I’ve just had an inspiring conversation with a musician I’ve begun working with here, Aaron Lee Rutledge. He’s an excellent lead guitar player, a consummate musicologist and the grandson of Bobby Rutledge. It seems as of late I have been on a pilgrimage of discovering more about music and more about myself through music. Given my addiction to movement and momentum, I’ve been increasing the tempo of many of my own songs and the tunes that I play written by others. Turning up the JOY & FUN of playing music and singing storytelling.

In 2024 I was living in Desert Hot Springs and was seeking musicians in the Coachella Valley to work with when I got a call from Leon Smith; who was inducted into the Rockabilly Hall of Fame in 2012. Leon was born in 1944, the son of Lloyd “Grandpappy” Smith; the owner of the Melody Ranch in Eugene, Oregon. Lloyd also played upright bass in the house band, the Western Valley Boys.

Leon had found my musician profile online and told me he had considered retiring from music until he heard mine, and that my style of classic country music writing was something he appreciated a great deal. I met with Leon frequently at his home in La Quinta, where I was welcomed by he and his lovely wife Sheri. Over several weeks we forged a connection that thankfully continues to this day, and rehearsed a set of acoustic music together. I know that I became a better musician as a result of it and I sincerely hope Leon enjoyed our time together in the desert as much as I did.

I captured the above portrait in front of Leon and Sheri’s La Quinta home in preparation for our show at Rancho Las Palmas Country Club, and we had a grand ole time! There was a large crowd and everyone seemed to thoroughly enjoy it. Here is one of Leon’s original songs that we performed.

Last night I had the opportunity to see a brilliant trio right here in Cambria, at Mozzi’s Saloon. Make sure to read the story of this fine establishment on their website. The trio was Five Parts Devil, and I wanted to meet Paul Lewolt from the group who will be working with me in the new SLO Coast Twains. No frills, just fantastic music well played. These were some of the highlights from my humble point of view.

When I am asked what is my favorite country music album, I typically respond with, “do I have to decide between Workingman’s Dead & American Beauty?” And let us not remember what the good doctor said about this band beyond description:

“If the Grateful Dead came to town, I’d beat my way in with a fucking tire iron, if necessary, I think Workingmen’s Dead is the heaviest thing since ‘Highway 61’”

“Jerry Garcia was a friend,” he said. “He and I used to argue. He was totally against politics. He had nothing but contempt for my involvement, my running for Sheriff. But I believe that until you personalize politics, you’re not gonna get anywhere. This war is not some distant thing. If every Deadhead voted, the country would be a different place.” ~ HST

I suppose that about wraps it up for today, and it has been an eventful one. When I went for coffee earlier I discovered a thick coating of ash on my vehicle, the Starship FH679, and realized that the Plaskett Fire on the south edge of Monterey County had grown substantially overnight. Perhaps my first clue should have been the blood red moon last night from the drifting smoke particles, which I noticed upon return from Mozzi’s. The PCH has been closed just north of San Simeon and the Westend of Main Street here is heavily populated with fire trucks and coastal emergency warriors. I’ve learned that Hearst Castle has its own fire fighting brigade and so does Cambria.

Happiness is not simply the absence of despair. It is an affirmative state in which our lives have both meaning & pleasure.

Something to do, someone to love, something to look forward to.

Yesterday was a rough one. I woke up with the best of intentions and a positive frame of mind. Play some music, edit some moving pictures, share some photography. Instead, my attention was hijacked by the news headlines. Then I opened an email where I am in process of negotiating with a client for a potential commercial project, and instead of transparency and clarity I received confusion and no answers to simple fundamental questions. I subscribed to IMDBPro and Staff Me Up in hopes of finding some work, and I found a grand total of 4 camera department related jobs in a 99 mile radius of Los Angeles county. One of those was for the adult industry. So I’m gambling to find a job within my occupation that I have devoted my adult life to, and one out of four of the available jobs leads to sex work. How could that possibly happen in a country where UFC fights are hosted on the front lawn our most prestigious of government houses? That’s all it took for my blood pressure to rise and for the chest pains to begin.

