The Bridge of Sighs

Is it too late to turn back?

The howling music began to fade out in the darkened studio. Candles lit the recording room, and the lead guitar peeled off the last few mournful notes of the solo in the distance.

Jack St. Desmond opened his eyes and looked over at lead guitarist Davey.  Seated on the floor, Davey's eyes opened, and he smiled and nodded his head.  Davey closed his eyes again and put his head back against the wall.

"Boys, that's the best fuckin' album you've ever made, and that's the best fuckin' closing track I've heard in a long time.  Congratu-fucking-lations" came a deep Southern voice over the speaker from the mixing room." 

 The studio erupted with cheers and clapping.

 "Wooo-hoo!"

 "Yeeeewwwwww!"

"Absolutely amazing, lads. Welcome to the rest of your debauched rock star lives," came another deep voice with a British accent over the microphone from the control room.

Catcalls erupted, and a Champagne cork popped.

"Now that was a cliché, whoever popped the champagne!" said the English voice, that of Cliff Daniels, the legendary record producer.

This was the band Mound of Venus' listening party in the studio at the end of a two-weeks long recording session at the engineer Tommy Ridley's home studio in the Hollywood Hills.  No groupies or girlfriends were allowed for this first listen.

"I think it might be better than 'Lotus Eaters' said one of the studio sound men, referring to the MV's last smash album and handing Jack a glass of champagne.

"Dude, I'm on the wagon, remember?"  said Jack.

"Aw shit, Jack, sorry," said the tech.

 "Holy crap, Dude, we did it!  Can you believe it? We made an even better album!" Denny said to Jack, arms pumping above his head, with drumsticks in his hands.

 "Man, that's gonna sound so good on the radio," said Nicky, the bass player.

 "You boys should take a copy down to KLOS right now and get it on air with Julie.  I can call her and tell her you're coming down so she can play the whole Side One,"  said Tommy Ridley, patching through on the microphone from the control room.  

 "Yeah, right when the crowd is getting out of the Gnomes show at the Greek," said Elliot Zinder, the MV's manager.

 "Oh my God, The Gnomes are gonna be so pissed.  How yesterday are they now? After what I just heard?!" said Nicky, smiling at Jack.

 "Aww shit, man.  I don’t wanna get into it with them again," said Jack, the Mon's lead singer, and songwriter. "Cheyne is just such a jealous  . . .  I don't wanna say it." 

Cheyne Eastwood was the cross-dressing, song-writing wunderkind frontman of the band The Gnomes.  The Gnomes had taken L.A. by storm the last week with promotions at the records stores, leading up to the sold-out show tonight at the Greek Theater, up in the hills.

The Mound of Venus was Jack, Davey, Nicky, and Denny.  This was their third album, 'Clean Autumn Afternoon,' and a giant step ahead of the last. 

 "Wait til the Lazors hear this  . . . they're just gonna quit! First, they're gonna shit, then they're gonna quit!" said Denny.

 The British bands 'The Gnomes' and "Lazorzap" were the MV's closest rivals on the scene.  

 Jack hugged each of the guys in the band, then they walked into the control room. 

"Dude, it's like early, folky Phylodelphya meets psychedelic Taintball Gun.  You guys did it this time. How do you feel, Jack?" asked Trevor Gordon, lead singer of the band Gleek. 

Trevor had come to listen with legendary British music producer Cliff Daniels.  Daniels was himself a guest of the MV's manager Elliot Zinder.

"Oh Man, thanks so much, Dude.  I'm not gonna lie.  I'm fuckin' proud of this thing.  We knew right away from the demos.  We could hear it, we could feel it right away!" said Jack.

"Tony's right. You should get it down to the radio station.  How would it be to hear that song "Avalanche Appointment" cruisin' on Sunset Boulevard right now?" asked Trevor.

 Jack got the vision, and it did give him a tingle up his spine.

 "C'mon Dude, let's do it,"  said Trevor.

 "Alright, let's go," said Jack heading into the mixing room.

"Robin Trower called, and he wants his song "Bridge of Sighs" back," said Clyde Stafford, chuckling.  The southern gent producer of "Clean Autumn Afternoon,"  Clyde was seated at the mixing desk with Cliff Daniels, and engineer Tommy Ridley, who was still twiddling the knobs of the huge desk. 

"Lucky for you boys, poor ol' Marc Bolan is still dead, so he won’t be coming after you for nicking 'Mambo Sun' on that fourth track," muttered Cliff, teasingly.  

"Oh, God. There's nothing new under the "Mambo Sun" for you two old bastards.  You're the only people on earth hearing those things," said Elliot Zinder.  "Nobody even knows who T Rex is in this country."

Jack paused for a second.  Now that they mentioned it, he did hear echoes of those songs.

Fuckin' Davey.  He just plays whatever I hum to him, thought Jack.

Why can't he catch these things? How can an idiot savant guitar genius not know shit about other music? 

The Mound of Venus got hit with a lawsuit on their last album for alleged infringement of an obscure garage rock song "Psychotic Reaction" by The Count Five. 

"Where's Davey? I wanna talk to him," asked Jack to Elliot Zinder.

"He's already gone, Jack. Said he was meeting Dianne at the Gnomes show.  What's wrong?"

"Is this gonna be a problem again, Elliot? Are we gonna get sued-again?" asked Jack.

"Honey Baby.  No way," said Zinder confidently. 

 . . . 

"And now, have I got a special treat for all you freaks and sleazes out there . . . Guess who just docked at the Mothership and delivered an early present for the three-day weekend?" said the voice of DJ "Julie Jewel" through the radio.

Trevor slammed down the accelerator on the 70's Lamborghini and pulled out westbound onto Sunset Boulevard.  Traffic was congested on a hot Friday night.

 "Alright, alright, don't get us killed!" yelled Jack, looking for the seatbelt.

 "Jack St. Desmond from the Mound of Venus and Trevor from Gleek just teleported into the control room and dropped a little early Christmas present on yours truly, my little peoply-poos," said DJ Julie. 

Trevor pulled the vintage Lamborghini around the cars stopped at a red light, and they ran the intersection in front of the Tower Records. As they passed, Jack looked at the billboard above the brightly lit music store. 

It was the Gnomes, with an emaciated Cheyne Eastwood looking backward over his shoulder.  Cheyne was dressed in a pink dress and a blonde wig, meant to look like Marilyn Monroe.  

Making a coy face with his finger pressed to his lips, Cheyne was surrounded by the other band members, all dressed in tuxedos.  It was unclear whether the scene harkened back to the original movie, “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes” or the Madonna video for “Material Girl,” or both. No matter, the effect was hilarious either way, considering how loud and obscene the Gnomes music was. The album title was written in pink satin "Ribbed for Your Pleasure."

