June 2, 2000


Got your letter today and enjoyed reading it three times so far. You have a knack. Actually, I've been meaning to write since I received May's LL, but kinda got on a roll for the last week. When I do that, I realize I let slip some things I need to do or some things that are important to me. I'm worse about it now, even, since I retarded. I'm thinking about some things that seem worth describing. I just got home from Bayou Cajun (you know, I told you about our haunt) and there are always things from there that make me laugh. Bayou Bob is obese, about 60 years old, and drinks Abita Amber by the pitcher. I met him first in 1988 I think. He always talks, to no one, anyone. If he is sitting at the bar alone, he is talking constantly with great verve and hand motions as if someone is sitting next to him. Someone comes in and sits next to him and thinks he is talking to them, so they join in the conversation. When they leave, he just keeps on talking. He told me once that he always wanted to rent an apartment on top of a bank so he could say his assets over a million dollars. Anyhow, I always thought his handle was "Bayou Bob", you know hearing everyone call him that. But once he told me that he used to be a good baseball player, never good enough for the majors, but he made it to triple A. He was a fantastic hitter, but could never catch a ball, and this was before "designated hitter." So, he played third base and hit lots of home runs. But whenever someone hit the ball to him, as it went between his legs, the fans would yell "there's another one by you, Bob". Actually, he related this ruefully, repeatedly, Abita Amberly, whether anyone was listening or not, time and again, and I suspect it was true. Anyhow, I still see him occasionally sitting at the bar, and I still like him.

Yes, Dear Reader, I was not enchanted much with Cormic McCarthy's Cities of The Plain. "Less inspired", quote Bix, while if two circus ropers on 4-wheel-drive steeds could ever rope different ends of a running blind dog and pull off the dog's head, wherefrom could there be such an explosion of blood as to splash a roper at the end of his rope? Nor when you drive a sheath knife under a preposterous fighter's chin to fasten his wagging jaw do you note the clack of teeth. And where were the criadas and cops and how could even pure fools not bring pistols. Whatever, but sensationalism bleeds Mr.McCarthy's finer talent. 1t is his inbred peasant fear of European dungeons. Could be he never learned reality is dynamic, infinite. Exageration is dead, tells never of the unfolding. Exaggeration, superstition, this is pulp. Give our caged bastard LSD or something, damn.
History as Mystery, by Michael parenti, sent by cousin Crate, is a short work summing the enormity of shit fed to citizens sooner than they can read. To Europe, I am struck how fake Christianity's general evil is worse than I had perceived. Most pathetic, European rulers blinded their ruled through work to seperate Christians from Hebrews, that Christians rob and torment Hebrews. This culminates with the Catholic church's collaberation with the Nazis and explains the Holocaust. In 1988 the pope gives a sick apology, shown in History as Mystery, a weak, loathsome apology. Vatician policy had done to the Hebrew what U.S. policy did to the black man and red man. Today the U.S. arms Israel and she can do these things to others. Shortly back F.D. Roosevelt did have a whole ship of Hebrews returned to the Nazis, men, women, and babies, but, politics change.
In The Tortilla Hike the reference to "holocaust would best have been termed "Apocolapse." My friend Terri Holter, deceased, in Berkeley used the word "Holocaust." She got me to using it, nothing to do with Hebrews. My mad friend Rattlesnake Dan and I were madly gearing our gourds for Terri's Holocaust. Perhaps Dan had inherited his own version before meeting my good friend Terri, though.
Terri, or "Miriam" - in subud she had changed her name to Miriam which was said to better fit her maternal being but i doubt it - I was calling her Miriam, she is a dramatist for certain - was a hallucinatory woman who was great. Too bad she died. She was one like Millie I might baby sit for and be kicked out by, periodically, platonically. She would have her jug of vin rose and I my pot and/or acid, and she told me of this Holocaust now coming. Wherein the few to survive would do so not by usual means, like strength physically or spiritually, but by alienation, by never getting sucked down the vortex. Through being uninvolved, loose, hippest, most alert, conscious, alien. This is reasonable. 1t was a given Billy had it made. Terri said she might make it could she take hold of self and work on it now.
2000 A.D. I am happy science is leaping everywhere, but Terri Holter has a sanity. It is great to sit back and let her talk.
See LL CXIII p. 1182 - 1183, I had bothered with our Cormic McCarthy then. Cormic McCarthy is a wild American like Marquez or Faulkner or Wolfe or convoluted Kerouac or disgusted Bukowlski, etcetera. Cormic McCarthy brings to the Americas more fear of the unknown than ever sad Jack Kerouac. From the dungeons, howls from dark chambers. Not to speak me again of the jolly Texas Gang, on page 1183, laughing killers always nice to dogs and children while Cormic is not laughing. But, from page 1181, one poem:

                    Being eternity reality
                    A11 dimensions be infinite
                    A11 art mobile
                    Acts of love
                    And the devil game
                    Act of hollow fear
                    Eternally dissipating and duller men
                    Remaking it till they recount

Then flowing is recounted Breath eternal

Truth beats fiction and naught but real life allows me escape in the night with TG or MZ, surely, any president Gringo or Mexican for example, is an inherent politician and is compelled to get pudgy fingers in it. In as "politics is property."
If with the 1nternational Banking Community revenue from illicit drugs equals/surpasses that of crude oil, should U.S. retirees be in more/less danger from lawless Mexicans, Muslim bombers, or Chinese hackers? How soon narco-terrorists take a ranch hostage and promote a fat redneck wife to perform fellatio. Already ranchers complain fleeing throngs come dark are killing their grass. Off NPR came this whiny greasy wife: And sometimes it ain't nothing but wimmin'n babies, wimmin'n babies.
History as Mystery helps my recall of Kaplan says in 1996 "U.S. Special Forces were responsible for 2,325 missions in 167 countries involving 20,642 people - only nine per operation, on average." Should this say liberals who vote for Democrats are (A) Stupid, (B) Ignorant, (C) Schizoid,
(D) Have chemical disorders due to pollution, (E) Romantic. A11 of the above?

July 4,2000

I leave to see Alyse on the 12th of July. Yes, I got the $40 to start July. I'll be in Tuscon for about 2 weeks.
I started reading The Tortilla Hike, but it's long, so I haven't finished it. You wanted my thoughts- well mostly it was just about peyote -as much as I've read anyways, and I'm a pothead, so I have to think that's cool, I suppose, even though I've never tried peyote in particular, I didn't trip untill the 4th time I tried mushrooms, and I had to take handfulls just to trip a little, and I didn't even hallucinate. I blame this on you. I don't know if it can be genetic, but it seems that way.

So Cindy lost my address. Have you sent it to her? Where is she moving to?
Amanda gets to see her mom every sunday untill 6:pm. Sometimes we run in to them and they say they'll bring her by the house, but it never happens.
Oh yeah, I'll have Dave read this last copy of Last Laugh when I'm in Tucson. Is that what you wanted me to have him read and give you his critique?
Anyways, I hope all is well.
Love, Madrea

 Another harasser brought to justice. In Canton, Ohio, a 6-year-

old boy who jumped from his bathtub and ran to a window to

stop a school bus was suspended by his school for sexual har-

assment. The boy's mother said she put him in the tub so he

wouldn't see the bus go by; he had a doctor's appointment and

couldn't attend school that morning. But when his sister told

him she saw the bus coming, the tyke ran to the window and

shouted for the driver to wait. Since he was nude at the time,

the school ruled that he had harassed youngsters on the bus.

The school forced him to sign a paper admitting that he knew

the nature of the charges against him.

Date: Wed, 19 Jul 2000
From: Ann Seaman
To: billb1ackolive@hotmail.com

Dear Bill,

In LL CXXXXIV there was an email to you from Geoff at this address. hope it's true -- that you're wired -- but if not I won't grieve. I like the thought of you sitting at some table or desk fighting your typewriter and putting in ribbons with your artist's fingers.

All through your writing is this very tender heart for children. It's striking that you've kept the faith in so many ways over the years -- one of the things I admire about you even though I tend to be more like Jack Jones, don't smoke pot and detachedly watch mankind self destruct. You can't argue with evolution. But I'm always surprised at your surprise that people are mostly dull and stupid. This is entirely natural, and the model for the naturalness of it is right before us: don't most sperm NOT make it to the egg? The vast majority of them just shoot as hard as they can toward the cervix (in humans), and then they're forced to choose the right or left tube to go up, and only one has the egg. So half of them are statistically doomed from the minute they're generated in the male (epidydimus or whatever it is) -- yet they're just as motivated to get to that promised land. The half that pick the correct fallopian tube are even more statistically doomed. Only one of their millions will actually drive into the membrane.

