Fishing In A Dry Wash

Reinvention

2009-06-27T13:51:00.000-07:00

Princefisher II graduated high school this month, a milestone barely achieved. Where he's going, or what he'll do, is anybody's guess. His beliefs and life trajectory are things I cannot fathom. He doesn't need me at all any more. I doubt he ever really did.

I am the eldest of four boys, and had two sons first. Princessfisher might as well be a giraffe; that's how much I understand my 16 year old daughter. In her eyes, I am a rigid and irrelevant anachronism. She doesn't need me, either.

Princefisher I, although not totally self sufficient, is far away and more independent every passing month. He is fine without me as well.

The past 12 months or so have been the most stressful I've ever experienced. I have been accosted on personal, professional, family, belief, financial, emotional, and geographic levels. I am exhausted. My depression, dormant for years now, has threatened to overwhelm me on many more than one occasion, sometimes in very, very dark places with ugly thoughts best left unspoken. Only my stubborness and fuck-you attitude have kept it at bay so far, the toughest internal battle I've yet experienced.

My life is not . . . I don't know. It's far from undesirable. As a matter of fact, parts of it are down right delicious, most notably my angelic wife. But it isn't what I want. Why, I don't know.

My family history is rife with miserable and unhappy individuals who did not, or do not, or refuse(d) to, understand themselves. I will not be one of them. Why this still plagues me, I don't know. But the simple act of questioning all this makes me better. Yes, I said BETTER.

What I do know is that you cannot change what life throws at you, but you can change how you react to it. Sometimes that reaction is immediate, sometimes it is a "sleep on it," sometimes it is an excruciating period of doubt and ennui. I am done with enduring the latter. Life has happened to me. It's time I happened.

Therefore, I am resolved to reinvent myself. There are many anecdotes of people changing and thriving after their youth, a late blossoming of worth, contribution, and contentment. Grandma Moses is an example to emulate.

But how does one do it? Meditation? Volunteering? Career change? Move? Sell everything you own? New hobby? Communing with a pine cone on top of the mountain? Getting off yer ass and writing that novel you've threatened yourself with for years? I don't know. I really don't.

It's easy to give up, which I am ashamed to admit I thought about doing many times during this period, closer than I have ever come to that purgatory of doubt and despair and disillusionment. But I never have done that in my entire life. When the chips were down, I always gave the finger to fate and refused to play with a deck handed to me, made my own rules, and trampled the grass before me, damn courtesy, convention, or anything else in the way. My hands are capable of gentleness, creation, battle, murder. At least I have discovered that again. That is a hopeful sign.

Reinvention. It may be throwing opinion, philosophy, psychology, and security to the crows. It may also be investing in forgotten confidence, plus equal parts intuition, creativity, arrogance, incaution, exploration, and remembering who you were in the first place.

I don't know. But I think I might.

Facebook Lesson

2009-06-22T09:15:00.000-07:00

So I took the plunge and got a Facebook account. Within three days I was being hooked up with old friends I hadn't seen in 25 years or more. But I don't advise you sign up right away unless you want to learn the following things:

- almost everyone looks younger and more beautiful than you
- almost everyone is doing more fun things than you
- almost everyone is more successful than you
- almost everyone seems to have more money than you
- almost everyone has traveled to more exciting locations than you
- almost everyone looks happier than you
- you a re a big fat loser and your life has amounted to squat

Please Go Away

2009-06-05T11:20:00.000-07:00

One of these days the alien demon will escape through your fake smile.

You're gay. We get it. You also contribute nothing to society.

Now shut up, you squealy little punk.

The reason why the N word is still a legitimate noun.

Quite squinting at me, you stuck up chirpy bitch.

I hated this smug little lesbian slut in third grade when she was Pippi Longstocking.

There are no words, in any combination, in any language, in any universe,
that can adequately describe how much you guys suck.

Hey, aren't you the smarmy psychology prof who flunked me
while banging coeds in exchange for good grades?

The only hot cunt no man wants to fuck.

The only thing more retarded than anti-blackface urban hip-hop epileptic twatwads is -
There is nothing more retarded than anti-blackface urban hip-hop epileptic twatwads.

Tonight's nightmare brought to you courtesy of Slickface McGloryhole.

Pop 'n' Douche the Pricksbury DoughNazi.

If Amy Winehouse mated with Mr. Potato Head.

NV 2179 KX

2009-03-09T15:28:00.000-07:00

You were my pride and joy, my dear Pupfish, but times are tough. Please don't hate me.

You will be fine with the nice older couple. Their grand kids will love you.

Have fun in Canada.

* * *

For a little while, I was Captain Kirk.

But like the preceding 10 months, give my regards to Captain Dunsel.

My Best Girl

2009-02-23T13:24:00.000-08:00

She knew who her master was. She proved it by bowing down to me when I'd come home at the end of the day. She greeted me on weekend mornings with the biggest smile, showing me how much she loved me. When I stole the bedcovers she never complained. If I wanted to sit where she was currently perched, she would always graciously move out of the way. When I was sick, she would stay by my side, doing everyting she could to make sure I was warm and comfortable. She never talked back. She was a good traveling companion.

She was my first greyhound, and I loved her like I'd never loved any animal before.

She wasn't a very good racer, so she was retired at age two. Her name was Miracle 2 B Alive, Miracle for short, because she had pulled through some catastrophic illness as a puppy. She was a gorgeous tiger stripe orange and black brindle. When she ran, she looked like embers on the wind. I named her Blaze. She smelled of hay and fur and summer and living things.

She was very much a girly girl. In the spring she did a strange slow-motion dance around flowering shrubs, mooooviiing thiiiis foooot theeeen theeeee oooootheeeer, nose deep in the blossoms, inhaling the sweet intoxicants, a gangly ballet dancer gliding at 1/20 speed round and round. She delighted in joining my wife and daughter in nail painting sessions. They would coat her toenails some gaudy color, and Blaze would prance through the house, lifting her paws high, and show Daddy what a pretty girl she was. She loved comfort. If there was an expanse of tile or wood, you could lay a washcloth on the floor and she would lie on it. She played with the other dogs, a skinny, goofy clown all legs and ears and nose, but when the boys got too rough, she would steal away for a nap or watch from a distance. She had a great mothering instinct, putting up with all sorts of indignities when my children were small.

She turned 13 in December, a redwood tree for a greyhound. We know how old she was because greyhounds have their birth month and year tattooed in one ear. We didn't know the exact day, so we made it Christmas because she was such a gift.

It has been a rough time these last 12 months. When my brother went AWOL and was later found almost dead, I felt the world on my shoulders. Blaze still greeted me with a bow, not quite as deep, but beautiful with her paws stretched forward, nose to the ground, tail held high. It made me know somebody loved me no matter what. When finances became so tight I thought the world would collapse, Blaze lifted and pulled back her doggie lips in a comic facsimile of a smile. It made me know that love is more important than money. When layoffs arrived at work and my department mutinied against me, Blaze snuggled against me on the couch and rubbed her long-nosed head against my chest. It reassured me that love is stronger than hard times. Two cancer scares, strange minor maladies, a recovering brother that brought tremendous family stresses, bounced checks, parenting worries. Through it all, beautiful brindle Blaze was there, more grey than black, slower but no less wonderful, a constant in my life when everything else was change, uncertainty, exhaustion, and fear.

Three days ago it was plain there were no better days ahead of her. She had lost control and couldn't make it outside, she limped on a front leg, her hips quivered when she stood, she would stand vacant eyed in the middle of the room and whimper at nothing. She wouldn't eat and became a stick of a dog. My daughter went with me on Blaze's last trip to the vet. Just before her final moment, Blaze looked up at me with confusion and love. I felt my heart burst in a nova of grief and guilt. My daughter held me as I sobbed and sobbed.

Her name was Blaze, and I loved her like no animal before. She was my best girl.

Goodbye, my Blazer girl. I rescued you and you rescued me back.

7 Days Of Vacation

2008-08-27T07:30:00.000-07:00

Day 24: Four Corners, AZ/UT/CO/NM

Can you feel the magic?

You are standing in four states!

Amazing!

Or not. This is a pointless exercise, but no one can resist it. Since you've probably been in the car for five hours with screaming kids and a barfing dog, you needed to stop anyway. Help out the local Navajo by buying some trinkets at the multitude of plywood stands. Then get a soda, some frybread, and load up the family for another five hours of butt numbing torture.

Before you go, stand in four states!

Come on. You know you want to.

Teasers on this trip: AZ/UT/CO/NM

8 Days Of Vacation

2008-08-26T16:02:00.000-07:00

Day 23: Williams, AZ

Our family has vacationed here more than anywhere else in the last 20 years. I think it's because the town is located in the largest ponderosa pine forest in the country. Or maybe it's because there so much to see in the surrounding area. The fact that one of the best preserved sections of old Route 66 forms the main street of town doesn't hurt.

Williams is named after mountain man Bill Williams. Why, I don't know; you would expect to see this sort of history in ranges farther north. However it came to be named, the town touts itself as the Gateway to the Grand Canyon, about an hour's drive north. This is the big kahuna attraction, but you could easily spend a week here without seeing it.

The town has a quite a bit to offer for an afternoon's walk. Souvenir shops sell turquoise jewelry and Arizona souvenirs. Retro 1950's joints sell soda and ice cream, plus the obligatory Elvis and Marilyn memorabilia. There are a number of good coffee shop/diner/have a seat at the counter places with rib sticking vacation food. Don't miss dinner at Rod's Steakhouse, a Williams institution. Visit ol' Bill Williams' statue at the tiny park. Sling back a cold one, or a strong one, with the local cowboys at the Sultana bar. Just try not to be afraid of the resident mountain lion and bear. Keep an eye out for all the great vintage signs, neon or painted on brick walls. Stay at the Red Garter B&B. Hope the ghosts of frontier town bordello patrons don't keep you awake.

If the adventurer in you comes here without any idea of what to do, stop by the Visitor Center. You'll leave with more stuff to do than you can cram in a week. The train leaves daily for Grand Canyon. I've never done it, but it looks fun. To the west is Seligman, a tiny little town that was the inspiration for Radiator Springs in the Pixar film Cars. To the east is Flagstaff, a fun town with a strange cultural mix of western, bohemian, native, college, and sportsman. Lowell Observatory, where the planet(oid) Pluto was discovered, is a sure fire hit, as is the ski lift ride up the San Francisco peaks. From there I'm pretty sure you can see all the way to Argentina. Farther west is the tiny Route 66 desert leftover of Holbrook, the Painted Desert, and Petrified Forest. To the south is Sedona, a town know for its art, spas, New Age wingnuts, and stunning red rock views. John McCain maintains one of his seven residences near there.

It doesn't matter where you stay. A reasonable motel room, a campground, a house rented for a week: all are excellent bases for exploration. You might wonder how Arizona Highways magazine could be around for eight decades concentrating on just one state. With one visit to Williams and its environs you won't wonder any more.

Teasers on this trip: deer farm, meteor crater, lava tube, elk

9 Days Of Vacation

2008-08-14T07:30:00.000-07:00

Day 22: Laughlin, NV

Time for a grown-up trip to indulge some minor vices.

You do not know top-of-the-line glitz and excess until you experience the Las Vegas Strip. Everyone should do it once. Even so, a familiar refrain around these parts is "Vegas ain't what it used to be." Some remember and long for the days when the mob ran things, before the super resorts and mass migration. If you feel the same, have no fear. Just take a 90 mile roadtrip south to Laughlin.

Gambling purists often turn up their nose at this town on the Nevada-Arizona border, perhaps with some justification. This is very much a regular folks type of place, frequented by seniors, college kids, and the less well to do. But if you aren't a high roller, Laughlin is a perfectly good, and cheaper, substitute for a gambling jaunt. Founded in the 1960's, Laughlin and its "strip" are perched on the banks of the swift, deep green Colorado River. The walkway along the river passes around, and sometimes through, the casinos. There are jet boats, water taxis, and paddle wheelers for river tours. You won't find high profile performers here much of the time, although headliners do regularly pass through, but the standard fare is just fine. Concerts by tribute bands, up and coming comedians, and the like are reasonably priced and definitely entertaining. Compared to the prices for everything in Vegas, Laughlin is a penny pinching bargain. For the truly stingy, there are the lounges with free jazz combos and whatnot.

I need not go into much detail about a stay here. A weekend is plenty of time to gamble in a low pressure atmosphere, drink too much of your favorite libation, eat too much at the buffet, walk the river with another drink in your hand, take in a show or two, stay up late, sleep in late, and play some linen wrestling. Vegas it isn't, but that is why Laughlin continues to grow and attract all sorts of people. It's a great relaxing getaway with plenty of adult activities. Who knows, you might win a few bucks, too.

Teasers on this trip: Topock Canyon, London Bridge, Oatman, about a million koi

10 Days Of Vacation

2008-08-13T07:30:00.000-07:00

Day 21: Salt Creek, CA

Who would have thought I could satisfy my curiosity of all things fish in the middle of Death Valley?

Death Valley National Park is extreme in every conceivable way. The hottest temperature in the country, 134F, was recorded here. The lowest point on the continent, -282', is here. From this lowest point, the highest point in the lower 48 states can be seen, Mt. Whitney at 14,505'. The aridity is total, the occasional storms magnificent. Over 400 animal and 1,000 plant species live here. It is a hostile, foreign, forbidding place. It is also a place of extreme beauty, and surprises at every milepost.

Salt Creek is far and away my favorite place here. It is small in comparison to the vast salt flats, dunes, and mountains that surround it, but the half mile trail is a microcosm all its own. To protect this extremely (there's that word again) fragile ecosystem, hikers are confined to a boardwalk that winds around the creek. In places it is only a foot or so across and a few inches deep, depending on the time of year. This is a green spot in a region otherwise dominated by tans, greys, and whites. The plants seem almost blasted into submission, clinging stubbornly to the rim of this tiny stream, gnarled and short. As you progress along the walkway, the creek widens at points, allowing for some shallow pools. In these pools is an astonishing site: the Salt Creek pupfish. Only a few inches long, these fish avoid predators by hiding among the rushes and algae. In the spring, the male turns a bluish color and collects a harem. As the males vie for spawning territory and females, they chase each other like puppies, giving rise to their common name. These are tough little animals. They have evolved to deal with low water levels, fluctuations in temperature, salinity, and oxygen levels, limited food sources, and all the other vagaries of a harsh environment. They have survived, and continue to thrive only in this small stretch of water, provided we continue to protect them. To the casual uneducated visitor, these might be just another minnow. To me, they are one of the natural world's greatest treasures.

To the north lives a famous relative in ichthyology, the Devil's Hole pupfish. One of the most endangered fish in the world, the only location where it lives is closed to the public. There are a number of other pupfish species, all related, all rare, and all tiny, precious jewels in the desert landscape. I am so fascinated by them I named our family boat the Pupfish.

Teasers on the trip: Badwater, Stovepipe Wells, Rhyolite Ghost Town, racing rocks

11 Days Of Vacation

2008-08-12T14:43:00.000-07:00

Day 20: Columbia, CA

Columbia is the very embodiment of a classic Gold Rush town. It is far from being a museum piece, or a living history site like Plymouth or Williamsburg (both fine destinations in their own right). This is a state park, a historical landmark, an educational institution, and a vibrant modern community all in one place. I've been here a hundred times, and it never gets old.

Like sister cities Auburn and Placerville to the north, Columbia was born, boomed, and busted during the California gold rush of the 1850's. Unlike most others, it was never completely deserted, nor added to in subsequent decades until it was no longer recognizable. A walk on the main street of Columbia must be similar to one 150 years ago. There are two parts to the town. The quaint residential area where the population actually lives, spreads over the hills and under oaks, never too crowded or overgrown. There is a beautiful little trout farm, a fine plant nursery, a popular melodrama theatre, and one of the prettiest community colleges I've ever seen. Given a different direction in my life, I could have lived very happily here.

The historic state park is the place for a day's visit, however. There is some touristy kitsch, but most of it is a friendly, relaxing place. The wide main street is lined on both sides by historic buildings. Original brick storefronts and massive metal doors anchor the Gold Rush ambience. The wooden walkways and benches allow for wonderful people watching. Stop by the Douglass Saloon, a large airy bar where families can gather for sandwiches, sodas, beer, and a game of dice. Visit the blacksmith and have your name stamped on a horseshoe. Try to resist the yummy stuff at the candy kitchen. Shop at several stores for old west clothing, leather goods, classic hand-made wooden toys, or a thermometer mounted on a fake goldpan. Try your hand at finding gold, or just buy a little bottle of flakes, at the gold mine at the end of town. While you're doing that, the granite blocks and boulders next door are a perennial favorite for antsy climbing youngsters. You might see a lone fiddler, a western string quartet, or other period specific entertainer (no jugglers or balloon animals here). Grab a snow cone and visit the exhibits open to the street: the firehouse, a miner's cabin, a Chinese apothecary, the Wells Fargo depot, even an active judge's office. Tour the small museum full of mid-nineteenth century relics found here, a collection of minerals relevant to the gold rush, and take in the slide show. Take the kiddies for a stagecoach ride; you might even get held up by bad guys before your return. Give the little ones a horsey ride. Have a picnic. Once a year, the town re-creates the tent town it sprang from. I had a ball there, chewing on a cheroot, downing a beer, and having my picture taken with bosomy dance hall girls in a makeshift saloon.

Columbia, and its neighbor Sonora to the south, make an excellent base for exploring the Gold Rush country. One visit to this area of the Sierra foothills and you will be hooked. It has an important and unique history, one often overlooked elsewhere in the country. Without the things that happened here, the U.S. might have stopped at the Great Divide.

Teasers on this trip: Railtown 1897, Highway 49, gold panning, jumping frogs

12 Days Of Vacation

2008-08-08T07:30:00.000-07:00

Day 19: Indian Grinding Rocks, CA

Indian Grinding Rocks, or Chaw'se, is a small state park in the heart of California's gold country. It is a quiet place of meadows and valley oaks. One of my favorite campgrounds is located here, as is a small museum dedicated to the native Miwok, easy nature trails, and outdoor recreations of various dwellings. The park showcases several large rock outcroppings pocked with a thousand or so holes. It's a strange sight. If you were blindfolded and led here, you might not guess what they were. As the name of the park suggests, they are mortars carved by the prehistoric people for food processing. The region's oaks provided an abundance of acorns which were ground into a coarse flour. Over generations, the mortars we now see were pounded into the rocks. There are also a few strange curving and geometric petroglyphs, a rare occurrence at this type of site, which probably predate Christianity.

Many times I have strolled or sat among the oaks and imagined what it was like hundreds of years ago. The women would have brought baskets of acorns or pine nuts and spent the day gossiping or singing to the pounding of the rocks. Perhaps the men hunted for rabbit or deer, or practiced other skills. Children must have been like children have always been, underfoot, chasing each other in the grass, inventing games with natural objects or toys fashioned for them by their extended families. In my head I hear the laughter and conversations in a language I don't understand, and I feel a sense of detached communion. I am certain it was not an easy existence, but I believe the Miwok must have derived more satisfaction from their lives than we do now, with the frenetic pace and information overload that enslaves us.

When I was in my early teens, you could walk over the grinding rocks for close up views and enter the roundhouse. To preserve the site and respect the native culture, these are now viewable only behind log barriers. It really doesn't detract from the experience. If you are lucky, your visit might coincide with one the modern day Native American gatherings, which are conducted several times a year and preserve ancient skills, arts, and ceremonial traditions. Be respectful of the land and its people.

Teasers on this trip: Volcano, Apple Hill, Sutter's Mill, Lake Tahoe

13 Days Of Vacation

2008-08-07T07:30:00.000-07:00

Day 18: World Famous Tree House, CA

You must have heard of this place. You haven't? But it's world famous! It says so right there on the sign.

Whenever I see "World Famous" or "World's Biggest" on a tourist trap sign, I know I'm being lied to. And they know that I know I'm being lied to. They also know that I Just. Cannot. Pass. It. Up. This is America's greatest contribution to travel: The Roadside Attraction.

The World Famous Tree House isn't a tree house. It is a large redwood that was hollowed out by fire eons ago, but true to the tenacity of its species, continued to live and grow. And grow it did. The tree is about 30 feet in diameter at the base. A door and a window were inserted in the trunk, and voila!: Tree House. Inside the owners (who knows how many by now) laid a wood floor and stuck a light up inside the tree about 20 feet up. How high up the hollowness goes is anybody's guess, because there's about three million years worth of cobwebs up there. My family has always agreed that the worst job in the world is changing that light bulb. I'm not sure if there ever really was a shop in there, but now it houses some cute little quarter machines. The best one is pretty old, made by some forest guy with too much time on his hands. You plunk in your quarter, and a miniature sawmill comes to life: tiny hand-carved men saw and hammer, little machines do little back-and-forth machiney things. It's really quite charming.

The true purpose of the Tree House is to funnel its guests into the attached souvenir shop. It's pretty much like any other on this part of Highway 101. Redwood plaques: check. Redwood coasters: check. Rose pods (what the hell are those things?): check. Carved redwood bears with fish in mouth: got 'em. Redwood picture decks of cards: okay. Plastic Navajo girl dolls (???): yup. Bumper stickers: uh-huh. Redwood burls sprouting in a dish of water: of course. If you can escape this without buying anything, there is a snack stand to grab your wallet on the way out. The owners are kind enough to provide a restroom.

You gotta see this, because the currently relevant endorsement of Ripley's Believe It Or Not compels your curiosity. That and the need for a pee break, a Coke, a keychain, and a redwood burl.

Teasers on this trip: Richardson Grove, Chandelier Tree, Grandfather Tree, Bigfoot

14 Days Of Vacation

2008-08-06T07:30:00.000-07:00

Day 17: Mossbrae Falls, CA

About fifteen years ago, my wife told me to take a short vacation. She saw I was increasingly unhappy about something. We didn't know what it was. I packed up some clothes and fly fishing gear and hit the road.

I ended up in Dunsmuir, a tiny town surrounded by forests and streams. For three or four days I waded the Sacramento River, watched trains enter and leave the depot, ate at the steak house, basically just wandered aimlessly. There wasn't much to do at night, so I got to know the fifty-something matronly bartender at one of the two bars in town. Her name was Juanita, and on my last night she told me to stay while she closed up. When everyone had left she took me by the shoulders. "You need to stop being sad," she said. "Look around you!" She growled like a mother puma and shook me. "You don't know who I am, but someday you will. Now go live and be happy."

The next day, my last, I took a hike to Mossbrae Falls. It was hot along the train tacks, but serendipity surprised me with a sweet lunch of wild blackberries. Lizards scampered away at my approach. Overhead, a red-tailed hawk flew figure eights two miles wide. I crossed an old trestle bridge, and stopped mid-span when a train passed over it, two feet from my face, with a rumbling click-clack, click-clack, click-clack. At a hillside spring I filled my hat with icy water and shivered as I poured it over my head. Nodding red columbines laughed at me. I scrambled down the sloping grade to the stream, chastised by jays. In the sublime pristine music of the falls, I tied a nymph to my flyline and started my back cast. On the forward cast, I felt a hook in my behind.

