Douglas Kennedy – A Special Relationship -Review

This is an extraordinary novel. It is extraordinary because the author writes from the perspective of a woman. Writing in the first person as a woman, might not sound that unusual; however, Kennedy expresses her most inner feeling and insanity as a woman experiencing Post Natal Depression. You might say that a `man' would not have the slightest a clue about such things, but after reading the novel and giving it to family and friends (women) who have experienced postnatal depression or even the less serious, post natal blues, after reading the text, have come back to me startled and amazed at how accurate and spot on the mark the author was in terms of his unusual depth of understanding.

A thirty-something journalist, Sally Goodchild meets a handsome Englishman in Cairo while on assignment. Tony Hobbs is a foreign correspondent for a major London newspaper and as one thing leads to another, Sally ends up pregnant and Tony offers to marry her though insists she must come back to England. This all sounds rather mundane, but as the narrative unfolds, we find that all is not as it seems in their relationship.

Sally experiences all the cultural differences as an American living in London. She experiences `cultural shock' to a minor degree, but while reading her observations and feelings, and having lived in different countries as well, could relate, however, her husband Tony, strangely, never offered any support, leaving the poor (pregnant)woman to her own devices.

Sally finally has the baby, and it is not a smooth delivery. She comes out of the experience a total wreck, emotionally and less so, physically. She finds the hospital staff without empathy and, in some cases, sadistic. Sally has no support from her family as she is all alone. Tony becomes a phantom, occasionally coming home and ignoring the baby. Sally attempts to describe her dilemma, her feelings, but her husband merely scoffs and arrogantly disapproves, giving her the impression that she's being a child and should "grow up!"

Needless to say, Sally comes close to ending it all, hitting rock bottom.

Douglas Kennedy is a master at taking a character to the heights to then drag them down further than the reader would think possible:  The Big Picture  and his first novel, The Job, are good examples.

We feel Sally's desperation, her insanity, her frustration as a new mother and her various reactions to her situation. Does this poor woman bounce back? 
This is an excellent novel, the author doing his job, immersing us into the character, feeling her emotions and her desperation, and finally, her choice to climb out of a terrible, hopeless situation...and she does it with flair and style. 

Opinion: Victoria's Lock Down

For just on a month, Victoria is in a stage 4 lock down, due to a rise in Covid 19 cases, including stringent rules on compulsory masks in public places, only one person per family is permitted to go to the grocery store, and a curfew that keeps us inside between 8:00pm to 5:00 am everyday of the week. There are certainly more rules that currently escape me, however, the above mentioned is quite enough.

In a recent poll, it was revealed that the majority of Victorian's agree with these rules, and those who disagree are in a small minority. What does say about the Victorian community?

Aside from the massive fines one can receive for breaking the rules, including jail time in some cases, as a population, we take this pandemic seriously, and will do just about anything as a group to ride the virus through to it's unrealised end. That said, this decision to comply with these restrictions has not come without criticism.

It can be confidently said, that most of the criticism has come from right wing circles like opposition party's, such as the Liberal government, (Victoria's government is Labour) and conservative news organisations such as Sky New, and specifically from their respective journalists. In a tweet today from a high profile writer, an writer of the Murdoch owned Australian Newspaper, reported the poll numbers taken from the Victorian people, while arrogantly throwing shade on them, as if we are some ignorant, sheep people, following orders from the Pied Piper over the proverbial cliff. He didn't provide any argument to support his claim, but really, that's usually the case for anti-maskers, who can scream about *their Rights*, while ignoring the medical facts concerning the pandemic. These criticisms are purely political or based on disinformation.

Let's be honest, throwing politics around against basic preventative measures to combat a pandemic, like refusing to wear a mask is childish at best, and in the least, moronic.

Over the last three years, I've been on social media, and since the pandemic, theories abound on its source and resisting any governmental order to combat the virus. I must say, they're a few writers who have done their research and have put forward some compelling notions. One popular Youtuber, a young woman based in Atlanta who I respect, published a video named, Just Say No. She focused on Melbourne and our strict rules during our second wave of Covid. It was the same arguments which do not hold water. Such as our governments are in cahoots to instigate total control over the population. We must say No, to ensure our individual Rights, etc. I would ask this intelligent young lady to come to Melbourne and visit our hospitals, to wear a mask, and witness first hand those on the front lines. I'm certain, she'd have a change of heart.

Melbourne will get through this lock down, and even now, the new cases and number of deaths has gotten significantly less since the declared State of Emergency.

Right wing politicians and their cronies in the media, including anti-establishment types, politicising the pandemic have done nothing productive, but have merely stirred those less informed up in arms, creating a paranoia that is not warranted or needed during a health emergency.

In Melbourne and throughout the state of Victoria, the people realise the importance of remaining inside, wearing a mask, and avoiding public spaces, in order to get on top of the virus.

Indeed, I can also assure you, that the Victorian people are aware of their individual Rights as citizens in a democracy. It comes down to common sense, something the Right-wing and uninformed in this country and the planet, surely lack.

