Funny Sonny

I didn't know why they called him, "Crazy Richard."  Richard was calm compared to the other bikers I had come to know in my association with Funny Sonny.  True, Richard carried a leather-wrapped cane made of a 3/4" steel pipe with a piece of rebar pounded through its center but he'd had trouble walking since he'd put his bike down a few years earlier.  So, the cane seemed more a durable necessity than a weapon.

I asked Mississippi Charlie once why they called him "Crazy Richard" and he answered, "Because of the way he killed that guy."

I let the subject drop and never picked it up again.

Meeting Sonny, Funny Sonny, was pure adventure.  I answered the request line at the radio station for which I worked one day and heard, "Hang on a second, Bro., the cops are here."

Sonny had called the radio station to request "Gimme Shelter" and "Magic Bus."  No surprise as Sonny called once every week or so to request, "Gimme Shelter" and "Magic Bus."

It was not terribly surprising either that I was on hold because the cops were at Sonny's house.

Leonard Martin Selig, aka "Funny Sonny" had been a badge-wearing, dues-paying, card-carrying Hells Angel from a time as far back as the 50's.  Run a search on Google Images and you'll see him as he was in his prime.  He'd been thrown out of the club for some reason he never disclosed but he held firm in his loyalty to the "Masters of Menace."

A voice that sounded literally like tires rolling on a gravel driveway came back on the line, "It's cool, they're looking for Doc.  Hey, what're you doing for the 4th of July?"

As it happened I was hosting a party at my home on the beach and quickly invited Sonny to stop by for a formal introduction.

On July 5th, Funny Sonny, Pork Chop, Mississippi Charlie, Crazy Richard, Freaky Fred, Bear, Doc, all their Old Ladies, and an appropriate number of choppers lined up in front of my beach house for the party.  Lost weekends were regularly scheduled features at my house in those days so my 4th of July party was still in progress, luckily.

Sonny, obviously disappointed on our meeting, was expecting the 6'-5" voice he'd heard on the phone and the radio, not the 5'-6" reality.  Still, ours was a bond that transcended size and one look in each others eyes and we knew we were brothers.

Sonny got married a lot.  The year following our first meeting, one of his weddings was at my house there on the beach.  Now, Sonny was a meticulous wedding planner.  The food, the booze, the ceremonies, all were planned and laid out with careful attention to detail.  Traditionally photos taken at weddings focus on the bride and where there were plenty of those there was also a plethora of images of the food table (from different angles), the booze table (from many different angles), and the bikes (from every imaginable angle).

The night before this, his 8th wedding, was Sonny's bachelor party.  There was a little bar about 3 miles down the beach from my house where we had all agreed to meet.  The first of the party to arrive was a group of five or six of us.  This was just the core bro's.  The main body of revelers would come later.  Bikers are not always welcome at bars and we had to get a feel for the atmosphere before committing fully.

Crazy Richard, Pork Chop, Sonny and myself were the first to arrive.  There was a nice buzz about the place, friendly faces, etc.  But, there was one table occupied by what looked like some red shirts from the Varsity Defense Squad at the local University.  That's fine but they'd had a good start on consumption by the time we arrived and so, to prove themselves, they started the, "Biker...this," and "Biker...that," and "I'm gonna do this to a biker."  All that machismo crap.  We were just ignoring it, not wanting trouble, and taking turns on the video game until more folks arrived.

Finally, Richard had heard enough.  A backhand sent a nose-tackle from Minnesota ass over teakettle.  Three of his comrades stood up whereby Richard picked up a table, lifted it over his head, pulled it down hard and split the table in half in one fell swoop.  The red shirts looked at all 5'-10" of Richard then at Pork Chop and Sonny, apologized and carried their first string out between them.

We all apologized for the mess and offered to buy a new table but the bar tender just smiled and said, "Happens all the time!  Not a problem!"

By closing time there were no fewer than 40 bikes lining the curb outside the bar.  We had made the bar tender a very wealthy man via both consumption and tips.  Leaving the bar became an event.

