Have you ever wondered what's on the other side
Of the river?
Of the moon?
Of the mirror?

Have you ever wondered who's on the other side
Of the strife?
Of the wall?
Of this life?

Housecleaning

I've been doing a little reorgainizing lately, both of the literal and figurative sort, and I ran across a book from when I was a little kid. I don't remember it, but it was in amongst my old stuff, and the copyright date is just about right, so it must have been mine. I'm going to give it to Little Joe, my third or fourth cousin, depending on who's doing the counting.

Fish is Fish

At the edge of the woods there was a pond, and there a minnow and a tadpole swam among the weeds. They were inseparable friends.

One morning the tadpole discovered that duringthe night he had grown two little legs.

"Look" he said trumphantly. "Look, I am a frog!"

"Nonsense," said the monnow. "How could you be a frog if only last night you were a little fish, just like me!"

They argued and argued until finally the tadpole said, "Frogs are frogs and fish is fish and that's that!"

In the weeks that followed, the tadpole grew tiny front legs and his tail got smaller and smaller.

Then one fine day, a real frog now, he climbed out of the water and onto the grassy bank.

The minnow too had grown and had become a full-fledged fish. He often wondered where his four-footed friendhad gone. But days and weeks went by and the frog did not return.

Then one day, with a happy splash that shook the weeds, the frog jumped into the pond.

"Where have you been?" asked the fish excitedly.

"I have been about the world--hopping here and there," said the frog, "and I have seen extraordinary things."

Like what?" asked the fish.

"Birds," said the frog mysteriously. "Birds!" And he told the fish about the birds, who had wings, and two legs, and many, many colors.

As the frog talked, his friend saw the birds fly throguh his mind like large feathered fish.

"What else?" asked the fish impatiently.

Cows," said the frog. "Cows! They have four legs, horns, eat grass, and carry pink bags of milk."

"And people!" said the frog. "Men, women, children!" And he talked and talked until it was dark in the pond.

But the picture in the fish's mind was full of lights and colors and marvelous things and he couldn't sleep. Ah, if he could only jump about like his friend and see that wonderful world.

And so the days went by. The frog had gone and the fish just lay there dreaming about birds in flight, grazing cows, and those strange animals, all dressed up, that his friend called people.

One day he finally decided that come what may, he too must see them. And so with a mighty whack of the tail he jumped clear out of the water onto the bank.

He landed in the dry, warm grass and there he lay gasping for air, unable to breathe or to move. "help," he groaned feebly.

Luckily the frog, who had been hunting butterflies nearby, saw him and with all his strength pushed him back into the pond.

Still stunned, the fish floated about for an instant. Then he breathed deeply, letting the clean cool water run through his gills. Now he felt weightless again and with an ever-so-slight motion of the tail he could move to and fro, up and down, as before.

The sunrays reached down within the weeds and gently shifted patches of luminous color. This world was surely the most beautiful of all worlds. He smiled at his friend the frog, who sat watching him from a lily leaf. "You were right," he said. "Fish is fish."

When my aunt died, I wrote a short obiruary of sorts. I'm pretty sure that's all that got published. But at least she's getting a funeral, and hopefully a marker for her grave. I didn't write much of anything when my grandpa died. The situation was different--he wasn't young and full of vigor. He had suffered enough, and it was time, if not a little past, for the Angel of Death to collect.

His wife had stopped letting him run his own business and maintain his property. The golddigging bitch finally got to spend all his cash as his mental faculties slipped. I met him when he was in his mid-70s, and again when he was about to turn 80. He wasn't sharp as a tack, but pretty damn close. When she took away his project, his focus, Grandpa slipped away, too.

When she got tired of taking care of him at home, and failing in her efforts to "take care of him" once and for all, Grandpa's wife put him in a home for Alzheimer's patients. That cost far to much, and his alzheimer's medicine wasn't helping the bankroll, either. She had him moved around after that, and the medicine taken away as more and more of his memory went away. We visited him when he was in what we're told was his favorite home. They had a dog that reminded him of one he once had in the '50s. He only remembered some of his kids, and mixed up my dad with my uncle a few tiimes, but he remembered my mom some. He did a good enough job of at least acting like he remembered me. He told the same tired old stories that he always told when we'd go visit him. He ate a lot of cookies.

He seemed genuinely bothered by the fact that he couldn't tell who we were some of the time. He'd get lost in the middle of a story and ask us to remind him where he'd left off. He asked my dad to draw him a diagram showing who his kids were, who they married, and where they lived. That way, when someone called, he said, he'd be able to tell who it was and "talk to them properly." We visited his room at this home. It had pictures from the glory days in drawers, and a large photo of the whole clan, every single damn one of us, up on the wall.

That was a few years ago.

When we saw him this July, he had been moved around to different homes a few times. He was back in Manitou, at a hospice on Lois Lane. He looked an awful lot like I expected, but a terrible sort worse. I'd only known him as an old man, and now he looked even older, but that wasn't the issue. He was stiff, and facing the wall. There were no decorations or posters. No photos. The room had a closet, where all sorts of clothes that he seemed to enjoy had been brought out of closets all over the country and given to him by relatives. Most of his old friends are dead. His lawyer's headstone can be seen from the plot that's still technically reserved for him. Although he wasn't dead yet, when I saw Grandpa's body last, he had this most pathetic, God-awful look on his face. It was one of pain, in spite of morphine that would kill you or I. His jaw was open wider than anything I would have thought possible. We looked. We talked. We said goodbye.

Two days before, his son in law and daughter had come to visit. He hadn't seen his son in law in a long time, but he walked right up, called him by name, and used every ounce of strength he could muster to try and crush his hand, just like he always did. They talked. They left. They got a call two days later that Grandpa's wife had visited, and he'd slipped into a coma. They called us. We hauled ass back home from the Western Slope.

I may live in Denver, but as far as I'm concerned, "home" is about 90 miles south.

His daughter was with him when he died. She talked about each of his children, where they were, and said that they forgive him if there was anything outstanding still on the record between them. That they said he could rest now. He could be seen to calm down, to relax, and he died peacefully. She didn't mention that his youngest daughter was dead.

There was no money for a funeral. He had wanted to donate his body to science, and that was one wish his wife was eager to grant. The coroner had other ideas. Foul play was ruled out, but I doubt that it was a very thorough investigation. Eventually, someone found a university that would take his autopsied body.

His kids got together and wrote an obituary. Originally, it was going to be printed in the city paper in each town one of his kids lived in, but when it proved to be over $200 for just one paper, they settled for his hometown of 50 years. It was run with a photograph of Grandpa with all the trophies he won for customizing his Honda Goldwing.

Alfred H Dwyer
January 17, 1920-July 22, 2008

We would like to honor our father's life by sharing what many already know of him.

For over 40 years people respected the caliber of the work that Dad completed in the Pikes Peak Region. As owner of Dwyer Construction, he had the privilege to work with/on properties such as the Broadmoor Hotel, Alamo Hotel, and the Cliff House. We know that many of his projects were completed 'on a handshake' because of his professional integrity and quality. His tremendous engineering skill was demonstrated when he and our mother, Jean, bought and renovated the Manitou Spa during the 1960's.

His life's example taught us that hard work, commitment and respect for people of all backgrounds were the foundation of a person. He taught us to never give up learning and that “there is always more than one way to solve a problem”.

We will miss you very much!

David A Dwyer, Las Vegas, NV
Daniel B Dwyer, Denver, CO
James H Dwyer, Buena Vista, CO
Susan H Ayler, Colorado Springs, CO
Mary E Dwyer, living in our memories

Must... not... drool

In case I haven't mentioned it lately, Lucas is too damn sexy for his own good.

Whiskey Lullaby

She put him out like the burnin' end of a midnight cigarette

She broke his heart he spent his whole life tryin' to forget

We watched him drink his pain away a little at a time

But he never could get drunk enough to get her off his mind

Until the night

1st Chorus

He put that bottle to his head and pulled the trigger

And finally drank away her memory

Life is short but this time it was bigger

Than the strength he had to get up off his knees

We found him with his face down in the pillow

With a note that said I'll love her till I die

And when we buried him beneath the willow

The angels sang a whiskey lullaby

The rumors flew but nobody know how much she blamed herself

For years and years she tried to hide the whiskey on her breath

She finally drank her pain away a little at a time

But she never could get drunk enough to get him off her mind

Until the night

2nd Chorus

She put that bottle to her head and pulled the trigger

And finally drank away his memory

Life is short but this time it was bigger

Than the strength she had to get up off her knees

We found her with her face down in the pillow

Clinging to his picture for dear life

We laid her next to him beneath the willow

While the angels sang a whiskey lullaby.

Hopefully the last in a series of posts about this sort of thing

Isn't it interesting that the times you want drugs or alcohol the most are the times you need them least?

That unless you stay stone-cold sober, you'll never get out of whatever hole you've stepped into?
It's not how a man takes the good times that counts, not in the end. It's how he takes the bad times. Does he crawl into a bottle and drink the mortgage payment, or does he cut back on his own indulgence first, so the people he loves don't have to? Does he face the challenge, or does he ignore it, run away to the next one?

No matter how dark times get, they can always get darker. Things don't get better on their own. You have to make them get better. Whether it's unfair wages or a dead-end relationship, it's up to you to fix it. Sometimes that means getting out of the situation. Other times that means fixing the situation. Most of the time you just need to fix your own perspective. But it always means doing something.

Not everything you can do helps. You can grab a shovel and help your own gravediggers twice as easy as you can pull yourself up out of that grave. But you can't change anyone but you. That's all you really need, really. Nobody can make you think or feel or believe anything if you don't let them. If you aren't content with "almost" or "could have," if you are willing to try that much harder instead of just complaining, you can overcome anything. Even if the objective hazard is too great and death is certain, there is a certain dignity in facing your own death with integrity.

