San Francisco, 1980: I shanghai’d Richard W. and Derek S. to help me move from the third floor at 495 Third Avenue. I’d just rented the new office on Geary Boulevard for Network Answering Service, and I was going to live there in the back room.

When Derek showed up, he was yellow-colored.

Ignorant lads as we were, none of us realized that yellow eyes and yellowish skin meant hepatitus, and he really shouldn’t have been working. As it was, complaining of fatigue, he carried boxes of books down the stairs and loaded them into the borrowed van.

Richard and I sympathized by mocking him as much as possible.

But it became clear that he wasn’t doing so well. He started stumbling around a bit, but gamely continued. We were nearing the end of the job.

I had a nice ficus tree. Aside from it’s bad habit of dropping some leaves if moved, it was a happy little tree, and it was going to live in a new home. It grew in an elaborate chinese pot, very heavy.

In most any chinese grocery store in Chinatown or on Clement street, you will find “hundred-year-old” eggs for sale. They aren’t really a hundred years old, but they’re pretty old. They are black in color. I don’t know how they taste because I see no point in eating an egg known to be really, really old. But the point is that they are shipped from China in huge ceramic bowls. I’d bought this one for $5 from a grocer on Clement Street.

Derek grabbed the heavy pot of the ficus tree, and hefted it. He was doing pretty good till he tried to round the corner at the end of the hall, so as to get out my apartment door. But the tree had grown. It wouldn’t really go around the corner. Derek backed up, tried again, and was again balked.

He tried it several times, sweating heavily, using colorful language and expressions. Behind him, Richard and I, holding boxes, encouraged him to get a move on.

Derek stopped, thought, backed up, set the tree down, and turned to me.

“It’s your tree,” he said. “You break it.”

This is a simple law of nature, but one which is very handy:

How much you have actually “earned” is how much you have still got.

That’s it.

Nearly all humans today are confused on this simple fact, partly because other folks wanting to sell things have confused us with bogus concepts such as “investing” in a new gadget which of course is not an investment in any sense of the word, bur rather just a way for us to lose our money to them.

If you worked for five years mowing lawns and hauling garbage to the dump, and you earned a whole bunch of money and gave every dollar to other people, what have you actually “earned” from your five years of labor?

That’s right … nothing.

By giving away those dollars, you have effectively earned nothing for five years of work.

But what if you spent all the money on cantelopes and watermelons which you stacked in the back yard? Do you have something to show for your labor?

No, because they have rotted away and are now worth nothing. You’ve still effectively earned nothing because nothing is what remains of the dollars which once visited you briefly.

But what if you spent the money not on cantelopes but on a sportscar? Well, is the sportscar still worth the number of dollars you paid for it? Could you sell it today for the same amount? No? Then the sportscar is just rotting more slowly than cantelopes, but its days are numbered, and you can count on it being worth nothing soon enough.

It is surprisingly easy to overlook this basic fact: If you obtain some dollars, and then give them away, you’ve got nothing. It is surprisingly easy to overlook what is important for what seems urgent. The urgency of our desire for glittering gadgets, fancy food, and shiny automobiles can easily outweigh something important.

What is important? Well, survival is important, and loved ones are important, and pleasure in living is important.

Survival means you’ve set aside money enough to take care of your true needs, including healthcare when age slows you down, and if you ever want to have love in your life, setting aside enough to take care of your sweetheart and your children. True pleasure in living does not mean the shiniest car now, but rather the leisure to leave labor behind you as your investment income grows enough to support you and your loved ones.

True luxury is having time to live, people to love, and wisdom enough to live in a way that promotes the survival and pleasure of you and your loved ones.

True luxury is obtained by living below your means, keeping some part of what you earn — this is your true “earnings” — and putting that money to work, so that in time the “earnings” from your invested money will free you from ever having to labor again.

Does this mean you will do nothing? Not at all. It means that, over time, you will have more and more choices about what you do, and how you care for your loved ones.

When you spend all the money that comes to you, you’re earning nothing. You’re not spending just the money; you’re spending your life.

Speaking plainly, it’s better to save your life!

