As you can see, dear cyber-reader. The year 2014 started with a bang. More like an atom bomb igniting a hydrogen bomb somewhere down in the mineshaft below… in the underground depths of my heart mine.
The Death Star uncloaks like a Klingon warship in the right lobe of my liver. And. My long-lost, now teenage daughter, Syrah, asks for permission to come on board.
Permission granted.
Is anyone laughing in the cyber romper room yet? I sure as hell hope so. This is funny. This is hysterically humorous. It doesn’t get any better than this, folks. Seriously. We’re all in for a bloggy treat… if I can just manage to get the tight lid off this… alphabet letter wiccan soup bomb… this cookie jar accounting reserves bomb… this blown glass hash pipe
This Mobius Matrix Perc bubbler and this recycled glass jelly jar of A-1 Humboldt Sour Diesel!!
There. There we go—
You know what this is, I assume?
Yes, I thought so. (Kids these days…)
Well, I’m not going to try to hide this from you. As I know. You’ll be able to get all the weed you want at Arcata High. In fact. As good-looking… as fresh-faced as you are…
The boys will no doubt be lining up with Humboldt “fatties” in their horny hands… happy to show you… the local dopes
So. Here’s my stash. And so long as you get straight A’s in school. And. It doesn’t interfere with your—100% perfect memory—recall of everywhere you’ve been, everyone you’ve been with when asked
So long as you can furnish me with reassuring and accurate accounts—names, dates, and places—of your whereabouts and with whom’s upon request
So long as you are able to deal honestly and directly with your father, then.
So long as you always tell me the Truth. And Nothing But The Truth!
You are welcome to smoke a little pot. And go out on dates with boys.
You are welcome to smoke a little pot. And go out on dates with boys.
Sure. Why not?
Who’s going to stop you, right?
SO LONG AS YOU ALWAYS AND WITHOUT FAIL TELL ME THE TRUTH!
We’ll get along just fine.
But. The fact is. I have a whole lot on my plate just at the moment. My cancer has returned and I need to deal with it. The cancer is going to take up a great deal of my time and focus.
But, I am your father after all. And you are now living under my roof. My job as your father is to be aware of your needs, to see that they are met, and, number one—
TO MAKE SURE THAT YOU ARE SAFE!
In order for me to do my job efficiently and well, I will need to be able to trust you, and trust the information you are supplying me with when I ask direct questions. If you supply me with false information… if you tell me white lies, or, withhold pertinent facts… I will be doing my number one job as your father—looking out for your safety—with false information that could well lead to disaster.
You must understand how critically important this is. I must have honesty from you above all else. Or I won’t be able to do my job as your father.
If I find that I am unable to perform my job as your father—to look out for your safety—because I determine that you are lying to me, or, deceiving me in any way
YOU WILL IMMEDIATELY BE GIVEN AN AIRPLANE TICKET ONE-WAY TO VERMONT TO LIVE WITH YOUR MOTHER!!
Now. Have I made myself clear?
Uh-huh.
SSSSSSssssssLLLLlllllll……ooooooOOOoooo…ssssSSHHHHHhhhh!!!
The sound of a very, very large… very, very heavy hit of pot. Swirling through the murky waters, through the surgical glass mechanism, through the bowels of the Matrix Perc… going round and round… down and up
Going into my fifteen-year old daughter, Syrah’s, asthmatic lungs.
Cough-cough cough…
Oh yeah. 2014 started with “the bomb”… “the fire”…
Yo. Gimme sum mo’ o’ da “chronic”, bro.
WTF?! Was I thinking?
Well. To be honest. I was thinking: Time to call United Airlines and book her return flight to Vermont early. Possibly save some money on a late, last minute reservation.
But. Did I do it?
Nope. I did not.
Guilty. I plead: Guilty to allowing my daughter to stay in Humboldt County for several long, difficult, painful… but, all too brief months.
And so. Let the party begin!!
Well. Hold on. Not quite yet.
There’s still a chance to go back and reflect… to re-write the swirling, mad river course of history—
Not.
Here’s how I figured it. Syrah has, or had: two parents, four grandparents, and a motley assortment of aunts, uncles… great-aunts and great-uncles… or, not so great—depending how you twist and flavor it.
Both of her parents were, are: primal drinkers. I smoked tobacco for a time in my twenties… never a big habit… quit several times; then quit for good before age thirty. Debbie, Syrah’s mom, never smoked cigarettes. I smoke weed. Debbie just likes her red wine. Pot, no thank you. Other drugs between us? I’ve tried mushrooms, acid, dmt, cocaine, speed… and various prescription pharmaceuticals which I can’t remember at the moment. Neither of us has ever been addicted to hard drugs like heroin— that is, if you don’t count hard liquor and hard cider as hard drugs. Debbie has never been a tripper or a pill popper. Like I said, she likes her red wine… a lot.
So. Strike one. Two fine wine drinkers for parents. And, one lowly pothead.
Then, two “hard core” drinkers for grandfathers. Syrah’s mother’s father was dead from a botched gall bladder removal operation by age forty. But, in his short day in the “destruction business”—he knocked down walls with a twenty-pound sledge hammer for a living… He, Dick, was a very heavy drinker. His health was heavily impacted by his drinking leading to his “early demise” in hospital. Leaving behind Debbie… her older brother, Richard, an older sister, Susan, and a younger sister, Mary.
