50 Years of Angst

Damn luck

2019-06-19T12:20:00.000-04:00

Went to the 'artificial' beach at the Port of Soller last week (artificial meaning rocky, I guess). Sun went away, wind picked up. Didn't feel like swimming anymore, but I didn't feel like leaving, either...got bored, made some videos.

Shamanic Photograhy Series III

2016-09-18T10:53:00.002-04:00

Shamanic Photography Series II

2016-09-18T10:38:00.003-04:00

Shamanic Photography

2016-09-18T10:34:00.003-04:00

Altar para mi hijo

2016-05-23T15:39:00.000-04:00

©Chuck Steak

Rapid Scetchsic

2016-03-09T11:50:00.003-05:00

©Chuck Steak

The Motorcycle Accident

2016-02-07T10:32:00.001-05:00

Ever been in a serious car or motorcycle accident? Were you seriously injured? Don't be shy, speak up...

The $500, Honda 550K.
Note full face helmet on sissy bar.

The physical trauma, sense of mortality, the sounds and smells at the time, the blood...no one just forgets about an event like that. Being grievously injured poses an immense physical and psychological hurdle to clear after the accident. Hearing about it is usually pretty boring, like someone telling you about a dream they had. So here's my boring story...

I bought my first motorcycle when I was 20, a used 1978 Honda 550. I paid $500 for it. I went to a bike shop to buy a helmet; prices ranged from $50 for a basic brain bucket to $250 for custom painted racing helmets. I asked the salesman how much I really needed to spend. He shot me a condescending look.
"How much is your head worth?"
I returned a cheapo helmet to the shelf, and picked up a weighty full-face model that had a small scratch on the visor; it was half price. Wish I could find that salesman now and thank him...

I kept the bike in a friend's garage upstate. I rode it weekends, on well-paved, bucolic roads that wound around scenic lakes and reservoirs near the border of New York and Connecticut.

I upgraded to a second-hand 1980 Suzuki 850 that been suped up with a carb jet kit, racing exhaust and a custom paint job. I had it shipped to the west coast when I moved to Los Angeles.

Everyone told me a motorcycle was a mistake in Los Angeles. When I argued that I was an experienced rider, they said it didn't matter; it was a city with too many cars. No one looked out for bikes. Guess who was right?

I lived in Venice Beach, four blocks from the ocean. I had finished a sushi dinner with a friend near downtown, and was riding home down Lincoln Boulevard, Venice's main drag. I crossed an intersection as the light turned yellow. A 17-year-old driving his uncle's car was stopped on the side street. He saw the cars stop at the red light, and proceeded through the intersection, not seeing me.

From the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of white light from his headlight. There was an impact, and then I saw earth-sky, earth-sky. That was my body flipping through the air. Then there was nothing.

The GS 850.

I woke at the bottom of a swimming pool. Somehow I could breathe in the tranquil water; I was looking up at a warm light, with soft music playing. I was incredibly warm, relaxed, blissful.

An annoying siren and flashing light invaded my reverie. I came to and looked into the bluest eyes I'd ever seen--a paramedic staring down on me, with a worried look on his face. I realized I'd been in an accident, was lying in the middle of the street, probably injured. Always wondered how long I was unconscious...

An involuntary, agonizing groan escaped me when they put me on the stretcher. My shoulder was broken. A crowd was on the sidewalk, watching. I looked into the eyes of a woman with a horrified look on her face. In the ambulance, I told the EMTs, "I can't move my legs, but my dick is killing me. That's not good, is it?"
"No, it's not," one of them said.
I could wiggle my toes, though, so I knew I wasn't paralyzed.
"So how's the wife and kids?" I asked him.

I had been riding with my legs stretched forward, feet resting on illegal pegs attached to the roll bar. Upon hitting the car, my body slid forward and slammed into the gas tank, splitting my pelvis and severely bruising my privates, which later turned psychedelic shades of purple and yellow, to the marvel of doctors, nurses, friends and anyone else who wanted a peek. The rearview mirror caught my right leg, tearing it up and causing nerve damage which remained for several years. Ultimately. my head and left shoulder slammed into the pavement. I separated my shoulder, but as that salesman surmised, didn't crack my head open. Somewhere in the crash I broke my right thumb as well.

I spent the entire night in the emergency room getting x-rayed, cat-scanned, poked and probed. When asked what happened, I coudn't remember anything except a white light; they feared a concussion, and taped my head to the gurney so I couldn't move. At 6 am, a male nurse came in, looked at me with pity and asked if I was in pain. I nodded slowly. I was also exhausted.

"Would you like something to put you to sleep?"
I nodded again.
He gave me a shot of Demerol. Immediately I felt a rush flood through my veins, like warm honey. I figured heroin probably felt this way. I also started to turn green.
"Do you feel nauseous?"
I nodded again.
He gave me another injection, and just as rapidly, the nausea vanished. Now I just felt wonderful. Within three minutes, I was out cold.

