ofREH

We are orphaned.

My Sister, Brother and I.

Patricia, or “Pat” as everyone knew her, and never Mary, assumed her mortal coil on the 24th of June, 1943 and shook it off yesterday, August 19th, 2020.

She was born to working class stock. Her Father, Stan, was a locomotive engineer, and her Mother, Betty, a homemaker and caretaker of the elderly.

Patricia grew up in a small Council House at 48 The Oval, Kettering Northampton, the Midlands of England. 

She had an older Brother, whom she adored, an older Sister, whom she battled, and a younger Sister, whom she hardly knew.
This, because by the time my Mother was fifteen, she was pregnant with my Bother, and engaged to marry my Father.
Who’d carry her off to America, and a foreign World.

That, for a girl who’d never been more than 20 miles from her home, would prove difficult.
My Mother would remain homesick until she returned to England for good, fourteen years later.

In the meantime, she would give birth three more times. Resulting in her needing false teeth, uppers and lowers, by the time she was 25, having sacrificed so much calcium bearing children, so young.

By all accounts, she was anything but demure, as a child, and then young teen. 
Having got with child, at such a tender age, could not have been very easy for Stan and Betty.

The marriage certificate mistakenly lists her age as fourteen, and interestingly, a spinster.

Indicating, of course that my Brother was already born by the time the event took place, and who has often joked that he’d attended our Parents wedding.
And, he had

A military Man, my Father was primed for Vietnam, and  when it came, he went. More than once.
Pat was just out of her teens, and by then, saddled with three small children.

Essentially alone, but for the tender mercies of her Mother-in-Law, out of her depth. 

To Italy, the first time, then back to the States.  Imagine if you can, this tiny, 4’11” Woman, her Husband away, toddlers in hand, gathering luggage, strollers, and boarding planes and flying around the globe.

In this age, where traveling even with a single child today, could mean a prescription for the child or parents, both. 

It is hardly any wonder my Mother struggled.
Patricia Mary had passion. Passion for her Family, passion in love, of fashion, in creativity.
With that passion came a cost. Coping.

There were dark times.
My Father needing to come home on emergency leave, and Pat’s turn away. To a sanatorium, for a spell, but returning and again taking up the mantle.

Again, with three of us in tow, she returned to England and we remained until my Father finished his tour of Duty. 

There, the best of times. Among her own again, mending fractures done in the wake of her having left in the first place.
 
To Italy again.
For me, at least, it was there, and at that age, I could have lived forever.

My Brother and I living as Lost Boys in a style of Peter Pan.
Our front yard, the Mediterranean, our back yard, a long dead volcano.
Literally.

But it was also there, sadly, that our Mother became unstuck.

Though, she protected us from her unnerving, and what she shored up with drink. 
Then came Michelle. Her fourth…and for a short time, the glue that bound us again as a Family. 

Once more, we returned to the States, and another military base, and Pat, the military Wife, and Mother.

But she’d had enough. It was time for her to go home. For good. 
With my Sisters, she went back to England.

My Father was left with a broken heart, his anger, and two boys.
It didn’t go well.

And not just for us.
My Mother returned to her England, but not as the same young girl she’d left as.
England, was not as she’d hoped.
My older Sister missed her Father, and didn’t settle as well as she might have. After just a few years, our Mother let her come back to the States.
My Mom, and little Sister carried on.

From long distance phone calls, with poor connections, we stayed in touch.
That period, and her trials are mostly unknown to me.
There were a few bad men. And the drink.

It went no better for us, in the States.
My older Sister discovered boys, and escape. My Brother, solitude, and me, trouble.
I didn’t see her again until I was grown. 

For me, she was as she’s always been. My Mother.
A fiery, witty, easy to laughter, but quicker to scorn, beautiful tiny Woman.
But, sadder, somehow. 

In the years following, we managed visits a number of times.
Her coming to the U.S, my visiting her in England.

As I recall, always emotional rollercoasters.
As one would think, but also burdened with unanswered questions. For us both.

But, not doubt. Never doubting that she loved me, her troubled Son.
And I, her, my troubled Mother.

 She married again. A wonderful, devoted Man.
The years inched on and contact easier. Facebook, mobile phones, video calls. Regularly.

