Friday, December 9, 2011
SuperGimp
Slouched behind high handlebars and mirrored sunglasses, Leonard (Pineknot) Gehring effortlessly maneuvered his black Harley-Davidson. He power glided over grades and leaned to slice curves from the weathered asphalt. His moustache and beard flattened to his face and neck.Lengths of brown hair blew back into wispy streamers, held fast by a red bandanna headband.
A canopy of broad-leafed madrone and oak trees seemed to open and expose the roadway just as the motorcycle approached. The dense, green foliage muted some of the blast of an un-baffled exhaust. Pineknot was thinking of Cherie Luveling.
Earlier, he had left her cedar and glass house in the foothills, east of Eureka. For three days and three nights, they had renewed their physical attraction for one another. Using tools of raw lust to mine fine diamonds of ecstasy. The facets from all former sexual explorations paled in comparison.
He thought about the first time he'd ever seen her. She was standing with her back to him and his attention was drawn to the open-back, high-heeled shoes which stretched the backs of her calves as she bent over the top drawer of a filing cabinet. Her rump seemed to push a short dress away from her thighs like an invitation. She shook her head to clear sun-bleached blond hair away from her face, and turned to catch him staring. She smiled when he caught his breath.
Her classic features were slightly enhanced by makeup and her breasts were more substantial than most lithe ladies can support without appearing top-heavy. Pineknot could still smell the sweet steam which had lingered as he'd carried her from the hot tub to the pedestal water bed. His groin stirred, even now, as he relived the past weekend of intense intimacy.
Just as they had many times before, each agreed they had hit peaks of pleasure unmatched by previous "bests." Yet, he knew as surely as he'd cranked the starter to leave, he would probably never get the opportunity to spend those sort of passionate moments with Cherie, again. She was attempting to dam a flood of tears when she'd kissed him goodbye, then told him to call before his next visit. He knew this meant another man was likely in the picture. She wanted to be married, and there was a line of anxious, solvent suitors.
Ever since Pineknot Gehring first became aware of the furtive glances and grim looks from people expressing fear or revulsion when certain riders of large two-wheelers are present, he'd accepted the fact that women of Cherie's social ranking would eventually be unavailable as close friends.
He realized, early on, this is part of the attraction for these highly visible travelers in the high velocity spaces astride powerful machines that growl when idling and roar when accelerated. Even though Leonard is one of those inflexible lio who feel lines of freedom beneath them, as they blend with massive motorcycles, he ahs never nurtured the attitude which categorize the breed as outside the law and a bit too savage for many in civil communities. Pineknot rides alone and smiles often.
He wasn't smiling, though, when he first understood Cherie wanted him to give up the unkempt mien and uncertain means, to stay around all of the time or to not come around at all. It wasn't the first time he'd initiated the loss of some close friend or relative, by his continued adherence to the lifestyle he'd chosen. But he loved her and would miss her. The memory of the crushed expression on her face, blurred his concentration and he passed the turnoff to Big Hazel and Custer's property.
Deftly slowing, Pineknot pivoted the huge chopper around an outstretched leg, then throttled to complete a U-turn. The still mountain air was shattered by the sound of a honking horn, racing engine and squealing tires.
Pineknot turned his head to see the driver of a lemon-yellow pickup battling to prevent a plunge over the high shoulder, after cutting sharply to the right. The driver's white Stetson had tipped to cover one eye, during the panic stop. Pineknot cussed himself for having turned in front of oncoming traffic, but continued on.
He'd heard mention of the outrageous four-by-four. It had dual sets of knobby tires on the rear and a matching pair up front. The small bed and cab raised above those monster mud slingers suggested a Tonka toy/Massey Ferguson hybrid. He remembered a guy at the SPOKES N' SPURS alluding to the vehicles ability to "climb a redwood." Another figured the owner put tranquilizers in the gas tank to keep it from leap-frogging over semis.
The big bike was slowed to nearly stop, then eased onto the dirt road with a sign, Horse Mountain Road. After a quarter-mile of steep downhill, avoiding deep ruts, and braking through tight switchbacks, the biker switched off the ignition and began coasting thelast dozen yards to a resting spot. It had been a logger's landing, thirty-years before.
As soon as the motor was silenced, the sound of crunching deep treads tracking over baked clay and stones was behind the biker. He glanced to see the yellow truck, about ten-yards back. As soon as eye contact was made, the driver pop-clutched the voracious V-8 to life.
Chin-high six-plies ground the way towards their next grist, and Pinknot frantically switched the key on. His attempt to start the engine failed, so he steered off the road. The truck's right front tire was already crushing the rear fender, pinching the motorcycle into a wheelie. It flipped in the air, dumping it's rider to crash within inches of the speeding truck. Pineknot watched his ride as it seemed to gain speed in flight, twisting and spinning.
Stuggling to one knee, he watched the truck. Thick billows of dust and smoke surrounded it, as it was jammed into a tight 180-degrees turn. High rev whines emanated from under the hood as the truck reared, for an instant, then lurched uphill.
Six-feet, two inches of American machismo was just a gasp away from becoming two-hundred-forty pounds of compressed burger on the cowcatcher grill of the searing six-wheeler. Greasy denims shredded at the knee and seams ripped, as the mountainside matador scrambled to avoid the charging bull-machine.
Monday, December 5, 2011
NO HOME FOR CHRISTMAS
Morning sunshine had begun to warm the cool air drafting across a damp area where four men lay sleeping on sheets of cardboard. In the dim light, their outlines blended with the silhouette of their belongings, stacked loosely in boxes and plastic bags.
The site is a narrow space beneath the arch of a cement bridge and the edge of an erosion-proof steep creek bank, fortified with large stones set in mortar. Twenty-five feet below, water trickles to a monotonous cadence. The whir of tires treading pavement can be heard overhead. This secluded piece of city real estate is known as "threebridge" to those who use it as shelter. The Third Street bridge is a favored proximity to the Catholic Worker's Charity kitchen and the Mission House Church in the Railroad Square section of town. Both places attract the homeless or jobless.
Casey is the youngest of the current squatters. He is twenty-three, high school graduate, 6', 160 lbs. His father owns an electrical contracting business and his mother operates two nursing homes. He has refused offers to work for either one. Instead, he eats at "the kitchen" and sleeps in a sleeping bag. Most of his time is free to get high. His drug of choice is marijuana and if he has none, he's looking. When he's holding more than he feels safe with, he deals.
Benny, the newest resident is an Indiana native. For ten years, he has lived up and down the length of California, working in retail sales. He had expected each new start would lead to the kind of steady employment which might put him on closer financial footing with his wife. Her business and legal background usually assured she contributed most to the household earnings.
Recently, while Benny was visiting friends in Montana, his wife left town with a man whose feet were knee-deep in green. When Benny returned to the apartment, it was empty and locked. His stuff was boxed and stacked inside a shed.
He wandered across the freeway overpass. Pausing, he gripped the chain-link and stared down into the six lanes of traffic. Closing his eyes, he imagined drifting slowly into the roar below him. Tilting his head back and opening his eyes, he was briefly thankful for the "squirrel cage" enclosure. Benny shook the fence, cussed and continued on, down the spiral ramp. A block later, he met Casey who got him high and sympathized. Casey helped Benny sell or give away possessions too numerous or cumbersome to carry. For the past two weeks, Benny had been residing under the bridge.
Preacher claims he once had a church, in Kentucky, as well as a wife and children and friends. Says God told him to leave it all and seek solitude and suffering to prove his thankfulness for all the blessings he experienced.
Willie Jump had walked away from a home for wayward boys, in Georgia. He told of having travelled all over the United States as a freight train hobo. He could barely read or write, but he could draw a railroad track map to and from any state. His favorite memories, though, were about childhood pets, a raccoon and deer that ate dry dog food.
The four men began to stir awake, stretching and crawling from makeshift beds. Once upright, they shivered, then stiffly took positions along the bumpy slope. As their directed streams splashed towards the tinkling water, steam foamed, then faded. They shivered, again, then hurried to huddle in a small circle, beneath layers of clothes and blankets, trying to warm up after the brief exposure.
"Only ten more shopping days 'til Christmas," Casey announced.
"I hate Christmas," Benny responded, "especially this year."
He immediately thought of all the times he'd heard his mother say the same thing. It was always a puzzling remark since there were no signs of displeasure, and she never said why. The family always seemed to have good Christmases. Presents, even when the number of kids grew to six. Huge turkey and ham dinners with plenty of pie, cake and Christmas candy.
"Hey, don't be hatin' Jesus' birthday, man," Preacher admonished. "Besides, he was born homeless, like us. He was sent to teach us how to love, even our enemies. So we should love to celebrate his birth. We should love Christmas."
Casey rolled a cigarette from a flattened pack of Bugler and lit it, thus ending his coughing, which had increased in intensity until it was a choking gag. He wheezed and said he was glad for Christmas because the food would be piled high at the kitchen and people would be more generous to panhandlers.
"And the cops won't be poking around down here, so much. I like Christmas, dude, and I got no money to buy gifts with, so I don't have to go shopping, trying to figure out what to buy for people who are never satisfied anyway."
