Central America

         The Life and Times of Golden Bear

October 26^th 2011

Once Gb got his head around what was happening to him, he could finally relax a little. The winds of change were blowing across the waters of time.  The moon was eclipsing the sun as the sun was eclipsing the moon.  The proverbial blue moon had arisen. The cicadas were singing their happy tune, shedding the old skin and morphing into a new life.  All this pointed to the one amazing truth.  The answers of all answers lie within the chrysalis.  Golden Bear was following his instincts like his first ancestors in this mystery of survival. He was going against all that he had been taught, all that he learned.  His mode was that of a hunter.  Check every bush and tree for your next meal. Look in every crevice and cranny for sustenance.  Chase everything that moves.  Hunt or be hunted. Be like the Baja Lynx. Start your hunt in the evening and lay up for the day in the colors of the shadows.  Head South for winter and North in the summer.  Keep your moccasins in good repair because you will be walking at some point.

February 12^th 2012

        VHe’d come a long way.  He had traveled down those well-worn paths of the coastal peoples of Mexico, Guatemala, Honduras, San Salvador, Nicaragua, Costa Rica and now, finally Panama.  The Golden One had arrived in Paradise.  Well, it looked that way at first. There were many colorful rainbows that greeted him on this day of arrival which is symbolic of the power and faith vested in Gb.

       Boquete is this quaint alpine tourist town in the Chiriqui Mountains near Volcan Baru’. This is home to the mystical Quetzal of the ancient Maya.  It holds a secure position in history. This bird represented a door to the spiritual world especially if one is tripping on magic mushrooms.  The creature appears in many stories and lore of the Maya, holding a special place of reverence for the naturalists who were the ancient Mayas.  The feathers alone are worth their weight in gold.  Actually, the feathers were valued as sacred and absolutely no price could be set for them. 

       Once, Gb visited the pyramids of sacrifice in Tikal with there many cravings in stone.  On one of these steps of this monolithic pyramid is carved a young chieftain who wears a headdress festooned with Quetzal feathers.  He was obviously high on magic mushrooms staring into the heavens, star-gazing. A stunning image caught in stone.

February 15^th 2012

John introduced himself. He was the resident hiking instructor there at Qhia Hostal in Santa Fe, Panama.  Qhia means moon in Mayan or phase of the moon or some such derivation. The language is complex just like John. He began his story by telling us that he is walking from Costa Rica to Colombia on the spine of Panama which is the mountain range that separates the two great oceans. Imagine the Geisha girls of old Japan walking on their husbands’ spine to soothe the tired muscles of the working man.  There was no limit to the imaginary life of John the trekker. That walk was a stunning achievement in any mans’ book but as his tale unfolded, everyone became slack jawed with amazement. This fisherman from Alaska had discovered a tribe of albino pygmies with blue eyes and nearly blond hair.  This small tribe lives underground most of the day only coming out after the sunset to avoid the sun and forage for food.   John continued, for he had lived with them teaching about the new technology like his handheld GPS and sharing basic information such as what the shirt pocket was for. He then revealed the most amazing thing about these people.

      They worshipped the watermelon. Not just any watermelon but the rattlesnake watermelon that came into existence with the North American cliff dwelling tribes of the American Southwest who had carefully bred this melon from the wilds. The seeds of which were handed down from father to son, tribe to tribe, people to people in the ongoing pageantry of mankind.   This unknown tribe had found uses for the rind of the melon by using it as a mold for clay pots and as protective dress against the elements. Even as storage for their other crop of Quinoa harvested in the remote valleys and highlands of Panama.

      John explained in detail how the rind would be worn until it took the shape of the head then was carefully covered with a tree resin to add a hardened surface that resisted rain and wind and the occasional blow dart. The melons’ most important role of all was camouflage. This was critically important to these melon heads when they went marauding into neighboring watermelon patches to liberate their God.  At the fall of darkness they would don their ceremonial headgear and like a herd of turtles, began snaking their way on their bellies disguised as watermelons to quickly snatch these symmetrical orbs from the very vine and ground they grew in. 

     As soon as they captured these wonders of soil and sunlight and after performing the ritual tribal watermelon stomp, the great feast would begin.  Many a watermelon had given its life for this sacred honor and is eaten alive with its very heart gouged out and fed to the watering mouths of the tribal young. Everyone gets new headgear to wear into the next foray. This is the life of the melon heads of the Panamanian jungle.

 February 17, 2012

      So the wheels turn with or without you.  Gb preferred to be at the helm of this great ship of state. He left Boquete as suddenly as he arrived.  His visa was coming due.  He needed to stage himself for either a visa renewal or a three day trek into Costa Rica which would validate his return to the Chiriqui Mountains in Panama.  He chose Puerto Armuelles for some R&R.  Beach time is always good for the soul as long as you check the waters for jellyfish, stingrays and other biting territorial creatures that haunt the Pacific. We get revenge by eating them. They get revenge by stinging us.  Such is life. 

         Gb was waiting. He was waiting for sunset and the planetary orbs to appear.  The steady stars are always there. The non-twinkling ones are planets. The sunlight during the day overpowers the faintness of star shine.  The moon was in its final crescent.  As the planets align, one might be able to see the curves of their surfaces as they begin to make their appearance just at sunset. This is truly an astounding sight to behold. His only concern were the town lights that might wash out this magnificent display.  Carnival begins in earnest all over Panama tonight. This coincides with Easter which changes according to the Christian calendar and is always different every year. His wait was almost over.

February 18, 2012

       After spending a restless night at Pension Balboa watching the carnival get underway which is the custom in Panama, the old bear slipped across the border back into Costa Rica to lay up and lick his wounds in Nelly. The heavenly carnival was a no show for the clouds were moving in obscuring the view. After spending nearly all day at the Aduana,  Estelle appeared. Standing in line to get her exit visa that they failed to give her when she left Panama some time ago. Panama just won’t let you go. Remembering the fun times at Santa Fe was special for the old Gb.

      This quaint town of Nelly has its own attractions.  All the children are beautiful. This is a given in Costa Rican families.  The jungle is close by. So close you can hear the frogs and insects amid the cries and squawks of lonely parrots.  Nelly is on the verge of success.  People are still smiling and happy in Nelly. 

        As for the story of the Panamanian melon heads, it will go on into a new chapter of discovery and wonder. On a whim or should it be known as a siren call, Gb went izequerda soon after leaving Nelly in his wake. He took the road less traveled. Finding to his surprise, another road to Golfito.  This he never intended. The quietness and remoteness of Golfito has its charm and the opulent jungles full of creatures and nocturnes that whistle and buzz their way through life, up close and personal and downright lively. The jungle is in the backyard of this little banana town of old. The loading docks are in disrepair. Cannibalized for their creosoted protection from insects such as the toreado worm. The decking found its way into nearly every household and backyard improvement project. The heyday was during the Panama Canal construction when it was decided to feed the workers with the cheapest product going which still is bananas.

        The banana plantations were vast undertakings requiring huge tracts of jungle to be cleared and replanted with only one variety.  There are hundreds of types but they chose Gros Michelle for its characteristic consistency of shape, durability and sugar content.  All bananas you see in the supermarkets of North America and Europe are harvested green and allowed to ripen under controlled circumstances using ethylene gas. However, the Gros has been replaced by the Cavendish. Gb was not there for bananas but was examining nearly every aspect of melon head activity in the jungle regions of Central America. He was there to examine the connection between the melon head tribe and the tribes that had inhabited the Costa Rican jungles and coastline.

     His only clue was that these coastal tribes had perfected a way to carve a perfect sphere in many sizes from huge to doorstop size.  It befuddles paleolithic archaeologists even today who have no clear understanding as to how they were able to achieve such perfection.  Bears’ theory was simple and elegant as well.  They used the rattlesnake watermelon as a model and thus were able to achieve the natural symmetry of this wondrous food using the most natural of substances which is sand and falling water.                  Waterfalls are plentiful here in the wild lands of Costa Rica.  By using sand and water over time they were able to erode the rather soft volcanic exterior of these massive stones. Possibly they helped the smoothing process by hand rubbing. Who told Bear to come back to this duty free banana capital? The God spirit was leading him again. He was due for back surgery In October 2012.

June 15^th 2013

It has been more than a year since the Central American adventure took place.  Gb drove all the way back to San Diego and lived among friends for a while. Eventually he was forced to leave his little one room abode due to the winds of changing circumstances blowing through.  Today he is living in Tijuana in the Libertad area upon the hills overlooking this old city of Mexico where he feels somewhat safer since Mexico outlawed guns. It is so much more interesting and cheaper with less stress than the USA.  Ever planning his next adventure which is bound to be exciting as is necessary to get away from the humdrum of domesticity which has never suited the old bear for very long.

       His fate is about to change for the better once again depending on that fate or better put, destiny.  One can never really tell if something is in reality or pure fiction. The written word can deceive ones’ senses and in this day and age of deception and intrigue on the internet.  Many want you to believe them, all for a few bucks. Oh what a tangled web we weave when we first attempt to deceive or so said my brother in a moment of pure lucidity.  He was quoting from a Shakespeare play.  Such an extraordinary man is Al the III.

        He joined the Navy and fought in the Vietnam war. He was a gunners’ mate on the battleship New Jersey which shelled Hai Phong harbor relentlessly in an attempt to dissuade the North Vietnamese from smuggling arms south.  Ok, they said, “we’ll only smuggle at night.” My brother witnessed some great splashes.

Don’t ever try to understand what motivates someone who is inherently gullible.  Most children in their golden years are susceptible to lies and deception.  Bear never outgrew this particular facet of his personality. He believes that people speak the truth even when they lie because the truth of the lie is actually more revealing than the truth itself.  Is that clear enough or shall I rephrase it in a lie?

      The world is getting older or the Bear is getting younger which ever it is, it should be very exciting. The joys of aging never cease and the angst of the youthful is always perplexing.

 Now where was I? I am perplexed again.

