Monday, January 22, 2007

Bacdonowd

I wish I had a picture of this guy. I don't. But he was beautiful, tall and passionate. Derrick McGhee.

Not to be at all confused with Rich McGhee, whose surname was also Derick.

Derrick McGhee was a tall black preacher from Oakland but he had one small foible...he misspoke dispite his eloquence.

So "How you doing man?" came out "Bacdonowd!! How you doin ban!!!?"

And he listed to the right and made weird arm gestures.

I already related how Simpson was like the Starship Enterprise in it's inclusive nature...so imagine me standing 400 feet away from Rich as he walked down the very long hall and he was channeling Derrick and just got "stuck" against the wall.

He just listed right and got stuck against the wall...gawd I wish I had a picture.

Maniac.

Now we have to do mp3's.

There is no other way to tell the story.

Part one will be "My Wife" which was Derrick's excuse to come to my room and spleen out for hours on end. And the coffee in a beerstein.

Part two will be a short deal on his brother and photos.

Part three will be the dinner table with Rich, Kress and myself.

Now I love this guy....do not get me wrong. He is as comic a figure as I am.

Enjoy my being named "Bacdon".

Tells








Communion. Oil on wood.




I have been studying 2 Corinthians Four and it is majestic. It inspired me to crack my old Greek books and do word study. It is marvelous what you can discover while looking like an Uber-Geek and wearing no pants at 6 a.m.

Just in verse one the whole thing utterly sways away from what you would think given Americanized Christendom.

The key word is "mercy" and it's over-arching effect on everything. You receive such a gift and so you give it.

This is contrasted with using the Word oir Gospel for "gain's sake".

I think Bono said it best when he said he first came over from Ireland, turned on a tv in America and watched our evangelists and just said "these people are fucking insane".

That sums up verse 2.

I could quote Dante "Paradiso" (xiiii, 128-130) and be dead on...but Bono nailed it better.

These people just want your money. Screw that.

Moving on...we hit a little talked about area...veiled worlds. And I am not talking the Middle East, though those folks have a way of making it ALL about them...and we are not helping.

I digress.

The real issue here is "sight" (verses 3-6). Personally, I think we just need a massive unveiling.

It's touchy. I admit that...but mostly because these assholes (see above) have "adulterated" the Word. Hey...air it out...let it have it's day...see what happens.

The real issue, in these verses, is "glory".

It is what transforms us and inspires us...and not our glory...no no...we are not talking sports here...I mean God's glory.

More to come...






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Sunday, January 21, 2007

The Best Prankster Ever..part 2













You can see why he called me "webhead".






Bible college is a ridiculous thing. We did not know this coming in.

Rich and I both came from "the streets". Broken families...insane mothers...and distant fathers.

We just wanted to learn the Bible.

(It's still not a bad idea).

After we had made a pact (one that exists to this day some 27 years later) we unleashed together.

It was not all pranks. We did very hard work in our studies, Rich was an animal that way. We pulled all-nighters often and we encouraged each other in every class...relating each test to a baseball at-bat.

"How'd it go?" I'd ask.

"I tripled off the wall" Rich would say. "You?"

I homered a lot.

We had great teachers. They had second jobs to pay their bills...they were wonderful. Not just Doc, but Dr. Collard (Greek) and Wallmark (New Testament) and a man whose name will come to me (it's so close) in a bit. The finest men.

Then there were people who were completely nuts. Utterly.

Sone were students, others professors. I'll start with the profs.

Under proxy, my abnormal psychology class was overseen by Floyd Simmerson. I speak his name openly because 1) he has probably gone to meet the choir invisible by now; and 2) if not he would simply deny that he wore a polyester leisure suit to teach a college class.

In either event, I showed up one day for class and walked in and he was wearing a white polyester leisure suit. That was the warning shot. The thick belt and white shoes put me over the top.

Devan Devan Olsen (we do not know why) looked at me like "you staying?"

"Naw" I said aloud to the whole room..."Too much". And I walked away. I showed up for the final 9 weeks later and ace-d it.

In the meantime, the usual supects were all over.

Rich daily destroying Devan Devan Olsen or myself unless we had a suitible other target...and it was daily...you need to understand that.

I'll give you an example. Big mints.

I broke into Devan Devan's room and took two urinal disks and splintered them with his golf clubs (Rich has done this 2 weeks earlier and I saw his brilliance). Then I shut his window and turned up the heat (evebn though it was Spring) so-as to cook the vapors.

It was uninhabitable for a week or so.

That was just one day.

On the next day Rich had stolen Devan Devan 's truck and he walked him down the hallway talking about crime in the City and how rampant it was as he led him to the window that overlooked Devan Devan Olsen's usual parking spot.

"WHERERE's my TRUCK?!!!" he snarled to no avail.

******

Then there were the students.

When I called Rich the other night he replied "Bacdon!"

It's an old name for me...not as old as "Mac" but just as accurate.

I am Christopher, Mac and Bacdon. Those are my three Christian names.

I will tell you how I got the name "Bacdon" tomorrow...and I promise you will laugh.

Comedy & Tragedy










From Love and Death.




Okay...the guy later found himself a perp...but he had the audacity to take on cosmic issues and Russian literature and do humor. Ya gotta give him that. And I defy you to watch Love and Death and not laugh your ass off.

It may be one of the funniest unknown comedies on the planet...alongside The Survivors and The Twelve Chairs.

But back to "bidness".

There is nothing more tragic and comedic than being human.

Just pick up today's paper or go on SFgate.com and this will be bore out immediately.

It's what we report about ourselves and it is just damned true.

Think about your day and how you bounce back and forth between comedy and tragedy?

Ping!

Saturday, January 20, 2007

I'm not all funny...











Under my humorous veneer I am dead serious.




My friend, and pastor, Rod said the other day that I need major earmuffs where most people are deaf.

Word.

It is ironic that I am the face of Maverickssurf.com and every day wave upon wave comes crashing over me. I tombstone...I follow my leash...I feel as if I am drowning. It's awful and there is no relief.

But I am not the only one by any means. There are many others and Rod was wise to remind me of that. I am far from alone... as alone as I feel. Perception and reality are sketchy to say the least.

Word.

Poet William Everson wrote a prayer that he might be able to move through the "blind surf of events" and find the stone levels he knew existed. This is our challenge and it is not easy but it is real.

