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Wagyu, With a Side of Rage

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Shorthorn Wagyu in Japan by Mikochan

Each year on St. Patrick’s Day my wife and I celebrate our wedding anniversary.  18 years ago we eloped and, after some scrambling around in Lake Tahoe where the chapels were all closed for the holiday, were married at the Chapel of the Bells on 4thStreet in Reno, Nevada.  Ten minutes earlier there had been an emotional and heavily flowered funeral in the same chapel, and I was so broke in those days I couldn’t even afford the VHS tape of the admittedly bizarre nuptial ceremony.  Two decades later it still brings a smile, and I wouldn’t change a thing.

This year we decided to celebrate by splurging on an egregiously expensive (and worth every penny) dinner at Bos Taurus, in Bend, Oregon.  The restaurant is about a year old and backed by the same trio of energetic young men who built the 10 Barrel Brewing Company into a giant.  10 Barrel was recently snapped up by AB InBev, which turned three young American entrepeneurs into very wealthy young Americans in relatively short fashion.  Although they were vilified for “selling out” by certain true-believers in Bend, I have a hard time seeing it that way.  The kids busted their asses, built a company with value, and sold it to deeper pockets.  In my view that’s a job well done.

The trip into Bend was to be a nice escape, as I haven’t been away from the Figure 8 much lately, what with the snow damage and various other demands, not least of which is plugging the final edits into my forthcoming book.

But Bend, Oregon, is becoming something more like a similarly sized California city these days, with homelessness a growing problem and a proliferation of crime and crazies in the downtown corridor.  And so it was that while walking to the restaurant, in a bright but still crisp spring afternoon, while enjoying the company of my wife, a gaggle of crazies began aggressively heckling us as we walked by.

In California, at least among cops, we referred to these people as “Yoachers”.  They are essentially gypsy nitwits who follow the handout circuit, which runs roughly from Seattle to San Diego and back again with occasional inland forays.  They like hacky-sack, anarchy, and never seem to run out of forlorn and diseased-looking dogs who they shamelessly pimp for sympathy and vodka money. They also smell bad, usually have Hep C, HIV, and/or tuberculosis, as well as a laundry list of mental-health problems associated with a life whose highest aspiration is to get high for free.

Santa Barbara Yoachers

The heckling was aimed in my direction, as I had put on my Sunday best for an evening out with my wife.  This means a jacket and tie, my requisite hat, with sunglasses to keep the glare down. Boots and buckle complete the ensemble, which somehow solicited unwanted and unpleasant commentary from the street wits. The cajoling was of the typical variety offered up by bums, meant to provoke a response and all of the unpleasantness that inevitably follows, but because I have dealt with many hundreds of drunk, stoned, or just plain crazy hobos, I could smile at them with knowing-ease as we walked past.

It’s incidental that I never leave my front door without a firearm.  The truth in modern America is that you just can’t predict when a threat will suddenly appear, or why, or how, and the one day you decide to venture out unprepared may also be the day you must decisively defend yourself, your family, or even complete strangers from bodily harm.  And, contrary to the misconception held by many who would like to polish up the reputation of our country’s many hundreds of thousands of aggressive bums, they are not all harmless.  In some cases they are quite dangerous, and as a civilian walking down the street it is impossible to know which.

But another thought I have is that average citizens really shouldn’t be forced to wonder if a bum, or anyone else, is suddenly going to go full batshit.  The onus of wondering should really remain squarely on the offender, because somewhere in the back of his lizard brain he should be wondering if the well-dressed, mild-mannered guy in the hat is going to run him through with a sword, or double-tap his engine room the minute he steps too far out of line.  I like that world view much better, frankly, which seems to restore some dignity back to the average citizen who has been forced by incrementalism to accommodate bums, crooks, and the growing army of belligerent American ne’er-do-wells.

