The Story: Chicken Butts"

a book by Damon Anthony Duval titled by his son, Jazz Duval age 6

Introduction

Not to be on a confrontational platform... but more let's say on natural philosophy's plane..... "put a great day on your slate and try NOT to smile" .... a challenge to ourselves everyday, and what I love to teach my children.... then you won't have to fake a smile to begin with.... and will end up with one, naturally.

Hawaii is a great place to vacation. It's a great place to meet people.... People from all over the world. It's a great place to get over an ex-wife. It's also a great place to meet your future ex- wife. It was in my case a great place to just to take a breather from frustration. A breather for this talented, non-suicidal/student artist from a talented but suicidal/mentor/father-figure/business partner, Simon, who would prove to be unfortunately successful at both mentoring and suicide. A breather from a poorly acquired taste for cocaine. Oh yes, and a breather as well from Roslyn...... a torrid seven-year on and off liaison of much significance to me(and I to her as well, I'm sure). For any sentient being, staying in Hawaii for too long unveils a fragile paradise, under the global assault of tourism and decades of unchecked, unbalanced development, tainting what splendor that still remains. Such was my seven-year "breather" to Hawaii-ne, The Hawaiian Islands, The Sandwich Islands, String of Pearls, whichever you choose to label one of this planet's many gems. "God" ("of your understanding", of course) really got right when Planet Earth belched up these beauties.

A few years prior to my departure from Santa Monica, California, I was fortunate enough to have been given a priceless gift.... my first trip to Hawaii. Two weeks on Maui, top of the Hyatt Regency, all amenities, from Ross and Jani, two of the most generous people I've met along my way..... and still to this day. Growing up surfing (since forever) and the so close to the ocean in spirit already, this revealing of the Pacific's Finest of Waterworlds left me speechless. Just stepping off the plane made I felt right at "home". So returning to the Islands in this "time of need" was a no-brainer for me.

My biological mother had ventured off to Hawaii at least five or six times solo when I was young. Why she would not see to it myself, my brother, and my sister could share in these adventures would puzzle me for a time. My biological father was gone by the time I was six months old and was all but shut out of my life by some scared child who would be later known to me as Mom. That puzzling question why she didn't take us to Hawaii is quickly is answered by remembering just how many times she had said "I should have never had you kids". When I try to remember how many times she did say it, I find myself stopping at once, that was enough. Feeling unwanted as a child is only comparable to a vast, dry, and empty plain. The pain of pain falls mainly on this plain. Dry.... barren..... waiting for water and cultivation .... this may sound funny but the mere sight of a raincloud in the distance would have done wonders at that time. I recently ran into my egg donor's sister.... she had read this book and wondered why I hadn't included all the people that loved me growing up. HA! I still havent stopped laughing at what she would have considered love...... you GOTTA be kidding... so for her sake, I'll mention those that loved me most: Dora Matt, Mary Juana, Coco Caine, Alfred Cohol, Mai Tai M. Wei-Stehd, Sir Ching Forlove, Les Clew, D. Niles, and, for years an incessant and seemingly unstoppable "gathering necessitation" of any or all of these characters at any given time..... not to mention their extended family as well. LOL. Phew. Exhale. Burp. Fart.
SAYONARA!

My "breather" to Hawaii had started out as an around the world adventure. Honest Injun. I was planning to stay in The Islands for only a couple of months and then on to Japan, New Zealand, Australia, and onward, and onward. Whether out of fear or God's will(and/or limited finances haha), I stopped and stayed for the better part of seven years, although through my years of karate-do and the purchase of the resort that I worked by some Japanese Nationals, I would actually make it to Japan in spirit.

Frustration, of which I previously spoke, was a combination of a quite markedly successful abstract art studio running out of gas, running on fumes if you will, and a virtual buffet of untreated personal issues..... and my not having any fucking clue as to how to remedy any of it. What a view looking back.

Fear easily trumps Desire in these situation tragedies, thus effectively and effortlessly blocking the path of prolonged success. Two people ran this studio. Simon had ultimately chosen a chaotic, untreated nosedive..... I wasn't willing to continue such insanity and had seen enough. Life, to me, was to be grasped and respected at the same time, and watching someone choosing to go down at the hands of their own self will was not stamped my pass. A road trip was, in my opinion at the time, my only option. Relocated, recharge, rehab, restart, re re re re, rinse and repeat... but don't let history do so.... ever. Gameplan.

Staring into the fear-saturated eyes and soul of a bioillogical mother(I prefer egg-donor), I admitted to her that I was a drug addict and I needed to leave and go get what I thought I needed. Of course this would be on my own, because why would I ever ask for help? Twenty-seven years old and I knew best. I always had to....and in no way was I to be swayed again by her fears. My survival instincts, dutifully produced and finely honed by the very person I now stood before, were fully meshed in gear. Overdrive. In a way, I had already left. I had to.... how else does a child cope?.... I don't recall feeling any of the sadness or fear that she was obviously feeling. We stood together alone in her kitchen, and said good-bye.... which very well could have been the last time.

Over the next several years, we did speak occasionally, but she has since passed. May she rest in peace. Aloha to one of my links to heartbeat and breath. This was basically the luggage I took with me to paradise. This luggage is the perpetual carry-on kind of luggage.... fear masked by drive luggage.... still alive and well all over the f'n place. This ain't the classic, tag-laden cargo stashed in the bellies of our huge transport vehicles separate from ourselves..... this "stuff" lays filed deep in the personal hard drive. On December 13, 1988, after being dropped off at LAX by a longtime friend and fellow artist, John, I was off for the world and life itself was in my sights once again. Good-bye problems and hello real life????? HA! We'll see what happens. Light was on the horizon and it wasn't the setting sun. My lifelong thanks to Sensei Tsutomu Ohshima for the courage to keep my sights on that very horizon. Bushido.

CHAPTER 1

After a year or so of flying solo in the most gorgeous of settings, I was using all I had to carry my load. This is a white-knuckle approach to sobering up. Kennedy would end his life within the next decade, never getting the assistance he really needed. My life's work was now a load of postponed desires. So be it. This was definitely a side-street to the main highway I'd been on. Phone calls to Roslyn in a valiant attempt to rebuild any remains of the "Damon and Roslyn" show were being diligently performed and dutifully acted out. My first and only phone sex of my life. LOL. Of course, she was all in favor of this chemistry project as well. We were quite the willing and able co-dependents. You'd think after seven years of break-up/make-up there might be a scent of dysfunction, a suggestive waft if you will, in the air. But, being helpless, incapable, and tool-less as to what it takes to resurrect something this malfunctioning, we were poised to fester right back into the same non-evolving wound.... consistency and inertia would prevail..... one of us couldn't keep their panties on and, consequently, just as the sun will set every evening in the West, our relationship as a "couple" ended right there. Not without a final flair for the unique and creative, though. I have never hit a woman and never will.

The next year or so was to be all work and no play- white knuckling it again. Double shifts more often than I care to remember just to cover the expenses for the quaint one-bedroom apartment overlooking the AlaWai Canal. An old walk-up between two condo towers. With this work schedule, all I ever said to the neighbors was hello in the morning and a late night " g'nite ". Paradise was all around me and nowhere to be found. Although cocaine had disappeared from my life, YEAH!,I still drank and smoked, Darn :-(.... alright, one vice at a time..... I was working, paying the bills, and surfing when I could. I was proud of how I was hanging there. Big Time. One night stands only for the next few years. Some sweeeeeetness though. Mercy. Keepers were even discarded for the sake of an attempt at a sober existence.

My egg-donor arrived for a week stay, a year and a half or so after I had arrived and months after Roslyn had departed. All I could feel from her entire visit was the shame she displayed for having a son that waited tables contrasted by the pride that I had in defeating the statement from Simon before I left that "I would never go back to waiting tables"..... I did for the seven or so years that I was in Hawaii. HA!

Any love I had for the egg donor had become a sort of distorted obligation - arguably a twisted version of the Stockholm Syndrome. However, waaayyyy inside, I had a very different feeling for myself. At the restaurant, I was very safe in my element. It was the same thing I had been doing for the previous ten years(only with much lower stakes). This proved difficult for the egg-donor. Her ego and para-alcoholism would blind her as to what her oldest son was trying to do.... break the chains of dysfunction. For her to have acknowledged what I was aspiring to in its entirety would have required her to have acknowledged in its entirety her contributions to the life that was and is mine.... and I was trying to do this without any tools. My God. Unbelievable..... when I look back..... Damn. No wonder I just wanted to check into a facility that first year. Still remember like it was yesterday. I would drool at the rehab clinic brochures. $$$$$$$ not there.

To say I was relieved when she was gone is the understatement. Our relationship never really improved. Funny thing though, when I was in my late thirties, she would claim verbatim that "I left her when I was nine years old." What???????? My mental scales are quite substantial, but I don't think there's a receptor or dendrite big enough to quantify and qualify and digest that gem. Add that to "I should have never had you kids", and one's response is simple: Ouch. Ouch. Believe it or not, there's more. Knife turning later.

Hard work/no play ethic is still in full gear. Perhaps a normal, healthy person of means would logically move in the direction of actual betterment. I would choose the only recipe I knew....... the opposite of that. I needed help with the rent. Covering bills and workload getting to be too much. A roommate was more than in order..... and what "better" addition to someone seeking long term addiction recovery than to invite in another untreated alcoholic. Perfect! .... and why stop with one?...... so, I had two of these alcoholics added to the apartment..... making it effectively now the zoo..... So enter Matt and John..... Apartment er uh now Club 209.... with a bunch of drunk monkeys swinging from the trees. Is burning a candle at one end any fun? NO is the correct answer.... For respectable chaos, one needs both ends lit. How is this best achieved? With a blowtorch, of course!..... matches... you gotta be kidding....... Birds of a feather do indeed..... so we all flew medicatedly "South" for the next year or so. For some reason "South" has always carried some sort of a negative stigma attached to it.... and I will be proving this beyond ANY reasonable doubt later on in this book. Back at Club 209, alcohol use was to grow exponentially, beyond belief, and the occasional visit to the cocaine aisle of life's supermarket of medications proved to be the fuel for the dysfunctional hive to flourish. The sober path had hit the speed bumps..... maybe even the do not enter spikes! LOL

The only benefit to the good ship beer no pop was the fact Matt was occasionally a pass out version. Being pretty good with the ladies, on one occasion, I heard a sweet whisper in my ear, "Are you awake?".... a frustrated hottie dealing with a passed out Matt required the duties of a closer.... Gentleman, during bachelorhood, the unexpected visit from an unknown sweet thing in the dark, on a lonely night, and gone before daybreak, is what pennies from heaven is all about. It never gets any better than that... just like you read about. LOL. Wonderful.

A beer bottle rammed into the side of my head, a cold-cocking from a well-hidden drunk punk lurking just around the corner of my bedroom doorway pretty much sized up the need for change. Some people just can't face the music. The fact this guy smashed my guitar to pieces in addition to the assault was small change in scope to the cranium bash. After a pregnant pause, I decided to spare this man's eating, walking, and basically all existing bodily functions. Drinking and drugs were taking their toll on everybody in the "group". I'm still wondering to this day how that beer bottle didn't break. Eviction notices were given and enforced for the summary possession of Club 209 after rent was late again for the umpteenth time. The cockroaches were all long gone now that the lights had been turned on. Watching the police stand guard while I emptied what I could into a storage room on property (grateful for the use) and trashed all the rest, was an arduous and head shaking process. Change was imminent and this change was a necessary, overdue one. I was now officially homeless, nursing two post-operative knees from an unfortunate accident at work.

Robert, an old boyfriend of my egg donor's, had lived on the Oahu for at least twenty years and it had been at least that long since we last saw one another. I called him a few months prior to this "eviction", to say hello, meet his wife, reminisce, and together we shared a great round of golf with UH Volleyball Coach, Dave Shoji at the Oahu Country Club, where he belonged as a long time member. I phoned him after the eviction and mentioned I was in dire straights. He took me up to his home and offered me a guest room to stay in along with his wife. This was way too good to be true. With a sense of shame and failure accompanying my present circumstances and a self-imposed need to "sleep in the bed I had made for myself", I turned down his offer, my head down. He shoved a hundred dollar bill into my hand as he wished me well and drove off to his home on the Country Club. I headed to a picnic bench in Ala Moana Park for the next few nights, my notebook sized day planner as my pillow.

A real man has to reap what he sows, doesn't he? Seeing Bob again reminded me so vividly of how I had and still did long for a father in my life. Today, I even let my children steer my Volvo in the empty basement parking lot of our library while sitting on my lap, just as Bob had done for me when I was little on the way to Marineland on Palos Verdes when it was existent. He was second to none in the long stream of men (some I would consider men) that flowed through the egg donor's bedroom. A prince of a man. Great golfer. Thank you Robert Blaine K. for your gifts.

My core issues remained untreated and with the help of a great friend, George, I was able to get a room at the Pali YMCA, basically a large halfway house, and get off the park bench.

After a month or so of staying at the Y, pretty much one step short of jail, I sought out and found employment. Raising money through telemarketing for Viet Nam Vets. Sitting down at work made it easy on the knees and the bus let me off right in front of the building. Doable. One of the employees that worked there, Don the closet homo, needed to replace a departing roommate. Would've been better to replace Don, or just keep him locked in the closet with cans of corn. LOL. The Y had started to lose its incredible charm. No visitors, a curfew, long nights with just Larry King on AM radio, the room at this creature's place even with his all too frequenting visits from married men, would be a slight improvement. With a leftover mountain of gratitude for my friend George getting me shelter, I moved in.

Gary and Ruby, the "supposed to move Don roommates" were a breath of fresh air. Ruby, who at five years of age, and her father, Gary, who loved and cared deeply for her, would not be moving any time soon. Our new found friendship not only was a quick and tightly bonding one, but it prompted their staying instead of moving out. Don, our other roommate now had three roommates: Gary, Ruby, and Uncle Damon, not to mention some willing, sweet, international nectar from a friend's sunset booze cruise. I loved assisting as a welcome committee. HA!

Nursing these post-op knees had rendered me quite the sedate and stationary mass of flesh (except for hobbling down for welcoming committree duties, lol). Matt, the old roommate, had neither reduced his alcohol intake nor his visits to his obliging, enabling, and consuming drinking buddy, Damon. Being sidelined and always available, I sponged up all that was brought by. A photo I recall at that time had me as big and round as a house. Scary. Enough of this and over the next few months, in full knee recovery mode, by all means possible, I commenced a swimming program near the nautitorium in Waikiki - jetty to jetty as often as possible without fins as I remember.

Waikiki is one big swimming hole, with groups of swimmers heading out daily. Either swimming across the Bay from Diamond Head to Ala Moana, or maybe just straight out off Sans Souci Beach until the Lighthouse comes into view from around Diamond Head, you can't go wrong (assuming you can swim, of course lol). I first chose the rock jetties down from the nautitorium just to get the gears greased. This little gem of a spot was shared with me by my Hobie Cat sailing champ, surfing friend, and a true waterman, Steve..... Honorary Governor Steve. Daily visits down to the ocean started a restoration process that seemed long overdue, if not just a bit delayed.

During an conversation I had with Gary and Ruby one evening, he had asked me if I had ever been to the Big Island of Hawaii. I said that I hadn't so he was ultra thorough in explaining to me that I hadn't been to Hawaii if I hadn't been to the Big Island. With my rehabilitation foremost on my mind, I thought if I was to spend time actively pursuing recovery then why not spend it in a quieter, more peaceful setting. Alcohol maintenance had replaced cocaine use and it was obvious I was going to need another "breather". Watch the Sign Post up ahead, young man. Untreated addiction to substance grows splendidly if unchecked with a program, as would any untended garden. Subliminally motivated, this buried seed of wisdom, planted years before by recovery meetings and Roslyn, had started to show germination and I was off to the Big Island, Hawaii. Maybe Ms. Right (OR Little Ms. Can'tbewrong lol) was just an island away.

The Big Island of Hawaii, everything except the "vog" (toxic volcanic fog), is a natural gem. It has almost every climate zone known to our planet, and the major league fact that from it's base at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean to it's peak on Mauna Kea, it's the tallest mountain of 'em all, actually beating out Mt. Everest by 4,436 feet.

Swimming had now become a daily routine, with the addition of snorkeling fins for extra resistance on the knee joints. Surfing had taken a back seat as bending and twisting the knees was absolutely impossible, let alone inadvisable. By swimming every day, by proxy I had joined a "different than surfing" water-borne community. Waves aren't prayed for when the water is fine 24/7. Kailua-Kona and the true beauty of fair competition(although there were some suspect steroid stuffed mainland transplants) with friends permeated this ocean arena. Morning swims at sunrise welcoming the day ahead was routine. Not only was there an incredible recovery process taking place with regards to my wounded knees, my spirit was doing just the same right in step(or stroke in this case!). The Pacific Ocean really is "my parents". Two for one. What a deal. I was going to be able to go back to work. Answering an advertisement in the local paper, the Kona Village Resort was hiring. Exclusive, well manicured, very little pavement, footloose, and right on the mark as to what I was looking for. They were looking to fill a dining room host position, and, in my interview, I was able to prove to Momi, their director, that I was their man.... I smiled when she said that she would make me her "Captain."

Back on stage and what a slew of guests coming through the door. A few months of hosting preceded what was to become a year and a half of dining room floor management. Manager. This waiter? Couldn't turn it down.... meant more money. I had been asked several times before only to turn down the offer and maintain the freedom[?] that you have waiting tables. By this I mean you don't take your work home with you.

So I was to work under some guy by the name of Randy, who ended up being the most parasitic overseer the entire state of Hawaii had to offer. How this freak ever got green-lit into upper management is beyond me and should be reviewed for future preventative practices..... and George Bush, Jr. made it to the White House .... If any credence had been given to the fact that he had just driven one of Oahu's landmark restaurant's, The Willows, belly-up and in the dumpster to the tune of six million dollars, KV Resort would have avoided this personified malignancy. Enter Dr. Damon A. Duval, quite the vocal dabbler in this field of oncological and ontological medicine, A.K.A." better business", took it upon himself to remove this "tumor". Spiritually under what would I would later find to be a combination of Voltaire, Lenny Bruce, Henry Bukowski, and Vincent Bugliosi approach to life, it would cost me my job, suffer a bit from collateral damage, but in the long run, it would be worth it. Exposing dysfunction isn't a bad thing..... in fact it is the only thing at this stage in the game. This ain't a dress rehearsal. Although I would miss terribly the ohana at the resort, I missed as well my artist's way at a studio. The real twist is that I never really left the studio in spirit. I was to work a couple of menial sales jobs until through an ad placed locally, I was to able to get my hands back onto the canvas.

My ability to get the artwork off the ground again, was in part due to Jules', my sperm donor and biological father assisting financially. Yikes. He had come to visit with his wife, Judy, during the last few weeks of my KVR job and on this trip was to leave the most indelible impression on my soul and on the very sacred ground where I now considered home. Sacred because of how I had devoted my recovery to the aina and kai while I attained this, as Rudolf Steiner put it, knowledge of the higher worlds.

During our first meeting of his visit, he had me join him for a round of golf up in Wiamea, on the northern, middle portion of the Big Island. With a cool, comfortable, and breezy climate zone and a fun new course just recently completed to try out, I was looking forward to at least a fun round of golf as I could never take this pathetic idiot's temperament for more than twenty minutes max.... the egg donor I think I could take for about forty. What was to transpire at sunrise that morning would be one of those life shattering meteors we irrefutably would all be better off without forever....

I drove to the course that morning solo as my island's new arrivals had just flown in the night before. They wanted to unpack and rest and I agreed we'd just meet at the course in the morning. Arriving at the first tee I was met with a very distraught person (moreso than the usual shell of the father I wished I'd had). Imagine Rush Limbaugh coming up to play golf with you....... in his hands is a coffee thermos full of "oven-heated golf balls" so they would "go farther".... also a tube of vaseline to spread all over the face of his clubs so when he struck the ball incorrectly (which would be frequently), the oily surface would not allow excess spin on the ball that would cause more off target "come to rests". Need I be more descript.... way overweight and always quick to say that I reminded him of my grandfather. Twenty minutes of this guy MAX...... Oh yeah, Jazz and Maya, Meet your Grandfather LOL.... I'll save you the shame. Let's go to the Ocean and I'll show you your real Grandfather!

On the first tee box,.... we are the only golfers out that morning.... very misty and very cool.... fog horn weather.... thank you Eugene O'Neill.... after exchanging the always and ever-present, shallow, painful, obligatory greeting we had shared more times than I care to admit[pain, me, right now, puke], he started revealing this dark cloud that not only surrounded him, but was about to envelop me. "I really did it this time, Damon". Huh?, I thought. Taken back by this statement, I was trying to follow, "What?", I answered.... "I really laid into Judy, last night", he clarified. I thought argument or something as such. I just listened. The golf course had now faded from periphery. The beauty and splendor of this incredible game that I love so much was not to be the only thing stolen from me that morning. Something terrible lay ahead of me..... and that whatever it was was now right upon me. "I beat the shit out of her..... She wouldn't stop.... and I just let her have it". He displayed a fist and motioned a backhand connection as I was attempting to somehow be a listener and son.[knot in authors stomach] Not only had the golf course faded, but when he segued to talking about moving over to the Big Island as a remedy to his now felonious act, my spirit made for the hills. I was reduced to I don't know what you'd even call it..... reduced... that's enough. The feeling of shame that followed would stick like superglue to my soul and was none like I had known before, and, on top of all my recovery attempts, it was a devastating blow. Shame and abandonment are the two of the biggest contributors to one's internal 24-hour active pharmacy, easily causing it to go into its coping/dosing phase. This was a full dose. My sperm donor had just "driven the ball" into quasi/oblivion. Speaking for myself, no mulligans allowed here. That round was the longest 18 holes I had ever played in my life.... as stuff like this tends to carry over like some nightmarish skins game. As acute as my memory is, the only golf shot I do remember that day was the last one. That meant I could get away for a moment from the presence of dysfunction. I do mean for the moment.

I didn't see that twosome, Jules and Judy, for a couple of days after that as I had to work and they had to do whatever a Jules and Judy do when they are doing whatever that is they do when they're on vacation..... alot as we've just learned. They made a reservation to come to that Friday's luau. At the KVR, our Friday luaus were, and I hope still are, legendary. Having the Jules and Judy show now at my place of employment, especially after what had taken place, had me maxed out my aloha ability, and I just wanted to crawl into a hole and hide while they were there. Upon their arrival, fake smiles and all, in her attempt to cover up the abalone-esque/opalescent colorings that now prominently lit up the skin and muscle canvas stretched over her swollen jaw and cheek, Judy had put on so much makeup, I thought it might crumble off like shale into the buffet of five-star luau offerings. She said to me that night that she was leaving Jules. While I tried not to look at the abstract and battered visage while she spoke, I could only agree with her about taking off. I told her that I'd always stay in touch, no matter where she went. I was really at a loss for words, with the luau in full motion and I was at work seeing to a couple of hundred souls. As was the round of golf the other morning, that was the longest luau I had ever attended. In any cesspool of shame, time painfully lingers. I hadn't dared introduce these two to Tammy while they vacationed. Are you kidding?.

Weeks had passed, and I had since been "let go" from the KVR, when I phoned Judy to see what had transpired. She had allowed herself, as denial loves a stagnant mind in a time hammock, to be convinced that it was medication that had triggered this attack. Yeah, that's the ticket. She just chalked it up as if it was nothing much, and let it go as is. I don't speak this language, and felt it necessary to discontinue this conversation. Denial and its deep-set pitons and footholds.

I was so deeply scarred by this image of Judy being beat down in the passenger seat of their rental car at the condo complex where they stayed, I actually went to the trouble of getting a landscaping gig at the very location of the crime. True. I did my best to clean up the shame of their visit by over-landscaping every inch of that property. The person who hired me really got upset by the meticulousness.

I was reprimanded for doing too good of a job. HA! I did stay long enough though to give the place a good once over, and felt much better about this phone call I was about to make.

I got Jules to fork over a few thousand dollars, as a loan, to start up a mini art studio (the cat owes me a mil if you ask me about any debt that might be outstanding). Whether or not getting money from was a good idea or not, I didn't care. The crime he had just committed on top of the years of nothingness, I just thought F-it. "Sometimes you just have to say F-it."

I put a wanted ad in the paper requesting "artwork space needed, extremely messy". I think it was just that one line with my contact phone number. I was amazed when I actually got one call. Kona has the reputation of being divided into three main categories: Overfed, Newlywed, or Brain Dead. Florence, was the exception. A widowed, elderly transplant from Canada, who had been on the island since the sixties. Florence green lit the mini studio at the top of her steep, large, curving driveway. It was to be set up in front of her front room which was open to the world. No front door. Cars could park to the side. Yeah, Baby.

Success from the get go with an opening at the Volcano Gallery on the Hilo side, and being accepted at both a main gallery on Kona's Waterfront Marketplace, and at some new gallery in Keahou. A couple of sales confirmed me on the map. The late Tom Stubbs a great golfing /artist friend were having a blast talking of success and golf. Motion of the Ocean, Baby. Felt good after all the crap from Randy and the Sperm donor. Shed. Money was still extremely tight and Tammy was working to makeup for living expenses. Although I had sold a couple of pieces, that wasn't covering expenses. Swallow the reality pill and move to where the cash flows? HMM.

A trip over to Oahu proved to be confirming. Hawaii (the Big Island) isn't really the market for contemporary work. One look at my work and big city was all they recommended. I accepted these facts with mixed emotion and with that, I planted a seed for a move back to the mainland.

I had swam (swum) (swimmed) (all of those) my knees back into shape. Overall good shape as well I must say. I entered all the long-distance open ocean swims the Big Island has to offer. Lots of mile long, several two-plus, a four and a half mile gem from Kealakekua Bay south to Honaunau. I even attacked a couple of times the Alii Challenge, a six mile marathon from Keahou Bay to The King Kamehameha Hotel - the other time the race direction was opposite as the currents had proven their dominance over the human being. With fins, I enjoyed distance swimming immensely. Tammy was able to improve her stroke a bit as well. She usually cheered on as the races took place.

As swimming was doing the job getting me back into shape, many of us gill-less water dwellers would grab a cup of joe at a local coffee shop. I say the local coffee shop, but there were actually several to be found around town. From our chosen java-ing hole we had a great front row of the "pool", the Pacific Ocean of course. Sipping the morning brew, we'd talk story and get ready for the day. A surf/dive buddy and a fellow true waterman, Deron, golf buddy Ken, fellow artist and former Navy Seal Mike,who happened to be a world class swimmer (quietly the fastest and smoothest swimmer around) as well and countless others would always be around in the mornings contributing immensely to all of life's great show. Deron and I together had bodysurfed HUGE Magic Sands Beach in South Kona. Memorable.... actually we had done the incredible a few times... diving and surfing as well.

Right next to the coffee shop worked this cute, kept, little shop attendant named Tammy. I guess you could call her shopgirl. Always alone and able to leave the shop whenever, she looked as though she could seriously use some expanded horizons in her life.... I inquired if she may or if she might. She did.

Oh yeah, Jazz and Maya, this is how your mother got to know me before she lost it.

After about a month of wooing and get this, actually developing a friendship, it was revealed that this young lady was a lonely, caged, and unhappily married person. We danced and courted, and I took her home. This would last until we would eventually become the parents of two healthy, beautiful children, Jazz and Maya, then she would unfortunately for our children, leave all that (Aloha also means good-bye). More on that later. She did though help in capturing someone on America's Most Wanted (really!).

The contemporary art field does not shine as bright in Hawaii as it does in the greater metropolises of our planet. As an artist, having seen the story o fhawaii firsthand, now driving across this country, I was starting to or maybe always had, this enormous, I mean enormous capacity to share the backbreaking amount of suffering that is woven within humanity's fabric of existence. Over time and even to date there surely has been no shortage of suffering. C'mon. But this had been an area of my spirit/soul that had yet to be fully explored/developed. My optimistic happy-go-lucky attitude, years of self-medicating, and a serious lack of historical knowledge had kept me apart from truly feeling what is able to be felt.

While on the Big Island, just before leaving, I watched a PBS special on the Holocaust and the concentration camps of WWII. I was compelled to sculpt an abstract version of the trains which were the only hope of escaping such misery and maniacal madness. I knew that this would be a new horizon and would set the tone to my abstract path in the arts. It was a force from within that I could (and would) not deny. I had to leave that sculpture when I moved from the last rental house Tammy and I leased as it was too big to pack up and fit in our pod. I'll always wondered what had happened to that.... and a cool leather jacket that I left on a doorhook inside the bedroom. A good showing at the Volcano Gallery, acceptance at galleries in Kona and Keahou, and a couple of sales to boot, got the work on the map..... the wave series, always my favorite, was rolling. Alas it was time to move....for a good reason this time.

Although my hometown would have been an OK choice to relocate to, it carried with it the stigma of stepping back into the unresolved years of issue after issue(why I left in the first place). I hadn't yet gathered the tools to work in this field of life commonly known as the mostly normal one. When I left for Hawaii in '88, I had said good-bye to only a few people, and left the studio without a word. I wanted to live and why would you say good-bye to a death panel? The shame of my drug use loomed too large, and returning to the studio was out of the question. I wasn't about to get back into any suicide watch, let alone any ex-girlfriends that could complicate any new squeeze from outa town. Too much life to be had.

Just before leaving Hawaii for the mainland, I told this roommate/lover/companion that I would be moving and she could stay in Hawaii if she preferred. Her reply was a combination of both love/desire and fear. Although she and I "loved" each other, her words revealed a much deeper fear- one of abandonment- "You're not leaving without me". I had never said she wasn't invited. Coupled with the abuse that she had left from her marriage..... Co-dependence, here we go again. To me, she loved Hawaii and it would be wrong for her not to have the option of staying. This co-dependent existence was well-harnessed at this point and without major work it had no chance of being re-wired. Electricians in this specialized field must be willingly sought after and don't make house calls. We saw to it our cat was safe and well cared for (that's a great story in itself.... maybe the next book) and after a nice going away party with a few close friends, we were off>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

It was mid-autumn and the drive across the United States was indeed a memorable one. Probably because I hadn't done it before. The fun and the beautiful, twisting and turning, wide open highways, my energy providing full immunity from any ills and/or destitution that may have existed at at the time even if it had been right in front of us. Through Arizona, Texas (Quick stop and go there at Tammy's adoptive dwellings, yikes), Mississippi, Louisiana, and into Florida, where I had already figured would be a great place to somewhere set up shop. I had sold a few pieces in Florida as an apprentice years prior. It had to be like Hawaii, as its illusion to me was that of being tropical, warm, and much sought after.... just like Hawaii. Right? And Aloha too. Right? All the trimmings that should equal what I had left in the islands. Assuming this, I immersed into what was in reality, The Deep South. Y'all is still spoken there... LOL

Florida, my friends, is not Hawaii. Not in any way shape or form. History and its veritees have their mystic ways of seeping up through the craft-work and rearing their heads and bearing arms that can pull back the curtain that separates one's grand illusions from stark reality. When I would return from Florida a couple years later, a friend of mine, Ian, had mentioned to me that he would like to "open me up". HA! I can't think of any other time in my life, the two years I spent in Florida, where I was more open. 1000% vulnerable. Anything that could have gotten in did. I was like Swiss cheese with velcro-lined holes. Whatever got in got stuck as well, and I've spent many years scraping off the residue. If just for the sake of true knowledge emerging out of genuine first hand experience..... I was in the zone. Now with two beautiful chlidren, my son, Jazz, and my daughter, Maya, what a gift to share with them...... the most sincere of discourse, and honestly delivered at that. Lolu Jazz and Maya. Sooooo much. Read on my precious babes. You might be a little older than six and four years old, LOL.... when I wrote this.[Big Daddy Smiles]

Setting up the studio in Naples at the first rental was great the first day. But the second was a different story. While clearing out the dead underbrush around the unit, these red ants were swarming all over my feet and legs. I casually took a few swipes at them to get them off. Red ants in California were no big deal. After a moment or two, the bastards started stinging like nothing I've seen before- Damon meet the fire ants. I had at least 50 stings on each leg and foot, the kind that blister and itch like crazy for two friggin' weeks. Nice.

