Dude Looks Like a Lady...

 

 Nah na na na - Na na na na - Heh heh hey - Good Bye!

Ah, if I was only satisfied at the results of yesterday... Since no one really reads this blog, 'cept me-self, I post my most inner, cynical & sarcastic thoughts. If someone really DOES read it, then I make no apologies; navigate elsewhere or stick around for some of my truth.

The "victory" was hollow as Judge Feldman spoke the words that we had waited so long to hear. Mr. Shanon Frank would be going to the federal penitentiary for tweve long years. And with a little "icing on the cake", he added six years of supervised probation.

Now that, my friends and readers, is a good old fashioned piping up the roto-rooter. Twelve years in jail is a long time. But the six year supervised probation is a more joyous torture than I could have ever hoped for. For the uninitiated, "supervised" probation means that when he gets out of prison, butt hole several sizes larger and wearing an apron for underwear, he will have to return home and report to his Probation Officer within 72 hours.

Once he gets registered, he'll need to report for a pee test every week. No drugs and no alcohol or it's the express bus back to bein' Bubba's bitch. If he gets sick, he'll have to report whatever prescriptions that he gets to his PO. If they test him and the levels of whatever drug he has is too high for their comfort... what's that ZZ Top song? "Waitin' for the Bus"? He'll live with a curfew and someone looking over his shoulder. He'll have to maintain a decent job. We all know how easy that is for a convicted felon...

His feeble and insincere attempt at reading an apology letter made my stomach turn. I sat and watched as this bottom feeding piece of shit read a contrived, and probably required in the terms of his plea bargain, apology that mean nothing to us, much less him.

His attorney ranked right down there with Frank as he made excuse, after pitiful excuse as to why "Poor Shanon" was a victim of his upbringing and Katrina and vomit, ad infinitum. I watched as the Judge grew weary of his inane ramblings and grew angrier by the minute. Without saying, Mr. Attorney was arguing with fervor against the Judge going outside the sentencing/plea bargain guidelines and adding time to his sentence. He did have the power to do that and he knew that the Judge was very close to that very same thing.

Your new pals waving a welcome to you...

The Probation Office had been kind enough to give the Judge a copy of the letter I was asked to write for them to consider in recommending sentence. It seems that the letter had a profound effect on the way the Judge felt.

If you would like to read it, I have it posted in this Blog. Ripples in the Surface - Rocks in Their Heads (Letter)

He read it more than once. I guess it gave him a little more insight on how Shanon's actions had impacted a large group of people who loved and cared for Pierce. What was even more comical was that a convictee, who stood before the bench earlier, tried to bullshit the Judge into thinking that he really just needed a rehab program and that he was another "victim". The Judge explained that his present plea bargain of eleven months in jail was not sufficient for him to complete a drug rehab program. So the Judge went outside the sentencing recommendation and sentenced him to TWO YEARS in jail, just so he would have ample time to complete a rehab program. Boy was that guy pissed!

The thought came to me of Richard Pryor's Mudbone character when he visits the Voodoo Lady with Toodlums to shrink his feet from the hex his girlfriend gave him. Mudbone was watching all the things she was doing to him when her pet monkey, or spider jumper on him. He said, "That's when I pulled out mah knife!"

That same thought hit, as Frank had been goofing around and laughing and smiling with friends and family in the courtroom. When the Judge did this, he sat erect and all traces of a smile left his face pronto!

I'm sure his little brown-eye did a twitch in his seat. His own attorney, whose name I'll refrain from posting here for fear of ruining my Blog totally, slapped his stack of files and made a disgusted comment concerning the Judge. I thought it funny that it bothered him so much. I could even bring a trace of pity to bear when Shanon's Father went to the lectern and proceeded to apologize to every person he could think of. I was beginning to feel a slight tinge of embarassment for him when he stepped over the line; at least in Judge Feldman's opinion.

He said that "he knew how our family felt". The judge said "NO, you don't". He said it again and the Judge repeated himself in a more firm manner. That did it. To pay for the sins of your child for something you didn't do sucks pretty bad. But then the saying does state, "Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not turn".

SO, off we go, or he goes; Off to his requested prison facility in Oklahoma where he will spend his next twelve years. I hope he cries himself to sleep every single night and lives in constant mortal fear for his life. I hope that every gang member that CAN get close to him and intimidate him, DOES get close to him and make him feel very small. Make him feel as small as I do when I wish and pray with all my heart that I could hold my son and tell him how much I love and care for him. But I am robbed of that... robbed by thieves who stole his life... stole his soul... But as more of these these carrion come to face their judges, I gain a very small dot of satisfaction. But the only way I'd be totally satisfied is to have Pierce standing next to me. And God won't let that happen. He's gotten him and is holding him hostage... hopefully until I can get there. Until then, have fun...

Is it something I said (in a previous life)?

I don't think I've been so prolific with my writings in quite a long time. But then I haven't had such a wealth of internal pain to write about. Don't get me wrong; there's always the regular old daily grind. But lately there's been a lot more added to the funk bucket.

