BooksbySunnyside.com

The day amounted to a half ass descent surf session down at the county line, but it was also a day I probably should have remembered to take my vitamin B-100. On the way home I thought I'd stop at the Topanga Canyon break which is also called Sunset. I stopped to watch some surfers and read the newspaper. As I turned off my engine, I noticed four of five young boys just outside my driver's side window. One asked, "Hey mister, can we hit your truck with the pipe?" I was about to say go ahead, but I knew I’d have to worry about where they were going to hit it. Then I figured that I'd show them where not to hit it, but also thought about the negativity of such an act. I figured I could at least get out and do a spiel for them and then maybe let them hit it in the right places.

I said, "I don't know. I don't think it needs the negativity. You guys want to hit my truck, but you don't even realize you're lucky to have it on the road? Don't you guys even know you've already paid for one?"

They all looked quite confused and I wasn't really into doing a spiel, but there was a bunch of people around and I thought I could take advantage of the situation and end up doing a spiel for ten to twenty people at once and get more bang out of a spiel. So I got out of my truck to show them that I wasn't afraid of a few more dents in my truck. As I walked around to the front of my truck to the other door where I kept my 2" heavy wall pipe stashed in the mirror brackets, I yelled out, "Don't you realize you're dam lucky to even have this truck on the road! Yet you want to beat on it!"

The kids stood back a safe distance, because they appeared to be thinking I was some crazy mad man and they sure weren't about to let me to take any frustrations out on them. I took a couple swings at the middle of the hood and the second smack bounced the pipe right out of my hand and the pipe fell to the ground with an awesome clang of heavy steel. The racket got the attention of everyone. But as I looked at the boys who wanted to hit the truck, I realized my choice of spiel wasn't the fun type that they were looking for. They didn’t understand the truck was the world's greatest work truck and they must have thought I'd just let people hit my truck for the fun of it. It looked to me like they had whimped out on me and I figured they didn't have the balls to step up and take a swing at it.

Though I didn't make any threatening remarks or actions, I figured that it was best to put the pipe back in the mirror and put the confused onlookers at ease. Of course there was some inquiring question brought up from a few bystanders and it was just the purpose of the spiel anyway. As I explained to some of the bystanders what the deal was all about, a fat lady in a beater car began flipping me shit. She tried to tell me to leave, but there were others curious about what I had to say. I had clarified the purpose of the spiel to a few of the guys and a couple wanted to hear more, but the fat lady kept harassing me. Pitching my story wasn't what I stopped there for so I walked over to the end of the bench and sat down to check out how well the swell was doing and began reading the paper and drinking the coffee I had just bought across the street.

As it turned out the fat lady in the beater car had a cell phone. She must have wanted to play god, because she had whipped out her cell phone in an effort to get me in trouble. A few moments later I noticed a life guard had found his way up to the parking lot and asked a few people what the problem was. Apparently he didn’t think there was any problem because he soon turned around and left.

A few moments later as I was just sitting on the end of a park bench, a cop appeared asking a guy at the other end of the bench if he was the owner of the blue truck. He said, "No," but people standing around turned and looked at me. I felt I was had and it was only common sense to me that the next person the cop was about to ask the same question to was me.

He said, "Are you the owner of the blue truck?"

"Yes," I said.

"What are you doing here?"

I looked around, shrugging my shoulders as if I was wondering that myself because it was obvious I was just sitting there minding my own business.

He said he had a complaint about me and wondered what I had been doing.

I said, "Just practicing my right to protest and freedom of speech."

As an effort to get to my book I tried to open the passenger side of my truck, but the door was locked. He said, "Turn around." I thought, Oh shit. The next thing I heard was the ratcheting sound of the handcuffs going around my wrist. I figured he just wanted to secure me while he questioned me, but there wasn't another word out of him. The only thing I experienced was the persuasion of his push to the back seat of a squad car nearby.

I was told that they had psychologist coming to talk to me.
    When the so called psychologist arrived, I wasn't surprised when it turned out to be a woman of darker skin who seemed to be of Mexican origin. Regardless it looked as though it was Affirmative Action all over again. I had to wonder if the boys and the fat lady in the beater car had been a setup from the get go.
      The dark skinned woman sat inside the car and asked me why I smashed my truck. I gave her the same old spiel I've done a thousand times. I tried to have the cops fetch my book to prove that what I was saying was true but none of them would retrieve it for me. It pissed me off that I had written the dam book and had police reports to prove the conspiracy, and had them with me, but they wouldn't even going to look at the dam things.
    The bitch didn't even talk to me for five minutes before she got up out of the car. I thought; Yeah, if it isn't Affirmative Action being played here, she’s one dumb bitch.

The next thing I heard was one of the cops told her, "You should get back in the car and ask him questions like you're supposed to."

