“Inspiration is for Amateurs”

This is the third moonshine revelation revealed to me. Thanks to the Great Spirits divined through the Pontiac Indian.

For too long we have thought as inspiration as the muse-given fire to spark the  creativity. The truth is, having the great flash of vision is the easy part- the hard part is getting up every morning to work on it. This is life. They say that bold acts of bravery are the easy part; the real heroism is just to get up and do the best you can each day with what you have, and who you have to do it with. Inspiration is a refridgerator full of wonderful foods with every condiment and salumi imaginable; making a sandwhich then is easy.

The real art is opening the barren fridge and figuring out something you can make with cocktail onions, cheese whiz and lard that will keep you going through the day.

Ever hear a success story that started with, “well, my childhood was easy, pleasant,  and my parents were always supporting me 100%…”

No, the doers work at it, or against it. Be a doer.

I 0nce spent every morning of two years being inspired and writing poems and plays and philosophical dialogues in the smoke filled cafes from Smyrna to Springfield; I have nothing interesting to show for it. Personally, I am sick of this blog that will not die and the writing of it has become sometimes like digging ditches, I fail to be inspired. I can’t go on, so I go on.

Yes of course, we need inspiration, the smiles and the sunsets, the laughter and art- but you still go out to the woodshed on your own, and must make.

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“Don’t Be a Dick” (2 of 29 and a half)

The above sage words are the 2nd grave revelation revealed to me by the Pontiac Indian I unearthed beneath Hopper Creek.

But, What exactly is a dick, in this sense of “Don’t be a dick“?

As my old Friend f. Gump would say, ” dick is as  dick does”, so what exactly does a dick do? Or perhaps not do? Do be do be do, etc.

A dick looks at your boobs when you’re trying to talk to him, but does it sort of on purpose so you notice and feel weird.

A dick doesn’t go to his friends play that she directed because he spaced it out living his important life.

A dick forgot it was your birthday, again.

A dick never shuts up, and the sad thing is they never even say, “oh shit I’ve been talking about my job/kids/problems for half an hour, i’m being such a dick- how are you?”

A dad who’s a dick just says “no” regardless of whether he needs to.

A boss who’s a dick uses intimidation and wierd authoritarian vibes to exercise control, or “motivate”. (Even some people who purportedly were power mad dicks, like Coach Bear Bryant, would often times, just when his players thought he’d rip them new arseholes with a yelling jag during a losing halftime- would often be calm, friendly and just say something like, “well, boys I think we can play a lot better than this, and i’m awful sorry for failing you as a coach today, let’s go back out there and have some fun in the second half and see what we can do, what do ya say?” His players, so taken aback with this non-dick approach, would charge out on fire and dominate the game from then on with savage ferocity of elephant herd.)

A dick is the guy standing around quiety while the other guy said “need a ride home?”

A dick tips exactly 15%.

Basically, a dick is someone who puts in a little less work on anything than he should, and is so wrapped up in the momentouness of their life that everyone and everything else sort of fades into the background.

Now I am not saying you always need to think of others and be selfless. Your first duty is to love yourself, care for yourself, and tend to your passions and goals like a gardener tends to very freagile and special orchids. “Cultivate your garden” sayeth Voltaire.

Just don’t a dick about it.

We all bigot. Dicks just deny it.

Moonshine Revelation 1 (of 29 and a half)

1. “Leave the House.”

Not sure how to interpret? Listen to great Zamboni:

Every adventure and every day begins with leaving what is known and protective. Leave the house, kill the parents (not literally!) fly away from the nest. Be spirited away- there will be a time to come back. I, Zamboni, would not be Zamboni if I had not left the protective walls of the baron’s castle and  joined the Estonian Air Force, married the toothless hag, which in turn led me to my years in the treetop, right?

On The Road, look homeward Angel, go Bulkington and search for the great white whale.

Leave the House.

This the Pontiac Indian says to me first.

