Babylon

After more than a year of my occasional drop-ins and ending-ups at Me Olde Watering Hole, after months of listening to so many stories between Lou and Boone, it's to the point you don't know which parts are real and which are bullshit. Way past the point where it even matters, but just shy of what you really hope is true.

Boone had control of the music. Steely Dan, courtesy of the new mp3 juke hanging on the wall four feet above a permanent dust ring outlining where the old disc job used to be. He had downloaded their entire catalog and wouldn't leave it alone. Boone ordered another round in between the lines of a half-hearted break-up with some sweet young thing and an aging man's bachanalia in TJ. Lou joined us for a change, lightly gripping a shorty as he leaned his hip against the bar. Come to think of it, I don't know if I've ever seen him idle like this.

“I hate that damn thing” he said into the rim of his glass. “Now I gotta redo the whole damn floor. Ain't that a kick in the ass?” 

Boone pulled a James Brown maneuver to climb onto his stool and started tapping a Newport on the bar. “I played all of Gaucho. On random."

Boone suddenly found himself ducking Lou's dish rag. “You know I hate this shit, why'd you go an do that? Can't understand a word.”

While the two went back and forth about the complexities of art and the every day slob's ability to understand it, I faded into the woodwork. Faded to Babylon. Highway 89. 89 minutes with nothing to do but drive, swaddled in a valley like the ones you see sofa-sized at starving artist sales. Scorching my scalp through the sunroof. Listening to the CD she had made. Put a few days and a few thousand miles between me and the inevitable, hoping for the clarity that comes once in a great while. Suddenly I could hear her in the music, us in the lyrics. That music. One last plea that might be wallered in while away. She didn't have to talk.

“Dontcha think?” Boone said, then waited a few seconds for my response. “Hey, Major Tom. C'mon back.”

I snapped back to and got the rundown on the conversation that I'd missed. Boone's point was that just because you don't understand something doesn't mean it isn't any good. Lou thought that the minute you have to explain it, you've failed.

“This is the first cultured conversation we've had in here and you're miles away, c'mon now. Spill it.”

I felt my face go red.

“I was just reminded...I was just thinking about a friend of mine that almost died.”

Pause for effect.

“He was on a bike, hauling ass down this trail somewhere...really shouldn't have been out there alone. He was the last one out and trying to outrun some nasty storm clouds. He's so damn scared, no idea what's ahead and the black is bearin' down on him. Shit, he was just trying to hang on. He's duckin' shit, bobbin' and weavin'. He went over stuff that would've crippled others. The only sound was his own blood rushing by in his ears. Jarring bones and crunched joints.”

“The moment of clarity, right. Listen, we've heard this one.” said Boone.

But that wasn't the moment.

“Imagine the point when you suddenly realize exactly...what it is you want. In that moment, as the Larkspur whizzed by...as the sweat dripped down his face, he thought he knew exactly what he wanted.”

I leaned back, struck a cocky pose on the stool. Pause for effect.



"But he's not payin' attention, see? Suddenly he finds himself looking past the tips of his shoes as he dangles over the edge of the damn trail. Hair pin turn outta nowhere. Had to be...at least 200 feet down. Not a sheer cliff face you understand, but close. Eh, maybe the fall wouldn't have killed him. Maybe just break his legs or neck. Mangled to hell, but he'd live.”

Boone pointed at me and inhaled, but I interrupted before he could identify the moment.

“As he dangled...there was no picture show, no life flashing before his eyes kind of thing. In fact, he said out loud “so...this is how.” He couldn't say how the wreck happened...and he couldn't explain how he clambered back up. His brain redacted all that shit. So he stood there and got his breath for a minute or two...then started walking, just as he heard the first few raindrops hit his helmet. He took the helmet off and threw it in the bushes.”

Boone raised his eyebrows, I shook my head.

“When he crawled in bed...so damn sore, reaching down to pull up the sheet took a lot of effort. It hurt to breath in. Anyway, just as he hit the pillow and that sheet settled on him...he knew exactly what it was that he wanted. Not at all what he expected either.”

This pause for effect was too long. Lou broke the silence with a stern “What?”

“He was separated from what he wanted by a few days...and a few thousand miles.”

He got close to madness that night.

