Dave Music Blog (Atom)

New Tattoo, Clumsy Dragon, Foreign Characters, Pleasure and Grimace

2010-09-04

While wandering around the zoo yesterday I got the urge to get a new tattoo. Just after lunch, we were strolling past the hippos, and I stopped, looked at those large beasts and then lifted my sleeve with the sudden desire to add some fresh ink there below the kind-of raven, the mystery creature reading a book. I'm not sure why it happened with the hippos, but there it was, an idea lodged in my brain in much the same way as my first three tattoos were. The want came first and grew into a need and finally an idea for which I paid cash to have someone repeatedly jam a needle in my arm, chest, or back, wipe the blood, repeat with needle, wince in pain. After the last one back in 1995, I wasn't sure if I'd ever get another, but there by the hippos, it was decided, my brain wanted a new tattoo.

Being at the zoo, I first thought of course about something animal, maybe the elephant and his phrase from my childhood, maybe a wolf, a bear perhaps. Something powerful and significant. Not a tiger though, they've been overdone. As we walked past the monkeys I was struck by the image of King Kong and while not thinking of that for a tattoo, it did make me think of the mythical which brought dragons to mind. I have a cool bass playing dragon statue in my apartment, but dragon isn't me. Those who know me will attest to the fact the dragon's combination of danger and elegance isn't representative of my character. A dragon tattoo for me would be more like the clumsy dragon, the one who flies too low and hits his head on a tree branch while oggling the beautiful women and drinking a beer.

Continuing around the zoo, we came upon the elk, and I heard some people speaking Korean. There was a father, mother, and son. The boy was maybe ten and when he saw me scratching my arm he pointed and said, "Mun shin." (tattoo). His parents looked up and smiled and probably didn't realize I knew what the boy said. They all smiled and moved off. I lowered my sleeve and thought about something Korean. I've seen people with Chinese characters tattooed on their bodies, and they're always people who have no knowledge of Chinese. They've just seen a design they like either for its look or whatever meaning they think it has. I know a fair amount of Korean though. Drawn well it could look cool trailing around my arm. I could write out a phrase that is significant to me, something I wouldn't mind having on my body for the rest of my life, not Bang-gu Teacher or Mr. Potato, something more present or future, something significant now, maybe...

Or not. Words perhaps have more power in the page (or screen) than on the skin. I always liked Flea's tattoo of elephants circling his arm. Very cool, and it does shed some light on the man. The worst I've seen was a guy in Ann Arbor, Michigan who'd come to see my band play a gig years ago. He was middle aged then, had long scraggly hair, and wore only jeans and a leather vest, no shirt. On his right arm there were just five letters tattooed in blue ink: M E T A L. That said something of him too.

It's a strange thing this desire for a tattoo, the urge to mark a body with designs or phrases that have some sort of meaning to a paticular point in a life or that just look cool, the unrequired tattoo, the one not for initiation into a gang or to mark the body for passage into the afterlife but simply to express something, to decorate the skin, the soul, to declare something however meaningful or mundane. It's important to make such declarations, to say something permanent. The tattoo is just one form of such, but it's a form I like. And now with the seed once again planted, I need the idea, the design, so that I may once again hand over cash for the pleasure and grimace of the needle, and of course the inevitable question from some, "You got THAT tattooed on your arm?"

Elephant Speak, The Largest One Ever, Wishing the Elephant Would Vanish

2010-09-03

"Boo wheat," said the Elephant. At least that's what I used to think when I was a little boy. My parents would ask me over and over, "Dave, what does an elephant say?" I'd respond with a little surprise, a little wonder that they didn't know this already or that they'd forgotten from the last one hundred times they'd asked, but still I'd respond in a clear voice, "Boo wheat."

I bring this up because I'm skipping work and going to the zoo today, and I am indeed wondering what the elephants will say. It's been years since I've been to any zoo at all, since high school in fact. I went once during the spring of my sophomore year back then to apply for a summer job working in the concession stands. A friend who worked there told me the work sucked but that it was cool to be at the zoo all the time, and I figured what the hell. A little more cash to buy books and records would be nice I thought. My parents liked the idea of me trying to get a summer job so they drove my friend and I there.

I filled out the application as best I could being that it was my first ever and then we wandered around the zoo. We happened upon the elephants and broke out laughing. One of the males was rather in the mood so to speak and had what could well qualify as the largest erection ever. What can two male high school boys do but point and laugh at such? We knew all about erections of course but at that young age had no experience putting them into practice. We could well understand that male elephant's pain to let it go to waste just standing there as his trainer washed him. And so we could only laugh about it and silently wonder when we would have the chance, when opportunity would finally present itself to put such a thing to its intended use.

My phone beeps the tones of a text message da da DA. It's from Seattle Dave. He's driving today.

We're out front.

I grab a book, The Elephant Vanishes, always have to have a book, and my phone and head outside. Dave has parked in front of the house and is standing next to his car with Shelby the bartender, his girlfriend of a few days, and an unknown friend of hers. Wonderful. They're trying to set me up. Sigh. I suddenly wish I hadn't agreed to go to the zoo, that I could just stay home and re-read the book since Murakami is always a good way to spend an afternoon. And then there's the title I still need to dream up for my own book. Going to the zoo is going to be a big distraction. Double sigh, but I gave my word and said I'd go so I walk down the driveway to them, and the friend opens her mouth to speak, but after looking at her I cannot hear her words because given her size I have one thing on my mind, one phrase. She speaks something, but I hear only, "Boo wheat."

Rubbing Against the Dragon, I Wish I hadn't Seen Them, Rethinking the Shoe Thing

2010-09-01

Soju has taken to rubbing against the dragon, specifically the bass playing dragon I have standing on the windowsill. It was a going away gift I bought for someone I know who has a thing for dragons because I almost left town, I almost went to China, I almost once again took a job overseas. So I bought a bass playing dragon as something for my friend to remember me by, but when I didn't go, when money became an object and for the first time in my life I did the responsible things of thinking of salary and the future rather than adventure, it seemed an odd thing to still give a going away gift. So I kept it. And well, it wasn't hard anyway because it is pretty cool.

Soju thinks so. He rubs against it at all hours when the door is not open, and well, since it's cold tonight, he's there rubbing and meowing as if I bought the thing for him, or more like it's his outright, like he's making a claim on it. It makes me kind of wish I had a dragon to rub against.

There's a knock at the door and then the door opens. It's my friend Dave and a bartender we visit from time to time, Shelby. I knew Dave was coming over but not Shelby. I don't mind though since she has a large bottle of Crown. Dave has a 12 pack of Coke. It's going to be a good night.

"Hey, cool dragon!" Shelby says touching it. "Can I have it?"

"Uh ... no."

"I'll buy it. How much you want for it?"

She's cute and friendly and I like visiting with her and Dave over where she tends bar, but she isn't that cute and she isn't that friendly and well the price of the dragon isn't something either of us are willing to pay. "Not for sale."

"Yeah, man it is cool. When did you get that?"

"I've had it for a while but only just took it out when Soju decided to move in." We all stand by the window and take turns scratching Soju's neck. "This is a shoeless house by the way. I got used to it in Korea and it still feels comfortable to me that way."

"No problem."

"Sure."

Dave slips off his shoes, Shelby her boots. She has no socks. I break out the ice and the drinking begins. We start at the table and eventually are all three crowded on my little couch. The back of the couch folds down to make a temporary bed too so I do that and we're all laying there in various order as we each at times get up for the bathroom or another drink. Soju rubs the dragon. We drink the Crown. Shelby makes more offers. "Not for sale," I say but she's insistent. In the course of the evening her foot touches my knee a few times, I think intentionally. It makes me look at her feet. She has stubby toes. I wish I hadn't seen them, but they lodge in my brain, 10 fat little toes with their slow wiggle. And even though I have jeans on I wish they hadn't touched my knee.

I wake up on the floor around 3:00 A.M. The empty Crown bottle is next to my head almost as if I'd thought to use it as a pillow. Dave and Shelby are on the couch. Dave is snoring a little. As I open my eyes I notice Shelby's feet hanging off the couch and poking out at me from the bottom of her jeans. They're only inches from my face.

And they smell. They reek.

