Alone Again, Naturally

Okay, so for the second time since I've been back I'm alone tonight. Chepa and the kids might surprise me with a visit for some watermelon and grapes but I'm pretty much alone. And while I was alone all day--except for bringing the kids donuts this morning and visiting them for a little while to see poor Madeleina after her first marching band practice practically dead on Chepa's sofa--Dad, when you make a mistake you have to do 20 pushups and I can't even do one!--well, I've been alone all day. Which meant I got a story done for the Fort Worth Weekly and nearly finished my column for Skunk magazine as well. Extra cool.
Lonesome, but cool.
Did get a reasonably nice check in the mail--which comes promptly between 4 and 5 PM daily--from the June sales of my book at Amazon. Nice to know it's still selling 100+ copies a month, which is pretty much what it's done since it came out last year. I would love it to go wild and sell 50,000 copies one month but still, some people are reading it. And lots of those people write me. I've got a lot of super excellent letters from strangers who found it a great read. Good. That's what I was hoping for.
Here's a story: When I was a fairly young teenager I was writing a lot of poetry--oh, the angst of youth and pimples, blue balls brought on by necking with Kathy O for hours and never being allowed to go further, and not knowing there was an end to masturbating until I'd actually had real sex with a girl--some of which I'd read to my mom. And my mom, pretty astute lady, would ask me what this or that line meant. And I'd explain. And then she'd say--and we probably did this half-a-dozen times over the years--"Well, are you going to explain that to everyone who reads your poetry? Because if you are, you won't have a lot of readers, it'll just take too long. So why don't you say what you just told me in the poem in a way that I and others can understand? Then you can sell your work to lots of people and not worry about having to go to their homes to explain it."
I hated her the first time she said that. It was so cold, so cruel, so on the money.
When I grew up I gave up poetry but always write so that everybody knows that the heck I'm talking about. I think. Or I hope. Or that's what I try to do, anyway.
And so I think even people who don't know about ayahuasca could have a reasonable change of reading my book and getting something from it, just like people who come on my trips to the Amazon and don't drink ayahuasca or do the Matses' medicines sapo and nu-nu still get a lot out of the trips.
(QUICK AD: Upcoming trips in January and February, then again in June and July. Sign up now cause I'm gonna sell out to excellent people! ALSO: Time to stock up on the book, Ayahuasca in My Blood--25 Years of Medicine Dreaming for your early Christmas/Hannukkah/Kwanzaa/Tribal Solstice presents).
Anyway, so I'm alone. But I did good and pulled the trigger on Madeleina's new flute. It is a beauty: a floor model from Taylor Music in South Dakota--from Geimenhardt, supposedly a good flute maker. it's open-hole with a B foot and a Gizmo key and comes with corks for the open holes. None of which makes sense to be but makes it easier to swallow the $895 price tag--which is a freaking bargain from the $1350 or so it sells for completely new.
I'm just thinking of my friend Phoenix, whose father bought him a cheap little guitar when he wanted to play and told him to learn enough to earn something better. Phoenix plays beautifull and so I suspect his dad was happy to shell out the bucks for something that could make his kid's music sing. I feel the same way about Madeleina. She's spent hundreds and hundreds of hours practicing, learning, and now needs to move up from a beginner's flute. Good for her. She earned it with her practice and she also earned it working with me in Peru for nearly two months. So I bought it with a thrill running up my neck rather than a knot in my stomach.
I'm getting distracted thinking of the tiny new potatoes I have on the stove. I better go check them.
They look fine. I'm cooking them in water left from cooking asparagus and then spinach. It's got real good sea salt in it, and a little garlic oil (the garlic has been soaking in the olive oil for 48 hours) a bit of chicken stock from chicken last night and then a few sprigs of cilantro. They're gonna be good boiled potatoes.
And I'm still in love with sword fish so I've got a piece of it--sorry fish. I won't complain if one of your brothers eats me. I know it will hurt but I will deserve it--in a bit of the same garlic oil. It's nice and low right now. And then, probably boring you who know the damned recipe, when it's browned on one side and nearly done on the other, I'm gonna add garlic, tiny diced red pepper (half a pepper as I'm dining alone), three diced slices of red onion, and half a tiny bottle of capers, with the juice. Maybe a teaspoon of butter to bind it all together.
The sides are maybe one of the tiny potatoes, asparagus (parboiled then sauteed in a bit of butter and good balsamic vinegar) and spinach (parboiled and later to be cooked in garlic and olive oil). I know, I've done it 100 times. But I still like it. And I never had it with the potatoes before.
And I'm gonna eat that feast in front of the television while watching Nicholas Cage and Eva Mendez in Ghost Rider, an insane movie that I happen to like watching every now and then, if just to watch Cage ride a flaming Harley custom up the side of a high rise.
Okay, so that's the single life. Not fantastic, but pretty rich if you milk it. I could do worse, right?
It's all good. I hope you're all having a great night, wherever you are.

Not Wild About Change

Okay, so we've (Madeleina and I) been back from Peru for nine days now. Seems like we should have integrated. We are. But it is always hard to switch modes, and harder still when there are changes. We came back to see that Italo's Sarah, who is so beautiful and nice, had rearranged some of the art in my rooms. Specifically, my office, the bathroom and the kitchen. Plus, a wax cast of Madeleina's left hand, made several years ago at the Wax Museum in Dallas on a school trip, had melted over the lava lamp it has sat on for several years.
That was no one's fault. No one was living here for several weeks and the family only came over sporatically to feed Boots, the Wonderdog, vet for rats and keep appliances running. No AC was on and so the hand melted. But Madeleina put all her rejection of all the changes into that wax hand and cried for hours. What she was really upset about was that the art was rearranged, my writing trophies and certicates were in different places, the art in the bathroom was now in the hallway, and new pieces that Sarah thought would be good for the kitchen and bathroom were in place. Plus, one of our beloved rugs was folded up and in Marco's old room, as were several art pieces, a couple of end tables, lamps and so forth.
So Madeleina was not crying about the hand, exactly, but that it represented change she had not designed.
I cried too, but then after 44 years of travel a couple of months a year, I know that things will be changed when I return. And so while I abhor the changes, I welcome them. If someone thinks what they're gonna buy--like Sarah bought me a 6 piece couch in the living room and threw out my old and comfy couch/chair/ottoman--well then, I cry a little and then celebrate her taste.
Much tougher for Madeleina.
And today we brought the goats home from Shelly S's. house. She is the goat lady who at times has dozens of goats. She breeds them, sells their milk for cheese and generally loves them. She's the one I got the goats from so I pay her to board them--$200 for two goats for 2 months- and she said they were easy students.
But now they are in the backyard. Over 1 1/2 acres to play in but all they are doing is braying. I'm not sure what they want but will bet it has something to with having been taken from the place where they were for the last 8 weeks.
So I'm just saying, change is tough on everybody.
To get over it I made a shrimp soup: Garlic, minced, with red onion, diced, and celery, diced, as a mirapoix. THEN sautee shrimp, then add commercial tomato soup and pepper, then add water, then shrimp shell essence, then shrimp and a few minutes later the mirapoix. Then small diced potatoes. Then diced scallions and cilantro, pepper and angel hair pasta. Then just be patient for half an hour.
So here it is: We came home las week and still don't have our seagoing feet nearly under us.
And now I have to attend the soup.
But know that Boots, the goats, the birds, and the family, are all slightly freaked at the thought that changes were made. Because we liked things the way they were. We are intimidated by change until we integrate it. I hope you're better than that, but we're not.
Sometimes we're not strong enough.

After the Party Comes the Cleanup

Okay, the wedding was beautiful. I had no idea how many touches would go into it--and I worked hundreds of weddings as a kid at Cresthaven Country Club in Whitestone, New York. This had floating lights, floating flowers, a friend of the other side of the family who drove in from South Dakota to pitch in as photographer--fantastic--and deejay--freaking brilliant. We went on a little late because it took a long time to get pictures done at the Botanical Garden of Fort Worth--a good enough reason to visit Fort Worth and hang at my house a couple of days--but otherwise no hitches.
And yes, Chepa's boyfriend and the father of her new kids came in to town and I was good: I walked up and introduced myself, and later helped patch one of the baby's knees. I provided the bandaids and he applied them. He noted that Alexa preferred the mickey mouse bandaids and I held my tongue: Did not say, "How would you know? I'm the guy raising them!" or anything like that. And when it came time, about 11 PM, that I thought I might, I simply went to bed and let the party rock on. Marco and Italo both commended my behavior. Marco was particularly nice: "Dad, you're the freaking coolest person I ever met. You made a great party, you dealt with Troy, you didn't drink all night. I want to be like you when I grow up."
I countered that it was a lucky day, but really it was just doing what needed. Difficult for me because I happen to still love Chepa. But I did it and I am okay with how I behaved.
The party part was a blast. There was food for 200 and people ate and ate. Not just what I made but what Sarah's mom and dad and grandma and grandpa made. Plus what Chepa and her sisters made. Plus platters from a supermarket. Fortunately, Italo and Sarah's friends are mostly in their early 20s, so they can eat like horses. And drink. They went through a keg of beer, a couple of cases of bottles, nearly 4 liters of Cuervo Gold in Margarita's and then 1 1/2 cases of champagne. Plus a couple of bottles of Stoli that someone brought.
Still, everyone behaved wonderfully.
And when the kids were getting married, wouldn't you know it that I was the guy standing behind all the chairs, bawling. Just thinking about my Italo and quietly sobbing. That's why I stood behind everyone. No need to go public with a private waterfall.
And the girls, Madeleina, Sierra, Alexa and little Taylor Rain, well, they were simply magic. I just cannot get enough of any of them. I mean, I just had Madeleina in the jungle and mountains of Peru with me for 50 days and I'm still thinking she is about the coolest person on the planet to hang with. And she looked gorgeous--pronounce that gojus--in her orange bridesmaid dress.
So that's that.
And just now we finished several hours of cleanup. Tomorrow the dump and then the rounds of returning things like the air conditioner unit Sarah's dad rented for the garage, or the tables and chairs, the tent guy's stuff and the beer keg I got.
But it's done yet and I've a fridge full of leftovers if anybody's hungry. Let me know.
And spend one second sending them good vibes. Marriage is tougher than most people think--as most of you know.
Appreciate it.

