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I love the smell of rain. It makes the City of Stockton seem like it really 

is a part of The East Bay (though it is not!) and peering through my rain

streaked kitchen window, which overlooks the back-yard, reveals a scene of 

purity and beauty that is usually not found in the 209. I thank The Gods for

the gifts of Redwood trees, rain, and oddly enough, the fact I am alive to

experience it all........

My brilliant and enjoyable Aunt Susan (I love my other darling Aunt,

 Annette, too and it is sad she is not coming to California. Love ya, Aunt

 Annette!!) is arriving tomorrow from Chicago and I have finally managed to

get her room cleaned and organized. It was the room where my deceased

father lived before I had him arrested for violence against my mother. My 

father fled the State of California after being released. He managed to hide

from his arrest warrants until the day he died, with the help and financial

assistance of an Assistant District Attorney of San Joaquin County, who was

a friend of my father’s (He was SUPPOSED to be a FRIEND OF THE FAMILY 

but I no longer have ANYTHING to do with him since he betrayed my 

mother and I with his refusal to help talk my father into Rehab. He would

have been a motivating factor but he refused to go against my father. I neverbelieved he was a good attorney, either, because I would ALWAYS WIN

arguments with him!!). Some would consider this corrupt and blatant

disregard for the law by an assistant D.A. strange, until you learned of this

particular assistant D.A.'s obsession and addiction to hard-core

pornography, which allegedly included child porn.........

This is a man who puts criminals in jail and yet is a perverted sickohimself. I only hope that he is an exception to the rule that District

 Attorneys are not biased and utterly corrupt but I honestly doubt that is the

case. The legal system is a scary jungle, where the innocent are eaten alive

 while the guilty live better than they would if they were not incarcerated.

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The assistant D.A. I mention here remains nameless because I cannot afford

any more problems in my life and that includes charges of libel.

How do I know this is the truth? Simple. My father told me at his

apartment in Reno, which included a television the assistant D.A. bought for

my father. Do you understand how easy it would have been for the damned

assistant D.A. to get my father into rehab or at the very least, do his job and

have him arrested, which might have saved his life? Maybe he would not

have had to die ALONE in a mobile-home-trailer, surrounded by empty pill

bottles and Coca Cola cans, his body stranded in Oregon. They finally got

around to picking him off the floor, where he had slumped down in the

euphoria of a pain-pill high. Then all that ended suddenly with a brutal and

sharp pain in his chest. Before he took his last breath, my REAL FATHER 

(not the druggie crazed mad-man with a heart condition, who still managed

to break a San Joaquin County Deputy Sheriff's leg during a hallucination

 when my father was suffering the terrible symptoms of benzodiazepine

 withdrawal. I speak now of the man with whom my Mother fell in love with.)

came to his full consciousnesses. He wondered why he was all alone as he sat

there dying. He remembered with crystal clear clarity the mistakes he hadmade when he had forsaken his family, when he was lost within the grip of 

that powerful monkey that clung to not only his back, but also to his neck

and head. He had broken the loyalty, trust and honor-thus the familial bond-

 with the only two people who truly loved and cared for him in this cruel,

merciless World: his beautiful, intelligent wife and his wannabe poet/writer

carpet cleaning son. When my father died alone in that trailer, I know he

died with tears of regret in his eyes.

I digress.......

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A woman I love and consider my sister, Cathrin Goode, paid for a bus

ticket to Reno so that I could see my father May of 2007. That was the last

time I ever saw or talked to my father and I will always love Cat for that gift.

Though he has been dead since September 2007, his clothes still hung in the

closet of the now "guest" room. It is very hard to finally erase his lingering

presence in the room. I still have one more drawer to go through but I can't

do it yet. I've been upset just doing what I have done. In the pockets of just

one coat, I found four empty bottles of pain-killers (they were the yellow 

Narcos and contained 50 pills each.) and 2 more bottles of Xanax (the small

blue ones and 90 came in the bottle). According to the dates, he had gone

through each of those bottles (concurrently) in less than a week during the

month of November in 2004.

