More LA Stories: 2005 (Part IV)

Day Two — Saturday (continued):
Can’t Breathe (8pm): The Anna Nalick Debacle
Before even touching the subject at hand, there’s so much more I could relate here regarding this next sub-plot of my trip to California. It’s a side-story that touches not only on this series, but upon my previous, autobiographical series as well. In fact, I had desperately attempted to somehow make it work as a part of A Long Strange Trip, but it was just too cumbersome to fit in smoothly.

So when that didn’t work, I tried to weave it into this story, but met with the same results — it was too long, too complicated, too convoluted. I just couldn’t get away from the fact that while definitely related, it just was too unwieldy to have any real anecdotal value. So after a few weeks of paralysis by analysis, I’ve decided to step away from the shoehorn. Instead of attempting to force it into the story here, I will instead wait and tag it on as a separate addendum at the conclusion of this series.

Onward…

Anna•mato•poe•ia: Let’s just say, it sounded like a good idea…
There were two reasons I wanted to take Cindy to see the up-and-coming young singer-songwriter, Anna Nalick that first Saturday night I was in town. I had been impressed with the first single Breathe (2am), from her recently-released debut album, and had hoped at some point previously to see her play here in Nashville. Unfortunately so far she seemed to hit just about every place but Music City on her initial tour. Now this first leg of her first tour was coming to an end, but as luck would have it, she would be finishing up near her home, in Southern California, at the same time I was there.

She was playing the House of Blues in Anaheim that Saturday night, which was the other reason I wanted to go. I had never been to a HOB and was anxious to experience what this now-famous franchise of Rock ‘N Roll clubs was all about. I had obtained tickets for the show before I left Nashville, when I learned that her date at the HOB fortuitously coinciding with my trip.

Cindy was happy to accompany me. Although she wasn’t familiar with the name, she said she had heard Breathe on the radio and liked it. I really liked it — maybe too much. In fact, I had only heard one other cut besides Breathe off of her album. Looking back now, perhaps that should have been my first clue that this evening would end up being such a bad memory. Going on a blind first impression gained from that song, I foolishly assumed that I would like everything about her. There’s actually an explanation for that, which is what I’ll explain later, in a separate post.

But for now, let’s just say that I projected a little too much maturity into this young girl, who reminded me so much of my daughter Amy.

Oh…wait. Maybe THAT was my problem.

You see, along with the aggravations of a viewer-unfriendly venue and a huge crowd, what made this night the disaster it turned out to be was the fact that this young girl simply decided to act her age. She had just turned 20, the same age as my Amy. The difference is, I was expecting a wise, mature-beyond her-years young woman, like my daughter is most of the time. I expected to see the same person I’d heard on the radio, delivering poignant lyrics with that smooth, soulful voice. Instead, what I got was someone who reminded me of Amy alright — like when she was twelve!

It was the last night of the tour, and Anna was giddy and obviously relieved to be back home. I guess the girl just wanted to have fun and figured everyone would play along.

Nearly the entire set was a goof-fest, with Nalick cracking up in the middle of songs and cracking wise with her band members in between them. She made the band all wear assorted, goofy-looking hats, while she donned a black fedora, which she futzed and fiddled with during each and every song. Twice, she broke into laughter in the middle of a song and had to start again from the beginning. Another time she screwed up the lyrics, stopped cold for a few seconds, and then picked it back up from that point. Her playfulness was cute in a way, but the lack of professionalism was just flat annoying. It seemed more like a practice session than a performance before paying customers.

And if Anna’s performance wasn’t enough of a downer, the venue was one of the worst I’d ever experienced from a sightlines perspective. The House of Blues has locations in major cities across the country. It has become synonymous with major act concerts in Rock ‘N Roll, Jazz and all varieties of Pop music. And given the fact that there isn’t a HOB in Nashville, I had always wanted to visit one and was excited for this opportunity. I’ll just say it now, if they’re all based on the same floor plan as the one in Anaheim, I’ll be thinking long and hard before I consider darkening the doors of one again.

From the outset the HOB in Anaheim has two strikes against it if you have the least bit of reticence about dealing with crowds: One, it’s on the grounds of Disneyland — more specifically — Disney’s California Adventure, which is a relatively new (it opened in 2001) ancillary portion of the Disneyland complex. Its primary purpose was to create a part of Disneyland where the adults are the focal point, more so than the kids. The rides are faster and scarier, and there are more shops and restaurants — which not so coincidentally, serve alcohol (a no-no in the main park).

So on any given night, the HOB Anaheim is already surrounded by mobs of people, most of whom are already be there on the grounds having dinner or perusing the shops. Add in the draw of an up-and-coming act such as Anna, who was merely opening for an even more popular young star, Howie Day — on a Saturday night — and you’ve simply got one mess of people.

But I’ve dealt with crowds, believe me. I’m not claustrophobic, and I’m not impatient, but I to want to see more than the backs of people’s heads when I go to a show. And therein lies the kicker to this bummer-of-an-event was the layout of the HOB, which is, I personally think it safe to say, is the most viewer-unfriendly concert venue I’ve ever been to.

The room is square, with two levels, and the stage at one end. The ground level is recessed in the center (about 6-8 feet), offering some slight concession to those on the perimeter, enabling them to see over everyone on the main floor, which is standing room only. And on this night the entire place was packed, shoulder-to-shoulder with kids, most of whom were at least twenty years my junior.

When we arrived, we wedged our way into a corner, gaining a foothold on the inner edge of the perimeter. We had just enough headroom to see over (most) everyone and get a clear view of the stage, some 40-50 feet away. It was Sardine City, itellya. And it certainly wasn’t the place to be if you were vertically challenged, as Cindy and I both are.

While I had never been to the HOB before, I had seen a concert or three televised from one on MTV or VH1 on a few occasions. So I did have an idea of what we’d be in for. Besides that, I’ve been to a lot of standing-room clubs anyway, so for me, it wasn’t that big a deal.

However that wasn’t the case for my friend, Cindy, who doubtless at this point was feeling more like my hostage than my guest.

She had no idea the circumstances were destined to be quite so uncomfortable. It was hot, it was incredibly crowded, and she was miserable. Nonetheless she didn’t say anything until after Anna’s set was finished, so we made our way back out into the lobby where thankfully we spotted a couple of empty chairs. I went to the bar to get us a coke and we cooled our heels for the twenty minutes or so we had to wait until Howie Day was scheduled to come on.

I felt terrible on a number of fronts. Most notably I was frustrated with what was a mediocre-at-best performance by Anna. But I felt almost as bad for dragging Cindy into this mess. I was torn between hoping that Howie Day (who I’d never seen live, but had it on excellent authority that puts on a top-notch show) would redeem my evening, and just deciding to pack it in and get the heck out of there. I knew I wouldn’t get any argument from Cindy on the latter option.

Then again there was another reason I felt pressured to stay. I had purchased the tickets in advance of my trip but I didn’t get them through TicketMaster or the HOB box office. The show was already sold out when I found out about it a couple of weeks after it was originally announced.

So I went onto Anna’s official fan Web site and made a blind request on her message board asking for two tickets if anyone had extras to sell for that particular show. To my surprise, the next morning I had an e-mail from Anna’s older sister who actually lives in Anaheim and would also be attending the show that night.

Anna’s sister and I exchanged e-mails. She even offered to make arrangements to meet me after the show and see to it that I had the opportunity to have my CD signed. At that point I was thinking this was just too cool to be true. However by the time Anna’s performance was finished, needless to say I was considerably less enthused, and none of those extracurricular activities ever materialized.

So I asked Cindy to hang with me for at least a few songs into Howie’s set, since I really did have an interest in hearing him too, to which my friend willingly agreed. Unfortunately, hearing him was all we would be able to do.

If you thought my night couldn’t get any more frustrating, well, as Detective Goren would say, “think again.” During the time Cindy and I had stepped out to get a drink and some air, even more people had streamed into the building to see the main act, filling the ground level to even greater proportions than before. You couldn’t have slid a piece of notebook paper in between that mass of adolescent humanity. There was no way we were gonna try and get back in there now.

So we decided we’d try and watch the show from the balcony level. This is where the architectural genius of the numbnutz who designed this room really shined through.

Without supplying a schematic drawing, the best way to describe the balcony area was that it itself was two levels. The lower (inner) balcony looked directly onto the floor and stage below. This was also the VIP section, in which you basically had to "be with the band" to be allowed to sit. These were obviously the best seats in the house because they were in fact, seats, they were reserved, and the stage was right before your eyes below. Entrance to this section was from the upper (outer) balcony, some five feet higher and to the extreme outer edge of the entire loft area.

But here is where the ridiculousness of the sightlines in this loft area became pronounced. Simply put, if you didn't havea seat in the VIP section — OR — weren’t the height of an NBA Basketball player, sorry pal, you were just shit-out-‘o-luck. You simply weren’t going to see the stage. The balcony level was so high above the floor and stage that the sight lines necessary to obtain a reasonable view were nearly impossible to acquire unless you were right on the rail or tall enough to see over someone who was.

Needless to say, I was incensed. But I tried. I listened. I watched the video screens instead of the live performance.

We stayed for four songs. Howie Day was great, but he wasn’t worth dealing with the frustration of not being able to see. Cindy was obviously more ready to go than I was, so we did.

