The second half of my 12 hour ride…
Cruising the silent streets of San Francisco I arrive home about 2:15 am. What to do, what to do, what to do…stay up until 7am for the US vs. Algeria World Cup game or try to get a few hours of shut eye?
I spied a blu ray disc I rented from Film Yard Video and decided to feed it to the PS3 and watch Matt Damon in Green Zone. It’s an Iraq war movie about a rank and file army captain who uncovers a faulty intel plot/conspiracy in the search of WMD’s. It’s decent entertainment, I didn’t put me to sleep. In watching the bonus features I discover the movie is directed by Paul Greengrass, a British film maker. Greengrass has only been on my radar since last week. I was not familiar with the name until I rewatched the film Bloody Sunday, the 2002 definitive movie about the massacre of Irish protesters in their hometown town of Derry, Northern Ireland, by British paratroopers in 1972. It’s the Sunday in U2’s song, Sunday Bloody Sunday. Last week, after 28 years, the British govt. absolved the protesters of any wrongdoing and condemned the British forces for the killings. Bloody Sunday is in my collection so after hearing about the ruling I wanted to watch it again. I was curious about the director because the entire film is shot like a documentary. On perusal I find out the director is Paul Greengrass. I also find out he directed two of the last three Bourne movies. I had no idea he was the director of Green Zone but after watching it I was curious who made it because the style was familiar. Well, there you go.
I was not able to stay awake but amazingly I was able to wake up in time to go watch some soccer. I resuscitated at about 6:15am, after maybe one and a half to two hours sleep. I freshened up and was out the door by 6:30am. It seems that no matter where the World Cup is held, if you live in San Francisco you will find yourself in a bar sardine packed with people guzzling beers and cheering at the top of your lungs at some ungodly hour. It is rather strange when you start your night of drinking at 2:30am. The last time I remember watching a game at a decent hour was the 1990 World Cup which was won by West Germany (yes kiddies, there used to be two Germanys) winning out over a Maradona led Argentina. It was the first time I really understood the global power of the World Cup.
That summer I was working at Pepperdine University in Malibu, taking care of 92 European high school kids as part of an ESL program. The students all came from upper middle class backgrounds from around the globe (Tahiti, Mexico, China, India) but most were European. 60 of the students were split between Italy and France which became the two rival camps in the program, the historical animosity present even in these fresh faced students. These two groups kept me busy as I was playing the role of policeman in the dorm. While most of the students were polite and followed the rules the French and Italian students were always breaking curfew and making a ruckus. The difference was when I told the Italian kids to be quiet and go to bed they would apologize and be quiet but in no time at all they’d be loud again and not really giving a damn. The French kids on the other hand, when I tried to tell them anything they just completely ignored me. They were just too good for the rules. One thing was clear, the two groups did not like each other.
The first thing the students wanted to know was where they could watch the World Cup Games. Me and the other staff at first had a “whatever” attitude about them watching the Cup, we simply had no idea how into it they were but we learned quickly. It was the main concern of every student in the program. There was not one kid who was not a huge soccer fan. They begged and pleaded us so we found a space big enough to accommodate the group with a tv in one of the student lounges. When the games were on everything stopped and they watched the games. They were as hardcore as any Superbowl fan and I was impressed. I understood they had to watch these games so I made sure to schedule activities around the games. The Italian kids were devastated when Italy lost in the semis. We had a few German students so of course they were happy when West Germany beat Argentina for the championship. Most of the students were rooting for the Deutsch since they were representing Europe so there was a lot of good energy for the game but it was nothing in comparison to watching the 3rd place game between England and Italy the day before. They Italians were crushed just a few days earlier when they lost the semis but here they were, rabid as ever, cheering on their team to victory. It was way more exciting than the finals game. They tried talking me into buying them some champagne to celebrate and they didn't take to kindly to being rebuffed. At home they drink wine, beer and champagne but I had to explain to them in the US there were age limits to who could drink. They just couldn’t get over that, especially when we had a couple of 18th birthdays where it is tradition for Italians to drink champagne. Despite that, it was a ridiculous summer, as in, ridiculously good. I’d wake up from my dorm room to bright sunshine and walk out my door treated to a close up view of the Pacific Ocean. Pepperdine is on a hill and right on the Pacific Coast Highway so no matter where you are on campus you have an unblocked view of the ocean. It was like living in paradise.
Some say San Francisco is paradise which I will agree with but only on sunny days when the skies are clear and blue and the arctic summer winds have subsided. Leaving my apartment to go watch soccer at 6:30am it was your typical June morning, cold, overcast, and foggy. It had the feel of one of those days where there is no time. Without the sun it looks the same all day, 7am is indistinguishable from 7pm. I stop at the corner and enter Central Tea and Coffee, my local java spot and order my usual tall dark roast. I’m almost shocked to see Michael working behind the counter. He just played the Yoshi’s gig, just hours ago I had seen him schlepping to his car with his guitars and amp in tow. Usually he doesn’t open the morning after a gig but there he was, looking like he could use eight hours of sleep. On his advice he pours a shot of espresso into my coffee. Good call since the screaming is set to begin in 30 minutes, gotta be ready. I walk the eight or so blocks to Mad Dog in the Fog sipping my brew. I walk past another pub, Danny Coyle’s, and it is jam packed so I know Mad Dog will be just the same, even more so, since it is a more popular place and has seniority. I’m meeting my friend David who has one of the coolest surnames on the planet, Cervantes. You have to be born cool to have the name Cervantes and David certainly is. He’s Brazilian American so he has that Brazilian appetite for life combined with the cultural broadness of being American and it makes him an interesting guy. He has an astute mind and an impressive vinyl collection. He never made the transition to digitized music, one of the rare people who hasn't ( I guess there is no transition if you were born after 1987). When I go to his house he's usually spinning some classic jazz from the 40's and 50's. He's married to a French gal name Pascal and she‘s into grand prix racing, especially the Le Mans. He actually has to leave the game a little after half time because he’s flying to the south of France to do some vacationing with the wife and her family. Nice life if you can get it.
