Church & stuff

I went to church yesterday. It was the first time I’d been to a church service in 51 years. The last was during boot camp and they made us go. Can’t be an atheist and fight for freedom, no.

When the gruff petty officer asked my religion I replied atheist. He gave me a look that would kill most grown boys. You can’t be a goddamn atheist, he growled. I’ll put you down as protestant.

Well, what the hell did I, a 17-year-old punk kid, know? I’d been to church some as a kid. Sunday school, too. I didn’t know what was what, where I stood.

I still don’t, though I no longer call myself an atheist. There’s something. I’m not sure exactly what. I don’t believe the universe happened by accident. Of course, that leads to larger questions: who created it and where did he/she come from? Hey, I didn’t say I had any answers.

But hell, I wouldn’t look at a new Cadillac and say it built itself. And the universe is a hell of a lot more complex than a Caddy. We won’t even bring the Swiss watch into the conversation. Or a lot of other less complicated things we’d never believe built themselves.

Anyway, I showed up there in church simply because it’s where my kids attend and they invited me. I received a warm welcome from everyone. My daughter is the church secretary and my son sometimes preaches. They are well thought of in the community.

Much of the pastor’s talk centered on financial concerns for the men's home, the women’s home. He quoted a number of scriptures that seemed to support the idea that folks should assist programs to help the needy, the unfortunate, the drug and alcohol addled. They had to come up with fifteen grand in two days or they were in bad trouble.

Don’t look my way. If I had fifteen large to spare, I’d probably be sitting in one of the nearby casinos, paying reparations to our red brethren for all that land we stole. I did that when I last visited a dozen years ago. Not this time.

After church, we all went to Celia’s in El Centro for lunch. The place was packed, long line waiting. Kind of semi-upscale, but they had a TV silently playing high up in one corner. I sat directly facing it and was surprised to see the Titans’ blue and white jerseys on the field. The game was shown locally on Fox because the Arizona Cardinals are an area team.

I got back home in time for the last quarter. Walked out on it about 4 minutes from the end, when Kenny Britt fumbled away that beautiful 51-yard pass from VY. The Titans were down by 3 points and I figured Arizona to score again and seal the deal. I was disgusted.

Course, as it turned out, the Titans got the ball back way downfield and went on a 98-yard rapid drive. Wound up with Young completing a pass to Britt in the end zone to win the game 20-17. Redemption for that fumble. Damn, but those Titans sometimes take one to heart attack city before pulling it out at the last moment. Probably just as well that I missed it.

A week from tomorrow morning, I cross the mountain and board the big bird again. I’ve had a nice visit thus far -- only really bad point was yesterday when I noticed I’d lost my credit card somewhere. Last place I used it was Nashville airport, and I distinctly remember the girl handing it back to me and me placing it in my wallet. But my wallet later went into that security basket to go through the machine and there were a half dozen security personnel there where the basket came out. It beat me through by some small measure of time, plenty of time for someone to flip it open and pull the card from the too visible place.

Into each life some rain must fall....

Update

We did the big feast in the park thing yesterday. It started out several years ago as a traditional meal for the homeless. Now, it’s for anybody who shows up, and they did. I had a huge plate myself. It was very good, but I’m sure it won’t touch the T-giving dinner we plan to have today. I’m instructing my daughter in Mom’s stuffing recipe. I can almost duplicate it, though no way I can get it as fine as Mom did. But close. It’s good enough that I can have indigestion for several days after an OD.

I’ve really enjoyed this trip. If nothing bends or breaks -- and I’m still around -- I think I’ll come back next Christmas for a few weeks. Maybe come December 15 and stay until January 15, something like that. One of those “wear out your welcome” visits.

Ah, don’t think that would happen with my daughter. She’d be happy if I moved out here. But, I’ve gotta stay at my little house on Paris Pike for the duration. That’s where I belong. Eleven more days and I’ll be back there. Not especially looking forward to the travel, but what the hell, it’s just a day. A day in the life. That’s okay, but the days have become fewer and the life shorter. That’s the way it works.

