The Talking Pig

baseball poem

2008-12-23T07:48:00.001-08:00

frozen cleat marks
behind the backstop
bare branches creaking
in the cold winter wind
the mound stands naked
within an infield
clothed in white
snow on the bleachers
where fans will sit again
when spring comes
dreams thaw
and the boys play
on grass grown anew

60 days until pitchers and catchers report.

While waiting, watching, listening at my son's aikido class

2008-11-06T18:28:00.000-08:00

Turn the feet, turn the hips
words, levers, passing lips
finding right ones
forces change
old feeling runs
as ideas rearrange
shocking talking
biting writing
whipped opinions
at the end of a rope
the power to move you
starts with hope.

written narcissist

2008-11-04T11:22:00.000-08:00

He's infatuated with the sound of his own pen.

first rain

2008-09-26T14:53:00.001-07:00

the dusty musty smell of asphalt at first rain
assaults nostrils
triggers memories of drought and relief
dirty unseen steam signifies the sky's release
before rivulets before mud before lifeblood moistens roots
the odor of filth and oil, spit and piss
called forth by the storm's vanguard
an ugly mirror
clean clouds pour down pure water
and the city reflects back a black dank stink
it reminds me of LA, it reminds me of home.

Something to Think About When You're Killing Time Until Happy Hour

2008-09-25T11:12:00.000-07:00

So there’s a guy in a bar at Christmas-time, he was just laid off, treacly holiday music is playing and he’s writing, really gnawing on a pen, and a woman walks in, orders a vodka soda, and pulls out a manuscript and the guy is intrigued but doesn’t want to pry, doesn’t want to be the guy that chats up a woman at a bar. However, he goes on to write a story about sitting at a bar writing and seeing a woman come in and start reading a manuscript, only in the story the man does intrude and the woman turns out to be a publisher and lo it was the guy’s last day on the job so he had taken the opportunity to print up a bunch of his shit (what are they gonna do, fire him?), and he passes it off to her and she reads it and likes it and she publishes it and it makes tons of money and the two fall in love and buy a townhouse on Fifth Avenue and the man writes one highly acclaimed novel after another and some of them are turned into films so they hobnob with movie stars and are impossibly stylish. And, in this story, this fiction, which this man creates, there’s a happy ending because it’s a happy story that Nora Ephron would make into a movie, she doesn’t, not really. It does; however, get published by some small press in Seattle.

In the book, though, the woman who walked into the bar and is, of course, a fiction, was based on a real person, and that real person happens to read the book, because she’s the kind of person that reads unsuccessful books put out by small Seattle publishers. So she sees, she understands that she was the basis for that character. Obviously, she’s not a hotshot New York publisher. She’s just a schoolteacher who was grading papers. She was home in Seattle for the holidays and there was a constant stream of terribly treacly Christmas music the entire time when they were there, which, when it came right down to it, was only about half an hour. Half an hour two people sat in the same bar writing and drinking, but the one writer wrote something that became known and in it becoming known that woman at that bar, the model upon which the writer based his fantasy, came to know it, too. So, she tried to track down the writer who wasn’t really married to a publisher, obviously, as that was fiction. He was just a writer living in Seattle struggling to get by as people really weren’t buying his book. But the woman found him through the small press which was not in New York as his book might have led her to believe, but in a dingy office on Capitol Hill. So they met and they talked and then they dated and they went back to that bar on a Tuesday afternoon during Christmas-time and they kissed and it seemed as if they were going to live happily ever after.

Except the man at the bar just noticed as the real woman picked up her stack of papers that she’s reading a case file and she’s a lawyer and all that he’s accomplished is filling up a page with useless twaddle as he waited for it to be 4:00 so he could pay the three dollar happy hour price for his beer which just might have made the entire exercise worthwhile.

What schoolteacher would drink vodka sodas? Really, that whole story was unbelievable from the get-go.

Free as a bird

2008-09-25T10:52:00.001-07:00

Another day and these days are nowhere near each other, random locations for random words.

A sparrow, bread crumb in beak, flew away as I approached, but it only flew forward a few feet, so as I kept walking he had to fly away again, same thing again, four times in all, before the bird flew off the path and out of my way. Stupid fucking bird.
I was walking to work, my effort to put bread in my beak. I keep going down the same path and getting run off it time and time again. When will I leave the path?

The Year Mom Went into Rehab on Christmas Eve

2008-08-27T12:31:00.002-07:00

I flew into Bob Hope International
and stood in the loading zone
under the sun with my bags
for an hour.
I called again.
No one was home.
I took a cab.
The house was empty.
In the living room
a fat Scotch pine
tilted awkwardly in the corner
ornaments still in boxes stacked before it.
I went back outside, sat on the front steps
and lit a cigarette.
Neighbors passed by
on bikes
jogging
walking dogs
conspicuously not looking at me.
I lit another cigarette.
My dad rolled up
to a plaintive squeak
as his front tire rubbed against the curb.
He walked towards me across the dry patch of lawn
Where’s Mom?
She’s, uh, gone.
She left?
No. I took her somewhere.
Oh.
It was bad timing
Sometimes it was really bad timing
Are you hungry?
We walked into the kitchen.
A half-frozen turkey sat stabbed in the sink.
A wine glass lay broken on the linoleum.
Potato peelings stuck like band-aids to the walls and countertops.
Let’s go out.
At the Denny’s on Sepulveda
I ordered the Grand Slam Breakfast
(because they serve it at any time)
and said “Merry Christmas.”

Is that the same guy?

2008-08-27T12:31:00.001-07:00

Drinking beer and flipping through the channels
I saw him on the Food Network
He had written a book about being rich and on drugs
in the Eighties
He got famous
and was now on teevee
tasting and judging the work of famous chefs
I always wanted to write a book and get famous
but if I did you wouldn’t catch me on a cooking show
not sober, at least.

Loud

2008-08-27T12:29:00.000-07:00

“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you,”
he roars
oblivious to all around him
his careless verbal violence
frightens passersby
they cross streets
avert gazes
scurry
I see him everywhere
hair askew
disheveled
buying his privacy with anger

Walking through Pioneer Square

2008-08-22T10:47:00.001-07:00

Goofy toothless smile
matching mad careless cackle
only had a dollar to live on til next Monday
he sent it on an airplane
made of jet black snow
he’d rather quit with nothing
than go on dying slow

Looking over the railing of the boat this morning I saw

2008-08-22T10:45:00.000-07:00

Someone lost a scarf
perched soggy and forlorn
clutching the ferry’s edge
silk bright orange and green
like the abused gaiety
of a dress worn home
the morning
after

I got nothing

2008-08-15T16:02:00.000-07:00

No. Nothing.
no poetry
no poetry
no poetry
I’m not able
to write poetry
today.

News I heard about a woman I used to work with

2008-08-15T16:00:00.000-07:00

Her baby died
She had just returned to work
from maternity leave
first day back
daycare called and told her
Your baby isn’t eating
You should come
When she arrived
already in a panic
she saw the ambulance
Her baby was dead
They did not know why.

ants in my pants

2008-08-02T16:33:00.000-07:00

I poured my soul into it, you know, for the art.
What a crock.
It’s all a crock.
The job, jobs, any job,
working
All that matters is eating and beer.
Societies existed,
states thrived
art flourished
despite the fact people fell sick and died.
We’re ants,
we’re all a bunch of crawling, scrambling ants
in an impossibly complex nest.
The stupid things we must do to live
are mind-bogglingly complicated
and useless.
Calculating adjusted gross income
Choosing car insurance
Excel spreadsheets.
Yaba-daba-doo, coo-coo-ca-choo
Hello Magoo, how the fuck are you?
Blind as a bat? I’m still working for that rat
at the quarry
and then there’s Joe Dimaggio
Where the hell has he gone?
That’s another story.

Bortrets

2008-07-31T14:59:00.000-07:00

Googly boogly schmoogly smoogles and all the toogles inbetween.
Buying bortrets and comportments blissful wishful brightly green
Securing scurvles sight unseen
Hottentotts fat robots mapless as a laser beam
Pinched and plump the tinmen scream
Toothy smiles gleam for miles
The white-est whiteness ever seen
Blady shady lenses guard against grim vicious sheen
Stopping smoogles and tiny toogles
From fickle fates obscene

Two Kinds

2008-07-21T15:03:00.000-07:00

“There are two kinds of people in the world; those that shower before work and those that shower after.”
“I also heard there are two kinds of people in the world; those that divide the world into two kinds of people and those that don’t.”
“So, which kind are you?”

Walking

2008-07-14T10:24:00.000-07:00

“I’m not in a hurry, I just like to walk fast.”
“Perhaps you should walk with someone else,” she said.

Whale Story

2008-07-01T11:18:00.000-07:00

Whale farming approached economic viability as oil prices skyrocketed, but it wasn’t until massive krill blooms, acre upon acre of biomass, clogged waterways, that the leviathans could be profitably rendered for fuel again. A new breed of tanker, floating factories, part nursery, part oil rig, part research vessel, wind-driven, road the waves.

Those remarkable ships, and the roughneck scientists who manned them, grew and managed herd populations using advanced fertilization techniques and daring whale-herding trickery that made a terrestrial cowboy’s bareback riding stunts seem like guppy jumping. Damn near permanently at sea, they moved liked Melville except the beasts’ staggering numbers made long lookouts obsolete. Anytime they wanted to tap a sperm whale for another ton they could, the only challenge filling holds as close to port as possible.

The severe resource scarcity that lead to whale oil’s resurgence as a power source meant diabolical competition, herders fought herders, each fought poachers, all of whom were subject to the treachery of pirates, Ambergrisians the most nefarious. Rogue waddies swiping a fish or two found themselves trapped in the middle, the Scylla of major oil harvesters on one side, and the Charybdis of the maniacal piratical Ambergrits on the other. For some the temptation was too great, a mid-sized bowhead was a floating fortune what with oil approaching a grand a barrel.

Technology worked against the small-fry in more ways than one. GPS chips embedded in the flesh of each branded beast meant back at base Cetaceans formed schools of electric lights on massive screens displaying for the energy titans exactly where their oil swam at any moment.

Low-tech countering tactics were deployed by the Ambergrits, coordinating their dodgy network of sailors and slicers who could move in and take a healthy chunk out of a herd before even the fastest crew could come to the rescue. By quickly skinning and rendering the first blubber layer they could filter out the chips and reattach them to other whales in the pod, leaving their thieving trail untraceable.

As breeding methods improved whales could be tagged at birth, devices woven into growing bone made the skeleton itself the identifier, soon to be surrounded by hundreds of thousands of dollars of precious oil. The game went on. The more paranoid deployed dirigibles, fleets of airships to criss-cross migration routes as the jetstreams intersected them, the preordained paths of air and water ridden by man and whale, ship and balloon. Skirmishes erupted into full-blown battles that often left crews of airmen and seamen in the deep.

The landlocked were sadly beholden to this brave assortment of energy mavericks. Every inch of arable land was needed for food production, bio-fuels were a bust and hydrogen-based technology was still years away from fruition. Mobility had long-ago become a luxury of the rich, automobiles albatrosses to the poor who could only afford to live in them, rusting hulks off silent highways. There was a desperate need for heating oil, and as power outages went from intermittent, to frequent, to forever, whale oil was in high demand for its illuminating properties once again. Children grew up in crumbling homes wondering aloud what outlets were, funny slender eyes stared powerless, their utility gone.

Walking the tightrope, cold and starvation below a thin thread of tenacity, mankind moved on, surviving off land and sea as it had for millennia.

Black Line

2008-06-24T15:53:00.000-07:00

Tan pants stained with a thin black line
I wear them all the time
Nothing fancy, nothing fine
Comfy clothes in which to climb
The mark on my thigh a reminder of the day
Sitting in the car thinking I'd something to say
No one to say it to so I searched for a pen
Finding myself in a miserable mood again
Hoping by scribbling I could put it to an end
The lesson learned: when my verse grows darker
Don't try to write using a permanent marker

Rat Traps

2008-06-24T15:50:00.000-07:00

Rat traps and thunderclaps rainspotted puddle
through Seattle alleyway I mischievously muddle
shortcut to saloon not a moment too soon
shirking work scurrying away
past brickwork bent umber disarray
makeshift masonry plugs arches odd angles
fry cook on break betwixt lips cigarette dangles
flat metal boxes one circular hole
a moment's reprieve he dangerously stole
no judgment, no mercy, no reason to cry
we all have our place despite how we try
bait in a trap, smoke's exquisite relief
Me? My solace? Drink and belief
that writing in rhyme blessedly brief
neither rodent nor addict trapped will I be
write the right word and am magically free.

Fat You

2008-06-21T11:45:00.000-07:00

Saw a fat you walking towards me
looked like you, but wasn’t.
Your pudgy doppelgänger.

For the Birds

2008-06-14T12:08:00.000-07:00

Oh yes I’m typing, there’s typing for me to do,
it’s very important to type things because why I haven’t a clue
Playing to type I’m pretending to type
believing the hype I phone using skype
because it’s the thing to do.
Employment’s deployment brings no enjoyment
my foot’s still inside my shoe.
The work I do is priceless.
The life I live is vice-less.
I wander streets with parakeets and feed them chickenseed,
the birds however are not of a feather and often a different creed,
Roman Catholic hawks and protestant squabs
Compete discretely for just the right jobs
doing battle like cocks in a pit
pretending not to give a shit.

Nine Blue Tiles

2008-06-10T14:26:00.001-07:00

Nine blue tiles
a three by three square
finding meaning in everything
patterns on bathroom floors
bricks exposed in alleyways
asphalt stripped revealing history
geometric patterns
puzzles with too many pieces
or one giant puzzle
too complex to ever see reconstruction,
were it ever in one piece before.
Then again, perhaps it is now.

Artichokes and Cavalcades

2008-06-06T15:32:00.000-07:00

When the shooting stopped and ragtag veterans straggled home, the politicians took over, cementing in history before a gelatinous future, the Western States of America. There comes a time when institutions previously considered unassailable must bow to change, when in the course of human events, holding truths self-evident and all that shit. The fact is we were tired of getting kicked around, tired of having people far away tell us what we could and couldn’t do, tired of them taking our money and spending it on things we didn’t want it spent on, like killing people.

The formerly united states of America will survive, as England has. Natural borders exist for a reason, rivers and mountain ranges signify more than arbitrary lines on a map. Western Americans are different, we exist in a different space, we share a different history. Aleutians and Russians, Snohomish and Asa’s girls, Utes and Mormons, the Hopi, Anasazi, Mexicans fighting French, Richard Henry Dana and California Dollars, Baja to Bear Flags, Whales, Great Whites, Orcas, Mammoths gone and the Giants live on, refusing to bend to the will of the distant weak. Those feeble in spirit, poor souls gathering riches once too often, gone to the well over and over without so much as a how do you do. Screw your electorate, we’ve got the college majority so we’ve got the authority to do whatever we like with what we steal from you. Tommy Paine was pissed.

Extended tours, army in disarray, economy shattered by banking scandals and Asian governments calling in chits, the field was ripe, revolution wasn’t a vacuous ad slogan anymore, we took to the streets then the hills. No one knows the back alleys and backwoods better than locals and if our forefathers and the Lakers, our Mesopotamian and Algerian and Vietnamese friends taught us anything it was home court advantage counts big time.

Not to diminish the lives lost, bodies shattered, families forever torn apart, but it was surprisingly easy. Take a navy base and a few missile silos and people start to pay attention. Foreign diplomacy, Benji Franks in Paris, no beaver cap, no; a Reyn Spooner and flipflops and we were California Dreamin’ in Tokyo, though. Sole Superpower the biggest poppy to lop and the community of nations stood in line to take their swipe. Hell, this wasn’t Kosovo we were talking about, this was the sixth largest economy in the world.

That’s how it came about, that’s how I found myself standing astride bots dots on a shut down Highway 1, the glistening Pacific on my right, the artichoke fields of Watsonville on my left, the cavalcade of conquering heroes marching slowly in the distance fresh from the battles of LA coming home to Santa Cruz and Gilroy, Milpitas, fucking Bolinas. Not even bothering with cars or trains, taking their sweet goddamn time reveling with the locals night after night as the roving party rolled north, dropping off fellows in their hometowns, kissing newfound friends and long-suffering warrior kin goodbye for now. There was tomorrow, oh yes, as Scarlett said, there's always tomorrow, we’d fought for it and tomorrow is ours forever.

Blogging?

2008-06-04T16:14:00.000-07:00

No, not really blogging is it? I'm just dumping stuff in here, some of it new some of it old. So what?

The Marketing Guru

2008-06-04T16:12:00.000-07:00

Demonstrable return on investments
Wearing his MBA vestments
Meeting strategic goals
Incense burning on coals
Focus on incremental growth
Consultant or priest, or both
Words and phrases spoken like sages
Sacred wisdom pulled from pages
Volumes and tomes
Wharton’s or Rome’s
Knowledge from college
walking a knife edge
Sixteenth floor ledge
my business hedge
Levels of risk – a backed up disk
An obeisant bow
I worship now
The Mainframe Obelisk

Prattle from Seattle

2008-06-03T14:40:00.000-07:00

An awful cough’ll wear you down in this gray and rainy town - sniffles and sore throats riding early ferryboats - the phlegm from them, the Petri dishes - snot-nosed darlings despite our wishes - lavish us with their wet kisses spreading germs to me and missus - James Joyce wrote Ulysses - the days progress interminably - infections land indiscriminately - pausing now to blow your schnoz - regardless of this cold’s cause - you must go home and get some rest - rub some balm upon your chest - but a five year-old is such a pest - tell me are there any laws - denying men entrance to day spas.

I Know Jack

2008-06-01T15:46:00.000-07:00

I told Jack that I was thinking about becoming a hermit. But Jack told me that "hermit" is just another way of saying "loser". In America if you describe yourself as a hermit, you have admitted that you cannot succeed in society and have given up; you are a loser. This is Jack-speak, a wonderful black and white language where everything is easily defined into two categories: Mine, which is right, and Theirs, which is wrong.

There are no individuals anymore, they have all joined special individualists' groups for writers and thinkers. How do you get original thought out of a think-tank?

This is the way losers talk, bashing the system because they can't succeed in it. I walk on the periphery and watch as everyone runs in circles in the middle. I like to think this way because it makes me feel above the fray, it makes me feel superior, when in every other way I am perceived as the loser. I have no money, I have no power, I have no voice - very few people ask my opinion. This has its benefits, I'm hardly ever wrong.

Some say I am just scared, Jack says I'm lazy; I want to tell them that I have just realized that all this isn't worth it, that we are just spinning our wheels and that in the end we are all dust motes wiped up by the karmic rag. I don't, though, because someone might ask me to explain myself and while that is one hell of a pithy rejoinder, I'm not quite sure what it means.

I have a vague perception of what I call "my universe", and surrounding that perception is a careful series of defenses that I use to protect it from outside comprehension, and thus critique. I hate being criticized, which is why I rarely do anything.

The central tenet of my philosophy, which can be told with no fear of anyone ever understanding said philosophy, is that eventually everyone on the planet will come to the same conclusion at the same time and we will finally be able to live in peace. Unfortunately, at that very instant life, as we know it, will end. We will all simply cease to be.

For the time being I am the only person on the planet that knows what this conclusion is, and let me tell you it is no easy burden to bear. Every day I read the paper and watch TV and laugh to myself as everyone flounders about seeking pleasure, satisfaction and righteousness while blissful harmonies resonate in my brain alone. Sadly, being thus occupied affords me little income.

Part of the problem with the world that I've noticed revolves around religion, although religions merely manifest flaws in individuals so they really can't be blamed, they also serve to justify inflexibility which makes them susceptible to my attack. See, I once thought that we could have one true religion that would allow everyone to live in peace. This delightfully naive way of thinking was shattered when I began to imagine how this religion would coalesce.

I examined how other religions were formed, and found they primarily grew out of the teachings of one dynamic personality, and that person was ultimately deified, whether they wanted to be or not. Once they were gone the teachings of these leaders were made sacrosanct and as the times changed the true meaning of their words was debated endlessly. This, and the competition of already existing religions, often produced conflict.

Jack says my thinking is simplistic, and he may be right, afterall, he goes to work every day, I just watch the clouds.

Now, I'm not going to say whether conflict is "good" or "bad", it’s not my place to make such objective decisions. Yet, if one were to stumble upon the true religion that was going to bring peace to the planet, I figured this religion would arrive without such conflict. How could that be, you might ask. How could a new religion simply settle on the planet without arousing any suspicion? There's already an abundance of competition - competition that has been around for a long long time - and I'm certain that they wouldn't take kindly to being told they were wrong all these years.

This is where I had to use my imagination, your imagination goes to strange places when you aren't worried about bus schedules.

The only way everyone on the planet would agree on something would be if they all thought of it at the same time. Putting aside the implausibility of such an occurrence for a moment, think about what would result if it did happen. People being people, naturally different from each other in countless beautiful ways, they would never be able to relate to one another the meaning of what they had just thought. Everyone would try to explain it differently and in the end we would have the same old conflict.

Which is why, to maintain the perfection of that moment, the world would have to end. Unlikely, yes, but more pleasant than the prospect of nuclear annihilation.

We can either think the world is going to end after a long stretch of destruction and decay, or we can think that we are all striving towards a perfection we cannot comprehend. Either way, I'm still going to have to get a job.

Jack asks me what I do all day. I tell him I contemplate the infinite. It's not exactly a laugh, but his response is closer to a laugh than anything else.

If the universe is expanding because of some primordial explosion, and if this expansion will ultimately reach its end - well, then won't the universe begin to contract. All the matter that went hurtling through space after the Big Bang will, at the bequest of gravity, come crashing back into itself until it reaches such a density that another Big Bang is the result.

I ask you - How long has this been going on? Expansion, contraction, expansion, contraction - we might be on one ride out of a million, and each ride takes billions, trillions of years. We'd need Carl Sagan to do the math.

I wonder if this thought should make me feel infinitesimal or dramatically important - I waver between the two. From the viewpoint of the expanding universe, not just myself, but the entire human population past and present is nothing but a blink of the eye. Yet, if this is the only moment in time where that blink was discerned, that is, the only moment during countless expansions and contractions when a being was capable of acknowledging and pondering this mysterious universe, well, then we humans have an important responsibility.

That responsibility is either more or less important than deciding which long distance carrier to use, I'm not sure which. Jack tells me it doesn't matter if the universe is expanding as long as your personal debt isn't. He says the cafe on the corner is hiring. Jack has a point.

Through the Night (poem)

2008-05-30T12:40:00.000-07:00

Toddler awoken at 1:15

not unheard, not unseen

back to bed, close the door

a visit again at quarter to four

kicked in the back, sleep off track

remove his toe from my ass crack

this phase must stop, and soon I hope

exhausted, unrested, the end of my rope

reached beseeched cogency leeched

my mind's fertile soil

nocturnal interruptions roil

peaceful nights he does spoil

staggering off, my daily toil

hazy crazy mental mazy

this quest for rest I do my best

not much you can do

when your tormentor's two

seemless sleep, my daily dream

my kid it seems ain't on my team

From Little Things

2008-05-29T12:08:00.000-07:00

Just trying this out. One can never be sure what will come of what one's done until one does it. It's been my experience, though, that one never does it. Ahem.
There's one, then two, and before you know it you're waking up on the couch with half a pork chop in front of you, you've missed your flight, and you're wearing someone else's shoes.

2005-09-16T16:40:00.000-07:00

12/13/5 – on earlier boat. Tired. Took pill. Thinking about work, morale, reading a computer history book. Crap to do. Thinking about writing a fictional history of the dotcom boom and bust. Just need to get to Christmas. Then get through January. Totally uninspired by this job. Wondering what I can do better, where I can be better. Just getting by. No fun.

2005-09-16T16:39:00.001-07:00

12/12/5 – Monday morning and I feel fine. Of course I had a very relaxing weekend when I didn’t think about work one whit. I should write after work some time. Need a new notebook – have to consolidate weekend writing. Work I hate gets me paid. Work I like gets me nothing.

2005-09-16T16:39:00.000-07:00

12/9/5 – a Friday – took one last night when I got home at 7:00 and then again this morning and must admit to feeling better – again I have no idea if this is just a comfort thing if there’s a continuous stream required at regular intervals or if you achieve a certain stasis and disrupting that stasis requires more than a 12 hour variance. Or, of course, whether I just feel better because I think I should feel better. I’ve been reading a book on philosophy and am coming to the conclusion tha the answer lies in probing the inner – at least for me. The external world and scientific advancement is plenty probed by others and I can do little to advance those efforts. However, the plumbing of the mind and what has motivated/inspired/troubled man from the moment of enlightenment is a subject I can sink my teeth into. Yes, feeling a bit better today.

2005-09-16T16:38:00.002-07:00

12/8/5 – forgot Lamictal – I don’t know if it’s psychosomatic, but am really low energy today. Not feeling well physically and had an early morning wake up call from the kid so that may be contributing. Still taking this pill every day for nearly six weeks and then missing a day can’t be good.

2005-09-16T16:38:00.001-07:00

12/7/5 on an earlier boat.
I had an idea for the All Hands meeting – make it like a revival meeting. Make the boss into a Jimmy Swaggert or Jim and Tammy Faye Baker – do you believe!?! Have folks come up and confess they’d strayed from the path, do a laying on of the hands – You are healed! Go forth and believe in the power of Network Security. It has some potential…
I had a dream last night I was on a boat with people from work. Not sure if the boss was there. Someone else was driving the boat. I was trying to get the VP of Sales attention but he was on the phone, I went into the next cabin and there was the Regional Sales Director also stuck to the phone. There was a rocking on the boat as it made a wild turn to avoid hitting another boat. We turned around and the boat got out of the water – like one of those Duckboats. It drove to some building and then I was in a bedroom. My sister was in bed with me and then the Director of Product Marketing came in and was looking at me very confused. I said, oh, this is my sister. That didn’t reassure her.
I think I’m thinking about work too much.

2005-09-16T16:38:00.000-07:00

12/6/5 – I was wrong, yesterday was Dec. 6th
Feeling pretty good, writing inspirational aphorisms and other bullshit for work. The sun is shining, rising glowing and reflecting off the Sound. I’ve got a tough day today and tomorrow fighting back.

2005-09-16T16:37:00.000-07:00

12/5/5
Just to put something down. 17 more days before vacation. I had a dream with my friend in it last night. We were engaged in some sort of an assault on a weird mountain military installation, sneaking past guards and contacting someone on the inside. He wanted me to put on some strange orange foam headgear. Then we escaped and went to a party, but he went in first and I was wandering around backyards. There were lots of people I knew from high school and college.
So I mentioned this in the Big Black Book and a chronicle of mood stabilization might end up in multiple locations and need consolidation later, but here you go. Friday I met with the psychiatrist, last day of 100 mg Lamictal. Saturday filled the prescription, but didn’t take it until 4:00 then went out with some friends, had four glasses of wine and felt great. Sunday morning felt slightly hungover but worked through it, actually went for a run. Today is Monday and I’m not looking forward to work, but that is to be expected. And, hey I’m scribbling again which says something in itself. Meeting today about the company’s morale, had some ideas, like morale sucks because they know they’re going to get sold down the river.

2005-09-16T16:36:00.001-07:00

(AT THE END OF 2005, LAMICTAL KEPT ME ALIVE. Not really, that was a bit of melodrama because it rhymed, but I did feel terribly shitty in that “why can’t a bus just jump the curb and kill me accidentally so I won’t be blamed for throwing myself in front of it,” sort of way. He didn’t throw himself in front of a bus, the bus threw itself behind him.)

2005-09-16T16:36:00.000-07:00

The Boar’s Head

We watched for the cab in Murray’s front room, peering from behind his drapes until it pulled up to the corner, then scurrying down his dark stairs, across the sidewalk and into the back seat before the driver could guess where we came from. On the drive over Murray was like a kid on his first plane ride, gawking out the window at the world around him as if he were gazing at corn fields 30,000 feet below him. He did a quiet monologue about the changes he saw. “They closed the hardware store…ah, no wonder a Home Depot, how’d they fit that there, weren’t there buldings there…where’s the coffee shop, I loved those guys, queer as three dollar bills, but they made a mean espresso…Death by Starbucks…this city man, it used to be real…what’s the point…I told you, what’s the point? I can see all this on TV. It’s the same everywhere. They’re even doing it here. Gap, Old Navy…they’re commercializing individualism, just pick what kind of unique person you want to be or you can afford to be…”
We were dropped off and walked into the Boar’s Head, which must have seemed a welcome antidote to Murray’s epidemic of uniformity. Quiet, dark, small, and surviving still, an anachronism amidst all the chain stores surrounding it. The hostess showed us to a booth in the back and we ordered cocktails.
“No Bud Light,” I told Murray. “Tonight try something different. Get a martini.”
“Why not?” he laughed, clearly enjoying his little adventure now that he felt he was in a safe place.

2005-09-16T16:35:00.001-07:00

Murray

Murray was like no one I’d met before. In general appearance and attitude he resembled any number of homeless freaks I’d encountered - paranoid, defensive, prone to tirade, completely devoid of personal hygiene – yet oddly at peace with himself while at work. He rolled his ample frame in his Aeron chair from computer to printer with the confidence and aplomb of any ad agency art director. Give him a good scrub, a Banana Republic wardrobe (and a brainwashing), and you could have a contributing member of society. A star, actually. He was really good at what he did. Unfortunately, what he did was completely illegal. He wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Man,” he said after holding my new driver’s license up to the light, “nobody can do what I do. There is no one on this whole fucking continent – on this goddamned spinning globe – who can make people like me.”
Murray was feeling good about himself. It was hard to disagree. After spending a few hours with the guy, watching him work and learning his story, I find it increasingly difficult to question his confidence. This is not to say there wasn’t a lot to question. The man was one giant question.
“No one knows, man. There’s no one left who knows,” he said after I asked him how he got into this kind of work. He cracked another beer, smiled a staged smile, raised his eyebrows and whispered cryptically, “I’m a reflection of an image seen through a mist.”
“But, why?”
“Why? The question shouldn’t be ‘why,’ but ‘why not?’ I wonder why more people don’t check out. Look at the way this world works, man. It’s a scam. Everywhere everybody is scamming everybody else. It’s one pyramid scheme after another. To win you have to suck up one side and hammer down the other. I didn’t want to play that game.”
“But, what about…”
“Family,” he offered in a mockingly sweet singsong. “That’s the carrot to their stick, but it’s a brutal stick to my back and none too satisfying carrot for my taste.”
I let that sink in for a bit, then said, “A rather cynical view,” quietly as I, too, drank.
“I always thought it was rather romantic, to tell the truth. My big fear in life was that I’d become too much the sentimentalist.”
“You’re joking.”
“No. Look, I do what no one else can do. If I was working in some office somewhere they’d tell me what they wanted and I’d have to bend my skills to their wants. They would own me, own my work, dictate what I produced. And for what? I get to spend 10, 12, 14 hours a day working, thinking, breathing their idea of what my life should be so I can then go home and worry about whether or not I’m up to snuff, whether they will one day decide they don’t need me anymore. And, I’m supposed to be comforted and consoled in all this because it allows me to have a woman and a roof over my head and the Mort-Gauge that comes with it. Those are the modern day shackles, man, and they don’t fit me.”
“That’s a rather extreme view, don’t you think, Murray?”
“Perhaps. I’m not saying I recommend it for everyone. At a certain point you just have to ask yourself what you can put up with and still salvage what’s true in yourself. Look at Gauguin?”
“Huh?” was all I could muster at that quick transition.
“The guy up and abandoned his family at 43, and for what? For art, that’s what. And not art like to paint pretty pictures, I’m talking about digging deep into a soul to find what’s nowhere else. He was willing to walk away from everything because he wasn’t going to continue not listening to that thing that kept telling him there was something else, that there was another thing that only he could know and if he wasn’t the one willing to do whatever it took to know it then no one would ever catch a glimpse of that thing.”
“Didn’t Gauguin die a drug addict,” I asked reaching back in my brain to old Art History notes.
“Hey, man, we all have our vices,” he said, stood, finished his beer with a flourish, and asked, “Ready for another?”
I looked at him and laughed. He was clearly enjoying himself. Indulging in a bit of rambling rhetoric for effect. “Sure. Why not?” I replied.
“That’s the spirit! Why the fuck not!?”
I followed him back into his catastrophe of a kitchen. “So, tell me, Murray, is there an abandoned family somewhere, wondering when their beloved will return.”
“No, man, I never got that far. Unlike you.”
That cut to the quick, and I guess I let it show. Murray, who must have noticed my hurt expression, was quick to backpeddle.
“I mean, I was never the marrying kind. I never had much luck with the ladies to begin with.”
The reality of my situation could disappear for an hour maybe two, but it always lurked there beneath the surface. I had done a tremendously stupid thing and put insurmountable barriers between myself and my family. And, let’s face it, I’m no Paul Gauguin. I don’t know what I am.
“Right,” I said, starting to think about what Murray had done, what he must do a lot. I mean this guy had just dug around in my past, poked around the present and found a new name, place and history for me. He created the new me, as such he was the link. He was a great vulnerability for me. Not only did he know all about me (he clearly knew I had run away from my wife and kid) he held the key to who I was now and how they could find me. Suddenly, I found this terribly disturbing. Who the hell was this Murray and how could I trust him.
“Hey,” I said, “what’s your role in all this?”
“You mean what’s to keep me from ratting you out?”
“Well, I wasn’t going to put it so bluntly, but yeah. You know an awful lot about me, but I don’t know much about you.”
“Listen, you could walk out of here right now and tell a cop what I’ve got up here and I’d be toast in ten minutes. But you won’t, because then you’d be toast, too.”
“And, if you were to make a phone call and report…” I pulled my new driver’s license out of my pocket and read the name, “then I could just send them right back here to discover those people-making machines of yours.”
Murray just raised his can and grinned grimly.
“Honor among thieves.”
“Yes,” he said, “there’s that. And, then there’s Jake.”
“Yes…there is Jake,” I said. “So, what do you know about Jake?”
“I know some things…”
“But you’re not willing to tell them to me.”
“I don’t know how much Jake would want me to tell you,” he said. “Right now, only I know who I am. There’s no one else who truly knows where I came from and holds all the strings that connect what I am now back to where I came from. Jake is in a different position. He has different roles to play. He has to be different people to different constituencies and at any minute those worlds can collide. He’s in a tremendously precarious spot. I can’t compromise any of that by spilling a few tidbits to you, who, let’s face it, don’t have much keeping you from a long cold stretch. And, my experience tells me folks facing a long cold stretch will do or say just about anything to avoid it. No offense.”
“None taken.” We drank a bit more than I asked, “So, what’s your story then?”
He just laughed, “I am what I am.”
“Like Popeye.”
“Yeah, I’m a Bizarro Popeye.”
“Swilling cans of Bud Light instead of spinach.”
“With a bulging belly instead of forearms.”
I looked out the window into the darkening space between his apartment and the one next door. It was approaching dinner time. “What do you say we go out and get something to eat?”
“What, outside?” he fairly gasped.
“Yeah, you know, like at a restaurant.”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea at all.”
“Come on, when was the last time you sat down and had a decent meal in public?”
“Honestly?”
“No, lie to me.”
“2001.”
“You’re joking. Are you telling me you haven’t eaten in a restaurant in three years.”
“Man, I haven’t left this apartment in three years.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” he said.
“It sounds pretty bad, Murray.”
“I deal with the world on my own terms.”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” I told him, “but there are those that might say you aren’t dealing with the world at all.”
“Pessimists. I have everything I need right here. Look, let’s just order in. We can have Indian, Chinese…Sushi…” he pulled a handful of paper menus out of a drawer and offered them to me.
“No way. We’re going to go out.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Come on, Murray, after three years you deserve a night out.”
“My work is it’s own reward.”
“A steak. A great big juicy steak. You can’t get a steak like this delivered.”
“Dine One One, man, I can get anything.”
“Listen it’s small place in Cow Hollow, we’ll take a cab. There’s no way anyone will recognize you.” I didn’t think I would convince him, but to my surprise there was a glimmer of possibility showing in his eyes. I played my trump card. “Why not, Murray? Why the fuck not?!” And with that the dice were rolled.
“What the hell. I’m not a fucking prisoner. I can choose to go out if I want to.”
“Damn right,” I concurred. “Now where’s your phone, let’s get a cab over here.”
“Oh no, no,” he said, “Don’t give them my address…”

