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From Sunnyside's Lousy Book

Santa Barbara

The next day I quit my new job, picked up my pay check, and towed my trailer to Santa Barbara. When I pulled into the storage yard I was approached by a few of the guys who were living there. They told me that if I was planning to move in, that it was all over and the place was getting shut down. I was informed that the cops had just left after arresting the landlord for dealing crack cocaine and crank.

My question was: what about the money I paid for rent? I’d just paid for rent the night before. Once they learned that I’d already paid for rent, they said I was welcome to park there, but there was no guaranty to how long I would be able to stay.
       I had to distance myself from one of the local bums there, because he would start out asking for coffee in the morning and continue on with everything else if I let him. The bust cleared out a lot of the low-life and I picked up the place a bit.

The next day I ran across Kaley O’Malley who’s a news reporter for the local ABC Channel 3 News station. She was sitting in her news van while it was parked out in front of a movie theater on State Street. She was covering a film festival that was sponsored by Chrysler. I approached her and asked, “Do you know what front page news is?” She said she has to report on whatever she is told to report about, so I gave her a 54 page second edition of Tightwad and even got her to write not only her name and number 805-882-3930 on the manuscript box, but she also volunteered the name of Kelly Freeman who was the assignment editor of KEYT at the same number.
       I did my spiel at high speed and didn’t even loose her. I said “I’m sorry I’m talking so fast but I know you have deadlines to meet and I don’t want to take much of your time.
       I was surprised when she said it was good that I spoke fast. My guess is that she either wanted to get rid of me fast, or as I felt it’s a way journalist can tell if someone can speak clearly when interviewed.

The next day I needed to fetch the serial number to my phone and it from inside my trailer, back at the yard. As I drove up to the gate, I discovered a camera man with his camera mounted on top of a tripod, shooting the yard through the narrow opening in the gate. I asked him if he was covering the drug bust and he said, “Yes.” I opened the gate which allowed him to step inside the gate for a better angle as I drove up towards my trailer with my bed parked in front of it. It was obvious he was capturing me and my truck with his video camera and I wondered if he would zoom in on the patent numbers on the back of it.

I was considering turning him on to a Tightwad edition as I drove out, but as I drove back out of the gate, the Camera man was on a cell phone talking so somebody. When I heard him say, “Sunnyside is here -- I got him with his truck,” I knew I didn’t need to give him anything.
       When I watched the news coverage later that evening, I ex-pected to see me, my truck, and its flatbed in the coverage because while he filmed the clip, he couldn’t have missed it because my truck was parked just about as much in the middle of the yard as it could have gotten. Even though he couldn’t have shot the yard without getting it into the shot, they had edited the video so much you couldn’t even see the lot. The clip they used was of a shot done by zooming in on a satellite dish on top of a motor home almost 50 yard behind my payload bed. The only thing of mine that was shown was my ladders on top of my latter rack and the airless lines wound up on it.
       It was funny how the news coverage tried to make it look like the dealers were running surveillance on the cops just because they confiscated a few walkie talkies, a spotting scope, and a hunting rifle. They said this was all done over an estimated $3,000.00 worth of drugs per month. Three and four days later on a Sunday; everyone was out of jail.
       March 1st, I picked up on a new cell phone and had it hooked up to a local number and the next day I went around to the paint stores and got some phone numbers and posted my own do-hickie-notice.
       It’s funny how all of a sudden my old phone decided to work just fine once it was replaced. (Maybe it’s just that the service in Santa Barbara is better.) Rule 26.
       Funny how a buyer for a private book store thought my book was interesting, but felt that they couldn’t sell it there. However; he bought a $3.00 Tightwad for himself.
       Unfortunately there were only three television stations available there without cable. One nice thing was that they lack car commercials except for some stupid ones sponsored by local dealers. They had their share of local politicians advertising for the positions available and I was glad when the elections were over. Though the auto manufactures were saying that they were cutting back on advertising, I noticed that over time, the factory sponsored car commercials became quite common in Santa Barbara.
       At times I felt like I would have rather been able to live be in Oxnard or Ventura, because of the larger choice of TV stations and less congestion when going anywhere. SB is a beautiful place and people are more intellectual, but what does it matter when everyone thinks they know all about me already. I would almost settle for a little more anonymity over selling more books. I got tired of hearing about the money of mine that is out there but they don’t want me to know about it. From what I hear, they must be building my truck in Great Britain.
       March 3rd, I sold No. 50, the last 75 page Tightwad to a lady in Goleta. I think it’s safe to say I sell more to minorities than construction workers. Kinna funny if you ask me.
       At times I felt like I would have rather been able to live be in Oxnard or Ventura, because of the larger choice of TV stations and less congestion when going anywhere. SB is a beautiful place and people are more intellectual, but what does it matter when everyone thinks they know all about me already. I would almost settle for a little more anonymity over selling more books. I got tired of hearing about the money of mine that is out there but they don’t want me to know about it. From what I hear, they must be building my truck in Great Britain.
       March 3rd, I sold No. 50, the last 75 page Tightwad to a lady in Goleta. I think it’s safe to say I sell more to minorities than construction workers. Kinna funny if you ask me.

       3-8-02: Got wet today. It was the first time surfing in quite awhile. I was paddled out in about two hours, but did better than I expected.
       3-11-02: Had a nice surprise before my paddle out. A girl with a nice pair of bare breast was planted in my path. She seemed to enjoy having them out in the air.
       I did a little better and actually got a decent ride out of a wave. I lasted about five hours, but for the last two -- I was just getting in the way. It was either that or every time I caught a wave, someone was in my bottom turn. Crowds suck.
       3-12-02: Within the first few weeks of being in Santa Barbara, I made a run to LA to look for a more cost effective printer to print out my next run of books. Not only that, but since I had found a few addresses to publishers and agents it seemed like a good opportunity to personally blanket the town with a few of my books so the exact words would reach them. I realized that most of the books would hit the trash cans but I was hoping the unsolicited material, might grab someone’s attention since the material is very different than what appears on their desks every day.
       Once I arrived in LA looking for a more competitive copy shop, the reality of Stupid Rule Number One applied, because there wasn’t anyone that would even come close to the prices I got from Tom Obranovich at University Copy Service in Santa Cruz. I did how ever find a sucker to do the signature at 2 cents per copy. I realized he didn’t have the high speed printer and counter space needed to perform such a print run as mine, but the price convinced me to give them a try. But just as I figured; when I went back to pick the order, the guy had quite a mess going on. He had miss run a signature and their main printer went belly up. They ended up having to use their backup machine which resulted in some funky print and they’d managed to leave a half a dozen pages out of the Tightwad. Just as they say, “You get what you pay for.” But the story doesn’t stop there. The owner of the shop tried to double the price we had we agreed to. Even though they had to stay an extra two hours late that night, I was willing to walk out empty handed but I did however settle for the $10.00 extra that I had planned on tipping the guy anyway. It ended up being over 2,300 copies for 70 bucks.
       3-13-02: Swell increased, but so did the wind and the crowds. More bare tities.
       3-15-02: Woke up to a bunch of cops out in the yard. I got dressed, then went outside and asked them if their job was saving the lives of others. They said, “Yes.” Then I asked, “If I was to tell you of a dozen people who were going to be killed tomorrow. Isn’t it your job to try to save them?”
       They just looked at each other expecting one of them to come up with a suitable answer. I said, “Well I’ve got this book that you guys can have that has all the evidence you need, because it only takes common sense and the ability to put two and two together to understand it.” Of course they didn’t want to accept the book and they brushed me off by telling me that they would save one at a time, and -- to step aside with an officer by the name of Kushner. He was modeling the shaved head appearance. He asked the standard questions as to what my name was and asked for some identification. I did get him to take the issue of Tight-wad for a moment but only long enough to take a look at it. He wanted to give it back to me but I stepped back from him in an effort to leave him stranded with it but he then just stepped over to my truck and said, I’ll leave it here for you,” while placing it on the hood.
       I continued with my spiel by telling them about the attempts on my life and even made them look at my teeth; stating that even though I’m the inventor of the truck -- that they had taken notice to -- that I couldn’t even afford to take care of my teeth. I said, “They put methamphetamines into my drinking water to cause me sleep deprivation and it caused serious problems with gum disease. There was no telling of what kind of things they’ve put into the stuff I eat and drink!”
       They must not have been able to handle my yelling at them because they all began to put on their rubber gloves as if they were going to send me off to another mental institution. I said, “Don’t worry about me. I’m d___ m___. Save the other smart guys,” and I walked away.
       I couldn’t help but notice that the group of cops I saw there had their share of minorities. One of the undercover cops had the Rastafarian look going for him and it wasn’t long before another car pulled up and out jumped a woman of Spanish accent. As I gathered my surf gear together and placed it in my truck, I was voicing my opinion of how I thought that they were a bunch of idiots.
       The Spanish gal and a few of her comrades walked over to an area about ten yards away from my truck to get a better look at it from the side. The gal was making some cracks and laughing. By then I was really pissed off and I rolled down my passenger window and yelled from my driver’s seat, “You don’t even know what you are laughing about. You’re a bunch of fucking morons!”

