STILL SINGING,

SOMEHOW
An Odyssey of One Soul’s Karma

Rob Rideout

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 Copyright © 2010 by Robert M. Rideout

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any way for

resell or reprint unless written consent has been obtained from the
author. All content within this book is the property of Robert M.
Rideout and is copyrighted © 2010

This book was printed and manufactured in the United States of

America.

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 Acknowledgements
This book is dedicated to my beloved son and Almighty God.
Sincere thanks always to Mahavatar Babaji, Yogananda, Jesus, the
Native American Church and all of the friends who have shared
the journey. You are all songs in my heart. I especially want to
thank my special friend Karen Thiele for inspiration and Jan
Treecraft for her time spent typing my original manuscript. Thank
you Tony and Barb Harmon, for all the love and support you’ve
shown me throughout my life. Special thanks goes out to Diana,
Dave and Shannon and Archie and Carol for helping make my
dream come true on the home front. Also, Christian, Josephine,
Judith, Boyd, Dan and Omarice and Mike and Leslie must be
sincerely acknowledged, as well as Bonnie and Lyn for their
loving hearts. I sincerely bless Acharya Das too, for his help on the
computer and bringing this book to fruition. And I definitely can’t
forget my mom; for saying, “Rob, you should write a book.”
Thanks Mom, Dad and Joyce for your unseen help. Despite it all, I
am still singing, somehow.

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 Prologue

This book was inspired in prison. I wanted my son, long estranged

due to divorce, to know the entire story; the why and the how that
brought me to this place. In the process of writing, I discovered
that I was really writing it for myself-to purge and forgive myself
for the life I created. Sadly, my own compulsions sabotaged much
of my life, allowing me to wallow in self-absorption and self-pity.
Through years of laboring in rewrites, I have reviewed my life
many times- maybe too many. The result has been a tremendous
healing. My story is one of fall and redemption, of heaven and hell.
It’s about the pain of loss and the cop-out path I pursued for so
long. If you’re looking for something better than what you’ve seen
on TV or already read, you might or might not find it here. But
remember, the truth is always stranger than fiction. I couldn’t have
thought this story up in my wildest imagination. Hopefully,
anybody suffering from alcoholism or an overactive ego may find
a ray of hope here. However, this book is without a hook; an
inspirational memoir whose title alone will have to suffice. My
lifelong dream has always been to pursue a lifestyle of truth,
simplicity and love. The road to that goal hasn’t been easy, and I
realize that I paved it all myself. I had to lose everything to gain a
freedom I never dreamed possible, but it was worth it, every step
of the way. Many names in this journey have been changed to
protect the innocent.

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 Prayer

Heavenly Father, Divine Mother, Friend, Lord, Beloved God-Jesus

Christ, Bhagavan Krishna, Mahavatar Babaji, Paramahansa Yogananda
and sacred Peyote; I humbly bow to you all. May Thy love and light
shine forever, on this, the sanctuary of my devotion, and May I be able to
awaken Thy love within my own and within all hearts and bring them to
Thee. Amen

Life Path

You were born on the last day of the last sign of the zodiac wheel and
as a result have tremendous potential for an all-or-nothing existence. It is
not an easy ride, in many ways, as you will be forced to confront who
you really are and what you really want. There will come a time when
you will be called upon to make a drastic change, and at this point it is
essential that you follow your heart. Born on March 20, you are kind,
unusual and liberated. You are naturally good at changing your life.
You will make a very wise sage in your latter years.

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 STILL SINGING, SOMEHOW

“Before signing your plea bargain, is there anything you would

like to say?” asked the balding Superior Court judge.
“Yes, Your Honor,” I replied. I was the only one being convicted
who even responded to the judge’s rhetorical question. Since it
was my life on the line, I decided that I may as well tell him what
was running through my head. God, this is all so heavy! My palms
were sweaty, I was shaking and I sensed that the judge knew I
drank last night. I hoped that I would learn the length of my prison
sentence after speaking with the judge. My court appointed public
defender hadn’t been able to shed any light on this subject over the
past two anxiety-ridden months. He dryly stated that I could serve
anywhere from four months to four years for this aggravated DUI
felony that had gotten me to the present karmic moment of my
pitiful life.
“Whatever sentence you impose, Your Honor, I see it as the will
of God. I am a very sick man who only wants to get well. I accept
my punishment wholeheartedly.”
The judge replied, “Thank you, Mr. Rideout. I’ll soon be
sentencing you to prison in the Arizona Department of Corrections.
I have seen a few men really change for the better in prison. Good
luck in county jail until your sentencing.”
Good God, how had all of this happened to me? How had I let
alcohol take me this low? I had five years of college under my belt,
traveled to nineteen countries, been blessed by holy men in India,
had two marriages plus a child and, quite literally, withstood the
trials of Job. Ironically, I was not scared out of my wits. I was way
past that and ready to accept my sentence with open arm- praying
that I could really change inwardly. I wanted to process and correct
the many mistakes and wrong choices that had resulted in this
incarceration. I saw that I must use this appointed time creatively,
to look within and reflect upon what had put me here:
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abandonment issues and alcoholism, dysfunctional upbringing and
rebellion, heartbreaks and my misleading hasty ego. After decades
of spiritual searching and study, maybe prison was just what I
needed to awaken from the illusion I falsely created and called
“my life.” Maybe I would somehow find the inner peace necessary
to be able to forgive myself for all of the pain that I had inflicted
upon my son, ex-wives, and loved ones.
After signing my plea bargain (which was some variation of
guilty as charged) I was immediately handcuffed and seated, still
wearing the new Christmas shirt given to me by my dear friend
Lyn. I sat uncomfortably in the jury box, alone and bewildered,
and watched while others’ lives went to hell. After a few hours, my
wrists aching, I was escorted out the back door of the courtroom
and taken over to the county jail.
“Am I being booked again?” I asked the guard.
“Yeah… and here is your new orange outfit, complete with
Yavapai County jail stenciled on the back. Plus, you’ll get a new
identity bracelet for your left wrist, with your own number and
picture on it.”
“My face will change over time, but this number will never
change,” I replied. “I am now a convicted felon, like it or not! How
long do you think I’ll serve?”
“I don’t know, Buddy, I just don’t know.”

This mad house ….

I’m now doing my time in Golf Pod. All of the pods here
have such classy names, with approximately forty-five inmates
per pod. This is where I’ll stay, until I’m finally shipped off to
prison. This mad house is packed! We have about sixty
inmates over crowded in here, with fifteen more on floor mats.
I soon found my space under the stairs and scored a very beat
up paperback to begin reading immediately. This would be the
first of many more books to come. Now I can begin to
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 mentally relax and “rest in God.” I know this sounds strange,
but finally the long awaited process of incarceration has begun
for me, up and running. This is it… well, the beginning
anyway. All the fear and anxiety of the past few neurotic
months is behind me now. It feels like it’s sunk or swim in this
present jail environment. Talk about being pushed into the
unknown! Just walking into this room, with all these new weird
faces checking me out, makes one a bit nervous. I’m learning
to adapt quickly, however, as when I traveled in foreign
countries. I’m basically staying to myself, until I can figure out
all the new rules and politics here. And there are heavy politics
here, believe me! Every day is a learning experience in one
way or another. I know I won’t be sentenced to prison, Arizona
Department of Corrections (ADC), for another month and that
alone keeps me guessing. How long will I do hard time? Why
can’t they just tell me now? Legal wheels move soo slow!
Everybody here has advice and opinions. Everybody! And
some of it really scares me. Thankfully, there are always many
jailhouse lawyers to help figure things out. And everybody here
has many things to figure out. Oh yeah.
After a few days, I finally moved out from under the stairs
into a room with two other inmates upstairs. However, I’m still
on the floor while they’re on bunks. “Oh, this is priceless,” I
thought. Thank God I haven’t lost my sense of humor. It’s one
step up this institutional ladder at a time.
Every day, after breakfast is passed through a slot in our door,
along with a disposable razor to be returned, we’re let out of
our rooms to shower and congregate- only to find another ten
or more new cons asleep on the dayroom floor. They booked in
while we slept. Many will bond out quickly, paying any
amount of money to do so today. Many will return later for
longer stays. We recently had a DOC SWAT team dressed out
in black combat gear conduct a practice on us for prison
uprisings; complete with loaded paint guns, face shields and
kneepads. They looked like they were out of the TV evening
news or possibly the Mideast crisis.

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 “Everybody get on the floor right now! Hey you, longhair,
get down!” We were forced at gunpoint to lie on our faces
against the cold dirty cement floor, and later marched outside-
to be lined up against a wall, execution style, for an hour.
Some inmates laughed or made rude comments.
“I’m calling my lawyer,” threatened one inmate. He was
quickly handcuffed and sent to the hole, not to be seen again.
A book cart comes by bi-weekly, and I scramble for any reading
material.
“Have you read Lonesome Dove? Here it is. Grab it
quickly!” shouted another inmate to me.
“Thanks. I’ve always wanted to read it.” Luckily, I have
found some great thick books so far, perfect for prison reading.
Down time is basically a time warp. As I adjust, I see that time
now seems to go faster inside, than on the outs. Cool. Most of
my time is spent on my bunk, flat out, trying to relax on all
levels. The lights are always on here and the green, cracked
plastic mattress is very thin and hard. There is no pillow.
Everybody who knows claims that prison is way better than
any county jail. I’ll be finding out the validity of this claim in
due time. But for now, it’s time to lie back down and remember
how it all began for me, with that “damn beat” of the Beatles.

That “damn beat” just….

Music has always been my first love, long before I ever had a
girlfriend. My mom loved music intensely too, especially the
Beatles. To quote Mom, “that damn beat just drives me crazy!”
But that “damn beat” that my mother spoke of, would ultimately
lead me into a lifestyle of bars and drunks, pot and parties,
heartaches and heartbreaks; all laced with travel and relationships.
Playing music professionally would put me in enabling
environments for the creation of a very self-indulgent lifestyle.

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This lifestyle and mindset would persist for many decades to come
and take me further into to the illusion of the ego.
For me, it all began on February 7, 1964 when the Beatles arrived,
attacking our American TVs on Ed Sullivan’s Sunday night variety
show. This had to be one of the spiritual high noon’s of the 20th
century. No crime was committed in New York City during that
one hour. When I saw a picture of Ringo’s drum set, taken from
behind in Life magazine, I knew I’d finally found my destiny: to
play music and follow that “damn beat” wherever it would take me.
This was my parents’ worst fear. My mom would repeatedly say,
“Oh God, Rob.” That would actually become her mantra. And like
it or not, I would hear that mantra many times in my life.
My drumming career began on an upside-down tin garbage can,
using paint brushes for sticks. Soon, I had an old wooden snare
drum and a cheap Japanese cymbal that got beat beyond
recognition. When I scored my first real job in the Malibu’s, I’d
progressed to a full set of oyster blue Ludwig drums. I seemed to
know how to play instinctively. I knew where the beat was and
how to get there. I must have been born with rhythm. Mom paid
for drum lessons but only one sufficed, as I could play everything
already. Cool! So now I was actually making money on weekends,
playing for dances after football games. And the times, they were a
changing, as cheerleaders were quickly starting to notice musicians
over the jocks. Yes!
In 1964, most bands mainly played instrumentals. With the advent
of the British musical invasion, vocals were becoming very
popular, as were costumes. Being raised in Bellingham, we were
exposed to such bands as Paul Revere and the Raiders and
Seattle’s The Fabulous Wailers, Don and the Good Times, The
Viceroys and The Sonics, to name a few. We wanted to be like
them! I studied each drummer intensely, learning to imitate
something from their style, as these bands played weekly in our
county. So, with love and fascination for the Civil War, The Rebels
was created. Our five mothers hemmed us gray woolen uniforms
right out of the Confederacy. With our knee-high vinyl boots and
Rebel forage caps from a Seattle costume shop, we were equipped
for musical warfare and armed with plenty of new cover tunes.
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However, these woolen band outfits proved to be incredibly hot!
We were drenched in sweat by the end of our first set. At this time
too, razor cuts were considered advanced hair styling. I’d actually
drive to Seattle, ninety miles away, to have my hair cut. My stylist,
gay of course, cut all the famous Seattle bands’ hair at that time.
Mod haircuts were the thing for musicians. You have to look good
on stage and you sure couldn’t trust ‘60s barbers for that! The
jocks went to them.
In a local battle of the bands, The Rebels won big time. Our band,
of fourteen to sixteen year olds, sounded great. The other members
had been taking music lessons and practicing on their instruments
much longer than me. We sounded much older than we were and
everybody got a kick out of our costumes. Our young raw energy
was pretty much irresistible, with three part harmony and cover
tunes that sounded dead-letter perfect. With a college student as
our manager, we played weekly for 1500 students at Western
Washington State College, for months. Our fame was pictured and
printed in the Bellingham Herald. I was now making over $100 per
weekend- way more money than most my age and having extreme
fun at the same time. I love this music business! I literally lived
and breathed drums in my head at school, especially on Fridays. I
couldn’t wait to be on stage each weekend. The chemistry that I
was experiencing between the band and audience would become
addicting over time, as would a variety of other things.
We even played a few fraternity keggers in Seattle. Our
microphone cords would often short out from all the spilt beer on
the floor. And once, while packing up equipment, we found fresh
blood on the floor of our rented U-Haul trailer.
“What’s that?” we all asked. It obviously wasn’t a murder
but something was out of whack here.
“Another college virgin has been deflowered,” said a frat boy,
while we virgins played on.
After playing these gigs, we often frequented the counter-culture
coffee houses in the University district. Here I encountered my
first “fringes”- beatniks playing bongos and reading poetry. These
folk, historically the first symbols of those to dropout, were paving
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the way for the upcoming hippies. I was all eyes, as I entered these
coffee shops of mystery. I also hung out a lot around our own
counter-culture college scene at WWSC in Bellingham. Many of
the older college freaks, who were already experimenting with
drugs, told me not to mess with them.
“You don’t need them with your energy. You are already there!”
The same truth A Course in Miracles would hammer home to me
decades later. If only I had heeded their advice then!

My summer of love….

As the psychedelic movement was blossoming during ’67, I had

Red Dog, my mom’s red VW bug and high school graduation gift,
painted much like John Lennon’s Rolls Royce. It was groovy
flower power done artistically, by two art-student friends. I now
owned the first freak vehicle in Bellingham’s history. I proudly
made my maiden voyage through Bunk’s Drive-In, to show off and
revel in my newfound hip glory. “You do your thing and I’ll do
mine,” was the popular saying of these times. How I longed to be
noticed as unique. Why? My ego had already chosen the social
archetypical role of the “nonconformist” artist or performer,
unbeknownst to me. I wore my wide, black leather belt, holding
up my bell-bottom jeans. My Beatle boots and polka dot balloon
sleeve semi-pirate shirt made me hip as shit! Most of my
classmates probably thought I was totally crazy. Who cares? I sure
didn’t. I was the only musician in my class and everybody seemed
to know that. I was different, no doubt about it.
Just prior to graduating from high school, the Jefferson Airplane
came to town, complete with the Merry Pranksters, the San
Francisco Mime Troupe and their psychedelic bus, Further. Beat
poet Alan Ginsberg, freak author Ken Kesey and speed freak
legend Neil Cassidy, along with a lot of very silent actors,
assaulted Bellingham for a week- a week I would never forget.
This whole troop was all living legends. The Beatles’ Sergeant
Peppers album had just been released and I was one of the first to

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own it, of course. Well, the Airplane somehow got wind of this
news and asked if they could borrow my newly acquired treasure-
to drop acid to after their concert. They couldn’t wait to experience
this classic masterpiece and I was instrumental in making their
dream come true. At the concert, I was seated on the floor with my
legs under the sixteen inch high riser. Grace Slick was belting out
White Rabbit right in front of me. I was almost in her personal
space. The following morning I drove over to their crash pad to
retrieve my new Beatle record. There was the Airplane passed out
on the floor. I quietly put my record back in its jacket and backed
out the door. Were they asleep or was the Airplane still flying
somewhere out in the cosmos? Boy, they sure sounded good last
night and I hadn’t even experienced drugs yet! What is acid? Now
the time was coming for this young free spirit to go on pilgrimage
to the happening Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco,
California. My “Summer of Love” was about to begin.
Mike, the Rebel’s bass player and also called “Toad,” from
Kenneth Graham’s The Wind in the Willows, joined me on the
twenty-four hour Greyhound bus ride to the pilgrimage site. We
ran into Kathi, our old girl singer, who took us up to Hippie Hill in
Golden Gate Park.
“Have you ever smoked marijuana?” she asked.
“No, I haven’t yet. But I’d like to.”
Well, Kathi stoned me for my very first time up on Hippie Hill.
For the record, the word “hippie” comes from “hipster.” “Hip” is
slang for “aware.” This was the beginning of the end, one could
say, even though I didn’t really get off on that first toke.
Toad and I also had another bizarre experience together during
this Summer of Love. We attended a Baptist revival meeting at a
circus tent in the Happy Valley district of Fairhaven, Bellingham.
Toad had been drinking beer and, being an atheist, didn’t cotton to
believers. I didn’t know what to think, not having been exposed to
religion yet. The crazed preacher was expounding brimstone and
hellfire inside those canvas walls.

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 “My God… is this what religion is all about?” I thought. After
mocking them, we quietly slipped out under the tent canvas. “Who
needs a God like that, Toad?” I just don’t understand this thing
called religion- yet!
This summer also introduced me to LSD and Timothy Leary’s
mantra, “Turn on, tune in, drop out.” Faithfully and sadly, I took
both to heart. Now, I knew what acid was. In total, I dropped good
LSD about a dozen times, way less than most of my peers. My
first trip took me from being an agnostic, who doesn’t know if
there is a God, to the realm of a true believer. My mystic path had
just begun; it was a real turning point. Acid let me see things
clearly, I felt, just as they are, peeling away the onionskins of
preconceived ideas and perceptions of judgment in my mind. It’s
very difficult to write about acid trips, practically impossible
actually, as most of it is so far beyond words. Trying to explain
seeing things at a sub-atomic level, where everything is in a state
of constant motion, isn’t real easy to describe, much less relate to
for most people. I was fortunate enough to have experienced
guides, harmonious settings and so, basically wonderful trips.
Acid made me aware of other levels of reality, whatever that is,
and let me feel a structured and loving, divine order to all of life.
I’d only tripped twice in ’67, but it really opened my mind, as they
say. It was the first crack in my ego shell, which allowed me to get
a glimpse of pure Spirit.
My own experiments were always special, sacred and spiritual.
To me, acid was a sacrament, not a toy. It could show you heaven
or take you to hell in the wink of an eye! Respect it and keep it
holy. I realized early on that it was just a door to show me the
Way. Not to be considered or mistaken as the Way. However,
that’s the trap that many got caught up in. I’m lucky to have
survived, I guess.
As my parents weren’t churchgoers, I was raised agnostic. We
didn’t talk about God in our house. When I was a youngster, my
mom took me to Sunday school briefly, but then was appalled by
all the hypocrisy. She promptly yanked me out. In the war, she had
held a dying soldier in the ocean, with both arms and legs blown-
off. After this, poor Mom couldn’t believe in God anymore. Mom
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was Scots-Irish with flaming red hair, a temper to match, coal
black eyes and nice long legs. She’d been a babe in WW2, as a
scrub surgery nurse under General Douglas Mac Arthur in
Australia and New Guinea. Mom was one of fourteen nurses
surrounded by two thousand lonely soldiers. Here, she learned to
smoke, drink, dance and cuss. Her bad habits would ultimately
corrupt my poor dad. During her last year of life, at age sixty-four,
her faith would finally turn around. Mom always told me that we
create our own heaven or hell right here on earth. It has taken me
over fifty some odd years to fully realize the complete truth of her
statement. I did drop out, as they say. I guess I was destined to all
along- always the Rebel on so many levels. But what was I really
rebelling against? Myself sadly, and not just authority, but I
wouldn’t realize this for a very long time. Also, I descended from
Quakers, historically the first semi-hippies in anti-establishment
Europe. I became the black sheep in my parents’ eyes, for
dropping out in more ways than one, and would later in society’s
eyes. But, all things considered, I’m still glad I got to experience
all I did back in the ’60’s. It was a real trip!

Jesus, Mayhem, and Red and….

For about two weeks now, I’ve been coughing heavily as

nicotine toxins exit my system. I know my cough upsets the
Mexicans, but I’ve just got to get this phlegm out. I really felt
no come down from alcohol, except the occasional nervous
body snap when fully relaxing before sleep. Sleep, everyone
does a lot here. It kills time. I did a lot of deep breathing and
quick walking of laps around the dayroom, joining an orange
line of others in the exercise program. The high starch diet is a
major change from my usual fare of fresh veggies and brown
rice. I’ve gotten horribly constipated and had to queue up in
the nightly med line for laxatives. I’m drinking water
copiously now, to aid this common incarceration problem. It
does feel great, finally, to escape the bondage of demon alcohol
and its ensuing entrapment into my lower nature. I’ve sadly
15
 been under the spell of the false self, the ego, whose very
nature is harmful, for far too many years! My awareness of my
true nature, the Higher Self or Christ within me, grows daily, as
I now confront my forced sobriety and shame over a wasted
life. Finally surrendering more, I’m letting God have His
perfect way here. I long for the awaited healing of my heart
and soul. I just feel grateful to be alive right now, even here in
county jail.
“Look at that dude. Jesus Christ’s clone has appeared!” a
fellow inmate shouted. This inmate from Seattle, as I learned,
looked exactly like actor Robert Powell from Jesus of Nazareth.
I wonder what the guards thought as they processed this carbon
copy of the Lord. God definitely has a great sense of humor,
even in jail.
“Have you gotten any mail yet?” I was asked.
“Yea, I have and surprisingly from my first ex-wife.”
“How many ex-wives do you have?”
“Only two that I know of,” I responded.
Jolene put fifty dollars on my books but, and as the county
takes one dollar per day for rent if you have money, that
doesn’t leave much for commissary candy. She let her folks
know of my new address, and soon her faithful mother wrote
me too. Her letter was heavy- hard love. Many sentences were
underlined, admonishing me to never drink again and
reminding me of all I had lost, just to feel good temporarily and
numb out life.
After reading the letter, I said to another inmate, “In a
strange way, I’m grateful that my parents aren’t alive any
longer.”
“Why would you say that?”
“I’m sure my mom would have killed me verbally and most
definitely disowned me.”

16
 My dad had already done that, years ago. I’m sure they are
both rolling over in their graves, but then again, they don’t
have any, as I put their cremated ashes to rest in the ocean.
“Yeah, my mom is really having a hard time dealing with my
incarceration. My dad hates me now,” answered back the
fellow inmate.
The White Supremacy Arian Brotherhood is powerful in this
jail. Names like Chaos and Mayhem are popular, along with
swastika and lightening bolt tattoos. And, of course, the
shaved head. They keep the majority of Mexican nationals or
Pisa’s in line through intimidation and fear. I learned that in
the Convict Code, racial pod fathers negotiate problems
between the races. Father knows best. You never eat with
other races, only your own. Sean, the unspoken king of the
Aryans, silently ruled our pod. He had the German Nazi eagle
tattooed on his neck and even drew it out as an extensive
letterhead on letters he wrote. And he wrote continuously.
When Sean got shipped over to Prescott for court, a real
asshole named Red took over. Red was a meth-head and had
been up speeding non-stop for nearly two weeks. He was
pronounced clinically dead in the E.R., after ingesting mass
amounts of speed in a police chase. However, he miraculously
survived, to torment us all here. Red had a very loud idiotic
machine gun-type laugh, which cackled constantly throughout
our waking hours. He combined this audio torture with saying,
“You know what I’m talkin’ about?” and “You know what I
mean?” every few seconds in his babbling dialogue of his
egotistical drug orgies. This sick dude looked like an angry
Vincent Van Gogh, combined with the Energizer bunny.
He even shouted at me, “Hey old man”, a first that really hit
my ego. Red was a classic bully who reigned through
intimidation of weaker, less institutionalized inmates. He was
a real super control-freak and doing his best to exert his power.
Some people seem to come into their prime in here. The
lowest can become the highest. In all of my life, I’ve never
really felt such hate for an individual, until I encountered this
Red. I really don’t like to use the word hate, but he was the
17
 living embodiment of all I detested- a real human antichrist in
my opinion. Yet, what was he reflecting in me, to make me so
upset? Are my own imperfections so intolerable that I project
them onto poor Red? Maybe someday I’ll be able to offer
compassion, instead of judgment. Four of us inexperienced
jailbirds even wrote a kite, the proper prison paperwork, to the
guards to have Red removed from our pod. But this, as we
later learned, was a form of snitching or ratting off in the
Convict Code. Learned inmates would have just smashed Red.
However, it takes time to learn all these unspoken rules. We all,
unfortunately, had plenty of that still coming our way. In time
too, I would have my confrontation with Red.

Oh, those innocent days of youth….

On the first day of spring and the last day of Pisces-March 20,
1949 I was born in Seattle, WA to Dr. Eugene Melvin Rideout and
mother Jane. On my first day back here on earth, I was treated for
spastic bowel with opium. What a way to start my life and how
symbolic of my karma to come.
Dad was a general surgeon in Bellingham, Washington where I
grew up. Mom became a frustrated mother who probably should
have kept her day job as a nurse. Our last name, Rideout, comes
from Normandy, France and supposedly relates to the first warriors
to ride out into battle when being attacked. Mom’s Celtic linage is
an ancient line of nomads who were difficult to govern and viewed
as rebels prone to violence. But I inherited many good qualities
from these two bloodlines: a sense for travel and spirituality rather
than religion and a resilient self-confidence coupled with a self-
cleansing psyche that loves life. Two years after I was born, my
sister Joyce showed up on the scene. She was born on Friday the
13th, the same as Dad, but different months. I was blessed to have
Joyce as my sister, for now anyway. Together, we tried to
understand just how to survive in a classic dysfunctional family.
Poor Mom had lost her three best friends to polio after I was born
and became very depressed. She strived endlessly to be a Super
18
Mom of the ‘50s, wanting only the best from and for her children.
Needless to say, her dream failed to materialize. Sadly, Mom
seemed to thrive more on melodrama and the adrenaline rush of
worry, fear and negativity, than on life itself. She would never find
any kind of inner peace, until she was nearly at death’s door. Her
ego was fast, always in fifth gear. It rubbed off on me, as I had to
be prepared to respond instantly around her. My hasty spirit was
already being formed. And Dad, being a doctor, seemed to have a
shell around his heart and feelings. Maybe this was his way of
dealing with other’s health problems and death, but he was
emotionally not there much, for me or my sister. There wasn’t any
hugging or “I love you” in our family. The phone was constantly
ringing, always interrupting any kind of semblance of family life.
To this day, I still react adversely to ringing telephones. Many
nights my mom would take my bed, in her desperation to get sleep,
forcing me to lie next to my snoring dad and that telephone next to
the bed that would surely bring a 2 a.m. call from some
hypochondriac patient. Being this doctor’s son was no fun.
In Lowell grade school, I had a lunch box of Davey Crockett
killing a bear and a decal of a newspaper with a headline asking,
“What’s the Latest Dope?” This was a common saying in the ‘50’s,
meaning, “What’s up?” Ironically, this would have various levels
of interpretation in my later life. I was a Cub Scout too; Pack
Seven, Den Five. Once, at a large assemblage of scouts, I was
nominated to lead the flag salute, the sacred Pledge of Allegiance.
This was my first experience of performing in front of a crowd and
I froze up big time. I was so nervous that I couldn’t even
remember the first word: “I.” Finally kids began whispering, “I”
to me, so we could get this hellish ordeal over with. Who, at this
point, would have ever thought I’d spend most of my life in front
of audiences? I was off to a rough start.
Mom became a den mother and was highly regarded by my
peers. When I asked them why, they replied, “She is cool.” Little
did they know how crazy she really was? They were only seeing
one side of her Gemini personality. She was progressive and very
different from their mothers, with her Lucy persona and war
experience, and they enjoyed the change. Why was my mom such
19
a wild card? Would I end up like her? Being more of a female,
right-brained person myself, I told my friends, “I feel very
comfortable with your mothers, who are calmer and more of the
June Cleaver/Harriet Nelson mold than my Lucille Ball mom.”
“Well, we like your mom better!” they answered back.

You’ll never know, until you’ve been there yourself….

On my fifty-fourth birthday, my son Sri Ram sent me

greetings and a decent guard even wished me “Happy
Birthday”. Then, on March 24, 2003, I was sentenced to prison
in Superior Court by that same balding judge. This was the day
I’d been anticipating. What would my sentence be?
“How long did you get?” asked my cellie when he saw me
return to our pod.
“Two and a half years, with no fines or probation- only
community supervision upon release,” I answered back. “That
is the politically correct terminology for parole now.” The
reality of this hadn’t sunk in yet at all.
After this sentencing, I was officially upgraded to property of
the State of Arizona, instead of Yavapai County, even though it
would be another month before I’d be transferred to my new
ADC yard. Returning to my pod, I was in shock, to say the
least! I’d met earlier with a local probation lady, who
supposedly influences the judge’s decision.
“I know you won’t qualify for any minimum sentence, due to
your priors,” she told me.
“Well, I kind of figured that.”
“I want to see you in a halfway house upon release, with five
years of probation!” she sternly warned me. “Your destructive
behavior and irresponsible drinking could have easily killed
you, others or even Sri Ram.”

20
 Guilt, shame, fear and deep remorse set in strongly. I was
trembling, I was so scared. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so scared.
Oh God, what have I done? I feel so pitiful! I’ve created some
very heavy karma and the scales must be balanced now.
Remember, I told the judge that whatever he sentenced me to, I
saw it as the will of God. I still respect his decision, as heavy
as it was. The way I see it, I deserve it! It’s all good, as it’s all
God and it’s all karma too. With good time, I’ll hopefully be
out in twenty-three months instead of thirty; maybe. That still
seems like a long time to me, right now, as the reality of all this
settles in. It really seems like a long time! I’ve got to stay
positive: Positive, Positive, Positive. Now, I just wonder when
exactly, I’ll be transported out of this nut-house jail.
One inmate told me a jailhouse truth. He said, “Dude, this is
probably the only time in your life when you can’t wait to get
to prison.” How appropriate! Then he said, “You’ll be sent to
a DUI yard - much better than ‘real’ yards, where violence,
politics and fear are the norm. And in some of those yards, you
can actually make some money, working outside, as you’re
considered a minimal risk.”
“Wow, prison does sound a lot better than jail,” I replied,
thankful for this ray of hope.
“Oh, it is. You’ll see. And after the way you stood up against
Red, verbally, when he tried to bust your balls, I think you’ll
do just fine in prison. He could have smashed you, you know,
but you nailed him with the truth.”
“Yea, I sure hope you’re right, as it’s been a bit stressful
mentally so far,” I responded, but more to myself than to him.
This place is aging me already, I thought. Red and I did get
into it; Red yelling obscenities, while I slashed him to the bone
verbally. There was a huge crowd all around us. It got very
heated and I was a bit worried. After all, I’m dealing with a
crazy person here.
“Just so you know, Rideout, if Red would have hit you, we
would have been all over him.”

21
 “Thanks, that’s reassuring even after the fact.”
During my second month of waiting, my dear old friends, the
Harmon’s, finally wrote. Barb suggested that I move back with
them and build a cabin for myself on their wooded acreage.
This promising news was like a shot of divine adrenaline. It
gave me hope with a capital “H”; just what I needed after my
sentencing. I would definitely be writing Tony and Barb
Harmon more, when I arrive at my new ADC home.
That change occurred early on Friday, April 18, 2003. The
guards shouted those infamous words, “Roll up!” and I knew I
was now off to Alhambra- the Arizona Department of
Corrections’ equivalent of Ellis Island in New York; a convict
processing plant, for those newly entering the system. I’d
already been fully warned about this place.
Three other convicts were chained and shackled with me on
our ride to Phoenix, in a heavily barred transport van. There
were seven other inmates already in this van, from jails over in
Prescott and up in Flagstaff. I hadn’t seen I-17 or the Verde
Valley in two months, so even this ride was a simple treat for
me. I joyously watched the scenery pass by from the rear view
screened mesh window, on this one and a half hour road trip.
Then, we stepped out of the van into another world.
“God, even the hot Phoenix sun feels good,” I commented
aloud, after being inside concrete buildings for so long. We
were only allowed outside maybe once a week, for about
twenty minutes, back at county jail. Then I noticed that the
guards here all carried rifles with scopes, looking down from
the rooftops of this classic institution. This was a maximum
security yard, as many criminals here carry far worse records
than a mere DUI. DUI’s are considered a minimal risk, but we
receive far harsher sentences than car thieves, child molesters,
rapists and burglars. Our crime is technically a traffic violation
but we get a felony, a cross we’ll have to carry with us for the
rest of our lives. Even though we did it to ourselves, it just
doesn’t seem fair somehow, sometimes, but karma is karma
and God knows, I’m trying to deal with mine.
22
 Everything has a beginning….

Herded inside like cattle at Alhambra, we were all instantly

assaulted by a large team of staff who were moving about
every which way and then finger printing us yet again. It was
as crowed in here as Costco on Saturday afternoon, with new
arrivals wondering which way to turn. Next, photos were taken
of our clean-shaven faces for our personalized “license plate.”
This ID card, with your notorious ADC number, will always
stay the same. The new identification badge is to be worn at
all times, in plain view, on our new orange jumpsuits. All
tattoos were photographed and documented and this took some
time, as many cons had “sleeves” on their arms or near-total
torso coverage. I was questioned by a huge black NFL-looking
intake officer about the Om sign, which looks like a squiggly
three, on my wrist.
“Is that tribal?”
“Yeah,” I replied, yet laughing inside at my answer.
“Tribal,” I thought. “That’s a good one!” To me, only a person
of African descent would say something like that. He would
probably never understand the Sanskrit symbol anyway.
Little did I know at this point, just how political and tribal
tattoos are in prison. Like Anglos had better not have feather
tattoos, as only warrior chiefs were allowed that privilege.
Sadly, I hardly met any “chiefs” I’d consider warriors. Alcohol
had taken down their once-spiritual civilization in the 19th
century but they still have plans to drink and party when they
get out. I sometimes wonder if today’s Indians aren’t the very
souls who persecuted the Redman, only to reincarnate this time
around on the other end of the karmic scale.
Next, we were all herded off for pee tests and eye exams.
With hundreds a day being processed, these hurdles were done
quickly. Anybody going to prison in Arizona must pass
through Alhambra first. It was a rude awakening to see so
23
 many others in trouble too. What do the personnel working
here think, seeing daily, year in and year out, so many
wounded souls passing under these gates of hell? Everybody is
now just reduced to a number. If a name is used, it’s always
your surname.
“Hey Rideout, come over here right now!” shouted the C.O.
“Yes Officer, I’m coming.” I’ve personally always preferred
first names; much more intimate. I usually get some kind of a
comment or snicker when people hear my last name, yet I’m
always proud of it, since there are so few Rideouts in the whole
world. One day, I will ride out of this place. But for now, the
game is to accept “authority”, which I’ve always had a problem
with, and slowly become institutionalized, without even
knowing it. It happens.
Finally, we were all assigned to rooms in a hallway called
Dog Run- small yellow rooms with eight inmates in old tinny
bunks and six more on the remaining floor space. One such
room housed the criminally insane. These poor souls looked so
lost, as they stared out the single barred window. I wonder if
they even knew where they were, let alone where they’d be
going or what they had done. An institutional stainless steel
toilet sat in each room’s center, so everybody could watch you
relieve yourself. This made peeing very hard for many nervous
ones, me included. And you’d better damn well flush
repeatedly when shitting, for the smell. I was blown away by
how much toilet paper those guys used- like ten feet for each
wipe. That is such a waste! But it’s just one of their ways of
getting back at a system that they feel put them here. I know
something that most of them don’t know yet. I know I put
myself here, without a doubt.
This prison is very old, built in the early 1900’s but looks
like it weathered the Civil War. There are no books and don’t
even consider TV. This was the adult experience of
“nothingness.” There really wasn’t much to do but talk to each
other and compare our horrible tales of woe.

24
 “Did your parents do weird shit when you were a kid?”
asked a bored inmate.
“Oh yeah, they sure did,” I responded. Whose parents didn’t
do weird shit? “We took a family trip together, when I was
about fourteen, to see my Grandparents in San Diego. I
remember my dad sneaking out behind his parents’ backs to
smoke a cigarette. Dad’s homely mother Grace was a dead
ringer for the witch in the Wizard of Oz. His father Harry
resembled a Native American chief. He had no idea that his
serious doctor son smoked. That’s messed up, don’t you think?
Well, my Grandma Grace was pumping pecan pie down me big
time, as my dad was sneaking around outside. Give me a break!
I learned then how to do my own thing, by not letting my
parents catch on. If my dad did it, it was O.K., right?”
“You got that right, Jack! My old man was the same way.
They were teaching us to lie, unbeknownst to them.”
“One of the scariest memories was when Mom left us, in her
orange VW ragtop, to commit suicide. I think she might have been
drinking as she was raving frantically as she drove away. She
planned to drive off Chuckanut Drive into the ocean. And she let
us know it loud and clear, by punching a hole in the back door
before she left. Obviously, this was a call for help, love and
healing. My sister Joyce and I cried and screamed, while our dad
did nothing. He just waited silently. Mom returned later that night,
after we’d cried ourselves to sleep. Thank God. Nothing was ever
said about this later. That’s the way it is, in an alcoholic
household.”
“Yeah, I know all about alcoholic home fronts. I think most of us
here do.”
Once every three days we got to shower. There were about five
working showers, in a small room with forty-five inmates waiting
in line. When the prison towels became scarce, they passed out
orange tee shirts to dry ourselves.
One heavy biker dude asked me, “Did I ride with you up in
Jerome?”

25
 “No, I don’t think so.” At least he thought I looked biker enough.
Lunch, in-room always, was a plastic sack filled with two bad
sandwiches, cookies, stale chips and a packet of lemonade. Then,
we either napped or told our tales again until dinner.
“Are you a Christian?” asked the small black dude next to
me. He couldn’t wait to get to prison where he could have his
Bible.
“Wow, now that’s a loaded question,” I answered back
hesitantly. “Yes, I am. But not in the way that you think.”
I’ve pretty much been from A to Z with what I call,
“Churchianity.” The Campus Crusade for Christ, my first girlfriend
Jeanne and Art History at college, all influenced my conversion to
Jesus. As our family never read the Bible, when I converted to
Christianity, I became fanatic. I’ve always been an extremist and
seem to take things to their limit. But I drove my poor parents up
the wall, in desperation to save their souls. Didn’t they want to
accept Jesus as their personal Savior and go to heaven with me? I
studied Bible scripture so intensely, that I had visions of becoming
a monk. Then my dad caught hepatitis from a patient and spent a
month in bed, all jaundiced and yellowish. But I was there, at his
bedside with the word of God and the teachings of Billy Graham!
This did not improve our father-son relationship one iota.
At the same time, I was playing music in a house-band, named
David, at the most happening bar in Bellingham, the Iron Bull.
This popular bar was a major college hangout, due to ten cent beer
specials. During breaks, I’d hand out religious tracts to drunken
students or stoners in the alley. Then I’d pray for them all, by
myself, in our band room. Being a new Christian was a lot of work!
Many resented me for my fanatic actions but danced away when I
got back behind my drums. But now, I was being persecuted for
being a Jesus promo man. I even appeared in an article about
“New Christians” in a college newspaper. My friends started
calling me the “scatter-brained prophet” and made jokes about
throwing us Jesus freaks into the lions’ den- probably meaning the
taverns where I played music.

26
 “Jesus man, you really did embrace the Lord,” commented
the black inmate.
“Well, there’s more to it,” I replied.
When it was finally time to fly from the family nest, at twenty
years old, I moved into a Christian male commune called “The
Superior Cleaner.” This was a Christian teashop with us five
monks residing upstairs. Previously, the building had been a
vacuum repair shop, hence the name. Jesus was obviously the
Superior Cleaner. Daily, I was quizzed on how many new Bible
verses I had memorized, so I could use these new weapons of mass
salvation on the unbelievers of Bellingham’s streets.
“How many new Bible verses did you get down today, Rob?” I
was asked yet again.
“Jesus, I don’t know! All of this is causing a deep confusion and
neurosis in me,” I answered back angrily. It was, and on some gut
level I knew there was more to the story than I was experiencing
with this Christian dogma.
I also attended spirit-filled services in Seattle, at all black
Pentecostal and Baptist churches, hearing people speak in tongues
and roll on the floor for Jesus. The opposite of this was the Quaker
service of “sitting” in silence with my girlfriend Jeanne, for one
hour on Bellingham Sundays.
Then one night after Bible study, a Christian psychic couple
visited us budding monks. They placed their hands on me as I
knelt and proclaimed, “You are very special, you will travel much
and touch many souls in your life. If you really want to know God,
He will take everything from you.”
It seems that this prediction has pretty much come true for me,
now that I’m here in prison. But I’ve had a whole lot of other
losses, many, long before I ever came here.
“Did the travel prediction come true? Did you end up traveling
to foreign countries or did you just travel in the USA?” asked my
new black friend.
“Both. Let’s eat first, and then I’ll tell you some of it.”
27
 I had already been briefed about the chow here, considered great
by prison standards but you were only given five minutes, if that,
to cram it down. We were guard-led, of course, out of our yellow
room on Dog Run across the yard of green grass to the chow hall.
Then you swallowed as fast as you could, until you heard a guard
yell, “Row 1, and pick up!” This hurried eating sure can’t be good
for proper digestion? It’s not. Evidence was all the farting and
constant constipation. The one delightful element here was the
grossly overweight neutered Siamese cat, who obviously took his
sweet time eating. We were also let out every other day for one
hour of walking around the yard, with the cat. Here, I saw a few
others I’d done time with up in county jail. These souls, sadly,
would be going to real yards, not a DUI camp. Walking together
and looking up, I noticed those same armed guards again, on the
roof above the razor wire looking down at us with loaded rifles.
“If my friends back home could only see me now!” I thought.
But where is my home now? It must be in my heart and mind, as
that’s all I seem to have left presently. And this whole experience,
so far, was really making me face now, as there was no other place
to escape to. And ironically, a part of me on high was watching
and cherishing this experience, knowing that I would never pass
this way again.
“This place, Alhambra, never quits,” commented one inmate.
“They just keep coming and coming.”
How true. It, daily, processes new inmates as fast as it can.
Most inmates spend on average a week here, before being
transferred finally to one of Arizona’s thirteen other prisons.
Some, luckily, spend only a few days, while others might be in
boredom for well over a month. And some are actually doing
their time here. Yuk! I luckily only spent six boring days. I
was given paper, a child-size pencil and indigent status
envelopes, so I could write Sri and my friends. They all got a
blow-by-blow description of my journey through this part of
my incarceration. We also had dental x-rays taken, DNA
mouth swabs, blood tests for HIV/AIDS, prostate cancer exams
and finally scholastic tests to measure abilities in math, English,
IQ, and reading levels. The numerous Mexicans took this two-
28
hour exam beneath Spanish-speaking headphones. Most of
them had little schooling, so they would be required to take
literacy classes and possibly GED classes in their new yards.
Why? Many would be deported back to Mexico by INS after
serving their time in Arizona anyway. I don’t even want to get
started on this subject. There are always more Mexicans in
prisons and jails than Indians, blacks and whites. Something
really seems wrong with our system. That subject could be a
book too, especially concerning sentencing.
Anyway, I passed these scholastic tests with flying colors.
Then, counselors evaluated each person’s rap sheet and job
skills, to determine which yard they’d be classified to-
minimum, medium or maximum. I was assigned to a minimum
DUI yard. I still wouldn’t know which one of the four in
Arizona, until I was rolled up again for the infamous DOC bus
ride. A black weight lifter inmate, named Vincent, was my
cellie, and had come down from the Verde Valley with me on
the transport van. He had robbed Circle K in Village of Oak
Creek, and a pizza place in Rimrock. No gun; he just walked
off with the cash register beneath his two massive black arms.
Obviously, he was going to a real yard, not an adult day care
center for alcoholics.
However, he was serving only one year, while I’d be doing
two and a half. See what I mean? Where is the justice in this
ambiguous system?
I got notice that on April 23, 2003, I was to be transported
out of infamous Alhambra. Thank God! I could hardly sleep
the night before, I was so excited. So at 4 a.m. on Friday, I was
given only cold cereal and little to drink. We could be on this
bus for up to sixteen hours, so full bladders were discouraged.
Once again, we were all strip-searched one last time. Serious
looking guards inspected our assholes, scalps and mouths.
What a job they have. In two naked lines facing each other,
shackled in leg irons, I saw every form of penis imaginable.
You will lose all self-consciousness in humbling situations like
this. Now, I know how the Jews probably felt, all lined up
naked in Nazi concentration camps. And my karma with
29
 alcohol had provided me with this life changing experience.
After being shackled and handcuffed together, we took short
baby steps into the barred prison bus. Every driver passing us
would see that this is the bus you do not want to be on – the
one going to prison.
So here I sat, happy as a clam at high tide. This was
definitely a big day. I was finally going home- well, to my new
temporary home anyway. That’s the only way I could see it.
Prison has to become my home, as bizarre as that sounds, as
I’ll be here awhile. We were told not to sit in the first two rows
of seats. But as soon as I sat about midway in the bus, my last
name was called loudly.
“Rideout… you sit up front.” I knew then that I would be
the first to reach my new yard and Phoenix West Prison was
only about ten minutes away.
“Good deal, right where I wanted to be!” I mumbled to
myself. Others had told me about this yard in county jail. I felt
very lucky, as this yard had serious outside jobs where one
could possibly make and save some money. I really needed
that, after alcohol’s drain on my financial status. I was the only
DUI on this bus- a true minority amongst other crimes. There
were a lot of car thieves and hackers on board. I learned that
the Revlon nail file is a universal lock pick and that magnets
from fifteen-inch speakers would suck the power from auto
security systems when placed on car hoods. The lessons here
never cease to amaze me.
Finally, the bus was fired up and running. Off we went
amongst the rumblings of inmates seated behind me. There
were some scary dudes on this bus and egos were already
starting to flare. It was quite embarrassing, as I made eye
contact with people out the window; they stared at my
nameless face with pity. Only those who wear chains know the
joy of freedom, I thought to myself.

Finally, I was taken to….

30
 When we pulled into the parking lot of Phoenix West, I was
told by many to submit a kite for transfer.
“Look at that small fucking yard! This place sucks. You
gotta get out of here man!” shouted one chained inmate behind
me. Yea, buddy, you do your time and I’ll do mine.
When the bus guards unlocked my chains, they accidentally
spilled my entire beloved psyllium seed laxative all over the
asphalt. A nurse at Alhambra had just given me this gift the
night before. Some lame guard hadn’t screwed the lid on
properly after checking it for contraband. And, I really needed
this shit to shit! Oh well, maybe some real instant coffee
would finally get my clogged bowels back to normal. What
they called coffee at Alhambra was really chicory root. Waiting
alone at intake to receive my new orange clothes, bedding and
dorm room, I was suddenly brushed into medical for
explanations on how H & R procedures worked here. I would
have to pay three dollars for any medical business. But I could
get a second pair of institutional eyeglasses for this price too.
As I sat waiting, a white dude noticed I was a new fish, all
decked out in my Alhambra transport jumpsuit. He gave me
half a pouch of Top tobacco instantly. I was told that the
“white wood” would take care of me. They did.
“Oh boy, here we go again,” I thought. After two months of
freedom from tobacco, I now faced every smoker’s dilemma: to
smoke or not to smoke? I made the wrong choice and went for
it, when a C.O. offered to light my fire outside. I mentally
promised myself that I’d quit sometime during my lengthy stay
here. But prison isn’t the easiest of places to quit, as I’d soon
learn.
Finally, I was taken to my new micro world of Dorm 4. I
had a splitting headache and was freely given aspirin and Keefe
instant java by other dormies. Everybody seems to honor a
new face, as I was helped to feel at home on my first day here.
My new “house” was the single temporary medical bunk
against the wall, with no shelf or electricity. This suited me
31
 fine, as I had no present money or a desire for a TV. To my
delight, I had nobody above me on this single rack. I was just
so grateful, finally to be in this better environment, where the
lights were dramatically dimmed at night and I could lay my
head down on a green plastic pillow inside a cotton case. I even
had two white sheets! I remember Mom, back in the ‘50’s, sun
drying our bed sheets. I could smell summer sunshine when I
went to bed. Wool blankets from South America were the
finishing touch to this new luxury bed here. Later, I learned
about stuffing newspapers under the low mattress dents, and
even thought about smuggling in sand from the horseshoe pit,
to help fill in these low spots. Soldier Jessica Lynch had used
sand in her bed in Iraq. Maybe I should submit a kite to ADC
about this pregnant idea. I doubt it would fly.
One evening, a new miniseries was airing on TV. It was
about Hitler and I really wanted to watch this on our English
day room television. Most cellies here owned their own clear
plastic color TV’s. In fact, our dorms kind of looked like a
furniture store, which had nearly fifty TV’s on display. Big
black Charles, who resembled Seattle’s BoBo the gorilla, got
very upset about Nazis on the TV. He released his anger on
me- verbally.
“Hey, turn that shit off!” Ironically, most TV’s in the dorm
had this show on. As I learned quickly, Nazis and blacks don’t
mix well, especially in prison. Charles’s house was right across
from mine. Now I had to walk on eggshells, as I was a marked
“whitey” in his book of reality. I nearly got smashed, too, by
three gang banger Chicano types and a Mexican, for farting in
my bunk on my first night. The coffee was definitely doing its
thing. I had crippling fear coursing through me, as I tried to
hold the rotten smell under the wool blanket. Boy, I hate being
here right now! Paranoia does strike deep.
“Use the bathroom next time, asshole,” I was scolded. I so
wish this Convict Code was published and available in the
library! You just learn as you go along. Pod Fathers, of the
various races in each dorm, explain the finer points of
institutional living and help settle disputes between the races.
32
But the gas, that all inmates have, can be a real problem any
time of day and a headache for not only the Pod Fathers.
I soon made friends with David H., an old California hippie
who was a short timer and soon to be released. He was a
gentle soul, much like me, and had a similar warped twisted
sense of humor. But he was indigent, meaning no money, and
had recently broken both ankles. He looked like a gaunt
version of actor Peter O’Toole. He also loved his coffee, and
had unique ways of hustling it off of me. There are no secrets
in prison. And it’s always a good policy to share here. You
never know when you might need help, on whatever level.
“I heard you talking about Europe. Have you been there?”
asked David one afternoon.
“Yeah, I drove through thirteen countries in ninety days, in a
Volkswagen van with my classmate friend Randy in 1968.
We’d both just finished our first year of college. You name it
and we pretty much saw it.”

This Grand Tour was….

My parents gave me this Grand Tour as an initiation into life.

The Volkswagen bus, which cost $1900 new, was a gift which
would later be sent home and travel the United States with me
and the lady who’d become my first wife. We started our trip
in Holland, where we saw Ann Frank’s upstairs hidden
apartment, the famous “red light” district, numerous canals and
tulips and learned all about how Edam cheese was made. Most
of our trip, we survived on Edam cheese. Ann’s place and the
girls of the night made quite an impression on us. In the
museums of northern Europe, we viewed the art of Van Gogh,
Rembrandt, Raphael, Da Vinci, Michelangelo, etc., to Cézanne,
Picasso, Fra Angelico, etc. - yada, yada, yada. Before leaving
Germany, we visited a huge beautiful stone castle from 853
A.D., Burg Hohenzollern, complete with three drawbridges and
a moat. This place fit every image I ever had of a castle. The
33
 doors were ten inches thick! But a day that I’ll never forget was
visiting Dachau concentration camp. It’s now a fully restored
museum, but you get the idea of what it once was: full on Hell
and way worse than any prison.
“Wow! That must have been heavy, just feeling the
vibrations there,” remarked David.
“It was.”
After seeing the gas chamber valves at floor level, a
beautiful butterfly crossed my path in front of the massive
crematoriums. This was like seeing Beauty and the Beast at
the same time. Walking through the yard, billboard-sized
black and white photos captured images of emaciated Jewish
prisoners piled, dead and rotting. How can men commit such
atrocities? Is there any hope for mankind? Is there really a
God, and, if so, how could He let this happen? These were
some thoughts I had upon leaving Germany. I was only
nineteen years old and seeing so much.
“Where did you go next?” he asked, knowing well that I’d
tell him. This is a good way to kill some more time.
“After trying spaghetti in northern Italy, which was nothing like
Mom’s, we ferried over to Greece, reaching the ruins and Oracle of
Delphi as our first stop in this ancient land. Over a bottle of yellow
wine that resembled piss, an ancient Greek mariner prophesized to
me. He had traveled the world and said that I looked like I came
from Chile.”
“Yea, you do kind of have that Indian look.”
“Well, maybe. I’ve always been told that I look part Indian or
maybe Jewish. You know, they used Jews to play Indians in many
of the early Westerns.”
After scaling the Acropolis, where the 5th Century B.C.
Parthenon sits overlooking the city of Athens, we drove up the
western side of Italy, stopping at Rome, Pisa and Florence. The
coliseum in Rome seemed to house most of the city’s feral cats, as
we visited it in pre-dawn early light. At the Pope’s house, the

34
Vatican, we saw the Sistine chapel frescoes where Michelangelo
had painted the ceiling from scaffolding lying on his fricking back!
Again, we did yet more museums that left us exhausted. These
museums are huge all day affairs. We were getting callous and
burned out to the Masters of Western art. The underground
Christian catacombs, however, were haunting and fun to explore.
This labyrinth of tunnels, eight miles long, contained tombs and
secret meeting chambers. A spooky feeling unfolded for me there.
These early Christian sure could dig! There were 174,000
Christians buried around the Apian Way and Saint Sebastian, Peter
and Paul were all buried here too. Now that’s far out!
“It definitely is. Being a Christian, I would love to see all
that stuff. Did you happen to see Pompeii? I saw photos of that
place in National Geographic in our library,” enquired David.
“Yeah, we did. After visiting the leaning Tower of Pisa, Venice
with its black canal water and Michelangelo’s David and Pieta in
Florence, we spent a long day at the Pompeii ruins outside of
Naples. Volcanic Mount Vesuvius still looms in the background.
Vesuvius erupted on August 24, 79 A.D. burying Pompeii in ash.
Remember?”
“I remember, but not the exact date. I’m sure it was in the
magazine article but so what. Who’d remember that? Jesus,
Rideout!”
“Well, this archeological city was huge, dude! We saw frozen
bodies of humans and dogs, screaming, as the volcanic ash turned
them to stone forever. Pompeii affected us much like Dachau
concentration camp had- memories that leave a lasting impression
with some even frozen in stone!”
“Man, you guys saw a lot of neat historic stuff,” exclaimed
my friend. “You saw the real deal.”
“Well yeah, we did.”
“Is it hard to remember now, this many years later?”
“What do you think?”

35
 After driving through the Italian Riviera, we sampled Monaco
and the French Riviera, before heading on to Barcelona, Spain.
Here, replicas of Columbus’s ships, the Pinta, Nina and Santa
Maria, were docked for display. We were amazed at how very
small Queen Isabella’s ships really were. And we heard flamenco
music here, too. The guitars and flashing rapedo boot heels really
stirred our Anglo blood. I’ve always loved Spanish music and in
both Italy and Spain, we heard Tom Jones’s Dear Delia sung by
everyone and recorded in numerous languages.
“That’s an old corny song!”
“It may be, but in 1968 it was very popular! Don’t you get off on
romantic songs like the Mexicans listen to? I do and I especially
love Julio Iglesias’s voice.”
“You can have it as I’ll stick with good old rock n’ roll. It’s
more my style.”
In Barcelona too, we saw the famous ballet team of Rudolf
Nureyev and Joan Fontaine perform at night, in a bullfighting
arena. He held the record for high jumping, long distance style
ballet and in ’68 they were both world famous superstars receiving
a lot of media attention. We were very blessed and fortunate to
have seen them. Also in the same bull arena, we saw six bulls
killed in the matador’s death dance before 34,000 people. This was
sad to watch but the crowd greatly enjoyed it. At least this
gruesome sport had a happy ending; the orphans ate freshly killed
beef that night.
“That’s certainly something we don’t get here!” exclaimed
David. “All the meat in this prison is made out of turkey. You
know- turkey ham and turkey hot dogs.”
“Well, it is probably healthier for us. I didn’t wanna tell you but
I’ve been a vegetarian for thirty years. This is the first time I’ve
eaten meat in three decades.”
“Really, you’re not kidding?”
“I felt it would cause too many problems with the other inmates
to declare my vegetarianism. Also, it’s probably good for me

36
mentally and spiritually to break my old mold and be able to eat
meat now. When I finally get out, in about two years, I’ll be able to
eat meat if I choose. But, knowing me, I’ll probably go back to
being a vegetarian.”
“Okay… whatever. I still love my meat,” David commented.
In France, anti-American sentiment was strong. The Vietnam
War was the cause. Graffiti of “Yankee Go Home!” was
everywhere. This was strange when I saw the French wearing what
appeared to be American Civil War caps. Poor Randy, my
traveling companion, stood out like a sore thumb. He had that
blondish brillo crew cut and apple pie look. I was usually
mistaken for French, English, Jewish or Canadian. We had a
Canadian flag on the van’s rear view window, German tourist
license plates and a Netherlands decal near the exhaust pipe, so
nobody knew quite how to take us. After four years of French
classes, where I was called Robere Rideaux, I tried out my new
tongue. The results were insane. They understood me perfectly,
but their sexy-sounding replies to my standard questions were so
fast that I shut down. Let’s stick with English, damn it! It’s the
universal language and most Europeans speak it anyway, along
with four or five other languages. I should be so lucky.
“Yeah, I hear you. I hate it when the Mexicans speak Spanish
and the Indians their language and I don’t know what they’re
saying. I wish everybody spoke English in prison.”
“Now you know where I’m coming from, David.”
The Eiffel Tower, the Citadel of Love, was fairly impressive
from a distance. Up close it was very rusty and in need of a paint
job. The Louvre Museum was one of the biggest and best yet. Of
course, we saw a lot more Flemish masters, Madonna and Child
paintings, Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa and a ton of French
impressionism. All the best the world of art had to offer! How
very fortunate we were. I was having so much fun. Despite their
lack of affection, my folks had indeed given me a very great gift.
When I finally got mail, I realized that I missed my family
immensely. This was my first real time away from home for so

37
long, and being only 19 years old, I couldn’t wait to see them
again- especially my sister, Joyce.
“I know what you mean. I can’t wait to see my friends and
family again, when I finally get out. And I’m just a short timer. I
don’t have that long to go. You are going to be here for awhile,
Rob. You’ll make some new friends. It always happens.”
“You don’t have to remind me. I know. We also took in the Follies
Bergere and Moulin Rouge- the prototype original seminude stage
shows that would greatly influence Las Vegas. Are you going there
when you get out? That seems like an inmate dream you’d pursue.”
“Who knows? I’ll write you a postcard if I do,” replied
David.
“Yeah, I’ll bet. I do hope you get there, though. Well anyway,
this was nudity with class, at its best and oh so French.”
There was an authentic forty-foot tall waterfall on stage with
beautiful topless ladies descending down on ropes from above, all
in feathery costumes. This was a royal night out for us. We even
wore ties, a first for me, as they enforced a strict dress code. After
Paris, we ferried over to the iconic white cliffs of Dover, England.
That August night we saw those infamous white cliffs gleaming
under the moonlight. Now we couldn’t wait to finally try British
fish and chips. We luckily found a vendor still open late at night.
What a disappointment! Our greasy meal was wrapped in
newspaper and the added vinegar made the ink come off all over
our fingers, lips and food.
In London, we came down with the Asian flu which was very
popular that summer of ’68 but a real pain in the neck, literally.
Our eyes felt like we had knives stuck in them. We’d tie our black
dress socks around them to keep out the piercing light. We both
had very high fevers and probably should have seen a doctor. But
we just sweat it out in the van, taking aspirin and hotter Kool-Aid
and tea. As a result of this flu, we didn’t see much of London. We
didn’t see much of anything for awhile with those socks wrapped
around our eyes. I remember wandering around Carnaby Street, all
spaced out after our illness. Here we saw the Beatles’ Apple store,

38
which had been previously painted in beautiful psychedelic colors.
Now, it was all whitewashed over and had the word Jude scrawled
across the windows. Was this anti-Semitic graffiti? It certainly
looked that way, especially after the concentration camp tour and
Ann Frank’s house still mentally on my mind. No, it was soon to
be one of the Beatles most beloved songs, Hey Jude.
“Did you go to Ireland or Scotland, after getting sick?” asked my
intrigued friend.
“No, we didn’t get to see where my mom’s bloodline came
from.”
We returned back to Holland, where we picked up Randy’s
Texas friend Paul for the remainder of our European experience.
He was a Mobile oil kid too. Now, we headed north through
Germany again to Copenhagen, Denmark. Here we saw the
famous Little Mermaid statue seated on a rock in the bay. She was
donated as an art gift by Carlsburg Brewery, and later some fool
decapitated her bronze head off. Is nothing sacred anymore?
Carlsburg was very wealthy and a patron of the arts. His brewery
had life-sized elephant statues supporting the entrance and gold
plated handrails on the guided, gilded tour. We got roaring drunk
in the tasting room and smuggled beer out in our jeans.
“Wow that sounds like something I’d do too, being an alcoholic
and all,” confided David.
At that time, I didn’t even know the word alcoholic yet. We were
just beginning our youthful experiments with alcohol on this trip.
Randy was dry-heaving in a five-gallon bucket, as I somehow
drove us to our campground. We were very lucky not to get a DUI
in Scandinavia. Even in ’68, one could get imprisonment and loss
of driver’s license for life! Here, drinking people took cabs;
responsible drinking. I sure didn’t know then that drunken driving
would be the demise of my golden years.
We drank heavily again at Touberg brewery. But this time, we
knew well how beer was made and could have cared less about the
damn tour. We only came for that one free hour of all we could
drink. To double our fun, we then did both brewery tours again,

39
back to back. More vomiting resulted, but this time Randy wasn’t
alone, as Paul and I retched right along beside him.
“Wow that sounds messed up man! You did two tours in a row
of your own personal Vietnam. But I probably would have done
the same exact thing,” confessed David. “You guys were like kids
loose in a candy store. Guys have gone wild.”
“We were more like sick puppies.”
After passing through Sweden quickly at night, we went on to
Oslo, Norway and the Norwegian fiords. The people had that
Viking look and the natural topography reminded me of my area of
Washington State. In Vigeland Park, we saw many naked statues
by the artist of the same name. There was a monolith about three
stories high composed of piled up, naked sculptured bodies.
Another couple of aging crones were on their knees, breasts
sagging, looking up at the sky. These strange stone people
reminded me in some ways of the real stone bodies we’d seen in
Pompeii. Also in Oslo, we saw Thor Heyerdahl’s Kon Tiki raft in
the local museum. Downstairs, we could view the small raft from
underneath, in an aquatic mural setting complete with mounted fish.
This raft actually fell apart at the end of Thor’s voyage between
Peru to Tahiti. Here it was authentically reassembled for display.
It’s amazing such a small raft actually crossed that large body of
water. Thor’s diary was there too, from which he penned his
acclaimed book, Kon Tiki! Across the Pacific by Raft. Real
Viking ships were on display too, but not quite looking as glorious
as the Hollywood versions.
After ninety days abroad, I arrived back home a seasoned
traveler, with a taste in my soul for more foreign travel. I found out
that traveling is the greatest education, as you see for yourself how
things actually are, instead of someone else’s interpretation in a
book.
“Yeah, you could say the same thing about prison.”
“I guess you could, but in 1968 our world was still rather
innocent and safe for travel. Today’s world for an American
traveler is far different. Even by ’69, things had begun to change

40
worldwide, especially due to drugs. I was lucky to see Europe in
that window of opportunity I had, Dude. I will always be thankful
to my parents, forever, for the Grand Tour of Western Europe. It
certainly opened my eyes.”
“Thanks for sharing your memories, Rob.”
“Thanks you for being here for me, David. Birds of a feather do
flock together and you are one of the only birds around here like
me.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m glad you’re here too, as ironic as that
sounds.”

When the student is ready….

After completing the required Stage I and II substance abuse

classes, I was assigned my first job as dorm porter. This classy
job paid ten cents an hour, to clean the bathroom sinks, toilets
and showers, but I only received two cents per hour, after 80%
for “kick out fee” and MADD Mothers was deducted. In two
weeks, I might be able to afford a pouch of Top tobacco.
David H. and I shared some cosmic humor, doing this shitty
job together. He is one of the few I’ve ever met who
understood or appreciated my bizarre sense of humor. It was
fun to share my European memories with him too. It felt sad to
see him leave, as a friend in prison, or anywhere for that matter,
is a great gift. Friendships formed in difficult circumstances do
seem extra special. David wrote me for awhile after release,
and even put twenty bucks on my books as payback for all of
his coffee hustles. Later, I saw in a Holbrook newspaper that
he was back in court for failure to pay fines. I wrote him again
but never heard back. He’s probably back in the prison system
for violating his probation, as most here are. Or maybe he did
make it to Las Vegas. I’ll certainly never know, unless I
receive that postcard he promised.

41
 When Nazi hating Charles was released, I moved into his
house. A new friendship was to begin with my Bunkie, Randy
Larkins, who lived above me on Memory Lane. He too hailed
from Washington, near the Mount Rainier area, having worked
in the logging business in his early years. Randy was ten years
my junior, and had had his own construction company doing
underground utility installations in the Phoenix metro area. He
had lost all of this from alcoholism. He also loved cats as
much as me, so I gave him many of Jolene’s cat cards from my
mail call.
Poor Larkins’ head and neck always hung low. He was very
depressed and had mucho shame and guilt still to process. He
also had a very deep fear of relapse, upon release. His alcohol
track record was very heavy from an early age on. I was
continually amazed at how many inmates here really had no
real friends in their lives; only alcohol, who is no real friend at
all. They had placed the bottle way above any effort to create
and maintain real lasting friendships. How very sad. Now that
the bottle was gone, they had nothing and seemed to be
realizing that. Most of the mail they received was legal mail,
an indication of potentially more trouble. I was so thankful for
all the letters my real friends wrote me- letters of love. I could
feel how jealous others were of me. I am truly a rich man,
even here in prison.
Bunkie Larkins was struggling a lot with his Catholic roots,
recent Christian conversion and, as always, the Devil. He
feared hell and damnation on a daily basis, and basically kept
his TV tuned to Channel 4, the Christian station, for help. I
personally feel it only made his matters worse. Fear, on many
levels, is the teachings of these “Christians” who propagate
from their interpretation of the Bible. What an illusion they
preach! Larkins was like a small child, just beginning
kindergarten lessons in religion. Spirituality was way beyond
him. He thought I was totally crazy when I reminded him that
heaven is here now. Jesus even says so! Sadly, not many here
understand Now, the holy instant- the only reality and all that
there is. Nor do they understand how to creatively use this
42
 prison experience to get well, now, while serving time inside
these “walls of freedom.” Most only think about getting out,
not getting well. Larkins had a revelation one day.
“I was placed as your Bunkie, Rideout, to bring you back to
Jesus, so you can be saved.” How cosmic! How comic? Then
after getting to know me a bit better, he lays another one on me.
“Like how did you get so weird, man? Not too many people
in here think like you…you’ve got to realize that, right?”
“I had a true life-changing experience Randy. It’s something
that you probably would not understand.”
“Try me,” he fired back.
“Okay. But please don’t judge me on what I’m about to tell
you.”
“I’ll try not to, Rideout. I promise.”
It all began when I met my first wife, Jolene. For my twenty-first
birthday present, my folks gave me a ticket to Iowa City, to scout
out the University of Iowa as a possible grad school for art history.
Jeanne, my first girlfriend, and I were slowly drifting apart, mostly
because I always envisioned myself with a Sophia Loren type of a
woman. Already my ego was leading me astray. Sophia was to be
the archetype goddess of most of the women in my life. Ironically,
Jeanne’s father was my airline pilot on that flight to Iowa. I even
got to stay overnight with him and a few other pilots in Kansas
City. Neither he nor I had any idea then, that I would soon be
breaking his lovely daughter’s heart. And forty years later, I’d still
be regretting it and wondering where Jeanne’s at today. God truly
does work in some very strange ways. After my birthday party,
where I’d stayed up all night drinking hard liquor and smoking
strong hash, I threw away my bag of pot in the airplane head. I
now had such a hangover that I never wanted to use again – a
pattern that would be repeated often in decades to come. You know
what I mean. After landing in Iowa and renting a room at the Rebel
motel, of all names, I helped a blind man to his room, where he
sure didn’t need to find the light switch. Then I was on the campus
prowl to score again. Back then, an ounce of joy went for ten
43
bucks. I entered the commons building cafeteria to find many
longhaired junkies strung out on heroin, listening to John Lennon
scream his brains out on Cold Turkey. That was mind blowing, as I
really didn’t expect to see long hair here and I knew very little
about heroin. I had on my black leather motorcycle jacket, aviator
glasses and haircut like Peter Fonda from Easy Rider – always in
hip style. Unfortunately, the weed I scored was laced with heroin.
Unknowingly, I smoked and experienced this demonic high.
“Jesus, man! You smoked heroin?” interjected Larkins.
“I only did it this one time in my entire life, asshole!”
“Okay, don’t get pissed off about it. You don’t have to be all
defensive.”
Anyway, I lay flat out feeling sick in the grass and wanting to
puke, as a warm current swam through me. Those bastards! I was
not enjoying this at all. When I finally stumbled back in for coffee,
to hopefully come down, a new song was playing on the jukebox.
It sure sounded like my musical mentors, The Beatles. I scanned
the room and saw a beautiful Italian student singing along, who
appeared to be single. She obviously knew this song and looked a
lot like Sophia Loren! Wow. I stumbled over nervously, asking if
this were The Beatles we were hearing? She simply smiled and
said, “Let it be.” I immediately fell in love. As soon as we looked
into each other’s eyes, we both knew that we’d always known each
other and had finally found each other again. Her name I soon
found out was Jolene, a Catholic from Webster City, Iowa. She
was born on April fool’s Day of 1949- exactly twelve days after
me. Her father was a jazz sax player and presently taught band at
high school level. Her grandfather had been found as a homeless
baby against the wall of a convent in Italy, and raised by nuns.
Later, he stole away with his bride on a ship bound for New York,
where he too was a jazz musician. So Jolene was descended from
musicians and I spent my next three days following her to classes.
“Was she a babe?”
“What do you think? I just said that she looked like Sophia
Loren. Of course she was!”

44
I told Jolene that I would write her weekly when I returned home,
but she felt we’d never see each other again. Well, we did. It all
took time, of course and a breakup with Jeanne, but Destiny and
Karma had plans for Jolene and me. So, between Bible study and
my college curriculum, I’d begun writing her weekly. We got to
know each other a lot better through our correspondence. She also
sent photos so I could visually remember her. During this same
time frame, I was baptized a “Christian” in the YMCA’s shower,
by a black charismatic soul singer named Walter. I first met
Walter when he sat in with our band, singing “My God” to the tune
of My Girl, with a voice like Smokey Robinson. I invited him to
dinner at my parents’ house.
“Guess who’s coming to dinner, Mom and Dad?”
“That must have been something!” exclaimed Larkins loudly
then clapping his hands. I could tell he wanted to hear more.
“Oh, it was.”
Walter’s being black and semi John the Baptist/ Billy Graham,
blew my folks out of the water, to say the least. They were
receiving an adult dose of Jesus around the dinner table tonight!
Even Walter’s heavy trench coat had hundreds of small crosses
embroidered in the design. He often fasted for days on end and
prayed continuously, writing people’s names on his conga drum
head so he could remember them in prayer while keeping the beat.
After our breakup, he contacted Jeanne, asking her to be one of his
many wives, at his New World utopia that the Lord had shown him
in Hawaii. Jeanne declined- smart move, girl. I often wonder if
Walter is still in the jungle or possibly a mental institution. Despite
his extremism, he was truly one of the most charismatic and
beautiful souls I’ve ever met. Religious fanaticism drives many
crazy. Or maybe the crazies just become fanatic.
“Yeah, you might be onto something there. Look at the 450
alcoholic fanatics we’re locked up with here. Most of us became
fundamentalist drinkers. So what happened after that classic dinner
party?”

45
 During my novitiate training at the Superior Cleaner, the federal
government notified me of my draft status for the Vietnam War: 1
A- ready to be drafted. Even my student deferment status wouldn’t
help me now. Please, sweet Jesus, save me! I applied for
conscientious objector status and could receive it, if I’d work in a
hospital. I wrote back to the Feds that I had no national pride but
only Washington State pride and refused their offer. Many of my
friends and I had thoughts of draft dodging to Canada. Some did.
While some played crazy or injured themselves to get out of this
insane war. Luckily and karmic for me, my birthday was an
exempt high number when displayed on the TV lottery that we all
watched nervously from our living rooms. Thank you, Jesus!
Maybe I’ve had many incarnations as a soldier before, which I
often played out as a child, and now I don’t need to repeat the
lessons of war. I feel I was always destined to become a spiritual
warrior instead.
“Do you really believe that reincarnation crap?”
“I most definitely do. Just compare the water cycle as an
analogy.”
“Well I don’t know…I’ll have to think on that awhile.”
While briefly touching on reincarnation, I sometimes wonder if
I’m not my great grandfather Marion Guthridge. He survived the
battle of Gettysburg, as a private at age 15, in the Confederacy. I
owned his small red leather-covered bible that was carried through
that tragic battle. More soldiers died there in three days than in
seventeen years of Vietnam. Marion lived until the ripe old age of
eighty-nine- nearly twice the life expectancy for that time! I used
to hold that antique Bible as a teen ager and wonder if the four-leaf
clover inside came from the fields of Gettysburg. I’ll never know.
The clover is the Shamrock, sacred to the Irish and may have
protected him. As with this Bible, I was fascinated with all things
Civil War, even meditating on battle pictures and soldiers’
uniforms. Had I been there before? Somehow, I feel I was. I was
probably a Rebel, as that seems to be my in nature and the name of
one of my first bands.

46
 “Well, you are an inmate now, Mr. Rebel and a damn crazy one
at that. So, tell me, did anything happen between you and Jolene?”
Two other events transpired before we were reunited. I dropped
out of college in 1970, at the beginning of my fourth year. This
move really blew my folks away. Oh God, Rob! They were
thinking, “See what drugs have done to our son!” It wasn’t drugs
but music. Then I drove to the Grand Canyon with a friend and
actually set up my full drum set at Hopi Point on the south rim. I
played for three hours. It sounded like thunder reverberating
through the canyon. Many people came and watched me, but I
never made the TV news or Life magazine. As far as I know, I’m
the only person to ever do that. Today, it would be virtually
impossible.
“God man, you are a trip!”
“You don’t know the half of it, Randy.”
The year 1970 marked a cosmic Christmas and life-changing
event for me. After many long months of separation and letters, I
sent Jolene a plane ticket to visit me. We both needed answers
concerning our love and long-distance relationship. They were
definitely coming. This was just the beginning of the most magical
days of my life- the cosmic times. Synchronicity was in the air and
not just for me alone. The Children of Love were starting to wake
up, all over our planet.
“I guess you were too young to remember that, right Larkins?”
“It was different for me. Remember, I’m ten years younger than
you. I do remember seeing a lot more long hair back then.”
Well, George Harrison had gone solo after the Beatle’s breakup
and had just released his masterpiece three-record set, All Things
Must Pass. The song, My Sweet Lord from this recording, was and
still is my all-time favorite song. For Christmas dinner, my folks
served us crabmeat appetizers and the following day Jolene and I
dropped psilocybin at my friend Peter’s house. He’d recently
returned from India. Peter’s bedroom wall was plastered with
Hindu calendar art of gods and goddesses, all very psychedelic,
and looking like they came from some astral realm with those rain
47
cloud eyes. Soon, Jolene and I had to crawl on our knees, as we
were too stoned to walk upright anymore. Onto Peter’s bed we fell,
into an out-of-body, near-death experience. In a peaceful dark
void, we experienced telepathy between each other. I would think
her name and then hear her call back to me. Next, we ascended
through a tunnel of whirling colors, where memories of our whole
lives flashed before us in the wink of an eye. Again, this was the
“near death” or “little death” experience we would read about later,
in our search to make sense out of what had happened to us on this
holy day. Upward we shot, into a bright white light that was a
million times more dazzling than our earth’s sun, but surprisingly
didn’t hurt our eyes. The peace, joy and calm were indescribable.
Then, in this light appeared the bust figure of a Holy One, who
closely resembled Jolene or Mona Lisa. I later thought that it
might have been Jesus, but with no beard and looking very
feminine. After all, I’d been praying to him for answers. What
gender was this vision? The Holy One had me crying from the
depths of my soul, as I felt unworthy and impure to be in this
Presence. Everything was communicated from the eyes
telepathically and, to this day, I cannot remember what message
may have transpired. I just knew that I knew this Holy One, with
deep love, respect and honor. This vision occurred exactly when
My Sweet Lord was playing on Peter’s phonograph. The words
being sung were killing us. It wasn’t the voice of George Harrison
any longer but the voice of our own souls. Talk about
synchronicity. After returning to our physical bodies, Crosby,
Stills and Nash were singing the words, It’s been a long time
coming, it’s gonna be a long time gone. I knew then that we had
been truly blessed and that this wouldn’t happen again, to this
degree, anytime soon, if ever. We immediately opened Peter’s
Bible at random and just happened to blindly point to the verse that
reads, “The pure in heart shall see God.” Everything fit together
like a complex jigsaw puzzle, with no accidents and no mistakes,
just perfect synchronicity. What an appropriate affirmation to our
vision of the Lord. We had just taken our first step onto the mystic
path.

48
 “But who did you see? Were you insane or seduced by Satan’s
drug visions?” questioned Larkins. “The Bible warns about stuff
like this.”
“No, we were not insane or seduced. And just stuff your Bible
beliefs for awhile, will you?”
We tried to explain to Peter and others what had transpired for us,
the Holy Instant, but soon found that we were casting pearls before
swine. They tried to enter our dimension but couldn’t. We were too
high. It wasn’t until a year or more that we’d get our answers as to
whom we’d seen. Soon things got much heavier at my parents’
house. Poor Jolene nearly died the Big Death. She was allergic to
the Christmas crabmeat we’d eaten the night before and bloated up
nearly twice her size, with her heart failing fast. Thank God, my
dad was a doctor! He shot her up with adrenaline right in her heart
to keep her alive. Talk about heavy! We were all scared shitless
and worried out of our minds. How could God take my beloved
from me after all we’d just gone through? This was scaring the
hell out of me. She miraculously survived, after much prayer and
doctoring, to return to Iowa and complete her University
graduation. We’d gotten the answers we needed to any questions
about our relationship. We were destined to be together again,
without a doubt. We now felt spiritually married.
To back up about a year prior, I had another spiritual experience
on LSD- a true ground breaking kind. I was at Betty’s house
tripping. She would later be Jolene’s bridesmaid. On Betty’s floor,
I had the kundalini spiritual force rise up my spine through all
seven charkas. It felt like I was having an orgasm in every cell of
my being. The waves of bliss were so intense and strong that I
thought I would die or blow apart with the next surge. It took what
seemed like forever to utter to Betty, “Who is this?” I was
referring to the heavenly music on her phonograph. When she
softly said the band’s name, It’s a Beautiful Day, the cosmic juice
shot up my spine to my sixth chakra, or third eye, where brilliant
golden letters appeared – GOD – pounding in my forehead, as the
wavelets of bliss continued to surge. Then I saw myself naked,
alone on a stage, looking up. It reminded me of Shakespeare’s
words about the world being a stage, where we are all just actors.
49
 “You’ve definitely had some incredible trips, Rob,” commented
Larkins. “I never had the guts to do acid. I guess that maybe I’m
afraid of my own mind and what I might see. So I just stuck with
alcohol. The shit seems much more predictable than acid, even if it
did put us here. So, who did you see in that vision?”
“You sure don’t forget, do you, Larkins. I’ll tell you in time.
We’ve both got plenty of that still left to do. The point is that all of
the brain washing and confusion of Christianity fell away. Jesus
had answered my prayers, as you would say.”
These experiences gave me an awakening into the spiritual
realms of self-realization. All fear of death was gone now and I
was no longer an agnostic, but a true believer. What is mind
blowing, however, is that I ended up here, in prison. Of course, a
lot of substance abuse and many unspiritual experiences
contributed to that. Even though I believed in God, Jesus and the
Great Ones, I was still misled by my own self-centered, hasty ego
for many decades, ultimately ending up in this present
incarceration.
“Even if you don’t believe in reincarnation Larkins, you can’t
deny incarceration!”
“You’ve got me there, Rideout. However, you’re still a loser -
just like me,” he retorted.
“I don’t believe I am a loser, like you. I’m willing to accept the
mistakes I’ve made and forgive myself. It’s the only way to move
on. That’s the difference between you and me, Larkins.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Well, until you forgive yourself, the healing can’t begin.
Ultimately, I know that’s why I’m here. What about you?”

Did I get any mail today….

Mail call is very important in prison. You can get mail that
either makes or breaks your day. My young Nebraska cellie in
50
county jail, Daffer, wrote that meth-bully Red had been
smashed well by six cons over in Prescott, for trying to
dominate with his ugly intimidating aura. He was taken to the
hospital in bad shape. Dark souls like Red have no idea about
the cosmic law of karma. He’ll have a lot of hard prison time,
hopefully to learn his lessons and confront his anger and fear.
Inmates will teach him that. Sadly, I never heard from Daffer
again. He may have been sentenced to four years in prison, for
his twenty pounds of pot conviction, or he may have been
released with ten years of probation. I’ll never know. Inmates
cannot write other inmates in prisons. The only way to do that
is to piggyback a letter through a third person on the outside.
And I don’t know any of Daffer’s friends.
Soon, I had very supportive mail arriving from my beloved
son Sri and female friend Lyn to brighten my days. I’d been
seeing Lyn prior to my incarceration. Both expressed missing
me and the intention to come visit soon. And both were
praying for me daily. A guy can’t get too many prayers,
especially in here. Then the depressing mail arrived. Larry
wrote that David Lee Bond died of heroin on June 15, 2003. I
wasn’t really surprised by his death. I knew it was coming. I’d
let Dave live with me for the last ten months before prison.
Now I would never be repaid the five thousand dollars he’d
promised me, or be made into a “fucking prince,” another
promise. Goodbye dear Brother- you had a good con going, as
much as I did love you. I attempted to find out about his
“living will,” but got no results. Dave’s lawyer never even
responded to the letters I wrote him, concerning Dave’s death.
I even began to wonder if Dave hadn’t staged his death in order
not to repay his debts. At this point, I wouldn’t put it past him.
Writing letters was my only means of communication and it
often became very frustrating when I didn’t get replies for
weeks, and then, often, many unanswered questions. To top
off the depressing mail, Michael finally wrote saying that he
put my dog Shanti down and that he had lost my place! He
never gave landlord Ken any forewarning of his departure, thus
legally breaking the lease agreement. He assured me that all of
my possessions were safe in a mini storage and the rent was
51
 being paid; but for how long? His letter blew me away. Every
day I worried and tried desperately to process my fears. I was
now smoking more. I wrote Michael back but got no response.
Lyn was also lax on responding to my urgent questions,
regarding what was left of my earthly possessions. In
desperation, I wrote Roderick, Sri’s step dad, to call Lyn.
Finally, she wrote that everything was fine and not to worry. I
still had my doubts. I thought I was somehow beyond all this
and wouldn’t be bothered. Wrong! I’d become attached to my
vintage clothes, stereo, tapes, books, guitars, photos, P.A.
system, religious trinkets and family heirlooms I’d been saving
for Sri. Please, God, don’t let me lose these things! Of course,
all of these “things” I called “mine” just mirrored how very
stuck I still was, in attachment. Those words from my youth
reverberated in my head, “If you want to know God, He’ll take
everything from you.”
Next to come was an intimidating letter from landlord Ken.
He was very upset about Michael leaving and the ruined state
of his rental unit. He also let me know loud and clear, in his
parental way, how much pain my drinking had caused him. He
would surely use my situation as a tax write-off, as he’s no fool
business-wise. I’m sure his only pain was the Midas complex:
worrying about his beloved dollar. Isn’t it easier for a camel to
pass through the eye of a needle than a rich man to enter the
kingdom of heaven? Landlord Ken sent an exaggerated
itemized list of repairs, cleaning and other sundry costs totaling
about $750.00- to be paid and he’d be out for my life. This
letter really stressed me out, as he had repairs listed that needed
attention long before I ever moved in. Dewayne, an older
retired real estate agent inmate, helped me compose a
politically correct response to the landlord’s unfair demands.
How could Ken expect to get blood from a turnip? Especially
an orange turnip who earned ten cents an hour cleaning shitters
in Dorm 4? I never heard from him again, just as Dewayne had
predicted.
Christian wrote too. She married Joya, my second wife, and
I at her island home and later baptized our son, Sri Ram-
52
asking God and the Great Ones to bless his young life.
Christian shared that she’d had eight eye surgeries and other
medical tests conducted. My heart goes out to all of my
friends’ woes, as I contemplate my life here in prison. Life can
be so heavy. Anything can happen to anybody. Jolene has
come through with flying colors in supporting me here. She
sent me the money for my color TV, as my birthday and
Christmas presents for the next two years. She writes regularly
and sends great internet jokes and hip humor. I send these
jokes to others, using the backside for writing stationary. No
waste here. It’s kind of ironic, but after thirty years, Jolene is
proving to be one of my very best friends. Larkins and I so love
those cat cards that she sends. Looking back, it’s a shame that
she and I never got counseling together. Who knows, our
marriage may have survived and this alcoholism might have
been nipped in the bud early. But, of course, that wasn’t the
way my story was to play out.
A description of Phoenix West needs mention. This present
DUI yard was formally a Bashas grocery store warehouse. It
was converted into a prison around 1996. Some guys have
been here since then- long sentences. There are eight dorms
with about fifty-five inmates in each. Rows of bunk beds
house shelves and electricity for the expensive clear TV sets-
only clear, so nothing can be hidden inside. Inmates classified
as medical, or over fifty, usually get the cherished lower bunks.
Other inmates often wait over a year, in a seniority pecking
order, to receive a lower bunk. And even that move is at the
discretion of the movement officer. It’s all politics here.
There are three showers, three toilets, four sinks and two
urinals per bathroom. Our outside yard is very small, with a
Native American sweat lodge, horseshoe pit, tables, exercise
bars and a sand volleyball court. It takes twelve laps of
walking around the perimeter to equal one mile. We all shop
once a week at commissary on our appointed dorm day. This
is one of the highlights of the week, if you have money on your
books, as everybody wants coffee, writing tablets, stamps,
candy, bagels, etc. We all eat with a Spork- a plastic spoon
with small lower front teeth and, colored orange, of course. Do
53
 not lose this tool, as you’ll not be granted another. Our
toothbrushes are about two and a half inches long. Keefe
coffee rules and, luckily, all food prices, including tobacco, are
much cheaper than on the outside. There is no tax here. Books
can be sent into property, if they come directly from a publisher
or bookstore but not friends. We arise at 5 a.m. and lights are
out at 10 p.m., except for weekends and holiday late nights,
when midnight shuts down all activity. There is a lot of
activity on weekends. Weekends are still weekends and that
means visitations for some. As for any kind of partying, and
not having alcohol involved now, most turn to food. Inmates
will pool food items like beans, chips, beef tips and tortillas to
party down. The cooking is done in bathroom sinks, with the
help of plastic bags under hot water and stingers- submersible
electronic heating devices. Obnoxiously loud voices
continually inform us of announcements on the intercom
system- “Inmate so & so, number…report to your C.O.” This
piece of information was called daily, “Attention, attention in
the dorm…Attention in the unit and attention in the yard.
Smoking area will close in fifteen minutes. All inmates should
be returning now to their dorms, as dorm doors will be secured
for formal count.” The one that always cracked me up was,
“Attention, attention - ice run has been completed!” Who in
the hell cares, unless maybe you are the dorm porter who
forgot to go fetch the ice? And that could be heavy, as these
guys take ice very seriously here- it cools the sodas they buy,
trade and barter while being locked down. This definitely is an
ecosystem like no other.