They talk about the spaces between the words
Like the pain only hides there.
The last thing she said,
Nobody heard.

We talk without end,
So the silence doesn't get us.
We talk of trifles and outrage and God,
But never what we need to say.

Then it seems like we can't talk
For fear we'll say the wrong thing.
That we'll ruin something we only imagine we had.

Fact is, we can.
We will.
Someone has to speak their mind
Before they lose it.

Throw it away really,
For you can't accidentally let go of your mind.
You leave it because you want to,
Just as people throw away relics that don't suit them.
If I'm the only one not scared
To say what has to be said,
So be it.

And I'd do it again.

I'd admit it eats me up.
That I nearly tore myself apart.
I'd cry when no-one was looking
And come up with a smile.

I'd raise a toast to the day before it's gone
And laugh at Misery himself.
He can take what he wants,
But he'll never get my soul.

The trick is to be glib,
To be wry and rude and uncanny.
You have to be yourself
Especially in those times it seems like you can't,
Because nobody else will.

Goodbye England's Rose

I have tremendous respect for this man. As a musician. As a humanitarian. As a public figure. This was a great tribute to Princess Di. The special lyrics fit her and the song just as well, if not better, than the album version fit Marilyn Monroe. I'm not sure I would have been able to play that whole song without shedding a tear. I have no more words for this video.

The wisest people are those who don't say so.

"He stood like a rock, a man among men. Then he let that lumberjack hit him again... then with a voice as kind as could be, he cut him down like a big oak tree. He said: 'You got to walk that lonesome valley. You got to walk it by yourself. Lord, nobody else can walk it for you. You got to walk it by yourself.'" -- "Reverend Mr. Black" by The Kingston Trio

This article is from Mind Mullings, a blog by a fellow in Colorado Springs. I came across his blog purely by chance, but I've bookmarked and frequented it because I think he's a wiser fellow than many.

Have you ever planted a tree? I have…lots of em.’ When a tree comes from the nursery it is “balled and burlaped.” The roots are wrapped to protect them until the tree gets planted. Imagine what would happen if the burlap never came off of the rootball. Would the tree grow strong and healthy? Nope. In fact, it would die. The roots would get so confined that the tree would actually kill itself. Just because it is a tree doesn’t automatically mean it can grow. It needs water, sunlight, and space to thrive in.

Now you may be wondering why I’m giving you a tree planting lesson. I don’t expect many of you plant trees on a regular basis but the question I have for you is: are you in a place where you can grow?

You might be okay right now at the nursery wrapped in your protective burlap but what will happen in two years if you haven’t planted yourself somewhere? What will happen in five years if you are still wrapped in the burlap and you haven’t grown in stature, wisdom or other things of the Lord? What will happen if you manage to plant yourself but don’t get any sunlight, water or space?

Be like an old oak tree; never stop growing.

Here are three practical suggestions:
Put yourself in places where you can grow. Sitting at home watching sitcoms doesn’t cut it.
Ask the Holy Spirit to convict you of areas in your life you need to grow
in. Ask for humility while working on these areas.
Talk to a close friend and ask them what your weakest character trait is. Work on it.

75 things to be able to do

This is Esquire's list of "75 things men should be able to do." While that's very true, that title is restrictive. Most, if not all of this advice is applicable to anyone who doesn't want to wind up wondering "Why the hell didn't I do that?" or "I don't know how to do this, better not even try."

There is a resurging popularity of old "Skills for boys" books and their ilk. A book that suggests carving your name into a walking stick or building a tire swing using just a bald tire, a piece of rope, and a tree conjures up images and feelings of a simpler time. It's not that there weren't companies and advertising and networking all vying to overcomplicate our lives, it's just that it wasn't everywhere and in our collective unconscious that we have to listen to these people. But there are still a lot of things that are really best done "by hand." Time, not money, is the most valuable thing you can ever invest. Get the biggest return you can.

