Dear Misanthrope: My Life With Pat. Part 5

 
(My Life With Pat: December 1991-May 1995)
Begun 9/13/05 

1. Merry Christmas and Hello
2. 2 adults, 2 Kids, 2 bedroom apartment: 2 Close for Comfort
3. Away From the Gangs, Part 1: The First House
4. Away From the Gangs, Part 2: Bellflower and the Second House

5. The Garage

If one postulates about his life with any degree of introspection, he will find that there are many times when he can remember living in a dichotomy, where his happinesses and his sadnesses mix together in the salad bowl of existence with alarming frequency. Frequently, this can be caused because of someone we love. I can remember such a dichotomy in my relationship with Pat so clearly that I still have the bitter aftertaste of sour salad dressing in my mouth. I was smitten with her, that's for sure. I wanted to be her knight in shining armor, and I always felt she was the damstel in distress. The only thing wrong with the equation is that even though she needed helping, she never wanted any help. Even though I wanted to save her, she only wanted to drown in her own insecurities, and eventually saw my riding to her rescue as meddlesome behavior from which she wanted to be extricated. I always thought my life with her was hell, complete with a raging inferno of emotions and inconsistencies, but for her, this life was a similar hell, and she was attempting her escape without my knowledge, even as I kept trying to douse the rising flames.

Living with her, besides being scary, was always full of surprises, which upon introspection, really weren't surprises at all. We had moved to the house on 15th Street to keep Charlie away from the gangs. Now, two years later, the gang story was pretty much a moot point as we were living in a beautiful three bedroom rented home in Bellflower, miles away. Each seemingly disastrous or invisible turn of events was diverted, only to be replaced by another, and I found it difficult trying to keep up, so I ran on autopilot most of the time, praying that "normalcy" would prevail.

The mornings of the year 1995 dawned a bit brighter for me after two and a half years of this hell living with my girlfriend Pat and her two kids. I'd gotten pretty used to hell. We'd leased the house in Bellflower for a year, and had moved in right before the summer of '94. When Pat had "given" me my own space in the two car garage, which fronted the property, I hadn't realized this would actually be my sole living space for nearly the last half of our existence there at the time. I had caromed back and forth between fright and contentment for so long by that point that I had no idea Pat was essentially living two lives, and I wasn't even a part of the second one. I'd always been discouraged by not having any space in our relationship. By 1995, she wanted me out of her space as well, and the gift of my own room in the garage was as much a place for Pat to be able to dump me so I wouldn't see some of the more bizarre turns she was planning, unbeknownst to my naivete.

The Prizm began to have problems, and even though we were paying more in rent for the Bellflower house than for the one we had exited on 15th Street in Long Beach, Pat began to think we should buy a new car. She had her eye on a Chevy Astro, a small van which would have been perfect for the family. The kids were now both in high school, and Charlie was towering above me in height. As with all our endeavors together, there was to be little planning in our search for a car. We jumped in "feet first", driving around from car lot to car lot sampling the wares offered. After two weeks of looking, I showed Pat a large 4X4 Blazer on one lot, and surmised that this was the perfect vehicle for her. It was one of those "monster trucks" fashioned from the larger late 70s Blazers. We both had a rare pleasurable moment together, and while we would never really purchase a monster truck, the seed was planted in Pat's head, so when we spied a smaller late 80s Blazer, fire engine red, highlighted on one of the front rows of vehicles, both of us made the decision that this was the perfect "car" for the family.

The Blazer was sporty; not too large, but a lot larger than the Prizm. We traded in the Geo for a few hundred dollars at Worthington Ford, where owner Cal Worthington was semi retired, but his office still had lots of photos of the owner and his many "dogs Spot", zoo animals including elephants which he had used in his television commercials. After haggling with the salesman for a few hours, we drove away in the Blazer. I really believed Pat was happy for once. Of course I had volunteered to pay half the monthly payments, even though my name was not on the purchasing agreement.

I'd had a hip replacement operation when we had lived in the Long Beach house, and my hip was completely healed while we were in Bellflower. Both Charlie and Laura still bickered over the TV remote, so when I and Pat came home from work, I didn't even stay in the living room that much. Back on 15th Street, Pat had bought me a Lazy Boy recliner for my birthday, and this chair was still prominently displayed opposite my 32" televisoin in the living room. I'd spent more time reading than watching movies while in Long Beach, but in Bellflower, I forsook my recliner, and usually retired to my own "space" in the garage, where we'd carpeted the floor, and furnished with Pat's old daybed and my electronics gear. While Pat was in the kitchen, I'd go out to the garage, fire up my stereo, and dance by myself, happy that my hip didn't hurt at all.

Sometimes Pat and I would listen to music together. I was collecting CDs, usually country music, which Pat and I both enjoyed. We both slept together, and sometimes we even made love, however I got used to the idea that sex was pretty much a memory, and became used to Pat's weird sense of closeness, or lack thereof. I wrote poems for her which she never read. I naively thought we were doing better than ever, and I became blind to her constricting sense that things were closing in and stifling her, even as she acted like we were at the best point we had ever been in our relationship.

