An ode to Concord

Yesterday I started off taking a walk around the block and, feeling sort of ambitious, kept on walking -- past BART, under the Highway 4 overpass and toward Port Chicago, where I turned along one of the business park roads.

This is an odd area of Concord and primo scenic grist for the novel. There's a transit bus yard, a public golf course, a homeless shelter, biomedical buildings, sign makers, carpet cleaners, pest control companies, a reservoir, a refinery, and a cemetery. Just a wonderful part of the world, if you ask me, and I'm only being partly sarcastic.

Last week my buddy Sean came up with the concept of "Concord Noir." Concord certainly is unique. It has the mostly blue collar, service economy of the exurbs like Antioch, but it's uncomfortably close to places where people really want to live, like Walnut Creek, Pleasant Hill and to an extent, Lafayette.

I came here almost seven years ago, after my ex-wife left me and moved here from Fairfield, where I had been working as a newspaper reporter. I didn't know anything about Concord except how crazy it was. For one thing, nothing fits. All the main roads through town bend, creating a patchwork of neighborhood grids that never quite line up. You're always looking toward Mt. Diablo to get your bearings.

It's also a retail heaven, or hell. Besides Sun Valley Mall, I think it has or had just about every chain store you can think of, or at least the ones I could whittle away time in: Half Price Books, Guitar Center, Best Buy, Tower Records, Rasputins, 99 Ranch, CompUSA, Fry's, etc. There is also a Chuck E. Cheese and The Jungle for the kids, and tons of Mexican restaurants for me. Also giving Concord its everything-but-the-kitchen sink feel is a mothballed Naval weapons station, an airport, Costco, the Sleep Train Pavillion, THREE bowling alleys, a real drive-in movie theater that doubles as a flea market and frequent site of random gunfire, and a creek that winds through town to the bay with a growing number of tents along its banks.

Concord is, incidentally, the land of regrettable tattoos. It also has the kind of bars I like -- ones with "normal" folks but also with bikers, losers and women of questionable intent. The novel was a short story born from a daydream, but it was in these places, like Vinny's, The Office, and Scores, where I made it into something else, downing beers and scratching away in notebooks in an increasingly indecipherable manner.

It's true I have aspirations to live somewhere else. The reasons are purely economic. If I'm able to buy property again, I will choose a neighborhood that is more in demand, probably cleaner, and has better schools for my kids, where the property values didn't crash as bad as they did in Concord. I have no illusions about "keeping it real" and staying put, nor am I in love with my city. But from an creative standpoint, it's been pretty good to me.

Panama Red's

Here's the problem with this blog, in a nutshell: I can't write a single decent post.

I look at other writers' blogs and see a professional level of critical thinking, opinion and insight. I look at mine and think, wow, what a waste.

I have tons of excuses for my shitty blog, not the least of which is the fact that I'm a breeder with a bunch of kids, I work full time, I like to get loaded, and I have the constant noise of kiddie shows, video games and leaking tempers droning on all day in my tiny, depressing little house. Every single one of obstacles is nobody's fault but mine.

The result is a shitty blog, reflective of a life drenched in chaos.

Here's what happens: I get a great idea -- something short and sweet, a witty opinion, or a video or book that crossed my paty. I get the inclination to post so the few kind readers who find their way to this site get to know I'm still alive and capable of original thought. But whatever I think of, I can't get it down just right. For example, I can't write about how the Ramones are the personification of rock and roll, because after I think about it for a while, I realize there are tons of other bands I haven't listened to. Who am I to judge?

Or if I stick with my original idea, I have to edit it. And edit it. And edit it. The post gets longer and unweildy. When I read it over, I grimace. I look at my clock; I could be working on the article I'm ghostwriting for some CEO, and making money. So what happens? I give up.

What I do manage to post barely merits a shrug, or I was too drunk to care when I hit "Publish." I ain't really proud of any of it. And I guess what bugs me about that is that well, hell, someday someone might read what I wrote in Swill or someplace else, go here, and think, "This guy's a joke."

That didn't bother me when I started this blog (and self-defeatedly labeled it a "toilet"), but I suppose I should sort of give a shit now or simply delete the whole damn thing. Why? Because I really don't want to ghost write articles for CEOs for a living. I want to be taken seriously as a writer. And a few things--just a few--have happened over the past two years to make me thing that it's slightly, miniscule-ishly possible.

Yet, just right now, I've gotten three IMs, two from co-workers and one from my boss. The cruelty of it all! So I give up, again. At least for today.

FYI, the best coffee shop in downtown Concord is Panama Red's. Good Americanos, lots of table space and electrical outlets, free Wi-fi, books, games... not even close.