Melting bricks, Easter and a parade missed

A sea story:

"Once upon a ti...." er, this ain't no shit:

1978. It was a good time to be a sailor on the good ship USS Blueridge. It was the second year of Jimmy Carter's Love Boat Navy. At that time I was tasked, as a seaman, to do all the gritty work, like painting, waxing floors, sweeping and such, all stuff that I came to love and that came to serve me well later on as a supervisor in my shop. But at that time, once the work was done, I got to fuck off a lot. I found myself, at the beginning of the year, as a mess man, working the floor of the enlisted men's mess deck. We worked hard but we partied a lot, too, and what made it even better was the light hours we had once we got into port.

The Navy turned into a sort of travel agency for me at that time. The first of the year took us down south to Acapulco. There I had myriad off the wall adventures, including being hit on by two old jotos who had a dandy house on the edge of the cliff where the acclaimed cliff divers went to do their thing. Walking, or rather, running away from that bad scene I twisted my ankle, not a cool thing when you are broke and the neighborhood was about as bad as it could get. And this was the night after almost getting busted coming back on board with cannabis in my match box.

From there we went back to San Diego for donut drills but soon departed to San Francisco where we did our best to buy pot and acid from truly bad news street dealers in North Beach. I had many shipmates who came from that part of the world and so for a week or so had mighty good times in and around the Bay area. From there we continued on our way up the coast, Tiger Crew style, this time to the mouth of the Columbia River and on up to Portland, Oregon, to be part of Fleet Week and the Portland Rose Festival.

The biggest bummer of the whole experience was that our antennae mast was too tall to allow us passage up to the heart of the festival. We couldn't make it past the bridge close to the railroad terminal and had to moor out in the industrial section of town. While the rest of the invited fleet got up close and personal with the crowds near the midway, we were way the hell outside of all the action in town. It meant long taxi rides or, worse, long walks back to the ship in a variety of states of mind. No matter, we were young, swaggering, swinging dicks and those walks, after nights of hard partying, always did us good.

Portland is a great town. Back then it was mighty gritty, but there was Powell's, great places to eat, fabulous beers (thanks, Henry Weinharts!) and plenty of old theaters that played classic films, like Treasure of the Sierra Madre, something that my pal Arch and I couldn't pass up.

While we were there one of my shipmates, Jay, went off to visit his people in Yoncalla, a long ass haul from Portland. But the distance we could make away from our navy life, as well as the adventure, beckoned once were invited out to have supper with his family. So, early on a Friday Nick, Willy and I decided to take a Greyhound bus out to see him. Jay felt he could meet us in Eugene, about half way, so we went downtown, bought round trip tickets and took off to the fabled college town to meet him.

Now, meeting a guy and his gal in a new town filled with wild student  hippie types was going to be a challenge for us no matter what. We were used to having really negative experiences with the locals there in San Diego and were wondering what kind of reception we would get once we got into town. To help protect us from any bad vibes we might encounter and to help make us somewhat invisible we each took a nice fat hit of some mighty fine San Francisco blotter acid. What made that move so interesting is that we found ourselves at the back of the bus, right in the midst of some of these savage hippy school girls we so wondered about and feared. We soon found ourselves slowly getting stoned while engaged in great conversation, and before our heads really launched into outer space, managed to get addresses and phone numbers from those girls just in case we ever found ourselves in Eugene again.

No matter, we arrived in one piece but were rapidly falling apart. We were fairly well lit when we wandered out onto the street outside the terminal. I have no idea how Willy found the sense to drop a dime and call our shipmate but he did, and this was right before we decided to go stroll a bit around town. Right now I have no idea where the bus station is in relation to the student quarter but somehow we got there. Or maybe we did. The whole world was dissolving before our eyes. Brick buildings began to sway in the breeze, melt, twist, crumble and then become whole again before our eyes. Of course, we were raving loons at that point, laughing at nothing and at everything. One thing for certain we were certifiable out of our minds and truly needed to be off the streets.

Lo and behold out of the ether came Jay. He had a concerned look on his face when he found us, as we had wandered a bit from where we had landed. He piled us into his car and began, what must have been for him and his girl, one hell of a long and distracted journey, with three sailors completely loony in the backseat of his car and the whole family waiting to meet us in his home town.

