Dear Rose,
Word has gotten around about your desire to do some guitar playing.
Well, you will need a guitar, hence my little brown friend.
I found him for sale in a parking lot at a Grateful Dead show in Atlanta
around 1987. I had flown into Atlanta for the shows (there were two) and I
was desperate for a guitar so as to join in on the parking lot jamming that
was a trademark event at all Dead show parking lots.
I bought him from a New York Deadhead who needed money for gas to
get home. His history before then is a mystery, but being found in a Dead
show parking lot helps to give the guitar great MoJo.
He hasn't been doing much lately, so I cleaned him up and strung him
with very light strings. Still, your finger tips will get a little sore until you
build up some callouses.
He's not a particularly "great" guitar, but he's friendly and eager to be
used. I would move up to medium lights as soon as your fingers can take it
as he won't sound his best with the light set I put on him.
I'm sure he'll be a good guitar to learn on. He is modest and earnest.
(something we could never say about an electric guitar)
He will need to come back home one day, but only after you've tired of
him or have upgraded to a better axe. When you are done with him, just
leave him leaning up somewhere in the front of the shop and I'll see him
and bring him home.
You might want a tuning fork, the little music shop near your shop will
have one and they can show you how to tune with one.
Have fun and don't worry about bumps and scratches.
Enjoy!
Anonymous
P.S.His name is Harvey, like the big white rabbit. (I think he was a Pooka
before becoming a guitar or he may still be a Pooka pretending to be a
guitar. If you're not sure what a Pooka is, rent the old Jimmy Stewart movie,
"Harvey")
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The above letter was taped to a guitar in the office of the restaurant that I worked at for 5 years.
I'm fairly positive I know who the person is behind the awesomeness. One day I was working and moody, and a musician asked me what was wrong. I wanted a guitar, but I told him I'd never be able to afford one. That was about five months before this generous deed. I knew his wife as well. Both very unpretentious, beautiful souls in an environment of snobbery and pretense (Annapolis is the Yacht capital of the country, if not the world.)
After this gift, I never saw either the musician or his wife again. He wanted nothing from me at all. Just to help make me a happier person. The following day I posted a handwritten thank you note on the cafe door with a rose. It stormed that day, and I found my gushing thanks you letter near a storm drain, soaked and illegible.
The timing of this anonymous guitar was divine. There are some things that are too personal (or controversial) even for this blog. But it gave me such hope, when I was in the ninth circle of hell. This man will never know how much that meant to me, and that is the only sad aspect to this story.
Friday, October 31, 2014
Wednesday, October 8, 2014
Since I Very Rarely Pee My Pants-
Best of Craigslist:
You Farted During "Boyhood" - mw4m
There we were, just enjoying a nice quiet Saturday night at the movies. A slow mover, Linklater's "Boyhood." Some popcorn. A few sodas. Nothing really happens in the film, we found. For about 90 minutes or so we stare listlessly at the screen. It's a thinking man's film, I say. Beautifully shot. It's about life, and death and relationships and things of that nature. Just then, at a brief, carefully-timed cinematic pause in dialogue, an enormous fart from somewhere in the back pierces an otherwise silent movie theatre. It had the impact of a baseball bat hitting a leather couch, or George Foreman working the heavy bag. Whack. Loud, deep and masculine.The seat cushion heroically absorbed most of the blow, but not enough that each and every person in the movie theatre instantly burst into nervous laughter. The laughter continued for what felt like a good 5 minutes, until tears streamed down our faces. Even well after the blast, we quietly chuckled to ourselves with a 'remember the time that guy farted in the movie theatre' gleam in our eyes. And just like that, with a soft chuckle and a deep breath, we were back into the film. Things happened, people drove around Texas, relationships came and went, there was crying, there was hope. It was as if we had all forgotten about the fart that had brought us together that night. As the sun began to set on screen, the teenage boy, no longer a boy, transitions into an adult, before our very eyes, and looks, intently, lustfully into a young girls eyes, as if to lean in for a kiss, and braaaaaaap. Another fart from the back row, like two giant hands clapping together, and the screen goes dark, roll credits. We decided, after laughing our way out of the theatre, and all the way home, that this was the best movie that we had ever seen. I imagine the lone fartist sauntering off into the sunset. His work here done.
If only I could say thank you, kind sir. You are truly a master of your craft.
post id: 4601986978
You Farted During "Boyhood" - mw4m
There we were, just enjoying a nice quiet Saturday night at the movies. A slow mover, Linklater's "Boyhood." Some popcorn. A few sodas. Nothing really happens in the film, we found. For about 90 minutes or so we stare listlessly at the screen. It's a thinking man's film, I say. Beautifully shot. It's about life, and death and relationships and things of that nature. Just then, at a brief, carefully-timed cinematic pause in dialogue, an enormous fart from somewhere in the back pierces an otherwise silent movie theatre. It had the impact of a baseball bat hitting a leather couch, or George Foreman working the heavy bag. Whack. Loud, deep and masculine.The seat cushion heroically absorbed most of the blow, but not enough that each and every person in the movie theatre instantly burst into nervous laughter. The laughter continued for what felt like a good 5 minutes, until tears streamed down our faces. Even well after the blast, we quietly chuckled to ourselves with a 'remember the time that guy farted in the movie theatre' gleam in our eyes. And just like that, with a soft chuckle and a deep breath, we were back into the film. Things happened, people drove around Texas, relationships came and went, there was crying, there was hope. It was as if we had all forgotten about the fart that had brought us together that night. As the sun began to set on screen, the teenage boy, no longer a boy, transitions into an adult, before our very eyes, and looks, intently, lustfully into a young girls eyes, as if to lean in for a kiss, and braaaaaaap. Another fart from the back row, like two giant hands clapping together, and the screen goes dark, roll credits. We decided, after laughing our way out of the theatre, and all the way home, that this was the best movie that we had ever seen. I imagine the lone fartist sauntering off into the sunset. His work here done.
If only I could say thank you, kind sir. You are truly a master of your craft.
post id: 4601986978
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
In Memory of Ronnie Launius
This blog is not about Ron Launius, but should focus on the exploitation of murder and the glamorization of criminal activity. I can not express how much my heart is not in this blog...But, I spelled Launius correctly so damn it, I chose to write!
About a week ago, before I drifted to sleep, I thought it would be a good idea to write about him, because I've been trying to get a sense of his personality, and you can't do that with very few provable actions and hearsay. I can make deductions though. By the way, after I thought about writing a blog about him I actually laughed to myself: That's the stupidest idea I've had in a while. But it ate at me and it's 2 am. I'm not sleeping tonight. I'm trying to understand things!
When my tiny, 98 pound aunt carried a 100 pound television from our living room, through our kitchen, and out the front door- which I did not know until I heard a spray of gun shots outside my bedroom window- I decided to take Ken Kesey's advice from the end of, "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" and help myself to the liquid codeine cough syrup in our home. From there, I realized it helps.
What I'm trying to say is that, about a decade ago, I took the fast spiral down into heroin use. For almost two years. I was also a damn good hustler. Every move becomes like a chess move. Or you could just do what Ron Launius did and grab a gun. Now that I'm older, I'd probably do the latter if I decided to flush my life down the toilet, because I was a young women then.
Was Ron Launius a desperate heroin addict or did the war turn him into a criminal? Probably both. Did he rob a bank to get his wife back safely from bad men who held her hostage? Then exact revenge in the name of his wife? Probably not. Did he kill 27 people? Ah, no. Serial killers don't get that far. I think the police would have bagged him a long time ago with 27 cases, "open at the time of [Ron's] death." Finally, the question that intrigues me most. Was Ron Launius really one of the coldest men a California police officer had ever known? This is where I begin what I believe to be true in his case.
