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Souvenirs—Personal Ad

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Wanted—A buddy/pal/partner—or a BFFN (best friend for now)

I don’t care about your political views, religious beliefs, tax bracket, sexual orientation, profession, race, gender, visual appearance (picture not required) physical condition (disabilities are a plus) IQ, marital status, your merits or accomplishments, educational background, your favorite sports, interests or nationality——

ONE STRICT REQUIREMENT: YOU MUST BE OLD, VERY OLD, IN-FACT—–THE OLDER THE BETTER!

The following traits, suggestions and activities are not mandatory, but preferred:

  • You must not be computer, iPad or smart phone savvy. Preferably, modern technology leaves you hankering back to the good ole days when shaking hands, looking someone in the eye and sharing time and thoughts were a valued pastime (prior to the advent of multitasking and trying to do a bunch of meaningless bullshit at once).  Please do not confuse emailing, Facebook postings, texting and voice mailing with the art of communication.  Yes, it’s an art, not an exercise in technical maneuvering.  Communication requires a commitment of time, patience and compassion—-as does companionship.
  • I don’t want to have sex with you.  At this stage of the game I don’t even like looking at my own naked body in the mirror.  I don’t mind hugs or holding hands regardless of your gender–tenderness is good.
  • I am attracted to anarchist, recluses, eccentric’s and those possessing a sense of rugged individualism—-in other words, I prefer those who are off the social grid e.g. “I wouldn’t belong to a club that would have me as a member” Will Rodgers.
  • If you express your political and spiritual beliefs by displaying them on bumper-stickers, please do not apply.  If you believe the world is flat and that global warming is a farce, you need not apply (I will not suffer a fool).
  • I don’t care if you are vegan or prefer a super-sized McDonald’s meal, but—being a fan of ice cream and all things sweet is a huge plus.
  • Must enjoy taking slow inconsequential walks while idly commenting about the weather and other such insignificant topics. After all these years, watching the seasons change is still a divine experience worth observing and discussing.
  • Must possess a silly, ridiculous and absurd sense of humor.  This includes busting out in spontaneous giggles (best reserved for solemn occasions such as funerals, medical waiting rooms and fine dinning venues). Immaturity, lack of social etiquette and refusing to act age appropriate is a total bonus—-at this stage of the game, who gives a rats ass what anyone else might think of you.  Must possess the capacity to laugh at oneself and be comfortable in your own wrinkled, saggy, age spotted skin.
  • Must not be afraid of silence.  Especially while watching children play or when enjoying a sunrise or sunset.
  • Preferably you enjoy petting cats, dogs or any other animal that understands unconditional love—-oh yeah, this may include feeding birds.
  • Wearing clothing that is colorful, out of style and mismatched is much approved and appreciated.  This includes, wild hats, large print moo moo’s, suspenders, onesie’s, bow-ties, snuggies, overalls, fancy shaw’s, jumpsuits, afghans, scarfs, sequins, cat-eye glasses, squealing hearing aids and all things comfortable, expressive and fun.
  • Music, music and more music.  Turn off the depressing 24 hr news and all the crap that passes for entertainment on the TV.  Shut out all the clutter and noise that fills this manic modern world.  There is nothing better than spinning an old vinyl record from back in the day. Better yet, breakout the piano and the tambourine and start singing and dancing your ass off.  It’s great exercise and nourishes one’s soul.
  • After a long walk a group nap is always an enjoyable activity of choice—BYOB—Bring your own blanket.
  • Feel the sun on your face, walk in the rain, catch a snowflake on your tongue. No matter the season, there are always new and interesting things to do.  Life is never boring, there are only boring people. 

Aging requires that we all become more Zen like.  God has a funny way of teaching us these simple lessons.  The key tenet of Buddha’s teachings is this “Attachment leads to suffering”.  Aging demands that we let go of everything——when you get old, you need less and less material crap.  A game of dominos with a friend or a Sunday drive to visit family is more treasured than winning the lottery.

