For all the shit he had us do, the Sarge rarely displayed any gratitude. More likely, we’d be told we did a crappy job. A hair found on the floor behind the toilet was met with “If you can’t do something right, boy, don’t do it at all.”

As punishment in high school we’d sometimes have to miss football or basketball practice to get home to finish our menial duties before our surly stepdad got home from work.

I figure all of this ties in to why I hate mopping so much.

Or maybe I’m just lazy.

If I had a choice, I definitely wouldn’t have been mopping the kitchen floor at the Gospel Rescue Mission on Amador Avenue today. But I needed to do SOMETHING. Last week in LA I’d made the commitment to volunteer once-a-week. And I’d already been turned down at 2 other places this afternoon when I went looking to help out.

This afternoon after lunch I stumbled onto a big sand-colored building with the letters “CAA” floating over a hot blacktop parking lot. I know I’ve been away from home for awhile when those letters didn’t conjure up thoughts of Mike Ovitz and slick agents with A.D.D. chatting up wannabe startlets and doing deals from the I.M. Pei-designed sand-colored building at the corner of Wilshire and Little Santa Monica Blvd.

Today I had other things in mind.

What got my attention wasn’t the “Creative Artists Agency” connection. I was hooked by the small print under this southwest CAA: Community Action Agency. I walked in and was soon introduced to Laura, the volunteer coordinator, who told me her agency has 7 different programs, including a food bank and a family resources center. I told her I wanted to volunteer.

But it was a Friday afternoon. I let her know I’d be leaving town soon. Probably tomorrow. Which didn’t leave her many options.

“Let me see if they can use you out back,” she told me as we wandered through a vast warehouse at the back of the building. At the loading dock Laura introduced me to the cheerful guy who ran the food bank. He and some other people were busy building a float for tomorrow’s big parade kicking off the annual Whole Enchilada Festival. The man and his co-workers were trying to prop up a giant paper machiere red pepper.

“This is Bob,” she told the guy. “He wants to volunteer today. Do you have anything for him to do?”

The friendly man shook his head.

“Nope,” he said. “I think we got everything covered. All the meals have been boxed and delivered.”

“You sure?” I told him. “I’m ready to do anything you’ve got for me?”

In another context, saying something like this might not sound so good.

“Shoot,” the man laughed. “I wish I hadn’t washed my car yesterday.”

* * *

I asked Laura if she got many people coming in to volunteer.

“Not really,” she said. “Mostly people who HAVE to do it.”

“You mean people who’ve gotten in trouble and a judge sentences them to community service?”

“Right.”

“What about people who WANT to help out?” I asked. “People who just come in off the streets because they want to get involved and give back?”

“We get those people once in a while,” Laura told me. “But they’ll come in once and help out…then just not show up again.”

My heart sank. It bums me out how selfish our culture can be. It’s amazing how much time we waste watching mindless TV. Playing brain-numbing video games. Reading vapid articles about self-absorbed celebrities. I’ve been guilty of pissing away my time, too. (Not to mention writing more than a few of those vapid articles.) And I’ve certainly been someone who’s been leery of long-term commitments.

But I’ve also been lucky enough to learn the value of selfless giving. Even if it’s only for an hour a week.

I told Laura about someone I met one Sunday morning a few months ago. I was volunteering at a soup kitchen in Washington D.C. with a 21-year-old girl from Maine. As we peeled onions and I tried not to gag, this girl told me how she and her friends all did volunteer work. So did her parents.

“I grew up doing stuff like this,” the D.C. do-gooder told me with a modest non-chalance. “So did most of my friends.”

Maybe it’s an east coast thing. Back in LA, most of the people I knew were either too busy, too lazy or too self-absorbed to volunteer. Maybe it’s fear, too. Or the sort of all-consuming ambition that takes precedence over everything. Whatever the reasons, giving back in a hands-on way to the community didn’t seem to be a priority. At least not in my circles.

I also knew lots of people who were unhappy. Unfulfilled. Perpetually anxious. “It’s hard to make connections in this town” is something I heard a lot. There seemed to be a lot of souls searching in the wrong places for fulfilment.

I was usually afraid to say what I was really thinking, worried that I’d come off sounding like a sanctimonious ass. What I wanted to tell all these dissatisfied LA souls was that a little giving can go a long way towards alleviating some of that anxiety. It’s really that simple.

Then again, Las Cruces apparently wasn’t full of eager volunteers, either.

* * *

With nothing for me to do at her agency, Laura directed me to the senior center behind the CAA building. But Aurora, the friendly woman in charge of volunteers, said I was too late to help out today. She gave me directions to the mission and said they always needed help.

And that’s how I got here. Mopping floors. When I showed up I was directed to Paul, a friendly bald man with the beginnings of a ZZ Top goatee that would’ve been menacing if he wasn’t such a nice guy. He told me 120 people live here at any one time. From battered women to displaced families to recovering addicts.

