During the early 1970’s,  I spent time working on industrial construction projects all over the western U.S.  I spent many hours driving north and south on Interstate 5, travelling to and from home. And during those late night travels I always made a point of tuning in KFBK, San Franscisco on the radio. The late-night show became a part of my life on the road. I would hear that deep voice booming through the speakers and smile as I listened to the host share conversation with a fascinating assortment of nocturnal callers. One was convinced he was Jesus. Yes, THE Jesus. Occasionally there were female callers who were obviously infatuated with the voice on the radio. The show’s host was amazing. He didn’t ridicule the man who believed he was Jesus. He had a conversation with him. A  REAL conversation conducted with respect and dignity and gentle humor. The women were all treated as if they were the only woman left on the planet.  The occasional angry caller was diffused with a verbal finesse that astounded me. 
    In 1977 I signed on to a project close to home and ended my travels temporarily, up and down the I-5 corridor. It also ended my connection with the late-night radio show from KFBK, but I never forgot the voice. I occasionally wondered who the man behind the voice was. Little did I know that about the time I settled into a new project, my unknown friend in San Francisco was settling into a new position as a reporter for a bay area news publication. I also didn’t realize that he was a talented and often-published freelance writer.
    When Chey began her wrestling career, she got a phone call one morning from a man asking her permission to do an article about her, replete with photos and in-depth interviews with her. She was reluctant at first, but her instincts led her to trust him. One stormy fall day she and I went to the airport to meet his flight and welcome him to rain country.
    We arrived as his flight was disembarking and up the concourse strode a tall, bespectacled man, a shock of silver gray hair, a warm smile and eyes that danced with intuition and mischief. We exchanged introductions and whisked him out of the crowded airport. As we were driving home I couldn’t shake the feeling I knew him. The more he spoke the more convinced I became. Finally I asked him about his background, specifically if he’d ever worked in radio. He had. He spoke glowingly of his late-night radio show on KFBK in San Francisco. I damn near ran off the freeway. It was him! The same man who’d ridden with me through the night from southern California all the way to the Washington border.
    He spent a week as our guest, getting to know Chey, watching her work-outs and capturing her emerging career in words and photos. By the end of the week we’d all become good friends and he had enough material to compose an incredible spread featuring Chey as the next women’s wrestling star.  Over the next year we kept in close touch with him. He had long been involved in the wrestling business as a ring announcer and copy writer. He was friends with many in the business, including the late, great Millie Burke. It was he who introduced Millie to Chey, the start of a friendship that had a profound effect on Chey’s career.
    It was our friend, Harry, who encouraged Chey to sell video footage of the matches and to begin promoting live matches. Harry was there when the Lady Hawke Gym was born at a diner in West Sacremento. And Harry was there for the video shoots and the shows and all the insanity that went with it.
        And so now you know. The man known as Andy in some of the latest posts about the Hitchcock Railway really does exist. He’s much older now, retired and living quietly not far from where we first met him. He to has ridden the Hitchcock Railway. The first time when he nearly died in an auto collision a few years back. He rode again when congenital heart failure overcame him. And now he lives with a pacemaker in his chest. The man who once smoked three packs of cigarettes a day, is to this day a recovering alchoholic and is one of the most talented writers and voice-over artists in the business. He is alive and well, peacefully waiting for that final ride home on the magical, mystical mode of transportation known all to affectionately as the Hitchcock Railway.

    It was a little over a year before I returned to the small, farming town where I left Gino working on my friend's cattle ranch. I met a lot of people working on the road and made some good friends. One of them was Gino. And as I often did when I was in a town far away from home, I'd find my old friends and make time for a little conversation over a drink or a cup of coffee.
    Much to my surprise, Gino had quit working for my old friend and had moved on. But not far. I discovered he was working in town, loading trucks for a shipping company. The project I was in town to do was scheduled to last nearly a month so I was sure we'd probably bump into each other at the local diner, or maybe at one of the bars in town.
    Sure enough, one sunny, August afternoon, as I walked into the Branding Iron Diner, there was Gino, sitting at the counter. I sat down next to him and we reminisced for nearly an hour. He explained to me how he just couldn't get used to being around so many cows and never got over his distaste for the smell of cow shit. Though he considered his boss a good friend, he needed to go. He'd considered moving on, but found work in town and decided to stay. He lived in a dingy apartment within walking distance of work and settled into a simple, solitary life.
    Another week went by before I saw Gino again. There he was staggering down the sidewalk, barely sober enough to walk. I pulled over, helped him into the cab of my truck and spent the next fifteen minutes trying to determine where he lived. He finally managed to give me directions and we arrived at his apartment. I helped him up the stairs and through the door.
    I was amazed at how neat and clean the place was. I really don't know what I expected to see, but this seemed out of character for him. Gino invited me to stay and I took a seat at his kitchen table while he fumbled around making us some coffee.
    Sunset gave way to night as we sat talking. The words came tumbling out of Gino like water spilling over a dam. He hadn't left his farm job because of the cows. He left because he couldn't stand to be around a lot of people. Sharing a bunkhouse with a dozen other ranch hands nearly drove him crazy. I wondered why, but I didn't ask. The story of Gino's life came out in bourbon-soaked bits and pieces.
He'd been married to the woman of his dreams for a little over a year. He had a job driving truck and was often gone two or three days at a time. Gino loved his work, but his wife hated that he was gone from home. They discussed it, but Gino continued to drive for a living. And his wife began to find new friends. One of them was with her one night when Gino came home unexpectedly, a day early. "I could have handled it if the guy had been sitting on the couch, but they were in bed together!" Tears ran down Gino's face.
    "I ain't sure what happened. I just sort've went blind. And then the cops came and took me away." Gino, in a burst of raging emotion had caused another man's death. And he spent over twenty years in prison. Gino never pursued the possibility of parole. He served his entire prison sentence. Once he was released, he continued to serve his sentence. A self-imposed sentence. It was why he lived alone. Why he rarely allowed himself to have a friend. Why he tried to drown the nightmares in a bottle of bourbon.
    I have no idea what became of my old friend, Gino, but I've got a hunch he just might be a spirit guide now. A spirit guide on a mystical mode of transportation known as the Hitchcock Railway.

