The consciousness or spirit that is man's evil is a tricky thing, the blindness we get in threat or vanity either. Still can't remember even throwing a lick at Bu, only frustration, nor was there evidence in either hand later of anything half solid. The man had jabbed, glanced off my eye, and he freaked. He threw shit out of the garbage can, and I chased him around, then I cut him off, chased him the other way. He was freaked in a clinch, tried to get me into the plate glass. I took him off the curb, wherein, before or after I slipped to a knee, he came down with two or three freaked, pretty good right hands, one chancing upon the left corner of my chin, knockout button, and he got the other solid shot that sliced my earlobe. He got lucky, and was about to maybe die, when my wallet was lifted. The scar of his left hand's nail remains on my right wrist where I had brought it free of his clutch. I am poorly coordinated throwing rocks. I move with ax, hammer, first. It did not occur to me I nearly did a man in, because I had wanted to whip jolts into the skull on the concrete and did not get to.

Man does not live by bread alone, or law by man. Sounds like the government of China was too busy, got inside the very households. Hemingway said the Chinese car do arything because they have the people ard a tradition of cooperation ard can claw an airfield out of rocky earth with their bare hands. A civilization thousards of years old, they have seen it, poetry, blood lust, corservatism. Maybe we have ertered the age of Aquarious, people seeing light. Grown men not standing weak if an old person is robbed, a woman violated, a child abused. I do not krow, too early to say, but it is a fact we have a potential for life without the cops, most folks can live with one acre, or communally, get rid of the cops. I have noted this in Mexican settlements off main roads. We know, along will come a rapacious horde or bunch of motherless sports or horses. But what if males urderstood what is manhood in cosmic scheme? Ah, the blood of the earth runs with garbage ard the breath of it does also, because science advances in a greed of men, but hell, little of the packaged products were of true use to anyone aryway. Gorbachev tries telling Bush, we can no longer afford all this overkill, but we can afford living easier. It has to be difficult, talking to a man voted in by enough couch potatoes too symbiotic to see choice but run the bowels of the earth into it's blood and it's breath - what? - put them out of WORK? What will they do? Act like Chinamen, Niggers, Hippies, or Pancho V111a? Why, you would have to feed all them freaks, the end of civilization as we know it.

THE EMERYVILLE WAR, what a story. Interesting about Gorbachev talking to Vice President Bush at that point, but I don't remember it. Back then Ardre would be telling me stuff when we sometimes sat alone later in the nights, such that European countries he knew, Holland, Denmark, Belgium he was from, the bureaucracy is cut down and most folks on the dole, enough given nobody is homeless, people do not get mugged or lock their doors at night. One is freer, if one just does not threaten the government in any way. As said, Andre is outlaw, not criminal. He is interested in neither law nor crime. In Emeryville the cops are known killers to even disgust cops in Berkeley or Oakland, would toss a corpse into an old car and push it into Berkeley or Oakland, so told me one ACLU lawyer who was too a Berkeley policeman and why he would not help us, and these pigs who knew Andre would stop him and request his license and he would say why do I need a license, you already know I can drive. Europe produced better cars, in Europe one could be an antist, or inventor like Andre. then and now it has been difficult for me to comprehend this ignorance in the United States her citizens struggle to keep. One of Andre's European friends was visiting, a Frenchman, and he asked what do I do. I told him I was trying to get SSI because I am lazy and do not want to work. The Frenchman spread his arms: So what you are lazy! You are a human being!

I have not been seeing much of the website this year past. Steve Vaughn here in Port A does not regularly appear to care to mess with his wife's computer and our schedules differ. After he paints he goes to the Men's Club while I'll hear some NPR news but bike the bulldog. I am on the mainland weekends at my parents' and can drive from there about ten miles to see Bix's computer in Fulton but mostly only call Bix to exchange thoughts. Lately I did check it out over at Bix's in Fulton, slurping my nervous sixer of Guinness Stout and got distressed seeing in chapters CL and CLII where in exemplifying the Dr. Steve phenomenon at noble I print some Dr. Steve. It stressed me the print online is all the same. Lack of technology, leastways at, where a drunk speed reader could think Dr. Steve is I possibly.

