R&B Star Johnny Ace Dead; Shoots Himself Backstage Playing Russian Roulette

Rising R&B star Johnny Ace shot himself in the head today (December 25, 1954) while backstage at Houston’s City Auditorium.

Johnny Ace, born John Marshall Alexander, was playing a game of Russian roulette with his girlfriend when the tragedy occurred.

Ace had finished singing “Yes, Baby Yes” to 3,000 screaming fans. During a 5 minute intermission, he went back stage, where his girlfriend Olivia Gibbs, Mary Carter and Willie Mae “Big Mama” Thornton were sitting amongst others.

Olivia Gibbs told officers that earlier in the day Johnny Ace had been fooling with the .22 pistol as he usually did and that the gun, which he purchased from another musician while in Florida, was not loaded.

Johnny Ace “I saw Johnny look at the gun and then he put it up to my head and pulled the trigger and it snapped,“ Olivia Gibbs told Police. “I saw him look at the gun again and then he put it up to his head and pulled the trigger and the gun fired. He then fell off the table and onto the floor everybody ran out of the room except Mary Carter, Willie Mae “Big Mama” Thornton and me. I thought he was just playing and I picked up his head and then I saw the blood. I then ran to the box office and told Evelyn Johnson that Johnny had shot himself.”

To be technical, Johnny Ace was not actually playing the “game” of Russian Roulette. although he was obviously taking chances with the gun, by pointing at first at his girlfriend and pulling the trigger, before turning the pistol on himself fatally.

Contrary to reports circulated for promotional purposes by Peacock Records owner Don Robey, Ace died today, December 25, not the day before, as is widely reported.

Johnny Ace was originally a member of the Beale Streeters, a legendary group from Memphis, Tennessee that featured artists like BB King and Bobby Blue Bland.

“When I first started performing… I got a trio on the radio: Johnny Ace on piano, Earl Forest on drums, Billy Duncan on tenor sax. That’s when I made ‘Three O’ Clock Blues’. We recorded our first hit in the YMCA in Memphis. They wanted me as a solo act so I gave up my band, gave it to Johnny Ace, which is how he got started.”

Johnny Ace - My Song Johnny Ace signed with Davis Mattis’ Duke label in 1952 and hit number one immediately with the ballad “My Song.”

Mattis sold his label to Peacock Records’ feared boss Don Robey, who owned the most successful black distribution network in the business in 1952.

The hits continued for Johnny Ace with songs like “The Clock,” “Cross My Heart,” “Please Forgive Me” and the beautiful ballad “Never Let Me Go.”

Even in death the hits continued with the song “Pledging My Love,” and another “Anymore,” which Duke released posthumously.
Johnny Ace – Pledging My Love

Although he left an imprint on decades of musicians, Johnny Ace had recorded only 21 song when he died at the age of 25.

A number of artists have remade Johnny Ace’s signature tunes throughout the years including Curtis Mayfield and The Impressions Aretha Franklin, Luther Vandross and Paul Simon, who made a tribute record to the singer titled “The Late Great Johnny Ace”.

We Got The Beat

In the summer of 1988, I attended former Go-Gos lead singer/song writer Belinda Carlisle's concert at the Universal Greek Amphitheater in Los Angeles. During the middle of the show, while walking through the nearly empty concourse/concession area I saw an impossibly young Johnny Depp of the new Fox Network's laughable series, 21 Jump Street, and an even younger Charlie Sheen, son of bad boy actor and soon-to-be mayor of Malibu, Martin and brother of better known Brat-Packer, Emilio Estevez, leaning surreptitiously against the wall as if discussing a drug deal. From the corner of my eye, I saw the pint of what appeared to be Jack Daniels going back and forth. Later, as the show's ending loomed I was looking for friends to join a Green Room party. As I sailed through the concession area, there stumbled the two future Hollywood icons: the one who was destined for greatness was a little sloppy, but managed to keep things under control. The other one? He looked like a drunken teenager after his prom as he hurled in public for all the world to see. Imagine my surprise that within a couple of years seeing him cast by Oliver Stone in 'Platoon' and playing opposite Michael Douglas in 'Wall Street'... Some things never change...

Kent State {Four Dead in Ohio}

Remembering to Never Forget

Today is the 40th anniversary of the Kent State massacre. The book "Generation of Fire" speaks to the heart in its remembrances of a time when people fought for what they truly believed. Pause for a moment during your daily routines to remember those who lost their lives exercising their civil liberties to ensure our democratic freedoms as protected under our Constitution's Bill of Rights.

