It has been so long, so long ago and the memory and feeling and even 0dor permeate my being on this healthy hallowed day.  Mother and Father are long gone and grandparents even longer and it is now my time to go, somewhere good, I hope.   The beauty of holidays that celebrate this great nation are ever cast into history for us and all our children to enjoy, as long as we can keep this country together in one piece.  Everyone in this country deserves a Thanksgiving with their family and a bird and ample foodstuff to enjoy the blessings of liberty, even the Wracks.   We are here, our children are there, and there is power and force to make it happen.

Grandpa was there, and so was grandma, and even the Fonz when he wasn’t hiding next door in one of the neighbor’s houses.  The Wracks helps Grandma make the stuffing for the bird, and she adds chicken broth to dried white bread, with onions, garlic, tiny pieces of celery and a lot of love.   Inside the cavity it goes and she tells the Wracks to “put it in the vent and truss it up”, and he ties the back legs together with white twine and it goes into the oven at 350 degrees.  Long green beans steam in the steamer because boiling them makes them fall apart, and these will be anointed with olive oil, parmesan cheese and more garlic powder.   Grandma is small, around five feet high because she had rheumatic fever as a child before they had antibiotics.  She has slightly strawberry blond hair and she says she is Italian with the name of Trump after he changed his name.  She tells the Wracks to “tell everyone you are Italian”, because Grandpa and all his friends in Vegas are Italian.  She says, “tell them you are a paisano and they will like you.”   So, the Wracks tells everyone he is Italian even though he has dark brown hair and an olive complexion like an afghani or Iranian.  Grandpa sits in the green reading chair with the Washington post smoking the usual Roi tan cigar with all the windows open and huge tobacco clouds wafting out to the cool autumnal air.    Grandpa says, “Amerada is up and get more American air lines and TWA.”  Then he takes another puff on his cigar. 

Dinner is on says father Wracks, he is Chinese but tells everyone he is Italian because his mother was Italian and he sits at the head of the table with a large bottle of white wine.  “Everyone, have a glass of wine and say a prayer of thanksgiving that we can all be here together today.”

‘Manga” he says in Italian because all his cronies in the rat pack are Italian and he wants to fit in.  the Fonz is here, slick and dapper in a plaid shirt with a tie.   He looks a trifle bewildered because he has spent the morning with the opposition in the lightning bolt club, but he wants to catch some of grannie’s cooking before he goes back to his friends.  He sits next to grandpa. Saint Grandma sits next to the Wracks and puts all her food on his plate because he knows the spook and his moil are slowly starving him to death.  The all-American family eats and eats with second helpings and the Wracks has a wing and his grandmothers second helping of white meat and a ton of mashed potatoes covered in salty, greasy gravy.  Mom sits on the other side of the table and tonight she wears a wig like carol Burnett, she has a whole arcade of wigs when she goes out of town incognito, and they sit in stands like the joker in Gotham city.  

The wracks are happy.   He has family like most orphans never know and Mom brings in two pies for dessert, a blueberry and an apple pie.   He has a huge slice of each and a mound of vanilla ice cream in a separate dish.  Mother Wracks tells the Wracks to bring in the dishes and he does and puts them in the dishwasher and sets it on.   He will begin scrubbing the pots and pans after they soak in soapy water, this is the trick to soak steel pots and grills so the crust and ash come right off with a Brillo pad.  Grandfather and Grandmother, mom and dad are in the living room with the bright green shag carpet and the antique French furniture where the Wracks is told never to venture. The stereo is on playing Christmas music and the Fonz disappears mysteriously to visit his friends in different houses that the Wracks has never known.   The Wracks cleans the table and gathers the cutlery and counts them because they are sterling silver from an exclusive English fabricator.  He takes the dishes out of the dishwasher and puts them in their special cases, scrubs the pots and pans and then places them in the dishwasher for round two.  The Stirling cutlery must be washed by hand because phosphate detergent deteriorates them. 

Grandpa and Grandma announce they are going to retreat to their white duplex in Brentwood and Mom, Dad and the Wracks see them out to their custom white ford Fairlane with huge fins on the side like a spaceship that the Fonz will inherit and convert to a rolling bordello.   Only the Wracks should be so lucky.  He is happy to have a home to come home to.   The Fairlane rolls away with smiling folk and the Wracks retreats to his bedroom which will soon become his grandmothers, and reads his encyclopedia with a single tensor lamp that his grand father bought him for Christmas.  The Holiday season has begun and all is good.

This and them were so very long ago.  The memories of love, camaraderie and friendship are everlasting and they color your very existence until you pass.  All people deserve a thanksgiving.   All children deserve a home and a religious upbringing.   Without a home during childhood and the teachings of religious ethics, human beings slowly migrate to unscrupulous things.   A person, him or her is made in childhood and the upbringing makes them an ethical productive citizen in society.  Without this, everything is lost and Wracks family and his children, wherever they are wish you a happy and bounteous Thanksgiving today.  God bless America, and let us provide justice, secure the blessings of liberty and provide for the common defense.  Mao.

I know what you are doing

I know what you say

Even when you are sleeping

Almost every day

You can be a captain

I can be your crew

It doesn’t matter whatever you do

Because its just a feeling

Way down deep inside

Riding shotgun on this crazy ride

Don’t throw it  all away

Don’t throw it in my face

Don’t be a savior

Of the human race

Don’t throw it all away

Before you have had a taste

Put me in my place

Because I never had a date

Shining stars surround me

I feel that you are near

Somewhat overpowered

In a magazine

On a nebulous horizon

Let me in your dream

Searching for some beauty

Whatever the hell that means

Azure is blinking broadcast

Are you on my team

Holding on so tightly

I am on a bend

I have never ever found a friend

Don’t throw it all away

Don’t kick it in the face

Don’t spin the plastic top

Fame and fortune are a rave

Don’t throw it all away

Before it is too late

Before life has lost its meaning

Getting ready for a date

You can be my captain

I can be some crew

Energy surrounds you

I can feel it too

I can never slumber

Supine  in a bed

Someone tries to get to me instead

Am I getting to you

everything you say

Am I getting to you

by now you have it made

Am I getting to you

Knock, Knock, Knock, it is still big says Malaga.

