By Tom Love © 2005
It was the spring of 1969, Paris. Me and my friend Bob were on a three-day pass from our Army base in Germany. We were roommates and big on smoking hashish that we would score for $30 an ounce. Hash from Lebanon formed in big blonde slabs. Our plan was to load up a Galois with a mixture of tobacco and hash and stone up in public in Paris. What were we thinking???
So we walked into a crowded cafe that served wine and sandwiches, and lit up. Within seconds, the air took on a quality of hazy blueness. An electric buzz filled our heads. The sour Galois smoke paralyzed us. We noticed that everyone in the room was looking at us, all those dark French eyes, the paranoia was palpable. We exited and hurried down the boulevard. We looked at each other and shared a nervous laugh, still reeling from the smoke and the experience.
We walked a couple of more blocks, eyes bloodshot, eyelids puffy. In front of a pharmacy, we were approached by two cute British girls in miniskirts who started a flirting conversation with us. One of them pulled out some comic books depicting Biblical Revelations. Bob and I took one and looked at it feigning interest. Out of the corner of my eye to my right, I noticed a guy in a trench coat who had been reading a newspaper, was walking toward us. To my left another trench coat guy was walking hurriedly in our direction. Suddenly a black Mercedes pulled up behind us on the street. All of this occurred simultaneously. Two guys, same trench coats, jump out of the car. One says "Passports please!"
Bob and I knew we had just been busted! Smoking hash in public, walking around Paris stoned, plus we were holding a good five ounces of the blonde Lebanese. Man, it was over. We pulled out our military IDs (back then they served as passports in Europe). The head trenchcoat said in heavily accented English, "You two get out of here." Bob and I started backing away in stoned confusion. We overheard the head guy tell the girls that they were under arrest for being in the country illegally. The trenchcoats were Interpol, conducting sweeps to rid the country of the Children of God cult who were selling sex for Christ in order to gain converts. Bob and I escaped with our stash and manhood intact and beat the hell out of Paris that night.
This would not be my last experience with the COG. They used the same ploy to kidnap me in LA three years later. Will I ever learn not fall prey to the prostitutes for God? Serves me right!
Tom Love is a writer and musician from Atlanta, GA.
Showing posts with label Tom Love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tom Love. Show all posts
November 24, 2005
May 17, 2005
Dying to Tell You This
By Tom Love © 2005
I died yesterday morning. I slipped in the shower and fell on my touchie. My head made a 'splat' sound as it hit the edge of the tub. Oh, it didn't hurt. It never hurts when you die. Just a little boink, then you open your eyes and are amazed to find that you are not crippled or bleeding or blind or in a lot of pain. None of that. See this wasn't the first time I had died. The first time was in 1971 of an accidental drug overdose.
It's what happens in the days surrounding your death, before and after that are curious. In my case I told my wife several times how much I loved her, how we had gotten through all the rough parts of our relationship and that as far as I was concerned we "would live happily ever after." I also sent her an e-mail telling her that I needed to make out a will and went on to detail how my life insurance was to be parceled out. The next morning, I was dead in the bathtub. The neat thing is that it was an accident. I had double indemnity so the final figure was somewhere around $720,000!
I know that Debby was fairly calm when she discovered my body later that day. She's like that in an emergency. She felt me, cold and stiff, checked my pulse and then called 911. She had already been through this one time before. Her first husband died in the bed beside her in 1989. Interesting how patterns repeat. So she didn't panic. Probably cursed a few choice words. My daughter was really upset. We weren't real close and she probably felt guilty about that. Then there's my friend Dale. It hit him pretty hard. He got drunk and cried long and hard. It was the next day when Debby called to tell him that he was in my will to the tune of $50K. Tears of sadness turned to tears of joy. He had no idea that I would do something like that.
That's how it affected everyone else. As for me, when I opened my eyes I saw the streams of water from the shower, felt the warm water on my legs, so I knew I wasn't paralyzed. I slowly got up, turned off the water. I dried with a towel, still amazed that I wasn't badly hurt. You see, I heard the slap of my head hitting the tub rail. But here I was standing, not feeling a bit of pain.
I got dressed and started to go to work, then changed my mind, thinking that for some reason I really didn't have to worry about that today. I drove around aimlessly for awhile and ended up back at home. It was then that I realized the truth. There was a quality of stillness in the air, a quiet feeling about the place. My vision was very clear, colors more vivid than I had seen in a lot of years. It dawned on me that the usual complement of voices inside and outside of my head had fallen silent. I went back to the bathroom and sure enough, I could almost make out the ethereal traces of my body there in the tub. There was a lot of blood too. Blood I spilled in that other reality, the one I left behind.
I'll tell about the changes that occur after death in a later post. My funeral starts soon and I sure don't want to be late.
Tom Love is a songwriter/guitarist and a nut case from Atlanta, GA. You can visit his blog: My Reality.
I died yesterday morning. I slipped in the shower and fell on my touchie. My head made a 'splat' sound as it hit the edge of the tub. Oh, it didn't hurt. It never hurts when you die. Just a little boink, then you open your eyes and are amazed to find that you are not crippled or bleeding or blind or in a lot of pain. None of that. See this wasn't the first time I had died. The first time was in 1971 of an accidental drug overdose.
It's what happens in the days surrounding your death, before and after that are curious. In my case I told my wife several times how much I loved her, how we had gotten through all the rough parts of our relationship and that as far as I was concerned we "would live happily ever after." I also sent her an e-mail telling her that I needed to make out a will and went on to detail how my life insurance was to be parceled out. The next morning, I was dead in the bathtub. The neat thing is that it was an accident. I had double indemnity so the final figure was somewhere around $720,000!