This was to be the first installment of seemingly an "initiation" brought on by my limited knowledge of Floridanian flora and fauna (this was to include people [if you call them that] as well). It wouldn't be the last....... believe me. Back to the story: Time to find some work- check the papers- Naples Daily News- pool cleaning- hmmmm- a friend of mine, Jim, a friend of Governer Steve, did that on Oahu, I could do that. Go to work early, get off early, have time to paint and sculpt in the afternoon. Exercise as well. That'll work. Sign me up. and "they" did. Leisure Pools of Naples, Ken with the Confederate Flag on his truck at the helm. A flag with quite a history behind it, indeed (and fortunately no future).

At the studio, the first few pieces I laid out were nice, and I started contemplating the thought of "filets". In my eyes, in some works, some areas of this work I was completing were exceptional, and the thought of isolating these finer parts was enticing, so I went ahead and got to it. Nice option to give yourself if you're in an abstract vein. Almost all the work I had produced in Hawaii was pure white (paints were beyond the budget). With the help of my friend John, coincidentally the same friend who had taken me to the airport when I flew off to sober up, I had paint- COLOR!!!! New Deal. The unfortunate assistance of the egg donor was involved and this was a kiss of death if there ever was such a thing. I'm not superstitious, but shitting where you sleep is a nono. Being successful with this creature so close, a lifetime of subconscious resentment ready to come to a head, made for an impossible task. Arguably desire to fail with her help..... Strange liason, RIP Lorraine wherever you are.... LATER!

Can't stress the weight here.... I masked this resentment with everything I could attain until I confronted her with the real deal- would she apologize for all of the crap?- all of it ...... Answer: Not a chance- She unbelievably (actually quite believably by an expert view) passed the buck back to her dead father, my grandfather, Paul, as she knew EXACTLY what I was talking about. I loved my grandfather, and I resented her even more for bringing him up. She said she had no regrets. She was now OFFICIALLY AWOL. Alone again, emotional abandonment as it is, once again..... at thirty something? They say that people do the best they can. Do they really? Scary when their level of excellence is bottom of the barrel. Ironically, I wished right then and there that she had never had us, too. I needed a parent. Tammy and I had talked family, and I needed a real parent to talk to..... No relief....... More beer. Ahhhh.

Everything else was pretty exciting though, Tammy was a church mouse at home, anything but talkative. Just a quiet bystander while her boyfriend did his thing. She had taken on a gig at a clothing store. It was the end of fall, art shows were commencing, and my eyes were on the horizon....... damn these internal angst torpedoes and full steam ahead. Her shortcomings were now primary to me whereas before they were not as important. If we were to get close to able bodied parents, we were going to have to take serious looks at ourselves. I was willing and without tools. Tammy was as far from a "mirror" as one could be (and as we speak still is). My doing the work for her (as it would for anyone in this equation) would only start or fuel any resentment, either actual or related, reactobots don't (can't) distinguish the two, and further the infection of the unaddressed issues of her past. Jazz and Maya, it's not your fault. Those that are willing and able can only be treated from within. God help the kids brought into the world by the dysfunctionalitarians. We were now perfectly poised to repeat the past. I mean perfectly. I knew it I fought it the whole way, tool-less as I said before, for both of us, but she would end up in full repetition, now even at the expense of two vulnerable children. Freaky as it sounds..... I would end up marrying my mother.Time for Code of the Bigger Man.

A rather "uncomfortable" Chicago transplant landlord, Hans, was making our stay quite incongruent to say the least. Definitely not the surroundings artistically I had hoped for. Luck of the draw. Lewd comments to my girl, and overall weirdness prompted a move. I scoured the papers for a new locale.

Work had been bearable at "Confederate Ken's Pool Service". Nothing too strange........ yet. Seemed like you basic mom and pop owned business. But there was alot to be learned, speaking for myself, about this Confederate Flag, the actual heritage of the "South", and all the bullshit that goes with people who bake themselves to stay uncultured and ignorant and coat themselves with a fear-based icing. Nice spot DMan. Oh well.... read on children.

The real insanity lies in how much they were willing to harass, torture, and kill to maintain such an existence. Exactly what the Bush administration is doing right now. They would even go as far as to try to "unlearn" you from what you've already learned. Believe it. Like it or not, Mr. Damon Duval, class is now in session. Try as you will to avoid it, you are in for your degree. Fasten your seat-belts, you'll need them. My aloha level was on high, no capability of curbing the enthusiasm needed to ward off the stink. Coping. No penetrating and conforming a true waterman. HA!

In the paper was a house for rent, a little two bedroom, several miles in. The "sticks" for sure. Five acre parcels dotted sparsely with little houses here and there. This was a subdivision named Golden Gate. Being the California Man I am, I found this to be endearing. Eureka!. Had to be good. [Smiling] On the receiving end of my inquiring phone call was one Mrs. Crete. She and Mr. Crete were moving back to Canada and asked me to come over "right away". She would not provide any information over the phone. I was there as fast as I could get there. Urgent?????

At 541 Golden Gate Blvd E. was this new (maybe 2 years old) little house, elevated up on a mound, surrounded by two and a half acres of drained swamp, room to paint for sure, if they'd permit it. Speaking of "drained swamp"(an excerpt found on a google search):


The Mother of Them All

Just south of Cape Coral, deep in the marsh country of Collier County and adjacent to Everglades National Park, lies the mother of all antiquated subdivisions: the 175-square-mile Golden Gate Estates. Lonely canals and little-used roads criss-cross this cypress swamp turned subdivision, which was originally platted in the early 1960s by the Gulf America Corporation. The company dug canals to drain the wetlands and carved the property into 1.25-acre lots. It then promoted Golden Gate worldwide as a vacation and retirement community. Most of the lots were sold by 1965, but unsuspecting buyers still get suckered into paying over $15,000 for a lot worth about $3,000.

In 1974, when the area was less than 10 percent developed, it became apparent to county officials that the project, with limestone roads and no centralized water and sewer system, could not support the number of platted lots. The county down-zoned the property that year and required a minimum of 2.25 acres to build a house.

What a place to dwell!

The house looked and felt great, and as I mentioned before, more than enough room to create. What was interesting was how pushy Mr. and Mrs. Crete were to get us in there. They, if my memory serves me, offered us the house for five hundred dollars a month and I mow the lawn once a week. A sit down mower was provided for the task. God bless the big machines for the big jobs, but I can't stress enough the nervousness Mrs. Crete displayed during the discussion. She wanted out now and us in that day. What was up here at the Amityville House? I distinctly recall a mention of neighbor trouble something about their back window, maybe someone shooting through the window, but I shunned it off as random..... place looked to good to be true. My eagerness to have what I thought was to be privacy easily overrode the Crete's story. All I saw was room to move, and plenty of it. The eagerness went off the Richter when the Cretes greenlit the artwork and studio setup. Mr. Crete even left us the key to the master bedroom when he departed as we were only to use the guest bedroom with the original rental agreement. He had done this without Mrs. Crete's knowledge. The house was a go. What could possibly go wrong now??


CHAPTER 2

The heat never bothered me much down in the South. I was told it would. I love to sweat. It feels healthy and with sweat glands as active as mine, there would be no shortage of perspiration. As a child, I would watch my grandfather working on his car or his projet du jour in his driveway. He never failed to have that incessant drip of perspiration falling off his chin onto the workspace. I get it from him. Just the slightest exertion sets mine into full flow. Florida's usual combination of 90 degrees and 90 percent humidity was a sure bet for the body to release. Here's where things really start to heat up.

Working at the pool company had revealed a level of racial bias of which I hadn't seen or heard before. Small talk of this nature had polluted the Santa Monica area but never to this extreme. Harsh comments about Jews, Blacks, Italians were all too common. Especially for the fact that I wasn't seeing anything too proud to be white about occurring within these ranks. Just saying someone is such and such in a negative light just to make yourself feel better is a serious form of psychosis and not genuine, valid self assurance. Comprenez? Stereotyping is now The King down here (No more King Tobacco, King Cotton, King Coal, which are not slave driven anymore). I found no reason to join this animosity bandwagon as it was clearly a team effort to maintain the level being brought to the table daily. Assisted Perpetual Ignorance Motion. Besides, these customers on my route had become some pretty tight acquaintances as are so many worldly culturally rich people I have met throughout California and Hawaii.... there are a few down in Florida, too. Mention them more later.

One particular morning I remember stating quite loud and clearly to the pool crew that hatred is something that is "taught". I remember a sudden stillness coming over the parking lot (where we loaded up for the day). You could have stuck a spoon in the air and it would have stayed. It was at this very point yours truly had just bought himself a one-way ticket to treatmentville- which for the next two years or so would be something to write about, and here I write, after it took a couple of years to scrape the shit off my sandals first. Comprenez? Jazz and Maya listen up. By the way, my writing today is punctuated by the fact that it's Father's Day 2008 [and editing - Oct 2009] and I just shared the most special Father's Day I have had to date. Jazz and Maya, I love you. Great Father's Day video, too.... It's all over the internet, guys!!![It's Oct 2009, and I haven't seen you in 11 months. Hold on]

A trip through this crap is something I would never recommend to anyone, but being a man of principal, I accepted the challenge (although as you'll see, I'm really not sure I was given a choice - which I wasn't). I would later find myself to have been labeled a "troublemaker", and someone who stands on a "soap box" or "stump". I am neither a religious man nor a politician, just an artist with a severe allergy to hate, hypocrisy, ignorance, imbalance, and inhumanity.

The first dose of the "treatment" (as I'll refer to it here on out) that I received was in the form of a chemical agent in a small plastic container being hurled at my windshield full bore by a fellow employee. A stare down was necessary while the perp shrugged it off as having had a bad night or something to the effect of "jonesing" for a drug. Small, insignificant, yes, but it is the snowball at its embryonic.... especially at 5:45am in the morning. This rattled me none whatsoever, and I'm sure this just promoted the next dose. With their desire for me to be an additional redneck to this crew on tap, I would carry on without any of this like-minded participation in the group. I don't do gangs. Never did never will. Unfortunately, the longing for a father in my life would cause me to get closer to this employer, a stranger, and a man who I didn't know at all.

One of the crew was advising me to keep it hush around the truck and the radio, as if we were being monitored. I knew I was proud of my life, my heart, my existence and my views, and thought nothing of any parasite on the other end of a microphone. I am a white man, and knowing I didn't suffer from their terminal affliction, there was a stench and a vibe in the South that I now was coming to know all too well.

Confederate Ken decided that I was the employee that was to drive the only black pick-up(the eight or so other trucks in the company fleet were all white, and there was no black pick up there when I started). I still, although becoming keen to the BS going on, said to myself work is work, and I refuse be rattled out of my right to work. Besides, why not show these guys a white man with a little soul? If they wanted to treat me like a black man, I love acting, and with quite a bit of experience in the dance field with African rhythms, I went right at 'em. "Naples' Confederate Ken's Stupid White Men" was almost the title of this book. Might be the sub-title.

What was actually taking place was exponentially more insidious than I just explained. The horrors of the Peculiar Institution (pure slavery for the less informed) had begun to rear its head- but it was more like a Lernaean Hydra than a single visaged beast, or even a crew of punk crackers at a pool cleaning gig. The existence of "ownership papers" has always struck my curiosity since all the back room crap during my stay in Florida. Along with the whole concept of "foreign", I couldn't help but laugh when I looked at the amount of transplanted humanity that makes up the shallow south (there is nothing deep about it). Everyone there has been transplanted there from abroad(except the Seminoles and other locals of course).

The infection left over from the Civil War has had way more than "four scores" to fester once again and it seemed somehow I landed somewhere near the center of it. Malcolm in the Middle???? Not lol - I was not anywhere near the knowledge level required to digest these facts surrounding this part of the world. The ravages of slavery, war, and ignorance (how's that for a combo plate?) take their toll on the collective spirit.... a toll that is immeasurable by even today's most technologically advanced instruments. My personal meters were registering in at a markedly high reading. REALLY high. Something stinks here, and it's not my breath, my feet, or my ass. Maybe I would stare a bit too long at the folk in the area wondering what's wrong with them. There's something verrrrrrrrrry wrong heya. Perhaps this might explain why they were to to do what they were to do. Fight to stay stupid?...yeah.... why change? What is ya sked 'n ignunt? Guess so.

In the beginning, I made only one or two mild mentions to Tammy about the racial remarks and "goings on" at work. After that I kept a silent vigil as I felt she was better off with her need to look at herself rather than more outside stress veiling her need to address the inside. Many an evening, more than I care to remember, our discussions would bring her to tears and me constantly reminding her over and over I wasn't her ex, Ken. She was and still is truly an emotionally battered leftover. Jazz and Maya it's not your fault. The wounds of which I speak are all the way to the hard drive. She would soon be seeking recovery from outside herself. My need and request for a far less codependent partner was falling on an incapable spirit. We would completely miss the the off ramp. I was dissolving into the only partner her wiring would permit as we could not attain this healing on a co-dependent level. For this relationship to continue I would have to stoop to her level. To accommodate, I would completely compromise myself, and assume pole position for a repeat of what she'd just left. Deep down I knew that what we needed to survive was apparent, yet I lacked the magic words and actions to achieve it. I saw the light, but it was at the far end of the tunnel. Somehow I had come to a height where I could see, a truth quite clear, yet could not transpose it into comprehensible discourse. No tools? I pulled back emotionally, as a repetition of what I just saw her run away from was excruciating. Codependent undergraduate programs were now underway. When graduation ceremonies would be held was to be determined.

Enter the parting feeling as the height of our conversations had already peaked, and without a full spiritual accompaniment, we were goners. My opting for medication rather than meditation at this point was my other complete compromise of self. My tools were there..... but just out of reach. Without both of us on the self-effacing front, we started slipping apart. She would then do what any hard-wired codependent professional would do, ask the other to get married. Yea, that's the ticket! I'll never forget it. My blind faith said things had to get better. My reply was, "I can't say no, so ..... I guess that means yes!" I hope that my children will survive the hell-hole she's been providing for them as I write. It takes me at least 30 minutes to wake them up after I pick them up for "parenting time" as they're in a mental fog at the outset. Jail is another term. [Edit note: 10/24/09 - That jail might be reserved for this "mother" and the boyfriend, as the E.S.P.D. has them under investigation.... Let Right Be Done]

Tammy and I had decided to make Christmas Day THE day. With a blessing from Sonee, an attendant at Kramer's Gas Station and Rental, who ran after our car pounding on the window as we drove out one late afternoon after giving her the wedding news. We rolled down the window and she asked us, "Do you want your marriage to last?". Of course we smiled and nodded. She then added, "Invite God to your wedding!" What a concept! We wouldn't fail to accommodate Sonee's suggestion. But somewhere down the road, Tammy's untreated issues and boiling resentments would fester....... God (and the family) would get the boot. My children would take a major beating, psychologically, physically, and spiritually from this decision. I'll share more on this later. God had been replaced with "GODDESS." More on that later.

Back to the wedding- Christmas Day at sunset, beautiful ceremony, with the honeymoon back at the ranch. I tell you children, it was "something" that day because the accomplishment to commit to such an agreement is one thing...... but something else as the universe's "higher power" had been invited to the ceremony. Unbreakable. Unstoppable. Unrelenting. Thank God one of us has kept that invitation open since, as it has been more than apparent these two children have only one parent. The other bent on alienating and brainwashing my children with the help from the courts. Tragic, but soon repairable.

I told myself often the only reason I would ever get hitched would be to have a family, otherwise I see no reason for it. As an artist I still feel this way regarding the institution of marriage. Using the word wife and hearing the word husband was pretty cool. My parents never took this path- I don't think they were even aware of its existence. Ostriches. I have given my son more in six years, and my daughter in four than my mother and father gave me in forty. Unfortunately, Tammy has given the kids exactly what my mother (egg donor) gave her offspring- chaos. Bad genes? Inability to look at oneself? Chicken shit parents? Fear? Inability to create safe boundaries FOR THE CHILDREN? The answer: all of the above. So her we go.

Things at work remained the same, bearable, as I tried to keep to myself most of the time. A great first show of the season in downtown Naples with the director of the show, admiring the work, asked if I would mind moving up front. She felt the magnitude and presence of the work would be a better draw for the passerbys. I couldn't have agreed more. Thanks to Ms. Stein and the Brams for their support that first show as well. NEVER FADE. As I had stated earlier, I had started taking filets out of the larger pieces with some awesome results. I would incorporate this technique more and more in the future. Filets. MMMMMM. I love a good steak, but rib-eye is still, hands down, ichiban, in my book. Fileting the artwork also gave a higher sense of satisfaction while working at the studio- I had seen previous levels of "desire" drop significantly in previous years at the Santa Monica Studio merely because of this denial/doubt/innerinterference. Non Grata. Work at work was bearable; work at the studio was moving on its way. There's a sweet spot to hit and that sweet spoot always has a "yes" attached to it. I had a nice article featuring me in the local paper, and with a baby on the way "sometime soon" was well in motion.

A miscarriage during the first trimester was quite the unpleasant evening to say the least. Most of the evening (for Tammy) was spent in the bathroom and the emergency. No music to our ears that night. A bit of research into the actual percentage of miscarriages that do occur would later provide some relief. Tammy took it pretty hard. What was beyond belief was a comment made by a new employee, Dave, at Confederate Ken's. "Sounds like you should be conceiving your children somewhere else". I remember this being a point where things would start to get out of hand. Way out of hand. A bizarre visit to a "frontroom of a house" ultrasound facility will to this day leave a question mark in my mind. ???

Several months prior to the miscarriage, Tammy and I decided that finding her biological parents would be something "of value" for her. After completing much of the necessary footwork by phone and regular mail we had been able to locate the attorney who had handled the adoption, some cat named Middleton. After petitioning the courts for what seemed forever, we had been able to identify him. What came as a surprise was how the courts protected the biological parents from being located, even after the children had come of age. I could understand if the children were still minors, but after turning eighteen or even twenty-one, the court's protocol remains the same. The now obvious adult-child does not acquire any additional rights: You're still the infant that was left at the scene. Seems a bit unfair. Having a friend to walk through this discovery process must have been a great comfort to Tammy at the time although her overdeveloped resentment membrane does not allow for this sort of permeation. Not then, Not now..... It's not your fault, Jazz; It's not your fault, Maya.

After locating Mr. Middleton, the adoptomologist, we were able to reach him by phone. Now retired, he informed us that all of his documents that were a certain number of years old were no longer available. Not what we wanted to hear. Without these records, we wouldn't be able to get any names. All Middleton could say was (I paraphrase), "ya know, alot of times it's not worth the trouble to for the children to find out these things". He seemed to know something. I pressed further. I got the old codger to crack and spill what he did know. As he searched through the fog-banks of his memory, the adoption had involved an heiress, or something to that effect, who wasn't able to go through the "keeping the child" process. Some family reason. Well there we go. We had a confirmation of two phantom adults. Isn't that special.

Dealing with this discovery had taken away precious time from my artwork, but it seemed necessary to do the do when you're committed as I was. Pony up young man.... take it all on. Never know until you try. Swing your partner skip to m'loo. Also when you'd seen Tammy's adoptive family's M.O., as I had the luxury of doing coming through Texas, you knew this girl needed a hand. A few more months of searching and we had the culprits named. Janice, from I don't know where, and I'm not sure she knows, and Charles, some five foot, 100 lbs soaking wet jarhead from the "confederate heritage" genepool. Nice. Party on Garth.

We hunted them down and setting up meetings. Charles Jones, the Viet Nam Vet with a bad case of the su'um or others, fully untreated, and now with some reason to activate all the maligned dysfunction that he comes from. And Janice, a "black hole dwelling" (her words) whiner who didn't know mirrors were more than just a face painting invention, and who was more vague about things than George Bush when answering why we went into Iraq. At my inquiry, I remember her breaking down crying, running to the couch and hiding her head. I had laid down conversational law that we do not run our home in this vague manner...... Christ, I was having enough trouble with Tammy's leftover issues from her last marriage. Now this?

It was obvious Tammy's egg and sperm donors, Janice and Charles, would be bringing in eighteen wheelers full of crap with them. Better to know now. Charles a full blown cracker (I now knew what a cracker was!) who drove trucks, but obviously couldn't drive his dick into a pale of lard. Maybe it did once or twice on a drunk in the back of a pick up or paid for in Thailand. This worm was on the phone to some friend when he mentioned a "french rat" in our house. Hey..... I'm the only Frenchman around my house. This name-calling, put down others lifestyle that represents the shallow south so perfectly was now festering in my kitchen, on my phone, and talking to some other inbred. This guy's got to go. Confirming the need to oust this infection from any further activity was his reference to Martin Luther King. On Dr. King's birthday, he had phoned and mentioned it should be called James Earl Ray Day. Really. That's funny? America, we have a problem. Slowly putting these pieces together, I figure we had one Cracker-Bones-Jones and a drunk, underage stuck in a Black Hole on a little white pole Janice at some backwoods hoedown probably next to some frog-pond, surrounded by the soon to be "whispering no secrets" pines...... and probably passed out at the time in the back of some shotgun rack pick-up (before there were date rape drugs): and there you have the evolutionary process in full reverse. Praise the Frog Pond,. praise the Pine Trees, Lord oh Lord, Praise King Alcohol, and the shelter of a pick-up. Pregnant?? Aw hell, we can sell the kid at the flea market this Sunday if we have to, but after we watch HeeHaw, y'hear. Hot Damn, Son. TAMMY FOR SALE!!!!

During one visit, I remember a trip to a Boston Market and realizing the amount of infection I was standing in. I made the quick excuse that I had a terrible problem, compromised myself further, and took the job on internally, as Adult Children of Alcoholics do. I had found Monsters, Incorporated. Killing them is not an option. I think the grunt had called the religious right and the religious wrong to assist him. Culture-less, laden with resentment, fear, and ignorance, aka "Southern Heritage", the shallow south had now completely infected my life and studio. I did not consent to any of these actions against me. What's my role in this? Rescuing this damsel in obvious distress and somehow thinking she'd be the one. Just witch one is the question..... Maya and Jazz, it's not your fault.....it's not your fault.

Cracker Charles had slept in the guest bedroom when he stayed at the Crete's, departing after a few days stay. The three day rule (fish and guests) was in full implementation. The first thing I did when he left was to re-christen the guestroom with some Afternoon D-light to deal with the C-dark. I would marshmallow overcoat the place. The load was becoming very heavy. These issues that were arriving and festering were all akin to every horror that you've ever read about and were about to personify..... drumroll please.

Arriving at work the next day, Dave the new guy, same one who had said that we had better conceive elsewhere, walks right up to me, stares me down, and says "....Guestrooms are for GUESTS". They had bugged my frigging house. He followed it up with that scared stare that always meant "we know what you do cause we're watching you". It was right about then that I recalled that this Dave guy had been commenting aloud the entire week before about somebody flying in from Dallas, Texas. Funny, because this was the same time that Cracker Charles was coming over to visit..... from Dallas. The networking and agendas of the stupid white men was becoming all too clear. The Invisible Empire. LOL.

Dave had a friend who was hired at the same time and I can't recall his name. Little squirt of a man.... kind of an Igor to Dr. Frankenstein..... Gilligan to Skipper, you get my drift. These two guys seemed to be Confederate Ken's new henchmen. I thought about quitting, but that would be just caving in to their crap. All of it being all fear-based, I had to stand firm..... Is this not the very principal of humanitarianism? My soon-to-be children were on the way..... character and integrity were not on the wayout. I don't know where I'd put Tammy during all this..... I knew she'd come around. [wishful thinking] I just kept a silent vigil as I said, so as to not stimulate her reactive mind....... brain melt down once again....... she'll come around.... I'll intend it to get better..... power of intent.

Sometime in the next few days, Confederate Ken had walked up beside me early at work, put his arm around me, and smiled as he looked way off into the distance, as if for a photo. VERY STRANGE. He was having a photo taken, without telling me. How bizarre is this getting? I'm in f'in KOOKVILLE. Just because someone can completely invade someone else's privacy one day, tell them about it the next, what does that make them? Criminal? Parasite? Weasel? Scum? Answer: all of the above with pyramid building precision. With all this going on, something was happening to me that I find hard to put to words, yet I'm quite aware of. I phased into patience personified and just knew these guys were someday going to pay dearly for all of this.

This crap kept continuing for a couple of more months right up to the unfortunate Columbine shootings. Never forget it. I arrived that morning same as usual, and upon pulling up to the lot, I noticed something about the dumpster we all used, the large dumpsters that are picked up by the big trucks with the forklift front-end. It was stuffed to the brim with electronic equipment. All types of electronic equipment: VCR's, tape players, cables, monitors, etc. It was as if Big Brother's headquarters had been raided. Very strange. Again. Understand, my dear readers, that this pool serviced company used the very end unit of these garage/wherehouse type cubicles with no businesses around or even close to them that might be suspected of the sight before me. I stared for a moment at Confederate Ken so that he might shed some light on this anomaly. He was just standing and staring at the big bin. "Ive seen this before," was all he said. He walked into the office and sat down. Something was up and he knew what it was. I followed him right into the office. Confederate Ken with an accelerated quickness and nervousness shut the door right behind me. We NEVER worked in the mornings with that door shut. NEVER. You could have cut the air in the office with a knife it was so thick. Exponentially more-so than when I had made that oral declaration that hatred was taught. When would all this shit cease and desist? Standing there in the office in the midst, I had but one single thought........ It has been you all along, Ken - You f'ing bastard. You inhumane f'ing bastards..... all of 'em.

I stood motionless for about thirty seconds in the stillness. I awaited some response from this freak. Something. Say something...... I was met with a continuation of the uncomfortable silence. His jerky nervousness he exerted to get the door closed behind me maintained even as he sat in his desk chair. Squirmin vermin. I wanted to get out of there and enjoy the rest of the day. Some relief somewhere. Don't drink during work, so I grabbed my route book for that day and was out the door. Once again, I'll go and rely on my work to get through whatever was transpiring..... and whatever had transpired was nothing but speculation yet everything circumstantial and intuitional. With all that had gone on already, I didn't need a schematic or blueprint anymore.

The entire city now stunk to me because of this, and as Confederate Ken having been a policeman, and a seemingly involved man about town, this must be the norm 'round heeya rather than the exception. I could imagine David Duke renting the room right next door. This was really getting to me now..... As I mentioned before, I never discussed this with Tammy. After her miscarriage, all the more reason to keep the tension at a minimum.

At home nightcaps, pau hana, a six-pack or twelve pack was just what the doctor ordered. Maybe the world would be a better place tomorrow. Tomorrow had to be a better day. Killing such vermin wasn't and will never be an option for this man. I cannot and will not subscribe. I held an unsafe feeling about me as my guard was now always up, yet the feeling that you're being videotaped at home doesn't allow for any comfort at any time. I couldn't tell Tammy. Not having anyone to turn to is the real dilemma here. In our beloved America, people couldn't really live and act like this. Could they?

The honest day's work ethic was losing ground on the principle/override attempt to quell this crap. It was time to leave the pool freaks to their bottom feeding. Telling myself I was not a quitter by changing jobs was extremely difficult. I gave a two week notice and commenced training a replacement by the name of Chris. A guy by the name of Ron started recently managing the warehouse. After about the third day of training, this kid Chris, as if he had been a festering zit in my passenger seat, suddenly pops: "I'm a cracker". Now covered in pus, lol, I turned to look at someone who had just said something to me that I had never heard in direct discourse before. He repeated himself, "I'm a cracker......and Ron's a cracker, too!..............we know this because we can say certain words to each other that we both know!". He actually got off as he said it. Just when you thought you'd seen it all, there's more. WHERE THE F#@# AM I???? Jesus F@#*#@ Christ. Is this real? Ends of the days couldn't arrive fast enough, as mentioned before, I never drank during the work day. I had to figure out how a way to combat all this shit and numb the discomfort it brought at the same time. Beer. "Suit up and show up" was mandatory.

Chris couldn't hang with the gig, but I was still outta there. Or so I thought. In the fabric of the Klan, aka premeditated perpetual fear and ignorance, they will weave threads as often as they can. In an effort to keep their malaise active, the needles for these threads are stitched wherever they can attach them; wherever they can so they might expend their spool into an unsuspecting fool. Kinda like a typical religious freak needing your typical suicide bomber. As I mentioned before, they might even draw up ownership papers on a person that might expose them.... I wouldn't doubt they actually drew some up and used them as secretive documents. Sheer desperation. They'll do their best to stay invisible while doing this. They will try to maintain that they're the Invisible Empire. I've seen them. Not that invisible, eh? What a joke. What an insult to this Republic. Scared, culture-less, and even willing to fight to stay stupid.

New employment? Back to the classifieds. There was an ad in the paper for a position at the Ritz-Carlton in Naples. They were hiring and I was interested. Said good-bye to the friends along my pool route and of course inviting them to come in and see me at the Ritz. Some of the people along the route had been frightfully able to share information that I was unable to figure out just how they'd come to know. Information had gotten legs.

The calm, serene, and peaceful studio was now nowhere to be found. I recall a fellow artist calling me a "troublemaker" at one of our shows. What's up with that? Helping some of the older artists at the shows set up their wares prompted another response to this effect, "You know, people are just going to take advantage of your kindness". I really was in a different world in Florida. Like Hawaii? HA! My work had been selling, so keep on keepin on, DMan. Damn the torpedoes, full steam ahead. Maybe the Ritz would provide some relief. Relief from the outside in?

My ability work at the studio was pressed at this point. All the goings on had made it difficult to work the way I, and I would think most reasonable people would prefer to: Without parasites sucking away. It's something I'd never do to someone else, therefore it was excruciating for me to digest mentally, physically, and spiritually. Drinking excessively at night was certainly a negative contributing factor, and not what I recommend, but it was the only relief I knew in dealing with this traumatizing feeling of an invasion that I knew was taking place. As an acting student in college, I was well aware of the 1% audience member that might heckle, but these attacks on household, work, and family was criminal.... and it had only just begun. With all this dysfunction/hate around me I was having difficulty locating the right antibiotic for the infection. Being not truly educated about The Shallow South's history is quite disadvantageous as well. This education was down the road a bit.

