jeauxjeaux

A few weeks ago an amazing thing happened. An eight story cruise ship was attacked by pirates off the coast of Africa. The pirates fired machine guns and rocket propelled grenades in a vain attempt to board the besieged behemoth.

Yet the captain being brave, stoic and Norwegian repelled them with a controversial Sonic Weapon that human rights activists the world over have long denounced. But hey, these controversial arsenals work folks. I know because I was on a cruise ship once and on that vessel the captain elected to use the exact same audio atrocity that so mercilessly thwarted the would-be ‘sea politicians’: Cher’s runaway hit “Do You Believe In Love After Love?”

Trust me, I was equally repulsed.

Always looking to go more 'micro', Defense contracters reveal Ipod version of Sonic Cannon (Above) for the more 'On the Go' counter-piracy agent.

Another strikingly fascinating tidbit about the story is that the attackers were deemed most likely to be Ethiopian. Why is that so fascinating? Because it was none other than at an Ethiopian restaurant that we, in Kirsten and Jeff’s wedding party, adjourned after the brief wedding rehearsal in San Francisco’s luscious Stern Grove.

If you’ve never had Ethiopian food, you’re missing out. Period. No, wait. Exclamation Point!

The first glasses are raised (Above) toasting the success of the Wedding Rehearsal at Ethiopian Restaurant.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Earlier that day I had the rare treat of hanging out with one of my all-time favorite marriages of spirit and matter, Burke a.k.a. DJ Barefoot.

As a DJ, he’s a psycho. He doesn’t play to an audience, he plays the audience.

Dramatic representation (Above) of Burke 'playing' the crowd (as depicted by fiddle).

Burke will MAKE you dance like a thing possessed until your blood-sugar is down to the last drop. Then he’ll dump you into calmer seas, but as you’re walking off the dance floor to get a drink, or a breather or maybe hit the ‘restroom’, he drops a beat on the platter so irresistible that the walls start swaying to the beat and damn if you’re not flying down the rapids again.

Dramatic depiction (Above) of audience reaction to typical Burke 'spin session' at local San Francisco club.

Luckily the ‘pee-pee’ dance is a popular style in the ‘Electronica’ crowd. 

Dramatic reproduction (Above) of latest club scene dance style.

Burke and I spent the early afternoon hopping from one seafood restaurant to another from the Ferry Building, down to a place next to the Oakland Bay Bridge (near Bryant).

San Francisco Ferry Building (Above). Note: Burke and I dined along the dockside under the "O" in San Francisco.

We gabbed for hours about our days at Lucasarts and the many things we learned from that oddball experience. Burke was my office mate for over a year where we both laughed a lifetime’s worth and then some. He truly is a “brother from another mother”. Sorry ladies, I’m still trying to think of a word that rhymes with ‘sister’. Feel free to weigh in.

Burke and I (Above) do it up 'Westside' style. Why? Because that's how we roll.

Burke's Audio Station (Above) 'Where the Magic Happens'.

After stuffing ourselves till all we could do is mutter at each other like Jabba the Hut, we adjourned to the Victorian house by the San Francisco Bay (which incidentally was unbelievable) he and a few friends are renting where he played for me a dance tune he and another of his incredible DJ friends wrote and recorded. I was in Trance Hog Heaven.

Soon after, Burke drove me over to Stern Grove for the Wedding Rehearsal.

Following a brief SitRep - short for ‘Situation Report’, a term used among my brothers in the Navy Seals – we made a quick run through and then made our way to Ethiopian Restaurant where I met among others, Jeff’s parents.

Dramatization (Above) of wedding party member getting the 'SitRep' from Kirsten.

Anyone who knows these two saints on Earth knows exactly how and why Jeff is one of Nature’s most pleasing gifts yet bestowed on humanity (with, of course the exception of Shatner during the late sixties/early seventies). By the time I left, I was stuffed like a turkey and plowed like an Amish field in spring.

Then, without warning, the next day dawned.

John and I donned our finest duds and headed out for the city. What an amazing thing we were about to witness.

John and I (Above) making our way to the wonderous event. Note: excitement in air around us.

A cool blanket of clouds protected Stern Grove from the irritating swelter that drowned the rest of the city in discomfort. The day was blessed already.

Kirsten arrives to her wedding cool as ice (Above).

More notable however was the palpable warmth of joy shared by all in attendance. It was that kind of deep happiness usually associated with a much anticipated birth.

I meandered around saying hi to people I hadn’t seen in a while and introduced myself to the ones I didn’t know.

At the appointed hour the call went out, the ushers ushered and the guests were seated. The music started and the murmuring slowly settled.

Through a score of ancient Redwoods a shimmer of white emerged. Kirsten, arm in arm with her father Edwin who was himself decked head to toe in traditional Irish regalia, stepped gracefully along the winding path to where Jeff waited in cool anticipation.

After a short speech by Dick McKee, the Minister, the couple exchanged their personally written vows. Each brilliantly written oath was laced with equal parts laughter and love, a clear indication this was a match sanctioned by both Earth and Heaven.

The rings were exchanged as was a PG-13 (or ‘T’ for Teen if we were talking a video game) kiss between the newlyweds and the attendees erupted into the kind of applause one has come to expect from a sold-out U2 concert only much louder and enthusiastic.

When the last ‘official’ photo was taken, the couple made their way through the precession of well wishers into the lushly decorated hall where the reception had already begun. We took to our seats and over food and drink fit for royals we heard toasts both touching and hilarious and the mood was of pure celebration. Somehow the song “Rocket Man” kept coming up during speeches.

The cake was cut and ate; the drinks were downed-replenished-downed; plates pushed forward; napkins folded and then:

It was time to dance. The DJ mumbled something incomprehensible causing the uninhibited to instinctively take to the floor while the cowards cowered and moaned about this ailment and that excuse. No matter.

We waited breathlessly to see which Kool and the Gang song was going to get this party started, but the DJ was waaaaaayyyyy ahead of us. In an act of what can only be described as stellar brilliance and flawless timing, our man behind the decks put on none other than…

…Rocket Man.

The crowd went wild. Everyone sang along in true pub-anthem form. It was *sniff* beautiful. Then of course came some Kool and the Gang.

Each new song brought one or two new dancers to the floor. An hour later the floor was full. Oh, what fun it was!  I know now why they call it “having a blast”. I had several in fact.

Dramatic re-enactment (Above Three Images) of dance floor once things really started jumping.

It was somewhere in the middle of “Loveshack” that I knew it was time to say goodnight and that meant saying goodbye to a lot of deeply loved friends until the next time I came to town. It’s always so bittersweet.

A half an hour later John and I hopped in his Beamer and made our way across the Golden Gate Bridge.

Oh what a night.

[Stay tuned for our next episode: Soon to departure, soon to return.]

p.s. Soon I shall post a link here where more wedding pictures can be seen.

“Ah jeez,” I moaned. “Not again.”

It was only a matter of time I knew. We all knew. But it was still tragic, still a mess.

I awoke that Thursday morning of July 7^th, 2005 at Chez Johnnya around 7:30am. At around 8:00am, while he got ready for work, I switched on the ‘tube’. Three bombs had gone off in the London Underground and one had gone off on a double-decker bus.