1. Give advice that matters in one sentence. I got run out of a job I liked once, and while it was happening, a guy stopped me in the hall. Smart guy, but prone to saying too much. I braced myself. I didn't want to hear it. I needed a white knight, and I knew it wasn't him. He just sighed and said: When nobody has your back, you gotta move your back. Then he walked away. Best advice I ever got. One sentence.
2. Tell if someone is lying. Everyone has his theory. Pick one, test it. Choose the tells that work for you. I like these: Liars change the subject quickly. Liars look up and to their right when they speak. Liars use fewer contractions. Liars will sometimes stare straight at you and employ a dead face. Liars never touch their chest or heart except self-consciously. Liars place objects between themselves and you during a conversation.
3. Take a photo. Fill the frame.
4. Score a baseball game. Scoring a game is an exercise in ciphering, creating a shorthand of your very own. In this way, it's a private language as much as a record of the game. The only given is the numbering of the positions and the use of the diamond to express each batter's progress around the bases. I black out the diamond when a run scores. I mark an RBI with a tally mark in the upper-right-hand corner. Each time you score a game, you pick up on new elements to track: pitch count, balls and strikes, foul balls. It doesn't matter that this information is available on the Internet in real time. Scoring a game is about bearing witness, expanding your own ability to observe.
5. Name a book that matters. The Catcher in the Rye does not matter. Not really. You gotta read.
6. Know at least one musical group as well as is possible. One guy at your table knows where Cobain was born and who his high school English teacher was. Another guy can argue the elegant extended trope of Liquid Swords with GZA himself. This is how it should be. Music does not demand agreement. Rilo Kiley. Nina Simone. Whitesnake. Fugazi. Otis Redding. Whatever. Choose. Nobody likes a know-it-all, because 1) you can't know it all and 2) music offers distinct and private lessons. So pick one. Except Rilo Kiley. I heard they broke up.
7. Cook meat somewhere other than the grill.
Buy The Way to Cook, by Julia Child. Try roasting. Braising. Broiling. Slow-cooking. Pan searing. Think ragouts, fricassees, stews. All of this will force you to understand the functionality of different cuts. In the end, grilling will be a choice rather than a chore, and your Weber will become a tool rather than a piece of weekend entertainment.
8. Not monopolize the conversation.
9. Write a letter.
So easy. So easily forgotten. A five-paragraph structure works pretty well: Tell why you're writing. Offer details. Ask questions. Give news. Add a specific memory or two. If your handwriting is terrible, type. Always close formally.
10. Buy a suit.
Avoid bargains. Know your likes, your dislikes, and what you need it for (work, funerals, court). Squeeze the fabric -- if it bounces back with little or no sign of wrinkling, that means it's good, sturdy material. And tug the buttons gently. If they feel loose or wobbly, that means they're probably coming off sooner rather than later. The jacket's shoulder pads are supposed to square with your shoulders; if they droop off or leave dents in the cloth, the jacket's too big. The jacket sleeves should never meet the wrist any lower than the base of the thumb -- if they do, ask to go down a size. Always get fitted.
11. Swim three different strokes. Doggie paddle doesn't count.
12. Show respect without being a suck-up. Respect the following, in this order: age, experience, record, reputation. Don't mention any of it.
13. Throw a punch. Close enough, but not too close. Swing with your shoulders, not your arm. Long punches rarely land squarely. So forget the roundhouse. You don't have a haymaker. Follow through; don't pop and pull back. The length you give the punch should come in the form of extension after the point of contact. Just remember, the bones in your hand are small and easy to break. You're better off striking hard with the heel of your palm. Or you could buy the guy a beer and talk it out.
14. Chop down a tree. Know your escape path. When the tree starts to fall, use it.
15. Calculate square footage. Width times length.
16. Tie a bow tie.
Step 1: Make a simple knot, allowing slightly more length (one to two inches) on the end of A.
Step 2: Lay A out of the way, fold B into the normal bow shape, and position it on the first knot you made.
Step 3: Drop A vertically over folded end B.
Step 4: Double back A on itself and position it over the knot so that the two folded ends make a cross.
Step 5: The hard part: Pass folded end A under and behind the left side (yours) of the knot and through the loop behind folded end B.
Step 6: Tighten the knot you have created, straightening, particularly in the center.
17. Make one drink, in large batches, very well.
When I interviewed for my first job, one of the senior guys had me to his house for a reception. He offered me a cigarette and pointed me to a bowl of whiskey sours, like I was Darrin Stephens and he was Larry Tate. I can still remember that first tight little swallow and my gratitude that I could go back for a refill without looking like a drunk. I came to admire the host over the next decade, but he never gave me the recipe. So I use this: • For every 750-ml bottle of whiskey (use a decent bourbon or rye), add: • 6 oz fresh-squeezed, strained lemon juice • 6 oz simple syrup (mix superfine sugar and water in equal quantities)
To serve: Shake 3 oz per person with ice and strain into chilled cocktail glasses. Garnish with a cherry and an orange slice or, if you're really slick, a float of red wine. (Pour about 1/2 oz slowly into each glass over the back of a spoon; this is called a New York sour, and it's great.)
18. Speak a foreign language. Pas beaucoup. Mais faites un effort.
19. Approach a woman out of his league. Ever have a shoeshine from a guy you really admire? He works hard enough that he doesn't have to tell stupid jokes; he doesn't stare at your legs; he knows things you don't, but he doesn't talk about them every minute; he doesn't scrape or apologize for his status or his job or the way he is dressed; he does his job confidently and with a quiet relish. That stuff is wildly inviting. Act like that guy.
20. Sew a button.
21. Argue with a European without getting xenophobic or insulting soccer.
Once, in our lifetime, much of Europe was approaching cultural and political irrelevance. Then they made like us and banded together into a union of confederated states. So you can always assume that they were simply copying the United States as they now push us to the verge of cultural and political irrelevance.
22. Give a woman an orgasm so that he doesn't have to ask after it.
Otherwise, ask after it.
23. Be loyal. You will fail at it. You have already. A man who does not know loyalty, from both ends, does not know men. Loyalty is not a matter of give-and-take: He did me a favor, therefore I owe him one. No. No. No. It is the recognition of a bond, the honoring of a shared history, the reemergence of the vows we make in the tight times. It doesn't mean complete agreement or invisible blood ties. It is a currency of selflessness, given without expectation and capable of the most stellar return.
24. Know his poison, without standing there, pondering like a dope. Brand, amount, style, fast, like so: Booker's, double, neat.
25. Drive an eightpenny nail into a treated two-by-four without thinking about it.
Use a contractor's hammer. Swing hard and loose, like a tennis serve.
26. Cast a fishing rod without shrieking or sighing or otherwise admitting defeat.
27. Play gin with an old guy. Old men will try to crush you. They'll drown you in meaningless chatter, tell stories about when they were kids this or in Korea that. Or they'll retreat into a taciturn posture designed to get you to do the talking. They'll note your strategies without mentioning them, keep the stakes at a level they can control, and change up their pace of play just to get you stumbling. You have to do this -- play their game, be it dominoes or cribbage or chess. They may have been playing for decades. You take a beating as a means of absorbing the lessons they've learned without taking a lesson. But don't be afraid to take them down. They can handle it.
28. Play go fish with a kid.
You don't crush kids. You talk their ear off, make an event out of it, tell them stories about when you were a kid this or in Vegas that. You have to play their game, too, even though they may have been playing only for weeks. Observe. Teach them without once offering a lesson. And don't be afraid to win. They can handle it.
29. Understand quantum physics well enough that he can accept that a quarter might, at some point, pass straight through the table when dropped.
Sometimes the laws of physics aren't laws at all. Read The Quantum World: Quantum Physics for Everyone, by Kenneth W. Ford.
30. Feign interest. Good place to start: quantum physics.
31. Make a bed.
32. Describe a glass of wine in one sentence without using the terms nutty, fruity, oaky, finish, or kick. I once stood in a wine store in West Hollywood where the owner described a pinot noir he favored as "a night walk through a wet garden." I bought it. I went to my hotel and drank it by myself, looking at the flickering city with my feet on the windowsill. I don't know which was more right, the wine or the vision that he placed in my head. Point is, it was right.
33. Hit a jump shot in pool. It's not something you use a lot, but when you hit a jump shot, it marks you as a player and briefly impresses women. Make the angle of your cue steeper, aim for the bottommost fraction of the ball, and drive the cue smoothly six inches past the contact point, making steady, downward contact with the felt.
34. Dress a wound. First, stop the bleeding. Apply pressure using a gauze pad. Stay with the pressure. If you can't stop the bleeding, forget the next step, just get to a hospital. Once the bleeding stops, clean the wound. Use water or saline solution; a little soap is good, too. If you can't get the wound clean, then forget the next step, just get to a hospital. Finally, dress the wound. For a laceration, push the edges together and apply a butterfly bandage. For avulsions, where the skin is punctured and pulled back like a trapdoor, push the skin back and use a butterfly. Slather the area in antibacterial ointment. Cover the wound with a gauze pad taped into place. Change that dressing every 12 hours, checking carefully for signs of infection. Better yet, get to a hospital.
35. Jump-start a car (without any drama). Change a flat tire (safely). Change the oil (once).
36. Make three different bets at a craps table. Play the smallest and most poorly labeled areas, the bets where it's visually evident the casino doesn't want you to go. Simply play the pass line; once the point is set, play full odds (this is the only really good bet on the table); and when you want a little more action, tell the crew you want to lay the 4 and the 10 for the minimum bet.
37. Shuffle a deck of cards.
I play cards with guys who can't shuffle, and they lose. Always.
38. Tell a joke. Here's one:
Two guys are walking down a dark alley when a mugger approaches them and demands their money. They both grudgingly pull out their wallets and begin taking out their cash. Just then, one guy turns to the other, hands him a bill, and says, "Hey, here's that $20 I owe you."
39. Know when to split his cards in blackjack.
Aces. Eights. Always.
40. Speak to an eight-year-old so he will hear. Use his first name. Don't use baby talk. Don't crank up your energy to match his. Ask questions and wait for answers. Follow up. Don't pretend to be interested in Webkinz or Power Rangers or whatever. He's as bored with that shit as you are. Concentrate instead on seeing the child as a person of his own.
41. Speak to a waiter so he will hear.
You don't own the restaurant, so don't act like it. You own the transaction. So don't speak into the menu. Lift your chin. Make eye contact. All restaurants have secrets -- let it be known that you expect to see some of them.
42. Talk to a dog so it will hear.
Go ahead, use baby talk.
43. Install: a disposal, an electronic thermostat, or a lighting fixture without asking for help. Just turn off the damned main.
44. Ask for help.
Guys who refuse to ask for help are the most cursed men of all. The stubborn, the self-possessed, and the distant. The hell with them.
45. Break another man's grip on his wrist. Rotate your arm rapidly in the grip, toward the other guy's thumb.
46. Tell a woman's dress size.
47. Recite one poem from memory. Here you go:
WHEN YOU ARE OLD
When you are old and gray and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
--William Butler Yeats
48. Remove a stain. Blot. Always blot.
49. Say no.
50. Fry an egg sunny-side up. Cook until the white appears solid...and no longer.
51. Build a campfire.
There are three components:
1. The tinder -- bone-dry, snappable twigs, about as long as your hand. You need two complete handfuls. Try birch bark; it burns long and hot.
2. The kindling -- thick as your thumb, long as your forearm, breakable with two hands. You need two armfuls.
3. Fuel wood -- anything thick and long enough that it can't be broken by hand. It's okay if it's slightly damp. You need a knee-high stack.
Step 1: Light the tinder, turning the pile gently to get air underneath it.
Step 2: Feed the kindling into the emergent fire with some pace.
Step 3: Lay on the fuel wood. Pyramid, the log cabin, whatever -- the idea is to create some kind of structure so that plenty of air gets to the fire.
52. Step into a job no one wants to do. When I was 13, my dad called me into his office at the large urban mall he ran. He was on the phone. What followed was a fairly banal 15-minute conversation, which involved the collection of rent from a store. On and on, droning about store hours and lighting problems. I kept raising my eyebrows, pretending to stand up, and my dad kept waving me down. I could hear only his end, garrulous and unrelenting. He rolled his eyes as the excuses kept coming. His assertions were simple and to the point, like a drumbeat. He wanted the rent. He wanted the store to stay open when the mall was open. Then suddenly, having given the job the time it deserved, he put it to an end. "So if I see your gate down next Sunday afternoon, I'm going to get a drill and stick a goddamn bolt in it and lock you down for the next week, right?" When he hung up, rent collected, he took a deep breath. "I've been dreading that call," he said. "Once a week you gotta try something you never would do if you had the choice. Otherwise, why are you here?" So he gave me that. And this...
53. Sometimes, kick some ass.
54. Break up a fight. Work in pairs if possible. Don't get between people initially. Use the back of the collar, pull and urge the person downward. If you can't get him down, work for distance.
55. Point to the north at any time.
If you have a watch, you can point the hour hand at the sun. Then find the point directly between the hour hand and the 12. That's south. The opposite direction is, of course, north.
56. Create a play-list in which ten seemingly random songs provide a secret message to one person.
57. Explain what a light-year is. It's the measure of the distance that light travels over 365.25 days.
58. Avoid boredom. You have enough to eat. You can move. This must be acknowledged as a kind of freedom. You don't always have to buy things, put things in your mouth, or be delighted.
59. Write a thank-you note.
Make a habit of it. Follow a simple formula like this one: First line is a thesis statement. The second line is evidentiary. The third is a kind of assertion. Close on an uptick.
Thanks for having me over to watch game six. Even though they won, it's clear the Red Sox are a soulless, overmarketed contrivance of Fox TV. Still, I'm awfully happy you have that huge high-def television. Next time, I really will bring beer. Yours,
60. Be brand loyal to at least one product. It tells a lot about who you are and where you came from. Me? I like Hellman's mayonnaise and Genesee beer, which makes me the fleshy, stubbornly upstate ne'er-do-well that I will always be.
61. Cook bacon.
Lay out the bacon on a rack on a baking sheet. Bake at 400 degrees for 15 minutes.
62. Hold a baby.
Newborns should be wrapped tightly and held against the chest. They like tight spaces (consider their previous circumstances) and rhythmic movements, so hold them snug, tuck them in the crook of your elbow or against the skin of your neck. Rock your hips like you're bored, barely listening to the music at the edge of a wedding reception. No one has to notice except the baby. Don't breathe all over them.
63. Deliver a eulogy. Take the job seriously. It matters. Speak first to the family, then to the outside world. Write it down. Avoid similes. Don't read poetry. Be funny.
64. Know that Christopher Columbus was a son of a bitch. When I was a kid, because I'm Italian and because the Irish guys in my neighborhood were relentless with the beatings on St. Patrick's Day, I loved the very idea of Christopher Columbus. I loved the fact that Irish kids worshipped some gnome who drove all the rats out of Ireland or whatever, whereas my hero was an explorer. Man, I drank the Kool-Aid on that guy. Of course, I later learned that he was a hand-chopping, land-stealing egotist who sold out an entire hemisphere to European avarice. So I left Columbus behind. Your understanding of your heroes must evolve. See Roger Clemens. See Bill Belichick.
65-67. Throw a baseball over-hand with some snap. Throw a football with a tight spiral. Shoot a 12-foot jump shot reliably.
If you can't, play more ball.
68. Find his way out of the woods if lost. Note your landmarks -- mountains, power lines, the sound of a highway. Look for the sun: It sits in the south; it moves west. Gauge your direction every few minutes. If you're completely stuck, look for a small creek and follow it downstream. Water flows toward larger bodies of water, where people live.
69. Tie a knot.
Square knot: left rope over right rope, turn under. Then right rope over left rope. Tuck under. Pull. Or as my pack leader, Dave Kenyon, told me in a Boy Scouts meeting: "Left over right, right over left. What's so fucking hard about that?"
70. Shake hands. Steady, firm, pump, let go. Use the time to make eye contact, since that's where the social contract begins.
71. Iron a shirt. My uncle Tony the tailor once told me of ironing: Start rough, end gently.
72. Stock an emergency bag for the car.
Blanket. Heavy flashlight. Hand warmers. Six bottles of water. Six packs of beef jerky. Atlas. Reflectors. Gloves. Socks. Bandages. Neosporin. Inhaler. Benadryl. Motrin. Hard candy. Telescoping magnet. Screwdriver. Channel-locks. Crescent wrench. Ski hat. Bandanna.
73. Caress a woman's neck. Back of your fingers, in a slow fan.
74. Know some birds. If you can't pay attention to a bird, then you can't learn from detail, you aren't likely to appreciate the beauty of evolution, and you don't have a clue how birdlike your own habits may be. You've been looking at them blindly for years now. Get a guide.
75. Negotiate a better price. Be informed. Know the price of competitors. In a big store, look for a manager. Don't be an asshole. Use one phrase as your mantra, like "I need a little help with this one." Repeat it, as an invitation to him. Don't beg. Ever. Offer something: your loyalty, your next purchase, even your friendship, and, with the deal done, your gratitude.

