Back To Hobobel Mountain

Back To Hobobel Mountain.


John Presco

Copyright 2021

I had a vision when I awoke from my Old Man Nap.

Long, long ago…It was Easter Morning about 11:00 A.M. I had been drinking since the bar opened. I walked out of the dark bar and I was blinded by a very bright light. It was a clear crystal blue day. I had my earphones on listening to classical music. There before me sat an old man on the curb, his feet in the gutter. He didn’t notice me. He was in – his world – another world. I took my earphones off, and gently put them on his ears. HE LIT UP! His whole face was filled with joy. He was smiling wide, showing me all his missing teeth. This was a real hobo.

“Do you like classical music?” I asked.

“I love classical music!”

“What are you doing today?”


“Would you like to go see a movie? I’m going to take BART to El Cerrito and see E.T. I’ll treat. Have you had breakfast?”


We walk a couple of blocks to the Downtown BART station. And, we are getting, looks. This guy is the real deal. The rail yards are not too far away, and the Golden West bar has been a favorite for men who still ride the rails. I had drunk with several authentic human beings. I even got chased around downtown by a one-armed veteran Marine who said I called his wife a whore. She was a whore – and not his wife! We had arm-wrestled earlier. He pinned me – with his stub!

“What was the last movie you saw?”

“Let’s see. It’s been awhile…..Send Me No Flowers. That was the last movie I saw. Rock Hudson and Doris Day were in it.”

“What year was that made?” I asked, noting this man was not – normal.

“1964!” he answered. And, I was – shocked. I was conversing with a Human Time Capsule who had pretty good recall, as he told me what this dinosaur was about. We did not find a restaurant open so I bought us pop-corn, candy and some sodas. At 1:00 P.M. our Easter Treat began. There were few people in the theatre. We come to the scene where the scientist invade home. I believe his name was Tom. He begins to sob quietly and takes out an old kerchief and wipes his eyes. We see Eliot reaching out to his beloved alien that his capture in a hermetically sealed prison, and is dying.

After the show, we sit outside on a bench. I did not expect such a reaction. Was it too heavy of a movie for him? Maybe we should have gone and seen Das Boot, a normal war movie.

“Tom. What was upsetting you?”

“We wore suits like that.”

“Who did?”

“I was in the Navy. We were given protection when we loaded the Atomic bomb on the Enola Gay.”

I was moved in a way I had never been moved. I was suddenly playing a role in a incredible moment in history. I was conversing with someone that was feet away from the launch of the Nuclear Age. “Duck – and cover!”

“I feel so guilty. I can hardly stand it!”

I saw the whole picture, why this Hobo had dropped out of society like I did. Tom told me about the Midwest town he grew up. He delivered newspapers, and made model planes. He described the blossoming trees on his street, and falling in love with the girl next door. He joined the Navy in order to deliver a tiny blow to the enemy like so many patriotist Americans. They were told nothing about their job. They put the suits on them, and sent them to go get the bomb.

“Only when I saw the newsreels in a theater, did I learn what we did.”

God damn! They took his innocence away – big time! Tom was antiwar – all the way – but, he was all alone with it. There was no gang of hippies egging him on. He was no coward. He served his country – and regretted it. How many people did he help kill? I don’t know if I read Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five. Surely this man could relate.

The Gideon Computer is about ‘The Code of Guilt’ we all carry that we nurse like a child. It is our most precious thing. Very few people get to see it. A sinister man, used a computer to splice all these strands of Guilt Codes into a Evil Force to be reckoned with. My novel begins with Bill climbing into an attic of an old Victorian slated for demolition, and finding an old trunk. Opening it, he see a folded up Nazi flag. Underneath he finds the correspondence between two twin bothers. One comes to America. The other stays in Germany, and becomes a member of the Nazi party.

The woman I married found such a trunk, Mary Ann Tharaldsen lived with Thomas Pynchon in three locations. She showed me a copy of Gravitie’s Rainbow.

Last night, I studied the photograph of my grandson and I going fishing. I noticed he was at the base of this beautiful tree, and is with a old man he adored. This is what Infinity looks like. This is how – we live forever. I thanked God for the little time we had together, before The Pure Evil my brother helped create – cast us asunder. I had an epiphany. I deserve more than a little time with my grandson. I deserve the rest of my life wit him. I did nothing wrong. My daughter said she did nothing wrong. We have not spoken for ten years. Why?

