The latest judgement by the United States Supreme Court has overturned Roe v Wade and left the issue of abortion to the States.

If you read just a little about the original case, you will learn the federal government ruled against Texas banning abortion. It was challenged years later in Planned Parenthood v Casey that ruled for the right to an abortion for the safety of the mother.

The conservative right argues that they are saving God’s innocent little babies. This is based on a false presumption that God cares since the Bible has no mention of unlawful abortion. It’s actually the opposite. The Bible has references to killing unborn children in the bellies of their enemies, but no mention of saving them.

Religion has no place in the Supreme Court or our government, but yet, here we are, arguing theology with 60 to 80 percent of the population in support of women’s rights to choose. Our nation is now corrupt.

The purpose of religion is answering the question of why we are here and what lies beyond.

When I was 12( the age of reason) I questioned the existence of God. I was afraid to even think the thoughts.

I’d been told my entire life that it was a sin to question God and I would go to Hell. But I just had to try and make sense of it and risk it. Why are there so many different religions? If only one is the correct one, and all others are wrong and they go to Hell, it seems like a pretty big crap shoot. My 12 year old brain was wildly confused.

When I realized that it wasn’t real, that religion had a different purpose than just obeying the man in the sky, I was freed from the constraints of a narrow view of the universe. I discovered and invented my own answers to some really deep questions. I learned later that I wasn’t the only one with those questions and answers. And God also never hit me with lightning.

I also feel like we as humans are incapable of understanding it all. Just as an insect, I presume, doesn’t understand calculus, we are not capable of understanding the vastness of energy around us. Maybe that’s spiritually. I accept that I don’t understand and never will, therefore it really isn’t that important.

I would never force anyone to follow rules of what I believe or don’t believe, but here we are now, being forced to follow the beliefs of right wing Christian conservatives who are the minority.

It is unconstitutional. It is a violation of the separation of Church and State. It is a corruption of our government years in the making.

If anything good comes of this, it’s the realization that the Right is dead serious about overtaking our nation. It is not in the interest of Democracy. It is self-serving and it is now proven very real.

Republicans have been installing radical politicians by appointing and gerrymandering members of the far right for over forty years. It’s a long and strategic ploy for control. Today, their efforts have again paid off in a very big way.

Currently, there are Trump Republicans in place as Secretaries of States standing by to corrupt the next election. https://youtu.be/6zqWcx6TqD4
That sounds crazy, but it’s real.

It will be nearly impossible to reinstate the freedom of choice with women’s rights. The only hope to preserve our democracy and the rights of its citizens is to vote.

Vote out Trump followers who wish to corrupt our government based on lies.

Vote out the Republicans who pander to extreme right wing businesses, organizations, and Churches.

Vote to reinstate your actual fundamental beliefs, even if you’re a Republican.

Stop voting based on years of tradition and being convinced the Right is family friendly and good. It is not that anymore.

Vote to save the lives of the living children. Not amoebas or zygotes, or brainless blobs with a blood pump, or a machine that resembles the sound of a heartbeat, but actual living children regardless of their gender or preference. Maybe God would want you to do that, if he was real.

It feels like Christmas morning.

I placed an apple and two small cucumbers on a flat rock among the shade trees yesterday and the night critters came and ate them up, like Santa eats cookies, but instead of crumbs, they left little balls of poop behind as evidence of their true existence.

It was a strange and intense feeling to pretend to normalize the disturbance for the safety of my kids and everyone else while simultaneously contemplating an escape route or violent defense measures. The entire half of the crowded restaurant was completely silent and stunned by the wild man until I purposefully blurted out how good our arriving food looked and broke the collective tension, all while keeping my high level of awareness of a possible volatile situation unfolding directly behind my youngest son. The other patrons began to murmur and mutter as the shift manager reluctantly spoke to the obviously frustrated man wearing a pink fuzzy, bear eared hat with matching pink fuzzy gloves, his voice stammered, “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave”. “I’m waiting on somebody!” the flustered man forcefully blurted out, pulling on his three layers of sweat pants worn with the waists just above his thighs.

