This is CRIMINAL CLASS PART TWO
A glance at the accepted particulars.

My brother Mike Olive, with his 66 years of manic wisdom, lately casually imparted that the U.S. penal bureaucracy is losing money.   Mike Olive reads in a day if he is not hiking or rock climbing in Boulder, or looking at TV sports.   He reads pulp fiction, and he might read anything else that does not bother his mindset, like would spirituality or metaphysics.   He reads science.  He does not believe in UFOs.   He believes not in God or Spirit.   He is interested in concrete stability, concrete science, and such related, might bring up statistics.   He avoids discussion of politics or sight of it on TV and he always votes Democrat and tells me I should not complain because I never vote.   He is neither interested in drink or pot, he will eat much sugar.   After sugar then he seeks diary products or meat, fat meat.  Example, he does not fry his bacon very long. 
            Were the US Penal Industry truly telling they are losing money, this would be testament but of their interconnectedness with larger scheme, of the USPB  being but cog in great contraption.  Maybe it is the US of A insensible contraption.   Or it can be bigger than that.  Yeah, corporate, international greed and insensibility.
             I am getting up in the morning now without having to endure much stress most days.   My spinal injuries may slowly shift back to their inherent uninjured purpose.   Here is the plan, to keep to inherent purpose.
            Medicine Dog was age 11 past Dec. 5.   If the girlfriend who gave me him was correct.   Choyota can be still not more than two, now is muscular and healthy after finally getting spayed, after two litters.   I have so disliked or feared all the shit I have had to go to, that getting her spayed, which terrified her, I had been dreading too.  Now, it is done, with me soon to pull out her stitches.
            I now have only AA in Aransas Pass Tx 78336 to continue, once a week, the funniest shit, funny but mostly physically unpleasant for they chain smoke, and I take Actifed to go the hour, starts at noon, and I get back, and slug my first cup of three, alcohol long known as help to decongestants and antihistamines, toss my clothes and shower and wash hair, in spirit I will next have the rest of the half bottle of chardonnay.   Sometimes there is pot.  I am given no piss test, guess it got left out, which surprised my nice probation officer, young girl in her twenties.   Hum, said she.   You don’t have to take urinalyses.   That’s nice, I remarked.
            Too, I can be free of Community Service, seems it was 30 hours but I would have to go through the pile of paper shit in these cramped quarters to see.   My chiropractor did me a note, and my probation officer over in nearby Sinton sent it on.    I am not to be doing “any bending over, twisting” etc. for a year.  Wonderful, first time I be glad to have back injury.  It was a horrifying notion, I could be out gigging trash - what this would do to my mind - I am no person conditioned to monotony, the Dear Reader understands.   I quit, quit the Navy, always quit, would not wreck my back, would sit down, would rather fight.   Whew, I need to keep to my dogs, my old mother, seeing my powerful daughter, my grandkids.



