Hard Case

My unwashed clothing smells like Toby's butt. The breath, once floral, now more drying pond. You know, that delicate scent of rotting carp tangled in mud-choked vegetation. My vision, long gone, ruined by some kind of STD. A real Trojan Horse. Clouded eyes roll under dark glass. People lean me up against a wall and tell me to “stay”. Expecting to get a biscuit, I freeze...as they stick a candy cigarette into my yap.

Thug life in the burbs...

I tell myself that other people’s tattoos are none of my business. It’s not my life, forget it. But it still bothers me. I counted three Indian “Dream Catchers” at the gym last week, on a calf and two upper right arms. These were not Native American men. Women with butterflies on thick ankles, lower back tattoos on flesh that should be covered…they’re intended to …what? Entice? Seduce? And don’t even get me started on “tribal” tattoos. You know they’re done and over with when the 75 year old lady in front of me at the grocery store has a fresh one covering the back of her neck. All pointy spears and curvy black angles. What do these people think? That they are social rebels? Going to shock people? I mean, maybe 30 years ago, but now it’s all so...Walmart. But hey, body art is just that, art. So here’s my appeal to everyone who is going under the needle any time soon. Make it original art that means something to you personally. Realize that you may think or feel differently in 30 years, so make the message about things that are timeless. Hell, if I had gotten tattoos as a young man, I would have fading dark circles with the Zig Zag man trapped inside and Marijuana leaves all over my arms. Think about it. Don’t just have a few adult beverages, go into a strip mall tattoo parlor and point at something on the wall that has already been done on ten thousand people before you. Have an artist friend design something with you, or better yet, design it yourself. Then visualize it on your skin for six months or so before you do it. Oh, and the trend with young people seems to be handwritten script, a proverb or heavy message. You do know that will look like two lines of dark smear in 25 years? If you want it, at least put some distance between the letters and words. Allow for smear. Because that’s what happens, it all gets smeared together. My ant tattoo from 30 years ago looks like a dark blob lying on a dark blob. Go figure. So do yourself, and all of us who have to look at you, a favor. Put some personal style into it, make it pop. It is art, after all, so help me out here and please don’t be just too stupid to walk and breathe air. Make a statement that is unique to you and…well, memorable...and use correct spelling, please...

Maverick Silver

For more than 100 years, “Maverick” belt buckles were custom made in a Mexican silver shop and given to every male in my family when they turned 16. That tradition ended when my Grandfather passed. He was the last male in that line, no living sons to carry the name. 

The back of this buckle reads: “From Grandpa Maverick to Hugh Maverick Haller, Jan 23, 1964”. 

Although I wore it for twenty years, another twenty passed as it sat, overlooked and forgotten. Yesterday I noticed it in my closet, peeping out from underneath a pile of belts, its leather cracked, mildewed… several sizes too small for me now. This morning I removed the buckle and shined it up. Tomorrow I’ll go into town where there is a small leather-craft shop in the historic district. The owner makes a wide variety of leather goods: purses, wallets, belts... I plan to start wearing my new belt very soon. With a bit of luck we’ll both be good for another 20 years...

 

The Last Waltz

  

I was 18 years old in the Summer of 1966 and had been singing in the church choir for ten years. Three nights a week and one or two Sunday services. St Paul’s Episcopal choir of men and boys. The bar had traditionally been set by the great English church choirs of the day…Kings College, St. Johns… The best in the world. We were too. So after I graduated High School and before starting my freshman year at the University of Georgia, we loaded on to a plane out of Idlewild and jumped the pond to go sing with them. That particular summer was an amazing time to be in England, and to be eighteen. It was my last waltz.

BFF

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

David Callahan paused for a visit on his way to New Orleans. We’ve been close friends since we were 6 or 7, when our houses sat back to back in Westfield, NJ. We would run barefoot on a path worn smooth, back and forth between our two houses, squashing slugs up between our toes at night when they crossed the narrow trail. For many years we sang together in our church choir four times a week and shot out street lights with a BB gun on our way home from practice. We froze our asses off riding to High School on my motorcycle. The cold turned our hands into useless claws well into the third period before regaining some rudimentary movement . I helped lay a few of the first 2,000 pound foundation stones at his amazing house in the hilly Ohio woods near Ohio University. We’ve lived very different lives. He’s the adventurer, the hairy chested man daring choppy seas to do their best to kill him while alone in his sailboat or in a rowing whaler he built by hand. Wildly artistic and extremely prolific, I’ve always been amazed by his accomplishments in art and adventure. I’m a homebody, rowing a small boat in rough waters off the coast of Tonga is about the last thing I would do voluntarily. I just want to be in my own kitchen making some nice lentil soup. But we’ve always stayed in touch, always picked up effortlessly wherever we left off. This time around, we spent two days immersed in animated conversation, laughter, and easy familiarity. So many years and memories to spark on, and, hopefully, many more to go…I love the guy, loved our two days together…Bon Voyage, David, say “Hello” to the world for me. Stop by again next time, I’ll be right here in the kitchen, playing some Lucinda Williams music and making a nice pot of soup.

What is Tomorrow?

