A Christmas Dirge

It's that time of year again...Christmas.

I used to actually enjoy it. I would go to bed early and sleep well and then get up as soon (the moment!) I was sure Santa had finished overstuffing my stocking full of small toys and candy and other knickknacks.

A bit later there were the presents themselves, divided into tidy piles for each of our attendees. Up until the age of eighteen, this consisted of my grandparents from both sides (minus the grandpa on one who had died the year before I was born), my parents, and us two kids. Of course, the two kids got the largest piles. We would go round and round in a circle, each person reading a card saying who loved them and opening a present that proved their love. People were allowed to skip if their pile got too small and they wanted to stay in the game.

At the age of, I dunno, sixteen I woke up to find my stocking crammed full of...Clearisil? This is when Christmas stopped being funnish, per se. Apparently "Santa" had neglected taking care of this small task when the stores were open and had gone out in a late night pique to 7-11 to purchase whatever he could: the result Clearisil, Bic pens, a mini-stapler, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, etcetera, and probably the strangest Christmas meal ever laid out on a table, everything but the Slurpee and microwavable burrito. The year after that the stockings were abandoned in full and, at least for me, the holidays never seemed the same. It was like a small (but huge) part of my childhood had died.

Fast forward a few years and it's entirely dead. Santa's laid out in a fat casket in the backyard and you can hear the reindeer mewling their reindeer dirges well into the night. My mom died, and she was really the one who who into this shit anyway, so Christmas really just went with her. Two of the last three years, I've spent alone by myself just trying to sleep through the day, depression countering the joyous season with its blacklight charm.

Ah, but there's always New Years'. This year is finally going to be different. I'm going to get my shit together, because those 2015 resolutions are stickier than years past. I'm going to shed my hoarder's home, meet a cool chick, learn some new schtick, and by 2016 I'll be a new man, resolute to not need resolutions anymore. Ahem, sure.

Anyhoo, enjoy your seasons, everyone!

Steroid Bandwagon

I know I'm a bit late, but I'm finally on steroids.

Yes, I realize it took awhile, but I'm finally on par with such fine/disgraced athletes as Barry Bonds, Lance Armstrong, and Rafael Nadal (reveal forthcoming).

The reason for this, and I hate to dedicate yet another post to the matter, but my broken ribs. Apparently the ribs themselves have healed fully, as evidenced during my latest doctor's appointment in which the Korean bastard kneaded, twisted, lifted, pulled, pushed, and tested every square inch of my theretofore cracked ivory. I squealed not a once.

I'm on a ten day course of Prednisone and this is day numero dos. So far, I feel great. I woke up yesterday after a five hour mini sleep and played three hours of bangball tennis in the morning, cleaned house like a Molly Maid, and then looked for supplementary/new employment. Today I woke up after a three hour mini sleep and went to work, transferring a two hundred-plus pound MS patient as if she were nothing more substantial than a bag of rice to be heaved onto a pallet.

My observations so far: steroids are really amazing. Of course I realize at some point the penis shrinkage will kick in, but thus far I'm still hung like a garden gnome as opposed to a sea horse. I have the energy of a six year old (well, a six year old that wasn't me, because I was a lethargic little guy). It seems to, oddly, make me more outgoing (or is that aggressive?). I spearheaded a trip to a local pizza joint last night with my tennis crew to watch the Giants epic win last night, passed a homeless person and initiated a money exchange, and have been smiling at every passing passably attractive woman below sixty and/or without a walking device.

So, it's five days at two pills apiece, three days at a pill apiece, and then two days on halfsies. Does this mean I'll feel half as Superman in three more days? I dunno, maybe like The Wolverine instead of The Man of Steel. Will I be able to snap those last two pills with my meager human strength or will I have to resort to the trusty plastic pill guillotine?

And I just noticed this, but even my writing seems to me more fluid and enjoyable, although I'm not sure whether it's increased brain mass or what. Could steroids possibly turn Sammy Sosa into Faulkner? Stuff to think about, for sure.

Broken Rib (Cont'd)

So, if you follow my blog, or at least stumbled across the last post, you'll know that I broke a rib some weeks ago.

Long story short, it hurt and still does, this after the doctor promised (or at least hinted) that the rib could be on the mend in three weeks. Alas, this does not seem to be the case. Even now, doped to the gills with Pharmecol, I'm still likely to whine to anybody that will listen. I'm so sorry Twist, so so sorry that you have to listen to your pitiful master, but it really hurts!