I blame the Evil Black Hole that the Buck law firm created that sucked all members of my family in with the help of my extremely evil brother, who did all he could to destroy me – after our sister’s death. This is proof to me – that he did all he could to destroy Christine. He loathed the two gifted artists in our family who took all the limelight away from him – that he never deserved. My brother has been a neo-Nazi since the age of fourteen. He should have never been allowed to be around ay works of art – or a poem! Not once has he congratulated me on becoming sobers- and saving my life. Indeed, if he was a religions man, if he was a praying man, he would have sore knees from praying I take my next drink – and drop dead. He worked hard to destroy the miracle of my daughter coming into my life – and my grandson. He did not call and congratulate me for siring a child. He did not call to congratulate me for becoming a grandfather. When I asked him why he did not contribute to Christine’s biography, he said

“I couldn’t think of anythig nice to say about her!”

This Evil Nazi told me he got to read the rough draft of Tom Syder’s book. Why??

I looked up the year E.T. was made. It was made in 1982. I entered Serenity Lane in March of 1987. I can not believe I suffered for another five years from the disease of alcoholism that threatened to take my life. Did any member of my family invite me to Easter Dinner. No. I will tell you who did, in my next post. My daughter was born in 1984. If I had not got sober, she would have never met her father.

Two days ago I discovered the Jack London Writer’s Conference meets in Belmont! What the fuck! I am certain I sent the Belmont Historical Society the post below, where I say I am the second coming of Martin Eden. Is this when I was judged – UNFIT – to be in their presence, because they are all born out of State, and, it is a rule to snub anyone born in Oakland lest their hidden BIG EGO flare up on these out-of-towners who have managed to squirrel themselves away in the Giant Oaks that Carl Janke built his German THEME park around. This means the BHS doesn’t want any Germans in their midst – too! This is why Robert Buck didn’t want any artists in Mark and Pierrot’s Art Dissociation, where artists get – CREAMED! No wonder young people hate history. They spot them right away, these glowing beady eyeballs in the hollow tree’

“Go away! Leave us be. This is – our precious history. We are the – precious ones!”

London created the California Writers’ Club with the poet and close friend George Sterling, short story writer Herman Whitaker and “English civil libertarian” Austin Lewis, according to Mariann Jackson, president of the Peninsula branch of the club. After he gained international renown, London offered his name to the club in the hope of encouraging young writers. Ten years ago, the College of Notre Dame was the site of the first Jack London Writers’ Conference, an annual event put on by the Peninsula branch.

Jack London Slept (and Worked) Here (

Here are the people I am going to sue, when I get a lawyer who will champion Truth and Justice!

Mark Presco $10,000,000.00 dollars

Robert Buck $10,000,000.00 dollars

The Buck Foundation: $10,000,000.00 dollars

Alcohol Justice $10,000,000.00 dollars

Stacey Pierrot: $10,000,000.00 dollars

City of Belmont: $10,000,000.00 dollars

Tom Snyder: $10,000,000.00 dollars

Here is my dear friend, Nancy Hamren, who encouraged me to write a book, and was at my graduation from Serenity Lane. Bill Arnold encouraged us to kiss when we were twelve, because I had never kissed a human being. She knew my brother and sisters.

(4) E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial (1982) – ‘Invading Elliot’s House’ scene [1080p] – YouTube

(4) Send Me No Flowers – Trailer – YouTube

(4) Nancy and Greg – YouTube

All creatures drink of joy
At nature’s breasts.
All the Just, all the Evil
Follow her trail of roses.
Kisses she gave us and grapevines,
A friend, proven in death.
Salaciousness was given to the worm
And the cherub stands before God.

(4) André Rieu – Ode to Joy (All men shall be brothers) – YouTube

On 5 August 1945, during preparation for the first atomic mission, Tibbets assumed command of the aircraft and named it after his mother, Enola Gay Tibbets, who, in turn, had been named for the heroine of a novel.[N 3] When it came to selecting a name for the plane, Tibbets later recalled that:

… my thoughts turned at this point to my courageous red-haired mother, whose quiet confidence had been a source of strength to me since boyhood, and particularly during the soul-searching period when I decided to give up a medical career to become a military pilot. At a time when Dad had thought I had lost my marbles, she had taken my side and said, “I know you will be all right, son.