Little Green Army Men

Back then, it was a rite of passage. Today, sandbox therapy is a standard modality in most pediatric psychology practices.

As impressionable young boys, we would set up elaborate battlefields in the sand box with foxholes, bunkers, trenches, moats, the whole enchilada ~ and then deploy bags of small plastic soldiers... green Americans versus light gray Nazis.

In a capture the flag motif, we would lace the battlefield with strategically placed firecrackers, intertwine all the fuses into one long slow burner, light it and step back. In the ensuing carnage, the carpet bomb effect was the only way that we as young boys could process the atrocities we watched on nightly television coming into our living rooms from the steaming jungles of Vietnam.

I remember the evil looking SS Nazi officer suddenly disappearing ~ the sadistic monster becoming just another victim of war. All that remained of him were the goose stepping boots attached to the plastic stand with a wisp of smoke rising from a hole in the sand where he once stood.

As the deafening explosion and smoke subsided, we surveyed the destruction before us. It was all over before we knew it and there was nothing we could do. We felt somehow powerless as we looked at the broken bodies of the little green and gray army men. You never forget things like that ~ for in that moment I knew in my heart I could never kill another human being or be a soldier.

Read more: http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/blogs/parenting/detail?entry_id=62128&o=6&gta=commentslistpos#commentslistpos#ixzz0mQlJ5f5M

So Now You Get Mad!

SO NOW YOU GET MAD !

We had eight years of Bush and Cheney, but now you get mad!

You didn't get mad when the Supreme Court stopped a legal recount and appointed a President.

You didn't get mad when Cheney allowed energy company officials to dictate energy policy.

You didn't get mad when a covert CIA operative got outed.

You didn't get mad when the Patriot Act got passed.

You didn't get mad when we illegally invaded a country that posed no threat to us.

You didn't get mad when we spent over 600 billion(and counting) on said illegal war.

You didn't get mad when over 10 billion dollars just disappeared in Iraq.

You didn't get mad when you found out we were torturing people.

You didn't get mad when the government was illegally wiretapping Americans.

You didn't get mad when we didn't catch Bin Laden.

You didn't get mad when you saw the horrible conditions at Walter Reed.

You didn't get mad when we let a major US city drown.

You didn't get mad when we gave a 900 billion tax break to the rich.

You didn’t get mad when, using reconciliation, a trillion dollars of our tax dollars were redirected to insurance companies for Medicare Advantage which cost over 20 percent more for basically the same services that Medicare provides.

You didn't get mad when the deficit hit the trillion dollar mark, and our debt hit the thirteen trillion dollar mark.

You finally got mad when the government decided that people in America deserved the right to see a doctor if they are sick.

Yes, illegal wars, lies, corruption, torture, stealing your tax dollars to make the rich richer, are all okay with you,

But helping other Americans... oh hell no.

AND NOW YOU'RE MAD!

Mount St. Helen Blows

There is no greater force on our planet than a volcanic eruption. On August 7, 1980, I was aboard an Alaska Airlines flight from SFO to Seattle when in mid-flight Mount St. Helen blew her stack for a third time since the May 18th. All in-air traffic was diverted across a broad expanse of miles to detour the eruption. All later departures were grounded until the situation could be further assessed. Like 9-11, it was an amazingly clear day with unlimited visibility as the late afternoon sun began its western descent. The scale of the devastation is beyond description. All comparative references are totally inadequate. Even at our 35,000 feet altitude, the column of ash was at least three to four times higher if not more. From a probable distance of 75-miles away, the ginormous column appeared within reach of my hand just through the window. It resembled a gargantuan wet cauliflower dipped in dry cement sculpture of Jack's magic beanstalk. Easily the most extraordinary sight I've ever witnessed! Respect the epic glory of nature at her most powerful!

Cake of Miracles

Light me a cake of miracles ~ where I bask in the glow of countless blessings shared with family, friends and lovers past, present, future or ~ perhaps never. Your love fills my spirit's heart with compassion for the world. To each of you, I say shalom ~ שָׁלוֹם

Between Heaven and Earth

O rain soak this earth in your fertile rite...Sun make all that has passed green and good...I give you my sons and daughters to grow from my dreams...I look upon you as a child to his mother...For in trust and love we learn the strength that nurtures life...

