Fucking UNIT Crane

Its a micro-cosm of our society today….Originally ordered by William Mulholland in 1946. He gave it to the Cof Los Angeles after the Hollywood dam work. The city auctioned it. George Sack bought it. He loaned it to me. If I could get it to run, he would trailer it over. It’s a yard crane. Two big and gagantuan to drive on public roads. With 12 wheel drive, it’s pretty cool on a dirt lot. A BIG dirt lot. The man who brought it out of its close grave? Dick the Fuller Brush man. I used to blow him off when he stopped by in his worn out old van to try and sell me Fuller Brush stuff, and, his magical cancer elixirs he traded the Gypsies his mechanical abilities to keep their rigs one step ahead of the law. Dick was dead honest, don’t get me wrong. He just believed those Gypsies is all. He was in his seventies when I first met him. He bugged me with his visits. Until the day he fixed my Simon Seventy foot boom lift, saving my ass so huge I will NEVER forget that guy…Dick had served as mechanic for over twenty years for the U.S. Navy on aircraft carriers. Top dog for the last five. He was a tall, bent, worn out old man when I met him. But he could fix ANYTHING. Maybe not for long. But he would get its sorry ass rolling for awhile, no matter what you tossed at him. I know because I watched him fight that god damned UNIT crane back onto its flattened tires, and roll onto a trailer on its own, flat head V-8 steam. Dick once again stops by, just in time to hear me whine and cry about getting that crane, six years ago. He told me he could get it going. Five suppossedly hot shot local mechanics had tried and died. Cost me a lot of dough and all quit on me. None will return a call to me to this day. Mainly because almost all of them are dead. Dick worked on that crane for four hours and had the boom going up and down and the rig steering in a big loop. An out of control loop, but it was good enough. It was quite a feat. I couldn’t believe it. A HUGE day in my life. Dick was the man…A while later, he showed up on foot, his van had blown up on Sierra Hwy. He was soaked from walking five miles. No one would give him a ride. I dried him off then gave him the keys to an F-150 my son Tejas had turned down, free, because it had a five speed stick shift. I then had offered it to a son in law. He turned it down because he didn’t want to have to drive it home to the East coast, plus, he had a guitar lesson. I handed the keys to Dick. It was about the best feeling I’ve ever had. I’m an aloof asshole most of the time. It was nice to crack the ice for once. He snatched those keys out of my hand and ran down the Danny Devito stairs like a kid. As he started it up, I was running behind him, telling him about oil changes and other crap he could care less about. As he turned on the lights and put it in gear, I had just enough time to shout, “THE PINKS IN THE GLOVE BOX!” He was gone down my dirt drive, sliding in the rain slick mud, like he had owned that truck for a decade. He then loses it and SIDE SWIPES THE UNIT CRANE at the end of the main driveway. That truck will go to its grave with a headlight to bed, two inch gash and orange paint all over it. I could care less. It was his truck now…So, here I am back at the beggining. Except it’s just six years later. No machine shops, anywhere to fabricate parts for this 1946 PIECE OF SHIT. No Dick to work his magic. Especially after the owner of Black and White constuction, with no business license, able to get a Demo permit in one day that takes others nine months or more, then, DROPS A FUCKING BEAM onto the UNIT crane while rodeoing his track driven rig, over and over my finally knocked down tower (See front page of the LA TIMES) I can’t even find any of my old welders. All have gone belly up. Steel guys? Gone too. Engineers? Maybe for Lionel…Now, its down to the last hardcore friends I have to move this Bastard and save its life. My pal, off and on between his big CRYBABY FUCKING TANTREMS, my son Noah. His buddy Josh, and Rick the tent boy, now, Rick the Great. That’s it. Everyone else is SICK of hearing me beg. Now, in the snow, after changing belts, having to wait between test starts because BLACK AND WHITE GUY dented in radiator and fan, we still havent moved it one foot…We do have it steering. The crane boom winch spinning, and, the air brakes holding air. Back at it after the storm…I’ll be starting the new Tower and Barn February. If I’m still out of jail. Find out on the tenth. As for our country. Find me one guy that can still repair and run a UNIT crane, and I’ll sleep like a baby and never worry about my grandkids’ futures…

