, what with the free bar.

 

After the last show of the trip, 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 nowhere better to spend it than Frankie’s.

Jim hems and haws, but decides to take it easy. The night before he had called an ex in his drunken stupor, 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.

“Amateur” Aaron mutters, and we gear up for our last night in paradise.

 

And it was evening, and it was morning, In Vegas

 

 

 

The Bottle Mojo

 Mojo: Noun.

1. A magical or "good luck" item, or talisman. An object of power.

I Think it was about 1986.

I went to visit my mother, who at that time lived in a tiny village in the Trinity Alps called "Hyampom"

It was about 90 miles inland from Redding, Ca. 

About 9 hours from where I lived at the time.

There was not much there. A grocery store, that also served as a small cafe and bar, 

a post office, a school, and about 200 full time residents.

Suffice to say, again, there was not a lot to do there. 

Unless you liked to hike. There was as much of that as you could ever want, and at that time I was pretty young, and could hike a fair distance. 

Now, here is the thing. I am not particularly good at being idle, but like I said, there was nothing to do there, so in some ways, it forced you to relax. 

Lay in the hammock, carve sticks into little tiki's. drink beer, throw rocks into the river...There was nothing important. Nothing that needed your imediate attention. This was before internet, before cell phones. At that time, you could let it all go, because really, there was no other choice. 

My sister was also there. One morning we decided to hike down the river. Again, there was really nothing to do, so we loaded up a backpack with beer, and wadded of down stream. 

But,  just before we left, I decided to bring some crafting supplies with me. The idea being to make a necklace from things I found along the hike. so I brought an old shoe lace, that would serve as the main string, and I brought a spool of thick thread to tie things to the shoelace, which I in fact did. 

We would hike a bit, stick a few beers in the river to chill, enjoy, and move on. 

That evening when we returned home, I had a necklace made of the bits and baubles that I had gathered on our excursion. We were sitting on the porch when my sister produced a bottle of Jameson (my favorite Irish Whiskey) And we spent the evening drinking shots and talking about life. 

I hung my "necklace" around the neck of that bottle. It has become known as the bottle Mojo. and it has graced pretty much every bottle of Jameson in my house since. 

These are things that happen, and this is how traditions are made. It seemed important at the time, 

and it 

still does. 

4th of July

The written word can be a powerful tool. 
It can inspire, or frighten, cause smiles, or sadness, or none of these, or some of these, sometimes maybe all of them, all at once. 
It can justify, or condemn actions. It can be honesty or lies. Break hearts, begin (or end) love affairs...
Powerful.
Sometimes I don't know which stories I should put to print, and which should stay safely tucked away in my brain until such time that nature erases my grey matter hard drive and they disappear forever, little pops of transferring energy, gone into the eathers, a sad loss, or perhaps, a good riddance. 
Here is the thing. A tale told can be redacted, embellished, or denied, re-told and changed, made to suit the narrative of the time.
But once it is created in a tangible form, committed to print, it becomes "solid"
It is there, to be shared and scrutinized... 
Sometimes I wonder if I should be naming names in my tales. If I should ask permission, or forgiveness, for making a memory into a solid thing, Especially now in this “everything goes on forever” digital age. 
I used to write in notebooks, actual ink on paper. 

Some of this writing I still have stored in boxes in my basement, some I have given away.
Some I have transcribed saved forever in the digital realm. 
Some I destroyed, hoping to wipe away all traces of the story, to dissolve the experience, only to find that it doesn’t always work out that way.
Just so you know: The stories I destroyed were not necessarily bad, just uncomfortable, or in some cases were just words that, at the time that match met paper, were in desperate need of being forgotten.

As if their written presence could destroy me.

But as I said, it doesn’t always work that way.
This was one of those times.

This was the 4th of July.

 The evening started out quiet. 
Too quiet, in fact. 
I had been calling around to see who was doing what, to see if anyone wanted to come over, or go out, but so far it seemed everyone who would go out, was already out. 
As luck, good or bad, would have it, I got a call from my friend Liz, who said she was hanging out at The McCray, and invited me to join her. 
“The McCray” was the Hotel McCray, a dilapidated and mostly abandoned hotel perched up on beach hill at the intersection of third and Front Street in my hometown of Santa Cruz. It was rumored to be haunted. It was rumored to have been the inspiration for the Bates house in “Psycho”. It was rumored to have been built on ancient Indian burial ground. 
It was rumored to be evil.
It had many stories. 
This is one of them.

But here is the thing... right now, there was one truth.
Right Here, Right Now.
And right here, right now I was, sitting in the dark, in my Datsun B210, out in front of this monstrosity, trying desperately to figure out what to do next.

But, lets back up a bit... so as I said, I got the call.