One afternoon, while sitting at the kitchen table having a beer or two watiing for dinner, Pat proclaimed that she was getting a second job. As with all her snap decisions, she didn't want a discussion of any change in her plans. She told me what was going to happen, as if it already had. "W-what..." I stammered, completely sidelined by this latest curve in our shared history together. We both made good money, and although the new Blazer was costing us a few hundred a month, I was sharing in the expense, and we both still had spending money. Using "Pat logic" she explained that she needed something "extra" in her life. The kids were pretty much on their own. Pat had never really had that much of a hand in their growing up, and they'd pretty much raised themselves. She'd never let me have any say at all in their upbringing while I was part of the picture. She had already secured a part time job with a local "Policeman's Association" asking for donations both on the phone and in person. I had been successful in my efforts to quash earlier ill fated job opportunities she wanted to add to her resume in our early life together, like "stuffing envelopes" which always proved to be a scam. However, I wanted to keep us seemingly happy, this latest endeavor didn't really seem to be a scam, and I really had no say in the matter anyway. Work was pretty busy, and while living with Pat, I was on her 40 hour schedule, instead of the 50-60 hour schedule I'd kept before we got together, since she was the driver in the household. Her part time job would take place after work, so I told her I was going to work more hours running the Panel Shop, and she could swing by and pick me up at 7pm after she got off. She seemed to agree to this arrangement.

The arrangement seemed to work for a while. She wasn't really paid that much at the Policeman's Association. I really had no idea why she wanted to work additional time in the first place. My staying after at work was simply so I didn't have to face her kids alone without her there. They were usually battling over their TV privileges after school when we would get home from work anyway, so by staying away from their quarrels, I could have a reasonable amount of peace. The washer and dryer were in the garage, so even though I had my own "space" out there at home, it was Laura's job to wash the family's clothes, and she was always coming and going, so my "space" was shared and not really all mine.

After a few weeks with my girlfriend leaving our shared job to go ring doorbells for the Policeman's Association, and me staying at work for an additional two or three hours with nobody else around, Pat had another heated exchange with me, making another of my decisions. I couldn't stay at work anymore after hours. She wanted to stay at her second job longer than usual, and having to drive back to our work to pick me up and then take me home to Bellflower was taking a toll. I didn't really need to stick around at work anyway. I was getting lots more work done, but it wasn't essential.

Love is blind. And although the flames of hell lapping at my feet throughout our three year existence together should have been enough to tell me I was in hot enough water, the blindness caused by my love for my wayward waif allowed me to tune out a lot of the more questionable aspects of the relationship. The year 1995 seemed to dawn bright and beautiful, but in fact, the brightness came from those flames, which were merely simmering, and would be shooting up over both of our heads in a few scant weeks. I was blinded by my love so much that during Pat's pleas to have a second life with a second job after hours, I had agreed, like a dog who has been kicked so much he starts to look forward to the abuse.

The hours my sweetie was away from the house after I agreed not to stay after at work began to grow. Sometimes Pat wouldn't return home till after 10 or 11 at night. I should have figured out something was terribly wrong when she would seemingly not come home at all in the evenings. I'd finally fall asleep, sometimes in the daybed in my room in the garage. She told me not to "wait up" for her. How naive could I have been? Charlie told me one evening that I was "pussy whipped". I agreed with him. It was true. I'd sold my soul for a relationship, and I had been living in this hell for most of the first part of the decade. Where was Charlie's mother as he and I would go out to dinner some evenings together? Neither of us knew for sure. Neither of us wanted to guess the truth.

My unread poems questioned why Pat didn't seem happy after all I'd given her. I questioned why I couldn't seem to find a "relationship" in our existence together.

On those rare nights we would actually sleep in our bed at the same time, I could feel her growing farther and farther away. We might be lying very close to each other physically, but sometimes I would feel as if the space between us was a deep chasm which I would never be able to cross. My bright Knight's helmet began to tarnish. My lips would move to speak but no words would come. Pat got upset at any little thing I would do for her, and I kept retreating to the garage more and more. On Friday nights Pat wouldn't even come home from her second "job". I was "pussywhipped" so completely that I never for a moment even suspected she was sleeping with her supervisor at the Policeman's Association. After a few weekends of "not waiting" for her to come home at all, I finally confronted her. Those bright days suddenly got darker, and the flames engulfed us completely. I had been burned as much as was humanly possible. Now I was burning up.

Coming Up: Chapter 6: The Escape

Originally Posted: November 15, 2009 10:22 AM

PhotoPost: Hollywood and Sunset Blvds. Part 2

On October 3rd and again on the 31st I took a short trip up to Hollywood to take some photos. Most of the results are in my Hollywood Blvd. And Sunset Blvd. 2009 folders on my Webshots Gallery. My first Hollywood Blvd. and Sunset Blvd. Photopost on Xanga was on Oct. 3rd HERE. Following are 21 of the better shots.

I liked how some people tried to guess the stars painted on the outside of Hollywood High School's auditorium in the last post. I believe I named them all in a comment reply. Here is the left side of the auditorium. On the other side, around the corner, John Ritter appears. (a tribute to the actor, who attended high school here.) Dorothy Daindridge is the most prominent on the left in this shot. The artist was going for racial diversity as well as picturing some of the graduates.

