Leaving hotel calafornix

There was a local shuttle van that operated between Bismarck, ND and Mobridge, SD. I had set up a mail drop at the Mobridge post office where my last paycheck from a garden installation and a $100 from my parents were waiting for me. Due to the unexpected extra 150 miles of Oahe gulag I was very low on supplies and probably wasn’t going to get to Mobridge without running out even in the best of conditions and I suspected extremely morass navigability around the bend, so, I took the shuttle van to Mobridge to get food money. Plus I’d noticed the road travelled along the western rim of the reservoir. So I might get to see the conditions around the bend for just a few dollars.

I flipped the canoe upside down creating a relatively easy to defend position for a dog, and tied Cody underneath with a bowl of water and a couple handfuls of dog food. This town was basically dog hell and I felt bad about what I was doing to Cody but I was about to barbecue him myself, there just wasn’t any firewood. That’s how bad it was. Sashimi dog was on the menu. On the van ride over I got a glimpse for several seconds of the conditions on the dam lake around the next bend. It looked like ten thousand ice rimmed mud islands spread out evenly across the entire reservoir, worst case scenario, completely unnavigable. Plus, the reservoir turns to the east here and the big winds were coming out of the west so in theory one could go around the bend, get stuck in the mud, have the wind come up and? Doom, was all I could think. I decided right there I was calling it in Ft. Yates.

Supposedly it was a dry year, the A.C.E. was trying to maintain navigable conditions for commercial traffic to Kansas City and I was observing their “stagger draw down” technique. Also, it looked like I was a few weeks late in the season and that the dam lakes were gonna freeze up soon. Of course there was a big attraction for me in Florida, besides the weather, Misa Kanazawa. I felt it would be for my and life’s best interest to take advantage of the opportunity to have an East meets West match made in heaven just as I requested rather than squander the opportunity like it looked like I was doing. So I thought to head back to Miss. Kanazawa, with the idea to win power and influence the old fashioned way, marriage.

I told this story and more in the van on the way to Mobridge. When I stepped out of the van into a melting snow evening, the 50ish bearded man who’d been horizontal in the rear of bench seat got out as well. I asked him where the best place to get a hamburger in town was. He said there was a spot with good chili. I asked him if there was a place to stay dry beside the obvious bridge. He invited me back to his place if I would agree to man the door for Halloween. His name was Mr. Oswald and he was the construction supervisor at the Indian Project. He was married to an Indian, and they had a 15 or 16 year old son.

They were extremely worried about him, amongst the usual, crystal meth was rampaging through town. Of course Christill is the usual in Amoralca. It’s noteworthy that we can spend a fortune on cops stopping the cultivation of coca and its interdiction at the border (what people would likely be doing instead of meth), while the raw ingredients for meth are on sale at most drug and grocery stores. It’s almost as if the pharmaceutical companies own stock in prison construction, police uniform manufacturing, and what not. Mr. Oswald gave me a ride to the post office and bank the next day followed by a ride back to Ft. Yates were I gave Cody to a woman who worked at the Bureau of Indian Affairs. It probably would have been best if I ate him. We loaded up my canoe and stored the stuff behind Mr. Oswald’s garage, thank you.

Mr. Oswald took me pheasant hunting and I got to be the “flush dog”. I was a few yards in front of him and a little to the right when I flushed a bunch out of the bushes. One of the birds escaped to the right of me and I perceived Mr. Oswald panning his shotgun towards this bird. I hit the deck really fast, flat against the ground. He thought this was funny, what I did, and I think he wondered if I was scared. I told him I was just making sure he got a shot at the bird if he wanted it. In addition, to eating the birds he preserved their plumage. This is where I got the ring neck pheasant feather I wore in my hat for a few years.

We decided to get married. I wrote out a letter basically asking her father, Yoshimitsu Kanazawa, for permission to marry his daughter. In the letter I proposed to care for his daughter for as long as the rivers flowed to the sea. This is an extremely exact and serious proposition. I had the letter translated into Japanese by a man who worked at the Morikami Museum in Delray Beach, FL and sent both copies to Mr. Kanazawa in the neighborhood of Hanazono, the city of Kumamoto, on the island of Kyushu, in the nation of Japan. His reply, “Come to Japan”. As I stepped on the plane bound for Japan in Chicago I thought to myself, you know who you are, you know what you’re doing. This is what you asked for. Let’s get it started.

