song sung in the soil

I'm a jazz fan and the people I work with are not. Each one of them has their own favorite and only two of them are the same. One guy likes hip hop and for an hour each day, he gets to listen to his hip hop. When his hour passes, another guy gets to listen to country for an hour. Then we have a two hour block of rock for the two rock guys, one is more classic and the other is more of a Godsmack kinda guy, but you can't tell which is which by looking at them. When I get my turn, I listen to jazz baby, yea! NOW, during the hip hop/country/rock block, no one says a damn thing, nothing. They just work and endure the flavor of their coworker's taste. But when the dial hits Jazz for Daniel, no one can keep their mouth shut. It's hard to escape the fact that my music is the only one that doesn't have lyrics and perhaps this is why they talk over it, to make it sound more like their favorite. It doesn't work and it's irritating, but what can you say? Is it worth commenting on? Coltrane himself, would probably be terribly surprised to hear the lyrics to his songs that he didn't know had lyrics when he wrote them.

The days pass under the hot sun and I dig my hole, think to myself a lot, and inhale deeply the rich smell of dirt that is all around me. The nearby hose offers a nice treat of cool calm in the midst of all this dirt slinging. Hose flavored water - a taste that I haven't tasted since childhood. It's pure, clean, a bit warmer than I like but very refreshing nonetheless. Word to the wise; never drink from the front of the hose, always drink from the side. This keeps you from drowning or getting water up your nose which, for some reason, burns a lot.

The landscaping on this project is almost half way done and a noticable trend of one day at the nursery and one day planting is beginning to take shape. I must admit that I am really enjoying the nursery and all the plants that are there so I don't complain much when I am asked to tag along and pick up the plants that the boss picks out. I wasn't aware that plants had such colorful sounding names or that there were so many to choose from. I thought a lawn was a bunch of grass with flowers that came in seed packets. But it's those names that grab my memory. For those of you that know the make-up world, you'd be astonished to find that most of the names of lipstick colors come from plants.

Fire bush plum
Mock Orange
Blue Danube aroma
Hot hump pink

And that's just a sample.

I said in a previous post that the nursery was a few football fields in size, I need to correct that. It's one square mile. I'll take a photo of it so you can see. You won't believe it either.

When I am not picking up plants at the nursery I am digging up a deep trench on the backside of the property, to place a bunch of Thulia trees around a retaining wall.( I know that name and what they look like... now. That's a first for me in the plant world.) Being so far away from the others on the property line, I was also too far away from the radio to hear it. This meant that the rest of the gang got to listen to a four hour rotation of their music without my jazz fucking it up.

I didn't mind the silence of the back lot and in a way, I preferred to be back there by myself where no one could bother me and I didn't have to listen to their music either. It took me back to days on the ponderosa when work was all done alone and it was refreshing and healthy for my mind, body and spirit. I liked the feeling and I could have spent all day planting those trees, but I ran out of them and had to return to the flock near quittin' time. The hands on my watch indicated that I had an hour before I could leave....

The last hour of any work day is the slowest crawl of productivity in any profession. How many of you would want to be the patient having that Hawkeye Pierce performs surgery on at the end of a 40 hour block of work? Who wants to eat the final prepared plate of a caterer at an event that is feeding 5000? Ever seen an athlete try to finish a marathon or bike race? In the world of construction, the final hour is the "look busy but not really busy" hour. You can't really start a new project because that would mean sticking around until it was finished and that could mean staying later than quittin time. No one wants that. You can't leave something undone, can you? Can a surgeon?

You also can't just leave because that's an hour of time you won't get back and everyone is here for the money. Better to try and find little easy shit to do like stare at others working and commenting on it or looking at the BIG PICTURE and pretending to plan out the next day in your head. These are effective, proven methods of wasting the final hour of work in any profession. If you're a smoker and everyone here is a smoker but me, you stand around and smoke a lot and drink a lot of water and make it look like a really, really long smoke break. I must have drank two gallons of water and I didn't pee once. I had to pee, but the toilet still smells of my death from earlier in the wek and I just can't go in there. I am also not allowed to just whip it out and pee anywhere I want to, it's against the law, OSHA standards and my hands are covered with mud and I don't want to get any on my dick. That's not the real reason. The real reason is that there is a day care center next door and we can't have children getting the wrong impression of us, if you know what I mean. They need to see us as respectable, upstanding, moral members of society, not meth-head, junior high drop-outs that are missing teeth due to prison brawls and who can't be trusted around anything flammable, peeing on the shrubs next to their slide. It's against every form of decency in the books.

[note: there is a note on the fence just outside of the day care center that warns the children to stay away from us because we are "strangers" and strangers are bad. I wasn't aware until I saw that sign just how early we start to train our children to be paranoid and untrusting of others. And we are shocked when our kids grow up fucked up]

I'm home and the first thing I do is pee and bathe. Sadly this rids me of the smell of dirt, flora and garden hose water that graces my body, but it's best in the long run, isn't it?

One of the other guys learned a new valuable drinking lesson today; never drink water over the radio. That tends to short it out thus making it garbage and sending us hurdling into a work place filled with silence. They see it as a loss, I see it as a gain. Nature is best experienced without Godsmack, Kenny Chesney and Ludacris playing in the background. It's moderately okay with Jazz, but that's even pushing it.

Final note; I have the best forearm tan in the world. The rest of me is blood-drained out of me by a vampire white, but my forearms are very, very sexy. By the way, I think blood-drained out of me by a vampire white is a short, leafy plant that flowers late in the summer. Good with Rhodies and Azelias.

low frequency chuckles

NEVER, EVER do this at home!

It's been a while since I was in shape enough to handle any kind of manual labor. It's been a while since I last labored in the hot, hot sun. It's been a while since I last got up at 4 in the morning TWO DAYS in a row for any reason. It's been a while since I tried to stay up late, wake up early, work in the hot, hot sun all day and then stay up late, wake up early and work in the hot, hot sun all day... It's been a while.

So it's fair to say, that I am not in this world at the moment in neither mind or body. My body is lost. My mind, it's not worth mentioning.

The best news of the week was that my "runs" problem has given way to a less inconvientent, but far more embarassing, powerful gas. It's the kind of gas that terrifies grown men and usually signals an intestinal disease in cattle. At least with the runs, it was a personal and private matter, with gas.... Did I ever mention that me and two guys car pool everywhere in a truck cab that is only meant for two? They get to share in my new "problem". Nothing makes a better first impression on new coworkers than forcing them from the truck every ten minutes. It's okay, it gives them a chance to smoke.

My new environment has me returning to the soil, the dirt and the rawness of the blue collar world. I have been here before and I have enjoyed my experiences in the past and I have equally enjoyed most of the people I have met there. These people are usually colorful people filled with great stories, wonderful advice and terrible politics. Your first impression is one of a low life and someone who probably dropped out of elementary school and never looked back. That's everyone's first impression, but if you get the chance to learn the real story, you'll find your second impression of these people is one of awe. They are talented and their knowledge and skills far exceed your own. It shocks you that you know so little after all you have done, and how apparent it is that this person who loves to butcher the spoken word and get drunk at noon, actually did it right. It's hard to admit, but it's true. You view them as meek and truely, they shall inherit the earth. Your dumbass couldn't survive in most conditions, there dumbass could.

Each man is filled with amazing tales that are filled with rich details of strong drinking, hard fucking, dangerous fighting, wise words of advice that went unheeded by lesser men, great meals, buddy-of-mine's, gal-I-know's, mechanical modifications and once in a lifetime experiences. All of which are either near death experiences or are treated with a laize faire attitude. For example; "Me and a buddy of mine from way back, took a 350 engine and strapped it to this little Ford and took it out on the lake and watched all the fish come in my boat. I says to my buddy, HEY, don't do that with a quarter inch, and he says, Ah, you don't know nothin, and sure as shit, it went up like a rocket. I tried to tell em....."