I hoped in my Datsun B210 and drove over.  It wasn't far, probably 8 or so blocks...
I parked out on the street in the front and walked around back to the entrance we used at the time. I met up with my friend Liz, and we hung out a bit, just shooting the breeze, wandering the halls of this abandoned place. At some point we were all in on room. This is where details might get a little fuzzy. There were some other people there, two or three, and one of them, I don’t remember who, said they had some tabs of acid. 
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
They said it was really strong, and I said, ok, then just give me a half.
What could happen?
They handed me a tiny piece of paper, and I stuck it under my tongue...
It went that way around the room until it came to my friend Liz, who decided, to my surprise, to decline. She said she had been called into work, and couldn't afford to be out all night. 
It was too late for me at that point. I remember thinking, "fuck"
But it was only a half, right?
That was also at that point that they told me they gave me a whole hit, because they said the squares were so small, they didn't really know how to divide it...
Fuck. fuc, fuk...
The thing is, Liz was the only one I knew there, at that point.

 Here is the other thing, back then Liz and I were supposed to be "Constants".
That meant that no matter how weird it got, no matter what the situations, no matter the time or distance, or problem, we were there for each other.  Midnight phone calls, arrangements to come get one of us who had gone too deep, went too far... its what we did. Sometimes I would get a call that simply said, "help" and I would know what to do. I would track her down, get her safe, and fix it. She did the same for me.
We knew each other, we found each other, and we saved each other.
Usually.
But now, she was leaving, and the acid was just starting to kick in. 

I remember saying I understood, and walking her out to the road, I gave her a hug, I asked her to stay, but she didn't. The truth was, I really didn't understand. I was in an altered state, and just reacted.  I remember going back inside, a strange alien box of unease. Then things started to get weird, really weird. I remember getting lost at one point. The McCray had gone through many adaptations. Hotels, residential homes, old folks homes. It was a maze of rooms and corridors, now all glowing and swirling with a light that I cannot fully describe. I remember standing in front of a lager window on the third floor, just leaning out and feeling the breeze, 

At least until I realized the widow was not actually open. 

And It may not have even been a window, possibly just a closet door.

The halls stretched on forever, every door seeming to have the same room number. Some locked, some open, In one room full of boxes, I found a "Boy Scouts" neck-kerchief. I tied it around my neck. It was a sign. it was purpose. I left that room, fully intent to do my best to do my duty, but there was no one to assist. There were distorted whispering voices that seemed to be everywhere, but belong to no one, I looked, but could not find the source

 I remember finding the grand stairway, and as I floated down, I saw that there was some sort of panic in the rest of the group. 

The mood changed suddenly. 

Someone told me to hide. I slipped into a closet of some sort, and closed the door. I say it was a closet, but I really do not know. 

I crouched down. The tiny room seemed to be breathing. 
I could hear something was happening, but could not see it. 
People were yelling.
I remember trying to be as small as I could. 
I was dust, 
I was a crack in the paint.
Maybe I was the paint?
My bones were wood, my skin, tobacco stained wallpaper...
I thought I might disappear entirely, maybe become the dark walls... but then the door opened.

There stood a man, 20 feet tall, wild eyed and clutching a large hunting knife. 
The weapon was huge...maybe a machete, or a sword...
"What the fuck are you doing here?" he shouted, his voice had too much bass and reverb. 
"You're not supposed to be here! You need to get the fuck out of here!"
"Ok" I whispered" I was still trying to be paint.
"You have no idea what I am”, he said, his eyes narrowed, "or what I could do,” 

He was brandishing the giant blade, it glinted in the dim light.

I believed him.

His eyes widened, "I could kill you!" he said. It seemed too calm...
not like a threat, just an observation. 

I said something like, "please don't"

But like I said, it was a little fuzzy at this point.
I remember running, ducking, making my way through dark passages...
The next thing I really remember, I was out in my car.
Just sitting there.
I sat for what seemed a long time. Maybe hours. Maybe seconds.

It seemed like I had been there for ages, maybe days,  At the same time, I may have just gotten in the car.
I was trying to make sense of the whole thing, what to do next, but the acid was hitting hard. 
I needed to go somewhere. 
I knew I needed to not be here, 

but where? 
At that point I really had no idea where I was, or what was supposed to happen.
I was just in my car.

I took inventory, 

windows, gear shift, e-brake, tape player... 
I knew "the car" was the way I got there, but where was "there"? And how did that all work?
I didn't know where "here" was, or where I was supposed to go.

Just then a City Transit Bus went by.
That triggered something.  
I remembered thinking, "wait,"it was an epehany, it was a clue, just maybe, it was a solution... 