I sit up quick, then stand up. Dave is laying next to Shelby with one arm around her. I can still smell her feet so I open the door to let in some air. It doesn't seem to help though. Those are some powerful toes. From the door, I look over at them, and then at Dave and Shelby. He has both legs curled behind him, and I see that both socks have holes in the heels. I wish I hadn't seen that. I reach out and rub the dragon for a bit of luck and then step outside to escape the toes and think that shoes in the house may be the better option after all.

24 Hour Fitness, Good Workout Music, Tree Killer and Title

2010-08-30

I'm one of the few, not a Marine mind you, but rather one of those odd creatures who does not listen to music while working out. I don't have an iPod or Zune loaded with some assortment of MP3s to keep me distracted while running or lifting or stretching. Call me crazy, but I figure it's good for the mind to focus on such activities and in a way strengthen itself too. Exercise for the brain, see how long it can go without some kind of sensory input, how long it can handle being unplugged with only its own thoughts to keep it company, with only the task at hand, the putting of one foot in front of the other for mile after mile or the counting of those reps as the dumbbells are curled in front of the mirror, "8 ... 9 ... 10 ..."

When I joined 24 Hour Fitness, the guy who signed me up, Greg, noticed when I went back later that same day for my first workout. He pointed to his ears, "No iPod, eh."

"Nope."

"You know, we have a bonus program you can read about in the information packet I gave you, one of the prizes is indeed an iPod." He stood there smiling.

I wondered at the concern and with the way he was smiling at me thought he might be a little too interested in my workout habits. "Thanks, but I like to work out with no music."

"Well, OK, then. You need a personal trainer or workout partner or anything, just let me know."

"Will do." I moved off thinking as I got into my silent workout that I may have to go there at a different time of day or upgrade my membership to use any of the locations around Seattle. So I worked out in silence for a couple of weeks, dropped a little weight, avoided Greg as often as I could, and was quite enjoying the quiet.

But then something happened.

I heard Pink Floyd on the radio on my way to give the book to a friend. I haven't been able to get the music out of my head since so I have joined the ranks. I'm no longer one of the few. I'm one of the many. I ripped my Wish You Were Here CD into my laptop and put it on my phone. And now I workout to music, to Welcome to the Machine, Have a Cigar, and of course, Shine on You Crazy Diamond. It might seem more than a tad mellow for workout music, but it isn't the tempo or the volume that gives me strength and a little more kick while doing the bench press or while running up that never ending hill near my house. It's the sounds that have the power, sounds such as only Pink Floyd could make.

"Remember when you were young..."

And I find that I can focus a little more because I'm not just counting reps, I'm thinking about titles, titles for the book, for that tree killing project I've been buried in for the past year. That's correct. I am a tree killer now and my apartment is awash in the mountain of the many printed revisions that lead to the final one I gave Clarence last week. Tree killing is hard work. So is searching for a title. That's why I joined 24 Hour Fitness. I don't have a title yet, but I feel it lurking in there, and I'm sure it will surface among the reps in front of those mirrors, always in front of the mirrors, "1 ... 2 ... 3 ...", and the crystal clear Strat of David Gilmour, the wail of Roger Waters.

"Welcome, my son, welcome to the machine..."

Well, so long as I can avoid eye contact with Greg. He saw me yesterday, pointed to his ears, and gave me a thumbs up and a smile. He started walking toward me, but was approached by another member, a cute little Asian woman whose workout clothes left very little to the imagination. She spoke to Greg. He spoke to her. I listened to Pink Floyd. I'll have to thank her next time, maybe buy her an energy drink at the juice bar.

The Book, Shine on You Crazy Diamond, The First Time in Years

2010-08-27

"187?" I step off the scale and then back on, readjust the balance, but it's the same. 187 pounds. My high school weight. I smile and then get dressed and walk out of the locker room of 24 Hour Fitness and into the Tuesday afternoon. I can feel my muscles, the ones I've forgotten about all these years as they ache slightly as if to say, "We won't let you get off that easy. After years of not working out, you're in for it." At 41 it's expected though. So I ache, but I've dropped weight too. Where to go after a workout? The bar of course.

I put my clothes in the trunk and get in the car where I pause for a moment to look at the printed version of the book there on the passenger seat, 363 pages, inches think. It's a source of strength to see it there weighing down the seat in all its completeness. I drive over the Beveridge Place in West Seattle to meet a friend, and I luck onto some Pink Floyd on the radio. It isn't the usual Floyd radio tune though. It isn't Another Brick in the Wall or Wish You Were Here or Comfortably Numb. Those are all great tunes to be sure, but they're expected, not lucked onto. They don't make me look down at the car stereo in slight disbelief before saying, "Well, all right," and crank up the volume a few notches. This tune is Shine on You Crazy Diamond, Parts VI - IX, all glorious 12 minutes and 29 seconds of it. And it's awesome of course. The sun is out, I am on my way for beers with my book on the seat and something most unexpected on the radio as the muscles ache the good ache of increasing strength. I pull into the lot of the Beveridge Place right on time for my meeting but with another six minutes to go for the song, what am I to do? Turn off the radio and walk away from this beautiful music? Not a chance.

After the song finishes, I pick up the book and go into the bar. The book is the purpose of this meeting. It is a handoff. My friend, Clarence, a writer for various music publications around town, has agreed to give my book a reading and offer a critical opinion on it in exchange for a few beers. Who would I be to say no? The book needs it of course, and well it's a chance to go out for beers, no matter that it's on my dime. I come out ahead in this exchange anyway since it'll make the book, the writing, that much better so that perhaps one day, if the gods are so kind, while wandering the rows of your local bookstore and trailing your hands along the titles in search of that new gem you just might soon see one with my name on it.

I walk in and see Clarence (We have clearance, Clarence.) over by the window already with a beer. I get myself one at the bar and walk over, "How's it going? Sorry I'm late but I lucked onto a lot of Floyd on the radio and had to wait it out in the car." I set the book on the table with a thud. It's fat. His eyes get wide as he picks it up and feels the weight of it.

"No worries ... damn, man. That's a whole ream of paper!" I wonder if he's having doubts. Maybe I should have told him how long it was. "Cool. I'm looking forward to reading it." Anyone who's ever written anything does indeed love to hear those words. "And I like the stuff on your blog too." And also those words.

"Thanks. man, and thanks for doing this ... what a feeling to be at this point. It's been about a year in the making, two really as I started the blog two years ago."

"Yeah, to get this far with anything is an accomplishment. People sadly never do finish so much of what they set out to do. I'm impressed." He's right of course. People set out to do much in this life in the way of art, but they don't finish because they give up too easily, they don't really want it. They think they want it, but they don't. They get distracted by life and love and other things and let the moments slip away. I've been like that. Perhaps we all have at times. I let the years of my thirties slip away into nothingness. Not anymore. The thirties are gone so I'll have to make due with the forties. I have a lot to go on though, and writing has become a kind of sustenance for me. I need it. It is my food. A day without writing is not a good day. It's an empty day, a lost day, a murdered day.

So Clarence and I talk and drink the afternoon away. He leaves later with the book and I with a thin wallet. But no matter. It's a good feeling to have it out there, the book, my first book, to stick my neck out into the world, and to do so while being under 190 pounds for the first time in years.

As I'm walking to my car, I go past the Feedback Lounge and recognize a pretty woman going in. She sees me too. "Hey, didn't I meet you at the Iron Maiden concert?" I ask.

"Yeah, I think so. That was a blast. We're heading in for a drink. Want to join us?"

"No, thanks. Got some writing to do."

"All right then. maybe some other time."

"Maybe." She goes into the bar, and I pause to watch her through the window for a moment. I feel my right bicep with my left hand and the muscle flares a little in there. It's still throbbing a bit from this afternoon's workout as I turn and walk away thinking it isn't just the exercise that makes me strong.

Cell Phone Guy, The Eye, The Only Thing I Can Say

2010-08-25

I am sitting
checking email
on my Android phone
checking Facebook,
my blog and my friend's
blog, scrolling down
and down
with my index finger,
sometimes my thumb,
watching those tiny words
fly by.
I check voice mail
and text
messages and the blog
one more time, read part
of it aloud and think
to make an edit
to the previous post.
I never thought I'd have
this much fun as the head
buried in cell phone guy.

I set the phone
down and am about
to stand up
when I see the Eye
and hear
the knock
and I look down,
avert my gaze
from that all seeing
Eye
that lingers looking
through the crack
which is large,
the exposure
demeaning.
Before moving off,
the Eye blinks,
the footsteps shuffle,
but before I am ready
there are more steps,
feet in blue and gray Adidas
just outside the door,
the knock,
the knuckles on the metal
that from the tap of my foot
and the clearing
of my throat
should already know
the answer
I will give.
It's the only thing I can say,

I clear my throat
again
and speak,

"Occupied."