Of course, I"m not exactly helping matters. A tennis addict, I've tried to sneak in a few hits. I can't serve, hit a backhand, or move any faster than the man-turtles at the beginning of Biggest Loser, but I can't help myself. I must go to Chi Chi Bu and take some cuts with my boys. A lot of this is the camaraderie experienced with my buds that I can't do without, but I truly love the sport as well. And each time I've pushed the limits of what my broken body can do, I've come out the worse for it.

Heading into week four with this thing, I'm hoping (dare I say it as an atheist, praying!) that my rib will fill in with some kind of calcium epoxy bridge and I'll be good as new. Unlikely, I know, but for once I'm gonna don my pinstriped optimism suit and think happy thoughts.

Ow, My Stinkin' Broken Rib!

I've always been extremely risk adverse.

When I played youth baseball I was the kid that would stand at the very back corner of the box. My foremost goal, above even getting a base hit, was not to get hit by the ball. From the very moment I sat behind the wheel of a car, I've always been the safest driver you could possibly imagine. I make sure that my meat is always properly cooked, my vegetables properly washed, and that the lint trap is cleaned out every time I dry a load.

In other words, I'm a complete and utter bore. My obituary will read It's not because he wasn't careful.

That's why in high school it should come as no surprise that I chose the safest sport imaginable to partake in. Well, since my high school didn't have a rowing program and I missed the golf team orientation (straight up got on the yellow bus home), I chose the next best thing: tennis. As it turns out, minus my serve which looks like part of an Indian tribal dance and is drilled down lines and into corners by even the most rudimentary type players, I'm quite good at it. Best of all, it is a sport that you can play all your life and in which, except for the occasional flare up of tennis elbow, that you won't get injured in.

Or so I thought until two weeks ago.

I was playing dubs at the local park and me and my partner had opened up a can and we're dishing out its whoop ass contents when the unthinkable happened. Our opponents weakly shoveled a ball over the net and I sprinted forward to retrieve it. At the last moment my partner cut in front of me to get it and whamo!--when 135 pounds meets 250 pounds the result is never good, and I was quickly in a ton of hurt. I went a few days without visiting the doctor, but when I could no longer sleep or walk or run or breathe or talk or stand upright or sit down I decided it was time to go in. An X-ray revealed a broken rib and torn cartilage in my back nearest that cracked-est of bones. Three weeks for the bone to heal, said the doc, and maybe six months for the cartilage!

In the meantime, there's nothing they can do and I'm in a lot of pain. Did I mention I'm in a LOT of pain? And since I can't exercise and have compensated with an additional two hours of eating each day, I'm starting to pack on pounds. Gulp, I'm starting to look like my dad, which sucks mostly because I can't toss offhand whale jokes at him. Also, I'm becoming one of those pear shaped skinny fat guys. I'm starting to look into MeetUp profiles for shuffleboard and bocce and stamp collecting and stuff, just so I can do something.

I just want to crawl into a creche and hibernate, my ribs banded with high-tech fix-me-up tape, and crawl out when the pain has subsided and I'm me again. Sigh.

crash.com

A couple days ago while on the way to work I was the bendee in a fender bender.

Out of nowhere, a bumper car jolt propelled me a few feet further than I otherwise would have been. Impact reverberated from head to toe.

We were on the freeway and because of the hour and sheer volume of commuters it about a mile for both of us to make our way from the next-to-farthest left lane to the emergency shoulder on the right.

I was going to be late to work, and I work at a job where I absolutely cannot be late. I was furious! and ready to give this guy all the hell my one hundred thirty five frame can produce.

Unfortunately, this "guy" turned out to be a five-foot-nothing one hundred pound cutie with the countenance of an angel.

"I'm so sorry," she said, and I could tell she meant it. She was so sorry.

My fists which had been rolled into tight ballbearings unrolled into relaxed dorsal fins at my side.

"It's okay," I assured her. "It happens."

It had never happened to me in seventeen years of driving, but I supposed she was right: It did happen. I saw it on my Google traffic updates daily.

Of course, it was more likely to happen if you were texting one of your equally cute friends (or perhaps a boyfriend??), which I assume she was given her degree of bubbly twenty-something-ness.

"So, like, what do we do?" I inquired sheepishly. "I've never been in an accident before. Do we have to call the police or anything?"

"Not unless there's an injury or major damage," and considering we were both standing close enough for a lover's embrace and the only damage to my bumper were a few barely perceptible scratches, I agreed that calling the police was unneccesary. "All we have to do is exchange information."