When I told him I was looking to volunteer this afternoon, he told me he was already set for today. He had a few people helping out in the kitchen. And a Hispanic kid named Johnny, who was volunteering today because he was bored, was gonna help Paul serve dinner.

“But if you REALLY wanna help,” Paul told me, “you can grab a bucket and some soap and mop the kitchen.”

I hadn’t done this kind of mopping since my days as a pledge over 20 years ago. It wasn’t exactly like spending quality time with my old friend Ruth or hanging out with a bunch of low-income kids in Burlington, Vermont. I’d even prefer peeling onions.

But it was SOMETHING.

And when Paul shook my hand and said “God bless you, brother” as I packed up to leave…

Well, it was worth the sweat and adolescent flashbacks.

* * *

I made a vow back in New Haven several weeks ago to stop complaining about my infrequent postings. But I just have to voice my frustration with my writing lately. It feels flat, dry, redundant. Blah.

I just want to find a spot where I can sit in solitude for a week and write. To catch up on the 50 or so emails I need to return. To do justice to all the stories I’ve heard and the experiences I’ve had. I need to relive my time in Baton Rouge. I need to write more about my recent 10 days in SoCal. I need to write about my generous friend Edmund, who cemented his place in my personal Hall of Fame by buying me a new 40G iPod at CompuServe 2 days ago in San Antonio. The music is back!

So many people I HAVE to write about.

I want to stop rushing from town to town, with activities and reunions devouring all my free time.

I want to get back in the rhythms of writing. I want to write as fluidly and freely as the coherent flow of ideas and insights that percolate in my brain in the minutes and hours just before I nod off every night.

Okay. That’s it for the complaining. Just had to get that off my chest.

Next stop, San Antonio. Just as soon as I’ve shelled out $1300 buck for a new/used VW engine from an El Paso junkyard.

9.18.03                                               breakdown          10 mi. east of akela, nm

OKAY, I ADMIT IT. FOR THE FIRST TIME DURING THE GREATEST YEAR OF MY LIFE, I WAS feeling a little worried.

An hour ago VanGo had suddenly lost power on I-10. Like an old war horse that had suddenly snapped an ankle, the old boy wheezed and sputtered off the interstate as the red oil light ominously lit up my dashboard. Once we’d somehow managed to roll into the only gas station/souvenir shop in Akela, NM, I jumped out of the car to discover a coat of oil covering the back bumper and the rear hatch that protected my engine from the elements.

Things weren’t looking good.

It was high noon. Hot as hell. And I was still almost 1500 miles from New Orleans, where I was supposed to pick up my friend Ruston at the airport tomorrow.

My first order of business was to call Dick, the mechanic back in Beaumont, CA who’d gladly taken $250 from me yesterday for a tune-up and carburetor repairs. His initial comment after he’d given VanGo the once over was: “You’ll be lucky to make it 100 miles in this car.”

He eventually ended up coming around — sort of — after he was able to successfully replace VanGo’s clogged carb jet, which had been responsible for all the sputtering and stalling at red lights I’d endured the last several days.

“You should be okay now,” Dick told me at the end of the day. Then he added a note of caution. “But this car is hard to get parts for. They don’t even make those carburetors you have on there anymore. Look, I respect what you’re doing. But you’ve got the wrong car to be doing it in.”

Even though the guy had 35 years of experience as a VW mechanic, I refused to buy into Dick’s pessimism. After all, I’d been across America and back 3 times already with VanGo. And what about all those Deadheads and Phish phreaks blissfully cruising around America in their VW buses? Where were they getting THEIR parts?

Somehow, when I pulled out of Dick’s foreign car garage yesterday at around 4 I was feeling pretty confident. VanGo seemed to be running better than ever.

Less that 24 hours later I was calling Dick from a fly-infested pay phone. Demanding to know why the hell my freshly-tuned up ride was now dripping with oil. Dick said it could be a few things: a faulty oil pressure switch, a part that could replaced for about $6 bucks; a defective or loose oil filter, another cheap-to-fix ailment; a blown oil cooler, a diagnosis that would require “dropping the engine,” a prospect that sounded expensive.

“Or it could be a blown piston,” Dick said.

“Which means what?” I asked, swatting away a pair of humping flies. “A new engine?”

“Yep,” Dick said without a whole lot of sympathy. “Hopefully it’s not that. But I can’t really tell you what it is without looking at the engine.”

I told Dick I was about 35 miles outside of Las Cruces, the best bet for finding a mechanic who worked on VW buses. Dick suggested I try to make it to Las Cruces, stopping every 3 or 4 miles to add more oil if need be.

So I took his advice.

I hadn’t gone more than 10 miles when I found myself in THIS predicament. Stranded on an empty stretch of 2-lane highway south of the interstate. I had followed Dick’s suggestion, only to discover that the knock coming from VanGo’s engine was becoming increasingly louder until the thing finally just quit. When I pulled the rear hatch open, faint clouds of smoke drifted from the engine.