Back Home Again...Life is Freaking Grand, eh?

Hello all. I've been away, working in Peru for 50 days and so have not been in touch. I'm sorry. But work is hard there. I've a team of 12-15 to oversee, trips to plan for, food to buy, babies who are sick, families that need help. Hell, it's like I'm a freaking one man money machine trying to keep up with it all. Not that I mind. My guests give me the money and I distribute it. That's how I see it. And this time, with my Madeleina, now 14, with me for the second June/July trips in two years, we actually made a few bucks. How? First, because she's such a good guardian she wouldn't let me have a woman closer than 20 feet and never ever alone. Which kept me from getting robbed or so gleeful that I gave someone $500 for the hell of it. Secondly: She wouldn't let me give anyone scholarships. Last time she was with me I gave everyone a break and by the time we added it all up I'd given $10,000 on breaks and came home broke. This time she wouldn't hear of that.
"That's my new flute, dad! Let them pay! You don't even charge enough to begin with!"
Which may not be true, but I limited scholarships and came home with enough to pay the IRS their blood money from several years ago and next month's mortgage and to buy the food and booze for my son Italo's wedding to my daughter-in-law, Sarah, the mother of my grandchild, Taylor Rain.
The trip was fantastic: Those of you who have been on it and were great guests, well, you know. This was just magic all the way with all the powers lending a hand to keep me joyful, and when I'm joyful, well, the rest of the world--at least our little world on the Amazon--tends to fall in line. So that was fantastic.
And now I'm ready to cook for tomorrow. I've cleaned and minced 15 heads of garlic and put it all in good olive oil to give me a foot up, but tomorrow it's brisket, Peruvian chicken, links, sausage, fresh beans, macaroni salad, potato and egg salad, hot dogs for the kids, a chocolate fountain, marinated and bar-b-qued asparagus and broccoli,and anything else I can conjure. The sisters, Italo's aunts will bring food as well. Heck, there are 100 people supposedly coming. Unfortunately, one of them is Chepa's boyfriend, the father of her new babies, the ones I'm sort of raising about 8 months a year because he's living in another state the last several years. I've never met him, and don't need to. I know he exists. No hiding from reality but he ain't gonna be my best friend.
I'll deal with it, I guess. I won't have a drink as a first step, lest I blurt out: Why am I paying about $6000-10,000 a year to feed and clothe your babies? Why can't you carry your end?
No drinks tomorrow. Be nice. It's my kid, Italo's day. Italo and Sarah. And their baby. And that's a good thing. Everybody is coming. I'll be on best behavior.
As for you all, I'll be back soon. Sorry to keep you waiting but those who know me in Peru know that when I am there I am there 100 percent and there is no time for anything else.
Now that I'm hear, I'm here for Italo and Sarah for a few days, 100 percent. And then it will be your turn.
Thanks for letting me have the space I occasionally need. I appreciate it.
And I hope it's all going well with you. Let me know.

Something About Iquitos

Okay, so someone on a forum I occasionally write on posted something to the effect that Iquitos is a patriarchal society. I begged to differ. I think it's interesting, so here is what I wrote:
Slightly off topic but need to respond to Hazle-ra regarding the culture in Iquitos. He calls it patriarchal. I beg to differ. Very very matriarchal society. Women rule the roost. Even with sexual advances, at least among Peruvians. Enter gringas, or women of other cultures and yes, the men can seem grabby, and probably are. But then that is their culture and it is the women who let it happen and only on their own terms.
This culture, you've got to remember, didn't even exist 140 years ago. Iquitos was basically a trading post for the tribals that lived on different rivers. Many were fueding, and that was exacerbated a great deal with the advent of the rubber boom to the area--when large groups such as the Shipibo--I know we all love them, butttt--chose to offer a lot of other indigenous people to the slave trade at the time rather than be enslaved themselves.
So what you see is a city that grew up around the rubber boom, where forced slaves intermingled with one another, with Irish indentured servants, German fortune seekers, Black slaves who'd escaped eastern Brazil and even some Brazilian tribals who followed the rubber boom west from Manaus.
At the root of the culture of Iquitos is tribal life: Mostly hunting and gathering and fishing with a little agriculture thrown in during the rubber boom era. Births of girls severely outnumbered births of boys. To that, add that as hunters, men tended to die off in the jungle faster than women. Which made the disproportionate number of women even greater. As a result, men frequently had multiple wives. In Peru, a headman who had several--generally four or more--is called a curaka--a name still used by the women of Iquitos when talking about a playboy type.
It was important in tribal communities to have more than one wife. The simplest example I can give is my now-dead Matses headman friend, Pablo. He had four wives when I met him, though he had sons old enough to suggest he'd had earlier wives as well. Each of the four had their own duties: MaShe, the primary wife, ran the camp. Amelia breast fed all the babies of all the wives and kept the camp clean. Marta went hunting with Pablo and carried the meat back to camp (leaving him free to hunt any additional animals he saw along the way; the fourth, whose name escapese me, was the primary tender of the chacras, the yucca fields they had.
All of the women interchanged roles, but over several years, what I'm describing would best describe the situation.
MaShe couldn't have run the camp, taken care of babies, carried meat and tended fields alone. So she welcomed the other wives. And the wives, in turn, enjoyed each other's company. So much so that Pablo wasn't really needed. His job was to hunt, provide the food, then get out of the way. Not that the women didn't enjoy his company now and then--they did. But not all day, every day. That was women time when chores were done.
Now that model remains the model for Peruvian households in Iqiutos. Not the several wives, but the man's role. And any gringos married to Iquitenos will know what I'm talking about. Your role as the male is to hunt--these days that is probably a job, but still, it's to provide the food. After that you will be looked after, but you're not otherwise needed. The sisters, their mothers, the aunts, they will sit all day making food, washing clothes, doing their chores together; the man is not really included or invited into that circle very often.
And when you marry, chances are very good that your wife will pick your lover. Might be a sister of hers, a friend who has no man, but your lover will be given to you by your wife. And you are expected to take care of her, both intimately and financially--which might mean an entire second extended family. And if the man chooses more lovers, well, I've rarely known the women to care very much so long as the man continues to hunt--provide--for the primary family and extended primary family and the amante and extended family. If you can do all that and have more lovers, you are a curaka and that's admired by an awful lot of people. Means you can shoulder your burdens, take care of things. You're strong.
And while the hunter who cannot hunt any longer might well be fed poisoned soup by his wives--particularly if they are young enough to get new husbands--a man who cannot support his family will lose all respect of the women--from grandma to the aunts, to the wife, the amante and so forth. And if they can possibly move on to another man, particularly as a group, they will.
So I'm seeing that as a matriarchal society, not a patriarchal one. On the surface, men are allowed to walk around with their chests puffed out, but they know who runs the show. And they are so far outnumbered as a rule, that there's little they can do about it.

Getting Ready to Go: Wonderful Day

Okay, I recognize that I've not been treating you fairly. And I'm sorry. My only defense for not posting more often in the three months since I've been back from Peru is that I've been under the deadline gun every stinking week. And I don't mean with six weeks to do a story. I mean, like last week, I was handed a story on Thursday afternoon that was 1,500 words long and told to turn it into a cover story by Sunday. Then this week, at my weekly meeting of my alternative weekly, I was asked to produce two 2,000 word stories in the next nine days. Can do it but it takes all I've got. Which means you get short shrift.
And, just for the heck of it, since I came back from Peru on Feb 20 or so, I've done three cover stories, five 1.500 word stories, 5 400 word stories, two columns for Skunk and a cover for MPI One+ mag. And I've still got 3 stories to finish before I leave town on May 30.
So I apologize and can only say I had nothing to say. The work has left me empty. Like a vacuum. I've not promoted my book for two seconds, not tried to finish the next book--nearly done, but so far away--and have not begun the third one.
And I have not been lazy.
Apology accepted, I hope. I'm sorry I left you.
Tonight is Friday. Chepa, the wife/ex-wife (and much more the latter for those who just joined) picked up my Madeleina, 14 and going on 40, from school and was to take her to Academy Sports to buy sneakers. Instead, she took her to the mall, whatever that is, in north Dallas, a couple of hours from here. And evidently bought herself nice clothes but didn't find anything for my daughter, who leaves for Iquitos, Peru--middle of the Amazon--with me next week.
All okay. My daughter will get the clothes she needs. I'm guessing Chepa got what she needed. Tomorrow is another day, and Madeleina can take $100 or $200 and I'll drop her off wherever she wants for a couple of hours to shop without her mom, who happens to be a fantastic and sexy shopper (Okay, I fell in love with the girl 15 years ago, and even though the marriage didn't work out I used to love being invited into the fitting room to check out how the new jeans would look) using all the money or taking her to stores that are more suited to 40-year-olds than 14-year olds.
So right now I've got nice salmon, Chinese style, with sesame oil, sesame seeds, diced tomatoes, scallions, ginger, garlic and cilantro ready to do. I've also got bi-color corn, which I hope won't kill us, and fresh spinach, fresh broccoli and fresh asparagus (with a touch of balsamic vinegar) ready to go.
And Marco came by, and my son Italo came by to say he's ordered an oxygen sensor for my old green truck, and the goats are happy, and Boots the blind wonder dog is happy and the birds are happy and you know what? I'm happy. I'm thanking whatever god or powers that be that I woke up this morning breathing instead of dying in my sleep. Because this was a great day. And tomorrow will be another if they'll let me have it despite my cigarettes.
So that's my apology to you. I'm living, and living hard, working like a dog, barely making ends meet but who cares since there is a paper up on my wall that says I'm grateful that I have enough to pay my bills.
And I hope you can pay your bills. And if not, I hope you find new and better work that will let that happen.
Life is fantastic, even out on the edge. I'm hoping you're enjoying it.

