What's New, Pussycat?

Somewhere Raymond Chandler is smiling....legendary blues musician, 'Deaf' Willie is coming from Detroit to play in Cotati this Friday. Deaf Willy is the love child of a Chandler novel and a lonely saxophone. Only with more whiskey. Funny whiskey. Well, not funny whiskey, Johnny Carson whiskey.

I first heard Deaf Willy 23 years ago. We have been friends ever since. I love Deaf Willy, but am willing to risk our frindship and reveal a secret. Shh. Don't tell. Quiet. {{Whispers}} Deaf Willy is not deaf. He is dyslexic and that's why he has to 'sign' the blues. Has to.

More later....including the story of the Tom Jones-Deaf Willy secret tapes.

Damn good soup

Lazy today. Thought I might head into the office, but aborted that thought upon opening my eyes. 9:20 am. Mixed feelings about sleeping in....am I being lazy or just paying attention to the rest my body needs? I have gone years waking up early....unresolved conflict. Good thing its not keeping me up at night....{{smirk}}

Had dinner with Dad last night. Entertaining. He ran an idea by me about him becoming a partner in a small hotel in Mexico. Apparently the hotel is very secluded and could become an ideal "swingers" destination. Which would triple the room rates. Fortunately this was not my Dads idea. Someone else's speculation. Innovative marketing though. And Dad had the themes worked out. Week 1 would be straight couples, Week 2 lesbian couples, then gay men. I guess week 4 would be "All Skate" as they use to say at the roller rinks when they let everyone on the floor. For the most part I kept my mouth shut not wanting to overly engage in the conversation. Preferring to keep most of my knowledge to myself in Dad's presence. Actually my knowledge, details omitted, is more peripheral than actual. Discretion prevailed nonetheless.

And of course I had the soup last night before the entree. I was obliged. Destined thematically. It was roasted tomato, red pepper and mountains o' garlic. I think I'm still hallucinating. You know a soup is good when you start seeing vapor trails. Culinary psilocybin. "Hey Dad, you look like Jesus". "What?"...uh never mind.

Later the garlic fueled dreams kicked in.....last thing I remember was being about 15 and ready to play football. Our team was losing and coach wouldn't put me in. I couldn't stand it. Was pacing the sidelines, desperate to play. I was 1st team....outside linebacker. I'd kill those guys. Coach finally put me in...I only remember one play....slow motion of course. I made the tackle despite smudged glasses and some undiagnosed chin strap problem. Then 9:20 am. Eyes open.

The dream was plenty comfort. {{This soup metaphor theme I started may be more powerful, more prophetic than I realized}} Even with 3rd grade interpretation skills, the dream was very positive. I'm ready to and dying to get back in the game. Whatever it is. Whatever the "game' is. I just have to remember not to overlook the small details to succeed.

Damn good soup.

Storm Coming

Talked to Ginnie and Jaxon today. Everyone seemed morose earlier. No longer second guessing Hunter S. Thompson. Prematurely ready for that Jim Jones cocktail party. Helloo....Guyana. I'm sure our collective attitude is related to the constant rain and clouds....but now the mood is lighter. As are the skies. Although NOAA just issued a severe thunderstorm warning. Nickel size hail coming. I just heard it on the radio. I'm listening to Jaxon, he is live on air this week. In fact, I just called in to give him the answer to a trivia question....I didn't win anything. I want big money gifts. Who else knows the guy (Earle Hagen) that wrote the Andy Griffith theme song? Hmm? Bastard! Oops better be nice, I need to borrow some Lipitor. Psst, can you gimme 140 milligrams till the end of the week?

Ironically I think a really good thunderstorm will be cathartic. A cleansing. I went through two class 5 hurricanes while living in the Virgin Islands. Wow. Never forgotten that.

Uh oh...I just looked out the window. Those are some badass clouds out there....I can hear the thunder in the distance.....thunder closer....this is going to be good....

Two hours later....storm passed too quickly. No drama. Oh well.

Going to meet Dad for dinner.

Dark Introspective Thoughts

Hunter S. Thompson dead. Hard to believe he would commit suicide. But there is definitely precedent. Richard Brautigan, Sylvia Plath. Ernest Hemingway. Others. Sigh. I guess we know today "For whom the Bell Jar Tolls".