John Lilly

I met him after an odd set of circumstances. While working some cable cutovers off Los Feliz in Griffith Park, just across from the Train Guy’s kiddie ride train, an elderly woman limped up to my wide open cable box. You could see she was in quite a bit of pain. She wondered if I could be so kind as to call a friend of hers to give her a ride. She had twisted her ankle while on a stroll around the train area. Since I was about to go to lunch, I offered to take her home in my Pac Bell cable manintenance cherry picker (a five ton truck with an aerial basket). She got a big kick out of riding in it. I end up at her house, a gigantic parcel, half covered by a large, two story house, obviously from the 1920’s. You can tell the eras by how large the trees surrounding the homes are. Trees are a big deal to phone men. They’re a big reason we had so many cable trucks. Big trees take out a lot of big cables and poles…We became pals. One thing I loved about that house was its large, curved driveway. I could fit my big cable truck in it, no sweat, then, park at the end of her circular drive and be completely hidden from the street traffic. Even when she wasn’t home, I could take a nap in my cab, or read away in privacy. Lots of people will rat you out to the company, so, it was pretty cool. If she was home, it was even better. She had a maid who lived with her who fixed fantastic grilled cheese sandwiches, or, anything you wanted. Even better then the cook at Jack Warner’s estate. The house was a multi-generation museum of the families past. Her husband was a world famous Archealogist. He had discovered the ruins of Machu Picchu, and a bunch of other, ‘Lost cities’, in South America. She gave me some outstanding framed photos I still have on my wall, right now. On every big marble table or huge bookshelf, were artifacts from her husband’s trips. Stone bowls, carved totems, stuff like that. In one room was a weapons collection. Some of the arrows had black on the arrowheads which was some sort of toxic poison made from colorful frogs’ skin secretions. The Indians revered these amphibians. Only using them, never harming them (I read up on them. Scientists here, tried to raise them for our military. Turned out, you had to feed them their jungle diet of poisonous insects or their mucous wouldn’t be toxic. They gave up). On one such goof off day, Caroline, the old lady, had her best friend over for lunch. I was invited to entertain her with Hollywood star stories. During lunch, I’m invited to a book signing of this friend’s husband at a local book store, ‘BOOK SOUP’, across from Tower records. I knew it well. All the clerks hated my guts for hiding books I couldn’t afford in other parts of the store until I had the money for them. It was a game, sort of. They would try to catch me in the act, I would try and hide books. I also knew its location from having the biggest head on truck wreck, just past it on Sunset Boulevard, but, another story….I attend the book signing and meet the author, John Lilly. He signs my book, then, wonders if he can have a chat with me in about 15 minutes. I hang around. Turns out, he needed a phone man. His office was up the coast a ways. It was called the ‘ISALIN’ Institute. He was a big shot there. It had all these connected buildings, filled with fellow egg heads, working on paranormal stuff and things like that. I met Robert Monroe there, but, once again, another story. I end up spending some weekends up at the complex, repairing cables and trying to pick up egg head chicks. Which never happened. Anyhow, I would stay at a cheap motel on these weekends that also fed me from their coffee shop. It was fun. One evening after doing some phone moves for an added office, I’m invited by Mr. Lilly to watch an experiment he’s been working on. Inside a large, barn sized steel shed, are two pods, connected by dozens of cables and lines. Gist of it? Inside one isolation pod, floating in a solution, was a dolphin. The other one? John Lilly. They were connected to these huge, old seventies’ style computers that had the looped tapes spinning on the fronts. From the small, slit windows, a dull red light glowed. Once in position, the inhabitants were given doses of LSD. Listening to his fellow egg heads while trying to stay out of the way, the object of the experiment was for Dr. Lilly to communicate on some other plane, with the dolphin in the other pod. With just the hum of the tapes and the egg heads in the white smocks whispering to each other over their clip boards, I got bored and headed for my room down the highway…The next day, while finishing up my phone duties, I hear what had gone down. After about ten seconds, the dolphin was as bored with Lilly, as an adult would be with a newborn. Having to keep its entire history of its race in its mind, the dolphin was light years ahead of the puny mental midget in the adjoining pod…I have a lot more on this for some other time…