My favorite thing about this people is that what ever happened to these men before this day is lost and life has moved on to this moment, this cigarette, this mid-morning beer and the next great story that needs to be told. They never think about the future, just the conversation they are having or what job they are doing. They are devout followers of the garage sale or get if free religion, and they are moral and ethical when it counts.

You don't even have to ask them their opinion. Barely a moment goes by where one of them isn't waxing on about a personal experience where they are a god among mortals, laughing at fate and insuring that their brand of decency prevails against all evil. The few moments of silence that occur are easily interrupted by merely mentioning.... Anything, or farting.

You could softly say; War - and a modestly toned, but ridiculously transparent one-sided conversation will occur. In this environment, everyone is American, loves America and believes in the simplicity of America. All outsiders are idiots, disgusting, fools, or enemies. It's in this world that racism, sexism and all other forms of "isms" are born. It's amazing to me that even with the depth of complexity that each of them feels is so present in their own lives, they will never believe that it could exist outside of their own bubble. America is power, money, right and white. Everything else is just, well.... Everything else.

I usually break the tension in these rants by opening my mouth and trying my best to be passive and non-threatening. It's a smart play for someone new to the job and filled with a rankness that even hardcore blue collars find offensive. My usually trick is to bring up movies. It's a great middle ground where polar extremes can meet in harmony and fun... Hopefully. There have been times where the debate over who is the better Bond has come to blows, but still, incidents are rare.

I already know the answer to my questions before I ask them, but I ask anyway because I can't bare to hear another story about riding a rocket into space using "specially made bottle rockets that you can't get anyWHERES but this one guy - a buddy a mine who builds that shit in his basement and (this story goes on in great detail too)....Anyways, I tied myself on to those rockets with some special straps that are..."

First question: What is your favorite movie OR What was the last good movie you saw?

Usually they answer from a list of commonly answered movies and I can chat it up a bit from there. In this case, CON AIR was the film of note. A rare answer, but it's on the list nonetheless. I tell them what I know and that keeps the atmosphere friendly for the day. My gas follows us home, but we are so tired at the end of the day, that we just don't care to stop. We just want to get home.

I have only had 8 hours of sleep in two days and I am near death. I am two steps away from my bed when I remember that I have a guest set/audition show that I need to do because I won't get the chance next week. SO I SUCK IT UP!!!!!

That show, done while I was sleeping, was great and I got the show. July 18... Jazzbones in Tacoma. The Right Reverend Daniel Rock will be laying it down, amen. I'm so tired by the time I get home, I sleep in my clothes. Never a great idea in an small apartment with no AC.

I still went to sleep with a smile on my face and a laugh in my heart. I went to sleep thinking of all the work in the warm sun and how funny everything has been up to this point: The timely heat. The timely runs. The perfect gas (they don't seem to mind my gas that much. They say they have had gas that makes my gas smell like roses). The comfort of working in the dirt and being able to smell it. The pain of listening to my coworkers rant and rave about American dominance while at the same time; using a Kubota dragon to dig holes, wearing jeans made in India, gloves made in Canada, safety glasses made in Mexico and using gas from Saudia Arabia. It's all worth listening to. It's all worth remembering.

9:00 sunsets

There is so much on my mind and so many things going on, it's hard to concentrate from one moment to the next. However, I'm a professional blogger and I will try to pull it together...

...for the fans.

First - There is some local legend or myth that floats around that says that it never gets hot in the Pacific Northwest. I'm not sure who started that foul rumor, but they should be shot just like the person who started the rumor that it always rains here. And while we're at it; we could bury the naysayer that always says, don't move there, it's too (insert urban anxiety here)!

On my first day of working outside, temperatures reached 95. I almost died out there. Such a perfect way to start off a new job. I'm dying just remembering it.

My first day started so early that I didn't even realize that most of my day had slipped by the time the sun was up. But it wasn't enough to protect me wholly from the ungodly torture that would be the rest-of-the-day sun.

In the early morning I went to a nursery that is around four football fields in size and is situated in a natural valley so that you can see everything that is available for purchase, at any time, from anywhere, by just staring down or across the valley. It's enormous and incredibly beautiful and it smelled like women. The only real draw back to the nursery was that it was run by Mexicans and lesbians and neither group was particularly pleased with the odd weather and were pretty cranky, thus, not helpful or smiling. This didn't help my fantasies of the place and with all the aromas and scenery, I was hoping for more from the human element.

The rest of the day, as I planted trees and flowering bushes, I kept thinking about how tired I was and if I was made of the right stuff to see this job choice to the end. 11 weeks is a long time and I'm not in the greatest of shape. Not to mention that I am as white as alibinos get at the moment. Do I have the stuff? I hope so. It's not the same work I am used to from the forgottens, but I'll use those memories to get me through.

Everyone that asks I tell that I am working a legit job now. As if I were a criminal before and this manual labor was a sign that I wanted to walk the line from this point on. Of course, comedy is far from criminal, but somehow I still feel that saying, "I'm legit" is still fitting somehow.

I got off early enough to take a cold shower and suck out the boiling sun from my skin. Not being an underwear person the heat can be pretty mean to the body and particularly harsh on the goodies. In fact, the sun was so hot that I had "the runs" all day. Sadly the only bathroom we have is a port-a-pottie on the work site and it's more a home for spiders than a toilet. The sun beat down on that tiny prison all day and it was pretty rank by day's end. I think the spiders have decided to let me have the shack and to move on to more pleasing accomodations. Yes, it was bad enough that I scared spiders away.

After my shower, I stared off into the sun and watched it set over the harbor. I wanted to get to sleep before 8, but the sun was so high in the sky, it took another two hours before I could find peace enough to sleep. Thankfully, the once cruel and demanding sun that had abused me all day, turned and became the slow, yellow summer sun that I love so much. That sun took pity on me and let me enjoy it's peaceful decent into the horizon. I thought I could hear cackling as it set...

I could rant on for hours about the beauty of the summer sun and the power of a long day's journey into night, but I think you know what I would say and my brain is too tired to try.

So with a burn on my shoulders, and a smile on my face, I fell asleep... thinking only of underwear.

11 weeks. count em down.

Starting today I am officially a normal human being. Today, at 4 AM PST I start my normal day job, just like everyone else. Today, in the late June sun, I start bringing home legit bacon for my BLT lifestyle. Today, I put myself.... Out there...

Basically I start working for the guy that owned that Kubota dragon. He liked me enough from a month ago to offer me a job and I took it. He knows I only have these 11 weeks open in my tour schedule and he still offered me a pretty lucrative position. When I say lucrative I mean it pays well. When I say it pays well, I mean it pays me a lot. When I say it pays a lot, I mean it takes care of the bacon and eggs. When I say bacon and eggs.... I mean, it pays for me to see Tuva in November.... on the back of a motorcycle. Those are some pretty amazing bacon and eggs!

So forgive me if I don't get around to the deep and colorful posts that you have grown to know me for. Most likely you with either see these posts come late in the afternoon or very early in the morning like this one. Either way, the next 11 weeks, Daniel and Humility go toe to toe, in a winner take all fight to the death.

And, of course, there will be photos....

Quest for the day, should you be interested - What causes hiccups and what are the known cures?

the bossanova

Do you do a lot of dancing? Do you like to dance? Are you a private dancer that only dances behind walls where no one can see you? Or are you a dancer that is more of a social experiment? I loooooove dancing. I dance when I can and I live on both sides of the dance floor, the side that has people watching and the side that is hidden from the eyes of others.

As a child, I took tap, jazz, ballet, ballroom and folk dancing. It was really more for my mother, who had me in gymnastics, and an assortment of other living vicarously-esque dreams before dancing came along. I can't say that much of what I was taught stuck, or that I remember any of it, but what I lack in skills and talents, I more than make up for it in willingness. And sometimes willingness is enough.

Of course, this isn't a "willingness" to try, but a willingness to make an ass out of myself. And when I mean "ass" I mean - ass. When I dance, I dance for me, and that doesn't always look as fluid and graceful as the macarena or crunking or Swan Lake or Gregory Hines.