The feet move off and
I think to check
email one more time,
maybe update
my Facebook status.

Sunset on Camano, Three Days, Back to Seattle

2010-08-23

Before sunset
Soju sits still by the screen
door of the Camano house
and stares out at the trees
the bugs
the birds
the bird feeder
with the burnt toast untouched,
at the deer and the eagles
that are not there
but that might show up
at any moment
strolling past the Jetta
and munching on some green
or swooshing low looking for a bit of cat.
"Meow."
I scratch his neck,
"Yeah, I'll miss this place too."
We both stare then
and I remember my first night up here
last fall
wishing for a hand to hold
while looking up at the stars
until our necks hurt
and then doing other things
there on the deck.

And there was a hand to hold
for a while
back in Seattle,
and though never here on the island
that hand is still there
still attached to the same woman
still, should the gods be so kind,
in the realm of the possible
for a little more holding
while driving to a movie
or exiting a bar after happy hour
or looking out over Seattle
from atop the Space Needle.

I look at my hand now,
my empty hand that was held at times
by that other hand, her hand.
It has not been let go,
not completely,
but there is a space now,
an indefinite space
in the palm of my hand,
but a good
space for space
can sometimes bring
together
what all the hand holding in the world
can
not.

My Sage Friend in LA
told me it takes
three days to break
a physical addiction.
I wonder how long it takes
to break
the other kind
as my hand is
still empty,
the space of my palm
infinite.

I think to get a beer and sip
with Soju.
"Meow."
I scratch his neck
and decide for the first time ever
against beer
and Soju and I sit quietly
as the sun does its setting thing
casting the last rays of the day
over the trees and into our hearts.

I pull Soju into my lap.
"Meow."
I remember the feel of her hand,
the delicate touch,
sometimes gloved and fuzzy
and always squeezing gently
as if fearful to break mine,
or simply in the knowledge
of the power contained in her grip,
and I smile because I know
that although this space
may be infinite
indefinite
time is not,
and someday
with some hand
that space
will close.

"Meow."
I scratch Soju's neck.
"Yeah, let's get back
to Seattle."

Camano Vacation, Burnt Toast, Sharing Food with the Cat

2010-08-20

Soju the Cat wakes me up at 5:30 in the morning for his first full day up at Camano Island. "Meow." He wants me to open the sliding glass doors so he can look out the screen at the birds and insects and the occasional daily deer. I don't let him out of course. I've seen Eagles up here and don't feel much like tempting them to see if they'd go for a bit of cat as they swoosh overhead, "Hmmm, what's that little thing down there, let's give it a try." No, Soju is an inside cat. I get up and he follows me downstairs and then darts ahead of me to the doors. He's already learned where they are. He spent all day yesterday there looking out as I went to the beach or stayed inside to write. I slide open the doors and Soju plants himself.

Since, I'm up I figure I might as well have breakfast and get an early start on things. Lots of writing to do this weekend. There isn't a toaster at this place so I put a pan on the stove, turn the burner on high, and put two slices of bread on there. I'd prepared the coffee last night so I simply hit the brew button on the coffee maker and those wonderful slurps and hisses announcing the imminent arrival of caffeine begin. I go back and stand next to Soju to see what's there this early in the day. Trees. There are a few birds chirping, but they can't be seen. No deer yet. No eagles. No sun either. It's going to be another gray summer day. Last week it was sunny, but then I wasn't taking time off from work. The coffee maker lets out a big shhhhhhh as if it's telling us to be quiet. I bend down and scratch Soju's neck. He purrs. It still isn't even 6:00, but I'm glad to be up with the cat and looking out the screen. There are birds singing. There's a slight breeze. There is coffee on the way. There is smoke.

Smoke?

"Shit!" I run to the kitchen and pull the pan off the stove. The two slices of bread are creating quite the cloud. I say thus what I always say in these situations and in my best Jim Belushi, "Son of a Bitch!" You wouldn't think it to look at the bread. The top of each piece is still rather white, looks almost edible, even tasty. I pick one up and turn it over. It's every bit as black as the pan. "Want some burnt toast, Soju?"

"Meow."

I look over at him for a moment. It's almost as if he understood the question and without turning back to me simply said, "No fucking way. You eat that shit." I think I'll break it up later and put it in the bird feeder outside. That'll bring the birds. Soju will like that. The coffee maker gives a final sigh, that last little puff that indicates the coffee is done. But I'd wanted toast with my coffee. I put the burnt pieces in the sink and after tuning down the heat of the burner a little I put two more slices in the pan and stand guard over them.

My friend Seattle Dave might come up later this evening. I think to text him and tell him to bring up some Crown. I eye the bread, check the underside, nothing burnt yet but not ready to flip. I walk quickly to the desk to grab my phone, but it isn't there. Hmmm. I peek into the kitchen, no smoke so I run upstairs to the bedroom. The phone is not there either. Bathroom? No. Dining room. No. Stairs? No. I go outside to see if the phone is on the deck. No. I look in the car. No. Back upstairs and take everything out of my bag. No phone. "Where the hell did I put that fu..." I stop cold. The bread!

Sure enough. Where there's smoke, there's burnt toast.

"Son of a bitch!"

I look at Soju. He looks back at me, "Meow." It translates of course to, "You idiot."

I decide against any further toasting attempts. Soju comes into the kitchen, rubs his head against my leg. "Meow...meow." Translation, "Now that your done almost burning the house down twice, feed me." I grab the Meow Mix Hairball Control Formula from the counter and shake the bag. It sounds like cereal, makes me think to buy some milk and cereal later since I'll be here for a couple more days. I fill Soju's bowl. He starts eating. I look in the bag and take out one little piece. I have coffee but no toast and so I say, "Why not?" before placing the piece in my mouth and biting down.

Sitting with Soju, Loss, Quiet

2010-08-17

Soju the Cat and I will sit in silence tonight with not a little sadness in our hearts for the death of one who was dear to a friend.

You see, my sage friend and pen pal whose advice is always spot on and who is a big supporter of my ramblings here has suffered a loss, a tremendous loss, the kind of loss we all hope never to experience, but at the same time, the kind of loss we all in some twisted way do hope to experience because it means something wonderful preceded it, that something beautiful and miraculous had touched our lives. Such a loss means almost loss of our own life for its suffocating effect, a thousand monstrous blows to the stomach, heart, mind, and soul, and certainly one is changed forever by it, almost ripped to pieces, but it means too that some part of life thus far actually lived up to, even exceeded, the promise of joy that we all have at the start of our lives.

For anyone who has ever lost someone so close, this is a worthy read, a beautiful tribute to the life of a man who must have been a great guy to have affected her so. It's the kind of writing that makes me want to be a better man in the hopes that I too, should the gods be willing, can have a woman someday think so much of me. It's the kind of writing that makes me think such things are possible.

And so I will be quiet tonight in deference to her loss, and because she says it much better than I ...

http://www.dgirldiary.blogspot.com/

What to name the new cat? ... Felix, Chico, Bang-gu Teacher ... That Little Shit

2010-08-16

The cat still has no name. It looks like Missy but a little thinner, a little tougher, and besides, it's male so Missy won't work. I'm stuck though. I can't decide. My first thought was Felix, as in Felix the Cat, but it seems obvious, and well Felix the Cat was a joker. The cat over there by the door is reserved. He purrs, rubs his head against my legs, sleeps twenty out of twenty-four hours, all while managing a rugged, survived look about him. No, he isn't a Felix. I laugh to think that when I studied Latin in high school, I took the name Felix, and recalling that Latin class now, I am amazed at how little I remember, how very little. There's veni, vidi,vici of course, but that phrase doesn't really serve me much. One can't go around shouting that all day. The only other thing I remember is salvete discipuli which is, I think, greetings students, or something along those lines. It's hard to believe how much language one can forget. Have I drank that much beer? Or has all that knowledge simply floated away. Even though I got A's in that class, I can think of no other terms off the top of my head. Where did they all go? Is there some collective pool of Latin vocabulary and grammar somewhere in my subconscious? If I fall and hit my head, will I wake up thinking I am Felix and spewing out Latin phrases that not even the doctors will understand? Mrs. Reeb would be disappointed, "Ah, Felix, how can you have forgotten so much?"