Who, at age 50, cries into their pillow for want of Christ? Who agonizes over ther own selfishness?

Well not me to be sure (see I cannot stop joking).

*******

People fear the Bible because they have never read it.

I have read it...in fact I learned Greek and attempted Hebrew so I could know it better. I have two Greek commentaries on my desk at the moment.

That is not normal.

And It is very much different than you might think.

It is beautiful, explosive, sweet and dangerous.

The other day my brother came to anoint me. It is an age-old tradition for Christians to anoint the sick with oil and pray for them. It's vulnerable and deep and personal. It's humbling and I am not a humble man by any means.

I asked him to read from Paul's second letter to the Corinthians...chapter four.

It is a particularly dangerous and sweet passage and later he admitted it unnerved him a bit.

So it goes.

*******

The first few verses of the chapter are just about "coming clean".

Palms exposed and raw like Jesus.

Word.

The next session (yes, you may have to read it) is apexed by the glory of Christ. You either see it or you do not, If you don't look again and again and again until you do. If you still do not...pray in a raw naked way until you do. It matters.

The whole deal is "seeing behind the veil"...which is just your intuition times five spiritually.

Meanwile (moving down to verse 7) we hold this reality and love and faith in the clay pots that are our very selves.

They break...they shatter and the water seeps out. And so Paul, living under house arrest begins to unveil the red clay of our earthly truth.

More tomorrow.


















The Best Prankster Ever




















Rich was the best prankster by far. He lived for it. He would pelt Devan Devan Olsen (we do not know why the double thing happens) with hot bagels in the dark San Francisco morning while everyone else slept.

He was as capricious as his God has turned out to be.

As Reese would say "Tree...apple...sigh."

I would sit at my desk around 2 p.m. studying Barker, Lane and Michaels (gawd they were dry) and I would hear Devan Devan Olsens (see above) keys sliding across the floor into the urinal.

scacacacacacacacattttaaaaa.CHING!

Another time (and I was witness) DDO was in the stall of the same bathroom. He was casting inflammatory insults at Rich (he had every reason). Rich was simply brushing his teeth.

More insults and more teeth brushing.

Then Rich put down his toothbrush, calmly walked over and picked up the garbage can and dumped it over the top into Devan Devan's stall.

All fell silent (I had to cover my mouth).

There was silence and then some slight rustling.

*******

This is how it went every day. There was never a day when we did not unleash something on each other.

It was a sign of love, devotion and respect. If other became involved it went very very badly for them.

But Rich was the best. I got him...he got me...in fact that was how we came to bond. He and I both had an epiphany that we should join forces.

Now least you think that Devan Devan Olsen was the main recipient I need to clarify.

There was the night that Rich and DDO krept up onto the fifth floor and unleashed an utterly huge water balloon on some unsuspecting students. The thing was massive and I can't even remember where they got it, but I do remember that once they let it fly (downwards) they realized it could KILL.

Then there was the Dave Miller incident.

Miller, a budding journalist posted a note in the Simpson tabloid about Rich's seceret microwave oven and coffeemaker (both off limits).

Three days later Rich was in my tiny room studying with me at 2 a.m. when we heard an awful cry-out from two doors over.

"Geez! what is that?"

"Bacdon....I put a potato bug in Miller's bed," Rich said.

"Oh damn...that is nasty."

"Yeah, but as C.S. Lewis said 'It will hurt, but it won't kill.'"

*******

This is why I made peace early with the Prankster. As you have already read I inherently knew the rules.

I struck first. Rich looked a bit like my old friend David Lubeck (Benn will enjoy this). Both of them are too beautiful to live...but that was not my deal. I photocopied up (remember, this is 1979) about 300 flyers for a "Dave Lubeck Look-alike Contest" on campus. The other pictures were of women and black men. Soon everyone on campus were calling Rich "Lubeck".

I mean everyone.

He struck back quickly by stealing my picture and doing a thing which noted my tendency to have too much hair calling me "webhead".

People laughed and pointed. No barber could help me.

After that we had lunch and decided to destroy others in a united fashion.

*******

Friday, January 19, 2007

Term Planning











A classic 72 Bug. I just bought my son a 69 with a moon roof.



I moved from Simpson in 1979 to CSUS and was paired with Scott McCrae.

He was, and is, an utter rascal.

We have already established my character (and no, I am not nearly done with the Simpson stories).

We were roomates and on my first day I stopped by the CSUS bookstore and grabbed 25 "term planners" from a box so I could lace them under his covers.

It just seemed right at the time.

Scott never said a word. But the next day when I opened my overnight bin 50 term planners came spilling out on my head.

He was good.

Game on.

*******

It was a war of escalation but not without delight. I was often impressed. Scott was swift and had a sense of irony even though he was not in the Liberal Arts.

But I got him finally.

It's funny. In those days it was "no quarter" yet restrained. I feel now, these days that it's no quarter...yet damned serious.

I liked the other times more. It was fun and I didn't get nasty letters.

Anyway...I took like 800 term planners and scotch-taped them one-to-one and completely covered his Bug. When Scott came out to drive his Bug he had the world's largest and most prestigeous term planner in existence.

Hell..he could have made plans for the 24th Century given what I had provided in planning materials.

He gave it up after that. I believe the last words he said to me as he move to Draper Hall was 'Maniac".

I just Heard "Mac", but I hear that alot.

*******

Here is to Christine, Thomas, Benn, Cayla, Sean and Michael...who are all sons and daughters to such madness. I am the only adult who admits to being unscrewed...thus can I write these things. Enjoy.

Michael...your dad is the same..he just needs the job...believe me..I've seen it. Thank God for your mother Kathy.

So...Story Number 2




In case you think I'm embellishing.







In short we put the car on blocks, rebolted the bucket seats in backwards, exchanged the headrests and armrests, Crisco-larded the windscreens, let the air out of the tires, and put a potato in the exhaust pipe.

Of course this was not enough.

Mac's doctrine must be inforced and was.

I had gotten the key from Pope Kodiac's sister Kitty. We waited until Wett had to go to Reno for Chris Fuji's ordination. Our youth pastor Dave was also alongside and as they went into the service in Reno he turned to Wettstein and said "Oh by the way...they are getting you tonight."

There was nothing he could do. He was 250 miles away, in a Presbyterian service and powerless.