When I was a teenager, I used to go to a contra dancing class in Friday Harbor, Washington. The classes were held in an old couple's house that were world travelers and had accumulated all these dances like so many others collect shot glasses or thimbles. They had thousands of these dances. Each one was written down on a piece of paper that was floating around with other pieces of paper in a large box. The idea was that someone from the class would reach in blindly and pull out a new dance for us to do. This way you never knew what was coming.

If you're not familiar with contra dancing, it's just dances collected from time and space from every culture in the world. One dance could be an old Mexican dance that a bride and groom would do after their marriage, and the next one could be a Yugoslavian farmer dance of grieving for a lost goat. Learning the background of the dance was half the fun of learning the steps in the dance.... Sometimes. The chicken dance, so popular in American weddings, is a real dance from some country. It's a contra dance.

Everyone paired up and it didn't matter what your partner's sex was. You face each other in two rows across from each other. Then the group instructor tells you the story of the dance, how to do it and then walk you through it once. Then he would dig a record out of his collection of thousands of old records. (it's really amazing that he could remember every dance and which record to grab. He could have been lying and we would have never know it.) The instructor would play music that seemed to justify the wanky steps he had just shown you and you would faithfully do as you were told. It was odd and awesom.

If you were lucky enough to have a partner of the opposite sex, the dance was fun, moderately flirty and incredibly worthwhile. But if your partner was of the same sex, then there was an awkwardness to trying to be graceful, courteous and in "showing your partner your heart". Thankfully after every song, the lines would move one person to the left and relieve some of the awkward homosexual tension that many of the dancers felt. With each dance came a new partner and in an odd "wife swapping" way, you smiled.

You dance for hours and you never do the same dance twice. There were thousands of dances that I never got to try, and I think of them when I let my toes twinkle today. "What were those dances like?" But instead of asking the right people or looking it up to find out for myself, I just invent my own dances and give them my own names. Isn't that how all those dances were created in the first place? I mean, have you ever met anyone who invented a dance? So isn't it possible that some idiot like me came up with all those dances? I think I am qualified to invent a dance or two. Well, dances might be a tad too generous for this behavior, it's more like modestly controlled convulsions.... Set to music.

For the last four months, all I have been listening to is Jazz. It's wonderful for the mind, but not great for getting out and stepping lightly. In fact, in all the years of my dancing, I have only cut a rug to one jazz beat. That dance - The Bossanova.

There is a song....

It's quite catchy. (Quite).

My bones are bit creaky and the muscles don't have the coordination that they used to during all my hot nights of Kansas ballroom dancing, but my mind is still flying across the floor leaving a sonic boom in the wake of my art. But instead of taking my aging as a negative, I look at my aging as a fine tuning. I like to think that before I was too wild and that I needed to subdue some of my moves and make their meaning more powerful. I say this, of course, as a convienent lie.

I hope that my dancing days are still on the rise and that my future will be covered with new dances that will help me express myself when words fail me. Dances that show my joy. Dances that show my sorrow. Dances that show my devotion to peanut M&M's. Dances that show my displeasure with children.

I hearby declare this "The Summer of Dance" and I ask that you seek out a new dance, whether it's your own or one that is already established, and make it your voice.

clumsy in a world of glass

Tacoma can boast many things that most of the world isn't aware of or doesn't care to know. For instance; You may not know that Tacoma is not named after the Toyota truck of the same name. Another juicy morsel you probably didn't know; Tacoma is not just another inner city prison pre-school. Oh no! Tacoma actually has more. A lot more.

Let's back up....

Not too many years ago, the city found itself in trouble, like so many other cities in America. People were leaving and it was a feeding frenzy for evil doere. It was the last wounded wildebeast amid a pride of hungry lions and there was no way out. With the fleeing people went the spending on safety, and those who remained were dead meat to the vultures. For nearly twenty years, the city's downtown core was a wasteland of former business glory which was now filled with desperation and despair. With no control, the area was run by nature's only true law: Guns., Those with the guns, are the law. (actually the law should be: Those with the will to use a gun...)

The downtown core is filled with some great buildings that were gutted in the feeding frenzy, but they withstood the heaviest riotiong and looting and are still standing today. Even the powers of evil know that you don't destroy the buildings in a riot. Evil has an eye for good craftsmanship.

Time passed and the world of downtown Tacoma slowed down. It turns out that a few army rangers from a near by base came into town and killed some gang members. Somehow that triggered an interest in downtown Tacoma again. The next thing you know, a different kind of evil appeared on the top of the hill. No longer was the law run by the gun, but instead the law was ruled by the property developer and the young upstart interior decorator. And overnight the beautiful downtown buildings which had been empty for so many years, had new tenants and a new look. Rich tenants, with a talent for suckering young artsy types into moving into a cooooool pad that had bare brick showing in the walls.(these are the same evil doers that use typewriters to decorate Applebees restaurants)

So Tacoma grew out of it's dark ages with an awkward new lease on the future. Businesses came in, and quickly went out of business. So new, smarter businesses came in and took their place. They went out of business too. So even more businesses came in and took their place. Those sort of worked and Tacoma started to show some life. Artsy people, it would seem, are broke ass, stingy freaks.

Kiss my glass...

In an attempt to reshape the downtown core, the fresh faced politicians decided that there needed to be a reason for people in the safe suburbs to come down and visit the former war-torn Tacoma shoreline. Museums! They cried, and they opened two. The Washington state musuem filled with Indian totems, pioneer paraphenlia and over priced junk in the gift shop that is made in China. People balked. When that failed to impress anyone, they opened the art musuem. They put in a few paintings and borrowed a statue or two and voila! People began to fear downtown Tacoma for a new reason - insanity in politics. Times looked tough and the future was bleak.

Then a man with a strange gift came calling. A man that had grown up in the former glory that had been Tacoma and who had made good in the world by learning to blow glass, came back with a heart filled with nostalgia. It seems that this man had something going for him that no petty politician could figure out - He had a name that was honest.

This man offered to put in a musuem of his own in the downtown core and wouldn't you know it - That sucker was popular and the town started to see some life.

It's covered in glass. Filled with glass. Made of glass and all about glass. Glass everything. From this tiny glass seed a new town grew and grew and grew.

Today, the downtown core is filled with some rather pessimistic business owners that are always expecting the axe to fall. And there are still some old school rioters that still grace the avenues, but they are almost part of the charm, like a road side tourist trap on Route 66. But the glass musuem brings in people from far and wide and those people have money to spare and don't remember the darkness that was the 70's and 80's.

You have to cross a bridge made of rock and glass that stretches across the full width of the interstate to get the museum. Then you descend a hundred tiny steps to the front door. The door is glass and it sits in a wall of glass. Inside the main glass room is door that leads to a cafe made of glass. Another leads to a glass furnace where glass is made. Another door leads into the musuem itself. On the far side of the main room is a small art area where you can paint your own plastic cup and pretend that it's glass and you're a real glass artist, just like the ones that are blowing glass behind the wall next to you. (it's really more for children, but you can do it too)

It's appropriate that Tacoma would be the world headquaters for a delicate glass building. It's history and it's future is all about delicate and fragile creations of man's wild heart. It's beautiful to see, and you know that the slightest misstep could lead to tragedy. A tragedy so dark that no one here even dares think it! Should you get the chance, don't forget that glass is made here in Tacoma. Next time you come around, stop in and experience the creation.

all me

It's not often that people take my picture and then send them to me. Let's enjoy them together.
ABOVE THE UNDERGROUND, WASHINGTON



Me and some Slav-comic guy. He bet me a thousand bucks that Czech Republic would beat America. I'm glad I didn't take that bet. We may have lost, but I get paid to be a comic and he doesn't. And I'm taller. Take that Czech Republic. UNDER SEATTLE, WASHINGTON




Some people look at their profile and love it. I look at mine and feel vomit gurgling. That book on the table is my comedy genius. Every good super hero should have such a book.
OUT IN SEATTLE, WASHINGTON





This guy appears in a lot of these photos cause it's his camera. He's Erik Griffin. He's funny. He has a web site. Guess what it's called?
RENTAL CAR, I-5