I’m no mechanic. But this didn’t look good.

* * *

I decided to brave the scorching heat and try to ride the Huffy mountain bike P.’s brother-in-law had given me into Las Cruces. A few miles in I realized that making the 20-mile ride with no water and no signs of a thirst-quenching gas station/convenience store for as far as the eye could see was asking for a case of heat stroke. At the very least, I was bound to get 3rd degree burns on my exposed forehead.

Then I spotted a big white truck pulled over at the I-10 onramp. I noticed someone sleeping in the driver’s seat and decided to knock on the window. A fat guy with a walrus moustache woke up and timidly rolled down his window 6 inches.

“Sorry to wake you,” I apologized, “but my car just broke down back up the road and I need to get to Las Cruces to call a tow truck. Are you heading that way?”

“When I wake up I am,” the big man told me. He didn’t seem too happy about getting rousted from his nap.

“Really?” I answered eagerly. “Any chance you could give me a lift into town? After you wake up from your nap, of course. Would you be cool with that? I’m gonna start riding that way. But if you wouldn’t mind pulling over once you start heading that way and see me. Like I said, my car just died back there and I could use some good luck right now. Would that be cool?”

“Sure,” the big man said. Then he rolled up his window and went back to sleep. I was sure I’d never see him again.

I hadn’t ridden much farther than 4 or 5 miles when I heard a horn honking behind me. It was Big Man, pulling over in his pristine white rig. I quickly tossed my bike in the back of his truck and climbed into the air conditioned cab, happy as a trucker in a titty bar to be out of the heat.

He soon told me his name was Dave. That was almost all he said. He wasn’t one of those people who picks up a hitchhiker because he wants to talk. Dave picked me up because I had asked. And I only asked because the prospects of getting heat stroke while riding a crappy old Huffy mountain bike to Las Cruces wasn’t how I wanted to end this brutal day in New Mexico.

* * *

By the time Sal the Tow Truck Driver was dropping me and VanGo off at D&D Auto in Las Cruces, it was just after 5. I tried not to dwell on my dire circumstances: My car sounds like shit…I just spent $250 bucks to get it tuned up yesterday…If it’s something major, how the hell am I gonna pay to get it fixed?…It’s looking like I’m never gonna make to to Baton Rouge for the LSU/Georgia game tomorrow.

The guy at D&D Auto — another Dave — confirmed my worst suspicions. Upon hearing me start up VanGo he declared that I had definitely thrown a piston. The prognosis was not good. We don’t just need a little repair work done.

We need a new engine.

To make matters worse, Dave says he’s gonna have to call around to find one. The whole thing could take 2 to 3 weeks and end up costing me $1500 to $2000.

“You have a decision to make,” Dave told me. “Do you want to put that kind of money into a car that’s probably only worth $2000?”

Shit. This was not the prognosis I wanted to hear. Especially less than a week after getting some amazing news: 2 of my friends back in LA had agreed to underwrite my adventure for another year!

Once again, my timing sucked.

But this being The Greatest Year of My Life*, there was no room to wallow in self-pity. I told Dave to go ahead and look for a new engine. And at the urging of my friend Rob—one of my 2 generous benefactors back in LA—I promptly got me a shiny, almost-new rent-a-car.

By nightfall I was back on the road. Only now I was in an electric blue PT Cruiser. Blasting “Exile on Main Street” on the CD player. With the cruise control set at 80 mph as I rolled down Interstate 10. Back on track. On my way to Louisiana. Determined to get to Baton Rouge in time for the LSU/Georgia game Saturday.

Geaux Tigers!

]]> http://thegreatestyearofmylife.com/2003/09/18/breakdown/feed/ 0 BudtenderBOB 9.18.03 http://thegreatestyearofmylife.com/2003/09/08/not-so-little-orphan-ernie/ http://thegreatestyearofmylife.com/2003/09/08/not-so-little-orphan-ernie/#comments Mon, 08 Sep 2003 07:40:22 +0000 Bob http://thegreatestyearofmylife.com/?p=98 ]]>

9.8.03                                      not-so-little orphan ernie            los angeles, ca

ONE OF THE MANY THINGS I LOVE ABOUT ERNIE IS THE WAY HE JOKES about being an orphan. When someone does something nice for him, which is not uncommon, he’ll go into his endearingly cheesy game show announcer voice and deadpan something like: “Another generous donation to the Poor Orphan Relief Fund!”

Ernie is, without a doubt, one of the funniest, wittiest people I know.

Then again, it’s pretty much been that way from the day I met him nearly 15 years ago. Back when he was a fast-talking, sugar-loving 9-year-old living at the very same Hollywood orphanage where Marilyn Monroe was dropped off when she was 9.

