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.

Geo-caching or the search for stuff around the world

The world is becoming a smaller place everyday, unable to hide from all of its humanity. The advent of Global Positioning Satellites, GPS, has exposed its crevasses, pimples, and sores; all its cosmetic complexity has been mapped and probed. The barren desert to the cityscape have all been detailed to the last degree.

GPS 101
Columbus set sail for India and the spice routes hoping for the end around the world to ensure riches for the King and Queen of Portugal. The voyage ended in Jamaica. Landing there, he did not really know where he had been or the significance of what he had done: The world’s greatest failure, only missing his mark by 12,000 miles. Lucky for us, Global Positioning Satellites have greatly improved our accuracy on travel since then. On June 26, 1993 the USAF made its final launch of the 24 Geo Positioning Satellites, necessary to complete the grid for global navigation.
When you are standing in a spot with a GPS finder, three of those positioning satellites are linked by time and distance. With a myriad of complex computations, your GPS will calculate where you are, where you have been, and where you want to go. So now, when you are in Charleston, West Virginia, and running along McCorkle Avenue with your wrist GPS unit, it will actually have you running in the middle of the Kanawha River! Only off by a mere 400 feet vs Columbus’s 12,356 miles! Not bad.
GPS has lead to a whole new kind of travel adventure: Geo-caching. Looking for other peoples’ stuff in their back yards, with the added benefit of seeing this planet we a call home. Geo-caching has exposed the hidden valleys, alleys, mailboxes, Ethiopian Restaurants in Peoria, hidden venues known only unto the locals, and illegal immigrants, to the world. This planet of ours is gradually being found by Geo-caching.

Geo-caching Orlando, FL Style
International Drive, in Orlando Florida, runs the gamut from the Convention Center at one end, through every tourist trap known to man; passing by Universal Studios, finally ending at a discount mall with a Saks Fifth Avenue and an Under Armor outlet. At the midway point there is a little English Pub called Murphy’s Arms. Worn, stale, and faded, this pub is a true joint with a cast of characters right out of a Billy Joel song. Amidst this rubble sat an older couple with wrist GPS units, or Garmins. They were toying around with them when I made the comment:
“Disney World isn’t that hard to find, just follow the lines.”
That is how all of this comes together: They’re on a hunt for a mouse’s ear, a treasure hidden somewhere in the hinterlands of Orlando, not the mouse’s world. Armed only with a hand-held GPS unit they were getting ready to set out on their trek the next morning.
World travelers, not unlike Columbus himself, who have traveled the world, in search of hidden treasures deep in the harbor haunts of Japan, mailboxes in New England, alleys in Spain, and hostels in Switzerland, with the help of their Garmin, not unlike Columbus’s starry sky. Their quest and acquisition of found treasures are just bits to be replaced and further moved about the globe only for a journal entry and a story to tell others on the geo-caching site.
Geo Caching
“You do WHAT?”
This was their third attempt to tell me about geo-caching. I was sorta kinda not really getting it.
“Listen,” Glen said, as his wife looked on amused as I tried to comprehend their hobby.
“There is a web site, http://www.geocaching.com. We go to it, enter in a location anywhere in the world, and it will confirm caches located in that vicinity. The site discloses the longitude and latitude of the cache, along with some clues on where to find it. Caches can be as small as an Altoid mint box, containing just a log journal, or the large ammo-type-boxes with trinkets to be carried around the globe to other cache sites.” Glen explained again still smiling.
“I think I got it, go get a GPS tracker, find the coordinates of a spot, leave a box with a sticker or medal or something in it. Go to the geo-caching web site enter it into the site and let the fun begin”.
“Yes, you got it.” Mary explained, as another round of beers showed up. “We are on the hunt for the mouse’s ear located somewhere on the outskirts of Kissimmee.”

