Thursday, October 9, 2008
Writing with immortals...
“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!” – Jack Kerouac
The other day I was watching Hank Aaron and Willie Mays talk about their time in baseball between the 1950’s and 1970’s. They waxed about how they knew what the other was doing in the sport despite one playing in New York City and the other in Milwaukee . They rarely spoke to each other but read newspapers on the daily. When Bob Costas asked them if one knew what the other was doing my initial reaction was, “No shit stupid, ESPN, the internet, duh!” A split second later I realized what a dumbass I was for thinking that. Information overload was a thing of the unimaginable future. Immortality by way of something-something-something.com wasn’t even a pipe dream.
The other day I went to my old site humbertave.blogspot.com to reread and revisit those pieces and that time in my life. I read half a piece before I saw the link on the right side of my page, it says CeeP. I clicked on it in the hopes of finding something brilliant, fresh, uber-intelligent and just down right funny. I found something I hadn’t expected.
I met CeeP (pronounced C.P. but we pronounced it seap) sometime in 2005. I’d heard about him from my cousin and friend MJ. I’d been dabbling in writing and hungered for pen/keyboard driven kindred spirits. I had one at the time and figured doubling my encyclopedic intake would help with my key stroking endeavors but I’d settle for someone to share oat sodas and world reducing conversation with.
I love writing and writing loves me.
CeeP was a bad vodka drinking, mountain bike riding, Bad Brains loving, menthol smoking, race card with razor sharp edges pulling, Republican adhoring, bright smiling, Bob Marley quoting, hurricane writing mother fucker. He looked like John Coffee from The Green Mile but thought and wrote like a renegade version of Gore Vidal if Gore Vidal was a black man from the South. And he wrote. He wrote like you and I breathe; effortlessly and continuously.
“Bitch, if you want to be a writer, BE A WRITER!”
CeeP was the kind of guy that you could break down the world to it’s historically bloody core with and weren’t afraid to intellectually venture into the deepest and undeveloped confines of your mind. We traveled through Howard Zinn’s history many times. He continuously called me out on my writing or lack thereof. I loved reading his stories. He wrote about music and the movie industry. He was paid to write which is far more than I’ve been able to accomplish. But his best writing was that which came from the heart; the stream of consciousness that flowed out of him like love from a Bob Marley song. Now I’m not claiming to be an expert in anything other than my own life, much less literature in the internet/blog age but CeeP, Chris, was the best writer I knew and knew of. I read the quote below before I had even met the man and thought to myself, “What the fuck is this doing on a blog and not in a book on my pile of books?!” It was heartfelt (but not always), spoke of the human experience in a profound way, introspective to the nines and made me laugh. I could have easily cried at the absolute truth of it all. It’s an excerpt but you can judge for yourself (edits be damned):
“In spite of the gallons of alcohol I consumed, the revisiting of past dalliances had had a sobering effect on me and the stark contrast it unveiled shot across the skies of my mind as brilliantly as a comet during an solar eclipse. I knew right then and there what I wanted out of life; I'd spent so much time seeking validation in others that I'd lost touch with what really satisfied my soul, as Marley might've put it -- the process of writing; the research and joys of discovery buried deep within layers of letters, chronicling my thoughts through characters and reflections to maybe help those who come behind. To share them with like minded individuals, learn something, possibly; find some answers to my own personal enigmas, perhaps. Those momentary grasps on the truth that come maybe a handful of times in a fully lived life, maybe but whatever the case, it was always about the writing. It always was, I was just too chickenshit to embrace it. To get as much of it all down and winnow through the byzantine algorithm that is life -- that moment of clarity evidenced things that I knew already. I'd known it since I was a kid but hell, sometimes selective ignorace is bliss. I could not look away from the future of realization any longer.”
And that’s what I’ve become; at least it’s what I strive for in my writing. To bear some absolute truth and find answers to personal enigmas. He brought out the best in me. When I felt my writing was sub-par I took it up a notch, I soaked up any and all inspiration from CeeP without ripping him off. At least I tried, yo.
