What have you got to lose?

The Dump 

There is this car that sits on a high end dealership lot.  It has been there for some time.  Since some of the newer models were not to my total liking, I took another look at the one that had been around.

The salesman was very anxious to sell the car and said that it was not made in a standard auto factory, no... It was built by a private company. Although this particular company had never built a car before, it was a well known company and product brand. The salesman claimed that even though this was their first attempt at making a car, it was the best car.  It would drive so well, I would get tired of driving so well. When my neighbors saw what a great car this was they would like me even better. 

When the car started, the engine did not sound like a normal car, but then again the salesman said, "Of course it doesn't sound like any other vehicle.  It did not come the same old factories, this is all new. And you will be proud to drive an American car."  I said, I didn't know that the car was made in the USA. 

The salesman said, "Oh..the parts and equipment were made in China, the cloth came from Indonesia and it was assembled in South Korea, but the name on the car, "Dump" that is absolutely American." 

I told the salesman I did not like the artificial orange color of the exterior, or the oddly shaped cover on the sunroof. The salesman said, "You might not like it but that color is the real thing. Aren't you tired of colors that are subdued and correctly matched. This car is unapologetic and its color is the color a lot of people would like to have but are just too shy to openly desire." 

I asked to see the original sticker price.  The salesman said that sales document was tied up in an inventory  audit and could not be released until the inventory was finished.  

Then I said, "Show me the Car Fax". 

The salesman said the car had never been driven so there was no Car Fax available. But trust him, this car would drive so great, it would Make Driving Great Again.  And with special door locks only people with a valid drivers license could actually sit inside.  I saw another car on the same lot and asked about that one. The salesman was dismissive, "That one does not drive straight. Sure it is a known brand but it is so exclusive some people say you have to pay the owner just to sit inside." 

I asked if I could take it out for a test drive. The salesman laughed and said that is not the way it worked. I would have to buy the car to see if I like it or not.  I said, "What if I don't like it."

"Well," said the salesman, "After four years you can bring it back.  Obviously we can't give you a refund  if you have already driven it for four years." 

"Okay," I said, "let me get this straight. You want me to buy this car, even though it has never been off the lot so there is no maintenance record.  You can't show me the sticker price because it is being audited. I can't test drive it and I have to keep it for four years even if it doesn't work after I buy it. And...This car company has never designed a car before, nor do they really know exactly how an internal combustion engine works. "

" Yeah, but he company does make great steaks." The salesman said.

I was not convinced.  It just didn't seem I had enough information on the car to actually know what I was buying.

It was his final pitch to sell me the car. He looked at the 8 year old dark colored BMW I was driving. I loved that car, it had never been involved in an accident, and had never given me any trouble.  I didn't much want to trade the car, but after 8 years it was time. Besides, the dealership that was supposed to keep up it running had refused to do any maintenance or try to make any improvements for the last four years.  Pointing to my car the salesman said, "Look at what you are driving now?" He asked. His voice got very conspiratorial, "It's never been proven to my satisfaction that this car was even made in the USA." With a big smile he said, again, "Look at what you have been driving? Why don't you give this Dump a try.. What the hell have you got to lose?  What the HELL have you got to lose." 

As you were,

Jay

Feelings? Nothing more than Feelings....

What do I feel like today?  I feel like me. I can't even explain what that feeling is. I just know. I know that I am me, but it is more than a physical phenomenon.  It is knowing. I know that it is me even when I am feeling less than up to par.

What does God feel like?  It seems that most of the things have a very identifiable feeling attached to the experience. I remember a television ad years ago with an egg. They showed the egg with a voice over saying, "This is your brain."  Then they cracked the egg into a very hot frying pan. As the broken egg sizzled in the skillet the announcer would say, "This is your brain on drugs.... Any questions?"  It was a visceral image that implied a dramatic change in the way your brain would feel under the influence of "drugs".

Of course they never said what kind of drugs. One could easily reverse the film and say while the egg is in the skillet, "This is your brain with depression", and then show the reconstituted egg in tack and say, "This is your  brain on Zoloft."  

We are all looking for something that makes us feel better.  Religions and Religious teachers claim that a God feeling is the best way to spend the rest of eternity.  They have no answer as to what one is to actually experience when feeling God.  Many people are after some "feeling" that will tell them they are in a state of atonement with Spirit.  To some that can be a euphoric feeling dancing around the sanctuary of a church. Or it could be the realization that you are talking in some other "tongue".  I have seen televised services where people are actually struck down by "the Holy Spirit" falling to the ground writhing.  I have heard preachers quote scripture saying, "Blessed are you when men revile you and persecute you and spitefully use you... For yours is the kingdom of heaven."  To me these are not signs that the God feeling is necessarily a pleasant one.  

Looking for that "feeling" has generated religious rituals using hallucinating substances. This drug induced "out of body experience", in their opinion, brought them closer to God and spirit.  Ram Das found God by taking LSD in the 60's.  These "feelings" led him to study with an Eastern Guru.  At one point the Holy Man asked what it was that Ram Das had in his hand. It was several hits of LSD.  He explained to the Guru that these pills helped him experience the feeling of God.  With that the Guru took the drugs out of his hand and swallowed them all.  Ram Das panicked and stayed with the Guru to help him through the very long acid trip that he felt was sure to come.  The Guru had taken five times the amount that Ram Das would have taken to become totally messed up.

For the rest of the day the Guru went about his business, teaching and studying with no apparent effects to his perception.  In other words the LSD had absolutely no affect on the Holy Man.  The next day or so the Guru explained that God could not be found in mind bending pills.  In an object lesson Ram Das learned that God can not be found in "feeling".   

People have become "religious" after some near death experience, morbid tragedy or life threatening illness.  In those cases people are trying to replace pain with a God feeling.  Trying to catch wind in a pillow case or lightening in a bottle is easier.

It is my opinion, if one is trying to find God through a feeling of some kind, they are only chasing a different kind of artificial addiction.  God is not feeling, God is knowing. How can anyone "feel" knowledge? 

Suppose you are on a trip from Phoenix to Los Angeles. Let's also suppose there are no maps, no GPS, and no definitive road signs to help you.  All you have are the directions given to you by someone you trust. The directions don't give you any clue on how long it will take, just the direction you should be heading.  With only that to guide you, you set upon your journey.   

Along the way you will encounter others on the journey. Perhaps they are going to LA, maybe not, they are just others traveling with vague directions like you.  Some will say, "There is no such place a LA... It is a myth. Let's all just settle down here."  Others might say, "I am sure that we are going the wrong way, we should go back," or "We need to change the direction."  If you are trying to keep your journey on path with a feeling you are heading in the right direction, your euphoria will fade.  The only thing that will keep you on the right path is knowing your directions are good. There are many ways to get to LA from Phoenix and no ones directions will be the same as yours.  Other pilgrims will show you their directions to prove you are on the wrong track. If you just "feel" like you are on the right track you are a long way from knowing.  

