Tape from California

The continuing adventures of Team O

[tapefromcalifornia]

Return of the Mick

One gets in a routine. One gets in a rut (which can be found in a RoUTine). Just thinking about poutine… (Sounds like someone who’s considering a non-monogamous lifestyle: “I’ve been in a real poutine lately…”) Where was I? Where are you? Are you still there? Were you ever? Anyway, you settle in, get in a routine (rut) and suddenly it’s been two years since you contributed to your “Tape From California” blog. It’s not like nothing happened in between. Lots did! Been all over California. Done a bunch! Even been to Texas (Austin, specifically, which is Portland + Pork). But when the new becomes the normal, a blog can become a journal, instead of the cultural travelogue it was meant to be. (And I mean journal in the sense of “Today I had toast. With butter. Thinking about jelly tomorrow.") You will not be surprised to learn the true culprit of this internet silence has been the slothful passenger called Laziness. Even Ennui! Or possibly a lack of red meat in my diet. If avocado sparked literary inspiration, I’d been churning these posts out like Clive Cussler. Nevertheless, I’m re-entering the fray, prepared to blacken the blank screen with the insightful hilarity you’ve to expect from… who am I again? Let’s ease back in with my last abandoned post from July 2014 which I titled: Just Yapping This time of year, there’s a bit of a lull at my job. My work calendar parallels -- nay, relies on! -- the school year (I work on the production line at a Comet® factory). So, I’ve got some time on my hands. Obviously, I’ve been writing up a storm. It was a rainstorm and my notebooks were ruined. Eight notebooks down the drain (strong winds blew them out of my hand and into the gutter). And if you believe that, here’s another -- I can lift my own weight in clothespins. I love clothespins. Both the one with the spring in it and the one that looks like Squidward. You know who I mean. Can’t rightly recall the last time I held a clothespin. Just getting old, I reckon. E’en forgot to drink the lemonade today. Now it’s been sitting out on the porch all morning, gone watery from the melted ice. [Whistles] C’mere, boy. Rebel, come on now. Get that stick. Gimme that stick. Yep, summer mornings when the shade’s still plenty. Now where’s my knife? Those clothespins ain’t gonna whittle themselves. That thin ochre smoke from the 4th of July has settled. Scorched edges of All-American offset printing on fried cardboard tumbleweed between the garages. Four days later and most of the remnants have migrated to walled corners. In the absence of regular rain, unattended trash lingers. The street cleaners visit regularly. --- So do I rehash the last two years? Or would I be hashing the unwritten? Although the 3 or 4 of you reading this are most likely Facebook friends and have kept tabs on us in the meantime. Facebook -- now THAT’S a journal. I think I’ll start with today (jeez, I hope something interesting happens today). Something will! We’re seeing Tom Petty in concert tonight! Seeing Tom Petty in southern California! That’s like eating fried chicken in Kentucky! And let’s leave it at that for the moment.Welcome back? Oh, it’s my pleasure!

[saraheroyal]

A month and a half for the final chapter of Sarah Royal Travels the World & Writes About It isn’t too bad, I’d say. Currently snowed in from the not-as-big-as-it-was-supposed-to-be East Coast storm, now’s a great time to sum things up. I finally said goodbye to Southern California and the...

[tapefromcalifornia]