Madeleina's New Movie

Well, while you've all been missing me, I've been living large and hard. I've written three cover stories, four 1500 word pieces, six 200 word news stories and two columns since I last wrote, not including yesterday. I've had a clutch replaced in my old green truck, wrote three or four pieces for Huffington Post, of which they only put up two so far, unfreakingbelieveably. Oh, and Italo and Sarah decided to get married, at my place, with me presiding, under the watchful eyes of over 100 guests, all of whom I am supposed to feed--including Chepa's boyfriend--just 48-hours after I return from 50 days in Peru. Good luck with all that shit. I'm almost just hoping they'll break up for a week or 10 days to give me a little time to get the yard and house and food in order!
Oh, and yesterday, at Chepa's, when I went there to pick up Madeleina for school, she came bursting out of her room to say: "Don't even start with me!" to me. What? I know Italian guys in my neighborhood growing up who used that phrase, and it meant something, trust me, but my 14-year old daughter? Just trying to get her to school on time? What was she going to do if I started with her? I mean, com'on...that's a serious phrase where I grew up. It meant just what it said: Don't start with me or this will end very badly for you.
Now my daughter thinks she can say that to dad? Oy, vey!
And now this evening, in the midst of a torrential downpour and extreme lightning storm, she's in the midst of making a new Youtube.com video. She publishes under the name madeleinag, so look for her. She's pretty fantastic. But she hasn't made a new video in three weeks.
Tonight she got in the creative spirit and decided to involve me: I was supposed to be the meanest dad in the world and when she decided to play in water several inches deep, she had me coming out and screaming at her. We did about 10 takes. Each time she was like: "Dad, you have to be more mean..."; or "Dad, sound like you're going to kill me..."
And I finally did, screaming harshly as I walked into the ankle deep water and off she ran screaming.
"That was good, dad. You're going to jail for that one. You were an absolute psychopath...."
"Thanks, baby. Keep the outtakes so the department of social services can see that you were the one directing the film,
okay?"
I had another scene where she took a soda, in total excitement, and I reached my hand in and scowled, "What are you doing? That's my soda!!!!"
I had a third scene but she cut me out of it.
So go to youtube.com tomorrow or the next day and check it out. My baby is one crazy woman when she decides to be. And she's a great director. I'll bet it's a good video.
She just said this one sucks. But who knows. Check it out anyway.
Me? I'm thinking of all of you and hoping you are having as much fun on the road to dying as I am. Which means living voraciously.
Oh, and Sierra, Alexa, and my granddaughter Taylor rain are all fine. So is Italo. So is Sara, my daughter in law, though I can never remember if she has an "h" at the end of her name or not. So is Chepa. So is Marco. We're all doing well. I think.
I hope.
And I hope you're all doing well, too.

Guy Asked Me for Advise...

Someone wrote to me asking for advise on how to become an investigative journalist. I really don't have any, so instead I told him the story of how it happened and I hope it helps him somehow. Here it is:
Dear X: I'm not sure what to tell you here. That's because I didn't start out as an investigative reporter. I started out writing plays, poetry and finally short stories. I got a book called the Writer's Market (I think) about 30 years ago and went through the listings of journals and such to figure out who might print my stories and such. I used to send out 5 every week. They were often the same story, just photocopied and sent out. And the first year, I averaged about 1 sale for every 50 stories I sent out. And that sale was usually for either nothing or $25.
The second year I sold about 2 for every 50 stories I sent out.
Then I had a breakthrough: I was normally taking about a month to write a story. Way too long. So I made a deal with myself: I was going to write one story a day for 30 days, and that meant write it completely so that I could send it out at the end of the week with the other stories I'd written that week.
It was crazy impossible but I did it: At the end of the month I had 12 short stories, three or four opinion pieces and a 160 page novella. Amazing. And armed with that supply I was able to start getting sales about 1 out of every 10 places I sent stories to. And one of those places, a non-paying music weekly paper in the Village in New York, had an editor who called me to ask me to write him a non-fiction piece. He'd already printed four or five of my stories and wanted to try me at non-fiction. So I did. And it was okay.
About a year later, I was headed down to the Amazon for the first time and I told him I'd write a report every week on what happened that week. Which I did. I spent a lot of time on those reports.
Unfortunately, I discovered when I got home that he hadn't printed them. All of the hand-written stories were in my apartment mailbox. Seems he'd gone out of business while I was away.
But I looked at those stories and thought they were good. So I went to the Writer's Market and looked at the non-fiction category of magazines and papers. And then I started sending those stories out. And damn if High Times didn't buy one, then a magazine called Overseas Living bought one, and then Walking Magazine bought one and someone else bought one. Of the seven pieces, I think I sold 4 or 5. Better yet, I earned about $1,700, from those sales, which pretty much paid for the whole trip.
So I decided to concentrate on non-fiction--since it apparently paid so much better. And High Times asked me to do another story on the Amazon, which I did, and then another. And then finally the bosses called me into their offices one day and asked if I could do an investigative piece. I said I'd never done one but that I would try.
They said they wanted me to get an interview with Dave Foreman, the head of a group called Earth First!, a great environmental action group. The problem was that the FBI had put the key members of Earth First! on their most wanted list and so nobody knew where to find them or how to get in touch with them.
So there I was being asked to find this guy whom the FBI couldn't find. Sure.
I thought about it for maybe a week. How the hell could I find Foreman? I read anything I could about him from before he was on the list and then got this: He came from either Montana or Wyoming, or at least had lived in those places. And he looked big. So I suddenly got the idea that he probably played high school football, since most big kids in the midwest do, and I thought I might call all the schools in those states to find out if he had ever gone there. That didn't go anywhere because schools wouldn't give me the information. So I thought about it again and it hit me that maybe he liked to have a beer and watch football...
So I decided to call every bar in both states to see if I could find him. I picked Wyoming first and I don't know why. I call information--this was long before computers--and asked the telephone operator for the names and phone numbers of the first three bars listed in alphabetical order in Wyoming. I would have asked for more but three was the limit per call. So I called information again and got three more numbers, then again, and again until I had some two hundred or so drinking joints in Wyoming. Took about two weeks to collect that information.
Then I began making calls, in alphabetical order. At each I would say: Hello, this is Peter Gorman, and I'm with High Times magazine. I'm trying to reach Dave Forman of Earth First! and if you know him can I give you my number for him to call me?" Or something like that. Of course no one admitted knowing him. That went on for a couple of weeks.
And then, while I was working somewhere in the middle of my list, I got a call one day. "Hello, is this Peter Gorman?"
"Yes."
Click.
That happened again the next day. And then the next day and maybe two more times until one day when I said "Yes," the person at the other end said: "This is Dave Foreman. You want to talk with me?"
And I did and I got the interview and right then, I knew I was going to try to be an investigative journalist. All it took was coming up with a way to get information that no one had thought of. Imagine how I felt knowing that the FBI had Foreman on their most wanted list and couldn't find him and here I was in my little apartment in New York City and I got to him. Incredible feeling.
After that, I took every hard story--and tried to come up with some of my own--that I coudl get my hands on for High Times. And then other magazines started calling me, sometimes for regular stories, sometimes for investigative pieces.
So what advise can I give you on becoming an investigative journalist? None, really. Just keep your eyes open, keep trying to sell stories somewhere, anywhere, and sooner or later an editor will cal you and you go from there and see where it leads. And if you can get in with a weekly alternative paper--I'm with the Fort Worth Weekly here in Texas--there is plenty of investigative stuff to work on. How to do that? Just keep trying, even when you're only selling one story out of 50. The key is to keep sending material out. I was sending out 250 pieces a year for four or five years before enough editors knew me that I didn't have to do that anymore.
I hope that helps.
Peter G

Easter at the Gorman's

Well, it's Easter at the Gorman's. I was hot under the collar last night. Started off good: I had a meeting with someone coming on my July Jungle Jaunt and she was great and will be a great addition to the trip. Then I raced home for a radio interview about ayahuasca that was scheduled for 5 PM. Or so I thought. It turned out to be scheduled for 9 PM, which was when Chepa and the girls were due over to color eggs. Now that is a tricky one because Chepa's boyfriend comes in from out of state to have Easter with his daughters Sierra and Alexa. Nonetheless, Chep generally brings them, and Sara and Italo tag along and Marco comes in as well.
This time, it didn't work that way. With the late time of the interview, nobody came. So it was just Madeleina and I and she was the only one coloring eggs as I was making us a very late dinner. And that was just so so sad. I know Madeleina is capable of entertaining herself, but I'm afraid I've got her doing too much of that. She really ought to be around her sisters and brothers more. Unfortunately, she's attached to me and pissed off at her mom--for not making her spend more time at her house--so she doesn't want to be there too often. Actually, she loves being there but wants her mom, Chepa, to drag her over there and pay attention to her. Which doesn't happen enough.
So I thought it was sad my girl was coloring the eggs all alone. But she did a gorgeous job. Everything the girl does is art.
This morning was different. The easter bunny got here early and made up baskets for everyone, then hid the 18 eggs and then while I was out for the corned beef I'm making for dinner--okay, I know it's not lamb, but then the kids don't like lamb--everybody showed up. Now that's the way I like it: Pure mayhem looking for those 18 eggs. And 30 minutes later they were still short two. Those guys have never found all of them. Not once. And the eggs are always in the same living room. And that bunny still makes a couple of them invisible.
And now, the corned beef is on. Italo is here. little Taylor is here. Madeleina's here. Sara and Marco will come by later. Laundry is on. I'm working a cover story.
It ain't perfect over here. Hasn't been for a long, long time. But for a broken up family, we still do okay.

