A Cool Experience at the Notre Dame

Even though I am agnostic now and was not all that religious when I was in college,  one of the coolest experiences I had was at the Notre Dame. As many of you know, I grew up Catholic and attended an all-boys Catholic High School. So I think it's safe to say I was well versed in Catholic doctrine and rituals.

The term Catholic is derived from a Greek word pretty much meaning universal, and it was first used in the 2nd century to describe the Church.  As a youth reading about that, I had the typical Gen X’er cynical point of view. I thought, and probably rightfully so, that the Catholics who first used it had a rather high opinion about themselves.  But over the years as we know, it went global. That is hard to argue against. What does this have to do with the Notre Dame and my experience there? Everything.

In the mid-90s I studied art over the summer in Paris.  It’s safe to say I did not study much. I partied quite a bit and took a lot of photos of odd things.  Being that the Notre Dame is a landmark, I am quite surprised I took this one. I probably just looked up and snapped the shot, because that is how it looks.  

Contrary to my non-religious belief, one Sunday I went to mass at the Notre Dame.  I did it for shits and giggles, but I also felt a little obliged by my Catholic guilt and thought, why not?  Worst case scenario, it will be just as boring as any other mass and one hour of boredom will not kill me, so off I went.

As you would expect, the mass was in French, so I really did not understand what the priest was saying. However, the Catholic Mass Ritual, which has been branded into my brain, told me exactly what was going on. From the cadence of the chants to standing and kneeling, it was all familiar to me. Then I looked around. The Notre Dame was filled with people from all over the world and I think it is safe to say that most of them did not understand French either. Nonetheless, they all knew and understood the ritual.

We all came from different backgrounds and countries, yet we all shared the Catholic culture.  This ritual bonded us and it was and is universal.  That was my cool experience at the Notre Dame, so my heart aches for this Cathedral, Paris and the people who may not get to experience what I had at the Notre Dame.

Odd memory # 6724

It was the Summer of 1995. Hootie and The Blowfish were climbing up the charts, and posters for the movies Rob Roy and The Usual Suspects were plastered all over the walls of the Paris Metro. I know this, because I spent that summer in Paris “Studying”.

My dorm roommate Spencer and I would often go to the UNESCO youth hostel to hang out with some of the other foreigners. While Spencer was busy picking up on all the young women at the hostel, I would hang out with the guy managing it in the evenings. He was an Algerian named Nordene. Nordene was learning the guitar and had a few songs that he loved to play. He was not particularly fond of his own voice, so he would recruit me for some vocals. I am no Freddy Mercury, but when I try, I can actually carry a tune. Well at least Nordene thought I could, so I accommodated his wishes by singing out his favorite songs. One tune, in particular, I am assuming was Nordene’s favorite, because he played it all the damn time. I never really cared for that song, but I must admit that it was fun to belt out “What a feeling” from the movie Flashdance. It also would light everybody up at the hostel when we played it. On the rare occasion that I hear this song, I think of the UNESCO in Paris. I still know most of the lyrics too. Enjoy!

Irene Cara - Flashdance What a Feeling

Angry Cat

One morning Billie and I were on the way back to my place from her usual morning walk to drop off the kids.  Often when we get closer to home, I let Billie get out one last squirt. On this particular morning’s final squirt, Billie came across a large protective mother cat, which looked like it just gave birth.  She was not happy about being discovered. So much so, that she started following us as I tried to pull Billie away.

Billie was up for the fight, but she had no chance against this cat. This cat was in full kill mode. Billie was barking and barking while I tried dragging her away.  I hissed and kicked dirt at the pursuing cat, but this scruffy momma cat was not discouraged. Like Mel Gibson in Braveheart, this cat was on a mission.

I was running out of options on how to shoo this 25lb kitty away, then I realized my last one.  It was the sack of Billie’s leftovers in my right hand. I did a quick underhand flick of the wrist and the sack flew with a great velocity.  It hit the angry momma cat right between the eyes. With that, she scurried off and away.

I may have reduced myself to a poo throwing monkey at the San Diego Zoo, but at least we were safe. I picked up the sack, dropped it in the proper receptacle and brought Billie back home.

