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Cruisin’

The year was 1975 and cruisin’ had a different meaning. The thing to do back then, was to take your car over to Van Nuys blvd and cruise up and down. That’s all. Just go up the street…….then down the street…………then up the street.  Shortly before my 18th birthday, I got busted in Van Nuys for going up the street (or was it down) after the witching hour of 10 pm. This put me in violation of the curfew law; and started me down the path of a long criminal career – rogue that I was.

Cruisin’ now is a more genteel repast. On any lazy Santa Barbara day you will encounter buttloads of people on their bikes. My friend Sterling bought himself a “beach cruiser” the other day, and with me on his mountain bike, and him on the wheeled lazyboy, we set out for the beach. It is worth noting that the afore mentioned Bootiesatva (nickname for Mr. Sterling Branton) carefully mapped out a nearly flat route to the beach on his built-in tomtom.  He climbed atop his trusty steed, and out into the neighborhood he rode…

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I followed shortly behind and Bill and Ted’s big adventure began. We road past the bakery….(yummmmmmm)

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Then we continue to peddle our asses off (not really, but had to work that into the post somewhere – I was originally going to use it as the title) arriving at last at the starting point of any good bike ride down the beach – the Santa Barbara marina.

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Finally we arrive at the beach.  See? It’s the large body of water on the other side of the sand. I am gesturing to it in this picture as a public service for my many readers who are directionally challenged. And yes, we know who we are…

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Becuase, like the moon launch there will always be skeptics who, for their own twisted political purposes want to subvert the truth, here is another picture of the previously discussed ocean. This time with boats – real boats. And a palm tree. A real palm tree.

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And of course, no trip to the beach would be complete without chick watching. Here is Bootiesatva preparing to watch chicks.

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And actually watching chicks….

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Finally we made it back to the hood….

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Good nite Santa Barbara…

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Luna Gitana

http://www.lunagitana.com

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Livin that roady life again. Although I am not sure that “roady” is spelled with a “Y”. For that matter, I never had a great deal of confidence in the overall literacy of the roadys I have encountered. But then again, one should never judge a book by its cover, or a band by it’s roadies. Looks better with an “ie”. And truth be told,  I was not an official roady, but rather was the guy at the CD table adjacent to the bandstand where the real money is made. Seriously, I sold a butt load of their CD’s. Go the web site and give them a listen. You will want to own some of this music.

My friend and room mate Sterling Branton provides vocals and violin. The music is an eclectic mix of Latin, World percussion, Opera, Beatles and a little funk. All played simultaneously.

This was the coolest of outdoor festivals cause it was the big BALOON festival in Santa Paula. I remember Santa Paula because it is a small inland town where my grandmother lived. I can remember driving there early some Saturday morning’s with my dad. This is what we drove

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How bitchin was my dad! Well, not actually but it would have been exponentially more interesting growing up if he had decided to be a low rider. Somehow, thinking of my dad in a hairnet with a tear drop tat just doesn’t resonate. Imagine that. But I digress.

Ah, the aforementioned Grandmother. We only knew her as “Bernice”

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Indeed what I remember most about “Beece” was her hair. I often wondered if perhaps her head was shaped that way. She was an interesting lady. While I did not know her well, what I can say in her behalf is that she was very instrumental in bringing up my oldest sister Sherry, who is….the balm. And a truly beautiful person. Shout out to Sherry and to Liz.

Back to Luna Gitana. The festival was a kick. Good crowd, beautiful day, and lots of fun in Santa Paula

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And that’s the news from Santa Boo Boo. Be well and namaste.

Catch up

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Be prepared for this particular portion of our tour of Don Warrick’s life to be a little longer than usual. We have some catching up to do. Yesterday, I headed down the 101 through Oxnard, Ventura, then a hop across the Filmore freeway (remember we have already discussed the differences between freeways and highways) to Simi Valley. I can only describe the experience as surreal. I was prepared with map, emails, netbook, GPS, cellphone, and a small stack of wood to make a smoke signal fire. Needed none of it. Turns out, there is an inner me that I have not been in touch with for a while. This inner-me has been storing information, taking notes and recording driving directions since I owned that 73 Pinto. Yes, some of you remember it. This offers as good a segue as any to the following photographs. Once I got to Simi, as if there were an “Auto Pilot” mode in my car, I drove straight to the place on Tapo Canyon Road where I took said Pinto off a cliff back in 76. Back then, we would time trial to the top of the windy road. Now, there is a golf course there. It was more than a little freaky. I believe however that this is exactly what I saw back then before I uttered the immortal words “Ah, shit” and became the first Pinto in the space program.

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This was the curve in the road that I approached at 70 MPH. Remember I had just dropped the pinto down to 1″ off the ground. Why? because I could. The upside was, she handled like a go-cart on sterio-roids. The downside was….well if you know the story…I didn’t make the curve.

