Lunch With Carol...

Carol: 

I'm one of those people who used to mock Facebook. Mock, mock, mock. I referred to it as Fakebook, but...no more. The friends I've met via Facebook have been genuine and genuinely delightful...well beyond any expectations.

Today I had the pleasure of sharing plates of dim sum with my long time Facebook friend Hugh Maverick Haller. He lives his life on one coast, I'm planted on another. But we both felt the same closeness in person that we've felt here online. We already knew one another well. That's a rare thing. What a joy to share a meal with someone who is the same wonderful critter that is present and presented in posts and writing.

Hugh is the real deal. I can't remember when I've felt more at home in someone's company. One helluva guy. Cheers to my new old friend.

Maverick:

Many of my FB friends know Carol, AKA CaRoll. You probably think that she is interesting in her posts, eclectic in her approach, enviable in her prolific stream of creative storytelling, wise in her understanding of the human condition regardless of how stellar or damaged that may be, optimistic and positive in her vibe, and unusually attractive inside and out. Well, I just finished having lunch with the lady and I can tell you…you’re right. Carol is all of those things and more. One of my favorite people on the planet. Thanks Carol, loved the Dim Sum, but yes, I guess I would pass on the chicken feet next time.

Such a Beautiful Day...to be in a Bar...

San Diego bursts with color from every streetscape and hillside. Scarlet Bougainvillea crowd hillsides like bloody weather balloons tethered to the ground. Bonsai giants boast their perfect form, holding brilliant bouquets from each outstretched limb. Sunshine stings closed eyes, piercing lids with laser blasts of prism spectrum, driven with undeniable intensity and purpose. A day custom made to be outside, encircled by playful breezes that tousle hair and quickly skip off up the street, laughing.

But we thought it best to go inside and hang out in a bar. — 

Material Things...

I have a theory that most of us spend the first half of our lives acquiring two of everything God ever created and the second half trying to get rid of that stuff. Generally, the kids don’t want it. They want to collect their own junk. We downsized from the big house to our smallest rental over five years ago, and couldn’t be happier. Rather than having an acre of mature oaks surrounded by huge, multicolored Azaleas, beautiful, but labor intensive, our lawn now is the size of a small swimming pool...without water, filled in and topped with weeds. It takes me about 10 minutes to mow and looks a lot like grass when it’s cut. Perfect. Our house is 1,600 sq. ft., down from more than twice that, but we still only use the bedroom, kitchen, and the sitting room where the TV and laptops are. The dining and living rooms gather dust. We don’t have a garage so the cars sit outside. Not being a car guy, that’s fine with me. I just want something reliable to get from here to there. But we still have too much stuff.

Priorities change with age. When we’re young, in the belly of the beast, working, raising families, we go for more, bigger. And then at some point when the kids are off on their own, we stop all that and go into reverse. Been there, done that, and I just don’t care about it anymore. Although we still have lots of nice things that caught our eye along the way, shiny objects, I wouldn’t lose any sleep if a burglar took it all tomorrow. But some things, family things, have been with me all of my life, I grew up with them. Those are the material things that I care very much about. That antique rocking horse that I used to ride when I was smaller than an upright vacuum. A cherry wood dresser made by my 3rd great Grandfather on my dad’s side, those oil portraits of 5th great grandparents, the woman looking so stern, the large mahogany chest my Grandfather made for Grandma Ruth just prior to their golden wedding anniversary. Those things. I’m just the caretaker. Ruth and Hannah will get them someday whether they want them or not. They will be caretakers too. I treasure these things and know them so well. They represent stability regardless of the circumstances in my life.

This watercolor miniature was painted on ivory in 1918, when my mother was less than a year old. Grandma Ruth is holding my Mom in her lap. When my own daughter Ruth was also a baby around the same age, I took her to see her great Grandma Maverick in the elder care facility where Grandma lived out the last year of her life. All of that was a long time ago but the painting looks the same to me through my 68-year-old eyes as it did when I was a kid. Material things aren’t the key to happiness, that’s all about family, friends, good health, love, attitude...but these family mementos soaked up all of that along the way and give it back to me in small doses whenever I feel a need to reconnect. They help to remind me of who I am, where I came from, and where I’m going. In a world that sometimes seems to be spinning out of control, that is something that gives me value and comfort beyond measure.

Metro Diner review...

Rave! Metro Diner...

Carla came home at 7am this morning when her graveyard shift at the nursing home was over. She does a similar health care job all week, another live-in position, so we don't see each other very much these days. With two hours between jobs, and before I had to leave for work myself, I suggested that we go to Metro Diner. Both of us wanted the comfort of a hot breakfast, and a little time together. As she fixed her hair, getting ready to go, looking into the big oval mirror in the hall, I stepped up behind her, pulling her close and burying my face into her hair at the back of her neck. Breathing deeply, drinking in her scent, I slipped my warm hands up under her clothes, pulling her even closer, lost in the moment that I wanted to freeze in time. But the demands of the clock broke my spell. So we straightened up and headed out to Metro.

