The Illusionist and Bar Tricks

Orlando 2008

Orlando is a town were most everything is make-believe, an escape from reality in a family way.  Murphy Arms an English Pub off International Drive, hard living, escape and illusion came together one night.  Murphy Arms is a working man’s pub for British tourists, and local construction workers, nothing fancy, dark even on the sunniest of days, smoked filled and tattered.  A place to bring the family, which many Brits do, an escape from the escape that is Orlando.

The Illusionist

I never once took my eyes off the ring.  I had seen this trick done before and I was determined this time to see how it was accomplished.

Holding the girl’s hand the illusionist, Larry,  took the ring off her finger, gently holding the ring between two of his fingers in the complex gentle way magicians do.   He slowly showed the ring to the 20 or so of us gather to see this trick.   I stared at the ring, never taking my eyes off of it, until, then with a wink of the eye it was gone.   I lost it. I did not see where it went.  I  wasn’t paying attention to the crowds or the miss direction, my concentration was on the ring.  Now it was gone.

“Oh shit I lost it, did anyone see what happened to it”  Larry the magician said to all of us watching. This was theatre and Larry was playing his crowd like the 25 year veteran magician he is.

As he opened his hands and slowly turned them, revealing nothing.  The ring had literally vanished.

I didn’t know where it went and I was the only one looking at the ring.

“My god that was my mothers ring, what did you do with it?”  the victim said, a rather vivacious 20 something.  Some how they are always the ones to get picked by the illusionist.

“I don’t know, I think I left it in my car, let me get my keys.”

Reaching into his back pocket he pulled out his flat pocket key packet.  Not a key chain but one of those flat leather key binders with the row of key hooks on them, each holding a key and her ring.

“WTF.”  is all I could say.  Not really showing my command of the english language but I had watch that key the entire time.  I lost it and I had no idea how it ended up on the key hook in his back pocket.

A gasp went out from the 20 or so bar patrons at the Murphy Arms English Pub, all in amazement that Larry could take a solid metal object, dematerialized it, float it in mid-air and have it reassemble and attached itself to his key ring.  There was no other explanation.

A cheer went up as the girl got her ring back, Larry got a big hug from her, a benefit of his job.  Along with a quick flash of some really nice tits. Giving greater credence about why vivacious young woman are usually picked by the illusionist.

“OK man I saw the ring from the moment you removed it from her finger, holding it in your hand and then it was gone.  How did you do it?”

This was my fourth or twentieth visit to Arms and had seen this trick numerous times and still had not a clue as to how it went from finger to hook to tits.  The tits part I got but the in between was still a mystery.

“It is easy, I’ll have a beer Scott.”   Larry said.

That was all Larry said and we went on drinking our beer.

A good magician never tells.

Bar tricks are the staple of any good working mans bar, the rose napkin, rearranging stick matches to spell a word by moving two, getting woman’s tops to disappear, all the standard stuff.  Larry had taken it to a whole different realm, the impossible.

Other impossible tricks were the card signature trick, where one of the patrons would sign a card put it in the deck.  Then another audience member would shuffle it.  Larry would grab the deck feel the cards move them around and then have one of the audience members secure the deck with rubber bands.  Once  he secured the deck  he would then flat palmed throw the deck to the ceiling ten feet above us.  The cards would all fall back, except one, the one the patron had signed.

“I worked in Vegas for 20 years doing conventions.”  Larry said as we sat there between  magic tricks.  Larry looked it, a face that bore the years of late nights, conventions, Vegas, a smokers rasp of a voice but still sharp able to work his crowd as he always had.

“That had to be fun, lots of good times. Bet you got some looks when you told people you did tricks in Vegas.”  I laughed, sometimes I kill myself.

“Not like you think.  My job was to hold the customers in the booth until the reps could take over.  Most of the time it was just talking to them about the illusions.”

Larry considered himself an illusionist, magicians were good but what Larry did was create an illusion, no tricks or magic.  Practice, sleight of hand and miss direction.  Make them see something before you do something, change the reality for just a split second so that you can accomplish the illusion.

Magician, Illusionist, Conjurers have been around since recorded history.  Religion played a major role in the development of illusions.  Even the Greek temples  had devices connected to statuary to create the illusion of movement or breathing.  Amazing the un educated people and keeping there beliefs in the gods solid.

Then in the 1800s magic began a revival, Jean Eugène Robert-Houdin opened the first theatre devoted to magic on July 3 1845 in Paris France.  He is not the famous escape artist of the late 1800s Harry Houdini.  Jean Eugène Robert-Houdin was consider one of the first of the modern magicians and Harry Houdini took this as his stage name.  Harry Houdini was primary known as an escape artist and a debunker of mystics, concentrating on these disciplines vs magic.  Jean Eugène Robert-Houdin was a watch maker who created devices to astound his audience.

Larry and I sat there, did a couple more tricks, no bras were coming off and Larry said he had to disappear.  Magician talk for he was going to another party.  WIth a click of his fingers he was gone.  Not really, he walked out of Murphy Arms like all the rest of us mere mortals.

Still not sure how Larry pulled off his tricks, how he got that ring on his key ring so effortlessly.   I sipped my beer and it was getting closer to me disappearing also for the night.

How do they do it?

How does Criss Angel “Mind Freak”  take a woman in a park, lay her down on a bench and have two other woman pull her apart. Then have the lower half walk away, leaving the other half of the woman stranded on the bench.  Sure people say one of the woman was born with no legs, but the real trick would be to find the woman who was born with no torso to complete the act.

Welcome to the machine.

Nashville Tn 2001 Music City USA

“You could make a platinum selling album and still owe the damn record company money. Once they got you in their tentacles they don’t let go.”

Nashville is music city USA. I have been in a Waffle House at 2 am on a Tuesday and a concert has broken out. Everywhere you go there is music. GREAT music, to bad most of it never makes into the recording studios. But take an adolescent young boy or boys, teach them a few dance moves, a bubble gum pop hit and they fill an auditorium. The fickle taste of the public.

In Nashville it is possible to see a heavy metal band at one bar go next door to modern country and then turn a corner and hear old school country western. You haven’t even walked a block yet and all of this in the shadow of Ryman auditorium the original home of the Grand Ole Opry.

The Nashville Palace is no where near any of that. Yes, located outside of the main entrance of the Gaylord Hotel, convention center, mall and the new Grand Ole Opry, call Opry Land. The building itself looks like it belongs in cow-town, where real country is still played. Clapboard siding, split rail porch and neon blaring, The Nashville Palace, beckoning all to come, be seen and heard at the Palace. A nightclub slash entertainment center slash Karaoke bar, many a want to be raising star has hit its stage for their first and for many last venue they will ever play in. Just a few miles from Broadway and Second where all the action is. As I said music is everywhere.

When walking into the Palace you have a choice to make, pay the cover, sit in the entertainment section, no cover and hang out in the bar side. So guess where I ended up? There were a fair amount of people on either side. How ever in the bar area you could hear the music, just not see it, the only concession to for sake of a $10 cover.

The bar area consists of rows of picnic tables, no stools at the bar, it looking more of a cowboy bar then a country bar. Wood, wood and peanut shells made up the decor. No pictures on the wall but an assortment of raw iron fixtures nailed in place. Not a palace at all but more of a barn. Some marketing person probably told them they would attract more people with the name Nashville Palace vs Nashville Barn.

I grabbed my beer and sat down at the least populated table. The others where filled with tourists, conventioneers and one that had three couples that were over the top neatly dressed compared to the rest of the gather masses. Plus there was a young girl heavily made up and dressed in jeans so tight you would think they were spray painted on, peasant white shirt, the country mile of fashion. My curiosity was peeked wondering what they were up to.

I sat down and started enjoying my beer when I was sucked right into the conversation of my table mates.

“Who the hell are you sugar”. The older lady of the group said as soon as I took my seat.

“I am sorry is this seat taken?” I replied half out of shock.

“By you, you tall drink of water, how tall are you?”

“5 foot 16″

“What, your 5′ 16″, thats tall.”

I could tell she was pondering this, figuring out the math behind 5 foot 16, not quit sure what to make of it.

“Shit your six four.” She laughed and slap her knee.

“For being such a smart ass your buying me a beer.” She held up her empty Miller Lite can waving it in the air. “John buy me a beer on his tab and while your at it I am buying Mr. five foot sixteen here his next beer. I like that. I am Lauren, this is my friend Vicki, our friend Tom, sweetie what’s was your name again?” Lauren ask the other woman sitting at the table. She did look out of place, wearing a t-shirt and jeans bit on the buxom heavy side. Where as Lauren and crew were dressed for a night out, slim in that country way, wearing jeans with the big concho belt, jewelry on every finger, necklaces, that casual country look. The other lady looked like she just got off the bus.

