Posts: 8

1. Nothin' Ain't Worth Nothin' But It's Free

   19.Apr.08, 17:59 EDT
   
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   I think a lot about freedom these days - not so much about how much I have but more about how little of it I really have.  I don't watch television anymore, don't read newspapers or most magazines, and I don't dig through the various information sources on the internet all that much.  No news is good news, so the old saying goes, but the fact that I don't know what's going on doesn't change anything.  Old age is taking its toll on me these days, and I'm starting to feel like a stranger here.  I'd do something about it, but I'm not free to take action on what really ails me.
   
   Loneliness is something that comes with ageing, and I'm starting to understand where it comes from.  Old people lose their connections to the real world, and that's the one we all must live in.  By real world, I mean the right now world as it is.  Forget how it ought to be because we can't live there.  We have to live here, in the real world, and its a place that's increasingly alien to me.  I've lost my ties to this modern world, and this didn't come about because I don't understand it.  In fact, I understand it all too well . . . and that's mostly why I feel like a stranger here.
   
   Kris Kristopherson's song Me and Bobby McGee has the classic line, "Freedom's just another word for nothin left to lose.  Nothin ain't worth nothin but it's free."  I always thought that with old age came more freedom, like the freedom of not having to go to work or do all the things associated with it.  But the reality of it is that us old folks have less freedom because so much of the real world we live in is unavailable to us.  Oh, it's out there; we just can't get to it anymore.  We're restricted by physical limitations, maybe even mental ones.  I can't watch movies anymore, for instance, because I can't understand the dialogue.  Even if I can hear it, I don't pick up the jargon, the modern age talk.  I can't read most works of fiction because my eyesight is limited, and I get headaches, and I'm sick of trying to find glasses that really work for me.
   
   But, you know, there is one freedom that comes with old age, and maybe it's the kind Kristopherson was talking about in his song.  As I get older, and more disenchanted with the world around me, the less I care.  In fact, I don't really give a shit about much of anything these days, and there's a special kind of freedom in that.  I getting accustomed to being a bungler, clumsy, and forgetful to a flaw.  I'm used to being slow-witted some days, messy, and in pain . . . so used to it that I don't really care anymore.  Oh, I rage against it, curse like hell when I drop something or stumble over things.  But I don't really give a rat's ass anymore . . . and that gives me some freedom I've been longing for.  This all comes from knowing I don't have a lot to lose.  Most of what a younger man could lose is already gone for me.
   
   "So, why don't you have a driver's license, sir?" the officer asks. 
   
   "Well, officer, since I decided to let other folks worry about all that shit, I just don't bother going through all the irritation of getting one," I say.
   
   "But, sir, I'm going to have to write you a ticket," the cop says.
   
   "That's OK, I don't mind. I don't pay 'em anyway."
   
   "But if you don't pay, you just might go to jail."
   
   "That might be good.  Maybe somebody down at the jail knows how to play checkers, and I don't have nobody around to play with these days.  And the food's free down there, ain't it?  And I've got this long list of medicines I'm taking, and somebody'll have to get that for me while I'm in the clink . . . but I don't mind going," I said.
   
   And you know, I had that every discussion not more than a year ago.  The cop just stared at me a few minutes, then shook his head and walked off.  He did tell me to get a license, that he'd have to haul me in the next time . . . but I didn't go to jail, and he didn't write me up.
   
   If you're thirty years old, try doing that.  There's a good lesson in freedom in it.
   
   C. Duhon, 4/19/08

2. Riding Shotgun on the Trail to Utopia

   16.Apr.08, 09:08 EDT
   
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   L.C. stopped off for a visit here at the D&E not long ago.  He didn't stay long this time, just one night but long enough for us to have a talk about what he's been doing with himself.  He's working on a new book, he says, called Riding Shotgun on the Trail to Utopia - a collection of poems and short stories.  Maybe I haven't mentioned this before, but L.C. is a big time political pundit and social commentator.  That figures, being as how he's a former political science and sociology professor. 
   