The Taking Lake

I've been along this stretch of shore countless times. I've silently watched a thousand cloud veiled sunrises and sang songs to the moon as it disappeared behind the bluff, blood red. I've listened to the waves crash in one night only to be like glass the next morning. You never know what mood the Taking Lake will be in, morning to morning or night to night.

She's always in motion but you'd never know it half the time. Pay no attention to splashes and waves, the current just past your vision is what you need to be concerned about. It takes things, moves things, puts everything in it's final resting spot.

Each stone on this expanse looks just like those around it. Cold and oblivious to the others, it thinks it's on the way to someplace grand. When I pick up one, I can't help but wonder where it came from. I think about how big it used to be. How long till it's crushed to a grain of sand. I wonder when it finally lost it's edge. Side-arm skip it as hard as I can, offsetting it's arrival to wherever the hell it's supposed to be by another 100 years.

Stare into her for long enough and the Taking Lake will start staring back. She may taunt you to try to upset the natural order of things, to take a few steps in and reclaim that dream you threw away a few years ago. The one fossilizing at the bottom in the dark. She'll invite you to pitch a penny and make a wish only to spit out a green hunk of worthless, unrecognizable copper long after you're gone, the wish still thumb-printed into Abe's face under rust.  


Every bottle with a message that washes up has writing inside that you recognize as your own.You may get the idea to speed things along, seems the easiest way to go about it would be to get in and let go, just sorta go limp and hope you're lucky as that penny.  Fighting it only makes it worse...but isn't that what you do? Seems the best advice would be to let go and let the current take you where it will. You may end up someplace wonderful. Or maybe on the banks of Hell.

Legend has it that she never gives up her dead but for everything the Taking Lake steals, sometimes it gives something back. Each rusted over penny has wish on it, most of which end up as some kid's trophy from a day at the beach.

 

Pohjola's Daughter and The Drowning Man

I had no idea, but one of my favorite little cafes is actually date night central on Fridays. I didn't know this because I'm normally there in the middle of the day in the middle of the week, somewhere round about 3 when I almost always have the place to myself. Not only were there more people there, the menu was different so it was weird and kind of exciting all at the same time.

The hostess (another new wrinkle) seated me then shortly looped back around and sat down a glass of ice water, silverware, and told me the waiter would be right over. Wellll, not exactly right over. The place was packed and the staff was slammed, but I didn't have anywhere to be so...what the hell, I waited and took the time to do a little people watching.

It was a really interesting mix; mostly couples my age who probably had sitters at home with the kids, but there was one couple a few seats away that really caught my eye. They had to have been in their mid 80's, the guy had pants up to his armpits and the ol' gal's wig wasn't on quite straight. They were sharing an entree of pasta, duking it out with their forks over who got which meatball. He kept putting just the end of one strand of spaghetti in his mouth at a time, then he'd slurp it in real slow with his eyes wide open, staring right at her. The opposite end would bap him on the nose or the cheek each time and she thought it was the funniest thing. She played footsie with him under the table and kept motioning for him to lean in so she could wipe the sauce off his face. Then he'd go right back into his routine and make another face at her.

Now, I don't hear too good in situations like this. A big room full of conversation along with clanging dinnerware is normally a recipe for disaster for me on the hearing front...what I get is mostly static. But the couple at the next table over for some reason was fairly audible. I kinda half tuned in as the hostess brought over a basket of rolls. This guy was fighting way above his weight. He was trying his damndest to get anything out of his date; something more than just a yes or a no answer. It was the standard battery of questions: where'd you go to school, are your parents in town, what do you do, yadda yadda yadda. His date was dressed in an outfit that would've been perfectly acceptable at a wedding reception...if she was one of the bridesmaids. Really elaborate make-up, dangly earrings and some sort of mock tiara holding her hair up. Our man was in a shirt and slacks combo that made him look like a neck-down model in a five-and-dime weekly flyer.

She wasn't giving him much, didn't seem too keen on asking questions herself, so in an effort to keep the dance going he started in telling more in-depth things about himself. With each story, she rebuffed. He kept shifting gears, trying new approaches, and finally asked her if she liked old cars.

“Yeah, classic cars are cool.” she said flatly.

Paydirt. “I've got an old Ford truck I'm restoring in my garage.”

“Ew. I don't do trucks.”

I've never seen a guy inflate then deflate so quickly.

As the waiter shoe-horned his way between our tables to take my order, she excused herself to the restroom. After he left I looked over to their table and watched as our man ran his fingers through his thinning hair and exhaled heavily through pursed lips.