Soon a black guy (cop) sat in the drivers’ seat and a white guy sat in the passenger seat. They told me were holding me for the doctor that they had on the way who was going to talk to me.
    I got into the spiel all over again. The black guy mentioned that he noticed that they truck appeared to have been beaten up for quite a while. I said, "Yeah, I started bashing the thing over a year ago. It's a piece of junk; it might as well look like it." He backed out after about ten to fifteen minutes into my spiel, but the white guy stayed for well over a half hour. He seemed to believe what I was saying and even asked a few intelligent questions.
    Since none of the cops would retrieve my book, I wondered if they knew about it already. I had a feeling that a few of them were embarrass about the whole deal. One thing for sure, there was plenty of them standing around. (More than a half a dozen.) They seemed fascinated by my smashed truck, or should I say maybe even more by what they saw sitting on the back of it.
    I never heard from the cop that originally cuffed me and threw me in the back of the car. He just stood around like the rest of them. I felt as if they were a bunch of idiots making a freak show out of a hero and getting paid to do it. Even though the one officer sat in the car with me and listened to everything I had to say. He or none of the other officers would retain my book for me. On lookers as well as a few cops read the amendment I had posted in the passenger window of my truck, but they all acted like, "Gee, what is that, sounds confusing to me." Or maybe they thought something else, who knows. One thing for sure, I would have felt ashamed if I were them.

After sitting in the back of the cop car handcuffed for about an hour. Their so call specialist showed up. To no surprise to me he was another minority. The guy who appeared to be Mexican said he was a mental health technician.

As it turned out, the dumb bitch wasn't a psychologist after all. Once the "mental health technician" was sitting in the squad car with us, the bitch informed me that she was only just another cop. They asked me the same stupid questions I had already answered prior to the technician's arrival. It didn't matter what I said because just as I thought, the technician wanted me to speak to a doctor. Well, I'd already heard that line twice and still hadn't talked to a person with a Ph.D. behind their name. This time though, they wanted to take me to a hospital to do it.
That's when I got pissed off. I knew they were going to tow my truck away. The result was going to take the very money I had saved up to split town with. The cop who sat and listened to the longest spiel out of all of them assured me that they wouldn't tow it away, but needless to say, I didn't believe him.

I said, "Come on. You just listened to the whole bit. You said you understood what I said. Then why are you letting them do this to me?"

"I'm just a new guy, they won't listen to me."

"Yeah, sure -- then please, get my book and pictures for me. I deserve to be able to defend myself.”

    Sure enough the technician and bitch of a cop must have had something stuck up their asses, because they spent about ten minutes searching my truck the two said they couldn't find my book or my photo album.
      It wasn't enough that I had to sit handcuffed in the back of the cop car for over an hour with a bunch of cops gawking about my truck, but when they transferred me into the unmarked car the bitch was driving, she switched the handcuffs for her own pair and when she did, she put them on extra tight. I complained, but she still wouldn’t back them off any.
    On the way to the mental hospital, neither the technician nor the bitch of a cop knew where they were going. It made the whole bit seem a little suspicious to me. I felt that if they were specialist as they said they were supposed to be, I'd think they would've known where they were going beforehand.

Even though the bitch said she was a Malibu sheriff, I couldn't understand why they had her transport me in a car that doesn't have a divider between front and back seats.

Another thing that seemed funny to me was the questions that she did ask. Although she never retrieved my documents, she couldn't help but notice the old coffee stained picture I'd cut out of a newspaper from over a year earlier of Sarah Michelle Gellar. The next few questions she asked sounded as if she had a tape recorder going and wanted me to sound like I'd been stocking her.
She said, "I noticed you had a picture of Sarah Michelle Gellar hanging in your truck and I wondering why it was there."

I said, "Ah that's an old picture that’s been hanging there for over a year. It was basically part of a publicity stunt. I've got a new sweetheart now. Ever since I heard Gwyneth Paltrow sing... I've had the hots for her." The technician looked at me with an agreement to the fact the he too had a crush on her for the same reason.

"We noticed you have Sarah Michel Gellar in what looks like your will." said the bitch.

"Oh, you found a rough draft of my will, cool. That was another part of the publicity stunt while I edited my will. It sure got the folks in media talking about it. It was all over the background noise on TV the next day. The jocks in the locker rooms had a field day with it."
    Apparently they couldn’t find my book on the passenger seat of my truck, but they dug around underneath it and found an old dirty copy of the ruff draft of my will under the seat or maybe it buried in my console from well over a year beforehand. The reason they retrieved only that and nothing else left me with questions to their motives. To be honest, it was a bit scary, but what was there for me to do but ride it out.
    I did take the opportunity of the long ride which took about an hour, to do my spiel from top to bottom. I went through everything from the fire to the president changing the patent laws, to how private inventors are getting killed, to how the human race is getting dumber by the day, how they tried to kill me, to how I set up my will, and I even explained how I secured movie rights to my book by smashing my truck up.
    By the time we got to the hospital, I could tell by the technician had been turned into a believer, but he wasn't about to stand up for me. They had gone all that way, and he wasn't the one driving or making the final decision upon whether I could be released or not. His only advice to me was: "Just stay calm and you'll be alright."

In my opinion; the dumb bitch didn't care. All she understood was that I was a threat to Affirmative Action and it appeared to be the very thing that credited her to getting her job. I'm sure she felt like she was doing her part in the efforts of protecting Affirmative Action. As far as she was concerned, she didn't care who I was or what I'd gone through. I was one person she didn’t want to have on the street.