If you’ve been wondering what it was that I found so enrapturing about Anna Nalick in the first place, well it’s a long story. As I said at the beginning, it’s a story that I’ve already tried to tell in each of these last two series. But tell it I will, immediately following LA Stories 2005.

Being the great sport that she is, Cindy never uttered a discouraging word about my dragging her through such a horrendously unfulfilling evening. But I certainly had plenty to gripe about. I was kickin’ my own can non-stop all the way back to her place.

When we got home, we chilled, watched the news, talked for awhile and then retired for the night. It had been a busy, fun, and frustrating day.

But tomorrow was destined to be fabulous.


Next: Day Three — Sunday: Getting to the Meet of the Matter

Drinkin' & Thinkin' — A Mini Series (2 of 2)

Kentucky Thunder
Anytime I entertain guests in Nashville who are of a similar taste in music to my own, there’s one place that I always love to take them: my favorite music spot and watering hole in all of Music City, 3rd & Lindsley Bar and Grill. And on the Saturday night that Alex was in town, it just so happened that my number one favorite Rock ‘n Country diva was playing there: Jonell Mosser and her band, Enuff’ Rope.

If you’ve never heard of Jonell, don’t feel bad; you can just save all those bad feelings for the record label bastards who are responsible for it. She is the quintessential example of a supreme talent who became a victim of corporate politics, quashing what could very well have been a superstar career in the opinion of the more than a few Music City inteligencia.

Unfortunately back then, the only time you most likely would have heard Jonell’s soulful voice outside of Nashville would have been on the soundtrack of the 1995 movie, Boys on The Side, in her dynamic cover of Robert Johnson’s Crossroads.

Her voice and energy has long been compared to that of Janis Joplin, with the notable exception that she, unlike Janis, she’s a stoned fox.

I guess that the crush I sort of have for her was cemented by a previous time I’d seen her play at 3rd some months earlier. I moved around the room a bit that night, but towards the end of Jonell’s performance I found myself standing about two-thirds of the way between the stage and the dressing room door in back, enjoying the show.

As she finished her final song, she made a beeline for the dressing room, which had her heading straight for me. I assure you, my positioning was not planned. However being the shamelessly gregarious type that I am, I just couldn’t help but reach out to shake her hand as she approached.

I couldn’t possibly have been more surprised when instead of shaking my hand, she threw her arms around my shoulders and gave me a big hug!

“Wow!” I said instinctively, “Great job tonight!”

“Thank you!” she beamed. Jonell then suddenly realized that she was soaked with perspiration after her high-energy 90-minute show. “Ohmigosh, I’m sorry, I’m really sweaty!” she whispered apologetically.

“Oh, no problem,” I smiled, as she then proceeded on toward the dressing room door, and everyone began staring at me as if I was someone important…or maybe it was that big, stupid grin that was plastered all over my face as I began heading back towards the front.

To this day I have no idea why she hugged me. I certainly didn’t initiate it. I’ve been told many times that I have a “familiar-looking” face. Perhaps in the dim light of the club she mistakenly thought I was someone else; I’ll never know for sure. But what I do know, is that she enlisted a fan for life that night.

A portend of bad days to come.
As happy a memory as this story is, it nevertheless ushered in a time that would create some not-so-happy ones down the road. This was the period in late ’94, following my return from California and my 20th High School Reunion. It was the time in my life that I actively, although innocently, flirted whenever I had the opportunity. Nothing was going to happen at that point, but it definitely paved the way for future bad decisions that would indeed be devastating.

Alex too, was a bit of a flirt.

There was already a big crowd when we arrived and we could only secure a pair of stools at the end of the bar furthest from the stage; much farther away than I wanted to be. We sat and pounded down a few beers and just had a great time talking. Alex had his eye on a cute, little blonde with short hair, sitting a few feet away at a nearby table. He wasn’t going to try and do anything stupid. We were just both enjoying the view.

As it drew nearer toward showtime, I started getting antsy. The place was already full and becoming more packed by the minute. Our position at the end of the bar was problematic because now, with standing room only, people began to come and stand in the aisle in front of us, obscuring my view of the stage, about twenty-five feet away.

Then I decided to act upon a hunch that I thought just might be the solution to our problem. Directly to the left of the stage was a four-person table, but with only two people sitting there. I had been watching to see if perhaps the couple was waiting for friends to join them but so far no one had shown up. I knew there was more than a good chance I’d get an angry stare in return, but that also that I’d regret it for the rest of the night if I didn’t ask.

“I’ll be right back,” I said to Alex as I slid off my stool.

I walked up to the couple sitting at the table, leaned in like I owned the place and said casually, “May I be so nervy to ask if my brother and I could join you at this table?” The man and his attractive blonde female companion both stared back at me blankly for a split second, until apparently my words sank in. Then their eyes lit up. and said, “Sure, we don’t mind!” they said, smiling.

Can you say, Southern Hospitality?

I thanked them profusely and moved toward one of the two empty chairs immediately in front of the stage. It was the best seat in the house. Once settled, I looked back over toward the bar to wave Alex on over to join us.

He was already chatting up the little blonde, now sitting in my barstool.

Once I got his attention, he came over to the table and we all introduced ourselves. Before long he again excused himself to go back over and talk to this gal, now joined by a friend in our former seats; an upgrade over their previous position.

While they were talking, I was busy making small talk with the attractive lady at the table. Her husband just smiled and didn’t say more than a sentence or two the entire night as I recall. Apparently this wasn’t much his scene. The woman, who appeared to be around the same age as I was (late thirties at the time), leaned over and told me in a discreet voice that he hates coming to clubs, and does so only at her behest. She was a huge Jonell fan, so she insisted they come that night.

A few minutes later, Jonell herself emerged from the crowd to make her way to the stage for a last-minute equipment check prior to the start of the show. The way the tables were arranged, the space between ours and the table to our right created the pathway she used to step up to the three-foot raised platform.

Have I mentioned that I’d been drinking all night? I was on probably my forth beer at that point, still a good sheet shy of three sheets to the wind, but definitely at a point where my inhibitions were not complete working order.

I suddenly decided that I had something to say, and I wasn’t gonna miss my opportunity to say it.

As Jonell began to pass directly to the right of my chair, I called out her name, just loud enough for her to hear me above the increasing din of conversation echoing about the packed little bar.

She stopped, turned to me and smiled. I crooked my finger, motioning for her to come closer. She stepped toward me, to my left, bent down and leaned in.

“Do you have any idea how wonderful you are?” I whispered in her ear.

Not even in my semi-drunken state could I believe myself to be so ballzy as to say to this to a woman who didn’t know me from Adam.

“No,” she replied, “But you can tell me that anytime you want!” And she kissed me on the cheek as she smiled and proceeded to step up onto the stage.

I was completely embarrassed and completely thrilled at the same time. I felt like I’d scored the biggest coup since Castro. The blonde woman at the table was aghast. “Do you know her?” she demanded, her eyes as big as saucers.

“Nope” I replied, smiling.

A few minutes later, Alex returned. He said he and the little shorthaired blonde had had a nice conversation. As it turned out she lived not too far away from us in Franklin. He said that she was a part-time instructor at a gymnastic school there, although it wasn’t the same place I myself worked out occasionally. And if that was the last time the little shorthaired blonde was a part of this story, it would have been more than fine with me.

More on that later.

Soon Jonell was on the stage, and her show was fantastic! Her position onstage was no more than five feet from where we were sitting. Alex had never been all that much of a concertgoer, so this was an especially cool experience for him. He kept giving me these “I can’t believe how great this is” glances. I would just nod back and smile. A goodly portion of the fun I had that night was just witnessing my brother having a great time.

I had another couple beers…which brings me back to the subject of drinking.

My longstanding habit when attending a show at 3rd & Lindsley, is to have a couple cups of coffee at the bar before leaving the premises. They don’t charge you for it and by the end of the night it’s usually strong enough to de-grease engine parts. So it’s a good pick-me-up for the drive home. And yeah, yeah I know. You shouldn’t drink and drive, but sometimes it’s just impossible to avoid.

I mentioned earlier that I know my limits, and I do. But on this night, more than ten years ago, I unfortunately hadn’t quite yet figured it out. I had eight beers that night, which is, given my stature, at least three more than I should ever have if I’m out away from home. I was drunk and I knew it. No amount of coffee, regardless of its strength was going to lift that hundred-pound anvil off of my brow.

So as the crowd slowly filed out into the crisp, late autumn night, I sat at the bar, struggling with what I should do. Then Alex reappeared with, you guessed it, the little shorthaired blonde girl.

Great.

I don’t know about you, but to me, one of the worst possible things I can imagine is to be out of control. And buddy, at that point steering my mouth was about as easy as corraling a herd of wild elephants.

So Alex is introducing me to this very nice, and apparently sober young woman, and when I tried to speak it was as if I’d just finished bobbing for ball bearings. It was horrible! I could not make the words come out of my mouth un-slurred.

I honestly don’t remember exactly what it was I tried to say, but I do remember them laughing at me, albeit good-naturedly. I’m pretty sure I took it all in stride, because I clearly remember thinking to myself that it was my own damned fault. I’m sure I just smiled and said as little as possible.