Squaw Man

He was just under forty. Five five tall, but broad shouldered with banty legs. From all the years on Indian ponies. His mother was Pawnee. His father, French Canadian. He was trailing some Cheyenne who had stolen his string of pack animals with an entire seasons’ pelts on them. His Shoshone wife along with them. His name. Jaque Lebec. Coming down past the Canadian border had been a huge risk. He wasn’t that familiar with the local dialects, plus, he didn’t know the lay out of the land. But that’s why he had come. To see new mountains and breathe new air. Now, he was in a real fix. He was on foot, in enemy lands. An enemy that was no one to be captured by. He never gave it a thought. He could get more pelts and plenty of horses. He couldn’t get another Two Crows. She got that name because of her hair. It was said to be blacker then black. Two times black. She was small, but tough…Her face was horribly pock marked from a white mans’ disease. That, along with her odd hobble from a broken leg that never healed right, might keep the Cheyenne off of her. Indians had odd beliefs. Seeing as the great spirit had already touched her, and she was still alive, made many shy of her. As he followed the easy to follow trail, that worried him. They seemed not to care who came across them. Jaque trailed them for six days. All the way to the Platte River. That’s where his luck ran out. It had rained the night before and his powder was damp in his flashpan. In 1835, dry powder was a real big deal. No easy reload bullets then. It was shot and powder. A brave with a good bow, could put six or seven arrows into you by the time you could reload a black powder rifle. Sad, but true. On top of that, a knife to his squaw’s neck, was the kicker. He tossed down his rifle, tomahawk and knife, and awaited what was to come…Stripping Jaque naked, three of the Cheyenne dragged him over to a slab outcropping of granite. Winter hadn’t hit yet. But it was on its way. The cold wind was the least of Jaques problems. Holding his arms, one brave forced Jaques left hand onto the black slab of rock. Suddenly lurching free, Jaque threw them off. Before an arrow could hit him, Jaque stepped forward, and put his hand back onto the rock, all on his own. He then looked the one who seemed to be the leader in the eye and signed with his right hand, ‘Dirt’. The Cheyenne all smiled and nodded at each other. He was a squaw man, but he was very brave. They would soon see just how brave. As the leader, ‘Runs his horses’, placed his knife on Lebec’s pinky, he smiled, then cut it off with a quick chop of the sharp skinning blade. Lebec said nothing. He kept his hand on the rock. Nodding his head in respect, ‘Runs his horses’, then pulled Lebec’s left ear away from his head, and slashed that off too, just to see Lebec’s response to upping the ante. Lebec spit in his face. The Cheyenne were impressed. As a couple of braves watched him, the rest had a pow wow. Lebec’s wife tried to help him but was beaten away with horse quirts. Lebec gave her a look. Two Crows sat down and began a low death song. The Cheyenne ignored her and went back to Lebec. They had made up their minds. One such as this would, ‘Run the Arrow’. Dragging Lebec out onto the plains away from the river. Some of the braves mounted their ponies. Lebec knew what he was to do. Provide sport, then die. Shivering from the wind, its only blessing was to deaden the sting of his injuries, Lebec watched as an arrow arched off a fully frawn bow, off into the rolling plains, then, over a small hill. ‘Runs his horses’, let out a loud, “WHOOP!” Lebec took off like a shot. As he went out of their view, a brave gave heels to his mount and was after him. First to count coup. To hit an enemy had for more honor then even killing him. Lebec, stopping as soon as he was out of their sight, crawled as fast as he could through the tall grass, then grabbed a stone. As the brave rode over the crest, Lebec leaped behind him, rocked his head, then heeled the horse to the right as the brave fell off, unconcious. All the braves now came for him. The fox headed his pony for the foothills, about five miles away. The Cheyenne spread out in a wide line. He wasn’t going to escape. They knew for sure as they let him stay ahead of them, hanging back just far enough to make him think he had a chance. He was going up into a dead end canyon. As his horse gave out, Lebec started to climb. He ended up on a ledge, just as the Cheyenne figured he would. It was a straight drop into a forest canopy. An easy two hundred feet. Now grinning, the Cheyenne came at him in a half circle. Lebec shouted a curse at them, then sprang off the cliff. His enemies heard him hit the tree branches, then, sprinted to the cliff edge, to see what had become of him. Just a canopy of green. Lebec dislocated his shoulder, but he reset that himself with the fork of a tree. Cuts, and scrapes from the branchs that broke his fall, but, all in all, he was lucky to be alive…Two years go by. Lebec has a new squaw. He’s leading four pack mules into a Mountain Man/Indian festival. All tribes. No fighting. For ten days, trade and music. Maybe some drinking. Break the peace, you die. As Lebec rides into the many tepees and camps spread out around the traders fort, shouts and whoops come from his left. It was the Cheyenne camp. Lebec was soon surounded by crazed braves, shouting his name. Lebec was stunned as reins were being pressed into his hands. All were giving him their best pony. He was now a legend, and had no idea. Adopted by the Cheyenne, he traded his new wife for ‘Two Crows’, plus, ten ponies. Hell, he had fifty now, he could afford it…This is a true story. Cornell Wilde made it into, ‘The Naked Prey,’ and put the story in Africa so he could star himself. Did a good job. I like the original a lot better…