Because I am destitute, I got out of paying for Drug Rehab in Aransas Pass Tx 78336.  The more early shit I have paid and got through.   The early shit was inoffensive.   Except for the Smart Start on Lyla’s car, this breathalyzer gimmick. And which horrified Lyla, and she in poor memory continued to demand from me how long was this thing going to be on her car.   She has maybe a hundred grand of Standard Oil stock.  B.E. was a simple man but good poker player, had a mathematical natural mind.  Lyla has her house and Standard Oil stock, I don’t know, Kelly handles it and he acts uneasy about telling me exactly, but “my share” has footed my bill, and the siblings are glad I am here.   The breathalyzer gimmick cost I forget whatever to begin.  I might be getting through all this with paying not more than ten grand - but the Smart Start was $70 per month that I drive to their Corpus Christi shop to have it checked, to prove I was not tampering with it, am not getting around it.   Other problem was the difficulty in working the thing, blowing into it just so, not blowing too hard, not too slowly, and it was still erratic.   Mike Olive flew in, needed to drive to Rockport dentist, few miles, and I showed him, more or less, how to get the car going.   He could get it going, in a couple tries, except after having a tooth pulled, his penalty for big sugar addiction (his siblings three have inherited sound teeth, haven‘t yet lost teeth), he could not with numb mouth blow correctly, too manic, got spit or Novocain into gimmick or what the fuck.   He contacted Bix, who lives nearby.   Bix drove him to the house, took me back to Lyla’s car.   I had had my morning vino, maybe this is how it took me to blow into it one hour.   Bix had had to go see TV or his girlfriend.  When I could not get going, I took a walk, went to nearby Walmarts looking for an espresso pot - they have coffee grinders and no espresso maker, same as Walmarts in Aransas Pass.   Got back to Lyla’s car and in not much further hassle got car ignited and got car home in the evening.
            In a very few more days, one day the car would never ignite.    Kelly comes in Thursdays and hired a wrecker.  Wrecker guy told him he has had a lot of this: “The breathalyzer gimmicks can fuck up.”   I had been having all this phone exchange with the Corpus Christi shop, and the fellow running his business there believed on telephone all this was my fault, but when they did fix the thing, it was seen to be none of my fault, and I had got a ride to over there and never could get much answer but I did not then have to pay extra for its having been “my fault.”  They were glad to see me head out to Aransas Pass because someway it was their fault.
I was only to have the damned contraption on the first year of my
two.   I forget already but I think we had got about seven months with
Smart Start, when in a bad mood, upon my crowded mind, returning Medicine not yet vaccinated from local modern vet who only will vaccinate by appointment, I was making this left turn, which I have made for years or decades in Aransas Pass, and my mind ceased its immediate practical, and I did not wait for the green arrow to give me the right of way.   This sudden car that day switched lanes, came speedily and hit me.   He crushed the back tire and door and shattered glass on Medicine, who though a pit is a freaky personality, fears explosions, gunfire, firecrackers, thunder.  Cops, two or three available cars of them in sleepy Aransas Pas Tx 78336, were there in seconds.  The other driver,
young Chicano guy, had pulled his probably girlfriend’s dented car over.  He came with a babe in his arms, and he asked me if I was ok.   He said he had to go to jail because he had no driver’s license.  Criminal Class forever.   I see it he had been in some agitation, in his circumstance of penalty, how he was driving quickly.  I told him I am sorry for getting him into all this.   A young woman driver stopped behind me in the general traffic obstruction offered her cell phone.  With unruly Medicine’s collar in my left hand I could not instantly work it so she asked for my phone number and I gave it, she told Janet come get me and that I was (pretty funny, pitching bulldog in one hand) hysterical.  I was not to let my agitated Medicine Dog bolt.  His leash had been in the front seat and gone under seat.   I just wanted him to not go to jail again.   When Janet arrived, with Lyla of course, and I gave her Medicine, I had located Medicine’s leash and given Medicine on leash to her.   It chanced the wrecker guy coming to haul the bashed car was son of Janet’s best friend, and expensive this was, I had the cash but forget price.
            Here is my first recorded traffic accident.   Oh, I have been hit, and headed on, and once destroyed a mailbox, having fallen asleep behind wheel of car the sleepy driver who picked up me the hitchhiker had thought to let sleepy me drive for him.   Entered a ditch of rain water, we had to walk into neighboring area - I forget which Texas town to roust a friend of his to pull his car from ditch - this driver was a Texas Chicano, one of the easier going fellows, drunk but with wisdom, said: When trouble comes, it comes.  Then we walked and got his friend.

