More About Freedom

   

More about Freedom

I’ve just returned from a trip Wyoming, which has the most beautiful landscapes on earth: mountains, rivers, forests, plains, wildlife, unending sky. Less wildlife these days, of course, due to human incursion, hunting, misuse of the environment. But still, some wildlife.

Plenty of people, too. Nice folks, I guess, but it’s hard to find a parking place but unless you walk a mile or so up the trail, there are crowds of other tourists enjoying the more convenient sites. This, naturally, makes me think about birth control. It’s your right to have a baby. Glory to god and all that but more people means less parking. No one is going to create a decent public transit system in the USA and we are going to continue depending on gas and oil for our energy. It’d be nice if everyone gave a shit, but they don’t. How can we have it all and keep the government off our back; keep them from limiting our freedom to breed and drive and still maintain ample parking?

Here are a few ideas:

Never quit smoking. Fuck the government and their nanny warnings. Smoking is fun and nicotine feels great.

Drink and Drive. What better way to get somewhere quickly? Driving is a drag; lighten the load with a pint of vodka.

The best drugs were invented in America for a reason. Be patriotic and take many drugs. Find new uses for narcotics.

Mix drugs and alcohol. If one is good, two are better. Just like kids.

Do not wear a motorcycle helmet. Live free. Ride free. Ride fast. Ride drunk.

Eat lots. You can get ten tacos for $9.90 at Taco Bell and a double quarter-pounder with cheese is only $4.69 at McDonald’s. Fast food, fast pleasure.

If you are in an abusive relationship, stay. If you leave you will be breaking up your family. You have a duty to the children.

Buy guns. Collect guns. Show your children where the guns are stored. You never know when the bad guys are coming.

Fight for your rights. Get in lots of fights with men who want to prove their manliness. Fight to the death if possible. Are you tough enough?

Suicide is a classically respected and honorable way to die. Consider it whenever you are confused or in trouble. Or out of money.

No one should restrict your freedom to do what you want. You deserve it all.

Remember to take crazy chances, walk down dark allies and argue with strangers.

I hope I’ve helped.

My Prayer

     Do you still believe in God? Really? Well good for you; must be nice and comforting. Am I right?

     I was raised Catholic, went to catholic schools, mass, the whole thing. The Catholic Church has taken a lot of crap in the past, and I’m not sure they deserve it. I was disciplined, disappointed and discouraged by the time I was 13 so I think my religious training was completely successful. The church helped make me into an angry, alcoholic cynic who is often crippled by self-doubt. Way to go, Religion. I can’t remember my own fucking phone number, but I remember prayers I learned as a toddler. Wow. Thanks for permanently occupying that part of my brain, the part I probably could have used to get laid more often but, Nope, it’s full of prayers.

I read the news every day. I probably shouldn’t, because after a half hour of Google, Christian Science Monitor and the San Francisco Chronicle I lean back and say, out loud, ”Man, I hate everything and everybody.” I become depressed and have scary thoughts.

     So, I’ve written a short prayer to help me get through those tough times of rage, anxiety and pessimism that occur whenever I attempt to understand the world. Here’s my prayer. You may join me if you wish.

     “Dear God, you little bastard, I pray that there actually is an afterlife and that you will be there in all your glory, because when I see you I am going to kick your cowardly, selfish, narcissistic ass. God, you sorry excuse for a deity, what made you think that racism, sexism, cruelty, bullying, tooth decay and venereal disease were things we really needed here on earth? You monster. You’d better hide behind wall of angels if you see me coming through the pearly gates because I am going to mess you up. If You are the all seeing, all knowing, loving, eternal, infinite and omnipotent dictator, then war, disease, starvation, torture, child abuse, Real Estate salesmen, wealthy entitled assholes, the Department of Homeland Security and the DMV are your creations and responsibility. You are doomed. Make your peace with your…self, I guess, because I’m coming for you and I’m not alone. That’s a promise, you evil, malicious weasel. Amen”.

