Laughing at the monster

None of us is immune to what we fear most.

I’ve seen enough of death to know that it’s the biggest fear behind all the others.

Our soldiers and their families have certainly seen enough of it to know the worst: Limbs torn asunder, eyes splintered and hearing lost in roadside explosions, sacrifices beyond measure—and reason.

So it seems silly to complain about a little cancer.

I look at myself in the mirror and roll my tongue between my gums and cheek. A sore. Where did that come from? I don’t have any dental insurance. My only medical comes from the U.S. government.

I floss my teeth the way I was taught more than 40 years ago. At 51, I’m reaching that age where I’m going to need some dental care soon. My thoughts take me back to this morning’s dream:

It’s my birthday. I’m 86. I'm amused, bewildered. How did this happen so quickly? I share my feelings with other dream figures, friends, it seems. They’re amused too, on the verge of laughter.

Getting older really is a joke. It’s a wild bet against the monster demon of the Forgotten, the mythological beast that swallows you whole and no one remembers your name. There’s nothing you can do with the monster but laugh.

The number in my dream probably has as much to do with getting 86’d from life as it does with age. The joke, as older people know, is that, sooner or later, you’re gonna die.

I’ve had two melanomas removed from my body, one of which I still haven’t paid for. Not long after the second surgery, I lost my job along with the company-sponsored health insurance plan. I haven’t had a personal plan since.

I’ve visited the doctor enough to know what to watch for, but lately just about every little bump, bruise and mouth sore alarms me. I’m a hypochondriac, for sure. Adding years to my lifespan doesn’t seem to help.

So far, the Veterans Health Administration has been a godsend. I’ve kept my regular appointments and checkups, and the doctors are happy to advise. I’m in good health, they say. Plus, I’ve had some of the best group counseling a vet can get for grappling with the angers and frustrations that come not just from military service but more often from life itself.

Only once have I panicked over my government-sponsored healthcare plan.

The artful young private doctor who removed the slab of skin from my leg, which looked like a strip of pork with hair on it, ordered me to come back every six months. “For at least five years,” she added.

I wasn’t going argue with her.

Then I lost my plan. My bill went unpaid.

Without medical coverage, I wasn’t sure how I’d get to see a doctor to prevent another mole from turning into a massive cancer. Melanoma, one of the deadliest and most aggressive cancers, and least likely to respond to chemo, can best be fought with early detection, which also reduces healthcare costs.

A friend, who also served in the army, told me to check with the VA, and qualify for periodic checkups.

Being poor, I qualified. For now, I rely on the government to help me in time of need. It’s not what I’d choose if I had the means, but it’s a helluva a lot better than nothing. How it compares to private insurance for emergency or intensive care remains to be seen. I hope I’ll never need it.

But in the U.S., if you’re going to see a doctor or stay in a hospital for treatment without going bankrupt, you need insurance, a plan to underwrite expenses that few American families can afford.

The sore in my cheek, bumps or discolorations in the skin, which more often than not turn into pimples, and every little change in my body, sends a little shiver of panic.

What if it turns into something? I look in the mirror and scold myself for letting my cheeks turn pink from too much sun while riding my bicycle yesterday.

I don’t surf as much since the little lamb chop was removed from my leg. I stay protected from the sun as much as possible and avoid too much exposure. At my age, it probably doesn’t matter. The damage is done.

A soul-surfing friend, the Kahuna of Cayucos, told me: “You can’t stop doing what you love; you gotta enjoy life.”

He’s right. But it’s hard to avoid the image of huge chunks of skin or flesh being removed from my body to prevent a disease that medical science hasn’t completely fathomed, not enough yet to find a cure. At least cancer treatment in the U.S. has advanced to give us an uncertain hope, which is better than a death sentence.

I got an appointment at the VA clinic downtown, a 20-minute drive from home and easy to access. I went to see my assigned physician’s assistant to request an appointment with a dermatologist.

The young, pretty, distracted, overwhelmed PA sat at her computer and asked a lot of questions in a detached, robotic manner, as if she found it much easier to run on autopilot and read the script.

I wanted her to look at me and talk to me in the way a patient needs, the way my personal doctor did: I’m listening. You’re in good hands. Don’t worry. I wanted her to give me a pat on the hand, a signal that she was doing more than just plugging data into the computer. But I could tell that life had been hard for her and I didn’t want to bother her with my own problems.

She seldom looked at me, and asked the usual questions for VA quarterly checkups: “Do you have any allergies? How much alcohol do you drink in a month, a week, a day? Are you still smoking marijuana?”

This was one question where she’d break from her computer screen, look me in the eye and press home her point: “Let’s try to bring down your marijuana intake, OK?”

She checked my vitals, made me touch my toes, tapped my back and listened to my bronchials. “When’s the last time you had a blood test?”

I always manage to skip the blood test until the PA tells me to visit the lab on my way out.

She continued to go down her rap sheet until finally, frustrated that she wasn’t paying attention to me, I told her this wasn’t supposed to be an ordinary checkup. “I’m here because I need to see a dermatologist.”

“Let’s see….” She went back to her computer, as if confused.

“I’ve had two melanomas,” I explained. “I’m supposed to see a doctor every six months.”

“Well, we can put in a request for you to see one in about a year. I’ve just checked you out and you look fine.”

“Yeah, but you’re not a dermatologist,” I said. “I have a couple of spots I want checked out.”