"I agree with Benny," Willie Jump interjected. "Yeah, you right, brother, I always have hated Christmas, right from the git-go. I always got less than my brothers and we always got less than our friends. Our old boy made us poorer than we already was, drinking up any money mom didn't manage to beg or hide from him. Maybe I didn't hate Christmas so much when I was living with my real mom, but after she died, I did."
The four moved close enough together to reach the cigarette they shared. Benny looked at Preacher and apologized for his comment.
"It's just that I want to be home for Christmas, instead of 'no home' for Christmas."
His eyes showed the sparkle of tears and he swiped them away with the heel of each hand.
"Wish this was a joint," he said, holding the puff in his lungs as if it was marijuana smoke.
"Hey, I'm getting some, later," Casey added, excitedly. "An old dude over on Barnett Street grew some up in Mendocino. It ain't bud, but it's good shake and he'll front me a bag for only two
dollars a gram. He's cool, though, probably twist up a couple if we put our change together. Dig it?"
Casey took the pooled cash to score the pot and they split up, deciding to return to the spot in an hour. This lifted their spirits and they were laughing and joking as they moved from beneath the concrete. They wandered around the immediate two or three blocks, trying to keep in the sun, absorbing warmth for chilled muscles.
Willie Jump's eyes were sensitive to bright light. He kept his eyes downcast, but even concrete glare caused the burning feeling of eyelid grit. It appeared he was crying, and he was, but not from sadness.
He walked into the mid-town mall, through the Macy's entrance. The first thing he saw was a display of expensive sunglasses. Without pause, Willie removed a pair, bit off the plastic price tag, circled the counter, slipped on the glasses, and walked back towards the way he'd come in.
An off-duty city patrolman was lock step with Willie and arrested him before the outside sunlight could be reflected off the polarized lenses of the aviator-style shades. Willie Jump's home for Christmas would be warm, clean and nourishing.
Preacher strolled across the railroad tracks which divide the city. He stood in front of a small church, remembering sermons he'd delivered. He wondered how long he could keep lying about the real reason he had to give up his pulpit. He was aware that few people believed his story about being directed by God to become destitute and live on the street. His downfall was alcohol. Ruined his marriage, alienated friends and family, weakened his worth and caused the necessary removal from church duties. He stood there daydreaming, and visions of Christmases past flooded back.
"Good morning, brother."
Preacher remained entranced, so the greeting was repeated. He turned to face the man who had spoken to him.
"I'm sorry, good morning to you. Guess I spaced out for a minute. I was thinking about a church in Kentucky.
"Kentucky, huh? I come from there, myself."
It was the pastor of the church. He shook Preacher's hand and they began talking. The conversation lasted well past noon, but Preacher didn't need to be concerned about getting to the free kitchen. Preacher was invited to lunch with the pastor.
After nearly a full day of discussions about the Bible, Kentucky, church membership, Christmas, the homeless, alcohol, and many other subjects, Preacher was invited to join the congregation and assist with some of the charitable projects.
When Benny and Casey met at threebridge, the word was already out about Willie Jump's boost bust. They figured Preacher had gotten some sauce, and may not return until sober enough to navigate. Benny took a deep toke from the small pipe Casey had filled from the bag of pot he'd scored.
The pipe was hand-made from threaded brass sections. Occasionally, in dry times, Casey would disassemble the sections and scrape the residue from inside Then, he would screw it all back together and smoke the little pile of black tar.
Within seconds, Benny was high. Marijuana acted as a speed, for him, and his intensity levels rose. He couldn't express himself fast enough and his speech was coming in such spurts, it appeared his tongue was loose at both ends.
"Casey, man, I'm tellin' ya, I've been thinking about going back to Indiana. Ever since you mentioned there are ten days 'til Christmas...back to my mother's place...I haven't seen her in six years. I'm broke and broken down...don't know how she might react...might not want me any kinda back...but I've a mind to try to get there by...Christmas. If I don't make it, at least I'll be closer to a home I know."
"Yeah, dude, I hear you, dude. I talked to my brother, this morning, just before I went to see about this dope, and he convinced me I should move back home and start working for my old boy. He has more business than he has help. If you want my sleeping bag, it's warmer than yours. You can use it. How you gonna go all that way back to Indiana?"
"Thumb, I guess," Benny answered, smiling. "I think I could leave, right now, with the clothes on my back - no baggage, no bucks - and hitchhike it in five days."
Casey reloaded the bowl, after tapping out the ashes, lit it, hit it and passed it to Benny.
"Where would you sleep?"
"I wouldn't. I'm talking non-stop hitchin', brother. No sleeping, no eating, just staying on the road 'til it ends. At mom's. I know I can do it. I'm physically able to handle it, Casey lad."
"Man, you might end up freezing to death along the way, too. I think you better stick around until the almighty hawk is through screaming icicles out on them plains, buddy."
Casey's attempt to delay Benny's marijuana induced travel plans, made Benny all the more determined to go for it. He bent over and began pulling articles of clothing from his garbage bag, and began dressing for the trip. When finished, he straightened to his full height and smiled.
He was wearing two pairs of socks inside a pair of insulated boots. Under his loosest fitting pair of jeans, he wore a pair of stretch nylon, skintight athletic pants. His upper body was layered with a
t-shirt, turtleneck sweater, hooded sweatshirt and a cotton-lined nylon jacket with a cotton knit cap in the pocket.
"Three or four joints for the road, and I'd leave, right now. What do you say, Case?"
"I'll tell you what, Benny, I think you are too high and I think you are crazy. But if you have papers, I'll twist up four fat numbers to help you keep a buzz on your way."
While Casey rolled, he and Benny continued to smoke. Once finished, he handed over the four joints, after wrapping them in a used sandwich bag.
"Thank you, Casey, I really appreciate it. And I'd like to go on record, at this time, by promising you that after these are gone and I'm back home in Indiana, my tetrahydrocannabinolic days are finished. I won't smoke the herb again."
"Sure, Benny, come on, I'll walk you down to one-oh-one."
The entry ramp was only a block from threebridge. Minutes after the two men arrived and began putting up thumbs, a van pulled over. They shook hands, embraced briefly, then waved goodbye. Benny climbed aboard and his first ride took him all the way to the edge of Sacramento.
He was immediately chased off I-80 by a CHP, and walked the breadth of the city before resuming his hitchhiking. In Nevada, he was cold and built a fire in a gully, just off the highway, but a state patrolman ordered him to extinguish it. In Utah, he was stopped and frisked. then ordered off the freeway. Forced to walk the back streets of Salt Lake City in the early morning darkness, he was east of the city by daybreak. He fashioned a sign from cardboard and a discarded roll of electrical tape, slowing an 18-wheeler to stop and take him all the way to Kansas City.
After a long, cold wait, he hitched a ride to St. Louis. From there, he was driven to Indianapolis. After a series of short lifts, he arrived in Jacksonburg. The sky was as bright as the one he'd left in California, but the temperature was forty-degrees lower.
Benny's only food had been a sack of sunflower seeds, and four candy bars given to him by two kids in the back seat of one of the rides. His face and hands were chapped and dingy. He could smell his own staleness. His skin were tired and his feet were numb. He hesitated, for a long moment, before knocking on his mother's door.
"Benny, what on earth...?"
"Hi, Mom, may I call this home, for Christmas?"
The site is a narrow space beneath the arch of a cement bridge and the edge of an erosion-proof steep creek bank, fortified with large stones set in mortar. Twenty-five feet below, water trickles to a monotonous cadence. The whir of tires treading pavement can be heard overhead. This secluded piece of city real estate is known as "threebridge" to those who use it as shelter. The Third Street bridge is a favored proximity to the Catholic Worker's Charity kitchen and the Mission House Church in the Railroad Square section of town. Both places attract the homeless or jobless.
Casey is the youngest of the current squatters. He is twenty-three, high school graduate, 6', 160 lbs. His father owns an electrical contracting business and his mother operates two nursing homes. He has refused offers to work for either one. Instead, he eats at "the kitchen" and sleeps in a sleeping bag. Most of his time is free to get high. His drug of choice is marijuana and if he has none, he's looking. When he's holding more than he feels safe with, he deals.
Benny, the newest resident is an Indiana native. For ten years, he has lived up and down the length of California, working in retail sales. He had expected each new start would lead to the kind of steady employment which might put him on closer financial footing with his wife. Her business and legal background usually assured she contributed most to the household earnings.
Recently, while Benny was visiting friends in Montana, his wife left town with a man whose feet were knee-deep in green. When Benny returned to the apartment, it was empty and locked. His stuff was boxed and stacked inside a shed.
He wandered across the freeway overpass. Pausing, he gripped the chain-link and stared down into the six lanes of traffic. Closing his eyes, he imagined drifting slowly into the roar below him. Tilting his head back and opening his eyes, he was briefly thankful for the "squirrel cage" enclosure. Benny shook the fence, cussed and continued on, down the spiral ramp. A block later, he met Casey who got him high and sympathized. Casey helped Benny sell or give away possessions too numerous or cumbersome to carry. For the past two weeks, Benny had been residing under the bridge.