As we both grew older, she found her peace.
With her Husband, Family, her Grandchildren.
As did I, of a kind.
Yet, it was both in peace and upheaval, my thoughts always ran to her.

Once,
I sat in a car on the side of the road, needing to return to Iraq, but dreading, fearing it…and was she who I called. My Mom.
“I don’t want to go back, Mom”
“You’ll need to finish what you started, Son”, her reply
Harsh words, not words of comfort, or reassurance, but the words I needed. Her words that got me back on the plane, to finish what I’d started.
As she would have.
And finally has. 

Passion, to all things.

If for her Husband, her Children, her Grandchildren.
Her Family, her life…throughout, was passion threaded.

And so, no half measures. Hers, a passion to see it done,  and most often, have done for others.

Her love, equally fierce, but freely given, remains.
As will always, the intense, blinding spark of her life, lived. 

That we might recall that passion, be inspired for it, living as she would.
Loving, as she had.
In every detail, In every breath. 

Hi.. uh.. I’m Roland and…I’m an addict.
“Hi Roland!! Keep coming back!”

Just about 30 days now, since I deleted my Social Media accounts, Facebook and Twitter.
The air is cleaner, the skies bluer, the horizon crisper.

If I’m honest, it really hasn’t been that difficult, and I recommend the exercise of purging for everyone.
The greatest challenge for me, was the routine. The morning ritual of coffee, cigarette, iPad email-Slack-Facebook-Twitter. In that order.

Facebook, the easier to do without.
While I do miss updates from Family and a select group of Friends, those instances were getting farther and farther apart and one needed to sift through countless ads and repeating posts that are specifically geared to the user through algorithms, and generally miss the mark.

Twitter, the more egregious of why I purged, but whose absence was felt more pointedly.
I rarely tweeted but did rely on it for critical news updates and succinct analysis. With 30 days clean, you can perhaps imagine my looking on in smug sanctimony (as addicts are prone) while rending garments, pearl clutching, and ululating take firm hold in my own home, with the threat of the end of The Tik Tok.
Poor Michele.
China will have one less unwitting agent at it’s disposal.

In the twilight of my addiction, I never adopted Instagram, so I certainly never embraced  the Video Instagram, Tik Tok.
That said, Social Media, and Tik Tok in particular, was not without its advantages.
Michele gleaned binders of helpful snippets from its pages. (Who knew about Watermelon with cinnamon, or air fried peaches!?!)

Now that I’m free of the grip of Social Media, it feels easier to look on it objectively, to gauge those advantages, or disadvantages.
Now I simply pen these ramblings to the aether, instead of posting in the Facebook, relinquishing the bind of gauging my self worth in Likes, comments, and views.

I do miss the earlier days of Facebook, where I would battle with Friends and strangers over politics or current events, but that bygone era was noticeably exchanged for one where posts resembled billboards.
Virtue signaling is not open to debate, in the end.

It remains to be seen if the exercise is as indulgent as it once was. If this medium will satisfy, as methadone does heroin.

Like you, I have countless memories of my youth or childhood.
They are crisp and easily recalled and, as I get older, I seem to rely on them more frequently.
Also, as I age, I often worry that there may come a day I’m unable to so I’ve thought to begin a series where I recount these precious tales to myself, as one would a child.

The following, is one of those.

As a small boy, you had an incredibly vivid imagination.

Not necessarily more than any other boy your age, but at least in one case, significantly less. And you were green with envy.

Playing Cowboys and Indians was required for any boy from your era and you were no exception. Your parents were exceptionally generous in outfitting you in every manner of True Grit accouterment. The cowboy boots that you were rarely out of, holstered cap guns, U.S Calvary Outpost sets to be assembled with corresponding threatening Indian figures placed outside, laying siege. Or the coon skin cap, if remembering the Alamo was the tragedy to be played out, with varying outcomes.

Frontier Land in Disneyland, and especially the Army Fort on Tom Sawyers Island, were places you dreamed of living, forever. Hoping your parents would somehow forget you there and you’d be free to wander, once the park had closed.

It was not an unfamiliar sight for you and your Friends to be seen prancing around, attempting to simulate a horses gait, even holding imaginary reigns to your chest as you tried to calm your feisty steed as it reared and bucked.