She came over, I lifted my shirt, and she inspected a suspect mole. “I can’t promise you anything; it could take up to a year.”

“I don’t want to wait that long,” I said.

“We’ll make a note that it’s urgent.” She tapped something on the computer, assured me that it wouldn’t take long to get an appointment, and opened the door for me to leave. “Don’t forget to do your labs,” she said as I made a turn for the exit.

I drove over to the County Medical Service Provider, a locally run program for the indigent, worried that I’d be dead or ravaged with a fatal disease, by the time the VA’s dermatologist put me on his schedule.

The CMSP portables were located across town, sitting on the backside of what used to be General Hospital, shut down years ago by local taxpayers and used for other services. The waiting room was filled with Spanish-speaking moms, a pregnant woman, children playing with toys and another veteran.

The receptionist slid a clipboard with pen-on-a-chain through the window and asked me to fill out an information sheet. I did as told, quickly losing hope that I’d see a qualified doctor who could examine the mole on my skin in time to avoid the monster.

“If you already have coverage with the VA, there’s nothing we can do,” she said after reading my info sheet. “You’ll have to go through the VA.”

“Yeah, but I can’t get in,” I explained as patients in the waiting room paused to listen. “I’m supposed to see a doctor every six months.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Early detection is the best and least expensive way to manage this,” I urged.

“I’m sorry. We can try to put this through but I doubt it will help.”

“Please do,” I said. As I turned to leave, the faces in the room showed sympathy and I was certain they were glad not to be in my shoes.

I walked out into the bright sunlight in a panic, conjuring possibilities: Maybe a car wash, get a second and third job, turn tricks to raise funds so I can be screened by a dermatologist.

“Hey!” shouted a voice behind me. “Hey! Are you a vet?”

I turned to see the man who was wearing a military baseball cap in the waiting room. He'd followed me outside. “Yeah,” I said. “I was in the army.”

He wore a Vietnam-era Screaming Eagles cap from the 101^st Airborne Division that fought in the 1968-69 Tet offensive, during which the Viet Cong launched a massive attack against American troops. He took my hand in greeting and held it in both of his. He gazed at me in earnest.

“Listen,” he said, “you make sure the VA takes good care of you. They’re supposed to do that. They’re there for you. I get great care through the VA.”

“Then, why are you here?”

“For a friend,” he answered. “The VA will take care of you,” he continued, “you make sure of it. OK?” He kept my hand in his.

“All right,” I said. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“That’s it!” He patted my shoulder, let me go, and went back to the waiting room.

I saw a dermatologist two months later. He removed the mole for biopsy and it turned out benign. Safe, for now.

In time, the unhappy PA moved on and now I see a real doctor at the VA clinic. I have more peace of mind knowing he’s monitoring my vitals and checking the spots on my skin. I see a dermatologist almost every six months. In a pinch, at least, I won’t have to wait a year.

My worries, finally, had more to do with the PA’s unhappiness than with how the VA cares for vets. But how was I supposed to know? I thought that’s how the system worked. Had it not been for that vet, I would have thought the worst about government healthcare.

There have been horror stories of vets who failed to receive adequate care but overall it appears to be a system that works pretty well. As I say, it’s better than having no care at all.

Those who argue against a government-sponsored healthcare plan could probably point to any number of flaws in the system, but a plan not unlike the one we provide our veterans seems a perfectly sensible one to me.

When panic attacks come, I can assure myself of prompt access to the doctor when I need him. I have access to a qualified physician who monitors my health, can tell me what’s going on, and who, I hope, will send me to a specialist whenever it becomes necessary.

If we could make the same commitment to the millions of American citizens without insurance as we do our veterans, we might begin to find a way to a solution for our national healthcare problems.

After some thought, I was able to laugh at the monster again. I decided not to call the doctor today. I'm not worried about getting 86'd from life. The sore in my mouth, I realized, is a cut from a cracker I ate. If it doesn't go away, though, I'll call the VA. §

Look what I've become

“At the age of 50, I began to take stock of myself and ask what I really was as a person.”—W.E.B. DuBois

I half know what I’m doing, looking for a job in an uncertain market scarce with openings for writers and editors old enough to remember how it feels to have ink smeared all over their hands and fingers.

I’ve updated my resume and posted it on numerous websites, including LinkedIn.com where supposedly only those with bona fide business interests will check my stuff out.

So far, I’ve received only job spams, emails claiming that openings exist for work at home, part-time gigs, no money down, no cold calls. All I gotta do is send some personal data to get started.

I’ve reviewed my resume a few times more, tweaked it here and there, and tossed it back out again, into the wide-open space of the Web, a frontier that remains as foreign and new to me as civility in discourse is to the young who seem to have already conquered it.

Still, I’ve had no action. It could be the simple fact that my resume sucks. I don’t know html or how to use the tools that make the digital world effective. At 51, I’m a generational handicap, a displaced worker, a digital illiterate.

For now, I’m working mostly as a volunteer with a recent June ’09 launch of OCWeedly.com, a regional Orange County publication (not to be confused with the alternative OC Weekly) devoted to the hemp lifestyle, including casual and medical marijuana use. A print version of the magazine appeared on racks in selected locations this summer and surprised some readers with its slick artsy appearance, a bold move in an economy where print of all types, slick or not, is quickly becoming a thing of the past.

