Evidently, size can be an issue.

Hi Texino here, and I would like to comment about what seems, to me, to be a disturbing trend
on the internet. Every time I open a web site I am assailed by the off handed question "Do you want a bigger penis?" I will say that this query is totally out of context, since I am not visiting Porn sites or anything to do with anatomy for that matter. What's more, if I don't get this flashing inquiry, I tend to be shown a picture of a
wide-eyed young woman who, btw, looks a lot like my daughter, accompanied by the caption;
"Surprise her with a bigger penis!" Actually, to my mind, the girl's expression conveys the sort of surprise that would register if she were the one who suddenly was blessed with the appendage size not withstanding. All this nonsense has led me to investigate and come to the conclusion that there is an over the counter pill which is supposed to make your dick bigger and, in turn, put you in better stead in the love bed. Funny, I can't say that I have ever thought about size when it comes to sex. I mean what I have has proven sufficient at producing children who are handsome, do not use drugs, put themselves through college and then leave me alone. Other than procreational sex, I have put a good amount of work into the recreational variety and shared the sweet favors of more than a few women, each of whom I loved totally. Unfortunately many of these true love affairs ran concurrently and that led me into major difficulties trying to sustain long term relationships. But we talk of times long past, and that brings me back to the main point. Why in Hell are they trying to sell me dick pills now? I'm 61 years old for Gods sake and I'm not about to pop some OTC pill and hit the street hoping to surprise some poor woman with my new found secret. How's that supposed to work anyway? Do you go to some place where lonely hearts meet and tell some friendly lady about this amazing pill? Or maybe you sit around and shift positions saying "Excuse me, but my penis is growing as we speak; surprising isn't it?" Well, I just don't know. You can call me a dirty old geezer if you like, but I would direct you to the attached photo which shows bizarre geezer Pres. H. S. Truman showing a keen interest in a decidedly phallic display as former Nazi, DR. Werner Von Braun looks on. It is obvious that these two guys do not hold to the Texino Theory of crafty love making which employs all manner of tenderness and quasi legal technique and instead are going with the monster or "More is More" philosophy. The choice, of course, would lie with the individual. So maybe we should just view this as a public service message; you know like, Objects may be bigger than they first appear or something along that line. Mr. Texino says, Take care.

The Great Bus Metaphor

The Canadians would not play my podcast last week because I mentioned cannibalism. I think the context had to do with Zombies and how you really couldn't get a decent Zombie from someone if a cannibal had cracked their bones and this may have had something to do with a desire that someone might eat Sarah Palin to that extent. Anyway, it got me thinking about living an active life as opposed to waiting for a bus. I have waited for a few buses in my time but mostly I have spent my time in some sort of action. If you just met me, you might find this hard to believe, as I am sort of a slug today, but I'm sort of at the end of my active life now. Before I got here, however, I was definitely not a bus rider. I think that, compared to most people, I have had a rather exciting life. I worked hard at many different jobs and really enjoyed meeting the people I came in contact with. Everyone has a good story and I became good at getting them to tell it. It has been said that everyone has a book in them. In my opinion, being a good author is getting those stories from as many folks as you can and then finding out that everyone is a usable character somewhere down the line. I would have liked to make a good book for people to read, but by the time I understood how to go about it, I got too tired.

When I was a little boy, one of the old people who lived in my house used to sing an Irving Berlin song about a soldier who did not like to get up in the morning. At the end of the tune, the GI said that "someone was going to murder the bugler" and after that happened, he would spend the rest of his life in bed. Having been in the Army, I could understand that desire and after 25 some years of getting called out at all hours during my time in EMS, when it came time to retire, I found myself in bed. Now this had something to do with a glitch during heart surgery and also some bad luck which caused further brain troubles and to tell the truth, what with my laptop and library, bed's a nice place. Thing is, no matter what I read about, I've seen something worse in real life, so if I just lodge down in the covers and close my eyes I can usually make up a happy story and slip right off. I guess if I keep it in mind not to board any buses while in dreamland I may have a few more years of active rest right here. Only thing about that bus. They never shut if off and some nights you will hear it idling and wonder just how long you might have before they put it in gear. On the other hand, some of those buses are real palaces on the inside while others, you are lucky to find a seat. There is always got to be a fucking mystery behind this manner of thought. Hell, if you miss-time your boarding you might get run down in the road and eaten by scavengers who will most likely crack your bones. Then where are you?

Taking dope is risky business as evidenced by GWB

Hello, it is Tommy Texino and I want to talk to you about drugs. Specifically Cocaine. Have you ever taken cocaine? Hmm...Well I have taken it it more times than I can remember but I don't take it anymore because it is very expensive and the stuff around here really isn't that good. Besides all that, I've just grown out of wanting to drink and take dope, so I just don't, however; I think that G.W. Bush does. That's right. The voice that keeps whining from the radio saying we need to give 700 billion dollars to ourselves. That G.W. Bush, The President.

Why? Well, he has a history of alcohol and drug use and he never denies it or brags about being sober like a reformed drunk or 12 step person would. Now if you have ever taken really good cocaine you know that it makes you feel very positive about things, even things that are not such a good idea. I mean for every stupid move that The President has made, I can see why it might have made sense if you happened to be coked to the gills on some good flake and maybe some decent champagne or a good whiskey buzz. Really. Pushing that 700 Billion dollar mess? No big thing when you feel invincible. And that's the thing; blow makes you go! I'm talking the good stuff of course. That crap you get at the bar is totally half-assed. I imagine Sarah Palin gets her shit at some fisherman's joint. I doubt if Bush is sharing. In fact, I don't think I've seen W around the campaign all that much. Still, while we may ready for the last of Bush, we got to keep an eye out for Palin. I figure McCain is a dead man walking and it looks as though he can't reign Palin in and if that gal gets up with W. Bush and they "Party" Well figure it out. McCain kicks and Palin gets to be the president and W. is holding the dope. Who will really be the president? The answer is, whomever is really the president now and God only knows who that might be. Kind of makes me want to head down town, you now what I'm saying? The way this deal is playing out, I may just need a gram and a dram. Of course if Obama wins, I'll stay sober and hope we get the changes he's talked about.

This Lady is a piece of ...

That's right. Sarah Palin Gov. of Alaska and VP candidate for the Republican Presidential Campaign is basically ,well really, you know, OK, she's a piece of shit. You think that's not an apt description? Well, while she obviously is not a giant bowel movement, she, IMO, fits the definition of the colloquial P.O.S. Here is why.

You see that picture? What the P.O.S. is doing right there is explaining that Democratic Candidate, Barack Obama "doesn't see America like "We" do. By "we" the P.O.S. means White People. Then she says that Sen. Obama pals around with "Terrorists". OK. What the P.O.S. is talking about is that Obama once worked on the same housing board as a guy who was at one time a member of the Weather Underground who, if they did any terrorism at all did it when Barack was a little baby. So that makes Palin a lying Piece of Shit in any one's book. I'm really sorry for the language, but I am mad. Fucking pissed off to the Max Mad. Mad that this P.O.S. is going around telling lies and making racist points and it is possible that stupid white people are going to start thinking "Do we really want a negro president?" After all, goofy old white guys have been president for ever, right? Maybe so, and they have had some bimbo VPs as well, think Dan Quayle. So right when we really need a change that a sharp thinker like Obama could bring, they haul out this loud mouth P.O.S. to spread lies and racist undertones while McCain just sits around looking like someone who we are used to having in the white house. FOR GOD'S SAKE PEOPLE WE HAVE GOT TO RUN THIS REPUBLICAN TICKET SO FAR INTO THE GROUND THAT IT WILL TAKE 12 YEARS TO RECOVER! It's really our only hope. Someone must reach out and slap that smug look of Palin's face and back flush her to where she came from. VOTE!

