Where The F@#$% are my Socks? A Riveting Story About Searching


True Story…

(as true as a story based on reality can be)

Some friends of mine and I went to the art museum one night – at about midnight – to lay on the museum’s perfectly manicured grass and have a smoke or two, drink a few, and have a nice chat under the full moon.  It was kind of an after-party from a show we had all been at earlier in the evening.

One of the friends was a trumpet player named Wesley. Wes and I were with a couple of other friends named Vera (a singer) and Lenora (an artists and translator) and James (another artist and videographer).

We  looked at the moon, talked trash, laughed a lot, took our shoes off and let the grass caress our toes.  We drank, we smoked some more. Got deep. Laughed more. Did somersaults and cartwheels down a gentle slope and took goofy pictures of ourselves.

And then, all of us on our backs, stared at the midnight sky in silence.

Then we all hugged, said goodnight to each other and parted ways.

I’m not sure where everyone else went, but Wesley and I went back to his place as it was near the museum. He had a bit more booze at his house… so we spent much of the rest of the night drinking and making music…  then we burned our ideas onto a CD.

Then I passed out on his couch sharing it with all of his stuff.

Strewn about the couch was his laundry – including pants, boxer shorts, a towel, a couple of shirts and some brightly colored ties;  some musical instruments – mostly percussion type instruments like shakers, rattles and a tambourine; there were a couple of books (can’t remember the names of the books, but I think I liked one of the authors); and a couple of pillows.

I used some of his laundry as a blanket.

Then I woke up.

I opened my eyes and was blinded by the blaring sunlight – that wasn’t there when I passed out – flooding Wesley’s living room (which was also his dining room, study, studio and part of his kitchen).

I immediately got that oh shit, I’m late feeling and scrambled to pack up my stuff: a jacket, a helmet, my guy-purse, the keys to my motorcycle, my shoes and other tidbits.

Then I realized my socks were missing.

I looked around for them.  Under here. Over there. The socks were black, I told myself… or perhaps dark blue. I stood in the middle of the room and tried to recall where I had put them.

Then I woke Wes up to say goodbye.

Then I looked for my socks again. I looked under the couch, in his laundry still laying on the couch  – some of his laundry still with the imprint of my body on it. I looked in my shoes (again) and the bathroom (as I may have taken them off as the floor was a bit wet).

I found them not.

I spied a pair of socks on the floor next to the trumpet, but decided not to borrow them as I wasn’t sure if they were clean or not and didn’t want to do the smell test.

I gathered up my belongings and barefoot, carrying my shoes, walked down six flights of stairs (no elevator) to my scooter.

I got on my scooter, waved to the taichi people practicing in the park as I pulled out onto the street, went back to art museum and looked there for my socks.

I looked under the tree we had been sitting under, behind the bushes where I relieved myself of those whiskey apple cider things that I now wish I had not drunk. I looked up and down the hill we had done the cartwheels and somersaults on; the approximate area we had been on our backs looking at the stars…  still… no socks.

Barefoot, I walked back to my motorcycle, as the sun dared to glare brightly at me (I could not find my sunglasses either).

I put on my helmet and with bare feet, I headed slowly north on my motorcycle – back to my home in the big valley wondering if my socks were still resting at the art museum or hiding at Wesley’s place or sitting alone on a sidewalk somewhere  – waiting for my return…

…or perhaps – just maybe –  I did not wear socks out in the first place.


You can Follow the Militant Hippi/Boston Paul on Facebook: 

Twitter: https://twitter.com/MilitantHippi

You Might also like to read some other short stories by Boston Paul AKA The Militant Hippi:

  1. About a Great Grandfather and his Great Grandson:


    2.  This is my weapon and this is my Gun, based on real life events, a young man finds himself in Central America:


3. Hate waiting in line?  This is for you:


4. The Would Be Patriot:


5. A bit of Horror and suspense… never blow this guy’s candle out!


6. Getting Stoned at The Fair




Published in: on January 31, 2016 at 12:49 AM  Comments (2)  
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My Great Grandfather: When Cultures Clash. Ass kicking, long hair and Hard Knocks

My Great Grandfather: When Cultures Clash


Great Grandfather and his Rake.

It was the day before my Great Grandfather’s Birthday – his Life Celebration – when he died. 

