Just stuff

Not a great deal to report. I did speak with one of the lawyers involved in the murder case I'm writing about, a defense attorney for one of the guys, but he couldn't clear up the problem I've run into. So, I suppose one day next week I'll head over to the courthouse and spend some hours pouring through transcripts. Not fun, but what the hell is nowadays.

Shitty weather. The inch of snow we might have gotten last night didn't materialize, but today is a cloudy, cold bitch. And, there's a possibility of more of the frozen stuff Sunday night into Monday. I realize climate and weather are two different things, but when I hear some of these assholes talking about global warming it generates the killer instinct. It had better happen before the damned natural gas company gets all my money.

Sitting here waiting to hear something from a friend about when another mutual friend's viewing and funeral is scheduled. He died of pneumonia yesterday afternoon, though he was in the hospital for cancer of the thyroid; been having throat problems for a couple years and it was just diagnosed a month or so ago. Not the kind of situation that builds much faith in the medical profession's diagnostic abilities.

What the hell, he'd had his feeding tube disconnected a few days ago and had requested that a green DNR bracelet be placed on his wrist. Had a trache to assist his breathing and couldn't talk, couldn't eat and had a couple months of such a nothing life left at best. I'm sure he was ready to check out.

Lady friend didn't get to come over as planned yesterday. Problems with boarding the dog. She's supposed to come Sunday afternoon for a couple days. We'll have some Mexican food and watch the Super Bowl.

And well, you know....

A tiny bit of progress

Finished first revision with the text part of the new murder book, although I'm still working on the "afterword" portion. As I said elsewhere, this is not the beginning of the end, but the end of the beginning. Much more to do and that's bad, because I'm already sick unto death of it.

I'm taking a whole other approach with the "vampire" book. One time through it and screw it, that will be it. I'll publish it on Amazon or one of those freebie things and forget it. No big deal. I have some other things I wanna write/finish, but they won't be a big deal either. You won't see me announcing it like it's the fucking second coming or something, as some are prone to do. It's laughable almost.

I do want to plug a book, but it's not mine. It's Tim Peeler's new collection, "Checking Out," published by Hub City Press. Peeler spent some time working in the hotel business and has transformed those memories and characters encountered there into some of the best narrative poetry you're apt to read nowadays.

As I said in a blurb, it's rare today when I read poetry and wish I had written it. I did that on almost every page of this book.

Ah, hell

I haven't updated this blog in some time. Been busy with other pursuits.

I played nursemaid to the woman for nine days; she fell and cracked a rib and couldn't do much for herself. She's back home as of yesterday and I have much catching up to do.

About two-thirds through the first revision of the murder book. My goal is to finish completely by the end of February.

That may not be realistic. Got the first 10 pages back from my private editor and they were marked up fairly heavily. Only briefly scanned it, but saw several places where recommended changes were valid. Some other suggestions I will ignore.

Now, preparing to go to a funeral in a couple hours. My brother's mother-in-law. Few of us will live to be 94, up and active through most of it.

Few of us would probably want to.

Revising history

I pulled that last entry off. Too damn petty and negative. So what if the woman eats crackers in bed? I probably do a lot of shit she doesn't particularly care for either, but she doesn't whine about it.

BTW, I reported the missing credit card the day after I arrived home. Not one charge had been made on it, so obviously it fell out somewhere and either wasn't discovered or was found by someone without criminal tendencies.

Whatever, I received a replacement via UPS the very next day -- if that's not customer service I don't know what the hell is!

I suppose they love the way I charge things. But I don't run much of a balance, usually pay things off quickly. I used to keep it paid up on every billing cycle, but what the hell, it's only fair to let them make a few bucks occasionally for the service they provide. I don't have a problem with that.

I've got the notion of buying a new laptop on my mind. I don't need one, the old one still works fine. But you know how that goes. Sometimes, we just want something new just for the hell of it. More bells and whistles. A bigger hard drive and more RAM. Damn, that almost sounds sexual.

If my computer didn't have more "ram" than I've got at this point in the game, I'd be writing with a fucking pencil.

Let's don't even talk about the hard drive....

Trip recap

Back home in the cold...20 degrees this morning (dropped a degree after I arose) and high going up to a balmy 36 later today. Screw that, I'm about ready to hop the bird back west.