Unlike Marilyn, though, Ernie never knew HIS schizophrenic, drug-addled mother. Never met his father, either. Instead, he had the good fortune to be dumped into the overcrowded, mismanaged child welfare system as a baby. For the first few years of his life he bounced from one foster home to the next. Finally, at age 6, Ernie was adopted by a Long Beach janitor and his Asian wife.

But the couple who bought him a million toys thinking THIS was how you loved a child eventually grew impatient—and violent—when Ernie began lying and selling his toys at school for candy money. More than once he went to school with welts and bruises on his back and butt from the punishment doled out by dear old “dad.”

When he was 9, Ernie’s frustrated “mother”—who’d signed papers making him her state-sanctioned son just 3 years earlier—gave her husband an ultimatum: “Either the kid goes or I go.”

And so he went. To Hollygrove in January of 1989, thinking he was being driven off to camp.  (Although he became suspicious when “mom” and “dad” were sobbing as they dropped him off at the big brick building 2 blocks from Paramount Studios.)

About 3 months later I was introduced to a knock-kneed runt who told big fish stories about his “dad” and gave me shit for taking so long to get my paperwork together so we could get started with this “special friend” thing.

On our first outing together he dripped his .25 cent triple scoop of Thrifty ice cream all over the front seat of my red convertible Jeep. And he entertained me with a hilarious self-composed rap called “Booger In the Bathtub,” complete with classic lyrics and thumping bass line.

He’s been teaching me patience and cracking me up ever since.

*     *     *

Today’s story might just be my favorite yet of this crazy trip. It’s a story that’s blown me away time and time again over the last decade and a half.

On the surface, my first Saturday night back in LA in over 3 months may not have looked like much. Nothing more than a few old friends—me, Ernie, his nurturing girlfriend Gloria and crazy Carver—getting together to hang out.

For me, though, the night felt so much more meaningful. Because it was my first visit to Ernie and Gloria’s new place, a charming little 2-bedroom in a well-kept 2-unit duplex. A stone’s throw from the 20th Century Fox lot, not far from the writer’s bungalows where the brilliance of The Simpsons is channeled. Doh! And a 40-yard dash across Pico to the 3-par where P. and I chased the ever-elusive hole-in-1 and sub-par round of golf nearly every weekend not so long ago. Ernie’s new home is even quiet, despite the fact that his next door neighbor is dating Marilyn Manson’s drummer.

What got me beaming with pride Saturday night, though, was seeing what Ernie and Gloria had done with the place.

The walls were painted in funky olive greens and candy apple reds. Ernie had ripped up the living room carpet and buffed out the dark hardwood floor. A string of bamboo chutes hung where a bedroom door once creaked. Red ceiling bulbs and a vintage Asian poster picked up at a thrift store gave the kitchen a cool vibe, The state-of-the-art dishwasher a previous tenant had won on The Price is Right was nice, too. Ernie even had an extra bedroom in the back to do his art and play his music. Not to mention a big backyard, a garden in need of TLC and a roomy garage.

After years of shitholes and state-funded way stations, Ernie finally had a HOME. And he pulled it off with sweat, perseverance and integrity.

*     *     *

I found myself getting choked up as I got the tour of Ernie’s new pad. I couldn’t help flashing back to where he’d been—and how far he’d come to get here. Amazing.

During our first 3 years together, when I’d pick him up every other weekend and bring him back to my bachelor pad in Manhattan Beach, Ernie lived in various “cottages” at Hollygrove, where the staff was kind and supportive. But Ernie was obviously scarred and scared by the circumstances that brought him there in the first place. So while he could be charming and hilarious one minute, he was just as likely to lose his temper or retreat into a shell of silence the next.

His 3 years at Hollygrove saw Ernie forever getting in trouble at school for things like putting Super Glue on his teacher’s chair, dumping itching powder down a classmate’s shirt and tossing rocks from the playground onto Melrose Avenue, where he once hit a pissed off dude on a chopper.

Our twice-a-month weekend visits consisted of hanging out at the beach, trips to Taco Bell and staying up late to watch Saturday Night Live. Once in a while Sister Tracy, who loved him like the adorable nephew she craved, would come out from Covina to hang out with us.

On drives along the coast we sang along to Tom Petty’s Full Moon Fever (“I’m freeeeeee, free faaaaaaaaallin’…”) and I took him to movies like Field of Dreams, where he got an upset stomach from the Pink’s chili dogs and movie theater candy he wolfed down. Ernie even spent holidays with my big, disjointed family, which must’ve made getting dropped off back at Hollygrove excruciating for him.

For me, it was like being a divorced dad. Without the ex-wife and child support payments.

But there was a price to pay for having Ernie in my life. The behavior that drove the Long Beach couple to return him like an unwanted wedding gift also surfaced from time to time.

The first time I took Ernie Christmas shopping at the mall he shoplifted a whoopee cushion.

