davidmacluna

So. Onward and upwards: have I even slowed down enough to give a snapshot (there's a dated reference) overview here? I'm thinking I haven't.

Probably be a good idea, if only for reference.

2014 rang in with the the death of my Mom - I'd been her support ('caregiver' is too strong for such an ornery lady) for the last couple of years and it hit hard. Orphan now. Miss her much.

My older sister balked at my handling the Estate; my younger sister, who is wise, proposed we be co-executors. Expensive attorney made it so.

Added another medication to the regimen: Synthroid.

Jenny agreed to marry me; nuptials are tentatively scheduled for October 24th. 2015.

Found a buyer for the old homestead on 18th. Will, of course, have to move - Expensive attorney had no faith in me as a realtor and was unprepared, starting months of delays.

Liquidated all my assets, emptied my bank accounts and added it to the couple of grand from Mom's life insurance and bought a house.

Probate court's appointed appraiser values house $30k less than it appraised in November 2013 - suspicious I am.

Note early warning signs. Discuss them with Doctor B. He advises my blood pressure is not only up in the normal range, which is odd for me, but actually high. My cholesterol isn't at all bad for a guy my age "with your diet", and I'm losing hair rapidly. I blame Synthroid - he blames stress.

I go off Synthroid for two weeks, check back. Am glad I didn't bet money against my doctor. Doc advises me to relax. I joke that I've forgotten how and he gets surprisingly serious - very out of character. "You need to learn, then."

Evict tenants at rental property for destroying yard and property. New tenants turn out worse.

Use Better Business Bureau to get company owning my new house to clear the title to me - they are surprised that I pulled a big gun so soon. Not messing around here.

Begin reconstruction and rehab of new property.

Have a mild transient (has characteristics of both ischemic and hemmorhagic) cerebrovascular accident - completely lose my sense of balance, so I relearn how to relax. Spend three days resting; take the opportunity, once I'm able to sit up, to rebuild my computer.

Probate court approves sale of Homestead property - begin negotiations with buyer.

Dodge in and out of roofing new property, due to weather.

... and that's about it.


I'm damn tired; still recovering stamina and strength, but have to get up on the rooftop today and finish it off.

Then interiors.

Actually, I think I've got some pictures here somewhere... I'll dig 'em up and post.

So. Some years ago, some like-minded friends and I slipped through the back gates, past the late-night kitchen staff and up the service elevator into the main floors of the Bel'age Hotel, right off the Sunset Strip.

Oh, by the way? Since Wyndham bought the place, they've tightened security up quite a bit - don't try it now, kids.

We took the stairs to the fifth or sixth floor (we were all much younger and in better shape, then), crossed over to the elevators and made for the roof.

A little-known amenity of the place was roof-top hot tubs; the five of us slipped out of leather, t-shirts and various bits of lingerie (worn as clubwear by most ladies and some gents, in that time and place), unabashedly nude: it was around 3 a.m., and we had the hot tubs, the roof and a most marvelous view all to ourselves.

Or so we thought.

I didn't realize who it was at all, not until I'd been speaking to him for a few minutes. 'Course, he wasn't as famous, then - or maybe he was, maybe it was just that thing of living in Tinseltown, where anything can happen and one gets jaded. At any rate, he was very quiet until it became obvious that we were glad to have him with us, we weren't really clear on his celebrity or much of anything else.

Shortish hair, sure, but he had it all over - jesus, the man was hairy. I don't envy whoever cleaned the tubs the next day, to be honest. Didn't even realize he, too, was naked until after we'd left, that's how hairy he was.

Most of it was a blur; I laughed until my face hurt. He, thankfully, laughed, too - there were, ah, high spirits all around.

We left right as the sun was pinkening the sky; I think I thanked him, but I can't remember. But I do remember him smiling.

In all the time since, I've never wondered why he'd be up there, on a slick roof with no guard rail, alone, at 3 am on a weekend - until yesterday.

Life's a funny ol' bitch, ain't it?

Best of, Robin - hope your journey was better than it seemed.

Still hacking away at revisions and things, when I have the chance:

Stevie Sweet hadn't been called that for at least twenty years; he'd been a glam drummer, back in the day, and there'd even been a point when he and the guys had done okay on the Sunset Strip - there'd been girls, drugs, sex, shows and even a little money.

Then Tommy had died; overdosed in his little apartment near Santa Monica, probably on purpose. He'd been HIV positive, with all the Hepatitus alphabet, too, and couldn't keep it together enough to do what he needed to stay alive. They'd looked for another guitarist, tried a few out, then Cliff and Kev disappeared; the cops didn't look very hard for them, and Stevie had a kid to raise, a landscaping business to run, a new wife to worry about...

