La Grange Angel Dust

            I had the two tickets to ZZ Top that midweek night and Alberto had the 1988 Mustang 5.0. He really was a good person and I had always liked him. But he was also the guy with the car, which meant he got taken advantage of by just about everybody who didn’t have an automobile. That’s pretty much how it went in those days. You’re a true and loyal friend: great. You’ve got a sweet ride: now we’re talking. And even though I was sixteen, almost seventeen, my parent’s had sagely disallowed me from the teenage cultural ritual of obtaining my drivers license. So it was Alberto and I, headed to the Cow Palace, a well aged, cavernous, unexceptional, multi-purpose venue. But to me it might as well have been the Royal Albert Hall.

            We took Mission Street through the City not because it was the fastest route but because he knew a liquor store that would sell us booze, no questions asked. He had done it a million times, he said. We pulled up in front of the store and I offered him five bucks.

            “Don’t worry about it man,” he said graciously. “You got the tix.”

            “Right on,” I replied.

            A few minutes later and he returned with a twelve pack of Bud and a fifth of peppermint Schnapps: more than enough for two youngsters out to catch a substantial buzz. We each cracked a beer in the car as we finished the last short portion of our journey.

On the way, we talked casually about adolescent nonsense, but in a way we did not usually. It was just the two of us, unencumbered by the usual pressure of the group. We could be ourselves. At that time, it was a moral failing of mine to be unduly influenced by the behavior, actions and opinions of others. Because they somewhat marginalized Alberto, so had I. But now, one on one, I was released from this pressure. Maybe he was as well. In any event, as the first beer settled in our stomachs we settled in with one another.

We obtained a good spot in the parking lot close to the exit and got out. It was about an hour before the opening act was going on, so we had plenty of time. We each took a big hit off the Schnapps, finished our first beer and cracked our second. Pretty soon we were both through four beers and the Schnapps had about two swigs left in it. We grabbed one more beer, leaving one each for when we got back, and headed toward the building.

            “Time to boogie,” Alberto declared.

Along the way I checked out the crowd. The first thing I noticed is how much older than us everybody was. Now, it wasn’t like the time I saw Dave Brubeck with my family at Davies Symphony Hall: that was an ancient crowd. But most of the people there were in their 30’s and 40’s, even a few in their 50s’. It was a rough and ready bunch, working class dudes in jeans with thick black moustaches, arm around their old lady’s waist, half-hippies smoking joints, long hairs from back in the day. There were a few cowboy types, complete with the Stetson hats, shit kicker boots and oversized belt buckles, chugging beers and grinning at one another while they sat on the tailgate of their Chevy truck. I even observed a few older African American guys, well dressed fellas wearing suits and ties as if they were going to the Met. I don’t know what kind of people I had expected to see, but the diversity of humanity somehow impressed me.

Music filled the air, and it reflected the variety of the crowd. The cowboys were playing Hank Williams Jr. A group of twenty-somethings was blasting Prince’s “1999.” I heard the high-pitched guitar wail of BB King from somewhere in the distance. Of course, I also noticed several tunes from the “Eliminator” album, which had almost inexplicably dominated the American music and music-video culture in the mid-1980’s. “Gimmie All Your Lovin’,” “Legs” and “Sharp Dressed Man”: I heard these tunes several times in the short period during which we traveled from the Mustang to the doors of the edifice.

Once inside, more music blared. The opening act had already begun. I had heard the name Jeff Healey before and I associated it with rock music. And I had never seen the movie Roadhouse, although it had been released about a year earlier. So I was surprised to see what I ultimately realized was a blind man hunched over a slide guitar doing things I had frankly never seen or heard before. I was transfixed on him, and he was the opener. It would have been enough for me if he were the front line act.

Time went by quickly. The whole scene consumed me: the blues-rock music, the multi-celled organism which was the growing crowd, the smell of marijuana in the air, the camaraderie and the novelty of it all. I felt reborn, fresh, new. I was aware of my own becoming. And I know how ridiculous that sounds, in such an essentially banal milieu. But that is how I felt at the time.

I lost track of Alberto. At some point he came and gave me a large beer in a plastic cup. I have no idea how he obtained it. He seemed to be doing all right on his own. As instantaneously as he had materialized, he disappeared. Jeff Healey finished his set to the mostly polite applause that opening acts generally receive.

