The very same, indeed, as none will
admit that when George Lucas envisioned Tatooine, it was all too
easy, because he had been raised there. Here, as it were, in Modesto.
Modesto. Where fair weather
politicians such as Chris Murphy, feebly attempt to revive long dead
corpses, such as George Lucas' interest in Modesto at all...or his
father, Darth Vader. Seriously? Really? Right?
Darth Vader, AKA – George Lucas Sr.
never left, nor ever cared for his son to leave either.
Luke Skywalker, AKA – George Lucas
Jr. never looked back [1]
. All was soon to seem
forgiven and forgotten except for the things we just simply don't
speak of in hick company. Things that make us grit out teeth and
tightly rub our fingers together as though it were a tell. Hoping all
the while nothing upsets the rocky road apple cart, which is the la
la fantasy that every Modestan seems to be inflicted by.
Chris Murphy, AKA
Princess Leha - knows that the dark side is important to me. I am
the antidote to the Death Star Soma. Thirteenth at the table. The
uninvited guest. Seriously? Really? Right?
I saw Star Wars
on McHenry and Briggsmore in 1977. I was a fresh 12 year old out of
Kindergarten. About a decade later, I was a nineteen year old nurse
working at the first year of a posh nursing home by the name of
English Oaks, AKA – Michael Ray's New Redbluff Convalescent
Hospital.
Michael Ray, AKA
the strict Dunkard Director of Nurses (D.O.N.) was more of a hero to
me than George Lucas Jr. was. He ran the new facility with even more
strict rigor than he did the other facility in Riverbank. Yet, George
Lucas was just as much of a hero to me as any Modestan. And that is
saying quite a bit since his was the only name they could remember,
considering no one here knows that this is where the Olympic Medalist
Mark Sptiz also grew up. Seriously? Really? Right?
Twas' one fateful
night that I did find myself, literally cradling Darth Vader in my
arms, in the process of changing his linens. Frightened he was.
Shivering he. Never looking at nor acknowledging me at any time.
Oblivious? I doubted and doubt now. What could one expect from a
person, left to die in a nursing home? Seriously? Really? Right?
All
of Modesto's claim to fame celebrations are absent the presence of
the not so prodigal native son. If this was a perfect world, the
Modesto Chamber of Commerce would have done a Ribbon Cutting for
Vader and Son's Office Machines.
The
Multi-Million Dollar Modesto Gospel Mission, AKA - the People's
Temple is under new management now. Though most certainly a God sent
blessing for a chosen few – the price is still your soul.
Assistance in exchange to an inquisition type acceptance of the
doctrine according to Billy Graham. Heart disease and diabetes
slopped onto a prison tray, even if you bow down to the Holy Spirit
of Bill Graham, they will still treat you like a derelict
[2]. Whether you truly be one
or not.
Now they have
their brown shirts riding around in golf carts as though the parking
lot of the Mission and Ho Chi Minh were the sole property of Billy's.
Everyone is a potential target. The only thing that protects me from
them, is that they think I am a cop. Seriously? Really? Right?
And now we have a
new mayor. Another shill, put up by the agricultural killing machine,
AKA – the development industry. And a new City Council. To me, at
the very least. I have not spoken to them for quite some time. I was
estranged as it were. It was a few years that went by, if I can
recollect correctly, but I had to approach them nevertheless.
It's all about
freedom. It's all about holding the Pigs of Modesto's Great Camelot
at Bay. Yeah, I know. I get frustrated too. I hate having some
unshaven, toothless junky blowing their stale alcohol breath on me
like a dragon of old.
“Hey. Hey.
Buddy, do you got fifty cents?”
“What? You
actually think I'm going to give you money? Fuck you, bitch.”
At this point
there is a fork in the social and legal road that is ignored by both
the media and the Chief Carrol of the Modesto Police Department, AKA
lipstick on just another pig. Both from pressure from a City Council
that is propped up and placed by what? By what? Developer interests.
And what is it they ignore? The rights of an individual to express
their need to another. Seriously? Really? Right?
