Barbara Cram Was Bored

Barbara Cram died in 2009, but this story is about a few years earlier in her life --- those few years after she retired from her part-time job at a women's homeless shelter in downtown Seattle.
She had been working at the shelter for several years and loving it, not being in charge of anything, just being useful. Then she retired with no pension at age 70, just her social security check. She had worked at Nordstrom's many years ago, and been a social worker for some years. She had long experience as the founder and director of Friendship House, the homeless shelter in Mount Vernon, but she scarcely got paid for that work, and nothing went into her social security account.
All that was past when she retired in 2005 -- I think that was the year. Just a SS check every month and glad for it too. She had a lovely home in the Mount Baker neighborhood. She and Pat Simpson lived together there, along with Pat's two daughters who were almost grown.
But she was bored. She didn't like being retired, not enough to do. She watched the baseball game every day -- she loved her Mariners. And she was always reading a book.
Her principle activity was making an old-fashioned sit-down meat-and-potatoes dinner every night. It was awesome. Barbara did better cooking in those few years than anyone in Seattle. I can't even describe the gravy, from a pork roast, ladled over garlic mashed potatoes, with a side of fresh cooked green beans, then a glass of wine or the beer of your choice, and baked apples for dessert. My O My.
I should mention that I was a frequent overnight guest during those years. I did the yard work under Barbara's direction, and I got the sit-down dinner for a daily reward.

In the garden, Barb was her total bossy self. She never actually went in the garden, she just leaned over the rail of the deck and barked orders at me while I pruned the grape vines. "That branch, no, no, the one higher up, that branch."
Time for another cigarette. Barb was a ferocious smoker. You didn't dare tell her otherwise. She and Pat had the last house in Seattle with ash trays where you could just light up at the dinner table, after the dishes were cleared.
Barb was happy during those years but she was a little bored. The trouble was she didn't have any money, just enough for the groceries and household expenses and gas for the car. Not enough for traveling. Not enough for eating out at any decent restaurant, or for clothes. She said she disdained fashion, but I wonder -- she had all those years at Nordstrom's and she surely had a good eye for a fine line in a dress, and might have wanted to shop, to buy, to own .... something.

My Religion Is Better Than Your Religion

My religion is better than your religion. You should join my religion, you'll be glad if you do.

That's terrible. All religions are equally good. One religion cannot possibly be better than the others.

Says who? You just made up a rule that all religions are equally valid, but they're not. My religion is true and the other religions are not.

Whatever, I don't want to argue.

Me neither.


Florida Orange Juice is Juicier

Coca-Cola will spend $2 billion to support the planting of 25,000 acres of oranges groves in Florida. Coca-Cola owns Minute Maid and other juice brands. It's not the evil empire and their orange juice is good for you.
I bought a carton of fresh Florida orange juice at the supermarket in California.

California grows oranges for eating and Florida grows oranges for juice. That drives the locavores crazy. Orange juice from concentrate probably comes from Brazil which is the world's largest juice producer..

There's a reason behind all this. Florida's climate is far more humid than the Central Valley in California, so Florida oranges are juicier. On top of that Florida oranges are hard to peel and they don't look pretty, so they're better for juice.

California oranges look better. Actually, we are all just prettier in California, but especially the oranges. And easier to peel.

Add in the economy of large-scale production and you end up with a freight train speeding across the continent carrying fresh California navel oranges to Atlanta, while another train brings the juice from Florida to San Diego.

Food miles! Carbon emissions! Agribusiness!

Calm down, take it easy. We can change it.

It might be better if we could grow some juice oranges right here in California, ya think?

Heck, we have orange trees growing in the back yard here in Santa Barbara, ripe and ready to eat or to make juice with.

Orange Buying Tips. Don't buy oranges or any other fruit just by appearance. Sometimes the funny-looking guys are the best-tasting. And only buy Ruby Red grapefruits from Texas.
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Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My blog is Fred Owens

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Fred Owens
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What’s the use?

What’s the use?

I invented a religion in 1971,

I called it the Church of the Holy Dawn.

We had dogma, scripture, liturgy and abuse,

But after a while I said what's the use.

