Streamin'...

The Reader's Digest Version
I guess it's not fair to those of you who have been continuing to check this space for something new, to make you wait any longer. I have a lot of catching up to do, and as is my bent, it won't be easy to get it out quickly. So in the meantime I thought I would literally take a few minutes (i.e.: I'm putting a fifteen-minute cap on this) to post a little stream-of-consciousness, spewing out as much as I can about what's been going on in my life since the lights sort of went out on April 4th.

Work.
I've been reassessing a lot lately. As I'll be writing about soon, things at my job took a dramatic turn at the beginning of this month, and I was thrust into a new job function, covering for a co-worker who suddenly left the company. It has been one of the most significant events in my life in a very long while, bringing with it change that may not ultimately alter my career path, but most certainly has altered my perceptions.

Life.
A funny thing happened on Father's Day. I got a big mirror as a gift from my family; I was able to see myself clearly for the first time in a long time. I saw what they saw, and boy was I surprised. It wasn't a pretty picture, but it sure was enlightening. Interesting thing; you never knows how bitter the medicine is until you've had a taste for yourself.

Love.
I love my family; that's nothing new. However sometimes it takes losing a family member to realize how important it is to maintain ties that have loosened over the miles and years. My last post was a tribute to my Uncle Jake. I had just returned from Indiana and was prepared to expound upon the reconnection I experienced with Aunts, Uncles and cousins I saw during that short three-day trip. Well now I have even more to talk about. I just returned from a second trip to the town of my birth for an annual cousin's reunion; an event they have every year but which I had never before bothered to attend. It was a fabulous experience. But best of all, I received an indescribably wonderful gift, a letter from my late Mother, Annie, that is just about too cool for words. Much more on that later

The Pursuit of Happiness
Lots of great concerts; Mowerly Musings; time spent with Michelle; mulling over the place that blogging has in my life. These are also the things that have been occupying a goodly portion of my time over the past two-and-a-half months.

I'll get to all of them, and if anyone is still listening, I'd love to hear your comments. Thank you for your patience, and special thanks for the comments and e-mails from those of you caring to check up on me. It's been a good break, but hopefully I'll be able to get back on the beam soon.

The Lion Sleeps Tonight — A Mini-Series (1 of 2)

04-08-06 Update
Upon returning from my Uncle’s funeral, I decided to make this post a Mini-Series because of all that happened during the brief but eventful 36 hours I spent this week in my hometown of Anderson, Indiana.

I have completely updated this first part with much more in-depth information and amplification of my original thoughts, hurriedly written last Tuesday afternoon before leaving Nashville, so if you had previously read it, I would definitely invite you to give it another look.

The second part is a series of anecdotes about the trip itself; the adventure the trip up turned out to be, and of course the funeral, and the subsequent wonderfully unexpected re-connection I had with my Uncle Jake’s legacy.

Mortality Memorandum
I thought it a bit too unfeeling to subtitle this post, Another One Bites the Dust, but it would be pretty accurate from the standpoint of reality, especially given my recent awareness on the subject.

You see folks, I’m getting old; or so I’m being forced to accept. Not because my body is slowly, and more consistently beginning to betray me — that’s really the least of my worries. No, it’s not that I feel that much older, but rather, it’s that everyone else just seems to be heading that direction. Life has taken a sharp turn toward the mortal side for me over the past couple years; coincidentally I suppose, since I began writing this blog.

For it was only after writing tributes to my two mothers, Annie and Maxine, that I became cognizant that most of my aunts and uncles on Annie’s side had passed away; people whom I had grown up with and loved dearly, yet had completely lost touch with, both figuratively and actually. Somehow, in my mind they were all still in their fifties; healthy and wise, and some, just a bit wacky.

Imagine my surprise when I realized — naïve as that notion was — that it was I who was now approaching fifty years of age. It is I who is now on the backside of the hill. What a freaky notion that is! What a sobering realization when the very pillars of your life; the people upon whom your childhood, your family structure, your memories and notions of normalcy, begin to disappear one by one.

Moreover, it was only after I chronicled the history of my family’s fight with Early-Onset Alzheimer’s disease — the family curse, as it were — that we learned it had claimed yet another victim, my youngest brother, Alex.

What was once to me, a glassy pool of calm and happy reflection, my memoirs, my blog; a joy to write and connect to myself with, has now in many ways become a whirlpool, sucking me down with the undertow of my own mortality. At least that’s the way it feels sometimes.

And while it hasn’t soured me on writing in any way, it has definitely sobered my outlook. I think I’ve become a bit more realistic — perhaps a bit less idealistic — about life and the fleeting nature of youth. I’ve come to realize that while it’s a fine thing to feel young at heart, it doesn’t mean that you are young; and just because you still feel like a kid it doesn’t mean that you have all the time you did when you actually were one.

Time is marching on, my friends, and if you need any evidence of that fact, just take a good look around; if you’re honest, you’ll see its power. It’s not difficult to observe the way time is affecting everyone and everything else.

Another ripple in the pond of my life reached shore last Friday. My Dad’s younger brother, Jacob — my Uncle Jake — passed away after a long period of declining health. Jake suffered a massive stroke last Wednesday and hovered near death before his life finally ran out on Friday morning, March 31st.

His funeral is tomorrow and I’ll be on my way, driving up Anderson, Indiana within a few hours. I’ll be one of the pallbearers at the gravesite, an honor I’ve never before experienced.

This is the first funeral I’ve attended since Maxine’s in May of 2000, but what I dread the most is the probability that it may become a recurring exercise in my life.

Uncle Jake would have turned 78 later this month. My Dad, the eldest amongst his siblings at 83, is the only one of my Mamaw’s four children who didn’t inherit her enlarged heart, a defect that not only claimed her own life, but that of her youngest child, my Uncle Norman, who died in his mid-forties. Norman, Jake and their sister, my Aunt Kate, each developed enlarged hearts in adulthood and have battled the related heath issues associated with it for most of their lives. It was the cause of a previous stroke Jake suffered a few years ago, and was ostensibly the reason for the recent one that took his life.

Ironically, it will be other kinds of health issues that will keep my Dad and his sister from making the trip to Indiana for Uncle Jake’s funeral. For Dad, his wife Helen, in addition to recovering from abdominal surgery a few months ago, is still suffering from back and leg-related issues that have kept her in considerable pain for nearly a year. He just couldn’t bear to leave her while she is both barely mobile as well as in need of his emotional support.

At age 76, Aunt Kate is, as I write this, scheduled to be in surgery herself for a hip replacement, so there was no way she could make the trip from her home in Nevada.

So it’s up to my brother Jack and me to represent our branch of the family tree. Jack, who was extremely close to Jake, and whom for several years was, along with his wife Marnie, our Uncle’s primary caregiver, will deliver the eulogy.

“Big” & “Baby”
Jake’s eldest son — who I’ll simply refer to as “Big AJ” (since he and I have the same name), is eight years my senior. He was born the same year as my brother, David. Because he, David and Jack were all about the same age, they used to run around together and have always been close. Meanwhile, Big AJ’s only sibling, younger brother, Danny, hung out with Alex and me.

So why, you ask, would my Dad and Uncle Jake each give one of their sons the same name? Amazingly, even I never thought to pursue the question until just a few years ago. My Dad’s explanation made total sense. It was to pay tribute to another of their brothers who bore the name but died in infancy. Had he lived, my original namesake would have been the second-eldest child in the family, between my Dad and Jake. And because of that, they both desired to honor him in this way.

Uncle Jake took the first opportunity, naming his first-born son after the big brother he would never know. Eight years later, when I came along, my Dad followed suit. However now, with two AJs in our very close-knit extended family, some sort of distinction was in order.

It was at this point that Uncle Jake instituted what would be his most enduring influence upon my life, or such was my opinion for a very long time. He dubbed me “Baby AJ” distinguishing me from his son, who was referred to as “Big AJ” in the same context. From the time I can remember the meaning of words, that name irritated me to no end; and everyone called me that.

I guess I wasn't a very good sport, particularly later, as it was becoming evident that I would be the small-of-stature person I in fact became; I really didn’t appreciate the constant reminder.

My Dad has told me of many instances in which, even when I was of pre-school age, whenever someone teased me about being small, I would immediately rush over and begin pummeling them with my tiny fists.