2005-09-16T16:35:00.000-07:00

We Were Set Up

“It was a set up from the very beginning,” Jake said when I finally reached him. I spent the better part of that day finding a phone, getting change, listening to an incessant ringing, until finally on my third try, Jake answered the phone.
“Billy,” he said, “you have to get out of the country. Go to Canada, Mexico, anywhere. They’ve already got three of us and you and I are critical. If they can get one of us to talk their scheme will work. Who knows, they may have enough already.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“This whole plan, the entire operation, was a pretense, a façade, we were entrapped, recruited to set up a terrorist cell, specifically so they could arrest us and prove there was a domestic terrorist cell.”
“That’s crazy,” was my first response, but as Jake went on and as I spent the next few days thinking about it, the plot made perfect sense. This crazy administration and the lunatic right in this country are hell bent on pursuing a course of military domination. The only way they can keep up the outrageous funding for amoral preemptive warfare is to create an environment of fear, to make people believe there is an enemy, not just abroad, but right here in their own backyard. Absent any real threat, they needed to invent one, and we were just the kind of dumb sapsuckers they needed to make that lunacy a reality.
Jake gave me another phone number and a Hotmail address, and said to try him again in three days. Those three days were a blur, a void, I look back now and wonder what I did, how I survived, recollecting endless hours of simply staring blankly at the sky, across the water, at the East Bay hills; wandering, avoiding people, avoiding the cold, and the cold truth of where I was and what I’d done, and what I was going to do.
When I got him on the phone again, Jake was changed, he sounded invigorated. This was a man who had been an assistant, Max’s lieutenant, you could say, and who had been cheated and deceived more than anyone. I wouldn’t have faulted him if he said he was just going to duck and run himself, but he didn’t. He went off on a tirade that, while I can’t claim to put in quotes and recall word for word, went something like this:
There’s something terribly wrong with this country, something grotesquely out of whack. Every day there are new atrocities abroad and shocking policies implemented at home only exacerbate the problems. We are divided. There are two Americas, it’s plain that one side won’t listen to the other, and when they are talking to themselves they’re merely engaging in a self-amusing and self-abusing circle-jerk – both left and right. So, I say if there are going to be two Americas divided in spirit, we might as well make two Americas divided in geography. This One World SuperPower crap won’t hold water if there’s a division at home.
Then he gave an example from nature, Shasta Daisies, of all things. When the plant has grown and matured it reaches a natural time to decline, and it begins dying from the core. The best way to sustain the plant is to divide it and replant. This is what I recommend we do with America. The ideals upon which this country was founded have been subverted, they’ve been wound around in the dirt and are strangling the lifeblood of the nation, as long as we remain bound like this we’ll never bloom, we’ll survive as a fading brown shadow of what we once were, but we’ll never bloom again. Trimming and pruning and fertilizing will not help anymore, we need drastic measures to save this organism before it dies of its own weight.
To be fair, I was ready to hear this sort of thing. I had nowhere else to turn, and was ready to sign up for anything, strap a bomb to my chest and walk me up to 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. I asked him what he wanted me to do.
Just lay low, he said. There are a lot of powerful people that have been implicated and now have their backs against the wall, Max and Bob may have won this battle, but in winning they may have started something they never could have foreseen. I’ve got to talk to some people and figure out our next steps. “Where are you?” he asked me.
I almost blurted out my location and then a pang of paranoia burst in my belly as I quickly analyzed what I really knew about Jake. “How can I trust you?” I replied. To which he just laughed and said, “Now, you’re starting to think. Trust but verify. Give me an idea, a region, wait, let me guess…Bay Area.”
“How’d you…”
“It’s logical, most people when under stress return to what they know. Listen, take down this number and then call me tomorrow, we need to get you out of there.” And, he gave me another different cell phone number. Before he hung up, though, I couldn’t help asking, “Jake, why me, why are you spending time trying to help me?”
“’Thinking we’re great
And working for good
Carries more weight
Than it probably should’”
He recited an old rhyme of mine. “We need you. You’ve got a way with words and you can connect our people with other people.” I wasn’t sure I believed him, but I wanted to and I wasn’t in a position to do much of anything else.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said and hung up the pay phone. The booth reeked of urine, I reeked of sweat and dirt and me. I went to McDonalds to pee and then walked around looking for a place to spend another night.
The next day, Jake gave me the address of a guy named Murray who lived in the Haight. “Don’t write it down, just go there, he’s expecting you.”
“When? What time is he expecting me.”
Jake kind of scoffed again, “Don’t worry, whenever you get there, he’ll be there.”
When I met Murray I understood Jake’s amusement. He looked like he hadn’t left his apartment in years. The floors were piled high with old newspapers, magazines, mail, leaflets, books, written material towered in precarious piles lining the walls of his stifling second story apartment.
“Yes?” He asked suspiciously through the intercom, when I buzzed his apartment.
“Is this Murray?”
“Yes, who are you?”
“I was told to meet you.”
“I’ll be right down,” After a minute I heard him shuffling downstairs, his slippers appeared out of the darkness first and then a pasty, bewhiskered face peered at me through the metal grate blocking a small dim foyer at the bottom of an internal staircase. He looked past me and around on the street to see if anyone was watching or walking by.
“Billy?” he whispered.
“Yes,” I answered haltingly.
“Good,” he said and almost smiled, “Come on in.” He opened the gate and pulled my sleeve, glancing around behind me one more time before shutting it behind us. He hurried me upstairs and bolted the door to his apartment. He checked the street below from the window at the front of the flat, peaking from behind dusty drapes. “Do you want a drink, beer?” It was 10:00 in the morning.
“Umm, OK, sure.”
We walked into his small kitchen and he opened a refrigerator that was filled almost to capacity with nothing but cans of Bud Light. He motioned for me to sit down at a creaky wooden table, and we looked at each other while taking our first sips of beer. He drank with relish and let out a resounding “Ahh…” before saying, “So, we need to get you some new ID.”
By 2:30, after a morning’s work in Murray’s oddly equipped office and a lunch of Bud Light and North Beach Pizza, I was Billy Shakes no more.

2005-09-16T16:34:00.001-07:00

Concrete is Uncomfortable

This must certainly come as a surprise to no one, but spending the night outside in a city is no fun. It’s not just the expected things like sitting on cold concrete and being exposed to the elements; it’s also the nuisance of wanting water or a place to pee. We grow used to the little conveniences and when they’re gone life becomes a little less fun. Let’s forget for a moment my emotional state at this time, which, by any measure, was at an all time low, and talk about the physical strain of life on the street. That first night was an aberration, for one, I thought it was going to be the only one. I never contemplated spending as much time “homeless” as I have in the last six months. As such, I figured I just had to make it until dawn, and then I’d figure something out, call someone and find shelter with an old friend for awhile, something, anything would occur to me as a solution to the mess I’d gotten myself into. I’d also had a decent amount of sleep on the bus, so I wasn’t as in need of a full night’s sleep. Night after night though your body gradually wears down, one poor night leads to a day seeking a place to sleep, and then another miserable night, and before you know it everything, all reality drifts into fog, the days blend into each other, the nights are woefully long dark hours of fear, hunger and uncertainty.
There’s no place to get clean. And, I was surprised at how quickly I got dirty. Even after a redeye flight it’s nice to take a shower or at least splash water on your face and change your shirt. Now imagine that same feeling after a 24 hour bus ride, and then instead of a few hours in a room at the Marriott, a night on the street. My hair was greasy, my clothes (I still had my running shoes at that point) started to smell and itch, a few days growth covered my face, and I started to discern my own body’s odor. That ever-present odor grows unnoticeable after three or four days. You may accidentally catch a whiff of yourself on occasion, shocked by an offensive smell like someone else’s fart, and then realize it’s really you. It’s more than disheartening, it’s humiliating. I became one of them. Almost overnight.
In a way the filth acts as a shield. The normal people ignore you (think about how often you looked closely at a bum on the street), and the others, the rest of the ignored, warily acknowledge you. You’re one of them, but you’re not one of them. They note someone else has joined them. If I were clean I’d be a target. That old coat I picked up in Sacramento, the growing layer of grime and the increasingly grizzled appearance acted as a badge, a pass into their world. A bit more tidy and the more than two hundred dollars I still had in my pocket would have glistened like a pearl in a pond.
Sitting here now, faced with the same internal angst (it does not diminish with time, the utter stupidity of what I did) yet absent the physical discomfort I can wonder how I was so lost, I can imagine I should have done something else, that I could have been capable of doing something else. But, the truth is, the morning after that cold, frightening night, I simply ran and hid. The sky grew lighter and real people started walking the streets, and I just didn’t want to be seen. I walked down Mission Street to the Bay and then just followed the water, under the bridge, past the ballpark, down Third Street, the sun now up over the East Bay hills. I found a boarded up warehouse down off Third Street, slipped around back to the deserted loading dock and curled up on some old cardboard to try to get some sleep.
But just as I was about to drift off, or rather after I’d had a few fitful moments of sleep, as if still in a dream I remembered Jake and the phone number. No matter how long I shifted around trying to push it out of my mind, the thought of getting some answer any answer to what went wrong prevented me from peaceful slumber. So, I dragged my exhausted butt off that uncomfortable concrete and went in search of a pay phone.

2005-09-16T16:34:00.000-07:00

Welcome to Frisco

I didn’t waste any time getting out of that apartment, or out of Seattle for that matter. I headed straight for the bus station (with a short stop at the ATM. I didn’t think it would hurt me any to let them know I was in Seattle and I wanted to have as much cash on hand as I could. I’m sure, Soo, that you didn’t begrudge me those 300 dollars). The next bus south didn’t leave for a few hours, so I just killed time nervously pacing the neighborhood around the bus station (not knowing I would come to know these regions well across the country. With few regional variations these places are remarkably similar in residents, businesses and their pervasive defeated mood is offset only slightly by the hope inherent in travel).
It would be very hard for me to describe my mood then. Now, as I sit here in relative comfort (I won’t yet say where), I am still overcome with grief, the pain of separation from wife and child does not go away. And, add to that pain the realization that this division was all my fault, that it was the result of my stupid readiness to believe a pack of lies. Well, I think you can envision a distraught, nervous, agitated man treading the streets around the Seattle bus station. I was certain the cops would roll up at any minute to drag me away, and frankly, at that point, I wouldn’t have cared. I was beyond caring. The plan to get on a bus and go to San Francisco was hardly a plan at all. It was simply the first thing I could think of. I had no idea what I was going to do when I got there, but then I had no idea what I had been doing so it made about as much sense as anything else.
One thing the bus ride did give me was time to ponder. And rest. 24 hours on a bus offers very little in the way of entertainment. I had no reading material, not that I would have been able to keep my mind on it; and I certainly didn’t want to engage any of my fellow passengers in conversation. One dark road. After Seattle and Portland, that’s about all Interstate 5 is, one long dark road. I stared blankly into the night until my eyes would not stay open. My body gave out. Considering the strain I’d put myself under for the past weeks and those crazy last hours, it was no wonder. I slept hard and wasn’t roused until the squawk of a police radio sounded in my ear. Unsure whether this was my paranoid dream or unfortunate reality I quickly shook myself awake to see California Highway Patrol cars, lights blazing pulled in front of the bus. Two officers were walking up and down the bus aisle, looking at faces. I turned out the window and watched two other officers searching through the luggage compartment, one held a German shepherd on a leash.
“Drugs,” said a voice in my ear. The man sitting behind me, while not what I’d consider a reliable source was at least telling me something I wanted to hear. They weren’t searching for a faux terrorist on the run. It was only the war on drugs these cops were fighting. “They do this every time,” he went on, “People are bringing drugs in from Canada.”
“What, pot?” I asked him.
“No, no,” he laughed, “there’s more pot around here than you can shake a stick at. They actually take the pot to Canada and trade it for prescription drugs.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah, these guys are doing the work of the pharmaceutical companies.”
I must have looked very skeptical because he went on to explain how his friend’s brother-in-law was a ChiP officer and they’ve been working with the Mounties to stop this ring. People can smoke pot in Canada but it’s expensive, there’s tons of weed here but it’s mostly illegal. Canada has socialized medicine so there’s a slew of prescription drugs they can get cheap and sell to Americans who usually have to pay through the nose. The whole operation sounded far too complex to actually work, but he told me how his friend and this brother-in-law were sitting around having a couple of beers and the cop told him the whole story. The guy (and the entire Yreka CHP station for that matter) was none too happy to be enlisted in this sort of work. Pulling over buses and rummaging through luggage in the middle of the night is not a lot of fun. The officers had been complaining, but the word they got back came directly from a representative in Congress, just shut up and do this. My neighbor on the bus was convinced the Rep was on the take from US pharmaceutical companies, that he was on the committee doing this and that about health care and big pharma was a big contributor to his campaign and blah blah blah. People on a bus will talk your ear off if you let them. I tried to change the subject. His mom lives in Seattle, but she’s been sick. He takes the bus from Red Bluff up to see her a couple of times a month. Talk of a mother’s cancer was even less welcome, but easier to respond to. A few ‘I’m so sorry to hear that’ and eventually he stopped talking.
After that I couldn’t fall back to sleep. The eastern sky was slowly going from black to gray to blue and I just watched. We switched buses in Sacramento, I picked an old coat out of the lost and found. By early evening I was back in San Francisco. The streets around the Greyhound terminal in San Francisco are filthier than those in Seattle (and Sacramento, and Tucson, and St. Louis, and Memphis, and just about everywhere else), the stench of urine, the quietly menacing street population, and the big trash serving as shelters all contribute to a general medieval quality, as if I’d walked onto the set of Excalibur. Street urchins clamoring in the darkness, peaking from behind torn blankets to eye the newcomer.
There were dozens of people I could call in the city. None of them would understand. I couldn’t quite bring myself to do it. And there it was, the beginning of my first night on the streets. As I pulled the collar of my old found coat up around my ears and prepared to find a place for the night, a voice came from the darkness. Apparently someone had been watching my movements from the door of the Greyhound station. “Welcome to Frisco,” was all he said. Welcome to Frisco, indeed.

2005-09-16T16:33:00.001-07:00

Billy Shakes Writes Again

So, yeah, I’m not exactly sure how yet, but things obviously got totally fucked up. I’ve been lost for the last few months, literally at a loss, wandering the streets and trying to stay alive. Staying in Seattle wasn’t really an option. I couldn’t contact you, Soo, I didn’t know what to do.
There I go again.
No More, there will be no more of that rhyming nonsense.
Let me just tell you what happened, what’s been happening to me, what I’ve been doing for the last, I don’t know how many months. What day is it? Oh, it has been such a long time, it has been such a very long time since I got off that ferry in Seattle. I was exhilarated then, I was darn near ecstatic. It was happening, it was the beginning of a new history, it was the start of an amazing change that would transform our country and make the world a safer place. And, as it turned out, it was a hoax. I’d been lied to and cheated out of my life, my wife, my son – everything was gone in an instant, and I had nowhere to go.
Well, almost nowhere. I went to the address in the international district. I ran, I quite literally and figuratively ran to that address, my feet barely touching the ground, my heart racing, my mind abuzz with ideas and visions. What a fool, what a complete and absolute fool I’ve been. I was expecting to be welcomed into that apartment as a conquering hero, but when I got there, sweating, out of breath and grinning giddily as a schoolgirl, the two of them just looked at me in amazement and disbelief. “You,” one of them said, “You’re here.” Note the lack of exclamation points. I thought they were shocked that I had actually done it. I’m not sure who had briefed them or what they expected to happen, but they certainly didn’t have the same set of expectations as me.
“Is it on the news?” I asked them, still thinking this was going to explode into a flurry of sirens and news helicopters, and that it would all be covered OJ-style on television. In answer, the two of them just looked at each other.
“What?” I asked, “What’s been happening?” The general feeling I had was that these guys were looking at a suicide bomber, after the bombing. Slowly, those two began to realize what had happened. The truth of the matter was that they had been set up, too. There was nothing on the news and there never would be. The whole scheme was a sham, a ruse to get suckers like me and those two clowns to go through the motions of terrorism so we could be picked up and held out as proof that this country needs to be afraid. We were the enemy within, an artificial Fifth Column, recruited, trained and exploited by who knows who. Max?
Yes, Max. Or, maybe Jake.
So, all this is going through my head and I figured I need to get in touch with them, one of them, and find out what’s going on, what happened. I had no way of getting in touch with Max, but Jake had given me a number to call. I quickly scanned the apartment for a phone and dialed Jake.
“Billy,” he said when he heard my frantic voice, “Where are you? No, don’t tell me. Just run, get away from wherever you are, go somewhere we don’t know about. Don’t go home. Don’t even call your home, they’ll be there in no time.” I heard sirens then, and I wondered if I had heard them from the streets outside or if I was hearing them from the other end of the line. In the time it took to wonder this I realized it was both, they were sirens around me at that international district apartment and there were sirens wherever Jake was.
“How will I reach you again,” I asked Jake.
“You probably won’t, but remember this number and try me in a couple of days.” At which point he gave me a number and hung up.

2005-09-16T16:33:00.000-07:00

10/3/7 AM
The reflection of my butt hairs
In the toilet water has anyone ever written of this who would even bother, strange beauty of another kind or the mark of a muddled mind. What else is out there that goes unrecorded what weirdness remains (best) unreported. Is there any internal vagary, personal sickness, sad anomaly deserving no witness no publicity divulgences shitty confessions not pretty too much, information best not discussed. What benefit exists for these sick trysts flirtations with grotesquery masquerading in poetry (if you can call it that).
It gets to the larger matter of typing this chatter my dialogue with myself, best left on the shelf. The truth is I’ve removed more notebooks from their Tupperware file seeking some other looks into past style (to see if it’s still fresh). Scribble new nonsense here on the boat typing old nonsense cheating at work. No one but me has a vote, no one but me is able to shirk, with such aplomb, APLOMB? Diligently avoiding any semblance of productivity displaying this proclivity for goofing off.
Tired of this. The question is will I look at all this when I’ve finished typing and see how sordid how stupid and frightening revealing this to others would surely be. A long stream of words betraying me. Bipolar. What does that mean? Put a name to it sure, give drugs to cure, but what if in stabilizing we’re kept from realizing some other other otherwise unknown. His collective knowledge grown or will poor readers groan bemoaning my moaning, they’d just look away, silent embarrassed nothing to say, avoid him, ignore him maybe he’ll soon go away. Stop this excursion display of perversion another version of art half-assed, reflected in toilet water as gas is passed, a fecal non-starter so just let it go there’s no good cause for you to show such putrid thoughts to the world’s robots. Disclosure exposure un bon mots.

2005-09-16T16:32:00.001-07:00

10/2/7 AM
The ferry’s just docking. I don’t feel like talking, saw three separate friends avoidance never ends must face them at some point erase them from this joint.
Wanted to write something here but didn’t know what. I was reading a book about the Vanderbilts but it wasn’t holding my attention. So, I came down and found a writing table that had already been abandoned. It’s rainy, misty gray off to work , another day, still not doing much where is the magic touch I’m a lazy such and such. How could I get fired the wife would be ired, what had transpired – just tired and bored and drifting into a frozen fjord. Dead end. My friend.

2005-09-16T16:32:00.000-07:00

10/1/7 AM Monday
Looking down for coins when bills are falling from the sky I was going to make this a poem but with a word like “sky” I ask myself why bother to try, it’s like cheating and I’d rather be eating my bagel. Hegel?
Struck again by the absurdity of putting it all together. The end would go on while I’m still writing the beginning so it grows from both ends losing and making friends, time bends or fails to exist hard to resist this style mile after mile we cross the Sound day after day another round?
Thought about truth/fiction fact/lie no contradiction no honesty my purpose when starting was quickly departing. So, scene with psychiatrist, $185 an hour for this. “You should probably slow down on the drinking.” You think? “Afterall, it is a depressant.” No shit. Once a month and insurance doesn’t even cover it. Another two grand, three for the drugs. 5K a year right out of the gate. “Maybe you should go back to your counselor,” he says. She’s the one who sent me to you. “It would be good for you to have someone to talk to.” I can just keep talking to myself, it’s worked for me so far. Except for that occasional voice telling me to throw myself in front of a bus.
I think, no, it wouldn’t be fair to the bus driver. And think of all the people who would be disgusted by the blood, not to mention the traffic delays. Jumping off the boat would be even worse. The wife would have to move. Think about the children! I used the exclamation mark sarcastically, by the way. “Let’s keep an eye on you for a few months. I don’t want to add an anti-depressant if we don’t have to.” Groovy, more drugs, that would be sweet, how much would that cost me. 60 minutes to gauge my biochemical needs, like a mechanic checking my oil. Where’s the dipstick? Oh, wait, that would be me.
I’m going to write a book on being bipolar. You were the one who told me I should chronicle my moods, keep track of the swings. “Well, yes, for your own information.” Right because I never had this information before. God forbid, you spend a few minutes outside this hour actually trying to learn more about what’s going on in my head. Hard to run folks through here fast enough to make a good living if you waste a bunch of time digging deeper. Throw more drugs at it.
Healthcare. Healthcare in this country. If I lose this job, we would have to spend $1,000 a month for decent healthcare and insurance. That’s not including my shit. So, you’re looking at $17K before you make dollar one. That’s after taxes. Rent/mortgage, food, clothes…It’s no wonder our emergency rooms are swamped.
I’m lucky, all I have to do is put up with a job I detest, think about the poor people who can’t find jobs to detest or detestable jobs that don’t pay well or cover insurance.
Boo-hoo. Buy a ticket, a ferry pass, ill? Lick it, get off your ass.
Just another day. The first one of October.

2005-09-16T16:31:00.001-07:00

9/28/7 AM
On boat. Woke early cuz the kid was kicking me. Also incredibly gastrointestinely uncomfortable due to large Korean meal, kimchi, dwaeji bulgogi, etc. Friday. One more day. Boss is out. Time to play. Write/type more of this crap. I’m trying to figure out how to squeeze in the stories. Why not put everything in, Goodbye Dimboola, Anything Every Day. Just mix in stories with the journal writing so I have one long doc with everything. It would make no sense except in the context of my life. It would make sense to no one but me. The story of my life told by me for me. The ultimate self-indulgence. Is it self-indulgence if nobody else knows about it? The wife would. But then she already thinks I’m terribly self-indulgent already. I need to get snipped.
Reading about it makes me nauseos. Nauseaus? Nauseous. It isn’t a pleasant thought, although I can’t remember the last time the wife and I had sex so if this helps me get some, count me in.

2005-09-16T16:31:00.000-07:00

9/27/7 PM
Stimulants in the morning, depressants in the evening. A familiar pattern my appearance slattern-y, no flattery I’m getting fatter-y, looking at the Louvre reviewing my oeuvre, pretentious people next to me, pretend just dichotomy, a just dichotomy? What a mess I confess, tore your dress TORE? Out on the street drinking beer, I have nothing to say myself I’m just writing down what other people are saying, how it twinkles at night, that’s just magical the Eiffel Tower, burping drinking bloated I’m not that thrilled about that modern art. What the hell. Pompousdo Pompadou. What the hell do people write about these days. You know the French are so…The the the the thing is the thing is I’m just writing to write, I’m just putting ink on the page. Ink on the page ink on the page what does a pen hold what does a mind hold can you ever suck out a mind suck the thoughts and turn them into words take all in your brain and put it on the page and, well, no, you can’t, it’s a mediocre medium, I like that, a mediocre medium. Champs dElysee whatever, impossible to take all you could say impossible to convey all that’s there. Like a pen. No, not really. But, funny enough I was holding a pen and the comparison occurred to me. Ink. Ink can write anything. There’s a quantity of ink in there, it can make words or lines or a great big blob and that’s not too different from a brain.
Puddentain Puddentane Puddin’Tane
People actually live in these caves
Barrels are made from staves
We saw where Leonardo di Vinci spent the last three years of his life
No other feeding does it like the fall. I have to stop this. We went through all the vineyards. That’s when I went, during the harvest. I’m sitting on the boat, people back from France on my right young couple with small child on my left, man reading paper in front of me.
Making the turn, I want to get out of here.

2005-09-16T16:30:00.001-07:00

9/27/7 AM
On foot barely afloat what is this expository super SUPER supra suppository diatribe viral vibe inky leakage of never speakage writing and fighting my daily drill dressed to kill took the pill for what that’s worth it doesn’t hurt call it the birth a wrinkled shirt said before an excuse so why bore what’s the use of this blue piss line after line of superfine, could it speak to those others weak also burdened also hiding another word and I’ll go on biding my time less rhyme more sense too dense to see no place for me this mess as I confess this thing it’s not so bad I’ll ring a bell, sad, hell it’s not fatal from cradle to grave I rant and rave in silence unspoken the pretense awoken my desire to share who might care there is no market you see how dark it gets he forgets the revelations are not just his, a life’s relations, the problem is who is whom and what is true from what womb it’s not just you walking to tomb the melodrama without a comma impossible to calm a committed man payment remitted I don’t understand flames are fanned a fire burns the page he turns but who else who else would care why not just spare readers and subjects people aren’t objects not characters these characters depict some other facets the glass it’s half full, moulder, mull never dull to me. Not really. There’s the other times when there are no rhymes, no desire, no raging ire the gaps in dates, the quietude, reading sates that maudlin mood. Maudlin? Hobgobblin. Enough, this stuff, I’ll type it out, the crap I spout this pathetic diarhetic. I’ll send, forfend (FORFEND!?) to whom my padded room, my second womb my tomb.
Boy, doesn’t that sound depressing.

2005-09-16T16:30:00.000-07:00

9/26/7 Wednesday PM
I’m going backwards backwards. This path is unfortunate and I have so much more paper elsewhere.
I feel like I should write about friends, but maybe the point is I don’t. A self-absorption beyond distortion an abortion of emotion no relation too shallow friend field fallow selfish heart callow
The story that’s true is a talk of you that’s not really me in reality. The false stories are truer in the sense there’s no fact you’d want to redact, made up from whole cloth, their origins such, veracity doth not matter so much.
How many ways can you lose a friend.
It’s a rhetorical question.
The wife just called with the kid screaming in the background. It’s all loud and cluttered and banal BANAL? My aren’t we superior, feeling awful awful aren’t we. Man I wish I could make sense of me make something of my misery (WOE IS) whoa, whoh, WHO, what the hell thought my washing machine would break my hair and the sun putting on a jacket it will be a long trip home but I don’t mind because the later I arrive means the less amount of time I have to deal with the little monsters. The demons are another story. Expect miracles when you read Ann Patchett’s fiction. Does water turn to wine? Somewhere someone has written the best shit no one’s ever read.
It’s a goddamn paradise. I just wish there were fewer people I had to try not to talk to. I’ve decided to write small because I feel small (although my beer belly grows larger and larger), I feel like I’m becoming invisible. I’m a non-existent mass, I may be visible to those here babbling around me on the boat, but I know I’m not really here because I write so small no one could possibly notice me.
It makes no sense this backward route, what good I should cease to pout more shit to wit this spit I spout a whale sprays displays his ways. I sit and shout for what my gut rebut your claims and sad refrains more of the sames and Puddentanes HUH? Puddintan Puddentain
What where the hell did that come from. Ink to paper ratio will be high.

2005-09-16T16:29:00.002-07:00

9/26/7 AM

A Seattle hat’ll
Confer on you
The prestige a fur used to
What remains unknown
Is what seeds I’ve sown
Words misplanted go ungrown
The scrawl this fall
Conveys the haze
A season passing
Mind regressing
Clouds are massing
Cranium dressing
Crown cover
Nature lover
No umbrella
For this fella
A fine chapeau
Is the way to go
Huh HUH?

2005-09-16T16:29:00.001-07:00

9/25/7 Tues AM
Men (and women) wearing bright orange stickers with CWA on them. What’s CWA, I ask. Communications Workers of America. His mouth was full. I work in communications, I think. I used to be a director of communications (maybe I’ll throw those notes in here from 2005+). I have no union. I want to be in a union.
Must walk in the rain. This job…this job.
Thinking about stories, but there’s only mine, just different ways of telling it.

2005-09-16T16:29:00.000-07:00

5/21/7
On my way to work this time in my car, going to the airport in the afternoon, well, not just the airport, going to Vegas. A rather uncertain feeling about this insurance gig.
The wife and I are already spending money and feeling comfortable, but it hasn’t even been two weeks and there’s the 90 day wait until benefits. I should feel comfortable but I don’t and I don’t want the wife to know how shaky I feel. Although I shouldn’t make too much of a week and a half.
The will to write is waning. I feel I had a window while manic but missed it. I should, hell, I don’t know what I should do. I want the first thing to be done – Billy Shakes revolutionary, convinces Korea to force US troops out of their country, western states of America secede, a Boston massacre moment as they try to haul Martin away from the SF jail, but it all turns out to be a dream as Billy returns to Soo and Nate on the ferry.
Then I want to be able to run through the second story, the cat/eagle/deer – the world faces decimation, population drastically declines as infertility strikes everyone, the Man and his family survive and must repopulate a world now dominated by the animals, except in the end the animals get outsmarted by the plants, and the world is left to vegetation.
I want these to be good (I wants to write good) I want them to be unique, powerful, funny yet lastingly meaningful. I have something to say and a different way of saying it, not convinced anyone would want to read it, and worried about exposing myself, revealing my “illness” – all that is subplot, it’s the subplot of my life.
And I have to work. I like getting paid, but am growing to believe this gig won’t last long.

2005-09-16T16:27:00.001-07:00

WTC guy in Mexico
Timeframe. That needs to be worked out. How does he get from Mexico to wherever Billy is, and does he need to.
I’d say don’t go out at all, but definitely do me a favor, don’t come back to my place. I won’t let you in and I will deny I’ve ever seen you.,” said Murray.
Wah, what do you mean?
“You know what I mean. This is a bad idea, you need to go away now.”
“Go away? Where am I supposed to go?”
“That’s not my problem. Call Jake. But, if you think you’re going to find a safe house in my place after you go traipsing around along your past paths then you’re delusional. You’re worse, you’re a liability. You’re a risk to me, to Jake, to the entire movement.”
“Movement? This is a movement now?”
“Dude, you have no idea.”

So, Billy goes to Martin’s and early in the morning there’s a pounding on the door. Billy runs. Need to talk Murray into going out.
“Oh, if you can’t reach Jake, go to Phoenix.”
“Arizona?”
“No, Phoenix, France, dickhead.”
“Shit, Murray. Give me a break. Why the hell would I go to Phoenix?”
He leaned close over the table, the dregs of dinner, a T-bone and potato skins, “Where the fuck else are you going to go?”
I stopped and thought. He had a very good point. “So, what do I do in Phoenix?”
He smiled a bit and said, “You listen to the radio.”
He looked at me and I looked at him. “Fuck you, Murray. What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Look, you’re the ass that’s about to go carousing about San Francisco when you don’t have a clue about who is looking for you, so don’t get pissy with me.”
“I think you’re being a bit paranoid.”
“Really. Me. Paranoid.” Murray spoke again after a pause. “Listen, all I’m saying is, if you go off with this friend of yours. I’m done with you. Actually, I’m done with you regardless. My work here is over, you’ve got your papers, I have no more interest in you.”
“Oh, come on Murray…”
“No. I shouldn’t have come out. I don’t know how you talked me into it. I’ll give you that, you can be a pretty persuasive guy, maybe that’s what Jake sees in you. Frankly, I think you’re not cut out for this. You are way out of your depth and you don’t even know it.”
“This is stupid.”
“No. You’re stupid. You have no idea what you’re doing. You get a few drinks in you and you think everything’s OK. Well, listen, pal, you’re life is over. The life you had is long gone and there’s no goin back, so you better figure out how to live this one cuz it’s the only one you’ve got left.”
I just sat there soaking in the cold reality of what Murray was telling me. “You can either get nabbed by your stupidity or do something real. Either way, though, that happy family bullshit is over. No wife. No kid. You are no longer who you thought you were. And, this guy, this friend of yours from your old life, he’s an illusion, he should not exist anymore. He is nothing but a path to nowhere.”
More silence and I thought I saw Murray’s face soften a bit as he watched me soak in his cold water. Then, I went into denial.
“Whatever, Murray.”
“Don’t ‘whatever’ me!” he stifled his anger, and harshly whispered, a slightly slurred admonition.
“Look, my friend is waiting.”
Finally, in total exasperation, Murray conceded. He visibly deflated, such as was possible, and relaxed, absolved. He’d tried. “Alright, alright, be that way. If there’s trouble, though, and you can’t reach Jake, just go to Phoenix.”
“And listen to the radio,” I said drily.
“Yes, listen to the radio,” he smiled.
“Why do you have to be so fucking cryptic?”
“Dude, that’s who I am.”
“Alright, yeah, I can see that, but give me a break. I’m supposed to jump on the Hound and go to Phoenix and just scan the dial 24/7, that’s stupid, why not just tell me a name or something?”
“Joe Schmoe.”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck me again?! No, fuck you. No, it’s more than that, I don’t even have to say ‘fuck you’, you’re already fucked.”
Give me a break,” I said, slightly sobered but still incredulous.
“I’ll give you a break. Against my better judgment I’ll give you a break. How much money do you have?
I had about $40 bucks left.
He pulled out a wad and peeled off about ten hundred dollar bills.
I took the money in surprise, not even thinking to protest.
“And, if you can’t reach Jake…”
“I know,” I interrupted, “Listen to the radio.”
“Right, and one more thing,” he motioned me closer as I tried to edge away from the table. “Are you listening?”
“Yes, I’m listening,” I said impatiently.
“This is important.”
“Just tell me, Murray, I want to get out of here.
“Oh, and one other thing.”
“Another, other thing?”
“Yes, don’t worry about the check.” I said nothing, but gave him a look that said, ‘no shit.’ “You’re welcome.”
“So, what’s the important thing?”
“96.5.” I just looked at him not comprehending.
“The radio station in Phoenix, it’s 96.5.”
“Why didn’t you just say so before,” I said in frustration. He just shrugged as I turned and walked away, thinking to myself that I would never see Murray again and feeling quite pleased about that.

