Coyote Brothers

Classic cars of all shapes, colors and vintage lined the street outside of St. Arbuck’s along with hundreds of appreciative strollers drinking in the lines and shapes of automotive history.

The Beach Boys cover band across the way pounded out the hits as onions, sweet relish and chilidogs saturated the air with the scent of nostalgia.

We were in an east San Diego county city, known for its small town flavor, that was hosting the first of a summer series of classic car shows.

Inside St. Arbuck’s a sixty-something man wearing a Hawaii shirt and beige Ivy Hat, was tuning his guitar on a low stage in front of a small sound system.

It was a very nice guitar—custom by the looks of it.

With most of the action out on the street, the customers inside were few and far between, my wife and I, along with our friend, comprising more than half.

He didn’t seem to mind though, launching enthusiastically into a quite good version of Elvis’s, “In The Ghetto,” “The Impossible Dream,” and other songs from the sixties.

I have to hand it to him, in spite of his age, the guy could sing. And his guitar skills were remarkable!

Between songs he kept up an easy banter with the, um, crowd, i.e. the three of us (the other two people were with him) and explained that he was going to do a few songs he had written. Before each, he gave a brief context from which he had derived the inspiration for writing the song, all quite interesting.

And the songs were good.

Very good.

That is, until his final song.

Even now as I write this I’m not sure if he was serious or massively pulling our collective legs, but he—with a totally serious face—talked about his love of...wait for it...coyotes. He loved them so much, in fact, that he had composed a special song in their, well, honor.

Strumming his guitar lightly, in a rhythm reminiscent of classic songs from the old west (think “Cool Water” by Sons Of The Pioneers. If you don’t know who they are, forget it!) he invited us to “sing along” when he got to a certain point.

Shooting him a puzzled look, he explained that we’d have no trouble, “Knowing when that was.”

So he starts singing.

It wasn't a bad melody, and the rhythmic chord progression was pleasing to the ear.

It was when he got to the chorus that things got a little weird. The words went something like, “So sing with me, coyote brothers; sumpn’ sumpn’ sumpn’ and the world will see a forest symphony.”

You’ll probably think I’m stretching literary license to the absolute limits, but I swear I’m not making this next part up: At that point in the song, he began to howl; his two friends howled, one of whom had joined him on stage; the baristas howled; my WIFE AND OUR FRIEND howled!

Me? I stared, mouth agape with, “Seriously?” forming on my lips.

A new batch of customers walked in, thus doubling the attendance.

The chorus came around again.

They howled as well.

I felt as if I were losing my mind.

My wife kept poking me in the ribs and giving me the look that said, “You’re just an old party pooper.” Now that I think about it, I’ve never known what that means, exactly. How does one go about “pooping” a party? I mean is it, God forbid, to be taken literally?

With a jaunty, “One more time,” he launched into the chorus again.

“So, sing with me, coyote brothers...”

This time around the patrons and employees hoisted their lattes and bellowed as if it were an Irish drinking song, only without the fighting—unless, of course, me "fighting" to keep a straight face counts!

The howling was nothing short of...inspirational.

And, yet, I remained silent and the guy still hadn’t cracked a smile, which led me to conclude that it was not, in fact a gag, but something near and dear to his heart.

“And the world will see a forest symphony...”

And I thought Ocean Beach was quirky!

Killer Ending

So, my brother-in-law dropped me off at the airport yesterday morning to fly back to San Diego.

I got out of his car and started to walk across the pedestrian bridge that leads to the terminal (an odd choice of terms if you ask me for a place so fraught with terror for many) and I suddenly realized that I didn't have my phone.

So I thought, "Ok, I'll just call him...oh, wait...I don't have my phone. Duh!"

It was right about then I remembered a device from antiquity known as the "pay phone," and set out in search of one thinking, "I'll just call him on a pay...oh, wait...I don't have any change."

So I bought a useless pack of gum—I don't chew gum and haven't for quite some time—for the express purpose of having two quarters in my possession so I could place the call.

I found a pay phone.

It didn't work.

I found another one.

It didn't work either.