AA is here, along with jobs…

During my first month of prison, I saw the cosmic humor and

insanity of this new home clearly. I got creative and decided to
write a parody on life here, which I entitled, Now in an Orange
Grove. It is supplemental reading for a more comic view of
prison life at Phoenix West. I had to be cool about whom I
54
could share this with, as it touches on some race issues and
could raise unneeded controversy. I also wrote a satirical spoof
on AA’s preamble called Conanon. It mocks the infamous
twelve step program by designing it for cons and their P.O.’s,
Probation or Parole Officers- as if the P.O. is your Higher Self.
All of this creative writing is in fun and helps keep me
mentally healthy. It also proves to be therapeutic in some weird
way. I think I’ll continue. Due to these writings, I became
inspired to write this book. What a beautiful way to use my
time. Bunkie Larkins suggested that the title should be Loser,
of course, as he felt that is essentially what we all are for
ending up here. The cover could be solid black with large
orange lettering- how strikingly appropriate. Or maybe a good
title would be, Autobiography of a Hippie. Another priceless
bi-polar inmate, Joe, suggested his title idea - Just another
Autobiography by a Righteous Dude. Joe’s favorite repeated
words were “sweet” and “smooth action”. You do meet some
real characters here.
For awhile, I attended AA regularly in the library. I was the
star reader by far, as many were too shy to expose their reading
inability. All of the repeated war stories got old very fast. One
Mexican, Alfonso, continually talked of his crack pipe and
little baby for twenty minute stretches at every meeting. This
was too much.
“Keep it short, so others have a chance to share,” another
inmate stated. “And focus on alcohol, not drugs, Brother.”
“But I kept hitting that pipe and the little baby was crying,
man. You know what I mean?”
Out of the 450 alcohol abusers here, only about ten or less
attended AA. Again, who wants to get well, when the only
thought is about getting out? The next time, many told
themselves, they would drink without driving. Oh yeah, that’s
a good one-the Mother of all Lies for alcoholics. Keep those
self deceptions going and you will be back here, especially in
Arizona. Many, I found out, are on their second or third tour of
duty as a result of that very illusion; I can drink and not drive!
55
 Get real, dudes, and face your Problem- alcoholism. I finally
felt like these meetings were a waste of time; none of us were
obviously drinking in prison and the drug tales were getting
redundant. I do believe in the power and good of AA, but for
me, not often in prison. I plan to attend meetings on the
outside, as I know you can’t beat this affliction alone. I’ve
tried that and failed. As the program says, “It works if you
work it.” Another good one is, “Meeting makers make it.”
After an AA meeting one evening, Larkins confronted me
back at our bunks. “Who did you and Jolene see in that near-
death vision? I still want to know, Rideout. It’s really been
bugging me.”
After playing rock music on the road in Montana, we were
married in Seattle upon returning. Jolene’s Catholic parents wanted
to see their daughter married- not roaming the country in a VW
van, living in sin. It was a quick court house wedding with two
friends, Betty and Harrison, standing up for us. It took about ten
minutes. We already felt we were married, eternally on some level,
so it was rather a legality to sooth her worried parents. Betty gave
us her cottage overlooking the ocean for our honeymoon. Then
Jolene and I got a phone call and moved south to Phoenix, Arizona
in 1971. The van blew up upon arriving. We spent six months in
Tempe in a futile attempt to play music. Our band, Rainbow played
at Pizza Huts, schools, a car dealership and a popular water park
that had a wave machine for surfing. Things just didn’t pan out as
expected. However, our answer came as to whom we’d seen in our
near-death experience. He was Paramahansa Yogananda, a
perfected yogi and divine incarnation of Love, an avatar sent from
India in the 1920’s to American shores to share his teachings of
Self-Realization and the unity of all religions. He lived and
breathed God and became our God-ordained Guru.
“So now you’re into gurus?”
“When the student is ready, the teacher appears. A true guru is a
direct transformer to know God. This is heavy shit, Larkins, which
goes on forever.”

56
 Even if the disciple strays from the Path, the guru does not. His
help and love are unconditional. God, guru and self are one. We
read Yogananda’s classic book, Autobiography of a Yogi, under
orange trees at our rental house in Tempe. I will always remember
the fragrant smell of orange blossoms falling on the open pages.
This book was magical and hard to put down. It would change our
lives, as it has for millions of others.
“I think we have that book in our prison library,” commented
Larkins.
“Yeah, we do, but not too many here have attempted to read it. I
was so blown away by it that I bought and gave away over twenty
copies to friends and libraries. It is a true must read. One chapter
talks about Mahavatar Babaji, the yogi Christ of modern India.
Little did I know then, just how very much this Babaji would play
out in my life.”
“Now what are you talking about? Who is Babaji?”
“Larkins, He defies description and is beyond human
comprehension. If I told you now, you’d really think I am crazy.
You’re having a hard enough time just handling Jesus and the
word, guru. Try reading Yogananda’s book first, if you think you
can handle it. It’s pretty deep stuff but well explained. Then I’ll tell
you more about Babaji and my connection with Him, here and in
India.”
“Sounds good, Rob. We’d better get back to Dorm 4, as formal
count is about to begin.”
“Boy, they sure count us a lot here, don’t they?”
“About four times a day, at least!”

Everybody needs a hustle….

This prison is classified as a “work yard.” After completing

the first month of substance abuse classes, many are assigned
jobs. These range from dorm porters, like me, to maintenance
and kitchen staff, computer lab, yard porters or the library. For
57
 those fortunate enough to be classified as NB-3 or outside
clearance, the jobs ranged from landscaping at the Capitol,
flood control in drainage canals, possibly carpentry and
masonry at the National Guard. The big buck job was at sacred
Greater Phoenix Auto Auction. This job entails the detailing of
endless cars, fifty acres, for ten to fourteen hours a day.
However, the gross pay is minimum wage, the highest paid job
for any prisoner in Arizona. Many such workers left prison
with well over $10 thousand! That just doesn’t seem fair,
when I’m cleaning toilets for 10¢/hour. But what is fair in
prison or in life for that matter? Inmates that left with that
much money had obviously been down quite awhile.
Anybody with a prior history of domestic violence was not
allowed to work outside. And I had such a charge on my rap
sheet; from sitting on Joya ten years ago. So I hustled my way
into the coveted position of librarian. I scored this job by
working under the counter on weekends for head Chicano
Mondo and the “angry dog” Navajo chief, Mitchell- he’d been
married twelve times. I guess he beat Liz Taylor’s record
anyway. I received two pouches of Top tobacco and one
ramen soup for eighteen hours of babysitting books. This was
way more than 10¢/hour! Also, I was breaking new ground
with the Chicanos and the Indians. My commitment and
enthusiasm won out. Mondo swung it so I could become the
librarian legally and he could cut hair in the barber shop,
another coveted position. Of course, he charged me a pouch
for his efforts, even though he still owed me for last weekend’s
under-the-counter trade. But that’s the way things work in
prison. If somebody helps you out, there’s always a price tag. I
didn’t care, as I was just happy to be making 32¢/hour, instead
of 10¢ on my WHIP pay.
Many here have a hustle, in one way or another. I
reproduced a cartoon drawing of Peanut’s Snoopy, in a prison
suit with ball and chain. He is holding his heart, thinking, “It’s
all right here, you know.” Soon I transferred this “art” to
envelopes using my lighted TV screen to make copies more
easily. I gave my first sample to Tony Pebbles, a recent arrival
58
 with the oldest ADC number on the yard- 25,100. He’d been
in and out of prison since the ‘70’s. He claimed now to be
serving a twenty-four-year sentence and boasted of 140 DUI’s!
Good God, they need to sell bullshit repellent on commissary.
But this incessant talker got me into the envelope art hustle and
became a major repeat customer, often ordering ten to twenty
of certain envelope designs. And he always paid me well, up
front, with Folgers Coffee, coco, chips and tobacco. If I let
him determine the price, which I did, he always overpaid me I
felt. I didn’t mind our business relationship but I couldn’t
stand old Pebbles socially, with his non-stop mouth of tall tales.
“Tell me again, Tony.”
Soon I expanded my creations with colored pencils and came
up with designs of birds, tipi, pueblos, cacti, Monument Valley,
Sedona, Harry Potter and E.T. behind bars, Popeye, Olive,
Charlie Brown and Lucy, the Lion King, Huey Duck and the
Indian head off the wooden nickel.
Bunkie Larkins commented, “The Indian head looks like
your face, Rideout.”
So I drew it on a meditating body, dressed in orange, floating
on an asana ringed in barbed wire. Many cartoons had
captions with metaphysical truths. My friends now have
something to cut out for their refrigerators- a little something to
remember me by. I always wondered what the post office
thought, when they encounter prison art envelopes. Some are
priceless. Maybe someday there will be a book on prison
postage art; who knows? Maybe there already is.

Those barn days would always be remembered as….

After another institutional lunch, Randy Larkins approached me

back at our bunks. “So what happened with you and Jolene? Why
didn’t it work out between you two, if she was your soul mate?”
“That’s one hell of a loaded question, Randy.”

59
 Being young and married put us through a lot of changes during
the ‘70s. After we returned from Arizona, we scored the find of a
lifetime outside of Bellingham. It was a livery stable/barn for fifty
dollars a month rent, on 160 acres of gorgeous property, complete
with a pond, waterfalls, orchard and two other living units. Our
new band, Omsly, all lived on this magical land with us. We
literally made music in the woods. And Jolene and I began our
days as aspiring yogis, after reading Yogananda’s book. We signed
up for his mail-order lessons and upon reading them we began
meditating, like two hours a day! In 1971, we became fanatic
vegetarians, did enemas along with our energization exercises,
fasted and daily stood on our heads. And I grew a beard and my
hair out; very long. We even did enemas with our headstand, to let
the warm cleansing water really penetrate deeply up inside our
intestines. Then we sat reading Mother Earth News on our
portable toilet for a very long time. What goes up must come
down. And perfect health seems to be the balance of what goes in
and what comes out. We were real yogis, no half measures for us.
Later, readings on fruitarians, by South African author Morris
Krok, and Arnold Ehret (Mucusless Diet Healing System) would be
instrumental in our move away from this paradise; something that
never should have happened, but did.
We also smoked a lot of black Afghani hash during these barn
days. You never see that around anymore. Hash, to us, was a
divine sacrament. To me, it still is and always will be. It let the
music play us, instead of us playing the music. Or so it seemed.
Oh, the stories I could tell! Like these friends who had just
returned from a long stay in Morocco. This couple looked
eternally stoned. They had smuggled back two hot water bottles
full of liquid hash oil, strapped to the old lady as if she were
pregnant. The stoned dude, who didn’t do drugs anymore, gave
me a tablespoon and said, “This is the only time in your life you’ll
ever have this opportunity. Help yourself to as much as you’d
like.” I swallowed a whole spoon of the amber oil from the
recently drained red rubber bags. I didn’t come down for three
days, continually seeing geometric patterns in the air. I was scared
that I would never come down. A musician I played with was

60
given the empty containers. After slicing them open, we had
enough hash oil for the next year of altered states.
“Did you drink back then too?”
“No, thank God. I loved my pot and hash that I felt raised my
consciousness. I knew alcohol always took me down, lowering my
consciousness. Plus, just playing in bars gave me a bad impression
of alcohol.”
I don’t view “drugs” quite the same as other folk. Jolene and I
got to meet Baba Ram Das, after reading his classic book, Be Here
Now. After hearing Ram Das chant mantras and speak, we
privately took him aside and told him about our vision of
Yogananda. He confirmed that we weren’t crazy, the guru’s
darshan was very real and Yogananda had actually appeared to
many young yogis, via altered states of consciousness. Ram Das
called psychedelics “tools of transformation.” Such tools were
necessary for some- to break the stuck mental, emotional and
spiritual barriers to true “seeing.” But this dangerous path could
become a trap, if one gets attached to believing these sacraments
are the Way. The object is to be high, not just get high. Ram Das
also autographed our copy of his best seller, writing, “Here we are
in Love – Ram Das.” Sadly, it was destroyed by fire years later,
along with quite a few other sentimental things.
“Did you have a house fire too?” asked Larkins.
“That happened years later, during my second marriage to Joya,
Sri Ram’s mother. I’ll tell you all about that in time.”
Back at the barn, I was given a calendar picture of Lord Shiva,
from a friend who’d recently returned from India. Shiva is the
dreadlocked Hindu god of change, destruction of the illusion, yoga,
drugs, and the original drummer. This picture looked alive! Shiva
is beautiful. I’ve never seen a more profound piece of art that
moved me like this one. Remember, I was majoring in art history
and I’ve seen the best Europe had to offer. I cherished it dearly,
until its passing in the fire. With this portrait, I fell in love with
Shiva as my ideal form of God. I still am to this day. Shiva means
self- the Higher or Christ Self within. It is believed by many that

61
Mahavatar Babaji is Shiva in human form. Anyway, this incredible
poster art launched me into an upcoming lifestyle and belief
system paralleling that of Beatle George Harrison. Aren’t we all
really Hindus anyway, as the soul never dies?
“That’s easy for you to believe in, but not for me. You know I’m
pretty skeptical of this stuff. So, did you just play music to get by
or did you do other work?”
Jolene worked at the shoe department of Sears and Roebuck,
and I finally got accepted into the carpenters’ union apprenticeship
program- a four-year course. I cut off my breast length hair for a
hard hat and worked in Fairhaven, building a new sewage
treatment plant across the rail tracks from Bellingham Bay. The
stress of being run ragged as an apprentice and working two jobs,
if you count music, caused a psychosomatic bowel disorder known
as spastic colitis. I would battle this malady for years to come.
“Isn’t that when you shit all the time?” questioned Larkins.
“You got that right, Bunkie. It’s miserable.”
My doctor advised me to quit one of my jobs. I chose to follow
music, which seemed to flow from my heart. Many times in my
later life, I wondered if I made the wrong decision that day. This
was a major turning point in my life that I wasn’t truly aware of at
the time. The life of a professional musician has many unseen
pitfalls and occupational hazards, as I would soon find out. But I
made my decision and now I would just have to live with it. These
hash days were like none other in my life. Synchronicity
continually abounded everywhere- all the pieces of the puzzle
seemed to fit perfectly. Creative visualizations seemed to manifest
almost immediately. Many times we’d get sweaty palms and
tingling hair, knowing that the Holy Spirit would be felt again
tonight. We were literally glowing. It’s so sad to see where the
world went, when drugs got really abused and out of control,
becoming big money and big crime. Only a few old hippies can
probably relate to what I’m trying to say. And the rest, like my
Bunkie, probably think I’m crazy anyway. That’s not new to me.
Please remember, this attitude was normal in the early 1970’s.
And magic is not always easy to put into words. How can you
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ever forget being touched by God? As the sadhu in India say, hash
is Shiva’s essence. Sadly, only a few of us still feel this way today.
“I’ve never even smoked hash and didn’t like marijuana anyway.
Alcohol was always my thing. When did you start having problems
with alcohol?”
“Not until years later. We were on a spiritual path strongly at
this point.”
Before cutting my hair, I was wearing it tied up on top of my
head like Hindu yogis. Jolene and I had just acquired our first mala,
which is 108 beads, of rudraksha, the holy tear seeds of Lord Shiva.
I would be wearing rudraksha malas for the next thirty years.
“I don’t see them on you now!”
“They were on me until I was incarcerated, and will be the first
thing back on me when I’m released. You can count on that!”
I actually acquired books that read like sci-fi on the benefits of
these sacred seeds. They lower high blood pressure, for instance.
I’ve always registered low. Also, he who wears them cannot be
killed by man or demon. I would later encounter this truth twice in
near tragic accidents. To even gaze upon rudraksha, brings a
spiritual blessing. They look like your brain. Any prayers or
mantras done on rudraksha, increases their potency a hundred fold.
Rudraksha are 125,000 years old and the seeds contain secrets of
the entire evolution of the cosmos within them. All of this is very
Hindu, I realize, but at this point of my spiritual quest, I too was of
“Hindu mind,” like George Harrison, my wife, and quite a few
others we knew. Somehow I felt that I must have lived in India
before. Oh, how I longed to go there!
“You did go there, right?”
“You know I did and we’ll get to that eventually. Have some
patience, Larkins. India happened way later in my life. I wasn’t
destined for it yet, or maybe even ready for it, as much as I wanted
to go.”
On December 12, 1974 a major event happened in my life; a true
tragedy. Jolene and I took our first magic mushrooms. And we
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took a lot- over twenty of the tiny, harmless-looking, dried-out
shrooms. While shaving at a friend’s apartment in Bellingham, I
received a distressing phone call from Jolene. She sounded very
serious on the phone and told me to drive over to my parents’
house NOW! I heard hysterical screaming and crying in the
background. It was my mom, screaming, “There is no God!”
When I asked Jolene why, she said, “Joyce has died.” I felt my
heart break beyond belief. Oh God no! Not my sister Joyce! Then
a primal energy erupted like a dormant volcano from deep within
me, as I screamed out loudly my pain and anguish.
“Oh man, that’s too heavy. You must have been blown away!”
exclaimed Larkins.
“Oh, I was, beyond belief but at the same time, the mushrooms
were coming on heavily.”
Somehow, I managed to keep it together enough to drive across
town to my parents’ place. It was hard to see beyond the raindrops
on the windshield and the tears in my eyes. A part of me had just
died too. My childhood home was filled with loving, caring
neighbors, who sat silently with my grieved-out parents.
Everyone was in heavy shock. The loss of a child has got to be
the greatest pain a soul can endure. I felt so sad and sorry for my
poor mom and dad. This was putting everything they believed in
on the line. Dad looked like a stoic cigar store Indian, unable to
express any emotion except shock, remorse and probably disbelief
that this was actually happening. In my altered state of heightened
awareness, I felt a very deep calm descend upon me, as if Joyce’s
spirit was right next to me. And I’m absolutely sure she was. I’ve
read that the deceased spirit hangs around for usually three days,
before departing to God-only-knows where. Joyce let me know
loud and clear that it was her time to go on and told me to watch
over Mom and Dad. I now clearly understood why “the good die
young.” They don’t have that much karma to deal with this time
around. My dear sister was like an angel. I never heard her speak
ill of anybody, ever and was seemingly loved by all people she
touched. Physically, she’d matured into a semi-super model, a
French Brook Shields crossed with Audrey Hepburn. My mom
64
always said Joyce looked like Egyptian Queen Nefertiti. As her
protecting brother, I had to verbally beat away my musician friends
who wanted to date her. Joyce played music too. She’d been
playing piano since her early teens, and practiced every day, early.
I had classical music pounded into my head at 6 a.m., on a black
Baldwin baby grand piano that sat against my bedroom wall. Every
time I hear Moon River now, I cry. That was Joyce’s favorite song.
“So what killed her, Rob?”
“That’s a real mystery, Larkins.”
Joyce received a federal grant to study cancer research, at the
University of Arizona in Tucson. There, she got engaged to an
older doctor, Scott, who’d returned from a tour of Vietnam. They
were both very much in love and he asked her to take the birth
control pill, so they could safely make love. Joyce did. Then, as
she injected a laboratory rat with cancer cells, the needle slipped,
pricking her. She called my dad immediately and told him of the
accident, but being such a small amount, nobody considered any
possible consequences. Next, poor Joyce ended up in the hospital
with a mild case of Valley Fever. It took a two-week autopsy
investigation to determine the cause of her death. The cancer,
combined with the pill and Valley Fever, it seems, had stopped her
heart. Joyce died in her apartment without the strength to even
open a recent letter I’d sent her. My parents were told previously
not to have a second child. They nearly lost Joyce to scarlet fever
as an infant. She was just born with a very weak immune system
and the deck stacked against her from the get go. My dad could
have sued her Arizona doctor for keeping her on the pill when
hospitalized with Valley Fever, but it would never bring Joyce
back. Dad knew that beyond doubt.
“Looking back now, I’m grateful to have experienced her
passing exactly the way it happened. I really believe there are no
accidents or mistakes in God’s plan. Even us being here in prison
together is perfect.”
“Jesus, how can you say that? Some of the stuff that comes out
of your mouth is unbelievable, Rideout.”

65
 “I just try to see the perfection in each moment. We both created
this experience for our next lessons in awakening, Larkins. We are
exactly where we should be each moment, like it or not.”
My poor parents would never be the same again, as their deep
depressions set in. They closed the window shades, locked their
doors and actually turned off the TV to chain smoke and repeat
over and over everything they could ever remember about Joyce-
for years! Their alcohol consumption greatly increased to numb
their aching hearts. My parents always claimed to be controlled
alcoholics, only drinking after five o’clock. Now I was beginning
to wonder. Being the black sheep of the family, I ceased to exist in
their world. That is how it felt to me. They never understood me
most of the time anyway. In their minds, they had lost their only
child. Joyce was alive, even after death, and now I felt like the
living dead. My heart was hurting too. Grief can be so heavy.
Left with a hole in my heart, life went on again back at the barn.
My parents went off alone to bury Joyce’s ashes- up under a tree
where she’d caught her first butterfly, at Twin Lakes near Mount
Baker. How symbolic that is. But to this day, I have no idea of the
exact location, as Mom and Dad never disclosed it.
At our barn, we had a weekend music festival and invited a
Seattle band, called Bad Manners, to join us. These guys were as
close to the Rolling Stones as our band Omsly was to the Los
Angeles band, Arthur Lee & Love. The manager of The Doors
attended our gig. Jim Morrison had just joined my sister. He asked
me if I’d consider moving to L.A., where he could set me up with
some great studio musicians, and I could possibly move up the
musical rungs to fame. Again, this was one of those opportunities
in life that you wonder about later. It was another turning point
decision which I cordially declined. How could I? I didn’t like big
cities after Phoenix and loved my yogic lifestyle, psychedelic rock
band and barn. Looking back now, I’d probably have died at any
early age from drugs and alcohol, in such a musical waste land as
L.A. in the early ‘70’s. I was, however, honored to have been
noticed for my God-given talent, by one so respected in the music
industry- The Doors manager, good God!

66
 Then, thanks to Yogananda, friends from past incarnations
started arriving. And the power of the written word would cast us
all into a fiasco of craziness. Word soon spread in Bellingham’s
underground community about Jolene and me and our idyllic home
front. Carolyn was the first to come into our life. She would soon
transform into Christian, with a couple of different last names.
Yogananda was Carolyn’s guru too and soon we were all chanting
the names of the Lord and meditating together regularly. We sang
many of Yogananda’s Americanized chants, but gravitated quickly
to the older Sanskrit mantras from Mother India. In time, we were
certified through Self-Realization Fellowship, to conduct weekly
meditation services for the Bellingham community. Then one day,
we picked up a beautiful young hippie girl hitch-hiking towards
Lake Whatcom. She had striking blue hypnotic eyes and was
called Krilla.
“Where are you headed, Krilla?” I asked her.
“I’m trying to find a Rob and Jolene who live in a barn
somewhere in this area.”
Voila! Here came another past friend from a previous
incarnation, as Yogananda’s teachings clearly pointed out. Next in
line was Wally. He was a student from Washington D.C.,
attending Western now and looking for property to erect his tipi to
practice yoga. Well, we had lots of land and invited Wally in. He
chose a peaceful spot next to our meandering stream that fed the
pond. Wally was a Hatha Yoga teacher and became my first real
spiritual brother. We all began listening more intently to
Bhagavan Das chant on his dotara. I’d been turned onto him back
in ’72 when his double album Ah came out. The dotara he plays is
a simple two-stringed drone instrument. Later, I too would be
chanting on my own dotara, thanks to the influence of this
Bhagavan Das.
“Wow,” exclaimed Larkins. “I can’t imagine you chanting. I can
see you singing rock songs but chanting?”
“I’ve been doing it a very long time Larkins. I just love to sing.”

67
 Then, our small band of hippie yogis found out that we had a
living treasure in our own backyard. Existing on Western’s
campus was Sri Das, eighty-odd years old, from India, who’d been
Yogananda’s chauffer in their 1924 drive across the country in an
open-topped Maxwell. He said our Master was just like everyday
life, a regular sort of man, despite his spiritual greatness. Sri Das
made us all our first taste of Indian curry, a taste that I would fall
in love with forever. We all ate cross legged in the grass in our
five-acre field, watching the ground fog ascend at dusk into our
apple orchard, as the deer reared up on thin hind legs to pick their
favorite fruit. God, these were special times. The memories still
bring tears to my eyes.

The valley has been….

Now the power of the written word would change our young
lives in ways we couldn’t possibly foresee, and have some pretty
dramatic karmic consequences. We all read a small book, entitled
Secret of the Andes, by Brother Phillip. This book spoke of a
secret remote “valley of the blue moon” situated between Peru and
Bolivia in the high Andes mountains. Here, supposedly, the
Monastery of the Seven Rays stores esoteric teachings dating back
to the ancient civilization of Lemuria. It is the cosmic college for
the spiritually advanced and ready. As none of us had found any
answers to life at college, this book pulled at our hearts’ strings. It
seemed like the next step for us. There were no clear-cut
directions to this place, but guides would find you; when you were
ready, remembering to bring only your soul. In our young spiritual
naiveté, we took the bait- hook, line and sinker. And, amazingly,
we met South American travelers who knew of this valley and
encouraged us to go. Krilla and Carolyn left nearly a year before
Wally, Jolene and me. The girls traveled overland through Mexico
and Latin America, writing us postcards along their way. Our plan
was to fly down to Ecuador, then bus to Machu Picchu, Lost City
of the Incas, outside of Cuzco, Peru. Here we’d all rendezvous on
New Year’s Eve of 1974. Preparations began for our pilgrimage.
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We sold my beloved VW van, which had traveled Europe and
much of America, to a good kid who reminded me of myself at that
age.
My sister’s yellow VW bug, Jolene’s first car, was next to go.
Our beloved barn went to a mountain climber friend, who would
also house-sit our bob-tailed Manx cat, Jessica, for us. Then we
were hit with the shocking news that the Valley had been “aborted
due to disobedience and unpreparedness.” This came from a
newsletter by old Sister Thedra of Mount Shasta, California who’d
lived in the Valley for five years. We called this Thedra long
distance, and she told us not to go. Her words hurt my ears. People
had died trying to locate this Valley. Even if we did find it, Sister
Thedra said we would find nothing. Our bubble had been burst!
We wanted to cry, as all of our bridges had been burned; our home,
animals, vehicles and parents, who thought we were totally crazy,
were now gone. All we had now were loaded backpacks, a broken
dream and plane passage to Quito, Ecuador. What had we done so
wrong to deserve this lesson in our quest for God? Were we so
misled by our egos or was this all a part of the master plan? There
was no way to write the sisters ahead of us about this depressing
turn of events. Just prior to this news, we discovered that the
magic mushrooms grew at our very doorstep. Wow! You’ve got to
be kidding me. After ingesting them for days on end, our own
valley, here, began to look like the Valley we were searching for.
In reality, it was, but now it was too late. We had just lost one
paradise forever in this life. It would haunt Jolene for decades to
come.
As we went to bed that night, after Thedra’s depressing reality
check, our barn began to shake heavily. A very bright blue light
ringed in white, was flooding through all of our windows. Every
barn board seemed to be trembling in anticipation. Jolene and I
were at that very fine line on the threshold of sleep, and felt a deep
primal fear. She whispered for me to go look. I was too scared to
get up and go outside and she felt exactly the same way. Wally
snored away through all of this. Imagine that. To this day, I believe
that a UFO was there to possibly take us to the real Valley, as our
devotion was so intense and heartfelt. Are you really ready Rob
69
and Jolene? Step outside and get beamed up. Who knows? I really
can’t explain this one. And we weren’t on drugs either, just for the
record. At least, this was quite the cosmic send off for our now
very uncertain future. It’s certainly something Jolene and I will
never forget- never.
“If anybody should have a close encounter, it should be you
guys.”
“Thanks, Larkins. Now you’re getting to know me.”
So, off we flew to Los Angeles first, where we received Kriya
Yoga initiation at the Mother Center of Self-Realization
Fellowship, atop Mount Washington. When the SRF monks saw
Jolene, they all did double takes, exclaiming, “You look just like
our Master, Yogananda!” I’ve always had the same impression.
Back in our cheap motel room in seedy Hollywood, we practiced
our Kriya Yoga. But our meditations were constantly interrupted
by the moaning sexual sounds of some hooker and her John getting
it on in the room next to us. Hollywood sure isn’t conducive to
deep meditation.
Arriving at Quito airport, ten thousand feet high, and not being
able to speak Spanish, reality hit us like a brick wall. Where in the
hell were we? From postcards we’d received before leaving
America, we learned that Carolyn was now Christian, having been
spiritually reborn in South America. She wrote that she and Krilla
had been separated in a Bolivian train station, and unable to find
each other. She had no idea where sister Krilla was. Now our
dreams of Machu Picchu were fading fast! And with the language
barrier, Sister Thedra’s warning and having to piss something
awful, we entered customs at Quito airport.
“Now you’ll never find your friends, Christian and Krilla,”
Larkins pointed out.
On our flight to Ecuador, the airline magazine featured a cover
story on the Viejo’s- the old ones of Vilacabamba who were
documented to live well past one hundred years of age. In our
health bible, Survival into the 21st Century (Victorus Kalvinkus)
we had read about a fruitarian guru, named Johnny Lovewisdom,

70
who’d been residing in Vilacabamba for years. Evidently old
Johnny did a forty-day fast in a volcano crater, and people thought
he was crazy. So they shot his pure, cleaned-out body full of
Thorazine to bring him down from his high level of super-
consciousness. Jolene stayed with our nurse friend in Cuenca,
while Wally and I took an all-night cattle truck ride to visit the
controversial fruitarian. Visually, Vilacabamba jungle foliage
glowed and shimmered under the high altitude sunlight. It
reminded us of a vision on mushrooms. This place was magical in
its beauty. In the small village, everybody knew Johnny, of course.
He wasn’t hard to locate. When we met him, he was lying
bedridden, inside a rooftop pyramid, with a broken leg; like maybe
pyramid power was healing for broken bones too. Johnny
resembled an ageing Howard Hughes, about ninety-five pounds,
with graying waist length hair. His disciples appeared to be
starving and finally agreed to ingest steamed cauliflower greens to
supplement their lacking paradisiacal diet. We told Johnny about
our quest for the Valley of the Blue Moon. He laughed loudly and
stated that he’d seen hundreds of kids like us in search of the
mystical place. He claimed to know Brother Phillip, a pseudo
name for the real author, and that the Valley never did exist. Well,
where in the hell did Sister Thedra reside then, for those five years?
When he asked us where we were from, we said, “North of
Seattle.”
“Seattle, huh?” he replied slowly. “There was a girl here from
Seattle a while ago. She was named Krilla.” We about fell over.
“Is she still here?”
“Follow that trail over there, up in the jungle about two hours
and you might find her.” He also told us how authors control the
world- through the power of the written word. I’m listening.
“If you read Playboy,” Johnny said, “the Bible, newspapers or
whatever and believe it, you’ve let that force into your mind. How
do you really know the truth unless you’ve personally experienced
it firsthand for yourself?” That’s a good point, Johnny. That is
Self-Realization.

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 This whole trip was teaching us what St. Francis of Assisi had
once said: “What you are looking for is what is looking.” Or, as
the Zen say, “If you can’t find it where you are standing, where do
you expect to wander in search of it?” It finally dawned on us that
we didn’t need to go anywhere in search of God or higher
teachings. Just “Be still and know I AM GOD.” But, sadly, that’s
not as easy as it sounds, and it would take many more years to
have that truth hammer home and resurface with much more
impact in A Course in Miracles.
So, up the trail Wally and I hiked in search of Krilla. Suddenly,
she appeared out of the jungle, wearing a white sheet with those
blazing blue eyes not even recognizing us. When it finally dawned
on her who we were, she screamed in shock.
“What are the odds of you guys finding your little lost sister
between Peru, Bolivia and Ecuador?” asked Larkins.
“I know. It seems unreal.”
Krilla told us her story back in Cuenca, with Jolene present. It
seems that after losing Christian in Bolivia, she headed for the
Andes outside of Lake Titicaca. Way up alone in the mountains,
she remembered the words “bring only your soul,” and
immediately threw her backpack into a ravine. Dressed barefoot in
her white sheet, a heavy storm was quickly approaching. She lay
down with bleeding feet, screaming to God for directions to the
Valley. As the storm got heavier, a voice boomed from the sky,
“Move!” Krilla found a cave, where she performed the
hypothermia “breath of fire” to stay alive. She finally passed out
and awoke to find mountain villagers staring at her. Dressed as
she was, with only her soul and those magnetic eyes, the locals
thought she was a wounded angel. She was taken by the hill folk
to Peace Corp workers, who nursed her back to health. Then Krilla
finally found Vilacabamba, Lovewisdom, and ultimately us.
Again, God does work in mysterious ways. Later, jaded by
Eastern mysticism, Krilla wrote me that Jesus was the only way. I
guess she meant the only way for her, because He was still
revealing more of God to me, in many different ways. And Jesus
would return to me unexpectedly as the Voice in ACIM.
72
 Now, we were off to Quito to purchase our souvenirs, before
finally leaving this banana republic of smashed spiritual dreams.
We’d pretty much covered western Ecuador by bus, seeing Los
Banos and its geothermal water, quaint Cuenca, and sea-side
Esmeralda. I was tired of bugs in my ears at night, and itching
from fleas in these third-world hotels. Plus, I’d gotten very ill in
Los Banos and felt I was nearly at death’s door. While I was
shitting and puking at the same time, the Virgin of Banos was
having her yearly celebration, complete with a large doll-like
image of her carried through the streets on a stretcher, while a
poorly dressed semi-Salvation Army band cranked out off-key,
bugle drum corps Virgin music. It was definitely time to go home!
While breathing the dirty diesel bus fumes once again, standing
outside a raunchy hotel, I noticed that Wally was acting very
distant and withdrawn. He seemed totally blown away by our
experiences here. I think he felt deceived by us somehow, because
none of us ever heard from him again. I felt such love for him as
my spiritual brother. When he dropped me, it really hurt. Is human
conduct ever reliable? Can anybody ever really be trusted? I would
ask myself these same questions many times in my life. This was
the first time. Well, like they say, there are three kinds of people
from the ‘60’s- the burnouts, the sellouts and the holdouts. I’m
definitely the third kind and maybe, I’m also a fourth- the Rideouts.

Oh, how attached we become to our material things….

Visitations are very special here and often pretty emotional

too. These occur on weekends and any visiting friend or
relative has to be thoroughly checked out, before approval is
granted by DOC. Then they are given a physical pat-down,
before entering our world through the sally port. Sri and
Roderick were first to arrive. They both looked a bit shocked
by the prison environment, Roderick more so than Sri. This
would change. We all had a very heartfelt connection, which
was a great blessing for me and now the ice had been broken
for future visits. I knew they all went through a big ordeal to
73
 have Sri spend a little needed time with me- a long drive with
high gas prices, Joya and young Falcon (Sri’s brother) killing
time outside and all the emotions that surface during such an
encounter here. My heart goes out in loving thankfulness for
their efforts to make this possible for me.
Lyn also came and I was nervous. Remember, I was seeing a
lot of her prior to my incarceration. She too had to make many
arrangements for her visit. But as soon as we were seated
together outside at a picnic table, it was as if we had been
together yesterday. She looked so beautiful and was very
excited to see me. We talked of Mr. Blanco. She had informed
me in a letter that my favorite white Siamese cat had split from
her place, after five days of hiding under the microwave stand.
I was very upset by this news, but understood how hard it is for
cats to adjust to change, especially when I wasn’t there for the
shocking transition. I figure Blanco still has about six lives left
anyway and, knowing him, he probably adopted a better living
situation further down the road.
Lyn also assured me that she’d check into my stored
belongings. Obviously, this was really important to me, after
Michael’s unpredictability and his moving out. My gut
instincts about him proved true. Some weeks later, Lyn wrote
that he’d moved to Flagstaff, but his ex-girlfriend said the
storage was being paid but for how long and by whom? More
stress! I now needed Lyn to get everything legally transferred
over to her name, so I could do easy time here, instead of hard.
I’d lost so much, on so many levels since incarceration that I
needed to know my earthly possessions would be safe, with the
storage rent paid each month. I really relied on Lyn to help me
on such business matters. To quote The Beatles, “Don’t Let Me
Down”.

More changes….

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 One hot sunny Phoenix morning, sitting outside in the smoking
cage, Larkins asked me, “So what happened after South America?
Did you pick up the pieces of your life and start over again?”
“Yeah, you could say that. It sure put us through a lot of changes
coming home after only a month gone. We thought we’d be gone
forever. We never should have left our barn and home front. We
screwed up, and would now have to start over again. Sadly, this
would happen again many times in my life.”
We lived with our friends, Jan and Mitch. I got a job at
Washington State Nursery, bent over pulling juvenile trees out of
the ground all day for reforestation. I also began playing country
western music with a guitar player named Mack. After years of
rock, this was a real first for me and I dug it. I fell in love with
country music big-time. It seems to come from the heart much
more than the genitals. Jolene worked briefly for two preventive
dentists. Through them, fate led us to the Okanagan area of eastern
Washington, where we nearly inherited an organic orchard from an
elderly Italian fruitarian, through the most bizarre of circumstances.
He took a shine to us and his property sat in a beautiful secluded
valley thick with apricots and McIntosh apples. Still tripped out
from South America, we wondered if maybe this was the valley
we’d been seeking. On some weird level, we were creating this
whole strange situation. However, I tore my knee cartilage from
doing the full lotus advanced yogic posture too long and too soon
in my career. I needed surgery, but the Italian fruitarian insisted
that God would heal me. If I had surgery, he insisted we would
never, never inherit his house and property. Wow, now that put a
lot of pressure on me. In extreme physical pain and emotional
turmoil, I consulted Bellingham’s most renowned psychic, Dolly.
Without telling her anything about myself, she read me like an
open book.
“I see a frayed rope in your knee,” she said, “and it’s important
that you realize God also works through the hands of surgeons.
You are a western man trying to be an eastern man, and that has
contributed to this accident. And yes, you have previously
incarnated in India-as a monk with a shaved head.”

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 “Wow, maybe that’s why I have a lot of hair in this present life,
as I didn’t have any before. And that helps shed some light on my
longing for India. Thanks Dolly, that’s quite a reading.”
Since I had my medical parents pressuring me for surgery, along
with the psychic’s answer and medical insurance, we chose to say
goodbye to the fruitarian and our dream valley. My knee operation
was my first experience with major surgery and being put under
and learning to use crutches, but not to be my last. What would the
future bring now?
“Well, what did it bring?” asked Larkins. “You seem to
change more than the weather, my friend.”
In 1976, that “damn beat” resurfaced again, when I got an off-
the-wall call from musician friend Mack to play country western
music in Dallas, Texas. He had moved down there as he felt Texas
was definitely the place to play country music. I flew down on a
two week scouting mission to check out the scene. This time we
wouldn’t just jump, but look before we jumped. Mack arranged for
me to use some Mexican’s raunchy drum set. But this Mexican
ironically turned out to be the original drummer for Sam the Sham
and the Pharaohs, and I was playing the German made Trixson
drum set that had recorded the famous song, Woollie Bullie. Things
looked promising enough in Texas for Jolene and me to make the
move; probably another mistake, but what the hell. The reality of
just playing music, with more travel, was very appealing to my
wandering minstrel soul. However, because of the advent of disco
music, we had a hard time finding steady gigs in Dallas. Nobody
was in interested in live music now. And unbeknownst to me,
things were happening behind my back that I wouldn’t find out
about for a few years to come. So after six months of struggling in
the Big D, mainly playing in private clubs where alcohol could be
served, we’d had enough of Texas. It was time to return home.
Texas, to me, is a state of mind anyway.
“What do you call home? Bellingham?”
“Yeah, I guess so. Jolene and I really needed to settle down and
create a new home front again. So we chose to go back there. It
was our hood, Bro.”
76
 We needed some kind of stability in our lives. Things had just
gotten too crazy since we had left our barn. Fortunately, I scored a
job as a groundskeeper/caretaker at an historic building complex
just a few blocks from my family home. It had been a convent,
when I was a child, and now we’d be living in Mother Superior’s
penthouse apartment. Jolene ended up working next door at a
private business as a secretary. We’d eat lunch together in our
apartment, then back to work right where we lived. This was
definitely a unique living-working situation. As active vegetarians,
we now grew sunflower greens and wheatgrass under our skylight,
as well as sprouting lentils, mung and alfalfa in large glass jars.
We bought the popular Champion juicer and a special manual
juicer specifically for wheatgrass. In our good health, we now
wanted to purchase our own piece of land, to live the simple life
once again in nature. Mother Earth News was our main source of
inspirational reading towards this goal. We came across seven
wooded acres south of Bellingham for $7,000. This was a good
investment for our money. We soon purchased logs to build a log
cabin. We even took a weekend log cabin building class in
Redmond, Washington. At the class, Jolene and I had a heavy
quarrel, about equal to one we’d had in Dallas. What was
happening to us? We definitely weren’t getting along anymore. I
was not providing the stability and security that Jolene needed. We
were basically poor but happy. Now she was not happy and wanted
more than I could give. We talked about children but never
seriously. Maybe we should have. But I knew I wasn’t ready.
There were so many good times together in our marriage that
didn’t get any kind of mention. All of those times when we were
one. And how can I ever describe the taste of her good food and
all of the love that went into preparing it? And the everyday joy for
life we both shared together for so long. Now we had serious
problems to deal with. Nobody ever said marriage was going to be
easy; especially for those marrying so young back in the early ‘70s.
“Were you guys drinking at this time?”
“No. We’d both gone through a beer stage coupled with that
country western music I was playing in Texas. During this time
period, I got into Colombian marijuana. Jolene no longer joined me
77
in smoking. What’s up with that? In time, she grew to hate it. This
was a real change, as we had always shared this together.”
“That could lead to problems,” exclaimed Larkins.
“Oh, it did from her point of view but there were more problems
happening than my pot smoking.”
When trust is broken, it can never be regained. I came home
from playing music one night to find my wife and a former very
drunk employer together. I felt sick, hurt and angry. What’s
happening? What’s really going on? At lunch one day, Jolene
dropped the Big One on me:
“I am divorcing you, Rob. You are like a bird that needs to be
set free.” This was heartbreak Number Two, Joyce’s death being
Number One. It felt like my soul mate was yanked from my heart.
“Did she ever really tell you why she left?”
“Yeah, over twenty years later, she told me her reason. Seems I
had placed music and getting high, as priorities above her, she felt.
But, of course, there are always two sides to every story. She
refused the marriage counseling that my parents offered and had
already set her decision in stone. A few days later, all of her stuff
was gone, leaving me feeling like half a man with a broken heart
and oncoming depression.”
“Well, so much for soul mates and marriages made in
heaven,” snickered Larkins.
“Yeah, that is exactly about how I felt at this point too. Later, my
view on soul mates would change. I really feel that we incarnate to
work stuff out, that we’ll never understand- probably from past
lives and unfinished karma. Certain soul mates may last forever
but others may only last a certain length of time. Who really knows,
Larkins?”
“What did you do after she left you?”
“I started picking up the pieces of my broken heart.”
I continued to live in our apartment, where I really heard the
heart and depth of Willie Nelson’s soul. He sang hurting songs that
78
portrayed my very feelings as I was doing the dishes alone. It was
as if I were hearing myself sing. I got on my knees in front of my
stereo in rapt awe. Who is this guy who sings from the heart so
deeply, like he’ll be forever lonely? I’d been listening to Willie
awhile and playing his songs in Texas, but now I was really
hearing him and self-realizing the depth of his divine talent. He
tells it like it is! No fluff. Then I went to a Jimmy Buffet concert
at the Bellingham Ice Arena. At this concert, I finally saw Hiraman.
I had heard about him before, as he too was a vegetarian and into
sprouts, wheatgrass and God- just like me. Having returned from
India with a shaven head and eyes turned upward, Hiraman looked
heavy- very heavy. Friends who knew him said he had lived with
the Babaji of Yogananda’s autobiography. I couldn’t believe this!
Nobody sees Babaji. Yogananda had only seen Babaji twice in his
holy life. I should add to, that by this point of my life, I had fallen
away from Yogananda’s path of meditation. This caused a lot of
guilt feelings at first, feeling that I was leaving my guru, but my
path was changing. I met a monk from Self-Realization Fellowship
who’d given up his vows. I can’t imagine his guilt. People change
and paths change and the next step always presents itself. I will
always respect Yogananda’s teachings and organization, but found
it was not for me any longer. I was much more attracted to Babaji
in his autobiography anyway. So, who is this Hiraman? Can he
teach me anything about Babaji? I must meet him and learn more.
“Did you,” questioned Larkins, “get the chance to finally meet
him?”
“That would come to pass after more foreign travel.”
“You are a lucky dog, Rideout!”
“Well, I don’t know about luck, Larkins. You don’t know the price
I’ve paid to be a free spirit. Everything has a price tag.”
“Where did you go this time? Gosh, you seem to get around
more than anybody I’ve ever met.”
“I’ll get to that,” I replied. “Right now, have you got any Jolly
Ranchers in your drawer? They were out of them on commissary
last week.”

79
 “Yeah, I’ll give you one. Have you got any Sweet ‘n Low?
Kevin hasn’t been able to smuggle any out of kitchen duty in his
socks for awhile.”
A bonus to my spiritual seeking at this time came in hearing
Dick Gregory speak at Western’s campus. Gregory was a noted
black comedian turned political and diet activist. His long fasts for
peace made national headline news. He was heavy. He kept re-
emphasizing, “When are y’all gonna wake up? Y’all just smoke
that reefer and listen to that vinyl. You have a lot of work to do!
When you gonna wake up?” I took my French friend Fabian, who
has the same birthday as me, to see him. After hearing Gregory
speaks, Fabian did a forty-day fast to help her wake up. Dick
Gregory was like John the Baptist- one powerful voice for truth
crying in the wilderness of materialistic wasteland. What a blessing
it was to see him and hear his powerful words. Sadly, I wouldn’t
wake up for a long time. Alcohol was coming back into my life
again. The snowball, that would become a snowman, was just
beginning to form. I now drummed for a country-rock band named
Super Natural, in the border town of Blaine. Again, this was yet
another very talented band. We had a great tight groove and
everybody sang well too. They introduced me to peach brandy
during our fifteen minute band breaks off stage. Soon, my
upcoming divorce and loneliness didn’t seem so bad. On the very
day of my divorce becoming finalized, I went from divorce court
and final goodbyes to Jolene on the courthouse steps, to a
recording studio and whiskey shortly after. What the hell- I was
free now, or so I thought.
“I know the exact feeling. Alcohol almost always makes me feel
free,” said Larkins.
“Yeah, it does in the beginning but not later. It becomes a trap, on
more levels than one.”
Playing weekends in Blaine, we met Emma and Henry Morell,
who’d migrated to Canada from Fiji Islands. They loved our band
and invited us to their home in Surrey, B.C. for Fijian food, stories,
dancing and grog- kava kava. Kava, technically yongona root, is a
mild liquid intoxicant and a large element in Fijian and most South
80
Seas culture. And it’s legal. We all became very close with the
Morells and visited them many times. They were so loving,
mellow and kind and raising a very functional family in first world
Canada. They were absolutely beautiful. Finally, they suggested
that Super Natural ought to consider playing in Fiji, and offered to
assist us in our endeavor. It would take much planning and time to
bring this tropical dream to fruition, but their seed did sprout and
bloom into a beautiful flower of a once in a lifetime experience.
“So, you’re on the rebound from a divorce, starting to drink
again and going to Fiji islands to play music? I wish I could have
been in your boots. That sounds exciting to me. Fiji!”
“Yeah, it sounds crazy, doesn’t it? However, the divorce would
still haunt me far away in paradise.”

Those ports of Paradise

81
I was definitely at a major turning point, in my young life of thirty
years. In early October of 1979, Bruce, Wayne, Teri and I flew
fourteen hours to Nandi, Fiji. We had gotten an incredible
introductory airfare on Continental airlines for five hundred dollars
round trip, with Hawaii included, and good for up to one year.
During ’79, Brooke Shields was busy filming The Blue Lagoon in
Fiji. She would soon be our neighbor, island-wise. In Nandi
airport, the first thing you hear is Bula, Fijian for hello. We’d just
stepped off the plane into another world. The warm tropical night
air felt so good after the freezing cold of the Pacific Northwest.
With Fiji being fifty percent Hindu, it’s not ironic that this town is
named after Lord Shiva’s bull, Nandi. Even the capital city of
Suva sounds a lot like Shiva to me. But these are just observations
of a Hindu mind. Fiji might actually blow my mind, who knows.
That first night we stayed at an inexpensive haven for travelers,
where we could cook our own food to save money or order from
their simple menu. Arriving very late at night, I took my flashlight
outside to see the flora of this new world. The flowery scents of
frangipani flowers and roses were evident, even in the dark. After
a short nap, I was the only one up early enough to see the sunrise.
The same old sun, but it sure looked spectacular this morning.
There were lots of beautiful Hindi children in blue uniforms,
walking off to school and mangoes were scattered everywhere,
with the mynah birds picking and cackling about. I was rushing
with joy on my first morning in paradise! The beauty and magic
here was already killing me. I felt so incredibly free and blessed
and it was warm too.
“I wish we were there now man, instead of here in prison,”
exclaimed Larkins.
“I know what you mean. Just pretend you’re with me, Randy.”
The snorkeling in Fiji’s coral reefs ranks next to the Great
Barrier Reef in northern Australia. There is ninety-foot visibility
in the near, 70º water. On our first dip, we all emerged screaming
with joy. This was another unbelievable dimension to experience;
an aqua paradise. The coral and numerous varieties of fish
reminded us of pages out of National Geographic or TV specials
82
by Jacques Cousteau. We’d snorkel so long, that when falling
asleep at night, we’d experience the aquatic feeling of floating in
water again. After leaving Nandi, we traveled south on King’s
Road to Suva, Fiji’s capital city and a famous hub in the South
Pacific. The air pollution in Suva smells like a coconut macaroon
cookie, from the copra processing plants. How sweet. This was
much better than the diesel fumes of Quito! Our combo played for
a week at the Hotel Esa Lei, overlooking Suva Bay. This classic
hotel was famous in Suva’s history and built in the shape of a turtle,
Fiji’s symbol. The Fiji Sun ran a front page picture and story on
us- Super Natural – Super Country. The article said we were
famous in America, and on holidays here in Fiji. At least part of
that is true. When we arrived to play, it was like being famous for a
little while, as small black faces stared into our taxi windows,
while being repeatedly asked for our autographs. I wonder today
how many of those kids, who would now be adults, even
remember who we were. We also played at Fiji’s four-star resort,
The Fijian. That place was really something else. Talk about
beauty! After spending two weeks on the main island of Vanua
Levu, our trip was possibly coming to an end, or modification,
anyway.
“What do you mean, Rideout?”
“Well legally, we could only perform for two weeks, as we were
competition to local Fijian bands. We could never get a clear
answer to this question before we came down here. So Wayne and
Teri decided to fly home and commercial fish in Alaska. They
loved what little of Fiji they saw, but had children to raise and
responsibilities far beyond guitar player Bruce and me. We
decided to go for the long haul and spend six months, as we’d only
touched the tip of this tropical iceberg. We both had enough funds
for the venture and the chance to experience this paradise so fully,
might never be presented again. My life was so good at this point,
but we seldom seem to realize that when it is actually happening.”
“Oh, I know what you mean. We always seem to take life for
granted.”

83
 “That is so true, Larkins and prison always seems to hammer
home that truth.”
After saying goodbye to Wayne and Teri, Bruce and I moved
into the government fisheries compound north of Suva, where the
Canadian Morells’ cousins resided and worked. Their names were
Harry and Olive Morell, and their blond five-year-old daughter
was little Emma. Fisheries would be our home base of operations
for the next half-year. We drank Fiji bitter beer and/or Yongona
root – kava or grog – with the fishermen pretty much each night.
I’d brought pictures and postcards from home, to share around the
tanoa or grog bowl. They would pass these treasures around like
they came from another planet. When we saw The Deer Hunter in
Suva and Mount Baker came on the screen, everybody fell into a
silent shock at the sight of my sacred snow-clad mountain. I
wanted to stand up and shout, “That’s where I come from!” Why
is the grass always greener somewhere else? Leaving your own
country always lets you see it from a new perspective.
“I’ve never even left the United States, but prison is sure giving me
a new perspective on it.”
“I hear you loud and clear Larkins. It’s like the other side of the
coin from leaving the country. David said the same thing. Being
incarcerated does give one a whole new perspective on his country.
You never really know what it is like, until you are there.”
The Fijians really took to our nightly music around the grog
bowl- like every night! This almost took on the similarity of a job,
but it did cover our room and board. We did not want to be a
burden to these kind people, so this was the least we could do- play
music. Music is undoubtedly the greatest common denominator
anywhere on earth; the true universal language. So we sang for
our fish dinner, and believe me, we ate fish nearly every night, plus
white rice, dalo and cassava root.
However, I was plagued by dreams of my ex- wife Jolene
and those divorce flashbacks. I also discovered my first gray
hairs sprouting from my crown. I still felt that I was processing
deep inner questions about her and our relationship. Could we
ever be together again in the future? I doubt it. I know I’m
84
 looking for an anchor but will I find it here in Fiji? I also know
that God is the only anchor, but I still miss having a mate. All
the goodness of Jolene comes through to me at times alone,
still haunting me. I remember how heavy she could be, on so
many levels both good and weird, and yet possess a beauty that
most women don’t have. Women! Why do I lose myself over
them and give away my power? I see too that I am the one who
must change and mellow out a bit more, before I’ll ever attract
another mate. I feel so fragmented and I need to be whole. On
top of all these dreams and flashbacks, I still wonder what I’ll
do for work when I do return home- a major worry. So, I wrote
a letter to country musician Mack back in the Bellingham area,
to possibly see if he might have any work when I return. It sure
doesn’t hurt to do some ground work from here, down under. It
just may pay off.
“You were trying to cover your ass for the future, Rideout.”
“Yeah, you could say that, Larkins.”
One day in Suva’s marketplace, Bruce and I luckily ran into a
very friendly outer island native, named Joe. He offered to take us
to his village of Gunu, on the island of Naviti in the Yasawa group.
At first, we didn’t believe him. We needed to receive government
passes to visit. We were also required, by the government, to take
grog, rice, flour, sugar and salt, carrots, bread, jam and peanut
butter. That way we wouldn’t be putting pressure on their low-
income subsistence village economy. Finally, we were off for a
five hour voyage on a twenty-four foot long crowded copra or
dried coconut boat, heading towards Joe’s island of Naviti. The
total cost was $5.50 each. Cold waves splashed us all day, we were
soaking wet and we both got wind and sunburned, with no visible
sun in the sky. On this thirty-six mile trip, my fingers actually got
numb. This was the first time I’d been cold since leaving the
Pacific Northwest. As the waves were splashing me and I was
shaking all over, all I could think about was the possibility of a
Hindu wife. In the back of my head I could hear my mom saying
her mantra, “Oh God, Rob.” Many native friends here had already
posed this idea to me. Bruce had a similar idea too- of possibly
marrying a Rotuman wife. Rotuma is an island 300 miles north of
85
Fiji and is supposedly noted for the prettiest women and the
sweetest fruit in the south Pacific. Now that’s a good one. We had
previously met a few Rotumans here. One, named Julian, had
become our friend, planting this idea and also suggesting that we
should definitely see his beautiful island on our trip. It seemed like
a good idea at the time, the marriage thing I mean, as I was already
of Hindu mind. I reckoned a nice young East Indian lady would
probably make a hip guy like me a great mate. Now I was flipping
out over the idea. Then maybe, I could possibly live in Fiji full or
part time. This was actually where my head was at, on the rebound
from my divorce. And seeing the Rotuman women didn’t sound
like a bad idea either.
“You were fricking crazy, Rideout!”
“Divorce does that to some folk. You know that, Larkins. Just
think about some of the stories we’ve heard in here from other
inmates. A lot of these guys have been married right and left, many
times.”
Finally, we saw Naviti looming in the distance. The water here
was so blue, splashing up against our waists as we waded ashore.
This was a vision Hollywood dreams were made of. No wonder
they’re filming The Blue Lagoon here! Where’s the music? This
gorgeous tropical scene was blowing me away. I totally forgot how
cold I was a few moments ago. Most tourists in Fiji will never see
this side of native life, unless they’re invited into it like we were.
But there is a price to pay for it too, like the physical aspect. After
catching our breath on the beach, we began hiking up five miles of
jungle trails, seeing incredible vista views of the other islands in
the Yasawa group and numerous white sand beaches scattered in
every direction with no tourists- the real Fiji. Soon it got dark on
the trail and following Joe was not an easy task. After slipping and
sliding in the dark, we met another native who had the most
incredible bananas I’ve ever tasted. After his sweet snack, we took
a bath in a black saltwater lagoon with lightning flashing overhead.
Good God! Where are the dinosaurs? Coconuts were falling in the
dark and bananas were scattered everywhere, with a warm wind
blowing to beat the band. This bath felt refreshing but I wish it
could have been clear water instead of saltwater. By the time we
86
had reached Joe’s village, the moon had risen, casting a
luminescence across the most beautiful bay I’d seen yet in Fiji.
Already, Bruce and I felt like we were being permitted a view of
heaven on earth or at least a totally different culture from our own.
Here was a true paradise.
The next day we took our grog or yongona root to Chief Johnny.
He performed serious prayers to the gods Mana and Dina or luck
and truth, followed by muffled handclaps that ordained us
permission to be a part of their village. Then, Johnny thanked us.
You must always bring yongona when staying in a Fijian village,
to be accepted. In the days that followed, we tasted green coconut
milk, wore our first Sulu or wraparound skirt and learned how to
weave palm frond baskets with much difficulty. Soon our fishing
lessons began in the blue lagoon. The spear guns were basically an
inner tube strip combined with a coat hanger. You can imagine
how hard it must be to shoot a fish this way!
“Wow that sounds like real fun to me,” commented Larkins.
“It’s much harder than you think. You have to calculate the
refractive nature of water too.
Joe has had doctors, scientists, engineers, hippies and God
only knows who else stay here in his village of Gunu. Joe is a
holy man to me and, physically, he reminds me of Mahavatar
Babaji in his former incarnation. Back in 1974, when my wife
Jolene and I had taken the pilgrimage to Ecuador, we carried a
small book with us titled, Hariakhan Baba –Known, Unknown
by Baba Hari Dass. Joe strongly resembled the cover photo of
Babaji. Who was this guy, really, to give us such an incredible
experience?
“Maybe he was Babaji, unbeknownst to you.”
“I don’t actually think so, but in my mind I felt such deep
respect for Joe that he might just as well have been Babaji. He
was always teaching me so much in so many subtle ways. He
told me once that I was fit and a chief. Maybe you are right,
Larkins.”

87
 As we watched the goats, pigs big and small, chickens,
puppies, cats and kittens play alongside aqua blue graves,
Gunu’s villagers and fishermen told us tales. They spoke of
seeing large colored lights ascending from the ocean depths
into the night sky and beyond. They asked if we thought they
were possibly devils. I don’t think so, as the Fiji Sun and
Times newspapers both had feature articles about UFO sighting
in the Yasawas. Old radio shows like Art Linkletter’s Kids Say
the Darnedest Things and The Shadow are still popular here at
night, as TV does not exist. Who needs TV when you’ve got
ET?
“Why no TV?” asked Larkins.
“The government wouldn’t allow it. Back in ’79, they were
trying to protect their culture against the inevitable.”
Kava, or yongona root, of which I’ve already spoken, is a
variety of pepper tree that takes five to seven years to reach
harvest. When the stems and roots are dried and then manually
beaten, or mechanically ground into a flour, cold water is
added to create a mud puddle that tastes like a freshly ground
cedar pencil. This is the liquid drug or beverage of Melanesia
and Polynesia. With my addictive personality, I had a love/hate
relationship with this grog, as it is commonly called. It is
consumed daily in Fiji as a ritualistic ceremony, a “grog break”
at a city bank or socially in the villages and towns. Both native
Fijians and domestic East Indian Hindus partake of the narcotic
beverage, which is basically a man’s drink. I out drank the
chief of another village one night and became a living legend-
something they would talk about for a long time. When asked
if I was stoned yet, I replied, “You don’t even know the
meaning of the word.” You are dealing with one of the original
hippies here. To me, the high was like one beer combined with
a mediocre joint. But when drinking mass quantities, I
developed what Fijians call coni coni or second skin. This is
an intense nerve itch that can’t be scratched- like a snake
shedding its skin. I swore I’d never drink grog again. However,
when tomorrow arrived, there was nothing else to do but to
drink it again. My thinking was that it made me feel more at
88
 one with the natives, myself and this hot environment, despite
the consequences. This rational and pattern would be repeated
with alcohol later; that damn addictive personality at work. At
night in the villages, you often hear what sounds like drums
pounding away. However, these are not drums but the beating
of kava into powder. The beat goes on, even in Fiji.
“Yeah Rob, I’ve got that addictive personality problem too. I
think most alcoholics do.”
“That goes without saying, Larkins.”
Things were about to get much more interesting for us under the
palm trees. On Christmas day, Bruce and I attended a Methodist
church service to enjoy the incredible a capela singing. I wore a
white muslin shirt from Thailand and meditated with my eyes
closed. I now wore a beard with my long wild hair. Unexpectedly,
I heard children’s voices saying, “It’s him,” all around me. They
thought I was Jesus, for Christ’s sake! Bruce affirmed their
observations, as this island sure didn’t see too many hippies here
looking like the Son of God.
“That’s unreal!”
“Well, one kid whispered I was not him.”
“Still, that is something you’ll never forget, Rideout.”
“I suppose you’re right, Larkins.”
After that experience in the church, we were invited to celebrate
the holy day with whiskey and grog under a corrugated tin roof.
Everybody there had a head start on us. The gray-haired, respected
chief of the village sat in front of us. Both the bottle and the bilo
were passed around for us to catch up. A very great honor was
about to be bestowed upon us. I guess they were just getting us
ready. The chief had two tobuas to present us. This is the highest
spiritual honor in Fiji, seldom given to whites, except maybe
important dignitaries or Prince Charles. A tobua is a sperm
whale’s tooth, usually passed at death or marriage within Fijian
culture. We were blown away, to say the least! We only accepted
one for the two of us and later passed it on to the Morells for their
daughter little Emma. There are only so many in circulations here.
Had we taken it out of Fiji, it would have been confiscated at U.S.
89
Customs in Hawaii, never to be returned to Fiji. The sperm whale
is an endangered species so this could be illegal outside Fiji. I
carried a picture of me holding our sacred treasure, which could
open any door in Fiji like a key. Now, we were spiritually adopted
in Fiji; in like Flynn. This token is similarly equal to receiving a
golden eagle feather from a Native American.
“Wow, that’s cool and another affirmation that you are special,
Rideout. God was blessing you and Bruce. ”
“Yeah, well maybe, but we are all special in our own unique
ways. Even you are special, Larkins. And I know you usually don’t
feel that way about yourself.”
“Yeah, I know,” he mumbled under his breath.
“Please try to hold your head and neck a little higher. You look
too depressed sometimes.”
“Hell, I am!”
One thing made me very unique for years to come. To fulfill a
longtime desire, I had a local Hindu craftsman build me a dotara
for chanting. This simple musical instrument is a large hollow
pumpkin gourd with a bamboo neck and two strings tuned the
same. I soon began chanting Sanskrit mantras under the palm trees
near the ocean, ala Bhagavan Das.
“You are so bizarre, Rideout! Come to think of it, a lot of
musicians I know are weird. But you are unique in your own way.
Was it hard to play that dotara?”
“No, it came to me real easy and fast. It was just like I always
knew how.”
Singing to God has always been my most cherished form of
devotion. The human voice is really all you need to express your
love for the divine. You just need to find and perfect that voice
within your own heart and let it come forth. I began doing just that
on the beaches of Fiji in 1979. Bruce, in his quiet way, didn’t have
much to say about it. He was busy photographing flowers and
shells close up.

90
 “Wow, you’ve been singing a long time. I don’t hear you singing
in here… prison I mean.”
“No, not here, but when I hear the chiefs singing out in their
sweat lodge on Saturdays, it brings joy to my heart. They know
what I’m talking about. And there is a Mexican here who sings to
Jesus all day long. You know the guy I’m talking about… the one
who plays guitar in the chapel. That dude is one righteous soul,
really trying to keep his mind on God here in prison through
devotional songs. I take my hat off to him. However Larkins, I’ll
sing like a lark when I do get out.”
“Yeah, we all will. So, did anything ever happen with you
marrying a Hindu girl in Fiji? That just sounds so crazy to me.”
“Yes and no.”
After placing an advertisement in the newspaper and having
girls lined up and down the sidewalk, I chose nineteen year old
Indra to be my bride. Her mother was a seamstress and her father
farmed sugar cane. I was totally out of my mind. Calling my
mother collect, I asked her to send me my much needed, recent
divorce papers.
“I don’t know what I’ll have to say to you, Rob, when I pick you
up at the airport,” she shouted, before slamming the phone down.
This was a real bummer, as I still had another month to go
and a lot of time to think about what I’d done and/or nearly
done. There would be no marriage without my US divorce
papers. Oh well, c’est la vie. During this time, I met Tim
Welch from Iowa, who’d been schooling in New Zealand and
was on his way home via Fiji. We became fast friends and
partied hard with the Morells. Our lives would cross again.
Finally on my way home, I stopped off in Hawaii to visit old
friends. Why not, it came on the same ticket and I may never
have the chance to see Hawaii again. There, I reunited with
Hiraman once more, the Bellingham disciple of Mahavatar
Babaji. He was presently building a Shiva temple in the jungle,
as instructed by Babaji. As I helped Hiraman mix cement, we
talked for hours about his personal experiences with Babaji in

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 India. There was no doubt in Hiraman’s mind that the present
young Babaji in India was the same old Babaji of Yogananda.
Left alone in my friend’s house, while they went out shopping,
I noticed a black and white photo of a man that seemed to stare
through me. I studied the photo closely. He looked like the
actor Sabu from The Jungle Book movie. This was Babaji, both
young and old at the same time, back in his body and alive in
India! I couldn’t stop staring at this photo. Even today, after
seeing many pictures, this photo still holds that power over me.
I returned to Bellingham a changed man, holding my first
photo of God.
“You mean Babaji.”
“Same.”
“Was your mom pissed off at you when she picked you up at
the airport?” questioned Larkins.
“No, not really; she’d cooled down quite a bit and actually
felt a lot of compassion for me. My mom knew that I wanted a
woman in my life, but not somebody from another world and
culture, so far away.”
“Moms have a way of knowing what’s going on.”

We were all having too much….

Soon, a letter arrived from Indra, stating that her family did
not want her to marry a non-Hindu, white dude. I understood
and now it wasn’t a problem- just pipe dreams down the drain.
I’d just gotten a job offer to go on the road again, playing
music for a year with Mack. Remember, I’d written him about
possible work and he came through. Our three piece country-
rock band spent six months in Winner, South Dakota playing
some serious music and experiencing alcohol on a pretty much
daily basis. During this time I made friends with some Sioux
Indians. Rosebud Indian reservation is very close to Winner.
On the weekends here, it was real cowboys and Indians as the
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drunken barroom fights broke out. Later, the Indians presented
me with a golden eagle feather and told me to consider myself
Sioux.
“Wow, like getting the tobua in Fiji,” interjected Larkins.
“That’s pretty cool.”
“Again, I felt very blessed and blown away.”
Working cowboys took us horseback riding here too and we
even played for a rodeo dance. Tim Welch, whom I’d met in
Fiji, drove over from Iowa to spend a few days and hear us
play. What a friend! As the summer got hotter, we all got into
bowling, demolition derbies and the community swimming
pool. A few affairs with cowgirls came with the territory too.
We all grew to really love South Dakota, in more ways than
one. Seeing Mount Rushmore was definitely a rush and Rapid
City on our day off was a musicians dream comes true. I
actually saw a drummer there set his Zildjian cymbals on fire
with lighter fluid, while performing the drum solo on Wipeout.
On my tape deck, I was still listening to Fijian music constantly
and dreaming about how I could ever get back there someday.
These dreams were heartfelt and intense, especially under the
influence of alcohol.
After our stint in the mid-west, we traveled on for six more
months to Texas, New Mexico and later, British Columbia
playing our songs. This is when my drinking career really
began and accelerated quickly. What happened in Winner
didn’t stay in Winner. It followed us, especially me. I was
definitely a party boy. Little did I know then that I was an
alcoholic? I did become a much practiced drinker during this
time, as we often partied after hours till dawn. We were all
having way too much fun; extreme alcoholic fun and craziness.
At this time, musicians usually got free drinks, not to mention
the ones that the fans sent up on stage. While playing in Silver
City, New Mexico in December of 1980, John Lennon was
shot and killed just before we were about to go on stage at a
Holiday Inn. Everybody left. We reluctantly played our tunes
to empty tables and bar stools, on the day the music died. I
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 deeply mourned Brother John, as Yoko had requested, three
days after his passing. I did this in the Gila wilderness of New
Mexico, never envisioning then that I might live there someday.
After completing our tour of duty in British Columbia, playing
small hick towns in the middle of nowhere to some of the
quaintest people on earth, our band settled into a house-band
job for five years in the American/ Canadian border town of
Sumas, Washington. This new gig would ultimately lead me to
my own piece of property and cabin.
“So, you only played music during this time?” questioned
Larkins.
“Well, yeah. That’s what musicians do. I made enough to
live on and that was good enough for me. It left me time to
enjoy my life a bit more. I also finally learned to play the guitar.
That was a total dream come true for me. Drums came easy but
I always longed in my heart to play that damn guitar. I never
thought I could do it but it happened, after practicing an hour a
day for a month. In fact, my guitar became a very dear friend,
enabling me to learn any song I wanted to sing, including my
own. And that is a pretty high form of therapy in my book.”
“You musicians live the life of Reilly, don’t you?”
“Not really, but it can seem like that at times to an outsider.
It’s just a thankless job with some strange fringe benefits and a
whole lot of occupational hazards.”
Our band, Dakota was like a big fish in a small pond. I
played four days a week and made as much money as I did
working forty hours a week, in only nineteen and a half hours. I
also had way more of my share of good times than most people
could ever believe or deserve. The party that had begun on the
road seemed to continue into this house-band job. As far as
women went, we could take our pick of the litter from onstage.
This was all still before HIV and AIDS became a big scare. In
short, these were the good old days.
“Alcohol must have been starting to cause problems in your
life by now,” remarked Larkins.

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 “Yeah it was, but I was in total denial of course. A fellow
musician told me I was starting to have blackouts. I had no idea
what he was talking about. What’s a blackout?”
“Your troubles were just beginning my friend,” commented
Larkins. “A blackout is when you can’t remember anything that
happened.”
Willie Nelson and Emmylou Harris were performing in Seattle,
so I attended this concert with my friend Will Callow. Callow
grew up in my neighborhood and had worked on tugboats for
years- two weeks out, two weeks home. He looked like a bobcat,
wide eyed and bushy tailed. He was very well off financially and
also grew the herb. He met me at a rest area south of Bellingham
and we carpooled to Seattle in his tub of a station wagon. For
having money, he didn’t have much of a car. On empty stomachs,
after an afternoon in the University district window shopping, we
began chugging down whiskey before the gig. Then Callow ate
raw oysters while I had greasy fries. After yet more whiskey, we
smoked his special green California bud to be in prime shape for
the gig. Our concert seats were seven rows from the front and not
cheap. When Callow went to pee, I went into the twirlers, puking
all over the floor. People got very angry, as it stunk something
awful. Hell, who can blame them? I didn’t get thrown out, but I
did get placed at the back floor space of the King Dome.
“How embarrassing that must have been for you!” exclaimed
Larkins?
“Yeah, it really was. I was one sick hombre.”
When Callow returned, he was very upset, as nobody in row
seven knew where they’d taken me. He spent the whole concert
walking every row, balcony and floor, looking for me! I distantly
heard Willie and Emmylou, who I could barely see now, as I dealt
with immense guilt and shame. I’d puked at my musical mentors’
gig. Shame on you! Look what fucking alcohol did to you this time,
asshole!
“Boy, you got that right, Rideout,” commented Larkins.

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 Callow finally found me during the last song. He was not in a
good mood. I wonder why? In fact, he was fuming mad. Now
things quickly progressed to what seemed like a Cheech and
Chong movie. We left immediately to beat the traffic jam.
Wouldn’t you know it- Callow’s tub had engine trouble, belching
and spitting as we were leaving the parking lot. He started
freaking out on me, rummaging around madly behind his back seat.
How is this going to fix the engine? He had a pound of his
California pot that he was frantically trying to hide, as the red and
blue lights of the cops appeared behind us. Now there was heavy
fear in the station wagon! I got out immediately and told them we
needed a jump. All I could taste was peuck and whiskey in my
mouth. They quickly said, “Call a cab now, as this place is gonna
be crazy with traffic when that concert gets out,” and sped away.
Whew!! A Good Samaritan jumped us within seconds. Then
Callow needed a drink for his nerves. I was through with alcohol
forever at this point, or so I thought. He got a few shots of
whiskey down his belt before we were finally backed on I-5,
heading north toward home. But not talking. Then, all of a sudden,
we ended up at the Mukilteo ferry landing. Somehow Callow got
in a wrong lane and took an exit north of Everett. Would this night
never end?
“Well, how did it end?” asked Larkins.
“Callow finally dropped me off at my Datsun pickup and I slept
off my headache and shame in the back. I returned to my home the
next morning like a dog with his tail between his legs. I didn’t see
Callow again for many years. Ironically, Kenneth Bianchi, the
famous Hillside strangler, killed his last two college girls in
Callow’s parents’ house, working as a security guard while the
family was away on vacation. The girls’ bodies were found in a
car in a cul-de-sac two blocks from my parent’s house- heavy
karma.”
“I saw a special on TV all about that sick dude.”
“I did too, Larkins. They even showed Callow’s parents’ house,
which totally blew me away. What are the odds of me seeing a
piece of my old hood, on TV, in prison?”
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 “You certainly have some strange stories, Rob. Have you ever
thought about writing a book?”
“Funny you should say that. My mom said the same thing.”

There are still so many unanswered questions here….

At Phoenix West, Channel 4 is the Christian station. What a

joke! It oscillates between science fiction and Comedy Central.
Emotional fans of Jesus cry and extend their arms up in the air,
praying to feel God’s presence. If they’d quit crying and close
their eyes just once, maybe they’d finally realize that the
kingdom of heaven is within them, as their holy Bible clearly
states. Tammy Faye Baker seems to have a clone, with heavy
eye make up and a bouffant wig. This lady can cry on call!
Then there is an East Indian preacher who continually knocks
down sick people or pushes them over onto their backs. I am
sure he goes over like a lead balloon in India. The young
traveling, hip looking ministers are really a good laugh. They
frequent Tibet, India and Nepal, which is nice to see on TV,
telling people, who already have a profound spiritual path, how
to get to God through Jesus. How insane is that? These kids
are barely old enough to travel or obtain a passport, let alone
know the way to God. I have yet to see a self-realized being on
channel four, only parrots of Churchianity.
The sisters or homosexual cons seem to have a gay ol’ time
here. They have that certain look in their eyes that makes them
stand out. They are different. They excel at back massage and
hemming pants and really come alive after 10 p.m. lights out,
usually hanging in the bathroom. What goes down in there is
anybody’s guess. Some love to stare, never blinking. What are
they on? Staring is fricking rude in anybody’s book. Here it
indicates lack of respect, according to the Convict Code.
The warden removed the public day room English and
Spanish TVs last week. Now it is very quiet, finally, but all
those brown Latino eyes are focused on my TV set, as it faces
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 the day room. Some rude dudes actually stand next to my
“house,” with their nuts in my space, trying to catch a glimpse
of what I am watching. It makes me paranoid to even change
channels, as they are now so into my TV. On weekends, I hang
my wet towel from Larkin’s rack above, to give me some
semblance of privacy. You are never alone here! I often get up
early – like 3:30 a.m. – just to find some quiet time. Then I
hear farting, coughing, snoring and sleep-talking all around me.
At least it’s a little peace, before the 5 a.m. bright lights
awaken the racial rascals once again.
Before bed, I often enjoy some nacho chips and fireball
candy while watching TV. If I can afford it, the killer is raisin
bagels and peanut butter. This is as good as it gets. Inevitably,
somebody walks by asking for a handout, so I often feel guilty
partaking of my one simple pleasure. It’s much easier to eat
treats during count, when the other prying eyes are stationed at
their own bunks, not knowing what I’m doing. Oh, the joys of
prison life!
The blacks are fairly low key, but loud- very loud, just like
the Fijians. Due to noise levels, their domino and card games
have practically been banned from all dorms here. They’re
commonly seen playing on the yard picnic tables now. The
Indians or Native Americans are called chiefs in prison. There
are a lot of chiefs, mainly Navajo, a couple of Hopis and an
occasional Apache. I seem to get along fairly well with them
on a one-to-one. But sometimes I get the feeling that, being
white, they feel I caused all of their problems. Maybe this is the
karma of being white. Many of the chiefs receive government
money and purchase mucho commissary. There is one semi-
chief who claims to be Indian, but I noticed that the other
chiefs have nothing really to do with him. We call him
“Shitting Dog”. He has tattoos of feathers on both arms and
calves, as he probably doesn’t even own a feather- poor guy.
He also is never seen in the sweat lodge. He tries to lose weight
on his special diet, but buys so much junk food at commissary
that he fills the cart and our largest mesh laundry bag with his
mouth watering treats. Food addictions seem to replace
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 alcohol here. And being cynical about others seems to come
with the territory too.
My intellectual atheist friend just got released this morning.
The red haired female Sergeant announced in her calm
soothing voice those familiar words, “It’s time to go home.”
How we all await that special time! This young con had a very
old number, indicating that his criminal record began early on.
He was smart but not smart enough to stay out of trouble. God
bless him, even if he doesn’t believe in God.
This once drunken dad often feels like a semi-forgotten
father, in my prison sobriety. Then my son comes through,
with a letter of love that reminds me I am his dad and he loves
me unconditionally. He truly is the best outcome of my
marriage to his mother. I pray the best is yet to come for Sri
and me. And I hope and pray that he will somehow be able to
accept me, as I am, despite the mess I have made of my life-
not to mention the pain I’ve caused him and his family. It
really hurts me to hear him call Roderick “Dad.” I’ve got to
get over that, or at least get used to it. He’s blessed, truly, as he
has two dads. I hardly had one.
There are still so many unanswered questions here and all
about my future, of course. What kind of a job can I look
forward to back in Colville, if I’m allowed to go there? I hope
that Tony can employ me somehow at his new cabinet shop,
but God only knows. After all I’ve been through and all I’ve
done for employment, faith is what I am left with now. I have
many fears but trust God will provide, as always. Everything
depends on faith. I don’t even know where I will be living for
sure when I leave here- Prescott, Cottonwood or Washington?
Will Lyn and I ever be more than a couple? What to do with
my truck, since I can’t drive? How will I pay child support?
My sobriety will pave the way for the answers, somehow—and
in that I place my faith.

Back in my cabin….

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 “So tell me more, Rideout, of your days playing that house-band
gig on the Canadian border.”
“Well Larkins, I had some of the most incredible times of my
musical career in that bar, playing again with a bunch of very
talented, good guy musicians. As I now had steady work, my goal
was to manifest two acres and a cabin.”
After writing daily affirmations hundreds of times - I, Rob am
now finding my two acres and a cabin - and praying to Babaji, I
found exactly two acres and a cabin on Sumas Mountain, not far
from the border town where I was playing music. The total price
was $15,000- a true miracle. I had Babaji’s disciple, Hiraman
perform a Vedic fire ceremony on my new property, to bless it
properly. Then one night, on stage, time seemed to stop; when I
gazed into the eyes of a beautiful French Canadian lady dancing in
front of me. I mouthed, “I love you” spontaneously. She read my
lips standing very still, staring at me. She had that Babaji look in
many ways. As I tried to reach her table during our fifteen-minute
break, she walked out the door with her apparent date. I went
home that night and wrote in my diary the whole experience,
reverently praying to Babaji again to bring this goddess back into
my life.
“Well did she come back?”
“Be careful of what you pray for, Larkins, as it may come true.”
I wrote Babaji a letter, thanking him for blessing my prayers and
land affirmations. I felt He was directly responsible for scoring my
new home, via my new friends and neighbors Tony and Barb
Harmon. It was a difficult letter to write, as I felt I was literally
writing to God incarnate. He would know everything already
anyway, right? So I chose my words very carefully. Also, the
mystery dream lady I’d seen on stage a year ago, returned to my
bar world again. Thank you, Babaji. She wore cowboy boots and
an Alpaca poncho from Bolivia. She was as cute as could be, but
smoked cigarettes! I had never been with a smoker before, but I let
this pass. My parents had both smoked around Joyce and me

100
growing up. Mom smoked in our VW bug with the windows
closed taking us skiing at Mount Baker. She’d be out in the
freezing cold, cigarette in hand, giving me lessons on how to put
the damn chains on the car. I’d be under the back wheel trying to
hook the freezing metal chain latch in numb bare hands smelling
Mom’s cig. I needed to know more about this chick. It didn’t take
long. I saw her intelligence, magnetism and budding spiritual
beauty from the get-go. Her name, I found out, was Jody and she
was yet another Catholic girl. How do I attract these Catholics into
my life? We walked over toward the pool tables to talk, and she
asked me, “How do you feel about kids?” Hell, I didn’t know, as I
really hadn’t given it much thought and felt I was still too much of
a child myself. I wasn’t ready yet and Jody seemed to feel the
same way too, or so I thought. But little did I know back then just
how prophetic her words would be. We arranged a date where
she’d pick me up with my drums and drive us to the Ski to Sea
Festival in Bellingham. Our band Dakota would be playing outside
there.
Earlier that same morning at about 4 a.m., my deceased sister
Joyce appeared to me beside my bed in living color. This was no
dream or hallucination. I was totally straight. She’d left us seven
years ago, but looked very beautiful in her youthful astral form.
Nothing was said that I remember. Then she dematerialized back
into the spirit world. Thank you, Joyce.
“Has she ever reappeared to you again?”
“No. It only happened once. But later, as I looked at pictures of
Joyce, I noticed that in nearly every one she has bright light
shining from her forehead. Is that heavy or what?”
“Being your sister, I can totally believe it. She must have really
been something, Rob.”
“She definitely was, Larkins. You would have loved her.
Everybody did.”
Jody and I visited my parents before the gig. My mom planned
to come see me play drums and I wanted Jody to hang out with her;
to keep her company and get to know her better. Upon arriving,

101
my dad took me aside in the driveway and announced, in his
doctor’s bedside manner, that my mom was dying of terminal
cancer of the esophagus. She had maybe a year to live. This was
devastating news, now that she and I were finally very close in our
mother-son relationship. When I entered the house, Mom asked
me if I knew what was up. “Yes,” I said, holding back tears of
pain. “Dad told me.” How was I supposed to enjoy playing music
after this shocker?
Mom expressed that she wanted Joyce to be there for her when
she crossed over. I calmly told her of Joyce’s appearance that
morning and reassured her that she’d be there for her. Jody
photographed my mom at this gig, the last time she’d ever see her
drummer boy perform. Mom really approved of Jody. She loved
her. Jody and I continued dating, but after awhile I broke it off.
“Why would you do that?”
“She was a great lady, no doubt, but I wasn’t ready yet. I had
just been burned severely in a cosmic flash-in-the-pan relationship
prior to Jody. I don’t even want to tell you about that one.”
“Oh, come on. Please do tell, Rideout.”
“It takes too long to tell and it’s too heart wrenching for me to
relive it.”
“Okay, I get the point. Sorry.”
I had given my heart away too fast and it had been broken
severely, again. At this point, I wasn’t certain if I truly had any
love left in me, to give to a serious relationship.
I continued to putter away on my land and cabin and bang
away on my guitar, learning every song I ever wanted to try
singing. And of course, I was chanting away on my dotara. I
gave my custom Fijian dotara to Hiraman for his Hawaiian
Shiva temple and purchased a larger one from India that sounds
incredible. This was one of the greatest joys of my entire life-
having my very own property to grow with, cultivate and
improve. And I was singing to God doing it. In my small
garden I grew the vegetables I dearly loved and watched them

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 flourish. My young tabby cat Angela was now learning about a
whole new environment- the wildwood. I took long walks in
the woods, finding a raven’s nest on a craggy cliff and sitting
in a small cave, next to babbling mountain stream that ran
down the little ravine across the road. Daily, my new
relationship with neighbors Tony and Barb grew deeper. We
depended upon each other for help many times. I felt so blessed
at this point of my life. I owned my own piece of heaven
outright and loved it. As I began studying A Course in Miracles,
I felt like I was being shown a divine secret to finally
understand myself and life. This was a whole new way of
looking at things. There must be a better way. I practiced the
daily lessons for one year. Sadly, I was not prepared at all to
tackle the heavy text of this triple volume, life changing
manuscript. However, a seed was planted then that would
sprout much later in my life, in the most unlikely of
environments- right when I’d need it most.
Also, at about this time, I began to have deep fears and doubts
concerning my future as a drummer. Drum machines were on the
rise, putting many percussionists out to pasture. Thank God I
learned to play guitar. I knew I would live, as I’ve always been a
survivor and will find work regardless, but fear gripped my guts
deeply one night as I lay reading alone near my woodstove. Most
other musicians I knew treated music as a weekend hobby, not a
career! I’d put all of my eggs in one basket, and became very
depressed about any future in music. Parental voices scolded me
in my head for not pursuing my college education or carpentry
apprenticeship program. Why can’t I just play music? That’s all
I’ve ever wanted to do. Maybe I should have taken that offer from
The Doors manager years ago? I guess I’m just like Peter Pan. I
didn’t want to grow up.
“Hell man, you are an alcoholic! That goes with the territory.
That’s why we drink. To try to stay young or at least in our minds
anyway,” retorted Larkins, scratching his ass against the side of his
bunk.
“You’re words are so comforting, Randy.”