Ewing Field: Lost in the Fog Bank

by Greg Gaar

(Originally published in the Haight Ashbury Newspaper and the WNP Member newsletter.)
Ewing Field 1914




Once upon a time there was a beloved baseball team called the San Francisco Seals. For over half a century, the Seals belted drives and chased flies at funky Recreation Park at 15th and Valencia; and from 1931-1957 they played at Seals Stadium at 16th and Bryant, but for one strange season in 1914, pro baseball was played west of Masonic Avenue and across the street from Calvary Cemetery at Ewing Field.

J. Cal Ewing, owner of the Seals, and one of the organizers of the PCL, was fed up with sharing the lease at Recreation Field with the owner of the Oakland "Commuters." The fans were disgusted about Rec Park's short fences, overcrowded stands and congested entrances. So J. Cal coughed-up $100,000 (70 million bucks for a ball park today) and built the most modern minor league park in the country." Mr. Ewing modestly named the new stadium after himself.

On opening day, May 16, 1914, a brunch was served for dignitaries and boosters at the Palace Hotel then a motorcade parade up Geary to Ewing Field, 18,000 fans listened to patriotic music and the usual array of speeches by Mayor Rolph and other VIPs. An iron chest containing names and photos of the players and other baseball memorabilia was buried three feet below home plate. As the time capsule was being lowered the floral horseshoe inscribed with the words "Good Luck" was blown over by the winds. To the superstitious this was a bad omen.

The Seals played a lousy game and lost to Oakland, the worst team in the league, 3-0. The Chronicle placed much of the blame on the weather:

"Perhaps it was the cold wind that whistled around Lone Mountain on to the green of the ball field that made the spectators shiver and long drives which would be homers at Rec Park inconsequential."

Though the Seals got off to a slow start, they came "roaring back" with rugged ballplayers like: "Howling Harry" Hughes - who rarely said a word; "Nig" Clarke - 1907 American League batting champ nicknamed for his dark complexion; "Del" Howard - the Seals' 35-year-old manager and the team's best hitter; "Spider" Baum; "Goat" Colligan; and "Wild Bill" Tazer.

As the season wore on - the fog rolled in... nearly every game. A game was actually canceled due to fog on June 6. The fans stopped coming to games, not only because of the climate, but most of the Seals supporters lived in the Mission - miles from Ewing Field. Freeloaders, who didn't want to pay the price of admission, watched the games from the top of Lone Mountain.

The players couldn't deal with the fog either: Elmer Zachar, an outfielder for Oakland, was so confused by the fog that the mascot for the "Oaks" was sent from the bench to inform Elmer that the side had been retired. Pete Daly built a fire in the outfield to emphasize the need to stay warm.

The Seals were in the pennant chase until the final week of the season. They won 115 and lost 96. That's 211 games! On the final day of the season, Skeeter Fanning of San Francisco pitched a no-hitter against the first place Portland team. That was the last game the Seals would play at Ewing Field.

In the off season Mr. Ewing sold the Seals to the Berry Brothers, owners of the L.A. Angels. The new bosses immediately stated that because of the weather conditions, they would never play at Ewing Field. A few months later, through negotiation and big money, the Berrys' achieved what J. Cal Ewing could not - ownership of Recreation Park. In 1915, the Seals returned to Rec Park and brand new Ewing Field was abandoned.

On September 29, 1916, Ewing Field was to play host to "Aida." the opera by Verdi. 20,000 tickets were sold but the weather struck again. A freak rainstorm washed out the extravaganza and the performance was moved to the Civic Auditorium.

In 1923 Ewing Field was transformed into a football stadium. The grandstand was enlarged to handle 26,000 gridiron fans. A sold-out crowd watched Santa Clara and St. Mary's play the first football game at Ewing. The weather couldn't postpone a football game.

In 1925 a huge throng of spectators turned out for the first Shriners Football Game for Crippled Children.

Boxing promoters leased Ewing Field to stage championship fights. It appeared that Ewing Field had a bright future, but on June 5, 1926 disaster struck.

While an amateur baseball game was being played, someone tossed a lighted cigarette under Ewing's grandstand. The wooden stands caught on fire and quickly became a raging inferno. A forty-mph wind blew flaming embers onto the roofs of Victorian rowhouses in the Western Addition as far away as Fillmore. Within thirty minutes, over 21 alarms were called in. Fireman responded quickly but over a hundred fires were burning at one time. A troop of boy scouts successfully controlled a tree and brush fire across the street from Ewing Field at Calvary Cemetery. Only seven persons were injured, but forty buildings were damaged and many families were homeless. Chief Murphy of the Fire Department said, "Not since 1906 has San Francisco been in such danger of being wiped out." Ewing Field's stands were a charred ruin.