The death of Hunter S. Thompson tempered my mood. Last night I watched "The Simpsons" drop in a Thomas Pynchon reference. It was brilliant. The bag over Pynchons head. The "Gravity's Rainbow Cookbook". Very obscure stuff though. Watching the Thomas Pynchon scene was disheartening though. I was alone. The moment needed to be shared with someone, anyone, who recognized its brilliance. Laughing at an inside joke by yourself is....well the only word that comes to mind is pathetic.

Yesterday in the Jacuzzi I had a brief moment of mortality. Realizing I'm 51 and well....where am I? I never did go through a mid-life crisis per se. No conscious angst. My three year party boy stint in Las Vegas could certainly be construed as a mid-life crisis. But yesterday, I wondered if a real crisis was looming.

In response, I vowed to myself to become more focused. More tenacious. At least with respect to "micro battery business plan." I have never really stopped to think about it that much...but I'm sure that what I use to define myself is process. Dynamic process. Right now, I'm only engaged in a few minor processes. Win or lose, I want to be engaged in a major process. Something that will shake the world. I think that if I would have had children, I might not feel that way. Or at least I would have the process of raising my children to engage me. But since I don't, I need a figurative birth. Something I can give life to and will in turn give life back to me....

Saturday on Sunday & Psychotropic Zen Poker

Its Sunday. I know that. Feels like Saturday though. Apparently the weekday gods have overslept. Or just experimenting to see if anyone notices. Sundays are quiet. Saturdays are loud. There's about 20 decibels difference. Saturdays are Chinese hot and sour soup. Sunday is miso. Saturdays are Spike television. Sundays are A&E. Somebody switched menus and programming feeds. Hmm, soup. Maybe later. That interim thing.

Sigh. Still miss Clyde. I drove by his old place the other day. The tears came without warning. I only tried to hold them back so as to avoid an emotional wreck on the freeway.

I have a big poker tournament later today. $100,000 total. I have won this same tournament before. It was $50,000 then. {{Thank you, thank you}} Takes perfect decision making and some luck along the way. Some people have said poker is really a zen exercise. The Thursday night game with the boys certainly isn't. Cigars and beer avoid saffron robes. But big tournament poker has definite zen elements to it. To win, you must transcend contradiction. Understand that Saturday on Sunday is adopted quantum physics. {{Whatever the hell that means.}} The other thing about tournament poker is jungle patience. It's required. And a killer instinct. Stone cold, no conscience, no remorse, taste blood, killer instinct. A pacing cold-war Russian assassin. Eyes vacant.

Actually the image that I get when I am winning is a semi truck. A huge overloaded semi crawling up the I5 grapevine in compound low gearing. I start in Bakersfield and head south toward LA. Diesel engines cranking. Inching, inexorably toward the summit. Angeles national forest looming. A sign of victory.

I also notice that drinking water helps me win. Carrot juice too. I'm sure there is science that explains this. It's not psuedo coincidence.

It also helps if you become slowly insane during the tournament. I'm serious. Start with a generous amount of psychotropic drugs that control insanity. Provide temporary rationality. Then let the drugs wear off during the tournament....turn into a raging, unpredictable, drooling schizophrenic. Make people afraid of you. Very. Nothing like a truck driver, in a carrot juice induced psychosis, weaving between lanes to clear the freeway. Make everyone pull over in a panic. Push the chips this way please.

Well maybe a jacuzzi will turn the noise down. Turn Sunday back into Sunday. But if I have to order from the wrong menu....at least I get to eat. So, I'm grateful.

Tournament results later. Hopefully I'll do well. If I get knocked out early though, I do have plans. Going to clean the espresso machine. I don't wake to wake up again and start out the wrong day with a dirty quad latte.

Update: Finsished in 475th place out of 487. 13th out of the tournament. My A,K got beat by a 9,3. Hmm. The truck never even made it out of Bakersfield.

Sex Sells. Mooches Galooches Babers

Mmm. Morning. Quad latte. Reasonably lucid this morning despite bad influence friends last night. Kristin called late last night...kept me up for an hour. She recently quit smoking and felt it was better to torture me than her kids. People who quit smoking get mean. Vicious. And Kristin felt comfortable being mean & vicious to me. That's friendship. That's love.