And what happens when it does? It gets its head bit off, and gets recruited to a greater cause. Man, that must be scary. You've got to admire males, the way they keep driving, keep insisting and trying, as represented by the behavior of their sperm. I certainly do. It's why I really enjoy LL (my only little complaint is please, it's your writing I like, not clippings from mags).

I'm not surprised that people who avow feminism wouldn't read LL. Thank God I escaped that snare of my generation. I think it has hurt women in ways they're only discovering through their younger friends and daughters. I didn't raise my daughters to be feminists or anything else, but rather to cultivate the great gift of thinking for themselves, and they still struggle with the legacy of gratuitous anger at men, economic independence yet fulfillment, "equality" and so on. I'm not saying it hasn't been good for women in many ways; I would never have gotten my first job if not for the women's movement, and I'm braced to take the bitter with the sweet. But this UNREFLECTIVE attitude that male authority is to just be mindlessly torn away at, and that men and women are exactly the same except for a couple of morphological details. I doubt Nancy, Janus and Joy have this, they seem too smart, but here in the great city I see so many women who are now bewildered in their late forties wondering why they're living through unfulfilled or downright hostile days, why they can't find a man, why all the men are either puer eternis cases or gay. Their expectations are so out of touch.

Well, enough. As you guessed, I'm back in LA and never made it to the Men's club while I was in Austin doing book research. Barron has the Austin chapter of the club at his house on Sixth Street, though, and I've sat in there chatting while we drink beer and the men get greasy and work on cars. I shocked Barron by being able to talk knowlegeably about welding electrodes with one of his friends -- I happened to learn a lot about welding steel buildings by working on a big earthquake lawsuit out here.

I'm coming in early Sept. for the birth of Julia's second child, a son. Her little daughter Jasmine turned four a couple of weeks ago, a darling little girl, very sweet and calm. Julia is an absolutely wonderful mother. I had a lot of fun with Jasmine when I was in Austin, but the funniest things were her name for nicks and cuts (ouchies and blood-ouchies) and the name she has come up with for her little brother: BUCKHEAD.

I will make a serious effort to drive down and visit when I'm in Austin in September. It's just that I have this book deadline now and so much work to do.

Now sit, Ingvar, sit. Young women in Sweden, Germany, and Australia have a new cause: They want men to sit down while urinating. This demand comes partly from concerns about hygiene-avoiding the splash factor-but, as Jasper Gerard reports in the English Spectator, "more crucially because a man standing up to urinate is deemed to be triumphing in his masculinity, and by extension, degrading women." One argument is that if women can't do it, then men shouldn't either. Another is that standing up-right while relieving oneself is "a nasty macho gesture," suggestive of male violence. A feminist group at Stockholm University is campaigning to ban all urinals from campus, and one Swedish elementary school has already removed them. In Australia, an Internet survey shows that 17 percent of those polled think men ought to sit, while 70 percent believe they should be allowed to stand. Some Swedish women are pressuring their men to take a stand, so to speak. Yola, a 25-year-old Swedish trainee psychiatrist, says she dumps boyfriends who insist on standing. "What else can I do?" said her new boyfriend, Ingvar, who sits.

Dear Bill,

On summer break now so finally a chance to write. I read and write very little these days, devoting my clear thinking morning time to studying Japanese. My ability to converse in Japanese seems to improve slowly, but my interest in kanji continues to grow. Kanji, the characters used in Japanese writing which they've borrowed from the Chinese, are different from a phonetic alphabet. Each kanji carries its own meaning, can be pronounced in several ways, and takes on different nuances depending on how it is combined with other kanji. And there are thousands of these kanji, unlike the mere 26 letters we use in English to make words, so being able to read really does take years of study. There is also a phonetic alphabet, hiragana, which is used to create grammar. You could take the kanji for "run", for example, and you tack on some hiragana to the end to make it "ran", or "will run" or "want to run" or "please run", or whatever. Compared to English, Japanese seems a pretty archaic system, a language of pictographs, several thousand of which must be simply memorized before one can really read or write. I do read and write a bit, knowing maybe only 500 kanji and some of their combinations, but my writing is like that of a second or third grader and I can only read little kids books. It adds to the mystique, all this bother. And lacking the overly neuronally wired, yet flexible brain of a young kid, it seems even more foreign, an impossible secret code which, amazingly, everyone here seems to understand. Still, I am oddly drawn to kanji, will stare at them everyone, in the subway, on walls and billboards, on menus and circulars stuck in my mailbox. It took being here two or three months before I could even pay attention to them. At first they were just the weird etchings of a culture not my own, but once I dived in I found myself drawn to them. Even when I have no clue to their meaning, I stare at them, enjoy the beauty of their stroke, their look of antiquity. They speak to me on subways, riding home drunk from a party, buzzing on the walls and windows. Many who learn Japanese hardly bother with kanji, just sticking to conversation, but I can hardly bother with anything but I love to draw them, to absentmindedly scribble them over whatever scrap of paper is at hand and then to see that paper when I'm through, nearly black with them, jabbering meaninglessly among themselves. I've been writing a journal in kanji, will finish a couple pages painstakingly written over two or three hours, then draw back from my notebook, look at the mass of them as a whole and think, "What the hell is all that?" Perhaps Mike also, had an affinity for kanji. Conversation comes more slowly, as I said, but there are aspects of the grammar which I favor over English, like its streamlinity. Parts of a sentence which can be intuited are dropped. Subject and object are frequently left out and sentences are mostiy just verbs, nouns and adjectives. "Cold beer, like?" "Yes, like." "American, so ,strong with alcohol, eh?" "Yes, strong." I think there can be power in a sentence stripped to its essentials. And a single kanji can express an idea which takes several sentences in English to translate. Many of these words, my friends and I have adopted into our English lexicon, inserting them into our conversation rather than English because of the economy they afford. Also, there are words I've come to understand which simply aren't expressed in English speech, but which convey what now seem to me to be quite basic expressions of human character and which I now use frequently. So, as my language gets more and more injected with Japanese, I find my thinking also changes, my way of engaging people changes, and this is where my cerebral energy has been mostly channeled over the last couple years.
I've put my reading and writing mostly on hold, though I did read Cold Mountain about six months back, enjoyed it as you did, was impressed by his background research, his powerful style, though at times I found he reminded me of McCarthy, though not so skillful, more derivitory, too studied. Perhaps had I not already read McCarthy, I would be more generous. Did you read Cities on the Plain yet? Mccarthy does seem to get more subtle, less violent as he gets older, but I liked the dialogue in that one, and some scenes stand out, like the two cowboys who rope a dog simultaneously and pull it different directions until it explodes, or the final knife fight with the Mexican in Mexico. I would like to read As I Lay Dying again, vaguely recall the stubbornness of that family in their macabre endeavor. You've also inspired me to pick up Heart of Darkness aqain. Never heard of Scar Lover but you claim him to be better than McCarthy. High praise indeed. Did also manage to read (in evenings while in bed awaiting sleep on these now hot evenings with my fan blowing, slapping at mosquitos, and the cicadas whirring loudly) this God of Small Things given me by Janus and Kelly this last christmas, by an Indian writer, female, went to college and so on in the States. Quite good, original style, a little poetic, but not without power, irony, insight. Really enjoyed Jack Jones' letter. At first, looking at its length and not really knowing anything of his style, I'd thought to just skim through, but was quickly drawn in and entertained throughout. His story telling voice is familiar, reassuring, and he just basically seems a good guy, that somehow coming through in his writing. I don't know what Bonnie would have found "off the wall". Did she say that in reference to his letter printed in LL? Don't recall having heard the story of biting off the finger of his father-in-law. So, in answer to do I believe in law, guess I can't give a simple yes or no. Do I think that all laws should be respected just because they exist? No. Do laws align with my own personal barometer? Sometimes. Thou shalt not kill, I can mostly go along with. Freedoms of religion and press seem pretty worth fighting for. Drug laws I find mostly ludicrous, the war on drugs surely a farce. My old friend from pre-school, hippy type from hippy family, big pot smoker, complete pacifist, stand-up guy, was busted hauling weed from Oregon into California three or four years back, is still serving time as far as I know. Poor guy. Zero threat to society, always had some trouble getting things going, partly due to dyslexia perhaps, now set back years, perhaps growing bitter from jail time. That's a goddamned shame, and to think of the money it costs to keep him there. What the fuck that is all about beats the fuck out of me. As for myself, I've got a curious spirit, can enjoy irreverence, but not very violent by nature, can skirt the law pretty easily, get in my fun. Pure anarchy is not my thing. Feel no impulse to go smash people's cars parked on the street, or develop computer viruses to inject into the internet to see how much damage they can cause. But, I do enjoy thinking of anarchy on the larger scale, purpose of life and all. Enjoy thinking that life was an accident, a miraculously ordered bit of stuff which emerged from an initial chaos and continues to thrive in entropic conditions simply because it can. And we get to enjoy this mind blowing party for a few hundred thousand more years maybe before entropy has its final day. Is there inherent meaning to it all? That's for everyone to figure out for his own damned self, far as I care. People can do what they want, live and let live, but I do prefer to spend time with folks who have a thing or two to say, have points they care to make, things worth fighting for. Pure drunken mindlessness interests me little, as with these couple foreign guys I saw at a party the other night, loud, drunk, american, making stupid jokes, full of themselves. Couldn't be bothered with those fucks. I could give a shit if people take drugs here or whatever gets it done for them, but when I see foreigners directly disregard simple cultural traditions here, or rudely exploit the eager innocence of the people around them, making vulgar comments about some young woman who is genuinely interested in them, I take note. See that a lot here, at foreigner bars, guys who couldn't get any action in the States, suddenly thing they're studs because they get some attention, and in stud form, treat the women who've built their egos like shit. If that's a form of anarchy, it rankles my own sense of law, makes me want to slap on a badge like some self elected sheriff in the old west, drag those mothers through the dust and string em up. Maybe that's it then, law has got to be a man's own. If a man can't think of anything worth stringing a guy up for, then maybe I wouldn't find much to say to him over a beer.
I gotta get some dinner.