No matter. Get my ass home and finish up that murder book. Make a few bucks for all my years of pecking on a keyboard. Or maybe not, but I’d be surprised if I don’t. I’ve actually been fortunate to make a living pecking all these years, even if the end product wasn’t “artistic” by any means. It beats driving a honey wagon. Barely, anyway. (Don’t tell Tweety Bird I said that, he’d kick my ass!)

Homeless

Something you see around here that you don’t see at home is the vast number of homeless people. Brawley and El Centro seem to have more than their share of ragged men pushing shopping carts and standing on corners, or the entry/exits to mall parking lots, with their cardboard beggar signs.

Must be a sign of the economic times. When I lived out here in the 70s, early 80s I don’t recall seeing homeless people. Most of the ones you see now are older men, many of whom claim to be veterans. Some probably are and some likely pose as vets in hope that will bring in more donations.

I can’t imagine that they push those carts around during the blazing 115-degree plus heat of full summer. Surely they are like the “Snow Birds,” who migrate down to the Valley during the winter months and head back north in the summers. There are many of those around, campgrounds and small trailer sites are full of them. Retired people mostly, with the funds to own motor homes or travel trailers. Anyone who can afford to drive a motor home or RV nowadays has a little money stashed back somewhere, with the price of gasoline and the lousy mileage.

I was thinking this morning what a great documentary it would make to interview some of these homeless sorts. Of course, it’s nothing unique, has been done many times before. But everybody has a different story about how they got into the dire straits in which they now dwell. I don’t have the time or inclination to do something like that right now -- plus, you’d have to pay the dudes to talk to you, no doubt.

Interesting facts: El Centro is the largest US city (40,000 plus) that lies completely below sea level (-50 feet). Calipatria, about 23 miles up the road, is the lowest city in the western hemisphere at -177 below sea level.

Much to be thankful for

Well, I stuck a 12-pack of long neck Buds in the little dorm refrigerator in this room yesterday. We were shopping in El Centro and my daughter mentioned that she’d turned the refer on before I arrived because she figured I might want to keep some beer in it. Nobody drinks here and truth is, I’d hated to bring beer into their house, the main reason I hadn’t had any. But she said it was no problem whatsoever so I bought a few. And since I can smoke in this room as well, now I can smoke and drink, which comes in handy should I wish to. I only had a couple yesterday -- hell, had to celebrate the Titan’s win over Texans, doncha know. But I won’t be guzzling like I sometimes do at home.

We’ll be doing the Thanksgiving dinner thing here Friday. On Thanksgiving day, the family participates each year in a “feed the homeless” thing in the city park. Hell, they don’t “participate” in it, they do all the preparation for it, from purchasing the food to cooking it. My daughter is in charge of it through the church and my son, who is now second in command at the rehab center that put him back on the straight and narrow, also plays a big part in it. To see my son, Norm, transformed from a hopeless meth head into a man of substance and one respected by the people he deals with and supervises has done my heart more good than a transplant.

He laughingly told one of his friends yesterday that, “Dad had written me off.” He said it with a smile and good cheer. I told him I’d never written him off, but I had expected him to get killed eventually in a barroom fight or a drug deal gone bad. Or in prison. His friend, who is now his right hand man at the rehab, had taken the rough path as well. He and Norm grew up together, began using dope together, went off the deep end together.

When Norm got to the point where he had to clean up or go to prison, he cleaned up. He found rock bottom. And then he convinced Frank to get involved in the program. Frank saw what it had done for Norman and jumped in. Now they’re like a working machine, getting shit done right and left, cell phones in both hands. I couldn’t take the pressure myself, but it doesn’t faze Norm. He’s like a human steamroller of spirituality.

Today, he’s moving into his first new home. That’s a hell of an accomplishment for a fellow who, four years ago, was looking at the inside of a slammer for manufacturing meth. It’s a hell of a nice house -- I went to Brawley and saw it yesterday, when the carpet men were installing carpet and rolled good.

My daughter has a nice home here in Holtville too, five bedrooms, three patios outside. I love to sit out on the side patio early in the morning and drink coffee in the warming rays of the morning sun. It gets down into the upper 40 at night, but that sun knocks the chill off in a hurry. Later in the day it climbs to the 80s.

Both of my kids have accomplished more than I have, and they still have many years to go. I’m tickled to death about that. This trip has allowed me to see first-hand just how well they are doing.