When we arrived at the Olive View -- UCLA Mental Hospital, I was surprised that they’d have cops with squad cars standing around outside the hospital. I couldn't understand the need for such a waste of taxpayer's money.
By the time I we got into the waiting room of the admittance office, my shoulder was giving me some serious pain. I tried to get them to take the handcuffs off me but they refused. I began pacing back and forth, really laying into the so called technician for being such a coward. I told him I was glad that jerks like him didn't have a truck like mine and that he sure didn't deserve one.

After at least a half hour of waiting in the admissions office, my shoulder was killing me. Eventually they took me into a smaller room with a desk and a few chairs. Once I was sitting in a chair I managed to slide my hands under my ass and pulled my legs though like some kind of contortionist.

A couple police officers were summoned to stand right outside the door while a psychiatrist named Rebecca Reyes took my blood pressure and heart rate as a part of admittance procedure. She filled out the necessary forms for admittance. (I get a kick out her written quote, "You were found rambling e conspiracy theories x are unable to formulate plans for self care.") Her paper work stated that I was “Gravely Disabled” and admitted on the 2000th hour of the 12th day of September 2000 and I would be stuck there until the 2000th hour of the 15th day of September 2000. (A 72 hour evaluation; I’d say.)

Another gal from human resources was there to fill out paper work for financial aid. Paper work of which I wish I would have never signed because it meant that they didn't have to come after me for the money they knew I didn't have. Basically welfare was paying for the bill. To this day I regret signing the "stay in jail free" form.

This is where I went wrong. I should have told her I didn't want any financial aid and that I'd pay for everything myself with the money I didn't have from the job that I didn't have. Reason being is that the hospital makes money off people brought in and if the government is flipping the bill, there is no motivation to get the patent out of the joint. Its common sense that they wouldn't want someone they wouldn't be getting any money from. But if welfare was going to pay for everything, why would they want to let loose of a blank check if they had an empty bed. (I think I heard they get $1,100.00 for a 72 hour evaluation or $ 300.00 per day or something like that.)

When it came time to walk me to the admittance ward, they had a few cops walk me all the way there. I was telling them how disgusting it was that they were treating me the way they were. |
   I said, "Do you guys even know what the fuck you are doing? Is this the way you treat heroes now days? The good ol American way isn't it? This is pathetic. Yah let them kill off the smart guys and you treat the survivors like animals. Do you guys actually call yourself men? If you call yourselves men -- then how come they got you buying obsolete motorized horse and buggies? I didn't hurt anyone. I didn't threaten anyone. You have no reason for bringing me here. Do you feel proud of yourself?"
    I laughed at them all the way. They seemed like a bunch of morons to me. Once we got there. They sat me down in a chair while the filled out more paperwork. The room contained eight beds and there were hospital workers mounting detainment straps on the second bed down on the left side. When it came time to take the hand cuffs off me they even summonsed more cops so that they would be able to mussel me over to the bed with straps.
    I laughed at them because they actually thought I would put up a fight. I said, "Shit, what do you needed all these guys for? I'm not stupid. What the hell do you think I'm going to do? Get ruff? Come on," I said "I'm not stupid. Why would I want to make things ruff for myself. Shit straps -- Where in hell do you think I'm going to go?"
    I calmly stood up and walked over to the bed, but since I wasn't about to put up a fight, they decided to put me in the forth bed on the right at the back of the room.

"You guys sure got all riled up for nothing. I'm not a fucking animal yah know." The guys looked at each other like they were somewhat embarrassed at themselves.

Soon they they’d removed the straps from the bed where they were originally going to put me and put me up front, in the second bed on the left.
In the bed next to me was a gal whom the cops had dropped off because she had a feud with her neighbors. She illegibly had thrown a brick at her neighbors during a neighborly spat. She wanted to know why I was there but it didn't take long before I realized I was talking way over her head. The important thing to me was that the nurses within the room were able to hear what I was saying.

As I sat on my bed, I started into the spiel again for the nurses. I got away with it for a while but after a while they fell into the 1/3 category of the people that don't want to know or just don't care. I'm sure they were accustomed to dealing with stupid people and after listening to the things they had said to each other throughout the night I don’t think they were very bright either. I’m sure that I was telling them was way over their heads. Before long, I realized they were just there to watch over us.
     It didn't take long to figure out that there was no way I was actually going to see a doctor that evening. I knew that I had been admitted to a 72 hour evaluation and I'd be dam lucky to get out the next day after seeing a doctor.
     I was a bit stressed out because it was obvious that the cops must have had my truck towed and I was going to get stuck with a towing bill that was going to grow every day I was trapped there in the nut house. No doubt the towing bill was going to gobble up the money.
    I sat there pissed off and it was likely I wouldn’t get any sleep. I was somewhat afraid to sleep because I wondered if they would sneak up to me while I was asleep and give me an injection of some kind of tranquilizer. I could have ended up being too stung out to know any better. I thought that if they knocked me out with some kind of drug, they would keep me on a roll of medication and I might not ever be the same again. No matter what was going to happen, I knew I had no control over it. The only thing that kept my confidence up was that I knew I had an underground following. I figured there would be people on the outside who would know I wasn't a nut case and they’d be wondering what was going on with me when I turned up missing. With a GPS mounted in my truck, it wouldn't be long before my followers would find out where I ended up. I was hoping people from the outside would be looking into what they were doing with me. Therefore the hospital would have to be accountable for me. I realized the first 12 to 24 hours was the most critical time frame. I felt if I could hold my own until the next morning, the hospital would find out about me and affirmative action wouldn't be able to pull any tricks.