"Meow."

I look at the door where he's been sitting and staring out through the screen. "Meow," again. It's looking at me now, perhaps getting impatient with all this naming business. I can't blame him. I don't suppose he wants to live out the rest of his days known simply as The Cat.

To be fair to Mrs. Reeb though, my forgetting hasn't been limited to Latin. Spanish suffered as much. I knew it much better having studied it in both high school and in college but all these years later can really only recall all the things everyone already knows because so much has seeped into English and become part of American culture. I was Chico in Spanish class, and what I remember most of all was not the language but the teacher. Mrs. Nuosci, 7th grade Spanish. She was beautiful. She was young as teachers go, wore form-fitting dresses, did herself up. All the guys had a thing for her. We'd linger by her desk and try to look down her shirt of course. We didn't know anything of anything about women at that age though other than the fact that we knew how she made us feel. She was the first beautiful woman in our lives, and I'm probably not alone in saying that she was the first teacher to ever give me a hard on. I think about her now, and look at the cat. No, Chico won't do. I don't want Mrs. Nuosci to come to mind every time I see that cat. "Here, Chico," as I adjust myself. That would be creepy.

"Meow."

I look at him again, "I'm thinking, buddy. A little more time please." He looks back out the door.

In Korea, I was known in my later days as Oh Gam Ja, Mr. Potato. When I first went there though, I had a cute little second grade student who would look up at me and say affectionately, "Bang-gu Teacher." It was adorable. He was a little overweight with a round moon Korean face. He wasn't a very good student, but he seemed to like me. It made those first days easier with students like him. I didn't know any Korean then and adjusting as I was to life overseas, it felt good to think about his smiling face and affectionate voice. In the elevator in the school building one day, I was riding with him and my boss. The boy looked up at me, "Bang-gu Teacher." My boss just laughed a little and rubbed the boy's head playfully. I smiled. The boy smiled.

Eventually, I started dating a Korean woman and in the evenings I would go to her place. Over beers, the conversation would come around to my work as a teacher, how I was liking it, how the students were. One evening, I told her about the boy, about Bang-gu Teacher. She laughed. "Do you know what bang-gu is?"

"No."

"Fart."

"That little shit!" She laughed more. "And my boss. He just stood there and let the kid call me Fart Teacher!"

"Meow."

I look at the cat. "Meow." He almost sounds like he's laughing too. I look around. I'm at a loss. I look at my books, my CDs, the four empty bottles of Crown by the window, and then over to the kitchen where the full bottles are. Aha Toro Añejo, Crown Royal, Terra Blanca Arch Terrace Merlot. All excellent stuff. There's another bottle too with some Korean writing on it.

Jinro Soju

Soju can be a harsh drink. I learned that the hard way of course in my early days in Korea when one night I had a lot of soju and a lot of squid and made a lot of mess when I got back to my apartment. I look over at The Cat and think why not? "Soju," I say. The cat turns it's head. "Here, Soju," I say again bending down and rubbing my fingertips together. He turns and looks out the door but after a second reconsiders. "Here, Soju."

And he comes.

As for that little shit, I made sure on days that I did have gas to stand next to him as often and as long as I could.

Thelonius Monk in Traffic, One Dead Cat, One Live One, Welcome Home

2010-08-13

I leave from work early, 2:00. It's a beautiful sunny day in Seattle, and I don't want to be in the office in the cubicle in the code. I want to be at home in the living room in the laptop in the blog writing away the Friday afternoon sun. I get in the car and head out from the office. Being only 2:00 the traffic isn't yet bad so it's an easy drive. I change lanes when I want, cruise along, search the stations for a bit of magic and luck upon some Thelonius Monk on a jazz station. I get cutoff once by a white Acura, have to slow down fast, but I don't mind. The sun is out, Monk is doing his thing on the piano, 'Round Midnight, and I'm going to home to write. There could hardly be a better beginning to the weekend. I get home at 2:15, boot my laptop, open a Blue Moon. Let the good times begin.

I sit down. I look at the screen. The door is open and a black and white cat crawls under the fence out front and walks toward the house. I wonder if it is this cat. It peers in through the screen door. It tests the space under the door, first with a head, then the front right paw twice, but not being able to get through just looks in at me for a bit before going off. I'm sorry to see it go. Ever since I ran over a cat just before my birthday I've been thinking to get one, to take care of one. I suppose it's a way of making amends, wanting to set things right. Take care of one life, protect one life to honor the one I ended. I think then that if he comes back I'll let him in. I smile at that and just sit quietly finishing my drink before I get to writing.

It's peaceful, quiet, the kind of moment in which even breathing is an enjoyable thing. I lay down on the couch for a second and think maybe to shut my eyes, maybe take a rest before writing. I close my eyes, think of the cat.

Grrrrr ... bark bark bark bark ruff ruff bark barkruff ... rrrrroooooooow ... bark bark ....

I sit up. Something is happening outside.

"Help me! Someone help me!" a woman's voice shouts.

bark bark ruff ruff bark barkruff ... rrrrroooooooow ... grrrrr

I go outside.

bark bark ruff ruff bark barkruff ... rrrrroooooooow ... grrrrr

"Help me!"

There is a woman next to my house with two dogs, terriers, but a little beefier. She has one by a leash, the other she actually has by the tail. It's collar has come off. They dogs are focused though.

bark bark ruff ruff bark barkruff

I look to the corner of the yard and there is the cat. It's trapped and hiding in a bush. It chose the one corner to go to where there was no escape. The dogs sense this. They want to pounce, and they are too strong for the woman. If I hadn't been home the cat might be dog food any minute.

"Oh, thank god. Can you help me?"

"Sure."

"Can you hold him while I get the collar back on this one?" She holds out the leash, and I take it. "His name is Timothy."

I bend down and say, "Hi, Timothy," to Timothy. I pet him but he still is focused on the cat. I look back. The cat is there in the bush, right in the corner It's shaking. It's scared. It does not take it's eyes from the dogs. The woman meanwhile struggles to get the other dog in its collar. It's focused too. It's struggling. And the woman is thin, seems to be upper forties. She looks very much her age. She looks tired, has lines in her cheeks. She's wearing sunglasses and a hat, but her easy walk in the sun with the dogs seems to be anything but. She struggles with the dog and speaks.

"My father died and my step-mother kicked us all out of the house so we had to leave. She was going to give away Timothy and Frederick here, and I said, 'What?' These were my father's dog's you see. They've never been apart, even from the same womb you see. So my step-mother kicked us all out but I took the dogs. They were my father's" It's too much information. Next thing she'll take off her sunglasses, tell me her name, and ask to come in for a drink. She gets the collar on Frederick so I give her the handle for Timothy's leash. She holds them both tightly in her left hand. "Here, let me take off my sunglasses." She does. She has a black eye, the left one, both of them bloodshot. Tired is understatement, weary more like, worn down. "I'm Larissa." She holds out her hand. We shake. "This is Timothy and Frederick, from the same womb."

"I'm Dave."

"Is that your cat?"

"No, I think it might be a stray. I haven't seen it before."

"Me neither, and I walk by here everyday. You live here?"

"Yeah."

"Cool."

"She seems to have a handle on the dogs, just barely. "Well, I need to get back in."

"Nice to meet you, Dave."

"You too."

She turns to walk off but struggles with the dogs. They're still focused. She looks at me. "I'm by here everyday. Maybe I'll see you sometime."

"Bye." She's a good forty or fifty feet away before the dogs relent to other smells and distractions. I look back to see if the cat is OK, but it's gone. I wish him luck and go back in the house. I open another beer and think again to get to writing. I think about Larissa and make a note not to come home so early again on weekdays. She was a little too forthcoming. If she saw me she'd stop, try to talk. I'd learn all about her step-mother, the family woes, her father's death. I don't have time for such. I don't want to learn those things. I want to sit here sipping on a beverage and write for a bit and ...

"Meow..."

I look at the screen door. The cat is back.

"Meow..."

"Hey, there, little buddy!" I get up and walk to the door half expecting him to run away as I approach, but he doesn't."

"Meow..."

I open the door, and he comes in. He rubs his head against my leg as cats are wont to do. He starts purring. I bend down and scratch his neck. No collar, somewhat dirty, a little thin. "Welcome, home, Missy."

