OB Funkadelic

It was a perfect, late summer afternoon in the OB (that’s Ocean Beach to the uninitiated among you).

Surfers were shredding the waves; on the beach teenaged boys and girls vied for the best position on the sand that would afford the greatest opportunity for interaction with the opposite sex; businessmen and women sat on the seawall staring with unveiled envy; and inside St. Arbuck’s I breathed in and out, content to simply be alive on such a beautiful day.

My position next to the large, open rollup windows lining the front of the shop afforded me an unobstructed view of the main beach and lifeguard station.

A middle-aged couple exited the store, sat down at one of the bistro tables on the sidewalk and, in a comedic scene worthy of primetime television, promptly spilled not one, but both of their mango smoothies.

At first their faces registered horror and then disbelief as they stared incomprehensibly at the sidewalk and the pooling remains of their drinks.

He looked at her; she looked at him; and then they both burst out laughing at their misfortune.

I mean, why not...it was funny!

On his way inside to borrow a mop and wet towel he said to me in passing, “What’s really funny is that we did exactly same thing last week!”

“Well,” I replied, “Practice makes perfect.”

I could tell he didn’t think that was quite as funny as I did.

I get that a lot.

Anyway...

While he and his wife cleaned up the sticky mess my ears picked up a sound that was almost stunning within the context.

It was a familiar sound—one with which I had been intimately acquainted for much of my life.

It was the sound of a drummer and bass player laying down some raw yet serious funk!

I stood up and craned my neck in every direction in a futile attempt to locate the source.

Walking outside and past the still chuckling couple I spotted a red, classic 1964 Chevy Van parked next to the curb across the street, its side doors opened onto the grassy area adjacent to the lifeguard tower.

On the sidewalk next to the van two young men, dressed in vintage black suits, white shirts and skinny black ties, sporting black Ray-Ban Wayfarers were working out a heavy groove.

The drum kit was basic—kick, snare and hihat; the smallish bass amp was plugged into the van’s cigarette lighter; the Fender Jazz Bass looked as if it had been dragged behind the van all the way from wherever they had originated; but, oh, my gosh...could those young men play!

They were good!

No, they were better than good...they were amazing!

I hurried across the street and took up a proximate position, along with a dozen or so other music lovers, and listened to them work their magic.

And magic it was!

Think P-Funk.

Think Sly and the Family Stone.

Think The Bar-Kays.

Think The Ohio Players.

In other words, those two young men were definitely putting some stank on it—pure improvisation at its best.

One groove flowed seamlessly into the next and before I realized it, thirty minutes had passed.

They worked the final groove into a thundering crescendo, tagging the end theatrically and bringing their performance to a conclusion.

And the crowd went wild.

Literally!

The whole scene was so unusual in that setting as to be nearly surreal.

One could almost imagine that those two guys had been sent down from the funk gods for no other reason than to add a bit of musical whimsy to brighten our dull, ordinary lives.

I talked to them for a few minutes while they packed up and learned that the bass player, an old friend and former bandmate of the drummer, had just moved back to town and they were working on forming sort of a neo-funk band.

I gave them a tip—a really good tip, for which they were profoundly grateful—wished them well and went on my way.

Back inside St. Arbuck’s it occurred to me that musicians—whether they be young, old, or in-between—basically just want to play and will do so wherever an audience can be found.

They’ll even play for nothing should the occasion demand it for it’s passion that drives them.

I know this passion well, for it has driven me for most of my life.

It’s not a passion to make money (much to my beloved’s chagrin) but a passion to make music...to free the creative gift within and see that gift touch others.

I suppose that was what I found so satisfying about the performance I’d just witnessed...they were just there to play. The fact that I, or any of the others for that matter, demonstrated our appreciation monetarily was beside the point.

I found that the experience turned me philosophical.

I know, shocking, right?

Interrupted

A stippling of sunlight filtered down through the towering redwoods, their pungent scent saturating the intimate campus confines as a warm breeze stirred what was left of my recently shorn locks that early September morn. Seems my new college had a dress code, and long hair was forbidden...as was most everything else commonly enjoyed by those of my generation.

But, that’s another story.

I was already late for class—a reality that would, sadly haunt me throughout my collegiate career. College for me was, well, an interruption. I had things to do if I was going to achieve my goal of being a famous recording artist. And I wasn’t about to let something as trivial as education stand in the way of that!

With a student population of only seven hundred, I had already met many of my new classmates through the orientation process and waved or called out friendly greetings as I jogged past the student center. It seemed only proper to demonstrate a modicum of concern regarding my tardiness even though it was pure pretense.

