July 2007 - Posts

memories of bob
Tuesday, July 31, 2007 11:13 PM


HOW WAS BOB DYLAN, YOU ASK?

Well...

Before I discuss the actual concert part of the evening, allow me to share some of the details that went into making the whole thing one deliciously memorable experience. Memorable in a completely different way than seeing Dylan for the 1st time 2 summers ago with Salt Spring Grace in Victoria, when Dylan's bass player, Tony Garnier, left us 2nd row tickets and a pair of backstage passes.

This time around our seats weren't quite as good. In fact, we were in row Z—as in Zed, as in Zimmerman. Row Z was, you guessed it, in the very last row of seats at the Costa Mesa Ampitheater.

But, hey, the tickets were free. My brother's ex-wife, Dana, bought the tickets for me and my nephew, Josh. But Josh thought the show was on Wednesday and had committed to a trip to San Francisco with his church youth group on Thursday.

So I got to attend my 1st Dylan concert with my girlfriend, Tamale, who's easily the biggest Dylan fan I've ever known. Consequently, this version of seeing Bob D. was vastly different than it would've been had I gone with my 16-year-old nephew. Not necessarily better. Just different.

Our maiden voyage to Bobville got off to a rocky start. By the time we got in Tamale's Honda SUV it was 4:20 and I-15 was at a near standstill. Not good seeing as how the concert started at 7:00 and we were a good 75 miles of rush hour freeway travel away. Unsure of the quickest route, I called Todd, my salesman brother-in-law, for some navigational wisdom.

"Dude, we just got on the freeway and it's not moving," I told him, forgetting that as of July 1 it was against the law to talk on your cell phone while driving. "What's the quickest route to the Costa Mesa Ampitheater?"

Brother Todd told me what I already knew: the 15 north to the 91 west to the 55 south was my path of least resistance.

"You should be alright. The traffic should clear up after Murietta. But if it doesn't...are you driving?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Well, if you get stuck in traffic, my best advice for you is...get a blowjob."

Fortunately—or unfortunately—the traffic did clear up after Murietta and we stayed in the flow nearly all the way to Costa Mesa. We even had time to stop for gas, where we picked up a pair of Haagen Dazs ice cream bars and enjoyed a slow roll through the gas station car wash. Hey, I'm not too old to thoroughly love cruising through a car wash while eating ice cream.

We arrived at the Orange County Fairgrounds with time to spare, so we indulged in some herbal pre-concert refreshments. Then we picked up our tickets from Will Call without a hitch, despite the fact that my wallet—with my credit card and ID—was lost (or stolen) during last month's trip to San Onofre.

Of course, by now we were hungry. So we strolled through the Fairgrounds, looking for the perfect food options while admiring the various fair and concert goers who were working the purple in their fashion choices. ("Working the purple" has become code for "Working The Secret," a catchphrase hatched during my 13-day road trip to NorCal and Iowa with my friend Eddie Elliott back in May.)

After seeing several people happily chomping on fresh corn on the cob, Tamale and I found the booth selling the stuff. After some "corny" banter with the friendly Hispanic guys riffing on the corn theme behind the counter, we took our hot buttered corn to a nearby table for some salt. It was there that Tamale pointed out another one of those tasty ironies that forever flow in my life.

Sitting next to the salt was a container of something called "Bob's Special Blend." The bottom of the fat bottle read: "13 Spices"

What are the odds?

We're here to see the biggest Bob of them all. A Bob who sings one of my favorite rock 'n roll lines in "It's All Over Now Baby Blue"—

Take what you have gathered from coincidence...

Some guy named Bob sold corn every year at this fair. And every year he brought cases of his "special blend" to sell for $15 bucks a pop to the fairgoers who couldn't get enough of the stuff.

If the spicy seasoning had sucked, the magic of the moment would've been diluted. But Bob's special blend of 13—yes 13—spices was damn tasty.

Once I'd polished off the greatest hot ear of corn I'd ever eaten, we stopped at a lemonade and corn dog stand for the evening's main course. Our order of 2 corn dogs and 2 lemonades came to exactly...$13.00.

Take what you have gathered from coincidence...