I lived with the old Golden Bear for many years so it is only natural for me to recall the most vivid moments of his life as if it were yesterday. These things happened and somehow reoccur in my memory as if by magic.

       He was called Duke or the Duke as was John Wayne but he was actually a greater man than Wayne although fame was withheld because of the pragmatic necessities of his day. Only now do I recall our early bond. We lived in the same room, ate the same meals and trained daily as Warriors of the Light. Our gunfights were make-believe real with death occurring daily in bloody episodes of ambush. Our swordplay was always to the death.

       We were sports stars. Football and baseball and basketball was where we shined putting on the equipment and trying to gain the upper hand in the battle of sports. Such was the life of the brothers.  We joined the Divine Light Mission and made our way to the Denver headquarters joyfully serving our new found guru by laying carpet in the Denver Ashram. Denver was filled with burned out premies as they were called then. That was a time to remember.  I left to go to Boulder and serve there and then to L.A. and the airfield where Guru Maharaj kept his planes. Duke ambled back home to lay up for a while and chase the girls of his youth which was his passion.

These brothers were born exactly a year and three days apart. This was a time of peace for the USA in 1949 and 1950 with the Korean War beginning shortly after. Sort of sandwiched in between two extraordinary conflicts these two were born, destined to play a minor role in the great pageantry of humanity. 

Duke was so very proud of his golden mane.  The girls would swoon and brush his hair so much he had to make them stop. All the hairdressers in town wanted him as a patron just so they could immerse themselves in the vibrant gold on his head. Such was the nature of being born in Southern California and to the German heritage. He was always enthusiastic for anything related to motorcycles. When he came back from overseas he bought a soft-tail Harley which simply means the bike has suspension and no rear fender.  That became part of his mystique.

We were always looking for adventure so one year in the Spring we managed to obtain a drive away car which is a delivery service for people who move somewhere and leave their car behind.  In this moment, we were driving all the way to San Francisco to make this delivery. So we set off in search of ourselves, the future and some very nice scenery, sleeping beside the highway in our old scouting gear which included a massive sleeping bag given to Duke by his mamare’.  He is essentially from Cajun extract. Me? not so much.

We stopped at the Grand Canyon and sat on the rim meditating. We were overlooking the huge natural expanse for hours until the road called us back. Once we stopped in Texas at a Mexican restaurant called the Blue Madonna. He had the red chili tamales and I had the green chili tamales. We couldn’t eat it. It was so hot. We drank so much milk to put out the flames of capsaicin that we peed all day.

So many things happened to us but the one most impressive was visiting the Hurst Castle on the California coast called San Simeon just south of San Francisco.  The legend of Patty Hurst was still fresh and imagining growing up there was an awesome inspiration. We grew up poor but not unhappy.

This had not been the first time we had come to California.  Duke was born there in LA County Hospital. We had moved to L.A. after my Mother married Dukes’ Father. We lived in Inglewood up in the hills overlooking L.A.  It was difficult for us to live in L.A. for any length of time. We always seemed to come back to New Orleans where we had roots and when we needed a respite from civilization. We both had some heavy issues as we progressed along the path that was laid before us.

Life was just getting to be overwhelming. One cannot change this dirty old earth. You can change yourself though, and seek to be a good human being.  If you don’t try you will stay the same ignorant slave of the system that diminishes your value and beats you down simply because you might be somewhat different or travel to a different drummer. 
Duke worked as a builder for a theatre troupe in the French Quarter. He was an innovative builder. He built an entire stage in the shape of a star on a slight incline so the actors had to consciously strain to maintain their position. There were so many other interesting things about him. 

We got over things quickly. Whether it was a fight for real or just the pure aggravation at the situation of our lives, we overcame it.  All this passed over us like a storm in summer.

Suddenly, we drifted away from our brotherhood and became other men who actually have no connection even to this day.  Duke continues to work at the pumping station that keeps New Orleans from disappearing underwater. There are seven stations around the city. He is at the most critical pumping station. This is his nature to be a savior of New Orleans.  His Grandmother would be so very proud of him.

Anyone could be a Golden Bear. You simply have to live up to the ideal which challenges you daily to perform as a good human would and should.  No more surrendering to fits of morose feelings or unhealthy behaviors. The world needs your help. Your higher self needs your help.  Become a Golden Bear!

So the legacy goes on. No longer is Golden Bear limited by borders and jurisdictions.  He can be everywhere at once always represented by someone who holds the higher moral ground.  He no longer makes distinction of nationality as the great arbiter.  The reality of just being human justifies one becoming a Golden Bear. The honor lasts a lifetime and could be placed on the headstone,

 “Here lies another Great Golden Bear who sought only good.”

Simple is best. If you get too sophisticated not everyone can understand.

Dothan

   This is the town my mother's family chose to live. A typical Alabama town that was famous for peanuts. This is the place where nearly every peanut used in the production of peanut butter originated. Dothan can be found in the Bible.  That history is not that good. During my early years we would make the annual trip back home to be with the family as many do in America.  One year my cousins and I went cruising in a '56 chevy.  For fun, we would go on a watermelon raid.  We would douse the lights and turn off the car and coast up to a field with ripened melons. One night, the farmer opened the front door flicked on the porch light and let go a barrage of shotgun blasts.  It was too far away to be effective.  We jumped in the car with our captured melons. What an image. I can still smell the oil burning on the engine manifold as we made our getaway.
       My uncles were woodsmen. One night, my uncle Kermit organized a frog hunting out in the swamps and bogs that surround this little hamlet of years ago. If you never eaten fried frogs legs you are missing out on one of the most Southern of dishes that tastes so good.  The last time I was there, I saw my Aunt and Uncle for the last time.  I knew it would be the last time because they both were crying as I boarded the bus to New Orleans and finally Seattle. 

       I heard the dreaded news a few years later. There was a fig tree in their backyard.  This fig tree grew the sweetest and largest fruit I've ever seen. It seems many Southern households have fruit trees in the backyard. My Aunt Sara had a mulberry tree that produced great quantities that were turned into pies. The birds would eat from this tree until they became intoxicated and could not fly.
      Nearly every summer I would go to Florida to be with my Aunt Mary and her many children. Her husband was a car enthusiast who bought her a 1964 convertible Mustang. This car was a light blue with white leather interior with 4 on the floor.  After much pleading she finally let me take it for a spin on the farm. I still remember how this little car handled with its rack and pinion steering.
       We had other relations we visited often. One of our distant cousins drove the stock car circuits which can be brutal for the driver. I remember him talking about how it felt to win the race. Those glorious days have no equal to anything in my experience. The immense love I felt when with my family that showed me I was there to be a significant feature in this huge family. It scared the hell out of me.
      I'd go riding horses with Richard my cousin in the cotton fields and peanut farms that surround Dothan. I'd always ride bareback like the Indian I wanted to be.  The horse was a wild one. He did not like riders at all. His favorite trick was the brush off. He'd gallop away with me trying to turn him. He was on a mission. There was a shed with a galvanized roof that overhung just about horse high. He'd dash as near to he shed as he could go then ducking his head to try and get me in a collision with the roof edge. You had to lay flat down on the horse's back to avoid decapitation.  He didn't care.  He had all the peanuts he could eat.
        Many of these old towns had swimming pools.  These were huge affairs that attracted the families during recreational times. Artesian springs fed the pools that the southerners started calling mineral waters that had healing properties.  These springs became popular with the wealthy in the north. It was not long in coming before the northerners would make the annual pilgrimage to these places. The Southern Baptists convert many people using these springs to baptize the repentant.  It was a dual use facility in the heyday of the 20's and 30's. Most of these facilities have gone the way of the horse.  Replaced by the more modern pools and baptismals they are remembered in the old family portraits of the era.
During the hot summers there would be tent revivals set up in open fields of the rural south.  The choirs would start singing those old hymnals which would touch the heart of the ladies of the faith. This in turn, would bring the curious family members to these huge open air events. It beats laying around and getting drunk.  There were many converts because of these endeavors.  It was the place to get feed both spiritually and physically.
     Always the pranksters, we would go golfing at night on my Uncle's golf course. We soon tired of this idiocy and though we would do some greens keeping. We collected sand from the sand traps and poured it into the hole. We did not stop there ignoring good advice, but created more piles of sand so in the morning the first golfer would be a little perplexed as to where the real hole was. This type of pranksterism went on for most of the summer. Beware of the creative mind.

