Half Past Awesome

Close Enough

Day 3 of the Super Incredibly Fantastic Special Extra Happy Trip Of 2011 consisted of taking in a concert. Not just any old concert, mind you, but one I’ve been anticipating with the drool of a starving dog in a steakhouse. We’re talking Mumford & Sons, a barely-four-year-old band that everyone declares to have heard of first, thereby infusing that hipster element into otherwise good music. Myself, I was turned on to them by El Jefe, a man who’s musical tastes run the gamut and who’s opinion I respect.

My brother Buns was able to procure tickets because, like the character Red in Shawshank Redemption, he’s the kind of man who knows how to get things; his silver tongue works magic, enough that he once met me at the gate of my arriving flight with Starbucks in hand, thereby violating just about every TSA rule imaginable. But I digress. This concert was the crux of my trip out to California, and the first time I’d set foot in the Santa Barbara County Bowl since some time in the early 90′s, probably to catch a Steel Pulse concert or something along those lines. Again with the digressing (note to self: up the ADD meds by three or four pots a day).

His friend having the quintessential bachelor pad within walking distance of The Bowl ensured that the pre-concert get-together would be sponsored by a vodka of indeterminate origin and lots of it. This compounded the issues of hiking up to the venue itself, a fantastic lovechild of perfect musical platform and stunning setting. We skipped the opening act in favor of standing in line for some decent enough beers and the usual jostling and splashing and wondering why some people bring their small children to such events.

And that turned out to be perfect, at least for me.

I was there to see Mumford & Sons, not The World’s Tallest Band (opening act), talented though they may be. After some shuffling and milling about, complete with Sound Check Guy who needed to make pretty much a damn scene out of his last minute duties, the boys strolled out, and jumped right in. And I mean JUMPED RIGHT IN. You know how there are certain acts you see where you’re thinking “man, this is okay, but really, I’m good just listening to the recorded version of —-”? Let’s be frank…no one comes away from a Britney Spears concert and ready to prattle on about her musical talents. Lip synching and gyrational dirty hooker dancing skills aside, of course. Such was not the case with these British lads.

They tore into their set, and yes I just called them lads since they’re about a decade younger than I, with the vigor and vinegar of men possessed. Musicianship, tragically beautiful lyrics and a fire unleashed all came together in a furious moment, as though we’re watching the tornado actually touch down in the trailer park. EVERYone in the crowd knew the lyrics, EVERYone was belting them out in hackneyed attempts at British accents, EVERYone seemed to be bouncing up and down in rhythm to the percussive music that was, to continue the bad analogy, sweeping us all up in its path. At the risk of being labeled a dirty hippie by my family, the energy that enveloped the entire show was contagious from beginning to end. I found myself beaming like an idiot, the sonic waves crashing into us and making us happy and peaceful and joyously riotous all at once.

Of course, as I read that last sentence, I realize what an idiot I sound like, but truly, that’s how it felt. I’ll never go to a Britney Spears concert, the good Lord willing, and as we get older and opportunities to experience this kind of communal groundswell of musical energy lessen, I’m thankful for those rare occasions to watch and experience young masters at their craft. They unleashed some new numbers, including one called “My Lover’s Eyes” that was, surprisingly (for a first hearing of a new song), already perfect. These guy were that good. To think they do this night after night, town after town, lends even more respect to what it must take to deliver such creative output; to witness them pouring their souls out like that was quite the moving experience.

Do yourself a favor: go out and buy Sigh No More, their album and give it a listen…it’s pretty damn good. Then, go see them in concert. It’ll change the way you think about how a concert should be put on by real musicians. Do this with a good beer and good people and that? Will make for one hell of a good night.

Good Times Had By All

I’m on the road currently. The ostensible reasons are to get out of Springfield, catch a great concert with my brother, recharge my batteries for another couple rounds in the firehouse and lastly, general tomfoolery. All still going to plan, too. I spent an evening at the local watering hole of my hometown, The Old Cayucos Tavern, catching up with people I’ve not seen in a dozen years or more. It’s always good to know that over time nothing too much changes, except that everyone seems to have kids and jail time under their belts to show for it. Someone is now a commercial fisherman in Alaska, some are working, some are fighting, many broken promises being argued about over the sound of a great band,  a band much better than the raucous trash that used to play there when I was a kid sneaking into the joint. All the small town drama is still in full swing, bikers and surfers and ranchers and truckers all living life in a jilted awkward dance set to the rhythm of life in a sleepy beach town.

And while it’s always good to check the ties that bind you to your youth, I’ve also spent time engaged in an act that I’ve neglected for far too long. This trip has been marked with miles on the road checking in with family, blood and otherwise. My mom’s sister, who I’ve not seen in twelve years, recently moved to California to be close to family, so I popped in unannounced, seeing if I could give her a heart attack by ambush visiting her. She’s a delightful and kind soul who spent her younger years getting arrested for protesting acts of animal cruelty, then proudly mailing me the newspaper clippings of her being led off after chaining herself to a mule diving platform. Now she’s toddling around an assisted care facility, walker at the ready, eyes still alive and vibrant with an independent spirit that I recognize.

I also pounded some Central Valley miles out to check in with my grandparents, something that is a bit of a ritual to me now. The parents of my stepfather are old-school farmers, no-nonsense people who raised a large family in Bakersfield and don’t suffer fools lightly. There’s no time for that when you’re carving a life out of the fertile desert floor, and yet despite their stern demeanor that I remember so well, there is an abundance of love in their hearts for family. Grandpa served in the military in WWII, and those years are the subject of our conversations, limited as they are. I’m just grateful, I suppose, not only for his service, but for their accepting me into the family when I was a confused kid, desperate for a place to fit in with my new family. In their nineties now, it’s with a melancholy heart that I realize our short visits won’t be going on too much longer;  in those moments, I’m trying to memorize all the details, never forgetting to let them know that I love them before I leave. I’m sure this verbal acknowledgment, while foreign to a generation of tough men and strong women, falls upon their ears and makes them smile, even if a little.