Sure wish there was something I could take or words I could say that would make me feel in sync with God.  There is no such magic chant or potion.  The work is not to feel God, the work is to Know God which is an eternal schooling.  I need to know God just like I know that I am me, and perhaps that feeling of being alive is feeling God. I think that is what God was trying to say when Moses asked who it was that spoke to him.  His answer, "I am that I am." That ability to know I am is really just knowing God. 

As you were,

Jay

These Kids Today.....

You can file this under, "You kids get off my lawn". I can't believe I'm writing this, but more amazing to me is, "when did I turn into to Old Man Johnson?"  It must have been one of those slow changes like a glacial flow. Suddenly you look up and things have changed beyond recognition.

Sort of like the place where this happened, the Sherman Oaks Galleria.  Located at the corner of Ventura and Sepulveda, at one time it was the teenage activity center of the San Fernando Valley. A two story mall with a food court, movie theaters and teen age girls speaking in a vapid dialect that became a parody unto itself. It was so iconinc that it was featured in the movie Fast Times At Ridgemont High.  

It was not unlike most malls around the country but this one was Valley Central and became the thing, but Whatever.   I remember during the Rodney King riots of 1992 there were two armored tanks and a dozen National Guard troupes stationed around the Galleria to protect it from the looting and the civil disobedience that was spreading from South Central.  

Not long after the 92 riots,  they gutted the space and made the Galleria into a semi-open air, single story facility. It doesn't look at all like it did.  In fact it looks more like the courtyard of an office building complex than a Mall now a days.  It is hard for me to remember what it once was.  We still attend movies there at the beautiful Arch Light cinemas and our bank is still there so it still serves a function for us even though it is no longer our nearest best mall.  

I can accept the change in the Galleria and reluctantly the change in myself as the years go on, but I can't seem to accept a new generation of Millennials that have come to populate the space.  Perhaps it is just a matter of not understanding them.  

Most of the young patrons are not mall hanging shoppers, but young professionals that work in the various office buildings that either surround or occupy the Galleria, depending on how you think of the complex. There has been a lot said about the over privilege  and  indulgence of this new crop of people.  Since the same was said about a"Bunch of G--Damn hippies" that was my generation, I try not to listen to stereotypical bigotry from the "elders", especially since everyone but me assumes I am one of those cranky elders. 

At any rate, today,  I was cashing some checks at the bank which is located in the middle of the courtyard.   I was done quickly and decided to get a Starbucks as a reward (plus I had cash burning a hole in my jeans.) 

I walked with purpose across the common area and found myself behind a young girl also walking to Starbucks. She was totally involved in the screen of her cell phone when she suddenly stopped cold in her tracks.  Two steps behind her I stepped to my left to walk around her.  At the same time she took two steps backwards and to her left and we bumped into each other before I could avoid her.  It wasn't a bad bump just a crash of two bodies that were trying to occupy the same space.  Over her shoulder I could see that she was playing Pokemon Go which was the reason for her abrupt change in direction.  

Instinctively I said, "Excuse me".  I didn't say it as an apology, it was a comment to assure her it was not my intention to bump her.  She was immediately angry and with her brow furrowed she looked up from her cell phone screen for the first time and said, "Hey, why don't you watch were you are going."

The fact is... I WAS watching where I was going. It was she who had no idea this was a common walkway and not a Pokemon rescue reserve.  For the next few minutes I had to stand in front of her in a Starbucks line. I wasn't sure if I was feeling the cold shoulder or the heat of anger coming from her. She didn't look up from the screen again. 

Millennials... are you not aware that there are more people on this planet than just the people on your cell phone contact list and Pokemons?  It's dangerous enough to be this distracted when you are walking at the Sherman Oaks Galleria, but I have seen some of you in LA traffic texting with both hands while driving.  Although if you are not looking at the road  and don't have at least one hand on the wheel, I would not call it driving.   I guess what I am trying to say is, if you are that unaware of anything that is happening in your life that is not on a phone screen, then stay at home. Those of us just trying to cash a check get a cup of coffee would appreciate it.

As you were,

Jay  

Letter from.....

Dear Jay,

I got your request for help. I definitely will be there, as always.  There are just a few things I would like to clear up.

First, where have you been? 
I've been here at the same place for, well, eternity.  You seem to believe that I went on vacation, retired, or just haven't been doing my job. But,  I'm right here, I never left. It seems you are the one who has not been around.  If you had contacted me before now I would know. You remember that one of my abilities is to know everything.  And I understand, that too is one of my abilities. 

I get it, you're busy. Things have been going well and you thought you could handle it on your own.  Well, since you haven't asked for my help till now, I assume that has been working out great for you. No one could be happier that things are going well. Hey, I love you. But back to why you contacted me, Why do you need me now?  What changed?  Not me, I haven't changed for, well, eternity.
  

You might have confused me with Santa Claus. Just because there is the implication he is a Saint, he is not.  Although I see you when you're sleeping, and I know when you're awake and know when you've been bad or good that is where the similarity ends.  My love and gifts are non-conditional.

I am omnipotent, omniscient and omnipresent. The omni part of those words is very important.  I am everywhere and know everything, always and eternally.  And unlike Claus, I don't keep a naughty list. I am not waiting for you to be "nice" enough to be deserving of my gifts, my light shines on the just and the unjust with the same intensity.  It is up to you to accept those gifts or not, I do not withhold them.

The fact is: you have come upon a situation you think I am not aware of. You also seem to think that I need to be reminded of my job and that is why you have asked my help.  If you think you have to remind me, beg me or make a deal for my help, you obviously don't understand who and I am and what I do. 

I didn't leave you. I didn't stop protecting you, in fact there is nothing you can do that would make me hate you.  You can ignore me, pretend I'm not around and dismiss my help, but that is your choice not mine.  I am just going to keep looking out for you without wavering. 

So, I'm here and I'm there to help you. You don't have to ask, you just have to look around to know that I am there. You can never be special enough or good enough to deserve it, that is just the way I am.  Stop worrying and start looking around.

But, for my sake, don't go posting some prayer request on Facebook. I am not impressed by Facebook comments nor likes nor emoticons.  I don't have a Facebook account, and I don't respond well to empty requests and worn platitudes.  Not that I don't appreciate the attention, it's just that those requests imply that I am not already doing all I can to help. Am I just waiting around for the right person to say the right thing to motivate me to act? No!  I'm doing my job 24/7, not that time has any meaning to an eternal being like myself. 

In short I'll be there. It was great to hear from you again. Remember me a little more often in your daily activity and you will realize that panic requests for me to "be with you"  or "do something to help" is a waste of time for both of us.  I am with you always.