We went on and on about the girls we met on the bus and the melting buildings we saw on the streets. But it was the girls we waxed most poetic about. I am sure that in our minds eye and in our descriptions they looked just like the photo posted below. Who the hell knows who or what we saw but we were pleased that we, lowly sailors of the 7th Fleet, were considered nice enough to be talked to by civilian girls!

We finally got to Yoncalla and to make a long story short we survived. We somehow kept it together enough to sit and have beers with those kind logging folk. We managed to get through dinner without too much mayhem and then, knowing we had a bus to catch, were piled back into the car and sent back down the I-5 to Eugene once more. Jay and his girl played a cassette of Jackson Browne's Running on Empty over and over again that night as we made our way back in the rain. Whenever I hear that album these days I am always whisked away to that night, high but happy knowing we pulled off a truly intergalactic coup.
.

To listen and see the whole album, click on this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-_FRV2Qne0g

Meanwhile we had a bus to catch but at the last minute I decided to stay and look up those girls we met on the way in. Of course, to an oversexed young squiddy I had this image in mind about those gals...

..but in reality, after I found my way to their place they pretty much looked like .....

....just normal, pretty Oregon college girls of the mid 70's. I found their place, after a long wet walk, with a full out party going on. We partied till dawn, or maybe it seemed that way. The folks I was introduced to were cool and living the student life. The warm, welcoming vibe I got from them was different from what I had gotten used to after joining the fleet, something that I hadn't felt or experienced in a long time.

Later that morning we all went out for coffee, bought records at a rummage sale and, finally, knowing we all needed some herbal relief, went out and found a dealer who had some absolutely stunning gold mota for sale. Now, at this time, there was plenty of great Mexican and Colombian around to buy, but without close inspection and a time machine I will never know if what I got that day was Santa Marta or Josephine County Gold. Oh well, any port in a storm!

My Oregon hippy friends helped me find the bus terminal and that evening I was back on my way to Portland, with good memories, an ounce or two of gold and a few albums, including Leo Kottke's first, in my satchel.

Well, Fleet Week was still happening and we still had many things to do. A shipmate from my shop had a family who lived there in Portland. I had no idea that this player had a wife and kids but he did and he invited us all to his crib for a Sunday dinner. We loaded up a carload of us and went across town, but on the way I had to stop and buy more albums to go along with all the beer and booze we had gathered up. One of the albums I snagged was a fairly new one on the market, Easter by the Patti Smith Group. I hadn't listened to it before but was moving in the direction of punk and so felt it was going to be the party album we all needed to hear that day.

Well, we had no weed on the scene so before we got too lit we went back across town and went on board the ship to secure a bit of the gold I bought the day before. The boat was alive with tourists who found us way down the river. And my stash, well, it was in the shop, of all places. I felt it was not going to be much of a hassle as we were a secure space and off limits to civilians but who should be in there but BOB! Bob, an old alky gone straight, had pawned off his time on the beach to one of the guys attending the party. I had to get past him and all his questions to secure my pot, which I had secreted up and away in some monkey shit in the overhead wires. With the help of my pals we managed to distract Bob and get the dope and out of there before anything else went south. Never could tell when a Master at Arms might arrive on the scene!

Back at the crib a full out party was in progress. Not to let a party full of sailors go by without a full out assault on my senses, I jumped in and got going on the local beers, but that was not going to be enough! Tequila was broken out, joints were rolled and the music, mostly soul and funk, blared. I decided, okay, time for some punk and put on Patti's album. Let me ask you, have you ever listened to that album? I hadn't until that moment. Did you know that there is a song on there titled "Rock and Roll Nigger"? Did I happen to mention that my shipmate, the one who was so kind as to invite us all into his house was black?

Let me tell you I've never seen a party stop so fast in my life. I think that the only thing that saved me was that gold mota. We were all so stoned that the only thing we could think to do was laugh. After that the tequila flowed, the music got louder and the party began it;s inevitable wind down. I was told later on that, while standing up against the kitchen wall, I went from a standing 12 o'clock position to one that, straight as a clock hand, went down to the three o'clock, right to the kitchen floor.

We loaded up into the car and went back to the ship. Most of my shipmates went up the gang plank unaided. Me, I got sick as a dog and let loose all that Portland home made bbq and all that tequila. Some guys just never learn.

