Nana's Last Drive

Before nana became tangled in the insidious web of Alzheimer's there were incidents that were either early signs of the disease or the normal changes that come with age. As with all seniors citizens there came a time when her driving skills began to erode and we as a family were left with deciding when the keys should be taken away.

We were luckier than some of the families who have been in the news over the last several years. We waited longer than was prudent to take away the keys; fortunately God or fate was smiling on nana and us because when the unavoidable happened no one was hurt.

On a bright Thursday morning she climbed into her car with the intention of driving to her Senior’s club. Her garage was attached to the house while the back wall of the garage faced the street. In order to leave her property she had to back out of the garage and loop around the house to reach the road.

Her journey began innocently enough she started the car and allowed the engine to warm up. Her car had a manual transmission and when she put it in gear she bypassed reverse putting the car into neutral. When she depressed the accelerator nothing happened. She must have slipped into panic mode as she than shifted into drive with the engine fully revved. She left skid marks on the floor of the garage a teenager would have been proud of and went right thru the wall.

Just beyond the rear wall of the garage were three trees. Somehow she missed the three of them as she continued to careen across the lawn.

Separating the lawn from the sidewalk was a red brick and wrought iron wall about two feet high. She passed through the wall easier than a hot knife through butter and into the street.

Her street was fairly busy most hours of the day fortunately no one was coming in either direction. As she crossed the street she managed to regain some control over the car turning the steering wheel hard to the right. She made a u-turn jumped a curb, flipped the car onto the passenger side door coming to rest in the middle of her own driveway.

When the police arrived she was sitting on the passenger door calmly asking for someone to help her out of the car. She walked away without a scratch. The only casualty: her driver's license.

Nana Part I Revisited

November 26th was the 9th anniversary of my grandmother’s passing. For reasons lost in the hallways of time my siblings and I always called her nana.

In 1993, three years before here death we had heard of Alzheimer’s but did not understand the seriousness of the illness. Nor did we understand how debilitating the disease became before deaths sweet release.

Until one has experienced the devastation wrought by this illness first hand it is impossible to understand the stress and strain it puts on the family, the caretakers and anyone who comes into close personal contact with the sufferer.

When nana was first diagnosed I had the response that I am sure quite a few people have. It could be worse; she could have had cancer or something else equally horrible. I thought what is Alzheimer’s but the gradual loss of memory.

Wrong.

As the disease progresses not only does the patient’s memory go but eventually the mind can no longer remember motor functions. Limbs become useless appendages drawn into claw like rigidity. The patients are no longer able to speak, feed themselves or perform the most basic of bodily functions.

As the end draws near they are little more than a spirit trapped in the husk of what once was a vibrant human body. Even more horrifying is that even at this stage of the illness brief lucidity appeared to return to nana’s eyes. On some primal level she was still self aware and understood what her existence had been reduced to.

Following is a piece from February of last year in which I tried to see the onset of the illness through her eyes.


In November her memory had begun to fade. Television left on when she went to bed. A burner still lit even after she had finished her meal. Keys left in the door upon her return from the store or mass. It’s nothing she thought, just old age catching up with me.

She would sit in the front window, late afternoon sunlight streaming over her shoulder warming her bones. On her lap sat a bible, King James version, which she would attempt to read when the day's work was done. Often she would find herself looking around, frowning, and struggling to recall what it was she had just read. Returning to the page no longer seemed to help, as she was fast becoming unable to recognize the simplest of words. So she returned the bible to the shelf promising to try again tomorrow.

She continued to attend Wednesday meetings at her senior club but the conversations became increasingly frustrating. A friend would ask her about yesterday's events and her mind would draw a blank. She remembered her childhood, she even remembered driving from Missouri to California in 1926, just her and her best friend exploring the back roads of America.

For the life of her though her memory of current events was nonexistent, which filled her eyes with tears of frustration. So she withdrew from the club and began spending her Wednesday afternoons at home, sitting in front of the television watching reruns of The Golden Girls.

What scared her the most was not recognizing the friends and family that she was closest to. One Sunday she went to mass with her oldest grandson. He took her to breakfast and to the grocery store and helped her put away her purchases.