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 “Well, you know I’m right, right?”
On the way to work one evening, I stopped off for my mail. I
had received an aerogramme back from Babaji! Lord Shiva had
replied to my thank-you letter. My hands were trembling as I
opened it. What am I going to read? His secretary had typed His
reply. He sent me His blessings- now that’s cool- and said I may
visit Him, after first sending $1,500! This blew my mind. I spoke
with Hiraman immediately. He had never heard of Babaji asking
for money. He stated that there was a lesson here, somehow.
“This sounds like bullshit to me,” interjected Larkins quickly.
“There was a lesson here.”
There always is with Babaji. He had stated that if you doubted
Him, He’d really give you something to doubt about. I had
continually battled the same doubt many had, as to whether this
new young Haidakhan Babaji in present rock star form, was really
the same old Babaji from Yogananda’s autobiography. Was this
His lesson? Did I doubt Him? Would the real Babaji ask for
money? Would the real Babaji please stand up?!
“Did you ever figure it out?” asked Larkins.
“I mulled it over for a very long time, just watching all the
thoughts that came to the surface. I would get my final answer later,
in India. However, I did not send any money to Babaji. He left His
body before I could. ”
As the shock of Babaji’s letter was wearing off, Barb Harmon
told me about an old psychic gypsy at the Lynden Fair. I decided
to have a reading in her small carnival trailer. She looked the part
with a scarf wrapped around her head and predicted that I’d meet a
beautiful lady where I worked, who’d love my voice. In my mind,
it had to be Jody. She loved my voice and I met her where I
worked. How could I have been so blind? Yet at the same time, I
was helping to create everything that was about to transpire- all
based on the words of a gypsy! And tragically, this would mark the
beginning of all of my woes to come…with nobody to blame but
myself. But I didn’t know that back then. It would take many

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years for me to understand the misleading of my hasty ego and the
karma involved here.
“You’ve definitely made some wild decisions, Rob. Have you
ever thought about being on The Bachelor? So what happened after
the gypsy’s prediction?”
I called Jody up and we began dating again. My mom was
elated. However, Jody was presently signing real estate papers to
purchase a large home in Canada. I remember thinking, “Don’t do
it, as I’ll be marrying you.” She began reading Yogananda’s book
and then called me from Ontario, where she was visiting her
parents. This book really impressed her, and she was fascinated
with me because of the path I’d pursued.
“If she only knew you’d end up in prison,” said Larkins, with a
snicker on his lips.
“That’s not very funny! My incarceration has deeply affected
her.”
We shared the Christmas of ’84 together, driving to Seattle’s
Virginia Mason Hospital to visit my dying mother. Poor, shrunken
Mom looked like an extraterrestrial with huge black, knowing eyes.
That was the last time I would see her, as she passed over to join
Joyce on December 28, 1984. When Dad called me that day, I was
knee deep in snow hauling drinking water up from the well. There
were three tall hemlock trees near my cabin that I always felt
represented Mom, Dad and me. On the day of my mom’s death,
her hemlock fell over and was lying in the snow.
“Wow, that is kind of symbolic,” remarked Larkins. “Did you
have a funeral with your dad?”
“I guess you could call it that.”
Jody, Dad and I took Mom’s box of cremation ashes to Clark’s
Point, where I’d played Tom Sawyer as a kid. I said prayers and
recited mantras, just trying to do my best, as I watched my beloved
mom disperse into the Pacific Ocean. The waves washed her away,
leaving the colorful starfish displayed on barnacle-covered rocks.
Jody and Dad watched on from the cliffs above. She wouldn’t be

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the only loved one I’d lay to rest here, either. I remembered her
words about the curse on the Irish- drink or the temper. Sadly, I
had them both.
“You don’t seem like an angry person at all to me, Rideout. You
seem to have more inner peace than anybody here, in some ways,”
commented Larkins.
“I was a much different person back then,” I countered back.
“Time and what you are about to hear, all had an effect on me,
eventually mellowing me out some. Jody had heard me talk about
Fiji and my desire to return someday. My God, that is all I ever
talked about back then.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Anyway, she heard an advertisement on Canadian radio selling
cheap airfare to Fiji.”
I really wanted to go, but needed to find a lead singing drummer
to substitute for me, to cover my ass, so to speak. I luckily found a
Cree Indian drummer who fit the bill perfectly. I even had him up
to my cabin for a walk in the woods. This guy sang fantastic and
played more instruments than just drums. I invited Jody to go with
me, if she could pay her own way. With her recent house purchase,
I thought my offer was highly improbable. Not so. She had a gold
credit card and used that to finance her trip. So now we were off to
heaven, so to speak, before our descent into hell.
“What do you mean by that statement? That sounds kind of
heavy, Bunkie.”
“Just keep listening and you’ll see what I mean, and why I drank,
Larkins.”
“Okay, go ahead and continue. I think I know why you drank
already, but we’ve got time to kill before formal count, so talk
away. You do talk a lot, you know,” remarked my friend.
“I know. I’ve been told that a lot.” It is one of my major
character defects and something I need to keep under control. It
still hurts to have somebody point it out.

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 With the money I’d sent….

After the Willie Nelson embarrassment and waking up in a ditch

hung over from a friend’s wedding where I couldn’t find my truck,
I quit drinking for a year. I broke that year of sobriety on our flight
to Fiji. Now, flying over the Pacific above no countries, anything
we wanted to drink was absolutely free. And drink we did. We
were both so excited, that we seemed to burn up any and all
adverse alcohol effects immediately. When Julian and Sarda
Croker met us at Nandi Airport, we’d already consumed three
bottles of red wine on the fourteen-hour flight. Whew! And here
was Julian, all fat now and with a case of Fiji Bitter beer and kava
to wash it down with afterward.
“You have got to be kidding me! You drank that much?”
“I don’t remember if we finished it all or not. We were all too
high.”
I passed out on the lawn at sunrise and awoke mid-morning with
intense sunburn and one hell of a headache. Jody and I stumbled
into a café with painted pictures of pigs, goats and fish on the
wooden walls. You guessed it, this was our menu, all curried of
course. As we ate, I designed a tattoo for my left wrist. It was the
Sanskrit symbol of Om. The Nepalese tattoo artist would accept
no money but I made him take a dollar, at least. Then I took Jody
for a day at the small touristy Beachcomber Island, before making
preparations to visit Joe Lewabela’s family in Gunu, Naviti. Again,
I packed plenty of white rice, flour, sugar and kava, along with my
trusty acoustic guitar. After hiking that same six mile jungle trail
uphill over the island, but this time in daylight with our young
guide singing Islands in the Stream, we arrived in Gunu to find a
very big surprise and devastating cultural change. The tourist
industry had discovered my sacred hideaway of five years ago.
Now, a huge cruise vessel sat anchored in the bay! Foreign
tourists danced to the Bee Gees on deck, before coming ashore to
see Joe and his village friends perform the meke dance in
traditional Fijian attire. We swam out to the cruise ship to touch
the hull and look up four stories. What a sellout, I thought. This
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was just too much! However, the villagers were very happy to
finally be making a greater weekly income than harvesting copra.
They were literally dancing with joy. Who can blame them? I
guess forever changes.
The village really took to Jody and she really took to Fiji. With
her dark good looks and palm frond headband, many thought she
was from New Caledonia. She smoked rope tobacco, rolled in
newsprint, around the grog bowl with the men. They’d rarely seen
a woman do this. We had lots of fun in the sun on Naviti too. We
waded in mangrove swamps, made love by the sea and discovered
bushes with small red Chile peppers – rockete – really hot! There
was always lots of music too, as I serenaded Jody and the Fijians
borrowed my guitar to play their traditional island songs. And
again, the underwater world of snorkeling never let us down. It
was so nice this time, having a woman to share it all with. Words
really can’t describe it.
“I remember that you felt kind of lonely in paradise before,
coming off the rebound of divorce and wanting a woman in your
life again. What an adventure it must have been, to return to
paradise with somebody you’re falling in love with.”
“You’ve got that right, Larkins. It was way better this time
around and a totally different experience.”
We briefly visited Harry and Olive Morell at the Suva fisheries
division. Little Emma was now not so little anymore, and quite
striking with her blonde Afro contrasting her dark skin. I even
gave a talk about Babaji to the Hindus at the Suva Shiva temple.
Then we found out that we could fly to Rotuma in less than an
hour, thanks to the completed airport. Now we would not have to
forgo that three-day grueling puking sea voyage that I took with
Bruce years ago. Ian and Flora Croker, Julian’s parents, were
overjoyed at my return, especially because they weren’t required
by tribal law now to butcher many pigs, as we were both
vegetarians. The fish net I had sent, from my commercial
fishermen friends, had revolutionized life here in Juju. No longer
were they required to spend long hours at night fishing from punts
or canoes with their crude spear guns. Now, they staked yards of
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net on the shoreline and let the incoming tide deposit many fish
into their trap.
“That must have been rewarding to see. You really helped out
those people, Rideout.”
“It was the least I could do. All they’d given me was priceless.”
With the money I’d sent, Ian had built a bamboo video theater.
Via the coconut telegraph, it was packed with children almost
instantly. We saw An Officer and a Gentleman one balmy night,
drinking that green grog again. They don’t dry it first so it is much
stronger green. I was treated as a returning king, with my lovely
queen, after my five-year absence. I definitely had a holy
relationship with these island folk.
As island royalty, we fell deeper in love daily. How could life
ever be so good? I so wished Jody could have been here with me
five years ago too. She was so fun to be with! Having a woman in
love here made this whole trip way better. God, we were in heaven.
How could either of us ever know then, what was to come?
Back in Nandi with Julian and Sarda, we shared our last farewell
drunks together. It was fun telling them about our time with
Julian’s folks in Rotuma. Julian’s dad Ian is as hip as his son.
Sarda’s mother was in the kitchen cooking up curry delight in her
sari. She was a stunning woman who watched us all make
sentimental fools of ourselves while drinking. Alcohol can seem
very bonding on some levels. This was especially true now, in this
foreign land with faraway friends. Their little daughter Cassandra
really took to Jody. And talk about cute! They dressed Cassandra
up in her blue sari and she looked like a petite Hindu goddess, with
her small brown hand rising in blessing. We’d need the blessing,
for now it was time for Jody’s trip to end, a month earlier than
mine. When she arrived home, she wrote immediately that she
might be pregnant. Oh boy, this gave me much to consider during
my month alone here. Could I ever be a father the way I am?
“Was she pregnant after all?” asked Larkins.

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 “No and sadly this relationship which seemingly started off on
such a high rung of the ladder, was slowly changing. It was
descending into a living hell for both Jody and me.”
Many factors contributed to our final demise, and everybody has
their own demons. Alcohol, obviously, was my demon. After
returning home from Fiji, my band of five years, Dakota, was put
out to pasture. The new bar owner brought in big-name Canadian
country bands. Our local drinking hole was now like a concert hall.
Everything had changed drastically. To top it all off, everybody’s
favorite perennial house band couldn’t even find work! We played
our last gig for injured loggers. En route home, after a lot of Jack
Daniels and employment fears, I rounded a rural corner to find ten
peddle bicyclists abreast in the county road at 2 a.m. To avoid
killing them, I flipped my truck over three times- totally destroying
my vehicle and leaving my drums scattered across a pasture. It’s a
miracle I didn’t die.
“You dumb shit, Rideout! What did you do?”
“Well, a fellow musician and witness to my accident drove me
home, once I could remember where I lived. I was in extreme
shock. Luckily, he had talked the cyclists out of calling the police.
I’ll never forget hearing the voices of the bicyclists asking if I was
alive, as their flashlights shone into my truck cab and I sat
trembling in shock.”
“You would have been in big trouble, you know if they’d called
the cops.”
“Yeah, I do know. And this should have been the wake-up call
of all calls; but sadly it wasn’t. Not even close, Larkins.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
The next day, I could barely move my neck, as I lay in bed
slowly remembering the nightmare of last night. I was in a lot of
trouble! I had extreme fear, guilt and shame inside of me, as I met
with a cop to complete the accident report. I lied to him that a deer
was the cause. He didn’t believe me at all, but let it pass. Then as I
began driving my still functioning wreck out of the field to the
insurance company for a write-off, I saw a large six-point stag
110
through the broken windshield- exactly where my skid marks lay
on the asphalt! This blew me away, as I’ve never seen a deer there
in my life. Everything speaks to me.
“You do have a unique perspective on life, Rideout,” countered
Larkins. “However, those are pretty extreme odds of seeing a deer
there, like you said.”
“Maybe someday you’ll see things the way I do, although I
rather doubt it. Anyway, once again, I was back on the wagon
after this near fatal accident.”

At a time when I needed him most….

Christian married Jody and me in early October of ‘86. It

was a small wedding at her island home, facing the Pacific
Ocean with Bellingham and Mount Baker in the background.
My dad, Tony and Barb and a few others were there. Jody had
a beautiful sand cast gold wedding ring made for me; an OM
sign with an Afghani lapis lazuli dot, right where it belongs. It
truly is a beautiful ring. How perfect! Once again, here comes
the mystery ride of marriage. I drank sparkling cider to
celebrate. How long could I do this? Fortunately I found work,
with a green card, playing music daily up in Vancouver, B C-
with a superb three piece country western combo. She sang her
guts out sounding like Emmylou Harris and looking like Cat
Woman, which she was, while he fiddled his brains out,
something he’d done his whole life as one of Canada’s top
fiddle players. They’d both preformed on TV for a decade and
knew how to put on a quality show. They made me a way
better drummer as they taught me a lot about dynamics- taking
the volume up and down. Too many bands play everything at
the same volume, a sign of musical immaturity. However, I
spent much of my time crossing the U.S. Canadian border and
driving ungodly distances to work, as I sure didn’t want to
relocate to live in Canada. After my twenty year class reunion,

111
 which landed on the Harmonic Convergence of ’87 and is a
whole story unto itself, we had our minds blown.
“What happened now; a fight with your wife? Did you see an
old sweetheart at the class reunion?”
“No, it was nothing like that; nothing even close.”
In October of 1987, we had a drought situation in our neck of the
woods with no rain for about ninety days. The forest was off limits
and barricaded at our driveway due to extreme fire danger. We
had been using Watco Danish tongue oil on our new bedroom
addition. Now that I was re-married, we needed more room. Tony
was helping us with this project. The oil-stained rags were thrown
in an open Rubbermaid garbage can on the porch. At about 6 a.m.
the following morning, we awoke abruptly to the sound of
shattering glass. Was somebody breaking in? Who would be doing
that when we live so far up in the woods? Running out of the
bedroom, I saw what looked like the sunrise on our porch. We
were on fire, big time!
“Oh my God, Rideout, that is heavy. What did you do?”
“I tried to stay clear and focused in the moment. It was all
happening so fast.”
Jody ran to Harmon’s to alert them, while I dialed 9-1-1 for help.
As I stood in total shock, with scorching flames just feet away, I
suddenly remembered all of the harvested pot I’d thrown under our
bed. Ironically, as we were building this addition, a police
helicopter hovered over my dozen Afghani pot plants one
afternoon. Friend Peter had given me these sacred plants to grow
here, but now I was forced to uproot them or possibly lose my land.
Holding my mother’s gold watch, I threw it down and opted for the
huge sack of bud instead. Then I promptly jumped off our new
porch that Tony had built. I hid the sack in the woods, away from
any firemen’s eyes. I felt bad about Mom’s watch, but I sure
didn’t care what time it was now. In fact, after this fire I didn’t
wear a watch again for thirteen years. My Om tattoo, where the
watch would go, always reminded me that the correct time is now.
Six fire trucks made it up our incredibly steep hill and managed to

112
prevent a major forest fire. The black mushroom cloud that
resembled Hiroshima was seen all over Whatcom County. Tony
and Barb stood by in their bathrobes holding a five gallon bucket
of water. The cabin was a total loss. Everybody knew that. I saw
my red mantra prayer flag, suspended from a long bamboo pole
ignite into flames and all of my fond memories of this beloved
cabin go up in smoke. It was killing me to lose my beloved funky
cabin. It was such a charming little abode with much character.
This was a Maha Yagna- a great purification by fire, much greater
than the Vedic fire ceremony preformed here previously by
Hiraman. Poor Shanti, our blue healer mix dog, was tied to the
porch and got singed by the flames. She was taken to the vet’s, as
the shit was literally scared out of her from convulsing in fear. The
wind chimes on our porch rang loudly from the heat-created wind
of the fire. Shanti avoided the sound of chimes for a long time to
come.
“Where did you guys stay after losing everything?” asked Larkins.
“We stayed with Dad after the fire.”
Luckily, our Datsun pickup truck had survived the fire, along
with my wallet and checkbook that I’d grabbed before jumping out.
When we shopped at K-mart for toothpaste, etc., dressed in rubber
milking boots and sweat pants, store detectives followed us around
as we looked so suspicious. That night Dad got very drunk over
our loss and then turned angry, blaming me for the tragedy. At a
time when I really needed my dad’s sympathy and understanding,
it was not there. He really knew how to hit below the belt, I felt. I
sure didn’t need the blame game right now. I felt horrible already.
The next day, our insurance adjusters drove up from Seattle and,
along with the fire chief, met us at the burn site. And what a sad
sight it was to see the black, still smoking ruins of where I once
lived, dreamed and prayed. I had only paid about one hundred
dollars for a yearly premium, once, but would now receive $56,000
for loss of house and personal property. As we owned everything
outright, with only a propane and generator gas bill, MSF&G
would pay our rental bill and all utilities, minus about twenty
dollars per month, for the next year of rebuilding. We luckily
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found a small house in Sumas to begin our new displaced life and
escaped Dad’s negative judgmental environment.
While searching through the ashes, we found a few items
that did not burn up. The cover photo of old Babaji, from the
book I’d taken to South America in ‘74, survived the flames –
along with cymbals that Babaji gave Hiraman, a brass Shiva
lingam and the words to a song I wrote. All of the other songs
I’d learned to play on guitar were gone; like maybe I should be
writing and singing my own songs! Quite a few of our photo
albums and long play records managed to survive the fire too,
as the firemen threw them out the windows straight away. But
the biggest loss to me, in many ways, was my cherished red
leather Bible that my great grandfather Marion Guthridge had
carried through the battle of Gettysburg, during the Civil War.
Those singed photo albums that the firemen threw out, would
bring tears to my eyes, many months later, as I looked at our
cherished pictures. I would finally get the needed emotional
release from the trauma that this fire had created in our lives. I
should have cried my pain out long ago, but chose to numb out
instead with alcohol, side stepping my feelings.
“Boy, you are an alcoholic! But I’ll bet those photos brought
closure on many levels, as it was so needed.”
“You are right Larkins, they did. I finally broke down.”
After much thought and planning and purchasing two more
acres of land with insurance money, we worked daily along
with three constructive dear friends to create a double story,
log-sided dream octagon. As anybody who has ever built a
house knows, there is a lot of work, stress and decisions
involved. And we built this house using a gas generator, as
there was no power up here. The prior cedar cabin had run on a
12 volt system and this new octagon would too, with quite a
few upgrade modifications. However, the stress of rebuilding
and the unreal shock of the fire had me and Jody drinking malt
liquor daily after work, in our temporary rental house; but
promising to quit when we moved into our new dream home.
Right now, we felt that we needed it, on a medicinal level
114
 anyway. Drinking felt like home, mentally somehow, after
losing our real home. We just existed, temporarily, in this
living space; all stressed out from decisions and non-stop work.
“That sounds like another game alcoholic’s play.”
“We were both working our day jobs, as well as helping build a
house on our off hours. Go, go, and go! You’d drink too.”
Things were about to change that would take my mind off
alcohol. In a twist of fate, my dad fell in love with his office
nurse, Pam, who was twenty years younger. I was closer to her
age than Dad was. He’d only experienced one woman in his
entire life, my mom. He was a virgin when they’d married.
Now, he seemed way happier with Pam, so he got our blessing
when they married later. Pam actually got my dad out of his
daily suit and tie. He’d worn one his entire life, even on
weekends. Little did I know then what a gold digger and bitch
she’d really turn out to be? Poor Dad was so naïve. Mom had
warned me that Dad was like a little kid, who may surprise me.
He did that to say the least!
Then another surprise, when Jody called me one afternoon
from work at the Best Western motel up in Canada. She
exclaimed, “Happy Anniversary!” Her voice sounded a wee
bit nervous. I informed her that it wasn’t October yet, so she
was a bit off on her date. Then she said, “Ungh, ungh…I’m
pregnant.” I about dropped the phone. Neither of us had
talked about children, especially after the house fire shock and
present rebuilding stress. And Jody had been on the birth
control pill- well, so much for modern chemistry. Suddenly, I
remembered that she had asked me how I felt about kids, on
the day we finally met. How ironic. As we had only one year
to rebuild, to receive full insurance benefits, this news of a
baby coming added a whole new dimension to getting our act
together, on a lot of levels now. I settled into a hot bathtub with
a bottle of beer and a National Geographic issue that showed
color photos of a developing fetus. I was in shock again
without fire. What just happened?

115
 Miracles occur in the strangest of places….

Then one day I stumbled across a hidden treasure in our

prison library. I found part three of A Course in Miracles! I hid
it away in my drawer immediately. I felt like I had the key to
escape prison now and didn’t want any snoopy inmates to find
it. There was really very little to worry about, as most here
wouldn’t understand this book anyway. I began reading the
Manual for Teachers at 3 a.m., when everyone else was still
fast asleep and snoring away. On reading these words again, I
instantly felt a very real hit from God; like my time had come
full circle to really understand this course- finally! As I
proceeded to read, I felt like a light were shining over my head
or a backup light had been turned on in my head. I was feeling
the presence of the Holy Spirit, as it guided my reading, always
taking me to deeper levels of understanding myself more
thoroughly. I realized that now I was in an optimal
environment to have the needed time and space to study and
apply these unique teachings. I had been introduced to them
back in my Sumas mountain cabin in 1983. Each time I read
with full concentration, I was free – in my heart and mind
anyway. Soon, I found a source that sends prisoners a free
paperback edition of A Course in Miracles. Great! Now I’ve
really got something to read and sink my teeth into. I couldn’t
put the Course down for hours. This book is heavy just to hold-
I could feel that my life here was about to change. I now had a
goal: to read and study the text and begin again the one year of
daily lessons. What an environment I had to apply these
lessons in! I felt like this Course was the missing shard that
would put the broken crystal of my life back together again. It
proved to be just that, and much more. After searching and
studying metaphysics since the early ‘70s, and going through
years of Self- Realization Fellowship lessons, meditation,
chanting mantras and feeling Babaji’s guidance in my life,
Jesus had now just returned; as the Voice in A Course in
Miracles. He always was my first guru and top of the line in
my SRF linage. I took vows upon initiation into Kriya yoga
116
that made Jesus, Babaji and Yogananda my linage of spiritual
masters- the guru disciple relationship that never ends. It is an
eternal relationship. So, here comes Jesus again, saying exactly
what I really need to hear, to wake up from this delusive
melodrama that I’d created. The truth of when the student is
ready, the teacher appears was happening again. I soon began
to realize that I cannot blame anything on anybody, but me.
And that’s not the greatest of news in prison, where it’s real
easy to blame the system, judges, laws, other cons and ex-
wives for the way things are here, just like everybody else does.
How could this be me? But it is, as I was beginning to see.
“Nobody likes to hear that truth, Rideout… especially in
prison,” complained Larkins.
“I’m not trying to bum you out but wake you up, Randy.”
This Course showed me how I’d created special
relationships in my life- ego-based controlling relationships
that became possessive. I now understood better that my need
to cling tightly to Jolene, ex-girlfriends and Joya really
stemmed from my fear of abandonment- feeling God left me,
but He never did. All the actions my loved ones took that
weren’t directed by me, made me fearful and my desire to hold
onto them became an attack. Holy relationships, on the other
hand, only require giving up judgments for love. These would
be the kind of relationships I’d seek now. Why do I always
judge others so critically? This massive character defect is
really having a heyday here in prison. It is so easy to think I’m
better and smarter than most here! Just look around. See what
I mean? This has got to stop! Who am I to judge anybody or
anything, when the Course is teaching me that it is all in my
mind and I am judging myself only, projected outward in this
dream movie. Each of these inmates here is just another part of
me, showing me where I am stuck.
I feel stuck! I’m feeling that spiritual pride is one of my
greatest character defects. I clearly see how I’ve mistakenly
placed myself above others, in my own estimation, because of
all the special blessings that God has granted me or I created
117
 myself somehow. I think this pattern began when I became a
Jesus freak in the late ‘60s. I felt superior to lost sinners, as I’d
accepted Jesus as my personal Lord and Savior. Then, seeing
Yogananda in my third eye put me in a class of believers that
experienced the spirit world and visions. Having a lifetime love
affair with Babaji put me in a class of very few – the chosen
ones, I egotistically felt.
So now that I realized all of this, I pray to God to humble me
here in prison even more, slow me down, quiet my inner
dialogue, destroy my hasty sarcastic spirit and stop my judging
mind for the remainder of my sentence here and beyond. I
would like to leave prison a really changed man- like a
butterfly emerging from a cocoon. Is that too much to ask for?

Look again, it’s a….

“So after losing everything in the house fire and then spending
every waking moment working, now you’ve got a baby coming.
That alone sounds majorly stressful, to me,” stated Larkins one day
in the smoking cage. His mom had put money on his books, so he
was enjoying a tailor made cigarette instead of rollies.
“Actually, it wasn’t that bad, once the shock of it all wore off.
The fire seemed to have given us the strength to face almost
anything; including becoming parents.”
We began taking Lamaze birthing classes up in Chilliwack, B.C.
which wasn’t that far of a drive from our home. Jody learned
breathing exercises to facilitate the birthing process and I learned
what to expect, as she went through the labor stages. Our teacher
was a beautiful loving mother of four, named Kathy. She’d seen it
all. She ended up our labor coach and will be honored forever, as
she witnessed and helped birth our baby. Before birth, we were
certain our kid would be a girl. We’d done all the old wives tales
and everyone agreed, it would be a girl. We had the name, Indra
Mela, picked out. Indra is just a beautiful name and had nothing to
do with my aborted marriage attempt in Fiji. Mela means festival.
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On the day of April 29, 1989, a Saturday afternoon, the chain saws
began clear-cutting the property across the road from us. What’s
going on? We were witnessing our neighborhood being slashed
down before our very eyes. This shocking incident sent Jody into
labor. It was now time to head for the hospital up in Mission, B.C.
With Jody’s Canadian citizenship and medical insurance, the
financial burden of birth was way less in Canada. Plus, Mission
was much closer than Bellingham. Oh God, here we go- becoming
a father.
“I have no idea what that feels like, not being a father myself,”
commented Larkins.
“Very special, my friend…it feels very special; especially if
you’re there to witness the birth.”
Because of the lack of love from my own father and his great
emotional distance from me growing up, my goal was to be just a
good loving, supportive dad. However, my dream would be
shattered in ways that I couldn’t imagine that night in the hospital.
I would be thrown into a self-created hell that I would be in denial
of for many years to come.
On Sunday morning April 30, 1989, our son Sri Ram was born.
Jody did very well giving birth. Ironically, our doctor was a
musician too. At 4 a.m. we basically had the hospital to ourselves.
As the head emerged, I exclaimed “It’s a girl,” but the doctor said,
“Look again. It’s a boy, Rob!” The umbilical cord had hidden his
genitals. I was shocked and dumbfounded. We had never
seriously considered a boy. Ironically, this is also the birthday of
my musical mentor, Willie Nelson. I guess that’s God’s little joke
on me. The sunrise was spectacular this Sunday morning, as
Mount Baker shown divinely in all its glory. It was a spring
morning like no other. This incredible beauty symbolically
mirrored to me, the beautiful boy who had just entered his first day
on earth again and our lives. God, I was a happy and proud father!
I drove home with beer, waking up Tony and Barb and reveled in
my new found happiness. Now my life would truly, never be the
same again.

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 “You’ve got that right, Rideout. I’ve been told that babies are the
acid test that will make or break your marriage.”
“You were told correctly, Larkins. Babies are the acid test… for
sure.”
At first, parenting was exciting and bonding, but as time
marched on, I was slowly losing my wife to a mother. We were
both under a lot of stress from being new parents. I’m sure all
new parents experience that. However, I was now working two
jobs to make ends meet- playing music on weekends and
working manual labor in Bellingham forty hours a week.
However, the house fire and rebuilding process had taken its
toll on us. My hair was salt and pepper now, from all I’d been
through, and more grays were sprouting every day. I did
finally meet old Willie later, in a Vancouver concert. There, he
signed Sri Ram’s photo for me, commenting on his name.
Then my Iowa/Fiji friend, Tim Welch came to visit us, taking
in our new home and young son. I was deeply touched by how
Tim cared for me and how he always managed to stay in touch
over great time and distances. As our marital stress slowly
increased, we both sought counseling, separately and together.
I also did hypnotherapy to quit smoking pot, which Jody’s
mother paid for. What a total waste of money that was. Since
Sri’s birth, I very seldom drank anymore. I was too busy
working or too tired. I did, however, stay focused on Babaji
totally, by reading every book about Him that I could find.
Soon, our new home was decorated with pictures of Him on the
fireplace mantle. Sri Ram even had a black and white photo of
Baba in his crib. Babies first see in black and white. I now
began chanting the mantra that Babaji stressed, Om Namaha
Shivaya- a Sanskrit phrase meaning “I surrender to/ bow to/
take refuge in God.” In time, this holy mantra would become
programmed into my subconscious hard drive beyond my
wildest dreams. That takes years of repetition. I would chant to
Sri in our upper octagon meditation room on my new dotara,
which I purchased after the fire. I had to have another one. I
also replaced my burned up Yamaha guitar with a Hondo guitar
copy of a Martin D-28, a collector’s item. Sri heard me singing
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 mantras and ballads from an early age on. Sri Ram’s name is
an ancient Indian mantra, meaning Holy God. Anytime his full
name is repeated, the universe reverberates with that divine
affirmation. Sri Ram was also the first chant I learned to sing
back in 1971, off The Sufi Choir album.
The winter of 1991 was minus 40º on our mountain. That is
damn cold! The hill was solid glare ice like a glacier, which
required corks with nail soles to walk the risky one mile uphill
home. Carrying groceries, gas and Sri on my back was a
challenge. We felt like pioneers from a hundred years ago.
This cold winter, the house fire and becoming a dad, gave me
tremendous strength, as a survivor. I’m sure Jody felt the same
way. When the chips are down, you’ll know how strong you
really are. I felt like I could face almost anything after this
winter. However, forty below was nothing, compared to what
was coming.
“I take it things got worse, right?” asked Larkins.
“Oh yeah, they did.”
After the numbing winter, our life began its slow descent
into darkness. Things increasingly got very crazy, both
physically and verbally. Threats, curses and accusations were
made, that never should have been mouthed. I felt so sad that
our love had deteriorated to this pathetic point. How did it ever
get this crazy? A dark side in both of us had surely surfaced.
No alcohol was involved. We separated, and I lived alone for a
year in a friend’s cabin, where a lot of alcohol was consumed.
Jody had kicked me out. I would no longer be trimming my
young son’s paper thin finger nails.
“Jesus that must have been a hard move, especially after
building your new dream home together,” exclaimed Larkins.
“It sucked big time! I had a lot of anger over it.”
While living at that small cabin, two-year-old Sri came for a
visitation. Inside, my heart was crying in pain over not being at
home with my son and changing wife. Sri spoke his first full
sentence to me here, saying, “Daddy, be happy.” With his long hair
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and innocent beauty, Sri looked exactly like a child Babaji. One of
Babaji’s commandments is Be Happy. Oh God, I wish I knew how.
During this time, I remodeled our shop on the weekends into
a sauna and bedroom. When I could finally return home, then I
would have a separate place to sleep at night, after playing
music- so the smoky bar odor wouldn’t bother Jody and Sri.
After a depressing year of separation, with a lot of anger and
excessive drinking alone, I was finally allowed to return home.
Jody had made up her mind, thank God. As my marriage now
was on very shaky ground, I made a major decision. After
twenty-eight years of being a professional musician, I chose to
permanently leave the business. This was my last ditch effort to
hopefully make this marriage work. You’ve got to do, what
you’ve got to do. I’ve noticed that many women are attracted
to musicians, like both wives were, until they’re actually
married to one. Then reality sets in as a musician’s lifestyle is
just too much for most women later. Everybody knows the
image musicians portray. Historically, we were right down
there with prostitutes, even though we provide a greater moral
service to humanity. Most people love music, so why degrade
the ones who make it? We’re just doing our job even if an
often destructive lifestyle comes with it like after-hour parties
and getting high, to sing even more songs ‘till the sun comes
up. It was quite the moment on stage, with official handshakes
from band members, when I said my final goodbye to the only
work I’ve ever loved so much. The real work wasn’t singing
songs but all the endless hours of packing heavy band
equipment, my drums included, practicing with musicians who
take forever to learn a song and driving numerous miles,
always at night, and sometimes under the influence. However,
such sacrifices are needed, I felt, when dealing with serious
subjects like marriage, love and parenthood. Would this move
actually work? Could it? Or had irreversible changes already
occurred that were far too late to change? I should add too,
that at this point of my fragile marriage, I was very stressed out.
I was playing music Thursday through Sunday, as well as
working my construction day job, parenting, and driving across
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 Whatcom County relentlessly. I was so stressed that I took it
out on my poor dad. All my built up years of anger came
flowing out in waves that blew him away. I would pay dearly
for this later. It may seem like I’m trying to defend my lack of
love situation but I’m really just trying to make some sense out
of it. After my anger got vented, I felt exhausted. I needed a
break- but not the kind that was coming.
“What do you mean by that?” probed Larkins.
Four days later, on May 05, 1992, I fell twenty feet off a roof
causing twelve breaks in my body; eight in my left femur and
four in my left shoulder ball joint. I could have died in this
accident but landing on an oak ladder broke my fall, instead of
my neck. This was the worst physical pain I’ve ever felt in my
entire life. It really hurt! It took the paramedics over twenty
minutes to arrive from only two miles away. Hurry up guys.
Sadly, this accident put further stress on Jody and our already
fragile marriage, or what was left of it. Now, she felt forced to
take care of me, as I definitely needed a nurse for awhile. I
went through daily physiotherapy, learned to use a wheelchair
well for three months, and progressed on to crutches later.
Finally, there was the cane. I had to learn to walk all over again.
The pain was constant even on pain pills but not always
physical. Jody went on an inner search, which resulted in a
legal name change to Joya and a new self-identity. Sri Ram
was too young to know what was really going on, thank God.
“It’s amazing you’re alive, Rideout. The accident is bad
enough but then losing your wife to a total personality make-
over. That must have blown your mind!” proclaimed Larkins.
“It did blow my mind. I felt like a real loser, in more ways than
one. I’d lost my wife now to a mother with a new name.”
“I’ve always told you that you’re a loser, Bunkie.”
“Don’t go there now, Larkins. I feel weird enough just telling
you my story.”
We pretty much ended our marriage at a yoga retreat with Baba
Hari Das, on Salt Spring Island, off the B.C. coast. Hari Das had
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written the small book on Babaji that had accompanied me to
Ecuador, and whose cover had survived the house fire. He is a
muni yogi- not talking. His vow of silence was well over twenty
years now. He questioned me on his portable chalkboard, if I
wanted to know my spiritual name. Yes, I’d been curious for years.
“You’ve got to be kidding me! What is a spiritual name?”
exclaimed Larkins.
“Well, after giving Hari Das my birth date and year, he referred
to a red leather covered book from India. Then, I received a scrap
of paper stating that I was Hari Om, name of the most Supreme
Being. My name is a combination of Vishnu (Hari) and Shiva
(Om). It felt very fitting and right to me. In fact, I love Hari Om.
Perfect!”
“I wonder what my spiritual name is.”
“It doesn’t matter, Larkins. Another spiritual teacher could have
given me a totally different name. However, mine did ring true for
me and I felt very blessed.”
I didn’t start calling myself Hari Om. In fact, I never thought I’d
ever even hear it spoken after this karmic ending to our sad
marriage. Upon getting the new name, we had a very bad argument
in our tent. What was really freaking me out was Jody, or now
Joya, living her hippie day’s decades after me. I guess she needed a
new identity after all the hell we’d been through. Jody’s given
spiritual name, according to Hari Das, was Mungula, which she did
not take to at all. She obviously felt better off with Joya.
Then, after another horrible fight at the dinner table, where I did
something unmentionable, but not involving alcohol, the end
finally came; the Fat Lady had sung. What a relief and what a
shock! I caused it all, the guilt in my mind was saying. I watched
Joya drive away in the red Tercel with my young son and knew,
this time, that it was really over. Now I couldn’t stop crying. I was
soon escorted by the police to leave our dream home, under a court
restraining order. The tribe has spoken. It’s time for you to go.
Joya would have the house now. Because of my accident, I would
soon be off to college again, to be retrained under State Industrial

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Insurance. I qualified for a new program being taught at Skagit
Valley College in Mount Vernon, Washington. I would study the
water cycle and flora and fauna that determine the health of aquatic
systems. I would come out with a two-year degree as an
Environmental Tech 2. I briefly moved in with my friend Peter,
before going to school. We enjoyed listening to Julio Iglesias sing
in Spanish and French, as we got stoned in his hot tub looking at
Mount Baker in the sunset. After a month of wallowing in hot
water, sorrow, alcohol and sentimental music, I moved down to
Sedro Woolley and rented a room from an odd estranged carpenter
dad. He too was separated from his child. And here, I would attend
SVC from ‘92 to ‘94. The study workload was very difficult and
intense. My mind was not used to the new school schedule, study
régime and required discipline. And my body was still hurting
physically, but not as much as my heart. I would see Joya, with her
new boyfriend Johnny, as she dropped off young Sri for visitations
at my house on certain weekends. She looked so happy and content
while I was pathetically crying inside still. How does one find
another lover so fast? She would continue to live in our octagon
until we could figure out what to do with it. Sri needs a home. How
is all of this affecting him? My heart couldn’t get over being away
from my young son and beautiful property. After owning a
$100,000 paid-for octagon in the woods, it just plain sucked to be
living here in this crappy little room, in a shabby house in Sedro
Woolley! It often felt like I was in a prison of sorts with lots of
scholastic homework, depression and unanswered questions. On
some level, I still believed our divorce wasn’t over, even though
I’d heard the Fat Lady sing. I still loved Joya and wanted to see our
family back together again. Is that abnormal or wrong? I just
couldn’t accept this divorce as final, yet. With a child involved,
this divorce was much heavier emotionally on me than my first one.
It made it much harder to let Joya go. Despite the pain, I just didn’t
want it to end. Why? At school, I despised many of my classes
and the constant heavy workload, but still found time to drink daily
after completing homework. I’d sit on my bed watching anything
on TV and wondering when this would all be over. Surprisingly, I
came out with a 3.95 grade average. I chose to self-medicate, to
numb out my feelings and pain. I had one session with a
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psychiatrist, who wanted to put me on Zoloft psych meds. He said
I was dealing with the largest major depressors life had to offer –
all at the same time. I threw the psych meds down the toilette after
one try. I’d rather self-medicate my pain with malt liquor and pot.
I know how they react in my body and brain. Pharmaceuticals
have never been my bag. But sadly, after a Christmas party with
college classmates, I got my first DUI and served twenty-four
hours in jail. My troubles with alcohol were escalating.
“Boy, I can relate to what you’re talking about now. I’ve had
many DUI’s and you never forget your first one. It just plain
sucks that you end up here in prison, years later, after all the
heavies you’ve been through.”
“Well, maybe it was all a part of my preparation for prison,
Larkins.”
During my college break in the summer of ‘93, I took the
Amtrak train to Nebraska, where one of Babaji’s US ashrams
still flourished. I was finally off the cane and able to walk,
without much of a limp showing. There, I spent a week
learning the art of mantra music from Babaji’s Italian devotee,
Turkantom. I’d already been listening to his tapes for years, so
it was a real treat to hang out with this talented musician. I’ll
always remember him winking at me as we sang devotional
songs at 5 a.m. He told me many stories of Babaji, having lived
with Him, and all about His ashram in India. Oh, how I longed
to go there! How could I? I didn’t even have a job or the
means to get there. Turkantom preformed a concert in Omaha
and asked me to join him onstage during his last three songs.
What a treat and dream comes true that was! I got to play
guitar with my hero, as we intensely chanted the mantra along
with the audience. During my stay here too, a chiropractor
introduced me to the nature of urine therapy. I wasn’t ready yet
to imbibe my own “water of life” but a seed had been planted
about the healing nature of urine.
“That’s gross, Rideout! You’d better not let anybody here
know that you drank your own piss. You could get smashed,
Bunkie.”
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 “Chill out Larkins. I’ll tell you more about that later, in
private.”

I was expected to….

Joya and I finally decided that we needed to sell our home

and property. Neither of us could afford to buy the other one
out, as she was on welfare and I was on disability insurance.
And the dream was over anyway, wasn’t it? Now, all we had
was a ghost house of troubled memories. It was time to sell it!
Joya hosted a peyote meeting, complete with tipi, to hopefully
solve our problem. Sri and I drove up after the ceremony. I
learned that Joya’s new friends were part of the Native
American Church, which used peyote as a sacrament for deeper
prayer. I noticed that our dog Shanti was being severely
neglected, with her long hair beginning to matt and nobody
giving her any love. Even animals suffer from divorce. So I
took Shanti with me, even though I couldn’t have a dog at my
rental. Luckily, a fellow classmate offered to let Shanti live on
his property, where I could visit her more often. My poor dog’s
life was similar to my own…a dog’s life. My tabby cat Angela
would stay with Joya at the house until it sold. Hopefully by
that time, I’ll have a more stable home front for my pets. Joya
was sponsoring a birthday meeting for Sri’s life soon. Of
course, I was expected to participate. I nearly backed out at the
last minute, due to another argument with her. I didn’t begin to
understand what I was getting myself into. However, I was
persuaded to be there, as this was my son’s life we were dealing
with. An Anglo roadman or peyote chief named Hawk
conducted the ceremony. My first introduction to NAC and
peyote is basically beyond words, of course. This was also my
first experience of praying with tobacco, which I didn’t inhale.
I cried all night over the pain in my heart and the forgiveness
needed to heal it. God’s presence was very strong here. Joya
leaned over at one point and told me that she would always
love me, but we couldn’t live together anymore. It was tearing
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 us apart. Peyote did, however, help to bring us together in a
new way. This powerful church was the most real service I’ve
ever attended. People don’t preach and talk about God here.
Everybody prays deeply for twelve hours, which seems like
eternity, and experiences the Holy Spirit within them. The
peyote songs with the beating drum and rattling gourd took me
to new levels of prayer and awareness. Everybody here was
focused on my son’s young life. He would surely get a great
blessing for all the prayers said on his behalf. How could he
not? As the tipi door opened, I could literally wring out my wet
handkerchief, as it was soaked with cleansing tears. Now, I
had a new respect for Joya, this Native American Church and
all that peyote had shown me. I returned to college a much
more aware man, wanting to sit up again.
I got my chance the following weekend on Mother’s Day. I
felt my mom’s presence very strongly as the Christ light
literally pushed my face to the dirt floor in humbling respect.
Then I remembered her words before dying: “You won’t even
think of me when I’m gone.” As the years go by, I see what
she meant. How sad. But every time we do remember our
deceased loved ones, they come alive again in our hearts and
minds, especially with the help of this medicine. I learned
more in one night in the tipi, than I had in years of schooling.
There are no atheists in the tipi.
I want to be clear here. I do not want to offend or disrespect
the Native American Church or any of its members by relating
my stories of sitting up on peyote. With the advent of the
internet, it is all out there anyway. I am not disclosing any
secrets, only my respect for the medicine and this way of
worship.
“Your life continues to fascinate me, man. Now you’re
getting into peyote, with all your alcohol and personal
problems coming along,” Larkins dryly stated.
“This was just my introduction to what was to come later.
First, a life long dream would finally come to fruition that
would open my heart beyond my wildest expectations.”
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 “Tell me my friend, did the house sell? I really do like all
this. You know that, right?”

Everybody faces racism and time here….

Let’s talk about racism here. Prisons are the acid test like
babies are to a marriage. I had no idea that I’d feel strong
resentment towards those of other color, race, or religion after
being exposed to so many foreign countries. Prison too is like
a foreign country, but without a Lonely Planet guidebook or
map. With an in-house population of close to 70% Mexican, I
had to face the truth of my feelings and perceptions. The
Mexican and Chicano ways are so different and I could easily
harp on all the negatives. It takes a lot of strength not to be
racist here and to try harder to see the Christ in each individual.
Just walking down the hall can be a real challenge and patience
tester. Being born an American, the whole illegal immigration
issue is a very volatile subject. I predict that in my lifetime, we
may see a new flag with green, red and white stripes for the
United States of Mexico. It might have only forty-nine stars,
as Alaska may prove too cold for our border brothers. We’ll
probably see underground coyotes too, smuggling Arians into
the Great White North. I hope Sri learns Spanish, as he might
need it for employment. Enough said about this. I see what
they mean about the pen being mightier than the sword.
The tongue is way up there too and, God knows, this has
been my biggest lesson daily in prison. I’m trying always to
think before I speak. For a talker like me, that’s hard to do.
Even a simple “hi” can be interpreted by some institutional
long timer as, “What do you mean by that?!” As part of the
code here, it’s safer not to talk about anything that doesn’t
directly concern you. And while we’re still on the subject of
racism, our resident atheist Jew needs mention. He is a very
intelligent pathetic creature, who has the knack of putting his
foot in his mouth or doing the wrong thing at exactly the wrong
time. The poor bastard even salivates at the mouth when he
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 gets excited talking. Library wise, as I am currently the
librarian, he ruins book bindings, is supercritical and
opinionated about nearly everything and can never seem to put
the newspapers away correctly- all little stuff, of course. This
David hails from eastside New York City. His father escaped
from a concentration camp in Nazi Germany and went on to
help develop the atomic bomb in Chicago. David claims to
have been beat poet Allen Ginsberg’s lawyer. But now, he’s
debarred and down for five years, practicing as a jailhouse
lawyer. The Arians can’t stand David helping the Mexicans
with their legal problems. Last night, he was caught removing
papers from the library reference DOC Bible, to defend a
chief’s case; wrong race again David! He believes that life is
just random chaos and thinks I believe in mumbo jumbo,
hippie religious shit. This David is not spiritual one iota, but
more of a radical political activist. Sadly, the poor guy was
beaten up by a whole pod of skinheads in county jail, when a
guard moved him into this lion’s den. I am certain David has
an opinion on racism.
The blacks here don’t seem to notice racism much, as
they’ve experienced it all before. And the chiefs really don’t
give a shit, as they’ve seen racism and illegal immigration ever
since Manifest Destiny took over their land. I personally feel
that the whites here react to racism to the greatest degree. Guys
like me. We had a meeting in the bathroom late one night, to
discuss pod racial issues. We were told by our white pod
father, sitting on a shitter like it was his throne, to be sure to
clean any hair out of the sink after shaving. Other races could
leave hair, he explained, as somebody always was, but not us
whites! Don’t forget what race you are- the best one! See
what I mean? If you’d don’t think you are racist, come to
prison. The experience will put you to the test.
Having failed to put God first in every moment of my life,
I’ve been misled by illusions that ultimately put me here for
my next lessons in awakening. My challenge here is to turn
loss into gain; where a loser shall become a winner, if he wants
to. And God knows how I want to! As they teach us in classes
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here, it often takes a tragedy to really change. I’m embarrassed
to think of how often I’ve thought that I’ve had that life-
changing tragedy. All of those wake-up calls now cause me a
lot of shame. Where is one’s real rock bottom? I pray that this
prison time is the needed last tragedy that I must endure to
wake up- finally, once and for all.
Someday, I’ll get out of these bars. But the exact date is still
uncertain. I have a time comp which gives January 27, 2005 as
my earliest release date. Rumors talk about even earlier
releases, if changes occur in Arizona’s state legislature. But
this is just yard talk and rumors change daily here about early
release. For guys serving long sentences, like six to ten years,
these rumors keep their hopes up. I cannot imagine where their
heads are at, and the depression they must face. Prison is one
huge rumor mill with some new story surfacing daily. It’s easy
to get caught up here in the unknown future and forget the
lessons of the eternal holy instant, Now.
I had hoped to move up with Tony and Barb upon my
earliest release date, only to discover that Arizona won’t let me
perform my community supervision or parole in Washington
with friends - friends that are my family. It can only be
possible if I live with blood relatives, which I do not have
anymore. After much letter writing, phone calls, and research,
I also discovered that there are no ADC approved halfway
houses north of Phoenix for parolees re-entering the free world.
The thought of living in Phoenix in a half-way house without a
driver’s license is very unappealing to me. I can’t stand
Phoenix with transportation! So I signed the legal papers to
deny my early release, unless something changes, and just live
more of my time institutionalized. I’m still killing my number,
but in a setting I’ve grown used to, slowly. To pay for my mini
storage rent, Lyn helped sell my Toyota truck to a released
inmate. I only got seven hundred dollars, but that sum was
what I needed to protect my belongings. The truck was in sad
shape anyway and now I won’t be tempted to drive. I’ve never
really been without wheels my whole life and I truly have no
idea at this point when or if I’ll ever be able to legally drive
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 again- Carma with a C. Legal driving is a privilege, not a right;
one that could possibly be taken away from me forever.

I prayed to Babaji….

As the house wasn’t selling after Joya’s peyote ceremony, I

prayed to Babaji for help in selling our home. I promised to
come directly to India, in thanks, if the house sold. My prayers
were answered almost overnight and the house did sell,
enabling me with the means to finally go to the ancient
motherland of my dreams. Joya and Sri would be moving south
to New Mexico, in her recently purchased blue school bus.
There, she would be studying herbal healing. The summer
before I finished school, I erected a twenty-four foot diameter
canvas yurt on Wayne and Teri’s ten acres of property,
overlooking Bellingham. Carpenter friend Kirk, who works as
slow as a turtle, helped me construct the stage for my new
home. It took all summer for something that should have taken
a week at most to create.
“Weren’t those the people who went to Fiji with you and
Bruce?” asked Larkins.
“Yeah, they came through with flying colors by giving me a
place to live in the woods again. They were up in Alaska
fishing while I lived in their twenty-four foot travel trailer,
trying to get Kirk to work a little faster. God, he is slow!”
I even built a separate bedroom for Sri, so he would have his
own space when he slept over with me. However, before I left
for India, Joya called from New Mexico with some distressing
news. She stated that she now loved the Southwest and had no
intentions of ever returning to the Pacific Northwest to live.
Well now, that just blew a hole in my yurt! Should I be
moving to the Southwest too, after India, to be near my son and
divorced wife?

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 My dad passed away from esophagus cancer in May of ‘94. I
had tried my best the day before his death to get it right with
him, one last time. Crying at his bedside, I told him how much
I loved him and asked for his forgiveness. After marrying his
nurse Pam, he conveniently left everything to her. Sri and I got
absolutely nothing! Not surprisingly, I had hurt my dad
verbally, when I was having my emotional breakdown from the
stress of divorce, the accident and my miserable life. All of my
anger came out, directed at him as a father. I said things to my
poor dad that never should have been said- the same heartless
behavior I’d used on Joya. I cut him to the bone and now he
would never forgive me. However, I felt my dad had never
been there for me growing up. He failed to understand my
lifestyle as a musician and spiritual seeker. Having grown up a
doctor’s son, I never wanted to be a doctor. The phone was
always ringing in our house, forever taking my father further
away from me. And a certain stigmata came along with being a
doctor’s son- one that I despised. In short, by this time, neither
of us really knew or understood each other. And it was too late
in the game to even try. All I could do was watch my dad die.
Why do children seem to go the opposite way of their parents?
“Wow that is sad. Maybe you’re here to confront those
feelings about your dad, Rideout. Your anger over him seems
to be a core issue in your life. Don’t you agree?”
“You’re right but to top it all off, my dad seemed to have no
interest in his grandson’s future, which really upset me all the
more.”
“Yeah, that does kind of suck. But now, you can address
those issues.”
All I ever wanted to be for my son Sri was a good father.
Now that reality was being taken away from me too. I was
feeling like a real failure at relationships and wondering if
maybe I wasn’t just better off living alone? Maybe this trip to
India will provide some answers and guidance. God knows I
could sure use some at this turning point!

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 “Did you get your answers, Rideout? What happened in
India?” asked my anxious Bunkie.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
When I wrote my Iowa farmer/ Fiji friend Tim Welch about
my pilgrimage to India, he insisted that I spend time with him
in Bangkok, where he was now living and married to a Thai
wife, named Aoy. Thailand came on the same expensive ticket,
so I made arrangements to spend a month there after India.
Spiritual brother Dan, who built our dream octagon and let me
live in his cabin during our separation, drove me early to Sea-
Tac airport. He somehow got us lost in downtown Seattle at 4
a.m. by getting in the wrong lane on I-5. Get me to the airport
Brother. We said our goodbyes over a hurried cup of
Starbuck’s airport coffee, before I flew south to Albuquerque
to spend a couple of days with Sri before India. Joya,
boyfriend Johnny and Sri had the school bus parked on Joya’s
Native American teacher’s desert property. The smell of pine
trees and sage was intoxicating. Johnny proved to be a good
fatherly friend for young Sri, as I saw them playing together.
Joya let me borrow her car, so Sri and I got to explore Santa Fe,
where we found him a black felt cowboy hat. Sri had to shape
it like Pecos Bill’s immediately. He’d just seen Tall Tales.
Then we all soaked in Jemez hot springs under a snow cover.
Seeing Joya and young Johnny nude together, and obviously
happy, really hit a nerve in me. How can people change mates
so easily? I slept in Johnny’s Aloha travel trailer that night,
filled with Joya’s drying herbs. Wow! What a smell! However,
as I stepped out to relieve myself, I heard them making love.
Again, this was just another hole for my heart. I had so many
now that I had lost count.
“Boy, you did go through a bunch of heavies in a row! You
must have been pumped for this trip.”
“I was very excited, but also scared of the unknown. India!
Just the word is heavy.”
When Joya and Sri took me to the airport, I could feel the
pain and confusion in Sri’s young heart, as he watched me fly
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away from his life for awhile. I would return, in time, but
that’s hard for a five-year-old to understand. His whole world
had been turned upside down too, by this ugly reality called
Divorce.

I was going Om ….

In Los Angeles International Airport, I ran into the Hare

Krishna’s. They seem to love airports. They tried to lay their
books and rap on me. It was hilarious. Here I am, off to India,
the birth place of their god Krishna, in fifteen minutes, while
they’re stuck in smoggy L.A., chanting the mantra and trying
to find new converts in an airport of all places. Finally, I was
seated in my 747 for the long flight to Mother India. I was
going Om, spiritually speaking.
“That sounds like something you’d say. Give me a break.”
“Well, like I told you Larkins, I’ve wanted to see India since
I was a child.”
Seeing actor Sabu star as Mogli in the classic movie of
Kipling’s Jungle Book stirred ancient memories in me. How
was I to know that Sabu looked exactly like young Babaji in
His present 1970 incarnation? That movie turned me on to
exotic India and Babaji, unconsciously. On the long flight up
the coast of Alaska, then crossing over to Southeast Asia, I
witnessed a sunrise from 30,000 feet. The colors with the
earth’s curve below were like an IMAX sci-fi movie. I’d never
seen a sunrise like this! At sunset of the same day on this 20
hour flight, I saw the full moon shining over the Ganges River
above Calcutta. India, from on high, hardly has any bright city
street lights. They all looked like 12-volt systems, compared to
our first world electrical extravaganzas.
On my flight, I noticed a black lady with large matted
dreadlocks and that spiritual look in her eyes. Obviously,
another devotee of some guru, I thought. When I arrived into

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 Delhi’s Palam International Airport at around 3 a.m., my
rucksack didn’t arrive. I was left with just my carryon,
wondering what’s next. My pack had somehow gotten off in
Thailand, during refueling. Welcome to India!
“You’ve got to be kidding me! That would really piss me
off!”
“That is just how things go in India. Anybody who has been
here will tell you that. Anything that can happen has happened
here already and will happen again.”
I ended up getting a cab to the YMCA with the California
dreadlock. I found out that she was off to see holy man Sai
Baba again. She was also meeting her dreadlocked daughter at
the Y. I felt very comfortable around this lady. Birds of a
feather do flock together.
My small room at the Y, with a bathroom down the hall for
the whole floor, cost ten dollars a day. At the time, this seemed
reasonable to me. The Y felt safe. It has a reputation, after all. I
walked out into the pre-dawn streets of Delhi to see it come to
life. India! My good God, I am finally here! What a sensation
and realization.
“Wow, that must have been like a dream come true for you.”
“Yeah, it was. I couldn’t wait for the sun to come up so I
could see more and explore Delhi!”
Work crews silently sat around fires as I walked, while
others slept in doorways looking like corpses ready for burial.
Nothing much was happening yet, so I went back into the Y for
an early breakfast. There, I met Ian Coppell. He was a British
schoolteacher at a private International Girls’ School in
Mussoorie, U.P., up above Rishikesh in the sacred Himalayan
foothills. He was presently on holiday leave in Delhi. Ian had
grown up in Liverpool and his father was a noted fretless jazz
bass player, who personally knew the Beatles quite well. He
shared many unheard Beatle stories with me.
“Do you remember any today?” questioned Larkins.

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 “No, I really don’t. You know how the mind works. You
remember what you remember. It’s amazing that I can even
remember all that I’ve been telling you for months. Don’t
interrupt any more and just let me talk.”
“Okay.”
Ian proudly introduced me to my first day in Delhi,
beginning with Connaught Circle, a huge complex hub of
shops and cafes. I was totally blown away, all day. My senses
were continually assaulted by noises, chanting, and the odor of
burning cow dung, diesel exhaust, incense and curry. These are
the smells of Delhi, combined with pathetic beggars vying for
attention and aggressive shop owners all shouting “Hallo!”
Many people were taking morning showers squatting on their
haunches at water hydrants, totally oblivious to me. One
woman beggar was cut off at the waist and so horribly ugly and
deformed, that I had to look away. Her karma was obviously
way heavier than the skateboard amputee I’d seen in ’68
Madrid. Somebody had to have helped her get to where she
lays all day. After curry lunch, standing up with scores of
others in the cheap cafe, I went off on my own to explore for
awhile. I was immediately hit with a case of Delhi belly. I
looked into one of Delhi’s public latrines and about puked.
There was shit everywhere! I had to run back to the Y to
relieve myself. I felt no tiredness from my flight and presently
felt very cleaned out. I rushed on my own adrenaline and the
intense energy of New Delhi. In no time at all, I was
approached by a shoeshine boy. I told him that you can’t polish
tennis shoes. What a moron, but maybe not? He asked, under
his breath, if I wanted to buy any charas, Hindi for hash. Yes,
yes, yes! I found out soon that I’d just paid nearly seven times
the true price, but that seemed cheap to me. Again, this was my
first day in India and I didn’t even begin to know the ropes yet.
“What did you pay, Rideout?”
“I paid the equivalent of twenty dollars for ten grams of hash.
The true price was three bucks.”

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 After calling Thai Airlines, I was assured that my lost
backpack would arrive tomorrow. That was comforting news.
Next, I found a Tibetan import shop that sold me a smoking
pipe. Now, off I went to my Y room to partake of the holy
sacrament. This was yet another dream come true for me; to
smoke hash in India. I think a lot of old hippies have that
dream. However, this charas which tasted great wasn’t as
strong as the‘70’s hash I’d experienced and come to adore. So,
Ian and I decided to go have some Indian beer. Being the only
two customers in a gaudy red cocktail lounge, I found
Kingfisher to be incredibly tasty, much like microbrewery
beers back home. After getting a mild buzz, I experienced my
first ride in a small black and yellow kerosene-operated “putt-
putt.” What a rush! I wanted to scream continually, as
everybody here drives in a total crazy free-for-all frenzy.
Anybody who has been to India knows what I mean. This place
is much wilder than Rome. At one point, an elephant walked
about two feet in front of us. Begging children would approach
at stoplights, calling me God and asking for a quarter of one
cent. This was Poor India, full blown. I saw the huge full
moon, rising red in the east from pollution of exhaust fumes, as
I stood on my YMCA balcony. The blazing red sun was setting
in the west, on my still first day in India. The noise of Delhi,
wafting up at me, almost sounded like music at times. There
were parrots, vultures and hawks flying everywhere. Here was
some exotic beauty. India has more birds than any other
country on earth.
Joining up with Ian again as the sun was setting; he insisted
that we pay a visit to the girls of the night in Old Delhi. Oh boy,
how will this compare with Amsterdam? Ian disclosed that he
had done this before alone and had nearly gotten robbed and/or
stabbed. Great, so that’s why he’s taking me along – for
protection. We climbed up worn, slimy steps, under a single
green light bulb, to enter a room packed with short girls, aged
about twelve to seventeen years old. This is nothing like
Amsterdam. Their bright red lipstick was smeared on past their
young lips, almost giving the appearance of a clown.

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 “That sounds gross!”
They rubbed my arms, saying, “I’ll be your Lolita, Baby…
fucky, fucky darling?”
“Let’s get out of here now, Ian!” I exclaimed.
Well, the next room looked exactly like the last, as if maybe
there was a connecting door we hadn’t noticed. Enough of this,
I thought, let’s gets out of here now, even if their asking price
was about two dollars. Later that same night, we walked to a
Chinese café for a late dinner. There was luckily a place still
open. Some people actually had beds in the streets. I was
telling Ian all about my accident, Babaji and recent divorce,
when we noticed that we were walking with a nomadic family
surrounding us. They looked like real India. Dad was
turbaned and heavily bearded, wearing a wraparound blanket,
and right out of the Jungle Book. This elder and his exotic
young looking wife had about ten kids in their tribe. They
smiled at me with an unworldly look. They had so much love
in their eyes! For a moment I felt as if I were a part of their
family. I ended up crying in an emotional release, thinking of
where my life had put me. I was surrounded by a love supreme
in this ancient land of the soul. By the time I tried to put all of
this down on my new cassette recorder, I couldn’t fall asleep. I
really hadn’t closed my eyes in almost three days, I think.
After literally buzzing on my bed, I finally did fall asleep,
totally exhausted of course. I’m really in another world now;
one I’ve dreamt about for so long.
“What did the next day bring?”
“Day number two brought the phone call saying my lost pack
was now at the airport- my first miracle in India.”
I hired a driver and his yellow jacket putt-putt to take me
there. I told him to wait, as I’d be back in about twenty
minutes. Or so I thought.
“You don’t know India,” he calmly stated. How right he
was- I finally returned nearly four hours later.

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 “I am still here for you, sahib. You are liking India?” asked
my smiling cabbie.
“Yes and no.” I answered. “Take me back to the Y.”
I just had to pay baksheesh to an old man, who escorted me
to where my pack was, in an airplane-hanger-sized building of
lost luggage. Everybody has their hand out here. Why pay
money to somebody who didn’t even do anything? India was
definitely going to teach me the greatest of all virtues- Patience,
with a capital P.
“Prison is teaching us that too, Rideout.”
“Maybe that’s why I have an easier time here than you! India
prepared me.”
Most everything in India is super cheap- lives, food and
souvenirs. I bought a rudraksha seed carved into a cobra with
Shiva lingam, from an orange-clad sadhu lady and her lovely
little daughter. To this day, I’ve never seen a prettier girl. Her
eyes glowed with so much inner light that they were silver, like
tin foil. India is one of the poorest countries on earth, but very
high on the love level. I never felt threatened or afraid in India.
Those dark Hindu eyes seem to have an inner spiritual depth
that few in the West possess. They know something we don’t.
They are good at accepting life just the way it is, amongst all
the insanity, chaos and poverty that surrounds them. The West
could learn a lot from India and vice versa. Hell, everybody
knows that.
I found an eighteen-inch-high brass Shiva statue for $95.00,
which actually retails for about $450.00 in the West. Lord, is it
ever beautiful! I had the shop owner store it for me until I
would be leaving India. Can I trust him? I think so. This
magnetic statue emits a power and serenity that is awesome –
my brass murti or image of Babaji. It was hard not to buy
everything I saw these first few days, as the bargains and
products were so overwhelming. It’s easy to see how and why
so many travelers get into the import/export business of foreign
delights. I would have to hold off on the souvenirs until later,

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as I still had over three more months to go and couldn’t be
burdened with such mementos now. I’d already brought way
too much with me, as I discovered quickly. Maybe I’ll give
some away to lighten my load. At night, I would try again to
put verbal accounts of my day onto the Radio Shack tape
recorder. So many things were happening to me that one single
day in Delhi, felt like a week back home. Talk about a time
warp! I did meet a cool hip sadhu, named Hardwari Baba, at
Delhi’s local Shiva temple. He read my palms free, for over an
hour; even prophesying over the small lines on each part of
each finger. He hit the nail on the head quite accurately. I
bought him a cup of coffee. I was also permitted to visit
Babaji’s bedroom at this Shiva temple. He occasionally stayed
overnight there, it seems. The walls were lined with pictures of
Him I’d never seen before, including one with many signs in
his inked footprints. As an incarnation of Shiva, Babaji has
astrological signs, a cobra, trident, a wheel and more, all in His
feet; like we have fingerprints. As Yogananda stated, Babaji is
beyond human comprehension. When the Lord appears in
human form, only one out of a million will even know. Of
course, everybody just thinks this is plain crazy. But is it?
What if? I totally believe it. Babaji has appeared throughout
ancient and modern history in various forms and in many
cultures and yet humanity still doubts. Why we haven’t heard
of Him, people ask. He only lets Himself be known to very few.
If only we had the eyes to see and the faith to believe. I
personally feel that Babaji and Yogananda backed The Beatles,
from behind the scenes, unbeknownst to them.
“Now that’s far out,” reflected Larkins.
Their pictures are even on the cover of the Sergeant Pepper
album. The Beatles were a perfect channel for a love divine to
touch our planet. But what do I know?
“Well, you know a whole lot more about this stuff than me.
I’m just hanging in here, letting you ramble,” commented my
only friend here.

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 On day number three, still at the Y, I arose early Sunday
morning to catch the eighteen-hour tour bus for the Taj Mahal-
one of the Seven Wonders of the World. This should be good!
The dreadlocked mother, whose name I learned was Satya, and
her hairy daughter Gopika were on the same tour to Agra. Cool.
They looked much pumped up for what we were going to see.
On the drive there, I sat near an American ornithologist and his
daughter. They had come to India to film and document birds.
I came to give thanks to God and worship. She took notes,
while dad busily researched his bird books for all the various
classifications of winged creatures they were videotaping. It
was fun to see somebody else enjoying India, but in a whole
different context than me. We truly do see what we want to see.
Projection is perception, as they say.
The small dirty town of Agra totally caters to Taj tourists,
who are pouring in by the bus loads every day. Souvenirs
abound everywhere. Upon seeing the Taj Mahal, it was
everything I’d ever imaged it to be. I think everybody feels this
way their first few moments. It takes your breath away. I felt
as if I were momentarily suspended in a dream world. Time
seemed to stand still, as well as my chattering inner dialogue.
The perfection and beauty of this creation is truly something
out of this world. The story of its creation is too. Taking
twenty years to build, back in 1632 A.D., with thousands of
workers, the name Taj Mahal means crown of the palace. This
is in reference to the empress Arjumand, for whom it was built.
However, the love story behind its creation is very sad. When
Arjumand died in childbirth, her husband Emperor Sahah
Jehan turned white haired overnight in grief. He built this
mausoleum for his deceased wife but was forced to view it
until his death from across the Yamuna River, where his
wicked power-seeking son, Aurangzeb had incarcerated him.
Ironically, empress Arjumand had died giving birth to this evil
son. Dysfunctional families seem to have a long history in our
world.
“Yeah, I came from a dysfunctional family too” blurted out
Larkins. “That’s probably why I became an alcoholic.”
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 “You may be onto something there, Larkins. It all starts with
our family, in one way or another. At least we were fortunate to
have a family. Many don’t.”
Upon entering the Taj, we heard the song of the muezzin; the
call for Muslim prayer. The acoustics are perfect within these
jewel-lined marble walls. When flutist Paul Horn recorded
here in the early ‘70’s, a mosquito could be heard in his
recording. Our tour guide, Mr. Lal, upon finding out that I was
an American, asked if I knew Baba Ram Das. Far out! I said
that I had met him and loved his book, Be Here Now. This Mr.
Lal had shown Ram Das the Taj years ago. He probably did
acid with him too, as he seemed pretty hip for a tour guide. I
soon saw my first of many sadhus here. I found these holy men
to be very beautiful, both physically and spiritually. This
skinny old man had dreads piled eighteen inches high on his
ash-smeared head.
“I’m a holy man… holy man,” he quietly said, in a very high
meek voice.
One can feel their inner calm and lack of anxiety from far
away. On many levels, I felt like I’d returned home in India.
So many hidden emotions and new feelings were coursing
through me. Surely, I had lived here before! It seemed as if the
love I so lacked and longed for in my family and country, made
a daily appearance here. God must surely love India, to have
blessed it in so many unique ways. I purchased a small white
marble Shiva statue, which is supposedly made by the direct
descendants of the Taj craftsmen. I’ll bet! I also bought a mala
of 108 sandalwood prayer beads and a blue woolen blanket.
Upon observation, blankets seem to be one of the most
common pieces of clothing in India, right up there with saris.
En route back to Delhi, our tour bus stopped for puja or temple
services at the birthplace of Lord Krishna in Mathura. The
temple gongs, in alternating crashes, metallically shouted
“Krishna.” I stood on the supposed exact birth spot of Krishna
and purchased a framed picture of the love god for my altar. A
man, with a very keen ear, helped me pick a nice melodic set of
small chanting cymbals, to help me sing my way through Hind;
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 from the heart, of course. On this same day, I tape recorded
and photographed cobra snake charmers and smelled the stench
of chained tamed black bears, along with camels and monkeys.
The monkey man got off on my peacock yell and cougar
scream. Comically on the bus ride home, we had to put up with
the ravings of an obnoxious drunken Russian tourist and his
heavy set homely wife, dressed out in traditional Ukraine garb.
Finally, a turbaned Sikh put him back in his seat. India just
doesn’t quit, even on a bus.
“Do they drink coffee in India?” questioned Larkins.
“You can get it, but it’s usually Nescafe instant,” I answered
back.
“That’s equivalent to what we drink here. What’s up with
that?”
“It seems that the British got India into tea-big time.”
Chai seems to be the national drink in India- very sweet
black tea, with plenty of spices. Around the train stations, one
continually hears the shouted mantra, “Chai ya, Chai ya,” by
the Chai wallahs. It’s very inexpensive, like less than 5¢ a cup.
Commonly, the small ocher sun dried river mud teacups are
smashed on the railroad tracks, after one imbibes the
saccharine beverage. I always wondered who made the
millions of cups, as the Indian population was well over 900
million reincarnated souls in ’94. These delicate pottery cups
would make a nice souvenir ashtray, if you could get it home in
one piece.
On day number four, I took a long walk around Delhi alone.
I saw the famous Hanuman monkey temple, dedicated to Sri
Ram’s simian friend. There were so many large aggressive
monkeys there that armed guards are on duty to beat back the
monkeys and protect devotees. While I was leisurely enjoying
my walk unperturbed, a young rickshaw driver, by the name of
Ashoka Shiri Om, insisted that I take a free ride from him. He
also claimed to be a med-student. I desisted, as I really just
wanted to walk and be alone. Driving slowly along beside me,

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he continually stated that he just wanted to be my friend. What
to do? The classic Indian hustle was at work! He took me to
the monstrous-sized Bilar Vishnu temple and then out to eat;
where he paid for my curry meal and whiskey. Alcohol, in
India, is hard to find, even in a city the size of Delhi. Most
Hindus just don’t drink and certainly can’t afford it too often if
they do. I even found a beer named Guru, with an ocher-
colored bottle cap. Now that irony made me laugh! The word
guru means, dispeller of darkness. What a misnomer. The same
night, I was scheduled to take a bus ride northeast to the town
of Haldwani. This is the get-off point to Babaji’s ashram in
Herakhan. When I finally got seated on the bus, this hustler
Ashoka pleaded desperately for twenty dollars; to buy his
medical textbooks. He promised to pay me back in full, when
I returned to Delhi, even giving me his mother’s home phone
number. At this time, twenty dollars was about equal to a
month’s wages in India. I never saw this con man Ashoka
again, but I would, ironically, hear about him once more.
“So now you’re finally on your way, to where this Babaji of
yours lived?” asked Larkins. “You must have been anxious!”
“Oh yeah, I really was. All of my expectations were coming
to a head.”

Now my nervous excitement was….

I can still remember hearing the excitement in my voice, as I

listened to this recorded sojourn later. The all-night bus ride
was very cold. We were headed up in elevation to the foothills
of the Himalayas. I used my Value Village down vest and new
blue Agra blanket to attempt staying warm-burr! This area of
the Kumon is the abode of the gods, a very sacred pilgrimage
destination for sadhu and Western babas alike. Now, I was
super-excited, something I hadn’t felt in a very long time. I felt
as if divine guidance was protecting every step of my way.
One hill person on the bus looked a lot like Babaji, circa ’82. I

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 arrived at 4 a.m. to a dark quiet Haldwani town. I already
knew that the Kailash Hotel was the place to stay, for Baba
devotees anyway. I was given Leonard Orr’s room. He is the
author of Physical Immortality, and the self-proclaimed father
of my expensive rebirthing sessions. I briefly experimented
with this connected breathing rhythm back in my Sumas days,
as well as hanging upside down suspended from ropes off my
porch beams. There was a great calendar photo of Babaji on
the wall, life size, which I was allowed to take home. It has
followed me ever since. Then, surprise! In the hotel lobby
were the two original photos of Babaji in 1917, which I had in
the book I’d taken to South America. The hotel owner was
busy lighting incense and then waving it around the photos
three times, in a clock wise fashion. One picture was taken,
but two photos miraculously developed. Babaji was dressed in
one, but naked in the other. Go figure that one out! Next to the
framed pictures was the handwritten explanatory story by Baba
Hari Das, the author of my book.
“Isn’t that the same dude who gave you your spiritual name-
the silent one with the chalk board?” remembered Larkins.
“Yeah, it’s same guy, the one who doesn’t talk. He too had
stayed here. Remember, he’s the one who gave me the name,
Hari Om, prior to my divorce from Joya.”
And now, that was the name I went by. Goodbye Rob, for a
while at least. I learned too that very few are ever given this
name Hari Om, even in India. Like many others, it is the
supreme name of God.
After a short sleep, I found the grain shop of Babaji’s main
man, Muniraj. His facial features strongly resemble those of
Chief Sitting Bull. You must get permission from him, to even
be allowed into Herakhan. After sitting with this “king of
silence,” as Babaji had labeled him, I was granted my passage.
He asked me about Hiraman. And he actually remembered
meeting me in the Seattle area a decade before, when he and
revered Shastraji, another Babaji saint, toured the U.S. ashrams
and centers. Another shorter bus ride ensued, but this time
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there were many shaven-headed disciples on board, with
yellow horizontal stripes on their foreheads. I had made a
sacred promise to Sri Ram that I would not shave my head. Sri
had been through enough changes, due to our divorce, and
wanted to see me return home looking like his memories- not
like some cholo rapper or survivor of Dachau. As the mundun
or head shave was required after two weeks of ashram life, I
would cross this bridge later. Now, my nervous excitement
was increasing. I saw the original Mount Kailash through the
pine trees. It has also been called Mount Meru, the ground axis
of the earth, king of mountains, and the golden mountain. It is
supposedly the center of our world, holy beyond words. The
other Kailash in Tibet gets all the recognition, but this Kumaon
Kailash, Babaji claims, is the original. Other claims say that
Jesus supposedly spent time here too, during his “missing
years.” I wouldn’t doubt it. Psychics state that this whole area
is bathed in a violet flame. Stories abound here that sound like
science fiction to skeptics. However, I was now about to enter
into the camp of the believers- those like myself who love
Babaji with all of their heart. I had found my tribe. Babaji
Himself said that one can only come here, if his karma is in
correct order. I guess my karma at this point of my life’s
journey was in order, as confusing as it all seems, as here came
the magic moment.
“Well, what did the place look like?”
“Beautiful!”
Walking down the hill of huge pine and oak trees, I was
reminded of Colorado. Suddenly, I had my first glimpse of
Herakhan Vishwa Madham, the center of the universe. Well,
Babaji’s universe, anyway. Nine peach-colored banana-shaped
temples sat against the base of Mount Kailash, across the holy
Gautama Ganga River. This river flows underground
temporarily from its source at the Tibetan Kailash to resurface
here. The warm river was teeming with fish. Babaji’s cave,
where He has incarnated many times, sits next to the nine
temples. On the south side of the multi-channeled river is the
main ashram complex. The dormitory rooms are all peach-
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 colored here too, as well as the highly sacred, octagonal Shiva
temple old Babaji erected in 1840. Where He got the marble to
erect this mandir, up in this remote mountain valley, is still an
unsolved mystery. Next to this old temple is the Mahasamadhi
shrine where Babaji’s 1984 body is buried in lotus position
under an eight-sided marble cross, bearing the mantra Om
Namah Shivaya on top. My good God, all this was too much!
I had new potential friends, from six different countries, all
bunking in my dorm. Luckily for me, everybody spoke
English with their appropriate accents. And everybody had
stories and tales of their encounters with Babaji. Many had
spent time with Him in the flesh, prior to His passing in 1984.
Their stories were often amazing, again testing one’s limits on
believing.
“Most of your stories test my beliefs, Rideout.”
“I’m sure they do, Larkins. Maybe you need to have your
mind opened up a bit more, my friend. It wouldn’t hurt.”
There are two Chai shops at the ashram, where I drank
instant coffee at 4 a.m. each morning. I needed coffee, not chai.
Everybody gets up at that ungodly hour for the descent down
the 108 steps to the river, for ritual bathing. The water was
often warmer than the outside air. Next, we lined up at
Babaji’s room to have chundun applied to our damp foreheads.
Chundun is yellow sandalwood paste, applied in three
horizontal lines across the forehead, with the red tilik dot and
rice grains anointing our newly opened third eye. Now,
everyone resembles a god or goddess, Hindu of course. If you
weren’t wearing this sacred marking, you were asked to leave,
as it was proof you’d slept in and weren’t serious about
working the program here. There were such unfortunates.
Standing outside of Babaji’s room at this early hour of the
oncoming day was something that I’ll never forget. The stars
looked closer than I’d ever seen them and the smell emanating
from Babaji’s small room was intoxicating. How could I ever
be so blessed as to be here right now? After all the recent hell
I’d been through, I now felt like I was approaching the upper
rungs of the spiritual ladder. Life at this ashram brought one in
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touch with the divine- both within and without. That is what
ashram life is all about- non-stop devotion and ceremony. Here,
it seemed to come naturally.
After chundun, we meditated next to the sacred fire dhuni,
where the flame has burned non-stop since Babaji’s
reappearance in 1970. Certain devotees hold the honor of
keeping this fire burning for months on end, as part of their
spiritual discipline. Much could be said about the power of a
dhuni. A series of little footbridges take one across the river to
the cave and nine temples on the other side. A small
antechamber has been built in front of the actual cave, where
you crawl on knees with a flashlight into a two-man hole in
Mount Kailash. A small stone Shiva lingam, with incense and
candles, graces Babaji’s famous face photo inside the cave.
Upon entering, I felt like I was in the warm womb of Divine
Mother. How many cosmic forces had aligned for me to end up
here in Babaji’s sacred cave? How many? I took a small piece
of wall rock for my medicine bag. It was often difficult to find
alone time here, as everyone desired to meditate in this holy of
holies. I soon met one of the local hill boys, Triloka Singh,
from across the river. He rented packhorses and dealt charas.
Now, I got the right price- three dollars for ten grams; not
twenty dollars! Smoking, technically, was not allowed at the
ashram, but the Italians got away with it daily. I got busted by
the ruling ashram queen for smoking charas with two
wandering sadhu. We all got a verbal lashing and reprimand.
Hash has always been my drug of choice and here in India, it is
believed to be the very essence of Lord Shiva himself. I
couldn’t agree more. When young Babaji reappeared here in
1970, he seldom spoke but did smoke charas, occasionally. He
sat for forty-five days atop Mount Kailash, like a statue- never
moving, eating or toileting. Nobody every saw His eyes blink
either. Most people claimed that His open eyes burned right
into their souls. Many others said that He could be scary to be
around, as He knows all thoughts- all the time.
“It sounds like this Babaji is a master magician.”

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 “Well, not really, as He dissolves illusions. He doesn’t create
them, as a magician would.”
As I arrived here, just prior to Christmas, rehearsals for the
Christmas play were well underway. Babaji respected all
religions and had told Westerners years ago to “do the
Christmas thing.” I was immediately asked to take part in the
Nativity play and assigned the role of one of the three visiting
wise men. When Christmas arrived, I was very excited. This
proved to be a Christmas I would never forget. At dress
rehearsal the day before, I was told to come to the ashram
office for part of my costume. There, an Italian devotee named
Ganga lent me Babaji’s silver silk waistcoat to wear. I was
floored when she stated that this particular vest had been His
favorite. Wow, I get to wear it! All of my dorm mates had to
smell and feel it, for a contact high. On Christmas morning, I
took a walk alone down river to pray for my distant son, Sri
Ram and his mother Joya. Oh, how I missed them! I noticed
the floating hair locks shaven from devotees’ mundun heads.
Upon closer inspection, right in front of me in the water sat my
rock lingam from Herakhan. This rock fit perfectly to every
part of my palm and had a white stripe around the face that
resembled the elephant god Ganesh, son of Shiva. When I
returned up the 108 steps, old Prem Baba took hold of my
geological Christmas present and spoke in Hindi for ten
minutes about my lucky find. I sensed I had found something
very special this day. Babaji had said that the rocks of
Herakhan are the hearts of great souls. Now that’s far out!
Maybe this whole experience was symbolic of how very
special I was in God’s eyes, still. But aren’t we all? However, I
guess I needed some divine reassurance on this Christmas, after
all the hell and turning points I’d just gone through.
“I feel that God did bless you, Rideout. You’ve got your son,
regardless. You needed symbolic reassurance at that particular
moment and you got it,” commented Larkins.
“Thanks Randy, that’s a sweet observation. I didn’t know
you had it in you.”

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 Our play went off very well, in front of hundreds of hill folk
with children. Almost everybody was wrapped up in those,
now familiar, blankets. This ashram gig was very special for
them, with free food and lots of festivities. Many had walked a
very long way to be here. There was much chanting of songs
in praise of God and, of course, a lot of Om Namah Shivaya.
Later, when I returned the special vest, Ganga mumbled
something I couldn’t clearly hear. When I asked her kindly to
repeat, she said, “the vest is now yours to keep; Merry
Christmas, Hari Om.” Wow! I’ve got Babaji’s vest. What a
day. Thank you Ganga…I’ll never forget you! It didn’t even
seem to be a big deal to her but it sure was to me. Some of
these women here who have lived with Babaji are very
intriguing. I sometimes wonder where their heads are at, as
they’ve lived here on and off for a very long time- living the
same program of devotion, work and ceremony... day in-day
out, year in-year out. Also on Christmas Day, Muniraj and
many high-profile Indian political devotees arrived for the big
yagna or fire ceremony. Babaji had said, “If you want to
worship God, worship the fire.” Both East and West Indians
have sacred fire ceremonies. Sadly, only the upper echelon got
to participate here, while everyone else looked on enviously.
“That sounds messed up! Did you just stand around the
outside and watch?” an irritated Larkins asked.
“Well, not quite. Something else happened unexpectedly.”
As the yagna fire was crackling away, a small wondering
sadhu, who distinctly resembled Babaji and seemed to have
appeared out of nowhere, called me to join him in his cave.
This cave was for sadhu only and located next to Babaji’s
sacred cave. After he smoked me up, he let his hair down-
literally, as his long dreadlocks hung like serpents cascading to
the earthen floor. He was, and still is, the most profoundly
beautiful man I’ve ever seen. I felt like I was seated beside
Babaji, on Christ’s birthday. I involuntarily knelt and kissed his
feet. Was this Babaji seated in front of me, looking exactly like
Lord Shiva? I had secretly always longed for darshan such as
this. Be careful for what you pray. As I was meditating now,
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 automatically in front of him, I opened my eyes to see him
point at me and exclaim, “Babaji!” Now who is Babaji? What
a blessing this day had been. This sadhu was named Mukunda
Baba Bramachari. He lived solely on curd (yogurt) and fruit
and had never experienced a woman. His purity was awe-
inspiring. He spoke little English, but gave me a picture
negative of him that I developed later. To really see the divine
in human form, so beautifully manifested, is beyond words.
Ironically, he mysteriously moved on before I could give him
my blanket. This small Shiva sadhu was headed to the source
of the Ganges to see a fabled ice lingum of Shiva in a cave. I’m
sure he probably made it.
“Jesus, don’t ever tell anybody here that you kissed some
dude’s feet! You could get smashed, Rideout.”
“I know. You just keep your mouth shut about all this too.”
“Mum is the word. You can trust me Bunkie.”
Later that same day, I got to stand guard duty. We had so
many poor villagers here, that our multi-national devotees were
paranoid of possible theft in the dorm rooms. Even at a sacred
place, on a sacred day, the soldiers of God had to pay attention
to human frailties. The day after Christmas, I ascended Mount
Kailash on a three-hour grueling climb with about twenty
others. I arrived at the summit first, and got to sit alone where
Babaji had sat for the forty-five days in 1970. Again, I prayed
deeply for my young son Sri and his mother. What were they
doing today in New Mexico, while I sat on top of the world
looking down at the ashram below? The Ganges River was far
off on the distant plains of India, with Tibet and Nepal above
me. When the others arrived, mainly Swedes and a few
Italians, we sang the devotional Aarati song. I taped it. Golden
eagles and hawks soared over us on this sunny blue-sky day.
On our steep, slippery descent down, one female European fell
off the steep trail but miraculously was not hurt. Maybe the
mantra had saved her. Soon, I walked through a picturesque
hill village. The beauty of this part of India I will never forget.
The rhododendron trees here were huge! Stopping briefly, I
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smoked with the locals and my young seedy horse friend.
After leaving them, I entered the enchanted forest, walking past
an ancient well that looked like it belonged in a Bible story.
Suddenly, I heard a faint voice calling softly to me. Turning
around, I saw a knock dead, beautiful hill girl, decked out in
bangles, motioning me to come back to her in the broken
sunlight.
“Boy that is temptation. What did you do?” asked Larkins.
I walked back to her, where she asked in poor English if I
liked her and wanted to head for the bushes. Was this a Hindu
goddess from some astral realm, or the devil in a sari disguise?
I calmly said, “Om Namah Shivaya,” which was the only thing
on my mind and kept walking at a quick pace back to my dorm
room. Upon entering, I told my fellow dormies what had
transpired on the holy mountain and down below. Holland
quickly said, “Go back there you stupid fucker or you’ll regret
this rest of your life!” Belgium and Italy felt that this was
Babaji’s spiritual test, after my experience on top of His sacred
mountain. I learned later that the goddess was a village whore,
whom the charis kid had sent to me as a gift. Sex, it seems,
was allowed on that side of the river, but not at the ashram
proper. I guess I passed my final exam. Maybe I too was
meant to be Bramachari- no sex- like it or not.
“Well, you are now… like it or not,” commented Larkins.
“What else happened there?”

