A Truly Worthy Columbus

THE MISAPPROPRIATION OF LITTLE WHITE LIES CAN MAIM AND EVEN KILL - Jonathan Swift

One again, Aaron, one of the kindest humans I have ever met.  

Thinking back to that period of my life when Aaron's influence on my niche of the world was strongest, one important factor I remember most affectionately: His father.  

His father, then an executive in Los Angeles, longed to see his son return to him.  Apparently, in this case of a semi-broken family tie, Aaron's father and mother divorced, and as usually occurs with children of divorcees, the parental break angered him.  So much so that he pulled away from his loving father and went his own way.  

Late at night: "How's my boy?"  

Aaron's father.  Calling from what could have been almost anywhere in the world.  Sporadically, he'd want to see how his son was faring.  

"He's doing really well," I told the man.  May that have been music to his wondering ear?  Bittersweet music, sometimes, offers some solace.   

So I'd tell Aaron about it. I'd ask him, "Why don't you and your dad talk a little about this?"  

Once, as we sat in Aaron's old white VW van, he reached for the glove compartment and pulled out a worn paperback copy about the Jewish tradition.  

"He wants me to read this," he said.  

"Why not read it?"  

His answer may or may not have obscured the truth in his eyes. He simply was no longer certain he could embrace those ideas.  

"You should read the book.  Your dad loves you." 

That brief interaction took place in a time where I cannot quite fit it.  What is important here is how Aaron knocked on my door at the unheard of hour, at least to me, of just after sunup on a coolish spring morning. 

"Come go with me," he quietly urged. "You need to meet Columbus".  

"What?"  

"You'll see.  This is gonna be great!" 

Into the van we crawled, and in seconds it seems, Aaron was plowing through traffic southbound to downtown Dallas, and then, after that passes, into what is known as a dangerous neighborhood: South Dallas. This is an area on the back side of the business district.  Down a steep hill, less than a mile past an awfully obnoxious smell of burning chicken feathers due to the then-operating Pilgrim's Pride chicken processing plant, a pale yellow edifice of galvanized steel and rank smoke, through a sort of dead man's land, one then finds oneself approaching another downtown area.  Next to the Martin Luther King Center, home of state, local and federal service offices, recreational facilities, classrooms and all sorts of counselors; was that where Aaron was taking me?  

Nope.  Aaron swung a right, and we slid through South Dallas, headed into areas abutting Oak Cliff, and then, what? A left? Out of Oak Cliff? 

I'd never seen the area Aaron took me that morning.  And the location grew near-ominous.  First a few battered and beaten-down old houses, many likely "dope houses", and then, mysteriously, past that into darker and darker environs.  

Soon, two white guys were deep inside perhaps the worst ghetto I could ever have imagined, both in 1992 and in 2025.  Horrific.  Shells of civilization everywhere.  A few stragglers, old people in the main, and yet a few new luxury cars. 

"Watch out," Aaron murmured.  "Be careful who you look at."  

OK OK. I felt growing fear.  That's when my friend cracked a couple of jokes.  "I've been here.  I think it'll be fine for a while.  But keep your eyes peeled." 

We entered a "neighborhood"--if anyone wants to dub it such.  Broke-down houses everywhere.  None with windows, none with even tall weeds.  Piles of garbage in the middle of what once looked to be a cul de sac.  

"OK.  Are you ready to meet Columbus?"  

Remember? 1992 was the 400th anniversary of Columbus' European discovery of North America.  

"Are you nuts?  It's not Columbus Day."  

"No.  No!  That's his name!  He's a veteran!"  

Ouch.  Here?  A veteran?  Here? 

"Columbus is in real bad shape!"

And: "Get those bandages!" 

As if in some vague horror movie that took place on a breezy morning instead of in the pit of night, Aaron and I carefully crept up on the broken porch of a literal hole of a building.  

"Be careful.  Nails are all over." 

Inside, to our left, sat an old man.  On the dingiest mattress I've ever seen.  And the smell.  Of pus, of some blood, mainly smoke, and worst of all, piles of discarded cigarette butts.  As we looked in on the old World War II veteran, we also could smell the odor of cheap alcohol.  

Of course: the dead-in-the-water buck-thirty-nine treat of particularly tainted whiskey.  At the feet of the shriveled Black man, papers, a scatter of old, wrinkled, stained sheets.  

My friend asked me to sit with the old man.  Name: Columbus. Meanwhile, Aaron rifled through the sheets. "His VA papers.  Wait...YEAH!  These are the papers we need!" 

Stunned, I innocently asked, "Why is Columbus living here?  Doesn't he have Social Security and VA benefits?"