The football practice field on the north west side of the Hollywood High campus, shot through the chain link fence.

I took numerous photos of the Amoeba Records store, one of the few places one can actually purchase vinyl records around town. They also offer DVDs, CDs, and even have some old laserdiscs for sale. This is on Sunset Blvd. A homeless man is napping under the tree on the left. There are painted muals on both sides of the Amoeba building.

I wanted to get both the poster for the television series "V" and the Dodgertown billboard in this shot, with Yoda, proclaiming "My Town this is" as part of the Dodgertown ad campaign. Also I liked the fact that there is a pedestrian with a guitar slung across his back waiting for the light.

This is the Roxy theater, on Sunset Blvd, where I saw many rock and roll and rockabilly shows in the 70s. I had a cocktail glass, stolen from the club, with the "rocking horse R" logo. On the sign above the club, at night, when lit up, the "R" rocks back and forth.

Here is an iconic mural of Hollywood stars seated in a movie theater on the side of the Playmates building on Hollywood Blvd. and Wilcox. The artist recently touched it up, cause it was showing it's age.

A photo taken as close to the sidewalk as I could get the camera, so I show not only the mannequins in the window or this costume store but the "stars along Hollywood Blvd", called the "Walk of Fame".

Here is one of my "reflection shots" showing a window display with the buildings on the other side of the street reflected in the window. Hallowe'en was coming up when I shot these photos, but there are a lot of "kinky" costume shops along the boulevard, copied in no small part I'm sure from the original Frederick's of Hollywood.

I loved this book shop, with a Hallowe'en themed horror display, including books, movie posters, and phtographs of movie monsters.

Back in the 70s, there were lots of movie theaters on Hollwood Blvd. If one wanted to see a new movie in L.A. on Wednesdays (when the opened) or the following weekend, he went to either Westwood Village (near UCLA) or Hollywood. Now the movie theaters have been converted into other venues, like the Guinness Museum.

A sexy mannequin, a pig mask, and the building reflected from the other side of the street, framed by the branches of the trees planted on the sidewalk in front of the shop.

I've always been intrigued by what I thought was a mosque rising above the buildings on the side of the Hollywood Freeway right before the Hollywood Blvd. exit. This isn't a mosque, but a Korean Christian Church. I took the offramp before the Blvd. and took a study of this church from many angles. Wouldn't it be neat to live in this neighborhood and see this rising above the rooftops.

Only in L.A. Lost of "juxtapostion" photos, including this with a smog center sign in front of the church, which is being refubished, as you can see from the scaffolding.

Somebody's always doing a photo shoot or a movie or commercial shoot somewhere in the Los Angeles and Hollywood area. I didn't get close, and surreptitiously shot this photo in one of the parking lots in back of Hollywood Blvd. The iconic Capitol Records Tower is on the left. I absolutely love vintage Cadillacs, and owned a 1966 model in the early 90s.

The Capitol Records Tower from the parking lot in front. The mural of Nat King Cole, and other Capitol artists is a bit faded since the last time I photographed this building in 2005. Nat King Cole was Capitol's biggest star when the tower was built, and it's said Nat "built the tower" with profits from his records.

An old apartment building up the street from Hollywod Blvd. I love the old signage on a lot of the old buildings identifying them. The signage (and the buildings) are from the early part of the last century.

Another old apartment on a side street up from the boulevard, framed by a flowering tree.

This is a Victorian home called the Janes Building, which is actually on Hollywood Blvd, behind some restaurants. I shot this photo from the second story, cause there is a frontspiece hiding the building from the ground floor. This is a preserved mansion from back when the wealthy lived along the boulevard. I believe it's a restaurant now.

I saw "How the West Was Won" in cinerama at the Warner's Pacific theater in 1962 as a child. This is one of the many theaters along the boulevard which are not in use, or converted into some other use.

Here's a mural of Michael Jackson on the side of an establishment selling lingere and lotions.

Our tour ends with a shot of the Capitol Records Tower through the parking lot of the Pantages Theater, a movie house reconverted into one of the premiere legitimate style theaters in town. There are other lots, but the parking lot on the side of the theatre has these dual parking lifts, instead of a garage. I bet this is expensive parking , and this is in the middle of the day. 

Posted:  November 13, 2009 10:27 AM

Veteran's Day Tribute Post

Today, 11/11/09 is Veteran's Day in the United States of America. Also called Remembrance Day or Armistice Day, this day is celebrated throughout the world. The date has special significance, having been when the Armistice or peace treaty was signed by the Germans at the end of World War One, on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of the year 1918. In celebration of soliders everywhere, and especially those who fight for the United States of America, I am reprinting my "Letter to an Unknown Solider" first posted as an FG entry on Nov. 5th, 2006. It isn't a letter to veterans, but to soldiers currently serving in the armed forces around the world. However, I also honor all the veterans of all the wars as well on this day, declared and undeclared, from those who still remember D-Day and Okinawa, Incheon, the 38th parallel, the Tet Offensive, and the fall of Saigon. And countless other battles around the world, across all time.  

