finger push ups and food history

Exercising every day is a good way to keep the body strong. Today, I want to work my fingers. Ok, and my noodle. So, though nothing comes to mind yet, other than the multitude of condiments I used to rotate and combine to flavor up the ramen noodles (back in college), I sit to write for an hour.
My good friend Dave is playing his piano here, and calling it homework. I should be so lucky. I'm
on the mission to make my play into my work. that is the dream of most artists and writers i guess. I read my mother's story today about going to school for the first time. It was fun. Her mom would put notes and poems in the bottom of her lunch bag every day. Fortune lunches! I think my mom did that for me and my siblings a few times too.

Thinking back to the foods we ate in school--and the coincidence of mentioning my noodle doctoring in college--it would seem that I have found a theme. At least for two paragraphs.

I have worked with food quite a bit, and never written down the whole list of places I have worked before. Should be a good exercise in memory. Granted, I only worked at some places for a few nights as a waiter. I would try out places at times to see what kind of money I could make--and if it wasn't good money, i was gone... so I might even forget a name or two.

Anyway, let me see...

At:
16-- Roy Rogers. fried chicken, biscuits, eggs
17-- college dining hall. prep. salads, jello, very basic etc.
two different nursing homes as dietary aide--niether of which had a name I recall right now.
18 bussed tables in a Polynesian restaurant until a knife fight broke out one night between the owners cousin and a dishwasher. decided that was enough of that...
20
busboy in Olive Tree restaurant in a tourist town. sometimes there would be like 600+ dinners served in a single night . That's a heck of a lot of plates and glasses. I still remember a certain angry waitress who was notorious for making other waitresses cry. She was pure vinegar. One night, in an unplanned move or a total slip on the floor, she sent a tray of dinners up in the air and fell. One plate landed on her back I think, and she had her white tux shirt covered in red sauce. Not a good look. I actually felt sorry for her that night. Prior to that I think I just about hated her. One of the bartenders there, known to his friends as "Ski", was a good friend to me. We got to playing pool every night after work and drinking allot of free Gran Marnier and Budweiser. It never ceased to amaze me, night after night, how my game would get really strong after the second beer. By the fourth or fifth however, my game would go down hill pretty quick. But i never, ever played as well sober as I did with a mild to medium buzz on. One time the staff of the restaurant had all planned a beach football game. We were drinking before the game. Maybe that wasn't such a good way to warm up. On the kickoff to start the game, Ski and I were both running to catch the kick off, and pretty oblivious to the fact we were both going to arrive at the same spot at the moment the ball came down. Our heads collided, and we both cracked 'em pretty good. I now have a scar under my left eyebrow, while he has one above his right eyebrow. We were pretty buzzed at the hospital as we got stitched up. One of those odd bonding experiences. Not my best football moment I guess. Well, I worked at the Olive Tree for two summers and through two fall seasons and one spring. There are more stories to that place...but not enough time to go into all of them.

Rosko's Grille. My friend Peter "Rosko" opened one of the all-time coolest local restaurant/pubs in the Salisbury area. I was lucky enough to get to design the logo for the restaurant which he used EVERYWHERE! It was a great time working there. I felt really lucky to have that opportunity.

Ocean City
The Shanty seafood. I bussed tables there in Salisbury. I didn't like that place too much.
Crab Alley Another seafood dive run by rednecks. Bussed there too. This place smelled awful. Not a job I stayed at for very long.
Nick Idoni's House of Ribs. Man people can eat allot of those things. Nick Idoni was a small man with a big attitude and a mean mouth. He turned up years later in a field. Some strange people owned restaurants on the Eastern Shore.
Tony's Pizza my first experience with pizza. I have had many since, and never found another genuine New York pizza master like Tony. You can see everything in the mix and it might seem the same--but something was better about it. I never figured out what Tony did better than anyone else. It might have been a combination of the kinds of flour he used with the heat of the oven--who knows? I bet he will never tell. He was probably a millionaire after so many years at the boardwalk in Ocean City. That window was always visited by smiling return customers.
Pizza...that reminds me.