The Student and the Closet (P 3 of 3)

We all have personal emergencies, and this morning, another one has been added to my long list over a lifetime. George, my cat, a big Persian long hair, fell off our balcony. I found the old boy at the front door yowling in pain and blood everywhere. I wrapped him in a towel, set him in the cat carrier, and headed to the vets. The vet, a young girl originally from Queensland, had that special animal empathy, so when she grabbed George and took him in the backroom, I wasn't too worried, for she worked with my other cats before. At that moment, I asked to use the phone to ring the school and inform them I'd be late. An hour later, she brought George back out looking drugged but pain-free. He had cracked a few teeth and lost one, but otherwise, the old man would live for another day. Returning home, I made him a bed with food and a water bowl beside him and headed for school.

Driving to the school, it started to rain in droves. Never one for superstition, I take much heed in omens; however, that said, the rain seemed to always presage some catastrophe in my vicinity. Not necessarily a catastrophe for me personally, but instances of bad luck or drama around my world.

I arrived at the end of the third period, just in time for morning recess. Grabbing a coffee in the teacher's lounge, my colleague, Mr. Phillips, sat next to me.

“We might have a problem with our project, Bradley.” he said.

Sipping my coffee, “What happened?”

“That's the problem. The boy said he won't talk to anybody else but you.”

“You're joking, right? I said.

In the doorway with her arms akimbo stood the vice principal. Looking serious as usual, she beckoned me to follow her to her office. I noticed that Bradley sat in a chair outside her door with his head bowed.

“Something has happened to Bradley, because he came to school crying and distraught. His home group teacher attempted to find out the problem, but he remained quiet. He said he only wanted to talk to Mr. Middleton.”, so she palmed him off to me. Why do you think this is the case, you're not his home group teacher?” she asked.

I thought for a moment, and said, “I teach the boy English in the last period. Over the last two weeks, I guess we have developed a rapport. His father deserted the family a few years ago, so really, your guess is as good as mine.”

“Okay, you can use my office.” she said.

Once sitting the boy down, he immediately began to quietly cry, streaks of dirt tears running down his cheeks.

Finally, he opened up: “ I got in a fight with mum because she wouldn't make dinner. She got furious and put me in the hall closet. I couldn't get out. She locked it somehow, and I had to sleep in there. I finally pushed the door open. I was late for school and didn't want to get in more trouble...”

When anyone hears a story like this. First, emotion is a shock that turns slowly to anger. At first, I didn't know what to say, but asked, “Have you ate anything since last night?”

“No,” he said.

“Okay buddy, stay right here, and I'll be right back.”

During this time, public schools were better financed, so we had a welfare officer. I discovered the vice-principal and the welfare officer standing just outside the door. I related the story and observed the same sequence of emotions run through them as I had experienced a few minutes ago.

“I'm going to the canteen to get him something to eat.” I said.

In low-income neighborhoods, the battle for substantial teaching and learning is on-going. Because 95% of families cannot afford the yearly school fees, including books, uniforms, and basic supplies, the school or individual teacher ends up paying the bill. For example, a month before school begins, we sell second-hand uniforms to families for close to nothing. This also includes used books and cheap notebooks, pens, and pencils. In a situation like Bradley, the school could not afford a trained welfare officer only a few years later, leaving the problems up to the administration and teachers. This problem, lack of proper government funding for public schools, to my knowledge, still exists. This is certainly a government problem, giving private schools money while leaving the public with scraps. If it was up to right-wing leadership, they would privatize the school system, leaving the poor excluded to profit.

We ended-up having a meeting with Bradley's mother, where she brought along her babies. Through child care agencies and others, we discovered that she was a recovering heroin addict, a single mother, and simply trying to make ends meet.

Our receptionist would secretly take Bradley's dirty uniform for the rest of the year, replacing it with a clean one every week. This was done before school started, ensuring Bradley's school mates wouldn't know the difference.

After that particular meeting, from that day forward to our knowledge, this student was never put into a closet again.

 

The Student and the Closet (P.2)

The class was aware of my American accent (schools are rumor mills by nature), so like many times before, had their questions ready. These questions revolved around a little about my childhood, if I had ever been to Disneyland, and if I had ever been shot at with a real gun. When the last question was asked, and my answer framed in the positive, all heads leaned forward to hear this story in graphic detail, hoping there would be descriptions of blood somewhere in the tale. To be fair, like these twelve-year-old's, I too grew up on advertising, where shootouts and car chases on TV and films is common fare.

“C'mon Mr. Middleton, tell us what happened, please...”

Rather then go into detail about this childhood experience here. Let's simply say a 22' caliber bullet came too close to the back of my head to ricochet off a trunk of a tree. Though there was no blood involved in the story, the students appeared to enjoy it, reinforcing their cliched' notions of the United States of America.

The student in question is Bradley Wheaten, a throw-back to the '30s Depression and he remained quiet throughout the entire class. The bell rang to end the first day of school, and my new students left happy. As I was gathering up my things, I could hear a scuffle just outside the door. Walking out, it was Bradley and another boy wrestling on the hallway floor. Separating the two, I asked what started it, and an older girl in the crowd spoke up, a witness to the crime.