I found another one.

It worked.

It worked so well it ate my precious quarters and wouldn't allow me to make the call!!!!

(And, yes, I DID, in fact, just use FOUR exclamation points!)

Here’s a few more for good measure!!!!!!!!

A little notice appeared on the pay phone’s digital screen thanking me for using Century Link. Whadda ya’ know about that? Polite crooks!

So, I found another pay phone purely by chance that accepted credit cards and started to call him when I thought, "Oh, wait...I don't know his number!"

By now I was nearly in panic mode, thinking ridiculous thoughts like taking a taxi back home in order to retrieve my phone, when I realized that I could call my wife in San Diego and have her call my brother-in-law and have him bring the phone back.

So, I called her and said, "Hey, I think I..." and she cut me off with, "Yes. He knows and is trying to find you."

As I was just about to ask her to call him and tell him I'd meet him at the passenger pickup area, he tapped my on my shoulder and handed my phone to me.

I could've kissed him!

I'm telling you right now that when you are leaving town for several days and realize you are without your cell phone, it messes you up! I'm talking the big leagues of messed up! Helplessness assails your senses leaving you reeling with insecurity and isolation.

And, no, I'm not overstating the case!

Phone firmly in hand, I called my wife back to inform her that all was well and that I was headed for my gate.

Passed through security in five—that's FIVE minutes, people—and walked about a mile and a half.

Got to the gate area and couldn't find my flight!

Upon checking the departures screen—which, for the record, one should absolutely do upon arrival at the airport—I learned, to my utter dismay and consternation, that my flight was not, in fact, leaving from the C gates, but from the B GATES!!

No idea how to get to the B gates!

I asked an oh, so helpful TSA agent how to get there and he told me—barely hiding a smirk—that I had to go back the mile and a half I'd just walked, and then go a little further and I'd find them, "No problem."

Right.

So I walked. 

And walked some more.

And...well...you get the picture.

Needless to say that by the time I got to my gate I was in a full sweat and ready to do substantial bodily harm to anybody foolish enough to give me any more trouble. Fortunately, I had a low number and was able to board in the first boarding group; got a great seat—on the aisle—with no one in the middle seat.

It was a full flight but after everyone was on the plane, the seat was still empty.

And then, HE came down the aisle.

All 5'6" and 350 lbs of him.

There were two seats left on the flight: The one next to me and another right across the aisle...both middle seats.

A woman was right behind him.

She did NOT weigh 350 and I really started hoping in earnest that she'd sit in the middle seat in our row.

The man looked them both over, and, for reasons known only to the gods of flying, chose to sit...you guessed it...by me. 

There was no, “Hey, do you mind if I squeeze in there?” or, “Excuse me, but that looks like the only seat.” Noooooo...he just stepped over me without a word before I could even get up to allow him—ALL of him—to pass, brushing his quite enormous bottom against my face in the process, an experience that I am quite sure will leave me emotionally scarred for what’s left of my life!

Now, when I say, "sit," I use the term only in the most liberal of definitions. Mainly, what he did was sprawl! I had to spend the entire flight turned sideways in my seat with my back to the rude interloper to keep from being crushed!

His elbows didn't just occupy the armrests of the middle seat...they intruded into HALF the space of MY seat!

Lest you get the wrong idea, it wasn't his size that was the issue, for I've flown with people far larger than he with no problem whatsoever. I once flew from Las Vegas to Florida in the window seat with a man and his wife as seatmates, each of whom were north of 400. Had a great time.

The problem with this man was the way he exercised complete and utter disregard for me and the other poor unfortunate in the window seat who, to the best of my knowledge, didn't survive the flight but was assimilated into the molecules of the fuselage.

I may or may not have made that last part up.

I looked with naked longing at the row across the aisle where the three occupants were chatting amiably; sprightly laughter echoing throughout the cabin, each with plenty of room; enjoying themselves immensely.

It shames me to admit it, but I began to hate my seatmate! I mean, I was hanging so far out into the aisle that the flight attendants had to excuse themselves to get around me.

