California Liberty March Journal- San Francisco (Day One)

There is just too much left to do here. I will be marching around San Francisco tomorrow again. I wandered around the civic center, the downtown district and out to Alamo and Haight-Ashbury.

When I was in the Haight-Ashbury area, there were a lot of people visiting, shopping, hanging out, and driving through. There were also some stern-looking cops walking around, or parked nearby. Hippies and tourists were everywhere.

On one street corner, a shop called, Ben Jammin was holding an outdoor music event. People were dressed in tie-dyed clothing; some wore rainbow wigs and headbands, and others were getting facial tattoos painted on. A really old lady was dancing around doing Flower Child gestures and moves as she listened to a young woman sing and play the guitar. Small children with tie-dyed clothes and face paint were getting their groove on. A very pregnant young woman with her belly exposed and painted was dancing with the children.

I took out my tablet to take pictures. A man who looked a lot like Bill Ayers was sitting under a portable canopy near the singer. He seemed disturbed by my presense with the flag. He got up and told a fat old man with a beard and a tye-dyed outfit to photograph me. I thought the fat man was Ben of Ben an Jerry’s. I just smiled and posed and asked if they wanted the message on my shirt to be visible.

The old fat hippie told me he was Bob, and he posed with me. I asked Bill Ayers to photograph me with Bob.

Bob then offered me a free hot dog, and told me he had attended over 5000 concerts. At least 350 of those concerts were by the Grateful Dead. Bob gave me another hot dog then wandered off to dance with some other hippies who arrived in Sixties-style outfits.

I wanted to proclaim the end of the Progressive Era, but no one else talked to me while I was on the corner of Haight-Ashbury. Thus, I couldn’t find anyone trustworthy to hand my tablet to so I could do it. I decided to walk on, passed the clouds of pot smoke, and along bus stops and grassy hillsides populated by homeless people, teenagers, and hacking drug addicts who were openly free-basing and snorting.

Later in the day, as I was walking from the Civic Center area to downtown, a homeless young woman yelled at me and told me to fly my flag upside-down. This irritated me at first. She then said it’s to signify that the nation is in trouble. She and several other homeless people were lounging on a park slope, complaining that the police rousted them, and kicked them out of the City Hall park. Apparently, there were two big events going on in neighboring buildings, and well-to-do were going to be in attendence.

l had seen several rich people drive by in the area. The men looked distinguished and moneyed, and the women were dripping with jewelry.

The young woman told me that she decided to become homeless after participating in a previous Occupy event. As she told me this, a man lying behind her would periodically grab her breast and gave it a squeeze. The young woman said she would rather live on the streets and do without frequent showers than be a part of what “feeds the system.” Apparently, she can’t do without Facebook. She told me to follow her. Her name is Anonymama.

After chatting with the homeless group, I walked downtown. It was 7 pm by this time.

There would a lot of interesting buildings to look at. As I photographed some of them, I was taunted or threatened by nafarious-looking men with sagging pants who spoke street vernacular. They congregated on the corners and in front of Cash/Western Union shops. One man was behind me, offering his friend $15 to “bitchslap this niggah (me).

I turned around, gave them a look that said, Well? Are you going to do it? I’m waiting. But they turned away and talked about something else.

I wandered for an hour, taking photos and wondering if anyone would ask me about my flag. No one had the entire day. And this is the most people I’ve been around at any given time during my marches. I went into a Starbucks to recharge the tablet and to upload photos to Facebook.

From there, I walked in an arc back toward the 24 Hour Fitness club where I had started from, on Van Ness and Post.

As I was just walking up to the gym to call it a night, a slightly inebriated man named, Larry saw me, my flag, and my shirt message (Protect the Constitution), and he said, “Yes!”

He shook my hand and told me he was once very liberal. Now, he identifies as a libertarian (though he qualified that by saying he’s actually more conservative). He once had long hair, piercings, and thought like a Progressive. Now, he has sort hair, dresses like an average working-class stiff. He is a teacher now, who works with “problem” kids (aka gangbangers and kids from poor, troubled homes).

Larry says he doesn’t like how intolerant the city and its liberal citizens have become. They are tolerant only of what they believe in. He supports gay marriage and is “Pro-Choice,” but he also believes in the Constitution and in the Second Amendment. He owns a gun, in part because of what he does for a living. But he was emphatic about his belief that citizens have the right to keep and bear arms. He has always thought of the Constitution as sacred.

Larry voted for Obama because he hated Bush. But, he soon saw what a disaster Obama is, and didn’t vote for him again. Now, he hates what Obama’s doing to our country and our Constitution. Larry supported the Occupy Movement but disagreed with its focus, and confrontational manner toward the police and others.

One thing Larry was amazed about was how the media has been protect Obama, and yet now have found out that the AP’s  information was secretly taken by the Administration.

Larry and I shook hands, agreed that we love American and are proud to be Americans. Then, I rolled up my flag and walked into the parking structure.

Tomorrow, I will video my proclamation and then march northward to the Presidio, and then across the Golden Gate Bridge.

California Liberty March Journal – San Jose to Sunnyvale and Back

When a seven foot tall police officer asks you, “Do you like the police?” It is inadvisable to answer with anything other than, “YES!”

Hesitating and asking, “Is this a trick question?” doesn’t go over too well…

Today’s march lasted longer than I expected because I underestimated the distance I would be walking from San Jose to Sunnyvale and back. Consequently, I walked an extra seven miles in order to get back to the gym parking lot in San Jose. I took a longer route, which resulted in the extra walking.

I left the gym parking lot at 8 am and walked to downtown San Jose. As I walked, I took photos of various interesting sights: a park with the World’s Largest Permanent Monopoly Board, the Adobe building (makers of Photoshop, etc), an art museum, a veterans’ memorial, and another park with Jacaranda trees and other types of trees, where homeless people slept on the many curved wooden benches.

One homeless man named, Jose engaged me in conversation, but he was hard to follow. He spoke about immigration issues, about the powerful and their attempts to control us, and how Hollywood lies about people. I took a photo of him and skedadled. Two other homeless people asked me for drugs or money. When I told them I had neither, they acted extremely disdainful and walked on.

From downtown, I walked north-west, over a freeway, toward the airport. Periodically, jets flew by and landed, alternating with much smaller private craft. I was marching along Coleman Avenue on the bicycle lane on the opposite side of the road from the airport; walking against on-coming traffic. As I was looking at the airport, an older woman wearing shorts and a floppy hat was walking on the other side of the road.

She stopped walking, made some repeative gestures, then bent over. He back was to me, and I could see her make digging arm movements. Then, she stood upright and continued walking.

I continued along Coleman Avenue until I came to Game Kastle, the same game store I had visited yesterday, during my day off. I had left the wall charger for my tablet in a game room last night, and I wanted to retrieve it. It was 12 pm by that time. I ordered some BBQ ribs from a soul food restaurant nearby and ate it at the game store. The corn bread was awesome, but the ribs were meh.

After eating and checking the Google map, I returned to my march. I marched along Coleman until I hit the Central Expressway.

I took that busy thoroughfare westward. It was windy, so I was playing “Strangle the Jiggling Flag Pole” again. Many cars honked and I was given a lot of thumbs up. The sky was light blue, with wispy, brushed clouds here and there.

After an hour or so, I got off the expressway, and headed south. I meandered along various side streets until Iended up on S. Wolfe Street. I took that south to El Camino Real. As I walked down Wolfe, I noticed two odd things.

First, that the area was populated with a lot of East Indians. The funny thing about these folks is, they have no compunction about staring at you if you’re a stranger. Or, a stranger with a long flag pole and big flag. They will not only look at you, they will stare. Intently. Inscrutibly. There is no point in engaging them in a mad dog staring contest. They will inevitably win. If they aren’t staring at you, they simply turn away and do their best to ignore you. Either way, you are left feeling like an intruder or a madman.

The second odd thing about walking through that area was that a crow kept following me. The same crow. It kept flying from tree to tree ahead of me, then hopping or flying to different branches, cawing at me. It kept doing this for three miles.

I though it had some issue or fascination with my flag. Perhaps with me. When I finally realized that I was being stalked by this cawing pest, I took a video of it as it was in a tree above me. I was rather creeped out by it, and told it to leave. It ignored me and kept doing its tree branch jumping and cawing. Interestingly, it stopped following me after I posted something about it on Facebook.

I took El Camino Real west until I reached the center of Sunnyvale. This was the ten-mile point. I used a restroom, then started back to Wolfe.

I continued down Wolfe into Cupertino, and encountered more stares or averted looks. The neighborhood changed, and soon I saw more and more Chinese people. They did basically the same thing: either stared or pretended I didn’t exist. There were a lot of car honks there. But not for me. The drivers were impatient with one another, and usually because a good number of them drove badly.

As the sun was descending into the afternoon sky, I entered Santa Clara and then San Jose.

As I was walking eastward along Steven Creek Blvd, I saw a huge police officer looking down at a middle-aged man who was seated on the curb behind a van. The police officer was about seven feet tall, with spiked black hair. While he was not muscle-bound, he was build like a brick. Another officer, 6’2 and blonde, was running the licence of the citizen.

The officer had instructed the citizen to get up and open his van’s side door. As I walked by, I saw that there was a mattress on the floor, and there were shelves with tools, like the type locksmiths would have.

“What is the Liberty March?” The taller police officer asked as I was passing by. I was surprised he wanted to engage me in conversation, considering he was dealing with the other citizen.

I stopped, gave him my card, and told the police officer about the number of miles Iwas walking, how I have been driving from place to place and then marching with the flag, and that I demanded that all elected and appointed officials uphold their oaths of office, and protect the Constitution.

That’s when he stopped smiling and asked me if I liked the police.

“Is this a trick question?” I responded.

“Do you like the police?”

“Of course I do. I love law enforcement officers.”

His smile returned. “Oh, then good luck on your march.”

I wonder what he was planning on saying or doing if I had said something like, “No, I detest the loathsome jackbooted thugs!”

After being dismissed, the other officer walked up and asked if I’ve really been walking all the way from San Diego. The taller police officer cut him off and said, “No. He drives.”

I have gotten used to being wary around homeless people and strangers. Sadly, I am now starting to feel wary around police officers. Like the officers in Fresno, I suspect they have an institutionalized biased against us “radical right-wing types who carry the flag and talk about the Constitution.”

I walked along that road for fifteen minutes and came to a Mini Cooper lot to my left. I was looking at them, trying to see how much their price stickers were when I happened to look right at the street next to me, and I saw the two officers stopped in the left turn lane. The taller officer was in a huge police SUV, while the other officer was in a squad car behind him. They looked at me when I happened to notice them. The light turned green, and they passed me as I waited to cross the street to keep walking east.

Down the road a bit, I came to a nice-looking Surplus store. I went in and asked the man if they carried chaps. He told me of two places a few iles away that had them. One was a bondage store and the other supplied motorcycle riders with leather gear. I asked for the name of the motorcycle place. “Just Leather.”

I walked and walked and it was now getting dark. From behind me, someone asked me how far I was carrying my flag. I turned and saw a tall blonde man in his early Fifties accompanied by a tall blonde woman. Both were dressed in tennis/exercise clothes. The man was smiling and was very nice.

I explained what I was doing, and they were interested to hear more. They walked along with me until we came to an intersection where they were going to depart in another direction. We stood on that corner for ten minutes and discussed the current state of affairs in this country; where the poor are being taught to hate the rich. The woman spoke with a Romanian accent and blamed the current administration for promoting class warfare.

Based on what they both said, I deduced that they were very well off. I gave them my card and we parted ways.

As I walked across the intersection, three couples out on the town walked along from a different direction. We waited for the light to turn green so we could continue. I decided to quickly move around them and cross anyway, since there weren’t any cars turning. Two seconds later, a car full of guys with water balloons sped by and pelted the couples. Had I remained where I was standing, I would have been hit several times.

I was already across the street when I turned to hear the laughing car passengers and the startled couples getting hit. I heard several more water balloons hit the ground near where I was. I continued on.

I wondered if I was the intended target and the couples had inadvertantly been hit, or if we all were the targets. Several blocks down, as I passed a street corner, I noticed water spots and realized that the car passengers had thrown water balloons at others along that street.

Eventually, I saw “Just Leather” and crossed the street to see its hours of operation. They will be open tomorrow (Saturday) at 9 am. I have told people that if I had raised enough donations by two nights ago, that I would march through San Francisco wearing my shirt, chaps, and my shoes. And no pants. Even though I didn’t raise the amount I need, I will still go through with what I said I would do. However, I need to buy chaps.

I had another three miles to go, by this point. As it was, I had already marched more than 20 miles. I continued eastward and then turned southward toward Parkmoor. The street there was filled with residential buildings that were zoned for commercial use. Inoticed quite a few massage parlors on that road. The first, called, “Midnight Therapy,” gave me a clue. After that one, I passed three more. Across the street, I saw a closed down theater called, the Burbank.

From there, I walked eastward on Parkmoor, which was a one-way street. And, it was not lit. I walked toward on-coming traffic, getting back on the side walk whenever cars came zooming by. A few drivers saw my flag in their headlights and gave me a few beeps. After a mile, Ireached the gym parking lot. I was relieved. This march took thirteen hours.

I put my flag away in my car, got a change of clothes and my towel, and then went into the gym to shower. Afterward, I drove around until Isaw a pizza store. It was 10 pm by then. And, right next door Isaw the Winchester Western Wear store. It opens tomorrow at 10 am. So, if they sell cheap chaps and a cowboy hat, I’ll wear that as I march through San Francisco. I’m worried that if I wear motorcycle chaps and a cap, I’ll be mistaken for a Castro District village person, or something.

So, that’s my report for today. Tomorrow, I go Rhinestone Cowboy on ol San Fran.

California Liberty March – Palmdale to Lancaster (Layover in Tehachapi)

Today, as I was driving down a mountainside road in Tehachapi, I experienced the most terrifying panic attack of my life.

I thought I was going to end up at the bottom of the cliff near me, and roll down to the bottom of Kern Canyon. Thankfully, I held it together, and extricated myself from the harrowing situation.