It is Lord Shiva’s….

Most every day, to me, seemed paradisiacal in Herakhan;

hard to believe but true. It’s the vibration of the place. After
the morning river ritual, sacred makeup and meditating by the
fire dhuni, the Aarati ceremony with chanting began. I’ll
always deeply remember the sounds of Herakhan’s large
temple bells clanging loudly, driving away all evil spirits.
Aarati is a series of beautiful chants that tell who Babaji Is. It
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 was written by the man responsible for Babaji taking a body
again in 1970. This man spent his entire life, praying every
moment, for Babaji to return. He literally walked around most
of India, restoring numerous Shiva temples in preparation for
His return. The power of his prayers and intense devotion
brought Babaji back. Every time I sing Aarati, I experience a
very high clear energy that can only be Babaji. The well-fed
ashram dogs bark along with the bells and are of the highest
dog karma to even be here. However, even they had their furry
paws outstretched when Prasad (blessed sweets) was passed
out. After our early musical session in front of Babaji’s
sandals, crystal ball and dais seat with pictures of Him, we
practiced karma yoga – work dedicated to God – until noon. I
helped construct a rock-walled garden, which the river would
later destroy during the yearly monsoon flooding. Work is
worship here, and always with Om Namah Shivaya in your
mind and on your lips. People don’t say “hello” or “good
morning” here, only the mantra. There really wasn’t much need
for talk here, as we are here to learn how to listen. This mantra
would become programmed into the hard drive part of my
brain so deeply, that it would repeat for years to come and still
is! It is Lord Shiva’s toll free 1-800 number. Babaji said so
Himself. He also said that karma yoga, combined with God’s
name or mantra was the highest yoga for our present age. Few
devotees can truly meditate deeply, as the material world’s
energy is accelerating too fast. That is why Babaji didn’t stress
Kriya yoga this time around, but work instead. Work is the new
Kriya yoga. So work, my friend, and do it without ego
thoughts of the result. Just do your very best, for the God
within you.
“It’s hard for me to do that here in prison, dude. I really
don’t give a rat’s ass when I work here. Do you know what I
mean?”
“Yeah, I do know what you mean. But don’t use prison as an
excuse to not do the work God gave you. The real prison is
your mind, Larkins.”

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 Lunch was usually curried lentil dahl, rice and vegetables,
with chapattis or rotis, similar to tortillas, served sitting on a
cold concrete floor. Then, we had a few hours of free time to
read, hike, and write letters or whatever, before another ritual
bath in the river and more ceremony and chanting again. A
late dinner of leftovers, eaten with the hands of course,
occurred at around 9 p.m. As toilet paper isn’t used in India,
but water instead, the left hand is for toilet and the right for
eating. One just hopes that the cooks are right-handed.
“Man, that is gross!” blurted out Larkins.
“Well, that’s how it is in India. In time, I actually preferred
their method of toiletry. But it does take a little getting used
to.”
“No thanks.”
After lunch one day, I explored the small ashram library.
There, I found a small out-of-print book about Babaji. As this
priceless book would be near impossible to find later, I read it
entirely onto my tape recorder, sitting next to the Gautama
River. I can still hear the rushing water and chirping birds,
when I listen now to my audio book. I would advise any
would-be traveler to invest in a tape deck. Sound, or the
science of the spoken word, can really do wonders for your
memory later. I also found out the truth about my book,
Harikhan Babaji – Known, Unknown, which I’d taken to
Ecuador. It seems that author Baba Hari Das, the silent one
who’d given me my spiritual name, did not write the book. He
ripped it off from Saint Shastraji’s brother, who was a judge
and devotee of old Harikhan Baba. So, this small book, which
was so special to me and whose cover had survived my house
fire, was not allowed here. Wow! That could be heavy karma
for Hari Das, maybe, but at least the “stolen” book, published
in the West, reached numerous others and me, turning us onto
Babaji. Many books published in India seldom leave that
subcontinent, and the printing quality generally sucks.
“That still blows me away that Babaji’s picture did not burn
up in your house fire.”
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 “Well, it sure made more of a believer out of me, to say the
least. However, the mystery of Babaji gets more interesting,
my institutionalized friend. Are you still with me?”
“Do I have any choice?”
Standing high above the ashram proper was a lovely, lonely
isolated temple. When I asked about it, I was told that it was
built back in 1986, when many believed Babaji had reappeared
again here, as Balak Baba or Baby Shiva. Ironically, Balak
was driven away, when somebody died smoking datura root
with him. Datura is also known as jimson or locoweed and can
transport one to the ghost realms for many days and sometimes
permanently. Many devotees were divided on Balak Baba’s
true identity. Om Shanti, the resident interpreter at Herakhan
for many years and her crew believed, without doubt, that
Balak was Babaji back again in His divine Lila or play. She
worshipped and lived up here alone, up high at this nearly
forgotten temple. And I would encounter Om Shanti again, in
the not-too-distant future.
Winter was definitely coming on and with no heat source
here, besides the sacred duni, I was wearing everything I’d
brought to stay warm. Brr, it was cold! Mark, my Belgium
dormie, and I had become good friends. Our mutual German
girlfriend Kalavati, and her young bitchy daughter, were
leaving soon for Rajathasthan to visit Shastraji. She asked if
we’d like to join them. Yes!! Shastraji is way up there on the
must meet list. We had all talked about attending the huge
Kumbha Mela festival that was about to begin. What a perfect
chance to see Shastraji en route. Kalavati had formal
acceptance somehow and assured Mark and me that we’d be
welcomed too. I sure hope so. Why do I even doubt? But I’ve
never hung out with a saint before. Before leaving Herakhan, I
found Kalavati a thin rock lingam in the riverbed. I’m sure she
probably still cherishes it today. After saying goodbyes to our
yogic friends, we left by the river trail, instead of the easy bus
route. It was much prettier by far, but also sad, as we saw our
magical abode slowly fade back into the dream landscape,
where it eternally exists. All I could think was, “thank you God,
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for showing me heaven on earth and showering me with your
blessings.” I felt like my heart was very open- almost too open.
This trip has been one miracle and blessing after another. I so
needed this experience in my life; a real dream come true. I
will treasure the memory of Herakhan forever and ever!
When the trail left the river for the woods, we encountered a
tribe of about twenty large monkeys. They easily could have
overtaken us. This was truly scary to face such intelligent
primates on their own turf. We all began chanting the mantra,
of course. Babaji had stated that it has more power than a
thousand atomic bombs; all things can be accomplished
through it. The monkeys totally left us alone, thank God!
From Haldwani, we took a crammed packed train back to Delhi
and rented rooms in the traveler’s area of town. Now, I learned
that the YMCA had been a major rip off! Here, I was getting a
nice room with warm running water, plus my own shower and
toilet, for $3.50 per night, instead of $10.00! This hotel was
way better and had a tri-level outdoor café on the roof, which
overlooked Delhi’s sprawling city life below. There is no
personal space down below, but there was in my room and
occasionally at the roof top café.
“Personal space is so needed. There sure isn’t much here in
prison,” commented Larkins.
“Yeah, I know. Both India and prison are a lot alike in that
way. Everybody sees everything.”

So what’s it all about…

After some rest, we pooled our rupees for a cab ride to

Rajgarh, the city of kings. Our ancient Ambassador cab threw
a left rear wheel, right where I was seated. We luckily avoided
a fatal accident. The sheered-off wheel shot off like a rocket
into a small village, scattering people out of its rapid path. We
switched cabs at this point, to continue our pilgrimage to
Shastraji. This one made it there safely. Rajgarh is an ancient
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 walled-in city, dating back 600 hundred years to a time when
Moguls ruled India. Many buildings were washed in blue and
the colorful Rajasthan women wore numerous bangles and
mirrored fabric. In this desert province of India, camels were a
common sight too. However, American hippies like me
apparently were not. When I walked up the hill to examine the
ancient wall, kids continually followed me, asking me my
name and where I came from. The kids here reminded me of
the flies in Fiji; always on you!
Babaji had stated that Shastraji was the wisest man on earth
and a saint. Now that’s a heavy one! So, what’s it all about,
Shastraji? You lived with Babaji His whole time back on earth.
I was asked if I’d like a reading from Babaji, which he could
tap into on a silver bracelet that Babaji had given him. Sure,
why not. Could I tape-record it? Yes. I was told that I had had
a tragic accident and should have died. Babaji had saved me. I
had never said a word to Shastraji about my twenty-foot fall
from grace. Babaji had appeared to me twice in this life, he
stated, but I had failed to recognize Him.
“What a pity,” Kalavati said into my tape recorder.
However, Babaji was coming again soon, Shastraji predicted.
Maybe next time I’d hopefully recognize Him. I do remember
a mind-blowing incident that occurred at Tony’s coffee shop in
Fairhaven, Bellingham. There was a young boy, called
Mescalero, who’d arrived from the Southwest. He appeared to
be totally crazy, and nobody dared sit at his table. Nobody
would sit there, that is, but me. I noticed that this boy was
extremely beautiful and was wearing a leather fringe coat that
looked like it belonged in a museum. He also appeared to be
having a discourse with deceased U.S. presidents Lincoln and
Washington on the astral realms. After I studied his piercing
eyes, he jumped up, spun around quickly, and from out of
nowhere materialized a large photo of Babaji. Then he asked
me if I knew Herakhan Babaji? Here He was, in the guise of a
crazy kid! I said “yes” and pulled out the same exact picture
from my wallet. Then, I said the mantra- Om Namaha Shivaya
and Mescalero/Babaji repeated it back with strong emphasis on
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the word, Na-ma-ha. Shastraji disclosed that I’d been Baba’s
woodcutter incarnations ago. He then stated that I’ve been
spiritual since birth, my concentration is like stone and I care
nothing for material wealth. My mind and heart are working
together. They are one. Wow. I then displayed three photos of
Sri Ram. He studied each photo and asked if they were of the
same boy? Yes. Could he give me a reading on Sri from the
photos? Yes, again. Shastraji stated Sri had been a king in
ancient India, Chandra Gupta, and it was my great fortune that
he had chosen me for his father. Ironically, this king was very
devoted to the Hindu god, Ram and ushered in the golden age
of India’s history. Kalavati showed Shastraji the thin lingam
I’d recently given her. He saw old Babaji’s face in the rock
and pressed Kalavati’s third eye until she was crying. I guess
she finally saw the image too. It can be a bit weird being
around such a respected “saint,” as it’s easy to give your own
personal power and self integrity away.
Shastraji had a semi-motel, for lack of better words, for
visiting devotees. As he was expanding for more visitors, a lot
of construction was going on. In my room, I discovered a
drawer filled with hundreds of Babaji photos he’d collected
over his fourteen years of service. I sat enraptured for hours. I
was permitted to take one picture home, to be copied and then
sent back. I adore this picture of a young Shastraji sitting at
Babaji’s feet. Babaji stated that His pictures are sacred and to
be respected, as He visits where His pictures are placed.
“Maybe if you had a photo here, he’d come. Is that right?”
questioned Larkins.
“Don’t get hung up on the physical. Babaji is all about the
heart, where He resides. On other levels, I am sure He has been
here… probably a lot!”
Shastraji also told me one night, “You are a yogi. You know
all of this already.” I’ve always known that I knew, but
somehow life in the material world makes one doubt nearly
everything. Here were answers to questions I’d always
wondered about. I’d come to India to give thanks and then find
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 out, that I already knew what I needed to know. Far out! Just
trust that inner guidance, Hari Om, which speaks to you
always- all ways.
Rajgarh had pillars and mausoleums all over the place.
Some areas had the feel of ancient Greek ruins, with those tall
columns. Kalavati and I took a walk outside the city walls one
afternoon, to visit an old abandoned Hindu temple. It was sad
to see sacred Hindu temple art defaced by Muslims so long ago.
Much world art is religious in nature, but even it suffers from
man’s narrow mental attitudes and prejudices. As I sat on the
temple floor, I felt how special it was to be here with Kalavati.
We both come from such different worlds, Germany and
America, and end up here. Later, Kalavati gave me an aura
cleansing, in a technique known as jara. I was swept with a
bundle of peacock feathers, while she repeated specific mantras.
Shastraji had taught her this ancient mode of healing. Before
leaving for Banares, and then onto the Kumbha Mela gig, he
told us all that we would see many, many Babas. Then he put
his open palm on my medulla oblongata and repeated, “Be
happy” three times, before I bent over to get in the cab. Is this
what it’s all about, Shastraji? Sounds easy, but after two failed
marriages and so many heavies, can I ever find happiness alone?
“Can you? Even though we are surrounded by so many
inmates 24/7, I still feel alone here,” complained Larkins.
“I think all alcoholics feel that way. We seem to think that
nobody can identify with us, but many can. I know I’m still
learning to be alone with myself. I hope it doesn’t take a whole
lifetime to master it!”
We took another dusty cab ride back to Agra, this time
seeing the Taj Mahal under moonlight- spectacular! I drank
three beers, but they only brought me down. Alcohol and India
just don’t mix. The next day we all trained south on the N E
Flier to Banares or Shiva City, known now, again, by its former
name of Varanasi. Way back, originally, it was known as Kashi.
This time we traveled first class, enjoying a five course Indian
meal for forty-five cents. The rest of the train resembled a
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packed cattle car. However, Kalavati’s young daughter
Alexandra was sugared out and crying a lot, getting on my
nerves. Her mother gave her no attention. Why would you
bring a young child to India?
“Why? Hell no! That is just crazy to even consider,”
answered Bunkie.
Anyway, Varanasi is death row for believers. Hindus
believe that to die and/or be cremated here, frees one from the
endless cycles of death and rebirth. As Shiva city, there are
about 800 temples here and over 500 of those are dedicated to
Lord Shiva. Right now, this was a short one-day stopover en
route to Allahabad, where opening day of the Kumbha Mela
was happening. Kalavati had been here before and hated
Varanasi for some reason unbeknownst to me. I fell in love
with this city immediately. I couldn’t wait to return! I bought
a gray wool coat here for warmth and much beautiful batik of
the gods for souvenirs. We were escorted to shops by a fine
teenager named Raju. He didn’t hustle us. We then, fortunately,
got a seat on the overcrowded buses, headed for the largest
assemblage of humanity on the planet.
“Like how many people were there?”
“More than you could ever believe, Larkins.”

This was the adult dose of….

This Mela was the ardh or six-year festival, with only ten
million sadhu, holy men and spiritual seekers, compared to the
twelve-year cycle Maha Kumbha Mela that often reaches even
greater numbers, like up to seventy million souls. It is believed
that this Kumbha Mela has been going on as far back as nearly
3500 BC. To even be here, is the equivalent of a thousand other
pilgrimages! As I couldn’t smoke on the sardine-style packed
bus, I ate charis like candy on the way there. When we
approached the confluence of the Ganges, Saraswati and

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 Yamuna Rivers, my heart nearly jumped out of my chest. My
good God! Mahadeva! This gig made a Rainbow gathering
look like a small cocktail party. This was the adult dose of
Ripley’s Believe It or Not.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. There were actually ten
million there?” exclaimed Larkins.
“No, I’m not kidding, at all. It’s so big that it can actually be
seen, from satellites in outer space. It’s like two miles wide and
seven miles long!”
We each got our own bicycle rickshaw, as we were packing a
lot of luggage along. Mark lent me his chimtah – a huge
tweezers-looking tambourine instrument. I used it for jamming
with the holy songs blaring from the bell speakers atop
telephone poles. The energy of this opening night was as
intense as it gets and loud- very loud. I’ve never felt anything
even close to this and I’ve been to many concerts, including
seeing The Beatles three times! We had copies of a shrunken-
down map covering 200,000 acres with street names. We were
trying to locate Babaji’s camp, in this monstrous, moon- lit city
of canvas tents and intense noise. It would take our poor,
frustrated rickshaw wallahs over two hours to locate the Om
Namah Shivaya tents – ironically just down the road from
Yogananda’s Yogoda Satsanga Society camp. We were
located at Moarie Road and Sangum Crossing on this Friday
the 13th, February full moon, opening night, 1995. The rush
doesn’t quit here. There is just too much happening all the time.
“I can’t even imagine such a scene. I’d never want to be
there!”
“Well Larkins, to each his own. I don’t think I’d enjoy Las
Vegas much, but I loved most every minute of this gig, for
quite awhile.”
When my poor driver finally paused in total confusion,
exhaustion and desperation, the large crowd around me
suddenly opened up, like Moses parting the Red Sea. A male
figure was approaching me and the closer he got, the faster the

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changes occurred inside of me. I felt like I was in the Twilight
Zone again. My mind slowed way down and the only internal
sensing I remember, knew that this man here, now in front of
me, knew everything about me- good and bad and about those
ten grams of hash I’d eaten on the bus ride here. This was
Babaji, in person and this time, I finally recognized Him! He
could have cared less about the charis I’d eaten.
“Did he say anything?”
“Yeah, He did.”
With unblinking, piercing black eyes, He looked deeply into
me and then asked in perfect English, “Are you having fun?” I
couldn’t find my voice to reply. He wore a wool sweater and
topi cap, which He was noted for in His previous incarnation as
old Herakhan Baba. Then He melted into the crowd, quickly
disappearing. It has been said that Babaji always attends every
Kumbha Mela, in some form or another.
“This is just too much, Rideout,” exclaimed Larkins. “Do
you actually expect me to believe all this?”
Suddenly, the sights and sounds of the Mela hit me full force
again, like waking up from a dream or pressing play after a
DVD has been on pause. Mark and Kalavati were behind me,
oblivious to what had just transpired. They were still upset as
to how we would ever find our Herakhan camp amongst ten
million busy souls.
Before we finally did locate our haven of refuge, the crowd
began prostrating themselves flat out on the ground. Now what
was happening? As we watched in bewilderment, here came
six of the largest decorated elephants I’d ever seen. On top of
each sat ancient-looking kings or maharajas, looking like
they’d just ridden across India in some time warp to even be
here. I wanted to scream my guts out! Yes! Here was the
Eternal India of my childhood dreams. At the Herakhan camp,
we were welcomed with open arms and loaded chillums. We
were among the very first to arrive into this sanctuary of peace-
to finally be separated physically from the tumultuous masses

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 of the Mela and have some semblance of personal space. Mark
and I had our own large army tent, perfect for soldiers of God.
We decorated our space with the newly purchased batiks. A
thick straw ground covering was our mattress. It actually
seemed like a modern day miracle that we ever even found this
small camp, amongst the hundred of thousands of other such
tent compounds. A beautiful Italian Madonna named Titti was
our acting pujari for camp worship services. There was a
separate tent here, serving as the temple compound. I lent Titti
Sri Ram’s bronze Ganesh statue I’d bought in Varanasi. She’d
bathe the small elephant daily at 4 a.m., and then apply fresh
chundun and the sacred silk thread to it. This was a great
blessing that I wanted for my young, faraway son. I prayed
that maybe someday he would come to understand the
significance of my journey here, and come to know that he is
always with me- even though we may be far apart.
“Boy, I can tell you love your son.”
“More than you’ll ever know, Larkins. More than you’ll ever
know.”
Squatting Indian style, outside our compound in the fog, was
a white dreadlocked devotee, smoking charis. I met him the
next morning and we became fast friends. His name was Bert,
from East Berlin, and when the wall came down, he’d left to
explore a world so long denied to him. He introduced me to
his older girlfriend Petra, and fellow German friends, Effie and
his step-son Robert. How I loved my new crazy, dogmatic
German family. And boy could these guys smoke, both charis
and tobacco to the extreme! I would awaken at 3:30 a.m. to
their coughs, as they fired up the clay chillum pipe, loaded with
tobacco and mucho hash. I’d never smoked tobacco in my
forty-six years, except once in prayer at Sri’s peyote meeting
and then again at the Mothers Day meeting. This time, I got
very sick. I felt like I’d turned green and literally couldn’t
move, as the buzz was so strong. I asked if we could possibly
skip the tobacco. Absolutely not, as this was the way it is
always prepared in chillum etiquette. It says so in the Vedas!
After about three days of such smoking, I slowly adapted to the
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strongest addictive herb on earth, tobacco. The Native
Americans say that tobacco is to be used only for prayers to the
Creator. If it is abused, sickness will result. What a simple
truth. Look at how many millions of people tobacco is
smoking! Sadly, now I was one of them.
“Jesus Rideout, I started smoking when I was fifteen, not
forty-six.”
“It shows Larkins, as your heavy cough keeps many of us
here, especially the Mexicans, wondering if you don’t have
lung cancer. I know I’ve got to quit at some point myself, but
here in prison, smoking is one of my only joys. In fact, I only
have the chance to meet certain inmates in the smoking cage.
But I so wish now that I’d never started smoking this shit. Hash
was my gateway drug to tobacco, it seems. How odd is that?”
“What seems odd to me is that a health nut like you would
ever smoke. It seems sort of out of character, if you know what
I mean,” commented Larkins.
“It totally is, and something I need to overcome in this
lifetime. I now know what it is like to be a smoker; you’re
trapped in a prison of a different sort.”
Effie was older than me and had been coming to India
yearly, for over two decades. He imports goods back to Berlin
for the massive weekend flea market. He also had huge dread
locks that rivaled many of the sadhus here. In India, Effi was
much respected -just because of his mighty mane. He wore a
special turquoise ring from Tibet, said to promote hair growth.
If Effie was proof of the ring’s power, think of the marketing
sales over Rogaine or transplants in the West. One night, Effie
pulled out his stack of photos from the previous Kumbha Mela
six years ago. As I eagerly looked at his various pictures, one
caught my eye. The pictured sadhu looked like Babaji, only
with dreads. This was the same entity I’d seen pictured on the
wall at the New Delhi Shiva temple. Effie said this sadhu was
Balak Baba, the one whom the temple on the steep hill at
Herakhan had been erected for.

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 “Do you think Balak is here, Effie?”
“Oh yeah, he’s here for sure, but good luck finding him in
this crowd.”
I started my search at the center of the gig, where many red
pendant sadhu prayer flags were flying. Little did I know that
this was the camp area of the most extreme followers of Shiva.
These were the real heavies, often considered as warriors.
Many were “sky clad,” or totally nude, and had left their
remote caves to walk god-only-knows how many miles just to
be here. I only talked to one other American during my two-
week stay here. He was a thirteen-year resident Krishna
devotee, who’d obviously done his share of chanting. He’d also
been to a few of these Melas. How could he and I be the only
Yanks here? I wondered if my home country still existed, as
these odds were stupendous. There must be other Americans
here. Having an American at one’s camp brought prestige, I
was told. So wherever I walked, I was always called over to
smoke and hang out for awhile- like maybe I had red, white
and blue chundun on my forehead.
Some of the roads here were wider and much cleaner than
the paved city streets of Delhi. Garbage was meticulously
picked up, as we were all treading on holy ground. If only the
rest of India could learn from this micro environment. Sadly,
DDT was sprayed liberally to keep infection down. And fleas
seemed to be breeding in our tent straw, biting my face and
arms nightly. The numerous chai shops here were as large as
taverns back home, while circus-sized domed tents held live
plays, with children dressed as Hindu gods and acting out their
scriptural stories. The International Rainbow Family actually
had a camp here, but I didn’t find any more Americans there.
Barnum and Bailey, plus Buffalo Bill Cody, couldn’t hold a
candle to this show! Sometimes I saw sadhus who appeared to
be right out of the bar scene in Star Wars or maybe The Night
of the Living Dead. In the privacy of my tent each night, I tried
again, in vain, to record all I’d seen and experienced that day.
And oh, how I missed my son, wondering what he was doing,
while I’m here at the world’s largest freak show. The continual
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sound of a screaming voice, reading a roster of all the attending
holy men and lost children, blared away eighteen hours a day.
One set of constantly repeated syllables became an inside joke
between me and the Germans.
“That would drive me nuts,” interrupted Larkins.
“Yeah, it does get on your nerves. But it is so typical of India.
It just doesn’t quit.”
One night, I was approached by a poor elderly female
devotee dressed in orange. She asked me to buy her some
prayer beads. I chose a nice sandalwood mala and when I
handed them to her, we both burst out crying. It was truly a
divine moment; a holy encounter, as I gave my gift to God and
saw how overjoyed Divine Mother was to receive it. The gift
truly is in giving, not receiving, as they say. This experience
was very humbling for me and opened my heart much more.
This poor lady could probably never hope to purchase a mala,
so we both had a dream come true. Again, India is not for
everybody. She will blow your heart wide open at times. The
lessons here don’t come easily, but they last a lifetime. I love
India!
“I think I’d hate it,” remarked Larkins.
“You probably would have a hard time, being as anal and
judgmental as you are.”
Mark and Kalavati did not participate or approve of the
charis ritual. Both were in recovery, whatever that means.
Hence, India and this Mela were much harder for them to
accept, without judgment. I literally cruised through situations
that left them angry and/or frustrated. India was taking its toll
on them. I really pitied Kalavati’s young daughter. This was
no place for a Western child at age six. She was only receiving
much pain, on many levels, and her mother was constantly
realizing the mistake she’d made by bringing her. Slowly,
more devotees of Baba’s tribe filtered into our camp daily.
However, during my stay, there were only twelve disciples-
total. Is this symbolic or what? Ironically, the Yogananda

167
 disciples down the street seemed to ignore us. Wasn’t it Babaji
who had sent Yogananda to the West in 1920? Sadly, most
Indians here had no idea that Babaji had taken form again in
1970, in a cave at the base of Mount Kailash. There are so
many Babas, meaning father in India, that even they get
confused. When I’d show elderly sadhu my photo of young
Babaji, they usually replied, Mahadeva, meaning great God,
Lord Shiva. They knew and they knew, I knew.
One morning, another Herakhandi Austrian schoolteacher
named Silvia and I walked through the extreme sadhu
compound. There, she recognized Balak Baba! We ran back
to our camp and returned with doubting Titti, to be misled in a
crazy wild goose chase searching for Balak. When Titti, our
unbeliever, gave up frustrated and walked back towards our
compound, Silvia and I were permitted into Balak’s presence.
Surprisingly, Om Shanti from Herakhan was there too, and
remembered our time together back at the temple on the hill.
In her perfect English, she again claimed that Balak Baba was
indeed thee Babaji; resurfaced, and we were led here, now,
specifically to receive darshan- the vision of a saint. Oriental
looking Balak was busy filling the chillum for his guru, who
strongly resembled Sri Yukteshwar, Yogananda’s guru. India
can drive a man crazy! Soon, we were given Prasad. This was
to be considered a sign of acceptance, according to Om Shanti.
Well, at least I’d found the needle in the haystack from Brother
Effie’s photo. Now, would the real Babaji please stand up?!
“I see what you mean about the mystery and controversy of
Babaji. This is all too much for me. I’ll just stick with Jesus
and trust the Bible.”
“That too, my friend is full of controversy and mystery. The
Bible can be interpreted on many levels. It is a good beginner’s
book for people like you, however.”
One observation I made here, about myself and my
nationality is that we seem to corner the market on a good
sense of humor. The Germans seem pretty rigid, dogmatic and
commanding - you’ll never win an argument - and everybody
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knows what the arrogant French are like. While I was heading
back to lunch late one morning, a balding sadhu seated full
lotus on a real tiger skin called out to me.
“Come, now!”
“No Baba, I’ve already smoked enough.”
“Come!”
He said he had mentally called to me for days, as I often
walked by his camp. He asked which country I came from, and
after I told him, he began speaking in perfect English slang.
This dude was hip as shit! He told me to follow the ways of
our Red Man, as they were the holy ones for America. Was
this the lesson and path I’d been looking for in years of
spiritual reading, practice, worshipping and searching? I
flashed on the peyote church back home and God’s presence in
that tipi ceremony. I felt a deep longing to return to the tipi
again. I hadn’t come to India seeking God, after the lessons
learned in the ‘75 Ecuador fiasco with my first wife. I had
solely come to experience Herakhan and give thanks there to
the Divine, as I’d promised Babaji when the house sold so
miraculously.
So now, after two weeks of seeing thousands of sadhu and
holy men, dressed in that ocher orange with dreads touching
the ground, I began to feel disillusioned. This wasn’t my world,
as trippy as it was to see. Who did I think I was, playing yogi?
We all play many roles in our lives. I played many just in my
childhood, acting out army, civil war, cowboys and Indians and
Vikings. I’d already ruined my knee from advanced yoga
postures in ’74, and after years of meditation and chanting, I
wasn’t certain now if I felt any closer to God than a non-
believer. Maybe this was the “dark night of the soul” that St.
John of the Cross wrote about. Even after profound spiritual
experiences, if aided by “drugs,” every day God just seems so
ordinary. It’s often easy to not see or remember Him. Mark
and Kalavati had already left our camp, leaving me feeling
very lonely. Now, it was time for me to move on. Bert offered
me a tab of acid, but I refused. I couldn’t even imagine
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 tripping here. I’d never find my way home in this cluster fuck
of spiritual soup. I’d finally seen enough sadhus for the rest of
my life. I knew too that I would always be a Western Baba, as
they had called me here- a sadhu forever, in my own unique
way. A French friend even took a picture of me, as I came out
of the Ganga on sacred bathing day when certain planets align
auspiciously. I must say he truly captured Hari Om, on film, in
a glorious magic moment of eternity.
“I’ve got to hand it to you Rideout, you are different. Hell,
who wouldn’t be after all you’ve been through, and you’ve still
got more to experience here. I just wonder where your head
and beliefs will be at after prison. This place changes one just
like India; you’ll never be the same. So, what happened after
you decided to leave the Mela?”

When a holy cow with….

Back in ancient Varanasi, I was told to stay at Asi ghat, the

furthest bank upriver from the crazy downtown area. There
was more Shanti or peace there. Even The Beatles had
experienced Asi ghat. As I planned on being here for about a
month, Asi ghat sounded good to me. Ghats are the concrete
steps or banks that lead down to the Ganges River, goddess
Ganga. The whole two mile-long walk to town was traversing
these myriad horizontal steps. There are also many long exotic
names and historic events associated with different Ghats here.
Ten horses were sacrificed centuries ago on Dasashwamedh
ghat. Varanasi is possibly one of the oldest cities on earth,
dating back 3,500 years. Many of the Ghats had animal and
human excrement spread amongst the drying laundry and
colorful saris. One sign proclaimed “No Spitting,” and below
it, sat piles of human shit. Maybe the sign was misspelled.
The filthy, highly polluted river had flower petals from
ceremonies floating by, mixed in with laundry detergent,
toothpaste and human ashes and body parts from the cremation
grounds. I walked by both cremation grounds daily for a
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month, seeing 150 bodies a day consumed by Shiva’s flames.
This was really something to see and smell at night, as I floated
in a rented boat down India’s holiest river. At times, it
reminded me of scenes out of Apocalypse Now. Back in town,
stretchers with the newly deceased were carried through the
narrow alleys and labyrinth mazes, to the chanting of Shree
Ram mantras. I even saw a procession carrying chandlers,
extension cords and a portable generator on wheels to light
their nocturnal way. This was a marriage party. Only in India!
Again, Varanasi is truly the place to die, for a Hindu anyway.
Sadly, many Westerners have nearly died here too, from the
contaminated water. And I could have died of rabies from the
pariah dogs, which hang around cremation grounds feeding on
unburned body parts. They nearly did me in one evening, as I
walked home at sunset. When the sun sets here, it gets very
dark, very fast. Then the feral dogs from hell come out to
prowl. I had no stick with which to defend myself and made
the mistake of telling these evil mongrels to F off. They
understood that universal insult and were nearly upon me.
Instantly, I began chanting the mantra, just like with the
monkeys, and felt protected as if by an invisible shield. From
now on, I told myself, I’d walk home before sunset and not
have to put the mantra and myself through such ordeals!
Another Varanasi observation I made, is that only one or two
banks will cash American Express traveler’s checks. I had to
stand in line a long time to receive my huge, thick stack of
rupees, stapled together with large metal staples. Then I
noticed a sign behind the teller that read, Work is worship.
Karma yoga is very popular in India, from ashrams to banks.
“That saying sounds like something your Babaji would say.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Larkins. Karma yoga is work. And
work should be thought of as karma yoga.”
In Asi ghat, Bert and Petra rented a room in a hotel next to
mine. I was elated they were here. Their room faced an ancient
temple loaded with carved relief of the Hindu gods. Mine was
painted yellow, faced the river and was run by a local yogi of
some repute. Many of the temples here are so old, that they’re
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 literally slipping into the river and lean at angles that resemble
the famous tower in Pisa, Italy. Many say the temples lean
because they are praying to the river goddess, Ganga. In a
country like India, that makes sense. Next to our hotels was a
new outdoor café, just opening and catering to the culinary
tastes of burned-out Western travelers wanting a taste of home.
Great! Except their attempt at pizza was like nothing I’d ever
seen or tasted. Jesus, what is this? When they served spaghetti,
it came with a spoon. We were their very first customers, so
we gave them a lot of flack and feedback. You know, just
trying to help. It was good to taste brown rice and bread again.
Next to this café sat a small wooden cupboard, which was
home to a local sadhu named Hari Hara. With his recently
shaven head and ash-smeared body, our new friend resembled
a ghost. He displayed earlier photos of himself, when he had
dreads and a beard to his waist. He’d spent many years in a
cave, living naked at the Himalayan source of the Ganga. I
gave this friendly sadhu my new wool coat and many Shiva
stickers to decorate his small shack. We had our pictures taken
together, which would be relevant later. Hari Hara was my
buddy. I also made a bunch of new friends in Varanasi’s Old
City- a rabbit warren maze of blind alleys, stairs and corridors.
They lived in an ancient Muslim domed tower, which
overlooked the river in three directions and was considered
very auspicious. Here too, I met Vanessa Ramos, a Canadian
photographer who’d practiced intense Buddhist meditation at
Bodhgaya. I told her all about the Kumbha Mela, as we spent
two days together- I played guitar and Vanessa took pictures.
[Ironically, six years later Vanessa helped film the Maha
Kumbha Mela in the DVD documentary, Shortcut to Nirvana.
Tragically, she was killed a year later. Little did I know that
she was only nineteen years old when I met her? I can at least
still see this beautiful soul on my copy of the film. And
Vanessa is included on my prayer list of all the departed
friends in my life. Sadly, the list just keeps on growing.]
The narrow weaving alleyways in Varanasi can get a person
lost. In one small nook, I bought some incredible sandalwood
oil from a very old vendor. This guy looked ancient. When a
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holy cow with large horns negotiated these narrow corridors, I
nearly got stabbed by his swinging head. One word-of-mouth
shop was noted for its banglasi- a yogurt hash milkshake for
eighty cents. I’d drink two and then jump back into the ocean
current of slowly moving humanity. Most people can hardly
handle one. Often, the power goes out in town, so the smell of
gasoline and sounds of loud generators adds spice and noise
levels to the street scene. I found stores selling sitars and tablas
cheaply, that musicians in the West would beg for. Yet again, I
found more incredible batiks, rudraksha malas and finally, a
Narmada lingam. These special geological phallic eggs are
perfect in their symmetry, like an egg, and have distinct ocher
Shiva markings. They are said to be tumbled by the Narmada
River and/or created by a meteor that hit India long ago. These
lingams were difficult to find, even here in India. However,
years later I’d see them in mass at new age shops in Spokane
and Sedona, Arizona- exported spiritual paraphernalia.
“I was literally escorted by the hand of an elderly shopkeeper,
Larkins, at night, to meet Varanasi’s greatest astrologer. I
didn’t even want a reading or this psychic hustle, but got a
short one anyway.”
“Did he tell you anything that you don’t already know?”
I was told many facts I already knew but also learned the
stars prediction of my being a teacher at age sixty-two and a
sadhu in my seventies. I would live to be very old, like my
Rebel great grandfather, and my time with women was over, as
all I needed now was God. What he didn’t tell me was just how
much I’d really need God! While walking towards the main
burning ghat, Manikarnika Ghat, I took a photo from faraway
of the rising cremation smoke. No cameras are allowed near
the flaming dead. A strange man threatened to call the police,
over my camera, if I didn’t give him three hundred rupees.
Luckily, a Good Samaritan, who knew this heroin addict’s
hustle on unsuspecting travelers, rescued me. Samaritan was a
wealthy businessman, owning Varanasi’s largest silk factory. I
chose to visit his warehouse for chai and walked away with yet
more batiks and a silk patchwork quilt, valued at about four
173
 hundred dollars. I paid eighty bucks. This would hopefully be
Sri’s heirloom someday. It totally looks like India- exotic,
large and multicolored. Next, the silk Samaritan accompanied
me to the post office, to send my prize home. Here, baksheesh
was paid to the postal clerk to insure I’d actually receive my
trophy three months later. The quilt was wrapped into a light
canvas, sewn shut and then hot wax was dripped on the seams.
This would prevent theft or possible replacement by a lesser
quality product. You always need to do the post office dance
here, or you may not receive what you actually purchased.
“What a hassle! Or I guess I could say what a hustle,”
remarked Larkins.
“Yeah, it can be but it’s also well worth it.”
While walking home along the downtown Ghats, with their
numerous sun shade umbrellas, I noticed an elderly balding
river boatman who had grey ear hair about three inches long,
with eyebrows to match. Then I encountered a Hatha yogi who
looked to be well over 100 years old. Where do they grow
these people? On his blanket next to the river, he performed
complicated advanced yoga contortions. His legs were
wrapped behind his neck and his arms were extended towards
the sun in prayer- a human rocking prayer with gray dreads
over seven feet long. People threw coins on his blanket, which
his upturned eyes failed to notice. He was not of this world any
longer. These amazing sadhus, who own practically nothing,
allow the faithful to fulfill their dietary needs. To the
superstitious Hindu, helping a holy man brings a blessing, as
these fakirs, it is believed, can easily put a curse on the
uncaring. Something needs to be said here too, in defense of
India’s sacred cows. Most Western minds have no idea of the
holy cows’ role in the circle of life. He is usually ridiculed and
the brunt of many jokes but here he serves a distinct purpose.
Cows are the garbage men and clean-up crews, and their crap
gets flattened into what looks like hamburger patties, to be
burned as fuel for cooking and heat. Cow dung burns clean
and rates high by scientists. As wood is very hard to come by
here, the cow is invaluable in his service to humanity. The
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 roaming bands of pigs serve under the cow in garbage clean up.
They’re small enough to get into ditches and tight places that
the larger bovine can’t.
“That certainly sheds a whole new light on holy cow. Thanks
for sharing.”
“No problem. It seems to be my role in life.”
One afternoon, Effie’s stepson Robert and I took a rickshaw to
Deer Park in Saranath, outside of Varanasi. This is where Buddha
gave his first sermon on the mount, after becoming enlightened in
Bodhgaya under the Bhodi tree. An actual grafting from this
famous tree grows here, with concrete painted statues of Buddha
and his boys sitting around it. Also, a huge brick stupa dominates
the park, with devout Buddhists circumnavigating it in a clockwise
rotation. Some take the time to lie down and actually roll around
the stupa. Robert and I quickly purchased food from dispensers to
feed the deer. I loved this young Robert and pictured him as Sri
Ram at twenty-one. He disclosed that opinionated Effie, his step-
father, really liked me, and that was to be considered a great
compliment, as Effie trusted very few. I must say that this German
tribe touched my heart deeply. They were surely friends from a
past incarnation, probably in India. My love and respect for them
was profound, like maybe bonding with foreign friends in a foreign
land makes it extra special, as we all know it will never happen
again. Robert and I had lunch together at a Tibetan tent, for my
first taste of yak milk. Yuk! However, these Tibetans were a very
kind and humble people. They all wore their hair in long black
braids and looked rugged but still exotic. Robert said they’d often
just give things away, never asking for money or trying to do the
Hindu hustle. I noticed that their culture and physical look have
many similarities with the Navajo, who would soon be entering my
life big- time.
“You’ve got that one right. Look at how many Navajos
we’ve got in prison!”
“I didn’t mean it that way, asshole. You’ll see what I mean,
all in due time.”

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 From reading Yogananda’s autobiography, I wanted to find
the ancient home of Lahiri Mahasaya, old Babaji’s Kriya yoga
disciple of reputed fame, who’d spent his life as a house-holder
in Varanasi. He was also the guru of Yogananda’s guru, Sri
Yukteswar. I finally located the house and met Lahiri’s great,
great grandson, Vindu. There were life-sized marble statues of
his famous ancestral lineage, but I saw no picture of Babaji.
When I asked why, he showed me the SRF generic drawing of
Babaji tucked away in an obscure corner of his shrine room.
That wasn’t good enough for me. From my wallet, I produced a
current photo of Herakhan Baba for Vindu’s inspection. This is
what He really looks like! He stood speechless, studying it for
a long moment of silence. Then, I told him of my finding a
rare book at the University of Washington’s library, written by
disciples of Lahiri, all claiming that Babaji’s 1970 incarnation
was one and the same. Here I was, an American, telling a
renowned Indian yogi of unquestionable linage about Babaji’s
reappearance in his own land recently. Maybe the West does
have a lot to offer the East, even in spiritual matters.
“You’d think a person of his spiritual stature would have
been aware of Babaji, back in a body in his own country,”
stated Larkins dryly.
“Well, it’s like Shastraji said. There are many, many Babas
in India. Babaji probably chooses who He wants to know Him
anyhow.”
Finally I decided to give Varanasi a break and take a twenty-
three hour train and bus ride to Mussoorie. I planned to visit
my British friend Ian at his International Girls’ School. On
these train rides you must always chain your pack to your bunk,
or it will be gone. Of course, those dark Indian eyes stare
continually, as if they’d never seen a white person before.
What century am I living in? Again, this is India. Upon
arriving in Rishikesh, I tried calling Ian. Thank God the
phones actually work here. However, we must have gotten our
wires crossed during my first few days in Delhi, as Ian was
presently on leave back in England. Well, we were drinking a
lot, as we made our plans. So, I never got to see Ian’s beautiful
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girl students or the snows of the Himalayas. To have been so
close to the abode of extreme sadhu and mountain climbers,
and not get to see it, was very disappointing. Darn it!
“Did you ever see Ian again?” asked Larkins.
“No. What a shame. I really did want to play guitar for all
those girls too. That would have been quite an experience, you
know.”
“Well, it looks like alcohol sabotaged that dream, my
friend.”
“You’re right, Larkins. It did.”
Rishikesh was spiritual marketing at its best. Many spiritual
tourists come here for the ashram experience. I wanted to puke,
as Herakhan was way superior to this highly visited
supermarket… in my mind anyway. The Ganga or Ganges up
here resembled my sacred Nooksack River, back in Bellingham.
Most of the holy men that usually reside here were still at the
Kumbha Mela, but I did find the abode of famous deceased
yogi Shivananda. Again, as I sat outside the ashram gate, I
said my prayers for Sri, Joya and all my faraway friends. I’ve
always felt that prayers are more potent in such sacred places.
Are they? Who knows? Maybe we just give our power over to
God more in such places. I do know that I give meaning to
everything I see. Near Rishikesh wooden bridge, I purchased a
rudraksha mala of very small, pure seeds; hard to find. Also,
one particular devotional tape was being played everywhere I
walked, so I purchased that too. Later, this music would always
remind me of Rishikesh. Music has a way of doing that. We all
know. When I was browsing at a bookshop near the wooden
bridge, a book entitled Amoroli fell off an above shelf, nearly
hitting my head. This book covered the science of urine
therapy. How ironic, especially after my introduction by the
chiropractor at Babaji’s Nebraska ashram. Needless to say, I
purchased the book. This must be a sign that I should try my
own liquid. But for now, I would hold off. I needed to study
this manual to get up the courage up for that first drink of the
immortal nectar.
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 “Did you finally try it?”
‘We’ll get to that later, Larkins. I wasn’t ready yet.”

Here was Divine Mother again….

After one cold miserable night at a commercial ashram in

Rishikesh, I bussed south to Haridwar, called the gateway to
heaven. This city too hosts the Kumbha Mela on certain yearly
cycles. It also marks where the rushing Ganga slows down in its
advance onto the plains of India. This is symbolized in pictures of
Lord Shiva. At the top of his piled up dreads is the face of goddess
Ganga spitting water. Shiva caught her in his hair to slow the
rushing water- hence, Haridwar. Vertical iron poles are even stuck
into the riverbank, so that faithful bathers don’t get swept away.
Here, I finally got to see a rudraksha tree, which resembled a
eucalyptus. I also scored some fresh seeds, as they were scraped
from a shell with bluish pulp inside. I see now why they are so
rare. To obtain 108 seeds of the same size and quality is amazing.
I purchased an orange silk altar cloth with the Shiva mantra written
in Sanskrit. This would look beautiful back home, wrapped around
my dotara’s neck, above the tuning pegs. I also saw the most
beautiful carved black statue of goddess Ganga I’d ever imagined,
at a temple next to the famous river of her name. Boy, these
Indians take the gods and goddesses seriously.
Upon leaving my hotel for the long train ride back to
Varanasi, I had an accidental fall off the steps, severely
spraining my ankle and smashing my head into the wheel of a
rickshaw. I might as well have broken the ankle. When taken
to a turbaned doctor, by the distraught rickshaw walla, I was
only given pain pills and told that a break would have been
better. Great! I was in horrible pain again, reminding me of my
major accident. Next, I was wheeled in an antique wheelchair
to the train station. How was I ever going to get onto this train?
Luckily, a female German angel, seeing my situation, helped
me out with my cumbersome backpack. Angels seem to work

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twenty-four hours a day, even in India. It almost takes divine
aid to even find which train car is assigned to you here. But
somehow, she did find my name typed on a posted paper with
hundreds of others. India, amazingly, does have an order to its
chaos. I got on the train in eternal gratefulness, to this loving
soul who appeared out of nowhere to help me… thank you, girl.
Once in my berth, I swallowed the doctor’s pain and
swelling pills. Then I ate some bhang, a semi-hashish candy
that Effie gave me. I slept over twelve hours. When I finally
arrived back at Asi ghat, I could barely walk to Bert and
Petra’s flat. My ankle was killing me. This really sucked.
Haven’t I suffered enough? I knocked on their door and yelled
“mm hengh,” our inside joke on the non-stop blaring voice
from the Kumbha Mela speakers. They were shocked to see
me back so soon, and insisted that I live with them. It was
great to reunite with my German friends again. One nice thing
about traveling alone – it gives one the opportunity to meet
some incredible fellow travelers, without attachments.
“You could say that about prison too. Think of all the
characters you’ve met here.”
“Sadly, most here have never even left Arizona or had many
life experiences, besides drugs and alcohol. They are all
suffering the pain of their karma. It’s a whole different ball
game, Larkins, when you’re out of your own country, free as a
lark with only a backpack, passport and travelers checks.”
During this stage of Varanasi and still nursing my swollen
ankle, I got seriously ill. The one nice side effect of illness or
injury in India is that people finally leave you alone. They
don’t try to constantly hustle you, when you are obviously
hurting. I had eaten a salad, if you can call it that, which had
probably been washed with Ganges water. This is not good
news. More experienced fellow travelers finally told me to
seek professional help, as they saw my health declining rapidly.
I had an Indian chap take me to the home of Varanasi’s chief
Aryuvedic doctor. He taught at the University here. Yoga
came from Aryuveda, the science of life. I personally feel that
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 this complete system holds one of the best handles on health
truth. I was given packets of powdered herbs, in folded
newsprint, to be taken daily with honey. I recovered my
strength very quickly and was not ill again on my continuing
journey. Author and speaker, Dr. Deepak Chopra helped heal
dying Naomi Judd, as reported in national news, through
Aryuvedic medicine. Sadly, pharmaceutical companies, along
with insurance conglomerates, still seem to rule our ailing
world.
“Right along with prisons,” commented Larkins.
“You think that now, because we’re here. But we deserve
this incarceration. You know that, Larkins. We screwed up.”
Petra, Bert and I rented a small boat one afternoon, and
paddled across the Ganga to the other shore. There, we saw
over one hundred large vultures congregating on the beach area.
Bert slowly advanced, stooped over wearing a loin cloth, until
he was permitted to squat among their feathered clan. As
babies aren’t cremated in India, they are thrown into the sacred
river. This clean-up crew waits to begin their karmic job, kind
of like the cows. All of this is, of course, a part of Shiva’s life
cycle of creation, preservation and destruction. Bert and Petra
were leaving soon, and I would be by myself again, to attend
the Shivarati festival back at Herakhan ashram. Alone now, I
went to hang out with Hari Hara, seated on the lip of his
wooden closet shack. I would be taking off within the hour,
and wanted to say goodbye to my most favorite sadhu. I loved
this guy. Suddenly, I saw an ex- girlfriend’s double walk by
me, headed for the new outdoor café. I told Hari Hara that I
was hungry. He laughed, knowing well my true intentions. I
had to meet this goddess. As we were the only two seated
there, it wasn’t hard. Her name was Simona, from Rome, and
she’d been to India three times now. Our brief encounter was
like two ships passing in the night; a quick cosmic romantic
fantasy. We hit it off instantly, of course, with an attraction
and energy level that was very intense. I felt like I was seated
next to my ex-girlfriend! Talk about a look alike!

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 “Which girlfriend is this?” asked Larkins.
“She’s the one that I didn’t disclose much about; the one that
broke my heart, just prior to my relationship with Jody.”
“I remember now.”
Simona and I walked over to the ancient temple, outside
Bert and Petra’s room. There, I asked her to come to Herakhan
with me. How could I not, with all the cosmic juice flowing
through me. She couldn’t and then disclosed a deep secret.
She had been scared or abused somehow by her father and had
never been able to fall in love. How sad. After she briefly
heard of my love losses, she quoted, “Better to have loved and
lost, than to never have loved at all.” Maybe Simona’s right
with that age old truth. I probably should have gotten her
address and a kiss, but I didn’t- something I still regret to this
day. Here was Divine Mother again, just teasing me. When
she asked my name, I said, “Do you want the English or
spiritual name?” She wanted the spiritual one. God bless you,
Simona, wherever you are today. Hari Om loves you eternally.

The holiest night of the Hindu year….

So here I went again, on that now familiar train ride back to

Delhi, then quickly on towards Herakhan. I knew the way. In
rustic Haldwani, I spent another day back at the Kailash Hotel.
The owner was glad to see me again and said that another
American lady would be traveling with me to Shivarati. I went
to meet her. When she opened the door, I about fell over!
Here was crazy Kate, whom I’d encountered back at the
Nebraska ashram, singing mantras with Turkantom on guitar,
during the summer of ‘93. She left a spooky memory in my
mind. On our shared cab ride to Herakhan, no bus this time,
she told me of her multiple personalities and the psychic testing
she’d undergone as a child. This lady was a real trip. Her face
could change 100% into another being, sometimes not even
looking human. She’d been expelled from the ashram many
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 times before and wondered how long she’d last this time
around. So did I. She also disclosed that she’d gotten pregnant
by Turkantom’s Italian drummer, back in Nebraska’s
cornfields. The baby aborted, she felt, due to a spell that the
ashram owners had cursed her with. Whatever, Kate, I’m just
thankful you’re not to be a mother. One of your personalities
at a time is enough for our crazy world. Ironically,
Turkantom’s drummer was present again at the ashram this
time. I wonder how he felt about Kate’s arrival.
“He probably felt like he was being stalked by her.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it, Larkins. Karma is karma. And Kate was
Kate. I didn’t see her around very long, so I think she got the
boot again.”
Returning to Herakhan, I was asked to help prepare rotis in
the smoky kitchen. Usually upon arriving, you’re exempt from
work, due to travel fatigue. But the cooks remembered me well
and insisted I join them in the kitchen. After all, I’d been here
before, so you can skip all that first day bullshit. This “kitchen”
wasn’t much different from the smoky bure used for cooking in
Fiji Islands. The ceiling was black from years of wood fires. It
smelled like it. We cooks all chanted the mantra continuously,
preparing food for over one hundred devotees. This was the joy
of Karma Yoga, work done for God. Preparations were
underway big time now, for the holiest night of the Hindu year-
Shivarati, or the night of Shiva. As Herakhan and Mount
Kailash are considered Shiva’s sacred abode since antiquity, I
was honored to be a part of this celebration in such a sacred
place. I am literally in Lord Shiva’s garden. Again, here comes
another unforgettable experience that only India can offer.
Everyone would soon be chanting the names of God, non-stop
for twenty-four hours, and then taking ritual baths in the river,
before sleep sometime tomorrow. Many were climbing with
blazing torches in the dark up Mount Kailash, to have
ceremony on the summit. Not only was this happening here,
but all over India, as this is a major big night. Mahadeva is
celebrated tonight! During our intense singing, lightening
struck the Shiva trident, or trishula, atop the old 1865 temple.
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This was taken as an auspicious sign, for sure. Then, right
before midnight, the Austrian schoolteacher Silvia asked me to
play guitar. As soon as I hit my first G chord, it began to pour
rain.
“Hari Om has made it rain!” she yelled.
“Mother Mother Ocean,” I sang, as the first words to the
Jimmy Buffet song rang from my lips in the pouring rain.
Would the miracles never cease? Moti Ma, a long time
German devotee hung out with me as the others were chanting
away. I always loved hearing her sing the Aarati with her
buddy Ganga, the Italian lady who gave me Babaji’s vest. She
suggested, as she passed a just-lit chillum to me, that I use my
house sale money to live here in Herakhan. She’d obviously
spent much time here and for a moment I considered the reality
of it. What a place to live and work on yourself. Good God. But
in my heart I knew that my path was to be near my son,
somehow. The following day, I was asked to be a father, to
give away a Scottish groom in a traditional Hindu wedding.
Wow, I’m a father even here in India. He was marrying his
Celtic bride, whose Welsh accent was so thick that I could
hardly recognize her words as English. The groom had the look
of a leprechaun or elf, with large ears riding at 90º angles from
his shaved head. The bride could have passed for Barb
Harmon’s double. This couple had actually bicycled around
India, something I couldn’t even begin to fathom. Motor
vehicles of any kind were like death traps out on the poor
Indian roads. Even bus drivers perform mini puja services in
front of their buses, to ask the gods for protection and safety of
their passengers. And Ganesh, Shiva’s son and the “remover of
obstacles,” is commonly seen on dashboards of busses. A
bicycle was sure suicide in my book, but these two young souls
had miraculously survived long enough to tie the knot. And
they had chosen the most special place on earth to do it. Their
wedding was very beautiful and exotic, complete with the
yagna fire ceremony and offerings of rice, fruit and mantras. I
was honored to stand up for this couple and sit around this
sacred fire pit once again. Nothing can warm your soul like a
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 Vedic fire ceremony. I also met a dreadlocked Oregon hippie
named Jeremiah. He was from Brittenbush, where young Sri,
Joya and I had attended a goddess retreat of herbalists before
our divorce. Jeremiah too, ironically, was a dear friend of Dan,
who’d built our octagon and driven me to the airport! It is still
a small world, even in Eternal India.
My poor ankle was slowly killing me and very swollen in its
purplish color. An Italian lady, who was extremely devoted,
gave me a huge baggie of sacred ash impregnated with mantras,
from the still-burning dhuni. She strongly suggested that I find
a masseur in Delhi to alleviate the swelling and apply the ash in
the meantime. Before leaving, I fixed an eleven muki [faced]
rudraksha seed to the long dreads of a ninety-year-old sadhu.
He had been a boy with old Herakhan Babaji, who frequently
visited his village. This particular seed, which I’d found at the
Kumbha Mela, is only to be worn in jatu or dreadlocks. I’ll
never forget how he looked once his mighty mane was piled
back atop his head. One lone rope of hair, tied with the
rudraksha seed, hung over his face, like a bell hanging off a
court jester’s hat. I’d just made another special friend and I’m
sure he probably still has that seed in his hair today. It is just
too sad that he didn’t speak English, so I could have heard his
stories of old Babaji. I would have liked that a lot. I also
bottled up some Gautama Ganga river water, as a gift for
Hiraman back home. Holy water for sure. I know he will
appreciate it, as he bathed Babaji Himself in this very water
years ago. Oh God, how I’ll miss this sacred place! Words
can’t describe Herakhan- ever. It just has to be experienced.
“I wish I could see your pictures. Maybe when you get
released, we could hook up,” interjected Larkins.
“Maybe we will and maybe not, Larkins. Time will tell. You
know how it is with inmates. They say they’ll stay in touch but
most never do.”
Upon departure, I rode a very bony, white horse down the
riverbed, to save my aching ankle. I bid my farewells to the
Center of the Universe once again. This time it felt final, like I
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would never be here again. It’s extremely hard to say goodbye
to a place like this. Thank you, Babaji, for the guidance,
protection and blessings and for the dreams come true. I had
walked where few go, let alone even hear about or believe. I
had finally found the Valley I’d been searching for in South
America, here in the Kumon region of northern India. Oh, God,
how great thou art! Thanks for the fine memories too, as they
are some of my very best. I’ll try to hold on to them for as long
as I can. You never know when you might need them.
“Those are great memories, Rideout. Thanks for sharing
them with me. You certainly don’t seem to have any fear about
opening up, my friend. You wear your heart on your sleeve.”
“I’ve always been an open book, Larkins. Whatever you try
to hide will eventually show.”
So, returning to Delhi for my last time, I was surprised to
find Bert, Petra, Robert and Effie packing up at a large hotel
off of Caughnot Circle. They were headed back to Berlin soon
and very glad to run into me one last time. I swear you meet
kindred souls out there on the traveler’s road. We all knew that
we would never pass this way again. All of the Babaji
devotees that I’ve met, known as Herakhandi, are crazy
devotional birds of the same feather. Now, these German
Herakhandi friends were busy stuffing charis up their butts in
latex condoms, for transport home. As they had lots left over, I
too now had way more than I even needed or wanted. After
tear-filled goodbyes and promises to write, I met a young
British couple back at my funky hotel. They’d just arrived in
India. He looked like a member of the British rock band Super
Tramp. She was a duplicate of stunning British actress Olivia
Hussey, much too frail and pretty for India. We talked on the
rooftop café that overlooked Delhi’s mad scene and hanging
laundry below. These naïve British kids were in severe
cultural shock. Olivia couldn’t imagine setting foot out the
hotel’s front door, into a street scene that resembled a moving
packed can of sardines. Why they had even come here, I
wondered. Good luck, my Limey friends, you’ll definitely
need it. Most women I asked hated India. The Indian men, it
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 seems, continually sexually harass them in subtle ways –
especially blondes. The few brunettes, who could tie a sari and
wave a hankie properly, seemed to be able to fit incognito with
their disguise. India is definitely not for the weak in spirit or
for those in a hurry. I had learned a lot more about patience
here; something I’ve always needed to learn. India also gave
me a much greater respect for life in every precious moment.
So I now returned to the shop, where I’d purchased my large
Shiva statue three months prior. It was safely stored upstairs-
remarkable. I set it up in my hotel room and exulted in my
murti souvenir of God. After four days back in the city, I
noticed that the British couple still had not found the courage
to approach that front door yet. I knocked on their door and
gave Super Tramp and Olivia a large amount of black charis, as
an inspiration to get moving. Later, they told me that they had
finally taken a short walk down the street. Their journey was
at least now beginning, slowly, with baby steps.
“I don’t think I could handle India, with the lack of personal
space and all. I’m just not that adventurous. I’d be nervous as
hell!”
“Well, like I’ve repeatedly told you Larkins, India is not for
everybody; probably damn few actually.”
On my whole trip, I had kept my eyes open for a copy of the
calendar art of Lord Shiva that had burned up in my house fire-
the hypnotic picture that looked like it was going to come alive
any moment. For one last shot, I ventured into the Paharganj
District of Old Delhi and located a factory that produces many
of India’s divinity calendars. I spent quality time digesting
gaudy artwork, but failed to find that 1970 piece. It may have
come from Nepal. I did purchase many posters cheaply here,
as gifts for friends. I also managed to find a masseur in a city
park who moved powerful healing energy into my still hurting,
swollen ankle. He carried a diary with International
testimonies of his healing skills. He sounded good alright. In
fact, he sounded great. And he was. After his treatment, I could
walk 75% better. My ears were cleaned free of wax with a
long, thin metal spoon, as my tennis shoes were being patched
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up too; by two thin Hindu boys in polyester slacks. This all
happened during the same Sunday afternoon ankle healing
session. The gods were definitely smiling on me, as I took care
of my last needed business.
Then, ironically, on my last day in India, a very karmic
encounter occurred. What goes around comes around. As I
was walking near the Thai Air offices in New Delhi, I heard
somebody saying the usual hallo behind me. I just ignored it
as usual, until a hand tapped me softly. Turning around, I was
face to face with my beloved rickshaw driver from the airport
backpack retrieval of my second day. He asked me why I
hadn’t called him, as promised, for his chauffer service when
I’d returned to Delhi. I had him now! I calmly educated him
to the fact that now I did know India. At least I knew it a whole
lot better than that first day. He had been charging me four
dollars and fifty cents for a ride that should have cost forty-five
cents! Mother India, you have deeply touched my heart and
soul. All I can say is Om Namah Shivaya.
Before leaving India, one final comment needs mention. In
Herakhan, I often sat up late with another German devotee,
talking about Babaji and our lives. I told him of my writing
Babaji in thanks for my cabin, and His reply of asking for
fifteen hundred dollars. This astute devotee’s insight was that
Babaji was asking for His 10% real estate commission; for
helping me score my cabin and property- for only fifteen
thousand dollars. After all, I had written Him, thanking Him
for His help in finding my land. Who knows the mysteries of
this strange universe; the why and how things happen the way
they do. And who knows what Babaji means sometimes?
“I think the German hit the nail on the head, as crazy as that
sounds. Everything has a price. Babaji was just pressing your
buttons and teaching you a lesson, Rideout,” exclaimed Larkins,
after hearing this testimony. “So after India, you were headed
to see your friend Tim in Thailand, right? That’s the guy you
met in Fiji who always stayed in touch.”

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 “Yeah, you remembered. Sometimes even you surprise me,
Larkins.”

I looked forward to….

Tim Welch was there to pick me up when I arrived at

Bangkok’s Donmuang Airport at 7 a.m. He and his Thai wife Aoy
live in a beautiful high-rise apartment complex, with polished
wooden floors and Siamese cat’s stalking in the hallways. After all,
Siam was Thailand’s former name. My mind, however, was still in
India. And my heart was aching from leaving. I was now adjusting
to this new culture, while downing cold Singhai beer and talking
my head off to Tim. It had been years since we’d seen each other.
We had a lot of catching up to do. Jumping from India to Bangkok
was quite a shock. Bangkok is first-world modern, compared to
third world India. They took me out to dinner my first night at a
huge outdoor restaurant, where we shared a dozen exotic taste
delights. Thais enjoy sharing humongous dinners together. Their
tasty food is my most favorite of culinary delights. I looked
forward to eating my way through Siam. My weight had dropped
nearly twenty-five pounds from India, so no money or bhats was
wasted on food or beer.
“It sounds like you relapsed, Rideout.”
“I did relapse, Larkins.”
After three months of 98% abstinence from alcohol, I began
drinking daily here. As a true alcoholic, I picked up the bad
habit again, exactly where I’d left off, before India. However,
my drinking now was setting the stage for worse things to
come, eventually. Soon, drinking wouldn’t just be for fun
anymore. The tables were turning and I would soon be drinking
to totally escape my abandonment issues. I’d be seriously
drinking to forget.

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 “You were entering the later stages of progressive
alcoholism, my friend. I’ve been there myself. I know what
negative drinking is all about.”
“I guess most of us here have been there or we wouldn’t be
here. Well, back to my story, Larkins.”
To me, Thailand did not have the spiritual vibe I’d felt in
India, although the country is riddled with Buddhist temples.
Everything was much higher priced here, than in poor bargain
basement India. The most infernal traffic jams on earth seem
to belong to Bangkok too. I wasn’t much impressed with this
country, so far. In fact, I was pretty bummed out that I’d come
here.
On my second day, I walked for hours in the humid heat,
window-shopping and looking for another cheap travel alarm
clock. My rucksack had been robbed by Delhi’s airport staff,
who took only my alarm clock. Who cares what time it is, in
such a timeless country as India? Talk about insane. I finally
found a clock and the price was five dollars; the same as at
home! I thought they made the damn things here? Maybe it
was China or Taiwan. The fare for a tuk-tuk ride, the fast Thai
rickshaws, was four to six U.S. dollars, in comparison to
India’s forty-five cents. Now, I’d have to watch my dwindling
money for sure. After returning to Tim’s apartment, sweating
profusely and with blisters on my toes, I checked out a city
map to see how much ground I’d covered- only about one
square inch in an eighteen square inch area.
“Bangkok sounds like its fuckin’ huge!” ejaculated Larkins.
“It is, and there is no easy way to get around,” I truthfully
answered.
What to do? In desperation over taking the slow crowded
city buses, I tried a motor scooter cabbie. I was told later that
many tourists die annually, as these guys zip between the rear
view mirrors of cars stuck in traffic jams, with often disastrous
results.
“Did you see any sex shows? I hear Bangkok is hot for that!”
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 “What do you think, you sex starved inmate? You don’t
have to ask. Yeah, I did see one show.”
Tim took me to Patpong District, the sex show area of
Bangkok. What an appropriate name for this capital city! As
I’d find out soon, most of Thailand’s topography is pretty
phallic. We went to Super Girls, which had a stained glass S
front door window resembling Superman’s jersey. Rolling
Stone magazine rated this sex club as the very best in town.
Tim knew best also, as he’d seen them all. It was mind-
blowing to witness what these sex slaves could perform. I saw
darts blown out from between legs to pop blown-up condom
balloons. A squatting nymph drew a piece of artwork with a
felt pen in her you-know-where. Then, a bottle of soda was
opened by those vaginal lips, spraying a customer in the face.
Afterwards, these ladies would sit on patron’s laps, to see if
they desired further proof of their acquired skills. Looking like
a Western baba and mentally chanting the mantra, I was totally
ignored. The mantra must have made me invisible! I’d never
been invisible before. I also was not even horny; sex seems to
have left me. Outside, I found a vendor who sold me her last
beautiful, dark green 100% silk safari jacket for twenty-five
dollars. This coat is probably worth at least two hundred
dollars. So, there still are some bargains here in Siam, besides
sex shows.
I visited the King’s Palace and many of the tall Buddhist
temples in the downtown complex on my own, as Tim and Aoy
still had a business to run. Thailand is ultra Buddhist and Siam
has often been called “the land of smiles.” They always smile
here, especially when they’re cheating you. I noticed that Thais
seem to understand English well, but are often very shy to
speak it. All signs are written in Thai, with weird backward-
looking letters, similar to Greek. This makes getting around
either difficult or damn confusing. At least in India, the
English language was the common denominator, left from the
British legacy. That was a true blessing, for me.
Communication there was so much easier. Oh, how I wished I
were back there. I had that same feeling after I returned home
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from Fiji. Both Fiji and India had stolen my heart in ways
unimaginable. Then Bangkok blows me away, on a good note,
with many Buddhist temples that were totally awe-inspiring.
They were so tall that I couldn’t photograph a whole temple in
one picture. The steps climbed so steep that rope wound the
handrails, for a good grip, to ascend to their summits. There
were hundreds of painted Buddha’s on walls and each had a
different face! How many years and devotees had it taken to
erect these holy structures? This part of Thailand reminded me
of India, as there are temples of faith everywhere! Faith and
devotion can truly perform wonders and sometimes even
miracles.
“We Christians have built some pretty impressive structures
too!” interjected Larkins.
“I know, Bunkie. You have a point there. I saw many of
them in Europe.”
However, after four sweaty days in congested Bangkok, I
was burning out. Why had I left India, where God seemed
much more prevalent to me? I just want to go back there. I
really want to go back there. Tim suggested I take the train to
southern Thailand and enjoy the beach resorts. He and Aoy
hadn’t been there themselves, but had heard nothing but good
about the south. Their business of growing sunflowers, for
commercial cooking oil, took them mainly to northern Thai
provinces. Okay, I’ll go. Off I departed on a night train, south
to the Krabi area. I met a Canadian tourist from Vancouver,
BC on board and we stayed up late, talking and drinking
Mekong Whiskey. It was fun to meet somebody from my own
neck of the woods; somebody who could finally speak English.
For sleep, I had my own bed with sheets and a snap-on canvas
wall for total privacy. There is much more personal space here
than in India, that is for sure. Outside this protective shell, all
kinds of alcohol were wheeled through the aisles. I’d even
heard that amphetamines were added to this whiskey, to reduce
hangovers. However, I sure had a killer one the next morning,
when I bussed from Surat Thani to Krabi town. Nursing a
headache, I found a travel agent who booked me at a cheap
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 resort on the Andaman Sea. After bouncing down sandy rutted
roads, which nearly had me heaving over the side, I arrived in
the back of an open rusted Toyota pickup truck to yet another
version of paradise.
“You’ve definitely seen a few versions of paradise, Rideout,
from all of the stories you’ve told me.”
“I’ve also seen a few versions of hell too; my own self
created hell, made by my ego. For every high I’ve ever had, the
low has been equal. It’s the karmic price tag. You’ll hear more
about this subject.”
Now in paradise, my little grass shack, complete with a
roofed porch, table, chair and mosquito-netted bed, only cost
me three dollars a day. I drank daily, about three to four times
this amount. Money doesn’t seem to matter much to alcoholics.
And this alcoholic was on the tail end of a fantastic trip, slowly
heading home to an uncertain future. So why not drink, right?
My small hut had barking gecko wall lizards, noted as a sign of
good luck. They eat mosquitoes. Sometimes they feel like little
rubber feet, when they zoom across your sleeping face. I’d
encountered these little buggers before in Fiji. The food here,
especially the fresh fish, was fantastic and very reasonable. I
managed to score some red haired bud, as Thai stick was never
heard of here. This ganja was way heavier than India’s charas.
I was ignorant of the fact that, had I been caught with drugs in
Thailand, I would probably never have seen the good ol’ USA
again. Sometimes ignorance is bliss and this ganja definitely
was. My head was still thinking like I was in India, where pot
isn’t that big of a deal, especially if you’re white and spending
money. My first afternoon, I wandered up the blinding white
sand beach and ran into Grant, an Aussie who’d been on the
bus with me. He asked if I felt any better. I’m sure I looked
pretty rugged. He introduced me to a German resort owner
who’d lived here for a decade and to another nice Australian
couple. We all drank, of course, and smoked heavily, as the
German told us his tales of Thailand. It was fun to hear a
German accent again. On my seaside walk home, I began to
notice topless sunbathing ladies, increasing in number. I was
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soon to learn that all of the tourist beaches here were topless. I
would be encountering every titty in the anatomy book.
“I sure don’t need to hear that here in prison!” shouted
Larkins. “Beer and titties are what make my world go around.
Remember the rush of just trying to get that damn bra strap
unhooked? ”
“Settle down, while I finish my long story. We’ve still got
time, as you well know. By the way, did that turkey ham we
had for lunch give you gas?”
“What do you think? You’ve been here long enough. Oh
yeah, did you see the Undertaker smash that dude on WWE
Smackdown wrestling last night?”
“That’s the best shit on Friday night TV. Of course I did.”
Southern Thailand’s limestone karsts topography attracts
many rock climbers and I daily watched stoned youths ascend
vertical limestone walls. You’ve got to be kidding me! There
are many caves here too, with thick, moist vegetation and huge
prehistoric-looking teak trees that resemble Jurassic Park. I
tried snorkeling but found the coral reefs to be much inferior,
in comparison to Fiji’s. Long-tailed boats, with extending
propellers run by car engines, were the aqua cabs for getting
around islands and other beach resorts. Down the coast from
my cheap traveler’s abode were the more expensive tourist
resorts. Here was Sunset beach facing west, Sunrise beach
facing east and Pranagh beach perpendicular to the two. All
were topless, of course, and dominated by German tourists. A
huge limestone cave was dedicated to the sea goddess Pranagh.
Incense burned around many carved, red-painted penises. Now
this reminded me of the Shiva lingams in India… far out. This
meant that fishermen’s wives had been praying for babies. At
Sunrise beach, I met a gay British couple named Nick and
Mike. I was so straight that it didn’t even dawn on me that they
might be gay.
“You didn’t even know?” questioned Larkins.

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 “They said exactly the same thing! No, I didn’t for sure until
I asked them straight out.”
They both laughed and became very dear friends during my
month-long stay here. They also ate Vegit on bread, just like in
Fiji. We would all become pen pals for many years to come. I
gave both Nick and Mike copper mantra bracelets from India,
and helped these two sensitive souls patch up a lover’s quarrel
that threatened to destroy their out-of-the-closet relationship.
When I showed them my photos of India, they recognized the
med-student hustler Ashoka from Delhi, who’d taken me for
twenty dollars. He’d hustled them too, but for over a hundred
dollars. Small world! Ashoka seemed to hit on long haired
freaks. What a niche to hustle.
We all hiked upward, sweating profusely, and then rapelled
down ropes into the center of a crater, where the daily ocean
tide created a beautiful inner lagoon. I celebrated my forty-
seventh birthday with Mike and Nick, and a British redheaded
female half my age, but with the same birthday. Drinking was
the daily norm in this paradise, for almost all nationalities.
“Sounds like my kind of place- way better than India,
Rideout.”
“You would say something like that, Larkins. Thailand caters
much more to tourists than India, which seems to attract the
more spiritually minded travelers. There is a big difference
between tourists and travelers.”
We were on holidays to have fun, so we tried our best. I
hung out with many nationalities and heard lots of travel talk,
as we drunkenly yarned each night. Again, I felt a sense of
pride at my U.S. sense of humor and overall freedom, mentally
and spiritually. This has to be my proud American ego talking.
Tie-dye is very popular in Thailand and I acquired quite a few
new shirts. The Brits did too, but stated that they could never
wear such loud clothing back home. Suits and ties were the
proper apparel, not these dripping acid colors that proclaimed
psychedelic freedom when they were, “the Brits abroad.” I let
them know loud and clear that this was a large part of my
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wardrobe back home, in the land of the free. I’ve never owned
a suit and tie in my life. I hope I never do. Again, I was the
only American around. I guess I must need these kinds of
experiences, on some level. A Norwegian friend and I toured a
Buddhist cave complex that was designed to overcome the fear
of death. Here, we saw many skeletons and photos of
decomposed bodies. One could rent a personal cave, with a
locking door, for secluded meditations on death. No thanks.
The Norwegian proudly proclaimed that Russian and Icelandic
women were the most beautiful, and sought after, of all the
mail-order brides. These women badly wanted out of their
cultures, as their men folk abused them regularly. I’d had
enough of those pipe dreams, after the Indra fiasco in Fiji. The
woman in me is who I’m really looking for and I came to know
her a lot better after India.
Back in Bangkok, my wallet was pick-pocketed on Khan San
Road, where I sat nursing a beer. Just as my anger was peaking
over this outrage, I saw gay Nick and Mike again, stepping out
of a cab. Wouldn’t you know it? This area is full of fellow
world travelers and cons. We quickly talked of my outrage,
over a beer, and then said our goodbyes again. I bought some
bootlegged Levi and Calvin Klein jeans cheaply and cassette
tapes of The Beatles BBC sessions for only a dollar and a half
per tape. In a pre-dawn torrential downpour, I said my
goodbyes to a soaked Tim and Aoy. At the airport, Shiva’s
brass eighteen inch long trident was confiscated from my
beloved murti statue. It was considered a lethal weapon and
would supposedly follow me to LAX airport, with Bowie
knives and other pointed articles of destruction. It never even
boarded my flight, as some Thai sticky fingers took it home for
an alter piece. Boy, how I despise thieves.
“That’s just wrong!” shouted Larkins.
“You’re right, I feel the same way. Thieves are worse than
drunks, in my opinion.”
After much letter writing to Thai Air, I was compensated the
full price of ninety-five dollars on the stolen article. Today,
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 my Shiva still has no trident, his symbol of sovereignty over
dark forces. I’ll find one someday. Or I’ll have one made. It
really doesn’t matter. It’s just another lesson in attachment to
material things. Divorce and the house fire taught me that one
already.
Stopping briefly in Seoul, Korea to gas up en route home, I
met a top-hatter lady returning from Katmandu. She eyed me,
saying, “You look like you’re from Bellingham.” You hit the
nail on the head, lady. She was from Seattle. I guess her trip to
Nepal had opened her third eye. Ironically, we ran into each
other at Seattle’s International Drum Festival a month later.
It’s a small world, once again. But sadly, in 1995, I had no
idea of the upcoming decade of self-created hell I would be
descending into. None of India’s holy men gave me any
warning. It was all of my own making.
“This is a good time to go have a smoke, before count. I’ll
see you out in the smoking cage, Rideout. Tell me what it was
like coming back home, later. Will you?”
“Yeah, I’ll tell you. I really didn’t have a home to come
home too. Go smoke, Larkins.”

Leave no branch unturned….

So, after four months of traveling the Far East, I returned to

New Mexico to be with my beloved Sri Ram again. I was
excited! At first sight in the airport, I noticed he had now lost
his front baby teeth. It happens to all kids. They look like
somebody punched them out. I looked much different myself,
with very long wild hair on the verge of dreading, on a skinny
body framed with numerous prayer beads. I definitely looked
like I’d just come back from India, full blown. It was so good
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to be reunited with my son! It felt incredible to hear him call
me “daddy” again. Joya took us out for East Indian food in
Albuquerque- how sweet, curry once more. My story began to
unfold to them over dinner but my mind was still overseas,
somewhere. Switching cultures is a shock! It takes time to
adjust. I just switched India for Thailand and now it’s America.
Joya and Sri were presently living at friend Carol’s property.
Her bus was parked there, for my temporary living space. She
and Sri now resided in an upstairs bedroom. Carol was
instrumental in getting the Native American Church legal in
New Mexico and had been doing the medicine a very long time.
She had married a Native roadman who had physically abused
her, and now she was sadly dying of terminal cancer. Poor
Carol, she was such a good, caring person. Joya had adopted
her as her mother, in the NAC tradition. Joya’s own mother,
Pauline, couldn’t quite understand this spiritual relationship.
However, she too would come around in time, with the help of
the medicine. Carol loved Sri very much, continually telling
me how special he is. Boy, don’t I know that. I was extremely
happy for their new living arrangement. I just want to see my
kid happy too, even if I’m not around him. Doesn’t every
parent want just that? Joya and Johnny had parted ways. I
learned later from him that it had been very painful, resembling
my own sad story. Joya’s new path of self-discovery was
leaving a few confused hearts in its wake.
“Women, why are they like that!”
“God only knows, Larkins. We men seem to bring out the
best and worst in them. They just think different than us.”
I gave Sri his blessed Ganesh statue and a kurta outfit of
pants and shirt, complete with a decorative Kashmiri vest from
Rishikesh. He looked like a little prince, which he is to me, but
outgrew the costume quickly. In fact, I don’t think he hardly
ever wore it. Later, Ganesh was given back to me to keep for
Sri, for when he’s older. The East Indian thing was my trip, as
Joya had now gone Native American whole heartedly, even
discovering later that she does have some distant Indian blood
in her. I’d bought a special crystal mala at the Kumbha Mela,
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 to give as a gift. When I purchased this one-of-a-kind rosary,
I’d mentally promised to give it to someone I love. My heart
still loved Joya and I saw us together again. Even though the
Fat Lady had sung, I refused to hear her. Wasn’t there any hope
that we could somehow work out our differences and be a
loving happy family once again, here in the Southwest, away
from the toxic memories of Washington?
“Was there any chance in hell?”
“No, but she accepted my gift and promised to return it, if I
ever found somebody later I really wanted to give it to.”
It had belonged to a sadhu who’d spent many years in
meditation. I never got it back.
There was soon to be a peyote meeting on Carol’s property.
That means I would soon be sitting up again. Good deal!
Johnny taught me the correct way to prepare the sacred
firewood and stack it properly. It was good to work with this
brother out in the sunshine and hear his views on meetings and
peyote. Johnny was definitely a peyote boy. I’ll always
remember him asking the roadman for more medicine, after
vomiting up what he’d just ingested five minutes ago.
Perfection in such preparations as sacred firewood is essential
to the success of the prayer service. Leave no branch unturned.
Everything counts here. If only we could live every day with
that same intention of consciousness- just like my ashram
experiences. I was slowly learning more about this awareness,
each time I sat up. This particular meeting was laced with
many highly respected Indian elders from the NAC heritage.
One elder had broken his back when the tipi poles
“accidentally” fell on him. Of course, there are no accidents or
mistakes in the universe, or tipi for that matter, so this meeting
would hopefully ease some of this karma. It was a “hard
meeting,” according to seasoned Joya, and very crowded. The
peyote brought up many hash toxins in me and I was so skinny
that my ass was literally killing me. I basically could not move
from one uncomfortable position, crammed in between others,
for twelve grueling hours. Joya was right. This was hard!
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 What people don’t do to realize the Divine presence! These
elders let me know loud and clear that one didn’t need to travel
to India in search of Creator. He was right here in this spineless
cactus. How true that statement is.
“Follow the ways of the Red Man for America,” the guru had
said.
Every time I’ve ingested peyote, God’s eternal presence has
become obviously clear again, in the here and now. To the
Huichol Indians of Mexico, peyote is the spirit of a deer. To
me, it is pure Love and I feel like a child in total awe of the
universe. Peyote was becoming my friend- a very gentle friend.
When many of Babaji’s devotees experienced sitting up in
Switzerland, they said peyote is Babaji. Why not? He can
assume any form. Peyote has also been labeled God in
vegetable form or the flesh of God. After this powerful
meeting, Joya and I ate more medicine the next day and had
lunch together. Now, we talked of my future plans. We had to,
and I still wanted her feedback on my life choices. I just had to
be near Sri, and she understood that. All the guidance I got in
India told me to be with your son. So I decided to sell my
expensive yurt and move down to New Mexico. This time
driving to the airport wasn’t so sad for my young Sri. I would
be returning, as soon as I finished up my business back in
Bellingham. My new path in America was unfolding - the
journeys of following my ex-wife to be near my estranged son.
This probably was not going to be an easy path, not at all.
“You’re mom said you’d have a hard time in life.”
“Boy, she wasn’t kidding, Larkins. However, I think she was
referring to my over-sensitive empathic nature. You know,
feeling things too deeply.”

I was praying the hardest….

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 Wayne and Teri picked me up at Sea-Tac International
airport, in the pouring rain. Some things never change. I began
pounding forty ounces of Old English 800 malt liquor en route
home, much to their disgust. Being a Pisces, I’ve always
enjoyed altered states, feeling more comfortable out of my
body than in it. This must be an astrological minus, a definite
setback. It’s also one hell of a rationalization to drink. I
actually drank to come down and be on the same lower level
where most people vibrate at, or so I thought in my mind.
Crazy. Back at Yurtsville, Shanti, my blue healer mix dog, and
Angela, my old tabby cat, gave me a longing look, as if to say,
“Why did you leave us for so long?” What was I doing to my
animals? Wayne built us a fire in my woodstove, as I passed
out the souvenir gifts of rudraksha malas, deity posters and
batiks. Their new thirty-foot diameter yurt was fabulous
compared to mine, and now Wayne’s wooded acreage semi
resembled Mongolia. Except there is no sound insulation in a
tent, so Wayne and Teri heard me chanting clear as a bell each
morning, much to their delight. I put the word out about my
real estate sale and, fortunately for me, Wayne decided to buy
me out but later. What a blessing that the yurt and foundation
stage would not have to be moved. God knows it took long
enough to build. What a shame that I invested so much time,
labor and a lot of money into this short lived dream, that was
now gone with the wind. The month that I spent back in my
yurt was mentally confusing for me, as I hadn’t really come
down from my Indian state of mind. Even after all the drinking
in Thailand, India and the American Indians were still having
an effect on my psyche. That same time warp happening again,
with all the foreign flashbacks. Facing taxes, insurance,
driving, etc., was a real reality check, after my simple, carefree
backpack lifestyle. I cannot stress enough my love for the
freedom that traveling brings. It’s fun to have your life so
darned simple, reduced to a passport, traveler’s checks and a
backpack; an escapists dream comes true. I’ve always
cherished simplicity - sitting around a fire, singing songs,
growing a garden, yarning with friends - nothing complex, just
being there. That ol’ hippie dream, in this fast insane
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technological world, is still my goal. I realized after this Far
East trip that, sadly, my traveling days were over. I’d seen
enough now of other cultures and the world is getting scarier
for travel, with all the terrorist threats. Besides, I have a kid
now. There is still plenty of America to see, and, hopefully,
with my son. So, back in my canvas yurt, it was time to hang
up my rucksack. Welcome home, Rob. You are no longer,
Hari Om. That beloved spiritual name would stay reserved for
Babaji’s circle of friends, the Herakhandi and India only.
Others would never understand. Even having a guru today,
was becoming weird and passé to most people. Then again,
most people don’t even begin to understand the true guru-
disciple relationship anyway. Are they just too lazy to learn?
“I feel I have that with Jesus, being a born-again Christian
and all. Am I right?”
“Yes, you’re right if you feel that way in your heart, and
continue to keep your mind on Christ, Larkins. Jesus will
reveal more to you when you’re ready.”
Bill, a college amigo who had housed Shanti for me after our
divorce, came for a visit. Bill was always a great guy to hang
with and we enjoyed talking about reality, as we drank together.
After being around me for a few hours, he left with the mantra
Om Namaha Shivaya on his lips. My lips tasted Schlitz’s Bull
Ice daily now. My addictive nature was in full bloom again,
after that alcohol binge in Thailand. For two dollars, I could
get a good buzz on. Then I’d listen to the music I’d brought
home from India. Here we go! I felt I needed to numb out to
face the stress of Western civilization again. Was this really
the land of the free or the land of entrapment? I was free to
drink, I felt, after all I’d been through, and drinking was fun
again as I packed up. My first DUI was somehow long
forgotten. How quickly we humans forget- especially me! I
finally was ready with my belongings and Shanti for the 1700
mile return trip to the Southwest, my new home. I’ll now live
in the sun, instead of rain. Thank God!