We landed in Fukioko on Kyushu and her father and sister Yucca were picking us up at the airport. It was the first time I’d met her father. First stop, a “Sushi Go Round” near a Jolly Pasta. When I stepped out of the car into the parking lot the chief put a basket of French fries on the conveyor belt of the sushi go round. Here we go.

Toshie, Misa’s mom, bought me a butterfly net upon request. I spent my time in the morning, I’d get up early, collecting moths that were injured under the lights of Kato’s statue nearby and cabbage moths mostly from the vegetable garden across the street. Guess what? Godzilla’s in town and he’s collecting Mothrillas (Godzilla’s partner). This was extremely obvious.

Yi, better known as Chinese god was an archer amongst other things. So they say he shot the black bird of immortality out of the sun. Currently I like to tell people, those that understand this idea, that I’m the bird dog that can’t be tailed and I got the bird. Yoshimitsu Kanazawa is the archery instructor at the local high school. Wouldn’t it be fitting, or obvious, that Chinese god would be reborn, if so, as a Japanese guy? I think so. I was specifically looking for this character.

We went to the high school archery range. There were a few girls practicing. The Japanese bow is shaped uniquely. The bow is the projectile dispenser that I have the least amount of experience with. My first attempt fell in the dirt a few yards ahead of me. The girls giggled, I asked him if I was supposed to hold on to the string or the arrow. My next shot left the bow and proceeded towards the targets in an extremely large looping spiraling in fashion. The most interesting thing I observed was the apparent contrails (like smoke) coming off the shaft and the wave of dust that lifted from the ground and followed the projectile to the target. It looked like a rocket or something. Cruise control. To be truthful about it I was aiming for the target just to the left of the one I hit, but I got a piece of the black center, barely, of a target.

After that, I’d seen all I needed to see. My lack of bow time is ironic especially considering my proficiency with other projectile dispensers, because I always tell persons that are cosmologically minded that I’m like Orion with a scorpion killin kit and protection system. Or, yo es Orion, thus mi opinion es verdad. Which is pretty close to the “truth” in words. Anyways, I used to make my own bows and arrows when I was a kid and I know what I’m doing. He knows. I’m a hustler and a gangster.

Yoshimitsu inherited the family’s car repair business. The name of the shop was “Works”, and they repaired foreign autos, specializing in Mini Coopers. My ancestor was the cooper on the Mayflower. The captain of a ship is responsible if it hits a rock. The cooper is the one most likely responsible for the fate of the crew’s enterprise, if not he, the character in the crow’s nest.

Misa and I were walking down the steps or stairs into town to check out the place we were to get married, the town hall. We walked through the shrine or temple whatever between the statue of Kato and Kumomoto Castle. Here’s where one gets there fortune told. We approached the “monk” or whoever as soon to be weds, just wonderin what our fortunes might be. My fiancé went first and calmly turned the bamboo tube containing sticks that fell out of a covered end with small round holes in it upside down. The “stick” that fell out was given to the fellow and he correspondingly gave the appropriate fortune dictated by the straw one pulled to my wife. I was next. When I turned the wood cylinder upside down and shook it a “stick” wouldn’t fall out. I tried vigorously, casually, round and round, side to side… Finally a stick fell out. It was kind of funny. I exchanged it for my fortune.

My future wife and I took our fortunes off and began to descend through the graveyard into town. After a hundred or so feet I casually looked at Misa as I remember and said, so what does my fortune say? She translated it, “You are the most fortunate one”. Yeh, I know that. What does yours say? She translated, “My first marriage is going to be terrible but my second will be good”. I recommended she tie her fortune to the tree where the rest of the unwanted fortunes were left. She decided to keep it. I kept mine, too.

When we actually showed up to the town hall to get married there was a storm impacting Kumamotosi. Her father showed up with his Japanese friend who owned the French restaurant where we were having our celebratory meal later. The town hall had a glass ceilinged dome approximately above the spot we were signing the documents. When I touched my pen to the paper, my signature, which looks like a lightning bolt or a river take your pick, that’s what I tell people, and is quick for me to sign, the dome was struck by a major lightning bolt. Mathew 24:28, John 7:27 (Ya gotta fly in on the correct plane) Yoshimitsu and his partner looked like they were prepared for this. I had to use the restroom.

The wedding dinner served by Yoshimitsu’s friend at the French restaurant was the best meal of my life. My cousin, Lt. Leanne Lawrence, a representative of my family who was working on a navy cooper ship out of Sasabo just a few miles away attended. We met her at the big watermelon in the sky, an advertisement for the watermelon famous area’s fruit and vegetable market. They asked me before the meal was prepared what, if any, beverages I would like served. I requested Merlot and Cognac. I’d never seen legs like that before, I raised my rotating glass in wonderment and exclaimed Las Vegas Show Girls! This was my toast. There was only one other party in the restaurant in addition to our wedding party, a couple. The man was the most recognizable person in Japan, a T.V. personality. The restaurant chef threw out his back shortly after and is in a wheelchair.

