Hey everyone! I’ve had a few life events happen over the last several months. I’d like to fill you in on what’s been up.
The biggie — I quit my job. It was toxic, it was exhausting, and it was taking a giant toll on my physical and emotional well-being, as well as my marriage. My wife basically said, “this is enough, you can’t go on this way, we can get by on my salary until you find something else.”
“Something else”, of course, is a new job. But I’m here to tell you, it’s as bad as everyone says. A couple of months, and so far nothing. The occasional “thanks but no thanks” email, but that’s it.
So, welcome to part 2 of “something else” — my new freelance writing website. I’ve been dithering about this for, well, decades if I’m being honest. But at this point, it’s gotten to the point where it may be a necessity. If nothing changes on the job front, I’ll need $$ coming in from somewhere.
So take a look around, although it’s still a bit of a work in progress. And, for a limited time (of whatever I decide), I’ll offer anyone who reads this and needs something written the ‘friends and family” rate. Not exactly sure what this is yet, but it’ll be dirt cheap. Need those portfolio pieces!
So, thanks in advance. Pass this along to anyone you think is in the market for words. I’m a good guy and get along with everyone, I swear!
Oh (and this is how bad I am at promoting myself), my other recent life event was reconnecting with an entire side of my family I hadn’t communicated with in 40 years! (Yes, that’s not a typo, I am that old.)
So my next piece will be about a whole new (to me) section of the family tree I’m now climbing, and how it could impact my life. (Hint — I may be a Canadian citizen! Finally, an escape route!) I’m hoping to pitch this piece to someone at some point. I’ll keep you posted.
Expect this site to evolve rapidly over the next several months/years. I’m a big font and layout geek who also doesn’t know code, so I’m infamous for blowing things up and starting over simply because I don’t like a headline font or it won’t let me space the lines right.
Thanks, all. Wish me luck. I’m frightened as hell and really don’t know what I’m doing.
(I don’t think any of the marketing courses I’ve taken would recommend that last sentence.)
The following article was meant for a local news site. After getting it about 95% completed, finding the last few details I needed to wrap it up was proving quite difficult. My editor told me not to worry, it’s an historical piece with no absolute deadline, I could turn it in whenever it was ready.
That was about two-and-a-half years ago. Haven’t looked at it since.
This never-finished project has always gnawed at me, to the point that its failure has pretty much killed my freelance career — it’s now close to three years since my last byline. I mean, why start something new when I couldn’t finish my last project, right?
Thank you, Depression.
So I’m finally exorcising this demon by posting the piece here. I now consider this job completed, and maybe now I can give myself permission to move on.
So please, enjoy this history of the long-shuttered Rio Theatre in Rodeo, CA. (BTW, I’ve done no further research in the years since, so I’ve no idea of any updates regarding the site’s current occupant.)
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The smallish oil refinery town of Rodeo, on the San Pablo Bay about 20 miles north of Oakland, followed the arc of most suburbs during the early to mid 20th century. Thriving local industry (oil refining, in this case) brought a prosperous middle-class, which in turn spawned a blossoming downtown.
The former Rio Theatre building, downtown Rodeo, CA. Now a church.
Along with grocers, shops, and services, the town had its center of entertainment — the Art-Deco-inspired Rio Theatre, opened in 1941. The Rio would host many larger-than-life characters over the decades, whether on the big screen during Hollywood’s heyday, or live on the stage during its brief run as an unlikely music venue. Even today, a larger-than-life character looms over its current incarnation as a church, bringing controversy along with him.
By 1940, Rodeo was outgrowing its then-current movie house, the aptly-named Rodeo Theatre, built in 1920 with a capacity of only 200. The new Rio, just a block away, more than doubled that and offered patrons modern amenities including spacious stadium-style seating, loge boxes, and an extra-large screen.
For three decades, the Rio offered the people of Rodeo first-run movies, jackpot drawings, giveaways, and even free turkeys on Thanksgiving. But two modern conveniences would spell the end of the Rio as a movie house — freeways and television.
