Signs

On a side street in Cambria.
Ever wonder where it stops?

The city's largest cemetery.
Hmm...



Don't believe me?
Look at this:

Now that's nice. Things are clarified.
Except there are no bridges on Bridge Street.



Okay let's move on.
It's a long and dusty road:

Where does it lead?




Hold on, there's another sign:

And wouldn't it be nice if life had signs like this?
You've got 500 days, 5 months, or even 5 minutes.
A little warning would be appreciated...



But then, suddenly, there you are:

Count it. Twice reminded that this is a cemetery. What else could it be, an exposition of finely polished granite?


But let's get serious. This is a place for dead people.
And we must respect their transitions.
Still there's hope: (look at the size of that mailbox!)

Makes me happy to know friends and relatives can still get in touch, albeit snail mail.
And there must be one Hell-uva-party after 4:00 pm.
And please don't intrude upon us.



But let's get serious.

Besides tombstones, there are drawers.
And in one of these my ashes will reside
With Deb's.
She might be stuck with me for a while.

In fact, you will be able to find us in the third vault over, second row down, fourth over...
I think...
or is the the fifth?

Oh heck, just surprise me!
Life and death always do.

But I'm certain about what will be engraved on our little copper sign:

                    At the end, nothing remains but love

Sticks and Stones

Yesterday was a good day for stones

But not so good for bones

 

 

Still standing despite the sticks (and the ticks).

Hmmm.
So you found me.
Just by logging into my site, I have found YOU.

Hope you have friendly intentions.

San Simeon, Bored Meeting 8/8/14:

Car Shopping, Homesteading, Poo, and ESP

 

The high point of the District Board meeting occurred at 6:04:

The Pledge of Allegiance.

 After that things pretty much went down hill.
 

 With some notable exceptions:

Our sheriff’s liaison delivered a fascinating report about petty thefts, suspicious characters and sad assaults on grandmothers.

 But he also introduced the concept of “car shopping”.  Officers have interviewed various malefactors in our community and learned that our local bad actors like to cruise through neighborhoods and “try” car door handles. If they’re locked, move on. If open, however, it’s time for “CAR SHOPPING”: selecting various items like purses and keys, the discounted items of the day. These “purchases” lead to other crimes such as identity theft, changing locks, and loss of a stale candy bar.

He also mentioned something I will refer to as “homesteading”: the tendency of our transient population to identify empty residential units, timeshares, vacation rentals and decide set up camp there for several days. Again, locking all doors was recommended as the first line defense.

Another highpoint in the Board meeting was the excellent report by our district operations staff member who assured us that sewer, water and pothole abatement were all proceeding quite well. Good report, quick and to the point.

Then things really started to go down the toilet…

One resident was concerned about the high levels of sewer aroma between the hours of 3 and 7 am.

Wow, I thought, if it awakes her wake up during hours that I would normally be stone cold asleep, things must’ve gotten mustier.

In response, it was pointed out that the opening of Highway 1 also means we’ve entered a peak “poo” period. A former district employee also mentioned that Hearst Castle saves their shipments so that we receive an 8 am“surge”.  Sure glad I learned that.

 Then I glanced over a district disbursement for work done along Avonne. An avenue I frequently walk. Apparently there was a perceived emergency and the district was billed $11,000 plus bill for some leaky and corroded pipes. Thank God my plumber works at a cheaper rate.

But that’s what you get when you call on a Sunday.

 But wait, it got better with item #7:

Open public discussion was allowed on item #8, a CLOSED door Board meeting that would not take place until after the conclusion of this meeting.

 I was astounded at the board’s faith in our psychic awareness!

Not only could we foresee any issue discussed behind the doors of a closed meeting (precognition), but we also possessed sufficient paranormal acumen to analyze the ongoing events of this remote session (clairvoyance). I tried to question the sanity of this agenda item, but the lawyer explained away my mystification.

Still, I’m mystified.

But then I’ve really never understood why local politicians make critical decisions behind closed doors. Perhaps our local representatives imagine themselves members of a secret club. I enjoyed doing that when I was a kid.

My memory of all these events is sketchy and incomplete. I suspect psychic MIB (Men In Black) have erased whole parts of the proceedings.

But in a week or two, you should be able to visit our district office and borrow the video of this meeting. Decide for yourself how much of my narrative is verifiable—or mere hallucination.

 The truth is out there…

 

SSS?

SSS?

I was scrolling through this Nextdoor.com app and was amazed at all the menu options available after you enter your zip code and sign up.

You can stay in touch with immediate neighbors, keep track of local government, learn about critter threats, and choose to address your own public concerns.

Besides that you can find (or recommend) a plumber, fencer, or insurance agent, locate a lost dog or get rid of an ugly credenza.

The San Simeon community is so underrepresented by nearby news agencies, we could even consider it our local newspaper: The San Simeon Sentinel, SSS for short!