The all-volunteer editorial staff is supported by a paid art director and a couple of energetic visionaries/investors who want to give the magazine a “rootsie” appeal for users of marijuana plants and products. It’s an odd market, though, given that Orange County remains one of the most conservative, least “rootsie”—albeit wealthiest—counties in the U.S.

If there’s money to be made in the eventual legalization of marijuana, I suppose it could be here, with or without roots. After all, the county’s flagship daily newspaper, The Orange County Register, upholds the Libertarian principles of small government and features regular columnist Alan Bock, author of Waiting to Inhale: the Politics of Medical Marijuana, who argues in favor of legalizing marijuana.

Although working for free, I’ve had a good time at OCWeedly and I’m glad for the opportunity. I like the people who work there. I like their energy and enthusiasm. There’s plenty of room for improvement, just as there is with my own life.

The jobless rate in Orange County climbed last month to 9.5 percent, the highest in many years. In fact, it’s not uncommon when reading or watching the news to see statements about fearsome economic figures—unemployment, foreclosures and bankruptcies—“not seen since the Great Depression.”

But, we’re not calling it a Depression. I call it the Great Recession. Associated Press calls it a "brutal recession."

Meanwhile, an army of naysayers has turned to calling Obama's health plan a disguise for Nazi policy. Soon, the government will begin its euthanasia program for useless elderly people. Already the prisons are so full we need an emergency release plan in California to turn out 40,000 inmates.

"No way, José! Not in my backyard!"

The state could probably release about half the prison population if it just cut loose all nonviolent offenders. Of course, with minimum mandatory sentences, started by previous Nazi administrations, the state and federal governments have kept more people in prison than they can hold.

America's a get-tough nation, and we'll figure something out. We'll get through this brutal recession somehow, even if it means brutalizing the democratic process (and each other) along the way.

The wildly exaggerated fears about the government's health plan hasn't got me up in arms yet, but they will if assholes keep bringing their firearms to town hall meetings where we're supposed to be discussing a solution for our serious healthcare ills.

Ask anyone who opposes or criticizes the plan to offer something better and he'll give you a confused stare or look at you like you're crazy. The only answer is to bear arms. This is another one of those confusions about what democracy is.

"If I carry a gun, I'm exercising my Constitutional rights as a citizen," the reasoning goes. "If you want to exercise your right to peaceably assemble and try to resolve a critical national issue, you go right ahead. I'll stay here with my gun."

Imagine exercising your right as a citizen to bear a handgun at a townhall meeting under the previous administration, which used to arrest demonstrators simply for wearing T-shirts with the president's face crossed out.

I support the Second Amendment and would never argue against a citizen's right to bear arms but fail to understand the logic of exercising that right just to make a statement at an assembly designed to solve a national healthcare problem.

I'm confused as to why we haven't reviewed the Great Depression in more detail, not just so we can compare the fearsome similarities between failing numbers and increasing crime, but to review the solutions that began to move the country forward.

Wasn't there a works program? Didn't the arts, sad as things were, begin to flourish? Wasn't Prohibition eliminated?

We've let the smoke and mirror tactics of gun toters and naysayers blind us to the solutions that helped us out of that bleak era of soup lines stacked by a workforce that was 25 percent unemployed.

Today’s official stats, which don’t include the uncounted scores of individuals who no longer qualify for aid, aren’t quite that high. There are weak signs, "experts" say—just as they said during the Depression—of a recovery. Opportunities on the Internet may be a factor. Opportunities we haven't even considered may be a factor.

How about a serious budget review? Put Congress on the same healthcare plan as the rest of us? Or put us on their healthcare plan. Stop the war on drugs. Let the CIA do its job and bring our troops home. Cut the defense budget, take care of our vets.

Sure, there’s probably a lot more that I could be doing, making more calls, more actively plugging into my social networks, knocking on the doors of department stores, grocers and garden centers, much of which I’ve already done. Kohls is hiring. They need “loss prevention personnel.” Why not? America loves cops.

Mom tells me not to worry. The economy’s so bad any way. What can you really do about it?

I’m doing what I know how, which, as I say, is about half of what I need to get a job. I’m working the emergent online social networks, experimenting with connecting with real people with real opportunities through cyberspace, blogging, commenting, and reading and writing, wherever possible, getting my name out there.

A writer is supposed to do this. Writers write, right? As print slowly fades, and digital gets brighter by the day, I don’t know what else to do but put up what I can online, say three “Hail Mary’s,” and cross myself. I’m not even Catholic. That’s just how it feels to put oneself out into the wide, unknown world of the web. When I post anything online, it feels like a prayer: “God, I hope this works.”

What I’ve found, though, is the digital scene—while intimidating to readers like me who grew up with print—fascinates. It allures with the promise of the Siren of Everything at Your Fingertips. Jobs, hookups, deals, and scams. It's a trove of unlimited potential, endless doors of opportunity, rewards aplenty and elusive. Friends you never knew you had, an endless chain of data that blows the mind, and the same excesses you find anywhere—lies, cheats, and worthless information.

Enemies, too. More than you would think possible. Just take a look at Emily Gould, a New York City blogger who grew an audience in leaps and bounds and soon found herself the subject of vitriol and wishes for her to jump in front of a speeding vehicle. At 27, she was about to have a breakdown after getting spanked by commenters who compared her to a popularity tramp, and on Larry King Live by host Jimmy Kimmel for defending a “Stalker” feature at Gawker.com, where she was then blogging. Stalker allows users to track where their favorite stars have been most recently sighted.