On March 15th the cops came by and towed a stolen trailer away. They had arrested the landlord and confiscated his trailer because it had an awning on it from the stolen trailer.
       The next day officer Kushner dropped by looking for the guy who belonged to the stolen trailer and the van parked next to it. Gee, doesn’t that mean the cops expect the landlord to snitch off the guy who had the stolen trailer? I thought the guy introduced himself to me as Carlos, but the neighbors said it was Homie, and Kushner said it was Juan. Tell me, who would you believe? The cops were connecting the white van which was parked next to the trailer for their culprit. Do you think that is a solid piece of evidence? Do you think the thieves would want the getaway vehicle registered in their own name? No -- not thieves – I know because I’ve known some and changing the title over is the last thing they want to do. Then if that was the case, they would have to go by the records of the landlord for the proof now wouldn’t they? Yeah – good luck I say.
       Well, I’ll be the first to tell you that the receipt book would have no proof connecting the trailer to the van, especially when it was just one of his buddies who just traded an awning for some rent. I’d be willing to bet that there wasn’t any record of any of the vehicles or trailers in question.
       I laughed when Kushner told me about the predicament. I said, “You mean you guys didn’t just stakeout the place and wait for him to show up? You just came and got the trailer?”
       He said, “Yeah – we were too busy.”
       Gee it must have been a lot of coffee and donuts, because they had at least four undercover cops and at least a half a dozen in uniforms standing around looking at an empty trailer.
       And there is a question I would like to have answered: Who donated $20,000.00 to the police department of Santa Barbara for high powered weapons? The news station said the donation was anonymous. If you’re like me, you’d want to know the source of where the money came from, especially when the concern is high power weapons. I’m pretty sure already, because I know of a fresh money source that had just come to town.

When I stopped by the ICI paint store to post my phone number on March 19th, I could tell that there was some commotion about me and my truck prior to walking through the door. I tried to ignore it but as I was walking out the door I got a few chuckles from an old man behind the counter. I said, “You don’t know what you are talking about.” I decided to fetch a Tightwad out of my truck for them.
       I told him that I was leaving it with them because I had no doubt that there would be phony rumors about me sooner or later and that the book would tell them why. As I was about to pitch the story, another customer came in. I told him to go ahead and help the customer as I stood to the side waiting for them to be free again. Moments later as I was about to leave another painter approached the counter and said to the older man, “No one wants to hire the guy because he’s insane.”
       Though the old man behind the counter had said that he didn’t read, I’m sure the painter with the phony rumor got him interested in reading my book just to determine whether I was crazy or not.
       A few days later I discovered the missing pages left out by the printer in LA so I went back to switch the book with one having the pages about Tom, Dick and Harry, and the fire. I found out the book had been making the rounds. One guy had taken it home for his extended weekend just to read it. Then when it made it back to the store and some contractor took it home to read. I decided to leave another copy as a backup. It only makes sense that the phony rumors are working in my favor because they’d get people interested in reading my books.
       I’m sure the same kind of thing was going on with the ones I’d dropped off in Hollywood.

