the jones brothers (Part 1)
Current mood: not on dark side

Before moving to Indio, at which time we got separate rooms, my brother and I shared a room--sleeping in bunk beds.   As the older brother (4 yrs. senior), it was understood he would have the top bunk.  Actually, I didn't have a problem with it, since I could envision one possibility of having the top bunk--and that was rolling off & falling to the floor. In fact, this did happen once -leaving him wide awake, bruised--but not hurt.  Meanwhile, the risk of having the bottom bunk became clear to me one night, after the top collapsed on my head.  Again, no serious injury--just a nasty bump on the forehead, and an emerging doubt about my Dad's ability to assemble furniture correctly. 

We could not talk for hours 

My brother, even at an early age, was not a talker. It was not his nature to reveal much about himself, even to those close to him. I was considerably more extroverted, but faced the limitation of being with someone not willing to engage in much dialogue. I learned not to push it.  'Shut up and go to sleep' was not an invitation to talk about the Dodgers' blowing a late game lead--I discovered.  'What's it like being an altar boy?' also proved to be a non-starter. Basically, my brother taught me how to relate to someone who had no interest in talking to you. 

Cover up

Certain personality traits evolve simply as a way to survive, I think. It wasn't uncommon for both my brother and I to be on the receiving end of hard slaps to the back of heads when Dad became upset (usually shortly after Mom started talking). The slaps (full force) seemed completely arbitrary, and to this day I can not associate a slap with anything specific we did to earn it. We both resented him for it—and my brother got to the place where he would not admit to any culpability for anything that went wrong—even minor things, regardless of his role.  One of my earliest recollections is him tossing a baseball into the bottom part of the bedroom door, and then covering up the gaping hole by lowering his Dodger poster.  It seemed ingenious at the time, but now quite unsophisticated. But for whatever reason the low poster did not appear suspicious to the parents, or if it did--they chose to ignore it, & get on our case for more nebulous stuff.    

It appeared something like this: 

..

does this look suspicious?

Comic books

I can't recall when my brother first got into reading comic books, but once we moved to Indio--and he has his own room--it became an obsession.  Book shelves lined his room and were filled mostly with comics--comics that he had read. He wasn't one to pose.  He easily had a comic a day addiction (buying them at the local market for a quarter).  Meanwhile, his younger bro (me) felt no compulsion to adopt the same interest...and to this day has not read a single comic book.  Yes, I started one as a young teen (it had a very appealing brunette on the cover who went by the name of Veronica), but lost interest after the first page. When my brother spotted what I had been reading, or aiming to read, he promptly let me know the 'lameness' of that comic series. Part of his job as the older brother, he felt, was identifying lameness so I could avoid it. 

Music

The bands I ended up liking during my own high school years (Creedence, The Who, Pink Floyd, The Doors) all came into my path by virtue of albums my brother bought me at Christmas. I always looked forward to his gifts.  The only dud gift I received from him was a Cub Scout t-shirt with the inscription  'We eat brownies.' I still have no idea what that was about.  I think I ended up just donating the shirt to a local thrift store. It could still be there.  

Something I was better at

My brother swam and played water polo (both 4 yrs. varsity, MVP 2 yrs.) in high school, and really was adept at any sport he tried.  The only 'sport' I had an edge over him, continuing into adulthood, was table tennis.  I had somewhat faster reflexes, and was willing to make the necessary sacrifices to be a skilled player.  One thing I cut back on how much time I spent listening to Pink Floyds' Dark Side of the Moon.  There's was a certain meaninglessness, desperation and alienation that  transferred to me in the music--not conducive to alert, aggressive table tennis play. And the pot smoking required to fully appreciate the meaninglessness, desperation and alienation of being on the dark side of the moon messed with my eye/hand coordination.  So restrictions were necessary.  An acceptable ratio, I found, was 1 hr. on the dark side for every 4 hrs. practicing table tennis. 

Dark Side of the Moon album cover

Suspended

My brother was one of a few members of the swim team that were suspended from school for drinking alcohol (beer) on the team bus, coming home from the final meet of their final season.  The coach did the right thing--alcohol use can not be tolerated in an underage setting--but there were reports that bus drinking was taking place earlier in the season, and he chose to ignore it.  I don't know.  What I do know is some years later coach was sentenced to 15 years in the penitentiary after being convicted for smuggling cocaine into the country, using his private plane.   

I do not know if there were any open containers on board.   

