Rugs

The other night I was startled by the televised appearance of a local businessman I had known 20 years ago. He owns a piece of the National Basketball Association franchise here, the Sacramento Kings. That’s what the TV interview was about.

He also owns a piece of hair.  Or what might pass as hair in a dim light.  What I remembered as his thinning blond hair had been replaced with something that looked like a road kill skunk, minus the white stripe. In short, this guy was wearing the most obvious rug in captivity.  That’s what startled me.

See, this guy is not a pauper who can't afford to accessorize.  He’s a developer who’s built vast suburbs and a Hyatt Regency hotel in addition to owning a percentage of the Kings.   You’d think he would buy a hairpiece that didn’t look like a failed experiment swept from the floor of a barber college.  He could easily afford a head ornament from the Sean Connery Collection of Cranial Canvas, but no, he’s taken the badly paved road to a false economy and looks it.

I can sympathize.  My own hairline has not just receded. It’s gone into wild retreat.  I toyed with the idea of buying a rug in order to be attractive to a woman, then the voice of sweet reason whispered in my inner ear,  “She’s gonna find out sometime, Ace.  Better make it sooner than later.  Later and she just might burst out laughing if the damn thing flops over on your face at a crucial time and ruins The Moment.”

Besides, as a woman told me, “If it falls off in a restaurant, the other diners will try to kill it.”

A barber who hated to lose any business counseled me to let the hair on the side of my head grow long enough to cover the nekkid part on top.  Bad idea. That looks goofier than a cheap hairpiece and is even more obvious.  Another barber suggested that a couple of combover strands might be a comforting illusion for me, but that would just make me look like a skinny Homer Simpson.  Forget it.

I thought Bald Pride might be the way to go.  I had barbers give me the quick Buzzed To Fuzz Special.  Eventually I bought an electric clipper to do the job myself instead of spending ten bucks a pop to be shorn like a sheep.  On cold days I wear a stylish beret or a woolen Navy watch cap at a jaunty angle and strut around like a grand boulevardier and the most vain of peacocks.

I even bought a license plate frame that read “The More Hair I Lose The More Head I Get” but a miffed Christian neighbor took offense and removed it.

Yet I am sometimes humbled when remembering the words of a tired cocktail waitress when a bald drinking buddy of mine told her,  “Bald headed men are more virile.”

She sighed and said, “No, they aren’t. They just talk more.”

Some of us even write about it.

As for that developer, I know him to be a nice fella.  I wish he would ditch the toup and let his head shine like a beacon of good will. 

Besides, if it falls off in a restaurant, well......

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Comments?

Funny.  The day before I left, a neighbor suggested that I dye my hair and the very next day (the day I left!) a woman in the airport told me how much fun I'd have with "the bottles."   I like your jauntiness, your highness.  --  Thea

LOL Tomato. No lie! As I clicked to read this story, my husband opened the door and shouted out, "I brought you home a  rug to use your ab exerciser on."  Another cute write, you!  -- Pirate

Wonderful, and more wonderfuller. Love your timing. Lust for your sentences. Plus the hair thing is funny. -- Galen

Aw shucks. I thank you and my surviving hairs thank you.

I dated a man a long time ago who was going bald and went for the shave-his-head-with-a-razor technique. I thought it was pretty spiffy, and I thought it equally spiffy that he made up for his lack of hair on top with a grand mustache and a fancy goatee that looked like a work of art. He was a striking looking guy. Now, if only his looks had compensated for the fact that he turned out to be a prick. Oh well. Sometimes there's just no way to make a dumbass fine, no matter how handsome a package it comes in. Great writing as always. -- Zoey

What a terrific story, Mike! -- Amanda

To the point: What is hard for our generation is we once were longhairs, unlike our fathers.The guy's codpiece only tells me god has a sense of humor. There are many forms of self annhilation. Your writing , always good, is seeming even more fluid, perhaps the natural outcome of hearing ones own voice, and haven given up on defense mechanisms to ball up perceptions. Keep going, and know I always enjoy your sketches, scenes and scenarios. They have that feel of substance. -- Peter Kidd aka Ig Bear

Thank you, Peter. Took me a long time to hear that voice and commit it to print. Up to that point I tried to commit literature. The result would have gotten me a membership in Pompous Anonymous. Then I learned to write for the readers’s ear and not the term paper eye, sentence fragments and all. Took lots of practice. Stll does.

Bravo.  Nobody I know who sets out to make literature actually succeeds. Sometimes even poets don't get it often. Be a humble writer and let the rest take care of itself. -- Ig

Thanks again. Humility is harder for me to learn than committing literature.

You never cease to amaze and amuse me. Please, never stop. I agree with one of the other posts, you should write a book. -- Carol

Now I'll know what my Australian cowboy hat will be good for, when my hair gets so thin you can see my brain through it -- Gerard

Thanks, this is utterly charming.  Just thought you should know! -- Kate.

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious! -- Karen

Even though a hairpiece is something quite atrocious?

I enjoyed your essay on hair. I am glad that I still have my hair. When I weighed 225, my stomach stood out ahead of my chest. I lost 30 pounds but still have a thick waist. I suppose that if I exercised more, I might have a thinner waist. On the positive side, you and I are still alive and good things may happen to us. -- Ken

Donald Trump says he has a double comb over. Well, someone who analyzed his head in a picture said that's what it was. You could go for that, but I'd choose another color than orangutan. It's not even becoming on men with money. Keep writing. I'll keep reading and laughing. -- Linda B

David Letterman refers to Trump’s hair as “that thing on your head.”

