And, More George A…

Folks,


Another entry on our friend, George Anderson…


I remember him introducing himself to me when I first showed up at the big communal house, the Old Stone House, up near the border with Canada. He walked up to me. He says, "Hi, I'm the Hermit of Ellenburg, up by Bell Hill. You ain't from around here, are ya?"

He got that right. And, I'd never seen such a creature as George. Then again, where he had come from and traveled to was an altogether different planet than my "Leave it to Beaver" terrain. It was thus such a privilege to be the man's friend for the next decade and some.

Back in my real dangerous days, I'd sometimes wander into places that I had no place being. I'd walk into biker bars, completely unappreciative that George had my back. He was not a big guy, but I now realize that he did have the look in his eye of a man who knew how to spot danger and he knew how to kill if required. His fellows recognized this.

One time, I waltzed into a joint out in the hills of upstate New York. It was full of Hell's Angels. I was oblivious. My head was full of mind bending chemicals. The Angels were stone drunk and gacked to the nines on speed. When I made my entrance, the place fell silent, like in an old western movie. Every eye turned to me with menace. Then George came in behind me, and everything returned to the buzzy cadence of any Sunday afternoon where bad business goes on. In a moment, very scary people were buying me and George beers.

It was only the next morning that it occurred to me, that George had likely saved my hide, just by showing up.


S

A Little More on George Anderson

Folks,


I have spoken of old George before. The guy, about two decades after splitting this planet, still stomps the Terra and impresses me and others that he touched more than we could have apprehended in our younger years.

I really appreciate the opening that you've given me to remember and write about the guy. It's also meaningful that this is was the kind of day when he moved on… chilly, challenging in a physical way. Things seem dreadful to folks that just have to navigate to work or the supermarket. Nonsense.

When George was in 'Nam, I came up for the draft. I was lucky. That year, Nixon probably did the only favor he might have delivered to me. I pulled #13 in the lottery, pretty well first in line, but he stopped the taking of draftees. I never had to go to Canada or Norway, or wherever. I did know that I was not going to go kill people I never met.

George had enlisted, however. He wanted to prove something to his dad. On George's first tour, his dad died. Then, George re-upped… his mom died. George came home to find that his only brother had taken what little the family had for his own. George understood that he had nothing, no family, nobody that knew him, nothing but the mud under his boots.

So, he ran wild with the River Rats up by the Canadian border, and tore up the neighborhood. Eventually, figuring that he was not fit for civilization, he built a shack sheltered from the wind only on the side of Bell Hill. Else wise, you could see the sunlight poke thru the timbers. Out back, there was a pile of old, burnt out tim stoves. He'd go thru about one a month to keep him and his pups warm… sort'a warm.

Still, he made a bed available to anybody that wandered his way, and if that was not sufficient to the dire circumstance, they could hid out under his own. The pups were kept safe.

I cannot say enough in kindness to recommend the memory of George Anderson. He was a Man.


S

Folks,

I'm thinking of my old pal, George Anderson. He might have been the most beautiful man I have ever met, aside from my own dad. George came back from Vietnam, but died from that war twenty years later. His story is heroic in the very old, tragic sense, but also is an example of what a Human can do right with what is handed off by Destiny.

George was smarter, certainly kinder, than pretty much anybody you'll likely see on the street. He taught just by letting one watch him stride proud but without any righteousness. Nothing much scared him after he came back from that horrible war. He was a Man… a MAN. He made his living for a spell by killing people and getting shot at, standing next to a stranger that he relied upon to save his own hide, and seeing that fellow torn apart by bombs to die in pieces in his arms.

Yet, George came home to the country that put his butt in the grinder of war, he was looking for Love, and he had progressed to the point that he would not squash a spider on the wall. He would gently capture it, fold it up in a napkin, walk down three floors from his room, and release it onto the porch… perhaps to repeat the operation the next day with the very same critter.

He was a Buddhist without ever reading any of those old texts. He was a Christian without religion. He became a Shinto priest without ever knowing a damn thing about that ancient tradition. George was a Human. He was beautiful, and I miss him.

S

Serious Business…

Folks,

I remember the night of this Grateful Dead gig at RCMH. Couldn't be at the the show, as our own little band had an appointment on this Halloween, 1980. Yeah, well, work must be taken care of. Our little tribe had rent to pay.

Anyhow, this particular tune, "Jack Straw" is of great significance to me. No foolin' around. We do sometimes have to play for keeps. About half a decade before the performance that I've posted, this was the song (recorded on "Europe '72") that played in the background as I had to say so long to my best buddy. Bad craziness and mortal danger spilled into the small frame of my so-called real life. Choices were made. Somebody got to walk out alive. Another did not. These things do happen and now and again do get out of hand.


S

Folks,

Here we have Billy Klock on traps and Avansah Jeff Barns mastering percussion. The notorious Hooligan band rides the Vista Cruiser out into the deep space and the marrow of our dancing souls. Close your eyes and ride. This here is The Stuff. Human hearts beat together in this bit.

S

© Solomon

Folks,

A masterful rendition, if shaky video, of a fine and weird tune by the notorious Hooligan Band. Slow, mysterious, and deep. Hats off to writer and keyboardist Mateo, and his mates. "Main Street".

S

© Solomon

Folks,


This Elbaradei fellow may be the one to rescue Egypt and the rest of the Middle East from the madness now ongoing, and perhaps from the tyrannies, stupid wars, and unreasoned so-called diplomacy that has brought the entire world to this place in history.

This bureaucrat, a much maligned profession, and a diplomat, is going to put his skinny, old butt on the line today. He's heading down to the streets to talk some reason to the people and to the dictator of Egypt, to the Middle East, and to the wider world.

Here's something he cogently remarked a couple of years ago.

"Iraq is a glaring example of how, in many cases, the use of force exacerbates the problem rather than solving it."^[10]

So, here we go. There's fighting in the streets. Dangerous men with armies and atom bombs and poisons are supposedly in control, but have utterly lost their grip. People left their families at home today, to go rip the heads of off mummies in museums. How stupid is that? But, right about now, this old man strides onto the stage. Is he smart enough, is he tough enough to lay down reason with gentle fire?

How hard have we fallen that we are relying on this old man to save us from our own insanity?

S