Chester Case's Rule of Engagement & Clear Debating (As I recall them) 5th Period Study Hall, Spring 1960

I had already completed all the required stuff,

plus my college prep stuff and all the shop classes

I could ever dream of taking. It was a hot Spring day

in Study Hall, Las Lomas 1960.

Mrs. Haskell, my counselor had already said

that with a B+ average for 4 years work,

I didn't have the grades to enter Berkeley directly.

So who cares? I'd start at JC and later blow

Berkeley's doors clean off their hinges.

OK, so I never made Paladians in 4 years,

I was a second string honor student/smartass,

but I had a '32 Ford coupe, a '50 Ford

and the only '36 running LaSalle on the planet

in the school parking lot with reversed rims.

I'm trying to remember Chester Case's

Rules of Engagement and Clear Debating.

I think they went like this:

1. Don't be an asshole.
2. Select your peers wisely.
3. Don't get caught up in your peers' vortex.
If they're not your peers, whose are they?
If not your vortex, whose?
4. If visiting the enemy's camp, don't piss in the well
unless you've already filled your canteen.
5. Sometimes you may have to sleep with one eye open.
6. There will always be a Ralph Nader siphoning off
3-4% of the vote, learn to deal with it.
7. If two guys named Cheney and Bush

show up in the future, RUN.They are not your peers.

Nor do they have your best interests in mind.
But they have theirs.
8. Don't be an asshole, see #1 above.
9. If "...the vandals took the handles," keep on truckin'.
10. Rules? Make 'em up as you go. Civilizations have

done that for years, and we're still NOT that civilized,

despite the media that does NOT give you ALL the news.

11. Talk to your enemies sometime, you'll be surprised

what you may learn. Some guy named Bush won't,

but watch where he ends up and what little he accomplishes.
12. Remember what little you learned here and continue

to learn something of value. Discard the baloney

unless served on rye with light mustard. MGD is good too.
13-28. Good luck.

©Peter Bray 9/5/08 All rights reserved

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Hors d'oeuvres On The Road...

It never took the hunger away,

it was like something my dad would do,

to keep us at the edge of our seats,

always sharp and fresh, never lagging behind...

But you're right, some of it was depressing.

It's the story of a WSB (white suburban boy)

who greets his father at age three

in a VA surgical hospital in Utah.

The latter is a blown-up survivor of WWII.

He has no hands, a severed right optic nerve,

his jaw and neck are severely lacerated

where the grenade shrapnel tore into his flesh.

The boy rode there with his mother in a train

from the San Francisco Bay Area.

The three eventually go home to San Leandro

and then to Walnut Creek, California

where three more sons are added to the family

plus a dog named Duffy, and Puss-Puss, the cat

and fifty homing pigeons...

The father becomes Prosthetic Chief

for the VA in San Francisco,

and the Mom is the patient, steady, angelic glue

that holds the whole enchilada together.

Currently the story is 67 years old,

has 40 years of poetry in it, at least a dozen songs,

and 54 weekly/Friday columns from a small

waterfront town newspaper, The Benicia Herald...

Gonna be a helluva book. Parts of it

are hilarious, reflective, insightful,

even inspirational...AND, it ain't over

until it's all written down, at least most of it.

I'll send you last week's column entitled,

"In a Quince Corner," about growing up

in the former walnut orchards of Walnut Creek.

Watch your snail mail in a day or two.

Thanks for the early comments on my Blog,

and you were right, but it's just an hors d'oeuvre

for what's still coming down the road...

With cheers, Pedro (WSB).

©Peter Bray, 1/27/10 All rights reserved

CubicleVille...

He/she returned to CubicleVille...

His/her Unemployment, Cobra and trivial savings

had run out from the last crappy job...

He remembered the pull of the leather harnesses,

the scene looking forward, the chain of command

into the next mediocre canine orifice or office...

Remembered all the game boards and

how to look for the Alpha Dog, Beta Cat, and

the Zeta Zombie at the back of the room, each serving

their prescribed purpose(s)...remembered the

fishheads and mediocre salmon scraps

at the base camp by the frozen lake/

cafeteria/employee lounge, remembered not to stand out

too far from the crowd, too inviting,

a polite curtsy was OK, demeaning and humble,

self-sacrificing for the mortared-in Wednesday,

the mid-week heirarchy, but a deep bow at the waist,

that was obviously sarcastic and deadly,

not even funny. Besides everybody had cellphones,

Ipods, Blackberries, digital interfaces and

everybody could telecommute, not even show up,

no one had to be on the same page or even

in the same room...you could be replaced by

a robotic drone, GPS-ing over the hills of Afghanistan,

taken out by friendly fire or somebody at a monitor

in a Third World earning 2/3 of your base pay

with no fringe benefits, not that you had any either...

It was just another day at the swamp...

malaria meant a day off...not that you could afford it...

©Peter Bray 1/28/10 All rights reserved

300 Years Old...

He doesn’t look bad for 300 years old.

His skin is a mottled gray/tan, somewhat between

Tyrannosaurus Rex-gray and Pterodactyl Sky/blue-gray...

What used to be blond hair is still mostly there,

silver blond-gray, like dishwater in the summer sun

if the sun ever comes out again in the wet winter of 2010.

In three weeks he’ll get it cut again

down at Barbarella’s Three Coins and Eight Swords

in the Fountain Shop on East H Street.

He walks with a wobble and his left knee aches

when he’s been up and down on a ladder all day,

but he tries to avoid some of that except on rainy days

when work still beats hunger and all those unpaid bills.

©Peter Bray 1/28/10 All rights reserved

Devices and Birdsongs...

Left to his own devices,

he would go on publishing poetry

like the stranger at the ice station

firing rockets to the moon,

releasing mechanisms, lock and load projectiles,

sales of his last book no better than his first,

but now using the latest technology,

an icon bouncing at the bottom of the page,

opening up the latest application,

backlighted keys easy to see

in the dim light of a four o’clock morning...

The high-speed DSL cable rumbling like

a freight train outside the home/office walls,

carrying its cargo of digital chatter

somewhere out to interplanetary space,

somewhere out there where the Internet

occupies rooms for rent in the heavens.

The rings of Saturn must be

his neighbors or his peer group.

Funny how the birdsongs come and go

enhanced only by those that believe

in the magic of birdseed and birdsongs.

I suspect Emily Dickenson didn't have

this cool technology or these backlighted keys.

Think what she could have done!

©Peter Bray 1/28/10 All rights reserved

Good Drain News...

Nothing ventured,

nothing gained,

the good news is

the sump's been drained..

©Peter Bray 1/26/10

All rights reserved

Old Road...

I feel like an old road,
pockmarked like the moon.
When the moon was new,
I was too.
I'm a dark shadow
from the back of the room.
I have no center lane
or curbs or gutters.
What gets to my shoulders
usually stays there.
I am so old even
the mirages have left.
If you travel with me,
better bring a rope, shovel
and/or an anchor,
Nagasaki and Dresden
were smooth by comparison.
Don't look for a view,
everything is regret and gravel.
Even the rear view mirrors
have turned back in fear.
I'm told the end is up ahead,
but I try to eat well and avoid it.
Determination got me this far
and every day's still a challenge
and/or a laugh.
Every roadsign I see
is missing or full
of rusted bullet holes.
But stay tuned, the radio still works,
but who's listening?
All the good songs
are still in my head.
©Peter Bray, 10/21/09 All rights reserved