I knew that the busses went by my house on their way back to the bus yard, so it made sense that if I followed the bus, it would eventually go by my house.
So that’s what I did.
I don't know if it was minutes, or hours, blocks, or miles, but I followed that bus.
The whole time I was listening to "Rockin' Rockin' Leprechauns" by Jonathan Richman and the modern lovers on my tape player. it would play, I would rewind it, and play it again. It seemed important, like it was somehow the key to getting to wherever I was supposed to go. I have no idea how long this went on, but eventually the bus did actually did go by my house.
I pulled in next to the curb. I remember being so happy, because I was home, and all my friends would be there, everything was alright, and the night would only get better.
I made my way inside, but there was no one there. 
Just a note on the couch that said,
"Hey, we came by, hung out for a but, but then left"
I looked at the clock, it was 11:50

My friends, all of them, were here, but now they were gone.

Why were my friends gone?
Were they coming back?
Did I still have friends?
What should I do?
Why did they leave?
Apparently these last things I was saying out loud, too loud, because my housemate came out of her room

"What’s going on? She asked
"I don't know, “ I said. I was frantic. “I might be having a bad trip... I took some acid, I don't know how much...how do you know if you are having a bad trip?"
"I don't know" she said, "It has never happened to me"
"Good luck" she added, and went back to her room.

I still don't know why she was walking backward.

I sat down on the couch.

The room was too big, but claustrophobicly small at the same time.

the walls were breathing...

I decided to call my sister. I thought she might know what to do. 
She mostly just messed with me, telling me I was in terrible trouble, that this was not a thing that happened, but finally offered some advice.
That advice was to drink heavily.
But I had no booze, and currently, no way of getting any.
I sat on the couch trying to figure out what to do next.
I kept having to move further and further down the couch because the hair on my arm was growing so fast and it was taking up all the space between me and the arm of the couch, which might have been my arm to begin with. How was I supposed to know which arm was which?
I thought maybe I should write it all down.
If I could just keep track of it, it might make sense. I went and found a pen and opened my notebook to a blank page.
But, as I set pen to paper, I realized that it was already half covered in my own scribbling. At the top, in bold letters, "WRITE IT ALL DOWN" then, under that, my complaint about my arm hair. 
So, I thought. This all happened before I thought of writing it down, which was actually after I had written it down.
How do I know what happened when?
 I looked at the clock. 11:52

how could that be? I had been home for what seemed like hours. something wasn't right.
I watched it carefully, recording each sweep of the second hand...
11:53
11:54
11:55
11:56
11:57
11:58
11:59...
Then to my utter horror, the hands went backwards to 11:40...
I could almost hear the record scratch sound...
Time no longer counted.
Time no longer was moving as it should...
I suddenly realized I could be stuck here forever...

What if time had stopped passing?

What if time wasn't even a real thing?
Outside I could hear laughter, it echoed over and over, slowly fading out...
Who was out there, and what did they want?
I peered out the window, and suddenly there was a series of explosions. These also echoed over and over, fading out with to much bass and reverb.
What the fuck? Why are they blowing things up?

Was it the end times? were we at war?
Then I realized, at probably a bad time, that this was the 4th of July. 
Still, why are people trying to blow up my house at two in the morning..?
I looked at the clock.
11:50...
Wait...did I just now get home?
Just then there was a knock at the door. I opened it to find my friend Kurt.
"Hey, Hey, Hey! What’s going on?"
"Get inside" I shouted, ducking and weaving, "Everyone is blowing up out there..."
He came inside, "what are you talking about?" he asked.
"Where were you?" I shouted, "You were supposed to be here! You were all supposed to be here! Why did you leave?"

Suddenly my housemate appeared. "What’s going on? She asked,
"I don't know, " I said, "I might be having a bad trip... I took some acid, I don't know how much...how do you know if you are having a bad trip?"
"I don't know" she said, "It has never happened to me"
"Good luck" she said, and went back into her room.
I asked Kurt, "did this already happen?" 
"Did what already happen" he asked, his head seeming to bob unnaturally on his unusually long neck.
His eyes were too big.
"Maybe we should go to Dennys" I said. "I need... I need a milkshake...."
"What? What? No, it’s to late" 
I looked at the clock, it was 3:35am. That didn’t make sense...
"Maybe" he went on, "if you hadn't spent the last couple hours talking about the McCray, and your arm hair exploding... I'm going to bed man, I'm tired"
"Ok" I said, “but you have to promise me something"
"Ok" he said
"Promise me you will kill me in the morning, if this hasn't worn off"
"No" he said" "no. I can't do that"
"You have to promise me... Promise me you will kill me in the morning, if this hasn't worn off"
This went on for a while... maybe... it could have been minutes, or hours...
Finally he agreed, and then added, "Can I go to bed now?"
"Yes" I said "and kill me in the morning..."
"No"
"You have too" I said, "you promised"
(And again, it might have gone on for a while, or not at all )
"Fine, " he said finally, "Fine...I'll kill you" 

He went out to the porch, which was the other "Bedroom"
"Thank you" I said. "Thank you... kill me...You will kill me?"
"Oh my god. Yes I will kill you, now, go the fuck to sleep!"

