gosh darn it, you friggin mother friggin dodo head

It's raining in Tucson and the temperature has fallen into an uncomfortable range for most of the denizens here. Even for me - especially for me - as I have no long sleeved clothes to accommodate the present weather. I mean, who brings a coat to Tucson in July? How foolish, and - optimistic. So I am freezing in Tucson, in July. Some vacation.

The Friday night shows were a success even with the owner trying to trip me up before the first show. He called me with less than an hour before show time and told me that there were some special groups in the audience and that I need to work clean or remove myself from the line-up. To the typical comic, changing up your whole show to accommodate the needs of a specialty audience is a huge undertaking and it requires at least 48 hours to a week of planning to do it right. So the owner's request is a huge inconvenience, but I was ready for it. I had the advantage of knowing that he was going to try to trip me up as I am no greenhorn in this rodeo and I have seen this kind of crap before. I am used to these "late, but important" requests. And I have built up an immunity to Iocane powder. I could care less if I have to work clean. I have enough material in my repotoire to fill two solid hours if I have to. I just don't particularly like to.

I could tell that the owner was put out by the fact that I was very accommodating and that he was not going to be able to pull me from the show for censorship rationales. I guess he just thought that if I wasn't able to pull it off, he could fire me for cause and no one would be able to argue with him about it. The show was perfect and after the show, the owner did come up and say thank you. I guess he conceded and just decided to write off the weekend. I'm gone in one day and he doesn't have to rebook me. Seeing a golden opportunity to talk to him, I asked what he thought and he had this to say, "You're the darkest comic we have ever had in this club in the ten years I've been here."

I was left mildly speechless for the rest of the night. I have never thought of myself as a dark comic. Challenging, but not dark. The second show I was filthy and brutal. I slayed, not an easy task on a Friday late show.

I like foul language. I don't use it all the time, but I like what it does. I like the fact that it can be used to stress a particular point and give it weight, or used as an exasperation. It's effective word play and every human on the planet with the ability to communicate does it - Everyone, every language, every culture, every where. No exceptions.

I was recently on the phone with Verizon Wireless's customer service division because Verizon is a bunch of cunty- cuntersons and they needed their monthly Daniel tongue lashing. I don't like corporations much, so I have a hard time watching my tongue when I am dealing with them. It pains me immensely that I have to accommodate them in my life. I hate them all and I feel like a sell out, a hypocrite and less of a man everytime I have to accept their evil in my life.(Comcast, Verizon, Puget Sound electric, Mazda, State Farm, TD Canada Trust and Bank of America - they can all fuck right off and burn in hell) I was on the phone with a phone rep - some poor little voiced woman that was playing by the rules because she is indoctrinated to do so - and the conversation got heated. I started using big colorful words that she took offense to so I told her to put me on the phone with a grown up. She hung up on me. I'm not sure what this means in the business world, but I guess this is a pass by Verizon on their dealings with me. I like that she hung up on me. I like that the words - just words - were able to control her. I had power over her because she let me. I don't know her and she did what I wanted her to. It's foolish and common and I exploit this relationship often. When I'm on stage, I use certain words and phrases it because it subliminally tells my audience that I am not playing by the rules and that they should expect something different and use the adult side of their mind. I am not here to make them completely comfortable with my type of entertainment. There will be no watermelon smashing and no "yo momma so ugly" rhetoric here. I'm here to challenge "perceptions". They should fidget in their seats. I am not a fan of corporations and yet I am on a corporate stage so these people, wearing their corporate clothes, having driven here in their corporate cars, sitting in a corporate designed building and drinking corporate booze, can hear me rail on about how evil corporations are evil. I like that.

It's raining in Tucson. The streets are filled with water and it's freezing cold. I am soaked from the fifteen minutes of walking in the rain. When I finally get to the front door I am pretty jazzed to be out of the rain. I walk in.

HOLY SHIT! I cried.

I should have seen the large crowd gathered in the room but I didn't. It's packed wall to wall inside. The room is filled with Green Party members from all over the United States, that are in town for their annual convention. They are all startled by my presence and by the harsh interruption of a speech someone is giving. So they turn to judge me, hastily. For a moment there is a brief silence. The only thing that breaks the iron cold reception is the powerful strong smell of gathered hippi - petchouli. It's an amazingly strong concentration, one I have never experienced before. It's almost enough to cover up the smell of failed artist on their Phish tee shirts.

I get coffee and sit down - silently. Twenty minutes pass of me using my computer. More people come in. The speeches continue and the dialogue in the room is top heavy with revolution and co-ops. Periodically during the speeches, people will turn to nod their head in my direction in some mild form of agreement with what the speaker is saying, they have completely forgotten that I am the interloper here. The ten or so people in my direct area are all guilty of nodding at least once in my direction before they quickly turn away, their face contorting to a look of disapproval as quickly as their head spun around to see if I was nodding in approval too. I am asked to leave by the owners... Very "open minded and accepting" of them.

Again, the tides of Tucson have shifted in surprising ways. The work place wasn't the rocky rapids that I thought it would be but instead it turned out to be my writing time. The usually peaceful brook that is my posting was muddied by a bunch of would-be do-betters that took offense to me and my free speech lifestyle. I guess if I had been wearing a cheap plastic name tag (that was made in a third world country by an impoverished soul) with my name printed on it (with toxic, industrial black laser printer ink that required fossil fuels to get the job done) I would have been received with open arms.

I want to go home.

ficklish

Dateline: Tucson, Arizona. Friday, July 28, 2006. It's morning and I am sitting in a coffee house surrounded by Green Party folk. Lots of women covered in hair, and men that have unabomber issues. It's raining outside and the man on the talk box says there is a flash flood warning. The CDC has put out a "JUNTA VIRUS" warning. It seems that rain drives out the rats and they give you the microwaveable version of AIDS. You get Junta and you die in days. Horribly and painfully.

Prior to this moment, I have dreamed, or hypothesized, about this week of work for over a month. I could just sense that there was something different about this particular week that was going to be a test of my strength. Not unlike the trip to Japan without clothes or the Illness in Europe, I could feel a "trip up" brewing long before I got here. It could be the money issue that started if off, it's a little low for me, but I knew that this week was more of an audition week and not an income week. That, and I had to take time off from my money making job to come down here. This is 800 bucks that I won't have to spend in China.

It could be the locale that is freaking me out. It is, after all, Arizona in late July. The last few times I have been to Arizona in the summer it was at night and even that was too much heat for me to bear. This is a full four days in death heat.

I don't know how, or what, started it, but there is a strange anxiety about this whole experience.

I am NOT a warm weather fan. I don't mind the heat but, when possible, I would rather avoid it. Back home at the Perch, the average daily high is 83. Four days of this summer have seen tempos over 90 and I almost died in those four blistering deadly days. Of course, at the Perch there is no humidity and it isn't a dry heat either. It's a perfectly balanced moisture/air content and the sun just lightly heats it up to make it good for the skin, soft to the touch, easy on the lungs and just a tiny slice of weather perfection. The Gods perfected weather in the Puget sound. Like a perfect grilled cheese sandwich. Here in Tucson, the average daily temperature is 108. That's just the average. That means there are days here that see even higher temps. The air is dry, dry, dry and your skin is zapped of moisture the second you step off the plane. It's like those Skecksees creatures in the Dark Crystal sucking the life out of the Geflings. You can actually watch people shrink. It never rains here... Until this week. Now the humidity is so strong that all the dried up prunes walking around here are floating away. People that are used to having smooth straight hair are experiencing the worst day of their hair-baring lives. There are a lot of hats on today.