“Hi, I am Val, I just got here today trying to make it in Nashville, going to be a country signer.” Val answer as she shook my hand. She had just gotten off the bus.

“I tell you hon, you don’t need to be getting in that business, it will chew you up spit you out.” Lauren said as John bought over all the beers at once, dropped them on the table turned and walked back to the bar.

“Don’t pay him no mind” Lauren said “He is always like that.”

“Now hon, look at that table over there with the blond sitting there drinking her water.”

We all looked over making it very obvious that we were talking about them. I gave a nervous smile we all turn to look at the table with the three couples and the young blond girl. The woman at that table all had jewelry upon jewelry just like my table mates but real stones, diamonds and emeralds, their make up was not applied hap hazardely but with skill and meaning. The men, pressed shirts and shorts, and hard shoes no socks. They looked more of a country club than country bar set. The center of our attention was not the couples but the loan girl, not a woman like her companions but a girl. We guessed 19 to 20. She was pretty, in a cute country girlish way. She looked innocent enough which in the music biz is the death knell.
“The guy on the right of the girl is a promoter, he is grooming her for stardom, when they get done with her she won’t even recognize herself, cloths, surgery, backup signers, she will become a part of the machine. There bringing her here to get used to playing in front of a live crowd.”

“The machine?” I asked.

“The music machine, if she makes it and sells platinum the record company will make sure she still owes them money, forcing her into another contract.”

“What, a platinum selling record and she OWES the record company money, how can that be?”

“Easy, 6-4, looked they sponsor everything and charge for it. What she could do on her own they charge ten times the rate and hold that against the contract. When sales are totaled against what they spent the artist always comes out on the short end. Baby who do you think the industry employees. Artist and musicians.” Lauren laughed

So did Vicki and Tom, they had been there and done that.

Vicki chimed right in “Sweetie your to nice a girl, we know,this industry were in it for 10 years back in the 60s and 70s. Lauren sold two gold albums doesn’t have a penny to show for it, see she has strange men buying her beer now. Do you want to end up like her?”

Lauren chimed in “Yea the bastard accountants had charge me for stamps to mail out their press releases. STAMPS.”

Valerie Pulanski from upstate Minnesota had left her home town to seek fame and fortune in Nashville. Her name was on the list to sing and this was going to be her big break. We talked on about the machine and Val keep checking her name on the list which kept being moved down. In the end we figure Val had come down here for bragging rights. This would be as with so many her first and last performace in Nashville. She would take the experience back to Minnisota and for many a Christmas to come her cousins would talk about how Val had performed in Nashville. She would be in her and in her family’s minds a country music star.

The blond at the other table not sure what happen to her. She was very talented with a great voice. Lauren had me convince that she would become a part of the machine.

In 2001 the record labels took an aggressive stand against file sharing and sued Napster. They won the legal battle but lost in the court of public opinion. File sharing continues to grow as record labels see double digit sales loss each year. However there is a body of evidence that file sharing is not the primary culprit. Sony, Universal, Warner and EMI make up over 80% of the record sales in the world. The technology gap between studio and garage is getting narrower. A band now can produce, record and market their own works via the internet without the big four ever getting involved. The record label is becoming a greedy dinosaur in the age of music enlightenment. Artist are now able to reap a greater reward for their works and not end up owning a megalith corporation after selling over 1,000,000 albums.

Now in the internet age the record companies biggest enemy is the bored college kid in a dorm with a T-3+ line coming into his room or the audio geek in the basement with a good Apple computer. As long as they exist we will have music and they will buy their own stamps.

The famous guy I never heard of.

The Roman Empire spanned from Britannia to Germany down the Iberian Peninsula over to Gaul across to Persia and most of Northern Africa. When the conquering legions came back from a triumphant campaign they were feted to a celebration parade. Their generals rode in a grand chariot through the streets of Rome. On the chariot behind them a slave stood, holding an olive branch crown over their heads and repeating.

Sic transit gloria mundi.

All fame is fleeting.

Atlanta Spring 1988

The Ritz Carlton in Atlanta is by far one of the nicest bars I have ever been in, neatly appointed with the class you expect from the Ritz Hoteliers. Warmth that invites you in for the pleasantries of a drink, amongst friends or business associates, a welcome quiet for a gentlemen or a lady. No Jagger on tap or rows of shot glasses. Drinks are served neat and tidy on the black glass bar and the chairs swivel without obstruction. I really didn’t want to be there, way over the top for me, but I had to await a business associate, so there I was.

The bar was very empty when I walk in just for a gentlemen was sitting at the end of the bar, reading, alone, by himself, in solitude, I went over and sat a couple of seats away. I didn’t care about his solitude that is where the bar keep was and I wanted his journey to serve me to be the shortest possible.

“Yes sir” he said as I approached
I was wearing a nice navy blue suit, very corporate looking, so I commanded that Ritz Respect.

“Beer please, import” I answered figuring it is the Ritz, I might as well live it up plus my business associate was on expenses and this was going on his tab.

I could see that the bar keep was ready to mix a scotch neat with a splash of ranch water. Now he had to reach into a cooler, pull out a common man’s drink, thus costing me that Ritz Respect.

My beer presented, I smile took my first sip, ahhhhhhh. A grand life indeed. Glancing over at my bar mate I noticed that he was reading a pamphlet about an auto auction in Phoenix Arizona that week and was showing interested in a Shelby Mustang.

NOTE: In 1965 Carroll Shelby was located in Venice beach California and had a thriving business modifying Ford Mustangs into GT-350s. Today the Shelby Mustang is a classic car with some models selling in the range of $200,000.

“Buying a GT350” I asked.

He looked up and smiled, like he had found a long lost bother.

“Maybe, they have some 350s and 500s”

“Any GT350Hs.” I asked

“Never heard of that one.”

“It was a Hertz model, Shelby made them for Hertz rent a car. When their end of rental life came Hertz sold them off. I think they only made a thousand. If you can get one with a manual transmission it is worth even more. Some of the later models came with automatics. Seems the one a day racer was a little to tough on the transmission and clutch.”

Now my new bar mate was thoroughly impressed. Luckily for me an old girlfriend’s dad was a gear head who loved Shelby’s. I learned everything and more about the Shelby Mustang. So now for some reason it was all coming back to me these many years later.

“The older ones were just white, the Le Mans stripping didn’t come on until 1966 or so.” I added

“Yea, the ones I am looking at are the 67s, with the gold stripe, can’t see any H’s but I can find out at the auction.”

“What auction” I inquired

“The Pat Garrett Auction in Phoenix A Z, tomorrow, flying out as soon as the lim..taxi gets here. They bring in classic cars from all over the US and auction them off in a three day event. Some really cool cars, tricked out, cars of every make, model, design, good stuff.”

“Wow to bad I am busy tomorrow.” I laughed.

“Ha, yea it will be an interesting week”

“Phoenix won’t be so bad this time of the year, maybe even get in a little golf between Mustangs. Heck maybe even drive your new Mustang to the golf course. Cheers” I said as I lifted my glass.

“Cheers, not sure how much golf I will be doing, want to check out the cars mainly. The Shelby’s maybe a little bit pricey but then that is why they call it an auction.”

We went on talking cars for about another twenty minutes or so, discussed the various features, ie turbo, intakes, manifolds, valves, suck, squeeze, bang, blow kind of stuff.

“Sir the gentlemen at the door is motioning to you” the barkeep interrupted.

“Looks like my ride is here, off to Phoenix. Take care.”

“Good luck at the auction, hope you find the Shelby of your dreams and you don’t have to pay so much to lose sleep over it.”

“I like that.” He said as he got up left some money on the bar to more than cover his tab, we shook hands and he was out the door.

I went back to my solitude and beer while my business associate took his damn time checking in.

Then the bartender came over to me

“Do you know who that was.”

“Nope.”

“What do you mean Nope.” The barkeep asked incredulously.

“Seriously, I have no idea, some guy on his way to an auto auction, is he a race car driver, famous athlete, senator?”

“No he is blah blah the actor”.

Actor was going to be my next choice but I thought I had a good chance with my first three choices so I stopped there.

The name didn’t register so I don’t remember who he said it was but from what I gather I had been talking to some famous TV star. Unfortunate for the TV star I don’t watch TV. Unless he played for UGA (University of Georgia), or starred on some PBS kids show (my kids were 3 and 4 then) I would have no idea who he was.