Yet there was another boy who was not among your Friends, who played alone, rode alone. You’d see him and keep your distance because you, your posse, thought him strange. He had no interest in joining your own group of outlaws, playing whatever lawman or cattle rustler you would insist he’d portray.

No, this kid had his own Spaghetti Western playing out in his head and was not about to forfeit the lead role to be relegated some minor figure, on someone else’s western plain.
While you scoffed with the other boys at this kids dismissal of any camaraderie, secretly, you understood and were jealous.

You were jealous, but with Friends, pointed and snickered.
But secretly, you wished you could be that kids Tonto.
Because, as a little boy thriving on TV westerns and comic books, you understood that this kids game was at an entirely different level.

While he, like you, clutched imaginary reigns to his chest and lifted his feet as a horse might do, that kid wore wood clogs when he did, sounding just like a horse might.
Fucking clogs. A little boy. And it was glorious.

That kid gave zero fucks about you or what your Friends might think. Of how strange it was to see a little boy in wood clogs, when only girls wore them.

That little boy wasn’t content with the meager beast you rode. That kid rode a magnificent stallion and you fucking knew it too.

You remembered that kid and his ingenuity but you also remembered how brave he was and how you would never have been so daring, so carefree.

You often wondered what became of him but how he probably did very well.
You often thought to be more like him as you got older.

There are three industries that immediately come to mind when I consider how technology has radically changed the face of doing business. They are not premier examples but simply ones that I’ve had the chance to be witness to. All three relate to transportation or logistics.

The first is the taxi industry, in the wake of Uber.
In SF, the licenses that allow an individual to own and operate a single taxi were called medallions. Until recently, a driver could put their name on a list and, after an average of twenty years, their name would come up and the City would hand them a medallion that they could choose to either operate independently or, more commonly, lease to one of the major cab companies.

This system was pretty cool because it amounted to essentially a decent pension for a driver who had worked their ass off in an otherwise unforgiving, dangerous, and thankless job for twenty years.

At some point, that changed.
If I understand correctly, the City got greedy and decided to start auctioning off the medallions and that allowed the large cab companies to eliminate any average Joe who could never hope to compete in a bidding war.

In an example of almost perfect cosmic timing, Uber was conceived around the same time and fundamentally changed the game. Suddenly, those large cab companies were scrambling to compete themselves in a market they were wholly unprepared for.
The Uber model addressed every aspect of what the public detested about hailing a taxi and the taxi industry had absolutely no response to the coup.
…And Devil take the hindmost.

Another example, and perhaps sadly, are the Mom and Pop travel agencies.
A good Friend of mine’s parents, in the 90’s, had scrimped and saved their whole 9-to-5 careers to open a small travel agency to operate in their golden years, only to see it fail almost immediately with the advent of Priceline, Expedia, and booking directly online with the airlines.
Poor fuckers.

Lastly, is the eradication of plague and scourge upon the City that was bicycle and motorcycle messaging.
Bye, Felicia.
Not completely, of course. You can still spot an occasional throwback adeptly navigating bike lanes downtown, Architectural blueprint tubes sprouting from tattered and threadbare sling bags, sorrowfully harking back to a time when their brethren ruled the streets with iron fisted, and fingered, tyranny.

In their heyday, I lived above Zeitgeist, the undisputed bastion and sanctuary for any newly arrived patchouli reeking dope fiend,  Northwest gutter punk, or Mid-West rebelling college dropouts to drink cheap beer, score dope, and commiserate loudly and ad nauseam  about the deplorable condition of the motoring public, with other like minded over-achievers.

Duboce and Valencia. Den of iniquity

This is the very demographic that represented gentrification during and after the Dot.com bust and why I yawn and roll my eyes when it’s own remnants are heard these days bloviating about how todays tech workers are ruining the mission and City in general with their healthy lifestyles, perfect hygiene, large incomes and relative tax liabilities. How Google and Apple shuttles have made their daily excursions to the methadone clinic pure tedium, with the masses of chambray clad, white earbud adorned, sidewalk cast, scooter wielders.

Admittedly, I am biased and have an axe to grind.
I hate the bicycling class.
I hate their disregard for the axiom that one must at least acknowledge what is bigger, the careening tons of metal that dominate our roads. That they seem to think themselves entitled to some reverence or particular consideration for their pursuit of carbon hippie-toes.
My own willingness extends to not throwing it into reverse, reveling in the satisfying  “thump thump”, as I imagine the spandex form beneath me exploding from its seams, the losing contender in the battle for blacktop hierarchy.