Knowing this important secret of the universe, go forth and prosper.

San Francisco, 1976: On Geary Boulevard not far from my apartment, you could see the sign: Emily’s Hot Tubs, Sauna, and Massage.

At that time, I’d placed my Yellow Page advertising; I’d installed a phone. That September, when the phone book came out, I was in the Answering Service business. In fact, I was very much in the Answering Service business, because I was the only operator, 6 am to midnight, seven days a week.

I’d started this business in my studio apartment on Third Avenue, so the commute was less than ten feet. From my pallet on the floor I’d rise at six, turn on the phones, then snooze till the first calls. Then, coffee-time and up to speed!

Business was slow enough for baths and breaks, lunch and dinner. And I’d planned ahead.

Before the answering service began, my Thumbtack Bugle postering had been entrusted to hired motorcyclists, and I’d hired Bob to spell me on the phones.

When he arrived mid afternoon, I pedaled off to the grocery store. My bike had an aluminum swiss rack over the back wheel, and a net bag to fill up with groceries. I had a system, and three hours was plenty of time for shopping.

Sometimes there was time for Emily’s Hot Tubs. Their storefront, the first floor of a Victorian, was long and narrow. They advertised massage, but I just wanted to steam and soak. Afternoons were quiet, with the ubiquitous Kitaro music floating from the ceiling.

Then back to work. At first it was easy running the Bugle and answering phones. Time for puttering around the apartment, and playing with Rosie the Cat. I made up a cardboard box with a label that said “Cat Territory”, because she liked to retreat when there were strangers around.

As more clients signed on, less puttering time found me busy all day long. Bob’s hours extended, and we began working as a team during the busy times. It was fun, and at the time, it seemed important, meaningful. Rosie and I had to visit in the evenings.

Rosie was the co-founder; we were great pals for many years. She was always very humble, and never took on airs.

Network Answering Service got hectic, and then we were learning about payroll forms, interviewing, and training operators. I had to move out, and found a room up the street. Every morning I’d start awake at six o’clock, worrying about the answering service. I’d call, and Sally or somebody would answer. But one morning, no answer.

I dressed, and ran all the way. Sally was sitting with a book. “Why aren’t you answering the phone?” I asked.

“It’s the funniest thing,” she said. “There hasn’t been a call all morning.”

I asked what she’d done when she came in. She said nothing. I pressed for details. She said she’d opened the phones as usual. Nothing else?

“I made some toast,” she said.

In the kitchen, I discovered the problem: she’d unplugged the telephone system to plug in a toaster. When I powered up the phone system, by golly, there were the calls!

Such things made me tense. That night, I decided to go to Emily’s Hot Tubs. I’d never been in the evening. I’d get a massage. That should be relaxing.

They led me into a room. I peeled off my outer garments and stretched out on the massage table. A tall brunette, with hair piled high and pinned with a pearl-inset comb, entered the room. She was wearing a tight red dress, and high-heeled shoes. I looked her in the eye.

“I’ve come for a massage,” I said slowly. “No panky. No hanky.”

She smiled faintly, and turned to depart. “I’ll get Cathy,” she said.

North Beach, San Francisco, 1974: I’d found this neato apartment and thought myself lucky. The I Ching had said “Supreme Success!”

Little did I know how much the Chinese Gods of Divination love a good joke.

It was a success, for there I found Rosie the Cat, and took her away and lived happily ever after. Other than that, it was a disaster so stupid you can’t help but laugh.

In North Beach, on the corner of Grant and Green, just above the Hawaiian Bar, with mice and cockroaches, and Hawaiian music on the jukebox of the bar downstairs. All night long, loud lyrics like: “Hooka lakka shooka lakka, wikki wikky ogaloo!” Over and over again. The guys downstairs had the consolation of alcohol to take the edge off these songs; I had nothing.

However, I worked an odd shift at the Westbury Hotel at this time, from seven in the evening until three am. This saved me from several hours of Shooka Lakka Hooka Lakka, for which I was grateful.