(NOTES) WTC guy and Billy share a disassociation with American life or what America has become and how people exist in it and how it exists in the world. The conformity gets to WTC, even when people in his circle try to be different they’re all basically being different in the same way. The escape from marriage is an escape from the whole system, there’s not much there anymore in the way of love, but it represents the bonds and limitations of that life. We are all trapped and he takes the opportunity of a tragedy to liberate himself. It’s symbolic of the larger political liberation. The west is trapped, exploited by an eastern business/financial establishment that leaves most in a position of coddled servitude. We think we’re happy, living quiet productive lives, but we’re really feeding the pockets of the corporate titans (through mortgages and the consumer machine, and graft) and funding foreign adventures with our taxes. Simple taxation without representation. Throw in a little freedom of religion (a Christian state?) and the desire to get government out of their private life and you pretty much have the reasons the American colonies seceded in the first place.
The short guy from the ferry yesterday, leathery face with a bushy mustache, battered ball cap pulled down low over his brow, a jaunty step and a mischievous twinkle in his eye. Who is he? He can be one of the characters of the road trip gang. The radio guy. Phoenix to Denver to Boise, stay in the west? The others need to remain in “society” they are the financiers or local organizers. Some of them are not involved but filled with crazy/prescient ideas. Utah, SLC, religious freedom. St. George, the irony, king George, dragon slayer. Need allies and Mormons qualify. Badlands, the missile silos. Second amendment – right to bear arms, more allies, the wild west faction, ruby ridge, waco, kazinski. How to avoid violence? Nuclear standoff, mutually assured destruction. Can’t deploy troops, it would be a disaster along the lines of Iraq. At some point this needs to go public. Like Sein Fein and the IRA. Billy is the Gerry Adams of America or Jake is. They could arrest him for treason, but that would just make a martyr out of him – an American Nelson Mandela. Somewhere there’s a Stan Goff character – former military, turned to the other side by the hypocrisy – where is he? Big military – San Diego – near the border. He’s the connection to WTC. WTC surfs the net in the afternoon and surfs the baja coast in the afternoon, sees Galt’s writing and as things get worse (Iraq, patriot act, NSA spying SWIFT) he contacts him (maybe swift fear, his money transfers may be tracked he may be found, he’s on the hook, too) and they connect. Galt is tied in with the military and he and the radio guy (franklin) end up in friendly/heated debate, much like Virginians and New Englanders. WTC guy needs a new ID when he gets back in the states. He still has big $ in his account, but that’s just a number and he’s worried about the tracking of transactions. He goes to Murray, he needs to exist in America again even if that means under a different identity.
Billy gets Murray’s back story. He’s the illegitimate son of Jerry Garcia (or some SF rock legend). There’s a prominent left leaning lawyer in SF who holds his estate. Murray is entirely under the radar. The lawyer is connected too, massive numbers of Californians are disassociated. Gays, hispanics, the working poor, environmentalists (or those that just want clean air and water) and the troops, national guard, veterans, homeless. Rabble rousing. Street demonstrations. Fiery speeches. The foment spreads.
Billy is the mouthpiece (or the organizer, this may be part three after he gets back from Asia.) Jake comes out. They are always on the edge. Could be taken out MLK style or simply disappeared. A public trial would be a disaster. Removal to Gitmo would be obvious.
There would be an icon to rally around. Somehow riots need to be avoided. How to peacefully secede?
The love interest. A return to Soo Moon. “Why did you do this? Why have you done this, what about us, don’t you love Nate and I anymore?”
“It’s because I love you that I have done this, don’t you see what’s happening? The country has changed, it’s not Nazi Germany, it’s more nefarious, more subtle than that. It’s a silent/unseen noose around us all, and it’s closing in on us. Look at the prisons. Look at immigration ‘reform’ I said sarcastically. Look what they’re doing to arab americans, muslims. They came for them and I did nothing and when they came for me there was no one left to stand up for me.”
“This is crazy. You’ve gone crazy.”
“Maybe. Maybe Tom Paine was crazy, Jefferson, Washington, Franklin. Maybe it’s only the crazy people who do anything in this world, maybe they’re the only ones capable of looking at things as they should be rather than as they are.”
“You’re my husband. Nate is YOUR kid.”
“What happens if they start interning Koreans?”
“That’s a bit extreme.”
“Is it? It’s all a matter of degrees at this point isn’t it. When does it get too bad, what does it take for people to get outraged?”

This could go on, I’m stuck.

So, Billy is in the Boar’s Head. He needs to go to Phoenix. The story goes, he goes to Martin’s apt and cops (gov’t agents?) knock in the early hours. Billy has to run – slip out the fire escape kind of cliché, but what the hell. So early morning SF Billy is on the run again back to the bus station? They might know, they might have figured out he would do that now. He takes BART to Berkeley and lays low. On the street again. Call Jake call Jake. Jake tells him to go to Phoenix, conversation re Murray.

“Did you talk to Murray?”
“Why ?”
“Murray told me to go to Phoenix, too.”
“Did he give you a name?”
“No. Just a radio station.” He gave a bit of a laugh.
“Yeah, I don’t have a name either.”
“What?” I said disappointed and shocked.
“I’ve got an idea. I have more information than Murray.”
“well, what am I supposed to do?”
“We’re still figuring things out. It was chaos, the dust is settling and information’s trickling in. We know there’s a potential ally in Phoenix and he owns this radio station, but we’re not sure of his true name or where he lives or what his deal is.”
“OK, so what does this mean to me?”
“We need you to just go and figure it out.”
“Figure it out, what am I Matlock?”
“Just do your best to figure it out. We have faith in you.”
The vote of confidence sounded hollow, but what could I do. “96.5?” I asked in resignation.
“96.5.”
So, Billy rents a car with his new ID and credit card. But, first Jake gives him the name of someone in Oakland/Berkeley? Black America, liberal/socialist America, slavery, legacy oppressed black man blah blah blah, but with a twist. Lots of stuff that needs research, black panthers, Peebles, etc…
Drive to Phoenix, beauty of the west with ugliness of the highway culture – McD fast food nation, oil/gas, same crap everywhere. Get off the highway into the recesses of the country and you find what this is what this country really is, outside of what you see on TV and the chain world. We’re shackled to the chain world and we want something more, some people want more…

GenX did McJob and it’s more than that, the chains could actually do a lot to improve our lot. Great distribution, huge volume, crap product.

In Phoenix, I checked into a Motel 6 (paid cash thanks to Murray – or used credit card, might as well use it as I’m on the card with the car anyway), and just listened to the clock radio.

Chain, more description, perhaps a conversation in a McD with some freak or employee, generic flaws of ordinary – the burden of an oppressive sameness, lack of motivation of staff – socialist? America has bred a class of worker or imported a class of worker who pretend to work so they pretend to get paid. No Healthcare, no benefits, no future, kids and college slipping away, it’s the inverse of socialism, but the effects on the common man the same. And, what’s more we’re trying to export it just as communism was (or as it was perceived to be). Where does this go? National self-determination is key – any monolith is the enemy – hegemony won’t work. Mono-crop (crap?) agriculture won’t work, it leads to stagnation in-bred flaws, round pegs in square holes.

To the radio station, the world of radio and all the media has been monopolized, sanitized and turned into a boring stew of blandness. You could argue that there’s a world of cutting edge cinema and “original programming”, but that is only available to those who can afford to pay for it. Much like the communist party members. The rich republicans are our version of communist party members. The philosophy is bi-polar (ha), but the result is the same – one class of people who has stuff, another class that does not, but aspires to it. Distribution of wealth is a farce. People aren’t equal but you have to give them hope. If not for them at least for their kids. Religion is the opiate of the masses and those that use that may be willing to forego a decent wage/life and a better world for their kids. But, we must acknowledge that opium is also the opium of the masses. Sometimes the simple answer is right there in front of us, Occam’s razor. Drugs in America. This is the Oaktown conversation and Billy reflects on it in the hotel room listening to the radio.

It was after two days that I had a sort of revelation. I was racking my brain at first trying to detect a pattern. Then I simply got tired. The time in the Bay Area, the craziness and then the wear of the long drive produced an utter, deep, bone-tired exhaustion. I was so tired that I didn’t even know how tired I was, my body, mind, soul had entered a realm, a cloudy world of existence that in retrospection felt as if I had been made dumb or dumber than I was. It’s hard to imagine I felt overly smart after abandoning my wife and chide to follow Max and his merry crew. I was numb and I didn’t know it. The familiarity or the familiar-ness of the room also produced a comforting other-worldly effect. It was a room in Phoenix, but it could have been in Salt Lake City, Stockton, Charlotte or Canton, Ohio, any of a number of exact rooms anywhere in the country. It was familiar, it was comfortable, it was relaxing, in short, I fell asleep. After the surprise of finding myself listening to a radio station that had no commercials, and no particular format to speak of – the playlist ran the pop/rock gamut from AC/DC to ZZ Top, but it also threw in oddities from Hawaiin, classical, swing and jazz so you never really knew what to expect. One moment you could be listening to Queen’s “We Are the Champions” and before you could finish mouthing “…of the world…” Rachmoninoff’s third concerto/symphony was beginning.
I was baffled and ultimately/eventually my body/brain just shut down. The radio stayed on and with the shades drawn and the absence of any DJ, news, or voices of any sort other than the vocals of Billy Holiday, Elvis Costello (and the other one) Annie Lennox, Ice-T, et al, I was in a world of my own, and what a world it was. I searched and searched for some sort of purpose, a point, a reason, I wrote down the names of songs, artists, dates of recording when I could guess, timeframes, eras, was there a point to playing “99 Luftballoons” after Mozart’s “Eine Kleine Nacht Music”? Modern German overtaking Habsburg imperialism? Then David Bowie came on singing Modern Love and fixing the English and allies against Teutonic techno-pop in a contrived confrontation/exploitation/invasion for Leibensraum and uniting all Germanic tribes was further complicated by Men at Work, “I Come from the Land Down Under.”
It was infuriating . And, what made it worse was I liked the music. It was fantastic. Like nothing else I’d ever encountered on the public airwaves. As time went on though, my bafflement infringed on my enjoyment. My epiphany came after Percy Mayfield followed Lyle Lovett followed Don Ho followed Bing Crosby. After listening to Bing croon I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas whilst sitting in a Phoenix hotel room/Motel 6 I came to the conclusion there was no hidden meaning. The answer lay in the lack of an answer. I figured I must not be the only one dialed into 96.5 and so decided to venture forth and start mingling with the local populace.

Somewhere above add – and it was against the length of the pieces, I thought of that as he/they had no qualms playing extraordinarily long songs like Inagoddadavita (sp?) or Beethoven’s Ninth in their entirety. Long short long – some sort of Morse code maybe, an SOS, but how could I differentiate between what was long enough and what short? There was that huge gray zone in the middle and isn’t that always the case. Sure, there’s black and white but those are the poles and everything else lingers above and below the equator…

I first went out into the Phoenix sun around midday. I went to a Denny’s and ordered breakfast, it wasn’t quite breakfast but as it was my first real meal in awhile I thought I’d start out at the beginning. A Grand Slam breakfast did the trick. It may be generic but damn that hit the spot. There is that benefit to the chain world of America, if you want a Big Mac you can get a Big Mac whether you’re in New York City or Tuscaloosa Alabama.
I asked the waitress as she set down my plates, “Hey, I’ve got a question for you.”
“Uh, huh.”
“Do you ever listen to the radio station 96.5?”
“Nope, I never listen to the radio anymore. iPod. Greatest gadget in the world.
“Ah, what about the guys in the back?” I used to wash dishes at a Chuck E. Cheese, horrible high school job, but we used to rock out in the kitchen (elaborate).
“It’s all Mexican music back there. I have no idea what station they listen to.”
“Right.”
“You taking a survey?”
“No. Just wondering…I’m not from around here and as I was driving in I dialed into this station just looking for music and they never played any commercials. I thought it was kinda cool but odd, and I wondered how they did it, what with no ad revenue.”
“That is kind of funny. Well, enjoy your breakfast.”
It was 2:30 in the afternoon.
Halfway through my short stack, she came back to freshen up my coffee and said, “Y’know I asked my manager about that station and he said he listens to it sometimes and has wondered that same thing.”
“Really.”
“Yeah, he says it’s like his own iTunes.”
“Where is he, can I talk to him?”
He came over and I asked him to sit down. His name tag said “Stan”.
“It’s the weirdest thing. My wife and I can’t figure it out. I think I saw an article about it in the Sun or the (check names) but I can’t remember which or when.”
“Do you think it’s some big media company just prepping the market. You know when a new station starts they always play more music at first to get you hooked. Maybe it’s a ploy to get attention.”
“Damned if I know, but it’s made my commute a fair bit better.”
I smiled and sipped my coffee.
“What you doing in Phoenix? Margey said you’re not from around here, not that anyone is.”
“Oh, I’m just passing through.”
“Road trip, huh?”
“Yeah, of a sort.”
“Well, have a good one. Sorry I couldn’t help you solve our little radio mystery,” he said standing up. “Back to work.”
“Yup, take it easy.”
I finished up, paid, said my goodbyes to Margey and Stan, and went for a walk. It was hot, scorching hot, but it was a dry heat, ahem. It was also bright, excruciatingly bright, so I put on the pair of cheap sunglasses I had bought at the Texaco station in Baker. I felt like a spy, man of mystery, private eye, cruising Phoenix to track down a musical phantom. (Should have a line back on the LA-AZ route about passing through Vegas and not stopping, nothing but trouble there. Need to check on a map and see if I’m right. Oh and take a trip to the Grand Canyon, then call Jake and have him chastise Billy for “this is NOT some touring trip for you. We don’t have time for you to go sightseeing!”
“Sorry.”
“Yeah, well that car isn’t in a real name remember, you never know when that’s going to get called in, you don’t have a lot of time.”
“Well, where am I supposed to go, what am I supposed to do?”\ “Did you find out anything in Phoenix?”

Boars Head to Martin’s apt. Go to Bus Stop. Either a conversation in a crowded bar or a quiet conversation in his apt whilst drunk, bar, then back to apt in haze and then pounding a mad scramble.

The Billy/Murray conversation – the separation – money changes hands. Martin walks over. Billy grabs the wad of cash in a bit of surprise and stuffs it in his pocket before Martin can see it.
“Thanks,” was all I could mutter stupidly, all I…in the quick exchange with Martin approaching and Murray flipping through bills, all I could muster was a feeble, “Thanks.”
“Fuck off. No, wait. Good luck, and thanks for getting me out. Despite your bullshit this has been good.”
“Good?”
“Yeah, good.”
“Well, good.”
“Fuck off.” I started to walk away. “Oh, and don’t worry about dinner. I’ll take care of it.”
I just looked back and smiled, gave him a quick, perhaps overly jaunty wave and scurried off to meet Martin at the door.
“Should we go to the Bus Stop for old times sake?”

Martin and I had gone to school together. A large contingent of folks from my university ended up working and living in San Francisco. As time went on they ended up in the various surrounding cities, like the scattered drops from a rock dropped in a lake. Every year a new batch of graduates landed like a rock in the SF pond, in a sort of time delay film (like in the old nature shows where you could watch a flower grow, bloom and die) those droplets rose and fell in Marin and Belmont and Walnut Creek and points around the bay, and there they mingled with past droplets from previous rocks that fell from the same source.
Martin was of the part under the rock that sank to the bottom and stayed in the city. San Francisco appealed to him and he had never found that complementary droplet that made the trip to the burbs more enjoyable (or that necessitated the move). Besides, he liked city life.
He and I and a large group of guys frequented the Bus Stop and other such establishments back in the day. It was one of the more “mature” places not populated too much by the bridge and tunnel crowd looking to hook up. Not quiet, but no pounding music and an excess of swinging dicks out for a companion. Clearly hetero, but not in an overtly exclusive way. It was a good spot and just up the street.
“So what the hell are you doing here?” He just came out and asked.
“Oh, just a quick little trip.”
“Business?”
“No, no,” I said quickly realizing that Murray may have been right and this was going to be more complicated than I had anticipated. Afterall what the hell was I doing here?
“Got a hall pass, huh? A boy’s trip? Are you meeting with John (new name here, or for John in Korea) or Scoop?”
He mentioned two old friends of mine who would be obvious people I’d want to connect with since I was down.
“Oh, no. I don’t think I’ll have time.”

By that time we’d walked up to the Bus Stop and had entered, the long bar on our left, wood-paneled walls, the sound of billiard balls clinking in the back room, an assortment of San Franciscans drinking, talking, watching the Giants game, the TV hanging from the corner of the ceiling.
“Anchor Steam?”
“When in Rome,” I replied. When he returned he jumped right back into the questions in the careless off-hand way old friends or now slightly less than friends who had once spent a great deal of time together, but had drifted apart yet are still capable of returning to that comfortable comraderie can. It’s my opinion this is a male thing. Martin could be blunt and honest in a way that two old female friends might find incomprehensible.
“So, how’s whats her name?”
“Soo.”
“Yeah, you got a kid now, too, right?”
“Yup. A regular family.”
“Up in the northwest, Seattle?”
“Near there.”
“You like that?”
“Yeah,” I started hesitantly. “It’s great, we love it.” The remorse was setting in again and I was afraid it was showing. Martin was picking up on that and turned to catch the score of the game, sipping his beer thoughtfully.
I decided to avert further inquisitiveness by starting a line of questioning myself. “So, are you still with Schwab?”
“No, no, I just took a new job with Morgan-Stanley, lovin’ it. You can’t imagine the difference between a discount brokerage and a group like Morgan Stanley.”
“Yeah, I bet I can’t.”
“What you doing now?” he asked quickly, shifting attention back to me and foiling my plan.
“Oh, you know, this and that,” I replied lamely.
He looked at me suspiciously and then took another glance at the game. “We could get some free baseball.” It was tied in the bottom of the ninth, just another game, the Florida Marlins, certainly not worth taking attention away from a conversation between two friends who hadn’t seen each other in years, a game between two bottom dwellers in their divisions.
Marty looked back at me and somewhat sternly, with a trace of a wry smile, and asked frankly, “Billy, what the fuck is going on?”
It was hard to hide anything from Marty, he was a no bullshit kind of guy, and I wasn’t exactly the poker-faced cool cat hustling some scam over him. I caved. Hanging my head, sulking in my beer, I just came out with the most innocuous form of the truth I could, even though it failed to capture even a morsel of what was going on, it was essentially what I’d done.
“I’ve left Soo.”
“Wow,” a pause. “Just up and left?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
He was silent again for awhile. We both sat quietly, looking at each other and then looking away. He, afraid of the look of depression in my eyes, and me afraid of the judgment in his.
“Got a wife and kid in Baltimore, Jack, I went out for a ride and I never went back,” he deadpanned the Springsteen line.
I thought, “like a river that don’t know where it’s flowin’ I took a wrong turn and I just kept goin’” but couldn’t bring myself to say it.
“Well, this calls for something stronger.”
He got up and muscled his way to the bar, which was crowded now with people watching the bottom of the ninth. Barry Bonds struck out and they were going to extra innings.
“A fantastic cancer,” said Marty as he set two glasses of brown liquor down on the table.
“Huh?”
“That’s what a buddy of mine at work calls Bonds – ‘a fantastic cancer’.”
“I don’t get it.”
“He’s great, hell, he’s the picture of greatness, yet as long as he’s on the Giants they will never win. Not the whole thing. He doesn’t want it enough. Deep down it’s all about him. He cares more about himself than the team.”
I knew where he was going with this and didn’t like it. I’d left my team. This was big talk from a free agent who had never stayed with a team for more than a season or two.
“Right,” I said. “I get it.” Pause, “What is this?” I asked picking up the highball glass and sniffing two fingers of something.
“Maker’s Mark.”
We drank, sipped.
Someone for the Marlins hit a home run in the top of the tenth.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Nowhere really.”
“When did this happen?”
“About a week ago.”
“Jesus,” he said quietly, shaking his head.
“Does she know where you are?”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“You haven’t called her?”
“No. I can’t,” I said, leaving it at that as if I couldn’t bring myself to rather than I was afraid our phone would be tapped.
“You’ve got to let her know where you are, that you’re OK, she must be frantic.”
“I left her a note,” I said, referring to the mad scribbling I’d done before the, well, before the ferry thing, even though that nonsense resembled a note as much as a bird did a dodo.
He just shook his head. A waitress came by, pointed to our glasses, “Another round?”
“God, yes,” said Marty. “Two more Makers and two Steam backers.” We absent-mindedly checked the game, a reflex. The Giants were batting in the bottom of the tenth, down by one and more people in the bar were paying attention.
“For Christ’s sake, Billy. Why?”
“Oh, you don’t want to know. It’s a long story and really I’m not sure you’d understand.”
“Look,” he said as our drinks arrived, stopping then to thank the waitress, he started to pay her then stopped and thought. I was afraid he was going to look to me for money. Instead, he pulled out a credit card and handed it to her saying, “You better keep it open.” She nodded. The Giants were down to two outs.
“Billy, I’ve got all the time in the world. I blew off my date, it’s Friday night, I’m doing nothing til tomorrow night.” I noted to myself that before he said that I had had no idea what day it was. “And, let’s be honest, it doesn’t matter if I understand, it’s whether you understand that’s important.”
He was making good points. And, his perfunctory, if somewhat off-putting, questioning was starting to put this whole situation in a different light. Maybe I was over-reacting, maybe I could go back. Turn myself in. Maybe Jake and Murray were a bunch of cranks and if I ratted them out, I could save my skin.
“I don’t know, Marty.” I said hesitantly. “It’s not as simple as you may think.”
“These things never are I’m sure.” We stopped. I was uncomfortable looking him in the eyes. Marty had an intimidating gaze, fueled by a supreme confidence. Bill Mueller struck out (check lineup) and they were down to their last out.
“It’s not what you think. I don’t want to get you involved.”
“I’m already involved. For whatever reason you and I ran into each other tonight. Frankly, you and I were never that close.”
I stopped my glass halfway to my lips, “Well…” I started to protest.
“No, really, come on. John (name) and Scoop and you were always tight. I just tagged along…and we’re not exactly of the same (political, think about this) persuasion.”
“That doesn’t mean much,” I began, but he was right and my argument petered out. He always did have an understanding of power that ran contrary to mine. Not that we ever spent too much time discussing such things. It was reflected more in career choices, such as mine qualified as a “career choice.” Marty was always going to make money. College was an end to a means and he treated it with the seriousness that mindset dictated. I was never that focused, but through neglect, sloth and ennui managed to evoke an aura of disdain for that attitude. Marty’s attitude. He may have perceived me as having strong liberal leanings with a latent if not strong/apparent opposition to his life direction. It was never that pronounced. I was a bad student with poor judgment and a weakness for the easy way out. Any snide comments about ‘selling out’ and ‘working for the man’ were little more than affectation and cover for my flaws, which were many. I’d changed since then, but not in a way that he’d approve.
“My point, Billy, is that I’m just enough of a friend to be brutally honest without fear of damaging a long-term friendship. It’s not that I don’t give a shit about you or about staying your “friend”. I think you’re an interesting guy, I always have. It’s just that we don’t run in the same circles. It wouldn’t bother me if you decided I was a dick because I said something to piss you off. For instance, I think you’re being an asshole. I don’t know what’s going on. I have absolutely no background on your situation, but you made a promise. You entered into a sacred contract before god and the world and that must be honored. You brought a child into this world and you have a responsibility to raise it. If you walk away you’re nothing more than another nigger leaving a single mother to raise a kid who’ll have all sorts of unnecessary hurdles to jump over.”
I should point out here that Marty is black. He had a tendency to use the ‘n’ word as a weapon. In his mind he had the right. Of course, none of his white friends could and that gave him a sort of trump card. Regardless of this, or maybe just maybe because of it, he had lost me.
“You’re being a bit controversial about this, don’t you think.”
“Don’t get all PC on me, Billy. You know exactly what I mean. The numbers don’t lie.”
“Well, that language still makes me uncomfortable.”
“You’re missing the point, and don’t try to change the subject. This is about you, what you’ve done, what you are going to do. Forget the semantics.”
I checked the TV again, post game, the Giants had lost and the bar had become less crowded.
“Let’s have another round. Have you seen the waitress?” I said.
Marty somewhat disdainfully said, “I’ll go get the drinks,” and got up.
He was right in many ways and I alternated/vacillated/was ambivalent about trying to tell him about Max and Jake and Murray. I was afraid he would think I was crazy or just making up far-fetched excuses. It occurred to me, too, that I might be putting him in danger, but that could have been lingering/my heightened paranoia.
He came back balancing four glasses, which was quite a trick since they were different sizes.
“You do that well.”
“I was a pro.”
“No shit?”
“No shit. It paid good money. Listen, I don’t know if I’m going to have any influence on you. Plus, I don’t want to lecture. I’m not one to get righteous…”
“Let he without sin cast the first stone.”
“Right. But. But…”
“But, my ass,” I said and we got a peurile drunken laugh out of it.
“But, you’re fucking up.”
“I’m getting fucked up.”
“Yeah, well, one won’t help the other, unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Unless you find a way to say or think something that makes you make sense of this.” There had been such a preponderance of awkward pauses during the course of this conversation, and I was getting to such a state of inebriation that I was almost ready to break out and tell Marty the whole crazy story. It was at this stage that he came out and asked, “So, who was that fat guy you were with at the Boar’s Head?”
So, yeah, who was that fat guy, I thought to myself.
“Well, that’s part of the reason why this whole thing is more, is different, it isn’t as simple as me running out on my wife and kid.”
“Homosexual lover?”
“No. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but no.”
“Well. Are you going to get all mysterious on me at this point?”
“Alright,” I said with a sigh of resignation, “What the hell. You have to, though, you have to listen to the whole thing, and you have to promise to hear the facts, to note the facts and not have some quick reflex reaction, some, you know…”
“No, I don’t know. I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Alright then. Let me tell you.” And with that I ran through the entire story from start to finish, from scanning the web and seeing those crazy comments on the Las Piedras web site to Murray buying me dinner.
When I had finished, and, to be fair, he had been completely silent, although, not without facial expressions that spoke volumes, when I was done he sat there for a moment and then asked after minutes of reflection during which some invisible clock ticked in my head, “Are you done?”
“Yeah, that’s about it.”
“There’s nothing else…no flying rhinos or tin foil hat salesmen.”
“No,” I said, expecting something less than a receptive analysis.
“Well, then. You’re either full of shit or absolutely fucking crazy.”
“Yeah…that well may be.”
“Well, maybe.”
“Well maybe we should just get another round.”
“Why the fuck not?”

2005-09-16T16:27:00.000-07:00

“If you follow every dream you might get lost
If you follow every dream you might get found.”

2005-09-16T16:26:00.001-07:00

Bukowski’s Accountant

Floating on the periphery
I ask a question slippery:
How do you
enjoy a view
when the bay beneath the boat
is sullied with creosote?
So near the ocean
with it’s cleansing motion
There’s trapped crap
On this side of the map
Generations of disposing
And waste decomposing
Means threats posing
Danger to swimmers
Yet hope glimmers
Like dappled sunlight on the waves
We can blame troglodytes in their caves
For darkening the water
And as it grows hotter
Claim they spoil the air
And why should we care
We all think ourselves Eloi
Well ahoy polloi
We’re all complicit
In this game illicit
We can’t escape in a Time Machine
Back to an Earth idyllicaly clean
Tomorrow we’re gone
Our children’s children muddle on
With senses muted
To a world polluted.
See hear smell touch taste
Sea here swells much waste
But the beauty!
The irrepressible
Incomprehensible
Beauty!
Sublime
Divine
Rhyme
Next line
Divisible
Invisible
A duty
To express what you can’t repress
The west has hope, this coast transcends
An American dream to depths descends
Tainted
They feinted
A balk, a walk
Free pass, four wide ones
Founding fathers’ favored sons
Playing the game
Free from blame
“Farmer John smoked his own meat
He was one tough mother fucker,”
Wrote Bukowski
What do you see?
Relevance?
Deliverance?
“Easternmost in quality
Westernmost in flavor.”
Do me a favor.
Standards fade or get remade,
But taste (like truth)
Won’t
Don’t you see?
It is
It will be
Bukowski
Was a lush
His accountant an anarchist
In a bow tie.
I answered his phone
It was a job
Trudging in alone
Mr. B, a slob.
Taxes they’d discuss
Making money makes a fuss
Who do you pay today?
Ex-wives from past lives
An hour gone
He’d stumble on
Rumpled still
A government’s will
Met
(fucking thieves)
STET
With his CPA at midday
I’d have lunch.
“I have a hunch,”
He would say
This government may
Treat us like slaves
Past the amber waves
Sending spent fuels
And making the rules
We labor and pay
The American way.
Bukowski’d be drunk
In another part of town
Bar/cloister, patron/monk
A poet clown
An intoxicated foil
To the stocky coil
With whom I shared my meal
(or that he shared with me).
Rephrasing Tom Paine, “Here’s the deal,”
He’d wax revolutionary
Over his Reuben and fries
The State needs alibis
And cheap labor
A century of atonement
Won’t even begin
To absolve the sin
This nation’s ill moment.
A sip of iced tea
And turning to me,
“Hamilton killed by Burr
Was only the beginning
Those forces were already winning.
The ideals were corrupted!”
He suddenly erupted
Evoking
Curious looks
From diners and cooks.
Nervously
Now self-consciously,
“we’re all slaving
Desperately saving,
But the deed’s been done
The Federalists won.
Are Western concerns
Heeded by ANY administration?
The Constitution burns!
It’s taxation without representation
They corrupt and despoil.
It makes my blood boil.”
He simmered and stewed
His nature imbued
With unpredictable fervor.
Quickly he switched
Hailing our server
(his left eye slightly twitched)
From agitated wreck
To one more composed
He picked up the check
From billfold an old
Ten dollar bill exposed
Alexander’s smug look
“Fucking crook.”
With that we left
Hamilton dissed
Bukowski’s accountant
An anarchist.

- Billy Shakes

2005-09-16T16:26:00.000-07:00

Outline for the rest of Part II

The World Trade Center (WTC) Guy. A rich man who survived 9/11, disappears himself because he was trapped in a loveless marriage and figured now was the perfect opportunity to remake himself. His wife would get the insurance money and he could pursue his interests which ran contrary to the life he had been living. He never wanted to be a bond trader, he never wanted to manage bond traders, he was baffled at how he had managed to accumulate wealth. He had long been cheating on his wife and socking away large amounts of money in the Caymans. He figured he could live on that. It took a fair bit of desperation and not a small bit of confusion in the aftermath, but it was done. He checked into a hotel, paid in cash, watched the scene unfold on TV and thought it all through. He would go to a Kinko’s, contact his bank and have them wire cash to Western Union. He’d head west by train, cross into Mexico and relax on a beach in anonymity. At some point, perhaps after the 2004 elections he grows tired of the state of his former country and decides that he will do something from Mexico to change things. He eventually connects with Jake.

This scene in the Boar’s Head ends when an old friend of Billy’s recognizes him. Against the wishes of Murray, Billy heads back to his friend’s place. He spends the night on his couch, but not before they engage in a political discussion. His friend is a republican and he argues the invade Iraq case, they attacked us first, we must defend ourselves over there before they strike here.

2005-09-16T16:25:00.001-07:00

5/9/07
Taking the ferry home after my first day at the insurance company. I fight the desire to tell them I don’t know what I’m doing, but the boss is only too willing to tell me he doesn’t know what he’s doing either.
A beautiful day, either way, until tomorrow when I borrow thoughts and words, ideas like birds flying and flitting and shitting on pages great big turds of content, fecal sages, spouting wisdom through the anus searching for meaning will certainly pain us. Pick through the crap and call it a wrap when that kernel of wisdom like undigested corn emerges brilliant and bright, yellow and new, a baby reborn ready to replant start the journey again.
What the fuck am I talking about?
I’m just sitting in the reading room to avoid the drinking room because I have to go to the driving room to get home to my living room where I can have a beer. Day 1 done I look into the sun and all I know is I can’t see what’s in front of me, but it feels warm
Business plan, competitive analysis
Business continuity, disaster recovery
Compliance. I love this stuff.

2005-09-16T16:25:00.000-07:00

4/19/2007
Just a crazy person. Cho.

2005-09-16T16:24:00.002-07:00

4/18/7
I’m 39, I’m a stay-at-home dad watching, OK, caring for a kid, folding laundry, listening to Rod Stewart sing “never give up on your dreams.”

2005-09-16T16:24:00.001-07:00

4-17-07
OK. Second interview with the insurance company. Compliance – business continuity – somethin’ somethin’
Waiting in our elevated corridor
Rain and sleet begin to pour
The white pellets dance on window sills
Abillion droplets dance on rippling wavelets
Our lives
Descending from the sky
Or somewhere
Into the collection of everything
Or nothing.
Blah. That’s what I get for trying.

2005-09-16T16:24:00.000-07:00

4-16-07
Going to another interview, a small division of an insurance company. A different sort of gig. I need to get this. I need to be at the top of my game, methinks they will be judging me on me not me on my resume, which I hope is a good thing.

2005-09-16T16:23:00.000-07:00

After that things degraded fairly quickly. The time for cogent thought, reason, or even rationalizations, was gone. By last call we had run up a not inconsiderable bar tab, which Marty picked up with nary a protest from me. The wad of hundreds bulging, at least in my mind, like a conspicuous tumor, malignant if I were to break them out, benign as long as they remained concealed.
“Let’s go to the Palace,” he said as we walked out of the Bus Stop.
“Why not,” I said, “the walk will do us good.” We meandered down to the Marina Green, the brisk breeze off the Bay bracing us somewhat, sobering to a small degree.
Back in the day, after a night like this, the survivors often went down to the Palace of Fine Arts, the remnants of the 191? World’s Fair. San Francisco had gone all out to show the world that they could bounce back after the disastrous 1906 earthquake and fire that decimated the city and burned nearly every wooden structure in the embryonic city. Flush with Gold Rush cash and the bold pioneering spirit of the West, the citizens set about rebuilding and the idea of hosting such a high profile exposition as a goal to strive for was adopted by the entire population. The Palace of Fine Arts was one edifice built to impress, albeit built cheaply on unstable ground. Cracks were showing in the sandstone façade with large chunks missing from the underbelly of its dome. It was an elevated dome sitting on vaulting columns, walking underneath it was a poor man’s visit to Il Duomo in Florence. It was now backed by a kid’s museum and as it had been during the days of the exposition, fronted by a small lake or a large pond depending on your perspective.
We doubled back across (street? Marina?) and stumbled across the dewy grass before finding a bench to collapse upon.
“Well,” said Marty. “It’s not like the old days.”
“There’s no going back,” I quipped, tacitly admitting my position on my position.
Marty looked at me and disagreed. “Nonsense. If you think you’re going to be arrested or even charged with anything based on this fricking crazy fricking escapade because, simply because you go back to your wife, if that’s what you’re talking about, because it sounds and looks you know, like that’s what you’re talking about, then your nuts, man. You’re off your rocker nuts.”
In response to Marty’s ramble, I sat quietly and then asked, “Well, what about Murray?”
“What about Murray?”
“How do you explain a guy who on the turn of a dime can gin up fake documents, ID, credit cards, passport and then pass off a wad of cash, like he did today.”
“Wad of cash?” was all Marty said.
“A thousand bucks.”
“You had a G in your pocket and I picked up the bill. You cheap mother-fucker.”
“Hey, I’m not sure how long this is all going to last. I don’t know where to go or what to do.”
We sat silently again, staring at the rippling water, struggling to make sense of the situation. It had been good to talk to Marty about all this. I know he had hoped to make me realize the error of my ways, as the saying goes, but what he’d done was reconfirm my fears. His logical mind, candor and willingness to speak the painful truth had battered my story, yet it remained standing. Chipped in parts, a few holes showing, but there were still undeniable foundational elements like the columns supporting the palace’s dome.
After more time spent either in thought or drunken mind-wandering, Marty said, “Let’s get some food, I’m hungry.” You’d think a Boar’s Head steak and a belly full of booze would have been enough for one night, but the walk had built up a new appetite and I’d been hungry on the street for days, conserving cash, prior to meeting Murray. It had been a long day in a series of long days, and a longer night in a series of long nights. We’d passed the forehead of the eve and were well on our way to the buttock of the dawn, breakfast for the stomach of another day was a welcome thought.
“Clown Alley?” I suggested.
“Clown Alley’s gone,” Marty said perfunctorily. “IHOP.”
“IHOP it is then.”
Clown Alley was a frequent late night stomach settling spot, greasy sausage patties, has browns the fried crispy hash browns and eggs and cheese and pancakes and ham steaks all served by a Vietnamese man and his wife who seemed to be there all the time. They must have slept in the back. I hoped they had sold the place for a bundle and sent their kids to Brown.
IHOP was IHOP. The International House of Pancakes was universal, and when I say universal I mean its blue roof can be found all over the states. I’ve never heard of one being international, and the closest thing to “international” cuisine, ahem, they served was french toast, or maybe a belgian waffle. At that hour, though, any piece of pork product would do.
“I’ve got an idea,” said Marty as we got to Lombard Street.
“What?”
“Do you still have your ID in your wallet?”
“Um, a, yeah, I think so,” and upon reflection that wasn’t such a good idea. I had a California driver’s license, credit cards, a passport and various other extraneous forms of identification, all in the name of someone other than Billy Shakes. I probably shouldn’t be carrying ID for two different people, it would look rather suspicious to a cop. I was surprised Murray hadn’t thought of this, hadn’t confiscated and destroyed my old stuff.
“Do you have your bank card, too?”
I stopped on the corner, the occasional car cruising along Lombard at his hour, and poked through the recesses of my wallet.
“If you really are on someone’s list, they’ve probably shut down your accounts.”