Hopi Prophecy

First of all, they’re not completely sure how it will all turn out, since the rock drawings forecasting what’s to come, sheared off. Part of it’s missing. What’s left, isn’t good. When all is said and done, the ones left will be called, ‘The Termite People’. Since their legends say we came from the inner earth, looks like the ones that go back to their roots will make it…Now, many people think all the Southwest tribes are pretty much the same. No way. I used to travel with my Uncles Curly and Wimpy, delivering Kinnikinnick to various tribes since all used it for medicinal and spiritual purposes. Also, to show hospitality. You smoke it in special pipes, usually made by the person handing it to you. It’s sort of like wine with white people. You have your everyday blend, then, that special blend for certain occasions. Ditto for that Merlot you’ve been saving vs the sale of the month bottle from Trader Joe’s. I even had my own blend at 14 years old…My Uncle Wimpy had close friends with the Navajo. Some were code talkers, who served as radio men in WW2. Since their languages are spoken, not written, the Japanese never broke their code. John Ford, filming many of his epic westerns in Monument Valley, alway hired a lot of Navajo for his movies. They always played other tribes though, which amused them to no end. Harry Carey, Jr., used to live not far from my ranch in Sleepy Valley when he was a kid. His pop brought dozens of Navajo to their ranch to weave blankets for sale and to break horses. No one breaks horses like the Navajo. Excellent horsemen. Now, if you wanted to have some horses stolen, the Cheyenne are the guys you need. Among all the tribes of the West, they’re the best horse thieves. A mark of respect actually in their cultures. Like a good assasin in Europe. Anyhow, Harry Carey, Jr. spoke Navajo, so, Ford would use him to translate to the Indians, what they were suppossed to do for their scenes coming up. When all the Navajo laughed out loud yelling ‘Yut-tah-hey’, Ford would pull out a dirty hanky he always had in his back pocket and start chewing on a corner of it to keep his rage in check. He knew ‘Dobie’, Carey, Jr.’s nickname from his red hair, had added something extra into the translation. Usually something demeaning about Ford. It was to get even with Ford for giving him a hard time. I mean, come on, Ford deserved it. He used to kick John Wayne, right in the ass, in front of the entire crew, calling him a dimwitted moron. So, no one on the set was too upset with Ford getting some of his own medicine. Ford used the Navajo for their horse riding skills. He never used Hopis, Havasupai, or Pima. Hopi live high up on the Mesas. Sacred land to them. The Havasupai herded sheep along the rim of the Grand Canyon, then, spent the winters down in the canyon, hunkered down from the elements. Neither big horse people. The Pima? In the old days, you weren’t considered a man in their tribe until you ran down on foot, an Apache, and killed him. Of all the Indians in the West, not even a Mohawk could hold a feather to a Pima in covering ground. Let that Mohawk see how running in Death Valley goes. Pima would consider forests a Hawaiin vacation…The Hopi do have the edge over all the tribes on spiritual matters. Hands down. Their Kachina dolls and images sure look cool. If you were fully aware of what they meant, you would get an icy chill down your spine. I can’t even talk about them. It can bring the spirits around you. Who needs that. I can say, that many of their ceremonies make science fiction writers in Hollywood, half baked pansies. And their’s are all true. You going to argue with people thousands of years old? When Barringer, a rich millionaire found Meteor Crater, he made a deal with the U.S. government to steal it on a long term lease from the tribes. It was sacred for a lot of reasons, but, it was also their only source for pure metal for arrow and spear heads since it had been gouged out of the ground, three miles around the rim, by a meteor slamming into our atmosphere. Barringer took it over, running off the antelope and sheep, to dig up that meteor and make a tourist attraction out of it. He went bust after digging down, sideways and at five other angles. Too bad he didn’t talk to the Indians. Their ancestors saw it hit. They knew their was no meteor down at the bottom. They knew it had exploded, casting parts of itself over hundreds of miles of desert and mesas. Now, it’s theirs again. Has a pretty cool gift shop on the rim edge…So, to make it through the tough times ahead, do as these guys do. Find a clean water source, store forage for your animals, and get your butt into the ground…

