Camden Chronicles

This blog is made up of of many stories, It is about a city that I was born  into in February 23, 1944. I work in this city as a landlord, manager, mechanic of  many and master of none. These are stories of peoples on their path from somewhere and someplace and moving toward their dreams as we all want to do. Some are and were tenants, some are strangers, some a blur in time and some learning to be real in a real tough but dynamic city. Camden, NJ has held the distinction of being the poorest and highest crime city in the country. I heard that it has, for its size, more warrants for arrest than anywhere else.  I even get them on occasion. It is in in some ways Joseph Conrade’s “Heart of Darkness”. It is also a city of much comedy, heart evoking acts of kindness, a mean and a sometime distrustful place with acts of murder, confusion, theft, lies and ignorance. Sounds like many places on this planet. Despite this horn of plenty, it is vibrant with love, hope, joy and expectations. Children, spirituality, wonder, nature…and always full of dreams and magic. And it is an opportunity to learn about cooperation with each other. Uncle Gus tells me once in a while that man can do anything in this world except get along with his neighbor. Well he and his wife still live in this city at 91 years young :-).  So now I will recount some of the Camden chronicles as they happened and happen. John A Gialuco

A recently found friend from the late 60′s has written a book recounting his cab driving experiences and his private social life. He gracefully mentions me in his book, Millburn Cab. His description of me triggered my own memories of my educational experiences. So in respect to Mike’s time writing his book I offered the following personal history as best as I can recall. So here goes:

As an only child in a small Italian matriarchal family I was the experiment, as I think most first born children are an experiment, but in a loving way. Having been raised by 5 women, two grandmothers, two aunts and my mother left me with an indelible power source. My father and both my grandfathers worked quite a lot so as to ensure that we were well assimilated in the USA, with respect and honor. The feminine energy that nursed me into ‘life’s unpredictable flow’ was an important and stabilizing influence for the rest of my life.

At age seven my parents enrolled me in a boy’s military academy for a year believing it was a place for a child to be properly educated. Enter Stratford Academy. On my first day I found myself sitting at a large dining room table with a bunch of older boys. Quick to take it all in I was curious as to who the adults were at the head of the dining hall. I remembered that their table was set higher than ours, up on a dais and our tables were beneath theirs as they looked down on us.

I arrived at the Stratford Academy a few days later than everyone else, s it was apparent I was ‘new meat’. I was told by the older kids that the Colonel and his wife sat in the center of the table, they ran the school. He was stunning in his medaled uniform and his wife was a stunning woman, to  her right was their beautiful, long red haired daughter who I was immediately smitten by. To their right was the 2nd in command, an older, more medaled man. Now this man had a rather large, scarred nose which gave me a sense of fearlessness and meanness. I asked the older kids what his name was and they told me his name was Captain Fucknose and that as a new cadet it was incumbent for me to introduce myself to him. As a seven year old boy I didn’t quite know what fuck meant despite me hearing my parents saying it now and then. So I immediately got up from my table and walked to the front of the room. I looked Catain Fucknose right in the eye and and introduced myself. “Captain Fucknose my name is cadet John A Gialuco, I’m glad to be here, sir”. It was soon after the laughter and humiliation ended that I learned what demerits were. You see in the hallway outside our bedroom was a bulletin board which had our names listed in alphabetical order. Along our names were a combination of stars and/or X’s for each day of the week, month, etc. Stars were for good behavior and X for fucking up. My little exploration in addressing the authority that morning in the dining room garnished me a full row of demerits for that day. I was also getting a lesson in who was to be trusted and who to stay away from. Life can be a bitch at 7. A year later the school was shut down by the authorities because of physical abuses some of the children were given. Our house mother would occasionally whip the older kids with a leather belt from an old sewing machine if the kids misbehaved. It came to pass that a couple of the older kids ran away late at night and were soon picked up by the police. Hence the school was closed and I now found myself back home in my grandparent’s grocery store along with mom and dad. Feeling much safer but somewhat confused. I recall that I was never abused or hit by the staff during that year. My days of carrying a rifle, hand to hand combat and learning marching commands came to a thankful end.

The next stage of my education was a short semester in a Camden Catholic school. Catholic school can be a beautiful thing sprinkled with divinity, purity and a sure introduction to believing in devils, purgatory and guilt. Add a few beautiful women dressed in dark, foreboding gowns and you now begin to experience a very distorted and cursed libido. Throw in a few wretched, ugly nuns with long, heavy rulers and you come to believe that God put them on Earth so as to remind you that when you go home, you must do your homework or you will experience hell on earth the next school day. Catholicism is also a gateway into discovering the blessings of masturbation.

Moving on to second grade I found myself one afternoon, standing in the coat room wearing a dunce cap. My classroom nun put me in there for something I can no longer remember. But as time went on I needed to take a serious crap. As I routinely walked out of the coat room and ask ‘Sister Burn in Hell’ if I could relieve myself, she flatly told me to go into the coat closet and behave. Each time I came out I began to exhibit what would now be termed ‘brake dancing’, I was literally doing some sophisticated yogic moves while the whole time pleading for relief to the sister. After the first tiny turd squeezed out of my small ass I decided ‘hell with the authority’  I am not made to suffer like this and so I ran out of the classroom and down the hallway towards the boy’s room, crying all the way. As I again broke into a new brake dance routine that M. C. Hammer would give his eye tooth for, but now on tippy toes, I turned around to see what was shimming down my pant legs…sure enough I was leaving my trail signs for the next scared kid to follow that day. After the cleanup and talking to myself and looking for Jesus in the mirror for a bit I decided to take my 8 year old dirty ass home to mom, walking and cursing myself most of the way and see what kind of music I would now have to face.

My mother, who on the next morning, took me in hand back to ‘Sister Poke Your Young Eyes Out’ and threatened the nun with physical force and screaming that if anyone is going to hit her son it won’t be some Bitch in black, (There’s an idea for a rock group name). I should say that I felt so very protected and supported for many weeks following this event with the Dark side. That ended the parochial school stage of my education.

Now onto to public schools from 3rd grade until 10th grade at which point I quit the 10th grade and joined the Air Force. In between those years were a few bouts with suspension in 6th and 7th grades for being the class clown or just not fitting in or being disruptive, whatever. If you were suspended for a few weeks you were sent to Paddle school, ( The Cato school was principled by Mr. Gooch) which was located in the heart of Camden. A sort of detention school of white and mostly black wannabe bad guys who hopefully would be deterred from becoming a serial killer, politician, rapist or some other undesirable malcontent. At the end of each day if you acquired ‘demerits’ (can’t get away from those pesky things) for talking aloud, making jokes or whatever you were paddled with something akin to a cricket bat. Your demerits were tallied up at the end of the day and some large guy would whack your ass as many times as the number of demerits you gathered for the day. If you were smart you would ask for the ‘machine gun’ swings. These were faster and overall less painful. If you were found to have paper or a dish shoved in your pants you received double the hits. The last day I left Paddle school in 8^th grade I proudly stole two of the wooden paddles to prove another successful rite of passage. Fuck you John Wayne.