It is only five in the morning says the Wracks.  The sun isn’t up yet.

I want to check out the overhead, it has never been this big, says Malaga, the swell cleaned up overnight and the winds are Santa Ana, light offshore.   

I am in says the Wracks; I have a yum yum yellow backwards mini-pin shaped by Eggman.   It was a warped blank from Big D; I got for a song and Egg shaped it for an ounce of Kef I got from the man himself.   Let’s go, I have a super suit.

I want to look at the overhead. It has never been this big and the swell has cleaned up from Yesterday.  First make me breakfast.  

The Wracks pulls a small frying pan from the shelves and he makes eggs and toast with butter and marmalade while the automatic coffee percolator makes an eight-cup batch.  Columbian coffee tastes great in the morning with a dash of cream and a cigarette.   

The air is clear and the wind is light and the sun peaks up slowly from the Santa Ynez mountains.  The yellow van with the tuned Abarth exhaust system the Fonz helped install buzzes up Highway one.   The buy is at least six feet on a west-northwest swell and perfect conditions but Malaga wants to go on and see it.   Malibu shows the best form in the spring and late fall when storms gather offshore in the west and push big swells into the continental shelf.

Let’s go out says the Wracks, The Bu is on!

They drive and the whole coast is churning.  County line reefs out in the kelp are breaking fifteen to twenty feet and the bombora out to the left is huge.

Let’s go out says the Wracks, the Line has good shape.

I want to see it says Malaga; it is a once in a life time thing.  

They go on.   The deep-water points that never break are breaking six to ten feet.  If the Channel Islands didn’t block most of the swell from the coast, southern California would be the surf destination for the world.  Hawaii is a lot bigger and the water is warmer. 

Underneath the atom bomb tunnel and into Oxnard and Point Mugu is a huge mass of white water visible from ten miles away.   GB has a navy identity badge to enter the base and he wont surf it, he says it is too sharky and submarines sit in submerged pens not visible by satellites.   Too heavy.   The Wracks agrees.   Soon the van with the blaring exhaust and stolen CD player rockets into the Ventura highlands.   The Wracks lights up another Pall mall cigarette to keep himself awake.  Past C street and the pier, and then stables to the parking lot at the overhead, where a camp ground exists and no one surfs because the vibrations are too intense.   At Stables, the top of California Street point, the ranchers discharge animal offal from slaughterhouses and the farmers discharge agricultural waste.   The stream creates a sediment reef at Stables, the premier spot at C street, which is usually big in the winter.  Then there arises the Ventura Overhead.   The Overhead is called such because the reef only shows when the swell is completely overhead.    The overhead juts out from the top of Stables point, a little bit to the north, and the two, Malaga and the Wracks pull up, have a Coca-Cola and another cigarette.  

Today the Ventura Overhead reef feels the incredible swell and breaks at least thirty feet, with bigger sneaker sets every thirty minutes.   The wave is huge and incredible and breaks in a perfect peak, enabling a surfer to go right or left, their choice.  A slight offshore that will turn onshore in Ventura around noon, together with the rising sun makes the scene supernatural, surreal and heavenly.   Huge waves rear up and break, top to bottom, and the ocean churns and white-water streams all the way to the beach.    The two young surfers sit in the car, time the sets and don’t speak as is the level of excitement grows and explodes.

Do you want to go out asks Malaga.

I will if you go out firsts.   I don’t want to sit in shark land all alone almost one-half mile out at sea, says the Wracks.

It is huge says Malaga, and there arises a channel to take us out to the peak, but no one else is here to brave it.  It is you and me.

I will go if you do, says the Wracks.  It is your decision. 

Malaga sits and looks and lights another cigarette.  It is huge says he, I don’t know If I have the right equipment, I only have a seven-foot six-inch gun and it might not be enough.  

The waves churn and a huge set rises out of depths, one half mile out to sea, pitches and breaks top to bottom then flattens out in the channel.  It probably will never be this big ever again. 

I have made my decision says Malaga, it is too big, I don’t have the right equipment, and we will be the only ones out.   It is a hair out, says Malaga, I can’t believe I am haired out.

I am scared too says the Wracks; you made a good decision.

The car starts up and the two rocket back to civilization, and the van roars flat out at sixty-five miles per hour down the Highway one.

Let’s surf the Bu says the Wracks, the winter Bu is perfect.  

No, I have decided to go to a luncheon at Beverly Hills Hotel with my family.  We missed our window. 

Goodbye says the Wracks as he unloads his yellow pin from the back of the van. Have a good day and as Malaga drives away, he goes to the corner of Mellow Mans land and Bacon and Santa Inez Lane and watches the ocean and huge lines are visible ten miles away and the wind turns westerly and the ocean decivilizes into a texture of afternoon wind.   He would not surf the day after; he didn’t have a ride. 

It has been a long time and the Wracks doesn’t surf anymore.  No time, no opportunity, no money and age.   The Ventura Overhead exists when the swell is extremely big and it breaks perfectly.   Now, the boys have leashes and jet skis and radio communication to the Coast guard.  They have it made, all they need is a really big swell and the right equipment in the twenty-first century.   The Wracks is here and he believes and this is Gods country and the waves will break forever. 

In a very late evening, Bacon Way sits quietly in the middle of exploding Peyton place. At the very best, memories fade with time and the biggest swell ever recorded is merely a feeling in the mind, set aside for now, something maybe to tell your children or anyone who is interested or could ever appreciate the significance of the event.

In Junior High School, life is a series of exciting events punctuated by cataclysms in the long meandering stream of growing up.  Sitting at the big table in a little house with five second homework in hand, a little dog curled up into deep sleep in a little brown basket next to the red brick fireplace. Focusing the light on my books, it is Friday, father is not home again, on another business trip, and the wracks sit alone, mother is out and older brother is gone.  A face forms in the big sliding glass and then a body moves from the shadows into view. A big cat-like smile appears in the form of   Mangala.