I had three interesting roomies; and the events that took place made my book come across my mind; occupying most of the evening and early morning hours. I realized that the material I could gain from the experience was the makings of a very interesting chapter. I thought: If my book was to be worth $5 million and contained 25 chapters, then the experience of the metal hospital was sure to be worth at least $250,000.00.

I was given three interesting characters to write about within the first 12 hours. One was a gal with a few marbles in her head who liked throwing bricks and desperately wanted out because she was worried about her kids.
The other was a black guy across from me who appeared to have some common sense. He listened to my spiel and seemed to understand it, but in the end, he was trying to tell me I was full of shit. I felt that he possibly was placed there by Affirmative Action, just to wear me down.

Later the cops bought in a girl in a cruel and an inappropriate manner. The cops had her hands cuffed behind her back, and what I thought was cruel was the way the cop held her hands up in the air to about the height of her shoulders. She had to walk hunched over and she had a hard time walking in her high heals as the cop almost pushed her over onto her face. She was drunk and had to step forward fast while trying not to stumble. It was quite brutal and I assumed that it was quite painful for her shoulders too. If you ask me, I felt sorry for her. Like an animal on a leash, the cop forced her to the bed at the end of the room where they had originally put me. There she was strapped her into the bed with straps wrapped around her wrist and ankles.
The girl was wearing a black low cut dress. She appeared to be either drunk or on drugs. She kept yelling, "My son is dead! My son is dead!"
Apparently the week before a drunk ran into the car her son was in and he died in the accident.

She wouldn't let up and the ladies who were watching us got fed up with her yelling. Soon technicians in lab coats came in with the big needle. Along with the technicians were a few large men who were there to help hold the patient down. They rolled her over and gave her a shot of epidermal in the ass. The gal put up a pretty good fight while they did it.

She was saying shit like, "I'm a genius! I'm a Harvard graduate!" Well that sure made me start to think about the time I was in jail and the inmates didn't believe my story about a conspiracy.
When the epidermal started to take effect on the girl, the truth started to come out of her. It was my guess she was a porn star or a dancer because she mentioned something about being a porn star. Since her boobs were about popping out of her dress and a nipple was partially exposed, I said, "Show me your tits!" Well, she couldn’t hang them out for me because she was strapped to the bed and only struggled with the straps around her wrists.
It wasn't long until the little brick thrower to the left of me started to come alive. She would get up and walk over to the ladies and ask to see her doctor. She said that she wanted to go home to her kids and that she didn't belong there. Well the ladies aren't going to call up the doctor a three in the morning to have them come down to the hospital to talk to a nut case now are they? She began to drive the ladies a little crazy, so they moved her from the third on the left to the first on the right. They strapped the poor girl down because she wouldn't stay in her bed as they had told her time after time. The straps didn't shut her up any and as you might guess -- it wasn't long before the men in lab coats -- and the nurse with a big syringe came marching into the room. It wasn't long before the little brick thrower's mouth was quite too. By then I'd played with the limits upon how much talking I could get away with. Needless to say, I had no more to say anyway. However I did realize that if their plan was to put me under, they would’ve done it by then.

Guessing that it was safe for me to sleep, I finally fell asleep about 5:00 a.m. When I woke I couldn't be more anxious to meet the doctor who was to evaluate me. My first visitor was a guy who went around asking everyone why they were there. I gave him the well worn out spiel and I pretty much tried to make him feel like a dumb ass.

Wouldn't you know; when I finally did get to met the doctor, I think her name was Dr. Warren, she happened to be a dark shined minority. A Spanish gal I guess. At least that was my impression. I told her about the conspiracy, my book, the whole bit. I felt it didn't matter what I said to her, because thanks to the welfare department, I was money in the bank for the hospital. She tried to say encouraging things to me that sounded like there was a possibility of me getting to go home that day but I thought that it wasn't logical.

Then I was moved across to the other side of the office to the long narrow room with only about a half a dozen beds. The people in there were a little more civilized and quite. I think, one person was released and the others were sent upstairs. I found myself one-on-one with one of their observers. Boy, nobody to disturb or keep awake. I had free reigns. I talked the observer’s head off. One was an older lady and after a while she didn't want to hear any more. I was talking way over her head and laughing at her the same time. I asked what she was writing down about me but she wouldn't show me. She said that I could read it once I got out and ask for a copy of the report. “Boy, what fun that will be,” I said.

She sent another guy in for me to roast for awhile. I unloaded on him too. He seemed to want to believe what I was saying but he didn't have any control over the matter and didn't care either.

As I thought things would go. They weren't going to let me go home. I was going upstairs. I realized I was imprisoned by the way of a doctor being the judge, and there is no such thing as a lawyer to fight for my defense. They came to me with more paper work and I helped them as far as getting the information they needed, but called it stops when it came time to put my signature on it. I felt that the more things I signed, the easier it was for them to make money off me.