She was sitting with him on the back porch drinking coffee when suddenly she had no idea who he was. Why is this person on my porch? Who is he? Should I scream? Should I call the police? Before she could act irrationally her memory returned to focus and she remembered who he was. It did not happen everyday but when it did it took all of her self-restraint to sit with the person and pretend that everything was perfect.

Her life was becoming a daily battle, fighting as hard as she could to hold on to her memories. It was a battle she found herself losing more often than naught.

She mailed her payment to the gas co. but forgot to put the check in the envelope. One morning she found her glasses on the butter dish in the refrigerator and had no recollection of putting them there.

The money counters from her church called asking about her most recent donation. The envelope she had deposited was filled with tissue paper, in looking around her house she found the twenty-dollar bill she had meant to place in the basket wadded up and thrown in the wastebasket.

Each and every night of that November before she fell asleep she said her prayers and asked God to spare her the loss of her memories. Please Lord, anything but that. But being a Christian woman who always placed her faith completely in her creator she would end her prayers with a solemn "thy will be done."

JFK

Forty two years ago today a nation lost its innocense. When John Fitzgerald Kennedy was gunned down in Dallas America was brought kicking and screaming into the reality of the modern world.

I was only four years old at the time. Despite the dearth of childhood memories the long weekend that followed stands out in my mind.

My mother not unlike most women her age was a greatly admired President Kennedy and his wife Jacqueline.

When he was assassinated her world was rocked to its core. For four days she shut down and was glued to the television. I remember because for four days I was not allowed out of the house. We even ate our meals in the living room which was never allowed in our house.

She cried along with the nation when John saluted his fathers casket.

She cried when along with the nation when taps was played at Arlington.

She was shocked along with the rest of the nation when Lee Harvey Oswald was gunned down by Jack Ruby at the police station.

John Kennedy was president in an era when our heros were allowed to remain larger than life. Adults understood that everyone had faults but no one expected those faults to play out in the living rooms of the nation.

Today John Kennedy would probably lose in an election for president. Rather than except him as Arthur in Americas Camelot the press and the bottom feeders would find great joy in tearing him down.

Thanksgiving Memories

I love Thanksgiving. The food. The family gatherings. The laughter and the shared memories.

Memories. For some reason I can only remember two Thanksgivings between ages four and twenty-one. I find that odd since I have such a great love for the holiday.

Thanksgiving 1969 stands out for reasons outside of the day itself. My step-father's sixteen year old daugher had died the previous week in an auto accident. His two sons were both in the military and were allowed home on grievance leave. Scott the older brother was home from Vietnam while Mike was stationed stateside.

The celebration itself was lowkey. Immediate family only. There is one picture from this Thanksgiving of everyone except my mom gathered around the table. Golden turkey in the foreground. Mom was obviously the photographer.

Thanksgiving 1973 stands out for the sole reason that it was the year of my mom's rebellion. Working full time left little room for preparation during the week. Thanksgiving eve usually found her still up at two or three in the morning prepping food for the big day.

Her goal each year was to have the turkey on the table by three in the afternoon. This year was no exception and after hours of work a beautiful bird was gracing the table with all the trimmings. The children and wives were at the table forks in hand ready to eat. The men however, were nowhere to be found.

Mom found them still in the living room, eyes glazed over, glued to the idiot box. Hypnotized by the days football games. Communication was impossible. Though my mom attempted to pry them from the television longer than most women would have.

Finally in a fit of frustration she moved behind the television ripping the power cord from the wall. Startled back to reality the men were unable to mount a protest before she stomped from the room locking herself in her bedroom.

Fifteen minutes of groveling by my step-father ensued before she would come out of the room and join us for dinner. The cord of course remained hidden until all of the guests had left.

Needless to say it was the last Thanksgiving she had to announce dinner more than once before the men came running.