CNN Anchors (Above) do their darnedest to stay on top of breaking developments.

I flashed back to that fall morning in 2001 when that same solemn mood of national tragedy was in the air everywhere, somehow even making its way into the sunlight and the birdsong.

Death has that odd effect of making the waking world feel like a dream. Normally, mere pleasure and pain feel like the be-all end-alls of life, but then mortality makes a stage entrance and all things short of birth and death feel like a throw away lighter one flick from empty.

Like all Americans living through the Cold War, I was subject to that incessant back-of-the-mind threat of a Russian ‘first strike’; a citizen’s version of DefCon Three.

DefCon, or Defense Condition Three, or 3, (Above).

Our two greatest fears in the Cold War 80’s: Reagan pushing “the button” (Left) and Ivan Drago, aka The “Croatian Crustacean” (Right) played by Dolph Lungren in the critically acclaimed, “Rock IV”.

I also remember the jubilation we all felt when the Soviet Union fell and we all believed the nuke threat was over.

Now here we are back at DefCon Two.

Laurie Strode played by Jamie Lee Curtis (Above) just about to transition from DefCon Two to DefCon One in John Carpenter's "Halloween".

It was in that emotional haze I swam as I sat down for breakfast at a greasy spoon in downtown San Rafael.  It is no exaggeration to say I have sat down to over a thousand breakfasts at Lundy’s over the years. A dose of the familiar is always the best remedy for a case of the tragic.

Lundys (Above) on Fourth Street in downtown San Rafael.

I passed the day revisiting old haunts, drinking them in the way only ex-patriots can. But like all ex-pats know, the brew is always spiked by the sad realization that life goes on without you no matter what and your old stomping grounds become new ones to someone else.

Welcome home stranger.

That night John and I did more drinking and reminiscing. Friday was no different.

We spent Saturday in the company of John’s extremely intelligent friend Mark who brought over two bottles of very expensive red wine. They were exquisite and we enjoyed them like true snobs. On a lark we decided to go see ‘The Fantastic Four’. It was more exciting than watching paint dry but not by much.

Stare at this image (Above) for an hour and a half and you will get some idea of what it was like watching “The Fantastic Four”.

Sunday, John and I drove up to Mount Tamalpais and went for a hike. There is no piece of geography in the whole wide world that I am more familiar with or more fond of than Mt. Tam and I know why animists see mountains as being sacred. Some mountains have a personality of their own the way some houses do and I am fond of Tam’s much the same way I am fond of yours.

Mount Tam (Above) as it overlooks sleepy San Rafael.

By Monday the days were blurring together they way they did before I left. It was like returning to work after a long vacation. The seductive security of routine is a powerful opiate indeed.

On Tuesday day, I took the ferry back in to San Francisco and Kirsten and I met up. We had lunch in Japan Town and wasted an hour or two in the various shops there.

There’s a bar in San Francisco called The Bitter End and Tuesday nights are Trivia Night. I can sum up the evening in three words: “WE %$#&ING WON!”

Ooooooohhhhhh yeahhhhhhhh!

Bitter End (Left). Stuart and Kirsten (Right).

Me and Matty (Above) happy to see eachother.

Two local musicians (Left) bravely attempt "The Wild Rover". Shay (Right) shows them how it's REALLY sung. (Note: The chicks went crazy!)

Shay, Kirsten and Christina (Left) work on our trivia answers. Jeff and Kirsten (Right) look at one another.

The announcement comes in and the winners are declared.

On Thursday afternoon I decided to visit my friends and ex-Lucasarts coworkers at their relatively new start-up company, “Telltale Games”. It is always great to see everyone there. They are all such brilliant wonderful people, the kind that just make you smile merely to think of them. I hope I hope I hope they all become millionaires and become the Beatles of the video game industry! So mote it be, amen, om.

Oh, and hexes on their enemies too (Much more on Telltale games soon).

Dramatic depiction (Above) of Telltale Games's enemies getting what's coming to them.

One of America’s greatest traditions is the Farmer’s Market. San Rafael has its own and having attended them for over twenty years, I can say with authority that something interesting almost always happens there.

Locals (Left) stroll down 4th Street at San Rafael's Framer's Market. Liberated Thetans thwart Xenu the Merciless's Galactic Plot by swindling locals into Scientology (Right).

The music usually ranges from mediocre to god-awful. Multi-ethnic knickknacks treat the eyes while multi-ethnic food, music and dance take care of the other senses.

And for those with a strong sense of the ridiculous, there is a man who roller blades in oddball costumes while serenading the spectators along to what can only be described as the Cadillac of Karaoke machines. His nasal and often inharmonious renditions of the classics, his completely out of context freestyle skating, his silly outfits (he was dressed to the nines in a tuxedo and top hat that day) and a seeming total lack of self-consciousness always give his ‘performances’ an atmosphere one part Fellini and two parts David Lynch. God bless him, Mr. Karaoke Man.

With no pictures of Mr. Karaoke Man, this image (above) will have to suffice as an example of 'weird'.

John and I met up at Rafters, a relatively new brewpub at the far end of town and the outermost edge of the Farmer’s Market.  In attendance was a Brazilian band, or rather a band playing Brazilian music. The band leader on keyboards was a white guy in his early twenties. The bass player was a blind guy in his forties who actually looked Brazilian and the drummer was a quiet non-descript thirty something man of phenomenal talent. They were nothing less than awesome.

Among our friends was Robin, a woman who is in fact Brazilian through and through. She took to the floor in front of the band and treated us all to proof of her mastery of Samba and Bossa-Nova.

As the market wound down around nine Rafters picked up. I have no doubt that every last reveler there that night would argue that the evening actually got started when the belly dancer showed up. Fresh from her gig at the other end of the market, she was still jingling and jangling in her full regalia of faux coins and tiny bells dangling from every edge of her diaphanous costume.

She looked a lot like this.

The band had just come off a break and immediately jumped into a Latin number so inescapably danceable that not one single foot held motionless in that house. Even a pair of aged Marinites slipped off their stools and swayed hippy-style in rhythm with every sixth or seventh beat.

Freshly watered and refreshed by a pint and a half of an in-house microbrew, the belly dancer shimmied off her stool torso first and made her way to the four person capacity dance floor and did something that blew everybody away. Without any visible effort she worked her dance technique seamlessly into the knock of the clave beat, her whole body twisting and jittering in perfect synchronicity with the stuttered piano chords and reacting to the bass with full-body sine waves. Understandably, the whole place went nuts.

Once more showing her unchained spirit like only Brazilians can, Robin humorously seduced the belly dancer into what can best be described as an ethnic dance version of the “dueling banjos”. Only hotter.

Accurate though unsexy metaphor (Above) for Belly Dancer and Robin's 'Duel of the Dancers'.

Then a weird thing happened. This teenage girl (I’ll guess fifteen. What do you say JG?) enters the fray like Cinderella embarking on her first dance at the ball. She is tall, slender, and a look that said to me native Greek or perhaps Spanish. Maybe Italian. You could tell wherever she was from she was a whale in a small pond.

To add to the surreality of it all, an older woman (mother/dance coach/chaperon) stood just off to the side watching it all the way you would expect a Cold War era Russian coach/KGB spy to look on her Olympic devotee.