To have that kind of influence at such a young age nearly ruined her. Thanks to the Internet and the wild popularity of blogging, she skipped the slow mentoring process that the traditional path to publishing power usually requires. At 24, she found herself catapulted to a position of influence she thought possible only after years of paying her dues. Heady stuff.

In a way, she did pay her dues and quickly learned that not everything you write (especially intimacies about people close to you) will be received well. Nasty comments were made about her wherever her name could be found on the Internet. Even her previous employer, Gawker.com, went after her with a New York City vengeance.

Yet, foolish and immature as she appeared defending herself on television, the attractive young blogger also had her share of support. One commenter responded: “She’s so fucking hot, dude!”

Another: “She rocks! The world’s changing.”

It sure is. In other words: "Get used to having your life splayed all over the Internet, dude. This is the New World everyone's been talkin' about. We're going to Google Earth your ass and show everyone where you live. It's a techno-whiz's game, a digitally cool person's paradise. We're making the rules now!"

Which means, if you’re older and dumber like me, don’t expect civility in your discourse with others; it's OK to be mean as long as you don't really know the person (and you're getting a lot of hits on your website), and more than half of the readers who comment say they like you.

The emerging digital culture—fueled by youth who spend hours texting and thumbing the information highway (at dinner, on the train, anywhere you go)—justifies almost any intrusion into your life that you can imagine.

This, as young writers have discovered, creates audiences. What can be more satisfying and economically rewarding than that?

Gould, for example, was reportedly offered an annual salary of $80,000 to $90,000 if she stayed with Gawker.com.

Like any writer, I dream of an audience too, and of earning a living.

I'm not sure, however, I'd want the Gould variety of notoriety. My skin, old as I am, isn't thick enough. I liked the audience we had at The Rogue Voice: A Literary Magazine with an Edge: devoted, intelligent, and vocal. We kept our spats civil, even when biting. Our satire was intelligent and informed, not self-absorbed. It was easy to manage commenters who came from left field. (My former business partner still thinks the U.S. is doomed. "We're a nation of idiots," he says.)

Our failing, I guess, aside from the usual ignorance that goes into running a new business, was not having a strong enough online presence, where left-fielders are more than abundant. We were too addicted to ink. We limped along on our blog, posting content in a simple format that allowed newcomers to check us out. It wasn’t pretty but gave us a false sense of moving forward.

Founding publisher, Dell Franklin, one of the best writers I've known and worked with, grew to hate the Internet and would only write on a manual typewriter.

"Jesus, Dell," I used to say in frustration, angry that he always turned in typewritten compositions, "even Bukowski used a fucking computer before he died."

Slowly, we began to build an audience—online and in print. The best part of publishing the magazine, as opposed to a personal blog like this was that it wasn’t just my audience. It belonged to all of our contributors. I miss that most of all because our contributors were authentic voices in a sea of public relations hacks, phony news sources and popularity tramps.

We found our way into City Lights Bookstore in San Francisco, the West Coast pubs of Rogue Ales, and into the hands of Thrasher Magazine’s publisher, Ed Riggins.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough. We weren’t smart or quick enough to make the transition to online publishing.

As we scrambled to adjust during W.’s lame duck tenure, the U.S. economy took a turn for the worse, and banks and CEOs came to Washington, D.C., hats in hand, begging and eventually getting $1.6 trillion in taxpayer money.

Ad revenues dropped steeply in print publications everywhere. Bankers, breathing a huge sigh of relief for their bailouts, thumbed their noses at those who needed money most, and financing turned scarce.

My demise, of course, had as much to do with more than I could handle as it did with declining revenues and a lack of cash or business savvy. After Dell quit, I learned within months that running a magazine, print or online, takes more than one person. "You're more of a fool than I thought," a friend told me.

It wasn’t long before the magazine collapsed, even with last-ditch attempts from generous readers sending money and holding a fundraiser.

“She’s comatose,” I tell readers and contributors who still call to ask: “What’s going on with The Rogue Voice?” I'm waiting for my bailout, I used to say, but gave up that idea long ago.

Meanwhile, layoffs in publishing continue to flourish as newspapers and magazines scale back to make up for their lost revenues. The Orange County Register, for example, recently announced that it’s going to lay off 62 employees. “We’re just waiting, riding things out,” publishers say, “until a new economic model emerges.”

The old model, heavy reliance on classified and print ads, just isn’t doing it anymore. Publishers are finding their financial base in more than one sector, thanks to the Internet, including a combination of online ads, print ads, increased circulation fueled by the Web, book deals, sponsored events and other incidentals like shirts and hats (which we tried at The Rogue Voice). The future of digital advertising looks great, the potential revenue streams endless. Who knows what lies beyond that?

It’s a great unknown.

The print layoffs have eliminated opportunities for seasoned writers to earn a living. The tremendous shift in information dissemination, another revolution not unlike that of the printing press more than 500 years ago, has swept untold numbers of producers like me into a vacuum of displaced workers. We're stuck, grasping at straws, working $8-an-hour jobs.

More savvy friends tell me there's nothing to worry about, but I fear the disappearance of independent news outlets and those who manage them isn't just about lost jobs; it's creating an information black hole. Where have all the skilled journalists gone? Will citizen journalists like Emily Gould keep us duly informed and protect us against the incursions of government?

