John Lilly

Posted on January 20, 2012 by admin

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

Posted on January 15, 2012 by admin

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

Posted on January 11, 2012 by admin

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…

Psychopaths

Posted on December 29, 2011 by admin

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?

Mulholland

Posted on December 28, 2011 by admin

Yep, the very same guy they named the long, twisty road after that runs across the mountains above L.A., Hollywood, and Beverly Hills. At its very end, it becomes a dirt road, just before the Pacific Ocean. In my Facebook photo spot, there’s a picture of me standing in front of my 1946, 22 ton, twelve wheel drive, UNIT, crane. The one I’ve been ripping my hair out trying to move for the last two months. It turns out, not only is it the last one of its kind in the world, it was also bought, brand new, by William Mulholland, to do some work on the Hollywood reservoir. Afterwards, Mulholland donated it to the city of Los Angeles. The city used it for twenty five years, then sold it at auction. My pal George Sack bought it, then, after fifteen years of me pestering him about it, I traded him my one-fiftieth steel truck collection, with a mini building to house them. A friend of mine did all the research. I finally read it all…Since most of the research didn’t have that much to do with me, naturally, I blew it off. Something about a phone switchboard caught my eye while I was looking for more stuff on me, the important one. Being a phone man, I knew I had to be part of the story. Nope. It wasn’t about me at all. It was about a tiny, nameless semi-retired woman who was ten times the person I’ve ever been…Seems Mulholland built the entire water networking system that brings water from the water rich Northern part of California, down to the parched, arid, semi-desert, Southern part of the state. Mainly, Los Angeles. He tapped into the Colorado River, the Owens Valley and the Sacramento River delta to obtain the water needed for the soon to be millions of people coming into the L.A. region. He built thousands of miles of concrete aquaducts, plus, reservoirs to hold the water as it traveled south. One such dam was in a canyon called San Fransisquito. Mulholland screwed up on this one. It had a broken off rock base he wasn’t aware of. Once it was completed and full of water, it started to leak. It was dirt ram construction with a cement shell. Not good. Now, under the shadow of this dam was an entire comunity of ranches, farms, small businesses, and, hundreds of tents for all the workers still in place who had built the giant project. Also, one old woman who ran the local phone switchboard from the living room of her tiny farm house. A small, 551 switchboard. The type with the cord pairs you see in the old movies with the gal wearing the 1920’s headsets that cover your entire head. She did it as a favor, plus, it gave her a sense of being part of the community. Along with her dog and cats, she also had a small burro for a pet. It was in the middle of the night when the dam broke. The entire contents of the vast dam, headed for the Pacific Ocean, miles away, in a thirty foot wall of water. Nothing was going to stop it. A rancher who lived just above the dam heard the sound of its collapse. He called and woke up his friend the switchboard gal to warn her. Being a few miles away, she had plenty of time to get out of harms way. That water would travel at about twenty five to thirty miles an hour. She was saved…No, saving herself wasn’t in this gal’s makeup. Staying at her switchboard, she calmly called everyone she could past her to warn them, right up until the wave of water crushed her into oblivion. Like the hundreds of others in the cascade of water, her body was never found…It’s people like her her that make me appreciate just how fine the human spirit can be…

