Mis Amigos

And then I awoke.

The first thing I noticed was that Luis was not with me. My constant shadow and bodyguard was not around me and I was in a small, barren cell. A small opening near the ceiling provided air and I could see that it was daylight. My head pounding with a ferocious headache, I struggled to remember what happened; how did I get here? It was hot and I was thirsty, my thoughts tumbling as I tried to focus on my situation.

Luis and I had just left the hotel to pick up Alexandra, our plane waiting to fly us back to L.A. after our December meetings and rallies and my nice Christmas afternoon relaxing on the beach. We were stopped, as is routinely customary, on the road by the local police, inquiring as to who was in the luxury sedan. They rarely stopped the less expensive vehicles. Luis spoke to the large officer as he looked at our papers, leaning down to look into the back seat at me. He said hello in a stern fashion and spat a mouthful of Spanish questioning at me as he stared at me in the eyes, searching for some recognition. Luis started to answer for me, knowing that I could not possibly understand the speed of the officer's words. The officer told Luis to be quiet, not blinking as he continued staring at me then repeated his question.

I saw from the corner of my eye that the smaller of the two officers had moved to the passenger side of the car and was looking through the window at me. Luis, clearly more agitated than I had seen him opened the door and started out of the car, a verbal scuffle with the large officer just starting. The large officer grabbed Luis by the shirt and threw him down quickly. I heard Luis yell for me to run, but as I reached for the door handle, I heard the shot, felt a sharp pain in my arm, and turned to see the tranquilizer dart in my shoulder fired by the second officer. My Christmas 'vacation' ended fast as everything went black.

So there I was, on the other side of the blackout shot, in a cell somewhere. Through the door I heard voices muffled as I rubbed my shoulder, the sting of the dart giving way to a wicked bruise. I waited for a half hour or so as I tried to make out what the voices were saying, but I could not even hear them enough to tell if they were Spanish or English. My thirst was excruciating and I could not contain my silence and fear as I yelled at the door for water, for agua. The voices stopped and I heard footsteps and moved away from the door.

The cell door opened and in stepped an officer and a man in a business suit, both Mexican, the suit holding a bottle of water. "Buenas dias, el Mariachi, " the suit smiled at me as he tossed me the water. How did he know my joking mexicano name from "El Cabron"? I drank the whole bottle and tried to place him from my days back at my favorite Mexican cantina in Federal Way. He was not a regular there, I was sure. "Como se llama, mijo," I asked.

"I'm Jose, Frederico. I am very glad to finally meet you," he answered in very clear English. "But who I am is not important now. I know that you are 'The Political Landscaper", the pirate of Poverty Bay and the spokesman for "Nueva California" and that there are many people looking for you right now. It just so happens that I found you first."

My blood froze as he leaned back against the wall, the armed officer not moving from the doorway. How did he know all about me and, further, why was I his prisoner? "Am I under arrest, Jose?"

"No, my friend, not quite yet. You are my guest for the time being until I find out what you know that I need to know. You have caused a lot of trouble in your country and in mine and it is my job to make sure that you do not cause any more. When you have told me what I need to know, then I will decide on which authorities to turn you over to."

"It is no crime to write about corrupt state agencies and governments, and that is all that I have done," I offered. I needed to know why I was being held and the terms of my detention, though there seemed to be nothing for me to do about it.

"No, amigo, it is no crime, but some people do not like the things that you have written, and they have asked me to stop you from writing."

"Is it your government or mine that doesn't like my writing?"

"It is both. You see, you have chosen an unfortunate path by aligning yourself with a most unpopular group of Latinos while, at the same time, criticizing your own Washington State government. We have been monitoring your speeches here regarding "Nueva California" and, believe me, we are very familiar with "Los Hermanos" and, more importantly, the man you know as Matteo. At the same time, we have received much information about you through Washington State. I am sure that you know that your Governor Gregoire is very well connected with many Mexican officials. She has been very kind in assisting us in finding you as she is also not pleased with your seditious writings. So you have become a problem for both our government and hers and I am the one in the middle who has been sent to silence your revolutionary voice."

A year ago I was totally disenfranchised by the political process, a vagrant shouting at the wind, finding solace only with the very people who, by their undocumented presence, had helped to take my work away. But their collective dislike of all things governmental linked us as allies as the Department of Revenue ruined my business and pursued me into poverty laden piracy. Having nothing left to lose, I accepted the offer made to me by "Los Hermanos" to assist them in the creation of "Nueva California". If there is any moral to this story, it might be the classic, "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em."

