Barry Parts XI-XX

Flying Dutchmen and everything from E-Scows to sunfish round out the contingency (mostly old-school wooden catamarans) that raced on Sundays.  If regatta-day was quite windy I’d race a 14-foot Hoby Cat considered gauche and nouveau-riche by the wooden hulled catamaran owners, perhaps because they are lighter and quicker. My girth gave me a decided “keep-the-boat-flat”  advantage on heavy days during the two legs that require tacking, and, being a one-men operation, it was a test of both nautical and tactical skills.  On light wind days I’d race sunfish but not with much success.

So I got past the yacht club, then the pump house, a Canandaigua landmark and scene of an emergency pissing pit stop four years later, when the choice was pee in my car, or behind the “pumpa housa” as Dad called it.  Might have gotten arrested and had a permanent sex-offender for that type of move these days. The walk this day though, back in 1972, was anything but funny.  I’m sure I bothered more than one sunbather, gardener, t-shirted lawn mower with off-the-wall questions or unexpected behavior.

On the walk down the gravel driveway that served four “cottages” on Tichner’s Point I slipped and fell due to a small patch of moss, and that woke me up enough to be a little more presentable, emotionally, for the inevitable inquisitive “where is your father?” “How did you get here?” “Your hand is bleeding, let’s get some iodine on that, and a band-aid,” etc.  Mom, God bless her, had wigged-out multiple times by then, having suffered severe stress due to my younger brother being hospitalized at Strong Memorial Hospital for his first five years.  Oh Adam is a story in himself, and in Mom it caused “hyperactive micromanagement” fueled by regular alcohol ingestion a 50+ cigarettes a day nicotine fix, both habits her shrink called “self medication.” For what, back then, was called manic depression.  As if the Nembutal, Secanol, valium, etc. weren’t enough.  Turns out Mom’s brother became addicted to a variety of pills (handful at a time) due to bizarre misdiagnoses by one, two five, ten VA hospitals in the southeast.  Addiction. It runs in human dynamics as well.

“I’m serious young man, how did you get here?” mom asked in her familiar bark.

“I hitch-hiked, it only took three rides to get here.”

“Then where is your father, and why didn’t he pick you up at John Harrison’s office?”

“I guess I didn’t give him a chance” (an unwritten “Schmidt Men’s code” was to cover for each other) I said in sarcastic battle mode.

“Don’t lay that crap on me.  Do you expect me to believe you just up and hitch-hiked all the way here?  Do you know how dangerous that would be?  Never hitch-hike.  I’ve told you we never pick up hitch-hikers, and thumbing a ride is just as bad.  You could have been kidnapped, or worse!”

“Well Harrison told me to go where my heart told me to go,” I said to the straight-forwardest of my ability.

“Like hell he did!  What is he a quack? No!  He has a lot of books out and researched at Duke and UNC at the same time…you know, that’s unheardof.”

“Yeah mom and I know you love his motorcycle, but when he told me to follow my heart, I made a short stop at Martin’s until Mr. Martin came home, and then made it here by hitch-hiking.  You should be proud.  I forgot Dad (slapped in my face) was going to pick me up.  That hurt!”

“It’s not surprising your father hasn’t called by now.”

And on it went.  Later that same summer my folks had a blowout fundraiser for Project Hope, the floating hospital.  My dad’s band from the 50s in NYC came up for a reunion.  Wild line-up of 15 layers including two pianos, basses and trombones which took turns making the lower-register melody lines that, I swear, were magic.  Never a guitar, and that says it all.  Most of the band had regular gigs in New York still, so many years after the fact.  Their hit was called “I’m Feeling Lucky.”  Dad knew a variety of stars from Johnny Mercer to Lana Turner to Charles Mingus.

On this fine night in July, about 300 were getting smashed, listening to one monster setoff jazz out on the lawn, and, it was a year after the hitching-hiking incident, one of them was Dr. Cleo Alexander : the most flirtatious/pretty doctor anyone ever knew, or hoped to know.

So it was a big night, and here the mom of little miss sexy from the other private school up in Rochester saddles up to the three teenage bartenders…

“Boys, do you know my daughter Lisa?”

“Sure we do,” Thomas said. Thomas lived down at the other end of Trevor Court, and most of the time his family’s obsession with golf prevented them from buying a cottage at the lake, some 40miles away from their investment in the Country Club of Rochester.  It was a rarity to have him down for the weekend.  Also handing out drinks that night was Jerry, the neighborhood basketball and soccer star.

“Well,” Cleo continued, “she’s having a sleep-over down the lake.  The girls have tents up behind the tennis court.  Why don’t you go down and have a panty raid,” she said, slightly tipsy, but matter-of-factly.