“Seriously I don’t watch TV and I had no idea who that guy was.” I looked over my shoulder to catch a glimpse of him as he left and could see a couple of the waitresses swooning as he passed by but no one approached. That Ritz Respect.

“Still have never seen him before but great taste in cars. Hope he wasn’t insulted that I didn’t recognize him.”

The bartender shrug his shoulders saying,” Probably not, he might just have enjoyed talking cars and not his TV show.”

One of the waitresses came gushing over “Can you believe that blah blah was here, what did he say to you? Are you a fan?

“Shelby and No”

“Huh?” she replied but I was saved from any further conversation when her fellow waitresses came over and they grab each other by the forearms and jumped up and down laughing.

I didn’t feel so bad about ordering another beer at that point.

What is the name of the show?

I got the answer and immediately forgot it. The fog of life and time, I do remember seeing the gentlemen in a promo for a movie and I thought the car guy, but since it wasn’t a movie starring the Power Rangers (my kids had progressed over the years) I never saw it and still don’t know his name. I hoped and imagined he went onto a movie career of sorts but that was the last I had seen of him. But who knows he could be a superstar with his own auto auction. I still don’t watch TV.

Fame is an illusive venture. In England, football (soccer here in the states) stars are hounded day in and day out as national heroes. When they vacation in Florida no one knows who they are and they are left in peace. Famous in one part of the world, anonymous in another. The truly annoying famous, those that seek publicity bad or good and then complain about it, probably never heard Sic transit gloria mundi.

The Signs are in the head!

The signs are in the head.

Or how nature help wean the baby and plant my maters.

Rockmart GA.
Spring 1998

Not all of my conversations take place in a glass, brass, oak, red naugahyde bars. Occasionally I eat. I have found that even in the remote coziness of a country meat and three café interesting topics come up.
“Sybil I told her not to wean that baby, the signs weren’t in the head.”
I ponder, the signs weren’t in the head? Where were they? What are the signs? What is a meat and three?
First things first, yes my northern friends you have diners, the South has, meat and three. Or as they are known around these parts (the south) a cozy country café.
These restaurants are found in every rural southern town, home cooking at a reasonable price. Typically the owners name or their mothers name, appears on the marquee. Carla Country Café, Karl’s Kitchen, Smokestack Lightin, Donna’s Dinner [sic], not a mis spelling this is a café not a diner. Décor is usually two rows of tables with side booths, white china plates and silverware that was stamped out of an old Chevy, probably one of their own. All of which is sitting on a worn, stain, cigarette hole burnt, plastic table cloth, the ones used at your grandmas picnic so many years ago, now you know where they all ended up at.
Why is it called a meat and three?
The menu consists of a choice of meats, Chicken, Beef or Pork, baked or fried. Along with a choice of three vegetables from a long list. The ultimate down home dinner, the meat and three. IF you pick four vegetables your just being a glutton.
You pick your meat and the three accompanying vegetables along with either corn bread or biscuit and there you have it, your meat and three. Add on a buck and you get desert usually pecan pie or banana pudding. Fridays are fish day even though fish is not typically a meat it is on Fridays.
I was at such a place in Rockmart Ga. LuAnns Kountry Kookn, I joked with LuAnn and ask if she ever toyed with the idea of Kountry Kookn Kafe?
“No honey, we got rid of the Klan along time ago.”
Smiling I went back to eating my fried chicken, with fried okra, pinto beans, slice tomato and cornbread when I over heard two elderly country ladies, sitting at the lunch table next to mine, really at mine since the three of us were taking up a four top, discussing the signs.
“She ought not to be weaning that chile till the signs are in the head, that child will never get off the tit.” The lady sitting next to me said
Her luncheon partner replied
“Sybil I told her not to wean that baby till the best day signs were in the head.”
“I knows, I tell her that all the time, when the best days are but she never listens, thinks she knows more that what mother nature has been teach n us for lord know how many years.” Sybil sigh more than said.
“Kids these days” I said
“Lordy you know it” lady closest to me said
I then asked “What the hell are you talking about.”
“What do you mean.” Sybil replied
“The signs, best days, what is that?”
Then my education began on practices, beliefs, as foreign to our modern thoughts as holistic medicine is to the MRI. But just as much sensecial when you take away modern pretense that science knows all. My travels have shown me over and over again, science, scientist, don’t know shit and cause more problems than they solve. Like leaded gas, fluorocarbons, nuclear waste and the beta-max! What brilliant ideas they were.
Mother Nature has been around for a very long time from what I have read. The ancients would study her changes, her movements, her signs of what’s to come. They gather this knowledge over millennium passing it onto untold generations. Then reality TV capture the minds of millions and mother nature was just someone on an occasional commercial.
There still is a portion of the population that still lives off the land. Whose everyday is set by the course Mother Nature takes. They look, see and observe. The foliage on trees, how are the woodland creatures reacting, the fury insects or not so fury. They know when to plant and not to plant, when to ween, travel, quit smoking and have sex to get pregnant.
The signs don’t lie.
Sybil and Martha were enjoying a get away lunch, two ladies who retired from the Goodyear plant across the street. Enjoying the gossip and getting caught up, when I interloped.
“The signs, best days what is that?”
“Your not from around here are you.” Martha asked.
I am but what they are really asking is, where did your grandfather hunt? Mine upstate New York, so even though I am from around here, I am not.
Sybil did continue after Martha put me in my place.
“The signs of the moon, as it passes through the zodiac tells of the best days to plant, ween, castrate, it is all in the Farmers Almanac but Martha here is to high fa-lu-tent she knows the signs by just looking at the moon.”
Martha injected
“The best days, shew, been doing this so long I can tell you the best days to quit smoking a month from now. The phase of the moon and the time of the month is all you needs know. No sense trying to quit now, you just going to fail. I tell em. Most folks listen and never have a problem. It’s them that don’t that never succeed, I tell you true.” Martha said as she place one hand on her heart the palm up in the air, swearing to a higher power or she was just covering for a case of gas.
Sybil then chimed in.
“My daughter’s, baby all cholica, told her a little brandy wine will do the trick, stop the crying like that. Went to wean, told her to wait till the 20th didn’t, that baby never quit the tit. Now my other grand baby, told my daughter in law. You just wean that chile on the 20th, she did went straight for the cup now momma can take her tits anywhere she wants to. Oh lord!” She said with the slap of the knee
“Why Sybil, you old girl watch yourself in company” Martha snorted.
Of course I laugh too never really thought of it that way.
The Farmers Almanac has been around since the birth of the United States 1792 during George Washington’s presidency. Before weather forecasts, mass communication it was the tool for predicting the weather for planting, harvesting etc. An accuracy rate of over 80%. Now in the twenty first century it is still used by many for its rules on how to live a more orderly life. The signs refer to the moon’s place in the zodiac or phase of the moon or a combination of both. I am not sure what the formula is for determining what dates are best for what activities. I guess most don’t care either, they know it works.
The two ladies pocessed a knowledge that was sought out by others for guidance. When to? Not to win the lottery, not to enrich but to enhance your life, to obey nature and a set of rules that have been in place for ever. Only a fool seeks gold, just look at the broke lottery winners. Sybil and Martha had something more powerful, ancient wisdom that has withstood time. Not sure if it is the great wisdom of the ancients that will revolutionize man but knowledge that can fulfill a life.
My bananna pudding came, we discuss the best days to ween my 13 month old. Got several options along with a couple of good days to plant my three tomato plants. We followed their advice and no problems weening the baby since we found out that number two was on the way. Eight months latter we had the baby and still enough tomatoes t feed the family and a neighbor who didn’t listen.

“

The Victim’s Family. Life

Life in prison only means a life sentence for the victims.

Savannah Ga
Winter 2010

“The Coldest Beer and Hottest Juke Box in Town.”

Sounds like my kind of place. The Warehouse on River Street in historic Savannah Ga.

Savannah is a port city with converted and re-converted buildings dating back to colonial America. One of the more historic and baudier areas of town is River Street, which borders a row of old warehouses on one side and the Savannah River on the other. River Street was once home to King Cotton, tobacco and goods from around the south. These brick and mortar structures, standing on a cobblestone street are glimpses into history. A look into tales of war and piracy, love, lust, riches to ruin and now a cold beer, a really hot juke box. Progress.