I stood in the sun, my waders filling with cold water. I hadn't done much this trip. I hadn't caught a fish. And now Mother Nature had shown me a dozen rare treasures in one afternoon, then tweaked my nose by sticking me in the butt with my own stupidity. All I could do was laugh at myself. And so I did, for the first time in my life. I really, truly laughed at myself, the way I think few people ever do. I lifted my face to the wide world sky and laughed. I laughed. Just laughed. And Mossbrae Falls said "See?"

A few years later, I found out why I was unhappy. I realized Juanita was right in everything she said when my doctor gave me the following advice. Sometimes, he said, the universe reaches out and taps you on the shoulder. When She does, you had better stop and listen. I started listening at Mossbrae Falls.

Teasers on this trip: fly shops, Castle Crags, Mt. Lassen, Babe Ruth

15 Days Of Vacation

2008-08-05T07:30:00.001-07:00

Day 16: Dick's Place, CA

It is easy to have a love/hate relationship with Mendocino. On the one hand are stunning coastal cliffs swathed in salty fog thrown up by the crashing surf, weathered grey clapboard construction of houses and stores, tiny gardens bursting with blooms all year round, an exhilarating carefree freedom facing into a Pacific wind. On the other hand are the overpriced tacky shops marinated in the affected personalities of the shopkeepers, and the passive/aggressive rudeness of overpaid software aristocrats from the San Francisco Bay area. If you put on your far-sighted point of view, you can enjoy the former while overlooking and laughing at the latter.

Some may recognize parts of Mendocino from Murder, She Wrote, where many exterior shots were filmed. The town is small. You can walk the entire town at a leisurely pace in less than an afternoon. But don't let the size fool you; this is a beautiful place. There are some nice trails that allow you to roam the grassy headlands, or descend long stairs to small beaches littered with driftwood. Gather some up for your own ocean-inspired creation. Grab some salami, cheese, and sourdough at the market, slice 'em up, and have an unplanned lunch at the picnic tables provided. Watch out for the seagulls, they're sneaky li'l bastards. At night, the moon shines on the rippling waves, so clear you'd swear it was a school of iridescent fish, or the ballet of sea pixies.

There are some shops worth a look, too. The science-themed toy store has some neato goodies for kids and childish dads. (That would be approximately 100% by my estimation.) The bookstore has a fun selection of unusual books, a great kid's section, and groovy stuff like stickers and stationery. Make sure to stop at the candy store and get a candy apple, or some turtles, or an ice cream. (Say "Hi" to the resident geese up the street.) One of my favorites is a back alley store devoted to birds. It's a delightful assortment of feeders, houses, whirligigs, mobiles, birding books, and other fun stuff. Watch the pine siskins raid the copious feeder outside. There is one shop I can't figure out. It's owned by a crazy-uncle-packrat guy and crammed full of musty old paperbacks, rusty old swords, and dusty old . . . things. There's an upscale garden shop, a nice shell shop, a homey Irish shop, and several dozen or more shopping sprees for blankets, linens, soaps, cooking gadgets, candles, etc. Then there are pretentious jewelry shops, wine shops, art galleries, B&B's, endive-and-radicchio restaurants and How the hell can you make a living selling this ugly expensive crap? shops. This is where you and the kids put your chocolate smeared noses and candy apple sticky fingers against the glass and laugh. Simple props like pinwheels, balsa wood gliders, and cheap plastic whistles are at their finest right here.

I saved the best for last. It's called Dick's Place. That's it. Real simple. It projects a refreshing "Yeah, it's called Dick's, so what?" vibe. It's got the plank floor, the wobbly stools, the old jukebox, and the true hallmark of any fine drinking joint: the buzzing pink neon sign of a martini glass out front. I've heard many complaints about Dick's over the years, always from the type of folks we previously laughed at. If you got your head on right, this is a fantastic place to observe the human animal. I have always found the clientele and staff affable, if a little gruff. If you don't pretend to be anything special, you'll fit right in.

There are grizzled biker dudes that can't keep their voices below 115 decibels. There are delicate 200 pound barflys. There are mud stained lumber workers. There are Renaissance Faire jewelry making chicks. There are the deli employees who tell the real stories about the tourists from the privileged classes. There are those two guys that are laughing right now, but will probably rumble later, and be back to laughing again tomorrow. There's the piercing-eyed artist who creates pieces from castoffs she finds on the beach. There's the guy with the Robin Hood beard, eight silver dragon rings, and a beat up guitar. There's the 98 pound pool shark, showing off her two inch cleavage in an attempt to sucker some drunk into a round of 8-ball. No matter how they look, they will all gladly trade a bad joke, tell you what's wrong with your clothes, answer a question or two, and maybe share a round of shots with you. Occasionally you will find a partner that is opposite you in so many ways it's like looking into a funhouse mirror. It's not your reflection, exactly, but you recognize something there. I have struck up two hour friendships with a crude road crew worker, a sultry hippie gypsy, and some local geezer and his dog. Oh, my yes. This is a BAR. Bar par excellence, from the huge nicotine stained mirror to the desiccated gecko in that bottle of rumtequilawhiskey something. I don't know how long Dick's has been here, but gauging by the feel of spirits (and *hic* spirits), I'd say about 400 years. Even if it's only 80, I'm sure 400 years worth of living has taken place.

Take a seat by the window. Gaze southward, past the window's gold lettering, to the serenity and confidence of the northern California coastland. Watch the well-heeled doctorate idiots avoid Dick's like the plague. Absorb the real life they are missing and wouldn't recognize if it rear-ended their BMW. Bask in the heady orange glow of the setting sun, the babble of a lovable funky people, a good stiff drink, and your own superiority.

Teasers on this trip: Glass Beach, Noyo Harbor, Skunk train, pygmy forest

16 Days Of Vacation

2008-08-04T07:30:00.000-07:00

Day 15: Casa de Fruta, CA

Every native Californian has their favorite fruit stand. Although they are not as prevalent as they once were, there must be hundreds around the state. If you've ever traveled interstate 5 between Los Angeles and the Bay Area, chances are you've been to one of the best and most enduring: Casa de Fruta.

This landmark in the Pacheco valley started out as a family orchard 100 years ago. Around the end of World War II, the owners opened up a fruit stand. Later they added a coffee shop, a store, and it hasn't stopped growing since. Now you can eat at Casa de Restaurant, fuel up at Casa de Gas, sleep at Casa de Motel, even take the kiddies for a little train ride at Casa de Choo Choo. Seriously, I'm not making any of this up. It's cornball and campy, and it hasn't lost that charm in the 40 years I've been going there.

Most everyone from the San Jose area has spent some time here. There are picnic areas, a pond, playground, an animal farm complete with 2nd or 3rd generation buffalo, a great antique merry-go-round (I'm a sucker for these), an RV park, and souvenirs. Oh, yeah, just as s sideline, they sell fruit. This is a fun way to kill an hour or two, or to spend the day with family. I loved going there as a kid. I remember it had the biggest slide I'd ever seen. On the winding highway was a billboard with a rotating coffee cup, an advertisement for the World Famous Cup Flipper. I saw him only once. He would bring you a cup upside down on a saucer, flip it in the air, catch it on the saucer and pour your coffee from two feet above. Now THAT is the kind of tourist trap entertainment ya just can't get no more. Unfortunately, the Cup Flipper retired some years ago.

True to its legacy, the fruit "stand" specializes in all sorts of fresh produce. I've not lived in my native state for 12 years now, and I always yearn for California treats every spring and autumn. Black walnuts, almonds, pistachios, dried apricots, dried prunes, Bing and Queen Anne cherries, oranges, artichokes, avocadoes, strawberries, plums, pears, olives of every description, and more more more. I especially crave the (really) world famous garlic, huge fragrant bulbs with purple-pink striped papery skin, clustered in foot long braids. You can buy all of these anywhere now, of course, but it's not the same. You cannot say you've eaten any of them until you've had them fresh from the California heartland. Casa de Fruta has now expanded to mall stores, mail order, and internet sales, but it ain't the same without rolling golden hills, ducks, auto exhaust, and the Cup Flipper.

Sigh. Now I'm homesick.

Teasers on this trip: Renaissance Faire, Henry Coe State Park, Pinnacles National Monument, Gilroy Garlic Festival

17 Days Of Vacation

2008-08-03T07:30:00.000-07:00

Day 14: Freedom Trail, MA

It's Sunday, so let's go to church. The church is Old North Church (the "one if by land, two if by sea" location of Paul Revere's tale), and we are on Boston's famed Freedom Trail.

I love this trip. Start at any place on the trail's map, and walk in any direction. There's tons to see and learn. From the U.S.S. Constitution (oldest commissioned ship in the navy) to the Boston Massacre site, from Paul Revere's house to Granary Burying Ground (final resting place of John Hancock and Samuel Adams), this is a day of discovery and delights for every sense. I won't recount them here. Instead, I will give my impressions of one afternoon.

After visiting Old Ironsides, perhaps my favorite stop on the tour, the family and I walked back to our car through Little Italy (amazing shops with cured meats and cheeses and chiantis and give me one of everything). Once we reached Quincy Market, my wife, mother, and kids went shopping. I went to the Green Dragon where I polished off an ale, sitting in the same place where Paul Revere might have sat. Then I went to the Bell In Hand Tavern, and polished off another ale, in the same place where other revolutionaries must have caroused. I was in good company.

Afterward, I browsed the outdoor market. Voices of every timbre and accent filled the air, hawking fish of the day, olives from California (I laughed at that one), strawberries, beeswax candles, all sorts of fresh goodies. Very nineteenth century marketplace and very amusing to someone with a belly full of good Boston ale. In a quieter corner I found my own personal El Dorado. An old man was selling fresh clams from an old ice cream pushcart, 50 cents apiece or three for $1.25. I immediately sat at one of the two stools in from of his "establishment," and proceeded to indulge in a dozen huge, fresh, shucked-right-under-my-nose clams. Condiments provided were coarse salt, lemon halves, and Tabasco sauce. I tried all three in all combinations. The old man chatted with me, regaling me with insignificant anecdotes that entertained me immensely. From time to time another tourist, always male, would sit at the other stool for a clam or three, and we would all swap a lie or two. It was great. I paid the man and went on my merry way.

I stopped at two more pubs, and visited Ye Olde Clamme Man twice more. Final total: five ales for about $20, thirty-six clams for $15, and one-hundred and four stories for $0. It was one of the most enjoyable few hours I've ever spent alone. Later that evening, I treated my family to lobster 'n stuff at the Union Oyster House, oldest continuously operating restaurant in the country, open since 1826. When we shared our experiences of the day, they were appalled and amazed that I would eat all that and still go out for a seafood dinner. I just burped and smiled.

Go find your own burp and smile somewhere along the Freedom Trail. Just follow the red brick road. For the unbelievable number of historic sites located here, check out this map.

Teasers on this trip: Lexington/Concord, Salem, Plymouth, Walden

18 Days Of Vacation

2008-08-02T07:30:00.000-07:00

Day 13: Virgin River Narrows, UT

I like to think of Zion National Park as the red rock little sister of Yosemite. Mountains of red and buff sandstone surround this valley, through which courses the Virgin River, the lifeblood of a natural botanical garden that rivals anything I've ever seen. In this desert location are not only cactus, yucca, and other xeric flora, but also cottonwoods, willows, ferns, and in the spring, a riot of wildflowers of every color. Due to the many plant species, the wildlife is just as varied and interesting. Zion also has its share of colorful place-names: The Watchman, Great White Throne (at right), Checkerboard Mesa. There is a great visitor center, and Zion lodge is worth a look for bigger than life architecture (see the earlier post on El Tovar) and cabins available for rent. My favorite place, however, is The Narrows.

Like the Grand Canyon, portions of Zion have been cut through by the Virgin River. Unlike the Grand Canyon, this river's masterpiece is accessible and easy to experience up close. A 15+ mile trail meanders through Zion's back country, zigging and zagging along the river's course. It starts near the Temple of Sinawava and continues to get progressively narrower until you can touch both walls of the canyon standing in place. In places the trail is on high ground, in others you may be wading up to your armpits and carrying your pack over your head. A sturdy hiking stick is not only fun, but a necessity in navigating some currents. The scenery changes with every turn: vertical rainbow cliffs, sandy beaches under arched recesses, waterfalls, hanging gardens, swards of grass and stands of trees, the trill of canyon wrens, and everywhere the sound of water. As far as I know, there is no other hike quite like this in the country.

I have hiked only three or four miles in, then back out. It was enough for this hike to sear itself onto my memory, and give me a healthy respect for my own limitations. I plan to do more someday. Be aware that this hike is not without its dangers. At certain times of the year, especially summer, sudden storms many miles away can dump enough water to cause dangerous torrents that race down the canyon, even if it is sunny and clear where you are. While the first mile or so poses no significant risk, the farther you go the more treacherous the terrain gets, and the farther from help you are. I advise caution, a well-provisioned daypack (water, 1st aid kit, snacks, poncho, sunscreen), notifying someone of your plans, and checking with the ranger station before you go. I recommend at least rudimentary swimming skills as well. The desert, even in the most benign looking circumstances, can be a very dangerous place for the uninitiated.

Teasers on this trip: Kolob, Bryce, campfire, tunnel

19 Days Of Vacation

2008-08-01T07:30:00.001-07:00

Day 12: Morro Bay, CA

Morro Bay is stuck somewhere in the mid 20th century. Unlike most other central California coastal towns, it hasn't been completely taken over by surfers, latter day hippies, real estate agents, or wine snobs. They are here, and so are some trappings to keep them here, but the town retains most of its fishing-village-and-natural-wonders personality. There are easily 1,001 California coast destinations worth a visit. Morro Bay is in my top three.

The most obvious, imposing, and awe inspiring feature is Morro Rock, the last in a chain of weathered volcanic plugs called the Nine Sisters. It stands guard over a perfect natural harbor. The topography makes for a a fascinating place to walk, beachcomb, and birdwatch. Along the Embarcadero are souvenir shops, bike and boat rentals, fish markets, restaurants, and small gardens from which to watch the incoming fleet or the setting sun.

The pleasures of this destination are simple ones. The town prides itself, and justifiably so, for its bird sanctuary status. Hundreds of species take up residence or migrate through here, including the endangered peregrine falcons that nest on Morro Rock. There is a small but very good natural history museum. The old, tiny public aquarium ($2 admission!) is a sure bet for young and old alike, especially the rescued seals who perform tricks for fish scraps. Visit the shell shop. Fly a kite. Food is simple and hearty fare, mostly family style restaurant or bar and grill type spots specializing in fresh seafood. There is a yacht harbor, a large public park, long strands of beach on the outer harbor and north of the rock, and one of the state's best preserved estuaries. Most of all, this is a place for casting off self-imposed shackles. Enjoy the rhythm of the tides without the need for cell phones, itineraries, or an abundance of credit cards.

S - l - o - w . D - o - w - n .

Teasers on this trip: kayaks, Pismo Beach, wineries, Hearst Castle

20 Days Of Vacation

2008-07-31T12:35:00.000-07:00

Day 11: Montezuma Well, AZ

This and the cliff dwelling a few miles to the west were named by retarded cowboys who thought the Aztecs lived here, or some other fool notion. The truth is they were used by the Sinagua, an enigmatic prehistoric people whose traces can be found all over the southwest. (We will pay a visit to their neighbors, the Anasazi, later in our 30 day virtual vacation.) Unlike many other ancient sites, Montezuma Well has few domestic structures. It also isn't really a well.

The site was form when a cave collapsed, and the sinkhole was filled by a spring. As it is located smack dab in the middle of the desert, it's no wonder both humans and animals have used it for millennia. It is small in area, only a football field or so across. Around the rim can be seen a few remnants of mud brick structures, possibly one room dwellings or food storage facilities. A short hike to the bottom allows interesting views of the blue water, aquatic plants, and the occasional turtle. If you're lucky enough to be alone, rest under the stone overhang, listen to the birds, and reflect on the scratches on the walls from visitors of past centuries.

Hiking back up, the trail continues over the southern rim. Here a cool and verdant path leads to the exit point of the spring. Water tumbles out of the rocks, over a million gallons a day, and fills ancient irrigation ditches built by the Sinagua. This is one of my favorite spots in the southwest. It still feels alive with the spirit of a people who long ago abandoned the site. It is a good place for quiet contemplation, beside the cool waters of the ditch, under massive smooth-trunked Arizona sycamores, watching fish in the creek and listening to the breeze and birdsong.

This is one of four excellent and unusual, but less well known, ancient indian sites. To the west Montezuma Castle sits high in a cliff face, farther west Tuzigoot is a small city built on a hilltop, and to the northeast are the remains of rooms built in the recesses of a promontory in Walnut Canyon.

Teasers on this trip: copper, corn, vortex, sliding jail

21 Days Of Vacation

2008-07-30T07:30:00.000-07:00

Day 10: White Bird, ID

Pride yesterday, shame today.

This is a sad place. It was the site of the first battle between the U.S. Army and the Nee-Me-Poo, or Nez Perce, nation. Although the army was soundly defeated, the whole affair could have been avoided if the whites had just dealt honestly from the beginning. The Battle at White Bird may have been a victory for the Indians, but it marked the eventual decline of their culture after numerous other skirmishes with American forces. The ending is the all too familiar one: a native people decimated, relocated, cheated. For those who wish to read more, this National Park Service pamphlet is an excellent history.

I found this place on a business trip driving from Spokane to Boise. The region in between is beautiful forest, river, and prairie, dotted with Lewis and Clark adventure sites. I plan to go back someday and explore this breathtaking land, and the native culture that belongs to it. For now I am haunted by the memory of standing between two hillocks on a cold afternoon, with miles and miles of open grandeur, a leaden sky crying fitful tears, the feel of ghosts who have been wronged hiding in the grass. About the only positive experience from this brief stay was my education of a people, and a greater appreciation for an iconic American hero, Chief Joseph.

"From where the sun now stands, I will fight no more forever."

Teasers on this trip: I know nothing about the Clearwater and Flathead rivers; all the more reason to return

22 Days Of Vacation

2008-07-29T07:30:00.000-07:00

Day 9: National Archives, Washington D.C.

The struggles for American independence took place in every colony, Massachusetts and Virginia are the prime examples, and in places beyond the reach of established institutions of the day. Our nation's capitol is not the birthplace of our country, but it is its heart. Washington D.C. is where the will of the people is exercised, the place where our shared values are most in evidence. From the seats of federal power to the resting places of our honored dead, to visit here is to know that the public owns these monuments and parks, and that the current government exists only by the public's consent. It is hard not to bloviate and swell with patriotic pride when surrounded by expressions of ideals that changed the world.

This is why the National Archives is my number-one place every United States citizen should see. On display are numerous historical documents from four different centuries. The greatest of these define our country and are presented center stage: The Declaration of Independence, The Constitution, and The Bill of Rights. There before your eyes are the signatures of John Hancock, Thomas Jefferson, George Washington, and all the founding fathers. There is the original ink, the parchment passed through the hands of history, the compromise of differing views, the hotly debated words of We the People. I wish every high school senior was required to see it.

On my second visit, a guard explained that the documents can be mechanically lowered to an underground vault safe from nuclear attack. A woman next to me asked "Why? Are they worth money or something?" I wanted to strangle her. I bit my lip and remembered to uphold our founding principles of equality and freedom of speech, even for the aggravatingly stupid. After all, each of us has the right to opinion and ignorance, no matter how ridiculous it may seem to others.

This sounds cliche and pretentious. But I dare you to come to Washington, tour the memorials, explore the Smithsonian, visit the Capitol rotunda, view a session of Congress, and not puff up a little. Come on. I dare you.

Teasers on this trip: stand tall and look around you

23 Days Of Vacation

2008-07-28T07:30:00.000-07:00

Day 8: Golden Gate Bridge, CA

This is a beautiful sight, no?

I must have crossed the Golden Gate Bridge a hundred times in my life, but it wasn't until I had all 3 children that I walked across it. I shouldn't have waited. Beneath you pass passenger ships, tankers, and sailboats. Travelers you don't see include sea lions, sharks, even the occasional whale. To the east is San Francisco Bay, the city skyline, Alcatraz, and a whole continent. To the west the Pacific rolls on and on and on until it touches the shores of Japan. The feel of the wind, the smell of the ocean, and the sound of the gulls contibute to the bridge's many moods, which change depending on the weather, season, and time of day. I look forward to traversing it one day during an early morning fog, or a strong rain or an autumn sunset.

Goldengatebridge.org is informative, although disappointing for a cultural and historical landmark 50 miles from the center of the computer industry.

Teasers on this trip: Presidio, Fisherman's Wharf, Chinatown, Red & White fleet

24 Days Of Vacation

2008-07-27T07:30:00.000-07:00

Day 7: El Tovar Hotel, AZ

Today is Sunday, so why don't we go have a nice late lunch? I've chosen a place with a surrealistic view of both space and time: the El Tovar Hotel.

At the turn of the 20th century, America was still discovering its natural wonders, but hadn't quite grasped the unique identity of them. So we imitated the lodges and hotels of Europe, finishing them with a western personality. The El Tovar is an example of the robust architecture prevalent in the early national park system. A broad porch allows for ample seating, providing welcome shade from the Arizona sun. A large entryway leads you to the lobby, a cavernous space of log rafters, chandeliers of geometric stained glass, mission style furniture, and obligatory mounted animal heads. Besides the lobby seating and fireplace, there are two gift shops, a small cocktail lounge, some interesting history on the Fred Harvey Company, and the dining room.

In keeping with its Victorian style roots, this is a fine dining establishment. Not quite the Waldorf-Astoria, but fancier than you might expect for a place frequented by tourists and hikers. The main dining hall is beautiful, constructed of native stone and the same sturdy dark woods of the lobby. The decor is rustic upscale; subtle artwork pays tribute to the desert landscape and Hopi culture. I had been here several times before I realized there was a second dining area behind the first. Although it is smaller and less elegant, I prefer it.

For here large windows reveal an incomparable panorama. I doubt any other restaurant table in the world has such a jaw-dropping view. Order a glass of wine, an appetizer, and the superb trout. Enjoy a tantalizing dessert. Sit quietly with your companion and marvel over the coral and peach and rust expanses of the Grand Canyon. Reflect on the billion year history revealed in the canyon walls. Marvel at the power of a river to create it all. This is more than a pleasant meal. This is a revelatory repast. Savor.

