·Travelogue #36
Jaybird's Confession
"I always thought that I'd be famous, that I'd be a rockstar or something, or..." Jaybird trailed off. It was Frederick Jay talking to me as went north from Sacramento to Grant's Pass, OR. He said it with a look of resignation, of a man overlooking his kingdom from a high hill down towards a once-fertile, verdent valley. Now, the cattle moved listlessly, faintly chewing on the brown hay burnt by the oppressive sun. God's petri-dish, now laying in His garbage can.
What do you say to someone, fifty years old, who held that belief? Why, didn't I hold the same belief, that one day I'd be famous when my ship came in, when the mediocre jobs and clogged drains and empty girlfriends would alchemize the school of Hard Knocks to Fort Knox of Fame?
Frederick Jay's life was all Hard Knocks, even in his later years. His wives were unrelenting head cases. The car we drove stank like the tiny dog that I've half-forgotten to mention, squatting its little ass on my lap as a token of superiority.
FJ went on to tell me about his brushes with fame. In Santa Cruz, David Arquette recruited hippies to act in his film The Tripper. FJ was there, in tie-dye t-shirt and bird costume. Arquette loved his idea so much that the bird costume is featured prominently in the film.
Have you seen the film?
Some of us are meant to bear the burden of fame. Some of us are meant to bear the burden of never making it. More of us are meant to never make it--the standard--to spend the weekend watching the more sexually-attractive versions of our diminishing spouses cavort across plasma screen televisions in exotic locations of future vacations. Poor twist of fate, none of us are meant to be happy. To be human is to be not happy.
The unhappy pursuit of happiness.
FJ and I got stoned, then lost, in Grant's Pass. He dropped me off, gave me some bud, and I fell asleep between a dive bar and factory, illuminated by orange lights.
Jaybird's Confession
"I always thought that I'd be famous, that I'd be a rockstar or something, or..." Jaybird trailed off. It was Frederick Jay talking to me as went north from Sacramento to Grant's Pass, OR. He said it with a look of resignation, of a man overlooking his kingdom from a high hill down towards a once-fertile, verdent valley. Now, the cattle moved listlessly, faintly chewing on the brown hay burnt by the oppressive sun. God's petri-dish, now laying in His garbage can.
What do you say to someone, fifty years old, who held that belief? Why, didn't I hold the same belief, that one day I'd be famous when my ship came in, when the mediocre jobs and clogged drains and empty girlfriends would alchemize the school of Hard Knocks to Fort Knox of Fame?
Frederick Jay's life was all Hard Knocks, even in his later years. His wives were unrelenting head cases. The car we drove stank like the tiny dog that I've half-forgotten to mention, squatting its little ass on my lap as a token of superiority.
FJ went on to tell me about his brushes with fame. In Santa Cruz, David Arquette recruited hippies to act in his film The Tripper. FJ was there, in tie-dye t-shirt and bird costume. Arquette loved his idea so much that the bird costume is featured prominently in the film.
Have you seen the film?
Some of us are meant to bear the burden of fame. Some of us are meant to bear the burden of never making it. More of us are meant to never make it--the standard--to spend the weekend watching the more sexually-attractive versions of our diminishing spouses cavort across plasma screen televisions in exotic locations of future vacations. Poor twist of fate, none of us are meant to be happy. To be human is to be not happy.
The unhappy pursuit of happiness.
FJ and I got stoned, then lost, in Grant's Pass. He dropped me off, gave me some bud, and I fell asleep between a dive bar and factory, illuminated by orange lights.
