Not sleeping a whole lot

Well, I'm not sleeping a whole lot lately. The last few years I tend to sleep at my desk or at a table, sitting up, then, when I wake enough to realize I'm sleeping--or close to it--I head for the couch I sleep on. I can grab an hour there, then back to the desk, then back to the couch. In the end I get maybe 2-3 hours of sleeping horizontally and the rest sitting up. Not great for keeping my ankles looking like kankles!
   But the last week, well, I've been getting up at 3:30 or so--last night was 2:37--and cannot go back to sleep at all. I've been making coffee at 4 AM and sometimes that works to focus my mind so that I can grab an extra hour--if I only have half a cup (and I make it half-regular/half-decaf) probably akin to the way add drugs cause you to focus.
  Think is, I don't know why I'm not sleeping. Even if it's half sitting up, I can generally put my head on my arms and go out quickly and pretty much stay sleeping for a couple of hours at a clip.
  And a night like last night, a 2:37 wake up, well that makes for a very long night. Darn it. Once in a while I'll take a shot of cough syrup or the over the counter sleep-eze caps, but I don't like being dependent on those so I keep that to once in a while. Aaarrrrrgggghhhhh! This not sleeping makes for huge bags under my eyes and my brain is not as quick as it should be.
  C'est la vie, but I'm not digging it.

Just come in from lawn mowing

So I've just come in from lawn mowing. I'm drenched. Took a shower this morning, worked, got ready for a ceremony tomorrow--a friend coming over for San Pedro--visited with a friend who came by, went to one of Alexa's 3 soccer games today--she's fast but hesitant; if Italo got six hours with her she'd be great--and then had some wine and went to mow the lawn directly behind the house.
   Now I'm not having fun mowing the lawn this week. I mowed when I returned from Peru in late July; but then Chepa and me and Chepa's babies Sierra and Alexa went to Mexico to get our teeth done (http://www.fwweekly.com/2016/08/24/best-root-to-mexico/) and that became, somehow, a cover story, and then it rained for nine days, and so I had a couple of weeks of no lawn mowing while the grass kept growing.
   So the last few days I've attacked it. I first attacked a back portion, about 60 feet by 90 feet which abuts two small bridges over the "sometimes" creek and involves mowing around a large tree that lightning just knocked over and lots of poison ivy. I dont' think I'm allergic to it but it still is a pain.
   Then three days ago I attacked the beautiful large front lawn: 160 feet by 40 feet with end tables of 20 by 30 and 50 by 50. By the time I got done with that--I'm using a push mower with front wheels that turn on their own--I was pooped.
   Then two days ago I attacked the very front lawn, not large, maybe  50 by 50 with a 12 by 30 side bit and everything was looking good.
   Today I hit the lawn behind the house. That's 80 by 40. It's only 3,200 square feet but since that's where the gray water from our kitchen sink and laundry go, it grows fast. I mean that sucker, on the half I did today, probably averaged 15 inches high, which is way too high for a push mower. And after the nine days of rain, even though we've had sun the last couple/few days, was freaking wet. So I attacked it and stepped into two fire ant colonies I didn't see. I've got about 500 bites on my ankles, calves and thighs. I've poured Gorman's Jungle Juice After Sting all over them, so the pain is subsiding a great deal, but I didn't have my magic juice while working so just dealt with it. Man, those little bums can lay a sting on you. And now I've got to rake the part I mowed because there's clumps of cut grass everywhere that will burn the grass' roots if they're not taken up.
  So I'm taking this minute to tell you that. I'm soaked in sweat, I'm nearly eaten alive, but I beat the worst of it. HA! Ain't life grand? You don't need to look far to find a cause. Cause there's always something to do right near where you are.

Oy, vey! If I wasn't already near death, I'd be having a heart attack!

So a great friend paid me some funds he'd borrowed. Man, it was great to have them. Thanks. And then either the same day he said he was paying me back or maybe the next day, my house air conditioning unit went out. Now I'm from New York and never had AC in my life. But we always had plenty of fans. And we never had Texas' summer heat where it routinely hits 105 and often feels hotter than that. So to have the AC go out here, well, it makes it hard to get a good night's sleep, hard to focus on my work, hard to keep smiling.
    But I got this extra money, right? And how much could repairing a 3 1/2 ton AC unit be?
    Even better, I had a 10-year parts warranty on the thing and it's only seven years since I bought it. Hooray!
    Except that the guy changing the thing out said that when a compressor goes bad, the gas in it goes bad as well, so I need new freon, about 8 1/2 pounds of it at the good price of $62.50 a pound.
   And the labor is not included.
   Price tag: $1100 and change.
   Damnit.
   If I wasn't already almost dead I'd be having a heart attack!
   I'm not really near dead. I'm actually doing well. My lawn looks great. Went to Mexico with Chepa and her girls, Sierra and Alexa and got dental work done last week. Madeleina passed her driving test and now has a license--if only I can get the new (old) 2003 Ford Mustang I got for her registered. Seems previous owner can't find the title. Don't worry, there are bonded titles and I'm working on one, which will allow me to circumvent not having a title.
   And I got the funds, which was great.
  It's just that $1100 AC fix that irks me. Although I must say, it was nice of the Universe to keep the thing running until the check was in the mail. That is a good thing, eh?
   So I guess that makes everything okay.
   Hope you all are having wonderful days too, only without the repairs needeed!!!!!

Gonna rail about something here

Okay, so I'm back from Peru, back from 3 days in Mexico to get dental work done for me, Chepa, Sierra and Alexa--good work, inexpensive, fast, with lots of good food and a couple of beers tossed in as a bonus in Nuevo Progresso--back from north Texas where Madeleina and I had to go to do some interviews and get some photos for an upcoming cover story. I'm back and I'm exhausted.
   So today there's a new report that just came out in the September issue of the Obstetrics and Gynecology that shows that pregnancy related deaths in Texas have doubled since 2011, the same year that Texas cut 66 percent of its budget for family planning funds, which resulted in 82 family planning centers, including a lot of Planned Parenthood centers, to shut down.
   Did you get that? The pro-life crowd tried to eliminate abortion centers and the collateral damage was that women had available pregnancy services dramatically cut, causing deaths to mothers during both pregnancy and childbirth to shoot up more than 50 percent. And it shot up the first year those cuts were made, from 72 deaths during pregnancy and childbirth in 2010 to 148 in 2012, the year the cuts were felt.
   The pro-life crowd? The same crowd that crowed loud and long about Obamacare Death Panels--which only existed when insurance companies were allowed to cut people off from care prior to Obamacare--screamed long and loud about needing to help poor women bring their fetuses to term by cutting the funding for pregnancy care, which has killed a lot of them.
   Good job if what you really meant was "we hate poor people and people of color and we want to see them die."
   I could go on, but I'd probably have a heart attack.

A little something about illegal workers

I just read something about illegals that made my blood boil. It was in the comment section of the Miami-Herald and the writer was disparaging illegal workers. His comment was basically that illegal workers pay sales tax and that was it. I don't generally comment on the Miami-Herald site but had to. The fellow obviously has no idea of how illegal laborers work here in the US.
Typically, an illegal worker gets hold of a quality copy of a real social security card, and with that can build the rest of his/her paperwork: Driver's license, bank cards, and so forth. But that person will then pay federal, state, and local taxes; they'll also pay into social security and medicare. But they will not be able to get a refund from the feds or state or utilize social security or medicare because the initial social security card is not their own. So the illegal workers are pouring billions and billions into federal, state, local taxes, social security and medicare and not getting anything in return for that. It's just gone. On top of that they pay gasoline taxes like we all do whenever we buy gas for our cars, they pay sales taxes, car registration and inspection fees and so forth. Oh, and they buy houses and cars and televisions and all the stuff the rest of us buy, keeping the economy going.
Additionally, a huge percentage of the illegal worker population take jobs that nobody else will do: roofing, road construction (not the cushy supervisor jobs, the ones working with the hot tar during Texas summers), motel and hotel cleaning, gardening, fruit and vegetable picking, chicken and fish farm work. Pretty tough and wretched jobs. So they're really a vital cog in how we live.
Why do they take the awful jobs and risk deportation and jail? For some it's because they imagine that their children will fare better for their hard work in a land with more opportunity than much of Mexico and Central America. For others it's a way to earn US dollars to send back home so that their families can start a business there. For still others it's a way to escape the violence of the drug wars raging in much of Mexico and Central America (which you already know are US-fueled because we love our drugs here).
In my book the illegal workers are to be celebrated not denigrated.

Oy Vey! Gone again!