As I approach Mad Dog I can see a line and two guys taking money at the door. Cover charge? Hmmm, I could watch the game at home for free or at many other places nearby. I usually watch World Cup soccer at Kezar Pub, which is always packed for sports but they never have a cover charge. As I contemplate whether I want to pay to get in I catch a whiff of the deal. $10 get’s you in but you also get two drink tickets so I decide it’s not such a bad deal after all so I give up a Hamilton and enter the fray. The energy level is high and so are the patrons. Everybody has a beer, many double fisted, which in this case a is wise choice. It was worse than a rugby scrum trying to get to the bar. Once there it only made sense to cash in both your drink tickets since you didn’t want to have to drill your way through the crowd to make good on your second. I made my way to the bar while miraculously texting David. He was finding a parking space. I let him know it was crowded beyond belief and he wasn’t too keen on paying the cover so he suggested we meet next door at Café International. I agreed to meet him there but with beer finally in hand I had my doubts I could get back to the front door. Like a salmon swimming upstream I muscled my way through the crowd and after about 10 minutes I could see the glow of foglight that was the front door and I exited the place like a fetus being jettisoned from a womb.
Café International was full of people but not body-to-body packed like Mad Dog. There were tables and chairs and a small couch in the middle which had been commandeered by a laptop wielding college student. Having only one big screen television, it made the crowd more intimate as we were all watching the same game. Mad Dog has tv’s everywhere and were showing both the US game and the England game and there were plenty of people there to root for the English. David ordered us some food and a few beers. The food was actually donuts. I used to do the donut/beer combo a lot in my LA and Mexico days but it was not something I brought with me to San Francisco, mostly because San Francisco is the bush leagues when it comes to donuts and LA is a donut paradise, at least it was when I lived there. I knew places in LA where you could get donuts right off the rack, hot and buttery, melt in your mouth donuts. Getting them hot off the racks usually meant showing up at about 3:30 or 4:00 in the morning. That just hilights a major shortcoming of San Francisco, the lack of 24 hour consumerism. In LA there was a 24 hour store for everything, usually with a drive thru attached. 24 hour places like Canter’s Deli and Tommy’s Burger were legendary. Donut shops, led by the homegrown donut chain Winchell's, were 24 hour a day places so no matter how hungry or lost you were in the wee hours of the morning in LA, you could always stop and get a donut and your bearings. Taco trucks, burgers, and donuts, it’s what you do after 2:30 in the morning in LA.
David and I are settled near the back of the International enjoying the game. England scored earlier in their game so the US had to score or be sent packing. For most of the game we had been treated to several “almost” scores. Soccer is the only sport where almost scoring is as exciting as scoring. Soccer goals develop so when a score seems imminent the anticipation of the crowd hits a crescendo that either erupts for a score or collapses mightily for a missed shot, the closer the miss the more dramatic the collapse. That is why 1-0 and 0-0 games can be terribly exciting. There have been three or four times when it looked for sure the US would score, so sure you already had your hand in the high five position, only to be let down by an errant or high kick. David had to bail about a half hour before the game was to be over and it wasn’t looking good for the US when he departed. It was 0-0 and neither Algeria or the US seemed like it would score as the game wore down. Algeria started playing for the tie as they kept most of their players back on defense. The US was getting more desperate because time was running out. Regulation time was over and now we were into Injury Time. Only a few minutes remained. For some unknown reason Algeria decided to attack and got a decent header shot but it was smothered by the American goalie. This gave an opportunity for the US to attack and the goalie quickly released the ball to teammates streaking down the sideline. A few quick forward passes later a US player was taking a good shot on goal which was deflected by the goalie, rebounded by a US player, and again deflected by the goalie but this time he had taken himself way out of position. For an eternity the ball spun around as frantic players tried to react and off screen out of nowhere comes Donovan to boot the ball into the goal, a clean shot the goalie had no chance to make a play on. The place erupted. It was fantastic. Most of the people in the place were thinking the WC for the states was soon to be over but in an instant everyone was reborn. People were jumping up and down, high fiving, hootin and hollerin, and hugging the nearest stranger. Pints were hoisted in honor of the goal and the win. It is a great feeling, it feels good to make the 6:00am wake up call and the breakfast beers seem worth the effort. I was feeling a bit delirious from the goal and the beers and I was loving every minute of it. When people combust spontaneously in a good way it’s like everybody gets high off of it. It’s the natural high, that’s why people love it world over, even us late-to-the-world-party Americans, who are finally catching on.