"That's right, it’s the new Mound of Venus disc, baby, and it's Fab and I got it in my sticky little fingers here.  I couldn't get those two hotties to stay with me, cuz of the restraining order they got and all . . . but I got Jack Sprat's permission to play all of Side One.  So here's track one of the new album 'Clean Afternoons,' ooooh spooky,  this one's called, well  . . . I guess we have an "Avalanche Appointment."

. . . . 

Trevor sped down Sunset Boulevard weaving through traffic.

"Listen to that song, Man!  You did that!" shouted Trevor.  The tires squealed. "You did that, Man!" he said one more time for emphasis.

Jack grabbed the armrest and put his left hand out towards the dashboard, but it was too far away.  The two of them were practically lying down in the sleek Italian car.

"Here comes the solo!" shouted Jack

 A bluesy guitar played a talking solo, complete with squawk box effects thrown in for good measure. 

"Dude, is that Davey, or Joe Walsh?!  Is that Davey, or David Gilmour?!" said Trevor jokingly.   

"Davey's something else, isn't he?" shouted Jack.

 Trevor weaved in and out of traffic until the road was clear ahead.   He turned down the music. 

"Jack, I see you getting bummed out.  Forget what that dumb bitch Julie said to you in there.   You guys don't owe her a goddam thing.  You'd be right exactly where you are now, whether you ever met her sorry ass," said Trevor.

 Jack looked over at Trevor, unconvinced.

"Hey, did Julie Jewel, or Julie Jacob, whatever her fuckin' name is, sit down and write "Pantomime" or "Jetty Kiss"?  

 Jack smiled weakly.

"Did she ride around in a van and play "18 and up" clubs from Modesto to Tijuana?" Trevor asked. "Let me answer that for you- No! So she can fuck right off!"

"No.  No, she didn't do those things, Man.  But she did introduce us to the right people. And she helped a lot. She's mostly right, Dude. Most of what she said in there at the station was right."

"Well, y'know what I say.  I say fuck it tonight.  Don’t ruin this night.  This night is about you, and the band and, and. . . .  Me har-har! and the soon-to-be-biggest-album-in-the-world.   C'mon, let's go to the Greek and rub it in the Gnomes' faces!" said Trevor.

 "Nah, there's no time, let's just go straight to The English Disco. We'll catch up with everyone there," said Jack.

 "Yeah, ok Man. Yeah, yeah, yeah!"  Rock n' Roll! Rock n Roll!" shouted Trevor cranking up the music and flooring the gas again, making the backend of the car fishtail, before the tires caught and they sped away.

. . .

 Rodney Bigenhiemer's English Disco was the most exclusive spot in town.  A spotlight beamed out in front, and a big crowd waited outside to get in.  Trevor pulled up to the valet stand and pumped the gas to make the throaty exhaust purr.

 The crowd recognized Jack and Trevor, and chaos ensued.

 "Jack!"

 "Trevor!"

 "Oh my God, Ooooh, oooh, look at me, please Jack!" one girl screamed. The crowd laughed.

Trevor gave the keys to the valet, and three security guards intervened and pulled the girls away from the car.  The guards lifted a velvet rope and ushered Jack and Trevor towards the door, but not before Trevor stopped and leaned over, grabbed their faces, and kissed two of the girls on the lips.  The crowd cheered, and the girls who did not get kissed screamed their disappointment.

Inside, the club was tiny and packed full of all the beautiful and weird people, dancing, singing, hugging, kissing, drinking, and popping pills, and snorting cocaine.  The music and shouting were deafening.  Marijuana smoke filled the air.

A DJ spun records from a booth above the crowd, spinning "In A Gadda Da Vida" by Iron Butterfly.  Blacklight posters glowed on the wall, most of them torn, and the red lights and wood beams gave the impression of being inside a pirate's ship.

 Gradually the faces turned to Jack and Trevor, and a throng started to push towards them when Rodney appeared by magic.

"Oh, Hi guys, what a lovely surprise! Ooh I'm so glad you’re here, let's go to the booth!" said Rodney, sporting a Beatles haircut and mod outfit.

 They followed the elfin Rodney to the tiny VIP area that was elevated above the dancefloor and separated by yet another red velvet rope.  As by magic, a bevy of "it girls" appeared, taking Jack and Trevor's arms and leading them to the big Naugahyde booth.

"'How do' ladies," said Jack

"What’s with the outfit," said the girl on Jack's arm.  "Did you guys shoot an album cover tonight or something?" 

The music changed to "Ride My See-Saw" by the Moody Blues.

"No, Sweetie.  You mean this little number? This is what I wear to the grocery store," said Jack smiling, brushing the sleeve of his burgundy velvet waistcoat, and adjusting the cravat. 

"Seriously?  Is this going to be the new look for the MV's," she asked teasingly, showing she was comfortable and was not at all intimidated by rock stars, or anyone famous, for that matter.

"That's right.  We're channeling the 60's Bee Gees. Or the Hollies.  We're gonna drive around in Rolls Royces and Citroens to each others' Country Mansions too," said Jack.

The young girl rolled her eyes.  It was clear she had no idea what Jack was talking about.  

"You're weird," said the girl.

 "Ooh, I'm getting the vision.  Can I come and stay in the guesthouse.  Maybe I can be your like Brian Jones housekeeper?" purred Rodney, eavesdropping. 

"Didn't Brian Jones' housekeeper kill him?" asked Jack.

"Just a rumor!" said Trevor.

The boys and Rodney scooted into the booth, and no less than eight girls piled in around.

"Everybody's talking about the new Mound album Jack.  They played it on the radio tonight!" Rodney shouted.

"Oh Yeah?" said Jack.

"Yeah, everyone who went to the Gnomes tonight says they heard it on the way over, and they're dying for more," said Rodney, trying to get a waitresses attention. 

"Sissy, get over here," Rodney called out to the waitress.

 A girl who looked to be underage came to the table.  She had large breasts and wore a tank top with no bra.

 "Hello, hello,' said Trevor, in a lecherous voice.

 "What would you guys like?" asked Rodney.

 "Ladies first," said Jack.

 The girls put in their complicated orders while "Sissy' rolled her eyes and chomped her gum, annoyed. 

Scotch and Soda. No, I take that back.  Brandy Alexander please, right, Jack?  Isn't that what you said The Beatles and the Stones drank when they got together?" asked Trevor.

"That's it. At The Scotch of St. James Pub," said Jack.

There was a great commotion near the entrance, spilling onto the dance floor.  Rodney stood up to try to see what was going on.