The first noted Danists to be photographed and displayed on the blog.
UNDER SEATTLE, WASHINGTON









Again, Danists, a tiny Slav and me.
OUT AND ABOUT IN SEATTLE, WASHINGTON













A rare Daniel "on stage" moment. Notice that my clothes always look the same? That's a hint to all of you that keep wanting to see me in "insert fantasy clothing items here"
THE BIG TIME, WASHINGTON

Not much of a post today, but I wanted to get these out before I move on to other stuff. Hopefully you're well sated for now.

where the poets find it

We start this tour with a glimpse into the top of the world. It's raining here and the forest loves to show off. This is the side of that volcano that I told you was in every photo.
THE SLOPES OF MT. RAINER, WASHINGTON















Pam on her V star. It's a 650 and a bigger bike than my mine (the pony is a 500) and I had some bike envy, but her helmet isn't as cool as mine. Anyway, she has the whole package and she looks good on that bike.
THE GREAT PALOUSE, WASHINGTON





That's moi on the edge of Palouse Falls. Note the sexy riding apparel. Note the sexy man in the sexy apparel. And that waterfall is... okay. PALOUSE FALLS, WASHINGTON








Self Portrait on day one. The wind hadfinally died down, but the internal damage was already done. This is a happier moment for me. I actually took this photo because I knew people were going to ask for "me" shots and I didn't want to disappoint.
YAKIMA VALLEY, WASHINGTON




The white thing on the seat is a towel. It kept my goodies dry during the rain. I love the valley beyond and I wish you could have seen it with me. Perhaps one day you'll get on a bike and find this view. HWY 12, WASHINGTON







They all look this good.
VIEW FROM THE GROUD FLOOR, WASHINGTON










I'm sure all the sunsets look this good where you are, don't they? THE GREAT PALOUSE, WASHINGTON










More of the joy...
THE GREAT PALOUSE, WASHINGTON










...and even more....
THE GREAT SEA OF RICE, WASHINGTON










The great prairie on the lava.
JUST BELOW CLOUD CITY, WASHINGTON










It took billions of years to create what you're enjoying right now. Each strata was a lava flow from a million year eruption.
CARVED LAVA, WASHINGTON









Look but don't touch. Waterfalls don't need your assistance, your approval or your advice.
PALOUSE FALLS, WASHINGTON









Clear lakes made of mountain snow. The skies are filled with rain that would have been snow had it been warmer and if my luck were any worse. HWY 12, WASHINGTON








These valleys are everywhere - around the next turn and over the next hill. Everywhere.
WHERE NATURE REIGNS, WASHINGTON










I hope you get out and enjoy your lives as if you were free. Ask yourself this; is it ever just good enough to know that you could if you wanted to, even though you never do? Because that is really the only thing seperating your life from someone in prison.

sea of rice and the birth of wind

I'm too sick to finish my tour so I am headed home a day early. I finished almost everything I needed to do that wasn't comedy and I just need rest. I'm sure that many of you are ready to stop stressing out about if I am going to wreck or not. So, let's go home.

Late Sunday night I took a ride across the prairie to enjoy one final sunset illumuniating the foothills of the forgottens. And all from the relative comfort of my pony. I got out into the rolling hills and just strolled among them like I was walking amongst the beauty in the Louvre. Out in the hills there are no stop signs... no traffic... no nothing... just a whole lotta bugs.

If you were standing still, you probably wouldn't see them. They're so small and unassuming, they hardly make a mark. But moving at 40 miles an hour, you see them. Not so much in their natural healthy state, but in a smushed, lifeless state that resembles smeared snot on a visor. On the other side this time.

A few bugs on the visor is pretty common so I didn't really notice them at first. But at the end of the first hour, I had to pull over just to wipe them off of my visor. I couldn't see through them, they were that thick.

The bugs started to strip away the enjoyment of the falling sun so I headed home at a pretty fast clip. It was then, and only then, that the bugs showed me their true entertainment value - They make a great SMACK noise when they slam into the visor. It sounds a lot like uncooked rice falling into an empty pot. In fact, riding through these bastards was like riding in a bowl of rice. The tiny windshield on the pony was so soaked in bug goo that I almost wanted to take off the windshield and have it preserved as is.

The next morning, it was up and at it. I strapped on everything I could and headed out for the perch. From the moment I turned the key... the wind was out to kill me.

First 80 miles.. 30 miles an hour winds. Relentless, brutal and very dangerous. I thought that was pretty bad until..

Second and Third 80 miles.. 50 miles an hour winds. Demons were lashing at me with their tales and the Banshees were screaming so loudly that I couldn't hear the bike. My nose actually started to bleed. I had to stop every twenty minutes just to catch my breath. My arms felt like jello and I couldn't feel my fingers. My gas mileage dropped to 30 miles per gallon and I almost dropped the bike every other mile.

The last 80 miles... The last 80 miles, everytime I stopped, I heard from everyone on earth about the quality of the wind. Everyone seemed to have an opinion on how long it would last, where it was coming from and just how dangerous it was for them in their cars or trucks and how sorry they were for me on my pony. I kept thinking that when I got to the top of the mountain pass, the wind would stop flowing AT me. Certainly wind has to be born somewhere and if you can just get passed that point, there should be a calm. I kept telling myself that eventually I would find peaceful and safe passage, if I just got passed the next mile. It wasn't until I started to see trees that had fallen over from the wind that I started to think about walking. If I had to describe what it felt like to ride in this wind for seven hours, I would have to say it was like trying to walk against the blast of a fire hose when it's opened all the way. Every gust felt like a punch to the gut.

I got back to the perch a little over seven hours after I left the ponderosa. I'm so tired and sick that I can't really see what I am typing here. But for those that wanted to know...

I'm home and I loved every second of it; bugs, wind, rain, illness, casino-quality shows... all of it.

return from the fall

I started the engine to let it warm up a bit before my excursion. I was still a bit nervous about riding after all the dark "crashing" imagery that had disturbed my rest from the night before. The image of my body on the side of the road in a mangled heap was still very fresh in my thoughts. I could tell that I wasn't the same rider from earlier in the week as I began to pull out into traffic.

The second I got the pony up to 30 miles an hour, I started to hear weird noises coming from what seemed like everywhere. Every noise sounded like the bolt that was holding the pony together and if it shook free, it would mean a horrible and painful end. I was pretty sure that every vibration was new and every noise was a warning. There were PINGS and PANGS and SQUEAAERKS and SCREEAKKS. There was a weird CRUNK - like sound the sounded like bones being broken and ground up. But the worst noise was a constant irregular TAP. It was sensory hell and I was almost ready to walk away for ever.

I pulled over and checked out the bike. Nothing. All was well and it was quiet and running smoothly. Nothing was out of whack and nothing was missing or loose.

It's just cold, I thought. I checked my mirrors and that's when I noticed that my helmet wasn't even strapped on. The tapping noise was the flap rapping against the side of my helmet near my ear. Problem solved.

It's the little things that get you.

Discipline isn't meant to be punishment. Discipline is meant to be control. More specifically - self control. It's taking the time to remember to pay attention to DETAILS. If you can remember to control yourself and the little things, then you won't have to worry about the little things bringing down the "whole". Smart decisions that are easily overlooked.

Turn off the bike. Take off the backpack. Recheck the bag. Recheck the zippers, the straps and the locks. Resnap all buttons. Check the cables. Check the fuel. Check the tires. Strap on the helmet. Strap on the bag. Check the flow of traffic...

...And get moving.

The former fears started to wane the further down the road I traveled. With each hundred yards, the sounds of a motorcyle puttering down the road became more normal and my fears subsided. The joy that is riding, returned.

