The San Diego Troubadour

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Hosing Down

Chipping Away, Constructing the Truth

            Is it just me, or has this been one heck of a weird summer?

            When it gets to the point that 10-12% of adults in San Diego actually believe that Superman truly existed and lived in New York City in the thirties, maybe it's time I stopped making up false survey results like this.

            Come to think of it, I don't think I'd be too surprised if that spurious assertion were true - I might even knock up the percentages - but I've always considered surveys as suspect and worthless as the Bay City Rollers. Or Sade.

            Truth has always seemed easy to distort, and the distortion can be empowering, even profitable. I'd like to see the very word "percent" eliminated from political debates, with so much manipulation and decontextualization and intimations of scholarship. It just tends to hammer home a basic fact that the public is still unable to grasp: that all politicians are at heart greedy, lying miscreants.

            Truth is, I got up on the correct side of the bed this morning and am feeling as chipper as I might hope, having revisited in my dreams many of the whoppers I've heard repeatedly during these sullen summer months.

            The strange music stories keep going around: John Lennon had originally wanted to call the Beatles the Rolling Stones. Dennis Wilson was the real creative genius of the Beach Boys. Paul Simon's musical Capeman was originally called Cartman. The greatest conductor of the twentieth century was Mantovani. Mama Cass Elliot choked to death on Jimi Hendrix's vomit.

            Of course, those are the famous old chessnuts, and they're all true. But the whoppers that seem to have sprung from the likes of these call into question not only the sanity but the humanity of their believers. No doubt you've been hearing that stuff about Wyclyf Jean, Steve Tyler, Lady ("I'm gagga for") Gaga, Whitney Houston, and on and on...okay, and about yours truly being an incredibly worthless jerk who goes around telling everybody about the time in 1978 he went to dinner and a concert with Paul and Linda McCartney. Don't believe any of it.

            When I'm (oh, by the way, it was March 1979) confronted with so much degeneration of discourse, it wreaks havoc on my frown lines, but sometime during this summer's chill I decided to stay away from idiotic arguments and remain, as I said, chipper.

            But then, inevitably, has come the belligerent, drunken fratboy whom I'd never met who suddenly wants to kick my ass to impress his drunken buddies and vacuous laydeh. This has far too often brought me to tears.

            "‘Sup, dude?!" (their dialect fascinates me)

            "What do you mean?"

            "You deaf, faggot? I'm here! I'm here! ‘Sup?!" (priceless)

            "I'm not gonna fight you..."

            "Ah mo kick yo' f---."

            "But you're a miracle!" (I've read Carnegie)

            "Let's get it own, dude! I'm - I'm what?"

            "A miracle. A real live, talking stool sample."

            And within a matter of seconds I'm on the pavement, bruised and/or bloody, crying because I got hurt. Because it usually hurts a lot.

            Ah, but I suppose it's just because it's such a very strange summer. And it's probably just the calibre of college student San Diego is turning out these days. Either way I feel a sweet nostalgia for those days. when these feces vivants were allowed to drink on the beach; sand offers the victim a relatively cushioned embrace. Concrete has always been brutal and tough, so proud of its bad boy reputation; only a fool would ask it to soften up a bit.

            It becomes obvious that far too many modern-day Americans (like those ill-mannered students) survey Life's abundant menu and order their own destinies from the various section, without even a glance at the offerings listed within sundry. As Dr. Stu (Stewart) Pendiss pointed out in 1947's monumental A Final Flush, the difference between a card game and a toilet is defined by one's attitude toward his God, the Romantic Ideal, and/or Pee Wee Herman.

            This summer also offered me more welcome proof as to the ignorance of the phrase "you can't go home again." It's intended, figurative meaning was blown away, thanks to my Los Angeles friends Craig Ingraham and Deborah Masterson.

            Craig (a superb musician/singer/songwriter) had formed a band in L.A., in 1973, to record some of his original songs. Deborah, his girlfriend, was one of his background singers, as was I. (The 19-year-old pianist was named David Benoit, and I think he still plays somewhere today.) So, we rehearsed and recorded in L.A., but curiously did our only live shows down here in San Diego, the last one being at the Starlight Bowl in October of 1973, after which everyone went different ways and many of us lost touch for three decades or so . . .

            On this summer 38 years later, joined by our original percussionist, the magical Sody Arzea, we did a show once again, at Café Libertalia (thanks, Jesse!). Even our original roadie, Stan Stafford, was back (bless his heart!) and there were moments up on stage with Craig and Deb that I thought I could swear that my soul... oh, how do I say this?... my soul got a woodie. (38 years later and he calls it a woodie? Surf city, here we came.) I thank you one and all, especially the lovely folks who decided to check us out. I'm certainly hoping for more shows in the fall, as my recent meticulous inquiry reveals I am up to 90% more chipper when preforming with these dear friends, home again, than when I'm not. The value of love and memories can always grow in hungry hearts, and that's an absolute truth.