He later tried to “clean” the fish in my dad and stepmom’s backyard pond with laundry detergent, killing their entire collection of expensive koi.

While staying at my family’s cabin in Green Valley, Ernie took $20 bucks from my cousin’s purse on the same day he nearly started a forest fire, which brought a visit from the local fire department.

Then there was the time he lifted 5 credit cards out of my desk and took them to school, which somehow resulted in $4500 in charges from a pair of obscure towns I’d never heard of in Russia.

And that was just the first 3 years of our relationship. The Hollygrove years were only the beginning. Things were just starting to get interesting.

*     *     *

Ernie was finally moved to a group home in the rural town of Acton, which added another 90 minutes to my drive. Our visits became less frequent, though no less entertaining. But within 2 years, Ernie would get busted for doing speed in the boy’s bathroom at school.

Which led to a few years at a juvenile detention facility in Woodland Hills. He was no longer allowed to come stay with me. Holidays with my family were out of the question, too. It was during these years that I bought Ernie a guitar and the materials he needed to paint. I also encouraged him to write, which he did with alarming proficiency.

By his 16th birthday, Ernie was out on good behavior and living in a cramped foster home/soulless apartment with 3 other boys from child services and 6 cats that gave the place a foul stench. Plus Arnie, a sullen, obese career foster parent who treated me like a pariah every other weekend when I showed up to visit Ernie for the afternoon. (Overnight visits were still verboten, even though Arnie’s lax “parenting” helped Ernie return to a life of chronic drug use, habitual truancy and petty crime.)

Months before his 18th birthday, Ernie ran away from Arnie’s and began staying with various friends, at least one of whom became his partner in a series of thefts and other illegal activities I never quite got the details of.

A few months after his 18th birthday on March 31, with nowhere to live and no money to get his own place, I let Ernie move into my small 1-bedroom apartment near the Beverly Center. Despite the fact that I was in the thick of trying to finish “The Book” and had little time or space to help him get on his feet. I did, however, insist he find a job.

But after I caught him in yet another lie regarding his attempts at finding work, I told Ernie I was moving in with P. He had another month in my apartment to get his shit together before I gave up the place.

By the end of the summer, Ernie was in jail. Convicted of snatching a purse from an elderly woman. A crime that felt like a double slap in the face, seeing as how he knew I’d been visiting an amazing 88-year-old lady named Henrietta in my volunteer work for the local Friends to the Elderly program.

*     *     *

A year behind bars changed Ernie’s life. Since he was released from Wayside County Jail over 4 years ago he has completely transformed himself. He’s been working at a Beverly Hills printing company, where he started off making copies over 3 years ago. Now he manages a small staff of office workers, handles the accounting duties, goes on sales calls to million dollar companies and does much of the graphic design work.

Ernie’s also been going to college off and on at Santa Monica City College and wants to enroll full-time next fall in the same art school where Dennis Hopper went. A couple years ago on his 21st birthday we organized a gallery/fundraiser showing 35 of his art pieces. He sold 31 of them, raised over $10,000 and got featured on the local 5 o’clock news along with a big piece in the LA Times.

Despite his moral and spiritual transformation in the 4+ years since he got out of jail, Ernie’s post-jail living conditions have ranged from squalid to cramped to dangerous to even haunted. He went from a Jewish halfway house near downtown LA to the floor in a small nearby room occupied by his friend Shaun, Shaun’s mom and Shaun’s uncle. From there it was on to a room at the Covenant House in Hollywood, a shelter for homeless teens.

Ernie’s first apartment, shared with another “homeless” teen who never washed a dish or lifted a finger to help clean up, was a small, albeit inexpensive, Covenant House-owned apartment on Franklin near the Hollywood Bowl.

After he’d used up his eligibility in the Covenant House program, Ernie and Gloria moved into a tiny, roach-infested 1-bedroom hovel in a seedy area of Hollywood. Within a year they’d moved again, this time into another 1-bedroom place around the corner from the tourist buses at the Mann’s Chinese Theater on Hollywood Blvd.

Before long Gloria became sick, thanks to a dangerous mold in the walls. Then Ernie had an odd experience one night when he heard some dishes rattling in the kitchen. Then he saw what looked to be the ghost of a young boy sitting on his couch. The next day the building manager told him a family had been murdered a few years back in the apartment above them.

So that’s why it was so gratifying to see Ernie in his new place tonight. The ghosts are behind him.

The future, finally, is looking bright.

9.1.03                                                           the kids are alright                                            winnetka, il

TODAY’S PIC WAS ANOTHER ONE OF THOSE PHOTOS THAT WAS TOO COLORFUL TO post in black and white. That’s Carrie, 9, and her brother Patrick, 10, the 2 youngest siblings among the 6 Atkinson kids, who’ve kept me highly occupied and completely entertained during my 3 nights here.