Musicians and other famous women

It's been what, a week and a half, two weeks since I talked about music last? And at least that long since I discussed famous women I like, right? Better fix that.



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Doctor, Doctor!



Morgan Doctor is the drummer for The Cliks. My drum teacher gave me a good piece of advice once: "Work on not just keeping a beat or matching what the original drummer did for a song. Make it your own. Find a groove and actually add to the song's sound. People should be able to just hear you play and tell it's you. Have your own unique sound and interpretation, and even if you're playing the simplest, least technical stuff, it'll be great drumming." Morgan's drum parts on Snakehouse definitely fit that bill. They are at once unique, solid, and ethereal, like good bass or rhythm guitar. Sometimes complex, sometimes simple, she knows when to be silent and when to let rip. I admire her as a musician and an artist. I also happen to think she is incredibly sexy. If you've ever looked at the liner notes from Snakehouse, you know what I mean.



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Well my name isn't Bobby McGee...



Janis Joplin. Need I say more? She was a vibrantly independent woman, truly a child of and shaper of the times in which she lived and died. I believe I'm safe in saying that since she hit it big, nearly everyone who likes girls has had a crush on Janis. Isn't it ironic that she always seemed to have trouble finding a good man? Some believe it was depression over a no-good man leaving her that led to her death. I know that if I'd been in the right place at the right time, I'd have did my damndest to have gotten involved with her, that's for sure. Well, if I wasn't busy chasing Grace Slick.

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Follow the White Rabbit

Which brings me to Grace Slick. Can this gal sing or what? I can't think of anyone else who bends her notes like Grace did in many of the Airplane's songs. It's absolutely entrancing. And it's kind of nice to be able to sing along with a girl and not have to harmonize a few notes lower. Seriously, I only miss two high notes in White Rabbit, compared with most of them if I try and match, say, Janis Joplin or Kaia Wilson. Or Geddy Lee, but to quote Alice Cooper,"he sings like a hamster on helium." I met Grace Slick last year when a local art gallery was showing her paintings. Art-wise, she was good, but not great. Most of them involved white rabbits and/or mushrooms. Or a hookah-smoking caterpillar. I got a kick out of that one. It was the non-song-based work that was the best. She really captured Jim Morrison in one painting. And in another, every single famous person in the Monterey Pop picture was instantly recognizable. Grace was really quite fun to talk to, on a variety of topics. I even managed to keep from doing the dumbstruck-idiot-who-just-met-one-of-his-heroes routine... more than once.

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Don't tell my heart

That is the first and last time I plan on quoting Achy Breaky Heart. I couldn't help it, since I'm talking about Miley Cyrus. She's bright, a great singer, and not a total drama queen. And 100% less creepy than her dad. That's pretty rare on the Disney channel. Did I mention she's also beautiful? And I'm pretty sure she's the only one in this list who's young enough that I wouldn't be jailbait.

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Selena Quintanilla Perez

I was watching TV the other day and a documentary came on about Selena's life, music, and death. It was quite good. I had never heard of her before, but next time I'm at the record store, I'm getting one or two of her albums. She had an amazing voice, and I like her songwriting... even if it took me half an hour with a bilingual dictionary to translate one song. I fail at Spanish. It's really a shame, because it's a much more melodic language than our harsh Germanic base. And as I'm sure you've already noticed, the sexiest women on the planet are Hispanic women.

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Who?

You heard me right, Hillary Duff. Shut up. Hillary, call me.

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More Barrymore!

Everyone has one or two famous people for whom they would drop everything and run off with if said person ever showed up on their doorstep. Drew Barrymore (especially if she was with the rest of the Angels) is on that list. She's a good actress, and drop-dead gorgeous.

The Sons of Silence

S.O.S. is a 1%er motorcycle club. They have a lot of brothers in Colorado Springs, and a fair few in Denver. Just to let you know, 1%er means that they will kill for the club. Don't go being a smartass and disrespecting these guys. I've heard about people who have....

They're the real deal, a lot like the Hells Angels. But while "Hells Angel" is a nationally recognizable phrase, which calls up fear and semi-romanticized ideas, not that many people think of the same thing when they hear "Son of Silence." Don't be too scared, but be wary. Don't get in an S.O.S. brother's way.

Please be informed that not all motorcyclists are 1%ers. That's why they are 1%ers: the AMA issued a statement after an alleged riot, saying that 99% of the American motorcyclist population is generally law-abiding and not out for trouble. But over the years, the general feeling of some bikers being okay guys who will turn the other cheek has kind of backfired: I do try to avoid the 1%er bars, but every now and then we're driving past one and some neophyte is standing way too close to a guy's bike, probably asking something stupid like "Is it a Harley?" or "I've got a Suzuki. It's a hell of a lot faster than this thing." I'm sure by the time he left, that fellow needed to change his shorts, if not worse.

Moral of the story: we 99%ers kind of like it when people flich a bit, then relax. Respect us, but don't piss your pants and run, okay? That said, a lot of 99%ers will deck you if you're being a real asshole, so be warned.

A simple guideline to whether or not you're standing too close to a bike: if you could touch it, bump it, or accidentally kick it (let alone spill something on it), you're too close. Turn your head to sneeze. If it's unattended, don't enter the same parking spot, even to look. Seriously, don't cross the line. Bike theives are lower than dirt, and there are WAY too many things on a bike that could get damaged or stolen. If someone told me that someone was standing next to my bike for a while, especially more than one person, even if I was in the middle of class or fuckin' jury duty at the time, I'd be outside in a flash, talking to them and maybe giving 'em a bit of a scare if they were being jerks.

If the person is right there (for example, they just pulled into the parking lot), ask permission to look at the bike. If they say yes, they'll accompany you the whole time. If you're wondering about whether it's a magneto or a battery ignition, for example, ask as you're walking to the spot you'd need to be to see it. Feel free to crouch, but respect the "if you could touch it..." rule. If you manage to bump something, apologise profusely, but shut up if the guy tells you to. If you'd like to point at something, such as an interesting bit of art paint, or a left-side kickstart, do so from near your body. Whatever you do, don't touch, unless the owner asks you to, such as "Them saddlebags is made of real buckskin. Seven pointer, shot him myself, up near Silverthorne. Go ahead, give it a feel." Then touch lightly, and don't linger. When you're done, back up at least as far as where the rider is standing. Know when to leave.

Rules for show are a little different. Still, don't touch. I hear the last thing Jimmy Hoffa did was touch the wrong guy's vehicle, you dig? Never touch paint, especially if it's unrestored and/or flaking. Never touch chrome: it's a bitch to polish, and if you touch chrome and it gets heated up before the fingerprint is removed with a solvent (such as an exhaust pipe), it will be permanent. Literally, don't drool. I've seen it happen. If there's a rope, stay behind the rope (duh). If there's not a rope, and there are no marked spaces, respect the "touch" rule, but you can get a lot closer if you're very careful and respectful, and, if it's a publiclly judged show and the guy is right there, and/or you have obtained permission, feel free to lean, kneel, crawl, and ask all sorts of questions, as long as you don't actually touch it. If he's brought it to the show, he wants to brag. Give him the opportunity by asking leading questions, like "this exhaust is interesting" or "who did your paint?" Feel free to ask permission to look "up close," then look for little details. Mention a detail or two, like billet vs. braided lines, etc. When you're done, back away, repecting the touch rule again. Feel free to tell stories, but don't be the human sleeping pill. Keep 'em relevant, like "I had a '38 Chief back in the day. Had all sorts of power down low. Once, I put a 19-tooth sproket on it and got it up to 100 out here on 24." That's a whole story. Nobody wants you life story and a full rundown of every bike you've ever owned. Say thanks, and/or complement the vehicle before you leave. A simple "that's neat" or "that's an interesting find" will do, depending on the situation.

This mostly applies to cars, but if you will be leaning over something or walking between close-parked cars (such as at a cruise-in, parking lot, or drive-in theater), put one hand over your belt buckle.

Why is there no such thing as a bachelor's in photo airbrushing, with a minor in human forms?

Alright, who's the idiot in charge of the airbrush? Seriously. I've seen better airbrush skills on the side of coal cars. You're going to airbrush her face, but only her face? How do you explain the shadow snafu on Ms. June 24? It's obvious that the in-house image editing involves some stage where the pictures are sent around in a state of high-loss compression. What is up with these image artificts?