“A big swell is going to hit tomorrow” says Mangala

“I checked it out this evening at the lookout; it’s as flat as a board”.

“The North Shore is forty feet plus, Waimea is closed and it’s coming from the North” Screams Mangala.

“If you have gas money and some food you can go.  I just spent all my money on a tune-up.  Kool is coming along.” Adds Mangala.

“I’m in.  When do we go?”

“4 AM” says HP.

Kool appears from nowhere in the dark misty twilight of exploding Peyton place.

Dressed in a Dark robe with hood made from cotton towels, he looks like a Druid heading for a sacred mass.  He has a seven-foot-long green pintail gun.  A dim rumble of megaphone exhausts can be heard in the distance and slowly approaches.  Mangala pulls up in a yellow camperized VW van with sunroom, curtains and tuned exhaust. He smiles at me.

“Load it up” he commands.

“Want a smoke”? Inquires Kool

“I’ll tie them up.”

We load the boards on a rack on top. Wracks homemade board goes on the bottom where it will get notched from the tight ropes. We were all fortunate that our boards did not blow off on the Freeway as Berber’s had and mine someday would.

Kool lived at the top of Mellow Mans Lane past the slalom of Beber’s bowl. He moves in strange ways and shows up at the oddest times. Sitting on my front lawn in full lotus posture in his robe with a lit cigarette, He drags on a Marlboro cigarette and the red glow illuminates his craggy face.

“Hey brau” he says

“Kaena point is forty feet and Churning”.

“Let’s hit Diego”!  I’m Shotgun.”

Motoring down in the twilight to Sunset Blvd. and then to Suicide canyon run onto Pacific Coast Highway, I see no waves in the morning mist and the deserted road blends into the turnstile of the 10 Freeway. The humming yellow van fills up with smoke.  the wracks lies on the big cushioned bed in back, upside down looking out the rear-view window. The highway fades into nothing in the ends of the night until the big refinery lights up the day.

“Jumping Jack Flash, it’s a gas, gas, gas”  

“Brown sugar how you taste so good”

“Yeah, Mellow”

Kool sings along with the videocassette. The flared megaphone of the forty horsepower engine croons me to sleep.  The van rumbles and jumps, in the morning dimness and Kool sings and they smoke and Saturday begins.  At the Trestle, I can hear the surf   booming in the distance. A human can see upper Trestle breaking from the highway, its huge.   The Moon slowly sets in the west and the ocean looks grey

We take the off ramp at La Jolla, to Torrey Pines Road onto the enclave where Lu lives in the summer. We pull up douse the lights and blend into a suburb above a beach called Blacks.  Blacks are totally unused except by nudists and Professors from Scripps.

“I can feel the vibes” exclaims Kool.

“Twisted”.

“Listen” He Whispers

Muffled booms climb the cliffs, up onto the houses, and into the street where we hide in the lemon-yellow van. This is the secret place of Lu.  Simultaneously, the side door explodes and we leap into the morning. From the grocery bag we slam food down our throats and wash it down with a Big Bottle of Coke. Putting on wetsuits, hidden by robes we share the sacrament of waxing our boards and then with a leap take off down the Cliff.  The fastest way down a cliff is to throw your cargo to the nearest ledge and slide the best way you can without falling.  The cliffs at Torrey Pines are least vertical at Blacks and this is the fastest way down to the sandy beach. To take the path down means a day in jail for trespassing.  Black’s beach is worth the risk. A short beach of white sand abuts on a cliff and seaweed litters the shore.  Crabs, fish and lobster swim in the tide pools and the water has fools’ gold suspended within that gleam when the sun reflects off the surface of the water.

Ten wave sets are stirring the ocean surface and the white water comes in in layers. Huge fifteen-foot left waves grind and puff across the arroyo.  La Jolla cove blossoms in the distance.  We try to get out three times but the drift and riptides sweep us a quarter mile down to the pier and finally we give up. 

“It’s impossible to get out when it’s over ten” says Kool

“Let’s try somewhere else” says Mangala.

Taking the Stony Path up is a lot safer than going down.  The guards hide near the top so if they see you coming up it is a short sprint to safety.  This ground is owned by the University of California but really belongs to Lu. After jogging a quarter mile up the switch-backs we make it to the top.  Now the sun is up and the waves corduroy the horizon.  The cove foams white.  It must be over twenty feet and building. 

“Let’s head north” sighs HP

“Throw me a boro”. Says Kool

We put the boards inside the car and head to Pipes.  Pipes is a long gradual reef in North San Diego County that can be ridden right or left and the wave is fun and forgiving. Today it was a huge peak a half mile out in the ocean breaking mainly right. We chose pipes because it has a channel to paddle out in but today waves were breaking in the channel.  We hoped the rip would suck us out. Still in our wet suits we try to paddle out.

We try again and again but a rogue set would send us careening backwards into the chop.

It is still a building swell.  Mangala and Kool catch inside waves but can’t make it outside again Mangala times the sets and we try one last time. He is almost five years older than me and the extra strength of age pays off for him and he makes it outside during a lull.  We then lose sight of him and Pipes keeps firing huge rollers from way way out.  Suddenly on an inside wall Mangala screams down on his brand-new Phaser gun and kicks out early.  We cheer.  He rides two other huge waves but is caught inside on his final ride and is washed up on shore.  Back at the car He sits down and rests.

“It’s really big out there”.  He speaks

“I’m hungry” screams Kool.

The best wave in the world is Swamis.  It can hold any swell.   Today, it breaks over twenty feet on a set of reefs, reforms and turns into a five second tube ride at the point if you can make the section, then the wave backs off again into a beach break setup.  The wracks promised himself when he was older, he would surf swamis on a huge swell, but it never happened and a lot of things never happened but the Wracks is still around

The good news is that the wind is offshore.  The bad news is it getting bigger. The game plan is to find a beach that catches the huge swell least. Off we go.  Kool spies a 7-eleven store and flys in, and flys out with a big brown bag of stuff. He spits some slurpee on my shirt and says “On to Tamarack”.  The guy in the store says Tamarack will be smallest.

