How can one man hang is head low enough to auto kiss any ass that comes his way? Is there really an explanation to the choosing of the moniker "grapefruit"? Are we licking the heels of revolution's soul? Was there really a cigar poison plot when it comes to the big bearded wonder? Where's that moon studio again? American pilots and Japanese planes, right? ALL the white breast chicken meat comes from the tumor in South America that grows from the Earth, right?  Is there an Ashcroft anointment story? What about that Lincoln bedroom? And what did happen in Lincoln's bedroom and with who?  What about the infamous "Riverside" shows where the U.S. government released mental patients into the Dead shows back in the very infantile 80's? Urban legends and conspiracies run rampant throught the impressionable cerebrum of most young adults. Are these cultural thesis correct? Nine out of ten gravely throated bums sucking screw top wine disagree.

I dedicate this post to Gary. I will leave it at Gary. The nicknames and full names would confuse you. Gary is sufficient.

Gary is a 6'4", 140 lb. Jewish man living in Long Beach. Gary lives in the ghetto. He doesn't roll with Snoop Doggy Dog but one of his nick names is similair. His mini - van is painted in the Ethiopian flag colors. At least it is not Mexico. His dread locks pat his ass with a mangy "hello" every one or two strides from his sky scraper legs. His beard stretches and extends down to his navel in a pseudo Osama look.  Gary is a burnt out ol' hippie who started going to Dead shows in the early 70's but went full tour in the late 70's and early 80's. He is a modern physical marvel. No lard or raisins for this Rasta, he abides to the strict diet of scripture. To his credit he does store enormous amounts of data in that noggin of his. And he switched from the Dead to reggae - wait - what does that make him?

OK. Gary has lots of stories and fables. He also has lots of fact that sprigs and springs it's way up through the field of fertilizer that can sometimes haze and hue his tales. Just ask him about the ancient man that guards the hut in the Ethiopian desert that contains the lost ark. He knows it's there. Doesn't everyone? Nope. Only the 200 year old man that guards it ever so efficiently with divine superscedence.

The best Gary story is one of lore's yarn. Some homies were sittin' on Gary's porch one day drinking a forty or two and passing time. As dusk approached, Gary came out and ask Homie 1 and Homie 2 if they would depart as it was getting late ...

You have to keep in mind this man is a community icon. He IS the crazy Jewish Rasta who lives in the 99% African American ghetto and runs a music studio from his house/commune and boarding house all while parking that crazy ass Rasta van in front of it. Balls. That one word says it enough until you think about what you would have to know and understand in order to assimilate into a neighborhood that was that filled with animosity and turmoil in regards to the White Jew Man of Suppression. He conjured respect. He needed not the talents of "Blue" Lou Marini.

... They simply said, " Hell, no!" and kept on talking, presumably of life in the 'hood. Gary asked again. They responded by asking if he liked his porch. They explained they would hate to see something happen to it, such as maybe a fire. I SWEAR THIS IS A REAL STORY. He says, "Ok". Gary leaves for a few moments and returns with a jug of gasoline and begins to dump it all over the porch that these two men were sitting on. The men stand up cursing and Gary throws a match down on the planks of porch all lined up and nailed into their places as floor boards, soaked in gasoline. Talk about demonstration. The porch begins to glow as the men flee screaming how crazy Gary is. Gary then extinguishes the porch flame. All said and done the men left.

Gary stood tall and proud and in the face of adversity spat into it's eyes and asked for a good Cleveland Steamer. There's something to be said about a man who knows what he likes.

Reminds me of another man or two this piece should be dedicated to as well. Make that five and add a woman for six. My top six Massively Influential  People of Persuasion through Insanity. These are officially in NO order.

Ok so it should be easy right? No order! Ha! Someone reading this will get pissed. I revolve and rotate and they will spew out just fine and chances are only one will be the wiser.

I knew a man named 610 Jones, aka The Zone, aka Zone. 610's Christian name was Geoff. A pure bred genius. Multiple degrees led to a collegiate break down during his dual Masters ambition that ceased when he was in his very early twenties, I think it actually was twenty. Triple Bachelors from Berkeley. Saw the Dead in Egypt at the pyramids. Ran with the Hell's Angels and toured with the Beastie Boys. He was the man who you could ask ANYTHING. After a triple bachelor's in varying arrays of chemistry there wasn't much you couldn't find out from him. IQ off the charts. Sometimes he slept in his car. He was a chef, a lumberjack, a yoga instructor, a landscaper, a proof reader, a fisherman, a butcher, a drifter. He was my last American mad man. The one who tells you about everything that connected your feeble and youthful attempts to stretch out into reality all while you wondered what was missing. He connected your dots.

"Hey, Zone, Why do the neutrons in the chemical reaction ...", He knew the answer. He surfed, dived, lived, breathed, and had the deepest and most soulful heart of any man I have ever known. He knew everything and anything. 610 is now bed ridden most days. They aren't sure. Maybe Chronic Fatigue or Fibro Mayalsia. They ruled out MS. Lord, keep in touch the man who knows everything and conveyed it as such in a way we all believed. God save 610 Jones!