Flight home was a bit more exciting than trip out, mainly because of the weather. Coming into Cincinnati, the pilot had the nose of the 737 about 30 degrees left in a big crab because of the wind just prior to flaring out. Freaking cold rain blowing, but he kicked right rudder and set that rumbling son of a bitch down perfectly, though we did some bouncing around in the wind. And the landing at Nashville was equally bothersome, bad weather there too and the Bombardier was a hell of a lot lighter and hinkier, but as pilots say, any landing you walk away from is a good one. I've made a few landings in a light plane in good weather that were a hell of a lot closer to disasters than these pros did in big planes in foul weather.

In fact, we were about an hour late getting into Nashville. There was some problem with weight and balance issues on the flight before we left Cincy. The flight attendant announced that and asked for two volunteers to leave the plane, noting they would be put up in a hotel, given meals, provided with a free flight the next day and $200 cash. Nobody volunteered and about 20 minutes later she announced that she was going to call two names and those people would have to leave the plane. I kept a tight ass hoping Jazzbo wouldn't be one of the names, since I had a ride en route to Nashville in a blowing storm and sure enough I lucked out. The two guys selected left the plane without much complaint, seeing as how nowadays raising a fuss aboard a plane can result in federal charges of interfering with a flight crew and mucho time behind fed bars.

The security check in San Diego returning was a bit busier than was Nashville on the flight out. There were four long lines going through, but I was lined up probably 15 or 20 minutes before making my way into the airport. I'd frankly been put off air travel since 9-11 because of what I thought was a much bigger security hassle. I must say, my experience didn't come close to some of the horror stories I've read about TSA personnel giving travelers a ration of shit or being rude. All the ones I observed were very polite and professional, and I suspect the people who have had problems brought those problems on themselves via a bad attitude. Same with flight attendants, all were very nice and accommodating.

Another great thing I discovered is online check-in. Did that on the trip back, got my boarding passes printed and paid for luggage before I ever left the house. (Delta seems to be one of the few airlines that charges even for your first bag -- $25 if you check it at the airport and $15 if checked online. I'll likely use another airline if I travel again because of that.) Once at Dago, it was just a matter of dropping my luggage off at the kiosk outside the terminal and smoking a couple of weeds before going in and queuing up for security.

I didn't do a lot of drinking while I was gone. I had a couple of $7.50 glasses of beer at Cincinnati, as the tavern was adjacent to my gate. They were tall glasses, not your typical small beer glass. Going out, I had one Black Jack and water on the Airbus out of Minneapolis. At $7, it was cheaper than the beer. And while in CA, I had 25 beers over the three weeks -- which is quitting in Jazzbo terms. I know exactly how many I had because I bought two 12-packs and had one with a meal at "Burgers & Beer," where one can get a burger, fries and beer for about $20. It's a hell of a lot better burger than the modern In-N-Out, which proved to be something of a disappointment, if vastly cheaper.

Hell, the Big Mac I had at a Mickey D's just west of Nashville on the way home beat the hell out of the In-Out. Their burgers have changed since the sixties and not for the better.

Next order of business is to unpack my suitcase. Nah, I haven't even done that yet. All I managed yesterday was a trip out for some cold cuts and bread and a 12-pack. Gotta get my ass in gear, having company staying the weekend.

Yeah, it may get wild on the Jazzbo homestead. She's bringing Beam, among other things.

(Christ, just heard pounding on front door. It was UPS with an express envelope containing my replacement credit card. Now that's what I call service! Guess they like the way I charge shit. heh)




Tue, Nov 17, 2009 Nashville, (BNA) to San Diego International, (SAN)
Depart: 01:30 PM Nashville, TN (BNA) Delta Air Lines
Arrive: 03:54 PM Minneapolis, MN (MSP) Flight 2983 operated by
COMPASS AIRLINES (on Embraer EMB 175 Jet)
1 Stop - change planes Minneapolis, MN (MSP) Connection Time: 1 hr 16 mins

Depart: 05:10 PM Minneapolis, MN (MSP) Delta Air Lines
Arrive: 07:12 PM San Diego, CA (SAN) Flight 2440 operated by
NORTHWEST AIRLINES (on Airbus A320-100/200)
Total Travel Time: 7 hrs 42 mins