Nearing the library, located just across from the administration building—which also housed the women’s dorm in its upper floors—my forward motion was suddenly arrested by a sight I will never forget. The term, “came to a screeching halt,” overused and hackneyed as it is, is the only way to truly describe what happened to me. For there, not ten feet away, stood the most beautiful creature my poor, tired eyes had ever seen.

Shoulder-length blonde hair; eyes of cerulean blue set above high cheekbones and made even more stunning by the golden tan dusting her face—a smile that seemed to light up everything around her. I might as well confess that with one glance all thoughts of attending class were waylaid, for I was, in a word...smitten!

I realized, to my horror that I had been staring, my face taking on an expression that fell somewhere in between deranged lunatic and simpleton. This alarming fact was brought to my attention by my brutally honest roommate who had the occasion to be passing by just at that moment—being, as a general rule even more tardy than I—thus, witnessing the entire incident.

Thanking my helpful, if tactless, friend I composed myself and...stood rooted in place! Paralyzed! Immobilized! In the grip of stunned stupefaction! In the meantime, this vision of loveliness was walking away. In the direction of...my class. Could that be?

I finally managed to regain forward mobility and proceeded to stalk her across the campus realizing in the process that she was, indeed, heading directly toward the arts and sciences building which my first period “introduction to philosophy” classroom.

I decided to close the gap so as not to lose sight of her once inside just in case it was not my class that was her final destination. When I say, “close the gap,” I’m talking about sprinting thirty yards to take up a position that was within arm’s reach of her quite lovely back.

I never said I was subtle!

Trailing her into the classroom, I mumbled greetings to a couple of students I knew, stopped by the professor’s desk and found my name on the seating chart, sensing myself nearing cardiac arrest as I realized that we were, as fate would have it, paired at the same table.

Given the perspective afforded by hindsight, I now recall the incident with a mixture of embarrassment and profound sense of awe at my good fortune. I mean, there I was seated right next to the prettiest girl in school. And I didn’t do anything to bring it about.

I was just on my way...to class? Certainly. But in a larger sense, I was on my way to the rest of my life when gracious providence beautifully, blissfully interrupted my progress, knowing that life, as planned, would be incomplete.

That pretty girl became my wife, and we have had many, many adventures over these long years. Her smile can still stop me in my tracks, cause my heart to flutter and render me speechless...no small feat, as my children and close friends will readily attest.

Happy Birthday, baby...my beloved, my bride, my lovely one; owner of my heart; sweetener of my days; wellspring of my joy...I love you today.

You Have To Dig For It

Ocean Beach, in the Point Loma area of San Diego, California, is a sleepy little bohemian community that by all appearances has been forgotten by time.

Either that or it exists in an alternate universe accessible from Interstate 8 and Sunset Cliffs Blvd.

Which, come to think of it, may not be far from the truth.

Underneath the towering Mexican Fan Palms that march in stately procession down Newport Avenue toward the shoreline, you’ll see an odd collection of street musicians, Deadheads, antique stores, political activists, and artists. There are also tattoo/piercing parlors, beach themed bars, head shops and an International youth hostel whose residents are often indistinguishable from the pervasive homeless population.

What else would you expect from a place that was once known as the Haight-Ashbury of San Diego, right?

Dogs are a big deal in OB.

They even have their own beach.

No, really, they do.

Most summer mornings find the narrow streets and pre-WW II bungalows enveloped in a mantle of fog, which the locals insist on calling a “marine layer.”

I’m not sure why.

Even when I lived there I never knew why.

I mean fog is fog...why not just call it that?

And the “coastal eddy?”

It’s fog, people!

Anyway...

One recent late summer’s morn, my beloved and I left our hotel...well, the owners call it a “hotel,” but dogs are allowed in the rooms on the first floor off the courtyard.

Not exactly what one would expect to see in a “hotel.”

But, we like it.

Hoodies snugly in place, we walked two blocks to our favorite St. Arbuck’s.       

The regulars who frequent this particular St. Arbuck’s are about as diverse a clientele as I’ve ever seen.

Businessmen; surfers just in from a sunrise session; golfers stopping in for a cuppa’ Joe before hitting the links; young mothers with toddlers in strollers; street people hoping to get a “refill” in the cup they’d just dug out of the trash somewhere; and rounding out the crowd a smattering of tourists.

There they were...standing in line together and displaying a surprising collegiality for those of such dissimilar social and economic backgrounds.

