(We've been havin' fun) All Summer Long

The words to that iconic Beach Boys tune still swim in my head when the weather gets hot. And hot it has been this last week of Summer. The daytime highs are in the 100's heading into Labor Weekend. The accompanying humidity, somewhat rare for these parts, makes the heat even more oppressing. But just like the Summer of forty years ago, the Summer after graduation from high school, we have the swimming pool for escape. The "we" now meaning Loretta and I. The "we" back then meaning my Mom, Dad, sisters, and a few select friends. We went swimming last night after the last remnants of daylight disappeared, the air was still very warm at 9:00 o'clock. We languished in the tepid, crystal clear water for almost an hour, just floating around and looking up at the starry Summer sky. I saw a streaking meteor and made my usual "falling star" wish.

It was very refreshing and allowed a clearing of the mind that I haven't experienced in a while. The extended dip in the pool and a couple of glasses of wine before that allowed us to drift off to sleep easily soon after the swim. It was a deep sleep layered with easy-going dreams of beaches and more relaxed times. At least I wasn't lost in a strange place in this dream.

Labor Day Weekend forecast for Modesto: Friday 104, Saturday 101, Sunday 100, Monday 99.

Labor Day Weekend forecast for Pismo Beach: Friday 74, Saturday 74, Sunday 74, Monday 74.

Hmmm...where do you think we will be this weekend?

The reunion is on...we think.

My high school's 40th reunion may actually be happening the first weekend in October. Considering the fact there hasn't been a heck of a lot of interest on Classmates.com, it still seems a bit tentative at best. We graduated in 1967 with over 940 kids...only 27 or so have RSVP'd to this point (44 including guests). Of course, there will be the usual contingent of folks who just show up at the venue, poke their head in, then either run away or decide to come in when they recognize someone they knew. That has happened at the last couple of get-togethers. All three of us have officially committed to going (Bob, Gary, and myself).

For some odd reason, I have been somewhat active on the reunion website. Yes, me! Mr. Shy in High School, The Cynical Boy, the Poo-Pooer of all things high school, The One Not Voted Most Likely To Do Anything Noteworthy. I just didn't give a shit about much of anything during my time at CPHS. But here I am, posting blurbs on the reunion message board, making pleas for people to respond, to commit to going, to post photos and bios. What's up with that (I ask myself rhetorically)? Geeze, I've even suggested that we have Karaoke that night!

I realize not everyone can make it to their reunions. After 40 years, the class has scattered to all corners of the country and the world. Some can't make the trip due to physical limitations. Some are no longer with us. Some...they just don't have any desire to relive a time in their lives that may not have been as pleasant for them as for others. For the most part, I fall into that last category. So why am I going? Originally, it was solely to meet up with my two best buddies. But now, I may even be looking forward to the reunion itself! Hell, I've even given thought to what songs I would Karaoke. Whether or not my Karaoke performance actually happens remains to be seen.

For me, I feel this may be a small opportunity to make some new connections with some old acquaintances. To trade email addresses and websites. To share some memories of what we remember from Canoga Park in the 60's. Do you remember the Baronet Theatre across from the high school where we saw Help!? Or Woodlake Bowl, Bob's Big Boy, cruising Van Nuys Boulevard, hanging out at Topanga Plaza Mall right across the street, or going on a date to the Canoga Drive-in? The chances to compare memories and reminisce are endless. After 40 years, it's also time to bag the bittersweet ones and embrace the fond ones.

Someone suggested that if we can't get together in person, we establish some sort of internet virtual reunion online. That's not a bad idea either. But the small, enthusiastic group that has pledged to attend so far will make this trip worthwhile. Even if only 44 people show up, it will still be quality time...maybe more so than if hundreds came out of the woodwork. The on line hookups will be born, new relationships will be nurtured, old ones may be resurrected. Most of us will welcome it, especially the ones who make an appearance.

My suggestion for our 40th reunion theme? No Head Trips. No Baggage. No Regrets. Just Go!

I aspire

As I was driving home from work today, I passed by a new flag-like banner hanging on a pole near the elementary school in our neighborhood. The flag had a drawing of a Cougar (the chosen name for attendees at that school)...and the word aspire right below it. This siting prompted me to recall a few moments in time from my last year in elementary school, Welby Way Elementary School in Canoga Park.

I was part of the inaugural 6th grade class of this newly built school in our neighborhood. We were the first! I was bounced around to 5 or 6 different schools from kindagarden through the fifth grade because of our family's moving, and because they kept switching the boundaries in the west end of the San Fernando Valley (due to the fast growth in the late fifties). No big deal. At that age, you adjust much easier to location changes than when you are older.