(Have to go to IHOP first, wouldn’t be able to scoot and then go eat down the street. Check Murray section, why would he still have ID? Maybe he wanted to keep it, Murray told him to throw it away and he didn’t, trying to hold onto his old life.)

“And, your point?” I was willing to follow Marty’s lead on this. He was in the world of finance afterall.
“Well, let’s see if you can get money out of your ATM.”
“I’ve got money, why would I want to tell them where I am?” Plus, I was thinking, it wouldn’t be cool to Soo to keep tapping our bank account when she was going to have enough financial trouble as it was, whether I was on the lam or had just left her, either way the house would eventually have to be sold if she couldn’t make the payments and unless a miracle job popped up in the next few months that was a very likely scenario.
It was disconcerting that I had already resigned myself to being gone months rather than weeks. My acceptance of this feeling bothered me, it made me wonder if I wasn’t in fact just running away, running away from something else, responsibility, the burden of a family, the fear of failing as a father.
So, it was in this state of mind, not to mention a bit of lingering intoxication and the brain numbing effects of a short stack and a side of links that I pondered Marty’s suggestion.
“If you try the ATM and can get cash then you are still a free man, your ludicrous tale of being a fugitive from justice is nothing more than a product of your overactive paranoid imagination.”
“and if I don’t get the cash?”
“Well…then you know for sure.”
We stood for a moment in front of the ATM. “Isn’t it worth trying, just for the peace of mind of knowing one way or the other?”
“What the hell.”

(We had to have passed an ATM and Marty stopped. Need to check ed. Note at the beginning of this section. This is all too well-written to be by a guy on the run. And, I don’t know if the Soo note was written before she got the call Billy makes from Marty’s apt.)

I stepped forward, inserted my card and then keyed in my PIN number. I waited. A message popped up saying something about contacting my local branch, but I didn’t stick around to study it. The machine had swallowed my card. “Shit.” I turned to look at Marty. “It ate my card.”
“Bullshit.” He stepped forward and read the message. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Marty said in a panic.
He lived up Lombard on the other side of Van Ness and we speed-walked our way up there, looking over our shoulders and at oncoming traffic, what there was of it, scanning for a cab or a cop. At this hour we were just as likely to find the latter as the former. I had visions of sirens and flashing lights and kept a sharp eye out. Marty was more intent on speed. We saw nothing. Mostly cars that looked like they were headed back to Marin after a long night, a Chronicle truck stopped in front of us to put papers in a newspaper stand.
“Grab one,” Marty commanded.
We practically ran up the hill to his apartment building, sweating profusely as we stood in front of the entrance where Marty fumbled with his keys. We entered the foyer, a beautiful arabesque vault paved with terra cotta tiles, which echoed as Marty’s keychain clattered upon them, dropped a second time. Bending down, picking them up, looking over his shoulder, expecting who knows what. I remember thinking in the rush that he must be doing pretty well for himself. I tried to hurry him without flustering him more than he already was, but I was much the same as he, close to panic. I pushed the elevator button and we waited.
Marty grabbed his New York Times from the cluttered table holding the periodicals that wouldn’t fit in the mailboxes behind. We got tired of waiting for the clunky elevator and dashed up the stairs, anxious to get out of the lobby that was open like a fishbowl to the street. We felt like guppies during those 45 seconds of uncomfortable loitering, and, at one point, a car drove by slowly, turning off Lombard onto Polk, the occupants looking forward and not at us, but for those few moments they were FBI agents in our minds.
At the door to his apartment, he had calmed down, although we were both breathing heavily. We managed to get inside without further tumult. He bolted the door behind us and we lumbered into his living room, collapsing on his couch and chair with prodigous exhalations (?)
After a few minutes of heavy breathing, we started to gather our wits. Marty smiled and then burst into laughter. I followed enthusiastically and then reluctantly, my guffaws tapering to meek gasps. We needed to think logically again.
“As exciting as that was,” I said, “we are forgetting one very reasonable explanation for what just happened.”
“You’re not going to be the voice of reason, now, are you?” Marty protested.
“As much fun as that bit of excitement was, we may have forgotten in the midst of our drunken bumbling that Soo may have just locked me out of our account.”
“Oh,” let out Marty in a feeble whisper that seemed to acknowledge the rational-ness of this. “Yes. That is another way of looking at that.” Then we had another nervous laugh.
“I don’t know about you, but I could use another drink.”
“Uh, actually, I think I better not,” I said. The sky outside was going light gray, the street light slowly giving way to the natural. I felt spent. Damn near broken. My nerves were frayed, my body shattered, I was facing two unsettling possibilities again. We had thought there was some APB out on me, foolishly or not, that still existed as a possibility. The other possibility was no less settling, my wife had locked me out of our account. She was either trying to starve me home or had written me off. None of this was good. Marty went into his kitchen and pulled a bottle of beer out of the refrigerator. It was either too late to have not stopped drinking or too early to have started, but he didn’t seem to care. I was developing an alternative plan and needed to gather my thoughts. Marty had had a good point about finding out definitely one way or another. It didn’t matter that it didn’t work out that way, there now existed another way to find out one way or another. I would have to call Soo.
“Regardless…” I started.
“Regardless?...Whatever. I still think that was weird,” said Marty.
“Weird or not, it has an explanation.”
“No shit. Everything has an explanation. It just seemed to me…it felt. It felt to me like we might have proven the thing you were looking to prove.”
“You’ve come to my side now. Was I looking to prove that or disprove it?” I asked.
“Fuck if I know, man. But that was a charge. That put a charge in me whatever the hell it was.”
“What it was was what it was most likely to be.”
Deep thinking ensued. Marty sipped his beer. “But, what if…” he began.
“What if what?”
“What if you are right, what if all this is real and you’ve gotten mixed in all this bullshit as you think you have?”
“Yeah…”
“Well, then, shit, Billy, we’re fucked, I’m fucked,” he placed a bit too much emphasis on his “I”.
“What do you mean?”
“The cameras. All those ATMs have cameras. My mug is all over that, I was dumb enough to step forward and put my happy black face into view to read the screen.”
He had a point. However, we were discounting Occam’s Razor reasoning again. Soo must be pissed. She must have seen the $300 I took out in Seattle. She must think I was just leaving her, breaking away, fucking off, and if that were the case then she had every right to cut me off. I put voice to my thinking and said, “There’s one way to find out.”
“How’s that?”
“I could call Soo.”
Again a bit more silent thought.
“Yeah, that may not be a bad idea. I mean, that’s one way to know for sure, which is what you wanted in the first place, I mean besides going to the bank…”
“Or the cops,” I finished for him. Pregnant pause. “Where’s your phone?”
He stood up, pulled himself up by the arms of the big leather chair he had been slouching in. The chair matched the couch I was on, leaning forward on the edge of it closest to Marty. Everything about his apartment spoke disposable income. Marty was doing well for himself. No kids, no mortgage, good job, he had all the toys, all he had wanted. He came back with a mobile handset.
I looked at it, nervously switching it from hand to hand, “OK. Here goes,” I said and took a deep breath before dialing our/Soo’s number. It rang for a long time before Soo picked up with a groggy “hello?”
“Hi,” was all I said and she snapped awake.
“Billy?!”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Jesus Christ, I thought you were dead. Where are you?”
“I can’t really say, I mean, I probably shouldn’t tell you.”
“What? What does that mean? Where are you, just what’s going on, why?...why?...”
“Soo, I can’t explain right now, just know I love you and Nate very much and I’m going to try and come home as soon as I can.” I had stood up and was walking around Marty’s apartment, going into the kitchen, I stood in front of the sink looking out the window on the space between Marty’s building and the one next door.
“Billy, my god, I thought you were dead, the car, the ferry. What happened?”
“I know, I know, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Soo, I…I just can’t talk about it right now,” I trailed off, distracted. There were two men crawling around the fire escape on the building next door. In the half-light I thought I could make out ear pieces, it could have been my imagination. They didn’t look like firemen, I’ll tell you that.
“This is crazy,” Soo shouted. “Have you been kidnapped or something? Just tell me where you are.”
“Listen, I have to go,” I hurriedly said, one of the men was waving to someone down the alley. I leaned over to take a look and the waving man looked right back at me. I ducked below the sink, squatting in Marty’s kitchen.
“No, no, don’t go. Where are you, when are you coming back?” Soo asked desperately.
“I love you, I love you very much,” and I looked down at the phone keypad and pressed “END”. Maybe a portable phone wasn’t a good idea. Or maybe they had tracked us some other way. Maybe we shouldn’t have gone to the ATM. I kicked myself as I noted that I had forgotten to ask Soo about the bank account, whether she’d locked me out. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone out to dinner with Murray or I shouldn’t have hung out with an old friend in my old stomping grounds, OR, really, not going fucking batshit crazy and getting mixed up in this stupid scam of Max’s, the lunacy. “Shit, shit, shit,” I said to myself. Marty walked in.
“What the fuck…” he said looking at me curiously as I squatted on the floor of his kitchen.
“Get down,” I whispered harshly. “Look out the window.”
He stared blankly at me, “which is it? He was now squatting next to me, “do you want me to get down or look out the window because I can’t do both.”
“Don’t…just, peak over there, across the way,” I said gesturing.
He slowly rose onto one knee and pulled himself up from the rim of the sink.
“Do you see them?” I asked, uncertainly, half expecting him to laugh at me, admonish me, to be witness to my half-baked schemes and hallucinations. He dropped and whispered, “Yeah. I see them.”
I was momentarily relieved. Then terrified. “Do you think?...”
“Yeah, I think so,” he said. “Maybe we shouldn’t have tried the ATM.”
“They couldn’t have gotten here that fast.”
“Me. It’s me,” said Marty. “They must have been watching your friends. My place.”
“Impossible. Do you know how many places in the Bay Area they would have had to have covered.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Marty quipped. “What else?”
“Soo.”
“What about Soo? That question floated flat and unanswered as we clearly heard the crackle of a walkie-talkie somewhere close outside the window.
“Shit,” Marty whispered. “You’ve got to get out of here.”
“Maybe I should just turn myself in.”
“Not in my apartment. I want to be able to deny everything, you can do whatever you want but do it outside in the hallway.”
“Nice,” I said sarcastically, but he was right, there was no reason to drag him into this any further.
“Go down the stairs to the garage.”
“Don’t you think they’ll have that covered?”
“Maybe, but there’s a door in the back away from the car entrance. It’s behind the trash dumpster and leads directly onto Lombard (no back alley? But they’re in the back alley, Lombard entrance polk entrance check map) It opens further up the hill.”
“What are you going to tell them?”
“Nothing,” he said flatly. “I know nothing. Old friend, ran into him, what’s going on officer can I help?”
“Are you sure?”
“Billy, just get the fuck out of my apartment. They see me conspiring with you, this shit, this whispering and that’s all they need, aiding and abetting and all that shit.”
“How would you explain me running out?”
“I was asleep, no idea, officer.”
I looked at him closely. We were still kneeling in front of the sink. His concern, his worry for himself made me worry more about myself than any previous worry had.
“Don’t overthink this. Get the fuck out of here,” he said slowly.
I crawled to the front door, reached up to turn the knob, stood and yanked the door only to have it snap closed again as the chain held it tight. Cursing myself, I slid the chain off and tried again. The hallway was quiet. The stairwell was quiet. I descended the stairs as quickly and quietly as possible. In the garage, I could hear the soft echo of voices outside. I moved away from the garage door and saw the dumpster, a wooden door was behind it as Marty had said. I ran to it and put my ear to it. Then with a short prayer in the form of an exhalation of air, I twisted the knob and slammed my shoulder against it. It didn’t budge. I had forgotten to turn the bolt, an old rusty fixture just above the knob. I was a knob. Quickly then, again, and I was outside, a look to the left, a look to the right and I ran up the hill away from Van Ness. If they were really going to track me down, if this was going to be some Streets of San Francisco jumping over trash cans in back alleys sort of chase, I wanted to stay away from the big streets of San Francisco.
I knew (that park above there with the tennis courts, find name) was just up Lombard, with any luck I could reach the stairs before I was noticed. X Park was built on a hill, it was a hill. It was the back of the famous part of Lombard. Tennis courts on top and stairs that led off to little gardens, benches, sitting areas and bocce ball courts, long since gone to seed.
I used to run the stairs. The bushes, and there was considerable shrubbery, were now havens for the homeless. Animal burrows couldn’t be more complex than the avenues woven amidst those branches. I figured if I could make the stairs, a dive into the bushes would put me beyond their reach, for awhile. Plus, they probably would be expecting me to go downhill to Van Ness. I sprinted up Lombard, expecting I don’t know what, gunshots over my shoulder, bullets whizzing past my ears, a Nazi voice shouting “Halt!” There was nothing and that, oddly, was even more troubling. Had I done it again? Had Marty been fooled by my paranoia? Was I still rambling around in a lunatics labyrinth. No, I figured a madman couldn’t come up with a clever alliteration like “lunatics labyrinth”. With no shots or shouts issued behind me I made it to and up those stairs my thighs and lungs burning. Roughly, at the three-quarter mark, I left the stairs and pushed my way into the bushes. It was an invisible opening. I crawled, desperately, scratching and clawing my way deeper, as deeply as I could get into the shaded interior. An auxiliary channel housed a be-blanketed sleeper, twigs and trash adorned him. My rustlings did not rouse him. On I went to another alcove. I pulled in and covered myself as best I could. What did I have? Some branches? My pathetic coat? (coat from lost and found)
I hunkered down. There was nothing to do now but wait. Fortunately, I was somewhere between drunk and hungover, and I was exhausted. I drifted into and out of an uncomfortable sleep, if you could call it sleep, reassured, somewhat, at the fact that I resembled everyone other reprobate/street person/homeless helpless sod hiding out in this patch of vegetation. I slept until dark, or more accurately, I closed my eyes for unknown amounts of time, and listened in a state of nervous excitement for any suspicious activity until daylight hours had passed.
There were moments, moments when people rustled, when the bushes exploded in expletives and hubbub, but that was just the nonsense of the neglected. I was now part of them again.
Part of them, but not. There was no organization, they don’t have a union. Everyone has their own problems and the Lenny and Charlie pairings are non-existent to ephemeral, fleeting alliances were formed and broken according to whim and greed. Troubled souls abound, deeply disturbed men lurk in our streets. I had about 24 hours back in the land of the living and, with time to reflect, it was more disjointed and confusing that my first days on the street were. Miserableness enveloped me, like my miserable coat. Doubt, recrimination, worry – about myself, Soo, and even Marty, although I thought he was more than capable of protecting himself.
Darkness fell, the city came to life, and I just waited for it to go back to sleep. I could hide in plain sight and walk amongst real people, but I didn’t want to take that chance, and I didn’t feel I could stomach it. In an odd way, I was beginning to feel comfortable, well, at least capable of surviving in this underworld, as if it was where I was supposed to be, uncomfortable or not, I had to reside in the undergrowth for awhile.

(Marty could file suit against the feds…challenging the latest violation of the constitution 4th ammendment search and seizure, the west could oppose quartering of soldiers. Stop paying taxes, kick out troops, take back land and use it for new energy, innovation, farming, study [maybe a Utah guy or Boise guy rant]. Marty’s defense can be taken up by a prominent SF attorney, links up with the executor of Murray’s estate. Lawyers in high places are required [they are riled up anyway, nothing pisses off a lawyer like violating the constitution]. Politicians must be convinced, a mass popular revolt would be crushed unless someone harnessed it at the helm of power. A new state needs leaders.)

Sometime between it being really late and really early, I made my way out of the bushes, down the stairs and out onto the street. Still cagy and worried, I hurried through (Telegraph) Hill and wandered down to North Beach. I was very hungry, having had nothing to eat all day. There was a pizza place open and I shuffled in for a slice, very aware of the roll of bills I had in my pocket which seemed to glow like a hot coal in snow, unmistakeable evidence of my not being who I pretended to be and making me a prime target to be rolled. I hoped I could maintain my anonymity, although, I knew the longer I stayed in San Francisco the greater the likelihood that I would be spotted, either by another one of my friends or by some less friendly.
On the other hand, I felt were I to make a dash, either by bus or BART or ferry, I’d be pegged, like the escapees in The Great Escape, I envisioned SS guards searching the faces of folks getting on trains (I have clearly seen too many movies). One more night, I told myself. I was going to fill up on pizza, grab a few bottles of water, and then hole up for one more night. The question remained where. The streets of North Beach at that hour are littered with drunks and sprinkled with urine, the combination of seedy bars on Broadway, trendy bars down Columbus and fine restaurants scattered throughout made for a combination of demographics not often seen commingling. Specs and City Lights, its edges buttting up against the financial district and Chinatown, the Hungry I, the church (check, peter and paul?) Coit Tower looming like a protective erect phallus keeping watch. I loved North Beach when I was a proper SF denizen. Now, as an underdweller, I found the mix good cover, albeit spare at that hour.
I ate in a corner and then departed for who knew where. Some pointless ambling led me to water. I was backtracking a bit and ended up at Aquatic Park, the end of Hyde Street. Climbing over the sea wall, I pulled my raggedy coat up around my ears and settled down into the sand. I slept in the sand next to the Dolphin Club. Not exacly the Ritz, but it did in a pinch, and, let’s face it, I’m a California boy, and after years of laying about beaches growing up in Southern California, a squishy mattress of sand might as well have been like sleeping on a dream.
A few snatches of good sleep did wonders, but the sounds of a city coming to life, delivery trucks, the plop plop plopping of joggers and the early morning Bay swimmers from the Dolphin Club left me tossing and turning and anxious to move along.
No matter, despite the days that I’d spent like that, despite the dimunition of pride, I still cowered in shame from the daylit gazes of the every day dwellers. So, again, there I was on the streets, under the sun, amidst more and more real people wondering what the hell I was going to do. A vague plan took shape. Get across the Bay was on the top of the list. Berkeley or Oakland would offer more space, more room to roam and a larger derelict population to mix into. It would be more dangerous, I thought, but I had to get out of Frisco (ha). The next question was how.
I walked from my beach back to the bus station south of Market. It’s not a short walk, yet surprisingly pleasant. I’ve always been a morning person and moving my way through the city as folks went to work, the sun rising, a new day beginning, actually contributed to a state, an improved state of consciousness. I felt free. Outside of myself. Outside of the world.
South of Market, in this slightly elated state, I walked straight into the Grayhound station and made an executive decision. Forget the East Bay, I’ll pass right through and go to Sacramento. Why not, I thought, if I could make it to the capitol it would be a hell of a lot more safe than Oaktown and I could try to contact Scoop (Scoop in Bay area reference in earlier conversation with Marty must be altered, new name how to intro Scoop?)
Scoop wrote for the daily student paper in college and always wanted to work in journalism. He gravitated to the seat of state power after graduation, although I always thought he was destined for more than California politics. His world view, at least the bullshit he spouted was universal, grandiose, of course, whose bullshit isn’t in college, it’s the time for such things, but Scoop seemed to have it planned out, he saw the whole picture and you could see him working backwards to where he was now and how he could put himself into a position to effect change, to really do something with the bullshit.
It was amidst this reverie and more relaxed outlook, a momentary satisfaction with myself, that I saw what, to my mind, looked exactly like what a modern-day Nazi would look like. Lurking by the ticket counter and conspicuously trying to look inconspicuous, was either another paranoid delusion of mine or my ticket to the end of this ride. He was wearing a too new leather jacket (go back and switch coat get new hat, talk about disguise) and a too empty backpack slung over his shoulder. The crowd at bus stations use shopping bags for luggage, they don’t speak English, if they’re white their trash; I stood out in this crowd like a sore thumb, this guy was a gangrenous hand.
I decided to take no chances. I went for the drinking fountain and then walked back out the door, taking the stairs to the street two at a time. I looked back when I’d reached the bottom and saw him at the top of the stairs, he reached into his pocket, and I didn’t stick around. I heard the crackle of a walkie-talkie behind me…no gunfire. At mission I ran through traffic. There was another guy to my left doing the same, I sprinted down first, cut through traffic again at Market and did my best to saunter into the Grand Hyatt Embarcadero. I took the escalator up to their grand lobby, with its sweeping, expansive aerie of a courtyard, and hushed voices, tinkling plates echoing from the restaurant into the vaulted chamber above. It was an odd place for a chase, if you could call it such. More of a low-speed paseo (dance that starts with p pasadoble?) I tried to not look as out of place as I felt. I scurried towards the exit, crossing what seemed like a mile of open lobby feeling naked. Through the door and into the shopping area. I doubled back through (Daly plaza, what’s the name of the place with the fountain) and to Market. I ducked into the BART station. There was a train leaving for Daly City and I got on it, discretely checking to see if I had been followed. I was thinking about the countless scenes in movies where that very thing had been done. I wondered again as I saw no one following as the train pulled away, whether it was just a matter of seeing too many movies. Who had I really seen, had I really seen who I thought I’d seen? Even in the midst of the running, I wondered if I was running from my imagination, a mental mist.
I closed my eyes and tried to relax. When we’d made it through downtown (the tunnel?) and out into the sunshine I breathed a small sigh of relief. The train pulled into Daly City and I got off at the top of the hill. At this hour the station was nearly deserted, late morning commuters were rare and the few stragglers didn’t seem to notice or care about another dirty greasy bum in a ratty coat loitering about.
I saw a pay phone and decided to call Jake. Nothing but ringing. Scoop and Sacramento were long since forgotten. I was stupid to think in that direction, but east was the only choice, I was running out of west. The feeling of an animal trapped in a cage, an open cage behind me and a net or crowd of murky figures pushing me slowly into it. I was pushed further into a corner with nothing but a cage of cold deep water at my back.
I kept calling Jake.
Just before dark I got him.
“Jesus, Billy, where are you?”
“Uh…”
“Go ahead, this is a secure line, you’re on a land line right?”
“Yeah, I’m on a pay phone in Daly City.”
“OK, OK. You got all your papers from Murray?”
“Yes,” I said, reflexively touching the bulges in my front pockets.
“What the hell have you been doing?” he barked.
“I ran into a friend.”
“You what?!” A pause. “Listen, Billy, this isn’t a vacation. These guys aren’t fooling around, have you heard of Gitmo? We’ve lost people. I don’t know how many because there are clowns like you who aren’t calling in. When they get enough of us, you’re going to see the biggest media buzz yet. We’ll make poor Padilla seem like last week’s box scores.”
“OK, right, I get it,” I stammered.
“I don’t think you do,” said Jake. “This may have been bullshit, we have been fucked from the start, but we’ve recruited a lot of smart, committed people. The question is, are you committed?”
I should be committed, I thought to myself.
“To tell the truth, Jake, I don’t know what the hell I am. I spent this morning running away from…I don’t know who. They could be ghosts for all I know…”
“Spooks,” he interrupted. “CIA?”
“No, no, at least I don’t think so. Hallucinations. I’m all screwed up right now. I’ve been sleeping on the street, in bushes, on the beach, and I’ve run away from my wife and kid. This is not NORMAL.”
“No shit!”
“So…”
“So, what? You have to get a grip. You don’t have a lot of choices at this point. So, you better figure out where you stand. There’s winning and losing at this point. Winning is going to be a long hard slog. And, then there’s losing, which is quick, but FOLLOWED by a long hard slog. And, let me tell you if you’re interested in freedom, if you’re interested in doing something other than throwing your life away…Fuck, Billy…this is serious shit. You will be thrown in jail. And not just any ordinary jail, a jail you’ve never seen before, habeas corpus…well, shit, you, you…”
“OK, alright, I get it,” I said.
“Just get a hold of yourself, OK. We need you. This seems like a mess right now, but it’s taking shape, there are other people involved, influential people. This isn’t just you.”
“I’m not sure how I feel about that, but…fine. Thanks,” I added in a tone tainted with sarcasm.
“Fuck, ‘thanks’, tell me about these spooks.”
I relayed to him everything that had happened to me over the last few days and he gave me shit about the stupid things I’d done, but congratulated me on some of my escape tactics. It was small consolation. He heard the pain in my voice, he heard, I think, that I was conflicted, to say the least, and I think he was thinking about my best interests when he suggested I rent a car.
“You shoould take advantage of your ID and the credit card while you’ve got the chance. You haven’t used it yet, have you?”
“No.” I decided not to tell him about the money Murray gave me.
“Good.” I heard him typing on a computer keyboard. “There’s an Avis rental car, about a mile from where you are. Go rent a car in your new name. It will be a good test.”
“A test?”
“Yeah, you don’t want to walk into a Bank of America and take out a loan. A po-dunk branch of Avis in Daly City won’t have the same level of security.”
This wasn’t particularly reassuring.
“Right. I see. And if the test fails…?”
“Don’t worry about that right now,” he said quickly and then he gave me the address and directions. “Just go. Rent a car and drive to Phoenix.”
Again with Phoenix. After some hesitation, I told him about the ATM experience.
“What!?! Why the hell didn’t Murray take all your old shit away. What were you guys thinking?!”
“I don’t know, I think Murray was distracted. I got him to take me out to dinner.”
“OUT?! You got Murray OUT?!”
“Well, yeah.”
“Jesus Christ. Billy, if you could talk Murray into getting out of that apartment of his then you could talk a pig out of shit.”
I took his crude colloquialism as a compliment.

(The black america thing has to wait. Marty plays into it and a Willie Brown character, defending him, part WB, part Johnny Cochrane. So, more on the drive, thoughts about LA, more thoughts on the road, check map. I10, where does that run. Lost now, too man…I’m in a bit of a jam with the story. I have part of the AZ and now am bumbling up to that part in CA (sacto?) I should just jump ahead leave AZ without tracking down the radio guy or go back to the radio guy. On the phone with jake at Grand Canyon I think that’s where I left off…other notebook, “Did you find anything in Phoenix”*****)

2005-09-16T16:22:00.002-07:00

March 26, 2007
I must have been drunk in the above entry. I had the month wrong.
Now, I’m on the ferry going in to Seattle to see a lawyer about the DUI I got March 16th. Yes, I’m an idiot. Will try to read now and forget that fact.

2005-09-16T16:22:00.001-07:00

5-8-7
So tired and blah and gumby I won’t, I can’t have anything worthwhile to scrawl here. On a plane to LA, well, Sacto to BUR, drunk, or at least should be (remove that last comma). A totally unsatisfactory drunk. Buzz killed by standing in line. It had such promise, too. Beer on the ferry, beer at CC and it all seemed good. The Maker’s Mark might have been a bad call. Ugh. Now I’m just stuffed and will try to read.

2005-09-16T16:22:00.000-07:00

Wednesday March 7, 2007
Heading to another interview in Seattle. My chest hurts. This is a Director of Marketing position that I’m probably not qualified for. I was over-qualified for the other one, or at least I thought so. I don’t know, I’m getting frustrated. The first one fell through, so did the phoner, not sure what will happen with these two. There’s not much else in the hopper if one of these doesn’t pan out.
Did I mention my chest hurts? 12k-15k another 15k maybe 36 at 6-8k a month. 4 or 5 months? Good to September, maybe. It would be a very stressful summer.
Going to LA tomorrow. The wife can walk without crutches now. Golf Friday, maybe Saturday AM, then the party, then Sunday AM, then out. Cards Friday night.
I want to get this interview over with and get a drink. I’m not at the top of my game. I haven’t run since I don’t know when. The surgery was Feb. 2, so some time after that. Lots of eating and drinking and lying about. Laundry and dishes and transporting the kid, cooking and feeding and cleaning.
Really need a break. Really need a job. Just not clicking, it’s not quite clicking. Need food.

Heading home. No idea about this interview. He was cavalier, a bit pompous, inscrutable, but not purposefully so. He was hard to read.
Judgmental, tempermental, I hate people so. I don’t want to speak because I know I’ll sound like everyone else I hear and hate myself even more. Deplore. Deplorable. Adorable.
Weird stuff overheard, I know the sleeping arrangements were kind of strange. What do you do? What do you hear here?

The job. Odd, undefined. Military. Lots of defense. Half hour walk. My ex-co-worker who got me in there is humorless – or at least I haven’t found the humor in her. She may think I am so, too.
4:40 ferry. I was out just before 4:00. And I’m now on my fourth beer at 4:54. It’s a half hour walk. The other job would be a better walk.
People. Boat. Everywhere. What? What are they what are we? Did I mention four beers?
There’s beauty outside. I should be there. Instead I drink and scribble. Drink and scribble.
Drink & scribble, drink & scribble, scribble scrabble dibble babble amongst the rabble rattle babble babble babel, Babel Nimrod. Iditarod. Clod. Plod. SOD. Sodden. Downtrodden. Ill-begotten. Forgotten.
I had a thought last night. It was more than a thought, actually. Something about society, people, and government. We are people striving to be happy. We love, we make families, we work and try to live secure lives, predictable, we try to raise kids, happy kids, we just want to live and be happy. So, we work and we pay axes. We want to think the money we pay in taxes goes towards those things that we value – infrastructure, education, and shit like that. And when we see billions and trillions going into killing or even not killing, just spreading “democracy” then who cares – who cares? Why should we spend $180 billion to fix Iraq. They work for us. These people spending our money, they work for us. But, they aren’t doing what most of us want them to do.
Yes, so I had some thought like that. Only different.

2005-09-16T16:21:00.000-07:00

March 5, 2007

Coming back from another interview. Thought it went well but who the hell knows. I am beginning to think I’m on the verge of a manic phase, although I could just be excited about going to LA on Thursday.
Either way I feel pretty good, 2 and 1/9 beers notwithstanding. Not quite sure what that means.
Crazy people talk out loud to no one
Achievers, movers-shakers
The important
Or at least self so
Talk that way, too
Except they wear earpieces
Bits and peace is
When conversation ceases
And a blackberry appears
Work and worry email-borne fears
World wide webs
Information threads
Thoughts sped
On the way to bed
Fretting and betting
Children’s futures ahead
Street cred
Or a heart that’s been bled
I long for peace
A balm in the calm
The crack or the crease
The phrase or the psalm
That sends me security
Without life’s impurity
The rigamarole
Unemployed
Out on parole
Soon to be deployed
To play another role
Time and soul
They stole
All part of the deal
Deftly discern
What’s false and what’s real
The power to earn
It’s the same old schpiel
Walking to winter
The job is a splinter
I’ll pick and prod
A lumbering clod
Talk and balk
At nothing they say
As long as they pay
Until they say
Go away,

Madness is relative.

2005-09-16T16:20:00.001-07:00

“I’m really beginning to question your devotion to the cause, Billy.”
‘Devotion to the cause,’ I thought. Who the hell do these people think they are. A cause. A movement.
“Jake, I’ve given up my family. I’ve fucked up my entire life. What else do you want from me?”
“You haven’t fucked up your life, Billy, you’ve engrandized your life, you’ve made your life have meaning, a purpose. You’re doing something, you’re a part of something larger than yourself, something historic, and you’re going to leave behind a better country, a better world because of it. And, what’s more, if all this goes according to plan, you won’t be giving up your family.”
“There’s a plan?”
“Sort of.” Great, I thought. I’ve left my wife and home for a sort of a plan to secede from the Union.
“This is insane, Jake,” I said. “I’m burnt out, empty, I’ve been on the run for what two weeks now and I’m feeling naked and lost.”
“Just hang in there.”
“Hang in there?! For how long, for what?”
“We just need you to check out this guy in Phoenix.”
“’We’, who is ‘we’?” I asked. “Where are YOU, what are YOU doing?”
“It wouldn’t be prudent for me to tell you that right now.”
Prudent, ahem.
“Right,” I said distracted and disappointed, kicking some trash at my feet and scannning the desolate roadscape.
“I think we’ve got something of a lead on this guy.”
“Why this guy? This seems like a wild goose chase to me.”
“It may be, but we need to check it out. Radio can be, it might be a great vehicle for us, a mouthpiece, a megaphone. We need a way to talk to large numbers of people outside the scope of the mainstream media and for those that aren’t ever going to go online.”
“Hmm, I see,” I thought to myself that this was the first bit of sense I’d heard in a long time. “Alright, what’s the lead?”
“There was a new story published in the LA Times yesterday about a group, well a few people, who tried to find out about this guy. They were obsessed, fixated on what the hell it was all about.”
“Uh huh,” not hard to believe, it was driving me nuts.
“So, one guy found his house, tracked it down somehow through lease documents or something.”
“Why can’t ‘we’ do that,” I said sarcastically.
“We just haven’t ben able to. But the guy that tracked him down might tell you where he lives. He wouldn’t tell the reporter, he said once he found him and talked to him he just wanted to respect his privacy.”
“Doesn’t sound too promising.”
“Just do what you can. His name is Cedric McTeague. That should help, how many ‘Cedric McTeague’s could there be in Phoenix?” It turned out there were two. Go figure.
Jake gave me a new number to call when I’d found something out. This is a good number, a new number, I’ll have it on at all times. Don’t use it until you’ve found the radio guy or you’re ready to give up.”
“OK,” I said, somehow less dispirited than before, but still plagued by the tense anxious feeling I was getting deeper and depper into a mudhole I’d never be able to pull myself out of, not without covering myself in a filthy film I’d never be able to wash off. At least now, though, I had some sense of direction, a mission, something I could actually do.
“And, Billy…”
“Yeah.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks,” I said with no shortage of cynicism in my voice.
“When this is done, we have a safe place for you to go. Just hang in there and do what you can. It’s important, we think this can be very important.”
This was all small consolation, of course. I still was standing in a dirty phone booth in the middle of nowhere, faced with a trip back to Phoenix and a hunt for Cedric McTeague so I could maybe find a guy who played random shit on a radio station that he may or may not allow a pseudo-secessionist movement to use to broadcast its propaganda. Altogether, I wasn’t encouraged by Jake’s ‘safe place’.

(Trip to Grand Canyon, disgust with the hunt, desire to chuck it all and just drive, destination just sort of appeared, moment above the rim, only one way back.)