     Feel better? Good. Me too.

A Message From Beyond the Grave

    

     I’m still getting my head around my mother’s death. I’m a little rocked, and that surprises me. It’s not like I wasn’t prepared. She was 96 years old, sharp and thriving up until the end and then she went to bed to die. Her choice. As usual. It was a relief for her and for the rest of us. We didn’t want to see her suffer; she didn’t, and that was good. It’s not the end of a life; it’s the end of an era.

     I heard the news from my sister on Friday, August 9. Chris called and told me that mom had died at 8:04 a.m. A rosary was planned for Monday evening and the funeral would be Tuesday morning followed by burial at Mt. Olivet Cemetery in San Rafael. I flew in from New Mexico on Saturday, befuddled by unique, once-in-a-lifetime feelings. I settled at the Embassy Suites, set up my computer, watched a few episodes of Family Guy, then went to my sister’s home where the rest of the immediate family was sorting through photographs and memorabilia of our mother. Momorabilia. There were lots of ancient photos of long gone relatives, letters, souvenirs, and holy cards she’d picked up at the many funerals she’d attended over the years. It was sad, sometimes absurd and we laughed a bit. We found a box of cheap costume jewelry and my brothers and I put on my mother’s gaudy earrings, wore them around the house for a while, deadpanned, pretending at seriousness.

     Sunday I met with some old friends, went to lunch in Tiburon, drove to the coast; I was trying to make an abnormal situation ordinary. I couldn’t do it. I was engaged in conversation, joking, listening, but there was something happening in my throat that restricted my breath.

     Monday night I parked in front of The Chapel of The Hills for the rosary and a bit of reminiscence with family and friends. My mother planned all this years ago; she was prepared. Unfortunately, the priest who mom had contracted to perform the prayers, her friend Father S, had been hospitalized that day and we had a substitute, a stand-in who didn’t know mom. The guy was dressed like a priest, but I heard him mention his “wife”. He was a deacon, I think. Apparently, they get to do all the priest stuff without the celibacy. But, wait, don’t priests already, um, have relations, arrested, molesting with the sex and the…? Never mind. Too complicated and confusing to get into right now. This man was licensed by the State of California and The Catholic Church to have legitimate, marital sex. Things are different since I quit religion.

     I was struck by a wave of grief during the procedures so I leaned against the pew and tried to check out and to keep a blank, unemotional demeanor. I snapped out of my trance when I heard the almost-priest mention that Jesus Christ had created the world, which was news to me, and my mom was with Him, looking down on us, very much strolling the clouds with God and enjoying her ample rewards. Shit. Here it comes. The waves of magic and mystery and myth that nearly drove me nuts as a kid. The only part that made sense was that mom was probably looking down on us. She was exasperating in her conviction that she was “right” about God, the church, her beliefs, her afterlife.

     After the prayers and the free form, inaccurate and slightly embarrassing religious oration by Deacon Strange, I visited with the attendees, slipped away and bought a burrito on the way back to the hotel. I watched some horror videos, became depressed and switched to Michael Connelly’s latest until I hit the hay.

     Tuesday morning we held the funeral at Nazareth House, where my mother had spent the last ten years of her life, and, of course, my mother requested a catholic mass, with an incredible amount of hymns. A woman with a serviceable voice and wide-eyed, intimidating facial expressions warbled the sacred songs. I felt guilty just looking at her. It had been a long time since I’d been in a church for any kind of ceremony.

     I was asked to write and read a eulogy. Half way through the service I stood, walked to the pulpit and delivered it in a faltering voice, which caught me unawares. I tried to make the eulogy appropriate and positive and respectfully left out any personal thoughts or statements. It was about mom’s life, not my feelings. I have to say, it worked. I stood in front of the mourners and lobbed little grenades of sadness into the crowd, explosions of emotion that went off like clockwork; bursts of tears, hands clutching, backs patted, the sound of sobbing.

