Another Saturday Night And I Ain't Got Nobody....

And so the long weekend begins. I used to always love the May long weekend. I used to always go to Long Beach for Victoria Day. The weather was always perfect, and it seemed to be before the days of ferry lineups and Type A drivers, although the latter two may be my imagination.

The last year I went the weather changed. Not that I minded, but there was just a huge storm all weekend. I always used that as an excuse to never go back, but in the end it was probably really me that had changed.

Now on the May long weekend I always find myself in the horse latitudes. A dead calm, no wind to push this boat anywhere. I will probably get up to something, jump in the car and go or something like that. I was out in Langley on business yesterday (work has been crazy busy), and as I was leaving I actually had this twitch to make a run for the border. I pulled into a parking lot and literally stared south for about ten minutes sub-consciously tapping my fingers on the top of the steering wheel to the beat of some forgotten song. I had my passport with me, but that was about it. I just thought about crossing the line, and finding a new me for the weekend. I snapped out of it once I thought about how bitch slapped my credit cards have been lately, but it would have been fun.

Everyone just seems to have their own drama going lately. And admittedly, my own attention span hasn't been helping. Don't get me wrong, I'm still as content as can be. I just find myself having conversations with people and just getting lost in thought. Bored, bored, bored, bored.

So I have 3 days to figure out what to do. But I already think i'm going to be charged with murder on Tuesday...for killing time.

Shadow of a Doubt

Interesting idiom isn't it? I've always found my greatest weakness is doubt. And therein lies the shadow. It's a strange place doubt. A place where we always stand alone, a place where we find ourselves without confidence. A place where we need to be guided yet must seek the answers on our own.

In doubts lie the yes and no's. In doubts lie all of the answers to our problems. But do we stay in the shadows or seek? Staying in doubt keeps you from finding yourself, keeping from finding yourself leads to feeling sorry for yourself.

So leave the shadow, move forward. You may not know what is there, but there is light.

As D.H. Lawrence said "I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself."

When a dog loses a bone, it doesn't sit there looking at the floor, it goes to find another one. Doubt and uncertainty is part of the human condition. If the dog doesn't need it, I don't need it. That's good enough for me.

Supermom

It's Mother's Day. Being inspired by Dan and his recent scans of artwork and writing from his youth, I thought I would add my own in the form of a tribute to my mother that I wrote in grade 3.

Our teacher had given a pre-formed template of questions and sections that we were to fill out, illustrate, and then turn in to be graded.

My cursive was abhorrent, but I will try to piece it together the best that I can.

And yes, the authorities did contact my parents after I turned this in. It's like a game, can you tell which line set them off?

Here we go:

My mother loves me best when:

I am happy when I cook dinner. And when I do my best at something.

My mother looks prettiest when:

She goes to parties and restaurants, and little old things (???)

My favorite thing about my mother is:

When she bosses me around and throws me on the ground.

If I could give my mother something special just from me it would be:

A lincoln car and a Cadillac.

I like being with my mother most when:

There is a storm. When I watch a movie, and oh yeah, that time I was born.

My favorite experiences with my mom:

Is when we went to Kingston well we went to a Port Stanley place for about 3 hours and then we went to meet my uncle, it took about an hour for him to come. Well we got to my uncles and it was a disaster.

A Recipe:

6 quarts of help. 2 cups of happiness. 5 cups of love, and a pinch of niceness, then mix. And you get my mother.

My thank you letter to my mom:

Thank you for cleaning my room

and using a broom

to clean my room

you always clean the living room

with that little old broom

Poetry Page:

I would, if I could,

like we always should,

If you could, if you would,

Fire Fire Fire

is nice, hot and cold,

and really bright.

Poem 2:

The stream can throw the rocks

just like its on its own

Trees are the kindest things I know

They do not harm, they simply grow.

The funniest thing I can remember about my mother:

The funniest thing I can remember is when we's was out shopping. My mom told me not to say another word all day and her pants split open in the grocery store and she walked around all day with people pointing at her bum.

Happy Mother's Day to all!!

Will They Have Mogen David In Heaven?

Back when I was a pup living in Calgary, say 10 years old or so, my parents used to drag me on weekend day trips because I wasn't allowed in the house by myself. They were normally hiking trips to Banff or Johnson Canyon where we would meet their friends and go for a little hoof before hitting a restaurant and perhaps Ye Olde Fudgery back in Banff.

I was always bored out of my skull on these trips. What 10 year old wouldn't be? My father had also amassed one of the largest 8-track collections in the country. There is probably a land fill with one tall mound in the center that represents the 8-tracks last resting place.

You had to be careful of what you said or did in the car, or you would be sure to get a copy of Tennesee Ernie Ford smacked across your head. I was thankful for the day when music tapes could no longer be used as weapons. And I'm sure Tennesee Ernie wouldn't have been happy with the "impression" his music was making on me if he had known.