I headed back over to Mad Dog, I still had one drink ticket to dispense. The place was a mess but now path to the bar was clear. There were still a lot of people but they had spread out to the sidewalk in front and the patio in back. I saw a quite a few people with that happy stagger, them that enjoyed the game immensely but maybe had two beers too many. There is an afterglow in the place that can still be felt despite all the spilled beer on the floor. I drank my beer and watched the replays of the game on the dozen or so screens around the bar. On one tv there was a Wimbledon match being shown and I remember the score being 26-27. I thought that was odd because that was a ridiculously high score ofr a tennis match, and they were still playing! We were so into the soccer victory myself and the other people in the bar didn’t pay much attention to that score. Later on in the evening I found out the match would set a record for the longest tennis match of all time. It was so long they had to postpone it and finish it the next day. I stayed at Mad Dog talking to inebriated strangers about soccer and the chances of the US advancing to the quarterfinals. After a few more pints I decide it was time to head home. I wondered what we are all going to do for the rest of the day since we already shot our wad. It’s only 10:00 in the morning. There is still practically an entire day waiting to be lived. All I can think about at this time is getting out of the chilly fog and getting wrapped up in some blankets for deep sleep and dreaming.
As I lay me down to sleep I see that it is 11:00am. 12 hours ago I was starting one adventure and now I am ending another. It was a good 12 hours, all the fun and adventure made it seem like a vacation. 12 hours...you can change your life in 12 hours.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Friday, June 25, 2010
12 Hours
Starting at 11:00pm, a twelve hour ride…
Reporting live and direct from Yoshi’s San Francisco in the Fillmore district. I felt my way down here through the fog reading it like braille to come see the band Audiobraille. It’s the second day of summer, a Tuesday, 11:30 in the evening. In any other major city, at this time of night, at this time of year, in the geographic center of a city, there should be a plethora of activity from happy, giddy diners to wet mouthed, cigarette chomping barflys and other assorted patrons of the night…nothing particular is even required, city souls are drawn to the streets like moths to a flame for purposes that can only be fulfilled by the night. But on the mile or so walk encompassing about 15 city blocks all I encounter in the shrouded fog is an elderly, tee-tottering, Chinese woman carrying a bag of groceries.
Arriving at Fillmore and Eddy I spy a few Persian looking guys, glassy eyed and hairy armed, hanging out by some taxi cabs. Other than that it's a total Omega Man scene. I expect a tumbleweed to come rolling over my shoes. I’m just a step away from Yoshi’s and as I draw near I hear the echoing beat of percussions. I pay my $7 cover to the No Dozed ticket girl and stroll in. All the side tables are lightly populated and a small gaggle of people are on the dance floor dancing to the end of a session. I’ve arrived at the end of the first set, almost exactly as planned. After all these years I have my timing down to a voodoo science. I like a band when they are warmed up, blood flowing, joints oiled and ready to go. Them that have to go to work tomorrow have already departed or will soon be, the remainder of folk are mostly friends and fans of the band.
I have never lived in New York but I know this from visiting Gotham, the second night of summer would be poppin like an aortic valve and there would be more activity buzzing around than a gang of flies could manufacture descending on a fresh, warm carcass. Comparatively speaking that could be good or bad depending on your temperament. If you want an easy night where you can show up, get your drink, and just ease into a prime seat, San Francisco is your place. In New York city you are fighting for every inch 24 hours a day. It’s trench warfare.
The band is back and the second set is on. It doesn’t take but about a minute for the band to get the sonic sweetness flowing. The dance floor is three quarters populated with all kinds of dance styles being represented. There’s the guy with the dreads bouncing, poppin, and spinnin, like Rerun. There’s the Asian chair massage guy standing in front of the band doing what I call “the dalai lama”, arms spread out like he’s blessing the band with head bowed down in reverence. Then there’s the guy doing what I can only describe as, well, the “pull the shower cap off” dance and he’s into it, just one toe away from being in a dance induced trance. The couple in front of me dressed in urban wear do a non translating California Slide, improvising riffs that revolve around shrugging shoulders and rolling arms creating a wave effect that they ride without the slightest bit of pretension.
Audiobraille is a 5 piece band. I know 4 of the 5 from the neighborhood. Two live on the block. David is on sax, Zori, the lone female in the group, is on a set of tall conga drums, Joel is on the traditional drum set, and Michael is in the corner, almost off stage, on guitar. I’ve already extolled these musician’s virtues on previous blog entries so I’ll skip the history lesson and get right to the exposition. David is taking a contemplative break on stage and his sax gives way to the percussionists and bass. This brings up the meter as bass and drums taking center stage always brings out the primal. The dance floor gets livelier and the people in the shadows at light’s edge are irresistibly drawn into the core of the dance floor. Bodies start spasming to the beats and the scene becomes that painting from Good Times except now it’s all alive and in motion. The band finishes the piece to a healthy round of applause and wolf whistles.
Wearing a silky halter top and skin fitting silky pantalons, a nicely shaped woman dances seductively for a man sitting adjacent to me. She is moving like she is possessed by the spirit of Salome. The only problem is she’s smack dab in the middle of my field of view so I have no choice but to look at her. If I was sitting anywhere else I’d still be checking her out, it would just be governed by the element of stealth. Now I can be blatant and not really worry about it. I can sense the guy next to me becoming aware of my dilemma. Hopefully I am forgiven.
I picked a perfect place to watch the band. I have a seat about 12 feet from the smallish, low rise stage and a candle topped single table to front my beer on. I’m sitting back on the couch that stretches the length of the wall, legs folded over gentleman style, with notebook perched high on thigh and pen frantically scribbling hieroglyphics. My penmanship is my own set of cuneiform. It’s not legible to anyone but myself but people love to look at it. It has a form and vibe to it and if you watch me write you are in for a show. Then pen blazes across the paper with the ever recurring big looping “g”s and “y”s and punctuated dotting of “i”s, and slash crossing of “t”s. My “s”s literally snake across the page like ancient Nagas. I don’t know how it is for others when they write but for me the words and ideas flow like a churning river that I must navigate or be capsized. Listening to live music infects the physical act of my writing, like a cobra being charmed, my hand dances in unison with the music, in a way that never happens when I am listening to recorded music.