When I was preparing to leave Japan, Misa’s dad told me in the future if I wanted to send him a letter I didn’t need to have it translated because his friend the English professor would do that. He said the Kanazawa family was from Okinawa (the consolation and negotiation site of the entire East Pacific Rim). Then he looked at me and said his favorite band was CCR (Credence Clearwater Revival).

Landing a gardening gig with the Catholic Church one might think would require a good reference, and I got one from Tom Twyford, the Director of the West Palm Beach Fishing Club, on the books as the oldest still around fishing club in the U.S. My uncle John Jolley is president. Around 1883, Thomas William Twyford, who practically designed Crapper’s famous toilet, introduced the first all ceramic, free standing, one piece, washout pedestal closet. Considering what I do for a living, one couldn’t get a person with a better name to introduce them to a theological cleanup operation of this nature.

Tom’s late wife, Sue was one of the most attractive, nice, special person’s I ever met. She liked to grow fruit trees. She was expedited from the surface too soon for anyone, brain aneurism. She spoke with me a week or so before and said, “John you are a very special person”, and implored or commanded me to seek that which I was with the utmost urgency. Then she took off, I got the news in the wheelhouse of the “Southern Lady” a few weeks later and fell down. I really liked her, she knew who I was, and imparted to me impetus just before she passed. In the garden was a bench with her name on it, and it was a big deal for me to be able to work on the garden that it was in.

I consulted with Father Murtaugh of the St. Ann’s Catholic Church and School in West Palm Beach, Fl. Father Murtaugh and a new crew were taking over and cleaning up for/after an “altar boy” scandal. I was planting a wild or natural garden at the rectory (the rear exit/entrance). St. Ann was Jesus’s grandmother, as the notes were taken and I of course took the opportunity to share my knowledge in exchange for Father Murtaugh’s knowledge off all things, in particular the theological part he was a professor of. I like the Catholic Church because they take notes and have been for a long time. During the course of the installation, I went over a few ideas with him.

I was working on several written ideas “Stone Crab Holocaust”, which was an attempt to get the editors of a paper to print my dam free idea. This was unsuccessful although usually the editors would print my idea, they always pulled out or erased the undam the planet part, the main idea, as if it was unmentionable. Another idea I was working on was “Checking out of Hotel California”. Father Murtaugh didn’t seem to like this idea too much, but when I changed the name to “Leaving Hotel California” he seemed to like it much better, it stuck. Also, when going over the new laws he liked the phrase “superdriplinewatercollect”, and said it sounded Latin. Of course, I told him it was just a repeat of the “collect that which falls from the heavens law”, just specific. I told him the most fearsome river canyon on this side of the world was likely the Milner/Murtaugh Snake River Canyon. He pointed out that his name was spelled differently by one letter.

As the project neared completion I got to have a meeting with him about some theological questions I was wondering about, specifically the general ideas as written. Concerning the stratification policy realized upon expedition from the surface, it could be interpreted that the “saints”, us I guess, were in different layers or “floors” in heaven and that evidently or naturally there was some who followed the laws of thE manuel better or preformed closer to the truth than others and they were up towards the top so to speak and then those who didn’t score as high on the “test”, obviously more of them, in descending but more crowded layers towards the bottom. Considering this, I asked him, heaven, one might say looked like a pyramid, or a cone, or a mountain of saints. He thought this was a reasonable or possible interpretation of heaven, “A Mountain of Saints”. Then I said something about this “mountain of saints” having something to do with the “bread”, which he seemed to agree with. I then pointed out that “Monsanto” was not the mountain of saints we really wanted in control of our bread, especially with the new GMO “food of the god’s” thing. Nice try with the name thing, huh? This seemed like it made him feel a bit uncomfortable, I don’t blame him, I encourage it. Of course, I brought some wine, for this meeting. He didn’t seem uncomfortable at all about my undam the planet idea, and while politely declining showed real interest in the kind of wine I’d brought. It’s Columbia Crest. “Oh, good”, says he.