“Jack called Bradley a pig, telling him he stunk, and to take a bath. Bradley jumped on him and...”

“Okay, thank you, I got it. Come with me, boys.”

I frogged them to the office, to find the principal and the rest of the administration behind closed doors in a meeting. This left me no option but to skip the principal and give both boys detention the following day. I handed them both the “green slip.” and said, “Certainly not a good way to start the year, but I'll see you two tomorrow at 3:30 in my homeroom”. I released the culprits and walked to the teachers' lounge.

Entering I found Mr. Phillips, the schools head gym teacher, and told him about the fight, and Bradley Wheaten.

Phillips' had Bradley's “dossier” at hand, a report from their elementary school about their academic status and other details they'd care to share with us. The boy's academic grades were average, but his home life was a different matter. Of course, he lived with his mother, no father, divorced, with two siblings, both babies. There had been signs of neglect, but nothing that had any cause to follow-up on. This caused me to pause. Because his appearance, in my view, in itself, was enough to begin a formal investigation into his home life. The gym teacher and I decided to keep a close eye on the boy and his behavior.

A week passed, and Bradley came to school every day but never seemed to have washed. Last week, I noticed a smell about him, a mix of body odor and dirt. I found Mr. Phillips, and we came to the same conclusion. (As an aside, in most public schools in Victoria, the students were not required to shower.) I had an idea.

“Rather then bring attention to his personal hygiene, causing the boy to feel guilty, why not really work him in Gym class, and tell him to take a shower, along with a few others, that might help the boy's self-esteem”. Phillip's agreed to the idea, and the plan was to be executed the next school day.

At the end of the day, I entered the teacher's lounge and found Mr. Phillips.

“So tell, how did you go?”

“I made the boys do laps around the court for the whole period. I suggested the shower, and all of them, including Bradley, agreed. So, Bradley is now clean.”

“Well done, Mr. Phillips! One day at a time, right?”

“Right,” he said.

The next school day, Bradley is conspicuously absent. He had never missed a day since the start of the school year. I knew in my gut that something is wrong.

As it turned out, I was right.

The Student and the Closet

 

It's On the first day of school and sitting at my desk, Year 7's entered the classroom in a single file. Because I've been teaching for some years now, the behavior of a student as a first impression usually is the right one. On this occasion, the last period of the day, all were quiet, eyes darting around the room, wondering and wanting to go home. Like Maths and Science, this is English, a key subject and important for their overall education. I decided not to trouble them with a seating chart, but use this time for the students to get to know me and visa versa. The last student to arrive is a small boy for his age, but what stood out, is his uniform is clean and new, though his arms and face are spotted with smudges of dirt. This wasn't new mud from a playful lunch break or afternoon recess, but old soil, so long on his skin for lack of a good wash, that it appeared to be a permanent blemish on his skin. When I stood up the bell rang and the class remained silent in fearful expectation. (End of P. 1)

Why the Jimmy Dore Show is Popular. Continues to be relevant.

Reading and viewing American mainstream news, particular living here in Australia is a hopeless enterprise in so far as desiring the truth. After the non-stop Russia-gate propaganda in 2017-18 drove many away from MSM. Many were forced to seek-out other news outlets to get a grip on the insanity in US politics. Personally, I've been a reader of Matt Taibbi for years during his tenure at the Rolling Stone magazine, and now that he's writing for Substack, I continue to read his insightful pieces. I discovered Grayzone.com in 2018 and have been an avid reader since. On YouTube, since it appeared that the Young Turks had turned to the dark side, promoting Russia-gate, I seriously turned to the Jimmy Dore Show and have never looked back.

Jimmy Dore, as he will remind us, is a pot-smoking jag off that can cover the news better than any mainstream organization. Over the past two some years of watching, broadcasting his show from his garage somewhere in Southern California, he's reported on all the important stories that matter: political corruption, mainstream news propaganda on such topics a Russia, the DNC, Syria, and Venezuela. During the non-stop Russia-gate onslaught from the MSM in 2016-20, he debunked every story they could push out. He poked holes in the Syria “gas attacks,” and the anti-Venezuela regime propaganda put out by the Trump regime and the US State Department. This has not come without a price.

Jimmy Dore is a passionate individual who, like myself, despises war. Some of his critics have stated that he's too emotional in his reporting, I find this passion and energy charming and infectious because he has integrity and knows he's stating the truth. Passion and truth is a powerful combination.

CNN had done a hit piece on Jimmy over his Syria reporting, I believe, but never the passive one, Dore came out swinging, and the number of hits and “likes” on these videos reached into the millions. Many other conservative and “left” outlets and journalists have dog-piled on the man's views, but he always seems to reveal their lies. Dore even goes as far as inviting his “haters” on his show, which to my knowledge, no critic has ever taken him up on it. Another sign that his critics are writing in bad faith. Dore has proved this time and time again.