Well, Earth Day, Good Friday, Good Evening

Well, today was/is Good Friday. For catholics--and I was an alter boy who considered the priesthood for a couple of early teen years, until I discovered that girls had, you know....things that were nice to touch but incompatible with being a priest--it's the holiest day of the year, the day Jesus was crucified. I don't know that it really was the day, but that guy was something special, that is for sure. As were Krishna, Buddha, Mohammed and some others. So I'm all for taking a day of reflection to consider what real love, real forgiveness means. Or three, or 10.
It was also, this year, Earth Day. Another reason to reflect. What are we doing, how well are we interacting. Let's face it: By now, even those who have not dropped acid or had ayahuasca or magic 'shrooms have to see that we're not living on a planet in the middle of the universe, but that we are being permitted by the benevolent spirit of the earth to stay here. She shrugs her shoulders, we're all gone. She knocks her plates together, we're finished. Not her. She'll be fine. "Got along without you before I met you baby, I'll get along without you when you're gone," goes the old jazz number. So I think it's a good day to stop and reflect on what we each are doing here to help or hinder, to better or worse, both to the planet and to each other. And we could probably use another 10 days a year for that reflection as well.
In that spirit, I sang today. Not just rock 'n roll, but some good, deep notes that come out of the medicine I've been served over the years. I hope you all felt the resonance. They're not my songs or notes so no ego here: I was just lent them for a little while and couldn't repeat them now if you begged me. But for a minute, they were in my mouth and heart and soul and needed to come out and so I opened my mouth and out they came. And I hope the Earth, and the spirits, and all of you felt them. Not even on this level, just in your soul singing a little. And I felt songs from others as well. So thank you.
And now I'm off to cook dinner. It's simple tonight.
While it's cooking I'm gonna cut some grass in the front lawn.
And reflect.
Not on killing grass, just on giving it a haircut. Just on trimming the nails, so to speak.
Have a great night, everyone. And a great Passover or Easter or whatever else you call this time of breaking into Spring and welcoming the warm air and the start of the growing of the fruits and vegetables.

Car Trouble

Okay, so this isn't a typically bouncy post on healing or Madeleina. This is a stinky post on car trouble. Specifically, my 1994 Oceanic Green Ford Ranger pickup's car/truck trouble.
The beautiful think has 299,271 miles on it. I'm watching because I want to be there when it hits 300,000, and 400,000 and half-a-million.
Marco has been using her since his car got totaled. Sometimes he uses my 1998 Ford Ranger--dark green--but lately I've commandeered that one since it's been playing better on the highway and can hit 70 mph without a strain, while the older beauty only hits 65 on a good day or downhill run.
But in the last week or two, Marco has been charged with eliminating a 10-foot pile of cement and old wood from his mom, Chepa's back yard. So he traded trucks as the newer Ranger has a little better pulling/carrying capacity and much better tires.
So I'm back to the oceanic green and loving it. She's my pal.
But today, after driving to Walmart and Fort Worth and Two Bucks, she started to smoke on the way home. I pulled onto the shoulder of I-35, the major drug running route from Mexico into the US. No problem, as I had/have no drugs. But I also didn't have a phone, so I had to run across the interstate, jump a fence, walk a wet gully, hit a factory and beg the use of the phone to call Italo to tell him I was stranded, had groceries, and needed a wrecker to pick the truck up and take it to my mechanic, Rick's.
I also told him to have Marco pick up Madeleina from school as I wasn't going to make it.
Italo decided not to call a wrecker till he reached me, about an hour on a 90-degree day. No big deal. He arrived, we called one, they said they'd be there in an hour. They were and brought my truck to Rick's. Then Italo brought me home--me slightly upset because I'll need a new/rebuilt transmission for $1400 on a truck with 300,000 miles, but don't have a choice as I need the truck--to Chepa's, where I secured my other truck, the one Marco has been using.
Darned if I didn't find that the bed of the pickup is loaded with about 3,000 pounds of cement pieces, more than enough to wreak the truck. Damned if I don't have to go to the dump first thing tomorrow so I don't lose another transmission. Damned if I have not figured out how Marco destroyed the transmission in the older ocean green truck--with 3,000 pound loads of cement in a pickup meant to carry half a ton, plus passengers.
I decided not to rail at Marco. Instead, I took my dark green truck and drove home. It was about 6:35 PM.
There I was met with a scowling Madeleina.
"Dad! I told you I had a concert tonight at 6 PM! Why didn't you pick me up? I missed it!"
"Honey, I'm sorry. I was stuck out on a highway waiting for a tow-truck. Why didn't mom take you?"
"Dad, mom went out Saturday to Jessica's, then went out Sunday to Monica's and she hasn't been home since."
"Why didn't Marco take you?"
"You were supposed to take me...."
"I know, darling, but I was sitting on a highway at 3:45, on the way to picking you up at 4."
"I doubt that..."
"Ask Italo. He came and saved me."
"Well, I missed the concert. Thanks a lot."
"I'm sorry. What else can I say. I was 20 miles from here on an interstate."
"But I had faith you would make it here..."
I smiled.
"Thank you baby. But in the future, if I'm with a broken truck 20 miles away and you have an hour to get somewhere, ask your brother to take you if mom's not home. Even if I could have walked home I had no way to get you back to school. And I was not going to abandon a truck and groceries on a highway..."
"The older I get," she said, "the more I realize you're a long way from superman..."
I didn't say anything. I know I'm not superman. I'm just dad. And when she was little, it seemed I could do anything, get her anything, fix anything. Now that she's becoming a woman/a person, she sees the limitations. I've always known they were there but for her to see them is a letdown.
I'm sorry baby. Your daddy is just another person. I'm working in your corner, but even my best isn't always good enough. Welcome to the world, little girl. I'm sorry you have to be here. Cause it's a much nicer place when you think there is someone who can, in a pinch, fix it all.

The Amazing Hypocracy of the Far Right

Okay, now that I got my personal feelings about abortion out in my previous blog (see: The Abortion Issue), I want to just take a look at that issue again for a moment. But this time not from a personal point of view. This time not from the heart of someone who has contributed to abortions. This time from a simpleton's view of the spoken word.
In these hours leading up to a possible federal government (temporary) shutdown over the budget--it's 6:07 PM Central Time as I write this--I'm thinking about several of the riders the far right wing of the republican party tagged onto the budget. There was, of course, several abortion items: No more federal funding for Planned Parenthood, no funds to any country that might use some of those funds to fund abortions; and particularly no more money to or involvement with the United Nations Population Fund, which supports family services.
Those are three of the vitally important riders that the far right wing of the republican party cannot live without and which must be attached to the budget in order for them to vote to keep the government open for business.
Okay, so those people, those congressmen--and their counterpoints n the senate--need those changes because of the value of the fetus. Save the fetus at all costs. Don't give a government anti-malarial pills (which I don't like either) or help with fresh water in a cholera-plagued country if ANY funds given to that country might pay for abortion. Not if the cholera funds are being misdirected, mind you, just if ANY funds given to a country might result in abortions, then NO FUNDING for that country, even if it happened to be in the middle of a nuclear meltdown or a cholera outbreak.
But here is simpleton me. I'm just a kid from Queens, New York who went to catholic school, was taught all sorts of nonsense about the church and christianity--along with the very very good stuff about taking care of your neighbor and treating others like you would like to be treated, or better--and now looks at these riders to the budget and shakes my head. Maybe I'm missing something. Tell me if I am. But the riders don't end with abortion. They go on to insist that the budget won't be passed unless the EPA, the Environmental Protection Agency, the agency created to monitor and help protect our environment, is no longer permitted to regulate how many tons of greenhouse gasses a factory is permitted to emit. Let's face it: We're talking about the Midlothian, Texas cement factories burning tires to generate electricity and poisoning whole communities. That's what not regulating by the EPA finally means, I think.
And then the far right wing of the republican party is saying in another rider that they won't pass the budget if any funding goes toward health care reform.
And then the far right wing of the republican party says they will not pass the budget unless there is a commitment that no monies will be spent on the new consumer protection bureau.
So simpleton me, the kid from Queens, who used to play in Dupey's field before it was developed and was an alter boy at St. Mels o 154th street, starts thinking: And when I do I'm thinking: Wait a minute! You don't want abortions. Okay. I disagree but okay, you're entitled to your opinion.
But after you want to force women to have babies they don't want, you want unlimited smog, no health care reform and no consumer protection from preying credit cards, banks and other lending agencies.
So I'm thinking, let me get this straight: the far right contingent of the republican party is insisting that a fetus be carried to term to become a human, and then they want that human sick from unregulated greenhouse gasses, with no health care, and in debt to uncontrolled credit agencies?
Do you see what I'm seeing?
I'm not seeing the logic here.
But then maybe I'm missing something.
When I grew up in Whitestone, Queens in the 1950s and 60s, the mafia was all around us. Maybe half-a-dozen players lived right on our little block. Dozens lived within a few blocks. But they way they worked was this: If you needed money and went for a loan, they warned you against it. They said they were bad men who would hurt you if you couldn't pay it back. They tried to convince you not to take the loan. Same with everything they did: They always tried to talk you out of illegally gambling, looking for girls, drugs and so forth. Finally, if you screamed enough, they'd provide the vice you wanted.
Those were good bad guys. They were upfront about the deal.
These people who want to say it's a sin or wrong, or insane to have an abortion and insist that women who conceive by accident then carry the fetus to term as a human baby, are the same people asking for unregulated atmospheric gasses, no funding for good health care and no control of the predatory lenders when they reach out for help.
Tell you what: My mafia was always cleaner than that. Much much more upfront than that.

The Abortion Issue

This is a very personal blog that I put up on the huffington post today. It probably won't be approved until tomorrow. But I thought it needed to be said and so I've said it there and will say it here. For those who don't want to hear about the abortion issue on a personal level, just skip this one.