I had been standing to stage right, on a raised portion of the seating area. But in the bowl of the stadium there was the general admission. I think the whole show was GA; this is how I remember all the shows I attended at the Cow Palace. I decided to descend onto the floor. Just as I did so, the band took the stage and the crowd roared as one. The power trio meandered about the stage for a moment, ostensibly checking wires and connections, but I believe their real reason was to prolong the anticipation. Whatever their intentions, that was the effect they had. And then, in a flash, the music hit us like a ton of bricks, loud and heavy, simple, raw and completely understood by the audience.

I wandered around on the floor, maybe eighty feet from the stage. Any closer and the crowd got really tight. I wasn’t interested in squeezing into that mass of humanity; I wanted to watch from a distance, to have the experience from a position just outside the molten core.

I don’t know how much time went by, but it was probably thirty minutes to an hour. The band began playing the song “Tush,” while a dozen or so bikini-clad beauties marched in a single file line across the stage. At this point, I noticed a small group of very tough looking bikers light up what could only be described in those days as a “pinner” joint. From what I could see, they were unaffiliated with any known motorcycle club, as they wore leather vests without any recognizable patches or insignia. But they were bikers for sure: straight off the set of the movie “Mask.”

The thing I noticed that seemed strange to me was that the joint they were smoking, in addition to being very thin, was also of a brownish hue, like a marshmallow after being properly turned over a campfire. I had never seen anything like it before. But what the fuck did I know, anyway?

The music drove through us like a massive power drill. The bikers rocked forward and backward. They were yelling to one another over the deafening sound. I heard one shout out: “These guys are bad to the bone.”

Indeed they were. I was amused at his comment as I stared at this outlaw slice of Americana in front of me with which I was, at that time, completely unfamiliar. As if he felt my gaze in the back of his head, one of the bikers, the one who had yelled out, turned and looked at me, the roach of the still burning joint in his right hand. He reached out and handed it to me, our forefingers and thumbs pinching together to make sure that the truncated baton was successfully passed. I hit the joint hard and coughed a little. It tasted funny. I offered it back to my host. He waved me off with his hand and gave me a big thumbs up. I hit it again.

A moment later I saw him give this knowing look to his cohorts. They began nodding and pointing in my direction. They were laughing, but it seemed good-natured enough and didn’t make me feel awkward or anything of the sort. I just thought they were getting a kick out of smoking-out a pretty square looking teen. I smiled back at them and left it at that.

It did not take long for me to realize that something was terribly wrong. The first thing I noticed was I could not feel my fingers. Just after this, the music lost all its definition and became a slowing pulsating “wah-wah” in my ears, oscillating between extreme volume and absolute, deep space silence. It was something like the sound which would accompany a beacon from a lighthouse as the light turned round, but more quickly than in real life. Anyway, this is how it seemed in my mind’s eye.

My field of vision began creeping in from both sides, little by little. In a minute or so it had narrowed to approximately fifty percent of what it was normally. A sickness welled up within me. I realized I had to escape the floor and began stumbling toward one of the gaping exits. I ran square into a stranger; he threw me aside violently. I continued my march toward the light, toward some semblance of openness. When I reached it I realized that nothing had been achieved. My vision was down to almost nothing, a mere slice of light, shadowy images of people passing. I was walking up the ramp toward the outer corridors. I reached the highest point in the ramp, which comprised the exit and thought maybe I was going to make a successful escape.

Suddenly I began careening downhill. I had lost all control of my body. It seemed I ran for an age, a Bizarro Sisyphus. I struggled to keep my feet beneath me until I hit a wall and crumbled to the ground.

I awoke on a thin mattress on a concrete floor. I could hear the music muffled through the walls, which was comforting. My hair was matted with sweat. A young woman, probably in her mid to late twenties, came over and looked down on me.

“Hello,” she said pleasantly.

“What is this place?” I asked.

“The Haight-Ashbury free clinic,” she responded. “We set up at all the concerts. Guys like you keep us awfully busy.”

