Thursday, July 5, 2012
Alot About Pot
De-criminalize marijuana of a federal level then offer statehood to Mexico
Have an envelope with a list of "trouble with pot"
1) Dream retarder
2) lids close to smaller view of eyes
3) criminality
4) temporary memory inhibitor
5) female dislike of appetite ignitor
6) speeds intensity to communicate the moment
7) perception most actions of "straights" is humorously foolish and much by peers is laughable
July 2012
I was planning this trip to CA with a buddy and it entailed lots of important details. Like getting an ID, getting a driver's license, buying a ride, taking an ailing hound...Then I get an offer to be flown to my daughter's crib. More details, like the dog, closing my crib, new threads, new attitude.
During all this time, I'm partying hearty with my man, big alcohol whiskeys in bars I've been barred from, and grease feasts afterwards. All bad shit for my fit. But it took the sweat from details and I was way getting off on it.
But, one morning, soon after my usual up bowlful, I get really bummed. High and bummed out at the same time! A split-second of heavy pressure which had to be relieved in the next split-second.
I"d never been there before. Immediately, I decided to bag the CA trip, altogether, so I wrote:
High and bummed is a nick of time which opens a slice of intensity, screaming to change course or sit on it. I'm going to sit this one out.
Then I e-mailed my daughter.
Big Kilroy Dude used to say, "You get too high, man."
Kasu told me, "Other people don't get high like you do."
I concede to liking marijuana as my doc (drug of choice). "Addicted" indicates one is unable to stop due to the physical discomfort of withdrawal. I've stopped for various reasons, none to do with health. Usually, lack of funds.
Smoking grass inhibits dream recall. Stopping intensifies recall and can be nightmarish for a few nights. I have scored to stop the bad dreams. At least, that's the reason I used.
Dreams are the brain sorting out the day's events in order to store or sequence. If pot de-emphasizes dreams and when allowed to, the brain catches up, so to speak, producing a rush of really wild, inexplicable reels which we awaken with, perhaps this should be studied. Lots of willing subjects, I'd venture. In my case, after the bad dreams subside, the lack of THC is no physical or psychological problem. It is easy to stop smoking pot.
Lots of people have gotten the marijuana high. Few people can continuously burn the herb as their primary drug of choice. Therefore, it is not de-criminalized. If individuals were free to grow, smoke, or share a toke, sans the threat of a badge at the door, their votes would automatically free the weed.
Toasting one should rank right up there with giving a toast. If you think you need that drink to sink your pressure guage arrow, you should be allowed to hit a "j" after work.
Children don't have anything to "get high" about, like adults who often need to wind down a "bad day." Besides, kid's main attention is to see how out of it they can get in a short span of time. Alcohol, the personality changer, the idiot oil, the stepping stone drug to no-limit craziness; that's the one they all want to experience. However, pot's propensity to induce hilarity is more obvious with youth-users. Cheap wine and some weed can be a civilized circle.
Many of the large numbers of people I used party with are probably all off pot. They were teen-agers when I knew them. The ladies began changing to pills and powders because they couldn't handle the extra munchy-induced calories.
If you are weight-conscious, then be prepared to work off your buzzes with some physical exercise, because you can consume food like a half-starved bear. LuAnn said her old man came in from doing doobs with his biker buddies and ordered her to fix some spaghetti as soon as he got through the doorway. I saw a sophisticated Becky reach into a jar of peanut bitter with three fingers and scoop gobs onto her tongue. Firing a little ganja prior to a meal will certainly fire up the appetite.
Many seniors say the only reason they eat, at all, is to take their meds. The first dose should be a toke. Then they'd be eating to satisfy that craving hunger. There are times when I was high and showing off at one big feed or another. The legendary scarfers ended up just watching as I went for two more helpings past their last one.
There are some hits that stop everything for a second that may last longer. It's a tug-clamp on the top of your head, from the brows back to the nape, as if the rest of your body is trying to gravity pull away. Down-side of a Ferris wheel ride, only you are in-place.
For optimum effect, a hit (inhaling marijuana smoke) should be held in the lungs for thirty-seconds. In general, however, hits are seldom held for anywhere near 30-seconds. In the first place, the smoke swells in your lungs and is usually exhaled with a cough, simply because the user usually sucks in more than they can handle. First-timers, old-tokers, both choke on good hits.
Bong Lungs was fifteen the first time I saw her hit a free-standing pipe. People were holding their nostrils closed and popping their ears to keep from coughing out the smoke. She emptied that 18-inch column, held it, then slowly exhaled a cloud. Years later, I queried her about those days and she assured me that talent ended after she began smoking cigarettes.
Most tobacco users find it way more difficult to stop if they are also smoking pot. A cigarette after a joint is really satisfying. All bi-smokers I know tell me they could easily stop chokes if they could fire up a joint without criminal consequences. I personally believe alcoholics can be allayed with rock and roll music and marijuana. Here, again, all the drinkers who know the difference state they'd rather be able to smoke dope than fill up on suds.
One can get only so high on pot. One can only get so high on pot. Smoking more marijuana will not cause an increased effect of the drug, thc. In fact, continued lighting and toking is just a communal thing to do between sips of wine or whatever.
Once, there was a crowded party on a snowstorm night and the doorbell rang. It was two local cops and they wanted me. I remember when the door was opened, a rush of smoke exhausted over their heads. I'd parked in a neighbor's driveway and had to move my Capri. Sure, no problem, Larry, I'll get right on it. I don't recall anyone getting excited or acting stoned. I can tell you I was straight, instantly.
Been trying to find out how much President Obama knows about marijuana. In the first place, he gets his first hits in Hawaii. There, marijuana growing is an art form. There are lots of artists and if a kid wants to get high, he probably already knows an artist. Which is tons different from any similar experience in the states.
The artists, here, furnish little of their wares because it is illegal, so marijuana salespeople peddle Mexican marijuana, which, even though against the law, comes into this country by the bale or the boatload, breeding a criminal element with unlimited revenue, on both sides of the border.
We are providing the jillions of dollars in cash boosting Mexico's gangland protection forces which grow more ruthless as the profits steadily increase.
Federally de-criminalize marijuana in this country. Mexican border mafia loses mega-pesos. Now, we can be serious about our borders and make Mexico a state.