I woke up in the critical care unit. A day or two later they rigged a steel triangle on a cable over my bed. With the four working fingers of my right hand, I could pull myself up and adjust my position, since I couldn't move my left arm or my legs. My first visitor was a hospital lady holding a clipboard, asking for insurance. I explained that I didn't have any.
"Then how do you expect to pay for this?"
"The accident wasn't my fault. I'm sure whoever hit me has insurance."
She pursed her lips. "Let's hope so, Mr. Sabatino." She turned on her heel and left.

Every two days she would return and ask the same question.
"Any news on the insurance? No? I think we should move you to a county hospital. It'll be less expensive."
I was at the UCLA Medical Center in Santa Monica, an excellent hospital. I still couldn't move my arm or legs, was on a drip feed and hadn't experienced a bowel movement yet--parts of my body had shut down, still deep in shock. They were still debating whether to operate on my pelvis; a doctor told my family he didn't know when I would be able to walk again. I really didn't need the added stress of worrying about payment.

Ultimately, I spent 12 days in the hospital. A pelvic specialist came in and said he thought my pelvis would close up and heal on it's own, which it eventually did. A hand surgeon sewed up my shoulder; I never had problems with it again, although my softball glory days as a centerfielder were over. The police report put the blame squarely on the driver; insurance poneyed up a cool hundred grand. My lawyer took $25,000 off the top, bargained down the hospital bill to $30,000, leaving with me $45,000. I put it in the bank and forgot about it for several years; it never seemed real to me, since I didn't earn it.

I never met or heard from the guy who hit me. I held no grudge against him, it was an accident, and I made a full recovery. But he could've at least apologized...

Lights From A Camera

2015-12-26T22:57:00.001-05:00

I wanted to post my favorite personal photo of all time on Facebook for my daughter, with a "Merry Christmas!" caption. I only have an old print, so I took photos of it with my smartphone. To my dismay, the camera flash 'ruined' all the photos. I took a closer look before binning them, though, and decided I liked these better.

The Hand of Fate

2015-12-26T19:50:00.002-05:00

©Chazspain

Logo from a screenplay I wrote a million years ago...

The Choice to be Grateful

2015-11-22T11:08:00.000-05:00

Reading the NY Times on a Sunday morning, I came across a sort of Thanksgiving screed..., written by one Arthur C. Brooks.

I submitted the following to the comments section. I have changed/added some of the phrasing since then, but the essence is unchanged:

I've found gratitude to be a product of age...I'm 53 years old.

A few examples...
--I'm still alive, watching the sun rise and set each day. A number of my friends, family and acquaintances have died from drugs and alcohol, accidental death and disease.
--My innumerous blunders and failures have made me grateful for the lessons they have taught me; my successes have been gifts to be savored.
--Kindness shown to me and offered to others have become self-evident in the joy and richness they reward me with.
--Loving deeply, employing quiet meditation, and living in peace with others has allowed joy to naturally seep into my life
--As the superficial pleasures of shiny objects fell away, I could not fail to see and appreciate the intense, awe-inspiring beauty of plants, animals, mountains, sea and sky. Simply gazing at the beauty and absorbing the bounteous energy of a nearby tree has turned around many a day in my life.
Gratitude, which also includes preservation--of the gifts of nature that literally nurture us--clean air, water and earth--are not only keys to enriching our life, but also giving forward to those that come after us, creating an unseen harmony with all that exists, both inside and outside us.

Nature's Flashlight

2015-11-13T13:06:00.001-05:00

Oh, mystical, magical moonlight
Nature's Flashlight
What size batteries do you take?

Bathed in your celestial light
No instruction manual
In different languages
With lots of typos

Tides recede before you
Who holds your receipt?
Where is your remote?
Is there a limited warranty?

Ineffable, untouchable
Rarified and untariffied
No coupons
No markdowns
Unreturnable
Crappy space junk!

Mallorca, August 2015

2015-10-31T20:21:00.000-04:00

Top 10 Infinite Items For Teens

2015-01-12T13:47:00.000-05:00

1. Household items like paper towels, toilet paper, shaving cream, shampoo and conditioner...
2. $20 bills in dad's wallet
3. Gatorades in fridge
4. Gasoline in car
5. Mysterious kitchen-cleaning elves

6. Pairs of sneakers needed

7. Fertility (for additional baby brothers/sisters)
8. 24/7 parental car service
9. Clean, folded towels within reach of shower
10. Weird people staring at them at any given time

The 50 Years of Angst Theme Song

2014-10-21T22:44:00.000-04:00

Little. Tiny. Moths.

2014-10-14T11:53:00.000-04:00

No use dallying, equivocating, soft-shoeing, or hiding the truth with high-falutin' phrases...just gonna spill it.

Indefatigable:

Plodia interpunctella.

This summer I had dozens--if not hundreds--of moths living in a camouflaged sleeper-cell in my house.