The Medicine Wheel Farm and Morning Song

   It was a cold day for the Healing Gathering to end in such a way with winds and gloomy weather. The plan was to travel to Cottage Grove with this remnant of the Rainbow Family. Morning Song was leading the way Shades of Sacajawea. We all arrived at the farm somewhere west of Cottage Grove and tumbled out of that red step van, all sticky and unclean. Dancing Feather had opened his massive house to the women of the Rainbow. He's no dummy. The hayloft was relegated for the men of this troupe.  Hay is not at all uncomfortable once you snuggle into this sweet smelling delightfulness of its warmth. No candles please. The only thing to fear is silicosis of the lungs. Cough....Man has been sleeping in the hay for centuries. This is the most likely bedding for the poor agriculturalists of the world. It shows you are solidly connected to the land from whence it grows. Never mind the occasional poke in the eye or the errant straw up the nose while capturing the few hours of snooze time before the day begins again. Home never looked as good as it did then.
       Morning Song had a small tipi that we set up far from the main encampment. In the winter we used a liner which acts as an insulator. When it is cold there is no escape except the small fire in the center. The Plains Indians dug what is called a Dakota Hole which consists of a U shaped hole with a fire in one side. The other side is the draft hole. When properly fueled, this arrangement could probably melt steel. The surrounding earth warms considerably. The whole tipi becomes comfortable enough to enjoy life at 30 below.  The buffalo robe is by far the warmest to sleep in as it retains heat so well you actually start to throw it off in the middle of the night, only to quickly recover it.  There is a museum outside of Cody, Wyoming that features much of the Plains Indian lifestyle before the advent of the whites. You can learn a lot from those Gentlemen of the Plains. The bead work is extraordinary.
      For the nonstop traveler any resting place you can find is home. You get used to it. Not having a real home is the reality for most on the road. The land in Oregon is almost tribal land now. The Rainbows finally came home.  Many a day was spent at Momma's Truckstop to get fed the nice warm foods of rural Americans. If you want to eat well work for a farmer.
      I was truly in the land of snake braids and free love.  It was a sign of domesticity to have your hair braided in snake braids. Then have small bead threaded through the hair only added to the festivities of family life. I've seen this style all the way to Tonga as well.  My mane was long and was not well cared for.  Morning Song took the time to help me care for the smaller details of daily living.   One of my fondest memories of being with the Family was the group hugs that started spontaneously. Many people join together to form a tight circle dispelling any harsh feelings and disappointments.
       We had a huge group of travelers who intended to stay at the farm for the winter. The logistics of this was staggering. These were mere children who had no money to buy food. Morning Song and I started inquiring about Food Stamps and learned that everyone was eligible. We just needed to sign them up to get about $200 in stamps a month for each.  There is a God after all.   With the pooled stamps we were set for the coming winter with feeding ourselves.   Can't say what would have happened to these people had we not stopped by that Welfare Office. It would not have been pretty.
       One day, as we were driving to work at the Tofu Shop owned by Dancing Feather and Landra, one of the guys saw a dead buck near the road.  He yelled for the car to stop. He jumped out with a hacksaw in his hand. He soon had both antlers in his possession. It took all of 3 minutes. For Thanksgiving we designed a tofu turkey to feed the Family. It was a great occasion with many speeches by the grey beards. It was one of those times when we all agreed.
     Soon after, Morning Song began seeing other men.  This along with other troubles, made it impossible for me to continue on with the Rainbows.   I packed up and left one cold morning.  Destination: No where soon.   I headed north to Bellingham to return to the University.  Turn the page when the chapter ends.

Tijuana turn around

       So far, TJ has been a bust for me. All I seem to do here is interdict criminals intent on disturbing my sleep via powerful and illegal dope. As if that is not enough, the loud music and obnoxious, overbearing drug addicted neighbors who think they can influence me have got another thing coming.  It just takes time for the gears of justice to mesh. I am interested in turning these forsaken lives into something to be proud of. The way you do this is to make them ashamed of their behavior.
The current thing is the boom cars. These obnoxious cretin forms of life are the musician's nightmare. These guys use so called music as a weapon. The earthquake cars can cause heart attacks among the elderly and ruin the hearing of infants and children. How it does this is by causing the hairs in the cochlear tube to flatten out. It never returns to its vertical position again and eventually dies.Thus the hearing vestibule is compromised Therefore, these guys who listen to this trash have already lost much of their hearing. The intense vibratory pulses replace actual hearing with body sensations that replicate hearing. It is like a drug but kills in a different way.

There are many psychological theories to explain why these people become so socially distant and irrelevant to the rest of the community they offend. They were not held by their Mothers.  Their Fathers were abusive. Unable to make friends in the community, they become social outcasts that discovered a way to intimidate their others by immersing themselves in this insane, semi-entertaining music. These people need help and their ears confiscated.

You see the homeless first of all. Because they come to the car window begging for a few pesos. As
I've lived now in TJ for over a year, I am seeing more and more of the uncared for. Their clothing is shredded and sometimes completely gone.  They are shoeless. They make their way to the begging grounds that only they know.  They simply talk to themselves in mumbling voices that makes no sense to the people passing by.
I am always troubled by the sight of someone in desperate need of food, water and shelter. The basics of human life and dignity are the daily needs of these people.  I look at the government, the churches and my neighbors for answers. There is no one answering. I'd take their pictures but that would be a travesty in itself. Dignity must come from anonymity. Their demise is mourned by no one.

There has been non stop drug addict behavior happening as I write this, here in Tijuana. It is actually better here than what was happening in San Diego concerning dope. It starts with the neighbors who use narcotics.  The want to protect their habit so anyone who threatens to take away that addiction is viewed as a someone to beat down.  Apparently, this is me. Thie one apartment has been the home of drug addicts as long as I've been here. The address is 775 18th St. in Col. Libertad. Knowing this to be true makes me act. I do this first by reporting to the police, the DEA and the Federales who take things more seriously than the local precinct. These are the best guys to report drug activity. They do their work fast and efficiently with little announcement about their presence.

Demasiadas armas en América ahora. Es sólo que no quiero que me tiro por cualquier persona.

"Levanten los manos" is what you will hear in Mexico if there is a problem.

Jumpin' Jive Island Slick Slam Dance Contest

      Many times there were dances at the Orcas Island old Community Center that caught the essence of the mood of winter.  People gathered there to sing the blues and do the jump down turnaround with some of the rocking musicians that lived and breathed on the Islands in the Fog,  It was cool to dance the Lindy Hop with those go girls and party misses of the time. All hush hush so nobody could object to the jazziest happening in the San Juan Islands.  

       I just got off work at the restaurant washing the dishes listening to Nat King Cole so I was ready to hit the floor and strut my onion.  It was one of those happenings that takes you by surprise. The non planning that went into these events was uncanny.  What we were doing was creating strong people who could weather any winter.  I'm sure someone was not happy but not on these nights. Everyone there had permanent smiles in place with moves to match.  The wild life on Orcas took centre stage and adapted to the moonlight.
   One year, I bought a Martin knock off which made me happy for about two days. I unboxed it and tuned it to my liking. Orcas is extremely humid in the summertime. The bridge started lifting and the neck started delaminating. I paid good money for a bad instrument. This never should have been. It left me feeling bad and abused again. My next move had to free me from this misery.
     I was not one to pass up a chance to flee. I fled the island a few times trying to get something going in the music business. It is not the innocent thing anymore. Rock and roll is home to the many criminals who rule the night. They learned their music in the prisons. 

        There is no escape. The island life called me back. I finally flew off to Hawaii once again. You'd think I would have learned that travelling in the same pathways I would come to the same roadblock.  I tried to emulate George H. since he was successful in music. I was looking like him but there was one difference. I had no money to speak of. 

      I took a job with a court resurfacing outfit just to hold my place in this world of pain.  At 10 dollars an hour at least I was making more than minimum.  Someone clued me into the scam. The contractor had scheduled $20 an hour for hired help with the City of Honolulu.  He was skimming me.  I found out the hard way.  I was supporting these crooks by participating in this scam.  On the last job he was trying to rush me.  I had a bucket full of epoxy at my feet.  Don't piss me off.  I kicked over the bucket leaving him to scramble to spread the quickly drying epoxy.  Of course it was a dirty trick but I felt better and glad to move on. The assholes are everywhere.
      I did feel special though, when we corrected the Eagle's Glenn Fry tennis court in a big push.  In spite of everything, I was shorted and never tackled suing him for back wages. Just getting free of this guy was what I needed.  You need to watch carefully.  The cheats are everywhere.

Ralph

       I used to go to Texarkana for the summer on the train by myself. It was a rare experience for a 10 yr old to travel alone.  My Uncle Ralph and Aunt Ginger made me feel welcome. Ralph would take me along to work delivering products to the various pharmacies of the region.  He'd sell things like nail clippers, combs and other grooming items. He would wake us up by singing songs such as Winchester Cathedral using a megaphone of rolled up papers. I played many pranks on him like serving rubber eggs for breakfast and phony poop jokes as well as putting itching powder in his sheets. 

      For my birthday he gave me a book about cowboys of the Old West. This was the best book I ever got from anyone. I wanted to be a cowboy. In fact, there is a picture of me at the age of 5 all dressed out as a cowboy which was typical of families of that era. I took it seriously though. Ralph was the best at many things. He is a faithful Christian and was interested in saving my soul.  My soul needed no saving though.  I am an excellent swimmer.  God had other plans for me.
    I always asked to stay at a motel with a swimming pool when we were on the road. I wanted to be good at something physical. Swimming was my choice.  I got to see much of the region and delighted in the annual trip to Lake Texarkana. Texarkana is on the border of three states Texas , Arkansas and Louisiana. Thus the name.
        Ralph was at the battle of Midway in the Pacific along with Uncle Kermit who was killed in a road accident. He never talks of that Battle, hoping to finally erase the horrors of that day.  My Uncle Ralph died this year on the 23rd of December 2015.  He died in his sleep which is the very best way to leave things.  Quietly he goes...
    My other Uncle is Fred. He is the Purple Heart recipient and Silver Star winner who was shot through the hand in the exact same spot his Uncle was shot at the Battle of Shiloh. They put him ashore in the Philippines and told to deliver orders.They sent him off in the wrong direction straight into a Japanese encampment. He killed three Japanese with his carbine he carried on the dash of the jeep . He was shot through the wrist but managed to return to the ship.
   It seems to be a generational thing to be injured in the hand since my injury is similar to theirs.  It's sort of a record for three generations to have hand injuries to the same hand. Nothing to be proud of though.

I was raised on the Milk of the Burro

    I finally came to the end of the Baja Pennisula. Such a long hot drive if there ever was. I stayed in some forgotten hostel recovering from sunburn and dehydration. I was soon on my way to the ferry landing for the overnight trip to Matzatlan. This is a car ferry that looks like a freighter. It packs mostly trucks into its hull. These big rigs can be dangerous.
    I bought my ticket for $200 so I was committed to the trip. I was early like always and had to wait most of the day. I decided to have one of those typical Mexican meals and a beer at the only restaurant, bar, nightclub, toilet in the area. I hiked up to the location in Palenque.
    I was invited to sit with some of the travelers who were also attending to various needs of the day like calling their families to say one last goodbye,  The kids love to follow their Dad's trips . It was kinda festive since everyone was laughing and having a good time. It was time to down a few since I would not be driving for a while. 