"Oh shit, it’s the Gnomes," shouted Rodney, looking down at Jack.  "I heard they're kind of pissed, Jack! They think you guys showed them up on the radio."

Cheyne Eastwood and two or three of the others from the band pulled away from some grasping groupies and swiveled their heads, looking around the room.

Cheyne made eye contact with Jack, and Jack knew in an instant there was going to be trouble.

"Oh shit," Trevor yelled, standing up to leave the booth.

"They're dressed like The Furies, from that movie "The Warriors," said Jack

Cheyne and the Gnomes began pushing their way over to the booth, knocking people aside, and climbing over chairs.  Jack reached for the cane he'd brought in.  

The one with the handle that concealed a six-inch dagger.

. . . 

"You're really going to let me go home alone tonight?" said Hermione, in a French accent.

"It will be even better next time, I promise," said Jack. 

"It must be really important if you can resist . . . . this," she said, sweeping her hand around the inside of her exotic sports car. 

"If you only knew . . . " said Jack.  "It couldn't be more important."

"Do you know how bad your good friend Trevor wanted me tonight!  He's chased me all over the world, and now you're just blowing me off!" shouted Hermione.

 "Listen, this is something I have to handle immediately!  Like, tonight!  Please be reasonable, Dear," pleaded Jack.

"Well, I may not wait for you.  We'll see if I'm still around L.A. next week.  I have many invitations all around the world, you know," said Hermione in a sing-song voice.  

"Hermione, I have to talk to Davey tonight, right now in fact," said Jack.  "They're going to stop production on the album, which is supposed to be released tomorrow.”

 "Close the door, then!" Hermione said.

 Jack closed the car door with a solid, satisfying thud.  The window rolled down.  Roxy Music's "The Bogus Man" was still playing in the car.

"I've changed my mind.   I don’t want to see you next week.  In fact, I don’t care if I ever see you again.  I don’t want to see you or your ridiculous outfit, or your stupid cane, or your silly silk shirts and scarves.  Fuck you!" Hermione screamed.

 The tires spun on the dirt shoulder and threw mud against Jack's tapered pants and Cuban boots.

 "God, French chicks are psycho  .  .  ."

Jack turned to walk down the driveway to the house Davey was renting in Laurel Canyon.  The lights were on, and the last song on Side One of  "Clean Autumn Afternoon" was playing full blast.

Hermione's car appeared again, and she rolled down the window.  

"By the way.  Since you're too dumb to figure it out. Trevor told me your guitarist is purposefully copying other songs so you can get sued.  Now you can go have a nice talk with him!  All night long!"

  . . .

A Mexican woman splashed water across the parquet dance floor and began mopping.  As her son lifted the bag out of the narrow trashcan behind the bar, beer bottles clanked together.

A heavy-set white man in his sixties, with a severely pocked marked face, went behind the bar, poured himself a cup of coffee, sat in a high bar chair, and read the horse racing form.  He took off his racing cap, lit a cigarette, and poured some whiskey in his cup.

Above the man’s head read the still lit sign "Rodney's English Disco," and beside it was a small TV mounted on the wall.  A commercial ended, then a news program began, and a male newscaster came on the screen  

 "Thank you for joining KCAL News this morning, we have rather shocking breaking news to report to you this morning . . .

 “The body of rock star Jack St. Desmond, leader of the group The Mound of Venus was discovered by a jogger on Zuma Beach in the early morning hours today . . . 

 The male jogger reportedly came upon the badly mutilated body around 5:00 AM. . . .  

 According to one eyewitness at the scene, the body appeared to have severe wounds on the face and torso. . . .

Now let's take you out to Geordie Coleman on-scene in Zuma.  What do you have for us Geordie?

 "Yes Bill, it’s true, the body was discovered in the early morning hours by that jogger, and as soon as word got out, the crowd started showing up down here, as you can see behind me."

 "What details can you tell us Geordie?" asked the newscaster.

 “Well, this investigation is just beginning obviously, but the questions are piling up.  What was this well-known celebrity doing on this isolated beach in the early morning hours?  Who was with Mr. St. Desmond last night?  Who would want to cause him this terrible harm?”

“Are the police giving any information, Geordie?”

"Well, what I'm hearing informally is based on the violence  . . . As you said, there injuries to the face and torso, the assumption would be that the attacker had a personal motive. More simply put, the assumption is the attacker knew the victim and meant to inflict very personal harm.  We’ve learned that Mr. St. Desmond's wallet and other personal items were not taken.

“A few last details, and I want to warn our viewers that the information is graphic, and disturbing.  According to one eyewitness, the victim was, partially undressed and there was a message scratched or written on the victim's chest.  Speaking to a person who actually saw the body, but wishing to remain anonymous, they said that it looked to be a sequence of musical notes. . . .

Finally, the perpetrator or perpetrators staged, or left some sort of a scene, if you will, with a music player device, a CD Walkman, left beside the body playing a song on a repeat loop- a relatively obscure 70's rock song called "Bridge of Sighs."

© Jack Clune 2020

 Sunset 

The restaurants and bars were empty with lights on inside.
Plenty of parking.
Sand on the street showed the town had been underwater overnight.
Tidal waves started to tear the pier down, and the sun was a snake's eye.
Even the homeless men were gone.

 

How to Train for Your Eye Exam at Costco During the Pandemic

Ventriloquism, yoga breathing techniques, sign language, and flashcards

Photo by Gerax Sotelo on Unsplash

When I turned 50, my eyesight went flaccid

When I turned fifty years old, I realized I was squinting to read everything—especially the bills at restaurants. I dine out frequently. Way too frequently, in fact. How come at restaurants, they make the bill amount on those receipts tiny and impossible to read? Is it some psychological trick they are playing on us so that we don’t register how much money we just spent on a grilled scallop taco? ($14.50, by the way).

It got embarrassing always having to ask the wait staff to read the receipt to me. I was becoming my Granddad back at The Sizzler in the ’80s. Next thing you know, I’ll be packing the whole family in the car to eat dinner at 4:00 P.M. to get the “Early Bird Special.”

Things had to change.

So I called for an eye exam at Costco

Costco gave me a date for an eye exam, but it was weeks away.

In a pinch, I was using a cheap pair of “reader” glasses my wife Tracy had. But those readers are pink and black, so when I wore them I would look like this T.V. personality from England:

Dame Edna

Arriving at the Costco appointment

The day for my 3:30 P.M. Costco eye exam finally arrived. I took a shower, the first in quite a while. I thought about what to wear to the exam. This was my first eye exam. Finally, I just decided to wear what I would to a haircut. I didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard. I also wore my more staid, dark blue Addidas Samoas rather than my new Snakeskin Addidas Stan Smiths.