From 1926-1938 Ewing Field, except for an occasional appearance of neighborhood kids, stood vacant.1 To motorists, pleasure driving down Masonic or Geary, the site of Ewing Field prompted chuckles or the words "white elephant."

In 1938, the Catholic Church, which had always owned the land, sold Ewing Field for $150,000. In November 1938, the old ballpark was demolished to make way for 95 homes selling for for $7,500-$8,000. Heymann Homes claimed the subdivision would offer "an attractive pillared gateway entrance with gardened terraces similar to Presidio Terrace."

To see these "magnificent" homes and the site of the old Ewing Field, go past Turk on Masonic, north of the old Lincoln University and former convent, and find Ewing Street. Somewhere underneath the house near Anza, probably still buried, is the historic Ewing Field time capsule. Bring a pick and shove, Kindly ask the property owner if you can have access to their basements.

When you think Candlestick Park is a joke, remember Ewing Field.



Notes:

1. Laurie Farnam notes: "Ewing Field did not stand vacant from 1926 [to 1928]. Brick Muller's Californians (NFL) vs. George Wilson's Wildcats (American League) played at Ewing Field on January 23, 1927. Could be a few more games were played at Ewing during 1927."

Hell Explained

The following is an actual question given on a University of Arizona chemistry mid term, and an actual answer turned in by a student.
The answer by one student was so 'profound' that the professor shared it with colleagues, via the Internet, which is, of course, why we now have the pleasure of enjoying it as well :

Bonus Question: Is Hell exothermic (gives off heat) or endothermic (absorbs heat)?

Most of the students wrote proofs of their beliefs using Boyle's Law (gas cools when it expands and heats when it is compressed) or some variant.

One student, however, wrote the following:

First, we need to know how the mass of Hell is changing in time. So we need to know the rate at which souls are moving into Hell and the rate at which they are leaving, which is unlikely. I think that we can safely assume that once a soul gets to Hell, it will not leave. Therefore, no souls are leaving. As for how many souls are entering Hell, let's look at the different religions that exist in the world today.

Most of these religions state that if you are not a member of their religion, you will go to Hell. Since there is more than one of these religions and since people do not belong to more than one religion, we can project that all souls go to Hell. With birth and death rates as they are, we can expect the number of souls in Hell to increase exponentially. Now, we look at the rate of change of the volume in Hell because Boyle's Law states that in order for the temperature and pressure in Hell to stay the same, the volume of Hell has to expand proportionately as souls are added.

This gives two possibilities:
1. If Hell is expanding at a slower rate than the rate at which souls enter Hell, then the temperature and pressure in Hell will increase until all Hell breaks loose.
2. If Hell is expanding at a rate faster than the increase of souls in Hell, then the temperature and pressure will drop until Hell freezes over.

So which is it?

If we accept the postulate given to me by Teresa during my Freshman year that, 'It will be a cold day in Hell before I sleep with you,' and take into account the fact that I slept with her last night, then number two must be true, and thus I am sure that Hell is exothermic and has already frozen over.

The corollary of this theory is that since Hell has frozen over, it follows that it is not accepting any more souls and is therefore, extinct..... ...leaving only Heaven, thereby proving the existence of a divine being which explains why, last night, Teresa kept shouting 'Oh my God.'


THIS STUDENT RECEIVED AN A+.

Ghost Town By the Bay

San Francisco reminds me of the pod people in "Invasion of the Body Snatchers". It only resembles the place we all once loved. However, it's soul was long ago sucked dry by alien life forces - dot com DOAed! Take it off life support - spend your money out of Gavin town! Tag it and bag it! And, tell the back up singers to hit it with a heavenly chorus of "Move on Up"!!!

A cœur vaillant, rien d'impossible!
(A valiant heart, nothing is impossible!)

LES JEUNES NOUVEAU

by Ian Rage

In the wee hours of a quiet summer morning in 1894, the fin-de-siècle movement, Les Jeunes (“The Young”), was born in the city of San Francisco. Artists Gelett Burgess and brothers Bruce and Robert Porter toppled the self-erected cast iron statue of teetotaling civic demagogue, Dr. Henry Cogswell, (from novelist Frank Norris’ McTeague infamy) off its pedestal on Market Street. Far from being some mindless, adolescent prank, this seminal act of iconoclasm became a harbinger for knocking hypocritical Victoriana square on its collective ass.