Moonshine Revelations

 While navigating Hopper Creek in the   backwoods of Yountville, grappling over mosses, rocks and entwining  ivies and vines, I came upon something shiny buried in the mud. Thinking it was a bit of brown glass from an old Shlitz bottle, I almost passed it by, but something made me bend down to it, as it caught a small ray of sunlight in a comely golden fashion. Trying to pull it up, I soon unearthed the placid face of a straining Indian- then a rusted out and mildewed Pontiac sedan that had obviously been used to run moonshine from the hills to the city during prohibition. I knew this because inside the decaying chassis, still clutched by the skeletal hand of the speeding hooch runner was a large glass jug crudely marked with the name “Hattie’s Old Crow Hooch”. After several minutes of detatching the jug from the bony hand and from a clutser of shimmering purple mushrooms that were growing both around and inside the lip of the jug, I immediately drank half its contents without any thought. From here my memory gets very cloudy, but of one thing I am clear. The Indian spoke to me, revealing exactly 29 and a half aphorisms, in a creaky voice somewhere between Tommy lee Jones and and the old heater that was in my college dorm room. I can also say that these seem all true, though some are strangely syntaxed. Thanks to the Great Spirits, and I will be sharing them with you soon.
The hooch tasted of liquified Ben-Gay and old Gefilte Fish. Fernet basically. Perhaps you will doubt that the Indian spoke to me, but truth is truth, no? (As for the last half of the Hooch, I gave to Thomas Keller who who put on digestif menu of French Laundry, 500.00$ for a thimblefull)- Zamboni

Mad Men Dream

My friend Sig Freud used to share his dreams with me, long ago when we were  college studenst in Vienna. His consisted mainly of childhood nannies whose breasts were made of chocolate cake and phalluses the size of sperm whales  whizzing by on train tracks.

I, Zamboni myself, do not often remember my dreams, or even have them.  Because Zamboni is living his dream, my nighttime headspace tends to just be almost still landscape scenes of the Nebraska plains, or a panoramic view of Elizabeth Taylors face, left to right then back again- but last night I had a dream of Mad Men.

They Occupy My Dream

Not an actual episode, but a very choreographed series of shimmering scenes. Pete Campbell sleeping on a bean bag chair in his office. A long line of models marching through a space more Cecil B. DeMille than Sterling, Draper, Cooper and Price. And, finally, as a perfect blonde strode by, a woman’s voice, like Meryl Streep as Don Draper, selling me on something, staking a claim for a house of cards to stand for a millenium:

“As always, the heart of glamour is Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup.”

So true, no?

Total Polenta Heaven

Many readers have asked me, “great zamboni, is there anything greater than love?” or “great zamboni, what is better than sex?” or some form of this question whatsoever. This is a difficult one, even for someone so fatuous and sagacious as the one I am, great zamboni. Though of course sex and love are two very different things, the way that a bloodthirsty jaguar and a cuddly little kitten named jinx are two different balls of wax, I can say with certainty that there is something better than both combined. This dish.

I have this today in the fog of napa valley, as great zamboni is consultant wine taster for many blenders of the grape. It was so good I ordered a second for dessert, and then a third to rub all over my ears. I hope you find your way to Hopper Creek and enjoy for yourself.

Call in the Cavalry: Why you have Friends back you up

Sometimes you are running and running and you get backed up into a corner, maybe you get pressed into a box that doesn’t fit you anymore. Ever happen to you? You go left, then more left and you have nowhere to go so you cut back right, then farther right. And just when it’s for sure that you’ve got nowhere to go but  knocked-flat on the ground, splat- what do you do that saves you? You depend on your friends for help.

You lateral. And they lateral if they have to. And guess what, after a while, after you get saved, sure enough some day you’re the one that is there for back up- you get to save the day too. This is just the way it works. No one is alone.

Cool. We all need backup.

end-zone-angle-of-the-final-football-play-of-trinity-vs-millsaps-video

Yes it looks pretty damn silly, and you feel weird depending on people some times- is it weak to pass the buck 15 times? I don’t know, but if it ends in a win, does it matter?