Category: reminisce

Thoughts about the good old days… memories.

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salt, pepper & memories


Sunday night, my folks were in town for the weekend.

When I was a kid, I can remember going with my parents and brother up to my grandparents’ house in Southern California. Being not far removed from Santa Maria, my grandfather was a great fan of what’s known in Southern California as Santa Maria style barbecue. I can remember watching my grandfather cook trip-tip, burgers, and hot dogs for the kids over split red oak on a brick barbecue (or “grill,” for you crackers). The barbecue was a large brick installation with a simple grate that could be raised and lowered via a chain pulley system – really just a brick and mortar housing for cooking over an open woodfire. This chain-and-grate adjustable-height grill is typical to Santa Maria style barbecue, you’ll even find this style grill in some public parks in and around Santa Maria itself. And on the weekend you’ll find folks cooking tri-tip and serving it with its must-accompany side item, Lompoc pinquito beans.

An aside: For my entire Southern Californian childhood, I used the term “barbecue” to refer to the actual act of cooking meat over wood. When I moved to Florida around age twelve, however, I learned quickly that Southern folk consider that very same act of cooking to be “grilling,” and it’s only referred to as “barbecuing” if there’s actually barbecue sauce involved in the cooking. Since Santa Maria style barbecue doesn’t involve barbecue sauce at all (you’re apt to get shot by a vaquero if you put anything other than salt, pepper, and garlic on a Santa Maria style tri-tip), the two coasts have incongruous definitions. Now then, back to the point of this whole thing.

Semantics aside, though, I’ve long desired to grill like my grandfather did. Tri-tip over a dead simple woodfire and, preferably, on a barbecue built by my own hands. It was this desire that had me eyeballing potential brick barbecue installation spots in the backyard this weekend, and scouring the net for plans. I found lots of plans, some that looked perfect for the backyard. However, considering the flirtatious nature of my love for the next “project,” I decided maybe I’d be better off not adding another unfinished masterpiece to the list. So, I instead began the search for a pre-made unit that I could buy. Slowly, I uncovered a few sites – finally ending at a place called the Santa Maria BBQ Outfitters, which specializes in Santa Maria (also sometimes referred to as San Luis, short for San Luis Obispo) style “pit” grills. These are just like I remember, crank-operated grates suspended above a pit for a woodfire. Sharaun has made some small protest, but I’ve pretty much decided this guy will be in our backyard within the month.

Once I get her set up, and find a local supplier of red oak – I want to throw an old style barbecue, reminiscent of the kind my grandfather threw for his family. Heck, I’ll even complete the picture with a bloody mary in-hand.

Goodnight.

(Thought I forgot Keaton’s weekly pictures? Wrong!)

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never did find any clams


Tuesday, the single-theme entries continue.

I’ve done this kind of thing a couple times before (didn’t realize until tonight that one of ’em was an unwitting repeat), and I enjoyed the writing process a lot. Turned to it again tonight and it flowed well so I stuck with it. So then, episode three of what I’ve come to call the “enough of this filth” series. Enjoy.

Oh yeah, and, mom, don’t read this, it’s all sexy-stuff.

I think your mom and stepdad were in the cabin on the boat, they weren’t on deck. Pretty sure your dad was drunk anyway, pretty sure he was already drunk as we drove to the ramp. Also pretty sure I know what they were doing in the cabin. It was a gorgeous Florida day, hot and muggy on the water. You and I were hip-high in the river, gooshing our bare feet into the mud and curling our toes in an attempt to locate clams. I’d never done it before, you were teaching me. The boat was anchored about 30ft from us in deeper water, we had swum to the shallows.

With no adults in sight, we began to kiss. The taste of your mouth always bothered me, different from the two or three girls I’d kissed before you – not good-different, but I worked through it because you were gorgeous. (I always thought you ate funny, I rarely saw you enjoy a full meal or indulge. Later on in life I considered that you may have had an eating disorder, your tiny body and un-tasty mouth providing some evidence. I’ll never know though.) Just kids of sixteen, kissing was what we did – and we… we did it particularly well (for just kids of sixteen, that is).

The murky water didn’t stink or anything, but it wasn’t crystal-clear or blue and provided some veil to activities below. You looked perfect in your bathing suit, a skimpy two-piece that favored your slender frame and accentuated your proportional teenage breasts. I began to kiss your neck as my arms and hands worked underwater – a mystery to eyes above. All the while, I was keeping a watchful eye on that boat. We shrunk down in the water, as if pulling up a sheet in bed, as our petting became more involved. Squatting nearly to our knees in the mud and submerged to our chests, I slid your bikini strap off your shoulder and down your arm – both of us still casting nervous/excited glances toward the boat. As I took your exposed breast in my mouth, I could taste the salty brackish water.