The manager looked back across the dining room at the waitress with the phone ready in her hand, signaling with a nod to dial the three dreaded numbers, 9-1-1. The manager walked away for a moment to reassess the situation as I subtly watched the disturbing man for signs of danger. He was mentally ill or tripping on some kind of drug. Probably both but he didn’t seem intent on hurting anyone. He was clearly on a personal mission, of some kind, inside his head.

Before his dramatic entrance, I was looking behind me, searching for our server. The place was busy, it’s always busy, but they seemed understaffed and stressed out more than usual. The lingering pandemic has taken its toll on Denny’s. The usual staff was different from our bi-yearly visits. My favorite guy, who resembles Samuel L. Jackson wasn’t there, and neither was the heavy set, pretty faced Black woman with the beautiful smooth skin, like creamy chocolate. The doppelganger, Samuel, was especially good with breaking through to my youngest son, who has always had difficulty in public with sensory overload. I imagine Samuel saying very loudly to my son, “Pancakes motherfucker! Tell me what kind of motherfucking pancakes you want!”. He never said anything like that, but he was a little bit forceful in a great way. More like Samuel Jackson- lite. The woman was also really great with him just being extra nice and patient.

And as pretentious as it sounds, I chose this particular retro styled Denny’s years ago, on the east side of town, specifically for its diversity. Also, the 1950’s style chrome and curves added a nifty cool atmosphere. I needed my children to be aware and unafraid of people of color, and this Denny’s provides a beautiful rainbow of all humanity. We purposefully have planted our roots in an affluent area, in a white conservative world, (where I personally don’t belong) taking advantage of a highly acclaimed public school system. I firmly believe it’s important to understand that other people and other worlds exist. It’s the only way I know of to protect my offspring from the ignorance of classism and racism, even if it puts us all in danger apparently.

As I scanned behind the counter, I noticed a group of three servers had stopped in their tracks and were fixated on something outside the front doors. I could tell something was going on but could see nothing out the window looking out to the entrance. Whatever was happening was out of my view until the ragged and tattered homeless man stormed his way inside, stomping towards us and slamming down his clear plastic bag with unknown objects onto the booth table directly behind us, scattering the dirty dishes and spilling a cup full of liquid onto the bench seat and pouring to the floor. I was immediately suspicious of what was in the bag and my horrible mind pictured a bag full of feces. I was not going to say it, even if it was true. We were in a restaurant, my kids were fussy, and we were starving. Nothing was going to ruin our meal. Not even a crazy fuck with a bag of shit.

The cagey gentleman immediately turned and huffed his way back out to retrieve an unopened large cardboard box that seemed to be a desktop inkjet printer. He powered back and slammed the box onto the table, displacing more syrup sticky plates and knives and forks, and then forcefully sat down with a puff of air blowing out of the seat cushion. He grabbed the box and threw it on the floor at his feet then started to reach down into his sweatpants. I instructed my kids not to look since I really thought he might pull out his privates. Thankfully, he didn’t. He was just re-tying his sweatpants waist strings. I started to get a small sense that he wasn’t there to hurt anyone. He was just having a bad day. That’s when the manager approached sheepishly and asked him to leave.

The second time the manager asked, the man stood up and adamantly said, ” Lead the way!” The manager was frozen for a moment and I was just about to intervene and suggest he actually lead the way. But thankfully, the manager did, and the homeless man in peril followed. We took him for a man of his word, and to his credit, he was.

The disruptive scene was over, but the man forgot his plastic bag. I wondered if he would suddenly return in a storm and blaze but I assume he was either detained or was at a distance when the cops arrived, making it impossible to retrieve the mystery bag.

My oldest kid and I pointed out the precarious container bag to the waitress to investigate. She did not, but instead called over the young busboy and told him to throw it in the trash. He picked it up with two fingers and placed it in his grey plastic bin beside some plates. I was still concerned for our health and safety and asked him what was in the bag, he picked it up haphazardly and said, “look like a apple and some cucumber”. I thought, ‘no way those are cucumbers, who eats raw cucumber?’