I'd driven to Fulton because I was mystified this Dick Wilson stranger was emailing to Dr. Steve about Blackolive, and the Texas Gang revel, and that he thinks his publisher friend who has Enigma publishing could go for it. Though Jeff Potter of would print up more Texas Gang books in a year or so I wanted to not let this Enigma guy get away. Like everything in the U.S. the conservative large outfits try killing the smaller outfits, but I wondered could Enigma have means of distributing TALES FROM THE TEXAS GANG, which, being the book is sought, howled for, gets stolen, would support Enigma and and Blackolive and daughter all.

I can't even do emails from computers anymore, if I had learned I have forgotten. I scribbled an email for Bix to send Dick Wilson, with note the widening pool of diseased puke of Dr. Steve is not us. Blood brother Jack Jones running in Lousiana, who is Dr. Steve's old friend, was indisposed. Meantime I forwarded the Enigma guy my only copy of TEXAS GANG.

The talent of Jackson Jones is in social intercourse. Most radical comments and questions from readers are welcome. If is slow to answer, simply persist. My original plan of is to get dialogues international going. We must light the world else it perishes. TexasGang.Com has got to become international dialogue.

King Wenclass's mithful WAR HYSTE! may be had for $2 at Wenclas's P.O. pOX 42077, Philadelphia, PA 19101. Be it beery, he records historical truth.

"The tragedy is rerun on every television network every show every station, at the corners of screens, to make sure that if you're not already angered and traumatized by the attacts, you will be. Flag sales increase. Every sports game, every concert, and even the stock markets, observe a moment of silence. The St. Louis Candinals bring police onto the fields as fans chant USA! USA! In retaliation, the N.Y. Mets wear Fire Depantment baseball caps."

In Aransas Pass I'll be switching stations catching the theater. At MSNBC the host was given this Arab type "expert" who tossed him. I don't remember the name of either guy, just that as other people had been saying bin Laden was looking wan and worn on his latest tape due to the technologically advanced bombing, the Arab type expert politely declared it is not so, he thought bin Laden arrogant as ever and here was he triumphant to be alive, after U.S. bombs had killed as many innocents in Afghanistan as had died in New York. The U.S. guy accused the Arab guy of liking bin Laden, because the Afghani civilian deaths ane only collateral. The Arab guy remained composed and called this concept cowardice, said tell this to the mothers of the children, and that he himself being an atheist cannot be for bin Laden. The MSNBC guy had lost control of the intercourse so cut off the Arab expert.

What I wonder about on the last two bin Laden tapes, it looks like two different guys. One looks pudgy, one has a long nose. We are in strange times.

B.E. lived through Xmas of 2001. Couple months back we did not think he would. Lyla had been hospitalized to get a pace-maker, because she has moments of dizziness. She is quite active and cannot determine the pace-maker helps, next she had had the operation for perforated bowel, a temporary colostomy. As she was back home, B.E. for a time would forget she was, and he stayed in bed much, then in effect of repetition he held cognizance she was home, and he rose back up a bit, was ever playing a sloppier solitaire, trying to, or his couch glancing in his routine of three decades at the comforting TV noise. This latest period he would ask where is Mama, and she could be in the downstairs bathroom, or at her easel in the gallery where they were sleeping downstairs now, but a few times he asked me where is Mama she was in the room with us reading a mystery book or just across the bar in the kitchen. Then he goes heh heh in this in­grained social front he has used all his life as I have known him, an old reflex he is not aware of. Watching boxing or news I gestured, there she is, Daddy, she's right there. Heh heh. He drifts in his ease with me, should we yet growl at one another in disagreement about whatever, we are ages familiar. 0nly he refers to Lyla as "Mama" now, he does not realise. We siblings call her Mother, for many years, decades, we do, were calling her Mother during our childhoods somewhere. Jessica and Geoffrey and Madrea did call her "Mama Lyla and B.E. "Daddy Bill," but seems they just call her Lyla now, and him still Daddy Bill. Addressing one another, Lyla and B.E. call one the other "Honey."