And then...he went to sleep! I’m fighting for survival, and he goes to sleep! Noisily.           

Mercifully, after what seemed an eternity of days the flight ended and I thought my suffering was over...sadly, he had one more rude surprise left for me. As soon as the plane docked at the gate, he sprang up out of his seat and bulled his way past me—big bottom and all—without so much as a, "Beg your pardon," and stood in the aisle blocking my exit.

Now, those of you who know me know that I am often easily frustrated, and when frustrated have been known to yell, punch things, throw things, act in an inappropriate manner. However, I controlled myself and simply decided to let the situation play itself out.

I looked across the aisle...they were still laughing! Ha, ha, ha...laughing, and carrying on as if they didn't have a care in the world.

I began to hate them too...but only for a few minutes. Eventually, I figured, "Hey, I'm going to be in San Diego for three days. It's worth it."

And then, instead of "walking" up the jetway, he sort of, well, moseyed. You know what I'm talking about: That slower-than-molasses-in-winter-I've-got-the-rest-of-my-life-to-be-in-front of you walk? 

Like that.

I don't have a killer ending to this story...because, I didn't kill him. 

So, I've got that going for me.

Which is nice.

And, how was your day?

The Modern Family

St. Arbuck’s is busy and typically noisy on this late Friday morning in mid-June. It’s a wonder I ever get anything done within that environment, but I do. It’s as if the ambient noise provides a cocoon within which I am freed up creatively.

I know, it makes no sense.

Not sure how this is going to go today, as I’m a bit fried from lack of sleep protracted over several nights complicated by depleted creatively due to the intensity of effort on the novel...you’re really excited to keep reading, right?

(Insert appropriate smiley-faced emoticon)

A family of four entered—mom, dad, teen son and preteen daughter—and sat in close proximity to my table.

And then they ordered.

And then they got their drinks.

And then they sat back down.

And then they pulled out their iPhones.

And...well...then that was pretty much it.

All four of them sat there pecking away on their virtual keyboards in silence except for the occasional giggle from the son and daughter resulting from something witty they had said to each other via text.

The dad leaned over to the mom to show her something on his screen; she smiled, showed him something on her iPhone, but neither said a word.

This went on for a good thirty minutes.

I wasn’t making any kind of judgment on what I was seeing; I just found the scene to be amusing and utterly fascinating.

Suddenly all four of them erupted into laughter—the mom had sent them a mass text containing a humorous picture.

The dad’s phone vibrated, he answered the call and stepped outside to talk.

A minute or two later, the mom did the same thing while the kids now sat there by themselves.

About ten minutes later, the daughter looked up from her phone, glanced around and seemed to notice for the first time that mom and dad were gone.

“Hey, where did mom and dad go?” she asked her brother.

He grudgingly roused himself from his reverie, looked around the room and shrugged his shoulders before going back to whatever it was that he had been doing.

The last I saw of them, the dad was pacing on the sidewalk in front of St. Arbuck’s, one hand holding his phone and the other gesturing broadly while carrying on a very serious conversation; the mom standing outside just to the right of the entrance, shoulder pressing the phone to her left ear while chatting amiably and worrying a hangnail on one of her fingers; the kids standing together directly in front of the door, phones held in both hands, heads bowed, eyes focused on their respective screens oblivious of arriving customers having to step around them to gain entrance.

I smiled, shook my head in wonder and went back to surveying the ebb and flow of life unfolding before me.

The modern family.

Interesting.

In Which RG Climbs Atop His Soapbox

OB is quiet this morning.

A stippling of sun has managed to fight its way through the pervasive marine layer holding out the promise of an afternoon of tanning to those who are so inclined.

Even St. Arbuck’s is quiet.

The usual crush of boisterous customers has been replaced by a sedate and studious group, each of whom appears to be focused on terribly important things happening on their laptops.

Truthfully, the only audible conversation is happening at a table ten or fifteen feet away between two twenty-something young men and since both are basically loud-talkers, I cannot help but hear.

I keep hearing the word “church” a lot, followed by “youth,” so my assumption—call it an educated guess, if you will—is that one young man is interviewing for a position as youth leader at a church where the other young man is already on staff.

