If there is nothing fresh at this website, check www.goodmorningkeywest.com, where I publish daily, usually, by noon, usually.
If there is nothing fresh at this website, check www.goodmorningkeywest.com, where I publish daily, usually, by noon, usually.
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Jerry Weinstock, M.D., Psychiatry, replied to yesterday’s post at goodmorningkeywest.com:
you are not certifiable ——
while swimming just after adequate light
watched soaring Frigates
about 2000 ft. up–tiny dots —
never moved their wings for anything but soaring ——
magnificent nature !!
have a soaring day
Believe me, Jerry, you are in a small minority, including a small minority in your own profession. That rules you out of the caper, lucky you.
In my spirit code, man o’ war birds foretell an incoming demonic attack against me, or sometimes, great fishing beneath them, which is their traditional meeting.
Ha! The attack came soon after I wrote to you, but I did not learn of it until after I had ridden the lower keys shuttle up to where I’m staying on Cudjoe Key. I rather imagine it will be reported tomorrow at goodmorningkeywest.com.
The topic is one of your and my favorites, MRSA. The catalyst is the blue paper was threatened with copyright infringement litigation for publishing an article I submitted containing various MRSA photos, one of which is the subject of the copyright infringement claim.
I’m feeling suitably poisoned in my liver and G.I. tract and cerebral spinal fluid.
Good fishing, indeed, for scorpion fish? Poisonous sea snakes? Lion fish? Spiny sea urchins?
I wish Naja had not, in her reply to the threat letter, tried to lay all the blame on me, after she and I had talked about it at length, and she did not even make a peep about laying the blame on me.
this was over the swimming pool –but I have never seen them or I can’t remember seeing them that high.
tiny dots that found air currents—-soaring soaring—freedom —wouldn’t we like to experience that kind of freedom !??
what would that feel like ????????
take care –should be a nice day————Jerry
I replied this morning:
I imagine such freedom is more common in the afterlife, but it does happen in this life. I have felt it from time to time, especially in the company of a woman the angels arranged for me to be with, but there were times when I was alone and something exquisite came over me.
Also have experienced that kind of freedom, it brought me to tears, heaving sobs, when I was swarmed by angels unexpectedly.
In my sleep a good while before dawn this morning, I heard “one forty-five”. I awoke, way too early, was unable to return to sleep. Crawled out of bed, tried to get online, both my laptops were sputtering, as was happening last night. They both have difficulty holding the internet at Todd’s home, but work fine in Key West where there is Wi-Fi. One of the laptops is connected to Todd’s server by a cable and does not rely on Wi-Fi, and still sputters. He has Comcast, perhaps it something with them, or something in his modem or computer security. It’s gotten more severe the longer I’ve stayed with him. I said the other day it might be a signal I’m being relocated.
Anyway, not being able to work online today, I caught the early shuttle bus, which comes through Cudjoe Key about 6:45, and then it got interesting. The driver, first name Taylor, was a total delight. He loves the Keys, loves driving the shuttle on weekends, the city pays him to watch all of that beautiful scenery between Marathon and Key West.
I told him about my being told in early 1995, when I lived in Boulder, Colorado, “Go to Big Pine Key, go as soon as possible, this is important,” and after I got there a few days later, I had no clue why I was there. Then, on the 7th day, which I said would mean something to him, as he is a Jehovah’s Witness, I wandered back out onto No Name Key Bridge, and when I got to the hump and was surrounded by pelicans, I turned to face the Atlantic Ocean and was seized by something huge, I burst into tears, then I was in heaving sobs, snot rushing out of my nose, hanging onto the bridge railing to not fall down, and then I heard, “Because you love this place so much, you will be used to try to protect it.”
I told Taylor, the next day in the Keynoter it was reported that three federal agencies had ruled against widening US 1, because doing that posed too great a threat to the fragile Keys ecology. The run up to that decision was local chambers of commerce and cities arguing that widening US 1 would save lives by making hurricane evacuation easier. But the real reason they wanted US 1 widened was to make it easier for more tourists to come to the Keys, and to stimulate real estate development.
I said I ran for the county commission three times, pursuant to that covenant. Taylor then said he knew that, he had voted for me every time, God had told him to vote for me. That’s the first indication Taylor gave that he knew me.
I said, for decades, every time I reached the 18-Mile Stretch headed down into the Keys, I changed, I felt different, like I was home. And every time I left the Keys on that road, I felt like that part of me stayed behind. But I had lost that, the county and city politics had killed that feeling in me. Stay out of politics I told Taylor. But, maybe me being on his bus, which I had never ridden because of how early it comes by Cudjoe Key, might be a sign from God that maybe I will stay in the Keys, maybe that feeling will come back to me.
Taylor said he loves Key West, too. I said, it is a great place to live, if you don’t get involved in the politics. Although the elected officials all have their heads up their asses, the city goes a great job taking care of the things that are really important: its ports, sewer system, electrical, parks, roads. Taylor said, someone told him years ago to enjoy the Keys, but never to forget that the pirates still run things.
Taylor also works for the county in public works. He had quite a few stories to tell about the pirates in the county government, which I won’t go into today. I was put on that bus to meet Taylor, because I needed a lift, and I needed a lift from someone who got what I told him about my being sent to Big Pine Key in 1995. Taylor understood God sent me.
So, it seems your high altitude man o’ war, or frigate bird, ballet was prescient, perhaps in a number of ways.
As for 1:45, I thought that was the starting time for the new Russell Crowe movie “Water Diviner” now showing at Tropic Cinema. Arriving at Sippin’ Internet Cafe this morning, about 2 hours earlier than usual, I locked my bicycle to the bike rack in front of the Tropic, and then I checked the marquee for “Water Diviner”, and, yep, it starts at 1:45 p.m. today.
Back in the day, Jerry, I told psychiatrists and psychologists, who were treating me, these kinds of stories, and they didn’t get any of it. Not a smidgeon. But a county public works employee, who drives a city bus part time, got all of it, without even taking a deeper breath. It was normal for him, what we discussed today.
Maybe the man o’ war birds arranged it. Maybe those dots way high up were … angels.
The water diviner part of yesterday’s adventures seems to be the copyright infringement thing I told you about yesterday. But perhaps there is more to it, which time will reveal.
P.S. The night of the day I read the two Keynoter articles in 1995, this poem fell out of me, in the Holy Grail tradition, the real one, the pelican is the Christ bird:
Behold, the pelican!
Slow, clumsy and ugly afoot,
But in the air
a great fisher indeed!
And in times of want
plucks out its own breastmeat
to feed its young.
Naja Girard copied me with this yesterday:
Date: Sat, 6 Jun 2015 16:27:02 -0400
Subject: Case Number: 374667622 Copyright Infringement Claim: MRSA infection on Eyebrow
CC: firstname.lastname@example.org; Editor@thebluepaper.com
The policy behind copyright law is not simply to protect the rights of those who produce content, but to “promote the progress of science and useful arts.” U.S. Const. Art. I, § 8, cl. 8. Because allowing authors to enforce their copyrights in all cases would actually hamper this end, first the courts and then Congress have adopted the fair use doctrine in order to permit uses of copyrighted materials considered beneficial to society, many of which are also entitled to First Amendment protection. Fair use will not permit you to merely copy another’s work and profit from it, but when your use contributes to society by continuing the public discourse or creating a new work in the process, fair use may protect you.
Section 107 of the Copyright Act defines fair use as follows:
Unfortunately, there is no clear formula that you can use to determine the boundaries of fair use. Instead, a court will weigh these four factors holistically in order to determine whether the use in question is a fair use. In order for you to assess whether your use of another’s copyrighted work will be permitted, you will need an understanding of why fair use applies, and how courts interpret each part of the test.
I replied to ALL:
Your MRSA photo online, above, I praise for alerting the general public to the grave peril posed by MRSA, which is a serious threat down here in Key West and the Florida Keys.
Yes, I published that photo.
Over the years, Naja and I had conversations about photos I pull down from the Internet, which seem in keeping with topics on my daily blog, and, when she asked where I got the photos when I submitted my MRSA article, after she indicated interest, I said I didn’t know who took the MRSA photos, or who owned any rights to them.
Naja also knows I routinely republish local newspaper articles and editorial and letters to the editor with my own interjected comments, which expand the facts, explain any not reported backstory, and frequently are critical and/or sarcastic, and sometimes praising. She has steadfastly declined to republish any articles I submit, which contain republished Citizen articles.
Although I have a PayPal button on goodmorningkeywest.com, it was not installed until the late fall of last year, as I recall, and since it was installed, it has produced very little revenue/donations, and most of that was in the very early going. The website was created in July 2007, and was not copyrighted, and anyone who wanted to do so could copy and reproduce anything on it. That’s still the case.
I told Naja the other day, when she first emailed me about your copyright infringement claim against Key West the Newspaper, called “the blue paper” down here, that, if it were me to whom the demand was made over something so important to the public welfare – MRSA is rampant down here in the Florida Keys, every physician and diver down here knows if you have a nick or scratch on your skin, you enter the ocean down here at risk of contracting MRSA – that I would welcome a lawsuit against me for using MRSA photos I found online, and we could make a national case out of it and in that way alert America and the world about the threat of MRSA flesh-eating bacteria in Key West and Florida Keys waters.
Years ago, I started using the subject MRSA photo and other MRSA photos in articles I published about MRSA. It seems I am the only person in Key West and the Florida Keys willing to alert the public to the danger of going in the water down here with a nick or scratch on your skin. Key West’s Mayor Craig Cates categorically denied in last year’s mayor’s race, in which I was a candidate, that there is MRSA in the water down here. He said our ocean is clean and beautiful. That was after I had said, during a mayor’s candidate radio debate, what you read above about MRSA down here.
The chambers of commerce and local tourist development board also are mum about MRSA in the Florida Keys and Key West ocean.
When I contracted MRSA in 2003, in Key West, local surgeon Michael Klitenick, M.D. told me, after he had carved three nasty MRSA abscesses out of my hide, two from my groin, one from my butt, that I could do anything I wanted to do, but go into the ocean. I wish now I had taken before and after photos of the abscesses and the gaping open surgical wounds after the abscesses were cut out of my hide.
A few years later, Ian Garriques, M.D., the infectious disease specialist who had diagnosed my MRSA, and then had called in Dr. Klitenick to save me, had a letter to the editor published in the Key West Citizen, in which he said MRSA is pandemic in the Florida Keys. Not epidemic, but pandemic.
So, you see, MRSA really is a grave problem down here, which the political and corporate powers that be don’t want any tourist, nor any potential tourist, knowing lurks in the ocean down here, waiting to latch onto them and go home with them, and then break out and they and their doctors don’t know where it came from. MRSA is very dangerous, medicine has a very rough time treating it. I have a home remedy for it, which was explained in my article the blue paper published, in which was the photo you claim violated your copyright.
I hope you will forbear and lay to rest your copyright infringement claim. The Girards and I made no money from it. We tried to save people a great deal of grief, and worse. However, if you pursue this claim, know Naja’s husband Arnaud is a lawyer, and they are quite familiar with litigation, as they do it themselves. As am I familiar with litigation, because I, too, am a lawyer. Although Arnaud Girard and I do not practice law now, I did so in Alabama quite a few years ago.
I cannot speak for the Girards, but if you pursue a copyright infringement claim against me, I will do all I can to propel your claim into the national and international limelight. I have been on national television before, in another life, because I was making a lot of waves back then about the double agent problem in the residential real estate industry, which was not life-threatening. MRSA is life-threatening.
I look forward to your reply.
P.S. Googling MRSA and then clicking on image will bring up many photos of MRSA, including perhaps yours, LCS@sciencephoto.com. That’s how I found the MRSA photos I use from time in articles at goodmorningkeywest.com.
I found myself wondering, again, after responding yesterday, if you, LCS@sciencephoto.com, have accused Google of copyright infringement?
I have wondered since first hearing from Naja over your copyright infringement claim against Key West the Newspaper, if you, LCS@sciencephoto.com, are in the business of making copyright infringements allegations to make money, or if you really are upset that your photo was used to warn the public about MRSA in the Ocean down here?
I also have wondered from the beginning, if you, LCS@sciencephoto.com, actually took the photo? Or did you buy it from the person who took it?
Naja and I discussed all of that after she received your copyright infringement claim. She’s a lot nicer, usually, but not always, than I am.
Obviously, the angels want me to see “Water Diviner”, but that might have to wait, as I’m due to be at the county jail around 1 p.m. today to see my lady Kari, who told me on the telephone last night that all she has to do is think of me a little while, and then she has an experience she cannot write in a letter to me, because the jail censors would not let the letter leave the jail.
photo of yesterday’s sunset take by my gracious host Todd German
en route from Key West to his home on Cudjoe Key, about Mile Marker 22.5
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When Todd got home last night, I told him of a dream I’d just had in a nap, in which he and I were sitting on opposite ends of the couch in his living room, where I had taken the nap, having a friendly, caring talk about me and my life situation.
In “real” time, Todd then said he had really enjoyed reading what I wrote in yesterday’s Dr. Freud, I presume, Social Security disability, magnificent obsessions, Key West and Kenya dirty old men sanitorium post at goodmorningkeywest.com; it’s a circular argument, a Catch-22, for me to apply for Social Security disability benefits, since I view myself as the sanest person I know, thus how could I apply for disability on the ground that I am mentally disabled? Yet, Todd said, any person who reads that post will know I am certifiable. By this world’s standard, I said. Yes, Todd said, by this world’s standard. Laughter.
However, Todd said, he did not mean when we talked the day before yesterday about my trying to be determined disabled, that I should apply for Social Security disability, so I then could apply for AIDS Help cheap or free housing, which is only for disabled people. He meant only that I get a psychiatrist down here to declare me mentally disabled, so I can apply for AIDS Help housing.
Todd said, if I were to go to work for someone, within a week it would be obvious to that person that I am disabled, cannot do that kind of work ongoing. But that would not prove I am disabled in the way AIDS Help requires. Todd said there are psychiatrists in Key West, who will have no problem saying I’m mentally disabled, after reading yesterday’s post, but I would have to participate. I said, if a psychiatrist will see me for free, then I will participate as long as it is understood to the psychiatrist, AIDS Help, etc., that I am doing it because this world says I’m insane, and therefore this world ought to provide me cheap, or free housing. But the way I will look at it is, if I get the housing, that is this world paying me for the hard work I do, which this world does not now pay me.