   Reading L.C. poetry is an exercise in restraint for me.  It's not that I don't  understand it, and I'm not saying that I don't like it.  I'm not much of a poetry critic because I'm not qualified to be, but that boy can sure write some weird stuff.  Getting nailed down to a deep discussion with him makes me feel like . . . like . . . well, like I'm not up to the task.  Either he knows to much, or I know to little, but somehow my mind just doesn't grab hold of what he's thinking and saying.  I'm practical, more your common sense guy, and he's more of a dreamer and a schemer.  And he's in command of lots of words I'm not easy with.
   
   But . . . I love listening to him talk about history and philosophy and things like that.  His new book, he says, is about what we dream about, what we'd like for the world around us to be like.  And the poems and stories in the book are about people who tried to make a dream come true . . . meaning, it's about struggle and sacrifice . . . and hope.  We all need that, he says - the hope of a better life.  But he says the book is also about people who wanted the wrong things, that it points out the difference between a dream that's fulfilling in spiritual ways and those that are simple for self-gratification that comes from ownership.  Man's desire to possess, to have, is at the heart of much of his dispair, L.C. says.
   
   One of the stories in the book is about a young man who is heir to a massive ranch.  As a boy just belt high to his grandpa, he stands on a mesa with the old man, gazing out over and endless sea of prairie.  "How far does our land go, grandpa?" the boy asks.
   
   The old man smiles down at the kid, then says, "Hold your arm out in front of you and then point with your index finger at yonder horizon." 
   
   The boy did this, held his arm straight out in front of him and sighted down it, using his finger as a sight.  "Is that how far we own?" he asks.
   
   "Yes, just as far as what you see at the end of your finger," he said, then gave the kid another big smile. 
   
   Twenty years later, after the grandfather had passed away, that same young man stood on the same mesa with his ageing father and related the story to him, telling him of how his grandpa had him point his finger at the distant horizon.  His dad laughed, then said, "Yeah, he did the same thing with me when I was a kid.  Do you understand now what he was telling you then?"
   
   "Yes, I think so.  I think he was telling me that all I really own or can hope to own stops at the end of my finger.  I didn't understand his words at first, but I figured it out when I got older," the young cowboy said.
   
   "Me too," his dad said, then added, "Maybe it's time I rode up here with my grandson."
   
   Yeah, L.C.'s a strange feller for sure . . . but damn, he comes up with a good one once in a while.  I look forward to his visits.
   
   C. Duhon, 4/16/08

3. If Forrest Gump Had Been President, How Would He Rank?

   13.Apr.08, 10:43 EDT
   
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   Only a warped mind would think of the things that go through my head from time to time, but lately I've been wondering how Forrest Gump would fair among American presidents?  I looked up some rankings of all the presidents ever elected to that office, and am convinced that Forrest Gump should have been president . . . if, of course, he had really existed.  Author Winston Groom invented him about thirty years ago, and the screenwriter Eric Roth made him famous as a movie character. 
   
   Forrest Gump had a IQ of only 75, but he's one of the most loveable characters ever to appear in the movies . . . and one of the most quoted.  He quotes his mama in the movie, saying, "Stupid is as stupid does."   Some movie observers even say that the movie itself had some minor role in promoting the Republican revolution that came about shortly after the movie came out . . . that Forest himself represents conservative values.  I agree.  Of course Forrest represents conservative values . . . because that's about all a moron or idiot can represent.  Myself, I think the stupid is as stupid does comment was a prediction of George W. Bush's performance in the White House.
   
   Now, here's the the part of the story that's both sad . . . and a little uplifting.  We as Americans like stupid.  It's one of the most marketable things in our society, one of them most highly sought after.  Getting drunk, for instance, is stupid . . . but we've got millions of folks doing it, and I'm not talking about just a few million.  We do all sorts of destructive things to our bodies . . . in the name of fashion or art . . . that are completely stupid.  We like stupid books, movies, television . . . and even stupid blogs on the internet.  In fact, this might be one of the dumbest blogs I ever wrote, but what the hell, I'm as shallow as anyone when it comes to getting a read or two.
   