New Years

It’s New Year’s eve, 1968. It looked to be one of the best nights to party, EVER! My best, and only friend, Frank Angelostro, had just bought an Econoline van with a stretched body, so, we had wheels. Also, invitations to about ten partys. We couldn’t wait to get off work and get to it. I was working at Wes Thompson’s rifle range. Frank was waiting to go into the Army, then, Nam. He went to basic in two weeks. Now, I had plenty of guys to goof with. Frank was a guy who would help you hide a body, then, lie to the cops about it. Our first stop was to be some drinking and dancing at the ELKS club on Sierra Hwy. Just past the Backwoods Inn (I was banned for life there, another story)…Franks older brother, Sam, was awaiting some cases of beer and bottles of Jack Daniels I had spent weeks stealing and trading for. Also, Jodie F. was to be at this dance. She’s a cop now someone told me, so, no last name…Jodie had two things going for her. She was the smartest gal at Hart High in Newhall, plus, the most smoking body in five counties. I actually had hopes of dancing with her, then, who knew what might transpire! Naturally this pipe dream went right out the window after Jodie beat the living shit out of Frank, but, wait, I’m getting ahead of myself…Unknown to me, Sam and Frank, both short, wide-shouldered Italians who looked like Nick, Burt Lancaster’s circus side kick, had made their own plans. At eight ten pm, on the dot, Sam was to execute an invention of mine, the grab and run. It worked like this. Sam, slipping outside for a smoke, would hit the side of the ELKS lodge, drop the main power switch, making the dance inside, pitch black, instantly. You would only hear the drummer and the singer for a second or two, while people lit lighters and matches to see what was going on. This gave Frank a tiny window to grope Jodie’s body, then, squat down and back into the still dark room. Me? I’m talking with some girls and trying to impress Jodie. A waste of time. She was accompanied by Fred Debanardi, the state shot put champion. A guy who would stand over his 305 Honda cycle doing doughnuts with it like it was a mini bike in Harts parking lot. Suddenly, its pitch black. A scream is heard in the dark, off to my left. It’s not a woman’s scream. Also, the ELKS had a secret weapon we had no idea existed. Back up floods that came on instantly in a power failure to light the emergency exits. Fucking progress can be a bitch. Frank paid for this inovation. The only reason he didn’t get a taste of Fred’s 22-inch pythons and 20-inch shoes, was Jodie. She had everyone spellbound by the beating she was laying on Frank. Before he could finally break free, she had flattened his nuts with tremendous upper cuts to his crotch with her stout right arm working like a mini sledge. Her left had Frank long black hair in a death grip, bent back, making his screams ehco off the festive bannered ceiling. As she took a breather, Frank broke free and ran for his life. Blood was running down his face and arms, a patch of his hair in Jodie’s hand like an Indian’s scalp trophy. As she wheezed and caught her breath, she pointed at me and said, “That’s the little assholes buddy!” Fred put it in gear right for me as the crowd opened like the Red Sea for Moses. I dove through the kitchen serving window and hit the back door, a girl from my home studies class actually said hi to me as I ran for my life. Once out the back door, I hear a guy moaning off to my right. Not stopping with a six six, 265lb monster on my ass, I hear Sam’s voice calling for me to come back. Sorry. Maybe for Frank, Sam? He was a good man, but, I had to live. Looking backwards, as I start to run across a fairly empty Sierra Hwy, no Fred so I start to slow down. Oh god, he almost caught me. He had changed direction and gone out the front entrance to cut me off. Coming around the front of the ELKS into my sight, urine squirted down my leg as my natural defenses kicked in to lighten my load for faster flight. Dodging some headlights going both ways, I can hear those big gun boats of Fred’s catching up to me. Now, in a panic, I run for a front porch that had a light on. The front door was partially opened about ten inches. I clear the three or four steps at a leap, blast through the doorway, and keep moving. I look to my right. An old man is eating a TV dinner and watching TV in an old easy chair. I say nothing witty. I spot his back door through his kitchen and blow right on out it. A pit bull in the yard? I didn’t care, I knew what was behind me. Nope, just a shitty, overgrown with weeds yard and a short fence just before the wash behind. I clear the fence like a Gazelle and run into the brush, on up into a ravine. All in the dark. Half my shirt was ripped off me. Cuts and scrapes by the dozen. As I dove in a big sage, I bite my arm to stop gasping for air and to listen for pursuit. I can hear Fred shouting with an old man shouting back, then, nothing. My heart takes about fifteen minutes to slow down. The sound of an ambulance, makes me work my way back to the wash. I come out into an empty lot I knew well from ditching Highway Patrol on my dirt bike. I see a crowd, then, an ambulance heads out of the ELKS lot. No siren or lights. I didn’t know Sam was in the back of it. Seems that when he hit the power shut off, he was standiing in a sludge pool of rain run off. He was blown twenty feet and had the soles of his wing tips split. He also lost his eyebrows and the front of his goatee and mustache…I hitch hiked home to Saugus. New Years was over for me…All 100% true…