MY second hand bicycle went on down and to continue favoring old injury I am getting a new one from Bicycle Bi11 (Good on Trumpet) Averback, putting LL on hold. Sometimes down Charlie's pasture Medicine will get a good sprint off a jackrabbit. One up path sauntered forward in a lope, and first I saw it and paused and said here comes a jackrabbit and when Medicine saw it he crouched to let it get closer. When it saw us it halted, and looked at us and we held it two seconds, and next the long sprint was on.

Bix has turned me onto a wild American living southern writer, Harry Crews. A visit from Bix coincided with one from Jack and Vicki Jones, and though as usual all was too rushed, we attempted to catch Kelly in Aransas, went over to Aransas and missed Kelly and let my loquacious parents intercept. Jack and Vicki have chosen to do TEXASGANG.COM and Bix is right in there, e-mailing with Jones. 1t is a process, Dear Reader, check it out.

Cousin Crate spent one night in Aransas and I never can get through talking with him. Besides he is smart he can deliver broad and ongoing information. Another book he lays on me is Guns, Germs, and Steel, by Jared Diamond. This book is a jewel, a materialistic summation of our struggle on the planet. Though, Diamond, and Crate, so I gather in the hurry, are yet less alert to the present factor of demand and production of illicit drugs. I think Crate thinks it is primarily the U.S. forgotten poor, who buy coke and smack and the escapist type stuff. Before Crate's visit, I had attended a gathering at Cousin Gail's in Kingsville. I had become exuberant talking with Gail's boyfriend, Joe, who is an oil driller with a company but is from the valley and says his family who got robbed by anglo influx had had the biggest of the famed Spanish land grants. I was drinking all this Corona they had provided - some way. Lyla's side the Cox's were eating plenty sweets and~drinking less alcohol - a,smaller gathering this one, re. LL and Joe had been agreeing with me you can't blame all the little police stations for being 100 percent corrupted, hungry little bastards, all this money. Joe got into another conversation somewhere and I then encountered Chic who is a cop married to my beloved cousin Sharron. Chic had been about to retire but had accepted a police chief job someplace outside Houston. We exchanged in this doorway and he asked what am I doing now. I said I am writing and he asked what about. The truth, proclaimed I, looking him in the eye. He understood me instantly. I cannot remember this verbatim, but it entertained me Chic spoke obliquely the same stuff Joe and I agree about. I do not see I prompted Chic to say a thing he said. He said: Most people do not know what is happening and do not want to know because if they did know then they would think they ought to make a stand and they don't want to make a stand. Like Joe he agrees the money is too big for anybody on a salary including Clinton. Like Joe, Chic said nobody knows where it can lead next. This was the most oblique dialogue I have seen in my life, never did we use the noun "drugs" nor any definitive noun. T0 cover himself, Chic allowed that he had taken on "a mess" first thing and thought the mayor would let him go, yet so far the mayor has not let him go. Heh, so who is this mayor. Chic and I ran through all this standing at a doorway quicker than I could finish the Corona I held.

Gail has a new job teaching in Corpus but she had been teaching in a small town outside Kingsville where the police chief is imprisoned for drugs, and her students claimed to her they buy cocaine from Border Patrolmen. She had given me a box of old paperbacks the high school was tossing, and I took from it the classics inclusive of Orwell's 1984, quite the yellowed copy. It may strike the Dear literate Reader I had not before read it. Indeed now am unsure had my parents in the early fifties read and forgotten this or Huxley's Brave New World. Neither which I in boredom could read earlier than now. Now I am surprised how radical, trenchant 1984. It has affected our jargon. 1t could be called a parody without humor. Not much fun to read, a gruesome little picture. 1t is conscious of government's fear nudged lobotomization of people. So Orwell misses the web. An artist, he missed some evidence, died young. Cigarettes.

The Corpus Christi Caller is for retirees in lala, said a wetback had come over in the trunk of a car - uno peon - got some kind of gasolene on him spilled in this trunk of this car does not evaparate one assumes, in as when the peon traversing in the brush country lit a cigarette he ignited, and died.

Between the quarks, or from Hubble outward, dynamics do not cooperate in man's puny rule. If O.J. beat his wife he is no gorilla in his physicality, who could hold two adults in one arm and cut on them that they expire slowly. By turn of century all police stations in America were taken in greed in fake war on drugs, murderous. Mike 0live told me were he a cop he would not be corrupted. Ah, Mike 0live is too tender to be a cop. When he was a teenager he quit a job on an ambulance in Aransas after a little girl had been raped by an adult. He said she did not know what happened. Art is human feeling a human crafts in order to present it to humanity. Truth is infinitely unfolding for eyes of humanity.

Harry Crews is five years older than I and lifts weights, knows of this human bodily preservation. We are the sole mammal who may focus the electrical on muscle preservation. At cabin I hurt self till I could not safely chop wood but one year later am finding some light past that, very slowly clearing little swollen places, arthritis, what label it, seeing means to do so. I preserve hand speed - yes, a male thing - but it is complicated. I wade through historical ignorance and fear. Possibly one of these decades I'll get back to running and sprinting.

About literature, I am so fussy about physical reality, correct framework. How little most authors know it. Crews has withstood these smashes to face and body. I have to kind of like him. No way he can be without some cognizance, and, he is sincere. He is hanging in, or this day.

When Western scientists tell us spirit not extant, we presume they perceive mysterious electricity as creating within known chemistry this unknown, emotion. Chemistry, per se, can be diagrammed,we know. Emotion is never diagrammed, we know that too. Scientists are schizoid.