On Wednesday I posted a video on Facebook because I think it contains some very important information. After 48 hours were zero engagements with the video. If you’ll take the time to watch it, I think you’ll learn why that is rather quickly. I discovered More Perfect Union earlier this year. They produce excellent content that I consider to be important in today’s society if you are not a billionaire.

Last night I played music for 20 minutes and finally I received a normal blood pressure reading. I’m playing some music tomorrow in Ventura, so I’m choosing to focus on that for the remainder of my day. A good friend offered me some advice yesterday. He said that while Rome burns, find something to fiddle with that brings you joy. If you cannot find that, find a place where you can at least enjoy a positive thought.

I hope you will find the information being shared from More Perfect Union to be of some value. I have. If you find it too difficult to watch, which is the case for me on occasion, then pick up your fiddle and laugh it off.

“Don’t wait for things to change, the hour of man is now. You are a creative individual and you will go on producing, come hell or high water. One has to go on believing in himself, whether recognized or not, whether heeded or not. There is always room, if only in one’s own soul, to create a spot of Paradise. Either you take to believing in miracles or you stand still like the hummingbird. The miracle is that the honey is always there, right under your nose, only you were too busy searching elsewhere to realize it. The worst is not death but being blind, blind to the fact that everything about life is in the nature of the miraculous. The end is not yet.” ~ Henry Miller

After spending some time in Ventura county, I found that although it is considered to be the central coast, living there on a full time basis is still too close to the mayhem and congestion of LA for my blood. And that, dear reader, is another story…

Persistence and Perseverance, Be mindful of creating your present and thus your future, enjoy the journey, the challenges and the process. GRATITUDE. Self-awareness of the opportunities for growth, deep reflection and introspections of what dwells in the shadows, strive for a better understanding.

In 2018 I discovered a book while staying with a friend in Albany, CA. His home had been an old bootlegging house during prohibition, with cellar doors on all 4 sides of the structure. Though I had brought several books with me, as I always do, I was pulled by a serious gravitational force towards a book shelf in the guest room. There I found “Too Soon Old, Too Late Smart: Thirty Things You Need to Know Now” by Dr. Gordon Livingston. I’m committing to more frequently writing this column, and I’ll be including a chapter from Dr. Livingston’s book for the next 30 essays.

1. If the map doesn’t agree with the ground, then the map is wrong.

There is a map that we wish to construct in our heads. A reliable guide that allows us to avoid those who are not worthy of our time & trust and to embrace those who are. The best indications that our always tentative maps are faulty include feelings of sadness, anger, betrayal, surprise & disorientation. When these feelings surface, we need to think about our mental instrument of navigation & how to correct it, so that we do not fall into the repetitive patterns of those who waste the learning that is the only consolation for our occasional painful experiences. The salt of learning and growth. The bittersweet symphony.

There are multiple reasons that this particular book is meaningful to me, not the least of which being that it was written by a Vietnam veteran who went to Southeast Asia as a War Hawk and then quickly he changed his tune. Gordon was sent home from Vietnam in 1969 after writing and distributing a satirical anti-war version of The Lord’s Prayer during an official change-of-command ceremony for the 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment. This public protest led to him being relieved of duty and labeled ‘an embarrassment to the command’. I became instantly engaged by what I was reading, so much so that I asked my friend if I could borrow the publication and ship it back to him from Venice Beach. He concluded that if the text was resonating with me in that way, he would like me to have it. And even though I had just been gifted the miniature paperback, it didn’t take me two weeks to complete it. In fact, and somewhat mysteriously, I postponed my plans to visit a number of camera marks in grand ol’ San Francisco, and instead I sat down at a nearby cafe throughout the weekend and committed to a full absorption of the book.