Teasers on this trip: mule, kachina, condor, awe

25 Days Of Vacation

2008-07-26T07:30:00.000-07:00

Day 6: Pinecrest Lake, CA

Time for a refreshing dip in a lake, and one of my favorite places for that is at Pinecrest. This small lake sits in a corner of the Sierra mountains at 5,600' elevation. It is drained in the winter, when everyone goes instead to the Dodge Ridge ski area up the road. Locals and tourists start to swarm the lake in late spring when the air is clear and warm, the water clear and COLD. In my teen years every Memorial Day weekend, some guy would drive his Amphicar straight into the lake, while onlookers gasped, then laughed. This semi-officially kicked off the summer festivities for the regular crowd.

The broken spine of the Sierra Nevada range rises east of here, topping out at 9,620' Sonora Pass. Spring lasts about 6½ days there, so plenty of glacier and snow melt rush down the mountains to fill Pinecrest. The water has a silky-mineral brainfreeze quality to it, pure and invigorating. It's hard to stay in too long if you aren't in the warmer shallows. This makes it perfect for trout, though, and the lake is well stocked. The picture to the left is typical of the shoreline, great granite blocks thrust out into the water, pines receding into the ever higher distance.

Despite the crowds, this is a beautiful spot with areas for quiet introspection, if you're willing to work for it. A four mile trail meanders around the lake, over granite and meadow, beneath stone cabins and towering ponderosas. At the midway point (the "back end" of the lake) you can deviate due east and strike your own path up the Stanislaus River into the wilderness.* It's tough to describe the grandeur of Sierra birds, waterfalls, achingly blue sky, wildflowers, and the ever present dark grey stone to someone who hasn't seen it. I spent so much of my teens and twenties tramping through this part of California that I can feel the throb of the Sierras in my blood like a potent drug.

There is no other spot on the Earth quite like this. At first glance it appears to be just another mountain lake resort. But Pinecrest has a dual personality. The west has its fishing, swimming, paddleboats, ice cream stand, and bikinis by the yard. The east has the unspoiled vigor and rugged confidence of young California, inviting to those with strength of heart and character. It is a soul calming, mind restoring, magical place.

Teasers this trip: whatever you empty out of your head

* NEVER hike into wilderness areas alone or unprepared.
* Check with the Forest Service for local regulations and permits.
* Inexperienced hikers should remain in well-established recreation areas.

26 Days Of Vacation

2008-07-25T08:32:00.000-07:00

Day 5: Balboa Park, CA

From extinct animals yesterday, to live ones today. San Diego is rich in California history and the Latin culture that gave birth to it. The heart of the city is Balboa Park, an urban playground of museums, architecture, gardens, and music. This is kind of an obvious choice, but no trip to southern California would be complete without a visit to the park's crown jewel, the San Diego Zoo.

I can't really say much about this destination that wouldn't bore you. I mean, you have been to a zoo, right? Maybe, but you haven't been to this one. For almost a century it has been famous not only for its collection of animals, but for its botanical gardens and conservation efforts. These efforts are obvious in the care and attention to detail in every exhibit. The zoo has been a pioneer in enclosure design and enrichment programs, resulting in beautiful, spacious habitats for the occupants while allowing for great viewing by visitors. The staff is the best I have seen at educating the public about wild species and our conservatorship of them.

This is a LARGE zoo. Bring comfortable walking shoes and spring for the tram and skyway tickets. The baby panda is extremely popular, so expect a long line (and be quiet!) My favorite not-to-be-missed exhibits are the Galapagos tortoises, Gorilla Tropics, Tiger River, Sun Bear Forest, reptile house, and the world famous flamingo lagoon just inside the entrance. Be sure not to overlook the botanical specimens (the agaves and euphorbias are splendid) and keep your camera handy. This is an excellent zoo for photography.

Balboa Park has a lot going for it, but the zoo is only one of three major animal attractions in the area. The San Diego Wild Animal Park (35 miles northeast) and Sea World (10 miles northwest) are other options for an extended stay. Bring your credit cards!

Teasers on this trip: Hotel del, Old Town, Cabrillo, cross the border

27 Days Of Vacation

2008-07-24T11:09:00.000-07:00

Day 4: St. George Dinosaur Tracks, UT

One of the great things about touring the American southwest is the myriad dinosaur related side trips. They range from magnificent places like the remote moutainside boneyard at Vernal, Utah to the small but impressive display at the Museum of Northern Arizona in Flagstaff. I've seen dinosaur tracks for free on the Navajo reservation and on vertical red sandstone cliffs. For abundance and variety of unique specimens, however, it's hard to top the St. George Dinosaur Discovery Site.

You won't find any life size reproductions or assembled dino skeletons here. Young children may see it as just a bunch of mud colored rocks, but for the older dinosaur buff and scientifically curious, there are rare treasures on display in this warehouse-like building. Discovered only eight years ago, the site has already made a large impact on paleontology. There are a few dead bones to be found, but most of what's been left behind are hints of how Jurassic creatures lived and moved.

The most obvious displays are the dinosaur footprints, dozens upon dozens of them, some single, some in trackways. The largest ones were made by dilophosaurs, but there are a number of smaller ones made by some as yet unidentified animals. These were the megafauna of their time. Even more interesting are the smaller bits scattered here and there: insect trails, turtle rubs, mollusc shells, plant root castings, burrows, fish fossils, seeds, plant impressions, the list goes on. The truly rare and bizarre are the fish and dinosaur swim tracks, tail drags, skin impressions, even a depression left by a sitting dinosaur. It is a sandstone text book offering a view of an entire ancient ecosystem and the interdependece of the organisms in it. It is a prehistoric Rosetta stone, waiting for us to solve a thousand riddles of evolution. Fascinating and captivating.

This is an active research site, with new discoveries being made all the time. (As evidence of this, check out the huge pile of rocks out back.) Some finds haven't even been properly classified yet. There aren't any prettied up displays or fancy fonts. You tread across concrete and sandstone, separated from the Do-Not-Touch pieces by nothing more than a rope. That's why I like it. It's a peek inside an active and engrossing disipline, and if you squint real hard, you just might see that dinosaur swimming toward you, breathing and alive.

Teasers on this trip: canyons, wildlife, Weeping Rock, Shakespeare

28 Days Of Vacation

2008-07-23T07:31:00.000-07:00

Day 3: Tennessee Aquarium, TN

Today we jump across the Big Muddy for the first location involving my obsession with fish. Public aquariums feature high on my list of things to see when site-seeing. In California, the Pacific currents are cold, the rivers fast and clear. On a business trip to Chattanooga, I discovered the Tennessee Aquarium, showcasing aquatic life from warm Gulf waters and slow, muddy rivers.

This is a big place. A zig-zag ramp starts at the top and winds down around the building. The walkway descends past large tanks surrounding the open but dark interior, slips in and out of small halls, back to the large tanks, and back again into brightly lit rooms with views of the Tennessee River. It's an unusual set-up, quirky even, but lends a sense of discovery as you round corners from the large to the small, the dark to the light, the swift to the calm.

There are the requisite sharks, but there are also some truly impressive tanks here. One is a two story monstrosity with a fishing boat on the surface, sun loving sportfish like bass and crappie in the upper water column, huge lunker catfish at the bottom. Another is a vast empty space with fast swimming Gulf species like tuna and tarpon. What is hard to convey is the scale of these exhibits. You are pressed close to a wall of hundreds of thousands of gallons of water, fish of every description zipping past your nose, or floating up lazily to peer at the possible snack on the other side of the glass. There are plenty of exotic species such as the arapaima (one of my personal favorites) in the submerged Amazon forest. Or the Tim Burtonesque giant spider crab, leg span 15 feet. It's the only place I've ever seen a leafy seadragon. For a real treat with the kids, go underneath an enormous tank and peek out through portholes to get a fish's eye view of a coral reef. A recent addition is the Anarctic Penguins' Rock.

It is with the regional speices that the Tennessee Aquarium truly excels. There is an exceptionally good hall of turtles, from the clownish pig-nosed to the nightmarish alligator snapping. The open and airy swamp exhibit is worthy of an hour's stay. Practically at your fingertips are alligators, ducks, fish, and a swarm of pond turtles in a perpetual mating swim/dance. If you are so inclined, you can pet a sturgeon, make faces at river otters, puzzle over a paddlefish, or relax in the peaceful butterfly habitat. All in all, the Tennessee Aquarium ranks as one of my top three in the country.

Teasers on this trip (I sampled only the last one): Ruby Falls, Chickamauga, the Smokies, BBQ

29 Days Of Vacation

2008-07-22T11:22:00.000-07:00

Day 2: Star Trek The Experience, NV

If ever there was a place to indulge your inner geek, this is it. Located inside the Hilton resort near the Strip, this has all the elements of hyperbolic, over the top, gee whiz sci-fi excess, all with a Las Vegas twist. You enter the large area devoted to dorkitude through, of course, a themed casino and bar area. Various light-up zappy things are everywhere, the decor a furious and curious collision of depression era Logan's Run combined with Forbidden Planet on acid. Even if you're not a gambler, it's worth a dollar bet just to pass your hand through a light beam that activates the slot machine tumblers. Neato!

The Promenade, although shorter than I'd like, is a vague representation of the Deep Space Nine set. Here you can peruse various Star Trek souvenirs, from action figures to Starfleet wear to expensive gadgets like phasers and starship models. Once, I even saw a replica of Captain Kirk's command chair, complete with a detailed painted cutout of good ol' James T. From 30 feet away, it looked pretty cool. If you can't find something to covet or roll your eyes at, leave now. It only gets worse.

Across from the Promenade is Quark's Bar and Restaurant. It is here you're likely to be fleeced by a Ferengi or accosted by a Klingon. Sidle up to the bar (more zappy stuff) and demand a Tranya, or a Romulan Ale, or a Warp Core Breach. Order up some targ ribs, or Holy Rings of Betazed, or a hamborger. Seriously, go to the website, click on the restaurant link under "What is..." and check out the menu. It's insane in its unapologetic geekiness. At this point, NASCAR fans will bitterly berate Star Trek nerds with epithets strong enough to break the Organian Peace Treaty. For true and unabashed Trekophiles like me, the inside jokes, self-deprecation, trivia drops, and absurd coolness cannot be matched by any other attraction.

Most likely, though, the reason you're here is the two rides: Klingon Encounter and Borg Invasion. I won't say much about these, other than they are not rides in the conventional sense, but total sensory immersion into the Trek universe. Painstaking set details, costumed actors with a script, and holy sh-- special effects make either of these unforgettable. The transporter effect that sends you into the future is one of most baffling and surprising things I've ever experienced. At that moment you can almost believe you really are being "beamed up."

For my money, however, the best thing about Star Trek: The Experience is the area leading up to the rides. Rather than just wait in a boring line, you wander through the world's largest collection of all things Trek. Costume pieces, props, stills, you name it, line the balcony walkway, all presented in a sort of future museum exhibiting relics from Federation history. Many a fan has stood gaping at stuff they saw on their favorite show, amazed at how cool or cheesy it is in real life. Easily the best part of the trip, tickets can be purchased separately, and you can exit before the rides. Also here are LARGE models of starships suspended from the ceiling. The original Enterprise, Enterprise-D, Voyager, and others are all here, suspended in mid warp, glowing and blinking in a way that communicates with the adventurous "what-if" in us. Flanking these are large screens which periodically show retrospectives of the franchise: a piece on the Captains, or starships, or aliens, or some other wow-I-loved-that memory. Wistful, inspiring, and familiar; my inner twelve year old loves this place.

Unfortunately, this ultimate Trekkie Mecca is scheduled to close on Labor Day this year. Even if they relocate the displays somewhere else, I doubt the environment will be as all-encompassing as it is now. Plus, you'll undoubtedly have to pay more.

Teasers on this trip: Shark Reef, Red Rock Canyon, Hoover Dam, Fremont Street light show

30 Days Of Vacation

2008-07-21T15:11:00.000-07:00

It seems everyone I know is taking a summer vacation. For the first time in 10+ years, I won't be. I will take one by myself after the remaining kids go back to high school, but it's not the same as the family week-long summer vacation in a rented house, or motels, or camping. Plus, with starting up two new radio stations we purchased in the last five months, I really couldn't get away anyhow. I've been overwhelmed with helping steer our corporate ship. It's been rewarding, to be sure, but I haven't had much time to reflect on just "me" stuff. What could I possibly write about that's of interest to anyone, if I'm not interested myself?

Then, while quietly jealousizing over Tiff's and others' vacations, it hit me. Time for a change-up, and set myself a challenge. Every day for the next 30 days, I will visit a favorite place I have found on family vacations or private wanderings. Some are lifetime favorites, others are pleasant surprises you won't find if you look for them. Please join me on a virtual vacation. Heck, write about some of your own so we can all relish in the wonder of places unvisited!

Day 1: Samoa Cookhouse, CA

We start our trip with a meal at the Samoa Cookhouse near Eureka, California. Breakfast, lunch, or dinner? Take your pick, but bring your appetite, because the Samoa Cookhouse serves food like nowhere else I've ever been. Dating back over 100 years, this old building was used to feed the lumber industry employees, many of whom lived in the tiny company town of Samoa just down the street. The appetites of lumberjacks and sawmill workers are legendary, so it's no surprise that the Cookhouse continues in that tradition.

The first thing you notice upon entering is the chalkboard menu. The second thing you notice is the wood-floored hall with rows and rows of picnic tables. If you are the linens and sommelier type, this is your first and only clue to hightail your pretentious butt back south to San Francisco. Because, here? You're gonna sit where you're put and eat what you're given. On Wednesday night it might be fried chicken and potatoes with green salad and bread and butter. On Friday it might be fried fish with corn on the cob and minestrone soup and bread and butter. On Monday it might be thick slabs of pork or beef roast with mixed vegetables and bean salad and bread and butter. All washed down with icy frothy milk and the best black coffee in the history of history. Don't like what they're serving that night? Tough. Go hungry.

Oh, but what you will miss. Plastic table cloths laid out with thick cream-colored ceramic plates and bowls. Giant salt shakers and creamers and coffee cans stuffed with napkins. Silverware you could used to repair an RV engine. Sharing your bench with a coupla Harley dudes. Rubbing elbows with a shy lanky teen. Helping the kindly senior lady across the table to servings of apple pie. Chatting across, down, behind you with folks you've never seen before, and probably have next to nothing in common except this desire for REAL food, dammit, and the desire to share in our most primal ritual with others of an extended tribe. And all around you little kids chase each other around the lumber-era museum pieces, babies bounce on laps, grandparents revel in the closeness of their families, tourists recount the day's escapades, and always always always the super efficient and strong waitresses pass huge stainless steel pots and melamine bowls back and forth from the huge kitchen, everything steaming and clanking and clattering and giving rise to aromas that make you want to eat twice your weight in simple stuff you never thought could taste so good. And it never stops. You keep eating, they keep bringing.

The Samoa Cookhouse is one of the the best restaurants in America. I have driven three hours, each way, in a day just to eat there. I've been in fancier, older, more heralded eateries across this country, but none better or more original. Go and enjoy. Stop by again on your way back home for breakfast, and pay closer attention to the history that soaks into you from the sturdy planks and sawmill memorabilia. It'll last you all the way home.

From here, you can go north or south to enjoy the spectacular northern California coastline and superlative sequoia sempervirens. I'll let you discover those on your own. But a few teasers: salmon fisheries, Avenue of the Giants, Paul Bunyan, and Roosevelt elk!

Another Random Saturday

2008-06-07T14:03:00.000-07:00

My wife's best friend moved away today. She lamented that she has no friends in town any more. It made me sad, because I haven't had a friend for 20 years or so. I'm not sure why. My 2 semi-lifelong bosom buddies and I drifted apart in our mid-twenties, and they have never been replaced. Oh, I have friendly people I know, and we know some personal details about each other. But there is no one over the last 2 decades that I can just call on the phone for help with a broken car, or watch football with every weekend, or plan a fishing trip, or go on combined family picnics. I'm not exactly sure why, but I'm reasonably sure the fault lies with me.

The difference is: my wife is a wonderful person who will have little difficulty finding another friend.

* * * * *

Another little piece of my youth was swallowed by history with Jim McKay's death. I was never a rabid sports fan, but he was a staple of television in my younger days. Who could forget "The thrill of victory, and the agony of defeat?" He WAS the Olympics, especially with the life changing 1972 Munich games, punctuated by his succinct and poignant coda "They're all gone." In an industry of testosterone, arrogance, and ego, he was a gentle man that made sports accessible to us non-jocks.

Goodbye, Jim. Everyone liked you, and that is rare.

* * * * *

Middle age is a capricious bitch. One day you are at the top of your game, the respected mentor. The next day you are the dismissed out-of-touch dork barraged by medical tests. It's aggravating in the extreme, but somehow the bitch gives you the resilience to ignore it all.

But she's still a bitch.

* * * * *

I love my new dog, Poppy. She occasionally succeeds in stealing a butter tub from the counter, or finds a stray remote control to chew, but she is sweet. She is affectionate, smart, and eager to please. She's learning, and LOVES Princessfisher and me. She's okay with Queenfisher. For once, the alpha female of the house is not the favorite.

That makes me laugh.

* * * * *

Shakira's "Hips Don't Lie" was on the jukebox, and it really really really really really really really sucks the vomit hose.

If you like modern R&B/Rap/Hip Hop/Dance to the exclusion of all else, you are either to young to appreciate music or you are a fucking retard.

* * * * *

Right now I am in the mood for a Cobb salad with bleu cheese that would barely fit in the trunk of my car.

Pay attention to your cravings, they usually mean something. Even the "bad" ones.

* * * * *

Fireworks stands will go up soon. Cannot wait. Bonus: July 4 is on a Friday this year. My house will be beer and barbecue and blowing shit up central. I will get to use the word "punk" around my teenage son and his friends about 47 times.

If you don't understand the dual definition, your Independence Day party is gonna suck.

* * * * *

Hillary finally gave up. Shutup feminists. The majority of us have no problem with a female president. It was her entitlement attitude, even before her run for president, that turned many of us off. If you truly believe the national persona/focus/spirit will fundamentally change with a female in the White House, you are hopelessly naive. Politics is politics. Different players, same chess game.

BTW, "Clinton" re-arranged is "nonclit."

* * * * *

Gardening in the Mojave is one of the biggest challenges I've ever faced. So far, I've failed miserably at my favorites: cut flowers, vegetables, herbs, and succulents. My daughter has expressed an interest. Given her femaleness and her mother's gifts, I have no doubt she'll do better.

She better grow some damn good Roma tomatoes to overcome my jealousy.

* * * * *

I guess that's it for now. Go Big Brown!

(And by extension, Fuck you, PETA!)

Kingfisher's Cultural Poker Hands

2008-06-02T13:39:00.000-07:00

9 Best Hands

Lost child beats: Pregnant woman
Pregnant woman beats: Frail senior
Frail senior beats: Mentally impaired
Mentally impaired beats: Blind
Blind beats: Wheelchair
Wheelchair beats: Broken down car woman
Broken down car woman beats: Stray dog
Stray dog beats: Hitch hiker
Hitch hiker beats: Panhandler

Anything (a dead cockroach, for example) beats these 9

Winning season Little League coach
Humvee soccer mom
Discovery Channel know-it-all
Initials on tailored shirt cuff salesman
Obese bitch/bastard with handicapped plates
“Will work for…” parking lot sign guy
Sour grandma on power scooter
High speed lane changing motorcycle prick
Don’t-dare-look-at-my-obvious-implant-cleavage-presented-for-your-approval chick

Tardy

2008-06-01T16:48:00.000-07:00

I was inspired to write something about this photo presented by Wordsmiths Unlimited in February. At the time, I was too busy, lazy, and tired to contribute. I had the idea for a prayer, which I now present much too late, much too short, much too contrived, and blasphemous in between.

This is a work of fiction. Copyright © 2008 Bolt, Ink.
All Rights Reserved.
No portion of this work may be copied, retransmitted,
reposted, duplicated, or otherwise used without
the express written approval of the author.

Prayer of Sacrilege

Mother Mary, Full of Grace
Hear my plea
I too am young in life and love
Am I ignored in my sighs?

Mother Mary, Full of Hope
See my tears
I too have no place to call home
Am I alone in my cries?

Mother Mary, Full of Truth
Feel my rage
I too am conceived without husband
Am I unworthy in Heavenly eyes?

Mother Mary Full of Lies
We are the same between our thighs

9 Guys That Annoy Me

2008-05-27T14:23:00.000-07:00

"I only need three hours of sleep. I get up at 3:30 every morning."
Um, remind me not join you on any long distance road trips. I'd love to see the quality consistence of whatever work it is that you do. Here's a clue for ya: you may feel superior; I think you're lying blowhard.

"Kingfisher's next drink is on my tab."
Look, you drunken fool, I don't like you. We're not friends. Everyone else may take advantage of you, but I'm gentleman enough not to in your daily inebriated state, and not bring attention to your hypochondriac opinionated boorishness. I hate feeling obligated, but if you sneak one in on your tab, I won't feel guilty for not buying you one.

"Can you get this report for my client?"
Sure. But if I bring it to you an hour later and you have already given them one, and it's wrong, I will break your teeth with my staple remover.

"Sir, do you know how fast you were going?"
What is this? Cash Cab? Do I win something if I get it right? Or are you just asserting your God-complex jerkoff coppitude? Just gimme the chicken shit ticket for going 60 in a 55 while everyone else whizzes by at 80. Remember when a policeman was your friend? Not no more.

"Yeah, I hit the gym before work this morning. (stretch) Got a tennis game tonight. Got a mountain bike ride on Saturday. (flex) Going kayaking Sunday."
Great! I'll say hi to your wife at the bar later. If I wasn't married, I'd be riding her implants within 2 hours.

"Income taxes are unconstitutional. The IRS can't force you."
Sigh. 100 years of this argument hasn't worked, buddy. Take off the tinfoil hat and PAY YOUR GODDAM TAXES you worthless pile of ignorant sludge. Then I wouldn't have to process your wage levy. All three of them. Idiot.

"God bless you." (after I sneeze)
Arrggh! Why do you insist on perpetuating this stupid superstitious pagan ritual? Isn't it a little condescending to assume I want your God's blessing? Do expect me to say the same? I sometimes do, but only when someone belches or farts.

"BBLLLBBBRRRBRRRBLLBRRRRR"
Middle-aged Harley guy, with your bondage outfit and German WWII helmet and white nicotine stained mustache and your hey-this-is-america-freedom-is-mine arrogance, I was enjoying this quiet Grand Canyon rim with ravens' calls and wind in the pines until you FUCKED EVERYTHING UP WITH YOUR GOD GIVEN RIGHT TO BE A LOUD ASSHOLE. Impinging on everyone else's space with whatever you want to do because it isn't physically threatening is not Freedom. It is rude, irritating, arrogant, and the exact antithesis of liberty and civility. And you are not a rebel. You are, however, a huge donkey sucking asstard fuckhat. It is my fervent wish that road pizza is in your immediate future.

"F-R-E-E that spells free, credit report dot com BAY BEE"
Everybody in that car deserves to die. Especially the non-guitar playing pothead qwerbo in the back.

Q: What Do You Do...