No need for fancy cars, boats or planes (can’t operate them anymore and there is no place you really need to go) no reason to own a big house (to much to keep up and no one to share it with) no storage sheds, garages or spare bedrooms full of possessions (just a bunch of crap to dust and worry about losing) no job title or profession (don’t have that to hang your identify on now (it’s just you hiding beneath wrinkled skin and brittle bones) no more vanity (can’t make it on outward appearance, fashion or putting on airs, its all about letting that little inward light shine) no need for pridefulness (age will humble your ass, and force you to realize that you were never as important, smart or pretty as you once thought you were).

You no longer have anything to win or lose, nothing to conceal, to protect, to defend, to covet, to prove, to own, to desire, to lust after, to judge or hate, to atone for, to forgive, to worship, or to define————– and in this state of mind you will discover an all-consuming peace.

You will learn to accept and enjoy living in the present moment.  This is mainly due to the fact that your long term and short-term memory is shot to hell—-your entire past is a blank slate.  The future is at best tenuous, you’re surprised and pleased to have woken up this morning to find yourself currently alive and still breathing—your future is a mirage.  All you have is this precious fleeting moment.

Companionship is based on how you are being treated—right now.  You have no grudges, no obligations or biases; in fact, you have no memory of the faces and names of past friends and lovers.  Every one you meet, even old friends, once again become new friends.  If someone is being kind to you, then you will respond with kindness or visa versa.  And, at some point you won’t even remember your own name, or your own face in mirror.  Finally, with no motives, hidden agendas or selfish intentions, you are now free to love yourself and all others unconditionally.

If this request for friendship connects with you, I would love the opportunity to make your acquaintance.  I can be found most afternoons sitting on a bench at Kiva Beach.  I’ll be the guy wearing plaid shorts, stripe shirt, a white bucket hat (Gilligan style) with black socks and brown sandals—-

I can often be heard whistling a little tune that goes like this——

“Row, row, row your boat—Gently down the stream—Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily—–Life is but a dream”.  Ain’t that the truth.

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Performing Without A Net

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Tonight I’m drinking with Fitzgerald, Bukowski and Kerouac, those fuckers sure could spin a tale and drink like a school of drowning fish.  I invited Hemingway to drop by, but he was busy playing nursemaid to a typewriter and polishing his guns.  It’s just as well he couldn’t make it, as guns and alcohol make dangerous bedfellows.  Although, spilling ink can be equally as painful as spilling blood.

These fellas had so many foibles and bad habits that it would be hypocritical for them to say a bad word about anybody else, that’s why I hangout with them, cause they don’t come at me sideways with their God-speak, patriotic-mumbo jumbo or self-righteous, sanctimonious finger wagging. The whole lot of them are serial liars and dexterous sinners. Ya see, writers don’t really lie, they just kind of bend the truth a bit—-and as for being sinners, a life without sin possesses no sustaining storyline.  If ya don’t believe me, just ask God about his favorite protagonist—the devil. We all need our devils and our Gods to test our balance as we wobble across life’s tightrope.  One misstep and you could end up in jail, or worse yet, a Mormon or a new-age vegan.

In the corner of the dark dank bar Waits meanders about the piano keys playing a melancholy jazz riff on an old battered upright piano.  His whisker stubbled face is silhouetted in a smokey blue light, the derby on his head cocked forward and a cigarette dangles from his perturbing lips.  A cat named Bird stares blankly into space as he lifts a shiny alto to his mouth.  His improvisations are a soured marriage between black blues and leftover notes that fumble their way into dissonance—more or less a drunken lullaby.  Vincent sits at a table near the musicians. He makes his childlike sketches and occasionally looks up at the band to lend them his ear (so to speak). The duo plays forlorn melodies that we slowly get sauced to, as we indulge our miseries, such is the sad yet beautiful futility of recounting a long-lost love-affair or friendships now withered and gone by the wayside.  Most love affairs are doomed from the get-go, but friendships are all we really have to sustain us, someone to catch us should we fall.  I miss my friends.

I only see my old pals now at weddings or funerals. I once unsuccessfully attempted to organize a Mens Retreat. I called a few of the old gang and emailed a couple of others.  Most of them never got back to me and those that did offered up some slipshod excuses about how they were predisposed.  They awkwardly mumbled on about work responsibilities, family responsibilities, money responsibilities and other middle-age obligations.   This may sound crazy, but I miss my once young irresponsible friends—what they lacked in maturity they more than made up for in temerity.