The siblings take this well.  Lyla’s car was totaled.   Now we have no car.   Driving me to AA or monthly chiropractor or Probation Officer is now done by a son of Janet‘s, Thomas.   Thomas is otherwise unemployed but now on the Olive payrole.  Siblings want Lyla to have no car till possibly sometime Billy Frank is off probation and not too disturbed to be driving safely.  The family is glad to get rid of this breathalyzer on Lyla’s car, and sure her car was insured anyway.
            After the other paid for programs, right now I can remember neighboring Portland, where I had to attend three nights to get my diploma, but, we had a talented performer, a funny Chicano old fellow who did voice that pot is less destructive than alcohol.  Then was a day from MADD (Mothers Against Drunk Drivers), I think in neighboring Sinton, showing video carnage and having burned and bereaved people speak.  I got to AA, and Drug Rehab in Aransas Pass.
In Aransas Pass Tx 78336, AA is a little house converted to one room, with long table.   There is at noon, a dozen and more, poor devils chain smoking chemicalized US cigarettes.  There is this long table,  that is a couple tables, then this head of a T, crossing table with a little non-smoking sign.   First day and second day I had not noticed the non-smoking section.  There are normally 3 or 4 wiser alcoholics, non-smoking at this head of T.   The routine is this circular dialogue, folks begin with: I am so and so and I am an alcoholic.  My first, and second day, I agitated the group.   I said my name is so and so but I am not an alcoholic but am here for punishment.
That went badly.  Indeed, this first day, there was one guy, whom I have not seen since.  He said anybody who ever takes a drink in an alcoholic.
By time I noted I could get less toxins at head of the T, I also had learned I did not have to say anything, could just say: I pass.   End of each session (these sessions are one hour) I rush back to toss clothes and to shower, washing hair of the carcinogens.   Now I sit quietly, while they wish me to participate.  To end the  session all hold hands and recite The Lord’s Prayer.  I never memorize it.   I am the one who does not recite it.   Hell, maybe I could be a Muslim.
I did interim the few months of Out Patient Service in Aransas Pass, Tx 78336.   Drug rehab, it was over all of a sudden, perhaps because I was actually enjoying it.   I do not like being forced to any strange schedule - hell, I am an artist - but these two people, in their sixties, a Gary, a Shirley, let us call them, who are in AA, whom I like, have this two not boring hours a couple of nights weekly but I only had to attend once a week - Janet back at the house with Lyla.  Here would come a dozen or so a meeting mostly younger people, for drunk or cocaine and so forth.  Gary and Shirley have been years back enslaved by booze and they do not know anything about other drugs.   First hour would be a video, whether on drink or speed etc., second hour a free discussion.  Their clients have had to tell them about “drugs,” cocaine, heroin, crack/speed etc.  All which is big in Aransas Pass Tx 78336.   I had been sitting too quietly, and both of them wanted me to contribute to conversation.  Well, began I.  I am just an old acid head.  By time they were glad to graduate me, I was getting carried away.  Things I said I had young guys laughing, and I had become the main event.   A friend of Gary’s and Shirley’s, this psychologist, would often be over from Corpus, and he would try to be more official than what I considered to be information everybody needed, but he was easy to chop off, could not fake his shit very decently, hell, I was probably older than he was too.  I tell of the US government’s needing pot and psychedelics illegal because these drugs cause questioning of authority.   I spoke of the value of these drugs, biologically, anthropologically and so forth.  I was the hippie survivor, intense, muscular.   When I “graduated” I was given peace sign by one older client.  I have as, Gary requested, placed my diploma on my wall.
I see my probation officer once a month and attend AA of Aransas Pass once a week, at this point.  
            It has been harrowing yet not very real inside my mind.  I am more into the 9/11 cover-up.  I’ve exchanged with Alan Miller who runs Patriotsquestion9/11.  Two Septembers ago he began his site with 40 prominent names of people cognizant of the cover-up.  At this point, May of 2008, he has 1200 plus names, the only ones not prominent being the witnesses, several blown from elevators and stairways by demolition explosions before the two planes hit the three buildings which sank.  He has hundreds of engineers, and more than a hundred pilots yelling bullshit. “Those planes were drones I could not have flown that heavy a plane that fast and hit skyscrapers twice!” said a fighter pilot vet etc,  and forget the Pentagon outrageous lie, and so on.   How to get what Miller has into threatened schizoid Corporate News, I ponder.   Well, he has much, much reality documented already.
AA in Aransas Pass tx 78336 is plenty interesting, and too bad I have to take Actifed just to sit in this shit, rush home to down one cup and shower and wash hair and change clothes and slug two more.  Alcohol enhances decongestants and antihistamines, some inflicted do know.
The question:  Is alcoholism genetically inherited, as AA claims, or is this concept but from our depraved society, children sexually molested or beat on by their fathers amidst the schizophrenia of what we get told in church and school and so on.