(to be continued)

Currently watching : Shine a Light Release date: 2008-07-29

4:17 AM - 15 Comments - 28 Kudos - Add Comment

Fiasco
Current mood: fight or flee

My intent was to spend as little time as possible at home. I figured anything outside the home was bound to be less depressing.  That was the motivation for landing part-time employment during my high school years.  Here's a little of what I remember about some of these jobs: 

McDonalds:  Conveniently, there was one located just a few blocks away from campus.  Working there didn't seem to have the stigma that it now does. Or maybe I just liked the design of the uniforms in the 70's--I don't know.  A few things I recall: 

·        The manager let me know the first week that I was over-complicating the ordering process.  He had me shorten the 'May or may I not take your order?' to a more efficient 'May I take your order?'  He said if a customer was standing in front of me, attempting to make eye contact, I was to assume that person was ready to place an order...something I have never forgotten.

·        A very large Ronald McDonald painting was removed, without authorization, from one of the store walls. No one spotted the perpetrator—or if they did,  would  confess to it.  Coincidentally, I noticed a very similar painting hanging in a friends' garage the following week.

·        The manager was fired over suspicion of embezzlement.    We did not miss him, since we all considered him an a*sh&l% (asshole).

Coachella Valley Vineyards:

The summer after graduating from high school, I was employed in the vineyards working alongside migrant farmworkers—earning whatever minimum wage was at the time.  My job was to keep the workers supplied with boxes, and remove the empty boxes at the end of the day. The working conditions were less than ideal: 115+ degree heat mid-day, and my inability to communicate to co-workers (three years of studying Latin proved useless) made the day drag even further.  About six weeks into the job, early morning, the valley was hit by a severe sandstorm--winds topping 50 MPH, visibility nil.   I assumed work would be called off that day—a mistaken assumption.  I was promptly fired after arriving to the fields the next day—for being an 'unreliable worker.'

Note: it is the only job (to date) from which I have been fired.

Local sports reporter:

My 8^th grade history teacher (the one I referred to in my last blog, that approved the middle finger picture for inclusion in the yearbook) thought it might be a good idea if I worked alongside her husband at the local newspaper on weekends.  He was the papers' sports editor, and since I was the sports editor for the high school paper at the time (sophomore year)—she thought it would give me some valuable 'real world' experience. She warned me he was a heavy drinker, and their marriage was on the rocks—information I wasn't quite sure how to process.  I reported on the boys' baseball and girls' softball games.  The details of the games were sent to the paper from the respective winning teams, and my job was to write the article as though I had attended these games.  One approach I used was to employ colorful words—not always taking the care to insure I fully understood the meaning of these words.  And since my articles, it became clear, were never edited—this could have embarrassing ramifications.   In one memorable instance I described a close game as a 'fiasco,' believing this word connoted an 'exciting event.'  This led to some fiery letters to the editor taking exception to this description, along with a few that--ironically--supported my view.  Expecting a rebuke from the editor—I braced myself--only to be told I was doing a good job since I was generating 'reader interest'—errors in all.  To him, reader interest trumped journalist competence. 

So did a shot of whiskey, but that is beside the point. 

Umpiring:

The summer following my junior year I joined my brother, home from college, umpiring girls' PONY (13-14 yr. old) softball games. He worked  behind the plate, I first base and another guy we nicknamed Fair Ball at third base.   Fair Ball was given this nickname because of his tendency to call any ball that was questionable (fair or foul)—fair. He seemed to be of the opinion that any ball that started in fair territory should be declared fair, regardless of where the ball landed. No amount of discussion between games could  budge him from this opinion.  As fate would have it, our team was given the responsibility of umpiring the championship PONY game—featuring a team from Palm Desert (lithe and emotionally self-contained…think Geena Davis) and one from Indio (stocky and boisterous…think Rosie O'Donnell).  The game entered the bottom of the 7^th (final inning) tied, the go ahead run on second base—Palm Desert at bat.  A ball was hit over third base, landing in foul territory.  It was signaled fair.   As the winning run headed home, a chant of CHEAT! CHEAT! CHEAT! came from an enraged Indio bench. After the girl touched home, the Indio team stormed the field, many waving bats--headed toward the nearest umpire (my brother). As brothers, we had been in some trying situations before, and learned to communicate telepathically.  In this situation he relayed the following message to me (paraphrased): 'Let's get the f*ck out of her NOW.  Sprint to the car, start it up,  make sure the passenger side window is open, I'll follow you to the car waving my face mask wildly to fend off these girls, and just before you floor it  I'll make sure to jump through the window.'  And that is how it went down.

