Okay, so I figured that before I pull the hard drive out of this MacBook thingee and give it back to the guy I borrowed it from, I should post something on this blog in case anyone wonders how to get hold of me. Not that you might want to, but I’m gonna give you the option if you like. I may be back soon, or more likely it will be a while. I’m working again, but I’ve got some, ahem, government-style amends going on right now that are taking a pretty nice bite out of the ol’ paycheck, and that imposed poverty’s going to be going on for a while, so it’s likely to be later rather than sooner that I can get a replacement hard drive for this troubled MacBook and then get it serviced and back up to snuff. I’m prepared to not be posting anything online until sometime after, oh, 2010 turns into 2011. Which isn’t the situation I’d prefer, but that’s just the way it goes. I’m not Mike “The Situation” Sorrentino, or Kim Kardashian, or even David Hasselhoff, and I haven’t figured out how to get paid for being a groovy guy or how to channel money from the aether. I’m stuck.
Not to mention somewhat of an idiot. Not only did I lose the under-warranty hard drive that I was going to send back to get a replacement during my recent move, but I also lost all the Mac OS X program discs, so I won’t be able to get this thing back up even when I do get a new drive. Being that rare combination of frustrated and stupid, I’m too flummoxed right now to figure it out. After a few good nights’ sleep and maybe some quality food, I will figure out what the next step is. Right now, I don’t. I’m too mad at myself for messing up once again. Yes, I am an idiot, or a moron, or a cretin, or whatever.
Anyway, there’s always notebooks, and music. I want to continue this blog, but I can’t access it from work, nor should I access it from work. Work is work. Writing blog stuff is just one of my avocations. But if you’d like to get in touch with me, my email is email@example.com. I can access that on Mondays through Fridays, and on the weekends, well, mental telepathy works, unless you want to call me.
Have a really great holiday, and maybe I’ll see some of you around town. Or, maybe I won’t, if I get too embarrassed to own my recent rash of dumbness. I can’t remember a week when I’ve lost my phone so many times like I have this past one. I feel like I’ve had a lobotomy, or else I’ve been doing stand-up comedy with mortgage brokers and life-insurance salesmen. The operating word is feel.
Anyway, happy solstice-related shenanigans. Warmly yours, Jackson Griffith.
Remember what I was saying about hey, it’s good to be back, and more soon, I promise? Well, I kinda jumped the gun. I’m going to be going offline now, maybe for a while, and I won’t be able to access this blog or Facebook, at least until I get a replacement hard drive for this troubled MacBook, and then get this computer serviced or overhauled or whatever it’s going to take to bring it back to the living and functional.
The good news is, I’m working. The bad news is that I’m probably going to be broke for a while, or diverting my capital resources to other, more pressing obligations, and so it won’t be right away that you see much from me. Which may turn out to be a good thing. At least I’m going to look on the bright side and take that tack, and catch up on some other things, like reading and Top Ramen recipes. So be well, have a great holiday season, give somebody a big hug and I’ll catch up with you all down the road.
Gosh darn, if I’da had the $300 extra for that AppleCare warranty three years ago …. —Jackson Griffith
Enough of apologies. I ain’t sorry. I just haven’t felt like writing much. Which might have something to do with the change in the weather, or my reluctance to embrace the oncoming holiday season, or something. Suffice it to say that I’ve fallen hard away from the discipline of daily oversharing. Maybe I’ll get back up to speed. Maybe not.
So here it is a Sunday morning, and I’m sitting in a laundromat typing away. ‘Tis a good feeling, having hit the Safeway for more detergent and other sundries, and Peet’s for some coffee, and then the outdoor farmer’s market for some fresh fruit, vegetables and honey, and now here I am at a little after 9 a.m. with my laundry almost done washing and ready to go into the dryer.
For a while I hadn’t written anything; I went through one of those seasonal dark nights of the soul that seems to be par for the course around this time every year, and the resulting darkengloomenwhatthefuckdoidonowensnurfen, or whatever the right German word for that is, and just general angsty angst kinda kept me from writing anything. I mean, the Giants won the frickin’ World Series, and a bunch of other good things happened, and I couldn’t get it together to write anything. Such is life, no?
So now, at least this morning, writing feels good. Lately, I’ve been more inclined to get home, fix dinner and pick up the guitar than I’ve felt like writing. I have this huge backlog of songs that I’ve written over the years, and it’s become really important to work out arrangements to them and practice them to the point that, should I ever get lucky enough to play another gig, or be stupid enough to stumble through the gauntlet of ego-crushing inanities that make up the average open-mic night, at least I’ll be ready. I’ve really been wanting to sit down with Kevin Seconds or somebody else who might have sage advice on how to construct a really killer set, but so far I’ve just chickened out.
In fact, chicken is my middle name, even if I no longer eat yardbird. I’m working on making some really positive changes, especially so that I can make amends to people who helped me out during the couple of years I wandered in the wilderness of not having a job or a fixed address. If any of you should read this, I just want you to know how grateful I am. And so now comes the hard work of making good and righting balances and doing what we in certain circles call the serious footwork. I don’t know why I’m so willing all of a sudden; maybe that I’m so very tired of living with pain, whether it comes in a dull chronic thrum or an acute and overwhelming blitzkrieg, and I’m tired of watching opportunities go whizzing by because I’m too damned incapacitated to deal.
So here I sit on a warm, nearly winter Sunday morning, typing on a bench in a laundromat. The sun is out, which makes for a healthy antidote to seasonal affective disorder, and my clothes are in the dryer, which means that all I gotta do is fold ’em and go home and put them away, and that part of the deal is done. Then, a little housecleaning. Yeah, boring, mundane, shoot me and all that, but life just seems to function better for me when things are reasonably squared away.
Tomorrow, back to it. One of the stupid little things I regret now is that I never stopped in for breakfast at Rockin’ Robin’s off the Jahant Road exit on Highway 99; sometime around Thanksgiving, I drove by there and the giant bass guitar and all the crude hand-lettered signage were gone, and the building was empty. I’d fantasized about going in there and, although the risk of ptomaine and other gnarly gastrointestinal afflictions seemed high from the looks of the place, ordering breakfast from some proprietor who, in my head, was my age, but had kept it up with all the cocktails and recreationals over the years, and now was cooking dog’s breakfasts for anyone clueless enough to stumble through his doors, while peppering them with questions about now-obscure late ’60s and early ’70s English boogie bands: “Who do you think was better, Blodwyn Pig or Budgie?” Or maybe want to argue the finer points of Jethro Tull lyrics.
These are the stupid things I think about sometimes. I’m still like this weird little kid who would seize upon one thing like a dog with a chew toy, and wring everything out of it; such is the occasionally rampant Asperger’s geek in me. Like Jahant Road: Did you know that “the Jahant” — pronounced “jay-hant” (two even syllables, second one’s vowel sounds like the “a” in “hand”) — is now an American viticulture region? This would necessitate the changing of the pronunciation of Jahant to “zha-HAWN,” to rescue the word from Okified English and put it in a context where pretentious Saab-driving oenophiles won’t stumble over it. There’s a lot more, like the San Joaquin County obituaries I found when looking up stuff about Charles and Peter Jahant, and, well ….
Well, my laundry’s done dried, and I gotta fold the schmattes and blow this popsicle stand.
More later. I promise. —Jackson Griffith