What followed was a microcosm of an epistolary relationship, all the pertinent salable details of our life exchanged in the span of a minute.

While she was thorough in jotting down my info, I somehow managed to exclude her driver's license and address.

Basically, I retrieved just enough information to ask her out on a date, which should be your main objective when an attractive twenty-something rear ends you on the freeway

"I'd prefer to handle this without getting our insurance involved," she said, looking up at me with her beautiful green eyes. "I already had another one of these a couple months ago and I don't want my insurance to get too jacked up."

"Absolutely," I said, transfixed. Were her eyes actually green...or were they blue?

Then she stuck out her hand out and we shook on the promise of doing this under the table, off the books.

It was only later when my employer told me that, because of the heavy roadwork nature of my job, I would have to file with my insurance and do everything official-like that I reneged on my promise via text.

Even then she was as sweet as pie, and we've continued texting regarding nit-picky insurance details--our adjusters names, claim numbers, etc.

If I had any balls (or more of a penis) I'd go all Brett Favre and send her a dick pic.

In the meantime, I have a $700 damage estimate, which seems outrageous given the minuscule nature of my Camry's boo-boos, and will start the repair process either Monday or Tuesday.

I'll have to make sure to keep her updated...

Tangles

Sorry. Been forever since I posted. Lots of work.

Apparently attempting Hemingway staccato sentences today.

I just wanted to take a minute to address the horror that is Alzheimer's.

I've been working with a client who has the late middle stage of the disease. It's pretty much the "Terrible Two's" of Alzheimer's. Lots of noise, most of it nonsensical.

My entire day is spent responding to queries such as, "Are we going down there to where the green moon is?" If this were a simple declaration I could simply ignore it and go about blogging on my laptop. Unfortunately, my client phrases these things as questions, so being the good guy that I am I attempt to answer them. I say, "I don't know" when and where I can. For those occasions where the questions are tinged with paranoia or about his still-alive mother who must be 124 years old, I respond with "uh.." and hope the question will extinguish itself with no more need of response on my end.

The thing is, no matter how often you answer a question or how you answer it, it will invariably be asked again within a few minutes. Pretty soon, you wonder if he's more batshit crazy for asking or you more for answering.

He likes to wander also, straight out of his own apartment and into other people's cars, apartments, and lives, so I have to be constantly vigilant, serving as the human equivalent as a lock on the cabinet door.

He'll get angry (and occasionally violent) at the most benign remarks and requests, too,

Anyway, take my word for it, Alzheimer's is a terrible disease that deserves to go the way of Polio and the dodo. Please visit http://www.alzfdn.org/ContributetoAFA/makeadonation.html  and give a few bucks if you can. Junk Coffee will send you a photo of your own Alhzeimer's patient and let you know how your contribution is making a difference in his or her life (okay, we won't :)

Hornblower Wedding

I attended another wedding this weekend (yeah, I know, crayzay).

This one was for my brother's best friend, Raj, and his awesome fiance, Margaret. My brother was the officiant and did a fine job, somehow managing to work the Biebs into his do-you-take-so-and-so spiel.

The wedding itself was on a boat called The Hornblower that debarked from Pier 3. Actually, she was more like the Titanic, minus the iceberg ending. The tables were covered in white linen. The tableware was the finest china. The ornate was commonplace. The view from both overhead decks was stunning, especially as the ship approached the Golden Gate Bridge

I had a blast. At least I think I had a blast.

I definitely took advantage of the free bar, ordering margarita after margarita. (If this had been New Orleans during Mardi Gras season, I undoubtedly would have had six or seven pearl necklaces weighing me down). This, and many many Anchor Steams.

Of particular note: One of my brother's more infamous exes was one of Margaret's bridesmaids (awkward); One of Raj's bestmen gave a speech that eerily echoed my own from a few weeks before in Tahoe (oh well, mimicry is flattery :); The food was Indian and decadent; The couple's "history" slideshow was phenomenal, literally edited on the spot to include their vows and nuptials and my brother quoting the Biebs; The clash of Indian and American wedding culture was fascinating, and I literally could not get past a few of the high caste attendees who looked straight out of a Bollywood production.

This was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and I enjoyed it immensely. Thank you to the young couple for considering my impoverished soul and taking me aboard the S.S. Margeneesh.

Here a few pictures (all taken from the outside deck) for your viewing pleasure.

Yet More Tahoe Pics

Tomo sent me yet more pics from Tahoe--and from somewhere I presumed to be Tahoe.