By 1960, Interstate 80 was completed through the East Bay, completely bypassing Rodeo’s downtown and its main drag, US Highway 40. Traffic through town plummeted.
Also by the 1960’s, the new technology of television was eating away at the traditional movie theater fan-base. According to the US Census Bureau, weekly movie attendance dropped from a peak of 90 million in 1946 to only 40 million by 1960.
Declining attendance and a fading downtown took their tolls, and by 1972, the Rio had shown its last film and had shuttered.
A few years later, a local kid named Peter Van Kleef landed in town and, literally, took the stage.
Trained as a carpenter, Van Kleef kicked around the world with little money, taking gigs on oil tankers to make ends meet. With no other prospects, he and a group of friends pooled their money and by 1975 reopened the old theater. Not knowing what they were doing or how much work it would take, they quickly discovered running movies in a theatre was indeed a losing proposition.
Until inspiration struck on New Year’s Eve, 1975. Van Kleef and his buddies threw themselves a party that included a couple of bands, a bunch of beer, and a few hundred of their closest friends. They knew they had found something. So they again shut down the theater, sunk more money into remodeling it as a music hall, and reopened on October 16, 1976 with a concert featuring The Sons of Champlin and Norton Buffalo.
Over the next several years, this rundown former movie theater in an even more rundown town not close to anything would host several of the biggest names in local rock music — bands like Huey Lewis and the News, Eddie Money, the Greg Kihn Band, Sheila E., Moby Grape, and Y&T.
One of the more unique acts to pass through the Rio during its short life as a music club had an even shorter life as a band. Reconstruction, a jazz/rock/soul/funk fusion band, never existed outside of 1979, but they managed a couple of gigs at the Rio during their brief lifespan. One of their members was a guitarist from a little outfit called the Grateful Dead named Jerry Garcia.
And Rodeo would become the unlikely first home of a burgeoning new music scene in the East Bay — punk rock. Local promoter Wes Robinson, who would later make Ruthie’s Inn in Berkeley a major draw for national punk and hard rock acts, found the Rio to be a receptive early adopter of a scene that, at the time, was contained mostly to San Francisco.
But the Rio lost money from the start, and saddled with thousands of dollars of debt, Van Kleef closed it for good as a music venue in November 1980.
But he would find success as a club owner later in life. In 2004 he opened Cafe Van Kleef in Oakland’s Uptown, spurring revival of that district. He became known as “the godfather of Uptown”, and after his passing in September 2015, the mayor proclaimed “Peter Van Kleef Day.” And within a couple of years, the block of Telegraph Avenue where Cafe Van Kleef sits was renamed Peter Van Kleef Way.
Cafe Van Kleef, with some brief exceptions during the pandemic, remains open to this day.
Also standing to this day is the Rio Theater building. Although it no longer showcases movie stars or music performers, fans still attend events here. Today it’s a congregation of the Iglesia La Luz Del Mundo (“The Light of the World”) church, whose facebook page for this location was created in 2015.
Founded in 1926 in Mexico, the church has been led by three successive generations, who are considered apostles by their worshippers, and whose birthdays are considered religious holidays. The ruling family has received criticism for their lavish lifestyles and accumulations of property and wealth.
Its current leader, Naasón Joaquín García, the grandson of the church’s founder, pled guilty to child molestation charges in June 2022, and is serving a 16-year prison term.
Most people look forward to their weekends. A break from the dreary work week. A chance to reset and recharge.
Me?
I’ve spent many lost weekends puttering around the house, maybe getting a couple of small things done but mostly sitting on the couch, scrolling through whatever, with something as background noise on TV. Ignoring any personal project I really don’t feel like doing.
Recently, however, my weekend was completely unscripted. And quite surprising.
Saturday:
Started off as most Saturdays do — not much planned. Might possibly flip on the computer and poke around, pretending I’m focusing on something. Probably not.
But today my Dad calls. He’s recovering from triple-bypass surgery, and he’s trying to get reimbursed for a trip he had to cancel. This all has to be done online, and he’s having trouble finding the forms he needs and uploading them. Can I come help him?