Hidden deeper under the cover of the water, my fingers traced the line of your suit bottoms, around your hip and lower back, tugging at the elastic edges. With each semi-circular pass, my hand dipped deeper within those sacred confines, brushing the smooth skin underneath as our above-water kissing became more ragged and breathy. You took me by surprise when your hands went aggressively to my waist, pulling at my shorts. You gripped me with both hands – and I reciprocated, moving fingers downward toward the prize. Lost in the moment, we were completely overtaken by teenage hormones as adrenaline filled us. It was complete risky bliss, the thing sixteen year-old boys thrive on.

While we didn’t consummate our “relationship” that day (someday I’ll write the story of that trip to Disney World, though), I guess we both decided that would be too risky in plain view of the boat – and besides, river water isn’t the best environment for activities of friction. But man, what a great afternoon. A defining moment in a young guy’s life, and only the third time I’d been “handled” by a female. Good times.

Heavy petting while clamming – now that’s a teenage memory.

Goodnight.

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y’all couldn’t break me


Tuesday night. Tonight I cleaned the cat’s litterbox, as it had taken to smelling foul. Now, I always clean out the litterbox, but I rarely clean the actual box. I took the whole thing outside, hosed it down and cleaned it with 409 then rinsed it. I hate to say it, but now that we have Keaton I feel the need to have a pet less and less. Not that I don’t like this cat, but I keep thinking about no cat hair, no cat food, and most importantly no animal using the bathroom in our laundry room. I know Sharaun would kill me for suggesting it…

This weekend, while Sharaun and I were cleaning out and organizing the garage, I came across a plaque I’d received in 1983 when I played for an AYSO soccer team as a rough-‘n’-tough six year old goalkeeper. I was terrible at soccer, as I am at any organized sport. Even at my tender age, I could tell that sports were nothing more than flashpoints of self-consciousness and humiliation for me. Born with no natural skills, and skin not tough enough to endure the training to acquire said skills, I gave up sports forever. It was a decision I still rue, as today it makes me feel like I’m lacking in one critical area of dudemanship. Maybe, if I had just stuck with it back then, while my muscles and mind were still malleable, I could’ve learned skills. As it stands now, the thought of organized sports strikes fear into my heart. I can’t swing a bat, I throw like a girl, and I feel like I’m alone on a stage of shame when I stand in a field of any kind. I’ve said before that I positively fear the day my son (who currently doesn’t exist) asks me to teach him to throw and hit, I’ll have to refer him to his athletic mother and retreat back to my computer. Oh… the embarrassment is almost palpable just thinking about it.

Anyway, I took the plaque and brought it to work. Hung it on the fabric wall of my tiny cubicle as a source of mock-pride. At least my season of soccer twenty-three years ago was good for a joke now. With its wooden backing, golden soccerball, and the misspelled team name in brass, my 1983 “Scorpians” soccer plaque is sure to bring a smile. So, to all those parents on the sideline who used to scream at me to “get up!” and “get in the game!” while I was happily sitting in the goal drawing in the dirt with sticks – y’all couldn’t break me.

Finally, in closing: I was kicking around Wikipedia last night and decided to enter in my old hometown in Florida, just to see what they had to say about it. The Wikipedia article contained a link my old burg’s official homepage, and on that homepage I found a link to a Frequently Asked Questions section. Hmmm… I wonder what the town’s most frequently asked questions are? Turns out they’re mostly routine: where can I plant trees, when can I water my lawn, and how do I apply for a building permit. Then I saw this one: “Why do we charge for water that comes out of the sky?” I just had to chuckle at the elementary school phrasing, let’s read it again : “Why do we charge for water that comes out of the sky?” Hahaha, it “comes out of the sky.”

Guys, before I go, I thought I’d tell you a story. Tonight I made one of my first legitimate online music purchases. Ever since I found out today that the band that made my 3rd/2nd favorite album of last year has a new “tour only” EP out there, I just had to hear it. After I consulted the “usual” places and came back empty-handed, I broke down and bought the entire album from galleryac.com. Go me for supporting the artists, or whatever.

Goodnight.

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sustained, i have to assume


Spent some time early Wednesday morning reading over the various “half” best-of lists on various music ‘zines and blogs. Queued up a bit of the more intriguing sounding stuff and now have a folder of “prospects” sitting on my desktop just waiting for me to listen to it. I’m hoping there’ll be a few gems in there. I think I’ll fire them up tonight at bedtime. (These are the things I look forward to.)

