The Holidays, A Body Gotta Live, and Respectable Pursuits

The holidays bring out the best in people. Watching the Sacramento Kings play the Boston Celtics on NBA Pass tonight, The Kings (as part of the half-time broadcast) were showing clips of their 'holiday' public service. The Kings and their owners, The Maloof family, along with other major corporations wanting to take advantage of tax write-offs and a chance for creating positive public relations, are very generous during the Holidays. In this 'community service segment' our heroes were going out in the poorer communities giving away Christmas trees, complete with ornaments to decorate them, as well as holiday meals prepared and ready to eat, 'donated' by Raley's\BelAir (one of the nicer supermarket chains in Northern California). Those meals aren' t cheap (my buddy Guy bought one at Thanksgiving and told me what he paid), but they are a nice meal. I feel relief for those few lucky poor people! I'm a sensitive person.
Stories of holiday goodwill and kindness make me tear up, normally. But there's more to the story... Well, see... the poor people weren't having these gifts delivered to their homes. Instead they were driving up in their cars and waiting in line. Then, with cameras rolling (wouldn't want to be generous and not have it be recorded\acknowledged, huh), the players delivered the necessities of a joyous holiday to the people waiting in their cars, who (as one happy recipient explained) "would not have been able to afford Christmas without the generosity of the Kings organization."
I guess I would have been happier for this 'poor' women except she didn't look older then thirty, nor was she unkempt, or portraying the appearance of someone downtrodden. And I noticed her nails were manicured in holiday colors (seemingly professionally) on the hand gripping the steering wheel of her newish mini-van. I wondered what the criteria was to qualify as poor and pull your car into line. Obviously a recent manicure didn't disqualify you. I could tell that owning a car didn't disqualify you either, because all these people had cars. I noticed that all the cars in line looked newer than mine too. These people gave me the impression the 'poor' had changed in the fourteen months since I left California.
The second recipient was driving what looked like a new Lincoln Navigator, which is a 10 mile per gallon SUV. I'm glad the Kings organization went out to the poor neighborhoods to play Santa, otherwise those poor people might have not been able to afford the gas to receive the necessities for Christmas. Thanks to the Kings organization they can drive in style and celebrate the birth of Jesus. Hallelujah!
Funnily, I didn't see any shopping carts in the line. I was under the impression that is the usual status symbol for the poor. Maybe those poor people got caught in traffic. Just as well, they wouldn't have had a roof to tie their tree on, or put under, for that matter. Those poor people are generally a little too poor for good PR video anyway. Though they know where the shelters are, it looked like they were completely unaware of this charitable event. In that respect, the Holidays bring out the worst in people too, unfortunately.
Every year there is the perennial story of the poor family robbed of their Christmas by thieves, and the gnawing moral question of how could anyone be so cruel? The following day, inevitably, will be the story of the public generously donating gifts, food, decorations: all the necessities of the Christmas celebration. All that love for those poor people, makes everybody feel good! This year there was another chapter to that type of story too.
It seems that a former friend of a poor family that was robbed, while sitting in his new SUV at a Kings Community function for the needy, waiting for a free meal and tree, saw the news clip on the overhead tv/dvd player in his Navigator, and notified the authorities that the same family had been "robbed" two years earlier. Ironically, the guy in the SUV thought it was atrocious his acquaintance would lie about his circumstances in order to take advantage of the public's sympathy. Morally, he felt like he had no choice but to expose him , saying, "that out-pouring of public generosity might have found it's way to the truly Poor, had it not been stolen by [his] unscrupulous buddy." So, the moral of the story?
ALWAYS HAVE A SCUMBAG HANDY TO DIVERT ATTENTION FROM YOURSELF
Merry Xmas to One and All