The Can Collector

I saw the can collector today
lying in the street
sleeping, not
men in uniform stood
and knelt
around him
it was than I noticed his bike
twisted like a child’s toy
beneath the stained tires
of an SUV
hefty bags torn
aluminum cans strewn
about the road
recyclable tombstones
candle less memorials
honoring the passing
of a simple man

dream

in the darkness he listens for her
on the edge of dream filled sleep
her perfume fills his room
jasmine on a summer breeze
he feels her spirit come to him
though he has never seen her face
he knows just how she will respond
though he has never kissed her lips
he takes her in his arms
loving her through the night
in the morning he awakes alone
turning over with a sigh
someday, maybe more than a dream
but today the dream will do

Nicknames

My parents and most of their friends had nicknames that had stuck over the years. For some reason this crossed my mind today. Not sure why. Maybe because most people that I know do not use nicknames and I was wondering about that, if it was a generational thing, or if there was some other reason.

I cannot remember most of them but a select few still stand out.

My step dads best friend was always Hawk, I did not even know his real name was Jim until I was a teenager. If I had to guess I would say it came about because of his profile, which was very hawk like.

Another friend of my step dads was called Moose by everyone, they bartended together and he always introduced himself as Moose. His real name was Don but I think his nickname came about because of his size.

My step dad was Jaybird to everyone. Not much mystery there as his name was Jay.

My mother was known as Bomber by one and all. I never gave it much thought but after my step dad passed away I finally asked her why everyone called her bomber. Turns out that her nickname had an actual story behind it.

My parents and a group of their friends were driving back from Del Mar (a racetrack just north of San Diego) when they stopped for dinner. It was a typical surf and turf joint along the coast.

After a day at the track everyone was relaxed and having a good time. My mom had stepped away from the table for a moment when a woman came and sat down practically on my step dads lap.

He was always good at the deadpan reaction and according to legend he just looked at her and said can I help you with no expression of surprise what so ever.

The woman looked him in the eye and said, “Why don’t you drop that Blonde Bomber you are with and come away with me.”

Of course he turned her down. She left before my mom returned to the table, when she did my step dad just looked at her and said, “What are you drinking Bomber?”

Everyone at the table broke up over that and from that day forward she was bomber.

Clouds of Despair Cover the Sun

Clouds of despair cover the sun
Darkness brought to the winters soul
Where will the wicked run

Prophets cry, end times have begun
Worry not for whom the bells toll
Clouds of despair cover the sun

Bitter webs of sorrow will be undone
Cast the sinners deep, into that sulfuric hole
Where will the wicked run

Risen spirits what have you done
Failing to attain your heavenly goal
Clouds of despair cover the sun

For man, God sacrificed his only son
Holy blood burned on altars of wool
Where will the wicked run

Child of heaven the chance is gone
Your future has come black as coal
Clouds of despair cover the sun
Where will the wicked run

tarnished

his heart is filled with sorrow
his mind is so confused
he cannot understand the problem
he feels he is being used
who is behind it
he doesn’t know
it could be almost anyone
here he stands
a broken man
hiding from
the midday sun
he cannot stand the loneliness
he cannot hide the pain
his eyes are red and swollen
from tears that fell like rain
he wants to scream at someone
his shouts fall on deafened ears
he wants to save tomorrow
he has lost so many years
once he held the brass ring
only it was tarnished rusty and old
he tried to make the caged bird sing
but its song had already been sold
for a nickel to a beggar
with broken teeth and mind
who tried to use that bird’s voice
but fate was none to kind
thru it all his heart had faded
like sycamore leaves in the fall
he listened closely to the wind
his name is never called
once again he is left alone
crying for the world to see…..

The Merry-Go-Round

i sit and i watch
stars at night
thinking about
what's wrong
thinking about
what's right
a war torn country
a terrible sight
children running
from the dark to the light
my heart is heavy
with insignificant pain
what i feel
just isn't the same
my problems few
compared to theirs
some day’s it just seems
like no one cares
as i sit in a park
on a merry go round
a place for children
to spin round and round
i want to cry
i can't find the tears
i want to run
from pain always near
for some love is the answer
a light at darkest noon
for me love is a fear
of leaveing to soon
some can't understand
that, emotions are real
not something tarnished
made from recycled steel
i want to run
into the arms of a friend
i want to hide
‘til time begins to bend
i want to capture some moonlight
dancing on waves
i want to walk thru sand
a moment to save
i want to live without questions

with no soiled explanations
talk to whom i please
with no emotional citations
i want to live in solitude
lost in a fantasy
i want to sleep in the rain
escape reality
i want to be a boy again
no pressure to bear
playing with soldiers
dirt in my hair
riding a merry go round
singing a song
watching the moonlight
and crying…

alone

original post 1/15/04

Words

Words. Innocent in appearance, little more than random sound waves human imagination has attached meaning to. Sounds in reality are guttural in nature nothing more than grunts and groans of hairless primates striding the planet with a sense of superiority.