But now. My father, Syrah’s paternal grandfather, was a real pro. He drank six or seven martinis—with extra cocktail onions and several twists—for lunch at Arnaud’s restaurant in the French Quarter in New Orleans every Friday for decades. And that’s just a drop in his extra large bucket. He drank plenty his whole life—in true New Orleans style—except when he was in track training at Tulane University, when he first met my mother. He drank like an ex—All-Star South-Eastern Conference High and Low Hurdles Champion… a sailor on shore leave in Hong Kong… right up until the moment when “he saw the light”
Or, ran into the lamp post on the corner of Walmsley Avenue… while turning left on Carrollton Avenue in uptown New Orleans… while heading home (after picking up supplies for the deer hunting camp) in his Ford Explorer after… five or… ten drinks… at Metairie Country Club
The light from the setting sun was directly in his eyes at that late hour of the day, that is, while he was trying to negotiate his turn into oncoming traffic
Could have happened to anyone, right?
Except that he had just been to Martin’s Wine Cellar. And so he had several cases of wine and whiskey on the front and rear seats of the Explorer… and, well
All the booze got rocket launched into the front seat and windshield… so, when the air bag exploded in his face and kind of half knocked him out and he fell out of the car onto the pavement—slightly dazed and confused
Well. You get the picture. My dad was a heroic drinker. A true roman charioteer, descendant of brave Bacchus! Like one of Alexander the Great’s hard-partying crew. Or, one of the Mardis Krew of Ulysses—parade, ball of which he was once scepter-waving… drunken king for a less than memorable perhaps night… and a brutal hungover day!
All of Debbie’s older relatives… aunts and uncles and her incomparable grandmother, Nan—they were all chain (cigarette) smokers and scotch drinkers, or, they would pour anything you offered them into their Chivas.
Nan was the sensible senior life of the party. She really knew how to pace herself. She could make a small alcoholic beverage last all night while she chugged away on her Tiparillos—her shortie cigars. She would even smoke a joint with us kids while we all played gin rummy all night long in her shack. Nan was a drinker… but, she was definitely a moderate one.
And, that was a good thing. Because Aunt Bev, Nan’s only daughter, Debbie’s incorrigible—sweet when she was sober—Aunt Bev, was a real “knock down drag out” brawling boozer.
Anyway, without getting too carried away with all of the lively, jostling skeletons packed into the family closet.
Syrah had two parents who drank.
Two grandfathers who also drank.
Two strikes against her.
But.
She also had two grandmothers who well…
My mother, Lorraine, is not a drinker.
And Debbie’s mother, Pat, well…
I would not put her in the same league
With her contemporaries—
Aunt Bev and Uncle Bruce
But.
Pat liked to smoke and drink socially
Two grandfathers who also drank.
Two strikes against her.
But.
She also had two grandmothers who well…
My mother, Lorraine, is not a drinker.
And Debbie’s mother, Pat, well…
I would not put her in the same league
With her contemporaries—
Aunt Bev and Uncle Bruce
But.
Pat liked to smoke and drink socially
Oh, fuck it! Let’s give poor, angry... disillusioned nurse... Pat the benefit of the doubt.
Two grandfathers who drank and two grandmothers who didn’t.
Two grandfathers who drank and two grandmothers who didn’t.
Let’s do the numbers. Two parents plus four grandparents equals six.
Four out of six are, were, life-long, determined drinkers.
Two out of six are not.
That gives Syrah a 66% chance of inheriting a primal thirst. Or, a 33% chance of not inheriting a primal thirst.
It’s the glass two-thirds full, or, the glass one-third empty scenario.
With pot as the joker. The “wild card” in the deck.
So. When I pointed out my stash to Syrah to test her… to see what she was going to do with her new-found freedom on the west coast? I did not point out the liquor cabinet just behind me… in the same kitchen we now shared on Kelly Ave… in Mckinleyville by the Sea… where she was moving into with us… Lisa and I… which was full of bottles of hard liquor… exotic liqueurs and cordials… inherited from Lisa’s ninety-something-year-old parents… Lisa, being my live-in girlfriend at that point in time.
But. Here’s the thing.
The party didn’t really get going until Lisa and I left town to go down to the Bay Area. We went for an overnight visit to San Anselmo. A small, wealthy town in Marin County, north of San Francisco, where Michael Broffman—
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Welcome to the Pine Street Clinic. We look forward to meeting you soon.
Where I could consult with the well-qualified… herbal and other expert… Dr. Broffman with regards my future relationship with the wily, deadly… dear old friend and accomplice… Senor Cancer, alias… Ghengis Khan.
El angel de la muerte.
It was the one night we were away. A deluged, soggy Friday night. Several weeks after Syrah’s arrival in the west. The one night we left her for a harmless “sleepover” at a newly-met high school friend’s house… a half-Italian, half-German exchange student from Germany? Another newly-arrived young lady staying with a “supposedly trusted” elderly “host couple”… whom we had met once or twice? And thought we could trust?
Anyway. Syrah, with the help of a couple of avid juniors and seniors—
Managed to “tweet up” on their Apple iPhones— the grand party of the year 2014. The unrivaled rager… the mother of all parties! In my father’s elegant… half a million dollar… “a stone’s throw from the beach”… house. In quiet and serene… Mckinleyville by the Sea.
And "the rest is (the karmic payback of) history"… with compound interest, late fees, fines, and… hot, teen-blooded vengeance added—
That’s what they say, bro.