His face was like a sucker punch, because he was beautiful. He was beautiful to me; also my height (5'7), not very heavy, and blonde with blue eyes. As a friend of mine commented when we looked up his photo: He is not at all intimidating. Ah, some of the most dangerous people are the one's you never see coming.
Any heroin addict now knows someone who knows someone who has at least heard of someone connected to them that did something potentially violent to get the drug without paying up. The more the heroin controls you; and this is sheer, raw, and screaming pain- the shorter the chain is in knowing someone who knows someone who has robbed for drugs. In many fashions. Which is what Ronnie did creatively: Robbed smaller time drug dealers.
The pain makes your legs walk to find help. But I've still known people with integrity, even if it means to take the pain. I wrote a blog about a heroin dealer who looked a lot like Launius (probably why I'm writing this, it now occurs to me) who anyone but me would have described as, "The coldest person I have ever met." I remember meeting this dealer on one of many nights where the pain got so bad I'd speed walk to the town square and ask mostly sheltered college students where I could find heroin. The gamble led me through the Redwoods alone, past the bars and straight to the doorstep of this vicious dealer. He refused to sell to me then because he did not know me. As he turned away without selling anything to me, I screamed, "Don't ever turn your back on me again." Two weeks later, he was living with me.
The fact that at his death at 37, Launius had cirrhosis of the liver, as well as hepatitis, tells me a lot. He was into hard drugs for a long time and was probably a moody person. One who wives estrange themselves from. When you are into drugs that long, you start to know very dangerous people. He was one of them. Yet, people have blogs about his, "character" when all we know is his military history, that he was married (apparently twice), and he helped a murderer cover up a dead body. He may have murdered a narcotics officer. Also that he punched John Holmes in the stomach once, which is baffling to me.
People seem to glamorize Ron Launius because he was a blond haired, blue eyed enigma, and he was called 'The Leader of the Most Feared Gang in all of Los Angeles.' His life is not to be glamorized or ignored. I can assure you that that man has been through a lot of pain. He chose a bad road; but maybe he had little choice.
To rob someone with the professional ferociousness that he did to Eddie Nash speaks volumes about his history of break-ins. 20 minutes is all it took to reduce someone to beg for their life. Ron Launius cared more about the heroin then humanity. I have no doubt he has the propensity to be a horrendous person.
Finally, if anyone wants to shoot me up with White China heroin, then nearly instantly kill me by putting a lead pipe in a 300 pound man's angry hand, just contact me. They died; at least he died, in bed, on China White heroin, and probably did not have time to think before he was killed.
A House In Eureka, California.
(Written two years after the above post.)
I was on my second week of synthetic opiate withdraw when I first wrote this blog, and I briefly got back into the head space of being a heroin addict. Heroin addiction is a horrible existence of pain, lax morals, fear and insomnia. Also a self hatred for not having the fortitude to quit with each day that passes while spending hours scrounging money together, even more time waiting for dealers to drop their power trip and sell their product, and the final product of scoring becomes the least important aspect to the repetitious cycle. String that monotony together for more then a full year, and the brain goes to strange places to escape the ritual.
When I think of who Ron Launius was, I have to write about my connection with Eureka, California. This is the city that David Lind died in from an overdose. The writer Ken Kesey faked his death in Eureka. I have immediate family there so I visit once a year. My one crime while on heroin, which was a petty robbery (very petty) happened at a house that I associate with the real patrons of Wonderland; people very removed from a Hollywood presentation.
Not one resident in the house I speak of would sit down with a cop and joyously reminisce about how being at any house to get drugs reminded them of, "The Summer Of..." This house in Eureka belonged to my friend Paul. He was a tall, left handed German who loved animals so there were many dogs and cats in his home. Paul was a meth addict who was born and raised in Eureka. He slept with his biological sister conscientiously when they were in their teens. These people were different then what is projected on the silver screen. Or baseline subject matter for an average book read. These people are of a certain ilk that most people don't want to know about. There was a prostitute Paul took in that became a lesbian. She lived there for free with her girlfriend and sold heroin out of the house. These people were weird. They scared the living shit out of me. The house itself was actually nice to the outsider's eye. A normal, middle class house in a nice neighborhood with hardworking home owners.
The people I robbed were Paul's 16 year old daughter and her 20-something boyfriend. I really had little to do with this petty robbery. Someone told me to take a small amount of drugs from Paul's daughter and boyfriend, then to walk them outside to pay them. That was my role. Waiting outside were two people (who put me up to this) that violently took this small amount of drugs from the daughter and her boyfriend. I remember Paul's daughter calling my cell phone wanting only to know if I did that intentionally. My goose was cooked. I remember feeling like I had no choice. I was the last person in that circle that would betrayal anyone, not so much because I was nice; I was smart. Which was why I was picked for the job; no one was innocent that had any connection to that house. I still had manners, so I was the perfect stooge. The fact that I was the one that made this very petty robbery happen caused me to up and move to the Midwest, where I lived in relative isolation for a year. This blog was created in Nebraska, when my brain cleared up after ingesting two years of toxins. I moved because they threatened my life. I did not want to wait around to see if how angry they really were.
This house is where I picture people like David Lind and Ron Launius to frequent. The nationally famous case of Karen Mitchell, who the media attached to Robert Durst recently- nope. It was a group of people who visited this house. The police know who was responsible. Too many people to put one on trial without a body. But why would anyone be so stupid to believe that someone like Robert Durst would kidnap a fifteen year old girl just to kill her? Come on! All of his crimes were motivated by money, or fear of him going to jail. Why? Just why? How stupid!
Yes, I reported Karen Mitchell's murder to the police many times. The first time I had to drink so much before I called them because I was terrified. There is a cash reward of something like $30,000 attached to information that leads to an arrest. In this case, I would not want the reward. There were too many people involved.
Which says a lot about my relationship with Paul. He said so many strange things to me on the drive through the back-roads of Eureka, I paid little attention to his deep, almost mumbling voice. He was always on speed, and often talking about bizarre stories. He talked about another murder that I never connected to any poster or county gossip.
As a Side Note: When I moved back from Austin to Arcata a few years back to finish my degree, I was pissed off that Karen Mitchell made the front page of the paper. Not because the story resurfaced, but because the article said something to the effect of: Someone will be somewhere were they don't belong and hear something. Maybe someone will have the strength to come forward with something they know. If you are that person, call this number:---------Yeah, that person is me. No one from that house is going to say a Goddamn thing ever. There is no one with a festering, tormented conscience in that house. Except for Paul, and he thought telling me would help the situation. After he mumbled the complete story, where the body was, a few of the people involved, he never told me the story from start to finish again. Paul mumbles a lot of weird things. I wish I had paid attention to this one thing. He did cry about the story though. Paul was not a fighter. He was more of a strange hybrid of painter, gambler, rock collector ( he loved to comb the beach for agates) and extreme pervert. I knew he was no threat to me the first time I saw him.
There was the time that Paul and I were hanging out, getting high in his bedroom and we heard his daughter yelling in the adjacent room. She was fighting with her boyfriend. Denis was his name. He was scroungy, dull and bad news. He sold a bike to a friend of mine (from that house of course) that turned out to have been stolen....from the buyers close neighbor. Nice one. Well one day Denis was yelling at Paul's daughter, and Paul yelled between walls for him to leave the house.
Side Note:We had a rule in my home that you could not yell anything. You had to walk up to the person and speak civility with them.
Denis refused. The daughter immediately took her boyfriend's side.
(Paul never thought about statutory rape apparently.)
Paul would not have had to be on any drugs to get mad about this guy yelling at him, but he was fueled with stimulates and no sleep. He glanced at me with a look that something bad was about to happen, then he went for the bedroom gun safe. All I said to stop Paul as he was loading this gun was, "No don't." Actually I was kind of curious. Paul took a loaded gun and stood outside the door and yelled for them both to open the door. They didn't. Paul kicked the door in, and pointed the gun at the boyfriend, who became defiant with "Shoot me Paul. You are a coward. Go ahead. I dare you to shoot me." Paul might have been doing the world a favor, but he never acted on his threat. I walked to a neighbor's home and asked if they could drive me home because Paul was yelling with a loaded gun. Things like that became events that were never spoken of after they happened.