Later he became an Episcopalian.

Of course he hunted me for a few weeks. I'd see his Suburban pull up outside the Mt. Diablo Hospital and I'd run inside. In the end there was nothing he could do. He had been had...I knew he had invaded "The Brick" and he was demoralized. Weeks later we had coffee and I convinced him to help me get Stanley.

Stanley was my best plan yet.






Thursday, January 18, 2007

The Tooth








Tracer gun unmodified.




I just had to take the thing apart and bend the wire back so it would kick like a mule. Sure, it only fired one out of three shots...but when it did...whammo!

This is another Simpson story. And it is all true.

I was young and full of hubris (as opposed to now when I am old and full of hubris) so I had a photo outside my room that showed me with two shotguns, sunglasses, and a ridiculous semi-safari outfit befitting a Hemingway illegitimate child. The caption read "Do you feel lucky?"

Now just to set the scene, the dorm rooms at Simpson were very small. In fact, sleeping on the top bunk you had about 3 inches of breathing room. Below was the desk and then books and it faced the door. The coffeemaker was recessed and secreted away and just made the whole dorm floor go "brown" when I used it.

Well they came for me one night. I mean...given the picture they had to.

"Mac!! boom boom boom!!! We feel LUCKY!"

I sighed. I put aside Spurgeon's Treasury of David, took out my modified tracer gun, put on my sunglasses and braced myself.

They had Devan Devan in the hallway and he had keys. There was no reason for Devan Devan Olsen to ever have been entrusted with keys...I mean he was growing pot in the rotunda on a regular basis...still I heard them jangle and I tensed up.

I would forgive him later.

*******

The door burst open and seven guys tried to wedge in to blast me to bits.

They had longstanding issues with other people and I was the immediate occasion.

It all happened in slow motion. The incoming tracers were impressive. Five went wide right and thwaked into my back window. Six other went left or down. One bounced off my glasses immediately...another off my cheek, two others off my arms.

Hey...seven against one.

Meanwhile I fired...but remember...my gun only went off one out of three times.

I saw Dirk Bond (God he must have hated me), and John Sloper and Clausin but the guy I knew wanted me dead was Skover.

Now I would say that it is a strange thing to be in a Bible College where people truly hate each other...but then read today's paper about the Middle East.

Skover hated me. I did not hate him, but I recognized his glee in hating me and I thought it wrong. I mean it was not spiritually healthy for his hating me to go unaddressed.

So I addressed it.

With a tracer.

*******

Now in retrospect Skover was really a sweet guy. He was. Actually every one of those guys were really great...Sloper, Bond, Clausin...and the three others. Devan Devan Olsen is one of my favorite people...I mean who shows up to a Bible Study with a tomahawk? ...But that is another story).

But Skover was my target as I was already dead.

It was the "glee" factor that I recognized. So I shot as the hail of tracers flooded my room (see above).

I focused and shot.

First two triggers were duds. The third kicked out wide right. The next wide left (or maybe glanced off of Sloper's already balding head.

But the fifth....ahhhh...thing of beauty. Straight and true and it caught poor Skover on the very awfully-nervy edge of his front tooth.

"OH GOD!" he reeled back, taking four guys with him in his agony. They spilled backwards into the hallway. I got up and slammed the door and that was that.

All ya need is one real good shot.

Too bad it doesn't happen more often.

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Tuesday, January 16, 2007

Three




Birds on a wire....1991.










I am also a painter...though I do not do enough. I actually spend way too much time NOT doing what I do best.

I was made to do art and theology and I just grasp at it here and there.

This little picture/painting is indicative.

Three birds on a wire. They sat outside my house on Fremont Street and I painted them.

Why do people do art? Why do they paint? Why do they sing?

Have you ever wondered about that?

********

Because they do not have to. Not at all.

*******

I have three little beings in front of my desk. Boo, Peanut and Cookie. As I write they are spitting seeds onto my desk. They do this with abandon. Peanut hops into the corner and looks me in the eyes as if to say "yes, you are 40,000 percent bigger than I am. But I know my place and you do not".

He has a a point.

They are adorable and sweet and a picture.

But a picture of what?

Why did those birds on a wire so capture me 16 years ago?

Why did I paint them and why do we paint?

In the small quiet moments do you ask yourself these things or is it just me?


*******






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Saturday, January 13, 2007

...die.. burn..



Usury is an unamed topic. Yet it is flashed in front of our faces daily.















Okay...my headline....

Rich use to make fun of the "Live Laugh Learn" necklaces. He just wanted to add "Die...Burn".

Good joke.

Rupert Murdock spent a couple billion for Myspace. It has not gone well for him, thus his minions are becoming more overt. Look at the picture above. Deconstruct it. What are they saying?

Fake breasts, a firm abdomen and a cowboy hat! YEEHAW!

The more desperate they get the more T&A they get and now animated. It's pathetic, sad and wrong.

******

I hate this stuff and it is worse because I am a celebate. I have not had sex since I cannot remember when but I am bombarded by this crap every day. "Come F-me" is the message...and I get these obscene IM's on Yahoo...wanna come see my pix?

No. I really don't.

But I will pray for you.

I am no Saint. I have made love to more women than is naturally called for. True, I let them finish first, but I still would have it otherwise. Fidelity is a quality highly underrated in the Modern world.

And sex is a strange thing if you look at it from a ways back.

I'll write about that later and have fun with that I assure you.

I just see ads like the above and know it is plain usury. It's wrong on so many levels. From the model who is paid to become an icon, to the folk who receive these messages...buy our product and you can have this.

Dogshit. Nonsense.

Sex is first about lust, then about connection and is ultimately spiritual.

That's it. That and it results in kids.

*******

I admit that maybe this stuff sets me off because I am sexually frustrated. But let's be fair and note that I get hit with these messages ever single day and I cannot remember when I last was intimate with a woman. So they are playing me daily and I am shelved. True or not true???

What is worse is I am really good in bed. Seriously. It took me years to get past my inhibitions and really be THERE.

No one cares.

Okay, okay...a few women care and have written about it...but I want something more.

And I am not going to get it. That's clear. That's my crucible. I get to see but not touch.

It sucks.

But it is honest.

I have choices I could make. I could make sure i get laid once a year or more if I wanted. I have no moral qualms. But I don't.