For those of you who haven’t seen the Atkinsons in the feedback section of my web site, they’re the generous, funny family I met at my friend Edmund’s wedding on July 12th in Grafton, VT. After hanging out with them at the wedding, the Atkinsons kids — and their cool mom, MaryAnn — sent me a couple e-mails letting me know I was welcome at their big house in the posh suburb just north of Chicago. Even if my VW bus did threaten to drive down property values in their swanky neighborhood.

Team Atkinson has a sweet WiFi setup in their endearingly chaotic 3-story house, where they’re surrounded by neighbors like the owner of the Chicago Blackhawks, the anchorwoman on the local ABC news and various doctors, lawyers and CEOs. But this is the first time I’ve had a chance to do any work on my site since I got here Thursday evening in time for a delicious steak dinner. (It’s late Monday night — nearly 2 AM — right now.)

I’ve been THAT busy.

To say that I’ve had one of the most memorable Labor Day weekends of my life would be putting it mildly. And I want to write extensively about it. I’ve met and hung out with so many great people since my last posting that I am craving more time to write the stories.

But I’m heading out tomorrow. Destination: Omaha. And Patrick wants me to take him to school in the morning. Which means I can’t be staying up until 4 AM tonight.

So the details will have to wait.

* * *

I’m amazed at how the days can get crammed sometimes with so many meaningful, memorable experiences. Back in LA, when I was holed up in my home office with Ringo the Cat, I could go days without seeing a new face or having a moment that resonated in my soul. The minutes, the hours, the days often became a forgettable timeless blur of monotony.

And now there is this. Snippets of time when change is constant. New faces are everywhere. Inspiration abounds.

Again, I don’t have time right now to get too deeply into the details. But since my last posting from Pittsburgh last Wednesday night, I’ve chugged from a deep well of life experience and chance encounters. In a mere 5 days here’s a brief, incomplete, rundown of what and who I’ve encountered:

…on the road to Columbus, Ohio last Wednesday night I got pulled over by a Wheeling, West Virginia cop who looked suspiciously like Sgt. Stepdad, the man responsible for much of my adolescent fear and despair. Unlike the Sarge, though, the Wheeling cop felt a little compassion for me and not only didn’t write me up for going 57 in a 45 zone, he also insisted I follow him through Wheeling and back onto the interstate, where I’d be heading back in the right direction.

…minutes later, I got a phone call from an angry P., who was pissed about my most recent posting from New Hope. She thought what I wrote made her sound self-absorbed and unsupportive, which she most assuredly is NOT. I told her I’d be more than happy to post her perspective on this matter. (She said she’d think about it once she got a good night’s sleep.)

…on Thursday I arrived in Winnetka and was greeted by a pack of eager Atkinson kids, who enthusiastically showed me around the house before we sat down to a delicious steak dinner, followed by fun, fun, fun with the kiddies in the big backyard.

…on Friday afternoon, mama MaryAnn took me for a ride in her black Porsche to the local country club, where we had lunch with 2 of her very cool sisters, Bean and Maggie, and their funny mom, who shared the perspective of a woman who raised 9 kids, all of whom are married with many children. (She’s got 34 grandchildren!)

…that night I drove up to Green Bay, where I not only witnessed an inspired performance by the Obsoletes, a young band from nearby Neenah, Wisc., brimming with talent and promise. But I also heard some incredible stories from Matt, the band’s de facto roadie and childhood friend, who told me about how he got over the death of his mother after she died from getting hit by a dump truck 3 years ago. I also got into a long discussion with Mike — father to Obsoletes’ bassist/singer/co-songwriter Justin — himself a frustrated songwriter and longtime garage band singer who told me about his own father’s deathbed confession and his frustration about having a large collection of mostly unfinished songs.

…after crashing in Neenah at the cluttered apartment of Justin and Tim, the other songwriter/singer/guitarist in the Obsoletes, I had lunch with Tim and his girlfriend Rebecca at the iHop in nearby Appleton, where we shared road trip stories, discussed our favorite writers and talked about Rebecca’s 2-year-old little girl and her love of the Beatles. After lunch we went back to the apartment, where Rebecca told me about her big brother who’s been missing for 9 years and Tim filled me in about the many incarnations of the Obsoletes/Yesterday’s Kids.

…after saying goodbye to Tim, who burned me a few CDs of his acoustic tunes and some of his favorite music, and Rebecca, who gave me a collection of Douglas Copeland essays and a book called The Kindness of Strangers — former Yesterday’s Kids drummer Joe and his brother were there, too — I drove across town to hang out with Justin’s dad, Mike. I was in a hurry to get down to Milwaukee, but Mike couldn’t have been more welcoming. I had a beer, hung out on the back patio with Mike, his girlfriend Kristine, who made me a turkey sandwich for the road, plus Jamie and Doug, Mike’s former brother-in-law and current next door neighbor. The 4 of them sent me on the road with a big dose of Wisconsin hospitality and Mike handed me a CD of a bunch of songs he and Justin, along with their friends, recorded a few years ago in Mike’s basement recording studio.