Eternally,

God

How to be Successful in Show Biz

In a year of political insanity wondering if America is great or not, most people who are disenchanted feel like they are not successful enough.  In America you are not judged by the qualities of your character or the depth of your talents, you are simply judged by your income and credit score.
I don't know much about other businesses but for Show Business I have the perfect answer. It is a technique that I have watched and learned from in my half-a- century of being in Los Angeles.  In Hollywood, as in most other businesses, it is better to look successful than to be successful.  The truth is, only a few creative types in Hollywood really know what they are doing, the rest have just stumbled onto some dumb luck and a twist of fate that proves to be a successful project.  Since they really don't know how to package a successful movie or series they look at what other successful shows have done and try to plug in the same elements.  The rule is, "Get me that successful writer, actor, producer, director to do the same magic for us." That is like mixing gun powder knowing the ingredients but not the proportions.  If the ingredients don't come together in exactly the right way instead of an explosion you have a fizzle. So success in Show Business will always be a matter of what you've done lately.
So in the vain of, "never let them see you sweat" there are certain ways to state your own career when you  haven't just been part of the greatest hit since "Citizen Kane."  Here are some things to think about from a performer who has learned the way it works.
The most important thing is to make everyone  in town believe that you are swamped with work and very much in demand.  Even if the person you are trying to impress is not a career mover in town, the possibility that they know someone who is a deal maker is worth the time to learn how to talk about your career.  You don't have to force it by immediately giving your resumé before you say hello, but there are always cues that let you know it is time to gild the lily and polish the turd.
Inevitably,  during a social situation some one will ask you, "So what are you up to these days?" here are a few Hollywood answers:

For writers:
If you have more than 5 pages written about anything you can say, "I'm working on a screenplay"  or "I have this novel that's taking shape" or the best "I'm doing some ghost writing" (if they ask "for whom", you tell them it is someone they would know, and that is why you had to sign a non-disclosure agreement.

For Performers:
If you just performed for the Lion's Club of Bakersfield you say, "I just had a road gig."  or "I did a club out of town".

For actors -
If you just read a script you say, "Just finished a script I'm not sure is right for me."  or "Someone thought I might like to do a part in this movie."
If you were an extra on a Friends episode you say, "I worked with Jennifer Aniston"
If you haven't worked in a while and your last credit is as a extra on Friends you say, "They (always say 'they' because it implies whomever, agents, casting directors, producers, networks... it's all 'they') THEY are trying to find the right vehicle for me... but with the trend toward reality shows now it is taking a while."  or tell them you are "Working on my solo show".
Never say you "Have an idea..." say, "I've got this project I'm working on."  or  "Thank god I have some time off to work on something I really want to do."

You never have lunch with someone, you are "Taking a meeting out of the office."
Dinner in not dinner it is a "Pitch meeting over cocktails"

If you happen to have lunch in a restaurant where some celebrity happens to be you can always say, "I had lunch with Tom Hanks (insert name here) the other day."

You never just drop by your agents office to see what was going on, you say, "My agent thought it was time for me to come in for some face time."

If you were up for a job you didn't get,  you say, "The director went another way with the part". If you got fired you say, "They replaced me with the producers nephew."

If you didn't get called in for a part that you would have been right for you say, "That part was cast before the script was finished."

If you can get proficient with this way of looking at your career you will appear to be much more in demand than you might be. You will appear to be working when you are not, and you will convince some that they better hire you before someone else does.

Now before I get comments on the fact that this way of thinking and talking is not the truth or God forbid you think it is lying I disagree.  If you look at what the current politicians are telling us, these minor offenses are more like a Jesuit sermon.  Besides  to paraphrase my old friend Billy Crystal (see how subtly you can drop a name) "It is better to look successful than to be successful" around this town.  Now you know.....
As you were,
Jay

What I learned at the Vent Convention

Darwin (Jay) and Dale (The) ..
make up your own story for
this photograph. 

I have a picture story, one with a moral and everything.  It's not a story of the picture on the left. Make up a story of your own for that one.  The story I am about to tell involves the picture at the end of this blog.  Here goes.

The setting of this story is my back yard at 3:32 pm on Sunday, July 17, 2016, So.California. I have the house to myself because Sandi is off at a family baby shower in Portland.  

There are two characters in this story, three if you include me. Although the cast might be recognizable from the photo, it is important to know the players.   

Bambu (Boo) is my dog. Dog owners will understand, when someone says "my dog" it implies a human canine relationship like no other.  I was gone four days, and Boo had been alone most of the day when I returned. She was very excited to see me.

The other character is a puppet from my show. It may look like a tennis ball and surely started out to be just that but with a little craftsmanship a tennis ball becomes my co-performer named Spaulding. Spaulding was created for "Jay Johnson: The Two and Only" and has been part of the company since. I remember spending hours trying to get the cut on a tennis ball just right so it would transform from sports equipment to stage performer.  No two tennis balls cut or bend the same, so when that perfect combination comes together, I tend to treat that tennis ball like is was a McElroy Figure.  The original Broadway Spaulding is enshrined at Vent Haven Museum.     So that said, here is the story.

I arrive home from the Vent Haven Convention on Sunday afternoon. 

Aside: If you have never been to a Ventriloquist Convention before I will try to explain. The Vent ConVention is a gathering of professional, semi-professional, dilettantes, hobbyist, puppet makers and evangelists for the Art of Ventriloquism.   Whatever your interest in  Ventriloquism you can find experts and fellow artisans of what you love about this art form at the ConVention. 

The idea is that we "older" performers help inspire and promote ventriloquism to a new generation of the ventriloquially smitten.  The truth is, it always inspires me more.  In fact I came home and immediately started to work on a puppet  character and act that I abandoned long ago for lack of inspiration.  I have plans of using the character in a performance on Saturday.  

A sidebar for those who may have attended the ConVention,  I did not borrow someone else's idea.  Although one of the lecturers suggested that ideas and intellectual property can not be legally protected and therefore these "ideas" are free to "borrow",  In my opinion that is not the proper "take away" from the ConVention. However, given the lecturer's success I decided to take him at his word. I began to "borrow" from everyone who attended. In fact I didn't just borrow it,  I flat out stole it. But it was not some other ventriloquists act,  puppet character, intellectual property or "idea" that I "borrowed".  What I stole was inspiration.  I disagree with the lecturer's thesis that ideas are not proprietary, but have no disagreement that inspiration is absolutely not.  What I stole from everyone was their passion, their sense joy and wonder for this unusual art form.

I  also stole some great memories.  Time spent in laughter with my friends and peers is a priceless possession. When you have so much in common, laughter is as natural as breathing.  I have evidently been inducted into something called the MFC which is an honor and a joy. Thank you to the secret committee who nominated me. 