*I cropped my heroin bloated stomach, as well as the white cotton underwear that I wore in the original photo, which caused my aunt to comment underneath a FB of the original, "See Rosie, this is what we mean by your lack of concern." I know what 'concern' translates to in this case. My name with the playful 'ie' is not playful at all. When I am addressed as 'Rosie' I am in trouble. My family are stronger then me in every way. They are very capable of moving on to my sister to reform if I don't walk the line.
If you are involved in heroin, you introduce your connections to other people. At least in my life around 26-27, because people introduced dealers to me, there were good people who lost their way, and bad people who were born into craziness. Paul and the people in his house were natural lost children turned criminal record holding adults. These are the people you go to for the hard stuff or the people you go to when you have no other options. In my view, anyone who was comfortable at this house was either dangerously naive or had something up their sleeve.
I remember my brother Ambrose and I bought some heroin from the lesbian, whose girlfriend had previously dated her step mother. These people were weird. We were in a circle with people we did not know, and some guy said, "You guys might overdose on that. My neighbor takes about that much every night. One day I'm not going to wake him up. I find him unconscious on his lawn. I think he wants to die." These people were weird. Harder then any of those memories, I remember one day as my brother was in Paul's kitchen, and some dirty, scary, tough guy named Sky asked my brother why he was there. But vicious. As if without knowing anything about him nearly started a fight. These people were weird. Paul would pick me up at my apartment in Arcata, and by the time we got to his house, some neighbor had, like clockwork, already complained that his daughter kicked a dog, again. Her own dogs. There was prostitution in that house. There were stories of fights where people had to go to the hospital to staple their head together. I was always terrified in this home. My friend who lived near-by was black, and there were skinheads in this house. In general skinheads terrify me. People came and went and you never knew what was going to happen, but my philosophy when my brother was present was, "Get the drugs and get the fuck out of this house." Now that a decade has gone by, I can go to Eureka without knowing where that house is anymore (because I was either high going there, or too nervous to think and look at my surroundings.) A decade later I hear things about the daughter having a baby. About her being raped after the baby was born. And when I was living with my ex who grew weed in the neighboring town of Arcata, one day I ran into that daughter 4 years after that 'robbery.' I was hung over and sick. She wanted the entire $40 back. I gave it to her, and I apologized. I told her that I was put up to do that to her. She said she knew. Can I have my $40 back then? When I spoke to the man who put me up to the robbery about giving her that $40 back, he told me he put a gun to her head the last time he saw her.
This is a person I knew as a good man at one point. Its sad, sad, sad.
David Lind did not lose, "The love of his life" in that murder retaliation. He is someone I felt like I have known before; seen in different forms going in and out of that house. The last time I went was when I took $40 in drugs outside, for them to talk to someone who they robbed. But the time before that, Paul shot his gun into the air to get a car to leave quicker and the police came. I was never comfortable there, even with heroin going into my veins- and me having the only clean blood in that room. Other then my brother. It was never fun. When we drove the prostitute to get heroin, there were always seedy hotel rooms that we had to wait in the car for, dope sick and not able to show our annoyance. Drugs always take time to get, even if they are right in front of you. Try making small talk with these people. Addiction is a motherfucker.
Paul was bisexual, probably because he was so heavily addicted to speed. The string of words that came from his mouth were truly disgusting to me. His daughter liked my prescription of Valium, and she would give me a single, on the spot dose of some opiate, in exchange for my entire month's worth of pills. I'd spend days with flu symptoms in bed. This house can only describe as evil. There was little love here. Little care of what was sold. Few questions to get to know anyone. Just circles of violent talk. And two delicate lesbians who played Nintendo games.
*Don't remember these, but this is Paul's bedroom. He took these two photos.
Paul's house is what I think of when I think of that house on Wonderland Avenue.There is no glamour in the different types of perverts that walked in and out of that house. If you passed Paul's home, you'd never guess that the previous lesbian's girlfriend was bludgeoned almost to death in that house with a tire iron. You might noticed that they are not practicing gardeners though. Houses full of hard drugs don't have indiscriminate parties. These are secret people. Put an assrock song in the background of the introduction of the six foot tall, heroin bloated, Josh Lucas as Ron Lauinus and add a lot of energetic talk and you have only a stereotype of charismatic rake. The final product is the presentable version of Ron Launius. He still seems a bit harsh to care about his fatal final outcome. We all know someone with self destructive qualities like Ron Launius. He may seem similar to a multitude of other drug addicts because his one famous photo is of a handsome young man. There are bits and pieces of real people in these collage personalities. These prepackaged personalities that are presentable as Hollywood truth. At the time of his death at 37, I don't think Ron Launius was like many people who involve themselves in the drug world. That's my two pennies worth. Moving out of Paul's house of horrors...
Was John Holmes involved in the actual killings? Yes! At least one of them. It's a fine summer day to eat a watermelon. If you hit a watermelon with a lead pipe (alone I hope) the melon will get all over your clothes. According to Sharon Holmes, her husband had blood all over his shirt. I believe he did kill at least one of his 'friends'. For his shirt to be caked in blood, to the point of it taking Sharon Holmes time to find out that he had no wound (she was a nurse) yes, there is no doubt in my mind that he had blood on him because he participated.
Epilogue-
Perhaps it's my insomnia, or my distrust of police information in a Wikipedia article, or being paranoid about what the media does to glamorize tragedy; but I was wrong about his character. You can't be labeled a feared gang leader without earning the title. Apparently there is a very well written blog authored by a man unlike me (not lazy) who does a lot of extremely developed research. That blog suggest Ron Launius was a contract killer. Maybe he did kill 27 people. I'm not a journalist. Not even a writer. Opiate addiction makes people mean. To heal I spent a full year in isolation in Nebraska. I regret writing this blog. I regret victimizing good people. I paid with their absence.
My Lithuanian family-
If what I consider the definitive blog on Ron Launius is correct, he is half German and half Lithuanian. The stereotype is half problem solving visual thinker and half crazy man with a death wish. Launius is certainly a Lithuanian name. Normally Lithuanian's are tall. Sometimes abnormally tall, like my 3rd cousin Julie, who is about 6'4. I am a quarter Lithuanian on my mother's side, so if you read some of my other blogs, which certainly have a different flavor that this anomaly of a blog, I'd say the Lithuanian in me is the voice of fearless. For example, my blog on hitchhiking the 299. I can only speak for my family about how I perceive my heritage is defined.
Side Note: Beware of blogs like this or talk of this kind. Stereotyping any type of heritage can lead to racism. This blog is in the spirit of fun, and a little self deprecation on my part. I love to celebrate different cultural traditions. This is in fun. Do not use my words to support racism ever.
My mother's father was a Lithuanian immigrant. My mother's mother was a Slovenian immigrant. Both worked extremely hard for the land they owned. My mother was a poet (and mother of five) who chronicled the hardships of creating a working, profitable organic farm on the outskirts of Annapolis. My grandfather wanted to protect us from the world, and his 48 acre farm protected us from outsiders. But he could not protect his kids from their bad decisions. Fatally bad decisions.
I always thought that my grandfather was so exotic, with ivory skin and piercing blue eyes. He wore one of those black Russian hats (called a, "Ushanka".) He was a work-a-holic, who survived World War 2 and was awarded a purple heart for a shrapnel wound that crippled one knee.