We escaped this fiasco unscathed. 

fi·as·co ..

n. pl. fi·as·coes or fi·as·cos

·         Debacle

·         A poorly umpired girls softball game that ends in mayhem

8:09 PM - 14 Comments - 24 Kudos - Add Comment

Where's my trombone?
Current mood: volatile

    I'm not sure whose idea it was I should play the trombone. If I had been asked—an approach I can't remember my parents ever taking--I'm confident I would have selected drums instead.  I've always been drawn to rhythm--possessing reasonably fast hands, and a ample amount of repressed anger.  But the trombone was selected, and that was that.  

    I received the trombone as a 'gift' the summer before heading into sixth grade. Along with the instrument, came weekly lessons under the tutelage  the local junior high band director--Mr. Peterson. I remember Mr. Peterson being very patient with me, seldom if ever raising his voice--in spite of the fact that I rarely practiced between lessons.  At the end of each lesson he let me know that I was making steady progress. I took this to heart, and figured the key to becoming a good musician was not working at it.

   As I entered sixth grade Mr. Peterson, with some prodding (ie. harassment) from my Mom, surmised I was good enough to play in the junior high band. This entailed catching a bus at the end of elementary school each day over to the local junior high for practice.  Some memories:

• As I stepped off the bus, first day, I was greeting less than warmly by a cute girl who bypassed all social niceties to inform me that 'checks and stripes do not match.'  She apparently felt it was her responsibility to inform me that my checkered shirt and striped pants (or was it the other way around?) would not be acceptable in this new environment.  I took her rebuke to heart, but change came slowly.  It was only in high school that I consistently wore shirts and pants that were semi-compatible.   
• Band practice would begin with the tuning of the instruments.  The band would play a note, Mr. Peterson would wince, and then zero in on the section(s) he knew were off key. Often it was trombone section, and Mr. Peterson would have each member of our section (five trombonists)  play a note to see if he/she was the culprit. As far as I can remember, and do not quote me on this, I was never the culprit.
• At least once a week, one of the two tuba players...prior to blowing his first note...would pull something out of the bell of his instrument that did not belong—mostly abandoned clothing items.  This included, at one time or another—socks, underwear,  bras (usually padded) and the always good for a laugh jock strap.  The tuba players were never amused by what they took as a lack of respect for their instrument, yet the disrespect continued unabated.  
• Our band performed in a couple parade competitions each year, and usually finished second among four junior highs in the Indio/Palm Desert area. The only exception to our customary second place finish was the Indio Date Festival parade in 8th grade in which we were disqualified...which I'll explain later.  Our school motto was 'Second to None. '  which, in restrospect, seemed a bit disingenuous.  But more accurate mottos:  'Usually Second,' 'Second to One,' 'Second Unless Disqualified'—probably lacked needed inspiration. 
• I had no fear when performing musically. It was more a reflection of indifference, I think, than confidence.  Conversely, when I competed in sporting events (both team and individual), or even spoke in front of class, I would experience at least some measure of trepidation.  It would  manifest itself as an accelerated heart rate and/or dryness of mouth—nothing external.  I had none of this with music—even in the few occasions when I performed solo.   Perhaps it would have helped.
• In eighth grade Mr. Peterson was replaced with Mr. Stivers.  Mr. Stivers was a very animated, enthusiastic man--ambitious about what he could do with our band. It was his idea that we incorporate some dance moves when blasting out that years' tune (Ain't She Sweet) in the Date Festival parade—to set us apart, he felt positively, from our competition.   The dance moves were simple—but as we got closer to the parade date many members of the band were still routinely out of synch.  Mr. Stivers enthusiasm began fading, but not enough to scrap his plans that we be a dancing band. When the time finally arrived, and we had our moment performing before the judges' stand—Mr. Stivers came unglued.  Seeing a good portion of the band out of synch, he began frantically moving through the ranks, shouting instructions in vain.  His meddling (the rules require the director stay in place, not roam) resulted in our disqualification.  I later found out that a couple members of the the drum section had actually collided while executing the moves—one briefly taking a knee.  So it was doubtful, even without the disqualification, we would have fared well in the judging.  

Fast forward:  My time as a trombone player ceased after junior high.  I had lost interest—got involved in other things.  But I kept the instrument into adulthood—under my bed, next to the baseball bat (they got roughly the same use).   A few years ago, an acquaintance visiting my home mentioned he too was a trombone player in his youth—and still played occasionally. He was quite good, in fact.   He insisted my trombone be retrieved,  put together, so he can demonstrate his talent—preferably in the living room (where he will be guaranteed an audience of at least two, with my wife situated on the sofa).  What followed was a most god awful, obnoxiously loud rendition of a show tune best left unnamed. When done, we have an exchange that goes something like this (he's in italics): 

What do you think?