My job at this ConVention was to lecture on the technique of the art as taught by The Great Lester; I was traveling as light as I could.  I brought only characters that would fit in my carry on case. Being the size of a tennis ball, Spaulding was the only character I had room for. 

Now back to the story: I arrive home from the Vent Haven Convention on Sunday afternoon.  My cheeks hurt from laughter and I have some strange desire for curly fries.  I am exhausted from the 4 hour flight but my creative juices are flowing.  I begin to unpack but get distracted by every scrap of paper and bit of swag I brought back. My suitcase looks like it has exploded in my bedroom.

  

All Boo wants to do is play. She brings me every toy from her chew basket but she can tell I am more than distracted.  I am taking things from the suit case back  to the office. I grow tired of stepping past the mess so I decide to finish unpacking first and then I can start creating. 

Spaulding and Boo

The suitcase is now empty and I realize something is missing. Spaulding is not there. I check in the office, around the dirty clothes, under the bed and retrace every step I made.  It might seem a little weird to be concerned to the point of panic over a cut up tennis ball, but like I said, it is one of my characters.  In my frantic search I notice Boo out by the pool playing with one of her toys, or so I thought until I realize what was going on.   She was, at that moment, nuzzling, chewing and drooling on Spaulding.   Boo had found Spaulding in my suitcase and decided it was a new toy I brought back for her. 

The minute I opened the patio door her tail started to wag, she grabbed Spaulding and took off.  For the next few minutes it was a game of keep away.  She would get close with Spaulding in her mouth and just as I thought she would drop it like I demanded, she sprinted away, very happy I decided to play with her.  Finally I was able to get her to drop it in anticipation that I would toss it.  I quickly snapped a picture. 

There is an object lesson to this picture story.  Boo "borrowed" something from me.  To her it was a tennis ball like so many others she plays with.  To me it was a puppet, a cherished part of my act.  As smart as dogs are they will never get the concept that borrowing, taking, or stealing something from someone else has consequences.  They don't know the difference between legal rights and ethical principles, and have no concept of ownership...  if they like something... they take it.  I am glad humans can operate on a higher level. 

As you were,

Jay

Donald Trump won't Read this: # seven will shock you.

Okay that title has nothing to do with this blog.  It was click bate... A mini-scam.  A title that made you stop and click to see what the blog said.  You will understand why I am thinking like that after you read this. Or is that statement just a hook to get you to read the rest?  You really can't be sure until you come to Section C-7.*

My birthday is only four days earlier than Sandi's birthday so about this time of year there is an uptick in the number of packages delivered to the Johnson house. But a couple of days ago when Sandi opened up a couple of boxes, we determined they were not gifts nor was it something either of us had ordered.  

The first one to arrive was from a cosmetics company.  A small jar and tube of something that must have been compounded with gold bullion because the invoice was for $324.  We determined that it was not a birthday gift from anyone so Sandi immediately called the company to say she had not ordered it.  They had Sandi's name and shipping information but the email and credit card number were not correct.  Although a card had been charged it was not one of ours.

A day later she gets another package from a different company but the same set up, her name and information with a credit card that was not ours. However, the last four digits of the card were not the same as the one charged for the cosmetics.  This time it was a box of health and vitamin supplements for around $300.  This time the company had more information about the transaction. It seems when this order was placed the person tried three different cards before one went through.  That put a flag on the shipment and they explained what experts think happened.

It was a phishing scam of sorts. Some how these crooks had Sandi's shipping information even down to the correct zip code and phone number. It seems they also had a bunch of stolen credit card numbers.  In order to determine which numbers were valid, they would place an order to see if the number worked. When one of the stolen numbers worked the order was complete and sent to Sandi.  That number would then be kited with a flood of other orders that couldn't be traced.  

A couple of weeks ago I got an email from "Apple" which was an invoice for an APP I bought on line.  I get one every time I buy a new APP, and it looked legit. However, since most of the stuff I buy are APPs costing a dollar or two and this was a invoice for $99.99, I knew it was a mistake. There was the usual link to click if you had questions or problems with the invoice.  Something told me that before I clicked I should make sure the link went back to Apple.com.  It did not, the IP address was not even a site in this country.  So, these hackers sent me an invoice, I was sure to question, with a link back to a site that was not Apple.  

And there was a voice message on the home phone yesterday saying the IRS has found a mistake in my taxes and they are starting legal proceedings.  I know the IRS does not call on the telephone. But here is my question to the universe, WTF? Do I look like I have "sucker" written on my forehead? What is with the sudden test of wits with invisible scammers? 

Perhaps this is an Internet algorithm testing my computer skills after having turned another year older.  It could be based upon the Meta data that Facebook has been gathering on all of us.  In layman's terms it would go something like this -   

Facebook Meta data:  "Look at all the crap that Johnson is liking.... He even put a smiley face emoticon on this shared meme about Donald Trump. What is he doing?  Well, he is in his 60's and just had a birthday,maybe he just suddenly lost it. We better see if he's still "got it".  Send him a bogus app phishing invoice.  If he doesn't go for that see if you can get him with the bogus IRS call."  

Jay to Facebook Meta data: "F-Off. I don't care what you do... I am never going to finish that profile now." 

*Section C-7 - the answer is affirmative, Donald Trump is just another scam artist.  

As you were,

Jay

Lucky Monday -

I am not really keen on numbers, except for purposes of superstition.  I have always thought that my birthday July 11-  or 7/11 was very lucky. Growing up I just assumed the numbers had blessed me and I was preordained to be lucky.  Looking back today on 67 years I would say I have absolutely been lucky, blessed and guided.  

Normally I would not give my actual age to anyone but a doctor. I would certainly not publish it in a blog. But thanks to this math based Internet, my age is easily available online.  So..I'm 67. There I said it again, So, let's move on. 

"Adrift" 

I don't put much importance in a number as the indicator of age. I'm not sure what "age" is if not a generalization or stereotype.  I know people who are young in their mid 80's and others who are old in their mid 50's.  In those cases the number attached to their existence is totally meaningless.  

However, my number of years on this Earth has taught me one thing for sure. It is the worst thing one can do at this point in life: talk about your age. No one wants to hear it. They no longer sell parts for the way things used to be. If it was so great back in those days, they would still be doing it that way. 

In my mind I'm still a twenty-five year old man, in my mirror I'm reminded that no one else sees it that way. I don't know how I am supposed to be or feel at this age of my life. I've never been this old before. I will be saying that every year for the rest of my life with no hope of ever finding the answer.  

Looking back, the thing I value most in my life is friendship. To laugh, and lounge with friends under most any circumstance is "golden time" to me.