But after years of annoyance, even briefly into adulthood, I guess finally realized that I just needed to get over myself and accept it. Besides, Uncle Jake was always the teasing sort. It wasn’t just me; he gave nicknames to everyone. My Brother Jack was "Johnson;" David was "Butch." I guess it took a little time and emotional growing up for me to realize that the moniker my Uncle had bestowed on me was never malicious. That’s not the kind of man he was. No, there was much more to him than that.

In fairness to Jake and the effect he had on my life, I have much more to be grateful for.

Hangin’ out in The Lion’s Den
From the time she was institutionalized in 1966, until her death two years later, my Dad would make the 100-mile trip up to Logansport State Hospital nearly every weekend to spend time with my Mom.

Logansport was a mental institution, which unfortunately was the only type of facility in those days capable of treating Alzheimer’s disease patients in advanced stages of dementia. During that time, more often than not, Alex and I stayed at Uncle Jake’s house, usually for the entire weekend.

The atmosphere there was always oriented toward sports. There was always a game on in the den. Be it the Chicago Cubs and Cincinnati Reds in the summer, or Da Bears and Colts in the wintertime, Uncle Jake fed us, played with us, and taught us to love sports. He was the most rabid sports fan I have ever witnessed, cheering on his favorites: Pete Rose, Ernie Banks, and especially the legendary Chicago Bears middle linebacker, Dick Butkus.

“DID YOU SEE THAT??” He’d scream after another bone-crunching Butkus tackle, “BUTKUUUUS!!!!”

I watched my first Superbowl with Uncle Jake: the hallowed Superbowl III, as Joe Namath and the NY Jets upset Johnny Unitas and Jake’s beloved Baltimore Colts; the game that is credited for ushering in the modern era of the National Football League. GAWD, he hated Namath!

I remember Jake’s wild, fiery eyes. He was a hooter; he was a hollarer; he was a man who lived his experiences to the hilt. He smoked Winstons and drank Schlitz beer. He was kind-hearted, but the man had a temper; he could be sort of mean when he was in a bad mood. However you always knew, beneath the façade that barrel-chested, Tasmanian Devil of a man had a heart of pure gold.

I’ll never forget how my eyes grew as big as saucers that New Year’s Eve, at midnight, when he pulled a 12-guage shotgun out of a locked hallway closet, took it out on the driveway and fired a shot into the air to usher in 1968. “How cool is THAT?” I thought. “He’s got a REAL GUN!!!”

We had a lot of fun in those days, which is surprising considering how disrupted our family was by my Mom’s illness. Uncle Jake took care of us. Whenever Dad needed to drop us off, it was never a burden. I never got the sense that we were anything but welcome in his home.

Uncle Jake was a lion, the king of his jungle, and everyone gave him his space and due respect. When the lion roared, everyone listened. But tonight, the jungle is silent.

Sleep well, O King.


Next: An Unexpected Legacy

More LA Stories: 2005 (Part IX)

Days Three and Four — Monday/Tuesday:
Where’s The Champ when you need ‘im?
In another of the seemingly never-ending series of efforts to date myself, this next chapter in my story brings a particular TV commercial from the 1970s to mind. Back in the days before Don King and Mike Tyson transformed it from The Sweet Science into The Gong Show, the man who was the face of professional boxing was also its greatest ambassador. Muhammad Ali was everything a great sports figure could and should be. But one of the things I loved about him the most was the fact that in addition to being the Greatest of Them All, he was also the easiest to like.

Ali was a crackup. He was the Clown who wore the Crown. From the Ring to the small screen, The Champ was all about entertainment. And in a particular enterprise that some felt was well beneath his dignity, it was his self-deprecation that I found to be the most refreshing.

I remember him doing a TV commercial for Black FlagRoach Motel roach traps years ago (apparently he had a real passion for roach-extermination products — more on that later). “Roaches check in, but they don’t check out! he would say, with that same trademark, faux-menacing, raspy whisper he used for years to antagonize his opponents during many a pre-fight press conference.

With Ali’s Black Flag commercial, the term Roach Motel was added to the pop-culture lexicon; a reference that became much more attuned to describe the genre of typically low-cost motor hotels in which one might likely find the multi-legged creatures scurrying about when the lights come on, than to the actual product itself.

I don’t know if he was busy at the time, but I think I could have used The Champ to “knock out” some nasty-lookin’ cucarachas that were waiting for me in my motel room Monday afternoon when I arrived in Hemet to visit my Dad. I had run out of time and asked him if he could find me a cheap place to stay.

Poor Pop, God love ‘im. He was just trying to save me a few bucks, and he’d obviously never stayed there himself, so how would he have known? I really have no one to blame but myself anyway. In my haste to get ready to make this trip, the one travel arrangement I failed to complete was to book a motel for the two nights I would be in Hemet.

Strangers in the Night II
One might be wondering why I needed to get a room in the first place. After all, I was going to see my Dad, and I had stayed at their place the last time I visited, in August of 2004. The difference was that they had moved since my last visit — and recently I might add.

Dad and his wife Helen had just moved back to the assisted living center each had called home at a time when they were merely acquaintances, while my stepmom Maxine was still alive. They had just moved in to their new one-bedroom apartment just a few days before I arrived. Aside from the fact that they were still unpacking, and maintenance men were still installing light fixtures and such, there was simply no room to put me up at comfortably there.

As I’ve mentioned before, Helen had been a mutual friend of both Maxine and my Dad, one of the first to reach out to them when they initially moved in, back in early 2000. Helen was already a widow, having lost her husband several years earlier. In the months following Maxine’s passing in late May of that year, Helen and Dad, became closer friends through her emotional support to him at an obviously difficult time following Maxine’s unexpected death — the result of complications from a viral infection — and the relationship just seemed to blossom from there.

After Maxine’s passing, Dad found the two of them spending more and more time together. And now suddenly becoming one of the more eligible bachelors at the Center, Pop had to literally fight off the ladies who began coming on to him. All the while Helen was simply there for him, never imposing the obvious affection that was growing in her heart.

And the feeling was becoming mutual.


This is one of my favorite pictures. My Dad and me in the back yard during his visit to Tennessee in June 2001. And no, I wasn’t dyeing my goatee back then…

By the time Pop came to Tennessee for a visit in June of 2001, he was already smitten, yet not quite forthcoming in announcing the news to his family. He was concerned about what we might think, given that it had been just over a year since Mom had passed away. It took a couple of days before he mustered the courage to broach the subject with Michelle and me, fearing we might not approve. However nothing could be further from the truth. Dad seemed a little taken aback when we assured him with no reservation that we were delighted he had found a lady friend to spend his time with. He insisted at the time that it wasn’t serious, but we knew better.

Six months later, my elder brother, TK, took his own endorsement of the relationship to another level, greasing the wheels of an all-out effort to get Dad and Helen to Las Vegas to get hitched. And so they did, in December.

As it turned out, it may have very well likely been a decision that saved my Dad’s life.

Far away from the maddening crowd
It was probably a more uncomfortable scene for Helen than for her new husband, but after losing out to her in the race for Pop’s affections, some of those old hens at the Center turned on Helen. She felt a little spurned by woman she had long considered to be her friends. Combining that with the fact that he’d never felt really comfortable there anyway — and the real kicker — a recent sharp increase in rent and service fees added by the management company, Dad and Helen decided to get the heck outta Dodge.

They moved back to the old neighborhood where Dad and Maxine had lived for years prior to moving to the assisted living residence. They were both in good health (or so we all thought) and figured they didn’t necessarily need the round-the-clock nursing care (nor the price tag thereof) the Center provided. They wanted to fend for themselves. Dad wanted to get back to the vegetable garden he had to abandon. They weren’t old like the rest ‘a them fogies. They could take care of themselves, thankyouverymuch.

Almost immediately, the repercussions of that move would come to roost.

A few months after they moved out of the Center, in May 2002, my Dad suffered a mild, but potentially fatal heart attack at home, and now without the on-call medical facilities that had been available to him previously. If Helen hadn’t been there to call 911, my Pop would most certainly have died. He ended up having quadruple-bypass surgery in the wake of his ordeal, having never shown any signs of heart disease prior to the event.