You can play pretty loud

I made a few mistakes.  

Oh...

Do you know what I was playing?

I think so.

Hey—why don't we get together on weekends. I'll bring over my trombone, and we can both play!

We'll see--I don't know.

(wife leaves the room...citing health reasons)

I'll call you!

(silence)

    A month passes, and not hearing from him, I figure perhaps he has changed his mind. Maybe he detected my lack of enthusiasm for his suggestion, or found another trombone buddy. I certainly wasn't looking for a direct answer.

    One morning I happen to peak under the bed and notice the trombone is missing.  Not suspecting foul play, I innocently ask my wife if she knows its whereabouts. 

I, well...

What?

I didn't think you wanted it

What do you mean?

I put it in the neighbors' garage sale last week.

What!&!!! 

How much did you get for it?

It was a donation

Currently listening : Made of Bricks By Kate Nash Release date: 08 January, 2008

7:37 PM - 13 Comments - 28 Kudos - Add Comment

I wish we had more lively discussions at the dinner table
Current mood: authoritative

and had someone that knew how to sew on a missing button.
Gracious submission would be a bonus.
I think if my wife had gone to a school like this--I would not be issuing this complaint.

(from LA Times)
FORT WORTH, TEXAS -- Equal but different. You hear that a lot on the lush green campus of Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary.
God values men and women equally, any student here will tell you. It's just that he's given them different responsibilities in life: Men make decisions. Women make dinner.
This fall, the internationally known seminary began reinforcing those traditional gender roles with college classes in homemaking. The academic program, open only to women, includes lectures on laundering stubborn stains and a lab in baking chocolate-chip cookies.
Philosophical courses such as "Biblical Model for the Home and Family" teach that God expects wives to graciously submit to their husbands' leadership. A model house, to be completed by next fall, will allow women to get credit toward bachelor's degrees by learning how to set tables, sew buttons and sustain lively dinnertime conversation.
It all sounds wonderful to sophomore Emily Felts, 19, who signed up as soon as she arrived on campus this fall.
Several relatives have told Felts that she's selling herself short. They want her to become a lawyer, and she agrees she'd make a good one. But that's not what she wants to do with her life. (We have enough lawyers--good move).
"My created purpose as a woman is to be a helper," Felts said firmly. "This is a college education that I can use."
Seminary President Paige Patterson and his wife, Dorothy -- who goes by Mrs. Paige Patterson -- view the homemaking curriculum as a way to spread the faith.
In their vision, graduates will create such gracious homes that strangers will take note. Their marriages will be so harmonious, other women will ask how they manage. By modeling traditional values, they will inspire friends and neighbors to read the Bible.

'There is nothing not to like about this article'
(jones--decider, cookie consumer, stain creator) 

'What is submission?'

Bass E Jones

'We already have a f*&king gracious home'

Susie Greene

'Thank you for sending me this article'

Madonna

12:33 AM - 21 Comments - 18 Kudos - Add Comment

from Mission Hills to Indio
Current mood: not feeling anything
Category: not feeling anything Life

  If there was an ideal time in my youth,  it occurred before my family moved to Indio (CA)--when I was 11.  Before that time we lived in a lively, middle class neighborhood in Mission Hills—about 30 miles northeast of LA.   My best friend, Bradley—was my next door neighbor.  We were about the same age…and would spend weekends, and many afternoons playing catch on one of our front lawns (football, baseball), or shooting hoops in his driveway.  It was more innocent times--so the sight of me hovering over Bradley's behind during football season, calling signals before the snap, didn't arise any alarm in the neighborhood.  During baseball season we both envisioned ourselves as Koufax...I tried to convince him to be Drysdale, but he would not...and a wild throw would almost certainly result in a long, frustrating search for the ball in thick ivy that separated our yards.  In retrospect, I guess we could have had some backup baseballs, or requested the ivy be trimmed, or even played in our backyards—where it was ivy- free, and roomy—but it never occurred to us.   We were creatures of habit.