August 7 Medicine has four nights to go of a ten night quarantine. The first night adrenalin permitted me no sleep. Second night I slept and this day I may begin this accounting.
I had him leashed from bike August 1, late mornig returning here, a block away, where a dog ignored it's master's calling and crossed street to aggress on Medicine. The owner, whom I had not known before nor noticed, said to his dog to leave that dog alone because "he is no fighter". I had to stop bike, and Medicine turned his head from the dog, compliance with me the dog misunderstood ho hum, black dog of shepherd and chow, or maybe husky, a dog no heavier than Medicine, who is likely under seventy pounds. Medicine snapped onto its neck, a skin grip. The owner was upon us before I could get off the bike, grabbed hold of leash, pushed at me to get off my bike. I guess, because his dog was shrilling. Or like people get, he resented I was not frantic like he. I told him to get out of my way and let me handle it, that it is dangerous. Holding leash I laid my bicycle safely aside of the street. I remember this hysterical grown man saying if your dog kills mine your ass is mine. Then he wanted us to go find a stick to pry the jaw. I said it is only a skin grip, your dog is not getting killed. The guy's wailing, snapping dog slashed his arm. Like on crack he hunched over his arm uttering oath. I was continuing to pull and talk to Medicine. Likely we had been through less than half a minute since the cracked lout's dog had crossed the street. In the guy's hysteria I tried to be nice so blundered, got a hand caught by his frenzied dog. The dog in terror still knew it was my hand, snapped maybe twice before he let me have it back, rather than my tearing it from him. No big crunch in the poor domesticated dog. I guess he under idiot owner had won some fights somewhere to be so foolish. As I directed the owner he found enough orientation to hold hind part of his and pull, and I pulled and talked to Medicine. Medicine agreed to quell his desire and release another misguided male dog. The guy with freed dog darted back across street. Then he hollered something sounded like do you have a gun.
Has your dog had his shots?
Yeah! Hey, man! Hey!
Look, I got bit too! Don't freak out!
You didn't get bit like I did!
Yeah, like I said - it's dangerous. Don't freak out.

August 8, three nights left. I think it was maybe one day before the Aug. 1 incident, Joy of New york, with 12 year old nephew Dan, were visiting. They passed by here and Dan had this short book of dog stories by a Gary Paulsen, My Life in Dog Years. Late afternoon of Aug. 1 I had finished the little book and walked with Medicine over to the Vaghns' to catch Joy and Dan. I have easy rapport with Joy, no matter I may make fun of her or Nancy Vaughn or Janus Olive not reading Last Laugh. Joy cheerfully agrees to put up 100 stickers of texasgang.com in New York whenever I can send them. By time Medicine and I got back here it was late for his run and he was restless. Robert handed me a business card from a cop.
Figuring the deranged dog owner had a complaint I called the number, which is merely the police station. I thought to get the shit to the side, then get in Medicine's run off bike down Charlie's.
Two scared cops came in two cars. It is greater revulsion to try writing it.
I had snapped Medicine on his porch rope. I held his little chain leash yet. These guys feared I might wail on them with dog leash. Take out their eyes and get their pistols. Ruin careers, credibility. Even in glasses I would look great on TV. Handlebar moustache and old tank shirt and pissed. They were unable to hear logistics, that Medicine does not have two heads.
Hey, don't get smart! Stand back, just stand back!
Their claim Medicine had to be quarantined regardless he is vacinated I disbelieved. Cops cannot follow any due process. One told me he is biased against pitbulls. They would not allow me to call my lawyer. Afeared I could come out with a shotgun or a lawyer could say they cannot do this. They threatened to jail me. I understood they could shoot me on the Brownrat porch, dorks with guns. I had to follow them to dog pound before I could call Richard. At dog pound which they opened with nobody there, and showed us an unoccupied kennel for Medicine., and we in disagreement locked up Medicine, Spanky (His name is Spanky not the guy admittedly biased, but Spanky, pudgy dork) asked did I care to leave the leash (chain). Certainly not. A third backup was called in, a sergeant. "Maybe he can explain it to you". I told them I was starting to believe the law but the law is no good. Anybody can have anybody's dog thrown in jail. We don't interpret the law, our job is to enforce the law, said cops. Medicine yelped and I hollered to him. I left quietly in fury and called Richard. Richard could not believe this law. At the Vaghns', Janus had come to pick up Joy and Dan, and I went there and got stoned and drunk, Joy ordering me to lighten up. In her sympathy naturally. Steve is always sympathetic while knowing adrenalin heeds not sympathy.
Third evening Kelly came in. 1t is well over a decade of Last Laugh or every few years he comes in to confer about my legal dumb shit. He still likes the phraze "playing the game" He could not accept that Medicine could do ten days, because there had been no "due process". Lawyer Hatch knows cops do not follow due process.
R.J. Hatch III: There is no justice.
Richard had forgotten his above famous words, uttered somewhere to his port Aransas friends years or decades ago. He said, well, sometimes I win. He said, is it justice when I get drug dealers off? Of course, Richard, like they used to call black convicts political prisoners, well, hell, we are all political prisoners. (To believe in Anarchism).
Right after leaving Medicine, even before calling richard, I had found busy witnesses. poor citizens who can be subpoenaed. I had taken Richard's directions, pressed criminal charges, met Court Clerk Angel Stallings, who believed me and then I found she also knows friends of mine. What Kelly and I did conclude over a sixer of Guinness he brought, was my doing a letter to the local straight paper, and he helped me to correctly so compose it. Soon as he left, I scribbled it, typed it, and keeping no copy went and deposited it, get it out of the way. I did not know would they print it. When they did, they never notified me, though one is required to leave telephone number. I was told by a friend.
Tom, the dogcatcher had been on vacation. Angel Stallings had given me a city hall number to locate this Silvia who besides cleaning Angel's office takes care of the animals in Tom's absence. Angel is in and out and I reached her Aug. 2 and she told me Medicine was alright. She said he is "so gentle". My heart was pounding telepathy to Medicine but this was relief. I told her she can pet him. Later word went she and other workers played with him. "He gets plenty of attention." "he is a great dog". I had been worrying over my having been forced to turn my back on him - prefer to not do this twice and Silvia was only in and out anyway - but I have to be proud of funny Medicine in the case, who still got his attention. 1t is argued pitbulls this wildest (arguably the Austrailian heeler is as wild) breed by man are as well keenest to humans (and author Gary Paulsen has this to be the border collie). Whatever, if there is a weird strain of pitbull gets on TV I have never seen, what a gap between those who know what is a pitbull and those who do not.
Court went Aug. 14, 8 A.M. On the defendant's corner of 0leander and 0ak, one blook over from Brundrett, are four houses built on stilts. This defendant, Sterling Boulit, looks to be a small drug dealer. In the incident he was on crack or crank or needed smack, or, he needed a lot of B complex. My witness was a retiree whom I had often spoken hello to early mornings as he walks his couple of yappers, this guy named Bob from Illinois, who used to sub as a policeman. After speaking with him the first of August, I had been directed by ~ichard to get this note from him.