Ode to Joy – Wikipedia

Enola Gay – Wikipedia

Gideon Computer is Being Made – Now!

Posted on February 15, 2017 by Royal Rosamond Press


The Gideon Computer

Posted on October 6, 2011 by Royal Rosamond Press

In 1986 I took LSD for the last time, and began to write two Science Fiction novels. Berkeley Bill Bolagard was the Last Hippie – of the future! He dressed like Wild Bill Hickok. Monica was the love of his life, and considered the most beautiful woman in the world. Bill had lost her due to his foolishness. But she will come to him at the Gideon Institute, the first privately owned prison in the world.

Yesterday I talked with a friend about why google disapeared my huge blogs. They were like woven nets cast into the sea, and were catching many fish, for I owned a great brand name, an architypal theme. I was bigger then Disney!

Nine months ago I began reading my poems in public as Sergeant John Monday of the Cosmic Police Force.

Last night I listened to a woman on the T.V. speak fondly of Steve Job. She had a calm sexy voice, like the voice within the Gideon Computer that bid wayfarers;

“Talk to me, Pilgrim!”

This vice told me Jobs took LSD and lived on an Ashram.

Jon the Nazarite


Wild Bill Hickok

James Butler Hickok
May 27, 1837(1837-05-27)
Troy Grove, Illinois, US
August 2, 1876(1876-08-02)(aged 39)
Deadwood, Dakota Territory, US
Cause of death
Murdered by Jack McCall
Resting place
Mount Moriah Cemetery
Lawman, gunfighter, gambler

James Butler Hickok(May 27, 1837 – August 2, 1876), better known as Wild Bill Hickok, was a figure in the American Old West. His skills as a gunfighter and scout, along with his reputation as a lawman, provided the basis for his fame, although some of his exploits are fictionalized.

Hickok came to the West as a stagecoachdriver, then became a lawman in the frontier territories of Kansas and Nebraska. He fought for the Union Army during the American Civil War, and gained publicity after the war as a scout, marksman, actor, and professional gambler. Between his law-enforcement duties and gambling, which easily overlapped, Hickok was involved in several notable shootouts. He was shot and killed while playing pokerin a Dakota Territorysaloon.

I don’t know whether to be grateful for this, or frightened out of my mind. Scientists and hackers all over the country are hunkering down to save data. They’re… collecting it and saving it on servers outside the direct control of government – for fear the Trump administration might want to disappear this data down a memory hole.

Some are going further. Groups like DataRefuge and the Environmental Data and Governance Initiative, which recently organized a hackathon to collect data from NASA’s earth sciences programs and the Department of Energy, are building systems to monitor ongoing changes to government websites. And they’re keeping track of what’s already been removed—because yes, the pruning has already begun.

The Trump administration not only wants to create a universe of alternative facts. It wants to get rid of evidence of the truth.

What do you think?

Diehard Coders Just Rescued NASA’s Earth Science Data

 Jamie LyonsOn Saturday morning, the white stone buildings on UC Berkeley’s campus radiated with unfiltered sunshine. The sky was blue, the campanile was chiming. But instead of enjoying the beautiful day, 200 adults had willingly sardined themselves into a fluorescent-lit room in the bowels of Doe Library to rescue federal climate data.Like similar groups across the country—in more than 20 cities—they believe that the Trump administration might want to disappear this data down a memory hole. So these hackers, scientists, and students are collecting it to save outside government servers.

But now they’re going even further. Groups like DataRefuge and the Environmental Data and Governance Initiative, which organized the Berkeley hackathon to collect data from NASA’s earth sciences programs and the Department of Energy, are doing more than archiving. Diehard coders are building robust systems to monitor ongoing changes to government websites. And they’re keeping track of what’s already been removed—because yes, the pruning has already begun.

Tag It, Bag It

The data collection is methodical, mostly. About half the group immediately sets web crawlers on easily-copied government pages, sending their text to the Internet Archive, a digital library made up of hundreds of billions of snapshots of webpages. They tag more data-intensive projects—pages with lots of links, databases, and interactive graphics—for the other group. Called “baggers,” these coders write custom scripts to scrape complicated data sets from the sprawling, patched-together federal websites.