The universe is essentially relational...so getting laid is not an option (360 days a year).

Sheesh.

Friday, January 12, 2007

Beautiful...


I had breakfast with my friend the other morning. I cherish these times. We talk openly...we laugh and our hearts break often. It is real and then we go and pray like ancient priests and walk away like old school chums.

You see I am a poet beyond my schenanighans and goings on.

I'm not a monk (as I often claim). I am a Jedi.

*******

I'll explain that term later...but that is the Truth and the Truth is powerful in it's simplicity.

What is this beautiful Truth I want to share?

*******

I had this dream the other night that all places were walled off and there was no escape. I was running hard and I was being followed. Have you ever felt this way deep down in your gut?

I hit a dark room and there was nothing...I mean nothing in the room and it was dank and I could tell many had died in this place before...many.

Then a door opened, and it opened into a fresh field and a stream. I walked outside and heard the waters rushing by. I walked up the trail a few miles until it met the sea and the sun was setting in an orange blue misted glaze and it repeated off the waters as the waves swam inside and the shoals curled in and things became One.

Then I heard Brother Antonius say "beneath the blind surf of events is the Word of God."

The Word of God breaks my heart in every way but bitterness. There is soft nectar in its hard bedrock. The blind surf of events every year is passing as is the sea. The rocks that lay beneath are like the twelve stones of Jordan...no they are even more than that. They are beautiful. David's laments are deeper than any man's; the prayers of Jesus deeper still; the philosophy of Solomon deeper than any Modern; the kind pictures of Paul deeper and more difficult than any scholar.

But at the end we want beauty. We all know we are going to die. We treasure beauty so very much in all of its overt forms and even its echoes (I have to credit N.T. Wright for this...I use the word "snapshots" myself...but echoes is really good).

The Beauty is the Word. It is all around us, under us, above us...it flows from each of us one to another in a thousand different ways every single day. It is in the forgiveness, the repentant moment, the tossled hair of a child, the inspection of a bright orange, the smile to a fellow driver, the tears over a loss, the trudging down a stairwell when you just have to do it. It's like your dog in the sun, like that moment in Communion where Christ becomes real; like making love to someone you dearly cherish.

*******

Lucas hit on something CORE with the idea of the Jedi. There are men and women who have one foot firmly in this world, but who also understand that behind the veil there is another reality. If you ask anyone from any tradition they will tell you this is real. In fact, it is often the Religious who deny this reality because they need to try and control it...and it cannot be controlled.

Now Christ is the ultimate Jedi...Lamb and Lion, Incarnate Deity and humble baby. There is no greater or deeper story. And we are called in God's image to reflect this in some ways...even if they are small ways.

So when I meet a man who has killed off this Imageo Dei in himself I know there is no hope for him...just blank existence. But then I meet others...WAY outside my own tradition and training who are so filled with light you can feel it. They are glorious and I could often just take my shoes off because they are Holy.

Daughter is a Jedi.

Most of them are full of light. But not all. There are dark Jedi as well. They use their gifts to use others and they cause pain and suffering whever they go. They believe...make no mistake...they believe...but they are not troubled by their deeds.

I am troubled every day. I see what others see and how they agonize. They have an inherent spiritual power that few of them realize. They are always at the doorstep though they often feel they are miles away.

Such is the nakedness of faith.

The Eternal Hippo...








The new plush version.





So I finally called Delinda. I had finally written about Doc twice and she deserved a call.

She was disheveled to say the least and who wouldn't be given me?

Once, at a basketball game at Simpson, Rich and I sat on either side of Delinda. Whenever the action went right I would lean across to the left and talk with Rich. He did the same whenever the action went left. He would lean across Delinda and speak to me (just as the action went to his side) about a theological controversy, and I would wait till it went the other way so she never saw a play.

We did this like 50 times without breaking character. And, even better...we did it by instinct, not planned.

Rascals.

But now we must turn to the Eternal Hippo...

*******

Delinda did not remember the Eternal Hippo when I called. I admit I was disappointed because it became legend at CSUS alongside the "Term Planner" incidents. (This will also be written about and I am bugging Christine Mac about getting her mother to find a photo of her dad's Bug covered in 700 term planners each taped together).

It was the spirit of Kierkegaard upon me that made me so ascerbic at the time. Delinda was 23 and had been named the Dean of Women in a repressed Bible College. And she was hot.

What were they thinking?

The woman before her, who was the Dean of Women, was Mrs. Butz (I kid you not). Devan Devan Olsen (we do not know why) grew his pot plants in the main Simpson rotunda in the potted plant fixtures. Every day Mrs. Butz would totter out and water his stash.

That was until Rich got wind of Devan Devan's deal and put an end to it. We did have some morals. Then Delinda was moved in to replaced Mrs. Butz. This was most disconcerting on an embedded hormonal level...if you get my drift.

To my credit, I never acted on this. McGhee did, and Mitchell followed suit and both were suitably ground up and dispatched. But in my own way I loved Delinda and it was perhaps the only love I have ever had that did not end in tears.

In fact...it was laughter. And it was fun the other day, after 30 years, to hear her laugh...that same laugh. I'm a funny guy...make no mistake. Delinda has an infectious laugh...and my standing by the side makes it more so.

Part of that humor, was that Delinda had to run the bookstore., as well as oversee all the women's dorms (see below on weirdness) . It was not much of a bookstore at all..in fact it was noticeably absent of books for a bookstore. It was rather full of trinkets and I routinely tortured her on this issue.

Most every morning I would walk in and fixate on a product that was woefully stupid and then I would preach to her.

She liked it.

What can I say?

++++++

One morning I found the Eternal Hippo. There was a table of soft stuffed toys/animals. The Hippo was compelling...I mean really.

I took it, then waited in line and then pretended I did not know her and simply asked "Ma'am...can you tell me how this Hippo relates to my biblical studies?"

She went flush.

"Can you explain the eternal significance of this Hippo?" I asked.

She batted her eyes and stifled a laugh.

"Oh well...just take the thing" she finally said.

And I did. I walked out and down the hall throwing the Eternal Hippo up in the air and catching it as I walked. I could hear her protestations in the distance as I walked away.

No matter.

The Hippo became emblematic in the days that followed. Rich had it for awhile...and Devan Devan (WDKW). At one point I surrendered the Hippo to Delinda (I think I had been summoned on three occasions for questionings). But it came back to me later in a box with a nice note.