One anecdote I like to share in this regard occurred one afternoon in Santa Barbara, California, in a small alcove near the Santa Barbara Roasting Company off Parker Way.  My partner and me were stealing a minute from the city to enjoy a hot cup of coffee, listening to the police radio in a detached way, our backs against the wall while looking across the street at a squat, decaying apartment building full of drug users and sellers, and where we had responded to numerous domestic violence incidents. The calls for service there were always interesting because the rooms upstairs were cheap, filthy, and inhabited exclusively by illegal immigrants.  I am aware that such a declaration in today’s environment may actually cause civil defense sirens all across America to wail, but if you are in doubt I would invite you to head on down to Parker Way, go upstairs (be careful not to slip on the vomit, shit, booze bottles, or any of the hypodermic needles in the stairway) and knock on a few doors.

Found Body Scene in Santa Barbara. Yoacher.

But the RoCo, as we referred to it, was also a favorite among the wealth-and-sensitivity set in Santa Barbara, and so occasionally they would pull in to Parker Way and make a dash inside.  In this incident, a young lady was making her way toward the coffee shop when a veteran bum with a considerable criminal history came wandering out of the ice-plant along the 101 freeway.  He was outfitted in the requisite bum regalia, plastic trash bags for socks, vomit covered t‑shirt, Abby Hoffman hair, and an old, external frame backpack that smelled like 400 years of Malt Liquor, puke, piss, and decaying flesh.

He had not seen us in the alcove – which is why we were there in the first place — and began his harangue about 30 yards away.  Bum harangues tend to hinge on the amount of booze, crack, meth, crazy, or heroin that is actually on board the individual, but in this case a safe guess was that he was just starting out on his daily Search and Self-Destroy mission after sleeping off most of the day in the bushes, or in the culverts under the freeway.  What’s most likely is that he really needed some quick money to score a few cans of Steel Reserve, which is how they get well, after all.

As he walked up the street he had the full attention of the young lady, who was quickly filing through her stores of sensitivity memes in search of just the right obsequious tone, and also reaching for her wallet.  The bum kept coming, his harangue up an octave and stretching into the deeper realms of crazy, which is when I decided to do this lady a favor and send the bum packing in a different direction.

The woman, who might have chosen an education on the various forms of predation, was instead incensed, suggesting that the creature who had just wandered up from the underworld demanding money was “totally harmless,” and that I was a jackboot and that America was a police state.  This is, by the way, the very tired formula that rich and poor alike reach for out of pure reflex when they get mad at the cops.  And I’ve asked a few of them, out of curiosity, if they have ever been to a police state, but they generally haven’t so I find their opinions (which are really just emotions) unreliable on that point.  I have been to police states, and America is not yet one of them.

But here is where it gets interesting, if only because I knew that the bum in question had done a stretch for homicide, and harmless was not one of his character traits.  But the nice lady would hear none of it, and marched away to drop twelve-dollars on an iced-latte while motherfucking the cops over her shoulder.

A fine collection of Shun knives

So the point is, it remains far better to avoid assumptions about the foot-washing potential of the unknown bum, and to have a personal safety plan that incorporates the various possibilities of the dangerous and crazy.

But all of this is a long, roundabout way to say that the dinner served up at Bos Taurus was remarkable.  I had never tried Japanese Wagyu beef before.  I ordered it after a very thorough course in Wagyu from our server, a delightful guy named Todd who landed in Bend by way of Arizona, Wyoming, and Colorado.  Todd is an avid cyclist, professional in his work in the same way that French waiters are professional, and fun to be around.

At any rate, I ordered a 3‑ounce New York Strip cut.  Todd had warned me that it was wise to order that amount because the meat was so rich that it was also rapidly filling.  He offered the instructional case of a 6’9 athletic specimen from the LA Lakers who, while visiting Bos Taurus, had claimed with bravado that he would devour 10 ounces of Wagyu, but failed at 8.  So the reasoning was quite clear:  if a professional athlete, whose motor is running at Formula 1 speed, and whose appetites naturally outpace my own, could barely handle 8 ounces, my luck would probably run out at 3.  Also, but left unspoken, is the fact that my wallet would spontaneously ignite after 3 ounces.