The promise of Internet commerce has yet to be fully tested; nor has it delivered a viable work option for journalists, artists and writers. It seems better suited to people with a hunger for things that don't matter.

A high percentage of the pros who used to keep us informed, if they haven’t already turned to advertising and public relations, are most likely working for free, or have moved to another career, or they're volunteering as I am, to get a foot in the door, if not to keep from going crazy for lack of opportunities.

For now, it appears online entrepreneurs and authors can do whatever they want; they don't need to worry about harboring reservations over blurring the lines between the personal and the public, between the civil and the mean-spirited, between the sublime and the profane. §

On the first anniversary of losing dad

This has been the hardest day yet since dad died almost one year ago. Tomorrow, Aug. 20, marks the first full year of his death.

I awakened this morning with a start, after dreaming of a Nightmare on 13^th Street, my home in Cayucos:

I’m in the car with Amber. We’re arguing. I notice the greenness of her car, her blouse, as the arguing gets more intense.

The space between us is electrified by fear, pain and grief.

As often happens during these intense moments, when things mysteriously fall off shelves or a shampoo bottle crashes inexplicably in the shower, something pops off the dashboard of Amber’s car.

Things go dark….

I gasp and awaken to the quiet of mom’s tidy Victorian home. My heart is pounding.

I think of dad, long gone into another darkness.

The dream disturbs me. Did I have a heart attack? Did Amber or someone else in the dream shoot me? I hope it’s not prescient. It feels like the fear of loss, of being cut off, of falling away into a final descent, never again to awaken.

I’m unsettled. The morning doesn’t feel right. There’s so much to do and I don’t want to do anything but let the day come slowly. No need to rush things. I leave the phone turned off.

A flood of thoughts and feelings—fears mostly—gushes in. I think: “I’m such a loser.” Mom’s on her way to radiology in Ontario, where she’s being treated for an aggressive form of cancer.

How does my being here really help?

I hear Evan, severely handicapped, whom mom and dad loved in their way, barking through the kitchen window from the house across the street.

His only word, through the window, is “Hi!” He’s got a sweet disposition and high-fives me whenever I go over there, which isn’t often.

Mom and dad watched him grow from helpless infant to helpless adult, needing full-time care from his parents, who divorced long ago but still log in their hours and give him their love and attention. It hasn’t been easy for them.

An irksome, noisy four-wheel truck, riding high off the ground, pauses at the four-way stop between our homes. Every day it does this, vibrating the entire house, setting off car alarms and stopping conversation as it passes.

“What an asshole,” I said to mom recently. Pencil dick for a brain. She agreed.

These are some of the things she shared daily with dad; also, the roses in mom’s garden, the family barbecues, dinners and poolside gatherings, the grief of losing a son who stopped speaking to them many years ago.

Dad was the longtime beneficiary of mom’s indulgences, which helped make me, and my brother, what we are today.

I’m not sure what I am. I don’t often like what I see when I see myself: Burdened with debt, unemployment—still hopeful for change.

How have I really helped my mother? As dependent on her as she is on me? In this painful moment of her loss, her cancer and her grief?

Being visited by cancers and death in the space of less than a year, suffering the loss of my baby, The Rogue Voice, and grappling with unemployment, have weighed more heavily on me than I realized—until today, when I rose startled from the nightmare that awakened me.

It feels like bricks falling, overshadowed with death and loss and grief.

Pedro, the Mexican gardener mom and dad hired to care for their yard, trims and mows outside. He circles the fruit trees they planted—plum, peach, orange, tangerine, apple—around the big porch they built for their evening sit-downs, a slice of paradise.

I don’t know what to do, how to mark the occasion.

I can feel dad’s presence at times, in the flutter of a curtain, or in the faces of friends and family, in little things that show themselves unexpectedly and have his signature written all over them. Mom still keeps his colognes in the bathroom, where he carefully groomed himself each morning before starting the day.

He hated sloppiness, slobs even worse, and took pride in presenting himself to the world.

Losing dad has been hard on mom, harder than dealing with her cancer. She remembers dad every day, thinks about her future, glad to have caught the cancer early, yet wondering where it will all lead. She’s not ready but thinks often about selling the house and finding a new home.

We left no marker. We poured his ashes into the sea.

It would have been easier to know how to remember dad if there had been a grave. I’ll get flowers, pick a few of mom’s roses, the only flowers she grows besides a few others that don’t pick well.

I’ll put them in a vase in the dining room where mom has kept a photo of dad and a crucifix as a kind of memorial. I’ll play his favorite hymn, “Amazing Grace,” on the keyboard he bought me as a birthday gift, which I brought with me for my extended visit.

The weight of remembering, wondering how to honor his legacy, feels like bricks, like darkness falling.

I don’t ever want to black out in a car like in my dream, or in a room in the middle of the night, alone….

Dad passed quietly in the early morning hours. Mom came to awaken me, standing by the door to my room, overwhelmed with grief: “I think we’ve lost him,” she mourned.

Pedro has momentarily stopped mowing; the mower idles at a low hum, powers up again, and is released, finally, into silence.

A car passes in the street, a jet overhead, and the gate to the pool slams hard as one of Pedro’s workers pulls the green waste bin into the front yard. He picks up the trimmings from the freshly manicured lawn.