This night it would turn out to be more enlighten and sobering than most nights spent at such establishments. The beginning, innocent enough, as usual, a bar with two empty seats close to mine. Then the fortunate turn of events as two ladies came in and sat down for what I thought was a girl’s night out.

Time passed, a couple of glances, some quiet conversation between us and the other patrons and then the ice breaker from one of the ladies.

“Let’s do shots!”

A sure winner in getting the crowd and conversation going.

She smiled to her companion and then at me, with an empty hand raised in the air.

“What are we toasting?” I asked.

“We just came from a parole hearing.” Donna said

Donna and Meriell where passing through Savannah on there way back to Gainesville Florida. Meriell was Donna’s sister in law married to her younger brother. Both looked to be in there late thirties early forties. A little bit on the heavy side but with generous smiles and a relax demeanor. They had spent the day in South Carolina and decided that Savannah would be a good layover for a couple of days of fun and relaxation.

“Who parole hearing?” I asked

“My sister’s murders.” Donna replied as she held up her glass to drink the shot.

The statement didn’t immediately register, sister, parole, murder. Then it sunk in. Their sister was murdered.

I was still absorbing this info, when the shots arrived. We all held are hands aloft and the Meriell said

“Another year in jail.”

“Well this a first for me, toasting to a unsuccessful parole.” I counter.

Then added.

“Salute. My sympathies I know this can’t be easy.”

Donna sighed and put down her shot glass empty and ran her finger around the top of it make sure not to miss a drop.

“I am just soooo glad to have it over for another year. For weeks my stomach gets tied up in knots knowing I have to go before the board. It is over for now. Well until maybe next Christmas when I have to show up again.”

Then with a tear in her eye she lifted her cup turned it over and place it on the bar, indicating it was drained or maybe showing she was.

Not sure what we were drinking, a bonzi orgasm or something like that. I am not a big shot drinker but this was one of those three part fruit drinks one part lighter fluid type drinks. But it served its purpose, she wiped away a tear, I too was a little watery eyed as the implications of what they had been through sunk in deeper. The shot sharpen my awareness of their pain as it numbed theirs.

Then she continued.

“Every 11 months a family member has to show up and provide a victims impact statement. Been doing this for this for the past 14 years. The son of a bitch spends another year in jail. The fuckers only hope is I won’t show up. Dream on!”

Even though he was given a life sentence for the murder he was eligible for parole after 14 years in prison. Then every 11 months he become re-eligible. Someone has to show up for the victim to plead their case as to why he should not be released. The date for the hearing is ever changing. Next year it will be around Christmas time when he is eligible again. In two years it will be Thanksgiving time if he does make parole next year.

I could see tears welling up in Donna’s eyes again and her sister in law looked down at the floor, tough day I thought. But no good could come out of remembering now. Their task at hand done, they needed to smile, if not for just a day.

“Hey, here’s to partying in Savannah, you’ve done your duty for a year. Another round starbender on me.” I said

James the barkeep knew none of us were driving anywhere so the night was ours.

“How long you staying in Savannah?” I asked

“A couple of days to take it easy, what’s going on in town anything exciting?”

“Me.”

“We figured that.” They both said in unison and then smiled.

The conversation took a pleasant turn their trauma showed up in looks, a quick sentence about an anniversary, or a remembrance of a little sister taken so early in life. We finally talked about what happen.

The victim, was16 years old, and wanted to go get her drivers license. A family acquaintance took her. She was not seen again for two weeks. The exact facts are uncertain, but what is known was that she was murder that night by the acquaintance and possible two others. Her body was dragged across a field and buried under a barge where it would have stayed for years but for torrential rains in the weeks to come. The barge lifted and her body floated out from underneath. The Police thought she might have been raped but the time and weather destroyed any evidence. The family acquaintance was convicted of murder and sentence to life in prison. But life ain’t life

“FOR PAROLE.” Donna said in absolute astonishment. “If he sold drugs to school kids he would have gotten more time. It is better to kill a child then sell them drugs.”

“I can’t imagine what you all go through, I have no bases for anything close to what you all must be feeling.” I guarded my words as I don’t know what they are feeling and I don’t want to bring up pains that have been put away long and deep ago.

“It was worse on my mom, I know it took years off her life, she died at the age of 62, the emotional stress of everything killed her. That night he took more than just my sister’s life he took her family.”

The evening came to an end with hugs and promises to keep in touch. In any small way that I could help I would. There were laughs, and they made plans for their free day in Savannah which I am sure would mean more bonzi orgasms or what ever the hell that drink was.

Tragedy comes in many forms. One of the most hideous is for the people that the murder victim leaves behind. They must now live with the loss along with the constant reminder the court system impales upon them, a system which will not let the victim rest in peace. Nor put the guilty away and gone out of their lives.

Family and assailant are now connected in a morbid scenario that must be played out every 11 months. A time and place they must go back to, to convince strangers that the murderer of their love one does not deserve freedom, birthday celebrations, family milestones. To have everything he took from them. Each year they are faced with possible freedom for the murder but it will always be a life sentence for the victims’ family.

The Serial Monogamist.

I Do I Do I Do I Do I Do I Do…..the serial monogomist.

Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived. Those of you who took Western Civ in college know this little ditty was the best way to remember the fate of the 6 wives of Henry the Eighth. Plus this was the only way I could remember it wasn’t the eight wives of Henry the Sixth. Which begs the question how many marriages are to many?

Lafayette LA Fall 2006

The Blue Moon in downtown Lafayette La. was a quite arts bar which in polite society would be called a Bistro, in Lafayette it was a bar. Live music, paintings on the wall, sculpture all about, with a avant-garde atmosphere, an oasis in Cajun country.

A cool autumn night was just getting started, as was I. Strolling into the Blue Moon, looked around and took a seat at the bar. A seat which just happen to be strategically located a chair away from a very cute red head sitting by herself at the bar drinking a glass of wine and nibbling on her appetizers. I figure don’t be to obvious as to what my plans were but she looked to be in her forties and not wearing a wedding ring, hey even a blind squirrel finds a nut.

I sat, I ordered, I stared. Stared at the collection of bottles that made up the backdrop of the bar, stared at the art on the walls and occasionally over towards the cute redhead. My beer showed up so I sat, stared, sipped, sipped again, wonder, stared, sipped, a pretty typical evening at the bar.

Lucky enough for us it was cool evening and the southern blood had not grown accustom to this weather yet, so she had worn an oversized winter coat which was on the chair next to her. As luck would have it, for me, not her wine, she reached to move her coat so a couple could grab two seats at the bar next to her and knocked over her newly filled glass of wine.

“AHHHHH alcohol abuse.” I said.

“Oh no, I am so sorry. My coat is so big, arrrrgh” she said to everyone and no one. Then she look over at me and said “In Lafayette I could get jail time for doing this.” She smiled.

I laugh and assured her I would be a witness and swear the coat did it, that with a good lawyer and with good behavior she would have her coat paroled in no time.  Spilt wine is a sure conversation starter so we talked a bit, introduced ourselves, her name Donna, and we got to the point of what we were both doing at the Blue Moon on a cool autumns’ Sunday afternoon.

Me an early Monday morning business meeting, her celebrating her divorce.

“Ah a divorce party of one.” I commented

“Yea, celebrating my divorce, my fifth one.” She smiled.
Serial Monogamy or how many marriages are too many. Donna had just ended her sixth marriage and she admitted her longest, 6 years and her worst to date.

As a curious sort I had to inquire about how someone gets married that many times. Most woman I know can’t find one decent man, present company excluded, how did she find 5. The answer I found out was they weren’t decent men so it was easy.

“Getting men to marry you is easy, just be what they think they want and then they will be down on one knee in no time. Had a friend of mine who was married for 22 years. Divorce and within three months engaged to a guy she just meet. Lasted five miserable years.”

“What about you, 5 marriages in what? You are in your forties I imagine.”

“Oh lord are you trying to be lucky number seven, by the way I was married 6 times, widow once.  But you’re such a sweetheart or you just want to say what a lady wants to hear. No no I am 53.” She said with a smile and a wink.

I must admit there have been the occasion I fudge on what I really thought how old they were but in this case early forties I thought I was being dead nuts on.

“53, never would have thunk it. How old were you when you got married for the first time.”

“I was seventeen, my first husband, an escape from home. Graduate from high school on Friday get married on Saturday. Had a son when I was 18, all normal for a good Southern Baptist family. That marriage lasted till I was 20.”

“So what happen next.”

“I moved, knew there had to be more to life than what I was in. Picked up and moved to Atlanta. Lived in Mid-town and it was wonderful. Concerts, the arts, restaurants, parties. A wonderful life, I was single and stay that way for 12 years.”