I arrived in the forgottens to find that the valley was filled with vintage cars, their owners and their fans. People love to show off their stuff and people love to look at other people's stuff, so these little pow wows work out pretty well. For every great passion there is some kind of meet and greet. It's there that you'll find people that share your passion and it should give you an idea of what kind of person you are. This is why I avoid going to a meet and greet of the things I enjoy. A typewriter meet and greet would be a lot of fun, but I can't imagine that I would get on with most of the people there and I don't want to find out that I'm some kind of freak. Of the four kinds of typewriter enthusiasts, two drive me nuts and sadly they make up the majority of enthusiasts. These are the interior designers that think that a typewriter makes a great accent piece for a den or AppleBee's restaurant and the other group are the ones that rip apart typewriters and make them into jewelry. These people should be shot. My group would be the casual group that just enjoys the art of the machine and I also modestly fit into the group that collects them. This group is really made up of just a hundred or so souls around the world and I doubt they would make much of an appearance at a meet and greet.

It took some time to get through all the traffic in the tiny Hamlet and I thought it would be best to just keep on riding for a while before I came back. This way I could let the crowds dwindle down.

I rode on to Pullman about an hour and a half up the Palouse and then headed east into Idaho. I pulled into Moscow and then I headed south to Lewiston and the Snake river valley. From there it was a quick ride back to the forgottens. I had dreamed of this ride since before I owned the pony and it was everything I wanted it to be. The wheat fields danced around me in the wind and they called to me to drive off the road and join them. The great snake river cut a huge gash into the prairie and showed off the volcanic rock that made up the earth just below the beautiful wheat. It's easy to find yourself crawling along at 30 miles an hour to take it all in and to insure that you don't miss a moment of the ride.

A brief visit with the local denizens of my former home, a brief visit to my former home, some minor tweeks on the bike in the shop and I am back out on the road and headed back to the shows in Pasco.

I got back to my hotel and just rode the bike straight into my room. I was on the bike for six hours but it was enough to make me aggravate my cold and again, I am in need of rest. Perhaps I was never really better in the first place, but oh well, I fulfilled a dream and if the illness takes me, then I die smiling (and coughing).

A few hours of sleep and off to the show. The shows that night... Sucked. I was happy to get back to my hotel room after the shows and get back into bed. It's surprising to think that not too many years ago comedy was the dream. To think that I am now more excited to get back to my desolate and uncomfortable hotel room than to be on stage is curious. I guess the thrill of a ride is just that powerful; it can wipe away old dreams and give you new ones. Scary, thrilling and ultimately more rewarding. I guess riding a motorcycle is a lot like taking a stage in front of a room full of strangers - You're naked and exposed and the only thing keeping you from becoming an oily stain on the ground is your wits, your preparation and your ability to control your fear. If you can do it, the reward is beyond your imagination.

Even after two bad shows, an stubborn cold, a cronic case of monkey butt and the spectre of my pony again, lingering at the end of my bed, I slept like a man in a coma. My dreams - all moving at less than 30 miles an hour.

the fall

I have a head full of snot and congestion and even if my ears weren't damaged from the hours of screaming wind, I'd be too stuffed up to hear anything anyway. My nose has a beaver dam of goo that is preventing any of the rich summer scents from the Palouse from reaching my joy glands.

Sneezing while traveling... Advantage: Car.

Filling your enclosed helmet with snot while going 65 is a real bummer. An even bigger bummer is not having a way to clear that snot off the visor.

This isn't how I wanted my trip back here to be, but it's what I got and I'm making the best of it.

The ponderosa is a jungle of overgrown weeds and sad animals. Heidi is covered with sores and appears to be on the verge of giving in to death, which dropped my heart into my stomach. She didn't even get up to say hi when I came to the door. That hurt a bit.

The rest of the place is two foot high grass and weeds that used to be a moderately functional farm house and shop. Now it looks more like an answer to the riddle of whether man can really destroy the earth with his behavior. If you look at the six week overgrowth on the concrete, gravel and metal, you can tell that it won't take planet Earth much time to erase our presence or efforts.

The horses are gone. The chickens are running amok. The cats have disappeared. Inside the house packages are collecting that my brother hasn't opened yet. The house is still. You would never know that this place saved my life. Perhaps that's why I am so filled with sorrow to see it this way.

After a brief moment or two I dropped off my bag and headed to Pam's to see if she wanted to ride. A big hug and a smile is the best I can offer and I think that is really all she needed. Everyone else has advice for her, I just want her to ride with me. Get that bike of her's moving again.

We rode in heavy winds and brilliant sun and we loved the fields of green wheat. On a bike, you can be riding with ten thousand other people but still be able to be alone with your own thoughts and be in control of your environment. That balance can only be found on the back of a motorcycle.

We rode to Palouse falls and took in the view. I like waterfalls but for the lesser reasons than most people. What I like is the timing and patience and persistence of a waterfall. The fact that it's being working for thousands of years to cut into solid stone and make a place for itself. I like that it doesn't stop for any reason and that it will be there long after you have gone. That your brief stop didn't change a thing.

We rode on.

We rode across the high prarie and down into the forgotten valley. Pam went home and after a hug and smile and I headed on to Pasco for my shows. The long ride across the prairie alone was cold and my heart felt heavy.

The first show was empty but it went well. I couldn't hear my own jokes but the audience seemed to like them. After the show I went back to my hotel room and pushed my bike into the room so I could clean it and to prevent it from walking away.

I spent the next day sleeping and cleaning. When I felt the bike was clean enough, I cleaned it again. It was during this time that I started to notice things that were wrong with the bike - Missing bolts, loose nuts, and frayed cables. My head started to fill with doubt about my safety and I started to get anxious about the next 500 miles I had ahead of me.

That night, the show went really well. Partially because most of the snot had drained out and I could hear myself again. I went back to my room after the show and crawled into bed looking at the dark shadow of my pony at the foot of my bed. It was surreal. Perhaps I was sicker than I thought, but I was scared of the bike.

I woke up early...

get on the bike

I woke yesterday to find the weather at odds with me. It was freezing cold, raining heavily and there was a biting wind. Even to the advanced rider, these conditions are dangerous to ride in. So to a novice ride such as myself, to attempt to ride is suicide. Even if you do survive the slick roads which prevent healthy turning and stopping, near zero temperatures and the wind punching you in the face, it's still a miserable ride. There is barely enough riding joy left inside you to make the ride worthwhile. The whole idea is to relax... This would be nothing but pure stress.

I had to decide quickly - Take a chance and ride across the state or just take the car.

I was near tears as I stood in the freezing rain and fought with the two sides of my brain. Do I risk it and ride over 300 miles in conditions I have never ridden in on a ride that is farther than I have ever attempted? Or do I play it safe and just lollygag over in the car, just like every other trip I've made.

I was on the bike in less than two minutes.

It was horrible. My legs were soaked. My feet were soaked. My hands were soaked and my visor was so fogged up I could barely make out the road in front of me. The wind chill was so strong that it my cold just got worse and I feared that I might get pneumonia. My nose was running and I was stuffed up which forced me to breath out of my mouth, which made the visor fog even worse. I was so cold that I couldn't even feel the chill in my body, I just knew that I was suffering..

But I was on the bike.

From the relative warmth of Tacoma I headed up the side of Mt. Rainer into heavier rain, slicker roads, and colder temperatures. I was trolling along at 20 miles an hour which only seemed to make the misery last longer. I stopped the bike every twenty minutes or so and tried to find a place to warm up a bit before I headed back out.

The first piece of gear to go was my gloves. The thin gardening gloves finally gave out and could not longer keep up, so I had to replace them. I went into a gas station and they just happened to have a pair of skiing gloves in a sale bin. They fit perfectly and they did the job. [note to self - always be prepared]

I stayed on the bike. Up to the fifty mile mark, I felt that I could turn around and get the car. When I passed the fifty mile mark, I was so enamored with the struggle, I just kept going.

The rain started to let up and the roads dried up a bit. My visor cleared up and that allowed the beauty of the ride to flow into my eyes. The forest was freshly watered and it's green was crisp and striking. The deep aroma of the mountain, the trees and the flowers was glorious. Even the wet asphalt smelled special. I'm not sure, but I think I could have been driving down the street where they make all the mountained themed scents you find in air fresheners and shampoo. Mountain valley this and Pine scent that.