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This last picture doesn’t really capture the image that the Wright Bros and I saw when we first became airborn. Since then, the gully that you can sort of make out here has filled in with brush. It was an interesting stop on the tour however. “May I play through?”

I was meeting an old flame and dear friend (Brenda, you know who you are) for lunch, and had a bit of time before the lunching hour so I let my fingers do the driving and ended up at the second stop of our tour today….

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I wish that I could sing a verse of the school fight song for you here. Since I cannot, I am going to wager that my good friend and partner in many juvenile crimes, one Mr. Nosmo King will be commenting on this post and will bring with him a copy of the verse for all to enjoy. The following picture looks down the hallway toward the room of the most universally hated and despised teacher of our junior high experience. I don’t remember her name, but again I am quite confident that my comrade, the afore mentioned Mr. King will. What I do remember is an incident involving a tennis ball can, and a partially dissected fish from the biology lab.  I challenge Mr. King to fill in the gaps for the readers of the Trifling Blog.

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The quad…

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7 little Tyroloftovornochevskavichskyvornachevskys. The following picture is of the MPR (Massive Punishment Room) and the stage door sans Johnny. (extra points for those of you that got that one) This was the scene of an early crime from the brothers King. On this very stage they performed, for no particular reason, their own version of  the Marx Brother’s skit “The Doctor’s Office”.  T he running gag in the skit was the name of a patient: Tyroloftovornochevskavichskyvornachevsky.

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This was the second stage that I had performed on. The first was at my elementary school in Lompoc, and no travelogue would complete without a picture of that fabulous theatrical space as well, so a little backtracking reveals…

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The play was called “Dick and Jane in Wonderland” and I played the roles of both Dick and Jane, causing serious psychic injury which probably explains a lot to my friends and family. But really folks…ba dum bum… And who could forget the quaint little house on Arlington? Actually, I could. For a lot of reasons all resonant with the odd theme that keeps reappearing in my life that we lovingly call: “Sins of the father” – but that’s for another post. In the meantime it is nice to know that the old homestead still stands proud. Could stand a brisk sage-ing though.

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The next pic is for my sister Trink. She was a year ahead of me in school, and when we got to Simi Valley we both hung out at a little rec center at the top of the street. The reason that this one is for Trink is….well kinda private. But I remember. Hope this brings a big smile to your face.

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I was taught by my southern mother never to wear out my welcome, so I will close this little entry in our travelogue until the next issue where we will return to high school. In closing I would just like to share a random picture of marijuana.  Love to all…smoke em if you got em.

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Memories

I woke up at the crack. Not exactly sure why I do this, but it seems to be engineered into my molecules. I headed down Mission and got on the 101 going north. Destination – Lompoc. There are a few memories that are seared into the cells of my grey matter. One of the, a very very early one is of a 50′s style diner that my folks took us to eat at when I was barely old enough to eat real food. One of the most powerful images in that kaleidoscope is of a table top juke box. Thanks to google images, here is exactly the jukebox that I remember…

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This is by no means the most amazing thing about my junket today. The most amazing thing is the next picture. This one is for my sister Trink.

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I hope to type a much more detailed post tomorrow. The day was really amazing. Many more pictures and stories to come. Stay tuned.

A Day at the Beach

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Yes, California really does look like this. I remember now, hitting fog so dense that I had to drive on the while line with my car door open, just to stay in the middle of the road. But that was years ago. That fog seems to have lifted now. Metaphorically, other fogs will lift too we hope.

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A word about travel. When you look at a map, and you see any road marked “Hwy” – this is not the same as Freeway. Freeway’s are those long stretches of road that traverse this great country of ours, making it convenient to get from one CityState to another. A HWY conversely is based solely on the route taken by Lewis and Clarke. HWY’s are where all cows live. They don’t have guard rails, rest stops, towns, phone wires or cell towers. They do have lots and lots of vultures circling overhead waiting for the unsuspecting traveler to break down. Fortunately – I did not. It was an adventure though. So, if you ever have the opportunity to travel Hwy 58 from just south of Fresno all the way to the coast – respectfully decline the invitation, and stay on the more beaten path. It is easier on the psyche.

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Oh, and a shoutout to my brutha Tim – thanks for the quadruple hi-cu. I dig it the most.

Emmett Sighting

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Unnoticed in earlier blog postings, this photo clearly shows a brand new Emmett sighting. Skeptics may assert that this is another case of a photo being modified digitally, but this reporter has verified the authenticity of the photograph. Furthermore, no clowns were harmed in the making of this blog entry.

I’m dwive’n in my cawo…turn on da wadio…

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My sister has lovely neighbors. They are Pat and Chuck, and Pat’s baby is a 55 Tbird. And this isn’t like that room in your mom’s house that no one ever went into, that had plastic covers on the cushions, oh no. She is the real deal. Pat takes her out weekly to give innocents like me a tour of the 1950′s when life was simpler and car hops wore roller skates.