Two or three weeks after I’d made the rounds in Hollywood, I decided to make another to see if anyone had any interest as well as make a few new contacts that I didn’t get around to earlier.
       At one of the larger agencies, I got the opportunity to meet with the main man. Apparently the books I dropped off earlier did get lost, but I brought a couple more just in case. Right off the bat the guy said that he was no longer interested in books, but acted like he expected me to give him some convincing pitch. He wouldn’t take the time to read the Hollywood pitch on the back of my book. He only wished me luck. I thought of him as a self serving bastard and a fool at that.
       At another agency I had the opportunity to speak to an agent, only because the receptionist wasn’t there. He’d noticed me sitting in a lounge and asked if I was waiting for someone. He was a younger man at the big agency and though he said that he hadn’t seen or heard anything about my books, he was still polite and listened to my spiel. Since I knew he didn’t have much time for me I found myself rushed and my pitch was quite scattered. Though I was sure he understood most of it, he could only say that they would get in touch with me if they felt interested in my book. I realized that they deal in scripts mostly and I was quite sure that they would have just tossed the books just as the other agency. The problem I have with meeting as such is that it’s hard to get someone interested in your books when you have to make sure they understand I might not be just a phone call away. With someone like me, they have to be determined to get in contact with me and stating so, I’m afraid is just a turn off.
       3-24-01: I met two construction workers this week who couldn’t even read one paragraph from the back of my book. Boy, what a sorry bunch of tradesmen. They wanted to know what happened to my truck -- I handed him my book so he could read the back and he couldn’t read it worth a shit. He got pissed off because I wouldn’t tell him how the truck got smashed up and treated me as if I was a moron – when he was just an idiot.
       At the end of March I landed job Mediterranean Builders out of Ventura. It was a job painting a school and I almost didn’t make it through the first day. I had a Greek guy for a foreman whom laid all his philosophy shit on me trying to tell me how great America was. As you can imagine that didn’t go over very well with me.
       I started on a Saturday and was betting they would have a paycheck for me on Monday because I felt I needed to keep my personal life to myself. I figured I was good for a few more days before I quit because by law it was suppose to be a prevailing wage job, but their reason for the cut in pay was the excuse that they were doing it by the square foot. I call it illegal and I hoped for a call from a different contractor.
       As it turned out they were using latex on metal doors and a hokey method if you ask me; especially around salt water. The Greek had me put a coat of white latex primer on the doors as a base coat, but I knew that even two coats of deep tint base finish, (Which is basically a clear.) wouldn’t cover very well. As for me, I would have been tinting the primer ½ tint of the finish color in the first place.
       As it went, we applied the first coat of finish and I knew we were expecting a miracle if it was to cover well enough with the second coat. While I was applying the second coat, I was doctoring the paint by adding a paint additive I kept handy in my truck. The additive aids in the flow-out of the paint which helps the paint cover better. I was experiencing a problem with dried chunks of paint in my material. The chunks were streaking out the finish as I laid it off with a brush. I examined the bucket I was given to work out of and noticed that the Greek had put the paint in an old dirty bucket that had dried paint of a different color. Now it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out where all the junk in my paint was coming from now does it?
       Soon the Greek approached me as he made his rounds and asked me if I needed anything. I said, “Yeah, a clean bucket and a straining sock.” He looked at my door and said that it didn’t look very good and I said, “Yeah I’ve put some water and Flowtral in the paint, but it’s got a bunch of junk in the paint and it’s causing all the streaks.”
       He comes back with a clean bucket with some new paint. I said, “Hay, I only need a clean bucket and a straining sock. I’ve put my own Flowtral in the paint and I’ve got it dialed in now. I just needed it strained into a clean bucket.”
       The Greek flipped out, “You want everything! You’re driving me crazy! You get out of here!”
       “All right; I was looking for a job when I found this one.”
       The freaky Greek whet on ranting and raving, “All week, you drive me crazy! You want this, you want that! Dis door look like shit!”
       With a laugh I said, “Shit, I told you that.”
       He got hostile, acting like he was going to punch me. He was being quite pushy and wanted me to leave the campus before I even had my brushes cleaned out. He was yelling about the fact that he had balls, and things that were irrelevant to just asking me to leave. He rode my ass all the way out to my truck and I was sure it was because he wanted me gone before the gal who was the manager for the company arrived back at the job site.
       As it turned out, they tried to cut my hourly pay from $18.00 per hour to $14.00. Needless to say, I didn’t go for it and I con-fronted them on the issue and the Greek approached me with the suggestion that he was the one who was crazy and that he saw no reason why I couldn’t work for them again. But he said it with a stipulation, “You can work for us again but it will have to be at $16.00 an hour.” I thought that was not negotiable because I was already wondering what happened to the eighteen he had promised and wondered whether I’d see a prevailing wage or not. It wasn’t like they were offering to take back the check and write me a new one, so why would I settle for anything less? I gave them the check back.
       Update: I filed a complaint with the Department of Labor, but all I was told was that their letters just get returned undelivered. I did send back a letter inquiring whether the contractor was a minority contractor and whether they had received the contract to paint the Cleveland Elementary School because of Affirmative Action. I wonder what would happen if I sent some pictures of the hole they had dug out behind the school to dump their unused paint in.
       April 5, 2002: An annoying thing was that I was living in a storage yard with two low-lives living there in their run down motor homes. These two guys would steal from their own mothers if they thought they had to. One of them was selling cars for a local Nissan dealer in the area. He’s not the brightest guy in the world nor is he the most pleasant. I’d found myself playing along with their neighborly friend ship and even help them out at times.
       The way these kinds of guys work is that they act as if they don’t know how to do something though the real reason is that they’re too lazy to even try. Like one morning the car salesman was complaining that his shower wouldn’t work even though he had changed out the water pump with one from his buddy’s motorhome. So I solved their problem, but had to end up hearing a pathetic line about how I was such a genius. The problem with these two guys is that they couldn’t even thank me with a compliment without putting the word crazy in it. “Dennis, he’s a genius, a little crazy, but a genius.”
       Under no circumstance did their compliments impress me because I realized that they had been preconditioned by other people. Who were the people doing the preconditioning, is the question. Could it have been the Ford dealer the salesman ended up working for in Morro Bay?
       The next time I spoke to the car salesman he and his neighbor buddy were trying to collect rent from me in order to get money together to bail out the ex-landlord. For one thing, I didn’t think any of the money would be going to pay for the lease on the property and I wondered if it would even go towards the bail of the guy who was in jail. If you’re like me, you’d be wondering where the money would be going because I was pretty damn sure it would’ve gone right into their pockets. I sure it wouldn’t have meant I’d have a place to stay the next week or two. Being a hostile as they were, I took my bass down to the pawn shop and barrowed five dollars on it for safe keeping.
       April 15, 2002: I found myself doing a spiel at the shopping mall on State Street for a guy who appeared to be in his early twenties. Something told me he was a reader to be had. He said that he knew of the GATT treaty, but didn’t come up with anything specific about it. I tried to explain the change in the patent laws and he seemed to somewhat understand what I was saying. But further into the political bit, I asked him if he understood what I was talking about. He was honest and mentioned where I had lost him. Needless to say, it was way back. I said, “That’s why I wrote the book.”
       I noticed he had a type of flinch I had never seen before. It was as if he was trying to hold his attention to what I was saying. However he did pickup on the essence of what I’d say and seemed quite interested in it.
       I got into the results of what is happening to the human race because of the selective breeding the GATT treaty is initiating and when I spoke of an increased in people having problems with Attention Deficit Disorder, Dyslexia and other mental disorders, he seemed to understand very well what I was getting at.
       It was my impression; he himself was suffering from ADD and seemed overwhelmed at discovering why it’s so prevalent these days. At the same time I was afraid that by accident I might slip up and say something that might I’d insult him, or simply say something that might plunge him into depression. Never the less, nothing I said received such a response. All I got was a stronger support for my purpose and the willingness to walk out to my truck with me to check out my book. He had no problem justifying dishing out the ten bucks for it. He said he was glad to have met me and acted as if it was a pleasure. There is no doubt in my mind that he was glad he was going to be able to get a chance to figure out my message and the story I was trying to convey at a later time at his own convenience.
       I got the notion he had his hands full with the book I supplied him with. Whether or not it will be a struggle for him to read it, I’m sure he will have the motivation to read it. He seemed to perk up when I told him about a reader of mine though being dyslexic; he read most of my earlier 80,000 edition in a little over a week.
       After meeting him I realized I was overcome with humbling feeling. I didn’t know if I should feel happy for him because he was about to read an experience of a lifetime after meeting the person of importance who he will remember for a lifetime, or I wondered if I felt sorry for him for having whatever problem he had with his concentration. Whatever my feeling were, I couldn’t be sure of how I could bring closure the experience meeting him. I felt that there would be some sort of closer if I ever met him again after he read my book.
       The next spiel I gave was to a salesman at a Comp-USA store about an hour later. He seemed a like a bright guy and seemed to be able to keep up with the pitch. Well, I’ll have to say it seemed like it because some salesmen make great liars and many of them are full of shit. Though I did a real good pitch and even got on-lookers, he wasn’t interested in picking up a book at all. Basically I don’t think he gave a dam. It was my impression that whether the human race is going down the shit tube or not, didn’t matter to him. My guess: To the salesman; it only made him one up on the next guy.
       Then as I walked out of the store, realization had hit me. Whether the guy I had sold my book to earlier had any learning disabilities or not – he had common sense and concern for the things that are going on -- and the salesman did not. The salesman was a shit head follower and the other guy was a concerned doer. One guy I had respect for -- and the other -- I wouldn’t know what to say. However, the experience with the second guy brought closure for my feeling concern with the guy I’d met earlier. I felt sorry for the salesman because he’s pathetic. As for the guy who picked up on my book, I couldn’t be more proud of him.