Something Dies, Two Auditions, G Chords Bouncing off Walls

2010-08-09

A old friend of mine recently asked how I could have gone from 1997 until 2008 without playing in a band. "That's all you used to care about," he said. He had a point. I went those eleven years without playing in a band. I've known other musicians that have done the same, somehow gotten away from all that seemed to matter, and somehow never got back to it.

Why do we stop these things we so love? I now have that question coursing through my brain. I played in bands all through college, from 1989 until that fateful fall of 1997 when my then band Third Stone decided to take break which as it turns out has been a permanent one. Why did I wait until 2008 to join another band? No matter that I only stayed in Seattle for three weeks in 1997 before continuing on to Korea. There were musical opportunities to be had overseas as well as back in the States when I returned in 2005. I certainly missed it during those years, longed for it, even ached at times for it, but just never did it, never made that first step to seek out musicians who wanted to start a band or who already had a band.

Something dies in people, even for the things we love to do, the things we believe in, the things that give us solace, strength, life, the things that make us dance and laugh at death. Something dies. People stop painting, writing, playing music when one day they wake up and something has changed. The page won't retain the words, the colors drip off the canvas, the G chords fall flat to the floor. Then the hesitation steps in. The words don't even come and the page stays blank. The colors and shapes become a blur, are lost before they ever reach the brush. The guitar simply collects dust in the corner and doesn't even ask to be played, becomes that standard decorative guitar that exists in nearly every house or apartment, the one that is never played and when remarked upon is only referred to in the past tense, "Well, I used to play some, but ..." Something dies in people, that little ember that made them glow is extinguished and all too often can never be lit again. The kindling is wet, the matches used up, the knowledge of how to make fire is forgotten. Something dies, but life goes on. Time never stands still. Regret seeps in, wonder and doubt seep in. Old works are looked over and the phrase "this is my last piece" refers not simply to the most recent one, but the literal last one, the power to create long since gone. The question comes after the phrase, "Will you take it up again?" And the standard reply, "Well I think about it, but there's work and ...". Something dies. Life goes on

Back in 2008, I didn't want something to die though. I thought about old bands, the players, the gigs, the healing to be had from the music that had soared. I didn't want that to die.

So I auditioned for two bands in the late summer of 2008. One was a bad cover band, and I auditioned badly. It was to be expected after so long of only playing music in my bedroom or living room or car, or worse, not all. I had low expectations for that first audition, and I lived up to them. I was embarrassed at my playing and thought they were just being nice when they suggested having me back again. They complimented my playing, said they had fun. I wondered what they were smoking and which bass they were listening to that night. I accepted though and we set up another time for the following week, but as I drove home I got to thinking that if they thought that was good playing, if they thought that horrible mangled mess of music we'd forced ourselves to endure was fun, then things would never much improve from there, no applause would ever come for that band. So I emailed and cancelled.

And I wondered. Did that something die in me? I felt drained of power to have played so badly in simple tunes like Stranglehold, Paranoid, and Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun. I wondered. I worried. I fretted. I feared. Had that something died in me?

And yet I refused to believe it had. I would not accept it so I scheduled one more audition with a different band and nervously learned the band's songs over a three day period. On a Thursday evening, I drove to their practice space at 8:00 with a six pack of Killians Irish Red. We said our greetings, tuned our instruments, and the keyboard player asked, "So which song do you want to do first?"

"How about Dimebag?" It was a riff heavy number that started with a droning keyboard and a cool bass groove. I figured if I was going to crash and burn that I'd do it right away and save us all the trouble. But I figured too on the other, if I nailed it, it I got through that first heavy groove, then the whole thing might just go through. The G chords would bounce off the walls, the music would soar.

If you're curious to see the result of that audition two years ago this month, and if you also happen to be in the Seattle area, we'll be playing at the Skylark Cafe in West Seattle on Saturday September 25.

A Two Beer Poetry Reading, Mozart and Beethoven, The Length of One Song, The Side of my Poem

2010-08-06

I step up to the microphone with with my single poem and two beers. Got to have the beer when reading poetry in public of course. The place is full which is good too for an evening of poesy. Who would have thought such? I sip my beer, twice, and am glad I brought two up on stage. I sip once more, set the bottles on the podium and begin. "This one's called I Don't Have a Girlfriend."

.....

I finish the poem and the beers. There is some mild clapping as I step off the stage and set the empty bottles on the bar. I leave the room and go out to the patio. The air is cool for July. There is a woman outside sitting on the steps smoking. She turns to look back at me as I stand in front of the door. "I liked your poem," she says.

It catches me a little by surprise. "Uh...thanks," I say, "Didn't seem like too many other people did."

"Don't mind these guys. They're amateurs here for an open mic night. Many of them want to write but can't, or at least not well. They certainly aren't published. I was surprised by you though. What made you come and read?" She has a directness few people have. She puffs her cigarette, exhales, drops it and stamps it out. She has jet black hair, a leather jacket, lots of red lipstick. She looks like she should be at a club, not a poetry reading.

"I needed a release I guess. I wanted to read something in front of people. I only have once before and the time just felt right to do it again."

"That's cool. I'm Sara." She holds out her hand. I take it. It has a roughness from experience rather than manual labor. She must be roughly my age. Her grip is firm. She makes eye contact and holds it.

"Dave."

"So what do you do, Dave, when not writing about lesbian bartenders?"

"Play bass and write a blog." Unlike so many others, she seems not interested in the income of what I do. She's more curious about the other things, the ones that define me, the things that motivate and inspire.

"Bass? Cool. Are you in a band?"

"Yeah, bass. And yes on the band. We were Happy Hour Hero for a while. We're changing that to Going South though."

The red lips part in a big smile. "You guys have a manager or booking agent?" There's something about her question that goes to more than curiosity. She has a point, a purpose. Everyone who asks that question has a motive for doing so. I can guess what Sara's is.

"No, we don't, but we could use one. Booking gigs and handling the business affairs of a band is a speciality of none of us. I've been in the band for two years and we've played a few gigs here and there, but booking them just isn't our thing." It's true. We don't do well dealing with bars and DJs and the few record lable people we might come into contact with. We play music. And although I can handle my side business of web programming well enough, I can't be bothered to do much in that way for the band. None of us can. We deal with riffs and notes and chords. Melody and harmony. But let any one of us try to convince a club owner or booking agent to give us a gig, and we're at a loss. "Uh ... my band good ... you give gig ... OK?" It always seems to go that way. In that capacity, we're just not good with people. I once read somewhere that friends of Mozart often wished he had half his musical ability and twice his ability to deal with people. Apparently he didn't do well in that regard either. It takes more than sheer talent. Well, usually it does. Mozart did pretty well on sheer talent. I'm here writing about him over 200 years after his death. Will my band be so lucky? Will some future musician bang out our tunes on some future instrument and think as I do of Mozart, of Beethoven, "Man, this shit rules my universe!"? Or will our music die with us and the fifty odd people who happen upon a show someday and buy a CD on their way out? More likely the latter. But we're dreamers. No reason to put a band together otherwise. Not to say we're shooting for eternal glory, but we want to be heard. We want the applause that comes from a crowd moved to clap, not the obligatory clap after a song, but rather the kind of uncontrollable clap that overtakes one after hearing a melody, a riff, a monstrous G chord that moves the firmament, that shakes the bar, spills the drinks, heals for a moment. For that's what good music will do. It will heal, offer a respite for an evening, for even just a moment.

All it takes to settle the soul sometimes is the length of one song.

"Maybe I can help with that. I handle booking gigs for bands here and there so perhaps we can swing something. You guys have any gigs coming up so I can check you out?" I wonder if she realizes how old I am. I've been told a few times I look as much as ten years younger than I am. It would be nice to be all the way back at thirty and know what I know now. I wouldn't though. I wouldn't know what I know. How could I? It came through experience, life, the slow but ever increasing accumulation of years. We're an old band as far as rock music goes. Managers, booking agents, and the like want young bands that can be told what to do, that can leave stuff with parents and go on tour, that don't have car payments, house payments, kids, jobs that can't be discarded, obligations.

"As a matter of fact we do. September 25 over at the Skylark in West Seattle. I'll put you on the list"

"Sounds good. I'll be there. You up for a drink now? Maybe we can chat about music. My treat."