This visceral angst was left unsatisfied and festering with bike messengers going all but extinct…until this new breed of motorcyclist, the roaming gangs of sport bike acrobats and petulant enthusiasts began to make themselves known, and despised…

But that’ll do for tomorrow.

Imagine you are a teacher, in a one room schoolhouse. You only have one student and that poor child is dimwitted.

There you are, at the head of the class, pointer in hand, chalkboard behind.
The dimwit sits in the center of the room, bulging from the small desk because of being held back and is clearly much older than should be for this class.

Your mission is to somehow get though to this pitiful creature, with heavy brow, low ears and dull eyes.
Your mission to explain the inexplicable, to someone lacking the capacity to comprehend even the simplest of terms.

You are the learn-ed, the instructor. The purveyor of truth and enlightenment.
I, am that student.
Your task daunting, I wish you luck.
let us begin…

Riddle me this, Professor.

You detest religion, of any stripe. While you make meager and halfhearted boasts of wanting to protect the right to practice it, let’s be honest, you’d prefer to see it abolished. You think it base and, though a suitable opiate for the masses, we as an evolved species would certainly be better off free of it’s bonds of ignorance and superstition.
Karl Marx said so and, dadgummit, that fella was about his business.

Except for Islam.
Somehow Islam escapes your scrutiny.
You’ve never met a Muslim you didn’t love or feel the need to protect.

This is the inexplicable part, so pay close attention…

While I cannot see past the fact that 98% of all terrorist acts are conducted by Muslims, you obviously can, and do.
But the part of this lesson that should earn extra credit, that really has this student wrinkling his heavy brow with consternation, the super duper paradox and where you must earn your frightfully low wage, is how, just how, you ignore every other professed tenet of Islam that runs afoul of your learn-ed ideology.

How is it, with convenient “What would Jesus do” quips, “the horror of the crusades” and, “those child molesting devil priests” at your ever ready disposal and on quick draw…you somehow skim past  homosexuals tossed from high-rises? How do you ignore the espoused position on Women in Islamic countries and culture? How, exactly, do you rationalize child brides, stolen from their villages in Africa and sold into slavery, genital mutilation, honour killings?   For such an imbecile, I’m curious.
With the Hijab as a constant reminder of the subjugation and second class citizenship of Women, how does one conjure a defense for those that insist on it, Men and Women alike?
If, that “one” is you.

At the head of the class, constantly bleating on about the “war on Women”, square that for me, will ya?
Cuz, I’m kinda struggling here.

See, I at least I get that religion, unchecked, can be very dangerous.
I get that my Church in past centuries is guilty of horrific crimes against humanity.
But not this century, Son. Or even the last.

This century, not only have we to counter those that would see us, the infidel, wiped from the face of the earth but we get you in the bargain, willing to completely ignore the red tide of extremism, out of some noble quest to discourage, what, profiling??

Listen, I’m probably going to fail your class, again. Another big fat F on my report card because, for all your efforts, I still don’t get it.
Because, I would call for an old timey crusade tomorrow. I would condemn every Muslim that remains silent, unwilling to finger their extremist, Jihadist buddies.
I would opt for turning every third century Islamic shithole into a glass parking lot.
Inshallah.

Here, switch with me for a sec and take this seat.
Class, repeat after me…
“Islam is a religion of peace”
Again.
“Islam is a religion of peace”

Class dismissed.
You’re an idiot.

Perhaps I should be flattered.

The Universe, feeling particularly randy yesterday, thought to seek me out for it’s unsolicited attentions. Bending me over and wearing me out the day through.

What could a guy, like me, who pretty much has everything they could hope for: my health, a nice home, a beautiful, wonderful and devoted Woman, Friends, purpose, liberty, groceries, and every conceivable modern convenience…have to complain about?

Well, do take your inevitable “first world problems” cliché and do choke on it.

Thoughts of the swollen bellies and fly encrusted eyes of mournful Ethiopian children, do nothing to stem the tide of rage that engulfs me when everything, every single thing, I touch turns to shit.
When that happens and I’m in the throes of unrestrained choler, the plight of all third world nations become inconsequential to me.