Tamarack is next to a boat harbor and a huge jetty wraps long south swells into lefts. We were trying to avoid the big North Swell.  Tamarack was it.  Huge lines wrapped ninety degrees into a peak breaking into the jetty.  It was breaking at less than ten feet. The forces of nature doing the unthinkable in a place out of time and out of season.  Two hours later the Wracks got cramps and had to come in.  Hp and Kool are doing very well and loving it Kool with the long flailing arms backside and HP the team rider tearing up the waves and the wracks on the beach with cramps.  I dress at the car and wait.  Exhausted, four hours later, they wash in.  I tie the boards up on top. Kool smokes and eats, smokes and eats and tosses the bag to Mangala. The van fills with smoke and heads out on the five heading north.  The Wracks lie on the long bed upside down and look out the back.  Maybe he should bring my motorcycle helmet he thinks to myself. Next time.

It is winter and the day is late and the sun turns red and sinks slowly into the west. It is not offshore anymore only glassy with slight onshore and the swell is holding.  The wracks listen to the bass profundo sound of the megaphone headers.  At the Trestle, the wracks look out from behind the curtains and see a small object falling down an immense wall at uppers never seeming to reach the bottom to turn.  He begins a long carve and his view is gone.  The sun is going down, the van roars; we reach traffic and the beginning of the zone. Kool blows smoke in Mangala’s face to keep him awake and I space out to the tunes until suicide canyon drive. Now the wracks are home

“Out you go” says HP

“I have to meet my father for dinner”.

“I have my dad’s station wagon tomorrow” croons Kool as he dances with pintail surfboard.  As mysteriously as he arrived, he left and the wracks did not see him go to or from were. He might be next door at the pink house owned by politicians.   It is night again and the crickets chirp and break up the overwhelming silence in the kingdom by the sea.  What was dinner has been put away. The little dog greets the wracks with wagging tail and he share what he can scrounge with him.  mother is out, father is working and brother is somewhere driving a VW bug.    A stereo is broken and the Wracks goes to read underneath the lamp and the little dog lays belly up on his cushion and talks to himself.  This was December in the twentieth century in the time of my early youth during the long darkness.

On Monday the Wracks sits in homeroom at eight o’clock sharp reading a Surfer Magazine.  The teacher says.

“Get rid of that magazine because Surfing is a waste of time”.

“Cut your hair, you look like a girl”.

The girl behind the Wracks tugs on his hair and says “What did you do this Weekend”?

The wracks turn around and look at her long, long dark hair hiding a halter top and miniskirt. She is the daughter of a movie star. The Wracks is not old enough to notice girls yet.

“Nothing much” he says.

Then the Wracks turns another page of Surfer magazine.

Take the early bus home from the big U says father Wracks, your mother and I are going out tonight and you have to give out Halloween candy to the children of the neighborhood. 

Yes, I will say Wracks.  I will take the four o’clock bus home, have dinner and hand out candy.

Most of the classes at the university either begin early in the morning, or occur early in the afternoon.  Why, the Wracks doesn’t know, but his labs are over at 3:50 and he will take the four o’clock bus home.   Waiting at the stop on the luxurious neighborhood adjacent to the University, the yellow bus stops and he gets on.   At the bottom of the hill, staff physicians at the University get on the bus, and it is crowded, the elite only work part time.   The wracks sit in front of the bus near the driver and occasionally talks to him, he has been traveling this route for nearly three years, and everyone is the same and knows him.  On the bus today, October 31, are a tall man in a light grey suit.  His aquiline features are defined by his eyes, large, light grey and penetrating, and he does not move much, or talk much, and his hair is brown turning grey, and he looks at the Wracks, and the Wracks doesn’t know why.   Sitting next to him is a crony with red hair and grey eyes too, in casual slacks, a white shirt and a dark blue tie.  They occasionally talk and gesture to each other.  The Wracks does not know it yet but this man will be his employer for five years in the distant future.  Mid way in Tranquil Hills, they get off, in the exclusive section, together and leave.  The Wracks is on his own and at the second to last stop for the 176, he disembarks.   The gas station is open, and the pharmacy, and the small market that changes hands has been acquired by another man.  The Wracks canters home quickly, enters and fishes a boil a bag from the freezer.   His mother is a gourmet chef, and she got tired running a bank, and now works at the Wadsworth in an official capacity.  Emptying the bag in a bowl and placing it in the microwave, in three minutes dinner is served.  Excellently prepared chicken cooked in onions, peppers and carrots is hard to beat.   His parents are on their way out, in costumes and they are going somewhere important because they don’t go out that much.

The candy is in the big plastic bowl says father Wracks.  There should be enough and at nine o’clock, set the bowl outside and call it a night. 

Good night says mom.  Happy Halloween.

They leave in a red ford Cordoba and the Wracks checks on grandma.   She says she is all right, has eaten dinner and is content watching Donnie and Marie reruns.    He closes her door.

There exists a huge elementary school at the bottom of the hill where the Wracks lives, and people live in his subdivision so their children can walk to school.  There should be ample parents at the door trick or treating tonight, and the Wracks sits on the sofa near the entrance hall with a large cache of candy, Butterfinger snack size, fun size milky way, and baby ruth too. He grabs a few and indulges himself.   He turns on the spooky orange and purple string lights outside and sits and wait.

