As I write, this is the day before our seventeenth wedding anniversary (yep, we were married on Halloween)–it was my fourth marriage, her sixth, our first.  I am at her home in the Valley, half-way between Willow and Talkeetna–my legal residence for voting and tax purposes, but I reside in a 10×12 foot cabin with no phone or running water, in Meadow Lakes, just outside Wasilla–where I do most of my business.

I had to come half-way here to the clinic in Willow to get some blood drawn for lab tests (just routine), and decided yesterday to come all the way up.  I rented some videos for Kathy and Doug to watch while I used their comp (a fancy souped-up version that a Xanga friend gave her).  I was greeted warmly–not only because they love me, but also because I came bearing massive quantities of ice cream, cookies, and chocolate bars.  Plus a little bit of real food, a new gun to show them, and my new watch (which no one wanted to see).

What a long strange trip it has been. In the late eighties, I had an obscenely high-paying state job I got in return for keeping my mouth shut about some illegal stuff the Governor’s Office had perpetrated.  I lived in  a luxurious town house apartment, had a closet full of designer clothes, a late-model SUV AND an Italian sports car.  Oh, and a  prescription drug habit that was killing me.  I also had a vision one day.  I saw this  skinny grey fox, fur all ragged and matted, and I realized that fox was me.  (I didn’t know this at the time, but this was the start of a classic shamanic initiation crisis.  In short order, I started to study metaphysics in general and shamanism in particular, got three pierces and six tattoos from a shaman in Maryland, and formally joined my tribe–the Muscogee Nation (known then as the Florida tribe of eastern Creek Indians).  I started a shamanic newsletter, and going to pagan festivals–even changed my name, to Wade Greyfox, not knowing at the time that shamans classically took the name of their power animals.  One of the obscure pagan journals I read had a small display ad from an Alaskan psychic–Kathy Lynn Douglass.  We started to correspond, she sent me her unlisted  phone number, and when I first  called and heard her voice, I shivered, knowing that we would get married. (She told me later I was the ONLY one who answered that particular ad.  Cue spooky music.)

The  next year, she and her son flew down to help me get things in order and packed up for the trip.  We left my apartment, still full of expensive furnishings, in a driving rain.  She headed west in the sports car, I headed south to spend some time with Crow, the shaman.  We met up later in Custer State Park in South Dakota, and settled in Bayard, New Mexico.   I got two part-time jobs at Western New Mexico University–one night a week, I tauight a course on shamanism–another night, I posed nude for an art class. When we finally got to Alaska, I hated it.  She lived in a squalid hovel–a fifty-year old, eight-foot wide trailer that had previously been used as a dog kennel.  My income dropped to almost nothing (we spent my life savings on the way up), and I no longer had health insurance or indeed any access to medical care.  I woke up every morning  crying–for months and months–while I continued to go through extended withdrawal symptoms from the drug I had sneaked along with me.  And got drunk or high every chance I got, and I got many.

I blamed Kathy for my suffering and did eveything in my considerable power to drag her and her son down to my level.  This continued for years, until I moved to Wasilla, and shortly after getting my business established there,. went on a ten-day or so binge–ate nothing but a handfull of pistachio nuts and subsisted on ice beer and vodka.  She sensed I was in trouble,  came to town and literally saved my life.  I finally decided to get serious about transcending my addictions (went through rehab twice in the seventies), and started doing some heavy therapy for my NPD–Narcissistic Personality Disorder.  It worked.

It has now been five years since I quite drinking, drugging and smoking tobacco–quit it all on the same day.  Despite the fact that I still live in poverty and with pain and disability on a daily basis, I am radiantly happy, in a state of “astounding lucid confusion.”  I sometimes manage to attain a state of unity consciousnes, said to be the highest and most exalted of the seven possible states of consciousness, thanks to years of reading works by such greats as Deepak Chopra and Neale Donald Walsch. Best of all, I have finally forgiven my wife for loving me.