Oy vey, I'm gone again! Off to Peru, but this time with a twist: I've got a June trip and a July trip, neither full, unfortunately, but instead of staying down there between trips, I'm gonna sneak home for a couple of weeks. Why? A few reasons: First, my Madeleina goes back to college in early August and if I don't come back till the end of the second trip I'll hardly have any time with her. Then there is the matter of my legs: Since I tend to have severe apnea down there, I generally sleep sitting up in a chair, leaning my head on my arms on my desk. I love sleeping that way but if I do it for days--or weeks--my legs blow up enormously from basic force of gravity. And when they blow up the skin cracks, leaving me open to infection. And since I don't want any more leg infections, coming home and sleeping while laying down is a good option to beat that. I'm also gonna buy a couple of extra pillows so that I'll have a better chance at sleeping while semi-laying down than no chance at all. Pretty boring stuff. Sorry. When it's time to go my life is just a bunch of details.
    On the other hand, I'm gonna make these two trips fantastic things for the guests. I think my team is geared up and ready; I've sent lots of stuff up the river to camp already and I am stoked. Leave DFW tonight at 10:20 PM, arrive in Lima at 5:40 AM, then hit Iquitos tomorrow morning by about 10:45 AM. My room at the oldest hotel in Iquitos--no running water, unfortunately--is ready, my stuff is packed and just waiting for a last going-over before I seal it all up. If I have time I'll mow some lawn this afternoon to burn off nervous energy.
   But just to leave you with something, here's my newest column of Drug War Follies for Skunk Magazine. It's my 94th column for them, which is cool. I hope they keep me on till I hit 100, and then keep me on after that just for fun. Here it is. Have a great couple of weeks. I'll write from Iquitos if I can get my Ipad back from Chepa...

DRUG WAR FOLLIES

On any given day, reading the headlines is enough to make you question the humanity of humanity

By Peter Gorman

Today started out like most days: The cats started scratching at the couch I sleep on at about 5:30 AM to let me know I damned well ought to quit sleeping and get them fed. I ignored them as long as possible; when I finally got up I put them outside without food—nobody gets fed before I have coffee—and made myself some coffee. While it was brewing I brushed my teeth, took a shower and put on clean clothes.

     I said a big HELLO to the universe, thanked the powers that be that I didn’t die or kill anyone in my sleep, then sat down to my computer. I checked my email accounts—nothing too dramatic—checked to see if I’d sold a few books during the night—I love finding out I’ve sold several of my Ayahuasca or Sapo books while I slept—and then I opened the New York Daily News, the paper I used to read regularly for most of the 50 or so years I lived in New York city. It’s a working class paper, a blue collar paper that’s long on sports and local news, short on the heavier New York Times’ stories that I have never been able to dive into before a couple of cups of Joe.

    And you know, like a lot of other days, the headlines screamed wretched stuff from both New York and the Southwest: I guess their computer can read that my computer is now just south of Fort Worth, in Texas, so it includes a few stories from around here in tailoring the page to my locale. Anyway, these were in the headlines: Police looking for a guy who shot and killed another guy in the Bronx; a Mexican soccer star, Alan Pulido, was kidnapped in Tamaulipas, Mexico; a Georgia sheriff’s deputy was shot in the face while making a routine traffic stop; a biker got pissed off in a Queens, New York road-rage incident and shot the driver of a car through his window three times (driver stable, biker on the loose); vandals defaced military memorials in both California and Virginia; two men killed after being hit by trains in New York in separate incidents; three people shot at a fraternity barbeque in the Bronx; two dogs tied up and burned to death in Pennsylvania; a woman went crazy and stabbed another woman 48 times—killing her really, really dead—at a YWCA in Brooklyn, New York; ISIS and Syrian opposition fighters clashed in Northern Syria; 30 men in Brazil being sought for the gang rape of a 15-year-old. Oh, and a council in Pakistan clarified that men are perfectly allowed to beat their wives “lightly” if they didn’t do as they were told.

    Okay, there were a couple of stories about rescued puppies; a fireman who just got ordained as a priest; a good story about a couple of teachers really reaching out to tough-luck kids and having an impact on their lives. And there was sports, of course, and some opinion pieces about the upcoming U.S. presidential election and so forth.

    But most of the headlines were about how badly people treat each other and I’m probably starting to sound like a harpy on the issue, but what the fuck is wrong with people? Someone cuts you off in traffic you have to try to kill them? Have an argument over music and you have to stab somebody 48 times? 30 freaking grown men rape a 15 year old girl? WTF is going on in this world? And these stories are just the tip of the iceberg: What’s going on in Los Angeles? What horrible things happened in Toronto or Vancouver or Miami? How many people felt the urge yesterday, to hurt or kill other people or to kill themselves by stepping in front of trains? How many freaking refugees drowned trying to make it across the Mediterranean yesterday trying to get away from a war they want no part of?

   Were we always like this? I don’t think so. Maybe we were but without the internet we didn’t immediately access dozens of news stories from around the country and around the world. But it sure feels like I got to ask the question: Is there any humanity left in humanity?

    Couldn’t we all just smoke a nice organic outdoor bud—Cali Orange if you’re rolling for me, please—and talk our problems out? I know that sounds silly, but almost nobody goes ape-shit after they take a couple of tokes. It’s just the nature of the plant. It’s why the freaking beautiful cannabis plant was put here by the aliens to begin with! They knew we were crazy and wanted to give us something that would grow all over the world that would chill us out.

    The great folk musician and writer Tom Paxton wrote Talking Vietnam Potluck Blues in 1971. In it he talks about being a soldier in Vietnam. I don’t know if Paxton was ever actually in Vietnam but he was in the military at the right (wrong) time for it. Anyway, in it, the soldier is on a long patrol with several other soldiers and as they bed down for the night he smells pot.

    “I might be crazy but I think not.

    I’d swear to God that I smell pot.

    But who’d have pot in Vietnam?

    [The captain] said ‘What do you think you’re sitting on?’

    These funny little plants, thousands of them.

    Good God Almighty…Pastures of Plenty.”

So the patrol lights up, the captain gets a smile on his face and begins cleaning his rifle while chanting Hare Krishna. Well, our hero finally has to go pee and when he moseys off from the makeshift camp he runs into a Viet Cong soldier dressed in black. The soldier tells our hero that the Cong smelled the dope and thought it was trash, so he brought the Americans some top-flight Hanoi Gold.

   The two squads then get together and smoke, get high, and do not kill each other. And the captain finally gets on the radio and calls in to headquarters with this message: “Hello, headquarters. We have met the enemy and they have been smashed!”

   It was a beautiful little song—go look it up and give it a listen—that was just made up, but the message rings true. If you smoke with your enemy, you won’t be enemies. If you smoke alone, you won’t want to see others as enemies. If you just freaking take a couple of tokes you might even wind up loving your neighbor’s music, rather than having to stab her 48 times because you hate it so much.

   Silly, right? But right on: This plant can save the world if only we’d let it.

It would all be funny if people weren’t dying and the prisons weren’t full.

Chicken Catastrophe

Well, that chicken cacciatore I was making turned into a chicken catastrophe. I just didn't pay enough attention, had too much liquid in there and by the time it cooked down enough to be a sort of soupy-sauce the chicken had fallen off the bones and so every bite had little bones  you had to watch out for, and the chicken itself had lost it's juiciness and flavor. Have not blown a meal like that in ages, but I did last night. Oy, vey! Pay more attention, Gorman!!!

What are we eating around here? Great food, of course!