I decided to stay up a bit and write down some observations. It was daunting, because some of it was already there, already on the page, in my writing. Sometimes in better detail than I was about to write.

one thing,
At that time I was a smoker. And at that particular moment I was smoking a lot. I realized that every time I blew out the smoke, my pants would take on a three-dimensional sort of heavy tapestry quality, like thick exotic embossed drapes. I referred to this as my smoke/drape/pants, and It figured heavily in the writing. Also, if I closed my eyes, I saw strange M.C. Escher like neon dragons folding in on themselves. Imploding, Exploding. Folding, over and over...
But none of this was good.
I know it sounds like it could be entertaining, but it was not.
It scared me. 
Because as far as I knew, it might never end
I don't know that I really slept at all. 
I am fairly certain I didn't.
But I do remember that Kurt and I got up at some point and went to breakfast with our friend Jeff.
The place Jeff recommended was not far from the house, and we decided to walk. I remember thinking, is this real? Is this real life? Bright light, too much sun, too much noise, too many things, stuff, too much trucks, cars, people, sounds...
Every thing was too loud, but at the same time I couldn’t hear anything but gibberish... 
We got to the breakfast place, and after a short wait (I think) we were seated.
I ordered coffee, or at least tried to,  I seem to remember saying it extremely slow, like a question.
The waitress blinked a few times and left.
I knew I needed food, I tried to read the menu but it made no sense. 
"Moist beets"
"900 eggs"
"Your own toast"
"The one"
I looked at it over and over. I didn't know what to do exactly. 
The waitress reappeared.
I tried to get it together, to somehow seem normal. but It was a challenge
Finally, after the waitress stared at me for what seemed like way too long, I ordered, it was mostly guessing, and mumbling " uh, only two eggs, Bacon meat, and the toast I didn't bring."
She blinked way to many times, but then left, and soon enough we were served.
But the food tasted like metal dust, the water and coffee like chemicals...
I remember thinking, We were all fooled, we thought life was one thing, delicious food, savory drinks... but in reality life was noise and metal, trucks, battery acid and chemicals...
We ate this "breakfast", then walked home. I don't remember anything about that. I do know that after we got back to our house on River Street, Kurt had to leave. 

He said he had things to do, but he may have just had enough of me at that point

So I settled in on the couch to just ride it out. 
He never brought up killing me, for better or worse.
Even so, none of this was good.
At least time seemed to have regained control, seemingly moving only forward.

I stared at the TV. 

It wasn't on, but at that time and place, it might have been a blessing.
Then I got a phone call
It was one of my friends. Apparently I had promised to take her to San Francisco for her birthday.
Which was today...
Which was now...
So I climbed into my Datsun b210 and drove across town to pick her up.

We jumped on highway 1 North towards San Francisco. 
As we were driving, huge sinkholes would open up in the road, sucking everything down into the depths. The road, other cars, nearby trees, everything...
The first time, I slammed on the breaks, not wanting to fall into the abyss.
We skidded slightly sideways to a stop a car behind us honking their horn...
"What the fuck!!" my friend asked

I looked at the road. Nothing. No holes, nothing...
"I thought... I thought I saw something...something in the road..." 
"Holy shit! Like what?
I thought about it for a few seconds, but I didn't think I could really explain...
"Nothing..."
After that, I didn't stop.
I didn't slow down.
I just drove towards the abyss, and waited to be swallowed up, 
But thankfully, it never happened.
We went to San Francisco and drove around. She was more interested in Haight Street, "Mod" things, being in the "Mod scene" as she was at the time.

 I was more interested in things most people didn't experience. I had heard of another party, some friends of mine from a band called "Spot 1019" were having a get together, and I convinced her to go there.  I don't remember a lot of it, but I do remember drinking Jeagermeister. 
This was 1985? Back before it was banned.
When it still contained the later to be banned ingredients.
We may have also partaken in some other substances, 
But we sipped it, like fine liquor.
It was good...at least I thought so.
We drank, we discussed life...
We met new people...
That’s as far as this part of the memory goes...