My dad called me today, asked me sarcastically “David, when are you gonna quit smoking?” Obviously, he’d read my thick-headed lament over another bout of social smoking gone wrong. “I thought you had a college degree,” he chided, “Thought you were smarter than that.” Yeah… I should be. I don’t smoke, I just sometimes get caught up in the moment when out throwing darts and flipping beer mats. I had promised myself that, when Keaton came, I wouldn’t “indulge” anymore… and I’m still working on that. Thing is, in reality, even a cigarette or two once a month can likely eff up my lungs – so it really does make sense to stop joking about it like it’s an accident every time. Maybe I’ll make a half-year resolution to end the social smoking tout de suite.

I remember when my family moved to Florida, I had just completed the 5th grade in California. Someone had told my mom that there were no trees in Florida. I had visions of some flat, barren beach landscape – void of green. As soon as we got on the ground, I knew whoever my mom had spoken to must’ve visited a different Florida. Florida’s thick with growth; like a green jungle. Trees crowd together along the roadside, some clad with vines and what the Floridians call “airplants.” There was more green in Florida than I’d ever seen in the brown summers of California. Driving around now, I can’t imagine a place this wet being anything but lush. The air is so heavy with water the sun-bleached fenceboards have green blooms on them – sustained, I have to assume, by the humidity alone.

I think three paragraphs is good for vacation, no? Until tomorrow then.

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she get high


Good Tuesday evening folks, glad to be with you again. Guess what? My daughter rolled over for the first time yesterday. You know me, I’m hard at work on a cheesy video celebrating the event.

Recently, I scanned through my iPod looking for ways to condense down the content and make room for new stuff. Not that it’s completely overflowing, but I’m just not a fan of excess. Anyway, I decided that, rather than having the entire remastered Doors discography, I could live with just a hand-assembled collection of my favorite Door songs (because, honestly, who can listen to “Horse Latitudes” all the way through anyway?). So, I hand-picked some songs and put together “Dave’s Picks,” a Doors greatest hits collection tailor made for me. I was so proud of myself and the 30 megs I saved, that I played the new compilation on the way to work this morning. And y’know what, I discovered that I’ve been listening to the Wal Mart version of the Doors my entire life. used to only the versions on the Columbia House version of the double disc Doors greatest hits set I was weaned on, and in fact not even aware there were other versions, how shocked do you think I was when I heard Jim Morrison say:

She get high! She get high! She get high, yeeeaaahhh!

Instead of the (now obviously truncated) sounding:

“She get ____, she get ____, she get ____, yeeeaaahhh!”

I can’t believe I never noticed the odd gaps in the lyrics, it’s so “… she ain’t messin’ with no broke-broke” sounding. And, all that Oedipal innuendo I always had to imagine at the end of “The End” is just out there in all it’s incestuous glory, as Mr. Mojo Risin’ follows up the suggestive “Mother, I want to… ooooohaaauurgh… night loooong!” line by breaking into a sort of F-word scat. Letting loose a bouncy chorus of “Fuck-a-fuck, fuck me baby, fuck, fuck…” Man, I’m ashamed to say that I didn’t know these songs in their full socially defiant beauty until this, the year of our Lord, two-thousand naught-six. Shame on me, shame shame.

Know what though, I decided to look it up – and it turns out the unedited version of these songs never even saw the light of day until six years ago when they were released on the 2000 remasters (the very albums from which I culled my compilation). So, I don’t feel so bad – these songs existed only in butchered form since they were released on wax way back in ’67. Whew. No shame on me, no shame no shame.

On our honeymoon, Sharaun and I saw a young girl get hit by a car. Maybe 15 or 16 years old, the girl was walking along the side of the road with her family. Sharaun and I were on the other side of the road riding our rented bicycles from one side of the island to the other. We had just passed the family as they walked opposite us when I heard the car skid. Next came a loud sound of impact, and I stopped my bike and turned my head just in time to see the girl’s body come over the car. She looked like a ragdoll in the air, every muscle limp as she tumbled above the trunk. She hit the ground in a violent collapse, her head the last thing to stop moving, neck offering no resistance as it landed on the hard packed dirt with a disgusting hollow sound. The car was already stopped, maybe 10ft in front of where the girl’s body now lay – motionless. I could see the smashed windshield through the rear window.

I’d never seen anything like that before, and I feared that I’d just watched a girl die in front of me. Sharaun and I were somewhat in shock, our eyes riveted to the scene while others rushed to dial 911 on cellphones and began to cross the street. The girl’s family was in a frenzy, one of them, who I took to her sister, was wailing. She repeated it over and over again in an agonizing cry as she bent over the girl, I’ll never forget that island accent calling out that name. The driver of the vehicle has since stepped out and was in a state of breakdown herself. A young girl, likely only a few years older than the girl now laying in the dirt, she was crying violently and looked positively lost for what to do. Then, not 20 seconds after the whole thing transpired, the young girl on the ground began to stir. Appearing dazed at first, she then became quite alert and even got to her feet. After that impact, I could hardly believe it.