It's "Hoss" not "Horse"

I guess that you people wouldn't think that I, Texino, would be buddies with Eric "Hoss" Cartwright, but think again. Really, how many chicken dinners do you think it would take to get a guy like Hoss on your side? Well the answer is two.

I was riding the range out Nevada way, when I came upon the friendly giant. He had been wounded while fighting bushwhackers and was out of his head with fever. Well fortunately, I had a couple of hens on me and my saddle bags were full of ingredients so after giving the big man water and listening to him rave about his dead mother, I fed him two full chicken dinners. (portioned) After that, he was OK and we had coffee.

The next day, he took me home to his ranch to meet his family, but I did not take to their fascist ways and spent most of my visit hanging out with a Chinaman in the cook house making up recipes for chicken cooked Chinaman style. They had no chickens in China back then, so this Hop Sing guy (The Chinaman) must have sent some back home because there are quite a few chicken dishes in Chinese cooking now. I guess you might say that I was sort of the Johnny Appleseed of Chickens. Funny how you could take a bird that was previously only used for helping women deal with life in the pre-suffrage era (they just chopped the head off to let off steam, although it occasionally went a bit farther-see the case of Massachusetts vs. L. Borden) and for it's feathers, and turn it into one of the most popular and imitated tastes in the world.
Please remember that anytime someone says "It taste like Chicken" that were it not for me, it would have been someone else whom you don't know.

As for the Cartwrights, other than Hoss and Hop Sing, I didn't like the others and they didn't like me. I believe that the Ponderosa may have been the birthing chair of the Right Wing
Republican Party. They loved their (Portioned) chicken dinners though.

The Man who invented the chicken dinner.

Looks good doesn't it? Damn right it does! Ever wonder where the chicken dinner came from? Your mom? Grand Mother? Oh they cooked them I'm sure and, no doubt, they did a fine job. But, did you ever stop to think whose idea it was to take a chicken to pieces, cook it and then serve it up with a double starch and some greens? Well, I'm here to say that I'm the guy. That's right. Me, Tomas Benito Texino, El Niño the inventor of the modern chicken dinner. Huzzah times three and a big trombone riff! For truth! Now, I know you ladies. (boy do I) and right now you are saying something to your selves along these lines. "That Goddamn Texino is so full of beans!" "Why my female forebears were chopping the heads off chickens when he was a scumdrop* at the bottom of the Panama Canal." (*note; "Scumdrop" is a Texino word.) Well OK fine, so yer grannies were killing chickens. Of course they were. How in hell do you suppose those poor women kept from murdering whole sections of town what with all the crap they had to put up with as second class citizens who just happened to be more intelligent than the guys running the show. Hey sisters, I'm with you all the way! I just happen to have created the portioned chicken dinner as we know it today and there is not a thing I can do about changing that. I mean it is not like I am asking for a monument of me examining the future with my gaze while holding a plump hen. I just want a little respect. I mean, I may have been born yesterday, but it was 61 years ago and I can tell when I'm being left out. No it would have been pretty easy for certain people whom I love to just drop me a simple line of congratulation of completing one more year, but no couldn't do that. We OK, fine. Keep your greetings to your self because as the inventor of the portioned chicken dinner, I have too many responsibilities to worry about without letting a couple of snubs by the most important people in my entire world get to me. I mean we have all manner of media functions to attend, for when you have done something of such magnitude ( as invent the portioned chicken dinner) your influence reaches far beyond the coop. We have potatoes and squash, Lima's, applesauce and countless other avenues to put in our shadow. Not to mention a nice pie for desert.

OK, got to go now. We are working on something new in the area between cheese and milk and I for one, am too fucking excited to care about anything else right now.

The Pain from Spain or, A trip to the dentist.

Is it safe? That is the question I was asking my self at 0300 this morning as I lay a bed suffering from an abscess in my lower jaw. Of course that is the famous line delivered by Sir Lawrence Olivier to Dustin Hoffman in the film "Marathon Man" before and during the most chilling and visceral torture scene ever. "Is it safe? ",asks the kindly old man as he probes Hoffman's dental field til he finds a small cavity. Then the bastard lets him have it right down to the root with one of those picks that dentists use and Dustin about levitates. I never liked the dentist much in the first place, but after seeing that film, well two things: I've tried to keep holes out of my teeth and have know for certain that torture is really fucked up because "They can make you talk." I mean I know ways to hide a secret, but if someone really want's you to confess to some thing, they'll have you singing like a bird pretty damn quick. Anyway, last night, I felt as though Sir Larry had been at me for a couple of hours and even though I had some oil of clove, it was not working any magic like it did in that film. So, this morning I got up and took my medicines and by fortune some of them knocked the pain down. Still, I know the signs of an abscess and it can be dangerous what with your teeth being close by your brain, so I called the dentist and they said come on down. So I did. It wasn't so bad. My dentist is a whiz with Lidocaine and he can give you multiple shots without your feeling it. The tooth in question was one that had broken during one of my famous seizures and it had to come out. Pretty nasty but it didn't hurt too much at the time. It does now but not like it did. Now I just need a root canal on the tooth next door and I'll be good to go. That whole Dental thing is weird though. It's really the last part of medicine that involves torturous devices on a regular basis. The modern dental setup is designed where the assistant sits behind you and you can't see what she is getting ready to hand the Doc. This is just as well because even though they have digital x-ray and all sort of technical marvels. dentists still use all sort of clamps and levers the do their dirty work. It would seem as though medicine could come up with a sealant that would go on a persons teeth once the permanent set showed up. Do that and then the dentist can all become jewelers which is what a lot of them do for fun anyway. Then they could ditch the "Inquesition" tools for good.

Remember that film? Well turned out it was not safe because Dustin screwed up the timing of the bad dentist who, by the way was also a Holocaust Monster, and all of a sudden he's in the diamond district in NYC where there is no shortage of Jews, a lot of whom recognize the Doc from back in the day and the word gets out on the street. Things don't end up too good for the ex-Nazi.

Well that's that. After spending the last few years in bed, it was fun to get out even if a little torture was on the menu. Hope to talk again soon.

