Family Intervenes to Make Man Stop Delaying Stool Sample Test

"Family Intervenes to Make Man Stop Delaying Stool Sample Test"

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 Chula Vista Times

A wife's pain

A wife and children held an "intervention" last week to convince a 52-year-old husband and father to mail in the colon cancer test sent to him two years ago on his 50th Birthday.  Family and friends do not understand George Clooney's (real name withheld) refusal to move.

"I tried a professional intervention-type person," said wife Trixie (not real name). "But the assh*** kept laughing and making jokes like 'that's not really what I doo.'  'Real funny,' I said, then hung up."

Swirl of emotions

Family and friends had mixed emotions when they found out the reason for the gathering held last Friday at the family home.

"They wouldn't tell us what it was about, so when I dropped by the house and plopped on the couch I was ready to talk about almost anything.  There's about four or five different issues he's got way bigger than this.  This whole stool thing just snuck up on me.  I never saw it coming," said Mikey, Trixie's brother.

Mother-in-law "Judes" (not real name) was actually "relieved."

"When I found out what it was about, I said 'you've got to be sh**ting me,'" said the registered nurse and former Rockette.

Sons smell desperation

Speaking with Clooney's two high-schooled aged sons, they expressed frustration at the logjam and father's refusal to budge. 

"It's pretty sad.  Dad's stared at the envelope on his desk for two whole years without pulling the trigger. It embarrasses me.  He taught me everything I know about . . . I used to look up to him when it came to things like this," said Son #1 (name withheld for privacy).

"He's always telling us what we should be doing . . . like 'go read a book' or 'you should brush your teeth more often.'  I say, 'Well, you should go do your poo test.'  That always shuts him right up and gets him off my back," said Son #2.

Stool test envelope, probably stale

Friends tapping toes, gnashing teeth

Family friends said they could only wait so long.

"I squared up to him and said it was time to 'sh** or get off the pot,'" said friend Phil McCracken (not real name). "I said 'be a man, you got a lot of people depending on you around here.' Depends, get it?" (Laughing).

"I told the family, don't let him watch the Super Bowl unless he does the test, y'know.  It's like 'hop on the bowl, or no Bowl,'" said family friend Seymour Butts (not real name).

The family says George spends hours in the bathroom sitting playing his guitar anyway, so they never understood the reluctance to take the potentially life-saving stool sample.

"I've heard him in there squeezing out all of Side 2 of 'Dark Side of the Moon. ' Badly mind you, but without even a break between songs," said Trixie.  "This should be right up his alley."

Signs of softening

Speaking to George Clooney directly, we tried to get the straight poop.

"I just couldn't be arsed about it," said Clooney (not his real name).  "Every day, I  said to myself, 'let's push it to tomorrow.'  Something unexpected always popped up, like the whole COVID-19 thing, then the Tiger King show, and Bitcoin. I didn't want to hold up any of the mail-in ballots either. When the Padres lost in the playoffs, I got really down in the dumps." 

The family compromised and told Clooney they'll be looking for the stool to be in the mail by the end of the week, or he cannot pick squares on their Super Bowl Bingo craps table. 

© Jack Clune 2021

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

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

Those Two Foreign Kids Who Moved to the Neighborhood

Another stark reminder of an era gone by

Pixabay

I have a friend who is a fellow attorney. He's about ten years older than me.  When I took up guitar twenty years ago, he went to the guitar store with me and helped me pick one out.

That's because even though my friend is 5'4" tall, balding and weighs 145 pounds, when he plugged in an electric guitar at my loft, he unleashed a torrent of rock n roll licks like he was Jimmy Page.

After I picked my jaw up off the ground, my friend told me this story.

He told me about two kids he grew up with in his neighborhood.  They came from some foreign country and they could barely speak a lick of  English. The boys' parents could not speak any English at all.

The one kid played classical piano, and the other learned guitar.  The young one hated the endless piano lessons and played drums instead, whenever he could.  But the older brother who had the guitar got jealous of the drum kit and insisted they switch.