How could they not when the only supplied washer for the thing I’m bloodying my knuckles on trying to assemble, has vanished into thin air, vaporised.
I saw it fall, heard it, and replayed it in slow motion again and again, as I searched in vain.
Poof.
Leaving me reflecting on hours of now fruitless effort and staring down at parts unassembled, completely useless.

So don’t come at me with starving masses, Bro. My struggle is real.

A sane person, would have known what was to follow. That the nature of wanton inexplicability is the harbinger of bad tidings.
A sane person, would have repaired again back to bed, grasping the futility and resigning to begin again, afresh, the next day.
Needless to say…
The Universe had Viagra’d up and I, it’s little bitch.

The rare times I’m of a mind to ponder it, I often consider that God is trying to teach me patience. A good lesson to learn but, for me, possibly my greatest hurdle.
Like my Father before me, I am not a patient man.
Nor am I mellowing in my old age. Quite the contrary, much to Gods disappointment.

I can’t say if it’s a matter of temperament or if, feeling the press of time, I suffer fools less gladly. Either way, I suffer them barely and make it plain enough.

But today, a new day, haltingly I rise and swing my legs out to put them to the floor, hoping to find it still there and not having fallen away.
Today, a new day, I will reflect, as the morning wanes and petrichor wafts, on my countless blessings, of how fortunate I am to only face the minor trials of misplaced washers.
That, if the Universe, sated, could move on to it’s next lover, I would strive to be a better Man.

Because if I think, even for a moment, it’s hard being me, it’s pales compared to being with me.

Apologies, my Dear, you are a Saint.

If you were to stop reading here…I wouldn’t blame you. In fact, I’d suggest it.
Because what follows will be nothing short of a hate filled rant.

Lying might be forgiven were it a gut reaction, a defence mechanism in hopes of staving off an onslaught of accusation and criticism but that one usually regrets having done so.
We all have, God knows.

Deceit, on the other hand, is by design. Premeditated to fool or misguide it’s intended target.
For that, there should be no forgiveness. It should be ranked among the many notorious mortal sins that invite eternal damnation.
Advertisers and marketers would surely be at the head of that illustrious gang, bound for the fiery pits of hell. And good fucking riddance.

I was not forged in the Golden Era, when small businesses ruled the roost, but I’ve heard stories.
I’ve heard tell, of a time, long ago, in a land far away, where shop keepers cared about the satisfaction of their clientele. That they banked on it. That the wares they peddled were backed by their own good name and reputation.
A land where the Maytag Repairman really was bored shitless.

No, I was forged in a much more cynical time. Where chain stores had long since replaced the local grocers and “fresh” is nothing more than a means to grab the always fleeting attention of a passerby and millions are spent on studies of just where “fresh” should be placed, what font, and how bold.
Today, “fresh” is encrypted to mean “sucker”.

I’m not a total moron, I know that there have always been charlatans. Selling everything from snake oil to religion. But I don’t think it was the standard. I don’t think it was just understood to be the way of conducting business.

I’ve been staring at the blinking cursor now for at least twenty minutes, unsure in which direction to go here.

One direction would have me detail my own excruciating experience at the hands of a lying, sack of shit, retailer today…or bemoan how surprised I was to learn that even the company I contract for, employs the very tactics I condemn here.

“Oh no!, that’s horrible! I’m terribly sorry for your trouble and let me put you on hold while I investigate”
“Why no, we are not aware of the problem, this is the first we’ve heard of it and thank you for bringing it to our attention!”

Sadly, whoever that person is that just fed you that line of total horseshit, is likely very nice, maybe even Canadian. Probably very upstanding. A Good parent. Church going and long time Rotary Club member. They could be very active in their children schools or even revered PTA presidents. They attend charity drives, watch dog rescue videos on Facebook and cry.
They are the best of neighbours, always there to lend you a hand or watch out when you’re away…but let me tell you, without blinking, I would nail them to a fucking cross or light the faggot that melts the fat from their bones, watching contentedly as they scream in agony from the stake, for the frustration and grief they caused me today.
I kid you not.