Point is, Barack Obama knows little about the marijuana consumption in this country. He's never been to any illegal marijuana parties. He's never been encouraged to sell pot, because he has some and his friends don't, even though the stuff is so costly, he'd rather keep it all.
So far, he is not the President who will evolve us past the ignorant attitude our government maintains about marijuana.
Adult marijuana users will pay for "the best" they can afford. Most of them have no idea about the days when Mexican could be had all over for $160 a pound. Today, $160 buys an ounce of Mexican. Same stuff; seeds and stems count as weight. If they had access to "medical marijuana" or a de-criminalized marijuana retail outlet, some would still pay the $320 per ounce price for stuff grown by artists which boost the thc levels to "one-toke" stage.
Another fact is, it doesn't matter how good it is, people waste lots of smoke. Talking around sip-hits, passing the joint (or holding it until it goes out), taking too much and coughing most of it out, missing the effect.
The main problem with pot is the paranoia, the marijuana aura, wherein the user feels the eye contact with straights and imagines they know he is high. Eventually, the looks are just mostly vacant, as if straights have to study before they speak to your elevated view. In time, the situation evolves to something similar to Jimmie C. Rench's explanation as his reason for drinking into alcoholism. "Pheel, everybody I associated with back then, when I was in the Marines, drank. The only way I could stand to be around them was to be just as drunk."
Tetrahydrocannabinolics feel more comfortable when buzzin' and we have use it when dealing with crowds. Paranoia, after all, is seeing and feeling in a more concentrated way, so it may be we are more aware of what is really there, said or unsaid.
The best thing to do with a buzz is to talk it off with other freaks. Everybody has an opinion and wants to express it in the middle of all the other raps. All while laughing and talking loudly. Totally unlike all the stereotypical images of unkempt people nearly comotose from constant toking. Marijuana is an up. Nobody smokes pot to go limp. Which, by the way, if you are sexually engaged, already, co-toking just prior to a romp will definitely enhance the ride. A line or two on top of that is reaching for a "best ever" session, but nobody is rich enough or disciplined enough to keep a little cocaine, just for sexual trysts.
But, we can't talk about it. Nobody wants to hear pot stories, except t'ics. Alcoholics, or "recovering" alcoholics really get upset. Like one of the sisters, in Crown Point, who said, "Why do you have to talk about it? You don't hear me bragging about drinking Jack Daniels or Canadian Club, do you? Just shut up and don't mention marijuana!" Poor thing had been allowed to drink by her user boyfriend, but he wouldn't let her smoke pot because of her "addictive personality." And here's me, getting high to ball her between AA meetings. Seems unfair, now.
I know of no female ever seduced while under the influence of marijuana. I've seen lots of pairings while partying and many lasted into marriage. And there have been many early experiences while high on pot. But they were never influenced by any drug boost like one kicked by alcohol. Inhibitions may be even more keen while stoned.
Marijuana butter and someone completely losing it who ends up running and screaming are marijuana myths, as far as I'm concerned. Two people have told me about the butter. One was a straight foreman at a foundry I worked in. He approaches me out of the dust and begins to tell me this recipe and that if I make any to not let my kids get hold of it. Longest he ever talked to me. The other was a Marine Captain relating the substance to a friend of his neighbor. The entire concept of mixing a pound of butter with a quantity of marijuana and cooking it to use later in a recipe is just playing with expensive ingredients for some way to ingest thc later.
Any attack of marijuana paranoia which results in abberration such as frightened screaming and running away is from alcohol or other lab candy that was swallowed.
Too bad Rudy Eugene was shot to death, leaving no explanation and marijuana as the only illegal substance in his toxology report.
All of the effects of marijuana are ephemeral, i.e., short-lived. On an empty stomach with a cup of tea, the feeling is hunger, complete with all the growling and pangs. If the urge is followed with food, it will pass, but if you don't eat, it will still abate itself.
One effect is dry mouth. Dry mouth is like desert thirst and can happen at anytime during a buzz. Most t'ics have liquid available. Wine and beer are nice quenchers, but soft drinks suffice. Of course, for a more pure high, water works. Still, sans any rinse, saliva returns within minutes and wet tongue is back.
The vividness of the movie, the new sounds in an album heard a thousand times before, extra kick in a run or pick-up game, the flash of a TV show, the hyped-up need to express ideas popping up in conversations, it all fades back to the reel-to-real. But reality seems better, somehow.
Marijuana and its no-thc cousin, hemp, can grow anywhere, as weeds usually can. Either one can be turned into many products, most famous being hemp rope, which is superior to plastic but has been phased out by the campaign against marijuana planting. DEA uproots and forbids farming of either one. United States made hemp rope was used by the sailors of the world. Now everybody uses nylon and it's made everywhere, like all the other chemical products.
There's thc in the leaves of marijuana. Dried and smoked, there's a buzz to be caught from "shake." In fact, a true tetrahydracannabinolic can plant a seed and within a month or so, begin trimming leaves to smoke. If there's a large plot of marijuana plants, the harvest will end with lots of shake dope. The act of separating the choice "buds" from the female plant, leaves shake. This shake has some thc simply because it has come from a cultivated plant. Today, shake is everything in a bag that isn't bud, to include seeds, stems, and leaf pieces.
Like Willie Wagner used to say, "It's all in what you're used to." A bowl of shake every few hours can provide a decent high, but it isn't the same as a half-bowl of bud which may stay with you for an hour or more.
Fact is, nobody really knows how anybody else is getting off on their consumption of pot. Most times, somebody will ask if you are high, just to be sure they aren't getting off alone.
The more repetitive and boring the job, the better it goes with a buzz. In general, however, a high results in planning more than one thing at a time and usually a priority gets bumped down to be remembered later.
A tool may be misplaced and there's paranoia that someone may have taken it. After a while, though, the job and the buzz flow together and production is the automatic part.
Every job I've done since the age of thirty-five have been while under the influence of pot. I was the sawyer on a log home gig and nobody else touched the saw. I told the boss if he could tell by the work on which days I was using, I'd stop. He told me that if he could tell, I'd have already been let go.
On a wire mill gig, runnning seven copper wire drawing machines, I rode to work with a dude who smoked and passed a doobie right into the parking lot and we punched in with a minute to spare. The first day, he sidled over to my machines and said, "You lost your needle nose pliars, didn't you?" He was right and I was stunned, then he went back to his own machines, smiling.