Really enjoyed this one, Mike--and I wish you could get the Donald to read it! -- DA

This is one of my absolute favs, Mike.  Very funny. This guy must have a relative named Donald, right? -- Sandy

Right!

You're going to think this odd but I'm on a Greyhound bus headed for Las Vegas as I write this. Lol, this ain't the 1950's Pomidoro man! -- QBman

Good luck in Vegas. Hope you don't get, uh, clipped, and have to hitch hike home.

Oh, Mike, how I love your stories.  I really, really do! -- Tia

This was a good one.  We were just talking about combovers at work last night. -- Julisari

You're hilarious!  Why don't you send this to the New Yorker? -- Pamela

Flatterer.

.I liked 'the most obvious rug in captivity.' Thanks. -- Lady W

LOL.  That was entertaining. -- Mary Pat

You should have seen the pilot I flew with when I was a co-pilot in B-52s. He wore an unmistakable rug, and was so vain that he would not take it off even when he flew. So, for 8 hours or so during flight he had his helmet on (and we usually sweat a lot under those helmets). At the end of the flight he kept his helmet on until he could finally get out of the plane and get to the men's room at base ops, where he would comb and rearrange his hair piece, and emerge with perfect hair and helmet under his arm. -- Mickey C.

Well, as long as he didn’t also touch up his eyebrows and lipstick while shooting an instrument approach, I guess he was harmless.

Some hair turns grey, some hair turns loose. That's all I have to say on the subject. -- Wht

In my case, both.

A Birthday Of Books

Last Monday I became one year shy of my allotted three-score-and-ten by having another birthday. My birthday loot included an armload of books. I love books. Always have. I even went to book college and got two commercially useless degrees in the reading of books. Now that’s real love.

Sometimes I prefer books to people. There are reasons for this. Books never borrow money, break promises, give unwanted advice or get jealous of other books on your shelves. Another plus: once you’ve enjoyed them, you can nod off without having to sleep on a wet spot.

Books can transport you to any point in the universe without making you take off your shoes and get petted by a TSA person prior to departure. I mean, you can still take off your shoes and get petted before reading a book if that’s your thing, but it’s a personal choice and not a government regulation enforced by people who are paid to pet other people in socks.

You don’t even have to leave home to enjoy a book, unless it’s to go to the library to get more books. I treasure my library card more than my credit card.

Unlike credit card companies, public libraries don’t charge interest and send huffy letters when books are overdue. Instead libraries politely inquire with “Have you forgotten?” notices written with motherly concern.

Libraries do have fines for overdue books of course, but it’s chump change compared to the extortion demanded by credit card companies for overdue payments. You get the impression that if you don’t cough up the overdue amount plus interest and fees, the credit card company will have people with names like Guido and No Neck kneecap your credit rating with Louisville Sluggers.

Local governments can be a threat to books. Public libraries are the most vulnerable of services when budget time rears its snarling head. The result is often reduced staff, limited  hours and fewer purchases of new books.

The electronic medium is also eating away at the printed word. Television has already chewed a big chunk out of the newspaper industry, even though the script for a 30 minute newscast would not fill a single column of the newspaper you used to read.

Personal computers with Internet capability are also nibbling their way into the print medium, but in some cases, marriages of convenience are arranged between books and computers. Libraries that can afford computers have digitalized their card catalogues, although those big varnished cabinets with their drawers of Dewey Decimaled cards still have a prominent spot in libraries. They're usually near a reference desk or a counter with a real human being behind it, a kindly person who can patiently direct you to the book with the answer to your goofiest question. Such people are saints.

You can order books on-line, and even read them on your computer with some services, but reading them on a glowing screen lacks the comforting feel of a hefty hardback in your hands.

Books can also decorate a room and make their owner seem scholarly and wise. A room full of computer screens will brand their owner as a nerd. Plus books don’t go dark during power failures and are not subject to having their contents erased by a computer virus or an electronic bug. The only bugs books get are silverfish and maybe a stray spider, but both are easily dispatched without having to call someone in Bangalore or Manila for customer service.

I agree with a 19^th Century writer named Edward George Bulwer-Lytton who wrote “Master books but do not let them master you. Read to live, not live to read.”

But then, he was also the author of the line “It was a dark and stormy night,” so I wouldn’t make too much book on his counsel.

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Some pals write:

Oh, Mike, how I love your stories .... I really, really do! -- Tia

Thanks for these.  Always great to read them. -- Angel

I enjoyed reading the essay and love having time to read books now that I am retired. Happy birthday. Some of my cartoons will be published in my college class's 50th reunion book. -- Ken

They'll make a nice permanent memory.

Wonderful stuff.  You make me want to grab a book and find a well-lit comfortable spot.  Too much time on the computer these days. --  Mike C.

As always Mike thanks. Some write some do. I had to quit writing before I became so huge as to be house bound. The next adventure is from St Paul to New Orleans By Canoe and Kayak. You are invited to come along -- Nick

No thanks. For me, a trip to the mailbox is all I can manage.

Such a well-woven together essay; you never cease to impress me. -- Galen

Thank you. I know you are not easily impressed.

As much as I fancy computers and keyboards, I still find great comfort in writing out longhand all kinds of things I think about in my journal from time to time, and on my shelves are past ones, full now, next to poems and favorite books. A line of computer-generated stuff just isn't the same kind of comfort, is it? -- Zoey

Nope.