At the summit, the rain stopped, but my body was soaked and I knew that the air temperature was too low for me and I needed to get out of these clothes pretty darn quick. The dry roads only make you want to drive faster which increases the wind against your wet body and that is bad, no matter who you are. In some small town near the summit I stopped in to another gas station and there, in a sale bin was a cheap pair of waterproof snow pants. The Gods really wanted to see me finish this ride.

After a brief meal and a quick change of clothes, I started down the mountain and I came down into the desert valleys of south central Washington state. The rest of my bike and my gear dried up pretty quickly and for the next 100 miles, I just enjoyed the sunshine and the view. Then I got into Pasco...

40 plus miles an hour winds.

That's enough power to blow a man over and it's definitely enough power to blow over a bike that's top heavy with a novice rider that has never ridden in the wind before. For the last 70 miles of the trip, the wind did everything it could to blow me into on coming traffic. If that wasn't working it would try to blow me into the guard rails. By the time I finally rolled into my destination, I was wiped out. My body had taken all it could. My cold had moved from my head into my chest, but I was happier than a child on Christmas morning. I made it.

The day had started so poorly and ended just as poorly...

But I got on the bike.

I wanted this ride. I knew the danger and all the reasons not to do it. There was a safer choice, but safer isn't always the right choice. Should I live to be 70 years old, my heart will never tense up thinking about how I didn't try to take this ride. It's a small gift I have given myself and I feel great.

I was rewarded for my efforts by not giving into my fears and getting on the bike. I could have stopped and looked at the same views that I took in from my bike if I had driven my car, but I know I wouldn't have. I would have just whizzed up in a hurry to get there. I would have just listened to music and just passed the time like I always do. My choice allowed me to be in the view as it was happening and pulling over to stretch my legs allowed me to take in the view as if I had walked to this point on a hike. (AND I spent 14 dollars in gas opposed to the 45 it would have cost in my car)

I got on the bike. That's all you have to do.

sick and ready

I picked up a nasty chest/head cold while working in Seattle last week and it's screwing me up. However, I am not going to let that get in my way of riding my pony across the great state of Washington. This is my most ambitious ride on the bike and I am really looking forward to it. The plan is to ride south to Mt. Rainer, ride along side the great beast and then drop into the Yakima valley among the vineyards and migrant workers. Then I turn left at Pasco and head straight into the Forgottens across the lush prairie of the Palouse.

Are you envious? You should be. If you're not taking an ambitous bike ride this weekend, then what are you doing?

Things don't always have to be perfect before you chase after a dream. Photos of this trip are almost a must.

one night in bangkok

If you follow my web site, you know that this week I am working in Seattle at the Underground. So far, everything is going okay and no one has threatened to kill me, which is how I judge a good show from a bad one. Another way to gauge a good show from a bad one is laughter, but that's the layman/Walmart way out.

For some reason, I am not really sticking to my game plan on stage. Either ego or boredom or a mixture of both has forced my show into new territory. The jokes are more natural and closer to the heart, but they are not refined and the delivery, though natural, isn't polished enough for a performance. It's important for me to remember that because I am working a real club with a real paying audience and instead of giving them a professional show, I am playing around with new ideas and concepts and doing a lot of free form comedy. Some of which, they aren't going to like or appreciate. The few people that do - Love me. But there is a huge section of people that are just staring at me. Awkwardly. (this is how the threats start.)

It's fun to try new things, but a professional show isn't the time or the place to try something new. Unless, of course, the people in attendance are there SPECIFICALLY because of you and they don't care what you do as long as they can just be there with YOU. Bob Dylan did it. One night, he came out on stage with an electric guitar and shocked all his fans who were expecting his folk acoustic set. The audience hated it at first and some of them left the show disgusted. Some left before the show was over. But as the years have passed, they have come to see the error of their ways and have come to appreciate that night. Those that left early will actually claim that they loved the set and stayed through the encore, even though he didn't have one that night.

Elvis Costello, an early punk rock hero, went on stage and did a country set at the height of his popularity. He's a Jazz artist now. I think his fans love him more for his rebellious nature than for his music. Well... That's what I tell myself.

BUT I go on stage and do "jazz odyssey" and these poor people have no idea what to think. It took a lot for them to come to the show in the first place. It takes a lot of faith to come to a show and sit there and watch someone bare their soul. Most audiences are nervous about a comedy show because humor isn't universal and they might find themselves on the wrong comedy planet. And unlike a movie that costs 12 dollars that sucks and you can't do anything about it, if you don't like my show, you can let me know right away.

My road humor is fine. I go into one-nighters and I do my job and I make the people laugh with my well worked jokes. That should be the time to try new stuff, but I never really do. I try to stick to what works because I know that "jazz odyssey" done in a small town one-nighter could close the room. Which is bad for me money wise and bad for comedy and comedy fans that had their worst fears realized - Comedy is using an electric guitar and playing country music.

The new jokes are coming out of me in weird ways. I wish I could share with you where they are coming from, but they seem pretty raw and unpredictable. For example; I have a Jan Micheal Vincent joke. When was the last time anyone even mentioned his name? And I just let his name fall out of my mouth in a really funny bit I'm doing about Bill O'Reilly. If you're a fan of comedy, this one is gold. If you don't know Jan or if you like Bill, this joke is a waste of the 12 bucks you paid to get in and the 40 you spent on the drinks.

But I love it...

I am the Miles Davis of Comedy. I can take a bit of Jan and a bit of Jew and a dash of serial killer and make a wild hour of wacky zaniness.

Hmmmmm...

Perhaps that is what the club meant when they called me "the Unabomber of Comedy".

I need fans... Real ones. The ones that know what a Dan Rock show can be. Not the ones that expect a "certain joke off the album".

I wonder what blog jazz odyssey looks like?

when i dream, i dream of you

I sleep peacefully. Like a 97 year old former porn star that's been in a orgasm-induced coma for twenty years. I have an ever present grin that can't be sand blasted off of me (and a pretty nice hard on). Ever since my arrival at the Perch, I have not known a restless night. Not one. It's nothing about my surroundings that is making the difference; there is nothing new about my bedding, the air isn't particularly comforting (in fact, it's thick with humidity, which isn't my favorite) and there is the every present sound of "city" outside my window. I have every reason and condition that would make most people sleep like a man on the run. Instead, I pass out and don't sense life for 7 solid hours(unless I have to pee).

My days are blissful and filled with joy. It's as if life no longer has any challenging obstacles for me to overcome. Life tries to trip me up, just like it does for everyone, but the obstacles just add to my bliss and I savor each day. I enjoy just about everything that happens every day, even the unbearable things make me smile. Not right away, but eventually.

Yeah, life is pretty rosy for me...

So you would think that a man living in my world would have nothing left to dream about when he sleeps. If life is just a step below enlightenment all the time, what could my mind long for...

During my sleep, my dreams are filled with all kinds of imagery. I see different worlds; mountain landscapes, deserts, jungles, empty cities, and endless prairies. These worlds are open to me to explore and do pretty much whatever I want. There is danger there, laughter, exploration, violence, sex, and there is always...

Cigarettes.

It's unbearable. Every dream I have is a nightmare. Every moment I have them is a torture. Everyone I meet in my dreamscape is half demon, half angel. Two uncompatible halves of a painful whole. The entity comes to me in many forms; women, men, animals and thoughts, but they all have the same purpose - They want me to smoke.

And I do. And it's good. And there is much rejoicing. There is very little resistence on my part to their temptation.

It always starts the same; I'm doing dream things and someone around me starts to smoke. I can smell the rich scent of burning tobacco in my nostrils and it burns inside me. The slowly crawling smoke rising from the cigarette calls to me like a Siren on the rocks. I always inhale deeper when I know there is smoke in the air so I can share in the rush of the nicotine. After three or four deep inhalations I can feel the rebirth of my lifelong addiction. I try to fight it, but it's too late. I have to have them.

I don't buy them and I don't ask for one, but somehow I have them. One minute I am not a smoker and I feel great. The next minute - I am sneaking off to smoke a cigarette where no one can see me. It's hard to find a place to hide from the judging eyes that I can feel all around me.