Another thing I loved about this restaurant were the knives.  Todd brought out a box from which we were allowed to choose either a Blue Moon hammer-forged work of art, or a Shun Damascus blade.  The requisite jokes about Hattori Hanzo aside, I chose one of each even though I would need neither to eat my Wagyu, which is so tender it actually dissolves in your mouth.  But I wanted to spend some quality time with some excellent knives enhancing the beauty of our table.  Also, the preferred way to eat Wagyu – I learned – is with a beautiful pair of perfectly balanced stainless tongs that come with the meat.

But first, we began with a Hamachi Crudo, with compressed pear, tamari, pickled shitake, and yuzu. Crudo, I’ve learned, is the “Italian answer to sushi.”  The Italians evidently believe that soy sauce and wasabi destroy the taste of raw fish, which I’m not sure I believe, but either way it was fabulous.  It was also a dastardly flank attack on my darling wife, who detests sushi, but found the Hamachi Crudo surprisingly delectable.

So with the starter gone and the salad – a brilliant wedge with heirloom tomatoes, shaved scallions, crispy pork, and smokey blue cheese – put away, the steaks finally arrived.  At Bos Taurus they do not grill the meats, but rather cook them on cast iron, which creates a perfect char and no doubt benefits from seasoned pans, which every cow camp Dutch Oven chef knows is the key to great cooking.  True to the expectations Todd had created, the  taste and texture of my Wagyu were extraordinary, and Todd’s initial description of the experience remains the finest: “Eating Wagyu is like eating steak-butter.”

My wife ordered an 8 ounce filet from Cedar River Farms in Tolleson, Arizona, which was probably the best filet I’ve ever sampled.

We finished this epic meal with handmade vodka ice-cream in chocolate sauce, and polished off a bottle of Bourdeaux in the meantime. I like wine in a workmanlike way — think bota-bags hung from the saddle horn — so I don’t have the language or education to describe good wines properly, but it was good enough that even this wine-novitiate was aware of a profound difference in quality from my usual fare.

So the dinner was marvelous. My wife and I won St. Patrick’s Day, without a doubt, and after saying goodbye to Todd and handing over the deed to our house in payment, we walked back onto Minnesota Street in downtown Bend.  The sun was setting, the snow in the gutters was filthy, and the annoying Yoachers were gone, scattered to their various hidey-holes that every city has and that always end up housing bums who eat, sleep, shit, and sometimes die in them.

Recent alleged road-rager from Sisters Town.

We made it back to the truck without incident, bumped into the banjo player from the Anvil Blasters out searching for green beer, had a quick laugh, and began the half hour drive back to the Figure 8 with the Cascades silhouetted by the setting sun.  It was a beautiful evening, the jagged line of the mountains — from Broken Top to Mt. Jefferson — suspended without dimension, brushed into the horizon with blue and black ink, a trick of light that we were discussing with awe when I saw, behind us, the red and blue wigwags from a police car racing up the highway behind us.

The traffic was light and I pulled easily over to the shoulder to let the cop race by. “Smash’em” I said, which is something I always say when I see cops racing by, enjoying the sympathetic jolt of adrenaline as I reflect on my own Code‑3 runs to some dustup or another.  I was about to ease back onto the highway when a second police unit raced by.

The St. Patty’s Day Road Rager, allegedly, from Sisters Town.

It turns out that, just ahead of us on the highway, some lunatic had cranked off a couple of rounds at another car — for reasons that will remain unclear even after all of the facts are in, because facts don’t always add up to reason in these cases.  At any rate, the victim car followed the shooter car, called the cops, and the boys in tan and green eventually put the guy in bracelets.

These are some of the shenanigans we moved out of California to get away from, incidentally, which is why I now greet all new arrivals to Oregon with the phrase “Welcome to California”.  This has a deflating effect and annoys my friends but I am not responsible for the mono-culturing of the entire western-half of the United States.  That’s happening without me and against my will.