He’s an hour away. But, he needs my help and, again, I pretty much knew how my day would go. So I say sure, of course I can help.
It’s a remarkably cool day, a blessed break from the multiple heat waves. Overcast, breezy, too cold for shorts, even. Although I’m not usually a fan of grey skies, it’s a nice change. Where my Dad lives typically gets well into the 100’s, so I’m thankful. I hop in the car, put on a podcast, and head out.
My help, unfortunately, is fairly limited. There’s more forms my Dad needs before he can submit his claim. I do what I can, and tell him I’ll come back once he has everything.
We retire to the living room. One of my cousins has been staying with Dad for a while to help him in his recovery. He and my Dad are fairly close in age, so he’s basically been like an uncle for as long as I can remember. He lives out of state now and we rarely see each other anymore, so we strike up a conversation.
He’s a real storyteller, and for the next hour or so he regales me with tales of growing up in our old hood, catches me up on his kids, and tells me about his wife, who died quite suddenly several months ago, not long after my Mom passed. That’s why he offered to come down, for a change of scenery for a while.
It was a great conversation. He’s always been a fascinating guy — architect, contractor, pilot. It was really nice to reconnect.
Sunday:
My wife and I have a wine-tasting day planned in Napa. But she’s taken ill this morning, not feeling well at all, so we cancel. I offer to head up anyway, not to taste but to pick up our wine club shipment (we’re running up on the deadline before they get shipped, and lord knows we don’t want to pay for shipping).
I first stop for breakfast at a coffee place down the road. It’s been there for years, but we’ve rediscovered it recently. I have one the best breakfast sandwiches I’ve ever had along with an outstanding iced mocha latte (go ahead, judge). I also pick up a pastry for my wife, who’s starting to feel a little better.
Then it’s off to Napa. I had planned on listening to more podcasts, but one of my playlists pops up on shuffle, so I go with that instead.
Although it’s warmer today, it’s still not brutally hot. I crank up the tunes.
When I pick up the wine, I notice a bunch of brochures on the counter for Yountville, which reminds me that one of my favorite breweries has just opened a taproom there. I immediately add that stop to my impromptu itinerary.
And I’m glad I did. The beer was amazing, the bartender very cool, and I had another great conversation, this time with a local couple with a very unique claim to fame.
Once again, I crank up the tunes for the drive home. I’m having such a great time I don’t even care about the stop-and-go traffic, which is saying something for someone who sits through it on a near-daily basis.
All this to say, it was an astoundingly satisfying weekend, and absolutely nothing about it was planned. Lots of alone time in the car listening to podcasts and great tunes, enjoying amazing food and terrific conversations with interesting people, hopefully being a little bit helpful, and just generally appreciating life. Something I rarely do anymore.
All of this because I actually got myself up, out of house, and did things. Who’d a thunk?
It is true, you can’t really see the patterns you fall into until you break out of them. I may very well snap right back, but for once, when anyone asks me how my weekend was, I can say it was great. And mean it.
This post was originally going to be yet another entry in the now ongoing “Surreal” series, as at this point it doesn’t seem to end. I’m recovering from my SECOND hernia surgery, and my 80-year-old Dad is going in for a triple-bypass next month. Really???
But, I realize I’m no one special. I’m not being picked on. This is called life, and as the clock inevitably ticks, this is what’s in front of all of us. Nobody gets YOUNGER. I think comedian Marc Maron put it best — aging is really nothing more than “decay management.”
Plus, I have to say, it’s been nice to have an EXCUSE to sit around and do nothing. I’m recovering, right? I have to take it easy. No heavy lifting!
And I’ve realized a few things during this latest period of “forced” inactivity.
One of my depression symptoms is the classic no-longer-enjoying-things-I-used-to. Reading has piled up, shows go unwatched, writing has pretty much ceased altogether. They’ve all just turned into chores anymore. Most of my time is now spent in endless scrolls, brain completely disengaged.