I assume we got home. 
I don't remember anything to the contrary...
But the whole thing stayed with me in a bad way.
Many years later I asked if my friend remembered that night, but she didn't. 
Not much, at least. Bits and pieces...
She said, "I think we did some kind of drugs, I think. Drank weird stuff"
That summed up those last few days.
So there it is. 
I suppose I should probably add, the original six, seven, or so pages that I wrote that night, I later burned...
I thought I could purge the memory. 
It scared me. 
It taunted me.
Sometimes I thought it's mere existence in the written form, Ink on paper, kept me from moving on, from being sane...
I thought that its destruction would heal me.
But it didn't.
It was a study of madness. 
Awful, confusing, disjointed, beautiful, honest...
But also bad scary madness. 

Still, 
There are times that I wish I still had them, those pages. 

But it turns out, the written word is a powerful thing.

Sometimes it won’t stay gone.
Even when it no longer exists.

 Addendum.

 I have been writing this story for years. Literally a few sentences and paragraphs at a time. 
It scarred me. 
It was written, deleted, re-written. 
Yeah, it scared me, and for some reason it still scares me.
Probably because I made a friend promise to kill me. 
Could be.
I finished it last night at about one in the morning, and today I got Chinese food. 
What was in my fortune Cookie?

Check, and mate.

 

 

 

Tree Tales

Nine stories about eight trees

Tree Tale No. 1. 
Prologue. 

"It's snowing!"
Mr. Sanchez looked up. "It's not snowing" he said, "please sit down"
"It is" the student insisted. One by one we filtered over to the window.
Then someone made the leap and opened the door. 

It was snowing. 

Not like movie snow. Not big flakes you could catch on your tongue, but rather big wet clumps of slush the borderd on hail. 

But we were 4th graders, so it was snow. 

Soon the yard was teaming. Students and teachers alike, building droopy snowmen, pelting each other with slush balls. Running, shouting, laughing. Thus began the great snow storm of 1974.
Soon the jubilation was replaced with concern. It didn't snow here. There was no protocol. The school buses didn't have snow chains. Parents were called, kids coralled by neighborhood. I ended up in the car with the neighbors from up the street. We made it to about a mile from our house when we came upon the first tree. A great madrone lay in a tangled heap, blocking the road. Other cars were there as well. That was it for driving. We gathered our things and began to walk. The snow was coming down heavier now. We got about 100 yards and had to climb over another tangled wreck of a downed tree. We made our way through, and then came upon the wires. This tree had taken out the power lines, which now lay in the road. We stared at them for eternal moments. Were they still live? Then came the sound.
Tic
Tic tic tic
Snap

Pop,  Pop, Pop, Pop,
We followed the sound up as the snapping and popping sounds increased in speed and volume.
A tree was coming down right on top of us!
We ran.
We jumped over the power lines, and ran.
We ran from the sound, ran until the sound stopped.
We slowed and looked back.
Were we had stood considering the downed power lines was now a kindling pile. We stood, breathing in the fridged air, looking at the mess of tree and broken branches.
It was oddly silent.
"Come on"
That was the mom. 

We walked on in the weird muffled snow scape until the sound came again.
Tic
Tic

Pop...
We would freeze and listen for the direction of the sound.
Then run like hell the other way.

Tree Tale No. 2. 
Not an earthquake

I was asleep when it started.
At least I think I was.
There was a sound, which I heard, so at that point, I was awake.
I was in bed, and the sound grew louder. Rustling, snapping.
Like the worlds biggest tumble weed a tumblin' by.
Then the house shook.
An almost gentle vibration, accompanied by a crackling whoosh. I jumped out of bed, pulled on my robe and went outside.
The light was wrong.
I looked up to see the giant acacia that had previously taken up much of the hillside above the living room was now laying on the roof. I began to panic. Was it going to crush the house? Push it off of its suggestion of a foundation and send it into the creek? I tried to absorb the scene, and it became clear what had occurred. It had come down and landed in another tree, taking that one along for the ride.
The good news was that the second tree had broken the fall enough so that when it landed it had lost most of its anger. What was left was resignation, a last gasp.
I went back inside and hurriedly got dressed.
"What happened?" My wife asked.
"uhh.., a tree, on the roof, big acacia, up on the hill, it's on the roof..."
I was getting dressed as I spoke.
"Oh my god! What, how bad? Is..."
"I don't know..."
   I went out and got our saw, too small for the job, but enough to get a feel for it. I went up the hill to the base of the tree, and then balance beamed my way onto the roof, cutting away branches as I went.
   I spent a good portion of the morning clearing away debris, and trying to avoid the poison oak that was untwined among the  branches, until i reached the top, fully expecting to look down through a big hole into the Attic, but there was almost no dicernable damage. 

I turned and regarded the remains of the tree.

that was when I saw that it was held almost like a cigarette in the skeletal fingers of the smaller oak tree. 