"He deserves Paradise who makes his companions laugh." From the Koran

Thank you for all the birthday wishes. We will all celebrate when next we meet.  

As you were,

Jay 

You're not a writer...

You can't write. It wasn't told to me in those very words, but that was my take away in Junior High. I wasn't a good writer, I wasn't even a good student according to some of my teachers.  Somehow, I knew that my teachers were wrong about my potential, especially Miss Williams.

Sue Williams may still be around, if she is I hope she is reading this right now. She was my 7th grade English teacher in Abernathy, Texas.  It was her first year as a teacher and I hope, if she continued to teach, she learned how to be better at it.  It is a situation that can only happen in a small town like Abernathy and needs context to really explain.

Sue was the daughter of my favorite teacher Esther Williams.  Not the movie star swimmer but the Junior High Science teacher, beloved by everyone lucky enough to get into her class.  Being a small town Mrs. Williams lived three doors down from my parents on the opposite side of the street.  She was widowed from her husband and had one a daughter, who went off  to college when I was in elementary school. Mrs Williams was a loving person/neighbor/teacher who had the hint of a Swedish accent, I think the entire town loved her back.

As a kid I would see Sue around the neighborhood.  She was probably ten years older than me so we were not playmates. She was just the "older" girl who lived up the street.  I knew her well enough to  wave and call her Sue.  She was blonde, very attractive, and I admit to having a boyhood crush on her.

 
Then came the day I started the 7th grade. To my surprise Sue Williams is now a college graduate with teaching certificate and is the new Junior High English teacher.  I figured she would be the same kind of teacher as her Mom.  Add teenage hormones to a boyhood crush? I figured I was going to like this class.
The first day, however,  was a harbinger of things to come. She began that class by saying, "Some of you may know that I grew up here in Abernathy. And you know my Mom teaches Science here. Some of you may know me as Sue."
At that point she looked in my direction and said, "I am no longer Sue. I am Miss Williams, your teacher and you will refer to me in that way from now on." I got the point. From that moment on she seemed determined to destroy any self esteem I had developed the year before in her Mothers science class.  

Miss Williams knew I had trouble reading but seemed to delight in getting me in front of the class to read out loud. Perhaps she thought embarrassing me in front of the class would make me a better reader.  It didn't work. It only made me feel like a total loser. She harped on me as if my misspellings were an  insult to her teaching ability. My essays were never graded higher than a C. I couldn't work hard enough to get above a C+ average in her class.

I loathed English that year. It was not a fun learning experience like it was in her Mothers class.  She assigned a very heavy "reading and book report" assignment to the class.  Being a dyslexic I could barely finish one book a year, much less the five book reports a semester she assigned. My brother on the other hand was a voracious reader.  He read books one after the other.  I would occasionally ask him to tell me the story of a book he was reading which he could do in detail.  I would write the story he told me and turn it in as my book report.   I realized early on in Miss Williams class that it didn't matter if I had read the book or not... I still got a C.

There came a time when yet another book report was due.  My brother was reading some Mystery novel at the time and I asked him to tell me about it.  He went into great detail about this murder case the hero detective was trying to solve.  The book was entitled "The Deep".  It had great twists and turns, red herrings and lots of near misses.  When my brother got to the end, he said, "I'm not going to tell you how it ends, it would spoil it for you, when you read it."  I tried several ways to get him to tell all but he wouldn't budge.  The next day I turned in a detailed story report on "The Deep".  However, not knowing how it ended I used my brothers technique.  The last line of my bogus book report... ""I'm not going to tell you how it ends, it would spoil it for you, when you read it."  I got a C.

In spite of hating every minute of this class, the end of the year finally came.  Miss Williams passed out our final exam papers.  She said, "The final question is an essay. I have chosen specific individual questions for each of you to write about.  Write at least a page on the subject. It will be worth 40 percent of your grade."  I had long suspected that Miss Williams was on to my bogus book reports, but I was never sure. At least not until I saw my final question written in long hand on my mimeographed test.
"Explain in detail the ending and the solution to the mystery in the book 'The Deep'.  It won't spoil it for me... I have already read the book." Even then I understood the passive aggressive nature of this "personalize question".
The rest of the test was not that difficult.  By the time I got to the essay question I figured it out. Even if I got a perfect score on the rest of the test; without a good essay I could not get more than a failing grade on this final. Since I did not read the book, I had no idea what the ending was.  I sat there with my blank page and Bic pen feeling not only like a loser but like a failure as well.
There was not much to do but go for it.  If I was going to fail I was going out in flames, determined not to let a blank page or Miss Williams get the best of me.
I spent half the essay describing the plot points I remembered from what my brother told me. I vamped some more as creatively as I could for another quarter page. But now... it was time for that last paragraph, the solution to the mystery murder, the only thing that mattered to my grade or Miss Williams.
I thought and thought about the plot and the characters of the story.  I had no idea what the real ending was, I only knew that it had to be something completely different.  It had to be a character no one would expect to be the killer.  I watched the clock count down the minutes till we had to turn in the test.  As I racked my brain trying to write the last paragraph lost in the daze of crunching my brain cells I noticed Miss Williams looking over at me as if to say, "I got you this time."  My boyhood crush had turned into an absolute disgust toward this passive aggressive hag of a teacher.  

Suddenly that anger turned into an idea.  Who would be the most Unlikely killer in this story? Which character would be the most shocking when revealed as the murderer?  It suddenly came to me.  The Detective.  Justifying this imaginary plot twist took another half a page but it made total sense.  The detective kept throwing off the investigation, he was leading the others down the wrong path to solve it with suspects that could not have been the killer. Another detective discovers details of the killing in the lead detective's first report that only the murder would have known.  End of story, end of question, end of test, end of school, end of that class and most importantly end of my relationship with Miss Williams.

 
It was days before we got the tests back. I was not looking forward to a failing grade but didn't see there was any other chance in my future. As I slowly turned over the test papers that had been handed out, I saw, instead of failing, I got a B on the test.  I could not imagine how this had happened because the essay was worth 40% of the grade, since I was surely busted on my bogus book report the best I could hope for was a D.  But there it was one of my best grades of the class.  

The reality is, Miss Williams had NOT read the book. She was simply applying her passive aggressive nature to my final test, perhaps just to get me to admit the fact that I had not been keeping up with the assigned reading.  It backfired on her. The story report in my final essay explained a logical and surprising twist to a book that was believable.  If that was not the correct ending she would have to admit that she lied about having read the book.  I pulled a C+ for the course.  

Two years later we moved from the little town of Abernathy. I enrolled in Richardson Texas school that had three times the number of students in my class than the number of students in the entire Abernathy Public School system. In this environment it was much harder for a teacher to single out a student for personalized punishment and I actually flourished as a student. In that system there were educators who identified my problem as dyslexia. The idea that I might have a minor disability rather than just being lazy and/or stupid was a great boost to my self confidence.  