Dear Unknown Soldier,

You might be a grizzled veteran of the Gulf War, a reservist who was called to fight. You might be a youngster who had to get your parent's consent in order to join the armed forces, and then you were sent to the belly of the beast. You might be gung ho. You might be disillusioned. You might think you are invincible. You might be more afraid than you have ever been in your life.

You could be experiencing the greatest times, or the worst times. But one thing is clear. You are "over there". I am "here". I can't say I'm "safe" anymore, although who really can? I know I'm safter than you are, no matter where in the insurgency you are billeted. You are fighting for my safety, and the safety not only of Americans, but freedom loving people everywhere on the planet. Even before "9/11", the symbolic "beginning" of our armed forces latest "push" to eradicate "terrorism", safety in this old beat up world of ours has been somewhat questionable. Reports of crazed and mindless individuals with a chip on their shoulder who have been shooting at the innocent bystanders of the world have been coming at us hot and heavy for forever and a day.

I am a "bleeding heart liberal" who was all set to flee the U.S. back in 1971 when I was drafted into the unpopular Vietnam conflict. I hope you forgive me for not mentioning the word "war" when writing about our armed involvement in world situations. The U.S. last declared actual "war" in 1941, right after the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. I was born in 1953, at the end of the Korean conflict, the first "undeclared war" in modern U.S. history. Vietnam raged almost all my young life, from the time I was in third grade, to the time I entered college. Thankfully, for me, since I am a pacifist, in 1972, the troops were withdrawn from Vietnam, and I didn't have to serve in the armed forces.

But now, seemingly "safe" at home, when thinking about you and all the other American soldiers scattered about the globe, watching undenaible horrors on a daily basis, and in some instances watching your friends die, I sometimes believe that I really never completed my duty as an American to serve. I am somewhat ashamed of this.

You are special. You weren't drafted. You joined, for your own reasons. This could be your first, second, or even third tour. Since the U.S. does not have a draft anymore, we rely upon our troops like you to pull us through in these undeclared fights. I salute you. And I envy you your stamina, either ingrown or foisted upon you by circumstance. You are the last line of defense.

I could talk about politics and reasons, or lack thereof, for "why we fight". I could tell you that I abhorred the previous administration in this country, and that even though I was devastated when terrorists hit the World Trade Centers with our own jumbo jets, I have been personally against waging a "war on terrorism", knowing, by learning about history, and by living the life I have, that there is no end to conflict when confronted with an enemy whose will to fight for his own version of the "truth" will never end until his life does. I could talk about those things, but right now they are completely useless to you. You are the cog in the machine. You are doing your job. There might be a million things wrong with the world, but there is nothing wrong with you. You are a hero, and you are not only to be congratulated, but you deserve all of our respect and honor. As I wrote earlier, you are "over there". You are not safe.

You might want to continue the fight. You might want to come home, thinking that you made a mistake. Truth, of course, is that you are not in control of your life right now. You are a member of the team, and you will do what's best for the team. I pray you live through this and that you come home whole and after a rest, are able to regale your children and grandchildren with tales of the fight, much like my father, a WWII veteran, did with my siblings and I.

It isn't important what I think or believe, when you are in the middle of an attack. You have been trained by the best, and you are giving your all. I salute you and I envy you, even as I am glad I am not in your place. This might seem somewhat hypocritical of me, and I apologize in advance. Right now, in your situation, you are the one that matters. You and your comrades in arms.

Take care, do what you can to stay alive, and come back in one piece. I'd like to say that something has given me a vision that soon our world will be at peace, and all the "wars" and "conflicts" will disappear. But I strongly fear that this is not the case. As long as bullheadedness and staunch supporters of differing ideologies prevail, the U.S. will continue to send our overburdened troops everywhere on the globe where we feel our interests are being compromised. In today's world, our interests are everywhere. When diplomacy and communication fail, you become our first line of defense, as well as our last. You and your buddies on the front lines pay, sometimes with your lives, to keep us free.

Keep up the good work. I hope you are able to keep out of harm's way. I hope that you do not become disillusioned. I hope that you don't have bad dreams when you return, and I hope this return is soon, and that you don't have to worry about being sent back.

Yours respectfully,
Someone who might not care for the "war" but who cares for you.

This is an addendum I wrote when I first posted the entry, and thought I'd include it as well: I'm still not sure that I've said exactly all I wish to say in this letter. I am a pacifist who believes strongly, and has since our American President George Bush decided to send troops into Afghanistan and Iraq, that we were making a grave mistake, akin to the mistake that was Vietnam. I still believe this way. But I "support our troops". It is not the fault of the fighting man if the fight is misbegotten. It is not the job of the fighting man to question his orders, or to become a coward if ordered to do something he might deem personally reprehensible. There are many sides to the question about "why we fight" in foreign lands, when we don't even take the responsible position of declaring war on the people we kill and maim in the name of American freedom. However, this is a "letter to a soldier". A missive to the grunt on the front line. The Unknown Solider, fighting for my freedom, whether or not I believe in the "war" for which he fights. I only hope I honor this Soldier with my words.