Preacher claims he once had a church, in Kentucky, as well as a wife and children and friends. Says God told him to leave it all and seek solitude and suffering to prove his thankfulness for all the blessings he experienced.
Willie Jump had walked away from a home for wayward boys, in Georgia. He told of having travelled all over the United States as a freight train hobo. He could barely read or write, but he could draw a railroad track map to and from any state. His favorite memories, though, were about childhood pets, a raccoon and deer that ate dry dog food.
The four men began to stir awake, stretching and crawling from makeshift beds. Once upright, they shivered, then stiffly took positions along the bumpy slope. As their directed streams splashed towards the tinkling water, steam foamed, then faded. They shivered, again, then hurried to huddle in a small circle, beneath layers of clothes and blankets, trying to warm up after the brief exposure.
"Only ten more shopping days 'til Christmas," Casey announced.
"I hate Christmas," Benny responded, "especially this year."
He immediately thought of all the times he'd heard his mother say the same thing. It was always a puzzling remark since there were no signs of displeasure, and she never said why. The family always seemed to have good Christmases. Presents, even when the number of kids grew to six. Huge turkey and ham dinners with plenty of pie, cake and Christmas candy.
"Hey, don't be hatin' Jesus' birthday, man," Preacher admonished. "Besides, he was born homeless, like us. He was sent to teach us how to love, even our enemies. So we should love to celebrate his birth. We should love Christmas."
Casey rolled a cigarette from a flattened pack of Bugler and lit it, thus ending his coughing, which had increased in intensity until it was a choking gag. He wheezed and said he was glad for Christmas because the food would be piled high at the kitchen and people would be more generous to panhandlers.
"And the cops won't be poking around down here, so much. I like Christmas, dude, and I got no money to buy gifts with, so I don't have to go shopping, trying to figure out what to buy for people who are never satisfied anyway."
"I agree with Benny," Willie Jump interjected. "Yeah, you right, brother, I always have hated Christmas, right from the git-go. I always got less than my brothers and we always got less than our friends. Our old boy made us poorer than we already was, drinking up any money mom didn't manage to beg or hide from him. Maybe I didn't hate Christmas so much when I was living with my real mom, but after she died, I did."
The four moved close enough together to reach the cigarette they shared. Benny looked at Preacher and apologized for his comment.
"It's just that I want to be home for Christmas, instead of 'no home' for Christmas."
His eyes showed the sparkle of tears and he swiped them away with the heel of each hand.
"Wish this was a joint," he said, holding the puff in his lungs as if it was marijuana smoke.
"Hey, I'm getting some, later," Casey added, excitedly. "An old dude over on Barnett Street grew some up in Mendocino. It ain't bud, but it's good shake and he'll front me a bag for only two
dollars a gram. He's cool, though, probably twist up a couple if we put our change together. Dig it?"
Casey took the pooled cash to score the pot and they split up, deciding to return to the spot in an hour. This lifted their spirits and they were laughing and joking as they moved from beneath the concrete. They wandered around the immediate two or three blocks, trying to keep in the sun, absorbing warmth for chilled muscles.
Willie Jump's eyes were sensitive to bright light. He kept his eyes downcast, but even concrete glare caused the burning feeling of eyelid grit. It appeared he was crying, and he was, but not from sadness.
He walked into the mid-town mall, through the Macy's entrance. The first thing he saw was a display of expensive sunglasses. Without pause, Willie removed a pair, bit off the plastic price tag, circled the counter, slipped on the glasses, and walked back towards the way he'd come in.
An off-duty city patrolman was lock step with Willie and arrested him before the outside sunlight could be reflected off the polarized lenses of the aviator-style shades. Willie Jump's home for Christmas would be warm, clean and nourishing.
Preacher strolled across the railroad tracks which divide the city. He stood in front of a small church, remembering sermons he'd delivered. He wondered how long he could keep lying about the real reason he had to give up his pulpit. He was aware that few people believed his story about being directed by God to become destitute and live on the street. His downfall was alcohol. Ruined his marriage, alienated friends and family, weakened his worth and caused the necessary removal from church duties. He stood there daydreaming, and visions of Christmases past flooded back.
"Good morning, brother."
Preacher remained entranced, so the greeting was repeated. He turned to face the man who had spoken to him.
"I'm sorry, good morning to you. Guess I spaced out for a minute. I was thinking about a church in Kentucky.
"Kentucky, huh? I come from there, myself."
It was the pastor of the church. He shook Preacher's hand and they began talking. The conversation lasted well past noon, but Preacher didn't need to be concerned about getting to the free kitchen. Preacher was invited to lunch with the pastor.
After nearly a full day of discussions about the Bible, Kentucky, church membership, Christmas, the homeless, alcohol, and many other subjects, Preacher was invited to join the congregation and assist with some of the charitable projects.
When Benny and Casey met at threebridge, the word was already out about Willie Jump's boost bust. They figured Preacher had gotten some sauce, and may not return until sober enough to navigate. Benny took a deep toke from the small pipe Casey had filled from the bag of pot he'd scored.
The pipe was hand-made from threaded brass sections. Occasionally, in dry times, Casey would disassemble the sections and scrape the residue from inside Then, he would screw it all back together and smoke the little pile of black tar.
Within seconds, Benny was high. Marijuana acted as a speed, for him, and his intensity levels rose. He couldn't express himself fast enough and his speech was coming in such spurts, it appeared his tongue was loose at both ends.
"Casey, man, I'm tellin' ya, I've been thinking about going back to Indiana. Ever since you mentioned there are ten days 'til Christmas...back to my mother's place...I haven't seen her in six years. I'm broke and broken down...don't know how she might react...might not want me any kinda back...but I've a mind to try to get there by...Christmas. If I don't make it, at least I'll be closer to a home I know."
"Yeah, dude, I hear you, dude. I talked to my brother, this morning, just before I went to see about this dope, and he convinced me I should move back home and start working for my old boy. He has more business than he has help. If you want my sleeping bag, it's warmer than yours. You can use it. How you gonna go all that way back to Indiana?"
"Thumb, I guess," Benny answered, smiling. "I think I could leave, right now, with the clothes on my back - no baggage, no bucks - and hitchhike it in five days."
Casey reloaded the bowl, after tapping out the ashes, lit it, hit it and passed it to Benny.
"Where would you sleep?"
"I wouldn't. I'm talking non-stop hitchin', brother. No sleeping, no eating, just staying on the road 'til it ends. At mom's. I know I can do it. I'm physically able to handle it, Casey lad."
"Man, you might end up freezing to death along the way, too. I think you better stick around until the almighty hawk is through screaming icicles out on them plains, buddy."
Casey's attempt to delay Benny's marijuana induced travel plans, made Benny all the more determined to go for it. He bent over and began pulling articles of clothing from his garbage bag, and began dressing for the trip. When finished, he straightened to his full height and smiled.
He was wearing two pairs of socks inside a pair of insulated boots. Under his loosest fitting pair of jeans, he wore a pair of stretch nylon, skintight athletic pants. His upper body was layered with a
t-shirt, turtleneck sweater, hooded sweatshirt and a cotton-lined nylon jacket with a cotton knit cap in the pocket.
"Three or four joints for the road, and I'd leave, right now. What do you say, Case?"
"I'll tell you what, Benny, I think you are too high and I think you are crazy. But if you have papers, I'll twist up four fat numbers to help you keep a buzz on your way."
While Casey rolled, he and Benny continued to smoke. Once finished, he handed over the four joints, after wrapping them in a used sandwich bag.
"Thank you, Casey, I really appreciate it. And I'd like to go on record, at this time, by promising you that after these are gone and I'm back home in Indiana, my tetrahydrocannabinolic days are finished. I won't smoke the herb again."
"Sure, Benny, come on, I'll walk you down to one-oh-one."
The entry ramp was only a block from threebridge. Minutes after the two men arrived and began putting up thumbs, a van pulled over. They shook hands, embraced briefly, then waved goodbye. Benny climbed aboard and his first ride took him all the way to the edge of Sacramento.
He was immediately chased off I-80 by a CHP, and walked the breadth of the city before resuming his hitchhiking. In Nevada, he was cold and built a fire in a gully, just off the highway, but a state patrolman ordered him to extinguish it. In Utah, he was stopped and frisked. then ordered off the freeway. Forced to walk the back streets of Salt Lake City in the early morning darkness, he was east of the city by daybreak. He fashioned a sign from cardboard and a discarded roll of electrical tape, slowing an 18-wheeler to stop and take him all the way to Kansas City.
After a long, cold wait, he hitched a ride to St. Louis. From there, he was driven to Indianapolis. After a series of short lifts, he arrived in Jacksonburg. The sky was as bright as the one he'd left in California, but the temperature was forty-degrees lower.
Benny's only food had been a sack of sunflower seeds, and four candy bars given to him by two kids in the back seat of one of the rides. His face and hands were chapped and dingy. He could smell his own staleness. His skin were tired and his feet were numb. He hesitated, for a long moment, before knocking on his mother's door.
"Benny, what on earth...?"
"Hi, Mom, may I call this home, for Christmas?"