And, after learning about the shooting that had taken place just in front of us, I was glad for the second time that day that I had a firearm.  Not because I would have necessarily engaged in a running gunfight with the road-rage guy, should he have turned on us, but because I am still free enough to make that choice should it be required.

Which may not be a condition that endures. Our freedoms are dwindling even as the road rage shooters, the crooks, and the aggressive Yoachers seem somehow impervious to meaningful applications of justice.  It’s fair enough to wonder, particularly if you’ve been in the business of putting these people in jail, or been victimized by them in some fashion, who is actually being served when a culture begins tolerating and coddling crap behavior from crazies and criminals.  The question seems more valid each and every day, and while I’m all for diversion programs and creative sentencing ideas, maybe instead of the social-programming mill what we really need is to re-empower normal people to behave like normal people have for thousands of years when faced with the unhappy prospect of capering shitbirds.

Maybe, just maybe, at the end of the day, it is the bums, crooks, and crazies who should think twice when they decide to act-out, and not those average citizens out on the town, trying to enjoy a fine dinner and a sunset drive on the occasion of their anniversary.

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Craig Rullman

Craig Rullman

Craig Rullman is a writer, photographer, filmmaker, and occasional buckaroo. He is the author of The Bunkhouse Chronicles: Field Notes from the Figure 8 Ranch, and Director and Producer of a forthcoming documentary film -- The Outside Circle: A Movie of the Modern West.

Comments

  1. Matthew says

    We have a lot of services for the homeless in my town and near by Boulder so, along with the genuinely needy, we get a lot of “Yoachers.” (Once I heard one even complain that Boulder had more good looking women). At the grocery story I used to work there was one guy who begged while in pretty nice clothes. I once saw his girlfriend/wife/or sister pick him up in a nice SUV. 

    That was the most obvious case, but there is a problem with distinguishing the genuinely needy from those who simply don’t want to work.

    Reply

    • Craig RullmanCraig Rullman says

      The distinction between the genuinely needy and the genuinely lazy has always been fraught. But I hold no grudges in either case. My beef is with the genuinely rude, dangerous, or crazy, who the genuinely mannered, safe, and sane are increasingly expected to tolerate for no apparent reason.

      Reply

  2. Rick Schwertfeger says

    First off, I read this while eating one of my normal lunch fares of microwaved cream of mushroom soup with “Premium” Soup and Oyster Crackers and Original “Premium” Saltine Crackers crumbled up in it. And a cup of coffee. Desert was a Fiber One Chocolate Chunk soft-baked cookie. The fact that the crackers were “Premium” made the contrast between my lunch and your succulently and lovingly described dinner barely tolerable.
    Now, having just visited the once fine burg of Bend for a week last summer, I, too, had the pleasure/misfortune to encounter some Yoachers. Some were living in battered campers and cars on the street behind the motel I was staying in. The walk to downtown took me past them, sometimes sitting in plastic lawn chairs enjoying the evening air. It was sketchy enough that it seems I started to drive downtown more frequently. BUT, most unpleasant was a small crew of these dudes haunting the Simply Organic Coffee House were I got my morning cup and frequently ate breakfast. Even on warm summer mornings they were attired more in clothes more appropriate for autumn/winter. One of these dudes had a hooded overcoat that he wore the whole time, usually with the hood over his head. They had bicycles outside, and usually a dog or two, and cell phones that they made or received calls on quite continuously. Then, one at a time, they’d be out to destinations unknown; and then quickly back again. Since no one at the coffee shop had the right or the gumption to tell them to move on, the rest of us customers had the choice to tolerate them or to leave; both of which I did on different mornings. Yep, it was uncomfortable. Perhaps some of those model citizens were among your harassers.

    Reply

    • Craig RullmanCraig Rullman says

      I am a long time believer in microwaved soup and saltines. It is much closer to my day to day reality than a night Bos Taurus, I assure you. It’s hard to say who these particular Yoachers were, as there are so many that the all bleed into the One Yoacher at this point.