Daily they alit without fanfare on a low ceiling, patiently waiting for me to grab the nearest fly swatter and smash the living bejesus out of them. Didn't just buzz in from outside...there was obviously an exogenic source, from somewhere in that dark, dank, Hobbit-like lair.

Yes, the food pantry: that self-same breeding portal where unloved soup cans and jars of weird pickled stuff go to expire and die.

I suspected trouble in the grains. Perhaps the randy procreators were fornicating in one of the expensive, gorpy cereals my children tentatively tasted and passed on (Lucky Charms and cereals with similar hauteur were always consumed in less than a day).

Maybe they birthed in our luxurious assortment of exotic nuts, expiration dates spanning geologic eons. Or from the tumultuous assortment of Far East pablum, milled exclusively for people with no teeth—exorbitantly priced pouches of organic couscous, bulgar, quinoa, fair trade lentils, millet and ho-hum sorghum.

The crackers could be guilty…my son's tried-and-true method was to knock off nine-tenths of a sleeve, bequeathing the remaining also-rans to posterity. Quite the selection: multigrains in reassuringly simple, geometric shapes; flavorless standards like Melba toast and water crackers; gluten-less flatbreads, some really old matzohs, carbon dated back to the Dead Sea scrolls. And of course, all the alternative snacks that were a healthy decision to buy, but entirely too boring to eat: rice cakes, veggie/banana chips, dried mango slices…

Perhaps the moths were sugar junkies, sired and bred in the innercity, ghetto section of our cupboard: adolescent bughood in the tawdry glare of powdered Nesquik, oil barrel-sized iced tea mix, talcy brownie mixes, caustic cupcake powders and chemical-laden cake compounds.

Refreshing, economical and packed with nutritional larvae.

Let's not forget the poorly clasped, colicky bags of seeds and supplements...failed and forgotten saw palmetto, pumpkin and flax to supposedly aid my 50-year-old prostate; scary sesame seeds, stored in plastic bottles that could double as swimming pools for toddlers if sawed in half; suspicious looking black, beedy-eyed celery grit. So many possibilities...our pantry was a virtual Sodom and Gomorrah for licentious, horny anthropods.

Not only moths thrived in this utopian ecosystem. On the pantry floor sat open bins, where aggressively sprouting potatoes busily rooted themselves into the fiber of worn linoleum. White, yellow and red onions merrily formented, with orbiting TTBs (Teeny Tiny Bugs) hovering overhead in fetid clouds. Killing field cloves of garlic tragically imploded in on themselves, recoiling into their own hoary skin, living proof of the horrors of fision--well, maybe not, but still--totally gross. All of these aforementioned alien tuberisms sported an added grace: brownish ooze--a viscous goo possessing the most noxious smelling odor in the known universe.

Leaving the scene of pantry waste disposal.

Whatever object that ooze touched was cast out immediately, far from home and hearth. I dumped tasteful, fake-antique crates from Williams-Sonoma; revered nesting bins from Bed, Bath and Beyond; pretty clay bowls snuck past customs agents years ago...

So why not don a fashionable Hazmat suit, employ a mean-ass, contractor-grade garbage bag and throw away absolutely everything? What do you think I am? Some kind of wasteful, ugly consumer/ part of the problem/children are starving somewhere/landfill-loving maniac? Maybe one of those sundry items wasn't infested. Throwing away perfectly good food is a sin. Just ask my mom...

The Problem Solver

2014-10-04T18:03:00.001-04:00

Everything was gone from my house--all our crap from the first two floors, overflow items from the vacant basement apartment, plus ancient stuff from a 70-year-old attic...even detritus from the backyard shed. But there was one implacable object that wouldn't budge.

The piano....an upright motherfucker that a pro piano tuner had years ago declared untunable and unworthy of further investment. It was my mom's favorite inanimate object of all time, but really--unsentimentally--it was literally the 400-pound beast in the room. I needed some added muscle to get this sucker out of the house.

That yellow harp inside can break a man.

When I moved out of the house a month earlier, I hired immigrants standing outside Home Depot; they walked out on me. Two Ecuadorians: one tall, around 30; the other perhaps a little older, short and chubby. They wanted $130 each, but I wouldn't budge...$100 for five hours of labor--two of those hours being travel time. After 10 minutes of haggling, they agreed to take the hundred bucks. They hopped in the 16-foot rental truck, and we were off. I was relieved; I could only afford the truck for one day, had taken a risk on unknown labor and besides, the forecast was for heavy thunderstorms. It looked like it was going to start pouring any second.

I speak pretty decent Spanish, and tried to make conversation on the way to my house, asking where they were from, how long they'd been in America and how they liked the Bronx. They merely looked down, muttering curt responses. Finally, I gave up. After all, I didn't have to be buddies with these guys. That's when they started complaining...