As I have said many times before–but never with more sincerity and gratitude–”Thanks for the new life, darlin’.”

The recent AGCA (Alaska Gun Collectors Association) gun show as my best ever–not so much for the money I made (which wasn’t bad), but for the deals I got.

I grossed almost $1600 for the weekend, which was real good considering the competition, notably a carpet-bagger from Nome who comes down and undercuts the other knife dealers’ prices, and lies  about his products to boot.  (I caught him trying to pass off Chinese-made Schrade clones for the real things–the boxes were made in the US, the knives were not.)  Ironically, he did me a favor–I had a bunch of Smith and Wesson knives I was selling for $29.95–they cataloged at up to $80.95–he was selling his at $20, so I dropped my price to $19.95, and sold over half a dozen.

Gun shows, for those who have never been, are a uniquely Americna institution–no where else in the western world can anyone walk in off the street and purchase a firearm for cash, no paperwork and no questions asked.  (I should qualify this–a licensed gun dealer has to do the federal paperwork, which is a major pain in the ass–I had one deal go south because the feds turned down my app–another app I made with a different dealer the same day went through, no problems.)  A citizen who has no felony convictions can legally sell up to four guns  a month.  I sell maybe four a year, so I’m cool on this, but I do try to follow the letter of the law.  Once  a prospective customer said he wanted to buy a gun frm me because he had a felony rap, and I said “Sorry–you just blew the deal.”  I don’t KNOWINGLY sell guns to felons–”don’t ask, don’t tell” being my policy number one.  Policy number two–you buy a weapon from me, I don’t care what you do with it, as long as you don’t do it to me.  But I digress.

A few things never change.  There was the NPD monster, the guy who bent my ear so much talking about knives he has known and loved that I blew a couple of sales.  And then there was the PFK–pathetic fat kid.  There is always at least one, but this one was more heinous than most.  He had two bucks to spend–he asked if I had anything in that price range, I showed him some Swiss Army knife knock-offs I was selling for three, told him he could have one for two–PFK made a face and  a rude noise, and left. Came back later and  he was like “EXCUSE ME?”  Asking dumb questions when I was trying to wait on real customers.  I tried to be patient but when he pulled his fifth “EXCUSE ME–what’s this?” pointing to a box of backstock I had under the table–I replied, not gontly–”IT’S A BOX– OKAY?!?!?”  He finally left after his grand-dad wisely refused to buy him a sword cane.  Some PFKs are touching, really–this one was just a pain in the ass.

The deal that flopped was for   a Jennings .22 semi for $55.  I did pick up–for cash–a nice western-style six-shooter, sort of a Ruger Super Blackhawk clone–for $65.  I expect to get around  $150.  But my awesome deal was with a dealer who likes to give knives for presents–I did a great deal with him last year–I got a used Beretta and a new 9mm for $100 cash and some high-end knives.  This time, I am getting a 9mm and three .380s–all new in the box with lifetime warranties–for $250 cash and three knives.  I hope to clear close to a grand if I sell all the guns, but I might keep one of the .380s for myself.

I like to buy collectable coins, one of the AGCA members being a coin dealer.  I went a little nuts–got a total of six for around 2/3s of the total catalog  price of $120.  I’m going to expand on the couin deal here, so if you have zero interest in collectable coins or collecting, skip this paragraph.  The prettiest one was  a 1945-S walking liberty half, one of the most beautiful coins ever–in almost uncirculated ocndition, it still had lots of the orginal mint luster.  If I sell it, I’ll ask $55.  I got an 1868 five-cent piece in very fine condition–I’ll get $49 for that one, if I decide to sell it.  Also, I got two large cents–one 1845  and a slightly damaged 1849; I paid $20 for both of them, which is about what the 1845 alone catalogs for.  I got an 1892 Barber dime for around $5, nothing special, but Barbers are going up.  Finally, the oddball–an 1817  silver shilling, almost uncirculated, for $5.

