Goons Gone Gonzo-Part II

Goons Gone Gonzo-Part II

The most evocative response I received from the piece I posted yesterday, about the federal agent who got off on intimidation and threat, was the one which simply said “...What a shame...”  The implication is that we have slipped backward, more than just a stride or two, on what has once again become a mountain, rather than a hill.

Since the days of Bill Stewart (May he rest more peacefully than he lived.), we have seen a gradual lessening of the chains within the marijuana universe.  In recent years we have been free to pursue a medicinal planting of a perfunctory number of plants, to allow for personal harvesting of a commodity which brings relief to a long list of physical, mental, and/or psychological issues, which people face.

For so long folks have either had to grow their medicine in the shade, or face possible prosecution for growing in the sun.  Though I realize that I am at odds with corporate America on this issue, I believe it is every person's right, to do what works best for him or her, when it comes to issues of personal health.  As long as there is no money to be made by Big Business from marijuana, there is going to continue to be resistance to this medicine.  I can live with that.

I have also lived for nine months * under the threat of having my house and twenty acres seized, by federal authorities, back in 1985/86, for the reprehensible crime of having thirty plants on my property.  Later it was determined that the plants were not on my land.  The federal government never charged me with a crime, never finger-printed me, and never so much as questioned me, and yet it posted a forfeiture notice on my destroyed front gate, stating flatly that my property was now that of the United States government.  It took nine months and $17,500 1985 dollars, before the whole thing was dismissed by the Attorney General’s representative, here on the West Coast.  I have paid my dues.

Now we are once again facing egregious violations of our most basic human rights, not to mention “American” rights.  For some reason American rights always seem more elevated than human rights, because, well, everyone seems to think it should be that way.  I lean toward the notion that human rights, if anything, should be the barometer by which these things are determined, but what do I know?

So when the comment, “...What a shame...” is made, I have to say it strikes a tender chord.  Once again we must withstand some sort of political grandstanding on the part of the federal government, to prove that it can keep those pesky Californians in their place.  It doesn’t seem to matter that the medical marijuana movement extends from ocean to shining ocean.  

Right now, in Oakland, Stephen DeAngelo is also facing forfeiture of his assets tied into his marijuana dispensary, as of Wednesday, July 11th.  He has stated, “We have no intention of closing our doors.  We will never abandon our patients.”  

Here lies my central point of contention:  If California, in all of its infinite wisdom, has deemed the medical marijuana industry legal, what business is it of the federal government on any level?  Every step which interferes with this industry costs the federal government vast unlimited amounts of money in lawyers’ fees, and the fees paid to thugs who patrol our rural-and not-so-rural-neighborhoods, in search of medical marijuana plants to harvest. **

I believe the time has come for the federal government to get off this particular soapbox, before it becomes any more painfully obvious that Big Business actually IS INVOLVED in the marijuana industry, only as an ongoing antagonist in the never-ending saga of “Reefer Madness.”   

• I posted a piece entitled “It Came Out of the Sky” last spring, detailing this event.

    ** In yesterday’s piece, “Goons Gone Gonzo,” I detailed a federal agent running amok up here on the ridge.  One of his stops included the confiscation of twenty-five plants, from a medical marijuana patient, who is an acquaintance of mine.  I remain outraged on behalf of injustices that are so unwarranted, as this.  The “perpetrator’s” crime?  His homestead lies on the same road, as the originally intended target, a site with 1,500 plants on it.  I have no problem with the big target, only with the aftermath of an ego gone gonzo.  That agent did not have to go out of his way to confiscate those twenty-five plants, but he was just that kind of guy.

Goons Gone Gonzo

Goons Gone Gonzo

Common sense dictates that discussing politics or religion can get me into hot water, faster than a steep slide into a jacuzzi.  I don’t particularly like hot tubs, so I usually don’t talk politics, but I am also outraged at the way Californians are being disrespected by federal authorities, who operate as though this is last century sometime.  Up here on Bell Springs Road, we have DEA field agents operating on their own power trips, detaining citizens without reason or warning, intimidating them through implied violence, and threatening to run rampage on personal property.

Corruption of power begins at the top and filters its way down, as the battle between the federal government and individual states, over individuals’ rights, continues into the present day.  Back at the inception of our democracy, states’ rights were a central issue, stemming mainly from the economic and social differences between various geographical locations within our country.  Now it is about philosophical differences of opinion, with the federal government adopting a repulsively antiquated stance concerning the medical use of marijuana. 

Operating from a 1930’s mentality, the federal government continues to pursue a misguided and farcical course, involving marijuana and its users, in the classic “reefer madness” approach to the entire subject.  Though California has enacted public policies to regulate and monitor the dispersal of medical marijuana, via distribution centers set up throughout the state, federal agents continue to beat the backwoods, in an effort to shake down local citizenry, for the pathetic “crime” of growing twenty-five plants.  Worse yet, these federal cowboys also find it necessary to interfere with the right of passers by on public thoroughfares.  The entire situation reeks of bias towards medicine, with a huge contingency of buffoonery thrown in for good measure.  Either that, or pharmaceutical companies simply make larger contributions to the President’s coffers, than medical marijuana advocates.

In his platform for election four years ago, President Obama promised his support of medical marijuana, but has wavered in this goal in many areas since, especially as far as federal support for ongoing research is concerned.  Now with re-election on the agenda, he has once again pledged his allegiance to this cause.  And yet, in California, the owners of the clubs that distribute medical marijuana to card-holding medical patients, have been persecuted, not to mention prosecuted, by federal authorities, since early last year.

Whereas this is egregious, in and of itself, the government is also going after legitimate medical grows, of twenty-five or fewer plants.  This is an outrage.  I do not feel that the politicians in Washington DC, have any business telling me which medicine I should ingest, because I think that is up to my doctor.  Having procured my medical prescription, and finding it economically viable to grow my own, I am incensed that I must now worry about goons traversing my neighborhood, infusing fear and loathing into my world.  It is no more acceptable now, than it was 200 years ago, and I am going to protest, the same as my fellow countrymen did back in the day.

On Tuesday afternoon, two Bell Springs residents were driving approximately three miles up from Highway 101, when they encountered a gold GMC Sport Utility Vehicle, parked squarely in the center of this public thoroughfare, making it impassable.  After waiting as little as two minutes, by one’s estimation, to as long as five minutes, by the other’s estimate, the driver leaned his head out the window and hollered out an inquiry as to how long they were expected to have to wait, before they could go on about their business.  Other vehicles began to line up behind the original.

There were two men off to the side of the road, who kept glancing back at the two Bell Springers, while a single occupant of the GMC glanced back, opened the door, and got out.  He approached the two occupants, while making an ostentatious shift of his overcoat, to reveal a handgun in its holster, dangling down on his side.

“I am a federal agent and I am in the process of conducting official government business.  If you interfere with me in any way, I will come to your house next and seize your marijuana plants.”  He did not produce an identification, as is required by law, and he acted in an abjectly inappropriate manner, for a person who allegedly represented the federal government.  My two acquaintances simply acquiesced.  What else were they expected to do?  Except feel a sense of suppressed anger and frustration at the antics of a goon gone gonzo?

I am frustrated by big government’s unwillingness to follow through on campaign promises; I am incensed by the club owners’ persecution; and I am outraged by the presence of goons gone wild within my immediate community.  The whole medical marijuana issue has become a farce in the eyes of the federal government, which makes it look pretty out of touch with reality.

The reality is marijuana is recognized by the medical community as a viable source of relief for numerous medical issues, and the federal government needs to acknowledge this.  Otherwise, it may appear to a savvy public sector, that the legislators have been indulging in marijuana for reasons other than medical.  There does not appear to be any alternative explanation, for the backwards and archaic approach to marijuana that the government employs. 

A Nap a Day

A Nap a Day

On June 12, I posted a piece about sleep, but I find it is already time to update that piece.  In the original I focused on the importance of sleep, and how lack of sleep produces the most likely reason for an onset of MSD.  I wrote of taking specific precautions to make sure I got at least seven hours in each 24-hour period.  Now I would like to tack on to that piece some additional thoughts on sleep, as it has affected me.

To begin I can now surmise that my sleep issues began with the onset of manic periods.  Mania is typified by minimal sleep.  I chronicled how I struggled for periods of time in my life, able to fall asleep easily enough, but incapable of remaining asleep.  So if I forced myself to remain in bed, attempting to sleep, all it did was end up frustrating me, and then making me angry.  What could be more natural than to get up and sit by the fire, and read? 

Later, when the reading became writing, I never missed a beat.  I actually felt that I was getting over on the whole issue of no sleep, because I was making good use of my time.  Not so.  Sleeping would have been good use of my time, but I never realized how critically important it is.  After all, when one is suffering from mania, there are different forces coexisting within, that combine to give one a feeling of invincibility.  As in, “I can do anything, at any time, because, well, watch me.”  

The manic personality is suffused with good will and effervescence, for extended periods of time, until the stuff hits the fan, and the crash occurs.  Mind you, I have no recollection of any crash and burns, but I am confident those around me do have those recollections. With that thought in mind, I now work diligently to avoid any semblance of sleep deprivation.

Two nights ago, I encountered technical difficulties, after four and a half solid hours of restful sleep, when I woke up, very wide awake, and was unable to drift back to sleep.  I got up after an hour, looked over the computer for an hour, returned to bed, and still could not sleep.  I kept at it for another hour, refusing to give in to the urge to just get up and do a piece of writing.  I eventually got back to sleep, and ended up with the requisite seven plus hours for the night.  No big deal, right?

Then it happened again last night, a carbon copy of the previous night.  I refused, once again, and was subsequently able to get six and a half hours, with at least one-if not two-naps still to come.  I find I must take this “aggressive” stance, if you will, for lack of a better word for it.  Aggressively addressing the key component, which rocks my MSD world seems so logical to me.

I like to use the analogy of my way of fighting colds, aggressively, with no room for sniveling.  When I get a cold, I drink vast amounts of tea (the only time I drink tea), I take every natural herb and remedy I can find, abd I avoid across-the-counter medication at ALL costs, no pun intended. It all adds up to no cold ever getting the upper hand.

Now with MSD, the stakes are higher and the consequences a lot more dramatic.  So it is worth the effort.  Besides, how many people get to drop what they are doing, at any time during the long, hot, physically demanding day, and take a nice siesta?  It is a winning formula, and one that I plan to continue employing.  

Remember that old adage, “A nap a day (or two) keeps the MSD away.”

Form DD 214

Form DD 214

We moseyed down to Ukiah yesterday, for a session with Dr. Mark.  We left the house at seven-thirty in the A of M, and initially landed in Willits for a nine o’clock appointment with the tax lady.  Since our visit to the psychologist’s office was not scheduled until two, we knew we had a fair amount of time to kill.  There was a time when that sort of uncertainty inevitably produced anxiety in me.

Yesterday, with my laptop available, and a list of potential stops, I was not worried about past practices interfering with my new-found ability to not only handle the excursions to the shrink’s office, but to even enjoy them.  The first thing we did, after stopping at Pour Girls for our obligatory lattes (I get a special dispensation on the caffeine issue for this), was hit the post office.  I was expecting a special document from the National Personnel Records Center, located in St. Louis, Missouri, but since it involved the military, I was not holding my breath waiting.

Because our health insurance has run out from the school district, Annie and I are scrambling to acquire health insurance.  At our ages, that is not a given.  There is this stipulation about “pre-existing conditions,” that seems to interfere with this process.  I have decided to pursue the VA option, because I have been led to believe that this is viable.  I have to go down to Ukiah to see a doctor, or to San Francisco for something more serious, but that is just the price of poker.  However, in order to apply for any sort of Veterans’ benefits, I must be able to produce the document that states unequivocally that I have served my time.

When the Big Green Machine spit me out in Oct, 1973, it sent me on my way with a magic piece of paper, warning me to never set it aside, because it was my guarantee that the BGM would not be able to reach out and snatch me again.  Though I did make it through the twenty-one months of personal agony, better understandable now that I have been diagnosed with MSD, I did not manage to hang onto that precious document.

When I decided to pursue VA insurance, I knew the first thing I would need was that Form DD 214, the one which gave my entry and separation dates, and all other pertinent information concerning my illustrious military career.  Included in that information is the fact that I was awarded The Armed Forces Expeditionary Medal, an Army Commendation Medal and the Good Conduct Medal.  Of the three, the first and third were awarded as perfunctory measures for a job done well.  The second one, the Army Commendation Medal, was only awarded to those who made an impact.  During the sixteen months I served, I only saw one other of these handed out.  *

The company was gathered together for the presentation, and nice things were said about the individual in question.  In my case I had worked in my personnel management division, which was responsible for cutting orders for those returning home, and had made a proposal for changing the system within the office, to include a central filing system, which would allow access to information, that was otherwise scattered about in fifteen different stations.

As a result of the proposal, I  became the individual responsible for assimilating fifteen different filing systems into one centralized site, which began and ended with my desk.  It gave me something to do and got me out of the “barn” twice a day, to make the 8th Army rounds.  To this day I value the fact that even though I was bitter and resentful toward the military, I still kept it together enough to serve with distinction.

Now it was time to come knocking on Uncle Sugar’s door, asking for them to hook a former “soldier” up with a little health insurance.  It helps to know that I can ask my older brother for guidance, because he directs the show at the Veterans’ Hospital in Martinez as its Chief of Staff, and done so for a long time.  We are not especially close any more, and I do not even know for a fact any more than a peripheral idea that I am ill, but I do know that he has provided information in the past that relates to veterans’ affairs, so that’s my cue.

Having glommed onto my Form DD 214, we now proceeded to run some errands, enjoy a nice lunch, and then make our way to Dr. Mark’s.  We have only been three times now, but he has already conducted his diagnostic clinic, and concluded that we are certainly looking at a mood spectrum disorder, what would be classified as Bipolar II.  He examined my mood charts yesterday, going over them with me so as to understand the different columns, which I had modified from the original, so as to tailor it to my needs.

We talked about Interpersonal Social Rhythm Therapy and Cognitive Behavioral Therapy and how they applied to me, and agreed to meet again in two weeks.  With my sleep patterns now changing to reflect a more “normal” pattern, I am enjoying an extended eurythmic period, which simply means it doesn’t get any better.  Since that’s the ultimate goal, so I would say we are on target, so direct.


* I wrote an expanded piece which went into a great deal of detail on this whole process.  The name of the piece is "Military Madness (11) The Barn-Black Friday," and posted it last summer, in August.

Fireworks on FaceBook

Fireworks on FaceBook

FaceBook continues to amaze me, as a versatile and powerful means of reaching out to others.  Having been too self-conscious in the past to have ever felt comfortable enough to have embraced it, I find I am now in the infancy of a newly-found harmonious relationship with this form of social networking.

I do not mind that some people choose not to engage in FaceBook, because I remember what it was like to be up here on my mountain, perfectly content to be left A-Lone.  Everyone has the right to remain within the boundaries of what is comfortable.  For some the difficulty is the extension of self into the public forum; for others it is an invasion of privacy.  I have no interest in trying to convince anyone that he or she should become involved in FaceBook.  That is a personal choice; all I want to do is explain why it works so well for me.

I still find it immensely difficult to engage in social settings, comfortably.  I have to weigh each event on its own merits, consider all factors, and then proceed with caution.  With FaceBook there are no social anxiety issues.  I am not terribly active with the posting of personal agenda items, except for my writing, so I do not incur others’ wrath.  I also get a sense of enjoyment out of lending a shoulder for others to lean on, when times are hard.  It never seems to matter if the person needing a shoulder to lean on, is three thousand miles away.

It’s about having someone on the other end of the keyboard, who cares enough to at least read what was posted, and make some kind of response.  For some that is not how it works.  For others, it’s what works best.  I am someone who still derives a great deal of satisfaction out of taking no more than ten or fifteen minutes, a couple of times a day, to see if there are folks out there in cyber-space, who are hurting.

There are different ways that folks express pain.  There are those who lash out with personal attacks, directed at some unknown target, replete with plenty of spicy language to accompany the diatribe.  I avoid these, because they are personal.   Then there are those who simply speak in the present, saying in one simple phrase, life-altering statements that come from the depths of their souls, and the words hang on my wall on FaceBook, and scream out for a response.  

I see it as the same as the middle school kids who used to come early to school, and who would come into my classroom in the time before school started, to sit and chat about nothing in particular, except that the stuff they talked about involved the same sorts of issues, only from a less experienced perspective.  A person either has the capacity to sit and listen, while grading spelling tests, or entering grades into a notebook, or a person does not.

That is all a part of FaceBook.  Of course, many post a lot of stuff, but do not themselves, scroll down their walls, dutifully seeing what others have to say.  It doesn’t make them bad people, because they approach FaceBook differently; at least they are there.

What does annoy me, is that some people put FaceBook down, because they have a narrow concept of what it is all about.  They see it as idle chatting, which does describe a fair amount, but neglect to see that a wealth of other information also exists for those who care to pursue it.  Ignore FaceBook if you choose, but leave the criticism behind.

For those who feel the invasion of privacy issue, I conclude that I have no point of reference.  I no longer feel the onus of having a “spotlight” on me, as I did my entire life, until I got rid of my panic attack syndrome.  Now, I feel comfortable reestablishing ties with a multitude of individuals, who have unconditionally invited me into their spaces.

I find it very enjoyable, and satisfying beyond description.  The climb into the 21st century has been arduous and challenging, but has proven well-worth the effort.  All I have to do is click on my wall and start scrolling.  It’s like strolling down the boulevard, without the discomfort of jenky knees.

OK, let’s see who’s out there today.  I bet there will be some colorful pics of fireworks, not to mention some inspiring Independence Day feasts.  I don’t even have to leave my kitchen to see the fireworks displays on FaceBook.  And the dogs get a break from the firecrackers.

After the Whirling Stops

After the Whirling Stops

What is it about July that almost guarantees I will  be in a welcoming frame of mind?  With the Fourth coming up in a couple of days, we are looking forward to doing a little bar-b-cueing, with Annie’s brother and his wife joining us for turkey dinner, July style.  There is only one truly despondent July in my past, and that was July of 1972, spent 7,000 miles away from home, in the Republic of Korea.  I actually spent two Julys over in The Land of the Morning Calm, but by the time the second one rolled around, I was a two-digit midget, getting under the one hundred day mark for returning home.

I remember July of 1974, in our house up (or down) in San Jose, our little community living at the War Admiral house, scrounged up enough loot to go down to the local grocers, to buy steaks for the various members of our little household.  Until this point we had been vegetarian, more by economic necessity, than through choice, and so to us, celebrating the Fourth included big steaks.

As kids, we were traditionally treated to some sort of home production of available fireworks, rigidly monitored by my father.  He was like a kid himself around fireworks, with firecrackers being his favorite.  However, his childlike manner did not extend to allowing us small-fry to engage in anything more adventurous than the sparklers we were permitted to wave about, watching the patterns of dazzling sparks, remain in the air, after we had stopped the whirling.

For most of the years I taught summer school, the Fourth meant a break from the summer grind, usually in the form of a four-day weekend.  Whereas the summertime gig at school was never half what the regular school entailed, a four-day break is a gift no matter when it rolls around.  Now it was not a paid gift, mind you-just as “summer vacation” was never a paid gig.  It just meant that we were unemployed for the ten weeks of summer, unless we had alternative means of employment, such as teaching summer school.

When it comes to stacking up against the other holidays in my life, be it as a child, or as an adult, The Fourth of July is about halfway down the list.  Because it takes place in summer, we were already free of school, so it was not the reason for escape, as were both Christmas and Easter.  Also, the Fourth always meant bar-b-cues in our household, but so did practically each and every Saturday and Sunday, during the summer.  

I can remember working at Sunrize Market, back in the late sixties and early seventies, and getting paid triple-time by the Retail Clerks’ Union, so I welcomed working on the Fourth.  Any party worth its salt, was still going to be raging when I got off around nine-thirty in the evening, so I was good to go, and probably twice as thirsty.

As an adult, fireworks have never been my thing.  I like to see the bright colors, and ooh and ah with the rest of them, but have no desire to set them off myself, nor any real pressing need to go somewhere to see them.  I have seen the fireworks off of the Santa Cruz pier, and they are superb.  I have seen fireworks displays at the ball-yard, and thought they were excellent, but that is as far as I am interested in taking it.  Besides, with mood spectrum disorder, you never know.  If you hang around long enough, or just get lucky, you may see me go off at any time.

It may not match the fireworks you have seen in the past, but I’ll bet it’s the first time you have ever seen fireworks go off without a match.  There’s something to be said for spontaneous combustion, but I promised the management, that I would not go there.  Here’s hoping you enjoy the Fourth, and that all of YOUR fireworks require matches to set off.

Big Things Going On

Big Things Going On

Big things are going on around here; I called Dish Network to reactivate my account, so as to procure Bay Area Comcast, those magical folks who bring the San Francisco Giants to their fans, most of the 162 games of the year.  I think last season, there were a total of three Giants games not televised on some channel or another.

Could there possibly be any connection to the fact that Matt Cain just threw a perfecto, on June 13th, or that the Giants currently have shut out their opponent, four consecutive times?  Let me think about that for a second.  OK, time’s up.  Yes and no would be the answer.  Yes, there is a connection, because I am as amped as I am able to be, without tossing that “mania” term around, and yet have enjoyed listening to the games on the radio immensely, nonetheless.

The answer would also be no, because a stronger reason would be the upcoming 49er season.  Before anyone has a coronary, allow me to assure you that my first love in sports is baseball.  However, when the Niners open up their season, the Giants will still be playing, and hopefully that will extend into October as well.  So the likelihood is that I would have started trying to “work something out,” long about the time my birthday rolls around in the beginning of September.

As it is, what we worked out, is that I have been able to work since the beginning of May, with my legs finally recovering from their fling with Ms. Lethargia, and only my knees remaining with which to contend.  With the work comes the means to defray the cost of said DIsh Network.  All is well with the universe.  It took more than one call to accomplish the deed, but tonight at 6:30, I will be able to watch my first pre-game show of the season.

When I think back to opening days, both on the road in Arizona, and back home a week later against Pittsburg, I was traveling to Mendocino, and could only listen the the games on the truck radio.  When Annie and I were up in Eureka last night, I got to take in Madison Bumgarner’s gem from our room at the Discovery Inn ($64.95 a night).  I did not know for sure how to positively identify any of our three starting outfielders.  

Maybe that is just a stretch, because I saw the footage of Gregor Blanco’s now-famous catch, which helped preserve Matt Cain’s perfect game, so many times that I did indeed recognize him when he came to the plate.  But Melky?  Pagan?  Ryan Theriot?  Joaquin Arias?  Hector Sanchez?  I need introductions and that seems awfully funny.  It takes me back to the days of growing up on Fellowship Street, in SoCal, when the only baseball that was televised were the games between LA and SF, that were played in San Francisco.  So in those days, the Dodgers and Giants played 22 times, eleven at each site.  Of those eleven, maybe a half-dozen were on weekends, when I could have watched them.  (Bedtime was always eight o’clock until I got out of eighth grade.)

Now I even recognize the ball dudes, who “guard” the lines from foul balls.  And when I saw Amy Gutierrez last night, it was like old-times.  She has established herself as a premier authority on the Giants, and obviously has an excellent rapport with the players and coaching staff.  So much of baseball involves its characters and its character.  

The drama that encompasses the sport during the grueling 162-game schedule, unfolds that much more vividly, when viewed via high-definition.  And since I have established that my AT&T Park days are officially over, I look forward to my view from the bench, or couch if you prefer.  I do not have to wait for the popcorn vendor, because I am an expert at popping corn the old-fashioned way, over a gas stove, and I do not have to drive to Larkspur any more, to take the ferry to the ball yard.

I am good to go, and there are big things going on.  Now all we need to do is keep playing our brand of ball: stellar pitching, rabbits in the outfield and on the base-paths, sound defense, and a continuation of timely hitting to support the stellar pitching, to which I have already alluded.  That should bring about the desired result: October baseball without me having to justify the cost of the Dish.  Go Giants!