"I don't know, Señor Charlie...not a lot of money...."
Their attitude and overall shitty vibe was starting to irk me.
"We haven't even started yet! Stop complaining, we made a deal."

I showed them the work to be done. After making two trips down the steps with bureaus, the tall one said, "We can't continue for less than $130."

I looked him unflinchingly in the eye; I didn't like these guys at all. "I'll go right back to Home Depot and get two other men. I'm not paying you any more money."

The chubby one handed back the gloves I had lent him. The tall one said, "We want to work tranquilo."

They walked off without another word, leaving my daughter's chests of drawers in the middle of the sidewalk, the heavens about to open. I stood there in absolute shock, watching them disappear down the street. On the drive over, they had been discussing how far we were from the subway...I figured that's where they were heading. There was no easy way to get back to Home Depot...they were going home, probably to watch soccer on satellite tv. They never had any intention of doing real labor on a Sunday.

How I made out the rest of my moving day is an inspiring testament to perseverance, strength and sheer will--in other words, it's boring--so let's revisit the friggin' piano...

Awaiting the grim reaper/NYC sanitation dept...

I wasn't thrilled about another go with immigrants, so I tried the opposite route--hiring not only legal workers, but specialists. I called a piano company in the South Bronx that had a moving department and warehouse for storage and disposal. They wanted $500 to take it away, even though I told them they didn't have to be polite with the instrument, could throw it down the stairs for all I cared. Didn't matter to them. $500, dead or alive...

The next day I was back at Home Depot, but with a different purpose...

I explained to the guy in the rental department about the monster in the living room.

"Know what you need?"
I shook my head. "A guy with muscles bigger than my head?"
"A problem solver. Know what that is?"
"A guy with both brains and muscles bigger than my head?"
"Sledge hammer. No messing around with one of those."

I pictured myself clumsily swinging the crude tool, launching splintered shards of wood into my calf muscle. However, the chain saws on display were sleek and powerful...

A half-hour later I had the chain saw at the ready, waiting to tear into the tender flesh of polished mahogany. Once I touched saw teeth to piano there was no going back. The instrument would never play Chopin or Chopsticks again. I pushed the thought out of my mind and squeezed the trigger. The deed was simultaneously effortless and brutal--in less than a minute the piano was cleaved in two.

I examined the remains. The upright part of the piano contained a cast iron harp, which held the strings taut. It was machined into the backing with about 30 screws, most of which refused to budge. The sucker was still too awkward and heavy for me, even with the hand truck I had rented. The beast had gotten the best of me.

I was standing outside beside the keyboard half, a defeated look on my face. My neighbor pulled up in his van, asking what was up. He took pity on me, calling his 22-year-old son and bringing over a furniture dolly from his garage. Together the three of us grunted, groaned and coaxed the upright spine down to the street, step by step. When we dropped it on the pavement, it emitted one last, cacophonic crescendo...

The long arm of the memory.

I cried a little on the way home, thinking about how much my mom loved that piano. But I did keep a memento...

The Earth Orbits Around The Sun Every 365 Days Hoax

2014-09-30T12:53:00.000-04:00

I 'officially' turn 52 in two weeks, and have decided this has gotta stop, here and now.

Whatever idiot designed this whole 'add one more, every twelve months' system is really pissing me off. I have a feeling one of those credit score agencies dreamt the whole thing up to make money, so I've been following up. I've scoured conspiracy forums on the internet for leads, but haven't found the correct thread, which proves beyond any doubt that a conspiracy exists to hide the conspiracy. Can't fool me...

When I was 29 and 11 months, I tried putting my arm out several times a day--like a crossing guard signalling STOP--yet I turned 30 anyway. Because I was a mealy-mouthed wimp, I put up with the charade. But no longer.

Figure if I can't debunk what I call, "The Earth Orbits Around The Sun Every 365 Days Hoax," then there must be a product I can purchase on the internet that will prevent this from happening. Some kind of Scotchguard that I can spray myself with, or maybe the furniture or the dog. Something to stop this infernal, annoying and utterly unnecessary 'year older' nonsense.

Sorry for the rant, but someone had to say it...

Name Your Band Day...

2013-09-19T14:02:00.000-04:00

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

2013-09-11T13:43:00.000-04:00

BY ROBERT FROST

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
______________________

My mind lives in those woods....

Other Things To Sleep With.

2013-08-28T13:55:00.001-04:00

The scenario: Right side of queen-size bed, now vacated by spouse.

Recently discovered storage space.

Replacements for breathing human being:

All blankets/sheets not currently employed
900 page hardcover book I've lost interest in
Empty ice cream bowl
Laundry, not yet sorted/put away
Hammer, still unhung wall picture/clothes peg
DVD too lazy to put in player
Unread mail/flyers/brochures
Glasses, keys, cellphone, wallet, loose change, gum wrappers, other contents of pants pockets
Unrealistic To Do list for tomorrow (excerpt: Find new career)
Dog...forget it, pal. GET DOWN! Down! Down!
Pillows in various shapes and sizes
TV remote control to knock off bed while asleep, sending batteries flying

My Dog Gazes Not Upon The Moon.