Four Seasons in Yosemite
Ahwahnee Hotel
Rolling Road Country Club
The Wharfside
Eagles Nest Country Club
Rudy's 3000
PJ Crickets (or something like that)
Some restaurant out near Columbia. I helped them open. It had very little volume. It just was too far out there.
Russel's Ltd.

Park City

Giorgios
Gamekeeper's Grille (disgusting pig ran that place)
Wolf Mountain pub
Park City Resort- I just loaded food into a cage to go up the mountain via gondola, and it was a thankless job
Bankok Thai I liked the place and loved the food, but wanted more money so I moved. I later regretted that move.
The Mediterraneo--probably my favorite restaurant experience. I became a good cook at that restaurant after starting as a waiter. I loved the food there so muc
Pizza Hut was another place I worked for a while. I always liked their pizzas allot too
Chez Betty-snob food attitude, run by a drug addict and his way cooler chef brother

Ojai

Wheeler Hot Springs
Nora's
Grey Gables Retirement Community
Sam's Place--actor who thought he could bluff as a restauranteur--I worked about 70 hours a week for a few months there and almost lost my mind.
St. Joseph's Retirement Center
catering

Dollars and Sense

Though this might sound to some like some glib hippie dribble, and not seem even worthy of writing, I find myself pondering in my logical wandering of the standard devotion of our precious lifetimes to laboring. This wage enslavement, in a monetary system that yields less and less benefit per cent, according to an apparent plan by a Federal Reserve Bank which is alarmingly not run by our U.S. government, is not what freedom was ever meant to be about.

I find the many contradictions of the word freedom and its definitions in relation to the great land I live in more than a little bit taxing to my natural, logical mind. I consider myself to be free-thinking. And yet I am beginning to wonder if I might be labeled as liberal. If I remember correctly; before cable news was plugged into my viewfinder, liberal used to mean generous, and liberate meant to free. But now, when the word liberal is mentioned--it evokes negative responses in people and is condemned hundreds of times a day on a certain brand of television that has reared its ugly horns over the past few decades.

I can't get over the inherent feeling, or is it truly just a naive belief, that we were created to be free and equal, and that by liberation of each other from our sufferings through simple, humane generosity, we might actually be able to have what we were destined to create on this planet in a truly free and more peaceful coexistence. In God I do trust. But in public schools we no longer mention God. God is printed on our money. Are we to associate our trust in God with money? Or is it to keep us in the mindset of money being good for us? That seems foolish doesn't it? I need to make a buck. We all do. But what does it have to do with God?? Wasn't Jesus of Nazareth the Son of God, God in the form of man on Earth, who tried to separate the money lenders from the temples? Wasn't the problem then the same as it is now? Spiritual life is anti-capitalistic in nature. It is based on the Golden Rule or on simple kindergarten consciousness. And as I speak of the need to look at the hell we create for so many by the soulless allowance of rule by money--I yet feel as a blasphemer for the sacrifice of some brainwashed idealism about how good capitalism is supposed to be for the world. If it was so good, there would be no need for social security, or health care coverage, or welfare systems, disability insurance, pensions, or any of the problems we face for our infirmed, elderly and disenfranchised or discriminated population.