Upon my return to Venice Beach and after briefly settling in, I opened an email from my mother. In that email she explained further details about my father’s experience in Vietnam, and that most importantly he was finally seeking help from the VA. There are moments in my life where I’m able to close my eyes and transport myself back to that space and time, and reviewing that correspondence was one such moment. The low murmur of my neighbors outside in the courtyard slowly faded, combining in the distance with the soundscape of Hampton and Rose Avenue, the ocean breeze and late afternoon sunlight as I continued to read. In an instant, the occasional erratic or questionable behavior of my father no longer puzzled me. There was trauma, there had been a conditioning, and perhaps there was a solution.

I walked across the street to Hollywood Smoke for a cigar, where my pals Thaddeus and Billy remarked that I seemed different. They observed that maybe I looked a little taller, that maybe some weight had been lifted. Brother, I thought silently to myself, you ain’t jiving. It was not a weight of guilt, nor blame, nor resentment. It was simply the sometimes heavy burden of misunderstanding and unconscious behavior.

When I returned that evening to my studio I decided to begin watching “The Vietnam War” by Ken Burns. Like “Too Soon Old”, I surrendered completely to that work and what the film had to offer, watching every episode until the final credits rolled. It was my purpose to develop a better understanding. Although a thorough empathy of my father’s experience isn’t possible, the documentary series provided some essential information to begin that journey of better comprehension.

Last year, after an initial dementia diagnosis, my father was told he has Alzheimer’s. The process of our acceptance of his condition has been complicated. Surprisingly, the bureaucrats at the VA showed a reluctance to commit to said diagnosis, albeit the reality of his condition came swiftly from at least two psychiatrists on three separate occasions at the VA. I was present for two of those instances and even made sure to capture an audio recording of one of those pronunciations. The VA has concluded that the U.S. government is not responsible for the gradual decline of his short term memory encoding capacity, however ‘they’ are unable to deny ‘their’ responsibility for the PTSD which he has struggled with since his coming home. My friend James, another Vietnam veteran friend of mine from Ventura, CA, insists that my father never did come home. Undoubtedly that is somewhat accurate.

It has been said that we are all simply walking each other home. Last October through December I had the pleasure of assisting both of my parents through some health challenges, and I was able to spend some quality time with both of them, which I had also done in 2020 and 2022. My pop enjoys fishing, classic cars, Saint Louis Cardinals baseball, the Kansas City Chiefs, and music. Country music mostly. Bob Dylan and George Jones in particular. When I arrived back on our beautiful property in Smithton, Illinois, at the end of October, he was upset that his favorite music variety show had been pulled from syndication. The only sensible thing to do was to jump into action and order him the complete DVD collection of “Hee-Haw”, season one to season last.

Happy Summer Solstice to one and all, and Happy Father’s Day to Timothy H. Clay.

Dawn has broken in Palm Springs after a glorious wet down from on high, with our friends up on Idyllwild, Big Bear & Lake Arrowhead getting blanketed with snow. I’ve got a new project and a new client in Indian Wells today, so I have to make this brief.

Last year was a struggle for me, for many reasons. Many will be able to relate. Life goes on, and we are all just walking each other home. Today I am full of gratitude and I feel like celebrating. Pull out those Professor Longhair, Dr. John & Louis Armstrong records and Laissez les bons temps rouler!

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Bradbury once explained the origin of Mr. Electrico, a mysterious character who appears in “Something Wicked This Way Comes.”

“Yes, but he was a real man. That was his real name. Circuses and carnivals were always passing through Illinois during my childhood and I was in love with their mystery. One autumn weekend in 1932, when I was twelve years old, the Dill Brothers Combined Shows came to town. One of the performers was Mr. Electrico. He sat in an electric chair. A stagehand pulled a switch and he was charged with fifty thousand volts of pure electricity. Lightning flashed in his eyes and his hair stood on end.