             Bill Blackolive’s father some in the family had thought alcoholic.   If this is mostly B.E’s wife, Lyla, who is not interested in drink, maybe too though Bill Blackolive’s sister, Bonnie, who is not interested in drink.  There is Lyla, Bonnie, and, Mike, who be neither interested in drink, nor pot.   Bill and Kelly like drink, and pot, though Kelly the pothead has wondered Bill in his straits is alcoholic.   Bill drinks for any reason and is fat but tones his muscles and digests food and consequently in health/vanity, something US slobs do not think clearly on, will tire of drink inside a day.   Not the next day, and the routine of an artist must push forth.
            Shirley has intrigued me, saying a couple or more times that an alcoholic’s disease greatens inside the alcoholic’s age whether or not the alcoholic is given in to drink.   By then I had understood I was officially excused to do my talk and I did question her.   But, I think maybe I did never understand.   Shirley said that at her age if she drinks she can die, it would be her end.
            What can that be but psychological.  Gary is another case, his dogmatically religious family and consequent ugly temper of his parents got him going early, and he allowed to me he would have liked join the beatniks as had I.  He could have, romantically, but that he was too drunk.   He gave me all these written tests, but talked personally with me, and I comprehended his romanticism about one’s possibly having become a beatnik.   Quite interesting stuff, really, and I took interest in these Aransas Pass young individuals who came to Gary and Shirley’s twice weekly meetings.
            On and on.  When I had been in jail and Kelly fortunately off work to care for Lyla and get my mail he got this collection agency threat for the initial thousands, he handled it then, before his bad dream of trying to spring me.   On Kelly, and me, this is not forgotten.  All that hangs in.                
By now I sit at AA on Actifed and they pass the basket and like most others I place in it a dollar, and the others keep a smoking poison desperation forever and drink much coffee.  These people frequently have dirty hair and soiled clothes, speak of being ten or twenty or thirty years sober but it looks not.  One old comic US Marine comes in drinking from his water bottle, mit der vodka is it, last time had these elbow covers cut off a sweatshirt, time before that had cuts on his forearms.  Oh, also he has a bunged up knee, bandaged from a trip to an MD.   He flounders in slowly, a little late, sits down in one chair and fixes another chair where to place the hurt leg, too much swelling, keep it elevated, and he is irreverent. He will snort at the talk from others. Yet, he said to me: If you are a drunk, this is the place to come.  
            It goes around table these stories and one day the ex-Marine gave this that
in the Marines one drinks and fights and he was sitting in a bar and somebody asks him to go outside and he says, well, pardner, I don’t know much about this fighting business, but I can go outside with you and show you what I do know.  This sounded funny to my mind.  This guy I like because though wasted forever he is irreverent.  This guy is not religious about AA, but only sensing how to dodge more legal hassle.
            In the fifties during my high school, I was taking insomnia, knew I would rather die than work for a living in this nation.   Mexico, seen in 1958, was a delight, another atmosphere, jolly poor people in those days.   My addiction was erotic romance, while I could support no woman.   I love still all my poor women who got with me but I never met a sensible beauty as could objectively concern this alien sad brute.  I had begun writing to get wealth from my soul age nineteen, and now I am worn, if still being sort of bodily young, if at least now cognizant of my sorry romance addiction.
            A couple decades maybe ago, this last one of my crazy females, was this mid-thirties incest casualty in AA.   I did go with her one day inside a three years to her Austin very crowded AA, which in fact she rarely went to, and I saw this ”My name is so and so and I am an alcoholic” routine.  She painted, great stuff, vigorous.   I love her, but, now, I can check her out, Google her out of an Austin gallery, and see these detailed/controlled very boring, drugged works.   She went to Prosac, I think, as had my first wife beloved Charmaine.
            What had happened back then, nearly two decades ago, her sick mother who supported her financially from some kind of inheritance, and had this grip and both of their fear of exposing the father’s rapes, had me jailed for stalking.   Nobody was stalking, but the raped daughter would come screaming to some old amigo’s address, or come screaming drunk to find me where I homeless slept in bushy areas, certain nests, with dogs, along Austin’s creeks.  She was awful, in her conflict.   She was pressured between the supportive mom and family shame, and, the lover in the bushes.   So, I got through that shit, much financial help from brother Kelly.   Lyla (and my sinking father) never knew.   Court scene was plead nolo contendere but why tell all this I have told before right now.  Ah, I had said to the judge, no, I am not guilty of any of these charges, and my lawyer had to jump up and tell me this is what we are doing right now….
              Save my precious…time and …money?…In…a…democracy...ah.