…and then there was the Harley Davidson 100-year anniversary celebration in Milwaukee that night, where I hug out with Cousin Bill, who made the trip out from SoCal on his Harley, complete with a road-reddened face and a slew of hilarious stories. Not only did we see Jimmy Van Zandt perform “Freebird,” but I met Lisa Lips, the local girl who enthusiastically offered to show me her boobs. Plus Jeff, the most blissed out Vietnam vet in America, thanks to thousands of miles of Harley-fueled road tripping; and Rene, the Tennessee mom whose leg was amputated just below the knee exactly 3 months to the day before I met her. (More on my memorable Milwaukee pit stop later.)

…then there was the Cubs game the following day with papa Mike Atkinson and 2 of his boys; dinner that night at Ruth’s Chris steakhouse in Winnetka with the whole Atkinson clan, plus their friends Howard and Margaret, their 2 kids and 4 of oldest son Jimmy’s friends; lots of ping pong games with the Atkinson boys (congratulations on those 2 tainted victories Jimmy); Chinese takout Monday night; jamming on guitar with Charlie, the 2nd oldest son, who helped me get started on “Ode to the Atkinsons,” yet another odd gee-tar tune from Bad Voice Bob; watching a few of my short films on Charlie’s iMac, where I got grilled from the boys about the death of Sister Tracy…

But more on this stuff later. Right now I need my rest. Tomorrow it’s time to get back on the road. Where I’ll have lots of time to bask in the beauty of these last few days.

Onward to Omaha and beyond…

]]> http://thegreatestyearofmylife.com/2003/09/01/the-kids-are-alright/feed/ 0 BudtenderBOB 9-1-03 http://thegreatestyearofmylife.com/2003/08/27/farmer-rex/ http://thegreatestyearofmylife.com/2003/08/27/farmer-rex/#comments Wed, 27 Aug 2003 22:16:18 +0000 Bob http://thegreatestyearofmylife.com/?p=72 ]]>

8.27.03                               farmer rex                              sidling hill, pa

FROM: Rex in PA
DATE: 8.27.03

Hello B.O.B (Bmakela13), I’m the fellow who sold you a few peaches(?) or apples(?) today (August 27th) at the Sidling Hill rest stop on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Sounds like you’re on one fine adventure! Got a feeling you’ll make many acquaintances and friends along the way! I’ll tune in to your web site to see how you’re progressing.

Best of fortune to you!!!

take it slow,
Rex

P.S.
your story of your previous 5 or 7 years lends credence to my belief that we should treat each other with kindness. One never knows the path of the stranger in front of us.

“Do the thing you believe in. Do the best you can in the place where you are and be kind.”

~Helen Nearing

may fortune be your frequent companion

Rex

Rex,

Thanks for the wisdom and enthusiasm. Love the sentiment. We’ll be spreading the message. The quote is perfect, too.

Bob

P.S. It was plums, not peaches or apples. And they were gooooooooood!

8.4.03                                             in defense of bill                              west hollywood, ca

FROM: Carrrrver
DATE: 8.4.03

Jordan has never met Bill and I don’t get why he’d be compelled to speculate about his life like that. But it’s a free world. I thought I’d offer a little counter-insight from someone who actually knows him.

Bill did not get divorced to “find his muse,” he got divorced because his marriage failed after 11 years. But not before he worked his ass off trying to keep it together. In the end, they simply had irreconcilable differences. The decision to split was mutual and amicable and probably the first thing they’d agreed on in years. Bill did not leave his family stranded for some young hottie to keep the ol’ mid-life crisis at bay. He went through some damn difficult, lonely months after the divorce when he didn’t have anybody. And he really cares about Dana deeply, she’s not some “temporary pleasure,” whatever that means.

To my knowledge, Bill has never put his kids’ happiness second to his own. This is a guy who gave the shirt off his back to provide them with a huge beautiful home. He worked a full-time job as an engineer for the state while going to law school at night when three were born already and a fourth was on the way. He also moved from a condo to a house to a bigger house during that same period. When he became a lawyer, he’d spend every night after work with the kids, usually helping them with their homework. He basically had no social life outside of his family except when I’d visit. He was always all about his kids. He’s the kind of father you’d see in 1950’s TV shows.

Only difference is, they didn’t get divorced in the ’50’s. Those guys became alcoholics and cheated on their wives. But at least they stayed married, right?

The kids are happy, healthy, incredibly smart, funny and creative and a blast to hang out with. So if how they turn out will be how he’s judged at the end of the day, he’s the odds-on favorite to win dad of the century. I haven’t been proud of too many people in my life, but Bill-the-dad tops the list. His ex-wife is a world-class mom, too, and Bill would be the first to tell you that.