“Atlanta, I grew up in Atlanta, loved mid-town, in the hell hole that is Atlanta, mid-town is an oasis. Twelve years single and Mr. Right pops in?”
“Not sure if it was Mr. Right but I wanted to be married, I had been single and wanted that companionship. This tall Catholic boy and a bit younger than me came into the picture. Played football and won a scholarship to play at U G A. Got there and then quit the team. Met him through some friends and we dated for two years and got married. Frank was his name. Then it changed, after we were married all he wanted to do was sit around drink beer and watch football. We use to go to gay bars and dance the night away. That stopped as soon as we were married. We were living in Mid-town and he now never wanted to go out. It lasted all of 18 months.”

“OK number 3.”

“Number three, number three, my cowboy. I was in Paris Texas visiting some friends and went to a rodeo. I looked at all the cowboys and thought I need to get me one. And I did, Jim. We dated for a short period of time got married and then four months later he died of colon cancer.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Thanks, he was a tough guy but in the end the cancer got him. So I moved back to Atlanta, Mid-town and got back together with an old boyfriend, Russ. He became number 4. Great on vacation lousy husband. He was into 900 numbers and porn, not me. That one lasted 18 months. Engineering type very anal.”

“Seems 18 months is about the norm”.

“Yea it seems that way, not sure why, so anywho. Number 5 I meet here in Lafayette. At the Back to Back, two bands, two dance floors, he came up to me asked out to lunch and I blew him off. Saw me downtown a week later convinced me to go out with him. We dated for three years and was married for 4 months. Seems he had a coke habit he tried to hide.”

Donna went on about her marriages and finally her sixth. Latest and worst, did everything she wanted and then got married and quit just want to chase chics, boring and abusive.

“We took trips together it started off fun and then he just wanted to stay home and ride his Harley. Go to bars and look at chicks. We use to go to art galleries, camping and that all changed from the moment we got married. I knew it was a mistake in the beginning but.”

“You know that most people would look upon 6 marriages as being, well lets just say, not the norm.”

“I know, guys find out I have been married 6 times and they run, I almost feel invisible at times.”

“Why do you think you married.”

“Each was a different time in my life, I was searching for something and felt they could help me find it. Or I guess I wanted to be wanted, to feel needed, now I know I want to be a partner. No longer a door mat. Life is wonderful, it needs to be lived, with the right person. I guess I didn’t believe in myself, don’t know that I really loved any of them. Made it easier that way, for me at least.”

I lifted my beer glass and Donna her now refilled wine glass and we toasted.

“I know some woman who have never been married and can’t seem to find a man and you see to be on a straight with a royal flush kicker with men. How do you do it.”

“Low standards” Donna smiled and then went on. “I haven’t had a problem meeting men, just at the time it seems right and it really isn’t, I choose to ignore what I know is wrong. Each one was a learning experience; I have done some wonderful things and been to some wonderful places.”

“Is it worth it.”

“On some level it is, on some levels it isn’t. BUT hey isn’t that life?”

Confession, Donna really fascinated me,  I can understand how someone can get caught up in the events and unable to get out until they spiral to such a point you have no choice. I know to many people who realize that this was doomed from day one but with just an ounce of hope they proceed on.  As long as there is hope.
We find ourselves in stages of life where we depend on others to help us out of a bad situation, a depression, we get to a point where we know it doesn’t make sense but we do it anyway. We hope beyond hope that it will change, that with enough work and effort, good will come of this.

It doesn’t.
Today 7% of all marriages are the third plus and the more glaring statistic is that more people are choosing to be un-married. However there is serial monogamy in the single world, men or woman who have to be in a relationship. Break up on Friday back in love again on Saturday with your next partner. One lady I knew, ex wife of a doctor, (in single guy world that is a huge red flag) spent her last 5 Valentines with 5 different lovers. Intelligent, attractive, and very needy of a man. Makes you wonder doesn’t it.

Single people are faced with the reality that we can only change ourselves. We can’t look at the “what ifs” they aren’t real, only “what is”. Soul mate, partner, life long friend are all terms banter about on the dating sites, so hope does spring eternal and who knows what is in store for Donna’s lucky number 7, or more probably a short term marriage and another  divorce party.

The Sweet Science

The Sweet Science
Knoxville TN Summer 2009

Go to your refrigerator, grab two 12 oz beers. Now hold them in your hands, outstretched shoulder level. That’s right out in front of you, shoulder level, two 12 oz beers, how hard can that be. Now do it for three minutes, just three minutes. Have one of your kids put on one of your favorite pop songs they are usually just under three minutes. One minute into this you ached, two minutes your sweating it takes all you got and you can’t go three minutes. NOW do this for 16 rounds, with an opponent that wants to kill you. You have entered the ring of The Sweet Science, boxing.

Preservation Pub (again)
Trivia night at the Pub starts at 11:00 pm on a Sunday, to say the least there is a selective crowd. That night it was physicist from around the world in town for a symposium and late night trivia. Along with some of the smartest people in the world were Juli my good friend, Angel (pronounce Ang Al) and I. We had no idea who Angel was but he became part of the Candy Kids Trivia Team at the Pub that night.
Angel all 5’ 10”, tattooed covered body and face but as I have learn in previous encounters with individuals perception is deception. So he was welcomed onto our team, ready to do battle with some of the smartest people in the world. Good thing as between the three of us we knew just enough of each category to get second place. We lost out to the team from Sanford by 1 point. Seems that common sense and streets smarts can hold it own against the quark theory. A proud moment in all of our lives.
Between questions Angel and I talked, at first my relationship with Juli. “Platonic friends.” I reassured him as did Juli who I saw had a twinkle in her eye every time she talked to Angel. I asked him what he was doing at the Pub at midnight on a Sunday, which was now a Monday, playing trivia.
“Restin for a fight next week at the civic center” he said with a smirk
“A fight. Boxer?”
“Yea, boxing middle weight, fighting for the money they give me”
“How long have you been in the ring?”
“Sixteen rounds” Angel smiles, “Naw six years at it, hard. Not sure how long more, medical problems, don’t know how much more I can take.”
“What’s training like, I heard it is grueling.”
“Hay it can be, sparring, fighting with some street punk don’t know nothin, throw n punches every where, Not hard to out think, out box, good though make you the predator, you knows the one who eats.”
“Yea, the sweet science, a game of lies, go for the head, hit the body, drop your arms act like your going for the body hit the head.”
“Hombre you ax like you know, you a BOXER.”
Angel looked surprise that I would know a little about the sport. His speech emphasize BOXER almost mocking but I knew by his expression it was curiosity as to why a tall skinny white guy would even know about the sweet science.
“No way, I am a tall skinny white guy, not into getting my ass kicked every time I go into a gym. Admire the sport and the participants, the strength, the cunning and intelligence to be a good boxer. Let alone the training, I lived in Atlanta when Evander Holidfeild was going for the title. Heard what he trained like, all day every day sparring, punching bag, sit-ups till you puke, running, running, running. Not a boxer just one who enjoys, no admires the sport. What got you started?”
“I was street fight n for free, boxing at the boys club a little, golden gloves then the old dude told me to show up at the gym and teach me the way. You know how to be a pretty boxer. Float, weave like Ali.”
“Where did you start at?”
“Miami, west side, train down there, fought all over state of Florida, the old man say I need to get some other experience, fight out of state, so I try Knoxville.”
“What are you thinking about when you are in the ring?”
“My opponent, get the best of him, thinking how can I get round him, land a punch. Gut, head, do I dance, do I hit. I also think what he is think n how to get me, play the lying game wid him.”
“How many bouts have you been in?”
“38 n 8, now”
“Not bad, how many pro bouts with the big money”
“Big money, ha lucky I get to eat for what day pay me.
Purse fights about 15 won them all, promoters try to screw me out of the money, tell me they get me a title bout, just scam n me. The old man say I’m not ready, be patient so I fight here.”
Then the announcer came over the PA with the last question of round 1.