I could have done without this one being taken.

The rest are from a graveyard in Saitama which is on the north side of Tokyo (or so says Tomo). In an earlier post, I'd assumed the pics Tomo was sending me were all from Tahoe. Mea culpa. I tried dragging a few of the pics into Google image search but the returned results were miscellaneous comic book covers, colored pagodas, and odd looking folks dressed up in even odder looking costumes.

The red bibs are interesting. Perhaps the dead are about to rise and feast on the living? I don't know. Cool pics in any case. Thanks again Tomo for sending these.

More Tahoe

My Japanese friend Tomo just sent me a few pics from our hiking sessions together.

Actually only one of these is from our hiking together (below).

Yeah, that's me.

If you zoom in you'll notice that I basically look scared shitless, and I well should. This rock figure was at least 200 ft above the ground and steep. Also, I have zero hiking experience--unless you count my myriad trips around the flat expanse that is Contra Loma. While Tomo found every toehold and foothold and always found his hands in the correct positions, I had a knack for finding swathes of pine needles and slipping.

Thank you Tomo for keeping me alive!

The two photos below are from God only knows where, although since Tomo sent them to me I can only assume they're from somewhere in Tahoe. Any Junk Coffee aficionados know where?

Rerouted

I've been doing some running recently.

This hasn't been the case for the past couple years as I was having a difficult time breathing and was subsequently diagnosed with asthma.

But recently I've been feeling...better. Hence I've donned my trusty Asics and have been hitting the trails.

Er, trail.

I have one trail that I've been using the majority of my life. It starts out at the regional park behind my house and leads into the reserve, which, from what I've been able to gather from various folks, branches all the way out into Mount Diablo and beyond--not that I'd ever have the courage (or stamina) to endure such a run.

But the hilly intro section of the trail today wasn't especially inviting. It didn't take me long to find the owners of the huge piles of doo mucking the place. One was chewing a cud of weed and staring at me like I was a Bond villain. And then a few of his cowmigos were likewise staring me down. I know teenagers cowtip, but I wondered if cows ever humantip?

As soon as this thought entered my mind, I decided today might be a good day to take the paved urban route past the local Starbucks...

 

Estate Sale

The past three day's I've been helping a tennis buddy of mine with his estate sale. He's Persian and moving back to Iran in a few months. Prior to that, he's going to be living with his daughter while he sorts out a few health issues. But his house closed escrow and he has to move out Monday. So by Sunday afternoon, EVERYTHING must go!

It's actually been fun helping out. While my friend's connection to his belongings made it impossible for him to sell stuff at an objective price, I have no such qualms. I've been dickering with folks all weekend long. My selling associate Roy and I sold a wall length mirror for $120, a beautiful dining room set with a table, six chairs, and china cabinet for $300, and miscellaneous odds and ends for well less than their actual value.

There's an Egyptian triptych, three scenes hand-embroidered on Papyrus that I am so hoping is still available tomorrow. It's selling for a mere $100 and is a museum quality piece. My brother, who traveled the world last year and marveled at the relics of Egypt, would love it.

Tahoe

My brother's wedding really got the creative juices flowing.

Here's a poem I wrote while sitting on the beach before returning to the Bay Area:

Tahoe

I buy a coffee and walk it down to the beach. Finding a spot I like, I screw my cup into the sand and sit down beside it, timing each sip to the pulse of the waves coming into shore, so slowly one after another.

The water itself the blue of yesterday’s mood. Loved ones sitting in chairs on this very beach waiting for the union of man and wife, watching the union of lake and shore, shore and lake. Like the day itself, all looking their best.

A labrador scurries after a ball, his master flip flopping behind. Seagulls swoop and squawk their fishing cry. The sun a descending yolk.

I close my eyes and sip. Thunderheads roil overhead, expanding like rye. Rain falls from a steely grater.

My mom lays in a hospital bed, the same for two years, eyes cataracted, unable to see sun or shore, unable to see me, surrounded by bedpans and IVs, the round-the-clock TV. Dead but alive. I’m unemployed, living in a hoarder’s house, wondering whether pills hurt less than razor’s edge. If there’s a god and Mom somehow cleared the gates, does she know I’m her only son unwed? How will I buy my food this month? this trip did not come cheap. Who am I? What is my purpose? If god doesn’t exist, how can a heaven like this?

