Steve Roberts

As Tom reviews albums, I wanted to mention one that might have slipped through the cracks, if you're not into Canadian supergroups. New Pornographers Mass Romantic should have been a hit. It's a rough start. You'll ask yourself, "What did I just stumble into?" Then the vocals kick in & you're right where you need to be. Check it out.

I'm doing a hunt and peck with a stylus. This might take an hour or two for your ten minute read. A little over a year ago I pulled off of I-5 to take a nap on my way home. An hour & a half later a drunk driver hit me at full speed, and launched me into freeway traffic. Epic collision. The concussion subsided 3 months later, and since then, I shake. A Lot. To the point where it's rare I can work a keyboard. I've mostly been out of contact with my friends, except the two who pick up the phone when I call (and I don't do well on the phone thanks to autism), and I'm thankful for that. I've wanted to chime in on life several times, but this is a truly arduous task. Here's what prompted me to stay up and slog it out: I came up with a lyric. A good one. Not a song, but the germ of an idea. I forgot it for a few hours, because I wasn't home, but when it came back to me I thought it was worth writing down. I typically keep notepads scattered around the house for this very thing, but all of my caches were bare. I finally found one in my music room poking out from some clutter, and flipped through it. It wasn't one of my lyric notebooks. It had graphs & equations, but I skipped to the first blank page and wrote my idea down. Then I flipped back through the pages. It was the scrawlings of a madman. It was notes from when I was studying economics. I didn't recognize some of my own handwriting. The math was brilliant. I had that "Aha, that's why I think that way" moment over and over. The way it wove into politics seemed like it came from a different guy, which, truth be told, I really was a different guy in my mid twenties. I've internalized all of that knowledge to where it seems innate, but some of those equations were eye openers. I was trying to one up my professor at every turn. But, the thing that made me want to hunt and peck my way through this was something I wrote in the margin: More people die on their way to the airport than people in a plane crash. I have no clue what theory we were studying that day.

I might have well titled this as "struggles with your father figure." The original Pt. 2 was the story about how I ended up in SoCal, and has a little tidbit about Monica Lewinski. I'll get to it eventually. I don't get along with my dad. At this point, it's evident I never will. I'm deeply jealous of friends who have a good relationship with their father. Here I am with my father in stage 4 prostate cancer, and all I can think is the Coyote Shivers lyric, "I'd rather be missing you than wishing you were gone." It's a great song to get through a break up (Happiness Is a Warm Bong), but it feels really cold for a son to lament his father. I've been putting a lot of thought into a eulogy for a couple years now. I have nothing nice to say. I've got one good story about Uhaul not suing the Dead Kennedys for trademark infringement (not as lenient as copyright laws), where he went to bat for me, but really he was all about his public image, and he didn't want his kids to be pissed off enough to take him down. Obviously, that didn't happen, since he got named "worst father of the year" in the Phoenix New Times "Worst of Phoenix" edition. I'm going to use this space to try to flesh out my goodbye with some tact. My father was an idea thief second only to Edison. (ok, bad start, but I'm trying to give kudos to his only strength). His contributions (taking credit for other people's ideas) to supersonic travel was a monumental stepping stone for mankind with the development of the XB70 bomber (project Valkerie), and from what he has told me about his time with Boeing, he actually did stand up to General Electric against the photo op that killed the project (it was unanimous from the engineering team that it was a dumb idea. GE wanted a picture of all of their engines in formation from the various planes that used them, and the Valkerie sucked an F104 Starfighter into its engine when it got too close to its wake). After his career at Boeing literally exploded over the desert just north of Barstow, he moved from Seattle back down to Portland, just across the river from where he grew up, and went into the import/export business. Stories from that period of his life taught me all the ticks & tips to smuggling anyone would ever need to