I know, you're wondering why I'm stressing about details like this. Well, I'm a little bit OCD, and a more than a little bit nerdy, and image-editing is a bit of a hobby of mine. So here's this week's geek quota.

But really, whoever you are, permission to use Photoshop revoked. Learn to use an actual (as in zomg-real-wrld) airbrush.

I could talk about the women in these photos, but I really think I'd just be stating the obvious. So it's one of those things where the quote "You look at that picture and the glasses bother you? How about he two sailors in assless chaps? Did you notice them, Bill?" applies pretty well. So on that note, please observe that there are some pretty rockin' pinstripes on Ms. June 30's shoes, there's probably a cheap import car parked behind Ms. June 14 (why hasn't anyone like her walked into the local soda fountain lately?), the picture of Ms. June 26 was probably taken on a slightly raised stage, if not on a tile floor, someone needs to get a better camera that won't royally screw up the photo like June 16, the camera's dynamic response on Ms June 28's black vest is phenomenal, the lighting effects on and behind Ms. July 2 (perfectly out of focus, diffused light sourcing) are great, Ms July 4 (period. Ms. July 4. What words can apply?), please explain the pseudo-bun Ms. July 6 is sporting, and Ms. July 8 is posing with a really awesome Rich bass. Notice all of those details? Good, now you have my permission to go back to just plain staring.

P.S. nice hair highlights on Ms. June 22, Mr. Airbrush-No-Talent. Really, it's good.

Beep... Beep... Beep...

We interrupt your regularly scheduled music and general piggishness to bring you yet another op-ed. This time about immigration.

I have a whole spiel about illegal immigration. This isn't it.

This is actually about legal immigration. Not so much of a hot-button topic, I know, but bear with me. It's usually the uninteresting things that are the most important. This is no exception.

As immigration law stands today, if you want to get permanent resident status and the opportunity to apply for citizenship, it's a hell of a lot easier if you're married to a U.S. citizen. You know where I'm going with this. What if you legally can't get married?

Well, HRC is having some sort of conference to talk about it. I've been to conferences like that for other issues. I'd rather put a new roof on the Death Valley ranger station in the middle of the day, then shove two pinecones up my nose before I go to another one. Despite their bad reputation, most business meetings aren't like the ones at Dilbert's company. Most meetings in most functional companies are useful, productive, and to the point. Most of the time, when trying to get something done, a good meeting is the best way to speed it along.

"Fact-finding" conferences like the one coming up don't fall under that category. Those conferences are just a circlejerk where all of the big decision makers get together, state the obvious, and beat around the bush. And in most cases, give bad powerpoints. They serve a purpose, in that once you get these conferences out of the way, you can actually do something useful.

Generally, HRC does a great job of organizing and soliciting action on issues that matter. They hire people who can do the Politician Two-Step and get some votes changed. But really, who gives a damn about this "education event?" Really, teach-ins only work if they're reaching an audience who didn't know. How many people are going to the immigration teach-in who might actually gain something from it? You can't give me enough light refreshments to listen to a bunch of lawyers talk about this topic. It's information I would like to have, but I'd like to not have my soul crushed in the process. Okay, so let's say fortune strikes and everyone finds the conference very useful. Now here's what I'd like to know. Who the fuck is going to do anything about it?

The Sons of No-one

I've already gone through the "CHECK THE ORGAN DONOR BOX ON YOUR DRIVER'S LISCENSE, ASSHOLE" speech. There really aren't enough organs available. If they made "yes" the default choice instead of "no," there would be a lot more organs available for everyone who needs them. If you're dead, you don't need them anymore. Let your organs save someone else's life.

Just wait until you know someone who's been on the list for years. You'll be shouting that same thing at people, too. You know what issues you care about and why. Whatever your story, especially if it's a bit of a personal vendetta, I encourage you to use that motivation to reach other people with your message. If you don't, how will things ever change? And fuck changing things by voting. One vote for your cause is a drop in the bucket. Change things by causing change in peoples' thinking, from the ground up. Community and culture first, then laws. Then all of those people are voting with you, and it's a lasting change, not just a token law that pretty much everyone ignores. Be a part of a minority group and get arrested in the Deep South. Just because the law says they have to treat you fair doesn't mean that's so. You know what I mean.

I also touched on foster care in a previous post. I'm serious, the foster care system is fucked up. A lot of times, coming from a fucked up home is better than becoming a ward of the state. Sad but true. There are exceptions, but a lot of the time, staying in one fucked up situation is better than leaving that situation for another just like it (or, God forbid, worse). Think about how badly some stepchildren are treated. Now imagine it twice as bad. That is how badly some foster parents treat their "tenants."

That makes it sound a lot worse than it is, on average, but there's no denying, that's the Ward of the State experience for far too many kids. Even one is one too may.

Don't get me wrong, there are a lot of foster parents who really care, who, during the year or two years that a foster child is with them, will do their absolute best to make sure they're not just providing room and board, but a family. I'll admit, those parents are few and far between, but if you're a ward of the state and get assigned to fster parents like these people, that is going to be a childhood memory to look back on, beacon of happy times in amongst whatever else you may have been though.

See, there's just some aspect of being a foster parent that apparently leads most people to never really invest, emotionally or financially, in the kids, since they'll be leaving. It's a lot like how Army brats learn not to make friends in their new hometown, because they'll just have no leave them behind again in a little while when daddy is transferred to another base. That's really a tragedy, because that means the vast majority of foster kids have to pretty much fend for themselves, in a kind of limbo, with no real family or support.

So I guess my point is, consider being a foster parent (and vote to make it legal for gay couples to be foster parents, too), but don't jump into the decision. Make sure you can afford to feed and clothe and foster kids you may take in, but make sure you can afford to take them to the amusement park, or maybe on family vacation, too. Make sure you can afford having all of that financial and emotional investment get in a car and disappear someday. And most of all, make sure that you will be making a positive difference in these kids' lives.

If you can do all of that, God willing, I encourage you and your significant other (whomever that may be, but please, be informed that if you try single foster-parenting, you will likely either be turned down, or wish you had been) to look into providing foster care. The system needs more good people like you.
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On that note, have you seen the movie Four Brothers? If not, you should. Netflix it or something. It's a great movie. It's loosely based off of The Sons of Katie Elder, but it's better acted, and I like the storyline more. Of course, I am partial to vigilate flicks.

Paddle faster, I hear banjos!

Ah, Deliverance was a funny movie, don't you agree? Gotcha.




Have you ever heard this song played by actual hillbillies? I didn't think so. The Band did great, but the best "Up on Cripple Creek" I ever heard was actually in Cripple Creek, at a mule race. The singer couldn't really sing worth a damn, but the banjos (yes I said two), awesome upright bass, and perfect bluesey, sripped-down drumming just made it... right.

Obama Girl

Let's talk about Obama Girl for a second, here. All ya'll know me, you know where I'm going with this. I can guarantee you, this will have absolutely NOTHING to do with politics.

Ever watch the Dukes of Hazzard? Remember Daisy Duke's shorts? Of course you do. Unfortunately, way too many people went out and bought cutoff denim shorts. People who shouldn't be wearing short shorts. But, boy howdy, is Obama Girl qualified.

I should probably metnion something about that song, other than the fact that it is now stuck in my head. From a musical standpoint, it's just a simple R&B formula, but there are enough layers to it to stay interesting. You know, a catchy chorus, some ambient background vocals, infectious, sultry rhythm, oh and did I mention the girl dancing to it?

I know what you're saying right now. It's really obvious that this whole "Obama Girl" thing was just a ploy for fame on Ms. Ettinger's part. I say yeah, so? It's actually relevant to politics in the same way that SNL and Jay Leno are. It's not that she was trying to influence votes or anything, just that she was trying to entertain the masses.

And she does it well. The video has good camerawork (obviously a red-blooded human being behind that camera).

So she's got some applicable, entertaining, lighthearted videos. She's got legs from here to the next county. And it's obvious that she's actually very intelligent and well-informed, with a wicked sense of timing. And she carries herself well, with that same air Daisy Duke had.

So really, why can't the line be "I've got a crush on Obama Girl"?

Hindsight is 20/20... and I DO feel like an ass

Let me introduce you to our driveway. Very-steep-and-wouldn't-meet-code, meet my readers. Readers, meet our driveway. It met code back in 1956, but I'm very confident it would not pass inspection were it built today. The street slopes down at about a 25-degree angle, and the level bit of the diveway is built about eight to ten vertical feet above the street. They meet at a weird angle, have a steep four-inch curb, then the driveway takes off at a varying angle in the neighborhood of 33 degrees. Then it levels out just in time to give ten feet of level before you risk going through the garage door. We tried parking a truck in the driveway once. The rear wheels hung onto the slope by about two inches. That's enough to send the truck off in the winter. That's why we don't have a truck.

Oh, no, the driveways in my neighbohood are not for sissies. Most people have some leeway for error, but all us folks have three options: right, try again, and propery damage. There is no almost.

So you can see my consternation when my dad loads good old just-got-my-learner's-permit-three-fucking-days-ago into the car, has me drive around the neighborhood a little (I've got that part down. Thank god it's not a stickshift, or I'd still be trying to get up the hill). No problem yet. I ask if I can try parking in the driveway (do or do not, there is no try), and he says sure. Halfway up the block we live on (and I do mean UP), he shows no signs of intending to explain how, or even of paying attention. Then, about 20 feet before the driveway, he says "stay right, then just trun left like you normally would."

Oh that cleared it all up.

Good news is, the garage door is intact. Car wound up at an odd angle, way too fast, and then I had to slam on the brakes because my dad decided that even though I was no longer even going fast enough to register on the spedometer, I was getting too close to the garage door and shouted "STOP!!!!!" while I was still a solid six feet from it. I got out and checked, dammit. One wheel clean on the slope, one wheel just barely off the level, and two on the level bit of the driveway, I called it a day and proceeded to head inside. My dad could fix the angle of the car and then learn to explain things when he's asked to do so.