2008-05-14T13:00:00.000-07:00

...when someone you love needs help and won't take it?

A: Not a damn thing. And it sucks.

Where The Hell Is Kingfisher?

2008-05-09T15:54:00.000-07:00

2008 has been booooooring so far. I haven't had much to write about. Besides which, I've been working my butt off. So to show that I am, in fact, still alive, I present some pictures of recent Kingfisher life in a lame imitation of a post.

This is my office at the radio stations. Kinda cool, huh? The amount of energy spent here this year gets most of the blame for my absence in the blogosphere.

Here is the nerve center where I preside over numbers and pretend to be a manager. The screen saver shows a picture of one of my favorite joints on the Santa Cruz municipal pier. Note the coffee cup with a picture of the Pupfish, the nifty Las Vegas 51's baseball (yes, our local team is actually called that), and the aquarium in the back, which my boss calls "a stroke of genius." Why, I don't know. I think he was surprised with my decorating scheme.

Here's a close up of some of the fishies in said aquarium. They're the smartest occupants in the office.

This is the dead animal head across from my desk. He creeps out the hippie chick who hosts our weekly adpot a pet segment on the rock station. The creeping out makes me laugh. He is also a target for practical jokes. He has been decorated at various times with cigarettes, a fake mustache, a sign promoting pot smoking, and training bras.

Princefisher II was asked to the prom. Here he is in his best Men in Black impersonation. Note the young man expression of nonchalant cool while clutching a corsage. Heh.

After a winter and spring of atrocious winds that has everybody in Las Vegas wheezing, complaining, and hornking out a bloody nose in the shower every morning, we were finally able to spend a day on the Pupfish. Here is my daughter with the newest addition to our family. Aren't they cute?

She's a 1-year-old shepherd/chow mix (the dog, not my daughter.) She was the featured dog on the rock station 2 weeks ago. She was rescued from a drug house, had been at the shelter for almost 2 months, and was slated for euthanasia. I saw her in the lobby, she licked my face, and another sucker was born. I named her Poppy. She is learning about family life for the very first time. Boy, is she smart.

That's about it. We're going to the boat for a relaxing Mother's Day. Maybe I'll write some more at my watering hole tomorrow.

Be nice and send Mom some flowers on Sunday. Or at least call her and let her know you're wearing clean underwear.

Now, for no reason at all, here's a picture of frogs playing poker.

Happy Hallmark Day

2008-02-13T09:03:00.000-08:00

The Blood Of Ravnius

2008-01-30T14:57:00.000-08:00

This is for the first Wordsmiths challenge of 2008. Please join us this year!

The Blood of Ravnius

“Our enemies will cower at our name!” Ravnius cast his voice over us, a glory and a promise to a downtrodden people. “Ride behind my banner! We shall read the future in their blood!” All of us, soldier, hunter, herder, slave, raised our fists to the sky, shouted our daring to the heavens.

After the acclamations it fell to we four advisors to consult on strategy and tactics. We finished in two days. In our zeal the preparations for armaments and supplies were complete in three. On the morning after a feastday, Ravnius rode under his red and gold pennants, before a bristling forest of spears, pikes, and scythes, an army large enough to terrify the gods.

At Trest, the first battle, our determination crashed upon the enemy like a hundred oceans. Their superior numbers were no match for our rage. The plains were streams of blood, over which Ravnius proclaimed “See! See the future! Blood does not lie!”

At the Battle of Mount Senneth the enemy’s halls burned as a crowd of survivors fled. It was less satisfying, the victory more easily won. Advisor Thorki said he had seen the future in blood, a future unrecognizable, filled with absurd figures in strange clothes, riding their mounts backwards.

At the Battle of Hotsk children wailed at their parents’ deaths before meeting their own. Advisor Velnnen commented on the trees growing in ponds of red. In the reflections he claimed he saw the ghosts of the slain hung by their own torn garments, swaying in the branches, gaping yet silent.

At the Battle of Pon-ju-rabsi there were few to vanquish, tales of our conquests spreading like a plague on the wind. We killed without joy, plundered nearly empty vaults without greed. Advisor Baln would not sleep, his sight filled with scarlet mists that roiled and moaned but whose voices meant nothing.

After the fight, if such it could be called, at Jianng, I tried to divine the future in crimson pools. No visions came. I saw only submerged and broken pots of the marketplace, drowned embers of household fires, splintered tools of farmer and smith. I watched crows patrol the bloody shore, gleaning shreds of flesh and bits of bone. In them I finally did see a future told in blood.

That night the four advisors, Thorki, Velnnen, Baln and I, convened around our campfire. The decision was quick and final. We strode to the great tent and threw the covers open.

“What brings you here?” Ravnius demanded.

“You have lied to yourself and to your people,” said Thorki.

“This ceaseless killing can serve no purpose,” said Velnnen.

“The gods turn their faces in shame,” said Baln.

“What! We are history’s mightiest victors! Our deeds will echo through the ages!” Ravnius glared with flat black eyes. We remained still. “Are you warriors? Or have you cowards nothing to say?” Flanked by my comrades at arms, I advanced, raised my sword, and spat his words in his face.

“Blood does not lie.”

See With More Than Your Eyes

2008-01-28T19:58:00.000-08:00

Welcome to a place so many are in a hurry to pass through on the interstate.

Don't be one of them.

An abandoned railway depot makes a fine historical museum,
as well as an unexpected architectural gem.

Stop. Listen to the sound of alone.

Nature works for a long time to create her art,
so she makes you work to appreciate it.

God created Eden, but he also designed gardens like this.

Even in the barren wastes there are surprise treasures.

A reminder that this country is still mostly open space.

There is great beauty in the desert.
You just need to learn how to see it.

State Of Silliness

2008-01-22T09:21:00.000-08:00

Alabama: Steadfast in our refusal to admit we lost
Alaska: We’re far away because you guys suck
Arizona: World’s biggest ditch
Arkansas: Turning away the winds of change
California: Dude. Seriously, bro. Come hang.
Colorado: Less square than Wyoming
Connecticut: 23 acres larger than Rhode Island!
Delaware: A state. Really.
Florida: Celebrating the superior intelligence of reptiles for 500 years
Georgia: Y'all tawk funny.
Hawaii: Our natives were raped last!
Idaho: More reclusive anarchists per square mile
Illinois: Visit the new Museum of Corruption (knock 3 times and say Al sent you)
Indiana: Slightly more than just basketball
Iowa: Guess that smell!
Kansas: Celebrate the genius of Toto leaving home
Kentucky: At least our abbreviation is interesting
Louisiana: Proudly ignoring elevation, gravity, and hydrodynamics
Maine: We’re not telling.
Maryland: A buttload o’ crabs and seafood, too!
Massachusetts: Just small enough to tell you what’s right
Michigan: Half the fun, but twice the state!
Minnesota: Go fish.
Mississippi: A river, a spelling quiz, a place

Missouri: Samuel Clemens changed his name for some reason
Montana: ~~First Second Third~~ Fourth in area!
Nebraska: Corn – Nature’s poopie joke
Nevada: Bring your dreams. Trust us.
New Hampshire: First in voting and…uh...
New Jersey: Almost as obnoxious as New York
New Mexico: No habla Ingles
New York: What are you lookin' at?
North Carolina: North of South Carolina, east of West Virginia. Ok, we’re lost.
North Dakota: 1.3% less ice than Canada!
Ohio: Land of Crapportunity
Oklahoma: Come for the bison, stay for the buffalo
Oregon: Get out.
Pennsylvania: Independence Hell
Rhode Island: Turn right at Connecticut
South Carolina: The Bermuda Triangle of America
South Dakota: At least we’re not North Dakota
Tennessee: As seen on CMT
Texas: Where everything is big except smart
Utah: The only state without a Starbuck's!
Vermont: One of the original 14 colonies
Virginia: Presidents used to be born here
Washington: Not D.C. The other one.
West Virginia: Dentists wanted
Wisconsin: Nine billion cows can’t be wrong!
Wyoming: Playing cowboys and indians since 1875

The Beast Divine

2008-01-17T14:23:00.000-08:00

Peace is in the rest of the bovine
Strength is in the reach of the ursine
Wisdom is in the gaze of the feline
Joy is in the leap of the piscine
Truth is in the search of the porcine
Faith is in the voice of the canine
Grace is in the gait of the equine
Justice is in the grasp of the aquiline
Behold the beast divine

The Incredible Multiplying Teenagers

2008-01-08T15:46:00.000-08:00

Princefisher II turned 17 last week. We planned a party for Friday, and told him to invite some friends. I arrived home after work at about 5:30 that day. From the street it looked like my backyard was on fire.

"Hi, guys." I said as I walked out the back door. "What are you doing?"

"We're having a campfire." said Princefisher. Sure enough, a crowd of eight or so teenage boys were gathered around a fire ring, their fuzzy facial hair attempts flickering in the firelight, poking the embers with whatever pieces of wood they could scrounge up. Princefisher was in his favorite tribal man get-up, jeans and nothing else, and was pulling on the garden hose toward the fire. I made a mental thank you to the gods that he wasn't wearing the revealing loin cloth he also liked to wear when he and his regular buddies went caveman. I also made a mental note that is was 40 degrees outside.

"Fill my aquarium bucket with water and keep it handy." I said. "And all of you be careful."

"Yeah!" said Teen A, who shoved Teen B, who bumped into Teen C, who proclaimed "Ow!" and slapped Teen A in the head, starting a whole round of "yeah's" and manly pansy slaps.

"Happy Birthday!" I said. Princefisher came at me with a grand gesture of arms flung wide, pummeled me, and crushed me with a hug meant to impress upon his friends that he wasn't a Daddy's boy. "Thanks." he said. I walked back inside while a Three Stooges episode started up outside.

"Hi," said Queenfisher, looking tired. "They've been here two hours already." She pointed to the kitchen table laden with bowls either empty or containing the crumbs of chips and cheese doodles. The counter was lined with dead bottles of soda. The cake was still whole, but it did have some finger pokes in it.

"Next!" Queenfisher's visiting sister bent over the oven and pulled out a pizza. "Number six!" she yelled. Queenfisher popped another into the oven and both stepped aside. The back door opened and a stampede of Teen Stooges trampled me to the ground. By the time I picked myself up, every molecule of cheese and pepperoni had disappeared. I checked to be sure I still retained all my digits.

"Holy crap!" I said. "There's more of them!"

"Yup, that's been happening since it started. I don't know where they're coming from." Queenfisher plopped into a chair. "Why don't you go get changed?" I started down the hall to the bedroom. When I heard Sisterfisher yell "Next!" I ran like hell.

During the two minutes I was indisposed, the fire in the yard went out and I heard thumps coming from the family room. The sound couldn't mean anything good. I walked down the hall to investigate. There were at least a dozen kids now, including a Teenette, who were playing audience to Princefisher and a friend wearing cardboard boxes on their heads, chest, and groin, and aluminum clothes dryer ducting on their arms. They flailed away at each other to no purpose.

"What are you doing?"

"Robot fights." said Princefisher.

"Is the fire out? Did you use the bucket?"

"Yeah. Sean had to pee."

"Next! Number eight!" yelled Sisterfisher. I ran for cover into the living room. I sat down to watch TV, a futile effort, since the sound of a group of teens echoes like coyote banshees in the Grand Canyon. I settled for watching Animal Planet. It wasn't much different from my house.

"We're going to go get more snacks." Queenfisher and Sisterfisher were putting on their jackets.

"What! Are you crazy? You're leaving me alone with them?"

"Yup." The two women dashed out the door, leaving me to my fate. I had a vision of their return, driving by the house and throwing hunks of raw meat from the car for the wild things under my roof. My vision was interrupted by hooting and scuffling from the next room.

"What's going on in here?" I demanded. The robots had shed their skins. Two teens were holding electronic gear and flailing for some other strange purpose. There must have been twenty of them now, although males still far outnumbered females.

"Wii boxing." said Princefisher.

"Well, be careful. Don't knock anything over."

"Yeah!" said Teen J, who tickled Teenette K, who spilled soda on Teen L, who yelled "Jerk!" and butt-kicked Teen J, who knocked over a bowl of popcorn.

"I'm going into my room. You guys can watch TV in the living room if you want." I retreated to some semblance of peace, if rumbles and raucous laughter and thuds and belches can be peaceful. After a while the front door slammed several times in a few minutes. I went to investigate again.

"What's going on out here?"

"Next! Number nine!" I leapt for the shelter of my daughter's bedroom down the hall. Apparently, the snack run had been successful.

"Number ten!" I closed my daughter's door.

"Number eleven!" I fell to my knees and prayed.

!SLAM!

I decided I had no choice but to return to the carnage. I peered out the door. All was relatively peaceful. "Hello?" I ventured. An unfamiliar voice returned "They went out front."

I walked out the front door in time to see the Sisters pulling out of the driveway. I ran to stop them, and Queenfisher rolled down her window, but just a crack.

"Where are you going now?"

"To the little casino down the street."

"What about all these kids?" I gestured to the fifty or so soulless entities milling about on the front lawn, playing teentag and whoopwhoop and spitfar and grabass.

"Hey, we watched 'em before you got home and made the food. It's your turn. Just stay in the room, they'll be fine. They don't care about you anyway."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

On my way back I saw a man standing at a podium. He was wearing a straw hat, waving a cane, and unwinding a spool of tickets. "Hurry, hurry, hurry, folks!" he said. "Step right up! Only fifty cents! See the Incredible Multiplying Teenagers! Thrill to the beat of Scream Music! Test your courage against the Hormone Cyclone!"

I pushed my way through the front door. A tide of muscled shoulders and perky bosoms crashed against the walls of my house. thwack whack crack! Even over two-hundred voices I heard the sickening sound of something breaking. "Princefisher!" I yelled, drowning in a fog of Axe spray and Avon's Something. I finally found him and asked what was so loud. It took four tries for me to hear him. "They brought me a pinata!"

Desperately, I clawed my way to the bedroom, pushing a camel and a tapir out of the way.

Within five minutes weird sounds forced me out again. I collected rope, pitons, and carabiners from the closet to scale the mountain of candy wrappers, robot skin, and pizza crusts outside my bedroom door. At the end of the hallway I stood in stunned disbelief. My house had somehow transformed into a stadium full of high-schoolers. Ignoring the jugglers, monster trucks, and trained seals, I screamed "PLEASE KEEP IT DOWN AND BE CAREFUL!"

"Yeah!" said Teen Q, who jabbed Teen R, who backed into Teenette S, who whined "Stop it!" and whacked Teen Q, who fell into a kiddie pool of sand sharks.

I spent the following hours with the bedroom door locked, cell phone at my side.

Thump.

!SLAM!

whack!

"Number sixty-three!"

Some hours later, Queenfisher found me sitting in the corner of my bedroom, a blanket over my head, surrounded by fearful and quivering dogs, rocking back and forth, muttering "It's only teens. It's only teens. It's only teens."

Queenfisher assured me that they were gone. The clock told me it was 9:30 pm. Had it really been only four hours?

"Where are they?"

"They went out for breakfast." The sheer illogic of it all was just too much. I fainted.

The next morning, I discovered only 2 beers missing from my fridge.

Way to go, Princefisher. I'm proud of you. Now put some clothes on.

Fun With The News

2007-12-19T14:22:00.000-08:00

I used to enjoy doing this until Tiff started doing it better, but just too much good stuff lately.

R. Kelly Misses Court Date in Chicago
Shocking. Next you'll tell me Pam is getting divorced.

Pamela Anderson Files for Divorce
Shocking. Next you'll tell me Amy Winehouse got arrested.

Amy Winehouse Arrested in Husband Case
Shocking. Next you'll tell me a Spears family member is an idiot.

Jamie Lynn Spears Pregnant at 16
Oh, I give up.

Swiss, EBay Stop Sale of Iraqi Treasure
Overestimated the value of scrap metal and camel dung.

Congress Challenges Bush Over CIA Tapes
Protests erasure of money shot.

Romney Aligns Himself With Bush in Iowa
In preparation for make-up money shot.

Giant Rat Discovered in Indonesia Jungle
Later identified as Jerry Falwell in hiding.

T.O. to Jessica Simpson: Stay Away
Apparently, T.O. is unable to tolerate anyone prettier than him.

Tequila Finds Love on MTV Dating Show

Conversely, MTV dating show contestants find love on tequila.

Osborne to Remain Nebraska AD Until 2010
Sharon blames Ozzie's extended attention-deficit on retarded kids.

WHO Urges Vigilance As Bird Flu Spreads
Recent study finding: no one.

NY Banks Robbed 4 Times in a Week
One less than their customers.

Morgan Stanley, Hovnanian Big Movers
Cite Feen-A-Mint as cause.

Judge: White House Logs Are Public
Cites 1964 Feen-A-Mint precedent.

Al-Qaida Offers 'Interview' With No. 2
Expresses interest in Feen-A-Mint.

Bush to Visit Israel, West Bank
"I hope it accepts my ATM card," sez Prez.

China Not Cited As Currency Manipulator
Upgraded to "ethics abuser."

NASA Ties Shuttle Gauge Woes to Bad Part
WAMU Wires Butter Gouged Nose to Brad Pitt.

Iraq Complains over Turkey Bombing
Admits that the chicken bazooka is pretty cool, however.

Knicks Fans Rally for Isiah to Be Fired
Please let it be from a chicken bazooka.

Whales May Have Come From Deer-Like Animal
Which explains why whales were almost hunted to extinction for their antlers.

Man Wrestles, Subdues Deer at Maryland Home
Found smothered in baleen.

9 Little Known Christmas Facts

2007-12-18T15:47:00.000-08:00

Every kid knows all the items in his stocking came from the $.99 Store, and doesn't want any of it.

No one really knows what ~~Kwanza Kwaanzaa Quonza Kiwanis~~ that stupid made-up holiday is.

By the age of three months, the average American child has seen "A Christmas Story" 47 times.

You will never find the perfect Christmas card, but at least you won't be torturing loved ones with the generic "what we did this year" letter from the family dog.

If you count all the crazed idiot shoppers at the mall, you're one of them.

New Christmas carols suck.

The word marzipan Comes from the German martz, meaning "sweet," and the Danish zippan, meaning "horse turd."

One pound of fruitcake weighs three pounds.

As soon as you pay your Christmas bills, it's Christmas again.

Unfair

2007-12-14T08:40:00.000-08:00

All these random shootings lately, at schools, at malls, at a school bus stop here in Sin City. So many innocent people harmed for no good reason. So many diseased individuals with guns.

And they keep missing Oprah!

Self Analysis Through Movies

2007-12-08T16:10:00.000-08:00

The Ten Commandments (1956)
A prince of privilege discovers the plight of those less worthy. In sympathy and political downfall, he learns a man is defined by simple things, his worth measured by his relationships with others. Slave by birth, leader by upbringing, he finds the true measure of a man is acknowledgement of himself and belief in things greater than himself.

Logan's Run (1976)
A policeman of the state, drenched in power and excess, questions his existence and the culture that bore him. Through defiance and treachery, and with a strong woman at his side, he discovers the uncomfortable and delicious dangers of freedom.

The Magnificent Seven (1960)
Men skilled in gunplay and strategy, outcasts all, band together in a hopeless cause. In doing so, they learn the value of friendship, family, and community.

Spartacus (1960)
A victim of Roman imperialism, a man refuses to be subdued, eventually leading a strong revolutionary army. A life of extreme passions, lust, hatred, and violence are tempered by his leadership and compassion of others. His life ends in unjust persecution. His unbreakable independence succeeds him.

A River Runs Through It (1992)
In a place of astounding natural beauty and raw human emotion, an eldest son measures himself against his father and his younger brother. Living by paternal code and a sense of what is right, he is overshadowed by his younger brother's charisma and larger-than-life persona. After carrying on the traditions of marriage and children, his brother's death by gambling and bravado are revered by his ministerial father.

The Hunchback of Notre Dame (Disney 1996)
A hated and ugly man discovers the source of his torment is not God, but the evil of men. His spirit conquers all but the woman he desires. He finds his goodness and optimism are enough after all.

Casablanca (1942)
A man is jaded by a woman who left him and world events turning sour. When the love of his life crosses his path on the arm of another man, he finds the strength and love to help in her happiness. He discovers a friend he did not know he had, gives up all he owns, and devotes himself to the future.

King Kong (1933)
A misunderstood creature tries to reach out, but is reviled. His attempts at tenderness are misunderstood, his lonely bravado mistaken for aggression. Finally, a victim of his desires, he succumbs to powers that he does not understand, and which will not understand him.

It's A Wonderful Life (1946)
A man learns his worth, however insignificant it may seem. The lesson is uplifting, if bittersweet.

How I Chose
I listed my favorite movies, and whittled the list down to nine. I ranked them in terms of themes that spoke most clearly to me, not necessarily by which I would choose to watch over any other. It was a difficult task.

The result is not a hierarchy of my favorites, but a snapshot of who I am right now. My cursory descriptions of the films give insight to who I think I am. It might be interesting to see what others think.

I invite you to do the same. You might be surprised by what you find.

Breathing Room

2007-12-02T15:02:00.000-08:00

I write this with a head full of ideas while drinking beer and watching football at my favorite watering hole. So 'scuse me if it doesn't meet the accepted definitions of coherence or sense. I believe the truth of it will come through, misspellings, excessive punctuation, drifting thought and all.

It seems to me that all good life-changes take a year to absorb. Bad life-changes either dog you forever, or you slice them off as quickly as possible.

The weekly meetings with my boss used to take an hour and a half. Now it's down to 30 minutes. Ten minutes of work/strategy/problem talk, and twenty minutes of two men talking about sports, family, staff, whatever. We both had a great deal invested in my hiring. Now it's proven and successful, so the "imminent danger" mentality is gone. The mental resources invested in worry is now available for more productive things.

I can breathe now. Maybe it's a male thing, but until my breadwinner status is assured, I cannot find the energy needed to completely devote my self to the day-to-day activities of the family, or other pursuits I might enjoy. It's not that I'm distant, it's just that the foundation isn't as strong as it could be. It is unfair to both sexes, and seemingly out of favor now, but if I cannot provide food, shelter, and security to my mate and our offspring, I should not progress to other endeavours. Perhaps this is why fathers are perceived as more distant than mothers. I firmly believe it is my lot, my role, my responsibility, my place.

I take that back. It's not a male thing. It's a good man thing.

With all my flaws, mistakes, errors in judgment, I am a good man. My children love me. My wife loves me. My children have tough shells and smarts and tools to survive their own flaws, mistakes, errors in judgment.

I love my children. I love my wife. And they love me, because I have provided for them. I have fulfilled every primate male's duty as described by Maslow's hierarchy of needs, a duty that has no end, nor option to resign. I am a good man.