Well, just because I have not been writing does not mean I have not been eating. I have already admitted to being in a funk. Medical testing and anticipation of bad shit can do that. But since everything seems okay, that means the problem is me. That means fat and smoking. The fat is brought on by drinking wine (I stopped hard liquor, my 3 minis of bourbon a day back in early Feb). My cigarettes I've cut from 3 packs to under 1 1/2 packs. Still too much, but better, way better, than it was. A friend was over recently and when I didn't smoke for a while i said that except for a couple of hours a day I was keeping it to one cigarette per hour. He laughed and said he'd seen me smoke a pack in an hour on many occasions. He was right. So that's out.
   And except for the occasional hot sandwich on fresh sesame seed French bread--with the insides of the bread pulled and tossed--neither Madeleina nor I have had pasta, bread, or rice more than once a week since February and not more than twice a week since last October or so. We just quit it and put a salad and/or extra veggie in its place.
   Which doesn't mean we're not eating well: This week we had shrimp and a small piece of salmon on a bed of spinach--sauce made of garlic, a bit of sesame oil, diced tomatoes, onions, daikon radish, and scallions.
   Another night we had lime chicken: Chicken lightly breaded (oops!) in a mix of bread and parmesan, sauteed till golden, then doused with fresh lime juice and baked till done. Had that with steamed broccoli and cauliflower.
    Another night we split a prime rib seared in garlic and a bit of olive oil and served with a melange of steamed zucchini, yellow squash, onion, garlic, broccoli, cauliflower.
    Last night it was hot sausage (10 ounces for 3 people) boiled (with holes in it to eliminate most fat) then sauteed with onion, sliced red and green peppers, and tomatoes, served on--you guessed it--a bed of sauteed spinach with garlic.
    The peppers got to me, so tonight, a cool, damp, day here in bucolic Joshua, Texas, I'm making Chicken Cacciatore. It's an old Italian favorite that my Irish father Tom used to love making. I'll cut a whole chicken in pieces, with bone, then saute the pieces in good olive oil. I'll set them aside and in the left over olive oil I'll saute lots of fresh garlic, two onions, scallions,  three red and green peppers--rough cut, large pieces--and 12 Roma tomatoes. To that I'll add fresh rosemary (thanks to my friend Mike, who brought it yesterday), fresh basil I just bought, Peruvian oregano, and a bit of thyme. When those are all going good I'll add the left-over of yesterday's wine--about a cup. When it's all working I'll put the chicken pieces back in the deep roasting pan, add two cups of low sodium organic chicken broth and cook for an hour or so, until the tomatoes have made a sauce of themselves.
    That should normally be served over pasta or boiled potatoes (my father's Irish prefence). I'm not sure what I'll serve it on. I do have half-a-head of cauliflower that I could put in the oven for 45 minutes to bake and then cut it into pieces and serve the cacciatore over that. We'll see.
    Just letting you know that though I've been in a funk, we ain't dead yet.
    And yes, I've been kicking ass with the lawn. I figure I'm using the electric push mower to cut about 6,000 square feet a day. Maybe a little more. Every day except if it's raining. And then I'm walking a lot daily too, and eliminating weeds from all over this yard. So yeah, I think I'm losing a few pounds. Still fat, but not bordering on freaking obese! Ye gods! How did that happen???????
     And I hope that all of you are eating something fantastic today as well. Cooking is a great meditation on being part of the whole shebang--don't mean to sound new-agey here, but I really do think it's an important part of my day, the time when I consider each veggie, each condiment, each meat or fish or bean or eggs. And when I do that, I forget me, and that's good meditation.

I am going to own up...

I am going to own up to you guys/gals who actually read this blog. It's been nearly two months. I was undergoing a lot of tests that were supposed to prove that I was dying. I didn't like it. I passed the tests. It turns out, against my doctors ideas, that I't have diabetes, heart disease, COPD, plaque or anything else. In other words, despite smoking 3 packs a day for 40 years, my lungs are pretty clear. Despite drinking two bottles of wine a night for 15 years, my kidneys and liver are fine. Look like 35 year old stuff according to my doc, who thinks I might have paid to have the tests done in my favor.
   So I've been a little worried about the results. And that's put me in a funk. Who wants to write when the docs are saying you're dying in 3 weeks? Not me. All I'm trying is to get my affairs in order before I go.
   But then I don't think I'm going anywhere. I think these docs don't know anything. I'm sitting in a very unusual place: I'm not here nor there. I'm not strong or weak. I'm not honest or a liar.
    I hope I can be better for you all tomorrow.--PG

'Scaredy Cat Gorman

I think I mentioned that when I hit 65 recently I got Medicare health insurance. It's the insurance pool every worker in the US has paid into every week since its initiation. You know the one: The one the politicians call an entitlement. Sure: Pay in since 1971 or so, whenever it started, and then collect in 2016, and after 45  years worth of paying into the system, it's an entitlement, rather than an earned benefit.
    Okay, I'll stop the politics before I get started, cause if I get started, I ain't gonna stop.
    As soon as I got the insurance, my surgeon, the fantastic Dr. Ford from Huguley Hospital recommended a full check up. All was good, despite years of abusing myself with cigarettes, coffee, alcohol, jungle trips, being a dad and all the rest. Except for this little nodule--swear to god that's what they call it--in my lower left lung. Naturally, I panicked and looked it up on the Internet: Turns out it could be anything from a coffee stain on the hospital gown I was wearing during the X-ray, to a little nothing, to cancer. But Gritter, my Alabama doc, said not to sweat it. Given the size and location and the fact that I've had several illnesses and conditions that facilitate the formation of nodules in the lungs, it was surprising that I didn't have more.
    But the doc in Texas, Doc Thomas, he needed a CT scan to be certain.
    Today was the day for it.
     Not saying I'm not nervous and that I wasn't a little nervous going up to the place where they do the CT scan. What if it's something bad? Yes, I'm a little nervous.
    But things fell apart in the CT room.
    A CT (pronounced cat) scan machine is like a huge donut into which a bed is fitted that slides in and out of the donut hole. The patient lies on the bed and the part of the body that needs to be scanned gets slid in electronically so that the scan can be done. When they did it on my leg just prior to operating on it for the debridement of the dead material from the flesh eating bacteria, it was no big deal: Slide me in up to my thigh, take the pics/scans, pull me out.
    Today was different. Today I was having my lungs looked at, which meant that when I was slid into the donut I was going pretty far into it: Like, far.
    The machine operator was a peach. She needed to take a blood sample to check that I'd be good for an intravenous injection of iodine so that after the initial CT scans they could take an additional scan with the iodine creating bright contrast. No problem. I've had so many injections, intravenous drips and so forth in the last 5 years I don't even notice them.
    But then she had me lie down--I insisted on pillows under my head so I wouldn't totally freak out from needing to cough--and ran me into the machine to check position and so forth. Then she had me raise my arms and put them over my head so that I wouldn't bump the machine with my elbows or block the scans. Well, I had no idea just how deeply I was going into that hole and how close the operator was going to raise that table, and my face, to the inside of the donut hole. I made the mistake of opening my eyes and realized I wasn't one inch from the machine. I swear I felt like I was in an Iron Lung. You know, the tube you saw pics of that allows a person to breathe but only their head sticks out for the rest of their lives. One of my childhood fears--one of my big ones, and I still have a deal with Chuck in NYC that if I ever get put into one, he has to pull the freaking plug instantly, even if that means going to jail forever. I'll do the same for him.
    So here I was, eyes open, arms unable to help, just like in an iron lung. I did my best. I swear I did my best but could not, NOT, stop from calling out to her and telling the operator to pull me out.
    She did. In a few moments I went in again.
    Again, utter panic and I asked to be pulled out.
   She did. I apologized and asked for a few minutes. What a chicken! I called myself every name in the book. I tell people all the time that frog sweat medicine will only terrify for the first 10 minutes and that they can do 10 minutes standing on their head. I tell people in the jungle that Ayahuasca will only last two or three hours and they can do that standing on their heads. And here I couldn't do 5 minutes in that damned machine.
    I breathed in and breathed out. After I stopped calling myself names, I thought about what was at stake: I've got a small nodule in my left lung. Probably nothing. But the docs and I need to know for sure. If I walked away from the CT scan, we wouldn't know for sure. And if it's something bad, it's vital to identify it as early as possible. So was I going to allow my terror, and it was abject terror to force me to have the operator pull me from the thing twice, keep me from knowing something my doctors and I needed to know?
    I finally said, "let's get it done," and lay back down.
    She slid me into the machine. I kept my eyes closed but could feel my breath hitting it nearly the moment it left my mouth. I just kept breathing. Then the machine told me to hold my breath and the first scan was done and I was slid out for just a moment before being slid back in for the second scan. And then the third. And then the iodine was pumped in and I had to sit there in the machine for 40 seconds for it to get to where it needed to go, and then the next scan and then I was done and she pulled me out and I sat. I nearly puked. I was so sick of my terrified behavior. Big tough guy? Not on your life. Little 'fraidy cat.
   The operator handed me a cold water and said she was glad that I got through it. She said that a lot of people don't. I'm not surprised.
   But I am glad that it got done. Now, good or bad, we'll know. And that's a good thing.

Nü-nü--Amazon Snuff

I was asked to write a very short description of the Matses snuff, nu-nu. So I did. Here it is. In this length it's difficult to go into detail, but I hope I got some of it, anyway.

Nü-nü

Nü-nü is the indigenous Matsés, Mayoruna, and Matis version of what other indigenous cultures call Rapé. It is a very powerful snuff made by combining the inner bark of the Theobroma cacao tree with Nicotiana rustica, the powerful tobacco ubiquitous to Northwestern Amazonia. It is generally made by two hunters, insuring that the spirit of both will be infused in the snuff.

    The inner bark of the cacao is taken from the tree and put into a ceramic bowl filled with hot charcoal. Over a period of a couple of hours it is reduced to ash and removed from the bowl.