      The mass has changed, too, since I’ve stopped caring. Everyone plays a part. It’s “inclusive”, which means that everyone is almost equal and, I guess, no altar boys are assaulted during the preparations. There were three priests on the altar, which was a lot, in my opinion. The time for Communion, the sacrament of the Eucharist, rolled around and everyone, and I mean everyone, queued up to receive the little round slip of unleavened bread. I sat in the front pew and most of the faithful averted their eyes as they passed me. My brothers, my sister, my nieces and nephews, strangers and at least two homeless guys lined up to partake. In the old days, as a youngster, I had been severely threatened and corporeally indoctrinated into Roman Catholicism, the host, the bread, Jesus’ body and blood in one package was considered highly sacred, a living, breathing, radioactive representation of Him. The priest was the only human designated to touch the Host and, in the old days, it couldn’t touch your teeth, it had to dissolve in you mouth and you had to pray like a bastard while it existed, melting and dissolving in the middle of the tongue. Lots to think about, many distractions, hard work.

     Nowadays, the celebrants hold out their cupped hands like they’re begging for real food, and the priest drops it in. They then pick it up and put it in their mouths and CHEW it and swallow it. Like it tastes good, yummy, like medicine, like dessert. They munch it; you can see everyone’s jaw muscles contracting and their teeth grinding.

One older woman, her hands shaking, dropped hers on the ground. ON THE GROUND. What the fuck? I thought they’d send in the goons to sweep her away, drag her off to be tortured, flayed and burned. Nope. She bent and picked it up (spry for her age), plopped it in her mouth and gulped it down. Wow. Much different than when I was a frightened, intimidated youngster.

     My mother made sure that we were brought up in the Old Catholic Church, the one where women were slaves, priests were kings and anyone who wasn’t of our faith was condemned. The Church’s product was fear and we were not even allowed to enter another denomination’s building. So it was sort of disorienting to see all of this modern behavior. Touching, talking, chewing. I hope it’s my last time, ever, in a church.

     Mom’s grave is nicely situated under a spreading oak tree on a grassy hill. She’s at rest next to my father with a couple of aunts and uncles nearby.

     At graveside, we listened, watched, some mumbled familiar prayers and then we got into our cars and headed out to enjoy a postmortem fest in my sister’s nice back yard. Good Italian meats, cheeses, wines, and sodas, fresh fruit, cheesecake and cookies. Great food. As I was biting into my first Mortadella sandwich my sister handed me an envelope.

     “Here you go, Joe. This is a letter from mom. She wanted me to give it to you after the funeral.”

     WHAT! WHAT! Fuck. Goddamn it. Not cool. Unfair. Totally unfair. A voice from the grave? A message from beyond? Wow. I was wiped out. Not only had I suffered with the rest of the family through mom’s last days, her death, the frigging rosary and mass and religious oddities, not only did I weep and write a great eulogy, leaving out all the bad stuff, all the negatives, not only was I alone and confused and considering, of course, my own impending certain death. Now there was this little bonus, a surprise, an Easter egg at the end of the day. A letter from mom from the aftergoddamnlife.

     Fuck.

     I put the envelope in my pocket, finished my sandwich, had another, finished off with two pieces of cheesecake. On the way back to the hotel room I stopped off first to buy some potato chips, what the hell, gonna die, have to read a message from beyond, might as well distract myself with food, make myself sick, eating my way past the grave. Better than a quart of tequila or a couple grams of coke. Like the church, I’ve changed, too.  I’m better, healthier, looking forward to a long life. Just as long as there are no mystical, horrifying afterlife memos from mom in heaven.

     What will it say?

     Will there be revelations?

     How will I feel after I’ve read her letter?

     Should I throw it away and continue my mourning?

     Why did I stop drinking tequila?

     Shit.

     So, I read the letter.