The first day of 10^th grade found us white kids being bussed into Camden High school from what is now called White Fairview, 1959. The first day of school presented us white kids with the then unknown word ‘integration’. As each of us scared kids stepped off of the bus we were challenged with some of the biggest, badest black kids around, many holding shoe shine boxes and polishing rags, commanding us to shine their shoes. Martin Luther King where are you now? I cleverly avoided the confrontation by getting behind my friend Carmen Barbera, the biggest, tallest, badest kid from Fairview. I hugged his ass like we were in love and engaged. We strutted by the bad guys with attitude totally unchallenged. Turns out some of those bad boys recognized me from paddle school a few years back and so I was given respect and the nod.

After dropping out of 10^th grade, I got fed up with running home from school sometimes being chased for one thing or another, I joined the US Air Force. I was now 17 years old. This segment lasted only 5 or 6 weeks before be discharged from basic training, albeit with an honorable  discharge…unacceptable for military service, they wrote (section 8, 3914). What triggered that event was that I chased a red neck barracks squad leader with a grass sickle, the whole time screaming that I was going to take his head off. This came about after he threw me to the ground and kicked me a few times in the ribs because I wouldn’t or couldn’t march with the other troops in the 100+ degree heat, circa August1959, Lackland AFB, Texas.

This event, in retrospect, surprised me since at the age of probably 13 and 14, I joined, for those two summers, the Fairview Junior Marines in my hometown. You know those lazy, boring July summers where there isn’t much to do. The work ethic hadn’t quite jelled in us kids yet so we didn’t feel the need to work. There were about 20 or so of us kids who would meet at the local VFW to watch the old vets from WW1 and WW2 tell stories about women, death and the bad Germans they killed, the whole time drinking beer and such until vomiting ensued and a brawl or two would emerge. As junior marines we marched in parades, sold American flags door to door for 25 cents, helped old ladies cross the street the whole time feeling very important and proud. On some Saturday afternoons we would be driven out to the Pine Barrens by 4 or 5 US Marine drill sergeants for battle exercise and training. Whereupon we would split into two groups of kids and play ‘rescue the flag’. As we stalked around with our toy rifles, trying to kill the enemy, a drill instructor or two or three would come screeching out of the brush or from a treetop, snatch our little bodies up and hurl us into the air yelling that this was judo move number 22… ‘Kawasaki chop chop kill’ and you are now dead or captured. We spent most of our time looking for our glasses in the underbrush or picking stickers out of our ass and licking our wounds…the whole time laughing at each other and feeling warrior-ish once again. These adults were merciless but fun. A true rite of passage.

They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again.

After probably a year from the air force discharge it came to be that my Aunt Ann found a boarding school to place me in. Apparently I was no longer welcomed at the Camden public or parochial school system given my history.

The Oxford Academy’s unique educational method was initiated by the school’s founder, Dr. Joseph M. Weidberg. Concerned about the inability of some students to profit from traditional classroom instruction, Dr. Weidberg looked to the great teachers of the past for inspiration. His model was Socrates, whose goal was to help his students know themselves—to think, to understand, to use initiative, to express themselves with confidence. Socrates’ active, personal approach to asking and seeking answers became the model for The Oxford Academy.

Oxford Academy which was in Pleasantville, NJ, a beautiful bay-side town across from Atlantic City offering a one on one tutorial education. The tuition was $10,000 a year (1959 dollars). The student body was an all-boys class. By 6:30 AM we walked along the bay a mile or so for an hour for exercise. Back in the main room we were given a choice to play either bridge, play chess or play checkers with the math teacher who just happened to be the East Coast checker champion, I often chose him. All the teachers were of course PhD’s in their respective courses. Then followed reading the NY times or Wall Street Journal before breakfast. All of this was compulsory day in and day out. And each day we spent an hour or more in a ‘one on one’ class with our teacher. Each student was given a barrage of tests for two weeks to find out where a student was at in regards to their academic level. I tested back to 6^th grade arithmetic, 7^th grade English, 8^th grade science, etc. By the end of the year most of the 50 or so kids were at their normal 9^th grade scholastic level of education. The schools prestigious dining room consisted of four white table cloth linen tables, perhaps 10 or 12 students to a table, the teachers had a choice to dine with us boys if they wanted. Each table was assisted by 2 or more butlers serving meals. Silverware, crystal glasses, English coffee and tea cups…the whole nine yards. I did very well here with only one fight during the year. I initiated a basketball team be started on the school court and begged that the old pool table be brought back to life. I played pool almost every weekend as a kid in the Paramount pool hall in Camden. I was asked to leave two weeks before our graduation since I presented a risk to the other student’s discipline. Weeks before school graduation my roommate, Ramsey and I, returned from a weekend trip to New York city where I bought a bagful of those cute little bottles of liquor that were legal to purchase if you were under drinking age. One night the teachers had their faculty dinner with Dr. Knight, the headmaster, in his home behind the school. This was the night I shared my many bottles with most of the students. As you might guess there were those demerits haunting me again. Dr. Knight called my aunt for a powwow. Most of the students there were the children of some of the wealthiest and most powerful people of the day.

Dr. Knight explained to Aunt Ann that I was originally accepted as a challenge to the Oxford system of education and he was curious as to the results. He recommended a coeducational school in Vermont. He was friends with one Dr. Powell.

