Otis

You were that clumbsy Pup, who had his left eye chewed by your Mother. It made you look like you were winking. God, you were gangly; the only Dog I've ever known, who I could trip! That was so funny. You'd get angry and jump at me. You always wanted to play--always! Your huge, fanged jaws would make my hand disappear. You could have snapped my hand off withour a thought, but your gentle, playful spirit never made you angry.
We were so fearful for you when you were arrested by the cops. You were lost in the big world. We found out that you opened the door to the hospital emergency room. Nurses ran you out, but you stepped on the automatic door opener, and went back in!
Jesus Otis, they were trying to take care of patients! It's no wonder you were arrested, and fined, in court, as a "Dog at large". Niney one bucks that cost me, buddy!
You grew. God, you were beautiful. You came to look like a race horse when you galloped around the yard. It was so pleasurable to watch you. You would come up and sit by me on the picnic table. If I stared at you, you'd become self conscious and nip at my hand. but, you always ended up licking my face. I didn't care because I loved you.

When "Tank" joined you in the yard, you became instant friends. For the next four years, you two were inseparable. Remember, you were ten years old and he was a Pup. You became his protective, big brother. I would come out in the morning and there you two would be, laying together. You both vied for our attention, but you always gave the immature "Tank" a break for attention. You were always generous with affection.
When "Tank" suddenly died of a tumor, you grieved, walking the fence line, looking for your little pal. I've never seen anything like that. Soon, it was you who was in trouble. I know. We all missed "Tank", but you could not get over the loss.
Now the yard is empty, except for a your straw, winter home under the porch, and a ton of great memories.
I don't care about the ninrty one dollars, Otis. I'd give anything to see you and "Tank" again.

Good Bye big boy. I love you.

George W Bush has got to be the dumbest president we’ve ever had. But good lord, the great comedy! The man is a riot! Oy ve’ he should take his show to the Catskills! He’s up there with Vladimir Putin, of Russian KGB fame. Obviously, as everyone can see, this Bush boy is overmatched. He rails about the democracy he’s creating in Iraq. Man, this kid has more guts than a slaughter house! So he feeds Putin the line about bringing that style of democracy to Russia. Ba-da boom! Putin takes the little Putz’s line.
“We certainly don’t want the kind of democracy they have in Iraq!” Putin says with a rye Russian smile. Riotous laughter breaks out! It was one of those golden moments of sheer stupidity that GW is so famous for! No wonder they had to rig the voting machines in Ohio, New Mexico, Florida (again!), and Michigan. Otherwise this idiot wouldn’t, couldn’t, get elected to host the Taliban in Texas (in 2000), or even to be business partners with Osama’s brother, Salem bin Laden (that was probably rigged also). No wonder they let bin Laden planes fly after 9-11! This was big oil business, in America!
Rigging the Diebold voting machines (Bush financial supporters) was money well-spent. Otherwise we wouldn’t have all this comedy.
And how about that Jack Abramoff! Isn’t he a hoot? What amazes me is how cheap he bought these people for; 5,000 bucks and hey, you’re in! Bob Ney (of Ohio, too?), danced for a song. Man, you can buy Tom Delay, Bush pal Roy Blunt, and throw in Ralph Reed, one of those ornery Christian Coalition boys. And you thought those Christian Coalition boys were honest! Hey, fooled ya’, peek a-boo! Now, they did screw Indian tribes out of millions. Hey, now that’s not funny! Ralph Reed? Christian Coalition? Gambling casinos? Ooooh, stinky boy!
But like all good things, this will come to an end. God, I’m going to miss the comedy of these creeps! Hey, remember CREEP, the “committee to reelect the president” (Nixon)? I wax nostalgic.

How about some music! Hey sweetie, put on "Devil with the blue dress" again! Weren't those great days?

This is a letter I wrote to our local paper in responce to another's letter. We have a religious debate going on. We all have our views. I am damn glad we do!