- - - - -

Princefisher I will fly away from the nest in about six weeks. Sure, he will live with relatives, but he won't be here. Truth be known, Queenfisher and I shoved him out. We would not be good parents if we didn't make him test his wings. Sometimes the lessons of youth are harder on the parents. But I am excited. And proud. He will attend my Alma Mater, a beautiful place rich with my family's history. I envy his future experience, the insatiable curiosity, the invulnerable beliefs, the incalcuble losses, the invaluable wins. But I will miss him terribly.

- - - - -

Princefisher II underwent surgery 4 days ago. It was necessary, and simple by today's standards, but it drained me. Having never been in a hospital before, my 16-year-old son was unfamiliar with the bastard show-everyhting-robe he was required to wear. But he allowed me to help him, sarcastically assuming the "against the wall" position of an arrestee so I could tie up the robe's inscrutible laces. For an instant, I saw the young supple beauty I used to possess, which was irresistable to the girls who brought him home-made cup cakes during his recovery. His male friends visited in droves, tender and understanding, allowing him to rest his legs across their laps, telling him they would leave when he needed rest. When he needed rest, they quietly covered him with a blanket and left.

I never had friends like that.

- - - - -

Princessfisher. I don't know how to describe my daughter, or my love for her. So here's a picture of her and my mother. On vacation I took them to San Francisco. We walked and drove the Presidio, had lunch at an outside table at Fisherman's Wharf, and rode the cable cars. How do you explain a good man's feelings about a day with females that define him? You can't.

- - - - -

So you see the important things by which I perceive my identity. But there are insignificant things that are important as well. Things without which life is just existence. Things which make existence life. Things which, important people and required duty aside, speak to us and make life wondrous, beautiful, inexpressable. All you can do is relate them, and hope others understand.

- - - - -

All marriages go through times of difficulty. Fortunately for the wife and I, serious relationship issues have occurred once, maybe twice, in 23 years. Unfortunately, right now we are in a bit of financial difficulty. Christmas is a bad time for that, especially with college bills coming up, but we seem strangely calm about it. Sure, we worry, but maybe it's because we've been through so much already that we are reinforced and comforted by each other and fight on. Little things seem to mean so much more right now.

- - - - -

Driving to San Franciso on vacation I saw flocks of migrating birds. In wedges and polygons and riots and weavings they executed random patterns against the sky, the reasons unknown to me, but gorgeous and perfect.

- - - - -

Two days ago we had a 24 hour rain. In the desert this is rare and precious. The steady light kisses of the sky caused Mt. Charleston to hide behind veils of white.

- - - - -

I arrived home after a hard day and a harder commute. My kids had rimmed the front windows in Christmas lights, bought light-up candy canes and placed them on the lawn, and put together our fake Christmas tree. Fake? Fuggit. It was my home, and my family made it for me to see.

- - - - -

We had to put Pupfish to sleep for the winter. Our last voyage was perfect. It was too cold to swim, but the sunlight fairies danced on the waves. Soda and beer and cheese and bread and salami was never so good. It was just us: Kingfisher, Queenfisher, Princefisher I, Princefisher II, and Princessfisher. As a bonus, wild burros came to visit! The lead male threatened us, probably because there were more females than males, but moreso because there was a baby burrito. We anchored the boat and watched him lead his tiny herd to somewhere else.

- - - - -

Like that burro, I am an alpha male. My workmates may not see it. My offspring may rebel against it. But after one year, I accept that which makes me. I cannot speak for females, but as a leader I have learned how to be the manager, the protector, the provider, the patriarch of a little piece of humanity. I am steadfast in uncertain battles. I am malleable in uncertain debate. I am confident in uncertain times, even if I am uncertain.

Life continues to change, but at least I can breathe a little slower now. Until the next task, whatever it may be. Now on to all those things I've wanted to do for a year but didn't have the energy for!

2008 is gonna be great.

p.s. The 49ers suck.

What I Want To Be When I Grow Up

2007-11-30T16:23:00.000-08:00

I want to be the man who takes care of the aquarium. It would be fun to scuba dive in the giant tanks and feed the fish. I would have a trained octopus who would eat out of my hand. There would be a big laboratory where I could learn all about fish when I wasn't taking care of them.

Clopin is cool. He's the smartest guy in all Paris and leader of the bad guys who are really good guys. He knows ventriloquism and does puppet shows. He has cool clown clothes. Plus he sings really high at the beginning of Hunchback of Notre Dame. And he knows magic.

I'd like to be an astronaut. You can jump real high on the moon. You might even be able to go to Mars. It would be super cool to ride in a rocket and watch Earth get real small. I would eat my dinner through a straw. Then I would fart and laugh at the other astronauts because they can't get away. I'd bring back some moon rocks for my Mom.

If you had gorillas for friends you would be awesome. Tarzan is awesome. He can kill a huge snake underwater with a knife. He lives in a tree and swings on vines and yells a lot. He plays with grown-up girls in leopard bikinis. All the jungle animals do what he says. Awesome.

Being a writer would be fun. You could write stories about robots and lasers. Or you could write about animals that talk. You can write about anything in your imagination! Then people would see your book in the store and you would be famous. Or maybe I would write for TV. I would write cartoons and then me and my friends could watch them after school. That would be fun, too.

Mr. Spock. He's a Vulcan. They don't feel stuff. He's really strong and smarter than anybody, even Captain Kirk. He gets to fly around in outer space and meet neat looking aliens and stuff. If I was Mr. Spock I would probably get all A's in math and science. And he does that cool neck pinch thing that can put bullies to sleep.

A bear is the baddest animal ever. He's so mean that none of the other animals will mess with him, even the girl bears. But he is also nice sometimes. He gets to eat salmon and berries and ants and gets to sleep all winter when it's cold. Bears live in a forest in the mountains where I went camping one time. Except polar bears. I don't want to be a polar bear.

Paleontologists look for dinosaur bones. I would like to find a dinosaur nobody ever saw before. Maybe even the biggest dinosaur ever! This guy named Jack Horner found a lady T-rex. I think her name was Susan. He also found some other mother dinosaurs and their eggs with babies inside. I wish I could go back and see real dinosaurs. Stegosaurus is my favorite.

My friend says ninjas are way cooler than pirates. As if. Pirates would sail their ship and blow up the ninja village with a cannon before the ninjas knew they were coming. Ninjas don't have parrots or treasure. They wear black pajamas. Pirates wear big boots and big hats with feathers in they took from some dead guy. Pirates get to live on the ocean and drink rum and climb ropes. Pirates have gnarly beards and bigger swords.

Let's play tag!
- Tiff
- Rennratt
- Shari
- Wordnerd

Listen Close

2007-11-27T21:41:00.000-08:00

This is a work of fiction. Copyright © 2007 Bolt, Ink. All Rights Reserved.
No portion of this work may be copied, retransmitted, reposted, duplicated,
or otherwise used without the express written approval of the author.

Listen Close

That fucker, he’s always watching.

Doctor LaSalle the pusface tries to tell me what’s right, but she’s a philistine. She never listens. She talks and talks but never expresses a coherent thought. How many times do I have to point out the obvious?

Fluoxetine? Please. I eat that shit like candy. Lithium? Might as well swallow the powdered exhaust from a ‘57 Ford. That stuff’ll kill you for sure. Haloperidol? Might work on an earthworm, but not a crocodile like me. Clozapine? Ain’t gonna do it, hombre. I hide it in my corn. Can’t trust corn either. Kernels or pills, what’s the difference? They will both kill you if you aren’t careful.

No one learns any more, that’s the problem. No one really reads a book or feels the hum of the planets or thinks in the darkest safety of the night. There is everything there, more than your mind can hold. But not me. I keep my mind pure and alert and open to everything. That’s why I am free. Intelligence is not bound by ideas others have thought before. You’ve got to go and make reality for yourself.

Listen close: Toccata and Fugue in D minor. Cleopatra’s Needles. The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. Lawrence Welk. Aluminum nitrate. Jesus turding Christ! It’s all right there! One day they’ll stop cleaning these walls and look at the stuff I’ve written there. Then they’ll see.

The New York Times, Il Papa, Commandant Pusface, my father. They all think they know, but they don’t. They think I don’t know, but I do. I KNOW. I know i know i know i know i know. It’s that knowledge that keeps me safe.

If you’re smart, you’ll listen, and listen close. Pay attention. Beware. Don’t trust anything. Don’t trust anybody.

Because that fucker? He’s always watching.

Exchange Rate

2007-11-01T15:55:00.000-07:00

Exchange Rate

“¡Sangre de Cristo!” Villareal almost tripped over his mop in his haste to leave the room. He crossed himself twice, intricate tattoos emblazoned on his forearms, the left a glowing Virgin Mary, the right a somber crucifix.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Ladrón de almas: the thief of souls!” The mummy I was studying, had been studying for a week, stared without eyes. I forgot Villareal was rarely down in the basement, so had never seen our current project.

“Oh, him? He was found in the mountains east of town. He can’t hurt anyone now.” Villereal crossed himself again, grabbed his tools, and fled up the stairs.

I spent the day examining the body and taking notes. The forgotten town in the arid Mexican hills had yielded a wealth of treasures from the nineteenth century, including 23 mummies. For some reason we could not determine, all had been found unburied in a cave, unusual for the time and place in which they had lived. Some were found with thick paper cards embellished in strong, flowing Latin script. Such was the case with Castro, our current project, so named for his card. We called them “inventory tags,” a ghoulish joke that no doubt would have offended our poor beloved janitor.

After bending over the table and peering through magnifying lenses all day, I was ready for a hot meal, a cold drink, and lively music at the cantina. Villareal met me at the top of the stairs.

“Please jefe,” he pleaded, “do not leave me here alone.”

“There is nothing to be afraid of, my friend. Nothing can hurt you here.” I laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Besides, the night crew will be here soon. Buenos noches.” I left the building, feeling guilty in the frightened gaze of the superstitious Villareal.

The next morning, the janitor greeted me as I opened the museum’s heavy doors. I didn’t recognize him.

“Where is Villareal this morning?” I asked.

“Buenos dias, señora. He is not here. I take his place.” A glance at his nametag betrayed his lie. It said Castro. An expanding pool of sickness threatened to rise from my gut. I ran down the stairs to the basement lab. The corpse was still on the examining table, covered in the same dingy cloth.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” my assistant said. “We got another one today.” He pulled back the cloth to reveal a dried, papery face. The features were a grotesque contortion, as if the person had been frozen in panic at the moment of death. “Looks like the night guys moved ol’ Castro.”

My skin went numb. My bones turned cold. My eyes turned the room into stark colors and lines, dark and menacing. I pulled the cloth farther. There, on the parchment-like skin of mummified arms, were the faded representations of the Blessed Virgin and her Son.

I didn’t need to see the old inventory tag to know what it read now.

Hands

2007-10-06T13:23:00.000-07:00

Look at my hands
They grow older than I
Grip span diminishes
Life span increases

Flesh grows thin above
Joints grow wide within
A caress means more
Even if touch means less

Scars of invincible youth
Creases of skills learned
Pains of injury and repetition
Wonders of newborns held

Father did you ever
See me in your hands?

Maybe It's Fun, But What Does It Mean?

2007-10-05T15:45:00.000-07:00

Memes bug me. Partly because it seems so teenagery, partly because it smacks of geek techspeak snobbery, partly because it's a lazy way of putting some tepid ideas or opinions out in public without any real thought or originality, but mostly because the word "meme" is so damned stupid. It's a made up pretentious cutesy bastardette of a word that makes me think of an opera singer's warm up routine: "Me-me-me-me!"

I've been tagged (I think) for a meme by my friend Tiff*. I don't quite understand it, but here's what I think it's all about.

It sounds like a blog pyramid scheme. The theory is that links to your blog from another blog are more important than the existence of your blog. That is, links drive traffic more than content, and allow your e-fart to climb the search engine hierarchy. Or something like that.

Did that sound sarcastic? Yes? Good.

As I understand the rules, I am to tag 5 blogs, four from the list of the the person who tagged me, which includes the tagger's own blog, then add my blog, creating a list of five reading destinations, composed of three entries each. Then I am to tag five more who will continue the chain meme. If you don't you will have bad luck for 3 years. A pastor in Tulsa broke the chain and he lost his congregation, his dog, and his prostate. Sorry, I made that last part up.

So far, it seems most people have asked for votes on which of their posts to include. Screw that. I know which of mine are my favorites, which took the most time and effort, which I believe were most successful in communicating what I intended, or which I just plain enjoyed writing. I chose my own; one philosphical, one personal, and one humorous. I tag the following five people who have not already, to my knowledge, been tagged and who will most likely not care/participate: Bebti, Kom, Shari, Wordnerd, and the blogger formerly known as Nilo.

Here's the pyramid:

One - Speedcat Hollydale Page

Rocket Boy in Hawaii - DC9, Speedcat’s Death Ride into Terror!, The Boy Inside All Men

Two - Terri Terri Quite Contrary

Just How Immature Are We?, Finding a Voice, So Much More to See than the Game

Three - Hidden Mahala

Uncle Huberts Custom Cows, Pray for the Child at Big Lots, The Legend of Saushie's Crotch

Four - No Accent Yet

How am I like Ron Weasley, A Social Experiment, Absolutely Boring Entry 101

Five - Fishing In A Dry Wash

The Lesson of the Window Painter, Daddaw, Deep Donkey

I do this for fun. Yes, ego is a very large part of why I put the pen to the electronic page (did any one EVER write anything without the hope that someone else would read it?), but the gossip rag Q quotient Hollywoodesque rules of of insular popularity contests ceased to impress me by about age 20.

Did that sound caustic? Yes? Good.

So read the stuff linked here. Especially mine, because it's really great. You might even say legendary. With luck, Fishing In A Dry Wash will become more popular than ever, with at least 26 daily hits and 14 comments from 3 countries. That would make me happy.

Did that sound contradictory? Yes? Good.

*Tiff: Thank you. I really do appreciate it, and value your opinion very much. I also know that you understand the nice guy that hides behind the curmudgeon persona. Just don't tell anybody.

Stars Of Fear, Skies Of Hope

2007-09-30T18:39:00.000-07:00

“Mama?” The only reply was the rhythmic metallic squeaking of an electric fan. Sarah set her schoolbooks on the dinette table, knocked over a vase of plastic flowers. “Mama?” she repeated, not without a little fear.

The tiny kitchen was as she had left it this morning: breakfast bowl and juice glass in the sink, cherry print tea towel draped over the faucet to dry. She made her way to the back of their home, through the cramped living room where she slept, down the narrow hallway past the bathroom with immaculate linoleum tile. She paused in the doorway to the bedroom, praying for sound. It was only after she heard a papery sough of breath that she realized she was holding her own.

“Mama? Are you awake?” The woman on the bed didn’t respond. Her chest rose and fell like an irregular tide, an ebbing and flowing of life. Sarah crept to the side of the bed, felt a damp cheek. Her mother stirred and opened her eyes. For a moment there was nothing, then: “Sarah, child.” A weak smile.

“How are you? Do you need anything?”

“Just make me some nettle tea. Then I will be fine.” The eyes closed.

“It doesn’t help, Mama. But don’t worry. If we can’t pay the doctor my friends will help.” There was no response. “Mama?” Silence except for a stuttering breath.

The mixing bowl next to the bed was dirty again. Sarah dumped the blood and sputum in the toilet, rinsed the bowl in the tub, and placed it back on the nightstand. She shut the windows halfway against the coming night’s chill. In the doorway she watched the chintz curtain’s lively flutter, watched the thin quilt’s quaking rise and fall.

She prepared for the evening. She made herself dinner of macaroni and cheese, washed the dishes, setting them to dry in the wooden rack. She did her homework at the dinette table, putting the flower vase in it proper place when she had finished. Toward sunset she laid out her clothes for school, scooped up a blanket from the sofa, and went outside, careful not to slam the screen door.

She unfolded a lawn chair and hugged the blanket close The wait would be long. The sycamore leaves were trimmed in yellow, swaying in the cool breath of approaching autumn. To the north, stars presented themselves in purple velvet twilight. Sarah stared at them, only a little afraid now. They always came from the north. In her mind she pictured her friends floating down from the sky, bringing miracles and hope with them. They would come. They had to.

The Weave Of Esteem

2007-09-29T15:34:00.000-07:00

The Weave of Esteem

Meeting the boss every Tuesday was like lying on a blanket infested with fleas. Richard sat in an uncomfortable trendy chair. Across the desk Drew scrabbled on a tablet with a gold pen. The computer screen beside him glowed, awaiting use. It would glow and wait all day, because the boss had a secretary. Richard waited, patience wrestling with the desire to be elsewhere. After a few minutes, the boss folded his hands on the exotic wood, showing the sleeves of his tailored and pressed shirt. Silver cufflinks winked in a shaft of sunlight.

“I don’t have anything this week. Whatcha got?”

“I called the Temecula office. No one in town will extend credit to Wagner Promotions.”

“Yeah, I heard about that. The manager there was pretty pissed at you. He said the client was insulted by your phone message.” Richard stared, determined not to show any trace of insecurity.

“I decided based solely on the facts. I already said no to the account executive and the sales rep. Wagner still wouldn’t accept it, so I explained my reasons.”

“A sales guy like me and the rep would have handled it different. But that’s how you accounting guys are, and you do it well. I support your decision. I’ll handle damage control. What else?” Humility burned Richard’s skin. Drew’s monogrammed collar burned his sight.

“I thought about your advice over the weekend. I don’t like the way Bill treated me, but I don’t want to damage our relationship. I’ll let it go.”

“You might have screwed up on that one. You could have called him on it. But I support your decision. Anything else?”

“No.” The meeting was over.

“Wait.” Drew tossed a pale blue rectangle. Richard caught it, recognized a finely woven dress shirt, company logo embroidered over the breast pocket.

“That should look better with your tie.” Richard thanked his boss and withdrew.

The evening commute was punctuated by an accident, a construction zone, and aggravation. The feeling didn’t diminish when he arrived at the rental he called home since he moved into town. He undressed, news mumbling on the television and dinner sissing in the microwave.

He stared in the mirror. It was a nice tie, colorful yet understated. The haircut was decent, if inexpensive. The shirt had a coarse weave, but it kept him warm under the air conditioning vent in his office. A bare light bulb glared, highlighted his efforts as cheap imitations. He unbundled Drew’s gift and put it on.

The tie did look better. Everything about him looked better. He removed the shirt, trying to reconcile worth with shame. The top button popped, bounced off the mirror, and hit him in the eye. Anger filled his arms, ripping the shirt from his chest. In seconds the offense lay in shreds at his feet.

Questions would come, but Richard would never explain. His shirts might come from JC Penney, but he was still the best damned accountant Drew would ever see.

Kingfisher The Schmuck

2007-09-28T14:55:00.000-07:00

There's no two ways about it. Firing someone sucks. Even if they deserve it. Whether or not they grasp the fact that performance, or lack of, is their fault, you will always be "the schmuck who fired me." But beyond that, for a moment, you have control over a part of someone's life, and you are responsible for pulling the rug from under them. I always feel rotten for hours after doing it.

Time for a beer. And a Cazadores. And a Jamesons. And a Goldschlager. And a wuttuvyagot, bartender.

I'll forget for a while, but I will still feel rotten tomorrow for something that isn't my fault.

Kingfisher The Awesome

2007-09-22T12:51:00.000-07:00

My brother and I talked last night over beer, Jameson's, and trivia games about the states of our respective lives. We came to the conclusion, as evidenced by recent posts, that we are in the middle of a high douchebag tide. The moon's pull seems to have collected all manner of boors and idiots, various and sundry irritants, and piled them against us like so much driftwood. So it's no wonder I have been in a FOUL mood lately.

Then comes this post on Berate My Blog, which proves how totally freaking awesome I am. It makes me want to slap myself, say "get over it!" and take up the e-pen more often.

Sometimes the universe does love you (even if you do have neuroses.)

I feel so much better.

Big Thanks to Unica and Fiona, two ladies of exceptional taste, brilliant insight, and refined beauty.

The Score of Revenge

2007-09-21T08:20:00.000-07:00

Kingfisher 3
Backstabbers 0

3 down, 3 to go
Will definitely lose one

Final record: Kingfisher 5-1, 83%

Bet on me at the Sportsbook

Douchance

2007-09-18T21:12:00.000-07:00

Sounds enticing, doesn't it? Like bon jour or bonne chance or Champs Elysees. Sorry. Nothing that exotic. It's Kingfisher shorthand for the chance you are a douche. To wit, the following douche/chance ratios:

Your name is Toby - 2%
Your name is Keith - 2%
Your name is Toby Keith - 98%

Wrestling fan - 67%
NASCAR fan - 87%
Raiders fan - 97%

Favorite movie is anime - 24%
Favorite movie directed by Quentin Tarantino - 64%
Favorite movie stars Chris Tucker - 84%

Jewish - 49%
Christian - 50%
Muslim - 51%

You live on the West Bank - 10%
You distrust banks - 12%
You are Tyra Banks - 92%

Hetero - 80%
Gay - 80%
Celebate - 81%

Chocoholic - 5%
Alcoholic - 79%
Workaholic - 94%

Dog lover - 11%
Cat lover - 21%
Goat lover - 95%

Bilingual - 5%
Bisexual - 69%
Bipolar - 0% or 100%

Goth - 99.7%
Emo - 99.8%
Performance artist - 99.9%

You have a blog - 64%
You post daily on your blog because you think people really care - 65%
You rate people with douchance on your blog - 101%

DO NOT Fuck With The Nice Guy

2007-08-31T15:58:00.000-07:00

"They smile in your face

All the time they want to take your place

The back stabbers"

You have no idea what what personal Pandora's box you have opened.

Your life is about to resemble a piece of hell.

I will stare you right in the face as I unleash misery upon you.

God help me refrain from using my most lethal weapons.

But most of all, God help you, you unworthy coward.

The Meaning Of Life

2007-08-26T14:52:00.000-07:00

- or -

The Myth of Individual Importance

The first law of thermodynamics states that energy cannot be created nor destroyed, but it can change forms.

You are not important. This is the harshest reality, the most difficult to accept, and the reason God was invented.

Existence is all that matters. No philosophy of good versus evil , no definition of being can change that. We are important because we believe ourselves to be. To believe otherwise is antithetical to the progression of our generation, the acceptance that something other is worthy to replace us. We must believe the ineffectual scrabbling of our lives has some value, otherwise there is nothing to promise our progeny, nothing to to help us carve out our territory against the unending armies of other life forms, known or unforeseen, that seek to overwhelm us with their own insatiable claim of supremacy.

To paraphrase Carl Sagan, there are those who ask where the universe came from. There are those who reply the universe came from God. Where did God come from? God always was. Why not save a step and say the Universe always was? I interpret this to mean: Why must existence hinge on something we can identify? Why must we understand everything? Can we not use our intelligence to say some things are beyond the grasp of that intelligence? Is it not hubris and conceit and defeat to demand otherwise?

Is it so horribly inconceivable to be unimportant? Is it not beautiful and natural to be a link in the Universe's undefined, unyielding, and unfathomable chain? Can we not accept that all things, from individuals to species to stars, die? Can we not accept that those deaths are transformations separate from our miniscule beliefs and attempts to assign meaning?