“Then what?” I asked
“We sign the journal, talk about our trip to Florida; all the wonderful things we found and saw along the way and plan our next one. It’s not really all that complicated young man.” Mary scolded me.
I guess not, I thought as I sat back and took a sip of my beer. Most people go to places and never really see them, except for the parts that flaunt themselves. They never see the places that the locals know and frequent. The restaurateur around the corner from Murphy Arms knows that his crowds are just one time and then gone. The restaurateur near a geo cache is feeding his neighbors and friends and if he does a bad job, makes them sick, uses low grade ingredients, he is out of business. These are the hidden treasures of geo caching: not the find, but the hunt.
I began to wonder, out loud, what all I had been missing in my travels. Had I been just blocks away from a geo cache that would have taken me by a bar that U2 was playing in when they were first getting started. That is another Bev Nap Diary story.
“Mary, write down the site. This sounds interesting. When I get back home I will have to see what caches there are in my local area.”
We sat and discussed adventures they had taken with geo caching; how their vacations were now planned around finding stuff. Stuff hidden in Switzerland to Peoria. True to my word, I logged onto the site and was amazed on the number of caches within blocks of my house. Most places I recognize right away, but I thought if I were an out-of-towner, I would see part of the city that even few residents take advantage of.
I would experience a stroll down the greenway, visit the part of the University of Tennessee campus with the paint rock. Go off the main path and discover a place that serves the best Cuban Sandwiches in the world. Venues and treats that few locals are aware of, let alone the stranger.

What a wonderful gift to give the world, itself.

The Kirtan or how I saved the farm from Brandy. (read Prententious cocktails and yoga first to understand)

The Kirtan
Summer 2008 Atlanta Ga

The Farm is still MINE ! Yes there is no Brandy nor would there be, talk is truly cheap.
Mind Body Connections, it was every thing you expected from a yoga studio. Before me was an open room with mats scattered on the floor and a few chairs hugging the walls. Candles and the dwindling sun were the only light, more a glow, in the room. The Kirtan ensemble looked the part, dressed all in white linen cloth that hung loosely, flowing, moving with the air around. The cast of three, two men and a woman smiled all the time. Not a fake or pretentious smile but a genuine soul revealing smile. A few of us mingled about, since this was my first Kirtan in memory I just took in the scene. The others I had been to, let just say my body was there, my mind was somewhere in a college induce haze of books, classes and partying, so this was a truly new experience.
NOTE:Chanting done in a private mediation is called a japa when done congregationally with instruments and dance, it becomes a Kirtan. The Kirtan dates back to the earliest forms of devotions for Sikhism and Vaisnava when a call and response form, developed into chanting. It was revived in the 15th century when there came about a Hindu devotional revival. With the popularity of yoga in this country the Kirtan has taken hold as a secondary form of meditation.
Individually they arrived at Mind Body Connections. Each entering into the room being greeted as long lost friends. I gather this was more of a reunion than just a Kirtan, friends from the world of eastern thought and practice. A world that was in conflict with western thought of pills and quick fixes that never are. Their dress normal mid America garb not flashy but fashionable. What wasn’t standard or the societal norm was the thought that life can be lead in peace and tranquility. Cancer can be help through exercise and meditation, life’s stresses can melt away with deep breathing and peaceful thought. That a smile can open doors more than a fat wallet or boisterous consumption.
Difference is what has made up most of my life so I was right at home here more than a gala full of pretentiousness. However I will have to admit they had better drinks at the gala vs the green weak tea of the Kirtan
I use to not trust people who smiled all the time but life has taught me that the ones who don’t smile are the ones to avoid at all costs. The performers, are known as the Kirtankar took their places center floor, smiling as where all around me and I caught myself smiling also. The troup sat amongst their instruments, the harmonium, the two-headed mrdanga or pakawaj drum and karatal hand cymbals. The harmonium is a mix between a miniature upright piano and a accordion but with a more sweet melodic sound.
“Namaste” the traditional Hindu greeting , the male leader of the Kirtankar said with a slight bow of his head and palms together in front of his chest as he sat cross legged on the floor.
The group responded “Namaste” and all took their places.
Then a gentle female voice welcome all to the Kirtan. At first a slow harmonic tone came from the harmonium joined by a steady beat of the pakawaj drum. The leader started the chant.
“Shima Shima Shima”
The group joined in, most with eyes closed, swaying to the beat. A beat that grew stronger and more reflective as it progress. Soon the crowd was in unison, swaying, chanting some clapping to the beat. The words to the chant became more melody than song as the momentum carried the room. Soon one got up and started to dance and then another. The room was now alive with song, dance, chant all as one all together.
A tempo was reached with all in harmony and then the slow gradual coming down off the Shima high began till there was silence, no movement, just peace.
“WOW” I thought this is better than 50-cent draft and 10 cent wing night anytime. I looked around the room at the faces. In deep thought, giving themselves a chance to relax, take in what is good and right with the world. A chance to be in a community of harmony and peace, maybe for just an hour but a chance all the same.
What was really surprising was the audience, white, middle aged, females. There were perhaps a couple dozen people there. I was one of three men the rest fit the above category, all different shapes and sizes but the one demographic in common. I thought of Brandy, truly not surprise she wasn’t there, she was eternally trapped in her world like to many not having the courage of convictions but the courage of her leisure, why be happy when you can be satisfied.
A few of the participants sported wedding bands but for the most part all seem to be single. Was this a part of their selves they had been denied for a long time or was this a part of an inner search. Was this a step on a journey that might lead to art classes, pottery, music or the completion of a dream. Really didn’t matter to me as a single middle aged man I had found nirvana and was not telling anyone about this. Yea my single buddies, stay on single dot com good luck. I have lucked into a gold mine.
I digress, the shima was just one of four chants that would be done that night. Chants that allowed a suppress spirit to let loose. A spirit in a community of spirits. Yes I too found myself dancing and chanting and at peace. When the Kirtan ended, I said goodbye to several new friends not getting names nor numbers but hugs and well wishes. Outside I looked around and decided, I am going to go get an ice cream cone.
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Pretentious cocktails and yoga

