Clint Eastwood Was Near My Dad Once

I was just thinking about stuff, as I'm wont to do.  And I suddenly recalled my father telling me of one of his trips to San Francisco.  When he went on his business trips, he liked to get out and walk around.  Sometimes, a lot.  When he went to SF, he walked all over the place, way more than I ever would have.  He took a few pictures too.  One of them, was of Clint Eastwood.

My father was no fanboy, but he liked Clint's work.  It just so happened that my father was there when they were shooting the Deadpool movie, the last (?) Dirty Harry movie.  Dad was walking around near where they were filming, and someone told him that a particular trailer was Clint Eastwood's, and that Clint would be walking back from the set in a few minutes. 

So, Dad, being not a fanboy, and not wanting to bug Mr. Eastwood, sits down on a park bench along the sidewalk that leads to the trailer.  And waits.  In a little bit, Clint comes walking down the sidewalk, and my dad shoots two pictures of him.  Holding his camera on his lap, so as not to be just another asshole with a camera.  My dad said, "Hello", and Clint Eastwood also said, "Hello".  And that was that. 

I can now say, that Clint Eastwood was near my dad once. 

I hope to never write "Clint Eastwood" so many times in one thing, ever again.  No offense to the man. 

Cheers

I was gonna

I'm having a bad case of the "I was gonna's".

I was gonna write about how I'm a racist, in an ironic way.  But for some reason, it's falling flat for me.

Here, you decide:

Here, in the great North Country of Michigan, where I work for an airline.  We had a muslim working with us.  I guess you might call him a Muslim, with a capital M.  He wore what I picture as an "ethnic" shirt, sort of a tunic looking thing, and his white knit head covering, and he took time out to pray during the day.

My reaction to him working here, was much more mild than some I have talked to, but, I can't pat myself on the back.  Because, every time I looked at him, I had bad feelings.  Not to trust him, didn't want to be around him, etc.  And then, then, I'd be angry at myself, immediately, for feeling like that.  And I'd have silly discussions with myself in my head, all about how silly I was being.  As a matter of fact, I'd get so upset with myself for how I was feeling about him, that I'd come right back around to wishing he wasn't around, so that I wouldn't have to feel all the racist guilt. 

Fucked up, huh. 

It's the closest I've come to real self reflection in a while. 

I DO have racist feelings, quite often.  It's based on many things, the people I'm around, incidents in my past, and all the things I'm exposed to.  Just like everything else. 

I keep these feelings inside.  I never utter the N-word aloud anymore (thanks Phil!), which in itself is worthy of a discussion, as the 'not' saying of a word, while still saying it, so to speak, just gives the word more power.  Just like the whole "he who shall not be named" thing, with Voldemort.  In that book, you know.

But I digress, totally.

I keep my racism in check.  Because I know it's the right thing to do.  Be nice, be fair, be kind.  No matter what the person looks like. 

I hope that if I set a good example, my children might grow up without all the racist baggage that I was saddled with.  Maybe they won't have to hide it inside, and feel bad about themselves for it.

I don't know where I was going with this, nor where I came from.  So that's it.

cheers

Blocked & Blue

I've been feeling a little blocked lately.  Can't seem to get on board with any of the ideas that cross my head to do for the poetry project.  Oh well.  I have a few in the can, and I can always write some crappy ones.  If that's the best I can do.  haha 

Do it, even if it's crap.  In the end, you'll learn something from it.  Someone said that, but I don't know who.  And Googling it, would be just too damn hard.  Copy and paste wears my ass out.

I wanted to write here about my early sexual adventures, but I don't feel much into it.  Not feeling into much the last few days.

With the slightly warmer weather, my Geo Metro is getting it's really good mileage again.  It dropped down to 45 mpg or so over the winter, but it's back to 52 mpg again.  That's a good thing.  I think the difference is due in part to the gearbox oil.  I have some better variable viscosity oil I got a few months ago.  But I'm too lazy to put it in.  Sloth, strikes again.  Say, I still have to write the "Sloth" entry for the seven deadly sins series.  I mentioned that I think.  I have Greed, Lust, and Gluttony done.  they're not half bad, by my standards anyways. 

I made the discovery of the "Seven Virtues"  as well, so I guess I'll have to do them too.  Kind of to complete the set so to speak.  Or maybe it's just the OCD in me.

Someone accused me of being cynical today.  I don't think I was.  I was just feeling depressed, why?  you ask?  Well I got up didn't I?

To quote myself:  "I have so far been denied the kiss of eternal sleep.  And it pisses me off"

So myself, I say, "Have patience, things like that come in their own time." 