Tue, Dec 8, 2009 San Diego International, (SAN) to Nashville, (BNA)
Depart: 11:35 AM San Diego, CA (SAN) Delta Air Lines
Arrive: 06:41 PM Cincinnati, OH (CVG) Flight 1551
(on Boeing 737 800)
Requested Seats: 20C 1 Stop - change planes Cincinnati, OH (CVG) Connection Time: 1 hr 24 mins

Depart: 08:05 PM Cincinnati, OH (CVG) Delta Air Lines
Arrive: 08:15 PM Nashville, TN (BNA) Flight 4629 operated by
SKYWEST AIRLINES (on Canadair Regional Jet)
Requested Seats: 11C Total Travel Time: 6 hrs 40 mins

Winding down

A couple more days and the visit is finis. It’s been fun, though I wish I’d brought some warmer clothes for these evenings and for days like this -- another chilly one in the mid-50s, though it’s supposed to warm up about 10 more degrees this afternoon.

Nothing on the agenda today so far as I know. Went to my son’s new home in Brawley last night and had a nice carne asada dinner. Of course, I ate too much. Nothing new there. Tomorrow is a fund-raiser spaghetti dinner and auction, which I’ll probably attend; it’s a church thing, but don’t know if I’ll go to church beforehand or not. Might, might not. May depend more on how I feel. This cold I got last Wednesday is still hanging on, though I feel much better than I did initially.

I brought four cartons of smokes with me (mailed them actually) and near enough to running out that I bought a carton of Marlboros yesterday. Normally, in three weeks I’d smoke six cartons, so I’ve cut back a bit. Got the Marlboros for a little over $40, which is cheaper than Tennessee prices. They don’t compare to the taste of my America Gold, however, and I’d hate to know I had to smoke them from now on.

Picked up the biggest flat-rate box at the post office yesterday. Monday, I’ll pack up my cameras, chargers and cords and a few things and put them in the mail. They should arrive home Wednesday, the day after I get there.

Weather forecast for Tuesday in Tennessee is rain in the evening turning to possible freezing rain after midnight. My flight arrives in Nashville at 8:30 pm and I’m hoping the freezing crap holds off until I can get home around 11 or so. Be a bitch to drive than far on an ice-coated road. Nearly impossible, in fact, although it has to get pretty bad to shut down Interstate 40.

Oh well. Whatever. Take it as it comes.

Luck runs out

Just my luck. Woke up a couple days ago with a terrible chest cold. First one since 2004. At least it waited until near the end of my visit. But I need to get this cough under control before I go to the airport; many times now they will put you off a plane if you exhibit signs of a severe cold or flu.

There were several people on the flight from Nashville to Minneapolis that were coughing rather badly, however, so maybe I can skate through. Or may be I should just drink a bottle of that bad ass cough syrup just before arriving at the airport. Get all wired up on it and hijack the plane to Cuba or somewhere.

Nah, that’s doesn’t sound like a good idea. I doubt Fidel would welcome me with open arms. Or Raul, either. And the powers that be also won’t let you on the plane if you appear wasted.

That’s a change from the days of old, when I used to spend all my extra time at the airport in the lounge. I’ve been poured on a few flights. Had a terrible verbal run-in with a flight attendant once on a flight from LA to Memphis over the change I had coming back from a C-note, which I’d used to buy a round of drinks for myself and my seat-mates. Screamed at and cursed her, called her a fucking crook.

Yes, I was juiced totally. She was trying to cheat me out of my $90 or so. No need to “wait until we land” to get my change. She had a pocketful by then, from all the drinks she’d served. God knows how much extra money she picked up on the side with that scam.

That wouldn’t happen nowadays. They merely land at the nearest airport and take your ass into custody for “interfering with a flight crew.” Federal lockup and looking at long years in Slam City. It doesn’t pay to look at a stew sideways. They have you by the short hairs. A little provocation and they will pull.

Hell no, I don’t need that change. You keep it. Here’s my wallet, if you need any more just grab it. I would give you my credit card too, but I lost the son of a bitch! My bank account number? Sure, you got a pen? Here ya go....


I was talking to Gwen last night. She said there was a possibility of snowflakes on the old home range. Damn, gonna be a dab of weather shock, going from this warmth back into a typical Tennessee winter.