In the interest of time, I’ll simply say I eventually found our man McTeague after much meandering and bullshit that need not be documented here. Let it be known that one McTeague was far different than the other and I only wish I had known Phoenix better so I might have avoided the neighborhood in which I found our first false (or at least wrong) McTeague.
The second, true McTeague, took some convincing. He didn’t really buy my story that I was another reporter. And, frankly, I respected him all the more for that. In the end, I simply told him the truth. He thought it was such a lark tthat he gave me the address straight away. Well, after a good laugh. Again, I was not encouraged. On the face of it, this was a ridiculous effort, a fool’s errand if there ever was one. But what the hell. I had an address, a car, a map, a wad of cash and a brand new identity. Worst case scenario I hole up in a bar somewhere and drink myself into oblivion until the cops show up.
I wasn’t completely clear what the best case scenario was, but considering the circumstances and the likelihood of the best being an outcome that actually comes out, I wasn’t really fussed about spending a great amount of time in contemplation of said, ie ‘best case scenario.’
The address McTeague gave me was out of town, but not a trailer in the foothills or some aerie resting on a ridge. It was an altogether unassuming home, not quite what you might call a tract home, but not far from it, located in a non-descript neighborhood near a shabby part of town but not in it.
Pulling up in front of and walking across a brown, neglected lawn, I was nearly convinced, I felt almost entirely, I could have been dissuaded from continuing with no more than a word. I cast a glance at a kid on a trike, stepped to the porch, sad ‘what the hell’ under my breath, and rang the bell. After a short wait, a short man in an off-white blazer that might at one point been white, with a banjo slung over his shoulder opened the door.
“Hello,” I said because, honestly, I had no fucking clue what else to do.
“Hello,” he said back. And, for a moment we just stood there looking at each other in the dry heat. “Can I help you?”
“I’m not sure,” I said after another pause. Still baffled by this predicament and not particularly caring about the outcome one way or the other, I just decided to tell him the truth. I got roughly halfway through when he interrupted me to ask, “Is this a bunch of rubbish?”
“No sir,” I said, “as far as I know every word I’ve just told you is entirely true.”
“Well, then, you had better come inside and sit down for a spell.”
I thanked him for his hospitality and took him up on his offer.
“You must need a drink,” he said as we stood in the entryway.
“I wouldn’t say no,” I said.
“Beer?”
“Whatever you’ve got would be great.”
He walked into the kitchen and left me in a living room that was wall-papered, covered from floor to ceiling in CD jewel cases. At first look it was a horribly busy pattern, but on close inspection it was a fascinating mix of art and ideas. I got up and walked around the room. It was eclectic as the playlist on 96.5, mozart and Motorhead and Meatloaf and Montavani (?). Not to say it was all arranged in alphabetical order. Nor was it, to any extent that I could determine, arranged according to any other discipline, be it art, genre, color. It was a room of randomness.
“I like your collection,” I told him as he walked in carrying a pair of Pabst Blue Ribbons.
“Yeah,” he said disinterestedly, and then apologized, “Sorry about the PBR, it’s all I’ve got it.”
“It’s all I want,” I told him and he seemed to like that.
“So you were saying something (somethin’? Need to think about dialogue, colloquiliasms, who is this guy? Made money in oil, a backyard well, or he was a wildcatter and then he hit a backyard well, oil followed him. Moved into Houston and started messing around in business. Before he knew it he had a lot of money and was interested in none of it except a silly investment in a radio station in San Antonio. He quickly learned that broadcasting licenses had a great deal of value and spent a few years picking up small stations across the country. He knew he was onto something when big companies, Time Warner, etc…started offering him a lot of money for what he had. He didn’t particularly care. His oil wells kept pumping out money and he didn’t need much. It was when he got sick of driving around listening to crap music that he decided to start what he started on 96.5)

“I moved here after 2001,” he said. “I didn’t like what Texas had become. Houston is easy to leave.”
I nodded. I had no idea what he was talking about. I’d never been to Houston.
“No one knows me here,” he said. “I like that.”
“Yeah, I could see how that has its benefits,” I said tipping the can of beer afterwards as some sort of sign of solidarity. I did have solidarity, though. Again, the truth was uncommonly attractive. It had been soothing, liberating, to be on Las Piedras as an unknown. Granted, we missed all our friends and family, but all things considered day after day free from the social hubbub, the dinners and drinks and gatherings that suck up the time of your life – it wasn’t bad shedding that. I shedded more, too, I shedded a skin and had the chance to start over, to be someone else. Perhaps I took that too far.
He went on to explain how it all happened, how he finally said, “Aw, shucks,” and decided he’d put his entire record collection on a server and just let it play. He said ‘record’ and not CDs, I noted. “It was more fun than sorting through ‘em all the time and y’know what?”
“What,” I said.
“People deserve to hear more Neil Young. They deserve to hear Springsteen and Guthrie and Dylan and good stuff, different stuff, there’s all sorts of stuff people never hear, never know exists.
“Don’t you think people outside of Phoenix need to hear it?” I asked, honestly without design.
“Yeah,” he said, “but I don’t live outside of Phoenix.”
“Don’t you travel?” I asked.
“Not much,” he said. “Besides, what am I going to do, set up radio stations that play what I want wherever I go?”
He was right, it was a stupid question. What I should have been asking was if he thought the people of Phoenix deserved better then why not everyone else? As if he was reading my mind, he said, “What I have been thinking about doing is putting it on the Internet, then anyone in the world could hear it.”
Of course, that darn Internet.

(I need to convince Franklin to broadcast and then move on to Utah. Jake will send me to St. George and I’ll return the car and then walk to a hotel where I will wait. Two days later a couple, very straight-laced will come to my room and take me to their house which is a long way from St. George. After a night spent with them and their kids, a rugged looking guy came in a big Chevy truck and drove me out of town, way out of town, out into the desert and into the canyons. They are Mormons, of course, and the guy has three wives and fifteen kids, some you could tell who was whose, others not so much. Does Billy write part of this there? Lots online OR not online? I will hunker down for awhile. Lots of typing, emails?, the feds, fear of being snooped, a concern, maybe stay offline, way offline for awhile. Writing to blogs or about blogs maybe can wait until Canada. Build a grassroots movement around the Martin case. Then some public speeches? Jake still in the background. Then fear of arrest. Then a trip abroad. Part III? I need to find those notes from APAC trip do the same tour, NO do north Asia, Korea and Japan there is someone else doing SEA and Australasia. There are millions of Americans and millions of immigrants from these countries who are still sympathetic and who are still fresh enough to believe the American rhetoric. The naturalized citizenry has to pass a test to become an American. Natural born citizens have to pass a civics class in high school. The immigrants need to know the Bill of Rights to keep from going back to wherever they wanted to get the heck out of. American kids need to get a C to keep from going to Summer School.
Politicians intro from Sacto. Scoop and Schwarzenegger type figure. Immigrant from somewhere. Mexican or Asian maybe like Locke. PNPC. Stop paying federal taxes. Thoreau. Boston tea party. We won’t pay for nukes we won’t pay for war, stop bombing the west stop dumping waste in the west stop taking our resources and despoiling our land, stop the foreign adventures and let’s get back to being Americans.
Politics and Franklin, get into a MSM debate, his music, his likes and dislikes. How he has made his money, rooted in oil, play off his guilt in that. Oil as a metaphor, no, his success as a metaphor. Oil accidentally made him rich. Idiots in Texas and the middle east suddenly found themselves with large sums of money. The people who originally made the money may have been smart enough to deal with it but the wealth spread to progeny bred a sense of entitlement, people with dubious genes, tons of money no work ethic and a sense of righteousness based on a life free of financial worry combined with a rock solid fundamentalist belief in the correct-ness of their religion. It was a stage set for disaster. Dumb people with power and money who believe god is on their side should not be the ones with their fingers on the triggers.
Franklin can say some of this. His Houston twang, roots and perspective will make it more poignant. He is playing his banjo, a tune of his own composition that steals from Deliverance, whatever song that was, dueling banjos. He calls it Deliberance. He has his music, he wanted no kids or maybe he did, not exactly happy with the state of the world. He never would have passed along his wealth to his kids, though. He was going to give it away. Billy/Jake need to convince him to use it to help fund the movement. He has other stations. He can broadcast speeches, he can use the Internet or have someone associated with Jake use the Internet or send them all to the blogs, have it in a thousand places and it can’t be stopped. Hold forums, debates, open the airwaves to new ideas, a grassroots progressive movement. The movie deliverance is a fixation for him. Water. What was that about, maybe he was in love with a Mexican woman and she was from a spot that had lost its water, lost its livelihood and family members migrated to the US and were doing shit jobs. She gets deported or she can’t be with him, she decides she can’t leave her family and be with him.
Deliverance. The federal government was taking a place and destroying it and telling people it was good for them. Urban cowboys came in and killed a backwards fuck but who was right? The hicks were dumb and violent, but it was their home. Ned Beatty was just a fat soft symbol of a fat soft society that was funding “improvement” that destroyed their way of life.
What is the federal government doing now? Who controls the water? Water is going to be the new oil. Water will cause more wars than anything else combined. Fresh water is disappearing from the planet, from the locations where it is needed most. It is irreversible. Ice melts into salt water, it becomes salt water. If the evaporation is deposited in storms at the coasts rather than as snowpack in the mountains it is only a matter of time before you have serious problems.
“Deliberance is a meditation on this process. A turn from the world we once knew to one dramatically altered by the actions of man.
“Plus, I just love the banjo.”

Prisons. The western leaders will need to recuperate the prisoners, rehabilitate. It’s a shocking expense and a horrible blow to the morality of a society, the morale, the working morality of…this large number of housed humans, heartlessly housed humans. Whatever happened to the greatest good for the greatest number? Whatever happened to common decency. These are money sucks, nothing but great streams of cash that produce nothing but disgruntled citizens on the inside and moreso when they are released and this is the real reason such an archipelago exists, for the false sense of security it creates in the “law-abiding” populace.
This could be a speech given by the black leader wherever I find that character. Maybe the Willie Brown character, SF mayor, the lawyer defending Martin. A part of the California governor’s administration. This isn’t anarchy. It’s an example of shared/made by the west, a better way to run the country, its own country, maybe. The sticky part is the fact that they stop paying federal taxes. There grows two camps, a more violent camp that wants to take the missile silos and the military bases and the non-violent, non-cooperation camp, that simply refuses to fund the US war machine.
The mechanics are problematic. Most companies automatically deduct. How do you stop that? What legal options exist? Are the large corporations tools of the federal gov’t or vice versa?
Western corporations, small businesses can do it, maybe.

“You seem like a nice guy,” he said, “how did you get started in all this crazy talk?”
“I’m not exactly sure,” I said thoughtfully. “I suppose somewhere deep inside me I felt something was terribly wrong, that not only was this land I love headed in the wrong direction, it was coming perilously close to the precipice from which it could not turn, the descent down that slippery slope was picking up speed and while this plan put before me wasn’t the last branch to cling onto, it was certainly going to be the only one I could reach. If I didn’t do something I was merely going to be stuck in the mass of the avalanche, unable to control my destiny, unable to do anything but tumble along helplessly in chaos and darkness.”
“You’re good with the metaphor.”
“Am I? I thought I was laying it on a little too thick. I feel more like I’m rambling, rationalizing, convincing myself what I’ve done is right, and for the right reasons.”
“Well, it’s making sense to me.”
“That’s good, I guess.” We stopped and drank for a moment and then recalling my objective, or the goal I’d been charged with, I started in on an idea which I thought might help sway him. “Americans won’t be led to slaughter,” I started, “they will be smothered and numbed in that wave of snow, the clutter and cold will paralyze them, but like the freezing man, will achieve a state of warmth before they pass. I have felt that tugging at me, the desire to give up. Living is more than eating and drinking and breathing, going to work, coming home, watching treacly crap on TV and listening to the same old songs on the radio. We’re not going to get destroyed in some nuclear holocaust, the world, most likely, won’t burn to toast, we’re going to anesthatize ourselves, and all the while convincing ourselves we’ve reached some pinnacle, that we are at the culmination of history, and all we’re doing in the world, all the adventurism and posturing is justified because we hold a divine right, our path has been preordained and the wars and incursions are mere means to the end we have coming our way. We’re blooming daisies captivated by our own beauty never recognizing we’ve started to rot from the roots.”
“OK, that might have gone a tad too far.”
“The not with a bang but a whimper allusion didn’t do it for you?” I asked.
“No, I liked that. You may have gotten into trouble combining the avalanche and freezing with rotting daisies…really, rotting daisies?”
“A bit too much?”
“A bit,” he said. We sat in silence.

(Maybe a trip down to his studio in the basement. His music is one of the things that keeps him happy. The ability to create to lose oneself in art. But a society that does not reward unique art, un-popular art and instead lets the people “vote” on “talent” to make a star will invariably end up cultivating a culture that appeals to the lowest common denominator. It stifles free expression, or forces it to the periphery, marginalizes it and turns it into the “other” to be scorned or avoided. And that is unnatural, it is the anomolous that drives change (anomoly sp?). Without a medium to deliver the different to the masses, you breed a sub-culture and that contributes to the division you see today. Two Americas. In many ways that is true (or should be true, ahem). But, I’m not sure I believe in your premise that we could separate west from east and be done with it. The division is along class lines, it is the rural versus the urban, it is the educated versus those that shun an intellectual elite, it’s not easily defined by a straight border.
Look at cable TV. Before cable everyone watched the same crap, granted it was mostly garbage, but everyone saw the same garbage, that bred unity, of a sort, everyone over 40 can sing the theme song to the Brady Bunch, for instance. Stupid example maybe, but you get my point. “Uh, maybe…” With the advent of cable there was a division between those who could afford it and those who could not. It costs money, expendable income the poor do not have. The educated already lean, in the majority, more to the avant garde, but the expanding masses are fed a diet of tripe and treacle. Again, this is not dissimilar from the communist party. The official channels show, cops capturing criminals, the ‘normal’ winning prizes on gameshows rewarded for their compliance and displaying for all a gratification to be found in wealth. Money and things, having, defines us, that is what is supposed to make us happy. It’s so pervasive we don’t even question it. It’s not universal socialism, it’s not a belief that all can be equal in a fair and just society, but it does say anyone can achieve wealth, a spin of the wheel can bring things and happiness. And the news, Christ, the news! It’s not ‘news’ at all, rather it is snippets of local happenings irrelevant to the larger story. Global significance is rarely discussed in any serious comprehensive way. The debates on Sunday morning talkshows are all part of the jockeying for power. We play one party off another, but in the end it is they who are playing us. The wealthy and the corporate rulers supply the cash that funds the polling, campaigning and the elections which are a choice between one side of the coin or the other. It’s no choice at all because the motivation to enter the arena for moral reasons for a sense of service has been strangled. They must go begging for cash, they must tailor their messages for the masses, they must cultivate an acceptable image and expose their private lives to the closest scrutiny. Who would subject themselves to that other than the most power-hungry and vainglorious? It’s a recipe for disaster because ultimately we end up with 435 automatons at the top and countless thousands locally who are striving to achieve those top posts, constantly crafting that same image, the aura of leadership, but they are never true leaders. The leaders, the ones with new ideas or a new way of conveying them are drummed out by the relentless drive for cash that only can come from the vested interests who have no interest in changing the existing order. Couple that with media conglomerates who are complicit in the system (look how much they get in advertising money during elections) and it is nearly impossible to effect change.

“Well, that was quite a speech,” I said.
“Yeah, that had been welling up in me for quite some time.”
“So what are you going to do, sit in your cellar and play your music, fiddle while Rome burns.”
“I’m not Nero.”
“No, but then who is?”
“I think we both know.”
“My question still stands.”
“Table that. I’m going to grab two more beers,” he gave me a quick look, a raised eyebrow, a twinkle in the eye.
“No complaints,” I said. I had the distinct feeling that we were now in cahoots, partners in crime, associates.
When he returned he went to the stereo, well, sound system, and fiddled around in boxes for awhile and then spent some time fitting the reel to reel. He got it rolling and then sat back down on the couch he had against the wall (add description of cellar/studio somewhere). “OK, listen to this Billy,” he said and I thought for a moment, I wondered for a moment the way he paused, if he had meant for me to listen to the music or to listen to what he was about to say. I did both. The words spoke to him and spoke for him. It was an old Woody Guthrie song I was not familiar with (not to say I had an encyclopedic knowledge of Woody Guthrie songs (wouldn’t it be funny for Franklin to have an archive of Woody Guthrie’s brother’s recordings, or Arlo, or some other odd unknown collection).

“I’m not going to give you an answer now,” he said. “I’m not even entirely sure there’s been a question. I just want some time to cogitate.”
I didn’t really know what to say. I wasn’t sure if this was a success, if I had accomplished what I had set out to do, if this was what Jake wanted, or what, but, it seemed to me this was a good thing.
“OK,” I said, after a time. And we just sat there drinking our beer and listening to the music.
“Would you mind if I spent the night,” I asked.
“Not at all, please, be my guest.”
The next morning, after bacon and eggs, and warm, if uncertain, goodbyes, I went immediately and found a pay phone to call Jake. Franklin had given me an email address, “Call it paranoia,” he said, but I’d rather not have y’all calling me. Not just yet.”
“I totally understand,” I said, and thought email may not be totally secure, either, but I kept that to myself.
Jake was encouraged by the news, you might even say excited. He told me to drive to Utah, St. George, and check into the Motel 6 off the first exit. (check back for Utah stuff). “And, no more stops at the Grand Canyon or other historic, natural landmarks, just go there, quickly…wait, not too quickly, just drive safe and be careful.” I hadn’t heard Jake so optimistic, almost cheerful.

2005-09-16T16:20:00.000-07:00

2/9/7
On my way to an interview.
Should be done at 3:45 to make the 4:40 ferry.
Maybe I could shorten it up.
Don’t see why I need 45 minutes with channel marketing.
Oh, whatever. I just need to get this, I don’t really care what they pay. We can make it work. I just need to get out of the house.
Ferry noise. 45 minutes to kill. Kind of a long walk I think.
Nothing much going on. Phone’s running out of juice. Fuck you, phone. Poor planning.

2005-09-16T16:19:00.001-07:00

2/1/7 PM – ride home
What a lot of crap I write.
Get more from life. My phone tells me “GET MORE FROM LIFE.” Fuck you, phone. This is all I want from life.
I have no idea what I’m going to write next, I put pen to page just because, I was, just staring, seafaring, comparing, youthful faces to memories, a distant memory a leaf on trees, thousands of flickering lights and grasping one no reason why. We turn. Discern. Mountains. Fountains. Magical mons, sentence fragments, fun ons, ever anons. Crap. Rat trap. Sattrap. Bitch slap. Mishap. Blah.

2005-09-16T16:19:00.000-07:00

The wife is going in for surgery tomorrow, everything is going to be harder. Crutches, no stairs, weeks of rehab. I’m worried about myself, of course – cooking, cleaning, watching the kid – all this will be hard work. This is my last chance for a good drunk, but it will have to be on the 2:05, if I’m on the 3:00, she’ll have to take the boy to swim class. I could meet them at the pool, but that would be a hassle.
I need to get a job so I can get back to writing, I haven’t been able to do it at home. I have been running, although, that will be tough with the wife on the injured reserve.
Last night I drank most of a bottle of wine. I did the same on Sunday. Other than a beer one night that is all the alcohol I’ve had since we got back from our trip. Not bad. After today, I’ll have to start another streak, and somehow find time to get on the drreadmill, oh, and get a job.
We can see Mt. Baker clearly, but just the outline of Rainier – what a day. Just one more beer.
I don’t have a penny in my pocket. I have assets, I have a cash reserve, we, we have a cash reserve, and some income. Some income.
I bet the Olympics are visible, too, but I’m not looking that way, must obey the number one rule as the beer pourer told me, stay in the galley. Can’t look back.
Two months. What have I done in two months? I went to a wedding. Christmas and a wedding and now a few interviews. A few interviews and some income.
Unemployment. Money spent. Mortgage, not rent, building equity. 2003-2007, almost four years now, just 26 more to go. I’ll be 65. Then what? Retire? From what?
Dee Lefevre owns a horse. Not sure why I thought of that. I wonder how many beers I can drink without peeing. I’m going to have to hurry to the restaurant to avoid excessive lateness, and I’m going to have to hurry to finish this beer. No cash at lunch – OK, no cash at ferry, not. Dash to ATM when? Before or after? A reflexion of shadows and the shimmering Sound, a moment of beauty in imagery found (IMAGERY FOUND) in morning drinking Seattle bound, prepare to deboard, two beers downed, continue consumption your belly round, a fitness elusive yet worries drowned. For now. How?
Mind altering, moods faltering, drugging and debugging, a stabilizing pill, force of will or beer to swill, my time to kill, dead, instead, I end this fun, to the plank, this scrawl now done.

2005-09-16T16:17:00.001-07:00

(Got across the Canadian border, dropped off at some buddy’s in the woods (Mounted Policeman?) near Vancouver? Talk about US as a monolith, big bully, rude and dangerous. They eventually take Billy into Vancouver where he hangs out for awhile, tbd, before catching a flight to Seoul, airport Internet, get an address, walk around lost, see Edelman (?) some PR agency sign he recognizes and say what the hell, figure there will be someone in there who speaks English at the very least. I walk in and tell them I used to work for them or am in PR still or was. I’m visiting a friend and lost and can they help. Then the John Mullins story. I turn around and see him. He took a sabbatical and was actually on Las Piedras. He got involved with a missionary group, intent on prison reform and other social justice issues. He was totally disaffected with PR with high-tech with business in general, the falsity, the corruption, greed. He started visiting prisons, a guy/lawyer/psychologist in his mission had started this program – he’d recruit folks to come and talk to those criminals, well these people who had been arrested, tutor them, try to teach them some skills before being let out – or just give them soemthing to do, some hope. John got into it, but it was pointless, the system was too big, too broken, “I just wanted to get out of the states,” he said. “I couldn’t stand it anymore. It was a poisoned society, still is, tainted and most of the population is either oblivious, complicit, corrupted or incarcerated.”
I hardly knew what to say to that. It was playing right into my hand.
“So how did you end up here?”
“I was running out of money, and I went and talked with Richard (?). He told me about this opening. I was reluctant of course, I didn’t know a word of Korean, but Jae (Mr. Kim) is great. He really runs this place, I just deal with the howlee clients.
“So, how long have you been here?”
“Oh, almost a year now,” he said after some consideration.
“Wow, that’s great. What do you think? I mean the whole ex-pat thing, how’s that been?”
“I love it,” he said. “It’s been fantastic to put some distance to me and America. The US just isn’t the same, it’s gone through a dramatic, dangerous transformation that you can’t see totally from the inside.”
He used the term purposefully, I think. His time spending time with those doing time gave him that liberty, that right, that something…
“Americans are locked behind the lens of their own televisions, they are trapped in a false world.”
“Uh, John, aren’t you one,” I felt like saying, but just said slily, “You know we have flatscreens now.”
“Ha, ha,” he said good-humoredly. “You know what I mean. At least I think you know what I mean.”
“No, no. I know exactly what you mean. Although were you to come out and say that in Des Moines they’d ask you why you hate our freedom.”
We laughed a bit. “So, what the hell are you doing here?”
“I’m lost,” I joked, although it wasn’t untrue, not in the slightest. It was probably more true than anything else about me at the moment. Anything else I could have said.
“Listen, I’m almost done here. Why don’t you stick around for an hour or so and I’ll help you find your way.”
I considered that a very generous offer and with hardly any hesitation asked, “Could I get online?”
“Sure. He walked me over to an empty cubicle and logged me on, opening a browser that although in Korean was an understandable/recognizable Yahoo interface.
“Have at it. I’ll be back in an hour.”
“Take your time,” I said. “I’m in no hurry.” I was anxious to read the news and see if I’d received any messages from Jake.
“OK, make yourself comfortable, and I’ll wrap things up quickly, it’s still all nonsense, this PR game. Whether it’s a Korean Man or an American Man, I still don’t like working for The Man.”
“Slacker.”
“I work hard for the things that matter.”
“Subversive.”
He shrugged and smiled. “Don’t let the girls bother you,” he added over his shoulder as he walked away.
I logged on to check my mail, entered my password, read the NY Times, LA Times, the Chronicle. Nothing new about Martin. I googled myself and still nothing. SFGate just had that one article, very vague and disconcerting in what it left out. No other news from Jake so I sent him an update. I couldn’t find the contact he’d sent me to. I ran into John. I’d try to get there (what is there? Add this, Jake directed me to an address near Itaewan (look this up what neighborhood is near the business district, but not businessy) but couldn’t find it. I’d look tomorrow.
I had a feeling that John and I were not going to search out this address. In fact, I had no intention to. The best course of action, or what I, in my awkward circumstances, seemed to be the best course, was to co-opt John (not co-opt, word here?) was to let John in on the whole deal, like I did with Franklin, with Martin (although that didn’t work out too well. I didn’t have the energy, the wherewithal to get conspiratorial, to lie to John. He clearly was in our camp philosophically, and what’s more, how else could I explain my presence in Seoul?
Again. Sitting in front of a computer, with a message to Soo so close, so easy to send, I had to refrain. If they were to trace it to the ISP this would turn into an international espionage thriller. I had trained myself in Utah, I hadn’t sent her any messages from (Utah guy’s name, Smith, ha) Smith’s place. Nor in Idaho, nor in Canada, nor even from Inchon. Why start now, why risk it? Phone was pointless. I knew that for certain after SF. Email would be too risky and why, what could I possibly say?
Right now the last communications she had had from me were that crazy rambling ‘note’ and that half a call from Martin’s apartment in San Francisco. An email telling her I was in Seoul…not reassuring. The likelihood of a reunion was slim, but there was no sense being needlessly idiotic – or – more accurately – there was no sense in disclosing to her how idiotic I was.
In less than an hour, John came back. I was fiddling around at that point, checking the box scores.
“Let’s get a drink,” he said. Who was I to argue?
He took us out into the crowded, bustling street, cars honking and maneuvering relentlessly through dangerous traffic, pedestrians heedless of signs, bumping and jostling. John was oblivious to the tumult. He pulled me down an alley and we walked down a few stairs, through hanging cloths adorned with words I did not comprehend, could not know.
The proprietor seemed to know him, they made eye contact and each gave the other a familiar nod. With a wave of his hand, the man behind the counter directed us to a low table in the back of this claustrophobic, more than cozy certainly, little den.
Almost instantly, small bowls of pickled vegetables, kim chi, and other tidbits appeared before us brought by the hands of two elderly Korean women who emerged on cue from the kitchen.
When they left, John said, “Ponchon (sp?)” pointing at the snacks.
“Yeah, I know. My Wife’s Korean.”
“Really. I had no idea.” I nodded and started nibbling. “Is she here with you?”
“No.” was all I said and kept my eyes on the table, focused ostensibly on eating.
“Well then,” he said after an awkward pause, “Soju?”
“Sure,” I said, figuring I’d let the story out slowly during the inevitable course of inebriation I saw developing before me. Soju is a distilled rice liquor, stronger than most sake, not as strong as vodka, although drunk much the same way as the Russians drink vodka – in large quantities with snacks like the ponchon we continued to nibble.
Another knowing look at the proprietor and soju was on its way.
“So, come here often,” I asked playfully.
“How can you tell?” (put back a bit that we took off our shoes) (I should probably explain a change of clothes, a resupply when in Vancouver, a whole new getup to go along with my new identity. They/we had decided to make my cover, my new identity, which sounded so James Bond, I laughed at them when they used the word ‘cover’, they gave me a new Canadian passport, new ID, the stuff Murray had done was probably compromised, exhausted by the car rental and hotel stays. I was to be the Canadian agent for an export/import operation bringing in Asian furniture, pieces not antiques for that would require a specific knowledge I wouldn’t be able to fake if quizzed on it, but that looked like antiques, sold in large quantities. Apparently there was quite a trade in the stuff as it was popular amongst Asians living in Canada and Canadians that harkened themselves hip to the oriental mindset. In return, the Canadian operation exported faux pine furniture, rustic like you’d find in a mountain cabin. This was popular, especially to Koreans and Japanese. Hong Kong and mainland Chinese went for fake animal skins they used as carpets and status symbols. (This all backstory for the Vancouver operation that supported this trip). I thought it was over the top, a degree of elaborateness that went too far. They assured me it was necessary and it was as important for them to maintain this appearance as it was for me to keep up the ruse. They’d spent years building this operation and it was the perfect cover for the work they were doing. I found this language both melodramatic and troublesome. I was either involved with real nut-jobs or with people that were very good at what they were doing, and it wasn’t entirely clear to me what exactly that was.
Again, though, I didn’t have many options. The episodes in San Francisco and at the border, not to mention the stories about Martin’s troubles, led me to believe I had, I could take, two paths. One, I could turn myself in, get a good lawyer, and hope for the best. Or, two, I could play this thing out and see if I could either publicize my plight for grassroots support or work the politics waiting for a change in US governance, which, now that I think about it is three paths, or two with a fork in one. Hoping for a change in the political mood was a daunting prospect, it could mean living like this until November 2008. Plus, the administration didn’t exist in a void, they did get elected twice, or so we are to believe.
The violent faction headed by Galt was frightening. Who knew what sort of alliances they had, what sort of contacts and cohorts they were working with. I wanted to soften their rhetoric. I still wasn’t 100% sure where Jake stood, but Franklin was turning into a good influence, his age and easy-going manner contributed to a more reasoned and seasoned approach. More patience was needed.
WTC guy? Scoop? How is this all playing out? In many respects I felt like an observer, emails flew back and forth in cryptic conversations that never seemed to end. Occasionally, I’d pick up bits of news or Jake would forward me articles he thought were pertinent. This mission they’d sent me on hinged on the first meeting I didn’t make. Lost again and getting drunk with a friend/acquaintance, this was all eerily familiar and I was certain Jake would be pissed when he woke up and read my email.
I had no intention of telling John the full details, but I couldn’t very well give him the bullshit about being a Canadian import/export agent.
“So, really, Billy, what are you doing here?” John finally asked.
“It’s kind of a long story.”
“Is it a story you plan on sharing?”
I raised my glass and drank the clear liquid from rough brown little ceramic cups. “Yeah,” I said dispiritedly, “I suppose I will.”
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” he offered nonchalantly, as if it made no difference one way or the other, but I could tell he was curious/intrigued. I shrugged. He took that as a cue to keep up his queries.
“Are you still in PR?”
“Not exactly,” I said.
“What then? What the hell are you doing wandering around Seoul?”
This was hard to answer, so I proffered more soju. At length, I leaned forward and whispered perhaps too conspiratorially, “If I tell you what I’m doing here will you promise not to judge me until you’ve spent some time considering my situation.”
John whispered back in his best mock British agent voice, not a bad Sean Connery, “Agent Shakes, you can count on me to behave as a gentleman, I will take your story to heart and give it earnest consideration.”
“And it is confidential.”
“Well, of course it is. I will take your story to my grave,” he continued mockingly.
I eyed him suspiciously and then started in on the story slowly. I had no desire to get the same guilt trip Martin had laid on me, so I hoped John would be true to his word and hear me out.
I told him about our move to Las Piedras (it turned out we were living only a few miles from each other for about three months), the meeting with Bob, the driving range, and Max and Jake and the ferry fiasco. I told him about San Francisco and Phoenix and how Martin was in custody. I told him about Franklin and the radio stations; and Utah and the Mormons and the Utes and canyon-dwellers, how they fit with the Ghost Dance and the powwows with the Idaho, north plains Indians (tribes?). I told him about Galt and the silos, and the cops and criminals, and the trip to the border and the Canadians, which led me to Seoul. I told him about the meeting I never made and how I felt absolutely at sea, caught up in something I did not fully comprehend and yet feeling responsible and exhilerated by the prospect of doing something momentous. Whether I was deluding myself or just trying to convince about the merits, the benificence and historical significance of my ‘mission’ was not clear. I do know that at some point during that conversation, which was really more of a monologue John became a convert. I had an ally.
“This,” said John after I had finished and we’d had more to drink, “is one of the most remarkable stories I’ve ever heard.”
“It is, yes,” I said, “one way or another it is.”
“What do you mean, ‘one way or another’?”
“Well, I don’t know, part of me feels like I’ve gone off the deep end, that I’m absolutely crazy and at any time the cops or the men in white coats are going to walk in and collect me.”
A group of men, walked loudly down the stairs and entered the restaurant. Both John and I turned quickly to look and laughed to ourselves as three clearly inebriated businessmen sloshed to the bar.
“For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re crazy.” I raised my glass and winked in thankful acknowledgement. “I’ve read about your friend Martin. Remember I have some interest in the American judicial system and the prison culture, what’s happened.”
“True,” I said, “yes, I’d nearly forgotten. But, what do you know about Martin?”
“I know he’s getting screwed. The government has nothing on him, but this unconstitutional ‘enemy combatant’ bullshit is keeping him in the clink. FLBailey and Willie B are politicizing his cause, but it’s still too early to tell how this will develop. One thing’s for sure, the feds don’t have a hapless shoe-bomber or a mosque full of Muslims on their hands. Martin is smart, well-educated, well-represented and if this story gets more play in the press we could have a Nelson Mandela on our hands.”
This was far-fetched. Martin was a tried and true capitalist, a Republican. I knew few people more invested in making the system work for them. He had his issues with authority, sure; what black man in America wouldn’t, but Nelson Mandela he was not.
“So, what are you going to do?” he asked.
“Fuck if I know,” I quipped. “I suppose I’ll find this address tomorrow. He asked me to show it to him again and he gave it some thought and we drank some more and talked about shit, food and Korea and life abroad and whatever then he said, “You know we’ve been doing a lot of public affairs work, government relations, that sort of shit. A lot of what gets done here, most times, is by who you know.”
“Yeah, so.”
“Well, we’ve been doing a lot of that kind of work. And when I say ‘we’ I mean Mr. Kim and sometimes an assist from me, but really it’s Kim.” (everyone will be named Kim).
“Uh, huh…”
“There…well, there are lots o people we could introduce you to who may not be averse to the kind of conversation we are presently engaged in.”
“Spoken like a true PR guy.”
“You know how it is,” he said. “There are people I’ve boozed it up with, whored it up with too if you must know the truth.
I didn’t. I just shrugged. “I didn’t say I must know anything, John.”
“Right, right,” he said embarrassedly, “But you get my point. I know them and I think I know how they feel, but you know they have different political considerations here. They have to take care of their careers.”
“Right,” I said, not entirely sure I knew what the fuck he was talking about. There was a moment’s hesitation when my addled mind took the time to process exactly what he was intimating. “Um, so, are you saying that you might not be opposed to perhaps introducing me to some of these people in an informal capacity [‘capacity’ is a very hard word to say not sober] and that maybe, maybe, there may be a certain amount of shared sentimentality.”
“Well said, well spoken.”
“I’m nothing if not a professional,” I said and then raised my glass which his clinked.
“I’ve always admired that about you.” We laughed again, perhaps too much, considering the gravity of what it was we were talking about, what all this could mean, not necessarily in a historic sense, but what it could mean to John, to me, to whomever we managed to drag into this.
“Are you serious?” I asked. “I mean you say this now, but, honestly, tomorrow, what does this mean?”
“It means we talk to Kim. I don’t want to do anything without talking to him.”
“Will he be, will he be, you know, amenable, wouldn’t he run away from this shit?”
“I don’t know,” John replied honestly. “I do know he is not a big fan of the present US administration and there aren’t a lot around here who are. So…”
“I don’t want to put anyone else at risk,” I said.
“Oh, don’t worry, Kim won’t do anything that isn’t absolutely safe. He hasn’t survived for 20 years with Edelman without learning a thing or two about covering his ass.”
I nodded and smiled, inside I was thinking of how glad I was that I didn’t have to work at an agency and deal with all the shit that that entailed. Of course, six months ago I would have killed for a job, any job that might have kept me out of this mess. It almost certainly would have. It occurred to me then and I’ve pondered it much since, just how dangerous an educated, disaffected, unemployed underclass is to the safety of a society. The uneducated unemployed are not likely to succeed in any sort of organized rebellion. Peasant Russia wouldn’t have turned to Bolshevism without Lenin, without Marx and Engels, of course, but it took a Lenin and charisma to adapt a philosophy to real life, exploit the emotions of an oppressed people under the cloak of a noble social experiment. Taking academic concepts and applying them to a particular cultural circumstance can’t be done without the brute force, and brute force alone can’t succeed without the guiding principle to serve as a rudder. The southern gentlemen farmers who studied ancient democracies and thought applying them to colonies under the thumb of King George and an imperial yoke (thumb and yoke, some joke) could never have seen their high-falootin idealism realized without the firebrands and warriors like Patrick Henry and George Washington willing to take a bullet for the cause. And, what’s more, you don’t get the average Joe to take a bullet just so he can pay less for tea (or gas). You need a Tom Paine to capture the sentiment of the lower class while couching the destruction of revolution in terms redolent of rebirth and transformation.
I congratulated myself, perhaps too much on my advancement from PR flunky to modern day Tom Paine. Afterall, I’d yet to do much besides run from the authorities and recruit a DJ, granted a wealthy, capable and instrumental (ha) DJ, but a DJ nonetheless. He could broadcast our message, but we were going to need more than that.
That night in Seoul, John and I talked and talked, he let loose years of frustration, finding a friendly ear in me (two, actually). His view of America, his years of observing the priveledged and then his exploration of the prison led him to believe the country was heading on a disaster course. With no opportunity for hundreds of thousands of unlucky people getting trained in violence by hardened individuals belonging to organized groups, it was only a matter of time before some massive tempest or a collapse from within. Look at the Rodney King riots, the madness is just below the surface. The weight of the prison system, such beaurocratic infrastructure must certainly weigh heavily on a government, add to that expenditure, the huge dollar amounts – a massive military budget both in armaments and veteran medical care; a daunting rate of debt accumulation, tax cuts for the wealthy; social security and welfare programs for an aging population; an economy built on a resource, oil, whose rising costs was crippling an industrial base and factory farm system – and the tottering tower of US supremacy was crumbling at its base. The foundation of democratic principles still exists, he said, but it’s been painted with such a cynical opportunistic brush as to be unrecognizable. There’s a point when rhetoric becomes propaganda, when patriotism becomes nationalism, and when pride becomes chauvenism. At that point those who led that rhetoric those who fostered superiority, exclusion and righteousness will do whatever it takes to hold onto power and exploit their advantage. It’s an appeal to humanity’s baser instincts. Tell them they deserve better, they deserve cake and they deserve to eat it and have it and when they have bread they can have cake and if they don’t want bread but want to have cake instead, they can break out the credit card and buy some damn cake because goddamn it they want cake and there’s no reason they shouldn’t have it.
I cannot claim to have a complete recollection of all his rambling, his poli-sci 101, convenient history pinko mumbo-jumbo in all its metaphorically mixed glory; nor can I say it was entirely all his, but the record stands as a close approximation as it captures the prevailing tone, which could be called, in short, incendiary.