It was also interesting, leaving work at three in the morning. The busses run infrequently that late, and taxis were expensive, so I’d walk through the Stockton Street tunnel and through a deserted Chinatown at three. All the shop’s trashcans pungent with strange chinese vegetables and worse, but these barricades didn’t stop me.

At home at last. But two doors up at Wumpers Bar, they had after-hours entertainment with Perry and the Pumpers. I’ll give the Pumpers one thing: they were plenty energetic. So, to the strains of pumping rock and roll, it was time to hit the hay.

The bars and shops on Grant have lots of garbage, and trashcans filled with empty bottles. So much that the trash companies come every night, sometimes three times during the night. The growling trucks and the crashing din of the bottles leant an exotic ambiance to the late hours on North Beach.

Luckily, the mornings are pretty quiet.

Except one day, I’m awakened by a loud, repeating banging. A voice is chanting “Go**amned Phonebooth! Go**amned Phonebooth! Go**amned Phonebooth!”

Rising to peer blearily from my window at the sunny morning, below my window, a stringy unkempt fellow is kicking the back wall of the phonebooth below. A burly fellow across the street calls out “Hey!”, meaning Stop, or maybe What the hell are you doing?

Stringy guy sticks his head outside the phonebooth door, and screams, “It took my dime!” The guy across the street, a big guy, makes a fist and yells to knock it off. Stringy guy, glaring, makes off down the street.

I go back to bed.

I’m awakened by a loud, repeated banging. A voice is chanting. I rise and peer from the window. Stringy is back.

Now, the mailbox has been tipped over and lies flat on the sidewalk. Stringy guy is kicking the mailbox over and over again.

“Go**amned Mailbox!” he screams, “Go**amned Mailbox! Go**amned Mailbox! Go**amned Mailbox!”

Ah, life in North Beach.

This is a simple law of nature, but one which is very handy:

It is surprisingly easy to overlook what is important for what seems urgent.

That’s it.

What is urgent usually comes to our attention in the context of other people, work in progress, deadlines, and conflicting time demands.

What is important usually comes to our attention either when we are relaxed and thinking clearly about our lives, without interruption. Or, sadly, sometimes what is important comes shockingly to mind when we’ve just lost something important, probably because we failed to think about it.

If you spend your days stamping out forest fires, because they are urgent, and neglect what is important, then life can tend to be filled with urgencies, and little of importance. Reward urgent and you get more of it. Take time for important, and you’ll have more of what you really want. And the lovely thing is that you get to choose.

Knowing this important secret of the universe, go forth and prosper.

Santa Monica Municipal Airport, California, 1969:

From the air as you make a final turn and approach toward the runway, ahead and off to the south you look down upon an airfield belonging to Howard Hughes. Sometimes, just outside the mammoth hangar doors, we could see the Spruce Goose, that famous airplane made from wood.

But this story really begins three years earlier, in Dallas. My friends Tony and Marilyn, and John C. were all intrigued with psychedelics. On John’s millionaire family estate, in the cabana behind the pool, we strung up bedsheets over the glass windows, and made a light show.

We were having a great time before the police came.

You need a projector, the kind that lecturers use, with a lighted table and a lens above. First, you mix oil and water, with food-coloring added. Next, you need a couple of shallow clear-glass bowls. Place one bowl on the light table, add some of the colored oil and water mixture, and then you lower the upper bowl into this mixture.

By rocking the bowls, you will see globs of flowing colored shapes projected on the screen, in this case the bedsheets we’d hung up over the glass windows. Of course, it’s best to have very loud rock music going, to get the full effect.

Because the music was so loud, we didn’t hear the police and fire department knocking, and only dimly became aware that the bedsheets were also strobing with the red flash of the firetruck lights outside.

John C. did most of the talking. The rest of us were disinclined to chat just at the moment. It seems that neighbors, seeing the flickering red and yellow on the bedsheets had thought the house aflame and called the fire department to save us. The firemen, John reported, were grousing, being called out to extinguish a light show.