And in the end, that’s all that counts.

Booze, or the lack thereof

I have had almost nothing to drink the past week (one drink on the plane, one beer since I’ve been here) and damned if I don’t feel better for it. Truth is, I haven’t even wanted to drink -- which is probably more because of the fact that I’ve been around people every day and doing this and that and not simply sitting on my ass alone somewhere, than it is because of some deep-seated need to stop drinking. Fact is, I haven’t even thought about that, it’s just the way it is right now.

Course, it may be a different story when I get home. There, confronted with that damned manuscript I have to revise, I may decide I need to deaden what’s left of my brain (as if I haven’t deadened it enough for more than a half century). And, the kind of company I’m apt to have drinks too.

What the hell, who knows? This brief respite from booze might go on for the next two weeks. I might decide I never want another drink. Or, I might get drunk tomorrow.

Whatever the case, I’m enjoying it now. Haven’t felt this good in many years.

I guess it’s all a case of how much feeling good a guy can stand.

The Road

Forgot to mention last entry, but I read about 90-percent of Cormac McCarthy's "The Road" on the flight out here and during layovers. I bought the book at the airport in Nashville ($16) after forgetting to remove the Don DeLillo book I'd brought along from the car. I'd like to say that I've enjoyed the Pulitzer Prize winner thus far. I like to say that, but it would be a lie. I keep turning the pages, yeah. But sometimes you do that because you have nothing else to read. And, there's always the hope that it will get better.

Not to say that it's horrible; obviously, lots of lettered folks don't believe that. I'm not exactly sure what McCarthy's intent was with this book, other than to see how dark a tome he could concoct, how slight he could hold dialogue, how minimal he could be in every aspect except the portrayal of dark misery.

He succeeds in the latter; one is not going to read this thing and come away with some joyous feeling of enlightenment or hope for the future of humanity. Perhaps the largest thought grasped out of this morass of bleakness is the faint hope that humanity will never come to such ends, though it seems destined at some point. If not by the machinations of mad men and the power crazy, then by the chaotic clockwork of the universe, forever spinning out streams of mountainous stones and smoking bolides in all directions. Physics, my dear Watson. The piper will be paid at some point.

Of course, we don't know the nature of the apocalypse through which the man and his son forever slog south on The Road. Civilization has been devastated by some disaster and the land is a barren wilderness coated in ash so prevalent that makeshift masks are necessary. There are survivors here and there, lone stragglers struggling against the harsh elements, and brutal cold -- the latter seems to suggest some form of nuclear winter, a clouding of the skies whether by nuclear explosion or an asteroid strike. As defined by McCarthy, this cold is colder than a well-digger's ass in Anchorage. And there are gangs of brutal men plying the roads and rounding up survivors for food. Cannibalism is in vogue in this brave new world.

Certainly, such post-apocalyptic fiction is nothing new. "Lucifer's Hammer" by Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle, addressed such end time madness and organized cannibalism and in a much more entertaining fashion back in '77. In that instance civilization ceased because of a huge comet strike. "On The Beach" by Nevil Shute came out in the late 50s and I read it in the early 60s. Nuclear war ended civilization in that one, immediately for most above the equator and slowly for those like the Australian characters depicted in the tale. Again, a more entertaining book that The Road.

But hell, "entertaining" books or pop fiction don't win prizes. Literary books do. Except maybe for "The Shipping News," which won the Pulitzer and was entertaining as hell, too. But you gotta have gimmicks to do it. McCarthy does it with a lack of apostrophes and some of the most moronic dialogue I've ever read. And what might be considered almost vignettes instead of paragraphs in places, with about four spaces on the page between every one of them. Apparently, people who judge such things are easily swayed by anybody willing to break the rules far enough.

One thing is for certain: after you hear "the man" and "the boy" exchange "okay, okay" for about the five-hundredth time, you'll be hoping a pack of cannibals come swarming out of the woods and eats the both of them. That may happen in the 40 pages of so unread to this point.

I can hope, can't I?