Each of us can return to our past identifying points along the path of time where words greatly affected our lives.

A song playing on the radio when a first kiss is shared lyrics speak to the moment seem expressing feelings when the heart has been struck dumb by passion.

A word, sentence or a passage from a book captures a reader within a tornado of emotion, lifting them up and depositing them in Wonderland beside the Cheshire Cat who with a self-satisfied grin welcomes us to his world.

Buried beneath the babble of a toddler words begin to form unnoticed until without warning a “dada” or “mama” without warning springs to the surface capturing for the parents a moment of pure bliss.

Vows exchanged when two are joined as one. Love flows on the river of words shared before the world, emotional wings lifting the spirit of all in attendance.

Words within a eulogy shared with friends and family members can through their power create an image of the dearly departed which brings them back to life for at least a brief moment leaving the congregation in tears, friend and stranger alike.

Used as a weapon though words can create lasting scars, cut deeper than a saber leaving behind a pestilence that eats away at a persons soul for days, weeks, months, years, even decades.

Few of us understand the power of words. We have been brainwashed by the childhood nursery rhyme. Repeating it as our personal mantra every time we are hurt by the insensitive words of others.

“Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me.”

A truer rendition would read:

“Sticks and stones may break my bones but words leave deeper scars.”

We all carry scars with us, inflicted by friend and stranger alike. From intentional damage to casual use words damage the psyche regardless of intention.

“You are so stupid. When I was twelve I was so much smarter than you.”

“You sure have put on weight since I last saw you.”

“That hairstyle just does not fit your face.”

“Passed up for another promotion, I guess you are just another drone with no hope for a future.”

“(Insert name here) had a better life before you came along. You just do not belong. Go back where you came from.”

“What makes you think (insert name here) really loves you. I have known them for years and they never could love someone like you.”

“I expected more from my son/daughter-in-law. You do not belong in this family.”

The list goes on forever. The self righteous amongst us laughs off the pain of others. Their contention being words are words and should be ignored. Words they say only have power invested in them by the listener. Ignore the words and presto chango no pain.

If only life were so easy.

Hurtful words from a stranger on the street may be laughed off without much difficulty. Problems arise with friends and family. When we give a piece of ourselves in friendship, in family or in love we invest a certain amount of trust. We remove a few shields and hope for the best.

Soon enough sore spots are learned and those who want to take advantage will dig in ripping away at damaged flesh. In-laws, siblings, co-workers any one of them could take advantage of a weakness or confidence and with only words reduce a person to tears.

Greater risk comes when we expose ourselves to others associated with a new friend, family member or co-worker. People who may not approve of choices made and lash out at a threat recognizable to them alone.

Logically words from these strangers should be easy to ignore but in reality they to are not. Human nature cries out for acceptance and regardless of the situation be it dating, working or marriage we want to be accepted into the circle of our new group. Without thought we lower our shields further and further from our home base. Including more and more unknown factors until the words of a casual acquaintance of a casual acquaintance have the power to damage and destroy.

In the end words are not what lifts us up nor are they what tears us down. That honor belongs to our fellow homo sapiens who as they have shown through out history can take any discovery benefiting mankind and twist it into unrecognizable weaponry that can destroy and maim without conscious thought.

soul song

a gentle whisper caresses the night

an erotic perfume hopscotches the breeze

a taste of strawberry on warm fingertips

fear released once bound in darkness

a mumble, half heard sigh

only a dream, a fantasy

a star wish come true

in solitude

sailing upon the quiet

reality is a filament

casting moon glow upon the stage

fractal events cleanse scars

from a heart evolving

wandering a landscape

marked by ruins of trust

bitter sands of hope

an oasis where pity

wallows in pools of dust

forty days

forty nights

for spirit death

making way for a phoenix

rising from cold ashes of truth

on updrafts of hope.....

morning sun fills the room

with cold harsh winters light

pillow smushed beneath graying hair

a taste of the dream still lingers

tantalizing senses long dormant

despite the solitude

despair he once felt has scattered

before the breeze

for somewhere beyond the horizon

he has heard his soul song

an adventure a waits

if he has but the courage

Morons Amongst Us

In the name of convenience (so called) we have ensured that the least qualified, least intelligent and least capable of an original thought have become the quicksand in which our daily lives have become mired.