John and I walked somewhat unsteadily back to his small one bedroom apartment, not far from his office and his local. He went weeks without leaving that triangle, he said.
“Don’t you travel?” I asked.
“Yeah, but not as much as you’d think. It comes in waves. I’ll be here for a month just working with clients in the states and coordinating activities with our local team. Honestly, they do most of the work. Sometimes I feel like I’m nothing more than a translator, and I don’t even speak the language!”
“Sounds like a good gig if you ask me.”
“Yeah, I’ve always said it would be a great job if it weren’t for the clients.”
“Without the clients we’d just be pimping our own ideas to the press.”
“Aha.”
He pointed me to a futon. “Sorry, no guest bedroom.”
“I’ve slept on worse,” I said.
“I bet you have.”
Cursory goodnights, collapse on the couch, and I was out til morning.
A bright hot, muggy morning that when we walked out into the full loud crowded wave of it felt oppressive as death, a hell. My head throbbed, the backs of my eyes pierced by each ray of sunlight, breathing made me sweat, and the persistent throng and gong of the people, the noise, a terrible confusion making no sense to me. I followed John, who with sunglasses on, marched head down through the crowd. The reprieve I receive in his air conditioned building was a blessed respite, life-saving, perhaps I exaggerate but those 20 minutes pushed me closer to dementia than any other 20 ever had.
“Is it always like this, so crowded, so crazy chaotic?”
“Oh, no, in the winter it’s so fucking cold no one walks on the street unless they absolutely have to.”
We slotted some time with Kim, he was going to join us for lunch. John sat me down in my little visitor’s cubicle. The women, the employees were primarily women, young girls really chattering away on their phones. Land lines and cell phones used indiscriminately, odd ringing and the occasional curious visit from one of the girl’s eager to practice her English – all this distracted me for part of the morning, the rest I spent checking email and the news. Jake had replied. He was pissed that I missed the meeting, but not as pissed as I thought he’d be. He was concerned about John, as was I, but last night’s conversation led me to believe we had an ally in John. The lunch meeting with Kim would be critical, instructive, and, hopefully, productive. I was worried about it.
The tone of Jake’s email led me to believe he was concerned with other items. I still didn’t know exactly what else he was up to. Since I’d introduced him to Franklin I felt there’d been a change in Jake. More mellow, less urgent. Frank was stabilizing, he had an easy assurance about him and the fact that he was wealthy enough to tell the world to piss off gave him the luxury to do and say what he wanted. He had “Fuck You” money, as we used to say. The goal in Silicon Valley was to work as hard as you could, find a good opportunity, and exploit it, and then either move on to the next one or tell the world to fuck off and go and do whatever it is you really want to do, answering to no one but yourself (or your wife). That dynamic led to a certain short-sightedness, the ones who would stick around the length of time it would take to build something truly lasting and meaningful were either the extremely greedy or the extremely competitive, the latter was often confused with being a visionary, but there’s always been just one vision in business and that’s making money, the rest of it is just marketing bullshit. Those that get free of it with their ‘fuck you’ money rarely make money from whatever it is they go on to do, but they feel like they’re doing something either for themselves or for others, and, when you think about it, those that feel compelled to do something for others are really doing it for themselves. Any honest assessment of personal motivations, of philanthropy, would show that, no matter how altruistic one’s actions appear, the root cause is always selfish, either to assuage guilt or to make themselves feel good about themselves. The poor or the needy or the sick that receive their benificence are just convenient props.
Frank was a guy who made no bones about his selfishness. He liked his music and his own company, he was comfortable in his own skin and he didn’t give a lick about what anyone else thought of him. As I said, I was beginning to think Frank’s, well frankness, was rubbing off on Jake. There’s a bit of retrospective and 20/20 hindsight going in to this analysis but that’s my perogative now isn’t it? Jake had jumped into this whole hog, he was recruited by Max, wooed and trained and when it became clear he’d been duped, turned into a radical revolutionary by a con-man, I think he felt his only alternative was to buy into the story fully, otherwise it would be apparent he was simply a stooge. If he had altered his tactics it would have been a tacit admission that the plan was not his. After Max flipped the switch and turned us in, Jake had to be more than Max (more Max than Max? Take it to 11). He had to prove he did more than believe the rhetoric, he had to prove he believed in the ‘movement’ that the movement was indeed his. Otherwise he was a fool driven by emotion and a belief in a false idol. It was like a man who convinces himself he has fallen in love with a woman merely because he slept with her. The cheapness of it, the baseness would be plain as day. Call it love and it’s understandable, noble even. Well, the shine was wearing off Jake’s love of the plan and as the relationship soured he was looking to rebound with Franklin’s more reasoned approach.

A little after 1:00, John came over to my temporary cubicle and asked, “Anything interesting going on in the world?”
“Oh, you know, this and that. Tumult, conspiracy, revolution…the usual.”
He smiled and said, “Kim’s ready whenever you are.” We headed out of the office together, talking lightly about PR and how the agency was doing. It all seemed so inconsequential, I had a hard time pretending to be interested. We went back to John’s usual Korean ratskeller.
“Do you eat anywhere else?” I quipped.
“I’ve found if you concentrate where you spend your money you get better service, and, I like this place, they’re nice to me.”
“That’s important,” I said in mock seriousness.
“It is,” he responded gravely. “It’s much more important than people think. This example is at a wide distance, but it’s on the same spectrum,” he started and I could tell he was about to expound on a subject to which he’d given great thought. “When you enter a restaurant you are in a position of weakness, you ‘want’ something, you are in need. The restauranteur can meet that need, thus, he is in power. There is some reciprocity obviously, as the customer has money and can always go somewhere else, but the balance of power favors the side with the food because the customer made the first move, they walked in the door and expressed a need for something.”
“Yeah, so what’s your point?”
“Both parties should be nice to each other, social etiquette demands it. More than that, though, the entire social structure requires it. Being nice is the glue that keeps society together. And, what’s more, it transcends one society, different nations, different cultures need to be nice to one another, too. If a nation is in power, it should be nice, considerate to the nation that comes to it asking for food. There needs to be mutual respect. If the nation asking for food feels disrespected it may go somewhere else to get what it needs.
“I think I know where this is going.”
“Do you?”
I nodded. We removed our shoes and sat down. John and Kim and the man behind the bar were all being nice to each other. “OK, then I’ll come right out and say it. The US isn’t being very nice and that’s killing their reputation internationally.”
“It’s a rather simplistic foreign policy – ‘be nice’.”
“Simple can be very complex,” said Kim, speaking at length after near total silence through this exchange.
“Profound oriental wisdom,” said John in jest.
“Don’t be provocative,” Kim replied. They clearly had a close working relationship. They had to get along well to work seamlessly with international clients and local press.
We ordered our food, or rather Kim and John ordered, arguing over what I’d like best, questioning the guy behind the bar who, it turned out, was named Kim, as well. Over lunch the conversation returned to international politics, specifically US aggression and what that has done, how it destabilized the precarious balance which characterized the global map after the fall of the soviet state. As if at all other times the balance was in complete equilibrium (the world has always been in flux, chaos is the norm, wherever different groups of people meet there will be conflict). Kim did most of the talking now, although John frequently chimed in to clarify (Kim’s English was good, but far from perfect). For the sake of readability I’ll paraphrase here.
“The US thinks, or it has convinced itself, that it is the sole superpower, that because it has the military might it can do whatever it wants, make other people do what they want them to do. This is wrong thinking and it is dangerous. The US feels damaged, scorned, misunderstood. It is like a wife who has been cheated on or beaten, she feels the right for retribution, she feels others should be on her side, that the husband must be punished and anyone who doesn’t agree is also an enemy. It drives people to make alliances to pick sides. Weak nations will form alliances, and sometimes they have to form loose alliances with regimes they don’t necessarily respect but they do so out of political convenience.
There are several examples. Iran, for instance. Iran is backed into a corner. The US is in Iraq and Afghanistan. Think what the US would do if Iran or Russia or China sent troops to Mexico and Canada. What’s more this has all come after much inflammatory rhetoric from both sides. The US is still the Great Satan in Iran. Iran is part of the Axis of Evil. Not very nice.”
“No, not at all.”
“So, what is Iran going to do? It forms loose alliances with Russia and China while establishing its bona fides in the Muslim world.”
“It is reaching out to other constituencies while consolidating its base.”
“More or less. But, on a geopolitical level those loose alliances that you might see for short-term domestic electoral success take on added gravity. They aren’t fully understood perhaps even by the players involved.”
“Look at Korea. The south is inextricably linked (John translated this, I could only imagine Kim saying ‘inextricably’) to the US. The older generation or a large percentage of the older generation feels beholden to them, but the young don’t understand, they just see a bunch of GIs fucking their women and pissing in the streets. Pardon these crudities.”
“No problem. I see your point.”
“The issue is impossibly complex. The South doesn’t trust the North, but mostly they don’t trust Kim Jong Il (which?), they feel he might do anything, he’s crazy or maybe as the saying goes in the US, crazy like a fox. We don’t trust him, but we know people, people have family, we still speak the same language and have the same customs, we all eat kimchi (ha). The North, though, and the south, for the most part, hate the Japanese, or at least feel a competitive dislike for them. The Japanese look down on everyone. They would have turned Korea into a Japanese state if they could have and the only reason they didn’t was because of the US. So, the US pummels Japan, still the only instance of atomic weaponry used against a civilian population, by the way, and the Japanese are forced to succumb. Scratch the surface in Japan and you’ll find covert dislike, distrust, maybe hatred, maybe scorn of the US. They have been forced to pay obeisance, but trust me, they do not like it, still, to this day, they do not forget. I know men, American men, expatriates, who have worked in Japan for years and they tell me that people they’ve known for years, who have been kind and considerate, thoughtful people for years, who they worked with and ate with and shared family events. That in an instant, or certain instances they turned and showed a different side. They expose maybe just once when drunk or otherwise vulnerable or too honest. They showed a nationalist side, a rabid nationalism which is really a feeling of cultural supremacy. It really verges on a hatred of the US, a resentment. That feeling isn’t radically different from what exists among the young in Korea. The US is a gorilla. It is powerful and dangerous. Koreans north and south don’t like Japan. The Japanese don’t like the Koreans, they don’t like the Chinese. The Chinese don’t like, shit, they hate the Japanese and Korea is a useful tool. Mix all that up and you have a very complicated jigae – a stew. It’s hot, spicy and it will hurt the howlee ass in the morning.”
(This conversation is more suited to a drunk evening. I may need to break this up into two meetings, lunch with Kim then dinner drinks with Kim and the political folks. Radical fringe plus Billy – Billy’s contacts – a meeting with Billy/Jake’s contacts and then Billy Kim BC and Kim contacts and John. Work this out.)

What the Americans don’t understand or at least what the rhetoric doesn’t intimate they understand, is that all of this is subplot, and in addition to that subplot, in fact, mixed into it is purposefully inflammatory language designed specifically to appeal to the domestic audience. I used to think the same about US foreign policy, but now I don’t know. Reality has been confused with fiction. How in the world can you achieve any sort of working relationship, any pretense to order, to peace, to a defined global existence, if the power that has professed such a worship, such dedication to democracy, is off on wild gambits across the globe paying no heed to common decency. Any credibility they had is shot. They are hypocrites. Yamchae.(Eddie Haskell, John made the comparison). They are only out for themselves. No trust. And, no faith. No belief in their ability to act as reliable arbiters. It is sad. It is beyond sad. It is despicable. Dangerous. The world cannot afford right now a situation where a nation with the most might, the greatest capacity to inflict massive damage, it is disturbing in the extreme that such a nation is so unreliable. There must be more stability.
Kim was on a roll, visibly upset. He had worked himself into a frenzy. John was taken aback. I don’t think he had ever seen Kim like this, had not heard such language, indeed, did not know such thoughts existed in the mind of his long-time co-worker. I figured now was my opportunity to tell my story, to ask if Kim would meet my contacts and see what they were doing, how they were connected to the US movement Jake was orchestrating, or, at least that I thought he was orchestrating. I still did not know if Jake was reporting to someone else, and whether that someone else had a position of power. The further this progressed the more I felt the latter must be the case.
“Kim,” I began. “I don’t know how much John has told you about why I am here.”
“Not a lot,” he said. Without going into all the details again, here, I explained my situation, adding how I had been instructed to contact this person or group here in Seoul.
“This is a fascinating story, Billy,” Kim said when I had completed my convoluted tale. He looked at me suspiciously, searching for a trace of madness in my eyes, I felt.
“So, what is the name of this contact of yours?”
“The only name they gave me was ‘Kim’.”
“Of course. And you have an address?”
“Yes, although I’ve missed the meeting time, obviously, so I don’t know if that’s still the spot.”
“Let me see the address.”
I pulled out the folded piece of paper I’d been carrying since leaving my Canadian friends, stained from my sweaty hands and worn from much worrying (?). He examined it closely.
“You were lost.”
“Yes, I was clearly lost,” I noted the irony. I’d been lost for months. He folded the paper back up and tapped tapped it pensively on the table in front of him. After some moments of thoughtful deliberation during which he looked around the restaurant as if searching for a clue, some sign as to how he should treat me, how he should react to such a wild story. He appeared to be weighing deep thoughts, as if this spot, this little restaurant was somehow the answer, or an important piece of a puzzle. I’m expounding on this now because he talked to me about that moment later, how it really was a transformative moment for him. He stood on the edge of a new path and whether or not the path I’d laid out before him was going to be the path that took him where he was going was almost irrelevant, something had switched in his mind, and the convictions he had held deeply hidden but disclosed so animatedly just then before us could not now be placed back in their box. The tiger was out of the cage. Kim was a methodical man. He got things done. He was known for that in the agency. Were he to make this move, he was not going to do it half-heartedly. It was going to require a plan and a devotion to that plan. He told me later that as he sat looking around the restaurant he saw before him Korea. He saw all that he loved about his country, the customs, the food, the drink, and the comraderie, a joy in being, he put aside the bad and thought about John and I about America and Americans, he contemplated the North and power and people with too much power and what that can do to them and those they control. He did not enter this lightly then, he meant what he calmly looked at me and voiced his allegiance with the simple words, “I think I can help you.”
I felt the strength behind those words and looked to John to see his response. His surprise, the surprise on his face reinforced in me my belief that this step by Kim was of real significance.
“Great,” I said. “This is just great. How? How do you think you can help?”
“Let’s consider this. I need to know more about Jake, who is he, what connections does he have, why is he doing this?”
I tried to explain as best I could, but I still had very little information. I emphasized the part of the story where I had been recruited, the mood in America that could drive someone like me, an altogether average middle-class man to fall into a group like the one Max constructed. Then I elaborated on the double-cross, the entrapment, and what that meant for justice, not just in America but around the world. If people could not only be imprisoned without being charged, but fooled into committing crimes or put into a position where even the supposed planning of crimes, then what hope is there, where does this stop?
“We were both screwed, we’ve all been screwed,” I said. “He and I and I don’t know how many others, but he’s the real deal if that’s what you’re worried about. He has skin in the game, plenty, his whole skin I’d say.”
“But who else does he know? How high do his connections go?” To that question I had no honest answer. I explained Galt and Franklin and the Canadians and we discussed the network that this represented and how it might extend more deeply, more broadly, but that was speculation. It would have to be, why would they entrust such information with me?
“OK, let’s check with this Jake of yours. Let’s see if we can meet with Kim and then we’ll determine where we can go from there.”
This was decided and we had begun down the path that would lead us to a very strange place indeed.

(I need to figure out where this conversation took place in time, whether it was two conversations, one at lunch and one over drinks. If the former then he could go back to the office but the time difference puts Jake out of play. Somehow skip to the meeting of Kims, then what before then?)

2005-09-16T16:17:00.000-07:00

2/1/07
Funny. I’m going into Seattle for lunch with the same friends, pulled out this notebook and saw the entry above. I will be late (again) because I missed the 10:25 ferry.
I’m just happy to be out of the house (again). The weather has been beautiful; crisp, clear days without a cloud in the sky.
I’m having a beer, it is 11:30 in the morning. I am happy. I have had two phone interviews and I have an in-person interview on the 9th. I should have another job I don’t like soon.

2005-09-16T16:16:00.001-07:00

12/1/06
Everything else was so long ago I’ve forgotten what it was. I had the disconcerting thought as I was walking the gangplank onto the boat that I was floating, my legs were moving and my feet were landing one in front of the other, but there was very little disturbance below my head. I floated.
I’m going into Seattle for lunk (LUNK?) lunch with friends. I will be late because I missed the 10:25 ferry.
I’m just happy to be out of the house. We’ve had terrible weather, rain, snow, freezing. I was laid off November 13th. I’ve done almost nothing for almost three weeks. I don’t think I have much else to say right now.

2005-09-16T16:16:00.000-07:00

10/13/6 PM
Not much better. Read this morning apparently. I was miserable an hour ago. No idea what to do at work, it all seems to be piling up into an impossible logjam, everything that I put off until Friday is now put off until Monday.
Two beers can only do so much. Forget it. Forget it for now. Work mind, life line, face down, head down, corporate clown, constant frown, quick smile, lots of style, the ruse, to amuse and self-preserve, the veneer is thin, the man within, dissolving, his salt soaked in torrents, waves of hypocrisy, duplicity. A salty smile, a plastic style, is this it? Is this what everyone does or is there, are there people who believe this? I’m so much different here in my internal discourse, of course, no recourse to honesty. I have thought about starting a poem but I have no idea how to express, this scribbling is more fore effect (fore?) for, for effect since it looks odd to sit and stare and drink your beer, but that is all I want to do. Instead I pretend to compose in my angle of un-repose, head bent and hand waving, ink spilling in random thought distilling – distilling? No, not really distilling, it is thought vomit, it is whatever electrical impulse emanates from brain to limb to fingertip leading to this (he paused) to what? To this SCRAWL
A favorite word – scrawl, rhymes with all, ball, thrall, fall, call, maul, awl, AWL? AUL, huh? Lost the thread, instead, fed a, hungry, fed a famished – head? This make sno sense nor should it nor need it, this is my way of exorcizing (and exercising does the same) work thoughts. I can, although I just didn’t, I can stop that shit with this shit, but that shit won’t go away. I aye, aye, ay, aay, yaai, yai yai, blocuumunim! An exclamation point at the end of jibberish. Yes, I got to something. An exclamation point at the end of nothing, an exclamation point at the end of nonsense. Nunsense (wasted ink) nothing to think just constant R constrict constraint, construction, constaint, taint, constanit, constanit? Constant scrawsl scribble, dribble, drabble babble. Go away, go far away. Less than half a beer then I fear a bus, a book, people, my neighbor, war, no, boring? False? Strained? I just don’t know some people I just don’t want to talk to or I just can’t or my initial reticence leads to a falseness that can’t be rectified – rectified? Did I scrawl that before – rectified – he tried to abide by those who lied, he spied and eyed his ride departed uncharted, he started but led instead to false premises on pretenses, post tenses, past tenses, pluperfect tennis is a great sport I should play more of, again, play stay day way rectify, try to stop rectifying justifying amolsphying amolsophying – moisturizing, what is that word?
What is that word? What is that magical word? No, though, you’d know, so, go, grow, blow, a brain cell or a million, million, what rhymes with million billion trillion zillion fillyin sillyon, onion, funnion, blah blah blah, la te da, wha? Wha? What the hell?
I don’t know what I’ve been doing – good, that’s all I wanted.

2005-09-16T16:15:00.001-07:00

Now the question is what to do with Billy, do we have him hunker down and write this all there or move on. The moving on is whhere I find the GALT character. Idaho? Missile silos, military v peaceful etc … The Utah stuff – religious freedom, multiple wives, what it all means needs to be researched a bit not now, come back. Galt. Storm the barricades the only solution is violence, that’s all they understand, it’s the course of action required now to let them know this isn’t liberal mamby pamby bullshit. They are off wreaking havoc with our tax dollars in our name under the aegis and funded by the American people. The conversation takes place outdoors, amidst the trees, a lake shimmering through the long pole pines.
“This is our land,” said Galt. “This is what we know, this is what we should be focused on. Look around you, this is beauty, this is fucking sublime. They want to mine it and drill it, de-forest and fucking clearcut it and take it from us, US, us, not us, everyone. We’re transitory, you and I and all our progeny are a blip, ten seconds in the eternity of the land. We can talk all we want about America’ but that is a construction, an artifice, a contrivance built on the backs of immigrants and thieves. Those who crossed the land bridge (Alaskan, Siberian?) experienced this land in its entirety, its wholeness, its raw form. Who arre the descendants of those first immigrants? Who knows, we may think we know, but if you’re going to go that far back why not go further and ask whether the Africans who moved north to Europe and eventually crossed the Ocean to the east coast of this land were not equally legitimate claimants to this land. We are splitting hairs. In the long view, we’re splitting hairs, and, frankly, at this point, it doesn’t matter. Cherokee, Ute, Arapahoe, Quaker, Puritan, any colonist, any immigrant, what does it matter? We are all at risk. It makes no difference what race or religion. There are those that take the short view and there are those that take the long – and that is all that is left.”
“What do you mean?” I asked brushing away the mosquitos.
“People can secure themselves. They can try to stay safe for the night. We have plenty of people like that. It’s sad, but it’s true.” He needn’t expound to me, I knew this all too well, even before my time on the streets of San Francisco. “Then there are those who take care of a week, a month, a year, you can chart in this country who is paycheck to paycheck and who has savings to make it through a year. This is all easily researched and compilable.”
“So?”
“So,” he said, somewhat derisively. “So, when you get beyond that and you enter the rarified eschalons of the elite who are not only secure for their own lives but have secured the lives of their offspring then you have groups who have the choice, they have the choice, they have a choice between the long view and the short view.”
“I still don’t follow.” He gave me an impatient look. I had expected for him to talk about the end-timers, my time amongst the Mormons had me in the mindset of the very religious, the apocolyptic, Revelations and all that. But, Galt was headed in a different direction.
“We either care about the future of the land or we care about the future of our offspring.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It makes perfect sense! Take the maker of missile systems, take a war supplier, profiteers. Are they motivated by armistice, peace, amity. No. They are motivated by money. And they make money when there is fear and hate in the world. The more fear and hate, the more money. More fear, more hate – more money. They then have enough to take care of their generations. Listen, we’re all tribal, the first thing we do is take care of our own. We, all of us, just need to expand the definition conception of ‘our own’ It’s too small a world now to let hate and fear of the ‘other’ fester. There is no ‘other’, there is only us.”
“Then how can you advocate taking over the silos? There’s certainly going to be violence, and that means guns and blood, they’ll send the whole army, this place will be overrun in minutes.”
“They can’t shoot what they can’t see.”
“I hate to say this, Galt, but you’re beginning to sound like a crazy. I mean, come on…”
“You can’t beat an enemy you can’t see,” he said simply. “Look at Vietnam, look at Iraq, look at the American fucking Revolution.” Intriguing bit of emphasis, I thought.
“Yes, but don’t you think we’ve entered an era where today’s firepower could vastly, easily, trounce such an uprising on this soil, in the terrain around the silos, and…”
“You really aren’t listening. It’s not about firepower, it’s about the power of the idea.” He paused, regrouped and went on, “When the emperor built the Great Wall, the furthest outposts had to be held by soldiers for years (soldiers from the cities, from other parts of the land. However, as they lived there, as they grew comfortable or at least static, they started to assimilate into the local population. Towns sprang up on both sides of the Wall. Ironically, the thing that was supposed to separate people brought them together. That was where the money was, the outposts were where trade took place, where ideas were exchanged and before long you couldn’t discern the occupied from the occupier.”
“Are you talking about infiltrating the military?”
“I’m talking about the natural progression of ideas.”
“But how? Doesn’t the army purposefully mix units, rotate them around the country. The idea is to form a unified state, plus we’re such a mobile society anyway, people jump from coast to coast, city to city.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said simply. The army is a different beast in many ways, but in some ways it is just like a massive corporation. There’s disgruntlment and dissension in any organization. We’ve managed to harness that.”
I felt a chill and shuddered. Winds blew through the tops of the pines and a soft shushing sound filled the air around us, as if the land was talking back, giving it’s approval or expressing its opposition, I wasn’t sure which. I had no idea how to respond, but deep down inside I was scared and I thought this was wrong. I didn’t entirely trust Galt, his virulent certainty (?) frightened me.
“Let’s go into town tomorrow,” he said. “There are some people I want you to meet.”
We walked back to his cabin in silence.
That night we sat together by the fire, his small stone hearth made from river rock and planed pine beams gave off good heat. It warmed his little home well. He read Master Sun and I stared at the embers. Eventually, I said ‘good night’ and drifted off to my bed on the far side of his main room, his only ‘room’ if you don’t count his loft where his bed was, where it was warmer in the winter, he said. Many nights in the summer and early fall, he’d sleep outside, often camping. He’d be gone for weeks at a time, hunting and traversing the secret trails of this country, such beautiful country. My sleep was troubled, his words rattled me and rattled around in my brain, the consequences, the meaning of the words if they were true was frightening. This was revolution, he was talking about, a coup.

(Remember treacle and tripe, TV and American entertainment is nothing but heaping portions of…
The elite taking care of generations. Maybe the four generation thing, what strain is there on the middle generation of three, if the younger or the older generation stumbles, if there’s an illness or job trouble, the middle is supposed to pick up the slack. If the top level falls the strain falls on the middle. If the lower level is flawed the responsible to fix it, to build it, rests on the middle. Four generations, an aging society that can work later in life and provide an extra layer of support is ideal.
Taking care of a clan, the larger that group is, the more offspring you get who, as one politician so aptly put it, were born on third and think they’ve hit a triple. The righteousness of the rich, the smug superiority of the successful, most of it is luck, and if you continue to promote these smug, lucky people who’ve never been beaten down and got back up then you’ll end up with leaders with unrealistic expectations. We can’t afford pollyanna and pipe-dreams. We’re in a world of paranoia and pipe-bombs and that requires more than wishful thinking and a steadfast, unwavering faith in the strength of the US military. I know the US military. I’ve served and I know there are thousands more who believe me when I say, there are flaws, massive chasms between the civilian leaders and the military top brass and there are huge divisions between top brass and rank and file and amidst all those different groups there are strong opinions at wide variance. Now, in any organization you’re going to see such stratification and disagreements, but we’re talking about groups with guns, lots of guns and billions of dollars that is virtually untraceable. Really, this is the truly scary thing – individuals have at their discretion slush funds that they can spend as they see fit, with little or no oversight from Congress or anyone for that matter, executive included.
“Come on, how do you know this to be true?”
“Trust me. I know. How else do you think I could feel as confident as I do about taking the silos?”
I thought confidence can equal madness or self-delusion as well as foundational truth.
His buddy just sat there looking at me, watching for a reaction in my face.)

[WTC guy is a proponent of NY, east coast urban strength and the economic power that a true and just democratic nation can exert for good, for peace and prosperity – not necessarily in that order. He runs at oddds with Galt, who leans toward a violent end to a corrupted structure. It is rotten to the core and the entirety of Washington-ian governance needs to be abandoned. He sees a West free from dangerous overseas alliances, a strong military as a deterrance, not projected into trouble spots to breed more trouble, and a social contract that offers a chance to all, an end to the prison culture and limited federal taxation – well, limited WSA-federal taxation. More states rights, local governance and a WSA military in the style of the Swiss, all able bodied men (and women a la Israel) are armed and trained, but are purely defensive. To attack it is to destroy it, but in destroying it you defeat the very purpose of attacking it.
His buddy is ex-LA cop, sick of the system. Laws that everyone breaks, drug laws that cannot be uniformly enforced breeds a world of discontent. Neighborhoods and entire classes of people who have no hope for change and see the system as rigged against them. He was merely a security guard for the rich, who, when engaged in the same activity as those in Compton or Watts were rarely prosecuted and never did the kind of time the poor did. It was patently unfair and an entirely untenable situation for the LAPD. It was triage. They fought the symptoms but the disease raged rampant.
“I thought I could escape to here, but I was wrong. There’s this sort of crime everywhere. Wherever there are people who want to get high on some illegal substance there will be an illegal underclass covertly serving them. You would think we would have learned from prohibition. What’s the difference between a meth lab and a backwoods still? I say legalize it, regulate it, and tax the shit out of it so you can fund drug treatment programs, education and job training. This, this ineffective half-assed police state has so fucked up our country I think it may be too late to fix by degrees. A radical correction may be in order.”
Franklin is more in the fixing by degrees camp. He thinks with his broadcast and education scheme he can bring enough people around to repair an ill body. The victim is sick, but chemo may remove the cancer. Galt and buddy and their ilk advocate amputation. (And the contagion is being spread, ‘democracy’ or lunacy?) What if it’s brain cancer. Do a brain transplant. Bury it and move on.
Jake is trying to corral all these forces. He has me and others on the ground eliciting support from the quiet masses who can afford to fund it but can’t afford to come out about it. Politicians (western) are being influenced, they are hearing the grass roots rumblings and larger public debates finally enter the realm of loyalists vs revolutionaries. Foreign agreements begin to take on the tone of alliances. The east coast establishment begins to take notice, but too late. A few radical governors make their move. Dissent turns to dissolution, secession, and an end to the flow of tax dollars, a Boston Tea Party.
An end to automatic deposit. The people of the west just start getting their paychecks the old fashioned way and then stop deductions at the direction of state governments. Need a real western banking power, would have to be alliances with powerful economic forces. The asian powerhouse economies, maybe consent of ‘Old Europe’ banking establishments. Strength of Euro v $, end of petrodollars, China calling in debt transferring it to WSA. Bank Wars – Citibank and who? How do you create division amongst groups that are so large and universal? And the corporations? Where are they headquartered might determine who they align themselves with, wouldn’t business balk. Banks and cos are about making money, all about profit, this would throw that out the window, unless they could be convinced that the present course is disastrous.
Where am I now? The cranberries are playing at Commuter Comforts – tough day at work.

From Boise, where? Canada? Fly out of Canada? What about the California political scene with Scoop? If I go to the border and fly to the international section of the story do I let the CA stuff proceed without me. Or do I follow it on the news and online and then return to a crescendo. (This is what I figured out last night – the ending is on the ferry going back to Las Piedras, there is nothing spectacular, he finds the Sound sublime, mountains and water and sky and peace and when he arrives Soo is there with Nate smiling and everything is just as it had been and Billy wonders whether or not the entire thing was but his imagination, that he had just gone into Seattle for the night and was coming home the next morning after a very remarkable dream. He walked off the gangplank and up the ramp, his mind pondering such possibilities. Soo stood holding Nate’s hand, Nate came running and jumped into his arms, Billy walked forward and gave Soo a short kiss on the lips, “Welcome home,” she said.

Inchon, Seoul airport, spend a few days just taking advantage of high speed Internet – moving pawns, exercising control, doing shit in CA from a Korean airport terminal, that’s kind of funny. Billy could connect with Scoop and tell him the back story re Marty’s arrest if he doesn’t know it already, the missing link would be Scoop to Jake. Marty would attract the attention of Scoop in CA, but neither would know Jake. So, in the airport and perhaps earlier, Utah, Idaho, Canada, Billy gets Scoop and Jake working together.

Phoenix, St. George, the canyons of Utah, Boise, the woods of Idaho (Indian nations), would need to get new ID somewhere maybe Murray could forward stuff to a PO box of Galt’s. Then Idaho to Canada with the ex-cop, time in Vancouver, then international, Seoul and Tokyo, and then back to Seattle and the ferry to Las Piedras. CA political tumult, all the economic blah blah blah
Boise cop’s LA connection, to Sacto to SF to OR, WA and then the cops are divided, there are factions who support WSA. International agreements, they are tenuous, cloudy and built from the ground up, leaders of the people, the underground like the Korean guy I wrote about recently, he is the archetype, they have military or government connections and then they use that and their popular support to drive the politicians to not oppose the WSA. Japan is different, it’s not military power, but the liberals, the desire for peace and a safe environment for business. They battle exclusionary politics, they want to stay Japan and they don’t like the US dragging them into these foreign adventures when they are seen as being subservient, the Korea, NK, Japan, China interplay is complex and the US is fucking it up.
How to exploit the media, that should be easy.