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 Shanti was always good company on road trips. She loved
going in the truck and adapted well to motel rooms, with a late
night walk in some foreign neighborhood of America’s many
states. She was happy anywhere, as long as she was with me.
After all, she is a dog and what a dog. We stopped off in
Crestone, Colorado, to finally experience Babaji’s Baca
Ashram. Joya and I had donated much money over the years
for the construction of the Divine Mother temple here. I felt
that this was my way of paying Babaji back His real estate
commission, for helping me score my cabin and land that I now
had lost through fire and divorce. I met a fellow Pisces
devotee from Iran or Persia, who’d lived many years in
Herikhan. His name was Donesh. He’d married an American
lady named Narayani, and later murdered her with a knife
before killing himself. This blew away the Babaji community,
to say the least. I’d spent nearly a week with these people and
was shocked by the tragic news. The high altitude property
and earth ship underground ashram was amazing here. I
helped plant vegetables on a sunny afternoon and awoke to
snow the same night. That’s Colorado weather. If you don’t
like it, wait twenty minutes. The Sangre de Christo Mountains
were spectacular. This Baca area was definitely sacred. No
blood has ever been shed between Indians and Whites here. I
guess the tragic killing at the Ashram was probably the worst
incident to hit this special area. Here too, I got to meet the
president of the American Haidakhandi Samaj. She too had
experienced peyote in the tipi way. She and I had a lot in
common, wishing everybody could experience sitting up. As a
side note, I have been spelling Babaji’s ashram as Herikhan. It
is also commonly spelled Haidakhan. The true pronunciation
is a cross between the two, with a rolling r-d sound.
“As if I care about such details, Rideout,” remarked Larkins.
“You always remember so many weird little facts.”
“That’s just the way my mind works, Larkins.”
Upon returning to Carols’ property outside of Albuquerque,
preparations were underway for Sri Ram’s next birthday
meeting. It is believed, by those who know, that four
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consecutive peyote meetings for a child will set their life up
towards a good future. It’s definitely true, in my opinion, when
I view where Sri is at today.
“Didn’t he come for visitation last week with Roderick, his
step-dad?”
“Yeah, he did and it was emotional as always. I love him so
much and can’t even imagine what goes through his young
mind, after seeing me here, dressed in orange. In some ways, I
feel that I’ve scarred him for life.”
“It is embarrassing,” commented Larkins.
“Yeah, it is, but Sri will hopefully learn from it… just as we
are.”
He has been blessed and guided in a magically good way.
Plus, he has a strong spiritual nature and a church that is
probably the most powerful on earth. Amen. I personally feel
like Sri is being taken care of by Babaji Himself, as all my
prayers are coming true. Sadly, the atmosphere was very heavy
at Carol’s, as Mr. Death was lurking nearby.
Cheyenne/Arapaho Bobbie, a very close old friend of Carol’s,
arrived upon the scene, smashing into Carol’s car in his beat-up
roadman truck. Most of the roadmen I’ve encountered seem to
own very little. It’s usually their medicine box with peyote,
devotional instruments and paraphernalia, and an ailing means
of transportation. Except these medicine dudes are extremely
rich in spirit, from a lifetime of meetings and experiencing
nearly everything under the sun that a man can suffer or endure.
They know, as they’ve been there. That’s true self-realization.
They also definitely know their way around the tipi and all the
explicit rules of sacred geometry concerning the running of a
fireplace. Carol had continually promised Sri that she
wouldn’t die until after his meeting. What a promise to keep.
She would hold onto her fading life force, somehow. However,
she almost scared Joya and me to death by nearly dying the day
before Sri’s meeting. While Joya was calling 9-1-1, I was
praying the hardest I’ve ever prayed in my life, for Carol to not

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 leave us yet. Joya put all of her health skills to use now.
Surprisingly, Hawk and Trish, who would be running Sri’s
second meeting, arrived moments later in the dark from
Washington State. Talk about timing! Carol somehow
stabilized again, a miracle. When I told Carol the next day how
hard I had prayed for her, she calmly said, “I was just getting
you ready for tonight’s meeting. You know, to pray for your
sunny boy.”
“That’s cool. She knew you’d be praying hard for your kid’s
life.”
“That was Carol. She had a great cosmic sense of humor, a
lot like God.”
As I’d just returned from India, Carol knew I could live on
practically nothing and was well schooled in the art of karma
yoga, i.e. work. I did the dishes non-stop and helped out
around the place any way I could see fit. My brother Alan,
from my prior Bellingham days, attended Sri’s meeting. It was
blessings to have this kindred soul pray for my son. Alan
hadn’t experienced psychedelics in years. He had previously
eaten about a hundred hits of acid in one fell swoop, years ago,
when the police raided his house. He still saw auras around
objects occasionally, waiting for the world to catch up to him.
The incredible singing of peyote songs took Alan and me to
what seemed like the third ring of Saturn. The Navajo
language can sound like it’s from another realm, especially in
the tipi. Standing outside later, we both knew that this was as
good as it gets. This was yet another form of paradise, only
without palm trees. The stars of New Mexico felt so close and
plentiful, much like they appeared to me in the Himalayan
foothills. It seemed like you could see the entire Milky Way in
perfect clarity and almost reach out and touch the stars. Alan
gave Sri a beautiful colored kite and Carol had a special
Batman cake ordered for his sixth birthday celebration. Jai was
very into Batman, to say the least. I looked over at poor Carol
in her wheelchair, surrounded by all of her closest friends for
her very last time. Talk about heavy! Everybody was talking
loudly and carrying on, while wide-eyed Carol took it all in.
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Now, I could literally smell death in the air. As she had
promised, Carol hung on until Sri’s meeting was over. Then
quietly, she left us. Her best friends, Eugenia and Muriel,
helped Joya attend to all of the funeral arrangements. They
washed and dressed Carol before her cremation. Later, they
buried the ashes on her property. Sadly, Carol’s passing took
its toll on these women and others. They mourned heavily and
had to be treated ceremoniously later for their own healing and
deep depressions. Carol’s death especially affected Joya. It’s
so hard to let go of our loved ones. It’s the ultimate lesson
we’ll all have to face at some time or another. To me, death is
a final chapter in the book of this life and an affirmation that
we are not a body. Divorce can be an ongoing living death or
an affirmation that life goes on, with a body.
“Well said, my friend. Can I bum some Keefe coffee off you?
Have you got enough to make it until commissary this week?
I’ll pay you back, I promise.”
“Would you like an order of fries with that too, Larkins?”

So far, this divorce experiment seems to be….

Joya had a plan for us. Instead of staying at Carol’s property

while she completed her herbal schooling, Sri and I would
move north of Silver City into the Gila wilderness to live with
church friends, Ted and Melinda. This was a dream come full
circle for me, as I’d seen the Gila back on my musical tour of
1980, while playing in Silver City. Arriving at the property
near dark, in a pocket of private land known as Gila Hot
Springs, I hit it off immediately with Melinda and crying baby
Rio. She was one beautiful cosmic mother, insisting we arrive
before sunset on the auspicious new moon of the month. Wow,
do you wanna know my Sun sign too? Ted soon returned
home from Silver City, and we sat up late drinking herb tea and
talking about gurus, peyote and big plans for their property.
They had plans! The following day, we erected my new blue

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 three-room, eight by twenty foot nylon tent. Now, Sri and I
could be comfortable here. I started reading him Herman
Hesse’s book, Siddhartha at night. He loved it, and at such an
early age. During the day, he started playing with his new
friends Roman, Emile and Lilly. Classify these as good times,
at least for awhile.
The Gila cliff dwellings were four miles up the road from
Doc Canfield’s store and the only show in town here. It was
fun to walk with the kids through the river sand, hearing bull
frogs bellow low moans, to buy Jolly Ranchers and see if we
got any mail. The Canfield family had ruled this area for years
and was now threatened by the numerous peyote meetings
happening in their valley. The sound of the water drum echoed
off these rock walls loudly. The police were even called in
once, as sacred firewood was stolen. This was like modern day
cowboys and Indians! Ironically, this area was where the
Apaches had hidden out from the cavalry during their final
days. Geronimo reportedly took birth about two miles over the
ridge from us, on the east fork of the Gila River. Rumors have
it that he actually soaked in the hot springs here, where the
temperatures reach 132º F. We had three outdoor pools of
decreasing temperatures to soak in daily on this property. I
attended so many peyote meetings here, and throughout New
Mexico during this time frame, that it is difficult to remember
clearly exact details. After Joya’s graduation, which Sri and I
attended and where Marcellus Bearheart Williams lead a sweat,
her school bus blew a rod driving to the Gila. Triple A towed
it in, finally. Our master plan was to share parenting our son-
the great divorce experiment. I made many new friends here
like Keith and Val, Maritza and Eric, Al and Peter and Cynthia
and Bo. Another Alan, who resembled Glen Campbell and also
played guitar, lived across the river from us. He had a trippy
black tarred cinder block house on the hill and worked for
minimum wage with the Forest Service, as a guide at the
nearby cliff dwellings.
“It sounds like you found yet another paradise, Rideout.”

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 “I felt that I had in many ways. Yeah, I’d found another one.
Our neighborhood was so beautiful and big- like 2.2 million
acres! The setting sun, hitting the red rock hoodoos, was
incredible to see in our valley. When it thunders here during
the summer monsoons, it echoes off the canyon walls like God
playing drums.”
“Gosh, that is only the next state over from Arizona. When I
get out of here, I think I’ll check out those hot springs, Rob,”
commented Larkins.
“There are many hot springs in that area. I really hope you
do go there. You’d enjoy it, Randy. Remember me when
you’re soaking.”
I began secretly drinking with Alan from across the river and
occasionally smoking pot. It was fun to hang with another
musician. Soon, I manifested an adobe cabin for two hundred
dollars a month, at the source of the geothermal springs. The
Gila River was flowing and babbling below. This rental
belonged to Doc’s son and had a huge concrete hot tub in the
bathroom. Far out! I loved this place already. Now that I had
a home front, I needed to return to Bellingham to retrieve more
of my belongings and my cat Angela. I would take Sri and
Shanti with me on this road trip, and meet up with Joya there
later, as she too had some unfinished business up north.
“You had to drive that long distance all over again, ungh?”
asked Larkins.
“Yes, but it was fun this time. I had my kid with me.”
Sri and I stayed three days with my friend Peter’s mom
Beverly, in Orange County, California, so we could experience
Disneyland together. Peter owned the house where Yogananda
appeared to me and Jolene. He also sadly died about a month
after I lost my dad- another great loss. He had the biggest heart
of anybody I’ve ever known. It was nice to be with his mom.
We had a ball at Disneyland - how could we not - and returned
home each night exhausted from all of the stimulating activity.
When Sri saw the General Electric parade of lights, he held

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 tightly to his new Davey Crockett musket, exclaiming loudly to
be heard, “Dad, this is the best day of my life!” I felt exactly
the same way. The love I felt for my son, right then, was
beyond any love I’d ever known. I’m sure every parent knows
what I mean. I could have broken down right there crying in
thankfulness to God. When we saw the Lion King parade
performing the African chants, I nearly did break down. My
heart felt so wide open after India and this incredible parade,
with all the rhythmic music, was reminding me of India. I was
very grateful for all the new blessings in my life- a cool house,
beautiful neighborhood and new friends. One ugly incident did,
however, mar Disneyland for me. When I was attempting to
photograph Sri with Raffiki, a large Mexican mother shoved
me onto my back, so she could photograph her many kids first.
I lost it, screaming the F word and telling her to go back to
Mexico. Little did I know then, that this was the introduction
of racism in my life?
“You know a whole lot more about racism now, my friend.
Prison makes each inmate face that issue, that’s for sure.”
“How right you are, Larkins. I think our lesson here is to
overcome racism, not to give into it. We have our work cut out
for us.”
We also spent a day at Knox Berry Farm and enjoyed the
holographic Spirit Lodge very much. Beverly really took a
shine to Shanti while we played, buying a leash and taking her
for walks. Upon leaving the “happiest place on earth” and
Beverly behind, we visited my long lost cousins, Patty and
Harriet. These are the daughters of Uncle Harry Rideout, my
deceased dad’s deceased brother. Patty and her hubby took us
riding the myriad waterways near Fremont in their fast ski boat.
That was a first for Sri. We also talked a lot of family tree
stories, as I secretly drank red wine behind Sri’s back. That’s
easy to do when he’s six years old. I hardly knew these distant
relatives at all and felt I needed a drink. I have never bothered
to see them again, as they felt like total strangers. They are
probably upset about that. Who knows?

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 When we reached Seattle, Sri and I stayed overnight with the
Chilean earth mother I’d previously dated. Her spoiled nerd
son was now grown-up. I found Chile quite self-absorbed,
talking only about her. When she couldn’t remember my name,
Sri and I split. Another note on Chile and her son; my mom
gave her a beautiful silver necklace she had made years ago at
night school, and a lovely woven Indian skirt. Chile still wore
these with pride. Mom must have been touched by her on some
deep level that I surely never was. I’d given her son all of my
Weekly Reader childhood books, back when she and I were
dating. He loved these books and became quite the reader. On
this short overnight visit, he asked me if I wanted them back.
No. You can keep them. He said that they were still some of
the very best stories he had ever read. Life was very
wholesome back in the ‘50’s, and I guess these books reflected
that. Maybe I should have kept one? I’ve never seen Chile or
her son again, either.
“That sucks that she didn’t even remember your name…
weird,” Larkins reminded me.
“It made me feel pretty cheap, that’s for sure. People
sometimes just aren’t what you remembered them to be.”
Back in Bellingham, I packed up yet again, putting the
remainder of Joya’s belongings in my yurt to be stored. We’d
deal with that stuff later. Joya had returned to Bellingham to
retrieve her red Toyota Tercel from our divorce. She and Sri
drove back to our Gila home together. Again, I had yet another
boring four-day drive alone, to my new adobe cabin at the
headwaters of the Gila River. So far, this divorce experiment
seems to be working out just fine.
“There you go again, Rideout… living up to your last name.”

Those days in Gila Hot springs….

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 The next chapter of my life would soon take a very negative
turn, due to my escalating alcoholism and general depression
over my recent divorce and subsequent losses. I still wanted
Joya back, believing love and forgiveness could heal our
broken trust. Now, this was an impossible dream. My heart
continued to cry, for myself and especially my son. He needs a
dad, Joya! Can’t we make this work somehow? Oh Rob, get
over it, I reminded myself. You’ve got to let her go and get on
with your life. Sometimes, that is so hard to do. Back in my
adobe cabin, I began decorating with my souvenirs from India.
The Shiva statue and colorful batiks looked wonderful in this
place. And oh, how I loved soaking each day in my deep hot
tub. Looking out the window, there were many metal pipes
next to my cabin. These pipes carried the hot water across the
river to most of the homes in our neighborhood and to our
budding counter-culture resort that we christened Wildwood.
There was also a large datura plant with its night blooming
white trumpet bell flowers in front of my cabin, overlooking
the river. How auspicious is that? I’d found yet another lingam
here- an ancient lava rock eighteen inches high, shaped like
half an egg. I applied the three yellow horizontal lines and red
dot tilik to it, and began a daily ritual of circling it clockwise,
while reciting the mantra. The lingam was placed next to the
sacred datura. This is a Shiva plant for sure. When young Sri
slept over, I had him praying with me here too. After India, I
so wanted some kind of ceremony in my life, on a daily basis.
Since I craved it, I would just create my own. I also wanted to
instill a spiritual practice in Sri at an early age. The five foot
long by four foot deep hot tub proved to be a real blessing. I’d
soak long and hard, then run down stone steps to the nearby
Gila and jump in. What a rush that was! I even started my day
by submerging myself in the cold river water, before chanting,
as I’d done in Haidakhan.
“You are nuts, man. I’d never want to do that!”
“Well, it’s the oddballs and misfits who do interesting things,
like this, in their lives. I still shower or bathe twice a day, if I
can. Water always makes me feel better. Some guys here only
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shower once a week! I could never do that. In fact, Pod Father
Brad asked me to tell Frail Gale to start showering daily… or
pay the consequences. Nobody here likes a stinking inmate.
We live too close together.”
“Did you tell him?”
“Yeah, I did and he got pissed off at me for telling him!
Nobody likes being told they stink, Larkins. And that’s
especially true for Frail Gale. That poor dude is just really
freaked out even being here.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s hard to believe he survived Vietnam. So
what happened with your hippie commune or what ever you
were creating in the Gila?”
“It’s called Wildwood, Bunkie.”
Ted and Melinda had a tendency to be very persuasive about
getting free help for their own benefit. I had to look at it as
more karma yoga- work performed for God. Soon, they were
so financially broke that they came crying to me for a twenty-
five hundred dollar loan. I gave it to them. Sadly, it took over
five years to ever get my money back, all in odd nickel and
dime installments. I learned that you never loan money, you
give money. As I pleaded through the years for my promised
reimbursement, they actually got angry at times, as if I were
the bad guy. Those were some of the first coyotes in sheep’s
clothing my trusting naïve personality would encounter. And I
still loved them, despite it all. Melinda once told me that I
seem to love everybody, a friend of the world. But I see again
how blind love can be sometimes.
“Christ told us to love everybody,” interjected Larkins. “It
says so in the Bible.”
“You are so right, my Christian friend.”
Another financial disaster was investing with Joya, Ted and
Melinda and old Peter, in a schoolhouse building for our
children. We went through the local politics and school boards
to get approval as a semi-charter school. Silver City and

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 Mimbres were just too far away for an education. This was a
scholastic challenge for everyone. We parents all tried
teaching thirteen kids, from pre-school ages up to nearly high
school. This trial included three Native American children.
These kids had serious emotional and learning disabilities, not
to mention Attention Deficit Disorder. The father of these kids
was a crazy Vietnam vet who’d left his kids in the care of his
former Apache girlfriend. They all tried living in a tipi,
complete with a woodstove. Sadly, these urban chiefs couldn’t
handle tipi life like their ancestors. Girlfriend wrangled horses
for the Canfield family and looked like a Liz
Taylor/Sacagawea combination. She was a very stunning
maiden and super cool. Her uncle, she claimed, could have
been a stand-in for our old previous neighbor, Geronimo. In
time, we finally negotiated semi-qualified teachers for our Gila
Hot Springs School. They didn’t last long. I taught Sri to read
in my cabin. He learned quickly, and I saw clearly how very
bright and gifted he is. I even tape recorded him reading his
very first book, The Foot Book by Dr. Seuss. I’d previously
taped him in Sedro Woolley, singing and carrying on excitedly.
I would give him these tapes later in life, to blow his mind.
“Wow, the school sounds like quite a challenge. What
happened to Joya’s bus that you stayed in, after India?”
“Joya sold her deceased bus with the blown rod to Keith and
Val, as a temporary living space while they constructed a straw
bale house. I helped Keith move trailers of straw from far off
Deming, New Mexico. I also helped Cynthia and Bo get log
Vegas for their upcoming cabin. It was all just more karma
yoga. And I was always thanked. Joya and Sri moved into our
communal schoolhouse. They needed some kind of semblance
of a home front. At this time, I received an unexpected visit
from Bruce and his wife Janine and their two boys, Alex and
Paul.
“Is that the same Bruce who went to Fiji with you?”
questioned Larkins.

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 “Yeah, the same dude. Remember, Bruce and I had spent
five months together in tropical paradise, plus hundreds of
hours on stage entertaining drunks. He too got over his illusion
of a tropical bride, and married hair dresser Janine, in Fiji.”
Sri enjoyed the company of their sons immensely, as he
mainly played with girls here in our isolated community.
Bruce, Janine and I enjoyed drinking vodka immensely. Their
surprise visit sparked my relapse into serious trouble. I hadn’t
been drinking lately but after they left, I began buying whiskey
to either drink secretly alone or with Alan across the river. I
thought nobody would notice. Wrong! Even Shanti would rat
me off. She’d leave me to spend the night at Cynthia and Bo’s
tent. They would ask me the following day, if I’d been
drinking that night. When I asked how they knew, they said
Shanti told them! The smell of whiskey would make Shanti
move away from me on my truck bench seat. She’d give me
dirty dog looks, as if to say “Here he goes again- goodbye
Rob.” Keith and I even jokingly said Shanti could write a book
about everybody here and all their dirty laundry. Call it, Shanti
Speaks. People say dogs are dumb animals. I don’t think so,
not my Shanti. On many hangover mornings, in guilt and
shame with Shanti staring at me, I poured the rest of a whiskey
bottle down the drain, swearing never to drink again.
“I’ve done that so many times too. What a waste of alcohol!”
“A lot of alcoholics go through that step, repeatedly,” I
answered back.
I’ll always remember Sri and his new girlfriend Emile. They
were like a brother and sister, even looking alike with their
long blondish hair. A unique wandering couple named James
and Vicki stayed with us for awhile. They had lived on
horseback in the deserts of Arizona and New Mexico for over
two years. Vicki was now pregnant, so they needed a place to
settle down from their nomadic lifestyle. To our surprise, they
also had a female 90% wolf, named Critter. Critter ate many of
Ted’s kittens and attacked Shanti, too. This was not cool. They
were finally asked to leave, as the daily two-hour pow-wows
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 over their destructive presence were taxing our communal
energy heavily. We had enough on our minds just trying to
school our children and make house payments. However, I’ll
never forget seeing Sri and Emile, with their red bandana
headbands on, riding together on James’s horse. Those days in
Gila Hot Springs definitely had some very special moments, to
me. We were living our dream, or at least trying to.
“Wow, that’s special in itself. I don’t know that I ever had a
dream, now that I think about it. I guess just being employed
was my dream. However, now my dream is just getting out of
here alive.”
“That’s the dream of everybody here, Larkins.”
I found a secluded sixteen-foot-deep cave above the Gila
River. I soon showed all the kids. I felt that I could live there
forever, if a fire didn’t give away this secret to the Forest
Service. Doesn’t everybody have a secret desire to live in a
cave or is it just me? It was another sacred spot of the many
I’ve experienced. The Gila wilderness is probably rich in such
spots. Maybe that’s why there are so many petroglyphs. On
the dietary healing order, Ted got us all into drinking
cambouche tea. This tea is made from sugar and a fungus that
looks like a semi brown rubber pancake or part of
Frankenstein’s brain. A lot of people were partaking of this
new healing fad and we drank our share of this medicine, but
with no apparent results. Oh well, maybe we didn’t do it long
enough.
“You call it medicine… what a joke,” commented Larkins.
“I can’t believe the things you’ve tried.”
“Try this.”
The next medicine that I finally experimented with was
Amoroli - my own urine. I studied the pamphlets from the
Nebraska doctor and my Rishikesh book, and decided to have a
fair go with it. You never know until you try. And I usually try
anything once. But that first sip was the hardest! Not really
the taste, which was salty like miso soup, but mentally

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overcoming the mass-minded grossness of this discipline.
However, I never got sick, when everyone around me was
coming down with “something.” My urine book stated that
Amoroli was one of the most advanced forms of yoga, as few
could find the mental courage to even try it. I continued this
yoga for some time, until my alcohol drinking polluted me too
much to even consider partaking of my holy water. It wasn’t
holy anymore.
“You’ve got that right, Rideout. It just grosses me out that
you’d even do it. Yuk!”
“I understand your feelings. Now, just forget about it.
Pretend it never happened… okay? And for God’s sake, don’t
tell anybody here.”
As part of Ted’s master plan for Wildwood, we began
creating tipi spaces for overnight guests. As the Gila River can
flood, often heavily, we stabilized the eroding banks with iron
river jacks to catch floating debris. This was right out of my
environmental classes. A previous twenty-year flood had
nearly wiped out this property and drowned baby Rio. Ted’s
family had been up to their waists in flood waters, as they
scrambled to higher ground. Melinda sewed tipis now,
designed by her adopted Indian father, on a new industrial
sewing machine. We men searched for tipi poles. Soon, we
erected five rental units that visiting Europeans felt was the
Wild West experience. We did meet some very interesting
guests, that stirred memories of my travels, but our counter-
culture resort was not a profit venture by any means. It was
more like a mom and pop, hippie nickel and dime campground.
Struggling, we could barely make the mortgage payments on
our communal schoolhouse. Things were falling apart. Trying
to create a spiritual community was very challenging on many
levels, especially the financial one. There was also the
emotional level, but I don’t even want to go there.
Silver City, home to Billy the Kid, was a grueling one and a
half hour drive in low gears through the pine trees and cliffs of
the Gila wilderness. Just getting weekly groceries was an all-
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 day ordeal. Soon, we ordered health food in bulk, from a food
conspiracy through the Silver Food Coop. We did eat well
here, as everybody was very diet conscious. Our kids didn’t
know how good they really had it. Our church friends, Peter
and Al, resided in Silver City. Peter came off as an old angry
Jew, who actually had a very kind heart beneath his often
grumpy persona. His artwork was often controversial, with
sexual and religious undertones. He’d spent time in a Zen
monastery near Jemez, New Mexico and still meditated daily.
He was my tough-love teacher in many ways, always busting
my balls as we smoked cigarettes sitting out on his back porch
overlooking the town. Sadly, his meditations were shortened
due to progressive back problems. He had also lost his
daughter years ago; something he never talked about but was
still deeply affected by. He, too, was a recovering alcoholic
and tried desperately to counsel me about my disease. Oh how
I listened, but I couldn’t really hear him.
Al owned an energy store that sold wood, pellet and gas
stoves. I worked part-time for him, usually cleaning and
running errands. Both of these men became good friends.
We’d sat up on peyote many times together, looking into each
other’s souls. As they say, if you want to know somebody, sit
up all night with them on the medicine. Then I unexpectedly
received a letter at Doc Canfield’s store. It was from Wayne.
He informed me that he’d finally buy my yurt. But I needed to
return to Bellingham and deal with Joya’s stored belongings
there. In retrospect, I should have let her handle this
predicament, as it was her unfinished business in my yurt…
not mine. But trying to be a good ex-husband and friend, I
volunteered to drive the 1700-mile gauntlet yet again, if she’d
help me out on gas, motel and U-Haul trailer expenses. I
would later look back and wonder if she ever once realized the
kind of friend I was desperately trying to be for her. After all,
she is the mother of my son, so this was the least I could do. I
still loved Joya, and love being blind, what more can I say?

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 “You’ve got to be kidding me! Not again. You’ve driven
more since you came back from India, in a few months, than I
drive in years.”
“I was just doing what needed to be done. I felt it was my
karmic duty.”
I drank while driving north and luckily got away with it. I
drank too in motel rooms in four different states, after driving
twelve to fourteen hour days. This was a quick trip- a recon
mission only. Much of my remaining things, like my treasured
drum set, I stored in the attic of my childhood home with dad’s
widow Pam. Now my yurt looked sad. Nobody was home.
Teri’s daughter, who’d house sat Angela here, had had her
baby and moved out. I was actually glad to be getting rid of
the yurt. It felt cold and was already looking moldy. As I stood
in the wet woods looking at it, I was reminded of yet another
dream gone sour. Why did I ever build this thing? I now have
an adjusted opinion about yurts in the Pacific Northwest. I’ve
been there and done it.
“You sure didn’t live in it very long. What a waste of money,
Rideout.”
“I know. At the time, it seemed so right, but then everything
changed so radically. I’d invested most of my money from my
L&I settlement into that damn yurt. At least, Wayne bought me
out, thank God.”
Joya gave me directions to her mini storage unit in Flagstaff,
where she wanted her things stored. Before arriving in
Flagstaff, I stopped off in Cortez, Colorado in the Four Corners
area to look up a beautiful peyote couple who lived on forty
acres facing Mesa Verde National Monument. With his father,
they were building two earth ship underground houses, like I’d
seen completed at the Baca ashram. I’d seen these houses
under construction before, when I attended a meeting here. I’d
hoped they could escort me to North America’s near-by best
cliff dwellings. However, it was not meant to be. Only the dad
was home. The young newlyweds were up in Seattle at a
friend’s wedding. I didn’t want to haul a trailer up the steep
217
 hill to see Mesa Verde, so I drank and smoked blonde hash
with the father instead. Maybe I’d see Mesa Verde later or
maybe not. It hasn’t happened yet. So, after finding Joya’s
storage unit the next day, I cried profusely as I unloaded
possessions that were once mine too. This was emotionally
very hard, one of the worst parts of when it’s over. I had to
feel that divorce knife once more, cutting deeply into my
continual bleeding heart. Grow up Rob, commanded the inner
voice. Leaving the storage shed with tears in my eyes, I pulled
into a Quickie Mart and bought some cheap whiskey for my
ride home to New Mexico. Why not? You would too. Whiskey,
for me, is a tricky evil spirit that sneaks up quickly. As I drove
over the speed limit into St. Johns, Arizona, I saw the red and
blue light special in my rear view mirror. Busted! Not just for
alcohol this time, but worse. I had that blonde Moroccan hash
on me too, that was a welcome home present. Well, welcome
home Rob, you are in serious trouble. Would I ever learn not
to drink and drive? Not yet, not even close.
“Man, you’re in big trouble. You must have been scared out
of your mind. Were you?”
“What do you think?”

Arriving back in the Gila….

After a near sleepless night in Apache County jail, I bonded

myself out the following day. I was scared shitless and would
have to return later for sentencing. I remember telling the cops
that this hash wasn’t even that good. It just smelt good. It was a
gift to me when I returned home safely from India. Couldn’t
they understand that? They laughed hard, as they let me roll a
cigarette. I gave them no trouble. Then, I drove home to the
Gila feeling very sick inside. How could I tell Joya? She’d
trusted me and thought I was trying to get a handle on my
drinking problem. Nobody seemed to realize how very sick I
was, suffering deep depression and anguish from the mental

218
hell I’d created. Nobody cares for me, is how I felt. That is just
stinking thinking, to quote AA. Outside of Springerville, I
missed the road sign to New Mexico. With a trailer in tow on a
narrow road, I feared turning around. I’ve never been much
good with those damn trailers anyhow. I just continued driving
south in Arizona, knowing somewhere I’d be able to go east
again towards home. As I drove through the mining town of
Morenci, with the largest Phelps Dodge open pit copper mine
in North America, the cops’ lights flashed on behind me.
“Oh, God… not again!” exclaimed Larkins.
“Oh yeah, I sure didn’t cotton to this.”
I asked them why I was stopped. Their reply was that my
trailer lights weren’t working properly. Loose connections
solved that, but as this was a notorious drug trafficking route,
they searched the truck also. I told them nervously of my last
night DUI incident and of my truck being totally searched
already. After last night, I really didn’t need any more stress!
Their dope dog found nothing, of course, but I was educated to
the fact that pot smoke actually stays in upholstery. The dog’s
nose had indicated that. I bet their German shepherd could
write a book too- probably a police novel.
Arriving back in Gila Hot Springs late at night, I was totally
worn out, on so many levels. I desperately wanted to wake up
Joya and confess to help relieve my horrible guilt. I much
needed to get this off my chest, but decided to let her sleep
soundly with Sri, in their schoolhouse room. Morning would
come soon enough. As the sun rose over our small community,
I explained painfully on the lawn what had transpired on the
last leg of my moving mission. Joya cried for me, but had no
real idea of my deep inner sickness. God knows I sure didn’t, at
this point. Fear, big time, was next arriving at Doc’s store,
when my public defender sent me the court papers. It read that
I could be looking at years in jail, with fines in the thousands of
dollars. This is enough to scare anybody! Again, I had to drive
eight hours back to St. Johns, AZ just to see a judge for a five
minute arraignment. All of my fear became a rationalization to
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 drink more- much more. While most people would quit
drinking at this point, I did the opposite. I tried playing my
songs at an open mic at the Buckhorn Bar, in Pinos Altos,
outside of Silver City. My renditions of Jimmy Buffet songs
went over well to a drunken, mainly female, happy hour crowd.
But I received no employment there. Feeling rejection again, I
drank whiskey and smoked cigarettes passionately on the curvy
mountain ride home. The party was in my mind, full on. I
drove off the road in a drunken blur and was miraculously
saved by a small juniper tree supporting my truck over a very
steep cliff. A local angel pulled me out, before any cops found
out. This story would come back to haunt me many times.
“Jesus, you’re life was going to hell, Rideout. Couldn’t you
see that?”
“Yes and no; I was still in heavy denial about a lot of things
during this time of my life. I was confused about so much. And
I surely didn’t understand anything about this disease, called
alcoholism.”
There were many more peyote meetings. I soon met Lloyd
and Muriel, two powerful souls who really understood a lot
about life, alcoholism and respect for the medicine. I must
confess that I honor Lloyd, probably more than any person I’ve
ever encountered in my life. I’ve been around the block a few
times and so has Lloyd. He is a recovering alcoholic Navajo
roadman who transforms into Babaji, to me, when singing in
the tipi. He puts 110% into all of his healings for others. A
book could be written on this God-man but it wouldn’t do him
justice. Muriel brought a film producer/blues singer friend,
named Rhonda, into the tipi for her first time. She resembled a
Franco Fellini character, with her three hundred pound body,
red dyed dreadlocks and rings on every finger and thumbs. She
knew actor Richard Gere personally and said I was his double,
not so much in looks, but personality-wise. Nice compliment,
Rhonda; just what my ego needs. Rhonda had worked on the
movie Little Buddha with Bridget Fonda and singer Chris Isaac.
Lloyd met the Tibetan lamas from this film, as they put a
colored sand mandala to rest together in the Columbia River.
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This was Eastern holy men meeting one of the best of our
Western holy men. And all was quiet, as there was really
nothing to say when you know, they know. Only the sound of
the river meeting the ocean could be heard. How symbolic.
“You have met some very high dudes in your travels,
Rideout.”
“I seem to have been blessed that way; just like the psychic
Christians predicted back when I accepted the Lord, as you
born-again say. I’ve also met some very low life dudes too-
like in here. It all balances. Even these losers here have the
capacity to be high dudes, if they wanted to be. The choice is
always ours to make.”
During our days here, we started building a straw bale
communal room, under the direction of Sunray, from my home
state of Washington. Sunray is an extraordinary extreme
builder, with nearly a dozen odd-looking houses on his own
property. He even does seminars internationally and has been
seen on TV. He visited us many times, enjoying immensely
the geothermal water and our efforts at communal living. He
usually walked around practically nude. We all got hands-on
experience with straw bale, mud plaster and cob. Sunray was
Wildwood’s resident sadhu.
I attended another peyote meeting run by old Bobbie, below
Taos on the Rio Grand River. This meeting was for a young
college girl’s graduation. Her father was an insomniac artist,
who had one of the world’s wonders on their property. He had
tunneled for seven years, at night, into the mountainside;
creating a labyrinth maze of tri-level tunnels, complete with
lights, music, animal skins, furniture, a stuffed fox and even his
deceased parents’ ashes. He too had been on TV for his unique
creation. This artist must have been a mole in his previous
incarnation.
At this meeting, I met an Indian elder named Anthony,
who’d had a lifetime of peyote and looked exactly like Johnny
Carson. Here was another real character that I feel fortunate to
have met. After looking at Babaji’s photo, he claimed his
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 father had raised the dead! Like Jesus or Babaji. I also met a
hippie sadhu, named Yuri, at the geothermal pools near the
cliff dwellings. I had heard tales of him, so it was meant to be
that we met. He was a kindred soul with much spiritual
wisdom. I invited him home for dinner. He loved his pot, as I
presently loved my alcohol. After India and years of smoking
the herb, I finally got tired of it. Somehow, I enjoyed the
numbness of alcohol, over the expanded awareness of pot. I
wanted so badly not to feel or face the constant pain in my
heart and the fear of this present DUI in Arizona. I was trying
desperately to forget.
At about this time too, I attended yet another peyote meeting
at friend Jerry’s property outside of Silver City. Here, a Jewish
man from the tribe of Israel expressed himself around the
sacred fire, saying he was from the Seattle area originally, but
now resided in Tuba City, Arizona with a Navajo artist. While
talking together outside after a pee, I said I too was from
Washington. We agreed to talk more in the morning. His name
was Roderick and he asked about Joya. I explained that she
was my ex-wife and about our divorce experiment in parenting.
Little did any of us know then, what destiny had in mind?
After this meeting, Roderick began visiting Joya. Next to come
was the courting dance. After another very heavy peyote
meeting, where Joya ate more medicine than seemed humanly
possible, they became a couple. Soon, she would be moving
from our jointly owned house in the Gila, to begin a new life in
a Hogan up on the Navajo reservation. My son Sri would be
going with her, marking the end of our co-parenting divorce
experience and the return of even more trouble in my
progressive drinking career.
“How can it get any worse?”
“Oh, it can. You’ll see.”
As Joya and I had discussed upon our breakup, we needed to
stay focused on what was best for Sri- always! In theory, this
sounds easy. I had no idea how hard it would actually be for
me. If I thought I’d felt heartache before, it was nothing
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 compared to what was coming. Divorce, and its results, is
often worse than death, especially when children are concerned.
Somebody seems to win, while the other looses, or so it seems.
The winner has all the parental work to do, which is immense
and demanding. They see their child each day, growing up and
learning about life and love. God bless them, as teachers and
caregivers. God have mercy on the estranged losing parent who
waits for a phone call, visitation, picture or letter to connect,
once again however briefly, with the child he helped create and
nourish. Such was the role I chose. I’m sorry to say that I
didn’t succeed very well in it. It became my main excuse to
self-destruct- another rationalization that I’m not really loved
or good enough. Why would God do this to me? Why go on
living, when what I was living for, was taken away from me?
What purpose did my life have now? And crazily, will I ever
be privileged enough to ever see the home videos taken of my
son during our estrangement? These are heavy questions that
would take me years to answer. Sometimes answers can be
found in prison. Doing time gives one time to look within.
True answers are always found inside, waiting to be heard. I
love my son so much, that goes without saying. And nothing
can ever change that. I have to accept that everything is perfect
the way it is. This is all happening as planned, for the growth
of my soul, and only good can come out of it.
“It amazes me that you somehow keep your faith through all
of this.”
“Well Larkins, it all comes down to faith. When you lose
that, you might as well be dead.”

Maybe you should consider ….

It was finally time to appear in Apache County court for

sentencing of my second DUI conviction. I decided to drive up to
St. Johns the night before, where I planned to camp out next to a
creek and do court the following morning. The sunset was

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fantastic, as I drove from southern New Mexico north into Arizona.
I could handle some whiskey, I thought. As the Alcoholics
Anonymous Big Book clearly states, we alcoholics drink at the
precise moment we should not. This court date was very serious
business; surely not time to even consider drinking. However, I
fell again and didn’t even see my destined campground in the dark.
I rolled into Springerville listening to loud music and going ten
miles over the speed limit, to see a cop turning around to follow
me in hot pursuit. There was no shoulder that I could see to pull
over onto, so I drove another mile before I stopped. The cop had a
loaded gun on me now, and I was on my knees getting handcuffed
again, with my face rubbing the front tire. Hello, DUI number
three. So after yet another night in this now familiar jail, I entered
the courtroom chained and clad in orange. My probation officer
and public defender couldn’t believe this. They about fell over.
How could one get into so much trouble so quickly? Today, we
would deal with DUI number two, the probation officer stated,
shaking her head in disbelief. Luckily, the hash charge was
dropped and not even mentioned. When I questioned if the cops
had smoked and/or sold it, the judge became furious. I never
should have brought it up, oops and I apologized immediately,
stating that such stories were common on TV news shows like 60
Minutes. Had they pushed the charge, I would have been off to
prison now, as benign hash is classified as a dangerous drug, right
up there with heroin. How absurd! Don’t they know it’s a
sacrament in other cultures? Sometimes, I just can’t believe
America. My public defender pleaded with tears in his eyes to the
judge that I had lived the life of Job. That was humbling to hear.
I’ll have to look up Job in the Bible. DUI number three gave me
ninety days in jail. I was allowed to return to the Gila before
serving my sentence. Al had a friend in Springerville who would
store my truck and Keith and Val agreed to house-sit Shanti.
Cynthia gave me an earful of recovery advice. Sadly, Bo’s brother
had recently committed suicide over his battle with the bottle. He
just felt he couldn’t win. My present problem was affecting them
deeply. Nobody wants to see a friend die. And they certainly
didn’t want to see me go. As AA says, alcoholism’s last stages are
jail, institutions or death.
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 “You really screwed up, my friend. That is embarrassing, to
say the least. Heavy karma, as you would say,” commented
Larkins.
“How right you are. It was heavy karma. Wait till you hear
the rest of the story.”
I served my three months working as a kitchen trustee. I
made enough money to cover tobacco and candy on weekly
commissary. I should note here that I started smoking tobacco
after India. What a crying shame I ever started. Tobacco was
always smoked with hash in the clay chillums and I slowly got
used to this dangerous herb. Tobacco is used to pray with in
the Native American Church, so I was around it again upon my
return in 1995. As I basically quit smoking pot, tobacco now
provided me with a social outlet to perform the smoking ritual,
legally. It also killed both of my parents.
As a trustee, I had my own private cell with no Bunkie. I
also got much stronger coffee, as I made it, to keep my bowels
active. All jail diets are largely constipating starch. Here, I
gained a lot of needed weight that I’d lost in India, like twenty
pounds. I had privy to all the leftovers before they hit the
disposal. We often had interstate transfer vans of convicts stop
overnight, to give their butt-sore prisoners food and a shower.
We all twisted rollies on gray metal tables for these poor
underprivileged prisoners. Some were doing life sentences for
murder. Many had spent weeks on the road, going around the
country, before finely being dropped off at a yard which was
only miles from their original starting point. Some, I would
find out later, actually spend years traveling the country in
these prison vans and buses. They never get off the loop and
have no mail, legal access, commissary, address or human
rights - forgotten souls of the system.
“That is not right!” shouted Larkins loudly.
“I know; I feel the same way, but it happens. It’s felt that if
they let these inmates join a yard, they’ll stir up major shit. So
they stay on the bus, doing the loop and just existing.”

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 “It makes me feel lucky to be in a DUI yard, now.”
“You’ve got that right, Larkins. It could be a lot worse. I
really pitied these inmates. One asked to bum a smoke, so as I
rolled it, I asked him what he was in for.
“Murder,” he replied.
“Keep the whole pouch,” I told him.
I met a Navajo artist, Heroldton, who drew me an original
masterpiece of NAC art - the tipi, medicine, musical
instruments and peyote water bird. I got all this in exchange for
some color pencils and a couple of Snickers candy bars. I
would later have this picture copied and framed, to be given
away as presents to fellow peyote friends. Ex-wife Jolene sent
me an expensive thermal jacket for Christmas, and Keith and
Val came by for a surprise visitation. I grew a beard again here
but shaved it off later, leaving the moustache. The black
brothers called me Sam Elliot. That’s a good one- from Jesus
and Richard Gere to Sam Elliot. I’m not even close to him.
Joya sent pictures of Sri with short hair now. He got tired of
being called a girl and asked Mom to cut off his beautiful long
locks. Gone now was my long haired, beautiful little hippie boy.
I didn’t even recognize him in the photo. His blond ponytail
probably still resides in Joya’s medicine box today. I
wondered how she and Roderick explained my being in jail to
him. He is much too young to ever understand. In Sri’s Tuba
City class photo, he was one of only two Anglos in the class.
The Navajos accepted Sri wholeheartedly and he soon learned
to sing songs in their language. I was happy he was
experiencing another culture right within our own country. I
too, was experiencing another culture, to say the least. I met an
inmate who had been in the worst prison riot in U.S. history.
This occurred in Santa Fe, New Mexico, where overcrowding
was beyond belief. He’d witnessed a black inmate’s head cut
off with a welding torch, then carried down the run on a
broomstick. He never forgot the smell of burning flesh, as he
shook in fear under his bunk. Life behind bars can definitely
be scary.
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 “Did you see the Mexicans smash one of their own the other
night?” asked Larkins.
“Yeah, I did. He was playing cards with the brothers; wrong
in their book. I watched it from my bunk, trying to keep my
eyes looking down. Inside, it was blowing my mind. I’ve never
even been in a fight in my whole life- believe it or not. I
despise and abhor violence in any form, Larkins.”
“I do too. I’m glad you’re my Bunkie, Rideout.”
“Thanks, Larkins. I’m thankful you feel that way. I’d hate to
have a violent guy sleeping above me. I’d have to sleep with
one eye open. Let’s get back to my tale of woe.”
Before my release date, I met a fellow inmate who’d soon be
getting out. He set me up for a date with his ex-girlfriend. He
said she was hot. Upon release and getting my truck back from
Al’s friend, I drove over to connect with him and my blind date.
The girl didn’t even acknowledge me, as we all sat together in
her apartment. Talk about uncomfortable. Am I invisible again?
She doesn’t look so hot to me right now. I’m the one who’s
fuckin’ hot just being in this room! He’d said she was straight,
but that day she suffered a hangover from drinking and
snorting coke the night before. This whole scene felt so weird
and awkward, that I left pronto for the Gila, feeling self-created
rejection once again from women. Here come those old
abandonment issues. And they are coming on strong! How do I
handle this? Outside of Springerville, I noticed a neon bar sign
advertising “liquor to go.” So, after ninety days of sobriety and
lock down, I felt I could handle a pint of cheap whiskey.
Wrong! This was yet another major ill choice. I drove
perfectly into Glenwood, New Mexico, north of Silver City.
There, I stopped for one beer. The whiskey wasn’t quite
enough. I needed more. Another mistake! An off-duty Fish
and Wildlife officer bought me the beer, as we were the only
two in the rustic bar. When I confided in him about my jail
release, he said he used to be a cop in Apache County.
Wouldn’t you know that would be my luck?

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 “Be careful on your drive home,” he advised me. At this
point I should have slept in my truck. However, I was so close
to home that I couldn’t wait.
Outside of Silver City, those now familiar red and blue lights
began flashing again in my rear view mirror. Oh God, now I’m
screwed! After three months in jail, I was incarcerated again in
three hours, but in the horrible drunk tank of Silver City’s
system. This place was packed wall to wall with smelly vomit
on the floor. I didn’t like it already. The following morning, Al
bailed me out quickly, as I used him for my one free phone call.
He then presented me with a diploma- for the World’s Greatest
Asshole. That’s exactly how I felt. Couldn’t anybody see how
sick I was? I certainly couldn’t, not yet. I didn’t even know
how to ask for help yet. Luckily, when I appeared in court for
these new charges, New Mexico looked at this DUI as my first,
instead of my fourth.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!”
“No, they discounted the previous one in Washington and the
two recent Arizona convictions. This was my first and only
one in the Land of the Enchantment.”
Boy that is exactly how I felt about New Mexico now. I paid
my fines quickly and completed the now-familiar alcohol
classes as well. I also did AA with Al at noon. I even took
young Sri to an AA meeting, where he asked me if he too
would be an alcoholic. God, I hope not! This so-called disease
can skip a generation. I pray it does, for my son’s sake. With
both Joya and me being addictive personalities, Sri carries the
seed of possible addiction, genetically. Being raised spiritually
with the medicine and seeing my life of trouble from the bottle,
will hopefully be enough to protect him with wisdom and good
choices, should he ever be tempted to experiment in hell. I
pray daily to God for him to never walk a step in my
moccasins… just let Sri stay on that peyote road of beauty and
truth.
“I’m still not sure how I feel about your kid taking peyote,
but it sounds a whole lot better than alcohol.”
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 “There is totally nothing to worry about, Larkins. Peyote is
not like alcohol, at all. It can’t be used recreationally. It doesn’t
work that way. It’s a truth serum.”
During this time of anxiety, I attended another NAC meeting
back at Jerry’s property, outside of Silver. There, a participant
said to me, “Maybe you should consider having a meeting.” I
was finally convinced to sponsor my own meeting, for my
troubled, crumbling life. With this recent DUI, I’d just broken
my probation with Arizona and could be looking at possibly
serving some hard time in notorious Florence penitentiary. I
needed help to put on a meeting with all the necessary
preparations.
“So, how do I begin?”
“Just ask,” I was told.
I called roadman Lloyd in Albuquerque and set up a date,
with the required tobacco smoke over the phone and prayers
confirming my commitment. Before this meeting, I briefly
played music for Sunday morning brunch at the Holiday Inn.
This was the same room where I’d received the tragic news of
John Lennon’s death, back in December of ’80. I also attended
a healing meeting for Sarah in Wilcox, Arizona. Sarah was
dying of terminal cancer. She had spent many years in South
America with the natives, somehow getting sick and it showed.
Here, we had cows looking into our tipi through the canvas
door flap in the morning, and this particular tipi had poles the
size of small trees. Who harvested these? It took three men to
erect even one pole. This was a very heavy tipi for some very
heavy karma. Sarah kept shouting Namaste, a Hindi greeting
that actually means “my soul bows to your soul,” throughout
the ceremony. This was far out to me but so East Indian that I
had to explain to our Native Americans what she meant. Old
roadman Bobbie fed poor Sarah such a massive amount of
peyote that she filled a large coffee can many times in her
purging. Later, she tried to end her healing ceremony early. No!
This being her first meeting, she literally had no idea of what
she’d gotten herself into. It was both sad and heavy to be at this
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 meeting, but also comical at times. At one point she grabbed
me, saying “Give me some of your energy. You have so
much!” How I tried, Sarah, how I tried… as the Tipi turns.
How did Jesus do that anyway?
“Did she get well?” asked Larkins.
“The meeting helped her to accept her upcoming death, I
think, more than anything.”
There are a few more interesting tipi stories to chronicle.
Having sat up in many meetings in various remote locations
across New Mexico, Arizona, Colorado and Washington, I
don’t remember exactly where many events occurred.
However, I do recall a psyched-up housecat running up and
down the tipi shell at dawn, scaring many participants, as they
thought evil spirits were around. The sound of the music and
power of prayers was so powerful at one meeting, that a cougar
sat outside next to the firewood, listening. This definitely
startled the fireman, as he was gathering an armload of wood,
but it seemed like a good omen. The funniest tale was of a
Jesus freak carrying a wooden cross, supported by small
wheels, around the country on his holy mission from God. He
accidentally stumbled upon a peyote meeting, stating he was
looking for a place where people were worshipping. He was
directed to go down the hill towards that tipi. When the
fireman came outside for wood, he about fell over, as there
stood the Messiah complex facsimile. The fireman quickly
told the participants inside, that the One they were praying to,
was standing outside.
“Bring him in,” they all excitedly yelled.
So, Jesus sat with the Indians and was fed lots of medicine.
Soon, this son of God realized he was not the only one. I often
wonder how his ministry changed, after he walked out that
canvas tipi door.
“That is a good one,” shouted Larkins. “I can’t stop laughing!
I wonder if that actually happened.”

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“You never know with the Indians. You’ve seen the way they joke
here. Maybe this guy realized his divinity in the tipi.”

Roadman Bobbie stated that his grandmother had been

nearly given up for dead when she was twelve years old.
Doctors had done everything they could with no hope left. She
was doctored up with hundreds of peyote buttons for three days.
Suddenly, she stood up, claiming she saw Jesus and was now
healed. This dying child lived to be over eighty years old. At
one meeting, in the morning after all the singing and prayers
were over, Bobbie’s chief peyote button was passed around,
before putting it back in his medicine box. This old dried
peyote, with numerous cleavage lines, looked like a green
version of Sedona’s Bell Rock vortex and weighed heavy in the
hand. It had been in his family for five generations; believe it
or not! How many meetings and healings had this holy
spineless cactus seen?
“Man that is really old. It probably hosted thousands of
meetings.”
“Yeah, imagine all the stories it could tell!”
I must further mention a deeper respect for women that
peyote has shown me. Behind every strong roadman is his
powerful wife or a significant female. Morning water is
brought into the tipi at around 4 a.m., always by a woman and
usually it’s the roadman’s wife. The meeting then shifts from
masculine to the feminine principle. Divine Mother is now
here, in all of her glory, as she prays over the morning holy
water, giver of all life. She then prays for everyone in the
meeting as if she knows exactly what their needs are…and she
usually does. This is the one time during the service when
everybody is on their knees, out of respect. Female prayers
always touch my heart way more deeply. I always feel the love
my mom had for me and the love God has for all of us as
Divine Mother. I see and know now what a fantastic mother
Joya is to Sri. I always did know, but it feels more magnified in
the tipi. Men will never understand women. It’s been that way
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 since the dawn of time, as we all know. Men seem to be like
little boys, who seldom grow up until it’s almost too late. God
knows I’m one of those. To me, the spiritual depth of women is
awesome. Girls do grow up and reflect Divine Mother, who
takes care of us all. And believe me; the women’s prayers
usually cover all bases. Sometimes, I wish I could be a woman-
maybe for just a day or two.
“Don’t ever tell anybody that here!”
“Like I don’t know that already, Larkins? I would never ever
say that in prison. This stuff is only for your ears and yours
alone. Let’s keep it that way.”
There are so many other life stories during my Gila days that
it would take many more pages to tell them all- the ones I can
even still remember. One, however, is pretty incredible. I had
met a couple of substance abuse counselors in the Silver City
area who were heading to India. Varanasi was their appointed
destination. I told them at Jerry’s rustic southwest home to
look up my sadhu friend, Hari Hara, at Asi ghat. I described
him and where his wooden closet shack was located. When
this couple arrived in Asi ghat and asked about the sadhu, they
were taken to a temple and shown a statue of Hari Hara - half
Vishnu, half Shiva. They explained that they were seeking a
holy man by that name, not a murti. Then, when they were
eating at that same outdoor café catering to western appetites,
the lady counselor, named Bo, heard somebody call her name.
Hari Hara approached them and displayed a photo of him and
me, from a copy I’d sent him. He was also carrying a black
ebony wooden bowl from Thailand to show, that I’d sent too.
They about fell over! How could this holy man know her
name or the fact that I’d told them to look him up? Again,
India is not for everybody, but if you go there; try to keep an
open mind. Some can obviously read them!
“That is bizarre, to say the least, Rideout. Did you ever
follow through with your peyote meeting, to get some guidance
and spiritual help?”
“Oh yeah, I sure did.”
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 I felt as if my entire life were on….

I needed help now. Since Joya and Sri had moved up to

Tuba City to be with Roderick, I moved into our schoolhouse;
with the new Iranian teacher, Afasani. We did not hit it off
well at all. I was told to leave my room during school hours.
What’s up with this? I owned over thirty-five hundred dollars
in this losing investment, yet I could only eat and sleep here.
Shanti actually slept under the covers at night with me for
warmth as this schoolhouse was freezing cold, with what little
heat there was never reaching my bedroom. However, I had
some work to do. I needed to procure the right cottonwood
branches and logs, to prepare the firewood for my upcoming
healing meeting. I luckily scored a huge truckload off state
property near the cliff dwellings. It took me days of secretive
work to drag the desired wood to a hidden area, where I could
pick it up at night with Bo’s help and large landscape truck.
We actually did this smooth move in one evening, with
flashlights in our mouths. Then, days were spent peeling off
the bark and chopping off knots with Ted’s Bowie knife. I
finally stacked it all proudly, from the smallest diameter to the
largest as Johnny had shown me, with the grain going the same
direction. Again, it is believed that the degree of perfection
here is essential, for a successful meeting.
I arranged with Jerry and Mary to conduct the prayer service
on their property. I had attended many meetings there and it
was easy for participants traveling from far-off homes to find.
Mary and Chen would be helping me with all the food
preparations, thank God. They both knew how to shop
economically, to help cut costs to a minimum. My meeting
ended up costing about four hundred dollars for food, gifts, gas,
medicine and help. When the destined evening finally arrived,
there were over fifty people from four different states, who’d
all come to pray for me. The news got out about my problem.
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 Who were all of these people? I certainly didn’t recognize
many of them. Good God, this was blowing me away already.
I did a sweat lodge with Lloyd, near Jerry’s pond, to prepare
myself. Then, much political church discussion ensued, as to
whether to hold a house meeting too, for all of those who
couldn’t fit into the tipi. Everybody was talking loudly at once.
Why all this fuss over me? This suddenly got very heavy, with
superstitious undertones, but I said to go ahead with a second
meeting anyway, so everyone could be included. David ran
that house meeting on Jerry’s living room floor, complete with
the crescent moon sand altar and fire coals on a sheet of
plywood. A beautiful couple named Leo and Raven came up
from Kerney, Arizona to pray for me. They started the Peyote
Foundation, complete with a newsletter. They propagated the
spineless cactus in greenhouses, and even grafted it onto San
Pedro cactus, another psychotropic cousin, much to the dismay
of many pure peyotists Native Americans. Later, they would
be busted big time. Now however, they were here to support
me with their prayers.
It’s very difficult to put into words what happened in this
healing meeting. Ted ran the sacred fire, while Brother Lloyd
fed me more medicine than anyone had ever seen. This was
definitely way beyond the adult dose! I ingested peyote as
powder, chips, fresh buttons, special golf balls with spit and
ash, gravy and tea. I never puked, but Keith said he felt me
changing dramatically, as he sat on his pillow next to me. I’m
sure the colors of my aura rivaled the Aurora Borealis.
Everybody spoke to me about the dangers of alcohol,
especially old Peter. He dumped on some very tough love, and
many felt he actually hit me below the belt. He ain’t heavy;
he’s my brother, to quote the Hollies song. That’s old Peter.
When asked how I was doing, I could barely find my voice-
probably a first for me. The songs and beautiful singing had
taken me to somewhere near Pluto. Dimensions were changing
inside the tipi. Sometimes, friends seemed very far away,
within eight feet of space. Other times, they somehow seemed
larger than life. I sensed I was in Lord Shiva’s living room, as
the crackling fire and crescent moon altar took on a personality
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of their own. Then Lloyd prepared four, very special golf-ball-
sized peyote. These were to be eaten on my knees, in front of
the altar. The fire was so darned hot that I was sweating
profusely. Peyote likes it hot, I was told, as it grows in very
hot terrains of Texas and Mexico. My prayer smoke would
soon be taken, after the midnight water and Lloyd’s outdoor
prayers to the four directions for my recovery. These special
peyote balls were in preparation for the cosmic moment. When
I took that prayer smoke, shaking like a leaf, it felt like a
window opened. I now had a direct line to God, asking Him
for help with this deadly disease. All night, I felt as if my life
was on trial. Whether I lived or died would be decided here.
Or so it seemed, to me, on this karmic night of judgment,
redemption and guidance.
“Jesus that sounds intense!” exclaimed Larkins.
“It was so intense and emotional too. It was a courtroom like
no other that’s for sure. Thank God these kind of experiences
happen only once in your life. Let’s hope so anyway.”
When the four hundred-year-long night finally ended, I was
literally unable to leave the tipi. Lying down, I saw children’s
feet under the canvas and heard the friendly sounds of laughter
and loved ones’ voices. Could I ever put the pieces of my
puzzle back together again? Will I ever remember everything
everybody said to me? Will I ever come down from where
peyote has taken me? Am I really healed? When I finally
crawled out of the door flaps, I nearly fell asleep on the
remaining woodpile and started to sunburn. It felt so good to
feel the sun’s rays and finally be out of that tipi. Ted had
prayed that if I ever did drink again, God forbid, I would never
get behind the wheel. That sadly would be another prayer that
wouldn’t materialize, or at least for a very long time. After
they managed to spoon feed me some broth, as I still had no
appetite, I helped Lloyd clean up and bury the altar sand, as it
was now considered toxic waste and unsafe to be around.
Lloyd and Muriel stayed on, after everybody else drove home.
They had to. The medicine was still working heavily on me. I
wasn’t even close to coming down. I didn’t want them to go.
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 Lloyd burned more cedar and fixed special smokes for my
mind. His smokes taste so good, with lavender, sage and anise
seeds mixed in with tobacco, that anybody could become
addicted to smoking. He instructed me to call him tomorrow to
check in. Then diet for the next three days on the peyote tea,
which he had left for me in large mason jars. I would faithfully
follow my doctor’s orders. Next, Melinda called me from
Tucson, at precisely the right moment, and sensed exactly
where I was at spiritually, mentally and emotionally. She’s
done her time with peyote and is very intuitive. I love Melinda
so much. Her phone call and caring voice meant more to me,
at that moment, than diamonds or gold. I felt extremely open
and overly sensitive. Finally, after being alone awhile and
reflecting, the needed emotional breakdown came. I couldn’t
stop crying in thankfulness to God. I realized, once more, how
special I am in His eyes, to have so many friends come from so
far away to help me out. How could I deserve this? This was
probably one of the most intense nights of my entire life-
another turning point. It took a good week to touch down on
earth again. Shanti was very supportive too, with that love that
only dogs can give. I realized what a great soul she is, in her
canine form. If Shanti ever materialized into a girl, I would
have my true soul mate. Oh God, how I loved my Shanti. Om
Namah Shivaya.

More meetings and close encounters….

After the peyote ordeal, I called my Arizona probation

officer. Miraculously, I would not be going to prison, but to
the Salvation Army’s Adult Rehabilitation Center for six
months- the ARC, located in downtown Phoenix, Arizona.
Talk about miracles. Now, I still had one more month in the
Gila wilderness, before I could begin my rehab experience. I

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continued to work part-time at Al’s stove store. Pure hearted
Al was having lots of exotic health issues. I heard years later,
that he sold the store and moved back to Idaho, to live with his
mother.
We were now losing our communal schoolhouse. We could
not meet the financial payments. Our community was falling
apart. Joya and Sri had moved up to Navajo land. Keith and
Val were building their own straw bale home, as were Cynthia
and Bo. Afasani was looking for other work and Ted’s family
was struggling as usual and thinking about moving to Tucson
and putting their property up for sale. It did finally sell, many
years later. This whole experiment in spiritual community was
a huge financial failure and a great lesson in buying real estate
with others. As previously noted, I took the greatest brunt of
the losses. What’s the lesson here? Don’t talk about it, I guess.
When I look back now at all the free work I did to prosper this
dream, I feel like a fool. How could I have been so blind? I
have nothing to show for it, except a few pictures, stories,
memories and a lot of karma yoga. When you get burned by
bad choices and decisions, it’s very easy to become cynical
about life.
“Those words ring true to my ears,” commented Larkins.
“But you still chose to make those decisions.”
“To top it off, I have one more meeting in the tipi that needs
mention.”
“I’ve got to hear about another meeting?”
“Humor me, Larkins.”
It was another meeting for young crier Rio, Ted’s son. At
this time, mother Melinda was pregnant and only allowed in
her son’s meeting at early dawn to pray with the cedar. As she
was praying out loud, about ten of us heard a whirling sound,
descending from above down towards the fire. No words could
describe this sound, as it was like nothing we’d ever heard on
earth before. Then the sound reversed its direction, as it
spiraled slowly out of the top of our tipi. Talk about weird! All

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 of the Indians heard it and others sitting outside the tipi heard it
too; come from the east, hover over the ceremony, then pass on.
Upon leaving the sacred area, we finally asked each other what
had happened. Were these spirits or a close encounter? Eric
and Maritza were so blown away that they couldn’t sleep that
night and couldn’t stop talking about the supernatural incident
for days. Ironically, three days later Melinda aborted and,
when taken to the hospital, no fetus was found. Certain
participants were allowed this experience, while others only
heard Melinda’s prayers. Close encounters of the tipi kind.
Even a year later, those of us privileged enough to have
experienced the supernatural all agreed that we’d encountered
something not of this world. Maybe it was the Twilight Zone.
“That is a tough one to believe. I guess you had to be there,
right?”
“Yeah, right. I’m just telling you as I remember it. It blew a
lot of us away at the time. It wasn’t some kind of mass peyote
hallucination either. You don’t hallucinate on the medicine.”
Before leaving for rehab, I had my long hair cut much
shorter. Now the gray really showed. The beautician said she
would sit my cat Angela for the next six months. Boy that was
sweet of her. Keith and Val would take care of Shanti again
and my aging truck. God certainly looks after my animals. Sri
was having his fourth peyote meeting coming up but Roderick
advised me that outside Anglos weren’t welcomed much, up on
the Navajo reservation. This reeks of paranoia or superstition to
me. After stressing the fact that I am Sri’s real father and
needed to be there for him, I made my mind up to go,
regardless. He is my son too, Roderick. I arranged to attend the
Tuba City prayer service with Jerry driving us and supporting
me. It was a very long drive from Silver to Tuba and we
arrived just before dark. We’d traveled through the beautiful
Arizona Painted Desert and stopped briefly at the three Hopi
mesas, to pray and lay down tobacco near their kivas. Those
ancient mesas are really worth a visit. Kachina dolls are
cheaper there and the real thing too. They are carved only from
the roots of cottonwood trees.
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 “I didn’t know that.”
“I didn’t either, Larkins.”
We had a surprise awaiting us, however, when Jerry and I
arrived in the dark, headlights shining from of his big red
pickup truck. Sri and family had just returned from the peyote
gardens in Texas. Their Hogan was filled with more peyote
than I’d ever seen! Some were huge, nearly eight inches in
diameter, aging about forty years old. These are very special,
as peyote seldom reaches that age anymore due to over
harvesting. Lloyd and Muriel conducted Sri’s last meeting. I
cried heavily, as I prayed for him, Roderick and Joya and
myself. None of us were having an easy time in this complex
changing relationship. Lloyd fixed Sri a beautiful beaded
macaw parrot fan, which he presented later in the ceremony.
My son was getting older now and looking gangly at age eight.
I feel so blessed and honored that Sri has this way of worship
in his life. At his young age, he has no idea how very fortunate
he is to have this supreme spiritual gift. I so envy the way he is
being raised, compared to my highly dysfunctional upbringing
of anger, fights, fear and alcohol. If I had been raised this way,
maybe I would have made better choices in my life. Who
knows?
“I too was raised in a dysfunctional family. I’ve never known
what normal is.”
“I think it may be too late for us to ever know. If you look
around us, nobody seems to be normal here, Larkins.”
At this meeting, I asked Lloyd, who had adopted Sri into his
Navajo near water clan, to please watch over his spiritual
development. Lloyd was now Sri’s uncle, as Joya and I are
Lloyd’s brother and sister. These relationships are taken
seriously. Thanks to the recent Texas pilgrimage, there was no
shortage of medicine at this meeting. Many of the Navajos
thanked me in the morning, for traveling so far to pray for my
son. I was accepted after all on the rez and received a good
blessing for my efforts. I also wanted Roderick to know that I
truly bless his relationship with Joya. I had finally let her go.
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 Roderick is definitely her soul mate. I could feel the karma of
Roderick’s future, taking on the responsibility of my ex-wife
and parenting my young son. He certainly had his work cut out
for him, as I carried my heavy cross of alcoholism toward my
final Golgotha. Looking back now at how well Sri’s life,
education and home front are doing, I believe the four yearly
meetings that we sponsored, had a very beneficial effect.
“Thank you, Creator, for taking pity on me and hearing my
prayers, especially for my son. Now please help me, as I face
the fiddler- for six months of intense rehab in downtown
Phoenix, Arizona.”
“So, away you go. I never did rehab. Was it hard?”
questioned Larkins.
“Like anything else, it’s what you make of it. Do you do the
program or fight it?”

The army of recovering….

In June of 1997, Keith and Val drove me in my Toyota truck

to the ARC- Adult Rehabilitation Center. I treated them to fish
tacos on Mill Avenue in Tempe, which was the least I could do,
before checking in. After completing a successful urinalysis, I
was allowed into the army of recovering abusers of drugs and
alcohol. Keith and Val could go home now. The ARC, located
on South Central Avenue, is also the main processing plant for
the entire greater Phoenix metro’s numerous donations to the
Salvation Army. Lord, I worked – called work therapy - forty
hours per week, sorting every imaginable donation on earth,
labeled “bric-a-brac.” We had various departments’ here-
clothing, toys, books, furniture, bicycles and more. We also
had our own swimming pool and ate donated food from
Basha’s and Safeway. It was quite plentiful and good. We
were paid about eleven bucks per week, which I spent on
tobacco and treats at our nightly café. It was fries and ice
cream for me. The first month, no phone calls or outside

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contact was allowed. Many had a tough time with this. We
each had our own demons to deal with, and a personal
counselor for weekly sessions assisted that. With everybody
here coming off something, personal melodramas kept the
place pretty lively. AA meetings were required daily. We often
drove to outside meetings around Phoenix in our packed Dodge
van, listening to loud rock music, which I couldn’t stand. Once
on the way to a meeting, we even saw a prostitute giving oral
sex in a car, from our van window as we sped by.
“Now you’re talking!”
At one AA meeting, I got to see Dave Mustane speak. He is
the leader and guitar player for the famous heavy metal band,
Megadeath. Some of these Phoenix meetings, like this one, are
so large that the guest speaker actually uses a PA system.
Famous Dave had a good rap, I must say, having been to
heaven and hell repeatedly, as well as about fourteen treatment
centers. He claims to have five Mercedes Benz’s and a knock-
dead gorgeous babe for his wife. Lucky bastard! He does take
his sobriety seriously, however. I spoke with him afterwards. I
told this hair god that I couldn’t stand his music, and felt that it
led and promoted teens into the dark world of drugs and
alcohol.
“What did he say to that?”
“It kind of pissed him off.”
He claimed to love The Beatles, as he sized me up. I
wondered if he had ever cut his long hair off for sobriety, as I
had done. “We’ll go to any lengths to achieve sobriety,” as the
AA Big Book says. I don’t think “lengths” here refers to hair
measurement. Sobriety is far beyond one’s crowning glory-
even mine.
“You’re sure about that? To me, you seem kind of hung up
on your hair,” commented Larkins.
“Yeah, I’m certain. Just for the record, I’ve worn my hair
about every length and style you can imagine, from short to
shag to pony tail and a perm, but I’m still me underneath it.
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 However, you wouldn’t believe all the shit I’ve put up with for
just having long hair. Are people jealous or offended, or do
they just want me to look like them? Everybody is hung up on
their hair, Larkins. ”
I also attended an AA marathon, where I did seven meetings
in one day. We had a fantastic library here too, as we could
donate any books we wanted from the non-stop conveyor belt
in the book section of our factory. After ninety days, I
purchased a rebuilt mountain bike. It was made over by my
roommate Brian, from Seattle. Sadly, he died later of a heroin
overdose. I never even knew he was into that stuff. His mother
found my address in his belongings and wrote me of his death
up in Colville. It really saddened me. Brian was a good guy.
This disease of addiction can be deadly, that’s for sure. Many
of us inmates would peddle together all over downtown
Phoenix, going to AA meetings, coffee shops and stores on our
bikes. This aspect of in-house recovery was totally fun and
gave us a sense of freedom. I later gave my bike to Roderick
as a Christmas gift, so he could enjoy peddling with Sri. I made
a good friend in Jim Hunter. He had a sense of humor much
like my own, and we really kept each other laughing a lot. A
sense of humor in recovery really helps. To me, a sense of
humor is one of God’s greatest attributes. Jim would dress up,
from our unlimited wardrobe, like some sleazy Las Vegas
lounge singer and snap his fingers, Vegas-style, singing Mack
the Knife or New York, New York. We also toyed with
women’s wigs, as our recovering beauticians cut our hair very
short here. Soon I was in the ARC band, playing contemporary
Jesus songs on an electric guitar and looking like a gray haired
lawyer. We had to practice a lot, as these strung-out musicians
suffered from attention deficit disorder and blown-out
memories. I found this very frustrating, after playing music
professionally for nearly thirty years. We finally managed to
learn half a dozen songs. Our combo performed on
Wednesday night graduations in the chapel. Everybody wore
suits and ties on these often emotional nights. The smell of
perfume and cologne was strong. Everyone loved hearing our
electric soft rock inspirational songs and seeing the recovering
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girls, who worked with us, brought over from their apartment
complex. No fraternizing was allowed with these dark ladies.
However, couples did evolve and often went AWOL to start a
new life of addiction together. At Wednesday night graduation,
some of the personal testimonies were real tearjerkers. The
Sally Ann’s recovery program was always praised. At Sunday
chapel services, another suit and tie affair again, many brothers
would thank God and the Salvation Army, only to be busted
the next day for ripping off a dozen pair of shoes and Perry
Ellis cologne. Instantly, they were expelled from the program.
Our ARC band had access to a donated station wagon, to travel
to other local churches and perform our holy songs.
Everybody that attended these churches knew we were in
recovery. We were the lucky ones. Classify these as good
times too. After ninety days, I could also leave the institution
twice a month from Friday night until Sunday night, if I tested
clean upon return. I rode the Greyhound bus up to the Verde
Valley to hang with Sri a couple of times. Roderick and Joya
had married and moved off the reservation. They had
purchased land in the Verde Valley of central Arizona. These
visits were good, but I felt like a songbird out of its cage,
knowing I’d soon have to return. Joya lent us her red Toyota
again and Sri and I drove to Sedona. I purchased a beautiful
Pendleton Indian blanket of the Apache sun in turquoise, red
and yellow. I’ve always wanted one of these colorful blankets.
It was so good to see Sri’s home front progressing. Joya was
doing wonders in the garden and Roderick had his own sweat
lodge next to a drainage stream. Grandma Pauline had
relocated from Canada and was now happily living with them
too. Sri’s blessed with a full family and a functional one at that.
Who knows, maybe they’ll have another kid? I’m just so happy
for all the answered prayers, Lord.
Back at the ARC, Vic, the Unusuals keyboard player from
my ‘69 music days, would pick me up each weekend for time
at his Tempe home. Vic is a music master. Classical piano is
his bag and he practices at least six hours per day, year round.
Vic also had a swimming pool, so his weekend visits were
most welcome. We occasionally took in movies too and went
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 out to lunch every time at Souper Salad. I must say that Vic
came through with flying colors for me. As part of rehab, we
all did the Twelve Steps of Recovery. They are the core of
recovery, like it or not. I found a temporary sponsor, Jeff, who
helped me complete a thorough self-evaluation of my sins and
fears, and make subsequent amends to the many people I had
hurt or offended. Joya and I had a great healing in her car, as
she drove me up to their home one weekend. I feel that the
Twelve Steps are truly the essence of all religious teachings
and can certainly help anybody; if they honestly work them. I
really felt that this time in recovery was helping me to heal my
aching heart and get a better understanding of this crazy thing
called alcoholism. At least, it was a start. Recovery is a
lifetime job, day by day sober. I had my work cut out for me…
again.
“When I did my personal inventory,” exclaimed Larkins, “I
found fear was behind everything. Unreal!”
“Everything unreal is of fear. Love is the only real thing.
The ego always sees fear or anger, its other face. It fears its
very own death more than anything. It doesn’t want us to wake
up.”
Our band fell apart, as the other members all relapsed and
were expelled. Goodbye Brothers and good luck. I was given a
donated twelve string guitar and played Willie Nelson
renditions of gospel songs, solo on graduation nights. I was
greatly appreciated and loved this new gig. In many ways, I
prefer a solo gig over being in a band- much more freedom and
total control. I can pull the songs off a lot faster alone. One
Navajo friend gave me a small replica of a peyote water drum
at his graduation. This little gift was beautiful and would hang
from my truck’s rear view mirror for many years to come.
After three months of sorting bric-a-brac under the control of
my black female boss, I was promoted to the treasured job of
painter and furniture restoration. I had my own paint room,
coffee pot, radio and hidden mattress for secluded naps- which
I never took. But I did take worn-out furniture and make it
look beautiful again, for resale. At least it was a creative job
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and I got some experience with an airless sprayer. There were a
number of paid female Mexican employees who’d worked here
for years. They were all very nice, and obviously not in
recovery, but I couldn’t imagine a lifetime of old clothes,
furniture and bric-a-brac. I also wrote ex-wife Jolene and
found out how she had been dumped, after seventeen years of
marriage, by her second husband David. He had run away with
his sluttish Italian beautician, leaving poor Jolene blown away.
She had helped raise his three children and felt much cheated.
Since I could get a weekend off now, I suggested that she fly
out from L.A. and see me. She did. Vic picked her up at Sky
Harbor Airport and then they picked me up at the ARC. After
not seeing each other for over a decade and a half, it was like
we’d seen each other just yesterday! I couldn’t believe it when
she stepped out of the car. She had hardly aged physically at all.
I had rented her a room at a motel on Mill Avenue, and after
getting her settled in, we went for coffee across from ASU.
We could hear The Rolling Stones playing their loud concert
across the street.
“Would you like to go?” she asked.
“We’d better see if tickets are even still available.”
Tickets were still available, so she treated us to the concert.
The Stones sounded predictable as ever and we, the old stoner
first generation hippies, were completely straight at a gig
burning with ganja. Sympathy for the Devil brought the house
down on this Bridges over Babylon tour of hit songs. I had
borrowed Vic’s guitar, so after the concert I serenaded Jolene
until early morning hours in room 108. That is a very sacred
number in India and numerology but somebody had puked on
the rug here, so at 2 a.m. we found an open head shop to
purchase a pack of Nag Champa incense. Jolene had never
heard me play guitar, as I had only played drums during our
marriage. It was quite a surprise for her and she especially
loved my original songs. The next morning, she treated Vic
and me to a beautiful outdoor breakfast in Tempe. The puke
smell was too much in that room, so she moved into Vic’s
spare room for her second day. She confessed that she dyed
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 her long hair. She suggested that I should try it, as it slowly
washes out in a few weeks, she said. Wrong!! I returned to the
ARC looking twenty years younger, but the splattered dye
stained Vic’s bathroom wall. I put a calendar over it. Hopefully
he won’t find it for awhile. In the next two years, I was now
caught in the vicious cycle of continued hair dying, as it
doesn’t really ever wash out and new gray roots look like hell.
Some fountain of youth! I never should have done this. When
I played Jolene some peyote tapes, she confessed that she
always thought of me as an Indian. That’s a nice thought. She
was also very happy and concerned over Sri Ram. She would
never have her own children and we both wondered what our
lives would have been like, had we been parents back in our
twenties. All water under the bridge now. May God, Christ
and the Great Gurus always bless and guide Jolene. She really
is a good woman, who has suffered her share too.
“It sounds like you still love her, to me.”
“That goes without saying. I’ll always love her on some
level.”
When we said our goodbyes at the airport, she began crying.
She said that if I ever got into trouble or needed anything in life,
to contact her. Somehow her words felt like a premonition of
things to come. We really are psychic, but usually doubt it.
Our short visit dispelled any ideas of us ever being a couple
again, to me, but we could always be the best of friends.
That’s actually a greater blessing. One can never have too
many friends.
Finally, in December of 1997, I was about to graduate the
ARC. For the last few days, I was moved out of my dorm and
into my very own private room. Yes! Then, I bussed back up
to the Verde Valley and spent a couple of days with Sri and
family, before we all returned to Phoenix for my special
graduation ceremony. After playing guitar for so many
graduations, it was finally my turn. It proved to be an
emotional tearjerker for all involved. For Sri, and all of the
other fathers in the treatment center, I performed my last song
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on guitar. It was a song written by The O’Kanes- Daddy Needs
to Grow up Too. I had to hold back tears just to get through
this touching ballad. I was given The Life Recovery Bible and
sobriety pins by Major Angel, who looked like a bald eagle if I
ever saw one, and his piano playing wife. They both expressed
how much my music had touched them and how very special I
was. I would be greatly missed. Again, I was holding back
tears. But this time they were tears of joy. But now life must
go on, sober, and the real test is in the outside free world. It
was now fast approaching. I quickly escaped to the smoking
area, to smoke one last rollies with my crazy buddy Jim Hunter.
I will sure miss this guy’s sense of humor. I hope he makes it
but I have my doubts. Poor Jim was also into heroin. Outside,
Joya and Roderick presented me a jar of medicine, for my long
road trip home and new life back in Washington again. This
was yet another time of saying goodbye to my heart’s deepest
love, Sri Ram. At least I could rest easier now, knowing that
he was doing so well. All parents only want the very best for
their children. Many of my prayers were being manifested
before my sober eyes. But the big question, still left
unanswered for me, was how well would I actually do now in
my recovery? At this point in time, I really felt that the ARC
program and peyote had totally healed me. How very wrong I
was. Sadly, I still hadn’t hit my bottom, and had much more to
learn about alcoholism and the recovery process.
“How long did you stay sober this time, Rideout?” asked
Larkins, as he pumped up his pillow. Then he slowly ate
another watermelon Jolly Rancher in front of me.

Now was the time for me to….

Vic drove me back to Silver City on Christmas Eve, to get

my truck and dog. En route past Globe, we ran into snow. Vic
loved this, as he’d been anxious to try out the four wheel drive
on his Subaru. He dropped me off at old Peter’s hillside shack,
after a last fish dinner together downtown. The snow was
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 really coming down hard now making visibility bad and Vic
was worried about getting home safely. He was itching to go
and did quickly. Christmas day at Peter’s was the classic worst
one of my entire life. He’d been invited to dinner with some
peyote friends. I was not invited, as I’d just gotten out of rehab.
How hypocritical. I used to pray with these same people! So, I
sat alone in Peter’s freezing house, eating only brown rice in
silence. Peter’s cat rubbed up against my leg, reminding me to
be grateful. Merry Christmas, Rob - “I am with you always.”
On Boxing Day, December 26, Peter drove me through the
long and slow winding road of pine trees back to Gila Hot
Springs. Finally, I’m reunited with my beloved Shanti and my
aging Toyota truck. This was to be my last memory of seeing
our communal area. It hurt to look at the canyons. They all
echoed fond and sad memories. We had all tried so hard, in so
many ways, to make this work. It just wasn’t meant to be. I felt
very sad inside, as I looked around one last time, saying my
final farewell to another paradise. Oh well, at least Keith and
Val’s house was progressing well, as was Cynthia and Bo’s.
Goodbye, holy Gila. We gave it our best shot. Dreams don’t
make noise when they die.
In the NAC tradition, now was the time for me to sponsor
my “appreciation meeting” to give thanks for all the prayers
and blessings I’d received. Al put me up in his small trailer,
alongside his semi-retarded dog, Girl. He had mucho peyote
growing in pots and trays all over this small living space, along
with Cousin San Pedro cactus. I literally slept with the
medicine. Again, I harvested the required firewood and made
all of the necessary preparations for this meeting. And again,
Lloyd would be the master of ceremonies. This was a much
smaller, more intimate meeting of very dear friends. Alan flew
in from Atlanta, Georgia with his twenty-one-year-old son,
Darshan. This was to be Darshan’s first initiation with peyote.
Eric and Maritza, my hard-working karma yoga friends,
supported me with prayers and their usual hard work. And
again, Leo and Raven, and Ted and Melinda attended. Melinda
asked to speak formally to me during the meeting. She stated
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that I was her very best friend in the whole world. Wow! The
medicine brings that out. She then gave me a beautiful elk skin
cedar bag that she had specially made. Alan leaned over and
whispered, “I feel that way about you too.” He confided that I
had more real friends than anybody he’d ever known. After all
I’d lost in life, I suddenly felt incredibly rich! Maybe Alan was
right. Friends are truly God’s greatest treasure. Lloyd told me
to share my special prayer smoke, after I spoke with God, with
Brother Alan, as he’d come a very long way to support me.
And again, I was shaking like a leaf as I prayed to God. Alan
presented me later with a long woolen vest from India. I still
treasure it today. This time around, Lloyd didn’t dose me up
with mega medicine, thank God. This was a “thank you”
meeting, not an “emergency room” service. Another struggling
alcoholic named Jesse gave me his hunting knife and
Guatemalan colored belt. All of these gifts from friends still
carry a fond memory and blessing today. I never forget gifts
like this or where they came from.
After saying my goodbyes, I was now off with Shanti to
retrieve aging Angela from the hairdresser’s house. Nobody
was home, but I luckily found my aging tabby cat darting
around the yard in the dark. She was doing her cat thing, as
only they can do. I grabbed Angela and left the hairdresser a
thank you note. I soon ate medicine, listening to peyote tapes
the whole long drive north to Colville. This was quite an
experience in itself. It gave me time and the right mind-set to
process where I’d just been and come out of. Soon I’d start
life’s next chapter with my old friends, Tony and Barb Harmon.
What will this be like? I no longer needed a map to find my
way home- even on peyote.
“How many times now have you driven between Arizona
and Washington, Rideout?”
“I’ve done it too many times to remember, Larkins,” I sighed.
“Would you please give me one of your Jolly Ranchers?”
“Not a problem.”

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 We were called, “Clean and Sober”….

Back up in Colville, I got lost in the evening snow, trying to

remember the correct rural road to Harmon’s farmhouse. Upon
finding it, I couldn’t tow my U-Haul trailer up their road, due
to the ice. Wow, this weather was certainly different than
Arizona’s. I walked up to their farmhouse unexpected,
surprising the Harmon’s and especially their Great Dane dog,
Buck. Their old dog Tiger had passed on. This new dog did
not know me and charged out of the front door, instantly
attacking my arm. After that greeting, Barb fixed me dinner. I
was semi in culture shock, to be with these dear friends again,
in this great old farm house- after three and a half days of my
truck cab, Shanti and Angela and 1,700 miles of asphalt. My
fur girl’s shyly made friends with Buck and their other dog, old
Sadie, sniffing butts and all that. Tony made sure our animal
friends were not allowed in the kitchen eating area. To quote
him, “Nobody likes a begging dog.” How true, Tony.
The following morning, we used Tony’s four wheel drive
truck to tow me up the icy road to their 120-acre spread. I got
a mini-storage unit the next day, and finally got that U-Haul off
my bumper. I really don’t like trailers! I had called MVD in
Santa Fe, prior to leaving New Mexico. I had been assured that
my current driver’s license was legal and valid. I drove for the
next year not knowing that it was only legal in New Mexico,
but not in any other state, as Arizona still had a hold on it from
my numerous DUI’s. Sometimes, ignorance is bliss.
“You were very lucky, my friend,” commented Larkins.
“Boy, don’t I know that,” I said, as I thought about all the
fear I didn’t experience, due to my ignorance.
The upstairs attic room was perfect for Shanti, Angela and
me. I set up an altar in a corner and began my daily prayers,
chanting and meditation. This usually included Babaji’s Aarati,
Yogananda’s songs and, of course, a few choruses of Om
Namah Shivaya. While going through my box of family

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heirlooms upstairs, I felt Mom’s presence strongly. I noticed
the distinct smell of her perfume in the air around me; an odor I
hadn’t smelled in over fourteen years. My hair stood on end. I
used my hawk-like nose on the heirlooms but came up negative.
They always had that old smell, semi moldy. Then I felt a deep
sense of love surround me alone in this attic room. Hi Mom,
and thank you so much. I needed that.
“Jesus Rideout, that is right up there with your sister
appearing to you.”
“Yeah, it was my mom’s way of letting me know.”
“Letting you know what?” questioned Larkins.
“That there is no real separation in death. Death is just a
dream, just as life is.”
“There you go again, with all that metaphysical bullshit. You
know I have a hard time accepting it.”
“Well, you’re not alone there, Larkins.”
Pam Rideout sent me a large manila envelope that my dad
had told her not to mail, until long after his death. She warned
me in an introductory letter that I may find some shocking facts.
She was correct. Dad had written a short version of his life
story for me. Many family skeletons came out of the closet
now. Dad had given himself a vasectomy, without ever telling
my mom. No more dysfunctional kids for this couple. My
mom’s suicide attempt was explained in further detail too. He
told how Mom had taught him to smoke, drink and cuss. In
short, his story was quite sad. My poor dad actually had a
pretty miserable life. His greatest loves were the dogs,
Porsches and work. Family came in behind those. How
pathetic. He also greatly resented being called a Jew his whole
life. With that Rideout nose, he just looked Jewish or Indian.
I’ve been told that a few times, too. After reading his words, I
was glad that he took the time to put some personal family
history down on paper, sad or not. Maybe I should do that for
my son. We all have a story. The exercise is to tell it.