2013-08-24T21:59:00.000-04:00

For Blanca...

My dog gazes not upon the moon,
Nor remembers when you left in June.
He pull-pull-pulls and sniffs and pees,
Lifting bandied leg for a merry wee.

Yet we walk as two, we do,
Seeking the trees, thinking of thee.
Abroad, likewise with no thought,
Of Gaia's light, tranquil summer night.

Hi ho! Goes us, Coco and me,
Anointing trash cans, scratching fleas.
Turn up noses to all the roses,
Feeling queer after all our beer.

Damn you, moon! I snap the chain,
Canine tarry, dreams of Spain.
Merely foolish glow, no telepathic spark,
Linking father's gaze, or little dog bark.

10 Reasons Why I Cannot Renovate A Basement Apartment.

2013-08-21T09:06:00.000-04:00

My house in the Bronx currently hosts a ruined basement apartment. The basic plumbing and heat are functional, but everything else--and I mean everything--needs to be ripped out and replaced. Antiquated wiring, cracked plaster walls and ceilings, ancient water damage, mold, along with a total lack of insulation...all beg for a complete tear down. Looked in the Penny Saver, called a contractor...figured I'd start with the bathroom. No problem, said he: $7,000. Can complete the job in two weeks. I don't make seven grand in two weeks, tell you that...

I have tools...how complicated could it be to do it myself? What if I studiously watch a few This Old House videos and dive in, hands first? My propensity to screw things up is enormous, though. A project typically starts well, until a huge tear appears in the space time continuum; everything subsequently goes straight to hell. All labor and materials get sucked into the great black hole that encompasses my basic incompetence, lack of motor coordination, and paucity of common sense.

Harking back on my Mr. Fix It alter ego throughout the years, I painstakingly quantified each and every blunder. The results are staggering:

1. Bent nails, stripped nuts/bolts/screws: 2,391

I blame my dad. He bought all his rusting, misshapen tools at tag sales. Since he was always working, I was left to my own devices when faced with an implacable quandary--like a flat tire on my bicycle. The quarter inch locking nut has always been my nemesis...axle nut on my bike, oil pan guardian on my beloved Toyota Corona...I prefer to strip them with adjustable pliers, then fall back on a fail-safe combo: locking pliers and a lead pipe for leverage--instantly guaranteeing destruction of any hexagonally-sexed object.

2. Pounds of superfluous/spilled cement: 1,875. Sacks of cement left out in rain: 14

A good friend clued me in to the mystical properties of cement. He spoke in hushed terms of "the throw"--a carefully selected dollop of wet cement tossed from a trowel into a waiting crevice. Performed with proper aplomb, the cement sticks, fills and spreads, without further manipulation. 20 years later, I'm still waiting for a successful 'throw.' My typical diaspora:
throw/miss
throw/near miss
throw/hit! slowly ooze out again
throw/miss
Repeat.

3. Snapped jigsaw/hacksaw blades, ruined/broken drillbits: 136

Misfired bazooka, or drill hole? You decide...

I call this the never-learned lesson of the Smoking Drillbit. While attempting to hang the wife's newly acquired painting that you secretly hate, you randomly drill into the wall, and hit something hard. What the hell could that be? No worries...switch to the masonry bit, dial up the drill speed to maximum...the macho 'hammer' setting. Still not penetrating? Lean on that sucker, put some weight behind it, you little girly-man...Whammo! You bust through whatever interference was present, puncturing a hole in the wall the size of a cannonball. Congratulations, Hercules...

4. Crooked cuts and mismeasures, circular saw/jigsaw: 96

A good carpenter measures twice..correctly. And riddle me this--why own a proper workbench, when you can use the top of your washing machine in the basement? A further admission: I own electric saws; they scare the hell out of me. The rpms and roar from a circular saw rival a Ferrari, while jigsaws possess that strangely frantic, to and fro motion--similar to a dog humping your leg. No thanks...

5. Articles of clothing ruined while performing manual labor: 63

Yes, I own work clothes and shoes, specifically for wear on dirty jobs. They lie catatonically in my bottom dresser drawer, patiently awaiting paint splatter and spackle. Unfortunately, I'm never wearing them when I arrive home from work, to discover the screen door/toilet/dishwasher magically broken, sans culprit. Well, gosh darn it, that can't wait another minute. Lemme grab my toolbox...

I'm smokin'...

6. Broken/busted wooden handles and grips on axes, trowels, screwdrivers, etc: 45

Muddled mottos, #17: "Any tool can be used as a hammer, especially when you can't find one."