One of the things you had to admit about Delinda was while she decimated men she had a great deal of class. Superbly so. And she still does, from what I can tell...and she has loved and been a soul mate to her husband for near 25-plus years.

That makes me very happy.

Good woman. As usual, I missed the boat.

*******

Simpson Weirdness (as promised).

Simpson Bible College was like the Starship Enterprise without an engine room.

Everyone lived in the same building/place. The only need to travel outside was to get to the gym, which was 300 feet away. Not even Doc used the gym. It was pretty much me only.

You ate there, slept there, played there, studied there, met your professors there, flirted there and did pranks.

We did at least one prank a day, every day...between Rich, DDO (WKNW) and myself.

Some days the prank was easy. Rich would just steal Devan Devan Olsen's keys and we would hear them slide across the floor into the urinal....cha--ching!

Other days it was planned way ahead of time (see The Mac/Mitchell Wars).

*******

Okay...before I proceed I have to tip my cap to Delinda for taking my call. I am the kind of guy who sets up a joke and then delivers the punchline 3 decades later...it's utterly unfair. It was fun to hear her laugh...but on a serious note Delinda has been through some real STUFF...both she and Bill (her husband) and I look forward to hearing more about what God will do with them..because God is with those whose hearts and often bodies are broken in some way.

When we were young and unbroken we had no idea. Now we know. Doc knew. He died of cancer.

*******

If I was not a rascal I would be dead. I drive my roomate nuts with my antics...but it keeps me alive...really. At near 50 I live next door to a woman who is, arguably, as beautiful as Delinda was (and probably is) today. She has amazing eyes and she is wicked smart and I'm in the same spot. I care so much more about the friendship and long-term than I do today. That is another version of faith, no?

In 1978 Delinda and I sat on the steps of the second floor and had a talk about "us".

She does not remember this at all...but I do.

I'm built that way.

I told her my simple reasons for denying our being romantic. She laughed. I laughed.

She will tell you (if you ask) that I was gorgeous. It did not matter...it was a good decision.

********

I'm not gorgeous any more. Even though my pastor says I am sexy (he qualified) I am not gorgeous anymore. I am well-worn. My sons? They are gorgeous now. And I have tried to tell them this because no one ever told me. I had no idea. Adam is likely the most gorgeous kid on the planet...just have a look sometime.

His brothers are too handsome to live.

*******

But back to fun....

I love to tell stories. Can ya tell?

Have you ever met anyone who writes so much???

I love it.

*******

Okay...here is story about Rich. He and I battled for two weeks then realized that together we were unstoppable. I still regret that we never did a Church plant together. We had lunch after the "Dave Lubeck" and "Webhead" incidents and joined forces.

It was near Christmas time and we had no families to speak of. We decided to have a toga party. No alcohol...no girls...geez. We had Devan Devan Olsen hide in a closet for three hours so we could get in around 11 p.m. unhindered.

We slipped out our windows (second floor) and made our way quietly to the gymnasium room. Devan Devan (WDKW) opened the door after being accosted in a closet for several hours. We hit the lights, adjusted our togas, had some fresh non-alcoholic eggnog and began to sing old church hymns.

Pretty risky business.

The campus security guard (Steve Thompson) came busting in and most of the guys scattered.

Fooking sheep.

Rich and I grabbed Thompson and explained that he was gonna bake in the sauna like a "fat red lobster" if he sqwaked before morning.

We came to an understanding. He could rat on us..in the morning. Fair is fair. Hell the guy was making $2.80 cents an hour.

We were fined the same amount the next morning by Delinda. She took great relish in grilling me on the details. I left nothing out.






















Thursday, January 11, 2007

Doc...part two

I wish I had a good picture of him...but I do not.

Later today I will try and find a yearbook that has his picture. If I do, it will also contain the pictures of other known renegades like Rich, Devan Devan (always two), Mark, and Delinda.

But this is about Doc.

He knew Kierkegaard from his studies, so he knew sorrow, comedy and faith. If you, yourself, think about your most poignant moments in life...they come down to these three. Kierkegaard just had to live there in the Emergency Room every day of his life...which is why he died early.

Yet he stands tall today. There is no greater mind in Christendom in the last 300 years than Kierkegaard. Behind him is Pascal...the same.

Then we go through a dark blue patch in my view. But I am not a historian. I just read books.

Athanasius kicked some ass in the 200's. That's all I know.

*******

Reading books is one of the noblest things we do..and it relates to a post upcoming (I am unsure about this one...it's risky). It has to do with WORD...and our singular attachment to it and how it enfolds us, enriches us, and echoes in our brainpans for many years.

WORD.

*******

Doc always wanted to teach but he was not pushy. He would stand in front of 90 students in Western Civ and show slides of his travels to Europe to museums and such. He would ask simple questions that were vulnerable...like "Do you like this painting?" And you never felt that anything but an honest answer was being requested. He had that freshness about him...and humility.

He was a humble man but a powerhouse. As Vice President of the college all real daily dealings fell to him. The President was just a marker for fund raising. And I hate to say it..but a buffoon.

Rich use to steal Devan Devan's (always twice) truck daily and would often park it in the President's driveway. DD was often called out of class to remove it.

Alll for now...

Wednesday, January 10, 2007

DOC...not doghouse...










My dorm room.





I've had some great mentors. One of them is dead...Doc Humphries. He was Canadian and possible gay and a Kierkegaardian scholar and a Western Civ. academic at Simpson College in 1978.

I lived in a dorm and it was small, cramped, but in the City. I had a beautiful view and the best air on the planet. Near 30 years later I find myself in much the same situation and, frankly, I like it. I liked it then...I like it now.

Doc lived in the next cell block over. They had rennovated part of the C wing to make it into a three room apartment for him. I lived on second floor D.

He also had a spacious office that we tried to abuse whenever possible. But we were never any match for Doc.

I was poor then and I am today. I was well situated then, and I am today. I lived in a small room with a bunk bed...I do today. I love the same things and as I sat in my small room tonight and listened to Bach's Cello Concerto #4 and I remember the musty books and the deep loins of the Simpson library that I plumbed while others were otherwise occupied chasing girls. My first instincts were always best.