PS The first snow this winter fell today-

You Reap What You Sow

You reap what you sow. Is there anyone that knows this better than a reformed drug addict? Being one, and seeing the harvest from what began as recreational methamphetamine use, and eventually evolved into a full blown addiction, I can honestly understand why so many addicts sober up and then relapse into their old habits. The damn guilt of failing my sons is enough to make me want to pull the trigger. Being a drug addict at least you're alive, although some addicts, without doubt, would be better off dead. Now as I look back and think how irresponsible I was, how selfish, how unfair I was to be so self-centered, I realize the worst; I can never make the lost love or time up to the ones I love. Never. If I spend the rest of my life trying, never. Time cannot be reused, whatever love I give them now, I give them now. It is not the love I could have given them then.
The remorse is brutal. Brutal is the proper word: The remorse is beating the life out of me, spiritually, mentally, physically. There is no where to hide from yourself. Unless of course it's
in the drug world, but I never "hid" in the drug world. One doesn't realize they're hiding until the game is over and they can't find their life, or what they thought was their life. While I was hiding in my mind, reality changed. After the party, reformed, I look around for the wonderful life I once had. The reality is my life has failed. The wonderful life is gone, I have no love. The love lost leaves me empty, lonely, heartbroken. Losing the love of my sons is especially depressing. Despite the fact I raised them, and shared some part of life with them daily, in the end they felt abandoned and ignored. The brutal part is not the Love they now Don't feel for me, (you reap what you sow) but the guilt I feel for not giving them every ounce of love every moment they were needing it, wanting it and I should have been delivering. That is the brutal part: thinking that my sons looked to me for love and and felt ignored. I love my sons. Always.It brings tears to my eyes writing these words. If time could be reused I would chain them to me to ensure our closeness.

A Lord of the Rings Weekend

All three movies are on Tv today. I am so jazzed; something to do all day that requires no work. Kickin' it with Gandolf and the short, hairy ones. There's a storm moving in too. When the films get to the parts I've already seen (this is a repeat for the first two. They played Friday and Saturday) I can watch the clouds slowly conquer the mountains and surround them in rain. Life is so wonderful!
The Fellowship of the Ring is almost over. As the age of man draws near to it's end, I wonder what the next age will bring? What will the life form of the next age be? Probably a Crocodile. The meteor didn't get them the first time around, Global warming won't get them this time. And there will be a lot more low lying shallow water. Sounds like a good deal for the Crocodile.
Probably a good time for me to start cross-breeding my Croco-dog. The Croco-dog will be the baddest dog on the block. Bred to keep its tough crocodile exterior, but retain a soft warm coat of hair on top of it's skin. The Croco-dog's tail will not only be able to pick a gazelle up out of the water, but also be faithfully wrapped around his master at night to help keep him warm. The Croco-dog will only need to be fed once a year or so and, with that kind of frequency in food necessity, the Coco-dog will be virtually maintenance free. Poop free too, almost. And when it does Poop, it will just look like someone left a steely in the living room, you know ball-bearing type thing, hard and round.
Maybe Ents will come back. A cross between plant and animal: Swamp-Thing. Tolkien must have had secret history books from Middle Earth. No one could could have come up with all the names, maps, history, everything! I call Bullshit. The man had to have found the treasures of Atlantis.
...Finally, the wind is picking up. The assault on the mountains begins. Bradland is normally last to give in to the cloud cover, first to bust out. Thus, the many rainbows. Might be the nickel mountain, but I always heard it was the pot of gold. No matter, they all equate to southern Oregon. Follow the yellow brick road.

Just go north til your dink is dinky
and the air ain't stinky
Where the snow will fly
and the colds' in your eye
the rain don't hurt
cause it ain't filled with dirt

Sorry, I guess the movies are putting me in the mood for some middle earth lore.

...It's raining now. Hard. I can hear it on the roof and the side of the shack. Every wind driven burst of rain screams, "Coooozzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!"

