No football this weekend. None.
Why bother with weekends if there’s not a feeling of football.
It gives me time to think. Who needs time to think? What I think about is life and guilt.
Every time there’s a tragedy there’s a pretty human response to feel like some how you’ve failed. Like you could have done or didn’t do the one thing that could have made things different. Somehow different always feels better.
Maybe its not a human thing. Maybe its a catholic thing, this guilt.
But like when the little blind dog died I spent weeks thinking what I could have done to give him more time. When the car died I still keep rolling through my mind what I could have done differently, what I should have done. Even when I conclude that we did what we could there’s another possibility.
This doesn’t detract from addressing issues. It doesn’t bog you down. Maybe Catholics are trained to feel and deal with guilt.
We have found a place that sells cars at a reasonable cost. With a couple that look pretty possible. Used cars but . . .
When you remember that my first 3 cars each cost less than fifty bucks . . . I even got one car that ran until I sold it for a game ball used cars costing over 10 grand kind of freak me.
Some of these cars still have warranty time left so we’ll check it out.
For various reasons that reminds me of stupid errands I did with my second car (the first car, a green 52 Pontiac with the amber indian head for a hood ornament [yes, older even than me] the one where I shoe polished the leather upholstery – the car still ran great, especially with my specially designed coat hanger choke, but the smell of the shoe polish got you super sick after about 10 minutes).
I was writing songs so I thought I should check out some poetry. I was driving back from the beach when I saw this book store I’d heard of on the wrong side of the street. I did a you turn and went into Papa Bach’s. It was a weird hippie joint. They burned incense which still makes me queasy. They had all these small press books and this line called new directions.
They had this book by William Borroughs. “Naked Lunch”. I thought it was “Naked Came a Stranger” which was like this porno book I’d read about in the LA Times. It was supposed to be an “erotic” novel that was written by a different author in each chapter. Being a kid I was most stunned that women had written some of it. I was still convinced that women hated sex and only endured it with a huge amount of cajoling and pleading. The idea of women writing porn was jaw dropping.
I figured in this hippie shop they’d sell porn even to a grossly underaged kid. So I grabbed “Naked Lunch” (thinking it was “Naked Came a Stranger”, how many books could there be with naked in the title anyway) grabbed a mess of small press poetry and New Directions books (to conceal my real intention was the purpose) and stood there, a fifteen year old surfer in baggies ready to make my purchase.
I went to school that day and spent the whole day reading “Naked Lunch” in class. I didn’t care if it was the wrong book. It had plenty of porn, but all the wrong sort. It was the fact I found it funny, mystifying and well, at that time my world consisted of the beach, football, clubs, school and avoiding my step father.
“Naked Lunch” was about places I never imagined could be, about people I didn’t seriously think existed. I thought it was great.
After reading it through twice in a day I loaned it to my friend Tom. He thought it was crazy but liked some of the funny bits. We began having conversations straight from the book, talking in that weird broken metier of drug addicts and William Burroughs. Our favorite joke became, “I am the Great Slashtubitch and I can tell you fake the orgasm by the way you wiggle your big toe!” I have no idea why we thought it was funny except in some sort of Bevis and Butthead way.
Pretty soon we’d infected the entire football team with the book. About 80 high school kids roaming the halls reciting chunks of “Naked Lunch” to each other was not something I figure the Board of Education would have approved of.
There was an Assistant Principal at school. He was in charge of discipline. That meant he was the guy who gave you detention and called your parents if you were absent or parked your car in the wrong spot or if your muffler was too loud. He carried a hunk of celluloid in his pocket so he could measure your hair to make sure it didn’t cover more than 1 and 1/2 inches of your collar . . . Catholic School.
Thing is, he dug the job, the power we guessed.
His name was close enough to one of the “Naked Lunch” characters, the Sollibees, that we all took to calling him Mr Sollibee (The sollibees were creatures who lived underneath tavern bars, they poked their heads out through holes in the bar to “service” customers while they drank. The name fit our attitude towards him perfectly. Soon the whole school was calling him Mr Sollibee. I don’t think he ever twigged as to why we were all suddenly mispronouncing his name. None of the other teachers did either. At least we never caught any of them laughing.
Because that book was such a hit I checked out the other things I’d picked up that day. I was amazed. Kenneth Patchen, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Gregory Corso. Beat poets.
None of them helped me write any songs but they led me to believe that poets were the next Superman. I read how Corso used to read his poetry to a simple bongo accompaniment, which still sounds totally cool to me. And Kenneth Patchen explained the movies in his head and made them sound cooler than “The Great Escape” and “A Fistful of Dollars” combined.
I rally thought these were the guys who had powers “far beyond those of mortal men”. I doubt if they helped me write better lyrics . . . (look for me babe but I ain’t there; could hardly stand improvement . . . ) but I felt these guys understood parts of the world that I sensed were out there but had never seen. I thought that they had the map to something important. Something important to me and to the world and that it was a power they had, power louder than my Fender amp. I liked them, adored them and didn’t want to be like them but I wanted to know what they knew even while I thought it was impossible.
Their effect on me was that I lead the conference in yards and touchdowns that season.
For the first time in my life I wanted to go someplace that wasn’t in California.
Its been cold here. But we seem to be in the middle of a snow drought. There’s enough snow on the ground to keep everything pretty and the constant snow means the dogs and I have got solid paths wending through the yard. Great paths that lead no where but are easy to follow.
The giant dog has suddenly decided he won’t go outside without me. I have no idea why. His attitude hasn’t changed and when we go out together he gets full on dog play crazy. Bears watching.
A couple of weeks ago the gentle dog went to work with my friend. He got so excited he leapt in the air and landed sleeping on the ice. Lately we’ve noticed that he starts to limp every time he first gets up from sleeping or just lying around. Its not a bad limp and it vanished pretty quickly. He has no tenderness in his legs and no change in his attitude. Walking him is still like walking a kite. So I worry. Today started to give each of them 500 mg of Glucosamine to lubricate their joints. Reports as events warrant.
Of course my puppy still loves me and I love her.