Tits

I have never met a woman who was happy with hers. Weird, but true. If they’re not big enough, it’s some problem with the nipples, or, how they hang. Myself? I could care less. I just want to get my hands on them. I’ll rate them later if that’s what they want…Now, in the world of breasts, you’re going to have every type and shape. I say, ‘it’s all good’. Not so in the world of women. Most always want one size up. Maybe five, in some cases. On that rare case where a woman wants to downsize because of lame excuses like pain while jogging, or, back pain, I write these losers off to whims from their lesbian lovers. We’ll cover lesbian tits at another time. Having set some precedents, our story today concerns a farily typical gal who needed those big gabbonzos for some reason or another. Even if her face would scare an ax murderer away, she just had to have those implants. Even if living in a van by the river, it would be accomplished…A gal nicknamed, ‘Hoochie mama’, was one such woman. If you sat next to her in a dark bar, already had five drinks and were sipping a fresh double, she looked damn good. The next morning, say, in the back of that van? The sounds of a desperate guy, fighting her to keep that .12 gauge in his mouth, toe on the trigger already…Having a lot of ‘friends’ stay with kids and room mates has never bothered me. I’m used to it. How many times have I had my own kids, spit in my face, scream, “FUCK YOU OLD MAN, I’M OUT OF HERE!” then, a few months later, or, fresh out of the Navy and broke, run into that very same, now full of love child, laying on my sofa when I came home from work, eager to hear about my day. It warms the soul. One ‘buddy’ or a ‘buddy’, had been living in a tent in the field below my place, no where else to go. He lived with us, but, sort of didn’t. I looked the other way. He came in handy at times, doing jobs no one in their right minds would attempt, so, he was also useful. He also had another talent. Picking up gals named Hootchie mama, and moving in with them. For awhile. Sooner or later, the object of his affections would get a good look at those five year old, never washed BVD’s, and it was hit the highway time. Until then, it was love nest city. Now, Laurence of Arabia, what the kids called him because of his big tent, did next was a breach of ettiquette. He lets her park her van on my lower lot. She would be no problem, it was guaranteed. I let nature take its course. About two months go by. I spot the Hoochie mama climbing out of her van one morning and am stunned at the change in her appearance. Same Mack truck face. Same Levis cut offs and tank top. Nope, it was her new chest. HUGE. I mean, WOW! Moving in to my place, she had saved up some dough and finally got her dream. I can go to my grave knowing I have that going for me. Soon, Laurence has a LOT of competition for her favors. He ends up moving on down the road. She takes over his tent and life is suddendly one big rainbow for her. We had so much fun gossiping about her, I left it alone. One night, about three am, 15 degrees out, I’m awoken by the sounds of Judas Priest, blaring from the field below. Finally, totally pissed, I dress, grab a flashlight, and head down. Coming through the thick junipers on a short trail off the main dirt road, I find Hoochie mama, slumped over her steering wheel, van still in drive, half way into a big juniper. The engine had died, but the stereo worked just fine. She’s passed out cold. A small cut on her forehead. Opening her door, I turn off the stereo, then try to wrestle her out of the van and into her tent. It was freezing, plus, a forty mile an hour wind popped up. She comes to and starts swinging. Screw this. I spin her into her tent and call it a night. I’m asleep again. I hear this weird wailing coming from below. It’s now about four hours gone by. Sun is just starting to rise. Once again I dress and head below. I find her from the wails. Hoochie mama is using her big side truck mirror while she wails and wriggles like a human snake. Hearing me call out, she turns, a frantic look on her mug, she’s got on a jacket, but nothing else. One tit is off to the left, the other is pointing straight up, almost hitting her chin. Just the way they had been when she had tried to start her van, passed out, then, FROZEN, solid as rocks, pushed out of shape by the steeriing wheel.

Psychopaths

Being raised amongst hundreds, if not thousands as a kid, I would study them everyday. It was a matter of survival. Now, lots of doctors and psychologists have many reasons why a person becomes a psycho. They’re all way off the mark. Most of these creatures are BORN that way guys, sorry, no ones fault. Usually a genetic trait, or, some injury in the womb maybe. Spending a lot of time in juvenile facilities, Sheriff work camps, boys homes, half way houses, ‘special homes’, and such, I feel quite qualified to remark on the subject. Running into one of the top ten psychos I’ve known, recently, really got the old brain humming. So, lets get the ball rolling on memory lane…If there was ever a complete opposite of the ‘Horse Whisperer’, this guy was it. I first met him at Father Garret’s Home for Wayward Boys, off Soledad Cyn, back in the early sixties. Since he was always screwing around with the power, he got the name, ‘Sparky’…I lost track of Sparky after getting transferred to another home for nut case kids up in Lebec. That’s a whole different story. The next time I see Sparky is at a big horse ranch up Vasquez Cyn in Saugus. Like most successful psychos, he didn’t look like one at all. Sort of like a young Gary Cooper, but not as tall. I was at the ranch cutting weeds around the stables. He was there to take care of a little problem the owners had. Yakking it up like we had just seen each other, Sparky wonders if I would like a better job as an assistant working for him. I ask what the job is, and what I can make. He tells me ten grand for five minutes work, I’ll get ten percent at first, then, a lot more later. TEN GRAND! He had me hooked. He has a conference with the owners in their kitchen, then winks at me as he comes outside. He tells me to go to his van and get a small black bag, then, meet him in the green stable. So, I do just that. No one is inside the small, well kept, six stall metal building. It’s almost new, and has concrete floors. Nice. He then opens a paddock door to lead out a nice looking horse. It just has a rope halter for control. Now, I’m about seventeen years old. I figure in experiences, I’m actually about a hundred and fifty. Nothing could ever surprise me was my attitude. I was about to learn how wrong I was. Tying a loop of the halter to a post, Sparky then opens his small, medical looking bag. Like a vet would carry. Inside was just a twenty five foot, heavy duty orange extension cord. It had a large alligator clip on the female end. Taking a bucket of water, he then splashes the horse, hooks up the clip to the horses lower lip, then walks over to an electric outlet. He tells me to get off the concrete just five seconds before he plugs in the power cord. The horse drops like a rock in one second. Sparky unplugs the cord, wraps it up, puts it back in his little black bag, takes the rope halter off the now dead as a door nail horse, then, smiles at me and says, “Easy money!” I try and act like I see this every day. One thing about psychos, never act better than them. EVER. A bit of advice…How could such a thing happen? Well, rich people are rich for a reason. They will do ANYTHING not to be poor. Simple. So, you invest in some nag that can’t win a race, or, won’t drop a good colt, and, presto, a call goes out to a Sparky type to get your dough back from the INSURANCE on said nag. If you have a really proficient nut like Sparky, he knows how to give a heart attack with no ‘evidence to the contrary’ and every one is happy. Except the horse…I passed on the job. I didn’t tell him that though. Just gave him a made up phone number and hoped to never see him again…To give you the correct low down on a Psychopath is simple. In his/her mind, ANYTHING THEY DO can be justified. Get it?