That was the only thing that had stopped it from crashing through the roof.

   I tried to contemplate all of the things that had to happen to create the scene before me. 

For the tree to fall where it did, and for the other tree to be there to catch it. 

Wind direction, rain and run off patterns, soil conditions...

A series of random events going back some 30 or 40 years to a forgetful squirrel, deciding that that particular spot was the best place to hide an acorn.

Tree Tale No. 3. 
Six seconds

I walked along slowly through the rain. 

Not so much walking as being pulled along by our 70 lb black lab.
The rain was coming down in a heavy drizzle. The air was heavy with the moisture, and the trees dripped with it. "Come on " I said to the dog, "do your thing so we can go sit by the fire "
Funny , before we got the dog, my wife asked what kind of dog I wanted. I told her I wanted a dog to do two things, lay by the fire, and bark at strangers. So far he mostly barked at the neighbors, the neigbors car, the neighbors cat, the wind, acorns...
He was currently sniffing furiosly at something in the dirt. "Come on " I said impatiently. That was when I heard the first loud pop, and then a groaning crack. The dog and I both looked up towards the sound.
Now, things began to happen fast, and at the same time, time slowed way down. In the next six seconds I saw and heard every detail in high definition.

1.
A twig fell and landed by my foot. leaves spiraled down. The trees above me dumped their collected rain drops...
2.
There was more popping, a groan, snapping of branches. I realized something huge was coming through the trees. The dog began an attempt to run, tugging at his leash as he and I both realized that what was coming through the trees. 

what was coming, was in fact, the trees.

3.
I turned and started to run as the sound got louder and louder. Crashing, snapping, a rickety thunder that seemed right on top of me. Then there was another sound, like a slinky being stretched,  and I saw the power pole in front of me bend as the power lines lost their gentle sway.
4. 

With a bright flash, he transformer two poles away emitted a loud "WHAM!" accenting the crashing thud filling the air behind me. There was a shower of sparks as the power lines were pulled free and whipped past me. I darted one way, then another, unable to do much other than keep moving.
5. 

The dog was running at full tilt as I struggled to keep up. Every stride twice as far as should have really been possible. The wet air smelled of ozone, and the power poles were rocking back and forth, pulling the remaining lines from lazy smiles to tight grimaces.
6. 

We rounded the corner into my driveway, and suddenly I was falling. 

I lost my grip on the leash as the dog bolted, and I instinctively raised my hands to cover my face. I landed on my side and rolled over and down the embankment on the side of the driveway.

I lay there for a moment, my head shrouded in the hood of my coat, my hands covering my face, and took a few ragged breaths.  On the backs of my hands I could feel the thorny vines of the blackberry and wild raspberry that grew on the hillside, so I was pretty sure I was alive. I rolled over enough to see where I was, then, climbed back up through the vines to our driveway.

Six.
Six seconds. 

That is approximately how long it took to go from tree falling, to me falling.
Six endless seconds.

Six moments.

Six forevers.
I stood in the driveway and blinked a few times, then walked into the house. I flipped the light switch a few times, momentarily puzzled as to why the light would not come on. My wife rushed up to me.
"Oh my god, what happened? There was an explosion, and the power went out, then the dog came running in, and oh my god look at you..."
I was soaked, muddy, and appeared to be sprouting leaves and twigs.
"A Tree fell, and... I fell..."
"Are you ok?"
"I'm ok?"
It came out as a question
I repeated the statement, this time as an answer.
"I'm ok"
It was only then that I decided to actually check. 

Limbs all moved in the right directions, seemingly in the right amounts, no pooling blood.
"I think I'm ok"
I let out a long slow breath.
"I think... I'm ok" I repeated.

Tree Tale No. 4. 
Paranoia

So here we are.
I know, you came here expecting the fourth story, the tale of another tree. 

But, I don't have that right now. 
Sure, there are more in here, tucked away. They are not going anywhere, and soon enough i'll reach in and pull one out like so much jack-o-lantern guts, sort the seeds from the pith, and hopefully end up with something entertaining.
But that is going to have to wait.
Today we are going to talk about today, about right now.
Today is about the unrelenting rain.
The wind.
The terror.
No, I'm not cold. 
I am shaking because I am terrified. Because time will not go fast enough.
It's curious how the clock seems to slow at these times. Like it goes in slow motion because it doesn't want me to miss anything.
Any snap, or gust or flicker of the lights.
Any click or pop.
It wants me to pay close attention to the thundering rain that just
will
not
stop.
It wants me aware.
It wants me to savor the copper taste of adrenalin. To feel the sudden contraction of my muscles as my soul tries desperatly to run, to be anywhere but here. To be nowhere. To be somewhere far away from this ticking time bomb. This clock with no numbers, This faceless machine with no point of reference to tell me if we are hours or minutes or seconds or years away from the disaster that looms in my mind. 