Next in line came Peacham Academy located in the very beautiful town of Peacham, Vermont. Here we had maybe 80 co-ed students managed by headmaster, Dr. Powell, who would often come to school wearing a couple of side arms just like Gene Autry. Shotgun in his pickup truck and all. Yahoo. During hunting season many the local students (townies), about a dozen or so, would come to school with various weapons in hand or holster in hopes of shooting a four legged animal. You know bear, deer squirrel, birds, just about anything with a heartbeat even an occasional student. I remember a local ‘townie’ friend who looked just like Alfred E. Newman from Mad magazine, missing tooth and parted hair down the middle, to a tee. One afternoon he invited me over to his family barn. We climbed these great barn ladders, barns are big in Vermont, to the 4^th floor. Here Johnny proudly showed me his moonshine distillery he built in secret, hidden in the hayloft. I was soon introduced to homemade beer and liquor whereupon we proceeded to get blind eyed drunk. We ended up jumping off of the 4^th floor ledge into the first or second floor successfully landing on piles of soft hay, laughing our silly asses off and pissing in our pants to boot. Johnny was one of the funniest, goofiest guys I ever knew. Unfortunately it was short lived. Johnny was identified as the mystery stalker who had been stealing women’s underpants off the clotheslines in Peacham for a couple of seasons. The police dug up his back yard one day and found hundreds of women’s panties, all ages, sizes and colors. So I lost a good friend that day. I must say that there are places in Vermont that even God won’t go into. I was a star basketball player since I could out jump anyone. I suspect this came from my younger days being chased by older kids. Well after a few fights during the last few months and the assignation of JFK I was again asked to leave before the student graduation. The faculty was certain I would disrupt the coming formal event.

So I find myself now enrolling in Windsor Mt. School. Located on the Winthrop Estate mansion in the Berkshires of Mass. The Windsor Mountain School was a coeducational boarding high school in Lenox, Mass. The school was established in Lenox in 1944 German Jewish educational reformer Max Bondy and his wife Gertrude Bondy. The Bondys had earlier established an international school in Germany, initially in Gandersheim and later in Marienau. When the rise of Nazism threatened their enterprise, they left Germany, re-establishing their school in Swiitzerland in 1937. In 1939 they moved to the United States, reopening their school in Windsor, Vermont, and then later in Manchester, Vt. at the site of the Wilbertoon Inn, before moving it to Mass. Operated according to progressive education principles, the school was unusually  democratic in its governance, with a student government that was empowered to make all nonacademic rules. As of 1970, there was no dress code, student publications were not censored, and there were no restrictions on student political activities. The school’s philosophy held that the exercise of freedom would help students become responsible, self-directing people.

The day I drove up to Lenox with my parents from New Jersey I felt that I had had enough educational experiences, I was running out patients. My family had been spending a small fortune in money and emotions. I was about to enter another repressive, dogmatic educational prison system and I was running out of tricks to survive. But to my surprise after walking the stunning, beautiful grounds in the summer of 1964, on the old wealthy estate/campus I knew this may be the school for me to enter. As I walked down to the boys dorms to investigate my next home, I passed a young couple passionately making out on the sloping, tree soaked massive front lawn. This was definitely a good sign for me. As I stepped up onto the handmade marble and granite back patio, on the way back to the main house, there was a young violinist playing a beautiful classical piece which may have been Claire De Lune. On the side lawn were two folkie types, one playing a 12 string guitar the other kid accompanying him with a bluesy slide guitar. I believed at that moment I sensed a feeling of freedom approaching.

Among the prominent Americans who sent their children to Windsor Mountain School in the 1960s were musicians Harry Belafonte, Thelonious Monk, and Randy Weston and civil rights lawyer Clifford Durr and his wife, activist Virginia Foster Durr. The actor Bob Cumming was also a friend to the school as well as other celebrities to many to remember. Every year Ravi Shankar would visit his friends, the Mukherjees, who taught art and psychology. Ravi would play sitar while we ate our dinner and later give a concert with Ali Akbar Khan the master table player. I always thought that Windsor student were not tethered by an invisible rope which jerked you back to reality when you went to far but that we were tethered by a rubber band so that when we pushed or was pulled beyond the limits, we were allowed to dangle for a moment or two, and to finally gather up our separate and collective realities and come back home intact. I graduated the 12th grade in a formal suit as my very proud, happy and exhausted parents and aunts watched on in 1966. I was 21 years old.

To summarize, Mike, I have experienced just about every type of educational system there were for the day. I learned about human beings, their short comings, their fears, their loving and creative qualities. We were all on a trip of discovering who we were and what we could never become.  Many adults led us through a myriad of ideas, ideals and dead ends. We as young people began to understand the humanity and frailness of being alive. Many of our dreams and expectations left us disappointed and scared but we also learned that survival is a cooperative venture unlike Darwin’s observations about life. rather, I would say that as a part of the core of these many events was my reactions to the unbalanced and unfair recognition and integration of the genders. Most, if not all, of these institutions were of a patriarchal nature with some consideration allowed by the feminine natures. Even the Catholic femininity is not given an equal status. Windsor was probably the exception since Gertrude Bondy had been taught by Anna Fraud, Sigmund Fraud’s wife. And more  importantly we taught each other forgiveness, humility, patients and that we are always returned back to love. I walked away from not so much of a formal, academic education as one would hope for but I sure learned about humanity. And so I thank you for igniting the embers of memories that I long ago tried to drag into the future but alas had to shed in the presents of living. You are in the right place. Sincerely, Mr. John, Nov. 2011

So two faceless men drive up to my corner office yesterday, in their red pickup truck (danger), and install a 360 degree rotatingg camera on a telegraph pole in front of my building. Camden officials say the Virginia based Ciber company has been hired to install and maintain the so-called “Eye in the Sky” system throughout Camden, with a 2 million dollar price tag (and rising) for 50 cameras. Another fear based political version of what I call the new Digital God. You remember, the Being in our minds and belief system who is touted to Know everything, See and Hear everything and guaranteed to  punish the “evil doers” as the un-brilliant George ‘W’ pronounced after the world trade center towers were detonated. I figure that since the dogmatic web of religious beliefs we grasp onto are being unveiled and folks are waking up, so to speak, (Wizard of OZ) within the population at large it was time to point out that  the God of our childhoods is being manifested, again, in a form of the street camera. The System is birthing a new set of gods and demons in the form of cameras and drones  all over our country…Amen. Of course this 21st century god is now blessing its appearance so as to protect us all and to give us another false sense that ‘big brother’ (I call it ‘abusive father’) will prevent all types of crime in our lives. If “public safety’ were really on the list of concerns for the wasteful, lazy thinking people in our governments  (I call them the ‘ugly people’ we would have normal paved roads, real food in the school systems, adequate housing, a well informed citizenry, an honest, caring health care system and more importantly, human beings as cops rather than the “Skynet” (see Terminator series) cameras distorting our sense of trusting each other. This is a cheap way out to save money, not lives, by eliminating police being on and in the streets, it erodes the human contact that citizens used to have with the law. By making an effort to have policemen interact and cultivate a sense of a neighborhood friendliness and familiarity with our communities at large. I think it easier and definitely cheaper to remove the legs of known criminals before they are released from jail so they would be unable to walk a block or two out of sight of these god-cameras in which they could then ponder another criminal act. The city councils could even open up retail leg stores…  you know … ‘Legs-R-Us’ ! If that works then we could take the plan to Wall street and the Banksters. 