Todd said he understood my position, it’s all a matter of perspective. Yes, I said, its about point of view and this is hilarious, I have had to make it fun for me, or I really would be certifiable. Todd agreed.
Todd said Key West is special because there are so many different parts of it, like a tapestry still being woven, lots of people make up that tapestry, make it what it is, and and I am one of them and the city should want to keep me around because it needs to have me here. He added, for taking that position, he may be tarred and feathered. I said I might know of some places in Alabama where tar and feathers still can be purchased. Laughter.
Todd said, what puts a tough spin on it for many people, is I write and say a lot of things that make sense, and how does someone who is insane keep doing that? How can somebody who writes as much as I do, which is well written, about so many topics, be insane?
Todd said he’d seen me so right on at candidate forums, that it was amazing. And he’d seen me stumble. I said didn’t recall stumbling, but I did recall pissing off a lot of people sometimes at candidate forums.
I said, at a candidate forum last year, at Casa Marina, hosted by the chamber of commerce, we were asked what could be done about lack of parking and crowded streets in Old Town, especially? When I got the microphone, after Mayor Craig Cates and Margaret Romero had answered the question, I said nothing can be done. Key West is way overbuilt, and the parking and traffic congestion problems are the result. However, if half the people living here moved away, that would fix those two problems.
I chuckled, told Todd that was the only sane answer. The other two candidates … Todd finished my sentence, mumbo jumboed. Right, I said.
I said, back during the 2007 mayor’s race, after audiences at candidate forums started griping about street people, calling them vagrants, bums, I went out and got VAGRANT tattooed on my right shoulder, and the next time that happened at a candidate forum, I rolled up my right sleeve and showed the audience the tattoo and said I once was a vagrant, a bum, in Key West. Was I not a part of Key West’s One Human Family then? Are homeless people not part of One Human Family. Is One Human Family selective about who it includes? Oh, that really pissed them off.
I told Todd, during the election returns at the Harvey Government Center last year, US 1 Radio News Coordinator Bill Becker started poking me after he brought me up to the dais to interviewed on local television. He said I did not win. I said that was really perceptive. He said I only got 62 votes, I said, wow, that many?
Bill asked why had even run? I said he and I had been down that road many times. Back in 2003, when I ran for mayor the first time, and he interviewed me on his morning radio show and asked me why I was running?, I said because God told me in dreams to run. And that’s why I ran three more times for mayor, as he knew, because I had said each time I was running because angels told me to run. And same for the three times I ran for the county commission, and the one time I ran for the school board.
I told Bill that I never wanted to run, I hated politics, but angels told me to run, and I had learned not to cross them, it was not pleasant, so I ran. I said I stated many times during the mayor’s race that year (2014), that anyone who wanted to be mayor of Key West, or an elected official, was insane, an ego maniac, a crook, or any combination thereof.
I told Todd that Bill thought he was going to get me, but he didn’t look in the least pleased by the time I got through answering his questions and gibes. In fact, I got 162 votes in that race, Bill was mistaken, and I told him so after I had left the dais and had checked the final returns. He did not seem pleased for me to tell him that, either.
162 was 3.21 percent of the 5,039 votes cast in that mayor’s race, my all time personal best in 4 mayor races. Didn’t even break sweat coming in dead last – whew~!
Todd said, when I ran for county commission in 2006, when I lived on Little Torch Key, I got thousands of votes. Yes, over 7,000 votes that year, about 1/3rd of the total votes cast, incumbent George Neugent was reelected. And in 2010, against Neugent, I got almost 7,000 votes, which was about 1/4th of the votes cast in that election.
I said I published on my websites that the 2010 election gave me a read on how many people in the county liked what I think and say, and then someone on bigpinekey.com’s Coconut Telegraph wrote in that those 7,000 people voted for me because they didn’t want Neugent in office, and I blew it by not replying, using the same logic, that 21,000 people voted for Neugent because they didn’t want me in office. Neugent is a Republican, I belong to no political party.
Oh, other things Todd said last night.
I have an amazing ability to recall past conversations and report them. I said I tend to recall what I experience.
I don’t go around hurting people, or killing them, and claim God told me to do it. I laughed, said, no, I don’t do that, and when I mess up, I blame me, not God, usually.
Many people in Key West and the Keys think I’m certifiable, or I’m the greatest con man ever, but he doesn’t think I’m a con man. Todd’s right, it ain’t in me to make up all the shit I say the angels do to me and have me do.
Somewhere in the Old Testament, it says, Fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom. The angels had no trouble at all instilling in me tremendous fear of them, and of God; and that’s why I do everything I can to stay in their good graces, including going along with this caper.
I told Todd this morning, that in my sleep last night, City Commissioner Mark Rossi came to me in a dream, real friendly and loving (brotherly), wanting me to stay here in Key West. I said, two points about that dream. One, Mark’s wife is a pretty little psychiatrist. Two, Mark really tore into me at a city commission meeting last year, after I tore into the mayor and the city commissioners about their cops murdering Charles Eimers on South Beach Thanksgiving Day 2013.
If Mark wants me in Key West, then that’s something to consider. If his psychiatrist wife wants to declare me mentally disabled, so I can get into AIDS Help housing, then that’s her business. I’ve already had a few conversations with her and Mark here and about; she’s probably already certified me.
However, I told Todd this morning, after the dream about Mark, in my sleep I heard “certiorari”, which in the law is an appeal an appellate court can choose to accept, but does not have to accept. I told Todd that I took certiorari to mean I can ask for a different outcome than getting AIDS Help housing, which would only be a small band-aid, it will not fix the problem. Only a wad of money will do that, and that’s what I’m holding out for. Todd said he understood. And he understood that perhaps I will be moved elsewhere by the angels, even though he hopes I stay here. Yeah, he really might get tarred and feathered.
A weird irony is, I was just fine with the angels recently telling me to announce my candidacy for U.S. President in 2016. I was just fine because it just had to be a spoof, a lark, fun. I could do it online from here, in the land of weird. I would say all sorts of things nobody else would say, which would make sense, but, of course, most voters could care less about a candidate making sense.
Many times after candidate forums in Key West and up the Keys onto Key Largo, people from the audience told me I was the only candidate who made sense. Does that mean the people who were elected in those races were nonsense, mentally disabled, ego maniacs, liars, crooks? – you can pick any one or more.
Meanwhile, I just can’t wait to see which, if any, local psychiatrist volunteers to play the let’s get insane Sloan free or cheap housing from AIDS Help. I just can’t wait. It will be a blast, and I will tell you all about it on goodmorningkeywest.com, where people accused of being weirdos some place else can come mingle with real weirdos.
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Jerry Weinstock, M.D., Psychiatry, avid fisherman and advocate for Mother Nature, replied to yesterday’s in favor of calling a spade a spade and other big fish tales and fond memories of the greatest fisherman and baby doctor who ever lived, Leo Bashinsky, M.D. post at goodmonringkeywest.com:
My recent fishing Buddy –Roland Reems was the general manager of Bud and Mary’s years ago—we have known each other and fished together for more than half a century–his wife taught with Donna –have a good day Sloan!! Jerry
Hi, Jerry –
A good day for me seems to be up to my ass in alligators and great white sharks.
Just one example from today.
This morning, after telling me he had talked with a couple of people about it who are involved in AIDS Help, which now mostly is about providing housing for people who are unable to work, disabled, my gracious host Todd German suggested that I apply for Social Security disability, and then let AIDS Help find me an apartment in their program I can afford. He suggested I go see a local psychiatrist, last name Covan, a good man.
I said I am disabled by God, or angels thereof, and if I argue that to get Social Security disability, I might get locked up in a psychiatric institution. Mutual chuckles.
I said, that aside, I doubt Social Security would accept that argument for my being disabled. Todd agreed. So, for me to get Social Security disability, I would have to be determined to be mentally disabled, which would require my being determined by a psychiatrist to be mentally disabled. Todd said he knew that. I said I would think about it, see what the angels had to say, I could envision them playing with it a good bit.
As I thought about it riding the shuttle into Key West today, I found it amusing. I’m the sanest person I know by some margin. Made so by angels. So, for me to apply to Social Security for mental disability, or psychiatric disability, would be a lie on my part, even though I figure most any psychiatrist Social Security sent me to for evaluation would decide I either was schizophrenic, or I was intentionally lying, by saying angels speak to, advise and correct me ongoing and they have disabled me. So, the shrink would either say I was crazy and, therefore, disabled, and to put me on Social Security disability. Or, I was lying and was not disabled but just wanted people to think that, and my application for Social Security disability benefits would be declined and maybe I would be prosecuted by the US Attorney for lying in my under penalty of perjury application for Social Security disability benefits.
Also in play, Social Security would look at my age, 72, and that I have been receiving Social Security retirement benefits since age 62. So, it ain’t like they aren’t looking after me already, and the only reason, if they were privy to it, for my applying for mental disability, was so I could apply to AIDS Help for its cheap, or free, housing. I hate to think what the angels would think about that, and I hate even more to think what they might visit upon me for trying to get AIDS Help housing in that way.
I already applied for senior rental housing and was told that would take 2-5 years; and I entered the housing lottery recently, which I figured was rigged, like getting into senior housing is rigged. That was straightforward, no subterfuge on my part. Subterfuge creates bad kinks in the spirit, which, in turn, well, you kink a water hose, and how does that work out? You kink a bicycle chain, and how does that work out? You kink a bowel, and how does that work out? Same, if you kink the spirit. It don’t turn out well.
Meanwhile, I just now Googled Fred Covan, Psychiatrist, and learn he is a PhD, not an M.D., and he’s a clinical psychologist. Maybe psychologists have as much sway with Social Security as psychiatrists, and maybe not. Even so, it might be fun talking with him about it, if he didn’t charge me to do it. I would not be asking him to pay me for the fun we were having talking about him becoming a co-conspirator, and about what the angels were telling me about him, which he should be taking a new look at, or a look at for the very first time. Ain’t no telling what might come up in a situation like that, in which I am involved. Ain’t no telling.
Meanwhile, if I managed to get myself onto Social Security disability, because I am insane, or schizophrenic, or whatever, would that, do you suppose, help or hurt my candidacy for President of USA in 2016? It sure looks to me we have had a long line of certifiably insane presidents, but in my line of work, I’d probably say they wuz demonically possessed on top of, or underneath, being nuts.
interesting idea Sloan –but getting social security disability is a long process;
first Fred could not do it –has to be an M. D. Psychiatrist —he could refer or start a process
perhaps ——I foolishly agreed to do a SS Disability while in retirement for a patient I had seen for years at May Sands with her son–a student there; It took hours and hours of innumerable reports and letters –almost 100 hours of my work—and spent my money–
including phone calls and FED EX charges –court briefs ==and the process took more than 4 years;
she had 2 attorneys in the endless legal hassles –medical evaluations etc.–on and on;
finally was successful DUE to my efforts —I would not subject myself to that again.
that is the reality –the government does not give away money easily –except to the “military industrial complex” which includes fossil fuel subsidies—-we had to get a congressman in on it through my letters and conversations—-time and time and aggravation. we did succeed –but at what emotional monetary cost.
have a pleasurable evening.—Jerry
Hi, Jerry –
It wasn’t a particularly tasty idea to me, as I knew I would be pretending to be nuts to humor whatever psychiatrist came into the picture, probably one Social Security uses regularly, like the School Board down here used you regularly. The federal judge, for whom I clerked after graduating from law school, reviewed all appeals to the US District Court for the Northern District of Alabama from denial of Social Security disability benefits by Social Security hearing examiners. I wrote a number of his opinions, and he wrote a few, all of which he signed, and he tended to overturn Social Security disability benefit denials if we could find a way to do it. Then, Congress passed a law tightening up what is disability, so that it became a lot harder to get even for a lawyer specializing in it for a client. It’s still that way. I didn’t tell Todd what an ordeal I would go through trying to get Social Security disability, even if I was mentally disabled. I’m a lawyer. I write daily, pretty darn well written stuff on many topics. I can see the hearing examiner now saying, this applicant can practice law, if he wants to, application denied. What the angels are doing or saying to me would not sway the hearing examiner any more than it would sway the government’s psychiatrist.
Now, if I was wandering around Key West streets, talking out loud to myself and invisible beings all the time, smelling of urine, claiming I am Jesus returned and anyone who doesn’t follow me will die and burn in hell forever, and I was getting in people’s faces about it, and scaring them because my eyes are fierce, my lips tremble, I am stabbing my finger in their direction, waving my fist at them, and they don’t know if I will next launch myself onto them and bite their neck and suck all the blood out of them through their jugular, and I am an ex-practicing lawyer to boot, then maybe I would be awarded Social Security disability benefits because I am mentally ill and otherwise incapacitated and unable to work for pay. And maybe instead, I would be locked up for my and everyone else’s own good, in which case I would not receive disability benefits while I was confined, because I was being fed and housed and looked after by the people confining me.
What lawyers who handle Social Security disability denials like is clients who say they have been disabled a long time, because if that is established, then the Social Security benefits are awarded in a lump sum going back to onset of disability, and the monthly disability payments start being paid to the successful applicant. How that might work with me, if I applied for Social Security disability benefits and prevailed, it would go back to January 1987, when I was visited in the nighttime, when I was awake, by two angels, about which I have written many times before, and they told me this would push me to my limits, but I had asked for it and they were going to give it to me, and then I was jolted by three successive bolts of spiritual lightning. I saw the flashes, felt the electrical jolts, and that was the beginning of my being advised and corrected and disabled by angels from doing secular work that would pay the bills.
I might could introduce into evidence that my telling the very same story to a psychiatric Nurse Rached in January 1997 got me locked up on a psychiatric ward, which should be easy enough to establish from that private hospital’s cuckoo’s nest records, and they transferred me, at my insistence, to the nearest state mental hospital, where I was kept on a locked ward for three weeks, until my wife found a private psychiatrist who would take me as a patient, and he made the transfer arrangements with the state hospital, and my wife and our minister and Sunday school teacher came and got me out of that hell hole, which was not nearly as bad as the private hospital hell hole, and took me to the hospital where the private psychiatrist ran the psych ward. After he had me all pilled up, he released me back into the world population, after which a black night of the soul descended on me, and everyone who knew me then was sure I was insane, and I was pretty much in agreement with them.