Once, back while I was living on Oahu, I had waited tables on one Mr. Eddie Sherman, who I later found out was an agent and artist, who also wrote a column for a local paper. He had asked me my name. I gave him my full name. "Stop the Press!" He wrote my name down on some small piece of paper and tucked it in his shirt pocket. Not having any idea who this guy was this early on a quiet Sunday morning, and thinking, ehhh, he's probably some gay dude. Better keep a distance. My name showed up right under Richard Gere's in the gossip column that week, "Damon Anthony Duval, actor, author, maybe some day, but for now he's a personable young waiter at a restaurant in Ward Center". How'd you know, Eddie? In Florida, Roy Sanders and Max Mogul were a big help as supporters and offered unlimited encouragement. Mr. Sanders kept saying, "You've got to get a book published". He was referring to the artwork. I hadn't a clue it would be in this vein. Funny how you get guideposts along the way!

CHAPTER 3

My interview at the Ritz went well. Why not? All the years of bussing, of waiting tables, and floor management has to give way to some acquisition of experience. I think of a friend, Sam Sebastiani. I used to quote Bob Dylan to Confederate Ken, "....do what you do and do it well...." He would stare back and say louder, "....you're gonna have to serve somebody..." I qualified myself, "I've served thousands at many different venues". HA! Care for a slice of humble pie? Nothing compares to bussing and waiting tables. I was soon made Captain of the Lobby at the Ritz, a position that was new to this most regal and luxurious hotel chain. Momi, I finally did make captain! LOL

I was fine with everything about the job. Everything but afternoon tea.... way too many doilies for this kid...... and that erect pinky thing ..... no way. Even my years of studying ballet wasn't enough for me to gear me for that role, and I avoided it like the plague.

After a month or so I was getting uncomfortable about the conditions that the lobby crew was working under. Five Star service is expected in one of if not the most lavish entrances on the planet. But out of a broom closet? According to the management, no other Ritz in the world offered lobby service at this level. This sardine setup had to go. Not on my watch. $70 million a year and these conditions? No can do. I was now getting real homesick for the Pacific Ocean. I mentioned it constantly to a waiter that I had befriended. Staying in Florida for any extended amount of time was now officially on the chopping block.

It was fun to be at the helm, though, Captain of a ship that size and presence. I nailed it. You really did feel as if you were steering a most magnificent ship while manning that lobby. That part was very much a can and did do.

Tammy had started nursing school and was doing a Florence Nightingale routine on the side (minus the mathematical capabilities). She had rekindled her pattern of stepping out. This pattern would now continue all the way through having our two children, until finally getting caught. She seemed so involved with the new people in her circle that when I discussed the move back to California, I thought for sure she would prefer to stay, finish school (and anything else she'd started), and if desired, meet me later. I offered. She declined.

Several art shows in a row had been rained out as can easily happen in Florida. Not good for the pocketbook...... not pennies from heaven! Pricey entrance fees and truck rentals and all other amentities all add up quickly. Makes for costly stances in the rain.... show fees are not reimbursed. It looked like one more winter was the call. Deep breath. Hang on there bro..... It was the only way to save up enough cash to make the move back. People like Al and Lisa Gooden, the Mendel's, Dr. and Mrs. Bob Erwin, and a many others made saving grace investments in lieu of this drenched (to say the least) artist. My earlier visions of things going so much different were just that..... old visions. The treatment by the Klan was successful in changing that. Non-combat PTSD was setting in. Stay tuned (on the radio?)...... they weren't through. I had also thought that if Simon had gotten wind of the studio, he might have flown down and we could have collaborated again and this time without his option of hiding out or "fear of losing momentum". Momentum loss was never in my vocabulary. Never fade. Never.

I had been the fortunate recipient of some great ink in the local papers. Fun to be a "best bet".... and I'm not a horse! Man did I want to work full time at the studio. I remember one occasion, only because Tammy told me about it the next morning. So saturated in frustration amidst all the shenanigans, that I woke up one night and sleep walked into the laundry room, right next to the door of the studio, lifted the washer up in the air with both arms, and was saying over and over, "I just want to work". I have no recollection of having done that, my walking into other rooms and urinating (like in Hawaii) out the windows had since ceased. The sublime emerges as liminal.

The annoyances that had been so bothersome had slacked off while I was at the Ritz. I'm all too sure they were quite busy just being their invisible selves, probably getting ready for some radio game of some sort. A Mason had come in one afternoon and sat in the lobby, looking quite sure of himself as he laxed in the comfort of this finely furnished foyer. I greeted him warmly and had noticed his Masonic ring. I shared with him that my grandfather had been a Shriner. I followed that up with a question. I asked him point blank, "Do Masons have different regional policies?". He was wondering how he might answer as I walked away, in working mode. He didn't make any attempt to answer even as time passed. End of conversation. Question answered. It was now November, the town was almost full and it was seasonal decision time. Naples would be busy busy Winter through the Spring. Stay at the Ritz through the season or change venues. I opted for the latter. No more broom closets.

In the classifieds again for employment and what did I find? The Country Club of Naples was hiring. The Country Club of Naples.....HMMM. Do I love golf? Almost as much as I love surfing. The game is a zen masters playground and I'm always up for that task.... time and money's permitting.

The position available was cart barn attendant, working with some retirees who either weren't flush enough to be full-fledged members or were too tight to fork out the dues. Perks: playing privileges. The cast of the crew Robert, Irv, John, Tom, and one other guy about my age, Rob, who seemed more "undercover" than an actual employee. Some guys named Harley, who had hired me, and his sidekick Tony Franklin, worked the pro shop.

Having grown up here in Southern California and having played quite often in Hawaii, I knew all the ins and outs of the routine without actual experience. Would've been the same waxing boards on the beach. I felt right at home. Obviously too comfortable for some of these guys. I guess my golf world was a little different from the Florida Country Club world. One female member actually came up to me after my hiring and was quick to quip, "You're gonna learn a new language!" What? More freakazoids??? How many of these members are just sick fucks with too much money and too much time on their hands? Well, I was definitely going to find out. With my "BS meter" now on full-time after all the pool gig crap and anyone with a notion of more of that shit would now get the full pennant stare. Ghost Rider would have been proud. We're now on a golf course. GOLF! Where character, integrity, and honor means EVERYTHING. Right? Tom Watson, are you there?

The job in a cart barn doesn't require anything but effort and sincerity.... like waiting tables. Setting up the driving range; equipping the carts for the day's upcoming rounds (either for members and guests or for a tournament); cleaning the clubs and returning them to their locker or bag drop; making sure the carts were clean, and the batteries were charged for the following day; maybe an incidental special request from the members or guest and that was it. Compared to the Ritz, providing service was a piece of cake, especially considering how much I enjoy the game. I had the same feel while in Hawaii. So much love for the aina and kai (look 'em up), that the hotel work was naturally seemed effortless and secondary to any "work". The ego gets shelved with that approach, and curbing any enthusiasm becomes virtually impossible. You are vicariously living through their pleasure, knowing someday you'll get a turn. God is good like that. The DMan's already pre-fluent in all the necessary languages, lady.

About this time, I had a commissioned work done for the Moguls up Orlando way and with the new enthusiasm and employment, maybe things would be turning around this season. Ms. Mogul and I had shared at length, wonderful and enlightening discourse on sobriety and all of its incredible benefits. There had been a disagreeable level of dysfunction in both our homes. I was still drinking at that time.

I loved the piece I had done for their dining room. The green she had requested was one of the most difficult shades I had ever chased down. Took the better part of a day to get that one just right. Mixing paint is one thing. Getting it to absorb into paper pulp, dry, color set is a whole other ball game. Colors change tone or shade considerably when first mixed.... and again after dry. In summary, there's more to it than just mix and go. This green was just that. When the commission was finished and hung, I looked with pride and pleasure..... then looked closer.... What? There was a flaw in the inside center face of the frame. Unbelievable. Renting a truck and about 300 miles of driving to replace the huge plexiglass frame cover to honor my end of the deal was a real pain in the rear.... and pocketbook. 600 miles of driving to fix that one. They were more than appreciative for the effort. Such are the lives of struggling artists in America. Great Expectations. What could possibly stifle this start of new-found peace? Some maligned souls might just decide to give that a go.

The Country Club of Naples, as I would later find out, happens to be the oldest country club in Naples. This would make it a shoe-in to qualify as a festering pustule of "crackers". As my luck would have it, it was just that. Early one morning, a few days after the completion of the Mogul job, beginning my shift, around sunrise, feelin as fine as frog's hair, I went into the men's locker room to grab a cup of joe. Pouring in my usual liberal amount of cream, right behind me, inches from my backside, a voice was heard.... It was a gurgling, slow southern drawl. "That's wacha matter wichoo boeweh........yewain't never been weend." (Translation for the cultured: "I think your problem, young man, is that you're still suckling on your mother's teet.") Whatever that meant.

I turned around to address this overtly rude imposition, and I was looking directly into the vacuous, empty, stupid and scared void in the form of this creature, uh er, one of the members of Naples Country Club. His name was Hungerford (Mr. Hungerford if I had any respect for the freak). I don't recall saying anything in response, but it was now quite apparent that the crackers were now showing their faces. This white boy was in for some more. I don't ever recall doing the Oliver Twist, "I'd like some more, please." First the pool company.... now the golf course. How to keep the love alive????? Damn the torpedoes.... Aloha on high gear, it has to prevail, unless the numbers of these perpetrators gets so large that I'm doomed- certainly the thought crossed my mind. Starting to feel that way. Would they go that far?

Another member, Twohig (first name?), on several occasions, would ride up on his bike during the day, jittery as all get out, more squirmin vermin, with his brain frying like a mouthful of pop rocks. He would blab some sort of message in code or something sublime, his intention solely being to poke, stab, or unnerve this kid. I got the notion that he had just left some group meeting and had arrived with a predetermined dialogue. These guys never work alone. Chicken Butts! All cooped up. A notion not too far fetched as the pool company had worked the same way: chicken shit. If I had shown any outward sign of being rattled, maybe they'd have backed off. I know I hadn't yet..... and never will. Inwardly there was a much different story. I was a target to be hit until I broke somehow, someway. I was in full defensive posture. I'll break myself, thank you. How insecure were these guys? That Klan activity and the gangs back here in L.A..... all the same. I never succumbed, merely protected any vulnerability the only way I knew how. But what a price I was to pay...... But it's still mine. Bushido.

The PTSD I spoke of before was fully reactivated after the Hungerford incident and nocturnal medicating was still mandatory. I still never drank at work. I spoke of none of this to Tammy, as she was spending alot of time assisting the bedside manner of a doctor she worked for. We were quite distant. She was definitely on the way out. American Women and their New Age!!! HA! I still don't know why she didn't stay in Florida and tie up her "loose" ends. She just ended up running away with some Florida tattoo boy (Named Bobbie Lee HAHA! and a list of family destroying contributors) later anyway. She would've saved alot of gas money, and wear and tear if she'd stayed and then met me back here in California. Very inefficient. That's why I owe this book to you, Jazz and Maya. It's not your fault....... you'll definitely save some gas money......... that is wayyyyyyyy better!

Back to the Country Club..... So now as all the scum is oozing out of the woodwork, as they're "introducing" themselves to me, like salt forces the worms out of bottom fish. Soooooooooooo nice to meet you, squirmin vermin. As their invisibility disappears, the fog lifts, their curtain draws back, as clear as the words are seen on this page, I owe it to my craft, to my soul, to my children the level of honesty that comes forth through the documentation in this book. If anything, I've left out several incidents as, having been ten years after, I might have forgot a few.

As Hungerford and Twohig, and who knows who else, have started the shit flowing uphill, I was wondering more than ever how much could be attributed to Tammy's bio-father. Answer: As I drove back to California through Texas, I was startled to see a HUGE Confederate Flag hung in his garage, accompanied by literature about Robert E. Lee....... awwwww a little confederate boy.... now isn't that special! It just confirmed what I'd suspected all along. Scared little Nazis! Anyhow, anyway you look at it, something was up on 185 Burning Tree Drive: The Country Club of Naples.

My stares at these bastards were getting longer and were now of complete disdain. I couldn't help it. The weight of the true history of these lower states was pulling on my soul with an almost paralyzing grasp. Old footage of the WWII concentration camps had always got me "right there". But this was real time and not a fifty year-old newsreel. Accompanied with the treatment I was receiving, Tammy's hiding out, I had a full plate to say the least. I must say, I had never felt more alone my entire life and had no one to turn to. Who is a phone call away at this point? I had always been fine with most anything that had come up. But this combination of fear and ignorance of white people at this level was abominable. I'm white and this level of shame, combined with anxiety or PTSD, take your pick what you name it, but baby, we are loadin' up to maximum capacity like real quick. Medicate, Monsieur Duval........ I did. I will not break. I was weaned years ago, Old Corn, Old Saw, Hungerford, Confederate Ken, Cracker Charles, Twohig, and whoever else. FYou!

Sometime later, and I vividly remember this, I had been walking along the main cartpath on a particularly gorgeous afternoon, and feelin' it, when I noticed Hungerford and his henchmen were waiting in their carts to go play, right blow the dining room. As I passed their cart I mentioned, "What a great day to be a biped!". They obviously didn't take that comment too kindly and just glared back in contempt. I mean if looks could kill. Man, to be in the presence of such a beautiful afternoon, the tailored, manicured gardens and fairways, GOLF,GOLF, GOLF!!!!,everything is right in front of them..... and they can't see it. Their superstitious persuasions have blinded them completely from seeing any of God's Gifts. This Hungerford staredown incident had come recently after I had received a warning about talking to "the help." Another member, some guy named Lennon (obviously no relation to John), had armed me, side hug-style (like Confederate Ken had when he had that photo taken) and made some ultra-snide remark, "Are you going to tell me that there is no difference between me and that grounds crewman?". He pointed off to the course and the groundskeepers in the distance. Fuck this guy. Just because he owned a car dealership, and the groundskeeper had maybe come from a less fortunate background, there was a "difference"? Show me a guy in love and I'll show you a guy who's hurtin. My mornings had always started off with a hello or a what's up to the grounds crew, but for some reason, this was not apropos? Mercy, Mercy, Mercy.

At a couple of art shows there were a couple of occasions when people I didn't even know (people of "color") were coming up to me and asking where they may find work. Like I was some sort of employment agency or new immigration welcoming committee. This was very strange and one can only wonder what the hell was going on. Someone has gone way over the line in their parasitism (is there such a thing?). Am I the only kind person in town? Superstitious freaks abound and all around including occult kooks with as much "power" as a farting fruit fly. Klan Pus festering.... Carribbean occult freaks. What a joke. Are all these people this stupid? Evolution has not been kind to some. Let's see what is next on their list for this kid. Did I have a choice?

I wish my demeanor had been that assimilatingly and digestively active then. Excreting this crap that "got in" would have helped. Everything that was thrown at me "stuck". Not to mention things I was feeling inside on my own. Pre conditioned hard drive. I was unable to find any tools to unstick them. This swiss cheese spirit with the velcro lined holes were stuffed to capacity with this crap. Man's inhumanity to man was all that I could now feel, and this feeling sequentially led to another feeling ...... that I had the weight of the world on my shoulders. I checked into a doctor's office at that time to have a jaw disorder looked into that was "a bit out of control". One of the symptoms I listed on the physician's intake form was what I just previously stated, "I feel like the world is on my shoulders". I hate to think this might have been the brunt of some sick joke. I was really on a spiritually suffering side of all the inhumanity that had taken place in this area. No poor me here, just a "why do you have to continually poke at some sentient human being?" Hurts just revisiting it. No luck at all in the doc's diagnosis for the jaw problem and the severe clinching during sleep. This clinching was something that had been present ever since childhood, noticed by a mother of a friend when I was around sixteen years old and had obviously not left. It was now "highly reactivated" with these sick fucks behind all the "parasitism". What don't I know?

John, one of the old farts at the cart-barn, had just been in the local paper for seriousm spousal abuse and I gave him a piece of my mind. He got the nickname "O.J." as spousal abuse is a big nono in my book. Wife beaters and pedophiles: not alot of differences to me.... except the pedophiles won't last a week in jail. Tammy had to lie for years to trying and make me part of her untreated abuse issues, finally coming clean. Doesn't work that way, dear. Jazz and Maya IT IS NOT YOUR FAULT. I promise. John seemed vengeful in regards to my comments and then strangely disappeared from the cart-barn team. Just wasn't there one day - not to be seen at all. He seemed to have a hard time respecting a man like myself, self-made and not needing to have ripped off some utility company only to run and hide at a country club. HA! What a German maggot. His son(s) remain suspects(s) to me to this day.

Then there was Tony from the pro shop. So-called "Tough Tony." Should have been "Tubby Tony." Tony walks out of the pro shop one afternoon towards me with a hangman's noose around his neck. With this shit-eating grin on his face and a fat cigar sticking out of it, this little fat fuck I just know had been ceremoniously chosen to do something..... what that was was to be seen. Tough Tony was in actuality a festering, ingrown hair in need of lancing and an immediate dose of hydrogen peroxide. His incessant political remarks against "liberals" were obviously instigated by others and his spinelessness accompanied by all-afternoon video-golf on his computer, had left him with no other choice: phase into a brain-washable plankton boy. I see all this so clearly now, but as it happened, I just kept thinking it would cease. Unchecked mob violence stop on its own? Yeah, right.

Now comes the kicker. In an act of "kindness" and his "concern" to help out, he shows up with a Mitsubishi Galant in great condition that he says he doesn't need. He also states that he'd give it to me for I think it was two hundred dollars. It was a strange scenario surrounding this "gift" and what made it more-so was the fact it had 383,000 miles on it, the exact number that I had used while explaining a past successful business year. Was this a gift or "accelerated intent" of the ongoing parasitism? I was suspect but suspicion was overridden by the need of a vehicle. My gas guzzling old beater pickup was suckin the wallet dry.

I had a notion to stop all this had I been able. How? Quitting was not an option. I knew that if I stayed on the integrity side of things I might have a chance. I had yet to exhaust the patience silo of my spiritual reserve. But within a week or so, my brain fried one of its circuits. This I also remember vividly. I was walking down the main cart path back to the cart barn after placing a cart in the ready for play position near the number one tee box. As I looked normally forward my vision completely pixelated. I mean completely pixelated. Center view pixelation, with all the multi-colored stars in motion, and dark peripherals. I thought I might pass out. I just fought it off and held on to my sanity. Didn't tell anyone. No insurance so I'll just ride it out like I have been. My system had maxed out. Was it a stroke? This whole situation obviously sounds like a "stroke of bad luck", but I'm talking a real stroke. Maybe. What else to do? ?? ?? How does one really fight ignorance and fear so as to make it preventative in the future? I'll tell you a bit later in the book.

Criminal was all I could think of them then, and still do to this day. The song remains the same. They are as guilty as Katherine Su was when I turned her into the FBI on America's Most Wanted. Telling the story as I do here might be even more poetic justice than any courtroom appearance that might have been. Daniel Ellsberg by the way is one of my heroes, along with my present day heroes, David Ray Griffin and Vincent Bugliosi. Lord knows I contacted almost every justice agency possible over the next few years without a callback....... Wait just a second.... there's more.... the bastards weren't finished with their poison.

Another member, Clyde, some ex-FBI guy, so he said, had walked up to me one day and decides he's going to paint some scenario for me, just t see what I'll say. We were looking at the bag drop rack and the 15 or so golf bags awaiting their owners, and he says to me in an extremely accusatory fashion, "...... You know.... all a guy has to do is drive up there and take what he wants, and drive off....", and proceeds to await my response. More prodding. Like I was anywhere near being the one to do something like this. obviously I was being cordoned off as a potential thief. Assholes, haters, war mongers need to manufacture enemies if they don't have one. Bingo. Just as wives need to demonize a husband if they can't be honest with one. It's not your fault, Jazz and Maya. it is not your fault. Just more fear spewing from another infected brain..... you won't believe how many you'll see in your lifetime!

Mr. Curtis, another member on another day, had come to pick up his cart early one morning and somehow his Jaguar, parked directly in front of the cart barn, had become part of our conversation. I offered to check the oil, water, and fluids while he golfed, maybe picking up a couple of extra bucks in the tip department. He looked at me with such fear and hesitated adding, "What would they[my friends] think?" I was aghast. I had been demonized by these fucks. I walked right up to him and boldfaced responded, "Are you scared??" How insane are these people? He seemed obligated to allow me to assist..... and I did..... But what an exchange.

I was sitting in a cart late one other morning with Irv, maybe one of only three or four gentleman in the entire cart barn. We were waiting for a tournament to finish and we were positioned up by the clubhouse to attain a better view of the members as they returned from play. We both got a glimpse of a few of the members who had been involved in all the "leaning" on me, the previously mentioned parasites. He said out loud to himself and plenty audible enough for me to hear, "What are they scared of?" That was all he said. I remained silent as I had always been and thought to myself, he knows. I'll fight this on my terms. But the depth and numbers of those involved was large enough that any conversation at length on the subject might place Irv in the "treatment bin" with me. He's too old for that. The "guilty by association" phenomenon. I opted to stay silent and was in some small, very small way, comforted merely by the fact that he knew.

Apathy is another factor that is a main contributor to existing ailments. "Better him than me". Whether the overfed are often too busy wondering WHAT their next meal is going to be, the overpoverished are wondering WHERE their next meal is going to be. Yet apathy constricts the former, oppression, caused by ignorance, and fear most often the latter. I've never felt apathetic, just amazed at the level at which it exists. "Look away, Look away, look away Dixieland"..... they even wrote a song about it. How Tammy never got wind of all that was going on amazes me, although I remain completely convinced I did the right thing by not telling her. That amazement would completely cease when she and her new "buoyfriend", who is under molestation charges against my three year old daughter, could and would actually leave my son and daughter numerous times in the primary care of a 23 year-old heroin addict. This "babysitter" had just been previously arrested for heroin pipe possession, had more than one warrant out for failure to appear in court, driving without a license, and fines exceeding $40,000. A neighbor who was well aware about the goings on at Tammy's apartment helped me in that discovery process. A quick trip downtown to the criminal courts building confirmed these unfortunate facts. Tammy as we speak has a bench warrant issued for her arrest as she AND her attorney were both no shows this past Monday (6/23/08) for numerous contempt charges being brought against her. Steeeeeerike Three, guys. Much more on the Kangaroo Court/Drumhead Trial taking place later on.

Insanity and creating chaos is all they are about. As I had planned, moving was the only way to get around this. As for the insanity, I would bear witness, but their attempt at chaos within my soul they'd never touch. However, I would be stifled enough to be stopped in my tracks, and assume a "stance" for several years in dealing with the trauma of their "efforts". Just how I would convey this story to my children would be a challenge for me. As a great writer once said, "When in doubt tell the Truth." Their mother would make it easier for me as her behavior called for placing a decimal point in her I.Q., bringing it down from around 120 to 1.2 (maybe 12.0 if I'm to err on the plus side)..... stupid is as stupid does... She wouldn't do it alone. She would need assistance from her banal "bouyfriends", as birds of a feather do indeed flock together: selfishly choosing chaos over workable relationships, even if that involves the traumatizing of defenseless, vulnerable children. It's not your fault, Jazz and Maya. As I write this, my children are almost completely separated from me [edit 10/28: completely separated since 12/3/09] as a result of some extremely diseased individuals, severely flawed egg donors and court system. Put in that mix: Tammy's cults and cauldrons and you arrive at her preferred destination: Dysfunction Junction. It's not your fault, Jazz and Maya. Your father will never give up.

After the Irv Philipson comment, I decided to give two week notice at the country club. Strike Three. Time to make a change, save some dough, and move on back to California...... That would be easier said than done.

On my very last day at the country club, who should walk out of the pro shop? .... none other than John, The Country Club of Naples' very own O.J. Simpson. This, remember, is the guy who had disappeared and hadn't shown face for the past six to eight weeks. I still to this day can't help but think how much this guy was involved as a parasite in all that had transpired. Probably alot. Amidst the huge pile of (choose your expletive), I still take with me some fine, fine moments from that course, Robert, sometimes; Irv; John C.; Tom; Harry; Clair; Ralph; Lance; another member, great guy, great golfer, Peterson, who was a fan of Jesse Ventura's; Mr. Cole; the lady who fed the animals by the first tee, and I know a few others I might fail to mention. Golf is a game of skill, respect, and integrity. I'm not sure what game those others were playing, but it wasn't golf ..... or anything close to it, as Tom Watson has said so well.

Upon returning to California, a friend of mine would say to me, "get in the game". HA! Are you f'n kidding? I WAS the game. You call this life? I had no back up (that I was aware of), just a stance. Unfortunately assuming such a stance doesn't allow someone so fond of so many different kinds of movement to do very much moving. I was completely maxed out in survival coping mode. Someone described it to me as non-combat PTSD. Probably not far off the mark. I do not and never have consented to such ignorance. It went way too far for any one's benefit. If anyone feels that something like this is of any value, they are probably running the torture chambers at Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo. No Nixon here, my mental midgets, just Monsieur Voltaire if anyone.... and some Bukowski and Bugliosi..... Wake up, little Suzies, Wake up. Jazz and Maya, your father, Big Daddy, will NEVER leave you.

The unfortunate occurrence after my return to California, was my personally funded (with assistance) investigation into what had happened in Naples by some friends "of color." It turned out to be a carbon copy of the white establishment's M.O., complete with a "national enquirer" attitude. No evolution here, just a repeat of what's already taking place. Followers. Frustrating. If you used to be kings and queens I'd like to know how. A question to me asking if I'd take $350,000 to shut up had me reeling. You don't get it! And to call me prophet?? What a joke. That's the best you can do in the face of repetition?? Damn. I guess so. Sorry I asked for the help. Mad? No. Just disappointed. I'll be just fine. B.D. Growling is fine. I guess the answer is lying right between the two, not in the mix, yet between and above the apathetic yet pervasive infections confirmed now as I apply. I'll have to side with Cosby on this one. I'm going after the white ignorance and lies and that's where I should have been from day one. Hindsight is always 20/20. 10/10 for that matter. There's not enough time to do it any other way. Back on Oahu, my softball sized globe, hanging on the rear-view mirror in the old beater I drove when I first moved to Hawaii, plastered with band aids was right on the mark. Jazz and Maya, I have only failed to make your egg donor see the light, leave the base and banal, and for that I dearly apologize. It's not your fault.

It was now March, 1999 and I wanted to work and save enough dough to move back home. I wanted to leave with my head held high amidst the annoyances. So I did the opposite of what earlier fears dictated. Shoring up loose ends would help with closure, so I drove back right into the teeth of the source and asked Confederate Ken for my old pool route back. Yep. I told him I was moving back to California and I would work the route until I left, if the position was available. I knew there were guys that could work as competently as me, but none more so. He had co-signed for a used car loan when I had first started working there and satisfying the balance of that loan was still to be done. I had figured a couple of months of full-bore work and we'd be outta there, or as I mentioned before, I'd head out and Tammy had the option of staying with her "new friends."

Confederate Ken, I'm quite sure could not believe my request, obliged me on the route. At around eighty bucks a month and over 500 pools on his watch, he always needed a quality hand. I wanted to march right through their fears and leave in the light.... right where I was when I drove into town. Getting back to the work, I remember all the same innuendos being delivered as I started......and some new ones... Writing pens left in my truck with the word "white" marked on the side to mention one I hadn't seen before. At the Coleman's pool, there were giant float-able Killer Whale and a Great White Shark- another game for the bottom dwellers. Bullshit People. I mentioned before I feel the same way about gangs back here in L.A. and anywhere for that matter. Organized Crime. Organized Fear and Ignorance personified. Organized Religions and Militarised Masses are family here as well.

The pool job stood to fall short of providing the funds necessary to move. Artwork at the studio had now occupied the back burner. Mrs. Brams had asked me if it was fading. Remaining silent as to the harassment, I still didn't want to burden anyone, I said no, it's not fading. I didn't know what else to say. Dr. Brams was reading a book at the time titled, "The Evil That Men Do". No Kidding, I thought to myself..... Evil is the correct word. I saw the title as was I tending to their "modified" swimming hole for Mrs. Brams. She bore the burden of having to get around in a wheelchair. I pray and hope stem cell research will give these persons the chance to walk again. Never Fade. Ever.

CHAPTER 4

This was about to become a very long two months. Even though I hadn't stopped drinking, sobriety was always on my mind. As children would be arriving soon, I knew my children were going to know a sober father. Living exquisitely in the here and now was a given, just without the medication was the next step. I wish I could say the same for their egg donor. She still hasn't gotten it yet. Wait 'til I share the Great Christmas Meltdown of '07 with you. God help her. My precious children, above and beyond all, character does indeed count..... it is the only parenting plan there is.... children need and deserve a REAL parent. Sobriety grealy increases the REAL part.

I had calculated that as I was already an early riser, what would it hurt to get up a smidgen earlier, like 2:30am, lol, to throw a few newspapers. Throwing papers for the Naples Daily News, you had to be finished by 6am and that fit the pool start time. Confederate Kens started at six. I signed on for a small (approximately 200 papers) paper route. This was moving money.

Things started out fine, then, as the "treatment personnel" would have to doing something to perpetuate their lunacy. It's like a pathetic weed, they constantly have to feed the decrepit thing, as hate unarguably, incontestably comes with an expiration date. Love, au contraire, is infinite. Voltaire's best line in the entire Philosophical Dictionary in the W section under WAR- [paraphrased] "War is both an invention and an enterprise." That was written in the mid 18th Century. A couple of centuries of perfecting that, along with the advances in technology, you can understand why there are the Smedley Butler's, Daniel Ellsberg's, Scott Ritter's, David Ray Griffin's, and Vincent Bugliosi's of the world raging against these lies. Truth To Power.

One particular morning , another one of the paper route guys commenced a routine that would be a daily "dose" until I finally quit the route. This daily dose was the "mentioning of the word" (or phrase) for the day. On one particular morning, this guy drove up after he had loaded his van, and says, "The word for the day is 'roadkill' ". After I had loaded up the Mitsubishi with that day's papers, I left the "paper loading area", a parking lot in a strip mall, and started my route. Roadkill was the word alright. All along my route, strategically placed, strategically in the sense that I was sure to see them, were dead animals. Opossum, armadillo, cats, dogs, maybe rabbits, I'm not sure how many, I just remember looking at them peripherally after the first two or so. I wouldn't be denied my day in my life. So "the game" has now taken on a new level. People in their homes were flickering their porch lights as I would drive up to deliver their morning paper. Service with a smile? Hah! Behind the smile I wondered how much longer (and now how much farther) this was going to go. Just who exactly is behind this? And how many of them were there? 1....... 10....... 500? ?? ??

On another occasion, on my way to throw some papers in the wee hours of the morning, I pull out of my driveway onto Golden Gate Parkway, and every lug nut on each wheel had been loosened. The wheels were wobbling like crazy after I had pulled out onto the street, I had to pull over, jack up the car, and snug 'em up. On to work. What is a man to do? If all this was meant to bother me, from the house being videotaped all the way to this, it was. Everything was pointing in the direction of Confederate Ken, his henchman, a few at the golf course, and this newly found jarhead sperm donor, Cracker Charles, Cracker Bones Jones. They don't understand that samurais do NOT break.

Chuck, a local DJ, was also suspect when he took on this pathetic whining approach when I chose to not give him an few seconds of my time at one particular art show. Maybe that was the start of this radio game. If it wasn't him, it was suredly another typical drunk. He was mad about his girlfriend being sober at the time, and he just didn't get it. Couldn't leave well enough alone. Drunks usually don't. It was never my obligation to speak at every art show and with all this going on. I was in no condition to anyway. Believe me this was all making me so sick, I couldn't promote a thing. That weight of the world feeling is the real deal. But it is a calling, let there be no mistake about that. I'll leave out some dream stuff and the "hard to put to written word" paranormal stuff. It only creates strange interpretation and translation. There is nothing lost in translation here. That for which a higher power is only privee to. I'm right with Thomas Paine on this one. What an insult it is for Man to think he could speak for God! Man's folly.