Dramatic depiction (Above) of Older Woman encouraging Young Dancer to show her stuff on the dance floor at Rafters Bar and Grill.

The teen girl’s entire display, which let’s be real was impressive, could be summed up in one single word: overboard. It was significantly more embarrassing to watch than it was impressive to be sure. I imagined she somehow believed that with each twirl, each flourish, each impersonation of a prima donna she would garner a cheer and a rose come curtain call. To give you and idea, her movement was as superfluous as that last sentence.

But when the music stopped and the song was over, all she got were a few lecherous hoots from the early crowd. By the way she walked head hung back to Cruella De Vil,  I just knew she was going to get a caning that night at the hotel room. I feel sure to this day that when Ilsa, Helga, Mummy Dearest or whoever she is got through with naughty Cinderella, every inch of her bottom had a pink handprint on it. There would be cruelty and there would tears that night to be sure.

I ordered another drink and cheered on the drummer’s machine gun intro. Another San Rafael Farmer’s Market gone by. See, I told you they could be interesting.

Dramatic depiction of Older Woman (above) discussing Young Dancer's 'Rafters' performance.

Ciao for now...

Next Episode: The Wedding!

...to bring you this special report on a significant happening.

It was a Friday night. Aubrey and I were watching TV when an ad came on announcing a Horror Festival in Maryland that weekend.  I was about to resume working on a crossword puzzle when I was shocked out of my theta state at the announcement that none other than Bruce Campbell was going to be in attendance.

Imagining that said fest was going to take place somewhere in Baltimore proper I began to drift back into my theta state. Halfway there I was shocked back out of it when it was announced that it was to take place at the Hunt Valley Marriott.

Doug Bradley, aka Pinhead (Above) in Horror Convention advertisement as seen by Aubrey and I that Friday night.

My God! I thought. That’s less than two miles away! To put this in perspective for my California readers,  imagine being one of the fine residents of Vagrant Fornication Ville and finding out someone world famous was coming to visit the local convention center.

How could I not go? It was tomorrow and boy was I excited. Through the near deafening throb of my excitement I also heard ‘Pinhead’ from the Hellraiser movies was to be on hand. To put this in perspective to my Christian readers, imagine learning that not only was God going to be in attendance but so was Jesus!

I awoke the next morning like a kid on Christmas morning. I had my morning coffee, packed into a tote bag a book, my camera, an official NSA coffee mug I had bought months prior during my visit to the museum (see prior adventure with Chris Saul: http://www.livejournal.com/users/jeauxjeaux/1143.html ) to give to Bruce Campbell, kissed Aubrey goodbye and made my way to the Marriott. I realized as I drove up that not only was the hotel lot packed to the gills, so were the neighboring three lots. Surmising that anyone who was checked in to the hotel for any reason other than the fest was probably itching to get the hell out, I decided to check the lot closest to the front door.

Ha! I was right on the money. A family in a Winnebago was making haste out of there like a clan of Republicans at a Clinton convention.

I parked and made my way to the entrance line. The time was around noon.

I reached the ticket counter at 1:30. I paid the ridiculous entrance fee and power walked to the longest line I could find knowing it would be the one to see Bruce Campbell.  The time was 1:35. A staffer walked up and down the line informing us that Bruce was signing until 4:00 sharp and that was it. We all sighed relief knowing we had plenty of time.

Bruce Cambell's Army of Dorkness (Left and Right) waiting oh-so-very patiently to see him.

For no particular reason, a fanboy (Above) brings along his handmade replica of Tom Servo. NICE!

By 3:45 I had advanced to within five (FIVE!) people from the front of the line. A man of unspeakable internal ugliness and an utterly lightless soul came up to us and announced that no more would be admitted. If I was Bruce Banner, I would have turned into the Hulk right then and there. My face would have become flushed with rage but all the blood had run down to my feet over an hour ago and none could make it up that far. I stormed to the ticket counter (which ironically was now only three feet away) and demanded my money back. I had been standing in lines for four and a half hours for only one reason and now I was to be turned away?!?

Alas the woman was a shrew well trained to handle the likes of me. “Sir, there are signs all over the convention center saying don’t come to see just one person because there are no guarantees.”

The short walk over to the ticket counter had restored my blood flow just enough to permit ample quantities of blood to pulse in thick ropes around my neck. “Hulk smash,” I muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Dramatic re-enactment (Left and Right) of my reaction to being turned away if in fact I had previously been inadvertently flooded with gamma radiation during a risky experiment to irradicate my inner wuss.

Well maybe I wasn’t going to meet him but by gum I was going to get within spitting distance and at least get a picture of him. I wandered to where the last lucky folks were lined up to see Bruce in hopes of finding another way in.

Hmm. I noticed no one was guarding the back of the line. I looked around. Behind me was another guy who had been two people behind me in line. No one else was in sight. We exchanged a knowing nod and he said “Buddy, I think you have the right idea.”

I lifted the velvet rope for him and we both snuck to the back of the line. God that was easy. Heh-heh. Looks like Bruce was going to get his NSA mug after all.

Suddenly, a frumpy-dumpy hag that looked like a loveless cat lady standing in a neighboring line waved down a security guard and ratted us out.  As we were escorted out of line I leered at Ms. Bitch and growled “Hulk hate you.”

“What?”

I continued on in sweltering silence.

Dramatic re-enactment (Above) of my reaction to being betrayed by Ms. Super King Kamayamaya Bi-yatch.

I found the other entrance where nerds, geeks, goobers and goths thronged about the various tables where lesser celebrities sat signing autographs on 8X10 glossy depictions of their proudest moments.

I muscled my way to a position where I could at least glimpse the Grail. There he was looking healthy and happy listening to some dork’s life story with grace and well hidden patience. I took a few pictures, let out several heavy sighs and determined to somehow get my money’s worth one way or another.

Bruce Campbell (Above) graciously signs an autograph for someone who is NOT me.

Time lapse of a man (Above) dressed up like the character Ash from "Evil Dead". Note the fake chainsaw Bruce kindly signs. Also note how otherwise un-Ash-like fanboy actually appears. Lastly, note my utter jealousy.

I meandered about when suddenly before me was my other forgotten reason for coming.

Slumping over a half dozen still photos was Doug Bradley, aka Pinhead. My exuberance was back in a flash. All melancholy was gone. Then I regarded his facial expression.

I was third in line to get an autograph. The guy currently talking to him was no less than giddy. Doug on the other hand did not seem to have one active muscle in his face. In fact, if there was any such thing as an anti-expression, he was wearing something notably less than that.  To call him bored, unhappy and miserable would be such an understatement as to miss the point entirely.

The person stepped up to him. She was a rotund lass who could very well have been his biggest fan. She was practically on her tippy toes when she mustered the courage to ask him if she could get a picture with him. He cast a heavy sigh, slowly rose and stepped to the side where she sidled up to him so her friend could get a shot. With obvious strain he worked himself into an expression that was at best dour.

The deed done, she skipped away giggling and I stepped up to the plate. The price of cult fame lay there naked before me. My heart was nearly broken for this poor man whom I had idolized as a teen and for whom I had never lost my adoration. He looked up just long enough to know I was there and I pointed to one of the pictures I liked the best.