The next day, I had to go the funeral of one of my favorite uncles. Driving back from the graveyard with my family, I looked down the hill toward the shoreline of Lake Michigan and I saw the tents and the flags of the carnival and I said to my father, Stop the car. He said, What do you mean? And I said, I have to get out. My father was furious with me. He expected me to stay with the family to mourn, but I got out of the car anyway and I ran down the hill toward the carnival.

It didn’t occur to me at the time, but I was running away from death, wasn’t I? I was running toward life. And there was Mr. Electrico sitting on the platform out in front of the carnival and I didn’t know what to say. I was scared of making a fool of myself.

I had a magic trick in my pocket, one of those little ball-and-vase tricks—a little container that had a ball in it that you make disappear and reappear—and I got that out and asked, Can you show me how to do this? It was the right thing to do. It made a contact. He knew he was talking to a young magician. He took it, showed me how to do it, gave it back to me, then he looked at my face and said, Would you like to meet those people in that tent over there? Those strange people? And I said, Yes sir, I would. So he led me over there and he hit the tent with his cane and said, Clean up your language! Clean up your language! He took me in, and the first person I met was the illustrated man. Isn’t that wonderful? The Illustrated Man! He called himself the tattooed man, but I changed his name later for my book. I also met the strong man, the fat lady, the trapeze people, the dwarf, and the skeleton. They all became characters.

Mr. Electrico was a beautiful man, see, because he knew that he had a little weird kid there who was twelve years old and wanted lots of things. We walked along the shore of Lake Michigan and he treated me like a grown-up. I talked my big philosophies and he talked his little ones.

Then we went out and sat on the dunes near the lake and all of a sudden he leaned over and said, I’m glad you’re back in my life. I said, What do you mean? I don’t know you. He said, You were my best friend outside of Paris in 1918. You were wounded in the Ardennes and you died in my arms there. I’m glad you’re back in the world. You have a different face, a different name, but the soul shining out of your face is the same as my friend. Welcome back.

Now why did he say that? Explain that to me, why? Maybe he had a dead son, maybe he had no sons, maybe he was lonely, maybe he was an ironical jokester. Who knows? It could be that he saw the intensity with which I live. Every once in a while at a book signing I see young boys and girls who are so full of fire that it shines out of their face and you pay more attention to that. Maybe that’s what attracted him.

When I left the carnival that day I stood by the carousel and I watched the horses running around and around to the music of “Beautiful Ohio,” and I cried. Tears streamed down my cheeks. I knew something important had happened to me that day because of Mr. Electrico. I felt changed. He gave me importance, immortality, a mystical gift. My life was turned around completely. It makes me cold all over to think about it, but I went home and within days I started to write. I’ve never stopped.

Seventy-seven years ago, and I’ve remembered it perfectly. I went back and saw him that night. He sat in the chair with his sword, they pulled the switch, and his hair stood up. He reached out with his sword and touched everyone in the front row, boys and girls, men and women, with the electricity that sizzled from the sword. When he came to me, he touched me on the brow, and on the nose, and on the chin, and he said to me, in a whisper, ‘Live Forever’. And I decided to.”

I then received a notification from an essay about HST that was published in February of this year, right after I turned 50.

Closer to the Edge

Hunter S. Thompson Has Been Missing for 20 Years—And It Shows

It has been 20 long, ridiculous years since Hunter S. Thompson left us, and let’s be honest—the world has gone straight to hell in his absence. Without his snarling wit and high-powered nonsense detector, America has spent the past two decades stumbling through history like a blindfolded rhinoceros in a room full of priceless antiques…

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2 years ago · 128 likes · 14 comments · Closer to the Edge

In 2005, I recall reading the Rolling Stone tribute to Hunter S. Thompson on a flight to record some ridiculous television show. In the essay the writer challenges the reader to take the fire that the Prometheus of Woody Creek was passing on, to anyone with the courage to accept it. When a production assistant picked me up from curbside, I hopped in the passenger seat and immediately the radio station began to broadcast "Spirit in the Sky" by Norman Greenbaum.