"He does.  But his sister got power of attorney." 

"What happened?"  I expected the worst.  

"Gang-bangers threatened her.  Made her give them Columbus' checks."  

Sheesh!  And the smell of that place.  Part mildew.  Part simple hopelessness. 

Columbus' skin was so dry, white flakes in places had become fissures, dried blood gridlocked in some.  Other fissures looked wet.  

Aaron pulled a small bottle of alcohol out of his backpack.  And cotton balls. 

"Columbus?  Hey.  It's me.  Aaron.  Wake up a little.  This might sting. . . ". 

The old Navy veteran: A man who had fought under Chester Nimitz, Commander of the US Pacific Fleet, I later learned, the fleet that delivered the first blow to Japanese imperialists at the famed battle of Midway, wore an ash-strewn coat that seemed almost as old.  Fifty years prior.  Fifty.  Midway was fought and won in 1942, June 7, 1942.  

"Come on, Gordon.  We've got to get him to the VA Hospital. We got his papers. I think we can get him a bed."  

Then we saw her: an old woman. She began to moan when we spotted her behind a thin excuse for a partition.  

"She's hurt.  Look at that wound on her leg." 

"I think she must have passed out and her leg leaned against that space heater.  She must have been awfully drunk to not feel her skin burning. . .". 

Wow. 

Columbus, and a strange woman, not exactly residents of Club Med.  

"So.  All his money has been stolen?" 

"Yeah.  Those gangsters took it all. Every month.  Extortion.  They'd threaten his sister, Gordon. I went to see her.  She lives just over there." 

Aaron pointed to another ragged house beyond "the perimeter."  

"She was shaking when I approached," he said.  "I think she might have had a gun." 

No reason not to.  That's what I thought.  

"What about the police?" 

"I don't think the bangers'll let them in here."

"What?" 

Those empty buildings.  Sentries."

Slowly, Aaron and I lifted a definitely reluctant Columbus, WW II veteran, off the bed.  We lifted him off his feet, and took him to the van. 

Then, something happened. 

From across a space between the "Columbus building" , another house bore a man. With a shotgun.  Trained on us.

"Hey!"  Aaron waved. "Remember me?"

The shotgun slowly, suspiciously lowered.  

"We're gonna get Columbus outta here!" 

The old man across the garbage strewn way nodded.  Did he smile? 

With a push, a shove, and some ouches, Columbus made it into the van.  Front seat.  Next to my friend Aaron.  

"We going to VA?"  

"Nah.  We gotta clean Columbus up!" 

"Where?" 

"Your apartments!"  

"What???"  

"Isn't there a vacant apartment next door to yours?  Didn't you say the window was wide open?"  

The ride out of that urban waste was terrifying.  After each intersection, two white guys in a van--followed by slowly rolling autos.  Gangs.  Watching our every move.  

Whoa, I tell you, I was half-past terrified.  I look back at that long stretch of minutes in leaving that horror place. Not so much with trepidation.  But with the knowledge both Aaron and I could have been killed.  And to think elders lived there?  

All is not pretty in many great big cities.  Many do not have the financial resources to clean up such areas.   Why then is the current administration so worrisome with ICE?  Can't Homeland Security send those payees off to clean out some of what probably exist in all major American cities?  

I have no idea why not.  

Back to my old "bomb shelter" of an apartment building.  

"Here!" Aaron pressed money into my hand.  Over to Melton at the Army Store, he urged.  Get Columbus some sweat pants and a sweatshirt." 

And: "Once I get that front door open, I'm gonna give Columbus a bath.  Got some soap?" 

Fetched soap. Gladly.  This had now become exciting.  

Exciting--in the aftermath of a bitter winter for me.  I still did not know I suffer from Bipolar Disorder.  All the world was flattened before my eyes.  Flat as a deadline.  Flat as a red line.  

Melton, a familiar face in the Knox-Henderson area in 1992, raised eyebrows when I got XXL clothes and some fresh socks.  "What're you up to now, Gordon?" 

"I'll tell you later."  

Seemed an eternity, Aaron bathing an old man.  After nearly one hour, Aaron emerged, Columbus limping beneath his sheltering arms. 

"OK, Gordon.  I'm going to get him into VA," he hooted.  This was serious.  Columbus needed hospitalization.  One of his medical papers had noted Columbus had heart problems as well. He clearly wasn't using his meds. Not using meds? Why would a desperate man forego lifesaving meds? 

And you ask? 