Subject: Dog fight

Altercation between one brown pitbull and one black labrador mix date 8-1-00 location 430 0leander Port Aransas, TX. approximate time 1:PM. I was alerted to the altercation by the bark of my two small dogs, at which time I went to my patio door facing north and observed the two mentioned animals engaging in a fight with the two owners trying to contain the animals. The brown pitbull was on a leash The lab was not. The pitbull and its owner were on the west bound side of 0leander, as to who started the fight or how any injury took place I cannot say. Respectfully submitted report, Robert R. Stanfield.
I could not hand Mr. Stanfield the logic that one pitbull (black) holding a yelping dog cannot as well bite the held dog's owner, but as I asked would he tell how the other dog had aggressed, he said this is understood in the note. Which it is. As I had found Bob as witness before calling Richard, Bob firstly had directed me, wild haired unshaven in old tank shirt, surely smelling like a large mammal, next door to speak with that witness. Next door was a sexy mom of two teenagers, Dorthy. She had not witnessed it but her husband had. But her husband was at work, but Dorthy said come over anytime. We stood talking. The next porch over, the one between hers and obliquely Sterling's, appeared the cop who had busted Medicine, Spanky of the business card. Hey, there is the same cop who busted Medicine! Yes, she smiled. The kids call him Spanky, he is always busting the kids. That house is being busted for drugs, there goes the neighborhood.
I caught no more of pretty Dorthy, never met her working, dodging hubby, though I tried several times. But I became better acquainted with her kids, Jessica age 16 and Zane age 14. I met Jessica's boyfriend age 17 the cops have beaten up (after macin him) and I met his brother age 20 who is friends with Steve's son, Gabe who is 20. The parents or hubby feared being subpoenaed. The home had already been pushed into by cops without warrent. Before I gave up on catching either parent in again I had a good talk with smart Jessica, whose life is unhappy from the cops/court shit. She is an example of kids sick of lies and ignorance. She trusts her mom, but calls her dad a hypocrite.
Twice on those days attempting to speak with Jessica and Zane's parents I saw Sterling and took to yelling at him. Flist time it was that if he does not go admit he lied and get my dog out of jail he will lose big. He would not then speak, went inside. I observed he is huskier than I had recalled. Second time I had had a sixpack, and there he was before he saw me up on his porch being tender to his dog. It was a touching scene. This time he was less large, easy to maul. I am just not a visual type of human. Or what I see is not so much length, width, heighth.
Hey, Sterling!
At least you like dogs! That's a plus for you! But you're going to lose in court! You can't expect me to take this lying down, can you!
you can't expect me to take this laying down can you~
What! Hey man, I haven't done shit to you! Hey, Sterling, just be glad you have cop protection!
Cop protection?
Hey, look man! I could wail on you easy as my dog on yours! Be glad you got cop protection!
At least you like dogs! That's a plus for you! I'll see you in court!
What to do with human nature. Most live in shiny pit. I had been trying to follow Hatch's advice and not threaten Sterling. While even wretched cops if they are not permitted to bully, get friendlier - re. The Emeryville War. These cramped buggers we gun down in Tales From the Texas Gang, easy to kill. Oh, maybe not quite so easy, am out of practice.
Shortly, Spanky was back by here. Angel or somebody had been telling him I am not a maniac, he looked taller, smarter, officially telling me no charges would be brought on me. Dumb shit forever, he had expected me to be glad to know. Lyla had been calling daily in fear I might go kamakazi on policemen. I would get short and too rude. She had kept asking should she come with me to get Medicine. She asked should she accompany me to court. To believe in authority is to believe I get SSI because I am ill. Or, is it I should have been in action movies, gainfully employed, made Lyla proud. Hatch did not either come with me, busy else-where in court and Angel Stallings had told him he was not really needed. By then, I had had Medicine over the weekend at our Aransas sanctuary. But even getting him I had had to wait around out in my truck till a cop was available to go unlock him. Eventually this friendly fellow who runs the canine wagon,with the pot sniffing German Shepherd did it for me - imagine if possible, Dear Reader, in the early evening all this huge police force in sleepy P.A. out driving around, bothering kids or what, only the dispatcher had been in till the canine wagon came in - the canine driver is a nice fat guy who heard my story in sympathy. Medicine was barging free, got caught in door of cage, bolting, be petted secondly. I drove him right to Charlie's pasture for run. Revved, he would take pauses to be petted.
Trial was little, nervous waiting through the gnarled citizens who had got there earlier. I had Bob Stanfield, who barely mattered, never had to stand or speak. I never handed the judge Bob's note, got back home with it still in my shirt pocket. Sterling was late, hung us up another half hour, had shaved a beard. When we were called to the stand I did not mean to get too close to him and he skipped over a pace. He was content to plead guilty to having had a dog at large, pay $6O, and get away soon as he was let go. Funny, the judge had already given this teenager a hard time with his mom there about saying "yessir", and Sterling made sure to be saying yessir, but I fully forgot to be saying yessir, which went OK as I am an aristocrat and still had a degree of outrage, told the judge I really do not care about dog at large, am only angry he lied and got my dog jailed I mean impounded, guess (smile) there is no law about someone lying your dog bit them, and getting your dog impounded. The judge informed me that to do all this I would have to do this and do that, and I said I have calmed down by now and am not interested, hate all this stuff. I added I don't suppose I can be reinbursed for the kennel fee ($3O, it happened all I had was a $3O of Madrea's exactly, which I borrowed) (new bike had been $2OO, etc., craving meat and beer) (Bix sent $2O but I was out of gasolene and to get a sixpack), but, already I knew the answer was the same, I could do this and that and no thank you. Having Medicine awaiting out in my truck I was hurried, Sterling shot on out of there, and I forgot to tell Angel Stallings the court clerk goodby.
On the corner of Jacoby and North McCampbell our Aransas house, oaken brush across N. McCampbell which drunk trailer whites up Jacoby have and do frequently smash into, unearthed stop sign gets replaced twice lately, past couple months Lyla, old lady with staff, went and had neighbors sign a petition, getting the city to put up a three way stop sign. Here is Medicine's and mine sanctuary. Medicine thinks Lyla's dogfood is special. He is happy here, will yap in happiness inside the tree filled fenced yard. Lyla thinks Medicine is happy here because he appreciates her discipline. Ahh, naa, he is safe here, he has a lot of room here. Kelly said, the cops can't get'im here. Well, when he is contained at the Brundrett house there is less peace and less room and he can only be outside tied on the porch, in the less interesting environment. Here he can be in the yard or on the deck with wind of racoon, coyote, squirrel, pig, deer. He likes sitting out in the night barking up our trees. He is not the quiet type, but to rest, drifting on couch beside B.E. at solitaire and TV insulation. B.E. likes Medicine then, admires his comfort.
We have seen Tom the dogcatcher back from his vacation, or his checking on Florida property he has. He had been wanting to see us, encountered us down at the boat harbor. He heard out my account of dumb cops and agreed most cops are rude. He claims he could have stopped the bullshit if he had been here. We talked lengthily. I told him my appreciation of Silvia's care for Medicine. He said Silvia is a nice person, "this little Spanish girl". I said tell her hello for me.
The following morning we did the turn through the boat harbor, quite the fiesty little reddish dog sprang from a camper pickup parked while the retiree was fishing, to confront Medicine leashed off movingbike. Some little half sized yellow-eyed fighter. Rarely have I exercized dog off leash in changing times. Never had I a male dog so advanced on, conclude dogs think a leashed dog is disadvantaged. I tried to shoo this dog and Medicine had a small amount of patience. But it came circling back at him 1nstead of biting it, he tried rising bodily upon it. It refused Medicine as dominant and before I could get off bike Medicine took it by scruff of neck shaking it vigorously. This dog probably did not weigh 35 pounds. Dogs two or three times its size shrill when Medicine takes hold but not this animal. The old citizen fishing caught on and came running, telling me to stop him, stop him. I could tell he wished to pound on Medicine and I got in his way and told him to calm down and get out of the way. Again, here is one damned fool whose dog has beat up other dogs. Medicine got a trace more stubborn than he had been with Sterling's dog. But I directed the senior citizen to get his dog from behind, which hesitatingly, he did. I talked and tugged and then gave Medicine a short slap and he released the fighting little fool dog.
In mistake, I thanked the man for being calmer than other people. Is human nature shit most often. The old bastard perceived my nobility to be apology or guilt. This fat white haired guy demanded why do I bring a "killer dog" down here. I manage my dog - did I manhandle his jaw? - no, I did not manhandle his jaw! Too deep for one white haired fat bastard naturally, but he was intimidated again and shut back up. By time these people work and retire they are naturally enfeebled. They can be nasty as any second class citizen or dope dealer. Civilization under fear of law discourages adulthood.
I have to be built and scary, effect cops and citizens who have no adult sensibility. I have to in sake of my asthmatic condition since age four. I see the other rationale. 1t is unfair I own a pitbull who can kill a macho dog just because he/she momentarily forgets to contain his/her dog. If had another kind of dog, at least his/her dog should not lose in a degradation, instantly. The rationale is nearly logical.
Germs, Guns, and Steel, by Jared Diamond has been informative and stimulative. Eurasia, the biggest land mass has this axis of east/west, plentiful of domesticable plants/beasts, long road of exchange, warfare or commerce ideas are exchanged , fields plowed by domesticable beasts and food stored to support bureaucrats and armies and technicians. Africa and America are more north/south axis, thus bigger effects climate-wise on crops, too there were fewer suitable draft animals etcetera. Zebras are too smart to be lassoed. Buffaloes or elephants won't breed in captivity or they are too smart or violent, etc. Cheetahs said to be better than dogs hunting but won't breed in captivity. (I'll choose pitbull, whip any cheetah, pull down buffalo, ah.) Argh. Cross wolf and pit please. Anyway.
Jared Diamond is familiar with New Guinea. He tells of hunter/gatherers in the New Guinea highlands. He also thinks these people via necessity are averagely brighter than civilised folks. They make out in small family groups, though when a couple strangers meet hunting, they have to sit down and tell one another of one another's kinsmen, in order maybe neither will think to try killing the other. 1t is this thing in an acid trip. Easier, to not have to encounter a stranger. I know, people taking acid do not know what they do, often, but I can say this and acid heads know it.
We know, the men who killed Kennedy, and the international banking community, want this biggest revenue of cocaine and heroin, to rule easier the world. They must rule the oil and U.S. media, gasolene for U.S. ants. What got me a long ways back is the dullness in it. Well, too, the mindless fear. It is how the Jews got gassed.
Ask a friend who votes: Are you better off than eight years ago?
Blank....Kelly, Steve, are voting Democrat, their wives too. Something to do with uthe courts. If Gore gets in do less blacks go to prison. 0 course not.
Yeh, Bush jr. turns out more fucked up than Gore even, weak, brittle, strangely, sodomomised mentally. 5 or 6 thou kids from malnutrition a month in 1raq, from the King is naked, and Columbian refugees outnumber all of Yugoslavia's. They are killing our grass, sometimes it is nothing but wimmin'n babies, wimmin'n babies.
Another conversation I had at the Ccx reunion, this big humanitarian heart, socialist type cousin, Alex jr. COX, patricia's brother, Alexis's uncle, re. LL. We call him Sonny. He likes Jesse Jackson, while seems to stay in these movements, social activity. He has a daughter who has attended these protests at both Democrat and Republican conventions. Both coasts, maybe most this right now is about "the forgotten poor," though the media so fear nudged works to ignore it all. Sonny handed me literature to do with a march about the poor, Philadelphia where he lives. Sonny has had the facts, from leastways far back as the Korean war, but avoids arguing with ordinary relatives. Bottle of Corona in hand and Patricia photographed us, I pressed forth with the oil/drugs, lies and inhumanity in general. So I asked Sonny is even Jesse Jackson speaking up. Does he have any guts any-more? Sonny had had impression Jesse Jackson has spoken up, had visited Iraq. We hope so, but Sonny says there is much grass roots work these days.