Often times, weather dependent, I’d show up and garden in a suit. One day I showed up in what I called my St. Ann’s costume, green and red theme. Father Murtaugh stepped out of the place as I stepped out of my van, in a black suit with Huckleberry Finn straw hat. I like this, when I show up at someone else’s place in their suit and they step out in mine, cool. Also, on staff at St. Ann’s was a Father from Haiti who I communicated well with, he knew me for sure. They also had a botanist who worked with them and the secretary’s and the rest of the crew were nice to work with. This is difficult to find in Florida.

THE DRYER

Of course, a few months after I got married, I was headed back to the Paradise Valley section of the Yellowstone River with Tom. We went just upstream of the Missouri confluence. The train trestle park behind Herkimer’s place was slow. The sand spit beach was still there, it had just moved a little bit. Tom was rigged up and headed down to the spot in hopes of a sauger. I headed up to the west leg of the trestle excited to retrieve my beaver head and eagle skull project. I moved the large rocks from the place where I’d buried the skulls and pushed the smaller rocks to the side. There was nothing there, the skulls were gone. I could tell the river had not risen up this high and couldn’t figure out how they disappeared. I’d stored the eagle feathers in a plastic bag about a foot away from where I buried the skulls and when I reached under the wooden timbers that made up the trestle leg, searching for the feathers I only found three instead of hundreds. Reaching way back I set my fingers upon a handle and pulled out a black case. It said DeWALT in gold letters and when I opened it up there was a DeWALT Saws all in excellent condition with a bunch of new blades and everything. A tool?! I carried the Saws all down to the river and held it up for Tom to see. I explained that I’d found the Saws all in place of the buried loot and couldn’t make any sense of it. Tom said it made perfect sense to him. I like having this guy around. He said “Look at it this way John, you buried an eagle skull and a beaver skull, came back a year later and found a tool made by America’s #1 toolmaker DeWALT (think eagle their icon), and it’s a Saws all like a beaver”. Wow, that’s cool. I’d rather have had the eagle and beaver skulls, but this was what I got, a good story to tell just like I wanted. Having this kind of thing happen is different than seeing the “light”, whistling up doe’s, or having your calculator quit working repeatedly in math class. It can be held and touched, it’s tangible. It’s a nice tool too.

MANATEES AND MISA

On Misa and I’s second trip to Japan we left from Chicago as usual, this time I was smuggling a box of ruby red grapefruit. As we were flying over Alaska I was taking note of what was out the window. It seems nobody else looks. Down on a white glacier, in what looked like the middle of knowhere was a black Yin Yang that must have been a few miles in circumference. I thought this was noteworthy but none of the other passengers including Misa or the man with gray hair and a beard sitting behind me seemed to think it was interesting. I “took a picture of it” with my mind and later discovered on a map that the Yin Yang was in Christmass Valley, Alaska. This is why I take notes.

When we landed in Osaka, the food capitol of Japan, we stayed a day. It didn’t take long for someone to walk up and say, “Ah, last samurai” and bow. This was to occur many times on his enterprise, as the time of my appearance was a week or so after the highly advertised Hollywood “The Last Samurai” film came out. They let it out in Japan first, I hadn’t even seen it yet, but had the same haircut and facial hair. Plus I kinda look like him anyway. Also I am basically the last samurai, except I’m a ronin (a masterless samurai), samurai’s have masters. And I’m not the last of the ronins, just the top one or first and seeder/fertilizer of other ronins. I’m the “ronji” (Ron G), the man who assembles the Komistadoreas. But I get what they and life was saying. I continued to collect moths and butterflies.

KYOTO THE GARDEN CAPITOL OF THE WORLD?

Misa’s mom Toshie had “rented” a fruit tree nearby. In the Hanazono area was a fruit orchard, it was just a couple blocks from their place and one paid for the fruit before the harvest, such as it is in Japan. On the tree each perfect peach was wrapped in a white paper bag to keep the bugs out, I guess. They were the juiciest best flavored peaches I’d ever ate and smuggled a box back to Florida. In Florida, nobody wanted to eat one, they thought they would get sick.

YOSHIMITSU COMES TO FL

Misa and her dad had never fired a gun so I took them to the range. We brought two revolvers a police officer’s 357 magnum and a 22, we also rented a 9mm. I took the 9mm and moved the target to the end of the range and chucked the lead out as fast as it would go. Shot him between the eyes and cut his head off. I’d probably get you at 3 or 4 hundred yards now with the same equipment, but the armless technique is certainly more effective and impressive. Yoshimitsu “Yi” pointed out that I missed with one shot, one of the bullet holes was about a 1/16” off to the left off the neck. I got his point. I’m going to have to be better, more accurate, perfect. Or else it won’t work. Japanese are known as perfectionists. I was fortunate to be this man’s son in law. If not perfect, I’d have to “turn” the mistakes made while installing the infinity project into something positive for life. I put forth the idea that I’d shot the target through the eyes with an arrow and cut its head off with a sword and what looked like a miss was just “follow through”, which is what I aim to do. I’m sure he didn’t miss Misa shooting the target clip causing the target to be dropped.