Last night I got a call from a very old friend. We're talking high school old. I spent a great deal of my sixteen through thirty year old days and nights with him and or his brother. I had basically lost touch with him. However, I maintained contact with his brother and spoke to him by phone every one to two weeks.

Now the second brother we'll call, Vince. Vince and I had gone through some amazing times together growing up. We graduated high school in the mid 70's and spent a good ten years straight living the wild party life. Sex, drugs & rock and roll. The seminal birth of the "new wave". I was entranced by it and with the help of Vince's brother, I became emerged in it, beginning what I thought would become a lifetime career as a rock and roll technician.

I worked at the local music store and mixed sound for local bands. Vince partied with me on the weekends and worked in a stable, responsible job that he had held for several years. One thing that I always admired in him was his ability to be responsible and his unwavering convictions. Money, work, cars... He always had it together. While I went from gig to gig; barely had a running vehicle; traveled all over the country with bands that were always "almost" going to make it big. When I finally got a respectable gig with a well known band, I was so sick of the scene that I actually refused a job with Alabama as their road sound engineer. What a dumb ass I was. But that life is hard on anyone, especially on with morality and mentality as weak as mine. Toss in the bipolar mix and you have a recipe for disaster and wreckage. And all the while, Vince remained stable, worked at his job, earned promotions and did all the things a normal responsible adult would do.

I ended up married and a father. I tried to go the responsible route and ended up in San Antonio. We still kept in touch, long distance. When I came back to New Orleans, he had bought a home with a pool and was living with his long time steady girl, (we'll cal her LSTG). He had changed jobs to a more responsible and stable position and was working himself up the ladder. But he had developed physical problems with a bout of diverticulitis that almost killed him. For the gastrointestinally uninformed, a diverticulii is a pocket that forms in the wall of the lower intestine. Most are minor and annoying. His was large and had collected enough "matter" to be toxic and start to kick his ass. After surgery and removal of his gall bladder, he made it through and returned to his normal life.

Here, I have to admit that I admired Vince more than any of my friends because he was able to beat the outside world and hold a steady & responsible job and buy a home with a pool and, for all practical purposes, maintain a normal life. All things that I found incredibly impossible to do. And now he had beat this physical thing and was on the road to recovery.

After some time I divorced and remarried, still trying to hold on to some semblance of sanity and responsibility. Everyone hated the new wife. Deservedly so. She was off by a hinge or two and grated of most peoples nerves. What I found in her I can't explain. I visited Vince at his new employer a couple of times. That was before I moved to the Northshore.

Once on the Northshore, I developed a phobia for the South and came across as little as possible. But our love for cutting edge music kept us in contact and we met up and attended the Tubes show at, (gasp!) Kenny's Key West in Metaire. With a crowd of about ten people, it was an almost private show. I'll never forget how incredible that performance was and how much fun we had.

In opposite manner, Robin Trower came to the House of Blues and we agreed to go. Wife Two just HAD to go along. We picked up Vince and travelled downtown. As the opening act was burning up the stage, W2 had a sudden attack of "imanassmossis" which required that she INSIST that I bring her home to Mandeville. Sullenly and embarassed, I explained the situation to him and offered cab fare. In his usual manner, he blew it off and stayed to enjoy the show while I grew another resentment on the ride across the twenty-four. He later told me that LSTG had picked him up. I never felt so horrible in my life.

THEN CAME KATRINA...

His home was devastated and he lost LSTG. My home was devastated and I divorced W2.

His health went on the fritz again. He needed a kidney. He managed to roll the lucky dice and get one. His home was rebuilt. He was again enjoying life. I found my most wonderful love. We continued to talk every couple of weeks, vowing to get together very soon.

Over the last few times we spoke, he had found a girl who he cared for. Details are unimportant, but he sounded happy. We spoke a great deal about Social Security, as he was scheduled to get it and they had taken mine away. When very last we spoke, he sounded bad. I asked what was wrong and he blew it off to a cold.

His brother suprised me when he called last night. He said he had gotten my number off of Vince's cell phone. Vince is in the hospital in an induced coma. Through circumstances that they're still trying to ascertain, Vince took a couple of falls at home. One of those falls fractured his shoulder. He failed to go to the hospital or call for help and ended up with pneumonia. Other things he'd done had lowered his resistance and compromised his immune system. The drugs they're giving him to bring his resistance back up may damage his new kidney beyond repair. He may never come out of the coma.

Again, God. Thanks so much. I know you do what you do for a reason. But this guy worked his ass off and was responsible and all the crap he was supposed to be responsible for. Put him through all this stuff then give him another chance at life, only to yank it away? I need to see him. I need to see him pull through and come out of this! Please! For a change... Or is it his destiny to fail?

DEAR GOD, PLEASE BRING L'IL JESTER BACK...

We all miss you so much... Won't you please let him come back home, God? Was it that bad? Did he not make amends in the time hes been gone? Had he not built up enough credit in St. Peter's book to warrant a return trip? Yeah... Whimsical dreams and unanswered prayers of a father torn asunder by a loss that will not release it's icy talons from his heart. Every picture, every song, every time I repeat the same thing as an expression of my grief brings only more grief. It does NOT go away. Time does NOT cure the pain. My mind is a scrambled mess of WTF and I can't seem to move away form it. I think that those who say that our time on Earth is really Hell are probably correct.