The good news is, he has worked hard to change his lifestyle and is completely recovered and in great shape for a man of nearly eighty-three years. But the better news is that he had Helen there, or chances are great he wouldn’t be around to celebrate the “good” news in the first place.

And though Dad’s health has been great for the past four years, Helen hasn’t been so fortunate. She began experiencing difficulties with her legs; sores that took forever to heal; and more recently, she had to undergo surgery to remove a blockage in her colon.

So when out of the blue, a neighbor made an offer to buy their house which, in Dad’s words, was “just too good to pass up,” they reconsidered their previous decision and decided to give their old assisted living community another try (and have been very happy there ever since).


Dad and Helen in their new apartment, and still goin’ strong.

‘Cuz I’m a cheap ‘ol bugger...that’s why.
Now you know why I needed to get a room, but here’s how I ended up at The Roach Motel.

Going in, I figured on someplace inexpensive; just a place for me to lay my head at the end of each of the two days I would be spending entirely with the folks. However, per my usual penchant for leaving things to the last minute, I ran out of time and never made the reservation.

So I turned to my Pop for a little travel agent assistance, which he was happy to do. I had phoned him on Saturday to let him know I’d arrived and to ask if he would go and make the arrangements at the local Motel 6 to reserve me a room for Monday and Tuesday, as I had no access to a computer. When he said he’d take care of it, I figured, “No Problem,” and considered it a done deal.

When I arrived at Dad’s place on Monday, he proudly announced, “AJ, I think I got you a pretty good deal on a room.”

“Oh yeah?” I said.

“Why yesss,” he gushed. “I went to the Motel 6 like you said, and they wanted $49.99 a night, plus tax! But I found a little motel over here on the main drag that only charges $45 a night out the door!

“Well okay then, thanks for doing that for me, Dad!” I said appreciatively.

Now I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t at least a little concerned at that point. Motel 6, say what you want about the stereotypical connotations associated with it, is at least a known commodity. You know, going in that you’re not staying at some kind of resort. But at least there is a reasonable expectation that the room, the sheets, and the linens will all be clean and fresh. One can expect there to be decent cable TV, and you can certainly expect that the only multi-legged creature in your bed is gonna be YOU. There was a level of trust with Motel 6 that I felt good about. And while the notion of moving away from that was disconcerting at first, I can honestly say I really didn’t give it much thought.

My Dad, don’t forget, was a Depression Kid, and anytime we were on vacation, it was Motel 6 all the way. So if he said he’d found an even better bargain, who was I to argue?

After a short visit with Dad and Helen, I left to go check in and drop my stuff before returning to Dad’s to go to dinner.

I pulled in and went into the office. On the outside, it looked like a typical cheap motel: smartly landscaped; recently painted exterior; clean and innocuous office/lobby area. The lady handed me my key and I drove my car down a few hundred feet to where my room was at the end of the row of rooms.

The manager had been sure to mention that the entire motel was a non-smoking environment, which was nice, but really didn’t mean all that much to me. While I do appreciate non-smoking to smoking, I’ve never been one to make a big deal over not getting the former.

When I opened the door I immediately realized that the motel’s smoke-free policy was not something they necessarily put into place voluntarily. I’m pretty sure they had to do it because the rooms were already so heavily saturated with the smell of smoke that one more wisp would have probably sent the whole place down into the damned center of the earth!

Oh. My. GAWD! My eyes hadn’t watered like that since that time Michelle and I got caught downwind of the south end of a momma hippo, cuttin’ it loose at the San Diego Zoo several years ago.

I immediately began to re-think my stance of not being bothered by smoking-allowed. This was easily the worse one I’d ever encountered. Just when did they implement that “smoke-free” policy — AN HOUR AGO? Perhaps by “smoke-free” they meant that they no longer CHARGE people for the freakin’ privilege!

And that was just the tip ‘o the iceberg. True to its Ali-inspired nickname, as I flipped on the lights I saw no less than three cockroaches scurrying off to points unknown. I just rolled my eyes. I had a notion, but I didn’t wish to insult or embarrass my Pop, who actually had tried to do me a favor. Looking at the place from the outside, there really was no to know how bad they were on the inside.

Oh wait. I forgot about the three-pound Yuban coffee can ashtrays that were mounted onto the building just outside the door of every room. Yeah…that might have been a clue.

The best thing I can say is, apart from its aforementioned extremophylic permanent residents…and the broken toilet paper roll dispenser…and the cracked tile in the shower…and the TV on which it appeared they were showing the ice palace scene from Dr. Zhivago on every channel, the place was pretty clean. The bed was comfortable, and when I awoke the next morning I hadn’t yet turned into any kind of Slither-like monster, so hey, I was okay with it.


Next: Days Three and Four — Monday/Tuesday (continued):
He Got Walkin’ Fingers…

After Further Review…

Be careful what you ask for
As the old saying goes, Be careful what you ask for — you just might get it. Well, I asked and I got, and I probably shouldn’t have been surprised with the outcome.

Pretty much on a lark a few months ago I decided to take the somewhat narcissistic plunge of having my blog evaluated by The Weblog Review. The TWR, if you’ve never visited, is a Web site dedicated to the review of these wonderful little pockets of piss, bliss, pizzazz, and personality that are the thousands of weblogs scattered across the Internet.

This past New Year’s Day evening, I was updating a few things on my blog — blogroll links, story archive page, etc — when I decided to go for it. I had recently read the post by my friend Sidra (that’s El Sid to you) from a couple days earlier, reporting the fact that she had herself been reviewed by TWR, just as now-retired fellow Blogsville neighbor, Jay had done a year and a half earlier. One of their requirements for consideration is that you must place a link to their site on your blog from the time you sign up. So since I was updating my template anyway, I went ahead and added the link.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have stopped there. But I digress…

As you peruse the evaluations they’ve done, it’s pretty clear that these reviewers are no soft-sell. Even the good things they have to say about a blog are often balanced by their perceived negatives. So why I thought they’d see mine any differently is anyone’s guess. Frankly I didn’t really care all that much, but I was curious, as most anyone who has a public blog would be. So I decided to offer myself up for scrutiny and abuse pretty much just to see what they’d say.

So I went to the TWR site and registered. According to the instructions on the site the waiting period would be of indeterminate length, that is, unless I wanted to pony up $4.97 to have it done within five days by one reviewer, or $7.97 for the opinion of two separate reviewers. Either way, if you pay, they supposedly get it done in a week. However, being the cheapskate that I am, and considering the sort of egotistical guilt I felt about doing this in the first place, I was more than happy to wait.

And wait…aaannnd wait.

Within a month my Sitemeter identified visitors with referring URLs pointing to weblogreview.org making occasional visits, so I figured the process had begun. I had no idea how long it would actually take, but hey, I was realistic. I understood that anyone approaching my blog for the first time would likely take awhile to extract any kind of true impression from it. I honestly didn’t expect it to take a whole lot less time than it actually did, which was just shy of three months.

Actually, I consider myself lucky, as I’ve noticed that The Weblog Review has ceased accepting non-paying submissions for now. If you want them to review your blog, it’s pay-or-don’t-play for the foreseeable future. Perhaps they’ve just gotten so many requests lately that they’ve accumulated a bit of a backlog. Lord knows my lengthy web of words didn’t help.

But what would they think? Would they understand where my “head was at?” Would they think I was funny and charming, or some middle-aged, pseudo-intellectual hipster dufus? Would they find my blog self-indulgent, or would they enjoy looking into my world, my thoughts, my dreams of life as it was and what I hoped it would become?

Gonna Change My Way Of Thinkin’
Going in, I hoped I might be lucky enough to be reviewed by someone at least close to my own age. However the more I examined other reviews conducted by TWR, I realized I was much more likely to wind up with a twentysomething Web-head with no kids, itching to make snarky comments about my bare-bones Blogger template.

Guess which one I got?

When I received the e-mail announcing that “Dylan” had reviewed my blog, I gotta tell you, I was pretty excited.

“Great!” I thought. “Someone of my own generation! And since when did ol’ Zimmie start doing blog reviews?”

Unfortunately it didn’t take long to discover that my reviewer wasn’t that Dylan. Nope, this Dylan wasn’t a member of my generation at all, but rather a member of the Net Generation, just a few years older than my own kids. Dylan O’Donnell is twenty seven years old and has reviewed more than twenty-seven blogs in less than four months since starting with TWR last December; no mean feat by any stretch, and nearly twice his required monthly quota.