Jose continued. "Now, I have the authority to release you immediately if you cooperate with my questioning. If you do not cooperate, then I also have the authority to turn you over to whichever government I decide to. The decision is largely up to you."

"What do you want to know from me? It seems that you have everything figured out."

"I want you to tell me all about Matteo, "Los Hermanos" and "Nueva California". I cannot allow the movement to succeed and you are crucial to that success."

I thought out loud, "I am an insignifigant part of "Nueva California". It started without me and it will continue without me. As for Matteo and "Los Hermanos", you know as much as I do."

Jose smiled as he moved towards the cell door. "It is sad for me to see such a smart man such as yourself make so many bad decisions. Perhaps you will make other decisions after you have spent some time here as my guest. Either way, amigo, you have ended your piracy here and you will be called to account for your actions. If you cooperate, the situation may not be as bad for you as it could be. I hope that you will reconsider and tell me about Matteo soon. You will be taken care of while you stay here, but you will not leave until I say so."

With that, he spoke to the officer in Spanish, motioning towards me dismissively. As the door swung closed I called to him.

"Jose!" He held the door and looked back. "Which government do you work for," I asked.

He smiled. "I do not work for any government, Frederico. I am a businessman, concerned only with profit and loss. Both governments work for me."

The door closed.

Poverty Bay Journal

"The state has a responsibility to care for the poor, infirm and most vulnerable of its citizens... It also must preserve the public peace, health and safety of the state...."

Victor Moore, Governor Gregoire's budget director, 12-17-08 (Victor earns almost $80,000 a year, so don't cry for him too much for having to be the bad guy. He's well paid for it.)


Yeah, we'll see how long that advice holds true. And just as the LGBT factions (who, in great part advocated for his election) have been thrown under Obama's bus of 'change' (Prop 8 / Rick Warren / etc..), so Chris Gregoire has thrown the Federation of State Workers under hers. Had it not been for them, the election might have been much different. And now they are to be denied their raises, negotiated before the financial crisis was so apparent. Not wishing to completely exhume the bones of the now-defunct (yet brilliant and noteworthy) thread of SNMQ, I will at least throw out my last barb regarding the recent elections; I told you so.

There is some poetic justice in that now my friends of SEIU 775NW are feeling a similar disenfranchisement at the hands of a career politician that moved me to call for Gregoire to not be reelected in the first place. She's not listening to me and now she's not listening to the Union either. Big surprise. True, Rossi would have had all SEIU members marched into the square and shot at sunrise, so the poor wretches should be glad that all they are losing is about $75 extra per month. I lost my entire life and livelihood.

And the year 2008 ends thus, an unceremonious goodbye waved to a rotten year as we all tighten our belts and brace for more "change" starting in January. Soon, the government will infect all levels of our lives. Transportation, food, housing, finance are just the beginning. To be eligible for all these 'bailouts', citizens will be required to jump through endless hoops of bureaucracy and scrutiny of their lives. Later on, when the switch from analog to digital signals on TV begins in February, the entertainment and information will then also be controlled by our ever ubiquitous and increasingly invasive government. It is then when books by George Orwell will not only be banned, they will also read as weak as a Disney after school mini-drama. But, again, I'm just being optimistic here.

So, what responsibility does The State have in regard to caring about "the poor, the infirm and the most vulnerable of its citizens"? Now that my income is effectively zero, will Mr. Moore's admonition to our Governor prevent The State's agents from further harassing me, further ruining my credit and jobworthiness or further making me feel like a piece of shit? Probably not. Victor Moore's letter to the Governor is probably a well-rehearsed part of the political theater, and not meant to be taken seriously. This just gives the newspapers and media something to focus upon; images of Gregoire furiously trying to save her state (what used to be 'our' state) from inevitable financial ruin.

I, myself, am looking forward to the jobs that are supposedly coming from both DC and from Olympia, infrastructure building and what-not, more help to prop up what is rapidly becoming a dying empire of Capitalism. For now, I am hunkered down with a large segment of the Latino community, learning how to act like a proper second-class citizen. A decent 25 dollar an hour job might draw me back into the mainstream of America, but I sincerely doubt that a government 'public works' job will pay enough for a human being to survive upon, much less 25 dollars an hour for leaning on a shovel.