John Barleycorn and Me

Posted on January 2, 2020 by Royal Rosamond Press

The Second Coming of Martin Eden


John Presco

Copyright 2020

“And all my austere nights of midnight oil, all the books I had read, all the wisdom I had gathered, went glimmering before the ape and tiger in me that crawled up from the abysm of my heredity, atavistic, competitive and brutal, lustful with strength and desire to outswine the swine.” 

I avoided connecting with Jack London because my best friend Bill Arnold staked a claim to him, and so did my father, Vic Presco.I was assigned a lesser role by these two males that taght me all I know about narcsissm. Then, here comes my daughter into my life. She taught me – I know nothing! Heather Hanson, with the help of her family, has been trying to UNBORN me. Before she was born she was aimed at my Famous Sister who may have suffered from Narcissistic  Personality Disorder – like I do! We both sought professional treatment, and became members of AA.  Jack London might be – one of us! Most of the Presco family suffers from NPD.

When we met, I saw my father in my daughter. Heather Hanson has Victor’s nose, and, his look. This look is looking for admirers, and people….suckers who will come and adore them. There’s a coldness to Heather that the mother of Victoria Presco’s grandchildren, commented on. Victor and Heather love to manipulate people, get them to do what they do not want to do. It is their art.

At 10:32 A.M. I read parts of my autobiography. My Muse introduced me to my Weird, my twin, that I said I would meet on New Years Eve. John Barleycorn and I met in the Barbary Coast of San Francisco, and talked about the good ol days. John offered John three fingers of Whiskey, a hit of opium, and an hour with one of the whores that hung about Mr. Barleycorn who was famous for pissing away his money.

Before my daughter was kidnapped and taken across State Lines to meet my surviving sister, I took her and her mother to the library in Sonoma to look for books on ACOA’s….Adult Children of Alcoholics. I had become alarmed by the traits I saw in my daughter who had to appear perfect in everyway. I saw this was a façade, and, due to her genetics she was one step away from becoming a covert alcoholic – verses an overt alcoholic. The desire to own ‘The Cloak of Invisibility’ may be the best cocktail ever made.

With this cloak come ‘White Logic’. I did not know Heather’s aunt and uncle are alcoholic. I did not know Linda Comstock was ‘Queen of the Pleasure Boat Drunks’.  When alas we met, she informed my sister and I she had procured rooms for us at the Ayre Casino. I told Heather Vicki and I had not had a drink in twenty years. THEY DID NOT CARE! Who are they?

My family and I had come into some money that was free and clear of the Rosamond Estate of which Heather and her family – got nothing! White Logic was – full steam ahead! THEY had a plan…..’Psucho Billy’s Bar and Grill’ is born. The greates literary struggle of ALL TIME is the stuggle I had to keep my daughter from going over to The White Side, and once she had, betrayed me in every way – to forgive her! I awoke this morning, sat at the edge of my bed, and threw in the towel. Then, I went to the Gideon Computer and found John. I also found Berkeley Bill Bolagard my fictional character based upon my alcoholic self who lived at the Moose Club. I drank at all the Downtown Oakland bars, but, avoided ‘The Las Chance Saloon’ because Bill and my father claimed this bar. My story begins at ‘The Golden West’ on twelfth street.

Ghost writer, Tom Snyder, was hired by Stacey Pierrot to author the ‘White Logic’ biography of the world famous artist, Christine Rosamond Presco-Benton. Tom tried to get me to contribute. I considered it because I wanted my book on my ‘Rose Line’ to hit the market, first, because I communicated with other authors who had come out with their hit on the ideas put forth by Baigent and Leigh. I have exchanged e-mails with Margaret Starbird, whom my fictional character, Miriam Starfish Christling, is partially based upon.

Tom and I made a verbal agreement that he would not write about Christine’s alcoholism, because it is a family disease that is handed down from one generation to the next. Because Tom was not an alcoholic, and did not attend a Twelve Step program, he could not offer a Divine Intervention and a Blessed Resolve, that millions of Alcoholics in Recovery have enjoyed, will enjoy – hopefully for a thousand years to come.