On other occasions we all hung out, blasted off, and read Timothy Leary’s version of Tibetan Book of the Dead. Some of this was at my apartment with the little swimming pool, on Gillespie street near Lemmon and Oak Lawn. There I had a tiny card on my mail box. It said ‘Brain Wave Laboratory.’ Brain Wave Laboratory received no mail other than a subscription to the Haight Ashbury Light, an odd newspaper from far away.

The best way to obtain the psychedelics was to send Crazy Becky to San Francisco. She had a knack. Sometimes she could find them without even leaving the San Francisco Airport, and she’d turn around and fly back.

On this particular night of Timothy Leary, along toward morning they’d all gone, and I attempted to take a shower. It was very difficult. Perhaps due to my tired state, the ground and the walls kept oozing and heaving, as if the wall had turned to balloons being inflated and deflated. Kind of odd. I lay in the bottom of the tub with the shower stream coming at me for a few years. You know, just puttering around the house till I got sleepy.

But by the time I left Dallas, I was straight, studying Scientology which actually turned out useful, though I became a jerk for a while. Really not the fault of the Scientologists. It just came out, honest.

From there I moved to St. Louis, then to England, and finally to Los Angeles, all studying the far-out world of Ron Hubbard, an amazing man. I met him on a ship in the harbor of Valencia. “Hi,” he said, “How ya doin?”

But I digress. In Los Angeles I began the flying lessons. Santa Monica airport sits beside the ocean. With the instructor, when you take the Cessna up, you rise above the smog layer, and the flightpath takes you out over the ocean, then practice with the controls, then back along a large rectangle in the sky, lower on each turn, hopefully to float just above the runway, and gently lower down without bouncing all over the place.

The motor is loud, the flight check serious, and I never did learn how to recover from a stall. But the instructor, a crewcut ex-military fellow living at the end of his patience, said I was ready to solo.

I’d done touch-and-go’s pretty well. This is where you land but then immediately take off again. Because, if you think about it. landing properly is the most important thing you learn. Can’t land the plane? Definitely a problem.

So, heart in my throat, I clicked down the clipboard for the flight check, and then had no excuse to delay further. My instructor was in the control tower, and I spoke with them on the radio. Cleared for take off.

Picking up speed now, the Cessna’s nose lifting, and- I’m flying the airplane! I’m flying the airplane! Wow! Wow! I’m flying the airplane!

Ok, calm down now. Gaining altitude now. To gain altitude, you increase the power. You push the throttle knob, this speeds up the engine, and you go higher. You adjust your speed with the wheel, by pulling toward your chest or pushing it away from you. If you push it, the nose drops, and you go faster. Pull it, the nose rises, and you slow down. But don’t pull it too much. Too slow, and the airplane stops flying. It stalls.

That means it suddenly slips to one side or the other, and all quickly the entire windscreen is filled with the ground, which rotates before you, way too fast.

I didn’t want that to happen. It would be … bad.

But this was to be an easy once-around. I’d take off, gain altitude, make two left turns, lose some altitude, make two left turns, and land.

Except that, while landing, I did the wrong thing. I was too excited. I shoved the throttle, and did a touch-and-go. This turned out to be a problem because the control tower already had a small jet in the pattern, and so I came up upon it. At the time I didn’t realize it was small; it looked big. And big jets can mean sudden death to small planes, because the spinning air rushing from the tips of huge wings can completely flip your airplane. And it was dead ahead.

I started furiously wagging my tail. It’s a way to slow a plane by making it tack right and left. You turn the wheel left and press the left pedal, and then reverse. It makes the plane go slow, wagging its tail. The jet, being a jet, moved ahead quickly out of my way.

The control tower patiently routed the other incoming traffic around the imbecile — moi? — and I started making left turns to come in for my final approach. And then, by chance, I looked out my left window at the ground.

Have you ever heard of psychedelic flashback? It means that some remnant of old crap in your system, even years later, can cause you to start tripping again.

Well, the ground — all the way to Burbank — was heaving and bubbling, as far as I could see. I’d never had a flashback, but I recognized it now.

Sternly, I told myself, “Right now … is not the time.”

Slowly, the ground below flattened out again. The runway ahead beckoned.

The Cessna floated gently to the ground.