But I’ve noticed a shift lately. Maybe it’s just getting off the treadmill for a minute, but I’m actually tackling my reading pile. I’ve FINALLY started this season’s Simpsons (I’ve watched every year since day one — I was in freaking COLLEGE for cryin’ out loud!).
And I’m finding the capacity to write these words. My brain isn’t constantly gasping for air. I can actually focus on something for more than a few minutes.
And, while I’m not exactly sure if I’m actually going to start taking better care of myself like I always say I want to, at least now I’m not immediately telling myself I won’t.
This is kind of huge, actually.
My inner dialogue is brutal. Usually in these situations I automatically tell myself, why bother? You’ll never follow through on it, so there’s no point in even starting. You’ll save yourself a lot of mental anguish if you just give up now. You’ll wind up in the same place, anyway.
Maybe not, this time.
Is the latest adjustment to my Prozac dosage actually kicking in? Perhaps.
Or perhaps I’m just tired of adding my own manufactured misery on top of the daily piles of crap I already have to wade through. Yes, I need to take better care of myself. But I’m not a bad person because I haven’t.
Maybe my mind, as well as my body, is starting to mend.
Fast forward a couple of months. My Mother, whose cognitive and physical abilities have been in a slow, steady decline since a horrible fall about a decade ago, has taken a turn for the worse. Even the most basic tasks have gotten extremely difficult, to the point where my Dad had recently made the difficult decision to get her into hospice care.
First known picture of me, upper right, not long before I made my debut..
While that’s been a godsend in terms of finally getting help with Mom’s care, it also signals the end is not far off. People in hospice rarely last more than a few weeks (Jimmy Carter notwithstanding).
On the work front, right around this same time, I get word that the layoffs we’d tried to avoid were, in fact, happening — and all from my department. Including my only assistant, which means my workload was going to explode. Plus, in a couple of weeks, I have some previously scheduled time off, so I need to train someone immediately to cover my desk.
Terrific.
In the days that follow, Mom’s slide picks up speed. She’s eventually confined to bed and can only be fed soft foods like apple sauce and oatmeal.
Finally, the worst is confirmed. Although Parkinson’s had been discussed but never officially diagnosed, she’s reached end-stage. She can no longer communicate and is, for all intents and purposes, immobile. At this point, all preventative medications stop and she’s only administered pain meds to keep her as comfortable as possible.
I head to spend the weekend with the family and see her for maybe the last time.
She’s barely more than a skeleton — eyes half-open, arms continually reaching out to no one in particular. I take her hand and she clamps down, hard. I have no idea if she knows I’m there or she’s even aware of what she’s doing, but I tell myself she’s trying to say goodbye.
When I do leave the next day, I stroke her hair, kiss her forehead, and tell her how much I love her and how great a mom she was. I look for some kind of sign of recognition, but nothing. Far from getting any closure, all I have is emptiness. My chance to say goodbye to the person who was my Mom vanished long ago.
Back at the office, while I’m trying to figure out how to reconfigure job duties amongst my remaining staff, meetings continue about layoff logistics. After much discussion, we set the date and schedule one last meeting at the end of the week to button up the final details — who’s making the calls, who’s announcing to staff, etc.
Goodbye, Mom. You were wonderful.
One hour before that meeting, my Dad calls, inconsolable. Mom’s gone.
Instead of dropping everything and leaving immediately, out of some odd sense of responsibility I attend the meeting anyway. I mean, it’s my department, who else is going to handle this? Once those details are settled, I inform HR and head out.
After a few days of mourning and attending to details with family, I return to work so I can announce to my staff that several of their coworkers are also, in a manner of speaking, no longer with us. The following days are kind of a haze of chaos and sorrow, and although I’d like to think I put up a pretty good front, I’m strongly encouraged to take some time off. Apparently I’m not really there, either.
EPILOGUE
I spoke to my Dad recently. It’s been a few weeks since Mom died. I know he misses her terribly, his life partner for the better part of 60 years is suddenly gone. But it’s almost startling to hear in his voice how much a burden has been lifted. He and my sister, who were Mom’s primary caregivers for more than a decade, are taking a weekend trip for my sister’s birthday. And he’s even talking about taking another cruise, something he and Mom loved to do. They’re through the initial shock and are starting to see what their next chapters might look like.