It's Friday, April 8. A government shutdown looms tonight if a budget can't be hammered out in the next 15 hours. At issue isn't budget cuts anymore it seems; at issue is abortion, primarily, and greenhouse gas regulation. The New York Times ran a wonderful editorial this morning pointing that out. The far right wing of the Republican party is demanding that to pass the budget it will have to include riders promising that Planned Parenthood will receive no federal financing, that the U.S. will not provide any aid to countries that might use some of those monies for abortions, and that the U.S. not provide any support for the United Nations Population Fund, which supports family planning services. Also, there is a rider that prohibits the EPA from regulating greenhouse gasses and another that prohibits any funding to health care reform. Oh, and then one more, according to the NY Times, that no monies be spent funding the new consumer protection bureau.
I've a mind to go off on each of these assaults on humanity, but I'll restrict myself to the abortion issue because that one is one I've been personally involved with. On numerous occasions.
When I was young, I lived with a beautiful woman. We lived together for a long time, about 10 years. During that time she got pregnant several times. Not because we were careless or didn't care about her body: she got pregnant on the pill, with condoms that broke, while using the diaphragm. We were a couple of Irish kids from large families and were both born to make a lot of babies. We were just built for it.
The problem was that we were not ready to raise them. At least I was not ready for a family. And if I had chosen, or if we had chosen, to let those spirits take on flesh, I would not have been a good father. I would have been a resentful father. I would have seen those spirits in flesh as humans and thought they held me back. So rather than make them suffer, she had abortions. Was it selfish? Yes. Should we simply have abstained from sex? Possibly. But try telling that to people in love at 20-25-30. Should I have simply been more mature and decided that my dreams, and her dreams too, were unimportant and should be sacrificed to the spirit we'd invited to her womb? Maybe, but I wasn't mature enough then, so that wasn't an option. Should I, we, have just had a bunch of babies and lived with it the way you live with a hand of cards you're dealt? No. That would not have been in those babies interest. I would have minimally been passively-aggressive, toward the woman I loved and toward the babies she bore.
In the end, after about 15 years together altogether, we broke up. She found a new man and had a beautiful family. Seven years after we broke up I fell in love, married, inherited--gleefully--two children from a previous marriage, and then my wife and I made our own beautiful baby.
Fatherhood didn't come easily: They boys were a handful and I found that I not only had a stern "dad voice" but that I used it more often than I should have. But I caught myself and tried to corral that. And I've been, I think, a good father, a good dad.
The reason was maturity. I just grew up a little by the time I was 42 and becoming a father.
Back to the abortions: We took them seriously. We knew we'd inadvertently invited a spirit who wanted to experience tactile sensations--have a body that could feel, taste, touch, hear, talk, make love, get ill, play sports--into the initial steps of having that body. It's a nine month transition and we stopped that transition from spirit to flesh with each abortion. And we cried over it, mourned some, and prayed that that spirit, those spirits, would find another home in which to grow a body, a home that would welcome them and be open to all that was entailed.
And when my own daughter was born, when the doctor had me pull her free and she opened her eyes while halfway out and in my hand and looked up at me and said "hep, hep"--which I swear sounded like "help, help"--I looked down at her and told her that it was too late. She couldn't go back in; she'd made her choice to go from spirit to flesh and that as long as she was here I would do all I could to make a place for her that was warm and full of love.
And I have. And my now-ex has as well.
If I, if the first woman I lived with and I had allowed those other spirits to take on a body, the reception would not have been as welcoming. And so while I wish I hadn't mistakenly invited those spirits into that beautiful woman's womb, setting them free to find a warmer reception was, in my opinion, the best thing to do for them.
Selfish? I'm sure. It was still the right thing to do. Giving spirit flesh is a wonderful job, but one best done with the right partner at the right time, I think.

Getting Old, Unhappy Camper

Okay, so I'm getting a little older. I turned 60 in February--don't worry if you missed it, I'm still taking gifts--and feel about 34. I'm strong as an ox, won't flinch from a fight--though I was never very good at winning them--and still have a heart/mind/soul of a kid.
Nonetheless, in the last few years, I have suffered some physical setbacks. Mostly, I had that damned intestinal ulcer that I had no idea I had until it burst and sent 3 liters of really awful junk into my innards, buring my organs. My doc saved me, but then I had to have it sewn up again, and then a third time. Not good. Then there was the flesh eating spider bite that left holes all over my legs and arms. Then there was the septic infection that ate the flesh from my calves and ankles. Then there was the broken ankle that I was sure would repair itself without interference--which it did after two years of pain with every step I took. Plus, it took San Pedro to actually do the fixing, but I only got that by walking up to near 9,500 feet at Machu Picchu, from a base of 7,500, with each step a very very painful move.
Then this year the damned flesh eating infection came back--not so strong, just in about 16-20 places on my legs--and I decided to treat it by ignoring it. I suspect it came back from the original spider bite and that it was time to just beat it on personal power. HA!
Okay, plus, I got the damned dengue in Iquitos.
Which leads me to this: While I've always been a 120/80 guy with blood pressure, when I was tested with dengue and the infection in my legs, I was suddenly a 170/105 guy.
My doc, someone who is a genuine emergency room doc and who has been on two trips with me, suggested that the infection and dengue caused the increased pressure.
Now he's not sure.
Cause I've been back in the states for six weeks, dengue long gone, and the infection nearly dormant--except for two sores that really hurt a lot!!!!!!
And I took blood pressure twice a day for two weeks, same time, same bp machine. And I was about 160/105 the first time each day, then 151/100 the second time, half an hour later and 1/2 mile walked between readings.
So doc sent me bp medicine. He knows I feel strong and don't want no damned medicine.
And then last week, my second reading for the last three days dipped to 96, 93, 91. So I told doc that I didn't want his medicine, that I wanted another week to see if having lost about 13 pounds--an estimate--in the last few months, and having added riding my bike--with a stationary machine--plus walking an extra couple of miles of fast walking daily might not bring it down into the 80s on the dyastolic.
Well, yesterday and today were both at 178/110 and second readings were about 161/104 and doc said it didn't matter how I felt, that those are bad numbers. Bad numbers.
So I at a damned pill.
We'll see what happens.
I am not a happy camper. I don't take pills unless they are for fun. Or basic ibuprofin.
And now I'm old and fat and bald and taking blood pressure medicine.
I'm on the way out.
I'm a goner.
\ I'm useless.
HA! I am going to be walking the Amazon in 10 years!
If I were you, I'd bet on me.
Even if it's a Peter G who is taking freaking blood pressure medicine.
UGH!

Fast Birthday Dinner

Okay, so I left at 2 PM after a good interview with Erik Davis about ayahuasca on the radio and an apology to my boss that I was gonna miss this week's meeting, and then out the door. I had six errands to run and had to get back by 4:45 to pick Madeleina up from school. I hit the post office and sent Chepa and her babies, Sierra and Alexa, a stash of fariña, roasted, fine ground yucca, without which the babies scream all day. Then on to Office Depot to send a fax; a contract for a couple of grand that I really need. Then onto HEB to buy some veggies that Walmart has not had recently. Then on to Walmart to get my blood pressure taken--I've been averaging about 165/105 for the last month and that's not nice, particularly since I've always been a 120/80 guy until I got Dengue Fever a couple of months ago. So I ain't happy and I've been losing weight: about 12 pounds so far and another 20-25 to go to get to 170. I haven't looked at a scale in four years but today I walked around with my shirt tucked in, so I know I've lost some, at least.
From Walmart it was gas/cigarettes and then on to Two Bucks, a liquor store for my two mini Wild Turkeys and two mini Jim Beams, my alcohol for the day, and the it was a race to get Madeleina from school without being too late.
I was late. I ran into a 6-minute train: 120 cars of petroleum that took 5 seconds each to pass. Six minutes. So I was late.
Home, I went to the phone messages and one of them was Italo saying his girl, my daughter in law, had a birthday today. Heck, I didn't know that. Moreover, he said they and a couple of friends were coming for dinner.
I still don't have a good present for Sarah, my daughter-in-law and the mom of my granddaughter Taylor Rain, but I did make a good dinner.
First: I cooked two ears of corn, then cut the kernels off them and broke them up. I put them in a mix with diced red pepper, thinly slices red onion and cucumber. With vinager, white, plus a bit of olive oil with garlic, black pepper and sea salt.
Then I marinated sliced chicken breast in garlic-infused oilve oil, white vinegar, onions, ginger, a bit of teriyaki; to go with similarly drenched asparagus, cauliflower/ and broccoli. Add to that nice sweet barbeque beans, basmati rice with garlic, roasted pork with homemade barbeque sauce and a little roast beef short ribs.....
That was a cool meal to come up with in less than an hour, just with what was in the house.
Now we're gonna serve a german chocolate cake we made while peoploe were having dinner.
Next time please tell me it's you're birthday, so I don't have to sweat about the menu....

I'm Just Saying it Ain't Right, Okay?

So my son Marco brings me something called a Surcharge Notification a few weeks ago. That's something dreamt up here in Texas--and it may exist elsewhere as well--whereby if you accumulate three moving violations in your car over a three year period, you not only pay for the tickets, but you pay a nifty little $150 or so on top of it for having had those three speeding tickets.
Well, okay, I didn't pay it much attention because last year Marco got the same thing and I paid it in exchange for him doing some work around the house.
Yesterday, in an effort to avoid looming deadlines--I like to call it ruminating about the story I have to get out--I was going through the "need to take a look at someday" pile of mail on my desk and there it was. I figured it was a duplicate of last year's notification, so I dug out the previously paid notification and called the outfit that sent it to tell them it had already been paid.
That outfit, Municipal Service Bureau, isn't actually a local government agency but an outsourced private company hired to collect bills for the city. Calling them was easy: I waited through the push-button automated options to get to the option where I could talk with someone to explain that the bill had been paid and that I'd begrudgingly send them the paid receipts if they needed them.
Getting through to a live person took some patience: I got on the phone at 11:45 and didn't get a person till 1:15. That was a lot of patience, but as the company has no address, it wasn't like I could go somewhere (their PO Box is Austin, about 3 hours south of here) in person. I mean, you can't just wait by a PO Box and talk with the person who picks up the mail. I guess you could follow that person back to wherever they bring the mail and try to talk to someone there, but that might get you arrested for stalking. So I waited and finally got to talk with someone.
In the meantime, I'd gotten Marco's full driving record: he had two speeding tickets in 2007, one in 2009 and nothing before or after that. The two in 2007 were in the same neighborhood and three days apart: I think they happened as he and his first real girlfriend were breaking up. In any event, he had nothing since then.
"This is Melissa at MSB. How can I help you?"
"Hello. Finally. Thanks. I have a small problem here."
I explained the notice and that I'd already paid the surcharge. She listened patiently.
"What you might not know is that you pay the surcharge every year all over again for three years," she said.
"What?"
"Let's say you have three tickets this year. You pay the surcharge next year. But the two following years you would still have six points on your license so you pay the surcharge again. Even though you already paid it. It encourages good driving."
"Three years?"
"That's right. Anything else?"
"Well," I said, looking at Marco's driving record. "Two of those tickets came in May, 2007. If they peel off after three years then he's only got the 2009 ticket."
"That's impossible. Unless he didn't pay the tickets until 2008. When did he pay the tickets?"
To my dismay, he paid both of them in 2008, months after he'd gotten them.
"Yeah, well you see, in that case the tickets counted for 2007 AND for 2008, because the conviction happened the time he paid them. And that's in the 2008, 2009 and 2010 cycle of three years. Anything else I can help you with? Oh, and by the way, the surcharge was due no later than March 24, so if it's not paid by April 7 his license is automatically suspended and driving with a suspended license is not only a $250 fine, it's also two points towards next years's surcharge. And he's already got two points from the 2009 speeding ticket. Have a nice day."
Dang! I'm just saying it ain't right, okay? Only in Texas, where the people rail against big government while their pockets are being picked.