He would have celebrated his hundredth birthday and it would have been celebrated on a Sunday.  Now I know he is somewhere in the Spirit World angry as hell that he missed it by one day.  Just one day!

My Grandfather would not be angry just because he died.  Everyone dies someday, he used to say.  But you see, he had this thing about him – these things actually. But there was one thing about him, and everyone who knew him would agree, he liked things just right.  And dying on his birthday at 100 years old would have completed the perfect circle.

My Great Grandfather was a bit quirky, a Renaissance Man and what a pop psychologist may even call a bit anal-retentive. Things had to be put in their proper place. Labeled. Cleaned. This however did not show so much when dealing with other people, it was just a little quirk in his own life.

For instance, if you opened his refrigerator, everything was arranged just the way he liked it. Food that may spoil first (and his favorite treats) were placed at the front of the fridge followed by food with a later expiry date and food less preferred (he hated beets, but knew they were healthy… which is probably why he lived to be so old). Things that didn’t spoil were arranged by size and color. Ketchup, mustard and relish were arranged in that order because that’s how they were aligned in a visible (light) spectrum. I told him it was because deep down he was a Rasta and he told me to shut the hell up.

Now I feel that his refrigerator habits made sense.  And even now I do the same thing. Which to anyone who knew the both of us, this was no surprise. They all used to say (and still do) that I was just like him. Down to the bone, they’d say. 

Maybe that’s why we got along so well, my Great Grandfather and I.

My father and I were a different story however.

My father and I were also much alike in a few ways – stubborn, temperamental – and perhaps that is why he tried to kill me one day. 

If not for my Great Grandfather and a rake, I might not be writing this now.

To begin, I should mention that my Mom and Dad got divorced when I was very young. My younger brother was a year and half old, my sister was just born and I was three.

He wanted to move to a warmer climate (sick of those New England winters) and my mother would not leave her family (a townie through and through)… so they parted ways. To be fair, my parents were very young when they married, so I can’t blame either. We do dumb things when we are young… and if it wasn’t for their dumbness, I wouldn’t be writing this now.

So YAY for that. 

We had not seen my father for a few years, and then one day, he came back.  

I got to see Dad on the weekends.  I was still young and it was a thrill to have a “dad” again. We would go out on his motorcycle, or drive around in his Cutlass.  He taught me how to fight and protect myself and when the bullies on the playground came around, I had something for them. 

Having a dad again was great (even though it was just the weekends)… until I started getting older and realized he did not know the first thing about raising kids. But still, he had his own ideas.

  You see, the older I got, the more I wanted my own identity… to be my own person. Some called me rebellious, but I wasn’t thinking that way.  I grew my hair longer and changed the style of my clothes.  My father took this all in stride at first.  But he was only tolerating my behavior for the time being. 

My father was what one would call Old School. He said he was brought up at the school of Hard Knocks, and that my generation didn’t know what it meant to be disciplined and respect their elders.

Little did I know that it was just a matter of time before Old School of Hard Knocks dominated any guilt feelings he had about leaving his children so many years ago.

Just a matter of time came one Saturday morning when he came to pick me up.  I was still eating breakfast when he came in. 

My Mother had gone upstairs and my brother was in the back yard playing with the dog.  My sister was standing in the kitchen door watching my brother.  I had stayed out late the night before with a few friends and had climbed back in the window of my room during the wee hours. I was still feeling a little drowsy when my father came in.

He stopped and looked at me.

“Hi Dad,” I said.

“What the hell is that in your ear?” he asked. 

My hand shot up to my ear.  A sudden cold washed over me as I started to sweat.  I had forgotten that my friends and I pierced our ears the night before, a kind of bonding thing I guess. 

I pierced my ear first with a sewing needle, and then I helped my buddy with his and he helped another with his and so on.  Then we all celebrated by drinking until we passed out (it didn’t take much, we were only fifteen).

“I asked if it was real,” he said.  I swallowed. 

(How come the only time you realize you’re swallowing, is when you are terrified?)

He grabbed my shirt and shook me. “Answer me!” he yelled

“I…I…” I couldn’t get the words out.  He let go of me.

“Take it out now,” he demanded.  I began to reach up and take it out. 

Then I stopped.

“No,” I said.

“What did you say?” my father said astonished.

I swallowed again (damn it!).

“No,” I repeated.