I know that Debby was fairly calm when she discovered my body later that day. She's like that in an emergency. She felt me, cold and stiff, checked my pulse and then called 911. She had already been through this one time before. Her first husband died in the bed beside her in 1989. Interesting how patterns repeat. So she didn't panic. Probably cursed a few choice words. My daughter was really upset. We weren't real close and she probably felt guilty about that. Then there's my friend Dale. It hit him pretty hard. He got drunk and cried long and hard. It was the next day when Debby called to tell him that he was in my will to the tune of $50K. Tears of sadness turned to tears of joy. He had no idea that I would do something like that.
That's how it affected everyone else. As for me, when I opened my eyes I saw the streams of water from the shower, felt the warm water on my legs, so I knew I wasn't paralyzed. I slowly got up, turned off the water. I dried with a towel, still amazed that I wasn't badly hurt. You see, I heard the slap of my head hitting the tub rail. But here I was standing, not feeling a bit of pain.
I got dressed and started to go to work, then changed my mind, thinking that for some reason I really didn't have to worry about that today. I drove around aimlessly for awhile and ended up back at home. It was then that I realized the truth. There was a quality of stillness in the air, a quiet feeling about the place. My vision was very clear, colors more vivid than I had seen in a lot of years. It dawned on me that the usual complement of voices inside and outside of my head had fallen silent. I went back to the bathroom and sure enough, I could almost make out the ethereal traces of my body there in the tub. There was a lot of blood too. Blood I spilled in that other reality, the one I left behind.
I'll tell about the changes that occur after death in a later post. My funeral starts soon and I sure don't want to be late.
Tom Love is a songwriter/guitarist and a nut case from Atlanta, GA. You can visit his blog: My Reality.
August 29, 2004
The Vamp
By Tom Love © 2004
It was about 15 years ago when I met her, one of the most stylish women I have ever known. We were in love for about a year. I weighed a trim 175 lbs, she was a petite 5'2" (in heels). Just absolutely, jaw droppingly beautiful... with a personality to match.
She owned no clothing of color, nor anything white. Her walk-in closet was a complete unbroken row of black. Black blouses, black slacks, several 'little black dresses.' Same with lingerie, all black. Her room was painted a Ralph Lauren designer color, Charcoal. Black silk sheets and black comforter were on her bed. Black blinds kept the room in perpetual darkness.
I was invited into her room on Thursdays, and didn’t leave till Sunday. Monday through Wednesday I was not allowed to speak to her, and she actually wished not to be seen by me. But on Thursday afternoon, coming from work, I'd find her in a black camisole and black panties sitting on a bar stool at the counter in her kitchen. "Come here, Darling." she would say in a gravely voice. Then she would hook her leg around the back of my knee, latch on to my tie, pull me to her and kiss me. Thus would start our weekend.
We hid from the world up there. She would scamper downstairs and bring us sandwiches and beer, but for the most part we just lay around in bed had sex non stop. She loved for me to rub her nipples with Vaseline, begged me to do it, then would actually orgasm from breast stimulation. After that she would be ready for me. Her orgasms were as powerful and as pronounced as a man’s, approaching in waves, then crashing, leaving her spent. She would push me off her, turn over and be asleep in minutes. I was left with no one to cuddle!
Every so often we would go dancing. We would get very dressed up, I would actually wear a tux. She, of course, in a black Claiborne knit dress, size 4, sometimes a sleeveless mini, sometimes a DKNY to the floor, but always black. Her skin tone was pale, she never, ever allowed the sun to touch her skin, her face as clear, creamy and white as a Dove commercial. She'd get made up, eyes and lips just so, and we would leave the condo at about 10:00. Sometimes we would go to a very upscale restaurant, where all the waiters knew her. We would be seated, order something like wine and toasted Focaccia Bread. That's all. We would eat, talk, smile, and leave a $20 tip.
At a dance club, mostly she danced like Madonna in 'Vogue,' posing this way and that. That was her scene when we were out. Men would approach her to dance, give her some lame line, she would say something like, "Oh, do you have a lot of money?" I was her body guard on these excursions. I would stand or sit close by, occasionally coming over to ask if everything was ok. I would drink coffee. And I would drive home. We always left together at the end of the night, and once home, we would climb the stairs to her room, have sex and fall asleep.
We were in love for about a year, I lived with her for two. The second year was not as fun as the first. She tired of me, was less tender and romantic about our love making and the Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday routine became unbearable. I made the decision to move out and I did. She was tearful and for a time bitter, but she too had already moved on.
I saw her one Christmas, a couple of years later, it was awkward. She apologized for not being 'dressed' I apologized for gaining weight. That was 10 years ago. I haven't seen her since.
Tom Love is a writer from Atlanta, GA.
It was about 15 years ago when I met her, one of the most stylish women I have ever known. We were in love for about a year. I weighed a trim 175 lbs, she was a petite 5'2" (in heels). Just absolutely, jaw droppingly beautiful... with a personality to match.
She owned no clothing of color, nor anything white. Her walk-in closet was a complete unbroken row of black. Black blouses, black slacks, several 'little black dresses.' Same with lingerie, all black. Her room was painted a Ralph Lauren designer color, Charcoal. Black silk sheets and black comforter were on her bed. Black blinds kept the room in perpetual darkness.
I was invited into her room on Thursdays, and didn’t leave till Sunday. Monday through Wednesday I was not allowed to speak to her, and she actually wished not to be seen by me. But on Thursday afternoon, coming from work, I'd find her in a black camisole and black panties sitting on a bar stool at the counter in her kitchen. "Come here, Darling." she would say in a gravely voice. Then she would hook her leg around the back of my knee, latch on to my tie, pull me to her and kiss me. Thus would start our weekend.
We hid from the world up there. She would scamper downstairs and bring us sandwiches and beer, but for the most part we just lay around in bed had sex non stop. She loved for me to rub her nipples with Vaseline, begged me to do it, then would actually orgasm from breast stimulation. After that she would be ready for me. Her orgasms were as powerful and as pronounced as a man’s, approaching in waves, then crashing, leaving her spent. She would push me off her, turn over and be asleep in minutes. I was left with no one to cuddle!