know to be successful at it. That wasn't the point of his stories, but he let a lot of information slip. After that, he joined Uhaul, where he met his future wife, and the person who would eventually be my mom. As he steadily failed upward on the shoulders of other people's ideas, he found himself in upper management with his first task being orchestrating moving the entire company to Phoenix, AZ. After the move, he wrote a data transfer protocol so that every Uhaul location could communicate via computer network, pre-internet (clearly he didn't. I have to set this guy's clocks twice a year and reset his router every time the power goes out), and was promoted to Vice President of Operations. The encryption was actually pretty impressive. So much so, that he was approached by the CIA. They wanted to buy it. Uhaul said it wasn't for sale, so the CIA just rented a floor in an office building across the street, laser mic'd the windows to capture keystrokes, and monitored the power supply for pulses. They were able to backwards engineer it, for far less what they would've paid Uhaul. Because they copied it exactly, you used to be able to log in to our government from any Uhaul terminal across the globe (in case you ever wondered why I know all of our government's secrets). He still remained in our government's good graces, and received a Christmas card from Ronald Reagan every year. Hand signed, not auto-pen. He retired at the early age age of 50 (no pension, leeching mostly off my mom's family's money, and stealing hundreds of thousands of dollars from my brother & me). I'll obviously leave out the parenthetical asides, but I think I have enough to work with to say something from the pulpit.

Unbelievable Stories will not be chronological. I have too many, so if I flesh one out, it's up to you to put it into historical context. Festival shows are their own thing. Read all of Tom's "So You Want To Be in Band" posts before you get here, if you're a musician. The following is my personal account of what went down that day: D.I. got booked to play a festival in Long Beach at the Queen Mary. Logistics wise, it didn't work out, and the entire gig got moved to the Glen Helen Blockbuster Pavilion (yes, 1995, Blockbuster Video still existed, and had a huge hand in entertainment). The day started out in chaos. Loading gear, herding cats to get everyone in the van. Casey, Steve Lyon, & I surfed the morning glass-off, so we were in a very mellow state of mind, which didn't mesh well with the urgency for the entire team to get their shit together. Someone wanted to stop for donuts (might have been Chris), and Fred reminded them we had a full rider waiting backstage, so everything we had asked for was waiting for us. We headed inland from Newport Beach on what was really not that long a van ride, but it's early morning, we're trying to get our shit together, and it really felt like we were leaving on tour; even though it was a one day gig. We arrived at the amphitheater, made our way through security to the back parking lot, and found a spot between the other vans and monster tour busses. Right off the bat, we bump into Joe Escalante from The Vandals. Now, Joe & I have never gotten along, but diplomacy in force, we engage in the time honored tradition of the merch trade. He wants a D.I. Shirt, we're willing to trade for a Vandals shirt, but then he shits on our selection. It's hot. We're in the desert. All we printed was white. He says, "Let me give you a little bit of punk rock advice - 'white is out'. Whatever. We trade, and proceed to load in. I get straight to doing my job, find the stage manager, find out there's no backline, and find my corner to set up the drums. I get everything ready to be rushed to the stage in pieces, and then it's time to mingle. Now, backstage is a place of solace for musicians, especially before the show. The groupies might happen after the show, but the early part consists of just getting comfy, and saying "hi" to the other bands. Festivals, on the other hand, is like having multiple green rooms. Not being a dick goes a long way in this situation. Play by the rules. Don't touch the other bands rider (all the food & beverages, etc. they requested), unless they invite you to grab something. You go around & try to meet new, cool people, but eventually, everyone tends to clique off with their friends. The talent is trying to relax, while the people who have logistics issues have to get on the same page. The thing I remember most about this part of the day was Gwen from No Doubt being as cute as a girl can be. Always gracious backstage, and she was a huge