I sort of laid down my arms and wrote a sort of surrender letter to a couple of the perpetrators in an attempt top have them back off. Back off? Ha! Big mistake. Withou a dose of hydrogen peroxide pus won't ever cease and desist. I wanted this shit to stop and maybe if I apologized for something I didn't even do, it might call off the pus. Never in a million years. I do regret to some degree writing that letter, but, I really do, to my fault at times, live in a just world, where people do the right thing. When I placed those letters in a mail box in the newspaper loading strip mall, I bore witness to something I've never seen in my entire life and hope I never do again. Immediately after placing the letters inside, no less than six teenagers, I'll call them "young adults", swarmed the mail box and retrieved what I had just placed in it. No words can describe this, other than felony. Where be I? The Shallow South!

Driving home after another newspaper/pool combo day, I stopped off to get my medication for the evening, a six pack. A woman in line right behind me at the store got up real close to me and just as Mr. Hungerford had at the golf course, she says in her best seething tone, "you've got ice cream (I scream) all over your face". I turned as this comment, delivered so close to the back or my head, behooved a look-see. Same as the Hungerford scene.... There as clear as day was the same searing look of hate personified glaring right at me. Who are these people? They do not stop? Now it's the friggin' women? Yes indeed. I just kept working as though none of it was happening. Again.

Another afternoon I drove by Confederate Ken's to pick up a paycheck for the week, and their youngest son, not even double-digit in years lived, came out to give me my check. Walking out to deliver the item, I noticed that this young man was carrying with him a little puppy. Before he gave me the check, I said something endearing about the little life he was carrying. He then held the dog up to my face and said in a pre-packaged statement, "He can't HEAR very well." I knew now that this child that I had met so many times before had been programmed by these insane forces. Nothing wrong with MY ears. I raised my line of sight up past this young, helpless victim. Up the driveway, in the garage was an old woman that turned out to be the grandmother of the this youngster. From her chair, she was delivering to me the most hateful scowling glare available to mankind. Same as Hungerford, same as the old bat at the convenience store.... if looks could kill..... Mercy Mercy Mercy.

Back on the pool route, things weren't getting any easier. I was having a few of my pools tampered with chemically so as to make more work for me. Alot more. I would just continue to do the proper maintenance and chalk up their hindrances to just stupidity and know I was just cleaning up their mess, like I had done for my father at the condo complex in Hawaii after he beat his wife.

Mr. Stowe, one afternoon met me at his pool to discuss some "probabilities", what might happen if someone were taking a walk in the swamp areas of the everglades and how they might "disappear" was the word he used. Right next door to the Stowes was a man named Fleming. He was instrumental in putting a face on that which had been up until then a somewhat "invisible" puspile er "empire" LOL. On that particular day, he had come out to say hello, but to that greeting he was to add, "It's sure good to know the Klan is still around! hyuk hyuk". I for a second was still as could be. Here was the fact, from God's mouth to my ears I had suspected all along. "Yeah.... sure is!", I responded. These assholes now OFFICIALLY had a face. Merci, M. Fleming. No more doubts, suspicions, all clear. Well, as far as a confirmation.

The next annoyance on their list for me was alarms. Alarms going off in different neighborhoods with "alarming" consistency. Trust me.... humor here, yes.... then NO. Some alarms were even kind enough to be accompanied with loud, verbal recordings that said, "you have entered a restricted area". Thanks for the help! LOL Just get through these next several weeks, Damon, I would tell myself. They are on an endless mission to break you........ Sorry, not going to happen. I was born ONCE.... and that's a natural fact.

I had started a consistent swimming routine at the local Golden Gate community pool. Confederate Ken had so lovingly offered that I was swimming in "nigger piss". Nice. But one morning I noticed a young man in his late teens I'd say, sitting across from me while I got dressed for my swim. This kid was staring over at me at and way too skiddish for my comfort zone. Talk about squirmin vermin. My warning lights were flashing. It was my solid guess that he was there for some sort of initiation rite with the local cracker club. I stared him down knowing he'd not get anywhere with that approach in the midst of the prominent tension and waited for nothing to occur. In a moment it was over. I had taken time to personally write my sensei and thank him for having had the privilege to have studied under him. I don't know how I could have found this patience without him (and his long line of teachers). To The Way.....I am eternally grateful.

During the next week, on the morning paper route, a man was standing behind his car next to some apartment buildings. He was loading his handgun right in my line of sight. Not sure if this guy was part of the scheme, but how could I say it wasn't with all that has happened so far. Great. Toasted on my paper route. F Them.

"Stop waking everybody up!", would be yelled from inside the apartment dwellings. NOW WHAT? Is this whole part of the world asleep? I guess so. I guess me just being me is somewhat of a problem for many here. Apologizing didn't do a damn thing, and the apology wasn't even for anything I had done wrong. They are that far behind. But the most bothersome traits are the lengths they are willing to go to to remain in this cesspool. A part of America that I had read about once in a book..... is still real.

Is this the America I know and love? Don't ask. Just don't stop. Keep doin what you're doin. Just face yourself. You are on auto pilot blazing trails that have had nothing to do with your parents. A lonely feeling? Yes. The non-parenting is why. How many people on your pool route have you informed you were already a rich (in spirit) man? Stay strong and do not be denied your rights as a U.S. citizen, man of the world, being of the universe for that matter.

This absurd game was in need of being blown wide open. Mr. Brams' book "The Evil That Men Do" never rang louder. Evi Spanner, Emil and Maria, these people were so generous with their hearts at this time.

One afternoon after coming home from both routes, Tammy still at work, I went into the bedroom to get a rest in. As I lay there on my bed I could hear voices outside the two windows that hugged each side of the head of the king size bed. They were attempting to talk quietly. I could make out the words as one spoke much louder than the other(s). There were either two or three of them, "Should we kill him?" The others said things I couldn't make out.... too whispery. I just lay there wondering if these guys were actually going to come in- we are obviously talking to the death. Our back door was never locked, and I knew that. I slowly slid off the bed and moved down to the floor, in a sazen position, next to the corner of the foot of the bed, facing the open door to the bedroom. It felt as though this was to be a snuff film. I waited once again for nothing to occur. The voices went walking away after a few moments and it was over. I didn't bother going after them as I knew the numbers were much more than these two. I really didn't know what ever to expect from anyone anymore. It feels like that when you're not sure who to turn to. I could only turn to myself. This was definitely a long two months. And it wasn't over yet.

When people are so worried about "power" they are far beyond the self- effacing angle so imperative in realizing just how ignorant they may be. Ignorance is not power and most certainly is not bliss..... therefore how can ignorance be bliss???? These ancient lunacies were reserved for dinosaurs and ostriches. To be taken up and continued as fuel for modern man's fodder is a complete cop-out. This grave malady is arguably the core root to his ever-present nose-dive, and leading to what is becoming the very de-evolution of the species. With the globe, home, under assault as it is, serving "notice of accountability" is job number one for any agent of change that is to be for the better.

Tammy has been kept out of the loop of all of this, and understandably so. Still a month or so to go and I am continuing to work as though nothing is wrong. Don't tell that to my insides. Whew!

One evening, sometime past midnight, not sure of the time exactly, there is a loud bang and glass shrapnelling on our back porch. The sliding glass window had been shot with a gun. As we both jumped out of bed to see just what the F*@* has happened, we notice in the upper left corner of the window a perfectly round bullet hole. As the seconds pass by, the hole enlarges, the glass continuing to spiderweb its way outward from the entrance wound and gravity doing the rest. Within a few minutes, there's almost a complete sliding glass door, in glass crumbs, on our dining room floor. We both walked out onto the screened in back porch. I turned to Tammy breaking the silence that had been turned all the way up since the salvo had hit its target. "Are you scared?', I asked her, and she replied no. With a calm demeanor, I knew she wouldn't be. "Don't be, go wait inside". I switched on the porch light, silently took a seat in the middle of the porch at my desk, and waited a few minutes to see if these chickens would show their faces. No show. Taking pot shots into someone's home is as chicken shit as you get. I said nothing. I don't speak chicken. No words from the darkness were offered from any of our fine feathered parasites hiding in their pustules. I just went back inside and took Tammy to bed...... sleep it off as best we could, wondering what we should do the next day.

Would we call the police? No, I just knew I'd run into the Confederate Kens of the local P.D. and nothing would get resolved. This would prove to be true later. I had truly entered the zone of total helplessness. No one to call. Nowhere to turn. Humanity's premeditated and unfortunately well-preserved hell in action. So just as I always play my golf game, I was to play this it as it lies. Play it down. Those are the rules, right, ball fluffers?

I remember around this time, my sperm donor, Jules, calling me late one night from Pinehurst Country Club, and for some reason in tears. I had no time for this display of emotion from someone I didn't even respect. Sad but true. There were the inconceivable actions taking place around me and this call was qualified as unbearable. He and his wife had just visited from California and their visit was the first since I had seen them since the wife-beating incident. It was an unpleasant visit with Judy having taken the lead in their co-dependent misery. She made it very clear that she owned everything [material things] that they were about, and in addition to that I could look forward to nothing from her them in the event of his death. I needed this on top of everything else? I had made it more than clear in a letter I had written him a few months prior that our relationship had nowhere else to go. I had divorced myself from them completely. How do you spell relief? Exhale.

How grateful am I that my relationship with each of my children has been paved with such clarity, action, and enlightenment? Maybe, hopefully someday I can say the same about their mother. Odds wayyyy against. What a gift it is to be able to share this with you, Jazz and Maya, Your father loves you "bigger than the Ocean!" Smiling.

So back at the Amityville House of Horrors, we now have a huge blue tarp covering a broken(and still crackling apart for the DAYS to come... Eerie!) sliding glass door. The damaged door with the tarp would remain there until we left. I stood as a stark reminder to all that had transpired there the past two years..... Shaking my head as I write.

I still got up at five, once again, to suit up and show up. I received a phone call from Tammy's sperm donor, the micreant himself, to tell me that, after talking to me, I sounded like I had the "phone blues". I had been waiting for some callbacks on some commissioned work that for some reason weren't coming through. Maintaining discourse with these sick bastards was all I could stand.

I soon get a phone call from one Diane Asche wanting to pick up a piece of work before I moved. She was apologetic about not having called sooner. She and her husband came by and chose something for their entryway. She said what I had done while being in Florida was commendable and that she wished me the best of luck. In the midst of the insanity, here shows up an angel. Dr. Debbie Heil, I hope her disease has been overcome, had been as such from the get go and The Asche's visit bookended my entire stay in Florida. Their support said: It's time to pack up and head home, young man. They say you can never go home again. Au contraire - cliche they, those them.

Getting a departing rig set to move was to be one of two choices: Rent a truck or buy a trailer. The events to follow would make the decision for me.

Our local artist group got together for a seminar with individual presentations slated for the event. After the season dotted with positives involving the artwork, I was up for the task. One of the local artists, some guy by the name of Stevens, a constantly prying attendee who had consistently displayed a degree of envy that was no less abrasive than invasive. He obviously enjoyed this approach to life, showed up to dish out more of the same. As being one of the seven deadly sins, this creature was one of the many walking dead. He would be one of the "I know what's going on" guys. He relished in the opportunity to be a thorn in someone's side. Self appointed to make it worse. In an obvious attempt at continuing the threatening motif, he mentioned something to the effect that there was a real danger in my renting a truck and that you never know what could happen. I couldn't wait to move. Other than this freak, who sat right behind me during the seminar, and I easily could have shot if I was a gun totin Yankee, lol, the evening as a whole went extremely well. Talking shop, talking story with the fellow artists.

During the next week, Tammy and I had opted for the rental truck to move. Pulling into the Ryder Truck rental parking lot, I mentioned to Tammy with a heightened splendor, "Look at the clouds!" We shared a pause gazing at the divine beauty that lay straight above us. I told her I'd be right back as I was just going in to leave a deposit on the rental. The ten minute transaction was done when the redneck behind the counter looks at me as he hands me the receipt, "....Enjoy the clouds". Not only have they bugged the house, they've bugged our Toyota. WTF. Once again, and again, and again, and again, it's time to pretend they're not there. I drove out of the parking lot wondering once again..... what to do with this incessant anxiety? I cancelled the Ryder idea, went back to get my deposit, F you very much, and planned the towing of a trailer instead. Better.

I had been looking for a used trailer for about a week, when early one morning on the paper route I turned down the first residential street to deliver my first paper when what do I see surrounding the entire block: no less than six huge Ryder moving trucks parked in full view. The words MOVE were written on the sides of all of them. I stopped my car and just stared. You've got to be kidding. That's a big effort for one guy.

The television was doing very bizarre things, like once going to a full-snow, no-cable-connection screen right when I turned on a Jazz program. The bedroom TV went to the same screen during other comments made between Tammy and myself. The house and cars under twenty-four hour surveillance. Home Sweet Home. They're heeeeeeere. So is this BOOOOOOOOOOK!

In my searching I found a used trailer BURIED amongst the foliage in a Mr. Newport's backyard jungle. Four hundred dollars later, digging it out, replacing/lubricating all the moving parts, setting up electric brakes, duct tape the holes, and this freight transport unit was road-ready and set for sail.

The news of the suicide of Simon Kennedy came about this time. Double suicide. Everything about me changed from an awareness psychopathic freaks all around me into a completely surreal keel. Now this?? For the past few years fighting for the brief moments to work in my studio, then..... one of my mentors, already with everything he could possibly need to produce takes his own life. How can life be that bad? I guess it just can. Drugs and mental instability must have finally combined to win that battle. He had always talked about doing it and he finally did. A result of years of not facing himself and the dynamic, destructive force of hypocrisy: not adhering to the words we had studied so stringently and in depth for so long. Simplified: Talkin the talk and not walkin the walk.

Going home now had spiritually taken on a whole new perspective. Just how much of this I could have prevented would become a question I would pose to myself over and over for some years to come. The defenseless, vulnerable part of myself was the contributing factor in my staying afar. This was the same contributing factor in my decision in staying away from both of my parents as much as possible. Safety and attaining enlightenment are the goal. Somehow. Someway. This was my decision in having so many heated conversations with Tammy. These protective barriers, all dysfunctionally produced and erected walls, honed and polished from trauma are only taken down from the inside out. I was attempting this excruciating effort while trauma was occurring to me in real time. Nice combo, huh? This was in good faith, common sense a better way to put it, for the benefit not only for myself, but for my wife and children to be as well. I find interventions to be futile at best. If it was this hard to attain a self-effacing level of excellence together with one's own spouse and children on the way..... this alone proves some degree of difficulty in getting anyone to see any light. No Shit Sherlock. The road to hell being paved with good intentions...... mrecy mercy mercy.

Trauma can be traced to most if not all of the dysfunction that is present in our lives. This may sound profound, but will probably end up being the Holy Grail itself.... at least in recovery, if not all humankind. These dysfunctional situations, when compared to a "normal" existence, are the result of some trauma that will, unchecked, progress into many forms of self-destruction. I decided just a couple of months later that year, Fall, 1999 as it were, that I had better be the carbon copy of this example that I spoke so highly of. As a parent to be, it was up to me to fully challenge myself as my children were in need seeing someone walk that talk. I was talkin it but not really walkin it..... close but not totally. There had always been light at the end of this tunnel, on the horizon, but I wanted out of that tunnel.

A suicide by someone so close as a mentor is a tough axe to grind. I was not to be deterred, even though the weight was heavy enough to be an impedence. I had come way too far the prior ten years to have it last as that. My travels might have been a quite the detour, the long way around at that, but I vowed alchemy in the long run. This IS the long way home. The safety and well-being of my children would depend on all of this knowledge attained, and the of higher worlds therein. As an artist and surviving it, it's just grist for the mill. Providence can sometimes align forces for a convergence and, ultimately, hopefully for the good, a subsequent legacy. Legacy....that's just other people talkin. lol.

Since Tammy opted out of staying in Florida and finishing school, she would go with me.... the same "you're not going without me" attitude as Hawaii. Before we left Florida, some idiot, obviously in on the crap occurring, had called my home and in his best trying-to-sound-ominous tone said, "It's easy to move to Florida....... but it's sooooo hard to leave......". OOOOOOOHHHHHH!!!! More of the same BS. God help these people.

Closing out my account at the bank I ran into another freak in the waiting area. He sits down directly across from me with that incessant "cracker stare", trying to make his presence felt. These crackers are just like a bad fungus, and worse than a lingering fart. I guess my pennant stare had been too confrontational, and their responses, as unacceptable as they were, were done out of their shame and guilt. But was it really the best they could do? Don't ask me for the answer.... better yet do.... the answer is NO.

Loading up that trailer was a task..... 2 1/2 tons of goodies. Loading it up with the proper weight distribution was altogether something else. "Tongue weight" was THE part of the safety equation. I knew the term, tongue weight, I would soon learn the reason for its very necessary application...... I figured you just balance all the weight over the wheels and you're off.... Right, Einstein?

With everything loaded up, the house given a clean bill of health from the landlord, debt balances all satisfied, I was ready to get back to Santa Monica. Having said good-bye to Confederate Ken and his henchman was bizarre. Stranger than you could ever imagine. He actually said that I'd be back. You gotta be kidding. Maybe with a full investigation! He stressed that I had to admit that there was a "power" down in Florida. He actually waited for me to verbally agree with him. Pitiful. I'm going home. The real kicker here is the fact that about two weeks before I left the pool company, Confederate Ken and the crew were all off for a week to Pine Island, wherever the hell that was, to some kind of Klan rally obviously. Ron asked me if I was going. HAH! Are you fucking kidding? You couldn't pay me. That time with the whole crew gone except for Ron and myself, to say I was glad I was leaving is the understatment of all-time. The South is an entire, unevolved, leftover quagmire of heinous events. I share the exact same view as Kurt Vonnegut's. I don't know if this country will ever completely heal from slavery's dreadful legacy.

I did vow to myself to take this whole matter up with the justice system after I had returned to California. I had to get home first. Still laughing at Ken's "you'll come back" statement, HA!, I left the sticks and this modernized version of Deliverance with a firsthand account and a still virgin cornhole. You couldn't drive a watermelon seed up there with a sledgehammer! LOL. Damon does not squeal. Unfortunately apathy has been the most prevalent form of justice I've come across since my return home some ten years ago.... as is the case now with my children..... except for the firm advice to write this book from those who understand, Aunt Ruthie, Big Steve to name just two, I have had to be as patient as a ?(Damon?). Perhaps the pen IS more ferocious than the sword..... and hopefully our sadly compromised Family Court system. ......... Let Right Be Done.

CHAPTER 5

Myself at the wheel of the pick-up and trailer and Tammy in the compact, with the cats, Skibbie and Skibbie, we were set to sail. Our cats one gray, and one black were interestingly the subject of our Confederate Cracker Charles' visit to Florida. Upon looking and doing the vacuous blank stare at both our little kitties, Charles could only muster up, in his gargling, southern drawl, "I like the gray one". Even the color black of a cat prompted his shit brain to squirm. Squirmin Vermin. The Vietnamese, for the sake of discussion about someone's mental capacity, were just animals to this guy. Tammy, we've got a problem child of the inth degree...... my thoughts not shared with Tammy. She just sat ho-hum through all this. I had to study her reactivity.... she would be the mother of our children. Hers was the syndrome of a battered past in full force. She had been conditioned to be voiceless. She has unfortunately attempted to have my daughter become a voiceless child as well. NOT ON MY WATCH. There will be no ho-hum attitude when it comes to safe boundaries for my children. WAKE UP TAMMY! My precious Jazz and Maya...... it's not your fault.

So off we were.... westward. Being one block from the freeway onramp, the Toyota decided to stall at the gas station. Would not start. Waiting a few minutes, the car miraculously restarts. The car had been perfect, I mean perfect, in performance for the last two tears and now a sudden stall/restart? Guess who? Too coincidental.

Things were about to get dicey on the highway..... real dicey. Getting up to speed I noticed a sway in the trailer. At 60 mph the sway got so violent with the trailer actually doing the watusi going back and forth halfway into each of the adjoining lanes. If it had snapped off the hitch? Yikes. I had to get off the road. The looks on the surrounding drivers' faces confirmed the danger. Seven thousands pounds of debris and trailer was luckily avoided. Tongue weight, the load bearing at the hitch, was upon further research, to be roughly ten to fifteen percent of the load. Valuable information for safe travel? Quite. I'm sure I had the tongue weight somewhere around half the payload's gross weight! Off a bit? Three tons of goods out and back in again without a scale and I hit the desired number at the weigh station. What a difference...... and, dude, like wobble-free! With smooth sailing on the horizon, I was literally "leaning" into my drive out of the shallow south. Effects on my physiology were so markedly apparent over the prior year, they were to stay in my hard drive for some years to come. Someone once said that misery loves company, and for some forty years up to this point I've been giving it all I had not to be an accommodating host. Trying is a start; an acute awareness to accompany that try is priceless. It was a welcome feeling to be on the road back to my real parents.... the Pacific Ocean. It was this ocean who really raised me and comforted me with all its genderless, raw, natural energy. I am a waterman. A vivid memory comes to mind when I think of the Pacific Ocean. My egg donor's parents, Paul and Esther, had taken me camping to a West Malibu Beach campground. Lorraine the egg donor never went camping with us the numerous times we went camping. She preferred jail. Equating Lorraine with Planet Earth's natural treasures? Not. On this particular trip, I was around six years old and already quite the capable swimmer, I was out in the water with the breakers rolling in magnificently (funny to word it that way). I put a move on one of the waves, caught it and bodysurfed in about thirty feet or so. No one in my family does this and it was certainly something that was mine. I don't even remmber sharing this with anyone. Yet it's as real as yesterdays coffee. No one in the family spoke "water". lol. My life changed on the spot. I was now a wave rider, completely self-taught (or taught by the ocean?) and on my way. I take a pregnant pause as I remember this special moment. This is why I was going home. Lolu Ocean!!!!! (LOLU means "I love you" in Jazz 6-month old speak). I can hear Jazz and Maya right now. I am lucky to be my own loving parent, and fortunate enough to be in a position to give my precious children the tools they will need.

After stabilizing the cargo and making it out of Florida, through Louisiana, we stayed in Mississippi before heading to Texas the next day. A brief stay with the Confederate Cracker Grunt Charles, Tammy's bio(ill)logical father was scheduled. Yikes. Arriving at the Texas Mississippi border you start to see the "Don't Mess With Texas" signs. Don't mind if I DO! I f Satan owned Texas and Hell, He'd live in Hell and rent out Texas.

Arriving at this residence which was gated up like that belonging to a soldier of fortune. The inside just would not have been complete without the super-sized Confederate Flag covering virtually an entire wall of the garage and the accompanying page dedicted to Robert E. Lee taped by the doorway. Guess you could salute that on the way out of the Flag Room! LOL! All my suspicions all along had been well founded and now confirmed. What we have here.... is a severely maligned Euro-transplant. My rage was still simmering below the surface. Stay cool, DMan. One just doesn't forget a Rober E. Lee homage and a Nazi Flag. Heil Hitler. I made sure I gave Charles my BLUE compressor when I left. It was a healthier choice than shoving it up his ass dry.

Our stay that night was probably videotaped by this squirt, knowing now Frye's Electronics was his favorite (surveillance) store. Maybe he got something to watch between Thailand visits and his probable sublime desire to do his own daughter. Why else would a peeping Tom go to such lengths? Maligned Big Time. Real Men don't spy. Like a superbly crafted Eddie Sherman Tank I write this book, bringing ignorance and fear to the Marquis. Voila!

I thought only crackers did this shit, but in a recovery meeting years later, a young woman of African descent told me a similar story replicated by her relatives. She was as ashamed as I am. Honesty is the cornerstone of true courage. I am blessed to be able to share this; as I was blessed to hear another's story. No wonder turning to "other communities" really didn't remedy that much, but I would have approached this in no other way. The possibilities of breaking chains is too wondrous and the healing that results from attaining so too precious not to at least try. Mountainous in scope.

Charles' mother was just like a distant relative of my immediate family. Isolated from the real truth, real teachings and real choice: another human ostrich. The only other relative present during the visit was Charles' brother, can't remember the name. Nice guy.... said he dealt in used cars. We had pizza delivered that night. Charles' brain ever so frying to be the father that missed a boat that was berthed and awaiting him decades ago, and never took the time to see where it went. Tammy at the time was twenty-nine years old. Wake up, CRACKER.

Tammy was her usual, silent type that evening, only speaking when spoken to, waiting for everything to come to her as an entitlement, and bursts of a cackling laughter that ever-exposed the trauma that had been so deeply ingrained and shellacked over during the twenty-five of her life years before I had met her. Jazz and Maya, I knew I would be your father. I love you. 1-2-3 Daddy NEVER leaves.

We were just into our first cup the following morning, second and last day of our visit, when in jogged Charles after a morning run. He sat down sweating bullets and joined us. Right out of his mouth came some ridiculous remark about the tennis champion Williams sisters and a rerferral to them as "bluegums". Not capable of starting a day without negative comments directed at someone else to motivate a hate-filled day's "journee"...... Un peu de Francais pour the maggot. America needs help and these will NEVER be the guys to get the job done. As was the case with Florida, I couldn't leave fast enough. En Avant!

This contrived existence of evangelism/racism/militarism was way too toxic for me, just as I feel it is for others. We left that day ASAP and were off to California. We stopped in Arizona for an overnite and would finish the last leg the following day. July in Arizona it's five hundred degrees in the shade. We got the cats into the shade and cool of the hotel room for their first break in days.

Mornings in the desert are spectacular just as they were in Sedona on the way across two years prior. No exceptions to the rule this morning. It was time to head out before it started to bake.

No heading west through the Palm Springs area is complete without stopping at Fields in Indio for a date shake. Date Palm sugared up for the final leg. We were two hours away from home plate.

All the way down the 10 freeway, into Santa Monica, up the Lincoln Boulevard offramp, down to my friend Tim's house, snugging the rig up to the curb, and NOW the power steering pressure hose decides to blow. TIMING? Man, the billow of burning power steering fluid smoke coming out of the engine compartment.... Unbelievable. The entire trip without a snag, and she blows on arrival. Timing is everything. A quick removal and replacement of a twenty dollar part and she's back on the road. Good as new. Home at last!

CHAPTER 6

Seeing an old friend is always great, especially since you've known him since second grade. Got a chance to catch up. His mother was quite a bit different than the last time I saw her. She looked at me a bit differently than used to. She seemed to be in an "in the know" kind of guise. "I know things about you......" , she said with an open ended delivery. I didn't know what to say. What do you say to your best friend growing up's mother in that situation? So I didn't say anything. She said it with such confidentiality that I wondered if what had happened in Florida had made it back home. Could it be? I spoke of the many Florida events to no one. Hmmmmm. I avoided bringing up the Klan shit with Tim because of the Viet Nam Vet connection.... Cracker Charles was in Nam... so was Tim's brother ..... these guys are connected in not the healthiest of loomed thread. Tim's brother's body had been found decapitated recently in Northern California and any discussion similar in problem would have been inapropriate. We could discuss it later, at a more appropriate time. When would that be? Still haven't. Ten Years Gone!

I found a spot to park the trailer at an uncle's (another scary admission of relativity) house in Santa Monica. I was reluctantly making arrangements to rev up the studio at his house. Doing so meant being around another whom I consider to be a very sick individual. It felt just like setting up shop in the South again. It was. More incessant sick racial comments flourishing out of this bastard's brain. Sad but true. There's no avoiding the toxic insanity, Damon. I will never get used to it. Relief for me? They'll have to die out. As an artist, my preference is for a peaceful working environment, music being the only annoyance I allow. Is that unreasonable? Oh, girls are welcome too. Absolutely. Never in the way. Within a few short months, this sick bastard replenished the left over PTSD from Florida on a daily sometimes hourly basis, I had to throw the entire studio on the shelf. F You Don Periman. Take the drugs and alcohol away, the fog clears, and look at these people you were running from! You're like "No wonder!" Not to blame them but they are to be held accountable for the ambient ignorance. My sanity and soul were clearly on the line and I was willing to go to any length to preserve them. Nothing else mattered. Just like when I had left for Hawaii. EXACTLY. Everything went into storage as I was completely strapped financially. I ended up letting it all go. ALL OF IT. Thousands of dollars of equipment and art lost to a storage rental company. I couldn't make the payments. No complaining, but it was tough to see that all disappear. I decided to test/challenge myself as a true artist. What if I shelved this dream and I forced myself to wait? What AM I made of? So I did. I faced myself.... for ten years now! Yeah, Baby!

Tammy had become pregnant again shortly after returning home. Within a month she had miscarried again. Plumbing. Her disappointment was palpable, and very disconcerting to me. It seemed she carried a sense of entitlement as to her ability to carry a child to term. Wrong approach, babe. This attitude added to our distance. I, on the other hand, had had it. I was heading to the recovery path.... f that... HIGHWAY. On August twelve, 1999, I started a full bore program to attain enlightenment. Meetings, libraries, Internet databases, dive dive dive everything I could devour to throw the dis comfort and any dis ease into the void. My parenthood would irrefutably require it...... as I will attest to in the not too distant future.

Tammy had been hired at some dinosaur bone place through her past contacts in the earth prospecting fields. All the loose strings that I had left unattended when I left eleven years earlier, stood now before me. The more I read the farther I felt from Tammy. I was heading to where she and I would have to be to parent our children. She still to this day doesn't get it. She and her whining in regards to her faulty plumbing were so all-consuming that I couldn't help her pave her path any further. That's her job anyway, of course, and as I've shown, she's unreceptive. Avarice. However, she has benefited immensely from the positive side of all said efforts...... as have all my exes. Unfortunately, she would end up not only resenting the very light that I had shone on her path, but hold it against me as abuse, twisting absolute Truth as pathological liars do. All of this still to this day I write in spite of the atrocious harm it has done to our children. Shame on you woman. Shame on you. Shame on you.

The phone calls she had been receiving from Cracker Charles, calls laced with fear-based questions and lie-laden stories were the last straw for me. One phone call sealed that decision. Tammy had told him that we lived on Copra Lane. "What does Copra mean?", he asked, fearing some "hidden meaning" that signifies "not in the Whites' control". You could feel the fear in the interrogative. Hate has a shelf life, an expiration date if you will, and this kook was looking for anything and everything to fuel it. Tammy had no backbone for the maggot and I wasn't going to make her anything more than what she had become. I could not provide her sight. She didn't get it. I asked her for a divorce. I could still save our children to be from these monsters and that's exactly what I've done..... with resistance the entire way. Jazz and Maya, it's not your fault.

"Time apart" would have been a better suggestion as the word divorce was a bit extreme. After a couple of weeks I backed off the divorce talk, never filed the papers, and just let her know I needed time to gather the Damon that had just gone through crap no one deserves. Proper use of words is always good advice. She took the new suggestion hard and it took me months to regain any trust that is even questionable in its original existence. Tammy could not trust herself to do the right thing with regards to any family value... couldn't even fake it until she made it.. We will see that untreated codependent in full bloom soon enough. Years of untreated drug use and abuse would rear its UGLY head within a few years. Children deserve better.