I return to the physical "law" described at the start. Just as with the death of a tree in the forest, our world and our sun will fall to nourish that which comes after. In this way we are immortal. We have no say in what we may bring about. We are unimportant, but that does not detract from the grandeur of continuance, of our place in it. This is the acknowledgment of things greater than ourselves. It is our evolution. It is our salvation.

After his death Carl Sagan's widow, Ann Druyan, was asked: "Didn't (he) want to believe?" She responded, "He didn't want to believe. He wanted to know." *

What benevolent deity would deny us knowledge? It is like a dessert promised after a meal we can't eat. Why would s/he impart that knowledge only after we are dead? Wouldn't that knowledge be best put to use while we are alive? If the answer is "Yes," than God, whatever you perceive it to be, is be a cruel and sadistic taskmaster. If we cannot believe the latter, then the former must also be disbelieved. This is the atheist's denial of the existence of God. It is not disbelief, it is acknowledgement of the fundamental workings of the universe independent of belief.

What comes after? What will happen tomorrow? How long will we be remembered? It does not matter. We cannot control the answers to these questions, so the weaker of us devise scenarios that please them, that placate the deep but distasteful knowledge that we will be forgotten.

The meaning of life is simply this: There is no meaning. We are infinitely unimportant. Everything just is.

Everything, of which we are part, exists and continues.

* Some will question my references to Carl Sagan. What makes my respect for his thoughts different from Biblical quotes? Each of us finds truth expressed in another great thinker's words. One invites acceptance, rejection, or revision. The other demands adherence or refutation of any other claim as false or suspect. Which is more reasonable?

9.0807b *

2007-08-24T13:49:00.000-07:00

9 Places With An Attitude

That No One Gives A Crap About

If They Are Not From There

And That's Why They Have An Attitude

To Try And Prove Otherwise

So The Rest Of Us Continue To Despise Them

And That's Why They Have An Attitude

9. Sicily

8. Pick a NYC burrough

7. Hong Kong

6. Israel

5. New Jersey

4. Florida

3. Quebec

2. France

1. Texas

The Flip Side 9:

No One Not From There Has Anything Bad To Say About You

9. Costa Rica

8. Hawaii

7. Kenya

6. Bermuda

5. Alaska

4. Sweden

3. Australia

2. Iceland

1. Antarctica

* Has anyone else noticed how many place-names start and/or end with "a?"

9.0807a

2007-08-19T13:49:00.000-07:00

9 Unpopular Sports Truths

Part I…Dumbass Pseudo-Sport Crap Competitions
- 9. Synchronized swimming
- 8. Motocross
- 7. Figure skating
- 6. NASCAR
- 5. Kickboxing
- 4. Arm wrestling
- 3. Skateboarding
- 2. Cheerleading
- 1. Xtreme anything

Part II…Mildly Entertaining But Really zzzzz Or meh
- 9. Curling
- 8. Billiards
- 7. Televised fishing
- 6. Strong Man competitions
- 5. Golf
- 4. Basketball
- 3. Hockey
- 2. Bowling
- 1. Arena football

Part III…Sports Deserving More Recognition
- 9. Lumberjack competitions
- 8. Horse racing
- 7. Australian Rules Football
- 6. Track and field
- 5. Iditarod
- 4. Archery
- 3. Diving
- 2. Women’s fast-pitch softball
- 1. Sumo

The Pull Forward

2007-08-14T16:18:00.000-07:00

On the first night without her the moon was hidden. It slipped into the darkness that covers us all. It showed itself later, swollen and dull, ignoring the laments of the world below. Last night it was a hungry crescent, a weak promise of return. The changing moods of the moon remind me of what I do not want to believe. Ruthie is dead.

My sadness refuses to fade despite the daily care and kindness of visitors. My friend Samuel, anticipating simple things I didn’t know myself, bought me new shoes. He took me for walks over fields, beside the stream, under the comforting canopy of the apple orchard, saying nothing, requiring nothing in return. Other friends brought me chocolates, trying to lure my thoughts away from myself and the grief that threatened to swallow me. I accepted their gifts without grace, gratitude overwhelmed by a sense of loss.

This morning, as Ruthie used to do, I stand by the fence to watch the day unfold. Beyond are the scents of new mown hay, the flicker of bluebird wings, and the clanking cow bells of my farm. Samuel pokes me in the ribs. It startles me with its rudeness. I want to kick him, but he is insistent. Wallowing is over, he seems to say. Work awaits.

We hitch up the wagon and begin our familiar route. At the green house we deliver two quarts of milk. We deliver a half-pound of butter at the blue house. The brown house wants nothing. The grey house is the liveliest one on the street, its sagging porch filled with the laughter of boys. It needs four gallons of milk, two dozen eggs, a pint of cream, a pound of butter, and a gallon of ice cream.

“Hi, George!” Alex hollers out to me. He throws a ball to Samuel, with the obvious expectation of it not being returned. I have never seen Alex without a ball in his hand. He is always in motion, always shouting or laughing. My world has changed, but his has not. I nod my head in his direction.

Alex runs to me and pats my shoulder, then runs across the street, falling into a tumble of other boys on the lawn. Tonight they will sleep the exhaustion of innocence spent under a summer sun. Tonight the deliveries of Samuel and I will fuel the escapades of their tomorrow. Tonight the moon, reveling in the sweetness of caprice and new mown hay, will shine bright with promise. Ruthie is gone, but my work is here. It will fill the empty spaces between questions until answers can be found.

I set my hooves to the street and pull the wagon forward.

9.0807

2007-08-05T14:33:00.000-07:00

9 Favorite Advertising Friends

9. Michelin Man

8. Mrs. Butterworth

7. Elmer the Bull

6. Jolly Green Giant

5. Bazooka Joe

4. Kool Aid Man

3. Bob's Big Boy

2. Mr. Peanut

1. Tony the Tiger

Shutting Down

2007-07-29T13:00:00.000-07:00

-blink-

A grid flashes across his vision.

-blink-

The afterimage lingers like the ghost of an executioner. It fades from sight, replaced by the teasing blue sun sparkles of Hanauma Bay.

“Honey? Are you okay?” He shakes his head, aware now that the blip in his sensory perception had affected his hearing as well. He turns to her and pats her hand.

“Yes. Just a little pause in the implant. Nothing to worry about.” He smiles. She smiles back, shining brighter than the Hawaiian sea. She reaches across the arm of his beach chair and kisses him.

“Go slow. The doctor said not to push yourself.” She smells of salt, coconut oil, perspiration, and the singular scent of a woman who has agreed to be his for a quarter of a century. She pushes his hair back with a small hand. The butterfly sweetness of the touch arouses a primal feeling of possession, wonder, and contentment.

“Really. It is nothing. Shall we go snorkeling?” he says. Before he can stand, she grabs his mask with an impish grin and runs to the gentle surf. Puffs of sand play tag in her wake in apparent delight of her beauty. With a chuckling sigh, he picks up her mask and follows.

Despite the tropical warmth, the water stings. It infuses him with its vigor, charging his very bones with life and desire. Donning the snorkeling gear, he plunges headlong into the life and death world of the reef. It doesn’t take long before he is surrounded by swirling, glinting clouds of fish, grey and purple and yellow and blue. Next to him she floats like a mermaid. He reaches for her hand, feels the laugh of the young girl he knew vibrating in her fingertips.

-blink-

The fish dissolve into a mass of nonsensical shapes.

-blink-

She becomes a blur of conflicting colors.

-blink-

The grid appears again. In its unnatural regularity he sees a mocking smile, hears an empty laugh, feels an icy uncaring of all ending.

It is as the physicians had warned. Despite all the knowledge, all the skill, and all the miracles, chance would play its final card. The languishing disease would win, slowly at first, but with inexorable stealth. The technological marvel of the implant that promised to keep his brain connected to the rest of him would fail. In bytes and pieces he would lapse into a mind trapped in an unresponsive shell.

-blink-

He treads water. She holds his hands, pulls him close, and throws her face to the sky, giggling and precious.

He blinks, capturing a picture he will hold, and hold, and hold tighter, and never let go.

Score Bored

2007-07-28T15:54:00.000-07:00

Challenge courtesy of Wordsmiths Unlimited.

No portion of this work may be copied, retransmitted, reposted, duplicated,

or otherwise used without the express written approval of the author.

Score Bored

“God damn it!” Eddie had cursed both the offending scoreboard and me in the same breath. “This is the second time! San Antonio is in town again. I’ll never live it down. Fix the fucking thing or find a new job!”

I stand at the pitcher’s mound. Looming over center field is a $100,000 hunk of technology that refuses to work. No numbers, no letters, no nothing, just a matrix of squares flashing multicolored jibberish. Every random twinkle is a dart in my confidence, a refutation of my assurances that Boulder Field is now part of the twenty-first century. Eddie, the owner of our minor league Mountaineers, is furious. I can’t blame him.

Beside me Gus the groundskeeper spits. His expectoration describes a glistening arc under the late spring sun, ending with a muffled splat on the grass near first base. “It was better when we turned the score tiles by hand,” he says.

“Maybe,” I say. “But Eddie will have my head if I don’t fix this before the Generals game.” Gus spits again.

“Screw the Generals. Nuthin’ good ever came outta San Antonio. Eddie can suck my balls.” Gus folds his thin creaking frame behind the wheel of his handyman’s golf cart. The wheels leave barely perceptible tracks in the diamond’s clay. Tools clatter in the handmade wooden totes.

I have checked every wire and every bulb. I have discussed problems of timing, compatibility, and reliability with our vendors. I have made lists of connections and fuses and transformers. I run them all through my mind. I must have missed something, but standing in the middle of Boulder Field brings no answers.

I hike the stairs to my office. The bunker-like quality of concrete and overhead conduits always makes me smile. The fans know the grand green view and hot dog smells of the stands. They would never guess the bland and boring everydayness of operations. It is part of my job to perpetuate that illusion.

In my office I check the scoreboard software for the hundredth time and find nothing again. After two hours of pondering, my stomach reminds me it is time to eat. I munch a bland sandwich in the employee lounge. It is located high above third plate, affording a view of the entire stadium. I watch the sprinklers make their familiar chk-chk-chk sound as they water the outfield. The answer hits me like a bump to the funny bone, both painful and obvious, and I laugh out loud.

I will talk to Gus, the old cuss, and tell him I know about his irrigation patterns. I will talk to Eddie, the owner, and describe the solution. Gus will keep his job, Eddie will keep his pride, and I will keep my reputation. We will all win.

Go Mountaineers!

Bzzzzzzzzzt

2007-07-12T16:15:00.000-07:00

I heard the familiar alien sound yesterday for the first time this year.

There are hundreds of species of cicada. I don't know one from another. I do know they are big noisy bugs, scary to some, beautiful to others, loud in their proclamations of six-legged love. I am fascinated by them, not only because they are delicate and strong, but because they are an annual miracle. They are a reminder of the world's incomparable wonder and delight, if one uses the gift to see glory in small things.

I have often wondered why life is so prevalent, so tenacious, on this little ball of mud we call home. I believe the question answers itself; life is prevalent because it is tenacious. However life came about, a conundrum I will not debate here, it is everywhere because those aggressive in their perpetuation have dominated those lackadaisical in their amorous pursuits. In other words, it is not dog eat dog. It is breed or disappear.

Nature doesn't care about the individual, only its ability to contribute to its species. Many species risk predatory attention and death in their reproductive displays, all to prove skill and persistence in the continuation of their kind. The bird's feathers, the frog's voice, the deer's antlers, the signal scents, the obvious calls, the gaudy floral excesses all blare two messages: 1) I can do this and still survive so I am worthy of your time and energy, and 2) Time for sex!

Some cicadas, as I understand it, spend seventeen years underground until they become adults. That's a long time. What do they do? Sit and turn and pupate and whatever cicada kids do. Meanwhile we humans, for our first seventeen years, create aggravation and confusion and waste.

On this day in July, when cloud barges navigate the currents of an impossibly blue sky, when desert rains announce their maybe arrival with ancient aromatic resin smells, when the temperature hovers between one-hundred-and-hot and unbearable, on this one day perfect for creatures more adapted than we, the male cicada emerges from his dirt nest, climbs the gnarled arthtritic branches of a mesquite tree dangling its succulent seed pods, and screams his lust.

Go horny little cicada! Bzzzzzzzzzt for the mate you so desperately need, giving the insectoid middle finger to your enemies, and proclaim your desire and ability to procreate, fulfilling the millions-year premise and promise of your forebears. Remind us of these most important lessons, these realities, these truths, that we may share them with our children and our fellows, thereby increasing the chances for our kind.

N Word Redux

2007-06-27T20:14:00.000-07:00

I wanted to comment on a dear friend's blog about his/her use of the word "tard." I realized it wasn't my place to clutter his/her space with my inflammatory opinion, so I'll do it here. If you haven't read my pissed offedness at PC censoring, go here.

To the offended commentor: Who are you to cast aspersions on someone else's words? By your own admission "mentally retarded" is okay, but "tard" is not. Fuck you. You are playing with semantics in an effort to erase something that is offensive to YOU. Thicken your skin a little, for whining out loud, and stop the hypocrisy.

I take Prozac. I freely admit it, although the admission elicits negative presumptions in many quarters. Unlike retards, cripples, PMSers, or fags, my perceived affliction/impairment/abnormality is fair game. You can call me nuts, fruitcake, whackjob, whatever you want. Why? Because I know the truth. I spread that truth by living my life and ignoring John Q. Retard, and by not jamming my my sensibilities down somone's throat.

I don't know the relationship between the parties in question. To me it doesn't matter. I saw past the perceived insult to the story and joke within the experience retold. Anyone who reads my friend's blog with any regularity knows his/her innate goodness and gentleness. He/She can use whatever words he/she wants to make a point. If it offends me, I don't deserve to read it.

You, my blog friend, showed the caring sweetness that is your soul by apologizing, but it was wholly unnecessary.

You, the offended commentor, are a miltant do-gooder pussy. Just to be fair, I visited your blog. I found it trite, syrupy, and mildly offensive to some of MY sensibilities. But it's YOUR space and YOUR words. I would not dare leave my comment advocating my opinions to the contrary, because whatever you espouse is important to you.

Give the rest of us the same courtesy.

I gotcher insult right here.

Trust Kingfisher

2007-06-25T19:17:00.000-07:00

Never trust:
- a man with a handlebar mustache
- a confused card dealer
- a person who never wears anything other than black
- a young person ordering Jager Bombs
- a barfly with implants

- a male over 12 wearing his baseball cap backwards
- a financially successful pastor

- a cocky cop
- a handsome college professsor
- the person everyone else says is really smart

- a woman who won't tell you her age
- a businessman with a giant cowboy hat
- that jerk with a high clearance 4WD truck, doors 3 feet off the ground, but no mud stains

- a chick with a pierced eyebrow

- anyone with more than 4 tattooes
- that S.O.B. you just don't trust for no specific reason, especially if he has a big truck, 5 tattooes, a backwards baseball cap, a handlebar mustache, and drinks Jager Bombs

Sometimes trust:
- your gut
- your mother
- your dog
- a child's answer
- Grandpa's advice
- your barber
- the bartender

- your enemy
- probability
- a stripper

Always trust:
-
-
-

9 Reincarnated

2007-06-23T15:56:00.000-07:00

It used to be called The Nine. Yahoo and others stole my idea, but they got law talkin' guys, I don't.

I like the number 9. Why?

- 10 is so 1990's Letterman.
- 3 is a lucky number. 3 x 3 = 9. Triple lucky.
- 9 is the first odd non-prime.
- I grew up in a family of 6. 6 upside down is 9.
- 9 / 3 = 3. I am first born. 3 + 1 = 4. 4 petals on the California poppy. The California poppy is orange. Orange is my favorite color.
- Three nines downside up is 666, the sign of my Master.
- There are 5 people in my household. I am the oldest of 4 brothers. 5 + 4 = 9.
- Okay, it's all bullshit. I like 9. No reason. Bite me.

Therefore, I present the reincarnation of my favorite number.

9 Bad Things About Me

9. I am not sure that protecting the mentally, physically, or socially impaired is in the best interest of our species.

8. I wish there was a monthly mandatory All Women Go Topless day.

7. Driver's license. Business license. Medical license. Where is the Parenting license?

6. I judge people by a combination of their courtesy, affability, ethnicity, and command of the English language.

5. I'd rather talk my way out of a fight. But push me too far, and I am capable of teaching you the meaning of "seeing red." I have no reservations about wounding, maiming, or killing, including myself, when my rage is unduly provoked.

4. I say I don't care, but I really do.

3. I have had the hots for female cartoon characters. See: Jessica Rabbit and the e-surance chick.

2. I can hold a grudge for a loooooooooooooooooooooooong time.

1. If a weapon existed that would erase humans, and any trace of their existence, without harming anything else, I would use it. Without thought. Without hesitation.

Obligatory tags: my Favorite Fishing Holes at the left.

You may not change the subject, for 9 is sacred. Or profane. I'm not sure which.

The Answers None Of Us Have

2007-06-19T21:50:00.000-07:00

I went to a funeral today.

My new (seven months) job has placed me smack in the middle of a business family, some with very tight relationships going back 15 years or so. My skills, personality, and outsider status have, so far, proven to be a catalyst for change this company needs. I am respected, I think, despite my "new" ideas, unintended faux pas, and have become an accepted member of this culture. When a long-time employee and respected sales person's spouse died a rather untimely, but not unexpected, death from cancer, the passionate and compassionate circle that is my workplace surrounded the widow. I have not made friends with, nor do I care for, the surviving employee in question. I do not know, have never met, her late husband.

I am, according to our social chieftan and progressive boss, a member of an elite managerial team, the missing leg of a table that has been heretofore unstable. Therefore, despite my begrudged respect in some quarters, I was expected to attend one of the most important and sacred events of someone's life, and by extension, his family, in-laws, and others with whom I am not worthy to participate. To not attend the service would be political suicide.

It was an ignoble endeavor on my part, in what should be a man's most noble day.

I am ashamed.

I drove, alone, to the service. I stood in the long line of friends, family, coworkers, and other well wishers. All of them knew the deceased, or the persons "he is survived by." The congregation was composed of so many, from so many parts of the world he so obviously loved. His grieving widow. His proud younger brother. His in-laws. Step relatives. Black friends. Hispanic friends. Jewish friends. Gay and lesbian friends. Workaday folks dressed in dirty construction uniforms, taking a rare unpaid half day to show their respects. A young man in an ill-fitting suit. A pregnant woman days away from delivery. Like Joseph's coat, the congregation was a beautiful mishmash of everything under God's benevolent gaze.

Except for me. I listened to the simple hymns, simple so that everyone could participate, but I did not know the melodies. I longed to recite the simple prayers, simple so that everyone could participate, but I did not know the words. I stumbled through the congregation's responses to the priest, murmured The Lord's Prayer, the only one I knew by heart. But I did not belong, did not know the Communion of Faith.

Throughout the Catholic funeral mass and Eucharist I did not fully understand, I was the outsider. As an atheist, I could not comprehend the community, the surety, the comfort of faith. I wondered why they believed. I wondered why it was important. I wondered why we fight over it. I marvelled; I cried. I saw comfort in the sharing of belief, of solace in knowing a truth I don't understand. I am ignorant, jealous, unworthy. I am a sinner, if there is such a thing.

I have no answers. I ask for none, for none will suffice. I know only that I am somehow adrift, pondering eternal problems for which my belief, or lack thereof, has no solution. My belief, my understanding, my spririt, are unshaken, yet I find no solace. And I ask and ask and ask and ask, forgetting that is not about me, but about a man I don't know, who has left this world sure in his belief.

I went to a funeral today, and I am ashamed.

Pruning

2007-06-17T14:14:00.000-07:00

Over the Memorial Day weekend, the family and I did some late spring cleaning. My wife and daughter worked on cleaning the garage. My younger son and his friend worked on raking up unwanted gravel, weeds, and lumber from the side yard. I worked on pruning two overgrown trees in the front yard. During our respective assignments we sometimes met at the huge dumpster we rented for the occasion, grousing about our chores, or helping one another, or joining together for a ten minute break of cool water and air conditioning.

At the end of the day we were sore, overheated, tired, slightly scratched and bruised. We spent the evening with hot showers, grilled burgers, video games, television, and lounging with iced soft drinks. My daughter, my son, and his friend were well compensated for their efforts, but the true reward was hard work, discipline, and the sharing of jobs well done with family in our home under our big desert sky. It was the wrong time of year for pruning, but mesquites are hardy and defiant trees. In the weeks since, the open crowns reach upward with renewed vigor, the gardens below bounce toward new sunshine.

No matter the time of year, it is always good to cut away unproductive growth. It makes us hardy and defiant, especially if those who share our lives also share in discarding dead wood.

The Return

2007-06-13T18:57:00.000-07:00

Wordsmiths Unlimited is back. Please visit and contribute. You never know what wonderful thing might jump out of your head until you try. Our first assignment isn't due until June 30, but I just had to get this one out of the way so I can concentrate on my next piece(s).

I found this one quite difficult. I don't like the result, although I would like to explore the theme further at some point. (I tried and rejected half a dozen titles. When I was finished I realized that "The Return" could also apply to Wordsmiths. Weird.) After too much tinkering it's best to put it down. Time either brings new ideas, or allows you to put it down in the veterinary sense.

The Return

“Look, Mom! They’re hatching!” Manuel tugged at her grip.

“Hush, Manny. Stay close. Don’t interfere.”

“Why?”

“Remember what Abuelo says. We can’t help.”

Teresa looked down at the eager little boy clutching her hand, so much like Abuelo, her father. Both of them had the same childlike joy of wild places and wild creatures. She was between the two of them, taught by the elder, teaching the younger.

In her own youth, she had begged Papa to take her on his scheduled excursions to monitor the sea turtles. On successive nights they would sit in silence under a gravid yellow moon as female turtles emerged from the surf. They watched the clumsy mothers heave their tired bodies beyond the tide line. Limbs used for swimming were employed in moving sand against unfamiliar gravity. With grunts and eyes dull from arduous labor the females deposited eggs in shallow pits and gently covered them, their maternal duty done. Papa told her that in the ocean they were friendly and graceful. She tried to imagine them under water, free and happy, as she watched them lumber back to the sea.

“Look, Teresa.” Papa whispered. “Look carefully. This is where the beach of the turtles meets the land of our people. We are their brothers and sisters.” Papa said many others had worked hard to make Playa de las Tortugas a refuge, a place where hotels and nightclubs were forbidden. Because of him, she and everyone who visited could witness the return of the sea turtles answering their ancestral call.