While my beloved went in search of a table, I joined the queue, sandwiched between a woman in her late fifties (if appearances are to be believed) and a stylishly dressed fellow conducting important business on his cell phone.

The woman was dressed in a white tie-dyed, full length peasant skirt topped by a teal cotton pullover, her long, gray hair hanging down her back in an intricate braid reaching nearly to her waist.

She seemed, well, cranky.

I say this because when it was her turn to order, she spat instructions at the unfortunate barista as if she were an underling.

“I want my coffee EXACTLY 140º! Not one degree more and not one degree less. And I want it fresh. You can give the dregs to these other people in line.” And here she gestured dismissively in our general direction. “And leave the lid off. I want to make sure my instructions have been followed because if they haven’t, I’m not paying for it! Are we clear, missy?”

One of the other baristas screwed up her face and mouthed, “Missy?”

To her credit, the barista taking the order replied evenly, “No problem, ma’am. Will that be all?”

Sadly, it wasn’t.

“No, that won’t be all! I would also like one of your ridiculously overpriced pastries...not that I enjoy them, I just need something on my stomach before I drink the coffee.”

“No problem. What kind would you like?” said the barista sweetly.

“Oh, it doesn't matter. Just pick one and give it to me!”

The barista moved over to the pastry display, picked up the tongs and reached for a cinnamon roll only to have the woman shout, “No! Not that one! Give me that other one. That one. That one right...oh, for Pete’s sake!” At this point she brushed rudely past me and began stabbing her finger against the window of the display case saying, “That one! That...whatever it is right there!”

The barista calmly, patiently placed the banana nut coffee cake into a paper sack and carried it back to the register.

“Anything else, ma’am?”

The woman sampled the coffee, pronounced it to be “adequate,” paid for her order and moved starchily off toward the condiment table.

I raised my brows and said, “Wow!” before asking for a medium coffee with room for cream. “Oh,” I added. “And make sure to include the dregs,” which drew a laugh from the Barista.

As I approached the condiment table I could hear the woman muttering.

She turned purposefully and stalked toward the counter nearly colliding with me in the process and offering no apology.

Apparently the source of her displeasure centered on the fact that there wasn’t any raw sugar and that their coffee was, “Simply undrinkable without raw sugar!”

I dipped my hand into the deep stainless steel container that housed the sugar and felt a layer of packets at the very bottom.

The same barista, with the woman hot on her heels, came over to check out the situation.

I held up three packets and said, “You know, sometimes if you want the sugar...you have to dig for it.”

The Barista stared at me.

I stared back at her.

She said, “Whoa! Just like life.”

I smiled and nodded.

The woman seemed completely baffled. “What?”

The barista looked at her. “It’s like life. Sometimes if you want the sugar...you have to dig for it. Get it?”

The woman stared at us as if we’d just sprouted horns and cleft tongues.

And stared.

And then stared a bit more.

Finally, her fierce countenance softened a little and a small, embarrassed smile fought its way into place.

“It’s been a long time since anyone found any ‘sugar’ in me. A very, very long time. You see, I...well...there’s no excuse for me.” She sighed deeply. “I apologize for my behavior, young lady.”

“Apology accepted.” After a brief pause she continued in an exaggerated whisper, “And you’re right...the pastries are overpriced.”

This brought a genuine laugh from the woman.

It was a great laugh.

I left them talking and made my way over to where my beloved sat.

She looked up from the morning paper, saw me grinning and said, “What?”

“Amazing what you can learn at St. Arbuck’s,” I replied.

“That being...”

“Sometimes if you want the sugar, you have to dig for it.”

She pondered for a few seconds before saying, “Huh. Isn’t that the truth. You just come up with that?”

“Yeah, but I had some help.”

Too Late For Words

a fading, gibbous moon

holding stubbornly to its grasp on the sky

as if daring the sun

to rise any higher

holding on

like i cling to my memories

another time and place

a fault line paradigm

no use for a thin dime

too late for words

too early to start drinking

Midnight Cowboy

I never cared for the taste of strong liquor until the day Lorna introduced me to the aqua vitae.

She of the exquisite face and form.

She with hair the color of burnished copper catching the reflection of the setting sun.

She of the jade-green eyes...jaded.

Gone now.

Long gone.

Good and gone.

But if it’s good, why do I feel so bad?

By, "introduced," I mean to say that she was the cause of my foray into the nether regions of the liquorous palliative.

Although, I dare say that given the speed with which I hit the skids—one of her kinder descriptives of my, shall we say, unfortunate situation—one could argue a certain inevitability at work.