“You will take it out of your ear, or I will rip it out!” he bellowed. 

Fear gripped me, but at the same time I was angry.  I didn’t want anyone telling me what to do. 

He can’t tell me what to do, he doesn’t live here. I thought.

“Did you hear me, boy?”

“Dad,” I said, “why are you doing this?”

“I am not going to have a sissy faggot for a son,” he replied.

“I am not a sissy faggot,” I had to defend myself. You try piercing your own ear with a needle!

“Then take the earring out of your ear.”

“That has nothing to do with being a sissy faggot, Dad.”

“Take the goddamn thing out now, boy.”

“No!”  I yelled. “You can’t tell me what to do!”  I struggled to my feet, but my legs felt like Jell-O.

He began to roll his shirt sleeves up.  “Are you talking back to me?  I believe you need to be disciplined the old fashion way. Your mother doesn’t discipline you enough.” 

He began walking towards me.  I backed up.  My sister turned and saw us. I prayed that she would run and get Mom, but she just stood there watching. I backed up into the kitchen and scanned the counters for something I could protect myself with.

WHAM!!  He backhanded me.  I reeled around.  The whole kitchen began spinning as I fell.

“Get up you chicken shit sissy.” Dazed I grabbed the door knob to the kitchen door and pulled myself up.  He reached for my ear and I turned my head.

“Don’t you turn away from me, boy!  Now are you going to take that thing out of your ear?”

“No!”  I cried.  He grabbed me by my long hair, my shirt and that extra bit of skin on the back of the neck and hurled me out the kitchen door into the back yard.  My brother stopped playing and looked at me.

“What’s wrong?” my brother asked.

“Nothing,” my father told him, “get in the house.”  My brother was still looking at me as he went into the house.  My Father jerked me to my feet. My legs were shaking, but I managed to stand.

“Now, do you think you are man enough to hit me?” he asked.
I clenched my fists.

SMACK!!  He hit me again.  “You’re not a man.  Now get up boy…  I said get up!”   

The inside of my mouth was filling with blood.  My head was spinning.  I got back up.  I licked my lip, it was cracked and bleeding.

“Now you are going to take that thing out of your ear, and then we are going to go to Ernie’s.”

GOD, no!  Ernie was the town barber.  Probably the last of his kind.  I think he was a barber in the military before he opened his own shop. I knew that I was NOT going to go to Ernie’s.  He would have to kill me first.

“Dad, you can hit me all you want, but I am not going there,” it hurt when I talked and blood spattered out of my mouth onto my shirt.

“Oh, now you are telling me what you’re going to do?  Well, I’ll tell you what, I am going to beat you senseless.  Then I am going to pick you up and take you there.  When you wake up, you will have a proper haircut and that thing in your ear will be gone.”

“I am not going!”  I raised my fists to fight back.  Anger took over fear. Instinct. 

He hit me again knocking my fist into my nose.  Then I felt another blow and then another.  I was bleeding and mucus was all over my face. My eyes were filled with water, and then the hitting ceased. 

I heard a noise and some muffled shouts. My eyes were shut, but everything was still spinning. I was in the fetus position on the ground.

I opened my eyes. I stared at the ground and saw how the grass moved when I breathed. I lifted my aching head and turned my stiff neck toward the house and saw mother in the doorway with a look of horror on her face.  My brother and sister were watching from the window. 

My father was holding his knee in what looked like pain.

“You son of a bitch!” he cried. “You can’t stop me from disciplining my son!” 

I looked to see who my Father was talking to, but heard my Great Grandfather speak before I saw him.

“Ya wanna try to hit me, boy?”  My Great Grandfather asked my father.  I looked over at Gramps and he was holding a rake he had just used to hit my Father in the knee cap with.

“Hit an old man?” My father laughed and then grimaced, “I’m not going to hit an old man.”

“Why not?  You’re hitting a young boy, why not an old man?”

My father looked at him and then looked at me. 

I stared at my father – hating him and feeling sorry for him at the same time.

“Come on, now!” My great Grandfather taunted. 

My father looked at him.  My Great Grandfather smiled holding the rake firmly and with confidence. 

His smile wasn’t a happy smile or even a sinister smile. I am not sure how to describe it.  Perhaps it was a smile that conveyed, I don’t have a care in the world.  I can kick your ass or have a cup of tea, it’s all the same to me.

