So, when we last left our hero, he was discussing his curious sadness over his local homeless woman's passing on into the next chapter. Odd place to leave off, but, there it was. Obama was just beginning to work out the ass groove left in the Oval Office leather by his predecessor. The King of Pop was still with us, residing in the "Where is he now?" file. And my hair was only 3% gray as opposed to the current 5%. Now, 6 months later, batteries recharged, I feel ready again to dispense with the yuk-yuk, insight, and overall slightly off-center viewpoints on this thing we call life, and life here in sunny Californ-I-A.
I reckon the coolest development of late, aside from transformation from Pillsbury Doughboy into a lean, mean, fighting machine, has been my reemergence on the public front avec mon guitar. Not that my music ever ceased per se, I just was keeping it on the low for a while. Working on mine owns ill ish. I've hooked some of y'all up with some of my new joints, with favorable reviews so far, 'lessen folks is just being polite.
Nonetheless, I met some cool cats not long ago, and have poking my head out like a musical turtle. So what have I learned? Either California was blown out of proportion in my mind as far as musicality, I'm more badass than I thought, or both. Not to toot my own horn, or pluck my own strings as it were, but the locals seem more than enthused and impressed by my east coast stylings. This, of course, is a cool thing if you're standing in my shoes. It's just curious to me, is all. I don't feel I've properly "brought the ruckus" just yet, but I'll take the kudos.
Likewise, I don't feel like L.A. cats have brought the ruckus to me either. I've heard all of one man play something that sounded new and different to me so far. And even he, like so many in life, took a kernel of a good thing and stamped it into the ground with a steel-tipped boot until it was rendered useless.
I guess my point here is that like a lot of things, both in life and in Cali, get built up in my/our heads, and so rarely do they live up to our full mental hype. This is not a new or profound sentiment. Doesn't make it any less true though.
My next attempt at ruckus-bringing/ruckus-hearing will be this Sunday out in good ol' Glendale, at the Big Fish. Let the ruckas be brought.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Circle of Life
So, I can't believe this, but today's offering will be the SECOND hommage of sorts to an elderly stranger that died anonymously. Ever since we've been here, (two friggin' years plus already), in addition to all the crazy Russians and aspiring actors in our neighborhood, there was also this elderly homeless woman. I'd say she clocked in at around 80 or so. 80-ish, Spanish speaking, largely toothless, moving at a snail's pace, she and her lil' dog sidekick had established some type of niche here on ol' Sierra Bonita Ave.
I'd kind of figured out her routine by now. She'd set up some type of shop across the street, between buildings, back by our laundry room. During the days, she'd casually make the rounds to all of the garbage cans around the neighborhood, looking for food remnants, and perhaps the bottles and cans to recycle. My wife is into all things olfactory, and on more than one occasion, I'd seen this woman in our garbage, trying to salvage the last scraps of a candle, bottle of perfume, or something else Bubba may have been done with. Similarly, our building gets the occasional single rose blooming outside our window, and much to our chagrine, she'd often come by and help herself to it. But she was remarkably happy. Always smiling. I'd try and say hello in broken Spanish, and she was always receptive.
Make no mistake, she could be annoying. Sometimes, the garbage cans would be right outside our bedroom window, and she'd be rattling bottles, muttering incoherently and moaning at the crack of dawn. But I always respected that on Friday's, after the garbage had been picked up, she'd drag the cans back to behind the building, one at a time, inch by inch. It was like it was her way of "earning her keep" for what she'd been able to salvage.
Why am I bringing her up? Because it occurred to me last week that I hadn't seen her for maybe a month. And I still haven't. As such, I can't help but think that she finally passed on, anonymously in the street, behind an apartment building, somewhere. I find it interesting, the degree to which I'm saddened by this likely fact. I don't know her backstory whatsoever. In her prime, she may have been someone's wife, a factory worker, a professional, you name it. Anything's possible. Regardless, it just struck me as sad, albeit realistically inevitable, that this would be her ultimate fate. For what it's worth, senorita, someone DID notice.
I'd kind of figured out her routine by now. She'd set up some type of shop across the street, between buildings, back by our laundry room. During the days, she'd casually make the rounds to all of the garbage cans around the neighborhood, looking for food remnants, and perhaps the bottles and cans to recycle. My wife is into all things olfactory, and on more than one occasion, I'd seen this woman in our garbage, trying to salvage the last scraps of a candle, bottle of perfume, or something else Bubba may have been done with. Similarly, our building gets the occasional single rose blooming outside our window, and much to our chagrine, she'd often come by and help herself to it. But she was remarkably happy. Always smiling. I'd try and say hello in broken Spanish, and she was always receptive.
Make no mistake, she could be annoying. Sometimes, the garbage cans would be right outside our bedroom window, and she'd be rattling bottles, muttering incoherently and moaning at the crack of dawn. But I always respected that on Friday's, after the garbage had been picked up, she'd drag the cans back to behind the building, one at a time, inch by inch. It was like it was her way of "earning her keep" for what she'd been able to salvage.
Why am I bringing her up? Because it occurred to me last week that I hadn't seen her for maybe a month. And I still haven't. As such, I can't help but think that she finally passed on, anonymously in the street, behind an apartment building, somewhere. I find it interesting, the degree to which I'm saddened by this likely fact. I don't know her backstory whatsoever. In her prime, she may have been someone's wife, a factory worker, a professional, you name it. Anything's possible. Regardless, it just struck me as sad, albeit realistically inevitable, that this would be her ultimate fate. For what it's worth, senorita, someone DID notice.
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