If you haven’t recognized it yet I am a person who chooses to try and keep what trust I have with my fellow man/woman as best I can. For sure I have been ripped off as a landlord but hey, every day we have a choice about the quality of life we want to experience. I don’t want to exchange my natural born instinct of believing in humanity for the suffocating technologies which are slowly abusing our dignity by gathering our faces, names, retinas, private accounts and personalities for god knows what (there he/she is again). I foresee the day when someone will design a camera that  is built into chairs. They might start  inserting them is restaurants chairs first. Then if  successful they might move onto transportation centers. I can see the government hiring some of the unemployed, on a temp basis of course, and occasionally you would hear one of the butt monitors yell…”Hey I recognize that asshole.”

And let’s not forget that many a person in and out of our prison warehousing systems were ‘pre-armed’ with unemployment, inadequate education, unhealthy food, addictions, racism,  family separations etc. Now you can tell me I’m making excuses for some folks but let me say that at 67 years on this planet crime and prisons hasn’t improved the quality of life on either side of the fence. We have abandoned the rehabilitation model once used in prisons for a profit based, private system which intends to keep our asses incarcerated until we make enough profit for the companies who own the prisons (See: http://www.alternet.org/story/17392), or until we are used up. Some of these symptoms could drive me to crime and madness. We have acquiesced our rights and power over to our elected (possibly elected) officials and their insane ideas via the welfare system, addictions, unemployment, free food, profit motivated and broken health care system.  We are being set up to rely on this new God from the future. They say if you throw a frog into a boiling pot of water he will quickly jump out to be free of the pain, but if you put him in a pot of cold water and slowly raise the flame he’ll surely cook until he’s ready for seasoning. I believe Ben Franklin had a different way of saying it: Those who would give up Essential Liberty to purchase a little Temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety. Now go to sleep tonight and Wake Up tomorrow. Be well. Mr. John

My wife Amy and I went to see Cowboys and Aliens last night and it was a very well acted, written and an enjoyable movie. You can go online and read various reviews, I am not here to rant about the film. However on the drive home from the theater Amy and I saw a real metaphor for our present political dysfunction within our country. The Aliens agenda was to bleed the earth’s gold from the land as well as suck out the energy from the captured cowboys and their family’s bodies  once back on board their spaceship. They even lassoed their victims from the air and after the victum’s bodies were fully drained of their life force, their bodies turned to dust. Yes this harkens back to Aliens, vampires (True Blood), Raiders of the lost ark, etc. But we certainly see the same thing going on all around the world with corporations, IMF, banksters and Wall Street to name a few. None of these crooks ever see a courtroom let alone go to jail for their crimes and yet if I go to a WaWa and steal a Tandy cake (peanut butter BTW) more than likely I will end  up in jail. For sure there are many more scheming  ‘wizards ‘ lurking behind the Power curtains that we are yet aware of. Water rights, medicines, being held hostage by the health care prison, air and climate, our food quality, privacy intrusion, the selling off of the legal systems as well our religions not to mention  credit card interest.

Growing up during my generation there was Alice In Wonderland by Lewis Carroll, Wizard of Oz (Land of OZ) by Frank L. Balm and the The Hobbit, by J.R.R. Tolkien. Most of us grew up with these archetypical stories but we were to young and innocent to perceive the hidden meanings and realities that these great writers were hinting at. It has been many years since these visionaries sparked our imaginations, triggered our fears and spoke of heroes and magic. These stories lit up our wonderment about what was possible, what was empowering, our inner heroic self and certainly the notion of love. The current political arena is the Curtain that we all are presently separated and confused by. There are many great movies and some wonderful literature trying to wake us up to the many hidden realities all around us. Cowboy and Aliens I believe is the latest one. Question realities. and choose well! Mr. John

It seems that since Gov. Christi Witless fired half of the firemen in the city there has been an upsurge in fires around the “hood”.  Within less than 2 weeks a tire warehouse ignited which painted an ominous dark sky around an already ominous Camden reputation, then a chemical plant went up in flames…’better living through chemistry’.  Then, an old four story relic, the  Croft Linden Worsted Mills factory, a woolen factory which was 137 years old  was totally destroyed.  It was only 3 blocks from my storeroom/office. (See: http://www.dvrbs.com/people/CamdenPeople-HowlandCroft.htm for historical details.) And now, number 4, an old abandoned warehouse went up in flames on Carl Miller highway. The ATF has determined that all the fires were caused by arson. The mayor calls them ‘political fires.’ I say good riddance. Something new will be built there. And I’ve since found that my home insurance company, Philadelphia Contributionship, is no longer insuring Camden properties. Meanwhile as a police car or two guard the whole block 24/7, I’ve noticed  there is less and less of the leftover metal (from the fire) as it is apparently being  taken away by truck, wheel barrel, bicycle, shopping cart or by hand  carried off by folks who skulk around these properties everyday looking for scrap to be rolled off to the junk yards. Meanwhile the police cars routinely circle the block like an eagle circling her nest only to be outmaneuvered by a jobless, hungry, desperate group of citizens. There is now a $25,000 reward for the arsonist. I also read that a mayor in Orlando, Fl., (‘lets go to Disneyland children’), is arresting the group ‘Food Not Bombs’, a group of human beings who are feeding the homeless…women, children and pets! Ah where is the compassion we need so badly? It is obvious to me that Camden(and Orlando)  ae becoming  role models for the New American World Order, the Corp-mmunism of America. I can remember America, can You?

So uncle Gus tells me the other day at Dunkin Donuts, that when he was 8 0r 10 years old he would skip school and run up the the Croft Mill wool factory and start screaming and crying from the sidewalk for his mother who worked at the mill.  She worked there for many years. Eventually someone would hear him from one of the upper floor windows and tell his mother that young August was calling for her. Grand-mom Carmella would come down and see what the young Gussy wanted. ‘Mom I need a couple of penny’s… a nickle…please mom I need it’. Maybe young Gussy was entering his first stages of gambling, who knows.  And so grand mom would give him what she could and off Gussy would go into the unknown. Later I thought about what  went through old (91) Gussy’s mind when Croft mill had burned to the ground within one day. I am sure it brought up some long forgotten memories of his youth and of his loving mother. The joys and expectation of a small gift that our mother’s blessed us with are often lost to the continuous present, and only by divine accident, visual associations or even a smell does our past and the characters surrounding those old moments brighten and enliven our spirit. It is as if a shot of emotional energy refuels our being so we can continue along this curious grind stone we call life. It sure gives me pause for a moment of grace and appreciation.  And it did for Uncle Gus. For a few minute the 8 year old young Gussy was talking to me at the table through a 91 year old body sipping his coffee, with a not yet quite wrinkled face, his eyes beaming with almost a 100 years of experience, of crying, laughing, cavorting, stealing, hopping freight trains to anywhere so he could satisfy his still curious and questioning young mind of the outside world. As a kid, father, an old coot and sometimes a big pain in the ass…. but still alive and laughing.   