Before I get into that, I want to report about the California Liberty March on Wednesday May 8th from Palmdale to Lancaster.

Report: It was pretty uneventful.

I had left from a community park in south-east Palmdale and walked across residential and commercial areas separated by stretches of undeveloped desert land. Cars would occasionally drive by and honk, but when I’d look to wave, the people in the honking cars were facing forward, as if they hadn’t honked at all.

Whenever a car within a group of passing cars would honk, I was always unsure of who did the honking. In fact, I wondered if they were honking in support of the flag or out of annoyance.

As I passed a middle school, some boys playing with a kick ball saw me. The first one gathered his pals, and they shouted and waved. The first boy was pumping his fists in the air and shouting. He decided to go all out and bent his knees. He followed this up with hip thrusts. I just laughed, shook my head, and walked on.

Tony A.

The only people I had actual conversations with on this march were both in Palmdale. The first was a thin man named Tony A. who was standing outside a McDonalds. He walked up behind me as I was rolling up my flag. When I noticed him over my shoulder, he said he wanted to see how I did it.

Tony started telling me about the bad nutritional effects of eating at any fast food establishment. He was going to go in and eat a yogurt parfait, he said, but wasn’t sure.

“With all due respect,” he said cautiously, looking at my gut, “Have you ever done a cleanse?”

“No, but I probably should. I want to lose forty more pounds.”

He went on to tell me about faith leader Danny Viera, who is in northern California, and who has a cleanse product that works wonders. Tony and I talked further about faith and religion. His goal is to establish an “Empowerment Ministry” in Florida. He had worked as a para-legal and loan modification agent before the present administration. His wife and father-in-law drove up, and Tony handed me his card.

Ryan

The second person I met was Ryan; a young man in his early twenties, who was wearing a black baseball cap, unzipped hoodie, and saggy pants. He was standing outside of a hobby store miles away, smoking. His bicycle was leaned up against the wall.

I rolled up my flag in order to step inside the hobby store to look around and to get out of the sun. The wind was blowing hard, so the flag wasn’t rolling up correctly. Ryan stepped up and helped me get it under control.

I walked around inside the store to see if they had any cheap plastic figurines of children I could buy to use as playing pieces for the prototype of a board game I am developing called, The Very Scary Cemetery. An artist I know (who was once a 3D animation student of mine), is going to paint the art for the game pieces and board. The store owners told me they didn’t have what I wanted, so I left.

As I was unfurling the flag, Ryan asked me why I was walking with it. So I told him.

He smiled, revealing some chipped and missing teeth. He told me that he wanted the local Sheriff’s Deputies to uphold their own oaths, as they harass him on a weekly basis. Ryan said that because of his appearance (he has neck and arm tattoos), he is pulled over as he rides his bicycle, and is asked if he is on parole or probation. He told me that he continually hands his ID to the deputies, telling them to run his card.

“Check my background. I have no record. I may look bad,” he told me, “But I’m a good person.”

He gave me another lop-sided, toothy smile, and I shook his hand. All I could think to tell him was, “Hang in there…”

I then continued to 10th Avenue West, and turned northward to Lancaster.

Desert, Desert, Everywhere

From that point on, there were very long stretches of open land, with business park developments or mini-malls punctuating the long arid walk.

After several hours, I reached Lancaster. Mike DeGrood, a member of the Sons of Liberty motorcycle club, called me at 4:30 pm to try and find me. He wanted to walk a little with me. He was going to pick me up at the end of the route and drive me back to my car at the park in Palmdale.

I was about three hours away from completing the 20 miles. He walked with me from Avenue L to Avenue K before turning back in his work shoes to get his car. I continued walking to reach Avenue J before me got me.

While the parts of Palmdale I had walked through were predominantly populated by Hispanics, the northern part of Lancaster I walked through are predominantly blacks. The expressions on the faces of people I passed by as I walked in both towns made me smile; because they all seemed to be wondering what type of lunatic I was.

I received a lot more honks and thumbs ups in Lancaster, as well as smiles and waves. The usual battle cry of, “America!” was occasionally shouted.  I even got two “Whoo hoo!” from girls driving by.

Side note: Teen aged girls and college girls almost always shout the same thing: “Whoo hoo!” I wonder why that is. Although, some do occasionally shout, “America!” like boys and men tend to do.

By the time I reached Avenue J, Mike D. was parked off to the side. “You ready?” he asked.

My arches were aching, and my right foot was once again throbbing with pain.

“All you’re going to hit from this point on is desert,” he told me. “No one will really see you and the flag.”

So, I put the flag in his car, and he drove me back to the park. It was a long drive, because of the surface streets route, even though we did take the freeway along the way. Then, I followed him back to the freeway, and then drove 45 minutes north to Tehachapi, where he lives and works.

As I followed Mike’s car, we passed through part of the Mojave. To the West, I saw hundreds of wind turbines in the distance. It was amazing. They were on the plains and on the hills. When Mike pulled over along the way to gas up, he told me that he works for a company that constructs them.

From there, we drove to Tehachapi.

That is where I am now, blogging. He and his wife have offered to let me stay here for a couple of days. Tomorrow, I will leave early in the morning to get the Bakersfield for that march. I’ll return here for tomorrow night. Early Saturday morning, I will drive up to the next route, which is from Tulare to Visalia.

After that, I drive northward.

Tehachapi

I haven’t had much time to explore. From what I have seen of it, it is a very nice rural town. I left at 3 pm today to drive around and take some photos for you guys, but I didn’t get very far. As I passed houses on acreage that had white fences around them, I came to the top of Kern Canyon.

That is where my harrowing experience began.

Yesterday, I had told Mike that I have a phobia of driving on high, curving overpasses and bridges. Driving over the Golden Gate Bridge and others is a concern for me.

I first became aware of my anxiety with driving over bridges in my early Twenties, when I was a Resident Assistant at UCLA. I was driving some students from my floor somewhere along the I-405. When I came to the I-10 interchange,  and was driving onto the overpass, I suddenly experienced sweats and anxiety.

I slowed way down and made it, but was freaked out.

Since then, I have done alright while driving. But last Summer, while I was driving my children over the Coronado Bridge to reach the island, I once again experienced a terrible panic attack.

I didn’t want to freak out my kids, so I remained calm, breathing slowly. All the while, my mind kept seeing the bridge in front of me collapsing, and I was deathly afraid we were about to plunge into the bay below. I just kept talking myself through it, telling myself to remain calm, to check my speed, to look at the road ahead (instead of the open sky above and around the bridge).

We made it. I was so shaken by this, I let my eldest daughter drive us back over the bridge (even though she was still a new driver).

Today, I was trying to find a famous landmark where trains do a turnaround. So, I followed a road Mike had pointed out. That road went through the rolling plains lands of the houses with fences I mentioned. It was when the road started to descend alongside a mountain when the panic attack occurred.

All-Consuming Terror

I was driving down  for a few hundred feet when I was struck by how interesting the landscape in the distance looked. I pulled over on a very slim patch of gravel on the side of the road, on the lane closest to the canyon. I was a little nervous, so I double-checked the parking brake, and that I was in Park.

I got out of my car, walked up the road a little to take a photo of the canyon with my tablet. When I got back into my car and started driving down again, there suddenly was a sheer cliff alongside me. There were no longer any trees alongside me to provide a point of reference for my eyes.

I suddenly panicked and felt my heart race. I told myself to calm down, and I prayed.

“Through God, all things are possible…”

I slowed down and came to another gravel pull-over spot. Luckily, it was twice as wide and long as the first. I hit my Hazard lights and drove slowly onto the gravel. I was terrified. To my right was a canyon far below.

My heart raced and my head was spinning, and I thought I was going to drive off the cliff. From where I was at, on this narrow two-lane road, I was able to see oncoming traffic from both directions for about forty feet each way. There was a hairpin turn ahead of me, while the road had a shallower curve behind me.

I had to get off of that road as soon as I could. The terror was quickly building. It took a lot of talking to myself to keep track of what I needed to do:

Is your foot still on the brake? Are there cars coming from the north? Are there cars coming from the south? Am I sliding into the canyon? How much space is there to turn left into the mountain, so I can back up onto the gravel again and complete turning around..?

I looked up and down the roads again, saw that they were clear, then I went for it. I turned hard left, drove across the lanes until I was facing the mountainside, then I looked back to see where I needed to go as I backed up.

When I looked back, I was completely horrified, all I could see was the sky. I didn’t know how much road there was until I hit the gravel patch. I was afraid I’d accidentally hit the accelerator and drive off the cliff. But, I knew I couldn’t remain blocking the road. Someone could run into me at any second.

So, I drove back slowly until I felt the car roll over gravel. I then turned quickly to see how much room I had left ahead of me. No cars were coming, so I turned the wheel hard left, then accelerated back onto the road, and headed back up the mountain.

I retraced my route back to the DeGrood’s. When I parked the car, I was nauseous and shaky. My head was throbbing and it hurt. I went into the house and into the bathroom. There, I splashed water on my face and I was overwhelmed with emotion. I started to cry.

So I went into the guest room and cried into a folded up towel until the feeling went away. I rewashed my face and left the house. I wanted to go to bed and curl up but instead, I left the house and drove into town along a different route.

There, I saw a Starbucks next to an Italian restaurant called, “Pacino’s.” I felt queasy so I decided to eat something. I hadn’t eaten any other than a protein shake up to that point.

Inside Pacino’s, I saw that it is essentially a shrine to the actor. There are movie posters everywhere, as well as framed head shots from throughout his career, and painted murals of the man and of his work.

I ordered water and spaghetti with salad and bread sticks. I was still shaken but slowly feeling better. Across the aisle from me was a woman named, Darlene F. She and I started talking.

She told me that she is a commercial and competitive Bass fisher. She travels throughout the South fishing and competing. She told me of how the weather conditions were so extreme at times that she and other competitors questioned their judgment in doing what they do. This fascinated me.

She told me that they sometimes band together, sleep over in rented houses or campsites, and share stories of their day’s travails with one another. They compete for money, boats, and sometimes houses. Mainly, for money. But they pay $3000 entry fees to enter competititons!

“It’s all about winning,” she told me. “It’s to be competitive.”

Talking with her calmed me. I told her about my march, and she told me to contact some of her FB friends who are fishermen and who are Conservative. We shared names and then she left.

After I was done eating, I drove around the town for ten minutes. It had started raining, and it was overcast. I felt exhausted, so I drove back to Mike’s house.

Excelsior Henderson Motorcycles

When I returned to the house, I started blogging. After an hour, Mike returned and needed to use his computer. So, I got off and went into the guest room for a while. I then went into the den to ask Mike a question.

He was looking on Google for images of motorcycles that have the same type of windshield he needs for his motorcycle. That is when he began to tell me the story of the resurrection of an American motorcycle brand called, the Excelsior Henderson.”

Apparently, the first American-made motorcycle was the Excelsior. Ignaz Schwinn, the famed German-born mechanical engineer, and bicycle maker, purchased the rights to the Excelsior and another motorcycle brand called the Henderson. He then began producing the Excelsior Henderson motorcycle.

The “X” was the favored motorcycle of law enforcement officers in the Twenties. Charles Lindburgh rode one, and even Henry Ford was an owner. It was the first motorcycle to reach 100 mph.

By 1931, though, because of the Depression, Schwinn walked in and informed his employees that he would no longer be producing the X. Thus, the Excelsior Henderson faded off into obscurity. Until the 1990′s.

It was in 1993 that Dan Hanlon, and his younger brother Dave, reintroduced the Excelsior Henderson. They had spent $50,000 on each of several prototypes that were based on the last known designs of the motorcycle’s previous incarnations. The Hanlons’ designs were supposed to take those designs and extrapolate what the motorcycle would look like at that point, as if it had never ceased production.

From 1993 to 2000, the Hanlons produced one thousand nine hundred and fifty-eight motorcycles. But, the Hanlons needed more money to continue to do so. Each production model cost $1000 more than what they sold for. The Excelsior Henderson name still needed time to build a customer base, and thus, be more affordable.

Despite a push for venture capital, the Hanlons had to file for bankruptcy. While litigation was in process, an outside company came in, promising to revive the company. The principal of that company put down $300,000 as a deposit against the millions needed to finalize the reorganization.

As it turned out, the principal of the investing company was an unscrupulous man wanted in other states. He sold all of the assets and dies and machines used to construct the X. He sold all of the early models from the showroom, and liquidated all holdings.

Hence, the Excelsior Henderson was once again lost. No one knows where any of the machine dies have gone to, nor are there any of the original plans known to be in existence. Whomever has them hasn’t come forward. As Mike said, “It’s a mystery.”

Mike has two Excelsior Hendersons. He proudly showed them to me after he told me the story. They are beautiful cycles. I intend on acquiring one in the coming year, once I am working once again.

Apparently, they are becoming less expensive because original replacement parts are dwindling. They can be modified with parts from other brands, though. From a historical perspective, the X is a collectable. It represents American ingenuity and determination and courage.

I want to be courageous. I want to overcome my fear of heights and of falling. Everyday on this trip, whether I want to or not, I discover something new. I learn something I need in order to be able to leave behind my previous bad habits and fears.

When I Drove Off of a Cliff

I suspect that my phobia and anxiety is due in large part to the day I drove off of a road that ran alongside a ravine. From the center of the ravine was an elevated area on which a train ran.

I was 16, and I was driving a Ford Pinto to the Trestles with three friends. The Trestles was a train bridge over a lagoon in Carlsbad, CA. We would jump from the bridge into the water below. Once in it, the water currents were strong, and wee’d swim against them to reach the shore.

The day before I was driving to the Trestles, I was a passenger in my friend George’s station wagon. He was driving on the dirt road, doing fishtails. We thought that was fun. So, the next day, when I was driving, and George and two others rode along with me, they told me to do fishtails. Being a teenager, I did.

And I did them beautifully! Until I saw an indented patch of sand ahead. So, I stopped fishtailing, slowed down a bit and held the steering wheel straight. For  whatever reason, the car suddenly turned in a 70 degree angle, and we soared into the air.