Oh well, I’ve weathered a bunch of them. I’ve enjoyed my trip, but have the feeling it’s time to get back home and back into the saddle. Lots of work to do.

I have to find that rhythm I had over the summer, when I wrote two books. Get back into the flow of things, stay on schedule.

I can do it, because I have. But it’s not the easiest place to get back to.

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.

Dreading Monday more than usual

I haven't mention it here, but I'm slated to be interviewed Monday morning by the production company behind the "Women Behind Bars" series on WEtv. Not only that, but their last request was that I stick with them throughout the afternoon and serve as a guide to all the sites pertinent to the story they are doing.

As luck would have it, they are constructing a program featuring Teresa Deion Harris, a woman serving life without parole in the Tennessee Department of Corrections. Yes, the same Deion Harris who participated in the murder of Dennis Brooks, Jr. -- and the crime I'm writing the book about. So, while I'm not real up on doing this kind of thing, I saw it as perhaps an excellent opportunity to work in a plug for my upcoming book -- which is about a third through its first revision at this point.

I think the young lady producer thought I was joking when I told her I had a face more fitting for radio and a voice better suited to telegraph. I'm not really comfortable doing these on-camera things, as anyone who has seen me do a video poetry reading can well attest. It's just not my thing.

But, I shall try to get through it best as I can. Complicating things, especially questions that may arise, is the fact that a couple days ago I discovered a huge discrepancy in the scenario of the murder as played out both in statements and testimony. In short, I (and apparently every other writer who covered the case, along with all the lawyers involved) missed one tiny little fact that makes the accepted version of what happened impossible.

I'm not going to get into what it is at this point, but suffice to say I will try to get in touch with one of the investigators on the original case this weekend and certainly will have to clarify this problem before the book is published. It's just another one of those unexpected hassles that always seem to complicate things.

We don't get WEtv on our local cable system. However, my brother gets it on his Dish satellite and he will record it for me whenever the show comes on, which will be somewhere down the road; possible after the first of the year and fairly in sync with my book. That would be a stroke of good fortune, indeed.

Do it to it

Well, it's time to fish or cut bait. I've managed to delay the distasteful as long as possible. The company is gone. The house is as clean as it gets. That goddamn manuscript is resting in pieces on a hard drive and it's calling my name.

Jazzbo? Jazzbo? Where forth art thou, Jazzbo?

I'm right here, you son of a bitch.

It's time to get back to work, Jazzbo.

Screw you!

You've been saying that for a month and a half. You're running out of time, dummy.

Do I look like somebody that gives a rat's ass?

It's early, don't ask what you look like. And I haven't had my breakfast.

I've got a mirror, mamahumper.

That's unfortunate. Maybe you could avoid it?

Fuck you!

Don't you wish. Anyway, you should consider getting back to work.

Why should I?

It's what people do.

Why?

To become rich, famous and successful, of course. Don't you want to be all that?

No. I'd rather be poor, unknown and a failure.

Well, you can stop working then. You have met all your goals.

I'm glad we agree on something, that you see my point.

I couldn't avoid it . . . it's right there on top of your big jug head.

Get outta here, mother fucker!

I'm going, I'm going, don't get excited and start brandishing firearms!

Just go.

OK, but just don't blame me when you fail again.

I'm going to work dammit, just leave me alone. I'll get it done.

No shit?

No shit, Sherlock. I'm going right now, see?

Wow, you're really gonna open that file up and do something, eh?

You bet your ass I am.

Very well, I'll quit distracting you.

Thank you.

You're welcome.

Now shut the fuck up and get out of here.

Adios, amigo.

Stick that finger up again and I'll break it!

Reviewing the situation

This little rough patch I've hit with the revision efforts may be all for the better. It's a good opportunity to remind myself that a writer is working all the time, even if the fingertips aren't caressing a keyboard.

In fact, a great part of the process goes on between the ears during periods of disconnect; that's assuming one still has some gray matter in there to process those most subtle of realignments and adjustments. I think I do, though I'd be the first to admit that it doesn't work on par with the gourd glob of years past. But there are still a couple of synapses firing a message or two.

I was sitting here a few minutes ago mentally beating and berating myself for not being hunkered over the laptop with that file open, accomplishing something. But truth is, when I push myself into something I'm not ready and willing to tackle, the end product might well be "de-accomplishment."