Honest Injun

Sometimes I wish I could just say fuck this honesty crap and just sleaze down the road like a lot of other people do. Like today, for instance, I was fixing a computer
and I made a mistake. Then I made another mistake and fried the mother board.
Now this machine wasn't working when I took it in, so I could just tell the guy the board was shot, but no. Instead, I'm giving him the computer that I use for my studio because it's the same type only newer and a brand new one would not run some of the software he uses. I don't really feel good about this, it is just a thing I have to do. Wouldn't occur to me to do anything else. It's important to me that my clients feel that they can count on me. Got to stay true. You don't see very much of that in today's environment. What I mean is with the electioneering going on, it's like "It's OK to lie right now while I claw my way to the top, but after wards, I'll be OK and straight with you all. Honey, I don't buy it. You got to be crazy to want to be president. Obama, a born again visionary; McCain crazy old fucker who thinks he should grow up to be president. I used to sit on top of a bunker in Vietnam watching those jets heading north to bomb Hanoi. They were just flying up there and dropping bombs on the damn city and pissing people off. McCain is lucky the Dinks didn't chop his head off. I mean how would you feel if Florida and Georgia were arguing over some land and China started dropping bombs on Atlanta or Orlando.
They would most likely do Atlanta because they like Mickey Mouse too much. People don't know Jack aboout Vietnam either. Take Jane Fonda. She goes to Hanoi and has her picture taken. OK? Well every place she goes it's like some Anti-Aircraft installation, plus she went to see the prisoners, like McCain at the "Hanoi Hilton" which at the time the US did not know where it was. Now a bunch of dipsticks can call her a traitor, but I call it pretty good intel. People just don't use their brains very much. Not that I do such a great job myself, but I am always thinking and I love my friends very much, including the ones who are cross with me.
I'll be 61 on tuesday. I have given over celebrating. I had hoped that my friends might have noticed my turning 60 but I am too far out of the personal loop for that I guess. Looking back on the year it's funny. Last year at this time I was really full of hope musically. I was getting a new mandolin and had big plans for recording. Then right about now, I was Dx with Parkinson's plus Partial seizures. I started of medication that just flushed all the spontaneity from my life, I did not get the mandolin for six more months and then unfortunate issues came up which I did not handle well, and now the instrument has been put away for good. Recently, the doctors decided that maybe the reason I was laying up so much was because my heart was only beating around 40 times a minute. They want to put a pacemaker in me. I asked for a change in medicine and got it. Now, after two days on the new pill, I feel like I could lift a small motor car and today I spent the entire day on the go without lying in bed at all. That is a big deal. It would be a great deal if I hadn't of fried that circuit board. I guess I'm OK. Sure feel better than I did when I was taking that other pill. Possibly my head's getting more oxygen now that the heart is beating normally. Hell, if I don't die of old age, I might actully do something worthy. Watch this space.

Hello Columbus

Hi, I was just lying here on the bed thinking about how many times I had met Christoper Columbus, the Admiral of the Ocean Seas and the Lewis or Clarke of his day. Three times is the number, for the Admiral was a frequent guest of Captain Patrick Henry and his wife Sue who were neighbors of ours back in VA. The Henry's had lots of parties and if I hung over the fence long enough I'd be introduced to someone important. Columbus wore deep green velveteen with tights and puffy shorts a hat like a cake. He carried a stick with a silver tip and a carved likeness of Neptune for it's head.
Each time we met he would show me the carving of the staff and say "You know who this is boy?" "He is King of all sea and you gotta respect him." Truth is Columbus died a long time before Capt and Mrs Henry ever had a party. Still I remember standing by the back fence in the early 60s dangling my hand across the boundary like a bait fish and having it tapped by the admiral's stick followed by the Neptune statement. Of course this is probably a hallucination from my PD pills. I think I may have mentioned the thing about the books reading to me and other stuff. It's a weird feeling. I remember back when people in my circle were first getting high on pot, someone would always say "This is not like being drunk". Well having PD is just like being drunk. I even have a card to carry and it has "I'm not drunk, I have Parkinson's Disease." written on it in big letters. Last night, it seemed I was back in VA. spying on the Henry's party and there in the glow of the hurricane lamps stood Columbus holding the gathering in his thrall while making a point with an orange. Party tricks. I'll be needing a nap

My Man Wisdom Paradise

Yes indeed, that's Wisdom right there.  He's down in Fort Lauderdale directing light workers in a battle against the fear based storms set upon us by the "Dark Side." (Hurricanes)  What Wisdom suggests is that you surround these storms of fear and sweep them with your golden brooms into the Gulf of Mexico.  Once there, you should concentrate on dumping tons of ice into the center of the storm to calm it down.  Even though Hurricanes have been beating the crap out of the Caribbean and various Gulf coastal areas so far this season, Mr. Paradise claims it would be a lot worse were it not for his love based tactics.  What a croon.  Oh yeah, before I forget.  Wisdom Paradise loves you.  How much?  Enough to let you in on this secret advance fee loan scheme he has going.  Here's the deal.   Wisdom's higher self created this thing called the Aloha Success Club, a little investment deal that he guarantee's will pay off by year's end at a rate of 50:1. The minimum "loan" is $500 and the max is $10,000.  Wisdom says since the "loan" is already made you have no risk.  Of course this scam is used a lot. It's called the Prime Bank or HYIP scam and the people say that there are special prime bank loans available where big banks can loan money at shot term for high gain.  It sounds plausible but with big banks failing all over the place it is obvious BS.  Anyway, the scammer either says he is or knows one of the very few people who can make these loans and if he can raise some cash he can slip it in and let some regular folks get in on the deal.  Of course the "loan" never funds. and the scammer keeps coming up with reasons why it will be any day until people just get disgusted or have him arrested.  Actually these doesn't happen too often because these scams tend to be put off on people who are fanatic in their beliefs like churches or new age cults.  Point of fact, there are thousands of people who lost money in something called the Omega Fund and even though it's leader was arrested and confessed to the whole thing being a swindle and is currently in Federal Prison people believe the the Government is holding their Omega Packages which will be delivered any day and that even though they donated several hundred dollars in cash wrapped in tin foil, the current belief is this "prosperity fund" will be paying millions it not a billion dollars per person!  It was though studying this sort of thing on the web for the last few years that I came to the conclusion that the financial system was truly out of control and pulled my money from traditional investments.  I didn't have much mind you, but I would have had nothing.  At least I have some valuable  instruments and a bit of Jewellery. 

Back to Wisdom Paradise.  There is no way his Aloha Club can fund at 50:1  I'll be watching his site and let you know what he has to say.  Did I mention that Wisdom is immortal?   Wah Hay!

Keep Smiling Sucker

OK, so Ms. Winehouse is at it again. Did a festival; was late; stayed up all night trashing the hotel and then having had a bottle of vodka for breakfast, had to be wrapped in a quilt and carried out to a waiting car. Well that's about as much as I can stand, so in aid of saving the world from another terrible star death I'm negotiating to have Winehouse boxed up and shipped to Texas where she will go to work picking cotton on half time and then spend the rest of the day under the guidance and instruction of Miss Martha Stewart at The Martha Stewart Ranch for Wayward Girls and Cotton Exchange. You all know I'll do anything for Miss Stewart. She's been damn good to me in more ways than I'll ever say. I've got my eyes on some more young ladies who might benefit from the Stewart treatment. Miley Ray Cyrus for one. Also that Nut Lindsey Lohan's not fooling me with her "Oh I'm gonna marry a girl" shit. She's a fucking actress and she's putting it over on that Ronson chick big time. Don't think Texino's hip to the Hollywood scene? Well you would be wrong. Sure I write for the Bluegrass rags cause that's where the money is. Don't mean I can't do a little A-listing when I need to. Ciao Kiddos

Funny thing about that email.

You may have read that those tricksters at Anonymous, whom I have absolutely nothing to do with, have hacked into Gov. Palin's email. Mrs. Palin of course is the Republican Party's surprise candidate for Vice President. My friend Trapper Stetson says Palin is analogous to an orgasm in that, at the moment, everything seems brilliant and wonderful, but then things fall back into perspective rather quickly. At's a pretty good analogy I guess and, what with Trap being a bit of a sex maniac, it makes all the more sense. Personally, I am damn sick of this election and by proxy being dragged into the lowest depths of humanity by smug fat necks because I have kept with my liberal philosopy. To put it politely, fuck those motherfuckers.