I can't make promises,

I don't know the truth.

Worse and Worse. As of today, the war in Syria is getting worse.

Firefighting Skills Improve. The Springs fire in Ventura County, just north of Los Angeles, consumed 28,000 acres of brush with no loss of life or destruction of homes.

They're getting smarter about handling these blazes. Somehow a spark got it started on Thursday morning, a day of strong winds, high temperatures and very low humidity.

The fire quickly built up and began a race across the Santa Monica Mountains to the sea, twenty miles away.

It was that hot desert wind blowing off shore and pushing the flames -- it couldn't be stopped.

That's where the firefighters got smart -- they didn't try to head it off with a frontal assault. That only endangers and exhausts the fire crews and it rarely works.

Instead they dropped back and worked the sides of the fire to keep it on a narrower path -- steer it a little bit rather than try to put it out. They also ran defensive lines around a few housing developments.

The brush fire raged for two days. Then the weather changed. The wind died down, it got cooler, the humidity increased and the flames abated. With these more favorable conditions, crews were able to contain and extinguish the blaze.

It's just brush up there, it will all grow back. It's amazing how empty that country is and so near to Los Angeles. But you see why it's not a good place to live -- because of these brush fires, among other hazards.

Tampering with Nature. I support most human efforts to tamper with nature. It's just that once you start "fixing" things, you gotta keep fixing things.

When it comes to environmental issues, my belief is that every solution creates another problem.

So I favor whatever you propose as a mean of combating climate change. But I know your solution will create more problems, and the work will never be done.

This is not a discouraging message, not at all. It's just that we're always going to have work to do and we need to keep making adjustments. We can certainly control some of it, but never all of it.

Thank you --- Subscriptions can be paid at PayPal on the Frog Hospital blog for $25.

--
Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My blog is Fred Owens

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Fred Owens
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Robert Sund, Charlie Berg, Tom Robbins

Passages from the Fishtown Blues book -- soon to be published

Charlie Berg -- if you remember him -- lived in South LaConner and may have said something like this in 1982.

“Yes,” Charlie said. “We live under a volcano and we’re all going to die. That’s why I keep these lawn chairs in the front yard. This is how I figure it – when she blows, the mud and ice come racing down the valley, first Concrete, then Lyman, Hamilton, Sedro-Woolley, one town after another all swallowed up, cows flung about like matchsticks, sirens blasting, people racing around, but not me – when I see that mud flow coming at LaConner I just sets me down in this lawn chair and watch the show. The End. We go out with a bang. It will be like the last surfer riding the biggest wave.”

Robert Sund's poem -- Himself, making a bold statement of his art

“I am the heir of Walt Whitman and a first cousin to Gandalf.
I row the marsh and the sweet yellow iris calls my name.
I sing the tide and work the wind up the river,
To Disappearing Lake, around Bald Island,
Returning on the ebb tide and through Hole-in-the-Wall.
Aflame with thirst, I drive my oared skiff to the LaConner Tavern,
To shoot pool and quaff pitchers of Olympic beer.”


Tom Robbins makes a brief appearance in the Fishtown Blues.

He says, to his African girlfriend, while sitting on the bench on the landing of the Benton Street stairs:

“Hold on a minute,” Tom said. “Let me tell you something. I want to live forever. I never want to die. Even if I died in my sleep with no pain or memory, I wouldn’t like it. I would like to get out of my body if it rots, but where could I go? That’s why I came to Zimbabwe, to find you, because you don’t fear death. I don’t fear death either, but the idea of it really pisses me off."


Then I wrote this poem

Moses, Calling for Old Moses, He Ain't What He Used to Be

She was climbing trees,
Eating black-eyed peas,
Dusting the credenza on her knees.

She was watering the roses,
Talking trash with her poses
Of triumph over Moses.

She said, "Moses, who you kiddin?
Your madness isn't hidden,
You lost us in the desert,
And you're sins are not forgiven."

Teenagers Arrested for Sexual Assault

Teenagers Arrested for Sexual Assault

This story is so wrong, and on so many levels, that I must write about it.