Yeah, I know that word doesn't exist, but who cares. It describes what I mean, thus it works well enough. You know what they say about rules.

I've got a good basic framework established for the murder book. Most of the key things are there. All it needs at this point is some fine tuning . . . cuts for brevity in places, an addition here and there to clarify a point. It's basically a done deal.

But of course, anyone who has ever written a book of any kind knows that you could go on forever with it. You never finish, you just stop at some point, after a half dozen rewrites of this and that.

Many times you can get a clearer reading by bouncing it off a disinterested third party, see if it flies with them. That works much better with fiction than non-fiction, however, because the third party doesn't have benefit of the facts you have and thus has no way of knowing if you're spot on about details. You can get a good reading on the general tone of things, which is what counts; most of the people who read it won't know if the facts are correct either.

Hopefully, one has a sense of integrity sufficiently refined to make certain the factual material is correct. Unless you're a politician, you will never gain anything by propagating outright lies and half-truths. They will come back and bite your butt at some point.

So, I took a sober look at things this morning. There is more time remaining until the end of the year than it took to originally write the book. Time wise, I'm in good shape.

There are lots of things to worry about, but this isn't one of them.

Little "going forward" (hate that BS term)

Wish I could report (not that anybody gives a rat's ass) that the revision work is zooming along and I am near completion. I could report that, but it would be a damned big lie.

Truth is, I haven't opened the file in several days. However, I have not abandoned the project and it will get done eventually, by the time I said it would. I've just had a lot of other things on my mind that have taken my attention away temporarily.

At least I have my travel reservations made now. I'll leave Nashville November 17 for San Diego and come back December 8. Three weeks should be long enough for a good visit.

I recall the good old days of air travel when one could board a plane and then get off it at the destination. That doesn't seem to be the case in many instances nowadays. On the outbound flight, I had a choice of layovers and switches in Atlanta, Charlotte, NC, Detroit or Minneapolis.

Screw the first two, because that's traveling east to go west and the total time of the trip was way too long. Detroit was out because I don't particularly want to get robbed, stabbed or shot while I wait to get the hell out of Dodge. So, I'll be spending about an hour and a half in Minnesota before I load up for the Golden West. That should give me ample time to smoke a half pack and drink a couple of $10 beers.

Returning requires a side trip to Cincinnati and an hour and a half layover before I get back to Nashville. Arriving around 8:30 in the evening is going to place a burden upon whomever I can con into retrieving me.

Another thing that mystifies me is why it costs about 50-percent more to fly out of Memphis to the same destination. The connections certainly are no better, and from here the distance to the two airports is just about equal. If I could have gotten a nonstop out of Memphis I would have gladly paid the difference, however.

This rotten weather hasn't contribute much to a sense of well-being or a desire to do anything. It's been about 20-degrees below the normal highs for this time of year, gloomy and wet. Staring out at the gloom through the window to my right makes me want to draw the shade, but at least the rain has stopped for now.

If this portends what's to come, we're in for a much nastier winter than we've had in recent years, though last winter made a good start in that direction.

At least it will make the natural gas company happy.

Flexible plans

Damn, I had planned to go to the VFW tonight and have what we call a "big time" down south. You know you've had that when you wake up with your clothes on inside out and vomit on your brogans. However, woke up coughing this morning and with a nose so blocked I can hardly get any oxygen. It's not noon yet and it might clear up before 7 or so, but if it doesn't that pretty much kicks my plans in the ass. Oh well, the best laid plans of mice and men . . . and Jazzbo, eh.

I haven't had any sort of cold or flu in five years. I remember that well because the last time I told someone that, five years ago, I woke up the next morning with a horrible case of flu; talk about irony, it was thick then. So I'm probably risking sickness again even by commenting that I haven't had those bugs for five years. Not bad for an old asshole who thinks three packs of smokes and a 12-pack is healthy living.

It probably is, considering I used to smoke five packs a day and drink a quart of whiskey. I've calmed waaaaaaaaaaaay down.

The book revision is not coming along worth a damn. I'm just into it in fits and starts, can't get a handle on what I need to do. I should have been working on it this morning; I got up at 5. But hell, I decided the kitchen curtains needed washing so I did that instead. You can imagine how bad something is when you forestall it by laundering fucking curtains!