    I’d been on the road a little over a year when I first met Gino. One night as my shift ended, I drove into town, stopped at my motel room, showered, changed and headed to the Red Rose Diner for dinner. The place was nearly empty when I arrived, the dinner rush in this small, farming town had long since come and gone.  I walked to the end of the counter and sat down a few stools away from a stranger ssipping on a cup of coffee.
    As I sat studying the menu I couldn’t help noticing the man sitting at the counter with me. His clothes were ragged, his shaggy hair was dirty and unwashed and he was smoking a roll-your-own cigarette. He held his coffee cup with two hands as if it were the last sip of coffee he’d ever experience.  I figured he was a homeless drifter with no particular place to go.
    The waitress approached and I ordered  a hot beef sandwich and a cup of coffee. She thanked me and walked down the counter. She stopped in front of the stranger and asked him if he wanted to order. He hesitated for a moment before answering. “No ma’am, just coffee’s fine.”
     I had a hunch he hadn’t eaten a meal in at least a day or two. If I offered to buy his dinner and he had money to buy his own, he’d feel insulted.  If I didn’t offer to buy his dinner and he didn’t have any money, he’d leave hungrier than  he was before. I was unsure  what to do. I swallowed the last of my coffee, walked to the cash register handed the waitress a twenty dollar bill and told her to keep the change, but to promise me she’d buy the stranger at the counter something to eat. Then I handed her another ten dollars. “This’s for you. I appreciate the favor.”
    I still remember her expression of surprise. Before she could answer I walked out the door and didn’t look back. A  few weeks later, driving north out of town, I was surprised to see that same stranger standing along the road thumbing a ride. I pulled over and he climbed into the cab of my truck. He peered at me for a few minutes without saying anything. I offered him a cigarette, he took it and fished in his pocket for a match. Finally he spoke. “Ain’t you the fella I saw at the Red Rose Diner a while back?”
    I nodded. “Yup. I eat most my dinners there.”
    “You bought my dinner there. I remember. I didn’t have a chance to thank you. So  thank you sir. I really do appreciate it.”
    I smiled slightly. “You can call me Jim, Lonnie, James, Loren or James Loren, but don’t call me sir! It makes me nervous and I just hate bein’ nervous.”
    “My name’s Gino. I’m damn pleased to meet ya James Loren.”
    We talked as the miles passed. Gino was headed north with no particular destination in mind. He didn’t say much about himself, other than that he was looking for work and it was hard for him to find. I explained to him that I had a friend in the town I was headed to that owned a cattle ran ch and there might be some work for him there. He thanked me repeatedly and I cautioned him it was no sure thing, but that I’d be glad to hook him up with the owner.
    When we got to our destination, I gave my friend a call and explained Gino’s situation. The timing was right. Grant was looking for some help and was willing to hire Gino. We met at a local diner, had dinner and I watched as Grant and Gino drove away.
    I didn’t see Gino again. He was out on the ranch working and I was working on a machinery installation at a food processing plant in town. The project finished and as we always did, the crew and  I stopped at the first bar we found and celebrated  the job’s completion. During the evening I met a woman and fell in lust. We left the bar and went to my motel room. I don’t remember much about what happened next, but I do remember waking up the next morning to a note scribbled across the bathroom mirror. My late-night lover had taken all my money and left. She left the change in my pocket, but my wallet was EMPTY. I cursed myself for being such an easy mark and drove to the diner, trying to decide what to do next. There was just enough change in my pocket to cover the cost of a phone call and a cup of coffee. I was famished. Starving. But I had no money.
    I walked into the diner and sat nursing a cup of coffee, deciding how to call my boss and get an advance on my pay.  I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to see Gino standing behind me. He sat down and we talked for a few minutes. Then he smiled and handed me a twenty dollar bill. “I never forgot what you did for me,” he explained. “Now that I’m working steady I just wanted to repay my debt.”
   

You Are 96% Intuitive

Your intuition is so spot on it's scary! You can learn a lot about people and situations, simply by listening to your gut. And you've even wondered if you can predict the future at times. Just be sure not to always listen to your intuition... someday it could be wrong!

    It's the early mornin' hours of another Blue Monday and that means time to share some blues tunes with my Streamer friends. I couldn't decide which blues tune to share with ya'll this week, so why not do two?
    One is a seldom heard, but very cool piece of music that no one can do like Bonnie Raitte does. The other features a guy I heard play when I first came to Portland on a job back in the early 1970's. You won't find his music in the cd racks at your local music shop but that doesn't mean he isn't a fine musician.
    For those who might not realize it, Portland's sort've a major port on the great blues ocean. There's A LOT of blues joints in Portland and a bunch of really talented musicians playing regular gigs in the city. There's also the annual Waterfront Blues Festival, the Mt. Hood Jazz Festival that always includes a nightly blues jam somewhere in the city, the Bones & Blues Festival which is pretty much lots of smokestack grillin' and all the blues you could want to hear.
    Now where else, I ask ya, would an old bluesman choose to live?