“What is the only day of the year that there is NO professional sports being played” the trivia announcer asked.
“I know this” I said
“Christmas?” Angel said “Nope day after the Baseball’s All Star Game.” I whisper as Juli wrote down our answer and scurried it to the master of ceremonies. We were now just three points away from first.
“How old when you first enter the ring” I asked as Juli came back with a thumbs up.
“Sixteen, in high school, golden gloves program at the Boys Club, the old man saw me box ax me to come to the gym ben wid him ever since. Old man a good dude, cool old white dude, takes care of me. Don’t let the promoters get to much just there UN fair share.”
Angel was covered in tats, face, neck, arms and hands each one a story. The largest one Marcia, was for his daughter in Miami. Fourteen living with Angel’s mom, doing good in school even looking at college, the first in his family. We talked some more about the sweet science, how promoters try to screw every boxer they can. How trainers try to keep the bad away from the good but the boxer gets swayed with money and fame. Like the old saying goes you meet the same people on the way up as you do on the way down. A beautiful sport a nasty business.

The best description of the sport comes from Rope Burns by F X Toole, who also wrote the short story Million Dollar Baby.

Excerpt from Rope Burns by F X Toole But there is so much to learn in the sweet science, so from the beginning Mac taught the kid to think in the ring, to fight pretty. The pretty fighter was the man, and fighting pretty meant you were slick in the way your moved, the way you threw punches and the way your slipped punches; that you had defense as well as offense; and that you outsmarted your opponent; that you moved while you punched, so that you kept your opponent off balance and missing and without thump in his punches. So the first thing Mac taught Puddin was that balance meant leverage; that leverage meant speed; that it was speed that meant power, because balance and leverage were behind the speed, not muscle.

NOTE: Big John Tate came from the cotton fields of Arkansas to Knoxville TN in 1975 wanting one thing “to fight”. His career spans the highs and lows that are boxing. In the 1976 Montreal Olympics he won the Bronze Medal after going down to the Cuban boxer Teófilo Stevenson. Then Big John Tate went on to win the Heavyweight title vacated by Muhammad Ali in 1977 beating the South African Gerrie Coetzee. This was the pinnacle of his career, a short lived life of fame. In a match against John Weaver to defend his title he lasted up t the 15th round, comfortably ahead in points Big John Tate was assure a victory till the last minute of the 15th round when Weaver landed a punch that knock Tate to the canvas.

His career over, no re-match, no defending the title against Ali, one punch in the final minutes of a match change it all for Tate. He had kept his title for a short 5 months. Then what followed were a series of defeats, matches against lesser knows and cocaine addiction. This all cumulated to lead Big John Tate on a downward path. Even though he boxed until 1996 he never regain the respect he once had. His cocaine habit took him to even further lows, living on the streets of Knoxville, a life of assaults and petty theft that resulted in jail time on numerous occasions. Then tragically in April of 1998 in a fatal single car accident Big John Tate was gone. The Knoxville coroner reported that John Tate had been using cocaine regularly for the past 24 hours before his accident. In the end the ring made him and the ring destroyed him.

Conversation with a Crack-head

Conversation with a Crack-head
Bristol TN/VA Winter 99

Bristol TN/VA is a town divided. Divided right down the middle of Main Street, where the border between Bristol Tennessee and Bristol Virginia runs “smack dab” through. At 1 am on a Saturday when the bars close on the Virginia side you walk across the street to enjoy Tennessee hospitality for another hour. Plus, they have a little car race there every year at night with a few hundred thousand folks in attendance. Yes the race is on the TN side so they can run it later into the night.

Nancy is an attractive waitress, tall, willowy, with long black hair, pleasant enough to look at and talk to as she waited on me as I dined either in Tennessee or Virginia. It really didn’t matter as I ate another nondescript meal, chatted with an attractive waitress as another dinner in a distant city ended. As I left she told me to have a good night and I the same to her.

One hour later, leaving a bar on the Virginia side, I saw Nancy, alone, on the street, very agitated.
“Hi, Nancy, you waited on me tonight, Pete.” I greeted her.
“Oh wow man, thanks, can you give me a lift? My ride left without me”
“Sure, I guess where you going”
“I need to get a dime”
She’s not talking money. Crack cocaine, $10 worth, a dime. Crack Cocaine, the scourge of the inner city. Wiping out a generation of urban blacks. Laws were such in the ‘80s and ‘90s that when a white banker got caught with a gram of coke he got a slap on the wrist, a black teenager caught with a dime of crack served 1 year mandatory. The judge has no discretion, the consequences; jails filled with minorities and not white lawyers, or bankers.

NOTE: Coca is a plant native to the sub tropic regions of South America. When chewed, the leaves of the coca plant act as a stimulant. Up and into the 1900s, the derivative of the coca plant, cocaine, was a popular recreational and medicinal drug. Cocaine was first introduced into the western world around the mid 1800s as an additive to wine. Cocaine then was synthesize into a form to be taken orally or introduced directly into the user’s vein.
Parke -Davis sold cocaine, needle, syringe and all, via mail order or Sears catalog. Their advertisements extolling; “supply the place of food, make the coward brave, the silent eloquent and … render the sufferer insensitive to pain.” All that and 5 cents worth of postage. Those benefits like making you feel you’re king of the world, made it grow in popularity over the ages. Mostly overlooked by society in the early 1900s, it was legal, addictive and easy to get.
Leave it up to racial morals of the early 20th century where the stated facts were, “Most of the attacks upon the white women of the South are the direct result of a cocaine-crazed Negro brain” as stated by one Dr. Christopher Koch of Pennsylvania’s State Pharmacy Board. The facts are, Dr Koch did not live in the south and there was little evidence to support this claim. That being the case society reacted with the Harrison Narcotic Tax Act of 1914, a law that for the first time in US history told its citizenry what they could and could not ingest. The law labeled cocaine as a narcotic. Cocaine is a stimulant.
Mislabeled, based on prejudice and hysteria, laws were created that destroy more lives than the actual drug itself did. Doctors were now being thrown in jail, careers ruined because of which once was a virtue is now a vice. Good to know that Congress has progressed little over the past 150 years.
Crack Cocaine is a solid, smokable form of cocaine. It is a freebase form of cocaine that can be made using baking soda in a process to convert cocaine hydrochloride (powder cocaine) into methylbenzoylecgonine freebase cocaine. There you have it.

Since I knew what she was talking about my first reaction was.
“Sure, let’s go.”
OK I am crazy, but not stupid. I just knew that her “ride” was her connection that had not shown up, also the chances of her scoring any crack downtown was not going to happen.
“Man, how much money do you have on you” she asked as she nervously scratched herself, a sure sign she was in withdrawal.
“Fiver, why?”
“We can split a dime”
Split, as in you get it all and I pay for it, I thought
“You cool with that.”
“Here take it, not into crack” I responded
She reached out to grab the five and then let her hand fall to her side.
“I shouldn’t be” she sighed
Our conversation at the restaurant earlier was pleasant, as I said. I knew she was married, with a 3 year old. Her husband had just got out of the Navy on a hardship. Now I know why, her drug habit.
“I hate myself” she said as we walked down the street towards my car.
The withdrawals were taking over and the cravings started. The need for the high, not a want, not a desire but the gut-burning need was taking over her body.
“Don’t do that to yourself, why would you hate yourself” I asked
“I got to get some crack. You don’t understand. I have to have it”
“Now you do. You know the cravings will stop for awhile. Can you ride this one out. My car is around the corner. We can drive around, let you cool off and then get you home”.
We got to the car and started driving around for a while. Mostly in silence with a direction or two from Nancy.
“Maybe we could go to a teller and you could give me a gift of some money. I would show my appreciation in a very special way.” She half said desperate breaking the silence.
“I know you would and it would be a treat, but NO. If you need the money to feed your kid, I will go buy you groceries, but I am not going to let you whore yourself out for crack. You know Nancy, your better than that”.
There was a short pause and then I added.
“But if you want to have sex for free, I am into that.” I said smiling.
”Hell, I don’t even have sex with my husband. Maybe you two should get together”.
She said with a whisper of a smile.
I laughed, then added, “Krispy Kreme is open. Want to get something just as good as crack? A raspberry filled glazed donut”.
“Sure, thanks I feel a little better, almost feel like I can do this”.
Krispy Kreme donuts are basically fat fried sugar so they are great.
We sat there and talked for a short while.
“What got you started ?”
“Bored, I guess, my husband was the first to get me hooked, after the baby was born. Shit I will just give it a try, can’t hurt, just once. Now.”
“Must be an intense high”
“Brother, you got that right. You can binge on it for days. No sleep, no eat, wired to the max. Knew a dude that was high for a week, then killed himself, paranoia got to him, (expletive) couldn’t hang.”
“Do you want to quit ?”
“No, even if I could don’t know that I would.”
“Not preaching here but you know your choices, quit or prison more than likely.”
“Your cool man, forgot a third choice, dying.”
“What if cocaine was legal?”
“Whoa, don’t even think I could comprehend that, sure would make my fucking life easier. Mean I wouldn’t have to worry about where I was getting my next high from. Be cheaper. Hell I would do it everyday probable be a hard core addict.”
“You are an addict, you just would have a better way of dealing with it.”
“Yea, but that ain’t goin to happen now is it? People want to throw us partiers in jail, think it is their moral obligation to punish us. Jail is the answer, to much money in that, then legal junk.”
“It was legal at one time, sure lots of addicts but they had a ready supply, could work and buy their junk from Sears if they needed it”
“Probably good stuff, better than the shit that is on the streets, shit I just be left with two options, stay hooked or quit. No prison, No dying”