November 11, 2009 6:57 AM

DrunkStory: Chapter One

DrunkStory: Chapter One. Here I begin another of my many "serialized novels and reminsicences." This is the first chapter of my "history of inebriation". The story of my very first drink. These will be told in third person, and as usual, are as long as they need to be. I'm a writer, and I'm not editing for bloggers. Links to the previous chapters will be available on future entries, and the tag will be "drunkstory". I began this at about 5pm, and it took two hours to write. It's been edited for typing mistakes, but not for content. This series might include foul language, although there is none in the first episode, when I'm young. 

Chapter One: Sure, I Buy the Stuff All The Time.

The sun was setting through a pinkish haze. Wind flurries would pick up, then abate for a while, then begin whipping the leaves of the potted trees again. Autumn evenings in Southern California aren't cool. The breezes are quite warm. Mike stayed back in the corner of the Garden Department yard, the nozzle of his hose wavering a bit, as his eyes kept clouding up when gazing at the horizon, where the sun peeked through blackish clouds, rimmed with a bright pink underbelly.

Were his eyes deceiving him? He removed his glasses and rubbed them with the same hand clutching his spectacles, the other haphazardly attempting to keep the nozzle straight as he sprayed the five gallon containers of seldom sold large shrubs and trees in the far corner of the yard. Back here in the early evenings, when most people were eating dinner, and hardly anyone in the store was shopping for flowers and plants, it was serene and painterly. If not for the dozens of pallets of steer manure stacked outside the opposite fence, with it's pungent aroma, the place would be quite heavenly. Mike's vision seemed to be blurred. He twisted the small plastic cutoff switch at the end of the hose wand and placed his glasses back on his nose.

"Are you lost back there?" the sprightly voice of Donna, the cashier, wafted along the warm winds.

"I can hardly focus" Mike declared, making sure he wasn't too loud.

There was no one except him and Donna in the yard. The parking lot lights were burning bright, and the sun was dropping fast behind the rim of the earth. You couldn't really see the pallets of white plastic bags on the other side of the fence, but they were really stinking, and the stink was carried on the wind as well. Mike hooked the hose in a five gallon apricot tree and attempted to walk to the cash register. Both doors leading into the store were closed. Evening shoppers were making selections in the plumbing and hardware departments on either side of the garden shop, but nobody was outside where the warm winds whipped up the acrid odor of bull excrement. Donna was giggling when Mike got to the register stand, a wooden cubicle with a roof situated on the far end of the yard, between the fertilizer flats and the six packs of annual flowers.

"Wasn't that fun?" Donna queried. "Do we have anymore?"

"I think I got the last bottle." Mike said. "Frost took a one home with him.

"I really think you're cute." Mike heard the sentence as if it were coming from outside the fence. He couldn't really focus and his eyes kept gazing at the soft haloes of white around the parking lot lighting posts. "You aren't drunk, are you?" Donna didn't know that the two bottles of beer Mike had helped consume about an hour ago were the first alcoholic beverages he'd ever drank. Mike didn't seem to paying attention to her, but he did hear what she was saying, although her words were coming out in slow motion.

"Don't say that." Mike cautioned. "Frost is your boyfriend. And somebody might hear you talk about the beer."

"We're totally alone." Donna was shorter than five feet, with long brown hair, large brown eyes, and a small nose. Her smile was wide. She had pretty large breasts for a short gal, and she flaunted her sexuality in front of Mike all the time. This usually didn't bother him much, but tonight he was feeling things he'd never felt before. Everything seemed enlarged and magnified. Not only the bright haloes around the parking lights, but sounds, smells (including the steer manure bags outside the fence) and emotions.

"You know I like you Donna. But I don't want to make Mike mad. Donna was 23. Mike Frost, who also worked in the Garden Department along with Mike, was a full timer who worked during the days. He was also 23, used to being a football star in a former life. He towered above both Donna and Mike, who at 19, had only worked in the Garden Department at Ole's Home Centers for about a year now, getting his job right after his graduation from high school.

Mike had never had any impetus to try alcohol in any form. His parents didn't drink. His friends didn't drink. At Rosemead High School, he had only known one guy who did drink, and the guy was pretty much an asshole, and an even bigger asshole at parties. Donna turned quickly as the door which led to the Plumbing Department opened, bringing the sounds of inside the store, with the muzak machine playing 40s dance tunes in the background, out into the Garden Department for a few fleeting moments. Paul, the Area Manager briskly walked through the door, making his rounds. Not one customer had been spotted in over an hour.

Mike dodged the young crew cutted manager by disappearing back into the potted plants. He picked up the hose wand and twisted the little plastic spigot, letting the cool rush of water spurt a few times into the apricot tree before it returned to a steady flow. Paul walked down the aisle next to the cash register stand, said his hellos to Donna, and then turned 90 degrees and followed the other walkway out of the Garden Department and into the Hardware Department. When he opened the door, a short cacophony could be heard for another moment, and then quiet blanketed the yard again. Donna stifled another giggle. Mike went back to work, threading the hose up and down the rows of potted plants in the near dark spraying water into the five gallon and one gallon containers lining each side of the aisle.