      Reply

      • Matthew says

        It’s important to remember that you eat to live not live to eat. People who absolutely have to have a fine dining experience every time they eat annoy me

        Reply

  3. Dean Reiman says

    Craig, As I find myself nodding my head while reading your latest, I flash upon the offended looks on the faces of friends when I tell them that I don’t particularly care for Bend and am moving to rural Minnesota. By the way, what’s with the picture of Zeke?

    Reply

    • lane batot says

      A word of warning, Dean–I had some very good friends who were tired of living in “backwoods redneck” Southern Appalachia, where we both lived at the time, and they packed up and moved instead to backwoods, redneck Minnesota! I warned them that we Southerners don’t have a monopoly on that behavior, but they were determined. And, as they related later(after they moved BACK to Southern Appalachia!), the hostile, clannish, and potentially aggressive locals were FAR WORSE than anything they encountered in Western North Carolina! They also got tired of checking the mailbox becoming a life-and-death proposition every day in the Winter(due to the severe weather), and, tree-hugging greenies that they were, how old it got having to stand guard with a rifle every time they let their dogs out to pee–and they had huge, formidable mastiff-type Fila Brasileros, that still didn’t stand a chance against the local wolves that constantly patrolled around their homestead, that would eagerly go for their dogs every chance they got.They did live right up on the border next to Canada–so perhaps more southern areas in Minnesota aren’t so harsh. Maybe.… but just sayin’.….

      Reply

  4. Ugly Hombre says

    Two kind of Hobos- IMO, the down on their luck cats who got there by bad luck- lost jobs, ripped off in a divorce (male and female) and end up destitute, medical bills, etc.

    And then- there are the ones who get their on their own free will- drugs, booze, criminal behavior etc.

    The first I have some empathy with- the second none.

    The second types rule the streets in California and are a scourge, my friend was PO’ed the other day his kid in the library went into the bathroom and a bum was in there taking a bath, any sex can go into any bathroom those days- due to leftist insanity. They camp out in coffee shops and harass the staffs working there. California LEO’s can’t do much about it due to politics.

    California New Democrat idiocy is spreading all over the nation- and no GD good will come of it. The Democrats protect and shield their criminal voter base and import more as fast as they can. We had a 64 year old female military vet. tortured, raped and killed near here- a few years back by criminals the Democrats had protected from deportation.

    Want more of it nation wide? Go ahead and vote more craven grifters into office

    The rule is- I don’t do anything unless they put there hands on someone.

    Great post Craig.

    Kobe beef at Kadena AB Kiren beer- does were the days my friend..

    Reply

    • Matthew says

      The second types rule the streets in California and are a scourge, my friend was PO’ed the other day his kid in the library went into the bathroom and a bum was in there taking a bath,—-

      That’s nothing. At my library I walked in on a homeless man MASTURBATING.

      Reply

      • Craig RullmanCraig Rullman says

        Public libraries in southern California are known centers for frequent, and even occasionally violent, public masturbation. And I’m not saying that as a joke. It’s where the masturbators are.

        Reply

        • Matthew says

          The problems here in Colorado aren’t quite as bad as California, but they are here. Also, we are getting a lot immigrants from California who will probably vote for the same types of people and programs that messed up their state in the first place.

          Reply

        • Matthew says

          Oh, the guy I saw masturbating is frequently at the library. Previous to my encounter I saw him reading a book called Love for One about masturbation.

          Reply

  5. Ugly Hombre says

    Yes Sir, that would be the one. A damn shame worst of the worst.

    Makes me beserker angry- every time I think about it. But I do think about it, so I won’t forget it- and remember who enabled it.

    And yes, all of California has gone down “hell’ is accelerating and when it hits the bottom it won’t be pretty.

    My rancher friends up north are fed up to the gills with it.

    Reply

  6. Ugly Hombre says

    “Also, we are getting a lot immigrants from California who will probably vote for the same types of people and programs that messed up their state in the first place.”