Concerning Annette Pollpeter’s very considerate letter of 7-17 (“basic facts”).
Your ‘facts’ about adult stem cell research are correct; no one doubts this thirty year old, well funded, research. Yes, placentas, umbilical cord, and cord blood etc, should be fully used in this research. To GW Bush’s credit (a grudging thing), he has authorized federal funds for this research. So I’m puzzled by your animosity towards human embryo research. I assume your objection to be Senate bill S-810: the use of embryonic stem cell research, gleaned from human embryos, at fertilization clinics, now being debated before the Senate. There is the possibility of two moral goods being done in the fertilization clinics. These embryos are an answer, a gift, for those who cannot bare children. They allow women, who are unable conceive, to become that greatest of humans-the Mother. When the donators of these embryos no longer need them, or no longer want their embryos used by these clinics, they are thrown away! Moral or not, they are destroyed!
Now we get into a sticky area (well, for me anyway). Wouldn’t it be a more moral good (I’m using the word “moral” way too much!), to put these embryos into research that could possibly alleviate the suffering people incur from debilitating diseases, such as Alzheimer’s, ALS, and (like myself0, Cancer. I know that adult stem cells are a great tool in research. So far ASCR has not helped ALS, or Alzheimer’s sufferers. These embryos provide another tool, to help in research; they do not compete; they work in tandem with ASCR. So why the Objection?
Oh oh! it’s that religious thing, isn’t it? At the risk of receiving another of those packet pleas for money from the Holmans, is it more moral to allow these embryos to be thrown away? No matter what your opinion of the fertilization clinics, they do provide a very moral, life-giving, service (Okay Holmans, you have two days to get that mailing off!).
Religious belief is for each human being to decide. I have a God. My God is loving, and wants human beings to love each other. Even the Holmans have no power over that! It’s right there, in the Constitution! For myself, I find it reprehensible to eat Otter meat. My God! (pardon the pun), who would eat a fun-loving Otter anyway? I feel this because my God has cleared the path for me to come back, in my next life, as an Otter. Hey, we all have our ‘packets’!
Sam Brownback, a scary dude from Kansas, says those embryos are human lives. Possible, but they must have a natural vehicle to be ‘brought to term’. To me, they are not human, until they are human. Man, am I going to catch hell (pardon the pun) for that one!
The point of S-810 is that they are going to destroy these embryos anyway; why not use them for a common good to help good people. Why not let them become a viable means of research. In addition to adult stem cell research, what could be more moral? Under S-810, the donators have to give their written consent to have their embryos used for research.
Annette says that human “embryonic stem cells (research) have never cured one disease, not even one”. Compared to ASCR, embryonic research is an infant. Well, in its infancy, I am sure adult stem cell research took a while to be successful. Research is not a cure, to begin with; it is research for a cure.
We all live in the world together. No matter the religious belief, why not help each other; why not care about each other? I don’t have Alzheimer’s, but I can’t, for the life of me, remember why I go out to the garage! (For a hammer, I think!) If I do get it, I want ALL of the tools to be there! Bless you Annette; you’re thoughts, and words, come from goodness.
Joseph Coleman

My life as a soldier: “Well I’ll be damned, another day!”

If you're expecting heroism, or gallantry, forget it! It was more like sex, drugs, and rock and roll! Not everybody can be a hero! There's always room for clowns.

On August 8, 1966, my “friends and neighbors” wrote me a letter, from the local draft board, indicating they wanted me to defend them in the military service of the United States of America. That’s how I got on that plane that flew over the International dateline, at midnight, of April 16, 1967, on our way to Tokyo Japan. That’s how I lost April 17, 1967; that day in my life did not exist. I think I got a day back when I lived July 9, 1968 twice, as I crossed back over, while coming back home. It’s kind of weird when you think about that.
During a brief stay at Tachicawa Air base, in Tokyo, I had the first good meal while in the Army. It was a buffet in the Air Force cafeteria. We were eating, when an fly-boy came through with the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. I could tell she was Japanese-American. The combination was striking.
We boarded another, pretty damn scary, airplane, for the trip to Korea. When you can look out and see the airplane’s wings flap, it’s pretty unnerving. You might know I would get one of the few window on this plane! It was military transport, so comfort wasn’t any part of its service. But, it did land. We landed at Inchon Airport, Korea late, on April 18th. When the doors of the airplane lifted and I took my first step out, into the air of Korea, a sudden shock raged in my nostrils! I smelled urine, and freshly fertilized Rice paddies, mixed with something else; it was something sweet. It didn’t exactly have that outhouse smell to it so, as the days passed, the senses became use to it and, before long, it was indistinguishable.