          
          
7


My first probation officer had said I would only do a year of going once a week to A.A.   But she got changed.  I got run through 2 or 3 new probation officers, all but maybe one being rather nice young women.   Well, this one had brought up my battery-of-policemen claptrap on my hoopla record, I
forget now but maybe I only had that person one visit or maybe two.  At some stage of it I realized these other P.O.s were thinking I had 2 years to do weekly visits to A.A. in Aransas Pass.   Post wreck of Lyla’s car, Janet’s son Thomas was on Olive payrole to drive me, to monthly see P.O. maybe 20 or 30 miles off, in Sinton, Texas, where is the courthouse where my old compadre Judge Hatch sits careful days onward to retirement, and all the P.O.’s know him and he is a known nice guy and he had asked I not bring up his name and he takes blood pressure pills and I hope he makes retirement, very many of us are dead now.   Firstly Thomas told me all about his own life’s circumstances, maybe toward the last he had formed an interest in my bitching mutter.  I had been steadily grumbling how I am asthmatic and had to use Actifed in order to attend A.A, and somewhere, maybe by time I had a new P.O., who had been transported temporarily then to an  office in Aransas Pass (Sure, Aransas Pass has more criminals, per capita), the new P.O. told me I only had to attend A.A. 2 times a month.  What some breath of fresher air.  Then but twice a month I needed to enforce self, endure, one hour at A.A. and get home for wine and wash-down.
The last very few months before end of the probation became of some acceleration.   There was other than twice monthly A.A. in redneck transient  Aransas Pass, Tx 78336, this monthly visit to young lady P.O. in the town, like if a 15 minute wait in small lobby (lobby which also had to do with other things, maybe it was traffic fines or license plates or the like - I go blank to particulars of such environments, being I never have cared for the twentieth century, twenty-first century -  we are all different ), the visit with P.O. in Aransas became maybe not even  fifteen minutes.  First she pushed pen with sheet to fill out speedily: What drugs have I used – aspirin, Actifed – give two people and phone numbers who know where I am at all times, Bix in nearby Fulton/Rockport and Judge Hatch in Aransas Pass, quickly.  The bureaucracy was getting rid of me now.  The P.O. lady had got hassled a short while by the bureaucracy about my not having done Community Service but slowly my chiropractor’s couple of signed statements had sunk in, proven I was legally a liability.  I was floating on through the ugly
and scary experience.
            I took shock inside the final month.  The P.O. had needed to know I was paid up.  She telephoned this other office, Corpus Christi office, asking my balance.   Watching her call, all I could figure was the monthly forty, but I had figured I had got that shit.   This office my P.O. rang was not answering, and she gave message, and I went home.
            In a couple days I got this call, a friendly sounding woman telling me I still owed forty-something.   I grumbled, figuring bureaucratic error, and said I’d get it to her.  She also said I had this last class, had to get it out of the way.  Thus my shock.   Firstly I figured this another bureaucratic fuckup.  Remember, Dear
8