     The first thing I noticed is that it was a Xerox copy. I didn’t even have the original; it was a copy. Apparently, she made sure that others had received this important document. My brothers and sister must have copies, strangers and friends, too. Is this going to turn into some episode from “LOST”? It damn well better, because there aren’t a lot of legitimate explanations for delivering a letter to loved ones and family, requesting that it be opened and read after the writer’s death. I can only think of three reasons:

1.     A treasure map. That would make me happy. My mother knew of a buried treasure, a secret closet, a hidden account that is designated for me alone and now I am wealthy beyond my dreams and all will be easy and luxurious from here on. Gee, how I love my mom.

2.     She wanted to tell me that I was her favorite child. I had given her great joy and she is sorry for anything she had ever done to upset, hurt, confuse or anger me. She regrets not giving me more attention and guidance. Well, that’s very nice, very mature.

3.     She had written this letter to inform me that she always hated me, thought I was a tool, needy and weak. She acted as though she cared about my little triumphs and she tried to empathize with my misery, but she just didn’t like me very much. In her eyes, I am a failure. Shit. Well, it’s not a treasure map, but at least it’s honest.

     The actual letter is much different than any of that. It is sensitive and stilted, with an undertone of fear and at the same time an attempt to convince the reader of mom’s spiritual evolution and deep devotion to the church, God, all of it. All of it. I wish she hadn’t written the letter, and I wish I hadn’t gotten a copy. But I could never influence or control my mother. She was stubborn and opinionated and amazing and infuriating. Death comes, life ends, people should do what they want and not hurt each other. 

     I do know this: If you have something to say, say it while you’re alive. Do not try to communicate from the hereafter. Life isn’t a movie. Avoid mysticism and spiritual confusion. Just tell them. Make it easy and don’t sweat it. Just say it and move on. There may be consequences but speak up and say what you have to say. Tell everyone.

     Unless you have a treasure map.

Life Coaching - Part 1

    

     Are you disappointed in the direction your life has taken? Most people are. Most people should be. Perhaps you need…. A Life Coach. The term “Life Coach” was added to Webster’s dictionary in 2012 and is defined as an adviser who helps people make decisions, set and reach goals or deal with problems. Umm, OK.

     I know people who say they’re “certified” Life Coaches. Who the fuck certified them? The Life Coach Institute, I guess. The University of Bullshit. I mean what school offers courses in advice-giving and decision-making. Dealing with problems? Really?

     Here’s some advice. A bit of coaching from me. Be Careful. Life Coaches are a dime a dozen, coming outta the woodwork these days and many of the ones I know can’t maintain healthy relationships, are marginally employed, complain a lot but at the same time claim to be spiritual, godly, tuned into the universe, part of the cosmic ooze. Pretty much better and more enlightened than you. Because, I guess, they’ve had training and are certified. They use the word “heart” a lot. Heart’s desire, getting in touch with your heart, heart consciousness, whatever the hell that is. I used to have cardiac arrhythmia when I smoked. Is that heart consciousness?

     A friend who is a Life Coach recently posted an update on her website that I found curious. “You can make your dreams come true.” And, of course, She can help. For a fee. Make your dreams come true. How?

     Like, if you want it enough, it will happen. I hear that a lot, too. If you want something badly enough, you can get it. You can have success and prosperity.

     Wow. Do you really even want your dreams to come true? Do you remember your dreams?

     No, thank you.

     In the last dream I had, I was drunk as hell, it was Christmas and I was beating the shit out of my uncle Louie. It was a pretty goddamned wonderful dream. I woke up clear-headed and felt terrific. Fulfilled. Successful. Then I remembered that my uncle Louie, who was a total asshole, violent, psychotic and ignorant, had been dead for twenty years so there was no way that my dream could become a reality. Within a few minutes of awakening I went from feeling terrific, pounding the hell out of my uncle Louie, to being disappointed and depressed because it would never become true.

     I guess I’m a Life Coach. Really. I’m full of advice and I can help you make a decision. Apparently, that’s all the requirement to become certified. Here’s some advice for free, right now. If you are with a bunch of people in a car and you can’t figure out whether to go Right or Left and the passengers are arguing and bitching…. Go right. If you’re wrong, for Chrissakes turn around and go the other way. See, helpful advice. Life Coaching. You’re welcome.