When you are given a proper jolt and you feel that pounding again in your chest, don't ignore it. I didn’t neglect that message then, I only failed to follow through for a little while.

This summer I have received a few bumps and bruises that have provided some new perspective, and who doesn’t need that occasionally?

The key is to keep going. Life goes on. Or as my old pal Harris from West Pico Boulevard in Los Angeles used to tell me, “So What, Now What?”

So for good or ill, dear reader, I’m committing again to accepting the torch this morning. Long may it BURN. Onwards & Upwards.

This is a conversation space exclusively for subscribers—kind of like a group chat or live hangout. I’ll post questions and updates that come my way, and you can jump into the discussion.

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And so it came to pass that I read the headline, something to the tune of “Trump Takes Power”, immediately upon reading this, the power went off in the condominium that I’m leasing in Ventura, CA. I had noticed the forecast over the weekend when the ominous chatter began. Raymond wrote about The Devil Winds, or the Santa Annas if you’re the timid sort, in his 1938 story “Red Wind”. On certain nights, he intimated, when they blow along the southern California coast they might cause violence and unpredictability.

"There was a rough desert wind blowing into Los Angeles that evening. One of those hot, dry Santa Annas that come down through the mountain passes that curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that, every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husband's necks. Anything can happen when they blow in from the desert." ~ R. Chandler

So it came to pass that I opened the garage door to let some fresh air in while warming up the coffee machine, and instead of fresh air I detected smoke and noticed a bizarre orange glow to the atmosphere outside. I sauntered cautiously out into the open and snapped this photograph.

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I woke up with the usual routine, which is acceptable as far as I am concerned, given the treachery and chaos happening right now in Southern California and beyond in this country. The exhaustion and fatigue of the relentless fire storming news, the reluctance to engage and then the fear of danger in not engaging, has affected me psychologically in a fairly significant way.

In college, my housemates and I experienced the fallout of a house fire. I had just sat down to a Thanksgiving meal in St. James, Missouri, with my family when Jonathan Brown phoned.

“Hey man, how’s it going?”

“All is well sir, just setting down to our meal.”

“Great! Well, we had a fire…”

In the aftermath, the feeling of displacement and powerlessness was undeniable. And also somewhat liberating.

Yesterday, a very close friend in Santa Monica informed me that he and his brother had lost the Malibu home they grew up in. This individual became a spiritual sibling to me when I needed one most, in fact, I am not certain that I would be here without his kindness and companionship. I will always recollect that house fondly. I spent a Thanksgiving there before my friend’s mother passed away. The two brothers lost their father too soon, and when you visited the house you could observe a remarkable photographic storyboard that chronicled the growing up of these two souls. One afternoon when staying there I peeked into my friend’s childhood bedroom to find an entire bookshelf of Louis L’Amour paperbacks. As of this writing, I only know of one other individual who collected those western novellas, my grandfather, Glenn Barrymore Haley. That said, I did discover one other small collection of L’Amour books recently, while visiting the central coastal hamlet of Los Osos. Their covers torn and frayed, inside a small free library box with a familiar sticker on the front glass featuring a triangle with a circle intertwined. The hour of man is now!

The Malibu house rested on the crest of the cliffs overlooking Santa Monica Bay, with magnificent vaulted ceilings and picture windows, and one evening in the winter of 2022 I enjoyed a cup of tea and glanced across the Ocean Pacific to the illumination of the ferris wheel on the pier. I imagined myself from five years earlier standing on the end of that pier, struggling with rapacious demons, and I made peace with that past, telling my younger self, “it’s going to be alright, keep going.” And so we beat on…

That house is gone now, along with thousands of other homes, fading recollections and livelihoods for countless others in the greater Los Angeles area. I’ve thought repeatedly about leaving California in the rearview, and have made a few attempts to do so, with magnetism of the Pacific tides seeming to pull me back. No, it must be the irrepressible curiosity in me to embark on the next adventure; win, lose or draw. Like checking into the Ala Mar Motel in Santa Barbara soon to feast on some fresh catch and write a new chapter.