I started a letter to you several nights ago, but I forgot what I named it and lost it somewhere in this computer. Doesn't matter, really , because I am now of a different frame of mind, now listening to Ambrosia.

Just got your letter with the fantastic cop story. It is not at all hard for me to believe as I have had numerous dealings with cops and, as a matter of fact, with Port A Cops. I am very familiar with the Barney Fife mentality of small town cops, and I vividly recall them coming into my cell in Port A in the wee hours to roll me over, checking to be sure there were no obvious bruises on my face. It wouldn't look good when I went before the judge in the morning. They hated me because I whipped the three of them that jumped me, and only a fourth one wielding a night stick enabled them to sudue me. I eventually feigned unconsciousness to stop the ensuing vengeance, but I heard everything they said as they hauled me in. So I intimately understand your plight and hope only that Medicine has been well fed at least. I agree with Kelly's advice as far as you can bring yourself to play the game. It does save a lot of hassle when you are forced to deal with these bastads, as long as it doesn't push beyond your limit. When I sat before the judge in open court that day, I was so very close to changing my future as my attitude was terribly shitty. He decided that I should pay $164 for my transgressions, which was more money in 1966 than I had seen at one time, and so I informed him that I was not actually a rich person. So he sentenced me to be moved to the Nueces County jail where I would spend six months paying my debt to the society of Port Aransas that I had so aggrieved. Fortunately for me, word reached my dad in stinky Baytown and he called his good police buddy, Felix Turnbough, who was chief of police in AP. They brought me from the cell to face the omnipotent judge again, and he red-facedly condescendingly told me he was turning me over to the AP chief of police. So I could leave under the stipulation that I call Mr. Turnbough for further instruction as soon as I reached the mainland. I recall the relief I felt at that moment and the anxiety I had to call Mr. Turnbough and thank him, only thanks is not what he wanted. He instead felt duty bound to chew my ass out for my sins and to describe to me my good fortune that the Port A cops had not beat the living shit out of me for questioning their authority. When I told him that they in fact had, he stuttered a bit and I could picture in my mind him taking out that huge cigar, looking at the chewed end, and sticking it back in his mouth before guffawing that hrumph that was good because I had it coming. He was a good man. I have known of him being good to youngsters whose fathers were not his good friends or poker playing buddies. Once when I was fifteen, I hitch-hiked from nasty Baytown to AP to see my future bride and mother of my children and love of my life for twenty one years. Showing off and being unsupervised with wild friends I found myself jailed with passed out friends in AP, and constable Jack Johnson wanting to lock us away forever. Mr. Turubough showed up and told him to shut up and go home. Over 40 years later I still remember Mr. Turnbough and his cigar that was never lit. He started me off in this world thinking that cops were basically good guys, which led later to some rather rude awakenings.

I played Little League and Pony League baseball in Aransas with a good friend, Melvin Shed. Of course, I haven't known of him since he was 14 years old, but he was a good guy in those young days. When I last saw my friend Terry Holden, I happened to ask about old Melvin. Terry said he is now chief of police in Aransas Pass and a real asshole. No one can stand him. Some things will always be beyond my comprehension.

I regret that you have been languishing, not knowing how to pull up the Texas Gang website. First let me explain that I haven't done anything in the last ten days. My grandkids have been here for summer vacation and they stayed on the computer day and night. My daughters came Saturday to pick them up and they all left this morning. We now head out in the morning for Dallas as Vicki just had another grandchild, so I don't expect to be back home until the weekend. I should then, in about a week, finally have some time to get back to work on the site. In the meantime here is the status: I have arranged to transfer the site to Web Hosting All Stars, and hopefully that will happen soon. That will get rid of the advertising logos on top of the pages, which turned out to be considerably larger (and bigger nuisance) than Freeservers had allowed. I have been playing around with backgrounds and links, etc., and have loaded the first page of Tortilla Hike and a couple of poems that Bix sent. All this is just practice on my part, learning how to upload, build links, and no thought of aesthetics at this point. Keep that in mind when you tell someone to look at it. I have a link on there where comments and suggestions can be typed in and emailed to me, becanse I could use them. Anyhow, until the move is complete, to get to the site one must type in www.texasgang.nstemo.com. The nstemp discloses the fact that it is with a temporary name server. When the move is complete, I will let you know and then www.texasgang.com will be permanent. Sorry about the slow progress.

I realize that you don't want to bother with design of the website, and I understand that. I will, when I get back from Dallas begin to do some serious work to get this thing presentable and to get your material out there. However, if I have any talent whatsoever, it definitely is not artistic and I hope to get some help eventually from you, Bix, Steve, Ann, Madrea, Kelly, Geof, whoever, on what this thing should look like. Until then I will plod along and stick things on there as it is good practice for me anyhow. So far since my retardment, I am holding constant at 1 gallon of Virgin Island rum per week, and I have been able to do good work for l2 or so years at that pace. I do find, though, that as I stay up later at night messing with this I take a few steps backward as I forget some things I learned the night before. That loss of a couple of hours each night would not be a problem if I didn't also have to find time for some mundane shit. Mowing the yard and painting the house are examples of what I bitterly feel is usurping important moments of what remains lifewise. I occasionally find time to think of ways to stop doing that stuff and will hopefully come up with something creative before long. But when I suggested a Port A meeting of relevants, I had in mind not only layouts, etc. but logistics as well. For example, when I mentioned the word "edit" to Bix he fairly flinched. My question is really more simple, almost a yes or no and certainly untainted with prejudice. When I receive material to load onto Texas Gang, who is to say "OK, yes, do it"? Who is to say who can publish on texasgang.com and who can't? And when I am to publish someone's stuff, am I supposed to correct obvious grammatical mistakes, erase blood smears, clear up pictures? Bix sent me two poems. I put them both on the same page. Does he want them on different pages with different backgrounds? I guess if you are not ready to answer those questions at this point, I'll just do what I think in anticipation of someone raising hell with me later. And I don't mind that if that is the answer. But this is your inspiration and as far as I am concerned it is your website. I personally think you should be editor although I know that runs against your grain. But, whatever.

As I sit here, I hear the democratic convention starting on TV with the typical interviews of delegates. Little old ladies with garish hats giggling and dancing around while explaining why they only wish Bill Clinton could run again. They want to vote for him again and again because his philosophy is the same as their own. Yeah, right, they have a philosophy. Blow jobs feel better with the tittilating risk of getting caught. Not to worry, denial is fair for such an important person even if that includes telling lies to the judge and jury, constitution be damned. Clinton would have been a much more historic figure had he played the fiddle rather than the cigar. I guess the only thing that the founding fathers could have come up with better than this constitutional republic would have been some way for us to societize without politicians and bureaucrats. I told you it is a lost cause, typified by the interviewee I saw explaining why he was opposed to eliminating income tax because he relied on his refund every year. The only thing that could possibly explain this insane world is that there is no point in the existence of the universe. Animal evolves by suvival ofthe fittest until he reaches the point where he decides the meek should inherit the earth and that his species should perpetuate the weaknesses of the downtrodden by taking from the successful and giving to the failures. Take from the industrious and give to the lazy. Take from the rich and give to the poor family with 12 uneducable children. Take from the strong and give to the diseased. Give the closer parking places to the disabled. Take from majority and give to minority. Let's just even this shit out here until we can't recognize the fittest. That will teach Evolution that it is only a theory and that we have the power to manipulate it and reverse it if we want because we have evolved to this intelligence. Happy 74th birthday, Fidel, you old despot. Happy convention, Joe Lieberman, you old whiney crybaby Jew. Happy back scratching, Dick Morris, you old liberal prevert. Happy tax free life, Jesse Jackson, you old nigger-baiting phoney. Man, I hope you got Medicine out of jail today without much hassle.