In my haste to dive into my mustard drenched dog I lost control of the thing and watched as the deep fried deliciousness fell to the ground in seeming slo-motion. Within seconds several of my fellow corn dog lovers, who saw the whole thing go down, spoke up like a Greek chorus of sympathy.

"Awww. You gotta eat that. It's the 5 second rule."

"Go on. Pick it up. 10 second rule."

These people would not be satisfied until I picked up my fallen corn dog and began eating the thing. If no one had been around, my 1st impulse would've been to pick the corn dog up and dig in. But in mixed company, surrounded by strangers, my heart sank when the dog fell.

Fuuuck, I thought to myself. I'm gonna have to shell out another $3.50 for a new dog.

But these people were having none of this foolishness.

"C'mon! Hurry up and pick the thing up. There's still time."

They would not let it go. These strangers seemed genuinely concerned about me and my damaged dinner. So much for Orange County self-absorption and snobbishness.

So I picked the corn dog up. Smothered any sketchy public pathway debris with even more mustard. Then devoured the tasty corn dog. Guilt free. My 2nd delicous corn product of the evening.

.
..
...

Oh, yeah. We saw Bob Dylan in concert, too.

He opened the show with a rousing rendition of "Rainy Day Women," one of the few Dylan songs I've grown tired of hearing. But not on this night. On this night, especially with Bob D. jamming on the electric guitar, the song was especially gratifying.

But I would not feel so aloooooone. Everybody must get stoned...

Our back row seats were made more than bearable by several factors:

—Dylan playing guitar, something he never did once when I saw him in Canada.

—my friend Jim's pair of binoculars, which gave us a more than decent view of badass Bob in all his iconic glory.

—a perfect summer night (not too hot) with the perfect Bob D. companion. (Tamale wore her favorite Bob D. concert shirt, a dark gray long-sleeve souvenir she bought at her last Dylan show in New Jersey.)

—Bob D. workin' the purple himself, decked out in a purple scarf to match his purple sequin guitar strap. Work it, Bob!

—more corn products, this round a bag of delicious kettle korn that was the perfect concert dessert.

Of course, many of the songs were hard to decipher and identify. But anyone who's seen Dylan in concert knows this is the deal going in. The guy's voice sounded especially gravelly, his vocals reduced to a snarling growl during many of the songs. I guess this is what happens when you smoke and sing your balls off for the better part of 45 years.

Like many fans, I wish Dylan would give us more of what we want—faithful renditions of the songs we know and love. But that's a minor quibble. Especially when the re-worked versions of "Rainy Day Women" and "Blowin' In the Wind" feel like improvements on the originals. (I didn't especially care for the new versions of "Tangled Up In Blue" and "Lay Lady Lay," a tune that brought me to tears when I heard him sing it in Canada.)

That's why the songs from his last album, the critically acclaimed Modern Times, were so satisfying. They sounded as close to the recorded versions as you're ever gonna get at a Dylan concert.

Seeing the old master shake his skinny shoulders and get happy feet at the piano made me smile. You can't help but think: I'm watching a living legend. A slice of history.

A slice of history that won't be around forever.

"My god," I told Tamale as I peered through the binoculars, "he looks like Mr. Burns from The Simpsons."

Savor the man while he's still with us. Thank god he still likes to tour like he's 25. Even if he is sounding more like Tom Waits with each passing year.

The following day Tamale and I went to the 1st screening of The Simpsons movie in Los Feliz, a beautiful follow-up to a near perfect 24 hours. While across the street, a billboard—I kid you not—touted the sweet, succulent joys of fresh corn.

Take what you have gathered from coincidence...

And when I saw Montgomery Burns on the big screen, my face lit up with a big Bob Dylan inspired smile.

by BOB13 | 3 comment(s)
Filed under:
bob on the brain
Thursday, July 26, 2007 2:42 PM


UNLIKE MY LAST POST, WHICH APPARENTLY WAS TOO LONG AND RAMBLING for some people's taste, this one's gonna be short and sweet. Tamale, looking mighty fine as she struggles to try on a wetsuit in Catalina last weekend, and I are getting ready to go see Bob Dylan tonight at the Orange County Fairgrounds in Costa Mesa.