In the days following she felt she would burst from waiting. She pestered Papa with questions of how and when. She would ask “Today?” and he would reply “Perhaps.” Weeks after the nesting, on a summer day of wide skies and glistening sands, she and Papa ambled beneath the tropical sun. Waves had long since erased the zig-zag trails of the nesting mothers. Teresa squeezed Papa’s hand, full of wonder and anticipation.

“Are they going to hatch?” she asked Papa.

“Si. Stay still. Let them be.”

Teresa obeyed. By dozens, then hundreds, turtle hatchlings tottered toward the ocean. She watched one wriggle from the sand and pause blinking against the new sun. After a brief rest it wobbled with alternating sweeps of its flippers toward the surf. Before it could reach home, a gull snatched it from the sand and swallowed it whole. The bird’s meal was quick and without mercy.

“Papa!”

“No, pequeña. It is the way of things.” Horrified, Teresa cried and hated her father.

Now, looking out on the brilliant deep blue, she thought of Papa’s gentle hand. She held Manny’s tiny fingers. A piece of her son was about to be lost to her, a piece of her lost to him. Abuelo would take possession of both.

“Go, little turtles!” Manuel squealed. She hoped he would not hate her for too long. She hoped he would return, like the turtles, to Playa de las Tortugas.

Put Up Or Shut Up

2007-06-09T15:19:00.000-07:00

Stick to your guns, even if you are wrong. Apologize if necessary, learn from your mistake, and make amends, but never say you are sorry for being what you are. Be maligned, ridiculed, questioned, but live with passion and you will never be ignored. Say it. Mean it. Fuck it. Hate yourself later.

I have seen a steady decline in my written ouput, with a corresponding decrease in visitors and my creative self esteem. I didn't know what it was. Possibly it was due to a number of factors. But I do know that without passion all is naught.

Then, thanks to my friend Tiff, I realized that a workout regimen doesn't work out without a partner. You won't commit to it unless you feel you are letting someone down, or you need to do better than them, or they are kicking your lazy ass off the couch.

Hence, the relaunch of Wordsmiths Unlimited. Go there. Now.

It is scary to expose your spirit, or air your thoughts, or expose something you think. Contentment is sometimes stagnant. Opinion is sometimes blind. To DARE is, I will argue, the only state worth living. Life is not a trivial exercise. Played right, the minutiae of it can be a lesson and an affirmation. It will be good for me. It could be good for you.

Forward and onward, armed with intellect, fear, and a cautious disregard for the unknown.

Join me. Go there. Now.

Refuse to shut up.

Battle

2007-06-02T12:59:00.000-07:00

Stress and I are old enemies. We have engaged each other in battles uncounted.

My enemy wears many faces. At times it is the face of a family member, other times it is the face of a coworker, many times it is the unrecognized face of the unkown. More often than not it is the familiar face that stares back at me while I am shaving.

In every battle I have been victorious: smug, raging, defiant. In every battle my enemy vows revenge.

It is inevitable that my enemy will win the endless war we wage.

Just not today.

The Dread Pirate Kingfisher

2007-06-01T08:29:00.000-07:00

Sometimes a Captain sails his loyal crew into dangerous desert waters
during a squall with 1' waves, icebergs the size of ice cubes,
20 mph winds, 65° weather, vampire ducks, and cheap beer.

Don't we look happy in our safety vests/straight jackets?

From left to right these soaked bilge rats are Captain Kingfisher,
Deckhand Princefisher I, First Mate Queenfisher,
and hapless pleasure cruise passenger Grand Queenfisher.

Valley Of The Saints

2007-05-27T17:43:00.000-07:00

Chapter 1:

PLACE

The name came from somewhere, but no one knows its origin with any precision. Legend has it the name was lifted from obscure Spanish literature, the name of a queen ruling a beautiful place. Whatever the truth, the name of the place breathes myth, dream, illusion, hope, fantasy; all of them false, all of them true. The place defies description.

The place is California.

In geography it is a active tectonic region of the North American Pacific coast. In ecology it is a region of diverse biomes: forest, grassland, alpine, glacial, riparian, estuarine, desert. In history it is a colony of Spain, a destination of pioneers, the globe’s headline of gold discovery, an engine of civil war, the birthplace of mass entertainment and accessible technology. In art it is the inspiration of John Muir, Ansel Adams, and The Doors. In sociology it is the experiment of immigration, of civil engineering, of ideas conservative and liberal. In culture it has been alternately exalted, vilified, questioned, desired, ignored.

These descriptions are incomplete. The place is a debate of contradictions, a garden of errors, a library of miscalculation. California refuses all interpretations. California exists on its own terms, an incomparably beautiful and frustrating meld of many states of being.

One state of California is Dreams Come True. Throughout the world Hollywood is the epitome of success, charisma, and power. From orange groves to MGM Studios to Disneyland, it is what we all wish we could be. But we must know it is a cheat, ignoring its past and peddling a brightness of the future few of us will ever experience. This is southern California's contribution: the reach toward something better.

A second state of California is Search’s End. America is predicated on the ideal of hard work, ability, and opportunity. In the days before automated transportation, California was the end. Start in Pennsylvania, then work hard to St. Louis, then keep going. If Kansas is filled up, go through Indian Territory. Cross the unfriendly expanses, the bleak deserts, the last unknowns. There is a Great Valley at the end, a farm and ranch paradise for those who endure hardship. This is central California's contribution: work hard and it will come.

A third state of California is Find Your Fortune. Gold! Nothing grabs human greed like stories of treasure waiting for someone to pick it up. Russian, Chinese, Irish, Yankee, Johnny Reb, rich, poor, illiterate, we all have an equal chance. This is mountain California's contribution: take chances, but beware the consequences.

A fourth state of California is Austerity. Bare rock. Borax. Minimal silver. Twenty mule teams. Heat. Heat. Shimmering waves of heat. Drought. More heat. An experience overlooked. This is desert California's contribution: disregard importance. Do what you do. When you are done, stop.

A fifth state of California is Take It Or Leave It. You are free to be anything and everything you want to be. You are free to express your self in any way you choose: flambouyant and humanitarian, selfish and dull, avant garde and unorthodox, opinionated, accepting, apathetic, anything at all, no matter what others may think. Come here and be free! This is coastal California’s contribution: Live how you will, find kindred spirits, but know you may not be accepted elsewhere.

A sixth state of California is Be Quiet and See. From towering redwood groves to endless slopes of ponderosa pine, from the rumbling power of a coastal storm to the placid silence of a mountain lake, from a massive whale's migration to a tiny pika's hibernation, from lands of steam, fumeroles, and temblors to the lands of rock, snow, and ice; all of this, all the unbelievable grandeur of it, is yours for the experiencing. You just need to slow down and see with more than your senses. Respect it, and it will heal you. This is Northern California's contribution: life is not a race, live quietly and in harmony with nature, there is so much that is so much greater than yourself.

There are a hundred or so other states of California, but the underlying asset of them all is Abundance. Timber, salmon, land. Literature, engineering, politics. Grazing, drilling, damming. Soil, water, pelts. No matter how one perceives it, there is no denying that California is an exceptionally generous example of Mother Earth’s fertility. Fruits, grains, dairy, eggs, vegetables: all have been shipped throughout the world from California’s farms, orchards, and ranches great and famous, small and unknown.

There is a place, unrecognized among those hundred or so, sixty miles south of San Francisco at the muddy and fertile end of the famous bay. This place is lost in the renown of the crab pots, sourdough rounds, Chinatown, Gold Rush, and social excess of the Barbary Coast. This place has been named, in different decades, Silicon Valley and Valley of the Heart’s Delight. It has a history rich in Spanish colonialism, the literature of Jack London and John Steinbeck, neo-renaissance conservation, agriculture, and rolling hills of black trunked live oak, golden grass, red-tailed hawks, green mustard, and orange poppies.

It is The Valley of the Saints: Santa Clara and San Jose.

In this place I was born.

Pupfish Pirates Of The Mojave

2007-05-19T13:49:00.001-07:00

Welcome Aboard!

Nothing but fun ahead.

But what the heck is a pupfish?

It's a cute chubby fish, not flashy or spectacular, found in Mojave desert springs.

Most species are highly endangered.

Kingfisher loves fish. His family's new boat is slow, chubby, and cute. Climb aboard!

C dock.

We have the slip as long as we pay the rental fees.

General store? Check.

Fish cleaning station? Check.

Restrooms? Check.

Gas pumps? Check.

Cafe? Check.

Boat mechanic shop? Check.
Fun, either staying on the boat, or taking it out? Check, check. check.

Let's go!

Princefisher II watches Kingfisher apply registration numbers.

When do we leave???

Obey the orders of Captain Kingfisher!

First Mate Queenfisher takes over.

Brotherfisher revels in sun, waves, and relaxation.

Wheeeeeeeee!

Can you find the Princessfisher?

Ah, to be young and tired and growing and who cares!

Recipe for a perfect day:

Sandy cove.

Sandy wading.

Sandy underwear.

Sandy sandwiches.
Sandy sun.

Sandy daydreams.

Pupfish snuggles into one of 3,000 coves.

Kingfisher family ignores everything except the moment.

Driftwood in the desert?! Yup.

The greatest thing about ambling about in nature is you never know what you are going to find.

Princefisher II makes a discovery, and helps the local turkey vultures.

A perfect cove, a perfect day.

You are so jealous.

Subjected To Spam

2007-05-12T12:10:00.000-07:00

I know spammers use weird subject lines to smuggle their messages through filters, but do they really think I'm going to be interested in the non-sequitor result, or not see it as spam from 15 light years away? I must admit, though, I am sometimes intrigued. Here are a few random e-spams I received lately, and how I might respond.

No Name 584590627 X 650
Not only do you not have my name, but you got my social security number wrong. What’s with the binocular focal length?

We selling branded watches
Me ignoring sale try. But me report you to PETA for crueling watches.

With go acampo
No time for acamping. I am going aboating this weekend, though.

For Lighty
Sorry, don’t know who that is. But he sounds gay. BTW, if you remove the “or” you get “flighty.” Kind of like “by night.”

Go till lampasas
I can go till about 2 a.m., then I’m pooped. And kiss my lampasas.

A grimesland is chesnee
Yes. Yes he is.

re:Healthy life is your dream?
Re: Merrily, merrily, merrily.

ƒAƒiƒ^‚Éç‰À‚³‚ñ‚©‚çŠ®‘SFree‚Ì‘ål‚Ìµ‘Ò...
I don’t know what you want, but cussing at me ain’t gonna help.

Merry Christmas
And a Happy May Hannukah to you!

URGENT RESPONDS
Urgent responds to what?

Is which corriganville
I dunno. But Wrongwaytown is thataway --->

Drugs worldwide at low price
Thanks, but I really don’t want to travel that far for aspirin and prozac.

I branchville he novato
Me Tarzan, you Jane.

Five Questions

2007-04-28T15:08:00.000-07:00

I don't usually participate in chain-questionnaire-linky-meme junk, but I like Tiff (who doesn't?), and she asked for participants (a week ago.) That and my muse was recently run over on Route 66 somewhere near Kingman, AZ.

The idea is to answer 5 questions of your host's choosing, then answer them in a post, creating 5 different questions for anyone who begs "interview me" in the comments. Apologies in advance for boring prick that is Kingfisher. (Heh, heh. Bore. Prick. Heh, heh.) (And for all these stupid-ass parantheses.)

1) What does the acronym IKWYDLS mean to you?
Normal answer: I Know What You Did Last Summer.
My answer: Incredible Knockers! Would You Dare Lemme See?

2) If you could rule the world, who would be the first three people in line for the guillotine?
Al Sharpton, Ann Coulter, and the Raider Nation (there's only one brain among them, so it counts as one).

3) Marshmallows and fire - crispy or barely cooked?
A perfect puffy squat cylinder of melty sweetness, poised on the tip of a found campground stick, rotated slowly 6" away from orange embers with no flame, toasted to a coppery crust, a warm viscous mantle, and a cool-warm core, transported between two halves of cinnamon graham crackers, married to four broken squares of a Hershey chocolate bar, consumed after a meal of Vienna sausages or Dinty Moore beef stew, while seated on a log under a starry sky after a long day of hiking, light sunburn, sore muscles, laughter, and mosquito bites.

Wait...maybe that's sex.

4) Of these smells, which one appeals to you the most, and why? freshly cut grass, coffee, a pile of new 2 x 4s, or clean hair.
Although a pile of new 2x4's is a tempting option: Freshly cut grass. Because I was born in April under Aries the Ram. The smell of growing things makes me happy, peaceful, antsy, contemplative, curious, awed, pensive, scholarly, carefree, melancholy, hopeful, friendly, anticipatory, giddy, and horny. Spring fever is my favorite emotional state. Especially with coffee.

5) Kingfisher is going on vacation, but the airline loses his luggage. What's in his carry-on to tide him over until it can be found?
The following documents: airline tickets, hotel and rental car confirmations, and Mapquest printouts. Plus my laptop, a book or two, reading glasses, pen and paper, a deck of cards, and Prozac (keeps me from including the fingers of the luggage loser.)

If you care to continue this lunacy, type "interview me" in the comments just like I did. You pathetic attention whore loser.

Nigger

2007-04-21T16:33:00.000-07:00

There. I said it. And 99.9% of us, including me, are offended.

You know what? Fuck you.

"Looking back on when I
Was a little nappy headed boy..." Stevie Wonder

"Cant turn a ho into a housewife

Hos dont act right...Cmon, nigga why..." Ludacris

"That's some nappy headed hos there..." Don Imus

Don Imus is a jackass. And so are you.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

As sure as I live and breathe there is a supreme human right: The right of free speech, the right to express thought, the right to make our ideas heard, the right to be heretical, the right to listen to ideas and learn from or discard them, and THE OBLIGATION TO IGNORE ANY IDEA EXPRESSED.

You may be offended. You may agree. You may not care. But my words are MY WORDS. You have no right to censor me, no matter what I say.

I'm willing to bet all of us have a list of 100 words that offend us, or would rather not hear. Does that mean those words are patently offensive? Does that mean those words should not be used? Does that mean those words are heresy?

Nigger.

Is that word more offensive than faggot? or cunt? or kike? or cracker? or Satan? or Nazi? or asshole?

If you believe "Yes, there is a difference. 'Nigger' is an abomination of a word, a reminder of hundreds of years of degradation, dehumanization, evil!" You are correct. But it is still a legitimate word.

Does that mean "Christ Killer!" should not be used? After all, the history of Jewish subjugation out-performs African slavery by thousand of years. If you disagree, then you have imposed your indignation and elevated your perceived sense of wrongdoing above everyone else's experience. And that makes you as wrong as the words you rail against.

Words are powerful.

And that is the beauty and wonder and aggravation of human communication.

BUT THE WORD IS NOT THE THING.

Words are only as powerful as you allow them to be. The more you invest energy in decrying a word, the more power that word has.

Listen all you faggots, cunts, niggers, and motherfuckers: turn down the sensitivity knob, and grow the fuck up.

Jesus, Mohammed, Confucius, Galileo, Aristotle, Hitler, Shakespeare, Machiavelli, Rand, Dante, Falwell, Sharpton, YOU. They all said controversial and perhaps heinous things. But their WORDS made us THINK.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

The rest of us are waiting.

When you evolve, so will the HUMAN race.

Jenny

2007-04-03T19:52:00.000-07:00

He was a high school senior, alternating between vociferous and pensive, always memorable, always utterly annoying. After graduation, we all remembered him as the first flaming queer we ever knew at close quarters.

No one remembered Jenny. She had braces, thick glasses, anemic blonde hair, and was skinnier than a hard winter's coyote. As a freshman, she lived in the long surreal shadow cast by her flamboyant brother.

I was a lead in the band's brass section, a lead in the theatre group, a lead in the Honor Society. I was surrounded by likewise superior youths. We were aware of our priveleged position, but did not thrust it at others. We just knew we were the cream of the crop. The stoners hung out near auto shop. The gangers hung out in the parking lot. The other ne'er do wells hung out in their respective spots of choice. But we went everywhere. We were sometimes reviled, sometimes exalted, sometimes ignored, but we never stayed still, never feared to break barriers, never apologized for our talents, smarts, or abilities. We knew that high school was temporary, but character was forever. There were hangers-on in our elite circle of artistic intelligentsia. We accepted them all. Jenny was one.

I think she played clarinet, somewhere in the bottom third of a line of twenty or so. She was a good student, as I recall. I do have a clear picture of her huddled within her jacket, no matter the season, sitting at the end of the bench, or two seats ahead on the bus. She was quick to laugh at our jokes. She listened, attentive to our philosophical discussions. At parties, she agreed with our taste in music, movies, culture.

Somehow, I don't remember her brother's name. But I remember Jenny.

Years after high school, I saw her. She was making a business call at the television station where I worked. I was stunned.

Jenny was beautiful. Her teeth flashed a brilliant smile. Her face was intelligent, sans glasses, and burned with curiosity. Her hair was a cascade of luxurious sex. She was tall. Her figure was the envy of Hollywood starlets.

But she carried herself a little crouched, as if still huddling her blossoming womanhood in her jacket, unsure if her presence was worthy of those around her. Her words were assured, but her countenance timid. Jenny the woman had grown, but Jenny the girl still haunted her eyes.

I was filled with uncomfortable questions.

What is our Jenny?

Who made her?

Are we responsible?

There, But For The Grace Of God...

2007-03-13T19:04:00.000-07:00

I do not know this man, but I understand his pain in a way you probably cannot. I feel his bewildering grief like a knife across my hands.

I came within inches of an ending like this.

Depression is a very serious, insidious, bastard illness. It unravels from the inside, then tries to unravel everything around it so it won't die alone.

Rest well, Richard; I know your pain. I hope it is ended now. I hope you find the simple things we all need, but are sometimes blinded to. Be free. Be happy.

If someone you know shows sudden changes in personality, flips moods in an instant, is always either high or low and never in between, or retreats far away from the world on occasion blaming fatigue or illness or just needing a rest, or just seems "off" somehow, do something. Do anything. Call a doctor, a clergyman, a help line, family members, friends. Google "depression." Do anything.

Prepare for a fight. A fight that may avoid writing an epitaph like this one.

Asshole, Or Not?

2007-03-11T16:22:00.001-07:00

I used to be an asshole. Depression diagnosed, medication prescribed, soul searching completed, ability to "go with the flow" enhanced.

But sometimes, jerk offs just plain piss me off. I have spent so much time swallowing my pride, ignoring the boorish, trying to be nice. But not this time. I rejected the quiet acceptance of shitheads, and rediscovered my gonads.

Friday. Everyone wants to chill out. I picked a spot at the sports bar, signed in on the trivia box, settled in to genial converstation with other patrons. Then Jerkwad sat down.

Between the barstool I sat on and Jerkwad were three other barstools. He proceeded to push the empty stools in my direction, so that they touched each other, and propped his feet up on the one closest to him. Then he brought out his cell phone.

For 30 minutes I endured his phone conversations, punctuated by "dude" and "shit" and "see how important I am." For 30 minutes I endured his pounding of the bar, which sent vibrations my way, an annoyance to my ability to press the right buttons on the trivia box. For 30 minutes I endured his kicking of the nearest barstool, which trasmitted through the chain of barstools he had pushed my way, clunking at my ass in varous degrees. For 30 minutes I held my tongue. For 30 minutes I debated why I could be an absolute asshole. For 30 minutes, I hated myself and my culture that refuses to tar and feather the fuckers that have rights they don't deserve when we should be able to ride them out on the rail and put them in the stockade to humiliate them in front of the people they have insulted and oh oh oh arrrgh goddammit argggh ARRRGHHHHHH!!!

So I turned to the cretin and blew up like 2,000 Old Faithfuls.

"I AM HERE TO RELAX! DO I HAVE TO LISTEN TO EVERY PETTY PIECE OF CRAP IN YOUR LIFE?"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

The bar was silent. He made some lame comment. Ten minutes later he hung up, paid his bill, and left.

The regulars said, "Jeez, Kingfisher. I've never seen you wonk out like that."

So I leave it to you, dear readers. Asshole, or not?

The Grand And The Ordinary

2007-03-03T17:44:00.000-08:00

It was past time.

Work and school ceased to be important.

So Princefisher II and Kingfisher took a time out.

Small cabin. Small town. Small budget. Small weekend.

Big memories.

Our capacious quarters. Simple, relaxing, fun. Bring your sleeping bags!

Arizona elk. Bigger than they look in pictures. Cool.

No morning in the whole world beats this view.

Agave, pinion pine, juniper, and the greatest chasm this side of Mars.

King and Prince II share silence. Sometimes words just will not do.

Proof we were there.

Wise old Grand Canyon ravens are cool. This fat bastard isn't.

You cannot understand the impact of this photo.

My son.

The greatness of the natural world.

The two combined.

I want to cry.
One of the famous Grand Canyon long-eared taxis.

A trip astride this beauty should be on everyone's "Before I Die" list.

Oh my goodness, what a cute NEW car!

Time to go home.

We don't know what this all means.

But I am sure time will make it important.

January Dogs Me

2007-01-20T16:10:00.000-08:00

I hate January.

No more cheery lights hanging from the neighbors' eaves. No more hot tasty smells from the kitchen. No more anticipation of lazy family mornings or travel to loved ones' homes.

It's all replaced with gargantomundo bills in the mail, the icy breath of the Winter Bastard, and the dumbfuckingest invention of human retardedness: New Year's resolutions. (You know what you need to change. If you figure it out on August 14th, do it then. What's so special about January 1st? January is bad enough without punishing us with unrealistic expectations and guilt.) Added to this annual slump are two realities of Kingfisher's world, one fiscal, the other mental.

I love my new job as a Business Manager for five radio stations. But January 1 always signals the start of 45 days of torture. Most people think of accountant types as bean counters (call me that to my face and I stab you.) The truth is accounting is less about math and more about expressing operational results in a numerical language. It is using that language to divine future performance. The layman's perception of accounting as opposed to the reality is similar to the difference between learning your ABC's and composing a symphony. The goal of a GOOD Business Manager (or Controller, or Finance Manager, or Head Chief Asshole In The Corner Office) is soliciting the advice and expertise of other department heads, controlling the assets of the company to avoid loss or misappropriation, using a proactive approach to determine future weaknesses and strengths, interpreting performance good, bad, or indifferent, and communicating these to management. It is far from the simplicity of 2 + 2 = 4. It is a multidimensional skill requiring experience, sound judgment, communication skills, grounding in theory versus practice, knowledge of industry regulations, human resource issues, organization, tactical and strategic planning, a diplomat's ability to mediate issues between opposing viewpoints while attempting impartiality, policing policy and procedure, and a little oracle divination thrown in from time to time.

Now that I've bored you, I hope you see that January is a bad time for someone in my position. Last year's results need to be explained via "the books." All errors, ommissions, and poor procedures need to be addressed. This affects every department, requiring the afore-mentioned diplomatic skills to correct substandard practice. The promise of better fiscal performance this year needs to be analyzed, discussed, and planned. After this nightmare of events, the auditors get their chance to slash you with their swords. It's a no win. The best you can hope for is the Chief Financial Officer saying "It ain't what it should be, but it's better than it was."

