Left Of Sean

“Oh what a night, late December back in ’63″

Ok, so it was early July in 2010, but you get the idea.

Man this was a fun July 4th holiday and we barely saw any fireworks.

My gracious hosts took me to Thousand Oaks, California to visit Bobby’s parent’s house and a wonderful neighborhood picnic that is held each July 4th.  There was food, festivities, games (for the kids), and did I mention food?

There are boats, a lake, skateboards, kids wrecking skateboards into cars, boats capsizing, and a cold, California breeze.  Add in alcohol, a drunk senior citizen (the am-ba-lance had to take her away…..and she seemed happy about it.  I’m thinking this isn’t her first brush with a meat wagon ride!), and a loose firehose and you have yourself a fun filled 4th of July party.

I joke, but let’s now add in Bobby’s parents.  These are two of the nicest, most gracious, wonderful people I’ve ever met.  I kid you not.  I’m not just sucking up for an invite again next year.  I was cold and Bobby’s mom, Irene, actually offered me clothing to wear!!

I am a stranger to them.  I’m the guy from Oklahoma that they’ve only heard about.  But they treated me as one of their own and that makes them very, very special indeed.

Thank you Irene and Don.

By the way, Don wrote songs for Elvis.  How cool is that?

What a place to grow up though.  The Roberston’s live in a gated community in Thousand Oaks a few miles west and south of Bobby and Suzy Q.  They have a private lake with several “islands” in the middle.  When Bobby was a kid, he would head out to the large one closest to their house and camp out under the stars with the dog.

Don would be working in his music studio late into the night and hear a rapping at the door.  He’d look down to see the dog…..who had jumped back into the lake and dog paddled back to the house.  Yep, right out of Mark Twain novel…..but in a much cooler locale.

After our bellies were full and we had a few drinks in us, we decided to do what most drunk, over-stuffed people do: drive a boat.

After failing the weight distribution part of the boating course, we circled back around to recover the cooler full of beer we lost and headed out to Chicken Rock.

Chicken Rock is a large rock cliff at the end of the lake.  This is a famous (well, famous to Bobby and his family) rock Bobby and his brother used to jump off of.  Most people chicken out, hence, Chicken Rock.

So we watched Bobby jump off the rock and drove back home.  I didn’t need to climb to the top of the rock to know that I’m chicken.

What a day.  The kids had a blast.  The adults had a blast.  And the neighborhood was glad the riff-raff left their side of the city.

Here are a handful of pictures of the day.  Enjoy…

I’m growing old harshly. I don’t say gracefully because, if you know me, I’m anything but graceful.  I wouldn’t say I’m fighting it, just not enjoying it.

I think the reality has started to hit me that I’m getting older and the immortal dreams of youth are not coming true.  I was going to be great.  I was going to be a mullet-headed, spandex wearing, hot-chick pounding rock star!  I’m pretty sure that dream didn’t come true.

I was going to be rich.  I would travel the world in my personal jet with my hot secretary and I would solve all the world’s problems by throwing cash and attitude at them.  I was a Donald Trump wanna-be.  (Hey, it was the 80s!)

That’s right.  I was going to be BIG with a capital ‘S.’  {S = Stupid!} continue reading…

I meet the Foltz’s.

There are times in ones life when you can look back and say, “this is where it all changed.“  I’m not sure I can accurately say that in this case, but I know something changed when I met Brad & Brian Foltz in 5th grade.

I don’t want you go to get the wrong idea.  Brad & Brian are good people and I’m probably going to catch some shit from this post, but I don’t care.  It’s all in the interest of entertainment!

B&B were heading through a rough time in their life when I met them.  Their parents were heading into divorce.  Dad moved out and Mom was working insane hours to make sure she could provide for the family.  That meant that Brad, Brian, Me, and a few others had the run of the house.  B&B were latch-key kids.  I was one by proxy.  My mom was home, but I preferred the lack of adult supervision that was their house.

We had lots of adventures at that house.  We found out that shooting a .22 rifle at airplanes in the backyard was probably not a good idea.  We learned how to sit in front of the TV for hours on end and kill braincells.

We listened to a lot of rock music and we watched Brad & Brian beat the living shit out of each other when they disagreed.  Ahhh, good times.

I’m still not sure how they got the blood off the walls.

To make matters worse, we were heading into the lion’s den.  Jr. High is a horrible time in life.  It’s that puberty ridden, hormone raging time in your life when everything is awkward and teenagers are extremely cruel.

Jr. High at Hefner Junior High was surreal at best.  I don’t remember a lot about that time in life; probably because I’m suppressing it.  I do remember a handful of events though.

My favorite is the time I tried to impress a girl by doing a flip off the bleachers at a football game.  I landed on my face and busted my nose.  Yeah, the blood really impressed her!

Jr. High brought parties, bullies, and sticky fingers.  It also brought bad influences and shitty grades!

But then, high school happened!

~~~~~~~

Next, on a very special Left Of Sean, Sean loses his virginity and starts to ask, “Why does it burn when I pee?

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When I was a child, I just knew I was going to be something special when I grew up.  I knew I would be a lawyer or an engineer or even a doctor.  When my parents bought me my first guitar at age ten I just knew I would be a rock star.  At forty-two I still have that dream.

There have been many dreams and schemes throughout the years: golfer, writer, attorney, photographer, computer programmer, actor, artist.  The only one that came true was the computer programmer.

I’m here to tell you, it stinks.  Don’t get me wrong, I kind of like my job and I’m grateful for the job, especially in this economy.  But the grind of 8-5 every day and living with the corporate bullshit that goes along with the job is about as much fun as having a catheter inserted.

Even at this age I dream about what it will be like when I grow up.  What am I going to do for the rest of my life?  I still think about this even though my life is halfway over.

But at this point, I think I have it figured out what I’m going to do for the rest of my life.  I have figured out the perfect career for me.  It does not take any additional education.  It doesn’t take any special training.  It is something every person in the world can do, but I’m a master at it.  You can do it too.

Give up?

I’m going to be a Professional Dreamer.  That’s right.  I’m leaving my amateur status behind and heading for the big time.  I’m going to DREAM for a living.

What does this job entail, you ask?

I’ll tell you.  I’m going to win the lottery.  Once I win the lottery I’m going to buy everything I ever wanted so I can dream some more.  This is going to be tough.  It entails lots of daydreaming.  It will require long showers where I’m totally in the dream zone.

Sleeping in the car is essential.  Drinking too much alcohol is a requirement.  Living my life in a fuzzy haze is my new mantra.  Setting unrealistic goals will be a daily occurrence.  In addition, changing those goals in a timely fashion is what dreaming for a living is all about; sometimes hourly.

So tomorrow I’ll get up and go to work at my designated time, just like I will for the rest of my life (and just like you will for the rest of your life too).  I will trudge through the mediocrity of life as an analyst, living my life as dully as possible.  And in another 30 years when I have retired, I will sit on my patio looking into the distance, thinking about what my life should have been.  An old man, coming to the end.  I will continue my profession right up to the day I die.  That’s what dreamers do.

I carry around a notebook everywhere I go.  I keep this notebook so I can make notes on things I want to write about or observations I see.  On the inside sleeve I have written a quote.

It’s never too late to be what you might have been.
George Eliot

While that quote has good intentions, it rings true for almost all of us.  We are all living what we might have been: Dreamers!