DOOR TO DOOR
27Jan12 -
It's 6:48 pm and I just erased the entire D-to-D posting. I don't know how I did it and it's not the first time I've lost a day or so, but this is everything.
I did a run on a talking knee and ended up trying to keep Lori from passing me on the slight uphill stretch from 93 to C. I had the details down, earlier (mere minutes ago)
It's just after midnight, and I just got in from three hours of Bart and John Cohn and Rupe at Hero's. I had no business doing all that dancing on a bad knee, but the chicks were egging me on. When Bart and John are jamming the end of a song, it is twang jazz. And Bart may be the best right-handed white man to play Jimi since Robin Trower. I met the Randy who tuned my guitar for the first time, a year ago. I told him about my 1:39 seconds of Bird on a Wire on facebook. He sent a friend request from the bar. How hip is that?
28Jan12 -
Still grieving over the loss of all the rest of this post. Did Google do it? In that case, it should be somewhere...but that's way paranoid...which would mean that stuff about Gingrich being a house-pimp...nah, that's just re-phrasing the truth.
Fact is, it was right on time, like everything else, lately. My runs are 180-times a year on the same path, which is always a tweak different, but hardly worth documenting. Besides it's the fine selection of running chicks which gets most of my attention and that should be kept to myself. Except in poetry.
29Jan -
Running day and it's a total high sky. Just above freezing. There's a cave in a rock outcropping on the east side of the island, In front of the cave is a sturdy wooden bench. On a day like today, with a bright rising sun and wind from the southwest, it would be a good seat to warm and watch from. But the bridge is closed. The two picnic tables on top seem to have been moved to the east ridge. In the walk-in cooler corridor, I glance back to see someone jogging behind me. I think its GG, but I don't slow to talk. Instead, I split traffic headed north, at 93, to an empty southbound lane and pick up the pace to D. He was only half-a-block back when I turned up. Dude used to be strictly a walker. Fightin' "sugar," as Polly used to say.
30Jan12 -
It's on, the Leonard Cohen influence has taken over. I've written two hit songs and am working on the big one, "I Feel Like America." Original lyrics were done at Lahaina and those were the guts of the song, but they got handed away in a Sonoma County mag, I think. The current ones seem as good, to me, but I love all of my writings. In fact, I should spend some time and go back to other entrails and unwind them. For now, however, it's getting three down on my flip. Been roughing them in. Probably need an hours worth to get 3x2-minutes. But like Bart said, "You have all the time in the world." Tell my right knee that. Seems, by now, there should be a Velcro band to hold ice against a joint, so you wouldn't have to sit with it. I know it helps, but the pack is a hassle.
My knee is awake a lot. Second turn before it went to sleep. Had the same scene in Eureka; had to run to stay pain free. Of course, I was doing major miles, every day, in a circle rotation of three, seven and ten miles. And road racing. Plus, I wasn't hip to lifting as an aid to running, back then. I did my set, today, and could feel the knee trying to transfer the pressure to surrounding muscle. Body talk, got to know what to listen for.
Walked to the Family Dollar and saw Watch on the path between D and A, walking her bike because of all the broken glass. She had racked her bicycle and was driving away when she stopped to talk. The reason she didn't recognize my blog is because of the 20 post titles. I told her I'd try to get the glass taken care of, but then realized she rides every day, and took a push broom down and swept the four blocks of asphalt.
31Jan12 -
Statuesque lady walking like a girl scout with blue shorts and short sleeves coming towards me in the walk-in cooler corridor, just a ton-a legs. I'm in a hawk shirt over sleeveless turtleneck and she pulled a bud to hear my suggestion that I must be overdressed. "It's 62-degrees."
Really kill-or-curing my knee. By the end of the run, it wasn't aching, but it would hint at collapsing. Told Lon to run a blade along the erosion over path, but he said he'd send down a backhoe. I'm ready to crank that 031AV that Paleo brought to me.
1Feb12 -
Biked my recyclables to the bins, then filled a box, twice, with path litter. Stripped to skin from waist up and got some vitamin D, leaning back with a beer,on back stoop...in February. Hit or miss, tomorrow, I'll take six more weeks of this, Mr. Woodchuck Whistlepig.
2Feb12 -
Damn, my cap is still behind that guardrail post. And I just rode past it on my bike. On my run, I noticed a styrofoam cup on a trash barrel post at Alma. On my second turn, I checked it out and set it on the ground for later. When I remembered to return, the state park ranger was parked at the back entrance, so I pedaled quickly, boxed the cup, and he was gone when I came back by. Six of the seven seedlings are transplanted, one didn't survive.
3Feb12 -
When I was biking at the lake, yesterday, I stopped to talk to Nancy. She was walking with her bro-in-law and she introduced him. It was Bob Blue. Man, I wouldn't have recognized you in a lineup of two. He began explaining where he used to live. I used to deliver your paper, when you were just this high, when you and your mom first moved in...she's 95, still alive.
I never saw him play, but Bob was a terror on that championship team Joe coached, the headlines which made it to Kermit and me, in Biloxi, in '57. He mentioned staying in touch with Evans, another total jock, who just had a bypass. Makes me think of something I told Joe; I'm glad I didn't sacrifice 100% on the football field, after seeing these old cats deteriorating. It just appears they have beaten their bodies up while in the best shape of their lives to the point of not being able to maintain conditioning, later on. Guess they are too busy being successful in another endeavor.
4Feb12 -
I was sitting directly in front of the singer and he mentioned my Christmas Leonard Cohen clip. Have to admit it went over my flat top until my Seestor indicated he was talking to me...totally embarrassed, red face and all. Told his brother, Tommy, I've written two "hit" songs. He said they all are.
Sprinkling in Cincinnati when I went out the door. On the second turn, it hit the lake. By the time I did my banking at the end of the run, it was colder rain, but I beat the sleet back to my door.
5Feb12 -
Put a flip of Bart on my face.' I've got "You Know Who You Are" down good enough to put it up. "Good Due Bee" is next. Making videos of myself and the quality is layin' there. Behind my last hit until xx-rays brings me a half-a-Superbowl. Gonna Crank up Below The Salt and take this intensity upstairs and get under the iron. I believe Brady will get the bunch to gut it through to hold the mo.
$80, I remember when that would get a half an elbo, but it goes good with this Manteca, CA Bota Box of 2010 Old Vine Zinfandel from SuMike's post-Christmas box. I'm baking bread, but wanted something to eat prior to drinking wine. Krogering put off to the enth-degree. Drained the last of crock of blackeyed peas, lentils and brown rice. Poured liquid into present pot of beans. Stirred in a half can of tomato sauce and sprinkled couple tablespoons of whole wheat flour in while heating on a low flame in small iron skillet. Added paprika, ginger, curry, basil, oregano and salt. In that SuMike box was a jar of Rowdy Kitty Rub, Mom's Gourmet, in Newbury, OH. I sprinkled a layer over the heated contents and stirred it in. I never got it transferred from the skillet. The Rub stood its ground against all of that other, but didn't use a torch. Stuff is just a heat blender blend, releases small hits of hot on tongue and gum.
8Feb12 -
Picked up commodities on bike. 35-degrees, snowy, 35 lbs bungeed to carrier. By the time I changed to run, the small accumulation was melting, but more was falling. On the second turn, it was finer and faster, but by the time I get home, it has stopped. A winter unlike any I've run in, here.
Walked Zimba to Kroger, yesterday. Nancy suggested an oatmeal bath for the chronic skin mites. She called it mange, which is old school for any hair loss. Nothing worse than a mangy dog. Those three running loose, that charged Zimba, must have had that opinion. She cowers and tucks her tail when confronted by strange dogs. I stopped and coaxed her through them to get closer to me. Two of them charged her as soon as I turned around. That's it! Let's go Zimba, let's see how bad they want it. I'm running with a full back-pack of groceries and Zimba is already leading the attack. After half-a-block, they were a block away, so we turned and continued home. Damn, that third one is in the yard, barking and advancing. I took one step off the walk and said, "Fool, you want some?" Zimba was all the way in the yard and that canine split like it was lit. Should have had a video, street was deserted.
Thing is, I know my dog. She will never attack, but the second she is touched, she goes instant killer. Of course, her most dangerous years are passed. She still barks to be let out if there's man or beast on the grounds. Good guard dog for old ears. Be fun to talk to that old fox hound expert about my Rhodesian Ridgeback. He dismissed the English method of riding to hounds, but he'd have appreciated having a pack chasing a lion for up to 35-miles.
But then, his hounds never caught a fox, never even saw one, and they usually holed up or tightroped places where there was no scent left. It was all about staying out all night by a campfire, listening to the dogs and identifying each one, as well as its position in the pack and whether or not the terrain was flat or hilly.
9Feb12 -
Posting "You Know Who You Are" to facebook. Furthest thing from my mind when Bart put me on. Song wasn't even written. Hope flip keeps the voice in sync.
10Feb12 -
My right knee asked, as soon as I ran ten steps, "Whattayadoin?" Shut up, you had a day of rest and a good night's sleep, so take the short steps until you quit crying. Rearrange the pain.