So?  When can we see all this in a nice bound volume? -- Larry

That’s a good question.

Another priceless gem, Mike! Thanks for sending another great piece my way. -- Amanda

I enjoyed this, Mike. Happy birthday, Buddy. Nice to see you're still doing this. Say hi to Jerry [Brown] next time you're downtown and tell him Scotty Miller's keeping the faith in Seattle. I hope he can fix some of what's broken. -- Rusty

Knowing the good governor, he’ll make things worse with good intentions.

Zounds!  Many happy returns of the day. Good TT! -- Albert

Love the kind words about books and libraries -- Karen

Excellent. -- CDB

In my eyes, you are like a good book! Thanks, for another good read -- P&P

Thanks for sending! -- Eve

Thank you for the break -- Carol

Always a treat, Mike. I have arthritis in my hands that makes holding a book and turning pages very difficult. I read almost exclusively on the computer now, and I miss the feel of books in my hot little hands! -- Linda

So nice to have a new Tomatoman Times! -- Diane

Happy Birthday, fellow Aries! I've come to love my Kindle more than actual books. Hope all is well with you -- Babe/Cyn

Happy Birthday, Mike! -- Pamela

Sooo good. I lol'd, literally, and I really needed to do that today. Thanks.

P.S. I'm sharing to Facebook, with or without your permission. -- Sum

Wonderful article about the value of books, those actual items of written word that nestle in your hands and your eyes can feast on the words. I love books. My life would not be complete without them. I am not into the electronic reading things, myself. I prefer to hold a real book in my hands. Thanks Mike for another terrific essay. -- Peggy

Always enjoy the arrival of Tomatoman Times in my emai box. -- Ldy
Always a treat, Mike. I have arthritis in my hands that makes holding a book and turning pages very difficult. I read almost exclusively on the computer now, and I miss the feel of books in my hot little hands! -- Linda

So nice to have a new Tomatoman Times! -- Diane

Happy Birthday, fellow Aries! I've come to love my Kindle more than actual books. Hope all is well with you -- Babe/Cyn

Thank alla yas for the kind words. Hell, thanks for reading this stuff in the first place. MB

Goldie, Buddha & Me

Goldie Hawn doesn’t know it, but she jumpstarted my freelance writing career when the production company for her movie Protocol came to Sacramento in 1984. The plot was centered in Washington D.C. The producer, Anthea Sylbert (Chinatown, Rosemary’s Baby, Day Of The Dophin), wanted a location that looked enough like Washington D.C. to spare the expense of moving cast, crew, and equipment to the nation's capital for a single scene requiring a backdrop of Greek Revival government buildings. There are two of them in Sacramento, facing each other on the Capitol Mall traffic circle across the street from the capitol itself. Just the setting the producer wanted.

At the time I was in a period of creative repose, a polite way of saying unemployed, when a buddy called saying a movie company was coming to town and hiring locals as extras. "They want people who look like anonymous bureaucrats," she said. "I thought of you right away. I mean, you were an anonymous bureaucrat for eleven years, so you don’t even need an acting coach. Just be yourself."

Gee thanks.

"You get $50 and a catered lunch."

That clinched it. I asked if I should have my people call their people.

"Very funny. Look, one of the associate producers is screening people at the state employment office tomorrow. Wear your sincere suit, the blue pinstriped one."

I showed up at the employment office five minutes after it opened. A handwritten sign had been taped to the door stating all the movie extra positions had been filled -- probably by employment office staff plus their friends and relatives -- but I saw this as a karmic test. Buddha dwells everywhere, even in adversity. So, if I couldn’t be immortalized on the silver screen and get $50 and a free lunch, I could at least write about the local people chosen as extras and peddle the story to a regional magazine.

But Buddha wasn’t done with me yet. The scene was being filmed in a small park within sight of the state capitol, and I was persona non grata. "This is a closed set," the unit publicist told me when I showed up in my sincere suit with an expired press pass on my lapel and a 35 mm camera slung from my neck. "No media allowed," she said. Some publicist.  A uniformed cop moved closer in case I made a fuss.

I later learned the film had drawn the ire of Muammar Khaddafy’s Libyan government for its portrayal of a Muslim diplomat’s attraction to an American cocktail waitress, a blasphemous American temptress who serves forbidden liquor played by Ms. Hawn.  Worse yet, Ms. Hawn is Jewish.  Not only that, but Ms. Hawn is a practicing Buddhist. That made her a triple infidel in the eyes of the Prophet Mohammed's nutcase disciple in Libya.

So what did that have to do with me, a publicist and a cop on the other side of the world? Well, since the movie was also being filmed in Libya, Khaddafy’s displeasure had real traction with the U.S. Department of State -- and with the cast and crew who needed Libyan visas stamped on their passports. The last thing the producer wanted was publicity at this stage of the game, any publicity, even the kind generated by a bush league freelancer in a pinstriped suit.

I was blissfully ignorant of all this fuss, but it would not have made a bit of difference if I had known. Opportunity was not just knocking on my door, it was hammering with an iron fist. I made a big show out of looking around at the assembled crowd. "Doesn’t look very closed to me," I said. "Anyway, I just want to talk to some local extras and be on my way."

In other words, leave me alone and I won’t make waves. Not that I could, but this Hollywood gofer didn’t know that. Besides, I had Buddha in my corner. No way I was giving up this contest of wills, especially after being aced of $50 and a free lunch.