“Oh,” I said, a little embarrassed. I noticed that she was quite pretty in a gaunt kind of way. But it was obvious she paid little attention to her looks, her chestnut hair was straight and tied in a ponytail and she wore no makeup. Also, she had that sunken countenance of the Vegan, a face that belied missing nutrients in her diet.

“What did you take?” she asked.

“I only had a little bit to drink,” I minimized. Oh: and I took like two hits off a joint that was passed to me.”

“Passed by whom?”

“I don’t know. Some guys I was standing next to.”

She shined one of those little flashlights into my eyes. “Your pupils are saucers. Looks to me like you may have smoked a chip.”

“Chip?” I asked. “What’s that?”

“That’s a joint laced with PCP. Angel dust.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yes,” she replied. “You need to be more careful who you use drugs with.”

She looked down at a pad of paper she was holding and wrote some notes. As she did so, I could hear the band tear into the opening licks to “La Grange.” I was suddenly filled with energy and jumped to my feet.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked incredulously.

“This is my favorite ZZ Top song!” I ran for the door. As I exited I heard her call after me.

“You’re not allowed to leave!”

I found Alberto wandering about on the floor after the lights came on and the crowd was thinning out.

“I was partying with two hot chicks,” he informed me. “They told me we could come over to their place afterwards but I lost track of them.” His eyes searched all around but to no avail. “Pretty great show, huh?”

“Fucking fantastic,” I replied.

“Hey you don’t look very good,” he said. “You’re so…pale.”

“Really?” I said nonchalantly. “Well, why don’t we get out of here.”

On our way home we stopped at McDonalds. I was not hungry. As Alberto ate his Quarter Pounder I gazed into the glow of the Golden Arches, mesmerized. They were shimmering like yellow, faceted diamonds in the night, so beautiful and grand as they rose from the filthy Earth into the cold, crystalline heavens above. Theirs was a guiding light for travelers near and far, I realized. A moment later I thought I heard them broadcasting something into my brain, some kind of essential, portentous message that was almost discernable and yet incomprehensible.

It was then I realized how high I was.

Another Triumphant Return

In the words of Frank Zappa’s Central Scrutinizer: “Hey, its me…again.” The COVID-19 pandemic has given me some unasked for but valuable time to think and suddenly my mind came back to this project and you, my avid reading public. (All five of you.)

The truth is I need the outlet and it’s irrelevant who reads this. Somehow, by publishing it to the universe, no matter how buried it may be, I believe I will achieve some measure of satisfaction. And as I move on in life, it’s the little victories that I hope for.

I removed a couple sections herein, which I was dissatisfied with. But essentially the blog goes on, maintaining continuity with the prior format.

I’m really looking forward to the future, and presenting a robust offering of the kind of material that has made this so much fun in the past.

Rendezvous

I wake up in the middle of the night, the ringing in my ears like a serenade of ten thousand insects on some Louisiana bayou. Only there are no critters out there in the cold night making the deafening, all encompassing noise - it's the byproduct of a head cold and ear infection.

There's a bad taste and an irritation in my throat with each swallow, and it's obvious I'm not going to get back to sleep any time soon. I'm hot and cold and sticky with sweat. My stomach moans and creaks uneasily.

Dark thoughts of death, sorrow and isolation germinate. Words and sentences grow out of my mind and take independent form. They become compulsive little ditties in my head. "This is a state of unhappiness...u-n-h-a-p-p-i-n-e-s-s-u-n-h-a-p-p-I-n-e-s-s..." and so on for minutes at a time. Why these obsessed repetitious word games? What do they mean? And I realize that, in fact, I speak this way to myself all the time, that the rhythm of my mind is not as complicated and interesting as I like to believe, that I'm going through the same patterns day after day. I feel like a lost child at a surreal amusement park, where the distorted clowns all bear some version of my countenance.

And I wonder what holds it all together, in so much as it is "together" at all? What keeps this earnest facade in presentable, marketable condition? How close is it to crumbling and turning to dust, right before the eyes of the world and my own self-observing eyes?

I sneeze so hard and long I wake up the dog. She shakes furiously and looks at me with her coal black eyes. To me she seems concerned.