As George and the others screamed, I was trying to get my foot from under the accelerator so I could hit the brakes. Which would have been pointless, but it gave me something to do as I thought (with a sinking feeling in my stomach), “Aw, damn… And I’ve never ever looked to see what’s down there…”

I thought we were going to die. But, after being airborne for a few seconds, the car landed on the side of the ravine and was about to roll on the side when it hit a large concrete block (the type of block used to support power poles). The front right wheel well was lodged against it, prevent any further movement.

For the first half minute, we all sat there. Stunned. Suddenly, the others started nervously laughing. “Let’s do that again!”

Despite being glad we were alive, I was afraid of my parents finding out. I happened to have $50 in my wallet, so I called a tow truck to pull my car from the ravine. He did and it seemed to run alright. Though my step-father asked me why the front end was elevated. I don’t remember what lie I told him. But, thereafter, I have never been in a car accident that was my fault.

As far as I can tell, that may be the genesis for my phobia. I wonder how to conquer it. I want to be able to ride my future X on windy mountain roads without experience that terror again…

Sleepless in Santa Barbara

Last night, at 11:30 pm, as I was in my car getting ready to go to sleep, I heard beautiful guitar music being played by a man named Bruce G. He had laid out his guitar case and CDs, a guest book, and business cards on one corner of the second floor parking structure walkway. He also put a feedback monitor on an isand across from him.

His music was improvised Flaminco-style renditions of classics such as, “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” Ode to Joy,” “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” and classical guitar pieces I had never heard before. I was enthralled, as the music resonated beautifully throughout the structure. He performed like a virtuoso, thumping on the guitar for percussion while expertly playing; his fingers plucking, strumming, and sliding faster than I could keep up.

I got out of my car to listen to him. I asked if I could videotape a bit, and he nodded. I remained outside in the cold, barefoot, listening. I closed my eyes, and felt transported. The situation was surreal. Almost no one else was around, but here was this gifted man playing in the oddest of places. Despite my sadness from the past few days, I felt so much better. A few couples that happened by and who heard him playing, walked up the stairs to investigate. Bruce told them about his CDs for sale, and he offered them some hard candy while they listened.

He continued playing for over an hour. By that time, I had gotten back in my car and lay down to sleep. Eventually, he stopped and packed his things and drove away. I fell asleep.

I woke up at 5:20 am after a difficult night of restless sleep. Lately, I’ve had leg tremors and night sweats. I’ve also experienced mood swings and increased edemia in my hands and feet. These are all signs that my Diabetes in not under control.

I just tossed out the of the insulin I had with me as it is obviously no good. I can survive for a few weeks without it, though it will require me to diligently monitor my symptoms and respond accordingly. I lived with raging Diabetes for years. It was not pleasant but I can do it again. My doctor, upon checking my blood sugar three years ago told me he didn’t know how I had lived for as long as I had with a blood sugar level of 428. The normal range is from 70 to 100.

Now that I am experiencing the same symptoms as back then, it is apparent that the insulin I have been keeping in my car (with the windows partially rolled down) is no longer viable. I had always thought that it was supposed to be refrigerated until you needed to use it; at which time, I would keep it on my office desk for a week, at room temperature. Last night, my wife called me and told me that insulin, when not in use, needs to be kept refrigerated. Apparently, I still have a lot to learn about this disease.

Since I was first diagnosed, I have been a stubborn bastard about accepting my condition, and about identifying myself as “Diabetic.” But today, l now understand. I have had the persistent nausea and ‘increased emotionalism that plagued me for years before I finally was taking insulin. Those symptoms were mitigated by my eating food. Eating seemed to make me feel less sick. It comforted me. l but I see now that I was essentially self-medicating. Thus, I got fat and complicated my health even further. Well, I Am not going back to poor health. Not after coming so far.

I intend on losing another 40 lbs and being healthy and active again. That means I have to be absolutely diligent about my diet. Which means I have to change my habits. l realize this now. I am sick, and I have been thinking of Diabetes as a personal weakness. So, I have been denying its seriousness, and thus, my need to take it seriously.

So, Hello. My name is Roger, and l am a diabetic…

As part of the monitoring process, l am going to elicit feedback from you.

I need to raise money again in order to continue with this march. The uncertainty of not having enough has been wearing, and has made me anxious and feeling guilty about undertaking this endeavor. Am l selfish for doing this march? Originally, I thought that I would get media coverage and, thus, enough in donations to accomplish it. But, nothing has happened as l planned, and now, I have only enough for the car trip from Santa Barbara to Santa Clarita.

What do you think? l don’t want to give up. I have endured a lot to get here. I can and will go all the way, At the same time, for what? What good will l do? SOMETHING’s got to be done and said about our rights. If I Stop now, I won’t be doing what I can to stop politicians from stealing our rights. In the grand scheme of things, though, what can just one man do?

I need perspective. I need your help. Again. Please post comments below.

California Liberty March Journal – Santa Barbara

Beautiful, carefree Santa Barbara! Spanish Colonial and Mission Architecture abounds. So do wealthy individuals, college students, tourists, tradesmen, hippies, and homeless…

I arrived in Santa Barbara on Thursday night. I bypassed Ventura County because of the wildfire in Camarillo. I found a parking structure in the heart of downtown Santa Barbara, behind a movie theater. Two blocks away is the 24 Hour Fitness I bathed at, and another block away is the Starbucks I have been blogging from since.

On Friday, I decided to walk around with the flag instead of just resting my feet. I walked slowly, looking around at the sights. Several homeless people gestured to the flag and gave me a smile or thumbs up. Some passersby said, “Good for you,” or “It’s good to see someone patriotic!” or “Look out for that party bus!”

A college girl who was sitting with two of her friends said, “Hey, mister. What’s the deal with your flag?” Don’t you just love how kids speak to their elders these days..?

Our conversation was interesting to me because she nodded in agreement with everything I said, even though she looked like the type who would’ve put out her cigarette in my arm and spit on me for being over Thirty. Instead, she said, “Right on, that’s what I’m talking about. We need to fight for our rights.” Her two friends didn’t seem interested in the conversation, as they got up and wandered away. The girl noticed this and the conversation ended.

For the most part, people who passed me kept their distance or avoided eye contact, or whispered to each other about my flag. I didn’t experience anything negative. I just walked, made sure the flag didn’t blow into anyone’s face, or get caught in the branches of the many trees that lined State Street. Occasionally, a child would be amazed by the flag, and I’d smile at him or her.

Around 1:30 pm, I went looking for something inexpensive to eat. I noticed a pizza place on one of the side streets. There was a crowd in front of the establishment. As I approached, I saw two college-aged men wearing white short-sleeved shirts and black ties and slacks standing there. One of them saw me and asked my why I was carrying the flag. I was not really in the mood to speak with anyone. I was tired, my feet were throbbing, and I was hungry. And, I really missed my family. So, I felt a little sad.

But, seeing that others had turned to listen to what I had to say, I said, “I’m walking a total of 500 miles with this flag because I’m sick and tired of our politicians speaking as if our rights are negotiable, and can be taken away from us. Our rights are inalienable. No one can take them away. And so, I am going to Sacramento to have my voice heard.”

A blonde young woman off to the side came forward and extended her hand. She introduced herself and told me that she was raised to stand up for herself and to believe in fighting for one’s rights. She said she had gone to a march that was held in Washington, DC a while ago. Other people who had been seated on the cafe chairs had stood up and were listening.

I answered other questions, even though I felt pretty discouraged. In a moment of profound sadness, I told them that I had walked through a number of different cities so far, and had spoken with all types of people; including the homeless. I described how those who are least among us, those who have no reason to believe in anything, much less our flag, still lit up when they saw me walking by. In fact, everywhere I looked, I had seen people struggling to survive, to work, to exist with dignity despite the economy. Despite the policies that keep them down.

I recited an impromptu poem that described these people as seeds that had fallen between the cracks in the concrete of our society. They push and struggle to break through to the sunlight, becoming saplings that just want a chance to live free and to reach for the clouds. I said that if the homeless can still believe in America and in our flag, that we should, too.

I must’ve delivered a sermon, because a brunette young woman in the back of the small crowd had tears in her eyes. She softly said, “That is so cool.”

I then said I needed to eat. I handed out my cards, and everyone disbanded. I went in and ordered two slices of Pepperoni.

Later that day, I wandered down State Street and saw a game store. I am a life-long game designer and player. So, I went in to see what was new. The college girl behind the counter, Natalie, told me about the latest boardgames and trading card games. As we conversed, she told me that she was taking a game development class. I asked her what she was going to do in life and she told me that she was going to do concept art for games and entertainment.

Really good concept artists are in demand. I gave her professional advice as someone who has contracted artists for years. She showed me her web site and her work was very good. At this point, a family walked in. It was a young man named, Christian, his girlfriend, and his parents. Christian asked me about games, thinking I worked there. As the conversation evolved, he mentioned that he was an aspiring game producer. His parents beamed with pride about his accomplishments and told me to look at a game their son had completed with a group of college friends.

I introduced Christian to Natalie and told him that she was a very good artist, with an excellent understanding of anatomy. They exchanged e-mails, and he gave me the e-mail of one of his friends who was a game designer.

I went across the street to get dinner, and met an older man from the Bronx. Jerry was alone at the bar counter of Joe’s Cafe. As I waited for my club sandwich, I asked him about himself. He appeared lonely, like me. I figured he might like it if someone took notice of him. We spoke for a while about Santa Barbara, and how it hadn’t changed much since he had moved here in the Sixties. Once my food was done, I thanked him for our chat and walked back toward the parking structure.

I realized that I didn’t want to sit alone in my car as I ate, so I stopped and sat on a bench in front of another movie theater along the way. I ate my sandwich, watching people walk by. I then went to Starbucks and started blogging about the previous march. I hurried to finish it before the battery in my tablet was drained. Then, I went to 24 Hour Fitness, stretched out, showered, and went to sleep in my mini-van.

Thankfully, the parking structure is free if you drive in after a certain hour. I’ve been sleeping on the second story of the structure for two days. I am going to move the car to a different space tonight, just in case someone has noticed it’s been there for two days, and plans to tow it.

Today, I marched from downtown Santa Barbara, down State Street, to the pier. Despite feeling lonely, I wanted to avoid others. I walked to the beach to take a photo of the pier and the buildings that were on it. I wanted to be alone for a while, so I walked south along the waterline.

A blonde college girl was sitting on a towel next to her boyfriend. She asked me if there was a reason I was carrying the flag. I told her who I was, why I was marching, and where I was going. She seemed impressed and agreed that our rights are being trampled on. Her boyfriend nodded, as well, and also said that he was glad I was doing what I am doing. I gave them a card, then walked on.

I decided to get back to the road and continued south. As I walked, I looked at the chat messages my eldest daughter has sent me the night before. I had been feeling very alone, miles from home, doing an insane quest, not knowing if it would make any difference, when I received her first text.

“I miss you.” I started crying after reading it. Tears streamed down my face as I was blogging in the Starbucks. My relationship with Ashley has been strained for years. She has pushed me away and refuses to let me hug her or give her a kiss. My wife and I aren’t sure of what is going on with her, as she has always been a difficult child. But, she is my baby and I love her very much. So, it hurts not being allowed to hold her.

That’s why, when I read her text, I was overwhelmed. I was already emotional. I responded with, “I miss you, too, Shlee. Very much.”

She asked me how I was doing. I admitted that I was lonely but that I was meeting a lot of people and spreading my message. She told me she was texting from a Padres game with her boyfriend. She said she hoped that I was proud of what I am doing.

“I hope you are proud of what I’m doing,” I responded.

“I’m glad you’re doing what you feel is right.”

I asked her if she was happy, and she said that she was.

That is the longest conversation she and I have had in over two years.

When I first left on my march today, I encountered three aged hippies singing on a street corner. They were singing Sixties songs and protesting Obama and the War. I honestly have no idea what they were saying with their signs and songs. I didn’t ask. It was just too comical a spectacle. The woman in the trio was dancing in place, holding up the peace sign. One of the two men looked as if he were a little embarrassed to be there. He kept his sign near his face. The other man was on a magical, mystical, mystery tour of his own. I asked if I could take a photo, and I did. Then, I got on my purple carpet ride and headed west to the pier.

After I had Spoken to the blonde girl on the beach, I walked south until I reached a lagoon preserve. I ate flan at a restaurant near it and checked in on FB. Then, I walked up into the foothills where older residences are, and walked north again, toward downtown. Since I didn’t have a ride today from anyone, Idecided to walk in a circular route. Tomorrow, I will walk from downtown toward the north and back.

Something that strikes me as funny is how people will sometimes yell, “America!” as they pass me. Sometimes it’s, “A-MERica!” Other times it’s, “‘Murica!’ Yet other times, it’s a Geronimo-like, “Ameri-Caaaaaa!” If they follow the cry with a laugh, I get the sense they are just making fun of the dude with the flag. In any event, it’s a funny phenomenon.

When I reached downtown again, I put away the flag and my hat and went to Starbucks to blog.

Tonight, I feel a little less alone. I am almost halfway done. From Santa Clarita on, I will be in unknown territory. I have come to realize that this march, this journey, has been one of rediscovery as it has been one of political defiance and protest.

I had lost myself sometime ago, and had come to despise my “gifts.”I had been escaping from myself and in doing so, had forgotten all of my dreams and goals. I now no longer seek to be anything other than who and what I am:  a dreamer, an artist, a writer, a father, a husband, and a patriot.

I want this march to be over. I want to go back home. I want to fix things back there. But I still have more to learn. There are still more people to talk with, and miles to go before I have my say in Sacramento. The journey is just as important as reaching the destination. So I’m going to continue trusting and walking, and talking to anyone who’ll listen.

End of Day One in Santa Barbara

The next morning, I woke up at 5 am  again, and dragged myself to the gym to shower. I tended to my feet, got dressed, and decided on waiting until after lunch time to finish the last five miles of marching. I have been breaking up my marches into 15-5 mile chunks in order to rest my blistered feet. This has actually been better for engaging people, as I am not rushing to cover all twenty miles in a single day.