Just Sayin

Hey, you look like crap this morning. Just Sayin.

Facebook is fascinating. I have over three hundred friends on Facebook. I know, I know, you have 1115, and you have 3000 and you have 750 and you feel fucking great about yourselves. I’m happy for you. I have over three hundred friends, I don’t even know most of them, wouldn’t recognize a lot of them if I sat next to them in a bar and don’t even like them. How do I know I don’t like them? By their posts. Sure, it’s an easy way to assess whether you’ve made a mistake in choosing these social network parasites as your friends. And the tipoff? What really convinces me that I’ve “friended” the wrong people.

 They use the phrase, “Just Sayin” when they write something.

The fuck does it mean? Why use it? Don’t you have the courage of your convictions? Afraid you might lose “friends”?

Hey, you sure look fat in your picture, just sayin.

Sorry you have aids, but you should have worn a rubber, just sayin

Man, your mother is really ugly, and so is your daughter, just sayin.

Just Sayin is Facebookspeak for:

I’m not really sure what I’m talking about, I don’t want to be pinned down, I have no real opinions, you’ve heard this before, I’m tricking you into thinking I give a shit, you’ll never know my true feelings, I can be a total asshole and still distance myself from whatever I write, I’m so evolved that I toss out unclear, judgmental or abstract statements and move on to the next incoherent, illiterate post, I’ve never had an original idea, I have trouble thinking, I’m insecure, cowardly, over weight, laid back, blasé, please don’t take me seriously, I’m a fraud, a fake, a fuckup, too scared or ignorant to back up my viewpoint, I’m codependent, needy, self-loathing with good reason, probably drunk, no one pays attention to me, I have never been laid, was a crappy student, I irritate everyone and I’m despised by most of my friends and I wear sunglasses in my profile picture. LOL. Just Sayin.

Bedridden and Bored

     Aging is, for the most part, unavoidable. If you’re six you’ll be twelve. Twenty becomes forty faster than you can imagine; forty to sixty takes about five years. Seventy-five, eighty, old, old, old, old.

     My mother is ninety-six and getting better. She had a bad scare, undefined symptoms, worried, and lost her appetite. My capable sister worked hard, loved, cared, monitored and reported. A difficult job that she pulled off brilliantly. She called in Hospice and we were preparing for The End. Now, a couple months later, mom looks good and sounds sharp. I’m glad. Her friends and the nurses at her residence say she looks better than ever.

     “They say I look better than I’ve ever looked and I feel worse than I’ve ever felt.”

     She has not lost any cognitive abilities. She’s a retired head nurse, a controlling, smart, resourceful woman and she is alive and well and kind of pissed.

     Of course, I don't want her to suffer. The Big Fear. The last years will be spent suffering. She’s not really sick; no diabetes, no cancer. She’s gotten old. Her eyes are bad so she can’t read. I’d kill myself, but she’s found that classical music is a good way to pass the time and she’s considering books on tape. She’s said that she can’t listen to stories because she can’t concentrate. I guess once the senses begin to fade, the ones that remain become vital and can sustain an individual. When I was visiting her a couple months ago, she was complaining about her eyes and I asked if she could hear.

     “Oh, God, yes. I hear everything. Too much, I think.”

     That was cool. She’s using a walker, her appetite still hasn’t returned, senses of touch and smell are probably all right but not terribly important at her age. Born in 1917, she saw damn near the whole 20^th century, the wars, Depression, the joy and misery and changes, inventions and political upheaval. She was a good watercolor artist, but has given away her paints. She is computer literate, used her computer all day, played games, and wrote emails and studied the News. Now it’s the early 21^st century, she’s still going, but not as strong, not as mobile, no painting, no computer for diversion.

     But she can hear. She said that I should record books on tape because I have a good voice. 