The publicist decided I wasn’t worth the trouble. She shrugged and walked away. Since she wasn’t making a fuss, the cop didn't make one either. He swaggered away, probably thinking all reporters should be required to wear shrouds, like medieval lepers, and clang hand bells while shouting "Unclean! Unclean!" when venturing out among decent people. Most cops feel that way about reporters. Hell, I sometimes feel that way about reporters myself.

The production company was quite a production in itself. Big windowless buses were parked up and down Ninth Street across from the capitol, along with 40’ trailers that served as dressing and conference rooms. One of the trailers contained a kennel housing two Afghan hounds that were needed for the scene. Extras, grips and technicians with earbud radios milled around, looking important. A man later identified as the director, Herbert Ross (Funny Girl, The Sunshine Boys), was stripped to the waist and doing pushups on the Capitol Mall lawn.

One guy wearing a baseball cap and who needed a shave was sitting on a plastic cooler reading a newspaper. The unshaven dude was not an actor, but I recognized him anyway. He was the screenwriter.

"So, this is what writers do when they’re not writing," I said.

"We read," Buck Henry said in an annoyed tone. Bad enough that he was stuck in this goddamn boring government town, but he had to put up with chatty locals in sincere suits as well. There oughta be a law.

No matter. While I was duly impressed with seeing the screenwriter who scripted The Graduate, I was here to interview the Sacramento based talent, not yak it up with the Grand Panjandrums.

I singled out three of the locals. One was an attractive middle-aged woman in a peasant dress who sat in the shade reading a hardbound book, her long graying hair pulled back in a ponytail. I imagined she was a retired teacher who volunteered at a public library and organized coffee klatches for Walter Mondale supporters.  I asked her about that. She looked up from her book. "No," she said, amused. "I’m involved with Little Theater. That’s how I heard about this." She returned to her book. The other two extras were an off duty deputy sheriff and another man in a period of creative repose, like me. Neither was very talkative. I guess they were getting in touch with their Inner Extras before the cameras rolled.

Then the star emerged from her trailer. The cast and crew jumped into action. The publicist hustled over to Ms. Hawn and pointed me out. Ms. Hawn gave me a look of critical appraisal, perhaps thinking I was a State Department snitch in that stupid blue suit.  I imagine she mentally gave me the finger.

The scene required the use of three huge cameras and an array of arc lights despite the cloudless sunny day. A string of locally owned late model cars had been corralled and fitted with fake Virginia, Maryland and D.C. license plates to circle the mall during filming. Extras in their sincere suits accessorized with briefcases walked purposefully to and fro.

Finished with his push-ups, Mr. Ross took control and called for action. The cars circled, the extras extraed, the Afghan hounds hounded. The dogs were released to run across the lawn with Ms. Hawn in pursuit. Her character was supposed to be taking care of them. Then she tripped and landed butt first on the grass, laughing. Cut and print. That was it. All that prep, all those cars, all those those extras, and all those free lunches for less than 10 seconds on the screen.

I went home and wrote up the story, which was accepted by a local magazine. Not only was the story accepted, but I was accepted too. The publisher hired me to be the managing editor. Unfortunately, the magazine went bankrupt the month I was hired. Even so, a credit is a credit and it opened the doors to other publications.

So, thank you, Ms. Hawn.

Still, I wish I could’ve gotten $50 and a free lunch.

-o-

Comments, critiques, threats: 

No matter which stories you tell, your lovely, easy going voice shines. -- Mimi

Thank you, Mimi.  It took me a long time to learn to write for the reader's inner ear instead of trying to commit literature in deathess prose. Or deadening prose.  MB

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....you never fail to make me smile, make me think, entertain me - Zoey

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I really enjoyed that.  -- Trog

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You can reprise this one any time you like. Eventually Goldie will hear it and probably ask you on a date. -- Shag

Or actually give me the finger this time. -- MB

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Thanks for sending, Mike, I enjoyed it! -- Bob

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I landed a major book deal with film interest. Man got mugged in Washington State 10 years ago-- became a savant from the brain injury. You can't make it up :) -- Maureen

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I enjoyed your article on movie extras. My daughter, 29, and her husband recently moved to L.A. to seek their fortune in the entertainment industry. She managed to get a job as a waitress and a temporary, part-time job acting as a wife in distress on the radio. I would like her to succeed as a writer or actress, but at this point would be very relieved if she and her husband had health insurance. -- Ken

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I loved it, Mike. I wish you'd write more.  -- Linda

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Oh hell.  You're back.  Why don't you get a day job, you hack?  -- ZipLePrune

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Another wonderful read! -- Juli
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I greatly enjoyed your recollections about Goldie, but I must correct one fact: Buck Henry did not direct The Graduate, Mike Nichols did. Buck, however, was the official screenwriter on the movie -- Condor

Correction made.  Thanks!   -- MB

The Battered Battery Syndrome

I have a Zen-like belief that if my car doesn’t want to take me someplace, maybe it’s better that I don't go. Today my car did not want to take me to the battery store. I wanted to go to the battery store because the car’s battery has been acting like a sullen teenager lately, only working part time and grudgingly at that. So I thought it needed replacing.