Stopped three no-'bookers and sang the refrain with "you know who you are" lyrics. Left 'em laughing. Knee quiet by second turn. Met Lori as I was leaving Alma, and within a few yards, met Gary G. "That queen bee pass you?" (She was in yellow and black.) "Yea," he answered, "How far ahead is she?" "Way," I said, knowing he was kidding about even suggesting he could close the distance.
Report says 2-4 inches of snow by tomorrow.
12Feb12 -
4-degrees wind factor, bright sun, path mostly cleared of inch of snow, and water still running out of the lake. No ice fishing and the bridge is closed. Stocked trout grow bigger without stripping corn from hooks.
Slowed to ask a chick if she ever unleashes her dog. No, I'm afraid he won't come back. He'll come back but the lesson of being hooked or unhooked comes slowly. What is this dog? I'm seeing a head similar to Brownie's (from another century). Pitt-Lab. Good watchdog. Those eight Weimaraner-Lab combos are all adopted. Virile Labs. Reminds me of that van of Wellfleet dudes who travelled from MA to CA. The dog who rode along was a Black Lab. Seamus belonged to the girlfriend of the driver. He had jumped the fence and knocked up a registered Collie, next door, so the owner told her "vagabond" boyfriend to take the "hoodlum" dog along. By the time that trio of hardlegs made it to Eureka, the only one that got along with everybody was the dog.
14Feb12 -
Began run in snowfall, tracking through half-inch. At the end of first lake turn, I was ready to cut out the second and beat the change to rainfall. But the knee quieted and I did it all. MJ'd a semi at last location on path to be close enough. Wettest winter with minimum snow I've ever seen.
Fifty-one years ago, Valentine's Day and Wedding Day were the same day. That first marriage lasted a year for each rose in a dozen. The second one lasted fifteen. The third "common (f)law" union took twenty years to dissolve. BE MY VALENTINE, on facebook, was written during the third.
16Feb12 -
Running day, warm, rain tapering off. Juncos and cardinals picking over wintered-over Hawthorne berries. One female slate back had a strip of white along the edge of a tail feather. This is usually out of sight until they fly, but this was visible as the bird foraged on the ground.
Had a dream in a scene with a roomful of "relatives" who kept convincing me I recognized them, but I was concentrating on this one female who wore a belt of fur, which seemed to be the ultimate fashion accessory. The dress was green. The "fur" was patterned in feline lines and spots.
Sonny would have been 77, today...I Got You Babe.
Had a football coach who allowed the use of chewing tobacco. The habit was in lieu of smoking, so Joe was cool with it. Besides he was dealing with deep-set back country attitudes which some starters held. Of course, nobody chewed while playing. As well, athletes can't drink or drug while participating. But it would be easy to ingest close enough to game time to be effected. And any coach not hip to the difference in a player's state, is not on top of his profession. Only question is what is allowed, in lieu of testing. Marijuana should be taken out of the mix, in both cases. Be much simpler if it was de-criminalized. Those TCU cats are not the criminal element, it's just that they have to begin every deal with criminals.
There is no Independent Party. On any ballot. A voter who says they are Independent is probably unregistered. Or of the Ignorant Party; doesn't know the difference between Democrat and Republican. If you are a registered voter and undecided, don't say you are an "Independent."
17Feb12 -
Took Obama 4-yrs. to work DC. Cool intelligence. Republicans have no match in a candidate or in combination with Tea-trippers in Congress. Four more for Obama, for sure.
18Feb12 -
Spring-like by ten o'clock, right knee was glad, simply because of all the contortions I put it through, last night, on the dance floor. Ain't it great when ya have all the boards to yourself and a chick? Plus, the band leader extends a song when ya wave for it? When ya wanna live forever!
Stopped for too long to rap to Bro Bob (began to cool) and he quoted me to define my dancing, as I did his years ago..."make James Brown look like a cripple."
19Feb12 -
Lifts over. Immersing myself in Leonard Cohen. The guitar is so simple, or so it sounds, to me. The Wise's only complaint about my flips is "Learn to play the fucking guitar." Talking about Tower of Song. Wasn't that long ago, I heard it as Tallyman's Song. Now I don't know which to flip. But LC's stuff can wait. Think I'll clean up WRONG RIGHTS and flip it.
21Feb12 -
Appears my original facebook is cloud history. Feels like a weight lifted. Facebook kept showing me pictures to id and they were mostly strangers...what the hell am I doing with friends I can't pick out of a lineup of two or three? To prove it wasn't I who logged in from another source and shut the system down? As LC said, "I told the truth, I didn't come to prove it."
Workout very strong. Been flippin' to emails. Like verbalizing my blog stuff. Have a new facebook page but it may just lie there.
Trimming trees. Really didn't want to cut the walnut back, since it furnished me with a year of nuts, but it needs to let more sun in for the garden. Likewise the Hawthorne's, but they'll still bear the berries the birds prefer, even after shearing their tops.
23Feb12 -
Put $20 in Paleo's van and had him take me on my Jackson shopping run; Bourbon/Blue Ribbon (fifth and case), dog food (40lbs Nutro lamb meal and rice), apples (peck of melrose and 5 lbs. Winesap). Ran yesterday and saw all four of the in-shape regulars at the lake. Stopped for a few to rap to the biker, Watch, and met Lori and Taylor running towards me between the beaches. Later, I saw the marathoner, twice.
Josh sent Jan's ALL-AMERICAN COWBOY LEGEND to an Eastwood fan site and it ended up with an offer from Clint's site to record it. They're sending her the complete library of his flicks. I told her I should tune it and flip it and she said you better hurry. I've had it on and off this blog ever since she wrote it.
24Feb12 -
8:00 am, I open all the drapes and blinds to let in the sun. By 9:00, it was total cloudy (49-degrees) with stiff breezes bringing rain or snow. Some gusts across the lake had me running in place. Saw a white squirrel (not an albino) in the bottom land along the path, between D and 93. There's a strain of them in town. I've seen one hit by a car. Further down the path, a Cooper's hawk glided across the path. At the lake, I see a squirrel crossing the bridge from the island.
A young beagle, standing just off the path near the water works, watched me running towards it from the scenic highway it. As I went by, it began to shy, so I spoke to it and told it to come on and go along. It followed to just before I entered the park, then began following a walker. A vehicle pulled up on the dam and the lady asked about the dog, which was on her lap. Said it had tags and she was going to look for the owner, in Vinton County. I told her I'd gladly take it, and since have had calls from the lady and the dude who is keeping the dog for a friend. I told her that if the dog was brought to me, I'd take it. No word and no dog since.
Fry-day. Musician, has a KISS tribute band called SSIK. Put the website up and played one of his solos, Strutter. I never got into Kiss, but from what I've heard, these guys jam. I know the drummer and the bass player. They're doing a full--makeup gig at Hero's, next month. I put my flip songs up for him. He said, You Know Who You Are is sad. Later, Bart stopped, hours away from a gig at Hero's with Local Yokel. These two cats used to have a band, when I first met them. They are the Can-a-rama Band. Even have a dedication on a disc, to Maxx and the Can-a-rama. They were WE DON'T, back then. Today, it's good they didn't visit me at the same time.
25Feb12 -
This fucking blog is trying to make me doubt my mind! 25-fucking-Feb? I posted to last night 3Mar12, and it's gone.
In any case, I missed Elinor's solo and ended up rapping with May-Con in the church kitchen. I had 10:40 as starting time and she informed me it was 10:10. I bagged my work-out but stayed too long for Below The Salt. Bart wasn't in church, so I split before it let out. She told me one of my songs was on YouTube. I told her I'm planning three more for March. Just this instant see the means to put a video on this blog.
5Mar12 -
Re-played two lotto tickets two dollar bet. . Laying the tickets on the counter, she said, "There's the old ones, there's the new, two." "A poet," I say, while paying. "And hope you don't lose." "Keep it going." "Thank you." "You're welcome."
6Mar12 -
Have to re-play same tickets on Wed. Rapped to double G at Alma, yesterday. He attended high school at Morro Bay, CA. I recalled a high school in Loleta that overlooked the ocean. He told me they had pt on the ocean beach. I mentioned being there for an instant before going on to San Luis Obispo. Oh, yeah, that's where we hung out.
Then, he came back to West Virginia to visit his parents and ended up spending years in the coal mines. Scenarios couldn't be more different.
Ditto Watch, who lived in Eureka and through the earthquake in San Francisco that shook down part of the bay bridge. Now, she's biking 20-mile rides across the Jackson/Vinton county line.
Plus, Holtzie says he has a relative who was postmistress in Marin County.
On Saturday night, though, Sister/Cuz from Sunnyvale buys me dinner at the new Mexican restaurant in Wellstone. I spoke to this meeting in the earlier post that disappeared.
I told her that I nearly made it to her house one year ago, and that I had a list of questions I wanted to ask if I'd made it, in '11, as well as now. She still hasn't read Columbian High. Dismissed my flipped songs, even though she hasn't seen them. She smiled a mile when I asked, "Aren't you glad you're not a Republican anymore?" It was great and I have an open invitation to knock on her door anytime.