Wisdom

Fifteen years ago I was 36 years old. You boys were 10 and 12. Now you are young men. The last fifteen years in your lives were the beginning. Looking back there are so many benchmarks, so many changes. Time is indexed and in retrospect those will be the years that passed slowest. So hang onto your hats, young men, because the train picks up speed from this point and it doesn't slow down for awhile. When you look back it turns to a blur. If you add any king of substance abuse, it disappears completely. Remember that, and this; Every moment killed in boredom, drunkenness and/or drug abuse... when you're on the 'other side of the mountain' you'll want it back.
That is a pseudo apology for not always being my best, not being compassionate or attentive enough at times, and giving too many of the precious moments away. The precious moments being the ones when you were boys. That I feel so guilty about.
I'm older now. And you boys are men. You both rarely have time for me. I guess you reap what you sow, but it seems to me I gave more then this. I wouldn't have tried at all if I would have known that for all my efforts I'd be shown no gratitude or love. I guess what I'm trying to say is: Although I tried to be young and one of the boys when you were growing up, as you reached manhood, I was forced to grow up too. My investments were paying no dividends. Another failed marriage, no love or respect from my sons, sold the family home, and I limped out of town depressed, heartbroken, and confused. Not to mention fifty years old and a net worth of $34,000. I had to grow up. I was terrified I had over extended my refusal to grow up AND didn't have the resources to make up for my recklessness.
I live a quiet life alone now. I go days in the southern Oregon mountains without speaking to other people. There is no bathroom, or kitchen. No excitement. Nothing artificial. Just reflection, remorse, understanding of the past, looking to the future, and hopefully wisdom applied. I am forced to be serious and responsible. I love you boys despite yourselves, so why can't I be loved, despite myself? I take no credit for your accomplishments but don't I get a cut of love for being there and trying? Don't all of you carry some of me with you every day?
I love you boys.

Drugs in Baseball

Can you imagine? Now imagine what can be done about it...
First and foremost, all season ticket holders, from the moment they had a documented junkie playing on their team till the present, should be refunded all monies paid to watch ATHLETES ON DRUGS. Why?
Without those stars (those supermen on drugs slapping homeruns, those stoppers, the young award winners, the MVPs, etc) baseball would not have drawn the crowds it did. The fans bought a false product; the supermen were ATHLETES ON DRUGS! Not that we can tell the difference between the two except every once in a while superman forgets he's a role model and murders a few people, usually culminating in a suicide. But the point is: we'll pay to see the best an individual can give naturally, but we want to believe in fairness. Nobody is going to pay to see an unfair contest (unless it's big time wrestling), therefore season ticket holders should be refunded their money. They were sold an fraudulent product.
Secondly, all steroid users should be put in the witness protection program. Barry, Roger, the runner, the bicyclist... make them all disappear. Then wipe the record books clean. Only fair records! We shouldn't be reminded, as we go through our more and more demanding days (cheating on taxes, speeding, overcharging, lying, and hustling to make ends meet) that the world isn't fair. It's not like any of us would do whatever we could to win. Those cheating bastards giving us what we wanted and then lying about how they delivered. And the money they were paid! I wouldn't do a few drugs for tens of millions.
Third, and most important, let's establish the steroids league. Players can do any drugs, steroids, hype they want. Fans can be sure they are getting the max in the athletes that they support. Everybody will be superman, or get on the shit, and since everybody will be involved, it's fair.
If your team is a loser you can change pharmacist. The athletes can be housed in special, luxury living 'areas' so that when they occasionally lose track of what is really important (winning) and start killing, we can confine the damage.
Additionally, it will be easier to study the long term affects of steroid use and see if the money is worth the damage?
Do they prolong careers? Do they grow hair? Can I be nineteen again? Huh? Pony up!