ORANGE COUNTY RAMBLE #1: ARCS & ARTIFACTS

I tell myself I used to write a lot. I wrote a monthly column with a huge cult following (although a following can’t be both a cult and huge, can it? Doesn’t matter, it didn’t have a huge following. Or a cult following, for that matter) in a highly-successful (relatively speaking) neighborhood newspaper. Maybe "periodical" would be a better term. “News” and “monthly” makes absolutely no sense anymore. Even “news” and “daily” sounds like something the kids would call a joke. If the kids read the news, which they don’t. They just read what people say about the news… Anyway, I never really wrote a lot. And I still don’t. So everything’s normal. Here’s a little something I just wrote (just finished -- I started writing it months ago). It won’t satisfy your cravings for my writings (neither one of you). It’s hardly a meal, not even an appetizer. Maybe an hors d’oeuvre. Or just a mint to hold you over until the hors d’oeuvres are served. ----- We all live through great arcs of technological change. Those affecting entertainment have always been my favorite. Yours, too, probably. Old bastards like me (not as old as them aul’ fellas or as young as those young punks)... Gimme Squeeze and Madness, Costello and Devo! Peter Gabriel and Kate Bush! I’ll listen to anything once, but mostly I’m listening to a few things over and over again. These songs hit me in the sweet spot. It’s the attitude and the production. The nostalgia to some degree, though they elude nostalgia by remaining on my perpetual playlist. They’re as much artifacts of the past as I am. I’m my own descendent. I don’t know what that means. I guess I mean I’m the ancestor of my younger self. You see, my ancestor came out west from New York in the ‘Aughts (or the Double Zeds, as probably no one ever said). My ancestor landed in Oregon and said, “Yeah, this feels right.” and it was for him. He met my wife’s ancestor there (my ancestor is quickly becoming me at this point; any further back and an association between my ancestor and my wife’s ancestor becomes [due to an age difference] arguably creepy). Flip ahead to now, a warm spring evening in Southern California, almost two years after hopping that ‘99 Honda Wagon Train down the Pacific Coast to our current frontier (just ten minutes, coincidentally, from Frontierland). I’m eating unplucked oranges, just tearing into the rind and slurping the juice (it’s sort of like an upside-down apple bob -- I highly recommend it) and making street guac (oh, that’s when you drop a dollop of mayo on a sidewalk avocado -- they’re everywhere! -- and mash it with your heel into a helluva dip). A bountiful land, this Orange County! But, cripes, it gets hot! Five minutes in the heat and my belt buckle’s a branding iron. I was adjusting my slacks last week and ended up with an Arnold Ernst Toht-like palm scar (if I flash that hand at any Sears, I get 20% off my purchase). My greater interest in living in California is discovering the filming locations for “Bigfoot and Wildboy” and the “Shazam! Isis Power Hour.” While watching an episode of “The Six Million Dollar Man” (2-20: “The Bionic Woman [Part 2]”), I discovered Steve’s hometown was Ojai, a name I recognized from our trip to San Luis Obispo. Well, I watched a lot of TV growing up and it means something to me -- that’s WHAT! This is my ancestor’s history. I don’t think it’s any more important than visiting the Lincoln Memorial or buying a pair of shoelaces at at the 99 cent store. But I don’t think it’s any less important, either. So anyway, I like to think of myself, then, as a micro-archaeologist digging into the lost civilization of my youth. California’s quite a dig for this history. And I dig the details. If the devil is indeed in the details, as they say, then I guess I’m a devil worshiper. But I think I’ll just put “Detail Worshiper” on my business card instead. I mean, I don’t want to miss out on any Christmas cookies.

[tapefromcalifornia]

Where most of us were first exposed to Arthur O'Shaughnessy's poem, "Ode." Let's begin Irish American Heritage Month off this gem from his 1874 collection, Music and Moonlight. We are the music-makers, And we are the dreamers of dreams, Wandering by lone sea-breakers And sitting by desolate streams; World losers and world forsakers, On whom the pale moon gleams: Yet we are the movers and shakers Of the world for ever, it seems. With wonderful deathless ditties We build up the world’s great cities. And out of a fabulous story We fashion an empire’s glory: One man with a dream, at pleasure, Shall go forth and conquer a crown; And three with a new song’s measure Can trample an empire down. We, in the ages lying In the buried past of the earth, Built Nineveh with our sighing, And Babel itself with our mirth; And o’erthrew them with prophesying To the old of the new world’s worth; For each age is a dream that is dying, Or one that is coming to birth. Back in college, i found a copy of his poems in the school library. I photocopied the whole thing on legal paper (jeez, it must have cost be a fortune!). I've since found a PDF of the book online.

[tapefromcalifornia]

Christmas Kindling

Merry Christmas! That's a good place to start. It being Christmas and all. No one's told the weather, though. It's in the 70s out there. Hotter than the mustard we dipped our Chinese crackers in at lunch. We had Chinese for lunch, our Christmastime/New Year's tradition. I had the kung pao shrimp which, need I say, Mike likes spicy.

This morning we video-chatted with Erin's family. I was clad in mine woolen nightshirt und cap, sweating my pom-poms off.

Erin and I exchanged our gifts on Monday as it was the only time we four roommates would be together this close to Christmas. So by the time today rolled around, it was all Christmas past for us.

Christmas reaches for new traditions when you're far from family. These warm environs inform that trajectory as well. So here we sit on the couch in our shorts, the sunlight pouring through the front window, broiling the backs of our heads. We live under the rule of Heat Miser. You know, Mr. One Hundred & One.

Erin works at the park tonight for a few hours. I might just put my nightshirt back on and stick my head in the freezer for a hint of Christmas in the Northwest.

Here's something new -- I'm writing this on a Kindle tablet. I can blog anywhere now. It's likely there'll be more Tape from California posts now. But not very likely.

Anyway, Merry Christmas, gang! Now I have to harvest the orange grove before doing a little night surfing. Ho ho holy crap is it warm!