4-24-02: Kinna funny how Chrysler moved into Santa Barbara since I’d been there. Apparently a Chrysler dealer in Ventura they gave a year’s lease on a Durango to the local ABC News Station to give away. The thing we have to wonder is: Was it the dealer who donated it or was it Chrysler? Rule 26.
       I went to a meeting of the Green Party of Santa Barbara. There I found a bunch of older people who seemed to be followers. They were all writing hand written letters to the Senators and Congressmen. I guess they were told that form letters don’t work and that they were told to write hand written letters because they will work. The letters are for protest of weaponization in space. They think that if they can get the HR3616 Space Preservation Act of 2002 introduced, that the government will abide by it.
       Hell, I know if the Pentagon wants weapons in space, they will do it anyway. They just won’t tell the public. If it isn’t on TV, it isn’t in space as far as the crooks are concerned. It’s like spilled milk haggling about it. Even if they get the HR3616, it will be like a blue dress and it would be just something to throw on TV to pacify the whiners.
       However I did hand over a Tightwad to a concerned person there and the person in charge of the Green Party
       April 27, 2002 turned out to be an interesting one at that. The Green party had a rally planned so I went to have a look. I didn’t find anyone affiliated to the party to hand a book off to, but I did find myself standing next to Kelly Freeman who is the assignment editor of KEYT Channel 3 News. I didn’t say anything to her even though she and her cameraman were right in front of me just to the left. I ignored her as I ate my Subway Club. I had my sunglasses on and wondered when she would grab a glimpse of me. Sure enough, there were a few whispers in the camera-man’s ear after she was convinced it was me over her shoulder. I’ll be the first to say that I could have imagined it, but I don’t think so because it was quite obvious and just the reaction I expected. I just went on my way and didn’t even acknowledge her because studying her movements was more entertaining.
       Soon the intimidation got to her and she and her cameraman folded up and walked away. Her camera man ditched his tripod in some landscaping and they made a beeline for the cops who were out by the street corner. While she hung out with the cops, her cameraman walked over to the side of the stage area for a few shots while some chanting was going on. That was about the time I thought I’d make my rounds too, so I set myself in the proximity of the cameraman and his fellow cinematographers to see what kind of reaction I’d get out of them. Of course they didn’t react at all, however it was probably an effort to act like they didn’t notice me. It wasn’t long before I walked around the corner and sat my ass down on a retaining wall that faced the intersection where the cops were standing around their vehicles. They were getting their heads yacked off by Freeman, and it appeared as they just wanted her to leave them alone. I just sat there looking at them, as a reminder that I was nearby. Freeman must have sought refuge by them for what seemed to be at least a half hour or more.
       I got bored with the whole incident and decided to sit in my truck where it was parked the shade of a tree along the road next to the park. By then the cops had blocked off on both ends of the street.
       While I was sitting in my truck, there were a couple younger rookie cops peddling their bicycles back and forth from one end of the block to the other. Sometimes down the sidewalk next to my truck and other times down the street. I could tell one of them was quite interested in my truck but it took until he was going to have to leave with the march before he had the courage to stop by my window and ask me, “What happened to your truck?”
       “Affirmative Action.”
       I got into my spiel and presented my book. He was running out of time because the crowd was beginning its march, so we had to cut it short. But he did latch onto a Tightwad and zipped into his saddle bag before riding away.
       I came up with a few theories about what had taken place. He was either clueless as to the game the cops have had about not accepting my book so that they wouldn’t have to admit they knew anything about me. Or he may have been aware of who I was because of the commotion down at the street corner as a result of me being there, and may have been sneaking a book from me. Or he was just curious and didn’t know he wasn’t supposed to be. Regardless, I can say the word is out about me within the police department in SB now and I’m in the back door whether they wanted me to be or not.
       The next question was: Where did Freemen go off to once the march took off down the road? However I knew her SUV was parked in a parking lot just behind my truck. My curiosity made me wonder if they would find an alternate route to her SUV or just back-track. One way to find out was to walk down to the corner and take a look up towards the crowd as it marched in the direction of down town.
       Sure enough, as I rounded the corner, I had to pull an about face. She and her cinematographer were heading back my way. So I poked alone and let their fast paced walk catch up to me. Whether they knew my ass was in front of them or not; I don’t know, but the cameraman suggested that she walk across the street to fetch his tripod out of the bushes in the park. That’s when I made my move. I strolled across the road behind her and as she turned around with the tripod in hand, she was faced with her worst nightmare. The very thing she had been avoiding for well over an hour. I had her in my sights and she had no escape.
       “Are you Kelly Freemen?”
       “I was wondering if you ever got a chance to read the book, Tightwad?”
       “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
       “Well I gave a copy of the book to Kaley O’Malley and I wonder if she ever presented it to you.”
       “No, I never received it, so I don’t know what you are talking about.”
       Fortunately I just happened to have a couple copies on my so I said, “Well here, here’s a copy for you.”
       “Well thank you. What is it about?”
       “It’s about a lot of things, but my main concern is about how the GATT treaty has us killing of the private inventors and breading stupid people.”
       She laughs and I responded by seriously saying, “There isn’t anything funny about it.”
       By then I could tell she wanted to bail on me but we were still only about half way to the safe haven of her SUV and her comeback was, “Sorry, I was laughing because I was just watching a movie last night where they were making people.”
       I said, “Well the fact is, the human race is getting dumber by the day and I know you won’t cover anything about it because I know the media is bought off.”
       “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
       “Hell, you already have me and my truck on video tape and you edited the footage right out of your coverage.”
       “Hah -- I don’t know what you mean.”
       “I’m not that stupid,” then I turned away. We were about only 10 or 15 yards away from the refuge of her SUV by then, so I left it at that, but now we all know that the assignment editor of ABC News in Santa Barbara knows what kind of front page news she isn’t covering. So when they say they’re doing us a service by supplying us the news; you can be sure they’re just self served whores who work for the corporations that are killing off the smart guys.

Later I drove over to the book store where Ralf Nader had a book signing scheduled. I was approached by a couple older men in the parking lot as I got out of my truck. They told me that they liked my truck and I found myself doing a spiel for them. Supportively they said they enjoyed meeting me and even though both of them had just bought books in the book store, one bought a Tightwad from me.
       Later at the entrance while people waited for Nader to arrive, the same guy who had just bought a Tightwad book approached me and said proudly, “I’m a KTR member.” With a smile I said, “You certainly are.”

Then another book give-a-way situation happened shortly later when I met an independent journalist who was packing around an expensive video camera. He was inside the book store covering Ralf Nader’s book signing. I just couldn’t help myself I did a short spiel and handed over a Tightwad to him.