In California

Made the flight out yesterday with no problem. The ride from Nashville to Minneapolis was a bit bumpy; those Embraer commuter jets don't feel real substantial in rough air and the skinny little wings flapped like they might break off at any time. The big Airbus from Minneapolis to San Diego kicked ass -- we arrived an hour ahead of schedule, so we had a substantial tailwind. I had to wait to be picked up because of the early arrival, but that proved no problem because I struck up a nice conversation while smoking out front with a neat little flight attendent from Green Bay, Wisconsin.

Needless to say, I did get my In-'N'-Out last night. We waiting until El Centro and stopped there. It was good, but not as good as I remember from years gone by. That's cool because now I can appreciate Sonic, whose burgers seem to me now to be better than I-N-O.

Doing little today other than recuperating from the trip. I went 9 hours without a smoke and in truth, it didn't bother me that much. Course, when I got the opportunity to puff I was going like a damned smokestack. But I think if I were in a position where I knew I simply couldn't smoke (hospital, jail, etc.) I could get along fairly well.

More down the line. Busy tweaking this computer today.

In-N-Out or die tryin'

Trip preparations continue. Just went to the post office and got the largest flat-rate priority mail box. It's not very large but it easily holds everything I wanted to put in it: smokes, video and still cameras, chargers, computer connection cords for both, jump drive. There's room left over for a few things, so I'll probably stuff the spare space with socks, underwear, etc. to take up the slack and support things. Or use foam pellets to finish it off.

When I hit the ground Tuesday evening, first order of business will be a smoke. Second will be to find the nearest "In-N-Out" burger shop. That's already agreed upon.

I refuse to go over the Laguna Mountains and into the desert without that burger and fries. If you've never had an In-N-Out you don't know what you're missing. The only thing that will stop me from getting one is if the plane goes down in a smoking pile of rubble somewhere.

If it does, I'll be thinking about that missed In-N-Out all the way to the ground.

About nothing much

One week from about this moment I'll be on my way to Nashville to hop the big bird west. Damn if I don't dread the logistics, though I'm looking forward to the visit.

Why in hell can't they speed up technology and come up with the "transporter" similar to Star Trek? Break the molecules down in one location, beam them to another and reassemble them. If we humans survive long enough, that may be possible someday. Doubt we will. Survive, that is.

I've been inflicted with "picture-changeitis" here lately. Latest is the above, a shot from Ray's Place in Kent, Ohio made in July, 2000 during Cheryl Townsend's annual bookstore reading. From left, Haze McElhenny, me, Ron Androla, Mark Hartenbach and Bart Solarczyk. I was Jim Beaming me up, naturally. That was a fun long weekend as I recall and the last time I made it to the Kent reading, which continued a year or two after that.

Nowadays, I have little interest in poetry and less in poetry readings. I used to check scores of zines and poetry forums on a regular basis. I joined several forums at one time, but I no longer play nice with the crowd.

Hell, you can only stand so much "great poem!" "good one!" or "nice" before getting enough of it. And I've been guilty of that myself, I must admit. Poets usually pat backs in hopes that their back will be patted next time they post. Most would vehemently deny that, but it's still a fact. Many claim they "write for themselves" and don't give a fuck what anybody thinks of their poems. If that's true, why bother to post them?

Sure, it's all harmless fun, this blowing smoke up asses. Nobody gets hurt and somebody feels good for a few moments. I'll still comment on a poem myself sometimes -- difference is now, I must really like it if I do, because I'm not expecting anything in return. And some of the better poets (in my opinion, anyway) don't seem to be writing much anymore.

Ah well, what the hell. With all this "hope and change" in progress, I may get fired up and write a new batch of poems. Way things are going now, poems might get you put in prison soon, like Cuba or Iran. Fine to be arty-farty, long as the art follows the party line. Free speech is great long as you mouth what the power brokers want to hear.

It's not likely I'd do that.

Been there, done that

I got through that thing Monday I was dreading so much. It wasn't as bad as I had anticipated, but then things seldom are. Just another experience for the old mental resume for whatever that's worth.

They located a good place to shoot the video, with more than adequate space for the camera distance, lighting and depth of field required -- upstairs at the city library. That building used to be a bank many years ago and I suppose the upstairs was office space or something. It was fairly open, especially one end of it.