Schooling:  I attended Catholic school through the 3^rd grade.  As I approached 4^th grade, I began losing some enthusiasm for the school since I knew daily mass attendance would soon become compulsory. This was something I dreaded--mainly because I knew I would have kneel for long periods of time, and this would make my knees sore (note:  this is not a lead up to a priest/altar boy joke), and I really did not understand anything that was taking place during Mass.   I don't recall if  Mass was conducted in Latin—but if so, that may have contributed to my lack of comprehension. Fortunately, an injury while playing kickball during recess one spring morning led to a decision by my parents that I would not return to the school the next year. They did not care for how the school handled the situation.  While chasing a ball I ran into a head on into a brick wall,  leaving a nasty gash on my forehead.  After being treated my the school nurse, I was returned to the classroom since I had an 'important' math test to attend to--parents not notified of the situation.  When the facts came out later,  Mom made a scene (she really had no reverence for authority...religious or otherwise), and I was to finish out the year never to return.  The next year I attended a local public school, and the following summer came the move.  Aside from this one incident, I don't recall minding Catholic school.  I had good schoolmates, the discipline wasn't extreme,  I learned the basics pretty quicky (I could pick out US America if given a map).  If the school just had a differnet approach to head injuries I may have continued there.

Why?  The reason(s) for the  move to Indio was never really explained to me—or to my siblings for that matter.  I assumed it was job related—my Dad headed up an urban renewal project soon after landing in Indio—but was never entirely sure.  I suppose I could have asked, but was hesitant because….well, I had no history of having a meaningful discussion with either one of my parents. Actually, any kind of discussion--meaningful or otherwise.  Dad always gave me the impression that he was searching for an exit strategy from the family, which turned out to be the case, and Mom—oh god.  Any exchange with Mom would usually morph into a self-pitying rant, where two points would almost certainly be conveyed: 

a)      her health was failing, and she was likely dying of cancer (just waiting for test results to confirm)

a)      her parents showered all their attention and affection on her only brother, ten years her senior. a Yale law grad who ended up founding a big law firm...leaving her deeply, irreparably wounded. Oh, if she was treated better--her life would be so different, so much better.  Gdammit!!  Stay here.  I want to tell you more. 

BTW, for those of you who want to start families for the express purpose of using the kids as sounding boards to work out unresolved personal issues--don't.  But if you absolutely must, at least wait until they are mature enough to handle it—like around 12 or so.  Of course, I am not Dr. Phil--I just play him in my blogs sometimes.. 

Leaving for Indio:  As we were pulling out of our driveway,  I recall the sadness of looking next door and realizing that my good friend & I may not ever see each other again. A weighty thought for a kid.  As we headed toward our destination, my pained silence eventually gave way to stunned silence as I began experiencing the summer heat, for the first time. It was stifling--smothering. IT WAS FORKING HOT!  The further we drove,  the more incredulous I became that a decision had to made to move to this place. Then--after the first night spent in our new place, I realized the heat (daytime average of 115) was just part of the happy package. We also were situated near some very busy railroad tracks, and we could listen, to the trains going back and forth all night. Anyway...on a positive note, the air conditioning worked great the first couple weeks.

That's it for now.

note:   Bradley did visit me a couple times while in high school, but did not suggest playing catch. He eventually went on to make his career in law enforcement, and now is captain of a police department in NoCal. 

Some pics:

3rd grade--before the head wound

San Fernando Little League 12-under team.  I was only 8, my brother 11.  I am on the bootom row, 2nd to left--sporting a Beaver Cleaver expression.  My brother is on the top row, 2nd to left.  He played short-stop, I was relegated to right field. 

My daughters on the trampoline.  

7:42 PM - 25 Comments - 25 Kudos - Add Comment

Speed survey
Current mood: transparent & vulnerable
Category: transparent & vulnerable Life

Please answer the following questions quickly and succinctly. I'm looking for honest, gut level answers--not premeditated bullshit.   This entire survey should take no more than two minutes to complete.  

Here we go: 

*Have you ever been in an awkward situation?

No

*Have you ever said anything you wish later you had not?

No

*Have you ever eaten anything that did not sit well within your stomach?

No

*Have you ever had an argument with a friend that left your relationship strained?

No

*Have you ever misspelled a word on myspase?

No

*Have you ever told a joke that did not get a laugh?

No

No

*One no would have been sufficient.

No

*Have you ever been less than spectacular in bed (sexually)?

 No

*From your partner's perspective?

No.  Yes.  I mean no--I think.

*Have you ever dressed in an unstylish manner?

No

*Have you ever witnessed a dance move on Soul Train you could not duplicate?

No

*Have you ever recommended a crappy movie to a friend?

No

*Have you ever become impatient while standing in a long line?

No

*Have you ever heard of Harry Potter?

No

*Do you have any fears?

No

*Have you ever been less than truthful about your myspace mood or status?

 No

*Have you ever drank too much alcohol and been less than highly effective the following day?

No

*Have you ever heard of Ron Mexico?