Oye.

At any rate, soon it was time to head back home, and after my little Foster Brooks impersonation, it didn’t take a lot of deep thought to conclude that I was in no shape to drive. Problem was, Alex was a little tanked himself, but much, much less so than me.

And then things really became comical…or maybe they just seemed funny to me. Whichever the case, the drive home was probably as funny a memory I have as an adult.

First off, my car, which we drove up there was an old Datsun 510. Great little car, but not much to look at. Its 1978 body style was pretty funky by mid-90s standards, and the half-dozen parking lot dings, oxidized and/or peeling paint, and dented bumper (from-that-thing-that-happened-during-the-ice-storm-that-one-time), all completed the look.

When he was in high school, my son Shawn affectionately dubbed that car, The Turd.

But all that is neither here nor there, what really made gave el Turdo it’s unique charm was it's stick shift. Some of Datsun’s early 5-speed manual transmissions featured a shift pattern that was very different from the one that nearly all such cars follow today. First gear, instead of being to the left and up, was to the left and down, where second gear is on most cars. In turn, third gear was where fourth usually is, and fifth, was in the position normally occupied by reverse. If you were used to a conventional 5-speed, it definitely took some getting used to.

And why, you ask, is all that important? Well, it wasn’t gonna be me behind the wheel driving home, and Brother Alex had never driven my car before. He sure as hell hadn’t seen a gear shift like this one. And leave us also not forget that Alex had been drinking as well, although again, he was certainly in better shape than I was.

Nonetheless it made for an interesting drive home. Alex was going crazy trying to figure out that shift pattern, and I was just howling. But what really made it comical was that there we were, both sauced, Alex trying to figure this thing out while I’m trying to explain it to him, even though I’m so drunk that I can’t even say my own damned name.

With gears ‘a grinding, we laughed the entire way home.

Funny, but for some reason the wives never heard about the flirting or how much we drank that night. All they heard was how great a time we had together. And now as I look back, it was indeed one of the best ever. Not necessarily because of our excess, but much more so because of our togetherness.

We promised each other there would be more of those times to come, but my optimism was tempered. It was an all too familiar theme. You see, largely due to the fact that we both got married the same year, our families along with his career-related changes of venue had never allowed us to spend nearly the amount of one-on-one time we’d always talked about. And now with him pulling up stakes and moving to the East Coast, I knew that the prospects of seeing each other with any kind of frequency were even less promising. And as it turned out, Alex and I didn't see each other at all during the more than three years he lived in Connecticut. Even after they moved back to Dallas in 1998, we saw each other only a handful of times before learning that Alex had fallen victim to the family curse.

I always thought we’d have more time. I always assumed that someday, perhaps after we’d retired, we would finally have the time to hang out; maybe go on an occasional road trip together; enjoy our grandchildren together. But now of course I know those things aren’t going to happen. And that makes me incredibly sad.

Alex’s condition is slowly degrading, however the medication he’s been on since late 2004 has done much to put the brakes to the ravaging effects that Alzheimer’s is inflicting upon his brain. And although he’s still able to live at home, no one can say for how much longer that will be the case.

My life has been full of great times with Alex, both individually and collectively with our families. But of all those memories, despite the fact that our behavior was a little on the unsavory side, I think that evening at 3rd is my favorite.

I’ve never had more fun, I’ve never had more laughs, and I’ve never felt closer to my little (big) brother.


finis

Drinkin' & Thinkin' — A Mini Series (1 of 2)

Speakin of drinkin, how do I say this without sounding like a lush?
I really don’t drink much, but when I do I have to admit, I kinda like it. I guess most people like it for the same reason I do. Being lightly under the influence makes me feel creative; confident; free. Usually I only drink when I go out to a club to hear music, or to the local sports bar to watch football. A six-pack of beer in my fridge will usually last me a month or more. I guess I prefer drinking around people rather than by myself.

I started drinking relatively late in life; hardly ever in my twenties, and not a whole lot more than that in my thirties. I’ve probably done it more often over the past ten years than ever, but I’ve still never really gotten used to it. And fortunately I’ve only gotten sick from it once, and that was one time too many. I know my limits now, but it took awhile to get a handle on them.

This little story is not just about drinking, but drinking is what spawned it. Accordingly, you might find it a tad disjointed, but then again, so am I.

Often for me, one of the products of a good buzz is a nearly uncontrollable urge to write; why that is I really don’t know, but it’s been that way for a long time, even before I began blogging. I always wrote my best e-mails (or so I thought) after coming home from a night out. It’s not something I’ve ever felt I needed, necessarily, but given the fact that it happens so seldom, I can really appreciate the notable difference in my personality it brings to the surface.

Last Wednesday night I found myself somewhat well-lubricated and once again at the keyboard, doing my best to churn out an alcohol-inspired story that has actually been in the back of my mind for quite awhile, just waiting for the right time to emerge. Unfortunately though, Bacchus and the Sandman were taking turns tag-teaming me into oblivion and they prevailed before I could finish writing. Bastards.

So while it’s still fresh in my mind I decided to go ahead and finish it up now. I’ll return to my current series in a few days. I just feel the need to get this one out there.

Backstory
Once again, I’ve been mostly Blog-AWOL for a couple of weeks — but not because I’ve been lazy — just busier than a one-armed paperhanger with fleas.

Last week was my company’s annual sales meeting and the Marketing Department, in which I work, is responsible for putting it all on. It’s a pretty big production for a company of around a thousand employees, and thankfully, not one that I’m that solely responsible for. Nevertheless I do have a lot of things to do to make it happen and because of that, the month of December and the first couple weeks of January are always my busiest time of the year.

Wednesday was the opening session of the three-day event, bringing associates from our branch offices across the country here to Nashville for meetings, training sessions and rah-rah-let’s-feel-good-about-our-success vibes. That first day, our General Session, is the biggest one for me, and is the only day of the three that I actually have to be in attendance from start to finish; from helping to set up registration at 9AM, to the comedian’s last after-dinner joke at 9PM. It’s a lot of work, but the perks are great too.

It’s normally my only opportunity to rub elbows with some of the company’s top brass in a casual setting, not to mention enjoying the fun of seeing people who work across the country that I would never have opportunity to socialize with at any other time during the year.

Our company is a fun-loving bunch. This annual sales meeting always promises a fun, relaxed atmosphere. And especially these past few years, while we’ve been breaking all-time records for success and profits, people just can’t help but be in a good mood.

This year was no different. Everyone had a great time. And oh…did I mention the open bar? Obviously that’s something that just about everyone likes. And while I’m not much of a boozehound, if it’s free, why not enjoy it.

So I did.

There was cocktail hour before dinner, and of course, wine with dinner that followed. So with about four and a half glasses of wine (total) in me, I was feeling pretty good. And as I said, when buzzed, I feel like writing — always.

So when I got home I immediately went to the computer and the following is what came out. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it (or at least getting ready to)...

Funny the things one thinks about while inebriated…
Oh yeah, I could talk about a lot of things. I could talk about the transition I’m poised to go through at work. I just met my new boss for the first time this afternoon at our annual sales meeting.

I could talk about how this could be a make-or-break next six months for me, professionally, to be determined by whether this woman (who is just a few years shy of being young enough to be my freakin’ daughter) and I mesh. Will she view me as an asset, or will the other completely possible reality prevail, in which she, like others of her GenX ilk, sees fit to throw me and my baby boomer-aged ass out like yesterday’s trash?

It’s all possible and it’s all completely unlikely at the same time. But right now I’m just too inebriated to decide which one I choose to expect as my short or long-term fate.

You see I’m a little sauced, but not quite drunk, hence the aforementioned term, inebriated. This is my term of choice for describing the state of being that lies between sober and I’m-really-gonna-hate-myself-tomorrow.

However I’m reasonably sure that I’ll still be lovin’ me some me when I wake up to greet the morning sun, since I’ve already administered my brother Alex’s fool-proof secret recipe for going to battle with a hangover before it even starts. It’s an after-drinking regimen that features a 16-ounce tumbler of H2O and at least three extra-strength Tylenol, to ward off the evil spirits of over-imbibivication (heh…I just made up a word.).

Interestingly, every time I’m in this situation I think about my beloved little bro. But this time in particular, I’m thinking about possibly the most embarrassing, yet sentimental memory that Alex and I ever shared.

Clubbin’
I may be four years Alex’s senior, but by the time we were adults, it was I who looked up to him, and not just because he was taller. Alex was so much more confident in social situations and so much worldlier than I ever imagined being back when we were younger. He never had any trouble meeting girls. He had the charisma of a presidential candidate. Alex was always a nice guy, with a wonderful heart, but his personality really had an edge to it, socially. Dude knew how to work a room. Hanging around with him made me feel a bit dangerous.

I liked that. I liked it a lot.

The year was 1994, and Alex and his young family were in the midst of an impromptu move from Dallas to Connecticut, where he had just taken a job with GTE (General Telephone) to become a senior associate in their in-house legal department. He would work there for a little more than three years before returning to Dallas in 1998. His boss was the controversial former U.S. Attorney General, Ramsey Clark.

Alex had decided to leave his position as a respected young attorney in a renowned Big D law firm and relocate to Stamford, CT to live the good life. Apparently he was promised a slower pace in Connecticut, fewer hours would be required of him than in Dallas, where he had become one of his firm’s chief research attorneys.

