The Adventures of Bloggard

Mount Shasta, April 8, 2004: Where do these stories come from? I mean, mostly they’re true, except for a lie or two. But what makes this story or that story emerge into memory? What makes this memory or that memory form itself into a little story?

Sometimes something seen, or other people’s stories, will trigger my own, though there seems little (conscious) connection between stories, not that I’m too proud to steal!

Will steal for food!

My commonest way to get stories is from when I’m yakking with Adrienne. We tend to smooze at the table around breakfast-time and supper-time. Perhaps this reveals that I’m a food-smoozer, but I don’t care!

For some reason, any wandering conversation tends to trigger certain memories for me. I grew up being a show-off, obnoxious, insecure kid, and I still have the impulse to react, “Oh, yeah! Lemme tell you what happened to me!” This ignoble passion then brings memories to mind.

And the memories are surprising, and often trigger wondering. For example, in our conversation last night I recalled that lots of our high school girls used to take classes called “Charm School.” The girls learned to walk like models, for example. Yet I’ve heard of no such thing since that time. So it raises the curious question: What has happened to the charm schools?

A few nights ago, Adrienne and I were talking about something back in San Anselmo, and that made me think of Ram Das, who was living up the same street, and that made me remember Kit Thorn and I meeting Ram Das, back then called Richard Aplert.

It’s all basically the Proust mechanism, I think. The little scent of a madelaine cookie brings back a rush of memory, and within that memory, threads of others, and they expand away from you even as you pursue. They are growing, away from you, and the faster you chase, the behinder you get. Just like Alice. You think?

The trick of storying, then, is not the triggering of memories, but rather of grabbing them as they flit lightly through the mind, as they dissolve away from us, hurtling gently toward oblivion.

That’s my theory, and I’m sticking to it.

[From Bankrate.com:] Further responses for your telemarketer-calling pleasure —

TRIXIE’S
Assuming that you have caller-ID, and know it’s not your friends or your mom, you answer: “Trixie’s Call Girl Service. Press ‘one’ for an appointment. Press ‘two’ if you are seeking employment. Press ‘three’ if you are a law enforcement officer.”

Then, no matter what they say, or what touch-tones they press, repeat the above.

QUALITY CONTROL
After they’ve started, you say, “This is good! Hang on!” Make a clicking sound, then say, “The rest of this call is being recorded for quality assurance.”

If they stumble or say anything, jump on it suspiciously. Interrupt more and more, and begin to ask for their name and callback number and the name of their supervisor. If you wish, pretend to yell to someone offline, saying, “Joyce! Pick up line six. It’s one of our guys. You won’t believe this!”

THE FEDS
Interrupt them and demand to know how they got this number. Before they can reply, tell them to be quiet and listen, because there’s not much time.

Tell them federal agents are en route to their location, and to follow your instructions to the letter if they want to avoid being shot. Tell them to shut down their computer and all other devices in their office, hang up and unplug the phone, then to kneel down in the middle of the room. They are then to cross their ankles and place their hands on their head and stay that way until the agents arrive. Then hang up.

[From Bankrate.com:] More responses for your telemarketer-calling pleasure —

CHARLES THE POET
Answer with: “I am so glad you called, I just finished some poetry that I wanted to try out. I will be glad to listen to the rest of your call if you’ll listen to my poem.”

“Sometimes, in life, you find, that if you try, as you will and have before, you may be …”

Now fill in the rest with rambling nonsense for about a minute; then stop. When the telemarketer starts to talk, cut him off and start rambling again for another few minutes. Continue this as many times as is necessary until he hangs up.

If the telemarketer is persistent, you ask:

“Did you like the poem?”

If he says yes, ask which part he liked the best. Demand specifics, and then comment at length on the emotional angst and spiritual juxtaposition of the part he has chosen.

NO PHONE
“I’m sorry, but we don’t have a telephone.”

SANTALAND
Answer: “One moment.” Make pausing and clicking sounds. Then answer: “This is Buddy the Elf.” Then talk very very fast about a shipment and some problems in the workshop, so that they don’t understand you when you then say, “Loser says what?” Repeat as needed.