“Well here I am,” I thought to myself, as we traipsed, slowly, down the folding ladder, with our duffel bags over the shoulder. “I am in Korea!” The first few steps I took on the ground were a weird combination of relief that I was finally here, and the finality of being here. My first plane flights were over; I was in one piece, and there was no going back. We were met, cordially, and shown to our reception center. The greeting surprised me for some reason. Previously, this center was called the detention center; now it was a reception station; that was almost courteous! There were no screaming Drill Instructors, no name calling, or harassment of any kind, no herding us like cattle onto the butcher block; it was like, suddenly, we were considered human beings!
We got to a reception station and were issued a pillow, and a sleeping bag full of Crabs! Yes– those Crabs! The very first barracks-mates I got to know in Korea, were the Crabs I got from my sleeping bag. I want you to imagine how, absolutely, frightening it is to be invaded by these minute little beasts! And, in an area that every man is sworn to protect against any and all ill-mannered intrusions.
Good God, I had the Crabs! You know how they got their name don’t you? Yes, that’s right! They look like miniature Crabs, right down to the tormenting pinchers they have! You know it’s kind of hard to sleep when little animals are digging at your skin constantly! And they’re partying right on top of your family stuff! I didn’t realize that I could have gone to headquarters company, and gotten that taken care of, so I suffered through it. When I got to my unit, I would check it out. We were jeeped to C Company, 1st & 17th Infantry, 7th Army, where they issued me a can of Crab powder! Oh, the inhumanity! I doused those little bastards to their deaths. It was then that I discovered Crabs were a pretty common experience in Korea! We hauled a bunk down to the barracks I was to live in for the next thirteen months.

The only place for my bunk at that time, was right next to a stacked bunk. My first night in my new unit was very quiet, until around 2 am. I heard this strange sound. People were throwing this body on the top bunk next to me. I heard them say something like: “That’s four times this week; fuckin’ Beardon’s gonna end up a KIA (killed in action). It must have been 2:30 or 3:00, when Billy Beardon rolled over on his bunk, and came flopping down on top of me.
Thank God, “Billy” Beardon only weighed 120 pounds. Otherwise, when he fell on top of me from his upper bunk, on my first night at my unit, in Korea, he may have done me serious damage. This was my first introduction to a little guy who, among many others, made my stay in Korea much easier. When I think back on my service, the constant humor comes to mind more than anything else. Granted, the Viet Nam conflict was a raging, death-filled, excursion into political, and military, folly. I felt compassion for all the guys who suffered in that quagmire, but, this was peacetime in Korea. There wasn’t much shooting anymore.
Two guys rushed over to lift Beardon’s deadened body off of me. They hustled me to the top bunk and left Beardon lay in a stupor, on my bunk.