[tapefromcalifornia]

Firstgiving, or A Name That Will Not Catch On

Today, we're having our Thanksgiving feast. Tomorrow, my wife (and our roommate, who also cooks) have to work. So today, we eat. I'm calling it "Firstgiving." Because we're first. Yeah, it's no "Friendsgiving," but it's something. My wife, eh, I don't think she's so crazy about the name.

Anyway, the first plus about dinner today (to ease the minus of not spending the day with our family) is that tomorrow, on Thanksgiving, I'll be able to watch the parade while eating leftovers. Like a time traveler. (I pause "Son of Kong" to make another little sandwich).

The second plus is I'm eating a Thanksgiving feast in a few hours. I'll be eating it at the same time as the Europeans.

I'll fill up on turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, swallow pints of gravy, cram rolls like cotton balls into my mouth, then go for a stroll around my apartment complex.

"What's with that crazy gringo?" my neighbors will whisper as I half-shirt it down the block whistling "White Christmas."

Yep, that's what I'm gonna do. The meal will be the appetizer for the Feast of Leftovers, which is my new name for Thanksgiving this year.

Have a happy Feast of Leftovers this year! (What am I going to do on Friday?)

[tapefromcalifornia]

"Home isn't where it used to be / Home is anywhere you hang your head"

[nyrbclassics]

Thanksgiving Day. Joseph submits a written report on the group meeting.

Meeting began at 5:00 p.m., and ended at 5:45 p.m. Discussion: On a poem by Edgar A. Guest, titled: A Thanksgiving Prayer! It is a prose poem however. It is a thankfulness for the blessings one gets out of life! For one’s health; for one’s strength! for burdening the supportings of Day! for one’s prosperity, for glad experiences; for gratitudes from others; from services rendered; for endless others. We’ve also discussed our Thanksgiving Day dinner! We’ve enjoyed our Turkey dinner: It consisted of Turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, giblets-gravy—of bread, fritter, pumpkin pie, not to forget cranberries in the meat place rather plate and of course coffee—real coffee. There was also dressing. It was a very enjoyable dinner.

—Patient known as “Joseph” in The Three Christs of Ypsilanti by Milton Rokeach

Do you have a picture of one of our books with coffee or tea (pumpkin spice or otherwise)? Send it to this address and we’ll post them here (making you an honorary member of the Classics and Coffee Club).

[tapefromcalifornia]

NYRB posts the photo of my monkey coffee cup and copy of "The Three Christs of Ypsilanti".

[tapefromcalifornia]

HOLLYWOOD KIDS - A Photo Essay - Hey, I think that’s David Blaine. (I saw the cameras first, then a snug of gawkers, then his face). - You know, the magician, starves in a box, sleeps in an ice cube. My mom, my younger brother and my nephews came for a visit last month. Huntington Beach was our destination on the first day. The boys took to the ocean like fish to…well, you know. Pete and I, forgetting what the sun is or does, got a bit burned. On the second day, Disneyland beckoned, though California Adventure was more of a hit (but neither was a match for the corn dogs which were “awesome”). Now, on the third day, we drove Hollywood Boulevard (it was David Blaine) before parking off Sunset Boulevard (listen to those names!). We ate lunch at the Sunset Grill, a dinky eatery next to Guitar Center, home of what’s called RockWalk, a Mann’s Chinese Theatre-type tribute to the LA music scene, replete with handprints of musicians at the entrance of the store. So, like I said, we had lunch. Don Henley has a song about that place, I exclaimed days earlier when Erin suggested the joint for lunch with my soon-to-be-visiting family. Here I was, all excited about a Don Henley song (I haven’t done that since 1984 when I first heard “The Boys of Summer”). So we ordered hamburgers. At the Sunset Grill. And “stared out at the auburn sky”, except I think it was blue. We had great weather for the O’Shaughnessy visit. Sorry, Don, we rewrote your lyrics. Back at the RockWalk we put our greasy hands in the filthy handprints of dirty musicians. Conor posed with Run DMC because he’s a b-boy (“They’re called moves, Grandma”). I was surprised to see his hand was the same size as Lou Reed’s. And of course, both Conor and Nolan were impressed with Lemmy’s middle finger on the Motorhead plaque. Afterwards we piled back in the minivan… Minivan. I say minivan because that’s what I reserved from the car rental place. But their idea of a minivan was this monstrous hi-tech SUV (A Chevy Tahoe maybe?) that was sure catch the eyes of the paparazzi. It looked like something Turtle would drive to pick up Vince (you do watch “Entourage”, right?). Speaking of “Entourage”, Erin spotted Kevin Dillon and his wife at the tar pits. - La Brea? - No, the other tar pits. Of course, I speak of the famed La Brea Tar Pits, one of those places you know about as a kid because of the fossils. We always knew about fossils when we were kids. Fossils, dinosaurs, Famous Monsters, Superheroes, Outer Space, stuff like that. I guess kids still do. The nephews probably had the best time here. Anyway, we followed Kevin Dillon at a distance around the tar pits. Well, we weren’t following him — he was ahead of us and we were taking the same route. What could we do? It’s an oval pit, you follow the shoreline… listen, what’s with the third degree? We were not creeping on Kevin Dillon! I doubt anyone’s been accused of that anyway. As thrilling as it was to see Kevin Dillon — he was Rooney is “Heaven Help Us”, an iconic performance in a classic comedy as far as the O Boys are concerned — the tar pits, and surrounding environs kept us well entertained. The Tar Pits lead you to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, which at the moment (or perhaps forever judging from the weight of it) is displaying Michael Heizer’s Levitated Mass, a 340 ton granite megalith straddling a 456-foot long slot, under which one may walk, cringe, ease and observe. I felt like Wile E. Coyote. It was getting late (though not late enough that we wouldn’t be stuck in traffic), so we headed back down to Orange County, stopping at Zitos for a late dinner of pizza and garlic knots. There’s an interesting story behind the boulder that balanced above us. Everything’s got a story, though. Some are terribly boring. Some are good enough to get you to the end.