This is a monumental experience in the life of this relationship. It's our first Bob D. concert together. And seeing as how Tamale is THE biggest Dylan fan I've ever known, I'm trying to minimize my expectations lest the whole thing doesn't live up to the hype. We'll report back tomorrow on how things went.

In the meantime, you can check out the list of my 13 favorite Dylan songs here. If you feel like joining the fray, weigh in with your THREE favorite Dylan songs. (Unless you're in hyper-procrastination mode and feel like listing your top 13.)

And for all of you who participated in the amusing ebb and flow of comments after my last post, thanks for chiming in. Your feedback was excellent food for thought. Makes me wonder what would've happened if I'd had a comments option during the heyday of TheGreatestYearOfMyLife.com.

Hasta manana, mi amigos!

by BOB13 | 4 comment(s)
Filed under:
am i insane?
Sunday, July 15, 2007 9:33 AM


LAST WEEK I CAME UP WITH WHAT, AT THE TIME, I THOUGHT WAS A GENIUS idea. An idea so brilliant that it's sure to be met with scorn and ridicule. I'd be curious to hear what you think.

First, a little background is in order...

Last week while Team Dewey was in Utah for Hannah's softball tournament, Tamale came down to Temecula for a work meeting. Considering the fact that we live over 100 miles from each other and I haven't had a functioning vehicle since early February, we've been able to see each other quite a bit. And it's been amazing.

Yes, I am in love. And last week we had a couple of those nights where the fun is so abundant and the revelations so fresh, you can't help but fall deeper in love. It started with the 1st night Tamale was here.

We went out for a late dinner. Late for Temecula, anyway. We walked onto the outdoor patio at Texas Lil's in Old Town just after 9:00 expecting to get a meal. Instead, the waitress—dressed in a short denim skirt and cowboy boots—told us the kitchen was closed. But we didn't get this information until after she informed me that the pink lemonade I wanted to order wasn't that crappy powdered variety.

"It's good," she assured me after I told her that I'm very particular about my lemonade. I prefer mine fresh-squeezed. And I despise the Country Time variety.

But she was right. The lemonade was good. And she didn't even charge me for it when we told her we needed to go find some food. So my styrofoam cup full of pink lemonade made the trip to the next restaurant, a nearby strip mall cantina I'd never heard of. The lemonade was so good that I even took it home with me and put it in the fridge when I didn't finish all of it at dinner. (A water and the mai tai Tamale ordered sated my thirst.)

I was glad I'd brought that cup of lemonade home the next day. Especially after I finished doing Power 90 that morning. (Yes, we're back on THAT program.)

No half cup of lemonade ever tasted better.

That night with Tamale was beautiful. Between some sweaty summer sexual shenanigans—soooooo nice—we shared stories about growing up. She looked through a stack of my b&w photos from my Barfly Odyssey of '97 and I told her about some of the hitchhikers I picked up at the end of my trip.

Then I went downstairs to get some water.

I was in the kitchen when my brilliant brainstorm hit.

Instead of getting a new plastic cup, I noticed the empty styrofoam cup that had provided me with such happiness earlier in the day when I gulped down that delicious pink lemonade. I had fond memories of that styrofoam cup. So I decided to use it to hold my water tonight. I had an odd sense of gratitude and good feelings about that cup.

Then I remembered this link that I shared with my 13 blog readers a couple weeks ago. I recalled the chilling story of how the hero in the article had sailed into a quagmire of old plastic on his way back to SoCal from Hawaii. According to the article, this stretch of the Pacific had become an ocean landfill twice the size of Texas.

I've driven through Texas more than a few times. I know how massive this space is. To think that the Pacific Ocean has an area twice the size of Tamale's home state full of plastic debris is utterly frightening.

What's even more scary though is the fact that, according to the article, every ocean in the world has a similar, equally as large, swath of plastic trash.

So in the midst of of filling my styrofoam cup up with water, I thought to myself:

All these plastic cups and plastic water bottles I mindlessly use are only adding to this horrific problem.

And that's when I came up with what I thought was a brilliant idea. An idea that was sure to get people thinking I was more nuts than they already assumed I was. An idea I couldn't wait to share with Tamale.

When I got back upstairs with my styrofoam cup filled with ice water, I had a sly grin on my face that I couldn't supress. Tamale was coming out of the shower when I shared my news.