It's been said that if you're on the right path for the truth, those in power will attack you, and it is a sure sign that you're doing something right. While the critics get louder, the Jimmy Dore show gets more popular. I remember back in the day when TJDS was resting at around 250,000 subscriptions and I would return to his channel to discover that I had been Unsubscribed. This happened more than once, and Jimmy knew this, reminding people to check on their subscription. Suddenly his subs grew in leaps and bounds. I don't know why he jumped in subs so high, but it's obvious because of his honesty and respect for the truth.

If you desire the truth about US politics and foreign policy, the Dore the show is the place to go because you'd be hard-pressed to find it anywhere else.

Raymond Carver – "What we talk about..."- Review

My introduction to this American short story writer landed sometime in the mid-eighties. This collection, Will you Please be Quiet, Please, (1976) for me, was a different style of writing, close to Hemingway-ish, though Carver is more straight forward, closer to home, and much more realistic in its content. What we Talk about When We Talk about Love, (1981) portrays this realism in simple prose, the landscape is Northwestern America, and the characters, working-class folk, and who's problems we all can relate to in some form in our lives.

One finishes a story and is forced to pause because of appearance, the content in everyday life, slices of life, and mundane on the surface. One finds themselves rereading the story, to find the allusions and subtleties in the human condition.

A good example of this allusion and the subtleties in the human condition is the first tale of the rank, Why Don't You Dance? A middle-aged man is having a garage sale, evidently getting rid of a life once lived. From the reading, we can gather the man's whole life is on his driveway: bed, desk, TV, record player, and even his vinyl collection of obscure tunes. A young couple arrives and tests the bed and ends up turning on the television. 

The owner shows up with a bag containing a bottle of whisky and beer. The couple asks the man for the price of certain items like the bed and TV. From this exchange, we can tell the man is not too interested in making a profit, for he easily lets his property go for a steal. Later he offers them a glass of whisky and then puts on a record. The couple begins to dance, but the young man quits claiming he's too drunk. It's then the young lady, and the older man begins to dance, and from this scene, we can feel the connection. Taking this connection further, an image manifests of an old life ending and a new one just beginning. This is not blatantly stated, but Carver leaves it up for the reader to decide...

Again, Carver never tells the reader everything about the characters or the entire circumstances of the story's content, but leaves us to re-read, and fill in the blanks, thus touching us emotionally and finishing the story ourselves.

In Gazebo, we find a couple in the throes of alcoholism, giving up on life. Managers of a small hotel, they have locked themselves into one of the rooms, drinking and lamenting, to discover the man has been sleeping with the maid, and the woman cannot let this infidelity go. 

The woman remembers a time on their travels when they stop at home to ask for a drink of water. In the backyard is an old gazebo, weathered by time. They talk about the choices they have made through life, and if they were the right ones. The gazebo represents what could have been, and specifically, is it their choices that brought them to this fork in their relationship, or their alcoholism?

It's known that Carver was an alcoholic, but spent the last ten years of his life sober, making writing the most productive time in his literary career.

Raymond Carver has been called America's greatest short story writer. For this reader, this is true. 

The World is Run by Psychopaths

It's certain that anyone you stop on the street and ask them about war will most often reply that they prefer peace. Their second statement would be that war is justified in the act of defense in one form or another. How many “wars” are you aware of that involve that defensive element? We're protecting the lives of our citizens against all foreign enemies.” This statement is, at least since the end of WWII, complete rubbish. The US and their allies have been staging war across the planet for the last 70 years for pure profit. No one loves war except those at the top of government. And the methods governments employ to gain public consent have become a science in itself over the last several decades. Generally, we call this “science” propaganda.

Back in the day I taught 20^th century history, and the vast majority of my lessons revolved around WWI-II. A favorite lesson for students turned out to be WWI propaganda. We would study political cartoons published in major newspapers, depicting large ugly Germans hanging newborns over their open mouths, ready to swallow them. The Germans would essentially depict the same, showing French soldiers murdering young German children with their bayonets. In the 1990s, the American's went on a similar propaganda campaign, spreading the news that Iraqi soldiers had invaded Kuwait hospitals and were throwing newborns out of their incubators...” on the stone-cold floors.” This turned out to be a complete lie but was the turning point in public opinion to invade Iraq.

Some years ago, thinking about WWII, I always wondered how the Nazi's rose so quickly when Germany was in economic shambles after WWI. At Versailles, when the leaders of the West congregated to carve-up the planets maps, creating all-new countries, Germany not only was devastated by the war but was economically punished. Who financed the Nazis? After only a little digging, I discovered international industrialists, bankers, and certain millionaire families. These included the Rothschild family, the oil-rich Bush family from Texas, and predominantly, the Ford Motor Company. In fact, Hitler had a large painting of Henry Ford in his home in Germany. Ford was Hitlers central financial backer in the rise of the Third Reich. This fact is not known by many, but without question, it is a historical fact.

You see, war is good business. The elites will finance both sides in a war, and after the killing, they will move in with their reparations, making a profit. For these psychopaths, it never matters who “wins.” the conflict, but profiting from the aftermath and its devastation.