Reader, the jail department had had me in jail to do 180 days when officially I was to do 1O days, and brother Kelly taken off work he thought 10 days to care for Lyla next had to be running to Corpus and storm about between court department and jail department to get me out after I had done 12 days.   Jail Department had said to Kelly: See, here it is on our computer, he is doing 180 days.  All while, back home, Kelly had caught threatening mail to me when I was in jail, collection agency from some kind of state fuckup wanting some thousands right then or hell to pay, and Kelly sent those monies instantly, as fortunately unlike many maladjusted fellows I did have one brother to deal with state madness, before I went maybe a violent death down a state sink.
            In my innate dungeon fear I took word of last minute new class staggering.  By time of several days confirming it as real.  I remember that at one point the never seen female new Hispanic bureaucrat had for some reason put me on line with another office, this male Hispanic voice who sounded to not have learned English in childhood.   He was maybe from Central America somehow.   Really, how did he get his job?  He did not know anything.  He and I stayed polite enough but could not well understand one another’s speech.  He had to switch me back to the English educated Hispanic lady’s line, had to return to his regular work, whatever could that be.
            Being my new class was Defensive Driving, a one day class, I was instructed to find a Texas Driving School on my own time.  ON MY OWN TIME went down hard.   But via phone book I saw the nearest place was nearby Portland, where back in the early probation I had gone 3 days in a course, called DWI School, or something like that, that had this entertaining instructor who did say in his routine that pot is less damaging or dangerous than booze.  So I called this place up again, got this arranged, then could drink and relax my brain.
I attended this class just a couple days before I was done with probation – this class had just been overlooked – and my unseen Hispanic female clerk had been instructed to get copy of my certificate to her superior before I was released, but the class had got put off a week, and I only could get proof of STATE OF TEXAS DRIVING SAFETY COURSE UNIFORM CERTIFICATE OF COURSE COMPLETION some days after my completion of shit, because it takes about ten days for the “diploma” (they call it “diploma”) to get to the offender.   Yes, Dear Reader, I have kept my original copy.
            The Defensive Driving class was circa 6 hours, in earlier day.  Thomas brought me there before any of the others arrived and I had a few words with the teacher.   He was a nice fellow, perhaps old as fifty, would be trying for humor in his deliverance.  He explained there would be this test at the end, 20 questions, and a person must miss no more than six to pass, but everybody always passes, “anyone who can read English will pass.”
            I am dominated by too active a mind to pay strict attention in classrooms, besides in this case I had painful need to be free of the long bad trip.  At the end of the class, having been in this line, to be watching him scratching on my paper the ones I missed, and I was a mite surprised, had thought I got those ones, I missed 6, I said, gee, I sure missed a lot.
          
9


The teacher raised his eyes at me.  If you like, we can discuss these ones after class.
            Heh heh, I mumbled.  Naw, I’ll let it go.
            He was glad to hear me then, and I went outside and sat on this bench in the sun and pretty soon Thomas came.

            Footnote:
                                Feh!   Sometimes I leave too much out.   We should be bored with the above popular sort of ending.
            After Lyla’s big operation she, always impatient in her mending, went from her chair to do a task when Janet and I were not looking, and fell and cracked her one real hip.  To hospital in Corpus Christi for quickie hip fix -  the patient is faster returned afoot with a fake joint than healing a fracture -  now Lyla has fake shoulder joints, fake hips, fake knees.  She makes progress these days unto years.  Her short and long term memories are both lame, but her bossy emotionality and general soul be present.  Her children are thankful she yet resides in our space/time.  She meets her great grandkids, 4 of them by 2009, and is seeing them via new computer technology, for Bonnie Olive has fixed this box to cable.
            In July of 2009 Alan Miller of Partiotsquestion911 has over 1900 courageous statements, mostly with photo of person but sometimes not, naturally.  I even got invited, surprised.  I had in email correspondence with him said now I would besides the 911 cover-up be obsessive about my having two novels published by my friend Jeff Potter who is doing his one man publishing.  Alan said, fine, now I can place you at Patriotsquestion911, with your permission.   Wow, great, said I, and he presented me this take from fragments I had uttered past two years, and I approved it.  I am way back in tail-end of the artists/media category, but, looking certainly like ye US novelist macho type, media type, too bad Bukowlski, Mailer, Burroughs , Thompson, Kesey are lately dead just when we need them.
But, Dear Reader, no, for Blackolive it is too early, just yet….Even Jesse Ventura got his show kicked off corporate air for pointing out Oswald did not do it and pot should be legal….Yah, Ventura is seen at Patriots…. These times, UFOs, proven like 911coverup, for well over half a century, is still called “conspiracy theory.”  Gads.
            As the Samoan in FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS puts it: What are we, old women?
          
Criminal Class partII
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