In northern California, I was ripped one time and as soon as I got to the selling floor, a customer said he wanted to buy a bed. I was in the furniture department of Ward's, surrounded by mattresses, headboards, foundations, etc., and I blanked and just said, "A bed."
Fortunately, the man and his wife were in from the woods and cash money was no object and delivery would be in their truck. They left with the most expensive queen set I could write up. Commission was high, too.
A Boogie Hall mate and I worked on a foundry machine that conveyed freshly cast brake drums, universal joints and other hot iron parts. What wasn't removed came back around until there were times it was layers deep and the heat was skillet intense. If the casting was done with minimum shutdowns, the conveyors stayed full and by the end of the first two shifts, they were jammed full on the take-off end. By the time John Boy and I came in for the last shift, they were still digging out from the production that had overwhelmed the guys on the previous shift.
We went in there, buzzing like bandsaws, and started cleaning up the mess. We always kept up with the production. John was the first person to handle the line of hot metal. I was next and on the end was an older dude who removed the sprue (the part of the casting which overflows the molds). A fourth man was third in line and this was a fill-in position. Nobody wanted it every day. Most couldn't handle the pace we set.
There were castings the size of softballs, which came so fast, there was a coal shovel to remove them, and when mixed with Buick brake drums which had to be hooked and hung on another moving conveyor, the perspiration was boiling. That Boy (he was 19 at the time) would stack pairs of gloves eight high, then grab and toss those hot balls off the line into a steel container. When the gloves would begin to smoke, he'd pull them off and slip on a pair from the pile and keep working. It was high speed ballet, as he cleared all the round castings and kept a pile of gloves cooling as he scorched each pair in blurs of hand manipulations. Of course, these were rare times when shovelling was hampered by other castings and sprue, so John's show was just long enough to attract spectators and clear the conveyor for the rest of us. Didn't take long to work off a buzz, that was certain.
When I first started taking a hit, pot was $15 an ounce and anyone using was carrying some. If a person was going to roll a joint, someone else would match the amount of grass to twist. Often, there would be an offer of "I'll match you."
Today, totally different. Having pot in your possession is an arrest waiting to happen. Which means you lose the marijuana and some definite freedoms
The war is ongoing and the funds are there for stopping the use of street drugs. Entire police forces are operated on government funds to eradicate street drugs. Marijuana is high on the list of drug war targets, simply because it is easy to find some evidence for an arrest. Seeds, dust, residue, roaches and any amount of "green vegetable matter," which can be altered to reflect "tons" confiscated, every day.
In Ohio, it appears the "marijuana problem" has been put under jurisdiction of the state highway patrol which is directing its attention to the trafficing of pot. The days of getting into the car and "going to burn one" have been diminished. It doesn't matter how one is driving, a cell phone citizen sees a freak taking a toke, they'll be "lit up" by flashing lights within seconds. And any stop a cop makes may result in a search of the vehicle if any signs of use or possession of ganja is suspected.
Fifteen states, including Ohio, have decriminalized possession of up to 3.5 ounces of marijuana, wherein an arrest will result in no criminal record and a small fine. So small amounts are ignored, except as a last resort arrest in a police search.
Whatever, the risk has run the price to such outrageous levels, nobody offers "to match" the twister. Not at $200+ per ounce. Street retailers are required to weigh out parcels as small as an eighth of an ounce. Joints are too expensive, so some form of a smoking pipe is used, including the popular bong, which is a bowl connected to a large cylindrical (wood, metal or plastic) mouthpiece. The larger volume of smoke is drawn into the tube and then inhaled.
Marijuana can be ingested via baked goods, brownies being the most common carrier. However, the buzz comes later and the amount of pot needed to kick the mixture is cost prohibitive, today.
No matter how marijuana is smoked, there is residue, Joints end up as "roaches," too small to continue hitting. These may be saved to tear open, later, remove the resin soaked weed and roll a "roach" joint. This is in lieu of using fresh grass. But the roaches smell bad and removing the pot from sticky paper is nasty. In earlier days, we used to hold the roach between two match heads and light them with another lit match. After the flash of sulfur and within a second, the smoke would be inhaled through the nostrils. That can be a decent hit.
Smoking pot through any pipe will eventually produced a layer of gummy tar which dries to coat the bowl, screen and stem. Eventually, this has to be removed. Some bongs use a container of water which further filters the smoke. In any case, cleaning back to the original finish is messy, at best.
So aside from the need to clear the air of burnt herb, the clean up after smoking is the least desirable part of getting high. The only thing worse is smoking from a pipe which has not been kept clean and getting a tongue-taste of moist residue. "Is that the way you clean this pipe!"
I never toked around my kids but I've heard stories. PD told me about a visit from his insurance agent. His three year old daughter carried PD's stash box to the man and told him, "Here, you roll one." PD grabbed it and said, "No, he doesn't want to play with your little cars, right now."
I've known marijuana smoking parents who have been held hostage by their children, threatening to "turn them in." I've seen couples after divorce where one threatens to expose another to win custody of children or change visitation privileges.
The problem with accepting marijuana by straights is the fear of something which has no physical format to identify users. The biggest mystery is what the "high" is, if it doesn't change anything, like alcohol, cocaine and tobacco. Most everyone knows the signs of someone drunk, or someone staying wide-eyed-up for hours, or the obvious "need for a cigarette."
You may assume I'm high but I see you looking for signs while talking to me. And I can't explain to you how it feels because it is all mental. It is my brain's reaction to thc. Your reaction may be different because it is all mental.
Two of the three above mentioned drugs are strictly legal, controlled and taxed to the hilt. The other is strictly controlled by being strictly illegal. Marijuana, the non-problematic herb is illegal, uncontrollable, untaxed, unpoliceable, unethical in the punishment by jail and untold numbers of test cases for further study of medicinal uses.
Yet, you are afraid to decriminalize it on a federal level, therein allowing states to fall in step.
You can't wait anymore, the writing is on your forehead. Stop screaming and allowing police power to stop a scourge in your mind that has stood the test of time and you know it is nothing to dread.
I thought I know alot about pot, but there's not alot to pontificate on. Just an elderly t'ic trying to find a way to put it down on paper, I guess.