Once I was taken upstairs, I had to go through the motions of more admissions; a room number and bed was assigned to me. Of course there was more paper work I refused to sign. After they got all they could get out of me, I stood up and began to walk away, but then another male nurse sitting at a small desk a few yards away asked me, "Why did you smash up your truck?" I got into my spiel again for the umpteenth time. While I was explaining the way the patent terms had been changed, I asked he guy, "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Yes," he said.

"Then what did I just say?"

He shrugged his shoulders and said "I don't know?"

"Well I'm sure wasting my time talking over your head then aren't I?" I got up and left him because I wasn't getting anywhere with the guy. I felt that he wasn't even going to pay any attention to what a person is going to say, because they just look for signs of mental illness.

Upstairs I became obvious that many of the patients were there because of domestic type disputes. It appeared to me that the jails are full and it's too easy for the cops to drop people off at a mental hospital because they don't even have to write a report or spend any time booking them. Once a person is emitted, welfare steps in and pays for the whole thing. It's clearly a money making operation if you ask me. But don't get me wrong because there are many in there for a good reason. For instance, the guy I roomed with committed himself because he was hearing voices and desperately wanted the medication they had to offer.
I noticed all the nurses were taking notes on everyone who was trapped there. I must have stuck out like a sore thumb in the place because I was the only one who would even read the newspaper, especially the business section.

Then later on that night I heard some nurses talking about me. The word about me was: "He's a national security matter." That was what I was waiting for. I was wondering when people on the outside would find out about me. I knew I was safe from there out. When it came time for the drawing of blood for tests, I wasn't afraid of a needle because it was done where several others were giving blood for the same test. There were more than one nurse present and the one drawing the blood was a white male. All I cared about was that I saw the needle while it was still in the paper wrapper. Although the test was for tuberculosis and something else, I thought; well there's the AIDS test Hollywood was looking for.
Later on that night I ran into the little brick throwing gal. She was constantly bugging the nurses about how she wanted to see her doctor and that she wanted to go home to her kids. I'm sure she was about to drive the nurses crazy and they appreciated me taking the time to talk to her and trying to calm her down. I told her that the nurses can't help her. That she is only doing herself more harm by bothering them. I said that bothering the nurses would only count against her and that they were only there to watch. It helped keep her away from the nurses for awhile, but I’d eventually have to go rescue the nurses from her every few hours, time after time.

The brick thrower took me off to the side hall and told me that she had found a door leading out of the place. She wanted me to join her in an attempt to escape. She pointed out an exit door and said, "I checked it -- it push open, it goes right outside."

"No I don't think so," I said.

"We could sneak out to the street and get a cab."

"With what money?" I said. (The part she hadn't thought about.)

"We can still try."

"No, I'm sure that they aren't going to leave an exit open. I'm sure it's just a trap waiting for someone to try it. It doesn't go anywhere, I'm sure."

"Come on, it's worth a try."

"No. We'd only find ourselves in trouble. Come on, let's get away from it. I don't want to get into any trouble and I don't want you to get into trouble either."

Later on, I met a black guy in the TV room who was a patient there. He was one of those guys who thinks of himself as a wise guy. He inadvertently gave me some advice. He said, "They're not buying your story."

I thought about what he said. Could it have been that Affirmative Action was trying to get me to keep my mouth shut; or was he right? It dawned on me that I'm trying to explain politics, conspiracy, mechanics, and patent laws to doctors and nurses. I realize my story could be easily written off as exactly that --- a story. Also they might not understand what I talk about because they have never went to school for it and very well have no interest in any of it.

Therefore I had to change my whole tactics. I had to water it down to their level and just be another crazy man. Plain and simple -- I didn't threaten anyone, or threaten to harm myself, and I knew they had no right to put me in there in the first place.

After looking at some rules posted on the wall, I realized that the game while being in there was to let them diagnose you as having anything they want. Until I read the rules posted on the wall, I didn't even know that getting up in the morning and taking a shower was a requirement. Though I taken a shower on my own will, it wasn’t until after the shower that I realized nurses sitting behind small desks in the hallways had little charts which they check off of these little requirements. Also, things like making your bed and keeping a neat and clean room was necessary to pass the test.

A nurse came around with medication for everyone in the midmorning. He tried to get me to take a pill. I refused, but I asked what it was and he told me it was Risperdal. Ah, I thought to myself, the dumb bitch thinks I'm schizophrenic. She doesn't even believe my story. Well, it's time to jump ship off the conspiracy bit for sure....

By then I had the game figured out. I knew that I would have to start taking their drugs if I was ever going to get out of the place. I decided that the next time the nurse came around with the Risperdal, I was going to take it because on the bright side, at least I was aware of what kind of drug it was, and it wasn't going to zone me out if I took it.

About an hour later, a gal came up to me in the hallway and said she was one of the doctors assigned to me. I thought, Lord and behold a new shrink and a not bad looking one either. I thought; Fresh meat and a brand new game.

We introduced our selves, she Ellen Smith, and right away I asked if she had read the report on me.

"No," she said, "I haven't had time to."

"Good, I'd rather you didn't. I want to start all over. I'd rather start out with a clean slate and not have what other doctor wrote to have any influence upon what happens to me from here out." She nodded as she could understand my request.

She asked, "Have you ever been in a mental hospital before?"

"No."