At the library, the enlightenment highway onramp now located, I was able to become part of something quite miraculous. With the vigilance of a voracious freshman scholar, I attacked and scoured the shelves and databases to uncover the knowledge that I inherently knew was the antidote to the pain I felt. Each book I would "find" was the book I needed. Time after time. "Could and would if sought" is an ironclad reality. I read and read until I couldn't read anymore..... then read some more. I attended three recovery meetings a day for three months as I was able to find the time. The clarity of enlightenment in the face of the dysfunction I would be looking at in the face of my egg donor was beyond description. At the suggestion of Tony, a fellow in the recovery field, "Go to as many meetings as you can, everything is here". I started and completed the twelve step process with my friend and sponsor, Brian, who met me weekly with the reliability of a sunrise. For me , it was wayyyyyyyy more than the drinking. AA was a molehill compared to the Everest were about to start.

Back when I had first gotten back from Florida, I had gone in to the library, so overtly concerned about others, I had a moment of complete and utter immobility. I was looking at Harriet Beecher Stowe's, "Uncle Tom's Cabin". I could not decide if by checking out this book would put me in or out of favor with the sentient people of this world. I was too scared to check out a book. The trauma from Florida had left me incapable of checking out a book from my hometown library. Tough one to admit and accept, but true. Truly frozen.

Natural Philosophy, spiritual recovery, the history of fear and ignorance were raging off the shelves like a mighty Amazon of Knowledge, divinely filling in the porous holes of my curiosity, pain, and trauma... all out of absolute necessity. This preponderance of time spent at an American library completely re-established my faith in America. For any student, our libraries and librarians are hallowed grounds and souls respectively, and should be treated with the respect and reverence they are truly due, along with our priceless teachers.

The documentation I was able to find depicting all the atrocities I had seen and felt confirmed the infectious trough I so unfortunately had fallen into. My relief was resounding and I was even able to sound off a bit with a yell or two along the way. So good to be home. Blowing off steam is a great equalizer as you get to the core issues of what ails you.... as long as you do it without harming another. Whedn in doubt tell the Truth - Mark Twain. Self-effacing is the only way to go. In step with that : a great philosopher along the way once said, "the unexamined life is a life not worth living". I concur.

I was at this time the not so proud owner of a painful bone spur on the heel of my right foot, I think it was my right, if not , it was the other one. But the pain from this thorn (that's exactly what it looked like in the ex-ray) was unbearable at times, especially at night after I'd been asleep. If I got up to use the bathroom, my leg would buckle under the pain. Then one morning while lifeguarding at the pool, I was walking down a wet staircase and my heel slipped off the edge of a step and straight down onto the heel spur. Embedded icepick is the closest visual I can come up with regarding the pain felt. But within a few seconds all the pain, I mean ALL the pain disappeared. I couldn't feel the spur anymore. Months of discomfort gone like that. The slip and consequent slam of the heel into the hard tile floor had broken the spur completely off. Totally pain free from here on out in a split second. You talk about some sweet intervention. I'll take it, and say thank you thank you thank you. Even small miracles are more than welcome. I was seeking and it was arriving. I'd like some more, please! Enlightenment is a great path. I can and will attest. I can and will suggest.

A couple of weeks before our separation I was with Tammy in our Toyota outside a golf shop in West Los Angeles. I was explaining to her about the Klan members that had gone North, leaving the Shallow South to set up their crap. If you were amongst this group, you were deemed a "Copperhead". I asked Tammy if she had been aware of this term and she answered that she hadn't. I wanted to go inside and look for a used putter and told her I'd be right out. Ryder Truck Rental all over again:

Inside the store there was only one other person at the far end looking around at the literally thousands of used golf clubs available. I had been inside only a minute or so when this guy walks all the way over from across the room and holds a putter up to my face. "Do you know what this is?", he said imposingly. "Looks alright, I guess", I said. As he spun the putter head around slowly in front of my face, watching both it and my response, he added, "It's called a Copperhead." I couldn't believe my ears. The same crap as before. These guys have continued the shit all the way across the country........ still bugging my car and still taking the time to harass. Maybe they never left. I remember the redneck at the Ryder Truck Rental saying to me as I was leaving, "It'll be like you were never here". No Doubts About It. Fact after Fact after Fact after Fact. What now? Soon enough, better late than never, it would be time for this book. Book 'Em Damo! But first:

I took the time to contact every legal aspect in the nation in an attempt to quell this tide of pure waste. I grew up smelling the Hyperion Plant many times growing up. What these guys were all about smelled ten times worse. I contacted the Dept.of Justice, The Southern Poverty Law Center, Legal Aid, several prominent private law firms, senators, 60 minutes, the Naples Police Dept. to formally "swear on a complaint", thanks to my friend Barry and formally document with a case number what had happened.... everybody from A to Z. The Naples P.D. put it off as malicious mischief! Riiiiight. Look away, look away, look away, look away.

The depth at which I felt the "wrongs" that were committed against me were interestingly para-lleled when I discovered the story of Harry.T Moore and the Christmas Night bombings in Mimms, Florida, back in the early 1950's. Harry T. Moore and his wife were dynamite bombed to death while they slept on the eve of their fiftieth wedding anniversary. He was killed instantly and his wife survived nine days before succumbing to injuries sustained. Everybody knows where Harry T. Moore's house stood in Mimms, Florida is... and yet they don't even know they know it.... it sits below the feet of anyone that cares to go watch anything take off from Cape Canaveral. It's now the spectators' viewing area. But back in the mid 20th century it was where Harry T Moore and his wife, both educators, that's TEACHERS in english, and active in civil rights lived. Just another small Florida town with the personified fear and ignorance willing to terrorize and destroy to keep it that way. No power..... just fear and ignorance.

Understand, Tammy and I were married on Christmas Day and I couldn't help but feel the exact same derivative of hate towards me as was bestowed on the Moore's..... or anyone for that matter. Finding his story was a very special moment in my years of research.

I can only attempt to touch on depth of conscience, using the written word. It would probably be better served if I were to make an abstract image and hope it be deemed appropriate. When one is deeply moved by anything, say from a warm embrace to being seriously harmed, it has the ability to summon what is beyond the written or spoken word. God is awesome, beginning of story!

I remember while at Santa Monica College, back in the early eighties, an incredibly sentient young artist and I had the opportunity to share a dance class together, and as nature calls, an occasional pas de deux. What a fine mind. This precious young girl, I can't recall her name, was so deeply effected by catastrophic events that she would literally be frozen when discussing the subject matter. "Trauma", she would say. "It's trauma.........". Amazing. Upon a visit to her apartment in Venice (CA), book shelves lined, the entire apartment. These book shelves were stuffed to the brim with literature, all of which had been read by this precious jeune fille. A little more Francais for our maggot. HA! Anyway, I was impressed! I had never in my life been in the company of someone so effected by trauma. At that point in my life, there was NO WAY for me to comprehend or understand feeling at this depth. She could. I guess you could say I wanted what she had. And as years go by, in the artist's way, the dimensions unveil. Sometimes , as a child, it's the feel without the vocabulary. Like trauma to a child. They will feel it yet will not have the vocabulary to tell an adult what happened. Especially if they have been threatened.

Forward to the year two thousand and I found myself at the library devouring books as did my tiny dancer had done one score before. I needed a vocabulary to properly tell this story. On the wings of learning and spiritual fulfillment. Better late than never. As a result of unfortunate events, it certainly becomes a necessity. Much different than a young student picking his or her major after years of general education in a formal institution. I was hurting and so numb that I couldn't feel it.... A kind of spiritual coma. A pain I had not known before and didn't know what to call it. I just thought, "What don't I know?" That I could do. I found relief as a child in the library as a child. How could it fail me this time? I placed myself on an I.V. in the Seeking Knowledge I.C.U. Something said, if I get through this, I might realize and live the impossible dream. Does not every artist have this wish? I would hope so.....

The unanswered calls for legal assistance were quite disheartening as the arts surrounding me were more interested in capitalization than what should be done..... Crazy times.... With the country asleep at the wheel with 9/11, I guess nothing should surprie me, but it did. Human nature? Maybe. Dinosaurs, parasites, ostriches come in many forms, my children....... Contrary to what might otherwise be.... oh the possibilities.... we had the feeding frenzy, I must say. Understanding and awareness sharpening, honing, amidst the world's problems, what a shame to see such a trough-like feeding taking place as opposed to really grasping the bulls by the horns and seizing the opportunity to make real enlightenment. John Brown must 've felt a similar wave of sentiment.... that was a no win. Thank God I didn't go that far. What a great envelope to push..... patience.... Unwavering, I know this really is Le Siecle des Lumieres anew. No Doubt. Ancient wisdom, lunacy chained to the noise-posts of false prophets, religious middlemen, and all of the promoted superstition [FEAR] that really serves only as a pacifier for those that still suck at that teet: YOU HUNGERFORD..... amidst the misguided, unchecked progress, we find there stands room for improvement, right now it's only a room for rent, but it stands .... even if it is only in the minds and souls of the sentient....

The sixties were an awesome time. What a try........ AAAAALLLLLMMMMMOST! As we stand now at somewhat (lol) of a brink, the sixties obviously missed their mark. By thaaaaaaat much. This is without a doubt a new evolution in and of consciouscienceness (what a word) right before our eyes and homeland insecurity watching from surround. Religious freaks and doomsayers are blinded by what else, fear and superstition. Financial strain contributes as a catalyst or hardener, solidifying the static rather than dynamic currents (currency? $$)...... motion that, properly applied, offers multitudes of, even stratified at worst, betterment. Sad. The "Sober Sixties" are being paged. Kinda like the Six Million Dollar Man!

Placing Ancient Lunacy and Modern Wisdom on the scales for full review, the lunacy outweighs the wisdom by too large a margin. We wouldn't find ourselves in the ridiculous quagmires we "invented through enterprise" over the past decades. Sounds like it's time to pull off the blindfold covering the Department of Justice's poster girl's eyes and let her see. Right Chris Rock? All religions are failing........ the extremists of all divisions are beyond accountability.... Question: Does your religion use the word "chosen"...... all in the name of GOD? Mercy Mercy Mercy........

Mankind's majority inability to put its children [and the elderly, as they just become old babies, except they take on the look of the ground they will be buried in! lol] first alongside his (zip it feminists - WHO CARES? go suck on carpet) own environment proves this beyond a reasonable doubt. Before a building is constructed, they now conduct an environmental impact reports- how about a retro-active environmental impact report for the fossil fuel/coal burning/nuclear power systems???? HUH???? A class action suit , the world's people against these institutions (awesome and common sense laden idea) was thrown out recently. FULL Accountability and Prevention singing together in its embryonic state. Retro-active impact studies on an unprecedented scale are WAY overdue and would provide the lions share of recovery through aligned progress in a preferred direction..... ask the Earth! Certainly not the most toxic direction. The Gods must certainly be suffering from a new form of whiplash from the incessant shaking of their heads as they couldn't be near as crazy as we've proven ourselves to be. I know, "The God's Must Be Crazy." lol. This isn't a dress rehearsal my friends. Forgive any preaching to the choir, this book is for Jazz and Maya. Lolu Jazz Lolu Maya.

Knowledge is the real force, so read up. It won't matter if Mr. Rock says "let you see", for you will already have. Your head will be enjoying the clouds! (By the way, I AM enjoying them, Mr. Ryder Truck Cracker Scum) and your feet will be firmly planted on the ground, with or without shoes. This is natural progression, my friends, and there's nothing "super" about it. Everything is alive!

About two weeks after separating from Tammy, she stopped by and was in that lonely, "have you been seeing" anyone mode. I had been on a full throttle attack to attain enlightenment with a lily pad hop onto sober shore (For those that like the "froggy" comments). No alcohol/No drugs. Enlightenment was in full view and I wanted to be a part of it. Swimming for that horizon. Surfing the set waves that'll take you there. Seeing anyone at this time didn't fit at all. I didn't even look up any old girlfriends. Tammy would later accuse me of having done so. Not true. I knew what I was after. My lifetime with girls up to this point was already a list of years of splendor.... and with all that in the bank, you are able to live off the interest. Besides, if you are really studying what you're after no worries!(common sense anyone?) That's where you'd have found me, Tammy, not with someone else, just prepping for parenthood for our children. ONE of us was going to have to do it. I guess you hadn't the foreskin, er foresight to know better. I had seen time after time how not to do it. SO DID YOU. At least one of us will talk this talk and walk this walk. I love you Jazz and Maya. It's not your fault. It's not your fault.

I was gathering alot of perspective on all the crap I bore witness to, yet back at home under the roof of my egg donor, a republican ostrich, a segment of "Perspective Attained vs. Monster" was ongoing. After Tammy was out in her own place, I was home studying when Lorraine decides it's time to walk up to me, stretch her dirty underwear over my head and scream, "Smell it". I am almost forty years old here..... I had yet to fully realize the the level of illness that a woman without a conscience can bestow on her children. [Men too feminazis] Tammy's behavior would soon follow this guise at the expense of our children. In full recovery mode these "indicators" are drawn out of the diseased as is infection when a poultice is applied to an open wound. How we act on these moments are the real gifts. A difficult process, but for the sake of my children's ontological security, there was no other option. I prefer the poultice technique to applying live maggots or leaches to such an infection. Unfortunately I was unlucky to have received the two latter. Oh well. EN AVANT!

Welcome to the recovery highway. It really is the High Road..... and the ever-present "spiritual" Jack Nicholson is always present to hauntingly deliver diurnally, a "You can't handle the truth" or in kindee garten "sit down and shut up" lol. Some quite unsavory characters still find their way onto this highway. Every rose has a thorn?..... I'll make sure I bring my pruning sheers and stem strippers. Chop Chop!

The one time Tammy had called on me after our separation, by showing up to check on me, her act was enough to make me call her back in a day or so. Maybe we still had a chance. Could we work it through? I really felt we could protect something sacred in principle as we were still married..... for better or worse.... After a bit of pleading the case we were back on.

We ceremonially renewed our vows at the very place I had caught my very first wave. Brilliant morning sun, bright blue sky, roaring offshore winds howling out of the canyons onto a sparkling Pacific Ocean ..... the breakers crashing and peeling along the shoreline..... wave's edges, honed and polished by the combined effects of wind and the kelp forest, what a setting. When I said I do, I meant it. When Tammy said I do, she meant I might. Might isn't good enough for any child born in or out of wedlock, and as we had invited God to our first wedding, she opted out, turning to some one-sided, gender-based entity, add to that cults, cauldrons, unsavory participants, a combination that would not only destroy the sanctity we had started, but put two defenseless children in jeapordy with horrible results. Jazz and Maya, it's not your fault. Daddy never leaves .... Mommy just lies and alienates.

As of that morning, as the vows were renewed, Jazz and Maya you were now cordially and officially invited. I will always apologize for your mother's behavior until she can. I have said it's not your fault so many times I will continue to until....... I feel it can be let go. It's THE most important thing I can tell you at this point in your life as you haven't the vocabulary to discuss it in depth.

Tammy had begun coming to some recovery meetings with me. She was a rather distant soul in attendance as she didn't think she qualified as an addict or "adult child of dysfunction". Classic. She was adopted, raised by an alcoholic and a para-alcoholic, the para-alcoholic mother dying early, and the alcoholic father dying in a cigarette-fueled house fire, drunk and incapable of avoiding le feu. To this day holds my sobriety against me and is willing to harm the children just in spite of me. I'll never leave you, Jazz and Maya. Never.

We found a larger apartment in town, a one-bedroom with the room needed to start a family. I was lifeguarding at the Pacific Palisades Y at the time and swimming and "doing the hill" to stay in shape. Tammy would do the pool thing for some anti-gravitational relief. She was plump and somewhat weighted down with Jazz in the "green room" awaiting his squeeze through the tube and out into the bright lights Big Daddy had set up. I would soon be holding him up to those lights with both arms and making sure he could both visualize and internalize them. There may be some fathers out there as excited as I was about having a son, but none more so. A universe of gratitude to Medi-Cal, the personnel at Cedars-Sanai, Dr. Ari Schwartz for their incredible level of care. Blessed. So blessed. Exhale.

The day Jazz came out through the indoor was beyond words for me. Being present for this exit/entrance was an eye-opener to put it mildly. Jazz's head had made it through the birth canal and was hanging out by itself. Just hanging there! Dr. Schwartz was busy at the sink washing up for the big moment that was already momenting! I was yelling across the room for him to hurry, frantic in seeing Jazz's head protruding unattended. Do I grab it? WTF? From across the room, calm and without a flinch came to the rescue only a voice, "Don't worry..... he won't fall out on the floor". I now remember..... if we'd been listening carefully enough we'd have known right at this time it was to be a boy. Dr. Schwartz was sworn to not tell us boy or girl so it would be a surprise. He knew all along. Funny how you remember things. Don't worry! His head is out! Don't worry! I'm FREAKING OUT and this guy's as serene as a Sunday Brunch Buffet lookee-loo. Seconds later, Jazz was out! It's a boy! The surprise and joy of the moment was immense. I snapped off as many photos as I could of the birth. No click and clack. Just Clicks. The pictures came out full spectrum: graphic, gorgeous, gruesome, and most of all......... grand.

Watching the little guy return from his bath all wrapped up was a tad more warm and fuzzy than the birth.lol. Perhaps because it was minus the blood and placentia? Perhaps. It was as if the stork had brought the bundle of joy right through through the window. Gift wrapped and ready for a meal and tender loving care...... Just what do you feed a little person like this? Well, mother nature provides quite a feast..... if one is aware and able to provide.

Getting Jazz latched onto the spicket was cumbersome and no less frustrating for all presesnt at his first feeding. Shape and dimension of the mother's anatomy was proving to be an unexpected hurdle for the child. Thank God for elasticity. A few weeks of hard work, Jazz had suckled and gummed those babies right into the necessary specs. What a gift for Maya later as well! Good job, son. Making Daddy proud already! One month old and you're already a Voltaire-esque master: if they aren't in shape, one must functionally formate (even if it takes a few weeks). S'il n'est pas..... il faut..... Smiling!

Home was now just that, a real family unit. New arrivals can sometimes, hopefully prove very festive and it was certainly the case at our apartment. There was alot of low level activity at my job, which meant it was time for a change. The level of excellence had slipped below my acceptance mark.... incongruent with home's activity. I jumped right into the classified and snatched up a security position at Sony Studios. September eleventh had taken place a few weeks prior and there were alot of positions available in that particular field. No art studio still..... my friend and artist Greg would be quick to say ,"Grist for the mill, my man". No shit Sherlock. Life is full. Savor the ici et maintenant!

Sony was a trip, seeing the big productions get assembled, and I could still spew some PTSD in form and around the perimeters. X-Ray.... LOL... The desire to turn nothing into something had been on my front burner since relinquishing the art supplies to the abyss. Maybe, just maybe I could inspire something unique.... new..... evolutionary..... and not bloody revolutionary. I didn't' hesitate to contact Amnesty International next door while I was at it, providing some additional FYI.

So for the next couple of years I did what any parenting-student would do: read and study, read and study. And Sony remained a safe studio. I detected neither a sound stage purloined nor an undistributed master pocketed. Whether or not there was any story borrowing going on....... Even with the keenest of eye, I spotted no one from America's Most Wanted. LOL. I did make some new friends and acquaintances and was able to watch a few big budget planes take form and flight.

Jazz was growing up fast and at a few months, it was time to introduce him to the Pacific Ocean, my true guardian.... his Grampa! In his first few trips, all the kid did was eat sand! Alot of sand. I mean how much sand can this boy eat? Mouthful after mouthful. Intuitive, innate digestive maintenance? Constipation? Constructing an internal sand dune in the duodenum? We really had to put a stop to it. Couldn't justify that much sand going down the hatch. Can't be good.... keepin him airborne off the earth's surface didn't seem right either..... Parenting.

It was about then that we were back at the friction factory nuttin and boltin together Jazz's soon to be little sister, Maya Lilienne.

At about eighteen months, my 9'6" Yater Spoon, Step Deck, was ready to support Jazz and I out in the wave riding impact zone. Jazz in full attire: wetsuit, floating vest, booties, skull suit, rash guard, the works.... ready dude. We paddled out at Malibu and Topanga Points and caught as many waves as his body could stand in the cool water. Blue lips meant time to get out! Jazz always gave a few full roller coaster screams and "let's do that again, Daddy". His hypothermia meter would go off after about thirty minutes, lips dead man blue and teeth chattering meant time to go in. Twenty minutes of thawing out in the Volvo with the heater on full blast would do the trick every time. "Where's my waterman?" I'd ask, "Right here!" was always the reply. Love you, bushido boy.

On a most wonderous occasion, we paddled out past the surfline at Topanga about a quarter mile out, and I stopped. I got off the board treading water and pointed to the horizon. Jazz wasn't quite two yet. I drew an imaginary line to the horizon and back to the board. "That's all water", I said. He looked out, really took it all in, and said slowly, cognitively, "WAAAAAA". I agreed, "Lots of waaa". Jazz, that's the Big Ocean. Big Ocean, my son Jazz. You'll be friends for a lonnnng time. You can always count on it.

Another blessed pregnancy was again under the care of Dr. Schwartz. Maya would take her first breath a couple of months after Jazz turned two. A dear friend, Carol, had suggested that we bring a present for Jazz upon Maya's birth. He would be in the delivery room and the present was from Maya for him. Great idea, quelling any animosity that might emerge as a result of the newborn coming into the home. Jazz was there with me at a ninety degree angle to watch her come on out. Straight on might have been a bit much for the young man. I had already given in as second fiddle to Tammy as Jazz took my spot in bed for night feeding and closeness. With Maya now here as well, my bed was now the front room floor. Not a complaint. This was irrefutably the best for the children. Intimacy was down to, "have you got an extra five minutes!" Quality problem. We have two healthy babies here! Too bad the mother couldn't hang on. The Center for Diseases Uncontrollable was at work full time on her. Unfortunately she let them in. It's not your fault Jazz. It's not your fault Maya.

Tammy hadn't kooked out yet, but soon would. I could smell it. I could feel it. She would not stop answering doors when someone knocked. I had asked her on several occasions over the next year or so if she would like an open relationship. I always got a straightforward "No" as a response. I wanted the family unit to stay intact at all costs for the kids sake. Even after she filed for divorce, I would say "it's imperative we keep our circle tight and you add to your life outside of that, add to/don't take away". I would get a deer in the headlights "OK", but she would fail the children miserably in not being able to say it AND do it.. Jazz and Maya it's not your fault. Tammy's behavior and the pitiful, unsavory individuals she invited in would cause the children to be reduced to "pet" status. Introducing them to this level of dysfunction leads to substandard and unacceptable everything....... at best, leading to, thank God, this book. Big Daddy Loves You Jazz. Big Daddy Loves You Maya.

More first few months magic with a newborn as Maya started to grow. Jazz had an interesting vocabulary and his much celebrated "kayapohwee" , and "lala thishee sing", had gone by the wayside for more grown up words. We waited for some of these gems from Maya.... and waited.... and waited.... no words. HMM. Well, after a year and still not one word, I had come completely to terms with the fact that I might have a mute daughter. I vowed to love her anyway. Tammy and her boyfriend later would try their best to take my daughter's well seasoned voice away. NOT ON MY LIFE...... More on that later. Now, she'll be the first to tell you that no one is going to take her (or her brother's) voice away. Not going to happen. Not on Big Daddy's watch.

Having to quit my position at Sony, as they had received my third strike of unacceptable behavior. Let me clarify, I left my job at a security firm, not Sony. Grabbing the classifieds, I got on it to continue working evenings as Tammy was working daytime. We made an uncompromising compact to, along with the "history will not repeaty itself pact", always have one of us parents with the children at all times, no exceptions....... no strangers while they were young. Pact short lived.

A brief stint at "postcarding" on Melrose Ave.- very aggressive/progressive, thank you, getting signatures for select environmental causes, and picking up a telemarketing gig for Julie Packard and her baby, The Monterey Bay Aquarium, were the next jobs to help cover the expenses. Julie Packard....... What a Spoon!.... doin it right! Kudos.

Within a year, and much success at both positions, a priceless introduction to Henry Bukowski at the telemarketing gig, it was time for Jazz to start pre-school. A chance meeting with another parent at one of our local parks had left us with the perfect preschool choice for our son. She suggested co-op just down the street.... and they were conducting orientations later that month. On it. This was a most divine intervention. God works. I wanted to be personally active in my children's early education and this was it. Lucky sometimes? Gratitude.

The orientation went great and we signed up. Jazz would start that September. Parents were to participate one day per week and as there were 40 children enrolled, this would give the children eight adults per day along with the two teachers, Ruth and Marni. More is better sometimes, and with this daily amount of adults, you were ensured the children's complete safety. No McMartin here. Safety AND parent involvement...... Winner.

I would end up riding my son, on bike, to and from school for the next two years. What a joy. I have never felt more complete. Tammy somewhere along these lines started to be brainwashed into thinking she was "incomplete". Parasites.

The first day I took Jazz to preschool was like no other I'll ever see again. To see my three year-old leave my hand and walk off with his fellow students to join his very first circle time, without mom or dad, had me in tears. When he goes off to college, it won't hold a candle to that moment. No way.

As I didn't attend preschool when I was young, I can't stress enough the benefits attained in doing so. Immeasurable. Watching the kids participate and engage at such a young age. Recalling emptily that I hadn't..... a stark contrast providing me a deep assurance that breaking chains is a change for the better. WOW. History needn't repeat itself. Jazz's first year at preschool was stellar. What happened to you Tammy? Need I ask? I know that I know simply because I know. You will be held accountable for your actions..... you and your "associates" as well...... Jazz and Maya it's not your fault. Justice Time.

CHAPTER 7

Jazz's second year at preschool was where we would start to see some serious change in the family dynamics. Still on tap for Jazz and Maya with Big Daddy, before Tammy would bomb the unit: The Ocean, Library for Story Time, Hiking the Hill, and Jazz's introduction to karate-do.

Something has gone awry with our resident Mom. Perhaps a seven year itch? If so, why not accept my numerous invites for an open relationship so our kids would not SUFFER the consequences of her lies and denial surrounding her answering the door knocks of these parasites. THAT would have been the real mark of a complete human being. Not some low level semblance of completeness. Jazz and Maya its' not your fault. What would become of this selfish witch? Listen up.

So transparent is this betrayal and incomplete behaviour, I was compelled to offer again on the opportunity to have an open marriage. She would decline again. Something is very wrong here. If cheating with assuming the other not knowing is the only way to achieve satisfaction, something is very wrong. It was. Communication breakdown is one thing, outright dishonesty is a quite another. We have a son who just turned four and a daughter who is not even two. I've heard of citizen's councils in the past but covert cults and covens? Not on my watch. Unacceptable. Pathetic. For someone worried about being perceived as white trash in our moving with an RV, you've just personified it.

Tammy's pattern of behavior, as when leaving her last relationship, is in full repeat mode. I have already listed my ingredients to this melange. She would now do her best to demonize me as the perpetrator.... not this time Penelope Pitstop. Your pattern as a runaway train is completely documented and you were headed right for our completely vulnerable children. You would neither stop or nor consider honesty on their behalf. I know one can't give what one doesn't have, but you are legally accountable for all your actions. Your actions have proven to be way more toxic for Jazz and Maya than it could have ever been for me. It's not about YOU. Fact. This is about Jazz and Maya. My children, it's not your fault.

Somewhere along her festering boil of deceit, dishonesty, diagnosed dysfunction, drugs, and denial, was the perception that I had given this a green light. My offering the open relationship plan as our only other option other than honesty contradicts any green lit arrangement. The kids best interest will always come first for me and so it does as this book takes form. Big Daddy will never leave you , Jazz and Maya. Nowhere in the kids best interest doth lay a dismantling of the family unit with children so young and only selfish reasons therein being the desire to dismantle.

Well into Jazz's second year at preschool the discomfort at home was of concern, I thought a change of scenery might do the family unit some good. Keep the tribe together. Do you think the fact that Tammy had developed a habit of pushing my hands away in bed might have provided the final clue? Any time a man or woman places the friction of their genitals before the inherent basic needs of their children, you will end up with abandoned children.... abandoned mentally, and, as a result, in danger physically. Soul destruction. One foot out the door. In my case, I had married a "Lorraine Anderson". I had married my mother. Blind as a bat at that, Aye Laddie?

With my "better half" incapable/unwilling to participate at the level called for, it was almost withdrawal time for this Duval foursome. One morning, after dropping off Jazz at school, Tammy had returned home with some dazed look on her face. Something was up, and she would be starting (or had been well on her way already with?) what was to become an onslaught of deceit, dishonesty, documented diagnosed dysfunction, drugs, and denial. System D, huh? I would eliminate only the deceit portion of that five-pack over the forthcoming years.

I asked her, "Do you want to move?" I added, "How about Santa Barbara, or Ojai?" She would reply, "I told you I never wanted to live in L.A." I, on the other hand, love my Santa Monica, Venice, Malibu hometown. But for the sake of our kids, and having our family agreement stay intact, I would make a move. It meant being closer to my sensei's dojo, anyway. That was a huge plus. I would make it a plus anyway I could, that's one of my specialties, learned at an early age. How could this perfect example of an Adult Child of Dysfunction ever become the honest woman/parent Jazz and Maya need? Maybe a move would provide us the adventure and spark needed for such an emotional evolution...... for our children's sake. Please God?

Tammy had recently started a small, organic candle/soap/aromatherapy business out of our apartment. Where we were moving to would be a big plus for that. Maybe even get a chance to sculpt/paint if we were to find the space!!!! With a reconnaissance run to Ojai, setting up a storage unit, P.O. Box, and general information gathering, we were ready to move. The luxury to find such a space for the home business meant being rich in time to look for it...... and prompted the RV plan. If we could purchase the RV, live in it for the month before we move, working the last weeks of our jobs, saving everything we'd make, we'd be moving with $4500. To stay in the RV while we searched for our new place and not be stuck taking the first house or apartment that was available was the plan. After setlling in, sell the RV. The other plan: moving with only $2000 and we'd have to take the first place we find as we have the two children, put down all the cash on the place, and then go feverishly finding employment to cover rent that would be due four weeks later. RV better. Tammy really wanted to move.

We found a decent used RV, the kind you'd use for no more than two months, and one that the two tots would have a blast "camping" in during the move. Tammy and I spent the entire month of March '06 getting this ship ready for sail..... dishes, bed, gas stove repaired, generator, fridge sealed, ready to go.

April was set sail time. What the RV did was return a bed for myself and Tammy. For the past four years the bed had agreeably belonged to Tammy and the children with 100% full-time breast feeding the beckoned call, as it should be. With the kids now weened, and the larger upper bunk all for them, we could make up some serious time. At least that was my thought. Nice to have a wife and a bed again. I was voracious. I love road trips! She was completely frigid and non-compliant. Nosedive. I mean nosedive. During a move? This was, or as I had mentioned before, already was, going to be her ticket to bail on the family. About seven months later, she would even admit to it, when confronted as to the premeditated nature of her running. I'll never forget the sick smirk/laugh combo....... Jazz and Maya it's not your fault. My poor babes, can we get some help from the proper authorities?