Truth, of course, is the quest of an unpublished writer who likes his own shit so much, he can't stop trying to find a way to be recognized for what he knows well enough to tell. Of course, it is all fiction.
Was it two years ago. I see marijuana starts in styrofoam cups on a post at the lake? Went back on my bicycle and brought them home. Five of seven survived, three female, miniaturized inside, decent toke. Bought some rooting powder and tried it on basil start. Good result. Need a good clone to copy. May try to start a dogwood tree off neighbor's tree, first.
State by state "legalization" or medical marijuana statutes will bring the ability to grow for personal use. In fact, a small plot may be overlooked, or just "confiscated." No matter where it is being cultivated, someone is looking to rip it off.
I can stand my $150 monthly use, delivered. Would I like to reduce it by what I can grow? Absolutely. The toking population grows in age and numbers. Every older citizen should be able to grow marijuana to smoke or sell. Is there a full-time marijuana user who has President Obama's ear? Not those sanctimonious ex-freaks who got high in college. I mean someone who gets high now.
8Aug13 -
Walking my dog and see a chick I know. Where's your dog? She's home, gets too tired, has to lie down on a walk.. She's holding a choke and I say "You should save your lungs for marijuana", remembering when I got high with her. "That's what this is, you wanna hit?"
I could not believe I'd been talking to her and actually thought a hand roll was a ready roll. Three blocks from home and doing a number on a public path.
Worked the dog, came home, lifted weights, ate breakfast, napped. Woke up to Paleo wanting to load a bowl. He wasn't out of the drive for five minutes when Dooglas drops in with some "California style" reefer. effin excellent. My oat, apple, egg white, raisin, pecan, milk concoction is sliding, man. A cloudy day full of sunshine. When living forever seems within reach. With beans and greens on the way.
In 1970, my younger brothers stayed a night on the way from Chicago and proffered my first toke. I was thirty-five, buying a house and raising four kids.
Monday, June 18, 2012
HOW TO BECOME A TRULY CIVILIZED MAN
Years ago, I began researching what women would consider attributes of a truly civilized man. I asked the question, "What is the first requirement you would expect to find in a truly civilized man?" Some answered in a word, some in more than one word, but all answered with little hesitation.
Debbie (40)-Humble
Carrie (25)-Respect
Kelley (30)-Chocolate, lots of dark chocolate
Karen (18)-Maturity
Kathy (50)-No profanity
CJ (70)-Heart
Joy (28)-Table manners
Dina(25)-Manners
Trish(22)-Honesty
Elaina(25)-Honesty
Marlene(30)-Respect
Paulette(45)-Respect
Lisa(19)-Maturity
Paula(35)-Honesty
Jimmy D's chick(Manners
Roberta(64)-One who can get in touch with his feminine side
Wendy(28)-Honesty
Dani(26)-Humor
Joni(28)-One who has something besides sexual innuendos coming out of his mouth every other word
Janice(55)-Compassion
Cirress(30)-Intellect (Inquisitiveness)
Becky(33)-Manners
Barb(34)-Manners
Julie(27)-Taste
Jeri(33)-Monogamy
Ande(23)-Honesty
Diana(33)-Purity
Cristina((36)-Honor and honesty
Tiffiny(21)-Not in jail
Originally, I intended to write a how-to guide to becoming a truly civilized man, overcoming feelings that civilized means sissified and convincing men that manners are irreplaceable when dealing with women, and win far more support from most than manhandling will.
While doing "research," I visited The South End Bar, an establishment that hadn't changed much, in looks, from the thirty-five years that had passed since I used to frequent the place; long and narrow with the right side taken up with an original elbow-oiled bar as you enter the front door.
The rest of the floor space on the left, is occupied by heavy wooden card tables. Euchre is the game of choice and the stakes are kept to a quarter per point, tallied by erasing sections of chalk marked X's on the table.
I sat on a stool at the bar, near the front door, and drank a Blue Ribbon. The table furthest from me had a game going. At the table nearest me, a guitar picker was playing for drinks. When I needled him for not playing some rock and roll I could sing to, he moved to the last stools at the far end where two females were sitting. He began feeding them lyrics to a country song, prompting them to sing to his harmony. "Who were you thinking of when you were making love last night?"
A card player stood, pulled down his pants, his underwear, then exposed himself, singing along while hanging out. The rest of the players left the table and moved to the bar, but said nothing. I laughed aloud, figuring it was an isolated incident by one way under the influence of alcohol.
Xx-raze was tending bar, thus in charge and told the guy to pull his pants up. He implored me not to tell "The Cap'n" and then asked, "What could I do? That's Will Sour, he's crazy, man!"
I told him I wouldn't mention it to the owner. "Hey, you did all you could, you told him to pull 'em up."
The guitar man finished, after a few more stanzas, returned to the nearby table, put a gratis drink down and sat on the back of the chair, with one foot in the seat and the other on the floor. He began singing for the drink after stating it was his last song before leaving the bar. Will was walking around with a grin, mingling for approval. I asked Xx-raze about our friend Dijerido. A nephew of an old friend bought me a beer and I listened to his family update.
The door opened and a young boy walk in. He had an earring, a unisex hairdo with chopped top and length in back. He had on a bloused shirt and was cute enough to kiss. Xx-raze questioned his want. The kid said he was with the people who had entered the bar from the back. Xx-raze waved him through and I turned to see the couple standing at the euchre table nearest the end of the bar. The chick was getting a thorough checking out by myself and every other male in the place.
Her husband was shorter, dressed in a blue work shirt and matching trousers. His boots had two-inch heels and he was still around five-feet tall. He was near drunk and appeared to be a father showing off a young daughter, especially to the muscular fellow who'd just bought me the beer. The husband was trying to hang on to the huge bicep the smiling acquaintance was flexing for him. The kid was seated nearby and the little man gave him a protective hug, then whispered into his wife's ear.
Before sitting at the table, she checked out the rest of the patrons who would be behind her. I smiled when she looked in my direction. She had long brown hair and smooth tan skin. Her black denim jacket and pants were form fitting, matched by black 3/4-style boots with unique side laces. She presented a sort of biker chick image. From my vantage, she looked lean and mean, tempered with natural beauty and a hint of innocence. An Apache princess in gunfighter garb.