I told you that story to tell you this story.

For the past couple of weeks, we have had a robin's nest on top of our garage light. It's nice and protected there. Not to mention warm.

Several thunderstorms have come through here since momma robin layed her eggs, and two eggs blew out. One aparently survived and hatched, and grew pretty healthily plump. He's obviously the only chick left out of at least three eggs.

When I came into the driveway in a manner which can best be described as "like a drunk bat out of hell," I scared that poor bird. As I was walking to the door, I could see him standing up shakily and crying out, scared somethin' feirce. Just as I was fishing for my key, I saw the little bird tip a little too far and fall. He tried to grip the brick, but kept falling, frantically flapping his wings. That barely helped, but it did slow him enough that he could land in an evergreen planter without damage.

Momma robin was in the tree, calling frantically while he fell. Once he landed, momma chirped a few times as he hopped around and tried to get airborne, to no avail. He did get around a bit, and got pretty well hidden, but I don't know if it will be enough.

See, we have had a fox hanging around the area for a few months, and I'm sure he'd love some fresh, tender poultry the first chance he gets. That baby robin has a while to go before he will be able to fly to safety, and in the meantime, it's a crapshoot. He'd be safe if he were still up in the nice warm, sheltered, safe nest. Now he's fallen out and the fucking fox can get to him.

Thing is, he'd be fine, except I scared the bird. If I'd have remembered the nest, I'd have been much more careful and probably would have gotten stuck halfway in the driveway. Maybe I'd have got the car parked oaky. But I sure as hell wouldn't have scared him that much.

God I hope that little bird survives.

More music reveiws

If you don't have it already, get the album Snakehouse by The Cliks. Notice how that's spelled. Some record stores have it entered in their computer as a self-titled album. You'll probably have to dig through The Clash and The Click Five, since it won't be right upfront on the shelf.

If you've never heard of this band, that's okay. Now you have. You'll wonder how you ever listened to music before. Warning: as far as I'm concerned, vinyl records are still the technology du jour. Expect CDs, no matter how many times I say LP, B-Side, 45, or needle skip.

The lead singer, Lucas Silveira, has an amazing voice. I don't care who you are, when the lyrics start and you hear him singing, your heart is gonna skip a couple of beats. I pretty much guaran-damn-tee it.

Their cover of Cry Me a River and the song Oh Yeah are the two most famous singles off of this LP, but they are by no means the best songs. As always, the very best songs on an album are the ones you don't hear on the radio very much. Listen to Soul Back Driver or Misery and tell me that the atmosphere of these songs wasn't perfect. Tell me truthfully that you didn't feel like you'd lost your soul, or feel that feeling of being so down, hating yourself so much that you can hardly keep going, but not staying there; instead pulling yourself up by your bootstraps and looking this whole damn world right back in the eye.

I must admit, until I finally got the album, I would not have anticipated their blues chops. Maybe the music is a bit more technical than delta blues, has just as many overtones of Syd Barrett jamming with Tony Iommi and Rush as it has in common with Texas blues boogie, but it is BLUES at its roots. They have combined dissonance and melody, both in turns and at once, into a unique style that fits the outpouring of pain perfectly. A sound all their own. If you can come up with a way to play any of the musical parts better, please, let me know. Or even if it's just different. We'll get together and jam or something. I'd love an excuse to sing Lucas' lyrics some more.



Oh, god, can he be sexy.

Just for the record, that's probably the only time you'll hear me say that phrase. Take a photo or something.

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If Jesus walked the world today, he'd probably be a hillbilly.

Those are the words in the chorus in Alan Jackson's song "If Jesus Walked the World Today." Common man of men, and the king of many, indeed. The song's off of his latest album, Good Time. I've heard some reviews say that it lacks a toe-tapper, foot-stomper like Chattahoochee, but I have to disagree. Crank up the title song, Country Boy, 1976, Long Long Way, or If You Want to Make Me Happy and haul ass down a country road, truck bed full of buddies. I include If You Want to Make Me Happy in that list, even though it's more melancholy. In fact, the whole album sounds best with the volume cranked to 11, all the windows down, and a load of rednecks. I'll admit it, white people cram their redneck buddies into the back of a truck like some Mexican dudes I know can cram people into their sedans. I've seen David pull up and unload nine people out of a Ford Taurus. Sedan. Figure that one out. But seriously, next time you see a mid-sixties good ol' American truck, fog lights up top, lift kit, covered in mud and a roll bar across the back of the cab, count how many guys are in it. Hell yeah.

I believe that riding in the bed of a truck should be legal. In Colorado it is if you're over 18, but if you'e a minor, you can only ride in the bed if you're wearing a shoulder and lap belt. What the hell? I ain't equipping no truck with shoulder belts. My grandpa would put his five kids in the bed going to and from a jobsite. When we used to go visit him, I got to ride in the back of his El Camino when he was hauling builing materials up to his retirement house (built it with his own hands). He'd haul ass around the winding Cascade roads, but my cousins and me were never close to falling out. You're more likely to fall out of some convertibles than the bed of a pickup. As long as you're not an idiot, you're perfectly safe, except in the event of a rollover, in which case you're glued, screwed, and tattooed in a convertible, too.

But to get back on track, Good Time has great country love ballads, songs of sorrow, and good ol' fashioned dance songs. Alan Jackson, ever the gifted wordsmith, used that talent in spades when he wrote this album. He can get complex songs and complex concepts across in such a way that you'll be able to understand and remember them, even if you happen to be hearing the music five minutes before last call. Somehow, Alan can lay down a chorus, go miles off track in the process of getting to the point, and then bring it all back to that same chorus. The songs just fit together. Every song I've ever heard by Mr. Jackson has painted a picture of that scene in my mind at 1080P.

The shining star of this fantastic album, though, is Sissy's Song. Bring Kleenex. I know when I tossed a few CDs in the disc changer and hit shuffle, I wasn't expecting anything terribly touching, just something to stomp my foot to while I raced my Charger on the Xbox. I wasn't expecting a slideshow of memories to get called up during a road race. I wrecked that damn Charger, cost me a fortune to fix. But it's only virtual money in a virtual world.

Why did she have to go/So young I just don't know/Why things happen half the time/Without reason/Without rhyme/Lovely sweet young woman/Daughter, wife and mother/Makes no sense to me/I just have to believe/She flew up to heaven on the wings of angels/By clouds and stars and passed where no one sees/and she walks with Jesus and her loved ones waiting/and I know she's smilin'/Sayin' "Don't worry 'bout me."/Loved ones she left behind/Just tryin' to survive/and understand the why/feelin' so lost inside/Anger shot straight at God/Then asking for His love/Empty with disbelief/just hoping that may be/She flew up to heaven on the wings of angels/By the clouds and stars and passed where no one sees/And she walks with Jesus and her loved ones waiting/And I know she's smilin' saying "Don't worry 'bout me."/It's hard to say goodbye/Her picture in my mind/Will always be of times I'll cherish/And I won't cry/ 'cause she flew up to heaven on the wings of angels/By the clouds and stars and passed where no one sees/And she walks with Jesus and her loved ones waiting/And I know she's smilin' sayin', "Don't worry 'bout me."

Alan always has top-notch musicians in his band. The pedal-steel on this album will blow you away, and so will the fingerpicked guitar. Not to mention Alan himself: that smooth baritone register he delivers his lyrics in.... if it ain't magic, it's close to. Get the album. Hear the song. Now wipe your eyes and blow your nose.

The real family values

Why is it that senators who run on a platform of "family values" and one-man-one-woman marriage law are always the ones who get caught with an intern or in the airport bathroom, or maybe soliciting an "escort"? Why is it that people are so damn afraid of people unlike them? Or even more, people like what they're afraid to be?

Please, someone, anyone, explain these things to me. Why in a nation where the separation of church and state is a part of our law, we have let our law be dictated by the Bible? Why any religious group except for mainstream Protestant Christians faces more challenges, prejudice, and persecution?

The Mormons were declared heretics and cast out. They found a home (what kind of God declares a lake home to his chosen people if it is too salty to even drink from and sustain life?), and established their own society according to their beliefs. That's how the colonies got started in the first place. Now it is only a splinter group that still practices polygamy, but just because the idea of polygamy makes the "family values" people feel uncomfortable, they persecute this group every chance they get.

I'll admit, I won't let a Jehovah's Witness in unless there is nothing good on TV. That's actually more than a little bit cruel, now that I think about it. But would you rather spend two hours knocking on doors and getting turned away, usually rudely, or talking about god and the afterlife with someone who doesn't believe one word you say, but will listen, entertain the idea, and bring you ice tea and snacks? I appreciate the fact that these people feel that they are duty bound to attempt to convert others. They honestly believe that they are saving souls. That's a noble thing to try to do. But I always wonder, while we're discussing the fine points of Genesis, is there someone down the block that would actually be listening and believing what this person has to say? Am I preventing this person from actually "saving a soul?" I don't know what to believe when it comes to religion, but I do believe that everyone is entitled to believe and practice whatever they want, without interference from other people.

I do know that religion is a very sophisticated brainwashing system. Brainwashing is one of those terms that depends on perspective. It's education when your side does it. It's indoctrination when the other guy does it. Religion, regardless of any basis in facts, organizes people, gives people something to think, say, and do (or tell others to do, even as they sin themselves). Religion is a necessary part of society.

But is bigotry a part of that, too? Must there always be an enemy, a subversive? This country has been jumping at shadows. It makes me angry. Jaded, too, and at times resigned to "this, too, shall pass." But then I see a loving couple who by all rights should be married by now. Or I hear someone explain their own twisted version of "morality." If only I could count the number of times I've wanted to kick in the television in the process of kicking the pundit or politician on the screen, when they began discussing that is or isn't immoral. I'll tell you what's immoral. It's deciding that people whom you have never met, who have never done anything to you, whose personal conduct does not have any bearing whatsoever on your life, that they are not equal. That they are not entitled to the same rights as everyone else.