Yeah, it might really work to my advantage to toss that at the government’s psychiatrist, and all the pills I was put on and the dreams I had during that time, and the dreams a friend of mine had for me during that time, and, my goodness, I bet by the time I was done talking about dreams and angels the government psychiatrist would be 100 percent convinced I was 100 percent insane, forever. And, my goodness, what would the Social Security Administration do with that? How could they go against their own psychiatrist? Dang, I didn’t think through this well. I might be able to get a Social Security lump sum disability payment dating back to January 1987. I would not need a lawyer to split that with. I been there, done that myself, and for a few clients after I started practicing law. Gosh, it could add up to several hundred thousand dollars. Kowabonga!
Alas, I can’t lie about it. I can’t pretend. Even during the black night, I was sane enough to see everyone around me’s madness. And after the angels brought me out of the black night, and weaned me from the pills, and then over some months purged me of the chemical residues from the pills in my body cells, blood and lymph fluid, and cerebral spinal fluid, that everyone I then encountered was insane, because I was in a zone nobody else at that time, who knew me, could even begin to fathom. I was, like, well, I did not feel I was entirely human any more. And I still don’t. In fact, I wager my life and my soul that I am not entirely human, because I don’t know another human who thinks like I do, or even close to how I think.
I once knew humans who did think sort of like I think, but they are not part of my life any more. Yeah, I tell the government’s psychiatrist all of that, and then I wait on the Brinks truck to arrive at my doorstep :-). Great idea Todd had. Apologies for it taking so long for me to get the point.
Sloan: you hit the Bulls eye—–the woman we finally got disability for
after that titanic struggle is producing some of the finest creative jewelry
we have ever witnessed from natural material —–some beach glass colored and hundreds of years old.
it is spectacular —–but she has security now.————KIND REGARDS to you–Jerry
If you had not helped her, Jerry, would anyone have helped her?
I have no security, by this world’s standards, but I don’t see anyone else saying and writing what I publish. Just because this world won’t pay for it, doesn’t mean it’s not valuable. Somewhere in the Gospels, Jesus tells his disciples that wise men and kings would give all they possessed to know what he taught them, his disciples, in secret. Who knows what all he taught them in secret, which is not seen in the Gospels?
I been thinking lately, if my stepmother dies and I receive another bundle, I will view it as payment for what I do, for which this world will not pay. That’s how I viewed the bundle I received on Valentine’s Day, 2006, when my father’s estate settled.
I reminded someone the other day, who has sharply criticized me for supporting Brenda, especially, financially,
that after I bought my own Walden on Little Torch Key in the spring of 2006, I tried to donate it to the Key West Tropical Forest and Botanical Garden, with me retaining a life estate for so long as I lived there, and I was praised by my critic for that, but its then director Carol Ann Sharkey screwed around and messed it up, and I retracted the offer. Later, I tried to give Walden to the founder of the PAC pushing Amendment 4, which would stop development in its tracks in Florida, and she screwed it up by saying she could not have her name and address on the deed, because she feared for her and her children’s safety. Even later, I tried to give Walden to Theo Glorie, who owns Coffee Plantation in Key West, with his wife, Diane, so Theo could fund acquiring Key West’s flagship Schooner Western Union from Ed Swift, and Theo screwed it up. All of which my critic had felt was a good thing for me to try to do. But to give money to someone in need, who, frankly, has more spirit potential than any person I presently know, was a foolish waste of my money. I also said, if either of the three donees had been gifted Walden, then I would have run out of money sooner, because when I sold it in August 2013, I received $90,000 net. I had paid $375,00 for it, stupidly. Way too much.
This world has really interesting ways of viewing what is good and valuable, and I am generally viewed as nuts.
A Kenya Facebook friend launched something yesterday,
and then he removed some of his and mine, but what he brought to me in private chat I was able to preserve, and that follows what he left up on his Facebook page.
It’s only your ego that
is nauseating your soul,
That you grimace at labelled flesh.
I’m a crumb of love
fallen on star dust!
eat me to feed your famished heart
And build it six packs.
I’m the root that is
the sacrament of your sorrows
This world is spherical
and your overlooks recycle into
Take me,and eat me,
like sacrament of salvation;cos I am.
© Kiambi 2015
Looks to me Kiambi’s poem is straight from his internal feminine, and she nicely tried to get his attention.
His and my private chat yesterday about the above:
Kiambi, you go trolling, anything might take the bait. My recollection is, you sent me a friend request. So that suggested you were reading what I write, seeing how I think, go about things. I am not trying to do you harm, I thought we were bantering goodnaturedly. You will read things from me, which you will not get anywhere else, as far as I know, because I don’t know anyone else who was trained by angels, as I was trained. I did know some people who were being trained in that way, but I don’t have any dealings with them for some time now. One of them died. I don’t know what became of the others. It’s been a long time since I had any contact with them, and I don’t know if they are still living, or how to reach them if they are. I’m literally dropping ancient knowledge onto people, which has been lost on this world and in some cases is only recently is available for the first time. Use it or not, but it is not hard to understand, I am writing in plain English, using common words, unless, for example, you interject Rasta or anima, which are words not so well known, but they have real and deep meaning people who walk in those circles. If you use Rasta, that says you know what it is and means, and its history. Same if you use anima. If you don’t know what words mean, and their history, better to read up on that, instead of applying it to you without knowing what you are applying. Anima is the feminine, yin, shakti, and she is not well known or understood even by women in most cases. She is not physical, not a female body, she is a spirit essence, as is animus, or yang, or male. Both are required in a person, working as intended, for a person to be as intended. Most humans have little, to no, functional anima in them, and that has caused nearly all problems humanity faces today and poses to the planet.
The other day, Kiambi posted this to his Facebook timeline, which provides some backstory to why I responded to his poem yesterday:
So,the anima (kaumathii ) in me prodded me to do a selfie.
Yesterday, Ron Heck, co-owner and manager of Harpoon Harry’s, told me that he really likes artwork in my posts, mine and other people’s, and he also really likes the titles I am coming up with for the posts, even though they are, as I admitted, kinda way far out there.
So, never forgetting hell has no greater fury than a woman scorned, here are three of my ladies posted to Kiambi’s Facebook page yesterday, just under the sword fish and damsel drawing, which he removed,= after I answered his question, what am I up to?, with I’m trying to tilt, nay, destroy his mind, which is the slave of his animus, or his animus is the slave of his mind, either way works, and the ladies in the drawings bring the cure.
Bud n Mary’s Marina, Islamorada, Florida Keys
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From out of the blue yesterday:
I read your blog, in the good old days. I really enjoyed it. I do a little writing about the history of the people of Islamorada. I shared your blog on my FB pg. I found your blog researching my friend Bob Reineman. Thought you might like to know that Bob passed away last week. A celebration of life will be held for him at World Wide in Islamorada on June 16th.
Thanks, Mike – in fact, I knew Bob somewhat, went out for bonefish with him a few times on trip down here. Kept telling him to bring a fly rod, and he kept saying he forgot it. On the 3rd day, when he said he’d forgot it, I said let’s run over to his house and get it, so we did. Went out Lignum Vitae Channel, eased up to the flat on the left side of the channel, in time to see a pair of big bonefish cruising the edge of the flat headed our way. I whipped out Bob’s fly rod, stripped line onto the deck, started false casting away from the fish, I’d not mastered the double power haul, didn’t even know about it, and I dropped the dainty fly in front of the fish and one took it right away and was off to the races across the flat, about 10 pounds, first bonefish I had caught on fly, Bob said he couldn’t believe it, I said I had told him I knew how to use a fly rod. Later, he started fishing my father’s brother, Dr. Leo Bashinsky, they became good friends, 2 old farts out on the flats grumbing about their aches and pains, and swapping fish and other stories, Leo was a very good fisherman in his own right, caught heaps of tarpon, permit and bone fish around there, especially off of Indian Key, before he was too tuckered out by life to pole his Mako any more. Finally, he gave the Mako to Bob, as I recall the story. Then, he was too tuckered out to get back to the Keys to fish at all, then came the Alzheimer’s, which tore me up, I loved that man a heap. It was me who introduced Leo to fishing around Islmorada, he had been fishing the Bang Bang Club on Andros Island, Bahamas. If you have something printed up for Bob’s “wake”, send it to me at email@example.com, and I will publish it with your and my conversation. Thanks for including me. Sloan
I remember the first time I met Bob Reineman. It was in the boat lift area of Bud n’ Mary’s Marina, in the late 80’s. He was working on his classic inboard Willy Roberts Flats Boat. As I walked up I asked, “what is this the worlds largest jet ski”? Bob gave me the Bob stare and just kept on working. He didn’t talk to me for five years after that.
Eventually we became good friends.
Some of my best memories of Bob include Him, Buddy Grace and Little Kenny. Bob and Buddy Grace would find themselves sitting under the awing that once hung over the entrance to Bud n Mary’s tackles shop, every morning. Bob and Buddy would discuss everything under the sun. And they disagreed about everything under the sun also. Some of their best disagreements had to do with Base Ball and Horse Racing. Bob at one time played pro ball and at one time Buddy was a pro Jockey. So at any given time one had the upper hand of experience, but that never seem to matter to the other one. Oh and I haven’t forgot how Little Kenny fit into this. Little Kenny worked at Bud n Mary’s then. So he was always right there for those debates. And he was always there to stroke the fire when the conversation began to cool.
I miss em all. And I hope they have found each other out there.
I’m doing a piece on him and will send it to you when its done. It be great if you had any old photos I could use.
KLUTZ is a picture of Bob’s Hat
Hi, Mike –
Have only memories, no photos. I knew Buddy and Billy Grace somewhat, and Little Kinney, and a number of flats guides fishing out of Bud n’ Mary’s.
I recall Leo telling me about his first solo fishing trip in Islamorada, which began with him calling Bud n’ Mary’s from Birmingham and telling whoever answered the telephone that he’d heard they had an apartment above the bait and tackle store, was that true?
Well … yes.
Does Bud n’ Mary’s rent it out?
Well, yes, but you don’t what that room Dr. Bashinsky.
Is it clean?
Well, yes …
Does it have a bed and a bathroom and shower?
Well, yes …
How much is it rented for?
Well, $70 a week (I think, something like that)
Do you want rent it?
Hell, yeah, at that rate, I could live there a thousand years!
That’s how it started and moved toward Leo and Bob eventually becoming a fairly odd couple, as I heard it mentioned from time to time, although, as I wrote earlier, at first, Leo was taking himself flats fishing mostly, except when he probably needed a guide to show him other places to fish around Islamorada, which Leo might never had found out about. Might be, that’s how Leo and Bob met. Leo also like fishing with Rick Ruoff, a dear friend of mine, who liked fishing Leo.
It’s true there is a room above the tackle shop.It was where Bud and Mary lived as they like to say back in the day. And if it was for rent then Bud n’ Mary had sold the place and moved on. More about that at another time. Now as for little Kenny, he was not a guide.
I didn’t mean little Kenny was a guide.
That happened yesterday. After being demoted in a dream last night, for not speaking in my usual voice, I dragged myself out of the sack long before dawn today and sent this to Mike:
Although when it happened around New Year’s 1965, I did not grasp its import, something profound happened for me at Bud n’ Mary’s, and, as I recall, Little Kinney was a part of it.
A big cold front had come in, the wind was now howling out of the north, the water was cloudy inshore, but it was my last day in the Keys for that trip. So I found some live shrimp somewhere and got into my father’s whaler and started down toward the Flat in front of Ann’s Beach, it wasn’t called that then, at the lower end of Matecumbe Key. Reaching that flat, which is rock hard, as you probably know, I began a drift toward Channel 2 bridge, dragging the push pole in the water behind me, the wind was doing all the pushing. The water was opaque, like a light brown chocolate milkshake. As I neared the far end of the flat, unbelievable, a big bonefish tail came up out of the water, a feeding fish. I barely had time to get the anchor out and stop the whaler about 50 feet above the still tailing fish. No way to stick the push pole into that hard flat and stop the whaler that way. I laid the push pole down and picked up one of the two baited spinning rods and flipped the shrimp right on top of the fish the next time its tail came up. Roiled up as that water was by the wind, no way the fish would notice being bombed by the shrimp. The fish took the shrimp immediately, I set the hook, the fish took off toward Channel 2. About fifteen minutes later, I had in the landing net what appeared to be a record bonefish, but it was skinny. Even so, it easily was the biggest bonefish I’d ever caught. So, I decided to kill it and take it to Bud n’ Mary’s and have them send it to Al Phleuger to mount.
I pulled in the anchor and drifted off the flat and cranked up the outboard and ran the inside route back up to my father’s home at Mile Marker 76. I raced into the house with the great prize, excepting oohs and ahs. Nope. Maybe a that’s nice. But zero appreciation of the miracle I was holding for them to see, for no way in that weather does anyone catch, or even see, a tailing bonefish on that, or on any flat. Well, undaunted, I take the prize back to the whaler and fight the wind and the boat nearly rising up off a wave and flipping bow back over on top of me, to Bud n’ Mary’s. The regular cast of characters who work at Bud n’ Mary’s are there. I tell them about the miracle. One of them laughs, says no way I caught that fish tailing, I caught it nigger fishing in a channel. I say, no, I actually did catch the fish tailing on the flat outside Channel 2. They laughed at me. No way that happened. I had so wanted them to applaud. For you see, already I wanted to be a flats guide, just half way through my first semester of law school back in Alabama. But I did not get that satisfaction from those men. Even so, I gave them the fish to ship to Phleuger, to have it mounted. It was the last bonefish I killed. After that was catch and release.
Well, in the early part of 1994, something mystical happened and I started bawling oceans of tears as I wrote one little fishing story after another, one of which you read above, except for the ending, which was, that mad fish was sent by God and gave its life for me, to teach me not to seek the approval of men, but to seek only God’s approval.