Iraq, for example, was a profitable war and continues to be so to this day. Afghanistan is a continuous war for the sole benefit of weapon manufacturers and certain corporations with interests in the countries raw materials. This 20-year-old “conflict” has nothing to do with fighting terrorism, but everything to do with money and power. Our children are sacrificing their lives for Boeing and the Rand Corporation, including certain pharmaceutical companies for Afghanistan's rich poppy resource. Remove the propaganda, and what do you have left? People are dying for profit for the 1% at the top.

This reality came further to light when observing a Twitter battle between antiwar tweets and the billionaire, Elon Musk. I came late to the argument; however, Musk was justifying and applauding the right-wing coup in Bolivia – a coup instigated and backed by the CIA. The country had a duly elected socialist president, who had attempted to secure the country's natural resources for Bolivia only. Corporate America would not stand for this. The coup was successful, and Bolivia, like other countries the US has interfered with, is now slowly becoming a failed state. That said, one of Bolivia's main natural resources is lithium. A mineral is central to Elon Musk's company.

So it was no surprise that this billionaire, Elon Musk, was applauding the coup and indigenous Bolivians' deaths. For these psychopaths, profit over human life is a standard operating procedure.

Indeed, there are many other examples of corporation's subsidizing war in history, which are clouded in “patriotic propaganda.”

When we finally get passed the thin lies of jingoism and the false ideals of nationalism. We may find a modicum of peace.

Time almost Interviewed Hunter S. Thompson (P.4 of 4)

 

My friend owns a rugged 4-wheel drive, designed to travel through ponds and climb rugged terrain. When I was just enjoying the winding, flat paved roads, he veered off on a dirt path, headed to an unknown direction. When I asked him where we were going, he remained silent until we reached the bottom of a steep mountain.

“You're not serious, man?” I asked as I looked up the hill, not able to see the summit.

“Hold on Craig.”

He immediately down-shifted and punched the accelerator. We seemed to be almost vertical, flush with the mountain. For a second, I thought the truck would tip over backward, crushing the roof of the cab and our bodies. He continued to change gears, pushing on the gas and steering hard to avoid large rocks in our path. After around ten minutes, we leveled off on the mountain's summit. He turned the engine off, and through the windshield, is the greatest expansive view of the Rocky Mountains and the flatlands of metropolitan Denver I had ever seen!

“Jesus, man. You can certainly drive this thing.” I said.

He smiled, reaching in his pocket, retrieving a small pipe, and filled it with Denver's finest.

“Here, have some, it's good.” he said.

“No man, I want to be straight if we run into Hunter Thompson.” I said.

“Who is this guy, anyway?” he asked.

Reaching in the back seat for my bag, I found a copy of Thompson's, The Rum Diary. Thumbing, through its pages, found a quote:

“Like most others, I was a seeker, a mover, a malcontent, and at times a stupid hell-raiser. I was never idle long enough to do much thinking, but I felt somehow that some of us were making real progress, that we had taken an honest road, and that the best of us would inevitably make it over the top. At the same time, I shared a dark suspicion that the life we were leading was a lost cause, that we were all actors, kidding ourselves along on a senseless odyssey. It was the tension between these two poles - a restless idealism on the one hand and a sense of impending doom on the other - that kept me going.”

“Sounds like you, man.” he said.

“No, hardly, but when I first read his book, Hell's Angels, I was hooked. “

“Okay, Craig. Going down the mountain is a little harder than going up.”

We reached the bottom without incident and found our way to the main highway. Before long, we were traveling down Aspen's main drag. I felt a tiny disappointed because, though it wasn't ski season, it was Independence Day and the streets were crawling with tourists.

We finally found the bar where Thompson frequented, the Woody Creek Tavern. Once pulling into the small parking lot, there wasn't a parking space to be found. All except the handicapped space at the front door. My friend pulled in and turned off the engine. I was just about to say something when he reached behind him and pulled out a Handicap pass for the elderly. Placing it around his rear-view mirror, he said, “It helps when you work for the government.”

We entered the bar, and it was packed. I approached the bar and ordered a couple of Coors Light. My old friend hated crowded places, so I knew it was only a matter of time before he wanted to leave. I looked around the place, particularly in the dark corners of the pub, and couldn't find anyone that matched Thompson's appearance. I knew he would stand out because this was his drinking hole, and he would be holding court.

I caught the bartender's attention. “Can I ask if Hunter Thompson has been in here today?”

The bearded man looked at me suspiciously and asked, “Who wants to know?”

“I'm a writer from Australia, and wanted to ask him a few questions for an article I have in mind.”

“How do I know you're from Australia? You don't have an accent!” he said.

I pulled out my Victorian Driver's Licence. He looked at it and smiled. “Hey man, can I ask you? Do Australian women really sunbathe topless on your beaches?”

Smiling, I somehow expected this question because I've been asked it before.

“Yes, they certainly do.”

“Then what in the hell are you doing here!?” he burst out laughing.

“ Visiting and looking for Thompson?”

A woman at the end of the bar was hailing him for another drink. He served her and walked back to my end.

“Sorry man. Thompson hasn't been in here for over a week. He's out of town, doing some shit. That's what I've heard.” he said.

My heart dropped. In my mind, the voice repeated, “It's all timing. It's all timing...”

My a friend heard this, and that was his cue to get the hell out of this crowded bar.