Lyla has kept him going, but Bonnie during Xmas said he had got worse while she was here. His bowels, lungs, gray matter were failing faster. A couple of nurses were now coming in to bathe him and chart him. He had become nearly impossible for Lyla to bathe, snarling nastily. With the nurses he might be some small trouble but would permit it. He generally kept the heh heh going with the nurses. When a nurse scribbling at the chart asked had he had a bowel movement that day he said he heh heh always had a bowel movement, without memory that had he a bowel movement he never knew it before Lyla was having to clean up after him, keeping him in a diaper, changing his diaper.

Sixth of Januany I head back to port A. Lyla and B.E. sit in a big sentimentality, with Lyla's old Mahalia Jackson hymns playing, old records instead of television - it is Sunday, this is Lyla's church now. Only Lyla attended any church post the nineteenfifties, and her church in Anansas Pass went under of late, dying attendance, as by turn of century in the United States of North America had become generationally frequent, not to matter blathering U.S. presidents. Lyla and B.E. sat emotionally thankful for the life they have shared. Devotion is Lyla, what a romance they built. When I age seventeen had begun my insomnia, I heard them a time or two, extraordinary, rock a whole house. 2002 Anno Domini they sit teary and am gathening to go and Medicine touched Ly1a because he went and licked her face. Ten minutes later B.E. has forgotten their scene, tells me and Lyla there is plenty of food in the refrigerator. She chuckles to him they have already had lunch which he has forgotten, and she and he chuckle about that.

That Friday Lyla was supposed to have the operation to rid her of the colostomy bag. Mike is yet here - he is a more dutiful nurse than I am thought to be. Since our last argument he and I are getting along. That argument had Geoffrey present, had to do - in a now forgotten context - with my contention psychedelics, especially pure LSD-25, can be the most athletically enhancing drug (or the earthy stuff, LSD, pure mescaline, pure psilocybin - yes, I know there is other, and am very interested.) Mike said that of several people he knew who had rock climbed on mescaline a majority said they did not do so well as their normal. I have learned to not trust what siblings Mike and Bonnie spout at me in their middle aged contest. I rejoined those rock climbers had fear. That the flight/fight element has one sensitive to touch and leverage like were one psyched up, that LSD itself is mere catalyst of micrograms that can't be found in any piss test an hour later, though a person is getting higher for several hours, dependant on dose, and humans may get visions, delusions/what not.

Mike argued remnants of an LSD dose are to be found in the brain. Said he has read numerous papers. I said I doubted it, anyway one may inject LSD and be instantaneously peaked. I doubted any LSD were inside the brain in one second. Mike said he did not believe this. I said this is common knowledge among hippies and I have seen it and it is not my hallucination. Ever I get offended the sibling dumb shit might pretend I am a fool. Seeing any communication was done in - Geoffrey uncomfortable had at start contributed he has played sports on psychedelics but psychedelics are more than this - I just let it roll, said Mike and I do not associate with the same sets of people, these scientist types don't know what the fuck, are not aware of the interconnectedness, while I grew up conscious of the interconrectedness and have been astounded, that other people are cut off, schizoid, out of touch and babbling and I sure as hell was not going to let my kid be growing up like this. I have no patience anymore. Mike, the people you know are less hippie than the people I know. This was verge of the dog run, Medicine and Y were anxious, getting noisy. Rising to fury regards cornholed priestly dogma unto bent scienists, I went and loosed the dogs.