Gussy said to me last week in Dunkin Donuts , “You know you’re not going to live as  long as me”.  I paused and said, ” What?”  “Well, Gus retorts, ” A lot of times we come here for a coffee, a chat  and within 10 minutes you start fidgeting and looking at the clock, looking out the window and then you’re ready to leave, trying to rush these old bones out of here, and I’m not ready to go back home and grow old sitting in a chair listening to my wife all day or watch TV!”

” OK!”, I shoot back, “but my 67 years old in 2011 is quite different than your 67 years old in 1987. Times have changed…I got issues.”   ‘That’s what you think, Gus replies, I’m telling you that you’re not going to make it to live as long as I have’. His last statement is said with a smile no less. So I reply with a raised voice…”Well maybe I don’t want to live as long as you, it does seem to have some downsides to being 91!’ At this point he straightens up in his chair, looks me straight serious in the eyes and with his surprising conviction says, “Don’t say that! … Life just begins when you get into your 80′s….. You are changed, you begin to see things in life that you didn’t know existed, never dreamed of. These things were always there except people were to busy raising a family, trying to get fucked, working their asses off, running from the law, being frightened to stupidity about  growing old…. does he love me, does she love me, did she really have an orgasm, do I love them. Fuck it, it’s all water under the dam, Sonny. You just don’t have the time or the age yet to see it going on all around you. Life is Beautiful, life  is magical!”…followed by his genuine laugh. “You’ll see….maybe.”

I had nothing to say at that point and we settled back into real time and finished our coffee. What a trip.  Live long and Prosper, Gussy. Mr. John

When I started to enter the homes of tenants in early 1975, as a repairman, I had very little awareness of the granted authority and the trust that was given to me by the household members living there. Quite frankly I was just there to do repairs and cared less about the dirt or messiness that, at times,  were left in the in the repair area when the work was finished and I left the home.  I certainly left with my own personal opinions about how people lived and the manner of their life styles. There were times when the interiors were so disturbing and disgusting, such as an alcoholic family or an individual or an apparent drug oriented household or in the worst case scenarios physical or emotional abuse directed to either old folks or children.

But this was not my business to interfere…only if the property was damaged by the tenant. When I told aunt Ann she would remind to be kind  to  people and say nothing. I have since come to think that the consequences of poverty, bad drugs, poor nutrition, there is one supermarket in the city of 80,000. (I am for decriminalized drug offenses if not legalized drugs with education).  I also think that the “welfare generation solution” keeps many families trapped in a cache 22 cycle and perpetuates a reluctance and a stagnation to move on up. Many a mother who chose to move out of the welfare trap and find work were often penalized and underpaid by their jobs and subsequently were forced to go back on welfare since they couldn’t earn enough money to support their family. It has become a fashionable sound bite and attitude to curse or degrade a woman on welfare without giving thought about the situations and conditions which brought some of them to these crossroads and end back up on welfare. For a majority of the women I have observed and known, I have become aware that the man of the household has become disinterested in raising his family because of drugs…cocaine, heroin and mostly crack, or are incarcerated or dead. Women usually have to balance the desire for a caring relationship with a mate and the need to be tough and protective to their children, this is no easy task. As I readjusted my observations with my original attitudes and prejudices, (which took many years)  in a city  of changing demographics I was impulsed to look at my own prejudices and invisible discriminatory attitudes. This is probably the most difficult to uncover, reevaluate and heal.

You will often get feedback from the people you interact with day in and day out. I believe as this process happens it also creates a bridge to better understanding and empathy with other human beings. You will definitely be changed by ‘Change’  Aside from the typical black/white distortions and prejudices that we all have about each other I would say that many of our conflicts with self and others is exacerbated by our economics and selective divisiveness of capitalism as it has evolved into to 2011. It is really Corpmmunism.

Now some of my thoughts about actually entering a tenants home are listed below. These lessons have not come to me overnight or were they obvious, but have been learned over some 36 years. I will say there will be more lessons to come. Life and People are never a finished process.

*  Women are always paying attention to the way you move and how respectful you are to their domain. Be clean as possible while working around their home, often women will gladly offer to clean up behind you since men aren’t known for their dust consciiousness.

*  I believe that people have the right to live in the way they choose whether it suits my own particular values or not. They will do it whether you like it or not. They pay you rent for that right. As long as no  harm is done to anyone else or the rented property. As uncle Gus reminds me “to each their own”

*  Try and respect furniture and other objects in that household regardless of your own feeling and opinion. Some times the simplest curio or object has great meaning to someone else especially a child.

*  Remember we are individuals first, a man or a woman second, color and ethnic background third, poor or rich etc., etc.

*  Children do not know you, you can be a scary item to them.. .As an adult you are privileged with much power and authority they as yet have or understand. A smile is the first thing they see when they look at you. They are curious about your being-ness, they see a potential friendly person. Please be friendly to these little beings. Aunt Ann always had some candy in here apron pockets for children.

*  Pay attention to the smells that may be coming from the kitchen, it could remind you of your own mother’s cooking when you were young. Notice photos because they will give you a sense of the tenant’s  heart or origins, and pets can be reassured that you are not a threat to them or their family, look at them and say hello to them.

*  Remember you have come in off the street, your vehicle or wherever (from the ‘outside’)… when you enter someone’s home this is no longer your world….it’s Theirs, Be sensitive.

*  Listen to the voices of the street… It holds secrets during your journey.

*  Many, many people never get the opportunity to experience a stranger’s home in real time. Remember it’s an opportunity to learn and be changed, use your eyes. You have been granted a privilege of entry.