“Well, ya gonna stand there rubbing your knee contemplating hitting me or are ya gonna apologize to the boy and your ex wife for whatchya did, then get on out of here?  And if you’re calmed down by next week, maybe ya can come back.”

“I’m not apologizing to anyone,” replied my father as he limped away. 

He went around the front yard where his car was parked.  I started to get up.  My Great Grandfather leaned the rake against the house and came over to me to help me up.  I could feel the strength. I would say that he was strong for an old man, but he was strong for any man – young or old.  A strength that I hoped to have someday.

“Let’s getchya cleaned up,” he said.

We didn’t see my father for a month after that day.  He called a couple times to talk to my brother.  It didn’t matter.
For the time being, I still had my hair – my long hair –  and my earring. 

Later on that month, I switched from the silver stud earring to one with a feather – a small feather – just like the one my Great Grandfather had in his ear…



You can Follow the Militant Hippi/Boston Paul on Facebook: 

Twitter: https://twitter.com/MilitantHippi

You Might also like to read:

What is a Friend?  https://bostonpaul.wordpress.com/2012/08/13/who-what-is-a-friend-really/

The Music of Birds and Humans: https://bostonpaul.wordpress.com/2016/01/23/the-music-of-birds-humans-spring-happy-chinese-new-year-%E6%96%B0%E5%B9%B4%E5%BF%AB%E6%A8%82/

Ride … a poem by a younger me: https://bostonpaul.wordpress.com/2016/01/22/ride-a-poem-by-a-younger-me/

The Music of Birds, Humans & Spring.

Birds Outside my window

As Spring slowly wafts into Taiwan and the various Bird Choirs begin to join each other in concert… that dawn chorus, that symphony of titillating random melodies,  I bask in the hodgepodge of tones and pitches that bathe me in random keys (perhaps not so random) and in wavering octaves that fluctuate between different time signatures like a roller coaster in the clouds. 

Here Synchronized…. There Random.

A Symphonic Cascade, a Creative Cacophony of notes that perhaps only a Jazz or Trained Classical Musician could fathom…. and of which I am trying to fathom now.

It is beautiful.

As a musician listening to the Birds singing, I ponder why our species seems to have this innate desire to make music.

In nature, many male species of birds sing to let potential mates know that they have a piece of real estate all their own.

One strikes up another tune to attract a female who should surely be impressed with his song where then – ideally – they will start a Family.

Our male bird friend then sings to tell all other male birds of his kind to keep out.

Birds also sing to warn others of Dangers below.

Do Birds ever sing, just to hear the music?

Do they know that their cheeps, chirps and musical chatter are pleasant and pleasing to the ears?

Kind of makes me re-think what it is that motivates… (inspires!) our Species to want to  create music.

Is it not difficult to suppress that Energy we feel bubbling inside of us in the form of Creativity…  what is it that bubbles inside of us?  Where does this energy come from? And why do many of us feel this Energy constantly on the brink of bursting out and flooding our every waking moment?

Is it not our emotions –  the feelings – (that may or may not be narcissistic) that somehow need to be released through creative chaos, arranged harmonies and expressive lyrics?   Why this want – this need – to convey these emotions and feelings? Where does this desire come from?

Why do we have this desire we have to spread joy, awareness and stories about what we’ve learned on our Journey Path to others through this creative chaos, arranged harmonies, expressive lyrics?

Is it not to represent the era in which we reside… to tell a story of our world which becomes a History to future generations… a Legacy?

What is it?

The Chinese practice Ancestor Worship. That is not to say they have made their Ancestors into’gods’ in the Religious sense. This worship is considered a remembrance of where they came from. They carry on their ancestor’s Legacy in hopes that someday their Legacy will also be carried on.

That is the Human in us and it shows itself in many Guises:

The Chinese light incense in front of their great, great, great grandparents’ little shrine in their living room;  a political leader gets his face printed on a coin; the writer writes a book; the artists paints, sculpts, sketches, and pushes the limits; the Musician writes on paper or records electronically the music (& words that may accompany the music)…

…and we all take pictures with our cameras.

Indeed, we need to live forever… we need to become immortal. We need to spread our seed. We need to have Legacy through our creations whether it is a song we compose, a poem we write, a picture we take… a child we have.