Every so often we would go dancing. We would get very dressed up, I would actually wear a tux. She, of course, in a black Claiborne knit dress, size 4, sometimes a sleeveless mini, sometimes a DKNY to the floor, but always black. Her skin tone was pale, she never, ever allowed the sun to touch her skin, her face as clear, creamy and white as a Dove commercial. She'd get made up, eyes and lips just so, and we would leave the condo at about 10:00. Sometimes we would go to a very upscale restaurant, where all the waiters knew her. We would be seated, order something like wine and toasted Focaccia Bread. That's all. We would eat, talk, smile, and leave a $20 tip.
At a dance club, mostly she danced like Madonna in 'Vogue,' posing this way and that. That was her scene when we were out. Men would approach her to dance, give her some lame line, she would say something like, "Oh, do you have a lot of money?" I was her body guard on these excursions. I would stand or sit close by, occasionally coming over to ask if everything was ok. I would drink coffee. And I would drive home. We always left together at the end of the night, and once home, we would climb the stairs to her room, have sex and fall asleep.
We were in love for about a year, I lived with her for two. The second year was not as fun as the first. She tired of me, was less tender and romantic about our love making and the Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday routine became unbearable. I made the decision to move out and I did. She was tearful and for a time bitter, but she too had already moved on.
I saw her one Christmas, a couple of years later, it was awkward. She apologized for not being 'dressed' I apologized for gaining weight. That was 10 years ago. I haven't seen her since.
Tom Love is a writer from Atlanta, GA.
July 20, 2004
My World Crumbled Like Chunk of Hash
By Tom Love © 2004
It's 1969, I'm in the US Army, stationed in Stuttgart, Germany, smoking some of the most powerful hashish in the world. Blonde bricks from Algeria, thin sheets called Paper Dynamite, from Lebanon, black gooey stuff laced with opium from Afganistan which made my teeth hurt.
We work in an accounting office with French and American civilians. Our commanding officer, the Major, is an alcoholic the color of ashes. He's in his last command, forced into retirement to save the Army any more embarrassment. He knows about our drug use but doesn't care. We're pretty much straight during the day, writing in ledgers which track the spending of NATO generals charging their travel expenses to top secret projects with names like 'Sidewinder,' and 'Prometheus.' First class plane tickets, five-diamond hotels. My books never balance.
We get off at five and head to the barracks and light up, six or seven of us: There's me, Meachum, Chris, Juan (from Puerto Rico, doesn't get high, just drinks beer), Bob from Philly. Across the hall is Lee, the coolest guy in the unit. He never says anything at all except for an occasional "Far out." His roommate is Ray from Chattanooga who, during a Post football game (mostly made up of black players), displays a huge Confederate flag from his window causing a near riot. The six of us get high every night. On weekends we would toke up when we woke up.
The central activity of the nightly sessions is melting candle wax with matches and dripping it onto a giant volcano-looking cone of melted wax. We have been doing this every night for about six months. The wax figure is four feet tall.
When we go out on the weekends, we usually end up making out with the dependent girls. We are twenty-two, twenty-three. They are fifteen, sixteen, daughters of very high-ranking noncoms and officers. These Army fathers allow this fraternization because they trust the GI's more than the German boys. They won't let their daughters date Germans. If the GI's go too far with one of the girls they get a court martial and sent to Vietnam. Sex goes no further than kissing, believe me.
Dating a sixteen year old when you are twenty-three is great fun. Most are very cute cheerleader types, perky, vivacious. I spend New Years Eve, 1969-70, in a darkened living room, watching fireworks with a high school girl on my lap.
But mostly it’s about the drugs. April 1970 and the acid hits. Powerful Sunshine LSD laced with Strychnine. We all drop on a Saturday afternoon. Vivid Hallucinations, visual, auditory, time warping, body surging. We are connected telepathically. It scares the shit out of us. I walk through the German city at 3:00 AM, trying to get my mind back. I never do.
In May I apply for an 'early out' to go back to school. I am shipped out, mustered out, and burned out. A year later I'm flipped out.
Tom Love is a writer from Atlanta, GA
It's 1969, I'm in the US Army, stationed in Stuttgart, Germany, smoking some of the most powerful hashish in the world. Blonde bricks from Algeria, thin sheets called Paper Dynamite, from Lebanon, black gooey stuff laced with opium from Afganistan which made my teeth hurt.
We work in an accounting office with French and American civilians. Our commanding officer, the Major, is an alcoholic the color of ashes. He's in his last command, forced into retirement to save the Army any more embarrassment. He knows about our drug use but doesn't care. We're pretty much straight during the day, writing in ledgers which track the spending of NATO generals charging their travel expenses to top secret projects with names like 'Sidewinder,' and 'Prometheus.' First class plane tickets, five-diamond hotels. My books never balance.
We get off at five and head to the barracks and light up, six or seven of us: There's me, Meachum, Chris, Juan (from Puerto Rico, doesn't get high, just drinks beer), Bob from Philly. Across the hall is Lee, the coolest guy in the unit. He never says anything at all except for an occasional "Far out." His roommate is Ray from Chattanooga who, during a Post football game (mostly made up of black players), displays a huge Confederate flag from his window causing a near riot. The six of us get high every night. On weekends we would toke up when we woke up.
The central activity of the nightly sessions is melting candle wax with matches and dripping it onto a giant volcano-looking cone of melted wax. We have been doing this every night for about six months. The wax figure is four feet tall.
When we go out on the weekends, we usually end up making out with the dependent girls. We are twenty-two, twenty-three. They are fifteen, sixteen, daughters of very high-ranking noncoms and officers. These Army fathers allow this fraternization because they trust the GI's more than the German boys. They won't let their daughters date Germans. If the GI's go too far with one of the girls they get a court martial and sent to Vietnam. Sex goes no further than kissing, believe me.