    Yep, and it was a concerted effort to change Colorado to a small ‘c’ leftist state. They did it by importing the usual voting base into the state. Its still a great place- much better than California, but not like it was.

    When I lived there- the state was real western “Make My Day Law.” and so on. Loved the place. I remember a grandma tracked down a SOAB that had kidnapped her grand daughter and held him at gun point until the Cops showed up. “You move and I’ll remove your tallywacker.” lol There was talk about giving grandma a medal.

    Reply

  7. TJ says

    First — that meal sounds AMAZING!

    Remember the homeless pimp n SB? I remember seeing the same puppy with different women at the on/off ramps years ago and wondering “Huh?” They would collect from the self-guilty and well meaning, then he (the Panhandling Pimp) would collect from his girls.

    More lawless than ever my friend and our Cali-Cops, like those in other states find themselves in an increasingly lose — lose situation. AB109; Prop 47, with more bad law on the way; meaningless immigration laws; no functional probation, or parole as well as “asking” addicts to pay for their own treatment, is turning our cities into dangerous homeless camps. 

    Felony sexual assaults; kids stuck with needles; robberies; felony injury DUI crashes; a women literally pulled off the street into a dark parking lot. Just a few from this last year and perps were either transient criminal homeless, junkies, 5150 (many from meth damage), prior deportee, probationer, parolee, or some combination of. 

    It’s embarrassing and we are failing the law abiding tax payers and true victims in the process. Doesn’t impact the “champions” and politicians living behind walled estates. Just the rest of us. 

    Not rhetoric folks THIS IS HAPPENING DAILY in every city. Real victims having their lives changed forever. 

    You will recognize the meth psychosis I am sure……
    https://www.calibrepress.com/2019/02/video-fresno-police-shoot-man-on-the-ground/

    “Clear C7- 10–8” 🙂

    Reply

  8. lane batot says

    Having been,(luckily brief–mainly because I have never had any qualms about hard work, nor any ego about the menial nature of a lot of bare subsistence jobs) at the low level of a drifting, homeless individual a few times in my younger years, trying to manage on my own, and with few prospects and zero sympathy from society as a whole(nor did I expect it, either), I certainly have some perspective on THAT side of things. As for dogs, a MAIN reason I tried VERY HARD to get employment, ANY employment, was to take better care of my dogs!!! Even today, as I leave the house for work, I tell my pack–“gotta go work to make money to buy the dog food!” Anyway, I got ragged often enough by cops to bristle a bit just thinking about it, but even then, I UNDERSTOOD somewhat WHY. Indeed, there are bums and there are bums(although I NEVER asked ANYONE for a handout. EVER.) And the greatest danger to anyone in that lowly circumstance is THE OTHER down-and-outs! Even during the Great Depression(and I’m sure throughout history) other hoboes would KILL YOU for yer shoes.….So I at least realized that the cops couldn’t possibly distinguish me from any of the other kuhzillion unfortunates out there, and I always tried to be tolerant and respectful and NOT provoke more hostility on their part. We were discussing the character “Rambo” over on Frontier Partisans” recently, and I commented on how I could relate(somewhat) to the character in the first installment “First Blood”, yet I would NEVER have let things escalate as they did in that movie. Had the head cop of a small town drove me through and out of that town, even if I hadn’t much liked it, I would have just gone my way, understanding WHY such “law abiding” citizens have such attitudes–just the way things are. WHY try to stay where you are not wanted?BEST to move on. OR, had I been arrested, I would have TRIED to cooperate to the best of my ability. Once you are perceived as fairly harmless, things usually lighten up. Believe me, I’ve been there(if only long, long ago.…) SEETHINGLY ANGRY as I have been with some cops(and a certain few did get out-of-line, in my experience, and tarnish their badges somewhat), I’ve also always felt a great deal of sympathy with(most of) them, having to deal with the dredges of society, day-in and day-out. I certainly could NEVER do that! You just have to expect and understand WHY there is a certain brusqueness and distrust of people–I have the same distrust of strangers myself. But I, luckily, can just AVOID them–cops can’t. People REALLY SHOULD try to empathize with this, even when a cop is ragging YOU about something. It’s nothing personal, it’s just their job. Cooperate and give them a CHANCE to get to know you a bit, and they(usually) ease up. At least in my experiences.…