Arriving at Costco, it was packed with people like it always is. It seems like it's even more crowded now. Like everyone is thinking, “if I’m gonna get a dread disease grocery shopping, at least let me be getting snow crab legs at Costco.” That’s what I’m thinking anyway.

I did not relish spending time in a warehouse full of people who had time to shop at 3:30 P.M. on a Tuesday. These days, you have to assume that everywhere you go, somebody there has COVID. Looking around the parking lot, to me, some of these people definitely looked like they already had the disease.

Showing my Costco membership card to the lady at the front entrance, I walked into the warehouse, holding my breath under my disposable blue mask. I kept six feet away from everyone in the electronics section looking at the big screen T.V.s and wireless waterproof boom boxes.

I know the layout of Costco like the back of my hand. Costco is one of my favorite places on Earth when there’s not a pandemic going on. I knew that to get to the desk in the front of the store where they sell the glasses, I had to run the gauntlet through the hundreds of people standing in long lines waiting to go through the checkout stands. 

I held my breath again and speed-walked like I was on hot coals. When I felt like my head was going to explode, I picked up the pace and jogged through an unused check stand. I almost made it clean, but then I connected eyes with an employee who seemed to be looking at me disappointed. I slowed to a walk and felt a tinge of guilt. There’s just so much ambiguity. I wish they would post a sign about whether you’re allowed to go through the empty check stand or not. How else are you supposed to get to the front of the store?

The eyeglasses desk-busy

The eyeglasses desk was as busy as the floor of the stock exchange. There were packs of customers waving their arms up and down at a flustered team of employees behind the desk. They had one of those old-school red dispensers from which you pull a number out of it to get a place in line for service. 

Wished I was at a deli instead

I approached the dispenser, and as I pulled the ticket, I thought, Damn, I wish I was at the deli pulling a ticket in the bakery section to get a Black and White cookie. That’s the only other place I could think of that still uses the ‘ole tickee tickee system.

An employee evidently saw me pull the ticket because he broke from the melee at the desk and spoke to me.

“What do you want?” said the employee, who looked like Steve Jobs. Young Steve Jobs. He had a real attitude, this guy.

Young Steve Jobs. Arrogant, not nice

I was back on my heels for a second because he really asked me just like that. It was kind of abrupt. I guess I would be pissed off too if I worked in this super spreader warehouse all day too.

“I’m here for an eye exam,” I said.

“You gotta go over there,” said the aggressive employee. 

I followed his arm, down his hand to his finger, pointing to a tiny “medical office” where there looked to be about 8 to 10 people all crammed together behind a sliding glass door.

Petri dish office

The optometry office looked like it had been set up as an experiment by the government to see how quickly a person could get COVID. Like a test for time, not distance.

I approached the optometry office and pressed my face against the glass to look inside at the guinea pigs. A woman in full medical scrubs, with a plastic shield over her face and double face masks over her mouth, poked her head out of the gerbil tank.

Chernobyl Lady, sometimes referred to as Hazmat Lady

“May I help you?” she asked, her voice muffled under all the layers of protection.

“I’m here for an eye exam at 3:30 P.M.,” I said.

“Have a seat there,” she said, pointing at a plastic chair, which was outside of the terrarium, thank God.

She came back out of the contagion room and handed me a clipboard with a few forms to fill out.

Filling out the forms-tricky

Most of the questions on the form were easy to answer. The form asked me about my medical background.

Operations?- I wrote “No” even though I’ve had broken bones where they had to put me under.

Eye surgeries?- “No”

Serious medical conditions?- 

Wait. Should I tell them I got exposed to TB by the host family I lived with during my Junior year of college in Spain in 1989? 

That’s probably not necessary, I decided. “No,” I wrote.

Then there were questions that asked:

1) Why are you here? _____ Glasses _____ Contacts _____ Both _____Other _____

2) Have you had an eye exam before? ______Yes _______No

For the second question, I checked “No,” I had not had an eye exam before. But the first question caused me to pause. I checked the box “Glasses,” but then I had to think about “Other.”

I debated whether to write down that I have been experiencing tunnel vision. Over the last five years, I’ve experienced symptoms where my eyes sort of go hay-wire and succumb to kaleidoscopic fireworks show that lasts for a few minutes. When it first started happening, it was scary, but then I sort of got used to it. It only happened once every six months.

During the last year, however, and especially over the last 6 weeks, the kaleidoscope over my eyes was occurring much more frequently and staying for as long as 15 to 20 minutes. I became concerned and started researching things on the internet like “Macular degeneration,” “Pre-Diabetic Retinopathy,” and other exotic eye conditions.

I held the pen to the paper and ran through a parade of horribles in my mind. 

If I write down that I have tunnel vision, will this one day be used against me? Like, to take my driver’s license away from me? What if I want to travel in space? Will this form come back to bite me in the ass me during the Space-X interview? Or what if they ask me to be on the Supreme Court? Will this come out during the confirmation hearing?

I decided to write down, “I’ve been having tunnel vision-like symptoms.” Better to give a qualified full disclosure to the doctors, so we don’t miss an important diagnosis. 

A minute later, I thought about what a dummy I was. I could have just told the doctor about my “tunnel vision” without writing it down. Should I cross it out? Won’t that look worse? That’s my problem. I’m always too honest.

The lady in the Hazmat suit came back for the clipboard and the forms. She shot my forehead with a thermometer gun. My temperature was normal because she moved on to the next steps.

“Have you had COVID, or any symptoms like fever, or chills . . .” she asked.

“No, not really,” I said.

“Okay, come in here now,” said the woman, directing me into the E.T. The Extraterrestrial optometry office room.

House where E.T. got caught

Inside the small office, there were two other examination rooms. So counting the two (2) optometrists in those rooms, who were meeting with two (2) patients, combined with the employees working at desks(4–5)and other patients like me waiting to be seen in the outside area (2–3), there were about twelve (12)of us now in a space as big as one of those Subway Sandwiches they have inside gas stations sometimes.

It’s the ship that made the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs!

The nice female employee in the Chernobyl outfit gave me a series of tests, all of which were kinda fun, except one.

First, she had me look into a device that looked like the futuristic binoculars Luke Skywalker used to search for R2-D2 and C-3PO in the first Star Wars movie. 

Inside these space-binoculars was a psychedelic desert landscape scene, where a stretch of road with broken yellow lines went off into the distance. At the end of the road was a hot air balloon lifting off. Sometimes the balloon was blurry. Other times it was sharp and crisp, depending on how the lady manipulated the buttons on her side of the binoculars. The whole exercise was so surreal that the Star Wars Disco song by Meco started playing in my head, and I couldn’t make it stop.