The rest of the visit went well. Friends came out from Moscow to see the boat and we did, in the end, manage to find our way to the midway and groove on the festival delights. Over the years I have made my way back to Portland and Eugene. I have an opportunity to apply to a job there but hesitate, knowing that there is no going back in time. I had a grand time there while on tour, so much so that it was at the top of my list of places that I would have loved to live in after my service days were over. Little did I know that my travel plans for summer were about to change. Within a week of our trip up north my plans to go to New Orleans with my Chief PO were cancelled., Benj was getting out of the service. Would I like to go and check out Colorado with him?

And that's another story all together.

Salud!



From the Easter album: the video Rock and Roll Nigger
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DLIkM4wvcC8

and the lyrics:
http://www.metrolyrics.com/rock-n-roll-nigger-lyrics-patti-smith.html

Rolling Stone's review of Easter:
http://www.rollingstone.com/music/albumreviews/easter-19780420

Oh boy! Miyazaki films!

Such classics, so much fun!

Take a moment to peruse this list from the New York Times. When you find that your stone, indica style or otherwise, has you locked to a couch, pop one of these classics into a player of  your choice and be prepared to be whisked away to a fantasy isle of your choice. Satisfaction guaranteed!

Salud!

https://www.nytimes.com/2017/10/12/movies/ranking-studio-ghibli-movies.html?hpw&rref=movies&action=click&pgtype=Homepage&module=well-region&region=bottom-well&WT.nav=bottom-well

Dream job

A dream job, yes. Maybe you wouldn't think so when you are almost run off the highway by a screamingly large semi truck at your side, in a blinding rain storm, with the only option for survival is a quick lane change to the left, but really, it is. And maybe you might think that I would say "next", when I find myself needing not only another can of Starbuck Mexican Mocha to keep me awake to the next stop but also a quick break at a rest stop, non-compliantly, just to give my eyes a rest. There is much to be said for a nice desk job but I have had one of those. There is also something to be said for a nice big fat paycheck, but I had one of those, too, and it damn near killed me.

No, I am happy as a clam in a field full of other happy clams. Somehow I have stumbled into a form of employed bliss, one that I didn't know existed. Sure, the hours are long, some might even think horrible. I start my driving day at a quarter of seven and sometimes find myself getting home, after a full day behind the wheel, well after 8 in the evening. The car that I drive, while relatively new, is small and has an engine that sometimes feels mighty anemic going up those Rocky Mountain grades. I find myself at the mercy of the weather, I never get lunches and the pay, while substantially better than that of my bud tender brethren, is not what I would call killer.

 BUT! And here's the big but....it's a blast. I find that I really truly love this state that I live in. I get to travel from east to west, from north to south, mostly in the day, and so far, mostly in absolutely stunning sunshine. The scenery changes daily, clouds here, wind there, mountains in the distance covered with snow, trees at my elbow bedecked with sunshiny colors. For years I longed to be on the east coast when the leave changed, this year I have had weeks of full bounty, from Trinidad to Parachute, along Glenwood Canyon to the tops of the Rockies.

And while I rarely stop outside of the dispensaries that my manifests dictate, I make sure that when I hit town and my deliveries are done I visit a pot shop or two, just to see what the biggest strains are of the region. I rarely have money for bud, and I know that if I wait I can get a sizable discount back at the shop, but every once in awhile I find an extra twenty in my pocket, one that, applied to a local driver discount, will let me leave with a treat or two. Colombian Gold, Gorilla Glue, Durango OG, Cannalope Haze, just to name few, have ridden home in my satchel, just ready for another weekend's play.

It is a very serious industry, something that most folks on the outside of it might find hard to see. You would think that with all the grass in the world to play with you would find all staff stoned all the time, but to tell you I have never seen such a hardworking, honest and integrity filled bunch of workers in my life. And while I might catch a silent buzz from the heated oils or the decarbing grass I am a clean player, too. There is too much at stake here, here in Colorado, with this grand experiment of ours. We have to play it straight, show ourselves to be a legitimate business, to show the world and the Feds that the tired old trope of red eyed stones is a myth. We're business folk, here to make a buck but also one to follow the rules, too.