      One of the guys I sat with was from San Salvador. Sort of a sad fella so I asked him to tell his story. We were all just wasting the afternoon until the ship was finally ready. He began his story with this phrase. 'I was raised on the mMilk of the Burro.' Everyone broke up laughing . What this means is his family was so poor all they had was this scrawny burro who got pregnant.  This story led into how poor they were without shoes and clothes and how they had to be creative as they grew up.  He not only kept us laughing but illustrated the plight of the peasant vividly. I will always remember the cartoon of the skinny burro being milked for the kids to have a drink.  Soon the long whistle blew. We gathered up our tortillas and gave one last look back from where we just had come. The ship was ready for departure.
    At first you are thinking 'at sea at last' until the first upset stomach barfs all over the lounge. The stench builds as the day wears on. If you didn't buy a berth you were resigned to the day room with the TV blaring all night. I tried to sleep in the car but it was against the rules. So an all nighter with cat naps was what I was facing. Dawn broke to the scene of the ship approaching Mazatlan. I had finally found a spot to sleep on deck in the cool of the morning. I awoke rested and glad to leave the ferry for the drive down the coast.  First to get on the ferry and the last to get off. This was because I was the only private car going south at that time of the year.
   You hear all kinds of stories from the truckers who want to practice their English. One guy had many skin grafts all over his body. He told me what happened to him.  He was instructing a new driver on how to handle the truck in a controlled turn.  The kid though, was uncontrollable. Driving like its a sports car does not work with a big rig. He rolled the truck and the fuel spilled out and caught fire.  He was lucky. His burns covered 60 percent of his lower body. His face and hands were OK but the rest of him took years to heal.   He actually was at the same hospital where I worked at in SLC.  Now he drives the coastal route which is somewhat safer. The long night was over with a nice Mexican breakfast.
   You must be vigilant. One slip and the word dinero will be soon used;  lots of dinero, lots and lots of dinero. It is also called mordida which means payoff. Carry plenty of pesos. You just never know.
       I rolled  into Agua Prieta  going highway speed, when out of the twilight up jumped a topa or sleeping policeman. I hit the thing so hard everything was bouncing around.  A cop pulled up behind me and lit me up. I pulled over immediately. He said I must pay him 750 pesos or roughly 65 USD.  He started get agitated and using the word ahorita which means immediately if not sooner. I tried to fake a phone call just to get him to back off a little and calm him down.  Luckily I had a lot of cash in my locked glove box.  I asked for a receipt or a copy of the ticket but he said there is none and proceeded to drive off.  I was robbed by that officer.
       I was stopped at the Aduana going into Panama.  The only way to prevent a total car search is to leave a twenty on the floor on the passenger side. Everybody does it. This helps the guard feed his family and shortens your torture in 130 degree heat. Once the contents are spread all over and you pass inspection you are expected to put everything in order muy rapido and get the hell out of the way. Next? Mordida is made not earned.

Sheila

      I can 't help but remember my best girl Sheila. She deserves more than I could ever write about her.   Sheila was the only good thing to happen to Gb for a long time. She and her brother Mark came to New Orleans on a long drive to see the South.   Unimpressed, they were heading back to LA.   It was Christmas Eve. They came into Vaux Cresson's Creole Restaurant for a special Christmas dinner. It was sort of the last supper before returning to the West Coast vibe.   I waited tables there.   I seated the entourage as any host would paying particularly close attention to the flaming redhead before me.
     It was absolutely love at first sight.  I fumbled my way through dinner but managed to impress her enough for her to invite me to show them around. I finished the shift and we rambled around Bourbon St. until we decided to go to my apartment in the Vieux Carre' for some rest.   Mark had long since got the message from Sheila that she liked me.  I've never been with such a wonderful girl before. After a quiet night of party she asked me to meet her the next day at their motel room on Airline Highway.  I found out she is a New York model who is paid very well. She gave me a rabbit skin hat that figured in my life for many years.  She joked about it being a rabbi skin.  Jewish humor was so in.

    I had discovered a long haired Persian cat trapped in the wall. I figured a way to rescue this cat.  I later found out it was the dealers cat.  The guy was arrested and had abandoned this beautiful cat.  I eventually gave it to my brother who cares for her until she died.

     When April rolled around, I set off down the highway to LA with stars in my eyes and a song in my heart. I had Sheila's scarf wrapped around my neck for good luck. It was a white fluffy thing that hung to my knees. I was hitching with Jim. He had a John Lennon haircut and a desire to leave the South.   I found out later he was AWOL from the Army. You just never know what's in store when you take to the road. There were no more rides for us in the middle of Texas with no shelter. It began snowing heavily.  We were faced with an early spring blizzard and death by freezing. I jumped the fence to build a fire.  My hands were numb as I tried to light a fire in the blowing snow.

The steady hum of an approaching car made me leap to my feet and start running to the highway with the scarf flapping in the wind. A VW slid to a halt. We jumped in and asked the million dollar question 'how far are you going?' LA, he said. I wouldn't have seen you except for the white scarf waving like a flag.  We arrived at Sheila's front door.

      I said goodbye to my roadie friends and said a big hello to Sheila.   Something was slightly akilter, though. Even though she recognized me, we were meeting in a different situation.  We finally got over the difficult parts and started enjoying each others company again.   She would go to work teaching school. I would spend the day driving around in her bright red VW until it was time to pick her up at school.   Life was beautiful.   She was absolutely beautiful.  She was a recent divorcee and was missing the warmth and protection that marriage affords to women.   She asked me to marry and I would have except I had nothing going on that would have supported us. You can't live on love alone.   I started looking for a job in LA.  Reality was soon taking over and hamstringing all my plans. Not even one job magically appeared to solve my financial woes.

      Things moved into summer. We were still taking trips to San Francisco on the weekends and as many free events as we could. We saw Wilt Chamberlain play volleyball at a public showing.  We were invited to party with celebrities. Sheila used to hang with the Buffalo Springfield and many other LA groups.  I came to find out she was a groupie which is not bad in my book. Such a girl with her natural beauty was a potent guy magnet.  She was with a guy like me and that was pushing the envelope of reality. I started thinking too much and having doubts that maybe I was being manipulated in some way.  I hate politics. Enough said.   She took me to a Jewish Community Center in LA. I sat beneath the skylight shaped like a Star of David with the beautiful sunlight streaming down on me.  I will always remember that tender moment. I wrote many songs while I was with Shelia. All lost to the winds. I only remember fragments now.
    One night we were going to Bill Withers house of 'Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone' fame. I started having panic attacks about this.  I told her to stop the car or I will jump out. I opened the door as if to do it.   She turned around and headed home. The stress of it all was getting to me. It was at point I decided that the music business was not for me.  Fame is a fleeting thing. As the bass player told me when we were forming a band. You don't have the heart for this sort of rigorous life.  He was absolutely right. I broke off all contact with anyone connected to the music business. In those days a band was stopped mid tour by law enforcement. Everything and I mean everything is confiscated.  There was no fighting the powers that be. You might remember the group Blue Cheer?  I met them in New Orleans. They told me of being stopped as they were entering Europe.  There was nothing they could do but go home and sit it out. If I tried to succeed, I would have died somewhere in my early 30's. All I wanted was a nice quiet long life. Stage fright is a very real phenomena. I had stage fright since I was 15 yrs old.  I could not recite the scout law in public even though everyone was watching me on stage. I disappeared from public life for good. I did my time. I paid my dues. I got no reward except some interesting memories.

       Our beautiful friendship collapsed in a spiraling tizzy. Her white Persian cat got out one day and was beaten bloody by the neighborhood strays. The neighbors turned out to be drug dealers fresh out of prison. Sheila loved her cokes and smokes but I was having a psychotic episode.  It was time to go home. I called my Dad. He sent me a plane ticket back to New Orleans. The dream was over. I sent many letters to her that were never answered.  I called her brother. He told me she married a lawyer and moved to Seattle.  She now has two babies. So that was it for me. No more long distance relationships. I was soon headed for nowhere soon.

Bartholomew Street

         We finally found a duplex shotgun owned by an eccentric gay  who grew flowers in every piece of dirt he had control of.  The house was meticulously painted brightly and detailed with every ticky tacky lawn ornament and garden decoration conceivable. It truly was an amazing sight if you valued things like that. 

       Being young and impertinent my brothers and I busied ourselves at the school of hard knocks. We moved from South Caliborne simply because it was too dangerous. While playing at the merry-go-round I fell and was caught underneath the wheel.  I was knocked in the head which required stitches at Charity Hospital.  I was terrified since blood was streaming down my face.  The bolts holding the rails on the merry-go-round severely lacerated my scalp. My first indication things were not safe in New Orleans. We carried on to school.
      That was William O. Rogers Elementary School. The very first school to be integrated in New Orleans.  This was met with resistance by almost everyone except my parents who knew in their hearts and minds that education was the way out.  It was the way up in this mean world.  We had to cross picket lines to get to school amid the raging and very vocal whites who wanted to intimidate us into not crossing the lines. We needed Federal escorts just to get in the building. We passed the black sisters who were crying because they were terribly afraid that they would not make it through the day.  My brothers and I smiled at them hoping to reassure them not all whites are like that,  We were the only students in school for a long time. Day after day we trudged to school amid the heckles and cat calls.  At this point our lives became serious.  Finally it was over and we returned to the anonymous life of young students.    I was in Mrs. Ansardi's third grade class. This was one tough nut teacher who would show her anger by rolling the pencil in her palms so that her ring clicked each time it was passed over by the pencil.   The louder the clicking the more displeasure there was as you witnessed the sweat pouring off of her in torrents.The heat was intolerable. It was so hard.  Finally things settled down some but those images still remain firmly etched in my brain.  I became a crossing guard complete with the over the shoulder sash and shield. I was very proud of my new role.  I was always trying to create some levity for my classmates. We were walking single file to the auditorium for some lecture. There were these giant columns that were hold the building up. I had seen a lot of slapstick. I walked directly into the column falling down as with a startled look on my face. The class chuckled but keep going. That was the end of my slapstick comedy.
     That year, my Dad brought home transistor radios for us boys. We listened intently to the Mighty 690 radio station. We were just getting into high fidelity. This was all tinny AM radio so you would get all the advertisements but also popular good tunes. We listened constantly. Fats Domino lived nearby because we would see his pink Cadillac flashing by with those huge fins. There was a talent show in the cafeteria.  My Mother is a Southern girl so naturally she loved Elvis. I wanted to please her so I rehearsed Blue Suede Shoes in my spare time. I dressed in my best Elvis and jumped and gyrated as I had seen Elvis do on TV. I was just mouthing the words to the music but it so happened that my appearance was just what the doctor ordered for everyone there. I don't remember winning but I sure remember it was fun. This started a career in music that  has yet to be fulfilled.  Fear lasts a long, long time. That year I learned what true fear is.