"I would, but there's some thinking and writing to be done." It's true. There's always some thinking and writing to be done. A drink and conversation with a potential booking agent of the band would be nice, but so would laying down a few good lines and editing others to make them so. Which is more important? Twenty years ago it would have been the former, but at Forty-One the tides have turned. I read a poem for people this evening. It didn't matter that the claps were not so enthusuastic. It wasn't done for their approval. Like I told Sara, it was for release. To keep all those words in would be like keeping all the emotions in. An explosion would be inevitable. And well, an explosion of sorts has happened. I'm writing all the time now, and for the first time in my whole life I have turned down drinks with a woman in favor or a solitary night playing with the word. And I couldn't be happier.

"Hey, I understand," Sara says. She takes a card out of her purse and writes something on the back then holds out her hand. "Here's my card." I take it and put it in my pocket without looking at it. Looking at it would ruin the night for writing. I would feel compelled then to change plans, to drink with Sara, to explore opportunities for the band. We shake hands. "Nice meeting you."

"Likewise." On the back of the paper of my poem I write my info down for her. As I do this I realize we are writing things down in the age of cell phones when most people just call on the spot so the phone will pick up and remember the number. I instinctvely write my blog website url for her rather than the band website. I pause for a moment, but let it go. She can link to the band website from there, and well the blog is more important. It needs all the readers it can get. The band needs listeners too, but Sara here may just be able help with that. I hand her the paper. She turns it over to the side of the poem. "I'll be in touch. See you at the show." I walk down the steps and off into the night as she lights another cigarette and puffs away in silence reading what I wrote.

Oral sex, Happy Hour Hero, Going South, Dave, What's in a name?

2010-07-30

The band changed its name. When I joined the band, it was called Going South which was apparently a reference to oral sex, going down on someone, south of the border. I missed the reference though. I had to ask them after I passed the audition. We sat there drinking cheap champagne in the hot smoky practice space speaking of practice schedules, gigs, photos sessions. We spoke of writing tunes and recording them, whether it was better to release single mp3s or to record and release a larger set of songs. At one point I asked, "So what's with the name?"

"It's sexual, Going South, going down on someone." It was said in that slow kind of speech that expresses a disbelief that explanation is needed. It was though.

"Oh."

But they'd had that name for almost 10 years. They released three or four CDs. They played show after show, did a showcase in LA. They played Bumbershoot a few years ago. They were tired of the name though. The music was evolving, getting heavier with age rather than lighter. There were new members. It was agreed there over the cheap champagne that we would change the name. So we thought and thought. We emailed lame suggestions to each other. It was hard going. Weeks went by. We practiced and got ready for the first gig but the name didn't come. So one day Katy put forth the idea of Happy Hour Hero. It was a lyric from one of our songs. We all accepted it. In the after practice beer laden moment, it seemed a good idea. So we became Happy Hour Hero, and of course almost immediately we all felt a disappointment with the name. It didn't quite fit. It seemed more like a bar cover band or frat party band than a good rocking original band that was out to create something new. But still we kept it for lack of something better.

That was October 2008. After our last gig back in the spring, almost two years since the birth of Happy Hour Hero, we finally admitted to ourselves that we weren't happy with the name, that it was time to change. We thought and thought. We emailed lame suggestions to each other. It was hard going. Weeks went by. Then one day not long ago over drinks at the Tiger Lounge after practice Katy put forth the idea of Going South. It seemed the only thing that fit. Katy, Billy, and Roger (the guitar player, not the shrubber) had been in Going South for almost 10 years. It's who they were, who they are, and now it's who we are. Going South. I don't know if people will get the sexual reference, but it fits music that is sexy, sultry, heavy, and a little dirty.

So now I have to get a domain name and do up a new website. Thinking of such I'm reminded of my other new website project, the NDA, National Dave Association. It's a lark, but it'll be fun. A website devoted to all things Dave. It's an idea I've joked about for years with various Ohio Daves, but it took my friend Seattle Dave to suggest it last week for me to actually get it going, to actually think why not?, or more in the Risky Business fashion, What the fuck? I don't know how many things Dave there are or if changing the name of the band will have any effect on the course of my musical efforts, but I guess I'll find out what's really in a name.

The re-emergence of Going South will happen on Saturday September 25 at the Skylark Cafe in West Seattle. We'll have a new EP to release (finally). In the meantime though, enjoy the video we did last year:

Ashlee Simpson by Going South/Happy Hour Hero/Going South

Crown and Coke, You Can't Afford that Website Idea You Have, Flux Capacitor, N.D.A.

2010-07-22

Seattle Dave is already pretty well lit when I get to JJs. "DAAAAAAAAAAAAVE!" I hear as soon as I walk in. He's sitting at a Window table right next to the bar. He's by himself and still wearing his JJs shirt as he bartends days here and recently some evenings over at The West Seattle Tap. Not tonight though. He's full of beer and an idea of some sort, a favor he wants to ask me. He phoned earlier and asked me to come here, said he'd pay for the drinks. Whether I do the favor or not, I can always go for the free drinks so here I am.

As I walk over to his table, he goes behind the bar and pours me a Crown and Coke. He must really want that favor. I'd figured he might try to convince me to drink Bud Light or some such. Crown and Coke is a new favorite of mine though and he knows it. Being a beer man, I don't have it that often, but every time I do I'm surprised by just how good it is. Dave comes back, "DAAAAAAAAAAAAVE!" and sets my drink down. I sip. There it is, the reminder of greatness. In the words of Ferris Bueller, "It is so choice." If you haven't tried Crown and Coke, you need to. It really is that good.

"So what's up?" I ask. I figure to get right to the point, to get the favor asking out of the way so we can get to the drinking.

"I have two ideas for websites..." I roll my eyes. Here it comes. I get this a lot from people who know I program webpages. Everyone and their grandmother wants a website, and they want it cheap, or worse, free. They tell me ideas and features of their imagined sites. They tell me how cool it will be. They rattle off similar sites. "It should be like Facebook but with more of a photo focus like Flickr." Then they tell me their budget. "I only have about $300 to spare but, really, it'll be awesome." For those of you thinking about it, $300 will not a website get you. There's no such thing as the $300 website, or even $500. $1000 will get you a miminal (read very minimal) site. If the site you're thinking about is a blend of Facebook and Flickr (and I have had such asked of me) well just stop right there. You can't afford it.

The other angle people give is profit sharing and partnership for free coding. "When the site starts to make money, I'll give you twenty percent right off the top." They say this with eager eyes and animated expressions like they actually believe their idea for "a My Space kind of site but with no advertising" will somehow generate even one penny of income. For these kinds of "opportunities" I always reply, "You know, I fell down the other day and knocked myself unconscious. When I came to, I had a vision of something called a Flux Capacitor. This will make time travel possible. It's true. Now, if you give me, $10,000 today so I can get started developing the Flux Capacitor, I will give you twenty percent of all profit I ever make with a corner on the time travel market."

"That's Back to the Future, man. I'm serious." Some people just don't get it.

Seattle Dave sees me roll my eyes and continues, "Now just hear me out. I've been thinking about that idea you had to start the NDA, National Dave Association. I think we should do it. If nothing else, it'll be fun, and it's just that quirky kind of off the wall thing that might somehow catch on. I mean, who the hell ever thought of the National Dave Association, or any name for that matter? There's tons of famous Daves we could try to get some kind of endorsement from. What do you think?"

I wasn't expecting this. It's true. I have long joked with another Dave, an Ohio Dave, about the NDA. It's been a running joke since high school, but hearing Seattle Dave now and seeing how excited he is, I'm quite tempted. Why not? The chances are slim of course, but he is right. It is that totally out there idea that might just be odd enough to catch on for at least a little while. If it did, there's little chance for any money, but still, it'd be fun. I think that I will. "There's another Dave we'd have to get involved, but I like the idea." A line from Amadeus comes to mind. Emperor Joseph wants to play a piece of music on the piano as Mozart is entering the room for their first meeting. He has the sheet music in his hand, and as he's walking toward the piano he says what I now say to Seattle Dave, "Let's have some fun."

"Excellent!" I finish my drink, and Dave pours me another of the same, a double. He comes back, gives it to me. I sip. Mmm ... Crown and Coke.

"You mentioned two websites," I say to Dave.

"Yeah, I have one more idea." I sip again. I'm actually a little eager to hear his idea. He surprised me with the first one so now I'm curious. I wonder if the God of Good Ideas has been kind to him, two for the price of one. I hope so. It happens sometimes, unexpected luck, ideas from from nowhere, opportunity at the right time. Dave looks around as if to check that anyone is listening. I look around too mocking his behavior. "I want to do a porn site. Nothing makes money on the internet like porn. What do you think? It'd be cool to look at porn all day. I could tell my girlfriend it's research, and we could split all profits fifty-fifty. What do you think?"