To much time alone can cause a man to substitute regret for nostalgia.  What is, “is”—- what ain’t—- “ain’t”—-and what never-was— “ain’t never gonna be”.   Everybody changes, some for the better, others for the worse.  Shockingly, some of my old buddies have even thrown their lot in with the right-wing conservatives—-go figure?  I do my best to remember the good-times—And I’m fortunate to have absorbed so many fond memories.

I’m reminded of one of my old favorite tunes by Simon and Garfunkel, “Bookends”.

Time it was and what a time it was it was,
A time of innocence a time of confidences.

Long ago it must be, I have a photograph
Preserve your memories, they’re all that’s left you

Unexpectedly, Twain, Steinbeck, Armstrong and Columbus drop by. They’re all excited about heading out west to explore some uncharted territories. They claim to have some rough draft maps and charts they got from a couple of fellas named Lewis and Clark. They came by to ask if we might like to throw in with them. We all looked at one another with that singular writers eye. Most stories don’t come to you, on the contrary, you have to seek them out.  Ah yes, only through adventure do we discover new worlds and in the process come to better know what we’re made of.  The decision is unanimous, we’ll all head out west come first dawn.

To often adventure is perceived as a young man’s game.  But I say, attitude will always trump age.  Adventure demands an odd mixture of risk, courage, stamina and as some might see it—-a shit load of irresponsibility.   George Mallory expressed it so concisely when asked, “Why climb Everest?” George responded, “Because it’s there.”  Now isn’t that a Goddamn foolish and irresponsible reason for doing anything—-”Because it’s there?”  But as for me, those three words sparkle with a stark and eloquent truth, to evolve and grow the heart must be pierced with a curiosity to see what’s over that next horizon.

What I love about adventurers, artists and writers is how they peer at the world through the eyes of a child.  They never seem to lose that youthful sense of wonder and imagination.   They may come off as brash, irresponsible and even a bit mad, but perhaps that’s why they aren’t afraid to perform without a net—–.  So Adios mi amigos, I’m off to see what lies out west.  Hey, why don’t you saddle up and come on along as well.

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This piece is dedicated to my life long brothers—Steve, Django, Mike, Chris, Pat, Danny and Norm.

Mongrel mutts, mixed blessings and a love story for people like you and me

I like marching bands, banjo’s and reggae.  You can’t have the blues and listen to any of those musical styles.  Give me a marching band any-day, all snap, shine and precision, with a thundering drum cadence rumbling and tickling against the walls of my belly.   At the head of it all stands the drum-major in his crisp white uniform with a red stripe running down the seam of each of his pant legs, he blows his whistle and all that sunshiny brass flips into playing position.  Everyone is wearing tall red hats with white feather plums—-black leather oxfords covered with white spats step out in unison.  It’s as if the lines of musicians are a single living entity moving as one.  The sidewalks are lined with little children sitting on their fathers shoulders as moms sit in lounge chairs smiling behind sunglasses. Teenagers stop their horsing around to stop and stare in amazement as the big tubas trail behind with their foghorn “um-pa’s”.  A parade ain’t nothin but a fancy walk put on display for common people like you and me.  I feel the sun on my face—I feel myself being drawn to you——–I wonder what you think of me—we should’ve known better—-

I ain’t waiting for life to happen to me, or for other people to be interesting, cause that can be one long fucking haul, too many people are emotional sloths.  I ain’t waiting for someone to love me either.  I’m gonna love as many people as I can, cause it’ll help me sort out the hungry raw ones from the heart numbed.  I’ll know when I find another to love, cause I won’t have to put up with all the extraneous bullshit that comes with loving most people—-most people don’t want love, they want someone that they can put in their little box and carry around with them so that they don’t feel so lonely.  Its the people who don’t know who they are or what to do with themselves that are the ones who are the most boring, self-absorbed and needy.  They exchange romance for stability and replace adventure with routine, but as far as I’m concerned, life without danger is like love without letting go of yourself and everything that goes along with that—–strange but true, ya gotta to give it all away to find what’s left behind in the ashes, cause that’s where the soul resides, and burns——

They’ll open that little box now and again to see that you’re still in there, never changing, always waiting to support them, when what they really need, is to be told that they stick in your heart like a weathered barbed wire fence post.