By far the best part about my seat are the 5 lovely girls that seat themselves next to me just a few minutes after I scoped my table. They are young, black haired, attractive, and Mediterranean, varying in body style from Marilyn Monroe voluptuous to European model sveltness. They are here to celebrate a 24th birthday, full of giddiness and perhaps a few drinks, this is probably the second or third stop for them. Striking up conversation with them is easy as they are drawn by the curiosity of my scribbling. They ask if I am a journalist. When I tell them I’m just writing a blog entry they still get excited, they think it’s cool. If I was 10 or 20 years younger I would be all up in their business but I am twice their age, although if I told them how old I was they wouldn’t believe it. It happens…every single time, and it does cause me to pause. Everybody tells me, women included, that I should just lie about my age and play the lothario. I’m still working on it. It is one thing to look young and sound young but to be truly young as in youth you have to be in the know in the way that youth is, like when they asked me if the Boom Boom Room was open, they were trying to line up their next destination. I didn’t know if it was closed or if there were any other bars open nearby. Twenty years ago that is information I would have known as it was information that was relevant to my existence, not so much anymore. It’s the same with music or movies, my tastes are far more refined and way more anachronistic in comparison to these mere children I was flirting with. The bar had stopped serving just as I was going to get a round for me, the birthday girl, and her friend. The round was my invitation to hang out with them for the rest of the night. Coming back empty handed is when they prompted me for suggestions for the next bar. Had I been able to come up with one off the cuff, away we three would have went, of that I have no doubt, but instead I flimm flammed and stammered and could only muster an impotent “I don’t know”. Not too sexy so I slink back in my seat and act the gentleman, sending them off with pleasant good byes and nice to meet yous. I am maybe a little disappointed in myself but at the same time a little smiley to know that at my age I can still capture the interest of attractive and juicy young dames by just being me, don’t need an act or a routine.
I don’t dwell on the girls, I just return my attention to the music. Just about everyone is on the small dance floor so I move down a few seats to get real close to the band so I can enjoy the music. Earlier a young gal had walked in who I considered the most attractive woman in the joint. I had only seen her in my peripheral view but that is how hot she was, I didn’t even have to see her full on to know. I purposely kept her in my peripheral view all night never letting her come into focus. I didn’t need to see her in detail, my imagination had already filled in the blanks and she was sheer perfection, in a way that fits my perception of women. As I get comfortable in my new seat bobbing to the beats the young woman in questions slides right into my view directly in front of where I am sitting. It seems she eased her way to the edge of the dance floor so she could dance a little slower than the action in the middle. As she puts her purse down on my table she looks me in the eye. She has a lovely and inviting face. She’s sizing me up and deciding if I am worthy enough to dance in front of. She gives me a sly smile and turns back to the music and starts to do her slow dance. She has a magnificent backside that is nicely framed by some form fitting denims and she is wearing a halter so I get to see her healthy arms and back and her honey colored long hair wearing itself effortlessly on her head. She is soft not muscular, fleshy not skinny. She is a young goddess and she has to know it. She slowly moves her hips back and forth and puts her arms up and I just sit back and enjoy it.
It’s past 1am and the band is still going, giving us a little extra as the place is supposed to be closed and locked up by now. The dancing goddess turns around every three minutes or so and looks at me and gives me a smile, I smile back. Her boyfriend who has been standing beside her the whole time is invited on stage to play the drums. It’s his birthday apparently and he sheepishly steps up. I am wondering if he can play. He doesn’t look like a drummer, he looks like a college kid from a low end frat. He sits down, takes his cue from the band and starts the time. At the very least he knows the basics of drumming and the band joins in. As they get into the set he starts to unstiff himself and starts to jam like a real drummer. He finishes up the set and gets a hero’s welcome from his girl and his buddies. After one more riffing and ripping session the band calls it a night. I mosey on up and congratulate each musician personally for a job well done. After making some small talk with David the sax player, I gather up my Flip video cam and my writing materials and head for the exit. Along the way the dancing goddess is walking towards me. As she passes she gives me a little smile and a small tug on my sleeve. I turn around as I pass her and give her a big smile and a small wave goodbye. For me that is twice in a night, getting the attention of ferociously young and very attractive women. If I was twenty years younger it would not have been the same. I probably would have acted like a fool. But at my age I have acquired the detached aloofness that takes years to develop that can be attractive to young women who are curious and up for the challenge of interrupting my veneer with their youthful charm and beauty. The men of their age are boys in their eyes and when I look at the young guys that is exactly what I see, boys. Boys are fun for young women but sometimes they want to experience a man, a real man.
I walk out of the doors and through the lobby and exit to the sidewalk. I run into David surrounded by a group of boy/men giving him accolades for his mastery of the sax. One is rolling a euro style cigarette, crutched on one end and fluted at the other. Instead of tobacco and hash this one is filled with Northern California’s finest. It’s fired up and passed around while the young men talk about the band they are in. They ask me what do I play and what band I am in. This happens a lot, I think it’s the mohawk. I tell them I’m just here to listen to the music yet they keep asking me what band I am in. I know the herb ain’t that strong, I think when they first saw me earlier in the evening they clocked me for a musician and in their minds they could not be wrong because they are young and in the know. For them I was going to be a guy in a band even if I wasn’t.