While the average Joe or Jane can site several real life examples of institutionalized behavior from their daily routine, we feel as if we are helpless before this onslaught. Unfortunately, we may be correct.

With the Paxil crisis now extending beyond fourteen days I had to take my anxiety by the horn and make the drive to my psychiatrist so at least two of the involved parties were capable of instant communication in the vane hopes that this might make some small iota of a difference.

It did not of course.

Before the words were even out of my mouth the office staff has a months supply of the Paroxetine prepared, bagged and in my trembling hands. Upon further exchange of information the staff has spoken with my pharmacist on the 4^th of November supplying her with a prescription request for the Paroxetine since the Paxil CR was still not available.

In medical terms the biggest difference between Paxil CR and Paroxetine is the controlled release and name brand of Paxil. The formula is almost identical. So my psychiatrist and his staff were shocked to say the least when they found out that the insurance company needed pre approval to dispense there by clogging pipes backing up my prescription.

Basically we had a long line of communication that could fail at any moment. I was in the office talking to the staff, who in turn were on the phone with the pharmacist, who was relaying her conversation with the blue binder-quoting drone on the other end.

It only gets better.

The question returned to rather or not Paxil CR 37.5 was near to being available. The pharmacist said no that it was still back ordered. She did have Paxil CR 25 though. Easy as pie or so we thought. Instead of two 37.5 pills a day he would just prescribe three 25 pills. For any logically minded person it makes complete sense. Regardless of the amount of pills it comes out to the 75mg per day I am approved for.

Foolish mortals that we are we made all of the wrong assumptions. It made sense to me, the office staff and the pharmacist but the insurance company was obviously using a different playbook.

According to the binder toting drone the answer was a big fat no. I was beginning to believe that David Spade was at the insurance company in his Capital One mode. His mantra like response was basically the patient is approved for two 37.5mg pills per day. If we give him 25mg pills he will only be approved for one per day. That was it. No matter the question he refused to be budged from this point.

In a rare show of courage by someone standing before a slow moving glacier the pharmacist kept attempting to discern some form of movement. She explained the math, the logic, the illogic, the quantum logic, and the paradoxic, in a sign sure sign of battle fatigue she even attempted to explain the US tax code. The drone and his blue book were impervious to all attacks in defeat the pharmacist surrendered and at least for today settling for a tainted victory was all we could hope for.

I have medicine now that while not being the best of all possible solutions it will at the very least return me to the land of the luke warm. And I know that the logjam was not the fault of my doctor, his staff or the pharmacy. The mantle of blame falls squarely on the newly devolved near sighted bureaucrat.

Gray

she said change your shirt blue is better than brown
so he wore blue
she said no tennis shoes your not eighteen anymore
so he wore loafers
she said I don’t like your friends
so he made new friends
she said clean the house I have stuff to do
so the house he cleaned
she said take care of my mother
so he nursed her
she said my sister is moving in
so he made room
she said support my decisions
so he kept the peace
she said your hair is too gray
so he dyed it
she said you never do what I ask
so he said goodby

Paxil, Paxil and Paxil

Typing posts with blurred vision and dizziness that should only be experienced by someone who has spent seven straight days on Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras is not something that should be attempted by the faint of heart. Beside it is inherently unfair. At least a week of Mardi Gras can be considered a price worth paying for feeling this way. In my case though what the hell did I do and how come I don’t have any pleasant memories relive and be able to say with just a touch of sarcasm it was worth it.

My personal diagnosis is that either that the ear infection I have been dealing with is a particularly viral strain or Paxil CR provides more withdrawal symptoms for the buck than any other so called legal drug.

My hands are trembling. My stomach just spent about seventeen hours and thirteen minutes riding the roller coaster that holds the worlds record for consecutive loops. My left ear feels like the gremlin from the classic Bugs Bunny cartoons using his little hammer on my eardrum. And if science did not say it was virtually impossible I would swear that my brain was actually a large top spinning on a brain stem.