When my daughter was kidnapped, and went to see Vicki and her son, Shamus Dundon, Snyder to the go ahead to write about the family disease from Vickie. Since her death, my niece Shannon Rosamond Benton has seen evidence Vickie betrayed her, and me, which adds up to the horrible truth she betrayed her niece, and sabotaged Heather and my MIRACLE.

In place of this miracle, a utterly evil and wicked labyrinth was constructed with the help of the executor, Sydney Morris, of the law firm of Buck. Vickie had dropped out as Christine’s No.1 named Executor, nominated Garth Benton, then worked behind the scenes with Robin Beare – Garth’s Divorce Attorney – to control all aspects of the Literary and Artistic Legacy of one of the highest paid Woman Artist in the history of Art. White Logic is practice here, in the dark, in a covert manner, the likes the true World of Literature and Art has ever seen. Jack London, and his two alter-egos, would be – impressed!

Since July of 2001 I have struggle to get my daughter back in my life. We have been seperated three times. The last time was eight years ago. No one has taken glee in the destruction of Our Miracle, than Shamus Dundon, who told several lies about how my sister drowned at Rocky Point. He and Vickie took my daughter – HOSTAGE! If I wanted to see her again I had better stop asking good question – about how Rosamond ended up in the ocean – the thing she feared the most. Vicki said in the Carmel Pinecone they shared their nightmares of Big Waves taking their lives.

Above is a image of my dear friend, Nancy Van Brasch-Hamren. Her and Bill Arnold were lovers when they were thirteen. She knows all about Bill’s infatuation with Jack London. We used to play at being Bohemians. I was George Sterling. When Heather came up to Eugene on the train, Nancy took us to dinner. I wanted Heather to meet the real deal.

The imposter that passed for me, served time in San Quinton for impersonating Bob Weir of the Grateful Dead. Nancy lived with Mountain Girl’s brother in the Kesey farm. She worked for over thirty years at the Kesey Dairy in Springfield where I came to visit her in the summer of 1986. We lived in a hippies commune. Christine lived with us for a few years along with the Zorthian sisters who father was a Last Bohemian. Nancy suggested I write the history of the Hippies because I could recall so much. I know %99 more thanks to my devotion to my blog-newspaper, Royal Rosamond Presco. A year later I entered the New Hope Program at Serentity Lane. At my graduation I read from The Gideon Computer’ that I got sober in order to complete. It is still un-finished. Nancy put me on course to meet, and know her good friend, Ken Kesey who some claim died of liver failure due to alcoholism.

Jack London died of liver failure and a overdose of morphine to stop the pain. I believe Nancy wanted me to do an intervention – after I became friends with Ken – who would them confide in me. That did not happen. I was afraid he – as John Barleycorn – would try to drink me under the table, in an outbreak of White Logic that take so many lives.

Two days ago I began a proposal to Meg Whitman who owns Quibi. I want Steven Spielberg to produce ‘The Second Comping of Martin Eden’.

With the appearance of John Barleycorn, I am launching a public campaign to get my daughter back, and have Heather untie with her two cousins to form a and amazing Sober Literary and Artistic Legacy that will inspire many, to write, to render works of art, to get clean and sober, and combat the Family Disease of Drug and Alcohol Abuse.  I want Alcohol Justice to bring a lawsuit against the law firm of Buck, Morris, who helped set up the Buck Foundation. This law firm rubberstamped the most cunning and baffling Anti-Sobriety Cult in the annals of history. Morris gave permission to Stacey Pierrot to produce a book, and a screenplay about Christine, whose autobiography was disappeared. Vickie Presco showed me the copy she made when she stayed in Christine’s house after the funeral. This house should have been sealed – by Vickie! Here are the co-defendants:

Shamus Dundon, who has not sent me the painting I gave to his mother, as promised. My nephew asked what I want – eleven days after Vickie died. He was not going to tell me. His son, who reads this blog, insisted. Vickie did not fulfill what the Morris ordered. Vicki did not do what our father asked in the Trust he made out. I told Shamus I want Christine’s autobiography, and…

“I want the truth of what happened at Rocky Point!”

I want Stacey Pierrot in a court of law, as well as Drew Benton, for everything was being done for Drew, while Shannon was placed under arrest. Drew does contribute to Snyder’s book, but, refused to talk about how Christine was “killed by a rogue wave” that is now a huge part of London Lore. It’s time Drew gave an account in a court of law.