I love it. I savor every last second of those delicious, familiar, comforting cigarettes I like to call - Home.

I can't stop smoking in my dreams and I feel that I have actually started smoking again in reality. It's an odd sensation and I usually like it. The second I realize that I am a smoker again, I start to think of everyone that will be disappointed and I start to think of ways to explain myself. I'm still smoking while I'm trying to think of all these great excuses and that helps me cope with the dishonesty of it all.

I wake up every morning and the first thing I do is look for a reason to start smoking again. The dreams are so real to me that if I had a pack next to my bed I know I would smoke one. OH to find a reason to start again, to make the dreams come true. When I think of all the reasons why I shouldn't start I just find reasons that I should. Probably the most frightening reason - I was raised to be a smoker.

So I wake from my peaceful sleep and I shake off the dreams the best I can. It helps that the first thing I do is sit up in bed, look out my window and stare down at the Oompa Loompas who are all outside, smoking and waiting for their drug re-education classes to start. I look at their crystal meth sores on their arms and faces. I look at their toothless mouths, their deep set blackened eyes and I watch them fidget about from various forms of withdrawl. I listen to their grating diction filled with, "I seen this guy" and "There ain't no way" and "Godsmack rocks"...

...and I don't want to smoke anymore. THAT'S the value of darkness! And why I sleep so well. When you know that life is going to trip you up and you can see it coming, AND you know how to handle it, you sleep like a man that doesn't mind stumbling.

applause, applause, applause

This is how my brain works. I did not edit this piece. This is what my writing process looks like in it's rawest form. I let it all out and then I go an organize it into a post. This particular post took half an hour to complete and it's not "checked" in any way. Generally it takes anywhere from twenty minutes to four hours to complete one post depending on the topic. From this raw stock comes a well formed post. For all of you who asked for it, here it is.......

-------------
It's the dying seconds of a little league baseball game between little kids in purple and little kids in green. Behind the dugout of the purple children, the mother's are all going nuts. Behind the green team's dugout, the mothers are all yelling out words of encouragement, when they can fight back the tears long enough to do so.

The kids on the field look as oblivious to the game as they are to their future with high school algebra. They simple don't know and don't care what any of this means. They are just enjoying the game, the uniform and the weird dried out booger that they put on their jersey at the beginning of the game. Life is good for a little leaguer.

The ump blows his whistle and the game is over. All of the adults who are in various states of appreciation, simultaneously stop what they are doing, and begin to clap.

----

It's an unspoken truth that Western cultures clap after a job well done. It would seem that an audience needs to communicate their appreciation for the performance and the performer, and they do so by slamming their hands together for an indeterminate length of time and completely out of sync with everyone else clapping. This creates a wall of sound that the performer, or performers can hear clearly. The depth of their appreciation is shown at the length of time they clap and how loud they can make it.

As a performer myself, I have enjoyed many a round of applause sent in my direction, but I have also witnessed "empty clapping". Applause that is dead inside and carries no real meaning. The audience barely gets their hands together and it only lasts for a second or two, which really makes the statement. There is no feeling in the world like walking off a stage to silence.

Applause is something that needs more thought before it's dolled out. Is it fair to clap for everything all the time? Doesn't that strip away any value that the clap every had?

When a sitcom star walks into a scene for the first time in the episode, everyone claps. There are signs in the studio telling the audience to clap, so that's cheating, but the viewing audience sees this and understands that this person is important. The performer is special. They haven't done anything in this episode yet, but they have done solid work in prior episodes. So is this clapping meant for that work? Or is it being used as a psychological tool to train the audience? If you hear lots of clapping, then many people must love this show, right?

The green team lost to the purple team by 10 points and a "mercy rule" was put into effect to save them from further humilation. After the game, the purple team gave the green team a round of applause for a "game well played". Really? Shouldn't the green team be clapping for the purple team for a game well played? After all, they are the ones that did all the creaming.

Standing around the destruction site this past weekend, those of watching the Kubota dragon delicately dance around the site, clapped when it did something amazing. The dragon is loud when it's on so there is no way that the man in the brain could have heard us, but he saw our hands slamming together. You could see him swell up inside from the clapping.

We don't clap after great sex. Nor do we clap at chefs, waiters, cab drivers, land scapers, septic tank pumpers, mailmen, bank tellers, road construction workers or car washers. The only time these people get applause is if it's set up in advance. We call it, "APPRECIATION DAY" for our favorite this or that. Someone has to give a speech, then introduce them and then we clap. These appeciation days are generally held within the given community that the worker works in, so the rest of the world never gets to show their appreciation. This puts an huge burden on the clappers who now not only have to clap for themselves, but for the rest of the people that can't come. A one clapper for every 1000 that didn't make it out, ratio. And two people clapping sounds a lot less amazing than 2000. Actually two people clapping is so bad it actually has the opposite effect. Its sound is demoralizing and strips all self respect from the applausee's heart.

We also clap as a weapon. There are times when clapping really, really slowly with a smirk on our face can destroy someone's soul and crush their pride.

If you clap at the wrong time, you are looked at as showing your appreciation prematurely and that's wrong. There is a time and place to show your appreciation and how dare you try to set your own rules or show your appreciation your own way.

And what other ways are appropriate? Why not one big, simulataneous clap? (everyone... On three... One... Two... Three... CLAP!) It works for me.

We spend so much time clapping that for most of us, it's lost it's value. For example, does anyone really want to clap after a guest speaker has given a speech at your work? Especially if the speech was dull and lifeless. Do we really want to clap for vanquished athletes like the green team? Didn't their lack of performance bring about their loss? So why show them any appreciation? What about the applause that just appears when famous people appear? Is that necessary? Jan Micheal Vincent hasn't worked in twenty years and back then he only worked every now and then. Does he deserve applause everytime he comes out of a restaurant in Denver?

Clapping - Where does it come from? Who decided the rules here? Why does an opera singer get twenty minutes of it and a surgeon get none? Do we abuse the applause that we have been given? Have we done it so much and come to expect it at certain times that it really doesnt' carry any meaning anymore?

I ask you to think about your personal applause and give more thought to when you show it. If we are required to censor ourselves from expressing our DISPLEASURE with someone, then I think we could monitor our expressions of APPRECIATION. That way, when someone does something that is truly applause worthy, they will understand that it means something for you to give it to them.

I hear it every time I go on stage and I can't tell you the last time I believed that it was real and not just a courteous gesture.

Thank you....

APPLAUSE! APPLAUSE!

passion fruit

The world around me is made up of keys. Each key has a symbol which can release a small part of my magic onto the world. You may not see what I see when I look at these machines, but perhaps if you think about it long enough...



This is my father's Royal Typewriter. It contains cigarette ashes and food crumbs and was used so much that keys had to be replaced. He was an avid writer himself. Perhaps that's where it comes from. It's the need for this machine's preservation that started the collection of other machines.
ROYAL






This is the machine that could get me laid if there were sexy, hot typewriter collectors out there. I love this one.
ROYAL










You're gonna see a trend with my lust. This is also a Royal. I call this my missing link as it is incredibly large for a portable, much like the early versions, but it's incased like the latter versions. It's one of the first soft touches and the keys are glass.
ROYAL







This is a newer addition to the fold. It's an extended carriage Olympia which is hard to find in the seedy underworld of typewriter collecting.
OLYMPIA










The old reliable. I wish I had more of the Smith Coronas, but people are stubborn about giving these up. I enjoy writing with this one a lot. If you ever see a smith corona that isn't electric, buy it on the spot and then email me and drive me crazy.
SMITH CORONA







This Underwood was purchased for a ridiculous amount of money. For some reason, people will keep a used sock that their great grandfather used for a jack off cum sock, but they will sell his favorite typewriter that is "taking up space in our house". This one was used to work on one of the first Seattle newspapers. It's in mint condition. Glass keys are all original.
UNDERWOOD





I love the fact that this beauty has a right hand carriage return slide. It's odd and beautiful. This is the oldest machine I own dating to around 1890.
REMINGTON









My tiny Tippa. The smallest and the fastest. It's loud and heavy and can put any laptop to shame with it's reliablity.
TIPPA.