Perhaps we are not that much different from the Birds singing outside my window…

Peace and Love to you all!

Published in: on January 23, 2016 at 2:25 PM  Comments (4)  
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Ride (A Poem by a Younger Me)

I’ve been writing since I was old enough to hold a pen.  I wrote this as I was getting ready to get out of the army…. I was about 21.



I love to ride at night

Moving with the flowing wind

Feeling on top of the world

Feeling like I never sinned


I love to ride at night

The feeling of being alone

It’s just me and the highway

It’s just me all alone


The night, the night, the flight, the fight


I love to ride at night

Harley taking care of me

I don’t know where I’m going

I don’t care as long as I’m free…



March 18, 1989

Published in: on January 22, 2016 at 10:45 AM  Comments (1)  
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No Love for Jakarta?


Religion is Poison and this time the Poison spreads through one of its Hosts (ISIS) in Indonesia… Jakarta to be exact.

It warms my heart to that everyone has used the social media flag filter – as they did with France – to show solidarity with Jakarta.

The News Feeds on social media are going ballistic with updates and pouring out of love, sympathy and empathy.

Wait a minute… none of that has fucking happened.


Not one peep.


Are the lives lost in France more important than our brothers and sisters in Jakarta?

Is it because Indonesia is a predominately Muslim Country? So who gives a fuck?

Is it because People from around the world like French Croissants and Escargot better than Indonesian Otak-Otak?

No matter who the Victims are –  Violence is Violence. Terrorism is terrorism and We The People should stand together.


#KamiTidakTakut   (We Are Not Afraid)

Published in: on January 15, 2016 at 11:07 AM  Comments (2)  

This is My Weapon and This is My Gun

Airborne tat chest 2

It’s the mid 1980s and I find myself in Central America. I’m young. I’m passionate. I’m a Brainwashed Minion. A Pawn. A Robot. A Lean Mean Fighting Machine.

It’s hot. My uniform is soaked with sweat. In the distance I hear munitions exploding. I hear sirens. Helicopters overhead. Jets scream by.

I am counting boxes filled with bombs and bullets.  Ammo Detail they call it. I’ll be doing this mundane shit until they figure out what we are all going to do in this lovely Central American country.

Getting ammo ready for issue. How did I get stuck doing this shit job?
Like peeling potatoes or mopping the floor in the latrine. You have to fuck up to get stuck doing this shit. Soon, perhaps I’ll move to the front where the action is.

I finish loading boxes and sit on the ground and relax with my M-16 rifle.

This is my Weapon and this is my Gun, this is for Killing and this is for FUN.

I’ll rest. Rest and Wait. Wait for what? To fight maybe, to go home. I don’t know.
Being here though, gives me a lot of time to think, to confirm and develop philosophies.

I have butterflies in my stomach.

I am scared and excited at the same time.

I volunteered to fight for my country.
“Would you die for your country?’ has always been a morale boosting question.
Military men have asked me that many times.

And my answer is always the same:


“NO?” They blurt out. “WHY?”

They are always astonished at my answer and probably think I’m Communist until I tell them:

“Comrade,” I always begin, “I am going to Live for my country and give some other poor bastard the opportunity to Die for his.”

(What good will I do for my country, if I’m dead…?)

My, it is a spinning world. Spinning out of control in my part of the universe. I’m holding on tight. Keeping a strong grip until this universal whirlwind subsides.

I try to make the Calm in my mind. I try to subdue the tempestuous state in my world. My universe within.

I am me.
I am the Black Sheep.
I am the Shepherd.
I am the Freak Show.
The biker.
The once Born Again Christian, The Buddhist, The Taoist. The Agnostic.
I am the Spiritual One.  The Metaphysical Bum.

I am me, and yet I ponder:
Who am I?
What am I?
I am someone different to someone everyday.

One minute I am floating to earth having just jumped from an airplane… the next I am huddled next to a comrade in arms, listening to explosions.

I am violent and soft.
I laugh and cry.
Part of me is born, everyday, part of me dies.
Am I the same person I was ten years ago?
I dare say, Hardly.
Does anyone know who or what they really are?

Are we living or existing?



You can Follow the Militant Hippi/Boston Paul on Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/BostonPaul
Twitter: https://twitter.com/MilitantHippi

You Might also like to read:

Proud to be American? Why?

Support The Troops!  Why?