I told him to stop at a liquor store to grab a six-pack. On the way home, I drowned my disappointment, but in the end, my friend's entire family had gathered. We barbecued and played Volleyball. It was a great time had by all, especially my son.

That night, I woke to him crying in the next room. “What's wrong, Sam?”

I don't want to leave Denver, but I love Melbourne. I wish I could put the two together.” he said through his little boy tears.

At that moment, I understood exactly what he was trying to communicate. Home is where the heart is, and sometimes, the heart can be in two places at once.

This would be the last time I would see my friend again. He passed away some years later under circumstances that I care not to relate. Let's just say, I miss him.

Our trip back to Melbourne reflected the soon to become “sign of the times.” At every port, I was searched and interrogated like a terrorist, an enemy of the state.

When I look back at this excursion, I think of Hunter S. Thompson. I think about this quote:

“It gave me a strange feeling, and the rest of that night I didn’t say much, but merely sat there and drank, trying to decide if I was getting older and wiser, or just plain old.”

Time almost Interviewed Hunter S. Thompson (P. 3)

 

After leaving LA, I deemed LAX Dante's 9^th level of Hell. Our flight was due to depart at 10:00am, at Gate 14 to Denver. While having a coffee, we didn't notice that the gate number had changed to 10. I asked an airport employee if this change was correct, he said to go to gate 14 because 10 is a mistake. Carry bags in hand, we raced to Gate 14 to find it closed! Turning around, we made it to gate 10 to find the gate just wrapping up. I begged the guy at the desk to make an exception and let us on the plane. “No go,” he said. “You should have been here at least 30 minutes early to catch the flight.” I wanted to reach over and throttle the little creep and throw him through a window. However, there was no arguing with this impish man in uniform, so we arranged another flight.

As LAX is the 9^th level of Hell; 3 flights to Denver that day had been canceled. I decided to drink beer in the lounge after the 2^nd cancellation. After 4 beers and a few more hours, the 3^rd scheduled flight had been canceled, too. I set my family in one place and went on an expedition to find another airline headed to Denver. Finally, I found that Alaska Airlines had a flight at 9:00 pm. Booked the tickets and ended up on the plane but sat on the tarmac for another hour. We landed in Denver at midnight at an empty airport. My friend gave up on me and obviously returned home. Caught a taxi to an expensive hotel by the airport. They gave me a 30% discount for the inconvenience, but the room for one-night ended up being $400.

My an old friend picked us up at the hotel on July 3^rd, 2000, at 12:00 noon exactly. We stopped for lunch in the city and drank a few beers and catch-up.

The weather was hot, but I noticed to heat was much different from the sun in Australia. In Denver, it felt clean and didn't sting. In Australia, it stung like the rays were penetratingly dangerous. I remember smelling the mountain air once on the winding roads headed to Coal Creek Canyon. The clean air sent my memory back to childhood scenes of love and danger, and so young, so inexperienced, you believe you were indestructible.

The next morning, Independence Day, my friend and I jumped in his truck and imbibed in the local plant life. Since we had known each other from the age of 12, we had a lot to talk about. Mainly we spoke of the past and our families now and the future. Later I met his grandkids and caught up with his 3 children, all grown-up. I realize it's a cliche, but time does fly, especially when you get a little older.

Lost in conversation, we lost track of time. He looked at his watch and said,

"We need to meet the family for the 4^th of July parade on the main street in Coal Creek. We need to get there fast because the parade starts at 9:00 am and ends at 9:05 am.” I found this funny and typical of his dry sense of humor.

Later that afternoon, I broached the subject of Aspen and interviewing Hunter S. Thompson. He hesitated and said, “Well, we have to go there now because I have things to do.” This was 2:00 in the afternoon, and I knew from my readings that Hunter never rose before 3:00.

So we headed over to Aspen.

Time almost Interviewed Hunter S. Thompson. (P. 2 )

Either people love LA or despise it, and I'm of the former persuasion. My experience in LA was felt amongst an air of a false haze, a cult-like view of existence. I joined Scientology in 1977, where my life changed in both good and bad ways. Scientology's hook is that you're saving mankind, “saving the planet,” and really, for anyone with idealistic sensibilities, this was a perfect vehicle to achieve “meaning” in one's life.

The good experiences in this cult were meeting my first wife and having two beautiful children. My intention in this trip was to connect to my kid's and my ex-wife because I had never truly de-briefed after leaving the cult alone, where my friends who left simultaneously had each other. This is an important point. The psychological effects after leaving a cult can be disastrous if there is no-one you can relate to. My ex had her family and her partner while I had nobody. So this trip would hopefully end any lingering thoughts and doubts about my leaving the church. On a wonderful California summer night, we drank a few beers and related our experiences. Intense at times and certainly sad, we talked to midnight about our life in Scientology, the insanity of our behavior, and the death of our pure and innocent intentions for being there in the first place.

