Tour

His job was to ground the flimsy flim-flam film narratives into some kind of honesty for credibility. In the westerns, he was Sarsaparilla Sam who never drank the he-man drink of voice - whiskey.

I passed through Checkpoint Charley which for me had a military connotation. It was a passageway, a corridor, the tunnel to the other-side - to Whatnot. It went to the What-I-Would complex. Very comprehensive to actually be there. I am all-in. Still though a simulation. Not like a born-storm. Was I a war baby ? A posit I certainly did consider. And I wasn't. I was not of the conquerors, who came home in the seed of life, which exploded into the baby-bloom. I was that four year stint just befour the stork storm. And I remember the kids four years before me were different. They were big people. They seemed like scientist types with hobbies, like model air-planes with real motors. They were the in-betweeners - wood and metal, the woodie cars, baseball bats and gulf clubs. They were mechanics with still-leftover nature aesthetics. I really didn't know them well and only by their toys. I respected them. On the grand stage they became the Beatniks and Bohemians, the outcasts of the un-thought. They were the late depression-disorder babies.

My highschool four years were different. This fore is where all the fervency came from, the sixties revolution. It was a staple of my senior year in high school. Mostly it was punish all to punish one. They wanted us to rat-out that dirty communist. Turn 'em in. The one that committed the crimes of no-remembrance, and for instance, the whole of my senior class was required to come to school on Saturday, for not committing turn-coat. Perhaps someone had left a note and called the principle a bad name.

(164 of 278) Next Page