As the trip approached, I could see that things were already a mess. Even before I got on the plane, things started to fall apart. The owner/booker was hard to reach via email or by phone, to confirm details the details of the week with, and that caused some friction to develop before I even packed for the trip. That's never a good sign. Usually, it takes a good two minutes of face-to-face time before the owner/bookers and I can sense that this isn't working. I am just not a "bar" crowd or "entertainment" crowd type of guy. I think I give off that vibe and I'm doomed. This didn't make my wait any easier for me. I'm not making any money on this trip anyway, and I lost money taking time off work to come here. Add in the fact that I might get fired before I even leave for the gig.... Violent thoughts started to fill my mind.

Of course, violence melts in the high dessert heat, so I was hoping that I would get here and just cool off. I checked the Tucson weather twice a day for six weeks. Not once in that time did the temperature drop below 110. Not once. I was pretty sure I would get there and be so preoccupied with staying cool that I wouldn't even notice my financial woes.

The night before the flight I packed for a weekend in an oven. Some extremely light stage clothes, and off stage clothes that were next to nude. I was ready.

I tried to reach the club for a ride from the airport as I was told to do on my contract. When I finally got a hold of the owner/booker, I was informed that no one was coming to get me. Things are even testier than I thought. Even the most common of the comedy curtsies - picking up the talent from the airport - was being denied. AND, no reimbursement for the cab. Instead of letting myself get huffy about it, I just tried to accept the situation and move on. "It takes all kinds" doesn't it?

The plane arrives in Tucson, and as the plane taxis to the terminal the stewardess announces that the local temp is.... 71!!!! Yes, that's right 71. Seventy-one. Seven tens and a one. A "C" average. Yes. COOOOOOOOOOOLLLLL and normal for a human. Tolerable. Doable. Awesome.

I walked off the plane smiling, laughing and really looking forward to the weekend. One of my biggest anxieties about the week had been washed away in a freak set of thunderstorms out of Mexico and I was in for a full four day weekend of cooooooooool. Then I remembered that I was on my own for a ride in the coooooooool, rainy town of Tucson. No problem. I have been to foreign countries and had to figure stuff out on my own before, so I am not too worried about Tucson. How bad can it be? At least they speak Engli...

There are mountains here, another good sign. True, their slopes lack the deep green luster of my volcanoes back home, but these jagged peaks are just as beautiful in their own way. They are chocolate brown and with the rain sliding down them, they are even a darker brown. They look like a hot fudge sundae made with chocolate ice cream. They surround Tucson on three sides and stretch across the horizon for just a little ways in either direction, but what they lack in width, the make up for in height.

The desert is flat in every direction. Without any gradual build up that is so common in other mountain ranges - huge, jagged mountain crawl out of the ground and sit defiantly against the sky. Visible heat waves emanating from the desert floor distort the lower half of the mountains so you can't see where the mountains and the desert meet. There are clouds that collar the summits but rising above the clouds are the snow covered peaks, their jagged surfaces, cutting through the clouds into the pale blue sky. They are a sight to behold. Especially the sight of snow in a desert. I'm sure more than one soul has died of thirst within sight of the millions of gallons of fresh water that is just an outstretched hand away. The torture...

I took a walk around my "accommodations" (that's a nice way of saying it), and took in the sights of Tucson on foot. The town is mostly dead in the side of town surrounding the "accommodations" but what there is to see is outstanding. There are plants, flowers and all other sorts of flora here that I have never seen before. There is a flower that grows everywhere around here that is Dreamsicle orange with Plum red highlights. I wish I had the vocabulary to do the flower justice, but perhaps a photo would be better. It's incredible and if I thought it would survive in cooler temperatures of my world, I would steal a few and take them home.

The rest of the town is your typical college/military town. There are millions of blondes, hippies, military personnel and Mexicans all milling around together in a heat tempered harmony. Everyone looks too worn out to get uppidity with each other. In fact, it was one of the most peaceful and laid back bus rides I have ever been on. Ever. Maybe it's the aura of bus rides that calms us, I don't know, but the goth chick sitting across from me didn't judge the blonde girl sitting in front of her or vice versa. It was shocking.

Tucson is also a town of odd little "keep out" signs... glowing scorpions... Tarantulas... Coyotes... six types of poisonous snakes... killer bees... stinging ants... rats... a mysterious animal called the culacabra(???) and, of course, catus. It's not a place to where you want to spend too much time on the bare ground without a medical degree. Not a lot of picnics in this part of the country. My only question is... What the fuck is a culacabra?

According to the "Welcome to Tucson" flyer it's a never before photographed animal with razor sharp teeth, a very, very, very nasty attitude toward anything not culacabra and it's known to be the cause of many of the mysterious "shredding" deaths of animals and humans in the area. It's a mythological animal not unlike the minotaur, but the people here believe every word of the stories that are told about it. They even speak about it in hushed tones as if the beast has supernatural hearing and likes to carry a grudge. It's very real to these people which means, it has to be very real to you. Any sort of disbelief on your part and you will get stared at. They look at you like you are a blasphemous soul who will bring death and destruction upon the village. They look at you like you need to be tied to a pole outside of town with a sign hanging off of you that says, "He said it! Not us! Take him!"

I was worried about all the critters and the heat before I got here, and none of them turned out to be as bad as I thought they would be. I spent all my time worrying about how bad this place was going to be and it turned out to be exactly the opposite. All that worry, I didn't even bother to find out about the landscape of the town, which ultimately, is this town's saving grace. Of course...

I finally met the owner and that was the exactly how I thought it would be. It the coldest thing in town. He just isn't going to like me for whatever reason but I will reserve judgment until the end of the week. However, so far things are looking a little sour. This may be my only trip here so it's probably a good idea to get out and see it all, just in case. The invasion of Tucson may be a one time thing - that would be my early assessment, anyway.

Everything about this town said, "Stay away!", but it turned out to be a pretty pleasant place. I think the lesson I need to learn is that I am just not entertainment material and that I need to travel the world for other reasons. Perhaps I would be better off traveling around, writing and riding and not trying to please people that have money on the mind. Perhaps death by culacabra would be a better death than a life in the entertainment industry.

laughing while crying

I love my laundry mat. I come here because it's clean, it smells good and I can have all my laundry done - washed and dried - in forty minutes. It's locally owned and the owner loves to come over and show you how to work his new machines. He walks you through the whole process; where to put your money, how to set the dials, how to read the display, where to put detergent, how much detergent, etc. He loves to explain how his machines are superior to other machines and how much more efficient they are than other machines. "Next generation" is his favorite phrase and he says it a lot.

I could easily do laundry in my building but I take the experience for granted when I do. When I do it at the Perch, I just put the laundry in and come back to pad and do other things. When I go to the laundry mat, I am forced to focus on what I'm doing and to not take if for granted or get distracted. It's a simple lesson that I feel I need to work on more. So twice a week, I come to the Next Generation Laundry Mat and I pay attention.

It's a new place so most people haven't discovered it yet. Those who have are the standard fare for your modern laundry mat. Mostly lower income, mostly questionable characters that use trash bags for their laundry. Usually these people keep to themselves until they have a problem with a machine and they have to seek out help, but otherwise they just sit and watch free TV or sink quarters into the claw machine hoping to get a new toy for baby Festus.

I like to read and listen to Miles Davis while doing laundry. If I don't have a great book, I will watch the machine toss my clothes around. It's a dangerous thing to sit and watch laundry mix around. I have found myself trying to see if I can catch the exact moment when the dirt leaves my clothes. I never catch it, but I try every time.

