The dream is not dead

 I'm still processing what happened to me over the last three years, but the past eight months have been exceptionally difficult. 

I do not wish that type of cruel betrayal on my worst enemy.

So here we are, moving forward, the dream is not dead, only different.  

I finally understand how Dick Nixon must have felt on many occasions...I'm still a huge admirer, sir.  To have such a sublimely intelligent man done in by his own paranoia.  At least I was humble enough not to actually break the law even though my detractors claimed otherwise.  

At the end, it didn't matter if it was true or not because the desired result was achieved.  Months later I am still paying the price and the person who claimed I was holding them hostage at gunpoint has not been held accountable on any level.  No charges were filed but my life was wrecked.  You don't get to lie to the police and have someone locked up against their will for 6 days in a government controlled psyop torture chamber then pretend it was some sort of tragic mistake. 

It would be one thing if the people in that hospital had done anything other than behave like sadistic and abusive pricks throughout the entire length of my confinement.  After I was railroaded under the authority of some loser on a power trip who works for KCMH I was strip searched just as naked as the day I was born and humiliated by two medical assistants. For six days a large portion of the staff actively attempted to punish me based on the vile accusations of my accusers and denied me any basic medical attention for hypoglycemic shock or access to fresh clean drinkable water (6 days).  They did everything within their power to provoke me into lashing out with physical violence but I found almost all of them inarticulate and completely lacking in the intelligence department and never bought the ticket  

The court hearing was video taped and I won, the doctor looked like a total jackass who was abusing his power.

It was only just beginning after that, with law enforcement hounding me to the gates of hell over a 22 pistol I sold in 1999 to a licensed gun dealer who fucked me and failed to register the sale.  None of it was politically motivated though.

The goon squad came to my house 4 times looking for a cheap Saturday night special because of the absolute incompetent dipshit Afghani Doc down at Kern Medical.  I wonder how much that costs the taxpayers?            

The dream is not dead means you had better watch your ass because I don't think you should have a license to practice medicine.

The type of damages caused to me by those people aren’t undone with an apology and a kind word.   You fucked up and I don’t forget.    You can’t screw with people and hide behind mental health laws claiming some sort of immunity when your motives were entirely personal and had no supporting facts.  

Here is the bottom line, and I told that worm on that day  just like right now.  I believe I was intentionally poisoned with a diabetic drug called glyburide with the capsules opened and the contents placed in my milk.  My blood glucose had been low for 2 days and every time my blood sugar dipped too low I drank milk to raise it. In the hours leading up to the point where I was ushered into a patrol car instead of an ambulance I drank milk and my glucose went so low I was shock and incapable of communicating or understanding my dilemma. The kind people who provided bogus info to have me Locked up had motive and opportunity to poison me but nobody wanted to listen to that fact. I was also under subpoena and scheduled to appear in a criminal case that week which conveniently became adjudicated while I was confined.  Nobody wanted to hear about that little crime of dissuading a witness and refused to contact the DAs office or provide me access to legal representation. They even cut my access to the phone claiming I had used it to call someone and make threats. But I should play nice?   These people tried to fucking murder me and nobody gave a shit or did anything except punish me.  Fuck that.  Now I have to live with the fucking trauma crated by those assholes which is compounded by all the trauma I lived through in the past, great job!

It’s all a racket to push pills.  I needed a trip to the ER and a shot of glucose not a shit smeared wall and cold concrete floor after being humiliated by these vile creeps.  How do they involuntarily commit a grown man without even having him examined by a physician in the ER.  This troll at the MET says I’m locked up and that’s it, I could have died you stupid ass and before I’m through you’re gonna wish I had.  

There is a lot more to this story than I know but I’m going to expose as much information as possible about who the persons were that stated I was brandishing a firearm and making threats at any point in that day.  I clearly said I thought there were people trying to kill me and I was in fear of my life because I was a witness in a felony case.  That was all written off as poppycock and co-signed by somebody who wanted me to lose everything. 

The person providing the info was actually working for the defense.  The guy who was on trial made an anonymous phone call stating I was calling and threatening him. It’s easily provable with phone records and dates.  

Hmmmm it couldn’t have been engineered by the guys I was gonna testify against, no way man….

Welcome to Kerntucky county, it’s a joke without a punch line.   

I wake up on the floor like Jim Rockford asking why I’m being held and it just proceeded from there.   Everything was bad for 6 entire days and these people really believe I should have thanked them. I couldn’t get away from them fast enough after 6 days of being hammered silly by these arrogant punks. 

I told them I was moving to Hoboken, ooops guess not.   