Some folks confluse Democrats with liberals and Republicans with conservatives, and although there is an association there, it is purely faibricated. Political parties in general have nothing to do with political philosophies with the exception of Libertarians. Party platforms are contrived every four years to reflect the shifting moods of the idiot electorate, those moods being the products of the best opinion shapers that contributions can buy. Most people are malleable idiots that feel some kind of great patriotic rush by voting even though they don't have an inkling as to the significance of majority rule. Let it be said that democracy is two wolves and a sheep voting on what to have for dinner, the wise constructors of our constitution knew better than to give us democracy. Since I am forced by many factors to participate in society at some low level, I have studied enough to find my vantage point that enables me to get by, but I am still angry and bitter that I must always be fucked by the majority and of late by the minority, because I never seem to be a member of one or the other.

Well, so, Vicki did indeed find your music on Napster. Roscoe Gordon from New Orieans. I listened to some of it and can easily get into it, in fact it is the kind of stuff I do and I am surprised that I didn't already know him. Must be one of those obscure folks. Anyhow, she downloaded some of his stuff and will burn you a CD if you have a player or a cassette if you prefer. When I watch these political conventions I feel that I am on some distant planet watching in comical relief the evolution of some primitive cultures, and then I have to face the mirror. Drives me to drinking in the short run. So I turn now to the Allman Bros telling me it aint my cross to bear and get deep into music and Virgin Islands. Must suck it up and not be dominated, know what I mean? Sheva's Headband is still in search mode but I suspect will come up as the Vick is relentless and good. Actually, she remembers them, guess she's kind of a rock artist. So while I am playing les Brers in A minor and conversing, she is searching, ever searching. And now Stormy Monday Blues rolls around my neck and into my pocket. Mr Patterson was my friend's father and became one of Aransas Pass' finest probably because he couldn't get a job. Some guy moved and left a wooden dirt floor garage full of rabbits, like hundreds of them. My friend, Kenneth Farrier and I were told by some wierdo that they were his and we could have them, so we took a couple of tow sacks and were in the process of loading up the little ones. There were literally hundreds maybe thousands of them in that garage. Mr. Patterson came up and made us turn them loose because, he said, they belonged to him now. Said he would take us to jail if he caught us around there again (we were 13 or so.) We went to the wierdo's house to tell him what happened and he told us to never come there again. I remember his underarms were shaved.

There's been some unspoken tension here, I guess, since my grandkids came. Not sure why except that it probably has something to do with genetics and kin and that kind of stuff. It's understandable to me as I have noticed that I love my grandkids more than other kids. I have thought a lot about that and have decided that it is out of my hands, so to speak. Typical selfish thoughts of simple people? Or do you love Madrea more than other kids? Are you, too, a guilty man? I find solace sometimes in remembering that Kahlil Gibran said in all the differences he had with himself, he found that the truth always seemed to lie somewhere between. I am halfway through Heart of Darkness and have yet to start on Texas Gang because I am so far behind. I got that way from working for Exxon and don't know when I will catch up, but can't so far find the time for the things I enjoy and feel compelled to do. I am not sure a lifetime is long enough and really don't know how I ever found time to go out there to the plant for 28 years. They called me last week wanting me to come back to work as a consultant and I tried my best not to be rude out of defference to my legacy. Ha!

So, Bill, the ignorant fucker that lives down Brundrett steet from you lets his dog run loose? Is he local or some Yankee transplant? Is he prejudiced when it comes to Pit bulls or as I gather from your letter to the editor just a lawsuit kind of guy? I say countersue his ass. Tell Hatch it is time for him to deal with the serious things in life, he has had enough time already to do his husbandly fatherly thing and it is time to do what feels better as he discharges his duty to community and friends. After all, he is a lawyer Har Har. See, his little brother had more sense than to get a degree in dispicability. Charlie was my good friend.

I notice when the paragraphs get smaller that I am rambling and so to bed.

Dear Bill,

Good to get your letter. Sorry to hear about Medicine and the bull shit.
Yes, we'll "fight back." I like that. Well, Jones and I have been writing emails back and forth, my ideas his ideas; and he was feeling that I was impatient so I have backed off a bit just told him it was great that he was doing what he was doing, I did not mean to crowd, etc. So I will give him room. Yes, the web is up. It is under construction however, meaning incomplete. The homepage has a chapter from Texas Gang and then there is a link called "Uncle Bix's Victory Garden" poems of mine. But Jones switched to another web site or whatever and now my poems are in computer lingo that make no sense but it is exciting to see texaggang.com etc. Shit, we can do much with it. As I have presented it to Jack, Vaughn could have a link with his paintings as he photographs them and sends them to Jones, Jones can scan and put on web site. Hatch could advertise his law expertise. We could sell Texas Gang cards like baseball cards, Chuck's old funny book, T-shirts, Island Quarterly could rise from the dead. Caylor could run a cartoon link - looks like much fun to me. Chapters of your book Texas Gang could serialize on a link while the Last Laugh has a separate link. The home page could open up to Steve's Texas Gang paintings with all the different links available or we could open up with Last Laugh always there on the home page and then all the other links made available. I tried to assure Jack that I wanted adventure and fun, etc, with web site. Yes, we all need to meet, Jack mentioned this and see what we want to do with this. I've kept copies of all our emails, in a folder on computer called "Texas Gang" I will bring. I have a friend here, guy from Oklahoma, 58, worked shrimp boats in 1961 out of Aransas, was in Merchant marines for years, is a psychologist, counselor now, has a super $10,000 video machine. He has been doing film over the years, sold a piece to the television program "20/20" he's a great guy, my fishing buddy, has a boat. He wants to do a documentary of "Texas Gang". I told him great, Texas Gang would pay for him a motel for couple a days, I liked saying that, and he would come down and shoot many hours and then cut and at the least we would have great stuff that we could put on web site; and at the best he might develop it into an interesting video, film that could lead attention to Last Laugh, etc, that something might happen with. Hoo ray. I will take break from letter and go look at website to see if Jones has done more. I just tried the web site and it's there. Nothing new has been done. Tell Nancy you have to do www.texasgang.nstemp.com
Work is about over, I feel, just can't see doing it much more. Ex wife Beverly has offered a spot on her 5 acres and I can tie off her electric and water.
On and on it goes Combustion engine, Barbed wire, electricity, radio, television, computers - Where is Rattlesnake Dan? Con los Pobres de les tierres. What about David? What is going on? Is he truly losing it? Hatch left a message for him to call me but he has not. I tried to call him could not get ahold of him. Do you have a number?
Well, Bill take care. Tell Steve hello. I have talked about those paintings on the floor, their beauty. They are big, fine. Hemingway's son has edited some last writings of Papa's - "True At First Light". When he describes the geography it is good or when he talks about writing, other writers, the Africans, interesting but the talk of killing the lion, the dialogue back and forth between he and wife and close friends are awkward, don't sound right, uninteresting; of course who knows what final touches he would have put on it. "In Africa a thing is true at first light and a lie by noon and you have no more respect for it than for the lovely, perfect weed fringed lake you see across the sun-baked salt plain. You have walked across that plain in the morning and you know that no such lake is there. But now it is there absolutely true, beautiful and believable."