"Have you ever had a mental illness before?"

"No."

"Have you ever been on medication for a mental illness before?"

"No."

"Have you ever seeked help from psychiatric counseling before?"

I said, "Don't you think that just one of those questions answers the other?"

"Well have you?"

"No."

"Have you ever tried to kill yourself before?"

"No."

"Have you ever thought of killing yourself before?"

"No."

"Have you ever been arrested for assault?"

“No.”

She motioned towards a door just off to the side of us in the hallway and said, "Would you mind if we went into this conference room?"

"No."

We went into a side room and sat across from each other at a table and she asked, "Why did you smash your truck?”

"Because girls think it's cute," I said, "It gets more smiles per mile being smashed up."

She looked at me a little puzzled.

"Hey, it's nothing new, it’s been smashed up for over a year now."

"Well what is the reason they brought you here?"

"Some kids saw the 2-inch heavy wall pipe I carry in the mirror brackets and they came up to me and asked if they could hit my truck with the pipe. I was going to demonstrate to them where to hit is so they wouldn't hit it in the wrong places, like the batteries and radiator cap. So I got out and went into a spiel just as I've done before and some lady in a beater car didn't like what she saw, so she called the cops and now I'm here."

"Why did you beat up your truck in the first place?"

"The truck is a piece of junk so it might as well look like it; besides the bank was going to repossess it, so I wasn't going to let them have a nice looking truck."

"Well tell me about yourself. Where do you live?"

We went on with the standard kinds of questions that were the ordinary type they must all ask.

I said, "Look. You take a guy -- impound his truck, you throw him in a place like this so he can't sleep and then you want to interrogate him the next day and look to see if he give you any signs of mental illness. I can tell. I can see your reactions to certain words or things a person is bound to eventually say. One way or another you’ll happen to think that the signals you notice are signs of mental illness. Just because a person is stress out and not calm cool and collected, you think he's crazy or something. I'm sure you can find something wrong with anyone if you look for the 'signs'. The longer you talk to them, the more likely the signals you look for will come out. I see it. I've noticed how you react to certain phrases."

I explained to her that I was about to split town and that the towing bill was being taking the money that I'd have to do so. I explained that my trailer will be towed away too since the rent was overdue and it was about to be towed away on Monday.

"And you want me to be calm about it!"

"Well can't you get someone to get your truck out of towing yard?"

"No." I said, "Everyone I know is in Washington."

"Why did you come here?"

"I thought I was going to be a script writer, but now that I'm here, I realize that it's a closed door community and you can't just call someone up on the phone. Also -- everybody and their brother is a writer down here. So I was going to go father north up the coast where there should be more jobs and better pay."

"Well I'll have to talk to the doctor that is supervising your case and see what he thinks," she said.

Our little meeting came to a close and I went out to wander the halls to see if there was anything I'd missed out on.

About an hour or to later, Doc Smith looked me up again. We went back into the meeting room again. She informed me that she wanted to keep me for a 14-day evaluation.

"No way," I said, "You have no reason to keep me here. I don't fit the qualifications. I didn't hurt anyone. I didn't threaten anyone. And I didn't threaten to do any harm to myself. Therefore, I do not fit the qualifications to be admitted to this place."

"Well, I'd like to put you on some medication."

"No, I don't need any medication. There isn't anything wrong with me. I can smash up my truck if I want to. It's my own property. It's not hurting anyone or putting anyone in danger."

"Well I happen to think you are bi-polar."

"Nah, I've studied all that shit. You think I'm bipolar just because I'm emotional. I’m not a burn out and I don't want to be."

"I'd like to put you on some Depakote and see how you are."

Sounded like some kind of paint to me.

"Shit, I don't need any drugs. If I need anything it's vitamins."

"I don't think they will help you."

"Hey, like I've said, I've studied all that stuff. I realize that there are different types of doctors with different ways of treating mental illness. Some happen to think it's all about how your parents raised you. The others think that drugs will solve the problem and there are others who think food and diet is the answer. I don't eat very well, so I believe in what the doctors who say mental illness is usually a result of vitamin deficiency."

"Yeah, you're right but very seldom vitamins alone will help a person suffering from Bi-Polar disease."

"Well I read a book by a doctor that tried to treat himself with medications and he didn't like the side effects. So he opted for vitamins. He said that 70% of mental illnesses can be cured with vitamins."

"Here -- I'll give you a sheet describing the medication I would like you to try," she said.

"I already know I don't need that stuff. I've suffered depression and anxiety before and I know when a person gets stressed out, they need extra vitamin B-12. Now look at what you are doing here. You take a guy’s truck away from him. You throw him in a loony bin while his trailer is about to get towed away. And you don’t expect him to be a little stressed out?"

"Yeah you're right, but it's very seldom that vitamins will help a person with your problem."

"Hey, I usually take B-100 why don't you give me some vitamin B-100 or even B-12 and see how I do on it."

She opens up her notebook and looks at some charts. "Well I don't think we have B-100 available. We don't carry B-12 in a tablet either. The only way we have B-12 is in an injection."

"Can you get B-6 or vitamin "E" in tablet form?" I asked.

"Yeah, I can get "E" in tablet form."

"You mean; if I want B- 12 I have to take a shot for it?"