Apparently, Dylan’s a pretty busy guy. In addition to being a talented photographer, he’s also the Webmaster and Message Board Admin for an Aussie blues band that I understand is quite good. I’d provide a link to their Web site, but apparently a marauding band of spammers performed an all-out assault on it recently, so it’s out of commission at the moment.

In his Technorati profile, Dylan describes himself thusly: “Australian photoblogger, Dylan O'Donnell. Unix Sys Admin by day, rock guitarist and singer by night and somewhere in amongst it all, photographer, emergency services volunteer and blog reviewer.”

Needless to say, with everything he has on his plate, Dylan needs to stay focused, so in my review, one thing about my blog he seemed really focused upon was, I’m sure, the most important part to him: the look. I mean, anyone so gauche as to leave the CSS template that comes with a Blogger account essentially unaltered, should definitely be taken to task for such an egregious violation of Web ethics, right? ESPECIALLY if they claim to be a Web designer. I believe that’s a violation the hypocritical oath or something. And given that Dylan has probably been writing CSS code since he was in high school, I can certainly understand why he was so appalled.

Now obviously I’m busting Dylan’s chops a bit here. Actually I agree with him to an extent. My blog’s appearance is something I’ve wanted to upgrade from the very beginning, but at the end of the day, it’s just been something I’ve never found the time to do. That being said, anyone who has read my blog lately probably knows that I’ve had little to no time to even write, let alone worry about making my template pretty.

Besides, I find that less is more sometimes...

Nonetheless, having already communicated as much to Mr. O’Donnell in a message board comment, I do consider myself properly challenged, and will definately, “rip that blogger headline bar out of the CSS template” in due time, and hopefully soon. When I Paint My Masterpiece, he’ll be the first to know.

Although his review of my blog was laced with snarky comments, Dylan did have some good things to say about the writing, which I did appreciate. And let me say right here, despite my own snarky commentary in response, I really do understand his criticisms, and I also remember what I was like when I was twenty-seven (and perhaps he’ll be able to appreciate that statement a bit more ten or fifteen years down the road).

To be fair, he actually did hit the nail on the head when he finally remarked, “…but I don't think AJ's main reason for blogging is the design at all. Like most personal blogs I think the reason for writing varies. Sometimes its to vent, sometimes to laugh, and sometimes its just to order ones own thoughts by writing them down.”

Bingo. And for that bit of insight I’ll give him a pass. I’ll even go beyond that; I think that all the folks at TWR deserve a lot of credit for the effort they put in. Grasping an accurate read on a blog without spending an inordinate amount of time on it is no doubt a daunting task. And Dylan’s reviews are to be applauded for the obvious care he puts into them. Really, my only criticism of his criteria (and not just because he called me to the carpet on this, necessarily) is his consistent hatred of Blogger templates, which I found to be a recurring theme in his reviews. While I don’t exactly think they’re that great myself, I do believe it might be in the greater interest of a blog reviewer to focus a bit less on site design issues that the vast majority of bloggers neither have the expertise nor the desire to concern themselves with.

Not everyone is a Web developer, and most of the Bloggers I know, are scared to death to do little more than barely touch their templates, and that’s okay in my opinion. It’s the reason the templates were created in the first place. Blogging is the tool of the everyman, not just the technologically resplendent. I believe it’s the content, not the look that should be the focus of a personal blog.

So thanks again to The Weblog Review for the time and for the most part, their even-handed criticism of my work. I had fun researching this post, and in the process, gained great deal of appreciation for the work that these folks do.

If you’d like to read the review of my blog in its entirety, you can find it here. If you’d care to register with TWR, you may then cast your vote to agree or disagree with the opinions of any of its more than 1,969 blog reviews currently available.


finis

So many stories, so little time...

Hmmm…so I already used the line about the dog eating my homework, huh?
This is another impromptu post; another one of those stream-of-consciousness diaryesque spiels I find I need to write every so often, just to open up my head and see what I’m thinking. Not that I feel the need to apologize for my absence — I gave up that guilt trip long ago — but I do need to explain it, to myself if to no one else.

I had been writing since yesterday, trying to complete my current series, which in all honesty, I believed had languished simply because I had become bored with it. However now that I've gotten back into the flow, it's coming along a just fine. Hopefully I’ll have something posted soon.

But what I’ve decided was the real source of my recent writer’s block is not boredom, but rather information overload. There is just so much going on in my life that I want to talk about, so much to reflect upon, I simply don’t know where to start. I just want to put everything else on hold, but my half-cocked obsessive sense of order just won’t allow me to do it. If I had my way, I would go on a week-long writing bender; drink a gallon of coffee a day and probably age ten years in the process, not to mention wreck my marriage while I was at it (Michelle and I had an interesting discussion about that, by the way, that I’ll have to write about at some point soon).

I always thought it was a cliché reserved only for the old and bent, but I can truly say now that I understand what my Mom meant when she used to say, “There just aren’t enough hours in the day.” There simply aren’t. I have no idea when somebody decided to speed up the clocks, but my days literally fly by now. It doesn’t seem fair. Weekends aren’t long enough. Vacations seem like weekends. I’m really starting to grasp my own mortality, and I’m not sure how I feel about that. However it does serve to be a wonderful impetus to write. There is truly just so very much I want to say. I simply don’t seem to have the time.

The primary culprit is my job. I have been placed in a position of such uncertainty, yet with so much opportunity, I dare not screw it up. I have been challenged by my new boss to step outside the box that I’ve been comfortably huddled in for at least the past five years. She has given me the permission to do what I’ve said I have wanted to do ever since I started working there, but had never found the support to accomplish. Now it’s up to me. Problem is, during the time I was complaining about not having the means, I allowed myself to fall so far behind on the technologies needed to accomplish these initiatives that I’ve been caught somewhat flat-footed. It's put up or shut up, and buddy, I'm puttin’ as hard as I can.

Every free hour I’ve had at work, in addition to a few nights and weekends, I’ve spent studying; scouring the Web for any tips, tricks, or tutorials I could lay my fingers on. I’ve made some strides, but I still have a long way to go, and not a lot of time left to get there.

Quite frankly, I feel my job is secure, but if I play it safe, that security may not last. What’s more, the prospect of turning fifty this year and possibly looking for a new job is not something I find particularly attractive.

Therefore my nose has been to the grindstone, each and every day. And those fifteen-minutes-that-usually-turned-into-an-hour here and there during which I used to write during the workday have now ceased to be. I know I had related that before, but now it truly is a reality. Now the weekend is my only devoted time in which to write, and even that has been challenged and will only be more so as summer and its clarion call of yard work reasserts itself into my weekly routine.

Music has also played a big role, both in its occupation of my free time and my exasperation over the inability to write about it. I’ve been to some fabulous concerts, musical plays and movies over the past three weeks that I most definitely will be writing about in the future. I would like to blend those stories in with some other as-yet-not-written remembrances of shows that I’ve attended as far back as the Fall of 2004, which never got written but for my entrenchment in still other long and emotionally taxing series that I couldn’t seem to pry myself away from. I know, I know; it’s a sickness. But it’s my sickness, and it’s a part of myself that I actually kinda like, so I deal with it.

And speaking of concerts, the story of the very first rock concert I ever attended (which was also a large part of the genesis for this blog), has been solicited to be a part of a new Rock Music retrospective on the Web by a music historian in the UK who found me here on Blogspot. Pretty cool, huh? I only received the e-mail from him yesterday, so I really don’t know where it will go — if anywhere — from this point. But again, it’s nice to know that there are indeed people out there who are reading. I’ll have more to say if and when it happens.

My marriage (Michelle and I celebrated our 27th Wedding Anniversary last Friday); my job; my kids; my aunts and uncles; my brother Alex; my music. I have stories in my head right now that I want to write on all of them. But time is not on my side. Guess I have to just get back on the saddle and ride as far as ‘Ole Paint will carry me, one story at a time.

More LA Stories: 2005 (Part VIII)

Day Three — Sunday (continued): Pier Group II
A few more jokes and about three blocks later, we found ourselves at Stearns Warf, the main pedestrian pier in Santa Barbara. It’s a popular spot for tourists and locals alike, extending out about a quarter mile offshore, overlooking Santa Barbara Harbor.