Atlanta  Fall 2002

Not all occasions take place in an oak laden, glass-brass and mirrored bar. Sometimes you find yourself standing in the arena where only the elite of society gather. Vestiges like a dated country club, where stuffiness and old money meet for a truly interesting experience. Mixing with that privilege — through education, connections or grandpa’s money — we stand, drink and talk. The latest in designer apparel, exotic travel, and other experiences of self absorption are the topics. These are the times when, dressed in a tux or a formal, we are surrounded by the movers and shakers, or those who believe they are, and occasionally conversation of some merit takes place.

Gatherings celebrate the work done by many at a clinic for cancer patients, self acknowledgement for those who gave of time and resources. It’s more about being seen than anything. Also, time to be updated on what surgery was had, what was cut, tucked, sucked or mucked. There are also whispers of who is having an affair or who wants to. Topics range from the outlandish to the boring, but have no relevance to anything I can relate to.

Unless you can find the other member of the RAM society (raggedy ass masses), the only other one drinking a beer, who would be more than ready to discuss why the shock that your local team ranks No. 10 in the AP sports writers poll and not number 9.  Without that person, you are stuck with “Nanny took care of the kids while I had lipo suction done at the clinic La Petite Mansion de blah blah in Paris. Such an ordeal.”

One salvation is the searchers, as I will call them, on a quest for a true self. It is their journey to find themselves for the benefit of themselves, so that we hear about it during cocktail conversation. The journey may take them to remote villages. They may have a spiritual awakening at the foot of a guru, with a foreign lover, during yoga or, in most cases, all of the above. By far they are much more interesting than talk of a catered backpack tour through the wine country of Eastern Slovenia.

Yoga and the Kirtan

Yoga comes from the Sanskrit word yuj to yoke, as in the device used on beasts of burden to bind them together. It literally means to bind, to come together as in mind, body and spirit. Yoga’s roots date back to 900 BC in India where writings of it in the Vedas make references to the discipline of spirit over body.  Part of the yoga practice is the kirtan or the chanting of sacred or devotional songs. The sanskrit mantra promotes deep states of tranquility.