No

*Harris Mint?

No

*Have you ever double dipped?

No

*Is there any historical American political figure that has done a better job under trying circumstances than what you could have done?

No

*Has your basset hound ever not responded to your commands?

No

*Has your basset hound ever disrupted your sleep by preventing you from stretching out your legs, or dominating the blankets?

 No

*Complete this word:  O

no

*Is the following statement correct:  'It's not a lie if you believe it"?

YES—ABSOLUTELY.    

VOTE FOR JONES

No Thyself in '08

Currently listening : The Honesty Room By Dar Williams Release date: 21 February, 1995

6:00 PM - 14 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

whydontyoushutup
Current mood: haven’t decided

My parents divorced when I was 12.  My Mom took me aside one day to deliver the 'news.'  I didn't have much reaction to it at the time...certainly was not surprised.  It was pretty easy for me, even at that age, to realize that marital communication that consisted of hide and seek (Dad was the hider), followed by threats and counter threats--punctuated by an occasional food fight at the dinner table--did not bode well for a relationship.  This was the kind of instinctive knowledge I possessed even as a kid. 

Some background:

Mom was a 6th grade history teacher, employed 35 years.--most of it in the Desert Sands School District (Indio/Palm Desert).   Headstrong,  acerbic,  contentious…she tended to bring trouble into any situation, happily so.  Dad, on the other hand, sought trouble-free relationships. Well, at least something that did not require much effort. His favorite mantra: 'if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all.'   After years of witnessing this mantra trashed in practice,  he summed up his frustration with the family—well, Mom—with a ceramic egghead he strategically placed on top of the refrigerator one day.   The egghead had an imprint of man scowling, with the word 'whydontyoushutup' scrawled underneath it.  The divorce announcement came a short time after the appearance of this egghead.   

Dad moved to LA, where he had already been working for HUD.  The four kids (I was the third child), remained in the desert with Mom. The family would be reunited on holidays—typically Christmas & Thanksgiving. We could expect a great meal on Thanksgiving, and a showering of gifts on Christmas—Moms' idea.  We know it was her idea since she reminded us all every Christmas what a 'lousy cheapskate' Dad was, and how we wouldn't receive a 'damn thing' if it hadn't been for her--since he 'could give a damn about us' (paraphrased).  Sometimes Dad would be in the room when this reminder was delivered, which made it a little uncomfortable. Anyway, I think the larger purpose of the gifts was to help compensate for the psychological mayhem we were put through during non-holidays. A few of the unpleasant memories that occasionally still eke into my consciousness, include:

·        Mom roaming the house one afternoon, steak knife in hand, complaining about the burden of raising four 'ungrateful' kids.  I'm attempting to complete an English paper (regrettably, the subject was not Edgar Allen Poe), but find myself  having to deal with the situation, since conveniently, my siblings have chosen to be elsewhere. I do succeed in calming her down, telling her something along the lines of 'things could be worse' (she could have 5 kids), and eventually she agrees to lay down the knife, and return to watching Perry Mason (her favorite show). Meanwhile, I attempt to complete my paper. To this day I cannot recall whether it was completed or not.

·        Mom blaring The Judds' music out her bedroom window toward the park across the street, to discourage teenagers from congregating there.  The tactic works--this particular day.

·        Dad becoming visibly upset Christmas Eve, after overhearing me tell my younger sister, 7, that Santa does not exist.  He reprimands me with a spirited slap to the back of my head. Since that time I had decided to never to say anything slightly controversial before Christmas.

·        Waves of second hand smoke filling the house.  Mom, a.long term chain smoker, felt it important to keep all the windows shut while enjoying her habit.  She eventually did quit, choosing to do so about a week after I leave for college.  Note: I ran a 4:42 mile as a high school junior, and believe I could have gone faster had I the full capacity of both lungs. Not that there is anything wrong with second hand smoke.

Enter the interviewer:

I hate reading blogs where someone is bitching about their childhood.

Is that what I am doing?

Yes.  Why don't you emphasize more the sacrifices your parents made—well, your Mom—so you could have opportunities to do something constructive with your life?

Alright. 

Go to it, then.

Well--I was given a piano, along with piano lessons when I was 7.  Later, when I was about 11, my parents bought me a trombone.  I wanted a drum set, but the trombone was acceptable.  I was given a couple years of private lessons, and while in junior high played in this small brass group that had various gigs in the desert area, including the Indio Date Festival every February.  We would mostly cover Herb Alpert music.  We were a hit with the over-50 crowd.  I would see them snapping their fingers while we played, and become excited.