At the exact moment Sonny exited the bar a tractor pulling a giant trailer covered with hay and piled to capacity with Christian youth was passing by at a respectable 3 miles an hour.  It was a good old fashioned Christian youth hay ride.  Sonny stood in front of the tractor, big alligator tears rolling down his face, pleading to let him on the trailer as he had never been on an honest-to-God hay ride.  The driver, looking at 40 bikers all cheering Sonny, immediately agreed.  Since Sonny's bike had never been on a hayride either it was lifted onto the back of the trailer to take them both the 3 miles down the beach to my place.

The next morning there were two puzzles facing Sonny.  First, how did all the hay get stuffed into his motorcycle, and second, how did we get the motorcycle into my living room?  I wondered how we got the motorcycle off of the trailer.

No matter, tonight was the wedding!

I had to work the graveyard shift so I could not stay for the whole of the festivities.  By the time I got home I found people sleeping in every room of the house and in my own bed I found both my girlfriend and a rather non-threatening fellow called Hobbit.

At Sonny's 9th wedding I was the ring-bearer, riding a child's tricycle and floor length leather coat up to the bride and groom then falling over and handing up the ring in the style made popular on Rowan and Martin's Laugh In.

With 30 Harleys lining the swimming pool, when they were pronounced man and wife, all the bikes were started in unison and revved up to a thunderous salute to let the gods know that the union was fixed.

One time, just for the sheer joy of it, I brought Funny Sonny, wife #8, and Freaky Fred to a party in an exclusive neighborhood, thrown by high ranking members of the Advertising Community in our town.  It was not long into the party before Sonny started taking his clothes off, revealing the flaming Harley Davidson tattoo that covered his back.  Freaky Fred, who was not house broken, pulled off his pants then pulled off the counter top on the bar.

We were asked to leave early in the evening but the allied media in attendance didn't stop talking about the bikers at their party for years to come.

In the end a friendship is measured in the hard times, not in the parties.  I was diagnosed with a rather nasty brain tumor which demanded three surgeries, two of them at the Mayo Clinic.

After the first surgery, Sonny came by the hospital every day to stand up for me.  He didn't stay long, certainly not so long as others did, to the point of discomfort, but he was there every day to make sure I was making progress.

Then, when I went to the Mayo Clinic, he called every day to check up.  The phone calls weren't long enough to be uncomfortable, just long enough to get an update and make sure I knew who cared.

It was after the third successful surgery that Sonny came to me in confidence to invite me to a surprise party for wife #9.  In typical Sonny fashion all the particulars were planned to the tenth power.  He would pick me up at 2:30 and would be driving the "cage" (biker vernacular for a car).  The party would start at 3:00 at the Glynns Cove Tavern.

When we arrived we approached from a side street and the first thing I saw was the bar-b-cues.  Sonny built these bar-b-cues out of 55 gallon barrels, cut in half, then welded along one edge with long hinges, grill inside, iron legs below.  There were three of them, end to end, filled with whole chickens.

We entered the rear to find all the tables in the room pushed together, draped, and covered with food.  I saw 30 or more bikers I knew and all their old ladies and when i walked in the place erupted with cheers and applause.  Sonny, whose speechifying was legendary, handed me a case of beer and said, "This party is to celebrate a life!  That's why this party is for you, Owl!"  I'm still crying over that.  More cheers and bear hugs followed but by 4:30 I needed a nap before I went to work.  I was still weak from the surgery.

Sonny gave me a ride home and another hug when he dropped me off.

I only lived a block away from the radio station where I worked so when I woke up, 5 minutes before I was to be on the air, I just dashed out the door, crossed the street, grabbed my first newscast from the counter, ran in the studio, opened the microphone, hit the sounder that introduced the news and began reading the top headline.  "A shoot out between rival biker gangs has left two injured.  The Glynns Cove tavern ... "  I have no idea what the rest of the newscast sounded like as I was on complete automatic pilot until the first record started.  I was already dialing the phone before the vocals started.

Wife #9 answered Sonny's phone and told me he was at a safe house with his Winchester.  Doc had gotten shot but he was okay and already at home.  When I finally got a hold of Sonny he told me the story.

The party was going well when a couple of guys showed up wearing colors.  Sonny and Pork Chop greeted the strangers and told them though it was a private party they were welcome to come in, they just couldn't wear their "cuts," not proper biker etiquette.  The two refused the compromise in such a way that Sonny and Pork Chop were forced to show the two the sidewalk.