Ah, Madeleina Again

It's Sunday morning, threatening to rain here in bucolic Joshua, TX. Hasn't rained in about a month. Chepa took her babies, Sierra and Alexa, up to Indiana about a week ago to visit their dad, so Madeleina's been with me non-stop. Actually, she's been with me most of the time since I've been back from Peru. Which is fine by me. But I know she misses her mom when she's out of town. You can't quantify that type of abandonment--but I know she feels it. And not that she wants to go to Indiana, particularly, but I see it in her eyes and the occasional flash of anger that she feels it when her mom leaves with her other babies, leaving Madeleina feeling left alone.
So I try to make the best of it. I drag her around with me, generally against her will for the first few minutes till she gets in the groove and starts having a good time. Yesterday I gave a short talk for the Fort Worth Chapter of the Society of Professional Journalists as part of a panel on natural gas drilling. The title sounds cool, right? And when I was introduced as someone who'd won multiple state and regional awards, and even a couple of national awards for my writing on the subject, well, I beamed but I thought Madeleina was going to explode!
It was a small group and I was very short and sweet: most anything I might have said could have been construed as political and that might compromise my ability to work as an objective reporter on the subject. So I opened the program, spoke ten minutes and left the stage.
Madeleina wasn't thrilled about coming--especially about waking up at 7 AM on a Saturday morning to go hear me talk--but wound up having a gas, in part because they had fantastic breakfast snacks, like mini-lemon cakes and mini-cinnamon rolls. And she got to stroll around the TCU campus where the event was held.
I paid her back by taking her to a fantastic glass/art gallery she'd never been to before after we left, and she was just wild about the art works. I mean, she was wild: "Dad! Look at these flowers! Look at this vase! I looks like it's a moving waterfall!!!! I want to be an artist dad, forget everything else, okay? An artist who has an appreciation for all things glass!!!!!"
We followed that up with a trip to Ms. Molly's, the best toy store in Fort Worth, for our money. Though she's been there 20 times she never fails to fall in love with it all over again. Her only disappointment being that she's too big a girl now to have all the toys that set her heart on fire. I did manage to get her a sort of mesuda hair thing that lights up--which I'm gonna guess is going to wind up on a youtube madeleinag video before long.
By the time we got home she was bushed and went to sleep. I spent a couple of afternoon hours working on a story due tomorrow, Monday, then headed out to the store to run errands. Before heading out I picked up the mail: there was a fresh box of fantastic jungle soaps--and generally fantastic bath soaps--made with plant essenses by my friend Boa Cowee, who, if she would ever set up a website could make a fortune with her beautiful soaps.
That one was addressed to Madeleina and I.
Then there was another piece of mail, this one addressed to the "Parents of Lydia Gorman". Lydia is Madeleina's first name, but in Peru you don't use the first name, hence Madeleina. It was from the Fort Worth High School of Performing Arts. It was either gonna be an acceptance or rejection letter. Dammit. I wasn't happy with getting it.
On the other hand, it didn't have a negative vibe, so I opened it.
It said that Madeleina had passed the audition to make the school with her flute, but that the few flute slots for freshmen were taken by kids who'd done better than she, so she was on the waiting list.
Good, I thought. She'd done well. This is a pretty high powered place in a town, Fort Worth, where they take their bands very seriously. And Madeleina had done well enough to make the school cut. Just not well enough for the three or four slots they had for flute. But this being Texas, well, people move around all the time, so I won't be surprised if something opens up and she gets to attend the school next year.
But I knew Madeleina was not going to take it that way, and when I got home she didn't disappoint.
"I didn't make it, dad! I'm a loser! I'm nothing! Why did I even try out?"
"Ah, darling. First, stop the theatrics. You're a winner, not a whiner, okay? So have your angst and then get on to the winner part."
"You don't know anything, dad....."
"Okay."
Pause.
"Done yet? Good. Now reread the letter and read what it says..."
"I can't. I already threw it away."
"Well, then I'll tell you what it said. It said you made the school but that some other kids were better than you. So you're on the waiting list. What's the problem with that? You made the cut. They just don't have enough seats."
"But I'll be a loser going to Joshua High School...."
"Enough, Madeleina. You never thought you were the best flute player. You know you're not. You don't practice enough for that, and that's not the school's problem, that's your choice. So if other kids practice an hour a day, and maybe have a private teacher as well, and you practice 30 minutes a day, who the heck do you think is going to be a better player?"
"That's not fair. I mean, they should just see what a wonderful addition to the school I would be...."
"Right, and then what should they do? Kick out a better flute player to make room for you because you are simply the coolest girl?"
"Exactly! That is exactly what they should do!"
"So much for worthiness..."
She eventually saw things my way, or at least pretended to, and then I distracted her with a cool meal, the likes of which we have never had around here. My friend Gritter, the emergency room doc, sent up about six pounds of the best slightly sharp venison sausage in the world. So I sliced a few ounce of that that thinly, bought some sharp cheddar, a little hummus, good crackers, stuffed grape leaves, good black olives and some sweet pickles. I made us each a tray with that selection, then added a few fresh strawberries, cantaloupe and watermelon.
I had mine with a Cabernet; she had hers with fresh sweet lime juice. She spoke with an alternating British and French accent throughout the meal. "My, the Gerkins make a lovely complement to the venison, don't they dear dad? And ze ftuits, zey are such fierrrce competition for ze cheddar, no?
We both probably gained 10 pounds.
It was worth it.
A nice day all around.

Death of a Friend

About a week ago I got a letter, via email, from the wife of my friend Daniel Blumenau. She said that he'd died a couple of days earlier. I was stunned. I exploded in tears, anger, sorrow. Dan Blumenau was the older brother of my college pal, Phil, with whom I shared a cold water flat in New York from 1970-1976 or so. Phil helped teach me how to behave as a man. When we hitchhiked across country the first time he showed me how and when you needed to wield a machete to ward off serious problems. He taught me how to understand when a girl wanted to make love and how to accept that. I think I taught him some things as well.
Phil's older brother Daniel was something of a rapscallion. And a Cassanova. When he was young he could meet a girl entering an elevator and by the time they reached the 5th floor she was begging him to make love with her. Wasn't my style, but I was always envious.
And Dan was an artist. He took making montages to a high level: Among his well known works was the inside jacket, double fold, of Stevie Wonder's Taurus album, and Jimi Hendrix's Electric Ladyland bathroom montage, for a while the most well known montage in the world. And it was Phil and I who did a lot of the work putting that up, under Daniel's direction.
I worked a lot with Daniel in the old days, when I was in college and shortly afterward. We worked on the Arthur Schlesinger house on, I think, east 64th street in NYC. We worked on the Kennedy house, yes, those Kennedys, across the street from Arthur S. We worked on the Oscar De La Renta house down the street. We worked for Island Records president Chris Black when he opened his offices in the Carnegie Building on, I think, 57th street. And then we rebuilt Island Records' townhouse on Grove Street in the village.
Daniel always had something going. Always was one step ahead of whomever wanted to blame him for Thai sticks showing up in New York and one step ahead of the other artists who would have killed themselves to get the building/art jobs Daniel got.
I've only been in touch with him sporatically the last 15-20 years. Maybe once every two/three years he'd call or email or I'd call or email to tell him I saw him on some documentary or that I was interviewed about the Electric Ladyland bathroom mural.
But he wrote me in November or December that his wife was ill with cancer and wondered if I had any medicines from the jungle that could be used as adjunct alternative therapies. I had a trip coming up and so said yes, I'd bring him some medicine for his wife when I returned from Peru in February.
I did. US Customs confiscated one of the plants; the other got through. I called him; we spoke. I gave him directions and sent the medicine out to him.
He was happy and on the phone he still sounded 32 to my 22 years old. Voices don't change as much as the color of our hair or the size of our pants.
And then two weeks later his wife called and said she felt great from the medicine but that Daniel had died of a heart attack two days earlier.
I am still crying. He was one of the very small group of good guys. Not perfect, but he treated the people who worked for him with respect and love and that is a small group indeed.
Despite not spending time with him for a long time he was still my friend and I always thought one day we'd do another building job together--and with Phil, of course, who has since gone on to be a brilliant physicist. And now we're not gonna get that chance.
Daniel: Have a wonderful trip to the next place/space. Smoke a joint of thai stick and smile and make some art that makes other people smile. That's why you were put here: To make people love the wonder of being alive. And I think you did your work well and earned your stripes and bars and now you go, brother, and show the universe what you can do. The universe will be surprised and will love you. Have a great trip, DB.
P

Just Something Short on a Detail of Healing

A friend of mine, someone who was with me in the jungle a few years ago and subsequently went on a big hike to the Matses villages on the Galvez with some of my team, wrote to say her dreams are often prescient and very very vivid since she drank ayahuasca. She also told of having dreams where she was able to "suck" illness out of people, but that when she did she didn't know what to do with the ick she removed so she just tossed it into a nearby river in her dream. She wanted to know if that was okay and also whether dreams that later happened was a normal thing to experience after having had the jungle medicine ayahuasca.
This is what I told her. And I think the second part is important. I've written it here before, and noted in my book that the late Bertha Grove, a wonderful Southern Ute medicine woman, was the first to tell me that illnesses have a life of their own, with their own desire to live. And just pulling them out of someone doesn't mean they're going to die. They're going to keep looking for a new host--in which they might appear as a different illness than they did in the person from whom they were removed. She basically saw the illness in a person as a negative energy that had taken form to stay alive in a host. Anyway, here's the short note to my friend:

Well, I think that once you open that door, it never shuts, so no, I'm not surprised if your dreams are vivid and sometimes let you glimpse what's going to happen: After all, it's us that sees time as linear. But it may not be linear at all.
Now if you're given a gift of being able to suck out bad things, it is important that you know the bad things have a life of their own and don't want to die, so they will try to go into you, a new host, or to be dropped somewhere where they can wait for new host to come buy and affix themselves to that new host.
So, you have to not let them get in you: Just suck them out into your mouth and keep your throat closed when they're coming out. If they do get into you throw them up, then catch them on the way out.
Once you have them, either by spitting them into your hand from your mouth, or by throwing them up into your hand if you have accidently swallowed them, you must dispose of them in a way that will prevent them from finding a new host. You can send them to a place where no other life forms are. You can wrap them in light that will prevent them from ever escaping. You can put them somewhere where they will be transformed from negative to positive energy.
But don't be tossing them in the river girl, where they're gonna get in/on some poor fish and wreak no havoc, okay?
Peter G

Why I Do Aya in the Jungle and not in a Camp

Someone wrote me asking about my upcoming June and July trips to the jungle. She expressed interest and noted that she had been at a very very well considered place to do ayahuasca twice before. I think it was twice, anyway. And I wrote her back and then mused for a minute on why I keep insisting on going through all the trouble to take people out to the deep green when it would be so much easier and so much less expensive to just build a place on one of the properties I have just outside of Iquitos and take people there.
Well, I know why. Because I love the jungle, that's why. And even though my places are in deep jungle, it's not the same as getting on a river boat and moving up the Amazon River 212 kilometers and doing everything else we do. But there is more to it and so this is the short note I wrote to the potential client on why I do things my way, instead of another way.

L: Just a note on why I do things my way: I was always taught that ayahuasca was a part of the jungle life--not apart from the jungle life. So I like people to get out on the river and live with the people who live on the river. I like neighbors asking if they can be part of the ceremony if they need healing. I like the occasional sound of a child laughing during ceremony. With Julio there were always neighbors and kids around: They just added light to things. The same with Airport Juan and Francisco before Sachamama became formalized. And forget Don Solon!!!! He had no door on his room and neighbors walking up and down the hall all night! Still, just part of things.
Anyway, I was thinking about that and since you just wrote, I thought I'd let you know.
Peter G

Taxes, Madeleina, The Catholic Mass

Whoa! Those are three pretty heavy things in a title, don't ya think??? You betcha (apologies to Sarah P for appropriating the phrase!!!)
But they're all in action today. The back taxes, well, I got to pay them and today I sent off $700 to start. Ick. Miserable, I am. Hate it, I do. Still, I now owe only $4450, and that's better than $5150. And I also filed the new taxes for 2010 and they ought to bring back some money. Chepa gets most of it because she needs most of it, but I ought to get a couple of grand and that will be nice.
So darn it, I looked at it every which way, but even the CPA I hired couldn't find a way for me to not owe the taxes. The issue is that we, Chepa and I, get child tax credit, and you can't get that if you have more than $3100 in a given year in royalties from things like a gas well. In my case, I had more than that because my mortgage company took nearly two years to release the money to me but the IRS doesn't split hairs. I had a check for over $3100 in 2009 so I owe the child tax credit back to them. Which is nearly $5 g's and a bit over that with penalties and interest.
I've given up being angry at the system and only hope they spend the money on care for the vets who are coming home from one, two, three, five tours of the middle East and need good psychiatric and physical help. If they spend it on those guys and gals, well, then I don't mind putting it into the pot. And I'm hoping they do.
Now Madeleina, well, she's getting grown up. She asks things that surprise me. She asks about how to raise children and how to apply eye makeup and how--even though she doesn't like boys yet--she should respond to a boy trying to kiss her. Not to slap him but how to kiss back. WAIT!!!! This is my little baby! What's going on here?????? And she asks about books and why people like caviar if that's just the same as eating 50 fish embryos per spoonful. And she asks about why some singers get famous while others, more worthy, get left on the scrap heap. She's asking about everything. And she's angry. She's angry at her mom for not being a regular mom and she's angry at me for still catering to Chepa instead of cutting her off completely. And she's angry at her brothers for living at mom's and not here at our house anymore.
She's a handful and all I know to give her is time, attention and love. And I probably fail miserably at those.
But look for a new Youtube.com video under the name madeleinag tomorrow. I have a feeling she's planning something awesome for St. Pats. Us being Irish--or me being Irish and her being half-Irish and all that. I think it's gonna be good cause I saw her collecting her green stuff for it. I'm not sure she has it all planned out yet but given her mood--which includes us dancing together wildly to Billy Idol's White Wedding at full volume today in Marco's room, after which she said she hoped that's not how I ever danced in public!!!!---I will bet she'll be in fine fettle tomorrow for the video.
And then when we were driving to Two Bucks, the liquor store where I buy my four minis of bourbon daily--two Jim Beam and two Wild Turkey--she asked me something about catholicism. She said: After the priest finishes reading the bible, what's left in a Catholic Mass.
And so, as a former alter boy, I thought for a minute. And I realized that the Mass, as celebrated by Catholicism, is just the preparation for and the reception, of the representation of the body and blood of Jesus Christ. The priest comes out, blesses the congregation. The alter boys, in my day, responded for them in Latin, signifying, yes, we hope you are blessed as well, and so forth. And them there was the purification and then the feast on the host and then the thank you and that was it. Half-an-hour, tops, except on Sundays, when there was a homily--story--stuck in there.
I told her that thinking about it made me think of how we do ayahuasca in the jungle: We invite the right spirits, invite those who are not right to stay the heck out, thank the medicine, ask it to help us/heal us, then we drink it. And then we say thank you. Very very much like a basic catholic mass when I was an alter boy.
And I told Madeleina I wished someone had told me that was what a mass was like when I was a kid. I would have understood it much better.
And then she asked me about homily's. And I told her imagine three kids from a foreign country moved into the neighborhood and they were beat up by locals. The priest might find a passage about loving your enemy, read that, and then talk about why those new kids should have been greeted with love--even though they were outsiders--rather than beaten up. And he'd ask the congregation to consider that and to consider that their grandparents were outsiders when they arrived in the USA years ago and that it was better to greet them with a fresh pie than with fists. And if it was a good priest--and I dealt with all good priests in my years as an alter boy, which means good, giving people, nothing more--he'd tell the congregation to go out and tell everyone in the neighborhood to bring those new families food and pies and shower them with love so that the enemy would become a friend.
AND NOW I have to finish dinner--fresh dover sole of all things!!!!!--so I will leave it here. And I hope some priest somewhere is making the analogy in his homily this Sunday, that if we can all come together to want to help the people of Japan, then we can and should all come together to help heal ourselves here at home. Cause that would be a good homily.
And I love you all for reading this and putting up with me. Thanks. Peter G

Today's Opinion--Or Rant...

A friend of mine, one of the coolest people in the world, wrote today. He wrote a rant about having to get a new computer, his fourth in three years, or third in four years, and he wrote about getting ready to retire and not being able to afford health insurance. And he wrote about the youngsters of today who are not carrying out our political legacy--a legacy that includes civil rights, women's rights, gay rights, anti-nuclear proliferation, environmental work and a host of other very very important human work. And he asked why I wasn't writing about politics anymore, particularly as regards Wisconsin and the new Governor's bid to eliminate state workers from many angles of collective bargaining. And he wrote about the lack of poetry in the world today and how, if it doesn't change, he's gonna take his marbles and go home.
I was stirred. Like a chemical cocktail!!!! So here's what I wrote back. Just for fun, kiddies, but with a grain of truth...or sand....or whatever:

Dear Lar:
Wow, bad luck with the computers. I treated myself to a Mini-Mac---which is not a laptop but is a tiny square box that I could theoretically use anywhere that had a keyboard and screen--and it's freaking wonderful. I have no idea of everything it does--I still have not even figured out how to get the oral sex it's supposed to give, for instance--but man, it's quick and steady. Ran $800 with Macoffice, which it didn't come with. First new one I bought in five years--first new one I ever bought actually. And I wouldn't have had to buy it but my computer guy moved to Colorado and I couldn't find anybody in town to fix my old Mac G3, which I think is great but other people say is old fashioned.
It's just like the Nishiki 12-speed bike you gave me: You remember when that was a pretty top of the line bike: Steel frame, long body, racing/touring, very comfortable. I think it cost about $750 new 25 years ago. Well, I recently had it overhauled for about $300, including new tires, and it's a freaking dream. So I looked it up on Ebay. And people are selling them for $10-$50--when they have them! Unvbelieveable. But it turns out new bikes weigh half as much. And it turns out my old G3 MAC, the newest of the new, the state of the art, is now as much a lead sled as the darned Nishiki!!!!!!!!
And yes, kids are nuts. And I've got one son, Marco, who needs to be beaten but I'm not allowed to do that. Plus, he's 23, so what the heck. But he's been out of work for a year and there are signs up all over the place asking for people to work. And he swears he's applied but he's lyin!!!!!!!! He just sits in his shed behind Chepa's trailer and broods and plays video games all day. No drugs, nothing bad, just crazy.
And I agree about the tats. I am so sick of kids getitng these freaking tats that are just gonna look so bad when they gain 100 pounds in 20 years. And they look pretty bad already. I still don't have any, though I've got a lot of well earned scars from botfly infestation and sapo burns, and the flesh eating spider bite and the intestinal explosion and the hernia and all the rest. Now those are tattoos in my book. I remember the pain of each one of them. Not just: "Sat in a chair for an hour and had this guy write my boyfriend's name on my breasts. Then I had to have it covered over with another tattoo when we broke up!" That's not a tattoo in my book, that's just a bad hair day.
And you're ready to retire? I just turned 60!!!!!! I'm freaking out and freaking old and my beard is mostly white and my hair is gray and I hate it. And I have not had health insurance since I moved to Peru in 1998! Everything is cash on demand. Fortunately, I've been able to do most of it in Peru but still, I've spent more than $10 grand on the stomach ops and $3 grand on teeth--and they are not finished--in the last 4 years. Add another couple of grand in other stuff and that's been my whole profit from my Peru trips for a few years.
On the other hand: We be living, Lar. You're still probably the most handsome man on the planet, and you're strong, still doing triathalons, and you're gonna live 25 more years and make love a thousand or two thousand more times and you got a wife who loves you and beautiful kids and a tiny house that sounds like a nice tiny dream and your social security will come in and you'll get $1200 a month and work part time and sell paintings....and I'm selling my book a little at a time and making maybe $600 a month after expenses, and I get to travel to Peru and lead groups and my kids are gone but not far away and me and Madeleina still have the best of times and I have a grandkid and have something to do with raising Chepa's new babies....so all yer bitching is really just a way of saying "I'M FUCKING ALIVE!!!!!" I think. And the problem is that you see others who are not so alive. Well, I agree that sucks. These kids should have taken what we learned and gone further, not sat back and watched the politicos and corporations take it all away.
But they did. At least for now. And you and me, we can be in the fight--and I'm in the damned fight daily, though not in Wisconsin, particularly--but I'm in the fight about dengue in Iquitos right now, and in the fight about radioactive gas pipes and in the fight for the drug war and in the fight over corrupt politicians in Texas and as many other fights as I can be in--and you living right puts you in the fight as well. So we're doing our part. We're setting examples.
Aren't you sorry you got me revved up here?
I'm thinking I'm gonna buy a box of suspenders and some clothes pins and start handing them out to kids whose butts are hanging out....just an idea.
Anyway, I love you and I'm sorry we're all getting older. I still think and feel like 34 and so I'm gonna keep acting like it. Cool, suave, tough (okay, semi-tough) and excellent.
P