For masterminding the pre-dawn hi jinx, Burgess was summarily dismissed from his faculty post at the University of California, Berkeley. But, there was no time for tears. Instead, Burgess and Bruce Porter promptly launched the première edition of The Lark—a publication whose sole purpose was satiric anarchy. Contributors soon included architect Willis Polk, artists Florence Lundborg and Ernest Peixotto, poet Yone Noguchi and writings from the estate of Robert Louis Stevenson.

Despite a brief life of only two years, The Lark’s whimsical style and spirited attacks on pomposity swiftly won favor in the hearts and minds of literary San Franciscans. The popularity of The Lark was such that the always au courant Teddy Roosevelt shouted out recitations of Burgess’ pre-Dadaist/absurdest poem, The Purple Cow, between affairs of state (and otherwise) at the White House.

I never saw a purple cow,
I never hope to see one;
But I can tell you, anyhow,
I'd rather see than be one
~ Gelett Burgess

One hundred years have past since the days of Les Junes. On the eve of the millennium, The Lark’s two years or even Warhol’s “fifteen minutes of fame” manifesto seem to be undergoing a myopic compression of time and space. Such dimensions are now measured in non-linear, sub-microeconomic terms like nanoseconds and angstrom units. Our world is rapidly on the threshold of critical mass. Our infinite wisdom creates an information society and feeds it gigabytes of vacuous waste ad nauseam. Suddenly, “Who’s on first?” is completely inadequate. The real question is “Where is home?”

In this time of crusades to unholy lands and flag waving bravura, there are still some tiny bands of misguided malcontents naively adhering to the notion that minority voices can make real impacts. Perhaps, home is a non-nuclear family? Could there really have been tribal communalism a million years before frozen TV dinners and Floppy Pop? And if so, what is the connection between the wall paintings of Lescaux and MTV?

In relative terms, the recognition of global survival may perhaps steer human cultures to look at the future in less prosaic eyes and to realize today’s sacred cows are destined to be tomorrow’s USDA inspected, 100% all beef patties. For the Home of the Whopper® is the planet earth. It is not just a parallel world or fantasy dimension of some overpaid crazy, high on martinis and uppers in some Madison Avenue executive suite. Understanding that that media spawned reality is as much our reality somehow juxtaposes the past with the future and suffuses it into a present, where isolation and alienation are not mere tokens, but actual identity badges for everyday survival.

Our identities are being strip mined from us daily as we willingly submit to torturous rigors unknown by previous generations. Our barbarous past pales in comparison to what is becoming the new reality. And, guided by the push of a button, the prospect of an even more barbarous future looms through an uncertain haze of Capital Hill folly and Wall Street hubris - both fueled by the vapor trails of tax payer bought martini lunches.

We are rapidly losing our humanity. We will soon be less sentient creatures than the machines we create. And, why not? We are HAL. We are Commander Data. SONY is not just consumer electronic gadgets or a global corporation destined to rule the planet. It is you and I. After all, who plugs in whom? Who makes the choices?

So, pull up an easy chair in the glow of your fractal fire, find your drug of choice and hear the soothing voice of Guy Lombardo crooning into the dawn of a new millennium. After all, in case you haven’t noticed, it’s later than it seems and we’re already here. Welcome to the Brave New Order. And, have a nice day. ☻

Copyright © 1991 by Timothy Johnson. All rights reserved.

Dark Comforts

Are you not the poet who rages at heaven's hope to find a universe all in the name of truth and love? Do you not whisper tenderly to those who care when the sun rises? This is what I ask the waning moon and stars amid fading jet black skies. Perhaps it is you... for love is a mistress who only gives away her secrets to hearts unwavering and thirsts unquenched.

McRave: How Greed Killed the Techno-Acid Test

by Ian Rage

. . . For the man in the suit has just bought a new car from the profits he’s made on your dreams . .. from Low Spark of the High Heeled Boys, Traffic, Island Records © 1970.

It seemed innocent enough. When English kids headed outdoors dancing under the moon to the sounds of remixed American house music in the late 1980’s, it could be seen as a backlash against the repressive dullness of Thatcherism. Along the line, someone decided to throw in a little ecstasy and more kids started showing up. Before long, thousands made the scenes.

