Andrew Letter 45 -- Still dreaming, still ranting in the early 90's

 

When Arnold Buckwitz stepped into McHenry's Diner, the waitresses would put their hard earned quarters in the jukebox (quarters they likely never would receive from Grandpa) to play this song, "Sink the Bismark" by Johnny Horton. It was their revenge, a passive/aggressive, racist/ageist protest against him for being a grumpy old German, whose only crime was that he was a lousy tipper.

 

 

 

Hello!

 

Great to hear from you the other day. I got your letter and check (oh, thank you, thank you thank you!!). I am certain that I have done nothing in life to deserve such support.

Life is strange. I understand less today than yesterday. I am still a dreamer, but I am realizing that dreams are of no consequence in this world. A person must have goals. I will probably never write the 9th symphony or find a cure for cancer. Nonetheless, I still like to dream of faraway islands, jungles and beaches. Farm land, mountains and meadows are nice, too. I dream of (white man's concept coming up) owning (here it is) my own piece of land somewhere far from the Police and the Taxman. There aren't any New Frontiers opening up anywhere around here, though.

I don't mind working. It's just the selling off of a percentage of your life while doing something you hate so you can have "security" that I cannot conscience. And what for? So I can wind up like Grandpa? Or William O. Helton? Although of the two of them, I think Bill had his head a little closer to his heart. The things he enjoyed, he enjoyed. He liked to drink, and he liked to fish. In fact, he drank like a fish. Alcohol didn't kill Bill, a truck did. Although, if the truck didn't get him, the alcohol would have caught up with him.

I just can't figure. The things that people love are their undoing. Grandpa smokes like there's no tomorrow, but as much as he likes to smoke, and as much money as he has, he still smokes those cheap, cherry-fallin-out-all-the-time, foul-smelling cigarettes.

Well, who can judge? For a person who is always on a soapbox, I have little to offer. I can't even keep myself out of trouble, it seems. Growing pot in the window would have to be one of my more flagrant abuses, although I can't imagine who was hurt by my crime. To me, going out of the house without a shower is by far a worse crime. There's that soapbox again.

Anyway, I really appreciated your not coming down on me too. I know that you know that I know that you don't approve of smoking pot. Anyway, I know you aren't condoning it. It's just one of those things in life which it doesn't pay to make a family-rending issue of. When I was a Christian (what a weird way to begin a sentence ... ) I was prepared to consign to hell -- for all eternity -- anyone whose interpretation of even one Scripture verse differed from mine. Bo knows intolerance. It is a tough thing to draw lines of what is acceptable and what is not in this age of ______ (you fill in the blank).

See now, I'm so non-judgemental that I don't even want to oversimplify or caricaturize a time period (let alone another human being). So, henceforth, no more Grandpa jokes. Well, maybe a few, but harmless ones. 

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Page Two, nearly one week later ...

I am developing an irrational (or should I say irritational) aversion to Grandpa. I used to say "live and let live" (you know I did, you know I did, you know I did). But in this ever changing world in which I be livin' in, I grow tired of bein' trampled under foot by the silent creeping of this deranged old German living out his last days in Fort Buckwitz.

I used to think his little habits and his lack of social graces were kind of cute. I envisioned running an ad campaign, with posters and video clips -- "Arnold for President." That was before he started using my life as entertainment. Nothing to do today, guess I'll see what's up in Andrew's room. No mail today, let's see what Andrew got. Andrew's not home from school yet, better go down to Steve's and sit around for 4 hours and ask "where's Andrew?" every five minutes.

I am drawing on all my reserves to just be civil, and I believe I am doing a good job. I had those five years of training in turning the other cheek.

Actually, I have considerably more freedom under this monarchy than I did under that psycho-cultic pseudo-theocracy (church-­thing) I was going to. There, I would be subject to the same search and seizure, and I used to have to report all my activities. If the pastor believed anyone was spending too much time doing any one thing (including taking their kid to the park to play ball for cryin' out loud) they would be castigated. Punishments ranged from open rebuke to complete shunning by the whole congregation.

Why draw the comparison? Why not? I got nothin' better to do on this Saturday morning at 8:28 than compare my life now (boring and oppressive) to my life then (boring and oppressive). But I am keeping a positive attitude (ha). I am positive that I made a big mistake giving up my autonomy for the promise of a future security blessed by the fruits of education.

This nice little town (L.A. is so bad) has more than its share of bigotry, good-­ol-boyism and out and out crime. Don't leave your bike unattended for more than five minutes, don’t walk down this particular street alone after dark. There's rape, murder and even pizza delivery beatings. Oh, and the rice farmers burn their fields, and it produces a thick brown layer of soot which frequently clouds the skies. Traffic around here is worse than L.A. for the reason that these streets were built to accommodate considerably less people.

The only thing I miss are the gangs (I never really saw any Crips or Bloods in Downey). Fortunately for me, there must be others who miss it too because there is graffiti sporting the names of all those wonderful urban organizations you thought you had to live in the big city to see. Gee, what a fun town.

Nice tirade, huh? Well, I dunno. I like hanging out with Steve and his friends, but the question is how long, Mr. Scott, how -- long? Steve already has enough friends without jobs and children (70 year olds). 

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So, Page Three, what do I want to do with the rest of my life, besides just be left alone? I mean, in the working-for­-a-living sense? Anything. I think I'd like to travel. You know, see the world. A traveling sales-hiker would be nice. Or a traveling music/movie critic (ha). At this point, I'm willing to work graveyard at a filling station.

I just want to have my own space. The final frontier. These are the voyages I mentally go through every night when I come home to old cigarette-smokin'-in-the-dark-TV-chair (you know who). Get me out of here. I'd rather have a turkey pot pie now, than a chance to own my own turkey in 5 years. Maybe I'm not being fair to the educational system. You and Paul both took out student loans, and look at you, just look at you, both now. You aren't still paying that loan off by any chance are you? I thought not.

See? It can work. I am pretty cynical, mainly because, in this town, you need a Masters Degree to work at Taco Bell. A forest ranger. That's it. I'll combat picnic basket thefts and report to Smokey the Bear on a daily basis.

Really now, I've been thinking of emigrating to Australia. I hear they have miles of land out there that a person could just get lost in. That'd be just great. Take a few friends, some utensils and set up shop in the Outback. I can do without television, taxes, Telly Savalas, Terminator Ten, toxic train-wrecked rivers and rigidly ruling reactionary Reagan rednecks.

I believe in freedom, I just don't think it's possible to achieve while there are other people around who don't: A. mind their own business and B. abide by the Golden Rule (sometimes refereed to as the Golding Rule - treat Andrew Golding the way you would want to be treated).

I stopped saying "Hi" to everybody I saw when I noticed a less than 50% response rate, which led me to the conclusion that a lot of people would rather be left in their own little world than have you invade it with a greeting. Pretty sad, huh?

I just got a call from Steve. It seems I can make myself useful today. He needs a ride to Paradise. So I’m going to take him. It's only about 10 miles, but due to the weather you can no longer ride a motorcycle to Paradise. Alas.

Well, see you later.

Ask me some pointed questions, and I'll try to answer them (instead of rambling on and on. Until I see you.

 

Love, Andrew.