   Back to Forrest.  Like most other Americans, I love Forrest Gump.  I even like what he stands for, which is - stupid is as stupid does, but you don't have to do stupid things just because you're dumb.  Now, did that make any sense at all to you?  If so, then you probably would've voted for Forrest Gump, had he ever existed and could have run for president.  What the hell!  I probably would vote for him too.  It's not that I like stupid, it's just that I like people who can recognize it when they see it.  Maybe Forrest should've also said, "It takes one to know one."  Or, did he say it and I missed it?
   
   Most people think George Washington, Abe Lincoln, and F. D. Roosevelt belong in the great president class.  Add to that group Thomas Jefferson and Teddy Roosevelt, and you get not more that five all-American greats.  There's a few near greats, like Harry Truman and Woodrow Wilson, but the total number of great to excellent presidents would be no more than a dozen.  But what if Forrest Gump had made it to the White House, what then?  Well, I think he belongs somewhere in the top ten, for sure . . . if for no other reason, he would've recognized his limitations and therefore acted accordingly.  And he couldn't have been any worse than the current president.  A recent poll of historians showed that 98 percent of them think he's a bad president, and that 61 percent think he's the worst in the history of the country.  Undoubtedly, George is not quite as loveable as Forrest Gump . . . or as observant.
   
   C. Duhon, 4/13/08f
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4. Life Don't Have To Mean Nothing At All

   11.Apr.08, 08:43 EDT
   
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   I'm a big fan of country songwriter Tom T. Hall, especially his song called Life Don't Have To Mean Nothing At All.  Somehow that particular song slipped by me, and I didn't notice it until I bought a Joe Nichols record a few years back and discovered it.  Maybe a lot of other people missed it too because I can't remember it getting a lot of notice.  Then again, I don't listen to radio much and don't know what's hot and what's not.  Still, I love the message in the song.
   
   Most  people believe their lives have meaning, one way or another.  Some folks think life's just mostly drudgery and shitty business, but that's the way it's supposed to be.  Life's a bitch and then you die - you know the old saying.  But they still think it means something, and I'm with Tom's song when it comes to that.  If folks would quit trying to find some meaning to life and just get on with living it, they'd be a lot better off.  In one line in the song, Tom suggests we be good to our fathers and mothers . . . and we might even consider being good to one another.  I like that.
   
   Like most other people, though, I still think my life should have purpose.  I don't think it's predestined, but I think some purpose can come of life.  I'm not a religious person, so I don't believe that God has created a place in this world for me, that he has plans for me, and that my purpose is to discover that plan.  Instead, I've always believed more in the chaos theory, that the universe is mostly chance and change.  The best I can do with a situation like that is create purpose by planning, by trying to predict what will happen and what I should do about it.  God may not have given me specific purpose, but he did give me a good mind to explore and discover with . . . and he set me loose in this wonderful environment of chance and change free to choose from a multitude of paths available to me.
   
   Life would indeed be simple if it were like Robert Frost's concept of two roads converging.  And yes, taking the seemingly more difficult road sometimes turns out to be what gives purpose to our lives.  But I'm starting to believe that I've been wrong about the multitude of paths concept, that life may just be one road.  It's not a matter of chosing roads; it's a matter of learning the road you're on.  I've found that in my life, much of it has been spent not just trying to find my way, but in retracing my steps in search of what I lost along the way.  Sometimes, a new road is nothing more than the same old road in reverse, going the other way.  Backward isn't always the wrong way, not if you've been on a road with a dangerous destination.
   
   Maybe we're all a little unsure of whether or not we're headed the right way, but there's some comfort in knowing there's lots of road behind us.  We can always go back, and I've learned that in doing so, we don't find the road the same.  It changes because we discover things we missed the first time, or the second, or however many times it takes to know the road . . . and understand it.  Where we get in trouble most often is in trying to find shortcuts, and easy road to where we want to be.  And there it is, finally, the real issue here - where you want to be is not always where you need to be.
   
