Saturday, 12:17am
Yesterday got a call from my friend up in Tulsa. She invited me to come up towards the end of August for a going away party. Yeah, she's moving to Washington State to be with her son who's going to music school there. Going to live in a small town on the coast. Sounds lovely. I am going to miss her.
David s getting ready for his big move to the Keys Apartment building here in town. Told him I'd help. Not sure how much I can do for him though. I'm pretty lamed up too. Old age is a bit of a nasty girlfriend. But he says I don't have to do much but tell the youngsters he's got lined up to move his apartment over. Yeah, I can do that, tell people what to do. I can do that.
6:16pm
I giggle a bit without looking at him cause I know what he means.
The Gray Owl is cold . . . dark, dank, cave cold and I never remember to bring a jacket or hoodie. And, of course I get an iced coffee.
Woodie: David you should watch the Spike Lee movie, Inside Man . . .
David: (automatically reaching for his Kindle) Oh?
Woodie: Yeah, it's really good and unlike most of what Spike Lee . . .
David: Yeah, I got it here . . .
No reason to continue talking. Google is killing our ability to converse with each other. And if we believe in the predictions presented in the movie Ex Machina . . .
Nathan: One day the AIs are going to look back on us the same way we look at fossil skeletons on the plains of Africa. An upright ape living in dust with crude language and tools, all set for extinction.
Pulling into the little Walmart on Classen Blvd.
David: Damn, I need to get gas. Guess I'll get it here, damn it!
Woodie: What's wrong about getting your gas at Walmart?
David: Because I don't like to support evil corporations.
Woodie: But you're planning to buy food here?
David: Yeah, but . . .
Woodie: Get gas now . . . from Walmart.
David: Why?!
Woodie: Because if you don't, a drunken Walmart is gonna call me up at zero dark thirty whining, 'Why does David treat me like his whore? Sure he doesn't mind coming over when he needs food, yogurt, those canned iced teas . . . but be seen with me in public . . . at the gas pump?'
I don't think David's laughing. I am, though.
Sunday, July 26, 2o15 3:10am
Yes, still up damn it. My vampire soul keeps taking over When the human part desires to sleep. But hey! to see Vanishing Point (1971) on TMC! Takes me way back . . . 23 years old, just out of the Marine Corps, living back home in L.A., working shitty little jobs in factories, restaurants, any place that would hire a speed freaking Vet. Didn't no anything about PTSD at the time. I just thought I was crazy. Vietnam was never the big deal to me, I guess. Hell, I was a cook, for God's sakes! I did write a monologue about being a cook in the Nam some time during the late 70's or early 80's. No one had ever written a poem or a monologue or a play commemorating those unsung hero of pots and pans, The Marine Corps cook! Semper Fi, stir and fry, Mo-Fo. {smile}
Nam ‘69
What you see before you is a United
States Marine,
the finest fighting man in the
entire world today!
For a cost of three hundred,
fifty-two dollars and… thirty-two
cents,my Marine Corps gave to me this fine
M-16 rifle. For an additional cost of
eight hundred and forty-seven dollars,
my Marine Corps taught me to fire this fine M-16 rifle
with such speed and accuracy that I’m capable of knocking
a fly off a shit wagon at one thousand meters.
For a total expenditure of three
thousand, eight hundred,
ninety-nine dollars and… thirty-two
cents My Marine Corps successfully transformed me
from a puky civilian… like you…
into a lean, mean, fighting machine!
And then do you know what my Marine
Corps,
in its infinite wisdom did? It sent
me to Vietnamas a goddamn cook! This was embarrassing.
When I came home from Vietnam and
I would walk down the street in my
fine,Marine green uniform, people would stop me
and ask, “Hey, man, are you a Marine?!”
And I would answer, “Sir, yes, sir!”
And they would say, “Hey, man, were you
in the Nam?’
And I would answer, “Sir, yes, sir!”
And they would say, “Hey, man,
what did you do in the Nam?”
And I would answer, “Sir, I was a cook, sir!”
“A cook?! Why, boy, you ain’t shit!”
If you are a cook in the Nam… no
one will write to you.
Your mama and daddy will not write
to you.Your mama and your daddy if asked by a neighbor,
“Hey, man, where is your son?” would rather say,
“ Oh, he’s a draft dodger up in Canada…”
Than admit that you’re a cook in the Nam
‘cause they are embarrassed!
The only people who will write you
are the ugly girls who advertisefor pen pals in the Stars and Stripes.
Still you do not tell them you are a cook
for they are ugly and have enough
to be embarrassed about already!
There is a brother in the Nam
from San Francisco and of Oriental
descent. For the price of five American dollars
he will dress up in black pajamas and
you can have your picture taken capturing
a genuine Viet Cong to send
to the ugly girls who advertise
for pen pals in the Stars and Stripes.
Sooner or later they will send you
pictures of themselves…
And if they are too ugly,
there’s another brother in the Nam
who will write them back and say,
“Dear Suzy Q, Joe Blow will not
be writing you anymore for he has stepped
on a landmine and killed himself.”