    The tobacco leaves are stripped of their central spine then placed on a bamboo palate over a low fire until they crumble easily. The leaves are generally kept on a very low flame so that they retain their green color.

    The tobacco leaves and cacao ash are then placed in a length of hollowed out bamboo and finely ground with a stout stick into the sealed base of the bamboo.

    When the material is fully ground it is run through a fine mesh—that might be a doubled up piece of mosquito netting, an old tee-shirt, or even a piece of a woman’s stocking—to eliminate any material that is not very finely ground.

    And that’s all there is to it.

    The Matses and other groups use the nü-nü as a hunting aid—it temporarily improves eyesight, delineates color value, adding a bit of depth to vision, and steadies the hunter’s hand. Used in large amounts, as much as 20 or more half-gram blasts through a two-foot long tube made of a hollowed out reed, hunters claim it allows them to see game in the forest a day in advance, allowing them to go to where they saw the game the following day and wait for it to arrive.

    Nü-nü instills a sense of well-being in the user along with a feeling of exhileration. It is often used in conjunction with sapo, the frog-sweat medicine.

My friend, Crazy Richard Fowler, AKA Auckoo, has Passed

Iquitos can be a lonely place. People come from all over the world to Iquitos to soak in the jungle,  the ayahuasca, the beautiful women and handsome men. And a lot of them fall in love with the place and wind up staying there for months. Some wind up living there. But for most, living there becomes a sort of wretched endgame of their lives. If they have work, if they have a reason to get up and go do something there every day, then life is the same as it would be anywhere. But there aren't many jobs for gringos or Europeans or Aussies or Africans, so they end up bored. And if you wind up bored in Iquitos,  you wind up drinking or drugging or sexing yourself to death. I've lost a lot of people I called friends over the years, essentially from boredom.
     One friend who just died was Richard Fowler, known to all as Auckoo. He'd come slightly on the lam from a pot bust in Florida where he was a naturalist working in the Everglades. Prior to that he'd been a snake catcher for Bill Haast's Serpentarium. Settled in Iquitos, Auckoo took to the jungle, learned it, and began taking people out for pretty extraordinary trips sort of to the middle of nowhere. And then he brought them back. Safely.
     Then he married a beautiful woman and adopted her two young daughters and did his best to be a good dad. Oh, and he was also very crazy, and crazy smart. In any given conversation he'd come up with two, three things that you didn't know, which kept conversation interesting.
     Anyway, I heard that he took a bad fall--perhaps after a heart attack--and died a couple of days ago. I'll miss him when I'm in Iquitos in a couple of months. We generally met up a couple of times on each of my trips for a couple of hours. So i wrote something for him on a facebook page that other friends of his were writing on. Here's what i wrote:
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  I'll chime in as he was my friend as well. I was asked to write a couple of anecdotes about him. I could have written about the time the BBC asked me to do a TV show where I'd have to go into a pond of muddy water and come out with a caiman. I knew I might get lucky, but that Auckoo could do it blindfolded, so I passed it on to him and he looks great doing it. I could have written about him as a naturalist, because he was a very good naturalist, very quick and knowledgeable. I could have written about his struggles through the lean times and how he always kept his chin up. I could have written about the time he slammed a friend's shotgun against a tree, smashing it, and left me responsible for fixing it even though I wasn't in the country at the time of the tantrum. I could have written a lot of things because I knew him for a long time. Not intimately. I was a friend; I wasn't an intimate friend. So I didn't write those things. What I wrote was this:

    Auckoo was physically dangerous, from both training and experience. He also had something of a chip on his shoulder and so was always up to challenge someone, anyone. One evening on the Boulevard several years ago, he challenged me to go, right then, and jump into the Amazon River. Being Irish myself, I said sure. He took my hand and we ran toward the stairs leading down from the Boulevard to the Amazon River (really, the Itaya at that point, but close enough). We ran 50 feet and then he leaped into the air and into the reflecting pool that's one of the Boulevard's favorite places for both tourists and locals to get photographed. I mistimed the leap and wound up doing a bellyflop into the water, which was, after all, Amazon basin water.

    Another night, not long after I'd had a major operation that left 142 stitches in my belly from my sternum to below my navel, Auckoo approached and asked me to stand up. I did. He then came next to me, took a karate stance, and belted me in the stomach, saying: "Let's see how good this doc's work really is," as his punch landed. I was drunk but responded in kind. The next morning he approached me on the Boulevard with one hand covering his right eye: Underneath it was a huge mouse and a couple of stitches: I'd evidently gotten in a lucky shot at him. Secretly I was glad he hadn't killed me the previous night after I connected with that punch.

    And then one more time: Last year or so, Auckoo, a little bit high, as was I, approached my table and demanded that I fight him then, there. When I didn't move he said: "Okay, you know how serious I am? I want this to be a fair fight this time. No lucky punches. You don't believe me?" And with that he took his automatic out and slapped it on the table. "There. No gun." Then he reached into his vest and pulled out brass knuckles and slapped them on the table next to the gun. "No knuckles."

    He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a knife, putting it on the table with his other weapons. "No knife."

   "What else do you want?" he asked, going through his pockets, pulling out an assortment of coins, deadly weapons and cigarette lighters.

    When he was done he looked at the pile. "Pretty impressive, right? You ain't seen nothing yet!" and with that he pulled out his very tiny pomeranian or some sort of tiny dog like that and put her on the table as well. "Okay, now I'm clean. Let's go."

     I stood, as if ready to go.

     We didn't, of course. He just wanted to make certain you were ready when he challenged like that. As long as you were, you had his respect.

     Rip, Auckoo. Go catch yourself a frog or two up there.

Doing meatloaf tonight--Hmmmmm...

So I've got meatloaf in the oven. I'm just so sick of chicken and salmon that I wanted meat, but nothing as heavy as a real steak. Now last night we had meat, but it was in the form of sausage, red and green peppers, tomatoes and onions cooked in garlic with a little olive oil. Lots of salt and pepper--sea salt and cracked black pepper--and man, that was good. I had it plain. Guests had it over rice. It came with stuffed zucchini, which was just about perfect and way better than my mother ever made it--though I know I'm going to hell for saying that. Lots of good parmesan cheese, sauteed scallions, tomatoes, garlic, a touch of ginger root, a bit of breadcrumbs with some fresh Peruvian oregano and just a hint of butter as I was cooking it all to stuff the slightly-cooked zucchini. Cooked them whole for about 4 minutes in water that was just under boiling, just to make them soft enough that when I cut them in half-lengthwise, cleaned out the seeds and stuffed them, they'd take to baking-to-finish in the oven quickly, so I didn't have to overcook the stuffing.
    Somehow, after a lot of lawn mowing today--I'm so out of shape I was taking breaks every 12 minutes!--I decided meatloaf without rice or potato or any starch--just a salad and spinach quickly sauteed with garlic and a touch of olive oil and cracked black pepper--was the perfect meal.
    Basic recipe: 1.5 lbs of ground pork. 3 lbs of good chuck meat. Mix.
    Add 3 oz ketchup--Heinz--two eggs, a couple of ounces of good breadcrumbs with Peruvian oregano, salt and pepper--you know the drill.
    While you're mixing that, put two heads of fresh minced garlic steeped in olive oil in a pan, add a huge sweet red onion, diced, two stalks of organic celery, minced, two organic tomatoes, diced finely. Cook till everything is soft and every flavor and color is married to the others. Add to the meat mix.
    Work the meat with your hands when the cooked material is cool enough to do it, put it in two baking dishes--one bread pan, one medium casserole dish--and top with slices of very thin pork belly, pre-smoked and ready to eat, and a bit of ketchup or bbq sauce. Not too much. It makes it's own juice and you can make gravy out of that if you like.
    So that's in the oven. The kids were over all day, Italo and I replaced the rope on their swing in the front yard (so I don't have to worry about them falling when it breaks!!!!!) and Italo jury-rigged my lawnmower to work.
     I worked my butt off yesterday, doing interviews for my story due on Tuesday, for which Madeleina took the photos, delivered medicine to a sick friend--Una de Gato and Sacha Jergon, along with CBD--to ameliorate his cancer, nearly finishing up a big pot of San Pedro medicine that I'll actually finish tomorrow morning, and feeding and entertaining guests.
    And then tomorrow I get the results of my chest X-Rays, which I hope don't tell me anything really bad. I know I've been smoking 2 packs a day for 50 years, so whatever it is, I invited it, but at the same time, I'd like to think I'm not one of the people going to get cancer. Pretty arrogant I guess, but that's how I justified smoking--which I love--all these years.
     Meatloaf is starting to smell good. I mean very good. If you're in the neighborhood, I've got a lot more than I can use, so come on by. We love company, and we're not even in misery!