Christmas

Posted on December 24, 2011 by admin

A few I remember well…Carl Winniger has just gone crazy. Knowing his stiuation, and, being fourteen years old, same age as him, I sort of understood why. As I’m doing my paper route on my Montessa 250 dirt bike up Sand Canyon Road in Saugus, I get a small branch stuck in my chain guard. I shut off the loud two stroke to clear it. No one wore helmets in those day, so, the sound of gun fire instantly caught my attention. Working at Thompson’s rifle range for five years on weekends taught me the various reports of all sorts of weapons. These sounded like .22 mags. Semi auto, .22 mags. Some guys I know from Sheriffs work camp come zipping by on a Hodaka Ace 90 riding double. They slow and scream at me as they went on past, “Winniger is shootiing it out with the cops!” As they disappear around a bend in the wash near Ace Cains bar and whore house, I frantically fight to clear my chain…Back on the dirt trail heading for Soledad cyn, I can see flickers of light bars as I approach Carl’s house. It set back a ways off of a short dirt road just far enough so you couldn’t see all the wrecked cars and junk in their yard. I would stop in to goof with Carl after finishing my paper route because he was so entertaining. I once saw him throw a big black cat that was rubbing against him in his cluttered front room, right through a wall. I bent a bit to see the back yard and the clothes line through the big hole that sort of looked like a cats outline. As I started to tell him what an asshole he was, there was the cat, right back at his legs, purring for another blast off. Turned out, the house was so pathetic, the walls were like wet toilet paper from a bad pipe leak. Also, anything that lived with the Winnigers, had to be nuts too…Back to the cops…About ten Sheriffs patrol cars have both ends of the road shut down with red lights flashing and doors wide open, protecting cops with shotguns ready to go. No vest in those days. No protection of any kind actually. That’s why when cops shot it out in those days, you better walk the walk. Huddling down behind a neighbors fence with a bunch of other kids, we all notice the same thing. Tons of rapid fire from Carl’s house, no return fire from the dozens of cops. A cop finally shows up with a borrowed annouce horn someone had from the Soledad raceway. He adjusts the volume with some, “TESTING, TESTING!” Then, starts talking to Carl. Who, by the way, never stopped firing. The sort of paunchy cop, with big arms, stayed behind a car, began his spiel. “NOW STOP THAT SHOOTING CARL. YOUR MISSING HALF THE GOD DAMMNED LIGHTS AND JUST CAUSING A LOT OF DAMAGE!” We all look at each other. Huh? Then, we see what the cop is talking about. Carl is shooting out all the Christmas lights up and down his road. He also didn’t like Santa. We watched as he would switch from string light targets, back to a six foot tall plastic Santa with some raindeer, just up the road two houses. The houses were old, and tiny, so, not too far away. The reindeer were already missing most of their heads. Especially Roudolph. Carl didn’t like that red nose either. As the cop learned to talk to Carl as he changed clips, he kept up the same rap, “COME ON CARL, STOP THAT SHOOTING!” Finally, a richochet off some cement, grazes a cop car hood. The cops all open up at the same time. Carls house starts to fall apart right before our eyes. Every window vaporizes as hundreds of rounds take out the frames and door jams. The horn kicks in, “STOP FIRING YOU ASS HOLES, STOP RIGHT THE FUCK NOW!” The cops stop, but all are reloading like frenzied maniacs. Everyone within five miles is heading for the gunfire. All the big Oak trees with hundred-foot canopies are filled with kids. No cop could give a shit. Their ready to commence firing at any second. Suddenly, two female Sheriffs show up along with Carl’s mom. Carl’s mom was known by all the locals. Especially the ones she blew for ten bucks behind the Elks Club almost every night. With no sounds emanating from the now shot to shit cabin, the cop with the megahorn, pistol ready on his other hand, is trying to whisper as he approaches the front door along with Carl’s mom. The two female cops opted out on this foray. “NOW CARL, I’M WITH YOUR MOTHER. PLEASE LETS STOP THIS CRAZY BEHAVIOUR, RIGHT NOW!” Now close to the house, he drops the horn and starts yelling through the shot out front-room window. About five cops semi surround the house, creeping closer and closer in semi combat crouches. As the tension mounts, I happen to take a look just behind me hearing a Zippo lighter close after lighting a smoke. It’s Carl. Smiling and puffing away. Watching the events transpire. After the cops cuffed him and took him away, I got the whole story painting picnic benches at Cataic lake with him, that very same summer in work camp. As the cops started firing, Carl dropped into the tall basement crawlspace, went out on a belly crawl out the back into the three foot deep wash run off, then, crawled combat style past the neighbors, then did a short dash behind every one, ending up spotting me as he came out of the thick brush across from his house. It was nice to catch up with Carl. We laughed and laughed about teaching the monkeys at Ace Cains how to jerk off, but, that’s another story…