I find it interesting that there has been not one mention of “program,” save in the most derogatory of terms.

Their focus is on people...not programs.

And I find that extraordinarily admirable.

Far too often those involved in ministry blindly follow a marketplace mentality that seems to dictate that all people, regardless of demographic, must be managed.

Perhaps I’m just getting cranky (I can hear my dulcet-voiced beloved intoning, “Getting cranky?”) but I profoundly resent the idea of “people management.”

I even question the whole idea of “human resources,” because the moment you concede that people are “resources,” you have conceded that they are expendable.

“But, they require management!” goes the argument.

My opinion—and this is my opinion—is that you manage resources and develop people; nurture people; speak into the frozen wasteland of their hearts and stand in amazement as treasure rises out of the rubble of broken dreams and failed expectations.

What if—and this is a “what if” of massive proportions—but, what if corporations, churches included, began hiring people not on the basis of what they could do for their company, but what the company could do to fan their spark of potential into flame and thereby reap exponentially higher returns.

Some would label me as being hopelessly naïve, and perhaps rightly so.

But I can’t help believing that there are better ways of doing things than what is already being done, because what is already being done isn’t producing exactly stellar returns.

By the way...he got the job.

A Day In The Life

The locals call it “June gloom.”

I call it heaven!

Mornings here in the OB are shrouded in a thick, ensorcelled, vaporous canopy of fog compelling in its ability to cause one to slow down; to regard one’s surroundings, and the people who dwell therein, with a more comprehending and compassionate eye.

I had leisurely pedaled my Kronan Swedish Army bike (which I’ve dubbed “Kronan the Destroyer” for its sixty pound frame) through the mist on my way to a favorite beachside St. Arbuck’s for a cuppa Joe and morning writing session.

Across the street the swell was building and surfers were out in force, clad head to toe in wetsuits that fit like a second skin.

Truthfully, they fit some better than others.

Way better!

There is much I could write on that topic, but will spare you for now and save it for another time.

St. Arbuck’s was vibrant with local color and I collected my medium coffee, with room for cream, found a table out of the general flow and sat down to observe the drama.

There is always drama...you just have to be willing to watch for it.

In the corner, a poorly dressed, unkempt hearing-impaired man signed prolifically and energetically, leaning forward in his seat to be more clearly captured by his iPhone’s facetime feature. His smile and glowing countenance suggested that there was possibly woman on the other end of the call—a very special woman, by the looks of it. It occurred to me that the iPhone technology had opened up a whole new world of communication possibilities to hearing-impaired people the world over. Thank-you Steve Jobs!

           

A young man dressed-out in the dark blue uniform of the US Coast Guard entered hurriedly, ordered quickly and departed hastily, the carry tray and four cups of coffee indicating that he was on “special assignment.”

A group of three preteen girls—actually, now that I think about it, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a preteen girl by herself as they tend to run in packs—entered with mom in tow jabbering excitedly. It seemed they were about to have their very first coffee experience. Mom caught my gaze, rolled her eyes conspiratorially and shook her head. The eye roll is a universal symbol of parental expression. Transcendent of language, color or creed, it is a way of saying, “We’re in this together.”

The young man sitting at an adjacent table, dressed in an ill-fitting shirt, slacks and mismatched tie, sweated his way through a job interview. His nervous fiddling with said tie seemed to indicate that the interviewer’s rapid-fire questions were having an unsettling and frustrating effect. Obviously in a role-playing situation, the interviewer finally said, “Okay, suppose I were to tell you that your product isn’t something I’m interested in purchasing. How would you respond to that?” The young job seeker’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly for a few seconds. “I...guess...I...I would thank you for your time and wish you a good day,” was all he said before hanging his head and shaking it slowly, his lips compressed into a tight line. “Blew it again!” the unspoken pronouncement of his heart.