   And finally, what do we do when we end us somewhere that's not what we planned on, not what we wanted?  Maybe going back isn't an option, so then what?  Well, this is when we learn what purpose is all about, what should be done.  A well adjusted person would probably say, "Well, this sure isn't where I planned on being, but I'm here, and I need to do the best with what I've got."  And if you take stock of what you have, what you brought with you to this unwanted place in your life, you'll probably find that you've got most of what you need to make the best of it.  You might even build something desirable out of it.
   
   These thoughts come to mind this morning because I find myself at a place not of my liking.  I didn't really plan on being here, at least not the way I got here, but I'm here now.  I'm old.  I didn't plan on being old, so I'm a stranger here, and I'm homesick for times and places that are back down the road behind me.  And I can't go back.  So what do I do now?  I can't quit the road, not just yet . . . but I'm sure not liking my new place much.  It seems like I got here all at once, didn't pay close enough attention to what was going on around me.  Damn!  It's sure creepy place.
   
   I've figured it out, though, and I'm starting to get a little antsy.  I'm here, and I can't go back, so I'm thinking about poking around some.  Yeah, I'll explore this new place, and maybe I'll make some worthwhile discoveries.  I don't think there's a map, so I'll just make my own.  Maybe it's all still chance and change . . . but I've still got purpose.  So if I disappear for a while, don't worry.  I'm just out looking the place over.
   
   C. Duhon, 4/11/08
   

5. Turds in the Water

   03.Apr.08, 09:33 EDT
   
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   I was leaning against a fence post and feeling lower than whale shit, when my neighbor pulled up in his old pickup.  He must've picked up on my mood right quick 'cause he walked toward me, saying, "You look like forty miles of torn up road.  Who died?"  Plem's a good man, and a good friend, but I didn't feel much like talking.  I was going through one of those recovery periods when you're trying to get over doing something really stupid - you know, those hangovers from an experience that makes you shudder and grit your teeth when you think about it.
   
   "Well, nobody died, but my brain has done gone plumb to hell," I said.
   
   "Join the club, pardner.  It happens to all of us old farts," he said. 
   
   "Yeah, maybe so.  I reckon it don't matter much now.  It's water under the bridge."
   
   "I don't know, Cletus.  I've often noticed that water under the bridge has lots of turds floating in it.  And turds do float, you know, and that means that they're likely to wash up on somebody's bank somewheres.  That's the way it goes with stupid shit - it's usually something somebody has to clean up, one way or another."
   
   "Well, damn!  You sure know how to cheer a feller up," I said, then threw down my hammer in disgust.
   
   "So what'd you do that's so bad?  In other words, what kind of turds have you been putting in the water?" he asked, then chuckled.
   
   "Aw, hell, it's not just one thing.  It seems like everything I've done lately has been backasswards, wrong, or just downright stupid.  I just can't get my head out of my ass, it seems, and the river of crap I've been causing might take an small army to clean up.  For one thing, I went to town yesterday with about $800 in an envelope to put in the bank.  I stuck the envelope in a pocket somewhere, but when I got to the bank, it was nowhere to be found.  I damn near stripped down to my drawers in the bank, but I never did find the damn thing," I said.
   
   "Yeah, that's pretty bad for sure, but it'll probably turn up.  If you're like me, you just thought you stuck it in a pocket.  What probably happened is that you laid it down somewheres in the house, and just forgot it."
   
   "What's bad about it is that it wasn't my money.  I was depositing the money for Bubba to save him a trip to town, and now I've got to tell him that I went and lost eight hundred bucks.  And that's money I'll have to give him 'cause it's not his fault the money didn't make it to the bank."
   
   "I'd still retrace my tracks, make sure I didn't put it somewhere else," Plem said, then headed back for his truck.
   
   I watched him drive off, thinking to myself that I'd already done that.  I'd looked everywhere for the envelope.  And so, I decided to go on back to the house and tell Bubba that I'd lost his money, that I'd replace it the next time I went to town.  Back at the house, I found that Bubba wasn't there.  I looked outside and saw that his truck was gone.  So, I went to the refrigerator to get a drink of something cold . . . and I opened the door . . . and there in the fridge right beside the milk was an envelope.  I snatched it up and opened it, hoping to find the eight hundred bucks.  Instead, I found this note:
   
             I've heard of cold cash, but this is ridiculous.  So, what's my money doing in the ice box?  Anyway, I found it, went to town to deposit it.
                                                                                                                           Bubba
   
   And so, I wrote a note under his and stuck it back in the fridge, which read:
   
             Thanks for fishing my turds out of the water. 
   