I never heard another word about Miss Williams. She would now be in her late 70's and probably not Miss Willams any more.  I assume if she continued to be a teacher either she got better, or was run out of some school on a rail.  But, I'm still a little pissed about the whole thing even after this many decades.

A writer is some one who can put ideas and words together in a structure that works for the intended purpose. I could always do that and got better with practice. Miss Williams never read my English assignments looking for raw ideas, she was grading me on my bad spelling, and juvenile grammar. To Miss Williams I would now say: computers now do most of that analysis for me, leaving me free to write better ideas and express them more fully. In reality then, my computer has made Miss Williams abilities obsolete.  

This week I received a residual check from a script I wrote for an animated film fifteen years ago. It was one of many sizable checks I have gotten for that work over the years. It made me think again of good ole Miss Williams. I often wonder what happened to the kids that "Aced" Miss Williams English class. I wonder if any of them are writers. My hope is that they found some other route to their self esteem than relying on the opinion of Miss Williams.  

As you were, 

Jay

The News Today, Oh Boy!

John Lennon said it best when he sang the line "I read the news today, oh boy." The fact that the line states he "read the news today" rather than "saw the news today"  or  "I tweeted the news today, oh boy." suggests a time when news was delivered differently.  I'm not sure the difference is a better way, what with fewer and fewer people getting the news from papers there is less time to gather the facts of the news. Today news is  not gathered, collected, researched or compiled, it is just regurgitated with no more background information than raw video from a Go Pro strapped to a daredevil.

I remember when Ted Turner first announced he was going to fund a television station that would be 24/7 news called CNN. At the time it seemed to me that one hour of news a day from the existing networks was more than sufficient.  It took  at least 24 hours to gather the relevant facts, check them out and report them during the next full broadcast.  Somewhere along the line the news reporters and broadcasts stopped reporting on the news and became participants.  Instead of a knowledgeable journalist analyzing a story that had been researched and dissected, the job was replaced by observers giving knee jerk reactions to a story still unfolding.

We have been lulled into the fact that when CNN cuts live to a Breaking Story, it is not very informative.  They are just showing the same video over and over repeating the same cursory information.  Until officials have a chance to investigate what happened there is no facts for the news.   But with a 24/7 news cycle you will never hear "details at 10:00".  The situation continues to play out live on the air, as details trickle in as they are received. There is no way to know in that moment if the detail is correct or merely a speculation.  In their rush to be the first to report some fact the 24/7 news cycle more times than not they broadcast opinion or at best a semi-intelligent guess.  The same can be said for all the other 24/7 new stations the only difference is the political slant that each station attaches to the occurrence.

With this philosophy for what passes as the news plays out we are more apt to get the wrong information. In the heat of the event rumor and speculation get disseminated. Later when that "fact" is repudiated the correction is buried.  If a person only hears the early stages of a crisis what they know of the situation is not complete.

By the time the correct information has been gathered the error, the speculation and the rumor are flying around social media repeated so often it begins to have a ring of truth.  It has been said that a fact becomes true to the believer when a story is repeated by three different sources. If you consider all your friends on Facebook to be a "different source" then you have hundreds of reinforcements with dozens of comments to boot.  I have seen posts stated as absolute fact when a quick check with Snopes.com would prove the opposite.  It has never been easier to find the truth, but you can not find it by just listening and accepting everything you read.

So here is my hope. Take it upon yourselves to know what is true and what is not.  Don't take the news reports at face value. The goal of 24/7 news is not to keep the public informed.  The goal of all news today is to sell product advertising.  Why tell the important facts about a story in 10 minutes when you can sell advertising all day by covering every moment waiting for the next piece of information to come.  With all forms of instant communication there is no way to miss the next important turn in the story, it will be plastered in notifications all over a smart phone the minute it happens.

The day after the Brexit vote Google was overtaken by British searchers trying to find out more about the EU. That was too late to be informed after the vote had been taken.  The very same information existed the day before the vote as it did after the vote.  Where were the reporters of old before the vote? Where were the reporters who tried to give all the researched facts about what this vote would mean?  They were around but were drowned out by emotional posts and trolling tweets that had none of the facts but plenty of the popular jingoism.

The difference in the vote for Britain to leave the EU and votes to stay was only 4% points.  In todays' world when gossip travels as fast as the news I would suggest that at least 4% of the voters in Britain were totally uninformed by the facts before they voted. To me that's a low number and the actual percentage of ignorant voters is probably much higher.  The point is, WE THE PEOPLE can not allow 4% of the "uninformed" to decided the future.  WE THE PEOPLE must be informed voters, not emotional voters, we must be long sighted and not myopic.

As you were,
Jay

Enough is Enough

Our political and social world seems to be upside down right now. Two great Religions at war with each other for centuries,  seem to find agreement on two things.  Their love of weapons and their hatred of LGBT people. This unresolvable issue is all that anyone is talking/tweeting/posting about right now.  Enough is Enough so this post is not about any of that.  Stop reading here if you are in need of having a hateful fire fanned.

I have blogged about it before but I was performing at a Comedy Club in Atlanta, Georgia when a middle act named Jeff Foxworthy asked me if I thought an idea of his was funny.  He opened a spiral notebook and recited "You might be a Redneck" jokes he had written.  It was hysterical.  Two of my favorites: "If your family tree does not fork... You might be a Redneck."  And "If your mother does not take the Malboro out of her mouth when she tells the Highway Patrol officer to kiss her ass... You might be a Redneck".  He went on stage later that night and killed (comedy term for performing very well).  It caught on and Jeff Foxworthy now owns Georgia, or so I am told.

Although I do not think of myself as one, I am PROBABLY a redneck.  But you decide, here goes.  

At the Johnson Estate we do not have a formal dining room/living room. That space was converted years ago into a pool room. The pool table once belonged to Harry Anderson. Stories associated with this pool table can entertain people for hours and you never have to rack a ball or chalk a cue.  

It was not a hard sell, getting Sandi to agree to put a pool table in the dining room. In fact she was all for it since that formal area was not used very much. And with the boys growing up, it would be great place for them and their friends to hang out.  Twenty years later I can not imagine living in a house that does not have a pool table. I love to play the game but there is more to it than that.
A pool table is the perfect place to do all kinds of things. When there is not a game going on, I put a cover over it and the pool table becomes a waist level, perfectly balanced 8' x 5' table with 40 square feet of flat surface to work on. I use it to lay out and work on props, sort through files, arrange pictures and stack the mail when we have been out of town. But I mostly use it packing up my act for a trip and, oh yes, folding laundry.  No other area, so useful to fulfill these tasks, exists in the house.

