I don't remember buying three fourths of the stuff I own. Like the two small binoculars sitting behind my big TV, that I rarely use.
I have a friend that likes to grab one as he walks through my door and then sits in the other big chair checking out Veterans Park from the open door. I gave him the smaller Bushnell's the other day.
I've decided to have a yard sale this Summer. Take all of the shit in this house that I never use, and lay it out on the grass. Why keep anything that you're never going to use again?
I need to get my life down to a lean and mean state. It's my responsibility to dwindling family on both sides of the country, to make my transition to the other side as painless as possible.
I'd actually prefer it if neither my son Riley or grand-daughter Shelby came here. They're both insanely busy, and the thought of disrupting their lives to wade through my stuff, while getting me converted to ashes, doesn't make sense.
I'll check out if their is an outfit that performs this service, empties the house out, and puts my ashes into a couple of containers. Now if I can pull that off, a Riley/Shelby quick visit to town would be OK.
If anyone did show up, Daniel could hold a little gathering next door, where the few people left in my life can talk about what a wonderful successful guy I used to be, and how I died a worthless old fool here in the South.
Riley and Shelby can put my ashes in opposite oceans, and this chapter is closed.
I've been watching these TicTok reunion videos, where people cry and embrace after years apart. I would totally lose it if my sister or any of her kids knocked on my door.
I'm totally out of touch with this side of my family. My sister brought Steph and I into Idaho and gave us a beautiful log home to live in, which we did for twelve years. We bonded with her kids and their families and now I don't know a single name of any of her grandkids.
Getting a knock and a hug from Steph would be nice, and explain why she disappeared.
It would be amazing to have any of my fourteen grandkids knock on my door, many of which I've never met. I'm working on a Summer reunion but who knows...
If some old friend or lover tracked me down, wow, but that's not going to happen.
I'm an old man living in a small house on a deadend street in the deep South, Nashville above me, hugging the Alabama line.
Honest, honorable, and helpful is my motto. I would love to connect with anyone from my life, drop by and knock!
My neighbor Daniel and I had a fun time last night. He said he was hungry so I brought up DoorDash, slid my laptop over to him, and told him to order whatever he wanted, on me.
So he ordered from Pizza Hut a 14" Meat Lover's Pizza, Hand Tossed, Classic Marinara, Regular Cheese, Pepperoni, Italian Sausage, Slow Roasted Ham, Applewood Smoked Bacon, Beef, Seasoned Pork. This thing cost twenty two bucks, thirty two after DoorDash.
I thought he was going to order a burger, with fries or something! That's alright, I did say whatever and he's bought me a lot of stuff over the years.
He offered me a slice, and the truth is, I hate pizza, ever since my young daughter and I wandered through a pizza joint in Berkeley, CA grabbing leftover slices off tables, to survive. I've avoided it since, for 55 years, as long as Daniel has been alive.
I hadn't eaten all day, hadn't planned on it, but I just spent $32 on this thing, I was a little messed up :-), so I ate a slice. That's the last thing I remember, and I regret it now.
Here it is noon on Saturday and I haven't eaten, I guess I'm fasting while colon cleaning, and the only thing sitting in my gut is a slice of Meat Lover's Pizza!
Something good happened to my old truck today. I needed to run to the liquor store this morning, so I started her up.
She's been going through issues, 250k on her, and I've poured a bunch of my dwindling stash into bringing her back.
My mechanic Thomas has done a lot, rebuilt the Weber carb, new head gasket, there's new plugs and wires, and she should be running great, except she's not been. Hard to start, takes a long time to warm up before I hit the highway, and rumbles for five seconds when I shut her off.
Today, none of those things happened. It's like she pushed a turd that was clogging her up out her tail pipe. Started in an instant, and purred. I let her warm up for a minute, then roared up the hill to the store. She's running trucking great!
Maybe I need a roadtrip.
Nobody knows why I'm so messed up. The truth is, there's only a few people left in my life, that care.
And I won't say why, until someone looks me in the eyes and asks. This isn't blogable.
In the meantime, Skoge sent me an email about her friend that moved to Tahiti. She and her partner Grant were involved in the music business, back in the day. Here it is:
Lopes, He lives on one particular island. One night after a Jimmy B. Show, Grant and his girlfriend went to dinner on Broadway, SF. There was a bottle of champagne on the table in a bucket of ice. Jimmy walked in and sat down at their table, for no reason at all. “This is the table I want to sit at.” Since Grant was a sailor, too, he told Jimmy to go to this one particular island in Tahiti. Jimmy did go, met Bobby, a Polynesian who was Grant’s friend from the Haight-Ashbury (Bobby Holcomb if you go to YouTube). Bobby sang the Polynesian verse. And “One Particular Island “ became a song. Thought you might enjoy this story. The song was written on that island and that’s where our friend Gary lives. He married the daughter of the watermelon man, Poiama. Divorced now, but Tahiti is his home. You would love Tahiti. The food is French and the people are beautiful. The beaches are white, the water is crystal blue. Much better than Mexico, and the Paul Gaugain museum is interesting. Across the bay, a ferry ride, is Moorea. That’s where there is a Fruit Juice factory and they sell fruit liquor. It is delicious. Did you know that Tahitian pineapples are different than Hawaiian pineapples? They have less acid and are 2x sweeter. Sent from my iPad
I was watching a baseball movie with Clint Eastwood in it and the credits showed it was a Malpaso Production. I've been around a long time, and I know that's Clint's movie production company.