Bystanders urged the girl to sit back down, not to move – but she and her family were stubbornly already trying to move on, the girl actually up and moving away from the scene. I remember thinking it was so odd, and that this young woman must have internal injuries. As we began to hear the approaching wail of sirens, we decided to move on. I still remember the terrible feeling I had in my gut as the crash played out in my mind during the remainder of the ride. I kept wondering just how hurt that girl was, despite her seemingly miraculous recovery. Kept imagining how her life may have changed that day, or may have not. Scary, sad, sickening, and fascinating.

I remember putting the Band of Horses album everyone’s talking about on my iPod way yonder back, maybe even two months ago. I must have decided, back then, that I didn’t really dig the album – because it’s since been removed from the iPod and my music library proper. I don’t know what was wrong with me, because this album is truly good. So good, in fact, that it’s now back on the iPod and in heavy rotation. Stupid me for getting rid of it in the first place.

Oh! Oh! Oh! Remember just the other day when I was pining for some scrap of news about the Arcade Fire’s sophomore album? Look! It’s like the Fire read my blog and are talking just to me! Fifteen songs! A pipe organ! C’mon Arcade Fire, pleeeease do it again, pleeease!

And, to finish off this music news hat-trick – I noticed that Cokemachineglow ripped off my Best of 2006.5 idea with their own half-year best of, the major difference being theirs has better written metaphors and more germane imagery. Also, they picked some albums that I personally feel are crap. I just can’t get into that Danielson LP, I hate everything the Fiery Furnaces ever put on wax, and that Love is All record was an overrated piece of trash. I do, however, agree with them on the albums that we chose in common – and I’m busily “perusing” the ones I hadn’t heard of.

Goodnight.

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verdant billboards


Welcome one, welcome all – to the sounds familiar blog. Now with recent-fad relevancy! Sounds familiar is your one-stop-shop for online predator sting operations, drifting, black-haired Britney, and the World Cup.

I don’t feel like I’ve been doing any “good” writing of late. That “Lion” bit the other day was some attempt to make myself feel good about my writing again – to move this blog out of the “went here, did that, had fun” doldrums and bring it back to something a little more interesting. To renew the storytelling aspect, maybe focus a little more on the writing and less on the material (if that even makes sense). I really do enjoy flattering myself by trying to “write good.” I get happy if my words flow well, if the sentences bring across ideas with unique words or interesting structure. I do abuse punctuation, and love a good run-on, but it’s the way my mind likes to see its thoughts put on paper. I can’t promise much, as my writing tends to reflect my mood, and is always a struggle between how badly I want to get the thought down vs. how pretty I want it to sound.

Slightly related, I had another friend ask me the other day how much time “blogging” takes me, “How much time per day,” he asked. I’ve been asked before, and I never have a really solid answer – I suppose because I just don’t think about it too much. This time, the curious friend asked if it was something I had to consciously work at or if it was now a firmly entrenched habit. I guess that one is easier to answer than the “how much time” one, as I’m fairly certain this blogging thing is definitely now a habit – nay, a compulsion, obsession. Even on the days I don’t write, it’s not because I don’t want to write – I always want to write. I don’t write because there’s just nothing I can bring myself to write about, and what’s more I actually feel bad about it. I’ve come to take pride in posting regularly, and more than fearing a disappointed audience, I don’t like breaking my “streak.” Anyway… back to the question of time-spent.

I’d guess I spend, on average, and hour and a half each day blogging. Sometimes less, sometimes more. I write mostly in the evening, while Sharaun and I sit and watch TV. Sometimes, I’ve snuck online during the workday and scribbled down thoughts in outline form, or set a fragmented sentence “to-blog” reminder to pop up on my cellphone and jog my memory. If the mood is right, it doesn’t take long at all. I can knock out several well-formed paragraphs in under a half hour. In fact, sometimes I get to writing so much that a good portion of the stuff ends up in the pre-written “bin” to post later when I’m not so inspired. I usually get an entry done and then spend an amount of time equal to actually writing it in reviewing and touching it up. Fixing sentence structure, flow, spelling, etc. Lastly, I surf the ‘net looking for an appropriate picture to accompany it, upload, format, and hit “publish.”