     ("Sentinel"  NOUN, definition: a soldier or guard whose job is to stand and keep watch)

We need to watch out for each other.

And you know what else we need?  A comics section.
Anybody out there have some ability to draw cartoons?

At the Gates

Grey waves lap against a dark sky.

I could die at any moment.
Heart attack, infected toenail, bladder explosion.

What if that whole St. Peter thing is real?

"So St. Pete, how's it hanging?"
He regards me with heavenly murder.
"Hey--my lips didn't move--no fair reading my mind!"

I suspect this interview has taken a bad turn.

"So we're cool, right?"

I saunter to the pearly gates a little nervous but confidently reach for the latch.

"THUNK" and all the planets in every known universe bang against each other.

And I'm back in front of his ledger.

"Shit, I think my ears are bleeding!"

"JOHN ROBERT RICHARDSON" (You know you're fucked when your hear a middle name through bloody ears)

"Yes, your honorable Pete?"
(Down on my knees now and everything hurts)

"There are some problems here," he says.
An eternal silence follows.

Think fast, Johnny.
"Yeah, well if it's about that internet thing, I'm way over that and very much "ME TOO".  Power to the blessed double X!

He shakes ancient dandruff filled locks.

"No.
 That's not it."

(Any time now Rod Serling will tell me that I've "entered a dimension not of time and space...." and realize I've dozed during "Twilight Zone."

But no, oh no.

 My injured ears are assaulted by a resounding question:
"Do you know how many times you said "Goddammit"?

"Uhmm... I don't know, maybe a couple of thousand?
He shakes his head, unleashing celestial dandruff.

"And how many times did you say 'Jesus Christ'?"

"Hey, give a little credit here. I did a little door-to-door with Pastor Phil. Not every time was in vain, you know?"

"That accounts for 23 our of 11, 051."

(Jesus, this guy's a bean counter!)

"And how often did you proclaim 'God is Dead'?"

"Holy Fuck, shit, uh, I mean darn, only a few times..."
I pause for a Yoga breath and explain.
"Look, I took a class on existentialism. I needed the units to graduate and just wanted to fit in."

Eons pass. No response.
Looking up at nasal hairs unhindered by the passage of eternity, I realize something.
This was bullshit, pure and simple.

"Hey you know what St. Peter breath?
Fuck you and the cross you rode in on!
I'm out of here."

"YES, YOU ARE."

Another Name Drop: Call Me Mr.

January 11th, 2018

I should stop watching news out of Santa Barbara, CA.

It's tragic what happened to those folks and stirs up my memories.

Tonight a woman named Theresa T.  was interviewed.
Three million dollar plus homes destroyed by canyon flooding... she was predictably distraught, lost everything, looked to be 55, and I recognized her.

Back to 1976

I was an incredibly cool student teacher at San Marcos High School. My master teacher was Mrs. Measley. This was my alma mater. Five years before she had been my most inspirational teacher, never measly with praise nor hesitant to point out mistakes in standard English usage.

I was, I thought in '76, at the top of my game. Teaching the siblings of movie stars. The M's the T's, the Bottoms, the tops--and related to an upcoming action star, Michael R.

We had just read Ambrose Bierce's "Occurrence at Owl Creek Ridge" and watched the French subtitled video I had borrowed from the County Educational Center (just to make sure we were on the same page).

There had been a great discussion the day before...
"John, don't you think Truffaut's film, messed with, uh, I mean changed Bierce's ending?"

(Everybody called me "John"  back then.  I was not their superior--just older by ten years and had already advised Mrs. Measley of my fervent beliefs at the time).

"Well, I don't know, Terry. What do you think?"

Today the discussions were over, essays now due.

"Would everyone please pass their essays forward?"

Mrs. Measley smiled from the back of the room and gently cleared her throat.

"Excuse me, I would like everyone to pass up his essay."
(Whoah, that's right, "everyone" is a singular collective pronoun noun and can not be paired with a plural pronoun like "their")

Mrs. Measly nodded and returned to her paper work.

I was collecting essays these essays when Terry came up behind me.
Mrs. Measly was heading out to the break room.

"John, I don't understand."
I turned to face my student and equal.
"Understand what, Terry?"
"Well, John, you and I are friends, right?"
"Absolutely, Terry. Why do you ask?"
"Well, I'm working really hard in your class. And my midterm report says I'm getting a "B".
But I really need an "A" in this class, John."

When that semester was over I forever became MR. Richardson.

And many years later, retired and doing a long term substitute assignment I was asked a not uncommon question,
"Mr. Richardson, dude, what's your first name?"
I looked dead level into that student's eyes and gave my usual response, "MISTER...
want me to spell that for you?"

"So everyone pass up his--or her--essays."
Time and language change, as does usage and appropriateness.

But back in '76 I would never dreamt of calling that warm and inspiring Master Teacher--unfortunately surnamed MEASLEY--by her actual first name.

I looked it up in an old a yearbook recently. It was "Francine".