Thirty-eight last month!

I’m thirty-eight, and everyone I know thinks I look ten years older.

No, strike that.

Everyone I know who will be honest thinks I look a good fifteen years older than that!

The bar is kind of quiet tonight.

It’s funny, you know, but everyone in here is looking for something, even if it’s just a place where you can escape inside a bottle; even if only for a little while.

The jukebox squawks out a tired, old tune.

A tired, old tune that, to this day can still tear my heart out.

I hate it that she still has that power over me.

You probably wonder why she left, me being the prize catch that I am.

It’s simple, really, she was beautiful and headed for an amazing career in film, while I, well, can we just say that I’m not beautiful, and leave it at that?

That skinny woman sitting at the back table keeps looking over at me. If you want to know the truth, she looks over at me about every ten seconds.

I wonder if she expects me to go over and stand there while she pretends interest long enough to get a drink out of me? Or whatever.

Not tonight, sweetie.

“You want another round?” this from Ralphie, the bartender, apparently, my new best friend.

With a slight motion of my hand, I indicate that he should keep them coming.

It occurs to me that I sit at the end of the bar every night, which is fitting because, to be completely honest with you, I’m at the end of my rope.

“The Midnight Cowboy is having another round!” I shout out, apropos of nothing or anyone.

If I keep this up, it will definitely be “last call” for the Midnight Cowboy.

Not that anyone would care one way or another.

That’s what they call me around here, you know.

The Midnight Cowboy.

I’m really drunk.

It’s a good thing I lost my license...no, really, because if I hadn’t, I know for sure I’d try to drive home...probably with the skinny chick in tow.

No...come to think of it, I’m not quite that drunk, although ten minutes ago I tried to buy a drink for my reflection in the mirror on the way to the head.

I turned me down, of course.

That was funny...man, that was really, really funny.

I mean, wasn’t that funny?

Against my better judgment, I dig my iPhone out of my pocket, spilling close to a hundred dollars in loose bills on the filthy, sticky floor, scroll to Lorna’s name and proceed to dial her up.

She isn’t home, of course.

I may be drunk, but I’m not crazy!

I just wanted to hear her voice on the answering machine.

Yes, she still has one of those.

“Hey, cowboy,” says a husky, feminine voice behind me. “Want some company? You look like you want some company. I can usually tell the guys who want some company.”

I turn to dismiss the unwelcome intruder...and look right into those jade-green eyes.

“Lorna?” I manage to croak out before the tears blurred my eyes. “Lorna, I...”

“Shhh,” she said, while wrapping her arms around me.

“You really smell good,” I said after breathing in her oh-so-familiar scent.

“Well, you don’t,” she said with a soft laugh. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

I open my mouth to utter the first of about a billion questions, but she just covered it with her hand and said, “We’ll just take it slow, all right?”

I was walking with her toward the exit; unsteadily, but walking nonetheless.

I waved what I believed to be a final good-bye to my reflection as we passed the mirror and walked out into a night that was much warmer than I had remembered.

Conversations With Eddie

 Preview From Snapshots At St. Arbuck's Vol 2

"It's been awhile." This from Eddie as we sat on the patio of St. Arbuck's, sipping our brews and enjoying the brief period of time that exists between days when there is a thirty mph wind and one hundred-ten degree temperatures, and days where there is a thirty mph wind and fifty degree temperatures.

It's normally called "October," but this year it started a week early.

"Yes, it has," I agreed. "I feel like I haven't seen you for a month."

"Six weeks," he corrected, tipping his chair and balancing on the back legs.

"No! That long?"

"Yeah, Jack. And don't forget, I was the one who had to call you or else we wouldn't be here."

"You did not!”

"Did too!" he wrinkled his brow. "Matter of fact, if I didn't call you on a regular basis, we'd never get together."

"What are you talking about?" I stammered. "I call you!"

"Oh? When?"

"Well, I called you..." I paused because suddenly I couldn't remember. "...you know, that time."

"That time? That's it? That's the best you can come up with?"

"Give me a minute," I stalled, hoping to buy some time.

"Dude, if you got to think that hard, then you have already made my point for me."

All right...he had me, but I had a secret weapon.

I got it from my wife.

She pulls it out during arguments such as this and I am helpless, yea, all men bow in helpless surrender before its power.

I felt the power rise as the word formed on my lips. "So?"

He rocked back in his chair as if he'd been smacked in the face.

"What did you just say?"

"I said, 'So?'"

He stared at me in a blank-faced stupor for about ten seconds before saying, "Oh no you did not."