Sullen batteries are easier to replace than sullen teenagers. I know. I was a sullen teenager. There were times when my parents wished they could replace me with a battery. Unlike sullen teenagers, batteries don’t eat everything not frozen solid, don't  break curfew, and don't get other batteries pregnant with little batteries. Not that I got any batteries pregnant, you understand, but that was then and this was now, and now my Zen thinking was in conflict with my desire for automotive mobility. It was quite an internal crisis. For both the battery and for me.

Anyway, I thought I had charged the battery with a 100 mile drive last week, but when I tried to start the car today, the engine said “crick crick.” See, it’s a Japanese car, and Japanese cars don’t say “click click” when the battery is acting like a sullen teenager and refuses to start the car. They say…well…you get the picture.

But out of the mud may bloom the lotus. It’s possible that my sullen teenaged battery may have saved me from a gruesome wreck on the way to the battery store. I thought about being squashed into road kill by a speeding big rig whose driver was so hopped up on truck stop coffee that he thought my car was a speed bump. I puddled up at the thought my untimely demise. Poor Mike. Cut down in the prime of his senility. Then I wiped away my tears and blew my nose in a Handi Wipe or maybe on the nearest sleeve and tried to start the car again. “Crunk,” it said, and that was that.

Okay. I can take a hint. I called the Insurance Angel whose company provides roadside assistance. This was my third call this month. We’re getting to be old friends.

“You again,” she said. “What is it this time?”

I told her my car would not start. It sat there like a sullen teenager and muttered ’crunk’ the last time I turned the key.

She let out a sigh that crossed state lines. “Ooookay, Mister Brownie. I’ll call a tow company. Again. And stop buying cars that don’t speak English.”

As it happened, my car did not need a tow. Just a shot of battery Viagra from a more virile battery that worked out consistently and ate a lot of battery vitamins, which the tow company truck provided.

“You again,” the driver said. “Why don’t you get a battery with better manners?”

That’s just what I did when I finally got to the battery store.

“You again,” said the battery man, then he took the battery’s pulse and blood pressure. The prognosis was not good. “Your battery terminals are terminal,” he said, and got me another battery. This battery recently finished a stint in battery rehab, “but I can’t guarantee that it won’t relapse,” said the battery man.

Well, if this battery won’t start my car, maybe it’s my car’s karma. But it did, and me and the car were as happy as Buddha under a Bo tree.

Comments?

"Prime of your senility" Dang, you're younger than I am and I'm NOT senile. Always fun to read your stories. -- Carol M.
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You again?  By the way, I think our cars are related. -- Beatysr
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Ahaaaaa loved it -- Juli
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I enjoyed reading your column. I am delighted with my low tire pressure light that has kept me from having a flat tire on 3 occasions. -- Ken

Thanks, Ken. I dunno about having a car smarter than I am.

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I'll probably never look at little batteries the same, again -- Pirate
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Crick?  Pretty funny Mike -- Lynda
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Cutest one yet! -- Tab A
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Laughing so hard I ....well you know. That was one of the funniest ever. Good job! -- Mary Pat
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Entertaining as always.

You know, I had to chuckle. First, my AAA man knows me by my first name because for some reason I obstinately will not put a key box magnet on my car somewhere or keep an extra key in my really tiny purses. I simply get out of the car and leave the keys in the ignition enough times that when I call AAA, the man says "Hi, Zoey. How have you been...I mean, other than today when you locked your keys in your car again?"

So, I chuckled at your piece. We know something's going wrong but we just put it off a little longer. We make love to it with our voices as though it was a familiar lover with no intention of failing to make you come just like he always does. Well, perhaps a bad analogy, but that's where my head...uh...my mind was.

Anyway...thanks for the smile, Mike -- Zoey

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Funny, as usual. You're such a joy to read. -- Amanda
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You sure know how to turn a demi-tragedy into a good comedy -- Karen S.

A Fun Read And A Funner Site

In case you missed it the first time around, I've linked a site kept by Ken Babbs, an author who wrote a novel entitled Who Shot The Water Buffalo, based on his experience as Marine helicopter pilot in Viet Nam. 

SKYPILOTCLUB HOME PAGE

Mr. Babbs was a  buddy and neighbor of the late Ken Kesey, author of One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest; Sometimes A Great Notion;  Kesey's Garage Sale; Little Tricker the Squirrel Meets Big Double the Bear, a children's book; Sailor Song; Last Go Around; and a collection of essays entitled Demon Box, which a friend borrowed five years ago and never returned. [Marcia: I want my book back.]

In 1964 Babbs and Kesey were the de facto leaders of a scruffy band of free spirits named The Merry Pranksters who made a cross country odyssey in a psychedelically painted ex-school bus they named "Furthur" with "Weird Load" painted on the back.

The driver was the late Neal Cassady, a natural speed freak and literary icon made famous as the character Dean Moriarity in Jack Kerouac's 1957 book, On The Road, and as the central character in his Visions Of Cody. 

Author Tom Wolfe wrote about the Merry Prankster journey in The Electric Kool Aid Acid Test, published in 1968, and mandatory reading for every sophomore boy who wanted to run away from home to get loaded and laid in a tie-dyed heap of stoned hippie bodies. 
  
Mr. Babbs' site is sad and funny at the same time.  It has pictures of old hippies with bulging bellies and gray hair attending what looks like a counter-cultural VFW cookout, their free love, free dope and free chalmydia days long since cast aside for raising families, paying mortgages, and now babysitting grandchildren when their parents need a break.

I kinda wish I had joined those folks in 1968.  But I was a short-haired Navy vet, a registered Republican with two jobs and a full-time college student whose own mother thought he was too stuffy for his own good.  No exactly a candidate for the Woodstock Generation. 