That said, write a few public service announcements, dedicate a couple hundred hours of community service, give of your treasure and you will find yourself at a formal gala dressed in a rented tux overhearing an attractive middle age woman named Brandy. She is holding court with several gentlemen hanging onto every word she is saying as you stand at the cocktail counter trying to order a beer.

What am I doing here? My invitation to this charity gala came at the last minute due to an anxiety attack by the wife of one of the doctors who practices at the clinic that is benefitting from the generosity.  She canceled, one ticket was available and because I knew the organizer of the events due to the 1000 of hours I worked with her writing on Public Service Announcements she reluctantly asked me to attend.  Reluctantly because on the long list ahead all had a life and could not drop everything to attend at the last minute, alone.

What the heck? A chance to play grown up, so there I am standing  drinking a Coca-cola, since your choice is wine or a cocktail neither of which is appealing, and listening as Brandy rambles on about her yoga classes and the kirtan she went to.

“This kirtan was such a joyous event. Sasha was there; she is such a love. Tell me have any of you been to a kirtan. Lord, do any of you all even know what a kirtan is?” she asked.

Maybe it was the pop or the absolute pretentiousness of it all, but I couldn’t take it anymore.

“A kirtan, the sanskrit mantras of the Bhakti yoga, or the easiest yoga to master, thus the direct path to experience unity of mind and body.  The hymns or mantras are performed in India’s devotional traditions.  Usually to the accompaniment of instruments such as the harmonium or the pakawaj drum.” I said to Brandy as she asked the gathered masses of men, which did not include me.

One of the more feisty men, a doctor I am sure because he was drinking a gin and tonic neat with a twist of lime and he had his head up his ass, replied: “That’s bull shit; you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, he does,” Brandy replied almost in a daze as she looked at me.

In the deep, dark recesses of my mind there came a memory of a time when yoga, meditation and kirtans were all the rage on college campuses. I think it had a lot to do with drugs. In that time, I became a devotee of the practices, but I must admit I had let it lapsed for sometime. The mind is a strange and wondrous place. It still amazes me what I can pull out of my butt and come out smelling like a rose.

“Please, go on,” Brandy said. Right there I knew I knew just a bit more than Brandy; she was the one bull shitting everyone. So I took full advantage of the situation to impress all around me.

Doctor Neat-Gin-and-Tonic-with-a-Lime piped in: “Please, Aswan, tells us what you know.”

I tossed it back to Brandy. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Please, continue.”

Brandy, being no dummy, knew what I knew and in a bit of self reflection with her people gathered around her, she admitted her failing.

“Actually, the kirtan I went to was my first one. It was very moving. I am not that familiar with the discipline. Please, tell me.”

“Sure.” I continued on with Yoga and the Kirtan 101. “The kirtan is the mind and body connect that yoga strives to achieve. Ritualistic in nature, but it’s curative effects would put the AMA to shame,” I said looking squarely at gin and tonic.

I digressed further into the healing powers of the spirit achieved through the discipline of chanting the kirtan mantras. It was into my third rendition of Shima, Shima when the crowd started to break off into little sections and then disperse. Conversation then went back to more familiar tomes: those who had traveled to a remote village to watch a clinic being built by some Irish missionaries and the rumors of doctor C’s wife having an affair with her personal trainer who was Brazilian. Clearly, Mrs. C was hitting the self realization on all cylinders. There were comments on who had a face lift, who needed a face lift, until it was just Brandy and me.

“Truthfully, what do you know about the kirtan or even yoga?” I asked.

“Not a whole hellva lot” she sang back, in a rare moment of true self expression. She had dropped some of the formal aire that had surrounded her when she held court.

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything….” She then sighed

“Everything, about what life is. It isn’t this; it can’t be this. Conspicuous giving is not about who you are, but what you are. I want to know it all. I want to be at peace.”