Right now, I'm watching the Vols and Georgia go at it. It's 7-0 Vols in the opening stanza, but that's meaningless, can change in a hurry. (Before I could finish, Georgia ran a kickoff all the way back to even the score. See what I was talking about?) Frankly, I don't give a rat's ass if they win or not. Well hell, that's not exactly true; I hope they win, but I won't be upset if they don't.

I've gotten to that point where I don't expect anything of them, which is a good point to arrive at if you're a football fan in Tennessee. I'm just sayin' . . . .

Time flies

It just dawned on me that it was three years ago yesterday that I set out on that long 2,300-mile road trip to shoot video of the poets reading. Time has certainly flown since then, though that immediate year afterward was a long one, as I struggled to try to do something with all that footage.

Of course, it turned out to be a failure of major proportions, a waste of time and money -- a great part of that money somebody else's. Part of the failure was found in the restrictive nature of simply videoing people in static locations, motel rooms, homes. There's nothing going on but the reading of poetry, and a tad of discussion.

Another part of the failure was in my lack of knowledge as to the technical requirements of making such a documentary. I did the best I could, but that wasn't good enough. I learned a lot during the process, however, mainly about what not to do. I could do a better one today, but of course I never will try something like that again.

I think about four people who were in the video liked it. I heard something from a couple more, mainly that they'd received it. The other half didn't even have the common courtesy to even mention it period, so I have to assume they got their copies. But that's about par for the Small Press.

All that said, I enjoyed the trip and meeting those I hadn't met, and seeing those I had again. Everybody was nice and pleasant and it was a good experience. I'm not sorry I did it, I just wish it had turned out better.

Rainy Sunday

Another rainy, dismal Sunday down South. Watching the Titans attempt to play football only amplifies the feeling of impending doom, as they are surely getting their asses royally kicked by Jacksonville. What can I say. . .only a true masochist can stand to follow the Titans and the Vols. It's good practice in the event we're ever taken captive by Al Qaeda, or waterboarded by the CIA. Maybe they should just forget those tactics and make the captives watch films of the Titans and Vols in action. That would be real punishment. And probably against international law, come to think of it. Talk about inhumane treatment. . . .

Anyway. I've got to get my ass in gear tomorrow and start accomplishing something. A couple weeks off, except for a little novel revision, and I'm growing worthless as tits on a boar hog. The only thing laziness breeds is more laziness. I've developed a fairly good work ethic in recent months and I sure as hell don't want to blow it all at this point simply because I hit a lazy spot. I needed some time away from the story, but I may have overdone it.

What the hell. The charcoal in the grill under my porch roof is getting very near to craving the fat on the big steak I'm about to throw on it. The baked potato is waiting in the foil for some butter and sour cream. This first beer I just cracked is mighty good.

Things could be a hell of a lot worse.

Dreading it

It was two weeks ago yesterday that I wound up the rough of the murder book. In the ensuing time, I've worked some on revising the novel (about half finished with that) and that's about it. I had planned to start revision on the non-fiction yesterday but decided to let that slide a few more days.

The big problem with taking time off between (or during) projects is the loss of momentum. It's bound to happen, although one can't go at break-neck speed constantly. You get into a rhythm and a routine and the words flow day after day. You can break that routine for a day or so without too much impact. But let a week go by and you're an inert object, sitting there wondering what you will do next. And when.

Of course, the good news is that the fire can be found again. It's not an immediate process, however. It takes several days of bumbling along to find the real groove, the place where you can slip back in and start to make sense of things. You get to the place where the big picture, the end game, comes back to mind again.

Getting fired up to do revision is worse for me, because I hate it. And I probably have less of it to do than some folks, because, as a former news writer, I know how to "edit on the fly" somewhat. I didn't utilize that skill to its fullest with this murder book, however, because I was more interested in getting the basic framework of it down as quickly as I could. And now I have to suffer for that decision -- which is justice, I suppose.

If I can work on it a couple hours a day I can knock it out soon enough. I've got a visitor coming in a couple weeks, so that will have an impact on what I do. And I have the trip coming up next month, which will also have a bearing on things.

Ah, what the hell. I'll get it done when I can. I'm not punching a time card or on a railroad schedule. That's a damned good thing, too.