fan of most of the bands playing. But, I was at work, so I wolfed down a sandwich, drank every beer offered to me, and excused myself to go set up the merch booth. Our merch booth turned out to a prime location. We were ringside of the general audience, with a great view of the stage. We shared it with Youth Brigade, and the Sublime guys (I had no idea it would be the last time I'd see Brad alive). After setup, these two girls from Corona/Riverside that never missed a show come up to do our long running joke. "How about a free shirt?" they quipped, and my standard reply, "How about a hummer?" Now Shawn rolls his eyes at the misogyny, but the Sublime guys literally fall on the floor laughing. It becomes clear that we do this dance at every time we meet, the girls buy a sticker, and they're on their way. We sell shirts, and other regalia, and it seems like a pretty normal gig. This is where all the trouble starts. An indigenous long hair starts getting hassled by three Nazi skinheads. We start yelling to leave the guy alone (along with many concert goers). A handful of cops close in, and then start HELPING the skinheads. Casey & I start pogoing, chanting "Kill the cops! Kill the cops!" Shawn Stern gives me the most brutal verbal spanking of my life, "What the FUCK is wrong with you two?" and it stops me (and Casey) mid jump. Now, I've heard worse, but I've never in a more apropos or well placed way. Thank the gods it wasn't Kevin Seconds, or Chi Pig, because they would've had more to say. It's too late. The fuse is lit. Metal sprinkler heads get unscrewed and become grenades. The freshly plated trees, with stakes to hold them upright lose their stakes, which are now javalines. The cops and the skinheads quickly retreat, figuring they're outnumbered. The crowd returns to a simmer. We try to get back to business, but no one is buying merch. With stage times approaching and lackluster sales, we decide to pack everything up, and head backstage. I go about my business, loading anything unsold back in the van. I grab another sandwich from the No Doubt guys, and at this point the beer is just flowing backstage, so I don't know who to thank except whoever handed me one. I take my place on stage, out of the way, but ready to do my job as guitar tech & drum tech, and hopefully not hired gun (I will elaborate on the hired gun thing in a future Unbelievable Story). The D.I. set surprisingly goes off without a hitch. I get the gear off stage, the drum kit broken down into cases, the guitars stowed away, and the ultimate game of Tetris of loading it into the van. At this point, it should be nothing but fun. My job has been fulfilled, and it's time to cut loose. That just wasn't in the stars. So Guttermouth takes the stage. Right off the bat, Mark starts goading the crowd. Berating security. Daring everyone to get on stage. The crowd loses their collective shit. Barricades are thrown. Drainage grates are pulled up and thrown at security. The crowd takes Mark's invite to heart, and invades the stage. The cops, already on edge, decide to react, and shoot tear gas ON TO THE FUCKING STAGE. The entire stage fills with tear gas, as well as backstage. The green rooms empty out. All of us spill out into the back parking lot, coughing, choking, tears flowing, running to the safety of our vans/tour busses. The gate gets locked down and none of us can leave. The cops have taken the stage, and turn their hatred towards the crowd. The exit for G/A get overwhelmed. Kids are getting trampled just for trying to get out, while the cops are closing in from behind trying to push everyone towards the exit. Headliners canceled, and kids feeling ripped off, pissed off, scared, or a collection of all three. This story didn't have a happy ending. Many people were hurt, including the girl I was dating who ended up with a broken ankle (and that was just from the backstage chaos). You can find the Youtube clips online. I'm pretty sure the entirety of Socal didn't issue another festival permit until Punk Rock Picnic a few years later. My only takeaway was that it was one time I fucked around, found out, and grew up fast. Not to say this put a stop to Casey & my antics, but it was the last time we stoked the flames. Post script: I hope I made you feel like you were there, without having to actually live through that. I'm still working on my storytelling, and I tried my best to completely strip this of hyperbole. Let me know if I glossed over something, or didn't paint a complete picture. I didn't know how to end it, because we all just drove away with it in the rearview mirror saying, "Well, that was fucked up."

