Bonnie and Clyde Files 44 (Book Launch!)

Bonnie and Clyde Files, NSP Meditations , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

(Friends: today marks the launch for the sale of my forthcoming book, The Bonnie and Clyde Files: How Two Senior Saved a Middle Aged Man. Only 300 copies will be sold and it won’t be available in book stores. For more information and how to order, got to nestuccaspitpress.com or order here from the blog. Half of the profits are earmarked for the Angels for Sara Sanctuary to continue their excellent work. Please support me in this new editorial endeavor as I get back in the game of life, literature and service. Enjoy an excerpt from the book below:)

I parked my car in the parking lot of the Angels for Sara Sanctuary and got out. I heard a cacophony of barking coming from inside the house. A fit woman in her sixties appeared and introduced herself as Jacque. We shook hands and I introduced myself. I either looked invisible or a hundred years old. I handed over my volunteer form and she led me to the front door. The cacophony increased; the house shook. I entered the house and beheld dogs barking and prancing and singing. On the wall, a large flatscreen monitor played dog cartoons. Jacque gave me a tour of the house and I noticed multiple gates and partitions to sequester dogs for eating, sleeping, medical issues and hanging out. It wasn’t for everyone, perhaps not even me, but I smiled because I had met someone that it was for, and that she should be President of the United States of America.

Jacque sat in a recliner and I sat on a couch. Four or five small dogs jumped up on the arms and back of the couch. Another sat beside me. She introduced them. The two largest dogs, one black, a retriever mix, the other tan, a shepherd mix, came over and sat up in front of me. I met Bonnie and Clyde.

It felt like an interview, but not from a human resources department.

For the first time in my life, I sensed I was receiving a telepathic message, from one of the dogs surrounding me. I couldn’t discern which one, nor divine the message. I tried sending a telepathic message to the unknown dog. It was sort of like a First Contact from Star Trek. Nothing returned to me.

“How can I help you?” I said to Jacque.

“It would be great if you could come over and walk Bonnie and Clyde,” she said. “The house is a lot calmer if they get some exercise, relax, and don’t run over the smaller dogs.”

“That sounds great,” I said. “When do I start?”

“How about right now?”

“Sure.”

We went outside into the fenced back yard. Bonnie and Clyde followed. I saw the river, trees, blackberries, birds, pastures, hills, cattle, clearcuts.

A light rain began to fall. Neither one of us mentioned it. Jacque opened the gate and ushered Bonnie and Clyde out. I followed.

Jacque led us along until the trail sloped down the bank and met the river. We stopped there and Bonnie and Clyde walked into the water and started drinking. I surveyed with all my senses.

I didn’t say anything. I no longer recall how long I surveyed. It might have been five or ten minutes.

Jacque broke the spell. She said this spot was as far as Bonnie and Clyde should go. I was fine with that. This was good ground, I thought. A squad could make a formidable stand against an overpowering enemy here. Perhaps one man against an invisible enemy could, too. I also thought: this might be an interesting place to write. I’d never written near a river before. What would I write? Who am I? Do I even exist?

Oregon Tavern Age: Roosters

NSP Meditations, Oregon Coast_History, Oregon Tavern Age , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Turkey, the owner of Turkey’s was in the joint and the joint was packed—12 people. Christmas was coming and one of Turkey’s turkeys that roamed the compound surrounding Turkey’s was getting fat.

I pointed out Turkey to my Russian associate wearing her strawberry beret. Turkey’s face glowed with magisterial OTA power. I considered him a holy man and keeper of the eternal languid spirit of OTA life because he told me he would never serve hard liquor in Turkey’s as long as he lived. “I don’t need the money or the hassle,” he said. Upon hearing that, I almost went to kiss his hand in tribute.

It was only a matter of time, however, before Turkey’s became The Last Tavern in Oregon. I would be there at the bitter end, most likely with a documentary film crew in hand.