Kids in various costumes arrive early, with their parents.  The Wracks gives each of them two candy bars, who would guess that giving is so wondrous.  Some children wear paper costumes; the newspaper offers free cut out costumes so all kids no matter their financial station can participate in the wondrous activities.  Some female children dress as princesses or queens and male children dress as monsters, pirates or adventurers.  The Wracks is having a blast.  At about seven thirty, as the world slowly darkens, another trick or treater rings the front doorbell.  It is a man, with a large hawkish nose, light grey eyes and fine, thinning, light hair.   His daughter is a beautiful child, betrothed in a royal blue dress, down to her toes, with a scepter with a star on the end.  Very fair, light grey eyes like her father, with some freckles and smiling because she knows someone loves her.  All women smile, when in life, they observe that they are loved and cherished by someone.  Women respond to affection and caring.  She dances in front of the Wracks and smiles and then curtsies.   The Wracks gives her four candy bars because she is special, special in a grey and capitalistic world.  She in her blueness, smiles, her father smiles and she is gone.  Later in night the older kids show up.  They dress as beggars, ruffians, vampires and gangsters.   They all seem to have small guns, and they point them at the Wracks and he obliges and gives them two candies.  They in their masks and guns yell “Happy Halloween”, and run off with their bags of candy.   Guns, always guns, males seem to like the masculine association and infatuation with guns.  The kids have guns and the Wracks does not question or ask if they are real.  They just are.   Then the big kids come and their dates dress as beautiful seductresses and female vampires with ruby red lips and then the flow ebbs and no one comes the door anymore, the Wracks sets the bowl outside, closes up, checks on grandma and goes to sleep.   In his small bed, underneath the window, the stars in the backyard seem to enter his bedroom and he dreams of the beautiful blue princess in the blue dress, and she smiles and dances in front of him and will be in his mind until he dies.   Another day, at the end of October comes and goes uneventfully, and he utters a prayer, before unconsciousness supervenes, that he will have a family someday, and they will go trick or treating, and his daughters will be beautiful and dress as princesses, forevermore.  He has stolen a bunch of candy bars from the bowl and he hides them underneath the mattress, so his brother doesn’t take them and his first class at the university tomorrow is biochemistry and it begins at 8 AM.

This weekend we are going to be partying with the rat pack says father Wracks.  The Kool are going to take you on yacht vacation.   We will see you when we get back.   Have a good time in Vegas says the Wracks. 

The Kool live in an exclusive housing tract up on the hill, at the top, with a good view, and their modest four-bedroom house with swimming pool and all the windows showcased with steel bars highlight the big front door built like a hatch on a submarine.   The Wracks is happy to be here because his mother thinks that Kool will make a good friend and partner because of their socioeconomic status.   Mulo is a contractor, he builds all the streets and bridges and big stuff contracted by the city.   He is a rooter at the prestigious university down town in the city of angels.   He has just bought a Columbia forty-three foot sail boat and wants to sail to Catalina. The sails are new, all nylon with a shiny look, guaranteed to last at least a year on the high seas. The winches on which the sails lash are bronze because this metal corrodes least in the salty air. At sea, in the sun, even stainless steel corrodes and ships and yachts eventually become rust buckets covered in lead paint. 

Be sure to have a spare battery that you keep at home says Mulo.   Salt air destroys everything eventually, and if you are becalmed on the open ocean without power, the current eventually takes you to south America.  Before a person sails, test the electronics on board because even the best radio transmitters only last two years before they have to be replaced.  Bring a new can of carburetor cleaner, because if a gasoline engine fouls due to the salt water, it must be disassembled and cleaned before it works again.   I am in the process of installing a diesel engine on board as a replacement.   Diesel engines do not foul and are more reliable in a salt water environment.   Pump the bilge before a sailor sets out because all boats leak and too much water in the bilge will capsize the boat in a heavy tach.   Let’s go.

The Columbia drafts at a slip on the far end of the marina.  A berth at the far end is the most expensive and desirable because it is easy to leave and arrive and a small berth inside of the marina might cause damage to the hull when the yacht arrives.   Boats have no brakes and are hard to stop once they are in motion.  The Kool family sets out with the Wracks, Kool, and the petit brown-haired daughter in fancy designer clothes all prepared for a family outing.   We are all on deck and once motored out of the marina, the shiny new nylon goes up with stainless steel cable running inside of the mast that must be replaced periodically or they will snap with the heavy stress induced by the wind.  Today is a perfect summer day around Independence and the air is a balmy seventy degrees at sea and the wind blows 5-10 miles an hour, perfect for sailing and Mulo throws Wracks the sail rope and he winches it and they set out on a new tack.   They are young and beautiful and opulent and the ship sails forward at an inclined angle and they are off to Catalina Island.  At fifteen knots, the journey to the island takes about three hours.   They and other boats are to dock at Doctor’s cove on the windward side of the island, have a party, stay the night and then sail home.   Doctor’s cove is a dent on the far side of the island, somewhat protected from the wind where all sailors choose to land and a harbor has been built there with mooring for boats under one hundred feet in length.    Once a lanyard attaches the ship to a cleat on the mooring, the party have a lunch of chips, a can of Coke and a shard of beef jerky, a usual sailor feasts.  Kool junior challenges the Wracks to a swim race across the harbor.  The water here is deep, offshore, not like the mainland, and the two swim like a man possessed in the deep water so the huge sharks that lurk offshore don’t take them.   Kool wins and hoists himself up on the wharf, the Wracks follows and they go to explore the campground set in a strange, secluded place away from the scrutinizing eyes of the law.   Small benches abound onshore around a huge fire pit and a pit lavatory stuck in the dirt and painted light blue. 

It is night time and at least five other yachts arrive under cover of the dark.   It is time to gather around the campfire, drink, sing songs and be social with one another.   One of the sailors pass a parcel to Mulo.   The parcel is about one foot long by one half foot wide.  Sewn over the parcel, professionally is a cloth coat in green.  Mulo accepts the parcel with a smile.  As night draws to a close and the campfire slowly burns out, everyone exits to their boats, the kids wave goodbye, and the Wracks goes to sleep in his sleeping bag on deck.  Mulo, with the parcel, places it in a metal housing torpedo canister with a nylon rope line attached to a ring on the nose and tosses it starboard off the back side of the boat.  The stars in the summer, in the northern hemisphere, sparkle and glimmer and glow.  Sleep, so ubiquitous, so Dearing, so forgiving overtakes a young sailor in the dawn of an age during the great darkness.  

In the morning, with the sun slowly coming up, the Wracks arises and pees off the side of the boat which is a fashion among boaters, the girls use a privy or wade into the water to go.   Breakfast being a fruit rollup and a grape soda, the adults cluster in a group and talk and the children play, the day moves on and it is time to go.  With the wind prevailing in a westerly direction, the return should be fast, about two or maybe two and a half hours.   Anchors aweigh and with the carburetor cleaner sprayed in the intake of the engine, the boats slowly disengage from the Doctors Cove and begin the return to the mainland.  With the white and red and green sails up, and the line winched the boat accelerates eastward to the coast.   A new swell happens and a three-foot chop make the ship arise and fall as a light wind pushes the sailors back home.