To the victors

Posted on December 21, 2011 by admin

Rome and Athens. Lots of battles. Lots of heroes. If you’re unaware, the Romans ended up on top. Sure, there’s the saying, ‘Pyrrhic victory’. That’s about all the Greeks ended up with. It’s when you win all the battles but lose the war. Now, one particular Roman general took as a slave after Greece fell, one particular Greek Architect, renowned for his work in stone and marble. Naturally, since they hated each others’ guts, the Roman needed a good ‘carrot’ to make the Greek do his bidding without any heartaches. You see, he wanted this Greek to build a monument to him. Etched into stone, all the scenes of Rome vanquishing Athens, the General leading his army on a giant horse, the usual. To pull this off, the General took into custody the Greeks’ entire family. Even his goldfish. They were ensconced at a private villa, where abouts unknown to the Architect. If the man’s work production satisfied the Roman, the family would prosper. The Greek did as he was told…To test out his new slave’s dedication, the Roman put him to work on a great villa, just outside of Rome’s very walls. On occasion, the Roman would take his chariot out along with fellow Roman statesmen to see how the work was progressing and to show his superiority over their former foe. Eating his humble pie, the Greek surpassed all expectations. Pleased with the job well done, the Roman put the Greek to work on the real project, the great temple and library in Rome’s very center. It would surpass all structures standing in the great city for all time. As the years went by, the great building became reality. Hundreds of slaves worked on it seven days a week. Artists, stone masons and others of the trade, worked under the supervision of the Greek master. Never in all this time did the Roman let up on his constant belittling of his now well-known slave. He was allowed to visit his family on occasion, but usually it was just work, work, work. Now in its’ eighth year and nearing completion, the Roman’s health began to fail. He made dire threats to his Greek slave to complete the project, ‘Or else’. The Greek doubled his efforts. Soon, the final touches would be completed and the great edifice would stand as a monument for all time to the great General. Over the entry way was the crowning achievement. A great marble mural, seventy foot long and fifteen foot high was ensconced over the great pillers of the entry way. All of the Roman’s achievements had been carved by the master Greek himself. Now crippled and barely able to stand, the General was brought to the opening ceremony in a garish wagon, filled with friends and family. A giant covering was pulled away and all were filled with admiration at the fantastic detail and beauty standing before them. As a reward, the Greek and his family were put to death…Hundreds of years slipped by. The building had been surpassed many times in those many decades. No one barely noticed it any more. Then, a big earth quake struck in the 1800’s. Rome was hit hard. Many a structure fell, or was so stressed, it had to come down. Engineers were hired from all over Europe to repair- or dismantle, as needed-buildings all over the city. Now, one engineer noticed something odd about a particular library he had often admired on vacations he had spent in Rome over the years. Picking his way backward through the still rubble filled avenue, he looked for signs of cracking or failing. Something just wasn’t the same. No, it was still sound. What the hell was it? Suddenly, like a light going on, it came to the engineer. It was the mural. No longer a mural of a General and his army, it now showed a frolicking Greek family, with the personage of the Greek slave staring down from dead center, over those giant white columns. The Greek had made the mural of his family out of marble, then, had cast what the Roman demanded out of PLASTER AND CEMENT. The quake finally brought it down, just like the old Greek had figured. It still stands…