In short, time moved on; Stevie Sweet faded into just the smallest pocket inside Steve Scherkowski, nearly forgotten except for one night of the year.

Halloween.

Every October 31st, Stevie Sweet returned to Hollywood, walked the streets he'd known and looked at the latest generation of wild young things; he hid, never quite coming to the surface of the man he was now, but he looked. And remembered.

He'd played an all-black Ludwig kit, with Paiste cymbals, one exactly like the set he found himself staring at through the plate glass front of one of the newer clubs. More than exactly; the kick drum was gouged in the same spot, the floor tom was the same mismatched Pearl he'd found in a pawn shop in Santa Monica...

It was his kit.

How, he didn't know; this club had been a Jaguar dealership back in the day - he'd never played here, ever. And he didn't remember what he'd done with his kit; lost it piece by piece, maybe, or left in a storage locker and never reclaimed.

Maybe, he thought, wandering through the doorway, the kid who owns it now will let me play a little.

The throne had to be readjusted a little lower; twenty years had brought forty pounds with them. He tried the kick; it felt right. A snap to the ride, a little sizzle then a roll...

A few seconds, nobody'd mind an old guy sitting in for a few seconds.

The trick that Stevie had used to remember all the songs was mnemonics; he remembered drum lines by words, phrases they sounded like. His favorite, and one of the favorite covers they did, was by the group that inspired his name, The Sweet: Ballroom Blitz.

How did that go?, Stevie wondered, Let's see. Kick and Thud and a Bucket of Blood, yeah, like THAT...

Two bars later, Cliff came in right on time, his voice a little more eerie, more reedy, than usual. "Ready, Steeevie?"

"Uh-huh," Stevie Sweet, no longer hidden away, breathed into his mic. He noticed the huge holes - shotgun, he supposed - in Cliff's chest, vaguely wondering if it would throw off his vocals.

It didn't.

I need to drum up some social connectivity, here - Dreamwidth and LJ. Maybe I should cross-connect to Failbook?

Nah. Hate that thing.

Hmmm.

I've got this ancient client for posting to livejournal: last updated in 2003, it's just called "Livejournal for Windows".

I'm used to it.

I like it.

I think I may have it working with Dreamwidth - not that it took much work, if this works.

So. This is a test post.

Push the button, Max.

Somehow, this being the wee hours, I found myself figuratively wandering through the hard drive on my PC.

So much... stuff. Old stuff, things I've saved for loved ones that aren't here anymore (family lost, family leaving, family dying, et. al.), things written by a me that no longer is, things I don't remember being interested in with multiple occurances...

I've lost a lot. Worse, I don't consciously realize as much of it as has happened.

Which means I've lost some of myself; this, if you've ever been a reader of my journal(s), you'll recognize as my one true fear.

Reality runs on irony.

I need to beef up this journal's connectivity. And find an app (that's what the kids call 'em now, right?) for my pc to direct post here.

http://yro.slashdot.org/story/14/05/07/1432258/russia-quietly-passes-anti-blogger-law

Well. After a decade plus, I suppose that calls it for me & LJ. Pity, really; I've had DW recommended - what d'ya think, folks?

So. The landbank house is in much, much better condition than I'd hoped - there's some other folks looking at it, supposedly, but they're not committing.

Time to really get the ball rolling.

In other news, if torture worked, we wouldn't need an elaborate intelligence apparatus, would we?

So. (knocks a little rust off the controls)

Deactivated Facebook - just too much, I suppose.

And we're going to see a landbank house Thursday at 11 am.

Nifty.

I have been a Roman Centurian. My wicked golf swing? It comes from scything a gladii - that's the Imperial Roman short sword - back and forth, back and forth, on the Eire front, mowing them down like wheat, the bogs red as their hair with blood. Before the Romans, I dealt with the Greeks - in a way, my own people. I was a Theban, too, and became half of a Sacred Band, once upon a time - that's one of the things that left scars, and I wish there were a hell so Philip could burn in it.

I fought beside Alexander - well, Hephaestious, really - on the battlefields of Persia, I traded intrigue with Machiavelli, I sold Egyptians into a slavery they deserved; I spent seven years crawling back to life after being dissected, then burned, by Robert Hooke, spent two regrowing my left arm after a Rebel cannonball removed it at Gettysburg; I have argued with Mark Twain and Marcus Aurelius, been insulted by both Gilbert and Sullivan, inspired Oscar Wilde and I drank Titania of Eire under the table.

But I have never, in all my long history observing you hairless apes, ever seen such a spectacle of cruel stupidity.