Woke up in the same rayon shirt I wore last night. Looking at the shirt would explain my wrinkled night mares.

Checked my bank statement online this morning. My match.com membership is good for another month. I don't even remember signing up. Hopefully, I'll remember to cancel. I think I read the other day, that its time to quit online dating when you recognize someone at Home Depot from their online profile. Good advice. Every woman in Trader Joes is beginning to look familar. "Is she the one that likes Sushi and Costa Rica", I wonder to myself. "She looks good". "Ooh, cute butt". "She's been working out". "Why did I not write her"? I continue wondering. Oh yeah, must have been the "No Television" in her profile. My casual interest suddenly replaced by a health vs. taste corn chip decision. Oh yeah, I need salsa too. Ms. "No Television" probably doesn't even like corn chips. {{figuratively rolling eyes}} Or salsa. Or cheese. Or grapes. Mine apparently more sour than hers. The prissy bitch. A trip to the grocery store suddenly transformed into a misogynistic rant. Wait, I love women....contradiction prevails. I'll get the fat filled tasty corn chips.

Sigh. I guess that's why I have to quit online dating. My disqualification filters have gotten overly refined. It's too easy to spot all the reasons indicating sure incompatability. Antique furniture, bad grammar, conservative politics, camping (huh, who goes camping) and the ever popular "walks on the beach". A sure sign of high emotional maintenance in 50ish guythink. Unless 'walk' has become a euphemism for 'fuck' count me out.

My friend Amy got it right. In reply to the question "Where's the best place to go on a date?" Amy said "On a date???, don't you mean with a date? Because the best place to go on date is uh, down". Instantly 26 million men fell in love with her attitude. Amy is now engaged to the man of her dreams. Dry and wet. The "one". She may even leave Indiana. And I'm happy for her. Mooches galooches, babers. Remember you still owe me two bottles of wine and the story of the North Korean state secrets.

To be continued....

A 'mustery' for the incapacitated

8 shots of tequila. WTF was I thinking. I'm 51, I know better. I know tequila is not my friend. I have managed to stay away for 10 years, from the soul-stealing temptress that is tequila. And who was the little She-devil bitch-wench that started this middle age massacre? Who started the over 50 crowd drinking? It was a party for a friend, an engagement party. I gave an impromptu, though ill-recieved toast. I think the adopted memory theme may have been too abstract. In fact, I'm sure of it. Banker type people don't like abstract. Makes for bad loans. And then segue to motown music and tequila. Oh god does my head hurt. Last time I did that much tequila, I started doing Shakespeare in a Calypso accent. 12th night reggae something or other. I checked though. The "Body Parts Zombies" did not take advantage of my misfortune. Nothing tangible has been taken. Arms, all that good stuff are still intact. No, only intangibles were taken. Pride, self respect. coherence. I last remember launching into a lecture about how I thought 'Cunt' was the most powerful word there is. Yeah, that much tequila. Anyway, I think the cunt lecture should be buried for lack of seductive value. Most women just don't get very hot when you use that word for any reason....it's not a 'wet' word.

And where is my car? Holy bah-jee-bus, where is my car? Did the Body Parts Zombies drive off in my car?

And the worst part about this debauchery is on a pain and suffering hangover scale, I'm only about a 4. There are some knitting needles burning blue-white hot in my temples, but no violent wretching. No prime rib with horseradish memories to clean up. Which means no lesson learned. I could be tempted again. I didn't wake up with any tattoos, piercings, animals or hookers. Hookers don't like the word cunt either. Not actual first hand knowledge. But, I'm guessing.

Fuck, no lesson learned. Cuervo Gold. Hmm. Oh god I could be tempted again. Because the the little B.F. Skinner paradigm has failed. The shock following the action was too weak to diminish the uh, uh,.......where was I? Am I even referencing the right guy?

Where is my car? Holy bah-jee-bus.

Thank you Body Parts Zombies for not stealing anything precious. Please bring my car back. And remind me never to give the cunt lecture again, no matter what. Please. I'll give to your charity. The Body Parts Zombies Childrens Cancer Fund will get a generous donation. They will.