Dating a sixteen year old when you are twenty-three is great fun. Most are very cute cheerleader types, perky, vivacious. I spend New Years Eve, 1969-70, in a darkened living room, watching fireworks with a high school girl on my lap.
But mostly it’s about the drugs. April 1970 and the acid hits. Powerful Sunshine LSD laced with Strychnine. We all drop on a Saturday afternoon. Vivid Hallucinations, visual, auditory, time warping, body surging. We are connected telepathically. It scares the shit out of us. I walk through the German city at 3:00 AM, trying to get my mind back. I never do.
In May I apply for an 'early out' to go back to school. I am shipped out, mustered out, and burned out. A year later I'm flipped out.
Tom Love is a writer from Atlanta, GA
May 22, 2004
Rising Above It
By Tom Love © 2004
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, heart pounding, thinking that I am AWOL. I was in Las Vegas, 1973, returning to San Diego Navel Base. I was newly attached to a heli-squadron aboard the Coral Sea, heading for Nam. It seems I had gotten my dates confused. I woke up (like I do now) realizing that it was May 11th, not May 10th. And that my leave had ended yesterday. In a panic, I kissed my lovely companion Diane goodbye and ran down the Vegas Strip half dressed. I hailed a cab to the Air Force base outside of Vegas (good duty for those guys, huh!). At 4AM I barged into the Flight Director's office, sweaty and all together unmilitary-like. (me to the clerk)"Any transports heading for San Diego Navel Base?" (clerk to me) "Not tonight, Sailor." Damn! What to do now?! Well first I cursed myself for being such a stupid bloke. Then, as the merciless sun began to paint the sky over the desert, I stuck out my thumb like so many before me, leaving Las Vegas.
First ride was an auto upholsterer. A Cadillac, rolled and tucked. He drove me a little ways, not very far, but out of town, away from the not-so-friendly-to-hitchhiker-Vegas cops. Car after car went by, headlights turned to taillights as the next round of sweat popped on to my forehead. Nothing. Nothing that is, except for that purple AMC Gremlin that's slowing down and stopping next to a rock outcropping where a sign reads "No Stopping." I run up, throw my dufflebag into the back seat take a look at the driver. Nam Vet, mustache, fatigue shirt, jeans, cowboy boots. (Him to me) "Where'ya going?" (me to him). "San Diego" (him to me). "Swabby! LA. I'll get you that far." (me to him) "Great, thanks a whole lot. I'm late for duty." (him to me) "Rise above it." I jumped in and we puttered out over Death Valley.
Somehow the AMC made it to LA, the Vet let me out on a Freeway exit. There, a queue of runaways and druggies stood ready to take their rightful place at the edge of the entrance ramp, to be next in line for a ride. I took my turn, and was soon at the right spot. Almost immediately a sunshine yellow Beetle pulled up with two California blonde cuties. (them to me) "Want to go to a party?" (me to them) “Yeah!” Well, of course! (Randy Newman to me) "I love LA."
Then (them to me)"But first we're going to Church!" (me to me) "Huh?!"
I was driven to a small building on a hill, filled to the open rafters. The congregation looked like a group from an insane asylum with a weekend pass (they were). In front of us were several stern fellows, one of whom was obviously in charge. He proceeded to open a large floppy eared Bible and preach from Relevations. Signs would appear (They did!) Voices would be heard (They were!) Men would speak in the tongues of Angels (We did!) We cried at the glory, we screamed as multicolored demons were driven from our bodies, we gave offering (all my Vegas winnings)! And, after two hours of this spirited hullaballoo, we collapsed, spent. The young California beauties on either side of me had to prop me up as we exited the hallowed ground and shook the Preacher's hand. (Him to me) "God be with you, my son." (Me to him) “Rise above it."
As we rode through the warm LA evening, me in the back seat, these two lovelies in the front, it occurred to me that although the Lord had forgiven me, the Navy wouldn't. (me to the girls) "I've got to get to San Diego tonight" (them to me) "Let's go home first."
By now, I hoped it wasn't sex they wanted, I left that with God on the Church on the Hill. But home was a nice four bedroom ranch in the suburbs and included a father, a brother and a mom. The three greeted me heartily. (him to them) "Enjoy your church, girls?" (them to him) Yes, Daddy. This nice man needs a ride to San Diego. (me to him) "Before midnight." (him to the brother) "Michael?" (Michael to me) "San Diego? Sure."
We rode in silence. I was filled with more mumbo jumbo than Adam after eating the Apple. I saw the Angels, I heard the Angels, I talked silently to the Angels with my mind. At ll:30 PM we arrived at the Shipyard Gate. I showed them my orders, the SP chuckled at the dates and gave us directions. At approximately 11:50PM PST on the night of May 11th, 1973 I signed in my new duty station, a day late. (Ship's Clerk to me) "Welcome aboard, Sailor" There was no ship here, just an empty squad room. (me to him) “Rise above it.”
Five weeks later I was locked on the Psych Ward at Balboa Navel Hospital, still seeing, still listening to, and still talking with my mind, to those same Angels. Four weeks after that I was home.
Tom Love is a writer from Atlanta, GA.
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, heart pounding, thinking that I am AWOL. I was in Las Vegas, 1973, returning to San Diego Navel Base. I was newly attached to a heli-squadron aboard the Coral Sea, heading for Nam. It seems I had gotten my dates confused. I woke up (like I do now) realizing that it was May 11th, not May 10th. And that my leave had ended yesterday. In a panic, I kissed my lovely companion Diane goodbye and ran down the Vegas Strip half dressed. I hailed a cab to the Air Force base outside of Vegas (good duty for those guys, huh!). At 4AM I barged into the Flight Director's office, sweaty and all together unmilitary-like. (me to the clerk)"Any transports heading for San Diego Navel Base?" (clerk to me) "Not tonight, Sailor." Damn! What to do now?! Well first I cursed myself for being such a stupid bloke. Then, as the merciless sun began to paint the sky over the desert, I stuck out my thumb like so many before me, leaving Las Vegas.