The News

I see the the U.S. Army has built a base at 8000 ft in the mountains between Afghanistan and Pakistan. It's a well fortified castle, complete with helicopter pads, the big guns etc. A command center high in the mountains for The War on Terror. This reminds me of boot camp mentality; "If we're going to fight them, lets do it at their house, burn their land, kill their women and children." This is all good and fine, I guess. But is this border patrol really necessary when I can't afford it? If we elect not to defend the Afghanistan border might there be enough money to defend America's borders? And dare I say it? Isn't it cheaper still to keep our southern borders porous and source our illegal drugs from there, rather then spend so much money to control Afghan poppy fields and do nothing to prohibit their cultivation? Oh, that's preposterous!... Is it?
From what I've seen the Taliban are now the gunmen for the poppy fields. Seems the local boys would like to continue to grow Opium. Something about 'earning a living' (Seen American Gangster? I wonder if the Armed Forces are checking the coffins. It wouldn't be original to use them for smuggling). How much is the worlds opium trade worth? I dare say, with all the other graft going on, would it be crazy to think that somewhere in the military/intelligence hierarchy an influential man might be making money on drugs connected somehow to those Afghan poppy fields, and maybe even... the War on Terror? I wonder what the shit in Harlem is like these days. Fucking good? I can't afford these wars.
For the money it cost us to kill each Taliban per kill, it would be cheaper to contract their asses out to Hitmen and BIG-GAME hunters. How many bona fide Taliban are we going to kill this year? Now how many BILLIONS are we going to spend? Those motherfuckers are the most expensive hit in the world!
If we just contract them our, for the number of Taliban killed this year versus dollar paid, Uncle Sam will be way ahead! We should close are borders to control our world, keep the shit out of the country, but that ain't happening. No. Ain't No Fucking Profit in that, is there? And at the end of 200 years of isolationism, the Chinese will invade our technologically backward country just like the British invaded them 200 years ago.
We can't afford the tarnish. Don't forget these are 'the lands of the grudge.' They haven't forgotten the Crusades. I try remember 'to save myself; the world don't wanna be save.'
Bring our troops home and let those people go back to chopping each others heads off in the middle of the desert.
Nobody wanted a War of Occupation.

I look out the window and right across from my property reminds me of what's important. America.

This Afternoon's Newscasts

Yesterday I watched three grey mule deer wander across my driveway. There was frost on the ground and the morning was cold. Where they stopped to graze a little is the first part of the hill to get sun. I'm sure they wanted to sun bathe as much as eat. Serene, natural and then the rest of the world....
I see the authorities in Aruba have arrested the suspected three again in the case of Natalie Hollaway. If they murdered that girl it is important they be punished.
The Hollaway story followed the story of the New York Jets fans who are encouraging women to bare their breasts as they pass by a certain section of the stadium. The boys are having a rollicking good time, but the more reserved women (probably 95% of the total encouraged to titillate the crowd) find it anything but 'fun.'
And then there is the really twisted story that preceded the aforementioned two; the story of the woman in Saudi Arabia who was abducted in public with her male companion, raped by seven men, and then found to be in the wrong because her companion was not a relative! She was additionally punished, sentenced to ninety lashings and six months in jail. When her attorney appealed the lashings were increased to two hundred (for disrespecting the court) and the attorney was fined and suspended.
Why does the juxtaposition of the three stories interest me? They are related not only because of the 'base' instincts that fuel the three, but also because of the manners in which they are received, interpreted, and reacted to by the different cultures involved. I try to see things objectively. I try to be fair. I like to put things on the line of truth and force myself to be honest. However, when something is twisted, when reason has been tweaked, then I don't mind saying, "This is fucked up." And this is indicative of what kind of fucked up, backward, assholes are in charge of the Arab world.
The girl was punished for having the 'wrong' escort in public? This leads me to believe that improperly escorted Arab women can be treated in any fashion, and then turned over to the police for 'justice.' Why did she need an escort at all? Are Arab men such animals that every unattended women is in danger? Why a family escort? Is there a law against RAPE in front of the family?
The reasoning behind the whole Saudi thing dumbfounds me. It is about as civilized as the cartoon caveman dragging his woman back to the cave. Which is about the equivalent of raping and murdering a teenage girl. Which is what the Hollaway case is about. It would be the equivalent of the Saudi Case too if the murder had not taken place, and there had been four more rapists and Natalie Hollaway was alive so we could punish her!
Did I say how fucked up this is? Aruba wants the case solved. It taints their image and hurts the tourist industry. Natalie's body is not to be found. Americans empathize with her mother. But the case in Saudi Arabia? ...The logic, reason, and fairness of it is incredulous. Caveman law, based on twisted interpretation of archaic religious laws. Kind of like Football Fan Conduct based on twisted interpretation of what is acceptable behavior when you're with the boys and 'just having fun.' Dumb people shouldn't drink, it makes them even more stupid.