Our school held a vote as to what we should call the attendees of Welby Way Elementary School. The overwhelming choice by the students was the Telestars. Telestar was the first communication satellite; recently launched into orbit in 1960. Why not? That sounded so cool to a bunch of 10 year olds! But wait...there was a fly in this historical ointment. Some of teachers pointed out that Telestar would mean nothing to most people 60 years in the future. We should name ourselves...The Comets. Everyone knows what a Comet is!

One day in class, I overheard a conversation between our teacher, Mrs. Simpson, and another teacher, Mr. Horowitz who had just "dropped by for a visit". I found myself standing right behind them when this exchange took place...(they didn't see me standing there)...

Mr. Horowitz: Hello, Janice! (he proclaimed while sidling up behind her while she was pinning some suggested school names on the cork board).

Mrs. Simpson: Oh! I didn't see you standing there, Mr Horowitz, you startled me.

Mr. Horowitz: You didn't see me? Well, can you feel me standing here (sidling up much closer to Mrs Simpson from behind).

Mrs. Simpson: Mr. Horowitz, what is that in your pocket?

Mr. Horowitz: Well, Janice...how about we call the kids from Welby Way Elementary...the Rockets? Can you feel the rocket in my pocket, Janice?

Mrs. Simpson: Jack! How avant garde!

Just then they both noticed ten year old Jimmy (that's me, standing behind them), and abruptly separated. Mr. Horowitz adjusted his bow tie and mopped his brow with his handkerchief. Mrs. Horowitz straightened her full, crenalin skirt and patted her bee hive hairdo.

Mrs. Simpson: Yes, Jimmy, what can I do for you? (She asked me with a deer-in-the-headlights startled look).

Me: Is that your husband, Mrs. Simpson? My Dad says things like that to my Mom sometimes. And she says, "Oh, Jim...the children...the children". Then, they go in the bedroom for a while and close the door.

Mrs. Simpson: Jimmy. Please take your seat.

Despite repeated requests from several faculty members for consideration of a more time-worthy name (including the Telestars...and the Comets)...we, the attendees of Welby Way Elementary School, were forever named...The Telestars on October 15, 1960. This despite protests from a couple of philandering teachers.

What does this have to do with the title I aspire? Here's what I think. The students of this elementary school in our neighborhood probably voted for mottos like the Living on a Prayer, or Ah'ight!, or Be The Man, or...whatever was hip and cool at the time. It appears the faculty (and PTA) won out on this one. Ask a 10 year old what aspire means, and he or she may answer, "It's what my cousin Billy stole from the mall parking lot what sent him to the slammer!" Or, "It's what my Dad does when Mom catches him surfing the internet in the middle of the night...he aspires all over his wife beater undershirt".

Granted, aspire is quite an inspiring word for an elementary school motto. The definition of aspire is: To have a great ambition or ultimate goal; desire strongly: aspired to stardom. To strive toward an end: aspiring to great knowledge. To soar. Wow! I love this word. But for elementary school kids? C'mon...give 'em a break. How about mottos like, "Be Happy", or "Strive for perfection and settle for excellence", or, "Try not to fuck up!" Now these are motivating mottos for little kids. Basic. Primal. Only slightly intimidating.

It wasn't until a number of years later that I found out what avant garde meant. I figured at the time it had something to do with that obvious bulge in Mr. Horowitz's droopy searsucker slacks...and it wasn't his lunch banana...or, a rocket.

When are adults ever gonna learn? Kid have wisdom well beyond their years.

Questions 67 and 68, Pt II

If the universe is expanding, where is it expanding to and what is there now?

Are Black Angus Beef and premium vodkas the best marketing ploys since bottled water or what?

Is my color blue the same as everybody else's?

Can you really hurt a dog's feelings?

Do cat's really give shit about anything or anybody except themselves?

Regis Philbin and Kelly Ripa are still on a daily TV show: What's up with that?

Fungus infected toenails painted red in open-toed shoes: What are these women thinking?

Could chocolate become another banned food someday?

Where have all the typewriters gone?

Are evil psychotics simply psychotics who woke up on the wrong side of life? Are there benevolently good psychotics?

Does that last question make any sense whatsoever?

If there is other life in space, why do we assume they are more advanced than we are?

Does Don Imus look like a muppet or what?

Can animals really "smell" fear?

Should feeding your pet peanut butter and video taping them be outlawed?

Who is going to jail next: Brittney Spears or Lindsay Lohan?

Should we be eating cheeses that smell like dog shit?

What would be an acceptable amount of time to wait until I buy an iPhone? One year? Two years? Never?

Is splitting Northern and Souther California into two separate states really such a dumb idea?