First ride was an auto upholsterer. A Cadillac, rolled and tucked. He drove me a little ways, not very far, but out of town, away from the not-so-friendly-to-hitchhiker-Vegas cops. Car after car went by, headlights turned to taillights as the next round of sweat popped on to my forehead. Nothing. Nothing that is, except for that purple AMC Gremlin that's slowing down and stopping next to a rock outcropping where a sign reads "No Stopping." I run up, throw my dufflebag into the back seat take a look at the driver. Nam Vet, mustache, fatigue shirt, jeans, cowboy boots. (Him to me) "Where'ya going?" (me to him). "San Diego" (him to me). "Swabby! LA. I'll get you that far." (me to him) "Great, thanks a whole lot. I'm late for duty." (him to me) "Rise above it." I jumped in and we puttered out over Death Valley.
Somehow the AMC made it to LA, the Vet let me out on a Freeway exit. There, a queue of runaways and druggies stood ready to take their rightful place at the edge of the entrance ramp, to be next in line for a ride. I took my turn, and was soon at the right spot. Almost immediately a sunshine yellow Beetle pulled up with two California blonde cuties. (them to me) "Want to go to a party?" (me to them) “Yeah!” Well, of course! (Randy Newman to me) "I love LA."
Then (them to me)"But first we're going to Church!" (me to me) "Huh?!"
I was driven to a small building on a hill, filled to the open rafters. The congregation looked like a group from an insane asylum with a weekend pass (they were). In front of us were several stern fellows, one of whom was obviously in charge. He proceeded to open a large floppy eared Bible and preach from Relevations. Signs would appear (They did!) Voices would be heard (They were!) Men would speak in the tongues of Angels (We did!) We cried at the glory, we screamed as multicolored demons were driven from our bodies, we gave offering (all my Vegas winnings)! And, after two hours of this spirited hullaballoo, we collapsed, spent. The young California beauties on either side of me had to prop me up as we exited the hallowed ground and shook the Preacher's hand. (Him to me) "God be with you, my son." (Me to him) “Rise above it."
As we rode through the warm LA evening, me in the back seat, these two lovelies in the front, it occurred to me that although the Lord had forgiven me, the Navy wouldn't. (me to the girls) "I've got to get to San Diego tonight" (them to me) "Let's go home first."
By now, I hoped it wasn't sex they wanted, I left that with God on the Church on the Hill. But home was a nice four bedroom ranch in the suburbs and included a father, a brother and a mom. The three greeted me heartily. (him to them) "Enjoy your church, girls?" (them to him) Yes, Daddy. This nice man needs a ride to San Diego. (me to him) "Before midnight." (him to the brother) "Michael?" (Michael to me) "San Diego? Sure."
We rode in silence. I was filled with more mumbo jumbo than Adam after eating the Apple. I saw the Angels, I heard the Angels, I talked silently to the Angels with my mind. At ll:30 PM we arrived at the Shipyard Gate. I showed them my orders, the SP chuckled at the dates and gave us directions. At approximately 11:50PM PST on the night of May 11th, 1973 I signed in my new duty station, a day late. (Ship's Clerk to me) "Welcome aboard, Sailor" There was no ship here, just an empty squad room. (me to him) “Rise above it.”
Five weeks later I was locked on the Psych Ward at Balboa Navel Hospital, still seeing, still listening to, and still talking with my mind, to those same Angels. Four weeks after that I was home.
Tom Love is a writer from Atlanta, GA.
March 22, 2004
Summer of Love, Winter of Haight
By Tom Love © 2004
I remember San Francisco the Winter after the Summer of Love, January 1969. I was in the Army, head shaved, up from Fort Ord for a couple of weeks, visiting Dale who had tuned in, turned on and dropped out to work at the Post Office and had an apartment in the Tenderloin district. Dale bought a pound of pot, had hidden it in the top of the living room closet. He worked nights and I would stay up late with headphones on, listening to KSAN, smoking his dope. The Mothers, the Airplane, Big Brother, the Fillmore, the Haight, Zap Comix. Too bad the dope was not really that good! Maybe it was male hooch, no buzz. It didn't matter.
Dale and I would go for walks in the Tenderloin and eat noodles in Chinatown. We'd marvel our good fortune to be stoned out hippies in San Francisco during the Age of Aquarius. I would comment on the beauty of the women we'd pass by, Dale would explain that they weren't actually women. Dealers would peddle their dope in a monotone multisyllable, "speedhashacidmesclinegrass." Down in the Haight, longhairs would openly stare at my military shaved head.
Barbara lived there with Dale too. That was before I knew what a nervous breakdown was. She had one. She would stay in bed for days. One day, a better day, we all went to Mill Valley across the Golden Gate, past Sausalito, up in Marin County. Barb knew someone who had a house there. It was cold, foggy. The house was vacant, heat turned off. We all piled into a big bed and covered up with down comforters to keep warm. In an open bedroom window suddenly appeared a wild Bobcat. We freaked! The Bobcat (20 ferocious lbs.) freaked and ran! We laughed.
It was Richard Brautigan's San Francisco, R. Crumb's San Francisco, City Lights Bookstore, where Dale sold his self published poetry chapbooks. Where Ginsburg recited from Howl and Ferlingetti wrote She.
I was scheduled for Nam but by hook of fate didn't go. After San Francisco, I was stationed in Germany where I spent a year smoking hash which was definitely not the impotent male version of the plant. And then it was just a year after that I learned all about nervous breakdowns.