We talk a little World Cup and then part ways. I head into the quiet fog with soccer on my mind because my next stop is the World Cup game to be played at 7am between the United States and Algeria. It’s a huge game and I’m meeting my friend David (not the sax player) at Mad Dog in the Fog to watch it. Since I’ll be drinking beer in less than five hours I wonder if I should even bother going to bed, maybe I’ll pull an all nighter and sleep it off after the soccer game.
I’ll let you know how the game went and how the rest of my 12 hours unfolded in part two of “12 Hours”.
Reporting live and direct from Yoshi’s San Francisco in the Fillmore district. I felt my way down here through the fog reading it like braille to come see the band Audiobraille. It’s the second day of summer, a Tuesday, 11:30 in the evening. In any other major city, at this time of night, at this time of year, in the geographic center of a city, there should be a plethora of activity from happy, giddy diners to wet mouthed, cigarette chomping barflys and other assorted patrons of the night…nothing particular is even required, city souls are drawn to the streets like moths to a flame for purposes that can only be fulfilled by the night. But on the mile or so walk encompassing about 15 city blocks all I encounter in the shrouded fog is an elderly, tee-tottering, Chinese woman carrying a bag of groceries.
Arriving at Fillmore and Eddy I spy a few Persian looking guys, glassy eyed and hairy armed, hanging out by some taxi cabs. Other than that it's a total Omega Man scene. I expect a tumbleweed to come rolling over my shoes. I’m just a step away from Yoshi’s and as I draw near I hear the echoing beat of percussions. I pay my $7 cover to the No Dozed ticket girl and stroll in. All the side tables are lightly populated and a small gaggle of people are on the dance floor dancing to the end of a session. I’ve arrived at the end of the first set, almost exactly as planned. After all these years I have my timing down to a voodoo science. I like a band when they are warmed up, blood flowing, joints oiled and ready to go. Them that have to go to work tomorrow have already departed or will soon be, the remainder of folk are mostly friends and fans of the band.
I have never lived in New York but I know this from visiting Gotham, the second night of summer would be poppin like an aortic valve and there would be more activity buzzing around than a gang of flies could manufacture descending on a fresh, warm carcass. Comparatively speaking that could be good or bad depending on your temperament. If you want an easy night where you can show up, get your drink, and just ease into a prime seat, San Francisco is your place. In New York city you are fighting for every inch 24 hours a day. It’s trench warfare.
The band is back and the second set is on. It doesn’t take but about a minute for the band to get the sonic sweetness flowing. The dance floor is three quarters populated with all kinds of dance styles being represented. There’s the guy with the dreads bouncing, poppin, and spinnin, like Rerun. There’s the Asian chair massage guy standing in front of the band doing what I call “the dalai lama”, arms spread out like he’s blessing the band with head bowed down in reverence. Then there’s the guy doing what I can only describe as, well, the “pull the shower cap off” dance and he’s into it, just one toe away from being in a dance induced trance. The couple in front of me dressed in urban wear do a non translating California Slide, improvising riffs that revolve around shrugging shoulders and rolling arms creating a wave effect that they ride without the slightest bit of pretension.
Audiobraille is a 5 piece band. I know 4 of the 5 from the neighborhood. Two live on the block. David is on sax, Zori, the lone female in the group, is on a set of tall conga drums, Joel is on the traditional drum set, and Michael is in the corner, almost off stage, on guitar. I’ve already extolled these musician’s virtues on previous blog entries so I’ll skip the history lesson and get right to the exposition. David is taking a contemplative break on stage and his sax gives way to the percussionists and bass. This brings up the meter as bass and drums taking center stage always brings out the primal. The dance floor gets livelier and the people in the shadows at light’s edge are irresistibly drawn into the core of the dance floor. Bodies start spasming to the beats and the scene becomes that painting from Good Times except now it’s all alive and in motion. The band finishes the piece to a healthy round of applause and wolf whistles.
Wearing a silky halter top and skin fitting silky pantalons, a nicely shaped woman dances seductively for a man sitting adjacent to me. She is moving like she is possessed by the spirit of Salome. The only problem is she’s smack dab in the middle of my field of view so I have no choice but to look at her. If I was sitting anywhere else I’d still be checking her out, it would just be governed by the element of stealth. Now I can be blatant and not really worry about it. I can sense the guy next to me becoming aware of my dilemma. Hopefully I am forgiven.
I picked a perfect place to watch the band. I have a seat about 12 feet from the smallish, low rise stage and a candle topped single table to front my beer on. I’m sitting back on the couch that stretches the length of the wall, legs folded over gentleman style, with notebook perched high on thigh and pen frantically scribbling hieroglyphics. My penmanship is my own set of cuneiform. It’s not legible to anyone but myself but people love to look at it. It has a form and vibe to it and if you watch me write you are in for a show. Then pen blazes across the paper with the ever recurring big looping “g”s and “y”s and punctuated dotting of “i”s, and slash crossing of “t”s. My “s”s literally snake across the page like ancient Nagas. I don’t know how it is for others when they write but for me the words and ideas flow like a churning river that I must navigate or be capsized. Listening to live music infects the physical act of my writing, like a cobra being charmed, my hand dances in unison with the music, in a way that never happens when I am listening to recorded music.