"Yeah, but the good thing about it is that it last for a whole month. The hospital uses it on homeless people mostly, because they often suffer from malnutrition when living on the streets. Without the help of vitamin B-12, they tend to go a little crazy over time."

I had to think about the shot a little. I was surprised that she was even considering me to self diagnose and treat myself. If it wasn't for the fact that the word in the halls the night before about me being a national security mater, I wouldn't have even considered letting them put a needle into me. But after I thought about it a little; and I'm sure I squirmed in my set while doing so; I said reluctantly, "OK, I guess I'll go for the shot of B-12 and some vitamin "E."

I'm sure she could tell I wasn't thrilled about getting a shot. Then she said, "Alright, I'll arrange that you get them. We'll see how you do on them. I'm sure doctor Miller will want to talk to you and I think you should take this sheet on Depakote with you so you can read about it since we will probably want to put you on it."

We ended our meeting and I reluctantly took the sheet from her. Once I read it, I realized it was just what I thought it would say. It had a bunch of encouraging words, but the fact of the matter was that it also listed a bunch of side effects too.

While I was sitting in the television room, I met a guitar player who was admitted because he assaulted his own sister. They diagnosed him as Bi-Polar and he'd been in there for two weeks. He said he was a painter also and took my number because he was in a band that needed a bassplayer. I’m not sure but I think he was finally getting out after a 14 day commitment.

Soon a male nurse approached me.

"Mr. Sattler?"

"Yes," I said.

The male nurse said, "I have some vitamins here for you." I saw two in the small cup he had handed to me.

"What are they?

"Ah, 'B' Complex and a multi-vitamin," he said.

"You mean I don't have to take a shot?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Cool."

It made my day. I knew it was what I needed and I wondered if difference would be noticed by the doctor who let me prescribe them for myself.

Later, after lunch, there was some kind of activity going on. I knew it was better point scores if I participated so I went into a room with a large table. The activity was to make a designer boarder for the bulletin board in the special activity room.

There I sat, thinking about how stupid it was that this society would have a genius among a bunch of mentally challenged guys sitting at a table, tracing things through stencils and cutting out colored pieces of paper. The kind of things a five year old should be expected to know how to do. I was elected to trace little stars onto a narrow piece of green paper with a stencil. The guy across from me got the good stencil and I got the one that was in poor shape. However, I improvised by using the only good side and rotated the stencil it to make the star. I could have done them free hand for all that mattered, because the next guy in the line of assembly was told to use glue to fasten glitter on the stars and he used way too much glue on them. I was going to suggest that he closed the nozzle of the tub of glue to cut down the flow, but I thought what the heck. Who really cares? I thought the whole idea of me being there was an insult. Like yeah---have a guy who did $50 million dollars worth of research and development -- trace little stars.

How pathetic.... The American way I'd say. Only in America could people in the medical profession make a smart person do such a thing. To use a resource as poorly is an insult to all humanity. I just had to laugh at it.

I did however feel sorry for the guys who were sitting around the table, because to them, what they were doing was quite a challenge. They could not have been able to perform the tasks at hand without assistance from the hospitals aids. The whole experience showed me in a humbling way – of just how blessed I truly am.
In about a half hour into the project, the doc lady appeared at my side. "Do you feel like coming with me and talking to me and Dr. Miller?"

"Sure."

What a relief I thought. I was happy to go anywhere besides sitting there watching people have the hardiest time doing the simplest thing.

Once we were in the meeting room, she introduced me to not only Dr. Miller, but a lady from social services. (But now I think it was just another doctor.) Dr. Miller was an older guy with a beard and graying hair. I felt the same way towards him as I do with older cops. That is that they have been around long enough to not to jump to conclusion and they have a better intuition upon how to judge people.

Unlike the other doctors, Dr. Miller didn't pay much attention to how a person looks or reacts. He didn't even look at me very much. He just looked at his notes, asked questions and took notes on the answers.
I had more confidence because of him and the fact that I had my "B" vitamins which helped me refrain from being too emotional. I sat still in a chair at the table with my arms crossed and showed fewer emotions for the Lady Doc to notice. I was calm cool and collected and only answered the questions he asked with a simple yes or no if I could. I kept the answers as short and simple as I could.

"Are you working now?" he asked.

"Yes, for a temp agency."

"Where do you live?"

"In Van Nuys -- in a trailer court."

"I see you came here from Washington. What was the reason you came here for?"

"I've been writing a book and got tired of hearing how good of a writer I was, so I decided to come to L.A. and rub it in their face. But everyone and their brother is a writer here, so I've been planning to leave and head up North where things are cheaper."

While looking down at his chart he said, "I heard you smashed up your truck."

"I've smashed it up several times," I said, "It's been smashed up for about fourteen months now. Believe me, it was nothing I did just out of the blue. I thought about doing it for well over a month before I actually did it."

"What was the reason for doing so?" he asked.

"It was the second lemon I've bought in a row."

He looked up at me with a smile on his face that told me he could understand how I might have felt.

I said, "I tried to trade it in like most people do, but they only offered $8,000.00 for it, and I still owed $8,500 on it even though I put $10,000 down on it and made extra big payments. It didn’t have a scratch on it and it was suppose to be worth about $19,000.