“I'm drowning over here.” he said, noticing that I was looking his way.

Did you guys just come from a wedding?

“No, this is an online thing, I met her here. I didn't know it was going to be formal. This is my best shirt.”

I asked him if he had ever heard the story of Väinämöinen and Pojhola's daughter. He said that he hadn't, accompanied with a rather confused look.

Väinämöinen is the hero in an epic Finnish fairy tale. He's got a big scraggly beard and a magic sled. He's looking for a wife when he gets into this adventure, searching for a stolen artifact that can create just about anything.

“Is this going to take a long time? She's gonna be back any minute.”

Are you kidding? You've seen the way she's dressed. Besides, from what I've heard she's probably talking to her roommate, telling her to send a text in a half hour to get her out of here.

“Go ahead.” he said.

So he's on this adventure when he runs into Pohjola, the Daughter of the North. She's hangin' out on a rainbow, weaving a gold cloth. Väinämöinen says “hey, you're pretty cute...why don't you jump in my sled and come along on this little adventure with me?” She says she'll only go along if he can do a couple things for her...like tie invisible knots in an egg and make a ship out of her little weaving tools. He thinks “well hell, I'm Väinämöinen, I'll give it a go.” Well, as it turns out he can't tie the knots and ends up with egg on his face, and he cuts himself on his axe trying make the ship. It doesn't take him long to figure out “damn, this is some bullshit...ta hell with this, I'm flying on down the road.”

“So?”

So...every fair maiden has a test for her suitor, and that's her right. Just because you're not pushin' her buttons doesn't mean you're a bad guy, you're just not her hero. And you, you just gotta keep on keepin' on till you find yours. Look over there at that old couple in the corner.


"The one with the guy cleaning bolognese out of the bottom row of his dentures in the water glass?”

Yeah, that one. The woman he's with doesn't care. Maybe she loves him because of it, not in spite of it. They fell for each other because of who they are...not who they aren't. And don't think you're the only one havin' it rough. Think of Pohjola's Daughter, sitting up there freezing her ass off on that rainbow. She's waiting, too.

“So now what?”

Now, you finish the date. Keep doin' what you're doin', be polite and mind your manners, do the awkward hug at the end...then forget about it.

“Aw man, here she comes.” he said, tensing up again.

I told him not to worry, that I'd cover for him.

I started in on the punchline from some old joke; “...and then he says to the guy, he says “rectum?? It nearly killed him!”

Laugh? Our man nearly fell out of the chair.

A Pound of Flesh

It took almost a full pint with Lou and Boone for me to cover the high points of my annual Dirt Worship trip. Truthfully Lou only half listened, Boone was mesmerized. I told them about the dangers of hidden cactus and trails reclaimed by landslides. Line-of-sight navigation by posts through overgrown sagebrush and 9% grade switchbacks. Boone nearly went off the back of his chair when I told him it took 4 hours to do the first 5 miles of day one. It was the most rugged country I've ever seen. In some spots there would've been no evidence of man for miles if it wasn't for the rutted-out trail we were riding on.

Lou came swabbing down the bar with the same rag he just used to dab his sweaty forehead. “They've got roads out there now, you know. You coulda taken a car. Man, if you break down out there, you're in a lotta trouble.”

Yeah, trouble. Like when you roll into camp with a half hour of daylight left wondering how far back the other three guys in your group are. Making the effort to go in and try to help will end up in more people stuck out in the 48 degree dark. Thanks to all the recent oil activity out there, cell phone coverage is better than you'd expect. The three greenhorns called 911 and the operator found them through the phone's GPS. I'll bet Lewis and Clark are shitting in their graves. Anyway, the Sheriff dropped them off in camp around 10 o'clock. They said their bikes were in a ditch somewhere. They promptly grilled hamburgers and garlic bread, washed it down with PBR boilermakers. No shit. All that after bonking on the first day.

Lou told me that I was stupid before turning to wash some glasses. After snorting a few obscenities he started in with the scolding. “Why would anyone pay money to do that? And in that place? I drove my first and third wives through there for vacation. Miserable place.”