By far the best part about my seat are the 5 lovely girls that seat themselves next to me just a few minutes after I scoped my table. They are young, black haired, attractive, and Mediterranean, varying in body style from Marilyn Monroe voluptuous to European model sveltness. They are here to celebrate a 24th birthday, full of giddiness and perhaps a few drinks, this is probably the second or third stop for them. Striking up conversation with them is easy as they are drawn by the curiosity of my scribbling. They ask if I am a journalist. When I tell them I’m just writing a blog entry they still get excited, they think it’s cool. If I was 10 or 20 years younger I would be all up in their business but I am twice their age, although if I told them how old I was they wouldn’t believe it. It happens…every single time, and it does cause me to pause. Everybody tells me, women included, that I should just lie about my age and play the lothario. I’m still working on it. It is one thing to look young and sound young but to be truly young as in youth you have to be in the know in the way that youth is, like when they asked me if the Boom Boom Room was open, they were trying to line up their next destination. I didn’t know if it was closed or if there were any other bars open nearby. Twenty years ago that is information I would have known as it was information that was relevant to my existence, not so much anymore. It’s the same with music or movies, my tastes are far more refined and way more anachronistic in comparison to these mere children I was flirting with. The bar had stopped serving just as I was going to get a round for me, the birthday girl, and her friend. The round was my invitation to hang out with them for the rest of the night. Coming back empty handed is when they prompted me for suggestions for the next bar. Had I been able to come up with one off the cuff, away we three would have went, of that I have no doubt, but instead I flimm flammed and stammered and could only muster an impotent “I don’t know”. Not too sexy so I slink back in my seat and act the gentleman, sending them off with pleasant good byes and nice to meet yous. I am maybe a little disappointed in myself but at the same time a little smiley to know that at my age I can still capture the interest of attractive and juicy young dames by just being me, don’t need an act or a routine.
I don’t dwell on the girls, I just return my attention to the music. Just about everyone is on the small dance floor so I move down a few seats to get real close to the band so I can enjoy the music. Earlier a young gal had walked in who I considered the most attractive woman in the joint. I had only seen her in my peripheral view but that is how hot she was, I didn’t even have to see her full on to know. I purposely kept her in my peripheral view all night never letting her come into focus. I didn’t need to see her in detail, my imagination had already filled in the blanks and she was sheer perfection, in a way that fits my perception of women. As I get comfortable in my new seat bobbing to the beats the young woman in questions slides right into my view directly in front of where I am sitting. It seems she eased her way to the edge of the dance floor so she could dance a little slower than the action in the middle. As she puts her purse down on my table she looks me in the eye. She has a lovely and inviting face. She’s sizing me up and deciding if I am worthy enough to dance in front of. She gives me a sly smile and turns back to the music and starts to do her slow dance. She has a magnificent backside that is nicely framed by some form fitting denims and she is wearing a halter so I get to see her healthy arms and back and her honey colored long hair wearing itself effortlessly on her head. She is soft not muscular, fleshy not skinny. She is a young goddess and she has to know it. She slowly moves her hips back and forth and puts her arms up and I just sit back and enjoy it.
It’s past 1am and the band is still going, giving us a little extra as the place is supposed to be closed and locked up by now. The dancing goddess turns around every three minutes or so and looks at me and gives me a smile, I smile back. Her boyfriend who has been standing beside her the whole time is invited on stage to play the drums. It’s his birthday apparently and he sheepishly steps up. I am wondering if he can play. He doesn’t look like a drummer, he looks like a college kid from a low end frat. He sits down, takes his cue from the band and starts the time. At the very least he knows the basics of drumming and the band joins in. As they get into the set he starts to unstiff himself and starts to jam like a real drummer. He finishes up the set and gets a hero’s welcome from his girl and his buddies. After one more riffing and ripping session the band calls it a night. I mosey on up and congratulate each musician personally for a job well done. After making some small talk with David the sax player, I gather up my Flip video cam and my writing materials and head for the exit. Along the way the dancing goddess is walking towards me. As she passes she gives me a little smile and a small tug on my sleeve. I turn around as I pass her and give her a big smile and a small wave goodbye. For me that is twice in a night, getting the attention of ferociously young and very attractive women. If I was twenty years younger it would not have been the same. I probably would have acted like a fool. But at my age I have acquired the detached aloofness that takes years to develop that can be attractive to young women who are curious and up for the challenge of interrupting my veneer with their youthful charm and beauty. The men of their age are boys in their eyes and when I look at the young guys that is exactly what I see, boys. Boys are fun for young women but sometimes they want to experience a man, a real man.
I walk out of the doors and through the lobby and exit to the sidewalk. I run into David surrounded by a group of boy/men giving him accolades for his mastery of the sax. One is rolling a euro style cigarette, crutched on one end and fluted at the other. Instead of tobacco and hash this one is filled with Northern California’s finest. It’s fired up and passed around while the young men talk about the band they are in. They ask me what do I play and what band I am in. This happens a lot, I think it’s the mohawk. I tell them I’m just here to listen to the music yet they keep asking me what band I am in. I know the herb ain’t that strong, I think when they first saw me earlier in the evening they clocked me for a musician and in their minds they could not be wrong because they are young and in the know. For them I was going to be a guy in a band even if I wasn’t.
We talk a little World Cup and then part ways. I head into the quiet fog with soccer on my mind because my next stop is the World Cup game to be played at 7am between the United States and Algeria. It’s a huge game and I’m meeting my friend David (not the sax player) at Mad Dog in the Fog to watch it. Since I’ll be drinking beer in less than five hours I wonder if I should even bother going to bed, maybe I’ll pull an all nighter and sleep it off after the soccer game.
I’ll let you know how the game went and how the rest of my 12 hours unfolded in part two of “12 Hours”.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Naked
The internet and online world is the latest frontier. Like the universe itself it is vast and ever expanding. I have staked out my corner in this universe with my blog…which hardly anybody reads, or quite possibly nobody reads.