Do you think when Hillary becomes president, she just wants to see if Bill will stand behind her after she diddles some white house page?

Doesn't mother's milk have transfats?

Invading Iraq: What in the hell were we thinking?

Be what you want, say what you mean, one thing leads to another.

Sometimes I feel as though I can actually let go of the past, write what I feel, and languish, if only for a few moments, in a luke warm bath of self approval. My baggage has not been checked through, it has been put in storage. The conductor is announcing that it's time to get on board, and a high-pitched steam whistle can be heard in the distance, far up the track. My itinerary is in place, a no-plan plan to venture beyond the constraints of my self-imposed exile from main street. I am ready to shift positions in my seat, sit up straight, put this thing in gear, and slowly release the brake. It's time to move on, forward would be preferred. But there is still something that is not right, something not quite in place, a minor detail overlooked perhaps.

I find myself on the train, I'm the engineer looking out the window at the baggage platform and all the other people waiting for their connection to somewhere. They're glancing at their wrist watches, then at the clock on the wall, then at the posted schedule near the station door. I am at the controls of the locomotive, hand on the throttle. I reach for the brake handle. I'm not waiting for any more passengers to get on board, it is time to go.

Then I feel something with my foot, jamming the brake lever jutting out of the floor, preventing me from releasing the brake. I reach down and pick it up. It's a small, black leather briefcase with an open padlock hanging on the latch...and it is very heavy for its size. Across the front of it, in large, white block letters, it says, "REGRETS".

I don't need to look inside the briefcase, I know very well what is in it. I choose to close the open padlock, snapping it shut, tightly. Pandora's Box is now locked. The brake lever is free to release, the train lurches forward, and I kick the briefcase off the train onto the platform.

Holy shit! Now what? I can only hope that some well-meaning person won't find that briefcase and try to return it to me. But that is highly unlikely. Only I can do that.

The tracks ahead fade into the mist. I don't really know the destination yet. The future is set only to the extent that I know the direction. Forward.

My next challenge: What to do about those bags labeled "DENIAL" and "RATIONALIZATIONS"!

I dreamed about Elvis last night.

In a dream last night, I found myself in some unremarkable diner in some unfamiliar town with some unrecognizable friends. But there was someone recognizable standing in from of the old jukebox just a few feet from our booth. I don't remember if anything was playing on it. But there he was, in all his Las Vegas, white, sparkling, polyester regalia. It was Elvis. And he was smiling at me!

I remember that he appeared very tanned and fit, unlike the some of the images of "The King" from his last years on this earth. He just stood there for a few moments, leaning on the jukebox, and looking over his shoulder, past that gargantuan shirt collar, and smiling that crooked Elvis smile in my direction, like he knew me. The unrecognizable friends at my booth didn't seem to notice him, only I did. Elvis and I just stared at each other for a second or two...and then, he turned and walked toward me.

I strained my neck to see past the other patrons walking by, obscuring my view of the approaching Elvis. He walked slowly in my direction, still smiling. Then, a large person stood right in front of me as I anticipated meeting The King of Rock & Roll. At that same second in time, I thought to myself, "How could this be happening? Elvis has been dead for almost 30 years!"

The large person standing in front of me moved out of the way...and Elvis was gone. I woke up. The dream was over.

I really hadn't given any thought before hand that the 30th anniversary of Elvis' death is this Thursday, August 16th. This was reminded to me in some stories now appearing on my internet browser...this morning. Elvis Trivia Quizzes, Elvis History, Elvis Death Stories, and so on. Did you know that Elvis Presley's real hair color was sandy blond? He died it black. Did you know he hated being called The King? He told everyone around him that only Jesus was The King. Did you know that he made thirty three movies, and he was only 42 when he died?

I cannot say that I was a huge fan of Elvis Presley. Maybe I just too young during his early hay-days. It was the Beatles that overwhelmed me in the 60's. Although the very first 45 rpm record I owned was 1960's, "It's Now Or Never" by Elvis. I was 10 years old.

When Elvis died on August 16th, 1977, I working as a DJ at a small, A.M country western radio station in Arroyo Grande, California. The phone lines became flooded with callers requesting to hear Elvis songs. The program director called and told me to play two Elvis songs per hour, no more. I complied, and didn't think too much more about it. Soon after, the news stories began surfacing surrounding the circumstances of his death. We've all heard them.

Is Elvis Presley really dead? Probably so. I highly doubt his still-living body is stored in some cryogenic laboratory next to Walt Disney or John F. Kennedy or Austin Powers, quietly and patiently waiting for stark reality to catch up with science fantasy.