Mulo and Kool junior play backgammon in the forward cabin and the wracks gets to steer, in an easterly direction, making certain the direction makes the sails stay full.   Soon enough they enter the entrance to the Marina and Mulo starts the cruise engine to bring the ship safely past the breakwater to the slips at a predesignated speed set by the coast guard.   Late afternoon slides in, and the sun begins to set in a beautiful and enticing way and the yacht moor again in the most forward slip.   Wracks set the cushions out, jumps off the ship, Kool junior throws the line to him and he secures it. Mulo opens the engine hatch and takes out the battery, puts it in a case and brings it with him up into the marina.

Don’t forget to always have a new battery, on the ocean your life depends on it, says Mulo.

The sun sets, obscurity moves in, the sailors walk to the parking lot and enter a gold jaguar xke with a six-cylinder engine and the Wracks gets to sit in the back with Kool Juniors sister.  Out of the corner of his eye, and it gets his attention, two people move to the far slip and fish the torpedo like canister out of the ocean behind the boat, cut the line, and put it in a knapsack they toss over their back.   They move under cover of the dark, and they are white and have blond hair.   They walk down the passway, ascend the gang plank, move to the marina club building and then they are gone.

A Jaguar xke is a fast car.   Kool Junior stole it one day from his mother and he and the Wracks got it to go 110 up a hill.   The Wracks thought he would see his maker that day and the surf was flat and there was nothing else to do.  The Kool drop the Wracks off at his house on Bacon way and wave goodbye.  The Wracks is happy because his parents are back from Vegas.   The house across the street seems vacant and the woman there occasionally comes out.  The garage door opens; she drives away and then the door closes.   A long time ago, somewhere, perhaps, this all happens, and it happens every year, and the Wracks is old now and lives to tell the tale of life in the fast lane. 

No one talks about government.  Are they too scared?  Are they uneducated and accept what they are given?   Let us peruse forms of government in a nutshell however inadequate it may be.

The first arising and primary form of government is Monarchy or Elitist matrix.   A king or queen has a family a line of succession, and a bunch of loyal friends who form the elite.  The advantages of a Monarchy are:

Line of succession

              Everyone knows who will be king or at least next in line, there exists no guesswork

Military line of command

              Once a king makes a move, things happen fast.   There is no quibbling and what must get done, gets done or heads start to roll

Historical relevance

              Monarchies have been around quite a long time, from the pharaohs to the Greeks upward up to now.  They seem to work and work well.

The downsides of monarchies are:

The elite tribe becomes innumerable.

              The relatives of the monarchy family multiply rapidly because they don’t have to work.  They sit around and rule and fornicate. 

The royal line becomes tyrannical weaklings

              All the wealthy criminals, and the wealthy families with inborn errors of metabolism move in propinquity to marry into the royal line, and the royal line inbreeds and becomes weak, corrupt and evil.  The weak rulers are easy to punch out because of the horrendous breeding and inbreeding, so they decree all violence a felony to protect themselves. If the people insist upon a monarchy, they must have a strict and stringent breeding policy.

The people

              As the world multiplies, the people resent the taxation and support of the numerous royals.  If one remembers, the king’s fifth or twenty percent commission is tagged on every transaction that occurs in the realm.   The people eventually notice the elite live in decadent luxury and the poor live in apartments with high rents.  Then there occur a revolution and the monarchy ends

Communism

The most beautiful concept of Trotsky, Marx and Lenin plain and simple does not work with human beings.   Everyone is employed each according to his gifts and aptitude and the people share the bounty and the deficit of a homogenous united people.   This altruistic concept slowly becomes criminal.  The only people allowed to work have communist party cards and all communists must marry inside the party.  Inbreeding occurs and all members eventually become blonder and blonder until the communist rule becomes a monarchy and the regime falls into the cyclic cryptic epoch.   The communist party becomes elitist with all its gifts and failings.  The only people to make communism work are the Chinese.

What are we the outcasts of western civilization who united with the American Indian become a great nation.   We run a democracy.

Democracy

A democracy is literally the rule of the people.   Everyone who educates themselves, works hard, has a family, has the chance to be president if they play their cards right.   Like the magna carta, a democracy splits into three parts, the people, the financiers and the executive class.

The people

It is us, the ones who fight for our country and build the sewers who own the country.   The executives cannot start a war without the consent of the people because it is us the working class who are blown to bits on the front line and die for our country.  No one else. 

The financiers and judges

These elected officials are well educated and inclined to steer the economy and most importantly, stop the executive class from going haywire.  A president cannot declare war unless the people demand it and the judicial class deems it feasible.  With the people’s consent, the speaker of the house has the right to place the president under arrest until judged by the supreme court!  

The executive class

The best job in the country, the presidency is awarded to elected officials who demonstrate exceptional aptitude and excellent leadership qualities AND demonstrate a will to help and benefit the electorate.  The president chooses what financial tact to take and like a great manager and supervisor, hires special people to enforce his or her whims.   A good president can make or break a nation by his actions.  A president is commander and chief of the armed forces and can set the violence of the nation and the dogs of war on anyone for a period of 90 days.  Then the people get their say.   The checks and balances of the trifecta democratic system establish a union that functions adequately.

Deficits of a Democracy

Wasteful

A whole bunch of people must be hired, housed, and fed to make the machine work.  Democracy is not a single throne room with a round table.   It is a lot of educated electorates arguing and hopefully constructing a business unit that functions in the green. 

Slow

One thing psychologist notice about people is that they do not agree.  The representatives and senators argue and carry on and eventually vote to get something done and this takes a lot of time.   A democracy is not a throne with the king raising his scepter and declaring an act law.  

If the country is being attacked by an aggressor, this slowness can prove to be a lethal disadvantage.