7Mar12 -
Shorts and t's, warm south breeze, 60's, short rap with Gizzard. Long rap with Watch. Wave from Mo,Char and Gear. A hundred yards of spring peeper chorus along 349 at water works. The wind seemed to carry the high notes to me far past where the frogs were singing individual songs of courtship which blended as one, except to the special one.
8Mar12 -
I broke limbs and stepped through a tree that blew down across the path, for two runs. Tuesday, I biked down with a small bow-saw and removed it. Would have been more of a job if it hadn't had a larvae hollowed center. Still had to put some major muscle into it, to move twenty-foot sections.
Paleo carried in an 031 AV Stihl chainsaw with 14-inch bar, a couple months ago, and left it. I was in shock for days, since it is exactly like the one I first bought in 1974 and used in five different states before it grew to old to replace parts. I finished it off, de-stumping a space for the Duke of Earl. It was spaying oil and smoking to the end.
Since then, I have been using a battery-powered saw from DR Power. When the battery still held a charge and the chain was new, I definitely got my $100 worth. Today, they use a higher-tech battery and I was considering buying one. Just yesterday, I picked up the Stihl. It had a tag on it from a dealer in Jackson, which had Paleo's last name and "No Fire" over a phone number. Another message was "Check out." I remember asking where it came from and if it would run. Said he traded for it and it just came out of the shop, but he hadn't cranked it.
It had gas and oil and a nearly new chain. I stepped outside and within four or five pulls, it fired. It sounded just like my first one. I'm back to more weight and gas power. As soon as I talk to May-Con, I'll be full-scale felling to expose more bike path. Funner-than-heck!
9Mar12 -
Black nylon shell pants Debbie gifted me with when I was in New Jersey. Not on New Jersey, like now. And a green long-sleeved Wrangler Jeans top from Michael in Cincinnati. Neck so tight, it fit like a mock turtleneck. 40's with an icy breeze, so I was just this side of under-dressed, but it was pain-free and fast, even with a Bro' Bob conversation.
10Mar12 -
A week ago, I dined with Sis Cuz and took a short flip video. Been pondering where to send it since her email address hasn't worked, recently, since I was using com instead of net. I found out when she friended me on f-book, tonight.
Took Zimba on a walk to lottery ticket (5th play-again numbers), Family Dollar and Kroger.
Crissy and Taylor stopped by, earlier, and came in for a visit. Been knowing Cristina through Paleo. But Wednesday, she brought Taylor. Today, I find out she is the daughter of a young cat I met about the time she was born, seventeen years ago. She's tall, tanned, tattooed and tempting. And, of course, way too young. Criss is ten years older, built like a teen, but has a big stud son in middle school. I enjoy their non-text time attention and the lingering scents after they leave.
maxxn8r@aol.com
maxpheelips@gmail.com
740/710-0921
It's 6:48 pm and I just erased the entire D-to-D posting. I don't know how I did it and it's not the first time I've lost a day or so, but this is everything.
I did a run on a talking knee and ended up trying to keep Lori from passing me on the slight uphill stretch from 93 to C. I had the details down, earlier (mere minutes ago)
It's just after midnight, and I just got in from three hours of Bart and John Cohn and Rupe at Hero's. I had no business doing all that dancing on a bad knee, but the chicks were egging me on. When Bart and John are jamming the end of a song, it is twang jazz. And Bart may be the best right-handed white man to play Jimi since Robin Trower. I met the Randy who tuned my guitar for the first time, a year ago. I told him about my 1:39 seconds of Bird on a Wire on facebook. He sent a friend request from the bar. How hip is that?
28Jan12 -
Still grieving over the loss of all the rest of this post. Did Google do it? In that case, it should be somewhere...but that's way paranoid...which would mean that stuff about Gingrich being a house-pimp...nah, that's just re-phrasing the truth.
Fact is, it was right on time, like everything else, lately. My runs are 180-times a year on the same path, which is always a tweak different, but hardly worth documenting. Besides it's the fine selection of running chicks which gets most of my attention and that should be kept to myself. Except in poetry.
29Jan -
Running day and it's a total high sky. Just above freezing. There's a cave in a rock outcropping on the east side of the island, In front of the cave is a sturdy wooden bench. On a day like today, with a bright rising sun and wind from the southwest, it would be a good seat to warm and watch from. But the bridge is closed. The two picnic tables on top seem to have been moved to the east ridge. In the walk-in cooler corridor, I glance back to see someone jogging behind me. I think its GG, but I don't slow to talk. Instead, I split traffic headed north, at 93, to an empty southbound lane and pick up the pace to D. He was only half-a-block back when I turned up. Dude used to be strictly a walker. Fightin' "sugar," as Polly used to say.
30Jan12 -
It's on, the Leonard Cohen influence has taken over. I've written two hit songs and am working on the big one, "I Feel Like America." Original lyrics were done at Lahaina and those were the guts of the song, but they got handed away in a Sonoma County mag, I think. The current ones seem as good, to me, but I love all of my writings. In fact, I should spend some time and go back to other entrails and unwind them. For now, however, it's getting three down on my flip. Been roughing them in. Probably need an hours worth to get 3x2-minutes. But like Bart said, "You have all the time in the world." Tell my right knee that. Seems, by now, there should be a Velcro band to hold ice against a joint, so you wouldn't have to sit with it. I know it helps, but the pack is a hassle.
My knee is awake a lot. Second turn before it went to sleep. Had the same scene in Eureka; had to run to stay pain free. Of course, I was doing major miles, every day, in a circle rotation of three, seven and ten miles. And road racing. Plus, I wasn't hip to lifting as an aid to running, back then. I did my set, today, and could feel the knee trying to transfer the pressure to surrounding muscle. Body talk, got to know what to listen for.
Walked to the Family Dollar and saw Watch on the path between D and A, walking her bike because of all the broken glass. She had racked her bicycle and was driving away when she stopped to talk. The reason she didn't recognize my blog is because of the 20 post titles. I told her I'd try to get the glass taken care of, but then realized she rides every day, and took a push broom down and swept the four blocks of asphalt.
31Jan12 -
Statuesque lady walking like a girl scout with blue shorts and short sleeves coming towards me in the walk-in cooler corridor, just a ton-a legs. I'm in a hawk shirt over sleeveless turtleneck and she pulled a bud to hear my suggestion that I must be overdressed. "It's 62-degrees."
Really kill-or-curing my knee. By the end of the run, it wasn't aching, but it would hint at collapsing. Told Lon to run a blade along the erosion over path, but he said he'd send down a backhoe. I'm ready to crank that 031AV that Paleo brought to me.
1Feb12 -
Biked my recyclables to the bins, then filled a box, twice, with path litter. Stripped to skin from waist up and got some vitamin D, leaning back with a beer,on back stoop...in February. Hit or miss, tomorrow, I'll take six more weeks of this, Mr. Woodchuck Whistlepig.
2Feb12 -
Damn, my cap is still behind that guardrail post. And I just rode past it on my bike. On my run, I noticed a styrofoam cup on a trash barrel post at Alma. On my second turn, I checked it out and set it on the ground for later. When I remembered to return, the state park ranger was parked at the back entrance, so I pedaled quickly, boxed the cup, and he was gone when I came back by. Six of the seven seedlings are transplanted, one didn't survive.
3Feb12 -
When I was biking at the lake, yesterday, I stopped to talk to Nancy. She was walking with her bro-in-law and she introduced him. It was Bob Blue. Man, I wouldn't have recognized you in a lineup of two. He began explaining where he used to live. I used to deliver your paper, when you were just this high, when you and your mom first moved in...she's 95, still alive.
I never saw him play, but Bob was a terror on that championship team Joe coached, the headlines which made it to Kermit and me, in Biloxi, in '57. He mentioned staying in touch with Evans, another total jock, who just had a bypass. Makes me think of something I told Joe; I'm glad I didn't sacrifice 100% on the football field, after seeing these old cats deteriorating. It just appears they have beaten their bodies up while in the best shape of their lives to the point of not being able to maintain conditioning, later on. Guess they are too busy being successful in another endeavor.
4Feb12 -
I was sitting directly in front of the singer and he mentioned my Christmas Leonard Cohen clip. Have to admit it went over my flat top until my Seestor indicated he was talking to me...totally embarrassed, red face and all. Told his brother, Tommy, I've written two "hit" songs. He said they all are.
Sprinkling in Cincinnati when I went out the door. On the second turn, it hit the lake. By the time I did my banking at the end of the run, it was colder rain, but I beat the sleet back to my door.
5Feb12 -
Put a flip of Bart on my face.' I've got "You Know Who You Are" down good enough to put it up. "Good Due Bee" is next. Making videos of myself and the quality is layin' there. Behind my last hit until xx-rays brings me a half-a-Superbowl. Gonna Crank up Below The Salt and take this intensity upstairs and get under the iron. I believe Brady will get the bunch to gut it through to hold the mo.