For me the Kanazawa name that I picked up and began to use when Misa dropped it and replaced it with Jolley is an alias, John Lawrence Kanazawa Jolley, but I use it more like an aliasis, a carpentry sighting instrument. That which “rubs off on me” from Yoshimitsu is what I tell people gives me a better telescope than Hubble. This man, “Yi in a new skin suit”, puts me on target.

Yoshimitsu wanted to go towards Cape Canaveral and watch the space shuttle take off with the first Japanese man to get up there. My grandfather Kelsie Lawrence used to work for RCA at Canaveral and I was a good trip leader for this operation as I knew the best place to go. We even drove up in my granddad’s old Chevy Nova, which was an early attempt by Chevy to catch up with the Japanese automobile industry and was actually a Toyota Corolla. The small crowd at the causeway side launch observation site had set their cameras up facing in the wrong direction and most were looking the wrong way (at a condo) when the shuttle took off. I told em.

“The Fonz”, Author Fonzirelli, was a character from the hit T.V. sitcom “Happy Days” played by Henry Winkler. “The Fonz” wore blue jeans, a white T shirt, a brown leather jacket and his hair in duck tails. He rode a motorcycle and had his “office” in the restroom of the local diner. Typically once an episode “the Fonz”, the epitome of cool, would enter the diner where much of the action took place to the accompaniment of applause, cheers and whistles. Standing next to the juke box he would raise his partially closed fist to his mouth, exhale into it and deftly hit the juke box with his fist (breathing life into it). The song playing would be interrupted and the juke box would change tunes. He would raise to erect thumbs and say, “Hey!” (is for horses) and often two dames would arrest either arms and lead him to the table. This was unique, and I’d never seen anything like it on T.V. or in real life.

Often times, at night while Misa was waitressing at Sushi Bon I’d stroll over to Skeeter’s for a 25 cent draft and a game of pool. I had a hard time winning a game and I’m an accomplished pool hustler, a mega shark. The place was full of skilled sharks though. Really though, I’m a river hustler. I’d try anything to wow an audience and draw attention to my infinityproject idea including a “juke box trick” and it did say “this device must accept all outside interference by law” on the back of the juke box.

Usually I capture people’s attention when I enter a room. This was typical for everyone at Skeeter’s though because the entrance was the center attraction of the bar and the jukebox was right next to it. So the set up was the same as in “The Happy Days”. I strolled over one night and stepped in the door. Some kind of Hell’s highway song was playing as I raised my partially closed fist to my mouth, breathed into it and deftly hit the juke box… interrupting the song in progress. Immediately a river tune began to play.

Not much reaction from the crowd it seemed as I ordered a draft from the bar, trying to draw attention to my successful DJ attempt. After a few minutes or so I was set upon by the regulars as if they were in a frenzy. I had to leave the bar before a fight broke out. A few days later I came back with a tougher presentation and repeated “the Fonz” and a pansy ass tune was interrupted and a mean river song began playing. The crowd tried to ignore my accomplishment as if everybody could do it. I even got a yawn or two. Within minutes I was embroiled in a scuffle that spilled out into the parking lot.

A few days later I entered the bar and this time I really exaggerated “the Fonz”, with a wind up before touching the juke box with great flourish and a pinkie finger, ting. Once again the music interrupted just as I touched the machine and like magic a river tune began playing. This time a fellow at the bar acknowledged what I’d accomplished and I could see the implications cross his mind. He said, “I saw that”. I lifted two thumbs up and said Hey!

I worked my way over to my usual spot and ordered my usual draft, turned around and found myself confronted with a man wearing a Los Angeles class submarine hat. I’ve forgotten which sub it was. He said he was a retired chief petty officer. Although he wasn’t wearing the six stripes on his sleeve, I’ve seen them before and they could be construed as a shark’s maw. I gave him my 30 second version of the dam river state of affairs. He asked, “Do you know who you are?” Yes, I assured him I did. “It doesn’t look like it.” What? You must not be paying attention, I’m working as hard as I can on this thing. “It doesn’t look like it.”

