50 Years...And We're Still Raving On

Fifty years ago this morning, the Beechcraft B35 Bonanza carrying Buddy Holly, 22, Ritchie Valens, 17, J.P. Richardson (The Big Bopper), 28, and pilot Roger Peterson, 21, crashed into the frozen ground, amidst rose of cornstalk, ice and snow - just miles north of Clear Lake, Iowa. The plane came to a screeching halt, and so did the lives of all four on board.

I can't recall the infancy of rock and roll. I arrived a little too late (25 years, roughly). But i can vividly remember my reaction every time I recognized a Buddy Holly tune on the car radio: "Turn it up, please." And at four years old, I had developed a pretty good ear for a Buddy Holly riff. That is, thanks to my grandpa; he was the one who spotted me the five bucks for my own copy of Buddy Holly Lives. It was one of my first cassette tapes, the first I'd ever purchased at a store. And, like the title, the tape did live; believe it or not, it lasted me through high school. I'm willing to bet it's still in the console of my old Cutlass Supreme.

Later on, as a fledgling musician I found Buddy Holly influencing my own music - and everyone else's for that matter. Older musicians have often told me I was born later than I should've been, that I would have had a blast playing early rock and roll. Speaking on behalf of all the musicians I know, I think we all would have. And not because we're all lost souls of a past era. I believe it's because those big stars, on that small plane, were far ahead of their time. Their influence, and the legacy they left behind, can be found in the skeletal structure of rock and roll anatomy - right in the spine.

February 3, 1959, just after 1AM, they left the ground boys. Five short miles and moments later, they came down icons. Their music never left the sky. It has been immortalized by every heralded hook, every catchy chorus. Their lives fell short fifty years ago, but their songs will forever "rave on."

paul tefft - a real handful.

De Facto The Matter: Noriega Extradition Too Controversial For Comfort

If you single-handedly strong-arm a country by robbing an election or two, serve as a double agent, get charged with multiple counts of drug trafficking, money laundering and racketeering, you could end up a prisoner of war, tried and convicted of several crimes and sentenced to a lengthy prison sentence. Just ask former career soldier and notorious narcokleptocrat, Manuel Noriega. 

Noriega, 74, was sentenced to 40 years in a U.S. prison for a mess of charges, thrown at him by U.S. officials in April 1992. Lucky for Noriega, the one-time de facto military leader of Panama, the sentence was reduced to 17 years. With his sentence completed, Noriega is far from a free man. It turns out the U.S. isn't the only country craving a piece of justice pie. France has requested Noriega's extradition. There, he's looking at a 10-year sentence. He also has a murder trial waiting for him in his native Panama. Ironically, Noriega wishes to return there.

I've heard of being wanted in multiple counties. But multiple countries? This is not your typical criminal record, which is why the federal court has its hands full. Under the Geneva Conventions - a set of treaties stating mandatory rules for war, non-combats and POWs that only foreign policy graduate students can thoroughly define - it's suggested that Noriega be returned to his native Panama. 

U.S. authorities find this disputable. They're looking to send Noriega, the one-time CIA cooperative, to France where he's facing a 10-year sentence for (surprise, surprise) money laundering.

That is, if Noriega can maintain his health. He's suffered from stroke and was diagnosed and treated for prostate cancer during his tenure behind bars. The once agent, gone drug trafficker may be going over seas for more sentencing.

Manuel Noriega: from CIA to DEA to SOL

pmt - a real handful.

why i have trouble sleeping

why i have trouble sleeping: a story short
a real handful

I was alone in a bat cave. A one-room rental where I drank, wrote, worried and occasionally slept. I’d have gotten more shut-eye, but the flying monster demon sons-of-bitches refused to stay the hell away.

I was learning that swarm season meant a bevy of vampire birds in all the wrong places. That included the room where my bed sat, empty and full of guano. That’s bat shit. And I was headed there in a hurry.

Cheap whisky wouldn’t tame them. Not these creatures. Maybe they were gin drinkers. They didn’t say much and I didn’t press them for information. I just wanted them out.

Landlady Godiva wasn’t much help. She wasn’t the youngest minge on the beat, and I think her hearing suffered. Or was I the only one who heard them in the windows, walls and floor? Maybe.

One night, in bed I’d dreamt that one of them made it’s fuzzy little way through my ear canal and into my brain. It’s sonar pounded on my nerves and connectors and whatever else I had up there at the time. I woke up in sheets of bat spit and urine. The soiled sheets followed me to the floor, stinking of salt. Damn they were cold.