I love to study, and Doc did too. He knew I was a Gospel maniac from the gitco and so he invited me weekly out for coffee in San Francisco. We would go to this coffeehouse (diner) and he would order dessert and I would drink bad coffee and rail against his college. He was so gracious, and he asked me back most every week.

Once, when I was gone chasing a woman in Sacramento, Rich and Devan Devan (always two) Olsen had keys to my room. They made use. In fact they noticed that someone was watching them from C Block and began to pelt the windows with my sugar cubes. They threw and threw laughing their asses off until one of them started to see daylight. It came slow...as they threw pellet upon pellet of sugar at the windows of C Block.

Then horror and realization.

IT's DOC!

They had been pelting Doc while he watched.

They confessed upon my return fearing ultimate retirbution (it was obviously from my room) ..but Doc never said a thing. He just loved me and I loved him.

*******

I dislike commemorative crap...but I had a paver stone made for Doc at The PCS cgurch in Roseville. It would have been better to have done one at McCovey cove when you could get one.

*******

For us Christians who really do believe and not hide, we know Doc is here...NOW. It's not like Disney and James Earl Jones showing up at 40 percent in a scene. No, we really believe and undestand this shit.

Doc has a fulness right now I cannot understand in any real way. I think he must watch me (only occasionally) and both sigh and marvel. He misses our coffee time. I do too.

Bach continues in the background. I had no media then and I have none now...I choose this (okay Bach is via my iPod).

I love the study of the Word...and the sound of violins, and the thought of Doc. and good hardwood floors and the fresh air of the Bay Area.

I like my simple books...John Lennon...U2 on U2...Thich Nyat Hanh's book on the Buddha and Christ...Ellul on the Meaning of the City, St. Bernard of Clarvieux on the Song of Solomon, Lewis on The Four Loves. My pastor Rod gave me N.T. Wright's Simply Christian, and I love it. Wow!!

I love my new dorm. It has better music (iPod) and new techno-shit. But it is still a small space to meet God in. We all have to meet God alone. This is what we avoid and it is (tears) so understandible...but what we really need is to be alone so we can then not be alone...not alone at all.




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Tuesday, January 09, 2007

Steiner Street Dear...









The Hillard Residence.



In Mrs. Doubtfire, Robin Williams is offered only to see his kids for a few hours with a court appointed supervisor. His outrage is palpable. The reason he cannot see his kids is his Ex (played supurbly by Sally Fields) decides it doesn't work with her schedule.

This is the plight for many fathers and because so many dads are deserters the courts swing wildly that way.

Well I don't look good in drag and I already cleaned L's house way too many times.

When we went to the "Mediator", who had already made her mind up my Ex requested that a supervisor be present then named my parents.

My parents live 4 hours away in Monterey. They also have a life of their own. They are currently in New Zealand for a month or so. And, to make matters worse, we had really just worked out a pretty good relationship, finally, after 40 some-odd years.

L is very smart. Too smart for my own good. This was her chance for near full control, and in fact she now has that because my folks are not going to come here, nor should they every few weeks.

So once again, it is not about the kids or their ultimate welfare. It's a classic Mrs. Doubtfire.

And appropriately L's new job (at a Church) is a block from where the film was made on Steiner.

The depictions of Daniel and Miranda are hyperbolic yet pretty dead on. Daniel is a creative soul with a conscience and is often financially challenged. He's a free spirit and a lover. I am very much this way. Such a person creates names and characters for his kids and is silly enough to turn an entire old mansion into a giant miniature golf course.

It's just how we think. And it is good an holy and right even though it is hated by control freaks.

Miranda is a control freak. She is an architect by trade and successful. She shows no remorse over her split with Daniel and her schedule rules even visitation ("we are his goddamn kids too" says the little one).

Miranda is not a bad person. She is just so focused on her own life that no one else really matters. She has no idea how ingrained the lives of her kids are with Daniels. She just wants him gone and out of the picture so she can have fun with Stu (Pierce Brosnan) and have her life her way. As understandable as that is, it is still wrong and not in the best interests of the kids.

The movie is really about the love that drives a father. So many people have abandonment issues well into their adult lives and what I am fearful of is that Camille will have those, and worse, it will have been imposed by her mother.

What a horrible place to situate your own child.

Monday, January 08, 2007

Supposed to be funny...but it's not so very so...












Olaf the Giant, crica 1650.








My friend Spritz is writing a book about his family history. He's got a brilliant mind and is, perhaps, the funniest writer I have ever known personally. He use to regularly decimate me at Cafe Paris in Sacramento during the Monday Night Word Jams.

Once I remember laughing so hard I had to crawl out the door on my hands and knees. I tried shimmying out on my back...but hands and knees were better. He is just that funny.

Anyway, Spritz, who now lives in Maine where it use to snow but no longer does, wrote me this a.m. about several issues...most of which shall remain private so long as due payment is received.

But one was genealogy and his fascination with it. I told him eighteen months ago to stop researching my family and do his own. Strangely, he did. He just dropped the whole MacDonald/Zetterberg thing.

Flake.

Apparently most of the relatives he contacts are not interested. Personally, I think this has more to do with his reputation as a satirist. Who wants to open up to a distant family member then read about it in Harper's three months later?

Not only that, given the extensive nature of the Spritz line (like fruit flies) throughout NorthAmerica the word passed quickly, and wrongly, that he was a "satanist" rather than the satarist that he is. This put a damper on research which no amount of collect calls could discourage.

But I digress.

My father is also interested in genealogies. He did research on his mother's side and found that in a remote Swedish village we once had an ancestor named "Olaf the Giant". Of course, this being several centuries ago and in a remote village, Olaf was actually 5'3".

But he was big to them...thus the name.

Me? I am 6'7". No one calls me "Mac the Giant".

No research of any kind that I know of has been done on the male side. The MacDonald men of old have a certain shadow and pall cast over them . Both of my grandfathers died fairly early of alcohol-related illnesses. I think one of them died in the snow (perhaps in Maine when they still had snow, but more likely Chicago, or perhaps in Philadelphia in a meat locker after a bar fight).

The men behind them are ghosts, as are the women. No real attempt has been made , that I know of, to research their lives, or their fathers and mothers. It's just useful when in Scotland to get free drinks at the bar (ironic huh?).

"Hi, I'm a MacDonald and I'm Scottish."