Barbara became owner and CEO of a boutique, The Joyful Alternative which recently closed after 34 successful years. Dale went on to have a great many misadventures and is currently a screen writer in Burbank. Me, I just sit and play this here guitar.
Tom Love is a writer from Atlanta, GA.
I remember San Francisco the Winter after the Summer of Love, January 1969. I was in the Army, head shaved, up from Fort Ord for a couple of weeks, visiting Dale who had tuned in, turned on and dropped out to work at the Post Office and had an apartment in the Tenderloin district. Dale bought a pound of pot, had hidden it in the top of the living room closet. He worked nights and I would stay up late with headphones on, listening to KSAN, smoking his dope. The Mothers, the Airplane, Big Brother, the Fillmore, the Haight, Zap Comix. Too bad the dope was not really that good! Maybe it was male hooch, no buzz. It didn't matter.
Dale and I would go for walks in the Tenderloin and eat noodles in Chinatown. We'd marvel our good fortune to be stoned out hippies in San Francisco during the Age of Aquarius. I would comment on the beauty of the women we'd pass by, Dale would explain that they weren't actually women. Dealers would peddle their dope in a monotone multisyllable, "speedhashacidmesclinegrass." Down in the Haight, longhairs would openly stare at my military shaved head.
Barbara lived there with Dale too. That was before I knew what a nervous breakdown was. She had one. She would stay in bed for days. One day, a better day, we all went to Mill Valley across the Golden Gate, past Sausalito, up in Marin County. Barb knew someone who had a house there. It was cold, foggy. The house was vacant, heat turned off. We all piled into a big bed and covered up with down comforters to keep warm. In an open bedroom window suddenly appeared a wild Bobcat. We freaked! The Bobcat (20 ferocious lbs.) freaked and ran! We laughed.
It was Richard Brautigan's San Francisco, R. Crumb's San Francisco, City Lights Bookstore, where Dale sold his self published poetry chapbooks. Where Ginsburg recited from Howl and Ferlingetti wrote She.
I was scheduled for Nam but by hook of fate didn't go. After San Francisco, I was stationed in Germany where I spent a year smoking hash which was definitely not the impotent male version of the plant. And then it was just a year after that I learned all about nervous breakdowns.
Barbara became owner and CEO of a boutique, The Joyful Alternative which recently closed after 34 successful years. Dale went on to have a great many misadventures and is currently a screen writer in Burbank. Me, I just sit and play this here guitar.
Tom Love is a writer from Atlanta, GA.
October 24, 2003
The Twenty Dollar Mango
By Tom Love © 2003
Frankie was a regular guy, what you might call a stand-up guy. It's just that he had a coupl'a bad habits. He beat one of them, cigarettes. But the other, gambling, proved to be more difficult. Seems there was no patch to help you quit scratch-off tickets. Not that he lost a lot of money...well I guess that would be determined by what you call "a lot." For Frankie, $30, $40, $50 or more a day, his usual contribution to the Lottery Education Fund was “a lot.” Yeah, he was hooked.
Frankie did most of his wagering (always on Scratch-off tickets) at lunchtime. He visited his friend Tony, who ran a cramped but sunny liquor store in a strip mall not far from Frankie's day job. Frankie stopped by almost every day to buy scratch offs. In doing so, he became true friends with Tony, a Lebanese immigrant who had owned the store for 10 years. They talked about each other's kids and ex-wives (Tony's ex tragically died of pulmonary hypertension the summer before). Tony talked about once being an engineer constructing dams in Tunisia, and on around Morocco, down the west coast of Africa. He talked of picking cashews off the trees (poisonous until roasted) and helping clear wild mango groves with machetes.
A cast of eccentric characters wandered in and out of Tony's liquor store. Homeless alcoholics stopped in for a pint of Mr. Boston Vodka with money gathered from the kindness of drivers at interstate exit ramps. Others were lottery players using systems they had derived from the hymnal page numbers posted on Sundays worship schedule. Assorted young people came in to cash payroll checks (Tony charged 2.5%). Store owners came in asking for $5.00 in quarters to help them get through their noon day rush. All had one thing in common: They all thought the world of Tony.
Frankie didn't have many friends. He worked alone, not part of the usual team/project scenario so prevalent in offices. Frankie's boss didn't really understand what Frankie did and didn't really want to. It got so Frankie could pretty much come and go as he pleased. Tony became one of Frankie’s real friends. Frankie would run by the grocery store and buy bread and fruit and cheese and together, Frankie and Tony would have lunch at the counter of the liquor store. Other customers were always welcome to share a chunk of French bread or section of grapefruit or maybe a section of mango that Tony would deftly slice with a knife. Frankie had never seen a mango cut and served in this manner. An elliptical section was cut, skin still attached. And then Tony would press on the back of the slice and the juicy golden fruit would fan out from the skin and stand up invitingly for eating. This became their ritual. Bread, maybe some fresh sliced turkey from the grocery deli, Swiss cheese, and of course, the mango which rang up at a dollar a piece off-season and two for a dollar in season. Tony always asked how much the mangos costs on a given day. He harkened back to the days in Africa when they were $2.00 a dozen.
Frankie looked forward to lunchtime each day. Gambling took a back seat to conversations with Tony. And yet he couldn't give up his addiction. He would just get that part out of the way, not paying much attention. He usually lost. Then he would start with some topic, sometimes politics, and Tony would add his international two cents. This was the way it would play out most days.
One particular day, Frankie had brought the usual mango, and Tony was busy applying his patented slice, fan and serve technique. The knife he used was an enormous butcher knife. Frankie was not paying much attention to what was going on around him; He was scratching away on a "Lucky Seven" ticket, trying to line up three sevens. Then a very loud voice beside said "Hey old man! Give my all your money!"
Frankie jumped, his hair on end, and looked to his left. Here was a slender black man, in his 20's with a gun. He was nervous, waving the gun back and forth.