I should have asked her specifically what the binocular test was for because now I could explain it to you. I also regret not making a “These aren’t the Droids you’re looking for” joke. I bet she’s never heard that before, and I would have gotten a big laugh.

Luke Skywalker. Looking for stuff on Tatooine

Glamour shots-kinda painful

The Hazmat Lady next had me press my face against a big white piece of equipment where I had to put my eye up to a peephole and “look for the ‘X.’ I felt like I was pushing my head against a toilet bowl tank. 

At first, I couldn’t see anything. It felt like I was staring into one of those science exhibits at the Rueben H. Fleet Space Museum, where you strain to see a fuzzy hologram of the planet Jupiter. You know, the museum where you have to go with your kids when they’re too small to take any place really fun.

“You have to put your chin on that groove, and your forehead on that pad,” said the Hazmat Lady.

Science Museum like device

I guess I have a misshapen head because it took me a lot of adjusting to finally see the “X” in the peephole. I felt like I was kissing the Blarney Stone.

Kissing the Blarney Stone. Awkward, probably not worth it.

I knew I’d got it right when the ‘X’ turned from red to green. It gave me a real sense of accomplishment when the light turned green, and I got really good at it. Little did I know the lady was setting me up for what came next.

“Okay, good. Now when the light turns green, there will be a bright flash because I’m taking a photo of your eye,” said the lady.

I made the “X” turn green, then suddenly a bright flash exploded into my eye so bright that I could see all the blood vessels and floaters in my eyeball. Although I would not call it painful, it was not a pleasant sensation. I’ve definitely felt better at other times in my life. The lady took about five photos of my right eye, then the left. It was my least favorite part of the exam so far.

Time for the Jeopardy “Daily Double”

The Chernobyl Lady moved me to a new machine.

“Now we’re going to test your peripheral vision,” she said.

She handed me a clicker device connected to the machine with a wire.

“Look into the scope, and use this clicker to click the button whenever you see a white dot. No matter where the white dot appears, click when you see it. Sometimes it will be straight ahead. Sometimes it’s off to the side,” she explained.

White dots started popping up all around the field of vision, up top, down below, to the left, to the right. I started clicking like mad. Then a vision of the Saturday Night Live comedian playing Sean Connery on Jeopard popped into my head, and I lost focus.

Sean Connery on Jeopardy

“Your Motha, Trebek,” I muttered under my breath as I clicked away on the clicker.

“Okay, you’re done. Good job,” said the lady.

Trebek!

I (can’t) see for miles, and miles, and miles

The examination room door opened.

“Are you, John,” said the new optometrist lady.

She was Asian, very petite, and equipped with all the same protective gear as Chernobyl Lady.

“Yes, yes I am,” I said.

“Well, come inside here. I’ve sanitized the chair,” she said.

I looked into the small room and saw a big Optometrist chair. This was my first time, and I was only used to dentist chairs.

First time

“Have a seat,” she said, ushering me into the chair.

I sat down.

“Now it says here you are here for eyeglasses. Have you ever had glasses before?”

“No, this is my first eye examination.”

“Oh, okay. So what I’m going to do is have you look at the eye chart up there on the wall,” she said.

It was a digital eye chart on a small computer screen. It was not like the old eye charts I remember from the DMV and the Bugs Bunny cartoons of my youth.

“Can you read the bottom line?” she asked.

The bottom line was tiny. The only letter out of the five that I could really make out was “H.”

“D, K, H, L or B, K,” I said.

“Okay, not bad,” she said.

“Did I get ’em right? I was guessing on a few,” I said.

She did not tell me which ones I missed or got right.

There’s only you and me and we just disagree

“What I want to do next is have you look into this machine,” she said, pulling the machine in front of my face.

“You have astigmatism in your right eye that affects your ability to see long distance,” the optometrist said.

“Okay,” I said.

“But you’re really interested in being able to read up close, right?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“And be able to use a computer, right?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, “How did you know?”

“Just a guess,” she said. “How far away is your computer screen from your face?” she said, holding her hand out like it was my computer screen. Her hand seemed way too close to me.

“Um, it’s farther away than that,” I said.

“Like this?” she said.

She moved her hand farther away. But the way she said it made it seem like I was an idiot. Like there was no way the screen could be that far away from my face. Now I doubted myself.

What she did not know is that I use a laptop as my “home computer,” and I use a wireless keyboard. The screen is actually quite far away from my face. I tried to explain it to her.

“Well, is it like this ?” she said, moving her hand farther away.

“Like this,” I said, showing her with my own hand and indicating slightly closer to my face.

“Like that?!” she said, again emphasizing the words, such that I felt like an idiot and that I had to be wrong.

“Like this,” I said, slightly adjusting where my hand was, to a little bit farther away.

“I thought you said it was like this?” she said, putting her hand where my hand had been before.

Now I was totally confused and demoralized. Really, when I thought about it, the screen seemed much farther away from where either my hand or hers was.

“Like this?” she said, holding her hand flat, like a computer screen.

“Yes, yes. Like that,” I said, discouraged and resigned. I don’t think we had the distance right. But I wanted to move on.

Welcome to the machine

“Look at the eye chart again. Can you read the bottom line?” she said, with a tiny tinge of frustration in her voice.

The line of letters was really small. Again the only letter I could be certain of was the ‘H.’ I guessed the rest of the letters.

“Okay. Now we’re going to use the machine,” said the optometrist.

She swung the eye machine in front of me. The thing that looks like the binocular contraption you put coins in to look at the Grand Canyon or the Statue of Liberty.

Unsplash. I think I can see your house

“I’m going to try different lenses, and I want you to tell me which ones you like better, okay?” she said.

She began sliding all these lenses over my eyes.

“Do you like 1 . . . or 3?” she asked.

“1,” I said.

“2, . . . . or 4?” she asked.

“4,” I answered.

“6, . . . . or 8? . . . 3, or 7? . . . 5, or 9?” she asked, more insistently.

It went on and on and on.

“Wait a second. Is the machine fogging up?” she asked.

It’s getting hot in herre

Both eye holes were filled with fog from my breath, coming up from the two masks over my mouth.

Foggy

“Oh Boy, it is all fogged up!” she said, grabbing a wipe and reaching in to wipe the fog off the lenses.

“Have you just been calling out the number when the lens was less foggy?!” she asked.

“Yes. Yes, I think that’s what I was doing,” I answered, shamefully.

“Because none of your responses are making any sense,” she said.

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time for that, har-har,” I joked. 

She did not laugh.

“Is there any way you can pinch the metal clip on your mask to prevent the machine from fogging up?”