I sure hope so, because sometimes, it would just feel pretty fucking good to just never get up again.

Cheers

Peers in the rain

I've had death and fathers on my mind for the better part of a week now.  The 6th (?) anniversary of my own father's death was a couple weeks ago.  And two close co-workers have lost their own father in the last week as well.  It has inspired some reflection on such things.

When I was a child, I pretty much worshipped my father.  He told no lies, and did no wrong.  As I got older, that sort of hero worship faded.  Eventualy culminating in my late teens, where I acted like he told mostly lies and did almost everything wrong. 

Then there was a long curve of going back to respecting him completely.  Which didn't come to full fruition until a couple years before he died. 

I lost all those years, where I wasn't interested in what he had to say, or his history, and opinons.  I am shamed to think on this now.

I visited his grave today, for the first time in more than a year.  It was raining. 

I've written a little thing about this, for the poetry blog.  I'm saving it for Father's Day though, I think. 

Time Marches On

By the time you read this, I will be gone. 

Well, the me that is right now, will be gone.

Time marches on and all that jazz.  And how we change every second.  Deep shit.

Say, did you ever see that one story....I can't remember if it was an '80's Twilight Zone, or Amazing Stories, or something.  It was all about a guy that stepped out of time accidentally somehow, and he was stuck in a future time, something like 12:05 to be exact.  The gag of the story was that each minute of every day was a seperate 'world' so to speak.  Each 'minute world' had to be built from scratch.  Everyone would appear in it for one minute, and then move on to the next minute, abandoning this whole world.

I remember one of the jokes told by the head worker guy, "You know how you just know you put your keys on the table?  But when you look, they are gone?  But then when you look again in a few minutes, they are back again?  That was us, screwing up."

It was real strange. 

I don't know why I thought of that. 

Tomorrow's Fritz365 debacle, is about the disappointment of Friday the 13th, and every other significant day for that matter.  Enjoy.

Trips Seussian

I'm afraid I've brushed against some Seussian rhythm on one. I sort of try not to consciously copy other authors or poets in style. But it happens. My wife claims that some of mine sound sort of Shel Silverstein-y. Certainly not a copy, but some flavor I guess. Funny thing is: I've never read much Silverstein. I mean, I read the Giving Tree, along with everyone else, and a few others over the years. But I didn't sit down with any of his anthology books. As far as any one poet, I think I've read more Robert Service than anyone else. And I certainly can't write much like him at all. Although, reading his anthologies.....some of his kinda sucked too. Makes me feel better. As far as that goes.




Well, see tomorrows debacle for more on the Fritz365 poetry blog: #127 The Red and the Blue.



Whomever so should read this, know that I love you

Fear and Moving On

I would like to relate a short incident in my life.

When I was younger, and single, I had a 1974 Harley Davidson Sportster.  It's not really important what it was, but I'm saying anyways.  It was a very impractical bike for me to own, as it was old, unreliable, and not comfortable at all except for short rides.  At the time, I had (as today) a 39 mile commute to work.  I didn't ride it every day certainly, but I did ride it often.

On one particular morning, I was running late.  And was riding quite fast, the weather was chilly, even though it was June ( as mornings in Michigan on Lake Huron often are).  I came upon a line of five cars just before a big golf course, about ten miles into my ride.  The traffic going the other way was pretty heavy, and I had to wait a few minutes to get an opening to pass, and it wasn't a big one.  So I kicked that Harley down a gear, and laid into the throttle.  I don't know how fast I was going, due to excessive vibration, and a faulty speedometer.  Suffice it to say I was probably going over 80mph.  I had just gotten past the fourth car.

And that's when the deer jumped in front of me.

The deer was moving fast towards the lake, it landed right in front of me, and kept on running.  I missed it by a couple of feet.  I'm certain that the car's driver next to me was equally horrified by the deers sudden appearance, and disappearance. 

I momentarily backed off the gas, but immediately opened it up again.  I had cars coming at me in the oncoming lane. 

After completing my pass.  I had some contemplative moments inside my helmet.  As I motored on to work. 

My fear had peaked as the deer was in front of me, and I backed off the gas.  The fear disappeared, as I snapped the throttle back open. 

I can't explain it.  It was one of the handful of times in my life, that I was fully aware that I was a few feet from death.  It was there, then it was gone. 

I still ride motorcycles.  On those same roads. 

It reminded me that I was mortal, but not to dwell on it too much, or you'll get yourself killed by the next thing coming at you.  I guess.