Inefficient

The three separate branches of argue constantly and ultimately sometimes, action requires an act of marriage or a payoff and this is us a democracy.  

Psychotic

People do crazy things.  Who is the singer who sang, “God is great, beer is good and people are crazy”.    We the people, in times of distress, fall back on the good book and yell “Under God we trust” Our lord, the French and the Indians lived for two hundred years in harmony before they came.    When did we cease to demand that the national anthem being spoken as a prayer before public schooling?   Who are the people who omitted the maker and his teachings from our civilization when it was, he alone that started it.  

THE DEMOCRATIC SYSTEM IS THE WORST SYSTEM OF GOVERNMENT, BUT IT IS THE ONLY ONE THAT IS FAIR TO ALL PEOPLE

Everyone can be someone and make a difference, no matter race or creed if he or she is willing to work hard and educate themselves.   Anyone in the United States can achieve adulthood and earn an AS degree from a community college for a paltry sum.   The boys can go surfing, or shoot guns and our beautiful women can prance about in bikinis.  All nations under God, indivisible, produce extremely beautiful women.   If a traveler goes to a place with ugly women, they are in a place of unholiness and despair.   We the people must be doing something right and the author must be mindful, that no one can argue with success.  If someone, extravagantly educated has a better way or plan, everyone wants to hear about it.  To err is human, and godliness divine.   Mao.

A democracy is the only fair system of governance defined.

With a two trillion deficit looming and half the world living off the treasury of the United States, the New President wants to eliminate debt and stimulate industry in the continental forty.   The former president saw it fit to double the cost of food to minimize the outgo and stimulate the income.  What is the right tact to take?  Do we need tariffs?

A tariff is an additional sum attached to imported goods to bring more money to the government.  Ostentatiously, a tariff decreases purchase of the import item to stimulate intrinsic industries in the country.   Maybe a tariff is not the answer to budget deficit, all great nations are destroyed from within, like the Roman Empire.  The concept of outsourcing, to generate the most net income on the corporate income statement, which of course stimulates the stock market, is the ultimate destruction of heavy industry in the environs and it starves the people of the country who have no jobs.   Outsourcing on paper is fantastic, greater profit, helping other nations, a more bounteous product supply in supply demand, and the economic indices look good.   What outsourcing really does is augment the money supply of the wealthy.  Foreign countries use slave labor and sweat shops to produce products, the people in these countries do not have unions, or social security for that matter and cheap products flood the industrialized nations that formed them.   All the net income from these ventures realized by foreign countries goes to wealthy war lords who once they have raped their own people, buy houses in Bel Air California, or San Diego, or San Francisco, and move their families there to become United States Citizens.  Furthermore, the continuous supply of container ships flooding our country with foreign goods also bring a plethora of contraband, which the wealthy sell privately at their own discretion.  In addition, the altruistic politicians who promote outsourcing and a global economy receive kickbacks and graft from the warlords who have helped them destroy the economic climate of the United States.  It becomes quite easy to catch these patriotic, virtuous people.  Bank accounts in foreign countries or banana republics swell with cash from the corruption and are ripe for the plucking.   AYE MATEY.  It must be time to parlay, says Morgan the pirate.    

The United States Navy have the odious duty of keeping the peace in the world for nothing.  It is time an intrepid president have them board container ships, ask for a manifest and hunt for contraband.   According to the law of the seven seas, all contraband becomes property of the nation that patrols its waters and this is federal, not amenable to a stately civil suit.   Avast, awash and adrift all sailors who refuse to obey pirate law.   Our navy which exists to serve and protect will now bolster our economy by seizing illegal cargo and adding it to the nation’s coffers. All foreign bank accounts will pay an end user tax on all deposits leaving foreign nations and entering the United States.   If the offshore accounts fail to accommodate, they will be seized digitally online, by VPN by happy elves who serve their country in an FBI paycheck.   It is all computer now and future presidents must be savvy in the ways intelligent computer scientists can equalize a situation out-of-hand. 

The people who work an hourly job and maintain the infrastructure of our country deserve a break.  The people who die for our country in the jungle or in the trenches deserve a good life for their families and children.  This country is theirs, not the property of the 20 percent.    United States workers have unions, to make sure they receive a decent wage, other nations do not. United States workers pay SSI and income tax on their hourly wage and provide the majority of the TAX BASE that feeds the economy, other nations do not.   United States workers need to be employed; to be paid so they can purchase the latest electronic gizmo.   United States workers want to send their children to college, so they too might become president.  American industry is great, good quality and industrious.  Heavy industries must be subsidized no matter the cash flow statement.  We are what we are because we made it so.  Just because someone is well educated does not mean they are religious, moral and righteous.   All Americans must remember what is written on our money to remind us, In God we trust, not atheists who run sweat shops in the jungle and perpetrate illicit things. 

Could it be this Democrat, once a stalwart republican, has seen God?   No!  Economic reality is a function of the integral of cash flow taken between two points of time.  It is all math and the numbers point to a virtuous America who think of themselves first for once in our lives.

MAKE AMERICA GREAT ONCE AGAIN.

Pirate all the foreign lackeys and take the booty for ourselves, our country and our faith. 

Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest, yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.

They tell me I have always been in

Partake of original sin

Don’t tell where you have ever been

Let it out

Let it in

Let it out

Wake up in a wonderful dream

Displayed in a picture magazine

She says she is part of a team

Let it out

Let it in

Let it out

All endeavor in human society are shades of grey.   Justice is black and white.   What does this mean and how does it fit in?  The administration employs judges to administer statutory and constitutional law.  Why does Justice need human beings?   In the computer era, statutory laws and their decree are bound in a book in black and white.   The constitution, which is nothing more than the Magna Carta of 1066 festooned and elaborated by intrepid colonists basically forced to emigrate from their mother country, is the substance etched in stone for all future generations, to follow.  Why not enter statutory law into the hard drive of a computer, a page can’t occupy more than 16kb of space.  Now storage is upwards of terabytes of electronic space.  After statutory law enters into hard drive 0, the constitution and the bill of rights enter into a second hard drive 1:  the storage can be mirrored into raid 0 or one, and AI can sentence offenders to the punishment they will receive for crossing Justice.  At time she is not so nice.   We will have a computer to judge human beings and kill them or take away their lives incarcerated.  No! No! No!