Carla snuggled into a warm booth, wrapped up in a new, used coat from Goodwill. Basically a comforter with pockets. Perfect for a chilly morning. She got a huge plate of Southern style biscuits and gravy with a fresh berry lemonade. Her drink dripped cold sweat rings onto a napkin as the waitress served me my Eggs Benedict, one with crab a cake, one with steak. The home fries were topped with green peppers, onions, and cheese. Everything was cooked perfectly, the poached eggs releasing their liquid yokes with the first stab of my fork. Our waitress couldn't have been more friendly or professional, my coffee cup never got less than half full. It was just so good to be able to sit and talk. I've always been proud of the fact that even after 36 years of marriage, when Carla would come home at three in the morning after work and slip into bed next to me, we could talk for hours. I want, need, to hear her voice, share our feelings and thoughts, both of us excited to be together. That's what we had this morning in that booth, accompanied by great food, excellent service, and an overall blanket of much needed familiarity... like air to a person who has been underwater too long.

Many thanks to Metro Diner for the hospitality, an exceptional breakfast, and the privacy of a warm booth to share with my favorite person on this planet. I had been starving for all of it.

Wanted: Dead or Alive

I watched a 1959 episode of “Wanted: Dead or Alive” early this morning. Steve McQueen plays bounty hunter Josh Randall. Don't believe for a moment that bounty hunting hardens you to the point of losing your humanity. Just look at Josh. In this installment, Josh finds a boy out in a field, passed out and feverish. He does the right thing and immediately takes him into the doctor in town. (The doctor was also a school teacher on “Leave it to Beaver” and a prosecuting attorney on “Perry Mason”...so apparently he was a very accomplished man.) Anyway, the doctor knows the boy and knows that the boy's dad hates doctors ever since his own father died on the operating table when a different doctor couldn't save him from a fatal disease. Says that this “Appendicitis” the doctor is talking about is no more than “a bunch of fancy words”. Now only the crazy old medicine woman is allowed to touch the boy. She wears rags and talks to herself, uses frogs to make her potions. Dad had rescued the boy from the doc's clutches and brought him back home on a rough road for the old crone to hover over. But Josh won't stand still and watch the boy die. That's the kind of guy he is. Josh fights the boy's Dad and keeps him outside the cabin after Mom gives permission to operate. They need to do it right there on the kitchen table, the boy is just too weak to go back into the doc's office in town again since Dad “rescued” him and weakened him even more (thanks Dad!). Mom asks: “What can I do to help” Doc says: (here's a surprise) “I'll need plenty of hot water!” Mom can do that and even stands by and dutifully hands the scalpel to the Doc (with her bare hands) No anesthesia, no alcohol, no sutures, clamps, needles, thread for stitches, just plenty of hot water. I guess Doc always carries that scalpel in his back pocket, uses it to clean under his nails. Dad is still outside, mad as a hornet at Josh for his meddling, until the doc finally comes out and says the boy will be OK, thanks to Josh Randall. Dad rushes in and sees his son, clean, looking like he just took a shower back at the actor's trailer, now tucked into a warm bed. The son opens his eyes at his father's touch and smiles at his Dad. Music swells, Dad is contrite, Josh is humbled. Mom is proud that her hubby realizes what a turd he has been and she makes a mental note to not let dad use Mr Happy on her at any time in the near future.

This is not light stuff. There's lots to be learned from all of this. Like the fact that Josh Randall is more than just a bounty hunter, he's a tough guy with a heart of gold.

Fade into commercial: Bonomo's Turkish Taffy. “B-O-n-O-m-O Bonomo's O! O! O! it's Turkish Taffy. Candy!”

BodiArt

Shivering. Not so much from the cold as simply from standing there in line, exposed, my white briefs hanging loosely on my skinny seven-year-old body. I stood with my nose almost touching the boy in front of me, his shoulder blades protruding like freakish wings. The doctor quietly repeated his mantra as each boy stepped to the front of the line: “turn your head and cough”.

I knew the routine. 

The school gave us these physical exams every year in the auxiliary room next to the principal’s office at Franklin Elementary. It wasn't that I minded so much, it was usually over quickly, but this time was different. I had taken my mother's indelible ink pen that she used to write my name on clothes prior to my going off to Camp Waywayyonda, and had been channeling all things Popeye. I drew a large, black anchor on my chest. Having worn it for weeks, a secret emblem of manly seafaring men with forearms the size of Virginia hams, I didn't want to draw attention to it now. Then, with one more step forward, it was my time to turn my head and cough. The doctor looked at me as I stepped up close, dropping his eyes to my tattoo. He smiled briefly, tapped my anchor with his forefinger and gave me a conspiratorial wink before handling my shriveled scrotum as I coughed to one side.

I loved my tattoo, loved knowing it was right there under my shirt...a bold testament to my exotic secret life away from my hood, the white bread streets of a bedroom community, flanked by manicured lawns that were themselves a reflection of my own exterior, manicured, generic, and safe.

Ink transfer tattoos started showing up as prizes in Cracker Jack boxes around that time as well, but they smeared and looked cheap. An indelible ink pen was the way to go.