“You gotta watch out for the cosmic realm,” said Kip, as we all sat at the bar. “It sneaks up on you.” He tippled his Busch Lite for emphasis. It was his signature gesture to punctuate his blasts of OTA inspired philosophy. My associate and I nodded in agreement and tippled ourselves, a local stout. We knew something about sneaking together into the cosmic realm. We were practically spies!

The associate and I had met Kip a few days earlier in her inaugural visit to Turkey’s. In short order, we learned Kip had washed ashore in Gold Beach from New York City 30 years ago after giving his 1937 Plymouth Roadster away to a stranger on the street. He was an artist without formal training and had spent the last ten years touching up dinosaurs at a nearby dinosaur-themed roadside attraction that easily qualified as one of the more bizarre attractions along the Oregon Coast. Kip made toy airplanes from Styrofoam that were a marvel of miniature aviation; he would paint anyone’s portrait in oil (from a photograph) for $500 (and beer); he had custom detailed a friend’s pickup truck with a fern motif design and thus created perhaps the only fern art in the history of American automotive detailing.

At out initial meeting, I bought Kip a beer for his unique artistic accomplishments and my shared love of all things ferns. Upon receipt of Busch Lite, he said, “I like living in the unknown.”

I believed him, despite the Busch Lite. Ferns established his credibility. I trust fern men.

A hummingbird appeared outside the window and sucked from a feeder. Kip saw me admiring the sight. I could watch hummingbirds for hours, particularly when drinking beer at a bar seated next to a philosopher and fern lover.

Kip said, “You ever seen a hummingbird fuck itself to death?”

“What?” I said.

He then launched into a wild story of two hummingbirds stuck in mid flight coitus—right outside this very window!—and their near demise from ecstasy until they finally managed to separate themselves.

I turned to my associate and winked. We both knew that’s the way we wanted to die together.

Turkey’s land line rang. The bartender, Marnita, answered and then walked over and handed me the receiver. “It’s for you, Matt,” she said.

What? I had never received a call like this in OTA country. How did the bartender know my name? Who in the hell was calling me here?

It was Linda from the Sea Star apologizing for her and Gary not showing up at Turkey’s as we had previously arranged yesterday. Something about their friend getting too drunk at a barbecue and offending someone and…I wasn’t figuring it out. I told Linda I’d see her and Gary soon for more Sea Star storytelling and thanked her for the call. I appreciated the gesture.

The gesture was pure class and Linda oozes class more than anyone I’ve ever met in OTA country.

Kip (only one p, he had the second p legally dropped), began a story about a rooster named Papa Jack, a legend at Turkey’s. Marnita moseyed over and took over the telling. I had heard tidbits of this tale a couple of years ago after asking about a faded photograph of a rooster in the restroom with the caption: This Bud is for you. RIP. 3/21/12

The rooster over the toilet was Papa Jack.

The story went like this: Some time ago, Turkey ripped out out the old phone booth in front of the joint and rigged up the space to serve as a perch for one of his roosters, Papa Jack. There Papa Jack would hang out with the regulars who ventured outside to smoke and harangue. This went on for years until one day tragedy struck: a beer delivery truck’s loading gate dropped unexpectedly and squashed Papa Jack into the asphalt.

“Did you fry him up for supper?” I said.

“No, he was too flat!” said Marnita.

Naturally they held a wake for the beloved Papa Jack and someone put up the shrine in the restroom. How many of us humans can say another human will do the same for us in a tavern restroom when we die? I can’t.

But I’m not dead yet, and will strive to earn that recognition in OTA country before I plunge into Hart’s Cove.

We raised our drinks to honor Papa Jack and then Marnita and Kip launched into another story of a dead rooster at Turkey’s. There were two?

His name was Cooper and he replaced Papa Jack until a fox snatched him off the perch in broad drinking daylight while the regulars looked on in horror! The fox had leaped off an embankment across the road, dodged a vehicle, bit into Cooper’s neck, and carried the prey away. The regulars could do nothing to save poor Cooper so they just drank a toast to him instead.