But unlike the self-proclaimed King of Pop (Michael Jackson), Elvis denied the moniker bestowed on him by his fans. He was much more of a humble person to relish that kind of hype and spin. He was just a shy, simple, country boy who liked to sing. Someone who got caught up in the grinder called Pop History...sucked in, chewed up, and spit out. He, and many others like him, left the party too early...or not soon enough! They were removed before their time was up, before we were done with them. Jim Morrison, Janice Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Elvis, and others made the choice...choosing to deal with their fame in the same fashion...not realizing the price of fame before it was too late. They checked out long before their flames burned out.

I'll take the DeLorean...and add a flux capacitor with a side of regrets.

My 40th year since graduating from high school is this year. More later on my acrimonious thoughts about the ambiguity of my time in high school. Evidently, there will be a reunion in October.

1967 was a decent year...music-wise. Regarding myself...it pretty much sucked. Radio stations KHJ, KRLA, and KFWB were blasting incredibly indelible tunes over the Los Angeles basin, competing for the number one spot in radio ratings. Yes, it was A.M. radio that still dominated the airwaves back then. Light My Fire by the Doors was the overwhelming number one song, the short version being played every 15 minutes or so. I was seventeen.

The Summer of ‘67 was hot in the San Fernando Valley (as per usual), I had just graduated from high school and was working at the college creamery, driving to work at 4:00 a.m. in my 1961 MGA Roadster (a graduation present from my parents). I was supposed to be going to a couple of summer school courses, but rarely made it to class. I simply smelled too much like milk and sweat to sit in class after processing dairy products for six hours. And, I hated school...still. Not staying in college: another regret that might be remedied if I had a flux capacitor and a DeLorean. Unlikely I will discover the flux capacitor, find a cheap DeLorean, or not make the same mistakes again. But, it still provides me hours of daydreaming excitement hypothesizing the possibilities of going back in time. If I could...I would start with the 10th grade.

Being fourteen going on fifteen is pure geek time for most of us. Some teen boys are already perfectly proportioned physically, have easily coiffed hair, and can run the 100 yard dash in ten seconds. Many of them can actually carry on conversations with pretty girls without hyper-ventilating or slobbering on themselves by then. Their clothes fit just right, their teeth are straight, and they get good grades with seemingly effortless abandon...or so I thought. This wasn’t me. But, I was naive enough to believe that they didn’t study because they told me so. In reality, most of them did study but thought it was cool to get A’s and B’s without cracking a book. In hindsight, not very likely. So, yes, if I could borrow Doc Brown's machine, I would go back and study more. Check that...I would go back and study...period. Would it make a difference regarding where I am now, what I am doing at this point? Or would I simply have different memories of high school, college, and beyond? Would I still be sitting here writing this blog entry?

My daughter Jenifer’s 10th year reunion is this year. She plans on going. I didn’t make it to my 10th. But I did go to my 20th and my 35th. It looks like I will be attending the 40th in October. Am I excited to go? Not really. Am I looking forward to meeting up with my two best friends of 40+ years? Of course. Bob, Gary, and I will get together in L.A. for our own mini-reunion again (we did last summer). The high school reunion is secondary, just an excuse for us to meet up. Like I said, high school for me was an ambiguous time...exciting and disappointing. Though nothing tragic or earth-shatteringly grotesque happened to me, I just don’t have fond memories of this period...at least not while I was actually in school. Oh, I had plenty of fun away from school, don’t get me wrong!

The impending 40th reunion may end up being somewhat scaled down from the 35th, which was smaller than the 20th. As the years pass, interest wanes for some people concerning these things. Less and less people show up. Sure, at our age, some classmates have moved on to that big pep rally in the sky. But most of us are still alive and kicking. They just don’t want to be subjected to the same cruel people and unpleasant memories they experienced in high school. Let’s face it...not everyone was on the Steering Committee or in Student Government or Drama Class. Most of us didn’t run for Student Body President or play on the varsity football team or date a cheerleader named Katie. Our 20th and 35th reunions looked much like a Friday night dance during high school. Many of the same people who hung out together back in 1967 hung out together at the reunions. Hell, Bob, Gary, and I did then, and did the same at the reunions. At least we had each other for support.

We three will stand on the sidelines and try to pick out recognizable faces. After forty years, that process is harder than you think. Some people age better than others and look like you imagined. Others don’t age gracefully, and it’s difficult picking 18 year old faces out of a crowd of 58 year old baby boomers. Time and life takes their toll when those forty years are compressed into what seems to be just a few minutes.

And the cruel parts? Five years ago, at our 35th, a couple of old bags went around to the tables near the end and stared into everyone’s faces, alternately glancing at the buttons with pictures of us from our high school year book. They would then shake their heads and proclaim, “Nah...don’t recognize you!” My calculated response was, “Same here. And who the hell are you?”