Happy Birthday today Son. I hope your world is safe and stable and you are Happy.

Getting Older

I don't mind aging. That's why I live out here in southern Oregon. I don't miss the glamor of the city. At one point in life I was good looking enough to disguise my hillbilly true self, but paint wears to the metal and the framework is evident. I didn't want to play the game all the time.
Underneath my handsome face and cool demeanor, after you dug through layers of hardened, tough, sculpted muscle, and compassionate gentle understanding, The roots were North Carolina Blueridge mountain. I am Grandpa's white, underachieving, little red-headed stepchild, who was just happy to be there.
I was innocent. I was the only kid in school whom looked like Opie on Andy of Mayberry, And my Grandpappy was from North Carolina! I walked around the halls of Joseph Bonnheim elementary singing Beach Boy songs. I had a Beatles haircut. My complexion was peaches and cream. I really don't know how I missed the movies with such a strong foundation.
If one grows up without 'fashion', any old clothes is enough. My understanding of clothes was simply what I learned from my small environment. And, of course seeing photos of 'tribe-women' from cultures that did not cover the upper half of the woman's body seemed strange to me just as it does children today. They realize there is a social taboo, and giggle. The 'tribe-woman' doesn't realize the taboo, obviously her attitude on covering the upper half of her torso is different. She probably thinks 'why bother'? Just like I did toward more sophisticated western fashion. Practicality was more important to her (I would guess) just like it was to me.
Covered properly, ready to go! I wasn't aware that plaid pants and checkered shirts didn't go together. When the latest haircut style was a crew-cut with an inch or two of hair left in front, greased back for the little greasy puff look, I let my puff hang. Ironically, it's the style today. Shaved head with bangs hanging in your eyes, or the cut right after the Mohawk with the different colored spikes. I wish that I could say that I was way ahead of my time.Keeping up with the style was difficult for me.
Growing old has no style; you're just old. I remember at seventeen, in pursuit of the perfect look, after an imperfect haircut, I shaved my head. It was1973 and 'shoulder length or longer' was the tune of the day. It didn't catch on then, but fifteen years later everybody was shaving their heads; about the time I got out of the army, but by then I wanted to grow my hair long.
At about thirty, with a naturally occurring bald head, two toddlers and an estranged wife, released by the green machine and allowed to wear whatever I wanted, I desired the glamorous life. But I just couldn't afford it. I wanted to stay young and handsome forever. I wanted enough money to attract the really fine babes, stir the best Gumbo, own the best props, but I didn't hit the lotto. And I sure as hell wasn't going to kill myself to stylishly keep up with the 'seduction of being cool' (although I had a running try for a while).
In my forties I became associated with people who truly 'worry' about the right car, clothes, haircut. They have money and pursue the 'better life'. They won't watch themselves grow old in the mirror. And see the surgeon, the cosmetics counter, the lip-o-suction machine. They'll add lip and lose hip, build breasts and bleach the rest.
At 50 something, I know now that the money is better spent up in these southern Oregon mountains finding true value for time and money... in a functioning toilet, or shower plumbing.
Getting old is fine with me. The alternative is impossible. I will never be "young" again, if youth is defined by years. That which is truly important will be all the sweeter to enjoy as an old man, when I have a better idea of what the qualifications.
Now, at my young age, I feel like the Tribes-woman: I ain't gonna worry about what doesn't occur to me. I'm naturally cool. Next time I see you I'll show you my tits and we can really relax!
Happy Thanksgiving to One and All.