Stearns offers the trappings typical of many large, urban California piers: restaurants, gift shops, and plenty of amateur fishermen. The slapping surf and squealing gulls in the background form a soundtrack that is both soothing and sensual. The salt air gently seeps into your skin. This is what I miss. This is the sensation that cannot be duplicated anywhere in landlocked Music City; it’s a tune they just can’t play there.

I suppose it was good experiencing that familiar calming effect that the ocean always has on me. It sort of primed my attitude for what could have been an even more abrupt turnabout in our emotional rollercoaster of an afternoon.

Just to the right of the pier, on the beach, someone had erected a mock graveyard with literally thousands of Arlington-style white cross markers representing the fallen soldiers in the Gulf war. An American flag, flying at half-staff overlooked the solemn scene.

Almost in unison, it punched all four of us in the gut, emotionally. “Oh my God…” was all any of us could say as we stood there, transfixed.



The thousands of representative grave markers drove home the sober point of the horror that has been the loss of American and Iraqi life in the second Gulf War.

We surveyed the site for several minutes, pondering the reality of it all. Continuing our walk, trying to reacquire the smiles that had been plastered all over our faces just a few minutes earlier, It took a few minutes to get back in the mood to talk, but eventually we did, albeit with a little less enthusiasm than before. The girls and guys paired off temporarily, as Nanner and Aimee lagged behind for some girl talk, while Mike and I continued on ahead.


One of the great challenges of modern mankind, it would appear, is to get Mikey to smile for the camera. And on this rare occasion, after much poking, prodding and cajoling…


Well…whadaya know…


Aimee and Inanna, with the misty hills of coastal Santa Barbara in the background.


Another borrowed, shot this time of Aimee and me, courtesy of MakeMineMike.

Soon it was time to start meandering back towards land. Despite that little shot of reality we received at the gravesite demonstration, the mood was still good. We were still having a great time. However the afternoon ws nearly over and Aimee had to think about getting back to her Sis’s house, where Emily was no doubt wondering how much longer Mommy was gonna be at that poopy old craft fair.

So we decided to try and find a place to get a cup of coffee and hang out just a bit longer, before once again going our separate ways.

Latte afternoon and into the evening
We figured there must be a Starbucks somewhere nearby, and chances were it would probably be on State Street. Well we had to walk several blocks, but we finally stumbled upon one (and in my case, the stumbling was literal, as Aimee will attest). And that, along with all the walking we’d done that day made the prospect of just sitting down for awhile every bit as appealing as that grande no-whip mocha I had a hankering for.

In actuality, Only Michael and I were interested in getting coffee; the girls just wanted water. So while Mike and I stood in line, Aims and Nanner snagged the only still available table next to the front window. It was late afternoon by now, close to six o’clock; the hills overlooking coastal Santa Barbara were rapidly swallowing up the red sunlight. The long shadows cast a surreal light upon the tree-shrouded downtown streets.

By the time I returned to the table (it seemed that it took twice as long as usual for the Java Jockeys behind the counter to whip up my order), it appeared my three compañeros were already deeply engaged in conversation. Over the next hour and a half, the topic on the table would migrate from that sixtysomething homeless guy doing a strip-tease on the sidewalk just outside the window, to Blogland, to politics, to religion, to marriage and child-rearing to hopes and dreams and all things in between.

Oh yeah…we talked about you, too. No one was safe!

I’m KIDDING!

Primarily, we dissected each other’s blogs, asking the questions that HaloScan couldn’t even begin to broach; what our motivations were; what we got out of writing them; and what we had hoped to find when we discovered Blogland in the first place. We revealed which blogs we enjoyed reading the most; whom we would most like to meet in-person and why. It was very interesting.

This was by far the best part for me. This was the stuff that stokes the fire I have to meet and enjoy the company of so many of my Blogland neighbors. It was fabulous, and the time was way too short.

If not for our the dull pain messages our butts began sending to our brains, making us realize that we hadn’t moved from that one spot for better than ninety minutes, I think we could have spent twice that much time, just sitting there and visiting. But unfortunately (in a manner of speaking), that Mommy alarm inside Aimee’s head started going off (even though she hit the snooze button more than once). She admitted that she really needed to get back to her little girl. It was time to end our little shindig and head back to the car.

As we did, the subject was simply how exhilarated we all felt for having spent the day together. We were so glad to have had this rare opportunity. Would we ever be able to do it again, who knows? But if not, at least we would always have Santa Barbara.

Aims
As I alluded to earlier, having spent considerable time with both Michael and Inanna in prior visits. If you’ve read my blog for any length of time, you likely know what I think about Miz Peachy Keen and His Honor, the Mayor, so I won’t spend any more time here making them uncomfortable by singing yet another verse of their respective praises.

Nope, for me, the only mystery to this little Santa Barbara confab would be Aimee. And while she was nice enough to say some really complimentary things about me in her own blog account of this Sunday last August, I’m not merely pulling a quid pro quo here. The nice things I want to say about her are more than well deserved.

If you know her blog, you also know that she’s an emotional being. She’s opinionated, self-assured, and intensely loyal to those she loves. But what you may not know, and what I was pretty much blown away by, is the depth of character and the intellectualism behind the kindness that makes Aimee the person we know and love so well. Is it any wonder that she’s flying through law school? Is it any wonder that she has the capacity to take on such a burden at this point in her life, yet still devote the time necessary to be the Mom that she is to Emily, sew five bridesmaid dresses for her friend’s wedding in June, and work enough to support her family?

Makes sense to me.

Aimee is living proof that kindness and intelligence are not mutually exclusive qualities. When she embarks upon her legal career, who knows? Maybe she’ll revolutionize the profession. Maybe they’ll call her the Anti-Sheist(er).

At any rate, I wish her well, and can say with all sincerity that I’m delighted to call her my friend.

You go, girl.

Nightriders
By the time we got back to my car, it was just after 8PM. It was eerie how the ocean’s pitch-blackness seemed to swallow up all ambient light in the night sky, leaving only a thick, nearly palpable contrast against it and the streetlights’ illumination of the mature trees and buildings below.

As we returned to the side street on which Aimee had parked, I was determined to not say anything about the laptop she had said she would give me, ‘cuz…you know…I didn’t want to sound like a kid waiting for permission to open his presents on Christmas morning — even though that’s exactly how I felt. I pulled into the closest available vacant spot on the curb, about fifty yards up the street from Aimee’s car.

Aimee turned to say goodbye to Mike and Nanner in the back seat, and they all exchanged hugs. Then she turned to me and said, “And YOU — you need to follow me and get your laptop.”

“Oh…okay…if I have to…”
Yeah right. I was outta that car before she’d even touched the door handle.

We walked down to Aimee’s car and she opened the passenger side door, reaching into the back seat. She pulled out the black carrying case and unzipped it. First she popped open the laptop and then showed me the accessories she had included in the package: A laser wheel mouse, mousepad, phone and network cables; all of which would have run me an extra $75-$100 bucks alone had I needed to go out and purchase them separately. She gave me the lowdown from what she could remember about her old password and the software that was installed on the machine, as it had been 2-3 years since she’d last used it.

Meanwhile, back at my car, Mike and Nanner were getting antsy, so they made their way down to our position just as Aimee was wrapping up. Once again, everyone hugged Aimee goodbye.

I dropped Mike and Inanna off back at The Daily Grind where they had parked just around the corner. I would see Mikey later in the week for a pre-scheduled dinner get-together, and at that point having seen Nanner for the third time in six months it somehow seemed as though I’d see her again before too much longer as well. Of course now in retrospect I realize that was a naïve assumption to make, but we’ll see. I really wasn’t thinking about that just then. What I was thinking about was what a great day had just been added to my memory, and how much more I had to look forward to in the six days remaining of my SoCal vacation.

As I hit the freeway, heading back for Cindy’s, it was now 8:30 PM. I made a few calls, first to Aimee to again thank her for everything, then to my Dad, to check in once again regarding my visit the following day on Monday. Then I called to Cindy to tell her I was on my way home. In between, as they came to mind, I blabbed away into my little tape recorder the thoughts and notes regarding the events of that very busy day, which comprised much of the context for this blog entry.