The next morning I made sure Billie and I were on the other side of the street for her final go. However my neighbor was not benefiting from my experience, because she and her greyhound were in the same predicament Billie and me were in the prior morning. I had this boiling urge to help, so I yelled across the street the only advice I felt qualified to give, “Throw your poo!”

The Motorcycle

Back in June of 2017 I decided to take a motorcycle course.  As far back as I can remember, I’ve always had some sort of interest in motorcycles.  I remember as a kid checking out a book from the library about motorcycles.  It was pretty much a history picture book.  I was fascinated by the evolution of this vehicle.

As a teen, I wanted to get a Vespa like some of my friends had, but my parents forbade it.  My mom would call them murdercycles and my dad, who had a Lambretta as a young adult, was frightened at the thought of one of his kids wrecking one due to oil slicks and other road hazards that he commonly encountered when he rode.  I understood their fears and took them seriously.  However, that did not prevent me from jumping on one of my friend’s scooters a couple of times.

My friend Doug had this little Honda Spree.  I remember asking if I could ride it and he let me.  We were in his backyard on the grass.  My feet were on the ground and I turned the throttle as if I were in some sort of race.  The scooter came up from under me and before I knew it, the front wheel was above my head.  The ground ripped off the license plate.  The Spree bounced on the rear tire a few times before it came crashing down onto its side after I let the throttle go.  I was surprised that Doug ever let me on any of his two-wheeled vehicles again, but then maybe he did not know about the second time.

My second attempt came on Super Bowl Sunday 1990.  It was the 49ers against the Bengals in Super Bowl XXIV.  I had just recovered from a bout with chickenpox, so my body had little dried up spots all over.  We watched it at my friend Chris’s house.  Since his parents were out of town, it was the perfect place for all of us to watch the game.  During the halftime show, which featured characters from the Peanuts comic strip, I took Doug’s scooter on a little ride.  I wonder if he knew.  I knew I was probably missing a dazzling halftime show, but that scooter was calling my name.  I put on the helmet and took it for a spin around the block.

Because it was Super Bowl Sunday, there were no cars on the street.  It was the perfect and probably the safest time for me to ride it around the block. I do remember loving it, but being scared shitless at the same time.  The loop I took was large and all right turns.

The first major street was Workman, then I made a right on Citrus.  I took Citrus under the freeway and continued to Cortez.  I took Cortez to Hollenbeck and somewhere on Hollenbeck a cop car started following me.  If my senses weren’t already heightened enough, now I had a freaking cop following me.  I knew I had to keep my cool and act like there was nothing unusual about what I was doing. 

I kept the speed limit and when Workman came up, I made another right and headed to Chris’s street. The cop tailed me all the way to Chris’s driveway but he passed it at a snail's pace.  I parked the scooter and walked into the house as if I did that every day.  When the door closed behind me, I felt all the energy leave my body.  I went to the couch and melted into it.  That was the last time I road any two-wheeled motorized vehicle.

Through the years, my interest would grow, but so would my excuses.  In college, my interest turned to Cafe Racers. I thought they were the coolest.  I wanted a Triumph Bonneville, but I was still under my parent’s thumbs, so that was not going to happen. At that time, I had more important things to do than learning to ride a motorcycle too.

When I got out of college, I did not have the parking space for a motorcycle. It just was not practical. What was I going to do when it rained.  How was I going to carry groceries and other items around?  When I got married, we had the space, but not the wife’s permission.  After the divorce, the practicality part reared its head again.  However, after a few years, I had the space again.

With the realization that I had the space, there were no more excuses.  I decided to take the class.  If I enjoyed it, I would get one.  If I did not, I would not get one.  It was simple as that.

Before the course, I started studying up on the motorcycle. Youtube is full of great stuff on that. So when the first class began, I would have a bit of a head start.  I was an anxious padawan.  The classroom session pretty much reinforced what I had been studying.  I was particularly fascinated with the countersteer.  It was just hard to comprehend pushing the bar right to go right.  The physics made sense, but I still had trouble conceptualizing it.  I knew it was one of those things that I can study and study, but not fully understand unless I do it.  That scared me.