While I was watching her and watching different men watching her, a dude I'd been recently introduced to, sat down beside me and began to roll a joint after showing me a crystalline coated bud about four-inches long. I alluded to the waste in joints and offered to go to my car and get my pipe. He said no, that he liked the taste of a joint, making it clear quantity was no object since he had a substantial stash. Xx-raze warned him about letting anyone else see him twisting a number on the bar. He said OK, finished and invited my outside to toast it.
My generous friend was standing where he could see inside the bar, while passing the number. He was a tad shocked to witness another lewd denuding incident inside. The nephew came out and I offered him a hit. He waved it off and exclaimed, "I don't believe it! A guy in there pulling his dick out in front of people and you guys out here smoking dope...why if Trapper knew this, he'd bring his dozer down and wipe this whole place out." He got into his high rider 4X and roared away.
The guitar picker and two other men cleared out, rushed by the rude behavior. The guitar was put into the trunk of a car, a couple short tokes were taken and they drove away. The t'ic and I went back inside. Things had settled down to drinking, TV and a card game. "Crazy" Will was partnered with Kight Henri against the couple.
I took my question to the ladies who'd been singing. They both answered that honesty would be the first requirement they would expect to find in a truly civilized man. I wrote it down and returned to my stool, but then, for whatever stupid reason, I went back to challenge their choice. I stated they might not recognize honesty and probably couldn't handle it. The brunette said that an honest man couldn't be found in this town. Since it is an attitude about all men, why limit the search to one city. In my attempt to defend our (men's) honesty, I compared it to ruling on a woman's intelligence, which is stereotyped as less than that of men. Between the alcohol and pot was a space which precluded courtesy, so I thanked them and returned to my beer.
Most of the small crowd were standing near or sitting close to the table, watching the game. Styler nodded towards the game and guaranteed there would be a fight. I was intent upon questioning the foxy wife, and asked my freak friend if he thought I should ask for the husband's permission to approach her. He said it wouldn't matter so I walked over, pulled up a chair and sat down next to her. She kept her eyes on the cards as I explained, "I'm doing research for this article I'm writing and I'd like to ask you what would be the first requirement you'd expect to find in a truly civilized man?"
She glanced at me, went back to the cards and was silent. Figuring she didn't have an immediate reply, I told her to take her time and went to get my beer. Returning, I sat down and asked if I should repeat the question? She turned directly to face me and said, "Respect."
Within seconds of thanking her and getting up, it was obvious her opponent, the exhibitionist, was upset and bent on challenging her. He argued she and her husband were passing signals. She said it had to do with kid who had left the bar while I'd been outside. The bully questioned her worth as a mother if she didn't know where the kid had gone. The confrontation grew louder and more insulting.
The card game was in limbo, already, when she stood up and indicated for him to, "Come on, if you want to settle this!"
Mr. Sour got to his feet and they stood, toe to toe. The way she had the confidence to call him out, I was expecting her to wield a weapon. When none showed, it became obvious she probably wouldn't be able to drop him as he continued with spittle-spraying castigating.
"You don't have the balls to take me on!"
She made a quick swipe between spread knees and stated incredulously, "I don't have balls!"
"You don't have a clit that can get stiff enough for you to take me on.
She just shook her head enough to cause those long brown tresses to flutter, stepped back and said, "Well, well now," obviously as stunned as the rest of us at the depth a person could sink to insult a woman.
The haranguing continued and at one point she countered an accusation with an allusion to his showing himself to "...all these...men." It seemed a call for any of us to counted as a man, but none stepped forward.
I was still seated furthest away from the argument, giving my nephew, who had just came in, a speech on the evils of alcohol. He'd just been beaten in a short arm-wrestling match and was now getting stirred about how the opponent couldn't fare as well if they were to get into a row involving fisticuffs. Xx-raze called the card game off and the table emptied.
But nothing was solved and the berating continued. Only now the aggressor was standing among the guys, reaching and pointing, visually raping the lady. Finally, she broke, tears flowed and she retreated from the threat. She cried, "Leave me alone!"
"Hey!" I shouted towards her. Everyone got quiet.
"Hey, come here."
I got off the stool and went to her. I put my arm around her shoulders and led her back to the stool beside where I'd been sitting.
"Sit down, right here. Wipe those tears away, you stood up well, don't blow it by crying. You stay with me and I'll guarantee he'll leave you alone."
Once seated, I told her she had lied because she had more balls than anybody. There was a short confrontation when Styler brought the boy down to where I was so he could be with his mother. I asked the kid if this was his mother and he said she was as close to a mother as he had. I went to get the husband.
When I put my hand on his back to direct him to his wife, he became incensed for the first time. A man had been insulting his wife for as long and as loudly as he wanted, and the husband did nothing. Not a word, not a move, except at one point he motioned for her to sit down and play cards. He pushed my hand away and told me not to tell him what to do.
Before I recovered from surprise, the bully approached, raised my right arm with his left and told me not to get into this.
"I'm already in it, motherfucker," I warned, then hooked him with a left and crossed him with a right. He fell backwards against the bar, knocking over a stool.
People will allow a fight to begin with no interference, then jump in to separate combatants. By the time I moved to feed him more knuckles, there were two or three sets of hands trying to restrain me. This allowed my adversary to get hold of a beer bottle to try to break over my head. After the first blow, my face went down and I blindly reached for his eyes. The second blow split skin, so there was some blood.
Decades ago, my father recalled the instructions of a martial arts expert in a US Navy basic training class. He had alluded to the ease with which a person's eyes can be easily popped from sockets with a well-placed thumb or fingertip. While being pummelled with the bottle, I tried to pluck an eye out. I had my thumb in one eye and a finger inside the orb of the other eye. No doubt I'd have done major damage if I hadn't been stopped.
While being held, I screamed to be allowed to finish him. I grabbed a bottle off the bar and held it at arms length on my right side. Styler told the others to let me go. Will was slumped at the bar, leaning against the adjoining wall. Trying to focus through gouged eyes, he asked what I intended to do with the bottle? I told him I was going to use it on him.
He didn't move and for a split second I visualized busting him up, but I didn't. Suddenly, I felt an overwhelming need to end the madness and make some sense of why I allowed myself to interfere. I put the bottle on the bar, snatched him upright against the wall and began questioning.
He wasn't too pleased by my intensity and wondered if him showing his cock was my problem. He tried to justify his actions with the card cheating theory and his knowledge of the girl and her family. But he accepted my right to interfere when the odds were tipped and declared I was a "real man."
