The Pilgrim, Chapter 33.

Nobody is satisfied with themselves. Somewhere, we got fed the bullshit that we didn't measure up to whatever it was we thought we were supposed to measure up to. So, on occasion, either to get laid or worse, get the promotion or worst of all, to get to be President, we lied about who we were and once we did, that toothpaste could never get put back in the tube.

My friend died a couple of years ago, quite suddenly, and all the arrangements were a blur. In the blur and the white noise, I never really sat down to think about our friendship. Better late than never. I attended his funeral. Funerals are weird ass, boy and I avoid them when and wherever possible. I had gone to high school with this guy and we remained close for a period of time until we didn't. then I got a phone call and heard he dropped dead in his house. I guess if you're gonna go, it's best if you're at home. All of sudden, you're sitting on the sofa watching Mark Haines on CNBC and then you're not. Of course Mark wouldn't be on the tube cause that's also what happened to him one morning a couple of years ago. 

My friend was a skater. Today a skater is a character in an Avril Lavigne song. In my time a skater was a bullshitter who always had enough BS in the tank to get where he needed to go. He glided through life, because most of his life was a lie. It got him things and accolades he needed at the time and he was generally regarded as a really funny, bright guy. That's because very few people really knew him. Well, I did and I was able to cleave him into two parts, the unbelievable proctor of prevarication and the result of his toil, which was to  use that low resolution fact, turn it into fiction and skate out the other side; a bright, funny, engaging guy-- whose stories everybody wanted to hear at parties. He knew so many people, shared time with them, flew like Icarus to the sun with them, but went into a dive before the sun burned his wings.

He got into college by the skin of his teeth, not a very good college, hell I don't think at the time it was even accredited. He caroused, skated, gambled, fucked anything with a pulse and flunked out. He came back to the neighborhood a pretty beaten down person, but no matter, he enlisted in the service and became a meat wagon driver. Actually, uh no that wasn't the case. He was a medic and after he got his discharge, he was going to go to med school and be a doctor. While he was at basic training, he traveled the area and saw lots of bands. I'm not sure how he fit it into his schedule, but when he wasn't healing the world, (or driving their soon to be dead bodies somewhere)  he was an employee of Lynard Skynard and he was even the guitar technician who tuned Rickey Medlocke's guitar before he went on stage. Even got to jam with the band onstage at some shows. Back home, we were all impressed with that. And working in an overseas military hospital! As Jed Clampett used to say, "Wheee Doggies!!!"

Well, his career took him overseas to continue his career as a doctor. He returned home a little sooner than we expected him and later in his life, found out that he had been given a general discharge instead of an undesirable discharge on account of he caught one of the guys who threatened to expose his drug dealing and prostitution ring within the hospital in bed with the commanding officer's underage daughter. Saved by the bell. Keep skating please.

Pretty good story huh? Well let's cut to his funeral, when all his friends who he broke bread with, raised money for charity with, and whose wives were his 4th wife's clients in the antique furniture business got up, one by one and eulogized him. Masters Degree from University of Michigan, guitar tech for Rickey Medlocke esteemed Vietnam veteran, man of letters, a friend in need that was a friend indeed, honorably discharged and a tireless fund raiser for charity. I sat in the audience and did my level best to keep from pissing my pants, although I was wearing my Dark Black Bill Blass suit and nobody would have seen it if I had. I politely hugged wife #4 and duly noted the passing with all his new friends. What was I going to do otherwise? What would exposing the truth have done? Who would have gained from the truth? The truth doesn't set any of us free, even though we've heard that it does.

I've told a few in my life too. We all have. And so have you. It's all right. A couple little white ones don't hurt anybody. We're all human. But we're not all running for President or Congress or hoping to get appointed to the Supreme Court and so, there, I think I'm going to kind of draw the line. I wonder if Adolph or Saddam or Putin didn't get enough hugs as a child. I do know there's a whole shitload of imposters out there.

It's St. Paddy's day and today is a day to drink a lot of beer with our friends and say a prayer that we're all still here to celebrate. I'm not sure where the great tradition came from, but on a day like today, it's always a good day to spin a few yarns. Probably some true and some----------well maybe not.

Am I recounting a true story or did I just tell a tale? Did Tony Soprano get whacked as the camera faded to black?

As always thanks for reading. Readers are Bleeders. And of cabbages and kings, they become Walmart greeters.

Actually, I have two humstles today. First is Bob Dylan's I Shall Be Free # 10. "I'm a Poet, and I know it. Hope I don't Blow It." And try on Kris Kristofferson's The Pilgrim Chapter 33. "He's A Walking Contradiction- Partly Truth and Partly Fiction."

"Children Of Abraham"

Arlo Guthrie has sung some pretty important songs in his life. Children of Abraham, written by Larry and Claire Lynch is one of them. Just about every person who enjoys music can go to a website where they can find lyrics to songs that enter the "humstle" zone.

I was reading a Newsmax feed, this morning about The Rev. Franklin Graham, who is praising Vladimir Putin's stand against homosexuality. As I always do, I continue by reading the threads of comments. Because it's Newsmax ( a Rupert Murdoch company) the opinion is pretty one sided. It almost 100% laid the blame for homosexuality on the President, you know the guy between two ferns', yeah the guy who looks terrible in Mom Jeans.

It made me think of the exercise in futility of lamenting people who don't seem to be able to think for themselves, the ones who are foursquare lined up against their own self interests... probably not in the case of homosexuality, but in an abject fear that the life they planned for so carefully is being systematically taken away from them. And it all seems to be a thug from Chicago's fault.

Just a shorty today. Please check out the lyrics of the song. They are simple but powerful. It ain't hip hop or dub step. Just simple words that maybe wouldn't hurt to enter your brain space for a short while. I better catch you while I can, because for the next two weeks it's time for college hoops and the run up to opening day baseball-- which in the midst of Crimea, Putin, a plane we can't seem to locate and a President who is in a free fall of popularity because he didn't pick easy shit to work on-- I am looking forward to this year, more than in other years. Maybe baseball is my antidote for a world that I understand less and less. Because baseball is part of MY carefully planned life.

We all need to breathe---------------------ahhhhh. That's better.

Remember the words of the day. Don't buy stuff the Koch Brothers make that you don't need.