Holy bah-jee-bus. No lesson learned.

Wait, If I don't have a car...then how did I get home? A mustery, er mystery, for the incapacitated!

I'm thinking about a Bloody Mary and a nap. Maybe some soup later. That would be good.

Commentary vs. Instruction

I remember walking into the UC Berkeley undergraduate library. It was a while ago. Pfft, a long while. I had probably taken some LSD. Most probably. Inside the library doors was a sign that said "Library Entrance". Huh? We are already inside the library! Well, some local wit, I'm guessing a sardonic existentialist, not a ROTC guy, had scrawled the following words on the sign "the banality of this sign is out done only by the boredom which it seeks to preserve".

That is commentary. Biting. Satrical.

Of course I also remember that Emo Phillips said, "Some mornings it's just not worth waking up and chewing through the leather restraints".

That is instruction. More biting. More satirical.

Hedonism now. Defying the laws of physics, postponed.

Sunday 7:41 am. Sun languishing below Sonoma mountain. Reticent to rise. Quad latte half gone. It's quiet again today. Waking up in a Lorca novel. Senses still filtering most light and noise. Cooperating to maintain the mood. Solitude embraced.

Played poker again last night. I only play in tournaments. Played perfectly. Didn't finish in the money, but hey that's tournament poker. The important thing was re-discovering lost skills. Remembering who you are. Who I am. Online poker is decision making with limited information. Risk reward based on probability fused with randomness. And capriciousness. Like predicting the mood swings of a 13 yr old girl. My decisions were perfect, the results were mixed. Caprice. I can live with that. Easily.

Talked to drag queen Tesla yesterday. As usual, his attention span was less than 10 seconds. No resolution or pertinent information. Defying the laws of physics has been postponed a day. Today maybe. Something to do between now and the game, I suppose.

Yes, the game. Super Bowl later today. Guys together. Our lives bigger lies now than last year. And food. Food food food. Dietary restrictions suspended, like not having to go to school during a snowstorm. Free pass. Cioppino, smoked salmon, fresh crab, cheeses; cambozola bleu and gorgonzola, Sonoma County merlot, pinot, zinfandel, roast pork loin, sourdough bread, pasta marinara from Jaxon, now Jaxon-Vicario. Savor. Enjoy. Laugh. The game is no longer a game, just a catalyst for a mini bacchanalia. Our yearly three hour dance with hedonism. New Orleans sliced thin. We deserve it, more or less.

We deserve it.

Clyde Erman Taff, a tribute.

This is my first blog...it is a tribute to a friend. A eulogy, if you will. I miss him.

Fade to Black

Clyde was a black hole in space, not because astronomers and all the rest of us could never really identify his location in the universe, but more because of his gravity. Clyde had gravity. Major gravity. And for a select few Clyde had major anti-gravity. As a warning at least half the stories I will tell here are embellished or even made up, but I don't care. I really don't care, as Clyde truly deserves to be remembered as a life embellished. Let me say that one more time, Clyde deserves to be remembered as a life embellished.

Special Effect(s):