I pinched the metal part of the mask, but the machine kept fogging up whenever I breathed. So I tried to hold my breath.

“I gotta tell you. I’m the kind of person who gives off a lot of heat. Like when I get in a car, I fog my side of the car right up,” I explained.

I guess it would have been easier to just say I was overweight.

Weight-related fog

She started asking me which number I liked best again. I was holding my breath, so I had to answer her like a ventriloquist, barely opening my mouth.

“2,” I said through my clenched teeth.

I started to get a headache after a minute or two.

That’s when I noticed that it looked like the optometrist only had one hand.

Photo by Robert Zunikoff on Unsplash

What am I complaining about?

I couldn’t believe that I hadn’t noticed earlier that the optometrist only had one hand. To be honest, she was covered in so much gear, I’m still not sure if she really did have just one hand. But just like the Star War Disco song in my head, I was distracted again. 

With the flu mask fogging the lenses, the Star Wars song, and this one hand thing, I was a mess. It was impossible for me to focus on the questions she was asking me about my vision. This is at least as tough as a dental appointment, where he talks to you and expects you to talk back.

She resumed calling out the numbers of the lenses.

“2, . . . or 6?” she asked.

I wonder if she lost her hand in a traumatic accident or whether it was congenital.

“2,” I said, not really knowing if the 2 was better than the 6.

Like Austin Powers, when he can’t stop saying “mole” to the fellow with the mole on his face.

What am I even here complaining about? My vision is not that bad. This lady lost her hand. Or never had one.

She was asking me more questions.

I had to slap myself and get back into the examination.

Let’s go old school

“Tell you what, I’m going to do something different,” she said.

She brought out a fancy device that looked like some futuristic steampunk set of eyeglasses.

“Let’s use the old-fashioned device,” she said.

This was the device they used when Abe Lincoln was getting glasses.

Chubby dude, but not me

She told me to cover my left eye. I did.

“2, or 4?” she asked.

“5, or 8?”

I fogged up this new eyeglass device too, but I didn’t tell her because I did not want to make her mad. I really was trying my hardest not to screw up the prescription she was going to give me for glasses.

Damn Coronavirus and these masks! I’m definitely going to get the wrong prescription glasses.

My sunglasses always fog up. Like I told her, I’m famous for fogging up cars too. If I get in your car on a cold morning, all bundled up in a jacket or raincoat, my side of the car will fog up in no time.

Fogged up car

The boy with kaleidoscope eyes

“I see here on the form you wrote that you’re experiencing ‘tunnel vision,’” she said.

“Yes, but I was thinking about taking that back if I could,” I said.

“Well, why don’t you explain what caused you to write that?” she said.

I explained it.

“Is it like a kaleidoscope sort of effect?” she asked.

“Yes, exactly!” I said, astonished. “Is it serious? Am I going to die?”

“Well, do you have diabetes?” she asked.

“No. Not yet. But look at me. I’m like the walking definition of pre-diabetes,” I admitted.

“Well, if you haven’t been diagnosed with diabetes yet, what you have is called ocular migraines. Do you get migraine headaches? she asked.

“No. I mean, Tracy and the kids drive me nuts, but no migraine headaches,” I said, wanting to be as truthful as possible.

“Yes, well, what you have is called ‘ocular migraines.’ You’re very lucky not to have the headaches that usually come with these,” she said.

So I don’t have tunnel vision. I have a kaleidoscopic vision. Interesting.

“What do I do to make my little eye headaches go away?” I asked.

“See if any food or activities set them off and avoid those. Like too much caffeine. Otherwise, you just have to sit back and enjoy them until they pass.”

Guess I’ll have to stop drinking 6 cups of coffee every morning. Sorry, Juan Valdez.

Trippy

The eyes are the windows to the soul-scary

The optometrist lady showed me the photos of my eyeballs. They were huge. It looked like this:

She pointed to all these blotches on the films and explained what it all meant. I nodded and pretended I saw what she was saying, just like when Tracy showed me ultrasounds of the boys.

“You have no macular degeneration, no diabetic retinopathy, you just have astigmatism in your right eye where hard to see long-distance and age-related difficulty reading,” said the optometrist.

Whew. That sounds alright.

“How about that?! Sounds like my eyes are the healthiest part of my body,” I said.

Again, no laughs.

“I’m going to give you two prescriptions. This one is for a set of glasses you could walk around wearing, to see better far away and to read better up close. And this second prescription would just be for glasses to wear while using your computer. Any questions?” she asked.

Jesus. I’m gonna have to walk around like a harmonica player with suspenders holding all my glasses.

Harmonica … belt (?)

I can see clearly now

“Can I screw up my eyes up even more by just wearing off-the-rack reading glasses?” I asked her.

“The short answer is . . . no,” she said.

Good, I don’t have time to get the prescriptions filled now. I got more important things to do anyway.

I got up to leave. I reached out to shake her hand but pulled my hand back quick enough for her not to see.

I did not get the prescriptions for the glasses filled out right there at Costco. I didn’t want to deal with that MacIntosh era Steve Jobs dude. Plus, I was on a tight schedule.

Instead, I went and got a huge rotisserie chicken, a lasagna and the jumbo Caeser salad they sell at Costco.

I wanted to race home and eat the chicken before I had to pick up Son #1 and shuttle him over to one of his friend’s houses for a COVID “drive-by birthday party”- the ones where you honk your horns and piss off all the neighbors.

I went home with just enough time to devour half of the chicken like a circus geek. Good thing I got the food instead of the glasses because they made us wait half an hour around the corner from the kid’s house before they told us to drive by and honk. I would have been twice as pissed off if I wasn’t completely stuffed and satisfied while we sat.

When I finally got back to my desk in the Man Cave, I realized that the optometrist and I got all it all wrong, and the computer screen is much farther away than we estimated in her office.

Much farther away than me and the Optometrist thought

My advice if you have an eye exam coming up

Before you got to Costco for an eye exam in this time of COVID, you better practice the following skills to get your prescription lenses right and avoid fogging up the optometrist’s machine:

-Measure how far away you sit from the computer you use the most

-Practice holding your breath for like, two or three minutes at a time;

-Take ventriloquist lessons; or

-Learn sign language; or

Make flashcards with the numbers 1–20 on them that you can hold up when she asks you which lens is best.

© Jack Clune 2020

Don't Drift; Fight the Resistance

Don't Just Drift Along; Fight the Resistance

Sit down in the chair and do the work- you owe it to us

Not drifting

The last few weeks I've been drifting

Winter is nearly upon us.  Daylight savings time is looming (I started this post last week).  The world seems like it’s in a general state of depression, as there is the Pandemic and so much uncertainty for the future. (The future seems brighter now, after the weekend).