Eventually, the media created a tempest-in-a-teapot firestorm of middle class disapproval. In it's official response, Parliament and Thatcher had little choice but to crush the burgeoning movement by declaring it a public menace. Privately, they couldn't give a damn. But, by calling in the air cavalry to assist the local law enforcement and flushing these underground raves, as they came to be known, out of the wilds and into the hands of mainstream promoters, the government hedged its bets with an overblown show of conservative zeal. This was the death knell blow to the rave scene in the U.K.

Big bucks snuffed out the English rave.

Not coincidentally, the rave phenomenon washed upon the shores of America a little more than a year ago. Like a message in a bottle, disciples from the UK imported the rave to the greenest pasture of them all - California. If money rotted the rave scene out of England, American promoters, with their predatory instincts, should bastardize the concept beyond recognition in record time.

American youth are typically ripe for most “waves” or invasions of British pop culture. Sprinkle in a little West Coast hippie nostalgia, a few heaping doses of ecstasy, a couple of gigabytes of high tech nonsense suited for brains softened from too much exposure to MTV and a few years of George Bush’s “Son of Voodoo” economics and voila! The Second Coming of the Sixties is upon us! Or is it the Saturday Night Fever Seventies revisited? It’s difficult to sort out at times.

The Nineties’ Ravers’ styles are a television and pop culture inspired potpourri of the past three decades. The influences run the gamut from Dr. Seuss to The Monkees to Sesame Street to Nintendo's Super Mario Brothers. Specifically, it is this lack of its own original cultural identity, which makes less discerning ravers susceptible to commercial exploitation by certain promoters. This naive and unsuspecting target market are sacrificial lambs jumping for the proverbial knife as these eagle eyed hucksters, frauds, charlatans, con men, scammers, grifters, street hustlers and back alley boobies stop at nothing to scavenge the dumpsters of pop memorabilia knowing how to polish a turd, wrap a pretty bow on their slick package and call it a diamond. (See Rave Nader’s Rave Alert! piece.)

The rapid acceptance of raves into American culture has far transcended its humble roots. From the great outdoors and underground warehouses, promoters are now talking about “corporate policies” to “spread the faith.” In classic Nineties’ doublespeak, words like “communalism” are intermixed with plans to organize and replicate similar buku bucks multimedia extravaganzas in other cities. Given the recent explosion of news media coverage, the monster box office potential (SF’s Toon Town allegedly took down $175,000 on New Year’s Eve at $30.00 a pop) and the integration of Silicon Valley gimmicks, it seems obvious to some observers that this latest hybrid of the rave is to be expected.

But, just how can these cyber-lounge shows be viewed as anything less than mutant yuppieism in Haight Street drag? For in the land that spawned the Disney version of reality (VR, natch) and fast food chains, “new and improved” raves should not only be expected, but, are in fact the ideological conclusion of a society whose footprints have been long since washed away from the sandy beach of time at an alarming rate. And, the mind reels, with thoughts of the franchising premiums to be made in the Japanese after market which is hot, hot, hot for anything with America’s social imprimatur. Yes. Local rave promoters are already planning to open in Tokyo within months. Bonzai all the way to the bank, baby!

So, as perversely bizarre as this twisted type of logic would translate to most, corporate decisions to franchise hamburger stands and alternatively spawned underground social gatherings are apparently not a distinctly disparate process, but rather, prefabbed on the same assembly line. Or so, at least, thought Orwell and Huxley. Who knows? Perhaps, there even might be future Ray Krocs, Sir Jimmy Goldsmiths or Henry Fords in our midst. But, more than likely, these rising monopolistic titans of the scene will resemble the Boeskys’ and Milkens’ ilk. Judging from the bad vibes at their events, being pioneers in cyber/social experimentation is for them just another day at the office. More to the point, corporate America has a new look. Eschewing pin stripes and wingtips as Eighties’ anachronisms, Generation X can now proudly don its own uniform of funky hats, bad haircuts, tattoos by numbers, pierced noses and Doc Martin boots, while schlepping off to the vault.

One can only wonder, “What is really in those so-called smart drinks?”



Copyright © 1991 by Timothy Johnson. All rights reserved.

Category-5

The phone rings and it's Chuck. Come up for dinner? Sure, no problem. I'm on the way. The first storm of the year builds off shore. Category-5 typhoon just inundated the Philippines. Villages buried under mud. People swept away in floods. Upgraded to a Super Typhoon -- whatever the hell that is. Fisherman in the South China Sea call them daaih-fùng or big winds. But it doesn't sound good in any language. A nasty business these big winds. Anybody's guess what lies in store for us. But it's dark and ugly. That much I know.