The three of us, dumbstruck, looked at each other as if all our dreams had come true.

Jerry “Thanks for the tip mum,” as if British, and we were off, out of there, sprinting 35 yards to the dock, firing up the inboard/outboard engine on a 16-foot Glastron, not checking the gas lever, nevermind that it was pitch black, I had only been to their house once, ,and I couldn’t remember whether it  was three or four points from Tichner’s Point  to (and beyond) Rochester Point.  Of course, Menteeth Point was first up as a landmark. But, at just around midnight, only points were a guide, and damn it, which came first Rochester or Seneca Point?  I knew Seneca was a much more dramatic outcropping, and guessed correctly that Rochester was before Seneca.  Even better, we didn’t run out of gas.

“What the hell Barry, it could be any of these places,” Jerry chirped in the cool night air.  Canandaigua’s water only gets to about 67 degrees in a good august, so at night, the lake cools the air.

“But I know their dock is square and they have a boathouse with a bedroom over it for guests.  Sure enough this place fits that, and I know I’m right.”

“I hope, Thomas said in testosterese. “Throw me a line,” which he tied to a dock post in a hasty but accurate bowline.

“OK boys, here we go, but if this is the wrong house, we just turn and run, right?”Jerry asked.

“Right.”

As soon as we got up the steps I knew I had gotten lucky because I recognized the compound which included two wooden houses carved out of a hill that led up to the tennis court.

“You can hear them up there,” I said, pointing to the tennis court. At full pace we jogged up and Thomas yelled “We’re here ladies.”

They screamed, then one said “who are you, go away, this is private property.”

“Is that you Lisa?” I asked.  “Your mother sent us down here from my parent’s party.”

“Get out of here, she did not,” Lisa belched as she said.

“It’s Barry, I’ve seen your dad out at the jazz club, we’re just out late to have fun, we’re not criminals.

“Let me take a look at you,” Lisa said, as she unzipped a six-man tent, her flashlight ablaze.  “Oh bit’s you three, I see.  Well then, why exactly would your parents let you drive a boat so far at night? And why would my mom send you down here to ruin our slumber party?”
Never shy around  women, Thomas spoke the truth: “she sent us down on a panty raid..”

“OK, that’s it, get out of here!”

“But wait,” Jerry protested, that’s exactly what she said, but thatb doesn’t mean that is what we came down here to do.”

“I have an idea,” Thomas said.  “There are three boys and three tents, if we put one boy in each tent, that wouldn’t be a problem would it? Just to talk.”
“Wait, I’ll ask, “ Lisa said, walking back toward the tents.

“Nice thinking,” Jerry said, jabbing an elbow into his ribs.

“I’ve got Lisa’s tent no matter who else is in there,” I said.

“How do you figure that?” Thomas asked.

“My parent’s party, my boat, my lake knowledge, my pick,” as the snob in me woke up for a late night stroll.

“Oh what an ass, “ Thomas said. “Let’s shot rock, scissors, paper.”

“You and Jerry are free to play for the last two tent, but Lisa’s is mine,” I reiterated. “Since you have no idea who she invited, what’s there to fight over?

Lisa’s flashlight came back in graceful motions its owner displayed, seemingly at all times.

“OK we’re agreed you can stay, but no monkey business with my friends,” she said. I grabbed at her hand, she pulled it away, but I followed closely to her tent where Susan and Melissa were giddy with anticipation, or so it seemed to me. She re-zipped the tent, hung a flashlight by a cleverly constructed intertwine of bungie cords.

Advertisements

Barry Chapter One, Part XVIII

What the hell Barry, it could be any of these places,” Jerry chirped in the cool night air.  Canandaigua’s water only gets to about 67 degrees in a good August, so at night, the lake cools the air.

            “But I know their dock is square and they have a boathouse with a bedroom over it for guests.  Sure enough this place fits that, and I know I’m right.”

            “I hope, Thomas said in testosterese. “Throw me a line,” which he tied to a dock post in a hasty but accurate bowline.

            “OK boys, here we go, but if this is the wrong house, we just turn and run, right?”Jerry asked.

            “Right.”

            As soon as we got up the steps I knew I had gotten lucky because I recognized the compound which included two wooden houses carved out of a hill that led up to the tennis court.

            “You can hear them up there,” I said, pointing to the tennis court. At full pace we jogged up and Thomas yelled “We’re here ladies.”

Art Plug and hello again

Hello to the dozens or so who may have missed adding my blog to their regular reading role the last few days.