No sarcasm, please.  Go on.  

I was a member of private swim clubs throughout my childhood. The last one was formed shortly after Mom confronted my old coach, calling him an 'incompetent asshole.'

Next

My very first car, at 16, was a brand new green Pontiac Firebird.  It came with a bitchin 8-track tape deck. The car had a tragic ending, though, since no one bothered to inform me of the importance of oil changes. I was given an orange Chevy Vega as a replacement.

Sad

I know. 

Didn't various consumer car magazines rate the Vega as the second worst vehicle of the past 40 years?

Yes.  The aluminum block engine was less than trustworthy. It tended to melt when exposed to heat.  Let's go onto another topic, please.  

Alright.  What about the floral bell bottoms you received one Christmas?

That was actually a gift from my older sister.   I was 12 at the time. My brother, 16, received a matching pair. To this day, I have not seen any brighter red, orange and yellow flowers on a piece of clothing. 

Was it a prank gift?

No.  It was given with sincerity of heart.   My sister was still feeling the effects of the summer of love, and felt the bright pants might help her brothers connect to that vibe. The gift was well-intentioned.

What was your response?

I was a little surprised,  but not in a good way.  I thought of wearing them for a potential laugh, but never mustered the nerve. Eventually I cut them into shorts, wore them around the house once or twice, and then tossed them.

How did your brother respond?

He was offended.  He took the gift as some sort of slight on his budding masculinity.  He was a very athletic guy,  intelligent (140 IQ)--but socially withdrawn and sensitive about his image.  He could be quite surly.

Shirley?

Surly--ornery.  Unpleasant to be around.  Not wanting to have a laff. 

Oh

The gift strained their relationship for a while.  You know, I think we're done here. 

Me too.  What's been the point of this blog, BTW?

I thought it was the readers' job to figure that out.

You've watched way too much David Chase.

Jones, at 12.   Notice the happy disposition.

Note: both of my parents died in '95.  My younger sister took care of Mom her final few months, at her home in Marietta, Georgia.  I took care of my Dad, a diabetic, his final year.  Mom's final words to me were: 'I'm sorry.'   Dad's final words were hard to make out.  It had something to do with his wallet (no joke). 

Currently listening : Neon Bible By Arcade Fire Release date: 06 March, 2007

5:59 AM - 30 Comments - 40 Kudos - Add Comment

Muff diver
Current mood: inquisitive, but wary

I heard that phrase uttered twice yesterday from different sources, independent of each other. It reminded me of a rabbit I had named Muff, who used to rest on the diving board. Never actually took a dive--he wasn't suicidal. Anyway, the persons that used this phrase, as far as I know, never knew Muff or any of his habits. So it's highly unlikely the use of this phrase is connected in any way with my Muff. I never asked for a definition of the phrase...it sounded like subject matter best left unexplored. At least in a public setting.
I hope this blog was meaningful.

the late Muff Jones (never took a dive)

former friend of Muff

possible Muff dive instructor

Currently listening : Rabbit Fur Coat By Jenny Lewis with The Watson Twins Release date: 24 January, 2006

9:52 AM - 16 Comments - 20 Kudos - Add Comment

Confused
Current mood: confused, but not anxious
Category: confused, but not anxious Friends

..>..>..> ..> ..>..>..>..>

which is almost becoming my default mental state of late. But today, almost simultaneously, I received friend requests from both Isobel and Jennifer--who strangely have the same picture, are wearing the same outfit, with the same exact pose. After glancing at their profiles, it appears they are exactly the same as well, the about me section (which is where I go to first) beginning with the same identical  sentences: "Hey Guys! I'm seeking some cool fellas to hang out with, maybe more.. Im easy going and love to have all kinds of fun.. " I wonder.  Am I looking at identical twins here--with matching personalities, interests...and spelling aptitudes (they both nailed fun, but later misspelled travul)??  Or is it something else? Since I consider myself to be a cool fella, and generally enjoy being around the easy going, fun type (with the occasional dour, fatalistic friend to provide balance), I'm considering accepting one of these requests. But which one? How do I decide? Should I just accept both and perhaps have double the fun? Should I reject both because I've already had a lot of fun in my life, and it may not be healthy continuing down this path?? What if they both want to travul with me at the same time--is that going to present some kind of problem?? And...is this something I should ask my wife??? She's easygoing, but when I ask her these type of questions she tends to get a bit uptight...so I am  apprehensive taking this approach. You know--I never I anticipated I would face these complexities when joining myspace. It reminds me of when I first got internet access some years ago, and all these people from Nigeria kept asking me to help them through financial situations.  I was so overwhelmed by the requests, I eventually decided not to help any of them out.  I still feel a little guilty about that.                 Jennifer                  Isobel   Note:  about a week ago, I received notice that Bass E had a twin on myspace (Cass E).  But no way I am accepting the twin.  The picture sent to me reminds too much of Bass E...and I am not into redundancy--at least with hounds.               Cass E  (request rejected)