He has a girlfriend?

"Really, I'm serious."

Sigh. He doesn't want to know what I think so I answer in the way I always do, "You know, I fell down the other day..."

He cuts me off. I've told him the story before. He knows I won't go for such things. "OK, Let's just start with the NDA and see how that goes."

"Sounds good to me." I finish my drink. "I could go for another one of these."

"Coming right up," he says as he stands up to get me another Crown and Coke, "NDA!"

To Click Off on Someone, Need to Fix that Hole in the Wall, That Pause Before Throwing a Cell Phone

2010-07-17

"Come on out. The drinks are on me tonight." It's my friend Seattle Dave. He's just called with this generous offer and sounds as if he's treated himself to a few already. "Besides," he continues, "I want to ask you something." It means it he wants a favor. I have no plans though so I figure I'll see what he wants.

"Sure, I'll be there in about fifteen minutes."

"Cool!" he shouts and then after a short pause, "BEER!" Click. He hangs up. I guess that's an old expression though. To hang up. He ... he what? Clicks off? Sounds vaguely sexual or insulting. "He clicked off on me! I'm pissed." I don't know anyone with a house phone anymore, certainly not the kind that needs any sort of hanging. The last home phone I had was a few years ago, and it was just a wireless unit with a tabletop charger. There was no hanging, no clicking. I guess the appropriate expression would be "put down". Again it doesn't sound very good, "He put down on me!" Or worse, "He put the unit down on me!" No, "hung up" is better. So Dave clicked and hung up. Clicked up? As I think about it though, "click off" is beginning to grow on me. When you hear your buddy talking on his cell phone to his ex and she is just nagging him to no end, you can say it, "Man, just click off on that bitch."

It isn't a very satisfying action though, clicking off. Hanging up was much better. It was a physical action. It could even be violent. "Fuck you!" and then slam the receiver down. Sometimes that was followed by the very satisfying act (I know this from experience) of ripping the phone from the wall and throwing it across the room, even stomping on it. There was dust and debris and a few moments of peaceful relaxation. The phone call was momentarily forgotten in the damage and then came the laughs, the looks about the room, the resigned sighs, "Man, I guess I need to go to fix that hole in the wall."

When clicking off it's much different. "Fuck you," pull head away from cell phone, raise thumb, press the off button. There's a pause then, no sound. Nothing shakes. There's no dust or debris, no holes in any walls. The anger and stress from the call still reside in the brain and the chest. The thumb shakes. The fists clench. There's no outlet other than throwing the phone. The arm cocks back, a target takes shape on the wall. But then there's a hesitation, even in anger, there's hesitation. The phone is not just a phone anymore. It's a camera, a texting device, a web browser, and on and on and on. I have guitar tuners and effects pedals on my phone. I have synthesizers, mp3s, photos of Lucy atop the Space Needle. Apps and apps and apps and functions and data files. And text messages from Lucy telling me all manner of things, but the best are of the sort, "I had a great time :)"

All that would be lost if I ever threw my phone at a wall, and I don't want to lose all that, particularly a certain picture taken at The Taphouse in Bellevue, and one over at the West Seattle Matador on my birthday, the one from the Space Needle of course. I have indeed copied them to my laptop, but there's something special about keeping the originals there on the phone and being able to see them at any time no matter where I am. When I need a little cheer, I pull those pictures and text messages up, and all in the world is good. So even if I ever got to that point with my arm cocked back after clicking off on someone, with the spot on the wall chosen where I would hurl the phone with all the force of my being, I would pause. I would reconsider. I would pull up those pictures and text messages, and all in the world would be good.

I get in my car and start driving over to JJs in Redmond where Seattle Dave is already drunk and waiting to buy me drinks in return for some kind of favor. As I drive, my phone rings. It's from an unfamiliar Seattle number. I hesitate for a moment and then answer, "Hello?"

"May I speak to Dave, please?"

"This is."

"Hi, My name is Anton from the Seattle Directory of Unneeded Businesses, and I was hoping you had a few minutes..."

Click.

It's unsatisfying, the simple press of my thumb as I drive. It feels like nothing has happened. I look out at the road and the trees that go by, the other cars and the other drivers, the buildings with businesses, needed and unneeded, the homes, the people walking their dogs on the sidewalks with their plastic bags in hand. It all goes by quietly. Something has happened. I set the phone down, and what follows is most excellent. I smile in it. I breathe it in, and yes, drive in it.

Silence.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Seems like Naomi should have paused too before throwing her phone, or at least chosen a wall rather than someone's head.

My Nipples Don't Work, Red Dwarf, The Frozen Barista, Patriotic Me

2010-07-15

"My nipples don't work..." it began. I made the mistake of watching the video in a Starbucks where I promptly choked on a the bit of banana nut bread I was eating. The clip was from a British television show called Red Dwarf, and being a fan Lucy had sent me a link to the clip a couple weeks prior to my July 4th birthday. After the nipple line I had to restart the video as I missed a bit from the combination of my simultaneous choking and laughing fit. I made it through then containing my laughter until the following line:

I want to talk to you about my penis.

"Ha!" I let out VERY loud and again had to choke down a bit of banana nut bread that I should have known better than to try eating before the video ended. I had to rewind and re-watch that line too. "I want to talk to you about my penis."

"Ha!"

Again loud. No banana nut bread this time but everyone in the store and even the guy in the minivan parked at the drive though window was looking at me with my headphones on and absolutely failing to keep a straight quiet face through the video. I started laughing uncontrollably then as that line kept going through my head, "I want to talk to you about my penis ... I want to talk to you about my penis ... I want to talk to you about my penis ..." I buried my head in my arms and sat laughing and shaking the table. "I want to talk to you about my penis..." An android suddenly turned human and full of questions about his body. Genius stuff. It even brought a few tears. After a few minutes I was able to calm down and finish watching the video. I finished my coffee too and went up to the counter to get a refill.

"We're brewing some now," the pretty young brunette said, "I'll bring the mug over to your table when it's ready."

"OK." I went back to my table and sent Lucy an email of many thanks for the laughter and the embarrassment the video had brought to me. With my birthday coming up on the 4th, I confirmed as well in the email our plans for that night. Lucy and I would go to dinner, then drinks, and then skip the fireworks downtown to hopefully make a few of our own. I wanted thus to do something special for the day to give her a surprise, something patriotic that would have also the effect of making her smile for my doing so. I wanted to get underwear printed with the American flag on it, specifically boxers, nothing tight and tiny of the jock strap variety, no briefs, no nut huggers, no ball sacks, or whatever they're called. No, nothing like that. I wanted Lucy to laugh and smile when she saw my patriotism, not shriek and run away.

I made a mistake though. When I went to type in my Google search for "american flag underwear" I still had the video in my head, still had that phrase in my head, was still a bit out of sorts because of it. In the Google text box I typed, "i want to talk to you about my penis" without realizing it until the results page came up with the phrase there in big bold black letters at the top, letters easy enough for anyone standing behind me or walking past to see, easy enough for anyone stopping by my table to deliver a fresh cup of coffee to see.

"Here you a..." she began to say, but she'd noticed the computer screen, that phrase and those bold letters. It might as well have been flashing in all caps

I WANT TO TALK TO YOU ABOUT MY PENIS

She didn't look down at me. She just kept looking at the laptop screen and holding onto my coffee cup. She was frozen by the statement, by the taboo subject, by the harmless desire to talk about my penis. I couldn't blame her.

It was my guess an American flag g-string would have the same effect on Lucy. I didn't want frozen shock. I wanted a smile, a playful nudge with an elbow, and a whole lot more to be sure. "I'll take that," I said to the barista. My words freed her and she went straight to the bathroom. I had to laugh of course as I typed my intended phrase into the browser and found and ordered a suitable pair of American flag boxers for my birthday. As a joke though, for the proper time and the proper occasion, I ordered another pair too, a Mens Thong Swimsuit described as a "Patriotic Zipper Thong". It was horrible of course, but I had the thought that at the right time a little shock and surprise might just be the thing. And just before clicking the order button, just as the big picture on the screen was the male model leaving nothing to the imagination in that "patriotic zipper thong", the pretty young brunette walked by again. She looked at my laptop again. She went to the bathroom again.