* And as uncle Gus has told me in the past “don’t fuck the tenants!”  Mr. John

Part 1 – My mother, Evelyn Gialuco,  hired Whitey, a painter and his dog Mugsy, to paint our home because she wanted to sell it and move back to Camden with her sister Sistina. Whitey owned a large Winnebago and would often park and sleep in our driveway at night. Well Whitey had been painting for a month or so and mom would often cook and feed Whitey and Mugsy when he stayed over. So as time passed I noticed that she and Whitey were becoming an item. My father, her husband, had died the previous year and mom was feeling a bit lonely. How I knew they were getting more than chummy was because I would come home late on a Friday or Saturday night and Whitey’s Winnebago would be rocking and bouncing back forth just like in Cheech and Chong ’s movie ‘Up in Smoke’ with their trailer scene……? Well anyway Whitey had this wonderful dog Mugsy. Mugsy was never trained, he was the smartest dog I ever knew, and he never had a bath except when he went swimming at the lake or the ocean. The only time I saw Mugsy get washed was right after he was sprayed by a skunk at 3 am in the morning. Mom and Whitey had to wash him with tomato juice for about an hour and everyone went back to bed. A year later Whitey died in my mother’s arms from cancer, let me add that my father also died in my mother’s arms as well. Subsequently whenever my mother wanted to give me a hug because I was going away for a few days I usually declined mom’s Hug. Well you understand. So a year later Mugsy became very ill and mom couldn’t watch him suffer any longer so she asked me to take him to the vet and put him to sleep.

Part 2 – When the vet called us a week later and asked us to pick up the ashes Mom admonished me to not bring Mugsy back into the house, she needed time to adjust to her loss, but I should bring him back into our shed which was in the rear of the property. As I left the house mom screamed “Do not leave his ashes in your car, put him in back…did you HEAR me?”…yes mom. So I pick Mugsy up at the vets and since I had never seen ashes from a cremation I opened the lid of this beautiful oriental embossed tin container which very much reminded me of a red picnic basket. Well the ashes were a pure white powder with small clumps of ash which looked like bits of hared salt. So I put Mugsy and his new home in back of the trunk of my1987 Volvo and that was it. When I walked into the house mom asked me if I had put Mugsy in the shed and of course I said I did. Not.

Part 3 – Some months later I was hosting a talk and video on how to learn about the unlawful aspects of the IRS with about 20 interested people. Since a friend was letting us use her apartment in Wes Philly I threw some material in the Volvo’s trunk for demonstration reasons. After carrying the last load up to Catherine’s apartment I apparently left the key in the trunk of the Volvo. So after a rocking good IRS party, 5 hours later, I left to go home and guess what? The Volvo had been stolen! It’s one of the worst feelings you will ever have when you finally admit that your car has been stolen after tortuous hours of crawling through every surrounding street looking for your car. It’s like your parents just revealed to you that you were actually adopted, at the very moment you are about to blow out your birthday candles celebrating your 21st birthday. When I finally got home and told my mother that the car was stolen in Philly, the first words out of her mouth was “WHERE”S MUGSY?? I distinctly remember the last thoughts I had as I was rapidly fleeing the back door of the house and being pursued by a well aimed broom, which my mother hurled at me with the accuracy of a South American forest head hunter’s blow gun. My mother had honed her throwing abilities through the fine art of cleaning and vacuuming for nearly 70 years. In her day she could have faced any Samurai with her well made corn broom and scorn and not show a bit of fear. I returned daze later to a calmer mom.

Part 4 – 43 days later I get a call from the Phila. police telling me that my car was found up in the Bronx, NYC. As I was leaving the house to take a train to NY my mother told me to make sure that Mugsy was to be the first thing coming through the garage door when I returned…Yes Mom. Upon arriving at Grand Central station I boarded a subway going uptown to the Bronx. Now riding from Midtown NY to the Bronx is a super lesson in paranoia. As the subway leaves upper Manhattan into Harlem, I notice that the folks who have laptops, jewelery and better clothes begin to leave the car at each stop. As you enter Harlem the hip hop, goths, mental escapees and such start boarding the subway to continue the ride uptown. Once we get into the lower Bronx near the Bronx Zoo those folks begin to get off the train and are now replaced with the hard core human beings. The Warlocks, Saurons, Melkors, Borg types and an occasional Gollum and Hannibal Lecter.

Part 5 – After 40 minutes of this amusement ride I come to find out that I took the wrong train. Instead of  getting on the East Bronx train I took the West Bronx train. So now I had to go back down to Grand Central and start all over again with that now familiar paranoia I had on the West side ride. On one stop in Harlem about 75 cops and security people boarded the cars and this made me feel much better and I relaxed my hand off the back of my ass which I was using to protect my wallet. As we climbed up into the Bronx small packs of cops disembarked at various stops along the way to go to work. Upon arriving at my stop, around 180th street, I had to walk some 10 blocks or so to a street that was lined up with junk yard after junk yard after junk yard. When I finally found my junk yard and entered the office I noticed that behind the long counter was a couple of shelves with hundreds of car radios which were for sale. I intuitively knew that my thoughtfully chosen and  expensive Volvo radio was up on their shelves to never been herd  again.

Final Part – So I found my car parked amongst 100’s of other stolen and junked vehicles and after clearing the front seat of at least 40 parking tickets which the Manhattan police kindly kept throwing into the unlocked car for the month or so I started the engine with no problem. I immediately checked the glove compartment for my stuff and saw that everything but a Norelco razor was still there. I quickly went back to the Volvo trunk and saw that everything was in place … EXCEPT…. Mugsy and his newly occupied red tin dog house. While driving back home for 90 miles I was thinking about my fears, my fears and pain of facing Mom as I told her that Mugsy was gone forever. I also realized that whoever stole my Volvo, and I figured that  it was probably a bunch of kids having some fun, and that they eventually found Mugsy in the trunk with his ashes and believed they had found a large stash of Cocaine. So as any upright carjackers would do they started snorting Mugsy. I am sure at the days end somewhere in NYC a group of young guys could be seen pissing on trees with one leg raised in the air so as to leave their marks while Howling at the full Moon. Mr John

My wife and I went to see the play ‘Nick in Time – Nick in Time’, which was performed this past Sunday at the Waterfront South Theater in Camden, NJ. The one act play was put on, by the South Camden Theater Company, in honor, and in memory of, Nick Virgilio, a world renown Haiku poet who was born and raised in Camden. In the play, Nick is portrayed in his last year of life, about 60 years old and is waiting to go on a tv show to discuss his poetry. Before he goes on, he has several encounters in the dressing room with the ghost of Walt Whitman, (who later in his life lived in Camden for 11 years until his death.) where, in one conversation, they both commiserate over the loss of a younger brother. In Nick’s case, his youngest brother, Larry, was killed in Viet Nam on July 24, 1967. In Walt Whitman’s case, his brother was lost during the Civil War around 1863. Nick’s brother Larry is cleverly portrayed as a tv production assistant , first, who befriends Nick before he goes “on air” and then as a ghostly marine corp lieutenant who shows up to take Nick “home’ after he (apparently) has a heart attack and dies in the dressing room.