[tapefromcalifornia]

Morning Evocative

it’s not much the blue sky the green hills the white moon forever in space forever in time

or then the wall or then the silence it’s not much the million species the billion stars the trillion dreams it’s not much or it’s not enough to tip the scales in their own favor against the weightless weight against the timeless time of you curled up on the big couch with the cat on the arm above your head the coffee cold in the cup on the coffee table and the warm wind bristling the high fronds of the dry palm singing above the telephone lines

[tapefromcalifornia]

My father would have been 70 years old today. I can't imagine how many Devil Dogs he would have eaten by now. Or fish sticks with spaghetti and ketchup. Or how many mid-priced cigars he would have smoked.

A great fan of television, or at least of certain television shows, I wonder what he would have thought of the essentially all-access we now have to all forms of televisual entertainment. He missed many innovations (or perhaps it's better to say he was spared them).

Nixon outlived him. Archie Bunker, too. And all Brothers Four. He was a big fan of folk music, as well. The more conservative, less radical side. His guitar was the first one I ever strummed.

His love of TV and folk songs merged delightfully with the Smothers Brothers. I still have his copy of "Two Sides of the Smothers Brothers", which I began listening to after he died, when I had reached the age of exploring music on my own. My favorite track (and I'll assume one of his) was "Chocolate", a song about how Tommy fell into a vat of chocolate. I inherited from him most of the irreverent humor my wife must suffer through daily (she never met my father, owing much to the fact that he died before she was born, and was, therefore, unavailable these last 33 years).

Of course, my nephews never met him either, but they've heard stories and have photos and all they need do is listen to my brothers and me yuck it up at any get-together (my mother interjecting, "You guys are crazy") to better understand the peculiar Irish blood choogling through their veins.

So in celebration of the old man's 70th, let's all fall in a vat of chocolate. Lolly do dum lolly do dum day!

[hoganhere]

Just when you think you know what this is, your jaw (and brain) will hit the floor. SOLID POTATO SALAD! The Ross Sisters! (by utubebob100)

[tapefromcalifornia]

WHOEVER SAID YOU CAN’T GO HOME AGAIN WAS EITHER PRONE TO HYPERBOLE OR MAYBE JUST LOST OR SOMETHING

I went home again the other day. Walked on a plane in one place and got off in another. It’s like time travel. And space. I travelled through time and space. Back to Portland (that city on those TV shows). Course, it’s only been a few months since I’ve been back. Still, I was able to easily return “to the escapes of Time and Memory” (that’s from that book written by that guy who said that thing).

Ah, gloomy, rainy, chilly Portland! I couldn’t wait to enter its perpetually autumnal atmosphere. Just my luck, I brought the southern California weather with me. I was actually hot one day -- I had to remove a layer of clothing (ok, settle down, ladies).

Besides the weather, little else had changed. I drank way too much coffee at all hours and downed (uneasily) three servings of meat one day (they’re not all vegans in Portland). I visited and/or made purchases at four record stores (found that For Against CD I was looking for). And I wandered through two Powells (the Gilbert Sorrentinos at the downtown store were like 3 and 4 bucks!). And I hit up the Goodwill Superstore in SE because that’s what I do (picked up Genet for 99 cents).