So why do I bother? Do I want to be heard? Do I just want to express myself? I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to be heard, but I’m not very good at self promotion. When I started writing it I only told two people. I didn’t even tell my family. The only way people knew about it was when I started posting links to my blog on my Facebook page.
On one hand I can count the people who have told me they have read some of my blog entries. The few who have read it tell me they like it but they are friends, what else would they say? I started off being somewhat prolific, writing 10 blog entries in the first month. Each month after that the number dropped. After a few months I was down to about 5 entries a month. In January I stopped writing the blog altogether and didn’t write another entry until last month. Some things came up in my life that I had to deal with that took some of the steam out of my desire to write.
But now I am back. I’m back with a different mind set. I’m in a different place now. I am less interested in being heard. Now I am just trying to save myself. When I started writing the blog I didn’t want to bring my present personal life into the mix. I wanted to write about topical things that had to do with what was going on in the world through my colored lens of being a black man in America with what I consider an uncommon perspective. I called my blog the Human Palette but it could just have easily been called Stranger in a Strange Land. That’s how I have felt my for most of my life. Like I don’t belong in this time or this place. The world goes one way and I go the other. I’m too stubborn to follow convention. Sometimes it works for me and other times it doesn’t. The older I get the more out of touch I feel.
As a young man it wasn’t a big deal because as a young person one’s main goal is to find out what adulthood means. It was what me and all my peers spent our early 20’s doing. Now, with 50 just around the corner, I know who I am but it hasn’t changed that feeling of not belonging. The world has changed for sure, but the direction it seems to be going does not want to make me jump for joy. I feel as disconnected as ever. I am sure a lot of that has to do with being without a job for over a year. I was raised to be a working class person and I don’t have any issues with that. I have been fortunate to have two careers that enabled me to have jobs that I loved and work that challenged me. I was blessed to be born into a loving family of people I have the highest admiration for. I have had the pleasure of meeting and becoming friends with many quality people. I know that the people in my life would do anything for me, all I have to do is ask. And therein lies the rub. I can’t bring myself to ask. There is still a chasm that exists between me and the world. In that chasm lies the intimacy that is required to feel connected.
I am a solitary person, it is my nature. Most of what I do in life only requires my presence. This is not a plan, this is just the way it is. My solitary nature is in conflict with the gifts I have been born with. I was given all the tools to be a highly social person. I can make friends with anybody, no matter their creed, race, religious affiliation, or level of income. I can make friends with my enemies. I don’t have ill will towards anyone or any group, but I do have despair. I am deeply troubled by that which I have little power to change, things that don’t necessarily affect me personally but I see affecting others in detrimental ways. I often ask, “what can I do?” My answer has always been to be an example by the way I carry myself and live my life which is basically having respect for all things, keeping my ego in check and letting myself be led by humility.
Now I can not even manage my own life. I am in limbo. I am waiting for something to happen. I live alone. I am not married, and I have no children. It seems strange because I am a robust and healthy person in mind and body, for the most part, the health of my mind IS debatable. I must admit though, I have a skewed sense of who I am, a self image that I sometimes question. I am an oddball, a weirdo, out of time and out of place. I am attracted to the void. I am not one who seeks the light, I am one who seeks the dark, not in the sense of the malevolent or evil, but in the sense of the unknown and the unknowable. I have always had great admiration for the explorers of the world. Those with the fortitude to set out for destinations unknown without the promise of return. I often wonder what it would be like to live in a world with unknown borders, where instead of knowledge exists lore and superstition, to set oneself on a one way path to whatever is out there, to cast oneself gleefully into the void.
Of virtue and vices, I have lost my virtues which leaves my vices lonely and out of balance. They mean nothing to me now so I will lose them too. I know I am not the first poor bastard to travel these nefarious roads, I just can’t see the others footprints, erased by the solar winds and celestial dust that exist beyond time and space. Am I a fool? Maybe life is simple and I’m just not getting it. Go to work (or not), pay your taxes, pay your bills, root for your favorite team, watch tv, go to college, have hobbies, collect things, fall in love, get married, buy a house, have children, die…yes, I am a fool, and an arrogant one at that. The most extraordinary people I know of are dead, people like Lord Byron and Bob Marley, and that bothers me because I will never be able to walk in their grace. They all die young, even Jesus.
I am being stripped bare, to be left naked, by everyday life. Nostalgia and déjà vu bring me to my knees. I drink too much wine and scream at movies I have seen a hundred times, or just cry. I read the daily news and it’s the same shit just a different day. I should be talking to someone right now about all of this chaos colliding in my skull but it’s Lakers and Celtics game 7 and I don’t want to bring my dark clouds and rain on righteous celebrations. So instead I’ve been hanging out with Don Draper since 7am, 11 episodes and counting. A madman watching Mad Men.
It’s a few days before the summer solstice and I’m turning on the heater and busting out the down because it’s San Francisco, the city global warming just refuses to acknowledge. We just got our first Assisted Suicide billboard, next to the 101 freeway. Life imitating art Children of Men style. Our city was chosen because they think we San Franciscans are “clear thinkers”. This town ain’t what it used to be. The City That Knows How is quickly becoming the City That Doesn’t Have a Clue. It’s almost hard to believe that this petri gentrified city was once the infamous Barbary Coast, hands down the wildest place that ever existed in the United States. A place that once felt like your favorite pair of jeans worn so much the denim is ready to evaporate now feels arthritic.
It is time to bring this meandering ramble to a close. If you made it to the end do not feel sorrow for me, I ask you, pity this fool.