I also know the origin of the name Malpaso. I lived and worked in the Monterey/Carmel area back in the mid seventies, and Clint was the mayor of Carmel at the time.
Back in the sixties I was road tripping with a hot girl I had met bussing tables in a Tahoe casino and we spent a week on an amazing beach that could only be reached by a trail off the creek that flowed into it.
I learned later that Clint's ranch was back into the mountains a few miles from there, with Malpaso creek running right through it, emptying into the Pacific at the spot that I called Secret Beach.
Over the years I've taken friends, lovers and family there, and each time it had become less accessible. I'm sure by now it's closed off just to the expensive homes up on the cliffs.
Anyway, now you know the origin of Malpaso.
I used to love Calamari, and Escargot, back when I had teeth. Now they have the McGangbang burger on the secret menu at McDonald. There is no way I would try to stretch my toothless mouth around this thing. I love a good burger, but the options are limited.
I'm thinking about pulling the DoorDash trigger on that build your own burger, and splitting it with my buddy scrolling thru TikToc next to me. Problem is, he don't like sauteed stuff.
It's been a fun afternoon with my door wide open, 70°, hanging out with a crazy man. His phone battery died, thank god, and he emerged from a state of conspiracy theory photo and video emersion, to actually talking!
He wanted to settle a debt, with no means to do so. I told him what I wanted was for him to get his shit together, then settle up like a man, when he can.
I've just run him back to the spot I picked him up at this morning, a left off the back road, just past the car detailer guy, and a ways down the road.
Riley and Shelby! It's off the little road from that pile of old tires on our trip to the Park last Summer.
I'm sure glad the kids got down here to my little place, to see how I live. It's a quiet magical space, with highway noise nearby that you eventually use as background music to your life.
I was telling my buddy that after an amazing computer career in the seventies and eighties, where I made a lot of money, I crashed and burned in a field next to an apartment complex in Kent, WA, in the early nineties. Flat broke and the few possessions I had were stored on the back porch of Riley's moms second story apartment.
That was thirty years ago, and since then my life has twisted and turned, and I landed here. This is where I was destined to be, a quiet stoned little spot where I can document my existence.
It's a strange life I live, I have everything around me to keep me alive and going, barely, but I have no passion, so I just survive.
I wish I had a woman in my life. I'm lonely, I would love to have someone to talk about life with, not about aliens.
I'm real dizzy today, losing my balance. A buddy's coming over to roll a fat one and I'm hoping that will help. I'm on day three of a colon cleanse, not eating much, so I'm sure it's related.
There's a new burger joint in town called Daydream Diner. Last night I was putting together a build your own burger online, because I was starved. I like that approach, I can put things on there that I can actually eat. It was $10, plus $1 for sauteed onions and $1 for sauteed mushrooms, plus $5 to get it here by DoorDash. I left it in my cart, maybe today, seventeen bucks for a hamburger is something I'll have to think about.
Of course, I could also drive there, it's next to Walmart on the North side of town, and I'm running on that Free Gas, and the tank is still almost full.
I got a disturbing email today from my friend Skoge in Sacramento. She spent a week in the hospital with a BP of 220/198, it sounded like a horrible experience but she's alright now.
She told me that they have a friend in Tahiti that has Parkinson’s. He has NO cost. I could marry a Tahitian and let France pay for my care. Best suggestion I've heard in a while!
Daniel was trying to get my dander up tonight, accusing me of being wasted all the time. I asked if he was willing to pay for rehab but he ignored the question and kept on bitching.
Being quite intoxicated himself, it was comical. I do have a normal lonely life, a routine that starts when I roll my feet off the side of my bed early in the morning, thankful to be alive.
My daily goal is to take care of my place and accomplish all external chores by 1100.
Then I start getting wasted. It's my place and my life, I'm not going anywhere and I am bothering absolutely nobody.
There is some magic that occurs within me when I reach a certain state. I make no apologies for anything, I'm not hurting anyone, I'm just finding myself.
I've got the shakes real bad today. Some days my body is a vibrator from head to toe and it's too bad a Giant Woman's Society doesn't exist, I could rent myself out!
I've been watching a NetFlix series called The Resident, where the lead surgeon's hands are shaking, like mine. Not a good thing to have if your cutting on people. The solution is brain surgery.
That sounds wonderful, I'll pursue it! And just before I go under I'll tell them "Remember, if air hits the brain, it's never the same". Just in case I wake up as a still vibrating girl with altered memory...
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