New Years

Posted on December 31, 2011 by admin

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

Posted on December 30, 2011 by admin

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

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…

The Devil and The Deep Blue Sea

Posted on December 26, 2011 by admin

My Uncle Wimpy is on deck of a big LST Naval supply ship, looking through some big binoculars at their next port of call, Tininan atoll. Like some gigantic jaw of a prehistoric monster, Tinian was a monstrous volcano that had shot up off the ocean floor, blew its top off, and left a perfect five mile around cove for ships to hide from storms in. Since the inside of the rocky bowl had only a tiny stretch of beach, all incoming vessels dropped anchor at the far reaches, then, worked their way to empty piers to unload as their turn came. Now, Naval vessels aren’t cabin cruisers. In the blasting hot Pacific sun, anything you touch, burns the skin. No leaning on a railing for a quick butt. Burn a hole right into your arm. My Uncle Wimpy was on board to put into place a new unloading proceedure the Navy had sent him to school for. Having already fought in WW1, he had been running drydocks for Battlewagons…So what if it was a supply ship. He was back in the fight. He was already half-deaf from decades of twelve inch and sixteen inch guns going off, so, it was the best he could pull off. Now, as they slowed to enter the protected anchorage, my Uncle looked down and noticed how the water changed abruptly as the big ship left the black of the deep ocean, into the sandy bottom of the old volcano cone. You could see clear to the bottom in the light blue, crystal clear water. All the sunken Jap ships we wasted taking the place, were marked with bobbing warning bouys. He said there were a lot of ’em to circumvent, so, they didn’t drop anchor until past midday. Now, as the ships ahead of you unloaded, you moved closer to the docks until your turn came. My Uncle set up these giant rolling racks and went to work unloading medical supplies, food crates, water tanks, all sorts of stuff. After this was accomplished, you moved your now empty vessel farther out to the smaller docks to fill up with ballast water to bring your deck lower, plus, await new orders. Unloaded, the ship was sitting about twenty five feet higher. Sailors off duty, especially the on board Marine guards all Naval ships have on board, took to diving off the stern. No one cared until a man hurt his neck and the captain forbid any more nonsense. It was back to waiting for shore leave. Drinking warm beer and playing some baseball. Better then the ship and the constant heat. These ships are all steel. Forget comfort. Even the officers sweated, but they sweated like gentlemen. The bellbottom Navymans’ pants were designed for them to be rolled up for scrapping paint and swabbing the decks. Not for a fashion statement. Once my Uncle’s duties were over, he pretty much had nothing to do, so, he did what all enlisted men do in such a circumstance. He avoided officers and gambled a lot in lower areas of the vast holds. Prior to leaving the harbor, my Uncle was up top, with about ten other sailors, kibitzing with some off-duty marines who were shirtless, and fishing off the stern. One of the marines, fresh off duty, snuck the men some warm bottled beer. A no-no, but, drink it fast and toss the evidence over the side. As one bottle flew after another, one of the marines said almost under his breath, “Man, that looks just like a giant floating eye!” He then pointed at what he was looking at. The other men took a look, shading their eyes with their caps. Another man tossed an empty bottle in the direction they were all looking while telling them they had heat stroke. As the bottle hit the water, in the blink of an eye, they all saw it at the same time. It was now crimson red, and, it was sort of fluttering under the water, closer to them. It was indeed an eye. But now, it wasn’t hidden by the creatures ability to camouflage. From a light blue, it was now an angry red. Maybe twenty foot below the surface, it now floated up a bit and towards the men, even closer. Its torso was HUGE. As the big ship swung at anchor, so did the creature. Now, the end of its torso was hidden by the black of the open sea, then, it would swing back into sight as the ship swung with the current. The eye looked to be twice the size of a dinner plate. It stared at the men from about ten foot under water at one point. It stared back with intelligence. Suddenly, it shot out the what looked to be, short, stubby tentacles from just in front of that eye, out in front of it, making them go completely under the hull of the ship. The two whips went even farther. It was a giant squid. But not like any sort the men had heard of, even in tall tails. This ones body was massive, like a truck my Uncle said, and the whips had to of shot out over a hundred feet, easy. As a meal horn sounded, the beast suddenly shot backwards into the black of the deep ocean. So quick, they all stared at each other in amazement…No one took sneak swims after that…