The young woman was sexually assaulted having passed out from drink. The assailants took photos of this crime and broadcast them on social media. Subsequently, the young woman committed suicide.

Can it be proven that her suicide directly resulted from the shame she felt about having these awful images displayed? That's a legal question.

But I would say very likely. If the photos had not been broadcast around her high school, she would not have taken her life.

This is what the news story seems to emphasize -- and this is a very wrong story, very wrong.

The crime was the assault. That was the harm, the evil thing. The photos made it worse, but the crime was the assault.

The story says it was sexual assault. The story says she fell asleep. It doesn't say she passed out -- but I'm thinking she passed out from too much booze and was unconscious and was unaware that she was being assaulted.

What else do I know? The story says the assailants were three 16-year-old-old boys. And what do we know about 16-year-old boys? They are dumber than a cow, and they are about four to five times hornier than the average adult male who is reading this newsletter. They are plug stupid and they easily go out of control.

Did anyone ever tell these boys that it was wrong, that you are not supposed to touch, disrobe, or fondle a female friend (let's assume they were friends) if she is passed-out drunk? And not take photos while you're doing this, and not share these photos on Facebook. Did anybody tell them anything?

I'm going to dig into this a little further -- to discuss the matter that didn't seem to get into the news story about this crime and death.

The girl was drunk. She was 15 and she was drunk. Can that ever be a good thing? It happens, but it can't be a good thing.

Not just drunk, but passed-out drunk.

The story does not say whether the three assailants were drunk, but I'm thinking they were also drunk, although clearly not passed-out drunk, but conscious enough to commit the crime, conscious enough to know it was wrong (assuming someone told them it was wrong).

Three 16-year-old boys, dumb as a cow when they're cold sober, extravagantly horny -- if you can remember how you felt when you were that age -- and then fueled up with booze, in the company of pretty women similarly fueled up.

I can think of numerous bad and dangerous outcomes in this scenario. Suicide by Facebook photo is only one horrible possibility, but there are many ways this party ends badly.

You know what I'm thinking -- if they hadn't been drunk they wouldn't have assaulted the girl, and if she hadn't been drunk, she wouldn't have let them.

Is my thinking clear here? You take away the booze and there's no assault, no photos, and no suicide.

Teenagers are capable of hurting themselves and others even under ideal circumstances.

But still, we should strive to keep them and guard them and protect them.

We need to be watching over them. We need to not only tell them what to do and not do, we need to be present, and not leave them alone in large groups for long periods of time.

Being watched and being instructed, they are less likely to get drunk and commit the crime of sexual assault.

To me, the sexting, the photos and the social media angle is secondary, yes, worse, but let's focus on the crime -- which was the sexual assault, and what led up to it and how to prevent it from happening again.

So I'm saying -- tell the boys this short message -- 1. respect women 2. no means no and 3. keep your hands to yourself. ....... You might need to repeat this.

If your No means No and your Yes means Yes, then they will get the idea about what No means. But if your No means kinda, sorta, maybe, then they will learn that No doesn't really mean No, so make it plain and clear.

I recommend hypocrisy. It doesn't matter what you did when you were that age. If it's wrong, tell them it's wrong.

And finally, we should all realize that adolescence is a dangerous age and always will be.

Too Serious. I'm not going to be getting too serious on you. The next issue promises to be completely off the wall -- a testimony to the anarchy of springtime, an ode to James Joyce and all the Irish tenors.

Ted Talks. I expect to be giving a TED talk pretty soon. I haven't made the deal yet, but it seems like the right venue. I considered the MOTH for telling stories, but I actually don't care for that format.

Purging the Mailing Newsletter. If you have received this week's newsletter, you have survived the purge -- 75 other people were deleted.... My hope is to send the letter only to people who actually want to read it. The typical Frog Hospital reader does not read every word of every issue -- that's not required -- but they do seem to enjoy the mix.

Most of you do not pay for a subscription. But some of you do pay and that makes it work for everyone.

After you pay the rent or the mortgage, after you've bought the groceries, after you've put a little money away for your children's and grandchildren's education -- after taking care of these necessaries -- then why not send a $25 check to Frog Hospital.