Dr. Miller looked up again as if he could understand the dilemma.

"Besides, what are you going to do turn around and buy another one with the same things wrong with it? See, the way I look at is: that since I'm a part of history, I licensed my name so that if someone wants to use it -- I have control over it and they’d have to pay me for using it. And since I've kept a journal and wrote out my experiences in a book, I own the copyrights to my own story. I thought if I video tape me smashing up my truck with a sludge hammer, I own the copyright to it. Since people will fuss over it; AND I DO KNOW THAT PEOPLE FUSS OVER IT. THE FACT IS; (I pointed down at the table and tapped down hard on it a couple times; catching his attention.) WE ARE ALL SITTING HERE RIGHT NOW – only proves that people ‘DO’ fuss over it. Do you think anyone will buy a ticket to a movie about me if the truck doesn't get smashed up in it?"

Miller looked up at me with a big grin on his face and the women's faces displayed the same. I said, "I secured the movie rights to my book by smashing it up. My book tripled in value overnight. One of the smartest things I've ever done."

His looking down at his notes appeared to be over as he said, "What are you going to do when you get out of here?"

"Find out where my truck is."

The discussion got into how I was going to provide myself.

I told them I had already contacted an employment agency in Ventura and I was planning to work there where the cost of living should be less. He asked about how I made a living with the concern of how I'd support myself if he let me out into the street. When the discussion was over, he said that they had to talk things over before they would decide to let me go. It was said that I would be notified if I was to be released.

It seemed promising, but it wasn't final. I went out and roamed the halls for a while. About a half hour later the lady doc approached me and asked, "Would you like to go home today or tomorrow?"

Well.... I mentioned that every day that went by, that the towing company was going to charge me money for it so it was in my best interest to get out as soon as possible.

She couldn't help herself from asking, "Would you like to know what your diagnose was?"

"Hah?" I didn't understand what she meant.

"Would you like to know what your diagnose was?"

"Sure."

"You were diagnosed as Hyper Bye Polar."

"Oh." I said with the thought in my mind said --

Like it had to be something....

"It's good,” she said.

"What do you mean by that?"

"It's easily treatable."

"Didn't you notice any difference in me after I had the vitamins?"

"Yes, but that's very rare."

"Well it works for me."

"Yes, but I would like you to study up on it for me, ok?"

"Sure."

One thing that got me was that the lady from social services said that she would find out where my truck was and supply me with the bus route back to my trailer court. She did neither.

On the way out, as a couple of the nurses walked me out. One said “We could tell the last night that you didn’t belong there.”

I asked, "Does anyone ever get out of a 72 hour evaluation very often?"

"Not very often," she said, "You're one in a million."

It was a Thursday afternoon and I had to have my trailer out by Monday; or the cops would be having it moved for me. The bus ride was a long ride home and a hot one too. When I got home I noticed that I wasn't the only one on the move. The trailer with mirrored windows behind mine had pulled out, leaving the space vacant. Maybe they found a cheaper place to store it -- do yah think?

I called the police station and found out where my truck had been taken. It was confirming that the cop lied to me of which I had already suspected. The bus drivers were considering a strike the next day so I arranged to get a ride with a gal who lived a couple doors down from me.

Basically the cops arranged for me to lose $219 of the $250 I had saved to leave LA. Get this: The city of Malibu got $30 of it for fees they get whenever a vehicle gets towed in their town. I called my mom and told her how I'd just spent time in a funny farm and mentioned to her how I didn't qualify as a mentally ill person. She helped out by depositing $250 into my bank account and I used most of it to get my bass and Sawzall® out of the pawn shop. The sad thing was I had to leave behind $300.00 worth if microphones I'd pawned for only $30.00.

And down the road I went.

I signed up at the Labor Ready in Ventura, but I felt that there was a lack of work there and after talking to a manager of a RV park, I realized the chances of getting out to work was pretty slim. He said that they would most likely let me sit for a few days, so off to Santa Barbara I went.

On the way to Santa Barbara, I hit Rincon at a good time. The waves were the best I'd seen all year and my session was the best also because there, the surfers have much better surf etiquette than surfers in LA.

Once in Santa Barbara, I had very little money so I couldn’t afford stay at the state park. I found that parking conditions were not exactly pleasant with a trailer. I made a few phone calls to painting contractors, but I found myself talking to answering machines. With no phone, a call back wasn’t about to happen. The closest Labor Ready was back in Ventura so I pawned my Sawzall® for the money for fuel to make it to Santa Cruz.

I stopped in the town of Selinas and signed up at the Labor Ready. I had to buy a wind up alarm clock so I'd be there early and the next morning I was dispatched to a refuge company. I ended up being a garbage man for the day and it was the best day of work since I hit California. The driver was 26 years old who liked riding dirt bikes and someone I could relate to. I did my quick spiel right of the bat in the morning and filled him in at times throughout the rest of the day. It was nice to be with someone who treated me like a normal person and nobody else around us knew who I was as I picked up their garbage cans.

I worked one more day out of the Salinas Labor Ready in a town called Hollister, and then off I went to Santa Cruz.

The next chapter of Sunnyside's Lousy Book is:
SANTA CRUZ

Have you seen the other Book Excerpts?