Going by car is different though, because you see everything from a tin can, like an amusement park ride. I prefer Hemmingway's take on it; the only way to really get to know a country is by bike. You see the land as it really is because you sweat up each incline to enjoy coasting down the other side. When you reach the top, you see the land as only a handful have seen it, in a way that never translates on postcards. It's the sight of miles of pure, wild grace that makes you forget your legs feel like they're gonna fall off. You marvel at stunning views from a car at a wayside, but after a hard climb on a bike you'll cry when you see it if you have any soul in you.

I told him that I fully anticipate something to happen on every one of these trips. The risk is part of it. That's the adventure. I'm scared to death before every ride, wondering if my legs will hold up or if I'll have a nasty crash. But I can prepare for those things...what, am I going to not go? Am I going to not know? It's in those last few revolutions of the pedals coming into camp that make every tumble, every missed turn, every cramp, everything...it makes it all worth it. You made it.

Lou said “Bet you'll never do that again.”

Actually, I would. I'd turn around and ride back into it right now if I could.

Boone chewed on the end of his swizzle stick with his eyes at half mast, locked squarely on me. He pushed the bourbon supported ice in his glass, then pointed at me all wet-fingered.

“You know why you keep going back?”

I finished my pint and shook my head.

“That's your pound of flesh. Jumpin' in the hurt locker like that, that's your offering.”

He grinned, tapping his Newport on the bar's ledge.

“You don't see it, do you? The land is your church, it's your sweat lodge. Those wheels are your prophets, your spirit guides. You're out there followin' posts, but you're really lookin' for a sign...hopin' for a vision. You get out there and bust down every physical wall you've got on that thing...that's how you get your mind right. All you have to do is finish the ride, nothing else means shit.”

Lou turned down one corner of his newspaper and said “I still think you're stupid.”

“Nah, he's still waitin' to hear, that's all.”

“Dumbass.”

Life is a lot like riding a bike; to keep your balance you gotta keep movin'. Ol' Albert Einstein said that, and he was a pretty smart guy. Hell, it might also be a microcosm of the whole damn universe.

Recently Heard Around the House

And when I say 'heard' I mean 'spoken'. By me. To Radar.

Hey buddy, you want the last of this beer?

Don't you act like that, I steal extra plastic bags from the grocery store to pick up your shit!

Hey man, I'm gonna take a little nap here for a bit. Why don't you wait till I'm in a nice deep sleep then come over and jab me in the face with your jagged-assed paw? Good boy.

C'mon. Let's go shit on rich people's front lawns.

What, you're not gonna sleep in my bedroom no more? Fine. No, fine. Go sleep in your room. No, don't try to apologize, I don't wanna hear it. I'm gonna start charging you rent so go find a freakin' job, asshole.

No, don't stifle it! You just drank like a gallon of pond water, let 'er rip buddy!

Don't look at her, you'll turn to stone.

Leave it. Leave it! LEAVE IT! NO! GIMME THAT! Don't eat...oh wait. No, I'm sorry you can eat that. What? I said I was sorry.

Don't worry. You get to go.

Nightswimming

At the end of an extraordinary evening, with an extra spring in my step, Radar and I laced up to patrol the lake. After sprinting across the main road and a couple blocks of sniffing later, we settled into our normal night walk stride; a midnight mosey. The heat of the day is gone, all that's left of it is a thin layer of fog on the water. Peepers peep and crickets creek, interrupted only by the wail of crotchrockets a few avenues over and the hum of fluorescent light every 40 paces. We're the only ones around for half a mile, keeping watch through spider web fuzz and mosquito buzz.

Radar took his slack once we hit the boat ramp at the far end, went in like a ninja and was neck deep before I knew what he was doing. I didn't lock the leash, just let him go, and within seconds was watching him putt around with only his nose and ears showing.

I watched. I stared. I called his name and he disregarded. I smiled. I looked over each shoulder and took off my shoes and socks. The lake was like bathwater that had been left too long. Radar was 16 feet out, putting around silent as a Minnkota. I slid my shirt over my head, threw it on top of my shoes and strolled in, giving Radar more slack. The first few feet are deceiving, once chest deep the water was cool enough to take my breath away. Radar came by in silence and I unhooked the leash. I don't think he even noticed, he just kept swimming around me in wide circles, till I finally lost the bottom. After a few seconds I came back up and rolled onto my back. Suddenly the stars were incredibly apparent.

The Poor Man's Phillip Seymour Hoffman

At Bob Hope Memorial airport it was a crystal clear day 

just north of that Los Angeles existence, 

the palms were still out on North Hollywood Way 

with the Metrolink clanging in the distance. 