I can not speculate what other Lithuanian families act like, but my family (especially my mother's immediate family) have no normal fear of things that terrify others. That is why two of my mother's siblings died, one at 19 and the other in his early 20's. Both were killed due in horrific accidents that were so easily prevented if they had a healthy fear of dangerous behavior. While my mom's family don't fear riding motorcycles too fast, breaking social laws like obeying red lights, and operating dangerous machinery, they do have too much fear of stupid things, like sleeping in safety at night.
If you meet a Lithuanian, check out their medicine cabinets!
My grandfather was very strong and never showed a sign of weakness, even as he died from a heart attack, he still boldly told the paramedics that he could certainly walk down a flight of stairs and step up into the ambulance without their help. That walk, that stubbornness, and that composer in the face of fear is how he died; from that walk. His played the role of fearless mortal up until the last day of his life. He showed no weakness in the middle of a fucking heart attack in progress.
Also, he ate Polish sausage every day, even when his doctor told him it would kill him.
My mother's 98 pound twin must have a professional team of brawny guardian angels, because she has no fear. And while that may be interesting and badass to imagine Ron Launius having no fear; even of a load gun aimed at his head, he did not live past my age now. He'd have a hard time getting life insurance if he sat down with a broker and told the truth about his lifestyle.
"Hmm, lets see Mr. Launius, are you employed? Do you smoke cigarettes? Exercise regularly?"
If Ron Launius answered correctly, his premium would be higher then he was on any given day at 4pm.
Traits that my mom's family exhibited that seemed, to me, uniquely Lithuanian include:
-severe obsessions,
- addiction issues,
-charisma,
- decadence displayed in their social outings:
(my mother had long knee high socks, and long velvet gloves for the cold Maryland winters. She dressed in elegance when she was happy.)
- Finally, they are very loyal people.
My Uncle Richard died from a preventable accident when he was just 19. My Uncle Albert followed him at 26. My mother died at 33.
Rumor has it that another one of her three brothers, the only one remaining, murdered two men by stabbing each at separate times. The rumor includes the fact that it was in self defense both times. This happened in a country that had no organized police force, and he was never caught. That uncle looks so much like Ron Launius, its almost creepy. Blonde, bearded, tough.
Fear is an inherent part of evolution. People lacking healthy fear have built in ticking time-bombs on their lifespan. I only inherited fractions of the fearlessness I saw in them.
I nearly died from a vodka and heroin overdose. I would have made the 27 club. When the paramedics woke me, looking at the white fluorescent lights (no, I did not think those lights meant, 'heaven') on the ceiling of the ambulance with the welcoming remark, "We just saved your life" my response was a simple, 'Fuck you.' Oh how punk rock of me.
I think I can only identify with the Ron Launius that has not had a Hollywood make-over. I certainly would have liked him. We would have made a hell of a pair; I've never not liked anyone of Baltic decent. When I lost my grandmother at 95, the breakfast after her funeral was full of tall, blonde Lithuanians. It was awesome to be surrounded by people who understood me; I felt at home. Maybe that is my only home now; being surrounded by people who understand me.
I want to add the most unique trait that my mother's family have: For the poor, the downtrodden and misfits, my family have huge, larger-then-life hearts. I know that does not sound 'gangster' but in my mind, that is the foundation of a true gangster.
About a week ago, before I drifted to sleep, I thought it would be a good idea to write about him, because I've been trying to get a sense of his personality, and you can't do that with very few provable actions and hearsay. I can make deductions though. By the way, after I thought about writing a blog about him I actually laughed to myself: That's the stupidest idea I've had in a while. But it ate at me and it's 2 am. I'm not sleeping tonight. I'm trying to understand things!
When my tiny, 98 pound aunt carried a 100 pound television from our living room, through our kitchen, and out the front door- which I did not know until I heard a spray of gun shots outside my bedroom window- I decided to take Ken Kesey's advice from the end of, "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" and help myself to the liquid codeine cough syrup in our home. From there, I realized it helps.
What I'm trying to say is that, about a decade ago, I took the fast spiral down into heroin use. For almost two years. I was also a damn good hustler. Every move becomes like a chess move. Or you could just do what Ron Launius did and grab a gun. Now that I'm older, I'd probably do the latter if I decided to flush my life down the toilet, because I was a young women then.
Was Ron Launius a desperate heroin addict or did the war turn him into a criminal? Probably both. Did he rob a bank to get his wife back safely from bad men who held her hostage? Then exact revenge in the name of his wife? Probably not. Did he kill 27 people? Ah, no. Serial killers don't get that far. I think the police would have bagged him a long time ago with 27 cases, "open at the time of [Ron's] death." Finally, the question that intrigues me most. Was Ron Launius really one of the coldest men a California police officer had ever known? This is where I begin what I believe to be true in his case.
His face was like a sucker punch, because he was beautiful. He was beautiful to me; also my height (5'7), not very heavy, and blonde with blue eyes. As a friend of mine commented when we looked up his photo: He is not at all intimidating. Ah, some of the most dangerous people are the one's you never see coming.
Any heroin addict now knows someone who knows someone who has at least heard of someone connected to them that did something potentially violent to get the drug without paying up. The more the heroin controls you; and this is sheer, raw, and screaming pain- the shorter the chain is in knowing someone who knows someone who has robbed for drugs. In many fashions. Which is what Ronnie did creatively: Robbed smaller time drug dealers.
The pain makes your legs walk to find help. But I've still known people with integrity, even if it means to take the pain. I wrote a blog about a heroin dealer who looked a lot like Launius (probably why I'm writing this, it now occurs to me) who anyone but me would have described as, "The coldest person I have ever met." I remember meeting this dealer on one of many nights where the pain got so bad I'd speed walk to the town square and ask mostly sheltered college students where I could find heroin. The gamble led me through the Redwoods alone, past the bars and straight to the doorstep of this vicious dealer. He refused to sell to me then because he did not know me. As he turned away without selling anything to me, I screamed, "Don't ever turn your back on me again." Two weeks later, he was living with me.
The fact that at his death at 37, Launius had cirrhosis of the liver, as well as hepatitis, tells me a lot. He was into hard drugs for a long time and was probably a moody person. One who wives estrange themselves from. When you are into drugs that long, you start to know very dangerous people. He was one of them. Yet, people have blogs about his, "character" when all we know is his military history, that he was married (apparently twice), and he helped a murderer cover up a dead body. He may have murdered a narcotics officer. Also that he punched John Holmes in the stomach once, which is baffling to me.
People seem to glamorize Ron Launius because he was a blond haired, blue eyed enigma, and he was called 'The Leader of the Most Feared Gang in all of Los Angeles.' His life is not to be glamorized or ignored. I can assure you that that man has been through a lot of pain. He chose a bad road; but maybe he had little choice.
To rob someone with the professional ferociousness that he did to Eddie Nash speaks volumes about his history of break-ins. 20 minutes is all it took to reduce someone to beg for their life. Ron Launius cared more about the heroin then humanity. I have no doubt he has the propensity to be a horrendous person.
Finally, if anyone wants to shoot me up with White China heroin, then nearly instantly kill me by putting a lead pipe in a 300 pound man's angry hand, just contact me. They died; at least he died, in bed, on China White heroin, and probably did not have time to think before he was killed.
A House In Eureka, California.
(Written two years after the above post.)
I was on my second week of synthetic opiate withdraw when I first wrote this blog, and I briefly got back into the head space of being a heroin addict. Heroin addiction is a horrible existence of pain, lax morals, fear and insomnia. Also a self hatred for not having the fortitude to quit with each day that passes while spending hours scrounging money together, even more time waiting for dealers to drop their power trip and sell their product, and the final product of scoring becomes the least important aspect to the repetitious cycle. String that monotony together for more then a full year, and the brain goes to strange places to escape the ritual.