April 21, 1967–Kamp Kaiser, Korea.
The next day I was shining my boots, when Beardon came up and apologized for falling on top of me the night before.
“Man, I got drunker ‘n hell last night!” he said.
“Had fun last night huh?” I kept my eyes on the boots.
“O hell yeah!” Beardon got excited, “wait til you go to the Vill, man. It’s great. Anybody can get fucked down in the Vill!”
“Yeah,” another guy yelled, “even Beardon can get laid!” laughter dressed the moment.
A Korean man came up to me. He got into a crouch as he talked.
“I am Kim,” he said. “I will be your house boy, fo five dollars a month. I shine your shoes, laundry, and straighten up your area.” I looked around the barracks. George Bonebrake nodded at me to go ahead and do it.
“Kim’s the best,” he said. I gave him five dollars and my boots. He smiled. Kim An Shu was to become a very good friend of mine.
When my two weeks restriction was over, I dressed up for my first trip to the Vill (Unchonni, the village). As we walked down to the village, I was extremely excited. Beardon, George Bonebrake, Bob Dare, and I went to the village that night.
They showed me to “our club”, the Georgie Club. It seemed every company had there own club. If a stranger strayed into another unit’s club, they were watched closely, and were made to feel very uncomfortable. This was especially true if they took one of there club’s girl to her Hooch! We got to the Georgie Club at about 7:00 pm. I was sitting at the bar, when a girl came up to me.
“You buy me OB?” she asked.
“Pardon me?” I was confused. The bartender, a guy named Charlie, pointed to the label on the beer bottle. It said “OB” (Oriental beer).
“Sure, I’ll buy you a beer. I’ll have one too,” I smiled at her. I put a 100 won bill on the bar (it was worth about $1.36). I told him to keep it.
“My name is Julie,” she said. “What your name?”
“Julie,” I said, “that’s an American name.” I quizzed her.
“We take American girl name to make soldier feel at home,” she answered. I mulled that over; there was no way I was ever going to feel at home. That feeling would soon change. She was a pretty girl though, with a great smile. I was always attracted by Oriental girls. I think it was their eyes, and skin color. This one’s eyes were not extremely narrow, so she looked very good from a profile. Her nose was perfect, with a sharper tip than most of these girls. I suspected she was mixed, which was fine with me. She seemed very intelligent, although her talk eliminated certain words.
“You are new soldier. You just get here?” she asked. She had a softened voice, that was sultry.
“Yeah I’ve been here for three weeks,” I answered.
“We finish drink, you want to see my hooch?” I, immediately, became erect! This was so cool, having the girl take the aggressive lead. There was no hustle to it. Man, I was going to like this. We walked a very narrow path the snaked back into the edge of the village. She took my hand and led me into a square with little, thatched roof apartments. At the center of the square was a water pump. We went into her room. It was warm and softly lit. I saw, almost immediately, her book shelf. I pulled our “The Good Earth”, by Pearl Buck. I looked at her.
“You read a lot?” I asked her.
“I read as much as I can to learn your ways,” I was already removing her dress. “I love Hemingway, and John Steinbeck.” This was a girl after my own heart. She came to me in her panties. She undid the buttons of my shirt. I reached up to help her; she stopped me.
“No,” she said softly, “I will do everything. You lay down.” I obeyed her, reverently. She pulled my shorts off. It didn’t care who, or what, she was; I was ready to fuck! I didn’t want to make love; I wanted to fuck! She climbed on top of me and began stroking me, rhythmically. I was trying to think about something else because I was dangerously ready to blow my cookies right then, and there!
“Stainbeck, Stenbeck,” I kept thinking to myself. She likes good reading; she’s intelligent; she’s well-read; she’s a HELL OF A FUCK!” Boom I blew my rocks all over her insides. “Damn it!” I thought, “that sure didn’t do anything for her!” She smiled at me and put her head on my shoulder.
“Your first time in a while?” she asked.
“God, it’s been months!” I answered. “I can’t tell you how good it feels.” she got up and grabbed a small book from the shelf. In the low, warm light, I saw the shape of her nakedness. She had a very trimmed body with terrific curves. Her breasts weren’t big, but had a firm handful look. Actually, she had a great looking body. I lay there, openly naked, as she came back with the book. It felt to comfortable that I didn’t care that I had nothing on; she made me feel that way.
“Selected poems” the book was entitled.
“You read to me, poems?” I took the book. I chose Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s “A psalm of life”.
“Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime
And departing, leave behind us
Footprints in the sands of time.”