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Thanks Pat, thanks Shink, Kevin, Beck and kids. We’ll be back soon. For now we gotta move on down the road. Later today it’s on to Lompoc – the backdrop for W.C. Field’s “The Bank Dick” and the home to a host of my own childhood memories.

Weary Willy

Didn’t remember his clown’s name until I read the Wiki which is extracted below. I didn’t expect any of the odd parallels that I observed between my weird life so far and the existence of the clown made famous by Emmett Kelly.

But since I have opened this can of worms, I might as well paddle with the current.

A few months ago, I took a job, an assignment rather through my wife’s company in the coal fields running a fitness center. The gentleman who was the Executive Director reminded me of Emmett Kelly. We’ll just call this Emmett sighting number one.

A few weeks prior to that, in a conversation which must have had some reference in a dream, I used a vague and distant allusion to Emmett Kelly in a conversation with my son. Another Emmett sighting.

Finally, as I began this recent sojourn of the soul, my first stop was Dayton Ohio. When I arrived at my Xwife’s house, she opened the garage door only to reveal…standing there…FACING THE DOOR…as if placed carefully by the art director to garner maximum attention in the frame….my 1959 20″ Emmett Kelly doll. Emmett Sightings always happen in threes.

What does all this mean you may ask? I have no freakin idea yet. But the sad clown of my life will be heading down the road soon to see some places I have been, and some ghosts of Emmetts and others.

Every sojourner should have a talisman, and so Emmett comes along in the rubber tub in the bed of Ranger Rick. I don’t want him to escape, although on long stretches of road through the desert I was bothered by his constant scratching at the container (that one is for you Douglas). But really folks.

The bottom line here, is that if Emmett doesn’t cough up the real dope, he suffers the fate of his brethren his next address will be on ebay. To think that one’s childhood could be cashed in for under a hundred bucks. Such, the price of obscurity.

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Emmett Kelly

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(From Wikipedia) He started working as a clown full-time in 1931, and it was only after years of attempting to persuade the management that he was able to switch from a white face clown to the hobo clown that he had sketched ten years earlier while working at an art firm. “Weary Willie” was a tragic figure: a clown, who could usually be seen sweeping up the circus rings after the other performers. He tried but failed to sweep up the pool of light of a spotlight. His routine was revolutionary at the time: traditionally, clowns wore white face and performed slapstick stunts intended to make people laugh. Kelly did perform stunts too—one of his most famous acts was trying to crack a peanut with a sledgehammer—but as a tramp, he also appealed to the sympathy of his audience.

From 1942–1956 Kelly performed with the Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus, where he was a major attraction, though he took the 1956 season off to perform as the mascot for the Brooklyn Dodgers baseball team. He also landed a number of Broadway and film roles, including the role of “Willie” in Cecil B. DeMille’s The Greatest Show on Earth (1952). He also appeared in the Bertram Mills Circus.

Kelly was a Mystery Guest on the March 11, 1956 broadcast of What’s My Line? and answered the panelists’ questions with grunts rather than speaking yes or no. When the round was over, panelist Arlene Francis mentioned that Kelly was not allowed to speak while in makeup.

Kelly is depicted in a famous photograph, still in full clown make-up and costume, trying to extinguish the flames of the devastating Hartford Circus Fire that struck the Circus on July 6, 1944, and killed 167 people during the afternoon performance in Hartford, Connecticut. According to eyewitnesses, it was one of few times in which he was seen crying.[1]

Emmett Kelly died at the age of 80 of a heart attack on March 28, 1979, at his home in Sarasota, Florida. He is buried in the Rest Haven Memorial Park, in Lafayette, Indiana

Kelly’s son, Emmett Kelly, Jr., did a similar “Weary Willie” character; the two were estranged for many years as a result. Kelly, Jr. claimed that his version of Willie was “less sad”, but they seemed quite similar to most observers.

Kelly’s boyhood town of Houston, Missouri, named Emmett Kelly Park in his honor and hosts an annual Emmett Kelly Clown Festival, which attracts clowns from across the region including Kelly’s grandson, Joey Kelly, who returns every year to perform as a special guest.

Hell, a modern invention

I am always amazed when a philosophy or principal of nature, or even when my basic thinking or intuition is validated by the universe. It occurred to me today that hell must indeed be real. It must be real by extension. By this, I mean that in order for somthing to be “raised” that “something” must be real. At least in the sense that it exists in our manifest consciousness. Below you will find a picture of an old friend, one Mr. Tim Haapala and his lovely wife Karen. While Karen did not herself raise hell along with us; Tim and I, it can be said, raised plenty of hell for all. You’re beautiful my brother. What fond memories you bring back. How lovely your children are! And soon to be a Gran papa! – You rock my buddy. Ya done good.gedc0984

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