I was relieved to learn that I was draped in my own sweat soaked sheets, not a straight jacket of bat excrement. But the sonar was still there.

Still there.

With cupped hand, I smacked my right ear repeatedly, but to no avail. The sonar continued to pierce my pituitary.

Where’s that whisky?

My heart was beating out of control; twitterpating with the rhythm of the wings over my head.

Wings!

I didn’t have time to wonder where the little fucker came from – he wasn’t going to wait for an accurate assessment. He was out for blood. And I just wanted my whisky.

Did he drink it? Was it he? Did he settle for McMaster’s once he learned there was no Tanqueray on top of the fridge? He must have. He was my only culprit; there certainly wasn’t anyone else around.

Alright. Bat fucker, this means war.

My opponent circled my cranium and I groped my floor for a weapon like the blind bums grope for dimes at the mission downtown. It was pitch black. He had the advantage.

I scoured the hardwood, leaving lay articles useless to me at the time – dirty under ware, condom wrappers, a pair of gas and sip sunglasses, a bag of marbles.
A bag of marbles?

Bat face continued to taunt. He closed in on my face, screeching and hissing, as a rabid hell-monster should.

Was I intimidated? Absolutely. But I maintained. I managed to knock over my nightstand and down came my lamp, with a smash.

They don’t make ‘em like they used to.

I watched as remnants and pieces skipped across the floor, including the lampshade that bounced right in front of my beloved tennis racquet.

Hot Dog.

I grabbed the fucking thing and jumped to my feet, swinging and slicing ruthlessly through the air. I was a wide-eyed Wimbledon contender, John McEnroeing the shit out my winged opponent. But it only took one strike.

Bat, meet floor.

Sipping cold whisky, I stood over his dead little body.

Sleep tight little vampire, you son of a bitch.

*

i am paul tefft. and i'm a real handful.

a note to the reader

i guess i turned my back on the blog, but i mustn't any longer. i need to continue blogging. mainly, i need a diary of sorts. a way to write freely. of entertainment, music and maybe even poetry. who knows? but i'm back. so stay tuned. check my tumblr, my twitter, my myspace. i'll be around...

now go play - it's friday.

i am paul tefft. and i don't use caps anymore.

Some of the most brilliant people drive sedans...

This guy is great, for so many reasons and on so many levels. I particularly like the part about people buying lottery tickets. I'm willing to bet that this guy left LA for some small, Midwest city. Enjoy!

I am Paul Tefft. And I'm a real handful.

Damn.

Did I mention I Like to Drink?

I figure we all do it. I did just the other night. This is what came of it... Yes, I believe it's a story.

A Beer for Sister Sara

I sat there, on the crooked couch in the living room of the house I didn’t own. I was renting a room at the time, and god how I wanted to leave that filthy place. There was nowhere else to go, nowhere else to be. I’d just gotten off the phone with a close friend I’d met in college years back. He was hunting for jobs, something to call work for the next however many years to come. 

And I was tired. I took a drink of my beer. It was cold, almost too cold - if that's even possible. But it was sweet and it made my mind at ease. I took another drink. Drink after drink, there I sat. My eyes and thoughts were fixated on the glowing screen of my television. It was the same small television I’d had in my dorm room at college—where I met my unemployed friend. I liked the television. I liked my dorm room. I began to miss my dorm room, the place where I could drink cold beer and watch my television without sharing a damn thing with anyone.

I drank another long sip of my cold, sweet beer and reverted my attention to the program on my television. It was a movie, a western movie. I started listening to the dialogue. I took another drink. I realized what was taking place on the screen in front of crooked couch on which i sat. I watched a cowboy who had fallen for a nun he’d just saved from a raping. I liked the dialogue. I liked the cowboy. He wanted to fuck the nun. I think his name was Clint. 

I took two big drinks. I wanted to fuck the nun. I wanted to fuck the actress who played the nun. I don’t know what her name was. 

I took another drink. And another. Then another. I thought of how painful it would be to have an arrow in my shoulder. I drank to that thought. Shortly after, I woke up the next morning on the couch. The cowboy was gone. The nun was gone (I later found out she wasn’t a nun at all and that her name was Shirley). The arrow wound was gone. My beer was piss warm. My back was killing me…

I am Paul Tefft. And I'm a real handful.