And why is that
so important to me? Because I know some things OK? For instance, I
know that you may very well be able to wish success upon someone,
even if it is someone you have never seen or even been near. Or it
could, perhaps, be a large group of people that you may certainly, by
all means, wish to be successful. But the success of this is not very
successful. We have to deal with reality. And when we deal with
reality, it is inevitable that we must talk about opportunity, if we
are going to realistically talk about success. Not how much any
individual deserves to not be a success.
And what that
means, is that a person will inevitably increase their chances of
getting their need(s) met by expressing their need to as many people
as possible. I also know that there are many more than not that do
not spend, nor intend to spend the money or resources they receive on
drugs or alcohol. And the most compelling thing that I know is that
it is their first amendment constitutional right to do so.
But
there is a downside. That fork in the social and legal road that I
mentioned. They do not have the right to continually harass or hound
an individual that has indicated in any way that could be reasonably
understood by the solicitor that they do not wish to yield.
Seriously? Really? Right?[3]
That is one of
several ordinances that I am attempting to challenge, not in the
court of public opinion, but by Civil Disobedient Extortion. And
kindness along the way, wrapped up in a big wad of shock value.
Yeah, that's where
the real juice is. Right there. At the dais I told them the truth;
that I have the solution to homelessness. Love, compassion and
understanding. Enough of any one of those would solve any social
problem we would ever have. That's just common sense. For those with
frontal lobes.
Yes, it had been
some time since I had addressed the council or anyone else for that
matter, and I knew it was going to have to be orchestrated,
professional and as precise as a neurologist's dull scalpel.
Seriously? Really? Right?
And just outside
is the Modesto Gospel Mission Secret Police, salivating at the
thought of intimidating me somehow or getting me to do something
simple like leave the premises altogether. But the pull of the golf
cart is too much for him and he cannot escape the very idea of racing
through the black top of the vacant parking lot with the wind blowing
through his hair and the Windsong 1977 commercial soundtrack playing
for him in the back ground. What a weirdo. Seriously? Really? Right?
To enjoy the
company of an elderly indigent is far more validating than
compliments from fake activists or fascist local politicians
mistaking me for a Caucasian. The conservation of my saliva alone,
makes it all so much grander. It feels as though I should be setting
miniature plastic china for an imaginary tea time. Why not? It
befalls the wickedly pretentious avows of recovery. Some of which I
can now say I have been told by some for four decades. By some, I
mean so few, as so many missed many of my tea times. You know, due to
sclerosis of the liver and other natural causes of a tragically blind
suicide. Quite natural, all the same, as it always is. Fuck. Fuck.
Fuck. Never mind. Just the mutterings of a burned out missionary in
my position.
I don't smoke
anymore and if even I were to, it would make no difference at five
o'clock in the morning, after a hectic night of doubling down on
black jacks and splitting tens, raising the ire of my Mom, Chin, AKA
– Cinnamon as they call her, I am sure down at the strip club,
where she has been having to perform to keep the Vietnamese Refugee
Camp operating. Within another hour I would be pulling into Ho Chi
Minh and if I were to be early enough, I had an actual refugee to
smoke cigarettes with and discuss my many wins, losses and arguments
of the previous night that I had with Chin, AKA the Vietnamese Gang
Prison Killer.
Those days are a
not so distant memory now, as he was shot in the head only to have
his wife, also to be shot in the head, not to mention his daughter
with down syndrome shot in the head too. I think she was the sole
survivor for a few minutes. Just before the Modesto Police Chief,
Harden used the entire affair as a photo op. He laughs at the expense
of my loved ones getting shot in the head and then gets mad when I
make fun of his name in a council meeting. But I'm not bitter.
Seriously? Really? Right?
So I have been
working on branding myself with an image that is peaceful innocent
and pure. It's my new message – Love, Compassion and Understanding.
Yes, I have finally succumbed to the subliminal lyrics of an Elvis
Costello song. But he was right. And what's more, that sweet girl
with down syndrome could tell you that. If they had not shot her in
the head. Seriously? Really? Right?
Footnotes, as if you didn't know.
- What? Do I have to spell it out to you? Seriously? Really? Right?
- If you understand that sentence, than you certainly too, have been inflicted with the generalization disease of this local “community”.
- I don't care if you don't agree with me.
- You guessed it.
Copyright 2016 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.
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