Consequently, my feet are healing better, and I’ve been having longer conversations with those I encounter.

After I ate lunch, I got my flag pole and set off to walk toward the opposite end of State Street and then northward.

It was a blustery Pooh Bear type of day. Except I had no Christopher Robin to walk with, and my rumbly tumbly belly was not craving honey. The flag was fluttering wildly again, so I had to keep holding it steady with both hands.

I stopped by a Mexican food restaurant to use the restroom. As I was walking toward the front door, a black-haired Irish woman pocked her head out and asked me if I was part of a parade.

“I AM the parade,” I joked. She smiled then went back in. I rolled up my flag and left it standing against an inner covered area. After I came out of the restroom, the Irish woman’s mother asked me why I was walking with the flag.

After I told her about my demand that our politicians uphold their oaths of office, she said something about what she didn’t understand or like about America. Her daughter shifted uncomfortably. Her mother said that in Ireland, they “open their door to all types of immigrants, and don’t expect or demand that immigrants give up their heritages.”

I told her, that America opens its arms, as well. But, we are not Ireland, or any other country, for that matter. Unlike any other country, we were formed to be a republic of free individuals. While our nation is a nation of immigrants (of which the Irish are an integral part), they have been, by and large, legal immigrants. A republic is a society governed by rule of law, not feel-good legislation.

The woman continued telling me about the differences between our nations, and why she took exception to how we do things. Oddly, she talked herself into a circle, ending up on my side of things after I told her thatthere is no such thing as “free” anything.

“The more in taxes I am forced to pay, the less money I have. The less money I have, the less options. The less options, the less free I am. Hence, a society that promotes the idea that the individual should be less free and live at a lower quality of life so that government can be enlarged in order to provide free things, is an unfree society run by a tyrannical government. I am a citizen, Ma’am. Not a subject.”

From this point on, she decried the social system iin Ireland, where the producers like her are penalized by higher taxation and the depletion of her pension, while those who live off of the system, don’t pay taxes, yet are given a place to live, healthcare, and food assistance.

The woman’s daughter was smiling to herself during this time; as was I. At the end of our conversation, the mother said she was going to go back and fight for her pension.

I left the restaurant, passed several Sheriff’s Deputies who looked at me and nodded when I waved at them, and headed west toward the beach.

It was starting to get late, so I walked toward State Street again after an hour. I  walked through neighborhood streets to get there. On one of them, I heard a male voice yell, “Viva, Mexico!” as I walked by. I could tell by the tone that he was trying to be a smart ass. I stopped, turned, and glimpsed a figure move out of the doorway. I just laughed and walked on.

When Igot back to my car in the parkimg structure, the guitar player was back. I could hear him from half a block away. It was 7 pm. Iasked him if he played there often, and he said he did every Sunday night.

I loaded my car, then listened to him play for fifteen minutes. I then programmed my TomTom GPS car unit to direct me to Santa Clarita, and I left Santa Barbara.

California Liberty March Journal – Day Nine

This march was on Wednesday May 1, 2013 (May Day). I marched from Venice Beach Pier to Santa Monica Pier to Westwood and UCLA then to Beverly Hills. This at once a boring and yet interesting march. I met hippies, artists, potheads, tourists, street poets, vendors, and college students. This doesn’t include the homeless, skeeves, geeks, Greeks, and nymphos. Oh, and Chris.

Elegance and Lace. And Peacocks.

At 9:30 am, I parked in a lot right near the pier. I had spent the previous two nights at the home of Tracey and her husband, Greg. I knew Tracey over thirty years ago in high school (ah, the glories of the Internet and Facebook… ). Tracey and Greg are of the more politically-conservative stripe, and offered me a place to stay when I was in their area.  Their home is an impressive one; located in the exclusive hilltop community of Palos Verdes.

Their home is appointed with slate-trimmed touches, a magnificent backyard with pool, patios, poolhouse, and fruit trees. And peacocks. I thought Tracey was kidding and having a peacock, but, on my first evening there, I saw one strutting on the back lawn. That night, I listened to him call out to the other wild peacock that roam freely across the pennisola. They were introduced into the area by one of the main landowners of the time, and, not having natural predators around to limit their population, the peacock have since proliferated.

Greg is a spine surgeon and Tracey is a pharmacist. They are an interesting couple; each with their passions. One of their passions is watching musical theater. On their walls are autographed stage production posters, as well as framed animation cells from cartoons. Greg and Tracey take their health and fitness seriously, and cooking fine cuisine is part of that. Greg cooked a delicious meal on my second night there: roasted chicken, asparagus, baked cauliflower basted with duck sauce, small seasoned potatoes, and a hot baguette.

The Merchants of Venice Beach

As I gathered my things together for the march to Hollywood and Vine from Venice Beach, I looked around at the architecture of the nearby buildings. There all sorts of styles; as eclectic as the denizens of the area I walked through that day. The very first person to greet me was a pastor visiting from Hollywood, Florida. He and his wife were walking along the boardwalk near me when he greeted me as his brother, and then asked me where I was going with the flag. After explaining my goal, he prayed for me.

After we parted, I walked by the beach to get a view of the Pacific Palisades miles north from where I was. I continued toward Santa Monica.

I passed vendors in beach shops, as well as artists selling their crafts and paintings, etc. Several were selling traditional painted skulls, others were selling handcrafted jewelry, and others, clothing or dreamcatchers. There were many homeless people about, lying on open cardboard boxes, or sitting on the park benches. They seemed to regard me with suspicion; perhaps because of the flag I was carrying and because I stopped from time to time to take pictures with my cell phone.

I passed by a Marijuana dispensary called, The Green Doctors.  Not once, but three times along the strip. The Green Doctors looked suspiciously like pot dealers dressed in pastel green scrubs who were standing outside their “clinics,” hawking their wares. Gathered around each of these places were homeless drug addicts, overaged skateboarders, and surfers.

I stopped by an older black lady who was sitting on a fold-out chair singing into a microphone. Next to her was a CD player and speakers. She sang with such style that I had to listen. I bought her a bottle of water and gave her the only cash I had left: $2 and change. I asked a woman sitting at a cafe table to video me swaying with Starla as she sang. The woman told me to ask her son, Lukas. He videoed Starla and me and when I got the camera back from him, his mother asked me about the website address on my tee-shirt.

I explained why I was marching and what I hoped would happen. The woman had a Scandanavian accent, and spoke as if rights were very important to her. Her mother was sitting across from her, nodding. Lukas listened as we talked. The woman asked me if I had eaten lunch yet. I wanted to accept her invitation but I had arranged to be picked up in Hollywood by my friend, Tracey at 7 pm. So, I declined, gave them my card, and continued on.

Steampunk and Punks Who Got Me Steamed

I spoke with an artist about his Steampunk art pieces. When I return from this march, I am interested in finding Steampunk craftsmen and arranging to selling their wares to collectors. So, I got his phone number, gave him my card, and walked on.

That’s when I heard two men off to the side call out to me.

“Hey! You with the flag. Why don’t you shove that pole up your ass?”

“Ya,” chimed the other, “Why don’t you burn that f’ing flag!?”

I stopped walking, the smile I had on up to that point was replaced with a grimace. I turned and walked up to them. I have been ignoring offensive comments as best as I could during my marches, but the flag burning comment was too much. I planted the flag pole beside me and looked them each in the eye. The two men sat back down on the stone partition thy had been standing in front of as I had passed by. Their bravado drained away. I was ready to kick ass and they could see it.

“Now, WHAT can I do with flag pole?”

Johnny B., a tall angry-looking black guy, suddenly wasn’t so eloquent. He rambled on about what the flag stands for, and how humanity is nothing more than parasites.

“We consume and consume. We are a danger to the universe.”

He continued on, ranting, and I could smell the pot they had been smoking. Beside Johnny B. was “Trip,” a husky heavy metal ogre: shaved head, missing teeth, tattoos, and leather wristbands. He was an interesting counter to Johnny B., who kept interrupting him, and who gave him a hard time when Trip told me that he would rather be called, Andrew. Johnny B. was pinching the tiniest joint I’ve ever seen.

Deciding that these two melonheads were baked, I smiled, introduced myself, and, after a Comical and hard to follow conversation, I wished them well, and moved on.

End of Route 66

After walking for an hour or so, I reached the Santa Monica Pier. Along the way, I was passed several times by a Suicide Girl who was jogging back and forth along the walkway. She had jet black hair, fair skin, tattoos, and makeup. Another young woman dressed in a black bodysuit rollerskated by. She had a headset on, and she was loudly singing; but her voice was not very good at all. Still, she was having a good time, so I just smiled.

A long-haired man on a bicycle asked if he could take apicture of, and liked what I told him about my march. A t the Santa Monica Pier, I took some photos, and looked at the restaurants, shops and attractions as I walked through. I then walked several bklocks to the Santa Monica Promenade on 3rd Street. It was bustling with tourists, local shoppers, and street performers.

My Old Alma Mater

From there, I headed to Westwood. As I was walking there, it occurred to me that not one car had honked in the two hours since I was walking. I was on a thoroughfare, and no one seemed to see me or care. I thought that was interesting. As I continued walking, I started thinking about how each march I undertook seemed to teach me something new; something I needed to learn at that time. It was exhilarating, walking all day, going to new places, and meeting new people. I started wishing I hadn’t let my Diabetes take over my life for a decade. It’s time I will never get back; years of adventures and experiences that could have been.

I was feeling regretful when I looked up and saw a billboard that read, “By 2020, the number of 100 year olds will double.” In two weeks, I turn 49. I realized that if I take care myself from here on out, I could still have many good years ahead of me. Thinking this, I marched on, smiling. Until a woman in a shop I passed by yelled, “Viva Mexico!”

Several cars gave me honks as I approached the UCLA/Westwood area. I also received enthusiastic waves and praise. I crossed Wilshire and encountered Willy, a young black man wearing silver-colored pants and a dark hoodie. He was reading a notebook as he walked. As I passed by, he asked me if I were a flag carrier in the service. I explained who I was, etc, and he told me that he hoped I succeeded. He read me a poem he wrote, reciting it with the cadence and delivery of a slam poet. It was very good. I gave him my card and asked him if he could sent it to me so I could share with you. If he ever does, I’ll post it.

Walking into Westwood, I noticed all of the changes made to the village; unfortunately, many were not for the better. Many storefronts had “For Lease” signs. There was a general garishness to the store fronts; one decades-old fixture there, Elysee, was overgrown by ivy, almost obscuring the sign. Headlines, a diner my wife and I used to eat at when we went to UCLA and were dating, was still there.

I walked up the street, toward my fraternity house. I had sent two e-mails to the president, but never received a reply. It had been my hope to get several brothers to march along with me through the campus. When I walked up the stone stairs to the front door, a college kid was tapping in a keycode for the door. introduced myself and asked him to let the president know that I wanted to come and look around. I showed the kid my ID and was let in.

Inside, I mentally noted what changes had been made over the 24 years since I had last been there. I asked for water and was offered dinner. As I ate, I told two brothers there about the time I tried “rescuing” a pledge class brother of mine from yaving been “captured” during a Pledge-Active event. The story involved a lot of sneaking up two flights of fire escapes, hanging on to a 3 story rooftop, and then, outrunning twenty Actives; including one on motorcycle.

Ah…. Good times… Good times…

After I ate and also told them about the march, I walked to the dormitory area, then down Bruin Walk to campus.UCLA has a stuent populace of 30000. Not a single student asked me about my flag and shirt in the hour I walked on campus. I walked down Sorority Row, took a photo of my wife’s old sorority, and left Westwood to reach Beverly Hills.

The buildings in the interceding area were high-value condos and apartment buildings. It was 7 pm by that time, so I knew I would not go further than Beverly Hills that day. My ride was coming. I texted her my location once I reach Santa Monica and Wilshire.

Tracey drove me back to my car, and I ate at an Italian restaurant. Then, I drove to the 24 Hour Fitness in Hollywood so I could shower. I decided that I would continue the last five miles the next day. Once Ifinished my nightly ritual of organizing my car, taking my medicine, and making sure my cell phone was off, I went to sleep fairly early.

The next morning, I set off with the flag and walked to Hollywood and Vine. From there, I headed east, toward Beverly Hills.

There were a lot of people on Hollywood Blvd. When I reached the Chinese Movie Theater, I saw tour buses dropping off foreign tourists. One such group was comprised of teenaged tourists who wore the same American Flag caps. They were foreigm but I couldn’t place their accents. I asked one of them to take a photo of me standing next to a replica Marilyn Monroe. After I made it through the crowds, I continued down Hollywood Blvd.

I then walked south to Sunset Blved. As I did, a taxi cab driver with a Russian accent, waved and gave me the thumbs up. He was parked along the street, reading a newspaper. When I turned west on Sunset Blvd, I came upon a McDonalds. I was thirsty and it was pretty hot. A homeless woman was sitting on a staircase, eating a sandwhich. Near her was a shopping cart full of bags. I offered to buy her a drink and she was happy about that.

I came out and sat next to her. I gave her the drink and a bag of french fries. We talked about politics, and she was really aware of what is going on, nationally. Debbie told me that she believed in America and that she thought something needed to be done to save the country. I didn’t ask her how she came to be homeless. Instead, I just spoke with her as if she were just another human being. She thanked me for the food and I got up to keep limping a long.

I eventually passed several landmarks I used to visit when I had lived in Los Angeles as a UCLA undergrad: Samual French Bookstore, The Roxy, and The Comedy Store.

I continued down Sunset Blvd until it started going into Beverly Hills. I took a side street toward Santa Monica Blvd. That street took me along beautiful homes that one would expect to see in Beverly Hills. They were 1920′s, ’30s and ’40′s era houses with nice lawns, flower gardens, and fences. The only people around were maids, gardeners, and contruction workers making repairs or restorations, or building additions.

Once I reached the fountain on the corner of Santa Monica and Wilshire, where I had left off the day before, I rested for ten minutes as a nearby park.

I returned back to Sunset Blvd via Doheny. It had quaint cottages and older homes. As I was walking east on Sunset Blvd, I was stopped by a homeless man named, Chris.