I've really wanted to get back to fleshing things out. I used to just spill shit into convoluted lyrics that I lobbed a little too high with mixed metaphors, but I've noticed I type like I speak. I start my point, and then trail off. I rarely finish a sentence. I just assume people got the gist, and let them fill in the blanks. It leaves too much unsaid. Something I need to work on. Communication has never been my strong suit, and the revaluation I'm autistic didn't happen until my late 40's. My kid is autistic in the same vein as me, and we're participating in the SPARK research program. Hopefully everything they gather won't be abused. Autism doesn't need a cure, just acceptance. We're just weirdos that are wired differently, but we add some spice to life. This wasn't anywhere near what I set out to type, it's just what spilled out, so I'm going to leave it as that. Intact. Whole. Open.

BUT even though I was trying to not use my little sandbox as a place to rant or proselytize to the already converted, I think I need a little cathartic release. I really hoped to just straight up work on transferring my storytelling, and hopefully I'll knock a few out. Cancer sucks. Having a rare cancer sucks even more, and if you are in the USA, you are straight up screwed. My abnormal cell growth is red blood cells. The symptoms are heart attacks, blood clots, and strokes; so your first sign of danger might be your death. I've had a rough year. Heart attacks I can deal with, since they're not like bad diet caused blockage heart attacks. My blood just gets thick to the point where it's like pumping Jello. I've learned to give myself CPR, so I survive the random 3 to 6 heart attacks a DAY, but it's starting to show signs of wearing out my ticker. I had my second stroke this year (luckily no damage) and my 8th pulmonary embolism. The last one pissed me off because it was totally caused by my doctors not listening to me. They forget that I've been dealing with this for at least 7 years now, and they just Googled it the day they met me, so I have learned more about it than they can catch up on. They've scheduled me for unnecessary procedures that have already been done where it's flat out impossible to get different results. They've suggested giving me a form of chemo that would flip it to the other end of the blood cancer spectrum to 100% fatal leukemia. I don't know if they refuse to read my chart, or just straight up don't know how to read, but neither quality is acceptable from someone who I have sought out for help. I think the worst part is I can't go somewhere else, because I'll still be in the same network and my chart will follow me, which by now is just filled with notes from incompetent assholes. So thanks for letting me bitch, and I really hope I have another bounce back in me.

Sink your teeth into it. Notice I didn't say someone. Early in life, it seemed I loved everything about anything. I loved learning, which was all I had at the beginning. I tucked away every moment in my brain, learned from it, and built on it. I remember my brother coming home from the hospital. All of it. The new roommate in the bassinet in our kitchen on 32nd & Hubbell. The adults fawning. The trip to Oregon, that I had already made several times. It was on that trip I spoke my first word. At that point, the adults in my life had decided I was retarded. That was the approved medical diagnosis at the time. I stared at clocks, thinking about precision. We had a mantle clock at my grandparents' house (where I live now) that I would stare, fixated, for hours. I remember thinking the adults around me were fucking idiots. I said my first word, and it was, "pendulum." Granted, I practiced it when they weren't around. Getting the hang of speech can be gnarly, and they already thought I was an idiot, so I didn't want to let anyone down. There was no fanfare beyond, "he said his first word." Life was only downhill from there. By kindergarten, I had basic math down, and had read Michel Chrichton's The Andromeda Strain (I remember, because it's still one of my favorite books, and I still own the physical copy from my youth). It was suggested I skip to 3rd grade, which my parents nixed. They thought I'd be bullied if I was the smallest kid in class. Turns