the many facets of Clyde...a man who taught himself pyrotechnics, loved to sail, be in Tahiti collecting black pearls, a man who asked asked little and gave more of himself than anyone knew...a man who was comfortable hanging out with drag queens in Oakland, "say sailor, got your paycheck"?, riding harleys with Hells Angels, driving Roger Waters Ferrari in England or getting drunk and trying to pick up German college girls with David Bowie...for the record they didn't score. Apparently, because the girls had never heard of David Bowie. I can just imagine Clyde sitting there laughing his ass off, totally unfazed, telling David, "Hey Ziggy, yeah you, Superstar, tell em your with Duran Duran" and that was the thing about Clyde, he could disrespect you in a way that showed he truly cared.....in contrast to the David Bowie drinking incident Clyde hardly drank at all. But there is a side story here: For 10-15 straight years, Clyde would spend New Years eve at the Grateful Dead Concert. Clyde had a special assignment. Clyde would waltz in around the 28th and 29th of December and be given total creative authority to design the New Years eve special effect. I'd show up with Clyde just to hang out and soak up the perks of friendship. Hey catered food! It wasn't unusual for Clyde to look at me and say, c'mon we are going out to pick up 10,000 glow in the dark ping pong balls, "um okay, Clyde"....anyway, around 11:30pm every new years eve Clyde would disappear for a very private celebration. Clyde would go off and pour a glass of champagne for himself and two guests, one of whom was Bill Graham...Clyde kept most details of that annual moment to himself although he did tell me that it was Bill Graham's only drink of the year. Amazingly or perhaps typically, Clyde was there. Apparently, they would all make a toast and the three of them would only have only one or two sips and go back to work....what did they toast to? My guess is Bill toasted his escape of the Holocaust and Clyde in turn toasted his escape from an ordinary life....Actually I don't really know what transpired as Clyde was always blase about his annual toast with Bill. He never called attention to it, perhaps knowing that his private status with Bill only existed because Bill knew Clyde would keep things to himself. And contrary to the casual perception of Clyde it was that ability of total discretion than in part defined him, as Clyde knew how to keep secrets, secret. How, when where Clyde bonded with Bill to be part of that exclusive inner circle, I never knew, and I am comfortable with that remaining a secret....Clyde was privately generous, giving Christmas and birthday gifts to many children....Clyde lived large, but lived simply......he came to stay with me in Las Vegas and slept on the tile floor of the living room rather than the guest bedroom "um okay, Clyde" We drove to New York together a week after 9/11. Clyde was there to help me with a project I was doing...Clyde asked nothing for his time and even tried to reimburse me for his share of the expenses simply because he loved New York, "Greatest city in the world" Clyde often told me...Clyde saw the world, all of it....while doing pyrotechnics for Pink Floyd, Clyde was in a semi truck and got stopped on the Russian Border. This was back about 20 years ago. So this wasn't Rodney King, "can't we all get along Russia", this was badass Mike Tyson Russia. This was, automatic weapons drawn, I'm going to kill you, Russia. In the back of the semi were 40 tons of explosives and there was American smart ass, Clyde Erman Taff sitting up front of the truck...nothing like shooting off fire works in the dead of winter for Russian Border patrol agents to demonstrate the innocence of your agenda. Special effects. Then the border patrol agents waved goodbye. Do svidanya. Do svidanya, cousin Clyde. Do svidanya, indeed. After finally arriving in Moscow, Clyde discovered that his local work crew at the venue consisted of 400 wide eyed members of the Red Guard. I don't know anyone else in the world who has that credential on their resume. Seems to me shortly thereafter the Russian military begin to destabilize....??? While Clyde generally put on a gruff and sometimes outrageous demeanor, it was only to hide the extreme sensitivity that lied underneath. I remember driving along some marsh with Clyde and Clyde starting pointing out all the birds and naming them. Clyde was a birdwatcher and a member of the Audobon society. Who knew? Snowy Egret, Clyde pointed out to me. Clyde taught me what a Snowy Egret looked like and I have never forgotten it. Thank you Clyde. Thank you. For that, I will even forgive you for making me wear platform shoes in the 70's. Speaking of the 70's, about 30 years ago, Clyde's name came up in conversation with a group of friends....and a relative newcomer asked, who's Clyde? Chris Muir (brains filled with not enough hallucinogens and too much Dr. Suess) looked at the new comer and replied "Oh Clyde is not so much a 'who' question, as a 'what' question". Greatest description of Clyde ever...of course now, I think it is finally appropriate to answer that question. I will tell you the answer to 'what is Clyde?', Clyde is and was special effects, I can expand on the special effects theme, but all of you who knew Clyde will know intuitively what I mean when I say Clyde was special effects or maybe just special effect.....it was never in the nature of my relationship with Clyde to discuss our feelings...too weird, too gay, too whatever...it is only now that I realize how much I loved the guy and never told him....So I'll tell you now...Clyde, I love you....you are truly Special Effects.......and yeah I can hear the silent cynical voices...maybe even Clydes own voice saying "Special Effects? Don't you mean especially affected? Yeah Clyde was affected, but that's why we all loved him, not just me....I'll apologize in advance for the cheesy goodbye, but I am out of words right now....So, aloha and bon voyage, Clyde. Take care my friend. You will be missed. Shows over. Fade to black.