Oh the email. Well, I was looking at the list of Gov. Palin's messages and I noticed that every single one seemed to be a sort of letter. How odd is that? These days it is pretty damn difficult to maintain a personal account without receving the odd invitation to earn a million in someone's get rich program or surprise this surpised looking woman with a "bigger penis". On that note I'd like to say that the surprised penis woman looks a lot like my daughter. I don't know if you have gotten this ad, but it shows a clean cut blonde woman in her 30s looking at you as if she had just seen something unexpected but not really scary but maybe a little unerving. I guess since the caption to the add says "Suprise her with a bigger penis!" the look is supposed to convey "Where did you get that big penis?" and "You gonna try to put it in me!!?" "I am not too sure!" Actually, to me it's the sort of look my daughter would get if you gave her a Harley Davidson or a washing machine that ran on atomic power. She wouldn't like it. It's really too bad we don't get along, as I'd love to ask her opinion. Anyway, Mrs. Palin has no spam at all which tells me that her Yahoo account was probably pretty new. This also suggest Palin herself is not that old. Perhaps she is a clone of Ted Nugent and Church Lady. You got to remember, lot of weird stuff goes on up in Alaska. (You might keep this in mind, Clones don't get spammed.)

Well that's it for me and Mrs. P's email. As far as the election, I'm glad that you don't have to tell who you vote for. I've been having some fun (my kind) with canvasers. They come to my house and since Mrs. T. is no longer here, they get me. McCain people: I ask them if Palin is his wife. They say she's the VP. I say, what's that? They explain. I say, hogwash a gal can't be president, it says so in the Constitution and the Bible! The leave. Obama folks: I ask what part of Alabama is he from? They say Obama is his name. I say, that sounds like one of them silly names colored guys make up in prison. They get nervous. I say he looks just like Joe Bidden. They say that is Bidden and this is Obama. I say, but he is a colored guy! They get mad. It's a complex issue here in the south. Black people have an important culture, but it is not particularly high tone. When someone gets to be like Sen. Obama, he or she is no longer black. If you want a real black person for president get B.B. King. I'm not saying he would be the best choice, but he is an actual American Negro where Obama is an actual African/American. I want to see the poverty cycle broken for blacks in the south, but I don't want their magic and soul to be absorbed. I guess I am a racist in that I recognize the difference and respect the sub culture that has given us more that we will ever admit. I have said this before and it's true; I have to live near moving water and black folks they give me stuff that lets me see a long way. I don't think Alaska has much nor does Arizona.

Oh man, those Arabs!

Now I like hot and dry weather and fresh orange juice as much as the next guy, and a flowing robe with a trick burnoose is more than likely a comfortable garment to wear, while scooting around the desert or lurking in the twisted shadows of a midnight oasis, however; this time those wacky Arabs are pushing my buttons to the point where I want to don my T. E. Lawrence Motor Goggles and invite Ms. Winehouse to a pub crawl in Riyadh. Here is why. One of those pesky Saudi Clerics has put a contract out on Mickey Mouse. (That's Mickey over there) You got it. He put the word on Tom and Jerry too. Not the cartoon hobos who Simon and Garfunkle took their original name from, but the Cat Mouse who are always messing with one another. Actually, I believe this cleric thinks T&J are two mice.
The point behind this, and there is one of course, and of course it has to do with fundamental religion is this: Mice, both live and in pictures are soldiers of Satan. They are unclean and should be killed. According to the holy book of Mus or whatever the Muslim people read (The Koran) "If you have solid food and a mouse gets on it, get rid of the part that the mouse was on-kill the mouse." "If you have liquid food, like soup, and a mouse falls into it, toss it out-kill the mouse." OK fine. Now, what does this have to do with the world's most famous mouse? Well, children love him and because of that, Satan is very happy. Get it? Now, I'm certain this Cleric would really like to burn the eyes out and cut the hands off any child caught wearing mouse ears under his headdress or her garment bag (Arab woman's dress) but the world is not exactly full of real Arabs and they can't afford the wholesale slaughter of their next generation. Ergo, the mouse goes. Thing is, The Mick is pretty well off. In fact if you were to take the Mouse money and hook it up with the McDuck fortune, you could probably put a mortgage on the House of Saudi. I mean go ahead and burn all the flags you want, we can get more from the great flag houses of China, but don't for one minute start messing with the leader of the club. Know what I'm saying? Your kids can't tell the difference between a plague rat and a cartoon character? Time to get out of the sun my man. I like everyone to the point of giving him or her an even break, but this destructive stone age philosophy has got to go before someone gets pissed off enough to push a button and doom the day. Should that happen all the mice, rats and other unclean things you postulate will truly be something to fear. Take that Johnny Arab!

Edditing out hallucinations

I have a feature due tomorrow. I sent it in Friday. The Editor says she has it and is sure it will be fine, but she has not cleared it yet. I know she is very busy and she rarely messes with my stuff. Still, I want to hear that it's good or acceptable and not have to rewrite it tomorrow. I guess that's what happens when you are a low rent journalist. I probably should have started pushing my work earlier because I was a better writer before I started having seizures and taking brain altering drugs for PD. Here is an example. If I am tired and have been reading, I can put the book down and close my eyes and then my brain will start hallucinating a review of the book. This would be OK except the review seldom draws a parallel to what the book is about. For instance, I may be reading about adventures at sea. I put the book down and close my eyes and suddenly my inner voice will start in with something like: "This is a high pressure shot of realism dealing directly with the cutting edge of modern nursing." Or; "Aircraft service at this level is requires an engineering degree as well as the math skills of a leader in the field of optics." and on ad nauseaum until I take some sort of pill or just beat it out of my head by thinking about giant diesel engines. I guess these spells can be a lot worse. I just wonder where they come from. Like, my editor got her eyebrow pierced. I saw it in a picture. We have never met. I wrote and asked her if it represented a hinge and could she open her face? Boy did she get pissed off.
It was just like that movie Annie Hall. Woody Allen does all these things that Diane Keaton thinks are funny. The he tries them on other women and they don't get it. I think I used that open the face gag before some place and it must have worked. It's too bad because I sort of have a crush on my editor, but that's a blown deal now. Oh well, on the other hand I could have just hallucinated the whole issue that it was funny. See what I mean? You got to be careful. Especialy right now because my partner and care giver has decided to take a tour of the great American West and I don't know when she will be back. Being alone in this condition can be a little nerve wracking. I might write here and say whats up but I have the feeling Im not getting read much these days. At's OK. I have to write wheter it gets read or not. It's just the way it is.

Happy Birthday Amy!

Hi, I am Texino and this is Amy. Even though Amy looks sort of feral, she is, in fact, a recording star. The reason Amy looks so mad in this picture may have to do with her showing up two hours late to perform at her local pub. The place had been packed, but people got tired of waiting and a bunch went home. Well Amy's mad cause they didn't hang around, even though she was two hours late and evidently too drunk to sing . Hmmm. I think someone has some reality based issues. A sad situation to develop on a person who is just 25 years old. Says on the internet that Drs have informed Ms. Winehouse (Amy) that if she doesn't stop smoking, drinking and doing the hootchie-coo, she will die. I wonder if she is taking these warnings to heart? I have heard some music by Amy Winehouse and she has talent. Talent should not be so scary as to do this to a person. I used to smoke and drink too much, so I just stopped. My Talent level stayed up and I didn't feel badly. Thing is, I don't think people really cared so much what I did, while Amy W has a lot of fans. Id hate it to be turning into one of those scenes where folks says how come a bubble head like Texino keeps hanging in there while talented Amy Winehouse passes on. But check it out, I saw a picture of Amy earlier in the evening of the same scene and she seemed like she could not walk and her eye makeup was all scaballated. Now look into her eyes. Beside the obvious fact that she is the love child of Beatle George Harrison and Rolling Stone Mick Jagger, those are not the eyes of a drunken coked out party person. Believe me, I have seen those bad eyes plenty of times looking back at me in the mirror. That girl has her mind on something, be it world domination or the last
nacho, it is hard to tell from this angle. I hope she can hang in long enough to make for an interesting story though. I believe that today it is her Birthday. (25) So now I have Amy Winehouse and "The Box" to keep tabs on. Right now "The Box" is in Ireland. (still full of whiskey) Don't worry I'll keep you informed. It's my trade.