She sighed as she looked around the formal affair. How many had she been to? What toll was this taking on her soul? As a visitor to this world I dabbled into the psyche of the super elite. Most of who had lost sight of the struggle. Those days of toil on their part or a relative’s part that bought this about. Now it was about the stuff and not self.

She looked at me, smiled and I could see for a moment Brandy the person, the soul that longed for some sort of inner peace. Would she find it in the kirtan, yoga or ever. At least she took the first step, a chance to explore a different world, while living in a world that would not accept such unorthodoxy.

“What are you searching for? Do you know?” I asked

“Inner peace, a sense of self, not trapped in a world of over-the-top indulgences. I was going to go to a kirtan tomorrow night at Mind Body Connect” She said, then added  “Would you like to go?”

“I would love to.” I said.

“7pm, it is, I will see you there”  She smiled and blew me a kiss as she turned to leave, heading bck into the banquet area ready to hold court again, to go back to her world, a world she was comfortable in, my world was only to be visited on rare occasions.

I stood there alone in the crowed room, I am a person just like they are but I am nothing like them and they nothing like me.  The social chasms that are created by wealth earned or given have always intrigued me.  Wealth buys very little, yes money does make a nice down payment on happiness but your inner peace truly brings that happiness.

7 pm tomorrow night, I was willing to bet the farm that Brandy will not be there.

 

PART TWO the KIRTAN

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The Deception of Preception in San Francisco

Winter 2007

San Francisco; Mark Twain commented that the coldest winter he ever spent was a summer in San Francisco. The Bay Area is unique in its culture, geography, history, attitude and climate. A care free, no worries, no hassle just be cool way of life. Along with that, there should be the mantra, “Don’t judge others, as you will probably be wrong.”

The deception of preception

.San Fran has many sights, the famous trolleys, Alcatraz and then there is Fisherman’s Wharf the first stop on any Bay tour. Touristy without question and portions stink to high heaven due to the accumulation of seals and walruses that populate the docks everyday. I often wonder if these critters are on the city payroll. They just hang around, bellicose all day long, and they smell, a lot like most city council meetings. Just a block away from Fisherman’s Wharf is a cozy, well-worn Irish Pub; every city has a cozy, well-worn Irish Pub that’s just the way it is. I have a knack for finding these cozy, well-worn Irish pubs on my traverses across the land and, sure enough, I found Tiernan’s.

Sitting in Tiernan’s Irish Pub, on stools that were showing the wear from many a bottom, slightly dented in the appropriate places, made of the cracked red leather that comes from bar cows, the leather that makes up the standard fare of most bar stools.  Sitting, staring at the large oak liquor display that took up the back wall of the bar. Knick knacks of the bar variety litter the spaces where bottles weren’t. Sitting, staring my buddy and I locked on the tappers showing us a variety of beers that spaned the globe: Harp’s, Guinness, IPA, Kirin and Coors Light. Mindy stood waiting while we took a hops and barley tour of the world.

Harp’s it was and my friend and I were soon talking about what we wanted to see next as we sipped our drafts. The discussion went on when an elderly man walked in, wearing disheveled cloths and a three day growth of beard. He took a seat at a corner table, sitting quietly and waiting till Mindy was able to go over and talk to him. Soon after taking his seat, a young couple strolled in also apparently taking some time off from sight seeing to enjoy a relaxing beer. Mindy excused herself from the elderly gentlemen and came back to the bar to take their order.

The younger gentlemen had a shaved head, big dude. His date was an attractive blonde with a fit figure and an engaging smile that matched his. They sat at the bar a few seats down from us, acknowledging us by nodding a greeting. We in turn lifted our glasses in toast and the party began.

Not staring but observing, I couldn’t help but notice that they too glanced at the unkempt man sitting at the table. Was he homeless, a bum, an alcoholic? I stopped myself, learning over time never to judge. You never know. Too many times I have been surprised by what I thought was true and then what was really true. This turned out to be one of those times.