Whatever the reason, here I dream, standing between two fires and recalling that transformative moment in Malibu. Time to chop the wood, carry the water, and to deliver the message. Next up, two musical shows next week where I hope to inspire others to keep going and that it’s going to be alright.

My coffee machine is in the garage of the condo where I am presently residing, so I raise the garage door every morning to let in the fresh valley air. The wind seemed to be calm relative to what had been predicted in the forecast, however I did smell smoke and notice a very thin layer of soot on the hood of my vehicle. Curious and concerned, I sprang from my post nocturnal delirium to see what was the matter. If you are reading this and have been evacuated voluntarily or involuntarily from the Franklin blaze, you have a friend in Ventura if you are in need of help. I experienced the anxiety of a destructive Santa Ana fire event not long ago, when the Mountain fire ripped through Camarillo, Moorpark and ultimately the east end of Ventura county. Thankfully this property remains, and most of the natural fuel around us has been burned away. Surely we are safe, what could possibly go wrong tomorrow? Perhaps a cool cup of PCE laced water to wash down your Big Mac? I’m Lovin’ It!

In other news, today I’m announcing a brand new addition to my Substack publication: The Getting There subscriber chat.

This is a conversation space exclusively for subscribers—kind of like a group chat or live hangout. I’ll post questions and updates that come my way, and you can jump into the discussion. I sincerely look forward to a lively discourse…

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2. Open the app and tap the Chat icon. It looks like two bubbles in the bottom bar, and you’ll see a row for my chat inside.

3. That’s it! Jump into my thread to say hi, and if you have any issues, check out Substack’s FAQ.

Following this I thought about Tim, my dear friend who past away four years ago, and the unforgettable writing that he so cherished from J.R.R. Tolkien from The Return of the King.

“All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.”

I’m thoroughly looking forward to sharing more stories collected from my travels in this life, there and back again, and would greatly appreciate your pledge and support in doing so.

Onwards & Upwards!

~ Cory B.

Is there no heaven more befitting

Than the drifting cold

Silence falling from the sky

I am merely an instrument

Attempting to give back each day

A little divinity, a tempered grace

And goodwill towards others

When we are able to forgive ourselves

In simple pauses

Exhaling and letting go

The fear and desire.

In 2022, after returning from London, I began speaking with Brent Jaimes about a short script he wrote called “The Green Frog Cafe”. Brent had composed the short story inspired by a well known country folk song, the tune being a favorite of mine as well. Mr. Jaimes had also been courageously battling an illness and disability when we met up in person to discuss making the film, and he was joined by Kathy Corley; who is a great friend, colleague and mentor. We had a few meetings in Webster Groves and I have very fond memories of those reunions. At that time I began to consider how digging in and committing to this project would provide Brent a sense of purpose, as it would provision the same for me.

I composed this Director’s statement on one frigid evening in Santa Fe, NM, after I was offered the role.

"This story resonates with me on multiple levels.  The theme of a surrogate father figure resonates with me strongly, as my own father always found providing guidance and emotional support exceptionally challenging.  As a result, I have met a few men like Jack during my lifetime who have provided direction when I had no sense of my own.  Steven’s fear of abandonment is also something very relatable to me, as I experienced the sudden death of my grandfather, Glenn Barrymore Haley, at a very pivotal age.”

After subsequently asking Jessica Lynn Ambuehl to join us as a co-producer and casting director; our core team was ready for the marathon.