"Ayeya Mac! OO givtha roundahouse an git tuit!"

*******

I have talked with each of my sons about this genetic predisposition to one extend (age-appropriate) or another. I would have appreciated that talk myself at 16 instead of an open (and full) liquor cabinet and a well-stocked fridge and absent parents.

I might have preferred attention and nurture. Maybe talking and laughter like I had with my kids when I use to see them. "Oh pappy" Cammie would say when she came out and we would do art and watch Spongebob.

When I was a kid,. we were more like pets that simply had to be accounted for and fed. The only designated times were when grades came out and I had to eat my report card on the way home (heavy on vitamin D).

*******

I was not very bright. In fact, in fourth grade, they put me in the retarded class on every one's advice and even then I sunk to the bottom of the class. Admittedly, I had drooling down (and still do). But it was determined that I had no skills in the arts, science, critical thinking, and certainly not writing. They thought math showed some promise when I was able to successfully purchase lunch and get change three days in a row. On the fourth day I brought Danish coins and was rebuffed.

Anyway, did I mention I have a hard time focusing?

So to return to my other three points...

*******

My Ex and LIBF are trying to take their histories and overwrite my life. I believe I have to object.

LIBF grew up with men who had alcohol issues and they were mean, violent and cruel.

So far he has not shown me that he has not inherited these gifts. I have been threatened (no matter how "courteously") on many occasions. He has assaulted my son and wishes to remind me regularly how my words mean nothing (while his do) and how his actions mean nothing (while mine do). He has threatened me with restraining orders when I peacefully picked up my kids (when I got to do that).

Frankly...I don't trust him. No brainer.

I figure, the only reason (given his actions toward Adam) that he has not taken me "out back" to explain things to me in a "manly way" is because I am twice his size (minimum) and I would simply unscrew his tiny head in defense.

Note that...self-defense. I'm a lover.

L grew up with a family laced with addiction, She is a classic codependent. She needs the disease to flourish because it is what she knows and understands.

Thus her need to view and treat me as she does. It has nothing to do with me or reality at all.

It is what she knows and expects. She is still trying to work out her own demons.

Whatever.

******

Family histories are difficult. Everyone has a "dysfunctional family". Our job is to recognize where we are in that web, become our true selves, realize our callings and love and forgive those closest to us. That doesn't solve everything...but at least you have a map and a code.

In LIBF's map anyone who has ever had issues with alcohol (and I have) is a perp. It has nothing to do with me, or my words or my actions. It's his internal "grid". Done deal. I'm just the "marker". And even that I do not drink makes no difference because I once did...and it hurt him so (by them) that I am just a tag...a marker.

My dad use to be the same way to a lesser degree. I think, actually, he was more pissed that I spoke my mind freely (I admit it must be maddening). But I think he also saw the spectre of his own father hanging over my head and simply did not know what to do.

Let me explain this about my father. He is terribly intelligent, witty, funny handsome and adventurous. I am also all of these things...BUT our intelligence swings into a wide chasm (or at least it has for most of our shared lives until recently).

He is also maddening. He is passionate, outspoken and often times unreasonable.

Go figure. Where is Olaf when you need him?

Anyway, we have never really gotten along at all until the last few years. We made a deal...an "accord" a few years back at the family cabin. In the agreement he agreed to grant me autonomy and an unrestricted free homeland in exchange for honest disclosure about the state of affairs (respectfully) in my homeland and forgiveness of him for the past.

If only they would do this in the Middle East.

This was a significant move forward, and we have managed, despite outside pressures, to maintain this peace accord. We may never be close, but we love each other and respect rules the day.

*******

We found out years later that I was not quite retarded. We also found out I could write, and at a near ridiculous rate. We also found out I have a knack for painting and art. We soon found that nearly anything was possible: poetry, farce, short stories and even a novel which is actually done.

We found out I had a knack for systems theory and saw paradigms in my head that became actual products (and with a patent in one case).

We also found other things I am not so happy about.

In my poem Seconds I talk about inheriting the "burning hot heart of my grandfather".

This is the part of the MacDonalds that needs to be talked about. It is our genius. It's how my father understood gas and liquid chromatography in an intuitive way from the gitgo. It's how my eldest son understands music from the inside out and people. It's how each of them sees from "inside".

It's why I see connections few others will ever see.

It's scary at times. Maybe my grandfather, who died in the snow, just had nowhere to go with who he really was.

We do.

I do.

But we compensate or mitigate. Or we have in our own adult ways.

Now for the sons who read this (and sisters) the future is not fixed. You can choose NOW, and I suggest you do rather than simply accept and react.

I have been fighting my "disease" since late Fall. It is hard but worthwhile. My enemies (and make no mistake...the fact I have just typed this WILL be used against me by them) mean me harm and not good as sure as the Lord is the Center of Creation and all that is good. In a sense it is not personal. They are working out their own issues and I am just the paper-cut-out occasion for their madness.

But your brother and sister, niece and nephew...they are the ones who suffer.

It is whispered in Camille's ear "your dad has a disease". But when one has a disease one is visited, no? And in remission even more so...right? How about a celebration of that!?

But there is none of that. No..in fact a tightening of the reigns.

Actions or words?

And then there is the simple matter that kids just need what they need.

When they are denied it stays with them...even when they are 50.

I'd prefer they not have to go there.

******

A word about my father (he cringes).

I rather like this man.

When he gets on the phone with me I can tell he is uneasy. He wants to do well by me but he is not sure how to do so. I am not an easy man to manage because I am essentially unmanageable.

Only God can manage a Mac. Even God is challenged...believe me.

Dad has to suppress his old ways and hold to our agreement (as do I!). There is probably no way to bridge immediate issues. He tries. I try. We love each other.

But I want to note that the retarded son who had no ability to write or do art or speak or think but had to find his way alone to those things now sees his own dad doing these things well.

I have a framed drawing on my wall by my dad of the Alola street house I bought. It is beautiful. He is gifted. I have read many of his writings, both political and personal, and while he cannot spell to save his life, he does have the sense of it. He is a gifted writer and a gifted artist even though those his eyes are going off.

Mine are going off too. I shot the lead pictures of this year's Maverick's Opening Ceremonies with my great camera...but I could hardly see a thing. The pictures are really good (http://www.maverickssurf.com) but it was sheer Jedi instinct.