So get ready for the badges, fingerprinting, retina-scans, RFID chips, and UPC tattoos that will surely accompany the next 'New World Order' and all that will be required of us good citizens in the name of nationalism and civic duty. We are at an important nexus of our democracy, and I am as curious as anyone as to how or if we will transcend the oppression and control that I fear we will all be subjected to before too much longer. It will make the SEIU's lawsuit of Gregoire over 47 cents per hour look positively silly. And I'll again get to say "I told you so".

Mis Amigos

"You haven't written in your little diary for awhile, Frederico," said the beautiful woman lying next to me. "I think it misses you."

It was Alexandra, my translator and administrative assistant who interrupted my current writing in my oversized notebook to comment on my lack of entries in my 'blog' which she jokingly refers to as my 'diary'. We were lying in the midday sun on a beach in Zihuatanejo, Mexico today, and I put my notebook and pen down to look over at her. We had not spoken for awhile, as I have learned that it is best if I let her begin any conversations; the ones that I begin usually meet with her fierce and stern disposition.

She was stretched out on a lounge chair next to mine, eyes closed as she spoke, her dark brown hair and skin glowing in the heat of an 80 degree afternoon. Trying my best to ignore her beauty, pedicured toes wiggling in the sand beneath the chair, I spoke, knowing that she knew, with eyes closed, that I was admiring her gorgeous form.

"Yeah, I was thinking that earlier myself," I said. "I was thinking that maybe I would toss off an entry later," reaching for my Corona on the table between us. "It's nice to have the day off on Christmas. It's been so busy this last month. I really should write something, though." Taking a swallow of beer, I looked out at the ocean, at the beautiful beach and stretched in my chair.

The time has flown since I met her earlier this year. The gravity of the situation at hand, with the pending unveiling of "Nueva California" and all, has taken over my life, and seeing her relaxed like this was something new. She who is usually ushering me here and there and organizing my papers and relaying messages from Matteo and Los Hermanos actually suggested the day off before we returned to Los Angeles, and I agreed emphatically. The movement is quickening now, and soon Alexandra will be back in her smart business suit and there will be no time for relaxing on the beach.

"Your friends must miss you. It is good for you to keep up with your diary so they know that you are still alive." Eyes still closed.

But that is so like her to say that, as if writing were not work but just something easily done to while away the hours. She has no idea. That is not her job; she is an administrator. I am the writer. And all I can think is, "Great, one more thing I have to do today". Truth is, most of my writing on "Nueva California" has been motivated by her presence. I wonder sometimes if Matteo and Los Hermanos intentionally supplied me with her knowing that she was, well, a great motivator. But she has that effect on everyone, and I am not the only man in the movement who notices her charms.

I thought of my friends and my former life and how I ended up here as I listened to the waves gently crashing onto the sandy shores, sea birds running for cover. It has been a long year, but I was glad at that moment that I was where I was, knowing how soon it would all be changed, the movement taking hold and the battle begun, so I tried my best to relax for another moment or two.

We were quiet for a while, then she abruptly stood up from her lounge chair and stretched, allowing me one last glimpse of her fine form before she pulled her skirt and blouse over her bikini, gathering her hair back into place and pulling her bag from the table.

"It's going to be a long day tomorrow," she said. "You should write in your diary after dinner and get some sleep. Our plane leaves at 7:30, so be ready to go by 7. I'll have Luis meet us with the car." She was already back to administrative form, the long Christmas afternoon on the beach already behind her as she turned and started back up the beach to the hacienda. Business as usual.

I smiled at the thought that perhaps she did want to spend more time, but knowing the resolve of this young woman towards the movement as I do, I decided not to ask any questions which might get me any more 'administrated' than I already am. I watched her walking away, the sand delighted in being crushed by her feet, I called to her. She half stopped and half turned towards me, still moving up the beach.

"Feliz Navidad, Alexandra," I said, the stupid smile still on my face.

She stopped fully and, uncharacteristically, smiled back, deep, brown eyes sparkling.

"Feliz Navidad, Frederico," she said with a quick wave. "Feliz Navidad".

Mis Amigos

My Latino friends, mis amigos, do not suck. They are hard working men and women who got played by a system which offered them survival for their menial labor. Their collective labors helped the Wall Street bastards rob us of both our money and, very soon, our democratic republic. And we let them, because we Americans are too lazy to mow lawns or clean toilets. They will laugh their way back to Mexico with half of our nation in tow and be granted seats in heaven for putting up with our collective stupidity.