Some things just never change. And a DeLorean with a flux capacitor would probably not make a bit of difference.

If you don't know where you're going, you can't get lost.

"If you don't know where you're going, you can't get lost" is a paraphrased line from the book by William Least Heat-Moon, Blue Highways. If you haven't already done so, pick up a copy and read it slow and deliberate over a period of weeks or months. It is so packed with observations and information about human nature found along the side of American back roads, it should be savored over a period of time, just like Heat-Moon did when he experienced it firsthand. He drove these less-traveled thoroughfares of America with an Easy Rider-esque motive in mind...to see this country the way it should be seen...up close and off the beaten path.

I often times feel lost. Maybe it's because I am a planner, a goal setter, a person who sets expectations. And when these plans, goals, and expectations don't work out, the disappointment kicks in, and that feeling of lost swells in my head. Shortly thereafter, I establish a new set of goals or readjust the old ones, and the cycle begins again...sometimes daily, sometimes monthly, sometimes yearly.

To me, it is obvious that the writer of Blue Highways had found himself in the same situation, time and time again. He had a strong desire to get off that merry-go-round, find some space, and simply see what comes along. It culminated with the writing of a non-fiction best seller.

If you don't know where you're going, you can't get lost. Of course, lost is a state of mind. Even if you think you don't know where you are, you are not lost...you have reached some destination, some point in your life worth savoring. Every little step along the way in your life is simply part of the journey...it is not the destination. Of course, we all need to get from point A to point B on occasion, that's reality. We need to go to the store, we need to go to work and complete certain tasks, we need to set out on little journeys every day of our lives. The key to surviving these preplanned itineraries is by no means a secret. It is to enjoy the journey and not obsess on the destination.

The other key? Make plans to have no plans...just like William Least Heat-Moon did! An acquaintance of mine (who happens to be my boss at work) is doing that right now. Yes, he also happens to be a big fan of Blue Highways, and therein lies the reason for his plan for a no-plan vacation this week. He and his wife set out on a road trip, toward the Sierra Madres and points "east". That's it...that's their plan. With a sprinkling of expectations to relax, rejuvenate, and re-evaluate. That's it.

As I get older, I get more sentimental about the simple things in life. Spending a day off with Loretta. Enjoying a day off with myself. Heading out with my camera and no particular photo project in mind. Going to the grocery store without a shopping list (never do this when experiencing moderate hunger pangs though). Over the last few years, we have "planned" trips to Disneyland several times...and always canceled them. Too much of a hassle! The specter of driving 500 miles, including transversing the L.A. basin, for a few short hours fighting crowds of rude foreign tourists at The Happiest Place on Earth has lost it's appeal.

I would rather "plan" to drive 500 miles (round trip) through Gold Country with no particular destination in mind. And that is what we are going to do this Fall. When? Don't know...no plans yet. What route? Don't know. Our goal? Relax, rejuvenate, re-evaluate. We simply "plan" to not get lost. How can you get lost if you don't know where you're going?

Modesto...what are we doing here?

What do George Lucas, Carol Channing, Timothy Oliphant, Harve Presnell, Scott Peterson, and me have in common? We’ve all lived in Modesto, California.

Technically, I don’t live in Modesto proper. I reside in a little town (not worth mentioning) butted up against the north side of this San Joaquin Valley whistle stop...but that’s close enough to lay claim. Yes, the creator of American Graffiti and Star Wars, the octogenarian broadway diva, the marshall from Deadwood, the unfortunate father character from the movie Fargo, and the world famous wife murderer are all former Modestans. And I hope, someday, I will be as well...a former resident that is.

Loretta and I continually joke to ourselves about living in what was once decreed to be the Worst City in America (according to a book written not so long ago). Modesto was also known as The Filth Capital of California until the 1930’s due to the abundance of saloons, brothels, opium houses, and a wild west atmosphere. It was indeed a Wild West town where traveling businessmen would stop on their way from Los Angeles to Sacramento for an overnight visit to “relieve stress”.

Modesto was founded in 1870 and was to be named for financier William C. Ralston. The story goes...at the naming ceremony, a Mexican railroad worker stated to Ralston, “muy modesto” (how modest of you)...thus the chosen name Modesto. How lucky for us!

Modesto is wrapped around Highway 99, the first main thoroughfare that connected Southern and Northern California. Highway 99 used to pass right through the middle of every town in the central part of this huge valley. Towns like Bakersfield, Tulare, Fresno, Merced, Turlock, Modesto, Stockton, Lodi, and Sacramento. Eventually, this main artery for travelers and commerce began bypassing the towns, and their stoplights, making 99 a freeway through the heart of California...and forever changing the character of the little towns it once dissected.