out they bully nerds, too. I stuck it out in genpop for the rest of public school, learning the lesson that trying to get ahead was pointless, and you can phone it in and just get by. In 3rd grade, they did testing, and a select few got into the gifted program. A small group of students were bussed a few days a week to Madison Heights, where the other handful of kids from schools across the district would meet up for school. Once a week, I was taken out of gifted classes, and bussed to Phoenix College to do my math 101. Around this time I started doing computer camp. Commodore PETs with classes on circuitry and soldering. I felt like a total outcast in every clique. I'm still online friends with most of the people who were in gifted class with me, but some online friend requests from beyond that clique puzzle me, because I remember them as jerks. I was in a heavy Clash phase at that point of my life, loved The Police, and was getting into some local punk through one of my little brother's friend's mom. His name was Kyle Bartlet, and his mom had the Brainz 7" and some Plasmatics stuff. As a group project, we held a mock election (by now it must have been 4th grade) and I campaigned for Anderson. As an aside, I should mention I discovered my own erection around 7, and found my dad's Playboys around the same time, but given the stamina for my age, I actually did get bored and read the articles, so I was pretty well versed on the Pentagon Papers, so I was ranting about October Surprise/Iran Contra to a bunch of kids who didn't give a shit about politics. Fuck. All they cared about was being popular, and I'd already figured out that wasn't going to happen for me. The only thing that really stands out for that time of my life is I started drum lessons with the legendary Tony Ferderber. Drum lessons felt like a chore, but it got me into the music studios of the Colonnade, which felt like I was getting away with something, passing through forbidden doors of a mall that was an adjunct to the outdoor mall, Town & Country, which was across the street, to the second floor. I hammered though rudiments, learned Carmine Appice complicated beats (apparently everyone else did, because that was the foundation of the Jane's Addiction era that followed), and performed countless recitals that were nothing more than hitting a snare drum for the parents of the other students. I moved on to Madison #1 with little segue. Old classmates with a smattering of new, some of which I had met at Madison Heights. My parents insisted I join band, where I was informed they had too many drummers and I'd be playing trumpet. It wasn't the worst thing that happened to me, musically. I actually got pretty good at trumpet, eventually making first chair. I kept up with the drum lessons, though, until one day, my dad threatened me if I didn't get my grades up, he was pulling the plug. That next lesson, I quit. I let Tony know why, and we hit some advanced stuff to send me on my way. A lot of things happened that week. I got my first real skateboard from a classmate, Todd Schultz. A Steve Olson he'd snapped by the wheelwell dropping off a loading dock for 10 bucks (three hours pay in those days, and I'd already been working agriculture for years). I also got a new bully, Neil Severence, who beat me with my trumpet, leaving me bruised and the trumpet unusable. I tried to figure a new way home to avoid Neil, but he always found me. Eventually, my cousin Brian, who had been living with us after my dad got him a job a Uhaul picked me up from school and threatened to beat the fuck out of him, and did. RIP Brian. I'll miss you. There's not much to fill in on what went down for the next few years, other than I stumbled along, tried to find myself, and sure enough, there I was. I ended up in my first band, Cat & The Nine Lives. We sucked. Ian Anderson played bass (or maybe guitar, I don't remember), His dad was a famous artist who had sculptures at the Phoenix Art Museum, and was constantly welding & grinding, so his neighbors didn't notice the horrible band making noise on the back deck. I started picking up guitar, trying to teach others how to count to 4. It didn't last long, but there I was, trying to hang with the skaters on my broken board. Until next time...