"I just had this craaaaaaaazy idea."

As always, she was eager to hear what I had to say.

"Remember that article I posted on my blog a couple weeks ago? The one about all that plastic in the ocean and about how every piece of plastic ever made still exists in some form on the planet."

"Right. It doesn't decompose for, what, thousands of years?"

"Exactly. I don't know if I've told you, but that article's been on my mind ever since. It's scary. Not only is every ocean on the planet becoming a giant landfill. But when the plastic does break down into smaller pieces it's getting into the food chain. We're breathing it into our lungs."

"Yeah, it's terrible," agreed Tamale.

"Frightening. A woman who's been reading my blog for the last few years wrote in and wondered what we can do about the problem. Well, I've just come up with something that we, as individuals, can do to help the problem."

"Really?" Molly said, her ears perking up as she hung up her wet towel and climbed back onto my bed. "And what's that?"

"Well," I said, "I've decided that I don't want to help perpetuate the excessive use of plastic cups and plastic water bottles. So I think that from now on, whenever I have something to drink I'm gonna use THIS styrofoam cup."

She looked at me like I was crazy.

"Hey, I have some fond feelings for this cup. Especially after gulping down the rest of that tasty lemonade this morning after I did Power 90. I figure if I use this styrofoam cup, I won't need to use other plastic cups and plastic bottles."

The look on Tamale's face was one of half-amusement mixed with bemused horror.

I soon found out that the girl has a long history of having issues with...styrofoam.

What?!

Evidently, her mom is a big recycler. Has been for years. Long before Al Gore made it cool. As a result, Tamale has had a strong aversion to styrofoam.

"This is perfect!" I gushed. "Don't you see? It's poetic justice. I've been dropped into your life to help you get over your styrofoam issues. Now I KNOW I've got to do this."

We laughed some more and Tamale wondered if I was really gonna go through with this. Could I really use this styrofoam cup for the rest of my life? Or at least until I forgot it somewhere?

"How would you travel with it? You're gonna have to make a case for it."

I hadn't thought through the logistics quite yet. The possibilities for this thing getting crushed at some point were something to consider.

"And what are you gonna do when you go to Jamba Juice? Have them put it in your cup? And how durable is styrofoam? Is it safe long-term to use styrofoam?"

All questions I'd yet to consider.

I soon realized, too, that we've got a wedding to attend next weekend in Catalina. Would I really be taking this damn thing to her friend's wedding, Tamale wondered? And did it have to be STYROFOAM?

I could see the bemused panic growing on Tamale's face.

"I think I NEED to take this cup to things like weddings and restaurants. To let people know about this issue."

"But styrofoam?" laughed Tamale. "Couldn't it be a wooden cup? Or a glass?"

"That's the point," I argued. "The styrofoam is part of the problem. It's already been made. I'm gonna use it so no more plastic cups have to be made on my behalf. Plus, I had the styrofoam cup in my hand when I came up with the idea. And I have a strong affinity for this cup, thanks to that tasty lemonade."

Tamale shook her head and laughed. Her inner struggle was obvious. The conscientous, life-long recycler was in a fierce battle with the girl who hates styrofoam as much as I despise onions.

"But do you have to bring it to the wedding?" she laughed, realizing that her new boyfriend might just be crazy enough to do it.

And I wondered out loud if this was gonna be the deal breaker that drove us apart.

So why'd you break up with him?

"It was his styrofoam cup. The styrofoam drove us apart."

Sounds like a Seinfeld episode.

.
..
...

Days later and I'm still using "Mr. Cup." The inside's a little beat up, thanks to the rush of ice cubes cascading down from the refrigerator ice dispenser. God knows how much styrofoam I've absorbed into my system these last several days. (Note to self: Research the shelf life and side effects of styrofoam.)

Tamale even seems to be more accepting of the idea, a fact she made clear the other day on the phone.

"The reason I'm not absolutely adamently against it is because I can see how it has the potential to spark some interesting conversations."

I love this girl's open mind. Even if she does have some peculiar feelings about styrofoam. I've never met anyone who had styrofoam issues.

Ah, the ironies never cease.

