I have been to California many times but I have only ventured into Hollywood on two occasions. The last time I wandered around Tinsel Town, I was primarily there to catch the film Beaches at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. The rest was all commentary. My virgin appearance, my first encounter, found me wanting. My entire life, Hollywood was this escape, this beautiful and exotic getaway. The mythos and grandeur were part of my upbringing. Like everyone else on this planet, I used to dream of being a big movie star and living in Beverly Hills. You should have seen my face when I got off the Greyhound bus in downtown disappointment. At first, I thought all the garbage and strange people were some fluke because of the bus terminal. I was wrong. Everywhere I went there was more dread, more gloom and more debauchery. Hookers and bums were on every corner, in every alley. Homeless people filled the spaces between porn shops and fast food joints. It was rundown, it was dirty and I was, for the most part, very disconcerted. The place was nothing like I thought it would be. As I headed down Hollywood Blvd., I passed landmarks I had only imagined up until then. I spent an entire day exploring what I came to call “The Hollywood Hole.” I must admit that my experience made me hesitant to ever go back. I am sorry but stepping on a syringe at Hollywood and Vine sealed the deal for me. This was not my Hollywood. The next year found my return but only for a moment. I just had this movie I needed to see and I needed to see it there in LaLaland. I travelled the 3,832 kilometers for Bette and Barbra and the late Gary Marshall. After my initial visit, film was the only good part of the town left for me. I headed off to Big Sur and I have never returned. I think the defining moment, the moment of my complete rejection, came in a frightening way. As I walked past a few more landmarks, I spotted a young Latino gentleman sitting on the top edge of a concrete bench. His bandana revealed his inclination. The most disturbing part of the scene was the stream of blood flowing from the area of his right forehead across the temple. It puddled on the ground below him. We made eye contact as I passed. It sort of scared me. It made me realize how different this world was to the one I owned back in Canada. I suppose I had far too many expectations of the place. I was destined to be let down. I have never recovered from the lesson I learned. I had always imagined Hollywood to be a land of milk and honey. It was more like cheap whiskey and a blow job out back in the alley.
We moved to Paris, Ontario and left the city life behind us. The town is relatively small and very, very quiet (except from time to time on a weekend). We live right next to the Fairgrounds and are often visited by the pounding of music from the concert stage or the roar of monster trucks and the occasional smash-up derby. My family loves a good Fair, regardless of its size and content. My Mother used to win baking contests at the Strathroy Fall Fair and my Dad and his entourage still travel about Ontario, hunting for a good country welcome. A year after our initial move, once again the Paris Fair opened on the Labour Day weekend. It occurred to my father and I that in all our years, no one had ever gone to Paris for this event. Come Saturday, the lot of us all paid to park and get inside the gates. For years, I had heard advertisements on radio and television pumping up the experience of the Paris Fair. There were many times that I entertained going, particularly when the musical lineup met my fan appeal. Canadian artists like Blue Rodeo, Michelle Wright and Leahy all attracted my attention but not enough to make me go. We all met at my place and took their van over so my Dad didn’t have to walk. The fee was quite reasonable. Once we got inside, it became clear rather quickly. We had been deceived. A few rooms scattered throughout one building held contestants and champions but there was something scarce about the space. Once outside, my Dad seemed frustrated with the lack of livestock and I duly noted his disapproval. The midway made us all feel older, a lack of children to play with the obvious cause. It all struck me as wasted time. I could be bored at home for free. All in all, it was still a good day. Any time I get to spend with my father makes it so. I look back and I remember the way things were that day. We were together, but for a moment, and I believe that is all that matters. Perhaps all those disappointments allowed for different memories. Without that silly Fairground to walk away from, I would not hold such images in my head and on my hard drive. I am there talking and laughing and living. It didn’t matter that there was little gratification. I just wish that Paris: The Fair had not been such a downer, such a misuse of time and energy and cash. It was a letdown for us all.
Sand Hill was supposed to be beautiful and it was. Located between Port Burwell and Long Point, Ontario, Sand Hill is a testament to the power of nature. Rising some 450 feet along the north shore of Lake Erie, the dunes stand like a “mountain of sand.” The $15.00 we paid to get in seemed fair at the time. We parked and headed straight for the dunes. My sandals did not work well with the sand and I removed them. Yes, the sand was very, very hot. Regardless, we made it over the top and slid down towards the water. We had such grand expectations of Sand Hill. It is hard to find a beach that is not overcome with people on a hot summer day. We had this area all to ourselves. Very quickly, you could tell why. The lake trout was bloated and very much rotting in the surf. It floated into view like the slime and goo that came along with it. We became aware. There was a great deal of foam and garbage, scattered in spots along the coast. It collected in pockets, some large and some small. There was no way in hell I was going in it. The 18 inches of fish carcass kept creeping, ever closer and closer. We did not exit as we had entered. We took the long way back and avoided the oven-baked mound just to get away from such a disappointment. It was nice and shady as we had our lunch at one of the campground picnic tables. As we left, I knew I would never return to the place and I have not. It has been years since we attended the mess. For me, it stands as an example of the damage mankind has done to the planet. There are very few beaches I can now swim in. My skin is hyper-sensitive and has only gotten worse as I have aged. People forget, just because the level of E. coli is within a safe parameter does not mean there isn’t shit everywhere.