And I heard Lucy's laughing voice in my head repeating that phrase she says to me so often, "Only you." And I smiled to think, only me ... patriotic me.

Vegas, Coffee Misadventures, What Better Thing?, The Rest of My Days

2010-07-14

"There was coffee everywhere..."

"Only you," Lucy says leaning slightly to her left and laughing with her right hand over her mouth. It's a phrase she says often to me, and it's wondrous, wondrous to see such beauty lean and smile and take delight in the goofy side of me. We are out at The Taphouse over in Bellevue for a little happy hour before she goes on vacation for ten days to Vegas where she has an aunt and can stay for free. My aunt lives in Tampa so I know the benefits. I've just told Lucy about yesterday's coffee misadventure where I forgot a critical step in the coffee brewing process. "How do you not place the pot on the brewer?" she asks still laughing.

It's a miracle the way a woman's mouth will widen into a smile, the way Lucy's mouth widens into a smile, the way it can be seen just about to happen as I relate some errant deed on my part, the slight crack that starts first at the right corner of her mouth and appears just after on her left, the hesitation there while details of my folly unfold, the lean forward half-chuckle as lips and eyes widen, the parting of the lips, the display of teeth and mirth that causes her body to tilt always to her left, the laughter sounds that ensue followed by the hand, always the right, that quickly attempts to cover both smile and sound but that never does. The hand seems more ballast, something to lean on in support of joy rather than suppression. It is the most beautiful thing in the world, the most beautiful thing ever, that smile, the smile of a beautiful woman, Lucy, Lucy's smile.

What better thing is there than being the cause of the smile of a beautiful woman?

I could sit here for the rest of my days, from now until the moment I die, until that last hiss of my last breath escapes these lungs, until I write that last word, play that last chord, close my eyes for that last time. Until the heavens open up and swallow us all, I could sit and just focus on that smile, Lucy's smile that leans left with her right hand, contemplate it, memorize it, absorb it into my very being. I could do so. I could simply think about a smile, that smile, and be a happy man.

I think I will.

Five Steps to Brewing Coffee, It's a Bit Nutty, Drip Drip Drip, A Fine Coffee Substitute

2010-07-13

1. Place coffee filter in brewer.
2. Put 6 tablespoons of Jitters Sumatra blend into filter.
3. Fill water compartment of brewer to capacity.
4. Place coffee pot under brewer spout.
5. Click the "Brew now" button.

I am typing, clicking, banging the keys as the coffee brews and that wonderful smell fills the room. I am excited, eager, anxious for some good coffee after the crap they have at work, crap the reminds me of Austin Powers, "It's a bit nutty." So I had clicked that "Brew now" button, and now I type, pause, sniff. I look at my empty coffee mug right there on the table next to the laptop, and it too shakes a little in anticipation of the goodness to come, the caffeine, the warmth, the pleasure to be had while sipping a fresh cup and looking out the window at 4:00 in the afternoon as the rest of the world rushes by on the street below. My work day is done so it's coffee time, writing time, my time.

I hear the drip drip of the brewer as the pot begins to fill. I breathe deep of the aroma.

Nothing mixes so well with the word as coffee. There truly is something special about drinking it by the gallon or the thimble while working up the lines of a poem or working up a chapter, a paragraph, a phrase in the book. I have 45 chapters so far in the book. I have them spread out over the floor in the spare bedroom, the room I've dubbed as the "Chapter Room" as that's all that's in there. The chapters and the pages arranged in order but then rearranged as story and whim dictate. The floor is covered as the chapters and pages even reorder themselves sometimes. There are the coffee stains too from the spilled cups, the knocked over cups, the dribbles down my chin and fingers onto pages, chapters, and carpet.

The drip drip drip of the brewer continues but sounds a little odd.

I ignore the odd sound of the brewer because I'm into the book, the story, into the character who himself is into a woman and the thought of the woman gets me going. She's a beauty in all senses, and even though she is of course somewhat fictional, she has a way of getting under my skin so that I feel the pain, the desire, the lust of the character. It makes me feel a little turned on, even a little ...

There is the drip drip drip trickle of the brewer.

Trickle? That's not right.

I run into the kitchen to see the last of my excellent Jitters coffee running over the counter and down the cabinets to pool on the floor below. "Son of a Bitch!" I scream in my best Jim Belushi. I'm on the verge of tears. There is no more Jitters. The empty bag is sitting on the counter in a pool of coffee right next to the coffee pot I'd forgotten to place on the brewer. I'd so wanted a cup. I'd so wanted to just sit and sip and read and write and write and read and sip some more. I'm crushed. I'm devastated. I ... I think I'll have to have a beer. I open the fridge and take out a Blue Moon (no PBR here!), twist off the cap, have a good hit. I walk back to the table and sit down. I sip again and start typing and find that I quite easily am back into writing mode. I type and click and lean into the screen.

Nothing mixes so well with the word as beer.

West Seattle Festival, The Question I Often Get, Roadtrip

2010-07-10

I'm out at the West Seattle Festival with my friend Seattle Dave. We're sitting at the bar in a place called Talarico's, Italian food, huge thin slices of greasy pizza goodness. I have a Mannys, Dave a margarita with Herradura repasado, and we have each just finished a slice of that goodness with jalapenos, onions, and sausage. The festival is much like any other. There are a number of booths that local artists and businesses have set up, jewelry, paintings, woodcarvings, Lasik surgery, insurance, mortgages, henna tattoos. All the festival goers are still walking up and down California Ave, milling about, looking at all the stuff in all the booths and generally enjoying a day in the sun. Dave and I spent an hour doing such. I bought a card for Lucy. He scoured the used CDs and found Deconstruction and The Cult's Electric, paid $5.00 for the pair. Good deal. Good CDs.

Dave speaks, "I've been meaning to ask you for some time now why you write in your blog anyway? What's the point? You go on and on about Lucy and that bartender ...."

"Shelby?"

"Yeah, her over at the West Seattle Tap."

"You spent an evening chatting her up once I remember."

"Yeah, I did but to no avail. She digs you."

"I think you might be right. That's why I haven't been there in a little while."

"We should go there later," he says while sipping his margarita. I'd thought about getting one but I had the same drink on my birthday with Lucy and wanted to keep it as such. I sip my Mannys three times. Dave continues, "I read your review of that metal band. So you want that singer?"

He thinks as usual that he has an angle, that he's found something. "She's attractive of course," I say, "but you'd be wrong to think I want any more in that direction."

He seems to consider this for a moment. He looks at his margarita, sighs, and then seems to change directions. I can see the wheels spin and take that left turn. "Does Lucy read your blog?"

"I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No, I don't know. It doesn't matter though. I would never ask her to anyway. If she wants to, great. If not, great. She supports the fact the I have the desire to write so that's enough for me." He stares at me blankly for a moment, and I can see he's having a hard time with what I've just said. It's true though. I don't write for any particular person to read, even Lucy, even as I do go on about her at times. It's hard I suppose for someone who doesn't write to understand. I do get his question a lot from friends, co-workers, bartenders, baristas, others. "Why do you write this stuff?"

Lucy has never asked why though. She just knows. She understands. She doesn't question the need. For that's what it is really, a need. Lucy knows things. It's one of the reasons I love her so. Yes, there's that word. She doesn't try to horn into my life and take over, doesn't give that line so many women do, "We don't spend enough time together!" Lucy wants more time to herself actually. Another reason why I feel as I do. It gives me time to be here at the laptop making my clickity click sounds to get these things down. Charles Bukowski wrote a short blurb of a poem once that goes right to the point.

take a writer away from his typewriter
and all you have left
is
the sickness
which started him
typing
in the
beginning.

So why do I write this stuff?

My answer: How can I not?

I think Dave finally understands as with a straw he slurps the last bits of his margarita and motions for two more drinks. "That's cool," he says, "but it needs more humor." Our drinks come. The bartender clears the empties away. We sip our drinks silently and I cannot disagree. It does need more humor. Doesn't anything though?

Dave looks at me, "You want to head to Yakima? Hells Belles is playing there. If we leave now we can make it." I can see it in his eyes. Roadtrip roadtrip roadtrip! It feels like we're back in college as we're here getting lit at 1:30 on a Saturday afternoon. It's a beautiful day. I have the hours free. Why not hit the road? I can't even remember the last time I took off on a whim.

"Sure," I say knowing he will misunderstand.

He smiles big, "I knew it!"