When I think of who Ron Launius was, I have to write about my connection with Eureka, California. This is the city that David Lind died in from an overdose. The writer Ken Kesey faked his death in Eureka. I have immediate family there so I visit once a year. My one crime while on heroin, which was a petty robbery (very petty) happened at a house that I associate with the real patrons of Wonderland; people very removed from a Hollywood presentation.
Not one resident in the house I speak of would sit down with a cop and joyously reminisce about how being at any house to get drugs reminded them of, "The Summer Of..." This house in Eureka belonged to my friend Paul. He was a tall, left handed German who loved animals so there were many dogs and cats in his home. Paul was a meth addict who was born and raised in Eureka. He slept with his biological sister conscientiously when they were in their teens. These people were different then what is projected on the silver screen. Or baseline subject matter for an average book read. These people are of a certain ilk that most people don't want to know about. There was a prostitute Paul took in that became a lesbian. She lived there for free with her girlfriend and sold heroin out of the house. These people were weird. They scared the living shit out of me. The house itself was actually nice to the outsider's eye. A normal, middle class house in a nice neighborhood with hardworking home owners.
The people I robbed were Paul's 16 year old daughter and her 20-something boyfriend. I really had little to do with this petty robbery. Someone told me to take a small amount of drugs from Paul's daughter and boyfriend, then to walk them outside to pay them. That was my role. Waiting outside were two people (who put me up to this) that violently took this small amount of drugs from the daughter and her boyfriend. I remember Paul's daughter calling my cell phone wanting only to know if I did that intentionally. My goose was cooked. I remember feeling like I had no choice. I was the last person in that circle that would betrayal anyone, not so much because I was nice; I was smart. Which was why I was picked for the job; no one was innocent that had any connection to that house. I still had manners, so I was the perfect stooge. The fact that I was the one that made this very petty robbery happen caused me to up and move to the Midwest, where I lived in relative isolation for a year. This blog was created in Nebraska, when my brain cleared up after ingesting two years of toxins. I moved because they threatened my life. I did not want to wait around to see if how angry they really were.
This house is where I picture people like David Lind and Ron Launius to frequent. The nationally famous case of Karen Mitchell, who the media attached to Robert Durst recently- nope. It was a group of people who visited this house. The police know who was responsible. Too many people to put one on trial without a body. But why would anyone be so stupid to believe that someone like Robert Durst would kidnap a fifteen year old girl just to kill her? Come on! All of his crimes were motivated by money, or fear of him going to jail. Why? Just why? How stupid!
Yes, I reported Karen Mitchell's murder to the police many times. The first time I had to drink so much before I called them because I was terrified. There is a cash reward of something like $30,000 attached to information that leads to an arrest. In this case, I would not want the reward. There were too many people involved.
Which says a lot about my relationship with Paul. He said so many strange things to me on the drive through the back-roads of Eureka, I paid little attention to his deep, almost mumbling voice. He was always on speed, and often talking about bizarre stories. He talked about another murder that I never connected to any poster or county gossip.
As a Side Note: When I moved back from Austin to Arcata a few years back to finish my degree, I was pissed off that Karen Mitchell made the front page of the paper. Not because the story resurfaced, but because the article said something to the effect of: Someone will be somewhere were they don't belong and hear something. Maybe someone will have the strength to come forward with something they know. If you are that person, call this number:---------Yeah, that person is me. No one from that house is going to say a Goddamn thing ever. There is no one with a festering, tormented conscience in that house. Except for Paul, and he thought telling me would help the situation. After he mumbled the complete story, where the body was, a few of the people involved, he never told me the story from start to finish again. Paul mumbles a lot of weird things. I wish I had paid attention to this one thing. He did cry about the story though. Paul was not a fighter. He was more of a strange hybrid of painter, gambler, rock collector ( he loved to comb the beach for agates) and extreme pervert. I knew he was no threat to me the first time I saw him.
There was the time that Paul and I were hanging out, getting high in his bedroom and we heard his daughter yelling in the adjacent room. She was fighting with her boyfriend. Denis was his name. He was scroungy, dull and bad news. He sold a bike to a friend of mine (from that house of course) that turned out to have been stolen....from the buyers close neighbor. Nice one. Well one day Denis was yelling at Paul's daughter, and Paul yelled between walls for him to leave the house.
Side Note:We had a rule in my home that you could not yell anything. You had to walk up to the person and speak civility with them.
Denis refused. The daughter immediately took her boyfriend's side.
(Paul never thought about statutory rape apparently.)
Paul would not have had to be on any drugs to get mad about this guy yelling at him, but he was fueled with stimulates and no sleep. He glanced at me with a look that something bad was about to happen, then he went for the bedroom gun safe. All I said to stop Paul as he was loading this gun was, "No don't." Actually I was kind of curious. Paul took a loaded gun and stood outside the door and yelled for them both to open the door. They didn't. Paul kicked the door in, and pointed the gun at the boyfriend, who became defiant with "Shoot me Paul. You are a coward. Go ahead. I dare you to shoot me." Paul might have been doing the world a favor, but he never acted on his threat. I walked to a neighbor's home and asked if they could drive me home because Paul was yelling with a loaded gun. Things like that became events that were never spoken of after they happened.
If you are involved in heroin, you introduce your connections to other people. At least in my life around 26-27, because people introduced dealers to me, there were good people who lost their way, and bad people who were born into craziness. Paul and the people in his house were natural lost children turned criminal record holding adults. These are the people you go to for the hard stuff or the people you go to when you have no other options. In my view, anyone who was comfortable at this house was either dangerously naive or had something up their sleeve.
I remember my brother Ambrose and I bought some heroin from the lesbian, whose girlfriend had previously dated her step mother. These people were weird. We were in a circle with people we did not know, and some guy said, "You guys might overdose on that. My neighbor takes about that much every night. One day I'm not going to wake him up. I find him unconscious on his lawn. I think he wants to die." These people were weird. Harder then any of those memories, I remember one day as my brother was in Paul's kitchen, and some dirty, scary, tough guy named Sky asked my brother why he was there. But vicious. As if without knowing anything about him nearly started a fight. These people were weird. Paul would pick me up at my apartment in Arcata, and by the time we got to his house, some neighbor had, like clockwork, already complained that his daughter kicked a dog, again. Her own dogs. There was prostitution in that house. There were stories of fights where people had to go to the hospital to staple their head together. I was always terrified in this home. My friend who lived near-by was black, and there were skinheads in this house. In general skinheads terrify me. People came and went and you never knew what was going to happen, but my philosophy when my brother was present was, "Get the drugs and get the fuck out of this house." Now that a decade has gone by, I can go to Eureka without knowing where that house is anymore (because I was either high going there, or too nervous to think and look at my surroundings.) A decade later I hear things about the daughter having a baby. About her being raped after the baby was born. And when I was living with my ex who grew weed in the neighboring town of Arcata, one day I ran into that daughter 4 years after that 'robbery.' I was hung over and sick. She wanted the entire $40 back. I gave it to her, and I apologized. I told her that I was put up to do that to her. She said she knew. Can I have my $40 back then? When I spoke to the man who put me up to the robbery about giving her that $40 back, he told me he put a gun to her head the last time he saw her.
This is a person I knew as a good man at one point. Its sad, sad, sad.
David Lind did not lose, "The love of his life" in that murder retaliation. He is someone I felt like I have known before; seen in different forms going in and out of that house. The last time I went was when I took $40 in drugs outside, for them to talk to someone who they robbed. But the time before that, Paul shot his gun into the air to get a car to leave quicker and the police came. I was never comfortable there, even with heroin going into my veins- and me having the only clean blood in that room. Other then my brother. It was never fun. When we drove the prostitute to get heroin, there were always seedy hotel rooms that we had to wait in the car for, dope sick and not able to show our annoyance. Drugs always take time to get, even if they are right in front of you. Try making small talk with these people. Addiction is a motherfucker.