Chris was bare-chested, with an open, sleeveless blue plaid shirt, shorts that were rolled up at the waist and at the ends, purple socks, and colorful body paint. On head was a wide brimmed straw hat, and he wore aviator glasses. Around his neck was a pink necklace. He was quite a character.

Chris offered me orange juice. Then food. Then drugs. He even offered me the use of his bare mattress, which was lying on one end of the parking lot he was busy sweeping. The mattress was on the asphalt, under the shade of a pepper tree. Nearby, was his “pantry:” An open wooden cabinet he had salvaged, and in which he had placed several cans of food, and his hooch bottles.

He kept fussing over me, offering me this and that, including sunflower seeds he said he personally harvested and salted. I was tired and hungry, and it was nice having someone cater to me after the past two weeks of travel and marching. Despite Chris’ siren song of homelessness and parking lot luxury, I resisted the temptation to remain and become a fixture along the Strip. Besides, I already have a wife.

There were several piles of fallen leaves, trash, and dirt along the corners of the lot. Chris was quite the hospitable urban domestic. He wanted me to put my flag pole within the piles of clothes he had stacked up on a rickety wheel chair. I hestitantly complied. This was his “house,” and I was his guest. So I went along. I took a photo of him and posted it to FB. During all of this, he asked me about my flag, and then about my march.

When I stood up to leave, he looked down at the ground, thought hard for a second, then told me to come back once I had reached my car.

“I will go with you,” he announced.

My inner voice screamed something about having just acquired a second wife, and to run. I smiled, thanked him for his hospitality, and limped off.

The rest of the walk back to my car was uneventful. Except for being asked by a strip club owner, “What the hell is all this about?” He was a stocky Greek man with a big stogey. He was standing outside of his club, flanked by two “dancers.” He was pacing around, waiting for someone or something; like a mob boss impatiently waiting to hear about a hit. I told him what I was doing, and he was immediately disinterested. He resumed pacing and looking down the street.

One of the two strippers came up to me, touched my flag pole, then ran her hands down my back. The other stripper smiled nervously. She thanked me for carrying the flag. Another stripper came out of the club, saw me and laughed. The touchy stripper invited me into the club for a lap dance. The third stripper, who looked like she was about to perform, came up and grabbed onto my left arms. She started pulling me in, but their boss barked at them and said Iwas busy.

I took that as my cue to beat it.

An hour or two later, at my car, I dropped off my flag and got things together to shower at the gym.

I then bade Hollywood good bye, and got on the 101 to drive toward Ventura.

California Liberty March Journal – Day Eight

This California Liberty March was on Saturday April 27th, from California State University Long Beach to Torrance Park in Torrance. Of all of the marches I had done to this point, this was the march during which I felt I actually made an impact on someone’s life.

That morning, I drove from Orange and parked on Bellflower, near one of the university entrances. I got ready, stretched, and headed off toward PCH.

It was a nice day, and I thought it was going to be a pretty boring one; considering the university was closed (and so, there wouldn’t be students around to engage me in conversation). Also, the route I had planned out passed through a very long stretch of industrial zones.

Various Encounters

While I was making my way through the college residential areas, a thin blonde college girl came jogging toward me. She was listening to something on her headset. She had a very serious expression. She looked at me and said, “God bless you,” and ran by.

During every march, I have to continually look up and adjust the tilt and angle of my flag pole so that the flag won’t get caught on tree branches or stop signs, and so that it won’t flutter into other people’s faces as I passed them. This makes my neck and shoulders sore. But, it has strengthened my hands and forearms.

As I marched on this day, a number of cars honked and people waved. It’s always nice when someone does that. It gives me a lift to see someone smile, and it makes walking on sore feet much less arduous.

As I was leaving the apartment building-heavy college area, I reached a commerical area with fast food places, office buildings, and older homes. I was on a corner, about to cross the street, when a man rode up behind me and asked about my “cause.” I told him the abbreviated version. He told he was a Viet Nam vet. I took out a card and held out to him. Instead of taking it, he smiled and held out his arm, his hand balled up into a face-down fist. Awkwardly, I gave him a fist bump and he rode off. I put my card back in my pocket and crossed the street when the signal indicated it was safe to walk.

After awhile, I entered an area with thrift stores, and shabby shops, and even older houses. This led to a low-income business district.

I passed a car wash business where eight Hispanic men were leaning against the gate, talking.  The first one I came to saw my flag and asked me something in Spanish that I didn’t understand. Interestingly, they were all smiling broadly at me and pointing at the flag. One thanked me for carrying the flag.

A block later, I heard someone across the street call out to me. “Excuse me, sir. Do you have a minute?”

I stopped and Ken, a thin, muscular thirty-something black guy with glasses, ran across the crosswalk. He wore a loose blue tank top and shorts. As he approached, he said, “I wanted to engage you and ask why you felt the need to do this…”

I was not sure what he meant by the question since his tone wasn’t aggressive. I handed him my card and told him my objective in Sacramento. Before I had a chance to ask him what his questions were, he saw that his bus was coming, and he ran off.

Dave K., a Tea Party activist who lives in Orange County, and who had called me the day before, called again. He was driving to where I was so he could march a bit with me. I gave him my general location and kept walking. The area I had been walking in was pretty blighted, and had started becoming industrial.

Omar

A young man, no older than eighteen, rode up on a bicycle and asked me what I was doing. He had a heavy Mexican accent and spoke in a lazy manner, so I had to ask him to repeat himself twice. He listened to my spiel and looked amazed. I asked him his name and he said it was, Omar. He pointed to a shop down the road and told me that it was his sister’s sewing shop.

I continued to tell him about what the Constitution was and about the concept of inalienable rights, and how no one, not a president, not a congressman, and not a bureaucrat has the constitutional power to take away our rights. He asked me who I was and I told him I was nobody, just a dad who has had enough of corruption and abuse of power by our politicians. He then told me that he had a son. For a moment, I was stunned. Omar was not much more than a boy. With a boy of his own.

Suddenly, I looked Omar in the eye and told him that he, as a father, had an obligation to teach his son about the Constitution and about his rights. Omar sat rapt, as if I were bestowing upon him a sacred obligation. Omar promised he would. I wished him luck and said good bye.

Dave K.

Thereafter, I walked along a heavily-traveled part of PCH where freight trucks passed and blared their horns for the flag I carried. There were refineries and train yards on either side of the road. As I was crossing I-103, Dave K. drove by, videotaping me as I limped along. By that time, my soles were burning and it felt like I had a large blister on the pad of my right foot.

Three motorcycle riders rode toward me. The one in the middle took his hands off the handlebars, sat up, put his left hand on his hip and extended his right hand straight out for a moment before bending it and extending it out again into a Hitler Salute. Then, he leaned forward and they rode past me. That was a surreal sight and I was mildly disturbed.

I walked down the side of the overpass and met up with Dave a half mile later. He called out my name and I turned to see him walking toward me with an armful of flags, banners and a sign. We introduced ourselves to each other, and then Dave started videotaping me for his own blog. When he was done asking me questions and adding his own comments, we started marching together.

Just then, a city bus pulled over and stopped on the corner, past the bus stop. The bus driver, a large black man with a big grin on his face leaned over and asked what we were doing. I rushed over, handed him my card, and loudly told him and his passengers that I was marching for the Constitution and for all of our civil rights. At this he said, “Right on, man!”

We waved good bye to each other and he drove off.

Then, Dave K. and I walked toward Torrance. As we did, a well-groomed Mexican barber walked out of a business establishment and gave us a look. He, too, asked what we were doing, and so we told him. I wasn’t sure what his reaction was, as he seemed perplexed and perhaps a little intimidated by our act of protest. Still, he nodded and walked to his car.

Dave K. walked about a mile with me, took some photos, then had to head back to his car in order to get to work.

More Encounters

After he left, an old Mexican man, who I shall henceforth call, El Borracho, walked toward me, gestured to the flag and said something in Spanish about “Residents…” and “…the flag…” before muttering in disgust and waving me away in a dismissive manner. That was the first time I actually felt angry about someone’s response to my march. Earlier, two people in cars had driven by and yelled, “Mexico!” as they did. Those were annoying. This man’s response was just plain confrontational and rude.

As I was about to walk over another canal bridge, someone on a bicycle came to an abrupt stop just behind me. I turned, startled and was about to apologize, when I saw that it was Omar from miles earlier. He beamed, as he breathlessly held out a cold bottle of water. I thanked him for his kindness and he smiled before riding back. I was amazed that he would ride all that way to do that.

He must have been following me for sometime, because I read on Facebook after the fact, that Omar had also given a bottle of water to Dave K. as he was walking back to his car.

Later on, as I was walking briskly despite foot pain, I was making good time. A garrulous fellow named Tim J. from Tampa Bay, saw me coming and he gave me the thumbs up. He was talking on his cellphone and when he finished, he ran up to me and said, “Mister Patriot man.”

“I’m making to demand that our politicians and all appointed officials uphold their oaths of office and protect our civil rights,” I told him. After hearing this, he walked along with me for several blocks, and told me about himself.

Apparently, Tim J. felt that his life would have taken a much different path had the Sheriff’s Deputies in Tampa not been #@*&!s. He told about his troubled youth and of persecution by local deputies who abused they authority. As a result of his rebellious behaviour, and, perhaps due to his crack addiction (and other foibles), Tim J. had ended up in prison. Twice. He hqad a boat in Tampa Bay, but is now a fisherman in Long Beach.

Despite his troubled past, Tim J. recited his life’s motto as a rap. I remember something about his future being his destination and that destination was going to be bright.

After Tim J. met up with a man on a bicycle who offered to sell me a cell phone for $10, I continued toward Torrance.

An hour later, a thin sinewy cyclist named, Jeff rode up and stopped next to me. Again, we repeated the cycle of Question and Answer. He told me that he was on mental disability, and he had lived in the area for decades. He told me that the majority of Hispanics in the area were very patriotic. As I told him that our rights are God-given and inalienable, he asked me if I was “Born-Again.”

I said, actually, yes. But I wasn’t sure what I had said to lead him to ask that particular question. He told me that he was no longer was religious, per se, but he felt that the problem with America started in the Sixties, when God was removed from schools.

We walked a long a bit until he finally hopped onto his bicycle. He was wearing cyclist garb, so, as he sped off, he looked as if he was trying to catch up with others in a race.

The Final Stretch

I headed north from PCH to Sepulveda. An hour or two later, after walking west again on Sepulveda,  I finally reached the turn from Sepulveda toward Torrance Park. My feet were absolutely burning with pain.

I limped toward my friend Dan’s car, relieved. He had driven to the park to pick me up. He patted my back as I sat in his car, and then he drove me back to where my car was parked by CSULB. After that, we drove back to his house in Orange.

I took a shower and examined my feet. On my right foot, I saw that my foot pad had a large oval blister with a bubbled blister on to of it. My right heel and Achilles tendon were enflamed. On my left foot, there were small blisters on the toe pads. Both feet have Plantar Faceitis (which makes the tendons in the arches feel tender and painfully stretched out.

I knew I couldn’t continue walking on my feet and risk getting an infection. Because of the Diabetes, it now takes my body much longer to heal when I get cuts, insect bites, etc. If I get an ulcerated infection on my feet, I risk amputation. I knew this going into this endeavor. I just hoped it wouldn’t happen.

It was only 8:30 pm on Saturday night, and Dan, his wife and I were all tired. So, we retired for the evening. I updated FB and Twitter, then went to sleep in the trailer (this time, with the door closed).

Next Stop: Bummersville

The next morning, when I went to blog, I couldn’t. I was so discouraged that I couldn’t walk. I didn’t want to quit and had thought about marching on crutches. But, I realized that that was not really a solution. I would just end up injuring my arm pits and hands. Then, I decided that I would push myself along on a wheel chair. I was determined not to quit until I was absolutely unable to continue.

I spent the day at my friend’s home in Orange, and relaxed. Dan and his friend, Stew (sic) brewed beer in the backyard. I finally started blogging about the march from Newport to Orange. I had received a phone call from Robert P. the day before, telling me he was going to donate money for a Liberty March banner. So, I was online trying to find a company in the area that could do one for me. But, it was Sunday, and almost nothing was open that day in Orange.

Dan and his wife Deb kept telling me not to attempt a 20-mile march on a wheelchair. They pointed out that I would only injure my back and hands, and, I wouldn’t be able to go that distance in a day. After we thought it over, Deb offered me the use of her Townie cruiser bicycle.

After thinking about it, I thought that that was the only practical solution. But, I said I would ride 40-miles per march day, to make up for not walking them. That would also solve the problem I had of not having rides lined up on most of my routes back to my car.

I decided to cancel the Pasadena to Burbank march so I could rest. I was exhausted from the pace I had been keeping over the previous two weeks. I would just add another march day sometime during the next four weeks.

That night, I spent the night in the trailer again, and wondered if I was wimping out.

Palos Verdes

For the past two days since leaving Orange, I have been staying with a high school friend and her husband in Palos Verdes. They live in a magnificent home in an exclusive estate community in the hills of Palos Verdes. It is a beautiful place. There are white picket fences around homes that have horses grazing on grass. And, wild peacock roam freely.

Both Greg and Tracy are Conservative, and have, in the past, invited me to visit with them. I figured that since I was in the area, that I would take them up on it. I had decided to cancel the Pasadena to Burbank march in order to rest my feet another day. I spent the night here and this morning, I tried finding a place to get my banner done.

Today, my feet felt a lot better and I was able to walk on them a bit more. Greg is a spinal surgeon and Tracy is a Pharmacist. Greg examined my right foot, said, “Yup those are blisters,” and then gave me some over the counter medication for pain and inflamation. Tracy gave me moleskin, which is supposed to prevent blistering.

Greg cooked tonight and served up a delicious roasted chicken, asparagus, small potatoes, artichoke, and baked cauliflower. Cooking is one of his passions. It was absolutely delicious.