Are they to blame? Maybe not.
Maybe the advertiser, marketer, or customer service person simply accepts the direction insisted on by their employers and believes that were they to balk at it, question it, “but..we DO know about the issue, there was that service bulletin that came out a fe…oh… Yes sir, I understand”, that they would be replaced.
Or, perhaps they just assume the rest of us know it’s total horseshit and will adjust accordingly.
More likely, I’m afraid, is that they think us simpletons, too stupid or lazy ourselves to question or doubt.

Even worse, much worse, is that they don’t think at all.

For that, they are to blame.
And must burn for it.

If I see a Corvette on the road, I generally assume the driver is a pecker.
Much as I do when I see a guy my own age riding a brand spanking new Harley-Davidson.
Invariably, I am reminded of the South Park episode where a bunch of middle age guys go around town making deep throated motorcycle noises and unnecessarily revving their engines at every opportunity.
“you guys know that everyone thinks you’re total fags, right?” Cartman asks.
Why yes, yes I do. Please enter me in the thinking-they’re-fags column. 

I can’t stand Harley rider culture. I detest the logo plastered on everything they own, from their keychain down to their underwear. I don’t even like their bikes.
But I’m getting one, a brand spanking new one, this month.
And I can’t wait.

I’ve not had a motorcycle now for three years.
My last bike was a BMW and while I couldn’t stand that obnoxious, over-reflectored, neon wearing culture either, unlike Harley-Davidson, I loved the bike.

I did my best, while I had it, to dispel the prevailing notion that all BMW riders were fairy boot wearing Euro-trash.
I’ll do the same with the Harley.

I pledge to never display the logo beyond what is included on the bike. I pledge to not congregate en masse with other Harley riders or sign up for charity rides, riding tandem down the highway, flags unfurled into the wind, desperate to feel a part of something.
I pledge to quietly honour our Nations veterans with a moment of solemn reflection at home and not in DC, horribly snaring traffic in one of the most congested cities in the Country, just to get attention.
I swear to never know or care exactly where, or what, Sturgis is.
I pledge to wear no more leather than absolutely necessary and, never, never, employ fringe of any variety.
This is my pledge.

I’m getting a Harley because My Girlfriend wasn’t comfortable on the BMW and I want to take some long trips with her. The bagger I’m getting is literally the only bike they sell that I would ever consider. It’s big and has storage, audio and navigation gadgets, and is very comfortable.
And low key.

I’m also getting one because I’m older now and I just can’t take the neck and back position of a sport bike anymore.
I seriously still have no feeling in a big toe from a pinched nerve in my neck, after a ride four years ago.

So, I’m all ready.
Like a schoolboy preparing for his first day, I have everything laid out.
New glasses, helmet, gloves, jacket…
All I need now is the bike.

Until then, you can find me driving my Girlfriend crazy, going about the house making deep throated motorcycle sounds.

Brummmbummmbumm brrrummblummmmblummm

A good Friend of mine recently commented that perhaps the GOP should revert to dueling, Hamilton/Burr style, to resolve differences and indicated how pleased he’d be with either result of such a meeting.

There are so many things wrong with what he believes was his little witticism, that I don’t know where to begin.

I’ll start here.
I don’t think he was serious for a number of reasons. Firstly, dueling is illegal, as it was when Burr shot and killed Hamilton, as it was when Hamilton’s Son was also killed in a duel a number of years before.
And we all know that legitimate laws will stop that kind of nonsense from happening.
My good Friend especially knows and supports that ideal.

Secondly, and more importantly, he’d likely be among the first to be eating grass before dawn.
This because the premise of dueling is to gain “satisfaction” after having been offended or for have given offence.

Now, just imagine.
The numbers of offence mongers laid waste on dewey, early morning fields for demanding “satisfaction”, would be handsome.

Liberals would finally be afforded the means to address the gross inequity perpetrated on them by bottom feeding, flat earthers, without needing to fiddle with my First Amendment rights.

Now, while my good Friend thought he was just being clever, I actually think it’s a capitol idea.
I mean, let’s be real for a second. There is zero chance that the greater percentage of my good Friends contemporaries would survive such a meeting and, consequently, after initial numbers calls for “satisfaction” begin to subside, so would outrage in general.
~crickets~

Though, if we’re being honest, I would naturally be inclined to give grave offence at every opportunity, if just to see Charlie Darwin prevail.

Glory be. There’s to be a reckoning.