Subscriptions. Your subscription money keeps the editor from getting cranky and self-righteous. Your check for $25 helps me maintain a degree of detachment. I do not support a cause on these pages. And I am truly grateful. Please go to PayPal at the Frog Hospital blog and contribute $25.

Or mail your check for $25 to

Fred Owens
35 West Main ST
Suite B #391
Ventura, CA 93001

Thank you very much,

Fred Owens

Facebook. Some of best stuff is on Facebook. Go to my page, Fred Owens, and friend me

Underwater

Wilmette Beach on Lake Michigan, some miles north of Chicago. It's a very big lake -- you can't see the other side, 60 miles away. Here you see the faint colors of sunrise, and it's so wonderfully calm. No tides, no currents -- but still, deep waters, and very clean as well. For drinking water in Chicago, they just run a large pipe out into the middle of the lake and bring it in for drinking -- doesn't need much in the way of filtrating or cleaning...... Sweet, fresh water....... Lots of fish too -- whitefish, lake trout, smelt, salmon, bass, crappies, and perch......Sea gulls too.

We used to go to the beach every day in the summer when we were kids. Hot skies, hot sand, cold water. Diving underwater, swimming in the lake. No finer beach anywhere.

Underwater, eyes wide open, looking at minnows.

three gay stories

By Fred Owens

Three Gay Stories

A Gay Teenager in Wilmette, Illinois, 1963

Cary Ross killed himself with a shotgun at his home out by Indian Hill. He was 17. He was my good friend in grade school when he lived across the alley. We lived on Forest Ave, and I would cross Forest Avenue, go through the Tuttles' yard, cross that alley, through O'Rourkes' yard, and over to Cary's house.

His mom, Betty, and my mom were pretty good friends. Anyway, Cary was gay from the gate -- talk about wired from birth! This kid was SO very interested in everyone's penis, and this was when we were 11-years-old and the only fun thing we did with our dicks was make yellow patterns in the snow... But Cary was different, we kind of laughed at him, but nobody really cared. Otherwise we had Boy Scout camping and ice-skating after school -- just regular kid stuff.

Fast forward. Cary's family moved out to Indian Hill, then he went to the public high school and the rest of us went to Catholic high school. We didn't see him much, but we heard things about who he was spending time with and it didn't sound good. It didn't sound bad either -- but strange. So he killed himself, and what I remember most was the look on his mother's face at the funeral.

A Gay Newspaper Publisher in Rural Texas

Bastrop, a small town in central Texas, the summer of 1986. I was working as a reporter for the Bastrop Advertiser, the local newspaper. My boss was Jack Fraser. He was gay. Jerry Appel, the business manager at the paper, was his partner.

Everybody in Bastrop knew Jack and Jerry were gay. This was the heyday of Don't Ask, Don't Tell, so it was all right as long as nobody said anything about it. Also Jack did not live in Bastrop, but lived in the next town over, closer to Austin. Jerry maintained a separate, probably fictional, residence in that same town, but it was likely that they actually lived together.

The Bastrop Advertiser was one of the best newspapers in Texas. Jack Fraser was a hard-hitting, outspoken liberal and he took on all the powers that be in that very conservative small town. Fearless, I called him. But he had a very courteous manner about him, so some outraged reader would storm into the office, and Jack would hear him out but hold his ground, and so he was respected.

But far worse than being liberal, and even worse than being gay, Jack and Jerry came from California. Can you imagine that? Two gay men from California, with liberal politics, move to a small town in Texas, buy the newspaper, make a good living, and nobody really cared. Except, you know, not talking about it.

A Gay Barber in Zimbabwe

So if a gay barber gives you a haircut and you don't mind, does that make you gay?

No, its doesn't mean you're gay, it just means you don't mind.

In 1997 I was living in Zimbabwe, in Bulawayo the regional capital of Matebeleland, a city of 500,000 people -- all black, but with maybe 5,000 white people here and there. I used to walk down the street, hundreds of people, all black, and I would look around -- I'm the only white guy!.... But I got used to it and no one molested me.