Pearl Harbor

It was a big event in my family. We’re either Circus, or U.S. Navy. I talked to a blind man who lived in the guest house of Orson Welles. He was Welles’s best friend. He was also a total drunk. It took me a couple of repair visits to realize he smashed his phone up, just to get me out to argue with him while I repaired it. If dispatch sent someone else, he had a fit. He was on the medical ship across from his ship, the U.S.S. Arizona, getting over a hernia operation, when the Japanese first wave came in. He wanted to get out of his bed when they heard the bombs hitting and all the firing started, but was unable to unhook all his tubes. He told me it was a good thing, since everyone that was able to make it to the windows were blown backwards, killed instantly by shards of glass when a string of bombs from the Jap planes hit a mine sweeper at anchor right next to them, sending part of their blasts right towards the medical ship…Now, a lot of people blame Admiral Yamamoto for the attack. Sure, he planned it and gave it the go ahead, but he was under orders. When they asked him his opinion of his own plan, he told them flat out they would have about a year to kick our asses completely, or it would be the end of them. His superiors looked at us as lazy clowns who made movies and good home appliances. They were sort of right. Yamamato knew different. He spent a lot of time in the U.S. as a young man attending our universities. He was blown away at how large our country was and our assembly line production of machinery. Especially the Ford plant. He was also a big time gambler. He would come back on board ship after leaves and his men would wonder if he had won or lost. If he had lost, he would do a handstand on a guardrail, showing he had no money left to fall out of his pockets. He had to stay on the Yamato battleship for over a year, hiding from the assasins of the Japanese Army. Killing off rival military rivals was quite acceptable in Japanese society. Just like in John Carter of Mars by Burroughs. For a surprise attack, it was really successful. Too bad they didn’t make a second sortie. They missed the MILLIONS of gallons of aviation and oil tanks sitting right out in the open. Also, they missed their primary targets. It’s the reason they pulled out and didn’t put in that second string. Our carriers were not at anchor. One of the Japanese spies had made a radio message that they were indeed there. He lied to save face. He had been out drinking and just made it up. Halsey, our carrier chief, had kept all our carriers out on a phony search for a downed flier story because he smelled a rat. One of our destroyers had fired on a submarine trying to slip into Pearl in between a tug boat and its target bouy it was towing behind it from some firing exercises. Sure, they killed over two thousand of our boys, most still in their racks. One bomb went right down the forestack of the Arizona, detonating in its’ 12 inch gun armory. It blew the entire Battleship, clear of the water, before putting it down for good. Concussion killed most of the men. They all went instantly. I guess its as good a way to go as any. Going out with your mates in a millisecond…More people were killed on the islands by spent ammo then from the bombs. The first attack was made by dive bombers. When the second wave came in, it was torpedo bombers, coming in low since Pearl was a known shallow harbor. The dive bombers had a field day. Not so the torpedo crews. They reported back on landing that the flak and return fire was so thick, you could climb out and walk on it. Doris, a black cook, and heavywight champ of the Pacific fleet, shot down two Jap planes in his underwear from a twin fifty with a dead crew laying all around it…Years later, while at Orson Welles’s house, I noticed a new person sunning themselves off the pool near the guest house. Welles informed me his navy buddy had died. He also told me one other thing. His buddy was cremated, then buried with his buddies on the U.S.S. Arizona…We don’t have those big battle wagons anymore. Most of our big ships are nuclear. All the old ships are docked as museums or scrapped long ago. Oh, we do have one left. Its still carried as an acitve ship on the line, ready for duty if needed. It’s name? The ARIZONA. It’s NEVER BEEN RETIRED!!!