The Box

Our friends at BBC, the fun TV have got a new reality show here on the internet, and boy am I stoked! The "Box" is a 40' shipping container fitted with a GPS device so we can follow it around for 1 years time and see where it goes and what it takes with it.
Now the Box is red and has got BBS on it just like the icon in the picture. I'm not certain how wise this may turn out because when you click on the box icon, a little menu appears and tells you what's inside. For instance, the box came ashore in South Hampton on 9/8 and to Glasgow on the 10th where it sat empty until today. Now, it is filled with whiskey and will be heading out to Asia (most likely China or Japan) where Scotch is consumed in great quantities. It will be interesting to see how long it takes to get there and if pirates read the Internet and try to get the booze. This is the special report website http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/in_depth/629/629/7600053.stm as the box starts it's first journey. Kind of interesting that it is going all the way back to South Hampton to catch a ship when Glasgow is a fairly big port once famous for it's ship building and turning out fine engineering officers. (eg. Scottie on Star Trek) Of course the days of the triple expansion steam engine are long gone with today's container or "Box" Ships relying on giant diesel engines which run at low RPM but drive the huge ships through the ocean at speeds approaching 30 MPH. The fact that these boats are too large for the Panama Canal causes them to reach the East by traversing some risky waters where Pirates lurk in fast boats which can run up on the large container ship, toss a grapnel and climb up to the deck just like a monkey! Once there, they may take the crew by surprise and rob the ship of cash and cigarettes and if they can get a cargo manifest, possibly break into certain containers of value. So far, the pirates have not harmed too many people on large ships for fear of bringing heavy security into play. The problem exists that the largest merchant ships may not have very large crews, sometimes as few as 10 or 12 and they are loath to shoot it out with marauders preferring to set up guards with fire hoses at several points while passing through areas of known activity. Still, ships using the Red Sea to gain the Suez Canal must pass Somalia which is virtually lawless as well as some areas of the Indian Ocean where sea crime is rampant. All in all modern pirates are not nice and seem to have very bad manners when dealing with smaller boats often killing the people and dumping them overboard. Kind of like pirates of old actually, they just don't take big boats because they are very expensive to run; they buy fuel by the ton and talk about gallons per mile. So, it will be fun to see if the "box" gets where it's headed with all that grog. Now you might be asking yourself, "How does Texino know so much about ships?" Well, I was at one time part of the crew on a boat in New England that went to sea and caught lobsters alive alive o! Then I was a crew member on an actual Tall Ship. But aside from sailing and motor boating like everyone else, I have no idea why I know so much, maybe I went to sea some place else. Stephen Hawking says the fact that gravity is not a constant like electricity is suggests that there are other dimensions and times possibly in parallel or close by our own reality. Could be I escaped. Truth be told. I don't think I am very much like other people. I wish I was, but I'm just not. I don't have time to explain right now. Watch the box.

They're Back

Yes we have seen these angels before. They have been around this year, hanging out while good people fought to live but did not and, faithful animals were given over because you can do that. I can't say the angels have been much comfort. They just float there in black with their hands welded in the prayer position. I've seen those angels on the old tombs of our fervent forefathers who, running from one religion for another, more of less fierce, would place the angel duet to guard their crumbling bones from Ascension into the wrong Heaven. What an embarrassment to die a strict member of the Society of Friends and wake to the Bar-B-Q howdy of the Southern Baptist. So yeah sticking those angels on your stone makes sense to a certain segment. But not to me and not right now. Here is why. Over the weekend My friend Karen was at the market selling her shirts. She made beautiful shirts. I have some and I wore them all the time when I played music out. My favorite was a green one with Geckos on it. Well, Karen took a pain in her back so she went and got a massage from the massage person at the market. Then she went and sat in her chair. She never got up. Someone realized something was wrong and an ambulance came along and resuscitated her, but she was gone from the standpoint of having brain function.
Life support was discontinued and that was the end. Now those little angels rise up in my mind.
And Karen Donley? A wonderful tailor, mother, wife, friend, artist and all the extra credit those things attract. She left town on a holiday weekend. Oh I hate those times. Tooth ache; car trouble; the need for a doctor or legal council. Holiday weekend will get you every time. I'm going to look for Karen in my dreams. I often run accross departed folks in that ever changing scape and since and am more cross than grieving at the moment I may pick up some information. If not, Ill just be content with the feeling that if there is a place to end up after death I am likely to land in Karen's neighborhood. I'll know by the shirts.

By By B.B.

I noticed that renown blues stylist Riley B. King is playing fast and loose with life these days. Most notably the master of the modern blues has allowed
T-Bone Burnett, the fellow who got bluegrass all screwed up in that film "Oh Brother..." to produce his latest album "One kind favor". Well as anyone with any knowledge of country blues should know, that "one kind favor" is "to see that my grave is kept clean." It is possible that Riley aka B.B. King has been in the big band business a little too long and has forgotten that white people have a disastrous effect on blues musicians; Notice in the above photo where a "white woman" has put the "mojo" on King and is taking his guitar while he is helplessly entranced. I truly fear that with Burnett involved and the album getting such good reviews, King is liable to end up where a white guy musicologist feels an 82 year old Black Bluesman belongs; dead. I need to try and get in touch with Mr. King and key him in. Me not being 100% white I might have a chance to talk with him without him passing out like he does around other white folks.

Building chopper, a recipe for foolish fun and changing the world!

Now isn't that sweet? A fellow and his bluebird out for a spin back in 65 and stopping for a beer and a snapshot. Girls took it and had a poster made. They thought I was handsome. I had forgotten about the picture of me on the bobber until I got a call several years ago from the sister of a woman whom I used to date. The woman had died and the original picture was in her stuff. Her sister said there were also lots of my poems from Vietnam and maybe I should come up to NC and get them some time while her husband was off flying his airliner and maybe I should bring some pills if I had any. I asked her to please send the picture. Oh well.

Let me tell you about that bike. It was a 1954 Harley Davidson that was chopped in the Bobtail style. That's where the term chopper comes from. It was a dead man's bike from The DC impound lot It started life as a motorcycle that had a side car/box for delivering auto parts and stuff. Because of that setup you had a clutch on the left floor board and the gear shift on the tank. The back brake was a big pedal on the right board and the front brake was on the handlebar like most motorcycles. Now if you look at this motorcycle, you will note that it has no front brake lever. Why? Well at the time the folks who rode "chopped scooters" found the front brake assemblage to be déclassé and were inclined to replace it with a machined hub called a spoolie. I should mention that a lot of your original bikers worked in machine shops. Now the Bobber in the picture is black and orange. The orange is on the tank and the black lines were made with black tape. Orange and Black are the Harley Davidson colors. The seat on the bike was made from a one-way street sign covered in Naugahyde. It was not "tuck and roll" but something similar and very well done. This bob job was sort of a club project and it was an unspoken understanding that the dead person who had started the project was a black man. The seat was the first thing that we had made and we had big plans to work on the paint job too.