Currently listening : Stevie Ray Vaughan and Double Trouble By Stevie Ray Vaughan & Double Trouble Release date: 21 November, 2000

2:43 AM - 14 Comments - 22 Kudos - Add Comment

Next step: DNA analysis
Current mood: curious
Category: Religion and Philosophy

As I mentioned in one of my bulletins last week, I found an ossuary underneath my home that I believe contains the remains of Jesus and his family, and someone named Billy. Once I conduct the DNA analysis confirming the authenticity of my find, I'll offer my own theory of how, why & when these first century remains found their way to Downey,  and why in the word they ended up beneath my house--built some 60 years ago.  I will also offer my opinion of who the hell this Billy dude is (Mary's cousin? James' fishing buddy?, Some American tourist visiting Jerusalem at the wrong time??), and why the inscriptions on the ossuary are a hodpodge of Latin, Greek and Aramaic. 
I have no intent to capitalize financially on this find, BTW. No book deals are in the works.  If a movie is made, and goes straight to DVD--turning a reasonable profit--that would be sufficient.  A cover story of my find in Archaeological Entertainment Weekly would be a bonus. 

"Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things."    Col. 3:2

Currently listening : Lost in Meditation: Meditative Gregorian Chants, Vol. 1 By Gregorian Chant Release date: 30 August, 1994

8:58 AM - 11 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

The Secret Within the Secret
Current mood: serene, tempered by irritation
Category: serene, tempered by irritation Religion and Philosophy

Thanks for inquiring about my book.  It should be available at all quality bookstores (Wal-mart, Target etc.) sometime in late May.
I can't reveal, at this time, much about the content of the book--other to say that it will profoundly change every person that purchases it--in a positive way.  If you decide *not* to buy the book--but instead borrow it from a friend, or wait until it is available from your local library--I can not guarantee it will have the same impact.  The explanation for this involves a spiritual law, and the relationship between quantum physics and material reality--sh*t I don't want to get into with you right now.

Have a consciousness filled day, and make sure to set aside $19.95.

p.s.  if I was not changing the world, I would have more time to relate to each one of you.  Rest assured, that day will come. 

Currently listening : The Best of Norman Greenbaum: Spirit in the Sky By Norman Greenbaum Release date: 24 October, 1995

7:30 AM - 11 Comments - 16 Kudos - Add Comment

Not a narcissist
Current mood: on top of the world

I answered a survey today that disingenously attempted to paint me into a corner, spin my responses to make it appear as though I was a narcissist.  I am convinced I handled myself admirably.  But I'll let my myspace friends...the ones I've devoted myself to, day in and day out, with no thought of receiving anything in return...decide that for themselves. 

Survey:

*How are you doing?

Great—like always.  Story of my life.

*Are you narcissistic?
No
*Really?
Yes.
*Elaborate
I think it's easy to confuse someone who knows what they want, when they want it, know they deserve it, and better damn well get it, especially if it feels good--with a narcissist. I'm not a narcissist.
*Do you like to be the center of attention?
Of course not.
*have you ever put yourself in the role of a tv character you admire?
No
*So you have never walked around in your backyard pretending to be carrying on an urgent conversation with Chloe O'Brien or Bill Buchanan on your cell phone?
I don't even own a cell phone
*O.K.--with your wife's cell
Once. I did it the afternoon of the debut of season 6--make that day 6. I was excited. There were probably thousands of people that did something similar that day. Big deal.
*Did you recently tell someone you met in line at a Starbucks that in spite of being abducted by the Chinese and subjected to twenty months of torture, you never betrayed your country--or even your friends on myspace?
Now you're going too far.
*Did you??
O.K.--yes. But I think they knew I was joking.
*Why did they exit the line before ordering, then?
Many people can not handle the fact that others live more exciting lives. It's that simple. They would rather give up a grande caffe latte than face that particular reality.
*I think we're done. What are you going to do tonight?
Not sure. Maybe memorize some lines to The Departed.
*You look cute in those shorts.
I know

Currently listening : Miracle By Celine Dion Release date: 12 October, 2004

6:19 PM - 12 Comments - 20 Kudos - Add Comment