We have been so tragically brainwashed to live with the lie that time is money here in the land of the free. And our commercially stone-washed spirits think we need so much more to be happy, to be successful, than we ever did before. To earn our vacations in the great outdoors we mostly toil away our years in our decorated offices, gilded cages and polished automobiles. It isn't a choice to work for money. We must chase this elusive animal we call "financial security". As our years go by and we slow down physically, we must be wise to "stay ahead of the game". The game. What is it really? Is it a game like Monopoly? The "Game of Life"? Seems simple enough. Are we just allowing ourselves to be used like the game pieces, while only the financially elite actually get to play freely?
Time doesn't equal money. It is worth far, far more. Money, by the way, will not buy you another minute in reality. People can help people to live longer--that is true. But buying time isn't possible in the miracle of life. So while money actually equals less and less time as time goes on, it still has no real worth if there is no one to accept it. It is merely the tool we were given, that some originally chose for the masses, to decide who gets what on this shining ball of blue. Surely I believe in working one's way up, and that no one should get a free ride while others pay for it. But I see the clockwork of this society and the time is running out for it. More and more people are disenchanted, disenfranchised and disillusioned with the snake oil panacea of the capitalist definition of freedom here.
Money gives one a false sense of freedom. Poverty is very close however, to actual imprisonment. Unfortunately for the free impoverished, the basic needs of food, clothing and shelter aren't readily supplied las in our prisons. One must find shelters, food and medicine through charities and under-funded institutions that are paid for by the taxation of those fortunate enough to make good money, who live in the system. The rapid downward spiral of the dollar leaves me puzzled and more and more disenchanted as I consider the lives of every truly free animal left on the planet, whose numbers are dwindling because of corporate greed and unwise capitalism moreso than any other reason.
Though I immensely enjoy the comforts and technologies of the modern human endeavor, I see clearly that our impact on Earth is unsustainable for much longer. Population is not the problem. Sharing of resources and wise use of land would make all of the difference in the world. America has so much unused land for living on...and yet it is practically all privately owned, or otherwise controlled and not truly free for use. America's Declaration of Independence was something very different that we used to revere as Americans, not so long ago. The "right to pursuit of life, liberty and happiness as it reads". Without our own land though, this isn't easy. Even if we own land, we must pay taxes on it. If we do not, we lose this land of the free, and are subject to the dangers, stigmas and struggles of homeless living.
Near my old home is an island that is free to wild horses, and deer among many other creatures. Though deer and rabbits, birds and burrowers and swimming beings of the sea are expected to roam free--horses are decidedly not. Why, when one can yoke them up to plow a field, pull a cart, carry someone across the continent for the price of fresh foliage and water, would a horse ever be allowed to roam free, left basically homeless and without a job to do for people who care for it? Having to find its own food, and having to fend for itself, the wild horse is not much different than a wild dog or cat. Wouldn't they want to be domesticated and taken care of? Of course, if they were thoroughbred Arabians they could be worth millions of dollars to someone. But these horses are not so trainable. They are wild and free and high-spirited, with no desire to be yoked or broken. They might be considered dumb to a horse trainer, not suitable for much, as they don't have the genetics or the horse sense of their cousins who were born in pens and on fenced in pastures.

As so many people sit in cubicles day after beautiful day, dreaming about the things we would rather be doing with our lives--don't we too still have the freedom to decide for ourselves to stay or go? What about this bit and bridle we call the 'almighty dollar'? And how long would we actually survive if we had to eat it? If we had to build our own homes, which would be safer? Pennies, nickels, dimes or paper dollar bills? Would we still enjoy our lives as much if we chose to live closer to the land, and farm for our own subsistence without selling off our crops? There are folks who still do this today. Folks who live relatively comfortably, healthfully, and peacefully. Many people around the world are very happy in their natural lifestyles, while still being civilized to each other and living long lives. Though they may depend on other animals as do we all, to live our lives...we separate ourselves intellectually from them here in the "land of the fee". We consider our lives--if not ourselves, better in some way. Does our concept of living better somehow equate to happier? Mustn't it? Isn't it NATURAL? Isn't it a better life for a horse that lives in a large heated stable with fresh bedding every night and a loving owner to brush and bathe and feed them? If we gave a horse the choice to live in on a ranch, sleep in a stable and eat the standard diet of a horse in captivity ('domesticated' as we like to phrase it) and live with regulated meal breaks and responsibilities, whether riding, pulling a cart, racing, etc... OR the option to live freely in the land it was designed for, free to choose its bed, its meals and mealtimes, its friendships and where it wants to go....what would the horse choose? What choice would be more rewarding? Security of shelter and free meals, or freedom to choose? One choice leaves the horse very few choices afterwards. The other choice opens the realm of possibilities and the uncertainties of being a prey animal in a landscape that changes and where food and water may not always be easy to come by.
The range of terrains, foods available, and the experiences of freedom as a wild horse must greatly outweigh the amenities of a captive life. I have worked on a well-funded horse ranch, and have spent my time next to the fence, inside the stalls and in the pastures. I know for sure that an animal of this strength and spirit is meant to run free, just as sure as the bird with wings is meant to fly, and the fish are born to swim where they will.