Dying would still be an option, overdosing is still a real problem in rural white America. The CDC reported that in 2004 there were 19,000 fatal accidental overdoses or posionings as it is offically listed. The vast majority of them legal prescription drug abuse by whites between 15 and 25 years of age. Illegal drug deaths have not increase over the years they have remain a small portion of the overall drug culture in America. The big bad drug of the world is smoking, which is a contributor to over 400,000 deaths a year according to the CDC. This year we will spend on tobacco subsidizes ($49 million) and the DEA budget ($2,200,000,000) that is $2.2 billion and Nancy will still be on the corner looking her next dime.

The Enron Lawyer and Transperancy

As the economy collapses and families struggle through difficult times, I went back to where it all began, the first of the, “Two Big To Fail” corporations.

Early Fall 2001

Washington DC
The Enron Lawyer

Washington DC and lawyers, I don’t want to say the city is infested with them because I will get sued but the city has rat pack lot of them. This is a chance encounter with one, when looking back it foreshadowed a disaster on the horizon.

The Enron Scandal

Mr. Smiths is a faded Victorian bar on M Street the heart of party capital in the capital city. A cozy place with an Irishmen and a Scot tending bar. They made a perfect combination of the ancient skills of two well known cultures who gave us Irish Whiskey and Scotch. Victorian in style and rumor has it there is suppose to be an outdoor garden with an open roof, pleasant music, a relaxed setting to enjoy a pleasant home cook meal. I wouldn’t know never made it pass the bar.

Note: First an explanation, of sorts: You are a rancher named En Ron and you have a neighbor Arthur Anderson. En Ron owns two cows, sells one of them to himself and leases the other one back to himself. Now he has four cows and Arthur swears to it but no one has seen the cows in weeks. Taking the four cows he sells them to an offshore herder who never takes procession of them but leases them back to you. Now your herd is up to eight cows, even though one of the two and only two cows has been made into steaks for a big back yard bar-b-que to celebrate the success of your herd building. So with the remaining eight cows you buy a big ole pickup with Arthur swearing on paper you have eight cows for collateral. But still no one has seen the cows in months. You tell all your neighbors about how you are going to breed your herd and make millions, so they all contribute to get in on the action. You have another bar-b-que. So your herd has grown to 16 cows the original and only two are now in your freezer ready for the next big celebration. Now your farm electricity is turned off and for no apparent reason, call it a brown out. Then the repo man comes to get the truck you bought on the success of your herd which is now in a freezer in the basement rotting since you could not pay the electric bill and Arthur goes to jail. Basically that is the Enron Scandal. Just multiply it by about a couple of billion.

The Enron Lawyer and transparency in accounting.

“You look fam- il- yer to me.” The obviously drunk man at the end of the bar said to the gentlemen sitting next to me.

“No I don’t and lets keep it that way.” He snapped back.

“What the fu..”

“Come on, drink up and get you arse outta her” the Irish bartender snapped back. The drunk, cussing, finish the last swallow of his beer, leaves the bar, telling all how he was going to sue the place. Before he was able to make it to the door, 20 lawyers had handed him their cards.

“ I remember my first beer.” I said out loud for all to hear.

The man next to me smiled and declared.

“Rough day, just had to sit through a six hour Senate hearings.”

More of brag, than a compliant. I knew that the Enron hearings had been going on all week. The nation’s biggest financial scandal with billions of dollars and thousands of peoples lives at stake.

“Are you with Enron?” I asked.

“Counsel to the financial branch.” He said. Again more of a brag than a statement, this was his time in the limelight he was enjoying his 15 minutes of fame.

Just then my friend Terri showed up, she was an accountant with the National Lab in Oak Ridge Tenn. and the Enron scandal was the talk of the accounting profession. Arthur Andersen the premiere accounting firm in the world, at the time, was ready to take a fall and probably go out of business.

We all introduced ourselves, and the lawyer was smitten with the attractive lady that joined me and the conversation began in earnest.

Terri asked “How were they so successful in hiding all those losses for so long”.

Lawyer “They weren’t hiding them, their transparency was not as evident as some would prefer.”

“Transparency as in an off shores that were not subject to SEC scrutiny, is that the transparency that some would prefer.” Terri countered.

Luckily for me, as I said, Terri was quite attractive, she was a stylish 50 something who was of superior intelligence but lacked total common sense. So the Enron lawyer enjoyed the banter between the two of them, as she bluntly went into the fray.

“We both know that offshores are the best hedge against punitive taxes that a corporation accrues, there is even..” he paused gaining his composure knowing he was no longer in front of The Senate but in front of the bar. “It is the duty of the executives to improve the bottom line, one resource is to cut tax liability, no executive responsible to the share holders would not take advantage of an off shore.”

“Granted but Enron was manipulating the generally acceptable accounting practices to cover its losses, losses in the billions when it was reporting record profits, that transparency is what seems to have landed everyone here.” Terri snapped back. Seems this was a big deal in the accountant community.

Ahh that word “generally accepted”, very loose and about the only thing I did understand from their conversation, Enron was using the Nuremberg defense, it was ok to cook the books I have a mortgage, kids and a boat, plus define generally accepted.

Accountants and the law existing together at a little spot in the universe called Mr. Smiths, to discuss historical events one person at a time. I understood some of what was going on but both professions left me in the dark. When does a loss become profit and a crime justified? All I know is that by the time this conversation was done, I am sure the Enron lawyer was looking forward to being back in front of the Senate hearing.

Terri and the lawyer went back and forth on acceptable accounting and un-acceptable accounting practices. The angles and nuances of the law to gain the advantage. Who was the one to blame who would take the fall, fingers were pointing everywhere. I was surprised though to find out accountants do take an oath. Someone should have reminded Arthur Anderson of that.

The law is a quirky medium, there to protect the innocent and ensure justice. This lawyer truly believes that the executives did nothing out of the ordinary, business as usual built on a house of cards. Generally accepted accounting rules were the standard of the industry for decades with an understanding these are the rules and formats under which an audit is done, generally. Many companies have and to a degree practice the Enron type accounting but now the CEO has to sign off on them and assure there accuracy. The Sarbanes-Oxley Act of 2002 sets standards and deadlines along with accepted accounting practices in the wake of this scandal. The goal of the act is to provide the transparency that the markets need when investing in a company. The SEC ensures that US companies have the most accurate and available data so investors can make decisions based on facts and not phantom herds.

In the end the Enron scandal marks the biggest corporation down fall, taking both Enron and Arthur Andersen. All due to an accounting scandal on a scale unprecedented in human, yes human history. The lawyer will make thousands off the defense of Enron securing his money up front. How many families lost college education funds, retirements, how many sleepless nights were there? The stress of not knowing what will happen, jobs careers, how many marriages on the edge were push over due to this. Does he ever think of that? I don’t know, I believe he is convinced of his client’s innocence and will work hard to free them.

What happen to cause all of this, was it greed, was it reaching out to far that bought down Enron. Who’s to blame for all of this, do the employees share any of the blame, it was a public company. As stocks rose at meteoric rates did they turn a blind eye to the green in their 401K. As fast as it comes is as fast as it goes, to many people let greed and wealth cripple them beyond their ability to reason. Then the fall.

“Don’t slip and fall on a penis” or ladies night out.

Summer 1999
Birmingham Alabama

Birmingham Alabama the birth place of the Civil Rights Movement, it is here that Dr Martin Luther King Jr. first preached his non-violent approach to social change.  Social changes that created a turbulent past as Birmingham moved from division to diversity.   Modern Birmingham  like many southern cities  saw a renaissance in the 70s and 80s as companies moved to the “new south” for the non union work force, right to work laws, and lower taxes.  The sun belt grew as did the rust belt, creating a modern city with a diverse work force.  Yes, some of the old tensions still survive under the surface, but that is not what this is about.