We've seen it over and over again through history. Racism. Sexism. Social elitism and either a legal or de facto caste system. Heteronormativity.

Yeah, that's a big-ass word. That's fancy speak for straight people deciding that anyone who isn't like them, who doesn't feel or think like they do, is by definition inferior. That one man can only love one woman, and that anything other than that system is not only immoral in their eyes, but actually worthy of active defamation, persecution, and legislation against it.

Walk around on any given day, and just listen. Listen to how many times "gay" is used as an adjective synonymous with "wrong," "perverted," or "stupid." Any given day. Roger Waters has a new song, for which there is a comic strip projected behind the stage, helping to tell the story in the song. It is the story of how in the early 1960s, Waters went hitchhiking to Lebanon. I love his musical work, both with and after his time with Pink Floyd, don't get me wrong. At one point, when he was sleeping on a porch, a man who had lost a leg in WWII came up and asked him if he'd like to come back to his place for dinner and a roof over his head for that night. He said that his wife cooked very well, and would be delighted to have a guest. In the comic, there is a thought bubble from the young Waters' head which reads "Thanks God. Monopod, but not queer." I will admit, the prospect of getting taken to someone's home and raped is an unpleasant one, but really, the vast majority or rapists and pedophiles are straight men. In prison, maybe, male-on-male rape is relatively common, but that is a special case.

There is no arguing that homophobia and animosity toward gays is pervasive in our society. This is a part of people's learning from an early age, and to many people is as natural as male chauvinism or support of Jim Crow laws and distrust toward non-whites in decades past.

It is interesting, though, that although blacks and women generally enjoy an equal legal footing with the rest of society after their respective liberation movements, even after "gay liberation" in the 80s, we still face legal (not to mention social) roadblocks toward health plans, employment, adoption, foster parenting, military service, and marriage.

There was an unprecedented conservative backlash when the concept of gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender equality really gained popular support. I have said before how much I admire and stand in awe of the right-wing propaganda machine. This is no different. Their ability to play on people's fears, deliver misinformation and straw-man arguments, instill new fears, drum up hate, and all the while pass themselves off as being pro-family values, protecting the masses, and most of all, not be seen my many was the hatemongers they are is staggering.

Let's talk about family values. More than half of all children are now born out of wedlock. Divorce rates are over 50%. Obviously, most people don't take the old-fashioned family unit seriously unless they happen to be voting to "protect it." Lemme tell you something, if it is so fragile that it can be destroyed by gay marriage, we are obviously not talking about the same "family." Sprechen ze englisch? Are you sure? We're both talking about the same kind of family where there are two parents, a house, 1.7 cars, a white picket fence, and 2.7 kids? Where they are still "family" to one another for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do them part? Well, it's true, 63% or American families are now considered dysfunctional according to the L.A. Times.

Let me tell you, two women or two men are far more likely to be good, prepared parents than your average two yahoos who had some fun one night and she got knocked up. They are more likely to be good parents than a married couple who decided that maybe they'd like a baby, but didn't think it through (it happens a lot). Think about it. There is so much red tape to adopting a child, you really have to want to adopt that kid (unless you're celebrity in Hollywood....). Now think about all the extra red tape gay couples face. It's true. It's part of the administrative decision checklist: are they "morally fit" to raise this child? What the fuck do you think? Becoming a foster parent is even worse. In many states an municipalities, it is actually illegal for a same-sex couple to become foster parents.

That is especially not right. The foster care system in this country is overworked and overbooked. Foster parents are underpaid for the responsibility, but if they raise the tax breaks, more people will do it just for the money, with no real regard to the people. Damned if you do, damned if you don't. Many children fall through the cracks. Turning away qualified, caring foster parents is downright criminal.

While we're at it, let's talk about transgender rights. The laws are patchwork laws, and are often on the wrong side of things anyway. Most of the law is a gray area up to individual judges, and we all know how bad that can be.

Have you ever walked into a bathroom (or out of one) and had people either tell you you're in the wrong bathroom, or stare, glance away, and say something to someone near them? It doesn't happen terribly often, but just plain weird looks do. Double takes, basically.

Funny story. About two and a half weeks after freshman year started, I stopped to use the toilet in between classes. Then when I went to the sink to wash my hands, another girl came out of a stall and started washing her hands at the sink next to me, at about the same time. We had seen each other around campus. We both looked up, looked at each other, and said, "I thought you were a guy."

It's less fucking hilarious when someone says "get outta here, dyke." That's when the asskicking happens. It don't care if your dad has threatened to kill me before, tell me that and I'll rearrange your face before he can get here. And the unconscious don't make phone calls.

Drug lectures and two left feet

I learned several things today. No, wait, that's a lie. I just confirmed what I already knew. I already know I can't work a glowstick (or glowsticks on a string), and fortunately, I didn't actually whack myself in the head with a glowstick on a string today. I just watched other people manage to avoid head-glowstick contact. They made it look easy, but I know it's not.

I also try to avoid techno and raves altogether because I honestly can NOT dance to that stuff. I have tried. Four different people have tried to explain it to me at various occasions in my life. Go ahead, try again. But when you're completely exasperated, let me try and explain to you how to square dance. That won't work well either.

I can dance a bit. The chicken dance and the macarena are two that I will never be able to forget no matter how hard I try, after all the years of having to do them to pass gym class. I can do the cowboy two-step pretty good. I can square dance well enough to get away with it on a good day. Techno dancing is not on that list.

I also don't do MDMA, which unfortunately, is generally in integral part of most raves. It's been a long time since I was high (even a contact high at a concert. Wait no, make that contact HIIIIIGGHHH. They sure smoked up at CSNY). I'm not going to give anyone a drug lecture; that falls under the category of "it's your body, it's your mind, it's your life." Do it if you want. Just make sure you really want to. I'll admit, I've done a couple of things a couple of times. But if there's anything that really annoys me, it's pushers. You know the Steppenwolf song. He don't care how he hurts and who he kills. That's true of most of the dealers and pushers at my school.

Especially the kids that push things on other kids. If you go looking for it, by all means, do it. But don't actively recruit, especially if, like most of the dealers I'm acquainted with, you are a complete and utter IDIOT. Know your drug, know your source. If you don't know how pure it is, or even what it might be, don't do it. That takes most street drugs out of the equation. If you know where it came from and the person selling it is completely trustworthy, then go ahead. name a dealer who you trust with your life, health, safety, and mind. I'll let you think about it.

That's what I thought.

There's a kid at my school, sells shrooms, or at least tries to. Apparently shrooms are very popular around there, but y'know what else? I know what any hallucinogen can do to you. These people are not paying attention to set and setting. Almost every Monday, there's a story of a really bad trip at a party. Think about the worst nightmare you have ever had. Now make it ten times worse, and you can't wake up from it. That's a bad trip. Psilocybin trips last 4-6 hours. The average nightmare or dream only lasts up to an hour. LSD and LSA trips last 6-12 hours, with off-baseline feeling reported for up to a day.

Set and setting are very important. Don't just eat a magic mushroom pizza at a party. If you do and you get eaten by the couch, sucked into a black hole, and ripped to pieces by ethereal demons, don't come crying to me. That is an actual trip report. From a teacher at our school, back when he was in college. When used with the right intent, expectations, and environment, psychedelics can be an amazing experience. Unlike many drugs, they have the potential to go either way, though. They are what you make of them, and what you let them be.

Plus, I know the guy who grows and sells the mushrooms. Not well, but I know him well enough that I wouldn't trust him to cook a hamburger right, let alone do the entire mushroom-growing process correctly. Any small amount of contamination can be deadly. If you're growing them yourself, you will be more careful than if you're out for a quick buck. If you're out for a quick buck, you're likely to ignore or try and harvest around a yellow or green spot, or god help the people who eat them if he ever does ignore a black spot. If you wouldn't eat the mold that grows in the toilet, don't do shrooms from a source that you don't trust with your life. Just don't risk it.

If I ever decided to do magic mushrooms, I would not buy from this guy. It wouldn't be worth it. Even if you decide to do a different drug, be it cannabis, hash, peyote, LSD, morning glory, magic mushrooms, heroin, cocaine, speed, crystal, PCP, GHB, ketamine, or ecstasy, know your source. If it's just some random dude passing something out, don't do it. You have too much to lose, and the risk is too great. Some of those drugs are by definition dangerous, even if you do them once, get an uncontaminated dose, and dose "correctly." Others are safe if used responsibly. Ecstasy, or MDMA, will permanently alter your brain activity patterns, but it won't kill you in normal doses, and the potential for a horriffically bad trip is "low." I'm not going to say it will damage your brain, but is a distinct and very real possibility. Fact is, brains of people who used to roll light up differently on scans than brains of those who don't.

Know your body, know your mind, know your substance, know your source.

Never get high and drive. Never get in a vehicle with someone who is even slightly high, and don't let a high person drive, period. Do whatever the hell you want, as long as you know the risk you are taking, are prepared to accept the consequences if that risk goes bad, and don't put anyone else at risk.

Another public service announcement

I've been told that I'll probably die in an incredibly horriffic motorcycle crash. That's probably true, and odds are, my driver's-ed instructor (who has been an EMT and Paramedic working I-70 from Morrison to Evergreen for 20 years) will be peeling me off of the pavement, or pulling me and my bike out of the ditch.

Just to let you know, in Colorado, "ditch" means bottom of steep 200-foot embankment. In most spots along that stretch of road, it's more.

What do you call a young male motorcycle rider, especially on a sportbike (Buells or Japanese crotch rockets)?

An organ donor.