So my Da and I are not so very different after all.

And I love him.

So what about my kids?

Tuesday, January 02, 2007

Malone

Malone is the only one that got away.

I mentioned this to Reese yesterday and she reminded me that there is still time and I have friends in Philadelphia where I heard he ended up.

Good points.

Malone was an interesting guy. He hated me immediately. He hated me the way people hate others when they are 40 and he was only 20-something...but inside? Malone was always 40.

He worked at an all-night Chevron station they no one ever came to. Okay...maybe twice a night...but that was it.

I would show up at around 11:30 p.m. after a date and just hang around. Malone never stopped hating me. He had no idea why I would come out every Saturday night and sit in the big garage will 4 a.m. when we both knew he hated me.

He never gave the slightest sign of not hating me. I'd show up and he would sigh and continue cleaning one of the bays.

Now anyone who knows me at all knows that I am a rascal. Just last night Reese accused me of having a singular objective and I reminded her that I never do anything that does not have five different reasons or sidebars. I'm a rascal. All of my ex-wives will tell you this or simply post a deposition if I am not available to be yelled at.

So it's true. I am a rascal. But I have a good heart and I also mean well. I am certainly one of the most loving persons you will ever meet...or if not, surely the tallest.

My sons are rascals by the way. It's genetic.

But back to me.

And Malone.

Now I am a very good listener so when Mitch told me about Malone and his hatred for me I also noted on old story about Malone having put his "testimony" of Christian conversion to music. He confided this to Mitchell in a moment of weakness and also to a man who is better than I will ever be.

But I knew.

And I led him for a few weeks (I can be very patient when it comes to legitimate entrapment) by simply showing up and listening for hours to this man who hated me.

Again, we don't know why. I had never done anything to Malone. In fact, he had helped pack The Brick with newspaper and had made snide comments about me within earshot.

But as I said, Malone was 40 twenty years before the rest of us and he knew the fix was in somewhere...just not where. He looked at me the way a doctor does when viewing cancer cells on a negative.

All of this went unsaid...but if you ask Malone today he will tell you. "I hated that guy".

And maybe, just maybe, that is why I respected him as much as I did. No two-facing with this guy. No...from day one he looked at me like I was a hair on his biscuit.

I kinda loved him for that.

But also the sort of guy who would put his young conversion to music.

Well...ya just cannot pass that up...the sheer hubris...I mean Martin Luther can do it...or Eugene Peterson at 70 or J.I. Packer...or even Bono...but this guy in a Cheron station at 3 a.m?

And I know.

I could have been meaner and done it publically...I didn't.

It had been maybe 3 months of Saturdays by then and at 4 a.m in the Chevron I said "Yeah know Craig...you seem like the kinda guy who would be very thoughtful about your conversion".

He nodded

"In fact...maybe the sort of guy who would actually set his own story to music..."

I don't remember what happened next. I think I remember running away...and running fast.

So maybe he didn't get away.

Stanley








Port Chicago Highway in Concord, CA.



It was August by then and damned hot. 110 in the shade hot and Stanley was supposed to leave in two days for Bible School.

Now you may wonder how it was that all these men who supposedly loved God could be so malicious. I simply point to the Crusades and then remind you that it only took Wettstein 2 hours to clean up his Capri and rearrange it. No lasting harm was done...it was rather the "unknowing" all the way back from Reno that was his due.

Same with Stanley.

I sat down with Pope Kodiac a month after I had gotten him back and I was relatively sure he would not cut my heart out with a spoon over breakfast. As I unfolded my plan and he realized that he was no longer a target his eyes lighted up and he threw in.

We would steal Stanley's spare tire off the back of his van and bury it like booty at a location that would make mockery of him.

We would do this "the Port Chicago way".

The night before Stanley was to leave for Westmont we heisted the tire and left a note telling him where it was buried.

Only it wasn't exactly there.

I mean it was and it wasn't. Many notes later (like 15) he would end up back where he had been at 10 a.m....only it was now 3 p.m as we had timed it so when he got back there (with a shovel) it would be the hottest part of the day and there would be traffic backed up for miles watching his every move.

He had to drive up to the Park, then to Walnut Creek...then back to the park. Pleasnt Hill...back to Concord...a side trip to Cowell... One of the notes was waiting for him at the Concord Police Station.

"Hi my name is Gary and I am looking for my tire"

"Yes. Mr. Stanley, this is for you" said the woman at the front desk as she handed him the envelope with his next clue.

Now I cannot take credit for that. It was sheer brilliance on Pope Kodiac's part. He had been a police cadet and had connections. Just imagine Stanley walking in to the police department at 9 a.m. and they are expecting him.

We did bury his tire off Port Chicago Highway in the middle of the night and we knew that, at best, he would get there (again) with a shovel in the middle of the afternoon when traffic backed up and everyone would be watching him dig.

You gotta give Stanley credit. He did it. And it was 110 and he went off to Bible College later that evening and never had anything to do with any of us after that day.

I think he now runs a Zen center in Boulder Colorado and only uses a bike.

Next...the one that got away...

Monday, January 01, 2007

Okay...okay....

"Doomed" is perhaps too large a word. In reality Mitchell just had a 67 Chevy bench seat in a tree, a neanderthal dog with opthamological issues and a bewildered mother.

It was the others who were doomed. They ordered eggs and even sausage thinking they were now safe. Nothing could be farther from the truth.

Doomed.

Wettsetein was next.

The Chase...


Well it was not much of a chase except for the fact that hardly anyone was on the road.

That was why it was unusual that the Mitchells barreling down Ygnasio did not realize they had made us until after they saw "The Brick".

It was called "The Brick" because it was primer red and more bondo than steel. Even the engine was half bondo and needed sanding and a nice coat of paint.

Nevertheless, we made it to Walnut Creek before the Mitchells and the Landrover. Scott is a notorius wuss when it comes to making an illegal u-turn...which meant he had to drive another 4 miles (nearly to Clayton) to turn around legally.

By then we had made it to the parking lot in Walnut Creek.

It was high up and a triangular lot that gave us a view. So we got to watch the Mitchell Brops circle us for 30 minutes.

Vrooom....vroom....vroom...they just circled us but never looked up.
We had breakfast in Pleasant Hill at the Denny's and everyone at the table felt safe and secure not realizing that they were doomed.