It was a Saturday morning and my first time riding since my last experience was about to happen.  My memory of Doug’s scooter coming up from under me was in the forefront of my thoughts.  Even though these bikes were 250s with not enough power to weight ratio to do that, the thought of a repeat was there.  Thankfully they started us out real slow, so that thought vanished and my confidence grew.

The bike I was on was a P.O.S. Yamaha V-Star 250.  Its brakes screeched and sometimes I would have to bang the shifter into gear.  It was a real pain in the ass to ride.  The instructors were pretty good and stayed on us.

During some of the maneuvers, I would lose my control due to losing focus on the target.  The instructors would often make gestures to get my attention, but if I turned my head, I would lose the target and ride off course.  It happened few times.  I started to rely on my peripheral vision and eyeball movement a lot more.  This would help me stay on target, while keeping tabs on the instructors' gestures and where they were standing.  My nose would be on target, while my eyeballs moved.

They, of course, would emphasize countersteering, but it was still hard to understand at the speed which we were riding.  I had a good understanding of emergency maneuvers, but that damn countersteer still escaped me.

I passed the course and all I needed to do now was take the written exam for the license, so I made an appointment with the DMV.  The earliest opening was August 21, so I took it.  I hate lines and it gave me plenty of time to study the booklet.

Monday, August 21st arrived and I took the day off to take my exam.  It so happened that the time of my appointment was during the solar eclipse.  As I missed the solar eclipse, I waited inside for my number to be called.  The gentlemen next to me struck up a conversation with me about a dog which a woman brought into the DMV.  He was telling me all sorts of things about dogs. I asked if he was a dog trainer. He replied no and that he worked with them in prison.  I asked how long ago was that.  “Last week” he replied.  The DMV is the great equalizer.

My number was called and it was my turn to take the test.  The last time I took an exam at the DMV was 1990 after my last scooter ride. This time, the exam was on a touchscreen.  I took it and passed it.  Then something happened that I was not prepared for, it prompted me to take the exam to renew my regular driver’s license.  I did not study for that. The thought of failing that exam really scared me, but I passed.  The good news was, now I did not have to take it in January.

Now all I needed to do was get a bike. I admit, I procrastinated.  I was scared.  I purchased the helmet and jacket, but not the bike.  From all the studying up on motorcycles I knew the Ninja 300 was a good beginner bike.  From shopping around, its reputation as a good beginner bike gave it a solid resale value.  This was odd, considering most new bikes drop drastically in value after they are sold.

Now it was October and I was suffering from paralysis by analysis. I was also rusty so I took a couple of private riding courses I found on Craigslist.  This time the bike was a Ninja 250 and its response was so much better than that P.O.S. V-Star.  After riding that bike I knew I needed to learn on a Ninja 300.  I saw a deal for a brand new 2016 Ninja 300 that I could not pass, especially since used ones were selling at that same price.

It arrived on the last Friday in October and I was mortified.  I thought, what the hell have I done? I have to admit, I did have some initial buyer’s remorse.  I then thought that I may as well put it to good use and just take my time getting to know it, so I forced myself to ride it.  I was struck with fear when I would start it up and while I road it.  However, I found that the toughest part about riding it was taking the key out of the ignition when I was done.  It was scary, but I was drawn to it.

I started looking for quick destinations to go to and over time those distances would grow along with my skill level.  The nice thing about the Mira Mesa part of San Diego is that it has a lot of straightaways and curves.  It’s a great place to learn.  I finally started to understand the countersteer.  When I found myself going wide in a curve, I would point my nose where I wanted to go and push the bar in that same direction.  The bike would then tighten into the direction I needed to go.  My confidence in the bike grew.

Along this little journey, something happened.  I noticed that when I would be done riding, I would have the biggest grin on my face.  At first, I really did not understand why other than it’s fun.  Then it hit me.  For years I have been trying to meditate, but I just cannot sit still.  It’s insanely challenging for me.  Riding requires a lot of focus on your actions and surroundings, because you are constantly towing the line between catastrophe and control.  When you meditate, you focus on your breathing for a given amount of time.  The only mental difference between meditating and riding is what you focus on. It’s about being in the present.

