It was 1969 and a lot was going on... the US is making progress with the Apollo Program and it isn't too long now until mankind would walk on the surface of the moon. Tommy still thinks the moon is made of cheese and Jeffery thinks that our astronauts will be shot by laser beams from the green aliens that live on the dark side of the moon.
The Vietnam war in is full swing - I've got one brother in the Army and one in the Marines and three that sent their draft cards back to President Nixon. There is a long hair that doesn't like the short hair for being such a rich one, that will not help the poor one and so on and so on and Scooby dooby doo-bee.
Oh, sha sha, - even The Beatles couldn't figure out how to live together.
No more tours.. and they weren't jumping with joy like they used to. IT WAS OVER!
Now that all SIX of my big brothers were of legal driving age our front yard...our street and backyard were full of cars and trucks and dreams. They had brought home junkers they hoped to fix up and junkers they hope to cannibalized and strip for parts for the ugly heaps that they hoped would run someday. Kurt even brought home a friend from his water polo team who brought project cars home to our house because this wasn't something that happened in Malibu along the beach where Mario lived. Our family kept growing and the clutter just kept stacking up.
Our backyard was a primordial graveyard of old cars parts, decaying boats, travel trailers —that had no travel left in them, carcass’s of prehistoric washing machines and outboard motors that haven’t had pistons in them for ten years.
We failed to tame the encroaching ivy which had an insatiable appetite and had consumed an entire patio and other structures that had been gobbled up for archaeologist to unearth in the distant future. The ivy and the bamboo had become perfect ways to camouflage the hippie crop of Mexican Tomato plants that were hidden in the far back behind all the junk and protected by mini-Godzilla the dreaded Veloci-Raptor.
Even more to Mr. Blaser's dismay was the power and vitality of the bamboo the boys had planted. Different strokes for different folks. Bamboo is literally a fungus that cannot be killed by anything short of a nuclear blast. That stubborn bamboo grew up through old rusted barbecues, a bazillion used Schwinn bicycles, ancient baby strollers, red and rust wheels from abandoned Soap Box Derby - go-carts...cabinets - lots of cabinets (cabinets people had thrown-out that my dad had rescued from the jaws of the garage trucks on his notorious pre-dawn trash-run days - free cabinets that he hoped to hang in the carport someday... someday... someday!) along with bumpers, carburetors and other sundry car parts. It looked like this junk had been lifted up as sacrifices to some pagan god on an altar of bamboo (Asherah Poles I think they were called in the Old Testament).
Before the Watts Towers, was the Eight Wonder of the World in our backyard; The Trash Towers of Venice - which rivaled the "Hanging Gardens" of Babylon.
Perfect! Right? Every adventurous 12-year-old's dream.... image the go carts I could assemble and the magnificent forts a kid could build back there...except!
Except for the Veloci-Raptor! No one in their right mind could enter the backyard without being armed with a whip and a chair like a lion tamer.
But me and Veloci-Raptor had a good relationship ever since the older boys buried me in the pit and tried to kill me (Blog Post 2/27/2014). There is a yellow one that won't accept the black one that won't accept the red one, that won't accept the white one or big brother that won't accept the little brother. Different Strokes for Different Folks... why can't we live together?
That's what I wanted to know so I started in my backyard and I developed mental powers that made me like Saint Francis that gave me a special way with animals. I could look at them in the eye and show them that they were loved and it's as though I could speak right to their heart and they understood me. Everybody was looking for kindness - even animals! I could be right, I could be wrong.
Since the Nuns at Saint Marks had it out for me and my older brothers had it out for me...God had given me this gift with dogs and babies and the mini-godzilla that roamed our backyard...UNTIL ONE FATEFUL MONDAY MORNING on Trash Day!
That is when the magic wore off and I became an everyday people.
Until next time... and the bloody showdown at the Dahlin OK corral. OH Sha Sha... don't hate the rooster, just hate the bite!
for you android users Everyday People Sly and the Family Stone
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