After I'm living in Bulawayo for a while I need to get a hair cut, and this is a problem because you can say anything you want about black people, but they have different hair -- totally different hair and I was not going to chance it -- having a black barber touch my head.

So I asked around, with a direct question, "Where do the white guys go to get their hair cut?" Well, everybody knew where that shop was, so I went over to get my hair cut by a white man, and he was gay. You know, like the way you can tell these things, telling me about his interests in theater and pornography, and just general demeanor. He kind of hinted about things, as if I might be interested, but I wasn't. I mean, he was a nice guy, and he gave me a good haircut, but that was all.

In1997, there were hardly any white men in Bulawayo, and far fewer gay white men, so this barber probably had about three friends in the whole town.

Notes.

Obituary. Cary P. Ross, 17, a senior at New Trier High School, died last week in his home at 216 Summerfield road, Northbrook. He was the son of Carleton P. and Roberta Schilbach Ross, both Wilmette natives. Other survivors are two brothers, Jeffery and Ward; a sister, Linda; and a grandmother, Mrs. Clyde P. Ross of Evanston, formerly of Wilmette. Published in Wilmette Life, a weekly newspaper, in November, 1963.

Jack Fraser. Jack Fraser sold the Bastrop Advertiser a few years later and moved back to California.

The Gay Barber in Zimbabwe. Being Gay in Zimbabwe is not easy. Excerpt from this Wikipedia entry: Homosexuality is highly taboo in this socially conservative country and Mugabe's anti-gay stance resonates with many Zimbabweans.

Life is hard for gay people in Zimbabwe. Life is hard for everyone now.
Purging the Mailing Newsletter. If you have received this week's newsletter, you have survived the purge -- 75 other people were deleted.... My hope is to send the letter only to people who actually want to read it. The typical Frog Hospital reader does not read every word of every issue -- that's not required -- but they do seem to enjoy the mix.
Most of you do not pay for a subscription. But some of you do pay and that makes it work for everyone.

After you pay the rent or the mortgage, after you've bought the groceries, after you've put a little money away for your children's and grandchildren's education -- after taking care of these necessaries -- then why not send a $25 check to Frog Hospital.

Subscriptions. Your subscription money keeps the editor from getting cranky and self-righteous. Your check for $25 helps me maintain a degree of detachment. I do not support a cause on these pages. And I am truly grateful. Please go to PayPal at the Frog Hospital blog and contribute $25.

Or mail your check for $25 to

Fred Owens
35 West Main ST
Suite B #391
Ventura, CA 93001

Thank you very much,

Fred Owens

Facebook. Some of best stuff is on Facebook. Go to my page, Fred Owens, and friend me.

--
Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My blog is Fred Owens

send mail to:

Fred Owens
35 West Main St Suite B #391
Ventura CA 93001



--
Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My blog is Fred Owens

send mail to:

Fred Owens
35 West Main St Suite B #391
Ventura CA 93001

We are all artists now.

We are all artists now.

Unfortunately we all get paid like artists.

Marshall McLuhan said all this would happen. He said that in the 1960s. I knew him personally because I went to St. Michael's College at the University of Toronto, where McLuhan taught on the English faculty.

McLuhan described the future -- "we won't have jobs anymore, we will play roles, we will all be artists and actors, not wage earners" -- so he said.

Incredibly, that happened, There are no jobs anymore, jobs went out with objectivity. Now we play roles according to our body types and habits. The horror is that's how we get paid. When we had jobs we all got paid, some more than others, but we all got paid. But now we are all artists, so we are paid like artists -- one-tenth of one percent makes millions, and the 99 make close to nothing.

McLuhan saw this coming. He was detached. He said, "I see the future, that doesn't mean I welcome it personally. I would prefer to have lived in the time of the Middle Ages." -- Really, he said that.

I shoulda never went to his class. McLuhan had tenure, he kept HIS job all along. But role playing? McLuhan famously played himself in a cameo appearance in Annie Hall, predating Steven Colbert by 30 or 40 years. But who the hell is going to pay you for playing yourself?

The jobs are gone, my friend. They're not coming back. You're on your own, like a rolling stone (Help! I'm having flashbacks!)

