Today’s the day that all the Eastern Orthodox kids had their second Christmas. That’s all I knew about the Great Schism when I was a kid, that the Greek kids down the street got two Christmases and the Irish kids just got one. Anyway, Merry Christmas, Greek kids.
The pad is utterly Xmas free again. Every year there is a Christmas explosion that fills the house, and then just as suddenly it reverse explodes back onto the closet shelf, all of it but the tree (which goes wherever sacrificed trees go), a crazed Christmas party’s worth of stuff reboxed with an inherited Germanic efficiency that my Irish half observes with lazy poetry.
Apparently if you slip your phone into your shirt pocket without shutting it down and then forget about it for a couple hours strange things happen. I’d retreated to the bar and between songs odd sounds were emanating from somewhere. I paid them no mind as I hang out in weird bars. As the bartendress did not seem especially interested in the story of life I reached for my phone to admire myself in my blog–I used to be so clever–when I realized it was on and the odd sounds I’d been hearing were from an enthusiastic Filipino/Filipina shemale thoroughly bespattered with DNA that had reached its evolutionary dead end. Imagine my surprise. Just as several women descended on me for drunken New Year’s Eve’s Eve hugs I managed to shut that particular window, and noticed between hugs and slurred Happy New Year’s that there were a dozen windows open on my phone screen, all safe for work, one of which, somehow, was my Hotmail spam folder, and either blind chance or fate managed to pop open the email titled “Hot Philipeno shemale!!!” and activate the link. Hence the odd sounds emanating from my shirt pocket. I never look at my Hotmail spam folder, and a good thing too, as it was full of videos of doomed DNA. I deleted its contents, ignoring the metaphor, then closed all the open windows, turned the phone off and thought safe, sweet analog thoughts the rest of the night.
I’m really beginning to miss my CD player. This steampunk vinyl and just plain embarrassing cassette revival I’ve been living is getting old, and everything downloaded on the computer just gets dull, it’s so easy, an omen of how bored we will all be when computers and machines do everything for us, even posting things like this without any missteaks.
Epilepsy snuck up on me a couple weeks ago and left the brain kinda beat up and wiped out. I probably wrote about that. I was writing about everything. Not a neurologically safe thing to do, writing. Gets everything all worked up, spitting sparks, burning up dendrites in a flash like singed hairs. You can tell the next couple days that things were damaged. You’re slower, and suddenly can’t remember things that you remembered fine the day before. So I’m avoiding writing for a few days, letting damage control reconnect what neurons are still in working order. There’s less each time. Not drooling yet, though, or saying inappropriate things. I was totally weirded out by groceries, however. Weird times. Well, they’re always weird times for spazzes. But weird times out there in the real world too. Fire and fury, the pretty news ladies were all saying, fire and fury, fire and fury. I sat on the couch watching the chatter for hours. At some point I reached my limit. Enough of the fire and fury already, I said. So I changed channels but there was Jimi Hendrix setting his guitar on fire and bashing it to smithereens in a psychedelic fury.
Saint Valentine, oh Saint Valentine.
It was a helluva decade, my fifties, some of the greatest ups in my life and some of the scariest lows. As it wore on, epilepsy inevitably began to dominate, the damage of a lifetime, and memory evaporated, and executive functions, and finally the ability to hold a job and even write articles. If you’re epileptic you know it’s gonna happen, you just hope it waits till later, much later, but it happens early, too early. Hell, it was giving me huge problems in my late forties, just when my life’s ups were becoming so up. I just hid it well, so I could keep working and getting writing gigs and not look like a spaced out fuck up. One of those.
But the real downside is the financial cost. You have no idea how expensive epilepsy is. Between the cost of medication and finance charges incurred taking out loans to buy the damn medicine–I couldn’t function without it, couldn’t drive, would be scary–it has cost us $40,000 in three years. And that was just for the medicine. Figure in the loss of income this past five years and the total cost gets into the hundreds of thousands. Hundreds of thousands of dollars. She’s already disabled. Still, we went from being a successful hard working middle class couple, completely self-made, to having little more than a roof over our heads and epilepsy incurred debts that suck up every loose penny. And you can’t get disability for epilepsy unless it is incredibly severe…and I’m not, I’ve just got a lifetime of damage that leaves me about as useful as a burnt out computer. You can’t get any assistance at all. No relief on utilities. No nothing. It’s just like being a normal person, except I can’t work.
