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The Fruits of Success

Been craving ice cream lately. And coffee drinks. And the notion of throwing caution to the wind. I haven't had coffee or any other stimulating drink (well, except for hot chocolate) since that horrible headache on the way home from Vegas in February 2019. I don't even like the stuff, it tastes vile, horrible, and rancid. It eats my stomach. For me, coffee’s not a beverage, it's an experience. Let's see if I survive this cup.

Ice cream and sweets went away at the end of March, during the Ides of COVID. My blood sugar was too high anyway. Carrots, apples, and soup carried me through that miserable, restful quarantine week. And summer means the bottom third of the fridge is packed with watermelon and juicy black grapes.

Fifteen pounds dropped off, and I'm on the next belt hole. Yay me. I was the skinny kid, “skinny banana.” Never gave a rip about diets, still don't. I'm kind of a float to your natural weight kind of guy. Did I say “float?” Root beer?

Some doctor some day might tell me to give up BBQ. That would be a bridge too far. If I drop dead off a beef rib, they'll say I died happy.

What about moderation? An occasional sweet? One smoked sausage instead of two? Some jump out of airplanes. I dive into the fire pit.

Live fully, die gradually. Take off your mask, let me see you smile.

These Handsome Devils

It’s Sunday afternoon around 330. We’re stuck in a jam on the way to Yaamava. A chance to win $50,000. Steak dinner. Eddie’s band. We take a left in an attempt to shortcut to a remote parking structure, but you can’t get there from here. We’re forced to backtrack down the hill and make a left down a side street, where you can’t pull a U-turn. Eventually, we’re back in the line of cars heading into the casino. Somebody up ahead makes that same fateful left into no man’s land. There’s a desperation among many who make this trek. We get cut off mercilessly, several times, every time we come here. Eventually, we land, a ten minute walk up the hill, a few drops of rain, and we’re in. Penny goes off to her adventures, and I wander around with camera, feeling intimidated. Casinos give off a weird, watchful vibe that makes me uncomfortable. I feel like a bouncer’s going to pounce if I make a wrong move. I’ve been asked in the past to stop photographing in situations that wouldn’t be a problem anywhere else.

A lady asks me to photograph her, and I’m back in my groove. I escort her and her family into a boutique and shoot some quick family portraits. Her daughter scans my QR code, in case there’s something usable. Next, I head upstairs to Chingon, where a manager told me last time that the band didn’t want all those pictures. This time, Ivan the bass player is thrilled I want to shoot some photos (I’ll post some in a future story, maybe). They’re the Orquesta Nueva Revolucion. I don’t ask him why that particular name, but when the music breaks out, it’s clearly a revolucion sin violencia. There’s a birthday girl wearing a tiara. Couples are dancing. An old guy wearing a hat, maybe 80 years old, ripping it up and mugging for me. Yeah, I’ll have to post those. I stick around for a while, then cut over to Rock n Brews, where Eddie’s Band, These Handsome Devils, is playing two sets.

There’s a two hour wait for a table. Hadn’t considered that. So I make a reservation for the 9 o’clock show and wander in. Who needs a table? I make it through most of the first set before a manager stops me for questioning. I’m a friend of the band. It’s in their contract, no pictures. During the break, Eddie says he’d love some pictures in the next set, when they’ll be changing into different outfits. “What’re they gonna do, throw you in photo jail?”

The manager is gone next set, and Penny and I are at a VIP table right next to the stage. By now, I’ve made friends with most of the room, and everyone’s happy to be in some pictures. It’s too loud to decipher all the stories I’m hearing. There’s an older guy, Willie, at the bar wearing a cool white hat with his car club badge pinned to the side. Used to be a gang banger when he was a kid. His dad and all his uncles were vets, and my new friend is incredibly grateful. I told him I shoot a lot of military events and families. He feels blessed by the Lord for how his life has turned out.

Eddie’s agent, Bruce, is at the bar, along with his friend Nora. She knows Kung Fu, and how to use a .357. Wants to leave Cali except for her parents and kids are here. Her husband died in the early days of COVID, when all they could do was hook you up to a ventilator and give you a 3% chance. She was a non-essential worker, stayed home for a year. Eventually caught the virus, symptom free, quarantined in her room while her kids left food right outside. Till the fourth or fifth day, when her daughter said she could come out. Magic.

Bernadette is waiting for some friends who don’t show up. “Everyone calls me ‘Bernie.’” Bernie is a make up artist and hair stylist. I actually need a hair stylist for a shoot later this month. Maybe Bernie. “Like Bernie Sanders. But don’t call me that.” I won’t. She’s sitting with Willie, the white hat guy, who recommends Among the Valiant, a book about Mexican-Americans in WWII and Korea. Bernie shows me some pictures of her makeup work. “That’s me.” No way!

I’m on the lookout. I make it through most of the second set before the manager wanders in, then wanders out. Then back in. I’ve gotten tons of photos, and though there’s always room for more, I’m feeling good about what I’ve got. Eddie’s agent, Bruce, says he’ll get me the name of the person who maybe can get me a photo pass in the future. Maybe. They’re not even live streaming or posting on social any more. The goal is to bring in bigger names and sell tickets. Honestly, they ought to have guys like me who work the room, make friends, and capture all the fun people are having. It would be good for business.

About that $50,000. We didn’t win this time. But I feel like a winner, every day. Certainly blessed in many ways. I get to hang out on a Sunday night with Penny and all These Handsome Devils.

Who Am I?

Write me a letter. Send it to me here. Tell me who you are, and why.

It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding)

This week’s playlist was inspired by the phrase “that he not busy being born is busy dying.”