A computer is intrinsically evil and has no SOUL!

A judge has a soul.  He or she is a human being, Human beings have failings.  Personality is shades of grey.  Theoretically, a judge is a highly intelligent human being with rigorous ethical training whose job it is to administer justice for the benefit of the nation.  Judges have a law degree and sit on the bar.  Don’t waste your time to hurt a Judge, they are on our side.   Judges see that crime has:

 personal antecedents

                            Situational stresses

                            Social pressures

                            Racial predispositions

                            Intrinsic proportion

                            And more

A crime might be necessary for the betterment of the local people it affects.   The pope of the catholic church once told his followers that:  before you sentence a person to death, walk a mile in their shoes and you will understand.    At the final reckoning, Jesus and all the prophets will have the highlights of everyone’s life on a thumb drive and this will be displayed to all at the time of judgement. Then you will be judged Remember a file contains 16 Kb of information and a high-resolution picture 50 megabytes.   God can accrue unlimited storage.   In the end God will judge so do not be obsessed in a mortal life with Justice, she is not a groupie anyway, pass on the judgement and get on with life. 

Sometimes I don’t really see

Sail a ship on a westward lee

Together with a flagon of Mead

Let it out

Let it in

Let it out

The second amendment of the bill of rights states, “a well regulated Milita is necessary, and the right to bear firearms shall not be infringed”.   The reason for this right is because historically, criminals or political factions periodically try to seize land or power and turn then society into an elitist feudal system.   We the people, for our hard work deserve the privilege to protect ourselves and our families from intrusions by force.  What are reasonable and constitutional limitations on this right to enable our nation to function peacefully?

Gun aficionados decry all attempts to limit firearm ownership because the construction of firearms is one of the most profitable of businesses, and ammunition companies never go bankrupt.   No matter what anyone says, it is the pursuit of the good old American buck that drives commercial capitalism.   What can we the people do to limit extremists from disrupting our beautiful nation given to us by God to live in harmony with the rightful owners of the nation: the American Indian? 

No military hardware may be owned or possessed.

Civilians do not have the right to own weapons of destruction designed to kill humans in mass quantities.   Machine guns, assault rifles designed to shoot someone at 500 yards, flying bombs or artillery are special weapons designed for the people willing to fight for our nation and no one else.   Any warrior knows, that the possession of advanced weapons enables the user to a decisive advantage in armed conflict.   The police should be armed with assault rifles, rocket grenades, and any ordinance that gives them advantage over sophisticated criminals.   A platoon of well-trained marines with appropriate ordinance can command a city!  There exists very little defense against a criminal armed with an assault rifle with armor penetrating bullets.   These perpetrators need to be blasted to kingdom come.   A 50 caliber BMG rifle can reach out to amazing distances, and a criminal can shoot down police helicopters and commercial aircraft coming in for landing.  Why do they sell them?  It is the money.

All special weapons owned by collectors must pay a yearly fee to the government to possess them and all weapons characterized and placed in a database.  

Good old Yankee ingenuity enables people to modify civilian weapons for a variety of purposes,

Examples of these are:

Machine gun switches for Glock handguns

Long or drum magazines that fit into civilian weapons

Short barrels that enable capitalists to list their assault rifles as civilian handguns

Foldable or replaceable stocks that enable a machine gun to be classified as a rifle

Plastic weapons that enable the user to classify them as a toy.

These machinations are only main examples of what a devious human mind can come up with, this armchair warrior knows there are many more, many of which are not to be discussed in public. 

22 rimfire firearms

The 22 rimfire has taken over the world by storm.  The ammunition is extremely cheap to produce.   Fathers give their teenage sons a 22 rifle to play with.   Most firearm accidents are caused by negligent discharge of a 22 rimfire weapon by citizens under the age of 21.   A 22 rimfire bullet unless it hits a vital area only incapacitates and does not kill.   A person can be shot by a 22 long rifle cartridge in the lower part of the face and the bullet will only stick in the skull and cannot be removed by anything less than brain surgery.   If a person is struck by a 22 long rifle rimfire in the head and they wake up, they have a bullet in their head for the rest of their life.  A .17 Hornady bullet shot into the abdomen only produces intense pain because it goes through the body and if it misses the aorta, Surgeons want to do an exploratory laparotomy to search for the missile head.   This is a lose lose scenario.   The upper class regularly shoot the 80 percent to extract revenge and they get away with it.   A Ruger 10-22 rifle with a drum magazine and chambered in 22 magnum rimfire makes a dandy assault rifle and is accurate up to 300 yards, and all the upper class possess them if the state has declared assault rifles illegal.  Why does all this happen?   The 22 rimfire gun is extremely cheap to produce and the ammunition so economical, that even an unemployed derelict can own or possess one.  For the good of all mankind, GET RID OF THE 22 RIMFIRE AND MAKE THEM ILLEGAL.   Ivory tower iconoclasts in a suit that spends two hours a day at a restaurant, have you ever been shot?

Many men are gun aficionados; women usually are not.  Would it be proper procedure and etiquette to have state governors organize a Milita so males can shoot military ordinance?  Men would meet two or three times a year and be trained and be supervised by professional soldiers who have dedicated their lives to the protection of our country.   Should this be so?

Firearms rules can be very simple.  The people that benefit economically from firearm manufacture do not want it to be so.  Have you ever been shot?

NO CIVILIAN CAN OWN A FIREARM WITH ANY CHARACTERISTICS OF MILITARY ORDINANCE,

A civilian can own a handgun of any configuration with a small magazine

A civilian can own a high-power rifle bolt action or an autoloader rifle with an intrinsic magazine of limited capacity, No substitutions., 

Any deviations from these actions are considered a federal offense and subject to incarceration in a federal maximum-security prison. 

The reason for this rant and spew is the author wants policemen to survive and with their families, put in their twenty years, get a pension and educate their children, Amen.