I absolutely love this job. I eat my lunch on the road but what passes by my windows in sublime. The people that I work with, from folks in my shop to the workers and owners of the dispensaries that I serve, are wonderful, interesting and a whole hell of lot of fun.

And while a snowstorm may shut off my mountain access here and there I know that while I get to I will get up at the crack of dawn, pack my lunch, eat an egg or three and happily get on the road for another day of delivery and adventure.

That's what a dream job is all about.

Salud!

Uncle Max comes to visit

Uncle Max and I go a long way's back. We calculated it the other day and we figure somewhere shy of fifty years. Our mutual love affair with mota goes back almost as far, something that we have in common and have shared on and off for over forty. A couple weeks ago I was graced once more with his company, something that was much needed and long overdue. I never thought that Colorado would be so far out of the way of friends and family but it has been. Doesn't help that the older you get the fewer friends a man has to call on. But Uncle Max must have felt the same way. Maybe his wife did, too. It must have been nice to get the old man out of the house and out of the hair for a bit.

I am sure, too, that his good wife decided not to join him as I had been promising him a weekend's visit worth of weed and quality craft beer for months. The idea that you could hardly swing a dead cat around here without hitting a brewery appealed to him greatly, but it was the promise of well cured, high quality Colorado weed that really got him excited about visiting the Mile High City. When I heard that the good wife would not be coming because she didn't want to play chauffeur for endless dispensary and brewery stops I knew that I had painted too much of a debauched portrait of my now adopted state. There was so much more to do, and damn it, we were going to set on sights on doing all those things, too!

He landed at DIA late on a Thursday night and we set out for our first destination, The Broken Plow, a small brewery here in Greeley.. They were gracious in letting us in, fifteen minutes after closing time, if only because  they had a musician still on stage. The 9.5 ale was potent, enough to just have one. It did not mean the end of festivities, though, as there was almost two cases of local craft brew on ice back at home. That night, as we caught up over beers, he wanted to know all about my new job as a dispensary driver. I told  him about the product I was driving all over the state, a new revolutionary oil pen that got my shop's fabulous CO2 oil out to the masses. Uncle Max has been a flower man most of his cannabis imbibing life and I thought it was high time to turn him on to something new.

I loaded up an indica cartridge into my pen and handed it over to him. Well, cannabis oil was a mystery to Uncle Max but like all good detectives he was out to solve the case and took, what I thought to be, a grand and masterful pull of the vape pipe. Being a good guest, he proceeded to get mighty high, but, right before we bid adieu for the evening, he asked to see the pen again and once again took one last, mighty draw for the night.

The next day I found out that he spent half the night higher than he had been in years. What did that mean, then? Well, it meant a road trip to my shop where he straight away bought a battery to take back home with him (no cannabis over state lines, natch!). We packed in the sights as best we could that Friday. He got to travel along the highways and byways of the Front Range, seeing that there was not too much to my 50 mile commute other than cows and corn in the fields and mountain peaks in the distance. We went on hike in the foothills in Boulder, took in the Flatirons from afar, did a super short tour of the Coors brewery ("That's the brewery over there". "Great, let's go get a beer!"), visited a sweet little dispensary in Denver (Lucy Sky, Washington Park, my favorite dispensary in Denver...with so many to choose from, that say's a lot!) and bought some fresh roasted green chilies from a tienda in Evans for enchiladas that night.

It was a fun and varied holiday. On Saturday, con familia, we hiked the Clear Creek Canyon path, sipped brews at the Dam Brewery in Dillon and battled the first snows of the season coming back home over the Rockies that afternoon. We played it fun and straight most of the time and that was fine, too. We hung out with my sweetheart and the boy, watched movies, took in the local sights and by the time I sent him off on Sunday left him thoroughly exhausted him and with a grand impression of the Centennial State.

And, of course, we indulged in our share of ganja, too. He got in some Blue Dream from the Farm, Purple Haze from Lucy Sky and NYC Diesel from Nature's Herbs and Wellness in Garden City. He got in a taste of CBD and homemade tinctures. He got a chance to try out "Focus" from the Lucid Mood cannabis oil pen line. He also got a chance to try out Harmonium, another vape oil product from the Farm. He was open to experiencing vape gear, and was able to take a big draw of Cindy 99 out of a Vape Bros desktop and sip some home made mix out of a Magic Flight Launch Box. He enjoyed our flower but it was the CO2 products he experienced that were the biggest revelations.