Ear infections will pass. It is the Paxil CR that is causing me the most frustration. Out of all the anti-anxiety meds I have tried Paxil is the only one who leaves me feeling somewhat human, a two thousand pound human but human nonetheless.

Early this year Paxil CR was briefly recalled because the CR part was not working properly. For some odd reason people who buy their drugs with expectations of a controlled release are disappointed when the release happens instantaneously rather than over time. Sometimes are expectations are just to high we want are meds and we also want them to work.

Apparently when our friendly neighborhood good-hearted pharmaceutical company returned the medication to the marked they did not consider that there might be a backlog of patient in need of their Paxil in CR form. So now those of us in need are well in need.

I have now been two weeks without. Anxiety is increasing at levels previously unknown to man. Xanex while a good escape vehicle is not a long-term solution. As the addictive properties of the big X make Paxil look like a bag of skittles.

I have checked all local pharmacies and at the suggestion of a good friend begun a search of Canadian pharmacies.

My last hope is going to be hijacking the Good Year blimp and flying across the country with the electronic sign reading “Free Rides for Paxil CR”, no questions asked.

Bad idea actually I hate heights.

What If?

The road to enlightenment despite the ranting and raving of false prophets is not one to be traveled with blinders on. No one said the way was easy nor promised wisdom without a price.

So many have promised; follow this path, stay on the straight and narrow, fervently pray for divine intervention therefore freeing man from the responsibility of attaining humility as he runs rough shod over this opulent gem we call earth.

In their so called inspired teachings we are led to believe that as long as we keep our eye on the prize we are sure to attain prime seating for the grand finale: Armageddon.

Then what? And at what price?

A difficult question to be sure. Following this path requires the asking. Have we as mankind been given this gift of life, only to struggle for eight or nine decades to attain the cosmic equivalent of a waiting room?

When you boil it all down that is the bill of goods we are being sold. Live a good life. Follow the path. Say your prayers for humanity. Humble yourself before God. And than my child your just reward will be #13,113,113,113,666 in the deli of eternity.

Sure streets are paved with gold. Angels sing on high. Prophets worship at the throne of the almighty and the common man still has to wait forever behind the holier than though just to find out where the restroom of eternity is.

Why do we continue as a species to sell ourselves short?

Why do we look out our window and say to ourselves the best that God wants for us is to come sit around heaven with him?

Why is religion beginning to sound suspiciously like somebody’s idea of the ultimate reality show? Whoever does jumps through these hoops with the most fervor will win an all expense paid trip to the after life. Whoopee. If eternity is nothing more than a bastardized reflection of our loudest teachers they can have it, I would rather rot in the ground.

What if heaven is not a place? What if heaven is the journey itself? What if death rather than a destination is nothing more than a change in scenery? No different than when Dorothy landing in Oz leaves the world of black and white behind and can suddenly see the colors that were there all along is she had only known where to look.

What if?

Ask your self that question. It is simple really only two syllables. Say it aloud – What if?

What if?
Life is not one road but billions of roads. As many roads as there are stars in the sky at night. What if each road was placed there specifically for are choosing paths for us to follow. The paths may be straight and narrow or broad and wide. There may be one-way streets and streets that are circles perpetuity. Highways that appear to go on forever but suddenly end around an innocent corner with no explanation but a sign that reads Oops.

Despite the tunnel vision we are being sold it is not the destination that matters it is the partaking of the journey that counts. Which means white robed holier than thou types who sit in judgment of others need not apply. This is path for those who do not live in fear of their halos shine being be smudged by a little dust of the road. Life is not for the timid. Those who claim to have all the answers need not apply because in their minds they have nothing to learn.

Remember the lessons learned in climbing a mountain rather that mountain be local or Everest are learned on the journey. Nothing is learned at the top of the mountain and a climber does not pull a house out of his or her ass and live on the peak for all eternity. They embrace the moment, take the lessons to heart and move on to the next mountain or the next adventure.