Not too many loads ago, a small destitute child came up and asked me if I ever cried. I was shocked that he asked, not because I was a stranger and he was a kid, but because it was such an odd question for a dirty little child to ask a complete stranger. It was like he was asking to be abducted. I guess for some children abduction is a better option. Don't believe me, ask Andrea Yates' kids.

"Hey. What makes you cry?" asks the 6 year old boy with dirt on his face.

I said, in my condescending adult voice, "When things make me sad or if I'm really happy."

I knew when I said it that I shouldn't have.

"You cry when you're happy?" asked the 6 year old boy with dirt on his perplexed face.

I said, in my what-will-it-take-to-get-this-kid-to-go-away voice, "Sure, like when I laugh."

I knew when I said it that I shouldn't have.

"What makes you laugh?" asked the 6 year old boy that looked like he needed a meal and a book.

I said, in my will-money-make-you-go-away-voice, "Will money make you go away?"

Thankfully my laundry stopped spinning and I was able to gather it up and get out of there before the kid pulled a knife or took a bite out of my thigh. It wasn't until I got home and actually thought about the line of questioning that it occurred to me how important that moment had been and how bad it was that I blew it off.

What makes you cry?

I found that crying is a pretty valuable way for me to express myself when other ways leave me wanting more. And the first thing I found out is that there are so many different ways to cry.

Misting - The most common form of crying with men and ironically the rarest form in women. Misting occurs in powerfully emotionally moments that are built up so you have time to prepare yourself to hold back when it crescendos. You get misty, but you can blame dust or a bad contact... No harm there. Laughter makes you misty.

Single tear sans sniffle - As a dam finds it difficult to hold back an angry river during flood season, and will periodically let out a little pressure to keep itself together, so too does a single tear find it's way down your cheek from time to time. Moments in life that are passionate, romantic, overtly sad, powerful painful - and the moment calls for keeping it together - the single tear is found. Casually wiped away with the side of your hand. Getting punched or smacked to hard can make a tear squeeze out that you weren't expecting.

Single tear with sniffle - It's too much to hold back and perhaps there was no warning. Perhaps it was a memory recall of a past emotional moment, but the tear falls unchecked and a strange heat in your nose has made a snot tear drop to keep it company. You'll need tissue or you'll muck up your hand. Disappointing a parent or friend can bring about a single tear, sniffle combo.

Reserved sobbing - You've just had a pretty hard spanking. Gotten in a fight. You've have just survived a harrowing experience. You were suddenly thrust into a life or death experience and made it out unscathed. You're shaken, but you want to keep it together... So you muffle the sobbing and turn away so no one can see.

Sobbing - There is no control. There is no hope. The overwhelming sense of injustice, unfairness, of pure evil, of immeasurable sadness, heart break, loss, defeat, pending doom, fear... It's loud, it's full of tears that have no end, the nose runs, the eyes puff shut as if to say they have seen too much and they can't take any more. In these moments all things are possible. There is no self respect, no self esteem and no desire to see another minute. Life, as you know it, is over.

Staring - Beyond the sobbing is a place where the body is as still as a rock. It is crying but it had no more tears and no more noises left inside it. The mind is blank. Soulless. Only robots feel this way.

I have seen all of these forms of tears in my life. People have died, people have tricked me, people have hurt me, I have hurt myself, I have experienced powerful things. My tears have cleansed me when I needed things to be washed away. My tears have lubricated the moments of my life that seem rigid and stuck, and they have made it possible for me to get by. Tears are as important to the body as laughter. They should be as common as a burp or a giggle in your everyday life.

Some think that crying is a bad thing and that it should be somehow stopped. There is no cure for crying and even the pacification of a hug only increases the intensity of the crying, so we should really try to rethink our attitude towards it.

What makes me cry? What doesn't make me cry?

A view. A loss. A gain. An understanding. An appreciation. Art. The smell of peanut butter and black raspberry jelly sandwiches... they bring me back to my childhood. I cry everytime.

live as rich folk do

Money's true nature it to make more money. It's a magical snowball that gathers more and more snow as it rolls down the hillside. The more snow it gathers, the more surface area it has to gather up even more snow. The larger the snowball gets, the more it weighs and the faster it goes down the hill. The faster it goes down hill, the larger it gets until it's just uncontrollable.

When you're poor. Your snowball is just a stagnated snow flake, stuck to the flat ground with the other snow flakes. When you're poor, your little flake of snow doesn't gather any speed, nor does it grow in size. It just sits there and starts to melt. It's so small that it goes unnoticed among all the other snow flakes....

My boss has millions of dollars that will soon be a billion dollars. You would never know it, if you looked at him because he wears a modest, well-worn cowboy hat that is stained with both sweat and dirt from years of use. He drives a modest 1983 Ford F250 pick-up truck that doesn't start all the time, has no stereo and the seats are all torn up. He lives in a four room shack in the middle of a huge hay field that has no television, no radio and is in such a state of disrepair that leveling it to the ground would be a huge improvement. He uses a velcro wallet that he was given in 1985. The velcro has worn off and he has to use a rubber band to keep it closed. If you saw my boss in person, you would think he was just a modest, slow moving, soft talking, old country farmer. He still has a hanky that he carries in his back pocket to use for blowing his nose.

Sounds like a cheapskate, huh? You could be right, but I think it's something else. In two more years, that hanky will be wiping snot out of a billionaire's nose. That wallet will still be the doorway to his fortune, and he will still be out there on that tractor, mowing hay. He didn't want a fortune...

He was raised on a small farm in Montana and came to the Seattle area in the 1950's to make his own life. He just wanted to make enough money to buy his own farm and live there with his family. After ten years of working as a mechanic and a farm hand, he was able to buy a small parcel of land fifteen miles outside of Seattle. Each year, he kept buying more and more land until he had 6000 acres by the end of 1970. By this time, he had a wife, four kids and was pretty happy with the way things turned out. He loved his wife, his kids, his farm and he loved to ride his tractor and work the land.

Over the next twenty years, the land he owned went up in value from three dollars an acre to over a million and a quarter dollars per acre. He was rich and didn't have to work another day in his life. He didn't ask for the millions, but he had them. He just wanted to work the land, but no one wanted to let him. The only thing he was able to do was to work the acreage in front of his tiny house.

His wife wanted to spend money and she wanted to live the life that their new money would allow. He didn't. His kids wanted to spend money, drive nice cars and do as rich kids do. He didn't. They all reached a compromise; His wife left and took the kids and half the money. They went off and became rich people, he stayed behind and worked his small parcel of land.

With his wife and kids gone, my boss put on his hat, gased up his tractor and went to work. The wife split up the money between the kids and they went off and wasted it. So did she. Eventually two of the kids had to come back to work in the family business. In the accounting department, of course. The other two kids parlayed their share into larger shares of wealth and are ridiculously rich, with their own land and their own rich kids. My boss just rides a tractor and tries his best not to think about it.

I have known a lot of rich people in my life and I have seen both extremes in what it can do to people. I have heard both the pleasure and the displeasure in being a rich person and I have felt the sting of their corruption and the humility of their generosity (of course, usually their generosity has a hidden price tag, but hey, it's money, so what do I care.). In all of my dealings with the rich, I have never felt that their claims of "money brings nothing but misery" and "you don't know the pressure of being rich..." have ever had any merit, until now.

First, I need to say that I think that money's true value is not what you can buy with it, but "when" you can buy it. Money is time. Money allows you the opportunity to do things when you want to do them without having to plan, save, starve, endure, be patient, work hard, discipline yourself, or know better. Money allows your flights of fancy to find a suitable runway from which to take flight. If you want to go to Hawaii and you're rich, you can go at that exact moment. If you're poor, you'll have to wait until you have the money and the time to do so. So if you're rich, there is no reason for you to suffer about anything, right?