I stayed at Mom’s and taught her how to make smoothies (she’s hooked). We watched “Frazier” on Netflix and I saw my first episode of the new “Hawaii 5-0” (it was awful, it was on CBS, it was awful). We went for lunch at Laurelwood in Moreland (I got the “Blast”), strolled the Milwaukie Farmer’s Market, and did other stuff (also requiring parenthetical asides).

I didn’t feel like a tourist but was more aware of the stereotypical (yet nevertheless dominant) Portland-type. Too many pork pie hats for my taste, and I guess folks are still foregoing shampoo for seemingly non-ironic dreadlocks (I, however, when confronted with this lifestyle choice, cannot expel the echo of “Two Princes” from my head). “Portlandia”, I tell non-locals, is pretty much on the money.

Reason for visit, Mr. O’Shaughnessy? Visiting family. All the family! Both sides! Even the pets of both sides! And Family/Friends! Even the pets of Family/Friends! Pizza at Opa for my nephew’s birthday. Coffee at Crossroads with my in-laws (got to see the new puppy and my ol’ pal, Joe). Hamburgers at Five Guys with my brothers. Cake (and Lazer Tag) at Ultrazone for my nephew’s birthday (celebration #2). Grilled sausages at Mom’s for my brother’s birthday (it was an opportune visit). Appetizers at Doug Fir with Big Pops and la famiglia. A delightful barbecue at Adam & Josh’s (where I was sure to rile up my best friend, Jack, who is a hound).

Revisited my lone accessible bookshelf (the O’Shaughnessy Public Library annex at my Mom’s). Read myself to sleep with a “Bloom County” compendium. I’d forgotten how influential those strips were to my as a young wan. From that, the Marx Brothers, M*A*S*H, Brooks & Reiner, the Uncle Floyd Show, and early choice HBO comedy specials, my arguably relevant sense of humor was hewn.

After six days, though, I was eager to return, well, home. My current home. Before Oregon, home was Long Island. But we who have relocated our lives understand that home is not rooted. We become perhaps rooted to our homes, but home remains portable. Of all the songs written about what and where home is, I remain loyal to Billy Joel’s interpretation.

So, again, I walked on a plane in one place and got off in another. That place is home, my current castle, kingdom and instant pleasure dome.

Honey, I’m home!

[tapefromcalifornia]

NYORCA , a play in one act

Scene: 2 semi-fictional characters in a non-fictional coffee shop in a fictional location.

- I’m a NYORCA. - A New Yorker? Yeah, no shit. - No, I mean, yeah, I was, but now I’m a NYORCA. - You’re just saying New Yorker with a New York accent. - Listen you can’t just say ‘a’ New York accent. There’s lots of ‘em. Like southern accents or British accents... - Can we wrap this up? ‘Hopalong Cassidy’ is on in 10. - I was saying I’m a NYORCA. It’s a mnemonic device. It means... - I know what a mnemonic is. - I’m telling you what this mnemonic represents. It indicates someone from New York living in California, via Oregon. Get it? NY - OR - - Yeah, I get it. That’s great. - It IS great. It’s very clever. Because it’s pronounced ‘New Yorker’... - If you have a New York accent. - A particular New York accent. I mean, they don’t sound like this in the Adirondacks. - Who cares? You don’t need a mnemonic -- your voice is pneumatic with that constant pounding of ‘Well, I’m from New York...’ Big deal. I’m from Idaho, lived in Iowa, and now I’m in Texas. You don’t hear me going on and on about it... - Well, I wouldn’t either if I were you. - What does THAT mean? - You’re an IDIOT.

[tapefromcalifornia]

"Earthquake" by Mickey Newbury

On his mountain there sits a long, Gray-bearded, ancient hermit Sadly starin' at the caption In the San Mateo Times. It reads, "Today the prophets All agree that California Is to be swallowed in The twinkling of an eye." He goes thumbin' through his growin' Stack of half-unfinished rhymes. Till he finds the one he once submitted To the New York Times. They just laughed at him and said, "You senile, wino, drunk, old fool, Get outta here, You must have lost your mind." So he went back to his mountain Where he began to pray. He prayed for those in ignorance Who would treat a man that way. For the truth will fall like his mountain, Lord, On all that have grown deaf The day the world is swallowed up, And California's left.

- Mickey Newbury

[tapefromcalifornia]

A little Friday morning California music. Heirs to the McQueen Fortune perform John Stewart's "Gold".

[tapefromcalifornia]

In Mrs. Zarwin's 4th grade class, we wrote and assembled our own books. This image comes from my ABC History of America. Today I re-learned that California is our 31st state. And that the state mascot is apparently a small dog.