It's All Good

I went to get my Oregon Drivers license today.
It is necessary for me to get a motorcycle endorsement too, in order to avoid the fine on a ticket I received. The damn ticket caused a chain reaction of circumstances culminating in the necessity of legalizing the bike, my drivers license, the insurance, blah, blah, blah,blah,blah. And since the county of Shasta does not want to wait indefinitely for "their" money, and because I live too close to the California border to kiss them off, legalization must occur by 14 March or the rules of engagement change. The Deadline.
Try telling that to the DMV clerk in Oregon and see if she gets uptight. She'll take pleasure in your crisis and exacerbate the problem by creating delays.
I can always tell the type. They see me: Handsome, secure, eloquent, intelligent... and they hate what they can't have! She'll probably took my picture home to stab it at night, but I need that damn license! But noooooooo. She's a Hater, .....I can tell. She wants to play residence games. I show her a piece of mail with my PO Box and name on it but NOOOOOO.......She wants mail with my physical address. I show her my passport and my California drivers license but NOOOOOO. Then she hands me a sheet of acceptable proof of residency. I explain that I don't receive mail at my residence. She shrugs her shoulders and gives me the look like 'get your shit together.'
Hater.
The list she gives me says "Oregon vehicle title" on one line. I return home, get my title for the Jeep. The address is;

Mr So and So
1234 Oregon Street
PO Box 1234, Southern Oregon, OR

I return. So far two hours have been spent on the two trips to town and twice waiting in the queue. When 'the Hater' calls my number I show her my vehicle registration, passport and CDL. She says, "Nooooooo... the address cannot show a mailing address and physical address... only a physical address."
When I explain I don't get mail at my physical address, and I don't live in my PO box, and we're establishing residence for a drivers license, not applying for a security clearance, she then brings up a screen on the computer to shows me the regulation.Then I show her the sheet of accepted ID, explain a vehicle registration is a vehicle registration, and I don't have her fucking computer, but just the information sheet she gave me an hour earlier and it doesn't say shit about 'no multiple addresses' and why the fuck give it to me if it 's not accurate and complete. Our relationship went downhill quickly from this point.
Hater.
This is the kind of govern-mental double talk that sets my rehabilitation back years. Tell me one thing then tell me, "Nooooooo, you fucked up", when really they mis-communicated.
I got home and called the DMV office. They corroborate what the Hater had said. BUT they also say the Office Manager can make a judgment call. In other words 'The Hater' could have issued the test etc. But Noooooooooooo, I was too handsome, secure, eloquent, intelligent and everything else that has eluded the miserable HATER'S life.
Got to go... got to get up early and go to the DMV to get legal tomorrow. Wish me luck. It ain't easy being me.
Like a Hater magnet; bringing out the best in people.

10 Days til Payday

Ten days till payday and the question is: Is there enough money to eat, and buy materials? Or just enough money for materials? And inextricably intertwined with the first two questions is the third: How many days can a man comfortably go hungry? Normally the second day I want to eat. If I'm told I can't eat for twelve hours, or like the night before, I'm starving upon receipt of the words. Anyway, this is about Materials not colondoscopies. (cool word , huh? is it misspelled?)

Lack of materials is why I have time this morning to write. I was sitting upstairs after breakfast, having a bowl and wondering what jail would be like, when I realized I should be dreaming about having materials to build endlessly. Then I started dreaming of the Winchester Hearst Castle I could build up here. But, alas, I had to admit to myself if I had the money for endless materials, I'd be riding around the country on my motorcycle, drinking in bars, eating in restaurants, living the good life, being lazy and having fun... You know, like all of you do!

Then I started thinking about jail again. I could work out religiously and maybe get a tattoo. If I got really buffed and strong, I'd have the thorns inked around my upper arms to accentuate their size. Get a teardrop. Maybe do the spider web tattoo around my elbows.

No, after deep soul searching, 'been there done that' is something I don't want to say about being arrested or jailed. I better think of Good things lest my energy manifest thought to reality. Is President Bush still in Italy plotting 'The End of Days' with the Pope and the Secret Society of the Jesuits?

Everything is wonderful. It's Friday the Thirteenth and this letter is to remind all of you that life is wonderful, every miserable moment.' And don't forget it and life will be wonderful, and you will be happy. Rejoice in every moment that you're still getting yours.