The Bobber had two parts on it called "suicide." The clutch and the shifter. Lets talk about the clutch. Most bikes keep the clutch up on the handlebar and here's why. Bike's got two wheels, so when you stop, down go your feet and you squeeze the clutch. Let it go by accident or because you are high and the bike stalls. Now the bob's got the clutch on your left foot. You roll to a stop put the clutch in, push on the brake forget to put your foot down and you will fall right over. The shifter? Well no one wants that big lever on their custom tank, so you take all that off and attach a ratchet fitting to the gear shaft just like a regular motorcycle has. Trouble is on a bike like the bobber the gear shaft is in back of the motor, so you must weld something to your ratchet top, like a wrench or something else shiny, and reach behind you and down just to shift gears. This is often called a Jockey Shift as well as a suicide shift. The whole deal with making a "chopper" is the bikes had rigid frames with no suspension, so you could get a springer front end and extend it out a bit and hang a 21" spoolie wheel on that then put high bars (ape hangers) on and a big fat rear tire and you were ready to terrorize the white man. Thing is you had to be a bit of a master cyclist to even get the full blown old school chopper to leave the scene of one crime and head for the next. Today's 50k+ bike that you see them build on TV is built to be ridden by, lets say, the 2008 version of Texino assuming he had just a little experience. It's a different world today, a place filled with a numbing sameness that people are happy to believe is something else. Well, I'm sorry but its not the same and I don't mean it in an "in my day we ate squirrel pie and liked it" sort of way. Back in my 1965 I was happy and free and going places where I was not wanted just to make the "Man" feel uncomfortable. Later on whole generations tried that. Didn't work because there was money to be made by then. Punk Rock? The Sex Pistols sold records. Grunge? Nirvana sold records. It's not that you cant be hip these days, you just have to be quick on your feet. Having a technical skill like welding
or programming a computer can really come in handy. Here is a hint. All the binary numbers that computers really like, such as 1,2 ,4,8,16,32,64,128,256,512 and so on are made from 1 and then some zeros. Other numbers are made from 1s and zeros mixed together but computers just recognize two commands, "yes" and "no" or "on" and "off" so when someone writes a program they use a language which can be expressed as strings of numbers which are then compiled into binary numbers which is what the computer reads. That's why it is called a digital computer. Now, I don't think your average Chopper rider of today knows that unless he or she happens to have more that a passing interest in math. I don't mean to brag but I know quite a lot about fluid dynamics and how to compensate for pressure lost within a pipe due to its diameter and how far the fluid has to travel. (its a friction thing) What I really want to say here is that even if you are worthless in the eyes of society for being a certain way, you should
never stop learning stuff. Like it is impossible to do anything with physics without running into people such as Gold, Boyle and Bernoulli. Well these genii came up with some super theories like if you heat up a gas it gets bigger and if you create negative pressure positive pressure will try to fill it. (Nature abhors a vacuum) and other stuff which we take for common sense today.
Well were people less smart 100 years ago? No, but society tends toward conservatism. So in aid of that, I have promised that I will never become conservative and I will look a hard problems in hope of finding a simple answer to a complex issue. I mean doesn't it just make perfect sense that if you have a sealed container of some kind of gas and you heat it up, somethings going to happen? Well, not to over simplify, but what's to stop someone like you or me from figuring out something just as important? Nothing except becoming a grumpy conservative as far as I can tell. Thats it for now.

LIAR

It occurs that I have not been telling many lies on the blog. I don't like to lie because I used to tell lies on every subject you can think of and now that I have finally reached the end of adolescence at the age of 60 and 11/12 I feel very ashamed about being such a liar. I think I had some sort of mental condition. Why? Well, when I was in Vietnam, I had a very interesting and important job but because it had to do with winning the hearts and minds of the civilian population of that country, I was not supposed to talk about it, so I started writing these letters to my dad about these battles I was in and how we were killing the enemy right up in the wire. Now that was BS. They didn't have too many fights like that and I certainly wasn't in them. Whats more, my father had been a big shot in the Army and he could find out what I was doing (at that time, working in a motor pool) so why would I tell him I was being John Wayne? Fucking liar is why. This has a lot to do with insecurity and now that I've reached my young adulthood, I'll probably do much better. Meanwhile, back in the jungle, I had talked my way into the Civil Affairs detachment and had lots of real adventures like people have in thrillers. Back in the States; I read recently where this army officer retires and says the "The Gadsden Project was the most successful Civil Affairs thing ever in the history of the Army and the high point of his career and what all. OK, fine General Bubble Head, but you were just the C/O of the fire base where the actual people who pulled off the mission came from and went back to when we got tipped off that Viet Cong had put a bounty on our heads of 5K. (Actual money for actual head) How did they know? We had big signs on our bumpers say "Civil Affairs" so we can go in special places in aid of winning hearts and minds and buy stuff for building things on the local economy so the Army could have deniability. But you couldn't write to the folks at home and tell them about that, so I just wrote poetry to girls back there in hope of starting some fires for my return. It didn't occur that I might get damaged and fall through a spiral of terrible rest stops; each one causing me to give up some important memory or bit of pride. That's what happened though and since I had been an insecure liar most all my life, I had very little to start over on. Well I've been pretty straight the last 25 years except for the pill addiction, but I got out of that by my self. You know life is really fucked up when you do not have close friends and you are the sort who needs them. All I wanted to do here, was tell a clever lie like "Most weathermen are left handed" or "Fuel Injected Cars have the gas filler on the driver's side." and then go on to something else. Instead, I had to write a revealing essay about what a weirdo I am which is not likely to gain me any friends. It's the truth though.

Little Help Please.

My new GF Me shortly after being struck by lightning.

Hi I have a new girlfriend. Her name is Becky Wiggins and she's crazy for helicopters. We met in the ER. where I was taken after my recent bout with lightning. This is what happened. First I was leaving a house where I had been fixing a computer. Then I was sitting on the ground in an extremely quiet rain storm and my shoes were missing. ($200) Did I mention it was very quiet? Well I couldn't hear a sound, so I was not aware of the crowd standing behind me until their voices started to leak back like poor radio reception from a foreign country that used a lot of American words. I. e. "Blah blah brain injury, blah blah think he'd cover himself" Cover himself? Well I looked down and saw my shorts were split down the front ($42.75) and I had gained what the medical staff like to call a "Priapism" (a penile erection caused by some sort of trauma) Someone handed me a towel. An ambulance arrived. Anyway, I seem to be OK now excepting for a slight glow in the dark. The priapism has gone which is OK, because it is not comfortable. Now my problem rests with Becky who seems taken with me because I have a lot of experience with helicopters and also like many younger people (she's 19) is rather frank about sex. In other words she thinks I am pretty well fixed up for doing the job because she saw me when she brought me a blanket in the ER. The reality of course is that was just to do with a powerful spasm to the spinal muscles from the lightning. In truth, I do not think I could actually "do it" even if my partner was a sweet understanding soul with an operating helicopter haircut (the blades spin) who says that she wants to" hover on me." You know, I think I know guys who would really freak if they were in my situation sex wise. Me? I just go off someplace and dream up some interesting machinery like a boat that could cross the ocean using pedal power and lots of gears so it would not be too hard on you, or a truck that runs 24 hrs a day carrying a crew like a ship. If you are going to end up trapped in your head and unable to get out much it helps to have and imagination. Anyway, if anyone sees Becky Wiggins, please tell her I got called back to the Army to fly helicopters in Iraq. I think that would be the kindest thing.