They’ll demand that you condone their little version of the world and they’ll expect you to inhabit their soap opera fantasies like a wind-up soldier in some smarmy Harlequin Romance plot—drama exaggerated, a lifetime fabricated out of strategic gamesmanship—-all played out in some empty, echoey theater—–as for me, I prefer silence to bullshit.

Ya see, I got my own world, a place you couldn’t even imagine, cause you never liked parades, reggae or banjo music.  If you haven’t already guessed it, I don’t believe in soul-mates.  As far as I’m concerned, if you can get a good ten year stretch out of a relationship without becoming the perpetrator or the victim of a homicide, then you’re doing pretty damn well.  I’m a realistic romantic (realomanitic) I know that love is real and that love is precious, I just don’t particularly believe it is eternal—-all beauty is evanescent—-fleeting—  Enjoy it when you find it—— and partake in it for as long as it lasts—–cause brother, once its gone, its dead and gone.

People spend way to much time doing things they don’t want to do with people they don’t like. They carry on saying a bunch of useless bullshit that doesn’t amount to anything and then carelessly let opportunities slip by without saying what they really feel. Lots of people are love stingy or too scared to reveal themselves to others, not me, I’m fucking odd-tistic, I always say what I feel, its a great filtering system, if I piss you off, great, I won’t waste my time on you in the future.

Most people want to be unique, but to be unique you have to be different, and to be different you have to be willing to appear stupid, strange or weird—being yourself, being authentic, this takes huge courage.  We’ll seek one another out, the ones who mumble nervous prayers, wringing out sweaty palms, the ones who have suffered and been dangled deep into the dark well of sorrow, hearing the echoes of life’s sad songs, to know such things, to understand such things—–these now, are the only ones for me, the artists, the poets—the fools—-

Much of the time we’re anonymous extra’s passing through in the background of someone else’s unspooling life.  But tonight, I’m out front and in your life, the spark behind that smile, and I love the way your eyes follow me, like they’re the lens to some old black and white cinematic love story.  And everything you say is interesting and connects with me.  I want it to always be this way, cause I’m weird and intense like that—–and only you know how I always go one step to far—-and I wonder—-are you willing, or more importantly, are you still capable of plumbing those mysteries beyond the far reaches?

Don’t fool yourself, someday we’ll all be long gone with only the foggy memories of others tying us haphazardly together.  But if you remember me and I remember you, then we will be eternally bound together, living in that frozen abyss of yesterdays—

If I were to play an instrument in a marching band, I’d choose the trombone.   Its an unpretentious goofy looking instrument that doesn’t have a lot of buttons or holes that my fingers need to fiddle around with.  I’d march right down the middle of the street with the rest of my band members, sliding that long plunger looking thing back and forth until I find a note that fits just right.  I’m out of step with the rest of the band, blowing on that brass contraption as if it were hot carmel drizzled over those swollen lips of yours.  And if we were still in love, and if you were up to an afternoon of madness with me, I’d have you march right beside me playing a big bass drum.

Its a warm Sunday evening, a breeze carries the scent of corn dogs, cotton candy and all things deep fried and sugary.  Hand in hand, like awe struck children, we take that slow neoned stroll down the midway at the county fair.  At the end of the days festivities the streets are swept of its confetti and we sit together in a big deserted bar and sip on our beers, bragging about how we made such beautiful music. We drink Pabst Blue Ribbon all night long cause its the cheapest and I won’t have to stop ordering us beers because I’ve run out of money, and besides, I don’t want this night to never ever end, or at least not until you dream back into me.

“The only people I would care to be with now are artists and people who have suffered: those who know what beauty is, and those who know what sorrow is: nobody else interests me.”

— Oscar Wilde

“I’ve been the fool.

but still…

I was a good fool—–”

—–Mikel (Mckrazi) Diegel