I manage a restaurant in a nearby town, just a mile or so off Highway 99. This pub-esque eatery also houses a very popular bar. The bar attracts regular drinkers. And most of these drinkers could be described as being far from modest. Hang on, I’ll tie it all together in a second!

The definition of modest is “showing humble estimate of one’s merits; unpretentiousness”. Regular “barflies” are anything but unpretentious...at least most of them are. More accurately put, the loudest talking pub denizens are also the most pretentious of them all...that figures. So, the people around these braggarts are always treated to some sort of boastful diatribe about their merits, accomplishments, and conquests...whether we want them or not. They blather on and on, day after day about things and places they know nothing about. They are quick to chime in and debate almost anyone about almost anything. From sports, to women, to sex, to cars, to politics, to vodka...nothing is sacred in their attempts to show anyone who’ll listen that they have insightful, omniscient knowledge of the world at large. In most cases, they also have their heads jammed completely up their fat asses!

The definition of braggadocio is “a person of empty boasting; of arrogance; of pretentiousness”. Arguably, the opposite of a truly modest person. Braggadocios have no idea they are what they are. They are simply always right and always righteous about everything of which they speak. Most of the time, they are wrong. But, they seem to enjoy the conflict, the challenge, the argument, the line in the sand, the opportunity to force someone to back down. The only prize afforded a braggadocio is when some hapless barstool neighbor gives up out of pure frustration, or an invitation to “take it outside”. The latter being the final straw in a braggadocio’s repertoi of pretentious prattle.

Maybe this why I have never really been someone who hangs out at bars, even when I was young, dumb, and full of...free time. Sure, I went out once in a while. Me and a couple of buddies would visit a local nightspot on occasion, usually to watch a live band or maybe Monday Night Football. I never just “hung out” like some people do...for hours and hours. Maybe I just had a “life”. Perhaps I couldn’t stand listening to braggadocios plying their “trade” at large than life volumes.

Modesto, and the surrounding smaller towns nearby, appear to harbor more than their share of these brazingly bullshitting braggarts. I figure there may be a nest hidden somewhere in the hills around here where these things are hatched from alien seed pods. They emerge from these pods fully grown, speaking, and already pre-loaded with a myriad of misinformation. They are born wearing a ball cap from some agricultural insecticide company, a T-shirt or tank top that says “Shit Happens” or Corona, and a tin of chaw in their back pocket. Somehow, they instinctively navigate themselves to the nearest bar...and begin their predestined journey on this earth. Some have jobs, some don’t. The ones without jobs stay much longer. But they are all annoying, bothersome blatherers of bilge-like “facts” Kiosks of crap. Purveyors of B.S.

With this in mind, I submit a new name for Modesto. I think it should be called the City of Braggadocio. And instead of the motto, “Water, Wealth, Contentment, Health” (yes, it is their motto, displayed on a large, metal arch over the entrance to downtown), it should be “Dust, Dirt, Stifling Heat, Trucks, an ass on every barstool, an asshole on every corner, and...we gots almonds!"

If we can’t voluntarily get out of here at some point in time, I’m quite sure that I may be asked to leave soon! The only saving grace: I’m not too sure the braggadocios know how to read.

And we used to live in Pismo Beach!

I used to love Summer, when I didn't sweat so much!

I can't remember when I began to sweat like a farm animal the moment temperatures reached 80 degrees. Did I profusely perspire as a child and just didn't notice it? Was it when the ratio of fat content to muscle mass in my body reached 50/50?

Isn't the function of perspiration to cool the body down? Should I take a cue from boudoine people and start wearing long, white robes and head gear and drink hot tea when the temperature reaches 100? Evidently, this helps cool you off. Maybe I just need to move to a less arid climate zone. Or, lose about 50 pounds. Do skinny people sweat to the extent that their clothes look like they've been running through the sprinklers? Isn't this fop sweating a genetic trait? Do I need to see a doctor for this as well?

I sweat at work inside the 76 degree, air conditioned atmosphere of the restaurant I work. What's up with that? Truthfully, I only start dripping when I have to exert myself physically, ie, putting a food or liquor order away, running back and forth from the kitchen to the dining room at break-neck speed, eating my lunch, speaking. But should I be soaking wet within five minutes? What if I had to work outside? Would I die the first day as a carpenter? The moment I get home from work, I strip down to my undershirt and boxers. I tried taking everything off once, but Loretta nixed that. She didn't want me to stain the furniture with sweat or "skid marks"...not to mention having to look at me sprawled on the couch naked!