We have all seen movies about family vacations where everyone was so wrapped up in the destination that they forgot about the journey itself. They laugh at the Worlds Largest Ball of String. Passing it by with nary a though. What if they were missing a lesson? What if something could be learned from the Ball of String or the man who made it?

Maybe taking a detour to see the Worlds Largest Ball of String is not as crazy as it sounds. Ask yourself what drove the person to complete this particular task?

Was it ego did they just want to see their name in the record books?

Was it therapy maybe they could not or did not want to take medication for anxiety or depression so they wound string?

Was it meditation their own personal mantra that they repeated every night struggling to find the path that so many have trod before?

Was it loneliness woven in the hopes that others on the journey might stop by and say hello?

The answer will never be known if the time is not taken to get out of the car and ask the question.

Inspiration and wisdom can be found everywhere along the path of life. Lessons are there for the taking nirvana is for everyman. Not just robed leaders of various churches but all of us.

On this journey only three items are required and they are not sex, drugs and rock and roll. Although all of the above may provide distraction they are optional not required.

What is required is nothing more than an open heart, an open mind and an open soul. Nothing more nothing less, if one leaves themselves open to wisdom much will be learned if one is blind knowledge will pass them by.

O’ and more optional item that is not required but makes the journey a hell of a lot more fun someone to share it with.

We are taught by magazines, television and the movies that we should share our journey with the perfect specimen of manhood or femininity, which of course do not exist in reality, in the real world they are nothing more than cardboard cutouts for the easily distracted.

Remember a beautiful is soul is more important, a beautiful mind is more attractive, a beautiful heart is more desirable and finding all of the above in one place far more erotic than anything imaginations can create for us.

a slurpee and a dog to go

so many paths to wander
a road for every soul
a journey once unique
became a soulless travelogue
neon on every corner
pointing to the house of god
many different franchises
different menus, different words
the highway though is fractured
by minds in overload
no longer questing for eternity
just a slurpee and a dog to go

Summer of Goldilocks

Summer of '69: My world revolved around playing right field for the Arcadia Raiders. I was not very good and I was small for my age. Fortune smiled on me, no one demanded that the coach sit me down, as this was the era before overly competitive parents took over children's sports ruining them for generations to come.

I digress.

This story has no connection to little league or my skills whatsoever. Its relevance lies only in that the following events occurred as I rode my bike home from practice.

My mother was divorced and our home was located on Mountain Avenue, which was a relatively quiet street. Imagine the surprise than in my ten-year-old mind when upon rounding the corner I found our house surrounded by Sheriff cars. One of our neighbors intercepted me explaining that my family was okay and that my mother would answer all of my questions. Meanwhile she sat me down with a plate of cookies and milk to pass the time.

A few hours had passed before my mother was able to come get me. She was visibly shaken but appeared to be injury free.

What had happened was not in anyway horrible, it was rather a bizarre set of circumstances.

A woman escaped from a mental hospital located somewhere in Southern California. After of wondering aimlessly through the she found her way to our rather humble neighborhood.

Seeing our little white house must have caused the wrong set of neurons to discharge or the wrong chemicals to be released because she in her insanity moved in. She prepared herself a meal. Well fed she stripped down and took a long bubble bath in my mother's tub. Than naked she climbed between the sheets on my mothers bed falling asleep, which was where my mother stumbled across her when she returned from work.

A regular Goldilocks she was.

The responding deputies were unable to reason with her. She cursed them from hell to high water out and swore to the gods that it was her house and that my mother was the trespasser. Negotiations actually took several hours before they were able to convince Goldilocks to leave peacefully with them and we were able to finally return to our home.

The consequences of the day’s events were small, large and far-reaching. My mom spent most of that night scrubbing down the house and bleaching the bed linen.

In a neighborhood where everyone felt safe enough to leave their houses unlocked suddenly new locks were installed and being used.

Finally, within a year of the incident we sold our house and moved to a new neighborhood.

Originally posted March 2004

Halloween Haunt

Way back when in my wild and wooly days I made a point of getting a group of friends together each Halloween for a visit to Halloween Haunt at Knott’s Berry Farm. Each October as do so many other places now the park would be overwhelmed nightly by demons of darkness dressed in various degrees of gore.

A visit to the haunt required two ingredients for a great evening, a large group of friends and several adult beverages at dinner before crossing over to the other side.