When I open my eyes, the sun has turned silver but the water’s still blue. A beachgoer sits on the steps leading down to the sand, gazing intently at the water, as does another further down the beach, each leaking his own dark thoughts, perhaps an outsized dream. No matter what, the water remains blue. Always has, always will.

Robert Frost I am not, although I think this turned out pretty well, especially since I haven't dipped a quill for this kind of thing since college.

Roast the Pig, Spill His Blood

So, I was the best man at my brother's wedding (actually, I was one of three). And of course one of the great things about being best man is that you get to have a few stiff drinks and stand up in front of a large crowd and roast your buddy/brother/whoever.

This is big brother fodder, because you vaguely remember those days when you were constantly giving your younger siblings hell, and it makes you feel kind of good knowing that you're gonna get to relive those days.

Unfortunately, my brother was always better at me at everything, so my attempts to roast him in a speech turned out to be difficult.

Here is the final result, completed the night before the wedding, and delivered while buzzed (although apparently well) the day of:


I firstly just wanna thank everyone that's put in time and resources to make this day a reality. Also, to all the guests, from all over the world, thanks for coming out. Lastly to Groom and Bride (not sure if the real married couple want to be stalked by Junk Coffee Aficionados), thanks for letting me play such a huge part in your wedding festivities.


In case some of you don't know who I am, my name is Patrick Norris and I'm Groom's brother. I've known Groom for thirty-two years, and I can honestly say that the three years before Groom was born were the quietest, most peaceful years of my life, because he was slash is a handful. 

When we were growing up, Groom and I used to play lots of games in the backyard, stupid stuff like baseball using our gloves as bats and tennis balls as balls. One day one of us (Groom) decided it would be a good idea to throw rocks in the neighbor's pool. What we didn't count on was the neighbor being mad as hell, and he was when he came over a little while later. When he insisted that our parents punish us, Groom did what I should have had the courage to do in the first place--he denied ever throwing a rock in his entire life.

As we got older, Groom and I played a lot of organized sports. Although I'm sure we're related (for every good-looking, bright, thoughtful son, there's a black sheep brother like Groom), I'm also pretty sure his genes were tampered with at birth. He's got the speed of a cheetah and the strength of a great ape. Competing with him athletically was almost impossible. When he beat me for the second straight time in high school tennis, tension in the Norris household was high when the local paper ran the article "Brother Whips Brother."

But as we've gotten older our relationship has changed and gotten stronger. While I was once an X and him an O and it was all about competition, now we just hang out and talk and eat Subway footlongs. We actually coined a term for these usually Tuesday get-togethers--brother bonding nights. Basically, they're Groom's way of cramming his bad TV tastes down my throat, hour after hour of "Biggest Loser" (and if you've seen the baby pictures of Groom floating around, you realize that he was on the verge of becoming a contestant himself).

During one of these nights, Groom mentioned a new girl he'd met. She was blond with a nice athletic build and a calm demeanor (To be honest, it kind of bothered me, because this was last night and her name was not Bride).

But I finally did meet Bride a short while later. I don't remember where or when it was at, but she said hey and I hey-d back, and it was like this for at least the first ten times we met.

We're both quiet, me more so than her, so it took us years to get to know one another. Bride, although you're now officially my sister, I've considered you my sister for years. You're bright, thoughtful, quiet, and caring. Both you and you're family have been entirely welcoming to me, and I couldn't be happier to have you as a member of my family.

Groom, I'm still hoping Bride's good qualities might rub off on you. But really, you've always been a great brother and friend to me. Whenever I've needed anything, you've been there in a flash. If you're there for Bride like you've always been there for me, your marriage will last a lifetime. 

So please join me in raising a glass to my brother and sister, Groom and Bride.

First Sip

S'up, my name is Patrick Norris and you're probably looking for the guy that directed X-Men: Days Of Future Past.

Firstly, you should know that I'm not that guy. There was a guy that directed episodes of Family Matters (you know, the Steve Urkel show) that was also named Patrick Norris. For all I know, it could be the same guy. Whether it's the same guy or not, I'm not that guy. I'm never that guy. People always say don't be that guy that (fill in the blank) when you're at a club or a library or a casino or wherever. In this case, I'm not the guy that directed anything.

So which guy am I? I'm a writer living in the Bay Area. This is my blog, humble as it is. My goal is to wake you up with askance observations and to keep you awake with more of the same. Hence the blog title, "Junk Coffee". From time to time, I might feature my own writings and pics.

Stephen King addresses his fans as "Constant Readers" in his books. Well, Junk Coffee Drinkers, may we develop a relationship of our own.