On through the neighborhood they go, mowing and trimming.

How long did they do this, mom and dad, building their dream, their little slice of paradise?

After too many years of not talking to my brother, dad gave up on him, stopped hoping for a new start, for reconciliation, for any kind of welcome homecoming.

He was tired of seeing mom get hurt.

Peeing blood was the first sign of trouble. Mom ordered him to urgent care. He didn’t seem as concerned as she was. He ate well, and was mostly happy, except for missing his grandchildren, whom my brother refused to let him see.

But dad had his little paradise. He lasted just over a year. His kidney came out, he took his medicine and watched and waited. He kept his pleasures the best he could, reading the morning paper, watching baseball and football on HDTV.

The decline in his health came quickly, and still he kept his spirits high. I knew things were getting bad when he turned down an opportunity to see a play. He gave his tickets away. He wasn’t interested in going out, which he loved to do.

It got worse, and I knew were going to lose him soon, when my uncle told him the Angels had lost a game, and dad said, “I don’t care.”

I didn’t know what to say as I turned him in his bed so he could be more comfortable and he said, “This sucks.”

“You’ll get better, dad,” was the first thing I wanted to say. Instead, I blurted: “I know, dad. It sucks for all of us.”

Mom and I stayed with him as much as we could. We were glad to have him at home and did the best we could to make him comfortable. A lot of people came to visit. Toni, my cousin’s wife, saved us all. She held us together.

What possible wrong could they have done, mom and dad, to cause my brother to stay away? He didn’t even send flowers, or a word of condolence after dad died. I wrack my brain for answers. We were never beaten, once maybe, but nothing severe. The paddle at the principal’s office was much worse.

They never stuffed us in a closet and forgot about us. They took pretty good care of us, included us in their dream.

“I’m not going to be angry at your brother any more,” mom said recently, before we found out about her cancer, less than 10 months after we lost dad. “It doesn’t do me any good.”

She learned this from her grief, she said. Why hold on?

A group of young fat Mexican women pushing a baby stroller walk past the bay window where dad used to sit downstairs, reading the paper, listening to the radio, watching the neighborhood where he wasn’t afraid to chase off scavengers digging through his trash and recycle bins.

He stood up for himself and pissed off a lot of people, yet he always had friends. You pretty much knew where you stood with dad, plain and clear. He didn’t tolerate fools, he despised dishonesty, and people who tried to take advantage of him.

I would feel so much better if I could do half as well as he did taking care of mom. When she returns from radiation, we talk about how we’ll remember dad on the first anniversary of his death.

She doesn’t want to do anything special, she says. No, she doesn’t want to go the ocean, where we left his remains. We’ll go to dinner, she suggests. §

Surviving the Great Recession

My friend Faith told me recently that I must write.

“I’m telling yuh, Stace’, you’re one of the great American writers. Yuh got a book in you, I know it. Yuh gotta write that book….”

“Thanks, Faith.” I tried not laughing.

“I’m serious, Stace’, you gotta do it. I’ve been telling y-o-u-u for eight years now.” (She does that you thing, drawing out the vowels, as a way to show her love. Otherwise, in chatty mode, it’s just plain old “yuh,” or simple “you.”)

I’ve been out of work since January and, like many unemployed Americans, haven’t had much luck finding anything new. I’ve been a writer, editor and publisher. When times have been tough, I’ve picked up side jobs installing native landscapes, or working as a farmhand.

Lately, however, the terrain in these endeavors looks bleak. Print is going out of style, no one is spending money on new landscapes and farmers are getting shut off from water. The unemployment rate continues to climb.

“Maybe this is God’s way of telling you to start writing…or, get yourself a job as a teacher. You know you’re a good teacher.”

I tried not laughing again. “Thanks, Faith. You’re probably right….”

“I know I’m right…. So, how’s your mom?”

Mom’s doing fine, I told her. She has little red marks where they’ll begin radiating her torso. She’s in good spirits. The lumpectomy on her breast went well and the prognosis is good.

Today, mom’s driving in the ghastly humid air pollution of Orange County, accompanying a friend to the hospital. Her friend just had reconstructive surgery to replace a breast that was removed for cancer. The doctors want to re-dress the bandages.

It’s been quite an ordeal. We visited mom’s friend at her home yesterday. She looked exhausted, surrounded by family and friends, recovering from the first of three phases of reconstructing a new breast.

She won’t slow down because there’s work to be done. No rest for the wicked, they say. She runs a little business out of her garage. Though she needs a little down time from major surgery, she keeps pushing herself.

“At her age, I don’t understand why she’d want to put herself through all this,” mom said recently.

They’ve known each other for more than 40 years, and as they approach their 70s, it doesn’t make sense to mom why a woman their age would care about replacing a cancerous breast.

“I understand, mom. She doesn’t like what she sees in the mirror. Nobody likes to see themselves disfigured.”

Later, as mom packed her purse to drive with her friend to the hospital, she said: “I really dread going out today.”

“Why?”

She looked at me in disgust. “Bellflower?” she moaned. The undercurrent of her voice and expression were clear: Who wants to go to Bellflower on a day like this?

Not me.

We’re in the middle of a heat wave, temperatures rising to 90 degrees for nearly a week, humidity more than 50 percent. It’s really not a good day to be out. An occasional coastal breeze momentarily lifts the stifling air—a putrid heavy blanket of humidity—to cool things down. One second in the sun and it feels like boiling.