That's right, my father was a country music dude, with a little truckin' music thrown in for good measure. It wasn't always as bad as it sounds. There was some Emma Lou Harris I didn't mind, and some Waylon and Willy.

He had given up on the large luxury cars and resigned himself to what I called the family truckster (of Vacation fame), a 1979 Chevrolet Caprice Classic station wagon, complete with faux wooden paneling. He said he just liked the space it offered, but more importantly it offered a rear third row seat that faced backwards so he could neglect his youngest son even further. My position in the car was solidified when it turned out my sister threw up everytime she drove in a car facing backwards (he still made her do it a few times just to make sure).

My mother always knew I was lonely and bored on these trips, and one day somehow talked my father into letting me bring a friend along (poor bastard). I had a friend down the street named John Burghardt. A really stand up guy, and a hell of a basketball player. John's family were strict Catholics, and John went to a Catholic school so the only time I ever saw him was after school or on the weekends when we would shoot hoops.

John's parents always frowned on me, they saw me as the devil child. My sister was really good friends with his sister Ann-Marie, but that was fine, my sister had been baptized a Catholic, as had my brother (it was the first question the Burghardts had asked my parents). I on the other hand have never been baptized. This was beside the fact that I always stole all the sunflower seeds from their flowers and broke the windows on Mr. Burghardt's van twice while playing basketball.

My mother called Mrs. Burghardt and asked if John could join us on the day trip. I sat by the phone in trepidation waiting for the response. I could tell by the strained looks on my mothers face that Mrs. Burghardt was being reluctant, however in the end she agreed to let him go.

We set out first thing in the morning. My sister actually came on this trip and brought a friend as well. John and I were in the rear third row seat, somewhat blocked out to the rest of the car by the backpacks that we had lined around us.

My father proudly annoucned that he had a new 8-track for this trip, fortunately the backpacks drowned out our groans. It was a new Larry Gatlin and the Gatlin Brothers Band album (groan). My father had a penchant for singing along to songs as he drove, sort of like a hound dog responding to a siren or fire alarm with a strained howl.

There was one song on the tape that was kind of catchy. It was called Midnight Choir. Song lyrics are a funny thing, especially when a child. Even though the lyrics say one thing, sometimes, well a lot of the time you hear something totally different. The song was about soup kitchens in poor downtown areas, more importantly it was about the ripple that the rummy's drank, Mogen David. The chorus of the song went like this:

"Will they have Mogen David in heaven?
Dear Lord, we'd all like to know
Will they have Mogen David in heaven, sweet Jesus
if they don't, who the hell wants to go."

The funny part is that for some reason John and I had gotten this idea that the song was about a heroic firefighter named Morgan David. And all of his friends were signing that because he was such a great man, if he wasn't in heaven then they didn't want to go. We listened to that song probably 20 times that day, and everyone in the car was belting it out. My parents in their dysfunctional way never had the thought cross their minds that 10 year olds probably shouldn't be signing about ripple wine and the fact that if it wasn't in heaven who the hell would want to go. As a matter of fact, it wasn't until the trip was concluding in our driveway, and John and I were released from our sarcophagus in the back that anything was said.

"I sure liked that song about Morgan David Mrs. Hartwick" John said as he climbed out of the back.

"It Mogen David dear, Mogen." my mom replied.

John headed for home and Sunday night dinner and we wandered into our house.

The phone rang about an hour later. It turns out that during Sunday dinner, right after the prayer and just as the food dishes were being passed around, John's parents asked him how the trip was. They had a big Sunday dinner, Grandparents, aunts and uncles, that type of thing. Well, John said we learned a new song, and his parents of course asked him to sing it to them. He only knew the lyrics to the chorus obviously, and was able to get it out twice as his parents were so stunned of what was coming out of there son's mouth. After that, John got the whipping of his life, thanks to my dad's shiny new 8-track.

When my mom answered the phone I could hear the screaming coming through the ear piece. Apparently I had dragged my entire family into hell with me. I was never allowed to play with John again, and only saw him once before I moved to Vancouver. He told me about the whipping, but said he still didn't understand. Nor did I, it wasn't until years later that I figured out what Mogen David was.

Still a catchy tune.

New York - A Documentary Film

On Tuesday night I watched the 8th and final episode of New York - A Documentary Film. I can't say enough about the amazing story that Ric Burns (brother of Docu-King Ken Burns) painstakingly put together.

The documentary starts in 1602 and concluded in 1999. An additional 3 hour episode was added after 9/11, and was probably one of the hardest things I've watched in years.

The pictures, the footage, the quotes, and the soliloquies are breathtaking. What you take away from it is that New York is the tale of America. As they say "New York , more than any other city in the United States, tells the story of America to itself." It makes me love the city more than I already did, and makes me long to walk it's golden streets in the silence of night once again.