Though Ralf Nader says he’s an authority on political affairs such as NAFTA and the GATT treaty, I didn’t try to ask him anything when he was taking questions. I had the feeling he knew who I was and that I was present. The fact that I was just over his shoulder most of the time, probably made him a little uneasy. One thing for sure – he never looked back. It’s my opinion that he was afraid of the conflict a guy in my position could create. That wasn’t my goal, so I waited around until there were only a few people still present. When the time came I was about the last person in line and I stood in front of him as he was sitting behind the table. I asked, “Do you know about Sunnyside?”
       I could tell he didn’t want to answer the question because he responded by saying, “There is a lot of Sunnysides. I don’t know which one you are talking about.”
       “Well since you claim to know about the GATT treaty, I would guess you would know about him.”
       “I don’t understand what you mean.”
       “Well, I’ll tell you what. You can have these books and they will tell you all you about the front page news they haven’t told you about.”
       I set the manuscript box down on the table in front of him and pulled the cover off and said, “Tightwad is the most recent edition,” and lifted a Tightwad up out of the box to be able to expose my Lousy Book. Being speechless, he looked at it as if it was toxic.
      I said, “I’ll be sold out on my main book I pretty soon and I’ll be changing the name to, Burning Down the House. Then I pulled the Lousy Book out with my other hand two expose to him how disgustingly thick it was. Everyone who has read it has wanted to know more about me so I wrote a book about me, called Sunnyside. I’m Sunnyside and I am the inventor of the work truck of the future. The truck auto manufactures don’t want you to know about me because they want you to buy obsolete trucks.”
       By then he was looking at the box as if it was the plague. I noticed he wanted to bail so I tossed the books back in the box and placed the lid back on them and slid the box up closer him so that it would be harder for him to refuse to accept them, “You can have them. There are copies of the police reports inside which prove the conspiracy.”
       “Thank you, I’ll check them out,” he said.
       “They’re a weapon against the Democratic Party for you.”
       He didn’t want to touch them and he picked up his own file folders and asked his assistant to grab the dreadful box.
       As the three of us walked out the doors, his assistant pointed out my truck as if it was a discovery, but Nader turned the other way as if he didn’t even want to look at it. I looked at the assistant and said, “He doesn’t give a dam.”
       The reaction from Nader was just as I thought it would be. I was the one person he didn’t want to meet up with in Santa Barbara. I just love antagonizing these folks. It’s a kind of power that only a few can achieve. It’s intimidation by embarrassment.
       To be honest, my goal wasn’t to intimidate Ralf Nader in any way. I realized beforehand that even if he knew about me, he wouldn’t be able to make an issue out of it because he has problem getting the media to cover him as it is. He realizes that he needs the exposure to help sell his own books. The fact that he had to ask to have a book signing at a private book store only proves it. You would think that a man with his popularity would have a signing at the Borders, or Barn’s and Noble’s book stores where there is more room instead, but they don’t even carry his books. Therefore it’s just like I say in the ending of this book, “Even if I could get my book published, it doesn’t mean that it would get distributed.”
       I realized that the only help that Ralf Nader would be able to provide would be to take my books back to New York with him and turn them on to editors at a publishing company.
       To top of the day, I sold a Lousy Book to a painter in the parking lot outside the book store after Nader’s signing too. It rounded out the day as a four book day or do we call it a seven book day? I think happened to be a record. Never the less, there isn’t a word that describes how much fun it is taking these folks down off their high horses a few notches. There is no other place in the world I could do such a thing and you can bet it’s the only reason I’m still here in the US. There’s nothing I like better than rubbing the pathetic disgrace in the face of people that tell us that they can make a difference. Who knows; I could be wrong, but until I am, I’ll just keep proving other people wrong. It’s the only way we can find out if these people are who they say they are. It’s the difference between right and wrong, men and boys, and the followers, verses the doers. We’ll find a hero some day. Until then – rack them up. I’ve got the lousy book and I’m ready for some more. Amen.
       The next morning on April 28, 2002: I got another copy of Tightwad off to a SB Cop on the way to work. He asked me what happened to my truck and I pitched the motion picture aspect to him. Then I handed him the book without even saying anything about the conspiracy or the truck. His name tag said, “Parker.” So it’s safe to say I’ve got two books in the back door of the SB police department.
       April 29, 2002: Got a call from a painting contractor Piss Dead, with an English accent. He talked about some work he had scraping and painting windows. After running an air hammer all day the day before, I felt my hands weren’t up to scraping the next few days, but the money was talking me into it. Once he mentioned that he was driving an Astro van I began to wonder what kind of painting contractor I had on my hands. He wanted to meet for coffee at eight the next morning and the plan was to go to work by 8:30. I knew he would be difficult. Basically I had the feeling he was the wrong kind of guy to work for if you know what I mean. Rule 88.
       When I pulled into the parking lot the next morning, I not only noticed that he had pulled off the road and into the parking lot behind right behind me, but by looking over I saw with no latter rack and the scary part about it, was that it had a US flag and a British flag flying from the radio antenna. I knew I was in trouble.
       I thought what the hell, I’ll bet I will end up having to pitch my story to him and it will scare the pants off him. Of course, once inside waiting for our coffee, he opened his big mouth and asked about my truck. “Hay, that’s quite a truck you’ve got. What happened to it?”
       I knew he’d just opened Pandora’s Box. Mentioning how I felt about the US government wasn’t the brightest thing for me to do, but…. It wasn’t before long he expressed concern about his business and what I’d say to his customers about it. I told him, “I don’t say a word about it if they don’t ask me about it and I don’t talk about it on company time. It’s simple because if they want to know, I have a three dollar and a ten dollar version of my book.”
       He looked at me as if he had a bag of worms growing in his hands. And I said, “I’d been dealing with it for years. It’s nothing to worry about.” But he seemed worried so asked him, “If they ask me about my truck, what do you want me to say to them?” He couldn’t come up with an answer and sat there like he had a red hot poker up his ass. I said, “If you feel uncomfortable about me working for you -- that’s ok, you can tell me now and you don’t have to have me work for you.”
       He said he was ok with it and he said it was time to get going. Once outside in the parking lot he said to follow him over to the house that was nearby. Instead of being considerate, he jumped out in front of traffic while making a turn at a stop light and no doubt put his foot into it. Of course he ditched me and turned his cell phone off so if I called him, I wouldn’t get through. I went straight to Labor Ready and told the acting manager about what had just happened. He said, “What a chicken shit.”
       Then I was dispatched by Labor Ready to the site where I’d worked the day before. Once at the site, I told Joe, the foreman for Anderson Construction about my short lived job and how it came to an end. He said, “What a chicken shit.” I said, “You know, I’m trying to save the human race and if people can’t support me in my efforts, I don’t want to work for them.