I admire mom, because I sure couldn’t go to Bellflower today; the oppressive Southern California heat feels like a wet metal clamp, working at the lungs, throat and nerves, bringing out a profuse film of sweat across my back and forehead.

The feeling is: I can’t breathe.

I try not to move but sit at the computer and think: What book am I going to write? I need to eat. I need an income. I need a job.

Poor mom, I think. I’d hate to be in a car right now, stuck in traffic, sticky, only to go sit in a hospital and wait. Mom went with her friend because she loves her and would do anything for her, no matter how oppressive the weather, or the economy.

Faith is like that too—a real friend.

I don’t know exactly which book Faith had in mind; mom’s said the same thing: “When are you going to write your book?” They might be right—at least about getting busy with…something. Nothing else seems to be working.

Like a lot of people in America, I’m figuring out how to survive the Great Recession.

“Get yourself an advance,” Faith offered, pressing home her point. “I’m sure somebody would pay you to write a book.”

I’ve tried those. They’re great in a pinch but don’t always work out so well, especially in an unstable economy, where every penny spent is on survival.

The upheaval in publishing has wracked more than its share of careers. The trend to push everything online has put a lot of writers and artists out of business.

Worse, news pros with the skills to track government malfeasance have largely disappeared from the information landscape. So-called “citizen journalists” without any formal training are filling the gap.

Dollar-conscious online news organizations are hiring a smattering of experienced journalists to edit and rewrite content from lesser-experienced contributors, who have little or no training, and who send their material free of charge.

Meanwhile, journalists, literary authors, poets, as well as talented cartoonists, illustrators and painters are going, like everyone else, to the Internet to find their place and fortune in the over-fat world of digital information.

They’re all becoming bloggers.

In the world of blog, there are riches. So that’s what people say. The operative word today, of course, is “search engine optimization.” All I need to do is figure out how to get my blog to rise to the top of everyone’s search.

The SEO pros say I’ve got to insert various keywords into my narrative. It’s like any other sales pitch. With these magic words, and the Internet voodoo of SEO, I can build a solid financial base and launch a career from my home.

It sounds great, and I look forward to that tipping-point moment when all of the sudden the floodgates open, readers arrive in droves and the money starts pouring in again.

Until then, the picture remains stark.

The only breath of fresh air in Orange County’s stifling humidity and the nation’s oppressive economy are people like mom and Faith, women with Old School values who would do anything for their friends. §

A snitch is a snitch is a snitch

The New Times of San Luis Obispo County reported last week on the exploits of drug informant and police imposter Daniel Victor Lee, who helped destroy the Morro Bay medical marijuana dispensary run by Charles C. Lynch.

In a cover story titled, “Snitch,” the alternative weekly’s Kylie Mendonca notes that during a seven-month period, Lee “worked on ten cases, being paid a total of $8,185” by the SLO County Sheriff’s Department.

Along the way, Lee helped the sheriff track down users with as little as five grams of marijuana, about a $50 value, to the more notorious set-up in which one of Lynch’s employees, Abrahm Baxter, sold $3,200 worth of marijuana in the Big 5 parking lot in San Luis Obispo.

Baxter, whose sale had nothing to do with Lynch’s dispensary (which federal prosecutors disupted), was sentenced to 120 days in jail.

In another shakedown, thanks to Lee, police seized 25 pounds of marijuana and four pounds of hashish. One of the men arrested in the case, Elbert Shoemate, later committed suicide.

The sheriff’s department claims an uneasy alliance with snitches such as Lee——most are themselves drug abusers or face other criminal charges—but argues that without them (referred to as "turncoats," "rats," "squealers") it's difficult, sometimes impossible, to take out the big-time drug dealers.

“It’s not pleasant, no one enjoys it, but it’s part of the way we do business. If you didn’t have informants, then a lot of major cases would go unsolved,” the New Times quoted Sgt. Rick Neufeld of the county’s Narcotics Task Force.

Informant Lee has a history of criminal charges starting with three felony counts from which he walked in Orange County in 2002, the New Times reports. He also was charged with impersonating a police officer.

In an ironic twist, Lee, who resides outside SLO County, was scheduled to board a plane to be a witness for Baxter but never appeared for testimony because he was kicked off the plane “for allegedly stealing from another passenger’s purse.”

Meanwhile, Lynch's life has been turned upside-down.

Judge George Wu sentenced Lynch last month to one year, one day in federal prison for “selling large quantities of marijuana,” the government argued, from his Morro Bay medical marijuana dispensary. Lynch remains free pending appeal with the Ninth Circuit Court.

Federal prosecutor David Kowal is appealing Wu’s decision, demanding that Lynch serve the full five-year minimum mandatory sentence.

Wu, Lynch says, “didn’t even want to give me one year.” But the judge was unable to get around the stickier points of mandatory sentencing laws, Lynch adds.

Kowal's appeal runs contrary to early indications from U.S. Attorney General Eric Holder that the Obama government would leave medical marijuana dispensaries and their proprietors alone.

Kowal would have had to get permission from the Department of Justice to pursue a sentencing appeal, Lynch says, adding that he feels like the government is harassing him.

In the two years since his arrest, Lynch lost his business, declared bankruptcy, and is in imminent danger of losing his home. Additionally, Lynch has had difficulty finding work.