Just the tic tic tic that says we are heading toward it. In a car with a stuck accelerator and no breaks, and a blacked out windshield, so I can't tell if the cliff is million miles away,  or an inch. Or if it exists at all.

If it exists at all.
That's the thing.
No one want's to be told it is the end.
Ignorance is bliss right? To be blissfully unaware of your own lurking doom.
To not have to look into the blistering emptiness of the grim reaper and ask, "is it time?"
And to have him stare back with empty eye sockets and croak, 
"Maybe"

And that is the view from where I sit. I look out at the rain and wind and listen to the groaning, snapping trees and ask,
"is this it?"
And they sway back and forth. thier dance mocks me.
"Maybe"

The rain, the wind, the trees.
They whisper, "Go to sleep, and maybe, just maybe, we will wake you later with our branchs, stretched out like a boney fingers, smashing through the roof to caress your cheek"
"Maybe"

I try to lose myself in a movie or book or drawing or a glass too full of whiskey. Anything to shut them up.
But they talk anyway.
Like rude patrons at a movie theater.
"Hey, remember that time..."
"Shhhh..." I whisper
"Come on, you remember, you were there..."
"I do, but not now...shhh..."
"Yeah, remember, the trees, how they fall? Like you are a tree magnet! It's like they want to fall on you!"
"Stop it!" I snap, "They don't want anything. They don't think, They don't act."
"Yes, but they do fall. How many times has it been so far? six? ten?"
"I dont know...too many..?"
"Too many. yes, and how many more are there? all around, all... waiting..."
"I don't know. How about none? No more. no more, no more"
As if I can stop them through chanting negative incantations. "No more, no more, no more..."
But still they mock me.
"Maybe" 

Tree Tale No 5. 
Initials.

Madrones. 

They made up much of the forest I grew up in. They were towering figures as well as plucky underbrush. They were shade, they were firewood, they were the home of many a tree fort. They were fast growing and often mistaken for thier cousin, the Manzanita. They also fell with reguarity most winters. The problem with Madrones was thier shallow root system, and thier habit of competing with redwoods for sunlight. This caused them to be far to top heavy for there roots, and ultimately thier greed was thier demise. Next to our house was a property we called "the upper lot". 

It did not belong to us at the time, but it served as our playground for most of my childhood. Many years later my mother ended up buying it, and it became a play area of a different sort. I built a fire pit and seating area in one large redwood grove, decorated with Tiki's of all sizes, a fountain and lighting, and a short distance away, a tree fort like deck we called "the Crows Nest" in another redwood grove looking out over a slope in the property. So now this property hosted bbq's and Luaus, assorted get togethers, as well as serving as an overflow parking area for our numrous house parties. 

    On this property, near the road was a large Madrone. It wasn't large when when I was nine years old however. 

The year was 1973.

I had just received a new pocket knife and some fishing gear for my birthday. and I found myself busily carving a heart with the intials of my grade school crush into the bark of that tree, at a spot about three feet up where it split in two directions. I wasn't suppoused to carve anything into the trees, I had been explicitly told not to by my dad, because he said the bark was like the trees skin. 

But, well, I was nine. 

Life moved on, and so did I. 

But here is the thing, I moved back to that house in 1995, and I wondered if the tree was still there, and the initials with it? 

I found the tree, but in the 20 years of my absence, the tree had grown, and the spot with those intials had moved a good 25 feet up. I was a little disappointed. If I remembered correctly it was an amazing carving, Grand initials like calligraphy in a perfect heart, with a realistic arrow peircing it.  

But, now the way the tree bent and twisted made using a ladder risky, and without tree climbing gear, I would never know. 

Then came the winter of 2016. 

There was a storm. It had been raining for days, and the power was out. We were listening to the radio by candle light when we heard and felt the dreaded rumble, crash, and thud. It was close enough that the house shook from the impact. I put on my coat and hat and, grabbing a flashlight, went outside for a peek, but in the dark and the rain, I couldn't see anything. 

The next day the rain stopped, and the sun came out briefly. 

   I went out to look around, and found that it was the "initial" tree that had fallen, Unfortunatly taking out most of the "Crows Nest". 

It was sad, but still, I couldn't help but wonder. 

I climbed up and walked the tree like a balance beam, until I came to the split in the tree. 

There in the bark was a tiny, scraggly, possibly vaguely heart shaped scar, which may or may not have been my carving. 

It wouldn't even give me that in trade for the Crows Nest. 

I wondered if it held a grudge.

Tree Tale No. 6. 
Also not an earthquake.