Mom’s finally at peace, and I think the rest of us are getting there, too.
Funny story, really. I was already at the hospital for a doctor’s appointment, his office is in the adjacent medical offices. While walking out of the parking garage, I tripped on one of those cement wheel stops and hit the pavement. Landed on my left side, all my weight on my arm.
My first thought was “not again.” Less than a year ago, I was walking down a sidewalk and stepped into a tree well (that circular cutout around the base of a tree). That time I landed on my right side, resulting in some bruised ribs. So I was already familiar with that feeling when the ground leaves you and you’re in that half-second free-fall ending in the inevitable crash landing.
I’m in my mid-50’s, people. Way too early to be falling this much.
I knew something was wrong immediately, I could barely move my arm. After I gathered myself, I knew I had a choice to make. This doctor visit was just a yearly check-in with a specialist that would take all of five minutes. Or I could (probably should) go straight to the ER, and reschedule with the doc.
I kept my appointment. I expect my Purple Heart will arrive imminently.
A few hours, several x-rays, and an arm splint later, I headed back to the office (I’m right-handed, so I could still drive) to pick up my stuff and call it a day.
But the day wasn’t done with me yet.
Before I even got to my desk, our HR person stopped me. Was I heading home?
Well, yes, actually. I just broke my arm, figured I’d take the afternoon off.
Well, the company was making some cuts, which included one person in my department. We had to negotiate who it would be. Right now.
Excuse me?
You know, most days, you pretty much know what to expect when you work in an office. You drive in, spend the majority of your eight hours at your desk, putting out one fire after another, then you drive home. Occasionally, if you’re lucky, you might have lunch brought in. Or maybe it’s Wacky Shirt Day. Otherwise, not a whole lot of variation.
Breaking a limb and firing an employee? Nope, NOT on my office bingo card.
So I’d already lost a battle with gravity and concrete. NOW I had to fight to save someone’s job with one arm tied behind my back (strapped in a sling, actually).
But, even wounded, I fought valiantly. All looked lost, but at the last moment we rallied. We were able to find cuts elsewhere, and my department (if not myself) remained intact.
Battered, bruised (I now have bruised ribs on my LEFT side), and exhausted, I returned home to nurse my wounds and reflect on the tragedies and triumphs of a VERY surreal day.
At least next week we’re getting burritos. Easy to eat with one hand.
My wife gave me this as a gift years ago. It currently hangs in our dining room.
I had big plans.
I was writing a beer blog, thinking I was going to be the next Jay Brooks. This was going to fit right into it. I even wrote a post about it.
Great plan, right? Get my site a little more exposure, give some breweries around the country a little more exposure, and I complete this art project and get some free beer to boot! Genius!
The more eagle-eyed among you may have noticed, this didn’t get very far. I think ONE brewery actually sent me some caps, but otherwise, nada. Turns out there were a few flaws in my plan:
I did NO work promoting my blog, so basically nobody saw this. I did message some breweries directly, but otherwise I was screaming into the Grand Canyon.
Bottles would eventually move to the endangered species list. Not a whole lotta caps floating around out there anymore.
Depression.
[I’m hoping this blog won’t turn into an endless series of whines about how unmotivated I am, but it’s just kinda front of mind right now, so here we are.]
It doesn’t take a doctorate in literature to see the metaphor here. This nearly toothless piece of art is a visual reminder of how most of my projects go, a fact that was brought home the other day when, in a major feat of procrastination, I organized my digital sock drawer and went through all the crap strewn about my laptop.
As I was adding folders, moving things around, throwing things away, yet another visual reminder emerged — the number of online courses I’ve never finished. Especially my latest one. I plunked down serious $$$ this time, thinking that would be enough motivation. Got about 85% through it, then the work got real, and that was that.
And not just courses — planners, hacks, cheat-sheets, Infographs, checklists, resumés, they’re all in there. All the things that were going to transform my work and make me uber-productive.