Update: to take an otherwise productive taxpaying citizen and lock them up for a week to destroy their ability to earn a living while homeless shit Dicks terrorize the city with impunity is a criminal act.   They never arrest and confine the guy swinging a battle axe in the middle of an intersection but they tried to ram rod me into a life of their choosing.  This place is one of the most corrupt and backwards ass counties in the country stop pretending it’s not.  The county was founded by a man convicted of treason during the civil war what do you expect.  

 

 

 

 

Live from the Bakersfield Civic Auditorium in 1970, this would be the last time the band performed this song and they did it in front of less than 5000 people. A year earlier the band sold out arenas, but after the Florida incident Jim was done with being a rock n roll star. Less than a year later he was found dead of an apparent heart attack. 

 

It was backstage at that concert allegedly Jim had a lengthy conversation with a catholic priest who later remarked, how intelligent and polite he was.  He was nothing like he expected and the priest walked away from that encounter with a new opinion about him and hippies in general.  

 

It doesn't matter who the priest was, maybe I made it up. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The video is from an old 8mm movie camera and the sound was recorded from the board.

Rescue me

 When my heart is heavy

 it feels like breaking

music brings joy to life

with special meaning.

 Home is in your heart

give it up and surrender

carry peace everywhere,

 to steer clear of dead end living.

 Running so long

Without a destination

take a load off and learn to forgive,

God is in the miracle business!

A new hope arrives with a song in the morning

he rescues people and restores their purpose,

his loving grace lights up life with clear vision. 

 

 

 

 

One day at a time.  

8 months

 

 

You think you know, but you have no idea...

I had to work in that line from Star Wars it took forever….

Whatever you think or feel about me and my writing once I release those words into the world they are no longer mine they become yours. 

 

 

 

This old desk

 I’m in a new space, using a different device to write because I thought it would be fun and portable.  Come to find out, nothing will ever replace my old office with the dusty books, trashy art, odd collectibles, junk, thee kitty cats, and my antique desk. 

Well, it's almost an antique desk at 94 years of age.  Right now, it is of little use in storage because I don't have a place for it.  Someday I will decide where to setup a proper library again, as a matter of fact the entire place shall be a library where I can gaze upon forlorn passages, penned by overlooked authors and librettists.

Enough of that for now, if it sounds like complete bullshit, forgive me.  It was intentional.    

In my experience, any furniture older than 100 years could be considered antique.  You can have a piece that belonged to Miles Standish and came all the way over here on the freakin Mayflower, but if rats make a nest inside of it, then it's just another trunk with rat piss in it.  When something becomes infested with vermin the value declines drastically.  In other words, I don't want that piece of shit get it out of here...

From 99 to 50 years would be classified as vintage, and anything manufactured in the last 50 years or newer should be considered collectible which is relative to a dealer, a collector, and the market.  

I’ve owned this old desk since my mother gave it to me back in the 80s.  I had that Apple II plus set up in my clandestine office back in the day.  It was built by my great uncle for his eighth-grade wood shop project in 1929.   It’s in the mission style, a basic writing desk, simply designed, ruggedly constructed and completely functional.  Heck, it's just a table with a drawer for papers and whatnot, how bad could you mess that up, right?  More on that later.

Tomorrow

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Those guys were still teenagers when this song was recorded and became a hit single.

It's so easy

 Put it this way, the more you know, the less you wanna know.   That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

I'm so messed up in the head right now I'm listening to the Guns and Roses live era, during their zenith in popularity.  I was there for at least two of those shows, maybe three, I can't remember.  If you can remember, you weren't actually there, right? 

The most memorable of those shows was at the Los Angeles Forum with Skid Row opening, and Sebastian Bach was a fucking madman.  Somebody wrote an article about Mr. Bach for Rolling Stone, and they mentioned that exact show with a quote Sebastian made about smoking weed.  The guns took the stage at 11 pm, and the concert ended at like 3 in the morning.  Izzy Stradlin quit the band right after that and I quit giving a shit.  

When the show was finally over, as the cocaine and alcohol wore off we thought it would be a swell idea to walk down Manchester at that time of the morning.  Do you know where you are?  You're in the jungle baby and you gonna die, literally.   

Lesson Learned.  

I'm still here, bitches.

Furthermore, I wouldn't advise walking down any street at 3 in the morning these days because I'm usually asleep.  

   

 

     

Move on

 As I said, talk is cheap, but your honor is sacred.   

Due to my numerous entanglements dealing with a divorce, I haven't been very productive lately.    

My divorce has been like a car accident; when all the broken stuff was cleaned up and the road was open, I realized it was time to move on.   

It doesn't matter where I'm going, because everything is all gravy from this day forward.   

Life is too short to be tied to a fucking boat anchor.