       My Dad also had the musical South Pacific in a record set that I listened to over and over. All three of my uncles served in the Pacific Theater in WW II.  Two were at the Battle of Midway. The other was in the Philippines during the invasion.   I grew up around these war heroes.  I built model war planes. Toy soldiers were my troops that endured those times of battles.   I found a chain belt of spent cartridges that I used like a Mexican bandoleer in my fake battles with my brothers for intimidation purposes. It seldom worked that way.  One day someone talked me into boxing.   I put on the gloves and took the boxing stance. The boy hit me so hard in the side of the head I was truly seeing stars. I immediately took the gloves off and never fought another fight except with my brothers.

      Springtime was kite season. There is no better way to escape the bonds of earth than flying a kite. We built our own out of clear plastic that gave us the advantage of stealth when kite fighting. The tails of the kites were long. We embedded glass and razor blades in the tail so that we could weaponize the kite in many different configurations. The trick is to get your kite to fly higher than the others.  Pulling hard on the string made it dive and swoop and if luck is with you, the tail crosses the string of your adversary. Then it is just a matter of time before it cuts through. There was no parental supervision in those days. They were always working and trying to make a living. In New Orleans you had to fight to survive.  The kites taught us how to survive.
     I believe my clear plastic kites were the inspiration for stealth technology. Who's to say? Surely not me.  I once left my kite flying all night just to see what would happen.  In the morning she was still up there but the winds had changed during the night. Somehow this was beginning to make sense.  Later that day, we all heard a loud boom. Since it was the 4th of July we thought it was some kid playing with his fireworks. Soon though, we spotted one of our acquaintances lying on the basketball court. He had made a pipe bomb with a short fuse that blew up prematurely in his hand. He lost fingers and his face was embedded with shrapnel.  A Good Samaritan loaded him in his car and drove him to the hospital. He could have bled to death right in front of us if not for this man. We stopped being creative with fireworks. Danger lurks at every step of your life along all of the paths you travel.

         My family would go over to our Great Grandmothers whom we called Fat Mamare. She was that but she was fat because she no longer could walk very well and would sit all day reviewing her family which was immense.   At one of these family gatherings on New Years Eve I sat down at the old upright piano to doodle with music. This family has its share of malcontents.   I was suddenly attacked from behind with a hammer.  One of our many cousins turned jealous.  He sneaked up behind and clobbered me with a silver hammer. I was seeing stars and nearly passed out from the blow to the cranium. Maxwell's silver hammer fell down upon his head.  Pretty sure he wound up badly.

       I immediately associated music with being injured. That set the stage for avoidance for quite awhile.   I still am nervous when playing constantly looking over my shoulder for trouble approaching.  Hardly a way to be creative. Yet my Mother constantly wanted me to be an artist. She gave me a John Negay Learn to Draw kit with charcoal and color pencils. She gave me a paint by numbers paint set which I used in my spare time. There is nothing original about staying within the lines.  I found nothing that would support me.   My prospects were growing dimmer.
   I happened to know of a group of musicians working out of the garage. I went over one day to hear an impromtu singing of the Duke of Earl.  On another occasion Gene Tierney came to my school to show off his talent and inspire kids. I though he was talking to me when he tried to enlist the help of everyone to produce music.

   These were the days of plastic soldiers and bug tussles that helped us pass the long summer afternoons.  We would take over some front yard garden under the alzaleas hidden from view.  We would develop a battlefield with ramps and forts that any general would find exciting. This how a child learns to process the battles he faces in life.  My parents were firm in the belief that allowing the boys to play was the best way to develop them.  There are shops in New Orleans that specialize in hand painted toy soldiers. This tends to get expensive when a patron orders a full division of soldiers. The detail is an astounding achievement in miniaturization.  The European battles such as Waterloo and Napoleon's French troops swarming Europe are really popular since it is a rare thing to even read about these battles in popular media. Remember Napoleon was expected to arrive in New Orleans after his escape from Helena. There is a building called Napoleon House with a small observatory to watch for his arrival by ship.   History is simply forgotten by most
except for Fitzhugh.
 This guy was a Viet Nam veteran who was blown all to hell. He was wearing braces with damage to his shoulder. He had this huge head compared to the body.  There is more about this character somewhere else in these blogs.

Riverboat

I walked out one morning
And the sun was in my eyes
A lonely past stood in my way
And sleep was on my mind

I walked and walked about a thousand miles
Never did I see the river's end
I was lost in the fog
And early morning light
Just waiting for that new day to begin

Riverboat coming down the river
Riverboat coming down the line
Riverboat take me to my lover
Riverboat don't leave me behind

So now I'm a riverboat gambling man
I take their money by slight of hand
I live the life that pleases me
never to touch the land.

My days are spent with a deck of cards
So easily I do play
The games of chance
The sweet romance
I'm always on display.

Riverboat coming down that river
Riverboat coming down that line
Riverboat take me to my lover
Riverboat don't leave me behind

I 'm a Riverboat gambling man
I take real pride in my trade
I fill the inside straight so well 

I am the Jack of Spades

I dress in a linen suit
I wear the Panama hat
My boots are always shined so well
by shoeshine men who use pitch black

The rings of my fingers are woven
 silver and gold
My derringer is always ready
to defend my Eagle stack
I've won by watching carefully
As evening swelters on my back

Honolulu

        I really fought the good fight to graduate with Honors from the University of Hawaii. There were many nights working at the hospital in the geriatric ward that were inexplicably bad. After the all night sessions of changing diapers of the bed ridden, we finally reached the last hour of work which was breakfast.  We had a plan. We put all the patients in geriatric chairs and rolled them into an empty room. Food was served and all was good.            That is, until someone did not like something and started throwing food. It seems ridiculous now but when you see food fights in the geriatric ward you've seen it all.                There were scrambled eggs and oatmeal everywhere. I was grateful to see my replacement at this hour and made a speedy escape to my first class at the University by bicycle at 8 am
     I was volunteering at the Emergency Room to see the most interesting cases for the medical profession.  The doctors of the ER were very kind in teaching skills like placing stitches and diagnosing illness. Sewing through skin is tough so you need strong hands and a strong will to see it through. 

       I tried to sign on with the hospital sailing ship called Maru thinking that would satisfy my longing to be at sea. That ship sailed without me.  I saw her again in Fiji after finding my way to the Fijian Islands.  I was my own Peace Corps helping in my own way. It was effective and soulfully satisfying. In the villages I stayed in, I lined up the children in the morning and treated their childhood wounds.
      I found out many professors were using narcotics.  The most memorable was the Psyche Professor who was not afraid to convert the young to the drug world by lecturing about her most recent experiences with heroin and the like.       This was disconcerting to find this out. I redoubled my effort to bust as many as I could with the knowledge base that I had. There were many other incidents at the University of Hawaii.
   There are biker gangs living on Oahu. On Sunday they ride around the island. I discovered I was living close to one of these guys.  He just received a crated motorcycle from Asia.  It had the bill of lading and customs inspection sticker in place.  What these junkies do is have all the hollow tubes filled with heroin then crate the thing and have it inspected and labelled.  Thus for the cost of a motorcycle he sets himself up for life since the heroin is worth a pretty penny.  Suddenly he is wealthy without a care in the world except for people like me who report this activity to the police.
    The Aloha Tower in Honolulu has seen many seamen coming and going. I was just one of many who had passed through this great seaport in the Pacific. My uncles had passed through this place and so had my father's friends. They all fought in WW II. It was a noble moment to stand there and realize how special it was to see this monument.

     Soon I was jaded and found a ship going South. Even though Honolulu is beautiful and full of life, it is a very expensive place to visit.  I thought I had money enough but I was soon in rags living a desperado life.
    On the road to Sandy Beach there is a bluff that overlooks some of the best wind surfing to be had on the Islands.  It is colorful and robust enough to be a grand spectator sport for visitors who stumble upon this scene. Unless someone takes you there you will probably just drive on by.

Westgate

      After LA the family came back to New Orleans. At first we lived above a bar on Rampart which was challenging because of the weird people.  We did not stay long. The old man wanted to move to suburbs so he bought a house in the Westgate subdivision out in Metarie.         We settled into the new house on the GI housing bill.  One of our favorite games was played in an old refrigerator box. We called it tank. You'd crawl on your hands and knees inside the open ended box until it became flexible. You could then roll over almost anything.  We were on the edge of Louisiana wilderness where the new housing was being built. 

      For young boys this was the best of all worlds. We built many forts out of 2x4 end cuts and scraps.  We could find our way home by looking for the red and white striped water tower still standing today.  It was sad when we finally had to leave this interesting neighborhood.
      John C. Clancy was the school we attended. It seemed like recess would never come. That was when I could play tops and marbles. I could win at these shooting games taking home sacks of marbles and newly minted tops. 

      One day, I was called into the principal's office because of a snake I caught.  I was terrified. The snake was a harmless garter snake. My brother came to see me sitting in the office. I thought I was going to be executed or worse. There was none of that. Simply a warning not to bring animals to school.  I still was frightened. Funny how those things stay with you through life.
  The house the old man bought was on Michigan Avenue.  We immediately started building models. We had an antique flyer wagon that had big wheels. It turned into the dump truck, brick hauler and play thing for everybody. That wagon represented our first transportation.       When you stop and think about it the wheel represents the best that mankind ever came up with. The wheel gave him mobility which led to many other advances. In short, the wheel was the primary discovery that allowed civilization to flourish.