He told me a story about the way things were. The Los Angeles class chief said, “On a submarine when the C.O. gets the orders he has to execute the orders. If the C.O. doesn’t execute the orders the chiefs step up behind him with cocked 45’s and make sure they’re executed.” This certainly lit a fire under my ass. It’s one of the main reasons why I’m so offensive, aggressive and desperate in my collection and dissemination of information. I’ve had a few others tell me about the same thing before. It’s why I wear the finest threads, long hair and a beard, and carry a valise or something in my hands instead of rotten bread (be’er). So I look like it. It’s why I work practically ceaselessly towards ending the dam ages, converting eaves from sheds into collectors, and replacing the flush toilettes with thE manuel fertilizer machine. So I’m not executed for lack of execution. It’s why I don’t play pool.

I thought about the action of doing “the Fonz”, just the attempt, and the success, which I didn’t find surprising. I thought about the reaction from the people culminating with a visit from a real live Los Angles character and decided I must be doing something wrong. It caused a lot of trouble, violent reprisals, and I figured it was bad Mojo. I analyzed the situation and thought the most likely problem was I was “stealing” from the guy who owned the juke box. Also, Henry Winkler never got another role in his life, some say from being typecast, as if it was all he could do. So I decided not to do it anymore. The next time I went to Skeeter’s I walked in the door just as the song quit playing and my tune began just in time. I took this idea and rowed with it. Radio, cable, satellite, elevator music, or live my favorite, everywhere I go the pipes are playing for me. Often times when I tell people this story they tell me to “watch out for the sharks” in reference to “the Fonz” water skiing and jumping a tank or pen with a shark in it. I usually tell them I slipped into the shark tank with mask, fins and a bang stick and I’m starting a feeding frenzy.

MISA TAKES UP PILATES

I was installing a natural type “bird and butterfly” garden using mostly site specific native plant species on Ocean Avenue in Boynton Beach, Fl for Mr. Gimmey (tailor) and Mrs. Gimmey. It was an interesting site in that the Gimmey’s structure had been built before a later code change that forced homebuilders to pile up a bunch of sand first. As a result the garden site was sunk in, also ½ the site was covered in crushed lime stone, and the unique soil stratification at the site was incredible. The woman next door complained about me planting “buggy trees” and I explained to her the benefits of pollinating insects and how the insect plant relationship provided the air for her kids to breath. She said “I’ll pour acid on them and kill them”. Some of the plants near her place began to turn white and die as it looked like she followed up on her threat. Another problem here was her new privacy wall was too tall for the town code and her solution was to pile fill dirt up on my client’s property, “lowering” the height of her wall. Of course, the whole time this is going on the New York Mob’s lawyer Al Malnik is across the street and in addition to delivering the message to his crew or delivering it up the castle wall drainage pipe wrapped around a boygonetothevilla bouquet, I get to help unload the fork lift at his place and everything. I’m always trying to work the infinity project idea in anyway I can, at least I get the opportunity and take advantage of it.

We were fortunate to make it to a diesel pump with a gallon or so to go. The hurricane of course was epic and we were doing the inadvisable and attempting to skirt the major wreckage while not going too far out of our way and taking notes on poorly designed structural damage. We picked up Tom in Midlothian, Texas and he, me, Misa, and Rolley Polley Jolley we were 4.

The truck ceased operating acceptably suddenly in La Mesa, Texas. Uh oh. Diagnosis was valve lifter rod and rocker arm problems, multiple cylinders. We pulled over, stayed at a motel, and pulled the heads. I was certainly well versed in this procedure with the 6.2L. The rocker arm 5 cent plastic cover clips had cracked and resulted in damage to the connecting rods. This was repaired. The characters next to us at the motel were making crystal meth (we suspected) across from the State Police Station.

We got back on the road after completing our free consultation with the local diesel mechanic, who’s what I call a “real person”. After a few minutes of communication about the situation he had recommended I fix it myself. In addition he made me aware of the usual problems I’d encounter and where and how to get the parts in town, thank You.

We were attempting to make it to Carlsbad Caverns for the evening bat exit, one of the greatest Lazereth lairs ever seen. As we approached the area it was getting dark, people were exiting the site with their lights on. When we got to the parking lot there were still a few people leaving, they all commented on the disappointing show. When we arrived at the site it was just us and the Park Rangers. The bats exploded from the cave in a loud, black, whirlwind, vortex. The rangers said they’d never seen anything like it before. The Rangers said the initial bat exit was weak and dwindled. They didn’t know what to make of it but said the second shot or dose was the “best double pump exit ever seen”. Tom was cautious, Misa was benign, the dog was aware. I tipped my hat to the assembled official nature note takers and said take note and departed.