Minutes later Doc came running in yelling, "GUNS!  EVERYBODY DOWN!"  Doc was shot in the back from a .22 rifle and the jukebox was hit once.  The cops caught the two in their car in minutes and they were in jail where they would stay for some time to come.  Doc was fine, he was out of methadone anyway so the pain killers were a big help.  No one else was hit.

And there it is.  There are two kinds of people in the world: decent and indecent.  There were the people with whom I worked every day who didn't call me once while I was having brain surgeries left and right and Sonny who called or came by every day.  There was my family who, apart from my mother, never even said, "Welcome back." and there was Sonny who threw a party celebrating my life.  There were all the friends, from all the years, who never said, "Boo" or "How do you do" during that whole episode and there were 30 bikers and their old ladies who embraced me and made me loved when I was in need.

There was Sonny, for whom I would willingly kill or die to protect, who would willing kill or die to protect me, and there was my wife who forbade me to see him anymore, crushing both him and me, who was only my wife for a few years.  He refused to see me for the next 24 years and I don't blame him one bit.

I just read that Sonny died in July of 2010.  I didn't get to say, Goodbye.  Even in death he's teaching me what's really important, what makes the best in people, and who to trust.

Gerry Garcia once wrote that Bikers are very up front about who they are.  You can recognize a biker from a block away and you know they're potentially dangerous.  You will, on the other hand invite someone wearing a suit into your home, sign over all your money and all your possessions, and off he will run, you smiling, waving, and trusting all the way.

I hope, when the end of the world comes, I'm surrounded by bikers.  I hope when I die, that I will meet up with Sonny once again, climb on the back of that cream colored Harley, and not throw off his balance ... just ride.  Ride Free.

The First Hour I Spent In Jail

The judge gave me five days for being arrogant and not doing what I was told.  At our previous meeting he'd made a point about something, something, something ... driving a car fueled with alcohol and some demand that I attend classes in alcohol management or something.  I forget.  I was pretty drunk when we met the first time.  In any case I had failed to do what I was told so, five days in the slammer for me.


Mine was the first case on the docket so I was alone in the holding tank while waiting for a bed.  Evidently some lucky guy had to be discharged before I could be let in.

Almost literally a tank, "holding" was 25 feet square with a drain in the center of the floor.  There was a toilet in the corner and the walls were painted with gray epoxy.  I got the impression that the place could be cleaned with a hose.  A single light was fixed poetically behind bars in the center of the ceiling.  The door was four feet wide but the standard height and made of 3/4" steel.  It made a distinctive sound when it closed; a sound that meant, "Final."

Dean Vangan came in shortly.  I had not seen Dean since the 8th grade when he sat in front of me in P.E. and stole my lunch money.  He announced his presence with a hearty, "Is this where we're spending the night?"  It was 9:00 AM.  I did not renew our acquaintanceship and, frankly, this is not Dean's story.  He fell asleep on the cold floor.

Within another hour there were over 20 men in Holding and with them came less of a sense of personal space.  When Angus MacFadden entered he made a bee-line for me, plopped down uncomfortably close and said, "Gimme a cigarette."

I gave him a cigarette.

He put the cigarette behind his ear and said, "Gimme a cigarette."  Not knowing the custom of incarceration I gave him another cigarette which he placed behind his other ear.  Then he said, "Gimme a cigarette."  He was out of ears and if this kept up I would be out of cigarettes so I said warily, "I already gave you two."

Evidently satisfied, Angus asked, "What do you do?"

"I'm a disk jockey at KZO..."

"I'm a roofer!" Angus blurted.  "They keep locking me up in these minimum security mental hospitals and I keep breakin' out.  I told that shrink I gotta be in a maximum security but they keep sendin' me to minimum security so I keep walkin' out.  I just walk out of those places and I keep tellin' 'em they gotta put me in maximum security but I keep walkin' out ...  I'm Angus MacFadden, I'm Black Irish, I gotta cousin who's on the radio do you know (a name I've forgotten)?"

"Yeah, I know him.  He's my newsman at KZO..."