Filmmaking is not for the faint of heart. Weeks turned into months of development, pre-production, casting, rewrites, location scouting, budget discussions, crew staffing, deal memo negotiations; all with the hope of finding enough time and the right days to actually capture a story so that it may be edited and shared with an audience. That opportunity to share the film is finally here, as it will screen this weekend at the Saint Louis Filmmaker’s Showcase on Sunday.

The film is about fear, desire and love. Isn’t it curious how love eliminates, or at least contains, fear and desire. I sincerely hope you enjoy it and I want to extend my immense gratitude to my friends, family, colleagues, cast, crew and the city of Saint Louis for providing me the opportunity to help tell this story.

Brent Jaimes and I were acquaintances when this project began. Now we are brothers and always will be. I’m grateful to say the same about Joe Anselm and Tim Kidwell. This song never would have manifested without the dedication, experience and professionalism of Kathy Corley, “Diamond” Dave Rutherford and Jessica Ambuehl.

I’m currently reading “The Storyteller’s Nashville: a Gritty and Glorious Life in Country Music” by Tom. T. Hall. In chapter 9, entitled “Write About What You Know”, Tom shares a passage which echoes a sentiment in my own heart that relates to my experience on our short film.

“There are warm quiet places where a man thinks his best thoughts and lives up to his highest ideals. There are places where a man searches his deepest feelings for meaning, dedication, purpose, and that all-important instinct: survival.”

For a moment in my life that place was Saint Louis, with my friends, making “Green Frog Cafe”. Last night I watched the sun backlighting the great old volcano, Morro Rock, shrouded in fog; and thought I heard the voice of Marty Luepker, who wanted me to close with this.

“I hope you’ll go home with a smile on your face and plant some tomatoes.”

Emmylou looks damn fine up on that screen Marty.

A few nights ago I had stopped in Palm Springs and checked into a hotel on North Palm Canyon Boulevard after spending the day searching for a winter rental. My sinuses do not enjoy the frigid air of the Midwest and the central heating inside our home which compliments the freezing temperatures. I decided to have a soak in the hot tub of my hotel. There was a woman perched in the corner of the spa with multiple bags within arms reach and various beverage receptacles. She was watching motivational YouTube videos from her phone at a greater than reasonable volume and asked if the loudness was bothersome to me, I responded that it wasn’t. Physically she was very gaunt, essentially skeletal, and her face was replete with evidence of hard living. I laid my head back to search for the stars. Eventually she turned to me again and asked if I would mind that she applied lightly some salt to her skin, that she enjoyed the restorative and healing properties of salt and that there was a possibility that a micro amount could end up in the jacuzzi. I responded the same way I had previously, that I didn’t mind. This time I tilted my head back and closed my eyes and that’s when I head the strange music. A baritone voice spoke, saying that the crow was the only animal foolish enough to attach the eagle. Unnerved as the crow pecks at his neck and back, the eagle simply flies higher and when it reaches a certain altitude the crow falls off his back while the eagle continues to soar.

The following morning I went to the front office and inquired about the woman I had encountered in the hot tub. Ana, the manager, informed me that the person in question was indeed homeless and that her mother had checked her in to a room at this particular hotel the previous day. She then showed me the contents of the screen on her ‘smart’ phone, revealing a male and a female actor with maniacal eyes and blinding white smiles posing on a red carpet at a Hollywood premiere.

“She has fallen on hard times”, Ana suggested, “and she used to be famous.”

I did not recognize any of the film credits that the actress was distinguished for, however her partner in the photograph is an actor known to me, he having been featured in a number of popular indie 90’s films. Apparently the actress suffered a brain hemorrhage after checking into a rehab center a few years ago, the same rehab center where the actor was to be featured in a reality show about trauma and addiction. His decision to be included in the show was prompted after he alleged that he was kidnapped and held at gunpoint by men who helped him fix a flat tire in Palm Springs, and subsequently forced this actor to do drugs.