He liked the Garden Department, because he could fill his evenings not only by watering the plants, but by sweeping the fertilizer area and straightening the bottled bug sprays and shelved merchandise. Sometimes there were customers, but not usually in the autumn, when people didn't do a lot of planting. In a few months, Mike would impress the manager of the store so much that when the Garden Department manager decided to go to part time, he'd be promoted temporarily, even though he worked split shifts, sometimes during the day, and sometime from noon till after closing, like tonight. He wasn't in any fear of getting caught, or getting fired. He was young, and emboldened by the bravura of youth.

Mike split his shifts, and worked forty hours a week, a full time workload, even though he was only a part time employee. He started work the summer after his graduation from high school, before going to the University of Southern California on a full state scholarship. USC is a private school, not in the state college system, so the scholarship Mike had been awarded didn't cover his costs completely. He'd taken out a student loan to cover the difference, lived at home, but paid his parent's rent,  and by working full time was able to get enough money to eat out most of the time, and have spending money. Donna and her boyfriend Mike frequently worked in the evenings together, but Frost had to do something that evening, and Mike had volunteered to work in his stead. One of Mike and Donna's "traditions" was to drink beer while they were on the job. They didn't really get schnockered together, but did split a six pack throughout the night, keeping it in the small Garden Shed at the rear of the department. Donna had asked Mike quite innocently at the beginning of her shift, right as Mike was about to take his lunch break, if he would buy the beer, as if her and her boyfriend's tradition was going to be passed on to new blood.

"Sure, I Buy the Stuff All The Time", Mike had quickly replied to her question. "What brand?"

"Michelob" Donna reached into her purse.

"Naw, that's alright. I've got it." Mike wasn't very tall, but he didn't look like he was only nineteen. He had a full head of wavy dark brown hair, which he styled in an "Elvis curl" at the front. It was longish in back, as was the style, with a natural flip all the way around. He wore a mustache and although the store policy forbid beards, his mutton chop sideburns almost covered both of his cheeks. He could very well pass for a senior instead of a freshman in college.

"What am I getting myself into?" Mike had wondered as he piloted his 1965 Dodge Dart away from the store and down Valley Blvd. He knew he didn't want to attempt to buy liquor at the small market across from the high school, because he was probably known to the clerks in there from when he attended Rosemead High. He chose a small liquor store on the corner of Valley and Rosemead Blvds, about a half mile from Ole's.

With almost no hesitation, he'd walked in to the store, and back to the beer cooler along the opposite wall. His eyes had traveled over the labels till he spotted the Michelob, then he opened the cooler door and grabbed a six pack. He briskly strode to the cash register, and set the six pack on the counter. The clerk didn't even look at him as he rang up the sale. With the brown sack tucked under his arm, he returned to work, after first stopping at the McDonald's and getting a Big Mac and some fries. As he walked into the front doors of Oles, he said hello to Paul, the night manager, and quickly made a beeline straight for the Garden Department. Mike Frost had arrived while Mike had been on the beer run, and he was in the small garden shed which doubled as an office and storeroom when Mike opened the ply board door.

"Got the stuff?" Frost asked.

"Here ya go." Mike pulled the glistening bottles of brew from the bag. He also removed his burger and bag of fries. Frost gave him a bottle, and then Donna opened the door and sneaked in to the small space, which ran along the back wall separating the Garden Department from the Hardware Department on the other side inside the store. The three of them toasted each other. Mike Frost handed Mike his can opener and Mike snapped the top off his brown bottle. He pocketed the cap. It wouldn't do for management to find beer bottle caps in the company trash cans. As both Donna and Frost downed their first beer of the evening, quite quickly, Mike similarly quaffed his very first beer.

The liquid tasted like soap must taste like, with a sharp edge. There were lots of bubbles. Like his fellow partners in crime, he drank the thick amber liquid pretty quickly, and then needed to burp. He didn't let on that he'd never bought nor imbibed alcoholic beverages before.

Frost had a second before leaving the garden shed with the remaining beer in the six-pack carton. He was a big guy, and drank both beers very fast. Donna drank only one. Mike finished his and Frost told him to set the second aside for later. Both the other guys left the shed as usual, although Frost was off work. Mike stayed a while longer, and felt his head expand and got a bit dizzy.

There was no place to sit down in the shed. Mike decided to get ready to water the plants. There hadn't been any socializing amongst the three as they quickly quaffed the illegal liquid. The idea was to do this fast, so as not to be caught. Both Frost and Donna knew that hardly anyone would be coming round the department that evening, including the managers, who usually left well enough alone. That was one of the reasons Mike liked working in that particular department. By the time Mike got back to the register, where Donna was sitting on her stool, Frost had left. Donna still had no idea Mike had just had his very first beer.

About a half hour later, held high by the experience, Mike returned to the small shed and drank the other beer. He almost was drunk, but tried not to exhibit any of the normal drunk behavior, instead hiding behind the hose wand for the remainder of the next hour.

By closing, his vision was less fuzzy, and his gait was more stable. Nobody was the wiser, including the few customers for whom he loaded bags of steer manure during the evening. Thanks to the warm Santa Ana winds, which whipped around the odor of the manure, any trace of beer breath was stifled. Mike was still a bit high as he got in his car and began the 30 mile drive home to Glendora from Rosemead. He wouldn't see his parents when he got home. Not only was it past 11pm, but he had his own set of keys and his own front door to the "apartment" he rented in back of the garage.