The human is born with hands and feet and a mind to create what it chooses, and the spirit to explore life's possibilities and to embrace and increase. Why we chose to stay locked in our financial pens leaves me befuddled and while not yet broken. I have not the means to continue to write as I wish as I feel a sense of impending crisis while the financial clock of my lifetime ticks quickly in my head. But here I am feeling pent up and fighting to remain free. Ironic as it seems, wild horses couldn't drag me away from my pen...just yet.

In vast green waves of lush marsh grasses flowing,
lives a breed of unbridled power and grace
So close to distant cousins, waiting pent up, never knowing,
a sense of true purpose, destiny or place.

Freed from her bonds generations ago,
an old mare is yet noble and wild.
as another son rises on the Neigh Boring ranch
with alfalfa flake hand-outs to her child.

Though each in each wild clan lives truly endangered,
Their whinnies speak louder than words,
and as another sun sinks behind the wonder-full manger,
Is it 'the good life'--apart from their herds?

Tomorrow's sun sparkles on fresh spicy mustards,
and the clover's as sweet as Spring water,
as our broken horse dreams, still, before it awakes,
to break fast on what we would call fodder.

Today it reigned hard for the herds without roofs,
huddled close under trees kept them warm,
while "Lucky" was treated to freshly trimmed hooves,
to the tune of rain drumming down on his dorm.

Free or broke not one may choose in this world so equine,
though all may still prance, muck and/or muddle.
We truly lucky are only confined, as we are so inclined,
and need not stand in our own smelly puddles.

Whether alone or in herds,
like swimming seals or caged birds,
We can "reign in" our wayward courses.
For each sentient being here on Earth,
from the first moment of each one's birth,
Let us re-embrace the good senses of our horses.

life would be easier

At times when I find I'm fed up with modern life.
Trying to buy some free time,
most of the world living in strife,
I just want to break out of our illogical cage,
of inflated economy, and just turn the page,
to start a new system that is governed by age,
honoring the wisdom of each elder sage,
to turn it all around before they're
lowered into the ground,
pound for pound,
it's far more sound,
than running this whole ship aground,
as our democracy has been drowned.
Puppeteered by cold clowns,
sporting smug smirks and frowns,
without these haters around,
their wars would be unwound,
everyone everywhere would have enough food,
and all talk of politics deemed exceedingly rude.

It may be a stretch for your mind,
to imagine the world run this way,
and yet 500 billion dollars has been just bombed away,
on innocent families of souls just like yours,
who are sacrificed while they pray
the reality of this should have you floored,
we know problems aren't solved by the sword.
The troubles just increase with each dying day,
while paper money is power and the wise have no say.

So next time you see an old man or woman on your path,
humble up and respect them, for they've done the math,
and they've seen the changes and they've learned from mistakes,
they know what not to do, and when to put on the brakes.
So let's let them drive while they're still on the train,
so we all come out alive instead of dying in vain.
Sanity is in the mind of the beholder,
It's no wonder so many elders go crazy,
when an old lady's grandchildren scold her
and every one of them is dumb and lazy.
We're high-tech to the teeth,
and styled out to the moon,
we ignore all of the warnings,
proud and blind as bufoons.
Colon cancer running rampant,
and infertility at an all time high,
but you're still buying happy meals,
until the day you die.
as the litter piles high,
filling up to the sky,
you deny and deny,
to keep living in your lie,
all I can do is ask why, why why?