     What would I record? Should I record something for her? What? "War and Peace"? I don’t think either of us have the time for that. I personally love the writing of Henry James but I’d probably speed her termination if I inflicted his convoluted, multi-clause, labyrinthine sentences on her. Not “light” or “popular” books, either. She’s always been mature and never dug children’s books. She never read to us when we were kids. I learned to read and was on my own. I read comics, science fiction, mysteries, and even a few confusing soft-porn stories from so-called men's mags. I don’t remember mom censoring anything; she didn’t care. I think she considered herself lucky that I was a voracious reader and never bothered her to “read me a story”.

     It’s ironic that now, late in her life and pretty late in my own, she’s telling me that I have a good telephone voice and should record books on tape. So she could listen? To me? Reading to her?

     It’s all too weird.

     What would I record for my mother to listen to, now that she spends so much time in bed, bored, frustrated with long life, losing her sensory apparatus? What stories? My favorites?

     Kerouac. Such a big heart; a tragic daring writer with great soul.

     Faulkner. Complex southern family dysfunction perfectly rendered.

     Virginia Woolf. Magnificent stylist, feminist, depressive genius.

     Hemingway. The great, manly, damaged alcoholic understated adventurer.

     Do young people ever think, “When I’m old as hell, really old, unable to do much, to do anything, paralyzed, alone, blind, can’t speak, I wonder if I'll be lucky enough to hear? What would I want to hear? The shitty music I listen to now? Nah. New music? Classical? Jazz? Latin? Opera? It would probably confuse my old brain. I guess I could listen to Tupac and Phish and The Beatles and JLo and the Justins and other popular crap for the duration of my bedridden Golden Years. Might get boring, though. All day, every day.”

     Literature.  Perfect. That’s the ticket. Nodding off, fading in and out of consciousness, dying to books and stories full of complicated tales of characters in crisis, people solving problems, dealing with disasters, unraveling mysteries and resolving conflict. Chekhov. Cheever. Mansfield. Munro.

     Bedridden, tuned into an iPod or CD player, I'm waiting for the nurse to come in and switch the program, change my I.V., feed me, powder me, turn me.

     “Jeez, all you ever listen to is that highbrow stuff, sweetie. I’ve brought you something new. Here you go, let me plug you in. It’s called ‘Eat, Pray, Love’. It changed my life.”

     Damn, I’ve just scared the shit out of myself again.

Why I Hate The Oldies

There’s another “Oldies” station in town with a pretty good playlist of nostalgia from the fifties, sixties and seventies. In the morning they play The Beach Boys, Ronnie and the Daytonas, Jan and Dean. American West Coast Beach Tunes to start your day. They’re also rotating plenty of British Invasion, Psychedelic and Rock Anthems. All of it is familiar and moderately enjoyable. Of course, there are a few duds, but generally the music is a way to endure the six-mile drive into town. Oldies.

I fucking hate Oldies Music. Nostalgia and Sentiment are stalkers, killers and thieves that lie dormant in my cerebral database, waiting for me to let down my guard, watching as I tap out the beat on the steering wheel and (god help me) sing along while trying to remember what I was doing, who I was with; suddenly it’s 1962, 1967, 1975 and I’m craving beer and I’m driving too fast. There are girl groups wailing about a sick, enmeshed, dangerous love for some greasy dirtbag. DooWop music and young men singing perfect harmonies, vocalizing illiterate sounds (dit dit dit, mumm, mumm, mumm) to fill space between the stupidity, women-fear and codependence.  Plenty of talent, but limited subject matter. Love, loss, sadness, anger; repeat.

I try not to get hooked but from the first Chord of “She Loves You” I’m back in Fairfax, California, watching the Ed Sullivan Show, sitting next to my girlfriend, my hand creeping into her unbuttoned blouse.

The insistent bass line from “My Little Red Book” by Arthur Lee and Love; I’m digging in the glove compartment for a half finished bottle of Canadian Club, driving my wasted ragtop Corvair deep into Oakland to take LSD for the first time.