An unfortunate turn of events with the RV just expedited Tammy's inevitable departure. The RV was impounded for a leaky holding tank, the cat being taken off to the animal control jail until bailed out, rain, letting us know the whereabouts of pre-existing leaks. Murphy's law in full effect, Tammy's off with the kids to an undisclosed location, probably to catch up on some unfinished lunchtime lasagna. No address. No phone. Just gone..... with two babies. I have no way of knowing or even finding out anything.

On the night of the departing, I would have my first drink in six years. Three ice cold Becks and a couple of smokes. It was the first night without my children ever and any sleep required medication. Valium would have been the better choice. The thought of the family over as a unit was gut- wrenching. I know from personal experience EXACTLY what the effects of separation, let alone abandoning them as young souls, does to children at these ages. Tammy would prove these effects to be true..... and my further, desperate research leading me into the field of Parental Alienation would put a whole vocabulary as to these effects. God Bless the Warshaks, Bakers, Wallersteins, Majors, Gardners.... all of 'em. Hope. There is hope.

I saw her at her work the next morning and the outright lies to my face were taken to new heights, and would take hold at this level for the next six months. She assured me that no one else was in the picture and that the kids would be fine. I left with as empty a feeling as I've ever felt in my life. Not for myself, but for my children. This incapable parent was now running roughshod over two defenseless and vulnerable souls, masking her entire fiasco under the guise of "getting better ". Jazz and Maya, precious children, it's not your fault. She wasn't going to get better.

She had decided to move in with this Unja wench, who would always play the blocker for her, gibbering in Koreanesque broken English, speak for Tammy: "She getteeng bettahhh.... She getteeng bettahhh...." YIKES!!!!!!!!!! I was now standing front row at the dysfunction/trauma pit. This is where my children would now be abiding full-time. I'm sick writing this. What would be surrounding my kids for the months to come would be the reason my fight never left the cout. Dad's do not leave their children stuck in pits like this. Jazz and Maya it's not your fault. I needed help from the proper authorities....

CHAPTER 8

I was beside myself for the first time in six years. I medicated myself to sleep for the next three nights in a row, with anywhere from four to six ice cold Becks. On the fifth day, breaking a sweat from basic activity, I could feel the alcohol seeping through. Perspiration and Poison. That became my last drink that previous evening and has been ever since. Getting to sleep was a bit harder the nights to come but the prior six years of sobriety kicked in just like surfing, and I was back out in the lineup. Tammy insisted on demonizing me for having taken a drink, which immensely fueled both justifying her behavior and its subsequent further acting out. My drinking would never be an issue anymore. Damage control for the children was now top priority. Jazz and Maya I am so sorry, I apologize again for your mother AND the freaks that she allowed around you. Proper Authorities Please?

Trying to honor another's wishes for "their space" and at the same time protect my children from what I'm about to share here AND being stuck roadside in an RV with all my stuff now in stuck in storage two hours away, I had to press for reconciliation for the kids sake..... after all she had been telling me to my face every single day that she wasn't seeing anyone...... and that there was no reason to lie to me. "Why should I lie to you?..... I have no reason to lie". So I held on, then held on some more, hearing this line day after day after day after day for months. The RV would be a roof for the next three and a half years.

Tammy was totally gone... spiritually, physically, and mentally. Children, Jazz 4, and Maya 2 1/2, are in grave danger living among these unsavory ingredients. Jazz had to get back to preschool and was allowed to return under a scholarship. Standing under stormy skies was nothing new to me, as you've heard, but with my children involved, and her doing to them what my mother did to myself, my brother and sister, this was beyond believable. I was watching my childhood again front row, through my children's eyes. Couldn't be. Yes. AGAIN. This called for a much deeper stance. Hold on Damon. Hang in there. You'll need it.

I am eternally grateful for the preschool's allowance for Jazz to finish out his preschool and graduate. Graduation was a spectacle in the best sense..... ceremonies and diplomas, the whole kit and kaboodle..... priceless...... the entire graduating class jumping off the school wall, out of the yard and into an awaiting parent's arms. Jazz went first that day and I caught him and gave him a huge hug of congratulations and kudos. Way to go, son. So proud of you. Your mother is about to screw your and your sister's life up royally.... and I am about to stop her. I would need some help from the proper authorities. Shaking my head as I write this,
Mercy Mercy Mercy.
A few weeks prior to graduation, adding to the difficulties, and making a spectacle of herself, Tammy decided, "you take the kids for a week.... I need a break". ?????? WTF? A week's vacation to Texas "by herself" to "visit a friend"? Yea, right. Still "I'm not seeing anyone", the mantra du jour, it would be a couple of months before I would officially expose a bona fide "Pinocchia Prynne." What she failed to realize was that it was JAZZ AND MAYA that needed a break from all the sheer crap she was delving out to them on a daily basis..... #1 on Tammy's list: tattoos, belly rings, her crotch.

1 2 3, Jazz and Maya, Big Daddy will never leave you.

Mother's Day dinner in the car, with Tammy and the kids: Tammy to Damon after Damon says how much he loves the family and wants it to stay together: "SHUT THE FUCK UP OR I'LL SLAP YOU IN THE FUCKING FACE." Must've been some parasitic pizza at the dining area that evening. The children suffer in this arena and there has been no concern for them.

Just stand Damon... stand .....low-hips..... and as strong as and as long as you ever have...... longer than ..... DO NOT look ahead at how long you might have to. Your children need you now more than ever. Be a ROCK, and I don't mean Hudson. When I asked Tammy point blank about the reason behind all of this, she would reply as a matter-of-factly, "I'm teaching them they have options." Dysfunction has now gone off the Richter Scale. A four and a two year old being taught that they have "adult" options? Mothers of this planet take notice..... If this world is ever to become a better place, I offer putting your children first as being a wise first choice. THE ONLY CHOICE. Any and every court-ordered program that we have attended since separating has stressed just what California Family Law states.... Continuity.... Frequent and continuous contact by both parents - NOT CHAOS FOR YOUNG SOULS. What she's been doing and would continue to do for too long, aided and abetted by some sick individuals, is CRIMINAL. Jazz and Maya it's not your fault.

That summer of '06 was to be a hot one...... One of the weeks was the hottest ever recorded. My devotion to my children was exponentially amplified as the mother's missing portion was picked up by yours truly. I could really feel the approximately 165% Damon to the 35% Tammy ratio occurring. A parental "law of thermodynamics" for sure. Daily paddles out on the Big Ocean and some great YAWPS offered to the heavens by the three of us and library visits for story time and reading were always number one on our list. The consistency which I provided throughout that summer was done out of pure instinct and was dutifully confirmed at our first program, Planning, Access, Care, and Treatment or Parents And Children Together.... anyway it was called P.A.C.T. The very best I could do at that time was actually the best that could have been done. THAT is sobriety at work, good people.... not to mention a father's love, and a large dose of God, Gratitude, Bushido, Deism, and Natural Philosophy.... ya know, the usual ingredients that dissolve the Ignorance/Superstition/Fear wart.

We had commenced counseling, if you could call it that, and begging for reconciliation, spending all my money, all this psychotic wench could do would be to ask for boundaries for HERSELF. Every session! Why? She couldn't deal with me saying I love you anymore. Real parents provide boundaries for their CHILDREN FIRST. The last time she said I Iove you to me was one evening, with the kids in her apartment, and I had called to say goodnight, and wish the children sweet dreams, and in saying I love you to her she was in between moans with someone probably buried in her crotch, she actually moaned I love you HAHAHA!!! and faded off. It was first time in months that she had said it. Crushing. My children were being poisoned.

Unja, the [roommate?] had now conveniently moved out and Tammy now had her sin bin all to herself. She had also by this time taken everything we owned out of our storage unit and put it in her apartment. When I would exchange the children at the apartment, I usually checked my emails with her consent while there. She would almost always, though reluctantly, rolling her eyes like I was in the way, and oblige my request. We purchased the almost two thousand dollar Media Center together with our tax return. I often checked the history bar as "divorce" had been mentioned in our discourse to see if it was on the table. It was. This was on the horizon to be the next blow to the kids. Once and again I asked why she was doing what she was doing and if it was because she was seeing anyone. Once and again she would sternly reply, "Don't you think I'd tell you if I were? What reason do I have to lie to you? I have no reason to lie to you. Why would I lie to you?" All this right in front of the kids. I'm sickened for my children even now as I write this.

Pathological lying had become so ingrained in your mother, Jazz and Maya, it's as if her soul was now an acid-etched zinc plate, inked and ready to tattoo YOUR SOULS again and again. She would. She was a completely different person. Ugly is an understatement. I had a photograph of us during this time of separation and I had to throw it in the trash. She oozed the crap she was festering in, and you could smell it coming off the image. Heinous. The children were in the beginning of a trap. They were in danger under the care of someone like this. Who knows what other KOOKS are slimin around my kids?

More weeks of tension filled drop-offs and pick ups with the kids. Every time more assertion to deny the fact she was seeing someone. Just tell me. BE HONEST. Asking her why was now starting to bring on tirades. A hair-raising "I'll do whatever the FUCK I want" in front of the kids in front of the El Segundo Police Station....... that was a real crowd favorite. "Leave or I'll call the police" was another maligned chort. Nice parenting. Is that in a manual somewhere? It's just starting to get revealed. Tammy had to be called on every one of her lies. My children, only four and two years old, and I, are under full assault. She couldn't the sane, simple time to be with herself and her children.... THAT would have been a welcome direction au contraire to what was actually transpiring. Instead it's cults, covens, and cauldrons...... and the scum that she invited along with ..... boundaries for the children???????? NONE. I need help from the proper authorities.....

At one of the next exchanges, I took the opportunity to open Tammy's "sent" email section she had left on. I hadn't thought of that. My computer detective knowledge was as deft as a ..... well I had only started using computers a couple of years prior. Here was my opportunity as a father seeing red lights flashing that I could not pass up. It revealed a portion of the puzzle. On the extreme plus side, every single lie that she had slathered on was in effect, wiped cean with this one email. Talk about relief. It was like my aorta, jugular, and femoral arteries had all been cauterized at once.... pain still there but the bleeding stopped. Now tact would be necessary. My children yes, are in trouble, but how and when is this to be discussed in front of them????

Oh yeah, the emails: One detailed a liaison with one BobbyLee, some old friend from Hawaii. Later Tammy would justify this tryst because she "knew him before me". OHHHHH. Nice. I understand..... The email was complete with the "how much longing for each other", and "can't wait to see you agains", kisses, etc. That was the "old girlfriend", Judith, that she went to see in Texas months before. Thems some goony lookin old girlfriends, darlin.... And they tattoo your lower back, too!!! Special. Another email was a request from a friend asking for advice on a specific situation. Tammy's reply?..... that she would "look into her cauldron" for the answers and get back to that person. Jazz and Maya its not your fault. I'm so sorry, Again I apologize for your mother. It's NOT YOUR FAULT.

However painful those email were, that grind doesn't come even close to not knowing, being lied to, as you hold on to the faint hope that your family unit is intact. Holding on for your children's safety and well-being with very fiber of your spirit. This was closure for me. The liar was exposed. Mid Summer 2006.

I put a constant vigil for Tammy to get into a "program", as I had commenced a deeper stance in my recovery. My concern for Jazz and Maya was on high alert. My years of study had irrefutably honed a hotline with a higher consciousness. Here's how one of those hotline calls went: One afternoon I was "brain searching" or "asking for help from within". I was in the backyard of this guy Brian's house, my AA sponsor's home beautification construction site, where I had been working while all this crap was going on. This was also the exact same location where I had completed all twelve steps of the AA program work. While concentrating on help, my memory drifted back some twenty some odd years. I was getting a bit disillusioned with my recovery in AA as it were, drinking not an option, it was the trauma that was now scarring my children. I had been through a gut wrencher of breakup with Roslyn many times before Tammy. I actually think that Tammy thought of herself as my only real love.

This memory recall, however one might "label" it, "recall" is the word I have chosen. Well, Roslyn, my many- years-past-long-time-first love of any length, had battled the horrors of bulimia, obsessive/compulsive, codependent (with me of course), etc. disorders, came to mind upon my "higher request". This recall was at least 20 years old. Back then, on several occasions she would be thinking aloud, and I would be listening.... "I think I need ACA" [Adult Children of Alcoholics]. Over two scores had passed and this vivid recount of someone reaching out for help would be my next divinely provided lifeline for my children and myself. I had for the past six years attacked my using years, but now I would need the assistance of a program that dealt with trauma during childhood years. This is a qualifier for most of us in the AA program, yet few approach with as a base. I asked my sponsor about my attending these meetings. His answer, "You qualify." Within a self-effacing circle, addressing trauma through one's childhood years is an Everest compared to the mole hill of the "medicating years." The need for both of us to be in a program was non-negotiable. It was up to me. There would be only one. "Tammy had left the building."

That same night of my memory of Roslyn assisted recall, and the thumbs up from my sponsor, I was on the computer at Tammy's (our computer), foraging the web for ACA meetings. I found it: ACA had meetings. There was one that Tuesday evening, a woman's meeting in Santa Monica. From El Segundo, hugged and kissed the children good night then Formula 1'd it to the door in record time, and pleaded for them to make an exception to have a man allowed. No such luck. Penises not allowed. Fair enough, I'll wait until Thursday. I prayed and prayed for my children's safety and waited. How to protect my children???????

Briefly, "Adult Children of Alcoholics" is a twelve step program that deals with alcoholic and para-alcoholic (those that exhibit alcoholic behavior without necessarily taking a drink) behavior, family dysfunction, and the "TRAUMA" thaqt occurs "during childhood.". Sound familiar? It is. It was also Bill W's (Bill W. - one of the original founders, along with Dr. Bob, of Alcoholics Anonymous) vision. In a 1958 interview, he had sought that maybe, sometime in the hopefully not too distant future, there might be an evolution, for those that desire, from "technical sobriety" to "emotional sobriety". Long before this 1958 interview, Bill Wilson had seen this mountain many times..... and that it had yet to be scaled. Hey, as I write this, it's July, 2008. Happy Fiftieth Anniversary Bill W.!, The interview that documented your vision...... Dude.

At my first ACA meeting in late July, 2006, I would learn of a literary gem, ACA's new big book, arriving hot off the press in November of that year, and all the gifts awaiting myself and two children. It was all there. Jazz and Maya even made it to a few meetings with me as secretary. One of those times to a standing ovation for their two-hour lady and gentleman behavior(pretty awesome from 8-10pm for a five and three year-old at the time). I am eternally grateful for a majority of the group's love towards myself, my son, Jazz, and my daughter, Maya.

I would plead and plead for Tammy to start this "new" program work with me for her for the sake of our children. This simple request would be met with a door slamming (in front of the kids) "GET YOUR OWN FUCKING MEETING". I'll never forget that one. Unfortunately my babies won't either.

Had she been willing and able to commence and show up virtually everything you will read from here on out would have been avoided. How clear is hindsight?.... These two lines are worthless. Oh to have, for children's sake the ability to retroactively apply. Is not this the wish of ANY parent that has had a child harmed. My children would have been spared the abhorrent actions of her and her unsavories. Jazz and Maya, it's not your fault. I love you. 1,2,3, Big Daddy never leaves.

Brian, my sponsor at that time had been asking me if I thought that Tammy had joined a cult..... HMMM. This hit home as the very nature of his question rang of truth. It made absolute sense. I had already see the cauldron email. Her emotional instability, her appearance, acting out, lashing out..... no parent here, just a witch with an itch. When we attended the butterfly exhibit with Jazz and Maya together downtown, the security guard/ticket taker gave Tammy this highly audible and just as insidious" Now you're complete..... " as we walked through the entrance, us handing this person our tickets...... WTF? ..... Are you kidding? Jazz and Maya it's not your fault.

I kept up a vigil, hoping that Tammy might see the light. Tough on the kids...... It was about to get worse.

Our almost daily drives up to the 'Bu and/or the library for study/story time kept a consistent health and education foundation for Jazz and Maya. Smart feet..... program in action. Maya, with me on the Yater, caught her first wave that summer. We wouldn't catch another wave together until Summer 2008.

Towards the end of the '06 summer, I had returned with the kids to Tammy's apartment and started a bath for them. We had just spent a glorious day at the beach. As Jazz climbed in the tub, and Maya still skedaddling around the apartment, I walked in the front room to ask again if Tammy would consider coming to an ACA meeting. I would again relate the benefits with her participation.

Her defenses fired, voice escalated, and commenced to attack me once again. About a minute into her verbal assault on me, Maya walks in and kicks Tammy.... hard and right on her lower left leg. I didn't really notice the severity of what was happening. Jazz in the tub - Maya cruising about ..... What could POSSIBLY go wrong? Maya runs away. I was busy hoping to get a problem (Tammy) into a solution (motherhood). A few moments go by. More denial out of Tammy. Maya comes in again/ kicks Tammy again. I notice this time..... look back up at Tammy.... but am pre-empted from speaking as Tammy, who has the bathroom/ Jazz/ Maya in her line of sight speaks first. She says that Jazz is the one who is sending Maya in to kick her. WTF? I wish I had it on tape...... A pathetic, sappy, drippy, matter-of-fact description is offered from Tammy. "Jazz is sending her in to kick me". She even manages a shit eating grin in regards to the situation. Someone is ill. Can I get some assistance from tha proper authorities?

My four year-old son had had it. These attacks on his Dad.... He is doing all he can to stop the insanity.... even if it means sending his sister in to kick his Mommy. I put a stop to Maya's mercenary work. Thanks Jazz. I love you too. On my next visit, I actually caught Maya asking Jazz, while he was in the tub, if he wanted her to go in and kick Mommy. I stopped it again. Children are sponges, eh? I wasn't willing to let this version of Lord of the Flies resume. Apparently only one parent here is parenting, my arms were full. But thank God my hands remained empty. I was going to need them. God help please.

In September, Jazz would start Kindergarten in El Segundo. He would turn five by the end of the month.

Jazz's crying in bed when I had to leave on these drop offs was heart and soul shredding. I would tuck them both in and tell them how much I loved them. Maya being still two was semi-oblivious, while with Jazz, it was blatantly hurtful. "I wish I was two people, Daddy." I'm pretty sure I split in two right in the spot. My son was being torn in half at four years old. Dissociation in its embryonic stage. What this was becoming was nothing short of criminal. Tammy even had the gall to talk about moving away again right in front of the kids around this time. I vowed she would be held accountable.

During that Summer, and on through the Winter of 06/07, Tammy and her unsavories, I will consistently add these unsavories in the story because children are always at the mercy of any and all adults they are around...... I'll continue, Tammy and her unsavories often left my children in the care of a neighbor's daughter, female, early twenties, one Joanna, who brought to the table the gift of drugs and acquiring warrants. I would find out months later, thanks to my investigation and to El Segundo neighborhood watch, warrants for driving without a license, numerous warrants, and an arrest for possession of a heroine pipe. Felon.

I would call and get a drowsy, syrupy, "the kids are just fine." Now that I know: Madness. This is the very person that was going to watch my children full-time Monday through Friday, in the Spring of '07 when Tammy went to work full time. She was to be the one to take Jazz to and from school, and watch Maya full time in between. Are you f'n kidding? Even before I had all the facts, I would end up dropping everything then and there and step in. I had yet to find out about the babysitter's heroine but just saw all the warning lights and did what any father would do (or real mother for that matter). Tammy's attorney Roy Kight would later fight my allegations of this babysitter. I was accused of forgery until it was proven. The judge pro tem, or "commissioner", David J. Cowan wouldn't even put the babysitter's criminal record in the court file as evidence. Upon showing Commissioner Cowan this physical criminal record, he just handed it back to me. More Madness. I had to file it inside an appeal just to get the evidence in the file. Madness. Hopefully, it would have helped lead to the recusal, at my request, of judge pro tem David J. Cowan. What is a father to do? Little help here? Oh, it gets worse, much worse.

I would attend the annual ACA Convention in San Diego the beginning of November, '06. A three day convention - packed to the hilt with nothing but problem/solution/PREVENTION. What a gift for myself and my children at this time. On Sunday, the final day, I wept openly for my children at the large penultimate meeting that afternoon. It was the first time I had ever broken into tears in a group setting..... in six previous years of recovery. All other times, and there were many, were either in the solitude of my Volvo or at home.

On the drive back to Santa Monica, I called and stopped in El Segundo to see my children. I was so eager to talk to Tammy about this program, tell her how it differed from the AA work I had done in front of her all these years, and how immeasurably, and most importantly, how it would help Jazz and Maya. Maybe it might spark recovery for this wench/witch. I thought, if we get through this, it will be beyond miraculous. I asked her to sit down. I had the book, hot off the press, six hundred pages plus of cutting edge recovery. I opened it to the descriptive narrative that clearly defines the problem. Her reading quietly for that moment gave stark credence to the truths contained therein. I urged her again, please, for the children's sake, to join in this enlightening process as this wasn't one more time about Damon telling Tammy what to do. I hoped the book could and would do the talking. It did.

Her body language was that of sheer constriction. No other way to put it. The first time in my life I was to see spirit grab hold of a soul and extract a truth. Exorcism is close, ladies and gentlemen. It was as if God itself had her by the midriff and throat, demanding a purge of these wrongs bestowed upon her vulnerable children. She arched her back, still seated on the couch, head arched back, chin up, exposing her throat, with her entire body as taught as a drum, she squeezed these words through her voice-box, (Squeezed because the muscles in her throat were flexed so , normal speech was impossible), "If I had to admit I'm damaged, then she'll be right."Amazing.... I am not stretching anything here. She had made it. I told her that she was right at the bridge..... right there.... and all she needed to do was cross it. She was right there. Clarity. The children, for the moment, had a chance to get their mother back. I pause at the crossroad missed then and there. Jazzx and Maya, it's not your fault.

The chance that night, that moment of clarity, is ever-available, if one so chooses. A beacon of hope shone over that apartment that evening. I told her, stay right where she was and we could move forward the following morning as it would be Monday, and I'd be taking the kids to school. I bid her congratulations and good evening kissing her on the forehead. The hope was to be short lived.

The next morning's pick up, darkness prevailed. Whoever was sitting on that couch the night before was gone. Sinking feeling deluxe. The freaky Tammy was back, completely dissociated from the previous night's discussion. No light. I asked about her consideration that was so prevalent, and where it had gone. It was gone.... just gone. The drive to school with Jazz was one of both wonder and acceptance. I now have seen first hand how strong denial is. When it is in the context of young souls in the immediate vicinity, it's presence is exponential. Avoiding the mirror is its only way to sustain. Tammy, in having become a slave to her cauldron and cult had only provided boundaries for herself. The children in no way shape or form came first for her, yet she would continually claim they did. Denial. I told myself, Don't move, D-Man, Don't move, Stay right where you are, Your kids will soon need you more than you'd ever imagine..

My dedication to the study and understanding trauma at its core was well underway. This truly was, as my fellow artist Greg MacIntosh would say it's "Grist for the Mill". But at the expense of mu defenseless children? As I had seen light at the end of the tunnel, recovery was a tangible and attainable goal, not something that just ends. It is completely kinetic/organic and takes tending as would a garden. I saw, and still do see, the light here and I was going to make sure my children would bask in its honor, dignity, and respect. This is my friends, ENLIGHTENMENT!

After her decision not to go into the ACA program work, I asked Tammy why she had left the marriage. Another moment on the couch, with the children right there. It was becoming clear to me that she had done all of this premeditatively. After stating this peculiar observation in my interrogative, a sick, devious grin would require no accompanying discourse. But this was added by Jazz and Maya's mother, "I could be a bitch about all this, you know". I had to ask, "What?...... It's like you've chopped my balls off". She wouldn't hesitate long. "Somebody had to". This was the mother of my children. Strike that - Egg Donor.

Christmas that year was a Christmas of change. Right before Christmas Vacation, Tammy had actually talked TO me in front of the school. With a softer, kinder tone, from where I'm not sure, but I couldn't trust her demeanor with a Sherman Tank. She even reached over to touch me and it made my skin crawl. I seriously cringed. Jazz and Maya's mom had become so sick that just a touch set me stepping back. Anyone using their own children to get back at someone else is extremely ill and needs serious professional help. My kids were in harm's way. No doubt. Jazz and Maya it's not your fault. Your father tries every day to bring this up and out of the pit it is in.

My routine with Jazz and Maya stayed rock solid consistent. Park, Library, Park, Library, Hiking, Park, Library, Planetarium, Park, Library. Always reading in between. Jazz's kindergarten teacher Ms. Driver was a gem. She took special care with Jazz's situation. It has been said that our educators are underpaid. It is a solid fact. No debate here. My position as a parent watching the teachers in preschool and kindergarten can only be one of the utmost respect. The amount of responsibility each parent hands them in the form of a young soul is limiteless. We drop them off like cattle and we're off for our day. Thirty to forty souls at a time. I use the term "souls" just like they do in nautical terminology- addressing the amount of passengers that might be present on a ship. I just find it much more fitting..... they are young, defenseless souls.

What became troubling for Jazz in his kindergarten year at school was his lying......... so much so that Ms. Driver had to call us in for a parent teacher meeting. After a stint of lies blaming his sister for things he had done, and a string of lies at school, it was osmosis thrombosis. Pinocchia Prynne and her incessant pathological lying was now establishing a behaviour pattern for my five year old son. I immediately set up daily affirmations for the young man and of course by proxy these would be for Maya as well. With regards to his wishing he was two people, we would always say aloud together about how we are one. I told him about lies and how they can hurt others, but most of all, they hurt the one doing the lying. I said lying was a selfish thing to do to yourself. This would prompt my favorite line with Jazz and Maya, "Selfish or Starfish?" Together we would answer, "Starfish." Damage Control was twenty-four/seven, and was about to be needed twenty-five/eight.

CHAPTER 9

Tammy decided to retain a lawyer to file for divorce. Trouble. I had consulted a lawyer friend, Les, about the need for one, and his advice, "Damon, my fellow colleagues will not like my saying this, but if you are able to keep the divorce proceedings in arbitration/mediation, out of the courts, you'll be way ahead of the game". I then begged and pleaded Tammy to keep this out of the courts but it was to no avail. She went right ahead and retained a pathetic excuse of a man, Roy Scumbag Kight.

Right from the outset she went after primary physical and primary legal custody. All of it. I asked "Are you crazy?????" I said that Joint Physical and Legal Custody is the only fair agreement. She wouldn't budge on this. I was speechless. No Custodial arrangement. She was now trying to steal the kids. With the talk of moving away and now this approach in court, I had no money for a lawyer, I was on pins and needles on top of the pins and needles she had already put in place. My poor children. Thank God for my armor.... the children had none against a person like this. Jazz and Maya it's not your fault.

In the Spring of Jazz's Kindergarten year, I made the usual drive to go pick up the kids for school. We had been doing the exchange at the Police Department because of her blood curdling threats to call the police during her tirades. I didn't care. She was delusional and under the impression she was in danger (true, but not from me). In her constant demonization of Jazz and Maya's father, yours truly, it was imperative that she always make me look the agressor. This way she could never be considered the problem. But this morning was different. She wasn't at the Police Station this particular morning, running late in getting the kids ready, so I called and she had me come by the apartment. This was the first time I had come by the apartment in months, since she was now able to file her lies and demonization into the court system. Part of this insanity resulted in a court order having the kids exchanged in the Police Station. Inside. Ridiculous. Keep me away from what I would see and be able to report.

When I drove up to the apartment that morning, I noticed a new vehicle in the driveway. When Jazz and Maya came out to meet me, Tammy looked hung over, angry that the children's Dad was there, etc., the usual demeanor.... angry American Woman. But this morning something was really bothering my son. He was quiet and dissociated way more than usual. Jazz told me that the car in the driveway belonged to Marcus, Tammy's new co-dependent. Jazz was utterly confused on how to digest the change in the house. Here was his Dad picking him up, dad every single day for the first four years of his life, and Mommy has the audacity to introduce, so soon, new people to the kids. This is why PACT advises against this. Tammy was deaf to the suggestions. Jazz and Maya. it's not your fault.

Along with all the other CRAP, your guess is as good as mine, that had gone on in that apartment, my kids would now struggle internally, lacking the vocabulary necessary to assimilate all the trauma that a dysfunctional parent dishes out AND is completely unaware of the harm they are doing. Would not a normal, sentient parent make the effort to see to it their child becomes resilient through that very child's own mistakes and PREVENT any selfish, dragging and bouncing of that child behind them as they run, the child helplessly becoming tattered and battered all out of sheer neglect? Jazz's distraught look in his eyes that morning.... I was more than concerned. He was hurting. Big Time. It was on this very day that he would start to lose control of his bowels. Who could help?

The presence of someone new within the abode, I can only speculate as to how the introduction, if any was made at all, and done obviously with complete disregard to what affect it may cause such young souls, was immediately measurable on my son. Mentally and physically. The PACT program that we had both attended, as I had mentioned, clearly warned AGAINST what Tammy (with Marcus) were doing. As stated, It was to be on this very day at school that my son would commence his inability to control his bowels. He would continue to defecate in his underwear, completely dissociated, for the next two years, finally having to hide his underwear from his mother. What was happening to my son???? Tammy and her habits selfishly coming first had fully internalized in our son. This Marcus freak is obviously at the very least twice the kook Tammy is, and is no less as accountable. With children involved, documentation is everything. Maya was to be next on Tammy and Marcus' dysfunctional "hit" list. Tammy had been treated like a pet animal throughout her childhood and, as history has the ability to repeat itself, it was about to do so. Even with the father of her children pointing it out virtually every day. Jazz and Maya it's not your fault.

Tammy and this new and completely-ignorant-through-uneducation-bed-partner-non-parent (and who else?) had added immensely to the already greatly disrupted world of Jazz and Maya. The children's abandonment issues that had already taken hold in their psyche and were furthered by these selfish acts of two dysfunctional [adults?]. There is a name for these actions: Indirect Abuse. It had just begun. Big Daddy is going nowhere. I'm right here, Jazz and Maya.

Jazz's dissociation and internalization of this was as I said immediate. It is no different than Tammy putting him on a bike for the first time, sending him down a steep hill, with a casual good luck as she pushes him off all the while saying to herself, as she watches him..... "He'll get it" as his imminent crash pends. As his father, this is irrefutable.

Two years at preschool, potty-trained, accident-free, and now this. That spare pair of underwear at La Playa was never needed. Jazz would soon start this habit of walking away from Maya and myself to a remote location....maybe it would be behind a wall or maybe up the sand and under the lifeguard tower, anywhere that was away, and then proceed to stand there and defecate in his pants. What is troubling to me was the fact that he would continue to play as if nothing had happened. Catching him "in the act" when he was "by himself" was excruciating for this parent. This was not only preventable, but directives on how to prevent it was being offered by both intuits and the experienced .... from all angles. I held him up high one afternoon while dropping him off at an exchange and told him how much I loved him. He was in tears and said he didn't want me to leave. For the first time, I started telling him exactly what I had learned in my program work. " It's not your fault". He stared at me for just a few seconds but it felt like his whole lifetime. Through his tears, he said to me so tellingly, "Who's is it then?"..... Never in a million years could I ever grasp and actually believe that a child can assume the blame of a dysfunctional parent. Never. I had in my studies come across it several times and thought it to be psychological babble. And now here it was, a perfect example..... my own son. Criminal is the only way to classify the neglect that was taking place. No ifs, ands, or buts. Who do you turn to??? Where are the police on this level?