The natural progression from surreal to meta physical to spiritual to philosophical to flammable to out of control is how I will proceed. And yes it is as large as six. So be it. It is as it is. It works if you work it. I must breath and not choke too hard on my laughter.

My tour from Long Beach to Long Beach (CA to MA) leads us to the Island of Staten. I have a friend out there. She is the most humble of women until her hair is kinked. She is my Sicilian ass queen. She knows it. She also lays out a shortcake of theological emphasis that are to be devoured upon each contact. From her ever present road of Catholicism to the super natural world of ethereal connections and to the more mediocre of the sciences the Numerology and Zodiac divisions. This woman is a spiritual WORKHORSE. The velvet blood of Christ's thorns run through this woman; she knows the spirit of everything. No hokey kook. She IS the real thing. Her name is Caramia and she is the most true to root hippie slash spiritualist that I know, even when she screams Lou Reed lyrics out windows while driving through Manhattan on the way to Hell's Kitchen at one a.m. on a Sunday morning she understands the foreboding realism of what is there and how to take it. A bit emotional but the best if you are.

I went to a church out on the Island with her and she took me into, what my agnostic ass thought was a creepy and ritualistic, shrine of Christ at a local church. I will never forget the bent over dying Italian woman who was marveling over the plasticine toes of Christ that were there in front of her as plain as any ashtray or coffee mug her kid made for her in ceramics growing up. I still remember all of the "Saint Shrines" that were outside this temple of Christ. Red candles mean alot when you burn inside. The fire is uncontainable.

The MOST uncontainable soul I know is that of my boss. His name is Ray. He is an empathetic nightmare. He feels the whole world. Not just as it effects him but as his psyche and soul consume the feelings and energy that are put off around him. He went to MIU (Maharishi Mahesh Yogi International University in Iowa) in the early eightie's. Ray is the most soul open person I know. Another mix of everything important but Ray stands out. I could never say anything bad about him and he'll even talk politics with me. A genuine man who offers nothing more than being able to show you, if even for just a minute, what is going on and how you should deal with it. The rest is up to you and that is clear by his avoidance of already addressed issues. Pure genius!

Two more to go and the purge is done. There is something to be said about people that have effected you and may not know it and come creeping out of the woodwork to say hello. Two more to wave "hi" to.

Ron Gorman was the man. He was stationed in Japan during Vietnam. He smoke. He drank. He had a honey back home. Ron was afraid of the war and even more afraid of it when he came home. He had something silly like 7 kids. He came home to the super market job that he had had when he had left for the big jungle. He stocked shelves. I worked with Ron on the graveyard shift for almost two years. Six days a week, all union, eight hours, stocking those shelves and drinking coffee in the morning to go off and pretend we were people participating in society. When I knew Ron, he no longer smoked or drank.

 Ron quit smoking because he could feel the wheeze. They weight on his chest. The dying lung jacket. The weight killed him. He stopped drinking on his own, long after the smoking. Ron, while sleeping in a hotel near the market he worked in, would wake up to an alarm, every two hours to drink shots of vodka and peppermint schnapps just to sleep. I knew Ron when he was crazy sober and his entire reality was consumed by dealing with reality and processing those who did you wrong (he was already sober 20 years so it was more an issue of personality and less of program - he did not go to meetings). There was a HUGE sense of right and wrong with this man; more so than any other person I have ever met. He was verbal. He got in trouble. He would call people Jack Mack in jest - it was a reference to a Jack Mackerel can in his aisle at work. He was Ron. He was mad. He was loud. He made me think. He was Ron. I hope he is still with us.

One man left, that I know is with us, is the inevitable fool. The jester that I have laughed at seizing. I have watched him vomit on cars of Vermont hippie tourists from the backseat windows of cars that I rode in with him. I watched him stumble through the streets of San Ysidro, only to hug me upon arriving at the Jack in the Box. This is a man that gave a kaleidoscope to Jerry Garcia, backstage at a show. Tim. He has done some time. He might be doing some as I write this. He is a head to the death. I watched him try to shop lift Reese's Pieces while at a 7-11 that was part of a mission that was book ended by a house filled with candy. Needless to say I buckled him in that night four times. Departure, arrival, departure, arrival. No more belt.

He was a masterpiece. Someone who showed you not only old tricks but also showed you what it was like to be the one with the short end of the stick. Yuck! No one wants that. He was a writer. For a blink he was my hero. The I opened my eyes and saw - Yuck! He wasn't a writer. He was a fifty year old drug addict with no career just the hoosgow. God hates the hoosgow.

I think there was a good rant of story telling as well as a bunch of hidden secrets. I just commented to someones blog and revealed my three mantras. They are as follows:

Things have a way of working out.

I'm over it.

 I am not here to save the world but rather to save myself.

That last one may seem selfish but they are true and blue. The freedom and acknowledgement they supply, when taken for what they are, is truly life changing. They are simple and true.

Double back the neck of some horn jazz with the turkey gobbling and the loose movement held together tighter than ever with brethren sobriety. Rock on appropriately when Monday grabs you by the balls ...