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 One Saturday morning after our grocery shopping, we went
to see about possibly buying a horse. Why not? We had the
perfect place for one. We all fell instantly in love with a young
white Arabian mare. We named her Ayla. She was a true
beauty. Tony had never been around horses much, but learned
quickly how to saddle, bridle and ride her. He learned real
quickly. However, Ayla wasn’t the gentle lady we’d expected.
She was more like a stick of dynamite or a lightning bolt.
Harmon’s also boarded a friend’s older Morgan horse, so at
least our Arabian rascal wasn’t alone. Months later, Ayla and
Barb went down on slippery pine needles in the front yard.
Barb suffered a mild concussion, losing her memory of the
accident details. “So tell me Rob, what happened?” I told her
what happened over and over again. She was taken to the
hospital for observation and then had the guts to ride Ayla
again, to overcome her fear. But now our naughty horse had a
restraining rope, holding her chin down to her chest, to prevent
bucking. One horse power is a lot of kinetic energy. With all
of the metal and screws in my leg, I shied away from riding
Ayla. Horses can sense fear, so I thought I chose wisely. The
sweet smell of cows was reminding me of my childhood pony
farm days. I know quite a bit about horses. My sister and I
rode Shetland ponies two weeks a summer, for three years, on
this farm that was a child’s version of paradise. It seems even
cow shit can activate fond dormant memories- for me anyway.
Work was slow for Tony and me during this winter of 1998.
We watched a lot of Judge Judy on satellite television, as we
drank mucho coffee and took long walks in the woods. It was
awesome to tromp through the snow covered fields and forests
together. Barb supported us with her job as a bank teller. God
bless her. She is such a hard working woman. During our laid-
back winter, Tony and I took a road trip across the state of
Washington to Bellingham and Sumas, our old haunts. I ate
medicine and didn’t tell Tony until about six hours later,
somewhere near Moses Lake. We had a much-needed, brother
to brother talk about the wandering heart karma of previous
years. Tony clearly realized in defending himself what a
strong soul mate he has in Barb, and his real true love for her.
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As I consider him my brother, I’m really glad we had this talk.
That’s what friends do. They can call each other on their shit.
After hitting a new Indian casino outside of Bellingham, we
then visited with Gary and Peg Mulroney. They couldn’t
believe my alcohol stories and DUI’s. Gary had been in
recovery for many years and had never got into near the trouble
I had. I met the new owner of my parents’ house, next door to
Mulroney’s. All the carpet had been torn up to expose beautiful
wooden floors underneath. If my parents could only see this, I
thought. I still had a few things up in the attic I needed to deal
with. Then I noticed he’d pruned the hell out of most of the
yard trees. Many were our small live Christmas trees, planted
decades ago that had grown into beautiful conifers. It was very
sad to feel this house, my old childhood home. The scene in
Bellingham was changing too. It was no longer my home.
Where is home, really, but in God?
“After losing your house in the woods and that place in Gila
Hot Springs, I bet you felt weird… no home I mean, right?”
asked Larkins.
“I wouldn’t feel at home anywhere- for a long time to come,
Bunkie. It takes time to establish roots.”
After leaving Whatcom County, we visited Sunray, the
extreme house builder who’d visited us in the Gila. He was
wearing clothes now. His present property was near Mount
Vernon. What a trip that was! There must have been about ten
bizarre architectural experiments on this property. Plus, a huge
tripod log framework about forty feet high that housed a real
rush of a rope swing. There wasn’t a straight line or regular
angle in any of Sunray’s creations. This blew Tony away, who
tends more towards conventional construction and John Wayne
movies. Sunray’s latest project was pre-fabbed wooden yurts.
These were beautiful, compared to my canvas one, and meant
to last. Sunray definitely is up there on my character list and I
think probably on Tony’s list too.
As spring approached, construction suddenly picked up. I
helped Tony do some custom solid laminate countertops and an
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 additional room and roof job for some friends. Ironically, these
friends, Dave and Shannon, would become my guardian angels
a decade from now. Finally, I was measuring, cutting wood and
pounding nails again. For my forty- eighth birthday present,
Harmon’s gave me carpentry tools and a lot of moral support.
Then at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting at the Colville
recycling center, I met Norma and Eric. Eric was born missing
one hand, but had a small single fingernail which he used to
pick guitar.
“I know you!” stated Eric.
“How could this be?” I answered back.
“Joya sent us over to your adobe cabin in Gila Hot Springs,
when we traveled to Arizona for a peyote meeting. Now do you
remember?”
Is this a small world or divine synchronicity? Eric became
my AA sponsor and this happily married couple introduced me
to the Native American Church over in the nearby Okanagan
area of Washington State. I crossed over Sherman Pass with
them, to sit up with Anglos who’d been church members for
nearly two decades. These new friends could sing those peyote
songs very well, especially Eric. In fact, he is one of the best
medicine singers I’ve ever heard, Indian or non-Indian. I
finally took Tony to a meeting there, but he failed to eat
enough medicine and really got very little out of the service.
At about 2 a.m., he suddenly missed Barb and actually wanted
to go home. No Tony…no! This reminded me of dying Sarah
wanting to end her meeting in the middle of the night. In the
morning, it was all I could do to keep Tony there long enough
to pack up some food for our spacey drive home. Peyote was
definitely not his cup of tea. Being a non-smoker, of tobacco
anyway, he also found it hard to breathe in the smoky prayer-
filled tipi. To each his own or, “Follow your bliss,” to quote
Joseph Campbell. How well I know that peyote isn’t for
everybody. It’s one rugged way of worship. The goal is to be
well enough to not have to attend such meetings. I wasn’t there
quite yet.
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 At another AA meeting, I met a fellow musician named Sean.
As well as recovering from alcohol, he too was doing his best
to stay off meth, crystal and coke. He’d been clean for over a
year, but still had trouble sleeping- from so many stimulants
detoxifying out of his system. We joined our musical talents
and new sobriety, to become a duo known as Clean and Sober.
He was Clean and I was Sober. Sean played great solos on my
classical Yamaha guitar, while I pounded out the rhythm on my
Hondo acoustic and sang all the lead vocals. I taught him
harmony parts too, which he taped and studied at home. We
played a lot of old obscure Bee Gee’s songs, which stunned our
audiences. Sean was a super nice guy and we harmonized well
together. We played many Saturday night alcohol-free gigs at a
new age center/coffee shop on the mighty Columbia River.
We played one sunny afternoon for Normal and the November
Coalition, a prisoner activist group- people fighting to legalize
pot and families fighting to minimize long prison sentences for
their locked-up pot growing significant others. Mitch, my
childhood friend, fellow band mate in The Rebels, and old
housemate after Ecuador, came up from Spokane to see us play.
We hadn’t seen each other in over twenty years. We actually
saw The Beatles together three times in 1964 and 1966. He and
Jan were now divorced and he suggested that I date her. Really?
Why not? She’s a great lady and a fellow intuitive Pisces.
However, the potheads at this fair grounds gig did not cotton to
our name. You’ve got to be kidding me. Clean and sober they
definitely were not and their wall of denial must have been
threatened somehow.
“Sean, I think we’re playing for the wrong audience. We’re
so much more than just a name.”
“I know, Rob. It’s ridiculous. Aren’t they listening to us?”
Jan and I did try dating briefly. She treated me to a
Broadway stage play musical, based on songs of Leiber and
Stoller from the ‘50’s. We also ate many times at an outdoor
Thai restaurant, overlooking the Spokane River. When the
NAC people in the Okanagan sponsored their huge yearly
barter fair, we drove across Sherman pass and enjoyed
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 ourselves immensely. This yearly barter fair is an American
version of the Kumbha Mela, but on a much smaller scale, of
course. Ganja food was available, which enhanced the party
atmosphere. There were about three generations of hippies,
complete with school buses, VW vans, tipis and lots of long
hair and dreads. And, numerous bonfires, ongoing drum
circles and various live bands. Washington has three to four
such fairs every year, complete with schedules posting the
needed details. Nothing serious ever came out of our dating, as
Jan and I are more like a brother and a sister. After losing
Joyce, God has blessed me with many good sisters.
Finally, a new company started up in Colville - Northeast
Wildfires. I was trained, quick and dirty, to perform “mop up”
at forest fires. Realistically, we thinned trees for Boise Cascade
95% of the time. This was by far the hardest work I’ve ever
done! I went through three Stiehl chainsaws and two pair of
expensive logging boots. We cut down trees by the thousands,
per ten-hour days in heat well over 100º, walking atop slash
piles over five feet high. In short, this was very dangerous
work. The F word was heard constantly throughout the woods,
as other thinners either fell in the slash or had their precious
saw caught in a binding cut. Beehives were often hit, stinging
many, and a bear actually walked into camp one fine day.
When we were paid nine dollars per hour, I could survive. But
when we switched over to payment by poorly measured swaths,
everybody got screwed… big time! I would cut over fourteen
acres and only be paid for five. The colored ribbons changed
so often that nobody knew for certain whose area they could be
thinning. What a way to run a business! We often drove over
two hours at 3 a.m. to our logging camp. It was often easier to
camp out for the week and hear the sound of chainsaws, as
some drunken asshole decided to tune up his tool at 9 p.m.,
than waste time and gas on these long drives. Shanti ate the
Indians’ elk, which they stupidly left out unprotected- duh!
They threatened to eat her, as their ancestors had done. When
these losers rammed a chipmunk onto our truck radio antenna,
I’d seen about enough of this business. One big boy even had a
classic nervous breakdown, throwing his chainsaw into the dog
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hair woods. He could only measure cut acreage now, as his
psych job, but got paid as unfairly as us drones. This new
company sucked big time and appeared to be going down in
flames; just like a forest fire. We needed a fire to fight, after
this crap, and we got a few, luckily. We did mop-up on three
small fires in our yellow Kevlar fire retardant jumpsuits. This
was just dirtier, hard work. A helicopter delivered hot coffee
and restaurant take-away food from a pallet descending from
the sky. I did get to see some pretty incredible forestlands that
not many non-loggers would ever see. Again, that all came
with the job.
“I used to be a logger, Rideout… over on the Olympic
peninsula. I’ve seen some pretty incredible woods too, so I
know what you mean. It’s so peaceful to work in the woods,
even if we are making one hell of a noise.”
Back home with Tony and Barb, domestic stress was rising.
I felt as if I was wearing out my welcome. “Fish and visitors
stink after three days,” to quote Ben Franklin. I was not clear
about what exactly was expected from me, to live on their
estate anymore. It was time for me to find my own place,
something I could afford. During my real estate search, I
finally relapsed; after nearly one and a half years of sobriety.
“How did that happen? I thought you were doing so well.”
“Harmon’s left for a weekend and I had the farm to myself.”
I went kayaking alone on the Colville River and then
afterwards, I felt an incredible urge to drink. I thought about
calling Eric, my sponsor, but I didn’t. The desire to drink was
overpowering me. It was fuckin’ overwhelming! I felt like Dr.
Jekyll turning into Mr. Hyde and it was already too late to pick
up the phone. I knew I was going to drink, as I consciously
bought a pint of cheap whiskey. One part of my mind was just
watching it all play out, not judging. Returning to the farm, I
quickly fed the cows. Then I began my secret relapse, as I
played my guitar and dotara on the lawn. Nobody would ever
know my secret sin but me. I went a month sober, and then
repeated this performance when Harmon’s left once again. I
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 recognized that I deeply needed them for backup, to keep my
sobriety. Heaven knows, they are my best friends. I was now
headed for serious trouble and I had no idea, of course. I
couldn’t tell them. It was all too much fun again, to wallow in
my sentimental memories. This disease of denial is very tricky.
It lets you believe, “I’m not sick.” You have no idea of just
how very sick you actually are.
“Well said, Rideout.”
“It takes one to know one, Larkins.”

We alcoholics hold….

After purchasing my own three-bedroom trailer for six

thousand dollars in Kettle Falls, I instantly fell into the daily
routine of malt liquor after work; and driving home exhausted
with an open bottle between my legs. I was still on a three-
year probation sentence with Arizona, but Washington refused
to accept their inter-state compact. As Arizona had never
crossed this bridge before, I had to call them weekly, on a toll-
free number to check in. I lied that I was sober and attending
AA meetings bi-weekly. They had no way of monitoring me,
unless I got into trouble. I was being super careful and very
lucky, so far. I was still working for Northeast Wildfires, while
living in my new secluded space ten minutes north of Colville.
Sri flew up to Spokane for a weeklong visit. Jan and I took
him for dinner at our favorite Thai restaurant overlooking the
Spokane River. Later, I showed him a beautiful, flowering
botanical park. After seeing the pictures we took, I hated seeing
that damn dye in my hair. Back in Kettle Falls, we picked
Bing cherries on tall ladders at a fruit orchard near the
Columbia River. Sri loved swimming with Shanti at the Kettle
River beach. Shanti would pull him around by her tail in the
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warm water. Classify these as good times again. Then we
drove over the North Cascades Pass, seeing a small bear cross
the road en route. We were going sailing with Dan, Kirk and
young Sequoia in the San Juan Islands.
“Is that the same Dan who built your house and drove you to
you airport?”
“Yeah, the same Brother and I stayed in his cabin during that
year of separation from Joya and Sri.”
However Sequoia, Dan’s son, drove Sri and me nuts, while
his father shouted loudly over the ocean waves, proving to be
quite the German sea captain. I didn’t drink around Sri at all
during his vacation with me. We alcoholics hold a lot of
secrets and shame. I couldn’t let him know about my relapse.
No way. We camped out on a small island that had cliff nests of
protected peregrine falcons. No ferry stops here, but many sea-
going kayakers joined our secluded beach camp, keeping their
distance for personal space. The next day we sailed over to
Orcas Island to soak in the hot tubs at Doe Bay. Joya and I had
brought a very small Sri to this same resort years before. We’d
had such a fight, that Joya had disappeared for hours. This
place did not have such good memories for me, as I looked
over at the room we once stayed in. However, this cruise was
Sri’s first time on a sailboat and proved to be another fond
memory. That old turtle Kirk was as slow as ever, getting from
the hot tubs back to Dan’s sailboat for our return voyage back
home. He wanted to hang out longer with the naked hippie girls.
“I’d like to go to this Doe Bay. It sounds like my kind of
place,” interjected Larkins.
“It might be a little too hip for you, Larkins.”
Next, we visited Christian on Lummi Island. Looking at the
ocean and sparkling lights of Bellingham across the bay, I
flashed on this being the exact same spot where Jody and I had
been married. Sri began to really miss his mom. We let him
call home. This was the longest time in his young life that he’d
ever been away from her. I felt sad for him, as I was trying so

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 hard to be a good dad and show him a very special time. What
we parents won’t do to show our love, even if we are alcoholic.
When we returned to Eastern Washington after our sailing
adventure, heartbreak was awaiting us.
“How heavy was it?” asked Larkins.
We picked up Angela from Harmon’s farm and then went
grocery shopping and to Wal-Mart. She somehow escaped
from my mini truck while we shopped. We didn’t even notice,
until we were unloading the groceries back at my trailer. We
returned quickly to both stores and left messages with a
construction crew outside and store employees; be on the
lookout for a near deaf, half-blind old gray female tabby cat.
Nobody called back. Angela was seventeen when she left us.
They say cats often know when it’s their time, so maybe its
better that it happened this way. I burned cedar for her and felt
very sad. Even Shanti seemed to miss her, as they had grown
up together. I’m glad Sri was with me during this dark hour.
He was seeing his father cry. To me, the loss of animals is just
as heavy as that of human friends. Fur friends always give
unconditional love and ask so little from us in return. I’ll look
forward to seeing her again up yonder, when I have my life
review, upon graduation from this planet of sorrows.
The day arrived, much too soon, to take Sri back to Spokane
International Airport for his flight home to Arizona. After our
final farewells, I cried my guts out driving home. I hate being
a single divorced dad! Why God, is it my karma to see so little
of the one I love so much? This question would be asked by
me for many more years to come. Then I got drunk back in my
trailer, at exactly the wrong time. True alcoholics have the
knack for doing that. Stepfather Roderick called. I never
should have answered that damn phone! But I did, and it was
far too obvious that I was drunk. Roderick clearly understood
my emotional pain and geographic problem, without
judgment… but the shame, guilt and relapses were killing me.
I now felt that I could never stay clean and sober very long.
Why not just drink and enjoy it? What a way to die! I felt like
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I was fighting a losing battle. I now understood why Bo’s
brother blew his brains out. How do people ever stay sober,
when their everyday lives are so boring and mundane? I had
lost my dream, somewhere, somehow. I had no love life or
even the prospect of one. I was working my ass off to pay
child support and barely breaking even financially. And I was
not playing nearly enough music to satisfy my soul. I was a
loser, the living dead. Alcohol was taking me down and I
really didn’t give a shit. However, I hadn’t hit my bottom yet-
not by a long shot.
“You are a loser, dude, if you are drinking to die.”
“I was just thinking about it, as I drank.”
Harmon’s hosted a Northeast Washington barter fair on their
property. Christian drove over the pass from the Bellingham
area with two girlfriends, Carol and Melee. All three stayed
with me. We had quite a blast at the fair and my home front.
Sean and I played to thousands of hippies and I received the
ultimate compliment of my entire musical career. A young
beautiful, blonde dreadlocked lady, who’d lived in a Krishna
ashram, said my voice touched her heart more deeply than any
singer she’d ever heard. Her name was Violet and when asked
where she was from, she said, “the Spirit.” We drank wine
together, hers, then she danced away back into her spirit world,
I guess, as I never saw her again. An old gypsy crone sold
ganja pumpkin cake that had one dancing in half an hour. Was
this the ‘60’s or the ‘90’s? The Bellingham girls loved these
magical treats and ate up daily. After our full days at the fair,
the goddesses cooked up big time back in my trailer. My
bathroom looked like a storm had just hit it - hair dryers,
cosmetics - you know. It was really nice to have so much
nurturing female energy around me. Carol, an author, gave me
a copy of her book, Northwest Single Men’s’ Favorite Recipes,
as I sold her my old kayak for one hundred bucks. I also
turned her on to Willie Nelson. Later, she bought nearly
everything Willie had ever recorded. I really felt alone again
when these divine mothers said their goodbyes. Loneliness is
such a drag. We’d all experienced something very special, a
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 very heartfelt connection, and Harmon’s got to reunite with my
spiritual sister, Christian. Christian also met Tony’s brother
Greg there, who kind of resembles Superman Christopher
Reeves. They had a temporary long distance phone
relationship but nothing more than that. Christian’s true man
would be coming soon.
Eric and Norma held sweats next to their small pond.
Harmon’s had never done a sweat lodge and Eric can run a
good sweat, as well as he sings. Everyone got a blessing, swim
in the lake and a fantastic meal with fine fellowship. Another
dinner for Eric’s birthday brought a surprise musician from the
Pacific Northwest. He turned out to be Kim, the saxophone
player from Seattle’s Viceroys of my teen years. At fourteen, I
used to stand in front of the stage watching this dude’s band in
rapt awe. I was much honored to meet one of my musical
heroes. I asked Kim about The Fabulous Wailers, my favorite
Northwest band whom I’d sat next to at the Beatles 1966
concert. He said that Ron Gardner, the lead singer, had been
burned alive, in a small trailer, while selling Christmas trees! I
was deeply shocked by this distressing news. Ron Gardner
was one of the best lead singers I’d ever seen and one very cool
dude. He should have been famous, I always felt. For every
person who “makes it” in the music business, there are
thousands of others who are equally deserving and just as
talented. This humble sax player, at Eric’s Birthday party,
confessed that he’d damaged his eardrums with new age ear
candles by accident. Bad karma happens to musicians too.
Lord, how well I know that.
After Sri’s visit, I thought hard about living so far away from
him. Seeing him only once a year was unbearable to me. It
just plain sucked. What to do? I was sick of felling trees and
being so damned underpaid, not to mention the extreme danger
of this job. After some thought, I called my Tempe friend Vic,
to see if he knew of any work in Arizona. If he does, I could be
closer to my estranged son. Luckily, Vic’s friend Rick owned
RBC Construction and would hire me on as a laborer for ten
dollars an hour immediately. Rick was a father too and had
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played drums in Bellingham’s Goose Creek Symphony back in
the day. This was great news. So I set up my life now to be
gone for six months on a scouting mission for a locale and job
near Sri Ram. “Seek and ye shall find.” I ironically reunited
with peyote brother John Kimmey, whom I’d met at Sri’s first
meeting. John agreed to house sit my trailer. He also wrote his
book about Hopi prophecy, entitled Light on the Return Path,
there. I was given a first autographed copy later. He wrote on
the title page, “Rob, Keep those chants going. We’re almost
home!”
How many times now had I driven this route to the
Southwest? It seems like too many to count. Which way should
I go this time? Shanti and I packed up once more and said our
goodbyes to Colville. I bought a pouch of American Spirit
tobacco, in the pissing rain, at a discount smoke shop down the
road. I’ll need it on the road again, to the one state that always
seems to bring me trouble. Or maybe I’m just trouble, looking
for a state of expression?

I was on a scouting mission….

Vic would let me live in his Tempe home for a month, no

more. Geniuses need their space. Like many others, he fell in
love with Shanti immediately, taking her for walks in the
nearby park. His orange trees were producing abundant sweet
fruit that we peeled daily. We also continued to eat out
regularly at cheap Chinese buffets and our favorite, Souper
Salad. And Vic, still as predictable as ever, played that grand
piano his six to eight hours a day. This was like living with
Beethoven. He blew me away many times as I lay on my bed
listening to his heavenly music.
My new job was a piece of cake, compared to the hard labor
I’d just left. Hell, anything would be a piece of cake after that.
RBC was in the dirt business, constructing house pads for new
homes north of the Scottsdale city limits. I’d drive daily over

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 an hour to work at 4:30 a.m. When they found out I had a
chainsaw, I was soon cutting Palo Verde and junipers for a
chipping machine. I also spent a lot of time behind a flat
shovel and large landscape rake. I even took “Rake 101” to
learn the precise science of leveling crushed gravel and AB
perfectly. On Fridays, I often got to drive the water truck, to
process dirt and clean the neighborhood streets of our weekly
mess. My foreman was a recovering alcoholic named Louie
and one heck of a character and good man. He’d often let me
off early, but made sure I still got paid my forty weekly hours.
I even did side work for him at his house on weekends. Vic
paid me to prune his palm trees up on a tall ladder with my
huge chain saw. That was one dangerous job that I don’t ever
want to repeat. These southwest trees are so different in
character from those of the Northwest. I guess that could be
said about the people too. So, with Vic being basically a
recluse and my month up, I now needed to find a new place to
live.
“Was that hard to find?”
“To say the least; I had to comb through ads on bulletin
boards and search the newspaper ones too.”
I ended up renting a room from Steve and Waxy, a bizarre
musical couple. They were hard-core Goth punk rockers and
Steve was super paranoid, as he’d just been released from
prison! I couldn’t even conceive of that one.
“Well, you can now!” shouted Larkins, smiling at me and
then slapping his knee in joy.
“Yeah, but back then, prison wasn’t even in my vocabulary. I
thought I’d luckily escaped that by doing rehab.”
Their house was directly in Sky Harbor’s flight path, so
outside telephone calls were next to inaudible due to the jet
roar every ten minutes. This odd couple reminded me of
vampires, always keeping the drapes shut, very few lights on
ever and basically only active at nocturnal hours. They had a
recording studio and full drum set in one room, so we often

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rocked out. Waxy would wear a blonde wig and a wedding
dress for their off-the-wall performances, which weren’t very
often. I continued to drink copiously, feeling so uncomfortable
living with these strange roommates. We really didn’t have
much in common, except music. And I was usually pretty
plastered when I played with them. It certainly made their
songs more tolerable.
“That must suck living with roommates, after owning your
own place,” commented Larkins.
“It really sucked! I felt so lost, in so many ways. I wondered
if I would ever have a place to call home again.”
After I thought Shanti and I had found a temporary “home,”
the vampire couple decided they only wanted this casket for
themselves. Maybe my drinking was affecting them. Who
knows? Even with the hassle of moving once again, it was a
blessing to be leaving this macabre environment.
Owning a dog makes finding a roommate rental very
difficult. It was a blessing that Angela made her exit when she
did, or my chances would have greatly diminished. I called
many ads in the Phoenix rag, The New Times, until I connected
with Michael. He owned a nice house on Vineyard, across the
street from a park on the borderline of Tempe and Phoenix, not
far from Sky Harbor Airport. Michael also had two dumb dogs,
so Shanti was no problem. He also had two more roommates.
One was a lesbian with a stud in her tongue, who lived in a
backyard cottage rental. The other roomy was full breasted
Zivodonna from Croatia. He took us all out to an evening of
hard drinking, to break the ice of our communal living situation.
That was exceptionally fun and a story unto itself. These ladies
were crazy! Michael had a huge hi-tech television and a
swimming pool in the backyard. The park was perfect for
Shanti’s walks and bowel movements, and provided some
small token of nature in this concrete inferno. Phoenix seems to
have four seasons: tolerable, hot, really hot and what the hell.
Now that I was back residing in Arizona, I received a phone
call from the probation department, requesting me to complete
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 a UA - urine analysis - for detection of drugs. My three years
of easy probation was nearly over and this was my first UA-
wouldn’t you know it. I’d smoked pot once, with the vampires
around Christmas and was worried that it might show up. I
purchased The Stuff at Headquarters head shop for twenty
dollars, hoping to avoid detection. It worked too well,
stripping some ingredient out of my urine that should have
been there.
“Did they ask you to pee again?”
“Yeah, and luckily the probation department waited another
month before my repeat pee-performance.”
“It takes that long for pot not to show up.”
“Duh, I know that. I passed final inspection successfully, thus
completing my court ordered probation. Thank God, alcohol
doesn’t show up… because I was still killing King Cobras
daily.”
I was also still dying my hair in the vicious cycle of eternal
dark hair. Nobody wants to grow old and I certainly didn’t
want to look old before my time. But, of course, my present
lifestyle was just aging me. A couple of black crack whores at
Taco Bell thought I had a wig on, as they tried to proposition
me. I was carded for I.D. twice at Circle K, for not looking old
enough to buy beer. Good God, the power of modern
chemistry! All of the store clerks gathered around to see the
birth date on my driver’s license. Nobody could believe I was
forty-nine. One said, “God has been good to you.” I responded
with, “No, L’Oreal has been good to me.” After the heartfelt
pain I’d been avoiding in my life of escapism, I wasn’t sure
anymore if God was ever good to me. Of course, this is just
more stinking thinking, as I was still so caught up in living an
illusion. In my opinion however, dyed hair should be left to
females, not real men. I would free myself from this trap in
time.
“I can’t imagine you with dyed hair, Rideout. That is so un-
hippie.”

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 “I know. Now, I like my gray hair, but it took a long time to
get there. You either lose it or it turns grey, it seems, so I’m
just grateful to have hair at my age. As I heard Emmylou
Harris say in concert one time, ‘These are my eagle feathers
and I’ve earned every one.’ That’s exactly how I feel now
about my grey hair.”
“That’s a good way to look at it but you need a haircut, eagle
dude. It’s getting too long.”
“No way, Larkins… I’ll cut it when I get out. It’ll be real
long then, like it was back in the early ‘70s.”
“I envy you.”
“Don’t. It’s just hair.”
I also played my classic Americana songs at retirement
communities in nearby Mesa. The old wealthy retirees loved
my romantic renditions and I was paid forty dollars an hour.
Of course, an hour was all I played, but it helped satisfy the
musical need in me. I do love to sing, and especially those old
songs. They sure don’t write ‘em like that anymore.
Then Eric called me from Colville, to say that he would soon
be flying down to visit his mother in Scottsdale. He asked if I
knew of any peyote meetings happening in the area. Yes, there
was a meeting coming up that we could attend, ironically at
Leo and Raven’s Peyote Foundation in Kerney, Arizona. I
picked up Eric at his mother’s million dollars mansion. She
was obviously wealthy and Eric’s hippie lifestyle and values
were about the exact opposite from hers; a lot like my own
relationship with my upper-middle class family, now deceased,
of course. Leo’s property was beautiful, as was the desert
drive getting there. We had to call ahead, from a general store
pay phone, to get the gate that opened their bridge across the
Gila River, unlocked. I flashed on this river water coming
from where I used to live in New Mexico. All rivers lead to
the ocean, as all paths eventually lead to God. There is no new
water. It just keeps reincarnating in the perpetual water cycle.
We are all drinking the same water our ancestors drank. How

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 can people not believe in reincarnation, when all of nature
speaks of it?
“That’s a good one. Let me mull it over awhile.”
“Take your time. We’ve got forever, Larkins.”
Many of the Indians at this meeting were suspicious of the
greenhouses and open gardens of peyote. I’d never seen so
much medicine! It was way more than at the Hogan up in Tuba
City. Leo had obviously put years of hard work into his
horticultural experiments. Many disapproved of his grafting
peyote onto San Pedro cactus and this came up later in the
meeting. And many also really disapproved of a roadman
friend and his wife getting busted for growing weed and
making their livelihood in the California pot trade. They
claimed to be true to the medicine. They were obviously
addicted to ganja money too. Pot is taboo around peyote.
Alcohol might as well be the anti-Christ in liquid form. I
confessed to Eric about my relapse into drinking again, as he’d
kind of been my AA sponsor back in Colville. He was very
sad and concerned.
“You only wake up when you’re ready,” he calmly stated.
“Yeah, I know. Nobody can do it for me.”
Sadly, shortly after this meeting, Leo’s property made
headlines as the largest peyote bust in state history. The Feds
confiscated all of the medicine, feathers, fans and even their
personal photo albums and jewelry. I never found out what
finally happened to them, after lengthy courtroom appearances.
I hope they didn’t lose their precious property. The medicine is
like Shiva- don’t mess with Shiva! I’m beginning to think that
alcohol might be like Shiva too or maybe his dark consort Kali,
who wears a necklace of human skulls. What am I messing
with? I drove Eric back to the airport, still feeling the effects of
the meeting and wondering when I’d pick up the bottle again.
I didn’t have to wait long. After many decades of high times
and lows, changes and travel, it was now time to turn fifty

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years old. Michael wanted to treat me to an incredible call girl
for my birthday present.
“Wow that would be nice.”
“I considered it, believe me.”
However, after much thought, I opted for a tattoo instead.
I’d had my Sanskrit Om tattoo on my left wrist since 1985 with
Jody in Fiji. Now I wanted to expand that tattoo into a bracelet
design, with Sri Ram’s name written into it. I luckily happened
to meet a young girl on Mill Avenue who had incredible tats.
“She had incredible what?”
“I said tats, Larkins.”
She turned me on to a famed national tattooist named Jay J.,
who’d tattooed porn star Tracy Lords and weirdo Marilyn
Manson. His work was featured in many tattoo magazines.
Michael said he’d spring one hundred dollars for call girl
Donna, but only seventy for a tattoo. Jay J. informed me that
my new skin art would cost exactly seventy dollars. Perfect!
Donna would only last a few minutes but this tattoo would last
a lifetime. Jay J. came through with flying colors. Now I had
my son’s name forever on my wrist, proclaiming my undying
love for him and God. Tattoos can be good. I look at mine as
stained glass on the temple, if you get my gist? They can also
be a bit like Halloween costumes too, displaying a hidden side
of your personality. Tattoos, personal books and music
collections can reveal a lot about a person. Just look around.
On this fiftieth birthday, I tied one on with roommate
Zivodonna. She had fallen head-over-heels in love with Elvis’s
voice, so we danced drunkenly to It’s Now or Never in our
rental living room. Christian had informed me that she’d be in
town, but I did not expect to pick her up at the airport.
Suddenly, the phone rang and she asked for a ride, failing to
give the needed details as to her exact whereabouts in Sky
Harbor. As we drove the short distance, Zivodonna asked what
Christian looked like, so she could hopefully locate her in the
crowd.
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 “Shirley Temple with short hair,” I replied.
“I’ll be back,” she yelled, as she took off running wildly
towards the entrance doors. Jesus, this lady sounds like the
Terminator.
Miraculously, Zivodonna and Christian returned hand in
hand, as if they were old friends.
“I love Zivodonna,” exclaimed Christian.
“I know what you mean.”
We luckily made it back to our Vineyard house without
incident. When I reflect back on all of the times I could have
gotten another DUI, and didn’t, it’s incredible. Every true
alcoholic knows what I mean. Drinking and driving is the
ultimate high stakes gambling game, which can have horrific
results. Statistically, a first time DUI offender has driven 1500
times drunk before he gets caught! I remember hearing an
alcoholic share his story for MADD (Mothers against Drunk
Driving) back in 1992. He had sadly killed two beautiful girls
in a drunken head-on collision in Rome, Italy. Every night of
his tortured life, he relives the memories of this nightmare
tragedy; a living hell. To this day of my present prison
incarceration, I will always be grateful that I never killed
anybody while driving under the influence. I deserve the
sentence I’m serving for the bad karma I created. I could never
live with myself if I’d drunkenly killed another. I think I
would have to check out too.
“I feel the same way,” commented Larkins. “The guilt would
be too heavy to live with. I’m having a hard enough time
dealing with the guilt of killing my spirit with alcohol.”
“It sounds to me like you’re beginning to wake up, Larkins.”
Christian had flown to Phoenix to help her new fiancé,
Randy, pack up his storage unit of tools. Randy had driven his
old truck down from Washington to meet her, but the truck
blew up west of Glendale. So, we picked him up, along with
her dog, and got to Randy’s storage unit before closing time on

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Sunday afternoon. They had now rented a U-Haul truck for
their long journey home. I had spent probably four hours total
with Christian on this quick moving experience. Having never
met Randy before, I told him how very much my sister meant
to me and made him promise to take good care of her. Treat
her like the Divine Mother that she is, honoring and respecting
her at all times. Marriage is serious stuff and I’ll be watching
like a protective brother. After all, she is one of my sisters and
we’ve both been around the block a few times.
During these six months in Tempe, I drove up to the Verde
Valley a few times to visit Sri Ram. We hiked Sedona together
and explored Montezuma’s Castle, Well and ancient Sycamore
tree, as well as Jerome and Fort Verde. I read local newspapers
in hopes of building up some knowledge of potential jobs and
housing. I did find a couple of possible trailer rentals, and Leo
turned me on to an older peyote boy in Old Town Cottonwood
to connect with. His name was Ron Livermore and he had
rental apartments on his property, but nothing available yet.
Ron too had been to India in the early ‘70’s, down the road
from Babaji’s cave at Neem Karoli Baba’s ashram. Ron was
devoted to Sri Ram, whom my son was named after. Ron was
a good connection, who would come into the divine play later.
Now that I had made up my mind up to move to Cottonwood,
I needed to return to Kettle Falls, and sell my trailer. This again
was a big decision, but made so I could be nearer to Sri and
hopefully more into his life as his father. I probably needed
him more than he needed me. His mother Joya had given birth
to a baby boy on Thanksgiving Day, naming him Falcon. So
now Sri had a brother, for which I’m very thankful, but putting
me further on the back burner in my sick head. At this point,
there were no concrete answers to my many questions and
doubts. I just had faith that God would create a path for me
again in Arizona. Vic and boss Rick treated me to a last Thai
supper, before my long drive north, yet again. I didn’t even
look at a map anymore.
“Your name truly suits you, Rideout. And that’s the naked
truth.”
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 “You’ve mentioned that before, Larkins.”
Back at my Kettle Falls trailer, I found a very fortunate
situation for selling it quickly. Nobody could cash me out
presently and real estate sales were in a slump. Things did not
look promising at all until a middle man stepped in for his
returning friend and cashed me out at six thousand dollars.
This friend and his family were approved by the trailer court
powers that be, so I was good to go. I continued to let John
Kimmey live there in his Winnebago, while I packed up
everything again, in another U-Haul trailer. With this move, I
really needed to lighten my load and be selective about what I
really wanted to keep in my changing life. I sorted through all
of Sister Joyce’s old school work and historic family photos of
my deceased parents and grandparents. I had no idea who
some of these people were. Sacrilegiously or maybe not, I
piled up these heirlooms and prayed. Then I set fire to those
memories. I felt like I was destroying a piece of history - my
history - but nobody would really ever care or even know. Are
we really immortal? Or do we face a second funeral, like this,
when photos of us are burned up after we’re already dead. I sat
and cried next to my fire, as the dancing flames erased old
brown tone photos forever. Fire is so intense and final, as we
all know. I know it too well, after seeing my beloved cabin
burn down. I did, however, save the best photos of my family
history, to pass on to Sri at some point. Then I played my
dotara and chanted ancient mantras, much to the delight of
John Kimmey. He told me to always keep chanting.
“I bet you miss chanting here in prison, don’t you?”
“I manage to keep the mantra Om Namaha Shivaya going as
much as possible in my head. I’ll sing when I get out- like a
lark!”
So once more, it was time to say goodbye to Harmon’s, the
Colville area and a few friends. Tony and Barb promised that
they would come visit me. I hope so. They were soon to come
into a large amount of money from an insurance settlement.
Tony had been burned badly, in a negligent propane fire that
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destroyed his shop, Model A and nearly his life. He had been
battling the insurance companies for a couple of years and now
the check was in the mail. So after my move, they moved too.
In fact, they really surprised me. They sold their farm,
liquidated all of the animals, including the dogs and cat, and
renovated a 1954 Chevy truck into a camper. Tony had seen
such a hippie camper at the ‘86 Expo World’s Fair and
recreated his own model. The truck is a masterpiece of ‘60’s
Americana, painted like Pepperland, complete with stained
glass, barn boards, yin and yang sign, Woodstock and white
clouds. They soon traveled the country, like modern day easy
riders, making news headlines in many small town papers.
Their new gypsy lifestyle caught me off guard, as they were
always such concrete homebodies. As I was about to carve out
a new life in Cottonwood, A.Z., they were out searching
America for something smaller than one hundred and twenty
acres. Again, “Seek and ye shall find,” as the Good Book says.
“Now you’re speaking my language,” commented my born-
again Bunkie.

Another phase of life in Arizona begins again….

So, in the spring of 1999, I drove triumphantly back into Old

Town Cottonwood. My trip down was basically uneventful. I
did, however, finally get to see amazing Bryce Canyon in Utah.
It was well worth the price of admission and left one feeling
like they’d driven through an IMAX movie - very grand on a
larger-than-life scale.
This next phase of my ever-changing, ego dominated life is
not easy to talk or write about at all. In fact, it is damn hard
and embarrassing as I must face head on, just how depressed
I’d become with life, God, and attempts to see my estranged
son. So bear with me. It’s now time to face my shame, guilt
and many character defects, as I review those sick years of hard
work and bare existence in the Verde Valley.

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 I fortunately scored an antique red trailer in Old Town, for
three hundred a month at some trailer slums, all utilities
included. However, I could not have a dog, so Ron Livermore
agreed to house Shanti for me temporarily. Ron fell in love
with my dear dog. Everybody does. She’s a charmer, for sure.
This rental was very small and extremely narrow, but at least it
was ground zero for my new base of operations. My
immediate neighbor Ryan overheard the plumbers at his jobsite
say that they were looking to hire a helper. The very next day,
I was hired on the spot. I took this stroke of good luck as a
blessing. I was obviously meant to be here. The spirits had
accepted me and in more ways than one. It didn’t take long
before I found the alcohol spirits and un-Christian fellowship
only two blocks away, at Cactus Kate’s Saloon. As I didn’t
know anybody yet, this seemed like a good place to start. I
would drink there daily after work, trying to ease my loneliness
and fit into my new neighborhood. Then I’d walk home around
the corner and slide drunkenly through my narrow trailer, to
crash in the petite bedroom. Thank God, I don’t have a
roommate.
My new job was a year’s worth of very hard work -
plumbing eighty apartments. I learned everything from
“underground” to “rough-in” and finally, “top-outs.” - All the
politically correct plumbing terms and steps of sequence. I
basically did a lot of back-breaking grunt work, from ditch-
digging to drilling hundreds of holes for gas line through
ceiling joists, with sawdust in my face on a high ladder. And it
was unbearably hot outside; so hot that you feel condensation
on your butt from the water in the toilette bowl. We worked
four ten-hour days, which made for three-day weekends and, of
course, excessive drinking. I tried playing a few retirement
homes, as I’d previously done in Mesa. Sadly, they didn’t pay
as much here. My medicated wheelchair audience often
nodded off to my laid-back torch songs. Don’t Get around
Much Anymore was a song they could all well relate to, and I
considered it one of my faster tunes.

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 After sweating all day at work, I often walked the short trail
through the dry wash to the dirty Verde River. I’d sit under the
bridge to Dead Horse State park, drinking a forty ounce of malt
liquor before my usual dip in the shallow brown water. It
actually became a kind of daily ritual. Sri had given me a
Sedona hiking book, so each weekend I began exploring many
red rock trails and the four cosmic vortexes. Oak Creek
Canyon, Boynton Canyon and Cathedral Rock, all became my
favorites. I was hip to Sedona from before, with Jolene back in
1971. Now I really got to know it! When I’d been living in the
octagon with Joya and young Sri, we’d received newsletters
out of Sedona from two walk-ins named something like
Viviraw and Viviray- extraterrestrials here to help out or kooks
of Sedona? Sedona seems to have this sort of reputation.
Gabriel of Sedona even made 60 Minutes. He claims to be
Michael’s messenger from the Urantua book- Michael being
the real name for Jesus. Far out man! His followers are all
upper class well-off folk who let other devotees raise their kids.
They even have their own band, recording studio and
substance-free dances. Osha, formerly Bhagwan Rajneesh, has
his main camp now in Sedona too. They have a bookstore café
and a meditation center next to Oak Creek Brewery. In short,
Sedona is a trip - mainly in earth tones of red, brown and many
shades of orange, and just a touch of bullshit.
Now that I was residing here, I began having Sri for
visitations. These were actually few and often far between, but
definitely better than once a year. As I worked as a plumber’s
helper, I also checked into possible real estate. I still had a few
thousand left in my savings and hoped I could possibly invest it
into a place of my own. Wrong! The cheapest old trailer I
could find on a single lot of crappy desert land would cost well
over $50,000! This was unreal. I was now reduced to suffering
under some landlord’s whims. After owning my own house
and acreage, renting is a definite drag! I was seeing that
Arizona is expensive. It’s out of my ball park anyway. This
fact just added to my growing depression and fueled my fire to
drink more. I’ll never be able to afford my own place again!
What an alcoholic rationalization to drink.
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 “We can always find a reason to drink, Rideout.”
“Yeah, we’re alcoholics.”
So after roughly a month of living in my small red trailer, a
ratty basement apartment became available at Ron Livermore’s
place. The apartment was basically a dirty wreck, but held some
unique attributes and was larger than the tube trailer. I worked
hard cleaning up other renters’ garbage, cobwebs and mice shit.
Later, I trapped twenty-seven mice and three pack rats. This place
should have been cleaned before allowing a renter in. I was never
reimbursed for the efforts that my tight landlord should have
undertaken. I did have an antique claw foot bathtub for extended
soaks and a great natural neighborhood to explore. Organic veg
gardens and the Verde River flood plain was just a walk away.
Even a stand of huge bamboo graced my morning walks with
Shanti. Shanti already knew this new neighborhood well, from
being here with peyote Ron. It was great to be reunited with her.
Ron was presently serving ten years of probation. He hated
alcohol, so I had to be secretive about my chronic habit. Living in
the modern apartment above me was a recovering alcoholic named
Don. He came from old money of Folgers’s Coffee. His story of
wealth and subsequent loss was right out of AA’s Big Book. As
my mom used to say, alcohol is a great way to numb out. Maybe
for awhile you can numb out your worries and troubles, but the
price tag is enormous.
After putting a lot of time and energy into this cock eyed
rental, Livermore began slowly raising my rent by fifty dollar
per month increments. What’s up with this? He would never
talk to me about his rent increases. He would just leave a note
on my French doors- pay or move out. Don, from above me,
knew I was drinking malt liquor daily and soon Ron did too.
Oh boy, here we go. The rent increased again, making this
humble abode now a waste of my hard earned money. This
may have been Ron’s way of getting me to move out, before
our talk about my obvious drinking problem. Other things
were changing here too. In Livermore’s growing lust for rental
money, more apartments were being added on above my sunny
porch and window. Now, the sunlight was fading fast in this
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dark subterranean cave, and my ears and nerves were pounding
from the constant construction noise and hammering. Then, my
job, as a plumber’s helper on the eighty apartments, came to an
end. What a job! I tried working for another company for three
months but the stress was just too much. This job was nothing
like the last one, the boss had bad body odor, everything was
go, go, go and after awhile it just didn’t feel right anymore. I
also fell drunk on my porch and cracked three ribs- very
painful, especially lifting heavy gas lines. I had never quit a
job in my life, but I quit working for this company. There is
always a first time for everything; what would that decision
create for me now?

My faith and prayers….

I took a trip down to Tucson to consult with Ted and

Melinda, on the possibility of me relocating there. I was a bit
confused about etching out my life in Cottonwood. It was
good to see them again and scope out Tucson. I hadn’t been
here since Jolene and I visited Jan and Mitch, after we drove
home from Dallas in the mid- seventies. Mel’s German
girlfriend helped me to remember that I had solely moved to
Arizona to be near my son. The Verde Valley is where I should
be, not Tucson! So I returned with renewed confidence, to yet
another rental trailer, knowing I would somehow find new
employment and hopefully more quality time with my dearly
beloved son. But I was also scared inside too. I was scared over
many things. Would I ever find my calling in life or just
stumble along aimlessly? I definitely needed more visits with
Sri, to even feel like a father. I continually saw what a
fantastic job Roderick was doing rearing him. However,
hearing Roderick call Sri “Son” really tore at my heart. I felt
like a loser, not a father at all. Major abandonment issues were
my rationalization to drink. I’ve lost too much in my life.
Nobody cares for me. People say they do, but why must I
always live and feel so alone?
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 Ted and Melinda reminded me that I still needed to sponsor
my last peyote meeting. Not again! Haven’t I had enough
meetings? We called Lloyd and arranged for me to meet him
at Wal-Mart on Saturday afternoon, up in Gallup, New Mexico.
A small meeting would be held at Lloyd’s cousin’s place, way
out in Navajo land. The drive alone was so confusing that I
thought I’d never be able to find my way back home. This was
a much different meeting than I was used to in the tipi. Cousin
Deswood had spent all day erecting a corrugated tin shed in my
honor. Many res dogs, similar to Varanasi’s pariah hellions,
dominated the area. I saw how very poor these Navajo were. I
saw too the underlying spiritual conflict that exists between
born-again Christians and the old medicine ways of peyote.
They even mentioned that maybe, someday; I could possibly
help them bridge this gap. Too many Indians had left their old
ways for the Bible. It was confusing them.
Prior to the actual meeting, we sweated for over four hours
on the medicine. I felt like I didn’t even need a meeting now!
However, it was about to begin, very late at night. Less than a
dozen attended this prayer service and many were young Anglo
hippies from Colorado that I’d never met. It’s always amazing
to see who shows up. As usual, Lloyd performed his magic
and we all got a good blessing. Now, I just needed a job to
accompany my new living abode. Before the ceremony ended,
Lloyd told me that I almost got it. Got what… total
enlightenment? Eat more medicine, Rob. The Indians have
been great teachers for me, especially around peyote, but
sometimes I just can’t quite figure out exactly what they mean.
“Hell, I have a hard enough time understanding the Chiefs
around here,” remarked Larkins.
“I know what you mean, but they do add some humor to
prison life, at times, and needed spirituality too.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Well, every Saturday night they sweat out there, in their
little lodge, singing a lot of the same peyote songs I’ve heard
sung in meetings. That’s why I sit next to their fenced off piece
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 of Federal ground, listening. I love it, especially in here.
They’ve actually thought about inviting me in, but know they
can’t.”
“The whites would have you smashed! They think the Chiefs
are praying to fuckin’ hot rocks in there. They don’t understand
any of this, Rideout.”
“I know they don’t. It’s too bad. I really envy what the
Indians have. When they get done sweating, they pool their
food, pray together holding hands in a circle, and then sit down
and share chow in true fellowship. What do we have? Nothing!
Even the Mexicans and blacks have more going for them, than
we do. We Anglos seem like a race of loners.”
“Have you noticed how the Chiefs always shake hands in
passing? Or how the Mexicans hit their knuckles together for
handshakes?” asked Larkins.
“That’s what I’m talking about.”
After breakfast of eggs, toast and strong coffee, I somehow
found the right county road leading back to the interstate, away
from this distant remote Navajo world of love, prayers, res dogs,
cowboy boots and superstition. Few whites ever see the backside
of the reservation, as I did this weekend. It made me flash on
Castaneda visiting Don Juan. I really respect the old ways and
traditions of our Native Americans but feel incredibly sorry for
them as they, along with millions of others, struggle through the
confusion produced by Christian Churchianity brainwashing.
Religions based on fear are just wrong! I personally feel that
Jesus’ promo men have been the single largest dark force in human
history. Believe as we believe or go to Hell. They sure have made
hell a reality here on earth, with all of the wars confirming that
God was on their side. There is no better way, only another way.
All roads ultimately lead to God. Will those kinds of Christians
ever really get it? I once heard in an AA meeting - “Religion is for
those who fear Hell, spirituality is for those who have been to
Hell.”
“There’s a lot of truth in that statement,” commented Larkins.

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 “I couldn’t agree with you more. The most spiritual people I
know have suffered the most, it seems. There is such a great
difference between organized religion and spirituality. With
religion, people seem to be looking for answers to their prayers.
With spirituality, you are living the answer to your prayers.”
Mom, in her Celtic ways, always told me that we create our
own heaven or hell right here on earth. Why worry so much if
such places as Heaven and Hell exist in an afterlife, when we
only have right-here-now today. But most of us worry anyway.
The Indians say that “worry is praying for what you don’t want
to happen.” I choose to follow what Babaji says; “Have faith.
Everything depends on faith.” God is faith.
My faith and prayers landed me a new job again, working for
the grounds department at Sedona’s premier Escapement
Resort. This luxury get-a-way is a four diamond, four-star
resort, where casitas can run as high as seven hundred and fifty
dollars per night. It is located in a sacred secluded canyon,
which houses a Sinaqua cave dating back to 1100 A.D.
Escapement is very beautiful. I now felt like I was working in a
paradise lost. Tony Harmon visited me briefly after I started
this job. We climbed to the top of the vortex across from our
grounds department office door. I told him to look back behind
him.
“That’s where I now work, Tony.”
“I can’t believe what I’m seeing!”
The resort is integrated beautifully into the red rocks and
painted the same color. We then explored Sedona, the
secluded swimming hole on Oak Creek with the Tarzan rope
swing, and Jerome. Tony was blown away by my new
neighborhood and the allure of the ochre color, canyons and
history. I don’t think he was all that impressed with the
smallness of my trailer, however, but he would definitely be
back to share this with Barb.
At work, I had my own John Deere 4x4 gator to escort me
around the seventy acre complex. Each grounds man had his

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own swath of the property to keep weeded, swept, pruned and
looking perfect at all times. Paradise must look beautiful at the
prices these “guests” were paying! Every morning we did our
garbage sweep to remove unsightly cigarette butts and plastic
water bottle debris from this pristine environment. Skunks and
javelina from the peccary family would constantly eat leftover
food trays placed outside casita doorsteps. The housekeeping
department was grounds crews’ ongoing enemy. In their
battery-powered golf carts filled with towels and linen, they
would continually drive over our pristine grass or hit special
red landscape rocks, leaving ugly dark tire marks as evidence.
To top off their ignorance, they would accidentally drive into
huge Mexican ceramic pots containing small trees, breaking a
five hundred dollar decorative item. Housekeeping! Our job
was unending and often thankless. After a few months of
maintaining Area 7, I was trained to be the greens keeper; a
solo position of advanced work to mow and manicure our six-
hole joke of a golf course, as well as a very large croquet and
putting green. Keeping the grass green in arid Arizona was a
challenge. I learned much about irrigation repair and water
valves and adjustments to four differing models of sprinklers.
As we used reclaimed water from our onsite sewer treatment
plant, problems arose daily. Many sprinklers were continually
clogged with dissolved excrement, condoms and red plastic
drinking straws. Somehow, our holy water got contaminated
with industrial degreaser, which soon began turning our grass
yellow before it died off big time. Was this Housekeeping
again or somebody’s vendetta against the resort? Many
claimed the resort was cursed by the Indians or spirits, for
building this moneymaker on sacred grounds. Shit was always
happening here, which kept the poor maintenance department
on their toes too. It took months to remedy our eyesore grass
problem. We finally had to reseed many areas and patch in turf
bought in from an expensive sod farm far away. A javelina
pack of about forty pigs searching for grubs nearly destroyed
the golf course. They would literally roll back the turf in
twenty square-foot-diameter sections nightly. We
experimented with expensive electronic beepers to disturb their
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 nocturnal attacks, but got no results. These peccary can’t see
very well and probably can’t hear very well either, but they can
smell flowers a mile away. They ate roughly two hundred
dollars worth of flowers per night, near the lobby’s arched
entrance. This was an expensive problem now. One of our
Mexican crew cunningly captured a baby javelina and ate it for
dinner with his family. This same Border Brother even caught
a red fox on the tennis court. He chased it into the center mesh
net, where the fox’s nose got stuck. Then, without getting
bitten, he brought El Zorro back to our grounds garage and fed
him food from the employees’ café before releasing him. One
false move could have been rabies treatment. Rattlesnakes
were popular too, on the Mexican diet. They caught them also.
They claimed it made your rod hard. Yeah, that’s a good one.
Who needs Viagra?
To work here, I had to comply with the hair code. So,
cutting my hair very short once again, finally removed the last
of the dark cursed hair dye. No more would I ever cover up my
hard earned eagle feathers. I now looked like a gray haired
probation officer. I personally don’t like short hair, as one side
is always worse looking than the other. However, I always get
compliments on how much younger I look. Go figure. No
visible tattoos were allowed around our elite guests, so I began
wearing the watch that Joya’s mother Pauline gave me for my
fortieth birthday. It covered my Om bracelet tattoo, but was
the first time in over a decade I’d looked at numbers on my
wrist, instead of the eternal symbol for NOW. From years
without a watch, I can judge time quite accurately. Everybody
could learn a lesson here. During this “time,” I played a few
open mic at Sedona’s Oak Creek Brewery. It took a lot of
energy on my part to drive back to Sedona from Cottonwood
again, and then play for free, for maybe fifteen to twenty
minutes; just to get my foot in the door. The drinking crowd of
tourists and fellow local musicians appreciated my renditions
of songs, but I soon got depressed about ever breaking into the
Red Rock music scene. There were just too many musicians
already established here and too few places to play. A local
talent agent told me that Sedona is more difficult to break into
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than L.A. After working hard all day, that gauntlet drive again
for four songs just wasn’t enough incentive. I chose to drink at
home instead. I mentally gave up on professional music.
Nobody wants to hear anything good anyway. They still want
those same dog food songs from decades ago; that shit I never
want to play again. I’d rather just sit at home and play for
friends or wherever an opportunity might arise. Play I must,
and play I will, on some level! Music is my soul and it needs
that expression. Without it, life feels incomplete and empty.
A new player in my life melodrama appeared at work in the
form of ex-Marine opportunist Ross. At first I perceived him
to be a bit slow, as he couldn’t remember where his three
irrigation timer boxes were located after nearly a month of
weekly checking them in my old Area 7. However, Ross was
just getting started. He had been retired for years, giving his
large landscape company back east over to his son. Our British
supervisor Keith claimed that Ross was a leader of men. Oh
boy, we were all soon to find out the validity of that. Ross
proved very good at kissing ass with Escapement’s political
hierarchy and chain of command. He made me wanna puke!
He always said Sir and Ma’am when responding to
commanding voices on his radio. Soon, every department of
the resort knew Ross’s saccharine voice and rising reputation.
He was headed up the success ladder here and nothing meant
more to him; a true blue hyperactive achiever. Soon, he began
to treat me as if I knew nothing, telling other employees not to
listen to me. I often knew much more than he did, having
worked at the resort quite a bit longer, but Ross always had to
be in command. He represented all that I despise in authority
figures - anal retentive alpha dog energy that lives for power…
spiritual energy stuck in the lower three chakras.
“It sounds like Ross really pressed your buttons. Maybe he is
showing you where you are stuck.”
“You have a valid point, Larkins. Whatever we don’t like in
another is always within ourselves, or we wouldn’t even see it.
It’s like looking in a mirror. I obviously have a lot of work to
do in the forgiveness area.”
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 Stay in your area….

When we lost Limey supervisor Keith, Ross worked

overtime and for big bucks trying desperately to land this
coveted salaried position. The winter of 2000 A.D. dropped
eighteen inches of snow in the resort’s canyon. Sedona proper
only got a foot. We plowed roads and shoveled sidewalks for
nearly a week straight. Our new leader of men came out
smelling like a rose, financially. He didn’t do much physical
work, which sent four of us to chiropractors, but he sure
supervised us on how to correctly remove unwanted snow, so
accidents could be avoided. Do they sell bullshit repellant at
the Escapement gift shop? Despite our efforts, thirteen guests
fell on ice and had to be treated medically. Ross karmically
lost out on the supervisor position, to a professional workaholic
with a college degree, named Don Smith. Ross’s ego and
feathers were definitely ruffled. How could Escapement do
this to him? Hadn’t they witnessed what a team player he’d
been? Obviously not, as Don’s Tucson resort experience and
degrees won over. Don quickly put our grounds department
through many unexpected changes. Gone were the extended
breaks, unnecessary trips back to the shop for needed tools, or
coming in seven minutes early at the day’s end. He ruled us
now with an iron gardening glove. This job was no longer fun.
Also, a semi-lazy Mexican lifer named Arturo became my
immediate advisor in Don’s new work efficiency strategy.
Arturo would continually call me on the radio asking, “Yes,
Rob, what your location? What you doing?” Jesus, the whole
resort was hearing this! Do they think I’m lazy? I knew he’d
be over immediately, to see that I stayed in my area and didn’t
help others, who were swamped in their unending weed control.
Ross and Arturo had me demoted from greens keeper of the
golf course to monarch of the smallest kingdom at Escapement.
This was truly a thankless job, to say the least, and everybody
was easily replaceable here. I felt I was just an employee

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number without a face. I felt exactly like the illegal Mexicans
working in housekeeping.
“That sounds crappy, but that’s what politics are like on big
jobs with lots of employee turnover.”
“Yeah, I know. There were some funny times that
compensated for some of it, however.”
Escapement had one bit of comic relief in the form of a gay
Indian employee. Tourist postcards used to exist of this
famous orator and story teller. He’d march around the sacred
canyon with his band of tourists, dressed fit to kill. His
wardrobe was a mosaic of fur, blankets, scarves, feathers and
beads, which often had us laughing our guts out. He was
rumored to be designing a fashion line out of the Far East.
This was obviously for those fresh out of the closet. His voice
was loud. It echoed through the red rocks, as he educated his
disciples to the facts of life here a thousand years ago. Oh so
spiritual, and he made the big bucks here- not men, but money!
But after a decade, he too was fired for failing to follow the
rules. Many guests cancelled their reservations upon finding
out that their favorite Indian was put out to pasture. Such was
Escapement, a circus in the fast wealthy lane of a sacred
canyon.
A couple of winged creatures deserve mention too. Ravens
mate for life and often live up to fifty years. They are
considered to be the smartest of birds and actually sacred to
many Indian tribes in the Northwest and Alaska. Their I.Q. is
up there with wolves, coyotes and dogs. We had a couple at
Escapement. I’d even see them chase hawks away, high up in
the sky, from their domain of our canyon. I came to look upon
our ravens as mascots and I often got quite close to them. They
hung out a lot on the golf course, looking for grubs in the
greens. This was an indication of trouble to come down the
line, as the javelina would be the next to arrive. Later, I only
noticed one raven, the one who had a damaged wing. I found
one of his feathers, which I put on my favorite cowboy hat in
memory. Poor raven; he too knew the pain of losing a mate.
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 The real feathered character was Roger the roadrunner. He’d
stand next to me as I used the loud whipping weed eater,
probably hoping to find some bugs I’d stir up. It was touching
to see a roadrunner up so close. I’d only seen them before
zooming across roads in New Mexico. They are the State Bird
there. Anyway, our Roger found his way over to the employee
café. Eddie, my Navajo Mexican neighbor, gave an onion ring
to our feathery friend. That’s the last we saw of Roger for
weeks. I don’t think the greasy treat agreed with him at all. It
might have looked cute, however, as a deep fried collar on his
neck.
The tourist market was expanded by creating a six million
dollar health spa called The Journey - a world class destination
point. This new spa was a separate entity from Escapement
proper, across the flash flood wash, and had its own pools,
massage rooms and exotic menu. A three-day package stay ran
about $2,000. And the journey here was very New Age and
not cheap. A shot of wheatgrass juice cost five dollars! I used
to grow wheatgrass back in 1976, and that shot price alone
could cover me for well over a year’s worth of the green
rejuvilac. For about $150, you could have special smooth
stones heated and placed on various body spots. One innocent
female technician, upon opening the door, encountered an
elderly guest masturbating on the clean sheets of a therapy
table.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. It must have blown her
away!” exclaimed Larkins.
“It certainly shocked her into the realty of her journey here.”
Another wealthy guest dropped her thirty thousand dollar
diamond ring down the water pipe, flooding the quartz shine on
petrified wood in the crystal grotto meditation nook. This
blooper took over eight hours of digging up the earthen floor,
to cut plumbing pipes in search of the prize. Finally, Rotor
Rooter came to the rescue and extracted the lost symbol of
undying love. Other guests actually tried to drive their
expensive cars up sidewalks, designed only for our gators and
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golf carts. We did have job security here, thanks to many rich,
sometimes drunk, ignorant guests.
Soon, Ross and bossy Don conspired to separate me from the
herd. I was transferred to work alone at The Journey, my new
special area. I had enjoyed the main resort area, as I met many
tourists from all over the country and world. Now I was bored
beyond belief, picking up single leaves with a damp finger for
something to do. I had this spa area spotless. One day Arturo
complained that my sweat smelled of King Cobra malt liquor.
This was not good! Everybody here knew I drank daily after
work. Many mornings I arrived at work reeking from a
previous night’s drinking. We kept a wildlife list of animals
spotted on the property in our grounds office. One day, I
noticed that one of the Mexicans had written that I had spotted
a “Cobra Cink at Circo K” - I got the point. My drinking
wasn’t funny anymore. Sadly, I really didn’t care either.
When you’re going down, you’re going down. I still hadn’t
really reached my bottom yet.
“How deep is your hell, Rob?”
“Deep.”
To back up briefly from some of these tales, I attended the
wedding of Sister Christian to Randy in August of 2000. She
insisted that I perform musically at the large Lummi Island
gathering. She billed me as coming from Sedona. Well, in
truth I just worked there, but it sounded exotic to Washington
ears. Her wedding took the cake. Carpenter brother Dan put
me up in his new short box school bus. He, too, now had a
fiancée, the reverend Iris Clearwater, who had formally rented
our octagon in Sumas. While renting, Iris had forgone coffee,
choosing instead for her morning rush, to utilize the Tarzan
rope swing. Christian’s friend and a fellow musician Ted
drove me to the spectacular wedding day on Lummi Island’s
west side. Jan had driven over the Cascades from Spokane to
attend this sacred day, too. I kicked off the musical
extravaganza and was followed by Ted and then the steel drum
band from Seattle, The Toucans. A Capela female group
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 brought down the house and Ted’s satirical songs about
humans, being essentially rabbits, had everybody laughing.
He’s got that right. After dinner, a jazz band set the mood.
Christian’s father, historian Keith, was soon to cross over his
present incarnation, but he lived long enough to take his
daughter’s hand to the altar. As these newlyweds said their “I
do’s,” facing the Pacific Ocean between two huge lone seaside
pine trees, the sun set and rainbow fragment sundogs appeared
cosmically in the twilight sky. Perfect timing, Christian! I
promised not to drink at her wedding, but alcoholic promises
are seldom kept. The feast had copious amounts of fresh
salmon, in keeping with the Pacific Northwest tradition, and
artichoke hearts, salads, good wine and about everything else
one’s stomach could desire. This wedding was like out of a
Hollywood movie. Two old acquaintances, Christopher and
Holly from Everson, even had a brick-fired oven pizza truck
here. This was quite the reunion of new and old friends.
Randy resembled Richard Gere, with his Shirley Temple Black
bride. It seemed like a marriage made in heaven but they too
would have their tests. Every marriage does.
After the wedding, I went sailing again with Dan and Kirk.
This was basically a repeat performance, of the same exact
islands and Doe Bay hot tubs on Orcas Island, which Sri and I
had previously done with these salty dogs. Dan and I got very
loose and Kirk, in his sobriety, took on the responsibility of
feeding us all at a beach campfire. The kayakers kept their
distance. Again, we had a hard time pulling Kirk away from
the nude hippie girls at the hot tubs. Kirk is always our slow
turtle friend.
“There’s that Doe Bay again. I’m definitely going there
when I get out.”
“Well, knowing you, you’ll probably get drunk behind the
wheel again and end up back here, never getting to see Doe
Bay.”
“You don’t have to bust my chops, Rideout. I plan to stay
sober when I get out.”
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 “They all say that. But unless you change your ways, really
change, you’ll be back, Larkins. Don’t you get anything out of
our substance abuse classes, besides not wanting to attend
them?”
When we finally set sail for home with a storm brewing in
the sky, it was totally black outside, with the waves rising fast.
Dan hadn’t read the Bellingham Herald’s schedule of Indian
fishing days. When we entered Bellingham Bay, it was like
floating into a mine field. There was about fifty gill nets
stretched unseen below the ocean’s surface. We got snared
immediately and had to radio the Coast Guard for advice.
They sent a helicopter and a fast powered ship to our
rescue…like immediately! Before the bright searchlight
displayed Dan’s pot pipe on the bow, he quickly kicked the
paraphernalia over the side to a cold grave in Davey Jones’
locker. This smart move literally saved Dan’s sailboat.
Paranoia strikes deep, even at sea. We then had to use a
butcher knife, from last night’s dinner, to cut the fishing net off
the lodged propeller. The old native fisherman was very pissed
off, demanding Dan’s phone number and address. He
definitely wanted reimbursement for this accident. Using a 12
Volt light to detect hidden nets, it took us a couple of hours to
traverse this trapped bay. Arriving back to the marina around 2
a.m., I swore to myself that my sailing days were over. I’m
definitely a land lover, especially the woods, streams and
mountains. Sadly, Dan and I wouldn’t be in touch with each
other for a few years to come. This hurt, as we had shared so
many heavy life experiences together. Dan was there the day
our cabin burned down. He helped us build the beautiful log-
sided twin octagon, and saw Sri sit up his first time on peyote.
He also gave me his cabin to live in, when Joya had me
removed from our house. He aided me in so many ways I’ve
failed to mention during my divorce and Dad’s death.
However, you can’t kill love, because love won’t die. Dan and
I did reunite through letters. Love can also be expressed
through a pen.

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 In our employee smoking area, I met Scottie, a Scottish
blooded alcoholic sex-fiend engineer. He invited me to his
birthday bash and provided a tent, so I wouldn’t be tempted to
drive home under the influence. That was smart. However, this
Scottie only had sex on his Celtic mind and lips. His
perversion was a joke between employees at Escapement. But
he could be fun at times. During the Salsa festival in Old Town,
I ran into Mr. Sex and we had a ball drinking together at Cactus
Kate’s saloon. The following week, we did Jerome’s two
drinking holes together, with Scottie trying to hustle girls for us.
His skills weren’t up to par that day. I let him drive us home in
my truck, but as he only lived six blocks away, I said I could
drive myself home safely alone from there. Wrong!!! I missed
my driveway, and then backed up into the neighbor’s car
across the street. I only bumped a fender lightly, causing no
damage, but instead of confronting me directly, the fat
neighbor lady called the cops. Of course, I was oblivious to
this. I was sitting on my porch in my underpants still drinking
when the police arrived. I guiltily denied driving but they
knew better and took me off to Yavapai County jail, outside of
Camp Verde. I bonded out the next day but was now worried
sick. My good God, this was DUI number five! When I
appeared for court a month later, I was told that my case had
been dismissed. You’ve got to be kidding me! Thank God. Did
my fat neighbor change her mind? Could this really be true? I
just don’t know. Something really reeks of fish here.

She was like a….

Just prior to this fifth DUI, I was telling my Old Town

alcoholic friend Rick that it would be nice to meet a woman
who plays music. His near-pickled brain remembered a former
girlfriend who he thought fit this criterion. Her name was
Mariah, who, as well as being a guitar player and blues singer,
was a sculptor and painter too. She wasn’t home when we
went to visit her at a tiny apartment/art studio which was,
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ironically, only four blocks away from my trailer. So, I walked
back later and introduced myself to a rather large, paranoid-
looking woman. We agreed, on the spot, to hear each other’s
musical skills, trading off songs together for a few hours.
Mariah was Scottish, with a semi Paul McCartney face. She
was big in the heart and tongue. Mariah had been raped at a
young age by a black gang and definitely had her share of
anger issues. This, I would experience first hand. She was a
bit like an unpredictable stick of dynamite, which could
explode at any time. When angry, she also reminded me more
of my mother than any woman I’d ever met. We were a match
made in hell, a fatal attraction; each was an accomplished
professional at pushing the other’s most sensitive buttons. But
again, she was a very gifted musician and artist with incredible
talent. Why such gifted people are always semi crazy, if not
full blown crazy, I’ll never know. Her art sold quite well in
Arizona and Hawaii. She was a semi Krishna devotee and a
borderline follower of the local cult. We often argued about
Shiva’s qualities versus Krishna’s, among other things. How
stupid is that? About the only things we did agree upon were
good movies and food, and the dysfunctional songs of
singer/songwriter Tom Waits. She borrowed nearly every tape
I had, especially all of Turkantom’s holy chants, to make
copies for herself. Soon our dating was turning into a lot of
negative verbal warfare and repeat insanity from my
dysfunctional childhood and marriages. We never should have
met each other, but we did. In some weird way, it was meant to
be. Oh, how the lessons come to me. It wasn’t all bad,
however, like when she turned me on to the wetland marsh
behind Tuzigoot Indian ruins and a private swimming oasis at
Spring Creek near Cornville. Here we would walk old Shanti,
to exercise her arthritis, and swim with snapping turtles and
crayfish. And, of course, I’d drink my daily maintenance malt
liquor. Her German aerial photographer friend Hans heard me
sing at her studio and gave me a gift of free fly time over
Escapement Resort. Hans was the Verde Valley’s Ernest
Hemingway and had flown over eighty countries in his same
small Cessna, with his camera. His fabulous book of photos
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 and text was currently being translated from German into
English. Our Sedona flight was fantastic and I was amazed at
how very many dirt roads actually existed between
Cottonwood and Sedona. A person could get lost out there!
Tony and Barb were presently wintering in Phoenix, with
Tony’s brother Greg Harmon. All three drove up for a visit
and to celebrate Tony and Barb’s twelfth wedding anniversary.
We all went to Escapement for a tour, complete with
champagne, weed and lots of beer. Classify these as good
times. Mariah and I played songs beneath the ancient Sinaqua
cave, while pink Jeep tours applauded this unforeseen
entertainment. We did sound good together, as hard as it was to
be together.
Later, Mariah and I showed our guests some beautiful art
galleries at Hillside in Sedona, and then we all went out
dancing at Cactus Kate’s. We dressed up from my hippie
wardrobe, which brought the house down. The band, who
played only ‘60’s and ‘70’s classic gold, wondered where we
got such costumes. Barb really did justice to my vintage ‘67
Magical Mystery Tour Indian shirt. This night was more fun
than Halloween.
However, 2002 started off with a fight between Mariah and
me and then some heavy unexpected bad news coming in the
mail. When you receive registered certified mail, it is usually
not good news. My recently dismissed DUI had been reopened
again by the state, and this revelation scared me shitless. I
searched for a good lawyer immediately. One lawyer in
Sedona wanted five thousand up front, promising to get me off!
Oh, that’s a good one. His office was plush beyond belief.
Finally, I settled on David of Cottonwood, for fifteen hundred
dollars. He was a strange nervous man. But somehow …God,
good luck and mistakes miraculously made this DUI my first in
Arizona, costing me another fine and twenty-four hours in jail.
When DMV got hold of my record, I lost my driver’s license
for three years. Soon, under immense guilt, shame and stress, I
contracted Bell’s palsy. This affliction is like a face stroke. My
left eye would not blink or shut and my left lip hung lower.
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Half of my face felt frozen. This is not good. I continually bit
my tongue and found eating to be a real hassle. I had to tape
my eye shut at night and wear an eye patch during the day.
Talk about looking avant-garde. Driving, illegally now,
became even harder with no depth perception. Fixing
underground sprinklers at work was near impossible.
As if sent from above, Divine assistance came in the form of
Dr. Robert, a Sedona acupuncturist. His Dutch wife worked at
The Journey’s spa and she introduced me to her healing hubby.
Dr. Robert’s fine thin needles produced the desired results in
my sagging face and mental attitude, after only two sessions,
costing about one hundred and sixty dollars total. Chalk that up
onto my alcohol tab. Who ever said drinking was cheap? By
this advanced stage of my disease or drinking career, I’d lost
thousands of dollars. The worst was yet to come.
Soon the continual fighting between Mariah and me
necessitated a breakup. “I usually don’t date guys who mow
lawns,” she told me.
“Yeah, well… I detest a fat woman, Mariah, who has a
hypodermic needle tattooed on her breast. How gross is that?” I
countered back.
We knew how to cut each other to the bone. This on again,
off again relationship had been another trip to hell, where I
seemed to live most of the time anyway. Hell is definitely in
the mind, where we perceive illusions as real. Before we
finally called it quits, Mariah awoke me one night saying, “I
found you a cat!”
“Great, that’s all I need right now.”
She’d found this young kitten screaming in the parking lot
of Circle K. I agreed to keep this young flame point white
Siamese with striking blue eyes overnight, then decide his
outcome. His name was obvious upon laying eyes on him. He
was Mr. Blanco. He kissed me on the lips that first night in
bed, as if to say, “I’ll be the very best cat you’ve ever known
and thanks for the new home.” Blanco became just that. He’d

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 already won over my heart by the following morning and was
quite the gentleman concerning his cat box. Early on, I
realized that this was no ordinary cat, but a very pure spirit in
cat’s pajamas. Shanti, at first, seemed upset and jealous that
he’d entered our scene. After losing her fur friend Angela,
she’d gotten quite used to living alone with me. Soon however,
they became the very best of friends, even kissing each other
on the nose and napping together. Melinda and a much older
Rio surprised me with a visit at this time. Ted was selling
time-shares at Los Abrigatos in Sedona that weekend, so
Melinda decided to catch up on old times. It was a joy to see
my friend again, but I’ve never seen her since that day. I
remember her saying that I was her very best friend in the
whole world. Some friends enter our lives to stay only a short
while. Others, always, somehow stay in touch.
Mariah and I finally called it quits. Thank God. Extinguish
your torches and go back to camp. Fatal encounters can drive
one crazy, as if we weren’t already. She accused me of being
very narcissistic and basically a hedonist- living only for
myself and the bottle. There was a lot of truth in her
statements. That “damn beat” musician lifestyle and hippie
dream had seduced me over the decades to do what felt good,
without thinking of the consequences. As previously stated, I
had a hard time dealing with her looks, bi-polar schizoid
personality and especially her explosive anger at everybody
and everything. She was embarrassing to be around in public.
We definitely brought out the very worst in each other, always
hitting below the belt. She even had the gall to read my private
journal and write sick cruel words in it, as a surprise for me
later.
“That’s just wrong!”
“That was Mariah.”
She drew a beautiful portrait of me at the Kumbha Mela,
from a photo my French friend had taken, only to destroy it in
anger. Unbelievably, this scene repeated two more times! I
was amazed that she could even reproduce such art perfectly
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again, let alone shred her own creations. She was Kali Ma
reincarnated- Shiva’s wife’s most demonic side- destruction.
She even penned a song about us that had a cleaver hook, “I
love the Shiva in you and you love the Kali in me.”

Before I awoke back up to my….

One Sunday night, I biked down to Riverfront Park for an

open-air concert series. Danny Rhodes and the Messengers
were playing and I had my forty ounce of King Cobra in my
daypack. Seated on the ground, right in front of me, was a
beautiful mother with her three-year-old toddler. She had the
longest, most beautiful legs I’d ever seen, and an aura to match.
I was stunned. I asked if I could join her. That’s how I met
Lyn and son Tyler. When I mentioned that I had played music
professionally for nearly three decades, she asked if I still
played now. She wanted to hear me play and said, “I’m a good
listener,” giving me her phone number. Thank you, Jesus! I
peddled home with my heart lifting and mind pounding. I had
to know more about this mystery mother. I would, all in due
time.
Tony and Barb invited me up to their new property in
Colville, for a house warming party. I used a week of my paid
vacation time to accept their invitation and away I flew. After
selling their one hundred and twenty acre farm, they’d traveled
the country for a year in their hippie Chevy camper, searching
for where to put down new roots. Ironically, they found home
to be twenty wooded acres right back in familiar Colville.
Their new gabled mansion was beautiful and two year-round
streams graced their property. Christian also attended this
gathering, finally reuniting with the Harmon’s again. We kept
a bonfire burning for three days, as we drank beer, played
music and shared stories, games and great food. I told
everybody about my new Siamese cat and potential love
interest in Lyn. Harmon’s were sad to hear that Mariah didn’t
pan out, as they really liked her. They only saw her best side. I
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 was overjoyed to be seventeen hundred miles away from her
dark presence. However, an attempted intervention occurred
between me, Christian and Tony before I left. After extreme
drinking, I still wanted more beer. My dearest friends on earth
were trying their best to wake me up. Don’t tell me to stop
drinking! Hell, you don’t know what my life has been like.
Little did I understand then that drinking was making my life
the way it was: worse. I was really in a dark space at this time,
as my life was spiraling downward. I’d get that beer when I got
back to Arizona and never let anybody ever interfere with my
drinking again! Drinking is all I know how to do now.
A fellow Escapement friend, redheaded Banquet Patty, drove
me back to Cottonwood from Sky Harbor Airport. Now I
depended on rides, as I couldn’t drive legally anymore. My
neighbor, Mexican Navajo gang banger Eddie, had taken care
of the fur kids for me, but accidentally turned on the heavy
ceiling fan, causing it to tumble to the floor. I had to inform
my finicky landlord Ken, to keep my damage deposit safe. He
could be very intimidating over his rentals, as I’d find out later,
big time.
I’d also met another alcoholic lady who had packed llamas in
Washington. While driving six blocks illegally to visit her, I
didn’t stop fully at a stop sign. From out of nowhere came a
State Trooper. I was sweating profusely, as he ran my driver’s
license. It was already over one hundred degrees outside and
hotter than that inside my fearful brain. He was only going to
give me a verbal warning, before he got his radio reply that I
was driving illegally. Off to jail again, until I could bond out
the following day. How many jails have I been in now? This
time, I had the added costs of tow and impound charges. I
would now lose my once suspended but now revoked license
for yet another year, totaling four. Mariah and I were talking
again but keeping our boundaries. She asked me to pick her up
at Sky Harbor when she returned home from a disastrous
Hawaiian business trip. Doesn’t she realize that I’ll have to
drive illegally? She’d returned home two weeks early, at night,
demanding that I come immediately to fetch her. This was not
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good timing for me, as I had to perform my twenty-four hours
in jail the following morning. To top it off, her flight was
seven hours late, so I was up all night at the boring airport,
before she ranted and raved the whole way home. Some things
never change. I got back to Camp Verde just in time to book
myself into the county jail. I was totally exhausted from lack
of sleep and Mariah’s nagging anger over how people treated
her in Hawaii. I slept most of my “easy time” away that day.
That night, I saw Easy Rider on TV. I was out the following
morning. There is no feeling like walking out of a jail, early
Sunday morning, with the sun coming up. Once more, Mariah
and I decided not to see or call each other. Maybe I could
finally emotionally rest for awhile. I called Lyn to see about a
date, but found our work schedules very conflicting, regarding
getting together anytime soon. We had some great phone
conversations, however, and she definitely wanted to see me.
This was a ray of hope. I explained my shamed driving status,
caused by irresponsible drinking and she totally understood.
How could anybody really understand? Everything about Lyn
was hitting a deep nerve in a good way. We finally set up a
time and day in October, when she’d pick me up for our long
awaited date. However, unforeseen circumstances would soon
postpone our close encounter.
“God certainly makes you wait, doesn’t He?”
“It seems that way, Larkins. Sometimes, things are worth
waiting for.”
During this time period, I wasn’t having very many
visitations with Sri Ram. His young life was getting much
busier with school, homework, friends, sports, church meetings
and a functional family life. He was also learning to play the
saxophone. The few times that we did get together- to go
bowling, play video arcade, hike Sedona and always go out to
eat- were often months apart. I took him in July on the Verde
Valley Railway, as a belated birthday present; nearly three
months late. I also remember him learning to use his new
roller blades at Riverfront Park. He was getting his balance
again, just like when he learned to ride a bike. Each visit
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 seemed like a dream that lasted just a few hours, before I
awoke back up to my empty life of mundane work at
Escapement and daily drinking after work. On these visitations,
I drove illegally, never telling Joya, Roderick or Sri my true
status. How could I tell them? I was very careful, but also very
guilt ridden and paranoid. I began to feel like I was really
losing my son. I knew he could never even begin to know or
understand the pain in my heart over my loneliness and sense
of loss, as well as the immense shame of being a single
alcoholic father, secretly lying, secretly dying. Maybe someday
he will be mature enough to understand all of this. Maybe
someday he will. I pray to God that I’ll never lose his love.
After taking him home, I’d drive slowly back to my small
trailer, smoking cigarettes along the way and wondering how
my life ever got this crazy. On some deep level, I just wanted
to die. I was sick of being me and tired of life. I couldn’t make
correct choices anymore. My life seemed so pathetic and
meaningless to me. The guilt of a wasted life was killing me. I
definitely need your help now God, Christ and Gurus.
“Wow Rideout, you really did get down. I can feel your pain.
That sucks that you didn’t get to see your kid much, after
moving down there and all.”
“I had much to learn about loneliness, Larkins.”
Back at work, I was bored beyond belief, grooming the small
parcel of land around the spa. Now I carpooled with
domineering Ross, using my Toyota truck to haul us daily to
our job site. Of course, Ross was the designated driver. The
less illegal driving I did, the better were my odds. Actor Mel
Gibson and his wife stayed at the spa, but all I saw was his
flowered shirt and a pair of Levi’s through the casita window.
Mariah Carey stayed at Escapement too, back in Area 7 when I
patrolled that turf. Somehow, the National Enquirer got hold
of this news and claimed she was at a fat farm in Sedona. The
resort had a fit! We all had to sign confidentiality forms,
protecting these private, beautiful VIPs. If we ever disclosed
their presence to anyone, on or off property, we would be
terminated immediately. I never did see Ms. Carey, as black
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plastic covered her casita windows. Escapement Resort
probably had about as many stories to tell, as the red rock walls
of the historic canyon.
While grooming The Journey one early morning, I entered
the spa to find it completely empty. Where were all the
beautiful people and assorted homely staff members? I found
everyone in the small library, glued to the large screen TV. As
I watched, I saw the second airplane hit the twin towers in
Manhattan. This day, September 11, 2001, would be etched in
everybody’s psyche forever. Many resort guests were from
New York and, in a state of shock, began phoning home
immediately. This act of terrorism had dramatic effects on
Escapement’s business in the months to come. It had dramatic
effects on everybody, everywhere. Isn’t it a pity?
Then one night, while I was drinking King Cobra as usual,
the phones rang and guess who? Mariah! I had told her to
never call me again, but as I was about to hang up, she said,
“Stony is in town. Let’s have a vodka party.” This Stony was
her ex-boyfriend from L.A. I had heard much about him and
his skills on guitar and the bottle. They arrived on my doorstep
immediately. Sadly, I liked this crazy Stony of Iraqi heritage
from the get go. He resembled a sleazy longhaired Nicholas
Cage. He also loved his weird clothes and vodka. He was a
real lovable loser, much further down the path of last stage
alcoholism than me. We were making music on my two guitars
within five minutes, while Mariah quickly unpacked all of his
worldly possessions onto my porch area. Stony was now here
to stay, like it or not, for a little while anyway. A few days
after his arrival, he and Mariah took a walk, leaving me alone
and semi drunk. Stony conned me into buying him vodka daily,
as he’d go into DT’s without it. Sadly, he was telling the truth.
I found where he had stashed his beloved medicine and began
hitting it. Hell, I’d paid for it, after all. I had rarely drunk
distilled spirits since my days in New Mexico, sticking solely
to malt liquor for my daily maintenance program. Tonight,
however, shit would happen.

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 “A lot of real alcoholics I know only drink vodka. Personally,
I can’t stand it,” commented Larkins.
“I never should have touched it.”
I fell down my two porch steps, desperately trying not to
squash Mr. Blanco. I had now broken my ankle very seriously.
I crawled to the phone and called Mariah’s studio. Luckily,
she and Stony had just walked in, hearing my painful voice
pleading on her message machine. Accidents can bring out the
best in people. They ran back to find me in excruciating pain,
with my left ankle facing the wrong direction. Strapped into
my chaise lounge, I was transported to the hospital in the back
of my truck. There I was treated poorly at first, as I hadn’t
arrived to the ER in an expensive ambulance. As I only lived
about one mile away, this emergency ride had thankfully saved
me hundreds of dollars. The following morning, I was
operated on, hearing classical music as I went under. Nothing
was ever said about my drunken condition- absolutely nothing.
Thank God I had medical insurance through my job. Now, I
would be laid up for the next ninety days. That’s a long time.
And this severe break really hurts! And again, alcohol had
caused it all. This was seriously another nail in my cross of
guilt and shame. I was given Demerol intravenously to keep
the pain down and I have a very high pain threshold. Now I
had a total of twenty-six screws, all in the left side of my aging
body. Seven new ones and a plate had just been added to my
ankle. Surprisingly, at 4 a.m., the night nurse informed me that
I had a visitor. Do they actually allow visitations at this hour?
Who, besides Mariah and Stony, would even know I was here?
Jim Mess, half drunk, entered with a beer in his daypack-for
me. I refused the beer. My good God, how could he even
think I’d want one? This was the alcoholic mind in action.
Hadn’t alcohol caused enough pain this week already, not to
mention bad choices, like letting Stony live with me? Jim also
offered to take me to breakfast in the hospital cafeteria, but I
declined for room service instead. In his drunken delusions,
poor Jim didn’t quite realize that I was yet unable to even
consider getting out of bed, much less have a casual breakfast
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 together as if nothing had really happened. Denial sure isn’t
that river in Egypt. Then I got a phone call. Now, who would
be calling me here? It was lovely Lyn. She’d come by to pick
me up for our first date as planned. Loose Stony had told her
all about my fall from grace. We’d play phone tag a bit longer
while I healed and get together later down the road. At least,
she’d proven that she was still there and very interested in me.
Her phone call really meant a lot to me. Lyn came through like
a ray of hope. Divine Mother plays a good game, in her
myriad forms.