A year ago, Glen Beck et al were screaming about their presence here, illegally, and now the entire population of 12 million souls have, again, disappeared. Who cares? We don't want their jobs; we want good paying jobs with benefits and golden parachutes. We are still, as a country, lazy, and we don't like cleaning toilets or mowing the lawn. We should learn from them, but, for now, we again ignore them.

Poverty Bay Journal

On September tenth, 2008, the universe blinked off and on again in one-bazillionth of a second as a bunch of hairless bipeds with overgrown frontal lobes pushed the 'on' button of a machine located on the border of Switzerland and France on the third planet from the sun in the Milky Way Galaxy and changed the course of the universe and, more immediately, our world.

The Large Hadron Collider (LHC), built by the European Organisation for Nuclear Research (CERN), is a machine which accelerates particles of matter to near the speed of light then crashes them into each other. The purpose of this machine is to see what happens next. Scientists, physicists and engineers want those innocent particles to rip open and show them what, exactly, happened at the time of "the Big Bang" which supposedly began the universe as we know it. The machine was shut down on September 20th, as a heat 'quench' overheated some magnets and threw helium everywhere. In those ten days of operation, the LHC accidentally crossed multiple paths with parallel universes and the needle on the cosmic record-player skipped a few grooves on the record album entitled "The Universe As We Know It To Be". That record is now permanently scratched and will not be shown on the Billboard Top 100.

Even Steven Hawkings, brilliant and visionary physicist, thought that it would be safe. CERN assured everybody, "Don't worry! It's cool! We've got all these microscopic black-holes under complete control", as they probed the wreckage of their little, broken hadron particles searching for the elusive "Higgs Bosom" of physics, for "dark matter", "strange matter", "strangelets" and "quarks". Searching for God.

But they were wrong. Look at what has happened since then; the Special Introductory Offer of the next Great Depression, Sarah Palin surviving her debate, OJ Simpson actually being convicted of something. They scratched a tear into the fabric of space and time and, in less than a blink of the eye, everything changed. Oh, we arrogant, hairless bipeds with overgrown frontal lobes; what will we do next? The universe shudders to think.

A month ago we were all wandering around doing our collective and individual things and now, not a month later, we and our leaders are seeing what I have seen coming for a year or so and have become scared shitless that our 'way of life' is in jeopardy. As we should. The one time in the last two years that Pelosi, Reid and all the other lapdogs and bootlickers of President Bush in the house and senate stood up for something, and it turns out to be a baby-step towards socialized capitalism, one slippery slope away from total governmental control of our world and our lives. Which government is not clear at this point, but knowing human greed as I do, I suspect that it's whichever government has the most money. Can you say "ni how", neighbor?

Our political and business leaders have sold our country out to the highest bidders and will be amply rewarded for their efforts, I'm sure. The ideas and ideals of these United States have become as worthless as the paper they are printed on, much like our economy. The beliefs and values which have guided our nation for all these years since Jefferson saw the need for freedom evaporated in one-bazillionth of a second as Speaker Pelosi's gavel hit the target yesterday. President Bush's signature was merely a formality.

The net result is this; rather than support our government with the products of our labors, we will soon be financially enslaved to our government and be forced to work for the collective, and we will take whatever the government chooses to give us. Each according to our needs; each according to our abilities. "All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others." May God help us.

Will we rise up against our masters? Do we have the will to? Or will it be up to future generations to fight for their freedom, picking over the scraps of autonomy that we leave them? I would like to think that there are brave and daring souls enough in our country to challenge our representatives and leaders, but I despair that we have been guided into a one-way economic cul de sac and will soon be too busy trying to merely survive to resist. And Jefferson's magnificent dream, this Great Experiment in representational governance, will be at its end, all of us the poorer, guilty of little beyond being too deeply asleep.

And the largely ceremonial title of the 'Last Political Pirate of Poverty Bay' will no longer be mine alone, shared equally and liberally across the political landscape, as we all become disenfranchised together, ignored by our government and begging for anything from the leaders we elected to protect and serve us. I've been living a version of this reality for more than a year now, and my heart grieves for those who have inadvertently joined me at the bottom of the proverbial heap. Trust me when I say, I know how it feels.