The next day Mike had a day shift, followed by night school at USC, 20 miles on the other side of Rosemead. He didn't really think about the experience of drinking beer, or getting a bit tipsy and having blurred vision. Life was too busy, and there were too many things on his mind. He never did join Donna and Frost again in their little game, preferring to make excuses, especially when he was promoted a month later. Of course he didn't "rat" on his friends. In short order, Mike Frost left the company, and Donna quit soon after. Mike didn't really like the taste of the beer in the first place. The next time he would imbibe was to be about six months later, when reuniting with some old high school buddies with a taste for soda pop wine.

Next time:

Chapter Two: Strawberry Hill Forever

Xangablogging: Why and how I blog.

WhenWordsCollide: What you'll find here.

I always find it interesting when I read that some Xangalebrity has left Xanga to create their own website. I created my Xanga blog five years after I created my website, www.allthingsmike.com, as a portal to said site. (Click the Allthingsmike header at the top of my blog and you're taken to the site. EDIT: 6:00pm pst. I just updated the main page to my personal site today.) I've often written, I blog here for the comments. My website was a "blog" long before anyone had ever written the timestamping software which makes blogging possible. I would meticulously date the updates on each of my pages, so readers would be able to know where they "left off" when they last visited. When blogspot came online, I immediately signed on, and created individual blogs for each of the sections of my website. Since blogspot didn't have comments, I had no idea whether people were reading me or not.

I was introduced to Xanga in May of 2004, which had comments, and immediately consolidated all my blogs into this one, WhenWordsCollide, using one of the blogspot blogtitles. It refers of course, to my rambling style of writing, which includes parentheticals, "hash marks", tangenital thinking, and free association. Back in 2004, my blog had pretty much the same sections it has now. It looked the same, with a cloudscape background, dreamcatchers on my profile pics, and long glossy entries with large graphics and photos, all self created instead of copy/pasted. The major sections correspond to sections of allthingsmike. As I compiled entries, I catalogued them in an index, which is still to the left in my sidebar. When tags became available, I used the tags feature to identify my sections. They are:

PhotoPosts: My photography series, tied into my Webshots Gallery where I usually take the reader on a "trip around town" with me, describing the scenery as you witness it along with me. I'm currently listed as #9 of about 15,000 users posting California photos on Webshots.

ElectricPoetry Posts: Themed poetry posts, usually with at least one new piece, and including a "Behind the Poetry" discussion of the hows and whys of the poetry presented.

The Universal Blog: Inspired by the "Philosophy" section on my original website, and usually a spiritual or philosophical entry I have posted or which I will later post on The Universal Blog, a standalone site on blogspot.

MikeVideo: Presentations of my latest videos. I create not only "Mike's Video Blogs", high quality 10 minute "travelblogues" or Hewell Houser type documentaries, but also artistic music videos and photo slideshows, and rather ambitious animations, produced under the MikeVideo banner, which has been around for over 20 years.

Serialized Novels and Reminiscences: I've been writing my autobiography online since I started blogging, and series such as "The Frat House", "My Sexual History", "Childhood in Los Angeles" and "My Life with Pat" detail the chapters of my life.

Groups and Blogrings: I write for particpatory blogrings such as Socrates Cafe and Featured Grownups, and I used to run a particpatory blogring called The Internet Island. Some of my best and most popular blog entries have been written for blogrings. 

News and Notes: Inspired by the newspaper columns I used to write for the high school paper, which I edited, these are mainly where I write about my "personal life".

I post on average once every three days, and I will notify my readers of my many "hiatuses" which can last for months at a time. Even when that happens, however, I usually make an attempt to post something at least once a week.

My first visit to your blog.

"Dear Fellow Xangan, Thank you for dropping by my blog, leaving a comment, befriending me, and most of all for subscribing..." I should probably just copy/paste that line, which I must have written over a thousand times in the past five years, with a few modifications. I'll usually visit you first because you left a comment on my blog. Although I subscribe to about 77 blogs (also listed in the sidebar) , a lot of them are not active anymore.I don't subscribe to too many blogs anymore. I almost always leave comments from the comments I receive. I seem to "know" enough Xangans that this keeps me busy enough, and if each comment generates a return visit, we can carom back and forth forever. If you leave a comment, I should, if not immediately, at least pay you a visit within a week or so.

When I visit, this is what I do. First I look for your given name, so I have something by which to address you. Most bloggers' usernames, including mine, aren't our"real" ones. So I will go to your profile and back entries to figure out who you are. I want to be introduced to "the person behind the blog." I will usually read several entries, and becuase I can't make the time to viist each and every time one of my correspondents posts, I usually read most of the five entries on the front page when I visit, or if you're one of my "regulars", I'll go back to the last entry where I 'left off" and continue from there, like reading a book or a magazine.