I asked if another rooster had taken Cooper’s place in the perch: no, a bobcat was lurking around the compound and some chickens had gone missing.

It was time to go. I couldn’t hear any more OTA stories or I was going to pass out.

The associate and I left the tavern and walked around the building where my car was parked. I was about to unlock the car when I saw a phalanx of 12 or 13 turkeys headed straight toward us, 20 yards away, traversing a strip of grass abutting the building. I alerted the associate. We just stood there, silently, unsure what to do, and the phalanx kept advancing, now ten yards from us. I had never seen a live turkey up close. They are formidable creatures when headed straight at you. Their swinging gizzards are particularly unnerving. I thought of Hitchcock; this was going to be my OTA Hitchcock moment.

To my left, a blue car drove past me. It was a sedan from the 90s and Turkey was driving it to his compound roughly 50 yards away. The turkeys broke formation and began following Turkey’s sedan. They clearly recognized his the car and caught up to it. He parted the phalanx like a hot knife through a cold draft of Hamm’s. The turkeys regrouped and followed. A few of them lifted off the ground and landed on the roof and front hood of the sedan as it turned into the compound.

I had never seen turkeys fly before.

“That was Turkey driving,” I said.

“I know,” she said.

We looked at each other.

“What is this place?” she said.

“I don’t know,” I said.

But I do know. The greatest tavern in Oregon.

(If you found this post enjoyable, thought provoking or enlightening, please consider supporting a writer at work by making a financial contribution to this blog or by purchasing an NSP book.)

Oregon Tavern Age: Solitude

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The OTA man left the video lottery area of the South Jetty and came over to sit down with two OTA men at a table. They were taking a lunch break from a nearby masonry job to eat club sandwiches and drink root beers. They all knew one another and shook hands.

I sat five feet away writing a letter to a young wild poet, struggling with statements to encourage her to pursue a life of poetry in the wild when the private wilderness of our lives is under siege by digital corporations and governments, separately, and in collusion.

There were just the four of us in the bar, not including the bartender. Pop radio played lightly in the background. No sounds emanated from the televisions.

“You getting lucky, making any money on the machines?” said one of the masonry men to the fisherman.

No he wasn’t. But his response barely registered. He was a quiet man. He wasn’t drinking and had a greasy red ball cap pulled down low, almost in disguise, but he couldn’t hide his face.

I listened in. The letter could wait.

The gambler was a fisherman who had just returned from three months at sea, somewhere up near Alaska. He’d found a couple of “sweet spots” and the crew had scored. I think he was the skipper of the boat.

“I just came here to be alone, the solitude. The games help with that,” he said, almost in a whisper.

I’ll never look at video lottery games the same way again.

The fisherman’s face captured my attention. I previously called all faces playing video lottery games zombies. But he wasn’t a zombie. His face was very much alive and he was trying to re-energize himself by being alone after months in cramped quarters on the high seas, probably surrounded by profane assholes like from the fishermen TV shows.

I know something about seeking solitude. It’s been the story of my creative life. It’s why I visit OTA country. I order solitude on draft there.

The fisherman excused himself and got up to buy some cigarettes at the convenience store across the street.

I went back to writing the poet. It was easier because I’d just witnessed a poem unfold in real, face-to-face time in the private wilderness of a man’s mind.

The fisherman returned a few minutes later and went back to the games.

I watched his face as I walked out. I saw it reflected in the game. There was no indication he was winning, at least with the game.

(If you found this post enjoyable, thought provoking or enlightening, please consider supporting a writer at work by making a financial contribution to this blog or by purchasing an NSP book.)

Oregon Tavern Age: Elk

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I walked through a herd of elk and into the South Jetty. They were grazing in a grassy median at the edge of the bar’s parking lot. I said “hello.” They looked up, blinked in the afternoon sun, sniffed and went back to grazing.