While driving into the cool desert night Misa expressed the desire to sit in the back of the truck which has no seat and is thus uncomfortable. While passing the smoking Sherlock Holmes cannabis pipe back to Tom shortly thereafter Misa exploded into rage and violently attacked me while I was driving. She was very effective in her attack which was made seemingly impossible by the “tool cage” safety fence separating the rear compartment from the cab. Guilely girl, very precise in her application of force in a hard to apply situation. We pulled over. Then she really laid into me. I successfully defended myself with minimal force applied in any direction. She got tired. Tom and I checked the fluids under the hood and made sure the Sherlock still worked.

FISHING THE SNAKE RIVER BIRDS OF PREY SECTION WITH MISA, TOM, AND “the Duke”

I was taking notes on the hot spring capitol of the world with my wife Misa, and Rolley Polley Jolley. We were on a hot springs tour in Idaho. When we pulled into the “town” “nearest” ARCO (Idaho National Laboratory), supposedly there is fifty or more nuclear reactors here, the first town to be lit up by atomic power, it’s dense let’s say, or maybe it was within the greater nearby ARCO area, the establishment we had our eye on looked as if one had only needed wheels to attach to move. It could have had wheels that were out of view. When I pulled into the dilapidated, what appeared to be a bar, or something’s parking lot and parked the 6.2 L with the “Let’s Nuke Their Ass and Take Their Gas” front bumper sticker in view of the bars front window and stepped out of the truck with a hot Japanese chick I think we alerted the alarms. The black water fowl dog sitting on the bench seat was…

We walked in and I ordered a gin, with a little ice, and a Canada Dry with a slice of orange. There was a Blue Bird orange juice in the can problem. My wife ordered a Coke (fuel, distilled coal). This was dramatic. We were suddenly and effectively made aware it was “time to go”. Whoops. One of the patrons said “You probably shouldn’t come around here son”. Right.

DESCENDING THE MIDDLE FORK (THE HOLY GRAIL) WITH MISA AND ROLLEY POLLEY JOLLEY

The hurricane that came across the Glades and backsided Palm Beach County was terrific. Misa flew to Chicago and I flew to S. Florida, landed with 50 pounds of perishables, 50 pounds of dry goods and a hundred pounds of tools. Most folks didn’t even pack a lunch, none of them did. It looked like they all had a single bottle of water. Show up at the disaster site with the correct stuff, make out like a bandit. Cha Ching.

MISA RETURNS FROM CHICAGO AND WE GO SEE MISS SAIGON AT THE KRAVITZ CENTER JUST BEFORE SHE LEAVES FOR GOOD

DISASTER?

Where does one start this story? It goes back so far. I flew out to Chicago to save myself the “eternal” bus trip through the south. Here I boarded a Greyhound bus to Missoula. If you don’t know it’s more expensive to fly to Missoula than Japan. It was a frozen bus to Missoula and we took a smoke break in Fargo one lonely night and I learned what cold as shit really is. The next day, part way to Helena I encountered some German tourists who had blown up their rent a truck. They told me a fantastic story about their Canadian buddy who’d rode a bicycle around Cuba. They told me this Canadian guy had the time of his life and it was the most beautiful island in the world. I’d heard this before about Cuba being the most beautiful island in the world and realized it was a shame to travel the world and not see the #1 island 200 miles south of me. I decided right there on an icecycle dog between Fargo and Helena to make the trip myself. Beware of making travel plans with German tourists touting Canadian recommendations aboard Greyhounds in the middle of Great Plains winter!

Anyway, 5 or 6 years after getting this Germin Canhead bicycle tip I decided to go to Cuba. Hey, why not? I’d made some money installing a fence and naturalscape at a drug rehab/halfway house on Feral Drive no less. I put some money in my joint account for the credit card bill, left some in mine to pay taxes and took the rest to Cuba. I booked a flight to Nassau, Bahamas 3 days in advance from my high school marching band “Wall of Sound” trumpet buddy Jorge Mayorga’s computer. Travelocity, next he went to the Havanatour site and checked out some tickets. I guess he was going to buy one for me. What the heck ya doing? He agreed it was foolish and closed the site.

Three days later after finishing my own “habitat restoration project” at 2 A.M. Jorge was in a funk. He swore I was going to die in Cuba. He had inlaws that lived in Marinao, the barrio on the hill south west of Havana and naturally I asked him to accompany me as a paid interpreter to Cuba. He swallowed real hard such was his fear, and agreed. Little did he know what lied ahead. I didn’t know shit either, just figured what was wrong with going to a beautiful island and riding a bike around. Who knows? The German guy’s made it sound real good. My father gave us a ride to Ft. Lauderdale International and after buying Jorge a ticket we were off on an island enterprise.