Life should be easier,
it should be much more fun,
there will be so much more free time,
once we undo what we've done.
So hire an elder and ask their advice,
take it all in and then decide,
if they are worth the asking price,
and i bet you will find,
time after time after time,
that they are worth their weight in gold,
when it comes to direction i say trust in the old,
come next election we should all be so bold,
as to vote for the the eldest,
still of sound enough mind,
to give politicians a rest,
and i am sure we will find,
that with wisdom of the elders,
there will be peace in the world,
and new hope for all mankind.

another daze work

Emitting the pulse of a fractured mind,
a drone is clear above our daily din of "how do you dos"
and "where have you beens".
We see our blind hero in his self acclaiming disease,
backed into another corner by glaring inconsistencies.
Another daze work,
another stale tale to sell,
he lives blindly trapped he owns his own hell.
Hopeless eyes that tell the story of his truly dire straits,
though we humor him in bearing his latest fantasy,
among the world's narcissistic greats...
and as we wonder what went wrong
for the deluded boy inside,
he cries out for our attention,
with bluntly pretentious pride.
Another daze work,
and no new tale to tell,
he talks on in his strife without knowing he's master of his own hell.
Hopeless eyes that tell the story of truly dire straits,
shouldn't someone wake him from this insanity,
instead of endorsing his cryptic fate?
A legendary faux,
a hero to himself,
another fictional character,
fallen from the shelf.

Board a Tidal Wave of Soul

Today was mostly about surfing, though it didn't begin that way. I thought I was going to work, but being that I woke up in Santa Monica and my work was an hour and a half up the coast, well...you can't really blame a guy for "living a little for today" once in a while--right? Allot of my days recently have been about surfing actually. Allot of my dreams at night too. I dreamed of tidal waves twice in the past few months. I recall one being exceptionally beautiful in its rise on the horizon, moving toward shore faster than any jet, and colored an incredibly light green-blue that seemed too inviting. It came up unexpectedly, and the crowded line-up was a thick mass of sudden chaos. My vantage point was from above, from the edge of a high cliff. I remember as the wave loomed high over the shoreline, lurching up, up , up and seeing only the few guys who got up in time and how they skittered off in speedy lines directly in to the beach, while most of the ant-like others were swallowed up and spit out or digested. Mostly I just remember the feeling that it was part of the plan, and nobody was really going down in a bad way. There was nothing to worry about. After all, they were surfing. I used to imagine that was how I would die. I don't really want to go out early, but that wouldn't be a bad way to ride out i guess...