For years Alex burned the midnight oil researching and writing the background material his firm used to argue major cases, including his heavy contribution to the defense of one client, a major U.S. airline, in a landmark case that could have literally put them out of business had they lost. However the verdict was indeed for the defendant and Alex was heavily praised for his hard work and expertise. We were all incredibly proud of him.

But while the recognition was great, it still didn’t seem to push him closer to the partner track of that very talented and competitive law firm in Dallas. His kids were growing up without him, and his 80-100 hour workweeks weren’t bringing him any closer to his wife either. So he put out a few feelers amongst his many contacts from previous clerkship stints he did in Washington D.C. in his post-law school days.

Connections were made, and soon he had an offer he couldn’t refuse.

I don’t know if or how much more money he got, but it was certainly more than enough, along with shorter work hours, a timeshare in the country, and a better life for his three young children. It was a somewhat of a step back career-wise, but a step forward in quality of life.

It would also be his among his last steps, professionally, before the initial effects of early-onset Alzheimer’s would begin to rob him of the ability to do the work he so loved and performed at a high level.

But in 1994 no one envisioned, even in their worse nightmares that such an ultimate reality would befall this man, so vibrant, so brilliant, so precious to everyone who has known him. The only thing we knew was that he had a gotten this great opportunity back east and that he was going to take it. And we were excited for him and his family.

So en route to the East Coast from Dallas, Alex and family stopped off in Nashville to visit for a weekend. How could we have known that this first visit, in all likelihood would be his last in my home? I certainly couldn’t have imagined, after the great time we had together, that it would be one of only a handful of such opportunities we would have remaining.

Alex had blown briefly through Nashville once before during a two-day legal conference at a local Music City hotel. I went up there to meet him one afternoon. He only had about an hour to spend with me, but it was great to see him nonetheless.

However this time would be different. Alex, Seraph and the kids stayed with us for three days, and the one evening that my brother and I spent alone together was one of the more memorable of my entire life. We would talk about that night at least a half dozen times over the years to come.

Next: Kentucky Thunder

I'm Done.

God I wish I was drunk right now.
Ever heard of the old phrase, “No good deed goes unpunished?” Well I’m living proof of its truth.

And I’m done.

I’m done trying to be something that people claim they need but really don’t want when it comes right down to it. I’m done with sticking my nose into people’s lives with the obviously deluded notion that I can be a friend and listen; that I can help them through their pain with no strings attached.

I’m tired of realizing that people don’t really want to address anything but their own wants and I am fucking sick and tired of being misunderstood.

I’m done with continually placing myself in the position to have my heart stepped upon.

I’m done with the drama, the immaturity, the narcissism.

What has happened to us folks?

What has happened to trust? What has happened to being real? When are we going to stop being such fucking cowards?

For those of you who read this and have no clue where I’m coming from, chill. This isn’t for you. For those of you reading this, who actually know me and are wondering what you did wrong, relax. You didn’t do a thing.

Those who know, know.

And to them I say good luck. I’m letting you go whatever direction you wish to choose. Nevertheless, should you still want to talk, I’ll always be here because I still believe in you.

Go figure.

I still choose to love. I still choose to trust. I still choose to respect.

And now I choose to stop being played with.


finis

More LA Stories: 2005 (Part III)

Day Two — Saturday: Re-Wheeled
Well as you might have surmised, my transportation problems weren’t alleviated by Jay coming to my rescue and giving me a lift from the rental car agency near LAX to Cindy’s house. I obviously was still without a car and that circumstance just wasn’t gonna fly if I was to make good on my plans for the week.

The good news was that the agency offered to hold my reservation for an additional day so that I could come back and pick up the car the next day after the necessary funds showed up in my checking account. Once again I was indebted to my friends for their gracious indulgence. Cindy said she’d be happy to drive me back up to Los Angeles.

So Saturday morning after bagels, coffee and a little bit more catching up, we headed back up to the agency and I was able to acquire my rental car with no problems. Call me cheap, but I always go for basic transportation in a rental car to save money, usually a compact, so long as it’s not a tin can on wheels. I decided to go with the Hyundai they offered which seemed to be a pretty decent little car.

XMplary Entertainment
I finally had my car, now what about some tunes? Since my Discman CD player mysteriously disappeared several months earlier, I decided to try an alternative means of musical entertainment for this trip.

I haven’t talked all that much about it here before, but I’ve been a proud member of the XM Generation for three years now. I jumped on the XM Satellite Radio bandwagon right from the get-go and I absolutely love it. I have the XM MyFi, which is an MP3 player-sized, self-contained, portable unit you can take with you anywhere in the continental U.S. and pretty much be guaranteed a great signal to access over 200 channels of programming. Every kind of music, news, sports, special interest stuff — everything. However my original reason for wanting it was to have a reliable source for listening to The Tony Kornheiser Show.

Tony’s radio sports talk show, of which I have been a fan and e-mail participant since 2002, used to be on ESPN Radio, but now is broadcast locally from Washington DC, streamed live on the Internet, and rebroadcast on delay by XM. I normally listen to the live Internet feed each day at work. So even though I wouldn’t be in a position to listen live, at least I’d be able to hear the delayed XM broadcast while I was in SoCal on vacation.

But to be honest, my XM addiction doesn’t stop at the TK Show. I’ve now grown so accustomed to my XM that I very rarely ever listen to broadcast radio anymore, especially in my car. I just love the variety, not to mention basically knowing what I’m gonna get every time I listen. Oh, did I mention that all the music channels are commercial-free? I’m totally hooked. I honestly experience a bit of separation anxiety when I don’t have access to my XM for any length of time.

I already had an extra car kit (the one from my original unit also works with the MyFi) so after a quick temporary installation (I mean, where would the world be without black electrical tape?), with a tuck of a few wires underneath the dashboard console, I was all set. I flipped it on and viola...now I was ready. Besides, I think it’s against the law to drive the streets of L.A. without totally bitchin’ tunes blaring from your vehicle, so I was just doing my part to comply with local ordinances.

I followed Cindy back to the 405 Freeway, happily reacquainting myself with the feeling of being behind the wheel on the World’s Longest Parking Lot. But I didn’t care about the traffic. I was just happy to finally have my wheels for the week, and especially content to once again be on the freeway.

My love is in league with the Freeway
I believe I’ve mentioned it before, maybe more than once, but to me there’s just something special about the smog ‘n steel slam dance ballet that is freeway driving in Southern California. In fact, it was the very thing that became my first true inspiration to drive a car. It was probably my first conscious romantic connection to that wondrous place I first called home in 1969, when my family moved there from the Midwest.

Now if you think that notion sounds crazy, you’re probably right. But believe me, I’d gladly opt for sharing overpopulated arteries of transportation with people who actually know how to drive, as they do in L.A., over their nimrod counterparts here in Nashville any day. Driving in L.A. certainly can be frustrating, but it’s rarely scary (to me anyway). By and large, people do what you expect them to do there, unlike the psychobillies here in Music City, who will go out of their way to let you merge into a lane one minute, and then cut you off blind the next.

Nashville drivers apparently haven’t learned that when you’re schizophrenic in your approach to highway driving, bad things are bound to happen. You can’t drive defensively and aggressively at the same time. That’s how accidents occur; and they happen a lot more often, proportionately, here on the Interstates of Nashville than they ever do on L.A. Freeways. Not coincidentally, Tennessee is routinely one of the top states in the nation for traffic deaths per capita of population.

In L.A., everyone drives fast; everyone drives aggressively. You just accept that as a given and it works. I can’t speak for everyone, but to me, that fact has always helped me to relax and enjoy my time behind the wheel when I’m there. Nevertheless I hate traffic, but somehow it just seems to me it’s more bearable in L.A. than it is in Nashville. Call me weird, but that’s the honest truth.

I guess it’s possible that I tolerate L.A. traffic better because when I was a kid, driving on the freeway was the number one thing looked forward to doing once I got my license.

It’s a little embarrassing to admit it, but I’ll find myself welling up with tears if I think about it long enough; that warm feeling of wonder I used to experience as a thirteen year-old, riding in the back seat of my parent’s car whenever we traveled on freeways at night. I would stare out my window, hypnotized by the rolling blanket of lights that filled the horizon. Lights everywhere, as far as I could see, whose only interruption was the inky black, starless sky. I used to squint so that my eyes would go out of focus, and the lights would bounce and merge, dancing like carousel horses as my head swayed from side to side.

Yeah, I was a weird kid…

Now thirty-six years later I still have this kind of wistful, love/hate notion about driving the freeways in SoCal. So when we set out from the rental agency, even though it wasn’t at night, as in my childhood fantasy, I was excited to be back into the mix.

When we got back to Cindy’s neighborhood, I followed her to a nearby Kinkos, as per our pre-arrangement, so that I could check my e-mail and tie up some work-related loose ends I realized that I’d forgotten to do twenty four hours earlier.

Yeah, I hate when that happens, but it’s oh-so-typical of yours truly.

But within about 30 minutes I was finished and back on my way over to Cindy’s. By this time it was early afternoon and I needed to hurry before a special guest she had invited over to see me was scueduled to arrive.