In the town of Goleta, just north of Santa Barbara, they put a ten and a half month moratorium on building so they can study the development. Shit, from my own study and understanding -- is that the study time the ladies want will only put more of a demand on the housing available. The prices will go up and the public will complain about the need to study what is wrong with the price of housing. Or should I just say cost of living. Well of course the rich don’t give a dam, and the people who work in the local government only see it as more tax revenue for them to figure out creative ways to spend it.
       May 12, 2002: Called my mother for Mother’s Day and found myself quite surprised at the end of our conversation. The call lasted longer than I anticipated and it was quite enjoyable for once. She never cut me down, but only acted as if she felt sorry for me. I think that her age is starting to scare her because everyone around her has been dying off. She seemed quite humble as far as not putting any of her opinions forward upon me. In fact the only thing negative she had to say was only her opinion that I was wasting my money on patent lawyers. However, she wished me luck at getting out of this god forsaking country and I think she realized I wasn’t in a place I want to call home. She had concerns about whether I had any friends or not and I’m sure it bothers her that I don’t. I assured her that I didn’t want any; at least not in this country. I said that friends would only give them someone to say negative things to me, and that I’d rather not hear. I said, I’ll never feel like I’m home until I’m in Australia.”
       No doubt my mother is afraid of dying. I guess I have to wonder if we will ever see each other again. Myself, I’m more afraid of not seeing my dreams and fantasies come true than dying. The thing I fear most is that if I should die tomorrow, the only regret I’d have is not experiencing the man that I could have been. It’s sad to think that a country can become a prison just to keep a man from being what he should be.
       May 14, 2002: Sold another Tightwad to a Mexi-American. I’m beginning to think that minorities are about 30% to 40% of my readers. I’ve had two painters and one plumber as buyers in SB since being here.

I’d been working for Labor Ready and I was dispatched to the Samarkand Retirement Community to work for Keyway Systems, a company out of Las Vegas that had the contract to per-form finish carpentry on the remodel project of the Brandel Hall apartment building. That’s when I met Dance Lonovan the owner who I thought looked like Captain Kangaroo. He had an illegal Mexican working for him and by then, he already had window seals and interior doors installed on the first floor.
       My first day, he had me installing doors on the second floor and had a labor from Labor Ready to help out. But the labor found himself hanging the pocket doors, because I was able to install about ten or twelve doors per day by myself. (Oh, isn’t the old T-nailer Lonovan had me using illegal, since it didn’t have a trigger safety mechanism?)
       I thought I was slow, but the sixty year old building that was being remodeled had framing that was way out of squire. Dance checked out the doors I had hung and said I’d done a good job. Dance didn’t do too much to help because he would talk too much and was better off just staying out of my way. Well that was about how it went because he would leave me to work the job by myself for weeks at a time.
       I knew Lonovan was having money troubles because it seemed like every Monday, the manager of Labor Ready wouldn’t dispatch me to the job until he had at least a check number for the payment due for my work. Also the Mexican illegal would occasionally arrive looking for his money for days and possibly weeks on end. If it wasn’t for me he would have never known when Lonovan would’ve been around. He would have never collected the money Lonovan owed him.

May 17, 2002: I’ve always thought I knew Harrold Lamay well enough to know he wouldn’t try to have anyone killed. I also realized a guy isn’t going to go into a bar and brag about trying to kill someone. So when I heard the rumors shortly after I had to jump off the roof, I only accepted it as rumors.
       How ever when you about 15,000 miles away and its about three years later and you hear a guy mentioning the reason you limp from a bad foot, you give it some creditability. When I hear about who rigged the toe board, from a guy who never read my book nor was suppose to know about me or my truck– I can pretty much believe who they said it was. But then again, just as with the pictures my brother in-law sold, it could have been anyone blaming Chrysler. However, it doesn’t matter very much who it was, because I’d rather not see my inventions on any of the big three auto manufacture’s trucks. To be honest with you -- they are all on my shit list.

May 22, 2002: My birthday started out with a guy trying to stop me at a signal light and asked me if I wanted to sell my truck. The guy could barely speak English and flipped me off after I turned him down. Later on, right after I high centered my trailer upon trying to exit the state park and I was approached by the same guy again. I said, “You don’t even know what you are looking at.”
       May 28, 2002: I discredited myself when I thought I’d heard something in the background noise on the late NBC News cover-age about an incident that had happened at the CBS studios in Fairfax. Apparently a guy drove his brown early seventies Ford pickup onto the studio grounds. Though they said he banished a gun, details about what he was distraught about were left out of the news coverage. I think he was trying to get a message out though the media, but the media left us clueless to what his concerns were about. We do know is the guy ended up shooting him-self in the gut. The question is whether it was a standoff or not. The funny thing about the incident was that it lacked repeat coverage the media usually haggles over for days on end.
       However, in the one and only news cast performed by a network other than where the incident happened, was what I thought I heard what sounded like a witness in the background yelling, ‘What about Sunnyside.’”
       I wrote it off as if I was just hearing something that sounded close to it, but on the morning of May 30th during a CBS news broadcast, I heard something in the flavor that my suspicion of the incident was right. Apparently it got to some of the folks at the network.
       Then I had to rethink about the whole episode. First I felt sorry for the guy who would think that such an action would make any difference. But then again he must have thought he had a good enough reason to do such a thing. I would imagine he didn’t plan on killing himself, but things probably got more out of hand than he thought they would. It’s just that people are running more scared than ever and trying to ruffle feathers isn’t taken too kindly now days.
       However if I’m right, it does show just how much the conspiracy is protected by the media. They don’t care about anyone else but themselves. They’re just as greedy as the corporations that feed them the advertising dollars. Just as the politicians who only care about themselves.
       When I look at the situation, I realize it was possible that my movement had meant enough to the guy for him to take the stand he did. And as I’ve said in my early journal literature, “There will be casualties.” Whether it would be others or myself, I knew that there would be lives lost before we were going to be saving the lives which are being lost every day because of the GATT treaty.
       If the guy who stormed the studio actually stormed it for the movement I’ve been trying to convey, whether it was because of the smart guys dying or the lack of production and use of my invention. My hat is off for the guy. My prayers are with him. For I know he is in God’s hands and in a better place. That night, on the 29th and since then, I’ve often thought of him in prayers. It’s saddening to think I’m stuck with wondering if he died in vain and whether his death made any difference. I can only hope so because it’s sad to think that things have actually gone as far as they have.
       I can only extend my gratitude to him for knowing how important my movement is.
       God bless him.

About a week later, a news agency reported that a guy was arrested for phoning in threats to the president and threatening to blow up buildings in Detroit. The questions not answered were: What kind of threats did he make to the president and why was he making them. Other unanswered questions would be: Which buildings in Detroit. I wonder if it was building owned by the auto manufactures.

