Night of the Trippy Trees

I have very few true friends in my life. Sure, everybody has colleagues and associates and casual acquaintances but there are a small percentage of people I let in. My big buddy Steve is one of them.

I was very happy to see he joined the Facebook community and even more pleased that his married life is treating him quite well. He is one of only 3 moral barometers that has guided my misspent life. He has also fed and sheltered and counseled me when I was literally at the lowest point in my existence. And for that, he has my undying respect and loyalty.

Now here's the odd thing; Steve and I have rarely seen each other in recent years. However, whenever our paths cross, it seems no time has passed. In another 40 years, we'll probably be sitting on the porch of the old folks home reminiscing about our lives. At least I hope so.

So in the spirit of friendship, I decided to share a little holiday tale of two friends I call Night of the Trippy Trees.

Approximately 30 years ago on a snowy night during school winter break, my friend and I decided to do a little consciousness expansion at his humble home. The mind altering usually worked in different ways for the both of us. Steve would jam on his electric six string while I would interpret the music by free form drawing to his guitar licks. This hallucinatory jam session kept us enthralled for a few hours, but we started getting the itch to get out of the house and do something.

We decided against vehicle travel (that shit can be dangerous when things are melting) and went cruising around the neighborhood on foot. Steve's childhood home backed against a fenced park. General Motors had ordained a few acres of land to be set aside for picnics and pee wee soccer smack dab in the middle of suburbia. The park even had a man-made pond for ducks that had lost their way while traveling South. GM called it Delco Park. And it was good.

We jumped the tall fence and landed on sparkling white landscape covered with six inches of fresh snow. Being outdoorsy types, we were thoroughly entranced by December's frozen vista and the shimmering pond that spread before us.

Then we saw the lights.

No, it wasn't the cops looking for two trippers on a cold winter night (Although the trails were AWESOME). It was the weak glow of the security lights surrounding a stockade of lush Christmas trees. These trees were placed into the park by the Dorwood Optimists who hoped to sell the 6 foot fragrant foliage to suburbanites for hanging gaudy holiday ornaments upon.

I looked at Steve. Steve looked at me. We both grinned like demented elves and immediately sprang into action.

Let's just say if the Dorwood Optimists didn't want two tripping balls teenagers to make off with their Douglas Firs they might have used better security than a string of 60-watt bulbs lighting a corral made from frayed twine and used 2X4's.

Needless to say, both of us snatched up a tree each and ran into the dark night. Maybe it was the spirit of the season or the fact that we were heavily seasoned, but we began a little impromptu song as we raced across the virgin snow.

I can only imagine what went through the minds of the people driving past Delco Park on that cold, snowy night. Not that their windows would have been rolled down, but if they would have been they would have heard a rousing chorus of the Trippy Tree Song sung by two big green Christmas trees that had apparently escaped the evil clutches of the Dorwood Optimists and were making their way to freedom across the snow-covered landscape.

Once we got out of the park we faced a dilemma: What the Hell were we going to do with two big ass Christmas trees?

Our holiday spirit was unabated as the Trippy Tree Song lilted in the air while we escorted our new pine-scented friends down the street. It was then we noticed two houses on the block bereft of holiday spirit; no lights, no tinsel and (more importantly) no Christmas trees. With our hearts growing three sizes that night, we placed the trees in their respective front yards and headed back to Steve's house for celebratory munchies: Santa's Little Stoners had done their good deed for the night by spreading the spirit of the season to some unfortunate families!

We found out the next day that the two gifted families were very disgruntled to find a huge six-foot Douglas Firs in their front yards. What we didn't know was that one of the families was devout Jehovah's Witnesses and the other family was Jewish. With one heartfelt act of holiday vandalism we had managed to piss off two completely separate and distinct religious belief systems. 

At least we felt good about the gesture.

So, if you're out driving on a frosty night during the holiday season and see Christmas trees bounding across the white fields of winter, roll down your window and listen. And if you happen to hear the majestic melody of the Trippy Tree Song don't be afraid to sing along because in that tune lies the true essence of the holiday. And probably some kick ass hallucinogens.

 It seems to me a crime that we should age
These fragile times should never slip us by
A time you never can or shall erase
As friends together watch their childhood fly 

Making friends for the world to see
Let the people know you got what you need
With a friend at hand you will see the light
If your friends are there then everything's all right

Humble Beginnings from Selfish Interest

Almost a year of unemployment has driven me so deep into my psyche that I think I'm slowly losing touch with reality. The things that were anecdotes or exaggeration of my perceived life have begun to seep into real life as actual fact. I'm still curious if this is some type of legitimate defensive reflex my mind has invented to cope with dismal depression. Regardless, it fails to compensate like a clown trying to calm a horrified & weeping child with a colorful balloon. The terror always hides within colorful trappings.