In a recent phone call with Tom, I lamented not having a blog anymore, and confided I was jealous of his outlet. He was nice enough to carve out this little space for me, but I've been hard pressed to type anything. I didn't want to just rant, or proselytize, but I'm sure there'll be a bit of both. Unlike Tom, I don't have word/time constraints, so here we go: I bought my girlfriend a bicycle for her birthday. I thought it would be nice to take family bike rides, and generally get active. I had no clue there was a bicycle shortage. Honestly, even though the trade war that devastated our economy has tanked my income (China is the largest purchaser of Oregon hazelnuts), I haven't really felt it. I didn't rush out to buy toilet paper when the pandemic hit. Of course, I was in no shape to shop for anything, since I was on my third round of COVID at that point. I have felt things not being available as paper producers shifted towards extra TP production, instead of packaging. I've watched the dominoes fall, where I can't get my coconut milk because of carton shortage, or had to switch to pasta in cellophane instead of a box. None of this surprised me. I managed to buy her a bike, oblivious to the shortage, in her favorite color. I don't know if I paid too much, because it was a gift. When her birthday rolled around, she was pretty pissed at me for not getting her anything, because she watched Porsche part after Porsche part show up on the doorstep, convinced I had forgotten her. Truth was, a parts supplier did a "Christmas in July" sale, and 50% off is still a deal, even if I have to pay the 14% credit card interest. She doesn't fathom how it pains me to buy parts for a car I won't live long enough to restore, let alone drive again. She also doesn't get that me getting something doesn't mean she has to go without, a lesson most Americans could stand to learn about that hypothetical piece of the pie. She was, however, happy with her gift. The next morning we set out on a bike ride. We agreed to nothing strenuous, just a leisurely cruise. We followed the orchard in front of my house, turned right to stay on the property, blissfully ignoring the morning traffic of people heading to Portland for their daily grind. I have to admit, it was pretty shaky at first. It doesn't really come back to you instantly as the phrase would suggest. We turned down my next door neighbor/cousin's driveway, staying on the family farm, surrounded by hazelnut orchards. At this point, Karen was repeatedly ditching me, having to stop for me to catch up, claiming her bike was too fast to match the pace of my beach cruiser. I suggested we pedal to the Half Mile Bridge, named for being half a mile into the farm, and crossing the creek that goes half a mile in either direction to the edges of the property. With a destination in mind, she jetted ahead, leaving me to take in the morning at my own pace. We passed by my other house, which Karen and her daughters have been living in while I try to get the main house repaired; past the barn where I touched my first boob, a cousin's friend who had been visiting one summer from San Francisco, and the same barn where my brother had lived in for a few years, inside a parked trailer tucked away next to the hay bales. Flood after flood of childhood memories washed over me as I found my rhythm, with downhill coasts rattling my teeth, thinking how much I would've enjoyed that when I was younger, but instead gripping the handlebars for dear life in anxiety. When I finally reached the Half Mile Bridge, Karen was waiting for me in the shade. Orchards as far as the eye can see in every direction. My phone alarm went off reminding me it was time to take my medication, bringing me back to reality that I'm in really poor health; this journey had been taxing, and I still had to do the equal distance to get home. I looked around at the newly planted orchards, thinking of the orchard that had been there before, that I had personally planted, using my earnings to buy a PK Ripper frame, and build my own bike. I've watched this land change with me for the last half a century plus, and I can still picture it all. What was here. What was here before us. What it might be. Seeing woods that are no longer there, that I learned how to use dynamite to clear, sifting through the rubble for prized indigenous arrowheads. The moment passed, and we pedaled home, back the way we came. We've gone on a bike ride every day, since. It doesn't seem to be getting easier, but the distance gets farther each day. I'm hoping being active increases my odds of sticking around, but i know the odds aren't in my favor. Either way, it's a happy morning addition to my set schedule. I'd like to think that typing stuff out will be, too, but it will be if the moment strikes me. Either way, here it is: my first blog in many years. Just like riding a bike.

I was talking to Tom the other day, and I mentioned I missed my Myspace blog. I admitted I was a little jealous of his outlet, and wished I had something like it, so THANK YOU, Tom. Of course, he has more than one friend named Steve, so who knows how crowded it will get. It was weird talking to Tom, because I generally don't talk on the phone, but with the video call capabilities, it wasn't the autistic struggle a phone call usually is. Also, I'm having a really hard time staying alive, so I'm feeling the need to reach out. This isn't my first pulmonary embolism, but it's my worst so far, and I've certainly cheated death more than anyone has a right to. I'll try to not get too morbid in here. Not sure what I'll do with this space. Probably tell some stories that have been told to the point of myth; reexamine my life events through my late 40's autism diagnosis lens, and how that played an unknown factor; maybe updates on one of the cars I'm building. I know I won't be putting in 1000 words a day, but I'll chime in when the mood strikes me, and maybe people will chime back.