Pals

Posted on December 17, 2011 by admin

Back in the late forties, most rail road switches had to be operated manually. It was pretty much the same, all over the world. India has the most rail layed of all countries. They still use steam for propultion in some areas. Since all those, ‘out of the middle of nowhere’ switches needed to be switched, men lived next to those switches. Some, if lucky, had a telegraph to keep in touch. Others, went by strict schedules. Rain or shine. Those switches had to go exactly on time or people would die. Hundreds of miles from a city, in South Africa, lived such a switch man. He had worked that switch all through World War 2. All alone. His only source of contact left by the hanging mail pouch the train would hook on its’ way past. His mail and the surrounding villages’ mail was tossed out the mail car’s open doors as the train flew past. He would get a break in the beggining for one week in Johanesburg. That had long gone away…Now, the old man was worried about losing his job, and his home. Slowly but surely, all the railroad switches were becoming automated. Plus, the old man wasn’t getting any younger. Out on the fringe of a huge African desert, winds blowing at a hundred miles an hour, wild life coming past at night, villagers and tribesmen angry at the railroad threatening him at times. It was a tough, lonely existence, but it was all he had. One morning, the old man hears an odd sound emanating from a dry gully, just past the long emergency rail siding past his shack. He uses his cane to make his way over to investigate. The sounds were being made from a tiny, barely alive, baboon. The old man put him inside his worn, ragged coat pocket, then went about is switching duties. Thus began a friendship and a working partnership that few could equal. As the old man’s health deteriorated, the baboon would help him into an old pull cart, then, take the old man to the switches. Being ten times stronger then the man once it reached maturity at around 80lbs, the monkey also took over the manual switching part of the job. Sure, they had their spats. But besides being a good trainman, the monkey was also loyal. Many a passing troop of baboons would call out to him over the years, tempting him to join. Nope, the only troop he acknowledged was the old man…One morning, a train track repair crew on a short bob engine pull into the siding to await the passing of the main line train, while in the middle of a track inspection run. Sitting in their idling train, the repair crew watch an odd event transpire. A large baboon, wearing a tattered engineer’s cap, scampered over to the switches, puts his ear on the tracks, then, hearing what he wants to hear, WORKS THE SWITCHES. Hiding in the brush as the train blows on past, tossing the mail and supplies, the baboon then picked up the articles, and went back to the shack. He then returned, and reset the switch. The train men were astounded. Once back at the train yard, the story spread. A train representative was sent to investigate. He found the old man so crippled, he couldn’t leave his bed. His friend had to be tranquilized for them to get near the sick old man. Not long after, the switch was automated. The company wrote off the old shack. The incident was forgotten…by the big shots. Not the train men. Every day, for years, the train men tossed off food and a small bag for the switchman’s shack. Fuck corporate; they wouldn’t turn their backs on a fellow trainman. He was a real pal…

Drugs

Posted on December 13, 2011 by admin

It’s 1969. I’m desperately trying to get a volunteer from the childrens’ Braille Institute off Cahuenga Boulevard to go for a days outing at a friend of mines cabin at the upper Kern river. Her name was Connie and I was wild about her. I also tried to stay on my very best behavior when around her. She gives me her phone number. It was the Pac Bell van that put me over. The phone company wouldn’t hire a psycho killer, would they? I was on cloud nine as we picked her up that Saturday morning in North Hollywood. My good pal John was driving his brand new Chevy one ton truck with a new camper shell on it. It was so new, he hadn’t had the small, rubber enclosed boot installed so the people in the ‘six pack’ camper in the back could talk to the people in the truck. Ah, who cared. I was soon in the camper, yakking away and telling stories to Connie and another couple I didn’t know who were friends of John‎…Now, in the camper, we had no control over starting or stopping the truck. We were isolated from the driver and the crammed cab. They also had a stereo that blasted constantly. We, on the other hand, had the cold beer and food. No bathroom though. The girls made sure to take advantage of our last pit stop in Bakersfield prior for the last leg to the cabin. The other couple were hippie types. Nice enough. The day turned grey and drizzly. The cabin had no firewood and everyone was freezing. We decided to head home early. It grew darker and darker as a big storm was brewing. It looked like Connie was having a lousy time. The hippie guy hands me a lump of coal and winks at me. I stare at him, then down at my hand. “Hey, dude, it’s a peyote button. It will mellow you out. Your chick will dig the new you, guaranteed!” His girlfriend is nodding her head like a toy dashboard dog. I figure it couldn’t hurt, swig it down with a half a beer. As we clean up the cabin and load the truck for the ride home, I’m feeling nothing different. I pound down the last two chili dogs no one wanted and some chips. Now, back in the camper, the sun has gone down and rain is pounding on the metal roof like a drummer gone mad. No lights in the camper. Not hooked up yet. We did have comfort and the ice chests though. Connie is bundled across from me on the camper floor while the hippie couple laid up in the cab over bed. An occasional flash of headlights illuminated the interior through the half-curtain of the tailgate doorway as we rounded curves leaving the Kern river behind. Just as we got on the freeway past Bakersfield, two things happened at the same time. The storm really broke loose, and, the Peyote came on. I guess in the right place and time, I could have had a religeous type of trip, crossing my legs and lifting my hands with palms up, talking with god. Not this trip. My first reaction was some gurgling in my stomach, then a red alert to my brain that explosive diarrea was heading for my asshole at light speed. Anything in my stomach was coming back also, through whence it had came, out my mouth. Putting all my will power into an emergency ass hole steel door block, I start puking violently and with great gusto, all over the front of Connie’s new parka. She was able to block most of the blast with her left hand. It was far from over. My brain screamed that my emergency ass block would fail in five seconds at best. Tme seemed to stand still as the drug slammed my brain around. I knew one thing though. It was either going to be in my pants, or, not in my pants. Like the drug crazed maniac I had now become, I wrench open the back door of the camper, drop my Levi’s 501s, spin and grab onto the fridge and closet front, and let go. It sounded like a shuttle taking off as these enormous blasts flew from my back end. As I stared into Connie’s eyes, the flash of the cars’ high beams then low beams on the freeway behind us made her features change like an old time movie. Drivers screamed at me as I nodded at them with the rain pouring off my face as they passed us, trying to dodge my ejecting spasms of hot magma…The emergency over, not much was said the rest of the drive…Connie dumped me. What a shallow bitch…