I'll try not to go all Dennis Miller when I write, but you'll have to forgive the pop culture references as they are as much apart of me as the Vindrizi were one with Duncan. I believe its a side-effect of the time I lived. Calling me a Generation X-er is only accurate in the sense that I was born in the late 60's and grew up in the colorful gray scale of the 70's and 80's. The thing most people don't realize is that Gen X-ers were not without purpose because there was no purpose besides breathing, eating and existing without conflict.

Think about it; we had no wars, plagues or natural upheavals to define who we should, would or could be. We never wrapped our faces with dirty cloth as we navigated narrow European streets filled with rank and rotting corpses in 1350. We never desperately powder packed a musket as the thrum of 1,500 Mexican troops advanced on the poorly supplied and manned Mission we tenuously held. We never felt the cold clutch of communism as the bloody Axis committed genocide.

All our threats have been technological and financial enemies that neither have a face nor discernible agenda. However much we wish to rage against injustice, our enemy is invisible and unconquerable. We have formed an uneasy alliance with the Beast and are uncomfortably content with this relationship. We have become the battered spouse who would rather be assured with the abuse they know then the possibility of the undefined torment which awaits them.

But, we must exist as more than an interesting footnote on Wikipedia. I have to believe this. If I don't then I lose complete and total justification for my existence on this spinning globe of 3/4 water.

There's a memory that keeps floating in my head which I hope will relate my Roshomon perspective with the cloying desperation of my life and purpose. My mother used to date a lot. I can't fault her; she was a woman raising 3 kids on her own and was lacking the crucial element of human companionship. Needless to say, more than a few colorful characters showed up at our door to escort my mom to dinner and whatever else the night held. One of those gentlemen callers was a guy named Jim. Jim was an Elvis fanatic and the only man I've met that served in World War 2, Korea and Vietnam. He was an avid amateur photographer and had pics to prove he was a participant in three bloody conflicts and survived them all (obviously). However, it wasn't until we found a box of his personal effects in our garage that this story picks up significance.

Contained within the battered wax coated chicken box, buried under various worthless Elvis trinkets and personal papers, a dark brown three-punch binder lay undisturbed and yellowing with age and neglect. The curling label on the half-inch thick binder with brass fasteners said in jittery Smith-Corona typeset "The Stories of Grampa Grumpus". There was no name of authorship; just the silly title. Inside, a table of contents in the same shaky typewriter font described the half-dozen stories which were denoted by brittle plastic tabs of various colors. What I first believed to be a compilation of paternal remembrances or war reflections changed dramatically. These were semi-truthful anecdotes about a lovable, but crotchety soldier who gained the nickname Grampa Grumpus through his pessimistic responses to crisis situations. These stories were not meant to show what war was really like or to document critical moments which would have been unremembered if not committed to paper. These were stories created by an anonymous writer for the enjoyment of his comrades - nothing more, nothing less. Whether these were initially presented around a low-burning campfire or in a painfully silent bunker, the unknown author felt it was important enough to slave away at a shitty typewriter during his down time to immortalize on this now-decaying parchment. And that created an indelible mark on my consciousness.

Less than a year later, the garage roof would collapse and destroy any paper product the wet Spring shower could touch. The Stories of Grampa Grumpus was one of the casualties. As I was in my early teens and computers were the gimmicks that filled rooms in IBM, I never thought about translating these tales to a more semi-permanent form. Then again, I thought storing them in the garage attic would have kept them safe. That wasn't the first or last time I'd be wrong, but it is regrettable for me to this very day.

So, what does this all mean? I parallel this to my own writing. I have filled journals, 5-subject notebooks and legal pads with half-written stories and ideas that seemed to die 5 pages into its inception since I was 10 years old. I switched to sketch pads and drawing pens for a while, but words have always been a gentle mistress. Now that my 45th birthday is rolling around, I look at the 5 books, 50+ short stories, and who knows how many poems and wonder: "Is this my Grampa Grumpus?"

I have spent a lot of critical thought on this and am glad 42 was not the answer. The definitive answer is NO. I really haven't spent much time committing my recollections and reflections to paper (electronic or otherwise). So, I have opened this blog to share some of my trials and tribulations. This is as selfish as I have been in decades, but since nobody really knows this blogspot exists then I really couldn't give a good gorram who does or doesn't read this. I need to do this for me.

I call my little niche Breaking the VMS. I won't explain it, but if you're ever curious to make a guess then I will be happy to oblige right or wrong. In the words of one of my strangest characters, Kanterous Jahl: "My mind my is a vast and wondrous playground filled with curiosities of a sharp and deadly nature." A little dramatic, but I have been known to go drama queen occasionally. So, deal with it.

Also, I'll try to include some lyrics of deep philosophical context to appease those searching for greater meaning in my simple ramblings of times fading from memory.

It's not
What you thought
When you first began it
You got
What you want
Now you can hardly stand it though,
By now you know
It's not going to stop
It's not going to stop
It's not going to stop
'Til you wise up