    Reply

    • Saddle Tramp says

      Lane,

      Just came out of seeing APOLLO 11 and went next door to Vroman’s Books. First stop the sidewalk magazine rack outside. There bigger than life was HOBO MAGAZINE with Jeff Bridges on the cover and Jane Goodall within.
      The Dude abides and so does Jane. If [all] could be Jane Goodall’s we might stand a chance…
      Of course I had to buy it!!

      — saddle tramp

      Reply

        • Saddle Tramp says

          Yes TJ you landed at the right place…

          Here’s a nice sample and reflection of their philosophy:

          “You are travelling. Your future is frozen. Rapidly, you are jettisoned from the blank unknown to the bright clear world.” — Sam Shepard

          More on that here:

          http://hobomagazine.com/essays/1317/

          Also, a belated congratulations to the Wedding Anniversary celebrants. 18 years speaks loudly, happily and decidedly for continued years ahead…

          Reply

      • lane batot says

        “Hobo” magazine? Never even heard of it–what the heck kinda magazine is that?(I guess I should Google it.…) But HA! Rather coincidental that you mention that, as it was the year I got back from Africa, after “working” with Jane, that I had such a hard time getting work and was rather rootless and homeless for awhile. Worst year of my life(1984). I often went hungry while in Africa, because there was simply NOT a lot of food available, especially in the quantities a still-growing young male requires, but you tolerated it better because, well, there just WASN’T much food for ANYBODY! But back in the States, scraping and scrounging just to BARELY get by, it was FAR more frustrating, with food available in mass quantities frikking EVERYWHERE, but I just didn’t have the money to buy enough(for that unpleasant period). I learned a lot of good lessons that have served me well, however, during that unpleasant year, and learned how to survive and take care of myself better than most around me. I never, luckily, fell into the stupid(no kinder word for it) TRAP of drugs and alcohol abuse. I remember one fellow coming up to me trying to sell me some drugs(did I look like someone who would buy? THAT bothered me somewhat! I was kinda scruffy-looking!), and I laughed at him and said “Man, I cain’t even afford FOOD, much less drugs!”. He looked perplexed and moseyed off, probably not accustomed to someone who would choose food over drugs! When I got out of the city, soon after this, where I was trying to get white-man’s-road work, and retreated to the woods and lived in my tipi and hunted squirrels for food, I did FAR better, and enjoyed life again AWAY from “civilization”. But that’s another long story.…As for Jane, the world could well do with a coupla dozen more like her! But I’m afraid she is one-of-a-kind. Yet she has done MUCH to inspire and encourage others(myself included) towards living a better life in regards with respect and care of our environment, wherever that may be. In taking care of the environment, we DO take care of ourselves–something the current greedy, corrupt powers in Washington seem oblivious to. I’d vote for JANE GOODALL FOR PRESIDENT–that’s for sure! She has more dang sense than to want the job, though!

        Reply

        • Saddle Tramp says

          Jane for Prez indeed. At least Jane is an ethical [Representative] for what HOBO MAGAZINE is trying to align itself with along with a freedom to do so. I saw Jane on the Bill Maher show where she was thrown into the Lions den. She handled herself quite well and stood apart, showing she cannot only work with chimps, but can equally do so with chumps. No, really she handled herself with total aplomb and grace of course. It no doubt rubbed off on you and that must have been an amazing experience in spite of the hardships ( which always make it more meaningful) after surviving them.

          Reply

  9. TJ says

    Thanks for the reminder. 

    Most importantly — CONGRATULATIONS both of you.

    No small accomplishment in today’s climate. You are both blessed.

    Reply

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