Fast forward 10 years to the mid 1960's when David Carradine's character in Kung Fu, sported a tattoo Tiger on one forearm and a Dragon on the other. Just cool as hell to me. But they were burn scars from the time Kwai Chang Caine was at his company picnic and picked up the hibachi with his forearms when he saw the hot dogs starting to burn. He had beers in each hand and improvised. Mainly he was trying to impress sweet young Heather Harvey but she just thought he was an idiot.

I had no plans to burn anything, much less myself, but I loved the images.

In college, I asked my roommate, an art major, to use markers to design an elaborate “tattoo” on my left forearm. I really liked that body art and wore it for weeks, washing everything but my forearm when I took a shower. That was in the late 1960's. Little did either of us know that an inked forearm, a “sleeve” would become quite common 45 years later.

In another 10 years, the late 1980's, I started a company called BodiArt Removable Tattoos. We were the first company in the USA to package and sell removable tattoos in retail stores. Up until that time, a guy in Chicago imported removable tattoos from Japan and sold them to vendors who set up tattoo parlors, application stands on boardwalks and at fairs. My partner and I paid a private detective in Chicago $2,000 to find the source. Our guy jumped into the  dumpster of the American distributer and found the contact information for the Japanese manufacturer. Several expensive phone calls and a translator took us one step to the next. Soon, we were in the wholesale business of selling removable tattoos to stores for retail use. In our first month, a motorcycle accessory shop on the Boardwalk in Atlantic City, sold over $9,000. of those suckers. But life, and my primary business, took me off in another direction and that was that. For about a year there, my family my friends, my kids and I wore the leftover stock.

My kids looked like circus people.

In the picture here with Ruth, I'm sporting BodiArt tats in an homage to David Carridene's alter ego, Kwai Chang Caine, while Ruth has a lipstick kiss on her cheek. Hannah was only about 4 then, but just as hard headed as now, insisting on wearing the same black ink, big boobed, biker girl sporting a high 80's mop of black hair, every day.

In 1992 I finally got my first real tattoos, two actually, an ant on my forearm and a circular cuff on the right arm. I had seen a surfer wearing a cuff as I was running Manhattan Beach while visiting my sister in Malibu. I thought it was about the coolest thing ever and immediately designed my own and went for it. That tattoo was a real conversation starter back then. Within 7 years, they were popping up all over. Now, they are simply a prerequisite for employment of any kind. At work, no one could see the cuff, but the ant stuck out. Whenever we had a sit down meeting or I met with clients, I wore a long-sleeved shirt. The first time my boss saw it she said: “You'll always have to wear a long sleeve shirt or you'll never be able to get a job in the future.

Now, of course, tattoos are mainstream, and being an average American guy, I have a bunch. Just like more than 30% of all adults in this country. But in my case, I use the term “adult” very loosely...mostly I just think they're cool.

Skin art. And after all, art is art, regardless of the canvas. It’s may be a little painful to produce, but worth it, even if you have to be use a magic marker to make it happen.

Christian Soldiers

When I was seven years old, singing "Onward Christian Soldiers, marching as to war" dressed in choir robes, goose stepping with the other choristers, single file, toward the stalls, an alter boy lead the procession with the “cross of Jesus” held high. A dead man on a pole. I couldn't help but think that nothing could be much more ridiculous than that. The image of a man nailed to crossed boards leading us into “war” with anyone who didn't believe the same silliness that we were being force fed and trying so desperately to believe.

This is supposed to be about love and acceptance? It's anything but that. Judgement-filled, exclusionary, demanding, demeaning, narrow, perverted. "Original sin?" oh please. The church invented the concept of sin as a way to extort money from the masses. There's nothing that money can't buy.

I thought: “What if God is actually the devil, a great deceiver? Always pointing the finger of blame in the other direction?” How can people swallow this stuff, why do they give it any credence at all?

It's early childhood indoctrination. Although it may not have worked so well on some, it does for most. We eat the foods of the culture we're born into, wear the clothes, and worship the gods. We generally don't question any of it very much. We think we're right, and we're ready to go to war to prove it. Lets fight some more over the name of god.

If I had been born in Japan, I would be Shinto. You would too.

 "Religion is a jumble of primitive folklore that humankind drags through the ages like a cosmic security blanket. Religion is passionate and irrational and messy. But philosophy is the flower of human intellect. It is reasonable and civilized. Religion inspires war and atrocity; at worst, philosophy incites mild arguments over coffee and dessert".

So when someone offered the fact that the alter and cross were undamaged in the Notre Dame fire as proof of God, I couldn't help thinking “step back from the trees, out of the forest, and look around”

Try a nice glass of water for a change and leave the red wine & bloody Kool Aid on the table.

You wish a mild intervention would put the poster on a path to the deprogramming she needs. But if her world is full of others drinkers of the Kool Aid that they've been raised on, don't expect too much.

It's next to impossible to get a cigarette smoker who lives in a house full of fellow smokers, to quit. Especially when the others are constantly sliding another cigarette across the coffee table to her when she pauses to simply catch her breath.