Cocoa
Cindy had mentioned on the phone in the weeks leading up to the trip that she was going to have a surprise for me; someone whom I hadn’t seen in a long time who’d been unable to make it to a gathering of a few of our old group Michelle and I attended when we were in town (during my first trip in 2004) the summer before. After a few missed guesses I finally figured out who it was: Cocoa.

Cocoa was really a blast from the past. I probably hadn’t seen her in close to 30 years. We weren’t really all that tight as friends, but I always felt a very comfortable vibe between us. And actually that was the case with practically everyone in that group of ours.

We were all part of the college-age class at our church in Long Beach during the mid-to-late 70s. Looking back on it now, I doubt that many of us realized what a truly special place in time it was. Many of the friendships that were forged during those 3-4 years have remained to this day. And even those that waned due to life changes, job relocations, and even personality conflicts at the time, many have been revived in recent years, as if the time in between never even happened.

Such as was the case with Cocoa and me. She was a few years older, but was dating one of my best friends in the group at the time she was there, so we spoke often. Now in recent years she has returned to the Long Beach area after spending most of the past 30 years living in Kansas, and for awhile, Scotland of all places. She is wonderfully gifted musician, and played with a band in pubs all across the country while she lived there. She still returns as often as she can, to see her old friends and play a few pub gigs where she’s still much in demand.

The plan was that Cocoa would stop by around 2:00 and we’d hang out for awhile and then throw some streaks on the grill for an early dinner. I had made arrangements to take Cindy to a concert at the House of Blues in Anaheim later that evening as my way of showing my appreciation for her putting me up for the week.

When Cocoa arrived, it truly was just like old times. We talked, had a few beers, as she caught me up on her many travels and the changes in her life over the years. We compared notes on the ever-challenging job of parenthood, as she with her three now nearly grown daughters could attest. Cindy had asked her to bring along her guitar so that she could sing me a couple of her new songs, which were great. It was just fantastic to see her again.

Bragglemania
I don’t remember exactly when we had broached the subject in conversation, but I want to say it was on the phone at some point before my trip out. But somehow Cindy and I got on the subject of The Beatles. Now if you’ve been with me for awhile, you know that one of my first blog posts and absolutely one of my proudest story subjects is of the time I saw The Beatles in concert.

I have been saying for years that I was the only person, aside from my eldest brother Jack and his buddy who came with us, who had ever actually seen The Beatles live. And considering that they only toured America twice, in 1964 and briefly in ’65, it’s really not all that likely that you’re going to run into a lot of people who’ve shared that experience now 40 years later.

Well guess what? Turns out I’ve known one of them without realizing it for more than 30 years! I saw The Fab Four at the Indiana State Fairgrounds on September 3, 1964 when I was eight years old. What I discovered was that Cindy, just nine days earlier had been witness to what is generally considered The Beatles’ greatest American concert performance on August 23rd at the Hollywood Bowl.

AND…she still has the ticket stub!

So having already insisting repeatedly that she let me see it, Cindy proudly brought forth her treasure and paraded it in front of our noses; this little piece of card stock, still in mint condition, which would certainly fetch thousands on the open collectables market. If only I had been a little older and had the presence of mind to have saved my ticket stub. Needless to say, Cocoa and I fawned all over it. What a cool keepsake to have!

Soon it was time to eat, and snap a few pictures. Speaking of cool things, Cocoa had the nicest Nikon digital SLR camera, you know, the totally professional model with the interchangeable lenses and megapixels up the wazoo. She let me take a few shots with it and I knew that some day I must possess this camera!

I also snapped a few with the little 35MM film camera I brought, but mysteriously, the roll I was shooting at the time turned out blank. Hense I have no pictures of Cindy and none of Cocoa. I don’t know whether I put the film in wrong or the x-ray machines at the airport got it, but it was the first roll I’ve ever lost that way. Needless to say I was well bummed later when I went to get it developed, which further strengthens my resolve to get a decent digital camera and never have to worry about the hassle of film again.

We ate and talked yet some more until the time was getting close for Cindy and I to head off to the House of Blues for the evening. So we said our so-longs to Cocoa, whom we were going to see again a week later, with some other friends for breakfast, just before I left to return home.

I gave my old friend a big hug and then rushed off to get ready to go.

Next: Day Two — Saturday (continued):
Can’t Breathe (8pm): The Anna Nalick Debacle

A Golden Rule for the New Millennium

Happy Holidays everyone
This is something I’ve actually been planning to write about for over a year, and Christmas is as good a time as any. So as in the past, I’m taking a brief detour from my current series to talk about something that has become extremely poignant to me and has seriously affected the way I think about relating to other people.

It’s not too often that you hear or read something that changes your life. But about five years ago I was surfing the Web and found a sentiment; a pretty intelligent truism, I thought; a phrase that really made me think. It since has sort of become my credo and an important part of my personal philosophy on life.

It’s a new spin on a timeless reality; a Golden Rule for the New Millennium.

The so-called, Golden Rule, as described in the Bible, instructs us to, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” It has been an oft-quoted fixture in the moral code of Western society since the time of the Pilgrims. It, as much as anything, embodies the so-called Judeo-Christian Ethic. However for what is largely regarded as a religious axiom, it actually speaks more to simple civility than to faith. Anyone, regardless of their faith, can and usually does wish to be treated well. Nobody enjoys the selfishness and rude behavior we so often encounter in everyday life. If everyone treated their neighbor as they themselves wish to be treated, the world would obviously be a better place, would it not?

So why don’t we do it?

Maybe we believe in the concept, but the terminology has become too old-fashioned to embrace or even understand. Perhaps we just need to look at it a bit differently. Maybe we just need to gain a fresh perspective.

I have no idea who first penned these words. And I’m really not convinced they had the Golden Rule in mind when they did so. As to where these words of wisdom originated, I haven’t a clue. I didn’t even bookmark the Web site. I don’t know who the author is or when it was written. But as soon as I found it, I printed it out and posted it in a prominent place where I now see it every day to remind and inspire me. It goes like this:

People will forget what you said
People will forget what you did
But people will never forget about how you made them feel

Now most men I know would consider this saying overly sappy or too emotional to even be considered. Me, I don’t care much about whether or not people think I’m too emotional. I am what I am, and what I am is an emotional being; we all are, whether or not we care to admit it. If you really think about it, emotion is the only thing in this physical life that is really real. It defines us, both in the way we see ourselves and others see us. Emotions are the only means by which we can truly control our own destiny. I can’t control the future, but I can control how I allow myself to deal with it.

I guess it was fairly easy to adopt the phrase as I did, since I’d pretty much believed and lived it my entire life, before I even stumbled upon that Web site. But it’s not that I’m so great or better than anyone else. It’s just that I’ve observed that people who have themselves been mistreated often display the greatest capacity for understanding the need for kindness. Sometimes it takes a little experience being the victim to thereby gain the compassion to try and spare others from experiencing the same fate.

I’ve seen both sides of the coin in my own life. On one side there was my stepmom, Maxine. While I have completely forgiven her, it has been impossible for me to forget how the way she treated me growing up made me feel — both about her and about myself. I felt worthless, angry, confused, resentful; wondering if she really was right when she repeatedly told me that I’d “never amount to anything.”

On the opposite end of the spectrum is someone like my friend Cindy, who has never done anything but make me feel good about myself, as I’ve made reference to before.

It is extremes such as these, which span the gamut of human emotion, that make that phrase of affectation so significant.

Ever find that you simply “don’t like someone” but can’t really place a finger on why? Or conversely, is there someone you know, even casually, who makes you smile every time you talk to them, or perhaps, even think of them? These emotions are not elicited by accident. But by the same token, they’re not always purposeful in origin. They are often based directly upon whether or not someone has made a conscious effort to be kind; to be civil; to place themselves in a position of servitude to another friend, family member, or even a complete stranger on the street.

We have the opportunity every single day, and in every single encounter, to either build or destroy our personal standing with another human being.

Have a problem dealing with someone? Guess what? Chances are it’s not their problem — it’s yours. We have the power to change minds, one smile, one kind word, one encouragement at a time. It’s not someone else’s responsibility to find us likable. We’re the ones who have the greater ability to make that happen.

Say you want a res-o-lu-tion?
We often use this time of Christmas and the start of the New Year as a season in which to reflect upon our lives; evaluating things, both positive and otherwise, either acknowledging thanks that they are so, or exercising our resolve to change them into something better.

I challenge everyone reading this to accept the responsibility that we all have to make a positive impact on those we come into contact with each and every day. This isn’t pie in the sky, folks. It’s not, “all you need is love, “let’s make nice-nice” or any other kind of faux-sincerity. People are genuinely effected by our demeanor, our attitude, and whether or not we actually care about their lives or their opinions. If you think you can blow someone off or dismiss them without them knowing it, think again. When was the last time the shoe was on the other foot and you didn’t realize what was going on?

And of course the phenomenon isn’t limited to casual encounters only. What do we truly invest in our friends and family? Is it always about us, or are we actually concerned about their needs? These are tough questions because this is serious work. There is no free lunch. We all need to get paid. And because of that, we all need to put forth the effort to be deserving of such a wonderful blessing as the love and respect of great friends and family.