Phone Company Legends

Some people asked this question would most likely say, “Alexander Graham Bell!” And they would be wrong. My legend of the day is a guy named Samson. Sort of like Madonna. One name was all he needed. A real one of a kind…I first meet him when demoted to the prewire crew. Its where phonemen were sent to be straightened out for some reason. Foremen used it as a purgatory. Once you came around, you would ascend out of hell and get your phone truck back. No truck on prewire. You rode in vans with a bunch of other miscreants. Always in buildings under construction. Plus, you had to actually work all day. I wasn’t used to it. Big cables (1000 pair and up) need great big holes for ’em to go through. So, big drills and drill bits. I mean BIG! Three inch around bits and five foot long steel shafts…Also, another problem. Guys from other trades stealing your ladders constantly. Plumbers, electricians, carpenters, steel men, elevator men, tile guys, painters, gas company, all would grab your ladders if you weren’t actually on them. Off you would go on a ladder hunt. Usually talking to a tool belt and a butt crack of a guy twice your size ignoring you as you tried to get it back. It’s my first day and I’m sick of it. I was ready to shape up in four hours. At lunch, all of the phone guys take the stairs when lunch is over. I’m still a pariah, so, no one clues me in. I figure screw four flights of open stairs in a half completed building. I get in the large enclosed construction elevator that goes up the outside of the building to carry cement bags and such. Also, about fifteen, large, hot, sweaty guys. All in bad moods. The last guy in, Samson. He actually shoved his way in. About fifty, 375 lbs. No teeth. Five ten. Always wore the same clothes, EVERY DAY. Coveralls with a cut off sweat shirt. Had a monk style bald spot. Chewed tobacco 24 hours a day. He had one other thing that made him unique. We all found it out trapped on the way up for three more floors. The ability to fart the longest, greasyest, stinkyest, and wettest, farts you have ever had to experience. Accomplished by a play by play from Samson himself, “OHHH, boys, that part just ran down my leg!” “Here comes yesterday’s chili and peppers, this is gonna be goooood!” By the time the doors opened, it was a screaming mass of lunatics fighting to the death for fresh, clean, non toxic air. The next day, after lunch, ALL of the trades took the stairs. Some management types were being taken up in the large elevator for a look-see. Waiting his turn? Samson. A toothpick in his mouth and a big grin on his face. We all raced to the top floor to beat the doors opening…

Something about Mary [Part 4 of 4]

“Sadly, if you are not of Africa, most soon will be. In the time it took our group of sixteen to secure our first bull elephant, six were dead. None over forty. Most younger. Two died fifteen minutes apart. All from illness. We had no penicillin in those days. A small rash could turn fatal in a day. It was a reversal of the problems your American Indians had with European disease. No imunities. Africa has fifty times the virulent diseases, plus, billions of ways to spread them almost instantly. Insects. From spiders you can eat like lobster, to twelve inch dragon flies, the insects would keep our Entomoligist busy twelve hours a day. We soon had species named after us in Latin. Now the mosquitos and other poisonous insects were nothing to laugh at. Where our new compound was located, there was a river cutting past one corner that swept into a wide, shallow area, before becoming shallow rapids about a half mile away…We had set up nearby these shallows for our soon to be procured elephants to bathe and cool off in. In our services were mahouts with two female cows to help gentle the new arrivals. They told us the running water was essential. I think this is what started all the sickness. Those horrid mosquitos would NEVER go away. Spraying kerosene from a hand pump seemed to work the best. Dilute it with mineral water first. Our tents had nets to keep them at bay, but there was no relief during the day. I would say I was spared for a couple of reasons. First, I became African. I ate what they ate, stayed away from things they stayed away from, and, most important, never ran myself down. Being lazy saved me, I’m positive. Since I was mainly an interpreter who picked up some dialects quickly, I would make sure I attended trips for supplies, meeting new arrivals, and things like that. I tried to never do any real work. Now, on the other hand, the men drove themselves constantly. Even while sick. They also stuck to European diets as much as they could. No African eats one hundreth of the staples of a white man. No refrigeration tends to do that to a people. Also, meat was a rarity. Too many people in a large village to share kills. Most made do with potato-like yams and garden grown squash and melons. Maily crops that insects couldn’t wipe out completely. Once our elephants were being trained, the pace accelerated to prove that the money being spent was viable. Alas, more died and the program failed. Oh, we had some elephants trained to pull logs, but, their main draw back was their size. They ate more money then they produced. Also, they were killers. We would constantly be searching for new mahouts to handle the beasts. Men were killed by normally placid animals for what seemed no reason at all. Also, that stretch of the river helped do us in. It was also a favorite sunning spot for the largest crocodiles I have ever seen in my life. Oh, just terrible animals. Finally one of our drivers brought back some cases of dynamite from the railroad men. When the villagers came to see what was making all the racket, they lept and danced in terrific gyrations. Using our small diesel tractor, we pulled some of the larger carcasses out and put them onto the tree refuse where the branchs were trimmed prior to stacking. The skins burst from the heat and huge sections of white flesh billowed out. A feast enough for the entire King’s compound and a smaller village across the river. It was about the best night I spent in all those years. Not long after this, our director died of a cobra bite. I was shipped to a Catholic school in Mozambique, then, spent the rest of my career walking from village to village, winning over the people that would listen to the Belgian propaganda. I would leave, but always went back. Now, here I am, the last one alive. Telling my tales and remembering my adventures!”