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…

Animal Tails

Posted on December 15, 2011 by admin

When pissed, the first thing a chimp does it go for your eyes. This way, he can then rip your genitals off, bite off your fingers, and break a couple of things, while you stagger around blind. My Uncle Melvin (Melvin Koontz, owned a trained original M.G.M. lion) bunked with me for almost a year while he slowly lost a medical battle. I used to drive him to the Veterans’ hospital on my learners permit in my mom’s giant 1952 Olds. He used to reach his foot over and stomp it on mine, while yelling, “COME ON, WHILE WE’RE YOUNG!” He had stories for every scar and hole in his body. Through him, I got the job feeding the big cats for Ted Derby, way up in Soledad Cyn. Anyhow, Uncle Melvin told me about this dog, his brother, my Uncle Wimpy, had, that was really something. Seems this Irish Terrier named Spinner (for always chasing its’ stub tail) sort of made pals with Jackie, the M.G.M. lion… Oh, Jackie was the name my Uncle gave him; the studio called him something else…As a young pup, Spinner played with infant chimps at a circus wintering town growing up, so was a real hard ass with a heart ten times the size of his chest. One day, he got into a big top training cage while Jackie was getting a work out for some cameramen from publicity. He would dance in and out, nipping Jackie, but not really biting. Screwing around. Jackie picked up on it. Jackie also timed him and did a quick spin, nailing Spinner in mid-leap with one of his giant paws. Spinner hit the bars like a big rubber ball, ringing the cage like a bell, then bounced at an odd angle into some raked hay in the urine ring all training cages have. Jackie turned to go back to business. Spinner comes out of the hay and nails Jackie with his terrier teeth, right in his big brown mane. My Uncle said it was so funny, seeing that dog hanging off the lions face that way, all the trainers came to see what all the laughing was about. The lion finally caught him with a paw and dragged him off, growling the entire time. Jackie never put his claws out. That’s why the dog was never really hurt. My Uncle told me it was really something to see. Too bad Spinner also chased cars…An animal that made my Uncle a lot of dough was his trick Zebra. The clowns used it a lot since it had a good temperment, most of the time. For money, my Uncle would bet his Zebra could kick a two foot two by four, three in a row. With money down, that Zebra would kick sideways as my Uncle tossed it and make it spin for a hundred foot or more. Now, lots of people think the lion is the King of the beasts. I’d say the King Cobra. Even elephants walk around them. Even in the world of big cats, maybe third. In a fight between a Tiger and a Lion, it usually goes to the Tiger. Tigers are solitary. Lions live in prides. Lions have pecking orders, so, will fight to a point, then back off. Not Tigers. It’s always manno de manno. Plus, Tigers carry more weight then Lions. But, that’s another factor making the top dog in the cat world the Leopard. Uncle Melvin slept in the same bed with his favorite big cat. He got tossed out of Glendale for it reaching through the backdoor milkman slot for the milkman’s hand. Every big cat slugfest between a big Leopard and another big cat, ended up with the Leopard cleaning the other cat’s blood off its’ fur. Too FAST. Too AGILE. Half the bulk but twice the power. The only other mammal to put some money on is the Grizzily bear. A member of the pig family, under that thick, matted coat is a body of gristle and muscle, going ten foot on its’ hind legs and coming into the ring at 1100 pounds. If out of control, a bear won’t back off from ANYTHING. Oh, its to the death? A Grizzily will accommodate. One animal no one ever, ever, ever trained. A Wolverine. A Wolverine regularly chases bears off their kills. Wolves hate them for the same reason. Wolverines will go psycho and glory in the fight, screw the meat…Now, of all his animals, Uncle Melvin loved his Giraffes the best. I once asked him why he didn’t take his Giraffes into the pond to wash them like the elephants. He told me they would tip over and drown. Too top heavy. I thought he was joking. He told me to watch them drink. They would splay their legs out as wide as they could, then streeeetttcchhh their long tongues to the water…He also told me camels pissed backwards. I found out he was right about that the hard way…

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…