As anyone who has read some of my junk knows, I suffer from depression. For eleven years my doctor has had it under control, and I'm happier than at any time in my life. But with the stress, scrutiny, and blah of this time of year, the many-headed hydra of depression's self-loathing, uncertainty, anger, and ennui chases me night and day.

I hate January.

Yesterday, after working nine long days in a row, several of them with a fever, I took a rare lunch break. I indulged in the personal touch of a haircut, then drove to a nearby park. It felt wonderful to walk in the cool sunshine across dormant grass and empty softball fields, watching after-school teens use their young muscles and expanding bravado at the skate park. Eventually I strolled into a bit of previously undiscovered and delightful therapy surrounded by cyclone fence.

The dog park.

To say exhuberance and innocence and joy abounded unbounded would insult the scene. There was ball chasing and butt nosing and lawn digging and dry humping and tail wagging and tongue dripping and dirt rolling and bark barking and sniff sniffing and running just for the hell of it. It was nothing and everything. Just one day in the sun, alive and free and happy. All the junk that is human perception faded to insignificance. All my curmudgeon jerkiness shrank to a point of stupid nothingness. One cute little guy saw me and ran up panting and smiley faced. I talked to him in a sing-song voice, calling him "Buddy." I don't know if that was his name, but my eager-to-please furry new friend jumped against the fence, locked his eyes to mine, and yelped a welcome.

And peed on my shoe.

Suddenly, I didn't hate January so much any more.

In Search Of The Weasel Mage

2006-12-24T13:30:00.000-08:00

Kingfisher Gets His Video Butt Kicked

"Princefisher?"

"What, Dad?"

"Is this video game hard?"

"Um, Magic Sword Army Wizards? Yeah, it's pretty hard, but I've beaten it twice."

I insert the little mirrored disc into the game box and switch it on. After the requisite save-file creation and the opening animation sequence, I become Jardel, Elf Warrior 3rd class. The screen shows a snow field, surrounded by a tumble-down wood fence. I toy with the buttons and toggles to no effect.

"What am I supposed to do?"

"This is just the training screen. You gotta break through the fence to get to the Monkey King."

"How do I do that?"

"See that bunch of dead grass? Cut it down with your sword and collect the gems."

I toggle forward and press the B button. Jardel's sword swishes through the frozen tufts. gling gling gling! Shiny rotating jewels bounce across the snowscape. With my mastery of the controls I have no difficulty in collecting them. When I do, the wealth meter goes up slightly. This is going to be easy.

Fifteen minutes later I am still stuck in the snow. The video fence sneers at me.

"Princefisher! How do I get out of here?"

"Do a lunge roll, and break the fence by the big rock."

"How do I do that?"

"You haven't figured that out yet? Okay. Go to the fence. No, the other way. Now target the crack in the fence. No, press the L button. No, you have to be facing the fence first. Now press the L button. Now press the A button. Press the Z button twice. Turn around and jump the fence. No, the jump button. No, that's the sword button. The jump button. No, the jump button. Too late, the fence closed up. Now you gotta start over."

Thirty minutes later I have learned the difference between the jump, hereinafter known as button A, and the sword, hereinafter referred to as button B. Unable to use them correctly, however, I rely on Princefisher to press them in the correct order to free me from the snow meadow. Now I can start the game.

Jardel leaves the snow behind and jogs through an endless mountain pass, occasionally swiping at evil crows. As they turn into ghostly mist, gems appear and the power meter increases slightly. Now I've got it!

Forty-five minutes later I haven't figured out the objective of this stage in the game.

"What do I do now?"

"Go through the Marsh of Mazes and find the Weasel Mage."

"Where's that?"

*sigh* "Do I have to tell you everything? You have to go by the Toadstool Tower."

"That tall castle thing? I tried to go inside, but it wouldn't let me."

"That's because you don't have the Ruby Key yet. You gotta get that from the Weasel Mage. Go through the hedges by the tower."

"I didn't know you could do that."

"You have to try different things. Not everything is what it looks like."

An hour later I have found the Marsh Maze. Jardel has died fifteen times by venomous mud worms, twelve times by fluorescent moon fog, eight times by vampire tree frogs, four times by invisible suction arrows, and twice by his own sword. And he is still hopelessly lost in the Marsh of Mazes. Princefisher takes the controls again, guiding my elf to the Weasel Mage. I memorize the route back out through the marsh.

"Now what?"

"Give the Weasel Mage your gems, and he gives you the Ruby Key."

I confront the Weasel Mage and press each button in turn. Eventually one of them induces the Weasel Mage to talk to Jardel. He wants 70 gems for the Ruby Key. Jardel has only 45.

"How do I get more gems?"

"You gotta kill more crows."

This isn't fun any more. But I will be damned if I get beaten at anything by a teenager.

Ninety minutes later I have found my way out of the maze, climbed back to the mountain pass, killed enough crows to release the gems I need, and mired Jardel in the Marsh of Mazes again.

"How come I can't find the Weasel Mage?"

"The maze changes every time. You have to figure it out."

Two hours later, Jardel finds the Weasel Mage, trades gems for the Ruby Key, backtracks through the maze, arrives at the Toadstool Tower, unlocks the drawbridge, enters the throne room, and greets the Monkey King. The Monkey King tells Jardel he may not pass without a gift.

"What's the gift he's talking about?"

"You need the purple coconut."

"Where do I get that?"

At the same instant Princefisher and I say "From the Weasel Mage." I put down the controller and turn off the infernal mocking box.

"Jeez, Dad. You didn't even make it halfway through the first level. You really suck."

"Oh, yeah? Well, I can still kick your butt at Super Ladybug Land 2!"

Princefisher smirks.

Kingfisher ages twenty years on the spot.

The Understanding Price

2006-12-22T16:49:00.000-08:00

Try Wordsmiths Unlimited; it's fun. Case in point: this unusual and difficult challenge, including prologue and picture provided by Wordsmith Tiff. My cumbersome and pretentious drivel follows.

"A loud rapping at the door awoke me from a deep dreamy sleep. It was early, too early to be awake, and certainly too early to be out in the streets pounding on doors. I thought that there must be some emergency in town and ran to the door to find out whatever news there was from whoever was there. Much to my surprise, there was no-one at the door ready to identify themselves and their message, and yet a package with my name on it had been left at the door. It was a most curious circumstance, and yet I saw no real harm in it, because secret gift giving was the hallmark of the holiday season. I myself had delivered many a gift in that manner over the years. The package was heavier than it should have been from its size, and once I had it indoors I eagerly opened it to find out what it was and who had sent it. Alas, there was no identification of the giver, and more's the pity because what was inside was a most remarkable carved wood box, worked with figures of animals and dragons all over, in a magnificent shade of red. Whoever sent it to me must have been a prankster, though, because I could see no way into the box, no clasp or lock announced itself, no hinge or platen presented itself as a means to the inside. I was locked out, and most frustrated by this unfortunate turn of events."

This is a work of fiction. Copyright © 2006 Rumba Creative. All Rights Reserved.
No portion of this work may be copied, retransmitted, reposted, duplicated,
or otherwise used without the express written approval of the author.

The Understanding Price

Who would deliver something on Tuesday before sunrise? Angry from an unexpected awakening, I examined the ornate wooden box. Sinuous red dragons wound around its curves. It was beautiful, curious, the subtle and commanding work of a master craftsman, a puzzle requiring ingenuity to open. Why was it left on my doorstep? I had no time for further musing. A shower, coffee, and the commute demanded my attention.

The next day began with the familiar persistence of the alarm clock. I stumbled into the kitchen to make coffee, shaking sleep. The box was as I had left it, but now it was orange. Dragons were replaced by monkeys, tails linked, long limbs outstretched, reaching toward me. I attempted to find the manner of opening it, but failed again. Stumped, I prepared for another workday.

That evening I sat peering at the box, when a knock came at the door. My neighbor across the hall asked to borrow a screwdriver. I invited him in, asking his opinion of the mysterious treasure on the table. When we entered the kitchen the box was nowhere to be seen.

Thursday came, and the box returned. It was a deep brown. Intricate carvings of trees festooned its curves. Buttressed roots claimed the base, intertwined branches supported the top, like columns in a cathedral. After work, I inspected every crevice with a magnifying glass. For all my efforts the manner of its opening remained secret.

I refused to look at the box the next morning. Over dinner at night, I could not ignore that the box was now green. I held it in my hands, turning it over and over. A progression of bears sauntered in an upward spiral. Small at the bottom, each succeeding bear was a little larger than the last. The graceful parade terminated with one great standing bear stretched across the top, a silhouette of fierce confidence. What had I been given? What was this enigma that shifted its reality, teased me with its riddles? That night’s sleep was troubled by visions of birth, death, and the billion states in between.

Saturday morning dawned with me already awake. I stared at the blue box before me, not daring to touch it. Perhaps if I pondered and meditated and believed enough, I could open it with thought alone. A thousand fishes shimmered and swirled across the box, a hypnotic ballet that held me entranced. The day passed by. Life passed by. Transfixed, I watched the box, waiting for it to change.

Sunday. I raised my head from the table. I had fallen asleep. The box before me was now black. Its surface was an obsidian mirror, a dark anti-color opalescence. In the depths blood ran and spilled. Creatures rested and killed. Stars blazed and died. In a sudden cracking the box split in two, exuding a thin smoke, acrid and overwhelming.

Only then, at the precise moment of my expiration, did the box, and everything else, make perfect sense.

There’s A Game In There Somewhere

2006-12-16T12:58:00.000-08:00

JAMES BROWN: Welcome to "Today’s NFL" on the Wolf Network. We’ve got an exciting line-up of games for you today.

HOWIE LONG: I want to kick Jimmy Kimmel’s ass. Look at my hair. It’s awesome.

TERRY BRADSHAW: I’ve got a possum in my pants! Hee hee hee!

JOHN MADDEN: Have you ever had a McWhopJack? It’s a Big Mac stuffed in a in a in a in a a a a Whopper stuffed in a Jumbo Jack! I’m tellin’ ya…

CHRIS COLLINSWORTH: To – day – is – Sun – day.

JAMES BROWN: Next we have commentary on this afternoon’s games.

CHRIS BERMAN: The Atlanta Kittyhawks defense could GO. ALL. THE. WAY. against the Cleveland UPS Shirts.

JIMMY JOHNSON: I used to coach the Dallas Cowpats.

DEION SANDERS: Look at this hat. It be stylin’, and Prime Time makes it look good!

HOWIE LONG: Rear end tackle LaDanielShwann Washingsmithstein lost his father in a tragic accident last week. Fortunately, he can take comfort in the awesomeness of my hair.

JAMES BROWN: All right, guys. Your thoughts on today’s game?

CHRIS COLLINSWORTH: I – am – talk – ing – a – bout – foot – ball - right – now.

JOHN MADDEN: One time we had a a a a had a this time in Detroit we stopped my bus to get somethin’ to a a a eat and we a a a Ever had a Polish doglink? It’s a hot dog stuffed in a hot link stuffed in a a a in a Polish sausage!

JIMMY JOHNSON: We used to have those when I coached the Dallas Cowpats.

DEION SANDERS: I move my hands when I talk. It shows off the tapered sleeves of this outta sight $65,000 mohair trench coat. Yo.

TERRY BRADSHAW: I wrassled a raccoon yesterday! Hoo hoo hoo!

CHRIS BERMAN: I want to GO. ALL. THE. WAY. with the Denver Paintedponies cheerleaders.

JAMES BROWN: Does anyone have anything to say about football?

JIMMY JOHNSON: When I coached the Dallas Cowpats I liked the blue jerseys best.

DEION SANDERS: I just changed outfits. Check this out! Custom tailored arctic neon eel double breasted okapi pinstripe suit. Prime Time shines, baby! Word.

CHRIS COLLINSWORTH: Who – ever – scores – the – most – touch – downs – in – to – day’s – game – has – a – good – chance – of – win – ning.

TERRY BRADSHAW: I played tag with hogs this morning! Haa haa haa!

JOHN MADDEN: Look at this guy’s uniform. See this this this this stuff that looks like blood? It’s ketchup. And this muddy stuff on his knees? Barbecue sauce. And and and and a a and a and and this grassy stuff on his shoulder pads? Pesto. Ever had a roast stickpizz? It’s a pizza stuffed in a a a a stuffed in a drumstick stuffed in a pot roast.

CHRIS BERMAN: The salary cap of the San Francisco 86ers could GO. ALL. THE. WAY. against the insurance premiums of the Green Bay Containerstuffers.

JAMES BROWN: Okay, forget football. Does anyone have anything at all intelligent to say?

HOWIE LONG: No. But my awesome hair will kick any team’s ass.

JIMMY JOHNSON: No. Dallas Cowpats.

JOHN MADDEN: Ever had a had a Ever had a humpback threshersword? It’s a swordfish stuffed in a shark stuffed in a whale!

CHRIS BERMAN: *fart*

CHRIS COLLINSWORTH: N – n – n – n – o – o – o – o.

TERRY BRADSHAW: Let’s go cow tipping! Haa hee hoo!

DEION SANDERS: You can see my smile from the moon. True.

JAMES BROWN: You guys suck. I quit.

Xmas On The Street

2006-12-09T15:19:00.000-08:00

I love love love totally love parades. Even though I live near the glitter capitol of the world, my town still has the adorable old-fashioned small town feel Christmas parade. This (and It's A Wonderful Life) is why I get all sniffle nosed at this time of year.

Police clear the street, people get their cameras ready, and it starts!

I sit on the curb with my family and neighbors, clapping and waving and shouting goofily at people I have never met, and will likely never see again.

The WHOLE DAMN CROWD stands, removes hats, and places hands over hearts. With great dignity and humility, old and revered VFW grandpas in uniform march with the flag.

An out of tune high school marching band plods by in mismatched uniforms.

Local elected official #1 waves to the crowd. The convertible is Brought to you by Your Local GMC Dealer.

A float from the senior center. It's really just an old hay trailer decorated with crepe paper and aluminum foil, with brittle old ladies in Santa hats singing "Jack Frost nipping at your nose." General consensus is that they are nipping at something else hidden in their afghans.

A talent-impaired kindergarten dance troupe, led by the local weather man, bribes the judges with donuts.

Miss Okra Festival Titanium Alloy Rodeo Queen In Sequins smiles charmingly at the crowd. Whistles ensue.

An out of tune middle school marching band plods by in mismatched uniforms.

Tiny Shriner cars! Ha ha!

I buy a lapel button or paper flower or something in a styrofoam cup sold by some community outreach thing I never heard of.

ROAR-BBL-BBL-BBL! Eighty Harleys swerve right and left, each piloted by a heavily bearded man weighing at least 275 pounds, sporting a Santa hat and a wreath on the handle bars. Their leather jackets proclaim their loyalty to Toys For Tots. One out of five has a woman, heavier than the pilot, blowing kisses. I think I caught one!

Screams from the tots. Horsies! A whole buncha horsies! Look at the pretty ladies in cowboy hats! The silver bridles! The manes braided with colorful ribbons! One of them rears up and comes down with a gentle clack of horseshoes. Nice horsies! Pretty ladies. Did you see the horsies?

Local elected official #2 waves to the crowd. The convertible is Brought to you by Your Local Ford Dealer.

"LEFT. LEFT. LEFT. (beat)." The ROTC marches by: perfect, crisp, proud. Be safe, young people.

The local police, fire, and emergency response vehicles drive at 0.4 mph, lights a-flashing, sirens a-squelching. Uniformed men throw itty-bitty broken candy canes to the kids.

Elementary school kids walk by, holding long PVC pipes to keep them in order (sort of.) They are wearing costumes made from paper grocery bags painted like presents (sort of.) They sing "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer" accompanied by a boom box pulled in a Radio Flyer by a school parent, so they will all be singing together (sort of.) One out of four children is either scowling, crying, or sticking out his tongue. Listen up judges: they win.

A dozen or so custom muscle cars rumble by, emergency lights flashing, radios blaring "Rockin' Around The Christmas Tree." There's a candy apple red Mustang, a lightning bolted Charger, a yellow pearl Corvette, a flamed up Thunderbird, a low rider Packard, and OH OH OH! Ain't no Christmas stuff, but DAMMIT that's cool!

Local elected official #3 waves to the crowd. The convertible is Brought to you by Your Local Dodge Dealer.

Hey, look! It's that celebrity guy! You know, the one on that show? On TV on Tuesday? Or is it Thursday? I didn't know he lived here! Go Local Celebrity Guy!

Another out of tune high school marching band plods by in mismatched uniforms. This one is in the privileged position of being second-to-last in the parade, squirting out the strains of "You Better Watch Out..." because right behind them is the whole reason families came out on this cold December morning, forking over dollars for mylar streamers on sticks, warming hands on cheap instant apple cider, trudging along row after row of cheesy handicrafts, pointing out to the kids the plastic electric wreaths missing half the bulbs hanging from the streetlights the same way they have for the last forty years, all of this just to witness

SANTA!

On a fire truck. Or on top of a Kenworth. Or on a draft horse. Or on the most incrediblest boss reindeer sleigh. Or sauntering along the gutter with a pillow case over his shoulder surrounded by prancing Presbyterian congregationists in bad elf costumes.

It's SANTA!

And it's my town. And it's your town. And we all share it, or should.

Merry Christmas to you all, but mostly to the unknown, unsung, unremembered everyday folks that make these holiday memories possible for kids from one to ninety-two.

Click Clack Snap

2006-12-02T13:16:00.000-08:00

No portion of this work may be copied, retransmitted, reposted, duplicated,

or otherwise used without the express written approval of the author.

Click Clack Snap

“How come you never have what I want?” Click.

“How do I know what you need?” Clack.

“You never have enough blue ones.” Snap.

“Don’t blame me. I was bought this way. Maybe you should think harder.” Click-snap.

Stupid bricks. When I need a two-by-two, there’s only four-by-twos. When I need the triangle piece, all he gives me is a twelve-by-one, or a wheel. Dumb toy. The pieces never fit right. I want to stop playing, but I can’t.

“Do you have a small yellow brick?”

“You’re the one using me. Look for yourself.”

“I hate you.”

“You hate me because you aren’t smart enough to make me anything but a house.”

“Nuh-uh!”

“Yuh-huh! Look! What shape am I?”

I look. Rectangular base. Overlapping white brick walls. Clear two-by-ones like a window. The other pieces are jumbled up in little plastic boxes. Half of them are roof pieces. The rest are colors or shapes of bricks I can’t figure out how to use.

“See?” His voice makes fun of me, like every time. “I’m gonna be a house again.”

“Not this time. You always make me make you into a house. I’m not gonna use the door pieces, or the window pieces, or the tree pieces, or the little car.” Smashety-clack.

“Why are you undoing me?” Unsnap.

“You know you won’t me make me into anything good.” Brokety-toss.

“Now I’m just a big pile of dog doo. You’ll never make me into anything good.” I don’t talk. He made me mad. I’ll show him.

“What are you doing?” Click.

“What is this?” Clack.

“Are you done yet?” Snap snap. Done.

“What am I?”

“You’re an airport tower. See how tall you are? These stick out pieces are the warning lights. The top goes over the clouds so airplanes can see you.” I turn him around and around. For a while there is no rattling sound of plastic pieces being raked up.

“I look stupid.”

My mad makes me mad. He can’t beat me again! This time he will be most perfectest neatest thing ever!

Click snap clackety snap snap click clack snappety whomp!

“Wow. Look what you did.” Triumphant, I hold him in my hands. My disappointment and anger drip through my fingers.

He’s a house. Another stupid dumb poopy house.

“Don’t give up!” he says. “Look! This time you made the walls different colors! And the door is on the side! And the window looks into the basement! And the garage is on the roof! And you put the tree inside! Very creative! Good job!”

I turn him around and around again. It’s not like any of the other stuff we ever made. It might be a house, but it’s a DIFFERENT house. It looks good.

I hear Mom calling me for dinner.

“I gotta go,” I say, knowing I won at last.

“Okay. Thanks for playing with me. You did great!” I open my bedroom door to leave.

“Randy?”

“What?”

“I’m still a house.”

Clackety-GRRR.

Healing in the Hall of Bones

2006-10-28T15:25:00.000-07:00

BOO!

It's the Wordsmiths Unlimited October challenge! Can you hear the creaking? Can you hear the whispers? Can you hear the scurrying in the shadows? No? Then you're not listening...

No portion of this work may be copied, retransmitted, reposted, duplicated,

or otherwise used without the express written approval of the author.

Healing in the Hall of Bones

"Beware the masters of this place," says the groundskeeper on your first visit. He shoulders his shovel and walks away, ignoring questions unasked.

It is the sixteenth day of your convalescence in these cold and green isles, exploring heath and hill. Wandering is good. It helps calm the mind and stretch the body. In cafes and bookshops near the hospital you learn of a hundred wonderful places within a day's walk. Of the few you have found so far, this is your favorite.

It is a great hall, or was hundreds of years in the past. Through ages and neglect it has opened its raftered roof to the sky, shed its ornate windows to the winds. Only the thick sturdy walls painted with lichen remain. There is a weight to the air, a sense of time and testing. It wraps you in a cool cloak of tranquil familiarity. Absent are the fluttering noises, nests, and stains of birds. The stone walls impart serenity and strength. Abundant ferns surround you, peaceful and patient.

The groundskeeper’s warning leaves you confused. Why beware? Who are the masters? It cannot matter. The hall is overgrown. The groundskeeper must not be a capable caretaker. Perhaps the masters prefer the ancient place be kept as it is, steadfast and noble, crumbling with dignity back into the earth.

In the following weeks you regain parts of what you have lost. Prescriptions and therapists occupy the mornings. Fields and copses take up the afternoons. Township parks and public houses fill the evenings. Each day brings conversations with new people, renewing your confidence and stamina. Every day you stroll along hedgerows, amble over countryside. Every day you visit the old hall. And every day you are alone there, except for the stone walls, the open sky, and the low forest of ferns that greet you with quiet acceptance.

On this day you arrive at the hall in the morning earlier than usual. The sky above the open roof portends rain. The mossy pocked walls promise security. The ferns beckon you to rest. You lay down on soft soil that smells of living things. The green stalks are a protective bower. Contentment and sleep come unbidden.

A pinprick of pain wakes you. Bewildered, you stand on unsteady legs and peer at your hand. From your wrist a point of red seeps, running down your forearm, dripping on the ground.

"I told you to beware." You stumble toward a voice. The world slows. The edges of your sight blur into grey. The groundskeeper stands there, his voice as flat as the stone walls, his face as impassive as the ferns. He stands among the fronds, caressing them. They bend toward his touch, quiver around his boots.

"The masters are always grateful for their bone meal.” In a rush of horror, you understand the absence of birds. The groundskeeper speaks the last words you hear.

“What is left of you will be delicious.”