Scottish Highlands

The Scottish Highlands are all aglow
The windswept rains on heather rows
The scotch broom shade falls on the late spring snows
The lost love cries out as if to show
my love is lost, it will not flow

With passing eve 'with love' she grieves
the crush of leaves from last year's bloom
Under her shoe and in her comb

Her heart melts with the coming night
The hearth is warm until first light
She gathers roses, she makes her bed
And always dreams of things she said

What changed his heart as if to flee
Like the grouse in flight towards the sea
The curtains rustle in the breeze
Starched white and filled with airs
Is he with her or does he dare?

The ships at anchor await the tide
they drift in slumber as he tries to rise.
The tempest beckons for one last kiss....

Away, away he picks up the tune
'lest we forget the ruling moon'
The horns point west as if to say
'Fair winds ye lads of the day'

In highland heather its there she stays
She walks and talks and somewhat prays
For the lad, herself
who could not stay....

The mists of morning are a drenching dew
That run from the sun
And the calling ewe
Reminding all of the aching two
That lasts and lasts until the day
they meet again in love's way

To fall together in each others arms
Smiling laughing safely warms
The sleeping cat upon the window sill
The morning sun dispels the chill
The life lived full is the life God wills

Golfito

     When I first arrived in Golfito via a old boxcar plane delivering supplies as well as tourists, I was stunned by the giant trees. These forest giants had been saved because of the shade they provided. Their arbol was so vast it would cover a full city block in the states.  There was only one place to stay for travelers on a budget. That was the old Delfino Hotel that was built nearly a century ago to house canal workers.  It was huge.   It was also in decline. There were many women of the evening who used it as a base for their schemes with fishermen.  You looked the other way for the most part.  It also had a fish cleaning site which is a natural thing with fishermen overhanging the little bay.

      The smell was pernicious. The hotel was built on pilings next to the sickly debris filled bay.  It attracted many predators including sharks and dolphins, thus the name Delfino.  I stayed there simply because it was the closest to the launches going to Puerto Jimenez.
       I looked for the old hotel on my last visit. The Delfino burned down one night.  It must have been a splendid blaze that could be seen for miles. All that history was gone in a evening of carelessness with the smokers in bed. The hotel was owned by a Chinese family who sheltered many travelers to Golfito. I met the owner in Puerto Jimenez who retired into the dry goods business.  

      His sons were buying the fish from the trawlers returning in the evening.  Golfito is a duty free zone where families buy imported washing machines and refrigerators. 

       The cars would line up early in the morning just for a chance to save a few dollars.  The children would have plenty of activities to entertain themselves for most of the day.  You could also find a family begging for a deformed child.  There were pictures that could make your heart bleed along with the collection can below.
       Soon you grow tired of all the heat in Golfito. Catching the launch to Puerto Jimenez is the way to go.  Jimenez is the staging area for the trip to Corcovado National Park and Cape Matapalo.  

     There are a number of cheap hostels there.  If you go to the outlying streets, you'll save more money. The absolute cheapest are the Pensiones.  Ask around and someone will direct you. I preferred to stay in a Costa Rican motel which is cheap by any standard. Cold water rules. There is no hot water to be had anywhere.  You learn to shower in the afternoon when it is hot. By then, you will need a shower because you will be sweating like a horse. Then it is hammock time.  

      The water wells are shallow affairs so don't trust the water except for bathing. There is no septic system so people have been defecating into holes in the ground for all these many years.  All that poop filters down to the water table.  Don't drink the well water or you will get sick. Coffee is made with boiling water which kills everything. I firmly believe this was the first use of coffee since the water must be boiled and how it became such a popular drink along with beer.
   If you get up early, you can see the iguanas making their way to a favorite sunning site. One morning, I saw the grand daddy of all iguanas crossing the road.   He must have been 7 ft and weighing in at 150 lbs.  The parrots roost in the village at night.  These are the wild pets for the villagers. The are like the city pigeons in San Jose except they are parrots. They come for no other reason except for the free food handed out to them.  By mid morning one heads to the beaches around the village.  You must cross the bay at low tide to get to the bug infested beach that is so stunningly beautiful.         It is way out of town on the other side of the airport.  One morning, we were swimming and sunning there at the point on the beach. A pilot whale surfaced close to shore. We jumped in, hoping to swim with this visitor but we were way too noisy. Without thinking Jerry dove in and promptly said he lost it.
  Jerry lost his key to the house he lived in.  It turned into a search for the lost key. We never found it.  I should have picked up on those clues that Jerry was someone I should back away from.  I did not realize until much later, he was a wanted for attaching a limpet mine to a New Zealand destroyer which killed two sailors in retaliation for the sinking of the First Rainbow Warrior.        These were the radical years of the Greenpeace movement. Jerry took his Greenpeace seriously. I found this out on another trip when Alberto told me what he had found out.

Ireland

        I visited my ancestral home only once.  I was excited to come to Ireland after working in Israel.  I landed at Heathrow.  I had to travel through the countryside to the ferry landing going to Ireland.  The railway through London was awesome.  It was an all night trip by sea.

     In the morning we reached the coast of Ireland.  I recognized a man having a heart attack and found the medical officer on the ferry. We soon had him resting with an aspirin under his tongue.   His chest pains subsided.

       I made my way to Dublin and found a hostel to stay in with the help of an Australian who worked for the Fisheries protecting Australian waters from poaching.  He knew his way around.  The next day I found my way to a music store looking for Irish reels and jigs that are hard to find in America.  I got in the habit of pubbing in Dublin.  I walked into a pub after hearing her fiddle.  I was like a moth to a flame. She was sitting there with the fiddle strapped to her shoulder. This was astounding to me. How is that possible? When you think about it that is the safest place for a fiddle in a bar. If you don't want to lose your glasses always wear them. Similarly keeping you fiddle under your chin insures that you know where it is at all times.                Nothing can happen to it like a spilled drink or careless patrons leaving fingerprints. That way the thing can never walk away.
    No one told me there was no heat in these hostels. The only escape was to sleep. I wore my clothes to bed which was nothing more than bunk beds with drunks and runaways in them.   I had the violin I bought in Tel Aviv with me.  I finally got it adjusted and learned the first position scale of notes. Second position was next. I never could seem to master third position. Something was wrong with the instrument. It had no voice.  Projection is what you want in a good violin.   Especially if you are busking for your meals.  That was my plan.   I would have nearly starved if that was my only l skill I was selling.  Fortunately, I had a few bucks left on my credit card.  I was making my way to Galway.
      My days were spent practicing in the cold sunshine outdoors where the breeze carried away the tunes I was scraping out on this Chinese made fiddle.  It was probably put together in one afternoon by some sweat shop carpenter.  The guy who sold it to me in Tel Aviv was a Muslim who lied about the instrument.  Never buy when you are sleepless. You become easy fodder. The bow was signed so it was of value.   My brother has it hanging on the wall of his cabin.  This violin was nothing like the West German Strad copy I bought in Honolulu for a pittance as a basket case.  I put that one together at sea when traveling in the South Pacific. I subsequently sold it for 100 bucks when Debbie and I lived together.  She was  enthralled with sailing. We almost managed to buy a liveaboard.  All those deals fell through when the reality of West Lynn overtook us. She and I had great fun going to breakfast at the many sidewalk cafes that line the streets of Portland.  All is not lost except you wake up out of the dream and start looking for work. Tis a hard life we lead.....
    I stayed in a hostel close to a river in Ireland  It was a stone farmhouse in its former glory.  The farmer who ran it wore the rubber boots of farm life.  I felt at home. I wandered around the quays and inlets.These waterways were filled with skiffs and pole boats. The scene was very serene.  Tranquil is its nature.   Finding proper food is always a challenge. You ate what was available. That means a lot of prepackaged bread products and few vegetables.  Once the hole in my stomach was filled nicely, I was ready for more adventure. 

     I managed an invitation to ride with some blokes with a rental car. As we traveled along we stopped for breakfast at a tavern along the road close to the beach. Irish breakfasts are truly heart stopping meals that are smothered in gravy and fried eggs swimming in grease.  Completed with a variety of jams and jellies, sauces and pork products all served by the girl in traditional gingham with the huge, homecoming smile.  They last all day and keep you warm from the chilly sea breezes that blow over the lands.

       There was so much to see and do.   I chose to go to Galway then to the Cliffs of Mohr.  I stayed at cheap hostels along the way.  When I brought the fiddle out there was always a crowd to listen.  By passing the instrument around to other musicians I learned new techniques and gathered many suggestions. 

       I stayed at the Rainbow hostel because there was a pub nearby.  Standing on ground where my ancestors stood was remarkable.  It spoke to me of the connectivity of life and the circular motion of the Universe.  

       I was certainly colder than I had been in Israel. They call it burning the turf. They are talking about burning peat in the wee stoves and burners of the countryside. 

       Peat is remarkable because it is what one would call pre-coal.  It has all of the BTU's of bitumin but not anthracite coal which is denser.  These differences could mean a shivering winter or a toasty roaster that dispels the cold.   

    You can see the Aran Islands from the vantage point in Galway. These islands in the sun are near the mouth of Galway Bay which is about as Irish as you can get in this lifetime. There were many Saints who visited these islands.  There is a story of the old well with healing properties. The islands truly reflect the Irish Christian compassion. Islands have always been my calling.
     Lying upon the Cliffs of Mohr and looking down on the circling seagulls is a tremendous feeling.   The tour buses line up as the day progresses. The buses are dispensing its humanity to visit the castle there on the bluff.  

    There are many castles in Ireland. These people were no dummies.  These historic sites are so valuable for the Irish.  Soon I was traveling north to Northern Ireland. The troubles were still happening and were very disturbing. At least, I  can say I stayed one night without hearing a shot fired.  