Larry is portrayed by a fine actor, Matt Mezzacapa, who, explains to the audience, after the play is over, that he had very little background information on Larry Virgilio to work with in order to create his character. It was haunting for me to watch this show and to see how Larry Virgilio was portrayed because I actually knew him in real life. He was a childhood friend of mine in Fairview Village, a suburb of Camden, NJ. I did not know his two older brothers, Tony and Nick, very well, for they were 15 and 16 years older than me. But Larry was my contemporary and so we became buddies. And we came to share the life in ‘The ‘Square’, a teenage hang out in Fairview Village, for a some years, before he joined the Marine Corp and (eventually) on to Viet Nam . And so, I thought it would be important to recall my memories of Larry, which were ignited by this great play, to do his memory justice. When I first saw and heard Larry, he was probably 16 years old . He was noisy and shared a great smile with all of us. I was 14 and my nickname then, was ‘ears’ since my ears stuck out . The doctor told my mother that I was sleeping with my ears flapped over. He also told me to eat more carrots to help my eyesight since I had been cursed with eyeglasses since the 4th grade. I am now 67 and I still have the curse. Larry soon renamed me ‘phones’ because of my acute hearing. I probably developed my sense of hearing as a need of survival since I was an only child. I developed various forms of strategies and defenses at a young age in preparation for the outside world. But this was the first sign I recognized in Larry… he could move labels and ideas to a higher, more sophisticated level. ‘Phones’ and ‘Professor had diminished my somewhat cursed nickname bestowed on me by the older boys and I now had a more sophisticated station in life. I liked Larry.

Larry was able to mimic bird calls, insects, bus and truck & motorcycle sounds years before the likes of Rich Little or Bobby McFerrin. He could do many of the actors of the day… John Wayne, Bob Hope, Bogart and many more. I had never seen anyone like this before and all of us boys would laugh in amazement while he hopped around in a circle. That was the thing about Larry, he could capture your attention in seconds. He was the original Robin Williams in a teenagers body. And if that wasn’t enough he would run up to us and stick his powerful hand under our armpits squeezing and tickling us at the same time all the while making these incredible sounds with his mouth. It was probably the first time I experienced levitation because he would pick you up off your feet with his powerful biceps, the whole time creating bird sound in your face. Larry was a true performance artist and at the same time he could be unaccountably aggressive. On some days, Larry would demonstrate to us his wild form of dancing. Larry was known to go down on a Friday or Saturday night to Lawnside NJ. just to dance. He would tell us about the nightclubs he would go to and the beautiful colored girls who would love to dance with him, even fight over him just to fly with his energy. He would challenge some of us to go with him to ‘”The Top” as it was called, a wild black night club where you could eat great soul food, watch a fight or get into one and dance all night till you dropped. And the girls…the girls were beautiful and magically dressed in bright yellows, reds, purples. How seductive and provocative. When I heard these stories I was excited but scared shitless at the same time since no one would dare go to “The Top”, that was where the coloreds were and you might meet your demise there some night. But this was Larry, fearless and willing to go where few would dare enter. He would routinely challenge us in our white protected Fairview world. And there was Larry the boxer…he could sneak up on you and throw a punch into your chest before you could even think about covering up or tensing your muscles as his swift blow rocked your heart into overdrive. My god his arm and fists were faster than his dancing shoes.

It took me a while to feel comfortable with young Larry’s personality…he was too fast, friendly and explosive like the future that suckered punched our worlds in one assassination event, a time coming around the corner, the 60′s, we didn’t know. After a time, Larry not only befriended me but looked after me. He would admonish me to stay away from some of the older kids, as I was trying to get “in’ with them. “You aren’t like the Square Rats,he’d say, ” you have a good mother and father…be thankful”. He would often walk me home from school, the whole time advising me on the higher qualities of life. When he met my parents, Evelyn and Curly, my mother took to him right away, his fast humor and get up close to you affect. You knew right away who and what Larry was about. She could tell he was a safe friend, not out to misguide me…he cared. I wasn’t doing so well in mathematics so Larry offered to tutor me after school once a week. Again Larry was as quick as a snapping bull whip, twirling addition, subtraction and fractions faster than my morning cereal popping . The whole time he was with me, he punctuated my lesson with bird calls or insect sounds. It was a marathon. Our kitchen became a cacophony of forest sounds, for an hour,….without the bird shit. And, sometimes, Larry and my father would talk about dancing and dance moves while trying to outdo each other in the kitchen. (My father also loved ‘banging the boards’. He would go out dancing on Saturday nights until 1 or 2 am. He would dance every Wednesday and Saturday night for the next 30 years, up until a few weeks before he died.) When Larry spoke of his father I became aware of that same kind of respect and humbleness that I had for my own father. He often talked about his older brother, “Nickaphonic” Nick, a developing DJ with the Jerry Blavett radio show. Nick was a D.J. , but later, would become a writer, one who would bow down in front of his “alter”, the typewriter, to create beautiful Haiku poetry. He was engaged in his writing with the same precision and focus as one who was performing a high Japanese Tea ceremony. Nick was a wordsmith and perhaps, even an angel. And Nick, was young Larry’s hero.

Looking back now I think Larry believed he was unable to honor his father and brother(s) in the way he wanted. So when the Vietnam War came screaming into our consciousness he moved towards that honoring. I don’t recall Larry ever expressing any guilt or remorse for his spontaneity. He extracted and shaped life’s energies and gave us a new meaning about what was previously invisible to us, an impulsive humorous command for action. Yes, I was in the square the day Larry climbed a flagpole in the middle of the square to stick a dime on the top with a piece of bubble gum. I didn’t stick around to find out why he committed this “Tom Sawyerish” act. I found out, years later, though, (when I went to the play) that he stuck that dime on the flagpole as a reminder to his friends that he would return from Viet Nam and when he did return, he would snatch that dime off the pole. Well, he never got that opportunity. He never returned from Viet Nam. But, when he was alive, he would again and again defy and define life’s possibilities for us , to powerfully suggest , in so many quirky and wonderful ways , all that we could achieve in life, reminding us that we were all a gift from God and that we were put here on Earth to honor and to thoroughly enjoy that sacred gift. – Mr. John In Honor of Nick Virgilio 1928 – 1989