He wrote a piece that centered on my behavior at a party in the Hollywood Hills that gave birth to a back and forth on race. You can read it here: Race Card Poker in the Hollywood Hills He called me out on shit if only to stimulate and have me engage in self evaluation. Am I living the truths I believe? Am I a hypocrite? What makes me happy? Who, what, where, why and the other why? Maybe he just wanted me to write.
CeeP had a huge presence on the internet. Google his name and you will find hundreds, I’m not kidding, hundreds of quotes dedicated to his memory. From Richmond to Atlanta to New York City to Los Angeles to France to Sweden and on and on. CeeP had no idea of what he meant to me, despite the time we’d been out of each other’s lives he’s always been there. Right here, right between these letters formed words his inspiration stands tall and like a rock, as he did. I feel blessed and honored to have known the man in the flesh and in this blossoming media we call the internet, no matter how short a period of time it was.
I’m not sure how long his blog, The Chronicles of Ridicule, will be up on the internet. I hope that it’s there forever. I hope I can remember him as an old man, read him and cry once more. Let’s hope the internet gives him the immortality he deserves. He’s probably somewhere in the afterlife in a pub with an empty shot glass to his left, a frothy mug in front of him and a lady in his sights.
“Remember: get into the living of this life, get involved and don't forget to write it all down somewhere.” – Christopher Alonzo Pryor
Christopher Alonzo Pryor no longer walks this earth and this piece falls short of a fitting tribute. Bob Marley’s words? Well that’s another story.
“I say fly away home to Zion , fly away home
One bright morning when my work is over,
Man will fly away home.”
See you in Zion hermano.
Labels: CeeP
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
20 Years...
Friday
I took Friday off. My mom has escaped the 909 and found green pastures in the city we called home for about 10 years. It’s where my appreciation for girls formed by way of Jessica’s mad teather ball skills, Wendy’s cute but emotionless expressions, Veronica’s adult like sexuality, Magaly’s Arabic and totally inappropriate for a 5th grader Halloween costume and Deanna’s aggressive “do you want to me my boyfriend?” approach. What’s greater, I fell in love with baseball and the Dodgers.
After several attempts at getting a rent free moving truck we opted to postpone driving the 35+ miles and not use my trusty but limited Chevy S-10 as an actual moving truck. I figured I’d bite the bullet on Saturday and rent a U-Haul. At least I’d have a Bud Light drinking moving crew to help while providing Cantinflas comical value. We’d wake up early, bust ass like the Mexicans we are and make it to Dodger Stadium in time to pound two Arrogant Bastard Ales and catch the 1st inning. What, didn’t you know the Dodgers are in the post-season? Pssshhh!
Saturday
A smashed thumb, a sweaty t-shirt, a 20 case of Bud Light and five hours later, mission accomplished. We jet set from Fontucky to West Covina to Baldwin Park to El Monte to Highland Park like the soul rich concrete jungle Angelenos we are, ate, showered and rolled out to the Ravine.
There was an electricity and atmosphere even on our way into the parking lot. Dog eat dog L.A. driving gave way to cat eat cat. Fathoms of sea couldn’t jump into the ocean of blue that is Dodger Stadium fast enough. 10 year olds from 1988 reemerged and hurried up and down the hills of Chavez with chicas/wives/lovers in tow. From the moment we got to our Loge 146, Row N, Seats 1 & 2 we dialed in to every pitch as if it were the last. We, meaning each and every inhabitant of Dodger Stadium that wasn’t working the concessions and even some that were. Without giving a play by play, there were highs and highers that caused the usually calm and collected narrator to lose all sense of self the way Disneyland makes 8-year olds go apeshit. When Jonathon Broxton threw that final pitch and Alfonso Soriano nearly checked his swing Dodger Stadium went nuts. Strangers hugged strangers, old women high-fived teenagers, gypsy’s rejoiced, etc. etc. etc. The Dodgers swept the Cubs.