The next day, all three of my kids together in tow, we headed in the rented car to San Diego. I wanted to give my American children the feeling they were on holiday. We arrived at the motel, and surprisingly, the pre-booked room was big enough for the five of us. Once settling in, my oldest son found my brand-new Sony Video Camera. He set it up on the tripod and pointed it straight at me while resting on the bed. Decided to ham it up and tell of our experience in Japan, trying to leave the country.

The story is representative of the entire trip. On the bus traveling back to the airport after our overnight stay in Tokyo, we were suddenly stopped by the police. The bus door opened, and three Japanese police officers entered, yelling orders in their language. These cops were after something/someone, but not speaking their language, could not understand their demands. Looking around at the other passengers, saw that all were rummaging for their passports, so we followed suit. We were seated at the back of the bus. Finally, the little officer reached our seats, and I handed over our papers. It seemed to me he was scrutinizing our passports with undue enthusiasm, wanting to find something or anything out of order. He finally handed the passports back, looking disappointed. Our bus continued to the airport, most of the passengers appearing upset and confused.

Again, this particular trip around the planet, every port of call was the same: undue focus on certain travelers, especially my family. This is not paranoia, but I couldn't deny it at the time and can't deny it to this day.

Our stay in San Diego turned out to be a memorial experience. We all had an expensive dinner at a top-notch restaurant. I remember both my sons, 9 and 14, getting on well together. My oldest took on the natural big-brother role, and while walking back to the motel, carried the little one on his back because he became too tired to walk any further.

The next day, the youngest asked me about all the “old men” sleeping in the streets. I can't remember my answer, but it wasn't the answer he was looking for.

Leaving LA and my kids weren't easy. Our next stop is Denver, Colorado, and on the jet to the city of my childhood, my thoughts danced around memories of past loves, my old friends, and my wish to interview Hunter S. Thompson.

Time almost Interviewed Hunter S. Thompson. (P. 1)

I last visited my home in LA & Denver 20 years ago. In less than a year from that visit, 9/11 happened, changing worldwide travel forever. In my bag is Hunter S. Thompson's, The Rum Diary, and I knew where he lived, Aspen, and knew where he drank, The Woody Creek Tavern. My best friend lived only an hour away from Aspen in Coal Creek Canyon. Rather than tell my then-wife about my intentions to interview the legend, I decided to keep it to myself, you know, “best-laid plans” and all that. Aside from seeing my children and family, interviewing Thompson is my central concern.

This Before cell phones, I had my digital camera and a tape recorder to aid in a spontaneous interview. I decided not to ring his literary agent or publisher, but to merely show-up at the Woody Creek Tavern late, and hope for the best. Thinking I had a grasp on Thompson's personality, his unpredictable behavior, I believed showing up and from Australia, might prove to be a positive outcome.

This trip was an eye-opener for many reasons. My last visit to the US was in the summer of 1996. We traveled this time to recover my father's car in Las Vegas because he had mysteriously died in April, and putting his affairs in the order needed to be done. After recovering my father's car in Vegas, our plan was to take the car across the States to Erie, Pennsylvania, where he lived before he passed. This didn't turn out the way we planned. Father's car, a 90's Oldsmobile, turned out to be a piece of junk and flying across the country didn't meet our budget. But that's another story.

International travel has never been the main concern. Since a child, our family traveled where the work was, and remaining in one place, only finally happened once our family put roots-down in Denver. My life after that, personally, always included flying on airplanes, trains, and automobiles. This last trip from Australia to the US was different. Landing in airports, we seemed to be targeted by border patrol at every port. We were taken aside, questioned, and our bags thoroughly searched. From all appearances, I found it interesting that we were a small family of three, father, wife, and a 9-year-old child. On face value, one wouldn't expect an innocent, small family to be targeted in such a focused manner. I felt like we had traveled back in time, crossing the border between East Berlin and West Berlin. The Zeitgeist knew the coming changes on the planet and experienced some kind of unconscious dress rehearsal.

When we finally arrived in LA, the sheer energy of the place felt to be overwhelming. Over the last four years, my life up to then was sheltered and contained. Living in the Dandenong Hills in a wonderful house, and teaching in a small school. Life in a bubble in a small protected existence, each day plodding one after the other. Now I was home, and the rules have changed. Feeling this familiar vibe of positive/negative energy, and a foreign chaotic frequency, confused my mind.

Yes, I felt I was home, but has it changed so much?

Got those Pandemic Blues

Since the beginning of the Stage 4 lock-down in Victoria, Australia, my general outlook about myself and the world has changed, not necessarily for the better. As a child suffering from a mild form of claustrophobia... whenever this feeling came over me, I'd close my eyes and count to ten. Woke this morning with that same closing-in feeling so remembered to count, and surprisingly, it worked. Depression can be a serious matter, though luckily, my mother and I skipped that particular gene, while the rest of the family can experience that dark visitor.

Back in the day, when I would go on a whiny-what-about-me-diatribe, complaining about my life, and that the basic human condition is basically absurd, (my existentialism period) my ex-wife would retort: “Life could be worse! You could be in Syria dodging bombs or living on the streets of LA in a tent.” If I wasn't too full of myself at that moment, this strategy would most often work, and life carries on.