  I live for comments, and I'm sort of known around here for mine, which are unlike any other comments in the Xangasphere. If someone else started commenting like I do, it would immediately be noticed by anyone to whom I've left a comment. I am always deliciously satisfied when people sort of "mimic" my commenting style when they comment on my own blog. My comments are like letters, and are sometimes short blogposts riffing on what you've written or presented.

My comments mignt be longer than your post. I read and catalog several entries, and I write my comment/letters on Notepad as I'm reading. Sometimes, depending on the time of the day, or my mood, or the mood of the piece or pieces to which I'm responding, I might be serious, or playful. I might be sarcastic, or funny, or sentimental. I will discuss things on my mind and in my past which comment on your post. I might post an "answer poem" from my vast archives. But I will always read every word you write, and I will write you a letter. You don't even have to respond. But if you do, then we will eventually become correspondents, and alot of my correspondents have been with me for five years.

Friending and Subscribing.

Don't feel bad. I probably won't ask to be your friend. I don't know you even if I just read much of your blog. I might spend an hour with you, but then I'm off to another blog, and might forget you altogether if you don't pay me a return visit. If you do, then it's up to you to either befriend me or subscribe, if you have not already done so. I'm a content provider. I won't read your blog daily. I simply cannot make the time. I work over 40 hours a week, and sometimes I don't feel like sitting in front of a computer on weekends. When I do, I will probably be constructing my own entries, which take hours to create, since I make the graphics myself and write all the content. So if you like my blog, and leave comments, I will always respond. If you don't visit or comment after our initial correspondence, then I probably won't visit again, and I'll forget all about you.

If you befriend me, however and don't visit, I will make an attempt to visit you a few times, and leave long comment/letters. If I don't feel you are reciprocating in our "friendship", I'll simply delete it. I didn't used to use the "universal inbox". As I've mentioned, I usually return comments, like I'm answering letters. (And it doesn't matter if you write me a letter or say "nice blog". I'll treat each Xangan equally. I love you all.) Now that I'm using the "universal inbox" I don't want to see your mug if you're not visiting my blog. This is why I rarely befriend anyone. I know you wanted to befriend me, so you should want to visit me every once and a while. If you don't and I didn't use the inbox, then I would forget you. If I see you recommending and posting all the time, and we're not really friends, then you're history. Sorry if this sounds harsh. My 'real" friends are all longtime bloggers who don't update that often, and sometimes I might miss their posts. I read LOTS of blogs. If I remember a blogger who hasn't dropped by in a while, I'll make an attempt to find you, and I'll try to "reconnect". I sometimes ingratiate myself attempting to do this. When I ran a Poetry Group on Yahoo, I used to brag that I never had anyone leave the group. I don't like to burn bridges in real life either.

Comments.

I love to receive them. More than anything else, I crave feedback for the content I provide. I make an effort to write the best comments on Xanga. I've been told this many times, so I don't feel as if I'm bragging. For a time, I felt as if I would go to my grave "known" as the guy who wrote the best comments, when what I really want to be "known" for is my poetry, videos, photography, and artistic soul. So if you befriend me, please drop by from time to time, and leave comments. They don't have to be long. If you leave me a comment, it will be returned. And hey, I'm human, and I do sometimes overlook a comment. You can always come back and let me know I didn't return your visit. When the internet was just email and cursory websites, I used to say I returned all my email. I like being a "man of letters" on the internet, and treat comments as correspondence.

For those who don't comment.

Some of my readers read only from subscription lists, and though I have their usernames in my subscription database, I will probably not visit because they don't visit me. Most of these people don't really care about the socializing aspect of blogging. Some of them have told me so in private messages. I am not one to belittle or complain about those who read my blog and don't socialize. I'm glad they're reading my words and admiring my work. I don't consider these folks to be "stalkers". They are just as important as the people who visit and comment regualrly.

Mass Messages

When I only had a website and an email list, I sent updates to my email list on what was happening on my site. I will sometimes send sporadic updates using Xanga messages. And I usually will not begin them with "I know you hate to read mass messages..." I am sending the messages to those on my lists who might not have visited in a while and might be interested in knowing that I'm active, or have posted a new video, or some other benchmark event. I try to limit these messages to one a month, and lately haven't even posted that many.

Gratefulness and Community

I love my Xanga blog. I'm a lifetime member of the community here. I've been 'featured" a number of times, and thanks to a few select buddies of mine, I frequently find my entries at least in the middle of the Most Rec'd page. I thank everyone who has made it possible for this to happen and fo me to continue coming back, after my frequent hiatuses, to keep loving the community aspect of Xanga. I know so many longtime Xangans who still offer remarkable work, even if they don't post as much as they used to. You know who you are. I always seem to keep getting new friends and subscibers, and sometimes I do make the effort to search out new bloggers on my own. I do frequently follow the recommendations of my buddies on Xanga when they recommend or mention a noted blogger I don't yet know. So a note of thanks to all those who have stuck with me through the past five years, and to those who just discovered WhenWordsCollide. Mine is not an easy blog to read. It's called WhenWordsCollide for a reason. Hopefully, however, each of those word means something. I want to remain optimistic and hopeful with each passing day. I do answer all my messages too, eventually. I may not be a Xangalebrity, but more than one blogger has called me a Xangalegend, and I'm content and thankful for that!