Without my ACA group, because of children involved, I can't imagine what I would have done to get through this...... something I know, but what I haven't a clue. Tammy was to say, several times, "If we didn't have kids, this would be so easy". If we didn't have kids??? WHAT???. The difference between having no children and having two is without comparison. Not even in the same universe. How telling it was that she would even make such an insane statement. I mentioned before I had taken the kids to a few of the ACA meetings and the residual effects of this program of actions coming from love, were awesome. I would drive over to pay rent for the meeting, and while I was in the office to pay, the kids would go off into Daddy's meeting room and play. You could sense it was "their" room. They were for that moment, safe. The seeds planted during their participation were working. A standing ovation from my fellow participants for Jazz and Maya will stay with them forever, as it will for me. Thanks again to the wonderful family feel and fellowship attained in Bill W.'s visionary gem, the ACA Program. Still this did NOTHING to PROTECT the children from these monsters..... helpless beyond words. My insides are churned up just writing this.... Jazz and Maya, it's not your fault. I would not forsake you by personally harming these bastards and possibly go to jail, away from you. This option stands before a man every day in my position. Principle is KING.

I had been in my RV for a year now, and "hang in there" was a more than common mantra. There were a few more, but that one sums it up. There were no other options as a father watching from the front row what was happening to my children. I couldn't be away for a second.... as it should be with the dysfunction (euphemism: dynamics) surrounding them. That might be normal for a garden-variety parent. Not Big Daddy. I was in the balance, a stark contrast standing up to chaos-minded freaks now infecting my children. Hence the never-to-be-forgotten Christmas Tirade of 2007 by Tammy right in front of Jazz. That one. Details coming up. Again, sorry Jazz, it's not your fault. Thank GOD Maya was asleep for that one.

The RV was still home for the children... A >HOUSE >IS >NOT >A >HOME.... They both watched and helped out in putting this six-wheeled houseboat together for our move. Skibbie, our cat, was the ship's mascot, and Jazz and Maya have known her since birth. They marveled at the fact that Skibbie (11) was over twice their ages. I laugh here.... so precious... Even then, sleepovers were always wonderful. Just like camping out with all the comforts of home: dinners together, homework and story time by lantern and candlelight, playing catch, yes in the RV, surfing on Big Daddy's back on the RV's lower bed, drawing pictures, just as if we had a fixed living space. Jazz read his first book all the way through, Seuss' Green Eggs and Ham in this humble abode made for the road.

I started looking for counseling for the children. Cost was a definite factor. After a bit of searching, I found out that there was counseling available at no cost through his elementary school. Hallelujah! Booyeah! What a gift. I tried so hard to make it clear to Tammy that what was happening to Jazz and Maya was traumatizing. Obscure and out in a foggy left field, she said she would think about it. Think about it. She was unable to agree to the free counseling..... unagreeable with all the spite and venom that went along with it. Psycho power trip personified.

I waited for a week that felt like a year to get an OK from her to commence counseling. It was all we could afford and these kids direly needed it. After all that had transpired, she defiantly would not agree to letting the kids talk to a licensed counselor. More insanity. Why would a parent not OK this? It's free. Why? Something to hide? Something that might come out in counseling? I told her that our children needed this and that I was going to take them anyway. I couldn't wait one more day. I had to stop the bleeding. She was willing to look away. I'm not sure she even needed to look away. She was blind. This was all right in front of her and she was completely oblivious to it...... don't forget the "help" she had: the unsavories steering her all the way.

I had filed formal parental neglect papers against Tammy until I got Jazz and Maya started in counseling. Two weeks later, in good faith, I personally went to court to drop those very charges. Why press charges when the children are getting help? I was, as usual, too kind. I had just phoned the opposing attorney to tell him that as a result of the counseling's commencement, I had no need to press charges. Hindsight is 20/20. Tammy was by now well-confirmed as a conflict/chaos junkie, very much a danger to my kids, but as the counseling was now underway, I felt that we, Jazz, Maya, and myself, could move forward and Tammy (maybe) could catch up later. The invisible to me unsavories were working to see it fail.

I, not being an attorney, went to court the day before the trial was to happen to confirm that the court knew that I had dropped the neglect charges. I went in person again as I didn't know any protocol with regards to Family Law and, if papers needed to be filled out or filed, I'd be able to do that while present. I won't tell you how beneficial it would have been for me to have had an attorney. This is perhaps the understatement of the year.

In the Santa Monica courthouse hallway, who walks up but none other than Roy Kook Scumbag Kight, Tammy's attorney. He asked me what I was doing there. I said that I had just left a message with him to the effect that the charges were dropped and I had come to court to make sure I was properly doing so. The children were in counseling, and I'm content with that. So I said, encouragingly, "You don't need to come to court tomorrow!". His reply....... seething, "You had better be in court tomorrow. I'm filing ex-parte. EX-PARTE(louder and leaning in). This is a poker game, pal, and I'm calling [something or other... I don't recall]. I'm going to take every visitation right you have as a father away from you." I knew then and there I was in the presence of a sub-human life form. I told him two or three times in response that he was a sick, sick man, and had to just walk away. Take away my visitation rights??? No Way Cowgirl Kight. You are cracker scum. Thanks, Southern Man. Niel Young was right.

This guy reminds me of the joke about the blind rabbit and the blind snake who come across each other in the forest. The blind snake sniffs and feels the rabbit and says,"Let's see... you're soft, furry, have long ears, and a little round fluffy tail.......... you must be a rabbit! The blind rabbit then sniffs and feels the snake and says, "HMMM... You are long.... slimy.... beady eyes.... forked tongue............. you must be an attorney!

The next day was unbelievable. Not only did this idiot want to take away my parenting time, but he filed contempt of court charges against me for taking my kids to counseling. Kook Kight stated in his declaration that I was taking my kids to counseling to "manipulate the divorce" that I "hadn't gotten over." Are you kidding? The only thing I wasn't getting over was the fact that my kids were being traumatized by the mother and her deviant side show. And manipulate this divorce process through a free counselor from an elementary school? You gotta be drunk! If I actually was paying this counselor (privately) some ridiculous fee, say $1000/hr, there might be room for suspicion, but Jazz had only been there two times. TWO! I pleaded to Cowan that this was an emergency situation with my son crapping in his pants. I told Cowan that this was all out of the sheer emotional strain brought on by all the dysfunction, and as an emergency it shouldn't qualify in any way as contempt. "I just don't see this as an emergency" he would say. I stood in disbelief.

Judge Pro Tem David J. Cowan then stated these contempt charges would stand and would be heard, and then promptly set a court date some four weeks ahead. My heart broke as he ordered the children out of counseling. He added that these were also criminal charges against me and highly recommended I get a lawyer. He neglected to tell me that I would be offered one by the court if I could not afford one. What he then did do was have walk down to the end of the hall, use the pay phone, and make an appointment with the Airport Courthouse so that I could obtain a public defender. I then to drove all the way down to the Airport Courthouse to get such an attorney. I spent the rest of that morning and afternoon driving to the courthouse, waiting in line, only to finally be told by the head of the Public Defenders office, attorney Stuart Glovin, who could not believe that I was there, that Judge Pro Tem David J. Cowan himself was the very individual who should have appointed me a public defender in the first place. Welcome to Kangaroo Court. Drumhead Trial. It's just getting started. What a disgrace to my hometown. What a shameful pile. Jazz and Maya, again, it's not your fault.

I made an interim phone call to Tammy while driving in between these never ending Xerox runs for court documents. I asked her to PLEASE have her attorney drop the contempt charges against me as Jazz and Maya both needed this counseling more than she was aware of. I reminded her that I had dropped my charges against her. I told her that she was paying her attorney and he'd drop the charges if she would just tell him to. I was talking to a hollow log. NOBODY was home. Drugs and sperm had saturated her entire maternal spirit. She was gone in every way imaginable. I'm so sorry Jazz and Maya. It's not your fault.

At the next hearing, I was approached by Roy "Kook Cracker" Kight just outside the courtroom door of Room 111 before the contempt proceedings. He confronted me in an aggressive manner, sternly asking, "Are you ready to take care of business?" The only business I had seen fit so far to take care of was creating safe boundaries for my children that were being totally hammered, let alone what crap this guy was now throwing at me. Take away all my visitation????

I had up until this point always taken the time to speak freely to this now ultra-festering pustule. Easily ten or twelve times in a row, spoken freely, all in good faith, never denying him discourse. With his "poker game" comments, threats, etc., our "cordial" relationship was over. Today would be different. I was going to ask the court for both a continuance and a public defender, just as Mr. Glovin had recommended. (and after I looked at the fine print on the court document, it stated the same).

After Kook's interrogative regarding my taking care of business, I reached over and placed my right hand on his upper left arm and said kindly, even apologetically that I wouldn't be able to discuss anything with him that morning as I would be requesting a public defender from the court. He would now have to discuss these points with whoever was appointed. Upon touching his arm, and informing him about the end of our discourse, he looked at my hand then he pulled his clinched fist up to my face and said quite clearly, "If you ever touch me again, I'll drop you to the ground." His fist was about twelve inches from my face. I just looked at him. Could NOT believe what I'd just heard. "You hit me?", I replied, "You gotta be kidding." He reaffirmed what he had said.

I was fuming. The audacity of this disgraceful, degenerate, disrespectful dinosaur. Stay calm, D Man. This was bait. I then turned to the door of the courtroom, opened it, and said, "After you, grampa". He then put his arm around my back and grabbed the door as well in another aggressive move to hold the door for me. I slid out backwards under his arm and walked in to sit down and cool down. It would take me the better part of twenty minutes for me to get over not having smashed this guy to smithereens. And I'm the one, me, the father of these two precious children, just trying to get counseling for them, I'm the one up for contempt???????

WTF???? There are children in the balance here.... their growth being stunted.... their voices being silenced. I had NO help.

Cowan appointed me a public defender that morning. How's this? My P.D. was the oldest brother of a family I had grown up with and gone to school with. A prominent family here in Santa Monica for decades, the Rodriguezes. It would take four long months in getting these ridiculous, bad faith contempt charges dropped, ultimately allowing Jazz and Maya to start once again their overdue counseling. I am boiling just having to write this down. Could ANYONE in this system possibly consider the kids first? ANYONE besides me???? It's all for you, Jazz and Maya. It's not your fault. Big Daddy loves you, and 1,2,3, Daddy NEVER leaves.

I was to run into a friend who worked at Pain Du Jour, a bakery here in Santa Monica, while I was in line at the courthouse clerk's filing office. (I was actually there to try to get a restraining order against The KOOK - does anybody deserve to be threatened in a Family Court? by an officer of the court?). I shared with my friend about the threatening incident that had just occurred between Kook Kight and myself. My baker friend didn't waste five seconds in responding. "Sounds like that lawyer has more than just a platonic relationship with your ex." I had to agree.... then I almost puked on the spot.

Thank God the counseling recommenced. It was nowhere near cutting edge in its program, mostly play therapy, and really just ended up being play time. It was all I could afford and better than no counseling at all. Gratitude Gratitude Gratitude. It was more the exercise than the content. The additional information I brought to their sessions coming out of the new ACA text was invaluable. I am unfortunately helping them more than I am being helped. Try to stay grateful. Jazz's defecation was eased alot by the program's technique in admitting the problem to another and thus reducing its existence. Still that's merely addressing the symptom and not the cause. Tammy The Traumanator had started it and she and her cronies will be the accountable factors. It is now the fall of 2006. Maya is still only two years old.... I would continue taking Jazz and Maya to this counselor for months, until the summer of '07. Not to be the best summer I have had on record. No humor here. Jazz would finish out his kindergarten year with his graduation being nothing short of epic. Full assembly, performance, song and celebration. I am so proud of you, young man. Ms. Driver was one of a kind. Thank you, Ms. Driver. "Don't waste..... Don't waste the water....." Love is all you need!

CHAPTER 10

The summer of '07 was different than '06 in the finances area. I found out through my caseworker that I had been eligible for unemployment this whole time. It was enough to get by and be able to spend time with the children so they would have at least one parent involved. Tammy, in a pitiful display of ineptitude one day at an exchange at the Santa Monica Swim Center, said she would give the kids to me only if I had an apartment to take them. Full Disclosure. Full admission that she couldn't do it. She knew right then and there that these kids, our two children, needed better than what she was providing. Dad was right in front of her, ready, willing and able. Her selfishness, her attorney, and her unsavories would all get in the way of letting this sliver of pure common sense germinate and dictate what was actually best for our children. The children were to pay dearly for this selfish decision. As if it didn't hurt enough already.....

With regards to children's safety and well being, for me, the children's basic safety was starting to take a front seat to their well-being. Sounds odd but, if children aren't safe, well-being hasn't a chance. First things first. My spirit was mostly if not all the time focused here. The rest of the time was spent in the study halls coming to terms with what dysfunction and trauma were really all about.... to children. I knew all too well what it does to adults.... Prevention was paramount. Tammy and the unsavories continued their theme at the children's expense. I knew in my heart my children weren't safe. They deserve better.... and better was right there in front.... Their natural father waiting, trying to guide them.

Standing still and patient in the wings, my children never left my spirit's sight. NEVER. As it should be. Of course. My meetings, friends, and the utmost belief in a higher power would prevail. Oh to have had an attorney the whole time. Gilbert would soon have to tend to other cases as any pro bono work was at the time too consuming to fit into his schedule. Bless you, Gilbert.

The summer of '07 was different in our activities as well. After a kindergarten year that was filled with story, play, and academics, I continued Ms.Driver's well chosen path. Her theme: "All you need is love". Tammy highly objected to this approach..... why she left! We can see that, Ms. Williams. It's not your fault Jazz. It's not your fault Maya. Daddy's right here.

Our library time increased with lots of computer games for Jazz and preschool prepwork for Maya. By the end of the summer, we had read almost every single Caldecott Medal Winner and Honorable Mention children's book since it started back in 1938. Jazz and Maya knew every librarian in Santa Monica by name. They overshot the summer reading club's requisite by a country mile, and as I had mentioned, Jazz read his first book all the way through. Proud of YOU young man.... Maya wanted to read so bad she could taste it.... Testimony to practice.

The summer was going phenomenal..... until Maya would disclose to me what any father's living nightmare is. While cleaning them up for bed and going through our mantra we now practiced about strangers touching private parts, Maya offers up the bomb. "Marcus touches my pee-pee". To accompany this horror, I had noticed a strange behavior from Maya during the prior couple of months. Instead of just going right to sleep, she would stay awake well past Jazz, climb up on my stomach, facing me, grab my hands from my side, place them on her rear, and feverishly rub her buttocks with my hands. This is too much for a three year old to be figuring out on her own. After she disclosed the fact to me that she was being touched by the mother's boyfriend, I put the equation together. Being completely potty trained, she had also started wetting herself during the day - the same week of this disclosure. One morning at Douglas Park, she just stood before me, saying as any scared child would losing their ability to control something they had always been able to do, "Daddy, I'm peeing." She stood there urinating all over herself. Never before had she done this. I told her that it wasn't her fault before during and after we cleaned up. Three year olds do NOT lie.

I met Tammy at around 8am the very next morning after Maya's Marcus disclosure, in front of the Santa Monica Main Library. I was well aware that the kids were about to spend this day with these "perpetrators" Tammy and Marcus, at some undisclosed pool party out of town. I wasn't going to let the kids go unprotected, and with no attorney, I had to do the best I could. I told Tammy, out of the earshot of the kids, what Maya had said about being "touched" by Marcus. I added that I was going straight to the authorities.

Tammy, instead of asking her daughter with care what had happened, she blew up like a atom bomb. At eight am in the morning, not a soul around, you could hear her voice shatter the silence ..... and this salvo was directed straight at the soul of a defenseless three year old. "YOU LIED, YOU LIED. GET IN THE CAR, GET IN THE CAR." the "get in the car" part was louder if that was even possible. The kids both froze in complete panic at this raging lunatic attacking a three year old for telling the truth. The horrified look in both their eyes as they were strapped in like criminals for the upcoming dragster-style departure I will never forget. FOR TELLING THE TRUTH. Tammy, on fire, walking up to me in the front of the vehicle : "You're just mad because I have a boyfriend." I have just been told the greatest nightmare of any father, and she actually THINKS that I was mad because she had a BOYFRIEND? No little freakazoid, my daughter is being molested and you and your scumbags will not get away with this. She sped off like a maniac, I headed out to find out who I should contact first. I needed a level head to confer with. My 911 call was on. About an hour and a half later I get a call from Tammy, in her car, still screaming at Maya, "TELL HIM YOU LIED", she handed the phone to Maya, now completely brow beaten, and her demure little voice came to me... "I lied, Daddy." My heart broke. At least ninety minutes straight, completely brow-bashing her daughter into submission, just to make her say to me she lied. Tammy and Co., along with their deviant freak show, was now in total jepordy.... and she would do anything at this moment to save her ass, even if it meant compromising her own child by stealing her own daughter's voice. My son I can only imagine the collateral damage done to you. If Tammy and her unsavories' behavior hadn't been criminally detectable thus far, it was now proof positive. That morning I contacted every child protective service available. It wouldn't be the last time. Tammy has officially started her visible reign of terror on her own children..... my children..... our children.

Dr. Marc, my neighbor, was helpful. He knew Jazz and Maya, the entire situation, and had always been a great sounding board. Not only up to this point, but still to this very day. I didn't have the West Los Angeles address of this Marcus character and the West L.A. Police were a little concerned as to which jurisdiction the case fell. After I contacted the West Los Angeles Police Department and a friend at the Santa Monica Police Department, it was determined that the El Segundo Police should handle the investigation. Dr. Marc suggested that morning my caseworker, and through that entity, Child Protective Services.

I went to my case worker for the C.P.S. angle on the investigation. Her initial response to the child abuse allegations was, get ready for this, "I hope you didn't come in here for this today." This day happened to be Friday, and she was noticeably bothered (understandably) by this news and the responsibility that obviously comes with it. Sorry, eh? It seemed to be somewhat of an imposition on her day. I was so boiling mad by her could care less statement, I couldn't even raise my voice. I needed help for my daughter right then and screaming at this woman would get me nowhere fast. I must have counted to ten at least a hundred times that day to stay collected as I notified the proper channels for this investigation.

Upon discussing the situation with another friend, he recommended, and wisely so, that I videotape Maya. I borrowed a camcorder and interviewed her without any coaching. Amy L. Nieman would later state on record that I had coached Maya into her statements. I DON'T COACH MY CHILDREN"S ANSWERS. This is one sick lady who has no business handling any case that has children involved.... same with David J. Cowan. More on these pieces of work later.

The interview with Maya was a straight forward interview with Maya disclosing simple facts about who touched her and where. At the end of the interview she had assumed a position on her knees and commenced masturbation right in front of me. Telling evidence. Three year olds don't lie. My poor daughter. F!

The El Segundo Police Department was helpful in getting the investigation underway. Unfortunately, Detective Mulroney was stuck looking for a "profile" to fit this Marcus character. He said after Marcus' interview that Marcus didn't fit the profile. I told him that this guy probably wouldn't fit "the psycho in the van that sits outside the elementary school" profile that might be in his pedophile by the numbers playbook. Marcus is a lucky man. He is above ground.

Upon leaving completely distraught with Detective Mulroney, as well as distressed for my daughter's sake. I stated to him quite clearly that I knew something was wrong, and that I was leaving his office in no way convinced that nothing had happened. Too many peices fit like Cheops pyramid pieces. This guy had been fondling my daughter while Tammy was asleep. Jazz disclosed a week or so later on the way my taking them to school, that Tammy had bribed Maya to stay out of her bedroom during that past night, and he added that Maya had gotten a special present for staying in her own bed. I repeated to Detective Mulroney that I was leaving the police station knowing that something had happened. He stopped me as I was walking away. He said, "Now wait, Mr. Duval, let's say that something did happen..... just for the sake of doing so....it's obvious that this guy can get through your ex-wife's defenses, but he'll never get through yours." Well that's just great, Detective, that's just great. My kids aren't safe with Tammy but they're safe with me. I guess we'll sit and wait for something else to happen, that's sounds like a wonderful plan. Can't hardly wait to see you again under the same circumstances. No offense guys, but you got it wrong. My friend at the S.M.P.D. told me later that it's very difficult to prove these cases when the child is so young. He said that a civil case ala O.J. Simpson might be my only recourse. So be it. Negligence, child endangerment, pedophilia, it's all here. F!

This investigative process continued well into Maya's first year of preschool. Jazz and Maya were now both in Santa Monica Elementary Schools. Jazz now in first grade. Tammy didn't even show up for Maya's first day. That day was such a huge day. Just as big as Jazz's. I am so proud of you, princess. We.... myself, Jazz, and Maya, would get alot of help from some wonderful friends during this most difficult of times. Sandy and Helene who own Once 'n Again, the clothing store where I buy all my clothes for the children here in Santa Monica, were extremely instrumental in getting me assistance. Their friend, Carrie (as well her husband Roger) was a veteran of Child Protective Services and agreed to walk alongside me. This process would be tedious. She assured me that CPS would not look down on me for being "stuck" in the RV. Carrie's reassurance was priceless. Her visits, seeing herself that all my children's needs were met: food, clothing, cleanliness, homework, and most of all safe and loved, are to be commended. Thank you, Carrie. She and Roger would babysit for me once while I worked the polls for an upcoming Santa Monica election. ANY parent in my position should have a Carrie and Roger to help them through.

After the mother had dropped the children off early one morning, Fall of 2007, the children were visually distraught. I asked them why the long faces. "Mommy said the wreath on your car is STUPID." I asked them does that make you feel sad. Jazz spoke first, "Yeah." On this very day, Jazz would defecate in his pants.... for the first time in months. This syndrome would now be "back on" for good - A direct result of Tammy's complete disregard of what is and what should never be. A conflict/chaos junkie at work. Tammy's effortless ability to "gut" our son at will was getting unbearable. These kids were STILL right in harms way. Maya's response to Tammy's "wreath on Daddy's Volvo" bash was by far more poignant. "Stupid is a BAD word". She had stood up with authority on the RV's bed as she belted out her disproval. Not once but twice. Not bad for a three year old. I guess the constant repeating of Daddy's affirmations about 'nobody is going to take away her voice' was working. My poor babes. I asked them both if they liked the wreath on the front of the Volvo. "Yes!", they said in harmony. I had a Christmas wreath mounted on the front of the family wagon left on well after the holidays had past. I would always say to them that Christmas should be every day. Well then.... if we all like the wreath, then THAT is what is important, and yes, I agreed with both children that "stupid" was a mean thing to say. It took about fifteen to twenty minutes that morning to dilute Tammy's poisonous barb. Nice job, Tammy. Jazz and Maya, once again, it's not your fault.

Mid-October of '07, I had the kids for the day. I was doing some automotive repair in a friend's underground parking structure. The kids were in scooter heaven. Smooth, concrete race track around Daddy working..... play time at its finest. They were doing laps around my workspace. I was able to watch them and get my work done at the same time. Perfect. Maya, still three years old, while chasing down Jazz, screams out this award winner, "Who do you think you are, the Fuck Police?" It echoed off the walls in the underground structure. Tell me I didn't hear that. Please. Fuck Police??? A three year old? She got a ten minute time out in the Volvo for potty mouth. She cried... she didn't even know what she had said.... In trouble for repeating some adult's poison. I hurt with her.

At the children's exchange that same afternoon, out of earshot, I brought it to Tammy's attention that our daughter had heard, learned, and used a new phrase. Phrase's point of origin: Not in question. Tammy just stared ..... out into space..... taking a long pregnant pause. She was failing miserably as a parent. She started to cry. I wanted to scream. I just counted to ten again and told the kids how much I loved them as they drove off once again with the nutcase. With the fondling investigation now underway, "first rate" vocabulary being used in her [home?], all seeping into my kids minds, bodies, and souls, how could this freak actually keep the kids around? God Almighty. I'm getting no help from the courts. These children need a mother and all they are getting is another child who has a driver's licence and is legally able to have intercourse...... Fuck Police? There was nothing to do but maintain. The children would now start to gravitate towards their natural father until I would have full custody - but not court ordered.

Maya's uncontrollable urination during the past summer's declaration was limited to that particular two week period. It had ceased within a week of taking action. Several weeks into the first year of preschool, with Maya's teacher, completely aware of the pending investigation, I would indirectly revisit the crime with the same not-so-healthy results. Maya's teacher had been talking to Maya while they were in the sand box together. When I picked up Maya that day, the teacher informed me that they had discussed Marcus for the very first that morning. I thanked her for her care in touching on the subject as she did. Dealing with a three year old in this situation is always with kid gloves. First time mentioned.... maybe we would get somewhere.

After school, we picked up Jazz, went to the library, and Maya would end up wetting herself in the chair, at the computer station, without so much as even trying to get to the bathroom. Just bringing up the perpetrator was enough to cause this reaction.... or something else had started at home. Why the mention at school? This was the first time she had done this in four months. I had refrained from EVER bringing up Marcus with Maya as the investigation with CPS was underway. I wanted them to have a clean slate every time they spoke to my children. They were the experts here, hopefully, and at this point, even with the El Segundo Police's blind eye, you have to trust..... you have to.... my precious babes....

Jazz and Maya's counseling sessions in Torrance had ceased since school had started. The schedule/gas cost/distance equation made it prohibitive. Tammy was working full-time and I was taking care of the children full time.... just as it should have been..... just as it should be. When I asked her assistance with the gas cost, she was only giving in $40 a week as I was doing the all parenting on a string, driving the both the RV and the Volvo, she would reply, "Do you think I am going to pay you to BABYSIT our kids?" Remember this is the same person that was about pay a full-time heroine addict babysitter to [watch?] our children from 7am until 6pm Monday through Friday while she worked full time.

Late 2007.... Tammy and Marcus were talking about moving. I could feel the pending investigations had prompted this move as these crimes probably also took place at Marcus' West Los Angeles Barry Ave. location. Keeping Maya out of that "scene" was probably No. 1 on their list. I had parked my RV unknowingly, miraculously, near his Barry Ave. residence. It was before I found overnight private parking and was having to find parking anywhere I could on the street. Jazz and Maya would tell me they could see the RV from Marcus' house. Unbelievable? Believe it! God is Awesome!!!!!! Jazz and Maya.... 1,2,3, Daddy NEVER Leaves.

CHAPTER 11

Tammy decided in early November to give me the kids full-time. Finally, the kids were safe. It was where they should have been the entire time. Although on County Assistance, and in the RV, things were irrefutably now in the children's best interest. Next thing to get started was their insurance. After getting up to the county office, after the application process.... hours if you know the drill, I was denied any coverage for them because Tammy had trumped the process by having already applied for HER, and signed on the application that the kids lived with HER full-time. It would take over a month to straighten out that mess, not to mention filling out the proper paperwork to rectify the matter.

With myself now the primary caregiver, it was a no-brainer that she be able to see the kids. I gave liberal visitation. Two afternoons after school, Tuesday and Thursday, and every other weekend all day. This was all done on my own accord.... NO COURT ORDER NEEDED. It was fair. At this point, however, Maya had grown completely in fear of being with her mother(and whatever other entities preying on her). It was palpable, the fear that she displayed, when Tammy would come to pick them up. One occasion had Tammy putting out her arms to greet Maya, and seeing the new bracelet that Maya had made at preschool asked to see it. Maya fetally cringed at the thought of showing it to her. Maya did an about face to Tammy, hid the bracelet in her bosom, clutching it tight and burying her head between my thighs. l looked at my daughter, scared to go with her mother, I knew why she was scared. For the next month, Maya would not go with Tammy, screaming to not go. It would then make Jazz cry having to listen to his sister in this kind of trouble. We aborted Tammy even taking the kids because of the problem, several times.

Tammy actually had the nerve to ask me to "Do something!" about my daughter's fear. I'll never forget the "Can't you talk her into it?"..... This should have made Parenting Magazine's Question of the Year. For the past two years, with all the tonnage of sheer crap thrown onto my children, she now has the gall to ask me to talk my daughter into going where I know she (and Jazz) are not safe???? It is amazing to be able to sit here and in a maintained level of gratitude tell my children the story of the insanity that surrounds them and cast a brilliant light on dysfunction's very existence..... and then watch it completely burn off the very fog that has and will attempt to envelop them. Big Daddy doesn't let those kinds of things happen. Ever. Jazz and Maya I love you. As I write this, your mother has taken you away for two weeks, as we had agreed to, but in doing so has decided to keep her phone off, so I won't be able to talk you personally. It's not your fault, Maya, It's not your fault.

Two days before Christmas 2007, Tammy called to say goodnight to the children. Maya had already fallen asleep next to Jazz and I, thank God she wouldn't hear the forthcoming meltdown. "The Meltdown of 2007." I told her that I wanted to make a small change for the Christmas schedule. As per our conciliation and divorce agreements, Christmas was to be split visitation, a half day each. A few days prior to this evening Tammy had requested to have the children the entire day and I said I'd go along with that. But now, two days before Christmas, I didn't feel that to be fair. I wanted to just see the children a couple of hours in the morning Christmas Day. I told her she could pick the kids up at ten am (instead of seven am) and then keep them the entire day. That would give me about two hours with them to open presents and I would still let her do what she had planned.

She went berserk.... I mean berzerk. She yelled so loud that Jazz who was laying right next to me could hear every single word through the cell phone. "LET ME TALK TO JAZZ." I handed him the phone. With all the angst of a drunk sailor, "YOUR FATHER IS RUINING YOUR CHRISTMAS. YOUR FATHER IS RUINING YOUR CHRISTMAS." I grabbed the phone back from her and said she couldn't talk to the kids like that. It wasn't healthy. I brought up "being calm" and I used the term "sober." "TOU THINK YOUR SO FUCKING GOOD BECAUSE YOU'RE SOBER." Just an educated guess: she wasn't. Another: Her in a room packed with unsavories and fully acting out, showing off. I reminded her that we had written agreements concerning the kids and these were court orders. "I'll show you a fucking court order, you selfish son-of-a-bitch. I'll come over there right now and take my fucking kids tonite." Her entire tirade went on and on. It was blistering in volume and Jazz heard EVERY SINGLE WORD. I just hung up the phone after one too many "f'n somethings." Jazz was now moaning while she was screaming (this was a new physical reaction that had manifested in him). Horrible/Tragic/pick the word. She has now "gutted" him once again. Thank God Maya was asleep. The conflict/chaos junkie even has the gall to call back immediately and now wants to talk to Jazz so she can "calm him down." Are you kidding? How much insanity for this poor kid? I hung up in disgust, put the phone down, and went to the bathroom.

When I got out, I saw my son, now sitting up cross-legged on the bed, looking through my cell phone family photos. I said to him, "How ya doin', buddy?" He said nothing. He was completely introverted and buried into the image searching. He had found the photo I had taken of Maya and himself standing next to the baby Waterhorse character on display at the mall. Jazz and Maya, both smiling in the photo, had their arms around the friendly little critter. Without a word, he slowly held up the photo (phone) to me in a daze as if to say, "I was happy in this photo, Daddy, but I don't have any idea how I feel right now. I'm torn up inside. I'm moaning to cope with the horrors I hear, and searching your phone for escape as well." Jazz, it's not your fault.