I encourage you to write down for others to read, or hear you read, how Bob affected you. Below is what I once was moved to write about Leo in A FEW REMARKABLE PEOPLE I HAVE KNOWN. The entire little book can be seen by clicking on this link:http://goodmorningkeywest.com/?page_id=23670
3 HE CALLED A SPADE A SPADE
I wish to tell you of my father’s older brother, who, when he and I first met, had just finished his residency at Duke Medical School. It was back when he entered his freshman year of medicine there that Leo’s family and medical school professors discovered he was a genius. He was also the greatest fisherman in the world, as far as I was concerned later in my young life. But for now, not even six years old, I was simply in awe of a six-foot-four giant, weighing about two-hundred-forty pounds, whose hands looked to be about the size of Goose Tatum’s of the Harlem Globetrotters, who could palm a basketball and a cabbage in one hand, I supposed when I saw him play in Birmingham a few years after I met Leo. I actually would see Leo palm my youngest daughter, Alice, by her bare butt and lift her high above my head squirming sort of like a baby seal when she was just home from the hospital being born, and say in his gruff laughing way, “Now that’s a fine baby!
Leo was blessed with an inheritance that allowed him to practice medicine in whatever way he wished. He had patients from over the mountain, Mountain Brook and Crestline Heights, two burgs south of Birmingham where mostly rich folks would eventually congregate, or people wanting to be rich folks. That’s where I grew up, and my friends. Leo and my father grew up on the Birmingham side of the mountain, in Forest Park, when that was where the rich folks lived, or folks wanting to be rich. By the time Leo got out of Duke and came home to be my and a lot of other babies and kids’ doctor, the migration over the mountain was getting pretty well underway.
Actually, Red Mountain wasn’t really a mountain but was merely a ridge at the tail end of the Appalachian range, where once industrialists had mined iron ore, coal and limestone to make steel in Birmingham mills. The mills closed one by one after the raw materials ran out and it became cheaper to make steel elsewhere, than to ship the raw materials from Mobile up the Warrior River to Birmingham. But long before that demise, a very large cast- iron statue of a scantily-clad Blacksmith named Vulcan was given to Birmingham by some place or folks I don’t now remember, and it was erected on top of Red Mountain, over the cut where 20th Street went over the top and down into Homewood, which lay just west of Mountain Brook.
To my little boy eyes, the first time I saw Leo and heard him bellow about scarlet fever and how it and whooping cough were primary killers of children, he looked about as big as Vulcan and made about as much noise as I thought Vulcan might make if he could really talk, and I sort of wanted to migrate somewhere . . . else. For I’d already had my taste of penicillin from another doctor, when my younger brother was nearly dead from pneumonia, while Leo was still studying to be a doctor. I was burning up with something trying to eat me alive from inside out, and they gave me the shots, too, only to later learn I had the world record case of the red measles. My brother and I didn’t cross-pollinate and kill each other, and we both lived to have Leo come around from time to time when we were sickly and eyeball us and pretty well size up the situation before he even felt our throat and neck for lumps and made us stick out our tongues and get that awful wooden flat gag stick in our throat and “ahhhhhhh” shit would have been how we really felt about it if we were old enough to know such words.
I remember one day Leo came calling when I was home sick with something he figured a needle would take care of and my mother was not there but my mammy Cha was, and I decided no way was he going to stick that needle into me and I fought him tooth and nail, really a great plan, him weighing about four times what I weighed; but it was more tussle than he or I realized I had in me, and finally he nearly had to hog-tie me and was huffing and cussing, a leg over me, an arm sort of around my waist, or maybe it was my neck, when he injected me and, yep, I thought it was going to hurt like that: it was penicillin after all, if it hurt like that. But I started getting better pretty quick, maybe because I got so hot and bothered that the sudden fever of it killed off whatever it was in me that had summoned Leo to poke that needle in me in the first place, or maybe it was just the desire for him not to come back and do it again that caused me to get better.
Leo gave up on doctoring me when I was about twenty and had contracted some sort of deadly dysentery while running a summer vacation route for my father’s potato chip company, Golden Flake, but I didn’t yet know I had contracted some sort of deadly dysentery because the runs hadn’t yet started. I was so tired that I could barely move and felt nearly dead when Leo got there, called in by my mother from a party of some kind, accompanied by another doctor I’d heard a lot about, named Keehn Berry. I’d been wanting to meet Keehn because I’d heard from Leo that he was a great fisherman, but not under such circumstances as these. I suppose Leo had ESP’d it from afar at the party, I wouldn’t put it past him; or maybe he just figured this was the last time he wanted to be called at night to come see me, one of his oldest patients. He would make house calls until the day he retired, for babies and children.
Anyway, neither Keehn nor Leo had yet figured out what was wrong with me by the time they headed back to the party. The figuring out would take my throwing up and crapping all over everywhere for the rest of the night, and then for Keehn to see the wretching remains of me in his office the next morning, which was Saturday, they still worked on Saturdays in that time, for him to announce that I had dysentery and was headed for the hospital without passing Go. Shigella was the bacteria breed they assayed in the lab, and tetracycline, as I recall, was the killer drug they used on it. I was in there nearly ten days, barely able to even move until the very end of it. Keehn was an internist and taught medicine at the nearby University of Alabama Medical School. A doctor’s doctor, Leo had called him. Leo never got to treat doctors, but if he had, he would have been called that, too, I imagine.
Well, I say Leo never got to treat doctors. Who knows what he and other doctors talked about privately? Or at the Birmingham Country Club, where Leo loved to play cards: gin rummy, hearts, bridge, as he chain-smoked. I always thought the cigarettes would get him, and maybe they somehow did, but that is not what I want to talk about in this moment. I want to tell a story I heard from perhaps the greatest plaintiff’s lawyer the Alabama Bar ever produced, at least up to this man’s departure from this world. Francis Hare told me that Leo was the greatest doctor who had ever lived, and while I already knew this might be so, I wanted to hear Francis’ reasoning. It was because he had said to Leo, over a card game one afternoon, I think this was in the 19th Hole, that he had been having headaches for years and had never been able to get much relief. Leo reached out a giant paw and took off Francis’ glasses and bent the stems a bit wider and put them back onto Frances’ nose and said, “How’s that?
Then was the time my oldest daughter, Nelle, was outside playing with neighborhood friends, and all of a sudden there was this great yelling and shrieking and in she came holding her right arm, dislocated at the elbow from some other kid swinging her around in the air holding onto her wrist. I called Leo at home, I believe it was a weekend day, and he was there in about ten minutes. Not exactly how Nelle had hoped would be the way her day went, as she also had a close association between Leo and the needle, and as he still was about as big as a grizzly bear, Nelle was not in the least disposed to him ever getting his mitts on her again. But Leo was not a bit concerned about how any child felt about him; as far as I could tell, he was only concerned about them getting well, if they were feeling poorly. He picked Nelle right up from behind, sat down in a straight-back chair with her in his lap, her little back to his giant torso, and did some sort of manipulation on her right arm, bringing her hand and forearm up to her chest and then twisting it a bit inward, I suppose. When he then asked if that didn’t feel better, the grateful look on Nelle’s face said she would always be glad to see Dr. Leo after that.
The only time Leo did not treat Nelle for pediatric stuff was one time he was out of town and another doctor had to cover for him and I ended up taking Nelle away from that doctor and to Children’s Hospital, and the residents agreed with me that she indeed had pneumonia and they took over until Leo got back and took over, and she got better. There was one other time, not pediatric, when at age five Nelle got run over on her bicycle and nearly lost her left foot above the Achilles, and an orthopedic surgeon saved her leg. Leo said we were darn lucky Dr. David Vesley was on call that day at the hospital. I don’t say that to flack other doctors, only to say what Leo said.
I mentioned in another of these little vignettes that I once had wanted Leo to be my father because he loved to fish as much as I did. Leo’s two sons didn’t care all that much about fishing, and many years later Leo told Rick Ruoff, a Florida Keys fishing guide friend of mine, to whom I had introduced Leo, that I should have been his son. We really did spent some close time together, bonded pretty tight, but after I went through a lot of changes, it wasn’t so tight outwardly, but inwardly I still feel much the same about that gruff old bear of a man. Maybe that’s where I got some of my gruffness; maybe that’s why not long ago I was told in a dream Leo had died. Twice in that same night I was told that. But then, maybe it was because he was no longer my doctor even in spirit ways, which he had done some of over the past couple of years in my dreams, to help me see things a bit differently when I was in tight places. That man sure could see, and I wonder if it will be okay to tell some stories about how well he really could see? I’ll test those waters, to see how the angels who monitor me 24-7 feel as I ease into it. They have their ways of letting me know.
I believe a good place to start is a morning I chanced into Leo and his second son, Bo, also a pediatrician, at a local breakfast place one morning. After being in private practice for a few years, Bo had recently gone to work for an HMO and was feeling a great weight had lifted off him. Bo always was a more business-like doctor than had been his father, many of whose patients were from poor black, Italian, Greek and Lebonese families, who often paid Leo’s doctor bills in fresh vegetables, home-baked bread, pies and cakes, and so forth. Leo made house calls in those families’ homes too. Some of the mothers, especially those living over the mountain, took not to liking Leo because he was wont to tell them he was into treating babies and not mommas, and for the nervous mommas sit down and be quiet while he examined and figured out what was wrong with the patients, that is, the babies. Sometimes he told mommas a lot sterner stuff than that: like it was their own over-heatedness that was playing out in their babies. And once I heard him tell a momma on the telephone that she had a lot of gall calling him on Sunday afternoon about her child’s fever, after it had started the preceding Wednesday, and it was because of people like her that he was retiring from the practice of medicine. Then, as he figured something really was wrong with this child, he told her to meet him with the child at the hospital. Later, Leo’s wife, Betty told me that the real reason Leo had retired was because he had contracted encephalitis and it had affected his memory and he was forgetting things like who was still sick, when he was supposed to see them, and so forth. So he took himself out of the calling to which he had dedicated his life.So this morning over breakfast, Bo wants to talk about a new drug on the market that reduces fever in children and makes mommas happy and his life easier. I, now being a somewhat self-appointed expert on various forms of disease and wellness, pipe up that I think fever is what kills infections, and so why take a pill for it unless the fever is really high and putting a child at risk? As I smugly wait for Leo to nod approval, he says softly, “It’s babies who couldn’t make a fever that worried me.” Thus ended the lesson for that day from the master who now has Alzheimer’s, which breaks my heart but I suppose he doesn’t suffer too much from it. Last time Leo and I had a frank talk, which was before he knew of the Alzheimer’s, he said he was waiting on the Lord to take him. Why the Lord has now waited so darn long, I don’t know, but I sure do hope the Lord doesn’t wait much longer, even though Leo is a lot like Noah in that wonderful movie, the name of which I can’t now remember [The Notebook], but Noah’s wife was named Allie, and she got Alzheimer’s and he moved into the nursing home with her and looked after her.
Despite being a giant, Leo was a great dancer, talked women off their feet, made them laugh, flattered them, romanced them, but never beyond play-pretend. He once told me a story, I was about twelve, as a shapely red-head crossed in front of the car he and another man and I were in, during a fishing trip for speckled trout in Pensacola Bay. The fishing was awful and the woman was striking, and the other man and Leo were both gawking, even as Leo said that once he had done something he ought not to have done and Miss Betty had told him that if he ever did that again she would wait until he was asleep one night and would get a big rusty knife out of the kitchen and slit his throat, and she really meant it, too, he said. I wonder if it really was his throat that Betty told him she would slit. I know her well enough to wonder that.
One time I got involved in doing some legal work for them, the subject matter of which I’ll not get into other than to say and I was doing it for nothing, just as Leo had treated me and my brother and sister and my children for nothing; and I was doing it because I loved Leo and Betty. But eventually I let the situation get away from me; I was far too close to it, to be detached and professional, and I had to tell them to seek help from their regular lawyers and that took a while and some money but it worked out okay in the end, I hope. It would have worked out a lot better if they’d had the other lawyers to begin with, because the other lawyers would not have let them even get involved with what I let them get involved in. Betty was the leader, Leo was following, and I was tagging along, and it was during the darkest hour of it all that I heard Leo say things to Betty about how he would see it to the end, protect her interests, and he told me that he loved her (and for me to lay off her).
I have written to Leo and Betty that I do not wish to attend any funeral but would love to throw a party for whoever goes to the other side, and the one left behind and all the relatives and friends will be welcome at wherever I throw the party. Leo himself never was much for funerals: he told me he was glad his father, suffering a long time from leukemia, had finally crossed over and was now out of pain. I never heard Leo express concern about the state of his own soul, nor did I ever hear him talk about the state of anyone else’s. If he liked something, he complimented it. If he didn’t like something, he said so. He seemed, when I heard him speak of the Bible, to enjoy the Old Testament more than the New. He was one-quarter Jew, through is father and paternal grandfather. Like Old Testament men of God, he called a spade a spade, and some people didn’t like that.
[Leo finally crossed over in 2006, as I recall, and I stayed in the Keys and wrote an eulogy which left my heart heaving.]
Thanks for those stories. My Grand mothers house was not far from the Vulcan, But as for
LITTLE KENNY, there must have been a different fellow. The little Kenny I spoke of had not come to the Keys until late 80’s. He was a very good friend of mine and he worked and lived at Bud n Mary’s until his passing 5yrs ago.
And A Child shall Teach Him
One of Little Kenny’s jobs at the marina was to dip bait shrimp for the customers. One day I see this little girl. She couldn’t have been no more than eight or nine years old. And she was standing on an over turned bait bucket looking down into the shrimp tank.
Little Kenny sees the little girl at the tank and walks over to her and leans over and looks down into the tank with her. And then after a second or so he says to the little girl sarcastically, “You sure have been staring at these shrimp for a while. What are you doing trying to name all of them?” The little girl turns her head up from the tank with a quizzical kinda frown to look at Little Kenny. She then turns and jumps down off the bait bucket. And then looks up at Little Kenny and says to him in a matter of fact mono toned voice, “Sir, they are bait shrimp, they lead short lives, they don’t deserve names!” Then promptly turns and walks away into the tackle shop. Little Kenny was left standing there a little red faced and dumb founded. He looked over at me but I was laughing at him and he said. “You know what I just found out?” “Yeah”, I said still laughing, “You’ve been wasting way too much time naming shrimp.” “No wise ass”, he said, “I just found out that I really, really hate fucking kids!” And then he just walked away repeating his new found knowledge. In a sing song kinda bratty like voice, “they lead short lives, they don’t deserve names, they lead short lives, they don’t deserve names, they lead short lives, and they don’t deserve names.”
I thought I recalled a Kenny working at Bud n Mary’s. Many brain cells probably have died :-). If Leo had heard Little Kinney say that, then Little Kinney would have wished he was dead by the time Leo got done with him.