More lonely days mixed with craziness…

After this accident, I now began my unexpected ninety day

vacation of living off the food bank and time-loss benefits.
The first month, I was required to elevate my aching ankle
above my heart twenty-four/seven. All I could realistically do
was watch TV and read. I’m glad I spent the money for cable.
It was well worth it now. I soon acquired bedsores on my ass
from lying down so much. Crazy Stony had gone back to L.A.,
thank God. This poor dude was trouble wherever he went. I
was medicated with 7.5 strength hydracodone for pain and, of
course, my daily intake of Cobra. The pills had a side effect of
an internal nerve itch, impossible to scratch. It was similar to
overdosing on Fijian grog. This condition really made sleep
difficult. Every day became like the movie Groundhog Day-
exactly the same. I had to crawl on my knees through my tube
trailer. Even standing for a short while to prepare food was
extremely painful. My ankle just pounded with pain. Taking a
bath, in my four-foot tub, was a real ordeal, as I couldn’t get
my healing ankle wet. The skin, where the bone had popped
through, was blackish purple, and my doctor talked of a
possible skin graft. Mariah and I were now talking again, as
she felt guilty, I think, for her Stony being an indirect cause of
this accident. I wanted to blame him also, but knew too well
that it was all really my own fault. I’d created this karma. The
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 pain pills constipated me. On a trip to Flagstaff with Mariah, I
bought figs and prunes to get my clogged bowels moving again.
A clean colon is so essential to good health, and not just
physical health; but mental and spiritual health. Few people
really realize this truth. Who wants to be full of shit? I finally
resorted to an enema bag.
On crutches in my three hundred dollar Velcro boot, Mariah
would take me grocery shopping. The amazing 99¢ Store
saved a lot of money. However, when shopping one Sunday,
she exploded again in Basha’s checkout line. She loudly
threatened to leave me there stranded, with my five bags of
groceries. The grocery clerks all looked on dumbfounded. This
was so embarrassing. Everybody in the store was hearing this.
I was about to call my neighbor Eddie for a ride, when she
abruptly returned, screaming at me to get in her trashed out
purple Volvo station wagon. She then drove us in circles
around town, screaming, ranting and yelling at the top of her
lungs. She wanted to see me cry and suffer, for all the
emotional pain I’d inflicted on her.
“I thought you mentioned that you’d both made your amends
and apologies, during Stony’s stay,” reflected Larkins.
“It sure seemed like it to me.”
Apparently we had not, to her satisfaction anyway. It was
shocking seeing her rage so out of control. This psycho was out
for revenge. She repeatedly stated that she wanted to see me
grovel. Again, I felt like I was in Stephen King’s book, Misery.
I’d seen her anger many times before, of course, but this was
total psychotic insanity today. I somehow think she was
venting her rage at Stony too, for breaking up with her some
years ago. She had deeply loved him and probably still did.
When she finally dropped me off, which I totally thought
would never happen the neighbor girls helped me get my
groceries into my trailer. That was the final “last straw” with
loud Mariah. We’ve never spoken again since that bad karma
day. At this point, I’d been sober for nearly three weeks, even

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declining a couple of wild parties next door. Now, I chose this
stress to rationalize relapse once again.
“Your choices are clearly alcoholic ones,” commented
Larkins.
“You’d drink too, after what I’d just been through,” I
responded, knowing well that Larkins was totally right.
I discovered that I could actually ride my bike in the Velcro
boot, so off I went to Circle K. And once again, that first sip
fired up the pattern of daily drinking. In a very sick way,
drinking did help me to endure this coma. I’d listen to my
favorite music, reminiscing and crying in my beer, or should I
say malt liquor? The only visitors I had were the neighbors,
Banquet Patty and a grounds crew stoner, named Roger. He
would stop by the neighbors after work, to buy and smoke
mass pot, and then come over and check in on me.
“Hey man, are you sure you don’t wanna get stoned?” would
be the first words out of his mouth. “Let me tell you what
happened to Ramon at work today. You’ll love this!”
“Go ahead, Roger. I’m all ears and I’m going nowhere fast.”
His short visitations always meant a lot to me, as they kept
me posted on all that was and wasn’t happening at work. This
was truly one of the loneliest phases of my entire life; endless
days of sheer boredom. I had a lot of time to reflect on
everything and I sure didn’t like what I saw. I didn’t see Sri at
all during this time. I would call Lyn to stay in touch and
slowly learn more about her over the phone. Banquet Patty had
scored me a second phone from work, so now I had one in my
bedroom too. It used to really irk me when I’d crawl as fast as
my knees would permit, down the hall, only to answer the
phone and discover that was the last ring. Didn’t people know
I was crippled, in more ways than one?
With my internationally traveled rucksack, I would bike to
the community food bank for weekly free staples to
supplement my reduced income. I had a freezer full of good
bread and cupboards lined with white rice, canned veggies,
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 macaroni and peanut butter. The frig was full of many fresh
vegetables nearly gone bad. Thank God, I could get around on
my bike. While I was peddling down Main Street for a food
stamp interview, a one-eyed driver, wearing an eye patch,
accidentally hit me. He couldn’t see me. I wonder why? He
paid to have my bike repaired, but I had to sign a waiver on
any medical. I seemed physically unharmed, beside some
bruises and the hell scared out of me. Then the pain set in later
and I had to visit my Portuguese chiropractor friend three times
for vertebra adjustments. Drivers just don’t see bikers. Later, I
was nearly hit three more times, on the busy streets of
Cottonwood. Hey, watch where you’re going!
This time alone gave me ample opportunity to reflect on
other alcohol related accidents. I had previously broken or
bruised my ribs numerous times. I had nearly broken this same
ankle before and had small facial scars from falling down
drunk many times, most of which I don’t remember. I even
smashed my glasses into my face trying to ride my bike drunk.
I got up again, trying to find my balance, only to fall again, just
missing an oncoming car. My body mirrored my drinking
karma. Mine was the face of a fighter, in a losing battle with
the bottle.
“You were nuts trying to ride a bike drunk, Rideout.”
“I was nuts, plum out of my mind.”
Soon, sex-crazed Scottie became homeless and tried living
next door with my partying neighbors. Being basically a
sponge, he was soon asking me for monetary loans. And I, the
gullible sucker, helped him out. I even put up the title of my
truck to bond him out of jail. When my questionable neighbors
kicked in Scottie’s ribs, he awoke me at 2 a.m., crying and
needing a place to stay. He was already wearing my winter ski
parka, so he might as well sleep on the floor now. Borrowing
my truck to visit his new sexfriend, number 1502, he arrived
home four hours tardy and drunk. How dare he drive my truck
drunk! When I confronted him, he began ripping out the spark
plug wires. He’d just tuned up the truck this morning. Here
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was a semi male version of Mariah- extreme mental illness. He
had to go. How and why do I attract these people into my life?
And how are they a mirror of me? Why are they my teachers? I
guess they are mirroring just how very sick and disgusting I
really was, at this stage of my life.
“I don’t know what to say about your life, Rideout. You
really are attracting some very strange people, in my
estimation.”
“I hear you, Larkins.”
As my bouts with depression continued, I wondered where
I’d gone so wrong in my life. I think I knew the answer. Here I
was in my fifties, working manual labor, low paying jobs. I
had a total of five years of college under my belt and nothing to
show for it. I knew so much intellectually, but had not applied
my knowledge to better myself. My self-centered delusions of
a free life had given me decades of false joy, through the sound
of music, drugs and alcohol. I was a real loser, in my own
mind, still in heavy denial and very afraid, as my karmic clock
kept ticking steadily forward. How or why does one keep on
living? One day at a time, as AA affirms, without letting the
past and guilt ruin my NOW. I’d hated my living arrangements
for years. I’d eaten off a cardboard box in Sedro Woolley,
lived in a tent and an expensive yurt, rented small rooms in
others’ houses with weird roommates and was finally reduced
to this 1957 tube of a trailer, surrounded by crack houses and
Mexican drug dealers. How my aching heart longed for a
cabin back in the woods again! That, above all else, was my
goal when I dropped out of college in 1970 and went looking to
homestead in Canada. I’d found my place in the woods on
Sumas Mountain, only to lose it to accidental fire and later,
permanently, through divorce. How many times would I be
forced to start over? Is life like the Monopoly game, where the
shake of the dice makes you go back and start all over? In my
confusion, it sure felt like it to me. Then those truthful words
of the Christian prophesiers came back to haunt me, “if you
want to know God, He’ll take everything from you.” The only
profession I’d ever really loved or felt any passion for, was
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 making music. But now that I’d excluded myself from that
scene, I was reduced to unskilled labor jobs to pay bills, child
support and rising food costs. I was just barely getting by
financially, and could see no way I’d ever realistically be able
to afford my own place again. That thought is super depressing!
Landlords would rule my world now, like medieval kings over
serfs. My present landlord was very alpha parental, treating me
as a child. I’ve always had a problem with authority figures
and the damning teachings of Christianity. Maybe that’s why I
played music- to live in a beautiful song for a little while,
where everything flows in the groove. In that groove, I could
beat the pain out of my life on my drums. Boy, I felt stuck and
trapped in my present situation, and this painful broken ankle
just mirrored my stinking thinking. Did Kris Kristofferson
write, Why me, Lord? for me?
My cable TV was a blessing now. Previously, I had hardly
watched much TV at all, as I either went to bed early for work
or was preoccupied drinking. Now, I had the daily schedule
down pat. I’d watch sexual dating fluff like Blind Date and
rock documentaries on washed-up musicians, like myself,
Where are they now? But my greatest TV joy was a twenty-
four hour marathon of Leave It to Beaver and The Beverly
Hillbillies. I had grown up with both of these staple sitcoms in
the radical ‘60’s, and they remain at the top of my personal
comedy list.
“Wow, I actually like both of those shows myself. Do you
remember all the stuff we used to watch when we were kids?”
questioned Larkins.
“Oh yeah, I remember. There were some good ones and a
hell of a lot of westerns.”
In my childhood, television was just getting off the ground.
Only one family in our neighborhood even had a television set.
But that would change quickly. My first memory of seeing TV
was, The Mickey Mouse Club and Howdy Dowdy. Soon, we
would all have these small visual talking boxes - oh yeah! My
baby boomer generation and our parents would huddle around
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this new visual joy to savor such westerns as, Bonanza, The
Rebel, Maverick, Have Gun, Will Travel, The Rifleman, Wyatt
Earp, Bat Masterson, Cheyenne, Wagon Train, The Real
McCoy’s, Gunsmoke, Stagecoach West, Rawhide, Zorro, and
The Virginian. No wonder our heroes were always cowboys!
My early musical influences came from The Lawrence Welk
Show, Sing Along With Mitch, Hootenanny, and, of course, The
Ed Sullivan Show. After the Beatles rocked our world on Ed’s
show, we saw popular bands on Shindig and Hullabaloo.
Functional happy families were portrayed on Ozzie and Harriet,
Donna Reed, My Three Sons, Father Knows Best, and again,
The Beaver. Oh, to have a family that didn’t drink, scream and
ignore their children! Family fun, education and new humor
were reflected in Walt Disney’s Wonderful World of Color, Car
54 Where are you?, Dobby Gillis, The Flintstones, Gilligan’s
Island, Candid Camera, Flipper, My Favorite Martian, Mr. Ed,
Topper and 77 Sunset Strip, when crew cuts, Brillcream’s a
little dab’l do yaw and combs ruled America’s youth. Oh,
those were the days! Crime was much more seen in movies
and sitcoms, instead of on the six o’clock evening news. Our
scary shows were Outer Limits, Alcoa Presents - One Step
Beyond, Alfred Hitchcock Hour and, later, Night Gallery - a
predecessor to Twilight Zone and X Files.
At the movies, Lord Walt Disney ruled. The Mount Baker
Theater in Bellingham was the babysitter for most of my
classmates and me each weekend during our adolescence.
Double features, two movies- not one, were only twenty-five
cents and this included the RKO newsreel. Shirley Temple
blew me away. I still think she has to be one of the greatest
child actors of all time. How could this four-year-old sing,
dance and act the way she does, let alone remember her lines?
Talk about cute; she was the original charmer. Kind of like
Huck Finn of Tom Sawyer and Eddie Haskell of Leave it to
Beaver being the original bad boys. One movie hit me deeply
as a child, and I finally purchased it decades later, when the
first video catalogues arrived in my mailbox. It’s the 1935
classic of Rudyard Kipling’s Jungle Book, starring actor Sabu
as Mogli, the jungle boy raised by wolves. Little did I know
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 then that this film would be the seed for my India and Babaji
path? I was very drawn to India and all of its charms and
mysteries because of this classic movie. I learned later that
Herikhan Babaji, in his 1970 incarnation, looked exactly like
the East Indian actor Sabu. Or maybe it is the other way
around. Babaji can play hide and seek really well too. Om
Namah Shivaya.
I was still actively calling Lyn between all of this TV
watching and, rest assured, our first real date would finally be
materializing. It’s about time.

When I dream….

On November 29, 2001, my favorite Beatle and spiritual

brother, George Harrison, died of cancer. I had absolutely no
knowledge that he was so ill, and was shocked beyond belief
when I saw a tribute to him on early morning TV. My God,
John Lennon is gone and now George! This was a tragedy,
especially to me. I had just missed meeting him by one day in
India. That would have been a dream comes true, as when I
met old Willie. But it wasn’t meant to be. Then, the much
needed emotional breakdown occurred and I cried from my
depths, just as I had when Sister Joyce passed on. I loved
George Harrison as if I personally knew him. This, of all days,
was the day that Lyn would finally be picking me up for our
first date together. She wanted to show me her newly acquired
Cornville property and home. It had been months now since
we first laid eyes on each other, but she looked exactly as I
remembered her, when she knocked on my trailer door. I had
tears in my eyes as we stared at each other. Arriving at her cute
little house, she served up smoked salmon with cream cheese
on bagels, as we drank champagne together. My first song
sung to her was George Harrison’s, Isn’t It a Pity?, in memory
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of our recently departed musical brother. We had a magical
time together, despite the tragedy, and I was much impressed
by her young son, Tyler. I also admired the way she kept her
house so neat and tidy, not to mention her charismatic
personality and sense of humor. Did she clean the house up just
because I was coming or is she always like this? When we
held each other tightly, Lyn said, “Look how we fit together.”
“Wow that sounds promising, Rideout.”
“I thought so too.”

This could be taken on many levels. Soon, I was getting

pretty drunk around Lyn. And after every date, I was falling
helplessly more in love with her. Was this more of the ego’s
illusion or real? It’s hard to tell when you’re drinking. She
pointed out that she didn’t fit my previous female mold, having
seen pictures of both ex- wives. She wondered what I saw in
her. I told her. I saw everything I’d ever really admired in her
and the loving big heart that she has. Losing Sri so early, I
longed to help her raise Tyler. He needed a father figure, I
thought. With my active alcohol addiction, I wasn’t making
much of a positive impression. Lyn understood alcoholism,
however, and was very patient with me. Even if we never
became lovers, she expressed that she loves me eternally,
forever. Maybe that’s better than sex. It sure lasts a lot longer.
“She came and saw you here, right?”
“Yeah, she did, and it really made an impression on me.”
During that fall of 2001, I would ride my bike through
Riverfront Park, where I’d have a beer and smoke awhile. I did
this daily for exercise, fresh air and to escape the Groundhog
Day trailer. There I met another old hippie and his skinny,
paralyzed, wheelchair bound girlfriend. His name was David
Lee Bond, and her name was Kathy. Dave had a beater guitar,
which a local Mexican was using to sing Spanish songs on, as
we sat on the grass. I asked if I could play a couple of songs
too. “Go for it,” answered Dave. I played Harrison’s Pity and
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 Willie’s Angel Flying Too close to the Ground. Dave and
Kathy greatly enjoyed it, so we agreed to get together again
sometime. I didn’t see them again until the spring of 2002,
slowly walking together, hand in hand, down Main Street. I
was invited over to a fish fry, along with alcoholic plumber
Larry, from my early Cactus Kate’s days. Dave explained that
he had a three-day jury trial coming up soon. He had fallen off
of a roof at a store in Old Town years ago, and this accident
could land him finally a very big insurance settlement. He’d
been through the wheelchair, crutches and cane like myself, but
still suffered constant pain from many intense surgeries on his
heels. He needed his pain pills.
Then, in June of 2002, the unexpected happened. With alpha
Ross driving us home from work one Friday afternoon, he said,
“We need to stop at Shop Rite in Sedona…now.”
“What’s up?” I asked.
“The beer deal of the century, Rob!” he answered back.
We purchased eighteen cases of Red Dog, for only five
dollars per case of 24 bottles, filling my truck. This was
practically free- an alcoholic’s dream comes true! While I was
enjoying a cold one on my porch, still basking in unbelief,
Dave suddenly arrived. He was visibly much shaken up. His
hands were trembling hard and he obviously needed a beer,
smoke and to talk. After his three days in court, he explained,
he had won over a third of a million dollars in a unanimous
jury decision. He arrived home all excited to tell his stroke-
ridden girlfriend Kathy, only to look in the window and find
her being screwed by his nefarious friend Mike, who’d just
been released from Yavapai County jail hours before.
“That’s really messed up man!” shouted Larkins. “I bet Dave
hates women after that scene.”
“It deeply affected him, and Mike too, to say the least. But
you’re right. Dave later joked about starting a Woman Hater’s
Club.”

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 “It isn’t rocket science to deduct where he was coming
from.”
Dave asked, “Can I spend the night?”
“Of course you can, Brother… have another beer too. You
definitely need it.”
Dave never went home again. He ended up spending the
next ten months on the floor of my petite living room, with his
little nest of garbage in the corner. It consisted of receipts,
plastic wrappers and med-scripts. Dave immediately borrowed
bus fare off me, to send crippled Kathy back to her father and
out of his life. Sadly, Dave’s homeless street friends took over
his house, like ferrets at Toad Hall, which would cost him big-
time later. And we became very good friends. After being so
lonely for so long, I now had a spiritual brother again of some
sorts and constant companionship. Dave seemed like a missing
link in my life’s puzzle. He was. However, at this point, I
should have heeded the old saying, “Beware of wolves in
sheep’s clothing.” My alcoholic thinking only saw another
lovable loser, like myself. He needed help and I could help
him. And I needed help too, and Dave provided that on many
levels. He was a charmer, with his cool laid back ways and
hippie wisdom. He had definitely been around the block many
times as his life stories began to unravel. Dave’s plumber
friend Larry was moving to Colorado, to do seasonal work
through the summer and fall. Larry badly needed a place to
store his Winnebago, which he bought off Dave. I agreed to
put the beast in my back yard, so Dave could get off the floor
and have his own larger space. However, I did not tell my
landlord. We pulled off this illegal move for a month. Then
the landlord did a drive by and called me, very irritated. He
gave us one month’s grace to move it. We ended up parking it
next door, across the cyclone fence, at a house remodel site.
Soon, this new situation had Dave’s homeless friends spending
nights in Larry’s rig. It wasn’t on my property now. During
Dave’s first three months with me, not too many people knew
where he was staying. Things were pretty peaceful on our
porch with a lot of Shanti, or peace, as they say in India. We’d
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 listen to music, drink beer in the lawn chairs, watch the animals
play, and tell our life stories over and over again. We also
watched customers visit the crack house in our alley or various
nefarious activities next door at the neighbors. Then the word
got out about “Dave’s new place”- not mine, but his, Dave’s.
Soon the real losers of Cottonwood were appearing like flies on
shit. This was very stressful for me. I’d work hard daily at my
thankless job to help support Dave, then return home to find
cigarette butts and beer cans littering my yard. There was a
constant wet area of piss near the corner of my tin storage shed.
It was all I could do to get lazy Dave to water the grass and
roses, about a twenty-minute chore.
“I would have thrown that moocher out pronto, man!”
“Believe me; I thought about it a lot. I didn’t have the
strength. Alcohol was robbing me of all my good judgment.”
“God, you’ve got that right, Rideout.”
Dave was, however, a great cook having cooked as a
Merchant Marine and on offshore drilling rigs. He performed
culinary magic in my little kitchen. Once we talked about
which of us would die first. He plainly told me that when he
died, he wanted his ashes returned to the sea. I promised I
would do that for him, if I was still around, as I had with my
parents’ ashes and Joya’s dad. Sadly, this would never come to
pass. Dave had also been a mechanical engineer making
measurements to within a millionth of an inch. He claimed that
his name, along with a few others, is even on the moon for all
eternity, as part of NASA’s cosmic garbage he helped create.
Dave was sadly dying from metal filings in his smoked-out
lungs, along with chronic asthmatic breathing difficulties.
When I was at work, he’d called 9-1-1 three different times to
be taken to the ER. His life revolved around just breathing,
pain medication and the big question; when would his large
insurance settlement arrive? Even with the promise of big
money coming, Dave only longed to own a VW Karmen Ghia
again, as a chick magnet, and a few new Hawaiian shirts. His
nickname used to be Hawaiian Dave. This housemate was on
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the phone daily, calling his lawyer in Prescott for further
information. Days became weeks and weeks became months,
but always with the admonition to be patient as these
settlements take time. Everybody at work thought I was totally
crazy to support Dave. I was, but it happened. All by my
saying yes, when he landed on my porch. A decision made
with eighteen cases of beer influencing me. Dave promised that
when he received his fortune, we would be traveling together
to Amsterdam- to celebrate with legal highs and hookers. So I
gave him more money for his needed birth certificate for a
passport. We listened daily to Dutch band Pussycat singing
their beautiful song, Amsterdam, as we daydreamed with our
beers of canals and tulips, hash and women. With one third
million dollars coming and alcohol pumping through our veins,
our visualizations were pretty grandiose.
To support Dave and myself, I now had to dip into my
savings account. This was the very last of my savings from the
divorce house sale. Over time, I had spent five thousand on
Dave. He continually reassured me that I would be paid back
in full, and made sole beneficiary in his will. “I’ll make you a
fucking prince,” were his exact words. Sadly, it would never
come to pass… not even close.
“This Dave had a good con going, Dude. Couldn’t you see
that?”
“Love is blind, Larkins.”
Back at Escapement, I was given Area 7 again, the smallest
parcel to maintain. I literally could not find a weed, leaf or
blade of grass out of place. Even paying guests commented
that my area looked absolutely perfect. So, I would help others
clean up their areas out of sheer boredom, only to be
reprimanded by Ross or supervisor Don, to stay in my area!
The politics, constant radio calls and oppressive chain of
command at Escapement were making this job a real drag. Gee,
it used to be so fun. Then, I was commanded to maintain the
golf course, as well as Area 7. Our yearly pay raise amounted

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 to an additional $.16 per hour - what a sick joke! My work just
tripled.
Sri finally came for a couple of sleepovers.
“Did he have any idea of what was going on with you and
Dave?”
“I think he had his suspicions. He told me to tell Dave not to
drink around him.”
Little did he know how much Dave and I did drink when we
weren’t around him. Shame on me; but I was numb to shame at
this point. We saw Harry Potter’s movie in Sedona and ate
breakfast once at the hospital’s cafeteria. That was strange, but
I always wondered what it was like to eat there, after Jim
Mess’s invitation to eat there, as I lay in bed with a broken
ankle. That brought back memories. Again, the guilt would eat
away at me, as I drove Sri around Yavapai County illegally. I
was totally living a lie. Sri was always such a joy to be with,
but our time always seemed too short, for me. More and more,
I didn’t feel like a father at all. I felt like Sri was slipping away
in front of my eyes. This realization was quite upsetting.
Roderick raises Sri daily, while I watch him grow up thorough
pictures, phone conversations and occasional visits. Dave and
I drove to Sri’s high school once, to see him play sax in his
jazz concert. I nearly cried hearing his first solo, which
brought the house down. “That’s my son!” I wanted to shout,
as Roderick videotaped him on stage. I’m sure he felt the same
way. This constant depression of feeling as if I was losing my
son, when I really wasn’t, became another rationalization and
self-deception to drink more. My sick, deluded mind
continually affirmed that nobody cares for me. I sure didn’t
care much for myself, that’s obvious, so obvious. I had no
control of my mind. Where and when would this cycle end and
would I ever come to grips with my alcoholism and
abandonment issues? Sometimes the answers come in ways
unimaginable.
“Don’t get all cosmic on me, again.”

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 “Why shouldn’t I?”
Dave and I did peyote together a couple of times. We sat up
all night on the porch listening to George Harrison and peyote
songs, crying and praying. That night, I realized just how
much Lyn meant to me. I was falling in love again, I felt, but
wondered if she felt the same. We have a sixteen-year age
difference, which means nothing to either of us. She confessed
that her preferred model of man was the biker type. Lyn
gravitates towards Harley Davidson’s and has been attending
biker rallies at Laughlin, AZ for years. In short, she is a
“wanna-be” biker mama with a heart of gold. She would lead
me on sexually, then state that it’s probably better that we don’t
consummate our love, as it could ruin our present great
relationship.
“She sounds like a prick tease to me,” stated Larkins dryly.
“Nothing is ever what it seems.”
We shared a few great dates, back where we’d met in
Riverfront Park. We’d take pizza and beer and let Tyler play
on the jungle gym. I’d play her new songs on guitar. She asked
me to learn Gordon Lightfoot’s Beautiful. That song is
precisely how I felt about her. I also learned Willie’s version
of When I Dream, which became her favorite song. Lyn seems
to feel the depth of my soul more than most I’ve met. She has
given me compliments that have floored me. We are both still
totally open to what God might have in store for us, or what we
might have in store for ourselves.

Don’t mess with the medicine….

Jerry Jeff Walker came to Sedona’s cultural Park the summer

of 2002. The last time I’d seen him was in the mid ‘70’s; he’d
been so drunk that he could barely play. I bought Lyn and me
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tickets and off we went to hear Mr. Bojangles. I also brought a
bottle of Ten High whiskey.
“Oh no, not again Rob!” exclaimed Larkins.
“You’re sounding like my mom now.”
I figured whiskey went well with Jerry Jeff’s music. Hell, he
plays country music like I like it. When I had to pee, Lyn got me
to the public restrooms. When I emerged, I couldn’t see her or
find our spot on the large amphitheater lawn. However, she found
me. I was trying to climb up on stage to finally meet ol’ Jerry Jeff.
I really wanted to hear him sing my favorite song, Stony. Luckily,
the laid-back Sedona security staff didn’t throw me out. What a
reversal of roles. Now I was in the same shape as Jerry Jeff was
thirty years ago. He did finally play my song, dead letter perfect.
When we got home, I was so drunk that Lyn and Dave covered me
up on the neighbor’s cement carport to sleep off my Ten High.
“That sounds like a cold place to sleep, asshole.”
“I was out cold anyway, Larkins.”
When I awoke the following morning, I discovered that brother
Dave had stolen my peyote. He rationalized that he was praying
for Lyn and me at the concert. Oh yeah, Dave. I told him how
serious I took this crime to be. Soon, he was bitten by a mongrel
dog near his groin walking home, stung by a bee and scratched by
Mr. Blanco- all in the same day! Don’t mess with the medicine, as
it will come back on you. Dave was also stealing my pain meds.
That bastard! I was now seeing that he had a very addictive
personality, much worse than mine. But I was too deep into my
disease to throw him out. I needed his company. I don’t want to be
lonely anymore! I anxiously awaited his financial settlement, to get
my money back on this karmic investment.
“You actually thought Dave would pay you back?”
“Well yeah, at this point I did. Dave was well aware of just
how much I’d helped him and I did trust his word. Only later, I
would begin to wonder about his sincerity.”

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 Dave really wanted to see Gordon Lightfoot perform that
summer in Sedona. What the hell. I bought the tickets for him,
Lyn and myself. This proved to be an incredible concert, with
Lightfoot performing about ten nautical songs in a row. Dave
was in oceanic bliss, but I was very stressed out. I had chosen
to give Lyn my beaded Indian bracelet, as a token of my
devotion. Dave had warned me not to do this. “That bracelet
should be yours… only,” he cautioned. With her very narrow
wrists, the beautiful ornament soon fell off, to be lost amongst
thousands of adoring fans. I got very upset and headed straight
for the beer garden. I needed a drink badly. Here, I listened
distantly to the remainder of the concert and drank beer with
John, the Forest Service representative at Escapement. Dave
and Lyn were out frantically searching for my dear beaded
treasure. When they returned empty handed to escort me to
Lyn’s car, we saw a lone card table set up by the exit stairs.
There, in the center of this small table, sat my bracelet!
Obviously, people in Sedona are either very honest or
cosmically aware of karma’s laws, probably from the influence
of the four vortexes. This was a modern day miracle for me.
Also at this concert, I left not in a blackout drunk; a minor
miracle.
The insanity of Dave’s motley crew grew daily on my home
front during the fall months of 2002. Pipestone Charlie, Tony
Baloney, Dale and Shawnee, half coyote Persimmon, and a
couple of homeless families with small kids and mongrels dogs
were showing up continually. Also a drunken Navajo convict,
who worked at carnivals, often secretly slept on the porch or in
the back of my truck. My life resembled a B comedy movie,
the kind that is so cheap and crappy that they are actually fun
to watch late at night. My garbage can was overflowing with
beer cans and forty ounce bottles, way before the scheduled
pickup day. I was progressively getting angrier about this
scenario but holding it in, as I returned home from work
exhausted each day. If my landlord had any idea of what was
going on here, he would have had a fit or possibly a heart
attack. Artist Jim Mess was totally out of his mind sometimes,
throwing onion potato chips on Dave’s long hair, and then
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 dousing it with beer. We even had to water Jim off with the
garden hose, to make him realize his insanity. Then, he would
sit on his truck’s tailgate, out in the street, swearing at me from
a distance. Then unexpectedly, Jim’s mother died, leaving him
a small fortune. Now, Jim paid for Shanti to have special
arthritis shots up in Jerome. This was his caring, good side. He
wanted to see our special friend make it one more year, if
possible. On the way home from his mother’s funeral in the
Carolinas, Jim purchased a farm house and property in
Arkansas. He soon packed up all nine cats, the old orange
Mercedes van he brought back from Europe, and his massive
collection of stereo equipment from Goodwill. He moved away
without ever saying any goodbyes. Even if inspired by alcohol,
many of our times had seemed like holy encounters. I dearly
loved and respected Jim. Then to lose his friendship, with no
goodbye, just plain hurt. I even gave him my beaded Be Here
Now bracelet, made by our mutual friend who’d served time in
a Spanish penitentiary with Jim back in the early ‘70’s. More
often than not, your drinking friends aren’t your true friends.
Oh brother, where art thou? I hope farm life agrees with Jim,
or he is probably dead from alcoholism. He always claimed
that Cottonwood, or Rottonwood as he called it, had made him
an alcoholic. Sadly, geographic moves seldom cure alcoholism.
“You got that right, totally. Alcohol will follow an alcoholic
anywhere on this planet.”
“I know. Look at all the times I moved. It certainly followed
me.”
One Saturday morning, I worked at Escapement to make up
hours for a rained out weekday. At about 7 a.m., who should
be standing alone in my Area 7, eyeing the canyon’s red cliffs
for his very first time? It was jazz singer and world icon Tony
Bennett, who left his heart in San Francisco long ago. Tony is
definitely an American legend, having sung for many
presidents and royalty around the world. He’d, ironically,
never seen Sedona before and mentioned that he was a painter.
I already knew this. So, I took Tony Bennett in my 4x4 gator
up to the top of the property, where he could paint to his dear
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heart’s content, overlooking the resort from a bird’s eye view
picnic table. When we returned to his casita to fetch his art
supplies, he said, “Just a minute Rob. I have to go pee pee
first.” Even modern day gods have a human side. Tony had
never heard of a vortex, which he called “votex,” so I
explained Sedona’s phenomenon, before giving him a vortex
brochure I carried for emergencies in my truck’s glove
compartment. Pass it on; I can always get another in uptown
Sedona. Bennett began painting Capitol Butte. I mentioned
that psychics here claim it to be the center of the lost continent
of Leumaria. He’d never heard of Lemuria, but had heard of
sister continent, Atlantis. So, he titled his large painting,
“Capitol of Leumaria.” Who knows, maybe someday I’ll see it
in a published book of Tony Bennett’s art. It wouldn’t surprise
me. Sitting together in the morning sun, we talked of music
and his upcoming Sedona concert that night. I confessed of my
musical life and we hit if off beautifully. I was in the same
fraternity as him; we spoke the same language. When I said
my goodbyes, he thanked me sincerely for helping him out.
No way would I even consider an autograph, but I did say,
“Tony, you have one of the greatest voices I’ve ever heard, and
when I get home today, I’m listening to your best hits
cassette.” He lowered his head, with his cap on backwards,
and said in a very low and humble way, “Oh God, Rob, thanks
a lot.” Meeting Tony Bennett was right up there with meeting
Willie Nelson, only much longer and deeper. However, the
consequences would be life altering for me.
“I’ve never met anybody famous,” complained Larkins.
“Well, most famous folk are just like us. We’re the ones who
put them up on pedestals.”
On Monday morning, I excitedly told supervisor Don of my
close encounter with Mr. Bennett. He looked very uptight this
morning, not good, and said, “Listen to this.” On the phone
machine was a message from the weekend manager on duty,
stating that a gray-haired grounds keeper had told a guest about
Tony’s presence on property; a major screw up. I had thought
these guests were cool, but they shot their mouth off just like
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 me. The cat was out of the bag. I’d broken the sacred vow of
confidentiality and was terminated within two working hours.
As well as losing my job of nearly two years, I’d now lost my
retirement plan, health insurance and a lot of good take home
food from our employee café. This daily buffet had a huge
salad bar and excellent chow. It really helped cut down my
food bill, as I often brought dinner home for Dave and me in
Styrofoam containers.
So, this Monday in October 2002, I drove home illegally
without Ross. I needed to tell Dave the bad news and get
seriously drunk. I’ve never been fired from a job in my life.
This definitely added more shame to my already depressed ego.
Upon pulling up in the driveway, I found a new homeless
couple from Colorado seated on my porch. Wouldn’t you
know it! How do these people find me? Is nothing sacred
anymore?! I was really getting sick of being called “brother”
by “brothers” who were abusing my space and decreasing my
pocketbook. I sure don’t need more people right now.
Ironically, this couple turned out to be quite charming. Later
that day, when I was numb and still in financial shock about
my future of supporting Dave and myself, Ross did stop by.
He’d left something in my truck. As he departed he said,
“Robert, stop drinking and stop talking;” how true and how
hard. Sometimes the truth really hurts! My whole story is a
testament to exactly that.
“I can’t believe they actually fired you.”
“It was my own fault. My loose mouth caused it all. I didn’t
play by the rules. It was a great lesson for me.”
I began my job search immediately, as I’d receive no
unemployment benefits for being fired. I found work quickly,
with a landscape maintenance company out of Cornville called
Green Care. In many ways I welcomed this change. This new
job was in different areas of Yavapai County, landscaping
residential homes and commercial businesses. The new daily
variety was not boring, as Escapement had become. And there
was no radio on my belt now. I saw many multi-million dollar
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estates in Sedona and Village of Oak Creek, as well as mucho
cigarette butts, weeds and lost spare change at Sonic Drive-In,
Walgreen’s and Best Western Motel. On my first working day,
I was shaking like a leaf when I signed my tax information
papers. Later that morning, my new boss Matt asked if I had a
drinking problem. “No,” I replied, “I just drank a lot of coffee
and am a bit nervous about starting a new job.” Well, I fooled
them, I thought, for at least a little while. We alcoholics sure
look through a glass darkly, always steeped deeply in denial.
Inside, I was realizing just how much my alcoholism was
beginning to show. My life was pitiful. I was living lies.
Lyn only lived about a mile away from Green Care, and I got
off work at 1 p.m. on Fridays, her day off. So now, we were
seeing much more of each other on a weekly basis, instead of
once every other month. It always felt so good to hang out at
her place, drinking and singing songs in the sun, as we watched
Tyler play in the yard. I needed this occasional distance from
my own crazy home front. Then Larry, the Chicago drunk
plumber, called to say he’d be returning soon from Colorado.
Dave did not like this news at all! In fact, he was very upset
and easily agitated just at the thought of Larry returning. He
owed Larry money too, and foresaw the dynamics of our living
situation changing dramatically. Dave was right. Larry initially
said he’d only stay a week, until he could find a place for his
mobile living unit. Sadly, this was not to be. He rigged up his
heavy duty extension cord to my outside power source and
spliced into our cable TV from his parking lot next door. Soon
my power bill was sky high. And getting ol’ Larry to cough up
his share of the bills was like pulling teeth. “Don’t bust my
chops” was his favorite saying. He always had money for
whiskey, beer and smokes, but never for his debts. Here came
more of that “brother, brother” bullshit. After having helped
Scottie, Dave, crazy L.A. Stony and Larry, not to even mention
all the street people of Cottonwood and the drunken Navajo
carnie, I felt like the biggest sucker in the world, or at least the
Verde Valley. Of course, they all told me that I had the biggest
heart of anybody they knew, but my head was in the wrong
place. Boy, they got that right! However, on some level I felt
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 that I was helping those who have far less than me. Misery
truly does love company and I had plenty of company. When
Sri would come for a sleepover, I had to warn them all to stay
away far in advance. I sure didn’t want my kid to know how
incredibly crazy my place had become. Whatever you try to
hide will eventually show.
I really did try to limit my illegal driving. I would peddle my
bike weekly to the Laundromat on Main, next to Suzie Q’s. My
world traveled Millet rucksack came in handy once again for
this chore. I’d put the laundry in wash and then pound a forty
ounce malt liquor while smoking cigarettes, behind the laundry
matt, as it dried. Shanti and Mr. Blanco were always there to
greet me when I pedaled into the driveway. And, or course,
Dave and now Larry’s ongoing outside party.
Green Care gave all employees a free Thanksgiving turkey.
They also bought us lots of free beer on the Fridays when we
cleaned up the company work trucks - “Truck Appreciation
Day.” What a company. It was fun to drink with the crew and
bosses for some sort of needed bonding. Alcohol can be good
for that. I even seem to speak and understand Spanish better
half drunk. Sadly, I really tied one on visiting Lyn before this
Thanksgiving. She drove me home in her car, thank God. I had
to humbly return the next day for my turkey and truck, like a
dog with his tail between his legs. I thought it was over, but she
somehow forgave me. How could she? I was driving illegally
again to work, but always obeying the speed limits and
watching my mirrors carefully for cops. Oh, how I hate driving
like this; always driving in fear. Dave cooked up our turkey
royally and sleazy Larry stole all of the leftovers for his
Winnebago fridge. Then, out of the blue, crazy Stony returned
from L.A.
“Oh God no, not again!” exclaimed Larkins.
“Yep, here we go again.”
In a blackout drunk, Stony had his sister Tanya drive him out
to Cottonwood from L.A., to start a new life near his estranged
teenaged daughters, who could have cared less, I’m sure. He
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arrived again with no money or a place to live. Sound familiar?
Mariah wouldn’t have him more than a day or two. I battled
with getting this crazed loser out of my space too. He called
his enabling sister four times long distance to take him back to
California, only to return again - four times! Can you believe
that? This alcoholic dude needed to be hospitalized, seriously.
And now married sister Tanya began having a crush on Dave,
which only complicated matters. Soon my telephone was
ringing constantly, with calls for Dave and Tanya or an angry
wife looking for Tony Baloney. As previously stated, I’ve
hated telephones since my childhood, when phones rang
continuously for my dear doctor dad. I only used a phone for
communication with Sri, Lyn and work, and now this ringing
bell was becoming a major annoyance. Again, all thanks to
Dave, my disease and my lack of discipline and clear
boundaries. Then on Christmas day, drunken Larry fell through
my louvered glass door window, causing a tremendous heat
loss in winter. He didn’t replace the broken panels for over a
month, now really increasing the natural gas bill. Oh Brother!
“That Larry sounds worse than Dave, in my opinion
anyway.”
“We all had our problems, ricocheting off each other. Larry
was no dumb shit either. But I’d really gotten to know Dave
quite well from living with him, and now this relationship
triangle was getting outright strange. ”
“Well, you’ve got three alcoholics living and drinking
together. What did you expect?”
The cosmic side of Mr. Blanco needs further mention. One
night, crazy Stony and I went for a late night beer at the
Chaparral Bar, about four blocks away. Stony said that, while
walking home in yet another alcoholic blackout, I began crying
loudly about my life. I have no memory of any of this, but I
sure don’t doubt it. Then, I sat on a street curb stubbornly, he
said. He tried to get me moving again, so the cops wouldn’t
bother us. Suddenly, and from seemingly out of nowhere, Mr.
Blanco appeared, leading us home. He’d never been this far
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 away from his enclosed yard. Shanti and Blanco had
undoubtedly heard me crying. Shanti must have sent him on a
recovery mission, as she couldn’t get over of the wire fence in
her old age. I knew Blanco was no ordinary cat, but this blew
my mind. However, the big mind blower was right around the
corner, waiting to change my life like never before.

Even alcohol wouldn’t numb this….

Stony returned in January, 2003, after spending some time in

county jail. In court, he had met a foxy young dysfunctional
girl, who was having a party in Centerville. He said she was a
babe. I should note that Stony started mixing my blueberry
grape juice with his vodka. His new blue brew we christened
Romulan ale, ala Star Trek. After drinking King Cobra all day,
he persuaded me to go in search of this party with him,
promising the girl’s mother would love to love me. I’d had an
afternoon nap of sorts and felt rested, but my blood alcohol
level was still very high. I never should have been driving. I so
wished now that Dave had stopped me. But seasoned drinkers
can often disguise how very drunk they really are. We got lost
in Centerville, between Cottonwood and Clarkdale, and I ended
up backing into a mailbox. The owner of this postal unit called
the police, who arrived immediately. This was major trouble;
not only another DUI, but considered aggravated, as I was
driving on a revoked license. The cop let Stony walk. He then
dropped off my truck keys to Dave, who retrieved the vehicle
the following day. Now, I was off again to Yavapai County
jail, on DUI number six - a felony. I was finally about to hit
rock bottom, beyond my wildest imagination.
“So, that’s the beginning of how you got here,” reflected
Larkins. “What a strange, bizarre story, Rideout.”

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 “Yeah, everybody’s got their story and I’ve heard even
worse ones in here.”
Ironically, the jail judge on Sunday morning had previously
been sexy Scottie’s public defender. Imagine that. He was now
the mayor of Clarkdale, as well as a judge. He luckily
remembered me from a visit to my trailer, returning my truck
keys when Scottie got a DUI using my truck. He released me
without bail immediately. This was certainly a modern day
miracle considering my record. He also stated that I’d be doing
some time for this felony. How much time was the big
question? And are we talking prison or jail? I was allowed one
phone call and luckily Dave answered. He and Pipestone
Charlie picked me up in my ailing truck. They also had a beer
and smoke prepared; just what I needed. I arrived home in
major shock this time. This was much worse than losing my
job! The immense fear of what the future would bring totally
took me out of the Here and Now. I don’t think I’ve ever been
so scared in my life. I became paralyzed with fear. I hardly ate
and even alcohol wouldn’t numb my worried mind. Fear
thoughts continually repeated in my brain, like a broken record.
I soon received paperwork assigning me a public defender out
of Payson. It took well over a week of phone calls to finally
reach the cheap lawyer. He advised me to get my life together
in the next month, before I was sentenced to prison, not jail.
“I’ve dealt with those guys too,” said Larkins. “A lot of ‘em
don’t seem to know what they’re doing, as they are just
learning to be lawyers. They’re green. It can be a big hassle,
even though they’re basically free.”
“Well, this guy came off like he was too busy to even pay
much attention to my case. Geez lawyer, we are talking about
my life here.”
I had to tell my employers at Green Care about my troubles.
I had to tell more than them but they were the first. Thankfully,
they stood by me. Going to work became a daily living hell, of
knowing I’d never see or do any of these activities again.
Everything now was seen through new eyes, as if I were seeing
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 it all for the last time. This was definitely a major shift in
consciousness caused by my thoughts. We do create our own
reality. It was hard to keep my wandering mind on my work.
My fellow worker, Geneo, had his day in court coming too, for
violence in a Mexican restaurant. He was also working in
heavy fear. Misery loves company; we were quite the
depressed pair of landscapers. I’d given up coffee over six
months prior and, for the record, had only smoked pot maybe
about once a month or less for the past six years. I felt these
were big advances in my addictive personality pattern. Plainly,
I was sick and much sicker than I really knew. I felt I was very
close to death, on many levels. I probably was. I’d just given
up on life. I’d never be the father I so wanted to be and God
sure wasn’t making His presence known, after decades of
chanting, meditations, gurus, books, prayers and peyote. St.
John of the Cross called it, “The cloud of unknowing or the
dark night of the soul.” Does anything really work? I don’t
know anything anymore! I’m so tired of this battle with the
bottle and all the mess I’m in. What is going to become of me?
“You were drinking to die, weren’t you?” questioned Larkins.
“You could say that. Self-pity and the bottle make an evil
combination.”
I’d been shaking daily so badly that I could barely shave,
holding one hand with the other. I had to down a forty ounce
King Cobra just to balance my dwindling checkbook. It was
totally embarrassing to be trembling at a checkout line, trying
to dislodge money from my wallet to buy more beer for Dave
and myself. I couldn’t even look the clerk in the eye. Now I’d
become a blackout drinker. I would drink heavily after work,
so I could pass out by 7:30 p.m. The little death of sleep was
far more comfortable than my waking reality. I often didn’t
remember the next morning, if I’d eaten dinner the night before
or not. Dave would inform me later that I had indeed eaten
seconds of his labor of love cooking. You could have fooled
me. And Dave was fooling me, which I’d find out later. I was
now clinically in the last stages of extreme alcoholism,
accompanied by super heavy denial of my problems. God help
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me now!! I’d traded my old hippie days of “getting high”, for
days now of “getting low.” Alcohol, being a depressant, had
taken me super low. And I let it all happen.
My fear of prison grew daily. Every negative image
imaginable flashed through my mind. Oh God, not me. Wayne,
another friend of Dave’s, came by to drink. He’d just been
released from a DUI prison in Phoenix, serving two and a half
years. He lived in his old red Econoline van and had a clear
plastic TV, which he’d bought in prison. He scared me with
his prison tales. He was actually joking with me, but I didn’t
enjoy his sense of humor. I now wondered where Dave would
live when I went down. Poor Dave. He still hadn’t received
any of his promised settlement money and had become totally
dependent on me for support, on all levels. I felt very sorry for
this pathetic hippie brother. When he got drunk, his secret
powerful death urge surfaced. He repeated many times how he
just longed to die. He was freaked out about receiving so much
money and his band of vulture friends could smell blood
coming. Dave was stressed. His once simple life was changing
quickly. Like me, Dave too had a lot of fears, but for totally
different reasons than mine.
“It blows me away that you still care about Dave, after all
he’s sucked you for,” said Larkins, with a very strange look on
his face.
“Yeah, I know. Love just keeps on giving, right?”
Now I had to make the dreaded phone call to landlord Ken
and explain my DUI troubles. Hopefully, we can work out a
win-win situation for my leased trailer, animals and belongings.
After explaining things, he definitely did not want Dave
staying there. He knew Dave partied. Thank God, my landlord
never knew the full extent of this last year of parties, daily
drinking and beer-laden garbage cans! He would have had me
evicted long ago. Landlord was out of town much of the year
with his wealthy Chinese wife, so I had to contact him via his
1-800 number. He called back, agreeing to let me sublet the
abode to Michael, a fellow worker at Green Care. I didn’t
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 know this Michael very well, at all. He was the only card I had.
I worried a lot about Shanti, Mr. Blanco and all of my
cherished possessions. What would become of them all?
Michael needed a place of his own, as he and his girlfriend
weren’t exactly getting along. Landlord was deeply impressed
by Michael’s eleven years of alcohol sobriety. He did smoke
pot, however, like a chimney. So Michael was legally allowed
to take over my trailer when I went down. At this point, I still
had no idea of exactly how long my prison sentence would be;
maybe four months with five years of probation or maybe up to
four years of hard time. Poor Shanti was falling down much
more often now. She could barely make it up the two steps into
the trailer. Her days were numbered. She had cataracts on
both eyes and had basically gone deaf too. She continually
went in and out of the front door too much, actually irritating
Dave and me, as she couldn’t seem to make up her mind.
What had happened to my poor old beloved friend? We would
soon be saying our final farewells. Words can’t begin to
express the love I felt for Shanti- by far my finest fur friend
ever. I’ll never forget the Indians saying, “You’ve about worn
that dog out!” I had and I knew it.
Finally, the needed emotional breakdown came. Lyn
stopped by alone and I lost it. I cried from the depths of my
soul, as when my sister Joyce had died- about my upcoming
prison sentence and fears, and about what a living hell I’d
made of my life. I had finally hit my bottom- finally!!
Everything was coming up, not just prison fears. The emotional
release was like Mount Saint Helens erupting inside of me. All
my fear and anxiety was coming to the surface in a torrent. Lyn
kissed me repeatedly, assuring me that she loved me and that I
would make it through this ordeal. Somebody loves me, oh my
God! This tearful experience bonded me even deeper to Lyn.
Thank you for this angel! I am amazed at how God takes care
of me.
“I too had my moment of fear before prison. I think a lot of
inmates go through that.”

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 “It was definitely an overwhelming experience and very
humbling.”
Now I had to confront Sri with my truth and shame. I wrote
the hardest letter I’d ever written in my life to Sri’s family.
Upon receiving it, Roderick called me and said he wanted me
to tell Sri myself. However, when Sri finally called, the ice
had been broken by Roderick’s reading of my letter to him.
Now I felt like the naughty child, with roles reversed, as my
young son spoke to me as an adult. He was very reassuring and
maturely understanding for his young age. That blew me away.
Sri is so smart and intuitive. He felt that all the peyote prayers
had saved me from a certain death, by placing me in a “safe”
place like prison. As Lyn had stated many times, I am an
alcoholic. These continual problems all stem from
uncontrolled drinking to excess and not facing or considering
the consequences.
“Did Sri want to see you before you went away?”
“Yeah, he did but I only wanted him to remember me as
he’d last seen me, at Christmas time. I didn’t want him to see
me this low and depressed.”
God forbid that. And I planned on drinking now until I got
legally incarcerated. My time was short. I might as well go out
in style. God knows, I needed it. I would be without it soon
enough. I actually longed in my heart and soul to be without
it… but not right now. Sri told me later that crazy Stony had hit
up his mother Joya for beer money at Circle K, before they
stopped by my trailer at Christmas. And there stands Stony in
my yard, reeking of beer, wanting to meet Sri. The insanity
that alcohol carries is a never ending story.
In preparation for Michael taking over my living space, I
made pages of lists and important notes, that I felt would be
beneficial for him to follow. He failed to come by, as promised,
so we could go over these last minute instructions. This was
not a good sign in my book. Now I was very concerned about
his reliability and trustworthiness. At this late hour, I just had
to go with it. I felt like I’d jumped over a cliff and was waiting
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 to hit bottom. Everything was being pulled away from me now
very quickly, as my tacky neighborhood and patterns of living
would be changing in a matter of hours.
My last day of work with Geneo was like doing everything
for the very last time, in slow motion. My consciousness was
uniquely altered but clear and centered, as I pruned roses,
looking out towards Sedona’s red rocks. My boss from Green
Care came by and matter-of-factly stated that I could have my
job back upon release. As I didn’t get fired, he wrote in my
employee file, “absent due to incarceration.” Thanks Matt,
that’s a good note to leave on. Another humbling experience
occurred a few weeks earlier, while I was detailing out
Walgreen’s area. Joe, a Mexican I did six months with at the
Salvation Army’s ARC, lived in Cottonwood and recognized
me from our old days of in-patient recovery. He had over six
years of sobriety now. I told him of my woes and upcoming
prison stint, all because I didn’t take sobriety seriously, as he
had done. I had failed to work the program. I felt ashamed of
myself and very humbled, as he listened. Here was a man that
I thought would never make it. But he had; and now I envied
him. Joe passed no judgment on me. Joe knew that you only
wake up when you’re ready. This time I was really ready and I
knew it. I was finally sick and tired of being sick and tired.
Now that is a ray of hope. Let the needed healing begin, Lord.
I’m ready.
After work and final goodbyes, I took my guitars and most
cherished possessions, like the Shiva statue, to Lyn’s for
protected storage. And I sang her my last songs.
“You’ve never sounded better, Rob. Now you’re really
singing from the heart,” she said, moving closer to me.
She also intuitively noticed an inner shift in me, saying,
“You’re ready now. Just stay positive.” Little did she know
then how very much those words would mean to me, or of the
faith and strength that would follow in the many months to
come, from staying positive? Staying positive would become
my new mantra. I also heard my mom’s mantra, “Oh God,
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 Rob” ringing in the back of my head. I gave Lyn my gold Om
ring to remember me by. She said she would wear it, until she
picked me up on my release day. Sri had asked me why I still
wear my wedding ring when I’m no longer married to his mom.
I replied that I’m married to God and that beautiful gold Om
ring always reminds me of that. It is as much a part of me as
the Om tattoo with Sri Ram’s name and the rudraksha seed
mala that I always wear around my neck.
“Jesus that sounds like something out of a cheap romance
novel,” laughed Larkins out loud.
“Well, it gave me a warm feeling to think she’d actually do
something like that, for a sick dude like me.”
Back home, Dave had called his lawyer yet again. But this
time he was asking how to take a loan out against his still promised
upcoming insurance settlement. Poor Dave was really freaking out
now! He was told that to borrow twenty thousand minimum, it
would cost him sixty thousand! He was advised to hold out a bit
longer and not lose forty thousand dollars, as “the check is in the
mail.” In desperation for his predicament, I gave in to help Dave
one last time. He needed hard cash to live on somehow, while I
went up river to the slammer. My heart went out to him. We went
to Bank of America together on Saturday morning, February 22,
2003, and I withdrew one thousand in cash to get him by. Lyn
cautioned me about this move, and then preached angrily at Dave,
via the phone, about paying me back. I now had only five hundred
dollars left in my once abundant savings account. Dave assured
Lyn and me once more, that he’d pay me back on his five thousand
dollar debt and then some. No worries, mates, as Dave would be
filthy rich soon. Wanna bet? The final icing on my cake was,
“Don’t bust my chops” Larry the Chicago plumber. I had
unplugged his industrial extension cord and my cable TV, as he
was weeks behind on his share of my monthly utility payments. I
would never see any money out of Larry now, as he knew I was
going down and could just blow off his debts to me. Everybody
knew I was going down. I had my last beer on Sunday night,
February 23, 2003 on my porch, with Richard, a meth head painter

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doing the remodel next door. Ironically, gaunt Richard had dated
Lyn years ago, before she’d been married and divorced.
He said, “Lyn has the best heart of any woman I’ve ever met.”
“Those are my exact same sentiments, Richard.”
“Would you like to drink another beer?”
“No, I think I’ll just say goodnight and goodbye. I’ve had enough
to drink.” After closing the trailer door, I knew without a doubt
that I had just drunk my last beer.
So, going to Superior Court, with Dave driving my truck on
the morning of February 24, 2003, became the last day I would
ever see my wolfish “brother” friend alive, and my first day of
a new incarceration lifestyle for years to come. As Michael
failed again to come by my trailer before moving in, we
stopped by his job site in Cottonwood for a quick goodbye.
Thank God, we found him. I’d already said my final
salutations to Shanti and Mr. Blanco. However, I was so
nervous and shook up, as Dave sat in my idling truck, that I
didn’t take long enough with poor Shanti. She was so old and
worn out, that it probably didn’t register anyway. I still feel
badly now, over the rushed farewell to a lifelong friend. Shame
on me. I should have given her more time, something I’ll
regret forever. Mr. Blanco took off running around the trailer,
symbolic of his future to come. I knew I would never see
Shanti again, and prayed I would somehow reunite with my
spirit cat. Michael reassured me that I could trust him and not
to worry. I sure hope so. Upon arriving at the courthouse and
jail parking lot, I gave Dave my cigarette lighter and the
remainder of my Top tobacco along with my truck keys. He
accompanied me into the courtroom silently. I knew that when
I signed my plea agreement, I’d be legally incarcerated, where
I’d wait another month or more in jail to be finally sentenced to
a prison term. As the judge called out, “The State of Arizona
versus Robert Rideout, Case #...” I saw Dave, with his ponytail
across the back of his blue ski jacket that he’d found in a
dumpster, exit the courtroom. He never even turned around to
look back at me, with a goodbye glance. It really hurt that he
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left that way, with no thank you or recognition for all the help
I’d given him. What’s up with that Dave? It sure doesn’t help
my nervousness in front of the judge to see you leave that way.
I guess it’s so much for all that “brother” bullshit, huh?
“Jesus Rideout, your whole tale is just too much. It’s one hell
of a story, literally. Maybe you should write a book.”
“Maybe I should do just that. Who knows, it might help to
heal the guilt and shame over living such a life.”
“Attention in the dorms. We are now conducting voluntary
UA’s, gentlemen. First come, first serve, before we start calling
out your numbers.”
“Come on, Larkins. Let’s go get the piss test over with,
before the line up gets two hours long. Drink some water if you
have to. May you pee in peace in prison?”
“Fortunately, this is my last one. I’m out of here, next week.
No more of this crap for me.”

While walking down the hall….

I must forgive my parents, my self and my past. In Christian

guilt, I still somehow feel I haven’t punished myself enough
for all the dysfunctional behavior and pain that I’ve inflicted
upon others. I’ve come to realize that forgiveness is the key to
happiness and healing, and truly salvation from guilt. But I
find it easier to forgive others, than to forgive myself. I’ve hurt
myself and many loved ones beyond belief through my self-
pity and destructive behavior. It is so easy to put the blame on
my deceased parents and the dysfunctional home front I grew
up in. I barely survived. But I know Mom and Dad were just
doing the best they could, and having a hard time with their
own relationship and parenting skills. I feel so sorry and sad
that my parents never found much happiness in their lives.
Judgment and stored resentments literally killed them. They
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 become that disease we call cancer. So the journey for truth
and healing continues, both inside and out, for me. And
forgiveness is the only way there. In fact, forgiveness is the
only way- period, to forgive myself for dreaming this illusion.
And to forgive the deep unconscious guilt that I left God, when
in truth I never did.
While walking down the hall, after another substance abuse
class, I suddenly felt a warm glow come over me. The yellow
paint on the walls seemed brighter somehow, almost
transparent. Maybe I hadn’t really noticed the walls that much,
except the patch spot where some angry inmate had punched a
hole, causing a lockdown for a few hours. But now, everything
seemed to be expanding; including me. I found myself smiling,
beaming actually, as I finally felt totally forgiven- by myself! I
know God does not forgive me, as God does not judge. I now
“got it” that my ego had been my judge and jury, always
condemning me, just like it does everyone else. Maybe that is
what the Indians meant. The huge weight of guilt and shame
was now gone, and the walls and ceiling of this hall seemed to
disappear momentarily, like when the rising sun burns fog
away. I was free! In prison, I felt free and almost floating.
My spirit rejoiced for this blessed shift in consciousness. No
more would I do my time down here. For months now, I’d
been constantly reviewing my list of “secret errors and
character defects.” As this all takes time to process, maybe I
am in the right place? That’s what seems to happen here when
you’re finally alone in your bed, alone with your thoughts of
the past and apprehensions about tomorrow. I think for every
inmate, a lot of stuff comes to the surface here- deep stuff. A
lot of prayers are always said in prison- probably more than in
a monastery. Incarceration can be similar to what happens in
intensive meditation retreats; you face your own fears,
chattering mind and inner demons until, hopefully, you come
to peace with them. This all happened to me in the hall in one
instant. Then as I looked at myself in the mirror after shaving,
I realized that there is really nobody I would ever want to be,
but me. I finally love Rob for exactly who and what he is- all
of him, the good and bad. And I have to laugh to myself about
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this ironic twist of fate- finding and loving myself here in
prison. I may learn more about myself here in this pressure
cooker, than I ever did on the “outs.”
Writing about my feelings is not always easy. Alcohol abuse
had taught me to stuff my feelings away for later. Well, that
“later” is here now. And a lot of buried feelings have come up
since being off alcohol for many months. I now know how it
feels to be happy, really happy- without the aid of intoxicating
substances. The freedom of not having a monkey on my back
is intoxicating in its own natural way. I finally feel good just
being straight, but I do realize this could be what’s referred to
as the “pink cloud” of sobriety. To maintain this state of joy
will require daily work. To keep anything, you must give it
away. So, to keep my joy, I would share it with others by
helping them in any way I saw fit. However, prison is a hard
place to display love openly, as so many here have a lot of
tough guy defenses in motion. Being the nice hippie guy that I
am, I actually got reprimanded by our pod father for being
“everybody’s friend”! That sounds like something Melinda
would say. Misery loves company, not someone who is happy
and free. I needed to wipe that smile off my face quickly. But I
could still laugh at this cosmic insanity in my head.
“Keep it light, Rob” I’d been told by Cherokee Trish at a
child’s birthday peyote meeting. She saw me mentally drifting
into some unknown space, as I stared at the fire and altar. Her
words brought me back instantly and I felt what she meant.
Yes, keep it light! Don’t get all heavy over stuff. The choice
is always up to me, so I choose to be light- which I really am.
Trish’s words let me remember just how precious life is. Yes,
keep it light for a child. This has me flashing on my own son
Sri, when he was a child and of how very protective I was- not
wanting any bad vibes around him. So, as I felt for my son, I
must now try to do here in prison. Keep it light, on as many
levels as possible. All of us inmates here are like children;
children that never grew up and are now being weaned from
the bottle, in more ways than one.

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 The state institutionalized DOC diet basically sucks. I’ve
made reference to this before. The only live food is three
mouthfuls of iceberg lettuce, called “salad,” and maybe
oranges or apples on the weekends. All of the other vegetables
are boiled to the max. Flatulence is a daily occurrence. What’s
that smell next to my bunk? They actually sell laxatives on
commissary to help unclog the high starch diet. I put a kite
into medical explaining the need for more fiber. As a result,
we now have natural veg fiber sold at our store. Many inmates
are currently purchasing this item. We need all the help we can
get here. The wealthy inmates can afford to buy tuna and
whole wheat raisin bagels to supplement the daily diet. Many
are stuck, literally, with what we’re given to survive on. You
must learn to spiritualize your food here, asking God to
somehow make it nutritious enough to sustain life. Multi-
vitamins are fortunately available too, on the store list but most
can’t afford them. Still, one should pray deeply before he eats,
knowing that Father knows best. To quote the Good Book,
“this too shall pass.” I just wish it would pass through my
colon faster.
There are always vultures hovering around in prison. These
are the takers, always on the lookout for anything they can bum.
It’s hard to even open your drawer or locker, without
somebody’s eyes watching to see how much coffee, smokes or
chips you possess. One small white con from Washington,
with eyes like a wolf, used the whole Washington Brother
scam to hustle me. I must have the word “sucker” across my
forehead. This Tom was as smooth as Dave. I bought him
Folgers Coffee, not Keefe, and Irish Spring soap for five
dollars. Understand that five dollars here, is like twenty-five in
the free world. Tom was in protective custody soon. I was
only one of many to whom he owed money. Not paying your
debts in prison can get you smashed, usually in the shower. I
knew I’d never see him again, as he would be sent off our yard
to a worse place. But I got the last laugh on him. He requested
a certain book on a detention library request form. As I was
librarian, I printed in pencil, so my handwriting couldn’t be

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traced, on the first page, “Where’s my five dollars, asshole?”
I’m sure this loser got the message, loud and clear.
Peeing is not easy for me here. There is always somebody
standing or talking right next to me when I’m trying to
concentrate. And we have to pee monthly for those damn
urinalysis tests, with a mirror aimed at our peckers so the
guards can see all. Many meth and pot inmates come up dirty.
Many don’t, as they have their tricks. And many just have a
hard time peeing. Who would even want to be stoned here?
Further charges, loss of early release or transfer to a higher
yard, can all result from a few moments of being high in prison.
They repeat the same behavior that got them in here in the first
place. How do these guys expect not to come back? I met one
longhair who’d done four years here. In less than a year out,
he’s back again, but this time he’ll serve eight long years. Do
the math: a total of twelve years, for not learning his lesson.
But it’s always the judge’s fault or the police, etc. That is an
ideal example of the power of denial. It can be one hell of a
thick wall.
Today is Flag Day, February 24, 2004. This marks exactly
one year since I became incarcerated and I’ve put up my own
white flag, surrendering to alcohol. This is my AA birthday,
again. As my sobriety was “forced”, I don’t feel quite the same
joy or sense of accomplishment that I did back in Colville
of ’98, when I got my one year chip and cake at an AA meeting.
Ironically, a friend’s letter arrived yesterday reminding me that
it is still special. I even plan to attend AA here tonight, to
celebrate my birthday.
So, after cleaning toilets and being Mr. Library guy, I finally
got outside clearance and received the job of landscaper at the
Central offices of DOC. Every Arizona prisoners’ records are
kept here- the holy of holies. I loved this job, as I was finally
alone for a few hours and away from the world of chronic
inmates talking shit. I kept the parking lots, sidewalks and
surrounding grounds looking top notch. After all, I’ve been a
landscaper for years.

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 “Hey, Rideout…over here,” I heard a voice call out from
behind some bushes. It was Larkins, dressed out in casual street
clothes and smoking a cigarette. He’d stopped by to see me,
now that he was free.
“Jesus, Larkins, don’t let anybody see us talking or I’m in
big trouble, man. You know that! What’s it like being out for
you? Are you doing okay?”
“Yeah, you know. I’m living at the Y with a lot of other
released guys. It’s weird and kind of lonely. Many of our
friends have already relapsed. I hope I don’t.”
“Well, good luck and get out of here now. I can’t let you get
me into any trouble. I’ve still got lots of time to do, Larkins. It
was good seeing you though.”
Then, after a few months of this coveted job and making
about seventy-three cents an hour, my number finally came up
to the top of the list for, the job of all prison jobs, Greater
Phoenix Auto Auction. Drum roll, please. Now I could work
some long hours and save up money for my life in the free
world again someday.
And work I did! Most days were usually ten hours long and I
did as many weekends as possible too. I performed what were
called extractions here- extracting dirt from auto carpets, using
a jitterbug air-powered rotating brush to scrub in Blue Max
soap, and then suck it all out with high powered overhead
vacuums. The Phoenix heat was well over 100°, for what
seemed like weeks on end. With this new job, I could now
afford peanut butter and raisin bagels, to support the lacking
institutional diet. Our daily sack lunches were so bad, that
most ended up in the garbage cans. What they called cheese
was like thin yellow Velveeta slices in plastic. It would melt in
the heat looking like plastic oil. At lunch, we could choose to
dine in any vehicle of our choice and listen to the radio, and
then maybe doze off briefly after eating. Suddenly, the lights
would flash on and off. It’s back to work again, balls to the
walls. On the bus ride home to the yard, you had better watch
where you sit. Every seat is spoken for here by an inmate who
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has been on this bus much longer than you. And the seating
order here determines your place in line when we get home;
home to be stripped searched again, before we can line up to
shower off all of today’s sweat, dirt, verbal abuse and
memories. At one strip search, it was discovered that I had
removed the liners from my tennis shoes.
“What’s this? Where are the liners for these shoes?”
questioned the guard. He didn’t look very happy.
“I purchased these shoes outright and I did this to give my
feet more room, as they were a bit too tight,” I responded.
“You know, they make these shoes in China and the sizes are
always screwy.”
Now they confiscated my shoes, all because I had altered
DOC property! Give me a break. These are my shoes, I bought
them. Now I was forced to wear the DOC issued China made
plastic work boots that hurt like hell and make your feet sweat.
In time, a benevolent C.O. got my tennis shoes back to me. At
least, I’m taking home two dollars an hour now, at this job.
And again, it is time for them to count us- back to your bunks.
After work one day, big changes occurred back at Phoenix
West. The warden decided to move all inmates, who have
outside jobs, into dorms 7 and 8 only. Most people don’t
accept change readily, and inmates are no exception. However,
after I got used to dorm 8, this move was way better. Now,
there were no pod fathers, as they weren’t really needed. Here,
we all knew each other well, as many of us worked together
each day outside. Finally, there aren’t any of the unemployed
inmates hanging out in our doorways and bathrooms. There is
much more respect in our dorm now. Respect is what it is all
about in prison.
As I walked down to the smoking cage one day, I flashed on
all the “time” I’ve done over alcohol trouble. I’ve had
numerous odd nights in jail for twenty-four hours, ninety days
in St. John’s jail, then six months in-patient at the ARC rehab,
not to mention numerous hours at alcohol classes and AA
meetings, and now two and a half years in prison. I feel so
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 freaking stupid- all because I looked to a bottle for relief from
the pain of my life. The only good thing, I guess, and maybe
it’s just an excuse, is that I am not alone- at least here. Many
inmates have stories far worse than mine. Still, I feel like a
real loser sometimes, even after forgiving myself. It’s often
hard to believe that God was with me through all of this total
insanity. I just didn’t know which voice was His. The shame
and guilt is so strong, I pray I can recover, really recover this
time. I thought I’d never drink again, after the ARC. But I did
relapse, alone, after nearly one and a half years of sobriety.
This disease is just so tricky. It just plain sucks.

Now I’m off again….

Wow! After working over ten hours at Auto Auction on the

fall equinox, September 23, 2004, I find out at 9:30 p.m. that
I’m being moved, now, with twelve others, up to the new
prison complex in Kingman, Arizona. Roll up fast! We had all
heard rumors about this new super-max prison, but never
thought it would affect us. There was no time for any kind of
goodbyes to the inmates in my dorm. I was called into the
guard’s office to watch him itemize and record every single
thing I was issued. Then he taped up my box, the one thing I
own that contains my pens, friends letters, toothbrush and
Spork, and wrote my ADC number on it. Now I am off again,
on that notorious DOC prison bus, to drive chained all night
long with others to Kingman. Upon arriving in the early
morning light, I saw that this new prison is huge, in
comparison to Phoenix West, with only about four hundred
total inmates starting it off. We are the first to arrive, but soon
about eight hundred more will be coming. Thank God, I won’t
be around for that. We have brand new mattresses, pillows,
sheets and blankets to sleep on. The chow is way more
abundant and better tasting. This move was kind of a shock for
me. I really didn’t want to move. I only have seven more
months to go to my release date and would have preferred to
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stay in Phoenix, where I was comfortable. Now, I see that this
move was perfect.
“Where did you come from?” asked another older inmate.
“I came from Phoenix West. I heard that I was even
handpicked by the warden to be here, as my record was so
spotless.”
“Me too,” he answered. “But I came from Florence.”
As a new prison just starting up, they desired mature
inmates and fresh fish just coming into the system. That is a
good strategy. They picked those that know the ropes and those
too new to know. The rest of the losers still learning the ropes
would be coming later- to establish politics, fear and the
Convict Code. A few of my friends from other pods followed
me up here from Phoenix West. This new yard is huge. If you
walk four laps around it, it equals one mile. We have a great
view of the surrounding mountains too and the air is so much
cleaner than in Phoenix. However, the winds often blow
strongly across this desolated area 51, making it hard for
smokers. Presently, there is no work, but that will be coming.
This prison isn’t quite finished yet, so many here will have jobs
getting it up and running for the others that will be arriving
after I’m released. I’ll be getting out, thank God, before this
new yard officially becomes Arizona’s Super Max DUI prison.
I will miss the money from Auto Auction that I was saving, but
not all that hard work. The library here seems to have a greater
selection of books, or at least quite a few I haven’t read yet.
With only about seven more months to serve, I will concentrate
on studying the Course in Miracles in earnest and reading
some of these books too.
One real blessing, so far, is the no pod hopping rule. At
Phoenix West, all pods were open domain for inmates to
fraternize. Now, I basically do the rest of my time with sixty
others in Dorm 2, Pod B. Any further relationships occur in
the yard or chow hall, as you must now stay in your own area.
This reminds me of Escapement Resort – “stay in your area,
Rob!” In our area, most are now reading books or learning to,
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 as they don’t have a TV set yet. Besides the handpicked few
from other yards, most inmates here are brand new to the
system. They don’t know how good they have it, at this point,
as the conditions here are exemplary so far. All of this will
change, of course. You can bet money on that.
I saw the changes starting to occur, as my months here
passed. At times, I felt like a seasoned con, as I watched all
these new young fish adjusting to their life in orange. Many
would have their own clear plastic TV in time. And many
would become caught up in the evolving yard politics. You
can’t have a prison without politics. Ours was just beginning.
It was interesting to watch which anal alpha-dog inmate here
would become a respected leader. Obviously, so to speak, it
would be someone who had been around the block a few times
or the yard in this case.
I was just flashing on Phoenix West and all the long hours of
work I did there for next to nothing. I was a dorm porter for
ten cents an hour, a librarian for thirty-two cents an hour, a
landscaper for seventy-three cents an hour and finally Auto
Auction at two dollars an hour. I always took each job
seriously, doing my best for God alone. Work is worship. All
of the small money I am grateful for as it helps out on
commissary. Auto Auction helped me to get a nest egg of
around $1,670.00 for my new life outside in April, 2005. Oh
God, I worked for it! When I think of all the other inmates
basically fucking off, I wonder now why I ever worked so hard.
I’m just my ADC number here- not even a real person.
Nobody really cares or lets you know you’re doing a good job.
I was seldom ever thanked or praised. Why not slack off like
everybody else who doesn’t give a shit? Well, I just can’t do
that. My psychic side seems more developed in prison, as I am
around four hundred and fifty to five hundred dudes daily. I
can sense their auras easily and tell if there is any active
intelligence or God consciousness in them. Sadly, I don’t meet
many here who are ready for the deeper truths. Everybody is on
such different levels of awareness. Here, it’s all about me,
myself included. That is why we drank. We’re all very self
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absorbed, addicted, selfish S.O.B.s. And I am sick of it! You
cannot even have a normal conversation here. Inmates might
listen momentarily, but then sidestep or stage hog your
conversation totally. You know what I mean?
Above, on the bunk across from me, resides a slob known as
Dogfish. He breathes only through his open mouth, like his
nose doesn’t work anymore from snorting too much white
powder. He snores like a freight train, keeping many awake.
Dogfish has been down before- seven years in Florence and
now back again. This gross dude has a huge poorly tattooed
OM sign on his forearm. He doesn’t even know what it means!
He has about forty weirder cartoon tattoos all over his fat body;
like where is the circus dude? Now, he uses our metal shelf as a
foot stand to climb up to his upper bunk. Gross! I see
footprints and possibly athlete’s foot growing on the shelf.
Then, there are the two white knuckleheads down the row, who
talk full volume after 10:30 p.m., with no respect for anybody
trying to sleep. That has got to stop! We quietly pussyfoot
around at 6 a.m., so the sleeping losers can escape their time in
dream world. Many stay up here all night, and then sleep all
day- especially the fat Chief behind me. He has now gotten two
tickets in a row for sleeping in, when he should have been in
class. These dudes don’t have a clue on how to do their time,
yet. And all of my criticism of them, just shows me how
institutionalized I’ve become. You’ve got to obey the Convict
Code here, dudes. Or you will suffer the consequences.
I got into it today with fifty-nine year old Bob from
Colorado- another ADD inmate. I tried to let him see that we
all create our own reality, through our thoughts, words and
deeds. I told him that he chose to be here, in prison, on some
level. It is all perfect.
“Boy, I can’t see that!” he shouted angrily at me.
“Nobody wants to accept their shit here; blame it always on
somebody or something else, Bob.”
When I touched on reincarnation, Bob mentioned Hinduism.
He definitely believes you only live once and there is nothing
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 after death. How sad! Bob is obviously a young soul. Why
people are such spiritual midgets, when we are all really living
God forever, just baffles me.
I have been flashing on losing my beloved cabin in the house
fire of 1987. Oh Lord, how I loved that place and enjoyed all of
the hard work and energy that I put into it. After the fire, I had
to lose our beautiful octagon, and even more land, to divorce.
That one still hurts. I can only hope something better will come
my way up in Colville. It is not easy starting over again at age
fifty-six years old. I hardly ever flash on my accident now, but
I should, as I nearly died. The intense pain is certainly gone.
It’s hard to even remember now all the exercises and
physiotherapy that I went through; months in a wheelchair,
crutches and then a cane, while doing intensive college
homework and classes, while living in that depressing Sedro
Woollie house with my young son coming to visit his seriously
depressed alcoholic Dad. Why did I ever choose to go through
all of this? Hopefully, my story can help somebody, somehow.
I just want the entire subconscious hurt to really heal. I want to
be well.
Today is the day before Thanksgiving. Thirty-five new cons
arrived before lunch, bumming coffee and tobacco, of course,
after they got processed. And I’ve got it, as I’ve worked so
hard for twenty months to earn it. Here, have some; it is just
give, give and give again. That’s life’s greatest lesson- even in
prison.
I had another profound moment of clarity today. I think I
saw Mr. Blanco and David Lee Bonds’ purpose in my lonely
life. They both were divine gifts of love from God. They were
what I needed in my sad depressing life to remind me of just
how special love is. I miss them both so very much. I must
have been with Dave in a former lifetime, to have felt so at one
with him. I can’t explain it. I fully realize that Dave had his
shady side, but I loved him despite it all. Blanco defies
description. He was so much more than just a cat. He was more
like a fur angel that was sent to me for just a short mission.

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Thank you, Lord, for both of these souls. I just wish I could
have had more time with them.
I just wrote another song today called, Last Call for Alcohol.
Now, I’ve written sixteen songs in prison. It will be fun to put
melodies and chords to them when I get out. Wow! Now
they’re moving me down to bed number four. What is this all
about? I put a kite in over a month ago asking not to be moved,
as I am now considered a short-timer. Somehow, they think
I’m a Chief, an Indian. Consider yourself Sioux, remember?
“What race are you, Rideout?” asked a white female C.O.
“What do you think?”
Well, this move turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Now,
I have more privacy and less inmate bullshit to put up with. I
don’t really hang with anybody here. Nobody is like me. Now,
that’s an understatement and I am totally fine with it, totally.
After living around, literally, hundreds of inmates for twenty
months, I now stick to myself. I have learned how to do my
time; easy time. Many here see me as anti-social, but I just feel
better off alone. I have more peace. I’ve heard all of their
stories so many times before. The faces are different but the
stories are the same. My books and songwriting keep me busy
and content. These remaining months, I will live in my world
of silent friends, books and the teachings from A Course in
Miracles. Thank God for that gift.
Another moment of cosmic clarity just occurred, concerning
my situation with my son. Simply stated, God took Sri from me,
because I couldn’t take care of myself properly. How can I take
care of another, until I learn to love and care for myself? I am
learning now, in prison, how to do just that.
Today I feel fear- the fear that I may have cancer. A red spot
on my chest is still there, after two weeks of tetracycline and
ointment. My mind has played out scenarios of possible skin
and /or lung cancer from years of sunshine, pot, secondhand
smoke in bars and now a decade of daily tobacco use. As I
watch this fear, my mind sings the words of Tim McGraw’s

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 song Live Like You Were Dying. Then I play out the big one-
what if I have cancer? Joyce died in ‘74, Mom in ‘84, and Dad
in ’94- now me in 2004? How would I live now, if I knew I
only had maybe a year of life left? That sure wouldn’t give me
much time after my release. I see now what Dave must have
gone through mentally, while living with me; he knew that he
was dying. I feel he killed himself on heroin because of his fear.
I despise fear, especially after realizing what a supreme illusion
it is. I study the Course for spiritual strength and to align to the
truth; God is. So why worry? But, if by chance, it is my time to
leave this body, then I will just have to make the best of it. I
can always go back to India or spend my last days near my son.
“Did they take you off the yard yet?” questioned the prison
doctor.
“No, they haven’t yet. I’m just a worried inmate who can’t
get any answers. Please speak to them again, will you?”
The prison doctor insisted that I be taken off the yard for a
biopsy, at a skin cancer clinic in Kingman. After weeks of
waiting, I was finally taken there, along with another inmate.
We were dressed out in orange transport jumpsuits, shackled at
the ankles and handcuffed for our ride. Then, the two guards
driving us put real bullets in their guns. Wow! It was a nice
treat to see what the topography looks like on our twenty
minute drive there, between our new super max complex and
the town of Kingman. When I entered the clinic, other patients
seized up in anticipation. Who was this orange, chained soul
entering the doctor’s office? Can’t they schedule the
appointment, so that we don’t have to see him? After a brief
examination, I was told that I do not have skin cancer, but an
acentenic keratosis. This is common to Anglos my age; they’ve
been exposed to major sun over long periods of time. I’m
guilty again, of sun without sunscreen. So in two minutes, the
doctor froze off my chest growth with liquid nitrogen and
removed my fear. I feel a whole lot better now! I just beat the
karmic odds of my family’s death patterns. Whew! Maybe I
will make it to ninety.

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 Today is Sunday, December 19, 2004. Roderick and Sri are
the first ones to show up for our special Christmas food
visitation. Joya made me three exotic vegetarian dishes with
lots of garlic and crushed espresso beans on the Christmas tree
desserts. Then Roderick said a prayer for me, which brought
tears to my eyes. He really is a good man. He also gave me
fifty dollars, which I would use on commissary. Sri said that I
looked happier here, with a brighter aura than I had had in
Phoenix West. I don’t quite know how I look, as the cheap
plastic mirror that I use doesn’t really give me a very good
picture of myself. I do know that prison stress ages one quickly.
Today, I feel much better here in this prison and my heart feels
good, from their visit. However, I somehow wish I could feel
closer to my son, Sri. He called Roderick “Dad” again. I see I
don’t even know my son.
Presently, I’m watching seven Mexicans stare at a huge
piggy bank of Tweedy Bird, made from rolled up painted
newspaper. This probably costs a lot of ramen soups and
pouches of tobacco. Simple cartoon characters are real big here,
especially with Mexicans. Jesus, how old are we… three?
At 1a.m. this morning, the sound of a loud bomb went off. It
was actually thunder and lightning bolts hitting the tall outside
yard lamp, blowing out all of the lights and TV sets in our
prison. By this point, many of the inmates now have their
treasured TVs. This could prove to be a very interesting day. It
was. I worked that afternoon with other inmates installing new
beds in the unfinished part of the prison, while outside
electricians came into our yard, to fix the electrical problem.
Sometimes work here can be a little strange. I stood for five
minutes at work today, waiting for an inmate to help me lift
one bed. He got very angry at me.
“Do you want me to slap you up along the side of your
head?”
“Chill out. I just wanted to get back to work”.
“What’s the rush? Are you going somewhere?”

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 To me, it’s easier to work than just waste time and stand
around. We already do enough of that, all day incarcerated
here. This lazy inmate will probably relapse anyway and be
back shortly. He still plans on drinking when he gets out, just
like most all of the rest. Another young blonde stud can’t wait
to have long hair. His two inch ponytail is tied in three hair
bands already. That’s so institutional! He’s continually staring
in the mirror to see if it grew anymore overnight. Give me a
break! Later, the TVs were up and running again, thanks to the
electricians, and institutionalized life goes on again.
We just started our new alcohol classes today. They seem
much better than those at Phoenix West and the workbook is
quite good too. I enjoy these classes, as I try to learn more
about this disease of alcoholism. But many here do not, as they
are mandatory. They’re teaching us the truth about watching
our thoughts; you are what you think! And everybody could
benefit from this truth, not just alcoholics and inmates.
There is a new fat con named Tim, over in pod 2A. He is
from Clarksdale, Arizona and looks a lot like Michael Moore.
Today in the chow hall, I asked Tim a question.
“Being from Clarkdale and all, do you happen to know
David Lee Bond?”
“He died in my house over a year ago,” he replied. “Dave
was sitting on the couch, apparently fine, but when we checked
on him next, he was dead. Too bad, as I really liked the guy.”
“I did too.”
Incredible- what are the odds of this? So, Tim and I now
talked of Dave.
I just woke up from a very heavy dream, nearly crying. I was
telling Joya of the pain I feel in my heart, over losing my son
Sri Ram. In the dream, I wanted her to feel that same loss in
her soul, to know what it’s like for me. Then I had an insight,
that this same pain must be what God feels for all of us- the
pain of separation. As I was surfing through the TV stations, I
stopped at the Christian station. A song was playing and the
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words were “thank you for showing me what a father is all
about”- how perfect.
Just as I’m sitting down to shit, the Mexican bathroom team
arrives with their chlorine, masks and brushes. This always
happens, as there is never any privacy here. Even at 2 a.m.,
somebody will come in and smoke on the toilet next to you. Or
they will stand at the next urinal and want to start up a
conversation, making it very hard to concentrate on doing my
thing here. The lack of privacy in prison has got to be my
biggest bitch. It would also sure be nice to have a pair of
tweezers.
Prison has given me the opportunity to be creative- God’s
greatest gift. I began writing this book here in prison. I wrote
my first poem here too. My poem is a social commentary on
prison life. I was inspired by Allen Ginsberg’s 1956 poem,
Howl. My poem is entitled:
Scream
I do my time in the institutional coma to the sounds of felons
farting, belching, bitching about DUI laws, sanding Popsicle
sticks, noisy Spanish headphones blasting from clear plastic
radios or TVs, PA speakers shouting “count time” or “pill call”,
rapidly repeated toilet flushing, exclamations of fucking this or
that, or mother fucker, sounds of pod father’s advice or council,
verbal questions of “what’s up?” or “what’s happening?”,
telephone conversations consisting of “I love you” and “don’t
forget me”, shouts of “when is commissary this week”, loud
snapping and whipping of still damp returned laundry and the
clamor of the closing pod door by some dumb fuck who still
hasn’t figured out the word “respect” yet.
I see my time on the institutional yard through orange eyes,
watching constipated inmates exercise and walk off starchy
commissary guts, while listening to gangster rap music and hip
hop on commissary headphones, smoking rollies with orange
stained fingers on their way to GED glasses or substance abuse
classes, full of angry denial ridden felons suffering attention
deficit disorder while playing with crayons, AA’s Big book and
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 pre-toddler coloring books, wondering how much money is
still on their books or which week we’re at on the chow menu
or when the short timer leaves this week, can a bottom bunk
finally open up for someone still serving eight more years of
his sentence and will his old lady ever visit him, maybe at the
Christmas food visit so he could taste once more non-
institutional food that his loser mind can barely remember,
while he folds gently his DOC boxer shorts, checking for skid
marks before sweeping dust bunnies from under his rack, in his
house on Memory Lane, while remembering how his estranged
children looked years ago when they called him “Daddy”,
before he drank his guts out and decided to drive, but luckily
not killing anybody or himself, only killing all hope that he will
ever be happy again, as he one day re-enters life in the free
world of terrorists, child molesters, road rage and street racers,
misguided world leaders, Paris Hilton mentalities watching
Donald Trump’s reality show on new large screen plasma
technology that reflects doomsday prophecies are here in
crumbling family structures, grade school drug problems, gay
republicans, actor governors and Tsunami relief concerts, as
hell on earth manifests, and the fundamentalist Christians
rejoice that they were right, he wonders if maybe it is safer to
just stay down up river and be institutionalized, until hell does
freeze over or state legislation finally passes the 65% law. And
he screams, as his mind remembers the words to the Jim
Reeves’ song, Welcome to my World. Jan. 25, 2005
I also created a small poster for a statewide DUI awareness
contest. I was the first to submit my creation and the staff
absolutely loved it! They even called me into their office to
talk about it. It’s a picture of a “one way” street leading to a
“dead end” sign, with the DOC orange razor wire gates at the
end of the street. The car is a whiskey bottle, with a crazy
looking dude driving on top of it; very simple but true. The
caption read, “Boy, you’re going to carry that weight a long
time”. I ended up getting second prize in the state inmate
contest. If this were made into a TV cartoon, with the Beatles
music behind it, it could reach a lot of youth. It hasn’t
happened- yet.
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 When I reflect on all the prayers being said, on my behalf by
my friends, I realize how loved I truly am. If God is Love,
then there is only Love. It’s what we all seek, sometimes find
for awhile, struggle to hold onto and often, only see it slip
away again. But do we ever really lose love? I don’t think so.
Love seems to play hide and seek, constantly changing forms
to make the game more enticing. Here I am. Can you
recognize me now? I know now that only complete love for
my real, eternal Self can bring the psychic change I need to
recover. Recover- what a word. I’m just trying to recover my
Self, which has never left me, but only been forgotten. I can
never recover my lost past, except in distorted memories,
which totally seem like a dream now. In writing this book, it is
hard to believe that this story was ever my life. I still have that
burning desire to express love, despite this often, negative
prison environment. I’ve always loved life deeply, and I knew
that at an early age, until I let alcohol delude me into thinking I
was incapable of ever giving or receiving true love. So, how
can you mend a broken heart? Was I just a hopeless romantic
in love with love? Maybe I can mend by realizing that my
heart’s breaking was all part of an expanding process, to hold
even more love. I feel too that our loved ones never really
leave us. What we loved in them is right within us, in our own
hearts. What we loved in them is merely a reflection of our
own true Self. We are all a part of God, looking at and loving
Himself.
It’s common knowledge that life has certain critical
moments- call them turning points, where lifelong decisions
are made. I know when I first saw a picture of Ringo’s Ludwig
drum set, taken from behind in a1963 Life magazine, that my
life would never be the same. I hadn’t even heard the Beatles’
music yet, but something clicked. I often wonder how my life
would have turned out if I’d chosen an art history career over
the music business. Music and drugs had such a strong hold
over me during my formative years that I was propelled to
accept an enabling job that would keep me in semi-poverty and
active addiction. Music can definitely be like a very powerful
drug, to a musician.
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 Jolene wrote me a couple of letters that really hit home. I
wish to quote her words directly from a letter dated 9/23/03: “I
too wish you could have had more years with Joyce - but above
and beyond that, I wish you could have had a more loving
family - period. My brother survived the same ‘no love’ abuse
from our father as you did yours. It is a horrible life to endure
that mental torture. We can all be thankful for our Real friends
that we encounter in life - these people are our Real family.”
More insight of our divorce was revealed when she wrote on
9/5/03: “The message you wrote about your mother was
touching. I had no idea she tried to commit suicide after I left
you. I do know that if I had been accepted into your family
(meaning your Mother and Father) that the chances of me
staying would have increased a hundredfold. I always knew
they hated me. I never knew exactly why. Because I was born
Catholic I guess. I had hoped when they met my Mom and
Dad that they would see that I was from a good family and
things would change. They did not. They treated me like an
outcast piece of shit - always. I tried so hard to get points by
giving your mother beautiful gifts and she would give me in
return, How to Cook a Bear - a pamphlet on cooking bear meat,
and we were vegetarians - for Christmas. It doesn’t get much
worse than that. The next year your mother and Joyce went in
together and got me a manicure set that cost five dollars. They
may as well have slapped me in the face. Remember our
wedding gift from your mom and dad? That is the classic
moment in time that I will never forget - suspended in space for
eternity for me to replay whenever my brain requests it - your
Dad moving over to the little cabinet where he had his check
book and writing us a check…How awful…” These quotes
just reaffirm what lost, dysfunctional parents I had. On 4/15/04,
I received another letter from Jolene with further insights about
my parents. She wrote this letter from Iowa where she was
visiting her own parents. She expressed her parents’ love for
me still, after all of these years. Then her dad yelled out, after
she read my letter aloud for them, “Rob never had parents even
when they were alive.” Now that’s a heavy one. I think if
Joyce had lived, many things might have been different. I
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might not have felt so orphaned, and possibly wouldn’t have
developed full-blown alcoholism. What if? The need for a
family is a basic human necessity. So many souls are deprived
of that basic factor. It’s no wonder we have so many lost souls
wandering through life, looking for answers in drugs, alcohol,
religion and relationships. Had things been different, like if I’d
been straight and “normal,” maybe a career in art history could
have given me better financial security, with a teaching
position in some big city or college. I’ll never know, for I
didn’t choose the high road, but the low. Music just possessed
my heart and soul. That damn beat had me. And that, for good
or bad, was the path I chose. “My life has been a song,” to
quote those Bee Gees, but a song I’ve always tried to sing from
the heart, even when going through the turning points.
Even though I lost Mom back in 1984, my second mother,
Leona [Jolene’s mom] has always come through for me. She
has never forgotten my birthday, being a fellow Pisces, or to
send me a Christmas card each year, usually with money
enclosed. She always makes me feel loved, remembered and
special in her kind inspiring words. Isn’t that a mother’s job?
Before my mother died, she said, “You won’t even think about
me when I’m gone.” As the years pass by, she is proven right.
Memory seems to keep more of the good than the bad. Emma
Morell, up in Surrey, British Columbia, always said she was
my Black mother. Remember, she and Henry Morell were the
transplanted Fijians, responsible for me touring their island
paradise in 1979. I’ve lost contact with them since my divorce
from Joya. I know Emma would be very upset, if she knew her
White son was in prison. So God has provided me with semi-
surrogate mothers, always showing me unconditional love
where my own mother failed. Yogananda said that a lack of
love often results in alcoholism. How that hits home, or better,
lack of a home right now.