Tomorrow, when I do the march in Los Angeles from Venice Beach to Hollywood and Vine, I will do so on foot. If it becomes too excruciating to walk after that, then I will have to do eight marches on the bicycle until my blisters dry up and my feet heal.

Tracy works in Little Armenia by Hollywood, so after I am finished marching, she will drive me to my car in Venice Beach.

Good night…

California Liberty March Journal – Day Seven

This California Liberty March was April 26th from from Newport Beach to Irvine, then to Tustin and ending in Orange.

After spending the previous day in San Diego for the last time before heading northward for a month, I drove up to the Old Towne Plaza in the city of Orange. At the center of the plaza is a small, circular park with a fountain, benches, and large trees rising up. Around this park, cars drive around in a circle, with streets leading into it from the north,west, south, and east. My longest friend, Dan Triple D (Diaz deLeon) met me at Two’s Company, a small cafe along the rim of the Old Towne Plaza circle.

Old Towne Orange

This is information about the plaza and the surrounding area, that I copied and pasted from the city web site: The Old Towne Historic District was placed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1997 and includes more than 1,300 homes and other buildings. It is approximately one square mile in size, making it the largest National Register district in California. The district provides a feeling for life in Orange from 1888 to 1940, showcasing over 50 different architectural styles. The complete stock of buildings which are a part of the Old Towne community is complemented by the churches, schools, old Santa Fe Depot, Post Office, packing houses, industrial buildings, clubhouses, and parks which still remain in active use since their establishment in the early part of the century.

Fifteen years ago, Chapman University was a small college. Now, it an accredited university with a sprawling campus that dominates the Old Towne District. It owns many of the commercial properties in Old Towne that display Classical Greek Revival architecture motifs, as well as other architectural styles.

The last time I visited my friend Dan was about four years ago, for twenty minutes. My daughter Willow had a modeling audition in Los Angeles, and so she and I stopped by for twenty minutes to visit with Dan. Because the visit was so brief, I didn’t get to see how beautiful Orange is (Now that I have been staying up here for three days, I am sad leaving it).

Old Towne Orange is the quintessential patch of Americana that one yearns for when thinking of a slow-paced place to move to, where neighbors know you and you know them, and where leafy trees along well-maintained sidewalks provide shade from the blaring light of a cynical modern world. It is the nostalgic Willoughby out of the Twilight Zone episode of the same name.

As soon as I arrived in Orange, I parked my mini-van on a side-street near the town center, and Dan gave me a ride to Newport. As he drove, he told me about his decision to embrace Humanism as a way of life. I was curious about Humanism really was, since I’ve seen the term for years, but had never read up on it. Dan seemed, for the first time in a long while, happy.

How I Got My Faith

Over a year ago, when I was utterly depressed and despairing because of chronic pain, unemployment, and spiritual crisis, I had started praying. I felt really awkward about it, as I would speak aloud and talk to someone I wasn’t really sure even existed. But, still, I prayed. And nothing happened. I kept praying, day after day. And still, nothing happened.

I lived with the symptoms of uncontrolled Diabetes for about ten years before I was finally diagnosed as diabetic. Those symptoms had caused me to become even more over-weight, sleepy, irritable, and miserable. “Irritable” was the medical term, but in truth, what I was was a raging bastard. My emotions fluctuated based on how much pain I was in at a given moment, how loud things were around me, how much sleep I had managed to get despite the insomnia, and how many cover letters and resumes I had managed to send out.

Consequently, I had become the very thing I always feared in life: a failure and bad father.

This led me to feel ashamed and then, despairing. Thus, in the depths of all of this, when all I wanted was for my painful existence to end, I decided to not give up. I loved Life and my children too much. I didn’t want to die and leave them with the memory of a father who gave up on himself and them. Besides, our family motto is: Never give up and never surrender. So, I started praying.

One day, my wife told me to go out a find a job, any job, as my unemployment insurance was about to run out. I had been on it for almost two years (the maximum allowable time period), and still had not found a job. Only three times during those two years had I finally had interviews. One of those interviews required me to fly (on our dime) to Iowa. It was for an Instructor position at a Community College 3D Animation program. Didn’t get it. Another interview was not too far away from home, at a social media game development company. But, the instant I got there, I doubted I was the “right fit.” Everyone there was twenty or more years younger than me. By the time I got home from the interview, I had already gotten the “Thank You for Application But…” e-mail. The third interview was for an Instructor position at an ITT Tech in Tucson, AZ. I drove seven hours only to learn that it was a temporary, part-time position for a program that was going to be phased out.

So, needing more income, I went out and got two jobs: one working mornings at a Barnes and Noble and the other working almost full-time at a digital print shop. I should have been happy about this, but really, I was miserable. And terrified. It had been so long by that point since I was on my feet, that I couldn’t imagine how I could stand for hours on end at a job. It literally made me nauseous thinking about it. So, I kept praying.

And nothing happened. Everyday, when I went into work, I plastered a smile on my face (when all I wanted to do was weep from physical pain and from the knowledge that I was earning minimum wage once again), and I performed mindless, repetitive tasks that only reinforced the deep sense of futility I already felt.

When I wasn’t working, I cocooned. I sought escape from my pain in the oblivion of sleep. None of my coping mechanisms worked for me. In fact, I actively rejected them all. I wanted to change. I wanted to leave behind those things I had up to that point relied upon to avoid reality and responsibility and pain. No more writing stories, or designing games, or animating, or daydreaming. Those were things to be eschewed in place of “adult” thoughts and responsibilities. I was determined to leave Old Roger behind and to become a Man.

But, no matter what I did at work, and how much I prayed, nothing changed. I was lost in a Sisyphean spiral.

Still, I prayed. Because the one thing I had always wanted, since I was a boy, was to be a man of faith; a true believer of God. I had always admired men of faith, and I wondered at the things they accomplished through self-denial and piousness; all in the name of a benevolent and loving God. To me, attaining faith was the pinnacle of human achievement, because it meant having the courage to trust.

Though I didn’t know it at the time, I was changing. One afternoon, when my wife asked me if one of my crummy little paychecks had come in, I excitedly reached for it and proudly held it out to her. I was contributing. I was proud – a feeling I hadn’t felt in years! It was at that moment that I realized that God had answered my prayers: by not answering them.

I realized then that I had finally become a Man of Faith. Because, even though I had been for so many years at my lowest, and all I had wanted to do for a while was to die, I still chose to believe in God. The true test of faith is not when things are good or even when they are bad; but, when they are truly horrible, and you still want to believe.

Since that moment, all self-doubt has vanished. The depression and spiritual anguish has disappeared. Since then, I have felt the capacity to feel something I have never been able to do: To trust.

I have since been trying to make amends to my family for being “irritable” and unemployed. It hasn’t been easy, as they no longer trust me. And, knowing that this breaks my heart.

But this is the New Roger, and I will never again go back to that dark, dark place. I am determined to improve and to use the gifts that God gave me (the ability to write, to design games, to motivate and entertain others, to teach and learn) to achieve my potential. I am going to achieve my purpose.

Sooooooo, all of THAT is what was running through my mind as Dan and I were driving to Newport. As a result, when he dropped me off at the Newport Pier, I didn’t realize I was actually miles away from the actual starting point of this day’s march.

Balboa Island

After Dan drove away, I walked over to the entrance of the Newport Beach Pier. It was a sunny, breezy morning, and I could see sail boats offshore. I lay down my backpack and walked up the pier to take a quick photo. As I walked back to my pack, a chubby, bearded man in a bathing suit, who was holding the hand of a toddler, saw me pick it up. Clutching at his breast bone in relief, he told me he thought it was an explosive backpack. I assured him that it wasn’t, and he waddled off.

I forgot about taking out my tablet in order to get my bearings. I had needed to determine how close I was to Pacific Coast Highway, and the start of my march. But, I was still shaking my head at the over-reaction by the father to whom I had just spoken. So, I just set off on my march, thinking I could get my bearings soon.

I walked and walked, thinking I was on PCH. In reality, I was heading south into Balboa Island. From the street, I could see a multitude of sails from boats just offshore, near the beach. I walked to the sand’s edge and took a photo of the regatta. I then uploaded the photo to Facebook. Then I kept walking.

I noticed that the name Balboa was all over the place, and I wondered if this was the name of a town, or something.

When I stopped to ask someone how close I was to PCH, the young man said, “Oh, you are way off. You have to take a ferry across to the mainland and walk up the hill, past those houses over there.”

Lost and Found

Once again, I told myself to use my digital tablet sooner. But, I was so happy to be walking in Orange County (especially after the dreary walk in Riverside County), that I just wanted to go with the flow. Even though the sole of my right foot felt like a flat tire and it burned, my pace was brisk. I walked toward a ferry port and waited for it to return to that side. As I stood there, I received a call on my cell phone from Dave K. in Orange County. He wanted to march with me a bit while I was in his area. He told me that he had called the Orange County Register and asked them if they would do an article about me. Consequently, he said, a woman named, Kim would be calling me.

I took the ferry across the small bay and walked through a seaside village with cottage-style houses, and then up a main street lined with eclectic beach shops, restaurants, boutiques, and a Starbucks.

I asked an older woman to hold my flag so I could enter the small Starbucks location to get something to drink. She gladly agreed and I went in and bought two Izze orange sparkling waters. When I went outside to retrieve my flag, I thanked the woman, who was clad in cycling clothing and helmet. Next to her, dressed the same way, was her husband. He was very distinguished-looking and reserved.

I sat on the bench next to them, and excitedly told them about my goal to reach Sacramento. The woman was very interested but I could tell that her husband was probably thinking to himself, “Why did you have to agree to hold this nut’s flag..!?”

I opened the first of the Izzes, took a drink, and said good bye. I walked up a hillside with residences until I finally reached PCH, and headed south.

After two minutes, I received a call from Kim at the newspaper. She interviewed me for a half hour as I walked. I had been trying to finish drinking my first Izze but had been talking and juggling my flag and the bottle. So I stopped and continued the interview for another half an hour. Cars drove by, honked, and I waved.

When the interview was concluded, Kim told me that she would try to meet up with me somewhere along my route. I was happy that someone in the American media had finally responded to my march. So, I walked. And walked.

Eventually, I came upon a SUV parked along the curb. Inside of the car was a good-looking, smiling man who lowered the passenger-side window and leaned over to give me a cheer. Behind him was a large dog in the back, that was resting.  I stopped and handed the man my card.

He came out of his car, and asked if he could take a photo of me and of my card for his blog. As I told him what I was doing, he said, “Then you’ll like my bumper stickers…” He lead me to the back and I saw that there were a lot of surfer stickers, Christian stickers, and two stickers about Ronald Reagan. Steve told me he is from Michigan. He has a place in Newport, as well.

Very tanned and relaxed, he was wearing a tee-shirt and shorts. I instantly liked his demeanor and manner of speech. As I explained how I was going to be away from my family for a month, I also told him told him about the effects of my Diabetes on my health, on my attitude, and on my behavior toward my family. I got choked up and suddenly cried for a moment from guilt and shame (fatigue makes me emotional, I guess). Steve gave me an understanding look and walked up, placing a hand on my arm. May I pray for you?” he asked.

I nodded and he said a very beautiful impromptu prayer about there being no coincidences in life, and about how people meet for a reason. He asked that I be blessed and I have a safe journey. After we said, Amen, I thanked him for making me feel a lot better. We parted ways and, once again feeling very happy, I walked.

After a mile, I saw a Verizon Wireless across the street. I crossed the street, escorting a very elderly couple who had praised the flag. Inside, I used my tablet and realized I had walked too far south.

I back-tracked and headed Northeast. I then wandered through the Newport / Harbor Island mall area. I passed by some restaurants and there was a sign outside of one that said, “Employee of the Month: MIA. For a moment, I was confused. Missing in Action..?  I started laughing at myself, and at the absurdity of someone rewarding an employee for being missing in action for a month. I laughed so hard, people who passed me must have thought I was a kook.

I walked until I saw a 24 Hour Fitness that was part of a green-glassed business complex. I went in, used the bathroom and then sat outside, in the business building plaza, where there was a complementary wi-fi area. I updated my progress and relaxed for ten minutes.

Now knowing exactly where I was headed, I walked into Irvine. I received honks and thumbs up and waves all morning. It was about 3 pm by this time.

As I was nearing UCI, a blonde twenty-something year old woman walked around the bend before me, coming from a shopping strip mall, and she called out my name. Kim had found me and wanted to walk for a while with me. As she did, she asked more questions and took photos. I waved at cars and they honked back. After ten minutes, she said good bye and returned back to where she had parked.

I then reached the medical center on the outskirts of UCI. I met a man in scrubs who walked two blocks with me toward the main campus.

University of California at Irvine

I passed some residence apartments, looking for some place to stop at for food. I came across the bronze statue of the school’s mascot, the Anteater, and so I took a photo of it and of the Theater Department nearby. I found a cybercafe and went in. I spoke with an Asian college student behind the counter. He asked me about my flag and tee-shirt (it said: Liberty-March DotCom). I ordered some food and started to tell him about the march, but the discussion was brief. Another customer had came into the line.

When I sat down on a sectional corner couch, there were three college girls near me talking about Grey’s Anatomy. One of them said something about no longer watching the show because of the ridiculous plots. As I was updating FB with my tablet, I smiled at what they were saying. She saw my smile and told the other girls. I told them that my wife used to watch that show, as well, and that I had stopped watching it several years ago, after a non-recurring character was turned into pink mist when the bomb he was carrying away blew up.

When I was finished eating my sandwich, I left to reach the Irvine residential area I needed to cross in order to get to the outskirts of Tustin.

As I walked into Irvine, I noticed how well-maintained the area still looked since the late Seventies. Big houses, broad streets, parks and open spaces. Very nice.

I got to the Irvine Civic Center, took a photo, uploaded it, then and walked until I got to Star Bucks on Barranca and Von Karmen. There, I updated my progress and rested my burning feet. By that time, the flat tire and burning feeling on my foot sole turned into excruciating pain. So, I had been limping along for a while. My right heel and Achilles tendon were very sore.