WE HAVE THE CURE

This is bullshit. The cure for what? The cure for my sense of rambling idiocy? I was browsing through some photos of paintball games past and found some with Pierce & John together and a game that I didn't attend. Very unusual. I feel like crap, anyway, with this crud, cold, allergy attack or whatever. So seeing the pictures destroyed me. Now this is notihng new. Anytime I see photos of Pierce it is cause for breakdown. But that's only part of what started me writing today.

When a man's an empty kettle he should be on his mettle,
And yet I'm torn apart.
Just because I'm presumin' that I could be kind-a-human,
If I only had a heart.

I'd be tender - I'd be gentle and awful sentimental
regarding Love and Art.
I'd be friends with the sparrows ... and the boys who shoots the arrows,

If I only had a heart.

Picture me - a balcony.  Above a voice sings low.

"Wherefore art thou, Romeo?"

I hear a beat.... How sweet.

Just to register emotion, jealousy - devotion,
And really feel the part.
I could stay young and chipper and I'd lock it with a zipper,
If I only had a heart.

So this is how I feel part of the time. That part of me that wants to be romantic lives in these lyrics. Until it gets to the part about emotions. That's when I flunk out. No, I think that maybe I would fare better here with the straw man...

I could while away the hours, conferrin' with the flowers

Consultin' with the rain.

And my head I'd be scratchin' while my thoughts were busy hatchin'

If I only had a brain.

I'd unravel every riddle for any individ'le,

In trouble or in pain.

With the thoughts you'll be thinkin' you could be another Lincoln

If you only had a brain. 

Oh, I could tell you why The ocean's near the shore.

I could think of things I never thunk before.

And then I'd sit, and think some more.

I would not be just a nothin' my head all full of stuffin'
My heart all full of pain.
I would dance and be merry, life would be a ding-a-derry,
If I only had a brain

Yes, my friends, the Scarecrow seems to fit me to a tee. But should I pass over the Lion as though he doesn't exist in this chain of unbridled thought? His song was certainly most entertaining, especially in the Bert Lahr version when he "rrrruffed" so convincingly, (read erotically).

 Yeh, it's sad, believe me, Missy, When you're born to be a sissy

Without the vim and verve.

But I could show my prowess, be a lion not a mou-ess

If I only had the nerve.

I'm afraid there's no denyin' I'm just a dandelion,

A fate I don't deserve.

I'd be brave as a blizzard....

Tin Man

I'd be gentle as a lizard....

Scarecrow

I'd be clever as a gizzard....

Dorothy

If the Wizard is a Wizard who will serve.

Scarecrow

Then I'm sure to get a brain,

Tin Man

a heart,

Dorothy

a home,

Lion

the nerve...

Now in this song we learn that the Lion places a high value on nerve, as he percieves it. As such, he will risk leaving his forest to travel with three complete strangers at the slim chance he may get some nerve. Poor Lion.

Which brings me to where I am now. Just where? Will anyone ever understand mania? Will they ever understand the vicious "static" that runs through your head; so much that you can even listen to the radio when driving in the car? Will they ever understand that same static is what keeps you from paying complete attention to what they're saying. People get insulted and what do you say to them? "Uh, I'm sorry but the constant froth of mixed static and internal dialog just prevents me from locking on to the first few worlds of your sentence". They either don't understand or they are convinced you're a fucking lunatic. And you ARE!

Thirteen years ago... THIRTEEN, DAMMIT! Thirteen years ago I met one of the kindest & knowledgeable men in the medical mental health profession. I was in complete pain and it was his job to evaluate me for Social Security Disability. Dr. D. did my evaluation and my followups and counseled me through what was going to happen to me over time. He treated me when nobody else would. He was there until the day he retired. This was a bad day for me. Doctor change...

So since then I have been running under the radar. Trying to stay within the realms of sanity, take my meds and fight with my demons as they come at me. I have a new Doc who knows now what the deal is. He didn't until yesterday.

So, to the meat of it; The Social Security Administration decided, after thirteen years, to dump me off. Huh? Yep. They told me that they did a medical review and said I was not cured, but I was able to go get a job. Not a job like I USED to have, mind you... No 65-70K for you. I guess they want me to push a janitors broom or flip burgers. I'm just trying to figure out what to put on the job application for what I've been doing for the past thirteen years.

"Uh, Mr. John... I see here a rather large gap in your employment history. Can you tell me what you've been doing ffor the past thirteen of so years?" "Oh, I see... Mental Disability. Right. We're gonna have to get back to you on that. The guard here will escort you out." "But all I wanted was a bag boy job!"

No benefits means no doctor. No doctor means no prescriptions. No prescriptions means manic episodes. No prescriptions means depressive episodes. Depressive episodes mean suicidal ideologies and thoughts.

WHO IN THE WORLD WOULD DO SUCH A THING IN GOOD CONSCIENCE!?!

A Sportster and Key West sound so irresponsible...

Watch out for Dad, Pierce... "The highway's jammed with broken heroes on a last chance power drive."