I hope everyone had a wonderful Christmas and Hanukkah. Here’s to a great and successful 2006. Take care of each other; respect one another. Make the impression you leave on others a good one.

Here’s to a new year filled with no regrets.

finis

More LA Stories: 2005 (Part II)

Day One — Friday: Buddy, can ya spare a ride? (continued)
I was stuck. For one thing, my Dad lives in Hemet, nearly 100 miles and at least a two-hour drive away. There was no way in hell I was calling him. My friend Cindy, who was putting me up for the week, was no option either; she was working from home that day because, you guessed it, her car was in the shop.

I knew I was screwed when I asked the guy behind the counter, who was doing all he could to help resolve my problem, to find out how much a cab ride from LA to northern Orange County (where Cindy lives) would be. Let’s just say it was considerably more than the forty bucks I currently had in my wallet. Yep, not only did I blow off going to the bank before leaving home, to check the status of our account, I didn’t even take the time to pick up any cash for the trip, assuming I could just get some at an ATM once I got to California.

As I sat there in the waiting area at the car rental agency, I thought my head was going to explode.

Jay to the rescue
I really had just two options. One was the bus, with a zillion transfers and logistical entanglements in tow. The other was my college buddy, Jay who was the only other person who knew I was in town that might have been even remotely available to help me out. The problem was, I’d only made the loosest of plans with him beforehand. We hadn’t even decided when we’d get together that week. It was a, “I’ll call you when I hit town,” sort of deal. I had no idea what he was doing or what his schedule was. Even being able to get a hold of him would be a crapshoot. I had his home phone number, but that was it.

One of the truest testaments of friendship is how one person responds to another in a time of crisis. Let me tellya, Jay went above and beyond the call of duty. He wasn’t home when I first called so I left a message detailing my sad story of woe. But he called me back about 30 minutes later, cheerfully ragging my ass for being in such a laughable (to him, anyway) predicament. Then after letting me twist in the wind a little, he admitted that his inner-good-Samaritan had gotten the better of him once again; he’d be happy to help me out. After giving him directions to the rental place (which was about a mile from LAX) he was on his way to pick me up.

I think it necessary to explain the magnitude of this guy’s sacrifice. It was by now after 4:00 PM on a Friday afternoon. Jay lived 25 miles away in Long Beach and had to launch himself directly into the teeth of some of the most legendary rush hour traffic in the nation, just to give me a lift to another friend’s house (whom he didn’t even know). Now that’s a pal right there, boys and girls.

I can’t adequately communicate my relief at that point. I went from utter despair to outright giddiness in a matter of about 15 seconds. After I hung up with Jay, I sat and watched the TV that was playing there in the lobby, re-orienting myself to the local color, the commercials and news personalities. It’s just another one of the subtle pleasures I experience each time I come here — the process of re-connecting with this place. I was just so happy to be out of the mess I’d been in. Now I could get down to the business of having a busy but enjoyable week.

Before I knew it my cell phone was vibrating again. Jay needed a little more help finding the car rental agency, which I have purposely not named — yet — but will focus upon a little later. Jay had overshot the turnoff, which isn’t well marked, by a couple blocks so once we got him turned around, I was able to guide him in.

(Aren’t cell phones just the most freaking wonderful things ever?)

I looked out the front window to see Jay’s familiar dark blue Chevy truck pulling into the driveway and went out to meet him. We did the man-hug thang; he loaded my duffel and suit bag into a covered compartment in the truck bed and we hit the road.

Given the Friday afternoon traffic factor, we had a longer-than-normal time to catch up on what had been going on in each other’s lives in the year since my last visit to the homeland. That week I stayed most of the week with Jay, but for this visit Cindy insisted I stay at her place. It’s nice to know that I have not one, but two, Motel Californias vying for my patronage whenever I come back to this wondrous place that still feels so very much like home to me.

I know he wasn’t expecting it, but in gratitude to Jay for his taxi service, I told him that when we got together later that week (which, we decided would be the following Wednesday night), he could name the restaurant; dinner was on me.

Welcome to Cindy Manor
If you’ve followed this blog, you’ve already met Cindy. If not, allow me to ‘splain you something. She’s one of my oldest and dearest friends, and Michelle feels the same way about her that I do. So, if the proposition of me spending a week, by myself at the home of an unmarried woman, 2500 miles from my wife, causes anyone reading this to sprout a raised eyebrow, relax. This is a purely platonic relationship. Always has been, always will be.

I won’t completely re-hash our history, and what Cindy means to me as the friend she’s always been. But suffice it to say I was looking forward to spending the extended time with her that I wasn’t able to when I was in town a year ago.

When Jay dropped me off at her house, in a nice, middle-class neighborhood of suburban Orange County, she was busy undoing the mess that’s often left behind by any auto mechanic fixing anything on the inside of your car. In this case, Cindy’s SUV had a malfunctioning instrument panel that needed repair, requiring her to work from home that day. But now that she’d gotten her car back home, she had to replace the various items, once located neatly in storage compartments in her car, which had become mysteriously strewn all over the floor and back seat.

Following our greeting hugs, I thanked Jay once again and bid him adieu until Wednesday. She was just finishing up with her car, so we exchanged pleasantries for a few moments and then went inside. She showed me my room and refreshed my memory of the layout of her very handsome home, which she refers to as “the dump of the neighborhood,” but which actually couldn’t be further from the truth.

She asked me to run down my schedule for the week so that she could get a fix on when I was going to be around. As I related to her my plans for spending Monday and Tuesday out at my Dad’s in Hemet, she went to the entry table near the front door and began thumbing through a small stack of papers gathered there. “Okay,” she said, “If you’re going to be with your Dad on Tuesday night, maybe you two could get some use out of these…” She placed a skinny rectangular envelope in my hand with the words, Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim printed boldly across the front.

“I can’t make it to the game Tuesday and I want you to take your Dad,” she said with a smile. Cindy, as you may recall is a longtime Angels season ticket holder and of course, the Halos are my (as well as my Dad’s) favorite team as well. It had already been established that she and I would be taking in a game during my visit, but that was a week away, the following Friday night versus the Boston Red Sox. This other game was a complete surprise. A bonus I that certainly didn’t expect, but yet I wasn’t exactly surprised either; that’s the kind of person she is.

We sat and spent probably an hour catching up on our lives, as well as those of our mutual friends, some of whom I remain in contact with and some I haven’t seen in 10-15 years, but whom Cindy still keeps tabs on.

She is, to a large degree, the single touchstone for an entire segment of my past, without which I would certainly lose contact. She hasn’t changed one iota in all the years I’ve known her. I guess she just reminds me of a time in my life when the whole world was so much bigger and more wonderful than it is now; back when we were all young and our lives were all before us. Not that I want to live in the past, it’s just that for me, she’s just such a wonderful link to that time, and I’ll always appreciate her for that.

By the time we’d finished our little re-introductory confab, it was getting to be dinnertime. The plan was that since I’d missed out on eating at my favorite restaurant a year earlier, we’d make it a point to do so at least once while I was there this time.

Where are you tonight, Sweet Marie?
Hoo-boy, I could write an entire post about this place — and in the interest of brevity and staying on-topic, I probably will. However in the meantime, need to rant just a little on the passing of a phenomenon, in my opinion.

If you live most anywhere in the Western U.S., you’ve seen them and more than likely eaten in one as well. If you live anywhere else, chances are for the past ten years or so you’ve seen this restaurant’s faire featured in your supermarket’s frozen food section. But if your experience is only the latter, you’ve unfortunately missed out on a lot. Marie Callender’s Restaurants were founded here in Southern California and became a fixture in the casual dining arena long before the numerous wannbes that couldn’t even approach their uniqueness or quality came along.

However one store in particular, my Marie’s, the original Marie Callender’s, is the subject of this mini-rant.

Marie’s son, Don was the family entrepreneur. It was he who made the push to expand his mother’s homemade pie operation from a small North Long Beach bakery and open a restaurant in nearby Seal Beach. That restaurant, just a mile west of my first bachelor pad, was the unofficial meeting place of most of my friends at during my late high school/early college years.

The MC franchise was well underway in the mid-70s, when the Seal Beach store became our personal Cheers. The larger, full-sized restaurants were already the norm for the growing MC chain, but not so for number one. Because of it’s more humble beginnings (it was essentially pie and coffee shop when it was built in the 60s), the original Marie’s maintained it’s cozy charm, even after an early 70s remodeling nearly doubled its overall size.

This was a special place, filled with memories of a less-complicated time and a menu of unique dishes that never disappointed. If it’s possible to have a personal relationship with a restaurant, well, I was head-over-heals in love with Marie’s.

When Michelle and came out in May of 2004, we ate there in Seal Beach and I relished a side of their famous Fettuccine Alfredo alongside a salad-bar salad drizzled with MC’s legendary exclusive hot bacon dressing. It was just as good as I remembered it, and maybe better. For dessert I had my old fave, a slice of Black Bottom pie. I was in heaven.

However when I returned for my second stay in SoCal that summer, in August, I was disappointed to learn that the Seal Beach store had closed for yet another remodeling. It was scheduled to re-open in the Summer of 2005. Oh well, I thought, maybe next time, then. I didn’t know it at the time, but that May visit would end up being my final opportunity to enjoy my old friend.