Paul was bisexual, probably because he was so heavily addicted to speed. The string of words that came from his mouth were truly disgusting to me. His daughter liked my prescription of Valium, and she would give me a single, on the spot dose of some opiate, in exchange for my entire month's worth of pills. I'd spend days with flu symptoms in bed. This house can only describe as evil. There was little love here. Little care of what was sold. Few questions to get to know anyone. Just circles of violent talk. And two delicate lesbians who played Nintendo games.
Paul's house is what I think of when I think of that house on Wonderland Avenue.There is no glamour in the different types of perverts that walked in and out of that house. If you passed Paul's home, you'd never guess that the previous lesbian's girlfriend was bludgeoned almost to death in that house with a tire iron. You might noticed that they are not practicing gardeners though. Houses full of hard drugs don't have indiscriminate parties. These are secret people. Put an assrock song in the background of the introduction of the six foot tall, heroin bloated, Josh Lucas as Ron Lauinus and add a lot of energetic talk and you have only a stereotype of charismatic rake. The final product is the presentable version of Ron Launius. He still seems a bit harsh to care about his fatal final outcome. We all know someone with self destructive qualities like Ron Launius. He may seem similar to a multitude of other drug addicts because his one famous photo is of a handsome young man. There are bits and pieces of real people in these collage personalities. These prepackaged personalities that are presentable as Hollywood truth. At the time of his death at 37, I don't think Ron Launius was like many people who involve themselves in the drug world. That's my two pennies worth. Moving out of Paul's house of horrors...
Was John Holmes involved in the actual killings? Yes! At least one of them. It's a fine summer day to eat a watermelon. If you hit a watermelon with a lead pipe (alone I hope) the melon will get all over your clothes. According to Sharon Holmes, her husband had blood all over his shirt. I believe he did kill at least one of his 'friends'. For his shirt to be caked in blood, to the point of it taking Sharon Holmes time to find out that he had no wound (she was a nurse) yes, there is no doubt in my mind that he had blood on him because he participated.
Epilogue-
Perhaps it's my insomnia, or my distrust of police information in a Wikipedia article, or being paranoid about what the media does to glamorize tragedy; but I was wrong about his character. You can't be labeled a feared gang leader without earning the title. Apparently there is a very well written blog authored by a man unlike me (not lazy) who does a lot of extremely developed research. That blog suggest Ron Launius was a contract killer. Maybe he did kill 27 people. I'm not a journalist. Not even a writer. Opiate addiction makes people mean. To heal I spent a full year in isolation in Nebraska. I regret writing this blog. I regret victimizing good people. I paid with their absence.
My Lithuanian family-
If what I consider the definitive blog on Ron Launius is correct, he is half German and half Lithuanian. The stereotype is half problem solving visual thinker and half crazy man with a death wish. Launius is certainly a Lithuanian name. Normally Lithuanian's are tall. Sometimes abnormally tall, like my 3rd cousin Julie, who is about 6'4. I am a quarter Lithuanian on my mother's side, so if you read some of my other blogs, which certainly have a different flavor that this anomaly of a blog, I'd say the Lithuanian in me is the voice of fearless. For example, my blog on hitchhiking the 299. I can only speak for my family about how I perceive my heritage is defined.
Side Note: Beware of blogs like this or talk of this kind. Stereotyping any type of heritage can lead to racism. This blog is in the spirit of fun, and a little self deprecation on my part. I love to celebrate different cultural traditions. This is in fun. Do not use my words to support racism ever.
My mother's father was a Lithuanian immigrant. My mother's mother was a Slovenian immigrant. Both worked extremely hard for the land they owned. My mother was a poet (and mother of five) who chronicled the hardships of creating a working, profitable organic farm on the outskirts of Annapolis. My grandfather wanted to protect us from the world, and his 48 acre farm protected us from outsiders. But he could not protect his kids from their bad decisions. Fatally bad decisions.
I always thought that my grandfather was so exotic, with ivory skin and piercing blue eyes. He wore one of those black Russian hats (called a, "Ushanka".) He was a work-a-holic, who survived World War 2 and was awarded a purple heart for a shrapnel wound that crippled one knee.
I can not speculate what other Lithuanian families act like, but my family (especially my mother's immediate family) have no normal fear of things that terrify others. That is why two of my mother's siblings died, one at 19 and the other in his early 20's. Both were killed due in horrific accidents that were so easily prevented if they had a healthy fear of dangerous behavior. While my mom's family don't fear riding motorcycles too fast, breaking social laws like obeying red lights, and operating dangerous machinery, they do have too much fear of stupid things, like sleeping in safety at night.
If you meet a Lithuanian, check out their medicine cabinets!
My grandfather was very strong and never showed a sign of weakness, even as he died from a heart attack, he still boldly told the paramedics that he could certainly walk down a flight of stairs and step up into the ambulance without their help. That walk, that stubbornness, and that composer in the face of fear is how he died; from that walk. His played the role of fearless mortal up until the last day of his life. He showed no weakness in the middle of a fucking heart attack in progress.
Also, he ate Polish sausage every day, even when his doctor told him it would kill him.
My mother's 98 pound twin must have a professional team of brawny guardian angels, because she has no fear. And while that may be interesting and badass to imagine Ron Launius having no fear; even of a load gun aimed at his head, he did not live past my age now. He'd have a hard time getting life insurance if he sat down with a broker and told the truth about his lifestyle.
"Hmm, lets see Mr. Launius, are you employed? Do you smoke cigarettes? Exercise regularly?"
If Ron Launius answered correctly, his premium would be higher then he was on any given day at 4pm.
Traits that my mom's family exhibited that seemed, to me, uniquely Lithuanian include:
-severe obsessions,
- addiction issues,
-charisma,
- decadence displayed in their social outings:
(my mother had long knee high socks, and long velvet gloves for the cold Maryland winters. She dressed in elegance when she was happy.)
- Finally, they are very loyal people.
My Uncle Richard died from a preventable accident when he was just 19. My Uncle Albert followed him at 26. My mother died at 33.
Rumor has it that another one of her three brothers, the only one remaining, murdered two men by stabbing each at separate times. The rumor includes the fact that it was in self defense both times. This happened in a country that had no organized police force, and he was never caught. That uncle looks so much like Ron Launius, its almost creepy. Blonde, bearded, tough.
Fear is an inherent part of evolution. People lacking healthy fear have built in ticking time-bombs on their lifespan. I only inherited fractions of the fearlessness I saw in them.
I nearly died from a vodka and heroin overdose. I would have made the 27 club. When the paramedics woke me, looking at the white fluorescent lights (no, I did not think those lights meant, 'heaven') on the ceiling of the ambulance with the welcoming remark, "We just saved your life" my response was a simple, 'Fuck you.' Oh how punk rock of me.
I think I can only identify with the Ron Launius that has not had a Hollywood make-over. I certainly would have liked him. We would have made a hell of a pair; I've never not liked anyone of Baltic decent. When I lost my grandmother at 95, the breakfast after her funeral was full of tall, blonde Lithuanians. It was awesome to be surrounded by people who understood me; I felt at home. Maybe that is my only home now; being surrounded by people who understand me.
I want to add the most unique trait that my mother's family have: For the poor, the downtrodden and misfits, my family have huge, larger-then-life hearts. I know that does not sound 'gangster' but in my mind, that is the foundation of a true gangster.
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
Lawsuits 101
This blog is my 1st in over a year.
Last May 31st, 2013 (a Friday), I had to stop writing blogs due to being severely injured in an accident.
One vain California driver in a white Nissan Murano SUV hit me off my brand new Veno Classic (it's the Japanese version of a Vespa) and instantly branded me with the first few digits of her license plate. At that exact instant, she turned me into an Austin resident. The bitch branded me. Austinites drive poorly.