"Look, people are overwhelmed by this idea that we're killing the planet," I told her that night. "The problem feels so huge that we don't even know where to begin to address the situation. It's like when your room or your car gets so dirty, you don't know where to begin with the clean up process. So you just blow it off. I'm giving people a concrete idea that they can use to help tackle this problem."

The following morning we went to lunch at the Swing Inn cafe in Old Town. When our waitress asked if we wanted anything to drink, I proudly stuck out Mr. Cup and said, "I'll take some water in this thing, if you don't mind."

When she looked at me funny, without thinking I responded: "One less dirty cup for you guys to wash."

Our waitress seemed only too happy to carry out my request. And she appeared completely satisfied with my logic.

Sometimes you just don't feel like getting into the Big Picture discussion.

So what do YOU think about this idea?

by BOB13 | 25 comment(s)
Filed under: , ,
independence day
Wednesday, July 04, 2007 1:13 PM



THERE WAS A TINY MOMENT LAST THURSDAY THAT EPITOMIZED JUST HOW my life has felt since my last pre-surf trip post.

The sun was out at San Onofre. Not a cloud in the sky. The surf was small, but plenty fun. The water was cool and refreshing. Not too cold, not too warm. I'd just caught a sweet chest high wave and rode it all the way to the shoreline, so I had a big ass smile plastered on my face as I began the paddle back out to the lineup.

That smile got even bigger when I saw my 10-year-old nephew Noah, Sister Jill's boy—who was, essentially, out surfing real waves for the 2nd time in his life—coming straight at me. Knees bent. Arms out for balance. Eyes wide and focused. Gliding effortlessly across the waist high wave.

"Yeah, dude!" I yell out to him as I continue paddling.

Before my excitement can sink I see a 2nd nephew, Brother Deke's only son Josh, surfing towards me on the new custom-made shortboard he got for his 16th birthday last week.

"Yeeeaaah!" I scream, the unabashedly proud uncle.

Once Josh is past me I resume my attention towards the outside set. That's when I notice that Noah's big sister, 12-year-old Hannah, is paddling back out 13 yards ahead of me. The softball studette had just caught a wave herself. On this, basically, her 1st day of real surfing.

That's when the bliss moment hit its apex.

All 4 of us—an uncle, a niece and 2 nephews—had just caught a wave. Everyone else—my Dad, Sister Julie, Sister Jeni, her husband Warren and another 10 nephews and nieces, plus my friend Carlos and Tamale—they were all up on the beach soaking up the sun, skipping rocks and hanging out. But the 4 of us who were in the water had all just experienced the sweet bliss of surfing San Onofre on a hot day.

For some of us, this was an old familiar friend. I'm 4 decades into this love affair with surfing. I've been coming to San Onofre for over 35 years.

But for Noah and Hannah—and even Josh, who's really just gotten into surfing in the last year or 2—this bliss had that new car smell. The exhiliration of a fresh discovery that feels like it's gonna stay with you a long, long time.

That Thursday at San Onofre was nothing like I'd ever experienced it. Never before had so many from the Next Generation been gathered in one place. There were 13 nephews and nieces hanging out with us for most of the day at the beach. Plus 1 brother, a brother-in-law, 2 sisters and our Dad. Sister Rona's girl, 20-year-old Sarah, stopped by for an hour on her way to the airport in San Diego. And Sister Jill's husband, Todd, showed up in the afternoon to take Hannah to softball practice, only to bring her back later that night, just in time for some fire time and smores.

Most of my 9 nephews surfed with me. Even Sister Julie caught a few waves. Among the nieces, only Hannah surfed. But Brother Deke's 7-year-old girl, Taylor, and her cousin Brooklyn, Julie's 7-year-old, insisted on me taking them out into the surf—albeit the stuff 13 yards from the shore—to catch some baby white water waves on their boogie boards. As did Sister Jeni's adorable 4-year-old, Jaxon, who jockeyed more than once for more air time in this year's surf video. And 5-year-old Jack-o, who was on his 1st camping trip, did some "surfing" on Brother Deke's longboard.

All in all, it was a beautiful couple days. Some of the kids seemed to fall in love with surfing. While I just fell in love with the idea of getting them—and their parents and grandparents—all together for a day or 2 at the beach.

Hopefully, it's the beginning of a beautiful tradition.


by BOB13 | 1 comment(s)
Filed under: ,