There are ghosts on the fringes of the desert and the cult of celebrity drifts from Sunset and Vine towards the Coachella Valley and beyond. And what of these phantasms? Where do they come from, what is the source? Perhaps if we take a walk this afternoon towards the Palm Springs art museum, stop and look up at the blonde bombshell monument; maybe if we listen closely she will whisper the answers.

Like a melody from youth, a return to the source and responding with a full spirit. The reservoir is in exhaustible…

At the end of the table I sat marveling at the life that I have chosen. With every Thanksgiving feast being so unique from the previous, and yet, always expression of gratitude and connection with another soul being the point.

Last year, with new friends at a clubhouse in north Palm Springs, I spent the holiday at the foot of Mount San Jacinto. I had visited the oasis dwelling earlier that morning and introduced myself to the motley cast of characters and then I heard that laugh. Piercing, grating, boisterous and tremendous as the sea, a laugh like no other. Lorna was clearly a matriarch of the group, protective and patient, like your favorite obnoxious aunt. My first impulse was to run out of the building when I heard that menacing cackle, nevertheless I remained, motivated to generate a new connection within this wonderfully strange desert tribe.

A pensive and also eccentric woman named Leslie proposed that I return to the clubhouse later for a meal service, and so I did, not to feast but to assist with the meal service. And who should the supervisor and principal administrator of this banquet? Lorna of course, though she was in work mode and I don’t recall hearing that thunderous guffaw from preparations through the final clean up. Earlier this spring I found myself in a ridiculous situation, manifested once again by the devil of self-centered fear, and Lorna would offer an empathy and gesture of kindness that we all could use more of in this hour of man.

So this year I woke up on the SLO coast, and I had dreamed of Arlo’s Alice and Angela Haines, my sweet and dearest friend from High School. Music brought us together, both of us having a thorough appreciation for punk rock and also The Grateful Dead. I called her Janis then and I had found a mad one, being one of the first of many in my lifetime. Knowing she was on the east coast I didn’t hesitate to call, and to my delight she answered. Angela was having coffee in Celebration, Florida, with her husband Nate, and our conversation was a perfect start to the day. The going back to move forward. Remembering the golden autumn of Rolla, Missouri, and vitality of our youth. If you want to sing out, sing out!

I spent some time writing and film editing, made some breakfast and headed out the door for walk a la Sainte Terre at Montaña de Oro State Park. The ocean was pitching, swelling and swearing with a ferocity I had not yet seen on many saunters along the pacific coast; and it was marvelous! Finding the scene irresistible, I captured some video and then headed to Santa Ynez Ave to the residence of Randi Barros, a filmmaker and teacher at Cal Poly that I recently met for coffee at Linnea’s Cafe on Garden Street. I was greeted at the door Randi’s sister Stacy and ushered into a vibrant, eclectic jolly band of rascals, artists, filmmakers, a contractor-plumber, good folk of public service. Jan, Randi’s husband, is the builder and architect of the household, and I had the pleasure of observing a variety of projects and restorations that he is performing; each being in various phases of completion. The dinner fare resembled the feast I grew up on in the Midwest, with less butter and sugar. I had not yet been to a Thanksgiving which included a discussion of the cinema of Todd Haynes, so when the conversation shifted into that realm I was enthusiastic to participate. After dinner Jan, being the consummate fabricator, insisted that we all venture out into the night air for a climb up the hill, traversing a path both paved and unfamiliar; which I consider to be the best kind. The soft iridescence of the moonlight on the rolling hills above Cal Poly State I found to be intoxicating as we climbed higher into the live oaks and coyote brush. Along the way we found a dubious looking graffiti smiling face on the side of a water tank as well as a magnificent old ‘49 Chevrolet truck.

I discovered San Luis Obispo when I began venturing out of Los Angeles in 2017 to see what else California had to offer. It’s true you can get anything you want at Alice’s Restaurant, and there is life outside of the carnival.

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