8 wins to go
Here’s the funny part of the story. The Dodgers merely won a Division Series; they haven’t even made it to the World Series. Big woot right? Well, they accomplished something that hadn’t been accomplished around here in 20 years, 20 long frustrating years. To give you some perspective, Reagan was president and on his way the fuck out and into the twilight of his life that included dying in a soot of his own shit while having no idea who the person in front of him was. If karma plays out as it should, I hope George W. Bush and the Dodgers find the same fate. Joe Torre said it best, “We have 8 more wins to go.”
Sunday
All was back to normal on Sunday, I watched football, Saturday night’s TiVo’d MMA event and some baseball. The chica and I ended the night with the usual five minute drive to The York for a grilled cheese and a Craftsman OctoberFest brew and back home to veg before the thought of Monday morning crept in and sleep kicked in. All in all the curtains came down on a great weekend.
The National League Championship series begins on Thursday and like every Dodgers fan, I pray for the best but expect the worse. The magic of Saturday night aside I’m still realistic, more so a skeptic but I’d be lying through my teeth if I wasn’t prematurely dreaming of a World Series victory. 8 wins away. It doesn’t seem like much but it’s what separates today from 20 years. Let’s hope Kirk Gibson continues to live through that James Loney grand slam in Chicago. Let’s hope Russell Martin has a Mike Scioscia moment. Let’s hope Chad Billingsley sits alongside Orel Hershiser in the palate of Dodger history.
Let’s hope a glossy eyed kid loses his voice again.
Labels: baseball, Dodgers, Los Angeles
Friday, October 3, 2008
L.A. Dodgers
In case you're living under a rock somewhere, the Dodgers are 1 win away from making it to the National League Championship Series. The last time they were in this position I was 10 years old, so yea it's kind of a big deal. I posted this little piece in this sport forum I read/write called the sporthinkery. Just thought I'd post it here too. Enjoy...
I can't believe we're still stuck on politics and music while the baseball play-offs, er division series are in full swing. Maybe you're like me and feel weird about the Rays being there and not the Yankees. Say what you will about the Yanks, but I love watching them in the post season. Sure, the Sox are the late 90's version of the Yankees but it's no fun watching that Manny-less team. I'll take an annoying Paul O'Neil over fat ass Ortiz, I'll take Keith Olbermann's mom aiming Chuck Knoblauch over Dustin Pedroia any day of the week. You'll rarely hear this from a Dodgers fan but I miss the Yanks.
Expectations are low. If you get a chance, check out www.dodgerblues.com. Without the pathetic banter of Cubs fans of today and Red Sox fans of pre-2004 this guy captures the essence of being a Dodgers fan. We're realistic, crass, cynical, we love our team but we never ever take it too serious. Why, because it's baseball. Plus, we live in (in my opinion) the Rome of our time, Los Angeles. The Dodgers and Lakers are a part of the collective of our Angeleno identity not the be all end all of our existence. While there is something romantic and beautiful with such blind devotion, it's juvenile and I prefer to take the common sense approach. Hey, if its the bottom of the 8th inning, the Dodgers are down by 6 runs and I have a couple of girls lined up to meet my friends and me at the 35er in Pasadena you think I'm going to waste fun time watching my favorite team go down 1,2,3 in the 8th then 1...2...3 in the 9th? I'll play the odds and try my luck at the 35er in another kind of game. Granted, I live with my girl now and no longer partake in such debauchery but years ago? Forget about it.
Having said that, it's been a delight watching the Dodgers destroy the Cubs. The last time I felt this kind of jubilation I was 10 years old and the baddest lefty in Baldwin Park. My dad was my hero (still is actually) and my biggest worries revolved around getting the flat tire on my BMX Tracker fixed, doing my fractions homework, finishing my chores with enough sunlight left to play hours of "tackle the man with the football" and setting up boxing matches between my little sisters. Some things never change.
I really don't know how far the Dodgers will go. My heart tells me this team could be the one to re-write the history of sketchy 1988 replays, they've already busted the ghosts of Jose Lima that have haunted me for years. But I have my reservations. This Cubs team is not dead, they're one 3 run blast from it but their heart beat is very much alive. 27 outs alive. I remain cautiously optimistic.
Labels: Dodgers
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