Now, this may sound cruel to a
civilian… like you,
but as all good Marines know, war
is… embarrassing!Tuesday, July 28, 2o15 12:00am
Walking over to David's yesterday to help him move. Four o'clock in the afternoon and it's hot. Well, not as hot as the summer back in 2o11, but everybody I ran into on my little walk complained about the heat and I didn't want to start an argument.
I walked into David's second story apartment at Bishop's Landing and nothing is packed. Nothing. Bookshelves filled with books (I laugh to see a copy of I'm Okay, You're Okay) and one guy started to fill big boxes. So, okay, I join in thinking this is going to be a long night . . . and then thankfully David's daughter and her husband showed up.
Me: Hey, how full do I want to make these boxes of books?
Mabry (David's daughter) Oh, make 'em as heavy as you want Brendan can carry anything . . . he's so strong.
Brendan: (Mabry's husband) Yeah, thanks, honey.
The door opens and two very pretty (and very young I find out later) girls came to help. And then an artist friend that does great black & white photography and his son show up . . . and the night looks like it won't be as long as I thought. I finish one box and start on another when Brendan asked me to carry some bookshelf leaves down to the truck as he manhandled a huge Walmart bookcase out the door, down the steps and into the U-Haul truck that David rented early in the day. Hmmm, I guess that Brendan IS a superman cause he just gently flung the bookcase into the truck without breaking a sweat.
Back in apartment, "Hey, Woodie?" David said, "grab one of the girls and start putting my clothes into garbage bags." I start to but another bookcase carrier asks if I would carry the leaves out for him. It appears that once you carry shelf leaves out you are doomed to do it forever! But no worries cause I'm feeling sort of superman-like myself and I bound down the stairs, stack the new shelves with the ones I already placed there, run up the stairs, go get a garbage bag and start piling David's clean laundry into it, fill it up, grab another bag and . . . all of a sudden I get dizzy, I can't breath, I drop the bag and lean against the hallway wall. "Fuck. What the fuck just happened?" I walked outside onto the balcony, grabbed my inhaler, two quick puffs . . . it doesn't help. My knees shake, I leaned against the balcony railing . . . Few minutes later I walked back into the apartment. "David, I got to go home." And I did. I staggered down Page St. to the alley that leads to my efficiency. Some how I made it up the stairs into my apartment and crashed onto my couch . . . I still could barely breathe, the same panicking question inside my head, "What the fuck just happened to me?"
Wednesday, July 29, 2o15 12:19am
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
Thursday, July 3o, 2o15
"Again, I deeply regret that my pursuit of an activity I love and practice responsibly and legally resulted in the taking of this lion." -Walter Palmer
Okay. I can't say I don't understand that people "like" hunting. I believe it's okay to hunt if you are using the "meat" to feed yourself, your family or the poor or . . . whatever. But to go out and hunt down an unsuspecting critter, sneak up on it and just kill it? How do you love an action like that? I mean it sounds more like a mass shooting than it does a sport. I don't mind it if people want to hunt, but let your prey have at least a fighting chance to beat you. I'd say it would be okay to hunt a bear or a moose and the "hunter" had a . . . bowie knife. Then things would be fair . . . mano a mano . . . fist and hoof. Let the best beast win.
I don't get into politics too much on the blog. Okay, the truth is I never get into politics on this blog, but this killing of a lion for sport? It disturbs me a lot. Forget that it was a beloved lion named Cecil, whether it was a beloved lion doesn't really matter to me that much. What does matter is his idea that it's "fun and enjoyable" to kill another living creature. I jut don't understand the "thrill of the kill" mentality. It strikes me as being sort of sociopathic. Sort of the same kind of mental illness that drives serial killers and mass murders. Something exciting about taking a life. Not just any life, but a life that can't defend itself.
Friday, July 31, 2o15
"Man, I got a new TV and I can't get it to work. It's just like yours," he says pointing at my 56 inch Sanyo, "only not as big. Can you help me out?" Sure. I can do that. I put on some clothes on, grab my coffee and head down to his place. But no luck. I can't get the thing to work for him. "Sorry, man," I say picking up my coffee that I never got a sip of.
Back in my apartment I pour the coffee out cause when I was working on the TV I turned my back to the old guy . . . "Need a sip of your coffee?" He had said as I tried to get the damn channel select to work. I don't know, it sort of freaked me out. Why did he ask if I wanted a sip of my coffee? Did he put something in it while my back was turned? Poison, a knock out drug? I know, paranoid. But sometimes it's better to be a little paranoid.
I get home and the phone rings! What the hell is going on? Some at the door and now a phone call? It's my oldest friend, Moe. He wants to pick me up and take me down to a local casino cause there are VA people in one of the conference rooms making sure that all vets are getting their VA benefits. I go and I fill out a bunch of forms which I need to take to the VA office in OKC.
Moe takes me to lunch at the casino and we talk a while about the old days when we were in the Corps. Only time we can really talk bout those days . . . not good to be talking about it when his wife and/or kids are with him. We did some . . . strange things back in the day. And then . . . I get so tired. I have Moe drive me home. I collapse on the couch and sleep. An hour later I'm up and I'm worried about whatever it is that causes me to get so tired so fast. I should see a doctor.
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