Here is a play by play of the accident, which is tattooed in my brain. This bad driver was coming out of a huge Chase bank and waiting to merge into Austin's busy, Jetson-like highway: The Mopac. Her front windows were tinted and rolled up. For some reason her boyfriend was in the back seat, and she was talking to him by looking up at the mirror while simultaneously checking herself out.
Now, here is where my case gets...murky in the legal sense. Yeah, I was driving on the sidewalk. Yep, that's me. It's not as bad as it sounds. The road to get the grocery store is about four miles one way. You can take the same road on the other side back, but there is a moment where one must cut through the Chase Bank parking lot (small and most accidents happen in parking lots, my aunt always told me) OR you can slowly take the L shape of the sidewalk length of the Chase parking lot back. It's about 30 meters, as opposed to going the "correct way" which is a good twenty minutes of road merging, danger Will Robinson scream your Rosary-type scary. I chose the sidewalk. Actually, I've been using that sidewalk every day for over a year. So I've successfully communicated with the person/people driving out of the Chase parking lot about 365 times without getting into an accident.
Now I measured it: After you pass the outlet for the bank, there is two yards of sidewalk before a "path" takes you directly to my home. The word "path" is important. Unfortunately, there is a huge red sign that says, "WRONG WAY" directly were that woman hit me. But its's directed at cars on the road. Not Vespa's on a sidewalk. My apartment complex was so close. Let me add that I saw a huge Harley driver riding on this sidewalk.
No motorized two wheel vehicle can go fast on this sidewalk. You will die. The reason is that a pole holding up a light post is at the end of the L. If you go over five miles an hour, you'll slip out into traffic. Simple physics. You have to go slow.
Back to the memory before the accident. It was an automatic look I now know, but impossible not to know at the time. Many times people do not give me permission to pass. Many times they do. Many times they don't see me and I notice so I stop. But since she did her automatic glance at me while I was slowly wrapping my Vespa around the pole and on the sidewalk parallel to her and yards away, her brown bob shifted left and right. She was smiling. She gave me the necessary room to pass her.
My helmet is DMV certified, and ugly as hell. Expensive too. I look as though I should be slowly bouncing off a ladder in space onto a unknown planet.
The epic thought that went through my mind when her bumper hit my thigh- not my Vespa (appropriately named, "The Love Generator")-was:
"WOW. SHE HIT ME."
No curse words. No James Joyce like conclusion that, "Will no one understand?" Nope. Simply that I could not believe she hit me.
That accident was one of the greatest mishaps to happen to me. First, it gave me a nasty concussion. Even with my space ship helmet, which dented after my head bounced off Austin's fastest highway (The Mopac), I still thought it was pretty cool that I had my first concussion.
The accident was double the pain. Now, over a year later, I can laugh at the screaming message I left in my California doctor's general mailbox: I was in an accident and it tore the skin off my arms, knees, my stomach! All because I'm fat! I could not wear jeans because I'm too fat for anything but shorts! Go to hell, please.
That's true. My insomnia in California is treated with this stupidity pill with a side effect of sleep. I literally gain a pound a day, until I flat line at 150 pounds. Usually, I'm not even close to that heavy.
Side Note: That stupid pill is also dangerous. I took one more then I should have in California, and I had to go to the emergency room. That particular hospital saved my sorry ass more then once. Here is the trick which you should only use if you have real insomnia! I kept yelling, "I have classes to go to tomorrow. Let me out of here!" The doctor on call was from Kansas. He said he is from a state that gives medication to people who need medication, and not weird drugs with extreme side effects. He immediately released me with a prescription of Ambien.
Later a friend saw the same doctor in the same emergency room asking for Valium. He was given nothing more then a lecture, and security escorted him out.
Okay, on to the legal part:
In a nutshell, this is how our country's legal system in accident claims works:
You call the insurance company who was responsible for the accident. They ask for photos. Red flag!
Also, imagine me taking a picture of the actual scene of the accident. WRONG WAY!
Can I add that the woman also had three inch stiletto heels on? Tinted windows rolled up while looking in the mirror, talking to her boyfriend (who was allowed to be included as a witness on her behalf) and spikes for shoes.
Sending in your own photos of your vehicle injuries and your injuries means that the other insurance company will give you nothing. They know you know nothing if you take on a big bad insurance company like Rambo. This is why we have lawyers.
If you go all Rambo, they will string you along until your superficial injuries heal, then deny your claim like a cold heart gangster. Now once your claim has been denied (and they will) they will use severe fear tactics to scare you from getting a lawyer. They deny your claim and the bastard who tells you so on the phone while your mouth has dropped to the floor will hang up and accept their new promotion.
The person who does the stringing along and calling and denying has two years of college training on this subject. My nightmare's name was Diane Grace. When my jaw hit the floor after she said in the sweetest voice possible (not joking), "We decided to give you n-o-t-h-i-n-g." I responded in shock that I am going to have to sue her company. Her response, "Go ahead and get a lawyer. I'll explain the law to him too."
Know this: A lawyer is not allowed to practice law until after they pass a three day long bar. A former neighbor's son had a stroke while taking the bar. My ten year, on and off relationship with a law graduate with a high IQ does not help me get ninja-like revenge on all who hurt me, because he has not passed the bar yet. It's been six years too. You can not take the bar at your leisure. Once you fail, you have to wait a year or more.
My point is that it is very hard to be a lawyer. So when the claims agent tells you on the phone, just as she told me, "Get a lawyer. Go ahead honey. I'll explain the law to him too." Keep your cool. Actually, you should have never gotten to this step anyway. If you are in an accident, get a lawyer as soon as possible. Also, go to the emergency room as soon as possible. The more hurt you are, the more work a lawyer will put into your case. They get a percent.
The claims agent putting the fear of God into you is part of their formula. Get a lawyer to escape this trap. Otherwise, regardless of how win-able your case is in the eyes of the law, the insurance company at fault will always reference that your first claim was denied.
My lawyer was probably the best in Austin. Certain a very moral, handsome, young, family man. During our first meeting, he had to excuse himself to join his pregnant wife for a Lamaze class. I liked him almost instantly. Remember, your lawyer works for you. They are paid to worry about this stuff for you. I kept thinking he would assume that my personality is repugnant and drop me. I stopped writing blogs. Writing is my favorite therapy.
My lawyer only spoke to me in person three times. I worried that my case was not worth a lot to him and in reality it was not. He took a pay cut to give me more spending cash. He negotiated deals with my physical therapist. Everyone reading this needs to get at least one back adjustment. They are about $43. They feel amazing! Essentially, I went from one orthopedic surgeon to a physical therapist to MRI techs, getting muscle relaxers, pain killers, back rubs, and words of compassion. Every other day in physical therapy I listened to good music (it's true that Austin has the best music in America- at least the best in the most unlikely of places) got the pain rubbed out of my back, and talked to my chiropractor about what my essay will be for my Master's to come. Like the L. Cohen song, "The Sisters of Mercy," these people worked together to tackle my pain.
I took my insurance money and put some in stocks. Actually a new topical pain medication that came out when I was hit by that damn bad driver looking in her mirror as she accelerated with three inch heels. My angels where there to protect me. Other then some cool looking scars, I'm a more careful driver (though it was never my fault) and I appreciate life more.
As for these blogs. My greatest blogs are the words of others: William Blake notes. I'm still rusty from a year. The January 7th Nativity blog marked the point when I was allowed to write something. I used one finger on a tiny smartphone to type that blog. Yes, I am rusty. But I'm getting back to writing again.
Last May 31st, 2013 (a Friday), I had to stop writing blogs due to being severely injured in an accident.
One vain California driver in a white Nissan Murano SUV hit me off my brand new Veno Classic (it's the Japanese version of a Vespa) and instantly branded me with the first few digits of her license plate. At that exact instant, she turned me into an Austin resident. The bitch branded me. Austinites drive poorly.