It's true. More than half of all hearts donated in this country come from braindead bikers, under age 25, predominantly male, predominantly sportbike riders (or guys who decided to take their Screamin' Eagle through the mountains--Harleys are cruisers, and when you ask them to do anything else, you're not just flirting with Disaster, you're taking her back to your place for a nightcap). Most of them weren't wearing a helmet.

Odds are, you will fall or lose control, and regardless of any road rash you may get or things you'll crash into (or have crash into you), if you die, you will die of blunt force head trauma. But your major organs will be just fine. That's the way most bikers die: head trauma.

Helmets can't prevent death that way, but they go a very long way towards preventing it. No helmet can prevent death in all situations, but in those situations where the helmet did jack shit, you'd be dead of other injuries. Wear a brain bucket, and odds are, you'll live. It doesn't make you Superman. You can still die a death of your own making, and you can still get run over by a semi.

Colorado has a sensible helmet law. Minors must wear a helmet, period. But once you are legally an adult, it is your life, and your business whether you wear a helmet. That's the way it should be. Not wearing a helmet won't kill anybody but you. It doesn't put anyone else at risk. The law shouldn't get involved in situations like that, and in Colorado, it doesn't.

I'm not here to tell you to ride safely, sanely, or with a helmet on. I'm just telling you two things: don't put other people in danger, and sign an organ donorship card. If you like to go 100 down the highway on your Big Chief 45, that's your business. If you want to take your Scout 101 up Pike's Peak in June to practice for the race, that's your business. If you want to go from Denver to Buena Vista in 45 minutes, by all means, do it. But make sure that you are not even remotely putting anyone else at risk. Families like to drive Pike's Peak. If you come out of the Picnic Area at 120 and even tag their station wagon, it will be worse tha hitting a deer. Hitting a deer in a car can be fatal. Hiting an idiot hellbent on thrills head on, with a closing speed of 150 will kill that idiot on the bike instantly (that's you, asshat). He won't have to suffer. The people in the front seat will probably die on impact. But the kids in the back won't. Oh, don't get me wrong, they'll die. But they'll die of their injuries, slowly, excruciatingly. Help won't get up that mountain in time.

Then when the ambulance does arrive, they will have to search for the wreckage. Don't think that that accident will stay on the road anywhere in the mountains, let alone on the Pike's Peak highway. You will all go off the cliff, down a "hill", and into a ditch. Remember what "ditch" means in Colorado?

Go ahead and take a corner too fast, on flat land or especially in the mountains. Just don't take anyone else with you. Remember that family you hit while you were getting your thrills? It'll be a closed casket funeral. As a matter for fact, for you and the people in the front seat, it will look like you drove over a land mine.

Go ahead and lay it over at 25 over. Go ahead and die a death of your own making. Just don't kill anyone else in the process. And while you're at it, save a life. Donate your organs.

No matter whether you wear a helmet or not, no matter whether you ride reckless or not, if you're on two wheels, check the organ donation box on your driver's license application. Each day, about 77 people receive organ transplants. However, 19 people die each day waiting for transplants that can't take place because of the shortage of donated organs. You are 32 times more likely to die on two wheels than on four. Whether or not you take that risk is up to you, but if you do and one day things go horribly wrong because of something you or some other bonehead did, your organs could save or improve up to 50 lives. Think about that. It's not like you'll be using your body anymore.

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While I'm at it, let me tell you a story. Back in the mid-60s, my uncle was 14, and was riding passenger on a friend's motorcycle. His buddy rode safe and sane, and still got hit. The offending car was about the size of a Ford Fairlane, doing 90 miles an hour, drunk driver at the wheel. I don't think the driver even saw them, or if he did, didn't react.

The feller driving the bike just had some minor road rash. The drunk driver was fine. He t-boned the very back end of the bike. My uncle was thrown 250 feet, landed, and skidded another 50. One of his shoes was at the scene, still tied. The other was 500 feet down the road, also tied. He was wearing a brand-new, extremely puffy vinyl winter coat. That must have cushioned things quite a bit, but not enough. As it was, his whole back got ripped up and little bits of gravel imbedded in it. That wasn't the worst part, though. Think about the forces involed i getting hit, flying at 90 mph 250 feet through the air, then landing (pavement ain't soft, folks) and having enough momentum to skid another 50. Damn right. Paramedics were quick on the scene, and were able to start treatment quickly because someone at the scene could look through all the blood and say "That's Dale Trumbo!" He is now pinned together in three places; his right shoulder, his right leg, and part of his back. He was in a body cast for three months, and in a wheelchair for another six. Only by the grace of God did he survive.

Don't ever, EVER drink and drive, or get in a vehicle with anyone who has been drinking. Even if they're only slightly buzzed. If someone has been drinking, take their keys, call them a cab, or, if you're completely sober, drive them yourself. Do not let them operate a motor vehicle. If you wouldn't hand them a shotgun loaded with double-ought buckshot, don't let them keep their keys.

As a matter of fact, if you are at a party, visiting or hosting, work the door. Take keys as a condition of entry. Even two cans of beer will put a full-size adult over the legal limit for DUI.

And even if you are driving sober, remember this rule: CHECK TWICE, SAVE A LIFE. MOTORCYCLES ARE EVERYWHERE!

Forever in our hearts

This is probably the closest to an obituary that my aunt Mary will get, outside of the Sacramento newspaper. I've had some time to get a grip on myself, and to get some perspective, and I feel I owe it to her to say a few words.

My aunt Mary was an adventurous, artistic woman, with a love for life. She had a healthy portion of her father's stubbornness, plus a little more. But even more than that, she had an infectious smile, the kind of smile that would put you at ease even before you jumped out of an airplane.

In fact, she did that once. To hear her tell it, it was a damn good thing that the chute would automatically deploy, because the first time she jumped alone, she wasted no time in passing out. I hear it was fun anyway.

We visited thrice, but I only really got to meet her once. Once I was too young to remember anything, and once I was saying my goodbyes, fresh off a last-minute flight, days from the end. The third time was when we really got to meet. I was 12, maybe 13, and all the kids were in Colorado Springs to sell an old settler's cabin we owned in Cascade. I say "we," but I should say "they." I'm one of the grandkids, and had no stake in the deed to the land. I got to be involved anyway, though, for which I am grateful. The cabin may have been a financial drain, an eyesore piled with junk, and a health hazard to occupy, but dammit, it was ours. The man who bought it was a good man, and appreciated it as it was. He didn't want to bulldoze and build a townhome. He wanted to evict the mice, drink from a well, live in a cabin, shit in an outhouse, and restore and maintain the building in a way the kids never could, after Grandpa shut down his construction company. He had the money. Asked how much we wanted, tacked on five grand, and signed the check. In the time that everyone was in town to coordinate, we didn't get to swap many stories, but we did get to swap impressions of one another, to get a snapshot of their personalities and outlooks. I'm glad I got that chance.

Seeing as my parents and I never kept in close touch with my dad's family, I don't know much about my aunt's life as it was for thirty some years, as we all agree we would prefer to remember her. I know it is an awful, evil feeling to remember someone you knew and cared about in pain, wasting away, suffering; not vibrant, joyful, very much alive. Funerals are too somber in our society, and they remember the wrong part of life: the end of it. It is no coincidence that Mary's memorial was likely closer to an Irish wake than your average American funeral. I'm still sure that there was not a dry eye, though. I wasn't there, not for the California one, which was held this past Saturday. Come hell or high water, though, I will attend the Colorado memorial, and do my best to remember this woman's life, not her death. If you don't know what it's like to have to do that as you watch a casket or an urn be lowered into the ground, and with it a part of you, be thankful. Be thankful that you haven't yet held the hand of a loved one as they looked into your eyes and mustered the energy to thank you being there, just being there, and seen all the things, the regrets, the joys, the melancholy in their eyes that they just can't find the words for.

Be glad that you haven't ever heard someone whisper "I wanted to tell you..." into their brother's ear, but too weak to finish the thought.

But I hope, I hope and pray, that you will get the chance to do all of that. That you will get the chance to say goodbye, no matter how much it will hurt, because trust me, if you have the chance and waste it, it will hurt even more. And if you don't get the chance, I hope you do get the chance to say goodbye, even if it's just to a set of words carved into Pikes Peak granite.

Mary was a talented artist, working in many mediums, including charcoal, pen & ink, paint, and sculpture. She saw beauty in her surroundings everywhere she went. She and her partner of many years, Debbie, traveled every chance they got. If I said she lived even a mildly dull life, I'd be a liar. Even as she knew she was dying, Mary insisted upon going to see Zion and Bryce Canyon. It was a tremendous effort, but they managed it. I can only imagine how much better it must have been to be able to see the desert southwest during a time when most people would only be watching the other wall at home. If you've never seen the rock formations of Utah and you ever get the chance, take it. Just take it, because you might not get another. They are breathtakingly beautiful, and have an almost spiritual air to them.

It tears me apart to know that even her last wish was cut short, that aunt Mary never got to see Bryce. But I know that almost everyone Mary cared about was there for her before the end. I saw the pure love with which Debbie looked upon my aunt, and even though she was a pillar of strength in front of everyone, I'm sure she cried the most of all of us. But I'm just as sure that she never let Mary hear her do it.

The last time I saw her alive, if that state of limbo can truly be called life, was on June 3, 2008. I'm not all that religious, but the fact that I met a minister on the plane back home is no coincidence in my mind. I didn't tell him why I had been in Sacramento, and he didn't ask. I didn't cry on the plane, but he could tell that something was bothering me, and had just the right thing to say. Mary Dwyer passed away at approximately 7:00 in the morning, June 6, 2008, with Debbie by her side. May she rest in peace, and join her mother in heaven.

She was not a sinner, and I'll thrash anyone who says otherwise.

There is a flickr page of photos of my aunt Mary, enjoying vacations, birthday paries, and the company of old friends. Email me if you'd like the link.