God Bless you, Mrs. Measley

Oprah Name Dropping Compromised Confession

Summer of 1969
My father wasn't just a bricklayer.

He was a MASON.

Sure, he could lay bricks.
He could also do classic stonework and other fancy stuff which explains why we were in Montecito, and I got to be his summer "tender" while building a wall for what would eventually become Oprah's place.

And he later sneaked me in to what would eventually become Michael Jackson's Neverland.

But that's a different story.

This is a story about guilt.
Unconfessed guilt.

"Need more C'ment, Johnny."'
It's a mile to the 101 freeway, five more to our Goleta landscape yard.
But who's counting? Just happy to get away from his incessant demands for block and mud.

Dad was not in a good mood anyway, muttering how his work would be smeared over with "Castillian" white wash.

I immediately smashed the door of my father's one year old truck into a landscape boulder.
It was loud.
But he didn't come out to investigate.

And I had the 45 minutes round trip to figure out how I would handle the situation.
Denial.
Upon returning, I carried both bags (each 93 lbs of Riverside Cement--remember I was 17) and added sand and water in proper proportions.

My father thanked me and the job was done two hours later, joints cleaned, and the mixer attached to a damaged truck.
But I said nothing about the accident.

We walked out to the exclusive Montecito drive and my father saw the huge dent.

"Look at that, Johnny!"
"What?"
"Somebody must've backed into my truck and just driven away."

And I lied, I lied to my father and lied with silence.

Then he shrugged.
"Damned insurance company will have a field day."

My father wasn't a stupid man nor did he ignore the obvious.
He always let me punish myself.
Why couldn't he just beat me like other fathers did?

Then there was the time I totaled the family car returning from my girlfriend's house...

Me and the Gub'ment

She dropped an envelope on the table.
"You need to respond to this."
A letter from the government, Social Security and Medicare to be exact.


Now what?

Apparently the drop-off billing site designated by my wife and I six or seven years ago (daughter's Vail, Arizona address) was a mismatch with recent medical bills from our coastal address.
Imagine that.

Dire instructions on the envelope: Call 1-800-772-1213
Am I the only one who hasn't figured out that the initial (1) is unnecessary...
Or had I flunked some kind of adherence-to-authority terrorist test?

So I called right away.
The first 15 seconds thanked me for calling Social Security and ensured me that my call was valued.
The next 10 minutes explained in painful depths the inner workings of this agency, followed by another half hour detailing how recent percentage changes would affect a monthly income that I am not qualified to receive.

Then things got scary, "Those who give incorrect statements, attempt to defraud or sexually abuse the Social Security Administration will be subject to punishments such as, but not limited to, death, dismemberment and disbarment from all film societies."

Well, that last part got my attention.

Scarier still: "Because of high volume calling, your wait time is approximately 57 minutes."
This statement was followed by 139 minutes of very sad Asian Musac, repeating at 25 second intervals.


   *                                       *                                      *

My HotPocket was in the microwave when a random human voice interrupted the second snack of a long afternoon.

"Is this John Richardson?"

"Yes, it is," I said and deftly burned my fingers on a nuked pastry.

"Well first of all we apologize for the wait time--"

"No worries," I said, "got a a bad cold, nothing else to do, been reading a book."

"Yes, but we want you to know there are several ways to improve your access to Social Security."

"Okay," I said amiably.

"First, you chose a terrible time to call from your California time zone.  If you had just waited until our eastern and midwestern call centers had closed due to local service times..."

(I'm listening to him in Tucson Arizona, CMT, and he's pee-pee spanking me because of a 559 cell area code--but for all he knew I could be in Waco Texas hanging out with my friends Chip and Joanna)

"Furthermore you could also have contacted us on the internet (he pronounced this last word carefully in case I was more familiar with smoke signals and telegraphs).

"Excuse me," I interrupted, "but it says right here on the envelope I was to contact you by phone, no mention of that fancy-shmancy thing you call the in-ter-net.  And when the government comes knocking on your door, don't you reckon it's best to follow the letter of their desires?'

"Well, yes, sir in most cases. But if you had just gone online with Social Security and answered a few extra security questions you could have created an account--"

"Extra security questions?  You mean something beyond those I answered to reach you--my name, first last and middle, complete social security number, address I was born and begat in, name of my favorite long dead pet, mother's maiden name and the exact year she ceased to believe in Santy Clause--"

"These account questions, sir, would go beyond that level and contact credit organizations with whom you affiliate--"

"Just a minute here, darlin',
I've heard it's never a good idea to stir up those credit folks. They might just DOWN-adjust your ratings."

"That's true in the case of credit inquiries but would not be applicable in your case--"

"Hold on now you little side-winder!
I ponied up nearly two hours trying to fix this difference between you and me and kindly gave you kit and caboodle at the very start of my call--complete with that zip-thingy extension.
Maybe we should just stop jawin' so you can move on to other folks who need help?"

"Actually, sir, we're done here."

"Got that right, Sonny."