The laundry day usage came about when Sandi became tired of the boys leaving their laundry in the drier for longer than necessary or mostly to get them to empty their stuff out of the drier for our clothes.  To get them motivated one day Sandi put the dried laundry on the pool table so they would have to move it (by folding and removing it hopefully) before they could play a game of 9 ball, and a new function was born.  By now this domestic use of a game table has been well established in the Johnson house. 

Okay, by now you are wondering what any of this has to do with the mass shooting in Orlando or Jeff Foxworthy. The answer to the first question is "nothing".  Here is the answer to the second question. it actually happened to me yesterday and I have to phrase it as a Foxworthy redneck joke. 

"If you are playing 9 ball on the pool table, that's in your formal dining room, and you find a fabric softener dryer sheet and a sock in the corner pocket..... You might be a Redneck.."

Love more, Laugh more, hate less,

As you were, 

Jay

Ancient Alphabet

Is it BEER or ART?

In Lilly Tomlin's solo show, "The Search for Signs of Intelligent Life in the Universe" her homeless shopping cart character, holds up a a can of Campbell's Soup and a painting of that same can on an Andy Warhol canvas.  As she looks back and worth at the two items she asks the audience, "Is it SOUP or ART?"  It is ultimately up to the audience to answer that question for themselves.  What is very clear is that her performance of this question is absolutely art.

If you know me you know that I am a big supporter of the arts.  I think art is the nourishment our soul needs to keep us from dying of reality. Art is the way our imagination speaks to the world.  Art is thought expressed in form.  To me any skill or craft that is taken to its ultimate expression becomes art.  Those who dedicate themselves to the achievement of this goal are artists.

There is something that happens when artists come together.  A synergy is created when people, who have dedicated so much of their time and passion to something as intangible as art, express themselves collectively.  The same passion is present whether the artist deals in oil, acrylic, music, dance, photography, sculpting and yes even ventriloquism. That very phenomonon is happening Saturday. 
The Art Walk and Night Market  happening Saturday, June 4, 2016 from 5pm to 10pm in Reseda is a place and time when artists of every discipline will assemble and share their talents. This time the walk includes beer artists as well.  There will be examples of this "new age old world art" at the Beer Garden during the Street Fair/ArtWalk on Sherman Way.  Beer has finally come of age with the introduction of "craft beers" and "micro brews". The pallets of new age beer drinkers have become as sophisticated as wine connoisseurs.  With the heightened  tastes of a new audience of consumers, the Beer Artist has appeared.

The idea behind this gathering of Artists is the brain child and production of 11:11 ACC.  11:11 A Creative Collective is a non- profit organization dedicated to the idea that art in LA is found in more places than just down town.  The  San Fernando Valley being much bigger in geography than down town, has its own squad of home grown artists. A Valley Boy like myself doesn't have to go "over the hill" to find a little food for my creative soul.  11:11ACC is making it as close as my own valley back yard.
In keeping with that mission the Beer Artist of The Art Walk and Night Market are all local SFV brewers. That's right... Art you can drink made right here in the artistic heart of Southern California.  So even if you do not understand why Andy Warhol thought a can of soup was art...you will probably understand why the beer from these valley Brew Artists is art.
Enjoy the art of the brew and browse art displays,  listen to music, buy your own original art from a local artist, have some food, watch some interactive performance art and see some of the antique commercial Art of the Valley from neon signs to classic cars. There will truly be something for every taste, artistically, emotionally and viscerally.
So, Saturday, come to the Reseda Art Walk. and Night Market.   Here is a map and list of the things going on:

So is it BEER or ART?  You tell me. I'll see you there, Saturday, June 4, 2016. 

As you were,

Jay

Where is Beyond Brookledge?

It would be easier to give Dorothy directions to "somewhere over the Rainbow" than to tell someone how to find Beyond Brookledge.  And WHERE is a much easier question to answer than WHAT is Beyond Brookledge?  Those of us, who have been Beyond and come back to tell about it, find the event and/or experience extremely difficult to describe. The task is impossible if explaining to anyone who has not been as far as Brookledge before.

There are no adjectives to describe uniqueness.  To call something unique means there's nothing similar to it. Unique is without comparison or likeness so how do you explain it in words.
Perhaps there is a way to convey the concept of Beyond Brookledge in a more tactical way.  Instead of depicting a  unique moment in time and space let's describe it as a thing.
BB is a living breathing organism of immersive theatrics and a variety of artists entertaining selected guests and themselves with their talents.  Once a year this creature materializes at an old historic Mission in California. For two thousand eight hundred, eighty minutes the beast appears and disappears all over the rambling mission grounds. Each manifestation is a different mystery and emotion portrayed once only for those who know where to be and where to look in that moment.

You meet a lot of people who are with you on the journey. Sometimes you meet the same people more than once.  Performers morph into other characters and assume other roles.  It makes you wonder if anyone is really who they say they are the first time you see them.

Beyond Brookledge is the love and art child  of  BabyTattoo and Magic Castle, and has the characteristics of each its parents. There is magic of course and art of course, but they exist as a seamless package in this monster Beyond. The magician, singer, juggler, comic, clown, sword swallower, ventriloquist, game creator, illustrator, astrologer, sculptor, and comedy dare devil display their skills separately but in concert with each other to create an art project bigger than the sum of its pieces. Think of the blend as colors on a canvas, the notes of a symphony or the dancers in a ballet. 

For the 2800 plus minutes of Beyond Brookledge existence, everything you can imagine is happening and nothing is completely real.

For example, take the Beyond tour of the old Spanish Mission Hotel conducted by two docent guides. Claims that the clock tower is made of Styrofoam, the waiters - Disney animatronics, the Spanish tile floor -  overstocked Costco goods and information that the Mission was actually built in the late 1970's, does not seem to jibe with historic fact about the structure. 

Bob and Erika -
Beyond Brookledge Beast Wranglers

An 11 foot sculpture seems possessed with life as it appears anywhere there is to be a gathering in the Historic Mission Inn.  Considering the old Hotel is a maze of rooms that have no access but steep spiral stair cases, how the huge gothically inspired Monolith gets from place to place is only speculation. Although you occasionally see other performers in costume or with props walking the halls, the Monolith was never seen out and about but always in the next spot where there is to be a performance.
There are planned events, for those in the know, springing up in various areas of the old Mission at almost any time during the 2880 hours. There was a 9:30 AM illusion show performed "flawlessly hung over"  by performers in their pajamas using toasters, bagels, coffee and orange juice as their magic props. If you know the off beat act of Amazing Johnathan or have ever been to a Puddles Pity Party you understand what some of the scheduled shows are like.  But, after hours, in suites surrounding a moonlit roof top courtyard and sometimes in the courtyard itself, impromptu performances continue well into the night.  The Beyond Brookledge Beast never really sleeps.