“Hi Mr. Bradley. Could you sign this one for me?”

His head lowered back down and without even looking he slid the glossy in front of him and said simply, “Name?”

“Josef With an F.”

He reached for his paint pen, gave it a couple of shakes and began to write.

Doug Bradley (Above) signs cool-ass picture pour moi.

“Listen,” I said. “I just want to say how much I appreciate you coming all the way out here in the middle of nowhere to accommodate all us dorks. You have no idea what it means to so many of us. You are in fact a legend and have brought a lot of joy to a lot of lives.”

The corners of his mouth twitched his appreciation at my remarks. While saying all this I was unwrapping the mug. I couldn’t think of another human being alive who deserved it more than him. I set it down in front of him and he looked up. When he saw it, his brows furrowed in confusion.

“There’s no way I could let you leave Maryland without taking away an official NSA coffee mug. You’ve given us the gift of your presence. I offer you this small gift in return.”

He looked up at me half startled.

“For Me?”

“Yes sir. I can’t think of anyone more deserving.” It was God’s truth.

That’s when the unexpected happened. A light came on in his eyes and he smiled broadly.

“Really?”

“Oh Yeah.”

“Wow. Thank you.”

My heart was butter on a red hot skillet. He finished signing the picture with enthusiasm.

“I ask only one thing. Can I get a photo of you? Not with me. With the mug. I’ll Photoshop me into the picture later.”

He laughed, capped the pen and stood to the side with mug in hand. I snapped the picture and said, “Now your an official member of our national security. That way if They ever do a ‘sneak and peak’ in your house while you’re away, they’ll see the mug and think of you as one of their own and leave your undies drawer unrifled.”

Another laugh. The butter was sizzling.

Doug (Above) proudly sports his NSA mug. Note the hand-on-heart pledge he makes to US National Security. For an Englishman he makes a fine looking American Patriot wouldn't you say? "Pinhead for President" I say. Oh wait, that's already come to pass.

Doug as Pinhead (Above) welcomes me to his life doing horror conventions.

“Thank you again for adding so much sunshine to our dreary lives. Say, how much do I owe you for the photo?”

“Sir, You don’t owe me a thing. Thank you.”

He reached out his hand and we shared a firm and sincere handshake. The butter was now vapor.

As I made my departure I said, “See you next time.”

“You Bet.”

I skipped away on my tippy toes suppressing a giggle as I went. More than my money’s worth I mused. Way, way more.

Illustration (Above) of me leaving the convention after having a photo signed by Doug Bradley. Note the bitch who ratted me out rubbing her hands behind me while she contemplates her next deed; plans to irradicate all puppies and kittens from the face of the Earth.

Thank you for tuning in. I shall resume my tales of my adventures in California very shortly.

I awoke at Stuart’s abode deeply in need of one thing: coffee. Okay, two things: I really needed to pee and I REALLY needed coffee. I digress.

Even though it was a workday, Stuart’s job afforded him a few hours in the morning to share with me a rare treat those on the west coast get to fully take for granted: local coffee shops. The Bay Area is rife with them. They have clever names like ‘Shaky Grounds’, ‘Javarama’, ‘Daily Grind’, ‘Drink My Coffee or I’ll Kill this Kitten’ and many other fine monikers. 

Here in Maryland, there are a few such places that are not ‘Starbucks’, ‘Peets’ or their latest rival ‘Caribou Cafe’ such as the ‘Funky Monkey’ cafe in Hereford and ‘Kona Kafe’ a few miles south, but there’s not many and they just don’t have that FEEL of a neighborhood cafe.

Hence my excitement as we entered one such cafe somewhat in the heart of downtown Alameda.

Locals were sitting around sipping their fourth free refill reading Rumi or Krishnamurti.  Odd art adorned the walls with ridiculous prices stick-pinned beneath them. A cork bulletin board hung, it’s surface three layers thick with ads by those last hangers on of the New Age movement ( “Let Tiger-Bear-Raven Woman help you awaken to your inner Kundalini Spirit Helper and achieve that bliss Himalayan Yogis usually have to spend a lifetime cultivating at her weekend retreat for only $400). Some worker's mix CD of stuff even KPFA would call “waaaay too fringe” was blaring over their Circa 1986 PA system and the multi-pierced/tattooed girl with eleven colored hair (none of them natural) took her sweet-ass time finishing her self awarded break before coming out to see IF we wanted anything.

Ah, it was good to be home!

After ordering our respective cups of liquid life, we meandered back to his place, jumped in his car and off we went.

Kirsten And Jeff’s abode was my next stop and being more or less along the way to Stuart’s job, he kindly dropped me off.

A word or two about Stuart: I met Stuart through a group of mutual high school chums in 1982. Being freaky smart, he tested out of high school early and was in college while the rest of us were still Juniors. If I were to calculate how long it took he and I to become fast friends I would probably rough it out at about .00000001 nanoseconds.  His heart is made of the stuff Ferengi merchants have been dying and killing for for generations. Always quick with a joke or an idea for something, he has vast stores of creative potential and was one of the saving graces of those immensely awkward years of teenhood. He was also the first of my friends to have kids who unlike most, love their father to no end.

Stuart (Above) assumes a natural stance as he drops me off at the Lily Pad.

Stuart has also seen me at my absolute worst time and time again and yet he has never treated me with anything but compassion and purity of heart. Since the day I met him I have never felt anything but gratitude that he is my friend. If we all had such a comrade, cynicism about our fate as a species would fall to extinction.

Jeff being at work, Kirsten and I made our way to another cool cafe where we had french fries and a kind of pita bread that came with a few astonishingly delicious middle eastern sauces.

On our way to get coffee and lunch, Kirsten and I passed this pagoda (Above) made entirely out of balsa wood. It's designer plans to torch it at Burning Man later this year. Note Kirsten's provocative gesture denoting "Hook 'em Horns!".

Here (Above) is where we stopped for fries and pita. Mmmmmmmm......

We chatted for awhile, catching up on all the latest news of our lives in the back patio - another unique feature to the Bay Area cafe - for about an hour or so and then made our way up to where her hair stylist was going to try out a few looks on her for the wedding.

It was there we parted company for the time being as I was off to meet my dear friend John in Sausalito where he works. The MUNI bus ride was wonderful. It was like a rolling sardine can filled with the kind of motley assortment only an international hub can produce. Lucky for me, I sat across from a fairly attractive sixteen year old girl practically shouting into her cell phone the whole way, relaying to her friend how she “Just wanted to find Jesus” after she had woken up AGAIN in some strange doorway after blacking out from a three day marathon of partying with a bunch of guys she thought ‘might’ be using her for sex. When the bus stopped at the Ferry Building, it took me a full ten minutes to unroll my eyes from the back of my head.

I boarded the Ferry, found a seat with a view and sat back to enjoy the ride. As always, the ride was both exciting and yet soothing. Needless to say, the views were stunning as we passed Oakland and Berkley to our left, Alcatraz, the Golden Gate Bridge and Angel Island to our right.

We sloshed into the Sausalito port and I made my way to yet another cafe, got some decaf tea and settled in to read my book until John got off of work and could swing by and pick me up. His was to be the next couch I was to surf.

