The Boxing Diary, April 29 - May 29, 2023 - Part One

"Boxing is a brutal sport, but not nearly as vicious as the game of life." —Nigel Collins

April 29, 2023 6:07 p.m. San Francisco

Caroline and I were on our way out to Gold Country, when something alerted her to an air leak in her tire. She pulled over and discovered a nail in the front left tire. She drove the car home, dropped me off with her cats, then she drove to some car shop, then back to her place.

While she was doing that, I walked to Molinari where I had one 1/3 of a pound of mild Coppa, a ball of mozzarella cheese, and green olives. At Trieste now. I did the best proofing I could of the journal being posted on substack May 1. I'm dressed for the weather out east, but not for this chilly San Francisco weather. It's cold here in Trieste. Going to pack up this laptop and head back over to Caroline's now.

April 30, 2023 2:40 p.m. San Francisco

I fell asleep at Caroline's reading Boxing Babylon. I read a chapter about Pancho Villa (Actual name: Francisco Guilledo, the Filipino boxer I titled a song after, on the Ghosts of The Great Highway album), Harry Greb, and Tiger Flowers, all who died under anesthesia in the 1920s. Pancho was 23, Harry and Tiger were 32. I always thought Pancho Villa died of blood poisoning from a dental issue that worsened after his loss to ​Jimmy McClarnin, in Oakland, California, 1923, but he actually died under anesthesia while being treated for blood poisoning. Greb and Flowers went under anesthesia, for much less crucial things, and didn't wake up. Apparently, going under anesthesia in the 1920s came with a 50% chance of dying.

Caroline and I had lunch at Molinari, and I bought a book called The Freedom Summer Murders by Don Mitchell, from Fanny, who has street sales near Trieste. I also bought some photo containers for photos, which I'm going to begin organizing now.

April 29, 11:34 p.m. San Francisco

I've spent the last least three hours sorting through photos. It's more painful than doing taxes, looking back on my past. I've found so many photos that I took of Aquatic Park Pier over the years, perhaps hundreds, which include photos taken of the pier and from the pier. I've captured the last twenty years or so of an era, I guess, with those photos, now that Aquatic Park Pier seems to be permanently closed. Also, finding photos of Mimi Parker or Joshua Stoddard hurts like hell to see. I'm glad I took so many photos of both of them and so many other people, but the point of archiving the photos is to archive photos. The point is not to get depressed, or to go down nostalgia rabbit holes, which can be dark, if you're wired up like me. With work like this, I gotta take a break now and then, and get back to it another time. 

I'm also finding many photos of my cats, and Caroline's dog and cat, who have all passed. I've been putting photos of Caroline's dog and cat in an envelope. I asked her if she wanted them. She told me to leave them here at my place and that she'll look at them when she's ready. I get it. When it comes to looking at old photos, Caroline and I are on the same page.

May 1, 2023 10:36 p.m. Gold Country

Gloomy clouds on the way out. The yard is jungly and full of beautiful flowers.  I walked through the Marina this morning before the drive. Aquatic Park Pier is disintegrating, falling apart. I'll be getting together with Abbie for lunch tomorrow. Caroline and I will meet for dinner tomorrow, with both Abbie and her wife. I just built a fire in the fireplace. I read the preface of The Freedom Summer Murders this morning. Horrifying things happened in Mississippi in the 1950s and 1960s. If you've got a head on your shoulders, then you know what I'm talking about. My mom lived in New Orleans in the 1950s and she'd confirm all of what I've read to be accurate. 

May 3 10:59 a.m. Gold Country

Abbie and I saw each other yesterday for the first time since 2015. We had a nice, long conversation at an Asian restaurant. Abbie's been dealing with a serious health issue since April of last year, but she was quick on her feet, and looked great. Caroline and I met Abbie and her wife at 8:30 p.m. for a sound bath. I'd never heard that term before Josh Stoddard mentioned it to me, maybe in 2019, when he started creating music for sound baths. I liked the sound bath experience. Abbie's wife uses all of these objects that make musical notes, but that aren't played in any particular order or set to any specific rhythms, which was great, because it didn't remind me of work. Musicians don't "tune out" to music. Not the old school professionals I know, anyhow. I don't know of any musician who comes back from a tour, or a twelve-hour studio day, and puts on a record.

May 5, 2023 5:31 pm San Francisco

Good boxing lesson today with Edge. We were coincidentally reading about the same two fighters, as it turned out. I'm 109 pages into Boxing Babylon, The Shadowy World Of The Prize Ring and had just finished a chapter about Randy Turpin and Freddie Mills. Both of whom committed suicide. Some feel that both Mills' and Turpin's mental faculties, due to punishment that they absorbed in the ring are to blame for their suicides. To quote the book: While Mills' physical problems were well documented and certainly a contributing factor in his death, the verdict is not so clear cut in Turpin's case. Though he did not suffer headaches like Mills, he lost a number of bouts by knockout the last few years of his career which could have conceivably caused brain damage. 

So far, this book is mostly covering fighters who were murdered (Battling Siki, actual name: Louis Phal), or committed murder (Kid McCoy), or committed suicide (Turpin).