They switched.

The two kids formed a band. My friend learned guitar, but he was not good enough to be in the band. The brothers played at backyard parties, and my friend has tape cassettes of the shows.

As they got older, but before they could drive, my friend's mother drove them all to see concerts in Los Angeles, and sometimes on the Sunset Strip.

Leaving the show, my friend would ask the younger brother what he thought of the famous guitarist they just saw.  

"He's okay I guess," was the usual response.

The brothers' band had a rival band they played against in contests and with whom they competed for shows and parties.  The brothers stole the lead singer.  Or something like all that.

My friend the attorney is Jewish, and he grew up in Pasadena, California.  The lead singer of the rival band was also a Jewish kid from Pasadena, whose father was a doctor. 

His name was David Lee Roth. 

I know exactly where I was the first first time I heard Van Halen.  I was sitting in a treehouse with a few other kids, in the orange grove behind my house.  The song was "Running With the Devil."  The music started with the ominous bass heartbeat.  It was terrifyingly alien-sounding, and exhilarating at the same time.  It was unlike anything  I had ever heard before in my life- and I had listened to A LOT of Led Zeppelin, and Black Sabbath.

Van Halen's music, attitude, and image are the living incarnation of halcyon Southern California in the late 1970s and early '80s.  When you listen to Van Halen, no matter where you are, you've 'got a beer in your hand, and your toes in the sand . . . '

Will we ever know such a relatively blissful, carefree time again?

 

I doubt it.

Rest in Peace Edward Van Halen

© Copyright Jack Clune 2020

I Need To Be Rescued From My Rescue Dog

And my family thinks it's funny

 

Unsplash

My wife rescued a cute female boxer

My wife rescued a boxer about a year ago. She’s a cute black boxer, whose name was “Princess” when we got her, but we changed her name to “Perseus.” We call her “Perse” for short. Tracy thought our other male boxer Atticus needed company.

Perseus does not like men. She must have been abused by males. Perse is about six-years-old. When we first got her, she was a real scaredy-cat, wincing and running away at the slightest sounds or movements. Mostly my sounds and movements. Perse clung to my wife Tracy like one of those protective dragons on Game of Thrones. Tracy could do no wrong.

When Tracy picked Perse up, the woman who rescues boxers told her,

“She doesn’t like men, and she’s real protective of me.” The Boxer Lady added, “Princess still growls at my husband.”

Perse really doesn’t like certain men. Like me.

Tracy brought Perse home, and our two sons fawned over her because she has a really cute, human-like face, with human expressions. You can always tell what Perse is thinking.

My sons are males. But Perse never barked at them.

But every time Perse sees me in the morning, she begins growling and barking. When we first got her, Perse would stand by the side of the bed where I was sleeping, and growl at me, waking me up. Waking me up to a new day. With her growling.

That kinda set the tone for a lot of my days. As a personal injury lawyer, I am confronted with lots of fake growling and barking all day long, on the phone, and in-person in court and at depositions. But this real growling and barking actually kinda disturbed me. It got to me, and I felt like an unwelcome stranger in my own home. My sons loved it.

As time went on

As time went on, Perse wouldn’t wake me but waited to growl and bark at me when she got downstairs with my wife.

As soon as my feet hit the hardwood floor, the growling would begin downstairs. Then I would mope down the stairs, with Perse growling and barking at me like Cujo. That went on for nine months. Every single day.

My rat fink sons still laugh when Perse growls and barks at me. They think it’s funny. I hear them laughing in their bedrooms. Or if they’re already at the breakfast table, they laugh and point at me while the dog barks.

I don’t try hard enough

Tracy would explain.

“You just don’t try hard enough. You need to get down on your hands and knees. Get down to Perse’s level and show her you’re a good person.”

I’m in the kitchen, and I have my back turned at this point, just trying to get a cup of coffee. Perse is growling ferociously, and now our other boxer, Atticus, gets in on the action because . . . why let Perse have all the fun.