Indeed, true depression, as mentioned, can be a serious matter. It is a form of mental illness. In fact, 3 million Australians are currently on antidepressants. That means 1 in 8 people in this country experience depression. What is more startling is 100,000 children are on these drugs as well. I remember being bummed out as a kid, but I never took drugs to get over my girlfriend. Sarcasm aside, these statistics are surprising, but considering the pressures of living in a techno-driven society and the current job market, taking anxiety medicine is the least one can do to alleviate social pressure pains.

As a result of this pandemic forced to lock-down and losing money, and worse, facing evictions because you can't pay the rent, issues such as depression, alcoholism, drug use, and domestic violence is the most certainly on the rise.

What this pandemic has revealed that many governments worldwide do not care about the people, but only themselves and their donors. Maintaining the 1% rather than spend money for the people is apparent, and the same right-wing arguments are put forth: “Unemployment benefits make people lazy, and they don't want to work anymore.” Recent studies have revealed this to be an outright lie. Our nature demands we do productive activities and contribute to society. A meaningful life is a productive one. In times of hardship, a handout will keep one afloat until work is possible again. Don't believe this propaganda.

Overall, my personal anxiety is the lack of personal contact with my fellow human beings. Going to work and talking with your colleagues. Having a long lunch with an old friend. The hustle and bustle of public transport, and pleasures of live music while sipping a good drink. The active silence of the library, sitting amongst readers, writers, and students. These may seem to be trivial, but these are the things I miss since the beginning of the pandemic.

Okay yea, I've got the pandemic blues, but I think about my ex-wife's line, “It could be worse.” And once again, I count to ten.

How Extremism Weakens the Left

Since the start of the BLM protests, we have seen a wave of police brutality that, ironically, are what the demonstrations are all about, specifically against young African Americans. We have seen peaceful demonstrations turn violent because of Police instigation. This cannot be explained away with right-wing excuses, for I've seen the police reveal their violence in several videos on YouTube and MSM. Aside from the good intentions of peaceful protesters, there is an element of extremism within the protests that need addressing.

Organizations such as Antifa, white supremacy groups, and right-wing militias, attend these demonstrations for the sole reason of causing violence on the peaceful as well as opposing political organizations. Most often, these extremist groups attend the protests for the sole reason for causing trouble. In the end, what this does is cause the people to fight amongst each other, when we should be systematically fighting against corrupt governments and the capitalist elites who really are the source of most of our problems.

There is nothing more convenient for the establishment and elites when a protest turns violent, enabling them to express their authority by cracking down on all the protesters, whether peaceful or not. We've seen this with the US president sending his secret thugs to Portland, bashing and kidnapping demonstrators off the streets. The individual mayors or governors didn't request military assistance, but Trump, in a desperate attempt to gain in his abysmal polls initiated the move, to appear as the “law and order” president. This is quite pathetic; however, it shows us that violence during protests is the perfect excuse for authority to wave its reptilian claw over the rest of us.

Let I put this out there: I've been anti-fascist for more years than I can remember, at least when I established my political leanings. Read my writings, and you can see it for yourself. That said, I believe the Antifa “organization is doing much more harm than good.

From what I can gather, Antifa is not organized and is based on anonymity. Most dress in black, mask their faces, and their basic philosophy is violence vs. violence. They seem to believe that any “revolution.” in history was only successful through violence. They believe the establishment is violent; therefore, they're justified to respond in kind. Although I can empathize to an extent, what their violence achieves is basically nothing. (Their philosophy is based on hate). It does achieve a further crackdown by the real enemies to individual economic and political 'freedom.' And these are the true oppressors, the neoliberal government intent on screwing the common working individual.

The police, white supremacist, Antifa, and any extremist organization,  using violence, take away any moral authority that the Left has established. All policies for the people and the common worker go straight out the window when the establishment and MSM put all demonstrators in one ridiculous basket. Violence only strengthens the capitalist elites because they can label the Left as violent and simply a marginal group with no power.

In an effort at transparency, and to be brutally honest, the Left in the US truly were sent to the margins with the betrayal of the Bernie Sanders campaign. People around the world had hope for the Sanders movement. But when the elites moved in with their corrupt tactics, lies, and threats, Bernie caved and ironically pledged his loyalty to a candidate representing everything we fought against. Even to the extent of shaming his followers for not backing Joe Biden. The effect of the betrayal continues to be felt around the world.

Living in Australia, Bernie Sanders's policies were quite centrist. He was proposing policies like Medicare for All and free college that's been around in many other first-world countries for almost a century. Bernie was sidelined by the establishment and replaced with their choice for president to go against Trump. But when you look closely at these two men, their policies are essentially the same. The Left took a heavy blow in 2020.

The Left has lost its soul in a sea of propaganda created by a government intent on continuing wars, corporatism politics, and creating the false narrative that socialism is akin to Stalinism. If anyone cares to rise above the fog of propaganda, they will see that the system needs to change. Fighting each other over “cultural differences” will never achieve an economic and political result that benefits the people.

Extremism has its roots in jingoism, nationalism, and endemic racism. Extremism is at the bottom, all about hate. And hate will lead to nothing but totalitarianism.