"Yes, I did."

"Dude..." he said, stretching it out, the tiny vocal tremor at the end betraying his surfer roots. "Oh, dude..."

I smiled triumphantly.

He shook his head slowly. "I can't believe you actually stooped to use that on me. Me!"

"I don't see what the big deal is."

"You don't see what the big deal is?"

Eddie has a habit of repeating everything you say when he starts getting a little worked up.

"No, I don't."

"You don't?"

"You know, if you're going to repeat everything I say, we're going to be here a long time."

He threw his hands up in the air and let his chair come forward with a bang.

"You're not supposed to say things like that."

"And why not?"

"Because, it's not...it's not, well, manly."

I laughed sharply.

"That's silly."

"For the record, saying 'silly,' isn't real manly either."

I wadded up the bag in which my chocolate chip banana coffee cake had come and arced it toward the waste basket where it fell cleanly through the opening.

"How about that?" I said petulantly. "Is that manly?"

"You don't get it, do you?"

"Get what?"

"You know...why it's a problem," he continued quickly. "You wanna' know why it's a problem?"

"Is there anything I can do to stop you from telling me?"

"No! Now listen to me. If we—guys that is—start resorting to girl strategies in order to win arguments, our entire gender will be set back centuries in our evolution."

"I thought you didn't believe in evolution."

He rolled his eyes and let his head fall backward with his mouth hanging open.

"I give up."

"You two arguing again?" The friendly, albeit nosy store manager appeared at our table.

"No!" we said in unison.

With a "wink-wink-nudge-nudge" motion of her elbow, she moved on to clean another table.

I looked at Eddie, "I have no idea what we were talking about."

"Now that's more like it! That right there is a manly thing to say."

"I'm not sure I..."

"Yeah, man. When the little woman is in the heat of the moment, you pull that out and, bam! Argument over."

The realization of how profound this really was spread over me like warm butter on a sticky-bun as we fist-bumped across the table.

"Isn't communication great?"

One Fine Day

I have a theory—any phone call before six o’clock AM can’t possibly be good news. I received such a call on the morning of May 1, 2009. On the other end of the line was Chip Lightman, Danny Gans’ good friend and manager of eighteen years.

Chip said, “RG, I have something to tell you and I didn’t want you to see it on the news.”

Immediately several images and thoughts battled for preeminence in my mind, but nothing could have prepared me for what happened next.

“Danny died in his sleep.”

Suddenly the air had been sucked out of the room and I felt as if my body had been transported onto one of those old Tilt-a-Wheel carnival rides. Vertigo kicked in, a total loss of spatial reference.

To be honest with you, I’m not sure what I said next but I remember very clearly what Chip said.

“Danny really cared about you, RG,” a fact of which I was well aware, but it was good to hear it anyway.

We chatted for a few more minutes before he had to end the call, as there were dozens of people to notify about the death and a limited amount of time in which to beat the news reports. After he hung up I must confess that I fell completely apart. Explaining to my worried spouse what had happened came in short bursts, as I was unable to control the emotion longer than a few seconds at a time.

The whole thing was so surreal we had to turn on the news just to see with our own eyes, hear with our own ears that our dear friend had, indeed, passed away.

Gone.

He was gone.

How was that even possible? We had talked the day before about getting together that very afternoon, and now...

It’s funny, isn’t it, how you can wake up thinking that it’s just another day—just another in a long string of fine days only to learn that it is anything but.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur as we tried vainly to make sense of the tragedy. Details were spotty and mainly speculative.

“What now?” my wife asked, her red-rimmed eyes a mirror of my own.

What now, indeed? It was a question certain to be on the lips of family, friends, band members and crew who were suddenly unemployed, business associates. It would be a long, long while before any of us found a suitable answer.

I had the uncommon privilege of being Danny’s friend for a little over twelve years. During that time we had many, many conversations about his life, his career, his faith, his passions, the joys and pain and his singular focus on being the best entertainer the world had ever known.

Mainly, though, it was just two friends talking over a set of bench presses at the gym, an afternoon coffee at Starbucks or lunch at one of his favorite restaurants.

Given his fondness for interjecting one of his patented vocal impressions into our talks, I used to tease him about it feeling like I was having a conversation with, “two hundred people.”

It has been said that we are born at sunrise and we die at sunset, and in between we spend our days and years chasing daylight. Danny Gans pursued and caught the sun, swallowing it whole and turning it outward to an adoring public who basked in its light for a season...a season foreshortened by his untimely death.

I miss you, my brother, my friend.