A pretty young woman with freckles, strawberry blonde hair and bright blue eyes sat down at the table right in front of me. One by one she placed a ceramic mug, a container of hot water, with the string from a tea bag dangling over the side, and an iPad onto the tabletop in precise order. Just as she sat down, her phone buzzed and she carried on a brief conversation in a heavy Scottish accent all the while arranging and rearranging her items. The mug was moved forward and then back; now juxtaposed with the hot water container, now in front of it; the iPad lined up with the near edge of the table, now the far edge; back and forth, back and forth, her hands in constant motion. Looking up from her call she saw me grinning, smiled, blushed charmingly and shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “Can’t be helped. It’s what I do.”

One of the baristas, with elaborate neck tattoos creeping inexorably toward a flawless face, walked outside carrying a tin of water for a homeless man’s dog. The scruffy creature sat forlornly, tied to a table and awaiting its master’s return. It wasn’t a handsome animal, equal parts this and that, but she treated it with tenderness and respect the effects of which were immediate. With a bounce in her step the barista came back inside, and as she passed my table said, “I love dogs.”

A sip of coffee and a sigh.

Just another day in the life.

Midnight Marauder

As a result of fairly miraculous financial circumstances, we are staying in Ocean Beach this summer.

Well, Cheri is "staying," while I commute back and forth to Las Vegas on the weekends.

We're not on vacation (see previous post regarding, "Getting It Right").

But it's an outright blessing.

The house we're renting is a classic, 1921 Southern California beach bungalow complete with all of the original windows, doorknobs and hardwood flooring.

It's a jewel.

All five hundred and twenty-one feet of it.

I've told you before about the marvelous, eclectic ambiance of Ocean Beach so I'll not repeat myself.  

What I haven't told you is that Ocean Beach has a rather infamous skunk!

I'm not kidding.

Whether it's one skunk, or an entire litter is open for discussion.

The reality is that said skunk makes an appearance at the most inopportune moments.

Like last night.

One-thirty AM.

I awoke from a most pleasant dream to a most unpleasant odor.

It was fetid, rank, and not a little bit nauseating!

The skunk was on the prowl.

The skulking OB skunk is notorious for filling the community resident's olfactory senses with a scent so foul as to make one believe that the portals of hell have opened and one is poised on the precipice between the living and the dead...and the dead are winning!

Hurrying to close each and every portal to the outside world, I collapsed back into bed hoping against hope that the midnight marauder would veer from its plotted course and savage someone else's nostrils.

Alas...it was not to be.

Seemingly, the dread creature camped out just below our bedroom window, savagely intruding upon our nocturnal slumber.

In the face of such blatant intrusion, I did what any rational, cognitive adult would've done in similar circumstances: I closed the window in fondest hopes that by ignoring the repulsive creature...it would go away.

I am nothing if not resourceful!

Life In The OB

Ocean Beach is, in my experience anyway, unlike any other southern California beach city. You see things here—things readily accepted as being a part of normal life—that would cause alarm or, at the very least, arouse interest elsewhere.

Take, for example, my experience a few mornings ago.

The beloved and myself were out for a morning stroll—an early morning stroll...too early for my taste—when we spied something that, even by the bohemian, counter-culture, über tolerant standards of Ocean Beach, caused me to do not a double, but a full triple-take.

Now that I think about it, it could be the first one I’ve ever executed in my lifetime.

For there on the sidewalk in front of us, not twenty feet away, was a man with a pet on a leash.

The pet was a cat.

A cat!

You might as well know that I’m not overly fond of the species, although as a child I once owned an exceptional feline of whom I was quite fond. He lived to be seventeen. The rental house where we are summering—is that even a word?—is host to an ancient twenty year-old kitty. I like that cat as well.

Anyway...

It was upon spying the unusual sight that the aforementioned triple-take was executed. I mean, come on now, walking a cat on a leash? Cats? The same creatures notorious for ignoring even the simplest commands requests of their masters, owners, staff?

You know, as I write this, it occurs to me that perhaps I’ve got the scenario all wrong: Perhaps it was the cat who was walking the man.

That’s it.

It has to be.

There’s simply no other explanation.

Of course I did once observe two women here in Ocean Beach pulling a duck...wait for it...in a stroller.