Unnecessary Necessities

We sat there on the patio of St. Arbuck's on the Pacific Garden Mall in downtown Santa Cruz, California enjoying a blissful fall morning that was low on stress and high on relaxation.

We typically find our way to Santa Cruz sometime in early October.

It's a homing instinct thing as much as anything else.

We--that is my beloved and myself--had our beginnings in Santa Cruz.

It was a two-bedroom apartment on Washington street just a couple of blocks from the Nickelodeon Theater (now called "The Nick") that we outfitted sparsely with bits and pieces of mismatched, used furniture and an overabundance of love.

Come December 18th we will have been "us" for thirty-eight years.

I glanced up from reading the San Jose Mercury News and allowed my gaze to fall upon my wife whose beauty can still stop my heart in its tracks, even after all these years.

She was drinking a mocha.

It is a drink she learned to enjoy at that selfsame St. Arbuck's two years previously.

"What?" she said lightly.

"Oh, nothing," said I. "I was just remembering the two of us sitting at that little Deli that used to be by the Del Mar Theater, what was it called--"

"The Del Marette?" she provided.

"Yes! We sat there after opening our first bank account at B of A."

She smiled at the memory, "We thought we were so grown-up."

"Well, we were. Married; our own apartment; bank account; dreams to dream; life to live."

Our eyes locked in a memory transference that encompassed all that we've experienced throughout our marriage...good times, bad times, tragic times, all streamed together in a few seconds.

"And here we are," I said.

She reached for my hand, "Here we are."

Our focus was broken by a woman's voice saying quite loudly, "You're a good boy, yes you are. Oh, you're just my big, beautiful boy."

Turning toward the sidewalk, which was about twenty feet from where we sat we saw a young woman, nicely dressed with stylish brown hair bending down and hugging a black Lab service dog while he returned her affection in typical doggie style by slathering her face with doggie kisses.

She raised up, her sightless eyes fixed, listening, as if awaiting a particular sound.

It was then that a young man of similar age approached from directly in front of her, his white cane extended, tap-tap-tapping the sidewalk in a delicate pattern.

He seemed to purposely run into her exclaiming in faux protest, "What's the matter? You blind or something?"

She threw back her head and laughed loudly, as did most of us gathered on the patio that fine morning.

"Oh, very funny," she replied. "But you're still buying the coffee."

Together they carefully made their way up the ramp leading to the entrance, their love brilliantly on display for all to see.

I dabbed at a tear that had managed to escape an ever-ready reservoir as my wife said lightly, "Let me guess, that brought a tear to your one good eye."

I nodded, laughing...she knows me so well.

She said, "So, what was there about that scene that touched you?"

"I think it was the way he loved her."

"How do you know how he loves her, we saw them for all of two minutes," she replied.

I smiled, "It was long enough."

Growing thoughtful she said, "I wonder if they'll be sitting here some future morning musing about their beginnings?"

"Laughing about his silly joke," I filled in. "And how it made everyone laugh."

Grinning broadly she said, "Wanna go look at the old apartment?"

"Let's."

And so we did.

We looked at all of our old stuff; drove all of our old routes; had lunch on the pier...just remembering.

Like we do every single time we go home.

You see, sometimes you cannot know where you are or where you're going until you remember where you've been.

AUTHOR: A fool who, not content with having bored those who have lived with him, insists on tormenting the generations to come. (Montesquieu) 

Ouch!!!

8-)

Check out the article about my new book, "The Voices In My Head" in today's Las Vegas REVIEW JOURNAL

TVIMH Cover

in the dark

so many things in the dark

so much pain in the dark

such shame in the dark

in the dark...

let there be light! 

Did I mention that my son is now a producer with Sony Records?

I didn't?

How could that have escaped my attention?

Are you sure, because that's certainly something I would've wanted everyone to know about.

Well, then...

My son is now a producer with Sony Records.

I love you, Sundance!

p0p

After four, long months of needless delays, "The Voices In My Head," co-written with the late Danny Gans, is off to the printers and we fully expect to have copies in our hands by October 10.

Our original plan had been to have the book in stores by the middle of June.

Sadly, that didn't happen for reasons too hurtful and complex to address in this forum.

Citing the proverbial "bottom line," suffice it to say that the delays did not come from our side or from the publisher.

I have given up so much for the sake of seeing this story in print, for all intents and purposes I am now numb to the process and fighting to find a reason to celebrate.

I hope you read this book, for it is a compelling story of one man's fight against debilitating pain and heartbreak, rising at last to the pinnacle of his profession...perhaps the best who ever lived.

I'm anxious for you to meet my friend, Danny Gans.

Check out this video of the group my son, Ryan, is producing.

I just read through the first round of galley proofs for The Voices In My Head.

Very good with few mistakes.

We're pushing for copies to be ready by October 10, which is the date of the annual Danny Gans Champion's Run for Life to benefit the Nevada Childhood Cancer Foundation.

If both parties (i.e. myself and the Gans estate) approve the galleys by Monday, it's highly possible.

This has been SUCH a battle since Danny's death, and now that it's nearing completion the whole aura of the surreal is returning quite strongly.

I still cannot totally accept the fact that he's gone.

A local gossip columnist (Tabloid Baby) asked me if I had to rewrite the book to address the allegations of Danny's addiction to prescription pain killers.

It's a question on the minds of many as we all struggle to fabricate an explanation as to why someone as healthy as Danny Gans died so suddenly at such a young age.

I politely told him that it was a story for someone else to write...it's not THIS story.

I'm proud of this book, as I was proud of my friend.

My one consolation is that he is now, for the first time in his adult life, pain free.