$80, I remember when that would get a half an elbo, but it goes good with this Manteca, CA Bota Box of 2010 Old Vine Zinfandel from SuMike's post-Christmas box. I'm baking bread, but wanted something to eat prior to drinking wine. Krogering put off to the enth-degree. Drained the last of crock of blackeyed peas, lentils and brown rice. Poured liquid into present pot of beans. Stirred in a half can of tomato sauce and sprinkled couple tablespoons of whole wheat flour in while heating on a low flame in small iron skillet. Added paprika, ginger, curry, basil, oregano and salt. In that SuMike box was a jar of Rowdy Kitty Rub, Mom's Gourmet, in Newbury, OH. I sprinkled a layer over the heated contents and stirred it in. I never got it transferred from the skillet. The Rub stood its ground against all of that other, but didn't use a torch. Stuff is just a heat blender blend, releases small hits of hot on tongue and gum.
8Feb12 -
Picked up commodities on bike. 35-degrees, snowy, 35 lbs bungeed to carrier. By the time I changed to run, the small accumulation was melting, but more was falling. On the second turn, it was finer and faster, but by the time I get home, it has stopped. A winter unlike any I've run in, here.
Walked Zimba to Kroger, yesterday. Nancy suggested an oatmeal bath for the chronic skin mites. She called it mange, which is old school for any hair loss. Nothing worse than a mangy dog. Those three running loose, that charged Zimba, must have had that opinion. She cowers and tucks her tail when confronted by strange dogs. I stopped and coaxed her through them to get closer to me. Two of them charged her as soon as I turned around. That's it! Let's go Zimba, let's see how bad they want it. I'm running with a full back-pack of groceries and Zimba is already leading the attack. After half-a-block, they were a block away, so we turned and continued home. Damn, that third one is in the yard, barking and advancing. I took one step off the walk and said, "Fool, you want some?" Zimba was all the way in the yard and that canine split like it was lit. Should have had a video, street was deserted.
Thing is, I know my dog. She will never attack, but the second she is touched, she goes instant killer. Of course, her most dangerous years are passed. She still barks to be let out if there's man or beast on the grounds. Good guard dog for old ears. Be fun to talk to that old fox hound expert about my Rhodesian Ridgeback. He dismissed the English method of riding to hounds, but he'd have appreciated having a pack chasing a lion for up to 35-miles.
But then, his hounds never caught a fox, never even saw one, and they usually holed up or tightroped places where there was no scent left. It was all about staying out all night by a campfire, listening to the dogs and identifying each one, as well as its position in the pack and whether or not the terrain was flat or hilly.
9Feb12 -
Posting "You Know Who You Are" to facebook. Furthest thing from my mind when Bart put me on. Song wasn't even written. Hope flip keeps the voice in sync.
10Feb12 -
My right knee asked, as soon as I ran ten steps, "Whattayadoin?" Shut up, you had a day of rest and a good night's sleep, so take the short steps until you quit crying. Rearrange the pain.
Stopped three no-'bookers and sang the refrain with "you know who you are" lyrics. Left 'em laughing. Knee quiet by second turn. Met Lori as I was leaving Alma, and within a few yards, met Gary G. "That queen bee pass you?" (She was in yellow and black.) "Yea," he answered, "How far ahead is she?" "Way," I said, knowing he was kidding about even suggesting he could close the distance.
Report says 2-4 inches of snow by tomorrow.
12Feb12 -
4-degrees wind factor, bright sun, path mostly cleared of inch of snow, and water still running out of the lake. No ice fishing and the bridge is closed. Stocked trout grow bigger without stripping corn from hooks.
Slowed to ask a chick if she ever unleashes her dog. No, I'm afraid he won't come back. He'll come back but the lesson of being hooked or unhooked comes slowly. What is this dog? I'm seeing a head similar to Brownie's (from another century). Pitt-Lab. Good watchdog. Those eight Weimaraner-Lab combos are all adopted. Virile Labs. Reminds me of that van of Wellfleet dudes who travelled from MA to CA. The dog who rode along was a Black Lab. Seamus belonged to the girlfriend of the driver. He had jumped the fence and knocked up a registered Collie, next door, so the owner told her "vagabond" boyfriend to take the "hoodlum" dog along. By the time that trio of hardlegs made it to Eureka, the only one that got along with everybody was the dog.
14Feb12 -
Began run in snowfall, tracking through half-inch. At the end of first lake turn, I was ready to cut out the second and beat the change to rainfall. But the knee quieted and I did it all. MJ'd a semi at last location on path to be close enough. Wettest winter with minimum snow I've ever seen.
Fifty-one years ago, Valentine's Day and Wedding Day were the same day. That first marriage lasted a year for each rose in a dozen. The second one lasted fifteen. The third "common (f)law" union took twenty years to dissolve. BE MY VALENTINE, on facebook, was written during the third.
16Feb12 -
Running day, warm, rain tapering off. Juncos and cardinals picking over wintered-over Hawthorne berries. One female slate back had a strip of white along the edge of a tail feather. This is usually out of sight until they fly, but this was visible as the bird foraged on the ground.
Had a dream in a scene with a roomful of "relatives" who kept convincing me I recognized them, but I was concentrating on this one female who wore a belt of fur, which seemed to be the ultimate fashion accessory. The dress was green. The "fur" was patterned in feline lines and spots.
Sonny would have been 77, today...I Got You Babe.
Had a football coach who allowed the use of chewing tobacco. The habit was in lieu of smoking, so Joe was cool with it. Besides he was dealing with deep-set back country attitudes which some starters held. Of course, nobody chewed while playing. As well, athletes can't drink or drug while participating. But it would be easy to ingest close enough to game time to be effected. And any coach not hip to the difference in a player's state, is not on top of his profession. Only question is what is allowed, in lieu of testing. Marijuana should be taken out of the mix, in both cases. Be much simpler if it was de-criminalized. Those TCU cats are not the criminal element, it's just that they have to begin every deal with criminals.
There is no Independent Party. On any ballot. A voter who says they are Independent is probably unregistered. Or of the Ignorant Party; doesn't know the difference between Democrat and Republican. If you are a registered voter and undecided, don't say you are an "Independent."
17Feb12 -
Took Obama 4-yrs. to work DC. Cool intelligence. Republicans have no match in a candidate or in combination with Tea-trippers in Congress. Four more for Obama, for sure.
18Feb12 -
Spring-like by ten o'clock, right knee was glad, simply because of all the contortions I put it through, last night, on the dance floor. Ain't it great when ya have all the boards to yourself and a chick? Plus, the band leader extends a song when ya wave for it? When ya wanna live forever!
Stopped for too long to rap to Bro Bob (began to cool) and he quoted me to define my dancing, as I did his years ago..."make James Brown look like a cripple."
19Feb12 -
Lifts over. Immersing myself in Leonard Cohen. The guitar is so simple, or so it sounds, to me. The Wise's only complaint about my flips is "Learn to play the fucking guitar." Talking about Tower of Song. Wasn't that long ago, I heard it as Tallyman's Song. Now I don't know which to flip. But LC's stuff can wait. Think I'll clean up WRONG RIGHTS and flip it.
21Feb12 -
Appears my original facebook is cloud history. Feels like a weight lifted. Facebook kept showing me pictures to id and they were mostly strangers...what the hell am I doing with friends I can't pick out of a lineup of two or three? To prove it wasn't I who logged in from another source and shut the system down? As LC said, "I told the truth, I didn't come to prove it."
Workout very strong. Been flippin' to emails. Like verbalizing my blog stuff. Have a new facebook page but it may just lie there.
Trimming trees. Really didn't want to cut the walnut back, since it furnished me with a year of nuts, but it needs to let more sun in for the garden. Likewise the Hawthorne's, but they'll still bear the berries the birds prefer, even after shearing their tops.
23Feb12 -
Put $20 in Paleo's van and had him take me on my Jackson shopping run; Bourbon/Blue Ribbon (fifth and case), dog food (40lbs Nutro lamb meal and rice), apples (peck of melrose and 5 lbs. Winesap). Ran yesterday and saw all four of the in-shape regulars at the lake. Stopped for a few to rap to the biker, Watch, and met Lori and Taylor running towards me between the beaches. Later, I saw the marathoner, twice.
Josh sent Jan's ALL-AMERICAN COWBOY LEGEND to an Eastwood fan site and it ended up with an offer from Clint's site to record it. They're sending her the complete library of his flicks. I told her I should tune it and flip it and she said you better hurry. I've had it on and off this blog ever since she wrote it.
24Feb12 -
8:00 am, I open all the drapes and blinds to let in the sun. By 9:00, it was total cloudy (49-degrees) with stiff breezes bringing rain or snow. Some gusts across the lake had me running in place. Saw a white squirrel (not an albino) in the bottom land along the path, between D and 93. There's a strain of them in town. I've seen one hit by a car. Further down the path, a Cooper's hawk glided across the path. At the lake, I see a squirrel crossing the bridge from the island.
A young beagle, standing just off the path near the water works, watched me running towards it from the scenic highway it. As I went by, it began to shy, so I spoke to it and told it to come on and go along. It followed to just before I entered the park, then began following a walker. A vehicle pulled up on the dam and the lady asked about the dog, which was on her lap. Said it had tags and she was going to look for the owner, in Vinton County. I told her I'd gladly take it, and since have had calls from the lady and the dude who is keeping the dog for a friend. I told her that if the dog was brought to me, I'd take it. No word and no dog since.