Is the truth in your dreams?

Well if it is, I am stupid. Take last night for instance. I was fooling around dreamland, where I had become a rather successful timber baron. So successful in fact that I had taken a job as a volunteer showing people the way to get to the Smithsonian Institution using the least amount of gasoline. I was happy in my job and I got to go to many places in the museums I had never been before. Like the animatronic supreme court for instance and an exhibition called "Monkey Doodles." Both of these exhibitions seemed to have generated a lot of interest but before I could investigate, I was called to a office where some curators were arguing the merits of a stringed instrument. It had four strings and they were calling it a mandolin. I said I did not think of a four string instrument as necessarily being a mandolin and they looked at me as if I had really made a shocking and uncalled for statement. The head guy said not to worry because "Tomas will be leaving us presently" and handed me a fat folder. Then he said for me to leave and I would get further instructions. Well, I kept going around doing paperwork and my folder got smaller until finally I had a letter saying to go back to the fire service and a file that looked like a supervisors schedule. I was pretty excited actually because it seemed like I was finally going to get what I had though was my deserved position. I showed up at the admin. building ready to run my shift, but my old partner Mike said that the boss just wanted him and me to schedule some new hires to go to California for new uniforms. I said, well that's cool, I need uniforms and I would like to go. He got all embarrassed and said that the deal was they had been forced to hire some retarded firemen to clean the bathrooms and stuff and they needed someone to watch after them while every one was in CA. and they figured I could probably do it without fucking it up. I took the whole mess to the boss lady and told her that it was crazy and that I was a good fireman and medic and she had no right to treat me that way, but she just kept telling me how stupid I was over and over again.
I used to enjoy my dream world and think it was funny. It's becoming a real bother now. Maybe, I'll just have to get out into the real world to some degree.

Zipper Heads and why we must have them

A friend who is an author and a Vietnam Vet wrote and asked if I knew where the term "Zipperhead" came from. It was a word used by some to refer to the Vietnamese. Here is what I said in answer.

You know the whole world of Gooks and Dinks and Slopes and Zips just runs together. No one ever talked about those guys until you were in country. Where I was it was mostly "The Dinks" and sometimes gooks. Slope and Zipper Head weren't too popular. I always assumed that zip had to do with a particular sort of Vietnamese with an exaggerated slope to the head and slant to the eyes (seen more in cartoons that in real life) that suggested you could zip his eyes closed. I can see someone coming across a peasant in a conical hat and loose black pants and a long white top and saying "hey zipper head, come here" and the name sticking. I worked very closely with all manner of people in Vietnam getting my village built and I learned to tell the Chinese from the Pure Vietnamese and the various racial mixes and stereotypical issues they had. Some were extremely difficult to think of as gooks while others fit the roll to a "G". Of course most soldiers come up with a common nick name for those they might need to kill wholesale and unfairly. We either punish them for their audacity-–"take that Mr. Master Race"–– or we condemn them for their sneaky ways––"Burn you yellow Japs!" It's only later that it occurs to us that we were all young men and needed a name for the boogie man, so we would not recognize the possibility that we were shooting our kindred spirits for the pleasure and tactical entertainment of the elders who make their profits by proving the value of their machinery from time to time. It's always been so and will continue so long as we celebrate our time at arms. The fact that I sit around in my early 60s and can define my life by 17 months spent overseas in a war that had absolutely no positive bearing on my country or the life my kids led is a pretty sad commentary for the boys who were supposed to win WW III. I think what really needs to happen now is for a bunch of vets to come home –like from Iraq– and say "Fuck this" "It was the worst most useless time of my life" "Don't give me any service medals or parades, I don't feel like a hero, I feel like a sanitation worker in a project." "Now I want a job in a national park and never want to hear any patriotic BS again," " Leave me the fuck alone and lets just forget about this war like it was just a big mistake." Just let it drop, OK? Fine. There's your hero

perchance to dance

If you go outside of your home and, by chance, you hear some music playing,
It may be Hip Hop (another name for Rap) I like the term Hip Hop better because it implies dancing.
When music and dance go together like sleep and dreams, everything is OK.
I don't care for music fighting with my sense of rhythm; when I hear Bizet's Overture to Carmen, I want to high step like a Lippizaner Stallion, but I lack the proper count of legs. My next choice is cymbal crasher but it's damn impossible to sneak a pair of those suckers into a concert hall these days. So screw going to the symphony if the music has a beat. That's the whole funk thing; you hit the one or down beat then you can fool around popping and slapping so long as you get back to that one beat. Just think how much fun you could have at Symphony Hall if you sat on the floor. I'll bet all sorts of people would show up and march around or invent dances to, like, Beethoven's 5th. Get a big circle going and then all fall down. That is very powerful music. Black Music is just as powerful
but people had the good sense not to hold it hostage in a no dance environment. (even church) Just imagine, if you will, James Brown and The Famous Flames at Carnegie Hall with concert rules in effect. Wouldn't work. Jazz can get hot as well, but they keep it cool by giving the players CNS depressants and using strange meters and progressions. Any other tunes that go from the down beat are going to be a direct to dance tunes, so go with it what ever it is. Dancing is good for you. Do some soon. I'm not sure if you can though and here is why. When I was very young and growing up in Alexandria, Va. There was this place on my block called the Armory. It had something to do with the Army because during the Korean War, convoys of soldiers would show up at odd hours and march up and down in the street. "Hup two three four" "Ain't no use in going home, Jody's got your girl and gone" (I would meet up with Jody again, but I did not know it at the time) I have many stories about the armory too, but this one has to do with whether you can still dance in the street. For a summertime or maybe two and on Wednesday evenings around 7, men of middle and older age plus a couple of fat boys would converge on the Armory each one hauling a type of case that would without doubt produce a musical instrument with the exception of one that might have contained a full sized elephant's head. I must admit I lurked. Then one evening pretty much like any other and with neither a ruffle nor flourish, the group formed a band right in the middle of South Royal Street, struck up Anchors Aweigh and marched off. Children danced along. Not me. Too young. At least I figured out what was in the elephant case, tuba, a Sousaphone. The dance thing. I do not think you could just toss up a marching band in that neighborhood or too many others these days and march off at 7:30 on a summer's eve. and expect to return whole. Maybe where MS. Moon lives, but few other spots and that is just too bad. I have gone and put stories within stories again and not left any room for resolution. Hey I am just in it for the words

The Jesus Nut

The term Jesus nut has to do with Helicopter maintenance and refers to the one piece of hardware that holds the entire rotor system in place. The term was coined by Mr. Dr. Igor Sikorsky, the inventor of the rotor wing aircraft and the implication was that, should this small bit of machined metal fail in flight, the crew and anyone else aboard would be meeting Jesus as a bonus for suffering a horrible death. Now Dr. Mr. Sikorsky was a deeply religious person, so he probably meant the whole deal about the Jesus Nut and wasn't being cute.
In fact the whole Jesus Nut issue might have stayed locked in inquiring minds had it not been for the Vietnam War; the first war fought by the helicopter. What this came to mean was where the old time cavalry trooper would know about the diamond hitch to tie a load on a mule his modern counterpart knew how and when to check the Jesus Nut and other various and sundry things that would keep the "bird" in the air doing it's important work of dropping off the Troop for a fight and coming back to get them. Funny thing is Sikorsky did not have a lot of copters in the war. Today, almost all the helicopters in the military i.e. The Black Hawk and Sea Hawk are made by Sikorsky, but when people think Vietnam, they think about The Huey which looks like a mini van with sliding doors and all. It is a turbine (jet) and only has two main rotor blades. That means it is not particularly good at flying straight up off the ground and likes to have a running start. A person might get in trouble because he could easily put the helicopter into a spot where he cannot get out without some fancy and dangerous trick flying. When I was in Vietnam, I always worried over the state of the helicopter and had this fear that I would be flying along and suddenly catch site of Jesus floating by tossing my. Jesus nut in the air and catching it. You see it's quite possible to land a helicopter with no power so long as the transmission is not seized and the rotor will spin. Of course if Jesus has the Jesus Nut, the rotors will come off and the craft will fall like a stone leaving you to meet your maker as Pancake People.