I (Above) 'kick it' at a Sausalito cafe as I await John to get off work.

A word or two about John: I began my sophomore year at Drake High School in San Anselmo, California as the “new kid” in the fall of 1982. John was the first friend I made. It was he who introduced me to the circle of friends that to this day are the oldest, truest friends I still have. It was in John’s souped-up Mustang that I enjoyed so many a talk about the comic book ‘Ghost Rider’ or an episode of Star Trek whilst blasting Rush, Pink Floyd or Bob Marley. Merely to muse back on it puts an ear to ear grin on my face.

Dramatic re-enactment (Above) of my highschool clique in typical repose. Note a young Ralph Machio does his best to emulate my innocent yet seductive demeanor.

John was and is always more a giver than a taker and possesses not one single bone-cell of insincerity. If John is your friend, you are truly a blessed being indeed.

I spent a little over an hour breathing in the fresh bay air, reading my book about one particular commando’s experience in Vietnam, and listening to the serene splashes of a nearby fountain when John pulled up in his top o’ the line Beamer.

After a quick sojourn to casa del Johnny to change into our drinking goloshes, we proceeded to a San Rafael watering hole where many a liver cell had been left. News had spread that I was back in town and several of my favorite people were there to greet me with a unison “Aaaaaaaaayyyyyyy”.

Broken Drum posse (Above) welcome me back with great enthusiasm.

I responded with equal delight.

Dramatic re-enactment of my response (Above).

Lucky for me, I happened to arrive on the one night pretty much the best bartender in the world was working. His name is Cameron and if bartenders were Jedi, he’d be the Chosen One.

After a firm and heartfelt four-part handshake (with a knuckle a knuckle follow up) Cameron invited me to do something I’d never seen any customer be allowed to do in the many years of drinking there. He let me BEHIND the counter to drink a complimentary shot while the crowd of my friends cheered me on.

Ready...

Steady...

GO!!!

And one for the dealer.

From left to right: Mark, Greg, Mark, John and Laura.  ---  Laura and Paxton.

More. Note my lobster like complexion.

I felt like Dorothy fresh back from the land of Oz. It was hour after hour of perhaps the most pleasant brew swilling I’ve ever conducted in public.  Getting drunk just doesn’t get any better than the drunk I got.

After a few hours of whistle wetting, John took me to what can only be described as the Mount Olympus of restaurants, “Sushi to Dai For” a little further down fourth street in San Rafael. There we had  Dragon Rolls which frankly rank among the top two most delicious things my taste receptors have ever come in contact with.  After finishing, all we could do was sit and moan coarsely between graveled sighs. Even Buddha would have to admit these flavors rivalled the ecstacies of bodiless enlightenment.

Dramatic re-enactment (Above) of me finishing off my "Dragon Roll".

At long last after more than an hour of prolonged and consistent over stimulation of the ‘flavor’ centers of our now exhausted brains, we let out one final orgasmic suspire and called it a night. We moseyed back to his abode, set up for sleep and threw on the DVD, “The Empire Strikes Back”. Around the time Leia gave a frost bitten Luke a long libidinous dose of incest from her pillowy lips, my eyes rolled back involuntarily in my head and I was down for the count.

Luke and Leia (Above) "keepin' it in the family".

I was to awaken to the  shock and horror that comes with the tragic death of many innocents, but I’ll explain all that in our next chapter.

Stay tuned...

They say you can’t go home. Nonsense; Bullpuckey; Balderdash; Hokum; or as the anti-Edward R. Morrow of our time put it on the Thursday, August 4th episode of CNN's ‘Strategy Session’ just before storming off like a spoiled rich kid at a ‘No’ Factory, “Bullshit”.

http://mediamatters.org/items/200508040004

Not only is it possible, I did it twice in one month. More accurately, I went home to the Bay Area and then three weeks later, went home to my beloved woman Aubrey in Maryland.

But I get ahead of myself. Allow me to begin from the beginning.

It all started a year or so ago when I got a call from one Ms. Kitty Nitro, aka Kirsten.

“Guess what?” She rhetorically asked.

“You’re butt?” I childishly thought.

“No, what?” I finally asked.

“Jeff proposed to me on the Eifel Tower!”

It was a hot and humid day in July as the blue Supershuttle dropped me off at the Frontier Airlines check-in desk. A few nice words to the kindly woman at the front counter and my seats were upgraded from fairly lame-ass to pretty much the best coach had to offer: window seats with an empty seat between me and my fellow passenger.

The plane departed the Baltimore International runway on schedule at 5:00pm. Off I was to San Francisco to see two of my dearest friends in the whole wide world get married. When the announcement came that the in-flight movie was “Ice Princess” I silently thanked the checkout woman for changing me to a window seat. Saint Christopher was clearly looking out for me.

The clouds were beautiful. So rich, but not fluffy like cotton. They had the density of mashed potatoes. Mmmmm...mashed potatoes.

As I landed in Denver for my hour and a half stopover, the sun was setting. We had chased Apollo for nearly two thousand miles but alas , despite four beefy whistling turbines at our disposal, we could not keep up. I hauled my thousand pound bags, stuffed with gifts, to one of the chachke shops near my next plane’s gate.

A few weeks prior, when I realized I had a stopover in Denver, I had determined to find something nice for one my best friends in the world - and likely the best DJ west of the Mississippi - Burke (aka Barefoot) who is a Boulder Native. I was disappointed that none of the mini-vanity license plates scribed the name Burke (the closest being “Brenda”), but was alas rewarded to find a bottle of “Boulder Water”. Nothing could have been more appropriate. I double checked to make sure it wasn’t bottled in Mexico and marched it up to the bleary eyed counter person.

Transaction complete, I somehow stuffed it into my already bulging suitcase and settled in at the boarding gate.

Boarding Gate (Above) as seen through my tired eyes.

By the time I boarded Frontier Flight 667, darkness had long descended. As Denver fell away from us, it looked like a vast meadow of luminous amber blooms growing wildly as far as vision would permit until finally they were just a shimmering crest along the onyx horizon. Not long now, I mused.

A little over an hour later, the Captain gave the news.

“Good evening ladies and gentleman. We’re about ten minutes from San Francisco coming up on 11:55 local time. Please keep your seat belts fastened and all electronic devices turned off until I give the word blah blah blah...and Josef, don’t worry as Stuart will be along to pick you up shortly. By the way, Nicole Kidman called...”

Hunh?!? Had I imagined that last bit? The telltale trickle of tepid drool told me I had nodded off during those last minutes before landing. I sat up and gazed out the window and sure enough, there they were; those familiar lights that said I was home. Well, one of them anyway.

The spectral Captain was right (well half right anyway). Stuart was along to pick me shortly. As we drove through San Francisco and across the Oakland Bay Bridge every inch of roadway, every sight in every direction was Christmas, Chanukah, Kwanza and the news of George Bush’s prolonged and tragic death all rolled into one. I savored its sweetness like a rescued Russian Sub crew breathing it’s first breaths of fresh Pacific air.

We arrived at his Alameda digs shortly after 1:00am PST  - or as my body clock registered it, 4:00am. After a little light conversation, we called it a night, my head hit the pillow and the rill of drool across my cheek resumed its mysterious flow.