I was in the bathroom when it happened.

I had just gotten out of bed, went into the kitchen and put on the coffee, and then was in the bathroom.

then there was the sound.

At first I thought it was an airplane. A low sound at first, then louder.

Then louder.

Then I could feel it. 

It was too loud. 

There was a vibration that turned into shaking, then a cocophany of scraping and snapping sounds, and finally, a resounding thud.

I realized it was probably a tree.

A tree that had fallen somewhere very close to the house.

I hurriedly got dressed, and went outside. I went out to the road, but there was nothing. I looked around my property, but no sign of any trees being out of place. I looked at my roof, but there was nothing. I was confused. Surely to have made the racket I had heard, and felt,  it had to be close.  I went back down to the front deck, and thats when I saw it. hanging between mine and the neighbors house was the huge olive tree that had once stood in the neighbors back yard. it was mostly caught by the fact that it was to big to fitt in the gap. luck for me, there was very little damage. The neighbor and I spent the day cutting into smaller and smaller pieces, until it was just a memory. A memory that unfortuneatly came flooding back when ever I heard an airplane pass over my house. 

Tree Tale No. 7
Out on a limb.

In 2010 I opened a little store in old downtown Felton. A quirky little shop selling Ukuleles, Tiki stuff and an assortment of curios. It was in the middle of town, and actually right next to the town center, the "Community Deck" an area with seating and tables surrounding a very large, very tall, old growth redwood tree. This tree served as the town Christmast tree, (complete with a tree lighting ceremony, featuring carols, "Santa" and hot cocoa ) as well as a sort of land mark and meeting area. For 8 years, my shop window framed the view, highlighted by that tree. In February of 2018, Ironically the same year my store would eventually close its doors, I was sitting behind the counter of my shop eating take away fried rice from "chopsticks",  a little restaurant that was just a few doors up. as I fished about in the takeaway box, I heard what I thought was a car crash on the street out front. I put down my lunch and went to the door to take a look. 

People were shouting, milling about.

Then I saw it. The giant redwood had shed a huge limb, the kind of branch they called a "widow maker" 

Probably 9 inches in diamiter, and a good 15 feet long. It had fallen, taking out part of the deck, and now lay craddled on the crushed hood of an unlucky pick-up truck. 

No one was hurt, and the deck was quickly repaired. 

But in the time my shop had left,  I always looked up when walking to get lunch.

Tree Tale No. 8
You can run, but apperently you can't hide.

I moved from Felton, California to Utah in the summer of 2018. Away from the Forest, and the mudslides, and the Falling trees. I miss the Forest, although I am only a short drive to the Uinta mountains, and the enormous aspin groves. The wind in Utah is far more extreme, but where I live, there is not much to catch it, so the danger of trees falling on you is slight. The trees here are used to the strong winds for the most part, and they shed thier leaves in the winter, unlike the redwoods in California.  I had been in Utah just over a year before it found me. 

It was fourth of July, 2019. 

We had gone on a day trip out into the desert first, to the ruins of Silver City, a once huge mining complex in north west Utah. Then to Dripping rock falls, a place where underground springs form a dripping curtain over some shallow creekside caves. The weather was fairly nice, just enough breeze to keep us cool in the summer heat. when we arrived home, we went to let the dogs in from the back yard. but the scene was not right. there was debris everywhere, and one of the only trees that was near our house on the acre of land was laying across the shattered remains of our back deck. I carefully made my way out, and was greeted by the sight of a large branch sprouting from the roof over the family room.

I looked at the mess, and although I was glad I was not home at the time, I wondered. 

How did they find me?

Tree Tale No. 9
The Death tree

I wasn't there. 

I was 80 miles north when it happened, but I find the connection interesting. 

When I moved back to the house I grew up in back in 1995, there was the remains a large tree that lay across the creek and partially on the shoulder on the road leading up to the house. When I say big, it was probably 4 or 5 feet across. An older second growth redwood that had spent its life on the hillside across the creek, until a storm brought it down. 

My mom always refered to it as "The Death Tree"

I had often heard of redwood branches being referred to as "Widow Makers",  but this was new.

One day as we were driving past, I asked my mom. "So why do you call that the death tree?"

she looked at me quizzically 

"Didn't I tell you? That was the tree that killed our renter. Fell on her as she was driving home, Crushed her car, Killed her instantly they say..."

"Wait" I said, "Our renter?"

"Yeah," she said, "that was part of why I moved back, I didn't want to deal with getting another renter..."

Our renter, killed by a tree. 

Someone who lived in my house.

Someone I never knew, but still, connected to me.

What are the odds?

What are the odds that one person would have so many run-ins with falling trees?

Apparently, 100%.