These days Mike and I arise around six thirty and read the Corpus paper. I try to get it first, get the front page and not be slowing down my routine, and anyway he likely will drive to the nearest convenience store to get a Houston or San Antonio paper which have more than the the Corpus Christi Caller-Times, that is built to soothe retirees. This Sunday morning he was up first but had not known the paper is not longer being tossed into our driveway. The trailer folks had been stealing it but it is now tossed into our fenced yard alongside our driveway. I got my expresso and got the paper alright, he got his expresso (through paper filter, taste of paper, each to his own, and though often I can pass him the sports page and let him settle on basketball (so lame is the Caller-Times it rarely reports any boxing though there is this big poor minority population and Corpus has produced outstanding boxers), this time he needed more to look at and for his sake I forsook the so called Insider section of the Sunday paper. I went over the bla front page section and was going upstairs to listen to NPR during ham stretch and reck warmup for dog run, and Mike suggested I look at this interesting article on internationally developing religion war: Moslems versus Christians/Jews. A couple of months back he had brought up some journalist's talking of Islam's old fashioned mores versus modern civilization. I and Bix had dismissed that one to him, declaring poverty and injustice to be the greater factors. I scanned down several sentences in this insider section neat package he approved of, suddenly the writer had it the Palistinians and Israelites are killing each othen for religion. My pre bowel movement brittle patience broke through my caffeine. Mike, fuck, this is not the Palistinians' big problem - they once had a country, they had technology, they had their prosperity. I bet there are a lot of goat herders who are not into Islam, I bet there's a lot of pantheistic goat herders. Said Mike, well, I don't know, I'd like to see some data. Goddamn, Mike, if all you knew about the U.S. was from U.S. newspapers quoting Bush or Clinton or their suck ass media you would think the U.S. is a bunch of self righteous Christians! But what it is, it is just that these are the people who fucking vote! These U.S. presidents are trying to get their fucking votes - it's just that the fuckers who vote want to be taken care of - these poor fuckers want to think there is a big man in the sky, and a U.S. president, who will take care of them!

Mike said dryly he'd only wanted to point out an anticle, had not wanted to get me started. I said it's why I write and he said something about people shouldn't have to listen to me and I said technology is on my side and now more people have to listen to me, I forget how it went. More people have to listen to me now, fuck, yeah, too much dumb shit already, nudging fear from the top on down, somebody can get nuked, I have a daughter, yessir, they better listen to me, it's our only chance. I took the dogs out. That one was not an angument.

The Olives liked Geoffrey's fiance, Akiko. Her English is limited, which did not much matter, she understands us. Geof is 35 now and Akiko is 30. Mike retains some Japanese and talked extensively with her, like a social bear, loudly busting firewood for our fireplace, gutteral like karate.

I saw Akiko bothered when Bonnie and I disagreed. Can't remember what this was. Again, Bonnie had planned to not get upset with me this Xmas. But she did, from anound the bar, while I was sitting in the larger TV chair I have been tending to take over in the livingroom. Geof and Akiko sat on the bar stools too, and Bonnie starting for me was having to get anound Akiko who was sitting at the bar's end, and then Bonnie checked herself. Surely it is best Bonnie is not large as one ton, to match the strange fury. Akiko, laughed I, this is normal, no problem. Ha ha. Akiko was disconcerted.

Geoffrey remarks wonderingly and respectfully on the Japarese living in close quarters and getting along better than can the U.S. citizens. The people here are so rude and indulgent, he says.

We plus Bix brought Akiko to Port A to visit the Vaughns, and Tiddle was available to show up, and I out of truck took leashed Medicine round corner to the Brownrats', to pick up mail and Jim. Jim, I got a sixer of Guinness for you, over at the Vaughns', hurry, get your shoes on! Bonnie muchly enjoys Jim, thought him hilarious this evening. He regardless pills can be his showman. Tiddle got left out a time. Akiko had seen photos and heard of Jim, introduced she extended hand in sensitivity he saw. For Bonnie and others Jim gave grand blabber, such as the world is in this great condom. Very interesting concept, I forget. I was looking at a pile of mail. Early in Januany B.E. took his second lung collapse. The other one is maybe one year back. Mike was in Seguin or else up at the Medina River property with Kelly and Janus and came on back down. Our father was in the Aransas Pass hospital a few days. He takes it rough, does not know where he is, has to be restrained, tied, put in mitts, without one of us there by him. Mike who is aggressive had the nurse take off the mitts and said no more sedatives. The last time B.E. had been hospitalised, I was touched hearing he wanted his sons, to get him out of there. Come in shooting. This time, firstly he had asked for Bonnie, who'd returned to California, next day he asked for Bill. Lately, I am less at Port Aransas.