They lied to me. It was boldfaced as far as I am concerned. If I gave my life to Jesus, all would be well. I would be filled with the Spirit and my troubles would melt away with “the Glory of the Lord.” They forgot to tell me that if things were not okay, if I was not possessed, then I was doing something wrong. God chastises the unsaved (Mark 16:16). I was 17 years old then. I was very bipolar and very untreated. I would cling to anything that made me feel better about the world around me and myself. I wanted to believe. I wanted to fit in. In all honesty, I joined the Pentecostal Church of Strathroy while stalking a high school acquaintance. I was soon in the mix of it and I really thought I had found a new direction. I had always been Christian and my parents had just joined the Pentecostal Church themselves. I tried to take it all in. The promises of salvation seemed more assured within this community. There seemed to be this mass appeal. I went in with great expectations. I had always had some form of relationship with the Christ. Most times, I viewed him as my imaginary friend. Around 200 people were crammed into the small sanctuary. Just before the lecture, a rock band played music I actually enjoyed. Years later and Christian music is one of the main staples in my symphonic diet. Scripture after scripture after scripture and the sermon was complete. He cried out and hoarded us to the front of the room. For the very first time (and not the last), I experienced an altar call. I walked up to the stage with the rest of the cattle and I stood, ready to accept the Lord and all his blessings. They fed us bullshit and we dropped like flies. Every time the pastor touched a believer’s forehead, they would fall away, gone limp in some testament to the presence of the Holy Spirit. I was thrilled at the idea. As I approached my pseudo-destiny, I readied myself for the indwelling. He touched my forehead and uttered, “Be filled by the power of Jesus.” For a second, I thought he was joking. I got nothing. Instinctively, it was important that my depravity remain hidden so I fell without the aid of anything Holy. I floated to the floor, simply copying what those before me had done. They helped me up and I walked back to my seat. I felt abandoned, right then and there. This moment still haunts me. I realized God didn’t want me and I was on my own. I still feel that way. While this scar still stings, most scars mean you have already healed. My days as a Christian are over but the longing remains, even after all these years. I have tried to re-examine my position, to see if anything has changed regarding my salvation. I am disappointed, yet again,.
The Covid-19 pandemic has brought with it much disappointment, primarily in people. From the actual issues relating to health to the social implications those issues have manifested, the world has changed with little to show for it. It’s not the masks, or social distancing that bring a sense of defeat. It’s not even all the death and destruction, the constant clang of coronavirus in the ear of anyone over 75 years of age. It is the lingering fools who believe there is no real issue that merits dismay. There are still those who hold that there is no pandemic and their conspiratorial fears are somehow legit. They die just as easily. You don’t have to be American and/or a Trump supporter to be blatantly ignorant. It is the countless souls who disregard themselves and others that inspire disappointment in the human race. Generally speaking, when out and about, I have found much to appreciate and much for concern. On my essential journeys, I have witnessed the very best in people and the very worst in people. No surprise, it is the unthinking narcissists that get on my last nerve. Rushing someone who is not wearing a mask when you are not wearing a mask should be a crime whether the government wants to establish the restriction or not. Self-serving, nasty monsters seem to lurk almost everywhere these days. Yes, some things are better but much appears to be worse. I'm just getting ready for the fourth wave and the fifth wave (you get what I mean). Most people seem to recognize the severity of this epidemic and the sacrifices we all need to make in order to be safe. Others, they strike me as a constant disappointment, fools who may well end up exactly were the rest of us would rather not be..
You get a lot of pretty days. You get a lot of ugly days as well. Life gives and it takes and it all seems futile in the end. It doesn’t really matter. I guess you can’t have expectations if you don’t want disappointments. Somehow, no matter what you do, things don’t work out as we pray that they will. We can try to see the good in things but that good always comes with the condition of random injustice. Nothing goes as planned. There is always a balloon to deflate, a seam to burst. This is the price one pays for hoping and wishing and dreaming. Hope is for fools, wishing for children and dreaming is nothing but avoiding the truth. In most cases, you rarely receive what you actually asked for or saw promise in. You do not always get what you pay for. At the end of the day, it is what one does with circumstance that matters the most. A disappointment might be a blessing in disguise. Granted, this is hard to see considering the midst of it. Life is hard. We make it harder just by expecting that it will be easy. We precondition ourselves for failure. Nothing goes our way. It’s better to the seize the moment than anticipate something that will never be. What a waste of time.
Photo
http://www.garyhallcoaching.com/uncategorized/even-a-broken-clock-is-right-twice-a-day/
Sources
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beaches_(film)
https://www.ontariossouthwest.com/listing/sand-hill-park/1777/
http://my.kwic.com/~pagodavista/sandhills.htm
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