 

The courts are closed for jury trials until next summer, so while a personal injury attorney like me can jump up and down and threaten the insurance companies, you really have two choices -  settle the case for what the insurance company is offering or wait until next year for a trial.

 

In the last few weeks, my writing dropped off, and I was worried it was "writer's block."  What it was, however, was me dreading going back and editing my long manuscript I wrote, memoir-ing my early childhood.  The process was painful (the editing- not just my life) until I had the epiphany that the long chapters need to be broken down into much shorter chapters. Ta-da! Now the way forward seems so much clearer. I should be done with the second draft in a few months.  Seven or eight months. 

 

If I want to be a writer, I'm supposed to write every day

In light of the state of the world, I have more time than I otherwise would to do some writing.  The pros say writing is like working out.  You have to do it every day to make progress and get better at it.  And if you lay off for a few days, it turns into weeks, and it becomes that much harder to start back up again. 

 

So the writers who post the most on Medium, Quora, and the other writing sites mostly write short "listicles" (i.e., "top seven things you should do to start your day") or product reviews, or self-help articles. 

 

Those types of articles are the "fast food" of writing.  For the writer, they're short, relatively easy to write, and formulaic.  The writers hope the articles go viral and make them money.

For the reader, they're like a candy bar.  The articles are fun to read, you can pretend like you're learning something, and they provide a sort of endorphin rush or sugar high.  The worst of these articles is called "clickbait" because the main goal of the writing is to attract clicks from which the author profits under an "affiliate advertising" program like Google AdSense or Facebook Ads.

 

I don't want to write articles like that.  First of all, anyone who knows me is not going to take fitness or self-improvement advice from me.  I would eat a loaf of garlic bread and wear my Mott the Hoople T-shirt every single day if I could.  In fact, I basically do that.  

 

Product reviews?  The only product review I could ever be bothered writing was my story about the Biscuit skateboard that nearly killed me, and that's not the kind of exposure most companies solicit or encourage by paying the writer money.

 

So I have to come up with something else to write about on a consistent basis.  But while we're here, let me write my one and only self-improvement blog post for you so we can get this out of the way.  I've read every self-help article in the world, so here are the 

“20 things You Must Do To Improve Your Life” by Jack Clune

 

1. Get regular sleep and turn your phone off one hour before bed (I don’t)

2. Drink lots of water (if your pee is too yellow you haven’t drunk enough)

3. Be kind to people, but learn how to have boundaries and say no (don't be a doormat)

4. Look people in the eye and have a firm handshake (Actually, I’d be fine if the handshake goes away forever after this Pandemic- let’s just shaka or do deep bows to one another)

5. When talking to people, listen to what they say, rather than simply wait to say the next thing.

6. Brush and floss your teeth (Don’t be a yuck mouth).

7. Don't smoke or drink alcohol.

8. Meditate for 10 minutes a day.

9. Exercise (Use the Japanese Kaizen method- one push-up first day, two the second day, three the third day.  Imagine where you’ll be in a year).  Or use this method.  Or this one.

10. Eat healthily.

11. Communicate really well with your spouse, kids, parents and friends.

12. Wear nice clean clothes.

13. Travel, but not too much (wherever you go, there you are).

14. After a reasonable time, ask for a raise and if they don't give it to you, change jobs or be your own boss.

15. Envision where you want to be five years from now and do something small every day to try to make it happen.

16. Save money.  Don't save it in a bank, invest it somewhere where it will grow (I don’t. I think the stock market is a roulette wheel for normal people like me, and a rigged carnival booth for the people with insider trading information. Look at all the politicians with insider information who sold off before the public announcement of the Pandemic. The stock market obviously has no relationship to the real world.  How can the market be through the roof the last few months when the world is a dumpster fire? And the people who made the most money EVER in the stock market betted against us the normal people, that we would default on our mortgages and Countrywide would collapse. The banks sold us our mortgages and turned around and sold the insider bettors the tickets that we would default.  Then when the bets came due the banks had no money to pay them,  the banks collapsed, and none of the bankers went to jail. In fact they took our bailout money and paid themselves bonuses. Great system). But go ahead and invest in boring Index Funds- that's not the day trading lottery ticket investing that everyone talks about all day long at the water cooler and on the dumb "Mad Money" T.V. shows.

17. Buy real estate (With all that extra money you have laying around).

18. Make a Will (Living Trust better).

19. Believe in God, or if you don't, hedge your bets (watch on double speed) and act spiritual and be kind just in case there's a Hell. Or don't.

20. Read Primal Screams from Jack Clune's Man Cave.

 
 Allow myself to introduce . . . myself

 

I like to write about myself. My thoughts.  My feelings.  My experiences.   Apparently, those are the worst things in the world to write about.  Yes, the real heavy-hitters on Medium say that nobody wants to read about me.  You want to read about You.  I guess I can kind of understand that.

 

The popular writers say people only want to read things that do one or all three of the following:

 

Entertain

Educate

Inspire

 

Let me entertain you 

I think I might be able to entertain you. One outta three ain't bad. Educate?  I mean, unless you want to know which fast food Mexican Restaurant has the best Flying Saucer.   Or which GWAR. album to start with, then I might be able to help. 

 

Inspire?  I don’t know.  A few of you have told me you enjoyed an article I wrote, and that made me feel good.  Very, very good, but kind of embarrassed too.  I always feel like you're just saying it to be nice, and if I got you drunk, you'd tell me what you really thought. By the way, a few of you did actually tell me what you thought, and your advice was spot on (i.e., you told me to write better story endings!).

 

The best part of my new writing adventure, so far . . .

What really blew me away, and made me feel humbled to my core, was when a few of you told me that, not necessarily the quality of my writing, but my leap of faith into writing inspired you to do something, or at least take the first step to do something you always wanted to try.  

I knew you were telling the truth and weren't just saying that to be polite.   And I did not feel embarrassed because it had nothing to do with me, it was about you.  Amazing. Some of you shared your writing with me or told me about your future creative plans, and I was inspired by you.

 

If you have always wanted to write, start a non-profit, run a marathon, paint, create a YouTube channel, or whatever, please do it.  If my tentative and typo-laden blog entries and short stories are the push you needed, please go with that feeling.

 

Let me tell you, the feeling of not having to wonder "what if I [wrote, started a Vlog, made a movie] . . .?" is worth it to just give it a try.  

 

Maybe you'll become rich and famous overnight!  Doubtful, but more possible than ever in this day and age.  Just look at the guy drinking Cranberry juice listening to Fleetwood Mac.