One evening somewhere back in this fuzziness I watched the box. Maybe Lyla was at the Aransas hospital. Mike was in the livingroom in this laid back chair he took over past couple or so years. I was not finding much to look at and saw this on the public TV station, program called HISTORY OF THE CHICKEN I think it was. Having wondered what sort of bird the humans had taken the chicken from, I turned to there. It did not give chicken history, but went on about modern chickens, assembly line chickens, farmers relating the superiority of yard eggs, old ladies keeping chickens as pets that are smart as dogs and cats and watch television. It was enough to see before I went to bed to listen to jazz. Then I saw the strangest thing in all my remarkable recall. This guy had been lopping off chickens' heads in order to be using them for food, and one chicken beheaded came to its feet and did not flop but walked normally. This chopper administered aid so it did not lose the rest of its blood, and this chicken went on living. This family of folks knew enough about chickens, they gave the chicken everything, food, water, gravel for its digestion, and, as mucus of its secretions could choke it, some sort of solution was dropped down its neck to keep the breathing clear. They would set it out with the other chickens, and it got along, they said. It had its group instinct. Newspaper headlines were flashed, photos of the walking, socializing headless chicken, some hate mail came in, shown on the public television screen, and videos of these folks talking about the whole thing. Hey, Mike, I called. This is incredible. Come in here. Mike came on in and began discoursing, and drowning out details I was straining to get. He hypothesised this chicken must have had control centers along the spine somewhere like, Dear Reader, spineless animals such as eanthworms. He said, I swear, that had they checked out this animal they would have found this. I cut him off, trying to hear, but too late, could not get more on the year of this and other particulars. But, there were videos, it wasn't very far back. Since I interrupted him he returned to his chair, read pulp fiction. I sat dumbfounded.

After my spell of program, I spoke to him, that this chicken thing defies known science. Out of curiosity of Mike Olive, I did. He had no wonderment. Said some animals have control centers down along the body in different places. I said, but, Mike, the chicken is a bird. Has a spine governed by it's brain. He grouped chickens with the lesser brainy organisms and returned to his fiction about detectives and georgeous sophisticated women who may not even be quite thirty yeans old.

Januany 17 B.E. Olive passed on. His breathing torment had not allowed him and Ljyla sleep the previous night. But leaving Mike with him, Lyla had begun her morning trash picking walk, and Mike soon ran calling that Daddy seemed to be going. They returned and from each side of his bed held his wrists for pulse, and the pulse faded and died. I had been back in Port Aransas, had just biked Medicine through the boat harbor and was sweeping the Brundrett living room and Lyla called, scarcely enabling at first to speak. Son. Yeah, Mother. Daddy has died. OK, Mother, are you alright? I'm alright. OK. I'll come right on over. Come on over. It'll take maybe an hour for me to gather up everything. Come on over.

Bonnrie flew back from Los Angeles. Kelly and Janus drove back from Seguin. Jessica who had missed this Xmas with us flew from San Francisco.

B.E. has been cremated, as LYla will have done for herself also, her ashes put into the same little chest with his. I feel him as normally in this house he had built, hammering on it himself often, and with his friends, from Lyla's creation in 1958. Lyla is mourning but is back into her day to day, has her interests, her humor, friends, family.