An Uncomfortable Realization

My Mom was the one who turned me on to pills, sweet little lady. It had to be about twenty years ago now, the first time she hooked me up with Vicodin for a headache. It didn’t take long for me to realize how well one of these little white pills - broken in two to circumvent the time-lapse effects of the outer coating of course – went with a heavy pour of red wine. I can still recall the first time I experienced this combination fully: lying on the couch under a blanket, feet in the air, the Godfather on television, my brother sitting beside me in a plush armchair in a similar state of relaxation. It is no exaggeration to say that it was a blissful moment, filled with inner peace, serenity, fraternity.

It also didn’t take her long to realize that, from time to time, I liked to help myself to her stash. I think my brother may have pilfered on occasion as well, because those things flew out of her closet like so many newborn moths. Once she figured it out, they were more difficult to procure. She’s a wily one, and hid them well.

For the longest time this was where my relationship with pills settled: I’d pop one whenever I could get my hands on it, which was infrequently. So there was no big problem there. And anyway, I was busy with several other drugs which featured more prominently in my life.

But then, about three years ago, I came across an excellent and regular supply of Norcos, which I soon learned were even more warmth-giving and oblivion-inducing (especially in combination with several drinks) than their weaker cousin which had brought me into the world of Opioids. I learned that the yellows were the best and the ones speckled with red were full of acetaminophen and less powerful. I generally – but not always – had a supply available in the medicine cabinet and a few in my desk at work, just in case. Still, I took them only semi-regularly, perhaps twice or three times a week. I felt completely in control of the situation, and I guess you could say I was.

About a year ago, however, I met my match in the form of these tiny green fifteen milligram oxycodones. Through procedures and circumstances I shall not describe for you here, I fell backasswards into a supply of about a hundred of these little buddies. At first, a mere half a pill would have me tingling from head to toe almost immediately upon swallowing. The effect would last for hours on end and would culminate in the most wonderful, dreamless sleep. Soon however, I needed a full pill to get the desired effect. Ultimately, I needed one and a half to get to that special place.

Having so many pills on hand it became more difficult to hold myself back from taking them every day. I would go on a spree of five or six days in a row popping my dear Oxys. I would then take a day or two off and pat myself on the back for showing so much restraint. Finally and mercifully, I ran out of the little buggers, thanks in no small part to the proverbial "little help from my friends." (Who always gave my supply the highest praise.) Knowing with great certainty that I was increasingly descending down into the vortex, I was glad to see them go.

In the succeeding days, however, the most interesting and unpleasant thing happened. I would sweat profusely in my sleep and awake to a cold, saturated pillow. I was extremely irritable during the day. My concentration was at its nadir. And more than anything, I had a stomach ache and diarrhea that lasted over two weeks. Sure enough, I looked up the symptoms of physical opioid addiction and what did I find? All of the above.

PHYSICAL ADDICTION. The phrase rang through my mind like the tolling of a funeral bell. Is there anything more inconsistent with the idea of the functioning addict than physical addiction? I was face to face with a concept that was truly foreign to me and the questions were unavoidably vexed: had I reached my end, the point of no return, was the functioning addict now no more than a mere addict? Was the time to finish the experiment at hand?

After a five week run cold turkey the answer presented itself as it always has and I fear always will: of course not. I’m in charge of my own existence. I’m the functioning addict. My will be done.

And predictably, after a while I started popping Norcos occasionally once again. But don’t worry: I’ve got it all under control. 

A Meditation on Greatness

Scanning the endless repetition of selections on cable television the other night, I came across the movie “Whiplash.” I’ve watched parts of the film several times from my couch and saw the film with my wife when it was in theaters, so I’m quite familiar with the plot. (To the point that I can quote lines before they are spoken.) Still, I really enjoy the music and have always loved Buddy Rich, who is a sort of demigod-phantom hanging over the plot. So I decided to once again give the movie my time.

The story line is pretty simple: Andew Neiman (Miles Teller) is an aspiring jazz band drummer at the nation’s most prestigious music school, the Shaffer Conservatory. Terence Fletcher (J.K. Simmons), leader and instructor of the top studio band at the school, takes an interest in Andrew and – despite his status as a neophyte – brings him into the upper echelon band. Andrew’s ambition is boundless and is further fueled by Fletcher’s interest and mythical stories of how Charlie Parker became “Bird.” In spite of – or perhaps even because of – Fletcher’s ludicrous cruelty, malevolence and racist comments toward his students while instructing, Andrew’s purpose in life is singular: to be the greatest drummer in the world. And he sees Fletcher as pushing him to achieve this goal. Not surprisingly, the quest for supremacy and Fletcher’s tyrannical methods lead Andrew down a path of destruction and misery. Ultimately, however, the story culminates in a moment that can perhaps be described as perfection.