So why do I bother? Do I want to be heard? Do I just want to express myself? I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to be heard, but I’m not very good at self promotion. When I started writing it I only told two people. I didn’t even tell my family. The only way people knew about it was when I started posting links to my blog on my Facebook page.
On one hand I can count the people who have told me they have read some of my blog entries. The few who have read it tell me they like it but they are friends, what else would they say? I started off being somewhat prolific, writing 10 blog entries in the first month. Each month after that the number dropped. After a few months I was down to about 5 entries a month. In January I stopped writing the blog altogether and didn’t write another entry until last month. Some things came up in my life that I had to deal with that took some of the steam out of my desire to write.
But now I am back. I’m back with a different mind set. I’m in a different place now. I am less interested in being heard. Now I am just trying to save myself. When I started writing the blog I didn’t want to bring my present personal life into the mix. I wanted to write about topical things that had to do with what was going on in the world through my colored lens of being a black man in America with what I consider an uncommon perspective. I called my blog the Human Palette but it could just have easily been called Stranger in a Strange Land. That’s how I have felt my for most of my life. Like I don’t belong in this time or this place. The world goes one way and I go the other. I’m too stubborn to follow convention. Sometimes it works for me and other times it doesn’t. The older I get the more out of touch I feel.
As a young man it wasn’t a big deal because as a young person one’s main goal is to find out what adulthood means. It was what me and all my peers spent our early 20’s doing. Now, with 50 just around the corner, I know who I am but it hasn’t changed that feeling of not belonging. The world has changed for sure, but the direction it seems to be going does not want to make me jump for joy. I feel as disconnected as ever. I am sure a lot of that has to do with being without a job for over a year. I was raised to be a working class person and I don’t have any issues with that. I have been fortunate to have two careers that enabled me to have jobs that I loved and work that challenged me. I was blessed to be born into a loving family of people I have the highest admiration for. I have had the pleasure of meeting and becoming friends with many quality people. I know that the people in my life would do anything for me, all I have to do is ask. And therein lies the rub. I can’t bring myself to ask. There is still a chasm that exists between me and the world. In that chasm lies the intimacy that is required to feel connected.
I am a solitary person, it is my nature. Most of what I do in life only requires my presence. This is not a plan, this is just the way it is. My solitary nature is in conflict with the gifts I have been born with. I was given all the tools to be a highly social person. I can make friends with anybody, no matter their creed, race, religious affiliation, or level of income. I can make friends with my enemies. I don’t have ill will towards anyone or any group, but I do have despair. I am deeply troubled by that which I have little power to change, things that don’t necessarily affect me personally but I see affecting others in detrimental ways. I often ask, “what can I do?” My answer has always been to be an example by the way I carry myself and live my life which is basically having respect for all things, keeping my ego in check and letting myself be led by humility.
Now I can not even manage my own life. I am in limbo. I am waiting for something to happen. I live alone. I am not married, and I have no children. It seems strange because I am a robust and healthy person in mind and body, for the most part, the health of my mind IS debatable. I must admit though, I have a skewed sense of who I am, a self image that I sometimes question. I am an oddball, a weirdo, out of time and out of place. I am attracted to the void. I am not one who seeks the light, I am one who seeks the dark, not in the sense of the malevolent or evil, but in the sense of the unknown and the unknowable. I have always had great admiration for the explorers of the world. Those with the fortitude to set out for destinations unknown without the promise of return. I often wonder what it would be like to live in a world with unknown borders, where instead of knowledge exists lore and superstition, to set oneself on a one way path to whatever is out there, to cast oneself gleefully into the void.
Of virtue and vices, I have lost my virtues which leaves my vices lonely and out of balance. They mean nothing to me now so I will lose them too. I know I am not the first poor bastard to travel these nefarious roads, I just can’t see the others footprints, erased by the solar winds and celestial dust that exist beyond time and space. Am I a fool? Maybe life is simple and I’m just not getting it. Go to work (or not), pay your taxes, pay your bills, root for your favorite team, watch tv, go to college, have hobbies, collect things, fall in love, get married, buy a house, have children, die…yes, I am a fool, and an arrogant one at that. The most extraordinary people I know of are dead, people like Lord Byron and Bob Marley, and that bothers me because I will never be able to walk in their grace. They all die young, even Jesus.
I am being stripped bare, to be left naked, by everyday life. Nostalgia and déjà vu bring me to my knees. I drink too much wine and scream at movies I have seen a hundred times, or just cry. I read the daily news and it’s the same shit just a different day. I should be talking to someone right now about all of this chaos colliding in my skull but it’s Lakers and Celtics game 7 and I don’t want to bring my dark clouds and rain on righteous celebrations. So instead I’ve been hanging out with Don Draper since 7am, 11 episodes and counting. A madman watching Mad Men.
It’s a few days before the summer solstice and I’m turning on the heater and busting out the down because it’s San Francisco, the city global warming just refuses to acknowledge. We just got our first Assisted Suicide billboard, next to the 101 freeway. Life imitating art Children of Men style. Our city was chosen because they think we San Franciscans are “clear thinkers”. This town ain’t what it used to be. The City That Knows How is quickly becoming the City That Doesn’t Have a Clue. It’s almost hard to believe that this petri gentrified city was once the infamous Barbary Coast, hands down the wildest place that ever existed in the United States. A place that once felt like your favorite pair of jeans worn so much the denim is ready to evaporate now feels arthritic.
It is time to bring this meandering ramble to a close. If you made it to the end do not feel sorrow for me, I ask you, pity this fool.
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