I like to think about it like this: Were I just taking those couple hours and watching some TV, it’d be two hours out of each day I’d never be able to get back. Spending those two hours writing, I feel like I can get some of that back – by way of reading what those two hours produced at some later date. I can at least revisit the thoughts I took time to put down. I’m going to stop writing this now.

When I was a kid, we had sycamore trees around our hometown. Those familiar with California sycamore trees will likely know what I mean when I say they had the coolest “puzzle-piece” bark. Instead of a solid sheath of bark like standard trees have, these trees had a protective outer shell made up of little cobblestones of hard bark. Being boys, we loved to pick at these scabby things, pulling off the amoeba-shaped flakes of bark to expose the bright yellow-green skin underneath. I can remember staring at trunk and limbs of the tree, looking for potential patterns; purposely trying to pull off the little puzzle pieces to leave behind a green secret message. The tree’s soft layer of protected skin used as a verdant billboard, perhaps advertising the vandal’s name or favorite four-letter word. Sure, the letters were often bubbly and imperfect, but if you took a long hard look at the sycamores in my neighborhood – you’d likely find one or two with a large green D-A-V-E picked off vertically down its trunk.

So… somehow I ended up at an old Stereogum post the other day, one centered on a Hilary Duff photoshopping contest. And, reading through the comments I found this gem tucked away at the very bottom:

HILARY THIS IS KATE. I AM A HUGE FAN I DO NOT WANT YOU TO BECOME ANOREXIA YOU ARE MY ROLE MODEL, YOUR PRETTY YOU ALSO HAVE A WOUNDERFUL VOCIE AND I DO NOT WANT YOU DIE. PLEASE DONT BE ANOREXIA BECAUSE I KNOW THERE ARE MANY MORE FANS THEN JUST ME WHO LIKE YOU AND FEEL THE SAME WAY. SO PLEASE DONT CONTENUE TO BE ANOREXIA
GET BETTER SOON
YOUR FAN KATE R WRITE BACK

Excellent. You hear that, Hil? Don’t be anorexia, OK? Reminds me of some of the fan “mail” I’ve gotten on my ? and the Mysterians page.

Goodnight.

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my socialist pipedream


Hit the local hardware megastore on the way home from dinner with friends to pick up a new solenoid for a sprinkler valve that’s been acting up. I’d thought I ID’d the issue down to a faulty solenoid, but it turns out the whole valve is bad. Other than that a pretty ho-hum Tuesday… with work and some more work and then some food and maybe a little TV. On the plus side, I did listen to Tommy today, an album that sounds amazing to me every time I put the proverbial needle to the proverbial record. And Tommy doesn’t know what day it is. He doesn’t know who Jesus was or what prayin’ is; How can he be saved, from the eternal grave? Damn, that’s some good stuff…

My vintage 2nd series Garbage Pail Kids arrived from some other Ebayer today – I was ecstatic. Strange how just thumbing through a stack of those stupid little bubblegum cards can evoke such memories of youth. I can remember going through the yellow pages and calling gas stations and comic shops around town asking them if they had Garbage Pail Kids in stock. They were extremely hot when I got into them, which wasn’t until around the 3rd series. I used to have my dad drive me all around town looking for the things. He’d park and I’d run in to check the register displays for those precious wax packs. I was completely fanatic about collecting those cards, and at 25¢ a pop I could afford a whopping twelve packs a week with my $3 allowance, that’s 60 cards! ‘Round about 6th grade, I decided I’d grown tired of Garbage Pail Kids… they’d had a good run, from 2nd grade to 6th. I think I stopped collecting around series 14, and I still rue the day I took thousands of cards up to the local comic book store (after making my parents haul them across the country) and sold them for pennies. Now I’m spending money to regain those tangible memories… a luxury available to us drowning-in-cash Gen-Y kids.

A perennial joke I have with my close friends is the one about how Dave want to drop out and start a “co-op.” I like to call it a “co-op” as opposed to a “commune” because I think it has a positive connotation, evoking a feeling of people working together to support the whole rather than one of David Koresh burning babies. I joke, but I swear I’m really half-serious. Something about dropping out of society, becoming self-reliant (you know, that theme-of-themes that dominates nearly all my writing). We could do it. Leverage our group assets, purchase some land and basic starters, and proceed to setup a self-reliant, off-grid life. Nothing too avant-garde, mind you, I’d still want to send my kids to school, still want them to have friends; I’d still want the internet, still enjoy modern media. It’d be a triumph over the fetters of modern man’s reliance on luxury and convenience. Instead, we’d be enjoying the hard-won fruits of our own sweat and toil, working together to provide for us all. Oh boy… this is getting a little too Shangri-La, so I’m gonna cut it off now.

Goodnight.