There was a big wake sort of gathering, instead of a funeral, in the house, of friends and family. Neighbors Pat and Jesse came in with a keyboard for Pat to sing Amazing Grace and several othen hymns while she had a cold. I had never before in three decades known she is a musician and singer, and she did well. Re. LL, after Pat had been manried to Sammy the preacher from hell, past couple decades she is manried to Jesse Martinez, though her people had not liked "Mexicans." When emotional Lyla introduced them as the best neighbors anyone could possibly have - truly, Pat and Jesse are exceedingly helpful - Jesse could have wondered if any of these older folks had not liked Mexicans. Since the fifties, when labor for a Mexican was a dollar an hour and white men got I think it was 3 or 4 times that at Harbor Island where Jackson's and my fathers worked, no hiring of minorities there till somewhere in the sixties, South Texas has changed. Now the Tex-Mexes have bred and been voting and becoming cops and politicians and newscasters and everything, while, too, many be yet poor and so on. I had thought Jesse more conservative than he is, but couple nights ago he had stopped in while Mike and Bonnie were present, talking of this and that with Lyla and Mike and Bonnie, and talk went of the insane drivers on our street, really, constantly digging out and roaring along, resenting the stop signs. Lyla chanced somehow to mention somebody in some other state who beat a charge of driving while stoned, as there was no law about driving on manijuana, something like that, that it is less dangerous than driving drunk, and Jesse remanked he used to smoke pot but quit. The others thought nothing of that, as I and Jesse observed, but as I sat apart looking quietly at some news, and Jesse had previously spoken of his deer hunting, I offered that he might try hunting on pot, because he would be so patient, and he laughed maybe so. Kind of funny, all these years Jesse and Pat are more familiar with our rather straight, if irregular, parents. But by now Jesse had intuited naturally there are some hippy leanings among the 0live kids, just look at them. Billy Frank is an outlaw, no telling. This same evening Jesse did speak of inheriting his work ethic from his folks. After at the wake Pat had done her several songs, Bonnie gave her emotional speech, how having such wonderful parents made her a stronger person, and Lyla's sister our Aunt Peggy who has a crippling malady and can barely form words gave one, and Lyla gave one of course then made this last of her husband's old pipeline partners, King Fergusen, get up for one, saying oh my gosh, was not ready, and Mr. Fergusen's mind is slowing but he said he and Bill 0live and Jack Jones were like brothers and Bill Olive was his best friend and a durn good man and best friend any man could have, ann Alexis's mother Patricia who writes poetry (I've printed one or two in LL) read a poem she had done for the wake. Alexis had been too busy in Austin to make it but she would have been fun, or her brother Greg who is busy in Austin too, could have been there with black wife Loretta, and their kids, couple grown sons and a younger child, who have been at other, bigger family gatherings. Time goes on.

Bill Olive

Bill Olive, left this earth on January 17, 2002. He was born in Vincent Oklahoma in 1916 and grew up in the Houston area. As he told his children many times, he began work at 7 years of age selling newspapers and never quit working until he retired. His jobs were varied. He checked groceries at Weingarten's of Houston as a teenager, worked derricks in west Texas as a young man and joined the Humble Pipline Company in 1945. In 1949, he began working for Humble at Harbor Island. Humble became Exxon and in 1975 Bill retired from working at the Exxon Refinery in Baytown, Texas. In 1940 Bill married Lyla Cox from Beeville, Texas and they reared three sons and one daughter. Last fall they celebrated their 62nd Wedding Anniversary. Bill Olive liked sports and enjoyed working with kids. In the 1950's, he coached Little League and Pony League baseball teams in Aransas Pass, Texas. In 1957, he coached an Aransas Pass Golden Gloves boxing team that won the area title. After he retired from Exxon, Bill served for a short time as a director for the Aransas Pass Housing Authority. During retirement his greatest joys were golf, his vegetable garden, dancing at the country club and playing poker with a group of friends. The smiling face of Bill Olive will be missed, not just by his family but also by his many friends.

Bill is survived by a sister, "Ikey" Cox of Houston, Texas. He is also survived by his wife Lyla Olive of Aransas Pass, Texas; his daughter, Bonnie Olive of Los Angeles, California; by three sons, Bill Frank Olive of Port Aransas, Texas, Mike Olive of Boulder, Colorado, Kelly Olive and his wife Janus of Seguin, Texas; and by three grandchildren, Geoff Griggs of Nagaya, Japan, Jessica Olive of San Francisco, California and Madrea Crownover-Olive of Old Town, Florida. Bill was a member of the First Presbyterian Church in Aransas Pass, Texas. Although he did not always attend church, he was a Christian in the truest sense of the word.

The family will receive friends and visitors at the family home on Saturday, January 19, 2002 at 2:00 p.m. for a wake in rememberance of Bill. Interment will be conducted at a later date and will be private.