I must set some….

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 Do I need goals? Years ago, I read a quote by silent Baba
Hari Das, “A Yogi has no future.” This may have helped me to
stay Now-orientated, but failed to provide guidance for the
popular Five Year Goal Plan. I’ve never considered myself
much of a high achiever, alpha-dog personality. Being a Pisces
water sign, I’ve preferred to just kind of go with the flow. But
now faced with prison time to reflect on my past, I see I must
set some achievable goals for my future, both materially and
spiritually. Maybe these goals will manifest or possibly change
over time. I don’t know. Anything can happen. But for now,
my Number One Goal is sobriety at all costs. Just to accept life
on life’s terms, not altered thorough drugs or alcohol. I never
want to lose sight of my Higher Self again. I must daily
remember surrender to God- here, now, always. I never want
to take anything for granted ever again, knowing well that the
rug could be pulled out from under me at any moment. Om
Namah Shivaya - Thy will be done Lord, not mine.
Goal Number Two is to think before speaking. My tongue
has gotten me in about as much trouble as alcohol, but without
the legal ramifications. My judgmental thoughts about others
have been expressed verbally too many times, and the result
was only pain to me and others. My mouth has often been very
cutting and cynical. I know that. I learned a lot of this style
from my mom and the shredder peer group I hung out with in
high school. I only see what I don’t like in others, because it is
in me or I wouldn’t even see it! You had better watch your
mouth in prison and don’t talk shit or the consequences could
be disastrous. So now, I’m trying harder to think before I
speak or act. That Christian concept of the Trinity of God -
Father, Son and Holy Ghost - can well be interpreted as
thought, speech and action, for that seems to be how the divine
manifests in daily earth life.
I took note of a poster in classroom 4 here. It read, “Your
time, their future.” An 800 toll-free number will put me in
touch with an organization designed to help young people learn
about the destructive lifestyle of substance abuse from
prisoners like myself. Far out… here is Goal Number Three.
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I’d so like to share my experience of heaven and hell, in hopes
that maybe somebody could learn from my downfall and be
wise enough not to make the same choices I did. Maybe I
should publish my book? I plan to get in touch with schools
and churches in Colville. I’d like to try to reach today’s
generation of kids. It would be fun to play some songs on
guitar, as most kids like live music, and tell of my musical
career. Then I could explain how the pattern of addiction
became a life-style. In short, how I got into it and ways to get
out, before one falls to the depths of prison.
Goal Number Four, sorely needed by my soul, is to perform
music again. I could be a drummer in a band or a one-man act
on guitar, or maybe both. We’ll see. Music has always been
my first love and passion. I feel it’s my gift from God. This
goal I definitely plan to express and manifest. It is what I was
born to do. I’ve now written close to twenty original songs and
I’m still writing here in prison. This is only a beginning, I
realize, but I plan to keep singing and writing. Nowadays, I
don’t hear much on the radio I like, so I might as well pen
something I do like.
My ongoing Goal Number Five goes without mention -
continued communication and healing with my son, Sri Ram. I
can’t even begin to imagine how deeply I’ve hurt him, through
my many wrong choices and selfish sick behavior. Possibly
Sri and I will enter the sacred tipi again, as he has suggested.
Let our healing continue on deeper levels, one way or another.
This may come to pass. When I reflect on the four church
peyote meetings that Joya and I sponsored, to set young Sri’s
life on a good path, I bow in gratitude to Creator for hearing
and answering our family prayers. The Native American
Church, with peyote as the sacrament, is by far the most real
and powerful church that I’ve ever encountered. In all of my
years of spiritual searching, the answers were just behind that
canvas tipi door, with the sacred fire, holy water, blessed
medicine and tobacco rolled in corn husks taking my prayers to
the Source of all life. It’s been said that the tipi is Divine
Mother’s breast. How true that is. I’ve always felt that I was
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 finally Home, being nurtured, when I’ve participated in
ceremony there.
So for now, these are the tangible goals that I’ve set for
myself upon release from prison. A yogi may not have a future,
but it doesn’t hurt to have some goals, whether they come true
or not. It gives one direction and something to work towards.
If God is Love, then I’ve been searching for it all over the
place. “How long ‘til my soul gets it right?” sing Indigo Girls.
How true. After some childhood affection from my parents,
which was usually packaged in the form of gifts or lessons -
“See how much we love you, Rob?” - I felt what I would term
Love in music- especially in the early Beatles’ raw music.
Playing and creating music is definitely a spiritual experience.
Any real musician knows this already. Music is a divine act in
which we most closely approach God. I became devoted to
music goddess Saraswati early on and still am. I don’t deny
this, no way. When songs hit my heart and make me cry, I feel
the touch of God. That’s why I love Willie Nelson and George
Harrison’s songs so much. They do that for me. These guys
are as deep and simple as they come. Many might disagree
with me, but this is my story and my truth. I own up to it.
“Follow your Bliss,” was Joseph Campbell’s mantra. I
mistakenly thought Bliss could be found in drugs and alcohol,
only to be shown briefly the light, and then thrown into the pits
of darkness for decades. True love and bliss sure weren’t
found down this destructive path. I’ve tried to be honest in the
role drugs and alcohol has played in my life. It’s been my
cross to bear, as a psychic pointed out years earlier. It was
important for me to be honest in relating all the drug stories, as
weird and bizarre as some of them are, so I could clearly see
the progression and reality of the disease of substance abuse.
For many years, I definitely had my love affair with altered
states, always looking for lost love outside of myself, instead of
inside.
So let’s try travel, a la Marco Polo. Maybe love is in another
part of our world. After traveling to nineteen foreign countries,
no matter where I went, there I was- still Rob, in a different
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stage play. The educational value of foreign travel is priceless
beyond words, but love was fleeting again. These people were
at home, loving it totally, while I watched them alone in my
head. I could see love in those dark shiny eyes of the Hindus
and Fijians. Did they know something I didn’t? Is this world
of illusion some kind of divine joke where everybody knows
the answer but me? Sometimes life can feel that way. I often
envied the poor of India and Fiji. They really had nothing, but
they have love. They have everything. So did I, if I could
realize it. Quit playing hide and seek with me, Divine Mother.
Reveal Thyself.
After thirty plus years of vegetarianism, I’ve found a
profound love for good healthy food and resulting better health.
I’ve really hardly ever been sick a day in my life. Knock on
wood. When many get the flu and the famous common cold, it
seems to pass me by. I believe that all illness is spiritually
based denial, in one form or another. We actually fear waking
up and we make ourselves sick, unknowingly. Sickness is a cry
for healing and help and often attention too. We even choose to
kill ourselves at some point. Don’t be shocked. That’s just
how it happens. Accidents are the same way. And I know that
from personal experience. I realize this view is highly
debatable, but who really knows? Do the doctors know? Give
me a break. My ol’ man was one and he didn’t know the first
thing about health but only drugs, as that’s the way of Western
medicine. If you succumb to their beliefs, you will be dead or
a slave to your health insurance premiums. Anyway, I
sincerely believe a vegetarian diet can increase your love of life,
by generating higher energy into the heart chakra. Jesus and all
yogi masters know this. Heavy meat eating and dead food
traps the cosmic life force into the lower three nerve centers of
our being. In a nutshell, the first center, or chakra, deals with
survival and self defense, and is located at the base of the spine.
The second chakra is sexual and sensual feelings, located in
the lower back, behind the genitals. Number three is power
and ego-power, located behind the solar plexus or navel. We
all live most of our lives trapped in these three centers of
consciousness, our lower ego self. When the energy moves up
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 to the fourth center, the “Christ heart” in the center of our
chests, we experience love and compassion. The remaining
three higher centers lead to psychic vision and ultimate
enlightenment. From personal experience or self-realization,
the vegetarian diet doesn’t keep one trapped as much in the
lower self. Much more love is experienced in your life and
heart, along with resulting better health. All of this is Basic
Yoga 101. The skinny will survive. Psychedelic drugs can
raise the spinal energy, or kundalini force, to those higher
centers. The trap is that they won’t keep you there and you may
lose your mind. You’ve got to get there naturally, not via
chemicals. Alcohol too may temporarily touch the heart center,
as many sentimental drunks know. Usually however, you’ll
plummet down into those lower centers, where the Higher Self
is not heard at all. So, if you are what you eat and think and
the temple of God is your body, I highly advocate proper
nutrition as an aid toward Self-Realization. Take the time to
try it and see your Self. I chose to eat the turkey DOC diet here,
as I needed to break my mold of, “I’ll never eat meat again”
vegetarianism. Now, I can choose to be a vegetarian again, like
I was for thirty years, or eat meat occasionally, if I so choose;
it’s all about moderation, anyway. And it is definitely about
elimination too. What goes in must come out. I’m dogmatic
about this. So if you’ve learned to fulfill your body’s needs
with proper nutrition and fiber, you’ll eliminate daily all of
yesterday’s consumptions. You won’t be carrying around a lot
of garbage inside of you, in more ways than one. Correct
balance of assimilation and elimination is optimum health.
Your body will tell you all of this, if you learn to listen to it.
You’ll feel much lighter and brighter too, in the long run; like a
humming bird. You will literally vibrate on a higher dimension.
You might be glowing.
I love to read, but could I find love in books? As a young
child, I had a difficult time learning to read. My worried
parents got me a subscription to Weekly Readers’ Children’s
Book Club. Each month, I ran to greet the postman as he
delivered my latest cardboard box containing a new read. I
learned quickly now to read and fell head over heels in love
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with books and the escape they provided from my parents’
constant fighting. Books took me to distant lands that I would
someday visit. They planted seeds in my head. They also
educated me on many subjects and helped lead me toward my
spiritual quest for God. However, painted cakes don’t satisfy
hunger. On the spiritual path, books can show the way, but
then comes a time to lay them aside, listen to your inner voice
and walk your talk. Attachment to books can cause
fundamentalism. After over three decades of reading spiritual
material, I should have a degree in comparative religions. So
now in prison, as an escape, I indulge in simple novels. Many
of them touch on spiritual matters too, but not to the extent of
reading the words of self-realized masters like Yogananda.
Words from souls who really know God can touch the heart
center deeply, awakening sleeping love.
Relating love to the various women in my life, both ex-wives
included, I must say singer/songwriter Gram Parsons coined it
best, when he penned the song, Love Hurts. Love relationships
certainly have in my case. But the joy of love in a special
relationship was still worth all the pain. I have loved most all
of the women I’ve previously written about, in one way or
another. Each certainly taught me more about myself and God
and my weak points in relationships. Love takes many forms
and I was deceived to think that one form could last forever.
Forever always changes. After losing the physical form of all
the girls I’ve loved before, and a few that I didn’t mention too,
I’m still left with many memories of love in my heart. That
love I’d looked for in women was to be found in my own heart.
I was really looking for me, mistakenly in another. Love is
never lost, as it’s all there is, when everything else is gone.
The concept of soul mates and twin flames can be confusing,
however. I believe now that we all have many soul mates, not
just one. These are often the loved ones we’ve shared many
incarnations with, doing it again until we get it right. And we
somehow always find each other, to finish the karma of our
unresolved love. Then when our work is finally completed, the
relationship may terminate- i.e., divorce or possibly death. The
only true soul mate is our own Higher Self- the unchanging
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 soul, the Christ Self or what Hindus call, Shiva. This is what I
mistakenly sought for in women. Another soul can never make
you fully complete. Only two whole souls can come together
as one, in holy relationships. In special relationships,
fragmented people think another can make them whole, only to
find out when they’re alone, that they’re still fragmented, not
whole. Get whole or holy and the whole holy world is yours.
I do miss the joy of sharing life with a complementary
female and maybe it will happen again someday. Who knows?
I’m not ruling it out but I need to be a whole person first or the
same mistakes will repeat themselves again. With Lyn, I have
a ray of hope. Only time will tell, if she feels the same way as
I do. We’re all doing time, not only those of us here in prison.
Yogananda said, “God, Guru, and Self are one.” Now that’s
far out! So the love I’ve always felt for Babaji, divinity made
flesh, and Yogananda and Jesus, is really the love for my own
Self. As Babaji said, “I choose only a few,” and that
realization came upon me, as I sat as the twelfth disciple in His
camp at the Kumbha Mela festival of ten million holy men and
seekers. I’ve been so blessed! God has let me see and
experience so much in my lifetime, both good and bad. This
attitude of gratitude has helped me immensely in prison. I’m
finally grateful to be who I am. I’m even grateful for this
prison experience.
Sometimes I wonder why I’ve had so many troubles,
amongst all of my life experiences. I once read that if your
evolutionary need should require it, you might be harassed by
troubles to make you less attached to the world. Sickness,
similarly, can make you less attached to the body. This often
happens much more to people on the spiritual quest, as they
have asked or prayed for speedier development. Fellow
inmates often ask me why I’m in prison, if I know so much
about the spiritual path. Boy that one hurts! I didn’t correctly
apply what I knew to be true. I failed to “walk my talk,” a real
spiritual hypocrite. Shame on me! However, the real I just
watches, forgives my mistakes, and continually teaches, as He
leads me on to greater awareness in this divine melodrama.
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Many Hindu holy men claim that the Lord can be worshipped
with form (personal) or without form (impersonal). God
doesn’t care, but worship is essential to knowing Him. It
purifies the heart. Ever since seeing my first Hindu calendar
picture of Lord Shiva, I’ve been drawn to that image of God.
Shiva is cool. He has incredible hair, looks beautiful, loves
music, and is all powerful. Babaji in human form had all of
these traits. You become what you worship, so I still go with
the Shiva. Shiva is an original word for the Self. Therefore, I
am Shiva, in a sense, and so are you. Many have told me that
I’m crazy. Yeah, just like a fox. But I’ve been crazy for God
my whole life, in a good way.
When a light shines in darkness, the darkness comprehends it
not. Also, it takes One to know One, if you know what I mean.
Organized Churchianity has been a thorn in my side since
becoming a “Christian,” long ago back in the Superior Cleaner
coffee shop monastery at age nineteen. I have continually let
myself be drawn into arguments over the Jesus, only Son of
God issue. How people can be so naïve, to believe that only
one spoke on the wheel of life can lead to the center, is beyond
me. The Jesus spoke is only a different path. All paths lead to
God, as all spokes lead to the center. He designed the game
that way. So find your spoke and stick with it. Whatever
works? Please don’t damn the other spokes to eternal hell,
whatever that means, or deny their reality. I do love Jesus,
don’t get me wrong. I’ll always consider him my first guru.
As he is the Voice for A Course in Miracles, I even feel closer
to him now than ever. Jesus emphasized that we too are the
Sons of God, not just him alone. Christians seem to
misunderstand this point, preferring to worship the waiter,
Jesus, and his menu, the Bible, over actually eating the food,
God. Do I make myself clear? Jesus showed his path to
Christhood, as Shiva and peyote show their paths to Self-
realization. It was Paul who introduced the belief that Jesus
died for our sins. I feel as if I’ve already died for my own sins
here in prison and have been resurrected into a much greater
awareness of the Christ self. The teachings of Jesus are valid.
All of the other stuff is just an ego ploy distraction, to keep
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 separation going. The popular ‘60’s expression was, “You do
your thing and I’ll do mine.” But let’s love each other along the
way as ourselves, honoring diversity- not separation, as we
trudge the spiritual path together. We really are all in this
game together and no one gets left behind. Life is a big “do-it-
yourself kit”, with everybody waiting for you to figure it out.
I have a lot of free time here to write letters. It’s so great to
get a response from my friends when they finally do write back.
Love expressed in a letter. Of course, I live in a time warp here,
kind of like a conscious coma. Lyn wrote, “how precious time
is out in the ‘real world’ and how ‘much time’ I have here
being confined.” A blessing of incarceration is how much
more now time I seem to have, as life inside is so simple
without a lot of duties, worries and responsibilities. I think
most everybody could benefit from a stay in prison, especially
the judges, police and attorneys who assisted in putting us here.
As Joseph Campbell said, “This moment now is the heavenly
moment.” So indirectly, if I stay focused, I often get a glimpse
of that heavenly moment- a holy instant in the here and now of
the Department of Corrections.
Ever since my out of the body encounter with Yogananda in
1970, I’ve had no fear of death. I know I am an eternal soul
who lives in a body, the true temple of God. Even during
incredible drunken blackouts, depression and car wrecks, I
feared not dying. Martin Luther King, Jr. stated, at a civil
rights rally in 1963, that no man is really free if he fears death.
He said that the minute you conquer the fear of death, you find
freedom. Looking back at my life, there were many times I
was close to death. Subconsciously, I’d wanted to die over the
losses and pain in my life. I just couldn’t see any way out of
the horrible mess I’d created. I was afraid to live, not die.
Because of alcohol, I never really processed a lot of the pain in
my heart correctly. I’ve always felt things very deeply, like
I’m too sensitive. I know now that I am empathic. Drinking
helped numb these deep feelings. I drunkenly cried alone for
years, thinking that would help somehow. But it didn’t, and I
pretty much gave up the fight, feeling I had nothing to live for.
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 Sentimentality is akin to wallowing. Friends told me to live
for my son; a son I hardly saw or really know. As God seems
to still want me around a bit longer, I plan to get off the pity
pot of the past and enjoy the future possibilities of my life,
goals and son. If all things truly work towards the good, then
maybe the best is yet to come. That’s certainly a hopeful
thought from where I sit here in prison. So now I’ll strive to
become as a little child, to enter the kingdom of God. If we
stay childlike in awe and wonder of this universe, we don’t
really age. I’ll always remember the ancient sadhu I’d met in
Herakhan, who was well over ninety years old but still looked
and acted like sixty. That’s my goal - forever young - Eternal
Shiva. You are as young as you feel and, somehow, I’ve
always felt young- even in prison with graying hair. At least,
I’ve still got some and it’s still growing.
I discovered from doing a self-diagnostic personality test, in
a quirky little book entitled The Animal in You, that I most
resemble an owl. At least that’s another raptor, like my red
tailed hawk totem. Under “Advice for an Owl” I was told to
share my wisdom. It’s my path to immortality. Well, I do
know a wee bit about music. To repeat, I often strongly feel
God’s presence in music. I wish more people did. But I
basically took a sabbatical from music in prison. Old songs
just stir up old memories and there are already a lot of old
memories coming up here in my head, without music
stimulating more. Since returning from India, I hadn’t played
music as often as I would have liked. Then, I couldn’t seem to
find any gigs that liked my songs anyway. I was basically tired
of music, jaded by it. I had a lifetime of it already and had lived
many of the songs I’d sung. Today’s music just saddens me. It
seems to mirror a world of shopping malls, credit cards, breast
implants and sex and drug related crime. One journalist
described it as 7/11 music- you basically mumble seven words
repeatedly, while you scratch your gentle area eleven times.
Sweet! Many of today’s singers are freaking clones. They all
have that American Idol style of emotional wailing, linked to a
hip-hop bass thump. As for the capital C in country, it got
buried long before Johnny Cash died. Most of what passes for
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 country today sounds likes pseudo rock and roll with a steel
guitar. So I chose not to buy a radio with headphones here. I
would give music a rest for now. However, it is hard to totally
escape it, even here. Working at Auto Auction, I heard songs
blaring from various car stereo systems. A lot of inmates love
to rock out when they work. One day, as I was extracting dirt
from floor mats, bent over and sweating my guts out, I heard
My Sweet Lord. I crawled into the back seat and hid. Then I
broke down and cried alone. This divine song by George
Harrison was always my number one favorite. I’d seen
Yogananda during this song. Today, here at Auto Auction, it
brought on an emotional release. I realized again just how
deeply I love God and music. They are one and the same to me.
I didn’t want to let myself enjoy music in this strange time
warp, but it was happening to me anyway. How could I not
enjoy God? I vowed then and there that I would always try my
best to play songs from my heart when I get out. And I would
sing too from my heart, with greater depth and seasoning from
all of these life experiences. Singing from the heart would
become my path for connecting with the inner Self. Give me
my dotara.
Music is sound and all sound vibrations stem from Om, the
Cosmic Intelligent Vibration or Voice of Spirit. There is so
much good music, of such variety, that it’s overwhelming. We
really don’t need any new music, if we took the time to review
all the past songs. Today’s youth probably wouldn’t agree with
me, but what do they know? Their karma didn’t let them
incarnate as budding hippies back in the cosmic days of good
hash, LSD, Vietnam and the British invasion of music gods.
Today’s music gods make money, not music. The beat goes on.
The beat in New Age music isn’t as obvious but it’s there. I
was buying my first albums up at the Banyan Bookstore in
West Vancouver around 1970. Sadly, that is one city I’ll never
be able visit again, due to this DUI. Canada, where I spent so
much time, will not allow felons of any kind. So let it go, Rob.
Anyway, the healing vibration of music in various cultures has
always interested me. The seven keys correspond to the seven
spinal centers or chakras in our bodies, of which I’ve already
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spoken about. There is a lot to be said about the science of
sound. I know, as I’ve personally chanted holy songs alone or
occasionally in groups for nearly forty years. I was using
hemi-synch tapes and meditation tones long before they came
into mainstream use. And I love the pagans of India, as they
hold the handle on chanting God’s many incredible names in
tongues that ring beautiful to the ear. Chanting the names of
the Lord is very high yoga. You don’t really need any
instruments. The human voice will do the trick quite nicely,
especially if it is filled with devotion. God loves everybody’s
voice.
Show me your records, tapes, CD’s, DVD’s and books or
tattoos, and I’ll give you a reading. Any sensitive borderline
psychic can do that. Everybody has their favorites, including
me, and they reveal who you are. Willie Nelson has deeply
touched my heart with his voice, words and bumble bee
sounding guitar. He is controversial, no doubt about that -
either you love him or you don’t - period. George Harrison’s
songs take my soul straight to God. He’s the heavy one in my
book. And Jimmy Buffet’s music reminds me of the loose,
carefree lifestyle I experienced across our country and in
Banana Republics - a love for altered states in tropical places,
with couples in and out of love. In Michael Keaton’s movie,
Jack Frost, his son asks him, a musician, if all musicians are
flakey. Keaton replied that it was mostly drummers. That hurt
to hear but I know drummers are a breed of their own, a
musician’s best friend. Most good drummers are definitely
intense. We have to be, to kick ass on time all night. My God,
we are the spark plug of the band! But never think the music
business is easy. Maybe fun, but never easy. I’ve driven
thousands of miles just to stay working, packed heavy
equipment too many times and uprooted my home front for a
song. The tavern environment is like playing in hell. Drunks
and smoke are what you play your beloved songs to. After the
song is sung, it will never be remembered. But another song is
waiting to be sung. Many musicians, like me, became
alcoholics as an occupational hazard of this business. Many
died too. The heavy second hand smoke and my screaming of
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 popular rock songs nearly ruined my vocal chords during the
‘80’s. After seeing an ear, nose and throat specialist, I was
informed that surgery could be very risky. Voice lessons were
sorely needed instead. I learned to sing in the lower keys,
where I should have been in the first place. Also, going to bed
at 4 a.m. and sleeping until noon is not really in synch with the
natural laws of creation. It takes its toll on musicians. Now, I
love getting up early and sleeping at night, instead of vice versa.
Being in a band is also like being married to a bunch of cats.
Musicians tend to have strong egos and band practice can
become real work, before a song is actually played. In many
ways, I now prefer to play solo, like I did at the treatment
center. I’ve paid my dues to music and bands. I spent nearly
every week or weekend of near thirty years singing my ass off.
Who even remembers or cares? Maybe some scutter who hears
Sunday Morning Coming Down on a juke box, and flashes on a
Bellingham hippie singing that song once long ago, when he
was drunk in a bar on the Canadian border. I’ll surely never
know. However, if asked, I’d probably do it all over again-
with quite a few changes, of course.
I’m still processing the shame and low self esteem I harbor,
from eking out a living doing menial low-paying jobs, resulting
from a lack of choosing a better, more stable career than music.
But music let me sing and that’s what I love. I was once told,
by an ex-girlfriend, that singing will keep you young. She too
sang and looked wonderful. The human voice is the ultimate
instrument. I don’t mean this egotistically, but my voice has
made people break down and cry a few times. I fondly
remember a peyote girl named Brigetta who had this power. I
think the Indians call it a “crier.” That makes sense. It’s the
power of the Holy Spirit channeled through a human voice.
You may not know the words, but you will feel the meaning,
right in your heart while shedding tears.
I’m eternally grateful for God’s Grace and His divine
messengers in my life. For years, I was absorbed in
worshipping Yogananda, Babaji and Jesus for protection and
guidance. Even though I never spent time with them on the
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physical dimension, by tuning into their vibration, I still feel
blessed, guided – if I would listen - and protected. This became
the functional family I was seeking, for the parental guidance I
lacked. One pitfall was too much emotional fixation on the
guru. The answer is not outside but always inside. That is what
the guru is always trying to tell us, but it is often easy to get
hung up on their beautiful pictures. Having Yogananda’s
darshan in 1970 was the awakening in my life and a major
turning point. This was divine Grace, giving me a temporary
glimpse of the goal- a sense of the right direction and
inspiration to continue on the Quest.
And what a Quest it has been. My high school annual
burned up in the house fire of 1987. But under my picture, it
read, “Goals- to go to college, get good grades and be free of
the man.” The “man” referred to the system- the one that now
has turned arid Arizona into a penal state, where I’m presently
incarcerated. Of course, I realize that I must cooperate with
man’s laws. But having accomplished my first two high school
goals, I plan now to succeed in freedom from “the man.” I
now interpret “the man” to be illusion or what the Hindus call
Maya. The truth is simple- do you want ego or God, truth or
illusion? That’s all our choices really boil down to. I choose
truth over illusion, as I stumble towards the light.

Before I leave….

I remember in the early 1980’s, arguing with my parents;

we’d all been drinking. Mom shouted to my dad, “Rob’s dye
has been cast!” She was referring to my lifestyle of addiction-
to pot, alcohol and, of course, music. She tried to warn me
earlier about my Scottish-Irish predisposition to alcohol. “Be
careful. This disease runs in your veins.” “But I’m not sick,”
said my mind in denial. Hell, I was having way too much fun
to be sick. Now I see clearly just how very sick I’ve been, for
many, many years. I must break this mold, if it’s the last thing
I do. To quote holy man Dick Gregory, whom I heard speak
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 back in’79, “When you gonna wake up? Y’all gotta lot of
work to do!”
Thoughts continually flood my mind here, so I write them
down. When I look in the mirror after my morning ritual
shower, I see a heavy looking face, especially around my eyes.
For too many years, I got away with looking many years
younger than I am. I’m not so sure anymore. I prized my self-
image as a free spirit, loose but free of so much of the BS that
traps society. That’s why I liked alcohol. I thought I was still
hip as shit, when I was a drunken asshole- so sad. Now my
aging face shows it. I’m getting those Willie Nelson eyes. I
cling to A Course in Miracles like a lifeline, to teach me who I
really am; not bodies with an aging face, but eternally the holy
Son of God Himself.
The negativity of this place is something. You’ve gotta be
strong everyday and every moment against all the sick vibes
here- mental and emotional children expressing their
frustrations and so caught up in their egos. So off to class I go
again, where everybody hates being there but me, it seems. I
want every tool available for continued recovery. Keeping my
sobriety here is easy, but keeping my sanity is another story
and daily chore. It is almost over.
I just got big news today. My interstate compact between
Washington and Arizona has been approved! My CPO said
they may roll me up even earlier than April 14. Wow, that’s
exciting. We just called the DOC central office and are now
awaiting more signatures. Then I will know for sure. To top
this news off, gray-haired Bryan over in pod 2A just told me
that Jim Morrison is alive in Chile! He claims to have met Jim
many years ago there. Boy, that’s a good one.
What a shocker! I get rolled up this Tuesday, March 29,
2005 instead of April 14. Lyn had always said that she would
be there to pick me up on my release day, wearing my Om ring.
Things did not work out that way. She was unable to pick me
up, so I called Roderick, Sri’s step dad, and he said he would
come for me on my momentous day. Tony had written that he
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would drive down and pick me and my possessions up, for the
trip back to Washington. Ironically, Tony was already here in
Phoenix for his father’s birthday. So, I called our mutual
friend Mark to get Tony’s father’s phone number.
“Hello, Mark, this is Rob. I’m calling from prison to see if
you have Tony’s dad’s phone number. I need to get hold of
him right away.”
“Tony is standing right next to me, Rob, as we speak. Here,
talk to him.”
Tony arranged to borrow Mark’s van in Phoenix and cancel
his flight back to Washington. Now, he would not have to fly
back to Washington, and then drive down to Arizona again, to
drive me back to Washington. Sound confusing? This is where
the rules of getting out can get tricky. If I did not have a
specified ride on my release date, I would be kept here for a
longer period of time and lose my early bird release option. So
it all worked out great, just as God had planned it. Now, we
seem to be having another major lockdown. The cops are all in
black tee shirts with tactical team written on their backs,
shaking us down big time. This is no problem for me, however.
I am almost laughing, as I’m nearly finished with all of this
prison bullshit.
Before I leave, I still have a few more reflections on Dorm 2,
Pod B. Elmer is a gray-haired Navajo, about my age and a
Vietnam vet. He is a strange guy. Always itching himself and
constantly rubbing some sort of skin cream all over, like
always; did he get into some agent orange? We’re all orange
here, of course, but that Chief is too much. Another speedy
Navajo is Ashley. He seems to always be shitting, like fifteen
times a day and even at 2 a.m. - probably from laxatives. He
then takes a shower at 3:30 a.m. Even at Phoenix West in my
dorm, he was first in the shower at that ungodly hour, then
walking quickly, faster than me actually, wherever he goes.
Weird inmate Bob, the Colorado atheist, hasn’t spoken to me in
over a week now. He has no friends here and probably has
very few on the outside. It is easy to see why. The crazy
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 Italian Bernard – AKA – wing nut, nutmeg and screw loose,
wants my bunk when I leave. He only sleeps two hours a night,
but nobody ever sees that. Poor Bernard is always pacing
around, with only three more years to go. I see that old fat Gary
and overweight Dogfish are still studying the chow menu.
They’ll eat anything anyway, so why even look at the menu?
Then there are the Satanic Nazis here. They hate America and
would rather live in some foreign land where life is better.
Their eyebrows are already shaved off, of course, and lots of
tattoos are prevalent on their bodies. These kids, which range
in age from about twenty-three to twenty-seven years old, all
hang out together like a pack of wild dogs; how ironic. Is there
any hope for healing our world with you youth like these dudes?
They even laugh at the word God. Wow, have they ever got a
lot to learn… maybe here?
Now I only have twenty-seven more hours to go! I’m the
most envied inmate here. I have earned it! I gave my shampoo
and chips to Joseph, another longhaired hippie. I gave my
coffee to black Foster and returned some books to other friends.
Now I have all of my class certificates to show my parole
officer. I also have many class certificates from Phoenix West
too. So now, I am excited! How could I not be after twenty-
five months and five days down? I just gave my stinger, to heat
hot water, to “hard drive” Jerry, my young neighbor. His
mother is crazy and institutionalized again; these poor kids
have a rough road ahead of them. God bless them all. I feel
like I could have helped so many here to “wake up”, if they’d
desired to really face their denial. Each soul awakens when he
chooses. It sure took me a very long time! And like I learned,
it usually takes a tragedy to really change. Yet through all of
this, I can honestly and truly say, “Thank you Lord for this
experience and for your guidance and protection through it all.
Amen”.
Before getting out, I still have a few last thoughts, like to
know yourself, you have to know your past. This book has
been my attempt to do just that, for myself, my son and my
friends. Sacajewea felt that the past is never past- it comes
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back to sit with you. Writing has become therapy, to help me
see my past and sort out things in my mind. Writing this book
was both fun and difficult and at times, heart wrenching. I
encountered many mental blocks on certain names and dates.
Through prayer, the correct answer always came. In my
attempt to tell my story, I tried to do it justice, but somehow it
still seems lacking. I have literally relived my life many times
during the years it took to write and rewrite my memories. It
was often very painful to realize what a loser I’ve been- a
spiritual fool and now a convict, with mucho regrets over
wasted mistakes and misguided time. As my divine vision in
1970 was an awakening point in my life, my divorce from Joya
was a turning point downward, but not her fault by any means.
After the house fire, Sri’s birth, my near death accident and
loss of my home again, I really didn’t know if I could go on.
Everything I had worked for was suddenly destroyed or taken
from me. Sometimes, I feel I never should have come to
Arizona to be near Sri. I should have bit the bullet years ago,
over my estranged relationship with my son, and lived my life
up in Washington. Maybe I wouldn’t be here in prison now;
maybe or maybe not. I kind of regret too that I don’t really
have a home anymore. I have to create that now. Bellingham
was a magical town to grow up in during the 1950’s and
1960’s- a virtual paradise on many levels. We had
international Vancouver, B.C. only an hour north and
progressive Seattle south of us. Three hundred San Juan
Islands sat west of Bellingham Bay and Mount Baker graced
the eastern morning sunrise. With a population of only 35,000,
Bellingham had a small town feel, where people were friendly
and very hip. I’ll always feel that the music from northwest
bands was exceptional and way ahead of other states.
Bellingham was my childhood Liverpool, but now Colville
looks like the Promised Land. It really doesn’t matter much to
me where I live anymore. Like they say, “Home is where the
heart is,” so wherever I’m at, I’m home. However, a cabin in
the woods or a rustic farmhouse still sounds very tempting.
I still have regrets over my father’s death. I tried so hard to
get it right with him before he crossed over. Then I became a
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 drunken dad, a forgotten father just like my own dad. How
does one “Be Happy?” I realize that I can’t recover my
childhood or find my home in the past; I can only forgive my
perceptions and memories of it, to find true happiness. That is
all I really want, for myself and everybody.
My mom once told Jolene’s mother, Leona, that I had an
inner strength to spring back from anything, like a cat. Leona
wrote me this, many years after my mom’s passing. Only
acting on knowledge and living each moment in love will let
me achieve my goals. My true goals have always been
spiritual in nature- just to be a real human being. In closing,
my life has truly been a tapestry of turning points. Some of
these turning points have been magical and many turned out to
be tragic. My magical ones would include seeing The Beatles
three times and experiencing the cosmic ‘60’s, traveling
through thirteen European countries, having Yogananda’s
darshan, falling in love with special beautiful women, playing
music, sojourning in Ecuador, Fiji, India and Thailand, sitting
in Babaji’s cave and at the feet of holy men at the Kumbha
Mela festival, seeing my son born, building my own house,
sitting up in the tipi, living in the Gila Wilderness, and meeting
some of the most incredible characters on earth, including
celebrities like ol’ Willie and Tony Bennett. These turning
points were like beautiful songs, whose melodies I will never
forget. The blue turning points began with my dysfunctional
family life and lack of love, and then progressed to deaths of
my sister, loved ones, parents and the downer of divorce twice.
Drunken auto accidents, relationships gone sour, house fire,
falling off the roof with subsequent college incarceration and
alcoholism are all turning points I wish I could forget.
Financial loss, abandonment issues, job termination and prison
and jails complete this list of turning points I wished I’d never
heard of, let alone lived. But I did live them, and I accept full
responsibility for my choices that created them, knowing that
they no longer have any control over me. I know now that there
is a better way to live, as I release my past without guilt or
shame, and continue to choose once again. At the next turning

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 point, I will hopefully be making better choices under the
guidance of the Holy Spirit.
March 27, 2005
Kingman Prison

One more song….

I am now into seven years sobriety, approaching sixty-one

and living in a charming farmhouse overlooking the Colville
valley, with my two tabby cats, Maya and Baba. After prison,
many baby steps and much self-patience was required to start
my life anew in the “free world”. Then the miracles began to
manifest.
Backing up to the day I was released from Kingman prison,
when my final morning arrived, I was all ready, of course.
Again, I seemed to be invisible. Other inmates would not talk
to me now and appeared to not even notice me, as I wheeled
my DOC issued bedding and wardrobe to its final destination.
Then out I walked, in my street clothes once again, into
Roderick’s waiting car. He appeared to be tired, from his
lengthy drive up to get me. As we drove slowly past the razor
wire decorated fence, Roderick stopped the car.
“My God, why are you doing this? Keep on going Roderick.
I’m free now!”
“Here, burn some cedar for yourself, to cleanse off all the
vibrations of where you’ve just been,” he answered back.
Thank you, Roderick. That was a very sweet gesture and
much appreciated. We talked nonstop on our three hour drive
back to the Verde Valley; about prison, Sri, my new life and
parenting. I felt very close to Roderick and saw again, what a
good man and father he really is. Then he drove me to see
Joya, before we picked up Sri from high school. She and I held
each other briefly. I felt that, somehow, she vicariously
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 experienced all of my pain and healing in that one embrace.
Next, Roderick took me to the Verde River and left me alone to
pray. I immediately splashed water on my face and sat back to
roll a smoke. My clothes felt heavy, strange and cumbersome,
compared to the orange pajamas I’d become so used to. The
trees blowing in the wind near the river seemed to whisper that
I was free. Yes, I was free again but I was also in shock. How
do I describe what it feels like to be a bird outside of its cage,
once and for all? I realized that I had become
“institutionalized”, taking orders regularly and ready to jump
when told to. I would now have to use the advice I’d been
given by a Chicano inmate – “Go slow Rob, go slow”! Maybe I
can this time. I was always in a hurry so much of my life; not
taking the needed time to think things through before acting.
Yes, go slow. I fired up the smoke I’d rolled and began to pray.
We picked up Sri, and he and I had some alone time together
at Lyn’s house, before she came home from work- like one
hour alone. I so wanted more time with everybody, but it was
not to happen. Tony arrived the next day with Mark’s van for
our trip north. It was so good to see him again; what a true
friend! I only saw Sri and Lyn so briefly. This certainly was
not much of a visit, after so long down, but better than nothing.
Tony highly approved of Lyn, but how can I have any kind of
relationship with her now, if I am moving to Colville,
Washington? This is looking pretty plutonic to me. Lyn had
my long hair in braids, with a head band, as we said our
goodbyes. And now, I was wearing my rudraksha mala again
around my neck and my Om Namaha Shivaya bracelet on my
wrist. Most of my possessions from the mini storage fit in the
van. The rest I gave to charity. Thank God, all of my important
belongings were still in one piece. I had worried for over two
years that certain possessions, like my own tapes of India,
could be missing. The only things missing of any concern
were my mountain bike, binoculars and chainsaw. I’m sure
dead Dave pawned them off for pills, when I went down. At
this point, I didn’t care. I was just grateful to have everything
else loaded up with us now, on the interstate heading towards
California. When Tony and I left the Verde Valley, we headed
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north through Flagstaff, then west through Kingman. Twenty
minutes outside of Kingman, I pointed out to Tony the prison
yard, off alone in the distance to our right. I have no idea what
he thought as we drove by, but I was still flooded with
memories. I could almost see orange inmates walking their
laps around the complex. My thoughts were still in prison,
even though I was “free”. This is going to take some time. I
wouldn’t really be free until I had more of a chance to process
all of this. Again, go slow, Rob, go slow.
By evening, we were seated in a California Mexican
restaurant, awaiting our enchiladas and being serenaded by an
eight piece mariachi band. This was all too much for me. Tony
was enjoying a beer, as I stared at the cocktail lounge walls
lined with liquor, knowing I would never touch that again. The
music was reminiscent of the salsa festival in Old Town
Cottonwood. Then, we spent time with Tony’s two sons and
their families, before heading north. Both sons are California
cops, so I felt a bit strange expressing where I’d just come from.
But I’ve known both of these young law officers since they
were boys, visiting Tony and Barb up on our Sumas Mountain.
They were actually cool about it all, and I was grateful to have
somebody as a sounding board, to listen to my story. But this
too would change quickly. I soon found out that many folk do
not like hearing prisons stories. Tony was already getting tired
of my stories and told me so. Jesus, we still have a few more
days of driving to go! So who do you talk to, to process an
experience like I just went through?
We spent one night, somewhere in California, in a motel next
to a K Mart. As Tony watched TV, I went off on my own to
purchase needed underwear and a tooth brush. As the sliding
doors opened, I entered as if in a dream. I saw music CD’s in
front of me, pulling me to look. I’d promised myself certain
CD’s upon release, ones I’d heard bent over in a car at auto-
auction, but now I couldn’t move! It was as if I were seeing
everything for the very first time. This was a total reversal of
seeing everything for the last time before prison. I remember a
similar feeling of shock, when shopping at K Mart after our
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 house burned down in ’87. Feeling so wide open, everything
was just there in crystal clarity- just being stuff on a shelf.
When we arrived in Colville, I immediately called my parole
officer. This was very important to me, as I was now on an
interstate parole compact. I may be out, but there are still
many hurdles to jump before I can finally get the state of
Arizona off my back, once and for all. Right now, all of this is
serious business to me. Of course, I passed the mandatory pee
test with flying colors, as I’ve had no alcohol or pot in my
system now for over two years. My P.O. was a real sweetie
and said I wouldn’t have to see him again. As far as he was
concerned, I’d served my time, learned my lesson and
shouldn’t be hassled anymore. Thank God for a real person.
The remainder of my “community supervision” would be
turned over to unsupervised probation out of Spokane. He
assured me that they would never contact me, as they’re too
preoccupied with real cons. So, essentially, I was free of
probation or community supervision, the politically correct
terminology. I still planned on attending AA meetings, even
though I was not required to. “Meeting makers make it,” at
least until you can make it on your own.
Upon arriving at Tony and Barb’s home front, I was
awestruck. The house I saw years ago was now completed and
beautiful beyond words. When Tony showed me my own
bedroom and private bathroom, I was about ready to faint.
Again, this was all just too much. I would now have a space to
decorate with my belongings, which were still in Mark’s van.
So the next few days, I unpacked everything- decorating my
space and storing the rest in a crawl space under Harmon’s
house. Everything I owned now was here with me. Much of it
brought tears to my eyes, as memories came flooding back. I
also called Bunkie Larkins, only to discover that he was
actively drinking again and never did get his driver’s license.
How sad. After all he and I talked about and shared, it just kills
me to think of what might happen to him. If he doesn’t die first,
he’ll probably end up back in the system. I’d never want to

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repeat the prison experience again. However, eighty-five
percent of those released will be back. What a crying shame.
Tony walked me through their new cabinet shop and
consignment store. I was soon sanding and staining doors, and
helping to restore dining room tables and chairs. I was grateful
and ready for any work, as this barter situation helped to cover
my room and board. I wouldn’t actually make any hard cash
for quite a while. I wouldn’t even be able to apply for a
driver’s license for over another year yet, so for now, I was at
the mercy of Tony and Barb for employment and housing. And
they came through for me, again, just like they had in the past.
When I think about it, I’ve been with Barb in my life longer
than both marriages combined. Wow! She truly is my sister, to
say the least. People always ask if Tony and I are brothers. We
definitely are brothers, even as different as we are.

At first it was all fun living together, but then I could feel the
stress of having me around again; it was having its effects on
Tony and Barb. I’d experienced this triangle scenario before. I
was still finishing my final lessons from, A Course in Miracles
and daily trying to keep God foremost in my mind. But now,
this was not so easy. I actually felt closer to God in prison than
on the outs. I knew this would happen, and it did. I was
desperately trying to hold onto the clarity of perception I had,
prior to my release. I had studied the Course, so much at
Kingman that my mind was constantly repeating and
hammering home certain truths. While that was a needed
mental phase then, now I needed action and the ability to put
these truths into just that.
I attended AA and soon got my three year sobriety chip. I
spoke of my experience. Many had no idea that there are
special prisons for drunk drivers. At least here, I could talk
about prison and get some of this burden off of my chest. AA
is good for that. But as the months went on, I no longer felt I
needed their program. This wasn’t my path any longer. For a
true alcoholic, this can be a very scary realization. Every time
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 I had left AA before, and stopped going to meetings, I
eventually relapsed. You can’t do it alone, as they say. And I
agree with that. But now, I am never alone, when I remember
the higher Self who walks with me. AA’s own Big Book
teaches this, but many get so attached to the book, just like
fundamentalist Christians do with their Bible, that they miss
the message. All of this finally came to a head for me during a
Saturday night meeting, when I saw how stuck most AA folk
are in understanding the Higher Power. I no longer needed
their program, as I felt the Course to be much more suited for
my recovery. I was tired of hearing the old war stories and
affirmations of “I am an alcoholic”. Maybe I am, but I am
always a child of God, first and eternally! And that’s what I
plan to affirm.
I could be around alcohol now, and I was. I seemed to be put
in situations to test my pink cloud of sobriety. My first summer
out, and still living 24/7 with the Harmon’s, I attended many
parties, blues festivals, barter fairs, of which northeastern
Washington is noted for, and local bars after work. There, I
drank coffee and ate peanuts, and sometimes became the
designated driver, illegal that I still was, for our long ride home.
There was absolutely no temptation for me to drink; at all! I am
so grateful that the desire to even think about drinking has been
lifted from my soul. To me personally, after all I’ve been
through with alcohol that is real freedom. And I treasure my
freedom daily. I want every person with an alcohol problem to
know that it can be overcome! Look at how low I had to go to
finally wake up. My God, if I can do it; anybody can do it. And
I was doing all of this to myself, to show me that none of it was
the way to do it. My God self was giving me awareness that I
was not on the right track.
Now, I daily seek to keep that awareness and stay focused on
what’s important. Both patience and accepting change were
very important for me after getting out. Now, I could feel the
weight of trying to create a new life. “Go slow, Rob”. I
worked burning and clearing Harmon’s thick woods, into a
more hobbit-like setting. And Barb trained me on retail sales
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and credit card machines at their store. I was continually
working, it seemed, but just to get by. My greatest fear was
that Tony and Barb would ask me to leave. Where would I go?
We talked of a possible cabin or trailer in their woods. Where
should I live, to put down my roots? I’ve lived in so many
places that I’m not sure where to put down roots, or if I even
know the meaning of the word any more. And what am I going
to do about employment that actually pays? As I presently
can’t drive, and Harmon’s house is twenty minutes outside of
town, this posed some problems. It also gave me time to
consider my options. Do I want to pursue my old hippie dream
again of living in the woods- the chop wood and carry water
yogic lifestyle of my past? I’ve been there and done that. Now,
it all didn’t matter that much to me anymore. I can be happy
pretty much anywhere, as I am finally content and at home
with myself. Not to mention that the cost of land, etc. is way
out of my ballpark presently. So, I chose Tony’s offer of
building a small living area upstairs above their cabinet shop.
This would put me in town, where I could walk or bike around
at least, instead of being stuck in the woods. And I would
continue to barter work for my rent. This gave us all some
needed distance and space, but proved to be a very dusty living
environment for me. It would take a flexible con, like me, to
live in a place that is small, cold and constantly being
bombarded by noise- power saws, loud music, door ringers,
phone calls, and various people coming in and out at any hour
of the day or night. But it was all good. I had a little space to
call my own. At chaotic times, it actually reminded me of
prison. Except my “house” was way better. I used Indian
bedspreads for fabric walls and had my faithful drums all set
up again- finally. Colville’s local reggae band practiced
weekly in my “living room”, as they had a previous
arrangement with Tony on the upstairs space. That was cool. I
got to play drums along with them and met some new local
musicians too. And my Thai/Fijian/Iowa friend Tim Welch
came to visit briefly, showing pics of his three kids now and
mother wife Aoy, on a laptop computer. I too was learning my
way around a laptop that Barb had lent me. I’d have my own
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 soon enough. You’re crazy not to have a computer nowadays.
Tim always was a good one for staying in touch and thanks to
the internet, it makes this much easier now for both of us.
Not long after being released, I performed my originals on
guitar at a dance at the American Legion. I was opening for
Spokane’s hottest blues band, The Fat Tones. As it was Sri
Ram and Willie Nelson’s birthday, I wore my hair in braids
again with a red headband. I hadn’t had my hair this long since
the early seventies with Jolene. I got many compliments on my
songs and singing and was told that I should record a CD. The
Fat Tones gave me their approval too, and then blew my mind
with their awesome music. It sure felt good to play again,
especially my own songs, in front of a live audience. I’d
dreamt about it for sooo long. What a rush. I would now do
my utmost to record and copyright my originals and see if I
could find a niche musically in this area of northeastern
Washington.
Work was a bit slow coming but it finally did arrive. I
landscaped the personal properties of three prominent figures
in the local area. They even drove me to and from their job
sites, as I had no wheels yet and they understood. Soon, word
of the new hippie Gardner grew, and I had continuous work.
Then the “Guardian angels” appeared back in my life, in the
form of Dave and Shannon. I’d met them back in ‘98 when
Tony and I did some remodel work on their house. Now Dave
was managing his wealthy mother- in- law’s properties and had
work for both of us- cleaning up years of garbage off of repot
property. It was dirty smelly work in the woods for good
money. We made these once ugly pieces of real estate shine
again for potential buyers. Now I got to see much real estate
with price tags. Wow! Land prices are so high that I’ll never
be able to afford anything. Again, who cares?
Dave and Shannon also had me house-sitting their beautiful
home and cats, while they traveled at various times during fall
and winter. This was a real treat for me to relax in a bathtub, be
warm and watch cable TV and movies. Maybe someday I’ll
have these creature comforts again. While house sitting, I
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realized how much I cherish my alone time. I would journal
my feelings about this and of going through the process of re-
entering the real world again and creating a life once more.
After being around inmates, people and friends nearly 24/7 for
years now, I feel I deserve time alone. People probably see me
as a loner, but it’s hard for me to hang out with drunks- cards
or no cards. All of the cross talk and stage hogging just
reminds me of the patience it took to be around so many
dysfunctional inmates. So lately, I’ve chosen to separate, not
isolate, in hopes of finding more inner peace and maybe some
new folk who vibrate on higher frequency levels than alcohol.
That happened too. I was soon playing guitar monthly for the
Dances of Universal Peace and meeting many highly conscious
individuals. I was feeling that God had placed me exactly
where I should be; in an aging hippies paradise! A hip mid-
wife told me proudly that our area ranks high in the overall
percentages of male uncircumcised babies. Now that’s far out.
Alone, I became very creative in this shop apartment. And
Mick, a flute player from my past, came back into my life with
CD recording equipment. Soon, I had eighteen original songs
recorded and ready for copyright in Washington DC. And I
began sending promo packets to various publishing companies,
to see if any of my songs would sell. I did get one positive
result from Americord, who sent a recording contract and
fabulous cover letter, praising my song The Party is in my
Mind. Except, they wanted me to pay them four hundred
dollars to have their musicians and vocalists record my song!
That doesn’t seem right. So I Googled Americord and learned a
lot about song sharks and the music publishing industry. Wow,
have I got my work cut out for me now. There are so many
new ways to market music online or yourself for that matter
that this will all take some time to figure out for the best
approach. Just having my own CD professionally done in a
studio here would be a good start. I’m presently contemplating
that.
Mick also reintroduced me to the “mind machine”- a light
and sound device for achieving total mental relaxation,
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 visualization and far-out cerebral states like Alpha, Gamma,
Theta and Beta. I soon purchased one online and began
tripping on my bed without drugs. The combination of rapid
strobe lights flashing through closed eyelids, to the oscillating
rhythm of Tupperware drums, produces visual effects in the
mind that draw all one’s attention to the third eye. This tool is
not a toy; it is designed for deep concentration. I always feel
like I’ve had a mental bath afterwards, where all my worries
and mental strains just flow down the drain.
I awake daily now with greater joy in my heart. I did also in
prison, but this is different. I’m just so grateful to be alive,
really alive and finally out of that negative environment of fear.
When you have done hard time, like I did, you can relate to
what it must have been like to be in a concentration camp,
where people are jammed together in fear, trying to make the
best of the situation. For the ones who survive, life has a whole
new meaning. You never take anything for granted- ever again.
This was one of the blessings of my incarceration- having a
whole new perception and respect for each moment, of each
new day, from here on out. When I did finally earn solid cash,
peeling logs for a friend’s pole barn, I stared at the dollar bills
for a long time. My life has been like a Monopoly game, going
from Park Avenue to Start Over. I just pray now to stay awake
and remember and respect the hard earned lessons of prison. I
also pray for the ability to let this prison experience go- not to
be filed in the X files, but as the greatest turning point in my
entire life.
Before all the work began, I took a much needed trip down
to Arizona in late February of 2006, to finally spend some time
with my son Sri and see my plutonic friend Lyn and her young
son Tyler. It was a great trip and I got to be there for my ex-
mother- in- law Pauline’s, Sri’s grandma, birthday. She looked
good but I could tell she wouldn’t be around a whole lot longer.
Sri’s brother Falcon really took to me, but boundaries had to be
set so that Sri and I could have some alone time together.
“Hey, Rob, can I go with you and Sri over to Prescott?”

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 “No, Falcon. If you come with us, I’ll have no time with my
son. I’m sorry. I hope you understand. We’ll go for a walk
together when I get back.”
“Do you promise?”
“Yeah, I promise, Falcon.”
Then after a few days on their home front, and really
appreciating this time with Sri’s family, I had some quality
time with Lyn and Tyler. While Lyn was working, I explored
Sedona alone, and ended up purchasing the cowboy hat of all
cowboy hats, in my estimation, and made of woven palm
fronds from Mexico. It’s waterproof with cool lines to its shape.
Right after purchasing the hat, it began to rain. This was
reminding me of Shivarati; it rained when I played guitar. This
was seen as a blessing, as Arizona has been in a drought for
many years. When Lyn and I went to pick up Tyler from
school, we saw a beautiful double rainbow over Sedona. We
stopped her car and photographed each other. When we picked
up Tyler, he showed us a picture he had just drawn. You
guessed it- a rainbow, but he was inside and didn’t even know
what was going on outside, up in the sky. Such is
synchronicity.
Then, after a year of living above the woodworking shop, a
better living situation presented itself. I moved into a small
upstairs apartment with Mick, my flute playing friend, across
from Safeway- how convenient. Our house was built around
1912 and rumored to be haunted. I wouldn’t experience the
ghost until later. I basically lived in my bedroom here. The
very small kitchen and bathroom resembled something off of a
ship. The miniature living room was already dominated by
Mick’s wall hangings and paraphernalia. So, I just did what
I’m good at: living alone in small spaces. This living situation
worked out fairly well rent-wise and was warmer and cleaner
than the shop apartment. But still, this was just a place to eat,
sleep, read and watch DVDs. It wasn’t home. It just didn’t
have that feeling. At this point of time, I scored work as a
carpenter’s helper working on a remodel. Now I was making
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 good money and finally able to send Sri some back child
support. But of course the best child support I can really give
him is to stay sober. Boy, don’t I know that! He is so proud of
me now, after all we’ve been through together. But monetary
compensation was needed by me, to free my conscience of the
months when I wasn’t around. Then, in October of ‘06, the
Okanogan family barter fare sprung forth again. I went, of
course, and had a blast. This fair is big- like twenty-five
thousand hippies, covering four generations and hundreds of
acres of land. Now, I finally had a car, a driver’s license and
an ignition interlock device to blow into for the next year to
activate this vehicle. I named my 1999 Chevy metro, Carma-
how appropriate. I parked next to Tony and Barb, with their
‘54 Chevy hippie camper. I’ve been to many gigs in this
charming camper and told Tony to leave it for me in his will…
please! Whenever we’ve stopped for gas in small towns,
people’s faces start gawking and staring out of windows at this
nostalgic piece of hippiedom. I really got some interesting
stares when I smoked a rolled cigarette, in my braids and
headband, standing next to “Imagine”- the name of the truck on
the hood.
Then my dear friend Bonnie from Bellingham arrived, and
finally found our camp amongst this huge assemblage of
“family”. This fair is like a smaller western version of India’s
Kumbha Mela festival, especially at night with all the fires
burning and dread locked sadhu looking youth smoking up.
Bonnie is my dear deceased friend Peter’s sister and a living
female version of Peter. I love her so much and we go back
very far. We pretty much hung together the whole fair, walking
down every colored coded street till we were wore out from
reminiscing about our pasts and trying to take in all of the
beautiful people and exotic products for sale. A book could
easily be written about this three decade, ongoing annual
festival, but that is not my intention. However, money is more
the norm here now than bartering and they are changing the
name to the Okanogan Family Fair. Even hippies eventually
upgrade on some levels. Boy, I know I sure have. I actually
own, use and have a love/hate relationship with my laptop
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computer. I never thought I’d own one, years ago, but now I
don’t want to live without one. So, after three incredible days
of feeling like I was back in India again, I decided to follow
Bonnie back over the North Cascade Highway to Bellingham,
my old home town that I hadn’t seen in eight long years. They
say you can’t go back home. Well, let’s see.
When we stopped over the pass on the western side, I wanted
to treat Bonnie to blueberry ice cream at Cascadian Farms
small organic café. As we got out of our cars, it was raining, of
course. Nothing here had changed, yet. As we walked quickly,
dodging raindrops towards the entrance, I told Bonnie of my
long overdue homecoming. Well, talk about synchronicity.
Peg Mulroney walks out of the front door, my parent’s
neighbor and old friend from the past. This was an auspicious
sign for sure. And Peg was the first of many friends I would be
seeing in the next week. But Bellingham had really changed
since my last time here with Tony in ‘98. Now it resembled a
small Seattle, with gourmet coffee shops and Thai food
everywhere. There was even a new Thai restaurant one block
from Bonnie’s house. Her house sits on the exact spot where
Paramahansa Yogananda appeared in my third eye back in
1970. Peter’s former house burned down years ago and Bonnie
rebuilt on the same lot. Just like certain holy objects did not
burn in my house fire, the same phenomenon occurred with
Peter. His Bible did not burn and inside was a picture of me
sitting on the front porch of his house. Fire definitely has some
unique qualities as an element, especially when it comes to
making up its mind.
During my five day stay at Bonnie’s house, I called and
visited many old friends from my past. I convinced Steve to go
with me on a drive out to the barn that Jolene and I had lived in
from 1971 to ‘74. We found the driveway so overgrown that I
doubted even going down it. But we did, and as soon as I saw
the old barn, still sitting exactly as I remembered it, I knew
what was meant now about “you can’t go back home”. As I
looked closer and walked through our once pixilated abode,
there were absolutely no signs that we had ever lived here-
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 none! It was a barn again full on, with hay and funky odors.
The small pond, where I’d mercy killed our injured retarded cat
Angelo, was now filled in completely. Sadly, only three of the
thirteen apple trees remained. Steve and I scoured the field for
mushrooms, but upon hearing a dog doing the alarm bark, we
headed out. I just wish Jolene could have seen our sacred
valley and barn, once more too. Then again, maybe it is better
to see it all through memories, filtered by our own
consciousness, as we like to remember it. We all know that
everybody remembers things differently. This book is proof of
that! Do you follow my gist? Everything written here is only
my side of the story, not the whole truth by any means. I’m
certain some of the main characters in my life would agree, as
each person has their own interpretation of what happened and
how it played out. Truth can only be experienced, not written
about. It is lived.
Upon arriving home, I found out that I was no longer needed
as a carpenter’s helper on the remodel job where I’d been
working. This was a bit of a shock, as I’d gotten used to a fat
paycheck each week, especially after basically making no
money the year before. But fate stepped in again, instantly
providing work on another remodel. This time it was for
Tony’s business. Cool. Now I would be on a payroll and able
to collect unemployment benefits someday, if needed. I worked
this two month job until it ended in December of ‘06. Our
friend, that I’d peeled pole barn logs for, died in a blackout
drunken accident, causing everybody to reassess their drinking
and driving habits. His death was a real shocker, as he was
much loved by all. But it really pissed me off, as I’d had many
talks with him while working; about all my DUIs. I’d hoped
my testimony would be “wake up call” advice for him. But I
remember how it was, when I couldn’t hear either. As Tony
made the cedar casket for our friend, I thanked God that he was
not making it for me. I am so fortunate to be alive. I could have
been dead many times too, and all from alcohol!
To start my new year of 2007, I scored work outside in the
snow, pruning pines on a tree farm. This work was right up my
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alley, as I’ve had plenty of hours behind a chain saw. I
basically gave juvenile and teenage trees a much needed
haircut. For many conifers, it would be their last trim until they
reached maturity and the saw mill years from now. I would suit
up with boots, helmet, face screen and an attitude of gratitude,
as I worked totally alone on acres of snow clad trees, in a
picturesque mountain valley. When the sun came out,
reflecting off the acres of pristine white snow with blue sky in
the background, I sometimes felt as if I were in some sort of
mystical winter paradise. Deer and wild turkeys would stop by
on their migration routes, to nibble the newly fallen pine
boughs. And I would return home each day feeling great, from
all the chilled open air exercise and from the realization that
God was providing me with constant employment. I was now
starting to feel some roots sprouting for this area of
northeastern Washington. I was really starting to feel at home
here. And most of my prison memories were fading fast, back
into the background where they belong.
In the spring of 2007, I landscaped again for various folk in
our area. Then I scored what was to be one of the best work
experiences of my entire life- building a shop/garage with an
overhead double gabled apartment all below Northport,
Washington on the mighty Columbia River. Tony began this
job with me, but soon I was working with Jared, a new kindred
soul in my life and a great working partner. We fit together like
peanut butter and jelly, or maybe the Odd Couple. Work was
fun. Shortly after beginning this new pattern of driving to work,
on one of the most beautiful roads in Washington, I was
cordially invited to attend Sri’s graduation from his Arizona
high school.
I flew down once again and settled into Grandma Pauline’s
spare bedroom. I realized that the promises of AA were all
coming true in my life. I no longer had fear of financial
insecurity. Look where I am presently at, attending my son’s
graduation! Talk about miracles! And Sri is graduating with
honors too. I finally got to meet his girlfriend Renee and her
Dutch mom and Montana dad. When the grand show began
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 outside in the warm Arizona evening, I was seated next to all
of Sri’s immediate family and an adopted grand parent figure
who had his camera firing away. This was a milestone moment
for me, to even be here seeing my once little boy, now
accepting many awards for all of his scholastic and musical
achievements in high school. All I could think of was, “Boy, is
he ever off to a good start in life”. My heart was feeling so
deeply the blessings I was watching, all acted out in front of
me now. Everything I ever prayed for my son, I was seeing as
accomplished. Now, Sri even looks a lot like I did back in the
day. Like father, like son- at least in looks anyway. I had to
hold back tears many times, as I watched Sri holding the love
of his young life, Renee.
The following day, I put playing cards on brother Falcon’s
bike spokes, to make that ticking sound kids like. Then many
folk arrived for Sri and Renee’s graduation party. Sri’s
letterman jacket was on display with a saxophone and Rideout
insignia. Also many honor medals and class compositions
graced the table with various pictures. I wore a T shirt,
picturing Sri at age five, which drew attention and a few good
stories. I also returned Sri’s Ganesh statue, which had been so
blessed at the Kumbha Mela, back to him, to keep as his own
now. He was old enough now to understand its significance.
The whole day was very emotional and heartfelt for me,
especially seeing how in love Sri is with Renee. That night in
bed, I read many of Sri’s essays and book reports. I was getting
to know my son, finally. He is a very good writer, as well as a
musician. Ironically, he read and adored many of the same
exact adult books I’d read in prison!
Earlier that day, Roderick got me alone and asked, “Have
you called those church people in your area to see about sitting
up? Remember the holy man in India told you to follow the
ways of the Redman for America.”
“Yeah, I did call them but it didn’t work out. You know
Roderick, I think that statement by the guru was meant for you,
not me.”

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 Later he asked why I wore all the beads. He was referring to
the three rudraksha malas I happened to be wearing. Somehow,
it obviously hit him as being too east Indian and he thought I’d
outgrown that path.
“I wear these seeds for medicinal value, as they work on
your nervous system and raise your energy up to the higher
chakras.”
That made more sense to Roderick. Little did he know that
Babaji’s teachings and mantra is still my path over the Native
Americans ways. I can’t help it. That is just the way it is, in my
heart. I respect their path of peyote meetings and sweat lodges
but worshiping Shiva and chanting daily the mantra seems to
be my path. Should I try to explain all of this to him? No. He
would never understand. Few do.
Then more deep emotions surfaced again, as I hugged Sri
one last time, saying our goodbyes standing in Lyn’s driveway.
Holding him closely with my eyes closed, it was as if Sri were
five years old again. I could literally feel love pulsating
between our two bodies, as our hearts beat as one. I’d cried
earlier this morning after saying final farewells to Grandma
Pauline. Her health was not improving and I knew then, that I
would never see her again. Somehow in our last talk alone
together, I felt Pauline really knew the joy I was feeling over
our son Sri Ram. I also felt she knew all the pain I’ve been
through, living alone without my son much in my life. Elders
have a way of knowing and she had been in my life a long time.
This must have been quite a moment for her too. Maybe she
even remembers the morning we named Sri Ram together. I
still do! I’ll never forget that.
My time with Lyn and Tyler was short but sweet. I played
songs on my guitar to my two most favorite fans and we
splashed in Oak Creek, which borders their property. Tyler
had just had his eighth birthday party this Memorial Day
weekend, so the place had tents set up on the lawn amongst
squirt guns, broken piñatas, musical instruments and animals
wandering about. I chose a tent for my sleeping quarters and
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 for a space to lie down and process all the emotions running
through me. On Memorial Day Monday, Tyler and I walked
uptown Sedona, exploring all of the beautiful new age and
southwestern shops, while Lyn worked at a nearby Oak Creek
Brewery. I always have so much fun with Tyler. He reminds
me of Sri at that age. That evening, we ate at a Chinese buffet
in Cottonwood. I mentioned to Lyn that it would be incredible
if somebody from my Sedona/Cottonwood past showed up.
Well, guess who walks in but fast Eddie and his wife Rochelle,
my old neighbors. What a small world! Eddie disclosed that
his brother Ray died drunk behind the wheel recently, and that
he too had gotten into a bad alcohol related accident. His face
now had twenty-nine screws in it, covered over well by much
cosmetic surgery. Eddie didn’t get a DUI, as the cops felt so
sorry for him after losing his brother Ray. For Arizona, that is
really something! Where is justice?
After flying home from Arizona, I scored a weekly gig
playing my songs every Friday evening at a local café. I loved
this gig, whether there were many customers or not. It gave me
a weekly musical outlet to play my songs and to try to let the
music play me. This was one of my prison goals come true. I
hadn’t had much luck trying to reach people with my message
of recovery. But sometimes playing, I’d tell prison stories of
how and/or why I wrote the song I’d just performed. Slowly,
my name and reputation were getting known from this weekly
gig. But sadly, our small town just doesn’t have many musical
venues. A musician here has to be creative, to even be heard.
And again, I need to get serious at some point and go into a
recording studio with my original songs. The Internet just
might be worth pursuing musically after all.
As my summer passed, working long hours as a carpenter’s
helper and singing on Fridays, I got to float the Kettle River a
few more times. This is one of the highlights of our corner of
God’s country. On the three-hour aqua ride, we always
encounter a family of bald eagles, which has their nest atop a
large Ponderosa pine. The small whitewater ripples provide an
adrenaline rush and sometimes, spillovers. This free natural
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recreation really bonds all the floaters on the river. When I’ve
looked behind me, relaxing on my back in the sun on my
plastic floatation air mattress, I’ve seen a long colored snake in
the water, made up of dozens of flotation devices of every
shape and color shade. It is slowly following me down the
babbling and bobbing river current, to the sandy beach where
our cars are parked. However, we pay for this joy by enduring
the long winter months of ice and snow. But that I can handle.
At least we don’t get the heavy rains that torment the west side
of the state, where I used to reside. I am much happier here
now, in a small town like I experienced in South Dakota, with
very little traffic stress and a community of like minded
individuals who cherish and respect this panoramic paradise
too.
Then the Guardian angels did their magic. Dave and
Shannon had been watching my evolutionary progress since
my prison release, seeing me start over and jump all the hurdles
in front of me, and not drinking. They witnessed my love for
this area grow and knew how much I’ve wanted some place to
really call home. My life with Mick in our small apartment
was more like existing, instead of living. He proved to be quite
the quirky guy in many ways, one of which was always
restacking my bananas compulsively. He has a good heart but
lived his waking hours on the phone or internet multi-tasking
and telling everybody who would listen about his dooms-day
prophecies. It was pretty obvious to all who knew him that he
is our town crier. He means well, but sadly most of it is bullshit.
Everybody knows people like this. He’s just a parrot
squawking. Mick has never followed any spiritual practice for
any length of time. He prefers to surf the net instead. He
showed some interest in Babaji and Shiva, from living around
me, but to no lasting effect. I’d hoped when we first started
living together that we could play music too, as we’re both
musicians. But that only happened infrequently, as the ringing
phone took precedence. As time went on, I really wanted to
live alone. Would that ever happen? I’ve lived in so many
different houses, rooms, apartments, tents and pods, not to
mention strange roommates that something has to give for me,
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 someday. Well, the someday arrived with a phone call from
Angel Dave informing me that he’d found my place- my place!
Tell me more Dave. It was a two bedroom farmhouse with a
basement, newly remodeled bath and master bedroom, carport
and view of Colville valley and town that looks like a postcard.
This sits on over one hundred acres of valley view farmland at
a perfect rent that I could afford. Across the street, the base of
Monumental Mountain, living up to its name, has logging
roads for extended walks and a pond in the field is home to
much wildlife like herons, muskrats and waterfowl. This was
all too good to be true!
“Well, it’s not a sure deal yet, but you could drive by and
check out the place.”
“I don’t know Dave. I don’t want to get my hopes up too
much. What if it doesn’t come through? Then I’ll just be
heartbroken.”
But as God would have it, it did come through. And
changes came through for roommate Mick too. He was now
moving to Mexico to teach English and be near the Mayan
culture he so dearly loves. He’s into all the Mayan 2012
predictions, of course. Who knows, maybe he’ll find his next
wife down there. It wouldn’t surprise me as he’s always
looking for a woman to complete him, online and off. As he
was going south, I was moving into my dream farmhouse to
complete this book. In fact, this book probably wouldn’t have
happened at all back in my old small upstairs apartment. This
new house was a major sign and inspiration for me to write. I
had absolutely no intention of ever moving from my present
living situation with Mick. If he moved on, I would rent the
apartment by myself somehow or get another roommate. But
then things took a turn, another one of those turning points. I
let an elderly friend read my original writings and she inspired
me to do something with it. She too had led a life similar to
mine and felt I should get my story out there. And she is an
advanced student of The Course in Miracles, to say the least.
When this new house seemingly came out of nowhere and was
totally in my budget, how could I not interpret this as a sign
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from God, as a peaceful setting to pursue my writing? Now,
my song of gratitude just got louder… way louder.
Before moving out of our apartment, Mick sold off pretty
much everything he had for his move to Mexico. So, I scored
some much needed furniture and a stereo system for my new
abode. I also bought out Mick’s half of our gravity inversion
table, which I daily use for hanging upside down. This is way
more practical than my rope and beam inversion attempts back
in the ‘83 Sumas cabin. I had previously mentioned that our
apartment was supposedly haunted. One night, I noticed that
my large long red macaw feather that Bonnie gave me was
missing. It always resided in a potted spider plant in my
window sill. When Mick came home, I confronted him about
my missing feather. He hadn’t taken it or seen it possibly fall
out the window. We were both very perplexed, as I had looked
under the bed four times already and my room is only so big.
Where did that bright red feather disappear to? As I sat alone
on my bed, after Mick left the room shaking his head in
disbelief, I suddenly felt something poke me under my right
thigh. Looking down, I saw that I was now sitting on the
feather! It was under my thigh and it sure wasn’t on my bed
two seconds ago. Mick confessed that the ghost had been
rolling out the toilette paper on him, as he sat waiting for shit to
happen in the middle of the night. At least this was a trickster
spirit and not some weird poltergeist phenomena. It is also the
first time I’ve experienced a ghost. I wonder how Larkins
would react to this story. I’m sure it wouldn’t faze him, after all
he heard me tell him.
After painting one bedroom in my farmhouse a shallow pond
blue, carpenter friend Jared helped me move in all the heavy
stuff. Again, the Guardian angels came through by indirectly
scoring me a new couch, table and chairs, entertainment center,
desk and outdoor furniture, as only angels can do. In no time
at all, I was totally set up inside- up and running. Then, as I
was going to get boxes for my final move, I saw an ad for part-
bobcat kitties at Safeway’s reader board. I got the last little
female feline and named her Maya, after the lady who gave her
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 to me. Maya also means Illusion, the material world we all live
in. As Maya and I moved into the new dream house in October
of 07, I also became unemployed again. I wasn’t really worried.
My faith was strong, as I knew this was only temporary. When
my summer job with Jared ended, I qualified for
unemployment benefits. Cool. I’d never had that before and it
wasn’t much, but it presently helps keep me and Maya alive, so
I can finish this book. Sri Ram emailed me that he and Renee
are now engaged with wedding plans for next summer. My
God Sri, you are only eighteen! But after much thought and
prayer, I totally stand behind him now. I see his young life
unfolding and blossoming in ways far different and more
promising than my own life did. My son isn’t a hippie or even
hippie minded. He’s been raised by a functional family, that
taught him the values of love, respect and prayer. He is
quantum leaps ahead of me, when I was his age. Maybe he is
mature enough, this early in life, for marriage. Sadly, his
Grandma Pauline wouldn’t be there for his wedding. She
passed on to join her two deceased husbands early in January
of ‘08. Her death touched me deeply. I remembered all the
dinners we ate together, Sri’s birth and the times when she and
Collin came to dance to me at the Canadian legion. And my
heart really got opened again, when I thought of the grief that
Joya must be feeling over losing her mom. Pauline’s passing
showed me just how very much I still do love Joya,
unconditionally now, despite all of the heavy times we have
had in our past. Forgiveness is truly what life is all about.
Sri and Renee did get married in July, 2008 at age nineteen
and I was there with Bonnie to sing for them. Thank God, I’m
still singing, somehow, after all I’ve been through. Their
wedding resembled a peyote meeting, as many Indians graced
the ceremony and open air reception afterwards. Christian flew
down to marry them. Everybody here knew Roderick had been
battling pancreas cancer. Nobody was talking about it today; he
looked great. Many healing meetings had been held in his
behalf. I watched him see our son start a whole new life, under
the wedding tree on Sedona’s first homestead. It was a sunny

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hot glorious day. He and Joya looked radiant but fearful of the
future. They had every right to be.
Before Bonnie and I flew home, we took everybody out for
Thai dinner. Roderick had just given me a relic Tibetan coat
from 1970. With my long grey hair, I now looked like I stepped
out of Lost Horizons. While seated in the restaurant, Roderick
leaned over to me and said, “I love Rob. You know that don’t
you?”
I thought of all the times he had prayed for me in the tipi and
his own sweat lodge, forgiven me, sung in my ear in prison and
cedared me off the moment I got out. Roderick had done the
job I couldn’t do- raise our son, Sri to manhood and to his
wedding day. Here sat one very good man next to me. I knew
this man loved my son as much as me, if not more. Hearing Sri
refer to him as Dad didn’t matter anymore, at all.
“Yes, I know you love me, Roderick. I really know it. I hope
you know I love you too.”
Sri came to visit me alone, later that summer after their
honeymoon. This was a much needed time to really get to
know each other better. Sri was now on my turf with two
cosmic cats. When Maya reached nine months old, I got her a
companion, as two cats are better than one. I named the little
male bob-tailed Manx, Baba, after Babaji. Words can’t
describe how much they mean to me. And talk about beautiful!
These two are way up there with Mister Blanco, if not past him.
It’s hard to believe but true. They reflect where I’m at now. Sri
loved the cats and all of their quirky antics. They seemed to
sense he is my son, as only cats can do. Now Sri was finally
old enough for me to tell him my side of the story. Thank God.
And I did tell him some, as we walked through the woods, later
playing my guitar on the porch to a setting sun, with my own
very happy son sitting next to me. Sri enjoyed my songs,
especially the originals where I explained when and why I
wrote each song. This was a dream come true for me. I’ve got
to get a CD of these songs recorded. Then Sri asked me, “Dad,

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 is Babaji God?” Wow, that same question has been asked by
numerous people around the world, countless times.
“God only knows. To me and quite a few others, Babaji is
Shiva incarnate,” I answered. “So, in that respect, yes He is
God. He is one with God at all times, as Christ is too. Babaji is
that love and inner voice in our hearts. He left his physical
body in ’84 to teach us that. He is so much more than these
pictures I’m showing you, Sri Ram. Having me for your father
really connects you to Babaji or we wouldn’t even be together.
I feel you and I have been together many times before to even
be my son. Maybe we were even twins? It would sure be fun to
know, wouldn’t it?”
“You are crazy, Dad. But in a good way.”
“And you are a lot like me, but you don’t know that yet,
Pumpkin.”
“Dad, were The Beatles really all that good?” What a
question. How do I answer this, to my young accomplished
musician son?
“Yeah, they really were. They were the best, ever. I wished
you could have been there. It’s the only way you could ever
truly understand. When I think about it, you wouldn’t even be
sitting here next to me if it weren’t for The Beatles. They
started me on the paths that ultimately led to meeting your
mother.”
Sadly, on December 3, 2008 Roderick passed over to the
other side. It seems like he was just here a moment ago. Now,
Sri only has one dad, me. I really feel for Joya. She not only
lost her mother recently but also her first born son to a new
wife and Roderick to cancer. Joya is back to the same
predicament as she was after our divorce- single mother raising
a young child. Only this time it is Falcon. The pain she must be
feeling now, is probably similar to what I felt when Sri was
taken from me- sad but true. I pray God gives her the needed
strength to get through this one. This cross could be heavy.

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 So where am I at now, concerning my hippie dream of living
a life of truth, simplicity and love? That was Babaji’s message.
I am still doing it, not in the form I once treasured, but right
here on a farm with my cats, approaching my golden years.
Through the influence of the Guardian angels, I scored steady
work only three miles from home and even bought a motor
scooter to drive there cheaply. Getting Baba to keep Maya
company was a good move. Over time, this squirrelly
independent little fur man stole my heart away as much as
Maya did. I feel so blessed to have both of them in my life.
Maya stalks around shyly, looking like a panther or lioness
while pixilated Baba is busy opening doors, rolling out the
toilette paper or keeping tabs on the farm outside, looking like
a bobcat. I’ve never seen a cat so mechanically inclined as
Baba. He can figure anything out. These cats absolutely make
my life in so many ways. I always knew I loved cats, but not
this much! They bring out the fatherly love in my heart and
reflect it back. I still chant Om Namaha Shivaya, on my two
stringed Indian dotara, as part of my daily spiritual
maintenance routine. This practice is important to me first
thing in the morning and the cats seem to love it too. They’ve
been hearing the dotara’s hypnotic sound since they were small
kittens. I really enjoy starting my day by singing to God and
praying for all my friends, living and deceased. I am a Western
sadhu forever, at least in my mind. Have I thought about sitting
up again? No. I haven’t felt any need to go back in the tipi.
Maybe I will someday with Sri Ram. I’m not ruling that one
out. I will always respect peyote but, for now, I’m where I
want to be. Create your own form of devotion that suits you.
That is what I’ve done and I can’t stress this enough. We forget
so easily! It’s good to have the truth hammered home daily, by
reading a piece of scripture or inspirational words that remind
you of what life is really all about. Or singing to God like I do
is another way to remember the Divine. My altar is such a
reminder too and makes my bedroom a very sacred place. My
most favorite pictures Babaji, Yogananda, Sri Ram, my parents
and sister Joyce grace my brass Shiva statue, along with
rudraksha malas and special stones, reminding me of all the
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 good and beauty in my life, not to mention the blessings.
Everybody could benefit from an altar in their home. This is
not some cultist bullshit. It’s another reason I loved India so
much. Every home there has a family altar. But as much as I
love my altar, which is just an extension of me, form isn’t that
important now. Reality is always within and not without. I
chased shadows so much of my life, looking for myself. I had a
hasty ego, always going too fast. I’m now learning to go
slower. However, after all the heavy losses I’ve endured, I
realize now the freedom I’ve gained. Learning to live with less
is way better! Less is more. By keeping my life simple, I now
do not have the stress levels that once plagued my existence.
I’m just so grateful for all I have in my life, that I don’t worry
much about wanting more for the future. There is no more
anyway. Only the same old thing packaged differently. I’ve
got everything I could ever hope for now. And does it give me
peace? If it doesn’t, I’m learning to let it go. I live so low key
that I don’t need a cell phone. My land line telephone with a
message machine suits all of my needs; old school. And
remember, from my childhood, I really don’t like ringing
phones anyway. And now I despise how cell phones create
separation by ringing when you are having a conversation with
somebody. Away they go when those tones rings. Cell phones
don’t know the Convict Code of Respect. I don’t watch much
commercial TV either, but movies and contemporary series I
choose off of Netflix instead. I’ve pretty much seen every
movie made, of every book I read in prison. I never would
have thought that possible a few years ago. Now I can watch
only what I choose to watch and I’ve seen some great adult
drama that puts my story to shame. How the world has changed.
How I’ve changed too. Clear out the garbage in your life and it
will clean out your mind to be quieter- to hear the Voice of
Spirit, Babaji. That is what I’ve been trying to do, ever since
studying A Course in Miracles, incarcerated. Every day now is
a day of mind training for me, to keep my mind open and
receptive to hear Spirit’s voice. The ego’s voice is always
there, judging and perceiving everything as separate from me.
Spirit shows me that it is all me. I am all that there is. There is
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only one God. I am that I am. Knowing this now, I can never
think the old way again. I may not always remember but I will
be reminded by the Voice that speaks for God, telling me I
could see peace instead of this. I need to remember to listen.
The choice is always ours; to choose once again. And that
choice is between judgment and fear or love and forgiveness.
Haven’t we all judged long enough and seen the consequences?
I’m learning now to forgive myself for having dreamed up
what I call my life. This book is a song of self- forgiveness for
the bizarre life I did create. To all of the long lost friends, who
may have been portrayed as trials in my life, I love you always
and ask your forgiveness for how I remember it all playing out,
in the Illusion. I hold no judgment and thank you for teaching
me forgiveness. I now view my life experiences as a spiritual
fire that has been slowly, and often painfully, opening my heart
to embrace even more love. And God had nothing to do with it,
except to be there with me, as I stumbled through my
unfoldment. I did all of this to myself; to learn who I am. And
now I am not my own worst enemy anymore. That enemy was
crucified in prison. Now, I AM resurrected, loving every
moment of life as it comes at me. I try to enjoy everything I do.
The daily joy I now carry in my heart reflects my love for life.
Life and God are synonymous to me. God is so simple,
standing right in front of us each moment that we fail to see
Him, due to the clouds of judgment and dogma covering our
eyes. But, as the clouds lift, I still feel like a child, naughty or
good, forever and ever, an eternal child of God. I finally know
that I know. And I now know too, that I am never hopeless or
alone; if I choose spirit over ego, life over death, sobriety over
alcohol. The choice is always ours, so may we all choose
wisely. However, my mother’s greatest fear of me living alone
with a cat may just be my present greatest blessing. I see that I
have many of the characteristics of a cat, so Maya and Baba
and I get along just fine. I respect and treasure being alone now,
as I found what I was always looking for in relationships;
myself! May your own tapestry of life be a mosaic of
realizations and self-forgiveness.

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