Those that claim children are resilient are gravely mistaken.... gravely. I was to offer solace, change the subject, but damage is already done when it cuts that deep..... to the bios. The monsters were at work and these kids were in their crosshairs. No shame. Guilty bastards. Guilty. Let me tell you. It gets REAL EASY to stay sober when this is going on right in front of you and your children. Real easy.

It is tough to be tolerant when being berated for being sober, especially as a parent. To be a parent, carry this load of abhorrent, unacceptable, insane excuses to constantly harm children, I had to do something. I couldn't stand it one more second. I made a plea to the court on January 16 of 2008 to have the kids full-time. Carrie had been coaching from the side-lines, and was a complete angel. It is amazing when the higher power is at work.... even moreso when the evil stomps at it like a nuisance. The Kook Kight kept it as a game rather than sensibly seeing to it that two vulnerable young souls were out of harms way. A horrible soul. Probably tough to do when your legal payments are made in flesh. My old boss, Dick Landau, who taught me how to work on cars, used to tell me, "Darwin, the one thing all women have in common: no common sense." Tammy Williams, Marcus Boesch, and Roy Kight, David J. Cowan, and soon to join the team of the spineless, Amy L. Nieman, all prove this theory beyond a reasonable doubt. Lay Ladies Lay, Lay across my big brass bed.... you have all hurt my children....... and you will be held accountable. Big Daddy's right here, Jazz and Maya.

On that day in court, 1/16/08, Kook Kight would portray me as an "opportunist", and claim that I was taking advantage of a situation. Insanity again. One thing for sure, all of these idiots, they're all maniacally consistent. Someone once said that we have a court of laws, not a court of justice. If that be the case, then we need the existing laws simply enforced.

If any of these persons had just put the children first (is that asking too much?), how much of this would have been avoided? "Most of it" would be a pretty good answer. "All of it" woud be the correct answer. Do you hear that, Tammy???? Obviously, we are in need of a new cast of overseers brought into the courtroom to have any sense of sensibility prevail. Help. Please. My children, anyone's children, deserve no less the same attention.

I brought up these Kangaroo Court shenanigans to a lawyer friend, Mark, in my men's stag recovery group. I mentioned to him that the judge was a pro tem. Without hesitation,"GET RID OF HIM, HE'S NOT EVEN A JUDGE!", was his immediate response. I was unaware that a pro tem was not a real judge, just a lawyer with a robe and a gavel. "I don't know how to have a him removed", I answered. "You need a lawyer, Damon, I have to go.. I'm right in the middle of something," he advised. I said thank you as I hung up and was off to the courthouse, again, to see how one goes about recusing this impediment. Thank God for some level of God-Given intellect that would provide the patience necessary to start what was to be a long and aruous process....... Could and would if sought.

That court date on January 16th, 2008 had been punctuated again by this Kook Kight's once again vicious attack on my parenting, my integrity, my humanity, etc.... you name it.... and I had had it. Enough is enough. Everyone that I had previously spoken to about this bastard Roy L. Kight's threat to hit me (or specifically, for the record, with fist clinched,"put me on the ground") including lawyer friends, was met with the same response, "Don't bring it up in front of the judge, he (Kight) will only deny it and the judge will look down on this 'he said he said scenario', and, because I'm not a lawyer, I'll be the one who loses.

Although the threat had happened eight months prior, Spring of '07, the defamation of character going piggy-backing it was too much to let go. I unloaded and informed Cowan that Kight had in fact threatened me right outside that courtroom door, and that I would not put up with this defamation of character as well, and that I was only there, in good faith, trying to provide for the safety and well being of my two children. I was not in a United States Courtroom to physically defend myself from a sociopathic, bad faith freak.

After hearing of the threat, pro tem Cowan looked at Kight in disbelief. Kight was choking on his words. "Uh, er, Uh, your honor, I did threaten Mr. Duval, and I apologize to the court." Kight then went on to explain how he had told me "on several occasions" to stop touching him as I spoke to him. Under oath, He LIED through his teeth (If he even has any). ONLY ONCE had he asked me to do so, the day he had threatened me. Lying Cracker Pus. My kids had even been duped by thinking this guy is a nice guy. I don't argue with them I just tell them that they'll read about it later.

Pro tem Cowan proceeded to inform Kight that he was in fact, an officer of the court (REALLY?), and this type of behaviour would not be tolerated. Like an old woman Cowan told Kight that "There would be no more of that". After Cowan finished his softball tossing, Kight re-upped his threat, "I haven't hit him yet." Eight months after the first threat, it's still hot on the front burner. Rather than a contempt of court handed down on this second threat, now committed right in front of a (judge?). I was able to get a hold of the court transcripts and proceed to file proper papers asking for a restraining order against this infection in my hometown's courtroom. I also contacted the California State Bar to have them commence an investigation. If Cowan would tolerate this type of behaviour, as pathetic as that is, I was most certainly not. I guess we have different levels of excellence.

Additionally, if the threats weren't base and stupid enough, on this 16th day of Jan 2008, Cowan actually tried to have the children put back full-time into the Tammy/Marcus freakshow. I wasn't about to let that happen. Tammy had said that they had a new residence and were ready to take Jazz and Maya that very day from the courthouse. NO WAY JOSE. This was without ANY 30-day notice to me, and in full violation of two joint legal custody agreements. Cowan just sits there about to greenlight this? No check on the legality of anything.... At my children's expense..... He was actually ready to let the children go home with Tammy that very day..... Not so fast, inept one. I immediately told Cowan about Detective Mulroney's assassment of Maya and Jazz's impending danger in being around Marcus Boesch. Enter Commissioner Cowan's request for Amy L. Neiman, Minors Counsel, and a three week continuance until February 7th.

Just before the Kight Kook Display, for chronologicality sake, I brought before the court that although the police had determined that the fondling allegation by Maya against this Marcus character was deemed unsubstantiated, Detective Mulroney's statement, and I quote, " This guy might be able to get through your ex's defenses, but he's not going to get through yours," was a red flag warning that my children, especially Maya, were not safe. Cowan did what he thought necessary. He immediately appointed an attorney (called minors council) specifically for my two children. I was elated at this seemingly higher level of legality. I was hopeful that Jazz and Maya would be relieved from the unsavory trauma and denial pit that they were stuck in. Anyone who represents children HAS to be full of level-headed common sense, right? How wrong I was to be.

Amy L. Nieman, court appointed minors council, met with both parties over the next three weeks. She came by the RV after I had met with her in her office. She seemed open and genuinely concerned, as I was, for my children. During the same time frame, I was meeting and working with Carrie from CPS. Carrie had reassured me that I had performed my parental duties more than sufficiently, and that it wasn't a crime to be poor.... or be temporarily in an RV. I remained as hopeful as I was the day Amy L. Neiman was appointed to represent my children.

On February seventh, Amy L. Nieman would hold everything she could AGAINST me and my relationship with my children. What happened? Who had she been talking to? She went as far as, stating on record, that the love I had for my children came directly out of hate that I had for Tammy. We have a BIG problem, here. And its name is Amy L. Nieman. Dr. William C. Wirshing would later categorize Neiman as "horrible," stoppin short so as to maintain his gentlemanly stature. Jazz and Maya, I said it before and I'll say it again, IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT.

From day one of each of my children's births, both of which I was present for, I have changed diapers, washed diapers as we never used disposables, fed, cooked cleaned, worked as a team to meet their daily needs, as our agreement to always have at least one parent present in their lives, gave to them my bed slot so they would be close to whom I thought was a fit mother. I had participated with love and care in all of their learning experiences, drove Jazz to and from preschool, on bicycle, almost every day for two years.... NEVER were they out of the safety of one of their parent's eyesight, and now, this psycho-wench Neiman, some freak that passed some test somewhere, now decides the fates of young souls, and has the audacity to come up with the notion that my love for my children is a derivative of hate.

Amy L. Nieman was not in court working on behalf of two children. She showed her true colors that February morning. She was a self-centered opposition to a side..... not placing herself where common sense would dictate. She was not minors council, she was minors impedance. On that day, she would tell the judge pro tem that I was actually proud of the way I lived in the RV. Like I had a choice! An RV with stove, refrigerator, beds, toilet, their cat, toys, books, loving care, and their real Father.

She told Cowan that the RV wasn't clean and smelled like vinegar. Wrong. I guess she would have preferred I clean with a more toxic substance, like bleach or ammonia. That might have been better for the kids. She concluded in summary that it was detrimental for the children to stay with me. Cowan now let Amy run the show. He gave the children to Tammy that day and limited my visits to three hours on Wednesdays and four hours on Sundays. He agreed with Amy L. Nieman that even changing schools was probably in their best interest as well. That was beyond comprehension. We were over half way through the school year. On a positive note, he ordered phone contact was to stay open. Tammy would see to it that that didn't happen. Amy L. Neiman turned their world upside down. Just like that.... and by taking sides. left her post as a Minor's Counsel. Cowan, in handing her the ball left his post as presiding judicial officer..... It was three attorneys against me and no one on the bench. No ifs, ands, or buts.

I was able though to get Jazz and Maya started back in counseling in early January, in Santa Monica, at the St. John Child Development Center. Hopefully a great boundary of safety would be provided for them at this well recommended facility. Thank you Sandy and Helene. Bad choice. Tell later. Where could I find a level of excellence.... where they would get their voices back?

Every other Wednesday was to be a counseling day for the children. That of course was my mid-week visitation day. Amy spoke down to me as though I was crazy for accepting this schedule.... "But every other Wednesday you won't see them.... you'll have to take them to counseling." The only reason my children ever made it into any counseling at all, was the fact I enrolled them and took them. Both times now. Nothing but opposition came from their deadbeat mom.... and now this BS from Minor's Counsel? She's the one that slashed the 50/50 visitation and I shoud complain about the counseling that they need???? SICK PUPPY.

With the trainload of crap already bestowed upon them, and now Amy L. Nieman turning their world upside down again, counseling for my kids was imperative. My visits were without question secondary to their ontological security. For Amy L. Nieman to even think that I would be selfish enough to deny my kids the very counseling that I had fought getting them into, proves how blatantly incompetent she is. She has no business practicing law on behalf of children. Back to the joke about the blind rabbit and blind snake. There's more. But first a reminder, Jazz and Maya, it's not your fault.

So after Amy L. Nieman turns the tables on my children, changes their place of residence, does a hatchet job on what was a balanced visitation schedule, at least Jazz and Maya were now fully acclamated to their respective schools.... starting childhood relationships and friendships that would and do last a lifetime. One positive thing was happening in there lives. I was volunteering at both schools as well. Cowan couldn't care less. In that courtroom, it was the blind leading the blind, once again at the expense of my two children. How much would having an attorney helped??? Don't even ask.

I called Amy L. Nieman right after the court's decision disrupting the 50/50 visitation and told her I would take this back to court as it was abominable the proposal she made. Her response- verbatim- "The judge will probably side with YOU"- same inflection. This pitiful creature from the black law lagoon was turning the courtroom into a battle between myself and her! This is about the children, Amy. She was appointed solely for the purpose of representing the children, my children are HER clients. WTF?

A month or so had gone by and Spring Break was coming up. Tammy was driving the kids to and from school. I offered to help with the drives, made that crystal clear in the courtroom, they were about thirty minutes each way, but neither she nor the court would have anything to do with my assistance. She was wound up like a spring, and had Amy wound up in her pocket. On March 12, 2008, I met Tammy and the kids outside the preschool and wished Jazz and Maya a great day, as I did almost everyday since Amy and the court had reamed them with this schedule. I said to Tammy, "Spring Break is next week, don't you think that we should give me more time with the kids?" Wrong question to ask. She said no, that the schedule was fine and we would keep it the way it was. Three hundred eighty-four hours of full vacation lay ahead and I was scheduled for eighteen of them. Between four and five percent of the entire sixteen day Spring Break. The conciliation agreement and divorce judgment, both court documents, and both signed by Tammy and myself, specifically stated that there is a difference between regular schedules, vacation schedules, and even holiday schedule as well. Boiler plate stuff. We were coming up on what was a "vacation schedule."

I called Amy L. Nieman's office and told her the situation. "I think you should have some more time over vacation..... but if you think you're getting overnights, FORGET IT!", verbatim with inflection. What difference is it with overnights? It's Spring Break. Jazz is six, Maya is four. What if we go camping for a few nights up to Santa Barbara? Is camping taboo?? all of a sudden, Amy???? The Creature from the Black Law Lagoon. Is this America? She said she would call Tammy. This was Thursday the Thirteenth of March. I told Amy I would see Tammy and the children at Roosevelt the next day at the children exchange. There was a student barbecue and I was working the grill.

Friday, the fourteenth, after school, I'm on the grill and up walks Tammy with Jazz and Maya. I hand them a couple of hot dogs and ask her if she had talked to Amy. She said that they played email tag but, together, they had agreed to two extra hours at each of my visits. I was very brief and didn't want to discuss visitation in front of the kids. "Wrong answer", I said quietly, "I'll see you in court next week about it, no problem." Turning back to the children, "Enjoy those hot dogs, guys."

Questions abound through my head.... How can this attorney be acting on behalf of the kids and not look at the Vacation Schedule on both the Conciliation Agreement and Divorce Judgment. These are just babies.

I get a personal phone call from Amy L. Nieman over the weekend, on the evening of Saturday, the fifteenth. Tammy had obviously told her that I would be taking them to court the following week. So she calls me around seven pm. She had called only to tell me, "Don't you dare put my name on that modified visitation decision." She was talking about the extra two hours tagged onto my visits. She was trying to cover her ass and didn't want to be held accountable for a decision that she and Tammy had come up with on their own, without a court order. I agreed sarcastically, "Gosh Amy, that would be making you into a mediator, and not the minors council that you were appointed for." I told her she had enough work to do already and that taking on a whole other court position just wouldn't be right.

I am sorry Amy, you ARE going to be held accountable. My children are not a POKER GAME. You are going to be held accountable........ and so is Kight ....... and Cowan...... as is the entire Tammy/Marcus/aiders/abettors freakshow.

CHAPTER 12

Sunday, March sixteenth, two thousand eight. Tragic day for both the children and myself. It was the telling day for Tammy and her plethora of unresolved issues. Unresolved issues that tear little souls apart. It's 9am and I arrive at the El Segundo Police Department to pick up my children. They are waiting inside with their egg donor. I greet them with affection and hugs. We are on the way out the door when Tammy says, "See you at one." Loaded statement. Watch out, Damon. My reply, " I thought it was three." (One o'clock would have been the regular time to drop them off) Three o'clock would have been the two hour "adjusted/ extended" visit that Tammy AND Amy L. Nieman had come up with just a few days earlier.

"It's three o'clock.... You agreed I could have the children an extra two hours," I said. Emotionally escalating, Tammy starts her conflict, "If you take the kids for the extra two hours, then we are not going to court next week," this was said right in front of the kids. This is where her inability- REACTIVITY- to cope and think of the kids first comes out, not to mention the vocal escalation. I immediately motion that she stop and we go outside, not to do this in front of the kids. She looks at the children, "Sit down! Your FATHER and I have something to discuss." Outside the doors, I ask, "Have you lost your marbles? Don't you know what our conciliation agreement and divorce judgment say?" "I don't care what they say, we have a new order, bla bla bla," She is defiant.

Jazz and Maya have left their seats, walked outside and are now listening. I don't have the presence of mind to send them back in for the ensuing meltdown. It wouldn't have made any difference, in hindsight. I tell Tammy that I will keep them the extra two hours, as agreed to, and I'll see her at three, which is all that should have ever taken place that morning. Instead, She goes ballistic. Full meltdown. If you do that, I'll call the police. "Call the police," I say. It's already too late. She has commenced the hysteria that will destroy not only the day's visit, but emotionally gut both children at once. I look over at Jazz. He's facing the brick wall and moaning to himself, exactly like he had done during Tammy's pre-Christmas meltdown. She's done it again.

She storms back into the police station and yells at the woman behind the window begging for assistance as though she's being raped. I follow her in. The woman receptionist takes a good long look at Tammy, "TAKE IT OUTSIDE," pointing to the door as she says it. My poor children. She will now stop at nothing to make this Daddy's fault. I walk back outside and look at Jazz, who has totally regressed into a two year old, crying, "I want to stay with Mommy," a quick, scared to death staccato tone. Maya starts to cry with him. His fear is now hers. Both children have been torn to shreds by an emotionally unstable egg donor. For Jazz and Maya this is pure TRAUMA. I pick Jazz up, his body has gone completely limp, another now common body response to Tammy's chaos and insanity. I put him back down. I look at Tammy and this pathetic, pitiful scenario that she has weaved together. All achieved by her acting out and enabling unsavories back at the trauma pit, uh, er apartment..... not to mention AMY L. NEIMAN.

She now has the children broken, crying, and huddled around her. She has accomplished her subconsciously desired conflict/chaos scenario. An unstable, incapable parent at work. Dysfunction. All at the expense of two defenseless young souls. I didn't know if this day with the children was even salvageable now. Last chance. I tell her, "I am going to walk out to the curb (some 100 feet away), and I will walk back. While I'm gone, please apologize to Jazz and Maya, tell them you've made a big mistake. I'll be back in a couple of minutes. Tell them you're sorry."

That was a long walk out to the curb. I looked at the sky. I shook my head. She can't be this sick, I said to myself. "She's gone," I said quietly aloud to myself. No one with all their faculties could or would ever do this to their own or any children.

The walk back to the station front door was one of anticipation for a day with my children that might still be. After all this was the first weekend of the entire Spring Break. Inside the horrors had snowballed. Tammy was now knelt beside the two crying babes, crying profusely herself, clutching them tightly, one child hooked in each arm. I stood in silence for a few seconds watching my helpless children with a deadbeat mom, while my hope for a day with them died right there. Taking the kids away from an hysterical mother at this point was not an option. Their grief would have escalated into unmentionable territory. It was time to walk away. Tammy's need to internally dose, a direct after-effect from trauma in her life, now catalyzed by her cult/cauldron brainwashing, had superseded any rational parental decision making. Jazz and Maya it's not your fault. Your Mommy can't protect you from herself, let alone any of the freaks that she brings or allows around you. God please protect my children.

When Tammy and this perpetrator moved in together, they had done so without giving me a forwarding address. This is in complete violation of both our signed court documents. Jazz and Maya both were finding it "novel" that they were keeping a secret from Daddy, where they lived. I had to bite my tongue every time they would happily say, "We have a new place and it's a secret." I set an ex-parte hearing for the middle of the following week to see about getting the visitation changed. This was now nothing short of child abduction. Judge Hammer (a female, I think) was sitting in for Cowan. I wanted the court to rule on the validity of our conciliation agreement and divorce judgment and the fact that this was bordering on child abduction. She said the court couldn't help me with such matters, that I would need an attorney, and that if I needed help, I should contact the police. I told the judge that calling the police wouldn't do any good as I didn't even know where my children lived. "I'm sorry, Mr. Duval, you'll need an attorney." said the judge. I left the courtroom in a daze. Jazz and Maya, it's not your fault, and your Dad loves you...... sooooo much.

Spring Break '08 came and went with nothing resolved. After all of that rigmarole, I was able to visit Jazz and Maya 15 out of a possible 384 hours. Criminal. Absolutely criminal. In the family circle, this invokes a sort of time debt. Something has been stolen. Something is owed. This is a debt that I am positive the universe takes clear stock of. Time, precious time for such young souls. Time that goes by. Time being denied from a loving, caring, and capable parent, a father in this case. Parenting Time that is synonymous with experience, love, care, and understanding. Time that becomes seemingly time lost, hopefully being transferred to the bank of loving care, into a trust account, where it may gather interest and compound daily, for to be withdrawn at a later date, and spent lavishly on these hungry young hearts in tow. Godspeed. I love you Jazz and Maya. It's not your fault.

I dropped off the children on Sunday, March 30th, at one o'clock in the afternoon. I bid therm a farewell, told them I loved them, and that I'd see them the following morning, Monday, at school.

That next morning at Maya's preschool, there was no sign of Tammy or the kids. I immediately phoned Tammy. No answer. I left a message. No return call. I phoned again a few minutes later to Jazz's school to see if Tammy had left a message there in case of Jazz's pending absence that day (this was protocol at the school for any absences). No such call had been made. Hmmmm. Where were they? Still no return phone call from Tammy. I left and phoned both schools later in the day and there were no children and no left messages. I guessed that one of them had taken ill and Tammy had just forgot protocol. That was believable. Hung out to dry.

Tuesday, I went through the exact same routine, ala Groundhog Day (I could have used Bill Murray for a laugh at this point). No Tammy. No children. No calls. The day became painfully long. Three o'clock came and I wanted to go ask Jazz's teacher if she had heard any news from Tammy. None. Just outside the gate, I run into my friend, Jon, who has since become the head of the PTA at Jazz's elementary school. Jon hears my concerns and says that the office could contact the mother for me, if she's not answering my calls. great idea.

I go into the office and ask if Bela, the "office coordinator" if you will, would be so kind as to phone Jazz's mother (it hurts just writing the word "mother" here) and find out what the F@#* is going on. Two days and I don't know where my children are. She said she would be glad to. Bela returns with an email that she had just received within the last hour. This email says that Jazz's records are being requested for his enrollment at another elementary school in El Segundo where he would now been attending. You have got to be kidding. Thirty weeks have gone by in the school year. There are only ten weeks left and she is actually going to pull the kids out for her convenience..... without my consent.

There could be no driving inconvenience claimed as I had offered any or all transportation to and/or from school in court. It is on record. On top of everything these kids have been subjected to, the common sense and decency to let the children finish out their school years was a no-brainer. This also would have conformed to every court ordered program we had recently attended stressing consistency as probably the most necessary component in a young child's life. Their ontological security in its most vulnerable stage. I asked both Jazz and Maya's teachers if they thought they should finish out their years where they were. Unanimously, they agreed. A NO-BRAINER DECISION. Any learned person would easily ascertain that this pulling the kids out of school was an act merely to get at me, their father. Jazz and Maya, again, it's not your fault.

I didn't get before a judge with this horrendous, blatant display of contempt until April eleventh. Another two full school weeks that Jazz and Maya would be out of school. Maya would never go back to preschool this entire semester.

On Friday, the eleventh of April, before the judge, pro tem David J. Cowan, Tammy was alone before the judge as Kook Kight for some reason was unable to attend. Cowan asked her what she was doing taking the kids out of school without the consent of the father. She said, I paraphrase, "I just wanted to." Cowan asked her if she had consulted her attorney before taking the kids out of school. She replied that she hadn't. Cowan told her that what she had done is a contemptible act and this matter was not to be taken lightly by the court. He said I quote, almost verbatim, "I can't see how on top of everything that these children have been through this year that taking them out of school this late in the year is in their best interest." I thought the clouds of denial had parted and, finally, Cowan was actually seeing the real Tammy. FINALLY...... That thought was short lived.

Cowan, instead of ordering the children back in school like any "parent" or person with an ounce of common sense would have done, says, in spineless oratory, "well since your attorney isn't here, we'll have to take up this matter next week." In other words, the kids come second and we, the so called adults, will discuss this in a week. BULLSHIT. F'N BULSHIT.

At the trial the following week, any sign of the common sense that had briefly appeared like condensation on Cowan's cranial cavity was all but gone. Back in court were minors detriment uh er council, Amy L. Nieman, and Kook Kight himself. Cowan had waited, at my children's expense, for his safe zone, wanting Nieman and Kight to tell him what to do. He obliged, caving in like a tired, old, mangy, nutless, tick-ridden English Sheepdog. All he had to hear from Amy was that she felt the kids would be better off where the mother had taken them. That is it. The dynamics have been solidified: I am there defending my children against three attorneys and there is no judge anywhere to be seen. Cowan, by sheer negligence, ends up greenlighting all of these contemptuous acts. He has turned his head to the law once again and the kids, NOT ME, my children, have lost again.

Also on this date my rightful, at this point dutiful, and formal request to have this bias, prejudice group of so called "officers of the court"(Nieman and Cowan) removed and replaced was denied. There was a reference on the court's minutes of a "non-appearance". If this non-appearance was adhered to myself, I have never been out of that courtroom in ANY of these kangaroo, drumhead proceedings. It was just one more action by a courtroom acting above the law and thinking that no one would call them on any of these proceedings. Bias & Prejudice Personified. Jazz and Maya it's not your fault.

It was ANOTHER two weeks until Jazz even made it back to school. Four week plus Spring Break. Maya as I had mentioned never even stepped foot back in a preschool. This was also without my consent. She was to spend most of her time in front of a television while her "mother" was on the computer. This is what she told her Daddy. Her first year graduation at preschool stolen by a selfish parent. Criminal.

I am fully prepared to go all the way and to hold legally accountable ALL the bastards heretofore mentioned....... and any accessories as well. Guaranteed.

The day before I wrote this, May twenty-first, two-thousand eight, we had just completed the preliminary attempts to have Tammy formally stand before the court on contempt. I had already filed the necessary papers. On that morning in court, the judge felt it necessary to "believe" Tammy's attorney, Kook Kight, that I was "a volcano ready to blow", and that I should go under a psychiatric evaluation. Tammy went so far as to state on record that I was a "threat to obtain a weapon." I for the previous year or so have been exchanging the children at the El Segundo Police Dept..... I am going to obtain a gun and bring it to the police station????? I told Cowan that I had already offered my mental state for evaluation at least twice already in court. Taking sides, believing the lies, Cowan felt it necessary to impose a six-month restraining order on me. No threats had ever been made on my part. Kook Kight can physically threaten me twice (once in front of Cowan) and have that matter dismissed. Yet without any evidence, I have a restraining order against me. INSANE. I was to miss my son's First Grade graduation ceremonies. I am presently only see them at pick-up and drop-off at the El Segundo Police Station. It gets worse.

In full compliance, I committed myself at the court's request one morning soon after the trial to the local loony bin Exodus, in Culver City. One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest in the flesh. Every mental condition you could think of present. I was interviewed by two intake personnel and thirdly, the clinic's Director, Dr. William Wershing. He gave me a stellar bill of mental health and offered me his services including appearing for me in court, if I needed him. A ?Saint? of a man. Patience beyond scope.

Santa Monica Court, June fifth, o eight trial date, Tammy, with both children, one on each arm, obviously not taking Jazz to school this day, walk by me. I am seated in the courtroom hallway. They are on their way to the child care room on the bottom floor. I say "Good Morning, Jazz and Maya", as they passed by within three feet of me. They both stared straight ahead like robots, Jazz even smiling, as they passed, saying nothing. Pathetic, I said under my breath. Criminal. Again. Using the children to get at the other parent is the most significant confirmation of mental illness I can think of. However, as you have read, it's not the first time, and this confirms it won't be the last. I live on pins and needles as Jazz and Maya are in this Mental-Ward-Bound-Freak & Co.'s care. 5150s.

When I asked the kids later that day at parenting time why they didn't say anything to me or even look over, they replied, "Mommy said to walk by Daddy and not look at him or say anything." Thank God I have it on audio tape. God help me.

When I see my friends around town, they give me the thumbs up and say keep doin what you're doin. Keep fighting. I have not one iota of quit in me. Jazz and Maya, this is ongoing work to set safe boundaries for your souls, your character, and your integrity. I'll say it again and again, it's not your fault. I love you. I love you. More to be revealed..... Check this out my prince and princess.... if alot of your questions haven't been answered, here you go ? and as I have always told you, Daddy DOES NOT lie to you.

ONE, TWO, THREE, DADDY NEVER LEAVES

NEVER FADE

Chicken Butts after 8/18/11 In Progress

9/21/11 It's been almost a month since taking pen to paper. The dismissal of your mother's contempt charges after a motion to reconsider with envelopes, computer discs with original data stored, and a warm body there [yes, an actual agent there from AT&T to authenticate my phone records to you, children] were all dismissed as hearsay. I appealed immediately. The process continues I have started opening up some wonderful new avenues that will lead to relief and to the righting of at least some of the wrongs that have been declared time after time in these "scrolls." I love you, Jazz and Maya. I'm right here.

9/23/11 A short phone call to you both tonight. Same short responses and I still remind you that it's not your fault, kids. I want to have a banner fly over your school, Jazz, next Wednesday, but the flight zone is too close to the Los Angeles International Airport. I'd do it in a heartbeat, son. I spent the day starting a new appeal, a visit with a new attorney that will assist me in shooting down Kook Kight's attempt to dismiss the civil suit, and helping out a friend with some new clothes. I stand in disbelief at the circumstances. I write and think of the day you will read my words that I have left for you here, with me ready to answer all your questions there at your side, and we will wonder why together why people do the things they do in such a beautiful God-Crafted Universe especially to defenseless children. I love you so much. I am just a few miles down the road in a coffee shop looking up at a hill that I know you're just beyond, held hostage by a wicked witch. Not for long. Sweet Dreams tonight.

9/28/11 You're ten today, son. How about them apples? No answer. No call back. No way to get a present to you.. You probably think I'm nowhere to be found. In reality, I'm still just a few miles away sitting here and writing away. I was in court this afternoon again today for more documents to provide to the appellate court. Friday I'll be downtown for yet another round of higher court pleadings. Kook Kight has to receive some answers before the fifteenth of October. What a maroon. The barbecue of truth awaits these unsavories, and I'm in a grillin mood. Kind of a birthday card for you, son: What I wrote for you on Facebook today and signed by some friends:
Matt Rapf, Dave Botkin, and Dan Callahan three men who know you! You just don't know them yet! Damon Anthony Duval

God 911: God, I have a son who turned ten today. I haven't seen him for his last three birthdays. His captors wouldn't neither accept nor return a court ordered phone call tonight. Happy Birthday, Jazz. I have a present for you that isn't my choice not to be able to give to you. Jail sucks. I've visited friends in jail. I love you, Jazz. You, too Maya. Big Daddy's right here.

Jazz and Maya, what is being done to you is too much. Way too much. Heads will roll, I'm sure, and you will be taught by me to deal with the hate you will instinctively be facing against these perpetrators. I will be there for you when this happens, I promise. Til tomorrow! Love, Daddy.

10/4/11 - A no call night, children. As time [years now] passes by, I sense that although you may not get to see or hear me other than the ten minutes [really only two or three when you answer] God can and will maintain our season tickets to our lives. As for now He'll do it through nature's original wireless: Prayer and Faith. I went to the store today children and bought some presents for you and me both. What I want for us to have as a starting point when we do get to see each other after the reunification therapy. A secret for now. I can't wait to show you. I guess I'll have to. What a pile of ^$%#@^. Patience Patience Patience... I love you. I turn 50 in two days, guys. Do you even know? I'm planning another ENTIRE weekend coming up to write/answer Kook Kight's crap. I hope this is over soon. For your sake and for your souls.

10/8/11 Well my 50th birthday came and went, children. I didn't call on my birthday. It just didn't seem right. You didn't say Happy Birthday to me on you own behalf yesterday (the day after my birthday), so I figured it was just as well. What a tear up job your mother and her maggots are doing on you. The foundation upon which they stand isn't looking too stable. I'm out at Ivan and Ana's working on further responses to an already "substantially" answered document. Kight convinced the court with his BS that I should be sanctioned 2,500 dollars and change for objecting and denying the crap he has written.

10/12/11 after a week of working with Ivan, I just finished this Kight Krap response. What the hell is wrong with your mother, children? I love you.

Mr. Damon A. Duval
1320 Franklin Street #B
Santa Monica, California 90404 ph. 310-740-7185
All Rights Reserved Without Prejudice