Uncommon Valor

Posted on December 11, 2011 by admin

I used to take Leo into North Hollywood every Saturday for his Russian language school. Before our adoption of him was completed, we had to jump through hoops and over all these hurdles placed before us to make it official. It went from no one wanting him, to, ‘You’re too old’, or, “He needs his culture!” Huh? A culture of starvation and hospital stays in unheated homes? O.K., if they said so, we did as told…Now, at this ‘school’, I did meet an interesting fellow. A former Soviet Nuclear Sub commander. He had one of those screwy eyes that worked just fine, but, seemed to be looking off to the right. Also, his eye brows looked like he brushed them. A very bright fellow though. I played him about fifty games of chess and never came close to beating the guy. Not that I’m any sort of great chess player. I’m a Scrabble man. He told me a couple of interesting stories…When the Soviet Union collapsed after Reagan’s ‘Star Wars’ broke their backs financially, he told me he didn’t eat fresh bread for almost a year. All the formerly ‘Friendly’ states, were right back in the 1800’s as far as getting along was concerned. Long suppressed hatreds and fueds that had been simmering but hidden, popped out everywhere. He said it was like you lived in Burbank, but you had to go to downtown L.A. then up the coast, then, over to Newhall, then, down to Sylmar, just to get past the goons in Burbank wanting to shoot and rob you. It was like this everywhere…The worst thing of all, was the stealing of equipment and black market moving of radioactive cannisters and handling gear. No one was getting paid and it was all the officers could do to not get shot themselves once in port and docked. It was everyman for himself…Now, he also told me another story of a Russian sub accident. I can’t remember the Captain’s name, but, I remember the gist of what happened. Oh, it was a sub with just a number. K-19? Look it up, it has to be on the internet somewhere. Anynow, this sub was captained by a former class mate of his, so, he heard the lowdown from the cat’s mouth so to speak…His story: “There had been a fire in the cooling system section of the sub. No cooling, you have a good shot at a nuclear event. All subs are sectoned off in case of such emergencies to the crew members in these portions of the vessel. The Captain himself went to the section experiencing the ‘accident’. It was bad. Way worse then anyone would ever know past the propaganda machine writers’ lies and untruths. What they never told, was when the Captain asked the fifty or so odd men in the section for volunteers to go into the nuclear spill area to shut down some valves and reroute the cooling system, ALL STEPPED FORWARD. It was a death sentence to go inside that room. All were young men. Each man that went in, staggered out after doing as much as he could, then, another man took over, until he too collapsed. Seven died within days, twenty more died in less then two years. All horrible, painful deaths!”…He broke down in tears and sobbed so hard, his daughter came over to take him into the bathroom…