They say you can’t improve on perfection, but you can sure as hell go the other way.

In an apparent attempt to bring the “little Marie’s” up to snuff, corporate decided to give the place both a major facelift and image upgrade. The inside was all but completely gutted. Its coffee shop feel was completely obliterated and in its place was installed the sophisticated look of an upscale eatery. Even the name out front changed to reflect the restaurant’s new personality. Instead of the familiar, classic script welcoming patrons to Marie Callender’s Restaurant & Bakery, a new heavy, masculine marquee now simply read, Callender’s Grill. As far as I’m concerned, a LOT was lost in the translation.

Joining Cindy and me for dinner was another mutual friend from the old days; one I’ve actually kept up with better than most, and have wriiten about previously: my good friend Az and his wife Katy. Although his parents live just a few blocks from the restaurant, Az now lives in San Diego County, but was willing to make the 90 minute drive north to join us (what a pal, eh?). Given that it was Friday evening, freeway traffic understandably had them running later than they thought they’d be. Receiving updates from time-to-time via cell phone, Cindy and I went ahead and were seated when our name was called. We decided we’d just sit, talk and wait until they arrived to order.

We were seated in a big booth in the very back of the restaurant, which seemed to be the only part that wasn’t changed in the re-model. Unfortunately that turned out to be the only thing that was familiar about this visit to my dearly departed little haunt.

We decided to chill with a glass of wine, and occasionally called in for a road-progress update from Az. As it turned out, they’d hit a pretty big snarl and told us to go ahead and order, they’d be along as soon as they could.

So it was at this point that I first got a real glance at the menu. It was almost completely unrecognizable. Nearly all the classic MC favorites such as the Frisco Burger (the best sourdough burger you’ve ever eaten), Chicken Callendini (a wonderful combo of Fettuccine, stuffed tortellinis and a whole chicken breast, smothered in their wonderful Alfredo sauce), and even their classic Spaghetti and Meat Sauce dish, was gone. In its place was a myriad of appetizers, $15-$20 steak, chicken, and seafood entrees and the ever-ubiquitous catch of the day.

Sacrilege! You call this progress? I call it atrophy. I call it not knowing when you’ve got a good thing and screwing it up when you try to make it better. The most unique, warm, and inviting place in which I’d ever lifted a fork, was now just like any other medium-to-high-dollar restaurant, replete with servers expounding overly-contrived descriptions of today’s special. It was depressing itellya; simply depressing.

The menu’s one redeeming factor was that the Soup & Salad Bar (which thankfully made the cut) was still available, and another classic MC standard, Potato Cheese soup was as well. That was the good news. The bad news was that apparently, perhaps the restaurant’s most unique signature offering, their Hot Bacon dressing somehow got lost in the shuffle.

When Cindy and I went to make our salads, in anticipation of enjoying that incredible condiment once again, we looked at each other in disbelief when we realized that it was missing from the salad bar. We asked our server, and of course, she didn’t have the foggiest notion what we were talking about. She was a new hire and had never even eaten at the old restaurant. The place had been re-opened for a month and she admitted she’d never seen anything like it offered at the salad bar. We described the dressing to her and she said she’d go back to the kitchen and ask around. We went ahead and began eating our salads, sans the Hot Bacon.

Happily, minutes later our server reemerged with a large silver gravy boat, filled with none other than our prized Hot Bacon dressing! She proudly announced that they’d always had the ingredients on hand, but in the bustle of the restaurant’s re-opening, nobody had thought about it, and no customers voiced any complaint about it not being there until we did.

So never let it be said that Cindy and I never contributed anything to the culinary culture of Southern California. Why, we reintroduced them to Hot Bacon dressing, dammit!

Overall the food was still good, the service was pretty decent as well (that little girl earned an extra big tip for getting us that dressing!). Az and Katy arrived soon after we sat down with our salads, so we all ended up eating around the same time.

The conversation was of course fabulous (Az still laughs at my jokes — ‘nuff said). We talked about kids, jobs, and the next time Michelle and I might be able to come out to visit again. It was just a great time — a fitting end to a truly eventful first day of my visit to the homeland.


Next: Day Two — Saturday: Re-Wheeled

More LA Stories: 2005 (Part I)

Day One — Friday: Buddy, can ya spare a ride?
Gather ‘round, boys and girls and hear a cautionary tale from ol’ AJ. It’s based on a very wise, old Chinese saying, He who make cheque fly will eventually have ass grounded.

Ya see, it all happened like this…

After a very hectic period at work I was anxious to get on the plane for eight days of R&R, doing one of my very favorite things — spending time with my family and friends. It was late August, one of the worst times of the year to be in Middle Tennessee from a weather standpoint, so I was really looking forward to getting away from the humidity and enjoying that incredible SoCal climate; that incredible combo of warm sunshine and a cool ocean breeze — the one thing above all that I so desperately miss about my former homeland.

Traffic getting to the airport was mild on a Friday, between A.M. rush and lunchtime. I arrived at the airport, having already printed off my boarding pass online, and had to wait only a few minutes prior to boarding time for my flight. I was able to procure my usual, preferred aisle seat in the upper two-thirds of the cabin and was comfortably settled in. I was curious as to whether I’d end up with a neighbor who wanted to talk or keep to themselves during the four-and-a-half hour flight. Personally I can go either way. I usually bring music to listen to, but for this trip I was unable to find my portable CD player (and I still haven’t found it), so I was out of luck as far as music was concerned. I suppose I was a little more inclined towards conversation for that reason.

I’ve met some interesting people over the years on airplanes. Last year, on this same flight to LA, I sat next two a father and son who were on their way home from the East Coast where they had followed our mutually favorite Major League Baseball team, the (then still) Anaheim Angels on a brief eastern road trip.

In 2002, I visited a friend who now lives in Idaho. On the flight home I spent a fascinating time discussing high-tech trends for what was then an entirely new concept of the “plugged-in home” — pre-building high-speed fiber-optic cable and other tech options into entire subdivisions of new homes — with an electrical contractor specializing in that cutting-edge service.

But perhaps my most interesting in-flight confab, at least now in retrospect ocurred in December of 1992, on the first of several business trips I would make between Nashville and SoCal, back when I still had freelance clients there. I sat and listened while a wired, very young-looking, and just a little geeky Dermot Mulroney chatted my ear off about his part in a just-completed movie entitled, The Thing Called Love, his first “big” role, in which he co-starring with River Phoenix. It was shot mostly in Nashville and Mulroney was just returning home following the film’s wrap. At the time I’d heard the film mentioned on the local news and was familiar with Phoenix, but had no idea who this Mulroney guy was. So I politely listened, gave him my business card and told him to look me up the next time he was in town.

After that, I didn’t really think all that much about the encounter until five years later when the movie,My Best Friend’s Wedding came out. To my surprise, here was this same Dermot Mulroney playing the lead male role, starring opposite Julia Roberts. This was obviously his greatest commercial success to date. He’s had a few other starring roles but has primarily made his career as a supporting, character actor. Still, just to realize in retrospect that, “Hey, that guy talked my ear off on an airplane once, way back when,” well, it was kind of a cool experience for non-Hollywood types like yours truly.

As it turned out, I had enjoyable conversations with two people who ended up occupying the seats next to me on this sold-out West Coast flight. The gentleman who took the window seat to my right was from a small town in southern Tennessee, returning to Bakersfield, CA for his father’s funeral. Later, the still-vacant seat between us was filled by a guy connecting from Detroit flying out to Los Angeles with his family for a vacation. He had given up his previous seat to a lady who needed to sit next to her elderly father with Alzheimer’s. There weren’t any empty adjoining seats left, so he gave his up to accommodate her.

It was a great flight. In the air, everything was smooth. It wasn’t until we landed that I encountered some turbulence. And going back to something that had happened earlier that morning, I probably could have seen it coming; as Lennon and McCartney once said, I shoulda known better.

Michelle had told me earlier Friday morning, after viewing our checking account balance online, that she was surprised to see the check she’d sent in for our son Shaun’s Fall Semester tuition had already been received by the bank, a mere two days after being sent to the University. Not that we are normally in the habit of kiting checks, but the close proximity of the tuition due date and my trip to California wasn’t anything Michelle had necessarily made provision for, or even worried about. She understandably assumed it wouldn’t be a problem due to the fact that normally it takes about four days to process a check being sent from outside our local area to come back and hit our account. That being said, Knoxville is nearly 300 miles from where we live, more than far enough away to qualify for that kind of scenario. Additionally, our paychecks were due to be auto-deposited on Friday night, so there was no immediate concern given to the possibility that the funds needed for me to rent a car in LA wouldn’t be there when I needed them. Michelle believed she had headed off any potential problems by moving some extra money into our checking from another account, once she’d seen that the tuition check had already posted.

So when she told me about it early Friday morning I agreed that it shouldn’t be a problem. However something happened soon thereafter that should have clued me in that all was still not well in Debitville.