As for me, it appears that there are rumors that they say that I’m dying of cancer and they aren’t telling me. It’s possible because I know the last doctor I spoke to didn’t even examine me like he was suppose to. (He didn’t heat up his mirror with an alcohol lamp so it wouldn’t fog up when looking down my throat.) I know for a fact that he couldn’t see shit and I’d have to guess he didn’t want to. Rule No.67; so I know better. Get this: he even gave me a reduced charge for the office call compared to the price quoted over the phone.
       Apparently they are just waiting for me to die. I’m getting tired of hearing that they expect me to die within a year. (But I’ve heard that before.) I feel it’s pretty shitty to have to live in a world where they wait for their heroes to die. It’s like everyone is in on it and they anticipate when it will happen. I guess it’s because of all the shit that they have put into my system over time. My guess is that it’s designed to make it look like a natural death. I guess it’s an easier way to do it than to just have someone pull out a gun and blow my ass away. I imagine it’s the reason they keep me homeless -- so that they can come into my cage anytime. Just like yesterday, I just about choked on the shit that settled in the bottom of my milk carton.
       I think some people are even miss-lead to believe that it is a good thing for them if I die, but the question is: Where is their source of information coming from? I happen to think there’s a hidden agenda beneath it all. Regardless; when I’m dead and gone they will learn what Stupid Rule Number One is all about.
       It sounds like what the Mexi-American farmer who bought number 85 of Tightwad, told me about the other day on the 28th. He said a couple of his relatives were inventors. One of them all of a sudden went blind and the other one ended up dead. Even though they went to see doctors; the doctors were reluctant and said they couldn’t do anything for them.
       June 2nd I must have missed Brad Pit at Boarders in Goleta. The clerk asked him if he was Brad Pit, and Brad said, “Not today.” Apparently he bought a bunch of architectural type magazines. Too bad I didn’t see him because I would have hand-ed off my books to him.
       June 3, 2002: Today my dad turned 67. I often wonder if I will ever see him again.
       When I showed up in Santa B, I thought that it was the kind of place Santa Cruz wanted to be like or at least was trying to be like. There is a big difference though, not of the place but the people. That is: In Santa Cruz people treated me like an outsider when I first showed up which lead me to believe there were more ass-holes per mile than anywhere else I’d been. After a while though, they got used to me and my truck being around and they were actually quit supportive. At least the construction workers at the job-site gave me a little more respect than the ones in SB.
       After the months have gone by in SB, people are still taking about me behind my back and since they are so fickle, they tend not to ever open up to me. They’re just quick to write me off as an asshole and I think it’s because they take pride in being assholes themselves. Like black bassplayer I met while working at the Rits said, “Their ass-holes.” After unloading about forty books, things still haven’t changed like they did in Santa Cruz with only two dozen.
       As of tonight, the experience in the state park in Carpinteria, has proven to have its share of rumors. In both directions, some in my favor, others are phony against it. There is more, “No he’s not,” going around than I’d like to hear. Gee, only if these folks would get real and realize that I’m just getting punished for something I didn’t do.
       I met a proud owner of a hook-lift I’d usually see parked on State Street. He owns a landscape company and was sure stuck on himself as if he was some hot shit. He tried to rank on my truck without knowing jack shit about it. He said, “I wouldn’t even walk over there to look at it.” I thought: “That’s good because he’s one less pervert to grace his eyes on it.”
       I’d parked my truck across the street on purpose because I didn’t want anyone to look at it. I was just curious if Steller had made any refinements, and of course, how can one improve such an ugly piece of junk. I thought, “Gee, twenty grand for a 9,000 lb. lift and didn’t even know where it was built.” He got took and he’s too stupid to know it. It’s funny that I knew more about the piece of junk he bought than he did. Of course he had other things to do once I told him about how were breeding stupid people. He probably can’t read worth shit anyway. I think he’s just a spoiled son of a rich family.

June 13, 2002: Went to the Santa Barbara Screenwriters Association’s meeting. A funny thing about it that I gave a Tightwad to the president -- or should I say “organizer” of the group who’s from LA – several months prior. I had became a regular at the meetings and when I asked him about what he thought about it, he said that he hadn’t found time to read it. I felt otherwise because he’d avoid me like the plague. I think he just doesn’t want to admit he knows about what I’ve written in it.
       On the night of the 13th, the guest speaker was a local writer whose name is John M. Daniel. He’s not only a published writer, but is now a publisher too. It just so happened that his office was one of the publishing companies I’d stopped by and was told that my book was too big for them to be able to afford to publish.
       That night at the screenwriters association – first I didn’t recall the two of us meeting prior to that night – so as a result of it, gave him a copy of Tightwad. He said he would read it, but set it down on the table in front of him. I noticed it worked its way over to the podium, but I began to suspect that he would just leave it behind. Anger began to grow as I realized he was a fickle as the rest of the pansy asses in this world. I was planning to retrieve it if he didn’t pick it up. The astonishing thing about it was that the organizer of the SBSA picked it up and placed it inside his carry-bag. While he did so he mentioned to his wife that it was a collector’s idiom. I figured I’d wait until the next meeting to confront him on his action.
       The way I looked at it was that the books were worth more in his hands than mine. At least he had some kind of connections in Hollywood. I feel he’s one person that deserves a little something from me because out of all the writer groups if checked out, his was the only one I would go to repeatedly -- because of the guest speakers.
       I’m not one who wants to read other wanna bee writers material and critique it for them, and I’m not one to care what a wanna bee thinks of my shit either. I know I can write and I don’t need anyone to try to tell me how to capture a reader’s attention unless they are an agent or publisher. (However, I do like to hear my reader’s opinion.) I’m not into making up fiction like so many other writers, nor am I into reading their fantasy this, fantasy that, shit anyway.

June 21, 2002: I had a free stress test performed on me at a place on State Street that sells literature written by Ron Hubburd, the author of Dianetics. I just wanted to see how well I handle stress from a machine’s point of view. One I was hooked-up, the lady asked me what made me stressed out. I couldn’t think of anything better than doing the same old spiel I’ve done hundreds of times and had people tell me not to stress out about it. Of course I was more stressed when I realized that my stress level wouldn’t go up, so I made it go up by my emotion about the lack of stress. About ten minutes into the spiel the lady who worked there bailed on me; apparently it stressed her out. She said she had other things to do, but I’m sure she didn’t want to know any more because she became too stressed out.

June 22, 2002: I’d been thinking about how I should have a switch set up in my trailer hitch receiver so that I can’t operate the dump controls with the hitch in the receiver. Of course it isn’t worth putting more time in money into it before I leave the country and I knew I’d forget about it sooner or later. Well today was the day. I messed up my taillight panel and bent my trailer hitch real good.

June 27, 2002: Today a co-worker found out where a line of cocaine and a few lies from Affirmative Action would get him. Others at the job site got tired of the crap he was spreading and they were glad to see him go. All he did was get everybody interested in my book.
       I went to a lecture held at the Santa Barbara Writer’s Conference; or should I say live interview hosted by Ian Bernard of the Humor Panel. The interviewee was Marta Kauffman, the co-creator of the TV show, Friends.
       Near the end of the interview, during the audience’s question and answer part, someone’s question sparked some unpublished aspects of the business out of her. When she hit the good stuff, I began taking notes and that’s when I think Ian Bernard noticed and leaned over and told Marta that I was taking notes.

As for dealing with the network producers Marta stuck a note I felt I could relate to. She said she can handle an executive telling her what is wrong with a script, but she hates it when they try to tell her the solution. It applies to a lot of things in many professions if you ask me.
       Another thing that she said that most books never mention is that you have to write lines which will work with the actor. I guess in comity and sit-coms it applies when you already know who the actor or character is.
       She only backed what I already knew when she said, “The advertisers hold the purse.”
       She said the important thing about being a good script writer is that you have to be a good visionary and the problem with a lot of scriptwriters, is that they are too formulated and it is desirable being able to write a script with sole.
       After the interview was over, Ian Bernard walked to the side of the stage. (And that’s when I should have given him a Lousy Book, or at least a Tightwad.)
       Marta walked over to the edge of the stage and spoke to people personally. There were people like an old man who asked her for information of where they could send pictures of his son as an effort to get him an acting gig. She told him the number of the production office and several other people wrote the number down too. She stood on the stage with a clear plastic bag holding about four books that other writers had given to her. While people were trying to strike up a conversation with her, I decided not to fallow suite like the rest of them. I sat on the edge of the stage next to her and waited patiently. Eventually I held up my book to her and said, “Would you like some more weight?”
       With a big smile as if she anticipated it, she said, “Sure.” Though she never showed the front cover to the crowd, someone mentioned to someone else, “He gave her a Lousy Book.”
       I said, “The pitch is on the back.”
       “I’m ah inventor; it’s a true crime/auto-biography. It’s been sabotaged--” She and everyone else standing around us laughed. It was as if they were all thinking-- So what -- it’s a collector’s idiom.
       “I keep it on flash cards now -- so expect sentences to be out of place once in a while. The contents are what’s important though”
       “I’ll check it out,” she said as she held it to her side. I never saw it go into the bag with the other books, so I felt it was kind of nice having the cheep-o comb binding making it stand out from the others. However I like to think she’d heard all about of the book and she was happy to finally get hands on one. No doubt that there were people there who knew about it. At least I can say Lousy Book No. 00067 made it two doors down from Brad Pit.