My motive is to save lives. I never saw a dime from Christine’s Art, or her Death. I suggest my daughter, all by herself, whose side she is on. Of course I want her on my side. Yes I want Christine’s daughter to emerge from the Dank Cell of Lies they were put in. I want to be the True Caretaker of these three women’s Creative Legacy. I will not live forever.

Heather Hanson. Shannon Rosamond, and Drew Benton. These are the Hiers of two creative siblings who rose above the White Logic Swine and performed miracles. Christine was going to have her first sober birthday at Rocky Point.

Stephen Spielberg made a fine movie ‘Sophie’s Choice’. He has championed the plight of Jews – especially the children. Everyone deserves a family, even the serial killer on death row. There is much evidence – I have yet to have a family. Heather was my best – and last chance. I begged her and her mother to stay away from my family. That translated into I being a very cunning and selfish bastard who wants to make sure my daughter – never sees a dime! And, the S.S. White Logic was launched against me, in all its might, to destroy me, and make sure I take my next drink.

Come April 7th. I will have thirty-three years sobriety! You wantch ya miracle! I gotcha miracle rights here!

I met Patrice Hanson at the Kerry House one of Captain Victim’s favorite bars. Pops took me there after we had been drinking there most of the day. Come 2:00 A.M. the bar closed – for everyone but my father and I. He was impressed I could hold my liquor. He was still trying to drink me under the table. Come the crack of dawn, Captain Larsen was three-sheets the wind. He was using his old material on me, while I am talking about my crazy hippies ways and the time I took the Mafia to court and won! That’s when everything changed between us, for the better, for I was his peer now, and the Captain treated me with respect. As his child, I never got such a thing.

A few years later we are drunking at the Lafayette house. I own two years of sobriety. I show Captain Larsen my manuscript ‘The Gideon Computer’. He says he will read it later. We are down in The Presco Foxhole talking about the smeall of burnt bodies at Iwo Jima. Spotting THE ENEMY, he takes aim at my manuscript, and lets go a goodly splash of Scocth! It’s a direct hit! Did I tll you Captian Victim had a glass eye, and wore a black patch for a year. Dee-Dee knocked it out with a four pound ashtray.

“Well. I’m done! I’ve had my fill of Iwa Jima! Vic watched me pick up my science fiction novel. and walk out the door.

Years go by, and I am back for more punishment. to my surprise, Vic is sober. H had diabetes and is in love. He wants – to live! I ask him why he raised his two sons so – cruelly?

He told me he had not role model growing up due to his father deserting him. Thus he used Wolf Larsen as a model. This is almost the truth. Finding John Barelycorn, I now own the truth, which is………..?

My father was a Jack London Freak. He was his No.1 Fan. He modeled his life after London’s characters. My father was……..A Literary Lunatic!

Oakland’s Imperial Marines

Posted on June 6, 2012by Royal Rosamond Press

Above is a photo of my favorite bar in Oakland ‘The Hut’. I almost got shot here. I was talking to some young punk who claimed his father was the Mafia, and, so was he. He tried to muscle me, impress me as we sat at a table. I told him he was full of shit. I asked him what big crimes his family are committing in the bay area. He told me they sell cocaine. I laughed in his face.“Anybody can sell cocaine in Oakland. Even high school drop outs. Who needs the mob, who traditionally look down on drug dealers.”

I told him my mother made porno movies for Big Bone’s Remmer who came to my house with his wife. Suddenly thus black dude I don’t like has come up behind me, and I hear the click of gun – that has misfired! This guy shot my fiend here two months earlier. He was at the bar when he was shot in the arm. He told me the last thing he remembers is a smoke-ring coming at him. Again I hear a click, and study the face of the alleged Mafia man. He is – blown away! I start laughing at him.

“Looks like your bodyguard needs a new gun. Or, you need a new bodyguard.”

I got up, and walked out. On the street, my legs began to shake. This was the second time someone put a gun to the back of my head, pulled the trigger, and the gun jammed.

Above is a photo of the University Hotel and the laundry mat I almost died in. I was drinking and doing my laundry. There was a bunch of street waifs there who I bought hamburgers for. I am talking with this young runaway, when this guy comes up to me and orders me to stop talking to her.