And as I look around my home, even more reminders emerge.
The Peloton — my wife loves it, uses it religiously. I was going to, as well. Got my own account, plunked down more $$$ for the Special Shoes and extra padded shorts and seat for my bony behind, and rode it for … a while. Even when I stopped doing that, I was going to at LEAST do the cardio, yoga, and stretching.
Nope, nope, and nope. Not even after spending even more $$$ on a mat, blocks, and roller.
(I don’t even want to know what might living in those shoes by now.)
The garage — in better days I’d clean and reorganize it now and then. Now it’s completely overgrown, with just enough space carved into it to fit A car. What’s even worse is this massive junk pile has been generated by our massive household of … two people.
And don’t get me started on the hall closet. Actually, that is the problem — I never started on it. We could really use the storage, but it’s so musty smelling we don’t keep anything in there we actually use. It’s just a dumping ground for things we don’t really need but can’t bring ourselves to toss.
Of course I know I’m far from the only person afflicted with this — this is the self-improvement industry’s business model. Quick fix doesn’t work, so try another one. Lather, rinse, repeat.
But a new year brings new optimism. I’m confident that, with the help of my therapist, I will save myself from a life filled with missing bottle caps. It’s a nice thought, at least.
Like most commute-weary suburbanites, I am a caffeine addict. And like most addicts, when your supply gets interrupted, you’ll resort to drastic measures to get it back. So it was with my coffee maker.
I have one of those single-serve, individual pod coffee machines. I recently had to descale it. This is a newer machine, and gone are the days where you just run vinegar through it and rinse it out. They have their own special solution (available at a small additional cost) and many, many steps to the process.
So, I go through the process, and several gallons of water later, the display still says “descale.”
????
After reviewing the instructions, I realized I missed one small, crucial step in the beginning — I didn’t put the machine in “descale mode.” It just thought I was running brew cycles over and over and over and over and over again.
So I decide to start over. But I screwed up trying to start Descale Mode and it wound up running a brew cycle. With no water. The machine overheated, and died.
Like, dead. Like would not power on. No pulse. Nothing.
Uh-oh. The supply was in danger.
Once I stopped panicking, it was on to the interwebs.
After a little research, I discover the problem. The thermostat has “popped,” cutting power to the machine. The good news — it can be reset, just like a wall outlet. The bad news, unlike a wall outlet, there’s no easy button to press. You have to take the coffee maker apart to get to it.
So my choices are either spend more $$$ on a new machine, or try to fix it myself.
You should know, I’m HORRENDOUS at any kind of home repair. Anything more complicated than a light bulb, I’m out. The very idea of fixing ANYTHING makes my eyes sweat.
But, being the addict (and gigantic cheapskate) I am, I have no choice. I have to get this thing working.
Gulp.
I clear an entire day (which isn’t much of a problem, since I don’t do much), and set to work.
I luckily found an extremely helpful video that went step-by-step through the process, which basically involves popping the outer cover off to access the innards. Everything’s plastic, of course, so the trick is to pry the cover off of the unit without breaking any of the million or so tiny little tabs that hold it in place.
With the concentration (if not skill) of a surgeon, I manage to peel the cover off without any apparent damage. And using the high-tech tool of an unwound paperclip, I reset the thermostat. But before putting everything back together, I plug it in, and nervously hit the power button.
Success! Although the damned “descale” message is still on. But at least it’s alive.
I carefully pop the cover on, CORRECTLY put the machine in Descale Mode, and run several brew cycles (WITH water) until the message mercifully goes away.
Crisis averted. I will have coffee for my morning commute.
Why am I telling you all this?
Depression has robbed me of the motivation to do pretty much anything. I do my job 40 hours a week, but little else. Goal setting?? What are these “goals” you keep talking about?
It took the frightening specter of caffeine withdrawal to do it, but I made a plan, faced my fear and actually fixed something. I didn’t replace it. I fixed it.
It may not be much, but for a day, I felt like a person. For a day, depression can take a seat.