I ask myself these (and other goofy questions) quite often. I wonder about this sweating thing as I type this blog entry at 8:00 am when the temperature outside and inside is 72 degrees, and my T-shirt is ringed with sweat...right now! Loretta lovingly (and laughingly) quips, "Honey, you're already sweating like a pig!" "Thank you, again, for pointing that out honey-bunny", I acknowledge.

I always harken back to that scene in Broadcast News when Albert Brooks got a chance to anchor the weekend network news. The poor slob began drip-sweating the moment he sat in the chair. It was running out of his hair, down his face, dripping off his lips onto the news copy. People called in to the television station wondering if he was having a heart attack. It was a hilarious scene...except when it happened to you (me) in real life!

I must say, that never happened to me when I was on the air in radio...fifteen years of daily, live radio shows. I guess that was where I felt most comfortable. Maybe I need to take that as a cue to what I am doing for work right now.

Someone once said, "Never let 'em see you sweat." And I never did in radio, even outside during live remotes. Maybe it's time to re-evaluate my career (again). Maybe it's just time to lose that errant fifty pounds of fat I've accumulated!

One more question: Do farm animals actually sweat?

You're not Skip Hansen...you're now Jonathan Hanley.

Many years ago, in a land far, far away, there lived a maniacal, ruthless ruler named Mark.

Mark was a manager of a radio station. He was very tall, always wore a three piece suit and overcoat, and his hair was long enough to reach his shoulders. His large, tinted, thick-lensed, white-framed glasses hid squinty, dark blue eyes of a person heavily medicated. I never found out exactly what drug-induced stupor he was experiencing, but I suspected it was a combination of anti-anxiety drugs, anti-depressants, and marijuana. He once confessed that alcohol made him sick. If that was true, I suppose I could rule out that drug as part of his daily routine. Mark's lumbering gate down the hall in the office building where the radio station was housed could only be described as tentative at best. His tall, over-coated, long-haired form would weave from one side of the hall to the other, occasionally bumping one wall then the other like some remote-controlled mechanical device, until he reached the elevator.

Mark was from New Jersey...although I was not in New Jersey during the time I worked for him at the radio station. I was in Boise, Idaho. His pronounced, mobster-esque accent seemed very out of place in this land of potatoes, red-necks, and dairy farms.

I'd never met anyone from New Jersey. Furthermore, I'd never met anyone who's intention was to change my name, deny me my identity, and suck out my soul. If there is a devil...this Mark person was him! I had made a wrong turn somewhere on the road of my radio career...and had entered hell. This was the place some call hades: working at a radio station in Boise, Idaho for the devil himself.

Shortly after dragging my sorry ass from California to Idaho, Mark asked me into his office for a chat. I had just finished my mid-day radio show at what used to be the biggest AM radio station in southern Idaho. It was my third day there. The conversation went something like this...

Mark: C'mon in...have seat, Skip (His Jersey accent sounding a bit slurred).

Me: (Sitting down in a small, stained office chair in front of his extremely large desk. What were these stains on the seat cushion, blood stains?) How's it going?

Mark: Good...good. Hey (He got right to the point), where'd you get this name "Skip".

Me: Well, you see, my grandmother thought it was appropriate after I was born to name me Skip as a nickname since...

Mark: Well, listen (Cutting me off in mid-sentence). From now on, you will be known as Jonathan Hanley while you're on the air. In fact, it's best that we call you that even when you are not on the air, just to keep things "real".

At this point in the conversation, time seemed to stand still. I couldn't tell you if I sat there staring at the devil behind the desk for ten seconds or ten minutes.

Me: Really? (I cleared my voice) What's wrong with Skip Hansen?

Mark: Skip Hansen just doesn't sound like a radio name. Jonathan Hanley does. In fact, I name all my mid-day radio personalties Jonathan Hanley. It fits during that time period...the housewife time...for the ladies.

Another long period of silence ensued.

Mark: Also, Jonathan, I need you to change your delivery and your personality on the air. It's too laid back. I need you to pick up the pace and energy...be more upbeat. Put some spark into it.

Silence.

Mark: So...tomorrow morning when you sign on, you will be Jonathan Hanley.

Me: Tomorrow morning when I sign on, I will not be Skip Hansen...I will be Jonathan Hanley. Isn't that kind of strange?

Mark: Don't worry about it, no one will notice. You haven't been here that long. Besides, you're going to adjust your delivery and personality as well...right, Jonathan?