RADIO STATION
You answer: “Caller number nine, you’re on the air. What song would you like to hear?”

Fort Mason, San Francisco, 1989: It was late night, and the air cool in the parking lot beside the bay. Over the murmer of the movie set, I could just hear the gentle sound of the water, lapping beneath the wharf.

I’d just emerged from Blue Bear School of Music, where I played touch-style bass in a “learn how to play” band, and outside I suddenly found a movie being made. I wandered among the movie folk, striking up a conversation with the sound man, who was bundled up heavy but shifting from foot to foot from the cool air. Hah! Tenderfoot to San Francisco!

As we spoke, Sigourney Weaver walked around a corner, and stood waiting a few feet away.

If, since that night, you’ve seen the movie “Copycat”, you’ll remember that she’s not made up super-glamorous, and in fact she looked like any pleasant-looking woman you might know, a neighbor, a friend, a co-worker.

Though I’m inquisitive and not very shy, something in the abstracted way she stood seemed to say she’d not welcome conversation, neither from fans nor movie-folks. Maybe she’s a method actor. The movie people didn’t speak to her, and I didn’t either.

But the startling thing was my sudden realization how much she and my once-wife Lori resembled each other.

Perhaps it was the makeup or the moment. Or perhaps it’s the surprising way that seeing someone from television or the movies, often they look different in person. Some years previous, in a bowling alley downtown, I’d seen Clint Eastwood enter the door as Dirty Harry in the making, and it was odd. He was strikingly handsome in real-life where on screen he always just looked grim.

So Sigorney, looking like Lori in a long black coat, stood pensive and waiting. Nothing happened for a long time. Everybody was quiet, except for a small group huddling over some paperwork. The sound man shifted in the cool breeze.

Then there was some calling out, and Ms. Weaver went inside to be filmed above the street on a balcony. More standing around ensued. Finally something seemed to happen, though I didn’t actually see anything happen.

“Does this just take forever?” I asked the sound man. He bade me to silence with a wave, listening to his headphones, then turned some knobs on the small console.

“Yeah,” he said. “Forever. Paul Newman once described making a movie as the Ten-Yard Dash.”

The ten-yard dash.

I don’t think I’d like it. Acting is not for me. I’d rather watch apple slices turn brown.

Perhaps it’s just as well I’m not Paul Newman.

Mount Shasta Milestone: Today, her majesty my darling and I ran around a bit, just for fun.

In the later afternoon, we drove through a snowstorm to McCloud (scenic mill town around the side of the mountain) to visit her mailbox there. We returned to Mando’s for spicy enchiladas de camarones (shrimp). We browsed the great cowboy art at Mount Shasta Gallery. But earlier, at lunchtime, something happened.

At the new Stage Door Cabaret and Cafe, we tried the chili and soup and cornbread. (Absolutely great!) And while Adrienne sat and I waited by the ordering counter, I struck up a conversation with Doug York, a local promoter who’s producing and acting in a Murder Mystery called “Murder on the Rails” tonight, up the road in Montague at the Corner Cafe.

And then, as we were souping and cornbreading, our neighbors Roy and Ashley came in, finding seats across the room, and they waved.

We waved back.

That was the magic moment.

For this was the first time we’ve been out, and we came across someone we knew. Oh, of course we know tradespeople. And Roy and Ashley we see in the driveway all the time.

But this was the first time we’ve seen people that we know, at the same place as us.

This may seem like a little thing. And it is.

But there it is.

Maybe we’re part of this place. We know people.

[From “Random Robert”:] A man had won the lottery, several millions, and so the press beseiged his house, and when he came home from the bar, they caught him.

They ask him what he is going to do with all the money.

“Well,” he said, “I guess the first thing I’ll do is go and pay a few bills.”

“And what about the rest?” the reporter asks.

The lucky winner shrugs. “Well, I guess they’ll just have to wait.”