Conversation started as conversations usually do in a bar. A comment over heard, a common core of experience and then the whole bar is involved. The whole bar being the four of us — Marty and me and the couple, who we learned were Jim and Cheryl. Jim was a coach for an Olympic team and was taking a break before the Beijing games. My kids are swimmers, one was in training for the Olympic team so we talked about dedication, trials and triumphs and the solidarity of training for an event that comes only once in four years. The payoff, a quick chance at immortality and then it is over.

We sat there with our drinks in front of us more as decorations than cocktails. Mindy had gotten the elderly gentlemen a beer, and the conversation continued.

“The kids train day and night. We’re in the pool from 5 to 7 and then back at night, a true labor of love,” Jim said.

“Did you go to Athens?”

“Yes, I did, great experience,” he added.

“What was it like to walk into the stadium for the opening ceremonies?” I wondered.

“I can’t tell you. I was there and I wasn’t. There was so much to take in, thousands of the best athletes in the world, the colors, the sounds — a bit overwhelming and then you on to competition. A dream within a dream,” Jim said, recounting one of the highlight events of his life.

His girlfriend, as we found out, was also an athlete who just missed making the Olympic women’s team both Jim and her were striking in their athleticism and gentleness. You could tell Jim was the coach that could kick your ass one minute and then give you an encouraging “You’ll get it. I know you will,” pep talk. Sometimes, both at the same time.

“How did the team, do?” I had to admit I didn’t pay much attention, seems beach volleyball was my prime sport for that Olympic.

“Didn’t they get a bronze,” the elderly gentlemen said from his table

“Why, yes, they did. Good memory.” Jim looked over his shoulder towards the gentlemen,

“We ran the Olympics on the big screen here. My son played a little in college so it was fun to watch,” the gentlemen said.

Mindy chimed in: “Boss is a huge Olympic file. We played it night and day.”

Boss? Olympics? What?

“Is this your bar?” I turned and asked the gentlemen

“Yes, owned it for about 7 years now, bought just before 9-11. Good times then and now it has gone to hell. Damn city keeps coming after me for earthquake improvements. See the I-beam above you.” He started in.

All four of us looked up and noticed a steel I-beam above us in the middle of the ceiling. It was obnoxious and out of place.

The gentlemen continued “Ten thousand it cost me to have that put in. Won’t do a damn thing to stop an earthquake, but the city…” The gentlemen continued talking about the perils of owning a bar in San Fran.

The owner, he is the boss man; I am sitting in his bar. Not a bum, a business man, no suit, no tie but the owner of a business that is probably worth a million dollars.

My buddy chimed in since he knew more about bars then Olympic sports.

“How’s business been? I always thought about owning a bar.” Marty said.

“Not good, in a high rent district, city governs a lot of what I can do, keep hanging on. Trust me; everyone wants to own a bar until they own a bar.” The gentlemen responded

“My cousin has a bar in upstate Wisconsin, owned for years, she told me it gets tougher with the law and taxes, hard to make ends meet. Plus she lives there practically, employees stealing you blind. Isn’t that right Mindy?” Marty said.

We all laughed, even Mindy, if not a little bit nervously. Then we all introduced each other, Jim, Cheryl, Pete, Marty, Stan, and Mindy. Cheryl was a trooper, whom I am sure just wanted to have a quick drink before continuing on her tour of San Fran.

Jim, Cheryl and I talked mainly about swimming, while Marty, Mindy and Stan went on about bar ownership, good bad and the ugly. A nice little social event broke out in a corner of one of the most populace cities in the United States. Six friends talking and sharing common tales of tribulation and triumph. Sports, bars, San Fran, responsibilities to athletes, customers an Olympics of thoughts and talks consumed the better part of a winter’s afternoon in San Francisco.

Judging would have made me miss out on the experience. A bum, a big dude with his girlfriend and judging would have left it at that. I didn’t, so I was treated to Olympic travel, backwoods taverns, life in LA, life in a San Fran bar, life. I was reward for not judging and still to this day these experiences are etched into my mind.