After riding, my temperament is relaxed.  I can take on curveballs at work and in life with a much more stride.  For the first time in I don’t know how long, I was actually happy during the Christmas season, normally I am not.  I am usually stressed out and not in a good mental place.  I am now more scared of being complacent while riding my bike, because I do not want to lose this positive meditative bi-product, and of course, I don’t want to crash.

Speaking of crashing, no, I did not crash.  I do think about it though.  I am constantly being reminded of people who crashed and died on their bikes.   Family and friends always bring it up.  I may see that same painful fate.  However, I was dying slow a death through a painful existence before I had this machine.   I will take happiness and a painful fate any day over that painful existence.   Maybe I am speaking too soon, but I am feeling that this bike is saving my life.  It may kill me in the long run, but it is saving me now.

Rewind to a couple of years ago, I was not in a good mental place.  Long story short, the psychiatrist prescribed Lexapro to me for my depression.  The side effect was complacency.  It made me numb.  I wasn’t facing what was making me depressed. I also found myself drinking way more than I used to. The craving I had for alcohol was like no other craving I had for it before.  I did not like that and I did not like just existing.  That is no way to live.

I never craved alcohol like that before Lexapro.  I needed to face what’s ailing me, not glaze over it, so in the latter half of 2016 I started taking myself off of Lexapro.  The withdrawals were insanely painful and it took me about 3 months to fully withdraw from Lexapro. After that, I swore off any more SSRIs.  I don’t see how they prescribe that shit when they cannot even test serotonin levels.  The method is to keep prescribing a different SSRI until one sticks. Well, I am not a guinea pig, so I started looking for alternative treatments that I can control.  I was more open to holistic methods.  They may just provide a placebo effect, but nobody ever had too much trouble withdrawing from a placebo.

One method I was drawn to was meditation.  Again, I found it very tough to meditate.  One reason why is I have this need to be constantly moving.  I found occasional success, but without consistent success, there was little motivation for me.  It’s hard for me to sit still.  This is why the motorcycle works so well for me.  Technically I may be moving at a fast rate, but my body is still and my mind is focused.  Like I said before, the only difference between a sit-down meditation and riding a bike, is what you focus on.

I do not think that I am out in the clear when it comes to my depression and I don’t think I will ever be.  I suffered from it my whole life.  Depression is all I have known.  It’s just that depression gets stronger with age.  That being said, riding has been considerably more effective than anything I used or did before.

Dave Mesic and me

David Mesic and I grew up together on the same street. I can't think of a memory before I met David Mesic, and the same goes for him. Aside from growing up on the same street and being born a few months apart, Dave and I had some other things in common. For one, we were both the youngest siblings in our families, so we were pretty well used to being picked on by our older siblings and their friends. Also, our parents were immigrants. Hence, we both were dressed funny by our moms with their impeccable fashion senses. I still remember wearing dark socks with my shorts and Dave in his blue plaid pants. Yes, we were two wild and crazy guys.

While growing up, Dave and I shared a lot of the same memories. His dog, the ferocious pit-bull named King, chasing me around on a regular basis, while his mom would call it off shouting "Kinga" was one of our more common memories. That dog would scare the living shit out of me and try to kill me, while Dave would stand by and laugh. A-hole! However, I got laughs at his expense too, when his mom used to come outside and berate him with such a fury. It was the funniest thing to watch.

Playing crash up derby with his sisters' Barbie Winnebagos was one of our favorite past times. These Winnebagos were big enough for us to sit on, so often we would fly on down the driveway while trying to knock each other off of these Winnebago go-carts. We also would give his sisters' Barbies new haircuts that would make these Barbies fit into any punk rock crowd or an insane asylum. We learned that using all sorts of pyrotechnics on these Barbies would generally send both of his sisters off into a frenzy, resulting in me being sent home and Dave being berated and grounded for a couple of days by his mom. Poor Dave, his mom could be brutal.

What brings me to speak about him is that while I was looking through some old pictures at my parent's house, one particular memory came through. I still can't erase the sight of Dave's face on that particular day. We were in the second grade and it was still one of the funniest sights I have ever seen. Yet this event also taught me something about being a true and loyal friend.