Then he bought me a beer. We talked for some time, and I became aware of why he was called Crazy Will. In fact, I told him, I figured I'd have to half-kill him in a fight because I supposed he really was insane. He assured me he wasn't, even though he'd done eight years of prison for trying to torch a house with his in-laws inside.
After another beer, we began to view our altercation in the base terms of maleness. I alluded to the fact the bitch split as soon as the first blow was thrown, and how if anyone should have access to that leg, now, it should be me. Accusing him of having thoughts about screwing her, he straightened and bragged he had a fifty-year old woman taking care of him. Pressing, I challenged that the girl he had been so antagonistic towards was a turn-on for him. He smiled as he walked away and said, "Yeah."
I remember feeling a very earned path to her body, as if I'd fought my way to the right to have her. Which may prove that no matter how civilized a man may think his reaction to a situation involving a woman, it is really a rude visceral feeling connected to his desire to sire.
For a long period of time, I was convinced there is no God; man is here because of the millions of years of evolution, and the genes are in charge. Those microscopic blocks which have constructed us by increments throughout millenniums. One has to believe in genes. Especially now that we can see them, count them, figure them out and manipulate them.
Genes are heartless little bastards and they will be the last bottom line when we write ourselves off. When they have boiled us down to the last finished brew, we'll be through. We may never get nearer to that than now. We can control our genes. They can be spliced to serve us. We can physically alter and redirect our genes. We can do in the laboratory what was only possible via the individual mind The natural evolutionary method is the most fair and equal.
We follow it constantly while developing after birth. Then more slowly once the genes are content with traits we can pass to the next generation. It ends in senility when the mind no longer can push an aged body to pursue new ideas. The genes do not care. They are as anxious to shut us down as they were to peak us out.
The next generation may be the one which hand carries the future to the world. It is too fragile to be passed - or dropped - onto the coming generations. Can the USA change enough to to lead the rest and preserve the planet? It may be up to us.
I used to pray to me. I am the only one that ever did anything to make my prayers more answerable. You can pray to God. You can pray to Jesus. Or Buddha. Or Allah. Or Anybody else. But you are the one who will or will not initiate the necessary effort to change your situation to one requiring less prayer. You have to make the commitment, sign on the line or resign. Nobody else can change, charge or control your life like you can. Pray to yourself to make the move in the direction of your happiness. Then answer your prayers.
When Jesus said man can not live by bread alone, he didn't mean man can live without bread. He didn't believe himself to be God. He asked no one to pray to him. His Father was the same one he alluded to sharing with us. His power was the same one we are capable of using. His message was peace and devotion to God. It still is. Yet, people are still being crucified without the ritual for reasons just as benign.
All the ways men consider other men too different are dealt with fast. Faster than we can think, we can kill. And the faster we arm ourselves by continent, country, county and city, the faster we speed to the end of the future. Without devotion to God's peace, we are incapable of containing our predisposition to destroy others.
For this country, the words of Jesus are the final instruction for salvation and they were meant for the USA. Nobody has added a Third Testament. The first two have come to represent cultures which typify a defense posture based on armed aggression, Jews and Christians. Israel and America. The Old Testament and the New Testament. The old guard and the new warriors. Both have sacrificed devotion to God for sectarian acceptance. Devotion to God is separated from the pursuit of peace. We avoid the effort required for devotion to God and prefer panoply to pacification.
God is the glue that binds the genes of all humans. This combination sacred and scientific has all the time to perfect us, either in our present form or in those to follow. If this present race of man annihilates itself completely, the genes will begin anew, even if they have to evolve from nuclear waste mud. And once again, after the brains have been developed to the point of intellectually asking the eternal question, God will appear to those who seek the path of the never-ending.
To be enlightened, we must be truly civilized. We must control our lives, thus our future. The present time-frame is limited. We must get into the best physical condition and begin to change the direction of the universe. We must live to seek harmony with God. We must live to be as good as we can to the most number of people, starting with ourselves.
Sadly, there are those who we can't reach to teach as they continue to live to die. They are the result of civilizations slow, tortuous development. Their intelligence is limited by ours. We have to teach them to live to live.
Debbie (40)-Humble
Carrie (25)-Respect
Kelley (30)-Chocolate, lots of dark chocolate
Karen (18)-Maturity
Kathy (50)-No profanity
CJ (70)-Heart
Joy (28)-Table manners
Dina(25)-Manners
Trish(22)-Honesty
Elaina(25)-Honesty
Marlene(30)-Respect
Paulette(45)-Respect
Lisa(19)-Maturity
Paula(35)-Honesty
Jimmy D's chick(Manners
Roberta(64)-One who can get in touch with his feminine side
Wendy(28)-Honesty
Dani(26)-Humor
Joni(28)-One who has something besides sexual innuendos coming out of his mouth every other word
Janice(55)-Compassion
Cirress(30)-Intellect (Inquisitiveness)
Becky(33)-Manners
Barb(34)-Manners
Julie(27)-Taste
Jeri(33)-Monogamy
Ande(23)-Honesty
Diana(33)-Purity
Cristina((36)-Honor and honesty
Tiffiny(21)-Not in jail
Originally, I intended to write a how-to guide to becoming a truly civilized man, overcoming feelings that civilized means sissified and convincing men that manners are irreplaceable when dealing with women, and win far more support from most than manhandling will.
While doing "research," I visited The South End Bar, an establishment that hadn't changed much, in looks, from the thirty-five years that had passed since I used to frequent the place; long and narrow with the right side taken up with an original elbow-oiled bar as you enter the front door.
The rest of the floor space on the left, is occupied by heavy wooden card tables. Euchre is the game of choice and the stakes are kept to a quarter per point, tallied by erasing sections of chalk marked X's on the table.
I sat on a stool at the bar, near the front door, and drank a Blue Ribbon. The table furthest from me had a game going. At the table nearest me, a guitar picker was playing for drinks. When I needled him for not playing some rock and roll I could sing to, he moved to the last stools at the far end where two females were sitting. He began feeding them lyrics to a country song, prompting them to sing to his harmony. "Who were you thinking of when you were making love last night?"
A card player stood, pulled down his pants, his underwear, then exposed himself, singing along while hanging out. The rest of the players left the table and moved to the bar, but said nothing. I laughed aloud, figuring it was an isolated incident by one way under the influence of alcohol.