I sat back, dialed up some smooth Jazz on the XM, and put my mind on autopilot for what turned out to be, quite possibly, the shortest two and a half-hour drive on record.


Next: Days Three and Four (Monday/Tuesday):
Where’s The Champ When Ya Need ‘Im?

More LA Stories: 2005 (Part VII)

Day Three — Sunday (continued): A Meeting of the Grinds
I had to do a bit of multi-tasking as I crept along traffic-heavy West Mission Street, one of the main arteries entering the area of downtown Santa Barbara where Aimee, Inanna, Michael and I would end up hanging out for the next nine hours. It wasn’t easy juggling the activities of trying to spot The Daily Grind coffeehouse while still on the phone with Mikey guiding me in, all the while trying to avoid a rear-end collision with the car in front of me in the slow-and-go Sunday brunchtime traffic.

As I slowed approaching the light at De La Vina Street, I heard a familiar voice call out, “AJ!” I looked quickly to my left to see Nanner flagging me down. Unfortunately I’d overshot my target, so I had to proceed on down another block to turn around.

Finally I got turned around and pulled into The Grind and parked. The Three Blogateers were waiting for me at a table on the patio out in front of the restaurant.

As I approached the table, it was almost as if they didn’t see me coming (but in all fairness, only Michael was facing my direction). It took a second or two for Aimee and Inanna to notice me standing there next to them. Aims appeared to be in some kind of yarn-induced trance, knitting away and Nanner was busily engaged in creating a new new masterworks of folk-art from the raw materials Aimee had acquired earlier that morning at the craft fair she attended at the Earl Warren Showgrounds.

Footnote: And yes boys and girls, if the name sounds familiar, that is indeed the same Earl Warren as in former Chief Justice of the United States and namesake of The Warren Commission, Earl Warren. Prior to serving as Head Honcho of the Highest Court in the Land, Warren was one of the most visible public figures in the State of California, serving four years as State District Attorney and twelve years as Governor. And what does that have to do with this story? Nada. I just thought it was an interesting fact.

Onward…

Once Michael looked up and said hello, everyone stopped what they were doing. As we exchanged handshakes and hugs, something became clear to me immediately — this wasn’t weird. It was as normal and comfortable as it could have possibly been. Of course this wasn’t a first-time meeting for any of us, with the exception of Aimee and me.

Michael and I had met in person only once, in the previous summer of 2004, but I honestly feel as though we’ve known each other for years. On the other hand, that globetrotter emeritus of Blogland, Inanna, and I met twice in consecutive months earlier that spring when she was in the midst of her seven-city 2005 Blogger Barnstorming Tour across America. Naturally I felt comfortable around these two with whom I’ve grown the closest of all my Blogland neighbors.

However this was Aimee and my first opportunity to meet face-to-face. And again, it wasn’t weird. She was as comfortable to be around as any old friend I could have been.

We all talked and caught up while Nanner continued crafting a pair of beautiful beaded earrings for Aimee. The conversation was, naturally, about blogging and this great community of friends we all hold in such warm esteem. Brighton’s name came up and for the heck of it, I pulled out my cell phone and called her up. Everyone took a turn saying hello.

I’m not exactly sure how long we sat and talked there at the coffeehouse, but it was at least a couple of hours. Soon the bagels and coffee began to wear off and we all decided it was time to move on to our next venue, State Street.

The Four Amegos
Since I was the only one who had actually managed to get a spot in the parking lot at the coffeehouse, we all piled into my rental car and proceeded downtown, where Aimee said there were a number of places we could get some lunch.

Following Aimee’s direction, I parked on a block above State Street, which is the main drag in that part of SB. It’s a bustling avenue of restaurants, office buildings and shops. State Street dead ends at the base of the Santa Barbara peninsula, spilling out onto Stearns Warf, a popular tourist destination. The quarter mile-long pier is lined with souvenir shops and seafood restaurants overlooking Santa Barbara harbor and the blue Pacific.

Interestingly enough, no sooner than we began walking toward State, we encountered one of Michael’s old apartment neighbors and stopped for a somewhat awkward two-minute chat. Seems the Mayor of Blogsville’s popularity knows no end.

We turned up State Street and quickly came upon a couple of Mexican restaurants (which we had generally agreed beforehand would be the cuisine of choice that day). We randomly decided upon the first one we had seen, a place I can’t remember the name of now, and went in.

Aimee’s lunch was on me, which was something I had told her in advance that I would do. It was a (very) small thank you for her generous gift of the laptop computer she was planning to give to me later. Hopefully she enjoyed her lunch. I know I could have done a little with my selection if I had perhaps…oh I dunno…read the menu? I have no idea what I thought I had ordered, but I ended up with a vegetarian quesadilla. Anyone who knows me knows that I do not eat vegatarian anything.

Maybe that’s why I don’t recall the name of the restaurant.

However, to be fair, the quesadilla wasn’t all that bad; it wasn’t spectacular, but I ate it nonetheless (but only after removing the avocados).


A random Santa Barbaran walking by the Mexican restaurant was kind enough to snap this very cool photo of the four of us for me. Aimee asked me afterwards, “What would you have done if she’d just run off with your camera?” Gee. I really have been away from SoCal for awhile, huh?


Aimee in what I have decided must be her natural state. I don’t know that she went five minutes without a smile on her face all day.


I took this same shot with both Mikey’s camera and my own, just seconds apart. However I’m posting my version, because in this one his Popeyesque smirk is more pronounced and infinitely more amusing. Nanner looks like I felt at that point — very, very happy to be there.

After lunch, we went strolling along State Street, taking in the local color of Ronnie Reagan’s hometown. The weather had become more pleasant now in the late afternoon. It was a great time for a walk.

After a few blocks, someone suggested ice cream. Just across from the Mexican Restaurant was a Coldstone Creamery store, so we crossed the street and headed back that way.

Wanna REAL tip? Get yourself some singing lessons!
I’m supposing that Coldstone Creamery has been around for awhile in California. Normally the popular new franchise restaurant and fast food establishments start at the coasts and then work their way towards the middle of the country. Well here in the Middle Tennessee, Coldstone has been around for about a year, year and a half. I’d never been to one, but had been curious about the place for awhile, so I was happy to go when someone suggested it.

What I was expecting was an ice cream parlor, which it is — and a good one. What I wasn’t expecting was Pee Wee’s Playhouse.

CSC’s specialty is their series of thirty-three unique Creations; combinations of ice cream and toppings, which after you order are “assembled” while you watch by employees who appear to have just returned from their Red Bull break.

Case in point, Aimee and I chose the “Peanut Butter Cup Perfection” creation in which they take a scoop of chocolate ice, slap it down on a palette, and next to it, take a handful of Reese’s cups, smash ‘em up, combine ‘em with the ice cream, slap on a couple spoonfuls of peanut butter, squirt on some hot fudge, and then scoop up the whole glob and caboodle into your choice of waffle cone or cup.

Sounds kinda gross, but it’s actually pretty entertaining, and very tasty! However the Pee Wee part I could have done without. And please, I know, Aimee, that’s the part you liked the best. As a matter of fact, you were the one who told us about that gimmick, that if anyone placed money in the tip jar, the employees always burst into song. And they did. Several times. But what you didn’t tell us was that they’d sound like six cats frying in a skillet.

But seriously, as badly as they sounded, it did kind of add to the fun, festive atmosphere, so it was all good; and the ice cream was excellent. But all the same, the way the kid at the cash register was looking at me (Aimee insisted the dude was hitting on me) I was more than ready to take my “creation” and hit the bricks.

So with cones and cups in tow, we made our way back out onto the sidewalk, hung a left and for the beach.

Once again, I don’t remember who asked if anybody knew any good jokes, but…

He was makin’ fun ‘a the way I talk!
That was the punch line, but that’s all I’m sayin.’ It was an old joke — I believe I first heard when I was in the fifth grade (which also pretty accurately details the joke’s level of sophistication). That was a long, long ago, boys and girls; back when considering oneself politically correct meant nothing more than bragging that you voted for the winning party on Election Day. Therefore I won’t repeat the joke for the sake of those whose sensibilities would certainly be offended by it today. Besides, there’s no way I could possibly do the joke justice in print, because the humor isn’t in the verbiage, so much as the delivery. And one of the reason’s I’ve always remembered that silly joke is because I’m pretty darned good with that delivery.