I was dressed in my straw colored linen trousers and jacket and carried my wife’s collection of extremely fine cosmetics, perhaps 1,500 dollars’ worth in a pink bag. When we stepped in line to check our stuff and get our tickets there was an interesting man in the line just in front of us. He was dressed casually, had a beard like me and claimed to be a fisherman and carpenter like me, too. Hmmm. When we got off American and got in the Havanatour line to buy tickets, $300 cash, he was just ahead of us again. In hindsight things started to get unusual although at the time seemed normal. A man who appeared like my buddy Jorge covered in gold materialized behind us and offered us a sip of his rum. I think Jorge took one here and I politely declined.

It was a smooth flight to Cuba on an aging Russian airplane. Nothing unusual happened until we landed and stepped on the stairs leading down from the plane. At this point Jorge’s new friend who walked down the aisle just ahead of us basically collapsed on the top of the rolling stairs. They ordered a wheelchair as Jorge and I waited in full view at the top of the stairs. They picked up the “wheelchair guy” and put him in the wheeled chair. We walked down the stairs towards the “tram” that was waiting. I tried to smoke a cigarette on the tarmac, don’t try this, as an armed guard will let you know you’re breaking the law. I got the picture, ripped off the cherry and slid the short behind my ear.

Checking into Cuba was full of drama for my friend and I. What are we doing here the Guardia wanted to know? Visiting relatives Jorge replied. This is a suspicious answer from a Nicaraguan national and an American. The guards were extremely curious, I guess if you’re not staying at a resort hotel it looks fishy. With Jorge covered in gold and me in my linen with $3000 cash and a huge pink bag of women’s cosmetics I’d say we looked fishy too. The guards were all over us to say the least. After an hour of questioning they finally gave us our family visas. Long lost family my ass, Jorge’s brother in law fled Cuba after getting busted for butchering a cow. This is a tremendous offence in Cuba as they are extremely valuable as meat served to tourists. Carlos was facing ten years for real in the Cuban “gulag” when he escaped. Here we were back to see Carlos’s very extended family in Marianao.

We got outside and strolled around. I was smoking, looking at the landscape plants, the same exact exotic bullshit stuff as in Florida, at the Jose Marti International Airport. An hour later our “family” showed up. Jesus and Pillar, she had the same name as Hemingway’s fishing boat. They drove an extremely beat up Russian Lada or “tin can” as it is translated. Now Jorge and I had already heard a few people whisper “Camillo” under their breath and we were being gawked at for sure. Let me tell you these Cubans are “unabashed gawkers”. They are not Japanese in manners, in fact quite the opposite.

When Jesus and Pillar got a look at me you could see the “holy shit” look cover their faces. They were incredulous. Jorge and I were unaware, but apparently I was the exact duplicate of Camillo. This Camillo character was perhaps Cuba’s greatest missing in action hero. During the revolution Fidel, Raul, Che, and Camillo were the 4 generals who took power from Batiste. To really understand this story you’d have to do a lot of research. I had in the past but preferred to go “stupid”. I had checked out some books on Cuba before I left, but returned them to the library unread. I didn’t remember Camillo but the Cubans did. Supposedly, this guy, who disappeared shortly after the revolution on a Cessna flight back to Havana without a trace, was by far the people’s favorite of the revolutionaries. He was charismatic and good looking.

Imagine my fortune to land in Cuba nearly 50 years after this guy’s disappearance looking exactly like him. Ha ha! The Americans back home thought I looked like Fidel. I don’t look anything like Fidel but I know what fidelity means, faithfulness to obligations. Camillo means “that which matters”. Jesus and Pillar were a bit unnerved to say the least. Sorry about that, I didn’t know! We pulled away from Jose Marti and got about 50’ when Guardia appeared from all sides with automatic weapons and directed us back to the side of the road. We hadn’t even left the airport. They were interested in my family visa apparently, or in me. I played dumb, I’m pretty good at this, a natural Inspector Clouseau (clueless) Pink Panther type. They didn’t seem happy to see me reappear in Cuba. Jesus and Pillar were naturals at dealing with these types of guys it seemed, Jorge was nervous, I was clueless. Par for the course apparently. Fifteen minutes later we were cleared for takeoff into Havana, nice.

Viva Cuba Libre! Don’t