7. Blown/tripped fuses, near-electrocutions: 33

Yup...today's the day I replace the old outlets with three-prongs. But wait...The kids are playing video games/watching tv/microwaving popcorn, I can't possibly turn off the juice...I'll just be careful. Sure. Nothing like 120 volts coursing through your body to make you feel alive. I've been shocked so many times, light bulbs glow before I touch them. Let's not forget the thrill of crossing live wires, hearing that loud POP! and being temporarily blinded--think flash powder, Abe Lincoln era photo. Now both my lights and the house lights are out. Sorry, kiddies...

8. Kicked over/spilled gallons of paint, thinner, other extremely corrosive liquids: 16
I really make a point of being neat. The trick is to follow a carefully executed series of steps:
--Lay down drop cloth (usually an old fitted sheet)

--Place paint tray on stepladder shelf
--Climb ladder
--Paint with roller until arm's length reached
--Climb down ladder
--Move ladder, catching leg on fitted sheet
--Tip over paint tray, spill semi gloss everywhere.

9. Burnt out battery packs/tool chargers: 8

That new DeWalt/Mikita tool is on sale for only $50, what a deal...when you forget to unplug it six months later, the $42 replacement battery will be on sale --when shop vacs can fly.

10. Injuries suffered while employing tools, requiring emergency room visits: 6
I've chainsawed my hand, bonked myself on the head with steel pipes, hacked into my thumb with a meat cleaver, blowtorched my fingers, fallen off ladders and roofs, sawz-alled my leg...you can read more about my injury-prone life here.

So who do I write this check out to?

Saran Wrap Lobster

2013-08-16T10:44:00.000-04:00

Could he breathe in there?

When I'm out galavanting, trying to make money--namely, doing field work--one of my can't-miss procrastination techniques is to stop at the supermarket.

With the sudden realization that a terrorist attack/natural disaster can occur at any time, there is simply no alternative to an emergency stop to purchase bare necessities like peaches, hand soap, English muffins and more canned tuna. Yesterday I was on Bruckner Boulevard; a huge discount supermarket resides on the service road. A penned off area in front of the store prevents shopping cart theft, with a security guard booth manned 24/7 as well. Sort of a paradox, since paying the security guards is probably more expensive than replacing a few nicked shopping carts, but who am I to say...

The premium quality canned tuna was not on sale, but the store had live, 'wild caught' lobster at five bucks a pound. I love lobster--better stated, I adore lobster. Not only were they cheap, they were a fairly good size--close to a pound and a half on average. After getting the attention of a fish monger, I picked out an especially large, lively specimen busily clamoring over other more lethargic compatriots.

I used to be a fish monger myself, working in the supermarket near my university. The workers in the deli section teased me, claiming they ate free cold cuts while I labored with smelly fish guts. I never said a word in reply, and for good reason: I ate like a king there. My department had a walk in freezer; it was one of the few areas out of sight of the store manager. There was also a professional steamer and a toaster oven, for some unknown reason. I never stole anything from the store, but felt that whatever I could eat while on duty was fair game. Large sea scallops and breaded oysters were a favorite out of the toaster oven; two pound lobsters were summarily tossed into the steamer. 10 minutes later I'd retire to the freezer to wolf down my prize. Customers would be calling from the counter; I'd emerge with mouth still full, butter dripping down my chin. Should've just opened a mini restaurant on the spot...

Coming to a theater near you: Killer Trout.

Women would request freshly butchered trout from the large fish tank, then retire to another part of the store while I did the evil deed. I'd knock them out with a large mallet, chop their heads off and clean them. Sometimes they'd still be quivering while I wrapped them up. One night I dreamt that our shower at home filled up with water, and was soon teeming with live trouts that had teeth like piranha, nipping at my legs.

I used to place the live lobsters in paper bags, but yesterday this employee folded the tail under the chest cavity, laid the beast on a styrofoam tray, and ran him under a stretch-wrap machine, slapping the UPC label on top. Now the lobster couldn't budge an inch, or get any air.

The carnivore's hypocritical conundrum had raised i'ts ugly head: I had every intention of boiling this creature alive, then literally ripping him lip from limb for my greedy consumption...yet I was concerned he might be suffering in this styrofoam wrapper. What had I done?

There were still a few stops to make for my work assignment, but I kept thinking about the severely constrained crustacea in my trunk. Was it possible for a lobster to get a charlie horse? As a fellow long-legged creature who had flown coach his entire life, I knew the agony of prolonged constricture.

I arrived home and anxiously freed the lobster from his mummified plastic enclosure. Small bubbles were gurgling from his mouth; a few legs tentatively flexed. I grabbed a butcher knife and plunged it into the gap between carapice and head, killing the creature instantly.

While Mr. Lobster sat steaming on my stove, I melted some butter and lemon, reflecting on my cold, depraved existence. I had taken another small step forward towards my inevitable Karmic undoing, staring into the murderous, bloody abyss of my own carnal cravings.