"C'mon man, open up the register!"
Then, in one swift move, Tony lunged across the counter with the butcher knife and plunged it deep into the throat of the would-be robber. Immediately blood spurted. It streamed out of the sliced artery onto the counter, onto the mango. The young man, still standing, staggering, tried to scream but only gurgled and spit blood. He spit blood into Frankie's face. Frankie vomited.
Tony still held the knife in position in the robber’s throat. Breathless, eyes wide, Tony was talking in Arabic, it sounded like praying. He pulled the knife back the perpetrator fell to the floor, bloody and lifeless. For a silent moment, a moment which seemed to last longer than it really did, Tony and Frankie stood and stared in horror.
"Somebody call 911," Frankie said at last. Tony called and in a mixture of English and Arabic told the address to the operator. The police arrived in minutes.
Aftermath
Frankie stayed away from the liquor store for a few days. When he came back, the counter area had been cleaned up, Tony said he had a cleaning service come in. Frankie didn't have much to say to Tony that day. He didn't even want to gamble. His visits became few. His gambling habit died. Later that year, Tony sold the liquor store to a younger man. He retired. Frankie dropped by the store a few times out of curiosity but didn't like the new owner.
About a year later, Frankie was at the airport to meet his daughter who was flying back from Europe. He made his way to the international section, a separate waiting area from the rest of the terminal. He was in the back of a large group when he saw Tony! He made his way to the front of the group and embraced his old friend.
"Frankie, Frankie, Frankie, I miss my old friend."
"Me too, Tony. I miss you too."
Tony was there to greet his older brother from Syria. They talked a while, caught up on kids and ex-wives, and left it at that, not mentioning that terrible day. Frankie introduced his daughter to Tony when she came off the plane. They said their good-byes and Frankie walked his daughter down the corridor, looking back once and waving to Tony who waved back.
Tom Love is a writer from Atlanta, GA.
Frankie was a regular guy, what you might call a stand-up guy. It's just that he had a coupl'a bad habits. He beat one of them, cigarettes. But the other, gambling, proved to be more difficult. Seems there was no patch to help you quit scratch-off tickets. Not that he lost a lot of money...well I guess that would be determined by what you call "a lot." For Frankie, $30, $40, $50 or more a day, his usual contribution to the Lottery Education Fund was “a lot.” Yeah, he was hooked.
Frankie did most of his wagering (always on Scratch-off tickets) at lunchtime. He visited his friend Tony, who ran a cramped but sunny liquor store in a strip mall not far from Frankie's day job. Frankie stopped by almost every day to buy scratch offs. In doing so, he became true friends with Tony, a Lebanese immigrant who had owned the store for 10 years. They talked about each other's kids and ex-wives (Tony's ex tragically died of pulmonary hypertension the summer before). Tony talked about once being an engineer constructing dams in Tunisia, and on around Morocco, down the west coast of Africa. He talked of picking cashews off the trees (poisonous until roasted) and helping clear wild mango groves with machetes.
A cast of eccentric characters wandered in and out of Tony's liquor store. Homeless alcoholics stopped in for a pint of Mr. Boston Vodka with money gathered from the kindness of drivers at interstate exit ramps. Others were lottery players using systems they had derived from the hymnal page numbers posted on Sundays worship schedule. Assorted young people came in to cash payroll checks (Tony charged 2.5%). Store owners came in asking for $5.00 in quarters to help them get through their noon day rush. All had one thing in common: They all thought the world of Tony.
Frankie didn't have many friends. He worked alone, not part of the usual team/project scenario so prevalent in offices. Frankie's boss didn't really understand what Frankie did and didn't really want to. It got so Frankie could pretty much come and go as he pleased. Tony became one of Frankie’s real friends. Frankie would run by the grocery store and buy bread and fruit and cheese and together, Frankie and Tony would have lunch at the counter of the liquor store. Other customers were always welcome to share a chunk of French bread or section of grapefruit or maybe a section of mango that Tony would deftly slice with a knife. Frankie had never seen a mango cut and served in this manner. An elliptical section was cut, skin still attached. And then Tony would press on the back of the slice and the juicy golden fruit would fan out from the skin and stand up invitingly for eating. This became their ritual. Bread, maybe some fresh sliced turkey from the grocery deli, Swiss cheese, and of course, the mango which rang up at a dollar a piece off-season and two for a dollar in season. Tony always asked how much the mangos costs on a given day. He harkened back to the days in Africa when they were $2.00 a dozen.
Frankie looked forward to lunchtime each day. Gambling took a back seat to conversations with Tony. And yet he couldn't give up his addiction. He would just get that part out of the way, not paying much attention. He usually lost. Then he would start with some topic, sometimes politics, and Tony would add his international two cents. This was the way it would play out most days.
One particular day, Frankie had brought the usual mango, and Tony was busy applying his patented slice, fan and serve technique. The knife he used was an enormous butcher knife. Frankie was not paying much attention to what was going on around him; He was scratching away on a "Lucky Seven" ticket, trying to line up three sevens. Then a very loud voice beside said "Hey old man! Give my all your money!"
Frankie jumped, his hair on end, and looked to his left. Here was a slender black man, in his 20's with a gun. He was nervous, waving the gun back and forth.
"C'mon man, open up the register!"
Then, in one swift move, Tony lunged across the counter with the butcher knife and plunged it deep into the throat of the would-be robber. Immediately blood spurted. It streamed out of the sliced artery onto the counter, onto the mango. The young man, still standing, staggering, tried to scream but only gurgled and spit blood. He spit blood into Frankie's face. Frankie vomited.
Tony still held the knife in position in the robber’s throat. Breathless, eyes wide, Tony was talking in Arabic, it sounded like praying. He pulled the knife back the perpetrator fell to the floor, bloody and lifeless. For a silent moment, a moment which seemed to last longer than it really did, Tony and Frankie stood and stared in horror.