OK, the cop that Galt introduces me to is disgruntled with the system. He doesn’t necessarily like the blacks and hispanics that he had had to arrest, abuse and otherwise police, he just came to believe they were in an impossible situation. While with Galt this cop hears about someone like me, or should it be public? In the newspapers? (Here’s where the dream part can get played up, nothing in the newspapers, no printed record, it’s all online, Jake is never seen it’s all voices and email, I could play this up, but it sounds too Vanilla Sky, twist it somehow) No, he still has connections in law enforcement and the SFPD, LAPD are tied into the feds who are driving an odd investigation, bringing in detectives across the state to get info about friends and relatives of Billy and Marty. Martin is arrested. Willie Brown type politician and F. Lee Bailey type lawyer rally to his cause. FLB is Murray’s trustee. It becomes a huge case that the feds try to stifle/put off/hide/delay and simulataneously inflate, as long as they have Marty in custody and there is no trial they can leak whatever they want, habeas corpus. Top secret national secret, they keep Marty behind bars, but Scoop et al are pumping his story talking to the press doing interviews, the online community is outraged.

So, Billy needs to flee. Cop takes him to Canada. Approaching the border the cop says, “You know it may be best if you get in the trunk.”
“Are you serious?”
“I know it may sound extreme, but you never know. It won’t hurt.”
“It won’t hurt you! You’re not the one getting in the trunk.”
“What if they search? Don’t you think it would be slightly suspicious if they found a man in your trunk?”
“I’ve still got my badge, they won’t search.”
“If you’ve got your magic fucking badge (get out of jail card), then why do I have to get in the trunk?”
“Look if you have some sort of federal APB out on you, then they would have briefed the border guardds, they’d have shown them your picture. You would be on their wall, on their list. This is critical for these guys. Without you or Jake all they have is Martin and they’ll never be able to convict him. Your smiling mug could be plastered all over every border station from Bellingham to Tijuana.
I shut up for a second. “That sounds over the top, I mean, who am I, I’m nothing.”
“You need to stop thinking that way, you are vital, this is serious shit and you’re right in the middle of it. You’re the one that dragged Martin into this, it’s your fault he’s in jail, if you get caught the whole movement could collapse, they would crush countless people, myself and Galt included. So, you may want to take the chance because you don’t want to be uncomfortable in my trunk for a few hours, but I’m not willing to take that chance.”
“A few hours?!” I thought you said it was just across the border?”
“Well, I’ll need to find good spots to load and unload you. We can’t just stop on the side of the road and have you jumping in and out, someone might see us.”
“Fuck me,” I finally said in exasperation. “Fine.”
“Don’t worry, there’s plenty of air and I’ve got some jumper cables you can use as a pillow.”
Humor was not his strong suit. He actually had a blanket and honestly the trunk of a Lincoln Town Car (?) is not a bad place to catch a few snatches of sleep in a pinch, and I was definitely in a pinch.

2005-09-16T16:15:00.000-07:00

10/12/6 PM
Ran four miles, smoked two cigarettes, ate 6-piece California roll, a mini-bundt cake (poppy seed) now I sit and drink because I don’t want to read. Red Hook and potato chips. Tim’s. Very Northwest. Rainier is out again.
Jerry Jerry. Ex-cop from LA. Then Galt and Galt’s buddy is who? Ex-military. I need to go back and check my notes re meeting in a bar. Army talk. Then the trip to Canada – not with Jerry.
I got nothing. Zonked.

2005-09-16T16:14:00.001-07:00

10/12/6 AM
I’m having a hard time gathering my thoughts and this pen ain’t helpin’. Feeling stressed, although, I haven’t done much to assuage it. Lots of lingering work stuff, all the PR and DM and new boss stuff.
Big yellow schoolbus driving through the trees
Paints a pretty picture, an image sure to please
Why then does my mind
Tend to corruption and unease
The children on board will ultimately find
A life of stress and disease
Or is that just me?
This sensitivity
My proclivity
To moulder and malign
Is that my inherent nature
Part of some grand design
My mood is such I scorn your
Smiles
Your peace and contentment are
Miles
From my resentment, our
Outlooks clash
Pure skin to rash
A child’s laughter aboard a bus
Means different things to each of us
You see hope and possibilities
I see a life of strife, trivialities
Man, what a bummer
I wish it was summer
It’s growing cold
I’m no longer bold
I want to hide
This angst to subside
I’m feeling fried
I’ve never wanted to do this again
Return to childhood and try once more
Doing penance for some unseen sin
With no guarantee what I’d find in store
Was any better
What I would like, though
Trying to finish this letter
(for the ferry docks, I must go)
Is to crack that smile
To feel that joy
And just for awhile
Be that boy
Care free
On a bus
A simpler me
Not one of us
Going to work because we must
Pay for those being bussed.

2005-09-16T16:14:00.000-07:00

10/11/6 PM
Abe wasn’t joking. Jerry could talk. I don’t know if it was for the symbolism of it, or just because it was an easy landmark, but we met Jerry at the Mormon Temple in SLC, and he kept up a steady stream of conversation, although conversation might not be entirely accurate, it was a monologue interspersed now and again with grunts and innocuous questions from me, statements that he took as encouragement to keep on talking.
The last few days with Abe had been peaceful and sad. I was going to miss my walks with Joseph and the other kids who had eventually warmed up in their own ways. Those weeks were restorative. In the end, Jake was right, I needed the rest and the rest did me good. That said, it was a reminder of the home life, albeit a different variety of home life I had abandoned, and that was painful. During those days I was reminded at every turn of Nate and what I’d run away from. Abe and his clan had their obvious differences from my situation, I didn’t have two spare wives for instance, but the similarities were there. There was love. There was a lot of love. I was never quite sure how Abe dealt with all that love, to be honest, but there was no denying a happiness, a pervasive happiness that they all exuded, from the youngest crawler to the rest o the rascals Joseph led, to the trio of fine women who attended to Abe, the kids and I. I know it’s not PC, that it runs in the face of all feminist conventional wisdom, but that ‘family’ worked. Whether it was a result of their isolation, some unseen compunction, or any other more nefarious means remains to be seen. What I saw was a group of content people, leading a fulfilling life. Not for everyone, but there you go, they weren’t hurting anyone.
The meeting in SLC was banal and bizarre. Abe and I stood around in the large plaza before the Temple talking about the structure of the church, the internal politics and divisions that exist in any group, just chattering away, when a tall, grizzled, weather-worn and severe-looking man walked up to us.
“Abe?” he asked hesitantly.
“Yep.”
“Jerry. You must be Billy,” he said to me. Those four words served as the preface to hundreds of thousands more I would hear over the next 12 hours and 1,000 miles.
I was handed off like a half-read newspaper.
Abe said so long in a terse off-hand way, and Jerry and I marched off to where he’d parked his truck. A Chevy.

2005-09-16T15:00:00.000-07:00

10/10/6 PM
“The result was meetings of the elders of different tribes, well, not always elders, some were political players, some had gone off, got college educations and decided to come back. Some just had gotten rich off the casinos and wanted, well, they had the opportunity to do something. They had money. There was no shortage of money. And as they met more, and, now, well, don’t get me wrong, these meetings, these were like business meetings, no longhouse sweatouts, psychedelic rigamarole. They met at Ramada Inns and Community Centers. These were, they became planning sessions. The ceremonies, the initiations, all that was for recruitment.”
“Sounds kind of cynical,” I said.
“Well, maybe that’s an overstatement. They, there are different elements, you know. This isn’t a story about unification, it’s about cooperation, respecting others’ objectives, their goals and dreams, what’s important to them without losing sight of the thing that they all want.”
Those words hung in the air of Abe’s kitchen. “’The thing that they all want’?” I asked. I repeated.
“Well, yeah, it’s what we all want. It’s what Galt wants and Jake, and you, too, right?”
“Uh, what do you mean?”
“Freedom. We want to be free, to do what we want to do, to live the way we want, without paying for war and having some idiots who don’t know us tell us what laws we have to obey. We want states rights. And…” he laughed, “And, we want our own State!”
I looked at him and smiled. “It’s easy to want that,” I said ruefully, “but how do you make that happen?”
“Yes. Indeed. Amen, brother. That is the question. Isn’t that why you’re here?”
I must have looked shocked, I certainly felt a wave of inadequacy. “Dude,” I said, “I’d like to see a change as much as you, as much as everyone… Wait…who is Galt?”
Abe smiled now. “Galt is where you’re going next.”
“Galt is a place?”
“No, Galt is a force of nature. He’s an earthquake, a tornado, a storm brewing on the horizon.”
It was the most melodrama you could get from a Mormon on linoleum.
“OK. Do you want to tell me when exactly I’m supposed to go to this Galt, when I’m going to meet this tornado?”
“Tuesday. Jerry’s going to meet us in Salt Lake City on Tuesday.”
I didn’t even bother asking who Jerry was. I stared at Abe.
“You’ll get it. You’ve got a long drive with Jerry. You’ll get the whole story from Jerry.”

2005-09-11T16:20:00.000-07:00

10/10/6 AM
Story. Write the Martin as a martyr as Steven Biko or Nelson Mandela into the Korea section as read through the Internet. Politicians from around the West come to do the vigil and not just as photo ops, some come in the dark of night. It is a duty, it is a call of honor, the protection of civil liberties. They won’t let Martin be shipped off to some secret prison.
The other thought is Utah.
Billy.
I used to wake up early and go for walks into the canyons. After a few days of this, some of the kids started to join me, or rather they would follow behind and then take the secret paths they knew so well and pass me, spying from behind boulders and running ahead to jump out and scare me. I pretended to be frightened and sometimes I really was. There was one boy, probably ten years old, who was braver than the others and started talking to me, tentatively at first, shouting down silly comments from above, “Where ya’ goin? Are ya lost? Watch out for the mountain lions – or the injuns, the injuns’ll get ya.”
It took about a week of this before he was confident enough, certain of my harmlessness to walk along with me, although that isn’t quite accurate, he wasn’t so much with me as he was bouncing around me like a sprite or a guardian angel. His name was Joseph, and I considered, he made me think, during those quirky walking talks and in reflection afterwards that I wouldn’t mind if my boy Nate grew up to be like him. His name was Joseph, of course, and while he didn’t have six brothers, he had quite a few.
He taught me the back ways, the hidden trails of the canyons, secret caves with runes and writings on the walls that had never been seen by anthropologists. Despite his earlier catcalls about “injuns” he was remarkably well-informed about the local tribes. He knew these were sacred grounds and he respected them. His father met with them, the Utes, and they worked together, cooperating in their “off-the-grid” activities. When he turned 13, he told me, he would get to go to the longhouse ceremonies, special meetings where the youths were initiated into manhood, and important topics discussed in marathon sessions conducted in a specially built cabin, of sorts, partially dug into the soil like a baseball dugout, but entirely covered and heated by a fire in the center.
His father told hime about the meetings, how he had been invited after years of living in conjunction with the Utes out here in the wilderness.
I was intrigued and asked Joseph’s father, let’s call him Abraham for laughs, what these meetings were all about.
“Initially, they were a way of preserving their heritage,” he told me as we sat at their crude kitchen table when the kids were in bed. “Most of the Ute kids had no idea of their culture. There was a vacuum, and the elders themselves felt lost. So, they resumed these meetings which had survived by word of mouth and, ironically, in the writings of anthropologists, anglos, who had come to study their ways before they disappeared.
“In time these meetings became more than ceremonial. Serious topics were discussed. Casinos. Reservation politicies, last use issues, mining rights and all that. They were some of the same issues that existed when the anglos first arrived and confiscated their land. The problems hadn’t changed much – they were still getting ripped off, it wasn’t ancient history, it was today. So, they started looking at the old solutions, what had failed, why were they unable to stop the forces that had made them so miserable, such an oppressed people?
“A key determination was that there had been no inter-tribal unity. As separate nations they were lost, easily picked off, isolated, and defeated one by one. They started sending out emissaries, ambassadors to other tribes.

2005-09-11T15:57:00.001-07:00

10/9/6 PM
I wrote some this weekend, or did I? I wrote this morning I know in the big black book. I’m drying up. In more ways than one, he says with a hacking cough – need water, must have (gasp) water – or beer. No stop on the way to the ferry and now I’m in the reading room. I’ll have one when the kids are in bed.
No drinking and no writing, well not the torrential flow (of both). I had three cigarettes today after none this weekend, since Friday at 5:20 pm. I ran 8 miles on Sunday, roughly 40 hours after 10 cigarettes. So, Tuesday 4+ miles after 3 should be easy. A speed run at the gym. Weights tonight.
The Reformation book has just started in again on Calvin. Started in again on Calvin, where to begin again, on Calvin. Too dull. I’m too dull. Tired, really. I was starting to read now and got that exhausted, defeated, I’m about to cry feeling. Not sure how I’m going to pull off the marketing plan stuff.
I need out of here. It’s beautiful outside.

2005-09-11T15:57:00.000-07:00

10/6/6 PM
Crying kids, I hit the skids, going home for more of the same, stinking, drinking, myself to blame, must wash up or the criers will know, still staunch beerflow, for fuck’s sake. I’ll be miserable again tomorrow. 5:15 was the last smoke, no joke, this time I mean it 5:15 tomorrow I will have done weights, he hesitates, does the math 36 hourse after last cigarette I must do 8 miles. I bet it will hurt. Revert, to the healthy lifestyle, knowing smile. Is it really, my hip hurts already.
I hate people, sheeple, steeple, the ubiquitous homogeneity, lack of spontaneity – of one class. The disgusting needyness of the rest, a long never-ending pest. Dull or annoying. Aloof or annoying. Obvious all. I am them, though, with this fall. Whatever perceived brilliance, whatever chemical deviation, I approach now the norm of the nation. Despicably average. Bradd Lidge, Billy Wagner, Eric Gagne – closers. Posers are all around me, or worse, those that are actually what they seem. I’m getting drunk writing sloppily and thinking mean. Whatever.
I grow the corpulent jowls of those around me, eyes sunken and dull, a pear-shaped body, I mull, my vanity, visual profanity, aesthetic insanity, Holmes and Hannity. Half a beer left, then a walk, a bus, a drive, a wife’s disdain, must refrain. Just don’t talk. Stop the berating by never stating, anything. There’s too much to state, my fate, I hate, this weight, of transition, I loathe the excuse but it’s no use, it happens.
Waah.
Get over it. Lamictal, my sill, windows, wind blows, a still, moment, foment
Stability, ability, to deal, I feel
I feel, I feel, I feel, but is it real?
Just go away, don’t say, a thing, that ring
Is your best disguise, the rest remain unwise
As long as they believe my web you weave has
Been reviewed, approved, by someone else. Your
Wife, your life, a living CV, a resume in a word.
Absurd.

2005-09-11T15:56:00.002-07:00

10/6/6 AM
I gotta stop drinking, smoking, eating too much crap. I had the potential to be right on target this week and now I feel like crap. Two good runs, although the hip hurts and I barely touched the weights, probably won’t today either, definitely this weekend.
Instead, I smoked after my run and tried to smoke as much as I could so I would feel this shitty, had two beers, potato chips, an extra Specialty’s sandwich plus the dinner my wife made.
And the Dodgers lost! Argh. I feel like shit. I do have 7 or so smokes left, though, and I know I’ll have at least one beer tonight. Cuz I’m stupid.

2005-09-11T15:56:00.001-07:00

10/5/6 PM
Another day. My wife called when I was at the Pioneer Square Saloon. Not happy. Two beers today and a few (8?) smokes, plus a 3.75 mile run at the gym. I need to finish the pack tomorrow, then I’ll be done for the week and it’s just a matter of how I do Monday morning. Weights on Saturday. Run on Sunday, a long one (8?). Monday maybe weights at the gym, and then a Tuesday speed run. It would be nice to do that without having a cigarette since Friday.
I need to figure out when I’m going to do some road running. My hip really hurt today, still kind of does though I popped four ibuprofrin.
I think these new owners are going to be good for the company. I may have to work a bit harder.
The Dodgers are playing right now. Home by 6:30, I will have missed about an hour. They need this or they’ll be down 2-0 after last night’s (day’s) fiasco. Let’s hope Kuo baffles them.
Story. Boss. Gone. I’ve got a lot to do.
Harumph.

2005-09-11T15:56:00.000-07:00

10/5/6 AM
Hungover. Paused there because I was going to say “actually” hungover, which I should have but I stopped because I feel I’ve been using the word too much. Actually, that’s the word. Fuck. I’m glad (yes, I paused and almost wrote “actually”). I’m glad I’m hungover, it’s motivation to stop this binge. I need to get in shape and last night was a setback. I was scheduled to work out and didn’t. I’m scheduled to run today and need to slip away and not smoke in the morning.
Vicious fishes – thought in a car
Sublime fall – thought getting on the boat.
The fall from my manic high is coinciding with this uncertainty at work. I will need to keep my wits about me. It bothers me that this is interfering with the story. Training gives me something else to think, write, do. The job now will occupy more thought and time. And, the usual course down from a high leads me to a mood where I don’t write. I could counter that now and try to use the Lamictal to my advantage. I wasn’t writing really on the evening ferry, unless you count the poetry scrawl.
What about printing the book myself and including scrawled poems, adapted to fit the storyline, but the actual scrawl – kind of like those Griffin and Sabine books except from a guy on the run. Poems and shit sent back to Soo that Billy can’t send. The political scrawl.
The sublime fall
Traces of brown
Seeping into the green
Crisp is cliché, sublime cliché
But there’s no other way
Brilliant blues and scarlet hues
Sky, water, and clouds converge
Whispering another season’s dirge
Don’t fear the reaper summer was a time to reap
(I gotta have more cowbell!)
Wishing this descent is less steep
Than when I fell before
My own hell
Ignore, abhor, snore, Thor,
My core
Dejected
Love
Rejected
Above
Inspected
Only confirms my belief
This natural cycle
This turning leaf
Is no passing trifle
For me
But selfish indulgence
Falling into darkness
Must be
Not in abundance
My weakness
I see
Is this seasonal change
I adjust now, I rearrange
It is what it is, I can’t fear the fall
In varying degrees it happens to all
The light’s now slanting
Though it shines still
My silent ranting
Is an act of will
To work I go
This quiet struggle
They’ll never know
Brightness fades, cold winds blow
Darker shades, quick to slow
I hear the call
I cannot stall
My sublime fall

This is taking too long.

2005-09-11T15:55:00.000-07:00

It’s Saturday and I’m not sure if I’m going to be able to get all the details down (clown, frown). I can hear Soo listening to Elvis upstairs. “We’re caught in a trap, we can’t go on together, we can’t go on together with suspicious minds.” Funny (money, honey, dripping, stripping, bare, to the core, spare, no more, war, obvious, is it? Envious? your zit, my zit, whozit, mature, fer sure, anyway, ray, hope, dope).
I met with Max like that four times (roll of dimes, nickels too heavy, Rockefeller’s levy, a self tax, relax). Always a different location, always a different meeting point. TJ’s Tavern was just one of many locations they had where there were people they could trust (this is a bust, wind gust, in dog we, oh I see). People who could watch for a car, would report anything back to their contact. A gas station, a drug store, it could have been anyplace. It was this widespread network that really started convincing me. I mean Max could have been the most convincing guy in the world, but if it was just one guy talking it would be pretty stupid of me to believe that we could pull off what we’re going to try to pull off. I was exposed to a vast network, and it went up as well as down. Bob intimated that they had connections in the State Department, the Pentagon, maybe even the Cabinet. But then how does the saying go, “Those that know don’t talk, those that don’t know do.” Bob was a bit of a weak link if you ask me. Jake called him their Pet Pachyderm. He was involved in local Republican party politics and he knew things and was convenient, but he was a bit of a chucklehead. I think Max kept him around so he could get them out on King’s Point, the Kingston country club, rub a dub dub. I asked, but they wouldn’t let me play, it was always just the three of them, Jake and Bob and Max. Private conversations on a private course (remorse, discourse).
I can hear Soo and Nathan running around upstairs. He still laughs, they still have fun together, which makes me feel good and awful at the same time (rhyme, fuckoff, we’ve done that one, fuckoff, you’re no fun). They can be happy without me, they don’t really need me, but I will miss them (I will miss you, Soo, I know you don’t think so now, I know you’ll think this is madness, but I’ve never stopped loving you. You have made my life complete and I love you so. Oh, my darling, I love you and I always will. No matter where I am or what happens, please remember that [sniff, fucker, whiff, clucker, calling me chicken, pulsings quicken, I’m not excited, are you incited, you tell me, I think we agree, we’d be in trouble if we didn’t, you need a mint, you missed, assonance, now I’m pissed, arrogance, whatever, time to sever, a limb?, a whim, then go on, anon)].

During the course of those four meetings with Max and his pals he laid out the plan and my role in it. He assured me everything would be taken care of while I was gone. Soo would get a job. Nathan would have the best daycare and they would never have to worry about their security (obscurity, purity, water, otter, totter, tater, hater). I should never worry about their security (a surety, close enough, rough). This was very important, and Max knew it was important to me, and he’s almost gone too far, perhaps he protests too much sort of thing, you know, but I believe him. I trust him and others trust him (sing that hymn, out on a limb, you know it, don’t blow it). And he’s assured me there are others above him, that he’s not alone, he hasn’t gone as far as Bob, but he’s made it clear that there are allies in important places. Certainly none of this would be possible if there weren’t.
OK, so here’s what I’m going to do on Monday. I’m going to tell Soo I have an interview in Kirkland. I’m going to take my car to Seattle and kill time until the 5:30 ferry back to Las Piedras Island. I will need to be one of the first cars on the ferry. I need to be on the lower deck so my car blocks a large number of cars. This is important, it needs to be in the way. It’s a diversion, it’s one of several diversions (excursions, perversions, your words, not mine, flying birds, I feel fine, end of the world, flag unfurled, toes curled, abuse hurled). Once I’m parked, I will leave a note on this little sculpture I’ve made. It’s just a bunch of old batteries, wrapped with clear plastic tape around a milk jug that I’m going to fill with colored water (NO FOOD DIE). The note will read: “This is not a real bomb, but it could have been.” (this is not your tomb, you walk between, leave the womb, see and be seen) I need to quickly go up to the passenger deck and leave the ferry. This shouldn’t be too hard. I just need to stay calm and walk slowly. Give nothing away with my face and actions. At this point I’m an actor, I’m playing the role of a guy who’s forgotten something and has to walk back apologetically through the crowd of commuters filing onto the ferry (merry, hardly, very, bardly, bardly?, you had one, weeple, that was fun, people, make mistakes, the fakes, judgmental, elemental, sentimental? Getting dull, a lull, please! geez).
Once I’m through anything can happen. Let me just lay out the possible scenarios (impresarios, I’m ignoring you, rosarios, y tu). I could go into the men’s bathroom, get in a stall and remove my clothes beneath which I will be wearing running shorts and a T-shirt. My pants and dress shirt are deposited in the trash can under a crumpled up newspaper, and will be retrieved shortly thereafter by someone else.
We went over several options and I want to relay them all just in case this falls into the wrong hands, or perhaps so it does fall into the wrong hands. Once I started listening to these guys and thinking myself about all the different ways to do this, I realized we have to do this just to make people aware. It would be so easy for someone with malicious intent to do something like this, it is scary (eek, this is bleak, so, go, away, need I say, more, roar, mouse, lion, house, scion, heir, air, err, away, so you say so you say). And the worst part is, the effort it would take to prevent this would be too onerous to ever implement. The only solution is to create an environment where no one would want to do something like this.
Six fake bombs on six ferries will wreak sick havoc. And, that’s just the maritime activity, I’m not privy to all the land-based distractions they’ve got planned.
I could just walk out of the ferry building and start running, just like I was a casual ordinary jogger. I could be picked up by a friendly in a car. I could run to a predetermined location where there’s a bicycle. At this point time is critical. The ferry will be loading up and will take 35 minutes to arrive at Las Piedras at which point my car will be discovered unoccupied and in the way (obstructing, self-destructing, fictionally, I see). They’ll find the “bomb” and start looking for me (us, discuss, bus, no fuss, impossible, plausible, toss a bull, given cause-ible, weak, meek, earth, worth, inheriting, ferreting, out, a lout, in the hills, without wills, intestate, ingrate). The car is registered in my name and they will alert the police, the border and the airport. I need to be far gone unrecognized before that point. I can’t risk taking a cab and public transport would be too slow and too dangerous, as well. If I take the bike I could ride the 12 miles to SeaTac, ditch the bike and change in another pre-determined bathroom. Or I could get a ride from a friendly and calmly take a plane anywhere. Or I could just run or ride to any location in Seattle and “go to the mattresses” as the saying goes, at any number of friendly locations (vocations, calling, falling, job, rob, steal, feel, real). Or I could disappear into the woods, go out to the Olympic peninsula, the possibilities for my disappearance are endless. I could run the six miles to Fountleroy and take the change of clothes out of the bathroom in the park and walk on to the ferry to Vashon Island. I could be one of the shocked, stunned people on that ferry when that “bomb” is discovered. Once on Vashon, I could stay with friendlies or get picked up by a small motor boat that could transport me to any location on Puget Sound. I could be in a remote cabin or in a big city and no one would know where. I could stay in hiding in this country or abroad for years.
Why? Why would I want to do this, you ask (task, unbidden, shell midden, treasure hidden, amidst rubble, looking for trouble). Because this group needs someone who can convey its messages, someone who can explain why they’ve done what they’ve done. So, what to explain first, why they’re doing it or what they’re doing. Well by the time you read this you should know damn well what they’ve done (or something’s gone terribly wrong) so let me tell you why.
Are they religious zealots, are they crazy survivalists? No. The people involved in this are, for the most part, just decent Americans who have been convinced that this is the best way to re-establish the principles our founding fathers had in mind when they told the British to bugger off (scoff, buzz off, lame, game, over). Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness. I would say most have never really paid that much attention to politics, not on a national (and certainly not on an international) level. They may have been involved in local issues, but primarily they were just concerned with raising their kids and living decent lives. Some may have voted Democratic, maybe some Greens, but if I had to guess (and I’m basically extrapolating from the small number I have met) I’d wager that the majority belong to that vast majority of Americans, the Americans who don’t vote. I think they’ve been convinced to take part by a group of leaders that I’d characterize as Radical Moderates. They are willing to go to extremes to advance a legislative agenda that emphasizes education, the environment, child care, and basic human welfare (not “welfare” in the traditional meaning of the word, that loaded word, but really caring about the welfare of citizens). The emphasis on what could be perceived as purely domestic issues is deceptive because these are people who, like me, have been moved to action due to international affairs, due to a government that has consistently and systematically moved into international situations foolishly, blindly (perhaps with the right intentions [perhaps{mishaps, I thought we were done, ton, bricks, wicks, candle, to you, handle, shoo!}]), and with disastrous results. They are not isolationists. On the contrary, there is evidence that a large percentage is quite cosmopolitan, quite aware of the larger world. Indeed, it would be safe to say there’s a large number who (also like me) are related through marriage to what whiter people might used to have called “foreigners.” Well, to me, and to many others in this country, there are no foreigners anymore. There are just people.
Max pointed out to me that it was a rather ironic historical coincidence that my Korean-American wife and I landed on Las Piedras Island, which had many Japanese-Americans dislocated, shall we say, post-December 7, 1941. They lost their homes, belongings, dignity and were carted away to enjoy that last Great War (a Just War people pine over) behind fences in the sticks. He pointed out that there must be a few Arab-Americans right now who, while not manacled in Manzanar, are feeling, at least a little uncomfortable (if I can speak euphemistically). What is going on in Guantanamo Bay? Who are these Buffalo Five and the group in Oregon? Will we see a Christalnacht-style Mosque burning next? No, that’s just impossible today. Or is it?
And what about that Asian angle of the Axis of Evil. What’s going to happen in Pyongyang? And if we start the bloodbath in Korea are Korean-Americans going to face the same level of “uncomfortable-ness” as our Arab-American friends. You can be damn sure not every South Korean is going to be tickled about an American government that through its bellicose meddling starts getting Korean (capitalist or communist, who cares?) sons and daughters killed.
For a guy whose son (and the woman he deeply loves) looks a tad (and unmistakably) Korean, I must say I don’t like the way American foreign policy is trending. How long before federal agents come knocking on the door to talk to Soo? Or Soo’s parents, aunts, uncles…
So, what’s the answer? Pull back troops, reduce military spending, and crawl into our shell like a fat happy snappy turtle suddenly done nipping at everyone he sees as a threat? No, that’s not the idea. That didn’t work after WWI, and it won’t work now, especially in a world where any group of fruitcakes with cash and time on their hands can blow up a bus or a plane or a ferry full of Americans (shenanigans, ramekins, cooking, looking, for trouble, in the rubble).
And, there you have it. The distraction. One of them. Don’t worry, we’re not really going to blow up the ferry. Violence only begets more violence. We’re Extreme Pacifists. Pacifists have always lost because at the end of the day they don’t want to fight. A defining principle of most martial arts (and good old mutually assured destruction, if we could get nostalgic about the Cold War for a moment) is being strong enough to not have to fight, to be able to defend yourself without striking a blow, to use your opponents energy against himself. And that is what we have in mind. Use American tools of war to lobby for peace (piece, pie, try, you’ll find, another kind, peace of mind, money in bank, gas in tank, getting tanked, parents thanked, respect elders, union of welders, inner peace, no police, a new lease, life, wife, missing link, time to think, a drink, work, shirk, smirk).
It’s cheaper and more efficient than paying off all the Democrats and Republicans in power (besides, most of them are already bought). There isn’t the time to organize on a grass-roots level and go through the traditional democratic process, especially since that process has been grossly corrupted (erupted, interrupted, Florida, no duh). It made sense for several thousand or even several hundred thousand people to go out and decide what brought the greatest good for the greatest number (slumber, dumb and dumber, selfishness, elfishness, Santa, claws, grant a, few flaws, democracy, not all it can be). But when hundreds of millions of people are getting force-fed information through a shrinking media market that manipulates them, demeans their intelligence, and purposely attempts to diminish their knowledge of facts and issues, then, forgive me, but the process is fucked up beyond all recognition (admonition, act of contrition).
When smart people recognize their vote is meaningless, and when crooks and cheats prove it to them, then it’s time to take matters into your own hands, your own arms, as Tommy Jeff might have said. Why were they (those oft-lauded founding fathers) so adamant about giving us the right to bear arms? So we could get loaded and shoot cans off rocks, so we could kill those evil deer (ahem, mayhem) or was it so we’d have some spectacular Made for TV specials, ie Ruby Ridge, Waco and the Branch Davidians, 44 Minutes in North Hollywood, or whatever other crazy whack job sniper-fest comes next. No, NO, NO! for fuck’s sake, NO! We were given the right to bear arms so we could quickly form a militia that would protect the populace from an aggressive invading army OR an oppressive native government gone awry (good try, by and by, Alki, alibi, good-bye). It’s the last check in an elaborate series of checks and balances drawn up by a group of paranoid men tired of getting their pockets picked clean so a crazy man named George could fund foreign wars. Does this sound at all familiar to anyone? Did anyone else watch with Shock and Awe as their tax dollars were dropped willy-nilly on Baghdad Bazaars?
Violence begets violence. Every nephew of every “accidental” death, every cousin of anyone affected by “collateral damage,” every proud, independent citizen of the world who has seen his village or country damaged in any way by an arrogant, righteous steamroller of a superpower is a potential convert to an army committed to killing Americans. Violence begets violence.
It’s like an addiction. And once we start, once we as a people, as a nation, get hooked on this bloodlust we’re not going to be satisfied until that last gory binge (syringe, singe, fringe, element, development, arrested, attested, signed and sealed, maligned yet healed). The only hope is to stop and just take it day by day. Sometimes, it’s hard to stop, though. So, think of this as an intervention, a nuclear intervention courtesy of the Washington State Ferries, the U.S. Coast Guard, one Navy warship, and a nuclear attack submarine spirited out of Subase Bangor.
Will it work? I don’t know. All I know is I have to tell people about it. Even if it doesn’t work, I just need to contact the right people and give them the right information, and if they have the courage, if they have the integrity and the wisdom to use their skills and fight to print what they know is right then maybe, just maybe we can put a stop to this crazy landslide of violence and stupidity (serendipity, don’t get uppity, needed pity, not really, you need Sealy, posturepedic, orthopedic, bone man, biggest fan, erudite, better be right).
OK, how? How do you think you’re going to pull this off? What have you seen that could possibly make you believe what they’ve told you could come true? Good question.
During those four meetings with Max I was introduced to a variety of individuals, let’s call them the Product Managers (integers, prickly burrs, stuck to fur, fucked fer sure, pessimist, realist, people, steeple, not again, you win). They each looked me in the eyes, shook my hand, and spoke to me honestly about their belief in the feasibility of their specific product launch and by extension the overall project. These were not crazy men. These were intelligent, well-spoken, educated men who reassured me with their calm, their attention to detail, and their knowledge of historical precedence for such action (faction, traction, pull, wool, eyes, surprise). We (thee, they, us, betray, truss, herniated, disk, permeated, risk, Americans, beer in cans) casually put aside the fact that our nation was fighting a Civil War less than 140 years ago. That is a drop in the bucket, a blip on the World History Timeline. Everyone likes to think that war was about freeing the slaves, and that’s all well and good, but don’t forget there was a little matter of a few states that didn’t want to play anymore. It kind of diminishes the cachet of the United States of America when you have to kill a bunch of Americans to keep it United.
Secession is an ugly word, it reeks of quitting, and no one likes a quitter (I’m not quitting, Soo). And who knows if it will come to that. I’m not privy to all the international intrigue going on, they never tell the PR guy everything. You can’t communicate what you don’t know and rationalizing all facts whilst still being able to keep a straight face is a role for an actor of Marlin’s caliber (Marlon?, Fitzwater not Brando, solder that and go). The information I need will get relayed to me once I’ve set up my operation, and once I have the ear of prominent journalists that recognize the gravity of this situation. Let’s just say our military isn’t as parochial as we think it is. All these international operations have put senior military officers in close contact with other senior military officers from “foreign” powers who may not agree with their political leaders and who may also NOT agree with American political leaders. Not every military man is dying to die, not for a clown who never served and plays Rambo with their toys (boys, will be, noise, you’ll see).
So, I dash off and the Las Piedras Island ferry is clogged with police, bomb squads, and countless other first response units, trying to make sense of a stupid note and a stupid-er “bomb.” Similar actions are planned for the Seattle/Bremerton, Edmonds/Kingston, Mukilteo/Clinton, Fountleroy/Vashon, and the Anacortes/San Juan Islands ferries. The Washington State Police and the US Coast Guard are going to be very busy tomorrow (borrow, sorrow, grief, relief).
I’ve been assured there’s a backup press secretary on board, in case, for whatever reason, I don’t work out (I’m not sure if I’m the second string poet or vice versa [verse wiser, Budweiser]). If I don’t make it, or if something unforeseen happens, they have some other guy (or girl, I don’t know) who has been briefed on all this and who must be preparing in much the same way I am now (how, sow, sow, low, grow, oh I think you know).
Anyway, while all this chaos is going on on the local ferries, the cruise ship headed for the Inside Passage trip to Ketchikan, Alaska, is hijacked by its crew. News of this is to be radio-ed by said crew directly to the Coast Guard via open channels. The Coast Guard vessel destined to respond to this emergency is also under friendly control. Together both vessels depart the Strait of Juan de Fuca into the open waters of the Pacific Ocean.
At which point this becomes a very big deal. The Coast Guard vessel does not respond to any radio or visual contact. We predict there will quickly be helicopters (both Coast Guard and possibly press, depending on how industrious they are). We don’t want the Coast Guard vessel to do or say anything (ring, free, dumb, sea, plumb).
This will get escalated to the US Navy. This is where I’m out of the loop. I’m not sure how they are going to do this to tell the truth, they haven’t been too forthcoming with the names and ranks of the people who are going to be pulling the strings, but it doesn’t take a paranoid conspiracy theorist to figure out this goes pretty high up the chain of command (demand, reprimand, understand, position, volition). There are a few Navy warships that could be sent to respond to such an action, and they’re all out of Bremerton. They won’t officially send a sub, but there will be such a coordinated state of confusion that people won’t question the quick dispatch of a sub, and if everyone (or at least enough) aboard that sub is on board this operation, then, well then, I think you can see how, in a very short amount of time, the proverbial shit is going to be hitting the fan.
How will the world react to the news that an armada consisting of a Coast Guard cruiser, a US Navy warship, and a nuclear armed submarine are floating off the Pacific coast keeping watch over a few thousand vacationing civilians who were off to see glaciers calving and are now seeing the glacial pace of history suddenly accelerate in one giant splash before their very eyes (size, large, in charge, unknown, seeds sown, have grown, unbeknownst to, who phones you, leader, greeter, big eater, cruise king, boozing, bruising, disabusing).
What is Bush/Cheney going to do? Call in air strikes on his own Navy? For what? Just to stay in power. All we have to do is ask for his resignation, an abdication, if you will (“Bush II Gives Up The Throne”), or, at the very least a new election, and is the American public going to vote for the guys that squandered all our money pissing off people who are willing to die to kill us and our allies – AND couldn’t even retain the faith of their paid henchmen (in the trench men, paid, waylaid, employed, destroyed, fighting the good fight, righting a bad write, go on, anon).
No. Especially not after they hear what’s driving this action – a simple return to the principles of our founding fathers. Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness. It’s hard to pursue happiness when your country, the military your taxes are funding is off shooting people at the direction of your president, creating new enemies who will stop at nothing for revenge (avenge, more death, wasted breath, possibly, plausibly, deniability, inability, forestalled, a world enthralled, by those willing, for more killing). Violence begets violence, but pacifism doesn’t always beget peace.
I’m sorry, Soo, if this doesn’t make sense to you. I’m sorry if anyone gets hurt. I think it’s best for us, it’s best for the country, and it just feels right. I think of all of the omens, all the little things (and big things) that have gone into this decision and I just can’t help believing it’s going to work.
As Max said to the group at the last meeting: “It’s not every day that we are needed. Not indeed that we personally are needed. But at this place, at this moment of time, all mankind is us, whether we like it or not. Let us represent worthily for once the foul brood to which a cruel fate consigned us.”
I walked up to him afterwards when he was alone and told him that little speech of his sounded familiar.
He just laughed and said, “Beckett.”
“Beckett?!” I said. “Samuel Beckett?!” and we laughed together.
“Who are you?” I asked him still in puzzled bafflement.
“Who am I?” he asked back, “I’m you, I’m me, I’m us, I’m them. I’m everyone. I’m the voice in the back of your head that’s saying something’s not right, something needs to be done, and either you have to figure out a way to do it or figure out a way to make that voice go away because it won’t stop. It will keep coming back in one form or another. So you can either get used to it or sac up and do the right thing.”
He said this all to me quietly, urgently, looking directly into my eyes, and I got goosebumps up and down my spine (fine, world, end, twirled, friend).
I’m sorry, Soo. I have to do this. I believe I will see you again, and I can only hope you will want to see me.