Not sure if I'm grousing or laughing or both

Generally when I write here, I like to write interesting things. I like to talk about medicine or food that I'm cooking or something cool that happened, or even the occasional post of a new column for Skunk Magazine. This one is different. This one goes out to all the dads and moms and grandpas and grandmas who work to get ahead only to discover that there were a million things ready to eat that couple of grand right up.
    I came home about Feb 6 from a trip to Peru. It wasn't much of a money making trip but it was a working vacation that paid for itself and i had a great time and the guests I took out to the jungle were fantastic and all that jazz. But I had a couple of freelance writing checks waiting when I came back, and a couple of work checks from Fort Worth Weekly, and two months worth of book and kindle sales and a little of this and that. I thought I looked relatively golden. So golden that I gave my son Italo $500 of the last $1000 I owe him on the 2000 Lincoln Sportster I bought from him. And I didn't even mind when my 1998 Ford Ranger needed a little work: Italo bought $220 bucks worth of parts, I gave him $150 for a day's work and next thing you know, it's running beautifully again. Except that it also needed a new battery for $150 or so and registration for $65, and then an oil change with a new air filter for $58, bringing that up to over $600. Okay, I could live with that. But then the tax assessor reminded me that I owed the final $600 on property taxes for the year, and the home insurance company reminded me that I owed $677 for the quarter. And then the Lincoln needed two new tires at $200 each. And then the microwave went out and needed replacing. And then I needed to rent the equipment to get the carpets shampoo'd and then I had to pay various doctors a total of $400--despite now being old enough to cash in on my Medicare that I've paid into since its inception. Then the blood pressure pills needed upping and Walmart just happened to take both pills off the $4 list and one is now $58 while the other is $121. And now the Lincoln needs registering and an inspection.
     And none of it will kill me, of course. The speed and quickness with which my money disappeared surprised me: Quicker than a snake strike, perfectly aimed at my wallet. The fantastic thing is that I had the monies to take care of it all, along with the regular bills, living expenses, funds for Madeleina, away at college, and for my wife/ex-wife Chepa and the girls, and dog and cat food. So I'm not really grousing. These things need to get paid and I guess normally I'd just be a couple of months late with everything. This time I'm not.
     But then today, I went to cut the lawn and neither lawn mower worked. Now I'm starting to get riled...
     But I'm still grinning and I hope you are all laughing at whatever straits you happen to find yourself as well.

Hell of a Sunday

Well, it's Sunday, last day in February. Normally. Tomorrow is Leap Day, so it's really not the last day in February today. Still, it was a hell of a Sunday.
   I had a client for sapo and nu-nu this morning. Those are Amazon medicines and we're starting an experiment to see if those medicines can permanently clear his very bad vision. The medicines work and do that already, but only for 24 hours. The experiment is to see whether with regular medicine doses that time will elongate.
   So I was up at 5 AM and cleaning house by 8 Am and then he called to beg off. "Peter, I did drugs and drank alcohol last night. I really partied. I'll come if you insist, but otherwise, I want to sleep."
   I told him to sleep. It's hard enough to do an experiment without including that the patient did LSD, Magic Mushrooms, illegal drugs and had liquor. We'll do it next week.
   But because I thought he was coming I got the kitchen cleaned from last night. And Madeleina, home from school, got the bathroom and living room cleaned. We were shining by 9 AM.
   Then Chepa, my wife/ex-wife came over with her two babies, Sierra and Alexa, and my grand baby, Taylor Rain, and her sister's two new kids, Ryan and Danica.
    Chepa took to the computer, Madeleina took the kids, I took to cooking for them.
    After food, they went outside and decided to paint my front porch with chalk. While they did that i changed a battery in my old 1998 Ford Ranger, changed a wheel on the wheelbarrow, and then sent the kids out to collect all fallen branches and small limbs from the yard. They did.
    And then I went to the store, bought organic, unfiltered apple juice, organic lime juice, good orange juice, wine and a few other things.
     When I got back, a young man who was introduced to me via facebook from an actual friend, had showed up and I taught him a lot in a couple of hours. I wish I had a recording of it.
     When I was pooped, I told him goodbye and he graciously left. Nice young guy for sure. I hope he has a charmed life.
     Then Chepa and the kids left.
     Then Madeleina said she had to go.
     So now I'm alone.
     Somehow that seems fine. I had five kids plus Madeleina and Chepa all day. Had a stranger. Got ready for work this morning. I'm tired.
     I'm gonna cook me a hamburger with a sesame bun and sauteed onions. I'm gonna dress it with mustard and Katsup. I'm gonna cook spinach with garlic and reheat those asparagus.
    To outsiders it might not have seemed much. To me, it was a hell of a Sunday.

New Amazon Jaunts Coming Up: Time to Sign Up for the Time of Your Life!

Ladies and Gents: I've got two great Amazon Jungle Jaunts coming up; one in June, one in July. These are 9 1/2 day excursions into deep jungle--roughly 250 KM out of Iquitos--that are filled with fun/adventure/medicine. I don't have a lodge: We use a rustic but very cool place. Showering is in the beautiful Aucayacu river, for instance, as no showers are allowed. We basically live as the people on the river live for a week: We take walks looking for wild and semi-wild foods and medicines, we hike pristine high jungle, we stroll in the most primordial swamp I've ever seen. We swim in a lake that's home to pink and grey dolphins. We collect the vine and ad-mix plants our curandero will utilize in his ayahuasca. We'll have the opportunity to use--at the right time, in the right place--some local magic shrooms to get people prepared for ayahuasca; we'll have a chance to utilize ayahuasca twice (three if you push me but no one ever really asks for that); and we'll have the opportunity to use the indigenous Matses' sapo (frog sweat, AKA kambo), and nu-nu (aka rapé) snuff. We'll have you on an overnight riverboat underneath the Amazon sky. We'll have you forgetting your own name. We'll have you more protected than you've ever felt. My team is spectacular and will always outnumber guests, which are limited to 12. You'll eat some of the best food--mostly fruit, veggies, plantain, rice, fresh beans daily, with a bit of chicken and eggs for those who want that--you've ever had. In short, we'll offer you an opportunity to make a fresh start by blowing up your world view. You don't have to change, of course. If you're already a shining star, then then trip and my team and the medicines, and the river will just polish you to a high gleam. If, on the other hand, you suck, we'll you'll suck a lot less when we're finished with you. How's that for a promise? You can get the dates on the pgorman.com website. Price is high at $2200, but that includes everything except your airfare and walking around money. We pick you up at the airport and if you come in a day or two early, recommended, we still pick you up at the airport. There are no hidden fees/costs. You buy presents for your family, your money. Your hotel in Iquitos, boat cabins, food in Iquitos, food on the river, food in the jungle, my team of 12-14, the medicines, the whole shebang is included. And if you're broke, which I understand, I might take a few hundred bucks off the price to help out. Questions? Email me at peterg9@yahoo.com
Thanks for listening,
Peter G