With his case on appeal, and the uncertainty of his future, prospective employers have been hesitant to put him on the payroll, Lynch says.

"Maybe the government is trying to make an example of me," Lynch says of Kowal's appeal.

“I’m not giving up either,” he adds, "I’m making my appeal too. I just wish it would all end.”

Lynch says the ordeal has taken a toll on his life, having lost nearly everything he owns. He travels twice a month to Los Angeles to be tested for drugs and lives by the day.

“It definitely makes life unplannable,” Lynch says. “The only good thing about it all is that I’m not in jail, but I’m thinking maybe I should just go and get it over with. At least I’d have free room and board.” §

Eddy Lepp's final walk of freedom

Marijuana activist Eddy Lepp took his final walk as a free man this week before turning himself in to serve a minimum mandatory 10-year sentence at the federal penitentiary in Lompoc, Calif.

The Lake County resident, who cultivated thousands of plants for patients and Rastafarians, drove through San Luis Obispo County, where he contacted Charles C. Lynch, before continuing on for prison processing.

Lynch, also recently convicted of selling medical marijuana from his Morro Bay dispensary and sentenced last month to one year, one day in federal prison, joined Lepp for his final leg of freedom.

Lynch remains free pending appeal.

“During that last mile,” Lynch wrote in an article for the Salem News, “Eddy stated that he was not afraid of jail as his camera man and others listened in great admiration and sorrow.

“They passed around one more cigarette of the sacred herb and Eddy drank a Dr. Pepper as his camera man recorded Eddy’s testimony.

“I fought back tears as other grown men cried outwardly.”

If anyone could sympathize with Lepp, it’s Lynch, who also experienced the injustice of the so-called war on drugs, where the government puts people away for victimless crimes, destroying businesses and family relationships, and seizing assets.

“As we drove up to the penitentiary I just couldn’t stop thinking how wrong this is to put people away and to break up families for marijuana,” Lynch wrote.

“It just seemed so cruel to take Eddy from his wife, his friends, and from society.

“They were not hurting anybody; they are just living the kind of life that makes them happy, the kind of life that millions of Americans live on a daily basis.”

Lepp, 56, told the Lake County News that a 10-year minimum is a "friggin’ life sentence.”

He’s worried about his daughter, who recently was diagnosed with polyps in her throat. Her mother, Lepp’s first wife, died from throat cancer after similar polyps were found.

“I’m just scared to death, she’s barely in her 30s,” the News quoted Lepp.

His new wife, Linda, reported the Lake County paper, will remain on their Upper Lake property, where no medical marijuana garden has been grown since 2004.

Meanwhile, friends and family bade farewell in a tearful departure before federal guards took Lepp away and told everyone to leave. §

Local police need to adapt to state law

Last Sunday, the Orange County Register printed a "reader rebuttal" from Garden Grove police chief Joseph M. Polisar defending the department's refusal to return medical marijuana to patient Felix Kha.

Polisar argues that Kha failed to produce a note from his doctor when police confiscated his medicine. Kha later presented the note during a court apperance. The district attorney confirmed its legitmacy and the drug charges were dropped.

"Kha then brought a motion requesting that the marijuana be returned," Polisar writes. "The district attorney opposed the motion, but the court ordered the marijuana returned."

The ensuing battle cost the city nearly $250,000.

Polisar states that "federal law makes the possession, use or distribution of any amount of marijuana illegal," setting up the quandary he faced as chief in returning Kha's medicine.

First, he says, "the department was very concerned about being put in a position of having to violate federal drug laws, or even appear to be complicit in a violation of federal law, by returning the marijuana."

Second, he continues, "the department was concerned about the conflict created between state and federal law."

The city's decision, of course, turned out to be ill advised.

The case is similar to one that occurred several years ago in San Luis Obispo when police refused to return medical marijuana belonging to Donovan No Runner. The department argued against giving the medicine back to No Runner on the same grounds: that distribution of controlled substances violates federal law.

A superior court judge, however, ordered the city to return No Runner's herb.

The city council had proposed fighting the court decision to hand over No Runner's bag of green, confiscated during a routine traffic stop.

Instead, that city wisely chose against fighting the court's ruling: "The city is an agency of the state," explained then Interim City Attorney Gil Trujillo, "and we're following state law and a court order."

The city was also facing huge deficits at the time and could ill-afford to wage a court battle that it was likely to lose.

No Runner's attorney, Lou Koory, said: "We're just happy that common sense prevailed."

Americans For Safe Access, which represented Kha in his battle with Garden Grove, points out that seizures of this sort are not uncommon, despite California's clear guidelines on the use of medical marijuana.

The organization notes that it has compiled reports from "nearly eight hundred patient encounters with local or state police during a period of more than two years. These reports show a glaring trend: more than 90 percent of all encounters result in medicine seizure by police regardless of any probable cause."

Additionally, ASA adds, "seizure of medical marijuana from qualified patients and primary caregivers has taken place in 53 of California's 58 counties. These violations of state law occur in both urban and rural locales, in the north as well as the south, and by both city and county law enforcement."

The court's ruling in Kha's case, ASA argues, should help departments throughout California revise their policies regarding the seizure and return of medical marijuana. It is hoped that these policies will be adjusted to reflect community values and standards in which medical marijuana is legal, and to cease harassing patients. §