Right now, I want to tear-up in remembrance and honor of my friend Aaron's heroism.  Maybe a little of that in me too was left.  In the aftermath, once he'd shown the VA check-in staff Columbus' papers, the hospital gladly admitted a man who had fought so many battles as fierce as "a personal Midway" I cannot even comprehend what the man had gone through.  Yeah, yeah.  Those who only judge by looks or by superficial expressions of "status" are going to miss the meaning of what Aaron, with a little help, accomplished that morning. 

Who deserves respect?  Who doesn't?  Who chooses what or whom to respect?  Why so many pointless "flatlines" in the characters of those who wield power so irresponsibility.  

The gangsters.  Aaron later told me he contacted the FBI about gangsters extorting money from a war hero and a war hero's terrified sister. 

I'm certain old Columbus, who finally did receive the federal services he deserved, especially after so much tribulation, enjoyed numerous cups of crushed ice.  

*

Let Us Now Reappraise Post Opinionists

By Gordon Hilgers

Yesterday afternoon, a Dallas area respite of "good weather"...processed. 

In other words, here on the cusp of a fall which sometimes hits 90 in November, the weather had decided all by itself to be amenable, pleasant, a little like a taste of Divinity, Xmas cookie, long before Santa arrives. 

What was I doing way out here on some mysterious ledge?  I had to check myself.  Was I OK? 

Wait.  The ledge?  

That was the little balcony / front porch I've found "fitting" as long as typically inclement weather manages to relent, all by itself.  Without help from the Weather Underground or whatever subversive forces that might have total control of the climate-control zeitgeist.  

Indeed.  Control .  Absolute control of the weather is almost like the not-so famous "trinity" tactic familiar among Southern socialites; and a secret among politically ideological circles of the backward variety here and perhaps everywhere.  

As long as it's inside.  Right?  Right.  

Anyway, a wonderful live Littlefeat record, "Waiting For Columbus", aired on a remote speaker I've owned for a good six years.  Recall?  I was sitting outside. Then the second song on the record also processed--via digital media.  Mavens of 70s classic-but-underground songs might irk at the thought of pre-digital music being digitized.  But I'm not a doctrinaire connoisseur; I don't mind or fret.  

Vinyl gets scratchy.  It's a waste of precious oil too.  Which is probably the point: Go along, get along, help fools waste the planet.  Why not?    

Whatever.  Lyrics from a song called "All That You Dream" then hit my mind's tiny scoreboard:

"All of the good, good times were ours

In the land of milk and honey

And time, time adds its scars

Rainy days they turn to sunny ones

Livin' the life, livin' the life lovin' everyone."

This is a now nearly unknown song written by a genius, a man named Lowell George.  Like so many highly creative humans, he's known to have struggled with depression.  

That's serious.  Not mawkish.  Not funny.  

George endured sometimes-public emotional stability issues.  Objective input:  OK.  Reaction from inside reaction: not OK.  

Never managed his depression and mood swings well.  

Substance abuse.  Alcoholism.  Obesity.  George must have been in untoward recoils of inner pain.  

Eventually, after years of not dealing, on July 29, 1979, George, one of the finest songwriters of the era, died of a massive heart attack.  

How did he maintain his magnificent creativity through pain and interruption? 

In this age of subjective valuation, an economic idea that has now bled into everything beyond my front porch, "All That You Dream" could mean almost anything.  The song's boogie begins auspiciously, slow and breezy, then trips--into jagged, unsteadiness, a broken break that might reflect:

How does it feel to have a manic episode?  

Every little mental manifestation staggers into unruly distortion.  Man, that really hurts.  It's like being surrounded by a thousand AM radios, each of them tuned to a different station.  Who on earth is strong enough (to put it into 70s countercultural slang); how does one maintain?  

This dream nonsense, though, is inconsequential to any contemporary and excessively urbane newspaper guest piece of anyone's mind.  Who's experienced enough to get close to the nib of the nub of typically cross verbiage?   

Also: who gets to enter a great newspaper's foyer never get so far as the elevator door?

There.  Manic depression.  Ever wonder how one of the 20th Century's finest poets, Robert Lowell, could have maintained in a newsroom?  

Pray tell us all.  Please.    

In a world of punditocracy: no matter.  A Bipolar encountering the "true pundit" thereof might be reminiscent of an encounter with Jeri Ryan's heartily remembered Star Trek: Voyager character. Ryan, as 7 of 9, portrays a "recovering Borg", a half human, half machine.  She's taken aboard Voyager.  Does she ultimately recover her humanity?  Will she become capable of emotional response?   

A half-cyborg pundit would put it like 7 of 9: "Irrelevant."  

Resistance is futile.  

So it is what it is.  Thus, let us appraise, in the style of muckraker Jessica Mitford, the inimitable characteristics of Post opinionists.  