This below also is in play today:
From Pat McDaniel, replying to A Few Remarkable (Birmingham) People I Have Known, on June 21, 2012. The Summer Solstice.
Just found your article and loved it, especially the section devoted to Dr. Leo, one of my favorite people of all time. We moved to B’ham in late 1966, not knowing one person and unfortunately I had a slightly premature baby about a month later–at home were four other small children and a husband who traveled in his job, so I was pretty much living the isolated life. Dr. B (aka known as “the jolly green giant” by my older children) would make house calls just to check on this very small baby who unfortunately had the worst colic known to man. I reminded him that I could bring her to his office which I was sure wouldn’t be as expensive as the house calls, but he told me he made a lot more money from his investments than from the practice of medicine, so not to worry about it. I held my breath waiting for the bill, which never came.
About two months into these daily visits, I pled with him to give her “something”–this couldn’t be good for her and I thought I was losing my mind. He turned on me like a mama bear and said something to the effect that there were doctors who would give her something to knock her out, but I’d just have to “suck it up”–she’d make it and so would I (well, she did and I did too). One day stands out in my mind–it had been terrible and when he walked in, he went into her bedroom and picked up the baby bed, carrying it into the dining room on the other side of the house. He went into the bathroom and started filling up the tub with hot water while I stood by and watched him fascinated but finally said, “That’s an awful lot of water for a very tiny baby!”. He gave me that disgusted look and replied, “Mama, this water is for you, not for her. She’s going to the other part of the house, check on her every 15 minutes or so, but if she’s going to cry, let her cry. I want you to soak for at least 30 minutes. Now, where’s your bubble bath?” I didn’t have any bubble bath which he found amusing but he found some Frank Sinatra records which he put on the turn-table and told me to listen to Frank sing some sad saloon music, drink some wine and relax. I told him I didn’t have any wine, but I had a lot of Cokes. He really loved that one–told me had a lot of money invested in that company; I told him I was their best customer. About 30 minutes later the drug store made a delivery–not for her, but for me, something to calm me down and a bottle of bubble bath (the good kind) as well as a case of cokes. The note read “Mama, take one long bath every day as long as necessary and added a postscipt telling me I was running low on cokes”.
On the serious side, my oldest daughter had rheumatic fever and he was the one who told me that his son suffered from the same problem and that he would do everything possible to see that she didn’t have the extensive heart damage as his son. She was immediately started on daily penicillan (sp?) and he made reports to some drug company to report her results (at no cost whatsoever). He was so gentle with her and I can still see him holding her in his lap while convincing her she could do anything (and she did) making a full recovery. When she was a cheerleader in high school he would even come to see her cheer and hug me telling me, “Mama, we did good!” I also had a son whom he chased around the office to give him shots (like you, I guess) and laugh the entire time.
Needless to say, I adored that man and was so sorry when he could no longer practice medicine. The last time I saw him was at the Golden Rule in Irondale–he apparently ate lunch there frequently. He walked up behind me while I was waiting to pay my bill and followed me outside–he told me he had lost his hearing so he’d talk but he couldn’t hear me so not to bother answering. He remembered every one of the children (grown by now) and asked about each of them. He told me I had the most beautiful children he’d ever seen, but then so was I (not true but flattering) and it was an honor to watch them grow. When I started crying, he started cussing and walked away–when I ran to catch him, he had tears in his eyes so we just hugged each other in that parking lot. He truly was one of Birmingham’s greats and I’m so glad you included him in your tribute.
Hi, Pat. What a wonderful tribute from you! Over the years (back in another life), I heard a number of Birmingham women, mommas, as Leo called his babies’ mothers, talk to me about him. All said their children had loved Dr. Leo, as he was known. About half the mommas said he had talked horrible to them, or they were terrified of him, but their children loved him so much and he was a such great doctor for them that they sucked it up and stayed with him. About half said they couldn’t take it and took their kids to another doctor. I sometimes said something like, “Your pride was more important to you than your child’s welfare.” Just what they wanted to hear.” When Leo comes to me in a dream, it’s usually to tell me to drop the hammer on something in front of me, or to tell me there is nothing worth fishing for where I am casting my bait and lures in this world’s dramas. Haven’t seen him in a dream in a while, but maybe you herald a visit from him – to me, stop fretting.
There was so much I could have told about him, which I decided to hold onto or it didn’t come to me in the moment his part of that little book was falling out of me, frequently amidst rivers and oceans of tears. Leo had a very hard time with crying. I knew that side of him you described at The Golden Rule, where I sometimes ran into him and sat down and had one-way conversations with him after his hearing went out. One of my favorite restaurants anywhere still. But I never but once saw him get choked up a little, which I will tell now.
When I was twelve, he took me with him on the train, my first train trip, to Daytona, where we rented a car and drove down to Indian River Lagoon, also called Mosquito Lagoon, now Cape Canaveral, to fish for speckled trout, aka spotted weakfish, but we never stooped so low as to besmirch them in that way. I had fished there twice already with my father and younger brother during a spring break. My father was a clutz with fishing tackle, but he knew how much I loved fishing and saw to it I got to go sometimes. My mother did the same. But it was with Leo I most wanted to fish, The Greatest Fisherman in the World.
Well, we got down there and rented a skiff that afternoon and went out to a nearby grass flat and did fair fishing mirrolures before it got too dark to see and headed back in. The next two days, we fished with a guide reputed to be a hotshot speckled trout catcher, and didn’t do dingly squat, mainly because the guide wanted to go out at 8 a.m., and by then the trout were in siesta to late afternoon, which any real trout fisherman knew. The last day, only had half a day, we rented a skiff and headed out at grey light and murdered the trout, like what is supposed to happen when you fish when they are biting. The guide and all the other guides used live shrimp, but we were banging them with mirrolures, 3m sinkers and 7m floaters. I caught a gator trout, close to 5 pounds, yellow mouth. Leo caught one nearly as big. Maybe we had another dozen in the 1 – 2 pound range. When we got back to the dock, we were swarmed. Nobody could imagine nailing trout on mirrolures.
We did the same thing another time in a lagoon off Pensacola Bay, and got ourselves in the Pensacola Journal for that one. Everybody thought the net trawlers had caught all the trout out of the bay, but there were plenty in that lagoon, and we caught them on mirrolures. Well, I didn’t tell you yet about when I saw Leo nearly lose it.
It happened that first afternoon at Indian River. We were out there and my spinning reel was acting like it was glued inside, hard to wind, and Leo told me to clean my reel. I thought he meant strip all the line off the spool, and next time he had the boat running, I took off the mirrolure and let the water drag all the line off the spool. He wasn’t paying attention until I was showing a bare black spool, and he bellowed something like, “What in the hell are you doing!?!?@@@.” I shrunk down to as invisible as I could get and told him he had said to clean my reel. He said he meant take off the back screw and put some lubricant in it! More bellowing, he couldn’t believe a 12-year-old-boy didn’t know how to clean his own reel! I was about to burst into tears, which I did, but able to say something like, “This boy never had anybody show him how to clean his reel.” Stopped Leo in his tracks, that did.
Now I’m reminded of another story not long after Leo had had his one heart attack and then some kind of surgery for it. His doctors had make him quit smoking and drinking and eating steak and roast beef, and he was generally miserable and a lot more cranky than usual. I wasn’t doing all that great myself, and when I found he had made another trip down to the Keys, I called him at the Islander in Islamorada and asked if I could come down and fish a few days with him. He said okay. I probably was imposing, but like I said, I wasn’t doing so good myself, and I really wanted to fish with him just the two of us, for old time’s sake.
So we went out two or three days and I was casting like a toad without eyes or a brain and missing good shots at permit, which I had never caught, and never would catch. We went nights to a restaurant he liked, buffet, all you could eat, The Coral Grill, and I told him to get roast beef and have a beer or two, it woudn’t kill him as quick as the doctors regimen. He really like that, and we had fun eating and telling more stories. Maybe the last day, #4, we were out on a flat off of Indian Key and he started getting a bit bossy and I started sassing him back and he said I couldn’t talk to him like that on his boat! I said, why not? He’d been talking to me like that on his boat! He was short for words then, too.
God did I love him, brings tears to my eyes to write that. I hated it so bad for him when the Alzheimer’s came. Christmas 2005, his whole family came to the nursing home, a big party. Even our Montgomery relatives. He didn’t recognize anyone but his wife. Asked her if all these people where his relatives? I burst into tears, for him. Didn’t see him again. Not long after, I was back down here in the Keys, been here ever since, except for a few short trips to Birmingham. I think Leo passed over in the fall of 2006. I wrote an eulogy for him, maybe I can find it somewhere in my email account. By then, I was way over the mystical horizon.
I keep wondering if my starting up this goodmorningbirmingham.com website last fall means some day I will live there again, at least some of the time.
I moved back to Florida about six years ago to live near my children. We never planned to stay in Birmingham but that thing called “life” got in the way i.e., my husband’s first heart attack when he was only 37 being the primary one. The kids had always loved Florida and I told them when they were grown they could move back (which four of the five did) so I followed them.
Thinking about Dr. Bashinsky brought to mind a couple of other events regarding the relationship he had with his “babies” and once under his care, they were truly his babies. I watched him while one of these babies (a 15-year-old boy) died of cancer. I watched him with his mother, showing so much compassion and love toward the family. When the young man died, he stood behind my family at the funeral and tightly gripped the shoulders of my daughter as he fought back his own tears. The mother told me he had promised her he’d do everything in his power to keep him from unnecessary pain once the disease reached the point of no return–and he honored that promise. We, too, heard about the mothers who didn’t like him, but that mother and I adored him–who cared if he “chewed us out” for doing something–anyone worth their salt could recognize that he adored his patients and wanted nothing but the best for them.
I saw him with another dying child–his name was Phillip–and he too had cancer and this child had one wish which was to learn to read (he was only five at the time). I was teaching at the time and I promised him he would learn to read that year–I thought we had a year, but we only got about six months. Phillip reached his goal–I stayed with his mother the night he died at Children’s (his father had left) and so it was only the three of us in that room (Dr. B, his mom and me). It was a night I’ll never forget: a child’s bravery, the devastation of his mother and the devotion of an outstanding physician. Well, I feel the tears coming so I’ll leave it at that.
Thanks for responding.
Hi again, Pat. You tell marvelous stories about Dr. Leo, which I called him until I was maybe out of college; stories I doubt few people know. I heard he was not considered all that bright (good student) until he graduated from Vanderbilt and entered Duke Medical School, where he came into his own. My mother worshiped him when it came to taking care of her children. You told a story of him chasing a boy around who didn’t want to get the needle. I tried the same thing with him once, when my mother wasn’t home. Took him quite a while to subdue me, and he wasn’t all that terribly complimentary of my behavior. My children loved him. I’m thinking of creating a page just for him on this website, prompted by your stories about him. Maybe his descendants and babies and mommas would like to see it. Thanks. Sloan
Created a new Dr. Leo Bashinsky page, thanks for your wonderful contributions. Found the 2006 eulogy, but was going to leave it out until a dream persuaded me to include it. A bit different, lot is personal. It’s at the last part of the new page. Before that, is the chapter on Leo from A Few Remarkable People I Have Known, and before that is your and my converstations about Leo. Again, thanks. Was wondering how you came across this website?
I saw an article about Mike McGarity on Roger Shuler’s page (think it was entitled something about the neighbor from hell). From there your page was referenced and when I read it, the unforgettable people from B’ham was prominent. When I read about Dr. Bashinsky, I had to stop and share my memories of this most remarkable man. I enjoyed your writing style so like that of Jim Bishop, a reporter from Miami back in the 1960s–and plan to read more of your blogs next week (busy with family this week). Keep writing.
After re-reading what I wrote about Leo in A FEW REMARKABLE PEOPLE I HAVE KNOWN, I found myself thinking once again, if I had it to do over, the way I would practice law in Birmingham, the means available, was the way Leo practiced medicine. I would take care of my clients, those who could pay, would pay, the rest would get the best I had to offer just the same.
I found the eulogy I had written, but on rereading it, I felt it was too personal, perhaps too selfish on my part. But my dreams last night left me feeling I should include it anyway. For sure, the Bash in this memorial called a spade a spade.
DR. LEO BASHINSKY, IN MEMORIUM
Yesterday I received news from my oldest first Bashinsky cousin that his father, my Uncle Leo, passed away on July 22, which was the day I was moved to write “Fly Fishing,” in which I fondly reminisced about Leo fishing in the Keys. I have sensed for about two weeks, since I saw “A Prairie Home Companion,” in which there was an angel of death who came to get two people, that someone close to me was leaving this world. The memorial service is this coming Saturday, in the same Baptist church my father’s memorial service was held last August, the same Baptist church my father and I attended together, until my mother became Episcopalian when I was eleven, and started taking me to that church with her. The explosion that caused in our family, well, perhaps it would be a digression from today’s writing to say any more than it was nuclear.
As was it nuclear for me to attend my own father’s memorial service, and hear a minister, who had once tried to do me in, eulogize a man I did not even know had existed, a man I’m not sure anyone in the church that day even knew had existed. One of my former wives was in the audience, and I saw and hugged her, and took her by the hand to sit with me in the family section. She got so upset by what she was hearing from this minister, who had once told her that I could so much as rot in hell when she had gone to him seeking to get him to intervene on my behalf with my father, and now here he was fawning all over my father’s money, it seemed to be all about his money, that she trembled in fury and muttered under her breath, “You cannot worship God and mammon!”
Now I am invited to go back into this same church, listen to yet another sermon by a man I would rather never see again, and even as I write these words this morning at 5:30 a.m., I am not clear what it is I am supposed to do about this. I have an invitation to stay in my first cousin’s home while I’m there, and I got an email from a friend last night, whose home I’ve stayed in before in Birmingham, just saying “Hi,” and not apparently knowing of my uncle’s passing. Yet every time I’ve been in Birmingham in the past year, she never accepted my overtures to have a meal somewhere with her husband and children, all of whom are quite dear to me. And when I was in Birmingham, my first cousin never accepted any of my overtures for us to get together then. And I’m now to drive about 1,000 miles to a funeral in a church I would rather never see again, a church that has an entrance foyer and meeting room that reminds me of the interior of the posh country club I grew up in not all that far away?