I retrieved the now pink lobster from its pot, placed it on a large plate, and cracked open the larger of the two claws. Taking that first sumptuous bite, I arrived at a comforting, overly-simplistic conclusion: something that tastes so heavenly cannot possibly send me to the depths of hell. Bon Apetit!

No Reply...

2013-08-06T10:34:00.000-04:00

HTML Goddess:

Don’t feed the bear…you’ll only encourage him.

Sometimes I’m confused/amazed when women who obviously have a gift or talent for the written word, deign not to reply…many times the idea of a date is secondary to me (although my testosterone would beg to differ). It’s simply nice to make a connection.

Perhaps to satisfy my straining ego…was she entertained? Confused? Did she think I was clever? Sophomoric? Eccentric or crazy?

I once wrote several hundred words to a woman who mentioned three different times in her profile that she was allergic to garlic. I described a potential first date at a restaurant, whereby I continually ordered clove-heavy plates like shrimp scampi and broccoli rabe, meanwhile adding asides and trivialities, like staining my polo shirt with pistachio spumoni…I closed by asking if she would have an osmotic reaction to the garlic I consumed if we were to kiss later on. It was intentionally ludicrous and over the top; she never replied. I had no real interest in her, but would’ve loved to be the proverbial fly on the wall when she read it…is that obtuse/insulting/insensitive of me?
It just begged for some sort of commentary.

Sacred geometry?

Alas (alack) I paid you not one compliment, which a proper gentleman would do. I could’ve commented on your full mouth and comely smile, or your raven hair (cliché alert), framing such a beautiful face. Perhaps mention the baubles (pearls?) which grace your neck in silverprint #8. I could’ve established more commonality—e.g., an aversion to the cold and Cleveland—or shared my interest concerning the energetic, pyramidal force of canned goods on Arthur Avenue.

I learned this lesson recently, when I wrote to a beautiful painter. I feigned shock, demanding to know why she chose to live in my Godless borough (painters usually live in Brooklyn), asking facetiously if she had a strange obsession with 99 cent stores and habichuelas. There was no reply…I revisited the tone and intent of my letter and wrote for a second time--something I’d never done before. Specifically, I apologized for my unbecoming familiarity, my curtness. I commented on her beauty and considerable talent (I did like the paintings she posted). Within an hour she replied, with some humorous comments and questions of her own. Funny, that…

Apart from my wife, I am not entirely divorced from other realities. Reasons to be Ian Dury/ignored:

--An aesthetic preference is to be expected; some women (perhaps many) wouldn’t find me attractive. I get that…
--For all the wherewithal and mental, allegorical or transcendental gymnastics, I am still lawfully married--bound to another, harking back to those fervent vows, oh so long ago…
--I am 50 fucking years old. I still have trouble accepting it--yet the number won’t back down or blink, no matter how much I threaten to beat the piss out of it. 50 remains there, staring at me with a bored, cold detachment. 50 possesses no overt malice—it simply adds lines to my weathered face at will, taking its pound of flesh literally and figuratively, resolutely plucking words, ideas and hair from a once nimble mind/scalp--much like drawing thin straws out of a flimsy cardboard box. I still leap and caper with spryness in my dreams, but the corporal reality lags further and further behind. Don’t get old, sez me mum…
--I have offspring/children/fledglings. They require attention/time, diligence, money and innumerable sacrifices.
--I live in the uncoolest borough, perhaps the unkindest cut of all.

However, I still ask you (rhetorically and on this single occasion—no need for a creep alert): are sparing words a distraction from your literary endeavor, so precious they cannot be spared or tossed before swine?

On another note/tangent/wafer-thin sphere of existence: why (oh, why) can I write streams of prose about the vagaries of life, love, aging and existence to a complete stranger, but when I turn my attention/antenna to gathering/collecting thoughts concerning a particular vein/theme, there are none to be found?

Although…what I’ve jotted/typed here is not totally without merit…perhaps Lucifer’s seal has been broken, the blockage has been cleared, the doors have reopened to the public (Hurry! These prices won’t last), the miasma/mental goop has melted away, and I can, indeed, write again. We shall see (said he, muttering and patting his pockets, for some unknown reason).

And there (here?) it is (‘tis?): Another ‘thing’ written and oddly finished, spit (spat?) into the cyber-wind, clinging/adhering/sticking to the digital underbelly of another's OKC epidermis--to be scraped, scrubbed and excised into the nether-hells of dubious anonymity.

Cheers, my dear Goddess…

Chuck Steak

Africans in The Hippie House.

2012-11-13T11:37:00.003-05:00

Our house in Mallorca went by many different names: Ca'an Descombros or Sa Cosa Nova, for reasons described here. Mayan calendar devotees who camped in our backyard for the Day Out of Time called it Temple 13. Other folks dubbed it the Hippie House, due to the various people we let live, conduct classes or throw parties there before we renovated. With a huge open entrada originally meant for a horse and carriage, a big terrace out back, no nice furniture (or nice anything), and plenty of privacy, it was a great spot for either a quiet group meditation or raucous New Year's Eve party. At one point we had two Muslim Moroccans living there (one devout, the other decidedly not), a homeless woman from Barcelona, and two Nigerians. The most interesting interlopers though, were the Nigerians.