Talking to him made it clear to me that cannabis was continuing to do it's good work with him. He walks more these days, eats less, is less prone to meanness and talks openly all the time now, all things that he wouldn't necessarily do or indulge in when weed was out of his life (damn those Federal Dept of Transportation rules).

I was happy for my years of study that allowed me to share with him all sorts of cannabis knowledge, products and good news, so much so that he went home and shared all that he had learned with his mom, who proceeded to call me to ask about CBD products for ailments of her own.

Uncle Max and I go way back, further back than my relationship with weed, but with weed we have been pals seemingly forever. Many of our memories together have been colored by our association with grass. But this visit, with all it's craft beer and cannabis at arm's reach, was decidedly different and much better than anything we have shared in a long, long time. For all that we indulged in the air never got dark with smoke or f-bombs. Mellowness ruled, good spirits reigned. We were definitely two men closing in on sixty. We both have felt the the weight of the passing years, the lightness of hard gained wisdom. We have learned many lessons, but one of the biggest one was don't let too much time go by between visits. I am sure that Colorado made a favorable impression, hopefully nice enough to entice his lovely bride to come along nice time he comes a callin'. As his sore feet attested to, there are so many more things to do here in Colorado beside mota and beer!

Salud!

Musical landscape of my life

Monday was tough enough. A long distance run to the end of the state and back. Radio is always mixed and spotty in-between Trinidad and Denver. I do my best, now that I am on the road most of the work week, to keep up with the times with NPR. The president's visit to Puerto Rico and the tragedy in Las Vegas dominated the news. It wasn't until I got home that my sweetness told me, as she cruised through her Facebook feed, that Tom Petty had passed away that afternoon.

My first reaction was "WHAT?" Rarely much of anything pulls me away from my reading that but information stopped me in my tracks. What was even more  unusual was that I didn't get up to scan the news on the internet. Everything came to a stand still. I was too stunned to do anything more than shut off my bedside light and go to sleep.

The next day I read what I could handle and began what has been a week long state of denial. It wasn't until this morning that I came across enclosed article and photo spread in the LA Times and finally came to accept the loss of Tom Petty, arguably the greatest rock and roll influence of my life.,

Sure, the Stones are up there, along with Aerosmith, Led Zeppelin and Nirvana. The Beatles, the Beach Boys, Joan Jett, Isley Brothers, Queen, BB King, David Bowie, Blondie, the B-52s all colored the musical soundscape of my life, too, but it was Tom Petty, solo and with the Heartbreakers, that consistently showed up just when I needed him most.

I first heard American Girl in the data processing shop on board the Blueridge. That sound of his was infectious and that cassette, along with Damn the Torpedoes, went into heavy rotation wherever we went. The Heartbreakers followed me home from the service and have been a constant part of the soundtrack of my life. Many events, from tamale parties to acid trips to throwing my father's ashes onto the Mojave sands, were colored by his songs. Free Fallin' is a background song right now as everyone seems to be playing it in remembrance, but for me, when I hear it, it takes me back to my Aunt Mary Jo's little back yard house in Burbank. I stayed there the night before I headed off into the desert with my father's remains. Some of the us had gone out on his boat earlier in the day, spread half of his ash on the slight swell of the Pacific. That evening, after copious beers, I caught Tom's video on tv, thought it great and poignant. With my father gone, a new baby to learn about, a girlfriend who always seemed to be in flight and a new position in a far away city to deal with I felt my life was in a state of free falling, too.

Years later all is well as I am as happy as a man could be. Then comes the events of the week. And the passing of Tom. Read the articles posted below to catch the flavor of a man who just came off a long six month tour. Take a look at the photos to see a man very much, very vibrantly, alive.

Life is short. Embrace the moment. Be sure to love.

And thanks, Tom, for all the good sounds. You will be missed.

Salud!

http://www.latimes.com/entertainment/music/la-et-ms-tom-petty-the-final-interview-20171004-story.html

http://www.latimes.com/visuals/photography/la-me-genaro-molina-tom-petty-20171004-htmlstory.html