Dramatic re-enactment (Above) of me 'calling it a night' at chez Stuart.

STAY TUNED FOR CHAPTER TWO!

As many of you know, my most passionate avocation other than writing is drumming. I love the feeling of the sticks in my hands, the rippling vibrations each and every impact sends through my fingertips, and of course the loud noise that inevitably ensues. When one is percussing behind a full drum kit, one feels like one is harnessing a tempest. It’s like firing a gun and dancing at the same time.

There is practically no opportunity to drum I wouldn’t joyously seize.

One such opportunity came to me in none other than that factory of gastric delight, Taco Bell. Whilst waiting for my Chihuahua endorsed  concoction, I ran into an old friend from college, Ian. Ian is another of those types the term “To know him is to love him” was invented to describe. I would add  that “To think of him is to invite a smile to your lips and sunlight to your heart”.

He is also that rare breed of person who can talk to you about PSP subthingees with self generating code that auto replicates when calls from the blah-blah-blah gets triggered by the function blah-blah-blah, all the while you're riveted to his every word even though you haven't understood a single word since "Hey, you need anything to drink or anything?"

Ian (Above) bein' Ian.

After reminiscing for a bit, Ian picked up his order and informed me he had to bolt. His last words to me were an inquiry as to wether I was still drumming. I checked my pulse and upon realizing I still had one answered confidently in the affirmative.

“Cool,” he said and then told me about an opportunity to get paid while drumming at a church in San Anselmo.

“Hell yeah!” was all I had to say on the matter.

Every Sunday for over a year I gave my all to each and every song. I grew to love the reverend Neal and his wife Christine with all my heart.

Reverend Neal (Above) saving the world since 1962.

I got to play with my best friends Ian (on the ivories) and Mark (on the bass - no, not the fish). The laity were all unbelievably kind to me and I grew to love them all deeply too. True, some were a smidge quirky, but it was that kind of quirky that only added to their charm, and which incidentally helped me fit right in. If I know my Sons of the Lord, and who knows - I just might, I'd say they were indeed exactly the kind of people that would make Jesus proud.

What was once the Red Hill Baptist Church (Above).

One day after the Sunday service, reverend Neal came up to me and asked, “Do you know who Ben Burtt is?" Unbeknownst to Neal, to a Star Wars geek of my particular caliber that was like me asking him if he knew of that guy what's his...oh yeah, Jesus. "Why, indeed I did", I replied.

Now mind you, Ben Burtt is only the other half of why Star Wars was and is still so totally phenominal, the visuals being the first.

Ben Burtt created every single sound in Star Wars. From R2’s beeps, to Chewbacca's growl, to the roar of the Tie Fighter, to the hum of the light saber, and on and on and on. He was my hero from the moment I learned his name (that being May 20th, 1977).

Neal then informed me that his wife was one of the regular attendees to this church and that Ben had even been by a few times and had commented to him about my drumming.

WHAT?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?

“Yes,” Neal replied while graciously handing me a washcloth to wipe up the growing puddle of piddle at my feet. “He’s a drummer himself at a church nearby and he said he thought you were pretty good.”

Once the ability to speak coherently returned I said, “The next time he comes you have to point him out to me.” He agreed, handing me another dry washcloth.

A couple of weeks later, I was gathering my sticks and music sheets together after the service when a gentle looking man approached me on the stage.

“Josef?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Ben Burtt.”

Where the hell was Neal’s basket of washcloths?

We talked for over a half hour. We talked about drums and drumming, film and dreams of films, and of course Star Wars. With the patience of a monk he let me prattle on about how I worshiped his accomplishments and with the grace of a saint answered every question I had ever wanted to ask him. He even invited me to see him play at his regular church if ever I got the chance.

Oh you can bet your bible I seized the first opportunity to do exactly that. And you know what? He’s a good drummer. We gabbed some afterward about drums and what not and then, reluctantly, we bade each other ado.

Ben Burtt (Above) back in 1975 making the now famous 'Blaster' sound effect by tapping a hammer onto tension cable.

How rare it is we get to meet the heros of our fond childhoods. How rarer still that in meeting these legends and seeing them for who they really are do we still hold them in such high esteem. Yet it is nothing short of a miracle that having conversed with an such idol at length one finds him or her even more honorable, more respectable, more inspiring than even a nine year old’s fantasy could have possibly conceived.

Benn Burtt (Right) making some fast rent money in 2002 cleaning Artoo's bacheler pad. Rumor has it there was carbon scoring everywhere.

Ben may have flaws sure, but even the sun is said to have cold spots. If the Force resides in anyone in this galaxy or any other, it surely resides in him.

Perhaps it is a testament to the power of the Protestant work ethic in each of us that losing a job, even one you’ve outgrown and perhaps have even come to dread is at best pretty depressing. Staying home only adds to the gloom. Going out only adds to the guilt. Vacillating dizzily between the two is pure torment.

Never the less that is exactly how I found myself in the autumn of 2002.

Ceramic impression (Above) of the feelings usually evoked by a typical bout of unemployment.

I began to find reprieve in the comfortable light and soothing charm of one of the seven wonders of Marin County, California; Double Rainbow cafe on Fourth Street in San Rafael. Its owners Charlie and Joanne are two of the smartest, niftiest, most interesting people alive and I can’t think of two human beings I am prouder to know. If I were to gush about only their most noteworthy virtues in alpha-numeric order, a week would surely pass before I even got to the ‘C’s.

One day, I sat at the five-stooled bar of that fine establishment drinking my customary quadruple mocha (a little light on the chocolate if you please) when a man beside me said, “Excuse me.”

I looked to my left and there looking back at me was an almost austere looking man with the kind of eyes one imagines could start fires or defeat gravity defying armies of saffron clad Shaolin monks.

Like anyone else, I more than half expected him to say something like, “Could you pass me the sugar please?”

Instead, He said, “Were you at the opening of Star Wars back in 1977 at the Coronet theater in San Francisco? Not the first showing but the second?”

I was speechless.

Charlie who had somehow heard this question over the hiss of the espresso machine dropped what he was doing and drifted over, mouth agape. The three senior citizens at the table behind us had also heard the question and cranked their necks around to witness the source of this unbelievable inquiry.

Macaulay Culkin (Above) depicts the room's reaction to Randy's otherwise innocent question.

I meant to say, “Yes. Yes I was.” (for in fact, as we have learned earlier this was indeed the case) but all that came out was, “How in the f...? How in the world could you possibly know that?”

“Because I was standing right behind you in line. I heard you talking to your friend about the movie and said to my buddy, ‘Wherever this guy sits, let’s sit next to him’.”

I had been disemboguing almost hysterically to my good friend that the instant those doors opened we were to bolt as fast as our little legs would carry us to the center seats. If we had to climb over old ladies to get to them, that would be sad and unfortunate, but it was just the way it had to be. Sure enough, the teen and his friend,  both nearly twice our age found their way beside us.  As we sat side by side, this stranger and I, we discussed some of the fine points of the film techniques and special effects we were about to see. Even now my mind can barely recall our conversation.