"He's my cousin!  I'm a roofer but they keep puttin' me in minimum security mental hospitals ... I keep tellin' 'em they gotta put me in maximum security mental hospitals but I keep walkin' away."

As if things weren't surreal enough, the door opened and I saw one of those giant paper mache' heads like they have at Mardis Gras crouch down to get through the door.  I was sober so this was more than a little ... wait, it's not paper mache', it's a ... pup tent!  The guy, wearing a pup tent as a coat, his shoulders having filled the 4-foot doorway, stood up straight to reveal his full height of somewhere around 7'-4".

"I GOT THAT JUDGE BY THE BALLS AND I'M GONNA SQUEEZE!"  He bellered.  I'd never really heard anyone beller before and now that I had I didn't want to hear it again.  "I TOLD THAT JUDGE, JUDGE, I GOT YOU BY THE BALLS AND I'M GONNA SQUEEZE!"  Yep, that's the living definition of a beller.  "I told that judge this is the third time I been popped on a bad warrant and it ain't me!  It's some other guy who looks like me and I GOT YOU BY THE BALLS, JUDGE, AND I'M GONNA SQUEEZE!"

Okay, two things; what is it with crazy people repeating things all the time, and ... there's some other guy who looks like this guy?

Angus, not satisfied with the supernatural nature of my jail experience pipes in, "What kind of work you do?"

The question seemed to daze the giant for a moment, either he was not accustomed to being interrupted or uncomfortable with having to think for a response.  It was unclear which.

"I got me a sledge hammer!" He shouted, pleased with his standard answer which now came easily, "I can build it or I can tear it down, don't matter to me which!"  He chuckled at his own joke.

"I'm a roofer!"  Chimed Angus.

"I got no problem for roofers!" replied the giant.

"Turn around a second!"  Angus chirped.

A giant question mark flickered dimly over the giant's head.  "Wha?"

"Turn around, " Angus chided, "I wanna look at yer pooper!"

Over 20 men in a confined space and there was not a scuff, a shuffle, a chuckle, or a gasp.  Not a sound.

The question mark turned orange and radiated a bit more brightly as giant's head tipped forward, the better to hear, "Wha?"

"Turn around, I wanna look at your pooper!" demanded Angus.

Why do crazy people have to repeat things?  I'm sure he heard you the first time, Angus! But it was too late, time had already shifted into slow motion or perhaps it was just the natural movement of the mountain as he pulled off his pup tent, rolled it into a ball, and pushed the mass evenly to the floor.

"I'm here by mistake," he said in a low tone as a great single eyebrow lowered and the face of the mountain became slit-eyed, "I'm here by mistake," he said, almost sadly, as a single size-24 footfall caused the concrete floor to tremble and crack, "I'm here by mistake," loudly echoed the giant's voice, "but I will do the time to take you apart."

At that moment, as in all great fairy tales, the great steel door opened and a guard yelled, "Owl, we've got you a bed!"

When my eyes opened I was safe and sound in a jail cell, in another part of the building, with 15 other men.  I'm certain I had only blinked once.  I never heard a word about what happened after I left Holding.

Five days later I was walking home and I noticed that the air really does smell better on the outside.  Five months later I was comfortably seated in my studio, on the air, playing Led Zeppelin on the radio when the door opened with its familiar squeak and my newsman entered holding a piece of wire copy.  I had told him of meeting his cousin in jail and we had both wondered at the outcome of his brush with the giant.

"Read this," he said soberly.

All the blood rushed from my face and the wheels on my chair staggered as I read that an escaped mental patient, Angus MacFadden, was being held as a suspect in the bludgeoning murder of a sexagenarian couple in the Windermere neighborhood of Seattle.  He had been hired to do some roofing repairs on their home.  The article read that MacFadden had walked away from a minimum security mental hospital.

Online Articles and Search Engine Optimization

Articles are either responses or provocations, meant to inform or entertain.  On occasion one may see prose but largely an article is written either in response to something or to provoke a response.  Both have an opinion while either may reflect deep thought, stupidity, or neither.