The 'quench' in the LHC has shut the machine down now, and it might not start up again until early next year, but the remnants of the quantum ripple will continue, our universe and world permanently altered, a new track being travelled by well-meaning souls for some time to come. Perhaps when the machine is restarted, the time-space continuum will jump back a track or two in the cosmic record and we will be able to return to our original dream, this time fully awake.

Poverty Bay Journal

I am a nut when it comes to anniversaries of any kind. Birthdays are my favorite, but I remember my life through the prism of dates and times. People have commented that it is a blessing that my memory is so strong, so vast, that even small things are remembered. I respond that it is also a curse. There is a lot of shit I'd prefer to forget, believe me.

It was 10 years ago this very day that I began my landscaping business. It was one year ago to the day that I closed the doors of my business in protest of the unfair, abusive and cruel treatment that I received from the DOR. Of course, I planned it beforehand, and it was, I think, a poignant statement to close my business on the anniversary of its inception. As a bonus, it saved on memory space.

I'm pretty sure that the overseers of my business in the fucking totalitarian State of Olympia did not even notice, or if they did, that they didn't care. They exacted their lien on my life, in court, without a hearing or a trial, and with no chance for me to be represented or to defend myself. After that, they could give a fuck. "Go live on the streets in poverty, chump," they seemed to say. "We don't care. We got our money".

And so I did. I've spent the last year wandering and pondering, wondering to myself and anyone who would listen, 'What does it all mean'? The word 'failure' came up quite a bit initially in my early reflections of the nine years I spent building my business and honing my craft. Remember, I had started the business with the hopes of prosperity and success, absolutely sure that I would be working at it for the rest of my life. I don't make plans lightly, and carving out the rest of my life was a bold ambition for me. The shock of surrender was equally bold, but in a different direction. The hell I went through at times to keep my business going was proof to me that I was committed. The work I did was hard, my body damaged and my spirit weakened many times over in those nine years. For what? To have my own government kick me when I was down? To have them ruin my chances to realize even a small part of the "American Dream"?

It finally occurred to me, in a desperation thought, determined to keep going and staring at the great suckhole of nothingness that appeared to be the rest of my life, that maybe the failure I achieved was only half of the big picture. The other half I finally figured out was the unintended benefit of those years; the many friends I made during that time. The people who employed me, many of whom turned out to be great friends, were the true benefits of my labors, and even the mighty DOR can't take them from me.

I have had the pleasure of events and occasions with them, watched their lives and mine intermingle, shared in their joys and sorrows and had them share in mine. We support, comfort, encourage, berate, cajole, tease, curse and bless each other. We listen to each other. We know each other. And, in the end, that indeed may be The Thing, The Chi, The Gestalt of The Thing.
And I am the richer for the cost of my poverty because of them.

Make no mistake; this exercise in sentimentality does not change my situation one whit, and my friends have no magic bullets for me with which to shoot the demons that I must face. But knowing that there may have been some silver lining to the dark clouds of my business' demise gives me some comfort as I trudge forward; always forward.

A decade. One tenth of a century. almost a quarter of my life to date. When I look at it that way, it seems to be a big ol' chunk of time, and yet it went by one day after the next, no big deal. And here I am. What comes next will be interesting, I'm sure. So here's to me and my bravery, my stupidity, my idealism, my failures, my successes and my labors. Salud!

Afterword: Kurt Vonnegut once wrote that the secret to success in American business was to "fall through the hole in the outhouse and come out smelling like a rose". I'm at least half-way home.

Poverty Bay Journal

It must be pointed out, for those readers who object to my rather flagrant usage of common vulgarities in my writing, that my last posting contains absolutely no 'cuss words'. I do not use strong language gratuitously or for any sort of shock value. I use words to transmit my thoughts and my feelings, and there are times when 'darned' does not convey the same emotional or intellectual power as 'damned'.

I loathe people who, in conversation, use secondary words to imply the word being censored. This, to me, is intellectually dishonest at best and cowardly communication at the worst. The Brits say 'bleedin'; folks I know say 'frickin' or 'frakkin' or 'friggen' when they mean 'fuckin'. Let's be grown-ups here. Words are just words. There are times when professionalism and common courtesy apply, and I usually refrain from guttural language in those settings. But this is creative writing, and some of the best writers use strong language. There is a chasm of difference in the feelings associated with the sentence, "Washington State government has become totalitarian" and "The goddamned Washington State government has become fucking totalitarian". They are both statements of fact, but one of the sentences shows a bit more anger. Nuff said.