There is also the bizarre story of fighter, Roberto Medina. He had escaped 75 charges in Florida, fled to Brooklyn, and made a good living in professional boxing under the name Joe Garcia. He was eventually discovered by the law during a Madison Square Garde fight due to a recognizable tattoo. He was immediately arrested after the fight, sentenced, did a year and a half in prison, only to be released and fall into obscurity.

We got back from Gold Country yesterday. Spending two days with Abbie and her wife was wonderful and therapeutic.  Spending time with Abbie took me down a nostalgia rabbit hole. We talked a lot about life in the 1990s, versus now. The “now" part is something we both have a lot of gratitude for. I remember when her and her friend Beau helped me bring a heavy coffee table up my three flights of stairs, about twenty years ago. Beau passed of cancer since then, as did Katy. Both Abbie and I have found ourselves with very loving and caring partners, grateful for each day.

It's stunning, how pretty much everyone who gets into their forties, knows of someone their own age who has passed away of drug overdoses, suicides, cancer, or you name it.

I asked Abbie about a band from Sacramento. She'd given me their CD, way back, which I lost track of. There was a song on the album I loved, but the name of the song was lost on me. She immediately knew who I was talking about and found the song on her phone. The song is called "Runaround" by Holiday Flyer.​ I'll be covering the song, soon. I remember listening to that song on repeat back in the day when music excited me.

On the way home from Gold Country, I took this photo of some flowers at a gas station in Sacramento.

My mom has been in the hospital for the last few days. It's complicated and regarding a stoke in her eye that happened months ago, that caused blindness in one of her eyes. They put her on steroids that were causing her to behave strangely and have hallucinations. At this point, she's trying to fight off going blind in the other eye, which involves a high dose of steroids. She was supposed to get out today but they're keeping her in there for a few days longer. I wish I knew more, but those closer to the situation than me don't even have the information. Not that they're telling me about, anyhow.

I'm leaving for Woodstock, NY this Sunday, to record. The good news is that I'll be relatively close to Ohio if I need to go back.

I'm doing laundry now, making soup with potatoes, kale, and garlic. My diet wasn't so great in Gold Country. I ate a few burgers and bagels during my days there, but it was a magical time. Rainy and wintery, so much so, that I was singing Christmas songs - a cappella - on my way home. 

May 5, 2023 10:01 p.m. San Francisco

I've been sorting through photos for hours, looking for a photo of my friend John Connolly's dog, that I took in Glendalough, Ireland in 2017. Someone from Munich ordered a print from my photography website. What a pile of photos I've collected over the years. I'm not the organized photographer I should be, considering I've been doing photography for my own album art since around 2005 and released a photography book. I don't enjoy this trip down memory lane, old tours and photos of friends from younger, and in some cases, much happier days.

Now and then a nice surprise turns up, and I'll put the photo aside. Especially photos of Caroline and me. Sorting through photography isn't just tough on my emotions. It's also a strain on my back; sorting, lifting, looking, digging, opening, closing. If I had to describe photo-sorting in one word: excruciating.

I broke my rule of not watching any TV this month, and watched a little news, while sorting. I see now why toothpaste is behind glass counters in San Francisco. There's more crime happening in San Francisco than I realize. How could I possibly know this? I'm not here 24/7. I've noticed emptier streets which I've associated with the mass exodus that happened during covid 2020. When driving over the Oakland Bay Bridge, on the way back from Gold Country, recently, I noticed maybe twelve modern, glassy skyscrapers that most definitely weren't there twenty-five years ago. I've observed the modernization of the city, but I've not personally noticed anything in regard to a rise in crime. I believe it's happening, though I've not seen anything fishy nor have I been confronted with anything unpleasant during my sometimes very long walks.

May 7, 2023 12:21 a.m. San Francisco

Re-read the chapter about Randy Turpin and Freddie Mills last night. Slept in late. Woke up and started reading the chapter about Sonny Liston, who died under mysterious circumstances in late 1970. I've read an entire book about Sonny by Nick Tosches and have seen several documentaries about him. Maybe I'll find out something I didn't know, in this chapter.

I walked to the Marina, then to The Wharf, then to Trieste, then The Beat Museum. I thought I'd read every John Fante book, until I saw The Brotherhood of the Grape and realized I'd never read that one. I bought it.

Caroline and I had dinner at Tommaso's. I saw Stephanie Finch outside when we left. Stephanie sang on my Songs For A Blue Guitar album and famously sings with Chuck Prophet - both of whom I've known for well over three decades. I've not seen Stephanie since one of those Hardly Strictly Bluegrass festivals. We had a nice talk about music, travel, and San Francisco walking tours. She was about to take a walking tour relating to old neon signs, in North Beach.  I asked if the Sam Wo sign would be part of the tour, and her friend confirmed it would be.

I broke down and watched some TV again. Caroline and I watched episode 1 of Love and Death. Patrick Fugit is in this one, my old friend from Almost Famous. He's been in some good movies, my favorite is Spun, where he co-stars with Mickey Rourke and Brittany Murphy. We're only 1 episode in, and so far, I find the show compelling.