One big happy family.

Africans and Moroccans were emigrating to Spain en masse 10 years ago; their cheap labor helped fuel the housing boom sweeping the country at the time. My wife met a Nigerian at the large finca where she worked; he was living in a tent in a cemetery. She told him he could stay at our ramshackle house for the winter, since we would be returning to our apartment in the village when the cold weather came. Immigration laws were lax; a fixed address registered at a town hall was the only requirement needed to work. Two Nigerians lived at our house; 16 claimed residence. They were all God-fearing men from the Igbo tribe; the majority didn't drink, smoke or swear. Needless to say, I had little in common with them. We didn't charge rent due to the primitive living conditions, but were treated to copious amounts of delicious banku to eat in exchange.

A Mallorcan delicacy is baby goat, slow-cooked in a stone oven. The Nigerians claimed it was wasteful to eat such a small animal. To prove their point, they went to a farm and bought a six-year-old male goat, had it slaughtered and cooked it. The significance of bygone, quaint euphemisms like "You smell like a goat" suddenly became luminescently clear. Innocuous adjectives such as 'smell' or 'odor' are too timid--these animals stink to high heaven. A rutting male goat can be smelled a quarter-mile away.

We parked at the far end of our driveway and were walking to the house when the first noxious vapors wafted over. We immediately opened every window in the house. They were boiling the meat in large cauldrons of water. My wife's sister and husband took one look in the pot and made a quick exit. Insisting that we partake in the feast, I was served a plate overflowing with unidentifiable offal, assorted organs and animal parts; I could discern an ear with some remaining fur on it, along with billowy organ parts, valves and vital connectors still attached. Fortunately there was a bottle of wine; we immediately started quaffing with abandon. My wife took a few sips of broth and declared herself stuffed to the gills. Engaging in an intense mental exercise--mind over matter--I finished the entire plate, one awful bite at a time. It was by far the worst thing I'd ever eaten. Asked if I was ready for another heaping plateful, I insisted I was quite sated, incapable of ingesting another morsel.

Smoldering trash on the outskirts of Onicha.

Apart from that meal, we became enamored with the stories of Nigerian village life, and were determined to visit the country ourselves. We needed visas to enter the country, requiring a trip to the Nigerian embassy in Madrid. The consulate official didn't believe it was for a vacation; tourism was nonexistent. He insisted I was conducting business, and demanded to know what it was. After 10 minutes of redundant questioning, our meeting was going nowhere. I wondered if I was supposed to bribe him, and muttered in Igbo that we'd get to Nigeria with God's grace. The official paused, raising his eyebrows; he asked me to repeat the native phrase. Hearing it again, he was suddenly satisfied; he offered me something to drink, and said our visas would be ready within the hour.

Although I wouldn't call the trip a mistake, it taught me that experiencing a non-western reality can be a sobering experience. Lagos is one of the armpits of the world. Disembarking from the plane, the first thing I noticed was the dim light. It wasn't exactly cloudy, but the sun seemed to be obscured by a thin grey patina, with a feint smell of sulfur in the air. It was dense, impenetrable smog, permeating the city around the clock. Ancient trucks belched black diesel smoke, sitting hopelessly trapped in midday traffic. With no municipal disposal/pickup services, trash burned in large piles in indiscriminate places. On the major thoroughfares, six lane highways were reduced to two lanes; rusting hulks inhabited the other four. Traffic lights were smashed, presumably destroyed in some long ago riot or coup. Potholes were so large and unavoidable that drivers simply drove down into them, cautiously emerging on the other side. Side roads were unpaved dirt, which became large untraversable lakes during rainy season. All vehicles had every distinguishable panel and part etched with the license plate number, to avoid theft. Overburdened telephone poles sagged with the weight of hundreds of cables precariously intertwined; electricity in banks and other businesses flickered on and off all day. All buildings were walled off with doubled razor wire or broken glass shards. Even small fast food restaurants had armed security.

Local children always
gathered around us.

Children played in open sewers running in front of their homes. We saw scattered fist fights in the middle of streets. Through it all, crowds appeared immediately around us. Many had never seen white people. "White man! Welcome to Nigeria! You are welcome here!" Local children pressed in to touch my four-year-old daughter's hair.

We drove seven hours out to Anambra state, to the village of Igbo Ukwu. Every twenty miles or so, we'd encountered ad hoc roadblocks made from stones and old tires. Policemen holding automatic weapons stood solemnly waiting. For 10 or 20 cents, we were allowed to pass through. We passed through Onicha, another large, dirty city sorely lacking basic services. The village, however, was a revelation.

To be continued...