I also drove up to Cambria to visit my mom while she was at her quilting retreat, overlooking the Pacific Ocean, a half dozen ladies chirping about and creating beautiful pieces of art for loved ones. They were wearing their pink Springfield Fire Department tee shirts, purchased last year as a collective effort to contribute to raise money for breast cancer awareness. Mom no doubt coordinated the wardrobe for the day I’d visit, a sweet effort from a sweet woman, embarrassed as she is to have brought me into this world. She still refuses to believe I have a tattoo, a point she made to me and anyone else in earshot, and that’s okay, too. As she was explaining to me just how disgusting I would look as an old man with saggy ink, and I was telling her I had no plans on getting old, I had to smile. My mom & I, my earliest ally in this world, the one who has tolerated me from the get go, lecturing a 36 year old me on my behavior. I missed that. She was more than happy to point out my flaws, and I loved it.

Finally, I visited Steve and Joanie, old friends from way back in the day, surrogate parents to a younger, cockier me. I wrote about Steve quite a while back (read here) and, as ever, it was good to be in their embrace, to feel the genuine love that comes from people who you love you despite yourself. I miss them greatly, and as I walked through their house, marveling at Steve’s impeccable style and skill with woodwork, I felt at peace, at home. I got in some meals with my stepdad and uncle, mentally taking me back to a time when they were aggressive framers and builders, catching their coffee at Skippers in the morning fog before strapping on their toolbelts and creating homes of immaculate precision. RoJo and family came up for an afternoon, and to see his son growing up in his image is shocking, indeed. I couldn’t be a more proud psuedo-uncle.

So, that was the first two days. Two days of a mad rush, hoping to cram in time with those I need to recognize more often. Family. That’s the thing.

March 25, 2011. A date that shall live in obscurity for most. But for me, it marked a new beginning, a transition of sorts. Before you go hauling off and accusing me of undergoing a phase of cross-dressing or jaywalking with reckless abandon, let’s clear it all up. Rather than buying a red sports car or running off as a roadie for a disease-laden traveling punk band, I marked the occasion simply, in a classy fashion, one that will make my mother’s heart break: I got a tattoo.

Now, the constraints of my employment mandate that placement of aforementioned tattoo was of the highest priority. In common terms, no neck tatts or anything on my forearms (unless I want to wear nothing but a neck brace and long sleeves for the rest of my career). And as far as the neck  rules go? I’m good with that. We’ve got a guy on our hockey team with neck ink who, coincidentally enough, takes his fake tooth out before each game, making him even more menacing looking. I’m twice his size yet the neck work and toothless grin say one thing and one thing only: you don’t mess with me. I oblige him. Avoiding the forearms wasn’t too troubling, either, since I have basically spaghetti noodles for arms, a source of middling shame.

So, to the thigh we went. I see this as a form of insurance. Never in my life, ever, do I want to consider Speedo-style, European man bikinis a viable option for bathing in public. It doesn’t matter if I’m on a beach full of Jaques on the Mediterranean coast, I’ll be the guy in regular shorts, sans gold chains, cigarette and most importantly man-kini. Insurance for me, insurance that you need not ever catch me in a pair of plum smugglers in public.

The design? A Maltese Cross, the symbol of fire departments the world over, with a Celtic weave in it and the Gaelic term for “brotherhood” inscribed, as a nod to the traditions and history of the fire service. Also, the year I entered the career as a paid professional, since it was a year of fantastic, and great, change. The artwork took several rough drafts on my desk and many a Guinness for me to finally come to terms with, but I’m glad, since most decisions like that are best left to several rounds with your creative conscience. When the moment finally came to step up and get the work done, I’d done my homework and decided that Ethen at Hearts Of Fire here in Springfield really had a style that I liked and respected. His work graces many of my friends here, and it wasn’t a tough decision at all.

On that fateful night, I finally took the painful plunge. Like all procedures I’ve gotten, we started out with me getting clammy and sweaty and unimpressing the hell out of Ethen. I suspect he had no desire to lug my ass off the ground once I’d passed out completely. I couldn’t blame him, but since it felt like a thousand bees were busy stinging the ever loving shit out of my thigh, I just sat there, bobbed and weaved for a few minutes; after promising that looking like a corpse was my usual modus operandi, he proceeded. We swapped stories, gruesome fire tales for crazy inking situations, his hands working fast and with purpose. I wish I could have detached and appreciated how he’d taken my drawing and was committing it to my body, a weird marriage of organic art and permanence. I was too busy focusing on the wall, on The Wife who’d surprised me by dropping in the studio to witness the crying & carnage. One of my best friends stopped by as well, so as to mock me, silently at first, and then later back at Patton Alley Pub, somewhat more loudly.

Two hours doesn’t normally pass so slowly, but in this case it did. The work he did was incredible, in terms of the accuracy and skill. As the days have passed, I’ve remained very happy, indeed, about my choice in getting my first tattoo. You can’t crash a tattoo into a tree and kill yourself, and yet it serves as a reminder of a moment in time, or in my case, a life in a certain career. It will always be there, and for that I’m grateful. Unfortunately for my bank account and skin, I’ve also succumbed to the addiction. Like coffee, bacon and reckless behavior, I think I’ve just added to my list of great loves.

Thanks, Ethen.