It was the first time in my life I’d walked through elk before entering a bar. I liked the feeling, although I had no idea what that feeling was. A man just feels better in the presence of elk. Everything is better with elk.

Inside the Jetty, an old woman sipped soup, an old man drank a beer, and a middle-aged man played video slots. A local radio station played hits from the 80s and the Go Go’s never sounded better. If only I could see Belinda Carlisle walk among elk.

I ordered a beer and whipped out a notebook and pen to write about a dead man’s unpublished writing.

Nothing came. Concentration vanished—too much (Belinda) elk on the mind. I got up and walked outside to the parking lot. I stood there and watched elk eat grass. I only wish I could have brought along my beer.

(If you found this post enjoyable, thought provoking or enlightening, please consider supporting a writer at work by making a financial contribution to this blog or by purchasing an NSP book.)

Fort Ferret

Driftwood Forts, NSP Meditations, Oregon Beaches , , ,

Someone apprehended the fort message box. This little writing project had come to an end. Naturally, I will start over, in another fort, with another tin box, or maybe another receptacle, a clear one this time. Starting over is the very nature of fort message projects and driftwood forts themselves.

I suspect the box was apprehended by an overzealous beach cleaner. They can’t stand to leave unnatural item behind, even organic writing that intrigues or amuses or celebrates. They clean the beach but don’t seem to get the ocean.

Yes, I was saddened by the apprehension, but the scene at the fort after the discovery saddened me even more: big Spring Break trucks making cookies in the sand, roaring up noise and fumes, drowning out the waves, crushing sand dollars, scattering gulls, threatening families and dogs. One of the trucks stopped and a family got out. Naturally, a man had been the driver. He was teaching his kids something with those cookies and that something was uniquely American.

A bald eagle passed overhead, appeared to take in the trucks rampaging this loud way and that, and left the scene. I could hardly blame her. I left, too.

It is not often I leave the beach this way. In fact, I can’t recall another time in all these years of Oregon Coast beach rambling. It was unnerving.

I made my way into the dunes, away from the beach. I turned around for a final look and the rampage was still on. It was like a joust between two of the trucks. Where was a park ranger?

A man emerged from another trail and made his way on to the beach. He was walking with an unleashed boxer/pit bull mix and a leashed…ferret.

Yes, a ferret! I had never seen a ferret on a beach before. It was something out of a children’s book. I smiled. The man walked straight toward the trucks and then veered to his left. He headed to the fort! A ferret was about to enter my fort! Fort Ferret! I laughed aloud and continued into the dunes, no longer unnerved.

(If you found this post enjoyable, thought provoking or enlightening, please consider supporting a writer at work by making a financial contribution to this blog or by purchasing an NSP book.)

Walking in Rain March 27

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I await a friend. I drink cold Yuban.

We’ll walk in rain and discuss the various debasements occurring in our country, counties, cities, all around us, obvious and hidden, debasements executed by people who have never walked in rain without umbrellas and thus do not know rain at all.

The wind is whipping, rain ripping, and the whipping and ripping are shredding the morale of the Spring Breakers trapped in their tens, Rvs, yurts and motel rooms. They are cursing Oregon. I can hear their lovely chorus.

There is no other vehicle in this parking lot. Over the sunny weekend, close to a hundred.

Now do you understand my love of rain? It’s pretty simple, really. No one else is here. That’s it.

I continue to rain on all creative and personal fronts. I want to make the streams and rivers swell.

My friend arrives.

We walked and talked.

As I drove away, I remember something he said: “Sometimes a shiv through the armor is better.”

Rain as a shiv against the aridity of our debasing culture. I like that image. It’s not a metaphor, either.

(If you found this post enjoyable, thought provoking or enlightening, please consider supporting a writer at work by making a financial contribution to this blog or by purchasing an NSP book.)

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