No jobs, unless you move to Midland, Texas, where the shale oil economy is booming and Wal-Mart is hiring warm bodies at $17 per hour.

Back to McLuhan. He described the global village, he didn't say he wanted to live in it.

I was his student, I didn't say I understood him. Nobody understood McLuhan, not even McLuhan. I am also good friends with his biographer Philip Marchand....... McLuhan, in his personal habits, was quite conventional and conservative -- as well as being a fairly traditional Catholic.

A friend of mine in his class submitted a paper in a multi-media format, partly taped recorded and partly illustrated -- thinking McLuhan would like that, but McLuhan rejected the submission --- stick to the standard format he told my friend.

The lecture I remember the best was McLuhan on TS Eliot the Wasteland. This was given in the Elmsley Lounge as part of an overall celebration and bounteous sherry was served to students and faculty alike. I don't actually remember anything he said, but we drank a lot of sherry and had a wonderful time.

After that lecture they stopped serving unlimited free sherry to undergraduates.

..........................................................................

President Obama recently visited Israel and Jordan, while John Kerry was in Iraq. Here is my reaction:

I found this poem in a drawer,
Labelled 1954.

"No breathing allowed," said the Iranian priest.
"Israel does not have a right to exist."

But we grew these oranges, we built Tel Aviv,
Our children were born here, we're not going to leave.

"You can go back to Europe, to Spain or Morocco,
Go back to the shtetl, the shul, and the ghetto.

We don't want you here......"

But this song, can't you hear?

Jerusalem is golden, isn't that true?
The color of our flag is white and blue,

We welcome the green of your Islamic faith,
We will live together until our last breath,

Breathing is living, we breath and exist,
We are you, and you are all there is.

Jerusalem of Gold

This uplifting song ends Schindler's List. Spielberg's film and this song have the flavor of 1954 -- the rhythm of Golda Meir, Abba Eban, and Herman Wouk, with notes of triumph and hope. Imagine the shining look in Sal Mineo's eyes in the 1960 movie Exodus.

Israel

I'm not a big fan of anyone's historic claims, but I do recognize existence when I see it. Israel -- there it is. It gets quickly complicated after that. Do people who exist have a right to continue to exist? You could tell them that they have no right to exist, and yet they are still there.

This analogy may not spring to your mind, but I think of plants -- weeds, native species, invasive species, plants growing where you want them to, plants you wish were not growing there.

But it really helps if you first acknowledge the existence of same. You can't get rid of something by saying it doesn't exist. Unless it doesn't exist, in which case you don't have to do anything.

Excuse me, Martin Buber just called collect, gotta run.

Baby Boomers.

We are a generation distinguished by the fact that we exist -- going to the grave and still celebrated for our collective birth -- you can't brag on that.

Our numbers cause a bulge in the American population. We are in that human age which is naturally conservative -- old -- so the whole country is old right now.

We out-sourced pregnancy and child-rearing to Mexico and points south. Those young brown men and women are the babies we didn't want to bear, and the children we didn't want to raise, so we hired it out, and then they grew up and were mystically drawn to the US.


I Wish

I wish I was John Steinbeck,
With his mice, his men and his truck.

I wish I was Ernest Hemingway,
He had all the luck.

He made his days in the sun,
Then he killed himself with a shotgun.

I wish I was TS Eliot,
He came from St. Louis , you know,
Then he worked in a bank,
And became Anglican,
Writing poems with his elbows and toes.

I wish I was a Buddhist or a monk,
Or an acolyte,
If that's all right,
Anyway to escape this funk.

Subscriptions. Your subscription money keeps the editor from getting cranky and self-righteous. Your check for $25 helps me maintain a degree of detachment. I do not support a cause on these pages. And I am truly grateful. Please go to PayPal at the Frog Hospital blog and contribute $25.

Or mail your check for $25 to

Fred Owens
35 West Main ST
Suite B #391
Ventura, CA 93001

Thank you very much,

Fred Owens

Facebook. Some of best stuff is on Facebook. Go to my page, Fred Owens, and friend me.


--
Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My blog is Fred Owens

send mail to:

Fred Owens
35 West Main St Suite B #391
Ventura CA 93001