I know I should not speak ill of the dead but since I do all the time

anyway, I must mention the stupidity of Dr. Popplewell (also now deceased),

 who prescribed these dangerous narcotics to my father as if they were candy.

Believe me, my father ate them like candy, too. I should not dwell on this

and the Past in general. It should not affect me so much since he has been

dead and gone for almost five years now. The sad and pathetic truth is thatmy father haunts me every night (and day) while I am sleeping. I remember

some dreams clearly and some others are just blurs. It is both comforting

and scary. I am the cause and catalyst for the events that led him to

becoming a wanted fugitive and I know he is angry with me as he suffers in

his own personal hell, if not one The Gods of Karma designed specifically for

him.

That is why I write; I am addicted to the cathartic and soothing buzz writing

gives me ............

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If not for the help of two of my friends, my "brother" David and Jesse

"ThigLife" (a true Westie and any West-Sider from Stockton will know of 

 whom I refer......), I would not have been able to finish the work, for both

physical and psychological reasons. I thank The Gods I am blessed with such

 wonderful and loyal friends. The folks who are REAL friends are ALWAYS

there when you need them (even if they are thousands of miles away at the

time!) and those who pretend to be friends slink away at the first hint of 

trouble or a disturbance in their comfort level. That seems to have happened

to me quite a bit the last year or so, all of them friends from Stockton and a

couple of whom I thought were family, but there are still some people here

in the 209 that I can trust with not only my life (which is worthless except

for the possible good that I might be able to create with the words I write.)

but my mother's life (an important life as she is a Healer....), as well.

So this is not just a specific thank-you to Dave and Jesse, which was

the cause and reason I started this rambling screed at the start but it is also a

blanket thank-you to all those friends of mine (some of whom I consider

brothers and sisters; I am only child and I consider close friends family and

kin. Some people who fell into that category no longer speak to me and itdisturbs me greatly since I do not understand why nor will they explain it.

Thus the reason I mention it in my writing all the time because I am trying

to understand it myself. I am a dweller on a sea of emotions.) who continue

to help both my mother and I when we need it, which is becoming more and

more often. With-out these people, my life would not be worth living.......

Thank-you for reading this, if you read it at all or in its entirety, andsince I have not written anything all day, this now short essay has gotten out

of hand in terms of length, Constant Reader, and I apologize but you must

understand that this is all practice. I also get lost within the keyboard.

 Writing is like sex; time consumed with boring, repetitive motion that seems

like nothing really special is happening and in fact, seems more like work

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than anything fun. Then, at some point you can never define, writing can

become just as pleasurable as those repetitive, boring motions become

during sex. At the end of both of these wonderful and fantastic activities,

there is ALWAYS a big reward. I do not know if that explains what I mean

about why my writing rolls like a runaway train down a mountain but a

terrible migraine is on its way to visit me so I must wrap this up quickly and

tighter than a small condom fitting over my penis.

I guess it is a warm-up because I have a letter of introduction to write

tonight. An introduction to ME, MYSELF, and I. A friend, Michael (he is the

father of my friends Josh and Jesse but I consider him a friend, as well. Mike,

 just like the two sons that he raised with his awesome wife, Susan, is the

epitome of a good guy) , sent me a link about a freelance writing gig and I

have to get on that tonight. I'm flattered that he thought of me when he saw 

it. I hope that means the words I write reach an audience so vast, I am

unaware that it exists at all..................

PLEASE TAKE OF YOURSELVES ON THIS RAINY, WET NIGHT AND BESAFE WHEREVER YOU MAY BE!!!!

A AA A ndrew N NN N icolas F FF F arrens 

.A.N.F..A.N.F..A.N.F..A.N.F.March 13, 2012

 West West West West Stockton, CaliforniaKazinskyville KazinskynessKazinskyville KazinskynessKazinskyville KazinskynessKazinskyville Kazinskyness

1,697 Words=I love Face Book because it FORCES you to write. That is its ONE redeeming quality,besides the information spread it delivers.....

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