Yesterday i caught some fun rides at County Line where the conditions: clean waist to head high lefts and rights, no wind and few surfers at the point--were ideal. But today I passed it up to get to the all-too-accessible point break in Ventura. I was really tempted to surf Leo Carrillo State Beach along the way, but after seeing too many "too aggro" surf enthusiasts getting too few waves to themselves and mostly really short, spastic 'rides', I got back in my chair and back on the pacific coastal highway. In the drive as in life, I really just want to enjoy the ride. And not to tell you or anyone about it around the fire or at some cubicle-clustered-corporate-headquarter water tank. It isn't about getting the photo in a magazine or the trophy, or any of that shit. You know? I know that in the end, it's about the feelings. I feel good when I enjoy the ride, and let the fray go on without my 2 cents. I love to go out there and find peace of mind, and once in a while I catch a wave that surprises and stokes me, and that's it. that's all I need to go back to the grind and feel good about life, and wherever I stand in it. Surfing is as free as it gets. I like to think it will stay free. Just a board, the ocean's cooperation, and some surf wax--and I feel like a kid at the carnival again. It's been a good therapy for about every stress I can think of.
I went for the past several years dealing with ear issues though, and I let it keep my out of the water. The cold water winters back east and a straange foxtail incident (i won't go into just now) have really messed with my ability to tolerate wind and cold water in my ears, so I stopped surfing almost completely for a few busy/stoke-lacking years. My ears bug me now actually as I write, but so do allot of other things i cannot control, so.....
About six months ago I met Clare, my endlessly amusing and amazing muse. This dear woman I love came into my life like magic and jump-started an old artery somewhere deep inside of me, and I realized my second childhood has finally arrived. And so, within a month of meeting her, and with her encouragement, I got a new board. Well, it's new to me anyway. This board, passed on to me by its shaper, John Baum of Venice, CA, was originally shaped for his wife as a gift. There is a poem along the stringer in Hawaiian, and there are red footprints and a few of his hand prints across the deck to amuse and guide the rider in three surfing modes: "stand here for tube ride", "stand here for trim" and "stand here for bone-shattering wipeout!" I saw the board and laughed. I love the fact that it is so not-attempting-to-be "cool". It is a good fun shape, mellow nose and mid-sized. It is just what I've needed. Short, "knifey" performance thrusters are what I always looked for and rode before, and I was frustrated often in the water when conditions weren't just right for them. I took surfing too seriously. So I really liked this board, and its creator, John. Apparently, John's pretty much a legend there, by local accounts, whose friendly eyes gleamed with a reassuring stoke, even though he is going through a really rough transition. John went into the back story a bit for me before it became mine. It was a birthday gift for his wife, and it had traveled halfway around the world and been well-loved. But, a few years ago, his wife got cancer, and battled it for a few years. She passed from this life just a year ago. He felt that it was finally time to let the board go, and to get on with his life without it there to remind him of something can no longer be. I feel deeply moved knowing he allowed me to have this board, and privileged to own and to surf with it. It makes me smile inside every time just to see it. Thanks John Baum. If you ever get to Venice and want to meet a true soul surfer with great presence, look him up, or just ask a stoked surfer--they will likely be able to at least tell you a great story or two about him. It happened to me a few weeks after I inherited the board, while I was in a hospital waiting room. It is an amazing feeling to just watch the waves from inside or on the beach sometimes, with the appreciation that I can have this great freedom to play and connect with the earth on such a personal wavelength, without spending money or having to schedule or plan my visit. And to paddle out into that great green-blue body of life filled beyond our comprehension with animals and plants and free energy, whenever I want or feel the need to seems so surreal right now. Living in water from the time of conception onward until our actual birth, with the rhythms of heartbeat and breath, we aren't so far from our original environment out there. Ok, there IS a resined and fiberglassed polystyrene foam board under me and a skin of polypropylene tightly zipped over 90% of my body, and I am slathered in a "50 spf sunblock" concoction beyond that, but...the feelings and sounds inside of a waves vacuum-like slurping in the magic moment before sealing me in (or someday maybe actually spitting me out), I have to believe are pretty much primordial and prenatal in essence too. The "Green Womb". The tide was at its highest and a sieging of wayward wind blew out and closed out allot of otherwise fun waist- to-chest-high peelers as the sun sank into a thickening grey-blue marine layer. I was reminded again today how people so different in styles and personalities can find camaraderie and common ground, or water, when it comes to this unique pass-time. I stood nearly freezing tonight, long, long after sunset, with these two hulking characters, Sean and Robert, and then eventually a talented surfing seashell jeweler/artist named Donna who transplanted from Santa Cruz to C street, where we all stood in a circle of four--just laughing, sharing and taking in all kinds of info. on you-name-it. To look at these guys I would never have guessed it could become new connections and the time it was, in the scene that it was. Sean seemed like he could take you out pretty quick if he had to--or if you dropped in on him more than once in a session. He seemed like maybe a linebacker-wrestler-turned-lumberjack. He was actually involved in high-tech design sales to our military, and a proud and committed father of three, as well as seasoned surfer, environmentalist and hardcore East Cliff local up in S.C. He also had a hell of a case of poison oak all over his arms from weed-whacking mass amounts of the bastard plant life to clear a trail to the surf a few weeks prior, which made him look even gnarlier. He really isn't the kind of guy you walk up to if he isn't smiling at you first, but I did, for some reason, and I was stoked for that decision. He was someone worth taking time to meet for sure. If I ever ge up to S.C. again, I will look for him in the line up. I will be sure not to drop in on his waves though... hahaha... Robert, his friend, looked more like an inland investment broker with a Gold's Gym membership, and was mostly quiet and just learning to surf, so he did allot of listening. Another nice guy though, who seemed genuine and reliable if you needed financial advice. I forgot what he actually did for work. Then there was Donna, who began and owns the "now international" Betty Belts apparel company, with a storefront of great fashion and gift ideas, and surf photography by her mate Dave... and me--well, you know, regular old goofy surf/skater, house painter/modern day shape-shifter... but I have no idea what pigeon hole I fit into visually speaking. It just depends on the day really. So we talked for an hour+ past sunset, realizing common homes, friends, attitudes and we kept half-joking about going back out to surf now since the moon was so high and the tide getting so low. The lines had noticeably increased in size and the lefts were getting cleaner and cleaner, which was really doing it for me. But, poor Donna was freezing (she had been out in a short John with no sleeves at all) and dinner was calling us all too, and so we peaced-out and I went to a local taco hall for my fav. standby chili relleno burrito. Good stuff...worth the heart burn every time. I didn't work at all today, and I felt pretty bad about it for most of the morning into the afternoon. But after surfing and shooting the shit with some friendly surfers--everything seems just as it should be...in fact, even better than that! Thank God for the waves free energy and for bringing good people together... I hope I never get too old for surfing. I am so grateful to be out there with the dolphins and seals and unique people who paddle out to ride waves, instead of just watching for the world's end on the evening, as fools bomb the faux foes for 500 billion dollars worth of bullshit control of the precious oil stock and worry about their junk bonds all day long. The bonds I've made in the surf have been free, priceless, high-yield and I wouldn't trade 'em or my freedom for anything.
Tomorrow should be bigger, and the next even bigger still. Dawn patrol is on the itinerary. We will see if my arms still want to work after that. Best get to bed. I hope for more dreams of big waves tonight.