I felt sick to my stomach. The blood was rushing from my head to somewhere else in my now limp body. I felt my soul being literally sucked out. I could swear that his squinty blue eyes behind the thick, white-framed lenses flashed red for a moment. He had a smirky little smile on his sallow-complected face. I thought about getting up from the blood stained chair and bolting out of his garishly-decorated office and running all the way home to California. The palms of my hands were now sweating profusely. I kept staring at a strange souvenir-like item sitting on the desk in front of me. It was a round, tennis ball-sized cow terd with fake eyes and beak. Two wire legs stuck out of the bottom, attaching it to a wooden stand that said "Real Idaho Shit Bird". And then...it winked at me.

I found myself reeling down the hall in a daze, weaving from side to side, hitting the walls as I tried to make it to the elevator, trying not to vomit. The elevator doors opened by themselves, I stepped in and turned around. I could still see myself sitting in the devil's office a mile down the hall, he was still smiling that little smirk at me. The office door slowly closed by itself. I reached for the first floor button and stopped. I was on the fifth floor, and didn't want to go further down into the bowels of the earth...after all, I was already in hell. I tapped the lighted button that said "Roof". The elevator car lurched upward for a few seconds. The door opened and I stepped out into the mid afternoon sunshine. It was September, and the air had begun to turn cool. It smelled fresh. I took in a deep breath and my head began to clear. I stood on the roof of that office building for a half hour or so, gazing at the 1978 Boise skyline and snow-capped mountains in the distance. I made my decision at that moment.

It wasn't until a few months later that I got out of that situation. I did become Jonathan Hanley...on the air...placating the devils wishes for a short time. The devil called Mark stopped showing up at the office shortly thereafter. Evidently, another devil-like executive made the decision to remove him from his position. The radio station was sold to another company, and another devil moved into that office. He got rid of the Idaho Shit Bird. One day I sat down with the new one and asked for a raise and for my name back. He refused both requests...I gave two weeks notice...and left Idaho for California.

I suppose there is a moral to this story...probably several. The grass is always greener...be happy where you're at...there is no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow...the devil wears several disguises.

I did learn something from this experience. A job can take your energy and your identity sometimes. But a job is not what you are inside. A job is just something you do for money. Never let is suck out your soul. Only you can allow that to happen.

Wonderin' why the right words never come...

For those of us who dabble in writing, the words from that old Eagle's song often ring loud and true. I suppose the word never should be replaced by seldom in my case. As I sing the line to myself with that small change in wordage, it seems more appropriate. Even while being my own worse critic and editor, I feel some of these attempts at being a writer occasionally hit their intended mark...but only seldom.

For me, writing momentarily removes me from the often stark reality I perceive as my world. It allows me to step out of line, to get off the moving sidewalk, to pull over to the side of the road...if only for a few short minutes. From there, I can look back, or watch the world go by, or simply fantasize. I don't need to watch where I am going, or wonder if I'm doing the right thing, or even use my turn signals if I choose not to. There are no bosses, or people expecting things from me, or rules. Sure, there is criticism and scrutiny...two things I have struggled with personally and professionally all my life. But those two debilitating words don't really matter much anymore...they're just words from individuals who, for the most part, simply want to have their say. Isn't that what I am doing here?

Years ago, I used to write songs. Yep, I did! You can't play guitar for over forty years, covering other people's tunes, and not write a song or two yourself. Some of these compositions were snappy, upbeat, pop-like songs about life. While others were the usual sad songs professing feelings about lost loves or periods of time. Still others were jingles I wrote, played, and voiced for some unappreciative radio client. They were written words and chords...confessions set to music...snapshots of my life at that moment in time. And where are those musical manuscripts today? Most have long since decomposed in some land fill near the San Fernando Valley along with a billion other tons of trash, old refrigerators, and unwanted stuff . Others may be buried in some crypt-like storage area, hidden in an unlabeled box in the attic, amongst a thousand forgotten bits of papers and memorabilia. Maybe I will try to find them someday. Maybe they're best left lost in the archives of my life, to someday be found and gone through by my children...or grandchildren.

"Hey, Mom...look what I found in grandad's things! These look like songs he wrote", they will say, "Did you know about these?"

"He wrote about them once", Jen will answer, "But I never got to see them while he was still here. He didn't think they were good enough for other people to see...or hear".

"Did he write them before or after he wrote the book?"

"Long before that, honey. Long before".

"I guess they belong to us now, huh?"

"I believe they do, kiddo".

Perhaps all of this will belong to them someday. Not old scraps of paper in an unlabeled, cardboard box, but bits of information on a computer hard drive, stored for eternity.

Wonderin' why the right words never come...you just get numb.

There are no right words or wrong words when it comes to writing. They are simply words. And these words are exclusively my thoughts at this moment in time...8:24 a.m., August 1st, 2007.

I guess I need to continue searching for that shot of courage...and keep writing...something. Must not get numb to it all!