Batching it is never quite as desperate as it sounds. Chuck turns out a respectable meal with a modicum of flair every time. We eat some spicy vegan concoction and wash it down with a fine red wine. It seems many of the local farmers are in a bit of a jam. By waiting for that one last week of sunshine to fatten up their pot gardens, they are now perilously close to being royally screwed and losing it all from a monsoon three weeks early and now only hours away. So the calls go out to friends and friends of friends to jump in with both feet and lend a hand in finishing the harvest.

One kid literally stepped out of his battered Toyota Forerunner 12-hours ago a complete stranger without any ties to the community or any reasons for local job prospects. For bailing out my farmer neighbor, he walked away with about three pounds of the exotically named Afghanigoo. The sweetly pungent, sticky buds will move at $20 per gram back in his hometown of Phoenix. The 453 grams in a pound will bring in a staggering nine grand on the street in Arizona. Multiply that little stash times three and it's not bad for a day's work. No wonder he's grinning from ear to ear as though he's just won the biggest lotto in history. But, I don't blink an eye. What's given away locally as a neighborly gesture is nothing short of a major crime where he comes from. All it takes is for some sad sack to have the misfortune of a run in with a redneck deputy in the Grand Canyon state and they might be staring at a ten-year stretch in a federal pen for interstate narcotics trafficking. Some may say, changes in latitudes - changes in attitudes. I say, pure and utter insanity.

The sky continues to darken over a night cap of aged single malt scotch. Thank god, neither Chuck nor I have a green thumb much less the inclination to ever consider driving across the desert and into the arms of trigger happy Arizona rangers. I'll take my chances with a northern California storm. As the first big drops splatter across my windshield, I pull into my driveway with yet another new appreciation for the sounds of a howling wind through the trees and the crackling roar of a fire waiting inside.

Doesn't it always feel good to be home?

Cheese Steak

I'll do better next time. I swear to God. I know I can. Sweetie, you know how I feel about you. You're the only one for me. Of course you are! What -- you don't believe me? How could you say those kinds of things? All right. Maybe I do come across a little like that sometimes. What's that? You really mean that? But, I thought -- wait a minute -- let me check this other call -- Hello. Oh, baby. Could you hold the line just for a minute, let me get rid of this other call. Right. I'll be back in a sec -- Hi sweetie. Oh, some telemarketers. Listen, fix yourself up 'cuz I'm comin' over right now to take you out to dinner. Of course, I mean it. Oh baby, you know your the only one for me. Gotta run if we're gonna make it to the restaurant on time. Hurry up! Love you, too! -- Hi baby...what's that you say. Of course, your the only girl for me!

Around the Next Bend

Dear true friend,

I feel your heart with my soul. I listen to your words with my eyes. I, too, hang on to those beliefs that others long to have abandoned before they realize never having discovered them to begin with...for it is the journey within the heart that one traces the path to the soul... and it is by far the longest, frequently most perilous and often loneliest journey of all.

Many years ago I re-entered the temple of my personal vision quest alone, hurt and bewildered by fate's course. I sought to absolve my past, live fully in my present and rekindle my future. Soon thereafter -- and to the astonished disbelief of many who feigned having known me -- I became a father, a husband, a provider and inherited a part of myself previously unexpected. It was a brilliantly perfect time for I shall always relish the unexpurgated simplicity of life on its own terms.

It was later I rediscovered that when we walk into the flames it only burns for an instant before we are released. Into what I cannot say with any degree of certaintly. I only know that in the moment of surrender, we are reborn with a new life --- free from the baggage and bondage that holds us back from ourselves -- and with no plans other than to be fully alive in the exact moment.

Living in real time is what it is all about and always has been for some.

It is precisely in that moment that we live our lives in a state of blissful elation. Without preconceptions or contrivances, there are no expectations or disappointments. We experience absolute freedom to become whatever it is we are in our dreams. It is only when we attempt to mark our time that we become aware of its passage. And, by crossing an imaginary line with that passage comes a sense of loss. Opportunities never seized. Dreams never realized. Promises never kept. Relationships never fulfilled. A life never lived. A shadow creeps from overhead ushering a sadness unlike any we have ever known. Life's joys are diminished. We are overwhelmed by darkness and despair. We feel anxiety. We experience depression. We become listless and lost. By the time we hit rock bottom, we are practically marking the days on the calendar like a death row inmate awaiting the executioner. Much like aboriginal "dream time", the concept of linear time is foreign to some and when imposed upon them, ultimately, fatal.