Yeah, yeah, I certainly buried the lede. But I do have some "cred" here. I kinda know how to express both ideas and emotions via black-and-white.  I like to picture myself skilled enough with mind-to-representation to avoid the mere black-and-white and soar through the Post's ever-lovin' white space like a champ.  

Possibly not true.  Nevertheless....

I've been reading the Washington Post for eight-to-nine years.  Get it?  7 of 9?  I got you beat.   

Also: I've eagerly read the columnists, even the fifth columnists, especially those I note are obsessed with dragging home to me distasteful opinions like mutts who steal a neighbor's newspaper and eagerly bring it home for maybe a treat: Alpo.  If that's unavailable, how about some Kibbles and Bits or Snausages?  

Mister Kool-Aid says OH YEAH!  

Kibbles and Bits: highly canine-acclaimed doggie treats designed to make beasts feel prominently and worthy of onlookers.    

Apropos, eh?  Props to the correct perspectives!  

Let's start with George Will, one of the country's most beloved of lapsed conservatives. No Backslider's Blues for George.  When the ever-white (or orange) occupant took over the letters W and H in 2017, Will, to my admiration, abandoned the always "partying down" GOP.  

As big dogs,Republicans are basicallyPugs.  No mere dogs, they. Little, swollen creatures with  abashed aggression which pee on left front parked cars tires--marking turf.  

Big dogs.   Average height of the mighty Pug?  

Ten to 13 inches tall. Toothy giants of the Grand Canines.    

Will?  You bet.  Discoveries involving area are always"agreeable" in Will's World.  Quite sophisticated too. In both countenance and mien.  This eminent opinonist bears a somewhat fierce scowl.  That's enough to frighten away all the Progressives in the whole wide world.  

Fierceness!  Representative of the pundit's determined willfulness. Fearsomeness has to be. 

Will went all Libertarian in ideological fealty early in 2016 as I recall.  That deft move struck me strange, mainly because Will, The Man, had been pushing Reaganism, the good times disease,since working for the Bigger Man in the 1980s.  

Libertarianism.  What's that?  An ideology began as a child of 19th Century anarchists.  Anarchists.  Seriously?  Yes, it's difficult to dispute PIerre-Joseph Proudhon's stance re tactics designed to shut down monarchies in favor of something more justifiable. 

Amen, Pierre-Joseph!  Shut 'em down!     

Who's this Proudhon? No prude, hon. He tossed a sharp-dressed quip into controversy as Marxism began to leave tire treads almost everywhere: 

"Property is theft!" ~ John-Pierre Proudhon

Indeed.  Property per natural law is nothing more nor less than outright theft from the very earth we all walk on.  At least that's one subjective valuation of property.  Kinda like how real estate developers make silent agreements and then pretend to be hard-ball competitors on the so-called battlefield of baseball.  

George seems to really like that.  Doesn't opine much on rampantly obtuse property developers like those in my neck of all the metropolitan areas.  

Regardless and first of all, let's be certain he's all about developiing his property. Mainly just because, for as a sort of closeted conservative (not that there's anything wrong with that...) it's good for him to express quite nattily over his propertarianism.  George's one stark and near-perfect exemplar of not astigmatism, but of the mind that property and capital are sacred and must always go first.  

Organizing principles such as mere government, per Willian argumentation, can go jump in the lake.  We are coerced into hope: organized anything can't swim.  

Until it hits solid beachfront property.  

Hence, I imagine George attired in sports jackets, preferably understated Scottish plaid.  There he is, an insider at NW DC's Lincoln Waffle Shop, urging others in line: Step aside and let ownership get first dibs on the pecan pie.  

Inside limos, forever on the way home, he might scowl somewhat at ghettoism, otherwise known as roughshod products of socialist bootheels.  

See them?  They're everywhere.  Damned Bolsheviks!  

In said limo's rear seat, it's inappropriate to holler "Shotgun!" as would any other Princeston-bred Southerner on the way back to Oxford.  Regardless, George certainly thinks he gets what in the South is agreeably labeled "the front seat passenger's position". 

Not a backseat driver!  Shotgun!  Shotgun now!   

Princeton.  That was hard.  Contains the word, prince, within it.  Which prince? Sir Walter Raleigh?  Perhaps Prince, the musical genius who wrote "Purple Rain". Who played most of the instruments.     

George Will in his Washington Post "Facebook photo", is now no longer a mere photo; his image is a work of "high culture" tantamount to Mike Judge's King of the Hill.  Or a character from a 1919 classic: the Katzenjammer Kids.  

Not comical!  Stop comedy now! 

Wait.  Katzenjammer what?  Per Will: Look it up!

I love cartoonists.  

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