As it was, I thought most of the patchouli reeking, draft dodging, furry headed hippies were spoiled refugees from the middle class playing at poverty with their gawdawful macrobiotic diets and glassy-eyed readings of Herman Hesse's books.  Oh, and The Hobbit was also big among the dopers who could read without moving their lips too much.  Jesus H. Christ. 

I did have a distant connection with that bunch many years later when I was drying out in the same VA hospital where Kesey had worked as an orderly, stealing LSD from the psych ward to share with his friends. At the time he was enrolled in Wallace Stegner's creative writing program at Stanford, along with Larry McMurtry, author of Lonesome Dove. Okay, enough with the name dropping.

My snarkiness about the 60s hippies aside, I sometimes wish I had been on that bus.

I'd post a picture of the bus, but this e-blogger service is being difficult.  Tech support is no help.  Neither is swearing, but it makes me feel better.

Comments?

I was married in 1962 and had babies in 1967 and 1970.  My husband was a crew-cutted chemical engineer and I was a grad student and T.A. at UMass, and then at Miami of Ohio.  I had no time or respect for hippie hijinks.  Having been born and raised in Colorado, I  could not BELIEVE the mess they created there, camping all over the place in the mountains (with no sanitary facilities), killing people's cows for food, lying stoned on sidewalks all over once-beautiful Boulder.  HOWEVER, I first read Lord of the Rings in 1966 and it has given me joy all my life. (The Hobbit is a children's story and I cannot understand how Peter Jackson is going to make a two-part epic of it, but I am withholding judgment.)  Don't shoot the dog;  keep me on your mailing list!  I enjoy your writings!   -- Eve

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I do enjoy a good read by someone else on occasion, and I especially enjoy your rather good hand at it. -- Zoey

Thanks, Zoey. Instead of sending you a Wal*Mart gift card in appreciation for your nice comment, I’ve entered your name in the Publishers Clearinghouse sweepstakes.
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I love your blog and envy your trip to Alaska!!!!! -- Cyn

Cyn is a former Alaskan who lived in Juneau.
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Fabulous read! -- Julisari

Juli: I’ve always respected your intelligence and judgment. Got any nude pix?
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Well ...at first I thought you were a teenager writing, then you seemed to grow into a 25 to 35 year old, then I realized you were an old geezer like me and your writing made a lot more sense and it was much funnier, since it wasn't coming from a wise ass teenager. -- PlaceboDomingo

Yup. Just another old fart with an advanced case of arrested development.
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Wow, you make it sound so wonderful. Everyone I know who has gone to Alaska has raved about it. I hope i see it one day. -- Angel G.

It will change you.
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Very nice, Mike. The only thing was that I was the only one to vote against the softball team [ being named] Liquor in the Valley, but I had agreed I would adhere to majority vote. Someone of my station (Indian princess) would NEVER come up with a name like that. -- Sandy

Who am I to argue? Arguing with an Indian princess is not a good career move.
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I found it interesting to read about you and the wheelchair treatment, followed by the blog about the cigarette tax. -- Brat Patrol

I know, I know.
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So, you DID enjoy the trip, events, family ties and the scenery? -- Kent

Immensely.

The Return Of The Native Tomato

Okay, so last month my cousin Sandy told me I will be visiting her and her family in Juneau, Alaska, in July. 

You see, Sandy and I are descended from a matrilineal tribe of Alaska injuns where women pretty much run the show. Tribal leaders are chosen from the female side of families in line of succession and arguing with Sandy is not a good career move.  She also teaches karate.  I tried to beg off in a weak ass way, saying I have emphysema (which I do), and was promptly informed that I could have emphysema in Juneau as easily as I could in Sacramento.  She cemented the deal with a round trip ticket on Alaska Airlines, including wheelchair service and an order not to put on a Mr. Macho act and refuse the courtesy.

I did put on that act when changing planes at the Seattle-Tacoma airport  --  and regretted it. The frapping airport passageway was 10 miles long and uphill in all directions, or so it seemed. Lesson learned. I ain’t no young tomato no mo and I requested wheelchair service for the Seattle to Juneau hop, knowing that me ‘n Alaska Airlines would catch triple Hell from Sandy if I showed up in Juneau wheezing along under my own power, such as it is.

I got back to the furnace heat of the Sacramento Valley last night after an altogether too brief stay of seven days amid the mountains of Southeastern Alaska, where forests of spruce, cedar and pine slope down to the dark emerald waters of the Inside Passage, where daytime temperatures hover in the 60 degree range and where formal evening wear consists of a reasonably clean Pendleton shirt.

Sandy and her husband, Keith, took me to a beach where flocks of eagles swoop for salmon and where tiny strawberries grow wild along the shore. The only sound was the hissing of waterfalls that had been centuries old glacier ice just hours before.

We had lunch at a Mexican restaurant, which I thought ironic for my first meal in Alaska, with Sandy, Keith, their 18-year-old son Kevin, and members of Keith’s family I was meeting for the first time. Sandy's reclusive Thoreauvian brother, another Mike, who lives on island instead of a pond, showed up too. Then we were off to a high school stadium where Keith and Sandy play on a softball team. Instead of parking me in the bleachers, Sandy got me a folding chair and a lap robe, which made me feel like the old fart I guess I’ve become. Their team is sponsored by a liquor store. Sandy’s idea of naming the team “The Juneau Lickers” was not met with wild approval, for some reason.