The adult beverages are self-explanatory. A bit of alcohol reduces inhibitions and allowed everyone in the group to more easily buy into the whole haunt idea.

The large group increased the scare factor because you mixed in the added tension created by members of your own group attempting their own scares while at the same time being surprised by the blood covered ghouls inhabiting the park.

Two incidents stand out from my many visits.

In 1984 there was supposed to be a foursome attending, my best friend (bf) and his girl friend, myself and my significant other at the time. A wise man once said that nothing ever goes as planned. I ended up dateless because of the usual game playing that goes on when a relationship has died but does not know enough to give up the ghost. So I invited a friend from work (wf). Which made it the three guys and my best friends date that I had never met.

We went to dinner and than plunged imagination first into the park. Which is when the other shoe dropped. My bf with the date saw that Elvira was appearing and wanted to wait in line to see her.

If you have ever attended one of these events the sole goal is to hit every maze and scare everyone silly. Lines for show tend to be hours long and when you are paying big bucks for the evening you want to get all the bang for your bucks that you can.

My wf and I opted out immediately there was no way we were waiting in line for two hours to see anyone that night. Much to my surprise my bf’s date also opted. She said she had never been to the haunt and that she came to be scared not sit in line all night. Stubborn as always the bf told her fine he would see the show alone and meet up with afterwards.

The three of us hit a few of the lesser mazes building up to the good stuff. At the appointed time we went to our arranged meeting place and the bf never showed. We waited 45 minutes and finally gave up.

At his dates insistence we headed back to the mazes all the while keeping our eyes out for him and periodically returning to the assigned meeting place.

The best part of the evening came within the maze rated most scary. The three of us were walking along getting the shit scared out of us around every corner. The bf’s date kept digging her nails into my arm every time she got scared.

At one point when she let go. I felt a tap on my shoulder and a very realistic looking wolf man signaled that he wanted to take my place. I stepped aside and he moved in. She never noticed. The next time she was scared she grabbed wolfs arm without batting an eye. I was following along behind them laughing my ass off.

This lasted for about two thirds of the maze until she turned to say something to me. Her eyes were bigger than Sunday morning pancakes. She screamed and ran full speed through the rest of the maze without even pausing long enough to be scared. My wf and I must have laughed for an hour after that.

We never caught up with the bf until we got to the car and boy was he pissed.

A few years later I attended with a much larger group. There must have been fourteen or fifteen people and we were all a bit on the happy side. Not enough food at dinner but plenty of beer.

Halfway through the evening I began rambling on about how unfair the haunt was to its workers. Sure they got to spend hours on end scaring beautiful women and chasing them all over the park but that is only half the fun on Halloween. People also have a primal need to embrace fear and they were missing out. Who scares the scarer’s was my question and no one had the answer. For the rest of the evening I kept my eyes open waiting for the opportunity to do some scaring of my own.

My big chance arrived on a ride that had been turned into a moving maze. Or should I say we were moving while the monsters stayed in one place. The ride was called Kingdom of the Dinosaurs and it began in the laboratory of H.G. Wells where he had actually invented a time machine. Before the unsuspecting riders knew what had happened they were millions of the years in the past in the time of the dinosaurs.

The setup was perfect for my plan lots of corners and blind turns where I knew someone would be hiding waiting to scare us. Plus, I had my ace in the hole one of those light up roses that I had purchased for my date. I borrowed it from her and bided my time.

As we neared the middle of the ride I noticed that two cars in front of us the passengers had been scared by someone hiding behind a small wall, the monster had waited until the car was almost past to jump out. If patterns held he would not scare the next car he would wait for ours but the tables would be turned and I would be waiting for him.

Lit rose in hand I waited for my opportunity and for once my timing was perfect. As he prepared to leap I held the rose beneath my face and growled at him. The monster screamed, tripped over his own two feet and landed on his ass. Not only that but to add to his humiliation he dropped his flashlight which rolled down the incline to land at the foot of another beast. What made the scare even more entertaining is that every monster within one hundred feet of us began laughing. All their hiding places were given away which led to even more laughter by the passengers in our car. A scary ending to a perfect night.

Speaking of which I need to scare someone any volunteers?