We are taught that lives without measure are failed in themselves. But, from whom or what do we view those virtuous examples of existences? And, for what purpose do we examine such trivialities -- other than to satisfy others? And, just who are these "others" that we sacrifice all that is precious in our own existences to appease?

I believe the answer is absolutely no one. For many, the moment of truth is to distort who they are by allowing external influences determine precisely whom they have actually become. They become trapped in a hall of mirrors which conceals their real identities from themselves. They have lost their perspective, balance and judgment. They are uncertain as to who they truly are for they have lost their sense of self.

What a paralyzing predicament. To be at the cross road of one's life, completely freeze in the middle of the intersection and be run down by an oncoming bus with anyone other than yourself behind the wheel is patently absurd. By taking your foot off the gas, tapping the brakes to supply air in the hydraulics and pulling to a stop along the side of the road, one can open the door, get off the fucking bus and walk away from the whole kit and kaboodle. Oh yeah. You're behind the wheel of your own bus. That person who looks like you in the cross walk is just the imposter that you've allowed others to convince you that you've become wandering aimlessly across a busy thoroughfare!

Of course, that person is no one that you or I actually know. It could be any one, including ourselves, but more than likely it never seems to be us. However, while the view of the road from a higher focal point might allow us to see further ahead, it doesn't change the outcome of the final destination. Sure, we ride in a little more comfort. But, the road doesn't really change on our way to where we are going. Only our perception of the ride itself.

And, in the end, all we usually do is readjust the rear view mirror and keep our eyes focused on the road ahead. Isn't our ultimate stop always just out of sight and around the next bend?

Negentropy vs Entropy

Wow. Humanity's soul speaks deeply when allowed to manifest. It has always possessed that gift, but societal mores continually bridle its girth in a corseted fashion.

I can only speak from my own experiences. When we are of this world in the "real" sense we give up a part of our spirituality. I am not referring to organized religion or a value based society that points to the sky expecting answers. I am referring to heart felt connections that permit us to live -- responsibly, yet freely -- in the moment. I believe there is a pantheistic aspect to all of our existences, which is free from the dogma of orthodoxy. Our beliefs are formed not just through the pursuit of hierarchical learning, but from understanding the importance of intuition in our being. Rollo May referred to this phenomena of surrendering our insides to the teachings of others in 'The Loss of Innocence'. We sacrifice our souls in our indoctrination into the realm of hierarchical pursuits. We trade who we are for the acceptance by others for what we are "supposed" to be. In the end, we accomplish much according to those standards that are imposed upon who we were originally. But, at what cost? And for whose gain and whose loss?

It's a real conundrum...life. I feel I need to plunge deeper if I am to attain any measurable value in this existence of mine. I've barely scratched the surface this time around. Sure. I've had my moments, which is more than most. And I suppose in that context, shouldn't that be enough? I am satisfied with what life offers. But, in the end, it only offers what we allow.

Which takes me back to my original premise. We only live deeply when we abandon our fear from holding back. Walking through the fire is less about getting burned and more about experiencing the moment. It is only then that we live.

Freed from the trivialities of convention, humanity moves me. Sometimes we need to walk away in order to take those two steps forward. What is life? Negentropy triumphing over entropy. Richard Marsh -- a former teacher of mine -- used to tell me: "Sometimes we need to get out of our mind in order to get into our mind..." I think he learned this axiom while on the beach in Zihuatenjo with Timothy Leary. It was undoubtedly a revelatory insight while in a hallucinogenic drug addled state. Nonetheless, the lesson is readily learned. We serve a higher purpose when we allow ourselves to get in touch with ourselves. A circle rather than a straight line. Forward movement does not come from a simple choice of negentropy over entropy. The path of evolution is circular.

While at the Institute of Visual Perception at Princeton University, British researcher Osmond Humphrey collaborated with well known author Aldous Huxley in a series of experiments involving the use of the hallucinogen peyote. Much of the experimentation was the basis in defining premature psychological closure as a method of connecting the dots to form an image not present but inferred from limited visual information. The result was Huxley's 'Doors of Perception' and Humphrey coining the term in an epigram to Huxley: "To fathom Hell or soar angelic, just take a pinch of psychedelic."