Since night was falling, I hurried up and finished my danish from Starbucks. I was concerned that I wouldn’t get to Orange until Midnight Outside in the parking lot, a tall handsome young man named, Will was getting out of his car, accompoanied by his very pretty girlfriend, Audrey. Will stopped me and politely asked what my goal was in marching with the flag. I told him about my mission. Both he and Audrey seemed really amazed by this. I gave them my card, and, as I turned away from them, I saw a police officer had driven up and parked nearby. He was scrutinizing me, and probably thought I had accosted the kids to ask for money. I smiled at the police officer but he just gave me the once over.

My Own Paparrazi

I walking for an hour more toward Santa Ana, and has just reached the intersection of Red Hill and Barranca. I was almost to Tustin. By this time, it was 8:30 pm. I was four hours away from my destination. As I was turned to head east, I heard some voices behind me. As I turned to look, I saw Will and Audrey bum-rushing me. Each had a camera with large lenses. Breathlessly, they smiled and told me they had driven home to retrieve their cameras. They wanted to take some photos of me. So, I agreed.

I jokingly scolded Will about chasing down some crazy middle-aged man with a large flag on a Friday night. “This is a terrible date, for Audrey, Will!”

As they took photos, I spoke to each of them about rights and the Constitution and about current events. They asked me what the hardest part of what I am doing this was and I said, “Stopping. Because then the foot pain and muscle aches make it hard to start, again.”

Will and Audrey apologized for stopping me, but I told them I felt refreshed from stopping just an hour before at the Starbucks. They thanked me for my time, and I walked.

My friend Dan called, and said he was coming to walk with me the rest of the way into Orange.  I was bummed because I had wanted to walk down Red Hill in the daylight to revisit my old middle school, AG Currie, and my elementary school, Beswick. I had also wanted to see Frontier Park, where I spent may a summer day playing with friends.

As a side note: As I was planning out this route n Google Maps two months ago, the Review for Currie said, “You’ll get shanked here.” How sad, I thought. Times have changed a lot since 1977.

As I continued down Red Hill, away from the outskirts of Santa Ana, I was walking in the bicycle lane in order for cars to see my shirt and to avoid trees with my flag pole. Suddenly, I saw one, two, then five roaches in gutter. They were about two inches long and they skittered around quickly. In fact, they kept scrambling toward my feet. I wondered if my shoes were roachnip, or something, and if I were  the unsuspecting lead actor in a new Mimic movie.

After another hour, I was almost to the I-5. Dan and Deb drove up, and Dan convinced me to stop marching. I had already march 20-miles worth of distance because of my starting point, and from walking too far south after that. My feet were burning, and they felt blistered. So, I agreed and climbed in.

As we drove the remaining distance to Orange, I was very glad that I did. It would have taken me another four hours to reach the park in Orange.

I showered, iced my feet for an hour, and then spent the night in Dan and Deb’s old Shasta (canned ham) trailer on their property. Unfortunately, it was late by that time and dark and so, I didn’t realize that the outside door was latched to the side of the trailer. So I slept with only the screen door closed. Thus, it was very cold all night. I got up to put on another blanket and finally fell asleep.

I woke up with runny nose and cough. Dan cooked me breakfast (ham steak, eggs), and I then left for the next march from California State University Long Beach.

California Liberty March Journal – Day Six

Today’s march in Riverside County began and ended the same: with my feeling crummy.

I was disoriented when I woke up in my car at 6:30 am. I didn’t know where I was or what I was doing there. Then, I saw the boxes of medicine, supplements, and water bottles, and my heart sank. Another march. I have only done five, but I had twenty more to do. Already, I felt like I had been walking forever.

I got out of the car, gathered my towel and clothes, then went to take a shower in the gym. I shaved part of my face, leaving the mustache and goatee that have started to grow. I looked at the multitude of white whiskers, as well as the gray in my hair, and thought that I am far too old to be trudging around in different cities, wearing hand-written messages on my chest while carrying a super-long flag pole and over-sized flag.

I felt angry. Angry that I felt the need to undertake this endeavor. Angry that our politicians think us so weak and stupid that they can feel free to act against our best interests with impunity. I was angry that my muscles ached and my feet felt flat, and my toes burned, and that my elbow was even more inflamed. Each time I march, I have to continually wrestle with the flag pole for hours on end. It tries to escape from my grasp as high winds make the flag flutter wildly.

I tried to contain my anger but that only made me feel sad. I looked at myself for a minute, lost in thought. Then I took a deep breath and headed back to my car.

I drove to Rancho Cucamonga Central Park, and parked in a Ralph’s grocery store parking lot nearby. I loaded up my backpack and put it on, then pulled out the nine and a half foot long flag pole. Though I really was unmotivated to walk again, I said a prayer and went to stand on the corner where I thought my ride would come.

He never showed. I waited fifteen minutes and realized, when he didn’t call, that he wasn’t going to. I was trying to figure out what to do. Cars drove by and honked, and my arm absently waved back at them. My resolve to walk again was rapidly draining away.

I decided to drive to a Starbucks further down the road in order to be able to use my tablet to plan out another route.

When I got there, there were people studying, reading newspapers, and ordering drinks. I started up the tablet, checked my gmail, looked at Facebook, and then at Google Maps. I felt a deep sense of futility and uncertainty. So much so that I turned off the tablet, went back to my car and crawled back into the back. I went back to sleep for an hour.

When I awoke, I felt a little better. I got out, put on the backpack, unfurled the flag, and set out.

I decided to walk in a loop from Rancho Cucamonga to Fontana and back again. I headed south two miles, then east, toward Fontana.

Rancho Cucamonga is a very nice place. At least, the portion I drove through and walked. It is like a series of upscale,  master-planned communities that have uniform signage and architectural motifs. The overall feel is that of a vineyard community. It would be what Temecula would look like if Temecula had sprung up much faster, and was master-planned.

After having marched through some desolate and economically-depressed areas in Palm Springs, walking along Foothill toward Fontana from Rochester on down was pretty enjoyable. Even as I entered the outskirts of Fontana, the buildings and residences were very nice. I started to feel a little better about marching, though I was convinced it would be a pointless exercise.

I decided to make myself cheer up, so I plastered on a smile and did the waving-at-cars bit. No response. I gave up right away, as my heart wasn’t really into it.

Suddenly, a tall, muscular young black man with eyeglasses and a crucifix ran up and extended his hand. He respectfully say that he wanted to thank me. Despite his size, he was very soft-spoken, and had a look in his eye that made me a little teary. I thanked him, and told him he had just made me feel a lot better. Then we parted ways.

An hour later, after I had entered Fontana, another good-looking young black man with mini-dreadlocks (the clean, well-kept kind) and a Marvel Comics tee-shirt passed by me, looked at my shirt and said, “Right on!” I asked him where the nearest Star Bucks was so I could get my bearings. He pointed down Foothill and said I needed to go down to Citrus and then head North. “Only four or five lights.”

So, I walked and held the flag high. Then, the landscape started to get dreary. There were numerous empty, weed-filled lots of multiple acreage everywhere I passed. And Spanish soon was on every sign. There were dilapidated residences with unkempt yards, cars on blocks, etc.

My spidey senses started tingling. Perhaps this is not the direction I should be taking…

After an hour or two, and many lights later, I still hadn’t reached this Citrus Promise Land I was told about. I was hungry and needed to rest my feet. So I went into a NY Pizza place on the north-side of the road. I was greeted warmly by the manager, Jose, who asked me about my shirt. I told him the story, and he was impressed. He offered to by me a giant slice of pizza and a drink. I asked for water and sat down. I was so tired, I nodded off even after the pizza was served. And it was giant. Flat crust with Parmesan cheese drizzled across the top.

Ten minutes later, I got up, said thank you and continued on. The next intersection I came to was called, Hemlock. Even knowing what hemlock is, I decided to take it, and headed south from Foothill. My excursion into the unknown was now about to become more interesting…

Years ago, I wrote, sometimes, taking the road less traveled only gets you lost. I was right. Though I knew what direction I needed to go, I went off the beaten path and ended up lost in an area I evidently didn’t belong.

Plus, there wasn’t a Starbucks anywhere along my route. I needed to find wi-fi so I could use my tablet to see how far I was from wherever downtown Fontana was. I used my Android cellphone to post a brief message on Facebook; a message that would later result in criticism from two women who read it. I had intended to upload the pictures I took that would add context to the message, but I couldn’t get the photos to upload to FB. So, I continued on, thinking nothing more of it.

Empty lots with foot-high amber weeds were everywhere. Then, I hit Arrow and proceeded further south to Whittram. I then traveled east again. That area was zoned for car repair shops, junkyards, salvage yards, and car lots. Graffiti was everywhere. On signs, on walls, on utility units, on trucks. Men in hauling vehicles were busy doing their thing. Those who noticed me had undecipherable expressions.

I hit Beech and turned north to return to Arrow. From there, I continued east, into residential areas.

As I was crossing a major intersection, I heard a woman screaming something at me:

“What about Mexicans? What about Mexico?”

I turned to see a heavy-set young lady sitting at a bus stop bench across the street from me. Next to her were two other women. All three looked very poor.

Cars were driving by, so it was hard to heard what else he was trying to say. She motioned for me to turn to her so she could read my shirt.

She then yelled,” What about the Mexican Constitution?”

I yelled back, “Mexico has its own constitution, and I am not marching for that.” She waved me toward her, saying she wanted to know more about why I was marching.

I made my way across the lanes to meet her. I wasn’t sure what to expect, from her or from the two other women; as now of them really appeared to be interested in anything I had to say.

“Tell me why you’re marching,” said Gloria, “and I might march with you. Are you marching for Immigration?”

No, I replied. I pointed to the message on my shirt, Defend the Bill of Rights.

“I’m marching to demand that our politicians uphold their oaths of office and protect the Constitution and our Bill of Rights.”

Gloria said she was married to a man whose parents brought him to America when he was seven. “He graduated from high school. That’s got to count for something,” she said. “When are they going to pass Amnesty?”

“The Immigration Reform bill is being talked about again,” I said. “But, I’ve been marching for a week and I haven’t been keeping up on the latest news.”

“Why can’t people just come into America when they like,” chimed in Lidia. She was a black woman with a southern accent, who was sitting on Gloria’s right. She did not look too happy. “Human rights. Why we have to respect that flag if we get no respect?”

“Ma’am, it’s a matter of law and order, and protecting the sovereignty of our nation.”

“It’s not right to keep people out. We should be able to come and go like we want.”

I told her that all countries have immigration laws that they actively uphold; even Mexico. I asked her if she knew what happens to Guatemalans and South Americans who try to sneak into Mexico and get caught. She didn’t care. She was agitated and focused only on “human rights.”

I again returned to rule of law. “If people sneak into a country, with no respect for that country’s laws, then why should they be deserving of special consideration and respect themselves?”

The third lady said something I didn’t quite hear. She was a curly-hair blonde with a wide, gap-toothed smile. She was off to the side, enjoying the exchange.

Gloria loudly asked me how long the papers would take to be processed for her husband. I, of course, had no idea, and I told her. Her eyes traveled around as she continued to ask questions and to tell me things about the unfairness of America. She asked me what I thought of Obama as President. I knew that the conversation was about to take a possibly unpleasant direction.

Lidia chimed in and shook her head. “He’s terrible. He promised things to black people and never kept his promises.”

Sandra said, “I stand by Obama. He’s my man. But, you’re right he shouldn’t promise things.”

I told them that Obama doesn’t have the authority to do any of the things he promised. “It isn’t his job to give people things for free. There is no such thing as free. In order for him to give you something, he would have to first take it away from someone else. He isn’t a king.”

“He’s my king,” said Gloria, still wild-eyed and excited. Two other people who had been standing at the corner had meandered over to listen in. One was a homeless man, and the other was a black man on a bicycle. Both looked as if I might be accosting the women.

“How long do you think America would remain the same if Obama and the Democrats gave everything away?” I asked. “Not long at all. It wouldn’t be America.”

“Clinton! That son of a bitch,” yelled Lidia. “He was president, and he was supposed to set an example, and there was, in the White House, at a motel, having relations with some woman. That’s just wrong. They need to set examples, these folks. Obama, too. And Bush! That man was bad…”

I smiled and thanked the ladies for their comments. I told Gloria that I hope things end well for her and her husband. Then, I walked onward.

I was walking through a barrio-type area, when several home boys in a parked car heckled me. “What about Mexico? What about Mexico? And Columbia??” They laughed, and I just walked on. I didn’t want to tempt fate by engaging them. Earlier in the day, other kids had laughingly sung the Star-Spangled Banner as I walked by.

As I was finally nearing downtown Fontana, a car drove by and circled me. The two men in it wanted to read what my shirt said. Once they did, they drove off. By this time, I realized that my excursion was getting rather dicey. To reinforce this, a man walking by looked furiously at me and asked me if I wanted to die. He walked on.

Territoriality in such areas is a serious thing. And here I was, essentially challenging their seething senses of grievance and entitlement. But, I had come this far, and I wasn’t going to let distance or menace deter me. Thankfully, I saw Sierra up ahead. I had reached my destination.

I took a picture of the Fontana Civic Center, and looked southward. It was the Old Fontana part of town, with nice-looking shops. By this time, it was 5 pm. I now had to walk ten miles to get back to where I was parked. And I was already tired out.

I thought it would be wise to make it to a more affluent area before nightfall. I didn’t want to risk walking in an area where someone, under cover of night, would decide to attack me while anonymous.

Just a bit up the road, I crossed a supermarket parking lot. I saw a short man and his wife come out of their car. They wore matching turquoise shirts that had impossible to decipher designs. I veered a little to see if I could make out what they were and the man looked at me. He walked up, pointed at my shirt, and said, “What’s this about?”

I gave him the spiel. “Things are bad,” he said. He offered his hand and warmly shook mine. He wished me luck, and walked off. Parked next to the front of the supermarket was a black teenager. He asked me the same thing about my shirt, so I explained what the Bill of Rights are, and that he was born with unalienable rights that could not be taken away. He looked intrigued, as if I had told him something he had never heard before. Even as I waved and walked away, he was pondering.