My Sink; Tonight's Food

So I was washing veggies in my sink and suddenly thought: How many hours of my life have been spent looking into sinks? For at least 59 of my 65 years I've either been employed in an Ice Cream Parlor, a restaurant or cooking at home. I've peeled tens of thousands of pounds of potatoes looking into a sink--90 percent of them while working as a 12-15 year old at Cresthaven Country Club in Queens, NYC--and spent countless hours washing veggies, washing dishes, washing sinks. It might average out to an hour a day for 59 years. That's a long time to be staring into a metal hole.
    I've also spent a lot of time--I mean a LOT of time--cutting and cooking veggies and meat and fish. Tonight, I'm alone and was not sure what to cook. I've got a rack of ribs in the fridge--but that would be way too heavy and I'd only eat two before I was turned off at the notion I was eating an animal. I have a nice piece of salmon, but I had that two nights ago and then yesterday for lunch I had the leftover, so forget that. I've got a half-pound of swordfish, but not in the mood. I've got left over chicken thighs--already roasted a few days ago--and could make one of them into a burrito (with fresh pico de gallo, beans, avocado, sour cream and cheddar), or a chicken salad with celery, onions, and mayo, or I could put them in a pot with celery, onions, garlic and tomato and make a nice soup, or do 30 other things with them (just eating things, not dirty things). But I'm not in the mood. I've also got sausage, peppers, and onions (with garlic, of course) and tomatoes left over from a couple of days ago, but again, I had it twice, once when I made it on Friday, then again for Sat. lunch, so I'm not in the mood.
     So what am I to do? I settled on a sort of Spanish Beef with Veggies. It's a concoction I make a couple of times a year and there are probably a million other people who make something like it. Start by sauteing 1 1/2 pounds of chuck chopped meat in a heavy skillet with garlic, salt, pepper and a bit of oil.
    Once brown, strain the fat and put the meat aside.
    While you're making the meat, put on good basmati rice with garlic and then add achiote for flavor and coloring. The rice will be yellow/orange and very tasty.
    While you're doing that stuff, cut broccoli and cauliflower into small florets, cut a zucchini and a yellow squash lengthwise, then cut into half-moons about 3/16 of an inch thick. Put the broccoli and cauliflower into salted, boiling water. Wait two minutes and add the zucchini and squash, cook for one more minute, remove from heat, put under very cold water until cool, then drain.
    When the pieces are ready for the puzzle, get a deep saute pan and put in four tablespoons of good olive oil that's had minced (fresh) garlic in it for a couple of days. The garlic goes in as well. Add a nice-sized diced red onion; when the garlic is done and the onion is see through, add a diced sweet red Bell pepper and a diced tomato. When that's all good, add the meat and then salt and pepper and add achiote (you can buy it from Goya) and a minced handful of cilantro. When that's looking good, add the veggies and cover with a big--maybe 5 ounces--handful of fresh organic spinach. Add a can of organic black beans and more achiote. Stir it all up for about 8 minutes or 6 minutes until it's good and hot and you're about to go crazy for it. If you're in the mood, top the meat/veggie mix with a good quality of cheddar cheese that you've minced.
    Serve that over your yellow rice.
    That's good eating.
     I've made that dish while I was writing this. Almost done. Time to add the meat to the garlic/onion/red pepper/tomato mix. So I'm still 10 minutes away but nearly done.
     Of course, now that I nearly have it finished and have written about it, I'm not in the mood for it anymore because it feels like I already ate it. Damn.
     Maybe I'll just go for a salad instead.

A Very Nice Day

So a few friends came over for a Peruvian-style ceremony the other night. The ceremony was beautiful, I think. Medicine and songs were strong; Lynn and a woman named Michelle, the guardians, were great. All survived. Thank you universe!

    Went to a regular doc today (now that i have Medicare because I'm old)—first time I've seen a doc for a checkup in at least 15 years—and he took blood, ordered a chest X-Ray, did an EKG, took urine.

    EKG was great, he said, "Perfect." Thank you, sapo, and daily garlic for 65 years.

    Urine was great, he said: "We were looking for sugar. None. Perfect."

    We'll see what the blood and X-Ray turn up.

    Started CBD oil just two days ago. That, with the Una de Gato has me feeling much better. Slept on the couch, laying down, for a total of 7 hours last night, most since just after Christmas. Took about 7 pees during that time, and swelling on legs almost gone.

    Took my blood pressure pills early and blood pressure came back 122/80. Rarely see it that close to just right. Maybe the hemp pills are cool. Hope so.

    Now I'm smoking a cigarette and having wine. Italo just fixed my green truck: New water pump, new spark plugs, new thermostat. I've apparently been running on 3 cylinders for some time. Truck has more pep now.

   Gonna eat a prime rib with onions and blue cheese with a side of spinach with garlic. No starch. There goes the blood pressure!

   Things are going good today.

   Fingers crossed I wake up tomorrow morning.

   And I hope you all had a wonderful day as well.

Reminder for Those Entering the Ayahuasca Realms

Someone wrote me recently to say they were very terrified while under the influence of ayahuasca. As the person had been a guest of mine in the jungle, I was surprised. I guess they continued the work when they got back home, wherever that is. Anyway, I sent this quick note out:
   We all get terrified and are unable to move at times in that world. I just get frozen and beg my heart to stop so that I can be free of the fear. BUTTT, remember what I told you about not having a body?
In the other realms you have no body. No one and no spirit can grab you, stab you, hurt you physically.
    Which means you are not constrained. If something menacing is engulfing you, become more menacing and engulf it. You don't need to know how to do it, if you can just tie a string around your finger to remind yourself to do it, then you can do it.
   If it's a physical monster, become a bigger one. It has 20 heads grow 100 heads.

   If it's just an overwhelming sort of darkness, turn on light—again, it will just happen—and the

darkness will vanish in it.

   If it's something you need to deal with, put yourself on equal terms and then deal with it.

   None of which is easy when you're frozen in fear.
   Hence my suggestion of a reminder piece of string around your finger.

Life is Tough; Life is Worth It

So I'm home nearly two weeks. I've written a couple of short pieces to earn a few dollars, had a couple of surprise things happen that were great; had a hole in my working truck's radiator which was not great, have an infection in my good leg that's been cultured out and it turns out it's a combination of staph and pseudomonis, not good, but not as bad a couple of years ago when there were four bacterias attacking my right leg.
    I am having trouble sleeping more than an hour at a time; I feel lucky when I go to bet at 9:30 and don't wake till 11--a full hour-and-a-half is almost like REM sleep after the last month in Peru. I've paid off thousands in bills, leaving me nearly broke, but only owing $14,000--not bad. I turned 65, so I get senior discounts at places I would never eat.
   I've got people coming to the house for ceremony Saturday and have spent close to $1000 on them--and I am not allowed, morally, to accept anything, even contributions. So what? I'll earn more next week. I've been cleaning my house, one meter at a time. Still to go? Mop floors, polish floors; do rugs; clean front and back doors of dog prints. But otherwise, I've done hours and hours, and I'm paying someone $100 to come and help me tomorrow, the day before ceremony, so that when guests arrive they don't think I'm a bum. I've already scrubbed the new tub, toilet and sink. I've done the dirty work.
   Now today is my granddaughter Taylor Rain Gorman's birthday. So I'm making a small party. Bought some presents, cleaned the kitchen, made ribs and chicken, white rice and yellow rice, salmon filet and spicy black beans. Have broccoli, cauliflower, yellow squash, zuccini, tomatoes, scallions, garlic in olive oil ready to stir in a pan. That's a lot of different things to cook for 8 people, but I know my family: They each want what they want and I take up the challenge willingly.
   I have had red wine but no whiskey, not even my three airplane bottles, since Jan 1. So we'll argue tonight, but I won't fall into the trap of being a fool.
    Every day I wake up I thank the universe for another shot at it all. I love living. Sometimes it's hard. It's hard when my legs hurt from infection. It's hard when I can't get ahead and don't have enough for what everyone needs. It's hard when I remember I'm not 21 or 31 anymore. But it's easy to love living anyway.
   And I hope you are all loving living, despite setbacks.

My Madeleina Growing Up

I just took Madeleina out of college for the day and brought her into the city to meet two formerly homeless people who are now living in Sec 8 housing--a very nice apartment--put out a street newspaper and the guy is going into chemo for lung cancer on Wednesday. The delivery system was put in place in his right upper chest today. What a marvel they were. Madeleina got some great shots and I think she's got a shot at the cover or opening photo for the Fort Worth Weekly when the story is done--she might make a couple of hundred. I love working with her. She is so non-imposing, just like when she helps with ceremony: Just there when you need her; not a moment before or after. Absolutely silent, absolutely invisible. If she could learn to use the camera correctly she'd have an adjunct income for the rest of her life the way that a short -order cook can always scrape by in lean times.

     Plus: These two were at least 350 pounds each but kept making jokes, talking about sex, talking about their 3 AM trips to the bathroom and the banter about making coffee at that hour. What a pleasure to be with them. And at the end, Madeleina, an avowed non-sexual, said something along the lines of: "I'm not saying I'm convinced, but I will say I never thought love could last like that. 25 years of marriage after years of being junkies together! Dad, they were cool!"

     Which is a step in the right direction. As long as the guy can talk enough to give me an hour or two tomorrow, and then on the weekend after the first round of chemo--and as long as his wife Annette will give me some time--I'll have a nice story about Homeless, Not Helpless. They seem to be all about sharing what little they have.

    And now, after driving 110 miles today--going to Ft Worth twice--I've got to drive Madeleina to school, another 150 miles RT. Damn. My legs are jumpy and painful already from the infections I picked up in the jungle last month, so I've taken a bit more ibuprofin than normal.

    Personally, I'd just as soon give Madeleina the week off. I love hanging around with her.