This trip was not my first rodeo, but it was one of the few times I did not want to come home.

Comments?

Glad you went and had fun! Alaska is the only state I have not visited and still hope to get there eventually. Why in the world would anyone not take advantage of a generous offer of a trip, etc., when it is offered in love? -- Eve

I hedged at first, as I did with a similar offer from relatives in Seattle last November, thinking of the cost of transportation, and not wanting to be burdensome on anyone’s finances, but was promptly put in my place. It now occurs to me that people who go out of their way not to be burdens can be the most burdensome of all when it comes to accepting the gift of grace; grace being defined in my Webster’s as “unconstrained and undeserved good will.” I am very, very fortunate to have the family I was given. Were it not for a state of grace, I would be writing them from prison with requests for cigarettes
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I do enjoy a good read by someone else on occasion, and I especially enjoy your rather good hand at it. -- Zoey

Thanks, Zoey. Instead of sending you a Wal*Mart gift card in appreciation for your nice comment, I’ve entered your name in the Publishers Clearinghouse sweepstakes.
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I love your blog and envy your trip to Alaska!!!!! -- Cyn

Cyn is a former Alaskan who lived in Juneau.
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Fabulous read! -- Julisari

Juli: I’ve always respected your intelligence and judgment. Got any nude pix?
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Well ...at first I thought you were a teenager writing, then you seemed to grow into a 25 to 35 year old, then I realized you were an old geezer like me and your writing made a lot more sense and it was much funnier, since it wasn't coming from a wise ass teenager. -- PlaceboDomingo

Yup. Just another old fart with an advanced case of arrested development.
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Wow, you make it sound so wonderful. Everyone I know who has gone to Alaska has raved about it. I hope i see it one day. -- Angel G.

It will change you.
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Very nice, Mike. The only thing was that I was the only one to vote against the softball team [ being named] Liquor in the Valley, but I had agreed I would adhere to majority vote. Someone of my station (Indian princess) would NEVER come up with a name like that. -- Sandy

Who am I to argue? Arguing with an Indian princess is not a good career move.
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Did you get to see the Northern Lights?  -- Carol

Nope.  The're not common at the latitude and time of year.

Well, Poop.  -- Carol

Carol is a southern Californian who once saw the northern lights and has been looking for them ever since.  The farthest south I've seen them was in Seattle in 1957, a sight so rare at that latitude that people set up lawn chairs outside to watch God's own light show, but I'm afraid if they appeared over Southern California, police switchboards would be jammed with panicked callers reporting UFO sightings.  Plus every nutcase evangelical preacher south of Barkersfield would see them as an indication of End Times and really make a killing collecting cash donations and tithes from frightened sinners, proving that solar flares, like clouds, have a silver lining.
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So, you DID enjoy the trip, events, family ties and the scenery? -- Kent

Immensely.

Okay. One More Time.

Well, goody. California voters rejected a ballot proposition at the polls Monday to increase the state cigarette tax to a $1.87 a pack. Even the mighty Los Angeles Times editorialized against the measure, stating the skim would not be spent to help decrease California’s umptajillion dollar state budget shortfall. But, according to the Associated Press, the victory for unrepentant smokers was less than one percentage point, giving the nicotine vigilantes all kinds of encouragement to continue being pains in the buns come the November election. Here’s one:

"This came so close, I think this is worth another try," said Stan Glantz of the University of California's Center for Tobacco Control Research:. "I think it would be horrible if Philip Morris and Reynolds get away with this."

Or, in the words of former Governor Swartzenmuscles, “I’ll be back.”

Seems the anti-smoking bunch have been hammering away since 1492, according to one of their web sites, http://www.stopsmokingsacramento.com/info.html:

"On October 12, 1492, Christopher Columbus was given dry leaves by the Arawaks, but threw them away. Rodrigo de Jerez and Luis de Torres were the first Europeans to observe smoking, and Jerez became the first recorded smoker outside the Americas. Throughout the 16th century, the habit of smoking was common mainly among sailors. Tobacco was introduced to England in the 1560s by the crew of Sir John Hawkins but did not begin making an impact on European society until the 1580s
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"As the use of tobacco became popular in Europe, some people became concerned about its possible ill effects on the health of its users. One of the first was King James I of England. In 1604, he wrote A Counterblast to Tobacco in which he asked his subjects:

'Have you not reason then to be ashamed, and to forbeare this filthie noveltie, so basely grounded, so foolishly received and so grossly mistaken in the right use thereof? In your abuse thereof sinning against God, harming your selves both in persons and goods, and raking also thereby the markes and notes of vanitie upon you: by the custome thereof making your selves to be wondered at by all forraine civil Nations, and by all strangers that come among you, to be scorned and contemned. A custom loathsome to the eye, hateful to the Nose, harmefull to the brain, dangerous to the Lungs, and in the blacke stinking fume thereof, neerest resembling the horrible Stigian smoke of the pit that is bottomless.'”
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Well, I had abundant notes of vanitie that kept me from quitting this filthie noveltie. I was not the least bit ashamed to be a walking air polluter. But I must admit that smokers have become latter day lepers. As far as the Health Nut Axis is concerned, smokers should be forced to wear black shrouds, clang handbells and shout “Unclean! Unclean!” when venturing forth in public.