Into my email account this morning also came a saying of Jesus, part of which is someone saying he wanted to follow Jesus, but he wanted first to go home and bury a dead relative, and Jesus said for the man to let the dead bury the dead, and to follow him instead. I felt like I buried Leo last Christmas, at a gathering his family had for and around him at the nursing home where he then was living, after his Alzheimer’s became so severe that his aging wife, “Miss Betty,” could no longer take care of him. Leo didn’t recognize me, and asked if all those people around him were his family? Speaking with the black woman, who had been his hospice caretaker before he moved to the nursing home, and her husband, I burst into tears over what was happening to this man I loved so much.
His remains were cremated, my cousin said, and the family is going to bring them down to the Keys and scatter them around Islamorada, and I am welcome to join in that ceremony for the man he said he knew was my surrogate father. I replied that I myself had long wanted to have my remains scattered in the Keys, and was surprised that my own father had not had his scattered here, in the place he so loved. My heart is breaking, I must be getting close to something important . . .
I remember the last time Leo and I had a private conversation. It was September 1998. I called him at home, said I had something I needed to come over and talk to him about. He said to come on. He was alone. I’d just recently learned through dreams, mine and two dear men friends’, that I had an older brother I had never heard about. When I asked Leo if it was true, he turned, looked into my eyes, said in as serious a tone as he possibly could use, “I don’t want to have anything to do with that!” So I had my worldly confirmation that the dreams were true. Leo then said some very rough things about my father, which went to the core of why they no longer had dealings with each other on this world. There was no doubt Leo spoke the truth, it was not in him not to speak the truth. And the truth was not something that my father cared much for in those days, nor for as long as I knew him. This is so painful to write. Shit!
I sat on the news that I had an older brother until just before Christmas 1999, when I was suddenly moved to write to my father about it, explaining the dreams but leaving Leo out of it. I did not get a reply, other than the Christmas present of stock he traditionally gave to each of his children did not come to me that year. I took that as his answer, and said to myself, “Oh, well,” and turned my attention toward other matters. About two weeks later, I was suddenly moved to legally change my name to Sloan Young, dropping Bashinsky, and to legally renounce my inheritance from my father, in writing, and to send him news of all of this. I thought that was the end of it, but about two weeks later, I was suddenly moved to write to my brother and sister, and daughters, and former wives, and tell them of what had happened. To that I received no reply, except from my sister, who was enraged that I had gotten her involved. Then I was suddenly moved to wind up all of my affairs in Birmingham, get a new passport, and leave, going I knew not where . . .
Where I went was around the world, on both sides of the equator, traveling mostly on credit cards, until I reached Hawaii and the credit cards played out, and then began my adventures in being homeless most of the time. As I was running for mayor of Key West in 2003, living in a homeless shelter, I was suddenly moved to start trying to turn it around, by legally changing my name back to Bashinsky, renouncing the renouncement of my inheritance, and trying to gain audience with my father, who clearly was sending signals that he wanted to see me, through third parties, but he never accepted my overtures to actually get together, even after I traveled all the way to Alabama from Key West, with money given to me by Buz Dillon, Chief of Police, and Bob Tishenkel, City Attorney of Key West. For two months I tried to see my father, and when it did not play out, I returned to Key West, and then I went into a hell hole that I only started coming out of after my father passed away in August 2005.
I would be lying if I said that it didn’t bug the shit out of me that my
father then started coming to me in dreams after that, giving me this and that dirty assignment to do, to help him wind up his affairs on this world. The spirit energies around all of these assignments was simply vile. And this was but a piece of the awful work I then was doing, all somehow linked into all that had gone down between my father and me, going back a very long time, way back to my own son’s passing, which surely affected my father more than anyone but perhaps him then knew, because he had lost his own first born many years before, and had never shared the loss with any of us. I seriously doubt even his wife, my mother, knew of it. But Leo knew of it, as did my father’s father, who was the instigator of the boy and his mother being paid money to leave Alabama, and on going payments to never come back. A boy who was half white, half black, whose mother was the teenage daughter of two of the servants in my father’s childhood home, a woman my father loved with all of his heart and soul.
I can’t imagine the trauma that erupted in my father when he received my letter in late 1999, asking if I had this older brother, but saying nothing of the race of his mother. I cannot imagine such trauma. Nor can I imagine my father reacting as he did, by casting me out altogether; nor the reaction of my daughters, from whom I never again heard after I wrote to them about all of this. Poof! They were gone from my life. I saw them at my father’s memorial service, they came down from Kentucky, where they both live, for it. I tried to get close to them, but it was no go. I tried to set up a later visit, but it was no go. Their mother was there and she was no help
and actually promoted them not seeing me again, even when I saw a glimmer in my youngest daughter favoring a second get together.
Let the dead bury the dead, Jesus said. I went to one funeral, saw
absolutely nothing come out of it except perhaps changes in me, occasioned by my having gone through it. Am I being called back to Birmingham, to do that again? Would it be different this time? How can I know if I don’t go back? Yet nothing in me wants to go back. When I had that last intimate visit with Leo in September 1998, I asked him how he was doing, and he said, “I’m waiting on the Lord to take me.” He did not yet know he was moving into Alzheimer’s. He was lucid, deep, real, ironic. That was the Leo I had always known. That was the Leo I had always loved, even when I saw he was consternated, or perhaps was just confused, about how my life was going. Yet he never turned me away, he always received me.
I knew Leo was leaving in 1990, when I was down in Islamorada, in June, and heard that “Dr. Bashinsky” was staying at the Islander. As far as I could tell, most people in the Keys called him “Dr.Bashinsky,” or just “Doc.” He was a retired pediatrician, the best baby doctor maybe God ever made. He was my baby doctor, after he came out of Duke Medical School. I never got beaten up again by my mother. Leo was my daughters’ baby doctor. Hell, he’s still my doctor, telling me to stay here in the Keys and wait on his remains to come here and we can say our good-byes again in the place we both so loved, and still love. Damn, what a rainstorm this is stirring up. Damn.
Leo fished a few times with Rick Ruoff, which is how they got to know and respect and love each other. But Rick was so busy, so booked in advance, like a year ahead, that it simply was not possible for Leo to work into that kind of routine with any regularity. And Rick was younger than me, and Bob Rhinerman (spelling?) was closer to Leo’s age, older than me, and they seemed to hit it off really well, two old grouches going out and swapping yarns, and complaining about getting old, and chasing bone fish, and then going home tired and looking forward to a good night’s sleep and then more of the same the next day. I hate writing what is coming, that the day I last fished with Rick early 1987, up on Key Largo, he told me that my father was the only person he had ever fished, who he had decided he could not fish again. Rick was a Will Rogers type, he never met a man he didn’t like, except my father. Maybe I needed to hear that then, to prepare me for what was coming later about a man I could not help but love, no matter what.
I remember that last time with Leo in the Keys, June 1990. I found him at the Islander, said I wanted to have dinner with him. He said when he would be at the Green Turtle later that evening, and I met him there. He had prime rib, I had snapper. The food wasn’t nearly as good, hadn’t been nearly as good for years, after Roxie sold it, but there were still photographs on the walls I’d seen there for years, including photographs of my family and first wife and me, and it was for old time’s sake. Leo talked about how terrible the fishing was, the flats were being run over by boats and the bone fish were scarce and the shrimp were too small to cast. I could see the light going out in his eyes, as he turned to face me and said I would catch more
fish on the flat in front of my father’s home, where he never stayed after things had happened there many years before when he was my father’s guest. I knew it was this great man’s way of telling me he wanted to fish alone and that he was returning me to my father, even though he had once told Rick Ruoff that “Sloan should have been my son.”
Hell, I WAS his son! Hell, I’m STILL his son! This sudden rain burst proves it! How many fathers I have had: the one whose seed made me; Leo, and others I have written about from time to time. Each one different, each one bearing gifts the others could not bring to me. Each one loving me as if I were his own son. Clarence W. Allgood, the federal judge I clerked for right out of law school. John Gillon, the crusty old lawyer who represented my father and his father, and our entire family. Lee Graham, the Episcopal minister whose message so captured my mother that she risked just about everything to join his church. Now God is my father, and through each of these men has and does God speak to me, as a son. But today, God is speaking to me through Leo, who called a spade a spade, because it was not in him to be any other way.
I hated it for Leo, that he was trapped in his body, unable to go fishing any more, his mind leaving him. I was angry that God did not take him. I’m still angry about it. I know there was good reason for it, but that does not change how I feel about the last years of this man who did so much good for me, for my children, for other people and their children, whose eulogy I would very much like to be able to give next Saturday, because I know it would be about a real person. But I’m not going to be able to do that, and maybe that’s why I’m doing it in this way, and maybe I’m going to send this writing to my first cousin, whose email address I have, who received the
“Fly Fishing” piece, for him to share it with his side of the family. I do not feel moved to send it to my brother and sister, but perhaps to my daughers I might send it, because there may be some things here they do not know and might like to know about their Dr. Leo. And to my closest friends, I might also send it, if for no other reason, to help them understand where some of my character traits came from.
Thank you, Lord, for putting Dr. Leo into my life. I don’t know what I would have done without him.
I never heard anything further about the ashes spreading in the Keys. I am unable to find the “Fly Fishing” piece.
June 23, 2012
It came to pass over a year ago, I was most grateful, that my daughters and their mother and I reconciled. Maybe Leo had a hand in that, wouldn’t put it past him.
My daughters, Alice (left, born 1970) and Nelle (right, born 1968), sitting on my father’s dock on Lower Matecumbe Key a “few” years ago.
Below, Nelle (left), Alice (right), on the front porch of my father’s home at Mile Marker 76.
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In a dream last night, I told my father I had quit practicing law, again, the second time I had quit. I was not happy, but it was what I had to do. He said I might do good with retail sales. I said, I might, if I was selling something I wanted to sell. I awoke, thinking the I quit practicing law again part of the dream was about my lady Kari’s criminal case, maybe I needed to wind that down, and the retail sales part of the dream was about my candidacy for US President in 2016, with Kari as my running mate, all reported in yesterday’s Sloan Bashinsky, the one nation, under God, candidate for US President, 2016, lends comfort and aid to From the Right, a political refuge from bigpinekey.com’s once widely read vicious Coconut Telegraph blog, where the men are men and the doe key deer are afraid, and launches his campaign in California, Sicily and elsewhere, as reported at goodmorningkeywest.com post at goodmorningkeywest.com.
I imagine when he was alive, my father, above, would have been mortified over his crazy namesake running for US President.
The second part of yesterday’s post contained an email thread, into which I had jumped with both feet and the rest of me, after it was started by one of my vicious van dweller criminal amigos. After the post was pubished, he egged me to new heights, and depths. So here is the whole thread, perhaps I should name it “retail sales” :-). The new part of the FB thread starts with Tim Ousley’s introduction of Yosemite Sam.
Anchor Steam and a group of seriously unbalanced people. Doesn’t get much better than this.
mischief by Deer Ed, publisher of bigpinekey.com’s coconut telegraph blog, 2014
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More Deer Ed mischief
Pursuant to a dream last night about a dead deer, Facebook activity started by me at Walt Legraves’ Faceook page today, as per his invitation in the April 26th edition of bigpinekey.com’s Coconut Telegraph blog,
published by Deer Ed:
“Fifth: I have moved the flag to Facebook. I’m learning the medium and enjoying it immensely. I urge my critics to come and do battle, to come and defend their beliefs; but they won’t, they simply do not have the stones to step out of the cloak of anonymity. They are back shooters. Oh well, hopefully some folks who are interested in truth will come over and join the dialog. You can find me on Facebook at Walt Lagraves. All the best to the CT community. Walt Lagraves”
Deer Ed once wrote to his readers that he wished he had more contributing writers like Walt and Sloan Bashinsky, but he didn’t see that happening. Ed wrote that when he was getting sharply criticized for publishing stuff from me on the Coconut Telegraph. In Walt’s defense, he was catching heavy chicken little flack, too. I didn’t read Walt all that much on the Coconut Telegraph, because he was blaming everything wrong with America on President Obama and the Democrats, present and past, and I felt there was plenty of blame to lay on the Republicans and their past presidents, too. It didn’t look to me that Walt was getting much reader interaction, yet, with his new Faceook page, here’s his most recent post there:
If you missed the interview of Marco Rubio by Chris Wallace earlier today, you missed a lot. Rubio is the face of America’s tomorrow.
Here’s the interview. http://www.bing.com/videos/search…
So I provided Walt with a little company:
Walt, the Coconut Telegraph seems to have gone down again, nothing new there since Wednesday, May 13. Do you know anything about that? On the politics front, do you honestly, in your heart of hearts, actually believe the Republican have not messed up America just as bad as the Democrats? Looks to me they both carry the blame and need to be pointing as many fingers at themselves and their leaders, as they point away from themselves and their leaders. LOL (laugh out loud, lots of luck – you pick
— feeling excited.