I just didn’t realize how good.

Oh, but you can rest easy if you’re reading this, Mr. Seinfeld, I won’t be movin’ in on your gigs anytime soon.

Don’t let anyone tell you differently; the way to a man’s heart is to laugh at his jokes. Nothing makes a guy feel better about himself than when he can make people laugh. So needless to say, it was a pretty nice boost to my ego. Now if I could only find a few more to add to my repertoire…



If you’re a fan of Michael’s blog, you may have seen this sequence of photos before, but with his permission I’m reposting them here. Kudos to him for so perfectly catching the moment just before (above) and after (below) the punch line.

Aimee and Nanner just about lost their ice creams on the sidewalk right then and there. Thanks for making my day, ladies.

Needless to say the mood was light by the time we reached Stearn’s Warf. However we were greeted with a demonstration that may not have completely thrown water on our party, but it did add a poignant juxtaposition to the frivolity that had just preceded it.

Next: Day Three — Sunday (continued)

More LA Stories: 2005 (Part VI)

Day Three — Sunday (continued): Santa Barbara Sojourn
Sunday morning, August 14th, arrived like Christmas. I awoke with a smile on my face in anticipation of seeing my Blogland friends, Michael, Inanna and Aimee. However it wasn’t only the fact that I would be seeing them that captured my gravid imagination.

Being the sentimental, romantic and sometimes more-than-just-a-little-dramatic soul that I am, I could probably find a way to turn a trip to the grocery store into a life-affirming event. So it shouldn’t be too much of a surprise for you to learn that I looked forward to that drive from Cindy’s house up to Santa Barbara nearly as much as the get-together itself; and much more so than just for the enjoyment of the splendor that is the Pacific coastline, north of Los Angeles.

It’s kind of a longstanding favorite scenario for me, driving along that coast. Those memories go back a lot of years, even before Michelle’s natural affinity for Santa Barbara via going to school there became infused with my own. And as has been the case many times before (and particularly so of late), when I began writing this chapter I became inspired to talk abut why that is. A page and a half later I realized, “Darn it — I’ve done it again!”

So rather than go off on yet another tangent, my affinity for driving the coast of Northern and Central California will be yet another story somewhere down the line.

As I was leaving Cindy’s shortly before 10:00 AM (which was about fifteen minutes later than I wanted to) my cell phone began to vibrate. It was Aimee. Her ears must have been burning because she was the first person I was going to call first once I hit the road. As we sort of synchronized our watches, she filled me in. The plan was that Michael and Nanner would be leaving Santa Monica around 10-10:30 and that we would all meet up at a yet-to-be-decided restaurant at around Noon-Thirty. From my location it would take about two and a half hours to make the trip, assuming no major traffic snarls, so I told her that we all should arrive in Santa Barbara at about the same time. I told her I’d give her another call once I got close, rather than taking down detailed directions. I mean that’s what cell phones are for, right?

And let me just say, considering what would happen over the next couple hours, thank GOD for cell phones!

So I set out. It certainly wasn’t a typical SoCal Summer morning. The sky was gray and overcast, with a touch of fog in the distant hills. It was reminiscent of the so-called “June Gloom” weather pattern that occurs there more typically between May and June along the Southern California coast. Nevertheless, I knew that the sun would shine eventually and I was anxious to see what fun the day would hold.

In its initial stages, the drive would trace my old work route; the well-worn path I’d followed five a week for the two years I worked in Burbank. Cindy lives in Cypress, just south of the Orange County line and only a few miles from my old neighborhood, in Long Beach, on the LA County side. The 605 Freeway, which begins right at that point, bisects LA and Orange Counties. So as I had always done, I jumped on the 605 heading north, past the 91 and the new(ish) 105 Freeway (which they were still building at the time we moved to Nashville), and proceeded on to that very familiar I-5 interchange, heading northwest towards Los Angeles.

When I worked for the record company, I would have stayed on the 5, past the 101 interchange, all the way up to Burbank. However in this situation (or so I thought), I needed to cut over to the 10, and then on to the 405 North to get to Santa Barbara.

Or so I thought.

Foggy Notions
Y’know, given that Early-Onset Alzheimer’s disease runs in my family — and I have yet to be told that I’m “out of the woods” regarding the possibility of falling victim to it myself — that old phrase, “The mind is the first thing to go” bears a certain irony for me; one that I don’t really like to acknowledge.

The fact of the matter is, I’ve always been absent-minded; easily distracted; forgetful. I have a tendency to allow my mind to wander, which is why I thrive on routine. I prefer to not have to think much about what I’m doing, yet I love to think.

However this bent for auto-pilot navigation through life doesn’t typically have an adverse affect on my driving, at least from a safety standpoint. I find that I actually become hyper-sensitive to everything around me: the traffic, the weather, the “feel” of the moment. I guess that’s why I love driving on the freeway so much; I love to just take it all in.

There is one particular drawback to this approach though: if I think I know where I’m going (which I usually do) — but really should be paying attention to the road signs instead of taking in the scenery — it doesn’t always work so well.

Unfortunately, this was one of those times.

While happily reminiscing my way along, noting the changes to the look and feel of LA traffic along my old work route over the past twelve years, I decided to make a few phone calls, to take care of some business regarding my plans for the rest of the week.

Following a quick call to Michael to learn that he and Nanner still hadn’t left, I figured I would beat them to Santa Barbara by plenty. So I moved over a couple lanes to the right, and decided I didn’t need to be in quite as much of a hurry.

I decided to check in with my Dad in anticipation of my upcoming visit to spend Monday and Tuesday with him and his wife Helen, in Hemet. It was only then that I began to get an inkling that I was in a bit of trouble. I was now on the 405 Freeway, just above Santa Monica and having a great time. I was having a wonderful confab with my Pop and re-familiarizing myself with everything around me. But every minute or so I’d catch myself not paying attention and think, “Did I miss my turn-off?” Then I’d realize I was still okay and continue on with the conversation.

After talking with Dad for about ten minutes, I called Gooch. he and I were scheduled to get together on Wednesday, on my way back from Hemet. We touched base for a couple of minutes and then I said goodbye to him, all the while thinking I was doing fine and headed in the right direction, which I was; just not for long.

Next I called Michelle and we talked for about twenty minutes. Early in the call, I passed the 101 interchange. I started to feel that sour stomach-kind-of-feeling associated with being lost. Was I supposed to take the 101 Split or stay on the 405? I wasn’t panicked yet, but I was starting to feel nervous.

Nevertheless I was resolute in my insistence that I was going the right way and said nothing of my concerns to Michelle, who by the way, knew this route like the back of her hand, having gone to college at UC Santa Barbara while her parents lived in…hello? CYPRESS.

About ten minutes after passing the 101 Cutoff I had to ask. Having only been back to SoCal once in the past 12 years, and much longer than that since being familiar with the landmarks of this jaunt, Michelle said she couldn’t be sure, but that none of the names on the road signs I was relating to her were sounding familiar. “You’re on the 101, aren’t you?” she asked.

I sank about ten inches in my seat. Suddenly it all came back to me. What a brain fart!

Long story short, the way I was heading was fine if my destination was Santa Clarita, but not so good if I wanted to get to Santa Barbara. I thanked my navigator and got off the phone so that I could turn my attention solely to the task at hand. At this point I was so far out in the sticks, I had to drive for ten minutes just to turn around. I had no idea how far off schedule I was, so as I pulled off the freeway to turn around and double back to the 101, I called Mike and Inanna to let them know what had happened. Fortunately for me, traffic had been so light and I’d made such good time to that point that it wound up not being as bad as I thought.

Benign Dictator
In addition to the fact that Aimee was going to gift me with a laptop, I decided to employ another piece of discarded equipment that would assist me in recording the details and circumstances of this trip to California.

Only a few weeks prior to my vacation, my department at work was relocated to another part of the building, so naturally there was a certain amount of housecleaning to be done. Everyone cleaned out their desks as well as their respective storage closets, purging them of outdated and/or obsolete supplies and equipment.