My boss just had a birthday. He's 87. He has a working, reliable tractor that he loves. If it breaks he fixes it himself. He has a working, reliable old Stetson that keeps the rain and sun off his face. He has a working, reliable old dog that is with him every moment of the day. He has 40 acres just outside his old farm house that he can mow whenever he wants to and he has a billion dollars to mow it anyway he wants to. He didn't ask for anything from anyone. When you're rich, you don't ever ask for anything. He did mention that he needed a new coat because his old wool-lined Levi jacket was eaten by the goat.

His family held a party on his precious 40 acres without asking him if they could do so. They set up a tent, dug a hole for pit BBQ, set up a dance floor, hired a band and set up a dining hall. Every person that he is barely remotely related to showed up. He wasn't even aware that he had second second cousins. Even his granddaughter's husband's brother showed up at the party... as a family member! He had a lot of family that just looooooved him Not one bad word was spoken about him and you would have thought that he was the reason they were alive. Also in attendance were a lot of his friends - other rich people. His entire staff of nine farm hands, myself included, where there too. It was quite the gathering. There was a lot of food, booze and mingling. Well, when I say mingling, I mean that a lot of people were trying to make their way over to my boss and get in a good word with him. They all talked to him like he was retarded. They used loud voices and spoke slowly which must have been really strange to a man that hears just fine.

The gifts he received were outrageous. He was given; a new truck with leather seats, gold golf clubs, golf shirts, golf shoes, a new Stetson, two tickets for a cruise to Puerto Rico, and framed photos of... his loving family. In the midst of all this celebratory madness, his farm hands handed him one gift that they had all pitched in for - a new wool lined Levi jacket. We then ate our share of the BBQ and went back to work.

My boss only smiled when he got that jacket and when the goat ate the tickets for the cruise. You could see that he was upset over everyone trampling down on 10 acres of his precious farm land and you could tell that he knew that he was surrounded by a bunch of people that are plotting against him. They either wanted him to die soon, so they can have his money for themselves, or they wanedt to figure out a way to get the money away from him right now... some how. He knows this fact, and he tries his best to just be a thankful old farmer. You can tell that he is torn inside. On one hand, he's thankful that he isn't one of those old men living in a nursing home that never hears from any of his relatives on his birthday, but on the other hand, he would rather be the old man in a nursing home that knew what his friends and family really felt about him.

Rich people have a burden from which there is no relief. They don't know who is a genuine friend and who is just a friend of the money. That has to be the worst feeling in the world, especially when you're not sure if your family is genuine or just a family of the money.

A rich person has the luxury of time but not the luxury of real friends. Rich people are trapped in a snowball that is rolling down a hill, out of control. It gathers dead weight which it does not need and it has no way to shake it off.

The next day, after all the guests had gone, my boss was back out on his tractor, picking up after his own party. The guests had trampled down ten acres of hay but he was back out there trying to make it work... in his new wool lined Levi Jacket and his old faithful Stetson hat. His dog was next to him as usual. His snot rag was still in his back pocket. The keys to the old truck were still in his pocket.

The new gifts from the night before were gathered on the porch. The goat was chewing on them. It's okay, my boss doesn't play golf and hasn't left the state of Washington since he moved here in the 1950's.

requested #20

Astrology

"Have you ever had your chart done?"

This seemingly innocent question can send chills up my spine and make my eyes water uncontrollably. I don't know why this happens, but I am assuming it's a Pavlovian response. Perhaps it's my Queen of Hearts or my 39 Steps trigger(yes, they're movies), because when I hear it, I become a completely different person and I don't remember what happens for long periods of time afterwards. I do know that I feel this strong urge to grab a rifle and find a clock tower. It's seemingly, the only release valve available to me for letting some of my pain out. Don't get in the way or you could get hurt. It's that serious.

The "chart", in question, if you're not aware, is a map of the stars (celestial, not movie) as they were positioned at the very second of your birth or conception(perhaps movie would be better). Using the location of your birth, the time of your birth and a vast knowledge of star-alignment interpretation(stabs in the dark and bullshit) - specially talented people(people that can use the internet) can tell you all kinds of interesting information about you that you already knew, but you still love to hear when other people tell it to you.(they're magical - like Smurfs!)

They can tell you valuable information about "you" such as; what type of baseball teams you like, your favorite color, your if you like light or dark meat, your sexual temperament, your family values as it pertains to procreation, your spiritual values and your tolerance for pain and suffering as it pertains to friends, family, dates and would-be Astrologists. They can also tell you why all of this is "you". If you want to be a happy soul and live life knowing what you know, take what they have said and move on. Don't press them for any further information. But if you want to know deeper information such as; why this particular alignment means you like cashews and not almonds - then you're gonna be disappointed. They don't know WHY. If they knew why you liked yellow when Venus and Orion are two inches apart in the sky, they wouldn't be wasting their time telling you, they would be milking you for every cent you have. They would be in a room being pressed by the government/corporate America for information on you. Like I said, just take what they have told you and stop crying, at least you know what color to paint your house.

I generally don't have a problem with Astrology nuts and I have even gotten into it a bit especially as it pertains to sexual astrology. I am not blaming astrology for my sexual exploits, but I will admit that I have taken it into consideration when evaluating some key issues such as; who to screw, how to screw them and whether or not I should give them my real name before, during or after we're done.

I have even looked into Astrology as a possible source for my all-religious foundation. It fell flat, but I gave it a try. I really did want to like astrology and I still secretly do. To this day, I proudly boast that I am a Sagittarius( from Sagitarria), but I still can't... Get into it.... Totally. However, like all things in our world, it's a part of the dialogue and a cute little piece of nostaligic kitch that we all like to use from time to time When someone asks your birthday and you tell them, one of the first things they say is, "ooooh, a Leo, eh? As if to insinuate that they somehow know you better than yourself because they know your sign.

Websites such as Yahoo and Hotmail, both list your sign on your personal page and offer a free daily horoscope if you wish. Almost every local paper in America offers free horoscopes. They even go as far as to tell you the day you are going to have. I doubt that too many people actually listen to this, but it's there anyway.

I don't know the deep details about Astrology, but I do know that Ren-festers love it and certain types of chicks get into it too. I know that a log of people make a lot of dough claiming to be Astrologists and say it with a deep tone to show you that they mean it. It's as if they're priests or medical doctors. Yes, it can be a career for some people. Astrology is a Siamese twin to the Tarot card reading profession as they both use a "read" to indicate your future, your past and everything else about you. Funny, but these readings never tell you how gulllible you are.

I'm not a big fan of Rennies, Siamese twins or chicks that still have an active interest in Astrology after high school(sophomore year of college at the latest) so I don't see much of the Astrology ballyhoo anymore. And seeing as I don't see them in my future either, I guess we can say that I have learned all I am ever going to learn about Astrology. Rennies are just too frightening as humans to be around for any length of time. Siamese twins... Shady lot in their own right. And those Astrology chicks are too deep into making their pain into your pain for me to hump them... again.

There are twelve astrological signs. Each one represents 30 days of Earth's calendar year, or, as we like to say in Astro-speak, a complete phase of the moon. Astrology has been around long before anyone on Earth knew there were other planets, or that we were on a planet, or that there was a thing called the universe, or that Earth wasn't the center of universe, or that the sun was a day time star, or the Earth went around the sun, or that the there were 365 days in the calendar year, or that the world was round, or (ad infinitum). Astrology was an early attempt by humanity to explain the world around us and it has lingered around loooooong after we figured all that little stuff out. Now it's just a cheap way to talk to chicks. ( I wonder if a woman has actually gone home with a man based on that famous opening line.)