2005-09-11T15:54:00.000-07:00

10/4/06
10/4 over and out.
What – what? Watchdog is what I wanted to say, but not really. I was planning on writing about how I was slowing down, that three beers before the ferry three weeks ago wouldn’t have caused me to blink an eye. Now, I’m fried and thinking this ferry beer before me is overkill. The date, though, writing the 10/4 made me think of the double meaning of said. The deal was done today. It’s all over. No more ticker symbol. No more shareholders. Just two owners.
Boy, I’m feeling really fucked up and tired and bloated and wishing I was outside in the breeze enjoying this pleasant beginning of fall evening. Instead, I sit here muscling down this fourth beer regretting all the cigarettes I smoked today and catching just a glimpse of the expansive northwest beauty.
Shimmering windows on Queen Anne Hill (at least I think that’s what it’s called) reminiscent of the East Bay reflections from San Francisco.
Man, I shouldn’t have bought that last pack. 10? For the day? 6-7? The crabcakes and bite-sized chicken cordon bleu weren’t good ideas either. I’m supposed to run tomorrow. I’ve been good, but I can’t work out tonight. I’ll be lucky if I can get the trash to the curb. That may be an early AM effort.
Work, workout, story. Got nothing on the story today. Bomb scare apparently on the 7:55 this morning according to my friend. Reminded me of Part I of The Moon-Shakes but I didn’t say anything. Problem with story, getting the car on the front and stuff. I need to go back and look at all that.
Plagued by the thought that this is all crap.
Grandmas shouldn’t wear skintight pants
I don’t even want to rhyme anymore.
I’ve started listening to NPR rather than music. All the signs are there. The manic run is winding down. Let’s just see how hard of a fall it will be. Lamictal don’t fail me now.

The meeting of Kims

2005-09-11T15:53:00.001-07:00

A man poked his head out the door, his face so big and flat I expected it to be two-dimensional, that when he turned his head it would be as thin as a pizza plate.

I need to go back to Utah, a drying out period, getting healthy, hiking and communing with the land, meeting Utes in canyons and caves, native Americans living off the grid, or going to these places from the reservations, from their shitholes to the sublime. They would go into the canyons where no one else knew the way. They received assistance from the Mormon families, and the odd multi-wived family Billy was staying with. Same in Idaho. Galt knows them, they meet, off the path conferences, a bit on the Ghost Dance, that revival, need to find that, the belief that the indians could recover their land, that there would be a powerful spirit who would revive and unite the Indian nations so they could take back what is theirs. An odd alliance indeed, tribes and Mormons and LA cops and ex-military. Maybe even have Billy attend one of these meetings, the longhouse, steam ceremonies, peyote? No, some cynicism from the leaders, a recognition that the stories were a tool, they were used to inspire the young or the gullible. Much like religion or nationalism in the US, what’s the difference between god and the Great Spirit? Is Democracy a guiding light or the best of bad options. How do you use an idea to inspire people? The key is the marketing, the benefits associated with the ritual, if it is the promise of a reward in the afterlife, you have the ultimate product, the ultimate call to action. Unverifiable. The rest is packaging. Get a “Chief” to acknowledge this, to talk like a Madison Ave. exec, an ad-man, maybe someone trained in an eastern school who actually worked in the industry for awhile. He benefited from affirmative action, a scholarship dedicated to native americans at Yale and now he was using that training to subvert the system. An Ivy League education and the funding from casino proceeds combine to create a scenario where the white man is contributing to his own demise. Demise is too strong a word. They just want what’s theirs.
Go with Galt and meet the Utes (and plains, north plains, black hills, chief Joseph? Nez Pierce?) Billy met in Utah. The alliance of native american tribes runs deep. Mormons, tribes, military, ex-cops, city-dwellers disaffected with the status quo, drug laws are impacting life, impacting america. The answer, the one common theme is a desire to separate, white man’s burden, manifest destiny was a hoax. Just because the continent is one land mass doesn’t mean you need one government. Look at Europe. Cultural differences demand separation, distinction. Two is not too many and the mindset of the east is not the same as the west. Divided we thrive.

So, yeah, need to go back and write all that stuff, then the Korea/Japan stuff, then return to Seattle. There will be another person covering SEA and ANZ. While gone Martin will be undergoing his trial, Scoop will get involved. The problem with the Florida idiots is they are totally unconnected, powerless. They made a big mistake in going after Marty. He has Scoop. He’s black. He’s a working member of society. The disaffected middle class is powerful, they are smart, were once rich or at least comfortable. This is so damn topical, I need to get it out. Need to check out the first half and see if there is too much stayathome dad stuff or if that is what makes it believable.

Video games. Not sure what that has to do with anything. Reality versus all the stuff we see. Missile Defense, Missile Command, Missile Silos, the guys stuck in the silos, and the ridiculous amounts of money spent on Strategic Defense Initiative, SDI, Star Wars, and all that in comparison to the amount of money needed for general public services. Selling SDI to others is the counter-argument. Sell it to Taiwan, to Japan, Canada is essential…if we can’t get our neighbors to contribute then how can we sell it abroad, the cynicism of this is extreme. Political instability could be seen as a driving factor to the purchase of such technology. Problems with North Korea are therefore seen as a good thing because they motivate Japan to buy. Poor relations with China are a good thing because they help motivate Taiwan to buy. Six way talks are frowned upon because they offer up the potential for discussion for a resolution that might alleviate this fear and temper the urge to buy. Free discussion inserts the possibility of concepts/ideas/thoughts re above to be entered into. More Korea discussion.

I think I already wrote about the guy with the pizza-plate face already, the guy who opens the door. PR Kim and John and I (maybe PR Kim’s ‘friend’/political contact, maybe him later). We went to a building down an alley, it was non-descript, mailboxes and nameplates in the small foyer, telling what went on there, what businesses operated within (or facsimiles) and what floor they were on. We headed up the stairs to the third floor and walked down a long hallway lined with windows on one side and doors on the other, at the end of which we found the number we were looking for. A man with a large, round, flat face opened the door, peeked out, and looked us up and down one by one. He said something in Korean to PR Kim who said something back and then the man with the pizza plate face opened the door wide, checking behind us and then he walked into the hallway we had just exited and stuck his moon face out the nearest window, turning one way and then the other like a satellite dish trying to pick up a signal.
The office we entered was littered with papers on desks arranged haphazardly, maps and indecipherable posters, large sheets of paper with Korean handwritten messages hung from the walls. In the far corner a sort of conference room, walled in glass, held two other Korean gentlemen. Pizza plate face led us back to them and everyone stood, greeting one another with handshakes and short suspicious bows, eyes peering ahead, sneaking peaks under raised eyebrows. They offered us seats and we sat three across on either side of a long metal table. It was shabby. The whole place could be described in that one word – shabby. Desks were shabby. Floors, doors, even the glass of the conference room was really a cheap plastic- very shabby. The air was shabby with stale cigarette smoke. As if on cue, the three men simultaneously pulled out three packs of cigarettes, offered us some and started smoking. Quickly the room (make the connection between the longhouse indian smoking ceremony and this). Quickly the plastic glass room was filled with shabby air as we flicked our ashes in shabby ash trays and tentatively talked about our shabby little plan. PR Kim did most all the talking. John seemed to understand parts of the conversation and occasionally the leader, for there was clearly one leader, a handsome man with crewcut hair and a military demeanor, this man would attempt to put a point into broken English. I remained entirely lost during the first hour of the meeting. At one point, pizza plate face brought in six warm cokes that must have been stored in a shabby warm closet somewhere. My mouth was dry from smoking, my lungs and throat felt coated in lint. Even a warm coke was welcome.
After that they turned to me and asked me question that PR Kim translated. More bits of English entered the conversation as the three on the other side tried to get a handle on the whole story, my story about Jake and Max and what was happening with Martin in the courts. What was happening in america. I explained as best I could, I talked about Jake, perhaps in terms that exaggerated his connections, at least I thought they were exaggerations, they might have been understatements. The men would stop and confer amongst themselves after Kim clarified what I’d said. The looks on their faces, the tone in their voices and their general body language led me to believe the meeting was going well. They were believing me. Another hour passed. The leader finally put out his last cigarette and stood, pushing his shabby metal chair back across the shabby linoleum floor with a loud scraping sound. He faced us, erect and proper, ramrod straight as if he were going to issue orders and for all purposes he did, declaring, “We are done for today.”
And with that we all shook hands and bowed some more, slightly less awkward and suspicious than upon our entrance, although the performance was otherwise the mirror image of that entrance. The leader and PR Kim shared a hushed conversation as the rest of us filed out the door of that shabby little conference room into the shabby main office. A serious-looking middle-aged woman had entered and seemed to be attempting to make it less shabby. Pizza plate face ushered us through the office, out the door and then walked with us down the stairs into the street/alleyway where he said goodbye to us bowing and waving and unless I was mistaken cracking a small smile that looked lost in the expanse of his spacious face.
The three of us walked in silence to the main road where Kim hailed us a cab, instructed the cab driver and in a short while we arrived at the restaurant. There was little conversation in the cab, as if we were afraid the cab driver was a spy.
The usual appeared before us at the restaurant, the table quickly cluttered with bowls, bottles and glasses. PR Kim explained things to us.
“They are interested,” he began.
John and I nodded and waited for further elaboration, which came after a minute filled with expectation. “Their head guy, General Kim, had (check military stuff, Rhee, old guard, stufff, maybe his father/grandfather had been with Syngman Rhee, disillusionment…) He has connections with someone in Parliament. He knows there is a great deal of dissent, tumult, public outrage. There are, not necessarily ‘extremist’ groups, but there are factions that want to see a change. They want to see the US military presence in Korea reduced, if not removed.
We nodded some more. “They see what you are talking about as a way to help bring that about.”
Not exactly our objective, I thought, but a reasonable expectation. I certainly didn’t expect them to do anything for us out of the kindness of their hearts.
“They want some time to talk with Representative Kim and then they will get back to us, back to me.”
I looked at John and then at Kim. “How long? Did they give an indication of when they would get back to you?”
“No.”
“Hmm…is this a good sign?”
“We do not know. I can’t be sure. I think they may want some time. They may check into you, they may ask around about your friend Jake. If they do anything it could be very risky to them. They don’t know you, they only know you through me, and I only have any reputation with them because of the work I’ve done with the Kim administration, which isn’t promising, Kim isn’t exactly in this camp.
“Well, Kim, I hope this isn’t going to put you in an awkward position. I mean you know what’s happening to my friend Marty, I would hate to think anything you are doing here would get you into similar trouble.”
“Oh, no, do not worry,” said Kim, “I know exactly what I’m doing and the risks involved. At the very least I will lose my job with Edelman.” And he looked at John.
“My lips are sealed, afterall, we’re in the same boat” said John. “If Richard finds out he won’t find out from me.”
“Nor me,” I added.
With that we settled down to dinner and drinks. Over the course of the meal Kim, John and I pondered possibilities. It wasn’t exactly a strategy session, or some sort of coup preparation, but it had earmarks of such in a fanciful way (?). What would happen, John asked, if Rep. Kim really was interested. If he could form some sort of coalition that would support, that would provide diplomatic cover for a Western State government? We all agreed that this was embryonic, that it is hard to speculate on such things. John went off on one of his hysterical historical analogies. “It’s like Jefferson in Paris,” he said. The American colonies were nothing, he argued. They couldn’t have foreseen what they could become. Talking with the French was a crapshoot. They, the French, had their own objectives, obviously any disturbance, any trouble they could cause the British would have been seen as a good thing in their eyes, but who were these guys they were talking to – Jefferson, Adams, Franklin – roustabouts, raggamuffins and revolutionaries. Not quite the stuff of the Court of Versailles.”
“Raggamuffins?”
John just shrugged and went on.
“Think about it. What does it get us if a faction of the Korean government starts lobbying for a reduction in US forces in Korea? And what if, what if there is a group of western state governments that simultaneously start supporting a real move towards separation, some autonomy? Can a grassroots movement, can popular support, a real uprising, demonstrations in the street, truly drive something so large? With or without Korean support?”
We each looked around the table and the absent looks on our faces amounted to a joint shrug.
“The question is, what would North Korea do?” said Kim. “A move like that would fundamentally alter the balance of power in the region.” The Americans are like a wrench in the works (this is a paraphrase, he struggled with a phrase and John suggested ‘wrench in the works’ – Kim nodded, “Yes, exactly a wrench in the works. If they pull out the engine may start running again, but there’s no telling where that engine would go.”
“It opens the door for China,” said John.
“It may or it might not. Japan has it’s own objectives,” Kim added.
“Uncertainty in North Asia would certainly stress the US military,” said John.
“But 25 or 30 thousand troops could be deployed elsewhere,” I said.
“To Iraq or Afghanistan,” said Kim.
“Or Iran,” said John.
“Or California,” I said.
That shut them up.
“How legit are these guys, Kim?” I asked.
“How legit are you?” he asked back.
“Point well taken. I need to get in touch with Jake.” We talked more, John rambled…something about the XYZ affair. Japan’s need for oil in the lead-up to WWII. Kim talked about the older generation’s feelings about Japan, how they were forced to learn Japanese, how their culture had been threatened, how the communist North had terrorized them, how the Americans were still viewed as liberators. John talked about the prevailing attitudes of the younger generation, how feelings about America weren’t so clear. They liked American stuff, but they resent the troops and the prevailing superiority complex, the militarism. The troops in Korea bring money, but it comes at a price.
The evening wound down.
“I’m not sure how long I’ll have to stay,” I said to John. “If we’re supposed to wait until they get back to us, I’m in limbo.”
“Well, you’re welcome to stay with me as long as you have to,” John offered.
“That’s generous, John. I’m just worried, I mean, look what’s happening in California.”
“Yes,” he said thoughtfully and looked at Kim, who merely nodded confidently, as if to say he was in, regardless of the risks. He knew what he was doing.
“We’ll just take it as it comes,” John said.

I was at John’s place for more than a week before we finally heard from our friends. During that time, Jake and I were exchanging emails at a furious pace. He’d reply at hours I’d never expect – 3:00 am, 4:00 am pacific time. It started to occur to me that he may not be in the US anymore. He never ever intimated his location.
I walked the streets during the days of waiting, not exactly seeing the sights, so much as walking and walking past sites that might have been sights. Every woman looked like Soo, every child reminded me of Nate. It was a painful time, the old uncertainties remained, and yet I had this new fear that we were entering a different realm, the stakes were being raised and the game was getting more serious, I felt I was spinning around on the cusp of a whirpool, treading water and struggling to resist the pull of the vortex. Whether our actions were causing it or not, events were spinning out of control. I desperately needed more from Jake.
Martin’s trial was getting more and more play in the press. He was a serious cause celebre. Musicians, actors and athletes all rallied to his side. His lawyer, FLB, knew how to work the media. There was a pitched legal battle. The State of California wanted him tried in the Ninth Circuit, this was a long shot, an impossibility really, but he was in an SF holding facility and removing him promised to trigger riots. Already there was a constant vigil outside the jail on 8th Street. Volunteers organized phone trees, thousands were on call to surround the building at a moment’s notice. There was always at least one celebrity on site, this assured at least a small crowd no matter the hour. There were concerts and speeches. The local police turned a blind eye. They didn’t want to turn him over to the feds any more than the protestors wanted him turned over. The press was livid, truly inspired op eds and letters to the editor outlined potential nightmare scenarios, removal to Gitmo or some other dark site abroad. Fears of Martin being swept away in the dark of night were constantly trumpeted keeping the crowds coming day after day. The international press was eating it up, they were even more inflammatory, more critical, more hyperbolic. No one trusted this administration, and now that there was someone respectable swept up in the web of terror, people began to see it could happen to anyone.
The federal case had nothing. They had rumors of me, and the possibility of Martin’s involvement with my rumor. The had an ATM record and a phone call, but making that into a case requiring Martin to be imprisoned as a military combatant was a huge stretch. Scoop was very vocal in Sacramento. He turned this into a states’ rights issue. The divisions were being drawn.

2005-09-11T15:53:00.000-07:00

10/3/6 AM
This Reformation book is hard work, especially when people are talking on the bus. There was a reference to Covenants as they related to migration, I mean making the trip to America. Puritans, Quakers, etc… That’s something to look forward to, but it’s a long 400 pages to get there.
How it relates to my thing. The religion of the land, I’d have to look it up, latin. That is what people fled, the stultification of thought through righteousness, imposing civil laws based on religious laws. There is a relation, but there should be a separation. So, the Puritans journey through the Wilderness, their Israelite moment represents a freedom from Moses/England, Mormons and anyone else, be they Buddhist, Muslim, Sikh, New Ager, whatever, could be said to be seeking asylum in the west. Jesusland has its fingers in many locales, but the heart of it is in the southeast and if they have an iron grip on the three branches of government what are free-thinkers supposed to do? It’s one thing when they go after reproductive rights, it’s one thing when they see the land as a resource to be used up, but when they take taxes and use thme on some wild crusade and bring fear and cultural repression then it’s a short trip to ‘enough-is-enough’. It may be tough to make the comparison, there are so many different groups, but it is the quest for diversity, the belief that diversity is the answer that really unites the groups. The Pacific States?
Politicians are being held to one standard first, are they good Christians. The Democrats pander to the religious because they know they can’t win federal power without the Southern bloc. Well, why bother? Sure, they may actually be devout Christians, but whose business is that, and what of the smart, dedicated, talented people who happen to not be Christian? Are we to deny this country the benefit of their strengths simply because they worship a different way? As long as there is a fundamental natural law that guarantees the greatest good for the greatest number, that is adaptable and legislate-able (?) and which doesn’t impose restrictions based on another’s particular belief system, then you have the foundation for a workable government. What’s happening now is the obstruction of progress, it’s an unnatural attempt to freeze thought, based on fear and, in some cases, a fatalism reminiscent of numerous past End Days superstition (1500-2000 – very similar). Only now it’s global.
Korea-Japan
Japan-Seattle
Seattle-Las Piedras
Must flesh out Vancouver (the man?, a traveler, an egomaniac, manic/depressive, wildness and control, how Europeans got to the Northwest. What happens to them here, what do they become, who really assimilates?) Utah, Idaho. The California story – coming to Billy online and through Jake. The WTC story – coming through Franklin. Mexico, San Diego, military, Galt, - Galt and Franklin, maybe Jake talks of a meeting of the minds, some sort of early Half-Continental Congress.
I should print what I’ve got.

Ten Days That Jostled My World

2005-09-11T15:50:00.001-07:00

One day, about dusk, I returned from one of my excursions, an ambling would be more like it. John was out of town, away for a few days in Tokyo. I had been existing. In limbo. Not much more than that – eating, sleeping, following the news from the states on the Internet. The loneliness had grown comfortable, bearable. My isolation complete, I walked the streets unnoticed as if invisible. People in John’s apartment building even ignored me, one resident on John’s own floor even went so far as to push the elevator button signifying our floor after I had just done so.
That day, as I turned John’s spare key in the lock, I was like a sleepwalker merely stumbling along the same path, returning now to my roost, my cell. In this zombie-like state, my surprise was even greater. Stunned wouldn’t fully describe me as I stood, paralyzed facing a large man sitting in the center of John’s small apartment. He had pulled a chair so it sat facing the door. The keychain still suspended in my hand, midway, at my belt, as if I was going to unlock another imaginary door, my heart skipped a beat as the actual door clicked shut behind me.
“What the…” I managed to mumble. I wondered if I was in the right apartment.
“Don’t worry,” said the man rising to walk in my direction.
I was worried. He struck an imposing figure.
“I’m Jake.”
With those words, my mind started to shift back into gear. So, finally, Jake. But wait, I thought and voiced my concern. “How do I know you’re really Jake?”
He smiled, or rather his fleshy lips opened to reveal teeth. It was like his face broke, and what a monstrous face it was. As he approached, limping visibly, I saw clearly the scars on his face, and his eyes set closely submerged deep under a protruding forehead, stubbly hair partially covered a scarred scalp. His chin somehow met his chest. He had no neck, or rather he had a massive neck that bulged under his tight-fitting shirt and angled down to meet his shoulders.
“Good,” he said. “Very good. You’re Billy. You’re from Washington, but you haven’t been there in awhile. You have a son named Nate and a wife named Soo.”
“The feds would know that, too. You could be anyone.”
“’Thinking we’re great and working for good, carries more weight than it probably should.’” He repeated that simple rhyme of mine.
“Max knew that,” I said, “and we all know what a good friend he turned out to be.”
Jake’s face darkened. “Right. You got your papers from Murray in San Francisco. He’s fine, by the way, sends his regards, says you owe him $200(?check). You like music, listening to the radio, randomness, you’re a fan of the outdoors, particularly the desert of Utah and the wooded hill country of Idaho. You’re a traveler, you like to be free and you’re willing to make dangerous, unorthodox sacrifices to protect your family. You love your country but feel it’s gone astray. Most of all, though, you’re tired, a little lost, and you want to go home – and I’m here to make sure you get there.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously.”
“I’m not going to be arrested, sent to Cairo in a non-existent CIA plane and tortured until I admit to treason?”
“I don’t think so,” he said.
“Very reassuring. You really know how to make a guy feel safe.”
“We aren’t exactly living in the safest of times.”
“No, I suppose not,” I looked at him again. There was nothing subtle about him, he must have seemed like an alien to the poor people of Seoul. He was a head taller than me, built like a tank, and certainly conjured up such military images.
“So, you’re Jake,” I stuck out my hand. “I am glad to meet you at last. I strained to keep my fingers from crumbling in his meaty paw.
“Likewise.”
The formalities were quickly over.
“Let’s sit down and talk this through. We have a few things to wrap up here before you can go home.”
That wasn’t encouraging. It turned out to be an understatement, of course. There were many dramatic events, some in Seoul, under our control, to a degree, and others, elsewhere, that were either the results of, the rippling effect from, our actions, or were splashes in the pond in their own right. It was hard to tell at this point. Like I’d said, things were moving pretty fast and it was hard to say what or who was causing what, but clearly a dam had burst, or, to return to an earlier metaphor, the wrench had been removed from the works, and now cogs and flywheels were spinning with unforseeable consequences. The motor was running. We couldn’t say how much gas was in the tank or where the machine would take us, but it was running. There was no roadmap, though, for where we were going to go.
For my part, I felt I was just along for the ride at this point, waiting for my chance to get out and head home. I introduced Jake to Kim, who introduced Jake and me to the leader we’d met in the shabby office. We had a similar sitdown in a similar shabby office with some other men, some the same, some different from the last time. Lots of talking, translating, nodding, and ultimately, smiling, bowing and shaking of hands.
After that, I considered my work done, except Jake wanted me, ordered me would be more like it, to stay for a few more days, which stretched to a week and change.
John returned. We had to explain to him that we’d commandeered his apartment to serve as the nerve center for the planning of the new American revolution, and this was no Chevy ad. He was surprisingly amenable. His words, and, to be fair, these were slurred words, spoken after much soju, yet despite this or perhaps because of it, they were spoken from the heart, albeit melodramatically; his words were, “I regret that I have but one apartment to give for my country. I am ready to assume my place in history, glad to play some small part in these momentous events. Give me liberty or give me death…or more soju, whichever comes first…” Or some such, it’s hard for me to recall exactly as I’d had my fair share to drink, too. Under the air of revelry and lightheartedness there ran a grave current, which had Jake as its source.
Like I’ve said, things moved quickly, pieces fell into place almost like convenient plotlines in some mediocre novel.
Representative Kim made an impassioned speech on the floor of the South Korean Assembly calling for an end to the American military presence on the Korean peninsula. Throwing practicality aside, Kim went for the moral high ground. “Armies beget armies, fear begets fear. To find peace one first must find peace in oneself.”
There was little mincing about the threat North Korea posed, “Yes, it is closed to us, the heart of Kim Jung Il is hard to fathom, but let’s not forget,” and he changed tack, “his is a Korean heart. We may be divided now by an unnatural wall, this demilitarized zone, which is not demilitarized at all; yet we all know in OUR hearts that we will be united again. Why not start that unification now? I call upon this assembly and Koreans everywhere to recognize this fact. Why have strangers standing between us? If a husband hits his wife and the spouses fight, it sometimes make sense for a neighbor to intervene. However, that neighbor must eventually leave. The married couple must solve their problems together, just the two of them.”

This plea, this dramatic speech and its replaying, retelling and copious analysis triggered a similar outburst in the Japanese Diet from the representative of Okinawa. The repercussions were felt dramatically back in the Western States. The earthquake of Representative Kim’s speech, triggered a tsunami that went from Japan to the shores of California. Many Americans had had enough of this permanent pervasive military creep, like a leech attaching itself to a lifeform and engorging, Eisenhower’s portended military industrial complex was sucking the soul out of the country. Something had to be done, and the time for doing it had come.

2005-09-11T15:50:00.000-07:00

10/2/6 AM
Reading a history of the Reformation. Why not have the World Trade Center guy promote the idea of reformation versus Revolution. The big draw is the termination of taxes. The democratic ideals are like Catholic dogma, the declaration of independence, the Constitution, these are the sacred texts that now get parsed and debated until the reason for their existence has been forgotten. It was liberty from religious homogeneity, it was liberty from a distant imperialist using locally earned funds to fund foreign wars. There is no need to revolt, we need to reform, and the way to reform, says WTC guy, is to stop paying taxes, remove the symbols, make a new flag. The stars and stripes should not be a crucifix we bow down before. It has become a tainted symbol, anyway, but let’s make new flags, let’s reform, grow, change, the founding fathers lived in a different era. Why let their words rule our modern world. Sure, there are elements worth keeping (that habeus corpus was a good idea), that’s why we call this a reformation, and, anyway, do you think the Constitution just appeared whole cloth from the heads of the colonists. Hell, no, it took from English law. All this talk of revolution is so much rubbish, rabble-rousing marketing. The world has been hijacked by Madison Ave., Chevrolet and fillintheblank, a meaningless jingle.
Show me real reform – forget a faux revolution.
So, where WTC guy?
Jake comes to Korea and sends Billy to Tokyo.
The disturbances in California and Washington prompt the withdrawal from Korea, US troops are needed at home. National Guard is either gone in Iraq or outright rebellious.
When Jake comes over he explains all this to Billy.
Oaths, loyalty, alliances, like the Swiss cantons. They need their own sovereignty, the ability to tax locally and administer local justice, but they don’t have to do so at the behest of a distant, corrupt government. There is a universal law. People can worship and live as they see fit as long as they obey this universal law. The land is the uniting factor. People can believe whatever they want, but they must respect the land.

2005-09-11T15:49:00.001-07:00

9/27/06 (NOTE WE’RE BACK TO 2006)

HA HA! A brand new notebook and I have nothing to say! My pen paused after that “and” as I thought what I’d christen these pages with. AHA! A sentence ending in a preposition! I’m so excited! I have dec (dec?) I have decided to be excited! And use exclamation points!
I’m actually terribly hungover and am on the ferry having a second hair of the dog dreading going home because I reek of smoke and beer and the wife is already unhappy because I rolled in after 1:00 am last night. I have to clean up my act.
It’s a beautiful day, I have nothing to say, I’ve drifted into bad habits and would like to be locked away. Fuck like rabbits, Invent the Abbots, golf with the Cabots. What the hell, a mess of crap, a messy page, a fucked up sage. Blah blah blah. Dodgers need a win, need a Padres loss, need a Phillies loss and they were losing! 2-1 in the early innings. Go home. Watch TV.
Hope my wife’s not mad at me.

2005-09-11T15:49:00.000-07:00

8/31/7 early AM pre-boat
Won Zero idea
Talk about dumb dotcom ideas. Women at a PR agency talking about startups while smoking on a balcony in Silicon Valley circa 1999.
“Online Pet Jewelry?”
Think about it. Americans spend more on their pets than the GDP of the 64 poorest countries in the world combined.
Yeah, but jewelry? Like diamond bracelets, do they have ruby-encrusted flea collars?
They do custom work, sure. Look, pet stores can’t carry high-dollar goods like this, one, the capital outlay is too great, and two, well, I’m sure there’s a two. Oh, and, jewelry stores won’t carry pet jewelry cuz it’s such a niche market and diminishes the rest of their merchandise.
It sounds stupid if you ask me.
Draper Fisher is funding it.
No. Who else is pitching the account.
Oh, the usuals, Edelman, Weber, Fleishman. But, we’ve got a lock. We already convinced Walt Mossberg to write about it.
Write about it how? As one of the stupidest ideas he’s ever heard?
Just you wait. (Snuffs out cigarette) Come on let’s go.

A tooth phone?
Yeah, it’s voice activated.
Phones are changing, the phone will be the new wallet, the new credit card, map and GPS. It will be so personal people will never want to be without it.
But a phone on your tooth.
Not “on” – “in” your tooth.
In? – isn’t that a bit invasive?
You have fillings don’t you?
Yeah, but those don’t ring when I’m munching on a Caesar salad.
They can be turned off. Listen, you have a built-in distribution network. Dentists. You go in to have a cavity filled and the dentist says, “Would you like a phone with that?” Hell, why not. Lugging around a phone is a nuisance. Pretty soon you’ll never see another one of these again (holds up phone). People will walk down the streets of San Francisco talking, hands free, not a care in the world.
People already do, they’re called street people, but I don’t think that’s your target market (shakes head).
We’ve got a guy from the ADA. Our polling data is strong.
Three out of four dentist’s surveyed…
(Laughs. Puts out cigarette). Come on let’s go.

Emergency Condom Delivery.
Oh, come on.
Really. Think about it, you’re with a guy and you really want to get it on, but neither of you brought a rubber. Do you just give up, talk your way out of it, blowjob, what?
Wait until tomorrow?
You and I have different priorities, I think.
Really.
Drug dealers can deliver in 10 minutes, this group is already in negotiations with the Cripps and the Bloods.
You’re joking.
They’ve given Landor $500k to come up with a name.
(Wry look)
OK, I’m just fucking with you. (snuffs out cigarette.) Come on, let’s go.

Maybe I could write a sitcom.

2005-09-11T15:48:00.002-07:00

8/30/7 AM
Thursday heading to work after an off-site yesterday. I’m terribly disinterested with work (have I mentioned that) and need to find a way to scramble through this into some other job, either the one my friend was talking about or whatever. As far as whatevers go, though, this one has been pretty kush.
I need to get to my birthday, then September 13th, 12th really.
Today and tomorrow might be hard, but it is the end of a week heading into a holiday. I wonder if I could get away with taking Friday off. Monday is Labor Day. Then we have T-4, W-5, etc…anyway, we are looking at 4-5-6 as real days of work (as opposed to the imaginary ones), and then it’s big-time booze-up.
What a stupid scam this all is. I hate working.

2005-09-11T15:48:00.001-07:00

8/17/7 PM
What is this suffering that is not suffering, this pain that leaves no mark? Who cares about internal scars.
Fuck, I don’t even care.
Numb me.

2005-09-11T15:48:00.000-07:00

8/17/7 AM
On the ferry – just read the first chapter of a chick book. A birth, two births, it was poignant. I was briefly caught up in it and then came to. It was too pretty and I found I didn’t care. One life, one fictitious life, didn’t seem to matter to me so much. I would rather write about a thousand births, or a thousand troubled births. What can you do about a system that makes thousands of births difficult? Why, get caught up in one person’s drama? That’s what I do with myself every day.
Twins were born, the male fine, the female mongoloid. The father sent the female to a clinic without telling the mother.
Before this I read Bill Bryson (funny), Greg Palast (depressing, troubling), Kurt Vonnegut (funny, troubling). Then I guess it was Don’t Lets go to the Dogs Tonight.
I’m so uninspired. Must walk to work. I wanted this. A job. A paycheck. Now, it’s just a nuisance.