Surf's up...ummm hmmm...ummm hmmm.... Board a tidal wave...

~S

Entry Into The Bloggerdome

Tonight, I adventure into vast and uncharted territory...ok, maybe not so uncharted for you, but for myself--this is high adventure. It is 3:35 am here in Los Angeles, CA, and I should be dreaming up the next scene in my soon-to-be-born feature film...but this could wait no longer. I met a guy named Howard Shum tonight on my way in to a screening of "Feast Of Love", which is an exceptional film I definitely would recommend seeing two or three times soon! A well-casted and deeply moving film with great comical moments, beautiful shots and strong, atypical writing.
So I was in line with Howard Shum, discussing screen writing and then art. Howard inks for comic books, is a talented artist in his own right, (check him out: www.howardshum.com) and an interesting and genuine character. He was also generous enough to share a "Gun Fu" comic book sample with me which he writes and inks. It had great style with lots of pop to it. I went from there, after the screening ended, into Shum's website and checked it out pretty thoroughly. I came across his blogs, and next thing you know... I am here beginning my own blog. I knew I would have to sooner or later, but when...? I guess it is right now! You may be the first to read this. It is late for me, so I am going to simply say, for the moment~~These words of my own personal advice:
There is no financial compensation for a life half-lived. Start living up to your own expectations and putting your dreams back together. Trust that what you love to do will keep you fed and clothed and sheltered.
I am going through this transition in my life right now of trusting in my art and writing dreams. I have held my light under wraps for a long time. This is the dawn of what I intend to make into my true career path. NO MORE painting houses while my soul aches, chained down by a lack of balls to trust my instincts. NO MORE waiting around for the ship to come in. I begin building this mothership tonight, and I welcome you to climb aboard, join the fleet or lead the way out of port! AAAaaarrrrrgghhHHH!!!!!! hmmmm.....

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Whoa, I think it's time to sail off to sleep... Oh--thanks! Knowing you only get so many minutes, I appreciate that you spent a few in here in my new blog... More to come soon...I am so tired.

Peace...