My boss threw out an old microcassette dictation recorder. I grabbed it. It’s a Sony, but it’s seen its better day. But as long as it worked, I figured it was worth trying to use. And boy, am I glad I had it! There is no way I could have recalled a fraction of the details strictly on memory alone.

I’d say about eighty percent of the detail included in this chapter was drawn out of the verbal notes I dictated on the way to and from Santa Barbara. The recorder has really been a cool little tool for me in the months since last August. I keep it in my car so that I can record thoughts that come upon me while driving to and from work. Some of the content is blog-worthy and some is just what I’m supposed to pick up at the grocery store on the way home, but it’s all useful information. Eventually I’ll break down and buy myself a nicer, newer recorder; one that doesn’t require the use of those clumsy little microcassettes, but in the meantime, it’ll do.

As soon as I realized I’d drifted off-course, I knew it would make for an interesting part of the story. So for the better part of the time I was backtracking, I recorded my notes about what had happened. And again, those notes have proven invaluable.

Once I managed to get back to the 101 and again headed in the right direction, I was able to once again settle in and enjoy the wonderful scenery that surrounded me. It was great. It was spectacular coastline driving the rest of the way.

Before I knew it I had reached the Santa Barbara City limits. I looked at my watch and realized to my amazement that despite a fifteen-mile off-course jog, I was only going to be about ten minutes late.

I called up Michael as I was exiting the freeway at West Mission Street. They were all waiting for me at a coffeehouse just three blocks away.

Next: Day Three — Sunday (continued): A Meeting of the Grinds

More LA Stories: 2005 (Part V)

Day Three — Sunday: Getting to the Meet of the Matter
Anticipation is a funny thing. It can make you giddy with excitement one day and paralyzed with fear the next. This single emotion can, on the one hand, leave us wishing we could roll over and hibernate ‘til spring, and on the other, feel so stoked with enthusiasm that we practically run out of our shoes to start the day.

Anticipation of the unknown has always been one of my favorite varieties. I think it sort of defines our outlook on life. Personally I like to use it as an attitude check. Typically I prefer to think of myself as a glass-is-half-full kind of guy. But sometimes I get away from that just like anyone else. Monitoring my attitude when faced with an unknown or new circumstance is the best way I know to either see that I’m on track, or not.

Mind you, I’m never gonna ever beat myself up over not looking forward to April 15th, for dreading a visit to the dentist, or for that innate masculine fear associated with the magic words, “turn your head and cough.” These are known commodities of uncomfortable circumstance, and I’m more than okay with relegating things of that nature to the scrap pile of necessary evils in my life.

But how do I react in other situations, such as the occasion of meeting someone face-to-face for the first time — such as a fellow blogger? A meeting that doesn’t necessarily have to happen. Do I look forward to and embrace such a circumstance, or is it my inclination to play it safe, keeping them at arm’s length as it were?

Aww hell, who am I kidding? I LIVE for this stuff!

But believe it or not, I actually do have these thoughts of trepidation, but they usually don’t last very long. And I can honestly say that during the time I’ve been blogging, there really aren’t too many cyber-neighbors I’ve encountered whom I wouldn’t be intrigued to meet in real life. And in my increasingly frequent visits to SoCal over the past two years, I’ve had the pleasure of broadening my social calendar to include both real-time and online friends.

In 2004, I met the ever-popular Mayor of Blogsville, Michael, for the first time. In the ensuing months, Mike and I have become pretty good friends. So now a trip to SoCal now pretty much assumes at least one side-visit to The People’s Republic of Santa Monica.

However this time, no offense to Mikey, I was hoping to get a little more mileage out of my West Coast Blogger-Meet opportunity. I had learned that Aimee, would be coming down from the Bay Area that same week to see her sister, who lives near Santa Barbara. Not only that, but Inanna, whom I’d met months earlier via her own ramblin’ Blogger travels, would be in town that week as well.

A Blogger Summit! Coolness.

We decided it would be easiest for everyone involved if we met up in Santa Barbara; not exactly a short jaunt for me, coming from Orange County, but hey — my rental car had unlimited mileage, right?

Seriously though, Santa Barbara has always been one of my favorite California communities. As far as “beach” cities go it has a vibe and a charm all of its own. It’s always been one of Michelle and my favorite places to hang. Michelle attended college at UC Santa Barbara; we even spent our wedding night there.

I was happy to make it our meeting place.

Lap(top) Dance
Before I go any further, I need to pause here to say thank you to someone. Earlier in this series I somewhat cryptically made reference to this next part of this story in a comment. But now I’d like to give special thanks to the person who actually made it possible for me to make this series much more exhaustively detailed than it ever would have been otherwise.

Sh’yeah, I know…quick…somebody get a rope.

Just kidding…

About a month before the trip, I e-mailed Aimee, to touch base and synchronize schedules in happy anticipation of meeting her for the first time. We exchanged phone numbers so that we could contact each other in case there were any changes in our respective plans, particularly after we’d left home and would no longer have easy access to e-mail.

As I recall, it was August 9th, a few days before I left for California. I was going down the list of people I’d be seeing while on the trip, again to touch base one more time.

I was at work, so I ducked into an unoccupied conference room to make the call to Aimee. Unfortunately the cubes have ears in my office and last thing I wanted was for anyone to think I was making plans to rendezvous with some strange woman in California that I’d met on the Internet.

Oh…wait…*GAH* Well, you know what I mean!

Anyway, I was making small talk with Aimee; you know — “Howya doin’…whatcha writing about…how’s life?” — and so on. I was at that time smack dab in the middle of my Long Strange Trip series, and in all honesty, pretty close to being burned out on the heaviness of the subject matter. I was really struggling with the story at that point. It had grown from a tribute to my marriage into a full-blown autobiography and commentary on my life (and that was before I even started talking about the really personal stuff.

Add in the additional pressure of having just gotten back two weeks earlier from another mini-vacation, with which I had been involved off and on for the previous six months; planning and coordinating a golf outing in Reston, VA for more than twenty people. I hadn’t written anything for a month and really felt bad about it.

So I mentioned that (in not so many words) to Aimee while we were talking, adding that I was even more frustrated over the fact that now I was going to be away for an additional eight days — with no computer — and again, no blog production. I mentioned that really wished I owned a laptop so that I could write at least something while I was on the road.

“You don’t own a laptop?” she asked, quizzically.

“Nope.” I replied. “Never needed one for work, and I build my own desktop PCs. But I do plan on buying one someday, just for situations like this; to take on the road, especially now that writing has become such a big part of my life.”

“Hmmm,” she said.

“What do you mean, ‘hmmm?’” I inquired.

“What do you use?” Aimee asked.

“Um…whadaya mean? Use how?” I had no idea what she was referring to.

“Mac or PC — your computer — is it Mac or Windows?” she clarified.

“Wol…Windows…Why do you ask?” I was still completely clueless.

“Well, how ‘bout I just give you a laptop? I have one of each that I don’t use at all. Do you think you’d be able to write more often then?” she said with a smile in her voice.

Um…YEAHHUH! Yes, I most definitely could! But c’mon, Aimee, are you serious? Why would you do that? Are you sure?” I said, looking around the conference room assuming there must be a Candid Camera hidden somewhere. I couldn’t believe such an offer.

“Hey, they’re old ones I had from my last job. They never asked for ‘em back, and they’re just sitting around here taking up space. If you want one, it’s yours,” she said. I couldn’t believe my ears.

I continued to profusely thank Aimee for her generosity.

As it turned out, I used that laptop she would later so graciously gift me with all week long, each night typing out detailed outlines of the day’s activities. Chances are I wouldn’t have recalled with half the clarity, the incredibly busy week that I enjoyed. Thanks again, Aims!

We settled on a few more general details, deciding that Sunday would be the day we’d meet up, presumably at a restaurant. But I still needed to get buy-in from Mike and Inanna, so I told her I would do so and get back in touch with her, if not before I left, then as soon as I hit town.

It was time for me to get back to work, so we signed off; we’d talk again soon.

As I placed the cell phone back into my pocket, I once again thought of that wonderfully thoughtful gift Aimee had sprung upon me. I smiled, and just before opening the door to exit the windowless conference room, I stopped, and danced a little jig.

Candid Cameras be damned.

Next: Day Three — Sunday (continued): Santa Barbara Sojourn

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