Pathetic Prose & Panty Hose


This one is for those who have been shamed or humiliated because of the way they dressed or acted.

We are free to do what we want – as long as we don’t hurt others.

Don’t push your morals and religious beliefs on me

Cause if you do, expect – at the very least – a verbal smack down.

My band will be making this into a song soon… but here are the lyrics:

If you don’t like it… don’t look.
If you don’t like it.. don’t listen.
If you don’t like it… fuck off.

I’m a Slut, a Whore, I’m Kinky Galore
Self Confident
with a slight sprinkle of arrogance
and I love to Dance

I’m Skilled, Strong Willed, a fine bottle of Wine just chilled.
That’s me don’t you see?
I love to dance – around the Sounds of Ignor-ance
I’ll take a chance wearing mini skirts instead of boring pants

Say what you want to say about my sexy selfies
Like you’re wealthy
And I’m a serf on your turf
Like the only Blonde Smurf
Surrounded by stuffed shirts and perverts

I suspect, it’s because of neglect
They get no pussy or dick now it’s time to reflect
Why so uptight? Cause you’re alone at night?
Or you just love to fight about shit you think is right

So think about it now
Why are you having a cow?
Over a picture or two
Who offends who?

We do crazy shit while we’re young and cool-ish
While we’re silly and foolish
So when we’re 85 (and still alive)
We can look and see what we’ve done
And remember The Good Ol’ Days and all the fun.

Fuck the nay-Sayers, with their anti gay-prayers
Like Dragon Slayers when at heart they’re ALL Players.
Fuck The Hypocrite, they’re full of shit, as useful as a just popped zit
Spouting their hate, makin’ us irate,
How can they celebrate – when they’re anti-masturbate?

I Seek Answers
from Holy Dancers
who get on their knees
not to pray but to please
They sweat and writhe and jump about
They move and groove and scream and shout
And as they move, I begin to grind
and grind and grind until I’m blind
and then I find the Book of Psalms
and wear the hair off of my palms…

And as I’m about to cum I see the light
I see the plight
of the religious ones
the self-righteous bums,
who feel guilty every time they cum and hum:
I love you Jesus (now get on your knees and please us!)
after you turn water into wine
then walk on water in your robes so fine…


You Raise the dead
Give me head
Cure disease
Kill the Fig Trees (Mark 11:12)
Hang on a Cross
Because the Boss
Is your Dad
But isn’t it sad?
That those who believe
have been deceived
then push their beliefs on others
When we’re all really sisters and brothers…

Dogma’s tail a waggin’
Fate’s Lips a Braggin’
Destiny’s tits a draggin’
Karma’s horn a wailin’
Life’s Ship a -sailin’

You know everyone loses
When one chooses
To be mean to those with whom they disagree
When they could just look away, see?
or turn the other cheek
and be meek…
…cause that’s what their god commands
But no one who believes really understands
how to be passionate about being compassionate.


A Selfie in a dress can cause so much duress?
Like an assault with a knife
Is it a threat on your life?
Fuck that pressure, negativity and strife

Offended? Who cares?
What does it mean?
Who makes the rules?
The King or The Queen?
Offended? Why so?
It is yet to be seen
Your Obscene is NOT my Obscene.

We are FREE People.
Stop being Sheople staring up at a steeple!
Put up or shut up.
I’m getting fed up
With the opinions, the judging, the holier than thou
Buck up you fuck up it’s gonna stop now

A little empathy is Good in the Neighborhood…

[music coming soon]


You can Follow the Militant Hippi/Boston Paul on Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/BostonPaul
Twitter: https://twitter.com/MilitantHippi

You Might also like to read:

What is a Friend?  https://bostonpaul.wordpress.com/2012/08/13/who-what-is-a-friend-really/

The Beast In My Life is Under Control

baby for blog

The Baby just kept staring

I remember chatting with an old timer quite a few years ago and he told me a story…

He had an eye twitch and would intermittently stare off into the distance and not say anything for several minutes. I dared not even clear my throat. After the moment passed he continued his story. I thought he might snap out of it, clear his throat and say, “Now where was I..?”

But he continued the story exactly where he had left off.

He told it to me in first person present tense narrative.

Like it was happening right then in front of me.

It was a creepy.