The day was just like any other day. Dave and I were walking home from school with two of our other classmates: Steve and Pat. Steve and Pat were pretty much like Dave and I. They grew up on the same street and were best friends by default. On this particular day, while walking home, we all noticed the empty school bus coming down the street to pick up the kids who rode the bus from our school. This time was different because it was running late. Also, it was going to pass us while we walked by a rock garden, so we thought it would be a great idea to throw some rocks at the bus as it drove on by. I don't know whose idea it was, but we were all equally guilty of this crime that was just about to take place. As the bus drove by us, Dave, Steve, Pat and I chucked our rocks as hard as we could at the bus. Then the bus did something we really didn't think would happen. It pulled over.

The sight of the bus pulling over scared the squishy stuff out of us, because it meant that our butts were potentially busted. At this frightening sight, three of us took off running as fast as we could. When I looked back, I saw Dave attempting to tie his shoe with one hand and reaching out with his other hand in desperation and horror begging for us to wait for him. That sight is branded into my brain. It was so damn hilarious. He was so programmed not to walk or run with his shoes untied, that he did not see it was in his best interest at that very moment to just run regardless of whether his shoes were tied or not.

When I looked back again, it was like a scene out of a horror film, when Jason, Freddy or Michael Myers would capture their victim. I saw the bus driver coming up behind Dave, and there was no escape for him. The bus driver picked Dave up and pulled him into the bus like a monster taking his pray back to their lair.

That evening, unlike other school evenings, Dave was not around to play. The street seemed empty without Dave. The next morning, unlike the other mornings, Dave did not walk to school with us. The walk to school was a little more silent. Steve, Pat and I were a bit scared of Dave's and our potential fate. When we did get to school, we saw Dave sitting at his desk with his head down. He looked like he got his butt handed to him by everyone he knew. He looked defeated. Before class started, the principal came in with that very same bus driver who we ran from the day before. The bus driver looked around our class, and then he pointed Steve, Pat and me out. We three had to go up to the Principals office for our butts to be handed to us.

The thing I noticed was that Dave never pointed us out. He never ratted us out. The bus driver had to come in and do it, because Dave wouldn't. Even though it meant that he would be in more trouble than us, he still didn't snitch. Yes, I still laugh at the expense of Dave when I think back to him reaching out in utter horror with one hand and trying to tie his shoe with the other. Hell, when I spoke with him about it, he did too. However, I still remember and thank him for his loyalty.

Dave was and still is a great friend.



Thanks Dave.

Fighting With a Deacon

Theologians, don’t know nothing, about my soul – Jeff Tweedy

You might think that anybody who gets into a fistfight with a deacon must be a bad person. Well, not so. This person, according to my dad, was my Uncle Kees (pronounced case). He like my dad won’t give you the shirt off of his back, because it’s too worn down. He’ll buy you a new one instead. Unlike my dad, if he likes you, he’ll play you up like you’re the best person in the world, and he’ll do anything to help you out. However, if you cross him, you’re the spawn of Satan and he’ll want nothing to do with you.

Last year while my dad was dying, my Uncle Kees was there visiting his little brother almost every day. They went through a lot together, and my dad told me quite a few stories about their times. Sometimes when we would cross paths visiting my dad, I would try to lighten the atmosphere by having my uncle recount some of those stories. Generally, it would work. However, I was a little bit apprehensive about bringing up the story about him getting into a fistfight with a deacon. My uncle can be a bit sensitive when it comes to recounting stories that involve him being less than how he views himself, so I never brought it up.

I guess this sensitivity may come from how hard he had it growing up. My dad had a tough time growing up, but my uncle had a heartbreaking time, so he tends to take himself very seriously. Considering what he went through, I totally understand. I just wish he could understand that it’s not a knock on him. It’s more a story about youthful situational ignorance, which I’m sure everyone has suffered from at one time. Hell, I still do.

Basically, the story goes like this. It was a Sunday afternoon in the early 50s, and my uncle was home on leave, off of the merchant ship which he worked on. He decided that it was a nice day to work in the garden. He really does love working in the garden.