      I made my way down to County Mayo and eventually booked a plane to the Dominican Republic which was a lot cheaper than flying direct to the States. It is very black in the DR. You must be careful if you are showing white skin. I had my boots polished at the airport that I had bought second hand in SLC.   Doing so gives you a moment to look around and gather information.  My boots were fleece lined with the side zip that I like so much. I had these boots rebuilt many times before finally giving them up in San Diego. These were my world tour boots that served me well protecting my feet from so much.   Always take good care of your feet. You just never know when you will be walking again.

Jamaica

          When I was younger and full of vim and vinegar, I managed to fly to Jamaica looking for the slack key players in the cockpit country of the Highlands. Everybody gets a guide who shows up. My guides took me on the adventure of my life. We climbed for what seemed like hours until we arrived at a little clearing with a small fire burning in the center.   I could have been in Africa for all I knew. A group of black men stooped around the fire warming there hands in the cool of the morning. One of them stood up and continued standing up and up until there was a giant Ethiopian dressed in a leather breech cloth in front of me along with his natty dreadlocks.         He was puffing a splift with a great deal of ganja in it. My guide negotiated a deal for an ounce. He walked into his hut with a aluminum camp cup. Soon he returned with a a full cup of manicured ganja neatly shaved level by a butter knife. He tipped the manicured weed into the paper bread bag we brought along. We asked how much.   

    He wanted sixty cents. I produced a dollar.  He gladly took it. We did not hang around for the change but immediately began the long hike down the hill.
      Evening was descending in a wonderful display of tropical colors as we sat on a log. My guide shaped the brown bag called bread paper into a cone.  He then funneled the ganja into the cone tamping it into a tight cylinder culminating in a distinctive twist which allows for easy lighting. That was the best smoke I've ever enjoyed.  The evening moved into darkness and finally I went sleep in the back seat of a rusting hulk of an abandoned car.

      The trippy weed led me to the conclusion that water itself is God for without it we would all perish.  Consider the fact that Jesus himself used water to baptize and perform ablutions only shows the remarkable respect people of the desert have for water. The next morning we had breakfast of fried plantains and greens. Red Label beer and sweet bread is how most of the people survive.  Death comes in many shapes and forms in Jamaica.
      We carried on with the tour stopping at a captured croc that was 23 feet long. The keeper put on a quite a show by poking this reptile in its side. The explosive reaction was instant as the tail whipped around with the jaws wide open clamping down on the pole shattering it into pieces. One just stands there in amazement at the awesome power of this reptile.
     I was staying in Montego Bay when I heard that the Amboy Dukes were at the White House Hotel. Since I had my electric guitar with me, I made my way to the lobby and waited to encounter these guys.   I was super tired and soon fell asleep on a sofa. 

       My dreams were shattered by the watchman called Buster Crab.   He woke me by hitting me on the butt with the side of his bolo knife which hurt a great deal. I jumped up and before I could explain myself he was backing me down a hallway that led to a patio overlooking the sea.   I remember his exact words. " I am going to cut you and bruise you." He kept repeating this over and over.   He raised his arm in a threatening manner.  I shoved his raised arm hard into the wall and ducked under it. Like the jackrabbit in the Wiley Coyote cartoons, I ran out of the lobby into the midnight streets of Montego Bay.  I had met a another traveler that day.   He was staying in a cheap hotel close by. I ran to his door and pounded him awake. He slowly opened the door. I pushed past him and begged him to remain silent while Buster Crab's shadow passed by the door.
     The next morning I realized I had left my prized guitar and travel bags at the hotel. By now I was very pissed.    I contacted the police for assistance which they readily supplied.   My adversary now humbly brought my things to my feet in the afternoon. He was arrested for assault.  

      I was soon on my way back to the states having barely survived the adventure in Jamaica.    It was at that moment, I decided that pursuing a musical career was for the birds. I soon set my sights on other sources of income.  Hard work never hurt anybody. Although it nearly killed me several times it never actually finished me. Close only counts in horse shoes and hand grenades.
      All the music I had developed and carefully planned was destroyed. The lovely tunes I had written and lovingly composed for Anne were given to the winds of time never to be heard again. I remember some of them still like 'Jumping the Garden Wall' which is about young love and what it takes to maintain an infatuation, Romeo and Juliet style.  The illusion that happiness was in a relationship was being dashed again. Youth is wasted on the young. Time to travel to the timelessness of Nowhere Soon.

The World of Fraud and Big Money

"Here are more facts. I remember all the frauds that have happened in the past with these transfers numbering about 1000.. None of them were ever successful.  I accept donations from anywhere in the world so I am aware when these kinds of things go bad." 
       "You really don't think that 100K is enough, do you?" That, my friend, is just the opening price. There will be storage fees and associated costs that will skyrocket the price even beyond what this is worth. 

       Not only that, but the money won't ever be released to you no matter what they've said to you. 

     This is the same email address they used before so that 's how I know these people already. This is a worldwide criminal organization operating autonomously from any government."

"That is only getting it to San Diego. She said "my men" will take it from there once it comes to the States. The FBI does not refer to other agents as my men.  It is very subtle and hard to detect what people are actually saying in their emails or IM's when they think it is safe. As the spiritual master said there is danger at every step. 

I' heard these exact words before from the west Africans when I traveled to Spain to pick up a donation of cash (3.5M) They did what's called a "wash wash" which is claiming the bills that are covered with red bank dye and only a special cleaner will remove the dye. He can't give me the money because it is illegal with the dye on it. LOL 

     There was only enough chemical remover for a few of the hundred dollar bills. We went to the sink and he washed enough to prove his story. The reagent began burning his hands since he was not wearing gloves. I told him to wash his hands with soap immediately.  One crisis was over. I showed the paperwork but he tore it up in my face and stormed out leaving just a 100 dollar bill for me to examine. 

There are other instances with the criminal underworld. I have reams and reams of testimony over the last fifteen years. I only lost roughly 10 K on that one, plus expenses. When you are surrounded by three big men from West Africa, you just go along with their program hoping to get away with no harm done except to your wallet. 

     They came to the room late one night dragging a beat up suit case full of money.  This did not appear to be 3.5 M, though. No one was around. They knew this hotel all too well. They've done this many times with different mugis.. Mugis are the mark."Ask an African about the word Mugi or Mugu.

John Delgado smiled. He knows the truth and simply smiled at this error.  These crooks are everywhere doing anything to survive.  One thing that they are good at is internet fraud.   They feel safe behind the anonymous screen and will say anything a mugi will believe.  Once they are exposed by journalists or investigators things will be safer on the internet. The internet is the modern day wild west. Know before you go.

"The former Director of the FBI also played a key role in these high financial crimes. I got a note from a Federal Agent about him being involved with the Nigerians.  That extortion scam is called Nigerian 419. He actually changed the name on my account in a New York Bank to his.Thus he was able to transfer 10 M into his personal offshore account.  Being skilled at crime from his years of association with rich criminals has its rewards. How can these things happen in a country of rules and laws?" Simple, he said.              "Crime is essential for these people of power. As my college adviser said to me just before dying of cancer, law enforcement draws its manpower from the intelligent poor of humanity. These people are inductees to the criminal underworld to influence and contaminate. No one escapes or is a hero. There is no champion or savior from this onslaught."  This sobering reality finally sunk in.  Getting away with it is easy when the fund is in cash.  It is much harder when it is in the bank.

Gladiolus Street

      We moved to Gladiolus into an upstairs apt. with neighbors down below who just wanted quiet. We finally settled into a low roar. Even walking around led to complaints because the floor squeaked.  Again, a win was not in sight.  

We were close to school, though.   Capdau is a junior high that has its share of delinquents. I was a seeker of greener fields.

      On Sundays, we would hear the waffle maker operating out of a horse drawn wagon with the distinctive bell to announce his arrival. These were the absolute best waffles smothered in syrup. We gobbled them up.

       There were two brothers living next door in this quad apt who hunted hogs along the many rivers of Louisiana. They would clean and butcher them right in the car shed hanging the beasts from the rafters. To a young man in Louisiana getting an anatomy lesson first hand was invaluable. We started hunting soon after seeing what they brought to the table.
      We made friends with Gene and Terry. We shared many a Saturday night watching Morgus the Magnificent horror extravaganza until the wee hours.   Every Saturday night was Halloween all over again.  Terry was a delinquent who shoplifted frequently since he had no money.  He watched the delivery trucks that filled the soda machine. They guys inevitably  leave the keys in the locks while they load the machines.  Terry would sneak up and grab those keys quickly disappearing until he pulled away. He would wait until he was alone then pull the caper of robbing the coin box.  I almost took the rap for his many thefts of a carton of cigarettes at Sweggmanns where my Dad worked selling major appliances to rednecks. 

     I quickly sought new friends to hang with. There was a canal called Peoples' Canal for no good reason which flowed into Lake Pontchartrain. I caught my first snapping turtle in its greenish brown waters. The police would stop and ask what we were doing, 'watching the shit float by?' was what they asked.  We had no answer.

     New Years' Eve rolled around. This is bonfire night for the poor. The preceding weeks prior to New Year's Eve were spent preparing the bonfire. The older guys would build the fire by stacking old railroad ties into a giant tower that was filled with anything burnable.  They knew what was coming so they filed the fire hydrant turning nut completely round.  When the moment came to light the tower railroad flares were used. There was a pedestrian bridge close by built in the old fashioned way of creosoted lumber.  The tower slowly toppled over falling on top the bridge lighting the bridge on fire. The fire dept. could do nothing. 

     That bridge was the poor people's link to the city and schools. Now the kids got to practice walking the water pipes that crossed Peoples Canal. I caught my first snapping turtle by hand which no one believed since these turtles are known for taking a finger or two.  The way to handle them is by the tail.  They still can get you as their necks are long and capable of reaching all the way back to their tail.  My trick was to grab and throw.
    I learned how to play penny toss. This is a game to see who can throw their penny closest to the curb. I managed to lose my .07 milk money everyday for a few weeks until I realized they are plucking chicken.           Billy S. was a poor kid.  One day, he was surrounded by the older bully gangs that ruled the neighborhood. They held him down and forced him to suck a dog's penis.  The mentality of these people is something to be ashamed of.
        The drinking water came directly from the Mississippi River. Never mind that upriver people throw all sorts of toxic waste like paint and antifreeze into this body of water.  This is why Oschner Hospital was created. They needed to treat all the kidney patients who drank the river water.  He became a famous transplant surgeon saving people who should have never gotten ill in the first place. Yes, it is filtered and treated but if you study the science that is not enough to make it safe.            We campaigned to get the water brought from across the lake via pipe under the causeway.  Last I heard they are doing that now. The number of deaths from poor drinking water is well documented. No one pays attention.  Death ruled New Orleans for the longest time.