Twenty years of this growth created a suburban area I call “generica”.  Those cookie cutter areas that you could pick up and drop anywhere in the US and not notice a difference.  They have the big box stores surrounded by the little box stores with the chain restaurants.  To complete the picture you would have a beach bar.  Bahamas Beach Club  (BBC) was a bit of polyester paradise tucked away in one corner of generica. The New South.

Men and woman free drinks vs. bitter endings

Walking into BBC, I noticed two very attractive young ladies whose path I would cross at the door.  Dressed stylishly sexy with four inch heels, short dresses and made up for display.  As luck  and my precise sense of timing, would have it, we all approached the front door at the same time.   They smiled, as I held open the doors to the BBC for their grand entrance.

They were laughing, prancing, dressed for an night out of fun with free drinks.  Obviously they had done this before, I don’t imagine they had $10 between them but they knew they would be taken care of all night long.

“Big girl party dress night”  I said as I held the door open.

“Girls just wanting to have fun, thanks” the brunet said and gave me a wicked smile, as they walked past me into the club.

They turned to go to the restroom, probably to put the finishing touches as they psych themselves for the kill, as I turned to the lounge.  The BBC it is not a bar,  but a lounge which has a large central bar surrounded by stools and tables.  Meant more to be the focal point of the area, a gathering spot to see and be seen.  My two parking lot buddies were there for just that.

The lounge was very empty for a Thursday night, I took a seat on the far end, ordered and sat back to watch.  The two ladies came from the restroom and took seats directly across from me and ordered.  Then I put my stop watch on, how long would it take for the first man to buy them a drink.  Seven minutes and 23 seconds  exactly.  In fact he had bought the drinks they had just ordered so it could be said no time at all.

Ten minutes into the night another man joined in the party and bought all four another drink.  I hadn’t even decided on whether I wanted the grilled salmon sandwich or jerk chicken and these two have an entourage paying for their evening out.  One of the two looked over at me and smiled, I return the smile with a bit of acknowledgement at the genius of these two.

I sat and observed as the crowd at the other side of the bar grew with patrons and the seats filled.  Except on my side of the bar, a traveling sales guy doesn’t attract much attention.  So I remained isolated enjoying my jerk salmon sandwich, I comprised between the two choices.  The bar filled, some couples, came in for cocktails, a couple more men were sucked into the vortex of the two ladies who were now eating appetizers.  Then, as chance would have it two ladies approached my side of the bar. Two ladies you could tell weren’t having a good time.  Great!

They sat down next to me, which shouldn’t have surprised me since my side of the bar was practically empty and the other side standing room only.  My luck but at least I wouldn’t have to buy them any drinks.

I looked at them, as they took their seats,  one was obviously not fun or having fun.  She had that I’ll bite your head off aurora.  Her companion was an attractive middle age woman, smiling, polite and appeared to be a kind friend listening to the wailings of her companion.  A companion who obliviously had been “over served”.  Something had made her loose pride in herself and let the underside of life take over. I am thinking a man, go figure.

The bar scene is all about what you portray not who you are.  Two very diverse groups, young vibrant using men to get what they want, the other trying to escape that or here to remind themselves why they are not a part of this scene anymore.

I was just finishing my meal, watching the comings and goings of a slew of men as they attempted to chat up the two attractive ladies, a night of entertainment a couple of guys at a time.  The two new ladies that were sitting closer to me were not bother by anyone.  They defiantly were not into the scene.  I wonder why they were even here as  they weren’t enjoying “it”. Quietly observing, I caught parts of the conversation.  Divorce, kids, bastard, were a few of the words I caught.   This must have been a girls night out to get away of the realities of life for a couple of hours.  I sat just observing and listening as I usually do when the un-fun lady turns and says.

“All men are assholes”.

Being a man I took this personally, but not totally disagreeing.

“Most men are assholes.”  I corrected her.

With a snip of her lip she started to say  “FUC…..”

Her friend jump in  “I’m sorry she had a rough couple of days.”

“Men are all pigs, that means you too buddy.” Said the disgruntled one.

“I prefer the platitude swine, it is less demeaning to pigs.” I responded

“Amy shut up, your being an ass right now and I have had it with the pity party.”  Cheryl, her kind friend, I think had had enough of the Amy’s pity party and the attendee list dwindled to one.

“Ladies please.”  I said  “Amy, I am sorry for your tough times, yes some men are pigs but tonight there are no men just friends.”

A tear welled up in Amy’s eye, “Sorry, asshole”.  Well it turned out not to be a tear but a trick of the light but Amy was back in form and Cheryl and I talked as she tried to explain Amy’s predicament.

We talked for a short moment, finding out she had  three children, a husband who had abandoned her,  left alone, with mounting debt yes some men are real assholes.   Amy had, had a little bit much to drink, dulling the pain for a bit, but increasing the bitterness.  Which fortunately for me, her rage was now directed at.  Due mainly to chances of genetics which made me an asshole, or generally known throughout the rest of the population a man.

“I know I overheard some of y’alls conversation, sounds to me like she got the raw end of the deal.”  I said

“We warned her that the guy was a jerk, already been married twice, but he was the dangerous type, already had two kids with other woman.  So don’t feel to sorry for Amy, reality is biting her in the ass.”  Cheryl said, in soft conversational speak mainly so Amy wouldn’t overhear.

I could not help noticing that Cheryl was sporting a rather sizable engagement and wedding ring set.

“I see you are married, how is that working for you.” I asked

“Happily married for ten years not bad considering we have been together for 15.”  Cheryl laughed

Amy chimed in “Listen asshole. Cheryl’s hasben is a great guy and will kick your ass if he sees you walking to her, jerk.”  Amy slurred as she turned back to her drink looking out at the bar.  A bar full of men and two sets of woman, Amy was in no fear of attracting any men her way.  The pair across from us was still holding court, very successfully. Now enjoying a free appetizer compliments of the bar tender.  It was like the other side of the bar was a black hole sucking in everyone but Amy.

“Same story, got married out of high school, we were in LUV., good man, works hard, fun to be with, I couldn’t  want more.  As they say to blessed to be depress.”

“Kids?”

“Two, girl boy, look see.”  She said as she dug into her purse to produced pictures of two smiling middle school age children, bright eyed, full of life, piss and vinegar, normal.

“Good looking kids, daughter has dad wrapped around her finger I bet.”  I asked

“Sickening,  she is his princess, worry about the boy, he gets into a little bit of trouble but good kids.”  She smiled as she tenderly tucked the pictures back into the safety of her purse.

“How are Amy’s kids.”

“The oldest daughter was hers from another man, never knew her dad, she is glad to see him gone, the little ones miss their dad, to early to tell.  I do wonder about the oldest boy.  A son needs a dad to be a man.”  Cheryl said

“Fuck this place, com’on Cheryl I want to go meet some real men.”  Amy slightly fell off her stool grab hold and established her footing and was moving towards the door all in one action.

“Enjoy the rest of the party.” I said to Cheryl

She was hurried, to pay the bill, gather her stuff, watch out for Amy.  She turned to me rolled her eyes and was soon tracking down the elusive and bitter Amy.

An interesting night of dichotomies.  On one end of the bar attractive, broke and wanting a free night out.  Get dressed sexy, smart and be just a little open to flirtation and the rest of the night is yours.  Men will fall over themselves to buy you drinks, just for the mere fact that you would talk to them.  You don’t even have to do anything but be there because in the back of their minds they are going to get laid, maybe.  These woman know that these men are lucky to be in the lobby of their lives and that is as far as they will ever get.  The end of the night will come with a tap on the hand and a wave good bye.

The men will leave triumphant in their pursuit as the ladies did ask for and they did get phone numbers.  The ladies will be busily tearing up phone numbers as they head back to husbands, boyfriends or large dogs and the men will keep the lines to “dial a prayer” busy for the next couple of days wondering maybe they had copied their number down wrong.

Are there nights when the men want more than a phone number, are the two playing with fire? Will there be a night when the male ego won’t take “goodbye” as the final answer and pursue to the bitter end. Are there consequences for the game these two are playing. Not tonight maybe not the next time. They might be able to play this game for the rest of their lives. But say for one night one man and consequences.

Anyway for tonight it is a fun free night at the male ego lounge, for those two while Amy struggles with life’s broken journey.  Unable or unwilling to escape the chaos of choices that surrounds her.  A man, decisions made in bad judgment, self worth always in doubt, easier to blame than accept responsibility.  I am sure there were the good times but now they aren’t as all men will be assholes for a very long time.