Social pressures aside, I’m gonna give quitting another shot. I’m tired of hearing my lungs whistle “Dixie” and running out of breath on a walk to the mailbox. Plus I could use the extra $150 or so a month I was spending on smokes for more healthful pursuits, like skydiving. Plenty of fresh air and some really swell views. I’ll also have more moolah for a trip I’m taking to Alaska next month, courtesy of some relatives in Juneau. Maybe I can avoid the embarrassment of having wheezing fits at their dinner table.

Comments, Critiques & Snarky Asides:

You are so funny. I wish we had never lost touch for all the years past.  If you can quit, that would be wonderful. I'm afraid that I will mostly likely quit when the last breath arrives. Have a great time in Alaska. Stay safe.-- Carol

Carol and I were neighbors during the Eisenhower administration.  We're now coughing our way through our Medicare years.
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Gee. Thanks for writing one (it seems) just for me. You should send this to my Doctors. It would give them more fodder for my torture. Guess I really, really have to join you in quitting. Have a blast in Alaska. Glad you're writing again. Keep up the good fight. -- Penny
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Mater man....you must be the valedictorian of veggies. Know that you have dear friends wishing you well in all ways, and if you do get to Seattle, you'd best take a side-trip to see RJ and I -- Canids

Aww, wish I could, but I’ll be in Seattle only long enough to change planes and maybe have an airport Cinnabon.
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Good luck. Save your money for a trip to Seattle -- Tammy

Okay. Next trip I’ll allot enough time for us to get rowdy on industrial grade coffee and get kicked out of Starbuck’s together.
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The chanters should follow, the "unthin, the unthin." obese people. I believe diabetes has overtaken the ills of the still smoking smokers. Good luck. I can't hear my breath yet. When I can, I may join you. Glad to see your return. -- Linda B
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My Detroit brother-in-law was just here with my sister for a family gathering. I never thought this guy would quit smoking. But he is taking Chantix, and was about at day 40 when here, still drinking his Scotch, tolerating my wife's Benson & Hedges smoke and casino floor smoke very well, and he never lit up. I enjoyed the quote from King James I of England, VI of Scotland. I seem to recall having seen it before, but totally forgot it was his. I've read other stuff he wrote, and it is in the same style. -- Trog.
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Thank you...glad to see the Tomatoman Times again!! -- Anne G.
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Glad to see you are still writing, and hope you have fun in Alaska! -- Eve
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Well, I have a friend now who is fifty, and he has smoked for 34 years. He has a raspy, ragged voice, coughs continually, can't sleep long at night because he is programmed to wake up and smoke. He lights up the moment he wakes in the morning, and he smokes several cigarettes right before he goes to bed. He smokes on average three to four cigarettes every hour he is awake, and spends well over $400 dollars a month on them. Everything on and around him smells like smoke - his hair, his beard, his clothes, his hands, every room in his house, his cars. even the food he cooks His nose runs, his sinuses are a mess, and his throat is constantly bothering him. He knows he's going to die sooner than he would have to because of it, and even with all of these reasons to quit, he says he can't. He can't muster the strength to even slow down. He is resigned. Mike, if there is any way in hell you can quit, do it. -- Zoey

Seems familiar, Zoey. Too familiar.
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Ah me boyo, I wish you luck and if you figure out how to put down the fags....please let me know. The other night I was laying in bed and thought sheesh the dog sounds congested...then I realized it was me. So I did the obvious, I got up lit a butt and thought about how I should work on stopping this habit. You know James the 1st was a Scot, so he was only thinking of the wasted cost...nothing else...he lied with the other stuff. -- Mary Pat

I’m sucking on 4 mg nicotine tablets like they’re Emily Proctor’s toes. It’s either that or buy a deer rifle and find a rooftop.
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Hello Mike Ole Online Buddy, glad you’re back, thought your were dead or dying. Will look forward to reading your stuff tonite Have a fantastic day -- Nick
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Bless you - my son! And good luck. -- Diane and Lowell
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Funniest one ever! -- Jim
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Love it!! -- Julisari
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Show off! -- ZipLaPrune
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That was great – very entertaining. I’m quitting on July 10^th. Want to join me? -- Sandy

Can you put it off until after I leave?  Only one set of short-fused withdrawal symptoms per family is permitted. I’d like to return uninjured. (Sandy is my karate expert cousin I’ll be visiting in Juneau.)
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I enjoyed your essay and wish you good luck in quitting smoking. I told my son today that if I had lost weight years ago, I might not have type 2 diabetes today. I have lost about 30 pounds and want to lose 20 more. I enjoyed the humor in this essay. I have enjoyed writing a newspaper column four times a year for free. You once told me about a web site that paid me $50 for a paragraph that I wrote. I hope that we both live a long life. I will be 70 in October. Or at least my goal is to be 70. -- Ken

Same here.
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Glad to see you in print once again. Good luck on the smokeless life, and I am not being sarcastic, really, I wish you all the best in that particular endeavor my dear. Are you really going to Alaska? -- Lynda

Yup. Leave Tuesday for a week in Juneau as the guest of my cousins. Gonna be a blast! (Lynda is a writing buddy of over 20 years standing who worked in Alaska’s Denali National Park and drove a cab in the very tough city of Anchorage. She is also a former freelance birthday clown who got stopped by a traffic cop when in costume and face paint, running late to a birthday party. She only got a warning, “I just can’t give a ticket to a clown,” the cop said. Had that been me, I would’ve been spread-eagled on the pavement for looking like John Wayne Gacy.)