Someone else was selling DVDs–I got five at $3 each.  And one dealer had some old collectable knives and I don’t think he realized what he had–I got a  Puma (same one went for $45 on eBay) for $10, and a nice old Kershaw for $10.  In a moment of sheer madness, I bought a dozen talking bilingual  tire gauges for a buck each, but the one I tried, I couldn’t get to work.  I should have known better, but the guy selling them was persistant as hell.

Sunday, I went into full Turkish rug peddler mode, as my sweety calls it–I dropped the price on my $19.95 jobbies to “buy one, get one free”.  I didn’t sell many and finally–towards the end of the show–dropped the price on some of them to $5 and sold around a dozen  It was a tough show to work, and by the end, I was dead tired.

After making a dozen or so trips to the car with the heaviest stuff, I was feeling shaky, and sat down, decided to make a quick call home while I rested. Some officious young guy from AGCA loudly and sarcastically “reminded” me that the show was over, and I needed to pack up.  I painfully dragged myself back to my feet–after resting for almost two whole minutes–and got back to work.  Then another dealer interupted me and asked some questions about my stock, I talked to her and made a few last-minute sales–$40 worth.  Then the same damn guy yelled at me again.  So I bent to the pressure and just threw stuff willy-nilly into my car–it is four days later (as I write this) and the mess still isn’t cleaned up.  As it was, I was not the last to leave.

As I write, the gun show is just a memory.   A few days ago, I met the local gun dealer in the parking lot at Wal-mart, handed him the cash and a sack with five knives in it, and he handed me the three .380s and the 9mm.  Turned out, the 9mm is all black–I had wanted the chrome model, but since I hadn’t made that clear, I had no cause to say anything.  Some people like black better anyway, and I did get the  nine mike to re-sell, anyway.

Nothing.  I am “truly happy” right now, simply because I choose to be so.   This is known as being inner-directed, or enlightened. 

Nothing can “make” anyone be happy.

Many people, however, are outer-directed, requiring something outside themselves to be happy.  This is also known as being addicted.

   

I just answered this Featured Question, you can answer it too!

I would hope that most people don’t.  I would hope that most people are reasonably intelligent and have a real life, and so have no need to concern themselves with the  meaningless antics of entertainers.

   

I just answered this Featured Question, you can answer it too!

A copy of Power, Freedom, and Grace by Deepak Chopra; an uncirculated 1947 Lincoln cent; and my Beretta Jetfire.

Chopra is one of my spiritual mentors; I collect coins and 1947 is my DOB; the Beretta is my everyday carry.

   

I just answered this Featured Question, you can answer it too!

  Yup.  Hit the big six-oh today.  I am as old as the transistor, the independent state of India, the Taft-Hartley Act, the Spruce Goose, and integration in major-league baseball.  Thing is, I don’t feel that old.  My physical disabilities are more due to genetic defects, old injuries and chronic illness than age –okay, except for the cataracts–not many teenagers running around with opaque corneas.

But jeez–sixty.  That does sound bloody antique, so I tried to think of an accurate way to minimize it.  Sixty = two to the sixth power, minus four.  Nah, that sounds even worse.  How about “three score”?  That has a nice Lincolnesque ring to it, but it brings to mind “three score and ten,” the Biblical lifespan.  I have lots more than one lousy decade left, I’m sure.

Then I remembered what George Carlin said–so now I’m not sixty at all–only “16 Celsius.”

Happy birthday, sweet sixteen!

Nothng  “makes” me happy–when I choose to be happy, I am.

If anything outside yourself makes you happy, you are addicted to it.

   

I just answered this Featured Question, you can answer it too!

Stupid question, actually.

God created science (and scientists and everything else); priests created religion.

   

I just answered this Featured Question, you can answer it too!

Certainly not, since lying and misrepresentation is rampant.
   

I just answered this Featured Question, you can answer it too!