GoJo and I go back to early 1975 when Aunt Ann hired him to do some muscle work for her. When I walked into my aunt’s house on Chestnut street there was GoJo introducing himself as I sat down into the kitchen. He was a thin fellow who I noticed had one eye that had been hit with a pebble when he had his lawn cutting business some years earlier. GoJo was a hard worker which always impressed Aunt Ann as anyone would. As I got to know GoJo in time he was always respectful and mindful of people and events around him. In the early days I could feel him still checking me out as far as wanting to reveal what he was about. I found him to be very smart and he had some interesting ideas on life as I got to work with him. GoJo was very strong for a wiry 6′ 2″ body. Now one day GoJo showed up with Ronald McDonald his childhood friend who was raised by GoJo’s mother. Ronald was a springy, fast talking, no-nonsense jumping jack. His father had been a southern minister. Over time I felt that Ronald’s steady knowing-ness blended with his father’s gentle side, balanced his hair-trigger, want to defend you, no bullshit personality that Ronald fine tuned. These aspects are surely needed for a much more aggressively changing city life in Camden. A new generation of people were coming up now and they had their own ideas about how to survive in this gripping city, (right across the ‘city of brotherly love’). I am thinking of the older generation of  civil rights citizens. Both GoJo and Ronald’s families went back to the south, Georgia, North and South Carolina as did their hearts and memories. Sometime I could feel their love for their family and spliced with the sadness for the passing of them as well. I have always appreciated their Southern countryisms  as Ronald and GoJo would sometimes express. Their witticisms spoke of a timeless, universal wisdom that I believe came from their respect and integration with nature and a deep intuitive  knowingness of the animal kingdom learned during hunting seasons, the hidden meanings of the insects realm and the heartfelt freedom that birds always remind us of… that longing of getting away from life’s sticky predicaments. Sometimes many of us have lose touch with our natures.

I ran into Ronald McDonald last week. He told me he had visited GoJo and suggested I should visit him. So a few days later I went over to GoJo’s house and as I walked into his house I entered into the Twilight Zone. A single bed that use to belong to Aunt Ann was on the side wall of his living room. GoJo was always  proud to show me her old wooden bed and that he just bought a new box spring and mattress for it. He has had her bed for at least 15 years or so. On the other side of the front room is a 60 inch flat screen TV, it was playing a World War Two movie of jets bombing some island in the Pacific…Bang..Boom…Crack. Now in front of the television were cases of cigarettes, Kools, Newport, Pell Mell etc.  Below the TV and around the sides were cases of beer, all flavors and all sizes. As GoJo proceeded to talk about old times and such,  someone would occasionally bang on his front window at which point GoJo would get out of his Aunt Ann’s bed and limp over to the window, raise it , pull in a handful of cash and then grab some beer from a small refrigerator under the  front window. I noticed next to the fridge a shelf with small boxes of change… quarters, dimes, nickels, 1 dollar and 5 dollar increments. GoJo would also sell ‘lucys’,  single cigarettes, and of course if the person needed a light, matches were another nickel or dime.

GoJo told me a story about his recently incarcerated, greedy neighbor. His neighbor figured out what GoJo was up to and so he started selling lucys from his own window and he even had the kids selling product in front their steps, in clear daylight. So GoJo not being as greedy as his neighbor and being a true businessman, he suggested to his greedy neighbor that there was enough business for both of them. And in fact that while GoJo slept during the day (GoJo’s hours started around 2 or 3 pm) his greedy neighbor could do business during the day and watch out for GoJo who would be sleeping. And then GoJo could watch out for greedy neighbor and greedy family while they slept. Thus they could watch out and protect each other from crooks and other disturbing events that would occasionally happen. Let me add that while sitting in a stuffy, dusty, smoke laden  chair from the late 20′s I begin to notice numerous bullet holes, cracked plaster, broken objects and even spent rounds of ammunition from past robbery attempts and shootouts by other aspiring businessmen all trying to convince GoJo it was time for him to retire.

Anyway said greedy neighbor said thanks but no thanks. And so GoJo being a wizened individual thought ‘I’ll let nature take its course’ and so one day the cops, the ATF, a dog catcher, and a sheriff,  et al came and took greedy neighbor, wife and kids away, never to be seen again! Apparently greedy neighbor was selling illegal, um-stamped cigarettes which were being shipped up from the south. Greedy neighbor was also selling wine and beer to people on the sidewalk.  Now GoJo was getting his smokes legally, by mail, from an Indian reservation as  well as the beer. It seems that GoJo is part Cherokee and qualifies for such deliveries. I also know that GoJo has also become quite a money lender with some considerable amounts of cash out on the street. What an entrepreneur he has become! As I left GoJo’s house I noticed on his windows FOP (Fraternal Order of Police) decals and other donation labels showing the homeowner to be a solid contributor to various community organizations. GoJo has always been a giving guy. He told me that whenever there is a local benefit running he will often gets calls to contribute. Is this how the Lions or the Rotary started? Live long and prosperous, Mr. John

So one day Dizzy, now 73, is walking through the pharmacy aisle in Walmart and spys a Viagra promo, try one for free and get a 30 day supply…Boing. Now Dizzy being a curious man decides to try them. Weeks go by and Dizzy begins to loose his hearing. Now he is complains to me that he is losing his hearing in his right ear and has made a doctor’s appointment with a Korean ear specialist. So a few daze later I ask him what his results were and he said there were no results from the ear diagnosis, and that the doctor was going to schedule an  x-ray and a cat scan. Daze later Dizzy tell me the Doc found nothing wrong, everything looked clean ad healthy,  but still he has no hearing and no answers. And Dizzy continues to worry about his loss of hearing, asking  me what could be wrong…and I keep saying in response to his questions…What! what! Well Dizzy starts going the manic route and  begins spending money at Wallmart, buying different ear remedies and other concoctions.  And another week or so goes by and he still can’t hear…What?, and he is still getting negative results from the tests. Now one night as Dizzy was writing, he loves to write while watching tv, he hears a Viagra advertisement which

at the end of the ad mentions Viagra’s disclaimers, which are numerous. And what Dizzy faintly hear s is that taking Viagra can reduce or/and cause loss of hearing. What?!!, So now Dizzy stops taking his Viagra, and in a few daze his hearing returnsto normal but now he begins worrying about his over exposure to his many X-rays and MRI exams given to him at the hospitals. My belief and experience about senior citizens and the medical industry is that seniors are given way to many tests and are over prescribed. Seniors are treated like virtual slot machines for the hospitals which in part are due to the insane malpractice insurance and we end up with compromises between wellness,money and fear. Most senior’s, and I am one of them, intuitively know that these tests and invasions are not necessary, We are treated as a walking casino in this greedy industry. When we are removed from our familiar environment and enter a hospital or medical center we usually become vulnerable to that system and are more likely to compromise our own power and knowningness. Mr. John