I attempted to read it as dramatically as I could. She was impressed with me reading, to hear the words so clearly.
“I cannot speak like American,” she touched my chest. “You read so well.” she didn’t realize that I had flunked English three times in high school. But her hand on my chest stirred up my arousal. She slid her hand down to my penis. It was, raging and hard; that boy wanted inside of her again! We made love this time. I really felt connected. I had become aware of the dangers that others had fallen into. Sometimes guys get involved because they haven’t had sex for so long that they fall for these girls, and want to take them hone with them. There was a huge history in the failure of these relationships. I could see how guys could get hooked on the girls. I was hooked tonight. This girl really had me attracted.

End of part 1
Part 2: Goin’ to Unchonni-goin’ to get those VD blues.

joesblog6

Tuesday May 30, 2006

A memorial day.

I never knew my Father. He was killed on Iwo Jima, February 19, 1945. I was just a wee Irish lad, two and a half years old. I had to depend on the goodness of others to learn about my Father. There were, of course, my beautiful Sisters who held a picture of my young father up to my face, comparing the striking resemblance. But my Mother was the main source of his legend.
“I couldn’t help but love him,” she would say. “Our lives together were happy, and fun.”
When my Mother spoke sober, she refused to condemn his devil-may-care attitude. But late at night, with a few 'pops' in her, we would often hear her, in the kitchen, cussing at him for leaving her alone.
When I was arrested by the police, for breaking and entering, the guy who arrested me leaned back across the seat and began talking about my Father.
“Damn, he had five children!” Jack Johnson said. “He had no business going into the war! I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t listen!”
All the way down to the police station, on one of the worse days of my life, Lieutenant Jack Johnson talked about my Father. I knew, by the way he talked, that he loved my Dad. On that day, Jack was going in, and my Father wanted to go in with the rest of those guys.

My Dad’s sister, Florence, would send me pictures of their childhood together. They were like everybody else. They made mistakes, and sometimes they did things that were good. Life teaches us to learn. He was voted “Most likable” in high school; he was also voted “Most friendly”. (Aren’t they the same thing?). I really felt his life for the first time.

When I turned 18, my Aunt sent the package! (I never quite understood why my Mother didn't get these things! She wouldn't tell me!).
It had his letters to home, a watch he wore, his dog tags, an inscribed crucifix, and a small, flat, box. I opened it. There, embraced within a soft, aged, velvet nest of cloth, was my Father’s Purple Heart!
There are so few times when an emotional experience so overcomes you, that the tears flow so sudden, that you hope for the silence of anonymity, for fear of showing such a flood of emotion. A man isn’t supposed to cry.
For a long time, I felt the medal, and the watch, and his Crucifix. This was the closest I would come to being with him.
He was my Father; I was his only remaining son.

All during my hoodlum days, I gave little thought to what he did for us.
When my Mother died, I found his letters to her. They were filled with the life he lived. From the time he got rolled in San Diego, and someone stole his teeth (Teeth!); to the times he was carried, in a drunken stupor, back to the ship by his friends; to the Island where they went, just before the invasion. The letters, later released because of censorship, expressed the notion that, “We were going somewhere big,”. Up until those moments, I hadn’t given much thought to what he called, 'Our Lives!'.
In his letters, I read about Diana; there were references to Kay; he talked about ‘Sonny’, and Bubba Pete. Then I came upon this, “Little Jody”.
My God, that was me! I was his son; he was my Father.

I guess in the day-to-day struggle to survive, we go about trying to keep some reasonable sense of who we are, and what we do. In the end, we want to stand for something. We have our own little human lives to take care of; we all have our own Diana’s; we have our own Katie’s; we have our Sonny, and our Bubba; we have our “little Jody’s”.

But this one time, let the legends of these brave men, rise above ours. If these wonderful people don’t step forward, and give themselves for us, we cannot embrace who we are! So Father, forgive me for my ignorance.

For your life; for your sacrifice; for your death, I pledge my life to you. I say the words that I have never been able to say:

Thanks Dad, and I love you!
Little Jody.