I found myself holding my breath for most of his tale…

His tale went something like this:

I AM HOLDING MY FRIEND’S BABY BOY. He is so small in my arms. He looks up at me gurgling and smiling. You’re great with kids, they say to me. Babies have a sense about people the same as animals. Babies can sense evil or if someone is inherently bad. This is what they say to me. I rock the small child in my arms, scarcely believing that once upon a time, I too, was once that tiny and people held me the same way. I sit down on a chair still holding this delicate child. Everyone else has gone into the kitchen and left me alone with him. I appear to be watching TV and the baby falls asleep in my lap. I look down at him and he takes a deep baby breath. I smile.

  At once I have this thought. I don’t know how this thought could have ever entered my mind, but suddenly I want to crush this child. I want to take his little head in one of my hands and squeeze it until I crush his skull. The baby is that cute. So cute that I could Love it to Death.

I remember once when I was a little child. Our dog gave birth to puppies. I remember how cute they were! I remember one little pup. I liked it best. How precious it was! I remember one time I gave it a big hug. I hugged it so tight, that it began to squirm. A moment later it stopped squirming and I was holding a dead little puppy. I almost cried. I ran out of our house and put the dead pup behind a stone wall where our rented property ended.

That night, Mother asked my sister, brother and I if we had seen one of the puppies. She looked at me when she asked. It was like she knew. I never owned up to it and I never admitted it to anyone…   not even myself.

I look down at the baby. He is looking right at me. Directly into my eyes. He’s not smiling anymore. I take his soft little head in my hand.

He stares at me and I stare right back.

I begin to squeeze.

“Is he sleeping? His mother comes into the living room.

“He was,”  I say. “Looks like he just woke up.”

She smiles at me.

“You’re so good with kids, Jess.”

The mother takes baby in her mother’s arms, but he is still staring at me.

I hate to be stared at.

I let out a deep sigh as the mother walks into the other room leaving me alone with my thoughts.

                                 ~The Beast in my Life is under control~


You can Follow the Militant Hippi/Boston Paul on Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/BostonPaul
Twitter: https://twitter.com/MilitantHippi

You might also like to read some other short stories:

(slightly disturbing) https://bostonpaul.wordpress.com/2010/07/24/short-story-the-flame-that-softly-danced/




Published in: on January 12, 2016 at 12:10 AM  Comments (1)  

The Problem is not Guns! It’s…

Came across this gem:

The problem is not guns

I see it more this way:

It is….

*Minds without Logic & Reason

*Homes without Love & Involvement

*Schools without Creativity & Freedom…

The last one I agree with… we don’t have Justice in the courts because the government answers to a Higher Power (Corporate Banks).

The government (Republicans or Democrats it doesn’t matter) keeps the People ignorant to maintain complete power…

…and Religion poisons everything…

Discipline in the home? Presumably discipline as in don’t spare the rod (as the plate on this vehicle is owned by someone religious)?

Recently on the news, there was a story about a couple bringing up their children with ‘strict biblical values’ and they ended up killing one of their children because they did not spare the rod... they had been reading that book by a married religious couple called The Pearls called ‘To Train up a Child’…. really??

We have never hit our son. Not once… and he’s the most genuine, politest, caring boy I know.

Our hearts should be without any number of the gods out there.

We don’t need gods to do the right thing. We need Logic Reason & Empathy. Something we all have as humans – who haven’t been poisoned by dogma.

Keep all religion out of public schools unless it is a class about religion. You want your religion to be a part of your education? Go to a religious school and knock yourself out.  Public school? Uhm no. I don’t want my tax dollars going to the religious and the myths they believe.

There should be no flags, no pledge of allegiance, no prayer or any of the other BS.

We go to school to learn skills that will help us in life. That’s it.

We are too diverse a culture to be pushing religious beliefs and political ideals on others.

Nix the prayer in school (though meditation and self reflecting could take its place) and push creativity and freedom to learn, explore, ask questions and not worry about test scores.

We should be learning for the sake of learning.

Guns aren’t the problem, Humans – and their gods are!


You can Follow the Militant Hippi/Boston Paul on Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/BostonPaul
Twitter: https://twitter.com/MilitantHippi

You also might like to read:

What is a Friend?  https://bostonpaul.wordpress.com/2012/08/13/who-what-is-a-friend-really/




Taiwanniversary Twenty One!

January 7, 2016.