Well, while he was working in the front yard, a deacon happened to walk by. Seeing my Uncle Kees working in the garden, the deacon felt it was necessary to remind Kees that he was not keeping holy the Sabbath Day. Kees told the deacon that he was not working. He was enjoying himself. Working in the garden was fun. It was his hobby. A theological argument ensued, which was later reduced to trading personal insults. Fisticuffs soon followed.

Hearing a racket from outside, my dad went to check it out. He found Kees and the deacon on the ground trading punches, so he did like any other brother would do, he broke up the two bloodied theologians.

From the perspective of my Uncle Kees, he went through hell growing up. My Uncle Kees believed that being able to work in the garden was a freedom and a way to celebrate God. God gave this day to him. Kees wasn’t going to squander it, and he wasn’t about to let some zealot who didn’t come close to going through what he did, tell him that he was wrong about how he felt.

Yes, it was not the right thing to do. But when you think about it, it’s just a microcosm of the world’s religious battles. Religion is at the core of your heart, and when somebody tells you that the core of your heart is wrong, you want to passionately let them know otherwise. This has been going on for years and is still going on. Shouldn’t religion bring people together instead of driving them to conflict with one another? I think this is why Richard Nixon once said, In the long term we can hope that religion will change the nature of man and reduce conflict. But history is not encouraging in this respect. The bloodiest wars in history have been religious wars.

I guess my Uncle Kees just did what most of the world does when somebody questions their belief. Next time you get into a theological argument, remember the person you’re arguing with believes just as strongly as you do, and also like you, wants the world to be a better place, so make it a better place and agree to disagree.

Kendall Chow

I grew up in a fairly mixed community.  Mostly though, it was white and Hispanic.  We had some Asians and blacks sprinkled in, but whites and Hispanics had the majority.  There was this one kid who was a mix of Asian and Hispanic, so he had a little trouble fitting in. His name was Kendall Chow.  Kendall was a very emotional kid.  It was rather easy to make him cry, which made him easy prey for the little assholes that we could be. I am not proud of that and I don’t think my then ignorance of sensitive kids is a good excuse.  My parents taught me better than that.

He had this monster pompadour that seemed to be the gateway to his feelings.  When it was up and groomed, he was doing well.  When it fell down into this thick curly cue, he was sad.  His hair was so freaking thick too, which made it a natural pompadour that could probably repel water.  I don’t think he could wear his hair another way, unless he buzzed it.  

One of my all-time favorite ways to pick on Kendall was to sing a parody of a Puppy Chow commercial to him.  We would substitute the word “puppy” with his name.  He really hated it.  That being said, I never picked a fight with him or threatened him, but I didn’t defend him when I could have either.  I mostly serenaded him with “....feed him Kendall Chow!”

Kendall was genuine and a fairly pleasant person.  Aside from occasionally prodding him to make him cry, I actually enjoyed him as a friend.  I would often hang out with him after school at his house, because he had more deadly toys than me.  We used to shoot his beebee gun all the time.  When we ran out of beebees, we would load the gun with cut up nails.  Those were fun and destroyed coke cans quite thoroughly. We also would throw darts at each other on his front lawn.  That wasn’t too smart.  When one of us would get hit with the dart, we would both laugh our asses off.  It was just boneheaded fun.

When we were in the 6th grade, Kendall got into it with his neighbor Ronnie.  Ronnie delivered some blows Kendall’s way, and Kendall, right on cue, cried.  However, something was different.  Instead of cowering, Kendall pursued Ronnie.  Kendall actually got a few punches in.  I don’t know which had the greater effect,  the punches or the staredown pursuit.  Maybe both had an equal effect.

Ronnie kept backing up and looked very scared of Kendall.  Nobody was scared of Kendall, but then nobody ever got pursued by Kendall like Ronnie was getting pursued.  Ronnie kept on punching and backing up. With waterworks and punches, Kendall kept pursuing.  He was like some sort of laser-focused pompadoured robot.  There was fear in Ronnie’s eyes.

Their scuffle was soon broken up by the teachers and of course, they both got in trouble.  However, Kendall really gained my and Ronnie’s respect after that fight.  Even though his crying was in full blast, he didn’t back down.  He focused all of those emotions and gave Ronnie a full serving of Kendall Chow.   I never messed with Kendall after that.  I am very sure Ronnie didn’t either.