I told him to give me the bag so I can give it back to the wild man if I see him. I pointed, drawing an invisible directional path, around the table, to the chair next to me. I couldn’t have him hand it to me over my youngest son’s plate of food. That would have been bad. That would have ruined the meal.

The cops outside the front door were just hanging out it seemed, leaning on their cruisers and having a casual conversation with each other. I never could tell if the homeless guy was in the back seat of either car as they eventually drove away.

We finished our meal and I paid an undeserving tip, since our server never gave us silverware or cream for my coffee that I’d repeatedly asked for well before the initial disturbance. The food was delicious though and the cooks always deserve their portion of the tips, always.

A deep breath and calming of the nerves and I realized at that moment that I’d also achieved another lesson in diversity for my kids. This is exactly why I chose this Denny’s and it always delivers.

We had a moment to discuss social issues, like ‘Defund the Police’, where this homeless man obviously needed a social worker instead of a cop. We also agreed hypothetically, that a redneck openly carrying a gun is more terrifying than a homeless man having a psychotic episode.

I thought about leaving the bag somewhere he might find it if he came back, but decided to take the chance on seeing him somewhere. I drove down the frontage road where the homeless used to camp and convene. The white collar city officials have recently cracked down on the homeless, making it a crime to live in certain areas so there was no real good way to find him. I was hoping for a chance encounter to return what rightfully belonged to him. A touch of fate. It was also a very healthy snack he was really going to miss, but he was nowhere in sight.

My kids and I went on to our next destination and adventure for the day, putting the earlier events and lessons behind us. My only satisfaction is that I saved the food from the dumpster and gave it to a forreging animal instead.

I then shot and killed the animal and left it to rot as a warning to others to stop shitting in my yard.

As the fragile, fifty-four year old reel to reel tape is slowly decaying in a cardboard box in a climate controlled storage shed, I feel rushed to discover its origin. I worry that the change in humidity from its previous years will speed the process of self destruction. My attempt to find the history of this lost recording is becoming more futile with every turn. No one seems to know anything about it.

I’ve had contact with journalists, archivists, authors, and family members. The frustrating realization is that the one and only living person that does know, is eighty-eight years old. He’s Willie Nelson himself and he’s hard to reach. He also may not even remember the recording session. It was a long time ago and possibly non-profitable and uneventful.

I have even questioned the reality of its existence myself, and I have the damn tape. Did my dad deep fake this before there was any technology available to do that? No, he could barely check the oil in his car. Is this some kind of delusional hoax? No, it’s very real. It’s a real tape inside a real cardboard box for over fifty years.

I’m left to ponder the meaning of it all, the timing of it, and my own, one sided relationship with Willie Nelson. If you know me or my mother, you have already heard our Willie stories. Mostly, they are just my mom’s stories based on actual experiences with slightly rough edges from the passage of time.

But I have to fatefully wonder, of the three artists on the recording, why is Willie the last survivor? The only one I have any connection to.

Why does it appear that I happen to have the only existing copy of this recording? Why did my dad even have the tape? Why did he choose to keep it way back then? Was it rare even then? Did he have a plan? He left no clues and no other legacy when he died in 1995, ironically due to alcoholism.

Why, after all these years, did no one in my family know about this? I had even asked my brother, years ago, who had access to reel to reel players in the radio station where he worked, to go through that box of old tapes and he never did it.

Why has my own pursuit of being an aspiring songwriter and musician allowed me to have the sound engineering knowledge and equipment to hear this tape?

And after years of drinking and promising myself I’d quit if I won the lottery, then realizing that maybe if I just quit first, I might deserve to win the lottery, why then did I discover the tape?

And why did I wind up living just a few miles from Luck, Texas? Willie Nelson’s ranch and recording studio. I’m from west Texas and New Mexico.

All of this weirdly smells of destiny, or even just an unlikely coincidence, and I can’t just ignore it.

The history of Willie Nelson and my family is unique. Part of why I feel so incredibly comfortable talking with members of the Nelson family is that I feel connected. I have to remind myself that they do not feel that way. They don’t know me, or my mom or my dad. They didn’t grow up hearing stories about me and feel almost related to me. At one point, when I was about twelve, I honestly felt I needed to ask if Willie was my father. He is not, and it’s physically obvious, but I had to ask.

I also realize how creepy and intrusive that is to Willie’s actual family and I profoundly apologize. Amy Nelson has a song about certain ladies that were attracted to her famous dad. I really hope that wasn’t inspired by my mom. I would never tell Amy that, but I wish I could apologize just the same.

My dad was an early fan of Willie. Mostly because of the Jazz influence and beautiful poetry Willie examined in his music. My dad promoted him through the radio station where he worked, KROB, and took on a personal interest in expanding his career. I’m sure my dad was just one of many, but I’m actually proud of him for doing that. I share his taste in music and Willie Nelson is amazing. But for whatever reason, my dad moved on from that era. We left south Texas a few months after I was born. My mom seemed to relive those exciting and special days for years and years after, while my dad rarely spoke of any of it.

If you mention Willie Nelson to my mom, you will first hear the story of how my nickname is Willie Bush. Named after Willie Nelson and Johnny Bush. It was a joke my dad had told the both of them shortly after I was born in Corpus Christi in 1968, coincidentally around the same time the recording was made.

The real question, with every turn of the lack of knowledge of this recording, is what do I do with it before it turns to dust?

The unknown list of living people that were around back then is getting smaller every day. If I’d had the tape a few years ago, I could have presented it to Poodie Locke, Willie’s road manager, in his partially owned bar right down the road from my home. I was in there quite a bit back then. He would’ve at least listened to me and the recording and possibly gotten an answer from Willie himself. Poodie was someone I considered a friend although we barely knew each other. Like the t-shirts states, ‘I know Poodie too’.

As of now, I have annoyed most of Willie’s kids to the point they won’t talk to me anymore. One of them even denies it’s Willie on the recording or that he’d ever done anything for Pearl beer, even though there are concert posters out there that prove otherwise. Another daughter was obviously uncomfortable with me, but the nicest person I think I have ever met. She also offered some good advice and a link on Facebook.

They seem to be very protective of their dad, and the business of their dad. It’s completely understandable, especially with his age, and the virus floating around, but I wish someone would at least listen and allow me to ask questions from a safe distance. I have given them the opportunity to get involved and they are not interested at all. I also have had no response from the Jennings and Haggard families. I would think they too would be interested.

Maybe it’s a legal issue? Someone could tell me if that was true. I don’t know enough about who owns what here anyway. I do fear that someone might ransack my property looking for it. Either to steal it or destroy it. I know there’s a fiercely competitive history between Lone Star and Pearl brewing companies. This recording could suggest that Pearl is the original national beer of Texas after all. 

It has also occurred to me that they don’t believe me. I could be a grifter, a scam artist, a swindler. It’s probably true that there are crazy people who contact them with wild schemes quite often. I just hate that I’m possibly perceived as another psycho.

So my options right now are to sell the rare tape and be done with it forever. I could start touring with a band. It’d be like I won the lottery.

Or destroy it in the name of militant sobriety and vengeance for all the alcoholism that’s attributed to messing up my life and countless others.

Or continue to dig for the hidden story, annoying anyone I must, to get the answers.

Or, I could start a mystery podcast. Maybe I should ask a Nelson to help me with it? That could be fun and expensive.

Or maybe convince Pearl beer to challenge Lone Star as the official beer of Texas in a devious marketing battle. I mean, at least Pearl survived prohibition.

Or, I could write this article you’re reading right now. Maybe you could give me a better solution.

Or, I could release it for free to the world to hear on my YouTube channel, helping to attract visitors to my own bitter, original music for fractions of pennies with every view and stream.

The opportunity is endless, but my biggest pressure is to not blow it. I truly believe I have something special.

I’ve wanted so much more out of life, through music, or whatever and I think this is an actual opportunity. I don’t want to exploit anyone, or cheat anyone. I don’t want to steal anything. I’ll share what I need to. I just want a chance to live my life, better. I want to be able to provide for my own family and actually help people and contribute something to the world. I still believe I have potential and purpose.

Opportunity has eluded me my whole life even though I’ve been hunting it down. My dysfunctional childhood and lack of guidance dealt a lousy hand. Few people really know just how hard it is to become a success from near zero. I don’t like placing blame on others, but there’s truth to it. I also have plenty of blame for myself and my own bad choices. I’d love another chance before I die or arthritis cancels my guitar playing hands.

And here it is, a legacy dropped in my lap from my deceased father. It was ignored for years and I just happened to take the initiative to discover it. And even if it turns out to be somehow worthless, illegal, or just too boring to make anything out of, it will not have been useless. The fact that I’ve explored all these thoughts is adventurous enough, maybe.

The opening bid is five million dollars, if you’re interested. I already have the money divvied up to family and taxes in my mind.

Two years dry and sober have me thinking so many different things. The strangest part is seeing simple things as new. Just one example was the way the light was falling from the skylight, hitting the bathroom tub. It looked warm and comforting, familiar and old. I can only assume that’s how it feels for a soldier coming home after six months of war. Does that make me a real hero? I think so. I am actually impressed with myself for actually doing this thing. It qualifies as a battle.

It’s also weird that time itself is different now. Two years feels like twenty and yesterday at the same time. It’s difficult to explain but it feels like I’m nostalgic for how alcohol made me feel, intoxicated and energetic, but I’m someone else having someone else’s memories. It really throws me into a science fiction frame of mind, questioning all of reality, time and space.

I wonder what’s actually happening to my brain? Is it permanent damage or trying to rebuild itself? Is it just aging or just starting to grow from years of arrested development? Probably all of the above.

I remember the taste of crisp, cold, twangy beer, but I have little real desire to drink again. I remember, clearly, enjoying a tall Schlitz Malt Liquor when I was about eight years old. I was instantly enamored with it’s power of taste and tingling intoxication.

I sometimes think I probably could enjoy a drink again and not fall into the habitual pattern, but I ask, why? I don’t need it and I’ll probably regret it. I’ve taken that as far as I could and somehow, I’m still alive. Everyday life is so much better without it. That temptation is easier to ignore now, but it comes and goes. If it can be equated to Tennyson, ” ‘Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all”, I have to strongly disagree. We would all be better off never falling for alcohol.

I also know and fear the power of that addiction. The feeling that I could just take it or leave it is really a trick to get me to start drinking again. It’s what the voices are saying. It’s the Devil himself. The addiction. Luckily, I’m defiant and stubborn and have somehow turned those attributes around against the Devil, I think. I hope.

I’ve also had to come to terms with the reality of our boozing culture in my journey to sobriety. I despise alcohol. I wish it was never invented. It ruins so many lives. But, I have to acknowledge, not everyone has a problem.

But, there’s a part of me that believes that everyone does have a problem and they just don’t know it, because all alcohol is inherently a problem. If you have a problem, and you drink, you have a drinking problem.

I see the, not so subtle, changes in personality and am amazed at how people don’t recognize or acknowledge it. Sometimes they justify it or outright deny it. At least I was always very open and clear about my alcoholism, except when I wasn’t, which was always. Is that clear enough?

I don’t miss the legal risk of drinking and driving. The chance of getting arrested…again. The embarrassment, the possibility of having kids taken away, and the monetary cost is so stressful. The State has a money grab system that punishes lightweight drinkers and lines politicians’ pockets with cash for years. The only good thing is the required education, although, if you are wealthy and connected, or pretty enough, you can get out of it. It’s just another way to vaguely legally oppress the poor and slap the wrists of the opportunistic. It’s the American way.

I do miss the illusion of freedom, starting the weekend early, or rewarding the accomplishment of just making it through the day, everyday, sometimes with a crisp, cold beer in a cute and tiny paper bag on the way home from the last job site, or usually, with an all day iced twelve pack in the cooler in the back, patiently waiting for hours for the moment of birth, always providing a good beer buzz by the time I hit the driveway. And I miss the laughter, smoke, and libations with the crew, leaning against the fender on the tired and resting, rugged pickup truck. The continuing celebration and ritual of being a working man. The refreshment mixed with the sweat and the dirt and the blood of the everyday struggle, settling the nerves of yesterday’s hangover, hitting the reset button on my vital organs. Man, I miss that. Who wouldn’t?

My wife called me while I was working outside in the light rain on a job site. I put down my equipment and shut off the ridiculously loud engine as I answered before it went to voicemail. I could instantly tell that she was annoyed but I didn’t know why. The phone was cutting out as we tried to decipher what we were saying, and like most of our greetings we just yell “Hello” and “What? Can you hear me?” until the link is established. I had texted a work related question a few minutes before, but really wasn’t expecting a response knowing that I was out of cel tower range. She had replied to my text, but I didn’t know that.

But my phone, in my pocket, replied back to her and continued the conversation completely on its own. Most likely from the moisture on my shorts pocket touching the phone screen while I was moving around. Not only did it continue the conversation, it did it with an attitude.

It answered her with predictive text, “uh, ok”, which is something I would never say, much less, put in a written message. Even though I sometimes get complacent and skip being totally and completely polite to my spouse, this was a professional work conversation and I always do my best to keep it civil, clear, and concise. I’m actually surprised she thought it was me. She did become suspicious on the second auto fill text that stated a snarky “why?” Almost with a smirk and a sassy Texas drawl.

It was out of context, confusing and also unlike even my worst bad attitude, so she called to actually hear my words with my voice. She started the analog conversation with, “…..What the fuck?” I knew instantly that this was no robot calling.

After finally sorting out the text conversation through the frustrating broken cel tower signal, we were still somehow annoyed. A lingering after effect of an ignorant algorithmic presumptuous artificial intelligence. Like having sticky fingers after a crumbly honey covered biscuit.

And that got me thinking. Why does my phone think I talk like a dick-head? I don’t ever text words like these. I might say them as a joke, but I’d never put it in actual writing. 

That got me thinking more. How does this thing even work?

Since I don’t really know, I’ll guess.

I assume that predictive text is based on generalized common language spoken by mass amounts of average people. It sure as hell didn’t get that shit from me! The data may come from Facebook or Twitter or some form of crappy public conversation on social media since there’s totally no way they’re actually spying on our text conversations.

And that got me thinking even more. Does the average person really talk like that? Is the average person a dick-head? Are most people shitty, bitter, pissy conversationalists? And is that how we shape and define all of our information based on how people think and speak?

Are TV shows, YouTube videos, movies, books, and Presidents chosen the same way? Is that how we got Trump the toddler bully, Hillary the rhetorical teenager, Cruz the high school commencement speaker, Pelosi the six year old drama queen, McConnell the turtle faced republi-bot, Schumer the hyperbolic step dad, and Marjorie Taylor Greene the batshit crazy conspiracy tart? Sounds about right.

Maybe, it’s time for someone to look into this. A study to determine if people mimic what is perceived as popular culture. Does anyone know anyone at Cornell or Stanford? Are those places even real? Well, I’ve never seen them. I’m just sayin’.

We know that humans greatest talent is copying each other. That’s how we get popular phrases like, “That’s what she said!” and “Get er’ done” or my all time favorite, “Just fuck me and feed me beans”. There’s nothing wrong with mimicking each other. It’s how we have survived for so long. It helps us stay likable and socially connected so we don’t eat each others cooked brains in our own tribe.

But what happens if the “popular” sayings were being generated collectively by the worst humans ever?  What if we start to mimic the computerized interpretation of ourselves. Uh….what if we already are?

Would it be the decline of our own social survival? Would husbands and wives start to treat each other differently resulting in less love and compassion for each other? Would that mean that less babies would be made and the inevitability of the decline of human reproduction? The end of woman? The end of man?

I don’t know. Probably.

#trump2028