But how? How did this guy connect a thirty-something year old man sitting beside him to a twenty-something year old memory of a conversation he had with a nine year old boy? Again I ask how? How, I ask?

I put this question to him and his answer was as incredible as the scenario it inspired.

“I recognized your voice.”

Let’s just pause a moment and take this in, okay?

.....

So, the very next day I saw him again at the five-stooled bar. After a minute of just shaking our heads in silence, he finally said, “You know, I told my wife that story last night and you know what she said?”

“Um, ‘That’s the most ridiculous load of BS I’ve ever heard’?”

“No. She said, ‘Randy, that is just so you’.”

As over the years I have found him to be one of the coolest most fascinating friends I have yet made in this world, I can say with utter certitude that the almost magical wonder that surrounds this whole story is in fact so Randy.

Randy (Above). More about this extraordinary man to come....

Tomorrow I shall regail you with another such tale involving me and Star Wars. See you then...

I was nine years old on May 19th, 1977. That day was like the confluence of every Christmas, birthday, Easter and Halloween that had ever preceded it. Did I know as I stood in that ‘twice around the block’ line on opening day at San Francisco’s Coronet Theater (or was it the Alexandria? I forget.) that both hemispheres of my little brain were about to be awakened to a level that more than bordered on the spiritual? Oh, I think I had some idea given the reviews I had read the week before.

And so it happened. In that dark theater I sat so electrified that even my need to pee three quarters of the way through was suppressed in a fashion that would have earned me the immediate respect of any Himalayan Yogi on hand to behold it.

That year I endured stoically endless teasing by my classmates for my fanatic retreat into that galaxy far, far away. My best friend and I seized every opportunity to see it in the theaters, sometimes even seeing it three times in a row by whining to the ushers that we’d missed the beginning and would leave as soon as we had. They fell for it every time. My best friend and I even smuggled in large cassette recorders and taped it, listening later as if to a radio drama during our many sleep overs.

More than just my jaw dropped whilst viewing this scene from the original 'Star Wars'.

Then came “The Empire Strikes Back.” I was not so impressed. Even at age twelve I sensed what was missing. The broad-stroke vision that had awakened a generation had produced merely a sequel. Though not entirely without magic, it was clearly not in the same league of the original.

And yet, I just as eagerly awaited “Return of the Jedi”.  More disappointment. Somehow an entire galaxy had come to revolve around six or so inhabitants; Luke was more a whiner than a hero, Han was just Harrison Ford bored out of his frickin’  mind, and Leia, well I just didn’t buy her overwhelming love of Han (although she was still the same sauce-kitten extraordinaire that had launched many a pre-teen into early puberty).

The magic was gone for me. So I moved on with my life, satisfying my needs with the meager tricklings of sci-fi that followed. I even got a job at Lucasarts, the video game company, in the early nineties. There I was way over-saturated with all things Star Wars. It had finally joined Christmas, birthdays, Easter and Halloween as being more a source of disappointment than excitement.

In those years of getting my paychecks from that one time demi-god, I had even  witnessed the conception and birth of the two prequels, “Phantom Menace” and “Attack of the Clones”. My reaction was, as one Lucasfilm employee put it, “Star Wars changed my life. Episode One changed it back.”

Fast forward to May, 2005. Somehow, the fever is returning. Somehow I feel magic once again in the air like the calm before the storm. Somehow I am a smidge jealous of those who are already in line to see ”Revenge of the Sith” days before the opening.

Somehow I have hope, a new hope, that the circle is now complete and Lucas’ last chance for redeeming an epic that once showed the promise of the Iliad itself will give us all the closure we so desperately need.

So come on George, don’t just tell us there is redemption for a ‘chosen one’ seduced by power and ego and worldly cynicism. Show us.

Please.

In Quantum Physics, at each and every instant all things are possible. However, it is that which is most probable that is ‘destined’ to manifest.

At the beginning of each instant, all possibilities have equal energy, or potential. However, as the instant unfolds, those things with less probability of occurring lose their energy to those with a greater probability of occurring. This keeps happening until the most probable outcome inherits all of the energy and finally manifests in time and space.

Example of "Quantum Probablity Curve" in everyday use (Above).

In humanity, what effects the individual effects the herd which in turn effects the individual, etc. Each effect is a cause manifesting endlessly like a line travelling along a Mobius Strip. This applies to our physicality, emotionality and our mentality (or rather our body, our moods and our thought patterns - both individually and collectively). Some say you have to change the individual before you can change the group. Others say the opposite. And yet if the group and the individual live symbiotically in an infinite eternal feedback loop, any change in one is reflected in the other.

So when does change come? As indicated above, when it is most likely to.

So where the $#@% am I going with all this? It's just a quickie reminder to:

Love the world and all those around you and you will behold a loving world. Each time you do this, you increase the probability that love will overcome hate in your heart and everyone else's.

Revel in everything that is beautiful while seeing the hidden beauty in all things and you will behold a universe of endless beauty. Each time you do this, you increase the probability that beauty will replace ugliness in your inner world as well as your outer one.

Don't be the victim that undergoes ceaseless mutation by incomprehensible external forces, but the alchemist who ceaselessly transmutes everything within reach.

Before you decide what the world is and what future it holds, consider the old Rosicrucian axiom:

“The world is as you conceive it. Change your conception and the whole world changes around you.”

Then the only question that remains is, just how shall we conceive it?

Okay, okay, so it's true that Washington conservatives are lowering a Cold-War-Soviet style iron curtain around America. And sure, they've brought into existence every Orwellian nightmare the Founding Fathers feared, fought and died to safeguard against. But before you get your liberal knickers in a bunch, consider the upshot:

Bush and his merry lot believe that they hate us for our freedom. It is our freedom they hate. Boy o' boy, do they hate freedom. But maybe, just maybe, if we no longer had any freedom, they would stop hating us.

"You know, I used to hate you because of your disgusting freedoms, your tolerence (and otherwise humane treatment) of intellectuals, women and homosexuals, not to mention your total lack of hate-fueled religious fanaticism. But now, I have to say, you've become the country I've always dreamed you could become. I think I love you GW. You really are my kind of guy."

And think about it. This stone kills more than just one bird in fact. It not only stops them from hating us, it also solves our immigration problems. No matter what ruthless dictatorship you're fleeing from, if America is worse, why go there?

A pesky pack of freedom-hating freedom-fighters (Above) - who call themselves "The Wolverines" - rest between one of their typical assaults on freedom whilst defending that Godless affront to freedom, the Constitution. What is it with these liberal freedom-hating liberty-lovers anyhow?

So the next time you're asked, "How many lights do you see?" just smile and reply, "I don't know, how many? Oh, and, is this Koolaide mine?"

There now. Don't you feel better already?

Well here I am and, presumedly, there you are. Today is Day One of my own little homage to Narcissus on the web. In the days that follow I shall infuse these pages with the kind of stuff even CSPAN has to preface with a Parental Advisory. No. I’m not sure what that means either.

What I am sure of though is that I will endeavor to make this space worth reading. If I can’t, I’ll stop. So slip into a dry martini, sit back - but not too far back - and, as any annoying retail sales person will tell ya,

Enjoy!