An article should be conceived to make a point.  Aesop told fables to make his points about philosophy.  They were well conceived and made valuable points.  Playwrights prior to 1964 understood this and crafted poetical and symbolic characters, verbiage, and actions that made clear their points.

The last novel I read, that made a clear and provocative point, was"Rosemary's Baby."  The point of the story was, if G-d could impregnate a mortal, why couldn't Satan?  What wonderfully juicy opinions, debates, and responses were provoked by the idea of a Satanic nativity!  I have read other novels since but their points were either diluted or delusional.

Articles written for the internet are literary embarrassments.  "Five Ways To Tell If Your Boyfriend is Gay!"  "How to Tell Your Girlfriend You're Gay!"  "10 Reasons to Stop Using The Word 'Gay' in Online Articles."  No, this author is not gay but by using the word "gay" six times in a paragraph this article will rank high for "gay content" on Google.

Now, we get to the real point of online article writing; to monetize.

I'm very good at Search Engine Optimization (SEO).  This skill comes from decades of writing commercial advertisements for print, radio and television.  Getting the sponsor's name into 60 seconds as many times as possible, without sounding contrived, takes craftsmanship.  My personal best was 40 times in 60 seconds (funny, I can't remember the name of the sponsor).

There are many facets to Search Engine Optimization (SEO) for internet articles but for the purposes of this article I'll only address keyword count and relevant content in online article writing.

In the previous paragraphs I used the keyword, "article" about eight times and "online article" about half that many.  This may seem like a spare use of the keywords for an article of this length but there is always a threat of the perception of spamming by search engine spiders.  In the preceding sentence for example I used "article" three times in the same sentence.  That brings the saturation of the keyword to a level that is dangerously high.  When your keyword count gets too high the search engines may perceive your article as spam and either penalize your ranking or ban your article altogether.

Content is King in online article marketing.  Writing in a way that is easily read and readily quoted takes some time to cultivate.  The information you provide has to be compelling enough that others will link back to you.  Writing in an authoritative voice is necessary but not necessarily required.  Many popular online articles are written in the vernacular of the au courant yet still manage to rank well above those on the same topic that are conventionally well written.

Here's an example of keyword count in content being King of the internet.  Run a search on "Spielberg's List."  There are numerous articles written on the list of films for which Steven Spielberg is responsible.  On page two of Google's responses you will find an actual list of Steven Spielberg's favorite movies!  It's posted on the website for an acting school in Los Angeles and nowhere else.  In the articles you will find a great many references to the director, his films, his name, and the term "Spielberg's List."  The search result with an exhaustive list of film titles is ranked relatively low because the keyword count is practically zero by comparison.

As far as online articles go this one is neither provoking nor responsive but it does have a modicum of relevant content.  Let's post it and in a couple of months (this is October 5th of 2010) we'll see where it ranks on organic searches.  It should show up well for "Gay," perhaps for "Spielberg's List," and certainly for "online articles."

Thank you for your time and interest.

TLSO

Breathe

We are quite happy to cut it into many small useful pieces

The Last Spotted Owl - Raising the Level of Public Debate

AN INTRODUCTION

A writer with passion can elevate and inspire.  Such is the mission of this blog; To Act and Inspire.

For internet publishing a single writer can usher dynamic change.  Ideas that change through interaction.

As an old bird I fear and embrace change equally.  I've seen what change can do.

A tightly defined premise is often misinterpreted as moral dogma.  In fact, a principle based compass always points toward spirited debate.

Raising the level of public debate is a divine principle and direction.  Therein lies the premise of this blog.

Let's talk about things.  Let's try to build an understanding which is neither influenced by what we're told and taught nor by that which we blindly believe.

What's in a Nom De Plume?

The Last Spotted Owl is both protected and selected.

Protected from double-bitted loggers by the most powerful government on earth, The Last Spotted Owl is also naturally selected for extinction by G-d Almighty.

Writing from his vantage point, blithely balanced and perched on the brink, The Last Spotted Owl offers a rarefied perspective normally afforded only the dead.

From his estimable height he sees the big picture.  Beginning to end.  Alpha to Omega.  A G-d's eye view.

Who gives such a delicate creature such unspeakable power?  Those who read and respond.

Shall we choose a topic?

TLSO