“No one tells me what to do!”

And out comes this big ugly gun that is in my face.

“I’m going to blow your fucking head off!”

The young folks hug the walls! I study this bad-ass dude that repeats his threat, and say;

“I believe you are going to blow my head off. But, you are such a lousy shot you might shoot an innocent bystander. Let’s go in the back ally and you can blow my head off there. Besides, you dont want any witnesses.

“Good idea. Let’s go!”

Now, I’ve had a lot of good ideas in my life, and have been in a rage because most of them have been rejected. In the ally, I fall to my knees with arms outstretched, and say “Baba”. I am in the light. He pulls the trigger. The gun is jammed. He tries again. I get up, and walk away.

A week later I see him on the street, and he’s screaming his tired used-up old threat at me;

“Yeah! Yeah! Promises! Promises!”

When I had a falling out with my daughter, she bragged about her boyfriend having a thousand friends. She said I was “so perfect”. She bragged about Bill having a manufactured bar in their house. Big deal. I and my friends took over three bars in my hood, the last one was the Hut. After living on Beacon Hill and drinking in bars in walking distance of my abode (one of them Cheers) I made a rule to take my business to the bar nearest to me. That was The Canteen, and old man’s bar.

In no time me and my friends moved the old men out. The Canteen became the wildest bar in the Bay Area. It had to be shut down. We moved to the Piedmont Lounge up the street, where the old war heroes retreated. We moved them out, and they went to The Hut. We closed the Lounge due to free for all fights where beer mugs were busted over folks heads. Then, my buddies and I headed for The Hut. I founded three great bars in Oakland. At the Hut this guy tells me;

“When you are not here, this place is a real drag!”

Between the Canteen and the Lounge is the Kerry House where I met my daughter’s mother – who claims she was married to the Mob. I drank here with my father – till dawn. When the bar closed, it never closed for Vic, who drove a big pink Caddy and wore garish plaid dresscoats. Vic never went to rehab. I mean, what would he share at a meeting?

“You all are trophy drinkers, I on the other hand, am the embodiment of Emperor Caligula!”

The real big deal in law enforcement was Frank Coakley (the real Hallahan) whose daughter adopted the Presco children. The Coakly family owned much real estate around Lake Merrit. There was a huge oil painting of this lake where Jack London sailed boats on Kay Coakley’s wall. Kay saw the same angel my sister’s saw. When I got sober, I began my autobiography ‘Bonds With Angels’.For surely there was an angel looking over us, because we were forced to bond with real devils!

My bodyguard was an Imperial Marine, Dietrich’s personal bodyguard, who ran away from Synanon who had moved into Oakland’s old athletic builiding. Two of my friends were members of the SLA, and were quationed by the FBI about the kidnapping of Patty Hurst. I have seen more gunplay then most Marines. I am retired from the World of Imperial Bullshit!

Jon Presco

Alcohol-Related Deaths:

  • An estimated 88,0005 people (approximately 62,000 men and 26,000 women5) die from alcohol-related causes annually, making alcohol the third leading preventable cause of death in the United States. The first is tobacco, and the second is poor diet and physical inactivity.6
  • In 2014, alcohol-impaired driving fatalities accounted for 9,967 deaths (31 percent of overall driving fatalities).7

At the beginning of the book, Jack London gives a quick tease of “White Logic,” mentioning the “white light of alcohol” and how alcohol presented to his mind the concept of White Logic. It is only until the final five chapters that the nihilism of White Logic is finally revealed and pitted against the “lesser truth” that “makes life possible to persist.

The first recorded use of pink elephants as the stereotypical hallucination of the extremely drunk[2][3] occurs at the beginning of chapter two:

There are, broadly speaking, two types of drinkers. There is the man whom we all know, stupid, unimaginative, whose brain is bitten numbly by numb maggots; who walks generously with wide-spread, tentative legs, falls frequently in the gutter, and who sees, in the extremity of his ecstasy, blue mice and pink elephants. He is the type that gives rise to the jokes in the funny papers.[4]

This is contrasted to drinkers such as the narrator, who are possessed of imagination and become drunk more in brain than in body. To them, John Barleycorn sends clear visions of the eventual pointlessness of life and love and struggle.

About Royal Rosamond Press

I am an artist, a writer, and a theologian.
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