For one, I was busy making book covers.  here they are!

http://creativeaction.network/collections/doug-stuber

Woman catches 300 pound jumping tuna

Woman catches 300 pound jumping tuna

The reason this one got named is that a very attractive woman from Savannah GA, or close to it, had just caught a 300 pound tuna when she wandered into a salad shop (SALADELIA, Durham, NC) and simply “had” to buy this painting.  That was about a decade ago.

It originally hung with the left side as the top, but a keep eye spotted more narrative in this format, and so a painting was born, via re-hanging in another direction.

Isn’t that a great story?  it’s another example of how extreme synchronicity works its magic in our lives.  but it only works to your advantage if you are open to change, and spontaneous.

Now, how’s that for a story?

Note the chops on Stewart Copeland’s drumming.  Short blasts of fills that amaze and dazzle.

Birthday Eve: Three amazing women, one synchronous moment in 1991

DSC_0004

Thistles.  The natural wonder of Scotland.

Here’s a quick story.  I was in love with a woman for at least 11 years who was born on the Scorpio/Libra cusp known as October 22.  She is #2 in this sequence.Before her I was in love with another amazing woman for four years, but made the error of going out to caddy on the LPGA Tour.  Well maybe it worked out for everyone on that one.  In between and continuing as a friendship beyond until now, I met a Russian woman on the International Peace Walk in 1987 in Russia and again in 1989 here in the USA in Philadelphia.

In 1991 the Russian lady visited us in Gainesville, Florida.  I was with Woman #2 then.

The three of us went to the Oaks Mall, and voila lady #1 was shopping there by luck.

All four of us sat (I bet I was the most uncomfortable) for an hour or so chatting, and what makes this story interesting to anyone else is this:

All three were born on October 22.

Wow.

It’s a super significant day for me.  Anyone else out there have such an amazing coincidental day in their lives?

peace,

out,

Doug

Liebster Award: a conversation starter and major ego boost?

I was nominated for a Liebster…again!  Wow this is so amazing.

Drop to the bottom of this blog to see if you were nominated by me.

erospea.wordpress.com  aka Spaginazioni Poetiche aka Dora

is the beautiful woman who nominated me.

The Liebster logo looks like this:

untitled

her questions to me are these:

My questions to nominees (plus Doug’s answers):

  1. What is your view on ‘”intercultural”?

If everyone were intercultural and studied more about each other’s cultures, the world would have a chance of being more peaceful IF, and it’s giant IF, those in control at the top actually gave a hoot about how those regular folks feel. Sadly, there is always an excuse for war, at least in the minds of those representing war profits in their jobs as professional elected officials.  Thus in many governments, but most importantly the big powerful ones (See USA, China, Russia, Japan, and Saudi Arabia first) those making decisions are fully owned subsidiaries of big corporate business.  Democracy cannot, or has not, been able to change this.

2) If I say “gestural language”?

Then I think body language, and at the precise moment someone else is falling in love with you they will say it with their body (their eyes, reaching a hand toward you, etc.) first, mouth and words second.  OK maybe even mouth before words if the attraction is strong enough.  Gestural language is more than ballet or giving someone the finger then, by a long shot.  You can really commune with wild animals if both you and the critter believe in gestures.
3)  Your own reflection on the “nomadism”

I have lived in 16 cities since I was 16 years old.  All of my own volition except two.  Traveling and WORKING in other cultures is a great way to live a full life.  I want to know how Ms. or mister “Jo/Joe on the street” sees the world, what influences them, and why.  Tourist, no.  Live there for a year+, yes.
4) Tell me something about your culture of belonging

My culture is a violent, yet caring, warmongering, yet peace donating, hate yet love kinda place.  Some of the great benefactors of the world came from the USA, after they made money by underpaying workers and raping the environment.  Such potential, often wasted on spending zillions on foreign wars.
5) What is your thought on “religion”?

I think spirituality is worth seeking out and getting better at.  it’s nice to try to commune with “the Creator,” but most religions falter when fundamentalists take over.  Hence, “which is worse, a fundamentalist Christian or a fundamentalist Muslim?”  Answer:  they are equally despicable, and are leading their legions down the path to continual war…not a path found in the books of either religion.  Dang war hounds.


6) If I tell you “childhood”?

Childhood is to be supported and encouraged throughout everyone’s lives.  Especially the lives of children.  Education is important, but so is walking around and learning things from nature on your own.  It’s hard to be functioning at a high level if your parents did all the chores for you so you could study or practice music ONLY.  If we allow our children some time to learn about how things work THEMSELVES, they will be able to learn anything they put their minds too.  Keep them away from electronics and out in the field.


7) Do you have a dream?