Nowadays the serious world of Astrology is filled with people that think it's either "the Law" because it pre-dates all other religions, or people that want to feel that they are good at "something" and this was the easiest thing they could find on the web. For the rest of the world, it's just an obnoxious belief system that is kinda cute at times, but is generally considered to be easier to explain away than the tooth fairy.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the last requested piece that I am doing. I have too much I want to write about before this thing wraps up in November, so I have to pass on the other requests. Thanks anyway.

Lastly, If I don't post for a few days, I'm busy. Give me a break with the "reminder" emails.

requested #19

Fox News

If you watch it, they will come.

If there was ever a time in our history where humanity needed an invincible superhero or a swift kick in the balls, this is it. If you were ever fascinated by the Nazi propaganda machine and it's effectiveness over the German people, then open your eyes and look at the world around you. You will witness the effectiveness of propaganda at its most effective level. Propaganda works.

I try to be part of the world that puts the L-I-F-E back in to the word LIFE. I want the people that experience my work to come away from it feeling that their life was made better for having done so. I want it to be constructive, creative, and colorful if at all possible. I want there to be a sense of peace and calm associated my work. And I want there to be a deeper appreciation of your world that comes from a deeper understanding of it. That's the point anyway.

Having said that, I must acknowledge the most popular alternative.

There is in the universe, a place where all that is good is sucked into a vacuum and destroyed by ultra-violet rays of pure evil. (and I say this in the nicest possible way) It's a place that all great things in our universe have found their end and all bad things have found a well spring from which to flow.

Fucks news is the latest and greatest version of evil. It's pure hatred, wrapped up in lies, deceit, greed and power. Of course, that's just the illusion.

At first glance you would think it was a mouthpiece for the American conservative right, but if you look closer, you'll see that that is just a front for a much deeper kind of evil. It's the kind of evil that doesn't care about politics or sides or cause. It's the evil that goes by a much deeper motivation. The worst kind of all - "because I can". That's it. It does what it does, because it can. It is driven by a need to show the world that it can do whatever it wants, whenever it wants and there is NO ONE that can stop them. No one. The political agenda is just because it wanted to see how far it could go with lying and get away with it. And nothing says, "lying" like the American conservative right.

It answers to no one. The just and righteous of the world don't have the heart that it takes to fight it so it lives on unchecked. It has complete autonomy and is truly above reproach. It has these things, not because it has money, not because it is beautiful, and not because it is stronger than the rest of the world. It has this power because the just and righteous of the world handed it to them on a silver platter. Which is the worst kind of evil that you can find - Evil that is born out of a act of kindness.

Fucks news came on the mass media radar when the air waves were quickly filling with dull, lifeless CNN copycat networks. A young upstart television network with only enough programming for Sunday nights was given a chance on the big media stage. Their fearless leader of the Fucks network realized that they weren't going to get very far if they just became another CNN knock off, so he created what he called at the time, "a network that reports the news in a way that is both informative and entertaining." The "entertaining" comment was mostly overlooked at the time. I mean, no one thinks news can be entertaining. Besides, everything entertaining that this guy had come up with had failed miserably and he was making a name for himself as the man who knew how to pick a loser every time. So the world let his little claim slide and just braced themselves for another CNN. And when the Fucks news programs hit the air waves, everyone just thought they were crazy for the crap that they were reporting on it. Fucks seemed destined to fall flat on it's face.

Fucks news started as a crazy alternative to the news. A fresh new look at the way news is reported. It's called, "Consequences be damned". Who cares what is reported on how, just as long as it's different. Fucks news got it right. People loved it. People that were tired of CNN and Dan Rather. They just ate it up.

Television is all about money. Money comes from advertising. Advertising costs are determined by ratings. Ratings are determined by how many people are willing to watch what you put on the air. So if you want people to watch, you have to do what the other guy isn't willing to do or isn't doing. Fucks news was quickly building a loyal following and Fucks started to see their money/power/control start to build momentum.

Do I blame Fucks news for trying to make a buck? No. It's television. It's the same medium that brought you ALF and DUKES OF HAZZARD. It's not reality, nor is it meant to be. It's just entertainment. It's our fault for making them who they are.

Evil, as many of you know, is power left unchecked. It is power for power sake. Fucks news is just such an evil.

requested #18

Silence is golden.

I don't like to say too much. It's not that I don't have much to say, it's just that I have just learned that it's better to keep my mouth shut, even when I think I DO have something to say. Opportunity does not equal necessity. I'm sure that most people would love it if I interacted or reacted to their comments or behavior with typical canned responses that they are used to getting from others. Why else would they say and do those things if they didn't think they knew what I was going to say before they did it? For example: If I say, "hello", I expect a "hello" back. And so on. But they don't get it from me. I have learned to be a listener and not a responder. It took me a long time to learn to hold my tongue when it was aching for a chance to squawk. Ironically, NOT talking didn't lead me to calmer waters which I thought it would, it led me into a huge tempest that far exceeded my imagination.

Some old Chinese dude made a living creating cute little sayings that would eventually be the pulp for the greeting card industries of the future. And he did all of this 2000 years before greeting cards were invented (this is a guess, there is no emperical data on the first official usage of the greeting card but I know that Hallmark didn't start up until the early 20th century... so that's my basis). Most of the things he said were pretty important and very wise. And most of the things he said only came after years of intense mediation for enlightenment. He actually had the foresight to know that his powerful words would reach across time and look good in print. And he also knew that you would think when you read the cards, "Hey. Yeah, he's right. What a smart old Chinese dude. He thinks the way I have always thought." So you buy the card feeling pretty dandy about yourself as if you were as smart as that old Chinese sage. You're not really, but the four dollar card in your hand says otherwise and whomever you are giving that card to with think so as well.

One of the things this old smart Chinese dude said, and that most people take out of context, is "Silence is golden". People hear this and the first thing they do is say, OUT LOUD, "Yeah, he's right. What a smart old Chinese dude. He thinks the way I think." I have seen some people actually debate the meaning of the phrase in raised voices. It would seem that the truth behind these words seem to have several meanings to everyone that hears them, except for the person that actually said them. That old Chinese dude had a deeper purpose behind his choice words, which seems to be lost to the people that hear them today. He wasn't trying to create discussion or discourse. What he was trying to say was, "Shut the hell up!" and "Only a great fool opens his/her mouth all the time". A fool is anyone that isn't enlightened. You, me, Larry the Cable guy, Bush, JFK and even Jesus. We're all fools.

What is this enlightenment that is so elusive to all of us you ask? Well, it's when your mind, your spirit and your soul ascend beyond the limits of your own body, of all time and space and it finds itself in a new world where such human concepts and learned limitation don't exist. (pretty deep, huh?) A world where emotion, passion, pride, death, life, failure and general definitions all disappear. According to all known legends, only one person in the history of mankind has ever made it that far don't the enlightened path. Others have come close, but as Christopher Lambert taught us in Highlander - There can be only one.

The enlightened one, or BUDDHA, was a man that mediated for years and years and years until finally, his soul left his body and he was just pure brilliant energy. Of course, this is all conjecture as no one really knows what happened to him. He could have just gotten drunk and slurred out, "I can't feel my fuckin' feet!" and people took that to mean that he was having an out of body experience and was therefore, enlightened. Anyway, after years of living in this state of enlightenment, Buddha just woke up from it like it had never happened and just started laughing, singing, smiling, eating, crying, humping and enjoying life like it had never been done before. It was said that he invented the boogie board and the crazy straw during this post-enlightened era. He lived for years laughing and singing until he died and left the world grasping at air trying to embrace his soul. To make themselves feel better, they invented a Dali Llama who is supposedly the reincarnated soul of Buddha. Of course, Dali isn't the laughing, singing, fucking Buddha that left us all those years ago, but how often are religious symbols truly appropriate? Is a cross the best way to remember Jesus? Isn't that sick?