So we enter our sixties flat broke but with a roof over our head. Rent control is such a blessing. But otherwise we have no idea what will happen next. The last decade was a series of surprises. You get fatalistic. I never was before. I am now. You just expect the worst and when it comes you shrug and deal with it, if you can. Though neither of us have the brain capacity anymore to deal with much of it. We just blink and wonder what to do.
Still, she just came back from the store with a steak and a six pack of beer and a bouquet of freshly picked flowers from the hillside, and there’s a mess of vegetables of all kinds from SuperKing and we’re going to have one helluva birthday feast. Life is good. I mean life is fucked up, even doomed, but it’s good, and we both take it a day at a time and stop and smell the roses.
Let them eat cake, in Polish, and the moment you realize your obsession with linguistics seems just weird on Twitter:
Cool…dig “kaczyzm”, borrowed from English with a complex Old Slavic inflection, in this case I believe the singular neuter instrumental? https://t.co/C1E4q91KRf
— Brick Wahl (@brickwahl1) March 30, 2017
Got to our pals’ Lincoln Heights hilltop eastside estate about 2 pm yesterday. We were there for party prep. Apparently we have a reputation for that skill set. The neighbors have guard chihuahuas, a whole herd of them. They yammer and woof and charge the fence like scary little tribbles, and their racket sets off that perfect eastside chorus of chihuahuas and pit bulls that echoed up and down the endless stairs on the way up. A lot of stairs. The hills of old LA are full of them. There’s some that lead to the top of our own hill even. People used to walk in the old days. Every neighborhood had Laurels and Hardys and pianos back then. You trudge up these long stairways, the street far, far below, and suddenly you’re in a sky island full of your friends, like those forests that sit atop mountains in the middle of the desert, lush and green and full of birds and rare trees. You walk into your friends’ little sky island and settle in and the city is all around you yet seems so far away. You feel one with all the other sky islands you can see, the hills in Echo Park and Silver Lake and Mount Washington and even Dodger Stadium looming across the river atop its own hill. There is the teeming city below and the sky islands above it, each one full of rare species and entire herds of chihuahuas.
The first guests arrived about four. They came in all night a handful at a time, went out to the deck, drank and ate and partook. Everything was perfect, the chatter continuous. The last of us left at four. Though it was actually 3, as the clocks had all magically jumped forward an hour at 1 a.m. So the twelve hour party was actually an 11 hour party and we can all pretend we blacked out in there somewhere and lost sixty minutes. There was a covered deck in the back yard, brought piece by piece up those zillion stairs, like Gold Rush saloons that were carried by mule and man power up mountain trails and reassembled in their Edwardian glory at the top of some Sierra peak. The bar here was limitless, endless tequilas in crazy eastside bottles–Aztec skulls, lovely hearts, tall thin phallic shapes, everything. Other boozes too, and beer and wine up the wazoo, but I stuck with tequila, though on ice, please don’t tell anyone. And this crowd had all kinds of glaucoma and arthritis and back strains–guitars are heavy–and was thoroughly medicated. Someone put on the Grateful Dead (Europe ’72) and I knew every goddam song without every having owned it or any Dead LP. There was a price to paid for living in California in the 70’s-The Dead. Well, the Dead and the Beach Boys. Sometimes even now you’ll be at a party somewhere and be surrounded by obsessives of both, the people on one side talking about Jerry, the people on the other about Brian–we have no last names here in California–and you just want to scream but don’t because screaming would bum the Deadheads’ long strange trips as the Beach Boys fans bolted for the nearest sand box. Anyway, that Europe ’72 is peak Dead, as our former Russian ambassador said (he did, I saw it on Twitter, he was a Deadhead. Imagine a Deadhead dealing with Vladimir Putin who, shirtless, looks a bit like Ted Nugent), and its stony acid hippie groove atop the hilltop sounded good, with Los Angeles spilling out in all directions in front of us. The music had a mellower vibe all afternoon–Jack Black, getting his inner Nashville on, spun a few times, and Faces (Oh La La), and that mellow live Velvet Underground album (1969, which was also perfect hilltop listening) and back to the Dead. Rambling Rose. The grass ain’t greener/the wine ain’t sweeter/either side of the hill, sang Jerry. And maybe that’s true. But up here on top of the hill, listening to his mournful solo, everything actually was greener and sweeter. Everything was just fine.