                                                     Cletus
   
   I'm sure I'll have to explain that one later.  My moods better now 'cause I'm relieved he found the money . . . but I'm still feeling stupid.
   
   
   Cletus, 4/3/08

6. Tres Cuentos

   17.Jan.08, 09:15 EST
   
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   Cuentos is Spanish for tale, or story.  Tres Cuentos, therefore, means three tales, which is exactly what you'll find in Cletus Duhon's first book.  It should be ready next month, and we hope to follow that one with a second Tres Cuentos, called Volume Two, a few months after that.  The three stories you'll find in the first book are The Duck Ranch, First Frost, and Last Licks.  The Duck Ranch and Last Licks were written some time ago, and in fact are the first and second books in the series The Adventures of Bubba and Cletus.  First Frost, the most lengthy of the tree stories, was written more recently. 
   
   The Duck Ranch, the very first Cletus Duhon story, is about an attempt on two aging cowboy's part to raise a herd of domestic ducks.  This story sets the stage for all other adventures in that it introduces readers to the central characters - Bubba Espinoza and Cletus Duhon.  Bubba wants to raise ducks, and Cletus is a reluctant participant in this story.  The duck ranching enterprise fails when the ducks, lead by a maverick drake named Max, turn into a nuisance flock of several thousand destructive quackers.  State authorities are calle in to capture the ducks, and after being only partially successful at that, they decide to exterminate the remaining ducks.  This leaves Bubba and Cletus with some hard choices as to what should be done with the several thousand remaining ducks.  With the help of an unusual character named Sundance, they lead the ducks on a daring escape from the hill country down to the Mexican border.  In the end, the ducks escape, but not until after a near disaster on the highway.  If you like ducks, or radio controlled model planes, or seeing state authorities being outfoxed, or unusual characters - you'll like this story.
   
   First Frost is a story about chile farming in southern New Mexico . . . and it is about a courageous woman dying with cancer and at the same time fighting off an unscrupulous rancher.  It is also a tender love story - Cletus's first real romance, and his last.  This story is about a drug smuggling rancher who is intent on taking over a small chile farmer's fields, aided by a band of renegade four-wheel scooter riding cowboys.  Cletus gets romantically involved with Talomai Smith, the owner of the chile farm, and this pulls them into the fray.  Bubba and Cletus are reunited with an old WWII buddy there in a small desert town.  Together, they devise a scheme to terrorize the renegade cowboys, face down the rancher, and save Talomai's chile crops . . . her final crop.  This story deals with the highly sensitive issue of dying and death, and about how several people with strong character traits handle it.  The story also features a medicine lady, an old Mexican woman who can work wonders with drugs . . . and maybe even fly.  This story has all kinds of interesting twists, and surprises.
   
   Last Licks is a hilarious story about a rodeo clown act that featured a chimpanzee named L.B. as it's star attraction.  Also featured in the story is a goofy character named Slick Siphert, the barrel man, and a souped up yellow doodlebug car used in the clown act.  The big event in this story is a long distance, high speed chase involving L.B. the chimp, driving the hotrod Volkswagen bug, chased by a procession of cops through the hills of rural Texas.  A town drunk named Salty gets the ride of his life, and L.B. ends up winning a stock car race in the end of the story.  The story, however, has a serious theme, and that's the unpleasant but necessary coping process of men dealing with middle age and the end of their rodeo careers.
   
   Tres Cuentos is set up to introduce readers to an entire series called The Adventures of Bubba and Cletus.  In all, there are about twenty of these stories.  Some of the forthcoming books might include more than three stories, but we'll start the series with three and see how that works out.
   
   Keep an eye out . . . 'cause they're coming!
   