On the flip side, maybe you'll realize, "Hey, this is really hard work and turns out, I don't like it that much." Chances are that your experience will be somewhere in between those two extremes.  Either way, it will be a load off of your shoulders.  If you find something you’re passionate about doing, the journey will be what satisfies you, and there is no ultimate destination (fame and fortune).

 

There's plenty of time to pursue your passion, so don't quit your day job

There is no reason to quit your day job.  If you turn off the T.V. and put down the phone, there is enough time each day to do your work. The writers on Medium are doing it during their lunch hours or waking up an hour earlier to do it. 

 

Some of you already told me, "You know, I tried [it] and I don’t like [it.]"  Whatever [it] was, think of what a gift it was to figure that out, so you can move on and find out what [it] is that you may want to pursue.

 

I've read a shit-ton of Medium articles now.  I've read thousands of self-help and "how-to" and "what not to do" articles, and they are fun to read, and I ignored 97% of the advice because its' too hard to follow.  What follows, however, are the pieces of advice that have stuck with me.

 

The most important things I've learned so far are . . . 

Do not “follow your passion” if your main goal is to make money or be famous

If what you are interested in is making money, probably the worst thing you can do is “follow your passion.” No, my friend, if you want to make money, you have to do this:  

Figure out what you are really good at, that people will pay you a lot of money to do.  

If you are lucky, your passion will also be what people will pay you money to do. Maybe you love to write songs.  Great.  If you are Sting, you will make a lot of money by following your passion. Most songwriters, however, are not rich or famous (for a variety of reasons).

Most of us have much more pedestrian skills that people would find valuable enough to pay us money to do. If you want to make money, figure out what those skills are- and pursue your passion in your free time.

The reason to pursue your passion is that you have to. Otherwise, you're likely to be a miserable, embittered person! You will always wonder, "what if . . .?"  Let me put a positive spin on this. When you follow your passion, you will be a much happier and fulfilled person, and it has nothing to do with making money or being famous.  

If you want to be creative or "follow your passion," persistence is far more important than talent

The next "tough love" piece of advice that resonated is twofold, and I'm going to break it down into two components:

 

A)  You have to stop yourself from just "drifting along"; and

 

B)  You will encounter constant resistance in your effort to stop drifting

 

These concepts come from the book "The War of Art."  I haven't read the book yet, but I've read many articles and listened to lots of podcasts that mention the book and these concepts.

 

Drifting is waking up, going to work that you don't really enjoy, coming home, eating dinner, watching Netflix, binge drinking on the weekend, watching football, and repeating that for the rest of your life.  

You will constantly be pulled along with the tide to do that because, after a while, you forget what you really wanted to do with your life, and it is comfortable, and if you try to break free from it, you will receive constant resistance. All credit to writer Ayodeji Awosika for entertainingly explaining these concepts, as I could listen to him talk about it all day (and still not get up off the couch.) My problem, not his.

Persistence and resistance against the drift are crucial. The most quoted language from the book is:

"The most important thing about art is to work.  Nothing else matters except sitting down every day and trying." -Steven Pressfield

My surfing testimonial

A few weeks ago, I thought to myself, "I may never go surfing again."  I looked in the mirror and saw how out of shape I was, then I went and grabbed my old wetsuit and went into the swimming pool to get it wet and try it on.  I did not come anywhere close to fitting in it.  I was disgusted with myself because I love surfing.  Subconsciously, I've known for months that I needed a new wetsuit if I was ever going to go surfing, but I was embarrassed to go to a surf shop and try to find the size I needed.

Almost the Author (And I'm not fat-shaming this fine fellow. Or woman. I'm just illustrating a point about myself)

 

I got out of the pool, looking like a snake shedding its skin, with the wetsuit half on and half off.  I went right into the Man Cave and bought a cheap (and huge) wetsuit on Amazon (when I trim down, I will support my local surf shop next time- I recommend Bird's Surf Shed).  It came two days later, I tried it on, and I went surfing.  

 

I look like a Polska Kielbasa in my new wetsuit.  But the wetsuit technology is so advanced now, and the material is so super stretchy and comfortable, I am eager to go surfing this winter even when the water gets frigid. 

Polska Kielbasa

I've gone surfing about ten times since I bought the wetsuit.  I've only caught two good waves because I'm so out of shape that most of the waves pass me by too quickly before I can stand up.  But I've been out on beautiful days, and I've seen and experienced so many things. 

I've seen seals, dolphins, amazing sunsets, and incredible surfers (the most skillful one of all was a young woman) gracefully riding the waves.  Certain days, the waves were perfect, coming in at an angle from the south and peeling down the line with a light offshore wind, reminding me that San Diego has some of the best surfing beaches in the entire world, right here in my backyard, and making me grateful to have grown up here. 

 

Every time I've gone surfing, there was resistance.  The parking lot is often full, and it’s a challenge to find a spot. It took me a full half-hour the first time to figure out how to lock my car.  I had to take the BMW valet key in and out of the tiny wetsuit pocket no less than five times because I had missed a step in the locking process.  

The lineup in the water is unbelievably crowded with people, many of whom are not skilled at surfing, and who are using the foam boards they bought at Costco (a phenomenon that would not have been tolerated when I was a kid, and when there was much more aggression in the water).   

 

In the parking lot, people park too close to my car.  They let their dogs out of the car, and the dogs run in front of cars, and the dog owners scream bloody murder in my ear, ruining any sort of peaceful or Zen vibe.

 

The whole time I remind myself, "This is the resistance.  All of this is meant to make you never come back to the beach." 

 

But then I'll be sitting in the lineup.  A set of waves will appear on the horizon, and I'll be in a perfect position. A bowl-shaped wave approaches, being held up like blown glass by the offshore wind. I turn and bury the tail of my board in the wave and make my board spring forward without even paddling, and I launch into the wave, standing up in one smooth motion.  

I ride the green wall of water until I can make a run along the top of the wave, then back to the bottom, and the wave connects with another one coming from the other direction on the inside "doubling up," and I ride the unexpected "new wave" for 50 yards, through groups of tourists and waders.  And all the trouble and strife was worth it. 

 

I remember that wave later that night when I'm going to sleep.  And I want to tell other people about the wave, but they wouldn't care. Unless maybe it was one of my other surfer friends, who would understand the feeling- but even they would say I’m exaggerating. And your friends never see your best waves.

Fighting the resistance!

Step out of your comfort zone

Don't quit your day job - unless you want to. You can follow your passion without doing so.

But don’t allow yourself to drift.

 

You will experience resistance when you fight against the drift.

 

Don't wind up on your death bed wondering . . . 

"What if I would have just tried . . . ?"

Susan Boyle- not drifting, fighting the resistance

© Copyright Jack Clune 2020