New Drug War Follies Column

Okay, I'm back from the jungle. I got leg infections, foot infections, am in constant pain since I've returned home. Way too many ibuprofin to be good for me, I cannot concentrate on anything because the damned pain takes over. I'll get past it. And my doc said the infection isn't too severe; he's giving it a few days before I start on a regimen of antibiotics hoping that I I won't need to do that.
      The trip was wonderful: The guests were just great, the jungle was beautiful, the medicine was deep. Couldn't have been better unless I was 30 years younger.
      Even that I'm going to try to take care of: Now that I'm 65 I get the Medicare I've been paying into since its inception and my surgeon said I could use it for the out-patient physical therapy the hospital has. It's supposed to be very good. I'll call early in the week, once the pain subsides a little.
     Today, in the mail, was the newest issue of Skunk magazine, the pot magazine for which I write a regular column called Drug War Follies. It is often about the drug war, but then it often strays as well. I love having the column and the freedom to rant a little. It's like having this blog. Just write what I want to write, what I'm feeling--and that is a kind of freedom we investigative reporters rarely enjoy.
     So here is the newest column, the 91st I've done for Skunk. And in the next few days, I'll start on #92. Damn, that's gonna be cool.

Drug War Follies

A little rant about guns. You know, the guns that don’t kill people. The guns that were involved in as many deaths in the U.S. in 2014 as were motor vehicles. You know, the guns that don’t kill people that were involved in 84,000 non-fatal injuries in 2014. Yeah, those guns.

By Peter Gorman

Open carry. Forty-five states in the U.S. now permit people to openly carry guns in public. I don’t mean in a gun rack in the back of a pick up truck, like a lot of people see in areas where hunting is permitted, I mean pistols in holsters and rifles and semi-automatics slung over your shoulder. You have all probably seen some news footage of nutty men strolling into fast food joints carrying enough fire-power to wipe out a small town. They’re supposed to be “the good guys with guns”, as the National Rifle Association puts it, who will stop the bad guys with guns.

    Texas, which has allowed open carry of rifles and semi-automatics for a long time, just implemented a new law that will allow anyone with a concealed handgun permit to now wear that gun in a holster on their hips. You know, football moms and dads staring each other down over whose kid is better after they’ve each had had six beers and while carrying a .45 semi-auto on their hips. What could go wrong with that? Or what about guys fighting over a parking space, or what if someone gets the wrong order at Arby’s?

   “I said no goddamned ketchup, motherfucker!”

   Nah. Nothing could go wrong there.

   And what’s the chance of a bar fight escalating when everyone is drunk and strapped?

   And let’s suppose a bad guy with a gun starts shooting people and a couple of good guys with guns start to fire at him, just as the police arrive. Are the cops gonna ask who the good guys are? And if they ask the bad guy, is he gonna say, “I’m the freaking bad guy, copper! Come and get me!” Or is he going to say: “Stop those guys! They’re crazy!”

   Okay, that was an easy test.

   And how will anyone know who has the concealed carry permit and who is the dangerous felon with bad intentions?

   Only one time in my life did I see the good guys with guns stop a bad guy. I was cooking brunch at a New York City joint call the Mad Hatter. At any given time more than half the people in the restaurant were police officers—it was a cop joint.

   One Sunday a guy came in, walked to the bar, pulled a pistol and asked the bartender for his money. The restaurant was instantly silent for a moment, then suddenly there was a bit of movement in the crowd, and probably 50 guns came out all at once. The bartended told the guy to turn around. He did, saw the guns, dropped his, and fled.

   The thing about that was that it involved 50 trained policemen, not Uncle Joe who goes to the gun range three times a year and has probably never shot at a live moving target.

   Why are we so afraid, and what are we so afraid of? Will people carry guns to ward off being the target of a street robbery? Would you really shoot someone who asked for your wallet? Is it that important?

   Or are people afraid of losing their rights in the U.S.? Do they really imagine someone is coming for their guns? And if all hell broke loose and the military decided to take over the U.S. and that necessitated disarming the population, does anyone really believe their semi-automatic rifle will be a match against trained military with military grade weaponry? Oy, vey! I get upset just thinking about all those people who are so very afraid. What a rotten way to go through life, eh?

   Upset jumps to a kind of rage when I think of the power of the NRA. The organization has nearly all of our politicians cowering. No one dares suggest real gun control laws for fear of the NRA pouring money into the next campaign to get them defeated. And I’m not talking about super stringent gun control laws; hell, no one is even willing to take on the gun show loophole.

   The gun show loophole is this: If you go to a gun show and buy a gun or 40 from a licensed dealer, he’s got to put your name into the FBI file, via telephone, for a moment. If you don’t have a felony or outstanding warrants, you’ll be green lighted to buy your guns. If there is something on your record that prohibits you from having a guy, the background check will red light you to the dealer and you won’t get your gun. In all cases, all information obtained by the FBI about people trying to purchase guns is destroyed at midnight of the same day, so there is no record of who tried to buy what.

   But there is a loophole big enough to drive a tractor-trailer through in the process: The Gun Show Loophole. Private citizens who want to sell their guns are not licensed dealers, and therefore don’t even have to do the ridiculously simple FBI background check. The seller just shows up at the gun show with his stash of personal guns and sells them, legally, to anyone who wants them. In Texas, thousands of those guns wind up in Mexico to help fuel the drug wars there. But a lot of those guns wind up in New York or Los Angeles or Toronto on the black market. And there is no way to trace them, no way to know if the gun show loophole purchaser really wanted a gun for him/herself or wanted 500 guns to later sell on the black market. Money talks, people die. The NRA hides behind the Second Amendment of the Constitution.

    Make no mistake: The NRA is the elephant in the room on this issue. If they’ve got politicians so cowed that they won’t even attempt to close the Gun Show Loophole, you can forget about any real gun control. When the subject of 30,000 gun deaths per year in the U.S. comes up, the NRA is quick to point out that half of those are suicides—as if easy access to guns didn’t help a lot of those suicides along. When it’s pointed out that Canada only has 2.2 gun deaths annually per 100,000 people while the U.S. has 10.64 per the same 100,000, the NRA is quick to point out that the problem is that too many bad guys have guns, so more good guys have to arm themselves.

    We have an estimated 300,000,000—yes, that is 300 million—guns in private hands in the U.S. That’s a lot of guns. And a lot of ammunition. But hell, when someone wants to buy 10,000 rounds, what’s to stop them? No law against it. Maybe they do a lot of target shooting. And when we have another crazy person walk into a school or movie theater or candy store and start blowing people away, well, the NRA says that’s not good, but part of the price of freedom. And it’s part of the price of freedom when a three-year-old finds daddy’s loaded gun and shoots his brother in the face. The problem wasn’t the gun, it was that daddy didn’t lock it in a safe. Bad daddy.

   I’m probably one of the few people in Texas who doesn’t own a gun. When I’m out in the jungle in Peru I have a shotgun at all times, just in case I need to scare away a predator, but not here in Texas. I don’t have a gun because I have nightmares about sleepwalking and killing one of my family, or them killing someone when they get really angry. What if I got drunk and stupid? What if I shot a stranger who came to the door at 3 AM because their car broke down and they didn’t have a cell phone and I took them for a burglar? I get chills when I have those dreams. So no guns for me.

   Obviously, I’m in the minority here in Texas and probably throughout the U.S. At the other end of the rainbow are the open carry people. They not only have guns, they walk around letting you know it.

   In Colorado recently, a man was walking around with a rifle. Someone called 911 to report him. The dispatcher reminded the caller that there was nothing illegal in that because Colorado, in addition to having legal pot, is an open carry state.

   The police were finally dispatched to look into the guy with the rifle. By the time they got there he’d killed four people he’d never met. Just killed them at random. No big deal, said the NRA. Just the price of freedom.

It would all be funny if people weren’t dying and the prisons weren’t full.

Off to Peru

Dear All: I'm off to Peru for a month or so. I hope you all get through January safely and with a good dollop of fun tossed your way. I'll see in February.
Peter G

Happy New Year, everyone!