Xx-raze was tending bar, thus in charge and told the guy to pull his pants up. He implored me not to tell "The Cap'n" and then asked, "What could I do? That's Will Sour, he's crazy, man!"
I told him I wouldn't mention it to the owner. "Hey, you did all you could, you told him to pull 'em up."
The guitar man finished, after a few more stanzas, returned to the nearby table, put a gratis drink down and sat on the back of the chair, with one foot in the seat and the other on the floor. He began singing for the drink after stating it was his last song before leaving the bar. Will was walking around with a grin, mingling for approval. I asked Xx-raze about our friend Dijerido. A nephew of an old friend bought me a beer and I listened to his family update.
The door opened and a young boy walk in. He had an earring, a unisex hairdo with chopped top and length in back. He had on a bloused shirt and was cute enough to kiss. Xx-raze questioned his want. The kid said he was with the people who had entered the bar from the back. Xx-raze waved him through and I turned to see the couple standing at the euchre table nearest the end of the bar. The chick was getting a thorough checking out by myself and every other male in the place.
Her husband was shorter, dressed in a blue work shirt and matching trousers. His boots had two-inch heels and he was still around five-feet tall. He was near drunk and appeared to be a father showing off a young daughter, especially to the muscular fellow who'd just bought me the beer. The husband was trying to hang on to the huge bicep the smiling acquaintance was flexing for him. The kid was seated nearby and the little man gave him a protective hug, then whispered into his wife's ear.
Before sitting at the table, she checked out the rest of the patrons who would be behind her. I smiled when she looked in my direction. She had long brown hair and smooth tan skin. Her black denim jacket and pants were form fitting, matched by black 3/4-style boots with unique side laces. She presented a sort of biker chick image. From my vantage, she looked lean and mean, tempered with natural beauty and a hint of innocence. An Apache princess in gunfighter garb.
While I was watching her and watching different men watching her, a dude I'd been recently introduced to, sat down beside me and began to roll a joint after showing me a crystalline coated bud about four-inches long. I alluded to the waste in joints and offered to go to my car and get my pipe. He said no, that he liked the taste of a joint, making it clear quantity was no object since he had a substantial stash. Xx-raze warned him about letting anyone else see him twisting a number on the bar. He said OK, finished and invited my outside to toast it.
My generous friend was standing where he could see inside the bar, while passing the number. He was a tad shocked to witness another lewd denuding incident inside. The nephew came out and I offered him a hit. He waved it off and exclaimed, "I don't believe it! A guy in there pulling his dick out in front of people and you guys out here smoking dope...why if Trapper knew this, he'd bring his dozer down and wipe this whole place out." He got into his high rider 4X and roared away.
The guitar picker and two other men cleared out, rushed by the rude behavior. The guitar was put into the trunk of a car, a couple short tokes were taken and they drove away. The t'ic and I went back inside. Things had settled down to drinking, TV and a card game. "Crazy" Will was partnered with Kight Henri against the couple.
I took my question to the ladies who'd been singing. They both answered that honesty would be the first requirement they would expect to find in a truly civilized man. I wrote it down and returned to my stool, but then, for whatever stupid reason, I went back to challenge their choice. I stated they might not recognize honesty and probably couldn't handle it. The brunette said that an honest man couldn't be found in this town. Since it is an attitude about all men, why limit the search to one city. In my attempt to defend our (men's) honesty, I compared it to ruling on a woman's intelligence, which is stereotyped as less than that of men. Between the alcohol and pot was a space which precluded courtesy, so I thanked them and returned to my beer.
Most of the small crowd were standing near or sitting close to the table, watching the game. Styler nodded towards the game and guaranteed there would be a fight. I was intent upon questioning the foxy wife, and asked my freak friend if he thought I should ask for the husband's permission to approach her. He said it wouldn't matter so I walked over, pulled up a chair and sat down next to her. She kept her eyes on the cards as I explained, "I'm doing research for this article I'm writing and I'd like to ask you what would be the first requirement you'd expect to find in a truly civilized man?"
She glanced at me, went back to the cards and was silent. Figuring she didn't have an immediate reply, I told her to take her time and went to get my beer. Returning, I sat down and asked if I should repeat the question? She turned directly to face me and said, "Respect."
Within seconds of thanking her and getting up, it was obvious her opponent, the exhibitionist, was upset and bent on challenging her. He argued she and her husband were passing signals. She said it had to do with kid who had left the bar while I'd been outside. The bully questioned her worth as a mother if she didn't know where the kid had gone. The confrontation grew louder and more insulting.
The card game was in limbo, already, when she stood up and indicated for him to, "Come on, if you want to settle this!"
Mr. Sour got to his feet and they stood, toe to toe. The way she had the confidence to call him out, I was expecting her to wield a weapon. When none showed, it became obvious she probably wouldn't be able to drop him as he continued with spittle-spraying castigating.
"You don't have the balls to take me on!"
She made a quick swipe between spread knees and stated incredulously, "I don't have balls!"
"You don't have a clit that can get stiff enough for you to take me on.
She just shook her head enough to cause those long brown tresses to flutter, stepped back and said, "Well, well now," obviously as stunned as the rest of us at the depth a person could sink to insult a woman.
The haranguing continued and at one point she countered an accusation with an allusion to his showing himself to "...all these...men." It seemed a call for any of us to counted as a man, but none stepped forward.
I was still seated furthest away from the argument, giving my nephew, who had just came in, a speech on the evils of alcohol. He'd just been beaten in a short arm-wrestling match and was now getting stirred about how the opponent couldn't fare as well if they were to get into a row involving fisticuffs. Xx-raze called the card game off and the table emptied.
But nothing was solved and the berating continued. Only now the aggressor was standing among the guys, reaching and pointing, visually raping the lady. Finally, she broke, tears flowed and she retreated from the threat. She cried, "Leave me alone!"
"Hey!" I shouted towards her. Everyone got quiet.
"Hey, come here."
I got off the stool and went to her. I put my arm around her shoulders and led her back to the stool beside where I'd been sitting.
"Sit down, right here. Wipe those tears away, you stood up well, don't blow it by crying. You stay with me and I'll guarantee he'll leave you alone."