Love, Bix

Dear Bill, Got your letter today. I didn't particularly care that you were cross in our phone conversation. I too was rushed, having been on my way out the door to meet a friend, a little jet lagged yet when Lyla phoned, but no, you had never mentioned the idea of stickers to me before and when I, having only a second to think about it, said you might put your picture on the stickers you said texasgang.com is powerful on its own, a picture would cost money, why is this so hard to see. Well, fine, but give me a chance. I don't know when you think you'd told me of the idea of stickers before. I actually think it a good idea, told you on the phone I could give it to different friendS, including Rasmussen who works in Universities, so they could get a wide distribution, but by then I guess Lyla's pressuring you to get off the phone had gotten too intense. Anycase, now in recent letter you list me among those who perhaps do not believe in you. I haven't changed, Bill, one way or the other. I've always looked forward to and enjoyed getting your letters and Last Laughs. Over the years, have appreciated your unflagging consistency in correspondance, am often motivated to write, myself (if somewhat defensively in this case) after reading what you send me. I read everything you send me, and whether I agree with everything you say or not, I am always inspired to thought afterwards and frequently will be taken by a mood, nostalgia, inspiration, which might last a day or two. And I enjoy our conversations in person when we have the chance, appreciate how you've listened to me over the years. This is how I feel now, how I've felt all along, so make of my belief in you what you will. As for Rasmussen not reading Madam Z, I can't really speak for him, but I don't think he reads at all these days, is busy doing University work, plus weddings on the weekends, plus trying to start a bar, feeling pressure more than ever, he says, to finally save some money, especially as he is considering marrying his longtime sweetheart after she returns to Japan from a year of school in America. Perhaps she pressures him financially a bit, too, chides him for not being able to save money. Evil or not, Bill, jobs sap peoples ability to pursue other endeavors. I know you speak of this all the time, perhaps you think it is taking a toll on me now. Well, maybe. Fortunately I had a half day at school today, so could leave early, play some tennis, drink a beer, find the wherewithal to respond to your letter. I won't even try to READ a Last Laugh after a long day at school, my mind too scattered. Yet, I really like my job, get a big kick out of teaching the girls, enjoy feeling respected as a "teacher", in a way I never felt respected in America, even if I sometimes feel like the token "nigger"at school, an anomoly performing for the entertainment of the masses, a bit intriguing and a bit scary at the same time. My job inspires me some days, yet it's still a job, cuts into my philosophizing time, forces me to block out time to read your writing and respond. And I get more vacation time than most anybody I know. So, I could excuse Ras. And say he's busy, but I'll let him make his own excuses. He does religiously read all the L.L.s I pass on to him, perhaps because they can be read in one or two sittings.
Also on the phone you seemed impatient because I didn't understand that there was a way to look at the Texas Gang site while it was under construction... I don't know shit about the internet, Bill, never use it because it's expensive in Japan, just do email. But, anyway, when I returned to Japan, I had an email from Jack Jones saying the site was up and running so I checked it out and indeed it was easy to find, looked nice, had a couple LLs, The Tortilla Wars, a poem by Bix and a piece from Jack's wife about her brother's death on it. Looks like a lot of work has already been put into it, though Jack claims he has a lot more to do. Anyway, I told him I would verify to you that I saw it, that it's up and running.WeIp, my window is up. Gotta go feed Rasmussens cat and plants while he is in California helping his girlfriend get set up in school, then meet a couple buddies for beer and poker. Glad to hear you've got some money and got the tape off Kelly. Sorry to hear Madrea has been short on protein. She told me in a letter how she has to take care of Cynthia a lot. Hope it isn't wearing on her too much. I'm sure it's making her strong, but she needs somebody she can be a girl with sometimes. Don't know yet if I'll make it back Christmas, but I'll let you know.
Love, Geof

Another of my oldest friends has died, Rattlesnake Dan, September 1, 2000, on the street in Austin. Since his getting SSI for being alcoholic, Dan kept getting rolled. We don't know what body parts left him dead, but he had said he had TB, said he had cancer, was always dying, for decades, always getting into hospitals, must have liked hospitals, and nurses.
Anyway. There is a lot more to him. I guess there was no ID on the body, it took authority days to find his half-brother John in Austin who was his keeper, then John trying to find either of the other two McConchie boys contacted Hatch, who told Steve a few days ago who told me. A week before then, when Hatch and I did not know he was dead, we were talking about texasgang.com and Hatch asked where is Danny these days, and as usual remarked he had never expected Danny to live this long.

When I drove into our Aransas refuge past weekend Lyla was out front (fenced yard on the road is back yard Medicine likes) with a tree trimmer (moss has been strangling oaks in the front) named Joseph who owns a pit bull. This I learned first being Medicine jumped through truck window to go see faster than I could grab him.
Joseph is 38 and muscular and a man of power, looks young but has been through much, and next day I learned from him and it surprised me he is under five, three. He does not wear a shirt. Like myself rather, but nowdays for national paranoia I'll wear one in public, though Joseph prefers not to. He is from Lousiana, a quarter Cherokee, says he is a coon-ass (Cajun). Right off in our dialogue he struck me, pit bulls to wolves to Indians, his saying like vintage Blackolive that dog (not ape) is nearer man than is any animal (or at least some people, I laughed, if not all people) - he said certain wolves were friends with certain Indians, and I appreciated that. So that is great and some way he/we hit upon government and he has no respect for government. I believe he has not read a whole lot, really, he says he likes to read true stuff. The canine or wolf thing, he, or I, already know. A natural hunter/gatherer, good soul, later Hatch met him. Over the weekend Lyla kept telling me to let Joseph work. He and I are thinking about letting our pit bulls run together, males, and he brought it up but believes we could manage it. He is another - Jack's wife Vicki being one - who know inside and out what is a pit bull - most people do not know.
But another who does is my woman friend who gave me Medicine and is fifty miles up country busy with school, children, job, but has been advising Jack on building the website. texasgang.com is running. Jack is doing huge work.
It is that time. I should no longer afford $100 of food/beer money to Xerox an LL after this CXXXXVI. Time for the Dear Reader to send $5 cash to Jack when the Dear Reader desires to go sit somewhere holding a new LL in the Dear Reader's little hands. Dear Reader, after this, you are on your own. Yet advise us and complain.


It's been a rather exciting night for me as nights go, as I have heard from several people regarding your website, people I don't know and from whom I would never otherwise have heard. So, texasgang.com is starting to stir up some stuff, I guess that's what you had in mind. I notice when I look at it that there are many grammatical errors and I feel that I should correct them, but I would then be editing and I do not feel cleared to do that. So, well, anyhow these are questions that I think will be cleared up at our Oct. 2 meeting at Shorty's. I'm looking very forward to that and to some Port Aransas relaxation.

Well, now it is another day and I woke up to an Email from Bix and then a letter from you with the news of Danny's demise or salvation. I have spent the day with it on my mind as he was a friend of mine and so much like me. I keep thinking if only I hadn't blinked.

Yes, so people have gone insane and pissed in the bed. I am not surprised as I have done both of those myself on occasion and can testify that going insane is the preferred. When I was going to Texas A & I and working night shift in Corpus at a drive-in grocery, I experienced clientele of varying class and distinction and probably learned more at night than in class. One poor lady that was always stoned and nice shit all over my store one night as the result of wine I think. She kept wanting to tell me how sorry she was and it just kept dribbling out of her pants as she paced. It stunk and I had to clean it all up and help her write out her check for purchase. She made out the check to "Ann's pad" but I let her go on and then I did some creative erasure and forgery.

Am glad you cleared up for me Tamara Oler, I know you spoke of her but I am slow putting things together. Yes, she has been very complimentary and encouraging to me, however, I must point out from my perspective that it is not as much work as she must think. I have not yet experienced anything unpleasant and have learned much for whatever it is worth. I suspect it is all O.K. As a matter of fact, I did scan in a couple of Last Laughs for practice, and although they may look like I typed them in, that is because the scanner doesn't always recognize letters as they are. So I have to go in and change some z's to a's and stuff like that, but it is not all that much work. The real problem I have found is in trying to upload sketches and pictures of low quality and trying to mix them up in the text like you do manually. So, at this point I have only published your text and not the good stuff that is added, but I will figure out how to do that eventually, have patience. The resulting web page look is what I want to talk to you about in person and look forward to being able to do that Oct. 2. If Shorty's is not good venue for you, that is O.K. We will quaff a few and resume conversation later, although I am used to doing good work and completing conversation over some brews.

My Sister Caryl may be the nicest person I know, so totally naive and sweet. She is addicted to texasgang.com and daily sends me emails wanting to know when we will publish more material. The mystique of anonymity she loves but drives her nuts; she wants to know who is Bix, who wrote this and that. I told her we are having a texasgang.com board meeting in Port A Oct 2, and she requested that I get approval to tell her who is who. Is that fine or what? I am getting emails from her friends about the site.