My flight was scheduled to depart at 11:15 AM, so the plan was that I would first take Michelle to work at 7:30, come back home and finish packing, and then pick her back up at 9:30 so she could drive me to the airport. When I dropped her off at work, Michelle reminded me that the car was low on gas and asked if I would stop and put a few gallons in the tank on my way back home, which I was happy to do. When I went to get the gas, my debit card was rejected at the pump. Irritated but not dismayed, I figured that for some reason the money Michelle had transferred simply hadn’t been officially credited into the system, given that it had only been an hour or so since she’d done it. So I paid cash for the gas and proceeded on home to finish preparing for my trip. In retrospect I know now that I should have followed my gut and gone to the bank to check our account status, just to be sure. I had the time, although taking that extra 30 minutes or so would have made things tight. Still in the long run it would have saved me even more time, not to mention the embarrassment and frustration I would experience some six hours later.

As I’ve already mentioned, the flight was great. The time passed quickly and I was in good spirits when the shuttle dropped me off at the rental car agency.

It’s hard to say that I wasn’t thinking of it at all, but I certainly didn’t expect to have any problems. Yet there was that flash; just a thought that sort of hung in the back of my mind as one of those, now-wouldn’t-it-just-suck-if-this-happened kind of fleeting thoughts which oftentimes spring from the fertile fields of my paranoid mind.

Only this time it came true.

“I’m sorry sir, but your debit card has been rejected. Do you have another you could use? Like a credit card perhaps?”

“Um…nope. This is the only card I carry,” I replied, as a steadily growing feeling of warm dread began to overtake my spine and shoulders.

I was boiling over inside, furious that something like this could have happened to derail my vacation before it even started. However I tried to remain calm, asking the attendant what recourse I had. She said she would check with the company’s credit office and see what she could do. She then disappeared into the back for several minutes, only to return with the same discouraging refrain: she was sorry, but they just couldn’t rent me a car today.

Unwilling to give up just yet, I asked if she would call my bank directly to make sure there wasn’t some kind of mistake or at somehow vouch for the good standing of our account, regardless of what that damned computer said. Perhaps I could get the bank to explain that there would be more than enough in the account later that night when our paycheck money was due to go in automatically.

But no dice; the bank said the current balance was short of the amount needed to cover the rental company’s required 200% hold for the projected weekly rental fee. I would have no choice but to wait until the auto-deposited paycheck money hit the account.

But how did the tuition check get back to our bank so fast? At first we surmised that the University of Tennessee, Knoxville must bank with the same institution that we do, but would learn later, it was more likely that technology played the dominant role in our little misfortune.

Many companies are now using software which allows them to use that series of numbers printed along the bottom of a check to directly debit a payee’s account. It’s the same process used by companies who allow you to pay by check “over the phone.” But now, realizing that The University of Tennessee has this ability makes another one of their policies more than a little dubious. To pay via check for tuition and other fees is free. However if you want to pay online with a credit or debit card, you’ll also pay a $25.00 service charge for the privilege! How wrong is that, particularly when they can get their money just as fast with a check as they can with a direct transfer via credit or debit card? Oye.

I’m a wild and cash-only guy.
Just the same, about now you may be wondering exactly why I found myself in that predicament in the first place. Why don’t I carry a credit card like everyone else?

Call it a “once bitten-twice shy” mentality, or maybe I’m just stubborn, but ever since we became debt-free (except for the mortgage) in August of 1999, I’ve been pretty staunch in my stance against using credit cards.

I haven’t checked my credit report in years, although I know I probably should. We re-fi’ed the home mortgage a year and a half ago, so I know my credit is good, but frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn if I’m five-star or one-star. And the only reason I would, is if I ever intended to use credit again, which I don’t. I may want to get another mortgage someday, but even that’s a wait-and-see proposition. I just don’t use credit. Don’t want it, don’t need it.

I’m a cash-only kinda guy. I’ve learned that for me, if the money’s not in the checking account (or not already earmarked for something else), then too bad AJ, you can’t afford it. The good news is, with nothing but the utilities and mortgage that have to be paid each month, it only takes a couple weeks of saving to be able to buy just about anything I want anyway. And while I know that I’m sort of a weirdo for living this way, after what I’ve dealt with in terms of debt issues, the alternative is infinitely worse in my estimation. But don’t relegate me to the horse and buggy set just quite yet. 99.999999 times out of 100, my Visa debit card does me just fine, thank you. I can purchase anything with it that I could with its credit counterpart. In fact, over the past six years I’ve never run into a problem of any kind as a result of not owning a credit card.

Until now.

Next: Day One — Friday: Buddy, can ya spare a ride? (continued)

More LA Stories: 2005 (Prologue)

A little travellin’ music, please…
There are a lot of ways one can spend money. Unfortunately for people like me, when you don’t do a good job of choosing priorities, you often spend too much, and find yourself in a hole before you know it. Having fought for years through all of that, it’s pretty cool to see things from the opposite side of the equation. Not that we’re now rollin’ in the dough by any means, but in recent years Michelle and I have been in a decidedly more positive financial circumstance than had been the case for the vast majority of our lives together. It’s actually taken a little getting used to.

There are obviously a lot of nice things about being unencumbered by debt. However I was surprised to find that one of the best of those benefits was something I had never really thought about all that much while we were on the opposite side of the issue. It wasn’t exactly on the list of things I pined for in the old days; the years when I wondered what it would be like to experience 24 hours without my phone ringing off the hook, an endless parade of bill collectors waiting on the other end of the line, either to extract their pound of flesh or inject a ton of guilt into my already beleaguered psyche. Back in that godforsaken time in my life, when just looking forward to the day that junkmail would once again out-draw the number of bills in my mailbox seemed like the Impossible Dream.

No, for me, I’m happy to say, perhaps the most enjoyable perk of being essentially debt-free is the fact that I now finally have the means (relatively speaking) to travel more than once in a blue moon. Not that I necessarily wish to become some kind of globetrotter; I’m more than happy to just be able to see my family and my friends on a semi-regular basis.

The passing of my Step mom, Maxine, in 2000 slapped me in the face like a wet glove. The realization that my parents had actually become mortal, seemingly overnight caused me to see things from a much more proactive perspective. That impetus became even more pronounced two years later when my Dad, who had never even been diagnosed with high cholesterol before, suffered a minor, yet near-fatal heart attack, resulting in quintuple bypass heart surgery at the age of eighty.

At that point it became abundantly clear that it was time for me to wake up and smell the reality; my Dad was not going to be around forever, and seeing him once every two or three years was no longer acceptable. I decided that seeing him as often as is feasible was something I needed to make a priority in my life.

Michelle’s parents live relatively nearby in Florida, and she has always made seeing them a priority. Either she travels there or they come to spend a week or so with us, at least once a year. I figured it was time I did the same with my Dad.

My plan finally took flight in early 2004, when Michelle surprised me by saying she wanted to take a trip to SoCal as a belated celebration of our 25th wedding anniversary (in March). It would be the first time she’d been back to SoCal (or indicated that she even wanted to go) since we’d moved to Tennessee. I of course had been back several times on business, and most recently for Maxine’s funeral. But at that point it had been more than three years since I’d seen Dad and over two years since his heart attack). Needless to say I was eager to go.

That summer was also my 30th High School Class Reunion, and I had already been planning to attend that as well. So as it turned out I made two trips; one in May and the other in August, giving me the rare opportunity to see my Dad and his wife Helen twice in less than three months time.

I decided that twice a year would be my goal from that point forward. If I couldn’t pull it off, so be it, but I really wanted to try.

This past year I made only the single trip to California that is the subject of this series. Nonetheless I was able to see my Dad twice in 2005 because of the trip we together had taken in February, to Dallas to spend a few days with my brother Alex (something I haven’t written about but may at a later time). So now the pattern is somewhat in place. Twice a year, some way, somehow, I’m going to try to find a way to see my Pop twice a year, and I’ll continue to do so for as long as I have the opportunity.

Friends
But for as much as I love seeing my Dad, these frequent visits back to the SoCal homestead have provided an additional bonus. They’ve allowed me to reestablish familiarities with a few old and dear friends from my high school and college days, in addition to further cementing friendships with a couple more recent pals from Blogsville. A lot has changed since I lived in Southern California, but thanks to my friends, I really do feel as though I can go home again.

The title of this series is merely an update of the original from the 2004 trip, for which I owe a tip of the cap to Michael, who first gave me the idea. But I really need to offer my most special thanks to Aimee, who I had the extreme pleasure of meeting for the first time on this trip, and without whom much of this story would quite literally have never been written.

And I’ll explain that a bit later.


Next: Day One — Friday: Buddy, can ya spare a ride?

A (blog)spot poll

This will be a very short, VERY temporary post for today only. I'm back from vacation and antsy to blog again. Problem is, I've really got so much to write about I honestly don't know where to start.

I know that some of you have been anxiously awaiting the resumption of my current "Long Strange Trip" series, and quite frankly, so have I. However, my two recent vacation trips, first to Reston, VA and then the just-completed one to SoCal are literally screaming to get out right now. I'm GONNA write something today, it's just a question of what.

So I'll throw it out to you. Call it a (blog)spot poll. Which story would you rather see first?

1.) Continuation (to completion) of What a Long, Strange Trip It’s Been?
2.) The stories about my vacation trips to D.C. and L.A.?

I certainly won't have my feelings hurt if nobody responds, but I just thought I'd give you all the option. Personally I can go in either direction.

Lemme know today.

This post will self-destruct in 12 hours.