Enlightenment. It's a place beyond your emotions. It's beyond your dreams. It's beyond yourself. In order to find it, you have to forget who you are, let go of your pride, your belief in time, space, in everything you have learned.... It's incredibly difficult to do this and it takes years to figure out. Most people start as young as four years of age and don't ever find it after ninety years of trying. It's that hard. Some people got as far as being able to sit for days and weeks without food or sleep. Some people have been able to set themselves on fire without flinching. Some people were able to sit in caves long enough to actually starve to death. But they only came half way, can you believe it?!!

One of the first steps is mediation. A simple thing really. You simply close your eyes, Breath slowly. Inhale through your nose exhale out of your mouth. Do this for next fifty years. Don't open your eyes. Do this five times a day for five minutes at a time. Just close your eyes and breath. That's it.

When you have that down, start turning off other senses. Smell, sound, touch, taste. Turn them off and just live in your mind. Try to become unaware of the way you are sitting or standing. Become unaware of your breathing. Do this during your breathing.

Now, try to think of one thing and ONE THING ONLY! Just one thing. I bet you can't do it for ten seconds. Let's try right now... For the next ten seconds, just think of....


Water


Don't let any noise, light, touch or thought take your mind off the word, W A T E R

Can you do it? Or did something else enter your mind? If you were able to just think of water without interruption, you're on your way. If your mind wandered, so does your soul. This exercise shows you that you are not in control. Let go. (if you have ever seen people humming the word, UMMMMMMMM. It is meant to be a mind eraser. A cheat if you will. Give that a try if you think it helps.)

Silence is golden. Golden is meant to mean that there is a value, or a luster, or a magic to being enlightened. Enough so that you DON'T need to react to things around you. That you DON'T want or have to say something or even feel that you have to. Silence is the most wholesome reaction and it's the highest level of achievement. Wholesome because it's without pride.

Control your breathing... Close your eyes... Now forget everything that has ever happened to you - who you are, where you've been, where you want to go, who you want to be. Doing so means that you'll finally be blissful and you too will laugh, sing, eat, fuck and live life like never before.

requested #17

Your last meal.

Prison is a cold place. Cold on the skin. Cold on the mind. Cold on the heart. Cold on the soul. It's meant to be that way. You don't get deluxe accommodations in a place like this. People don't want you to enjoy the time you spend here, and they want you to remember it for as long you live. Cold is hard. And the colder some place is the harder it is put your mind at rest. And a restful mind is a forgetful mind and no one wants you to forget what you've done to get here.

It's the final night of my life and everyone around me in this concrete box has suddenly become my best friend. A real chum. A pal. They're all crying - or close to crying, anyways - you would think it's them that's gotta die tonight. I wish they would just all go away and let me do this in peace. No one asked them to come here.

And it's not just these people that are feeling bad, I have lawyers I have never met that have been working on my case for years that are crying together in hotel room near the capital building. Crying because they weren't able to save my life. I'm not sure whether they're crying for me or at they're own failure. Anyways, they're crying.

I have two hundred people singing and holding candles just outside the prison walls. All of that singing is for me. Mostly gospel tunes that I ain't never heard of. I guess they think I'll need to know some where I'm going. Next to them are all the media from all over the country that are begging me, my family or anyone who's ever met me, for an interview. They'll even interview some kid that was in third grade with me. I don't even remember him, but apparently we were "chummy" and he could see "it" way back then. By "it" I think he means my taste for killing.

Even the harden screws of this joint and the warden are using softer voices and peaceful hands when they walk and talk to me. It's unreal. I guess this is how people deal with death - with kid gloves. It's funny, we are so cruel to each other almost all of the time, but when we know that someone is dying, we treat them like they're a V.I.P. or something. What's so special about dying? Everyone does it. I think they're just trying to ease their own guilt about it, just in case we meet up after this world in a dark place in hell.

In an odd twist to this tale, I'm being given whatever I want to eat the night before I am going to die. Odd to think that this meal has no value whatsoever to me. I'm never going to use the energy, so why do I need to eat and why anything I want? Another thing, why do I have to take a shower ? I'm pretty sure that I won't be getting dirty anytime soon. Does my body have to be clean to die? As I understand it, I'm going to soil myself anyway. Wanna hear something funny? They swab my arm with alcohol before they stick my arm with a needle filled with poison. You know, to kill off any infections that I might get in the two minutes before I die.

With all this floating in my mind, I choose my last supper to be a dish that I hated as a child and only learned to love as I got older. It was a favorite of my grandmothers and it took her years to convince me of it's value - Beef Stroganov. For years the thought of hot sour cream with chewy stringy beef and rubbery mushrooms sitting on big ole noodles just turned my stomach. But as I got older, the distinct smell of the dish became more familiar and soothing to me and when my grandmother got too old to eat it, I found myself seeking it out. After she passed away, it became my favorite dish because it made me think of her. It warmed my heart just thinking about it.

Of course, in prison, you're not going to get Grandma's famous Beef Stroganov. Prison food is famous for it's, let's just call it, quality. The food is bad and most men can go crazy just from the food alone. Day after day, year after year. You begin to forget that food is something that is good for you. Ask any soul that has spent any time down on the farm and they will tell you that the only thing that keeps them alive is their desire to taste a particular dish just one more time before they die. They would be willing to break out of jail just to eat a hamburger, even if it meant life in prison. There are people that have broke out of prison and passed on getting laid just so they could eat a steak.

During my stay in this pit, I have eaten some incredibly creative dishes. There isn't an artist or chef in the world that can hold a candle to the chefs in the American penal system. You see, the chefs here don't get fresh ingredients and they don't get top shelf items. What you see in here is a lot of discontinued items or stuff that have passed their expiration date. Corporate America needs a tax break so it doesn't mean nothing for them to give up the four year old canned "peas n beets" to the criminals. Their buddies in the government give them a tax break for it and they look like charitable souls. It doesn't matter that the food is inedible. Who cares what prisoners eat anyway? When was the last time you even thought to ask?

The prison chef has to cook for up to 2000 thousand men three times a day. Men that you wouldn't want to disappoint, if you know what I mean. There are men in here that have killed people for cutting them off in traffic, what do you think they would do to someone who burned their toast? And if a prison chef disappoints 2000 hard core muthas at a time by choosing the wrong dish on a given day (If it's strawberry jello day and he brings out lime jello) someone's getting shanked.

It must be a breath of fresh air for a prison chef (or perhaps it's just that same sappy sentiment that the rest of the world has about a condemned man) when he sees that "special meal for one" hanging on his to do wall. I'm sure he's filled with anxious pride that he finally gets to spread his creative cooking wings, even if it is for a dying man. This is his time to shine, even if the only person that is going to enjoy will never be able to tell anyone how good or bad it is. Maybe that's why he likes it, cause no one is going to shank him if it tastes bad.

It's six o'clock and the normally stale smell of concrete institutionalism gives way to the smell of warm sour cream over wide egg noodles. It's a powerful aroma in this air tight hall and everyone that has gathered to mourn my soon to be loss is being subjected to it. For a brief moment, their sadness is misplaced by the reminder that they haven't eaten in a while and that even though my life might end, theirs will still go on. Silently they think to themselves, "I need to get something to eat as soon as I get out of here..." It's in that moment that their minds remember that this isn't happening to them, it's happening to someone else. It's that detachment that makes it possible for them to go on after all this business is over with. It's the same feeling that all those singers outside will feel as soon as they realize their efforts were worthless and that they need to get home and take a shower and eat a hot meal. "The killer is dead, we need to get back to paying our bills. Our worthless singing didn't save his life, but it did make us hungry."