Wow. Another year has just flown by.  So much life packed into 365 days…. and with this year being a leap year, with its 366 days, I’ll be setting out to accomplish much more – especially with that extra day!

This post started out as a New Year Blog Entry, but I was quite busy performing and before I knew it, today knocked and I realized it was the anniversary of the day I came to this Island – so I’ve blended my New Year Post with my Taiwanniversary Post.

I’ve jotted down my thoughts, hopes and yes, even a few fears for this year 2016.

I have also thought a lot about 2015 and the past in general. I thought about my family specifically my brothers and mother whom I have not seen in over 10 years (I haven’t left the Island for 10 years!), the birthdays, holidays and other special occasions I’ve missed.

I have thought about Friends who died this year..


But it has been a wonderful Journey with all the bumps and beauty that go with a Journey.

I pondered my 20 year Taiwanniversary and what’s been happening since last year on this day (you can pop over and read a nice light piece on how I ended up on this awesome island as I do not want to repeat myself):


I am grateful for so many things.

So here I am and it is right around lunch time and the sun is out here in Taichung, Taiwan. The birds are chirping, my cat is playing with a small imaginary animal.  My banana trees are swaying in the soft breeze, my dog is sunning himself in the yard. I just washed all my socks and they are hanging on the line.

Life is indeed good.

As I was bopping around getting little tidbits done before I performed with my band at a New Year Celebration in the city, I pondered upon this past year. All of the new people I’ve met, the many musicians I’ve been working with, how I’ve pushed myself to be more creative, how I have challenged and continue to challenge myself and expand my horizons.  It’s been pretty awesome. I am satisfied with my life, have made wonderful relationships with awesome people from around the world…

Speaking of around the world…

I’ve grown dismayed at what I see happening around our planet. The melting of the polar ice caps; the polarization of the masses making an Us against Them environment; corporate welfare; money in politics; hypocrisy in government; climate change (and the idiots that deny it); the dumbing down of the Citizenry; a bias media owned only by a handful of corporations…  is Freedom going the way of Orwell’s 1984?

What can we do about it?

On a more personal level. I am watching closely both Taiwan and the USA as both countries are entering election years. This should be interesting.

The differences between Taiwan and the USA when it comes to voting are quite different.  Taiwan’s leaders win by popular vote while in the US they do not. In both countries there is money in politics… but it is much worse and exploited in the US.

Both countries are a bit volatile.

The US looks like it could have another Civil War in the coming years. It is so divided. Not the Land of The Free anymore.

Taiwan has an occupying party called the KMT. They fled to the Island in the late 40s after losing a civil war in China with the Communists. Though, the first elected president was Lee Denghui in 1996, he eventually left the KMT. The KMT then lost the election to the DPP 民主進步黨 (Democratic Progressive Party)
in 2000.

After what looked like a dubious coup that ousted their elected president Chen Shui Bien on charges the KMT has also been guilty of (bribery charges), the KMT was again voted in.

The current President Ma  馬英九 who was born in HongKong is a wishy-washy suck up to China. China ridiculously claims sovereignty over Taiwan and Ma has tried to negotiate deals with China that would hurt Taiwan.  The Taiwanese People are fed up and the KMT is most likely going to collapse which will put the DPP – who acknowledge Independence for Taiwan –  in power.

Get the popcorn out..this could get quite interesting on both sides of the world.
So here I am, enjoying a good life in Taiwan –  Twenty One Years of Awesome, while watching from afar the Fish Bowl that is the USA and wondering where this year will take us all.

My Mantra for this year…

*Help Build Strong Informed Communities as We The People can govern ourselves.
*Make Music… even if it’s just singing in the shower.
*Do something Artsy.
*Write down your Thoughts as stories, Poems, Reports and Essays.

*Eat Healthy.

Peace & Love Y’all


Boston Paul in 1995


You can Follow the Militant Hippi/Boston Paul on Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/BostonPaul
Twitter: https://twitter.com/MilitantHippi

You Might also like to read:

A few more Guidelines I’ve picked up as I forge through Life: https://bostonpaul.wordpress.com/2015/01/07/lifes-guidelines-2/

What is a Friend?  https://bostonpaul.wordpress.com/2012/08/13/who-what-is-a-friend-really/

Published in: on January 7, 2016 at 2:08 PM  Comments (1)  
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