The film is a morality play about the pitfalls of ambition and a meditation on the cost of the pursuit of greatness. Fletcher, interestingly, is a sort of dual personification, both of the “Godly” purpose of personal achievement and of the “evil” we do to others when we seek one aspiration at the expense of everyone and everything around us. Some may argue that Fletcher is simply a bastard and cannot personify anything worthy, but I think the denouement and end of the film support a contrary and more variegated conclusion. And I do my best to not argue against text.

For me, the film sticks like a thorn in my sock, rubbing, scraping and irritating a small but ever growing ankle wound with each step. For the functioning addict, by definition, gives up greatness, at least the kind pursued in this story, the minute he or she commits to “the life.” And it is impossible to watch this movie and not ask certain difficult questions.

I have long struggled with the “Great Man” concept - the idea that my life would be meaningless if I didn’t do something outstanding or leave something memorable behind after I’m gone. I have little doubt this desire to do something important stems from my awareness and innate fear of mortality. I also believe it is what initially made me want to be a writer when I was a teenager.

In watching this film the old questions flash through my mind. Did I give up on my big goals and trade them in for fleeting moments of escape? Have I lost out on any chance of doing something really great in this life? And if this is the case, when was the die irrevocably cast? When was the even horizon breached? It may well have been when I took that first drink, puff, snort or drop of acid and said to myself, “this is where I want to be.” Maybe it was on the playground at recess when I was eleven and playing blackjack for my lunch money. Or maybe I was born with this thing.

If I so desired, could I turn my life around today, this moment, and invent a completely new existence for myself? History would indicate almost certainly not. Would I even truly want to do so?

I remind myself that I believe in personal responsibility and the freedom to choose. I remember that I can do anything I want with my today and potential tomorrows. I accept that I have limitations, even though the knowledge of their existence and extent stings my ego. I know that it is more important to love in the present than to be remembered by strangers. 

A Quote from Friedrich Nietzsche

"I love him who is ashamed when the dice fall in his favour, and who then asketh: 'Am I a dishonest player?' - for he is willing to succumb."

March 26, 2010 – Mixed Tape To Natalie, From Miles

The sun shone through the clouds in bursts of rays as I drove down leafy Park Presido Boulevard.  It was a couple of weeks ago.  The desiccated land needed rain badly and it was finally coming.  My happiness was the perfect balance of warmth, comfort and knowledge of the impending deluge; that, and the anticipatory joy of a free afternoon.

I was early for lunch so I pulled onto Fulton Avenue and parked a few blocks up from 25^th.  I grabbed my phone and walked into the thin strip of Golden Gate Park that runs parallel to the road.  After listening to my messages, I walked around aimlessly for a few minutes: closed my eyes and listened to the birds and traffic, checked out the blooming detritus of a homeless encampment which had been long vacated.  I imagined the lives of the people who had lived there and wondered at their contempt for society manifested and made flesh by such a magnificent collection of refuse.

I had fifteen minutes to get to the Tennessee Grill so I departed lazily and crossed Fulton toward my car.  As I was doing so, my eyes were drawn to a plastic bag which had been placed on the corner.  It called to me.  There is no other way to explain it. 

Upon looking inside, I saw it was filled with cassette tapes.  Believe it or not, both my cars have tape players in them and I continue to collect and use these seemingly ancient articles from the annals of my boyhood.  Still, it appeared that the vast majority of the tapes were blanks that had recordings on them, making them somewhat less “valuable” than commercially produced examples.  One voice inside my head screamed out, “Leave them, you idiot!  You don’t need any more crap in your life.”  But I couldn’t help myself.  I just had to have them.  As my old Uncle C always used to say, “If it’s free, it’s for me.” 

Blindly reaching into the bag I pulled out a tape marked “Roots and Blues 1925-1955.”  I saw names of artists such as Big Bill Bronzy, The Humbard Family, James Clark and Sister Myrtle Fields among many others.  Most of the artists I was unfamiliar with.  I popped it in the machine and hit the road. 