I could watch this film over and over. I especially liked former Governor Cuomo's quote on 9/11. "We had this fantastic contradiction of people who hated you so much, they were willing to give up their life to take yours- and people who loved humanity so much, that they were willing to run into the damn building, in the smoke and flame, just to save the life of somebody they never met." Never has the madness that was 9/11 been stated so eloquently.

And then of course there was the soliloquy that gave me that tingling feeling on the back of my neck....but you all know I'm a F. Scott fan.

"From the ruins, lonely and inexplicable as the sphinx, rose the Empire State Building and, just as it has been a tradition of mine to climb the Plaza roof to take leave of the beautiful city, extending as far as eyes could reach, so now I went to the roof of the last and most magnificent of towers. Then I understood....everything was explained. I had discovered the crowning error of the city, it's Pandora's box. Full of vaunting pride the New Yorker had climbed here and seen with dismay what he had never suspected, that the city was not the endless succession of canyons that he had supposed but that it had limits....from the tallest structure he saw for the first time that it faded out into the country on all sides, into an expanse of green and blue. That alone was limitless. And with the awful realization that New York was a city after all and not a universe, the whole shining edifice that he had reared in his imagination came crashing to the ground."

-F. Scott Fitzgerald

God I wish I could write like that!!

Where Have You Gone Albert Brooks

Do you ever have those people that ask you who you would have play yourself if they ever made a movie about you. It never ceases to amaze me how people always come up with Tom Cruise and Angelina Joile etc. etc.. Nobody ever comes up with Bill Bixby or Rory Calhoun (for Dan). The only person I know is a lock is Stephanie and Rosanna Arquette.

If it was up to me, I would personally choose Albert Brooks. We don't look so much alike, but he does nail my neuroticism. It is a shame he has so few movies, and even more so that most people only know him as the voice on Nemo's dad in Finding Nemo. He should really have more of a Woody Allen following.

Still not a bad career for someone born with Albert Einstein as a name. His first major film role was in Martin Scorses's Taxi Driver. Scorsese permitted him to improvise much of his own dialogue. Brooks later had a conversation with the movie's screenwriter, Paul Scrhader. Scrhader said that Brooks' character was the only one in the movie he could not "understand." A remark Brooks found amusing , as the movie's anti-hero is a psychotic killer.

And to top it off, anyone that has ever had any type of strained relationship with their mother will only benefit by seeing Brooks' movie of the same name. It literally changed the way I look at life and family. Funny stuff.

Forever In Blue Jeans

It's time for a couple of pair of new jeans. No, the ones at left are not the ones I'm currently wearing. They are out of my private clothing museum. I'm an absolute pack rat when it comes to clothing, some clothing holds more memories for me than a photograph ever possibly could. The pair at left were not only the last pair of my 20's, they were also my last 34 waist. (My tailor insists that I am currently a 38, however, I am having papers drawn up to have him committed). I can't even describe the places those jeans went with me. They would go on long walks with me and Reno. They travelled almost every back road in North America. They were washed in the mighty Mississippi, and dried on the isolated beaches of Baja. I was wearing them when I found love, and I was wearing them when I lost it.



I've always looked at those jeans as my emotional portrait of Dorian Gray. Instead of me holding everything inside, rather than letting my fears and loneliness take control of what was happening to me, the jeans would take one for the team, and would slowly fade and age. I look at every one of those rips as a wrinkle on my face or a scar on my heart.


I only wear Gaps. 1969's to be exact, the year of my birth. The most comfortable jeans in the world. Especially compared to the Toughskins my mom forced me to wear in the '70's. She would double patch them on the knees underestimating my destructive power when it came to clothing. None the less, I would be forced to walk like a robot for a week as I worked them in, and on occasion get in a scrap at recess because some kid decided to make fun of me. I seem to recall many times sitting on top of a kid, slapping him silly and yelling "DOUBLE PATCHES AREN'T FUNNY!!"



The 1969's aren't as durable as other jeans, part of the sacrifice that is made for comfort. The fact that one of my nervous twitches is to rub the top of my thighs doesn't help either, as this is where they always start to fade.



My closet is full of clothes and memories. I have shirts that I wore in high school, shirts that I got while travelling, and shirts that I only wore one time so I could fully remember the day. I suppose someday I will have to get rid of them, but I'm not even close to ready.




For example, why would I have this?? It is not a trick picture. The shirt in fact does not have a back or sleeves left. Why do I have it? It was the shirt I wore when Reno and I had "the perfect day."










My bowling league shirt from when I was 4. Now that's a keeper. If I did a full inventory you would probably be shocked, but it's a Sunday so I'll keep you from that.