June 28, 2002: Steve an electrician who was working at Brandel Hall disagreed with me on the issue that we’re breeding stupid people because he considers his family as a smart one.
       Later on in the day, I stopped him and said that I’d thought about the comment he’d made earlier and that I was glad he felt he was raising bright kids and I was proud of him for being so sure of it. However I said that I had a response to what he had said earlier.
       I said, “If they can run commercials on televisions that say, “if you use drugs -- you support terrorism.” Then it’s fair to say that if you buy a new car, you help kill smart people. Therefore you’re taking part of the selective breeding of the human race.” He said, “You’ve got a point there.”
       And I said, “It’s not only the auto manufactures who kill the smart guys, it’s corporations in general. We as a society are killing off people through the technology we buy whether it is a tangible idiom, drugs, or whatever.” “You’re right,” he said.
       When the job doing finish carpentry on the Brandel Hall apartment building was about finished, Lonovan chose to hire me direct for cash. I didn’t mind because it meant more than a couple dollars more per hour, so the last week there he paid me $15.00 per hour in cash. Dance spoke of the work he had coming up in Las Vegas and ask me to move there so I could continue to working for him. He even offered me a raise to $20.00 per hour if I relocated to Las Vegas, but since the temperature in Las Vegas at the time was hitting about 115 degrees, I wanted to put off leaving until a later time when it would cool down a little; that is if I couldn’t find something else in Santa Barbara. I’ll have to admit, being able to find a trailer park to put my trailer in had an influence in the consideration of leaving the coast.

July 8th: Went to a job interview and it wasn’t too long before I heard a woman say, “I don’t want him.” Shortly after I heard a woman’s voice say, “He did it himself.” I wouldn’t doubt Affirmative Action was reading the news papers for the job’s I’d be chasing since it was either find a new job, or leave town.
       When I found Haskell’s beach, I thought it would be a good hang out for me. It wasn’t long before I realized I can’t just hang out anymore. Because as soon as people want to get to know me; they also want to know about my truck. I try to explain, but usually their simple minds are simple and they can’t comprehend such a thing and I end up being just a freak show. The result from it is that people would rather see me gone. They don’t want to know such problems exist. To them: they don’t want to know my problem and the last thing they want to know about is that it is actually theirs too. It just goes to show that I can’t associate with people anymore and friends are just out of the question.

July 10, 2002: I stopped in at the weekly jam session held at a bar in Goleta. Just inside the door sat the drummer Dill Pickle. Months earlier when I first met Dill, I learned that he worked at the Santa Barbara News Press. I just had to give him a copy of my Lousy Book to read. Later, when I asked him about it, he said that he had read about a third of it. He said it was difficult for him to read since he’s a copy editor. I asked him what he thought of my writing style and he said it was, “conversational.” But in general, he usually avoided ever since I’d given him the book and said he didn’t have much time to read it. I wouldn’t doubt he has read it but doesn’t want to admit so.
       On that night of the tenth, I walked in the door and said to him, “Well I can pretty much assume that Ford doesn’t have a factory set up for building my truck and having it on the market next year like I hear people say. Their stock feel over 6% today, and GM’s fell over 7%. I don’t think that would be happening if the rumors were true.”
       Dill said, “Why don’t you tell someone who can help you.”
       “Hell I’m just making fun of the fact that this country is dogging itself. Shit, I know you can’t help me, you guys are bought off by the advertising dollars.”
       I thought, Gee what a pansy ass, they sure don’t make men like they used to. I walked away and checked the jam list. I saw that my name was placed on the last set along with some other guy named Phil, who sings the Doors. Phil sings way out of tune so I decided not wait for it, so I left.

July 11, 2002: I went to the Santa Barbara Screenwriter’s Association’s meeting again. The speaker was a writer who writes books about celebrities by the name of ______. He was the best speaker I’d seen at the meetings. He was well prepared and seemed to know many of the editors at the larger publishers. He said he writes books geared for women who are 35 and older because they buy the most books.
       I pitched my book to him afterwards and he wouldn’t just take on from me, he wanted to pay for it.

July 13, 2002: No doubt the Goleta Fire Department knows who I am. I had to eat dinner with them gawking at me. Then I poured my beer into a water bottle and walked to the other side of the complex near Borders, and they had to walk over for a closer peak. What a bunch of creeps.
       I even met another creep down at Haskell’s beach. A cop’s son no less. He tried to tell me that his kit car was a true 23 Ford. I wasn’t falling for it since it was fiberglass and the plate steel was cut on an automated table. As I walked away from his nonsense, the punk began to call me names and said for me to, “Go back to your piece of shit, beat up truck.”
       Boy, I’m glad the spoiled son of a bitch can’t go out and buy a piece of shit truck like mine. I’d feel like being stabbed in the back if he could. Days like these one are the days when I don’t mind living as I do when I know guys like him can’t have my truck.

July 16, 2002: Another thing I’ll add is that in Santa Barbara; people in the right professions have been quite accessible. For instance: One day I was driving up Santa Barbara St. and saw a KCAL-9 News van parked across from the court house. Inside was an older man who was a reporter covering the Dave Adieus case.
       (Funny thing how no one has ever been found temporarily insane before, but if you’re dad is a wealthy Hollywood producer, it’s found that it can be so.) I stopped by and asked, “What’s front page news today?”
       After he told me, I got into my spiel and gave him a Tightwad edition. The guy was an asshole and he even offered to give the book back. Well I walked away at that point because I just wanted to be able to say, KCAL-9 in LA knows about me too. I also stopped by the offices of the local PBS and FOX 11 networks and dropped off a Tightwad to both of them.
       Also one day as I was walking down State Street, I noticed a sign stating it was the location of S______ Productions. The door was open, but the secretary was out. I met a lawyer across the way and he said that they do specials on cable TV about celebrities. I did a spiel for him and left a Tightwad edition for him to give to the production company.
       In late July I tried to have the fifth edition of this book printed, but the new manger of the copy shop in SB decided to turn a hundred dollar print run into a two hundred dollar print run by adding a penny per copy and tacking on a bunch of charges. I wasn’t falling for it so I watched him take joy in tossing ten books into the garbage can. On August 8th at the SBSA, I got book No. 69 into the hands of a producer who does a lot of work in Great Britain.

The next chapter of Sunnyside's Lousy Book is:

One of those Games

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