Well, time to weigh in. What should I say? My daughter Madeleina and I are about to eat prime rib with basmati rice cooked with garlic and a touch of olive oil and seared zucchini and yellow squash with organic scallions and a Roma tomato in pan juices. Not everyone would want that. Most of the people who would want that meal cannot afford it. They certainly could not afford the olive oil, the organic veggies, the touch of excellent blue cheese on the steaks, the spinach under the steaks. They could not afford the pink sea salt or the butcher-ground black pepper or the pans to cook this meal properly. How we did it/do it, I don't know. The pans I'm using were first class and given to me at my marriage to Chepa in 1994. They've got another 100 years in them till their really broken in. My knives have been collected--by buying or being gifted--over 40 years. That means I'm old.
    None of that matters to anyone but me. And me? I'm sad, because my sons and ex and her new babies and my grand baby went to a family party that I was not included in. I'm not included because I won't stay awake till 3 AM. That doesn't bother me. But generally the kids come here for fireworks before the party and so we have a pre-party party. I upped my fireworks stash, which is good, by a couple of hundred bucks today, so it's a very good stash now. But so far they've forgotten to come.
    I guess that's good. I was a rotten son at 30 as well. Payback's a bitch, Gorman! Live with it!
    Past them, I know some of you. We've met or talked or what have you. So what would I like for you this year/ I'd like you to have good food and the time to make it and enjoy it. I'd like you to love the work you do, and if you don't I'd love  you to have the opportunity to change it to something you do love. I'd like you all to wake up every day this year with fresh eyes to see the world in a new way. I'd love you not to be sick, not to have aches and pains and illness that detract from your daily joy. I'd love you to get a raise at work that would give you enough to share $20 a month with the local food bank, or surprise a homeless person or six with fresh fruit now and then. I'd love you to be part of the skein of humanity that makes this world a better place, and we can do that without suffering for it. I'd love you to have shoes that fit so well your feet never hurt. I'd love you to love your haircut and smile every time you see yourselves in the mirror. I'd love you to lose the weight you want lose or decide to love yourself as you are. I'd love it if each of you could forgive one person completely and let them know it. I'd love you to love yourselves and soar as high as you want with the freedom, strength, and will to allow you that. Happy New Year, everyone! We can fix this world with love. And that love starts with loving ourselves.--PG

Quick Note on Taking People Out to the Jungle

I was involved with a discussion group about the need to try to be prepared when you take people to the jungle, particularly for something like ayahuasca. This was a note I posted. No big deal, but i know I'll lose that thread and want to remember this. Here's what I wrote:
       I take people out to the jungle. I've been doing it since 1998. At first I took them to my teacher, Julio. He died in 2007, and my team and I decided that his son Jairo should take over the space. My group is with me five days before we drink ayahuasca. Maybe 20 percent are not permitted for various reasons. I have six of us watching a max of 12 people; but I've got 5 more within 20 yards if we need them.I've got 3 more within 100 yards if we really need them. And I'm still scared to death that something will go wrong! Stuff happens in the jungle and you have to be prepared. Planning will never suffice because what you plan for will never occur. But the act of planning gives you a shot at taking care of things should shit rain down. And while I do not want to jinx myself, I always want my guests to be in the best possible hands. Yes, there are still septic spiders, poisonous snakes, cayman, electric eels, vampire bats and a host of bad things. The trick is to try to minimize those bad things from happening.  

Merry Christmas, Everyone!

To all of you, if I had my druthers and was king of the world, I'd give you peace. I'd share water and food and grazing land and knowledge and invite you to teach me as well. I'd give you health, a sense of joy at the little things we stumble upon daily, I'd give you lovers who never bored you or took advantage of you. I'd give you experiences that took you to the farthest reaches of your capabilities but never more than that. I'd give you sleep when you need it, comfort when you need it, a sense of belonging when you feel like an outsider, a bit of mystery to keep things interesting, and a spirit or three to help you through vexing times with clear guidance. I'd give you the wherewithal to fight through the obstacles that stand between you and your dreams. I'd give you the power to empower yourselves to be who you want to be, shamelessly, proudly, ferociously.
    Merry Christmas everyone, no matter how you say it or think it. And please have a wonderfully joyful New Year!
The Texas Clan of the Gormans

Worrying About My Madeleina

So your kid makes it through infancy, healthy, and you sigh in relief. They make it through kindergarden and elementary school without too many bumps and bruises and lots of papers saying they're good students and you sigh in relief. They make it through high school, there are some tears but they're not bullied, not molested, and you sigh in relief. And then my Madeleina is off to college, just an hour away, and has a good roommate, good classes, good teachers, and all is good. So now she's home and last night was the second night in the last week where she's come home between 3 and 4 AM. What to say? She comes home sober, doesn't go drugs, was just hanging with pals. So I say what every dad says: Nothing good happens after 2 AM. Remember that, Madeleina, and let it go.
    This morning she comes into my office, plumps down on the couch and announces: Dad, I might have a record.
    I ask, What?
    She explains that she and two friends were out in a nearby park. It was just after midnight, the park curfew, when they started walking back to the car. They weren't far from it when three police cars pulled up and told them the park was closed, then asked for identification. They scanned the IDs, asked if they had drugs or weapons, were told no, then were given a warning. Next time they'll get a citation and fine.
    Madeleina was indignant as she told it. We were so close to the car and it was only about six minutes after midnight and I wanted to give those cops a piece of my mind.....
    I reminded her that that's how people get tased or arrested. She said she knew, which is why she kept her mouth shut.
    I said good on her.
    The three then went to the home of the other girl in the trio to drop her off. That's when it got a little spooky, dad, she said. Because there was a man kind of pacing in front of her house.
    Was he on the road?
    No, he was in front of her house.
    Now the young woman's home is set back 100 feet in the middle of nowhere. There are other houses around but they've all got an acre or three, so it's pretty rural, and the road the house is on is very rural, very backwater and beautiful, but not a road someone could stumble on by accident.
    Anyway, dad, we pulled up and asked him who he was. He said he had no car but that his name was Ricky and he needed a ride. He had no phone either, which is why he was in front of the house: He was deciding whether to wake people up to ask to use their phone.
    Madeleina, it was about 1 AM in nowhere. He had no car. He wasn't walking anywhere. But he'd obviously come from somewhere. And if he came from somewhere walking, he could probably return to that somewhere on foot as well.
     Don't worry, dad, Lizzie lied and said we didn't have enough gas to go anywhere. Then he asked to borrow a phone, so we let him and he called someone and when they answered he said Hello, this is Bob. That was weird, right, because he told us his name was Ricky. Anyway, after that he walked away and we all went into my friend's house to make sure he left. And that's why I got home at 4 AM.
     Darling, did your friend L recognize the man from the area?
     Never saw him before, dad.
    So a guy with no car winds up in nowhere at 1 AM and needs a ride home? No. He had a ride. It was probably waiting in the dark just down the road. This guy was going to rob the house, and then signal his friend to come round with the car as he was leaving, so that there was little chance anyone would see the car long enough to get license plate numbers.
    Could be, dad. All in all, it was kind of scary when we got in the house and started talking about it.
    And that's why dads like me worry about my Madeleina.

On a Perfectly Selfish Note....

On a perfectly selfish note: How can it be that I've had something along the line of 4,000 people join the group Ayahuasca in My Blood, and have only sold maybe 6000 copies. Not everybody who bought the book would want to join the group. Not even anywhere near two-out-of-three. So, this month, for instance, how did more than 50 people ask to join when I only sold 14 copies so far? Am I nuts or are there sites out there giving the book away for free and people are actually taking advantage of that? No artist should have his/her work used/misused/abused that way. No musician, no dancer, no film maker, no poet, no sculptor, and no writer. As I said, this is a perfectly selfish note. But if anyone has the answer, or an answer, I'd love to hear it.

Life Goes On

Obla-di, Obla-da, Life goes oooonnn, O la la la life goes on....
Been a hectic couple of weeks. I've had 9 visitors to the house: Two young women for sapo, one guy who wanted to meet me because he read my books; one young guy from Houston who brought me a stick he thought was important; two people who are coming on my January Jungle Jaunt, my old friend, Milan, who came by just to enjoy Thanksgiving dinner with us, plus a few days; a woman, now a friend, who is a television producer, and an utter stranger who showed up at the door asking if I was Peter Gorman, and if I was, could he talk with me.
   That and a case of walking pneumonia have had me under siege. Not a lot of energy. Now it might be emphysema, which I would have to own, considering how much I smoke, but then that would mean it came on awfully quickly: Two months ago I was never out of breath. The last two months I walk 200 steps and i'm gasping. I hope this is temporary. I'm considering taking antibiotics as I'm coughing up a quart or so of phlegm from my lungs daily. That's a lot of mucous and probably more than you wanted to know.
    On the other hand: Madeleina came home from college exactly a week ago and that has been great: We laugh, yell, argue, laugh again. She's the bees-knees. I've rewarded her by cooking Uncle Clem's Chicken, chicken parmesana, duck breast with pears and port wine; Lime chicken, a hot roast beef sandwich on good sesame french bread with seared organic tomato slices; and tonight chicken breast with bok choy, ginger, daicon radish, scallions, garlic in a sesame oil sauce, over a bed of baby spinach, with a side of broccoli, cauliflower, sweet red onions, tomato, garlic, zucchini, and yellow squash.
   So I have been remiss. I apologize. I've been worried about my January trip to the jungle which will lose $3,400 that i will have to put on a credit card. Darn it. 20 People signed up for it and only four are still with me. That's unusual. I hope something will happen in the next couple of weeks to at least let me break even....
   I love you all for sticking with this loser. Thanks.
PG