Okay, So I'm not really happy right now

Alright, I generally like to write cool stuff here. But sometimes things bum me out and this is one of them. Last week or so I wrote about the IRS saying I owed a bunch of money. I wrote them and they reduced the amount to just over $5000. How? I have no stinking idea based on what's earned and what goes out legitimately to feed people around here. Legitimate people.
So I went to a CPA who spent half an hour going over things and said, "Well, you might owe $1.200, but not more than that. Give me a few days and I'll write up the papers for you."
So I went home happy. I don't think I owe even the $1.200 but it beats the heck out of the bigger figure.
And then today I called his office and his associate told me she was about to call. The paperwork was done. The bad news? "Well, you still owe the amount the IRS says you owe."
"How?"
"I have no idea. But you do, so we've included a partial payment form with your paperwork."
I am not happy with this. I don't mind paying my taxes. But I think I'm genuinely being jobbed on this one.
Okay, that's my bitch.
Everything else is great.
And if you're reading this, I've got trips coming up in June (jungle/mountains, either or both) and July (jungle intensive). So if that's something you would like to do--and the trips are better, much better than fair to middlin', now would be the time to write me either here or on private email (you'll find that at pgorman.com) to get the luscious details.
Sorry for complaining.
I hope you're all having the most fantastic of days!!!!!!

A Moment of Pure Magic

This is a story that involves my Madeleina, the electric company, my ayahuasquero, Julio Jerena and blind faith. I thought I had told it and written it down a couple of years ago, but yesterday when I was telling it to my friend Lynn, who has heard an awful lot of my stories--and lived a bunch of them with me--he said he'd never heard it. So maybe I didn't write it down afterall.

Years ago, perhaps in 2004, I was in Peru with my friend Lynn. We were at my friend and teacher Julio's home on the Aucayacu River in Peru's Amazon. We drank ayahuasca and during the course of the evening, Julio gave me two guardians to help me with all sorts of things. Like guardian angels but much more imposing and frightening.
I've written about them.
But that particular night I asked them if they could help me make a living writing. I mean, I'd been a journalist for 20 years, and a damned good one, but after having moved to Texas in 2002, I couldn't catch a break. Nobody knew me, I didn't know what interested Texas readers--heck I didn't have any contacts here and so was having a hard time keeping a roof over our heads.
The guardians told me not to worry: that if I did the work and did it well, the work would be there for me. I didn't really believe them and so was pleasantly surprised when, a few days after I returned to the US I got a call from someone in Canada. The caller said he was the publisher of a new magazine called SKUNK, an irreverent marijuana magazine, and that his key staffers had told him I needed to be involved. "So here's the deal: I don't know who you are, but my guys say I have to have you, so what are you going to do for us and how much is it gonna cost me?"
That was a very cool line. I thought for about three seconds, told him I'd write a regular column and he should pay me $1000 an issue. "$1000?a Are you crazy? How bout $100?"
We settled on $400 and I've done 48 columns for them--at 8 per year--since then.
Other work came in as well. Unexpectedly. And that's when the Fort Worth Weekly, our local and fantastic alternative, decided I should be on a weekly stipend rather than just freelancing for them.
So I thanked the guardians and worked my butt off. And I told Madeleina, then maybe 7, why I was suddenly getting work. She was thrilled. "I'm glad Julio decided to help you, dad. Now you won't have to worry about money all the time..."
Unfortunately, in the world of magazine writing, having the job, even doing the job, doesn't produce instant money. It's often several months from turning in a story before you get paid. So several months later, when Madeleina was 8, I think, the electric was going to be turned off. I'd begged and pleaded, told the electric company I had checks coming in soon, but it was no use. "We really can't wait any longer, Mr. Gorman. We've done our best and we'll get it on as soon as you get caught up. I promise."
Well, the next day or maybe two days later, was the turn-off day.
The truck came shortly after I brought Madeleina home from school. Guy said he was here to turn off the electric.
Madeleina called me aside: "Dad, the guardians don't lie. They said you would have the work if you did the work and you've been doing it. So they have to fix it."
"Honey, I have the work. They never promised people would pay in time to pay the bills..."
"That's not fair. That has to be part of the deal or they were lying. And you said the guardians don't lie. So tell the man to wait."
"Wait for what, baby? The mail already came and there were no checks today. We'll get a check in the next few days and we'll get the lights turned back on."
"No. Tell him to wait a few miniutes. Just tell him, dad!"
So I walked over to the guy who was waiting impatiently to turn off our electricity and explained that my daughter believed in miracles and could he wait just 10 minutes to humor her? Maybe go to another house and then come back?
He wasn't keen, but started to chat a little about the bushes in my front lawn, which would buy me enough time to satisfy Madeleina.
And then, over the hill at the far end of the road, came a yellow DHL truck. I wouldn't have paid it any mind but somehow knew it was coming to our house. And it did. It turned into the driveway and the fellow asked if I was Peter Gorman. I said I was and signed for an envelope and off he went.
I opened the envelope. Inside was a bank check for $1000. It was from a magazine I'd done a story for nearly a year earlier. A story I'd already been paid for.
"I knew it, dad! The spirits don't lie!!!" shrieked Madeleina.
I showed the electric company guy the check and asked him if I could have half-an-hour to cash it and I'd bring him the dough. He laughed, said he couldn't believe it, then left. I said a silent thank you to the spirits and apologized to the company who was paying me a second time, then went to the bank, cashed the check, returned, paid the electric company and that was that.
And then I called the outfit and explained that I'd already been paid for the story but had cheated and cashed the check anyway and told the editor that I'd pay it back as soon as I could. He said that would so completely gum up the people who handled paying the freelancers that it was better I just kept it.
And Madeleina? Well, she had faith. Extraordinary faith that if the spirits really told me we'd have the work as long as I was willing to do the work, that that included avoiding things like electricity turn-offs. I don't know if it was her faith that made that check appear or not. I do know it showed up out of the blue, no advance warning, and that it was not due. And that it was a bank check, not a regular check. And that it came after I asked the guy to stall to give Madeleina's faith a chance to play out.
I don't know why I've never written that up before. Or why I've forgotten that I did if I did. I do know that when a friend who is at the end of his rope came over yesterday I told him that story and told him to keep the faith. That maybe just over the next hill was his DHL truck with a solution to his current problems.
I hope it is.
Thanks, Madeleina, for teaching me just how deep you have to believe to truly have faith in something. And thanks for coming through, guardian spirits.

New Radio Show

Everybody: Here's a link to a radio show I did recently. It's one of several I have done with this fellow. He's very nice. Don't know where my half hour is in the show, but what the heck, it's all worth listening to. The url is
http://hotfile.com/dl/98450614/b497392/Radiohuasca18.mp3.html
And if you hunt around in his area, you'll find that I did a two-parter a year or two ago with him. This group of interviews--I think we did 5-6 hours altogether, includes me talking/answering questions, as well as me reading from the book. Which I hope is not totally and horribly boring.
Now, on another note: sad thing is that Chepa's boyfriend is moving back to Fort Worth from Indiana or Wisconsin or wherever next month. Which means I'll have a lot less access to Sierra and Alexa than I currently have. That's is painful. Cause I love them calling me and asking: "P Garman? You bringing donuts?" from Sierra, with Alexa in the background shouting: "P Garman, don't forget the donuts! Don't forget the donuts, you butthead!!!"
Still, if Chepa loves the guy and he loves the kids, hell that's the best thing that could happen. So I'll be resolute and fine with it all. Just stinging while thinking about it.
And then there is my Madeleina, who is currently out in the back yard on the tree swing, twisting the ropes so tight so that she can spin out and nearly puke.And, she's making up songs while she's spinning.
If you want to see her in action, she made a new youtube.com video last night. Just go to youtube.com and punch in madeleinag--note the spelling--and look for her video on homework. It is pretty hilarious. I know I'm prejudiced, but damn, I think she's very very good for a kid who has only made 5 videos in her life, a total of maybe 7 hours of working with a little $150 camera and her own spontaneous ideas. I'm impressed.
And I think you will all get a laugh.
SO GO AND WATCH HER!!!!
THanks,
PGarman