Once seated, I told her she had lied because she had more balls than anybody. There was a short confrontation when Styler brought the boy down to where I was so he could be with his mother. I asked the kid if this was his mother and he said she was as close to a mother as he had. I went to get the husband.
When I put my hand on his back to direct him to his wife, he became incensed for the first time. A man had been insulting his wife for as long and as loudly as he wanted, and the husband did nothing. Not a word, not a move, except at one point he motioned for her to sit down and play cards. He pushed my hand away and told me not to tell him what to do.
Before I recovered from surprise, the bully approached, raised my right arm with his left and told me not to get into this.
"I'm already in it, motherfucker," I warned, then hooked him with a left and crossed him with a right. He fell backwards against the bar, knocking over a stool.
People will allow a fight to begin with no interference, then jump in to separate combatants. By the time I moved to feed him more knuckles, there were two or three sets of hands trying to restrain me. This allowed my adversary to get hold of a beer bottle to try to break over my head. After the first blow, my face went down and I blindly reached for his eyes. The second blow split skin, so there was some blood.
Decades ago, my father recalled the instructions of a martial arts expert in a US Navy basic training class. He had alluded to the ease with which a person's eyes can be easily popped from sockets with a well-placed thumb or fingertip. While being pummelled with the bottle, I tried to pluck an eye out. I had my thumb in one eye and a finger inside the orb of the other eye. No doubt I'd have done major damage if I hadn't been stopped.
While being held, I screamed to be allowed to finish him. I grabbed a bottle off the bar and held it at arms length on my right side. Styler told the others to let me go. Will was slumped at the bar, leaning against the adjoining wall. Trying to focus through gouged eyes, he asked what I intended to do with the bottle? I told him I was going to use it on him.
He didn't move and for a split second I visualized busting him up, but I didn't. Suddenly, I felt an overwhelming need to end the madness and make some sense of why I allowed myself to interfere. I put the bottle on the bar, snatched him upright against the wall and began questioning.
He wasn't too pleased by my intensity and wondered if him showing his cock was my problem. He tried to justify his actions with the card cheating theory and his knowledge of the girl and her family. But he accepted my right to interfere when the odds were tipped and declared I was a "real man."
Then he bought me a beer. We talked for some time, and I became aware of why he was called Crazy Will. In fact, I told him, I figured I'd have to half-kill him in a fight because I supposed he really was insane. He assured me he wasn't, even though he'd done eight years of prison for trying to torch a house with his in-laws inside.
After another beer, we began to view our altercation in the base terms of maleness. I alluded to the fact the bitch split as soon as the first blow was thrown, and how if anyone should have access to that leg, now, it should be me. Accusing him of having thoughts about screwing her, he straightened and bragged he had a fifty-year old woman taking care of him. Pressing, I challenged that the girl he had been so antagonistic towards was a turn-on for him. He smiled as he walked away and said, "Yeah."
I remember feeling a very earned path to her body, as if I'd fought my way to the right to have her. Which may prove that no matter how civilized a man may think his reaction to a situation involving a woman, it is really a rude visceral feeling connected to his desire to sire.
For a long period of time, I was convinced there is no God; man is here because of the millions of years of evolution, and the genes are in charge. Those microscopic blocks which have constructed us by increments throughout millenniums. One has to believe in genes. Especially now that we can see them, count them, figure them out and manipulate them.
Genes are heartless little bastards and they will be the last bottom line when we write ourselves off. When they have boiled us down to the last finished brew, we'll be through. We may never get nearer to that than now. We can control our genes. They can be spliced to serve us. We can physically alter and redirect our genes. We can do in the laboratory what was only possible via the individual mind The natural evolutionary method is the most fair and equal.
We follow it constantly while developing after birth. Then more slowly once the genes are content with traits we can pass to the next generation. It ends in senility when the mind no longer can push an aged body to pursue new ideas. The genes do not care. They are as anxious to shut us down as they were to peak us out.
The next generation may be the one which hand carries the future to the world. It is too fragile to be passed - or dropped - onto the coming generations. Can the USA change enough to to lead the rest and preserve the planet? It may be up to us.
I used to pray to me. I am the only one that ever did anything to make my prayers more answerable. You can pray to God. You can pray to Jesus. Or Buddha. Or Allah. Or Anybody else. But you are the one who will or will not initiate the necessary effort to change your situation to one requiring less prayer. You have to make the commitment, sign on the line or resign. Nobody else can change, charge or control your life like you can. Pray to yourself to make the move in the direction of your happiness. Then answer your prayers.
When Jesus said man can not live by bread alone, he didn't mean man can live without bread. He didn't believe himself to be God. He asked no one to pray to him. His Father was the same one he alluded to sharing with us. His power was the same one we are capable of using. His message was peace and devotion to God. It still is. Yet, people are still being crucified without the ritual for reasons just as benign.
All the ways men consider other men too different are dealt with fast. Faster than we can think, we can kill. And the faster we arm ourselves by continent, country, county and city, the faster we speed to the end of the future. Without devotion to God's peace, we are incapable of containing our predisposition to destroy others.
For this country, the words of Jesus are the final instruction for salvation and they were meant for the USA. Nobody has added a Third Testament. The first two have come to represent cultures which typify a defense posture based on armed aggression, Jews and Christians. Israel and America. The Old Testament and the New Testament. The old guard and the new warriors. Both have sacrificed devotion to God for sectarian acceptance. Devotion to God is separated from the pursuit of peace. We avoid the effort required for devotion to God and prefer panoply to pacification.
God is the glue that binds the genes of all humans. This combination sacred and scientific has all the time to perfect us, either in our present form or in those to follow. If this present race of man annihilates itself completely, the genes will begin anew, even if they have to evolve from nuclear waste mud. And once again, after the brains have been developed to the point of intellectually asking the eternal question, God will appear to those who seek the path of the never-ending.
To be enlightened, we must be truly civilized. We must control our lives, thus our future. The present time-frame is limited. We must get into the best physical condition and begin to change the direction of the universe. We must live to seek harmony with God. We must live to be as good as we can to the most number of people, starting with ourselves.
Sadly, there are those who we can't reach to teach as they continue to live to die. They are the result of civilizations slow, tortuous development. Their intelligence is limited by ours. We have to teach them to live to live.
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.
maxxn8r@aol.com
maxpheelips@gmail.com
740/710-0921
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