My dream is that one day my art or music actually is recognized by someone other than myself.  To that extent, even when I was playing music in bar bands, there have ALWAYS been people who supported my creativity.  That’s the miracle you have to believe in to keep going.  You won’t always get in the New Yorker or the Whitney Biennale, but if someone ever asks for a copy of the poem you just read, or buys or accepts as a gift your art, or cheers for the song you just played, dance you just danced, speech you delivered with panache…then soak it in and keep it rolling.  Teaching is like a continual boost of your ideas, if in the right school.  My dream is to sit at a simple meal or tea and talk to people I agree with: learn something from those I disagree with.


8) What role do you think the “Art” can play in society in relation to the your local context and in a broader view?

Art, like anything, is in the eye of the beholder.  The world has thousands of protests artists, musicians, poets, novelists, but it depends who sees it, hears it, takes it in and is influenced by it.  In some cultures art is quite important, in others people make art almost in a vacuum.  In the end, the universe takes care of artists…I don’t know how, but it works.  As a society, any given culture would be wise to listen to its artists, to support them, as without creativity, many become a burden on society.  is it better to support an artists who only paints or sculpts or dances, and is dirt poor because they spend their whole lives with their craft, refusing to wait on tables?  or is it better to watch someone become dejected because THEY ARE NOT FOLLOWING THEIR DREAMS, and then commit a crime, or do harm to themselves?  Easy answer here:  support who you can in their dreams because that puts you on the path of realizing your own.


9) What is your idea about “sexuality”?

I think sex is great.  Those who deny it are missing out on God’s gift.  The Native Americans who walked my space in upstate New York years ago, were naturalists in their spirituality.  To them, at least as far as I know, making love was the highest homage to the Creator.  Easy to understand:  it’s because making love (at least the traditional forms of sex) meant that you were joining the Creator in the miracle of life (or at least a chance of making a new life) and thus, if you love, and love your life, and love your mate’s life, producing a child is a way of spreading the love.  The Creator surely smiles on love making.  If you and your mate can’t spread the love via making a baby, you ARE however spreading the love amongst yourselves, and helping your mate to be at peace in the world, and helping society by being in love and showing others how good your love is.  Thus, sexuality, when coupled with love, is just about the best thing you can do in private that helps the public good.  If lucky, you find a partner who loves sex as much and as often as you do.


10) There is a place where you love to go when you want to feel peace and well-being?

Outside.  In the Woods.  I used to paint outside, I still write outside.  I can also be in pure bliss at my sons’s baseball game, or being a part of a crowd at a rock concert.Specifically, Canandaigua, New York, the lake, the hills, the creeks. It’s usually not where I go, but with whom I go.

Doug & Jim

And here are my nominees.  If you don’t want to play along, that’s fine.

soulspeak2013.wordpress.com

poetella.wordpress.com

toastandteatogether.wordpress.com

cristianmihai.wordpress.com

meandthe30dayproject.wordpress.com

nikkiskies.wordpress.com

lijiun.wordpress.com

patcegan.wordpress.com

thoughtcatalog.wordpress.com

momentarylapseofsanity.wordpress.com

AND YOUR QUESTIONS

  1. Can better communication save the world?
  2. Are all cultures equal, just different?  Or are some cultures stronger/better/more reasonable than others, and why?
  3. Name a philosophy/philosopher you agree with and why
  4. Don’t think long:  What is your favorite movie?
  5. If you could give one 30 minute speech that would create universal harmony among humans, what would the title be?  Or, write us the whole speech.
  6. Did you ever fall in love at first sight?  If so, explain, if not, what are the parameters that need to fall into place in order for you to fall in love?
  7. Your favorite flavor of ice cream.
  8. The teacher you remember most from grades 1-8, and why
  9. What do you want your children or your friends to remember most about you?
  10. Is it possible to rise above expectations, both cultural and familial, and make a unique life that is a positive light? If you’ve done that or are in the process, let us know how.

Into the Light

There is this part that hides away.  The hikikimori in us, the over-booked stressed out adolescent male who, in Japan, hides away from society, and then may never come out again into the light.

When we lose a friend, or one moves away, or we become adult hikikimories (is that right for plural?) we stain ourselves and our need to be social and have the real chance of becoming weird or influenced by our own strange thinking.  The deal is that friends keep us in bounds.  They sting us with sarcasm when our thinking is out of line, they inspire us to keep doing what we did as kids, and then some, regardless of the pain.  Friends keep us alive and wanting more.

It’s simple:  when the turtle-ing instinct kicks in, kick it back by calling a friend.  or texting.  or emailing. or using Line, Kakao, Skype, your own blog or another of the myriad options for being public, or at least in touch with those who provide the necessary boundaries for a life of achievement.

Be Happy friends. Its an amazing cure-all.

And now this musical interlude: