Click images for desktop size: "June"It's pouring rain here. Cold, dreary, slick streets rain.
Nothing to do at work except put in the time. My step-father died the Friday after Thanksgiving. I don't remember the date. I could remember the year but I'd have to think about other events.
My step-father had a bleeding ulcer. The doctor told him that if he continued to drink he'd be dead in 90 days.
My step-father's response was, “If you can't drink and chase broads what's the sense in living.” He told that anecdote to everyone for the next 90 days.
I guess you can say he was true to his credo.
He had a grand Thanksgiving and died quietly at the breakfast table the next day.
My mother died the next year. Also the Friday after Thanksgiving.
When my step-father passed we discovered he'd left a lot of debt, no money and my mother didn't know how to write a check.
Old fashioned values.
All of this reminds me of the long tracks we follow to end up where we are. Like if I'd only turned left instead of right that semi never would have smacked into me.
It comes to mind how I met this guy Harlan Ellison in my favorite rockabilly shop. He was there searching for rare jazz records.
We were just flipping through dusty racks and chatting like you do when you're standing next to stranger. I thought he was fit for a little guy.
Some how we introduced ourselves and I realized I liked his book, “Memos From Purgatory” a lot.
He was surprised as he didn't think anyone ever even knew about his non science fiction work. We exchanged phone numbers.
About 3 months later I was with my buddy Mark, doing some easy tune up climbs in Joshua Tree, the high desert. I love the high desert, the sky and the vastness. For intimidation purposes it rules. For cleaning your mind it rules.
It's the only place outside of a city where survival is all you can enjoy.
We were packing across about 2 miles of desert scrub heading for some rocks you couldn't drive to. They looked promising.
We heard it first - a light click click clacking. On top of a small mesa a man was sitting on a folding chair at a card table. On the table was a portable Royal typewriter. The man was naked and typing furiously.
It's not often you get to talk to a naked man in the middle of the high desert so even though he either ignored us or didn't know we were there we decided to wait a minute and see what was up.
Finally he looked up at us and smiled. He invited us in . . .
He was clearly tripping his brains out.
We asked him the sane stuff, made sure he had water, wasn't lost etc.
He said he was writing a new book. He said his name was Phil Dick and that he lived in Redlands.
He talked a lot, like the way guys on acid used to do. It was much more entertaining than walking through the scrub. I don't remember the content much - instead of adjectives and adverbs he used a lot of sound effects:
It was like -shwrika shwirka shwrika- big you know and it flew rottarottarotta fast.
And then he went back to typing and it was like we didn't exist.

Click images for desktop size: "Shimanu Revisited" by Shifted RealityMark told me that Philip K Dick was a great Science Fiction writer. He loaned me his books when we got home.
I'm pleased that none of the books had his picture on them. It would sadden me, even to this day, to find out that the crazy naked man wasn't this writer whom I came to love.
After reading “Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep” i envisioned what a great movie this would make. I called Harlan Ellisson and asked him if he knew how to get Dick's number. I mean, all science fiction writers know each other, right?
Ellisson always had this annoying way of answering the phone. He would scream “WHAT DO YOU WANT!” as a greeting.
He warned that Dick was a lunatic and, to his mind, dangerous. He did have his number and he lived in Redlands.
So I called Dick. I told him how I thought Androids would make an excellent movie and even detailed my plans to translate the odd religion it espouses.
He liked my ideas but told me that MGM had optioned the book recently for some Brit to produce. He said the Brit didn't get the book at all but the MGM money was way good.
He even came up with some ideas that I could use in my story to change it around enough to be his story but different enough to get away with it.
He never mentioned agents or contracts.
I never asked him if he was in the habit of writing in the nude in the middle of the desert.
That someone else was going to make it took the heart out of me.
I ended up doing a trite little film called Gladiators.
We shot it on the mesa where I met the Dick naked man.
My movie is fine enough. If you haven't seen it it two Roman Gladiators wearing the face covering gear. They fight out in the desert. In the middle of nowhere.

Click images for desktop size: "Sungoddess" by Monkey ManA hillbilly family, man wife, son and daughter have heard about this as some phenomena. They drive out in their Robins Egg Blue Cadillac convertible to see it for themselves.
It was supposed to examine family morays and have some bitching fight scenes.
The fighting was choreographed by this guy Nick. Nick was cool. He's lost an eye fencing and even had a dueling scar. His street clothes were a modern version of the 3 musketeers. He would have loved it if he could have worn a sword on the street.
He was the assistant of Bill Faulkner, who was famous not for being an Olympic medalist in the Saber but famous for teaching Douglas Fairbanks and Errol Flynn how to sword-fight for the movies.
The two of them taught my football player buddies how to use the gladiator short sword; how it was used to pierce and rip and very seldom to stab.
And while I was there one day was when I re-met my wife to be. She was an actress now and was taking fencing lessons for a part in a play. I had known her in school but who had refused to date me because I had a bad reputation.
And that's how it goes, from looking for a copy of Ronnie Self's “Ain't I'm A Dog” to marriage.

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