I listened to the radio all night at Long’s Drugstore where I worked as a janitor during an unusually hot Northern California Summer while I waited for college to start, again, after I’d flunked out. Again

The bar, Jean’s Bit o’ Bohemia, closed at 2 a.m. and I pulled up in front of the store a few minutes later. I fumbled an alien key into the complicated security lock and tried to get inside the store within the allotted time. If the door was opened for more than 2 minutes a siren went off and lights would flash until the cops showed up. This was to prevent theft, but it also made it difficult for a doped up, half drunk janitor to get to work.

Work. On the Lob. Earning my Living. When I finally got the goddamn door closed and heard the lock snap into place, the first thing I did was patrol the store to make sure I was alone and that there weren’t any ambitious stragglers.

Long’s Drugs was a full service outlet, but there were some areas that were definitely off limits. The Pharmacy, for one. Locked, coded, seriously alarmed. No way. Expensive fountain pens and jewelry, rubbers, power tools were also under heavy lock and key.

 Once satisfied that I had the kingdom to myself, I hit the cooler. Coke, Wine, and Beer inventories were strictly controlled. The only thing they couldn’t keep track of, due to daily theft by alcoholic senior citizens and high school kids, were the crappy canned cocktails. Mai Tais, Pina Coladas, Martinis and Manhattans. They were like novelty items and not designed for people who drink. The stubby little cans of sweetened mixers had only about 30 percent alcohol, but I knew from eavesdropping on administrative conversations that they were nearly impossible to keep track of. I grabbed a half dozen, took them to the back of the store, arranged them on a shelf.

Next I found a comfy poolside lounge chair. I set it up in the Women’s Break Room. The women had their own break room and I thought this was unfair so I used it as my private space, my nightly vacation accommodations. In the interest of fairness and gender equality.

I’d grab a Science Fiction novel off of the book display, Theodore Sturgeon or Alfred Bester. The Sunlamps were boxed and neatly arranged on the Health and Hygiene aisle. I carefully arranged one over my recliner in the woman’s lounge, turned the artificial sunlight to “Low” for a nice bronze, then I’d strip and pop open a canned Martini. Wretched, but cool and alcoholic. Finally, naked, I’d power up one of the stereo systems in the Home Entertainment section and lie down for the first half of my shift.

The station in San Francisco that played the best music was KMPX. Hendrix, The Who, The Doors, Airplane, 10 Years After. Not Oldies, either. Then it was all New music, music no one had ever heard before, not nostalgia but groundbreaking, world changing stuff, shattering reality and illusions, great guitars, intelligent lyrics, really long drum solos; poetry, politics and pain.

A few hours later, toasted, coming down off of too many chemical cocktails, I’d spring out of my reverie, dress, put away the lounge chair and sunlamp, toss my empties in the trash compactor, return the books to the rack. Arnie, asskisser and over achieving Assistant Manager, showed up around 7 a.m. so I made sure to be fully clothed and busily emptying ashtrays and mopping floors, toting garbage and washing windows. He’d grunt, “Hello”, check the store for cleanliness, eye me with suspicion and lock himself in his office until the store’s ten o’clock opening, at which time I would punch out and go home, exhausted, to try and sleep in 100 degree heat, miserable, sporadically unconscious throughout the day, missing sun, fun, movies, drive-ins, my buddies and my girlfriend. All the stuff that I keep hearing on the goddamned Oldies station. Things others were doing while I goldbricked at Longs and later tossed and turned in a hot room, awake, sweaty, sick.

Today I listen to Avant Garde Jazz, 20^th Century Contemporary, and Nouveau Soul. Modern music. Newies, with no history. I don’t want to be reminded of the good old days of bad jobs, confusion, heartbreak and hangovers and all of the horrible good times that I never experienced. I hate the “Oldies”; memories of an unpleasant summer and another shitty job. I maintained a pretty good tan, though, for a guy who worked nights and slept all day.