I know that this is not a very clever of funny post, but it does contain information you can use.

The House of Texino

OK, when I was young I wanted to design women's clothing. I didn't tell anyone, so it was assumed I would either join the Episcopal Clergy or become a medical doctor.
First off, went through the confirmation process and became an Acolyte and a Crucifer. Now it may sound like The Crucifer would get to crucify people and perform other useful duties here on earth , but his responsibility is simply to lead the procession into the church for the service. The procession includes the ministers and the choir. If there is a junior choir, there is also a Junior Crucifer. His job is to lead the junior choir out when it is time for Sunday School. The Crucifers are called that because they carry a cross on a long pole so there is no doubt that Christians are heading your way. The Juniors cross is made from wood while the real Crucifer Carries a fancy number made of a heavy gold metal affixed to a stout wooden pole . The Acolytes are the guys who lite the candles and put them out. You get to dress up in a priest outfit (more or less) and you do other stuff, like moving "The Book" The altar of the church is a holy place and you better respect it at all times or you are going to hell. It also has two sides to preach from; The Gospel and The Epistle. When the minister is preaching the Gospel and he's done he says so, like "Here endeth the Gospel" and then you must move the bible to the other side of the Altar. Isn't that strange?
You get to help out with the Holy Communion too. I learned a lot about religion working at that church. One thing that really struck me was that church was a huge social event, and a lot of folks who sang loud and tipped to collection plate heavy couldn't wait for the coffee hour that came after the service so they could gossip about other people and say really rude stuff, but then turn on the charm when that person showed up. I kept waiting for God or at least Karl the deacon ( and a former Nazi by all accounts) to set these parishioners right and when it did not come to pass, I had no choice but to assume that if the Lord let such stuff go on in His house, He either was not home or did not care. Later as studied various types of medicine, it became fairly clear that while the overall message put forth by the cult of Jesus Christ seemed OK, the man Himself was quite possibly nuts.

It may be possible by the amount of words put down thus far for you to infer that it took me some amount of time to conclude that the ministry would not be my calling. Well, yes and by the time I had figured out that my belief in God was ambiguous at best, a group of teachers had conspired to brand me as stupid, un-trainable, not college material, a hoodlum and worse. Of course while this made me the most popular kid in school, it really dampened my hopes of getting into med school or any other trade for that matter. I kept pushing, however; I was no match for the system and as punishment for my questioning nature, they kicked me out of school and right into the waiting maw of the US Army where they would either make a man out of me or kill me in the process. A real Win-Win for the old school.

So there I was, a combat happy GI. 19 years old and in charge of a village built to house refugees from an area called The Iron Triangle. The whole idea of this triangle was that somewhere within it's boundries was the southern terminus of The Ho Chi Minh Trail. The trouble was that this was also a populated area where peasents worked the land for meager rewards . The Army came up with the grand pan to make this a free fire zone (against the rules) and since this could seriously complicate winning the hearts and minds of the non communists, they developed the Chieu Hoi program. This consisted of pieces of paper called Chieu Hoi passes that were fired at the peasents from canons and dropped on them via special bombs. This is a picture of a Chieu Hoi Pass.





Well the program was a success and a lot of Vietnamese came to call. We needed some place to put them, so we set up a building program and built a village. A sort of Vietnamese Levittown
with a duck lake and a swinery. When I left RVN in 1968, I think we had about 200 homes.
While I was at the village I learned how to be a doctor. Every Tuesday, a real doctor would come to the village and people from all over the area would come in for a free exam and a ticket for an x-ray if they needed one. The Vietnamese were very keen for having pictures made and viewed a chest X-ray as just another type of portrait. Anyway, the doc liked me and taught me lots of skills. I started a new religion in Viet Nam; Made an altar from an adobe brick, burned a bunch of Joss, sacrificed a frog, ate it. Then I wrote a rambling manifesto about the Chaplain's
assistant, singed it "The New Religion" and posted it on the official bulletin board where it stayed for a long time.

Yes, when I was young I wanted to design womens clothes. Dresses and shoes in fact, but as you can see, I was side tracked by the expectations of others. Funny thing though, I was able fight off the perception of failure that high school tried to hang on me and over time I went on to be successful in both the medical and metaphysical fields; successful enough for me. I did design some jewelry, but it wasn't very good, and when I started doing web pages I realized that I really did not have a eye for color, plus I can neither draw nor sew. On the other hand, I happened to see a show on the TV last week where "Designers" were put against one another in a contest to make clothing from various stuff. Some were very clever and some were very not.
I found myself thinking, "Hey, I would have given that skirt a little more 'flow' . Now, just like that, I am in business.
I don't want to give away all my secrets, but for my Florida Fall Line, I'm planning rain wear for you gals that just screams "SEE ME!" with Daffodil Yellow and Lime Lime Slickers with those pelican hook closures done in stainless steel. (Tres Nautique) Topped with a matching Sou'wester (that rain hat with the long back and the turned up front) My ladies will stay safe and dry. In fact, you can think of the whole Texino line as Fun & Functional or the other way around if you like. Please keep an eye out for our creations. En Salon at Paris, Milan and Honolulu.

... but nobody wants to die.

That's part of a blues song. "Every one's talking about getting to Heaven, but nobody wants to die." Blues people tend to be realists and I try to emulate the best of them by laying around most of the day and staying up late at night waiting to be tempted by the devil in the form of a woman in a red or blue dress. Rarely does this occur, so I tend toward idleness and other sinful action certain to keep me out of God's good grace and it has finally come to my attention that when the boys at R&I in Heaven's precinct pull my jacket, I will not be allowed entrance to the supernal eternal lands beyond the pearly gates. Sort of cheeses me off that I might be at the cross roads of eternal damnation while the angel grandpa from Bil Keane's Family Circus cuts a deal with St. Peter so it will snow and his grand kids can try out their new sleds. I don't remember much about Gramps Keane before he died, but, since he did, he sure gets A1 service up there in Paradise. Like I said, it bugs me, so I went looking for some folks who seem to think Heaven is a lead pipe cinch at the end of the trail and after checking them out, I'm pretty sure Heaven may not be the place for me to bump around after I die. Please allow me to share;



Any question that these people doubt their place in the after life? None in my mind, so I'm not so blue about missing the golden rocket. No, I'll take my chances with that bunch who hang around after the the band stops playing. I've always had fine times with people who like music and been real happy with the friends I made because of it. Maybe that's been my heaven all along. If there is any other sort of after life left for me, I can only hope they have a nice selection of books and that it is not too cold or too hot. I need to think about this in hopes that there will be something forthcoming for the bits and pieces of good I have done over the years. Hope I can have a dog.