It's funny... As I sit here eating this delicious meal, listening to the singing, watching everyone cry - I am reminded of the fact that I had to kill my grandmother to earn this meal. For just an instant, I chuckle and cry. I start to choke on a big piece of half chewed meat and my choking makes a guard run over and check to make sure I'm alright.

Fool. If I died, it would have been justice.... But I guess if I did, I would be robbing them of their chance... I swallow and say I'm fine.

requested #16

The Greatest Book Ever Written

I was torn for so long about whether or not I was going to be a Reader or a Television Watcher. Reading was huge part of my family's common ground. It was one thing we all had in common. Sadly, books aren't something you generally do together. This is never more true between four people that like to read by themselves and their taste in literature jumps all over the map. But my family and I were never much alike in any catagory and their focus on literature made me act out more for attention. Readers are not big on distractions and so they used their big brains and decided that they should put me in front of a television to pacify me. This wasn't an uncommon remedy at the time, most families did this with their children in the 70's and 80's, and we have been headed in the wrong direction ever since.

I was a loud kid and I remember that I demanded a lot of attention and readers are not the type of people that like to look up from a book to give you attention. Especially if what you're doing is not very interesting or if they know that they will only have to look up again in 90 seconds to give you even more attention. Even though all Readers see television as the work of the devil, my family - and I am sure many other families too - were willing to dance with the devil if it meant ridding themselves of a pestulent child so that they could have uninterrupted reading time. Book readers are very, very touchy about this issue.

I wasn't completely addicted to television and that's not because I didn't enjoy it, but because there wasn't much television available to me. There was very little reception in the Methow Valley when I lived there. Cable television was fairly new, but it came in on satelite and you had to have A: a huge expensive satelite dish to recieve the transmissions and a place to put said dish and B: A post graduate degree in astro-physics, electronic engineering and computer programming just to change the channel. The dish actually moved to pick up a new satellite feed every time you turned the dial.

The only other option for television at that time, was regular old antenna reception and if you are surrounded by extremely tall mountains on three sides, your offerings are pretty slim. I wasn't even aware of CBS until I was 12 and moved out of the valley.

Fortunately for me, VHS was taking off and I had a VCR. It had a remote control that connected to VCR player with a cable and I thought was amazing. I could sit across the room and turn off and on the movie without getting up. Incredible. The next you know, you will be able to carry your phone around with you everyway and it won't have to be plugged into the wall.

I rented every movie and those movies that weren't available at my local video store, I was able to find at a friend's house. My friend's father was a movie thief and he used to make duplicates of every movie that was rentable. He felt that "they were going to be worth something some day". I love that kind of optimism. Anyway, I watched two or four films a day, depending on long I was going to be alone. Some movies I have watched so many times I can still recite every line, in character, from start to finish, without any visual aides.

When the movies got stale, or if there were no new movies to watch, I read. And I read and read and read. Living in the middle of the nowhere offers a lot of time to create a parallel universe for yourself using the written words of others as your building blocks. Living with so many Readers meant that I had a lot of left over books lying around for my chosing. I read Piers Anthony's science fiction. I read Anne Rice's Vampire series. I read Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan adventures. I read medical textbooks that my father had kept from med school. I read Ayn Rand's Opus, Atlas Shrugged. I read classics, comic books, novels, self-help books, dating books, instructional sex books, poetry and a weird book about a Jewish guy that went around causing trouble, professing all this universal knowledge stuff and then finally being killed for trying to change the minds of the world's youths. He was a legend and a hero to many people. He hung around with a whore and a whole lot of other questionable characters during his life time and when he died, he died for our sins. His name was Lenny Bruce and the book was called, "How to Talk Dirty and Influence People". I loved the book. If I read it now, I'm bored with it.

As time moved along, I watched more televison and I read more books. I sucked it all in and developed my subconscience need for the comfort of television and my unquenchable desire for the power of words, parallel universes, great stories and Jews. That is what is with me now.

When it came time to develop a childhood dream I had three choices.

One: To tour America in an RV with an adopted child and collect patches.
Two: To be a famous writer, like Mark Twain
Three: To be the best film maker of all time.

Somewhere I found a way to find all three in my life and have settled in to choice number two. Films are my whoobie and I have thought better of the RV, children and patches... (odd that I remember that)

So the greatest book I have ever written or that has been written... Well, I haven't written it yet. But if you are looking for something to tide you over until I do find it, I suggest a little bit of Herman Hesse, Yann Martel, Ayn Rand, Mark Twain, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, Marquis De Sade, Elmore Leonard, Hunter S. Thompson, Umberto Echo and Dr. Suess. I think you'll love it.

jazz, deadly serious

The commute both to, and from, work has become a one of society's most common rites of passage in both the figurative and literal interpretations of the phrase. It's a sad note that to be successful in our society one most sacrfice so much for so little and that this would be considered normal and required living (if you can call it that). Sadly, it's one of the last rites of passage we have left, so I fear it's hear to stay.

It's a trek and it's a challenge, which are the telling signs of any great rite. So in essence, it's the perfect rite for us. Making it to your location would be the challenge and the reward would be the stories you bring back with you. It's not much of a "thinning the herd" rite of passage like they used to have in more primitive times, but not everyone can do it and not everyone comes back. In one piece, anyway.

Emotions can run pretty sour in the early morning and even deeper still in the early evening. A long spell sitting in a car can test even the most harden souls. In either case, blood sugar and the mind and body's need for rest are at their extreme danger levels and the slightest thing can send a weary traveler into blind hysterics. Multiply that inbalance by 75 million and that's how many supercharged, hypoglycemic, emotional retards you have on the roadways each day. It's a volatile powder keg just waiting to explode!!! Were lucky that the delicate balance rarely gets tipped.

The ability to relax the mind, the body and the soul in this environment would be incredibly helpful in these fragile moments. Sadly, it's an art form that has been mostly lost to us because of other circumstances such as large cups of coffee, hands free cell phones, and cutesy talk radio personalities. It's asking too much of people to focus on a peaceful balance. I think they would rather just react. People just don't want to control their emotions or think things through anymore. They just want to be lead while believing that they are in control of everything around them. They want a line they can stand in. Or a lane, as the case may be. It makes them comfortable to know that their number hasn't been called and nothing more is expected of them. From their community or themselves.

I pass the time with coffee and jazz. I have been listening to it for the past 4 months and I just can't get enough of it. The coffee is optional, but the jazz isn't. It just working for me right now. I'm calm within the sounds of a muted trumpet ever so gently purring out a solitary note. I'm glee within the up tempo dance of learned fingers across a piano keyboard. The piano sings. I'm overjoyed and optimistic when I hear the-- HEY FUCK YOU!!!!!! Fucking asshole! Cut me off! Fucking son of a fucking bitch, cock sucker, mother--

Suddenly my world is all rage. The bouncing bass sets in motion an outrageous tempo that is my dark thoughts of murder, torture and revenge. These thoughts are within us all and are easily tapped into. They lie just under the surface of our collected and calm demeanor. They sit there next to uncontrolled laughter and silliness, and passionate sobing.

I am the righteous hand of justice scorned, and I shall see your dark and bitter soul destroyed beneath me! Your sin is driving in a manner that is unsuitable to me! It's an indication of all of your selfishness and your complete contempt for others and you shall be destroyed. AND I SHALL BE THE BEARER OF YOUR SALVATION!!!!