   C. Duhon, 1/17/08
   
   

7. L.C. and the Bardbug

   06.Jan.08, 10:32 EST
   
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   I started a story fifteen years ago called L.C. and the Bardbug and never finished it.  That's par for the course with me.  My legacy, if I leave one at all, will be that of unfinished projects.  I'm not a quitter, mind you, just slow.  I plan on finishing everything I start, regardless of how long ago I started it.  That particular unfinished story is still rattling around in my head, and I'll probably finish it one of these days . . . if I live long enough.
   
   L.C. stands for Lonesome Cowboy, and in the story he's just a working cowboy who gets bitten by the bardbug.  In other words, he starts writing poetry.  Yeah, cowboy poetry, and he was fairly good at it - good enough that cowboy poetry gatherings started inviting him to come and present his poems.  My story was about how all this performing changed his life.  I could write about this first hand back then because I was attending and performing at a lot of cowboy poetry gatherings . . . and was meeting and making friends with lots of guys just like L.C.
   
   Yeah, I knew L.C., and partly because he's based on my own experiences with cowboy poetry, storytelling, and just being a part of that group for a lot of years.  The best friends I've ever had came out of that association, and we're talking friendships that still impact my life on a regular basis.  When it gets right down to it, Cletus Duhon the writer gets half his stories from those experiences and associations. 
   
   Anyway, just to make sure L.C. doesn't get pushed to the back of all the unfinished projects I've got going, I'll tell you a little about what's coming out of the story (when it's done).  You already know the story line, a cowboy on the gathering circuit, but the underlying theme of the story is about how we all deal with loneliness.  A cowboy works perfectly in this scheme of things because nobody in modern society craves individuality more than he does . . . but at the same time, the individualistic cowboy needs as badly as anyone to be connected - a part of something that can defeat his feelings of alienation.
   
   Everyone feels alienated from time to time, especially people who work hard at maintaining their individuality.  We live in a world that preaches teamwork, belonging, connectedness, and membeship.  We pay lots of lip service to individuality, but we do damn little to really encourage it.  If you don't believe me, express your individuality by doing something that goes against the grain with accepted societal standards and see what happens.  The protectors of group interests (and even the interests of other individuals) will be on your ass like white on rice.
   
   I'm not bad-mouthing the need for membership in groups, etc. here.  We all need our social institutions - government, churches, clubs, community, etc.  I'm not sure any of us would be able to live without them because we need the association.  In other words, we need other people because we're social animals.  And we need them because we have a craving to share.  We don't just need to share our successes, but we need to share out failures.  Friends are important to us all, just as family is, or as a church group might be.  We need a place to take our joy . . . and our grief, our hope and our anger.  Alcoholics Anonymous works because it's a place you can walk in with a load of anger and walk out with some serenity.  A problem shared is a problem halved, so goes the old saying.  In short - we all need other people.
   
   Most of my stories are about people caught up in situations with other people.  Sometimes they're a downer because they show the down side of people, but in the end I always try to come up with an uplifting conclusion.  Even the bad associations we have with other people can often turn out to be beneficial to us.  We can't push back all people because a few bad people came after us the cruel or evil intent.  Life is all about shuckin' and choosin', as one old time told me years ago.  The secret of a good life is in learning what to keep and what to throw out.
   
   And that's why I write.  When we learn what worth keeping or what should be thrown out, then we ought to share that with other folks.  It keeps down the feelings of alienation, the loneliness . . . and that's why I write.
   
   C. Duhon, 1/6/08

8. Same Old Me

   01.Jan.08, 22:44 EST
   
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   It's just me, Cletus Duhon, starting a company profile of my own here on moli.  You might know me from Campo Madrone where I've got a profile, but that site's getting crowded now.  I'm just spreading my wings and trying to spread more bullshit . . . 'cause that's what I do best. 
   
   We might be a month getting this proflile looking good and attracting some attention.  I've got a book coming out before long, Good Lord willing and the creek don't rise.  We're calling it Tres Cuentos, and it will be the first published book from me . . . and will feature three stories out of The Adventures of Bubba and Cletus.  I plan to get out at least two Cletus Duhon books this year, so keep checking back with us from time to time to see what's happening with them.
   
   See you down the road,
   
   C. Duhon, 1/1/08