Kira has her lasers locked on, urging me to catch her stare. She knows that I’m boiling chicken thighs for her dinner. Thighs, chard, brown rice. After being lazy for a week and dishing out food from a can of mixed contents that even give a dog pause, all four misfits are more than ready for a real meal. So I locked on with the big dog and said: “Yes Kira, I’m making you a nice dinner.” She looked relieved and happy. She knew about longing, and waiting. She just needed reassurance that all was as it should be. I was making her something good. Although when I finally did put her dish down I still have a bit of a problem with the fact that she just engulfs it in seconds and never even says: “Dad, that was fucking delicious!” I don’t get that satisfaction. But then, she did ask for more, and looked at the pot on the stove. She knew there was a whole batch, sitting right there. I told her: “ No girl, that’s for tomorrow.” She asked me: “ What is tomorrow?”... I had no answer for her.




 

My Brother from Another Mother…

I had never met Rich or Mary until I flew into San Francisco last week to do just that. He picked me up at the airport and took me straight to their house on the side of a hill. I could have been any generic serial killer, fully stocked with the requisite ropes and trash bags for body parts in my overhead carry-on. The knives would have to come from their own kitchen. But fearlessly into the house on the side of a hill we went, like old friends. Of course pretty much everything is on the side of a hill there. Looking up at so many colorful houses sitting in the sun and shifting half shades made me think of similar hillsides in Greece or Italy. Very European. I was given the grand tour of their nest. This is us. Filled with family antiques and inviting warmth, it was a perfect reflection of who I thought they were. We went down into the basement, a real basement. We don’t have any of those here in Florida. His video room where he escapes to decompress and get creative, Mary’s art room, filled with 1,000 little boxes holding sequins and paints and anything else she may need to create a masterpiece. A huge furnace sat next to the washer and dryer under the insulated ductwork that shot off in sharp angles as it clung to the ceiling. We looked into the rec room set up for their 15 y/o daughter, Kali, and her peeps. Rich and Mary don’t need to say: “why don’t you and your friends go downstairs” It’s a haven for teens to chatter and share secrets for their ears only, and it’s the perfect place for them to escape from…Rich and Mary.

We uncovered common ground on their dining room table, heaped with family pictures and stiff old black and white photos of ancestors who had known hard times as they migrated West. Some had settled into a hole they dug out on the open plains, shelter until a real home could be built a few years later. It was interesting to hear that Grandparents never mentioned those dark, hard times. Too many bad memories there. We spoke of my own ancestors, fighting Indians in San Antonio before the Alamo put that town on the map. The big overstuffed couch in their living room hugged me with easy familiarity and invited me to stay…right…there.

Several years ago I met Rich on Facebook. You know, friend of a friend. Like most of us, I scroll through the reposts, the picture of a little bald girl who won’t get chemo unless she gets 1,000,000 “likes”, the challenges to repost various causes…“I think I know which of my friends will and who won‘t…” Too many posts with nothing to say. But Rich stood out. From the beginning, it was obvious that he was an articulate guy who didn’t wallow in fluff. A caring person who pulls for the underdog and what’s right. But not right, right, more left actually. I liked that. Back and forth for a few years, private messages to elaborate on this or that. His friends call Rich a “pot stirrer”. he won’t just go along with the status quo if it doesn’t fit. So we talked about god, or the apparent human need to invent one, politics, hidden agendas, power and corruption. We spoke of his whip-smart daughter, Kali, and her innate calling to shine on the stage of life itself. I understood, I have a daughter like that too. She’s ten years older though so I tried to provide a bit of insight as to what to expect when you have a true force of nature living in your house and anticipate her move out into the world. Beautiful Mary is queen of the castle and like most women of substance and character, I suspect she has a backbone of steel.

Rich and Mary know I’m a “foodie” so they took me to Yank Sing for dim sum. They don’t know, however, about my need to sit with my back to the wall and I didn’t make an issue of it. So when we sat down and 17 small Oriental ladies came rushing at my back offering steamer baskets filled with bite-sized dumplings packed with heavenly bits, I had all systems on full alert. With a fork tucked discretely into my palm I figured that at least I had some small chance of survival if one of them turned out to be the assassin. I knew that a quick plunge of a chopstick into my right ear would not give me much of an opportunity to retaliate, but it gave me comfort to hold that fork anyway. Richard and Mary know me pretty well by now, but sometimes there are disturbing psychological issues that are best kept from even your very closest friends.

With such a quick hit-and-run afternoon in San Francisco, we barely had time to visit a few of the “must see” sights. Barefoot 20 something’s hung out at the intersection of Haight and Ashbury, dreadlocks stuffed up into multicolored Rastafarian caps. I don’t think Jerry Garcia and the boys knew anything about dreads back in the daze but I’m sure it feels right now for those kids loitering under that famous cross-street sign. We went up and down lots of city streets flanked by townhouses built of real brick and stone, punctuated by huge Victorian homes heavy with decorative twists and turns. Of course we had to drive down to the waterfront for a few obligatory pictures of Alcatraz Island. I stood back and took pictures of Rich taking pictures of the Golden Gate Bridge while the people behind me took pictures of me taking pictures.

And suddenly, five hours after arrival, I was back at the airport sharing a hurried good-by with the brother that I had just met. Unlike my real brother though, I didn’t worry that Rich was going to get me down into a headlock and make me say: “Iggie wiggie, I’m a piggy” before he would let me back up. Thanks for that too, Rich. Great seeing you and Mary. Come to Florida and we’ll eat some Alligator tail or cooter. But if you want to sit with your back to the wall, we’ll have to sit next to each other and be willing to sacrifice Carla and Mary as our first line of defense against the assassins.