Against the backdrop of Angeles National Forest 

The Poor Man's Philip Seymour Hoffman emerges
spilling out with stars and tourists 

to satisfy the most disgusting of habitual urges. 

He slips on his shades as the doors slide back 

he reaches for a smoke but there's none in the pack.

“Damn...” he spits seeing only smokeless lips, 

“better check again” patting down his pockets and hips. 

"Nobody smokes in Burbank."

The carousel switched on and started to rumble 

as he scanned new arrivals all shaded under sill, 

the first bag hit with a thick thud tumble in that 
No Smoking palazzo for packs, if you will. 

He spots some cat standing alone with a cigarette 

puffing away at the edge of the sun, 

he played piano with Miles' second great quintet 

but as far as smoking he's the only one.  

Thinking up something clever to say 

The Poor Man's Philip Seymour Hoffman went his direction,

gotta be quick 'cause he's just a few steps away, 

something cool with nonchalant inflection. 

You had better be desperate askin' for a smoke 

'cause in California nothing could be bolder,

for a better chance at a toke he made nicotine the joke

after tapping Herbie Hancock on the shoulder.

No shit.

The PMPSH rolls up and taps Herbie.  “Excuse me. I hate to hassle you or anything. Uh, I was wondering if...”  He paused and tented his fingers in front of a clenched smile, Herbie began reaching into his suit coat for a pen with an 'awe shit, I've been recognized by a white boy' look.

“And they're really expensive now and all, but I've been in coach for like, four hours and had a really shitty connection...can I get one of your smokes?”

Herbie stopped and sized him up over the rim of his sunglasses, then went for the opposite coat pocket and pulled out his cigarettes. Without a word, but a grin just tight enough to keep his lit cigarette in place, Herbie angled the open box toward him.

“Ah, thanks so much.” he said, tugging on one of the filters. Herbie said to take two, they're small, then handed him his lighter.

The two stood there side by side in silence for a minute, inhaling and exhaling that sick, succulent smoke. Tastes like shit. So good. The PMPSH is shitting himself at the idea of standing next to one of his jazz heroes, smoking after a little 'boop, gotcher nose...', cool as a cucumber. Then without breaking his gaze off  the hazeless forest foothills, the PMPSH delivers a line I'm sure blew Herbie away.

With the cigarette in his mouth and two fingers across his lips he says to Herbie, he says “By the way...I think you're incredible.”

That's how cool the PMPSH is. On stage he's a chameleon, he can take you from Victorian London to the swamps of Florida by just rearranging his beard. Letting his hair grow out or cutting is close. But it's when you really listen to him, when you really pay attention to what he's doing onstage that you start to get the idea he does just as much homework (if not more) as the real Phillip Seymour Hoffman. With the PMPSH, you get all the look and commitment at fire sale prices. Give him a decade and he'll be the Reasonably Priced John Lithgow. Actually, I'm gonna say twice the commitment because that's one of the things I really admire about this guy. He never let go of the dream.

It's always a big to-do when he comes through town on one of his thrice annual sojourns. He's the crazy brother that never shows up empty handed and fits in with any situation. We catch  up in the push-and-shove of getting ready for a dinner party in a kitchen that would be small on a two-man submarine. 

He can charm the paint off the wall, this guy. I'm always glad to see him come through, but imagine how I felt when he told me that on his most recent visit, we'd be in the second row to see Elvis Costello and the Imposters. Lemme give you an idea...this is the guy that introduced me to Tom Waits. Now, Elvis Costello is to the PMPSH what Tom Waits is to me. He's rabid about the guy. And it's contagious, this enthusiasm. Me, I've always liked Elvis. After that show, I'm a devotee. When he plays a ballad his guitar purrs, dripping of sex. Next it's got you jumping a rattle-trap train before taking a break and starting another set screamin' like a son-of-a-bitch. Elvis sweat through at least two suits, for cryin' out loud. Played for three hours, lots of crowd interaction. He walked right by, like a yard away fer crissakes. Only one little bit of disappointment, I thought I might be able to steal some of his guitar tricks but, no dice. I only saw him from the waist up when he was playing guitar, my view excellently blocked by a large, solid podium painted deep red to match The Wheel in the background. 

I had to settle for watching his Go-Go dancer jiggle.