The sitting down portion of the festivities lasted an hour and a half to two hours. They got me all situated and the lighting right, hooked me up with sound (and a bottle of water for the dry-mouth terrors) and got underway. The producer, P. J., told me initially that it was important to look at her during the process and not the camera; that's like telling a kid not to jam his hand in the cookie jar, and of course on more than one occasion my eyes strayed from where she was sitting beside the camera right into the lens.

There weren't any questions initially. She told me to simply start at the beginning and, in my own words, tell the story of everything that happened. That's what I did, for a lengthy time. We took a couple of breaks, for water and once for me to go outside and smoke. During the latter part of the interview, she asked me a number of direct questions.

At the conclusion, they had to let the sound and video sync in a process that took some time, which left me free to smoke all I wanted and to gab with Beverly and the other lady working at the library. And, it took some time for them to lug all their equipment down from the loft and load it in the back of a SUV rental. The entire rear area of the vehicle was jammed full and I mentioned they had a lot of stuff there. The guys, both of whom were probably in their mid to late twenties, said that was just a tiny portion of what they carried on some shoots. They seemed to enjoy their work.

I had agreed to guide them out to the Parrish Road location of "Haunted Bridge," the spot where the trio of miscreants had chopped the victim up with an ax and disemboweled him. After we had lunch in McKenzie, I did that and was surprised to discover I was going to be filmed out there as well.

I suppose I got a tiny taste of what actors routinely go through, as I was instructed on where to walk, how to indicate various features and what to say. Some of the video was shot from a tripod and some with one of those "steadycam" rigs, whereby the cameraman can move around without camera shake. In some of the shots, he backed down the road as I walked toward him from the bridge, although my attention was focus on P. J. who was to the right of him. . .well, I did look into the camera a few times.

We did many, many different takes, some "do-overs" and some totally different in content. The woman used sticks for "marks" I would walk to before saying a certain thing, or turning to make a sweeping arm gesture back toward the bridge before beginning my spiel. At one point, she had me appear to be searching for something on the ground around a pull-off beside the road. I was actually starting to get into that, but we lost all the daylight and had to quit. It was well dark when we left that location. They decided they were going to try to get a shot of the exterior of Casey's beer joint while they were in Huntingdon, so I gave them directions to that and headed back to the barn.

They were nice folks, the gal, the cameraman and the sound man. I've forgotten those guys' names already. They all said I did a great job, but I think they were bullshitting me. Hell, with the number of people to be interviewed and the show's length, I might get a sound byte or two and that will be about it. I'm glad I did it, for the experience and for a few technical things I picked up on the process of actually shooting that kind of situation -- wish I'd had the experience before I did the poetry video, it would have made a big difference.

Of course, there was some paperwork involved. I had to sign releases for the use of my interview and for the bit of written matter I furnished them. Now, I just hope they don't take some little bit out of context and use it in a way that will piss me off. It would be easy to grab a few words with that intent.

Yesterday, I got an interesting call from Talleah, another of the producers and the first one I spoke with when this thing came up. She asked me if I could recommend a lawyer for the production company, as they were going to have to file suit on the sheriff's department to get some of the photos and material they were seeking.

I told her it would be unlikely that any lawyer in Carroll County would want to take the case, however Jackson wasn't that far and had a plethora of attorneys who would. I can't imagine that CCSO is trying to claim that a case in which the defendants have been imprisoned for more than 15 years is still open and thus not subject to the Sunshine Law. But knowing how they operate around here, it doesn't surprise me. P. J. had told me during an earlier phone conversation that she wasn't getting any cooperation from them, and they seemed concerned they might compromise something that would aid the convicts in a future appeal effort.

That's a dumb ass way to look at it. All they have to do is furnish material and tell the facts, the truth. Nothing about that would ever help free the three animals who slaughtered Dennis Brooks, Jr. Their own statements condemned them, their admissions of guilt.

In fact, I've had a call in to the investigator over there for several days now and it hasn't been returned. I don't imagine any of them will talk to me about the case. That's fine, I don't need anything from them for my book -- though it would be nice to get that big problem area cleared up. But if I can't, I will make certain the gray area is described in detail. And I will note that I made every effort to resolve it and that old so-and-so wouldn't cooperate. Yes, I will use his name as well.