Okey dokey. So where to begin? I guess I’ll start with a little about where I am writing from. I’m here in a town called Sparks in the state of Maryland. It’s a small state; vaguely 12,407 square miles to be exact. To give you and idea of how small that is, California is roughly 163,707 square miles. That’s more or less 13.194728782139115015716933988877 times bigger than Maryland.

Got it?

In the time it takes me to go from the San Francisco ferry terminal to Golden Gate Park, I can travel from my driveway all the way to Pennsylvania, ‘The Independence State’. As you may or may not know, the name Pennsylvania comes from the famous admiral, William “Nobody’s Gonna Say That to My Bitch and Get Away With It” Penn who lived between 1644 and 1718. http://xroads.virginia.edu/~CAP/PENN/pnintro.html

Pennsylvania is actually considered a commonwealth and not a state; commonwealth referring to it’s governing style of representing the ‘common wealth’ of all it’s citizens. Hmm, seems either progressively utopian or kinda commie. I can’t decide which. Oh, but in case you were wondering, the state dog is the Great Dane. http://www.visitpa.com/visitpa/facts.do

Which for some reason reminds me of my first day on my trip across America....

[ Kung Fu -like flash back coming on]

DAY 01 - Saturday, February 5th 2005: After a tearful goodbye with my mother I decided to start my journey. Rain storms were coming and weather was the biggest controlling factor of my schedule. That happens when one decides to travel across a continent in the dead of winter. Anywho, I jumped into my raised from the grave 1983 BMW 320i and hit Highway 101 from Leggett in Northern California.

My mom's house (Left) and the mountains of Leggett as seen from the yard (Right)

I drank in the scenery of every mile knowing it was going to be the last time in quite a while I would travel this beautiful stretch of road.

In the weeks prior, I had taken long deliberate walks through Petaluma and the various streets of Marin County, the county that had been my stomping grounds since the early 1980’s. Nostalgia and sentimentality were doing a number on my heart and welling up softball-sized lumps in the back of my throat. Yes, I knew I would be back to visit, but it’s only when you actually live in a place that you can casually peruse the nooks and crannies and take in its true geomancy. But alas, we humans have two conflicting natures; the longing for security and the longing for adventure. Two and a half decades of the former had ultimately swung the pendulum too far towards the latter and I knew in my heart it was time to go.

Perhaps even the call to adventure is a challenge to locate a new manifestation of security no less safe than its predecessor - just a different colored version of it. In this case, this was the desire to be with the woman who had been the love of my life roughly between the years 1988 and 1995. Aubrey now resided in Sparks, Maryland and that was my destination.

My first pause along the way was in San Rafael to say goodbye to my dear, dear friend Kim Malone. Those who know Kim know her as one of the sweetest most beautiful human beings - both inside and out - they ever will encounter. Any who might oppose her deserve no mercy even from the goddess of mercy herself. I’m aware of only one such creature who has dared do so and that woman has a failed marriage, a failed career, two kids who could not possibly love her, scores of former coworkers who hate her guts, oh, and an STD.

As we arranged and then met at the deli parking lot near her house, I was quintupley blessed to meet her boyfriend - a very cool lad indeed - and three former Lucasarts coworkers whom I’m quite fond of. Among the other two were Yu Hon from whose face I’ve never seen a smile drop and June Park of whom I’ve never seen a smile rise. The third I shall leave as a mystery. If Carl Gustav Jung was right and ‘the lighter the persona the darker the shadow’ is true, Kim and Yu Hon possess shadows that make the bleak black of the Great Void glow like Vegas on New Year’s Eve. Our goodbye was brief though much needed. I had miles to go before I slept so back onto 101 went I.

Second stop was the gas station right next door to the apartment I just left. I had to gas up the beast anyhow, but there was no way I was going to leave San Rafael without saying goodbye to my friend, Samdoon. Samdoon is from Thailand and has that kind of humble demeanor that says, "Sorry, the Tao has just too much violence for my tastes". Everyday for over a year I went next door to the gas station where he works and would fill the largest styrofoam cup they had with half hot chocolate and half regular coffee. Every morning we would exchange "Sawa-dee-cahp"'s and "Kulp-khun-kahb"'s punctuated by timid bows.

I went inside after fueling up and said goodbye to Samdoon. His english isn't the greatest and it took some hand gestures to fully convey to him that I might never see him again and how sad this made me. It finally sank in and we said many "Kulp-khun-kahb"'s (which are 'thank you's in Thai) as I walked slowly out the door. I got in the car and started her up. Something moved in my peripheral vision. When I looked, Samdoon was running out to me gesturing "Don't go. Not yet" with waving fingers and hands. I killed the engine and waited. A few moments later he came out with a large styrofoam cup filled to the top with half hot chocolate, half regular coffee.

Samdoon's final offering (Above)

Highway 101 was a spinal chord, and I had lived and played amidst its most immediate ganglia for nearly all my life. Even now, those three digits evoke an odd feeling of comfort that only that which is most familiar can. But in the next twenty four hours I was to sever myself from this plexus and make my way south along its cousin, Highway 5. My first main stop, Los Angeles.

With mist in my eyes and heart like a fist, I crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, paid the exorbitant toll and made my way to the now famous Lily Pad located down a narrow street between Gough and Octavia near the Castro, heart of San Francisco.

My view of the Golden Gate Bridge as I approach the soul-rapers...ahem...toll booths (Above)

Here is where Kirsten and fiancee Jeff reside. My feelings about Kirsten and Jeff are thus: If you don’t just adore them both and have nothing but good feelings for them, do yourself a big favor. Pick a night, maybe tonight. Get yourself a soothing bubble bath formula, maybe one with lavender in it as lavender smells so good and is said to have Ayurvedic value. Draw yourself a hot bath; hot, but not too hot. Plug in your best portable radio (they make such good ones these days with built-in woofers and what not), tune in your favorite station - perhaps a soothing classical one (don’t we sometimes forget how nice it is to listen to classical music?) - step carefully into the water (ah, isn’t that relaxing?), and then drop the radio in the tub with you.

Thanks.

One of those nice boomboxes (Above) that I spoke of.

It was there I was to couch surf for the first night and embark the next morning for LA.

Kirsten and I met and went to nice restaurant and later spent the evening drinking wine, watching the Simpsons and gabbing with Jeff and then Stuart Dodgshon - bestest buddy since the early eighties - until the late hours of the evening. It was like a barrel of fine beer to a thirsty alcoholic after a long summer Sunday in one of the bible states. It was hard to believe I was on the verge of putting over three thousand miles between me and these long time sources of deepest comfort and reverie. Especially after so many years. The wine helped wash down the softballs.

Jeff and I (Above) stone cold chillin' sans Billy Dee Williams (not pictured).

That night I slumbered not too soundly with the buzz of anticipation and good vino at once jangling and soothing my troubled nervous system. Tonight the comfort of true friends, tomorrow the road. Eventually sleep did come.

But alas, I digress.

Well, me thinks that’s enough for one day. Stay tuned for more tomorrow for more facts and fun. You might even hear your own name get called. From The Temple of Narcicuss in Maryland,

JR

Narcissus lies staring into his own reflection (Right), too full of himself to notice staring right in front of him an exquisite boobie (Left).