A 1967 Underwood. The world changed and plastic becomes the norm. It's action is hard and ugly. I recommend this one to anyone that has dark poetry and angst to share.
UNDERWOOD.









The Italian Job. These are notorious for breaking and costing a lot to repair. The inner carriage house is as fragile as plastic fork.
OLIVETTI










Leave it to the Swiss to only make typewriters in one color and have that color be seafoam green. And leave it to the Swiss to name their typewriter the Hermes. After no one associated with language or typewriters. And leave it to typewriter collectors to prize these beauties more than Royals. (I have a hard time fitting in to any group)
HERMES.





Smith Corona loves to use casted metal. This is

mighty warrior in the battle against boredom. Every part can be removed individually and cleaned. I wish I knew how to do it.
SMITH CORONA








This comes with a faux wood grain slash metallic
facade. The big red button near the space bar is the first and only(?) space repeat button ever made. This was as advanced as machinery could get at the time. I'm sure every woman was crazy for the man with one of these beauties. Much like they are today.
WEBSTER.






The Olympia two ton. From the looks of it, this machine probably saw the most use. None of the keys are bent which is a common condition for over worked machines, but it's worn almost everywhere else. Even the carriage is thining out. It's fun to use those.
OLYMPIA.







How much do I like his one? If you point a gun at my friend's head's and said for me to hand over the typewriter or my friend gets it. I would be attending a funeral later that week. With my typewriter tucked safely under my arm.
SMITH CORONA.








This is where the babes are displayed so that I might gaze upon them in awe.
THE PERCH.












For my final photo I would like to show you the instruments in my grand symphony. If I could play them all at once, the music they would make could change the world.

kubota dragon

The calendar says that it's Saturday so it must be time to return to the waste land of last week's destruction. When last we spoke; I had just torn down the shack in the back yard with the help of young boys and my body was crippled in the process. A week later, I find myself driving down a familiar road, back to the land of dirt, dust and pain, hoping that the young boys have chickened out and that the work that lies ahead will not be as damaging to my body.

I got there a little late and I could see the husband working diligently on the front yard. With him are two new faces to the job and they are attacking their work like rabid wolverines. No sign of young boys. I knew it! Cowards and sissies all! However, according to the wife, there are supposed to be a dozen or so people working with us today. As I park down the street and walk closer to the house, my heart leaps thinking that the work will be a little easier and less painful with all of those helpers.

It's just me, the husband and the two guys in the front yard.

The two new guys turn out to be a father and son team of laborers that do this kind of thing all the time. They don't talk at all, they listen well and they work like it's the only thing keeping them alive. How they were located, I don't know. But it wouldn't surprise me if it was a side of the road, "Will work for food" scenerio. The husband is working, but again, the wife has decided that she would much rather watch. So would the neighbors who have gathered in their yards to watch the carnage.

Small crew for so much work. My body senses this and it starts to send dull throbing pains to the areas of my body that hurt last week as a reminder of what lies ahead if I continue. There is an entire building laying on it's side that needs removing. An entire backyard's worth of concrete, tree stumps, fence posts and bamboo that needs dislodging, chopping up and discarding. The front yard is still full of refuse that is too big to be carried into the trash containers and will require more attention to make it manageable for removal. AND, one of the neighbors has indicated that he will pay to have two of his full grown trees removed, if we're interested in some extra cash... Ohhhh the evil lure of greed. At what price is pain?

Enter... The Dragon.

The same neighbor with tree problems is also the neighbor that everyone wishes they could have. He's a hard working, easy living, business owner and he owns a lot of hard to find tools which he's willing to let you borrow - no questions or restrictions. These are tools that men only dream about in their rare glimpses of urban manliness. Those times when a domesticated male will try to step out and build, repair, or remove something using tools, grit and all of his manly brawn. This scene is often looked upon in complete amazement by loving spouses as it doesn't happen often. It's the same way people look at animals at a zoo. Women have been known to stand in windows or stand nearby and watch their man with a great dumbfounded look on their face; "I didn't know he could do that. Look how sexy he is all dirtied up and using his hands." Of course, this sentiment is also tinged with; "I didn't realize how unmanly he really is rest of the time".

But a man can never be mistaken while he is in the mud. His blood is pure fire and his resolve is absolute. (Sadly, the older he get, the more his muscles become shit and his coordination is nothing but awfully scary)

Thank the Gods for the most primitive invention - TOOLS!!!!!

Saws of harden American steel.... Twenty pound sledge hammers.... The Wheel, The Pry Bar, The plastic protective eye glasses, The leathery glove... And a Kubota excavator made by people that love destruction more than anyone else in the world - Japan.

It has a comfy seat, dual arm controls with joysticks (with triggers that run attachments) that run it's scoop and control the position of the brain. Foot controls with attached optional hand controls that move the tracks. It has a grater, two alternating scoops with an opposable claw, a horn, shiny buttons, blinky lights and a cup holder. IT IS THE GREATEST TOOL.... EVER!!!

As I walked into the backyard, I could see the neighbor sitting in the brain of the beast and he was opearating it so smoothly that it seemed like a ballet. He could spin the brain and lift the neck and with the precision of a brain surgeon, he could grasp an entire tree and pull it from it's roots. THEN, without a moment's thought, the great beast would swivel around and start to crawl out of the wreckage without a care or concern for what it was rolling over, and it could dispose of an entire tree in seconds. Last week it would have taken three hours to do the same work this token of the Gods' love did in fifteen seconds.

All the pain and aching had stopped. The fact that there were no young boys around didn't bother me. Who needs teenagers when you have machinery?!

Did I tell you it was the greastest tool ever?

I stood there watching it. The husband stood there watching it. The wife stood there watching it. The neighbors stood there watching it. It's mesmerizing, there was actually clapping at certain moves.

This gift from the Gods barely roars at all and it's silky moves make it seem organic, but to view it in the abstract it looks like a great hungry dragon, constantly destroying what ever lies before it. The fact that it was made in Japan makes all of this fit together, doesn't it?

I got to be it's brain. Yes, someone didn't get the memo and they put me in the mind of a destructive machine and left me there, unattended.

The neighbor wanted the booze and the husband wanted nothing to do with driving it. But I'm a huge boy and this is a huge toy. I am a man and men are drawn to destruction and all tools designed for that purpose. This is why we love guns, knives, jackhammers, firecrackers, chain saws, fire and women! They are all destructive entities and we want to play with them all the time, even if it means we get destroyed in the process. Our desire for destruction is why we have such a hard time assembling things - We would much rather destroy than create and it gives us a headache to think we are only creating something that someone else will get the pleasure of destroying later. It takes two hours to put together a shelf and two seconds to blow it up..... he he... he... he he... that was cool. Oh, the insanity... The beauty...

The Kubota dragon - You climb in and the seat contours to your butt and shocks find your comfort zone. One flip of the switch and you are destroying the world, one dragon's mouthful at a time.

Trees - Gone
Stumps - Toast
Concrete - 8 foot by 8 foot sections at time... Gravy.
Need a road through the center of your house... Step aside.
Wanna know where the gas line is buried.... Child's play.

I haven't been on a huge piece of heavy machinery in years. A tractor doesn't count, usually a tractor indicates the creative process and so I won't even mention it in the same breathe as this beauty. My skills as the brain of the dragon lack the finesse of the previous central nervous system and perhaps if I had some beer, I could delicately remove small twigs with such grace as he. For now, I think I will settle for removing not only the twig, but the two yards of soil around it.

We worked hard and the weather held on. The building was chopped up and gone in half an hour. The two trees in five minutes. The remaining concrete... Lasted the day but I have a full Sunday to redeem myself and get the rest done. Whether or not anyone else shows up, I don't care. I have my own personal dragon. If the top speed wasn't four miles per hour, I would drive one all the time. I doubt anyone would try to honk at me for going slow.