Below, Facebook mischief started yesterday by one of my vicious van dweller criminal snowbird friends:
Anchor Steam and a group of seriously unbalanced people. Doesn’t get much better than this.
scene from “To Kill a Mockingbird”,
white south Alabama lawyer
defends black man
raping white woman
who made it all up,
the white jury knew it,
convicted black man,
who then hung himself
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Jerry Weinstock, M.D., Psychiarty, replied to yesterday’s life is poetry, poetry is life – Amtrak, Israel and America, art school in India, Kali, Jesus, mockingbird song post at goodomorningkeywest.com:
Sloan; Mocking birds are not at all benevolent; they are highly aggressive birds –I have seen them thrash a mangrove snake to death and sink their beak into my just ripe tomatoes and ruin months of work and lovely anticipation… they are NOT what most might think— there is a lesson and a metaphor here
appearance as well as popular widely held beliefs can be wrong –perhaps Harper Lee missed the mark, concerning her assessment of Mocking birds —-signing off —–fishing tomorrow and Monday…Jerry
Jerry, this is bizarre, coming from a scientist, evolutionist, and lover and defender of Mother Nature who designed mockingbirds to be just what they are, perfect in every way as far as She is concerned. Harper Lee knew exactly what she was doing, and the KKK and their regressive redneck allies, the American Nazis, hated her for it. However, there might be another reason I should set that poem aside, the mockingbird isn’t concerned about money, and I’m leaning hard on my father’s lawyer and his widow and his former business associates about that, in Birmingham, re an advance of 1/2 of my second inheritance. I knew when the Mockingbird poem came through me, the mockingbird was Jesus, and, boy, was he hated when he was turning the Jewish status quo upside down when he was in Palestine. He’s still hated today by most of the people who claim he saved them. He told them they could not worship mammon and God, they had to chose one, or the other. I suppose all but a view of them have chosen mammon, and they have a great deal of company in other religions, including Judaism and Islam, all three of which have the same common father, Abraham, who, according to all three religions’ scriptures, walked and talked with God, and they revere him for it, although if he were here today and took his son Isaac up on a mountain to kill him, as per God’s orders, he would be locked up and the key thrown away, I suppose, had not the angel stayed his hand, because it was a test to see if Abraham was truly obedient to God, and he passed the test, something none of the three religions he sired came anywhere close to doing. America would do very well to pull out of the Islam part of the world altogether, in every way, and leave Judaism and Islam to work it out, or fight it out, and in that way learn what God’s chosen people really means, of which right now they have no clue, and apparently never had a clue. It means, they will be tested by God, and tested, and tested until they are worthy and are examples for the rest of the world, which, so far, they have utterly failed to become. As has Christendom utterly failed in that regard. As has America, which claims it is one nation, under God. It’s time America attended to that, instead of furthering the work of the Devil overseas, and also at home. I mean the Devil literally. Just as I mean God literally. It’s time America, Christendom, Judaism, Israel, Islam and all of its countries get to know God and the Devil up close and personal, in themselves. That Armageddon will not be to their liking, any more than you like mockingbirds, who are perfect in every way, including singing other birds’ songs better than they sing their own.
Letter to the editor in today’s Key West Citizen:
homeless vet at Memorial Day service in Key West Cemetery
Sunday, May 17, 2015
Memorial Day: “Remember our Fallen Heroes”
Do you have any idea what GIs are willing to give up for our Fallen Heroes?
At the tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Arlington, Virginia guards must commit to two years of duty and live in a barracks under the tomb. They cannot drink any alcohol on or off duty for the rest of their lives. They cannot swear in public, and much more.
I wonder how many of them honor those two pledges: no drinking, no swearing, ever? I wonder if Ed believes they honor those two pledges?
In 2003 during Hurricane Isabel the guards were given permission to suspend the assignment. “No way, sir! It is the highest honor that can be. Since 1930 it’s been 24/7.
For most of us it is a three-day weekend. Wow, let’s get off the rock!
There is something you can do. Saint Mary Star of the Sea has a 7:30 a.m. mass in the cemetery to commerate those whose gave their all. The Navy has a special service at the cemetery at 9:00 am. Let’s not forget our Fallen Heroes.
How about, Ed, we stop sending our troops into stupid ruinous rich white Christian American men’s wars for profit, to die, be maimed and post traumatic stressed for the Devil. And, since you dragged Jesus into this via Mary Star of the Sea Catholic church, how about Americans who claim Jesus saved them, start protesting against this so-called nation, under God, trampling Jesus’ teachings, thus Jesus, to forego and eye for and eye and a tooth for a tooth, to resist not one who does evil, to turn the other cheek, to first take the beam out of their own eye, and to do good to and pray for those who persecute them (and America). Just kidding, I know that’s not ever going to happen. It’s so much easier to be a Christian, than it is to follow Jesus of Nazareth, a Jew, in the Gospels. But then, in the Gospels, he said, steep is the way and narrow the gate and few enter therein, many are called but few are chosen, and the work is great and the laborers are few.
Do you have any idea, Ed, how much awful karma America racks up, sending its troops into stupid ruinous rich white Christian American men’s wars for profit, to die, be maimed and post traumatic stressed for the Devil, and to kill, maim and post traumatic stress the invaded nation’s troops and civilians? I kinda doubt you ever even gave that a moment’s thought.
firstname.lastname@example.org, one nation, under God, candidate for US President, 2016
Perhaps anticipating, Sancho forwarded this comic relief just as I was about to send this post out to my email hit list:
For decades, Robert Frost was Key West’s Poet Laureate.
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Yesterday morniing, a friend came into Sippin’ Internet Cafe on Eaton Street in Key West, just westerly of Duval Street, and asked how I was doing? I chuckled, said, my campaign for US President is going great. I only had one question asked of me so far :-). He said he then had a question for me.
What would I do about Amtrak, the US Government’s passenger train system? It loses money terribly. It’s run by inefficient bureaucrats, who probably are stealing Amtrak money, and hamstrung further by the union. Its service is poor, its cars are old and not well maintained. My friend said, compare that to the Canadian version of Amtrak. A great passenger rail service, well maintained, but it costs more to ride, about par with air travel.
What’s my solution?
Hmmm. I say, offer Amtrak to the Canadians, to run as if it is their passenger train service. They call all the shots, remit a fee to the US Government. He asks, would the Canadians go for that? I say, I don’t know, but that’s the only solution I see; based on what he told me, it won’t be fixed by Amtrak or the US Government.
Shifting to the holy lands,
Jerry Weinstock, M.D., Psychiatry, replied to my view that America should disassociate from Israel part of yesterday’s Jesus was a radical and related truth and consequences, America, Islam, Israel – reported at goodmorningkeywest.com, by Sloan Bashinsky, candidate for US President, 2016Jesus was a radical and related truth and consequences, America, Islam, Israel – reported at goodmorningkeywest.com, by Sloan Bashinsky, candidate for US President, 2016 post at goodmorningkeywest.com:
SLOAN___We get innovative medical . military innovative advances
from Israel not to mention electronic dramatic improvements ;
(when we were working on a double layered recording disc –Israel had perfected 200 layers)
medical research is way ahead of us….
The brains are there –we cannot afford to cut ties… Seriously–Jerry
Their [certain described military hardware, redacted] far superior to ours—–My best friend’s sister married to a “very” high official there.—
why is this classified? If you know it, does that mean you will be prosecuted?
whatever fringe benefits Israel has for America do not obviate the enormous threat America creates by being involved with Israel
so you say
Jerry later wrote:
SLOAN: Israel is the only other democracy in that region of the world.
whether it is rational or not –we have become intertwined in their fate heavily and deeply and have made commitments. We break those and other countries will take that as a warning not to trust the USA——-it is a relationship of enormous complexity.
we don’t know a fraction of it is my understanding. have a good sleep.-=—-Jerry.
I replied to his “so you say”:
So I say? Look at history. Look at the grief America has experienced because it backed Israel against Islam. Look at the threat Islam now poses to America, internationally and in America.
If I were put to saying what good Israel does for America, I would say Mossad is much better than CIA and what Mossad chooses to share with CIA, US President, is viewed as very vaulable by CIA and US President. But Mossad only shares what it chooses to share.
You did not answer my quesiton about this being classified information. If you know it, how is it classified?
SLOAN__it has been classified –Yes —(-we have received pieces from
archeological treasures also)
highly –illegal –but we are all rascals….Right —Jerry
it is who you know –my mother said.
I replied to Jerry’s “Israel is a democracy” argument:
Agreed, America has become entwined in Israel’s fate, and that is rooted in religious views in America, and the Christian Bible saying Israel is God’s chosen people, and the political pressure arising from that in America. That’s what drives it, not Israel being a “democracy”. America is not a democracy. Not even close. In a democracy, every person gets one vote, and the majority of votes rules. In a democracy, I could announce my candidacy for US President, and on election day any qualified American voter could vote for me, and if I got the most votes, I would be President. On the other side of that religious equation is a religion, Islam, whose members outnumber America’s population about 3-1, and whose bible tells them they are God’s chosen people. That’s what the fracas between Islam and Israel really is about, as you know that. In the materials I sent to you two days ago, it is seen that the British understood the religious tension in Palestine and did not want to exacerbate by recognizing the state Israel. Also seen in that material I sent to you was the British concern for the oil over there remaining available to Britain. Truman knew all of that, he knew the arguments against recognizing the state Israel, and he did it anyway. And later US Presidents backed him all the way, and here we are, with a big, dangerous mess, rooted in the Christian bible. That’s what Israel has to thank for it being a state. The Christian bible. That’s what Israel has to thank for continued US help. The Christian bible. Doesn’t the 1st Amedment prohibit Congress establishing a religion? Why hasn’t the ACLU jumped on that?
SLOAN__Religion = the root of most problems —-but your material was
quite thorough and well thought out as far as explanatory presentation–
But–it is also TRUE Israel is Ahead of everyone in certain technological
advances —important that we have those –medical progress in that
country very progressive and some areas the cutting edge …
Israel will remain like a state within our protective arms —and that seems to
be the status–! just swam and guests–former fishing buddy from over 50 years ago and his wife taught with Donna in Gainesville in the early 60’s for $4500/ annually and we did fine.—they are to arrive hourly and we will fish Sunday and Monday so probably won’t be able to communicate much .. ( hang in —-Good luck– SLOAN———Jerry )
Somewhat in that regard, amiga Christine Russell replied to yesterday’s post at goodmorningkeywest.com:
Hi Sloan –
The world is such a sad place these days.
I could not agree with you more when you say the US should get out of the politics of Israel and the Middle east.
But I would go one step further, I wish the US would mind its own business and take care of it’s own people and children before it continues trying to “save the world”. I think we might both agree there was/is always an ulterior motive or more selfish intent, in most of the US invasions or ‘partnerships’ with foreign countries or some of their criminal leaders. Only over the past several years have I learned the invasion of Panama by the US was nothing like what I had been told by the media or US government, and the stories of the Panamanians who experienced the invasion – far different story that most of us know. I no longer listen to the mainstream media – fired our television company 7 or 8 years ago and now rely on PBS, though I am not sure we can ever get the pure, unfiltered truth with the news storytelling .
But to your discussion on the Palestinian – Israel conflict. Here is a different point of view.
Maybe the children are the future and hope for settling the conflict – the adults aren’t doing so well.
Perhaps the children are our future; perhaps we (adults) should resign, lock ourselves up some place safe :-).
Meanwhile, Christine also sent:
Sloan – might this be of any help to you?
And about your comment that the angels may relocate you out of the keys – would be the best thing for you!
I hope the angles have that talk with you
Monroe County Administrator’s Office
1100 Simonton Street, Suite 2-205
Key West, FL 33040
For Immediate Release
May 15, 2015
Financial Assistance is Available for Housing Costs:
Monroe County Social Services has immediate grant funding available to assist with past due rents, security and utility deposits, and overdue mortgages for
qualified households. For more information, or to see if you qualify, please
contact your local Social Services office for more information. Offices are located in Key West (305) 292-4408, Marathon (305) 298-6016, and Plantation Key (305) 852-7125. Assistance is only available while funding lasts.
email@example.com for additional information.
I replied to Christine:
I wonder if they provide grant funding for organized and disorganized non-violent (physically non-violent) civilian counterterrorism against local policiticans and government bureaucrats?
Traveling to India, which always reminds me of being told in my sleep, in the fall of 2002, “Sloan, you married Kali!”, which caused me to wake up, in shock = terror; not even Shiva messes with Kali, the Hindu Goddess of death and transformation.
Yesterday evening, I watched this video at Key West the Newspaper (www.thebluepaper.com).
by Naja and Arnaud Girard……………………………………………………………………….
We got lot’s of calls from readers last week who were eager to see the rest of our story about Key West High senior Clementine Girard’s search for an art college in India.
[For those of you who saw Part I last week – this is the full length version. You can pick up where you left off at about the 7 minute mark…]
To view some of Clementine’s artwork click here.
After Arnaud, Naja and Clementine returned from India to Key West, I visited them in their home. Naja and Arnaud said they were enthusiastic about Clementine studying art in India, Clementine said she was not as enthusiastic. That is not seen in the video, in which Clementine seems to love India, attend art school there.
That day with the Arnaud, Naja and Clementine, in their home, I said going to India could be a great thing for Clementine, to study art. But why not go to France instead, where Clementine’s older brother is studying? Arnaud is French. Naja’s has French ancestors, she is fluent in French. Their children speak French. Arnaud groused, he did not want his daughter around Frenchmen.
I said, if Clementine ends up in India, I hope it is some place safe. Not in the far north, near Afghanistan and Pakistan, not in Kashmir, where there has been serious fighting.
I think I said, if Clementine goes to school in India, she should stay away from ashrams and gurus; I’d had lots of dealing with people who did that, and every one of them ended up messed up, possesed by something, which was not doing them any good.
I may have mentioned being careful what Clementine eats and drinks. It’s very easy in India to get really sick from food and water. I’ve heard stories from Americans who went over there and contracted intestinal parasites and had a dickens of a time getting over it. My internist in Alabama and his wife loved traveling to India, to trek around, but finally they contracted a parasite American medicine could not get rid of, and it killed them both eventually.
I was in Mumbai, India, for a few days in 2000, traveling with a woman who had excellent spirit vision and hearing. She told me, all she could see in the air were serpents. I said, not the nice serpents on the Saturday morning cartoons? No, not those serpents, she said.
The massive poverty was beyond American comprehension, on the highway into Mumbai from the airport. Far worse than the poverty we only recently had seen in the shanty towns outside the large cities in South Africa.
Make of this what you wish. After I fishished watching the Girards’ India video, I started getting pop up chats from Comcast technicians, saying they came because I needed their help, and I kept trying to pin them down and they went off line. Then, I got a pop up saying I needed to call a certain phone number to get help with my computer, which was compromised with a virus. Then, my computer locked up and was unusable.
So, I called the number, and got someone in India, who said no, they were not the virus, they were MicroSoft approved technician help company; the phone number I was given was not their phone number but was a central clearning house number, which selected MicroSoft-approved computer technican companies, randomly, it sounded like, to help people having this sort of trouble. They said the Comcast technician pop ups were the virus. They could fix that and my computer, and it would be like brand new. And, they would remain on guard for a year, protecting my computer and providing free help, $249.99, for the next year.
I’d worked before with computer technicians in India and the Phillipines, no problems. I was shut down. I could have gone to my Samsung backup laptop, which has a dead battery and only works plugged into an electrical outlet. I love my Hewlett Packard Notebook, it’s the best laptop I ever had, been using it about 5 years. So, I bought the protection, gave them access online into my laptop, and watched on my monitor screen a technician in India work for about 3 hours, before he called me and we talked a while, and he fiddled some more, and we talked a little more, and then he came out of my computer, and we talked a little more, said goodbye.