Singing while escaping the rotunda and
straitjacket.  

As I left on Sunday after the Beast disappeared into hibernation for another 365 days, I questioned my own reality for a moment.  Having never before been to the the Old Mission Inn and Spa in Riverside, I drove only blocks away when I began to wonder if the place actually existed.  Maybe it was made of styrofoam like the guides said. Perhaps the Beast takes this lair with him when he goes. I was afraid to look back thinking I would surely be turned into a pillar of salt.

Preview of Pity Party. 

I plan to attend next year. (May 19 - 21, 2017)  It will be the fifth anniversary of the Beast's return to the Mission Inn.  I am already planning what I can feed the Beast for its birthday.  I'm not sure if I will be audience or performer next time but it doesn't really matter. I plan to become whatever the Beast needs me to be. At Beyond Brookledge fourth walls do not exist.   If you are lucky enough to attend,  you might or might not see me.  If you do you might or might not know me.
To answer the question "Where is Beyond Brookledge?"  with an enigma , you don't find Beyond Brookledge, it must find you.
As you were,
Jay

High in Hawaii

It was many sunsets before this one but it happened on Maui nonetheless. As I look out on the ocean this time, I remember another Maui day a decade or so ago, a day we decided to go Parasailing.

By "we" I mean me and Sandi, my personal manager Gregg, his wife and brother.  I can't say Parasailing was a bucket list event but it was certainly something to do on a day off.  

Now, I'm not good with heights, in fact walking the rim of the Grand Canyon caused me major psychological issues. The beauty of the landscape could not over come a dizzy feeling in my stomach at the site of the sheer cliffs. It felt like I was falling and just waiting to hit the ground. So I wouldn't normally choose to put myself in that position but peer pressure can sometimes cause you to "do things", and that was certainly the case when I decided to join the group in a Parasailing excursion.   I was also younger then and more highly insured. 

Now before anyone gets all judgmental and reminds me that parasailing is not the same as walking a tight wire across the Grand Canyon, I knew this excursion wouldn't be much more dangerous than a Ferris Wheel ride. Still being a hundred feet up in the air above the shark infested waters of the Maui coast line supported by nothing more than a sling under my butt and a bed sheet over my head was not "nothing" to me. Besides, I don't like Ferris Wheel rides either. 

Now here is the thing about Hawaiian history. When Captain Cook looked like he was going to stay in Hawaii longer than the locals wanted, they killed him and ate him.  Since then the locals have learned that they can make more money out of "Aloha-ing the shit" out of tourist instead of just eating them.  So everything costs tourist dollars and going out on a boat towing a parachute is just one way of commercializing Aloha. 

The parasailing deal was this: the boat ride alone was $25. (That was 1990's dollars I have no idea what it is today).  If you wanted to go up on the parachute, attached to a 100 feet of rope to have a look around for 15 minutes, it cost an additional $25.  Once you got up there and found that you really did enjoy this gull's eye view, the captain of the boat would reel out another 50 feet of rope to take you higher for another 10 minutes... For another $25.  All the captain needed was a signal to know if you wanted to extend your ride and height. Because you would be too high up in the air and too far from the boat to communicate verbally hand signals were established for communication.   

It was a beautifully calm day at sea and it was great to be on the water instead of working in a hotel Ballroom.  The captain sailed fairly far from the coastline, turned off the engine and gave us instructions on how to prepare for becoming a human kite. For those going up on the chute there was a signal for "go higher" (I'll spend another $25) and a signal for "high enough" (I will live to spend the extra $25 another day).  

I was fairly certain that I would choose to go up but being a gentleman (and just a little bit pussy) I said I would go last. Gregg was first and said told the captain no signal would be necessary for him, send him to the 150 feet level for the full time.  This pattern was repeated by his wife and brother, no signals needed.  

Sandi (my darling Bride) is more practical and thrifty. She said she would give the signal to go higher after she evaluated from the 100 foot level if the extra expense was worth the thrill of another 50 feet. It was not long after she got to the first level that she extended both her arms above her head and pointed her fingers to the heavens.  This was the signal that she wanted to go the 150 feet as well. 

After what seemed to a great experience for her, the captain reeled her in and she floated to the deck like the last leaf of fall. 

It is now my turn.  There was a moment when I thought, WHY?  They had their turn, they had fun, they liked it, surely my involvement in the activity would not impact their enjoyment one way or another. That was not the case. They liked it so much, they all wanted me to have the great experience as well.  How could we have a conversation about the trip over cocktails later, if I had no frame of reference? Besides, they said, you only live once, capré diem, excite yourself... Bla Bla Bla... This is the peer pressure part I was referring to earlier. 

I said "why not," and strapped on the nylon contraption that was to be my only connection to the real world.  But using the logic that my wife had come up with, I said I would evaluate the experience once I was there. I would let the captain know if I wanted to extend my height.

At first the sensation is not like you are being lifted very high. It seems more like you are being abandoned at sea. You seem to be standing still as you watch the boat get smaller moving away from you reeling out the 100 foot rope.  This lack of excessive altitude gives me time to carefully consider my decision, so far this is not the terror I thought it might be. From where I sit the rope looks more like a string than a safe tow. I loose site of it before it connects to the boat below and start to rise at the end of this 100 foot thread. I can't recall in this moment who it was that compared this experience to flying a kite, but that is not a good image for me.  As a kid I remember perfectly how my kite would soar up into the air just like I was doing now and suddenly reverse directions and crash head first into the ground.  I held onto the lines that connected the canopy in the hopes they would stay aloft if I suddenly "kited" head first to the ground.  

It seems an eternity up there but it's still not enough time for me to relax and enjoy the view. The one thing I will not do is look down. Suddenly the boat slows and speeds again causing me to change altitude quickly.  It is the captain's way of getting my attention.  It works, I look at the boat hoping to catch one last glimpse of my beautiful wife down below.  It is time... Time for me to declare my intention. Do I stay at that altitude for the rest of the ride or go higher? It wasn't about the money, it wasn't about the peer pressure, it just wasn't going to happen.  I placed my right thumb under my right arm pit, and my left thumb under my left arm pit and flap my elbows, the sign of the chicken.  It was the signal that I did not want to go higher.  

Now I was told that hand signals were needed because verbal communication was not possible at this distance.  However, I distinctly remember hearing, quite clearly, four people, not including my wife, on the deck of a little motor boat making clucking chicken sounds like a barnyard coop.  

I'm no longer with that personal manager.  He and his wife divorced soon after and his brother is now a corporate producer in San Diego who has rarely hired me for work. 

I am, however, still married to Sandi and we just celebrated our 44th anniversary here in Maui last Saturday.  At no time did she even suggest that we go Parasailing this time.

As you were, 

Jay