        Sunday was a special day. The Waffle Wagon made its appearance on the streets of Gentilly named after the many flowers that bloom in New Orleans. The waffles were baked over a wood fired stove then carefully dusted with powdered sugar.  When you smothered it in log cabin maple syrup your heart begged for more.  We would fry eggs and place them on top these hand crafted waffles. These were the best days. The horse drawn wagon, the smoky fire and the distinctive bell created a memorable time that lived in our hearts for many days.
      I dreamed of riding my bike to California.  I thought of running away and living on the road. There were many times I managed to actually make a plan to leave the misery of New Orleans. Nothing ever came of it until I turned 17.  I was a captured pawn in someone's chess game. 

      We played a street game called hit the power cable. These cables were enclosed in a metal sheath. The thrower would try to hit the line with a tennis ball. If you were accurate the ball rebounded strongly but if it was caught you got no points. If you missed and the ball was caught you lose the turn. The only way to get points was controlling the ball in such a way to prevent the other boys from scoring. This is the way we played on these hot summer nights under the street lights in New Orleans.

     There was a bakery close by. Late at night one could smell the doughnuts being fried.  One of the joys of living in New Orleans was the smell of food.

     I was walking down the street near the house. I happened to look down. There was a Horner Marine Band Harmonica that I gratefully grabbed and secreted into my pocket. I played that thing until it finally clogged up.
      You learn fast in the swamps and bayous of Louisiana. We once rented a fishing skiff in Lake Bourne. It is a bring your own outboard kind of affair. My Dad had an old green outboard he had from his youth. Surprisingly, it still ran. We were still too young to be out with the old man fishing like that. This was the activity of our family. To relax together and do something that was typical of families there. 

    Fishing and crabbing became a way of life for us. One trip my Dad took Mike my older brother on a fishing trip with his buddies from work. Back in those days there was little enforcement happening. The guys were drinking when the motor quit. They were in the process of putting it back together when a vital part fell overboard. They were now stranded in the middle of the lake. Darkness overtook them so they settled into a long mosquito infested night.  My Mother quickly became concerned when they did not return. She was visibly distraught. They were rescued because she called the police. The fishermen made the Times Picayune with pictures of the rescue by the Coast Guard. My Mother is amazing when she is summoning help. Early in the morning the CG towed the strandees into the marina. There are pictures of them kissing the ground. Must have been a slow news day.
    There was a long stairway to reach the second floor of our apt.  My Mother was working 6 days a week downtown. She rode the bus as we all did back in those hard days.                 Every evening when she came home, I would meet her at the bottom of those stairs and help her climb the steep stairway in that sweltering hallway. This was my only chance to have time with my Mother.  Those moments were special and will live with me forever.
   One day, my Dad brought home his new acquisition. An Austin Healey Sprite 1964 baby blue with all the bells and whistles. We cherished that sports car. Every Sunday we polished her. Each wire spoke got the special treatment. 

     He bought this car for my Mother. They drove down to Mexico one year on a whirlwind tour.  They eventually came home all tanned and fit looking.

      He finally traded it in for a family sedan and took us all to Mexico. We wound up in the mountains at a resort with horses. This is a palatial estate of huge proportions.  

      My brother and I got on these Mexican horses and took off. At first it was fun but soon we realized something was terribly wrong.   My horse would not obey my commands and did a big circle back to the barn.        I was on a wild animal who cut across the slick tiled floors of the veranda nearly slipping and falling. The gardeners were all shouting at me in Spanish. The horse just got more excited. We finally arrived at the barn. Whew! I survived a pretty exciting gallop. I was done with horses for awhile.
     That year, the Beatles came to New Orleans. They played at Pontchartrain Beach Park.   From what I heard, it was great.  I was too busy with my struggles to even consider going, I heard the music from the back porch some distance away.   At that point in their career, it was impossible to even get anywhere near them.   

       Chad and Jeremy also showed up that year. I saw them in the limo as they made their way through the city.   I actually had the chance to see the Beatles in Seattle but opted out since I already knew that it was hazardous for me to attend such extravaganzas.

     Emerson, Lake and Palmer played a gig at Tulane University that I almost made. I did make the Seals and Crofts show, even attending the after show reception where they answered my questions about the Bahai Faith. I was an interviewer for a street rag.
      We double dated often. We would go to the Bali Hai Restaurant at Pontchartrain Beach with its Tiki motif and Mai Tai drinks with the little umbrella that the girls loved. We enjoyed going there since it was the only night spot opened to us. We were trying to be adults doing adult things. Our dates all shared our enthusiasm and the love of a tropical setting. Other times, we would go to the local drive in restaurant after a movie or football game when things were tight. They usually were with money. Frank had a '57 Chevy. The real classic model. When we showed up in this beast of a car the girls would be ready to ride anywhere we wanted to go.  Sometimes we attended the submarine races at Lake Pontchartrain.  You could never tell the outcome of those matches.  We were waiting for the girls to become affectionate.
    Frank appeared in one of my classes. After listening to him talk about the Scouts, I was became interested in joining. He invited me to a Scout meeting in Gentilly some five miles away. I rode my bike to every meeting thereafter for five wonderful years. I was meeting really fine people who had their lives pointing in the right direction with enough income to be called middle class. 

      I started playing Dads ukulele with a folk group we formed along with Dave and Mary, Sue and I.  Frank was the leader. Mary was one of Frank's castoffs that turned to me for comfort. She was my first kiss. Our group performed all around town for many weeks into the fall.  We soon lost interest in this world of performances after our one big talent show win. 

     This was around the time of the Kennedy assassination which changed everything.  Bobby was killed a few months later. Then Martin Luther King was shot as well.
   The talk around the neighborhood was a nuclear attack was coming soon from the Russians. People were panicking and actually starting to dig bomb shelters. I remember clearly as designs were discussed. I witnessed the insanity up close and personal.          New Orleans has a very high water table. You dig down 2 feet and the hole starts to fill with water.  Slowly, people returned to sanity and a reasonably normal life.  They were still feeling threatened by the national tragedies that were soon to envelope everything and everybody.
          Those tragedies really changed everything. We all thought this meant war. The draft was a reality in those days.  The only thing going for us was higher education. So we buckled down and tried to make the grades that would keep us out of the draft.           The world was against us. Vietnam was heating to red hot and it was looking like we would be called up. When your draft number is called, it is time to go. Staying cool with school was our primary goal.           Graduation from high school was a bust for me. 1967 was the very worst of times with the constant worry of being drafted if you fell from grace. This is 2.0 for your college GPA. Mine was at 2.3 and falling.                They called me in for the pre-induction physical.  My eyesight was bad.   I had macular damage from watching welding without a helment. I was malnourished and skinny.  I was given a 4F deferment.  God must of shined upon me for this actually made me happy to have failed my way to success. I was now officially a beatnik.
     I became a lifeguard and instructor at YMCA East. I taught many kids to swim. I trained star athletes for the Olympics. This put me on the golden throne of sorts. I had the opportunity to regain my health through swimming and diving and generally playing my way through life. This did not last as I thought it should have.  The girls were fabulous and wanted me to meet with them behind the fence for some loving after work or during  break time. Funny how this was always interrupted.
         I had to change my major to be able to get away from the hard sciences like Chem 2B.  Dr.Bongiorno did not speak good English.   He struggled to communicate a very difficult topic which nearly everyone failed miserably even on the curve.  I finally dropped out of the University completely discouraged.   I began working at a Creole Restaurant on Bourbon St. That is the time I met Sheila, a Jewish Goddess.
      I found out that Bobby Kennedy had dinner with her family the night he was shot at the hotel by Sirhan Sirhan.  What this had to do with me I did not know.  The shared collective guilt was overwhelming.  Sheila invited me to LA. I said I'd come as soon as Spring made it possible to travel there by thumb. In those days, you could go anywhere in the country by thumb,  I am jumping ahead somewhat.
   I was going to Capdau during those years. I was hanging out with the librarian because he was he best chess player and brutally intelligent.   He became my mentor. I was good at art. I made a poster for the library out of burlap covered cardboard lined the frame with bamboo. Confucius says READ in Chinese characters with the English translation below was all it said. I learned how to hook rugs and made a metaphysical design that was 'avant guarde' because it used chess shapes to illustrate a moonscape. This was the year of the moonshot.
    Capdau was a different kind of junior high that took football very seriously. The varsity jackets were wine red with black sleeves.   Our physical education classes consisted of touch football games that were as exciting as any pro game on TV.               Since I was small and skinny I could run a route, stop and turn to get the defender stopped and looking then make the mad dash to the end zone where the ball would be spiraling towards me. Many times, this worked perfectly until the opposing team started double teaming me. We always came up with a new routine. BJ Keifer was always the quarter back because he was disabled in one leg thus he could not run very well.  He made up for it by clever ball handling and accurate passing. 

     I finally had enough of all the running and decided to do something else like be smart. I hung with the best and the brightest. Besides, the showers were always embarrassing since I was a late puber.
    Coach Prince was a big man.  He held his classes like a boot camp. He was demonstrating wrestling moves and pins one day.  I just wrecked the Biscayne Chevrolet in a grinding crash and was still feeling pretty beat up. He called me to the mat. I was suddenly under this mass of fat as he flipped me around like a great white does a seal. It was over as I crawled back to my seat barely breathing and clutching my ribs. No one knew why except Frank P. who shouted out I nearly killed two niggers last night. Thanks Frank... you are such a helpful asshole.