For the next hour, I headed north. It was slow going. My soles were tender and my right knee was acting up. As I was crossing a side road intersection, an older Mexican man in a truck stopped at the Stop sign and called out. I approached and he seemed astonished.

“Aren’t you the same man I saw walking in Rancho Cucamonga this morning?”

I told him I was and that I was heading back there at the moment. Another car drove up behind him, so I gave the man my card and asked him to visit my web site. Then I walked on.

I was really hungry and there were no longer places to eat. Just vast tracts of empty land, covered by foot-high amber weeds. Every once in a while, I passed old houses from various time periods. I tried to imagine what this place has once been. The streets had names of fruits and trees, and the city itself was named, Fontana (Fountain). The vast tracts of land led me to think that it had once had groves and farm land. But all I saw as I walked was desolation and arid land. It was as if the flotsam and jetsam of the Forties, Fifties, and Sixties had given way to much more recent development. There were fairly new commercial strip malls here and there, but largely empty.

Once I reached Baseline, and walked another two hours toward Rancho Cucamonga, that I found a Panda Express. I rolled up my flag, went in and stood it up in a corner, used the bathroom and ordered. As I ate, the sun was going down. The shopping center I was at was modern, but still didn’t have a Starbucks.

After I ate, I walked by a Carl’s Jr. Out walked the short man I had spoken with earlier. He smiled and said, “You made good time!”

I then looked more closely at what he was wearing. Around his neck was a Native American choker, and I realized that his shirt was similar to shirts worn by people who work at casinos. I gave him my card and told him it would tell him more about me and what I am doing.”

I was anxious to get to my car. My son had been crying when he last spoke to me, and seemed inconsolable. I told him I would drive him after this march, and he immediately brightened up. I wanted to see him, and my daughters, as well. But, I was afraid it would be after Midnight before I could get back down to San Diego. So I picked up my pace.

After a while, I saw the I-15 in the distance. After another hour, I was almost to the overpass. To my right, I saw a Starbucks! And, a 24 hour gamer business called, NetFragz.

I first went into the gamer business and was fascinated by the number of computer stations in it. Each had top-of-the-line monitors, mice, and computers. The young man sitting behind the displaycase took my flag and offered me a seat to rest. I watch someone play a Zombie Survival game for a while, as I rested my feet. It was getting very cold outside, and I wanted to warm up. Out of curiosity, I asked the young man who had greeted me how long the establishment had been in business.

“Since ’02.” he replied. Wow. “and has it always been 24 hours per day?”

“Yes.”

I seriously considered trying to open up one of these businesses in San Diego. I then asked for my flag, thanked the polite young man, and went to Starbucks.

I logged onto to Facebook to let people know where I was. I was still about two hours away from my care. After I posted, I was very surprised to read a comment on my CA Liberty March FB Like page from a woman who was offended by my earlier post about Fontana.

That left me feeling bad again. I didn’t mean to offend anyone; much less someone who was giving me moral support. I had written, “Fontana: The most economically- depressed and depressing place l’ve been to on this journey. Not a single Starbucks or place with Wifi in the entire route l took! l still have 5 miles until l reach my car. About to walk under 1-15 freeway and will continue on Baseline into Rancho Cucamonga.”

Why did I say this? Because on every street corner where there was a covered bus stop, there was a giant photo of an elderly white woman looking depressed, or a middle-aged black man looking worried. The photos were part of a Home Foreclosure campaign.

Looking at those miserable faces everywhere WAS depressing. And, seeing that there was a home foreclosure problem throughout the city led me to logically conclude that Fontana wasn’t doing too well. Sadly, I just took a break from writing this and saw that both ladies who took umbrage to my post have blocked me. Ah well…

Back to my story: I got back to walking, and was soon back in Rancho Cucamonga. The difference between the two cities, based on the areas I walked, was stark. So, I stand by my posts on FB.

After two hours, I reached the parking lot where I had thought I had parked my car. I looked around and saw it wasn’t there. I really needed to use a restroom, so my panic was contained. I figured I needed to relieve myself and look around again. I asked the Ralph’s manager if it was their practice to tow cars that were parked in the lot for extended periods. He said, no. That’s when I felt a bit queasy.

I left my backpack with him and went to the bathroom. I wondered what my wife would say, how my son would feel about my not coming home that night, and where I was going to sleep. I also realized that my march was over if, in fact, the car was stolen.

I went back outside, looked around, and thought back to the events of that morning. I suddenly realized I had parked in the other Ralph’s parking lot, instead; the one with the Starbucks. It was another three miles away, but I didn’t mind. As tired as I was, I was relieved.

I retrieved my things, told the manager it was a false alarm, and I walked on. When I got to my car, I loaded the backpack and flag, went into Starbucks to update my FB page, and I drove toward the I-15 to go home.

Now, I am getting ready to have dinner with the family before I drive up to Orange County for tomorrow’s march.

California Liberty March Journal – Day Five

Yesterday, I marched from the Civic Center Park in Palm Desert to a small park called, Victoria Park near the north-end of Palm Springs. This was the most eventful march so far.

For a month, I had been trying to find someone in Palm Springs to give me a ride from Victoria Park to the starting point in Palm Desert, but no one came forward. I was searching for bus route information for the 111 Sun Bus in P.S. when a man named Robert P. called me up. He had read that I was in need, and so he called to volunteer. I was so relieved.

On Monday morning, he met me at Victoria Park as I was getting organized and preparing. I was rubbing anti-blister ointment on the soles of my feet and then loading up the backpack. I had spent the night at my in-laws’ home in Temecula, and had just arrived myself.

Robert is an older man with a magnificent handle bar mustache. Dressed in a light blue corduroy long-sleeve shirt, jeans and boots, he spoke in a soft, country-style accent. He had driven in from the east. I felt bad because I thought he was a resident of P.S.

Once I was ready, I took out my flag pole and Robert’s eyes got big. He had arrived in a very small car, and was worried that the pole wouldn’t fit. I put it flag-end in, diagonally across the car, sticking out of the passenger side window. He programmed his Garmin to lead us to the starting point, and away we went.

Robert and I didn’t speak much as we traveled, but those will be the most cherished 40 minutes I have ever spent with a man. From now on, he and I will be going on annual weekend trips together. I cain’t quit choo…

Okay. I’m kidding. But, he was nice, and gave me a generous donation once we reached the destination. Thank you very much, Robert!

I wandered around the Civic Center Park, looking at the statuary and man-made lagoon. Then I stretched out, checked in on Twitter, unfurled my flag, and set off.

Already, it was 95 degrees in Palm Desert. The night before, my father-in-law had let me pick from his collection of hats, and I was wearing a Nabisco Golf Tournament fedora-style hat. I decided to wear sun glasses that day because of the brightness all around me. It’s a good thing I had the hat and sunglasses. Later on, they saved my ass.

Palm Desert is a nice area. I traveled north until I reached Bob Hope Drive and then veered north-east, and then north. An older man with a gray brillo pad of chest hair rode past me on a bicycle. He snidely said, “Happy Earth Day!”

Though I had a CamelBak backpack, I haven’t had the time to fill it with ice and water to sip from. Instead, I decided to carry water bottles, and to stop at Starbucks along the way.

I figured Starbucks, like Syphilis, could be found on every corner. I was wrong. There were some parts of the town without one, and so, I didn’t have wi-fi connectivity to check my travel route as I went.

On this day, I did an experiment. I plastered a broad smile on my face and waved at people as the drove in my direction. Usually only 3 out of 100 honk, wave, give a thumbs-up, or wave a finger from the steering wheel.

But, by smiling at them and waving, that jumped to 50-90% of passersby.

Because of this response, it wasn’t so tiring to walk, hold the flag pole and wave. So, the miles just passed fairly easily. Twice, I was flipped off, when I entered the south-eastern part of Palm Springs from Rancho Mirage. It was a low-income residential area; predominantly Hispanic.

I ended up distracted from waving and nodding to people who responded enthusiastically, because I found myself on the northern-edge of town before I knew it. Before me was nothing but dunes and desert, and a casino way in the distance. Beyond that, I found out, was I-10.

Looking at the expanse of sand, cactus, and asphalt before me, I paused. I took a photo of the daunting sight, wondering if Dean Martin Rd really the next road in the distance as Google Maps had shown.

Just then, some young guy drove by and yelled, “F***ing f***ot!” As I was the only pedestrian around for miles, I surmised he was addressing me. This really bummed me out. But, I said a prayer, forgiving the guy and asking God to bless him. When you are tired and you extend yourself freely to others, it is a kick in the gut when an anonymous person treats you so disrespectfully.

I went into a CVS that was to my left, on one end of a strip mall. There was nothing else around for miles. I purchased a giant can of an energy drink, and drank it as I marched into the sandy expanse of the desert.

Many people honked and waved, from both directions. And, despite the heat and occasional sandy breezy that filled my mouth with the taste of Palm Springs, I smiled broadly.

When I reached the next intersecting road, I saw that it wasn’t Dean Martin. I was by the Moranga Casino, I think, and saw that the I-10 lead east to west before me. I knew I needed to follow the road I came to back to Palm Springs. But, I didn’t want to carry the industrial-sized can of Monster.

I tried waving down some cars, but they drove by. Finally a twenty-three year old guy with black wavy hair and a grin asked me if I needed a ride. I asked him if it would be alright to give him the can. He agreed and I asked him his name. He said, “My name’s Brandon. Tell people, I’m the guy who’s going to save the world!” With that, he drove off.

I headed west, waving at oncoming cars, and saluting those who saluted the flag. By that time, I was pretty drained. I had run out of bottled war, and started feeling dizzy. The hat and sunglasses enabled me to endure what would otherwise have been a very dangerous situation. For the temperature even hotter by this time, and my blood sugar had dropped.

When I was back in the neighborhoods of P.S., I headed south to make up for having missed the southern portion of the 111 Hwy route. For another four miles, I walked, waved, and saluted.

Finally, I decided to head west to get to S. Indian Canyon, so I could head back north to Victoria Park. It was 4:40 pm, and I was staggering.

I was about to throw up when a pretty Mexican soccer mom walked up to me from a park I was walking through. She asked me if I spoke Spanish. “Un pocito, Senora,” I replied. She spoke in awkward English, telling me that she had seen me earlier in the day, waving and carrying the flag on the other side of town.

She asked me if I wanted some water, and I gratefully said, yes! She went to get a cold water bottle from a bag. She said her son was playing soccer but that he had plenty.

I drank the entire bottle in ten seconds. I thanked her and walked toward the community center that was on the west-end of the park, just south of Mesquite Road. There, I rested, and bought Gatorade and a candy bar. After fifteen minutes, I started toward S. Indian Canyon Road.

Somewhere along the line, I came to a commercial district, and saw a Carl’s Jr and Starbucks. I went into the Carl’s Jr and ate a Bourbon Bacon Cheeseburger. I was famished. I would just say, starved, but in this case, famished was the absolute perfect word to describe how hungry I was.

A woman named, Kim was being tutored in math. She was in the booth in front of me. She asked my why I was carrying the flag and wearing a shirt that said, “Uphold Your Oaths.”

I told her about the march and that I demand that our politicians uphold their oaths of office, and protect the Constitution; and by extension, our civil rights. She was very interested in my march, so I gave her my card.

After I finished, I went to Starbucks to check on via the wi-fi. There, a liberal woman named Laurie asked me the same thing as Kim. Only Laurie wanted to know if I supported gay rights, and the right to choose abortion. I didn’t get to respond, as she spoke rapidly and jumped from subject to subject. She said the Republicans want to control women’s uteruses.

I told her that the War on Women meme was a Democrat Party construct and was absolutely false. Laurie then told me that her husband was a gun owner, and was concerned about control laws. I wondered if he, too, shared his wife’s views on the subjects she raised.

I left and from that point on, it grew dark. Very few, if any people saw me as they drove by. Hardly anyone was on the streets. P.S. seems to have seen better times. There were many empty shops and economically-depressed commercial complexes.

I reached a trendy zone, though, where hipsters were out having dinner, or looking at galleries. As I passed on such gallery, a man came out, looked at me and said, “Hey, Bro. Peace.” The way he said it sounded more like a statement than a greeting.

From there, I saw businesses with rainbow flags flying outside their door. I figured they were advertising that they were gay-friendly clubs or perhaps something the city has established.

It was 8:30 pm by then, and I stopped in from of a small restaurant that had a “Free Wi-Fi” sign in the window. I was unpacking my tablet when a young woman named, Ericka leaned out the door and asked me if there was a parade.

Again, I told her who I was and what I was doing. She offered me ice water in a large styrofoam cups. I gave her my card and walked the last mile to where my car was parked.

I was so glad to be finished. I had walked well over twenty miles, and I was sandy and tired. I sat in the car, next to a firestation, using their wi-fi to locate the 24 Hour Fitness Center I wanted to go to in order to bathe and rest. When I found two listed in P.S., I drove to the first one, when was in Cathedral City.

I couldn’t find it. I drove around several time, but didn’t see the sign or building. I asked several locals, but they barely spoke English. The fourth one was at a Taco Bell drive-thru window. He told me there weren’t any 24 Hour Fitnesses there anymore. I did a Search for Gym location using my Android, and it said that the nearest club was almost 15 miles east.

I decided to drive to Riverside, instead of wasting even more gas. I knew there was a club there.The drive was sketchy, as there was a powerful windstorm. Sand obscured visibility for seconds at a time. It was harrowing, as my car veered left and right. I had to drive less than 45 miles per hour.

When I got to downtown Riverside, I learned that that particular 24 Hour Fitness club was closed on Mondays. I was bummed. And feeling gross.

I tapped into a nearby Starbuck’s wi-fi again and saw that there was a club in Redlands. So, I drove even further to it.

Thankfully, it was open, and bustling with exercisers, even though it was 11 pm. I took a very hot shower, got dressed, and went to sleep in the back of my mini-van after I stretched out.

Despite the noise of freight trains passing by, I slept well.

This morning, I drove to Rancho Cucamonga City Library to update my blog, and to park at the end point of tomorrow’s march.

Until tomorrow…