"Somebody call 911," Frankie said at last. Tony called and in a mixture of English and Arabic told the address to the operator. The police arrived in minutes.
Aftermath
Frankie stayed away from the liquor store for a few days. When he came back, the counter area had been cleaned up, Tony said he had a cleaning service come in. Frankie didn't have much to say to Tony that day. He didn't even want to gamble. His visits became few. His gambling habit died. Later that year, Tony sold the liquor store to a younger man. He retired. Frankie dropped by the store a few times out of curiosity but didn't like the new owner.
About a year later, Frankie was at the airport to meet his daughter who was flying back from Europe. He made his way to the international section, a separate waiting area from the rest of the terminal. He was in the back of a large group when he saw Tony! He made his way to the front of the group and embraced his old friend.
"Frankie, Frankie, Frankie, I miss my old friend."
"Me too, Tony. I miss you too."
Tony was there to greet his older brother from Syria. They talked a while, caught up on kids and ex-wives, and left it at that, not mentioning that terrible day. Frankie introduced his daughter to Tony when she came off the plane. They said their good-byes and Frankie walked his daughter down the corridor, looking back once and waving to Tony who waved back.
Tom Love is a writer from Atlanta, GA.
September 22, 2003
Geppetto and Me
By Tom Love © 2003
Sometimes I see an old man in my mind's eye. It's Geppetto from the Pinocchio story. He's the puppet master. At his disposal are all kinds of tools: Tiny, magical screw drivers, springs, hooks, carving things. More than a doll maker, part psychic surgeon, Geppetto works for hours with his screws and lubricants, tightening up the pieces of my soul, trying to make the pain of existence tolerable.
While reviewing a reel of movie film from my past, he noticed a strip where the film had gotten too close to the bulb. It had smoked, bubbled up and melted on to surface of the bulb.
"It's will be tougher than working with the springs and screws," he explained. "These images are actually burned onto the glass bulb so that when a new reel is projected, the old scene is visible in the background. Old and new images become superimposed, some shadowy, some distorted. You would have to look very closely to see if this is a new reality or part of the old one."
I had been compensating for the irregularities all this time, resulting in the buckling of steel plates and seals rupturing, causing great pain.
One solution would be to develop a special cleanser on the lamp. One thing's for sure, we can't exchange it for a new one. They don't make that model anymore and any transplant would be very risky, requiring several attorneys to unscrew the bulb. We asked about this approach at Lowe's Do It Your Warehouse but they warned against it. So far the only thing that has worked is the insertion of a lens in front of the bulb filtering out the old image, allowing the new one to project. This sounds good in theory but in real time testing, the image of the new movie lacks sharpness and focus, and the colors are a bit dull.
Work continues with Geppetto and me. I'll let you know if things improve.
UPDATE: Geppetto has been busy with a compound of optician's rouge imbedded in pitch. He has had great success erasing the burned-on images! However, traces still remain. He warns that further rubbing of the rouge/pitch combination may alter the very surface of the projection lamp, changing the perception of the ongoing reality. He assures me however that the movie will remain unaltered, only that my perception of it may change slightly. He speculates that there are other lamp reconditioning projects ongoing elsewhere but for some reason the technology is a closely guarded secret. I gave him the go-ahead to continue his work with the rubbing tool and have already noticed significant improvement. Observing my self and realizing that what I'm seeing is actually "me" was quite an experience.
Geppetto's task is almost complete. He says that he plans to retire to Genoa soon, relax and maybe write a book on puppet repair.
Tom Love is a writer from Atlanta, GA.
Sometimes I see an old man in my mind's eye. It's Geppetto from the Pinocchio story. He's the puppet master. At his disposal are all kinds of tools: Tiny, magical screw drivers, springs, hooks, carving things. More than a doll maker, part psychic surgeon, Geppetto works for hours with his screws and lubricants, tightening up the pieces of my soul, trying to make the pain of existence tolerable.
While reviewing a reel of movie film from my past, he noticed a strip where the film had gotten too close to the bulb. It had smoked, bubbled up and melted on to surface of the bulb.
"It's will be tougher than working with the springs and screws," he explained. "These images are actually burned onto the glass bulb so that when a new reel is projected, the old scene is visible in the background. Old and new images become superimposed, some shadowy, some distorted. You would have to look very closely to see if this is a new reality or part of the old one."
I had been compensating for the irregularities all this time, resulting in the buckling of steel plates and seals rupturing, causing great pain.
One solution would be to develop a special cleanser on the lamp. One thing's for sure, we can't exchange it for a new one. They don't make that model anymore and any transplant would be very risky, requiring several attorneys to unscrew the bulb. We asked about this approach at Lowe's Do It Your Warehouse but they warned against it. So far the only thing that has worked is the insertion of a lens in front of the bulb filtering out the old image, allowing the new one to project. This sounds good in theory but in real time testing, the image of the new movie lacks sharpness and focus, and the colors are a bit dull.
Work continues with Geppetto and me. I'll let you know if things improve.
UPDATE: Geppetto has been busy with a compound of optician's rouge imbedded in pitch. He has had great success erasing the burned-on images! However, traces still remain. He warns that further rubbing of the rouge/pitch combination may alter the very surface of the projection lamp, changing the perception of the ongoing reality. He assures me however that the movie will remain unaltered, only that my perception of it may change slightly. He speculates that there are other lamp reconditioning projects ongoing elsewhere but for some reason the technology is a closely guarded secret. I gave him the go-ahead to continue his work with the rubbing tool and have already noticed significant improvement. Observing my self and realizing that what I'm seeing is actually "me" was quite an experience.
Geppetto's task is almost complete. He says that he plans to retire to Genoa soon, relax and maybe write a book on puppet repair.
Tom Love is a writer from Atlanta, GA.
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