Almost immediately I was struck.  Bluegrass, gospel, folk, early blues and old-timey religious classics like “I’ll Fly Away” cascaded down like the impending gentle storm that was soon to be.  Somehow, it was exactly what I needed to hear at that precise moment. 

After a disappointing but sociable lunch with Rick, the two of us got into my car and I explained my find.  “These probably belonged to some hipsters,” he said.  “They love this kind of thing.” 

Yes, I agreed.  I had read an article recently in an airline magazine describing the resurgence of cassettes with the so-called hipster set.  But for all I knew the tapes were from the 1980’s.  We dug through the bag and pulled a few out.  One stood out of the stack we had created.  The inner sleeve song list had been meticulously typed in courier font – not hand written in pen – on an actual typewriter.  I was certain now that the collection was indeed very old until I read the side of the sleeve: “March 26, 2010 – Mixed Tape To Natalie, From Miles.” 

We set about our day with the “Roots and Blues” collection still playing.  We went to the zoo but decided against it after surveying the skies above and went instead to the De Young Museum.  Somewhere along the line we changed tapes and inserted one titled “Angel Dust: Music for Movie Bikers,” a compilation of 60’s B-grade biker movie soundtracks and film dialogs.  Later, while darkness and light rain descended, we sat outside near Irving Street and enjoyed a cup of coffee. 

We were finishing the night on Turtle Hill, sitting in the car, enjoying the view and a few one hitters from Rick’s Billy Bat.  The lights of the Sunset district shimmered in the night.  “Angel Dust” was our third companion, whispering masculine visions of open roads and surf-rock fantasies. 

“This album is fucking awesome,” he remarked.  “It’s a goddamned time capsule.  It makes me want to drive.”  This is the best assessment of it I can imagine.  The second best is my wife’s, who remarked distastefully when I forced her to take a listen a week later, “They should call this shit ‘Man Town, Music for People with Balls.’” 

Indeed they should.

As days passed, I went through a few of the other tapes but none of them really inspired me.  Some of them were really awful, others were just so-so.  The whole lot of them was worth picking up if only for “Roots and Blues” and “Angel Dust” anyway, I assured myself.  Finally, this morning, I decided to take a listen to “March 26, 2010” on my way to work. 

Side A begins with the song “Stop” by the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club: the band’s name a nod to Marlon Brando’s gang in The Wild One.  Side B finishes with Japanese cowboy troubadour Toshio Hirano’s “Thanks a Lot.”  In between are songs by Asobi Seksu, Mogwai and My Bloody Valentine, among others.

Somewhere between Novato and Petaluma I began to get shivers up my spine.  A visceral feeling of emotion washed over my body as the compilation progressed.  I did not even like all of the song selections, but collectively they were infused with an emotional quality where the whole was so much greater than the sum of its parts.  It has been twenty years since I made a mix tape for a girlfriend.  Why the overwhelming emotion?

Who were Miles and Natalie anyway?  Were they lovers?  I imagine that this is the case.  But my imagination does not make it so.  And who are they today?  And where?  How have their lives changed?  Was it she who left the cassette tapes on the street?  And if so, why?  Why didn’t she just throw them away?

I today feel more justified than ever in the fact that I still buy old records at thrift stores, that I never got rid of my CD collection, that I find art and music and books by accident, that I’ve never owned an Ipod.  Where before I saw the ascending generations just behind my own as mired in their pre-programmed digital world I now feel a individuated sense of kinship with at least some of them who are reaching into the past, grasping antiquated technologies and making them relevant once again.  Digital music, this approximated digital life, will never ever replace the tangibility and solidity of my analog world, I promise myself with a nervous lump in my throat. 

How can there be any mistakes in the reality we inhabit?  At this moment the idea of a random, meaningless universe seems utterly ludicrous to me, as does the notion that any thing can be said to be valueless.  Somewhere inside all of this, I am convinced, is a clue at the meaning of existence.  It is as if I can literally feel my destiny and purpose – banal as it often seems to be – pulling me forward not to an ultimate end but to a never ending beginning. 

And all this from a bag of cassette tapes.