So Bill is guilty of finally enjoying his life again for the first time in years while never once ducking his responsibilities as a father or missing an alimony payment (no small feat in this case, trust me). He and his ex used to fight constantly, but now they get along again and can even have a few laughs once in a while. Their new step-father treats them great and I hear they recently hit it off in a big way with Dana, too.

Sounds like he’s making all the right moves to me, for himself as well as for his kids.

Carv

4.6.03                                                 the last goodbye                                 beverly hills adjacent, ca

WHEN PEOPLE ASK WHY P. AND I ARE BREAKING UP, I’M NOT SURE HOW TO RESPOND.  I DON’T HAVE MY sound byte answer down yet.

It’s just so complicated. Seemingly a whole bunch of little reasons adding up to one big sad ending.
One of the fundamental differences we seemed to clash over on a semi-regular basis was our vastly different perceptions of the future.

P. was the type to worry about what lies ahead. She wanted to feel like she was in a partnership, working towards common goals. There was a time during the last 7 1/2 years when she would’ve gone weak in the knees if I had said to her over dinner one night:

“I’ve been thinking…I want you in my future, so I’ve come up with a 5- and 10-year plan to get us a house and start a family.”

But I never could do it. I never could buy into the long-term planning concept. It’s just not me. Now I’m sure there are some who find this attitude foolish. Irresponsible. Immature.

But here’s the thing:

I don’t care.

I find it liberating.

Even if I did go to P. and tell her I was ready to settle down and embrace the responsibilities that would come with being a husband and father to our children, I don’t think she’d believe I could pull it off. Based on my past, her future with me would be filled with too much uncertainty.

Or so she thought.

And that’s part of the story of how we arrived at tonight. Standing in the alley behind the apartment we shared for nearly 5 years. Crying like anguished funeral mourners. Locked in a series of big, aching hugs. Knowing each one could be the last.

And laughing.

Still laughing.

At the absurdity of breaking out the digital camera to capture the final crushing moments. Shameless to the bitter end.

4.1.03                                                          a beginning…                              beverly hills adjacent, ca

TECHNICALLY IT’S APRIL 2ND. BUT APRIL FOOL’S DOESN’T END FOR ME UNTIL MY HEAD HITS THE PILLOW. I’m sitting amid the half-packed rubble of CDs, tapes, magazines, files and more personal flotsam, trying to squeeze in the one hour of writing I’ve committed to doing on a daily basis for the rest of the year – personal observations during my upcoming nine-month nomadic sojourn around America that I will post on this website.

I chose this particular photo because it pretty much sums up why P. and I are splitting up after 7 1/2 years. Here it is April 1 — the day I pretty much promised her I’d be moved out by — and I’ve still got an office full of CRAP. One final broken promise, one final flawed time-related prediction. (She claims that when I tell her I can write my magazine article in a day, it really means 3 days.)

But this being the Greatest Year of My Life, I’m gonna focus on what I DID get accomplished today: I finally got a storage unit, I finally moved some things in (a heavy file cabinet, my albums, old magazines, etc.), I contacted a guy in Florida who’s very interested in my Scout. And he’s willing to pay $6K right now. (Not the $8K I was hoping to get.)

I also began yet one more Day 1 of the great Power 90 Experiment.

Plus, I also returned a few pressing e-mails. (I’m forever behind on that.) I even had a semi-euphoric moment playing my off-key, yet spirited, rendition of “Summer of ‘69.”

Yes, I am a freak.

* * *

It seems slightly ludicrous — not to mention self-indulgent and a tad arrogant — embark on a 9-month road trip around the U.S. while American soldiers are dying every day in Iraq. (Not to mention the innocent Iraqui civilians.)

So who wants to hear THIS story?

Someone in my family recently remarked: “You really think people are gonna check this out every day? I mean, I love you and all, but I’m telling you right now I won’t check it out more than 2, 3 times a week. If that.”

And that’s the thing. I’m not going into this thinking anyone will check this out. No expectations. The truth is, I’m doing this for me. And to share with certain people in my life. But mostly it’s just me creating a living document of what is most assuredly destined to be one the most — if not THE most — memorable years of my life.

How do I know this?

I just do.

Faith.

* * *

So this morning starts with tears. Before P. leaves the house to go to her high-powered TV job, she goes through about a dozen costume changes. Each time she asks what I think. As if my half-asleep fashion judgment is to be trusted.

As I watch her go through the familiar routine — the pursed lips in front of the mirror, hips out, brows furrowed in deep study, the half-turn to check out the arse — I see her vulnerabilities all over again. And I realize I will miss these morning fashion shows. The same fashion shows I’ve groaned about getting sucked into all these years.

I get up to give her a hug. To let her know she was still beautiful. Before you know it, we’re both crying.

And that’s how my day started.