Now the two dogs are leaping in the air and growling and barking at me, like the Dobermans in Magnum PI.

And I’m a “bad person” too

“Dogs know!” Tracy shouts.

Oh God no. Not the “Dogs and babies know” speech. Please God, no. Not the speech!

“Dogs and babies know! They know when a person is bad. They can sense it. They’re always right!” says Tracy.

The boys are laughing hysterically now.

“Yeah, Dad, you’re bad,” says Son #1, laughing his ass off.

My sons are traitors or no goddamn help at all

I look at Son #1 with a complete sense of betrayal on my face. Now I am bent over, with both my hands out defensively, with coffee spilling over the rim of the cup, as I try to back out of the kitchen, towards my man cave.

“It’s not an angry bark. See, Perse’s wagging her tail!” explains Tracy. Just like Tracy has explained it the last 225 days in a row.

Perse is now crouched, and the hair on her back is standing on end.

“You don’t try hard enough. It’s your fault,” says Tracy. “Don’t be such a . . . such a buffoon!”

Now that’s an interesting concept. Because several times, towards the end of the day, I’ve sat with Perse on my lap, and I’ve petted her gently. But every morning is like Ground Hog’s Day.

“Dad, I think Perse has Alzheimer’s disease,” said Son #2 while we were sitting in the jacuzzi one day. “I don’t think she has all her marbles in her head.”

“I think you’re right, son,” I said.

Perse is a bad influence on Atticus

Back to the kitchen. I continue to back away, like Odysseus retreating away from two, er, Cerberus — es.

When I think the time is right, I turn and do my Olympic “fast walk” for the man cave door.

Atticus stays after me.

“Atticus, you old fool, quit acting like Perse!” I yell, trying to get a laugh from the sadists in the other room. “Perse, look what a bad influence you are!”

That’s when Atticus jumped up and bit my ass right through my Adidas dri-Fit running shorts, and made me throw my coffee up in the air against the ceiling.

The tips of his upper and bottom incisors touch one another, through the soft creamy flesh of my ass cheek.

"Jesus Christ! Ouch. Owwwwwww!”

Big laughs in the other room.

“Is he wagging his tail?!” I scream.

© Copyright 2020 Jack Clune 

No, I Was Not at Arby's Today. The Agony of Identity Theft

It shouldn't be that big a deal to let everyone know I have a new debit card

Unsplash

It’s 4:15 pm Friday afternoon . . .

“You see that somebody just tried to charge $6.95 at Arby’s this afternoon?” shouts my wife from the kitchen. She is looking at our online banking on her laptop.

“No! Really?” I ask.

“Were you at Arby’s?” she asks.

“No. I’ve been here all day. With you.” I say.

“Oh god, and look, here’s a charge at Walmart. For $12.32. Did you go to Walmart?” she asks, coming into the man cave.

“No Dear. I’ve been here all day. See what I’m wearing here? I haven’t left the house,” I say standing up at my desk. I’m wearing an ill-fitting dri-fit Adidas running shirt, Adidas shorts, with Adidas socks pulled up to my knees and bedroom slippers.

“Are you sure you didn’t go to Arby’s?” she asks again.

I take a deep breath.

“Tracy. I’ve been sitting here all day. Working on all my cases, writing my memoir and my Medium articles. And I never go to Arby’s. I go to Foster’s Freeze. But I never go to Arby’s,” I say.

“You need to call the bank and tell them there’s fraudulent charges,” my wife says.

“Yes. I know that now,” I say.

“You need to call right away. Because they’re obviously on a spending spree.”

“Yes, Dear. See my fingers here? I’m dialing the bank. My fingers are dialing the bank right now” I say, lifting my phone up, and pointing at it.

“You must have screwed up. You must have let somebody have your PIN,” she says.

“No, Dear. I did not give anyone my PIN. I’m careful with my PIN.” I say.

“Well, how did they get your PIN? This happens all the time with you,” she says.

It’s kind of true. It does seem to happen to me every six months.