So far, the Hewlett-Packard seems to be working, except every time I try to copy something and then paste it into a document when I’m using Internet Explorer’s editing menu, I lose connection with the Internet, which is why I did not publish this morning. I discovered this afternoon, that holding down ctl and v seems to paste okay. There are other things not up to snuff, and I’ll call the tech company on Monday, when they are open for business again.
Now just naturally, I say the odds are 100 percent all of that was triggered by my watching the blue paper’s India video and my concern for Clementine applying for admission to the India art school because that’s what her mom and dad want her to do, and not because that’s what she really wants to do. I went back and forth yeasterday about going by the Girards home for a chat, or making a comment under the video, but I held off, because I had not yet seen the video, and I felt I needed to do that first. So I watched the video, and you know what then happened.
I hope there is not a virus in the India video. I had to download a new video-watching program to watch the video. Maybe the virus was in the new program I downloaded.
I told my gracious host Todd German about all of that, because it’s his Comcast Internet connection I am using in his home.
I also told him, underneath it all, something in the spirit did not want me getting involved in Clementine going to India to study art.
Todd’s computer is working just fine. He’s not getting pop up warnings from Comcast technicians.
In respect of perhaps another cosmic influence, my Hewlett-Packard was behaving poorly for some time, it needed technical assistance technical retard I could not provide, so perhaps it all worked out for the best for my laptop, my websites, and people reading same.
If Clementine is accepted into the India art school, and attends, I hope she has a great experience. I am totally in agreement with Arnaud and Naja about providing American children with beyond America education and experiences. American children who study abroad, get their eyes, ears, mind, emotions and palates opened in ways they would not experience staying in the States.
Americans who travel abroad and mingle, eat and lodge with “the natives”, instead of staying in American-like hotels and doing tourist things and eating American-like food, get their eyes, ears, mind, emotions and palate opened in ways they would not experience on “the American plan”. Personally, I cannot imagine why any American, who travels overseas, would want to do it on “the American plan”. That can be done in America.
I myself traveled overseas a good bit. Overseas, America is not seen by “the natives” the way Americans see America. Nor is America seen by the angels in the way Americans see America. One nation, under God, means to the angels, that God is running things, and people are doing God’s will.
Jesus, in Gethsemane
I happened upon a mockingbird
singing its fool head off –
I asked it how and why it sang?
But all it did was look ahead,
all it did was sing.
It never turned to see if I was watching,
or listened for money jingling in my pockets,
or asked if I liked its music,
or expected a recording contract –
It was too busy singing
to pay any attention to me.
Thus did I learn
the greatest sin of all
is to kill a mockingbird.
Mockingbirds abound in my hometown, Birmingham, Alabama, and in Key West
scene from “To Kill a Mockingbird”
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Perhaps prompted by my favorable references to Jesus in yesterday’s One nation, under God – boast, or prayer for it to happen? And related be careful what you ask for parts of Sloan Bashinsky’s figleafless freaking fool campaign platform for President of the United States of America, reported at goodmorningkeywest.com post at goodmorningkeywest.com, Key West amiga Erika Biddle, a German transplant, dropped this jewel into my Facebook account yesterday:
spreading the Truth a bit today! XOE
Syndicated article in today’s Key West Citizen (keysnews.com):
Jeb Bush says he wouldn’t have invaded Iraq
THE ASSOCIATED PRESS
TEMPE, Ariz. — After days of refusing to say whether, with the benefit of hindsight, he would have ordered the invasion of Iraq in 2003, Jeb Bush relented Thursday and said he would not have invaded.
“If we’re all supposed to answer hypothetical questions, knowing what we know now, what would you have done?” Bush said with a twinge of annoyance while campaigning in Arizona. “I would have not engaged. I would not have gone into Iraq.”
It was an answer the former Florida governor and likely Republican candidate for president had refused to give in several public appearances this week, even as most of his GOP rivals did so and criticized him for sidestepping the question.
Bush said Thursday his resistance was caused both by loyalty to his older brother, George W. Bush, who ordered the invasion as president, and to the families of those lost in the decade-long war.
“I don’t go out of my way to disagree with my brother,” Bush told a group of reporters when asked about the shift. “I am loyal to him.”
That loyalty could cast a shadow over Bush’s all-butcertain presidential bid, where his family name is both his strongest political asset and liability. He would become the third member of his family to serve as president should he follow his father and brother to the White House.
How about Jeb’s loyalty to his country? As US President, loyalty to country trumps everything, doesn’t it? Well, Jeb also didn’t mention loyalty to God, which does trump everything, according to “one nation, under God”, in the US Pledge of Allegiance.
What a crock of Bush shit. All those dead, maimed, crippled and post traumatic stressed American Iraq vets, and their equally traumatized families. Probably minuscule, compared to the killed, maimed, crippled and post traumatic stressed Iraqi troops and civilians, and their equally traumatized families.
A war fabricated by George W. Bush, and his goons, for Iraq’s oil, and to get even with Saddam Hussein for trying to kill George’s father, the first President Bush, who had tried to kill Saddam, yes? Before that, Saddam and that Bush were buddies. Saddam and his troops were US allies against Iran and the Soviets. Saddam had no beef with the US. He asked the US Ambassador if America would have a problem with Iraq taking Kuwait?, and the Ambassador indicated there would be no problem. So, Saddam invaded Kuwait, and then felt he had been set up by his old friend, the first President Bush, former Director of the CIA.
About the same for G.W. Bush’s second war, in Afghanistan. But that was about the US and war contractor Halliburton, Vice President Dick Cheney’s company, gaining, via a gas pipe line (which didn’t happen, yet) through Afghanistan into the natural gas fields in the old southern Soviet Republics.
Splendid contrasts between a Christian President, G.W. Bush, and Jesus. Splendid.
Well, back to Jeb Bush.
Excerpt from a syndicated column in today’s Citizen:
Jeb Bush struggles to recover from a truly awful week
BY GAIL COLLINS
New York Times Columnist
Let’s discuss Jeb Bush’s terrible week. I’m really troubled by his awful performances, and I’m generally a person who takes bad news about politicians pretty well. For instance, a friend just sent me a story about the Texas agriculture commissioner’s vow to bring deep-fried foods back to school cafeterias. (”It’s not about French fries; it’s about freedom.”) I would classify this as interesting yet somehow not a shocking surprise.
But today we’re talking about Jeb Bush.
As a presidential hopeful, Bush’s most attractive feature was an aura of competence. Extremely boring competence, perhaps. Still, an apparent ability to get through the day without demonstrating truly scary ineptitude.
Then, about a week ago, The Washington Post reported that during a private meeting with rich Manhattan financiers, Bush announced that his most influential adviser on Middle Eastern matters was his brother George.
This was a surprise on many fronts. For one thing, Jeb had apparently missed the memo on how everything you say to potential donors at private meetings can wind up on an endless YouTube loop for all eternity.
Also, he had begun his all-but-announced campaign for the presidency with an “I’m my own man” sales pitch. Now he was saying, in effect, “Well, I can always ask my brother.”
Then, on Monday, Fox News aired an interview in which host Megyn Kelly asked Jeb whether “knowing what we know now” he would have authorized the invasion of Iraq. “I would have, and so would have Hillary Clinton, just to remind everybody,” Bush replied.
Now no one, including Hillary Clinton’s worst enemy in the entire world, thinks that if she could go back in time to 2002, knowing that the invasion of Iraq was going to be a total disaster and that she would lose the presidential nomination in 2008 to a guy who ran on that very issue, she would still have voted to authorize the use of force. So, obviously, Bush misheard the question, right?
Apparently not. He then went on: “I mean, so just for the news flash to the world if they’re trying to find places where there’s big space between me and my brother, this might not be one of those.”
We had now learned that: 1) Jeb Bush still thinks invading Iraq was a good idea; and 2) he has inherited more of the family syntax issues than we knew.
Fast-forward one day: “I interpreted the question wrong, I guess,” Bush told Sean Hannity in a radio interview. “I was talking about given what people knew then, would you have done it, rather than knowing what we know now. And knowing what we know now, you know, clearly there were mistakes.”
He still didn’t claim that he’d have done anything different than his brother had done. (”That’s a hypothetical.”) But he was really nailing down that business about mistakes.
In the same general area of US President, Jerry Weinstock, M.D., Psychiatry, replied to the Israel part of yesterday’s One nation, under God – boast, or prayer for it to happen? And related be careful what you ask for parts of Sloan Bashinsky’s figleafless freaking fool campaign platform for President of the United States of America, reported at goodmorningkeywest.com post at goodmorningkeywest.com:
the Zionist ‘s legally paid for their land —according to historical sources.–many –Jerry
I Googled, then sent to Jerry:
Jewish land purchase in Palestine
A summary of land legislation enacted during the Civil Administration shows the efforts made to fulfill the Mandatory obligation in this matter. The Commission point to serious difficulties in connection with the legislation proposed by the Palestine Government for the protection of small owners. The Palestine Order in Council and, if necessary, the Mandate should be amended to permit of legislation empowering the High Commissioner to prohibit the transfer of land in any stated area to Jews, so that the obligation to safeguard the right and position of the Arabs may be carried out. Until survey and settlement are complete, the Commission would welcome the prohibition of the sale of isolated and comparatively small plots of land to Jews.[…]Up till now the Arab cultivator has benefited on the whole both from the work of the British Administration and the presence of Jews in the country, but the greatest care must now be exercised to see that in the event of further sales of land by Arabs to Jews the rights of any Arab tenants or cultivators are preserved. Thus, alienation of land should only be allowed where it is possible to replace extensive by intensive cultivation. In the hill districts there can be no expectation of finding accommodation for any large increase in the rural population. At present, and for many years to come, the Mandatory Power should not attempt to facilitate the close settlement of the Jews in the hill districts generally.The shortage of land is due less to purchase by Jews than to the increase in the Arab population. The Arab claims that the Jews have obtained too large a proportion of good land cannot be maintained. Much of the land now carrying orange groves was sand dunes or swamps and uncultivated when it was bought.
Legislation vesting surface water in the High Commissioner is essential. An increase in staff and equipment for exploratory investigations with a view to increasing irrigation is recommended.—Report of the Palestine Royal Commission – July 1937
Thanks very informative and thorough.
After being egged on in dreams, I wrote to Jerry this morning:
As I had thought, the US was behind the creation of the state Israel. I recall reading somewhere, years ago, the US didn’t want the post-World War II Jewish refugees settling in the US, nor did the British want them settling in Great Britain, and that was behind the creation of the state Israel after WW II.
I know Truman was capable of being devious. Several years ago, some American national magazine, I think maybe it was Life, trying to be resurrected, published an excerpt from Truman’s handwritten diary, in which he wrote: he dropped the A-bombs on Japan to intimidate the Russians, the Japanese already were trying to surrender.
Truman’s predecessor, Roosevelt, was devious. He knew the Japanese were heading to attack Pearl Harbor and he deliberately did not warn the the Pacific Fleet, because he wanted the attack to occur, so American sentiment would turn toward America entering WW II against Germany and Japan, which were allies, with Italy, as I recall – The Axis Powers?
Harry Truman made a grave mistake when he recognized Israel in 1948. Now, whether America admits it, or ever admits it, America is at war with Islam, which sincerely views America as The Great Satan. Islam views itself as the one true religion, and all who do not join them are infidels, to be treated accordingly. Make no mistake, Saudi Arabia, for example, is covertly backing the Islamic jihadists against America, and is funding the jihadists with money America pays for Saudi oil. It’s going to be a really, long, very bad time ahead for America, and for the world, against Islam. And it’s going to be a lot worse for America, if it keeps helping Israel.
America’s next President needs to cut America’s tie with Israel and withdraw all US military personnel and civilian contractors, and spies, and embassies, from all Islam countries – ALL. America is way past needing to take a really hard look in the mirror, and then get to work on that jihad, which is the true jihad – the inside war, with self; a war that might take America decades to wage, before any good comes from it outwardly; and even then it may be too late for America, as you and I know it.
I see one candidate for US President who comprehends what America needs to do. Me. The other candidates are clueless. As is President Obama. If he had taken the Nobel Peace Prize to heart, he quickly would have ended the Iraq and Afghanistan wars, and cut off Israel, and gotten the US out of the Middle East. Too bad he didn’t live up to his 2008 campaign mantra: hope, change. And his promises to end those two Bush wars. Too bad.
And too bad President Obama didn’t stick with his longtime friend, Christian minister and adviser Jeremiah Wright, who sees America good enough.
In 1998, a very dear friend of mine, who was Jewish and being turned every which a way but loose by the angels (Jesus, Michael and Magdalene Melchizedek), told me they told him the Holocaust and the Diaspora were karma for the Palestine Jews in Jesus’ time rejecting his teachings, which I summarized in yesterday’s post at goodmorningkeywest.com, to which you responded that the Zionists had purchased the Palestine land.
Not entirely aside, after I pedaled my bicycle from Sippin’ Internet Cafe on Duval Street to the county jail on stock island yesterday, about 5 miles, into the wind, to visit my lady Kari, Thursday is the only week day the visitation hours work for me to see her, I was told by a deputy that the elevator in the jail was broken and visitation was canceled for the day. Pedaling my bicycle back toward Duval Street, I understood it was a demonic attack for what I was posting at goodmorningkeywest.com, and I was the cause of jail inmates and their relatives and friends not getting to visit yesterday, and I did not like knowing that.
About that time, Kari called me from the jail, to let me know what was going on about no visitation, and I told her why it had happened and I felt terrible about it. When she called me last night, she said some inmates’ visitors had driven all the way down from the mainland, and I said I felt even worse. She did not say I was nuts. It was a demonic attack. I have seen it many times because of stuff I am doing. Many times.
It won’t surprise me if the angels geographically relocate me away from the Florida Keys. If I leave, who will do the spiritual warfare, the heavy lifting, I have been doing here since the angels brought me here in late 2000? Who will take on the demonic entities I engage though their human proxies, who, for the most part, are totally unaware of what has them in its grip? Maybe no one will take my place here. The people who were selected by the angels to do that thankless work here, went at it half-hearted, or turned away. The allures of this world, money, being liked, familiar routines, convenience, narcotics, were too important to them and the rigor of the spiritual warfare was more than they wanted as steady diet.
moi and my running mate Kari