Fry-day. Musician, has a KISS tribute band called SSIK. Put the website up and played one of his solos, Strutter. I never got into Kiss, but from what I've heard, these guys jam. I know the drummer and the bass player. They're doing a full--makeup gig at Hero's, next month. I put my flip songs up for him. He said, You Know Who You Are is sad. Later, Bart stopped, hours away from a gig at Hero's with Local Yokel. These two cats used to have a band, when I first met them. They are the Can-a-rama Band. Even have a dedication on a disc, to Maxx and the Can-a-rama. They were WE DON'T, back then. Today, it's good they didn't visit me at the same time.
25Feb12 -
This fucking blog is trying to make me doubt my mind! 25-fucking-Feb? I posted to last night 3Mar12, and it's gone.
In any case, I missed Elinor's solo and ended up rapping with May-Con in the church kitchen. I had 10:40 as starting time and she informed me it was 10:10. I bagged my work-out but stayed too long for Below The Salt. Bart wasn't in church, so I split before it let out. She told me one of my songs was on YouTube. I told her I'm planning three more for March. Just this instant see the means to put a video on this blog.
5Mar12 -
Re-played two lotto tickets two dollar bet. . Laying the tickets on the counter, she said, "There's the old ones, there's the new, two." "A poet," I say, while paying. "And hope you don't lose." "Keep it going." "Thank you." "You're welcome."
6Mar12 -
Have to re-play same tickets on Wed. Rapped to double G at Alma, yesterday. He attended high school at Morro Bay, CA. I recalled a high school in Loleta that overlooked the ocean. He told me they had pt on the ocean beach. I mentioned being there for an instant before going on to San Luis Obispo. Oh, yeah, that's where we hung out.
Then, he came back to West Virginia to visit his parents and ended up spending years in the coal mines. Scenarios couldn't be more different.
Ditto Watch, who lived in Eureka and through the earthquake in San Francisco that shook down part of the bay bridge. Now, she's biking 20-mile rides across the Jackson/Vinton county line.
Plus, Holtzie says he has a relative who was postmistress in Marin County.
On Saturday night, though, Sister/Cuz from Sunnyvale buys me dinner at the new Mexican restaurant in Wellstone. I spoke to this meeting in the earlier post that disappeared.
I told her that I nearly made it to her house one year ago, and that I had a list of questions I wanted to ask if I'd made it, in '11, as well as now. She still hasn't read Columbian High. Dismissed my flipped songs, even though she hasn't seen them. She smiled a mile when I asked, "Aren't you glad you're not a Republican anymore?" It was great and I have an open invitation to knock on her door anytime.
7Mar12 -
Shorts and t's, warm south breeze, 60's, short rap with Gizzard. Long rap with Watch. Wave from Mo,Char and Gear. A hundred yards of spring peeper chorus along 349 at water works. The wind seemed to carry the high notes to me far past where the frogs were singing individual songs of courtship which blended as one, except to the special one.
8Mar12 -
I broke limbs and stepped through a tree that blew down across the path, for two runs. Tuesday, I biked down with a small bow-saw and removed it. Would have been more of a job if it hadn't had a larvae hollowed center. Still had to put some major muscle into it, to move twenty-foot sections.
Paleo carried in an 031 AV Stihl chainsaw with 14-inch bar, a couple months ago, and left it. I was in shock for days, since it is exactly like the one I first bought in 1974 and used in five different states before it grew to old to replace parts. I finished it off, de-stumping a space for the Duke of Earl. It was spaying oil and smoking to the end.
Since then, I have been using a battery-powered saw from DR Power. When the battery still held a charge and the chain was new, I definitely got my $100 worth. Today, they use a higher-tech battery and I was considering buying one. Just yesterday, I picked up the Stihl. It had a tag on it from a dealer in Jackson, which had Paleo's last name and "No Fire" over a phone number. Another message was "Check out." I remember asking where it came from and if it would run. Said he traded for it and it just came out of the shop, but he hadn't cranked it.
It had gas and oil and a nearly new chain. I stepped outside and within four or five pulls, it fired. It sounded just like my first one. I'm back to more weight and gas power. As soon as I talk to May-Con, I'll be full-scale felling to expose more bike path. Funner-than-heck!
9Mar12 -
Black nylon shell pants Debbie gifted me with when I was in New Jersey. Not on New Jersey, like now. And a green long-sleeved Wrangler Jeans top from Michael in Cincinnati. Neck so tight, it fit like a mock turtleneck. 40's with an icy breeze, so I was just this side of under-dressed, but it was pain-free and fast, even with a Bro' Bob conversation.
10Mar12 -
A week ago, I dined with Sis Cuz and took a short flip video. Been pondering where to send it since her email address hasn't worked, recently, since I was using com instead of net. I found out when she friended me on f-book, tonight.
Took Zimba on a walk to lottery ticket (5th play-again numbers), Family Dollar and Kroger.
Crissy and Taylor stopped by, earlier, and came in for a visit. Been knowing Cristina through Paleo. But Wednesday, she brought Taylor. Today, I find out she is the daughter of a young cat I met about the time she was born, seventeen years ago. She's tall, tanned, tattooed and tempting. And, of course, way too young. Criss is ten years older, built like a teen, but has a big stud son in middle school. I enjoy their non-text time attention and the lingering scents after they leave.
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740/710-0921
Thursday, December 1, 2011
THE BIG DYE LIE
Generally, people of color are not reminded of their passing years by the loss of hair pigmentation. As soon as the shafts of our Caucasian scalps become streaked with gray, we might wish for some gene splicing method to conceal the tattletales.
My Grandmother Polly detested her gray hair. Actually, it was snow white by the time she quit trying to change it. Once she had it colored by a neighborhood beautician and it came out blue. All the family was now fully aware of grandma's hair, but none dared risk mentioning it. Any comment about her natural hue had been taboo, since she was so positive it was unflattering. The new shade forced an opinion which also couldn't be openly expressed.
The perception of old age being associated with becoming gray is very pronounced in our society. This stereotypical attitude is programmed early and remains throughout our lives. Gray is old. Old is gray. How can one forget the first time they heard the lyrics, "The old gray mare she ain't what she used to be." Children begin to pair "old" and "gray-haired." early on, and it continues into adulthood.
When faced with the sight of our graying locks, it is nearly impossible to shake the over-the-hill attitude which creeps into our psyche as we become victims of such a collective opinion. When the hair begins to change to shades of gray, each of us must face the menace in our own particular way.
We couldn't care less when the color fades on somebody else's head. We feel free to offer comments or quote jokes about all the different things which cause it. We tell them not to pull those first few because two will grow back for each one removed. Or we insist how good it looks on the other person, even as we picture them as beginning the descent from the prime of life.
When the "salt" assaults the "pepper," the realization is devastating. We need to hide the evidence of our downhill slide. We are sure we do not feel as old as others will think we are after they see our gray. We may decide to dye.
This disguise gives rise to all the dye-lie words. We call it a rinse, a tint, a lightener, a darkener, an enhancer or a conditioner. More body? You bet, a coating of color adds lots of body. Plus, it covers the gray, that fast-spreading affliction we wish to hide from ourselves and others.
Although others are rarely as close to us as our reflections in a mirror, this is where we look for the signs we assume are obvious. We see that old gray and are anxious to conceal it before others notice. To dye or not to dye is not an unanswered question for millions of us.
There are volumes of money being spent by men and women who use home and professional applications to cover gray, even though gray hair is most resistant to dyes. The ploy is to convince consumers to use one of the vast range of colors from blond to black which best matches their "natural" shade. Regular use will insure that gray hair is covered, even as it is turning. In time, we can't be positive what our real color is. We only know the gray is gone.
Hair grows from the roots at a rate of about one-sixteenth inch per day. Within two weeks time, re-application must be considered. It may be delayed by altering our hairstyle or hiding it under a hat or scarf. After a month's time, new growth must be dyed.
Wearing dyed hair allows us to be more aware of other heads of hair. We notice the way color treatments reflect light differently. All color seems unnatural, especially on anyone who is our age or older. We wonder about the veracity of those who suggest they do nothing to maintain the same hair shade as when they were in high school.
The battle against gray hair is unending. The fight may be directed to a silver sliver or a growing splotch. Offenders sprout from ears, eyebrows and noses. It is disgusting to have to clip, pluck or Q-tip dab all the bright beacons which can interfere with our attempt to appear free of gray. Every day reveals another reminder.
Nothing can haunt us as much as the truth that under that color is lifeless, pallid hair. My daughter infuriated me once, when she innocently revealed my secret to her classmate who had remarked how young I looked. Years later, I was aghast when a housemate informed his cousin, after she expressed an interest in me, that I dyed my hair. It is best not to tell anyone or admit it if asked.
It is obvious that hair dyes are caustic chemicals which probably cause some degree of reaction in all users. Further, there is no way to guarantee continued use of such ingredients in such close proximity to the brain, will not be cumulatively harmful.
But gray is the same as old to all and to the old in particular. If The Big Dye Lie serves to limit the amount of condescension or spurious respect for age, it may be better than honesty.
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