Night fell slowly, squeezing every last bit out color out if the horizon, fading out in a mellow tangerine and the night sky, at first an inky Russian blue, became black, starlit, only a tinge chilly. The lights flickered on one by one till at last LA was tiny splashes of light, and the endless geometry of street lights, and signage in red, blue, green, golden arch yellow. Sonically things took on a harder edge with the pre-Minutemen Reactionaries (a great CD), and MIA sounded good, and Antibalas was a dream up there on the sky island, the city everywhere before us and crazy West African rhythms swirling polyrhythmically about our heads. We sat round a fire that took the hint of cold out of the breeze, and drank and partook and munched and yammered and laughed and told stories and gazed out across Los Angeles and fell madly in love with the place again as you do every time you see it by night from a hilltop. Occasionally sirens rent the scene, but there were no gunshots, no visible police action, no nothing but people long in bed as we still sat up there in the tenth, eleventh and twelfth hour of this endless party. This city has calmed down from a couple decades ago, when nighttime hilltop views brought a vista of flashing lights and police helicopters as far as you could see. Now it sleeps. At last, fearing dawn before we even got home, we said our goodbyes. No one was driving, we all called Lyft to take us home. We weaved down those endless steps amid that vast orchestra of chihuahuas and pitbulls making its crazy music at the sound of our voices, and the friend with us took my wife’s arm and escorted her down the steps in the dark. I watched from fifty feet back their silhouettes stepping with a shaky grace, till they hit flat ground again and parted with a thank you. The dogs all settled down, our car showed up and we sped away though the winding hillside streets in the dark.
Said I’d make dinner. Fridge and crispers pretty bare, cupboards barer. We need to do some shopping. Found a package of Farmer John maple breakfast links in the freezer. No idea where they came from. Thawed ’em and fried ’em slowly. I let a pot of water get to a rolling boil and slipped in a mess of rigatoni. Then I found a small can of tomato sauce, diced up some onion and black olives and stirred them up together in a sauce pan, plus a few seasonings. OK, now what. Flipped on the kitchen radio. A sax solo, sharp, kind of crazy. Grabbed a bigger skillet, heated up some olive oil and tossed in a mess more of that chopped onion and black olives. I’m digging this saxophone, Johnny Griffin I think, with hints of Lester Young. Found three grape tomatoes, quartered them and added them. Then grabbed a bag of broccoli and tossed maybe a dozen florets into the skillet with the onion and olives. Stirred it all around, then let it sizzle. Added a few various seasonings, plus a couple sprinkles of garlic powder. The sax solo was done, the sausages were done. I took them off the heat and onto some paper towels to get rid of the grease. Drum solo. Maybe Roy Haynes. The rigatoni was ready, so I tossed that into a strainer. Now what? Drummer drops big beats on the bass drum, I dumped the pasta into the skillet, stirring it around. Diced up the links, tossed them in. Kept stirring. High hat splashes. More olive oil. A few seasonings. Low heat. Sizzles. Definitely Roy Haynes. Did some of the dishes. Gave it a few more stirs. Made a fresh pot of coffee. Thelonious Monk on the radio. Got out the plates. Sliced up a cucumber. Got in a last couple stirs. Tried to remember the tune Monk is playing. In Walked Bud. Found some parmesan from a pizza delivery. Called Fyl into the kitchen. A final stir. In walked Fyl. Taste test. Very solemn. She’s letting her taste buds take their time, then nods in the affirmative. That’s good she says and smiles. Monk solos. I hand her a plate and she spoons herself out a big helping, graces it with parmesan, and gives me a kiss.
I don’t know how, or even what to call it, but it sure was good.