“It’s not my fault. There’s a dark web. With teen hackers in Russia. I saw it on ‘Crime Watch Daily’.”

“Well, it never happens to me,” she says.

“Dear. I didn’t do anything wrong. It’s the criminals’ fault. It’s not my fault, Dear,” I say.

“Remember that time you yelled your PIN out, inside the Target?” she asks.

“That’s because the cashier asked me for it. That was five years ago. And you were making me nervous standing there,” I say.

“You need to call the bank right away,” she says, going back to the kitchen. I hear her mutter “buffoon” under her breath.

. . .

I call the bank. The nice lady on the phone says:

“Yes, we had flagged those charges, and we were getting ready to call you,” she says.

“Can I ask you a question?” I say. “Where was the Arby’s?”

“The Arby’s was in West Covina California, and the Walmart was in Azusa, California. Were you at any of those places?”

“No. I’m in San Diego. You should see what I’m wearing.”

“Okay, well I’m canceling your debit card and sending you a new one. Please destroy your old card. The new card will arrive in 7 to 10 days.”

. . .

I feel proud of myself for calling the bank, so I head to the kitchen for a snack.

“This is going to screw everything up,” says my wife. “All the automatic payments are tied to that card.”

“Oh, well. You know, it won’t be that big a deal. We’ll just have to report the new card number when we get it,” I say.

I start putting the little cocktail hot dogs on a baking sheet and get the oven going.

My wife turns and looks at me. She shakes her head. Then puts her hand over her eyes, looks down, and exhales deeply. “No big deal he says,” my wife mutters, putting her head down on the counter. Then she says:

“I don’t know how you’re such a successful trial attorney. How can the juries take you seriously?”

That one hurts.

My two sons come down the stairs and have the nerve to shake their heads at me. Like this is all my fault.

. . .

I’ve got 22 minutes until the mini hot dogs are ready.

I get back to the man cave and look at my computer screen. There’s a bunch of new emails.

Here’s one from Dropbox.

URGENT. Payment Failure: We just tried to process you’re Semi-Annual fee but were unsuccessful. Today was the day it was due. If we do not receive payment, all of your lawyer stuff will be deleted quickly. We’ll make sure you can’t get your pdf files back either.

Don’t plan on working from home anymore. Plan on moving all the file boxes into Tracy’s new home gym area.

Here’s one from AT&T.

Your AT&T scheduled payment . . . . FAILED. All of your cell phones will be shut off. Soon.

We’re going to shut your wife’s phone off too. She will have to get a new phone number too, and not be able to use the one she’s always had since the early 90’s when “Friends” was on.

Suddenly, the Doobie Brothers song “Minute by Minute” stops playing on my computer. A prompt pops up on my Sonos app.

WARNING: YOUR SUBSCRIPTION TO SIRIUS XM “YACHT ROCK” HAS BEEN INTERRUPTED. PLEASE REAPPLY TO SEE IF YOU CAN GET ALL THOSE PROMOTIONAL DEALS YOU SPENT HOURS WORKING OUT WITH US LAST MONTH.

WE’RE GOING TO TURN IT OFF IN YOUR WIFE’S NEW JAGUAR TOO. REMEMBER HOW EXCITED SHE WAS TO GET XM BACK? AFTER ALL THOSE YEARS YOU MADE HER GO WITHOUT IT ON THE OTHER LEASE?

YEP, INTERRUPTED, WITH FULL CANCELLATION PENDING TONIGHT, MIDNIGHT (E.S.T.). CHEERS- XM STAFF.

“Oh my god!” I say aloud. “No!”

There’s a voicemail on my phone too? I put my Bluetooth earpiece in, and listen to the message. It’s a computerized voice, like Siri.

This is Umbilical Cords Plus. Your payment FAILED. You have 24 hours, holidays and weekends included to update your card on file, or we will throw the two cords out.

Friday is trash day around here. The cords have been laying around here for 14 and 15 years. That would be a damn shame. 

Click.

© Copyright 2020 Jack Clune