Here is a play by play of the accident, which is tattooed in my brain. This bad driver was coming out of a huge Chase bank and waiting to merge into Austin's busy, Jetson-like highway: The Mopac. Her front windows were tinted and rolled up. For some reason her boyfriend was in the back seat, and she was talking to him by looking up at the mirror while simultaneously checking herself out.
Now, here is where my case gets...murky in the legal sense. Yeah, I was driving on the sidewalk. Yep, that's me. It's not as bad as it sounds. The road to get the grocery store is about four miles one way. You can take the same road on the other side back, but there is a moment where one must cut through the Chase Bank parking lot (small and most accidents happen in parking lots, my aunt always told me) OR you can slowly take the L shape of the sidewalk length of the Chase parking lot back. It's about 30 meters, as opposed to going the "correct way" which is a good twenty minutes of road merging, danger Will Robinson scream your Rosary-type scary. I chose the sidewalk. Actually, I've been using that sidewalk every day for over a year. So I've successfully communicated with the person/people driving out of the Chase parking lot about 365 times without getting into an accident.
Now I measured it: After you pass the outlet for the bank, there is two yards of sidewalk before a "path" takes you directly to my home. The word "path" is important. Unfortunately, there is a huge red sign that says, "WRONG WAY" directly were that woman hit me. But its's directed at cars on the road. Not Vespa's on a sidewalk. My apartment complex was so close. Let me add that I saw a huge Harley driver riding on this sidewalk.
No motorized two wheel vehicle can go fast on this sidewalk. You will die. The reason is that a pole holding up a light post is at the end of the L. If you go over five miles an hour, you'll slip out into traffic. Simple physics. You have to go slow.
Back to the memory before the accident. It was an automatic look I now know, but impossible not to know at the time. Many times people do not give me permission to pass. Many times they do. Many times they don't see me and I notice so I stop. But since she did her automatic glance at me while I was slowly wrapping my Vespa around the pole and on the sidewalk parallel to her and yards away, her brown bob shifted left and right. She was smiling. She gave me the necessary room to pass her.
My helmet is DMV certified, and ugly as hell. Expensive too. I look as though I should be slowly bouncing off a ladder in space onto a unknown planet.
The epic thought that went through my mind when her bumper hit my thigh- not my Vespa (appropriately named, "The Love Generator")-was:
"WOW. SHE HIT ME."
No curse words. No James Joyce like conclusion that, "Will no one understand?" Nope. Simply that I could not believe she hit me.
That accident was one of the greatest mishaps to happen to me. First, it gave me a nasty concussion. Even with my space ship helmet, which dented after my head bounced off Austin's fastest highway (The Mopac), I still thought it was pretty cool that I had my first concussion.
The accident was double the pain. Now, over a year later, I can laugh at the screaming message I left in my California doctor's general mailbox: I was in an accident and it tore the skin off my arms, knees, my stomach! All because I'm fat! I could not wear jeans because I'm too fat for anything but shorts! Go to hell, please.
That's true. My insomnia in California is treated with this stupidity pill with a side effect of sleep. I literally gain a pound a day, until I flat line at 150 pounds. Usually, I'm not even close to that heavy.
Side Note: That stupid pill is also dangerous. I took one more then I should have in California, and I had to go to the emergency room. That particular hospital saved my sorry ass more then once. Here is the trick which you should only use if you have real insomnia! I kept yelling, "I have classes to go to tomorrow. Let me out of here!" The doctor on call was from Kansas. He said he is from a state that gives medication to people who need medication, and not weird drugs with extreme side effects. He immediately released me with a prescription of Ambien.
Later a friend saw the same doctor in the same emergency room asking for Valium. He was given nothing more then a lecture, and security escorted him out.
Okay, on to the legal part:
In a nutshell, this is how our country's legal system in accident claims works:
You call the insurance company who was responsible for the accident. They ask for photos. Red flag!
Also, imagine me taking a picture of the actual scene of the accident. WRONG WAY!
Can I add that the woman also had three inch stiletto heels on? Tinted windows rolled up while looking in the mirror, talking to her boyfriend (who was allowed to be included as a witness on her behalf) and spikes for shoes.
Sending in your own photos of your vehicle injuries and your injuries means that the other insurance company will give you nothing. They know you know nothing if you take on a big bad insurance company like Rambo. This is why we have lawyers.
If you go all Rambo, they will string you along until your superficial injuries heal, then deny your claim like a cold heart gangster. Now once your claim has been denied (and they will) they will use severe fear tactics to scare you from getting a lawyer. They deny your claim and the bastard who tells you so on the phone while your mouth has dropped to the floor will hang up and accept their new promotion.
The person who does the stringing along and calling and denying has two years of college training on this subject. My nightmare's name was Diane Grace. When my jaw hit the floor after she said in the sweetest voice possible (not joking), "We decided to give you n-o-t-h-i-n-g." I responded in shock that I am going to have to sue her company. Her response, "Go ahead and get a lawyer. I'll explain the law to him too."
Know this: A lawyer is not allowed to practice law until after they pass a three day long bar. A former neighbor's son had a stroke while taking the bar. My ten year, on and off relationship with a law graduate with a high IQ does not help me get ninja-like revenge on all who hurt me, because he has not passed the bar yet. It's been six years too. You can not take the bar at your leisure. Once you fail, you have to wait a year or more.
My point is that it is very hard to be a lawyer. So when the claims agent tells you on the phone, just as she told me, "Get a lawyer. Go ahead honey. I'll explain the law to him too." Keep your cool. Actually, you should have never gotten to this step anyway. If you are in an accident, get a lawyer as soon as possible. Also, go to the emergency room as soon as possible. The more hurt you are, the more work a lawyer will put into your case. They get a percent.
The claims agent putting the fear of God into you is part of their formula. Get a lawyer to escape this trap. Otherwise, regardless of how win-able your case is in the eyes of the law, the insurance company at fault will always reference that your first claim was denied.
My lawyer was probably the best in Austin. Certain a very moral, handsome, young, family man. During our first meeting, he had to excuse himself to join his pregnant wife for a Lamaze class. I liked him almost instantly. Remember, your lawyer works for you. They are paid to worry about this stuff for you. I kept thinking he would assume that my personality is repugnant and drop me. I stopped writing blogs. Writing is my favorite therapy.
My lawyer only spoke to me in person three times. I worried that my case was not worth a lot to him and in reality it was not. He took a pay cut to give me more spending cash. He negotiated deals with my physical therapist. Everyone reading this needs to get at least one back adjustment. They are about $43. They feel amazing! Essentially, I went from one orthopedic surgeon to a physical therapist to MRI techs, getting muscle relaxers, pain killers, back rubs, and words of compassion. Every other day in physical therapy I listened to good music (it's true that Austin has the best music in America- at least the best in the most unlikely of places) got the pain rubbed out of my back, and talked to my chiropractor about what my essay will be for my Master's to come. Like the L. Cohen song, "The Sisters of Mercy," these people worked together to tackle my pain.
I took my insurance money and put some in stocks. Actually a new topical pain medication that came out when I was hit by that damn bad driver looking in her mirror as she accelerated with three inch heels. My angels where there to protect me. Other then some cool looking scars, I'm a more careful driver (though it was never my fault) and I appreciate life more.
As for these blogs. My greatest blogs are the words of others: William Blake notes. I'm still rusty from a year. The January 7th Nativity blog marked the point when I was allowed to write something. I used one finger on a tiny smartphone to type that blog. Yes, I am rusty. But I'm getting back to writing again.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
Happy Nativity
It's been a half a year since I wrote a blog. There are a lot of reasons why I stopped writing. If my ego shows, my words are selfish. There is enough cynicism in the world. I started to feel a responsibility to write quality work or nothing. My best work comes from my class notes. Those from my William Blake Professor.
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