The offending car and driver have found their way down the highway and are completely out of sight. Yet I am left still filled with the rage and it grows as I have the time to think about it. It that must be satisfied. I try to give my rage a name and justify it more completely by bringing up the driver's race, their sex, their income(purely based on their vehicle they are driving), their politics(if any stickers indicate it), their intelligence(purely based no their fashion sense) anything I can. I just need a reason to hate them and I can let it all out. I need justification for what I feel should be done, by me. Nasty, mean things fall out of my mouth or flash across my mind. I'm shocked at just how vile and dark I have become.

At no time during my drive have I given this much thought to how much I like other commuters or how much I enjoy them. I haven't tried to befriend any drivers based on the same criteria that I used to determine whether I hated them or not. So where does all this hate come from? Why is it so easy to brew up a steaming hot cup of hatred and why is it so fulfilling to do so? What happened to all of my growing up and out of this childish feelings?

In the midst of Coltrane, I am suddenly aware of my own shame and guilt. I am aware that I have spent twenty minutes plotting the demise of a stranger just because they did practically nothing to me that impacts my life now or ever. I was willing to change my whole life just to strike out at them. Suddenly I am aware of all the times in my life that I have wanted to kill someone and plotted and schemed to do so. Willing to do it even if it meant the end of my own life or the worst fate of life in prison. Suddenly I am ashamed. Terribly ashamed.

When I have wanted money and I have not wanted to work for it, I have plotted the death of relatives. When I wanted sex and there was either none around or something in my way, I have plotted the death of rivals or obstacles. When I have wanted fame and someone else has beaten me to the punch, I have plotted a death for the soul more fortunate than I. When I have felt cheated, wronged, disadvantaged, dishonored or unlucky, I have sought justice by the demise of anyone. Anyone that might take away the powerful emotions that are eating me up inside.

I am cruelty. I am what humanity is on the fringes of it's core - Evil.

Lessons in, Lessons out....

Breathe. Slowly. See the world larger than yourself... Breathe.... Breathe again. Think. Eventually the rage subsides as you realize that your hatred has no real foundation. It's baseless. You're feeling emotions that reveal your darker self. Not your malice, that's just a symptom. No, what's darker is your selfishness. Your shortsightedness. Your detachment from the world around you. That's what evil is. All the things that make you act out that are due to a lack of self discipline, self respect and self control.

It's a hard place to find yourself in.

It's easier to just get angry and fill your head with the unbridled wrath. The hard way would be to do that which is right, but to do it we would have to be someone that wasn't selfish and had more self control in the first place, and we know that we don't have that level of control or we wouldn't be so easily filled with homicidal tendencies.

Breathe. Listen to the sounds of a saxophone moaning. Listen to the tingling sound of a snare drum being grazed ever so softly, by a wire brush. You're not angry at all. Who cares who cuts you off. They want to get there faster, cool. What's the rush? When did you buy the interstate and make all the rules for everyone?

It's not a perfect world. Traffic is a reminder of that. Just do what it takes to get yourself through it. The journey, as it is with all things, is the reason you're alive in the first place. If you consume all of your time thinking about how much you hate the road blocks and speed bumps, you'll miss out on how wonderful it is to enjoy the road blocks and speed bumps.

What is a weed but a flower who's virtue has yet to be discovered.

Before anyone knew any better, the trumpet was a loud piece of junk that annoyed everyone. It wasn't until someone gave it a chance that it became Coltrane.

keira nightly is the sister of the son of the devil, superman

I feel slack and I need to tighten up my film reviews before they get a way from me. I enjoy these reviews and actually thought about trying to see if a local paper would pick me up as a film reviewer. Of course, you can't say things like, "Bruckheimer should have his entrails drawn out, set on fire, and then pissed on for making this shit." and expect a newspaper to jump on it. So perhaps this venue is perfect for my talents. By the way, should you want any info on a movie or the industry, just ask.

Anyway, here's an update...

Superman - I can't believe I am saying this, Bryan Singer should have his candy-ass drawn and quartered for directing this one. It's a two and a half hour love letter from Bryan Singer (who is a huge fan) to his Superman. Bryan Singer couldn't have shown his love for this man any deeper if he had run on the set and blown Superman in each scene. It's that sweet. It's a lot like the chick from Crodile Dundee. There isn't a scene in the movie where she isn't saying something like, "You're amazing Mick" or "I'm always safe when I'm with you". Written, directed and staring, Mick Dundee. Bryan Singer loves Superman a bit more, but his film isn't as funny.

Superman was a huge let down. Of course, I was a huge fan of the Chris Reeve's films so I carry a bias with me. My personal feelings aside, Bradon Routh did a great job as Superman and the rest of the cast was excellent as well. The error in this film was story. Singer really tried to incorporate every Superman trait he could think of into this film and make each trait a story line, this destroyed the quality of the main story and made it suck. Plain and simple. The acting was great, the look was great. The story was shit. Pure supershit. Not even Superman could save this one.

An Inconvenient Truth - Perfect. It's not as preachy as I thought it would be. And Al Gore wasn't as hard to listen to as I thought he would be. This film was wonderful and I doubt that many of you that see it will be able to walk away not feeling a bit ashamed or that you need to be doing more. Al Gore was wonderful in this film. For some reasaon, the best part of the film was when you see Al Gore going through the airport like a normal person without any security or fan fare. He seems human after all those years of political life where he was soulless. I think it's when he takes off his shoes in security that this point hits home with me. The film is worth going to a theater to see. It's not entertainment, know that before you go.

A Prairie Home Companion - Ahhhh. I have been a huge fan of this show since the long nights of my childhood in Twisp, Washington. I lived in a basement bedroom and had only an AM radio to keep me company. It was on this tiny clock radio that I first heard A Prairie Home Companion and I have adored it ever since.

The film itself - Enjoyable... For a Robert Altman film. He's not a great director and will never be. But his love for letting the actors run the film actually aided in this movie as you can tell each character needed space to work to keep the "feel" of the show there. It worked, but Altman doesn't deserve credit for telling his cast to, "run along and play" like a annoyed mother who wants the kids out of the house.

I love Garrison Keillor (he's one of my lifetime heroes) so this film touched me a lot. Kevin Kline, Virginia Madsen, Woody Harrelson and Meryl Streep all did outstanding jobs with their roles. Lindsey Lohan was the only sour note of the film, but that's to be expected, she's Lindsey Lohan. Worth seeing in the theater, but wait until it comes out on basic cable.

Cars - Pass. Entertaining idea, but that's about it. I guess I wanted more from the film in the story, but it was the exact same story that you always see and it bothered me that it was so predictable. The saving grace are two Italian cars in the film. Their presence was worth while.

The Omen - Watch the original. The remake is warmer and cuddlier than the original and you are pulling for this Damian to kill his parents and rule the world. I guess I like the fact that the original the kid was spookier looking too. This kid looked like a casting call dream. Too cute to be the son of the prince of darkness. Wait until you need a good movie to have on in the background during a wild night of angry sex.

Nacho Libre - The director had one good movie in him and he already made it. Sadly, this film watches like a fancier Napoleon Dynomite with more motion and sound in it. Jack Black is Jack Black. The nun is hot. The scenery is as lifeless as you would expect from Mexico. The film is worth seeing on home video.

Sadly, the director's fate is the same as David O Selsnick's after he made Gone With the Wind. Nothing after will ever compare after that and why try. Good try though. I like the fact that the nun are hot.

The Devil Wears Prada - Excellent. Meryl Streep is beyond perfect in this role and it shines all around her. Without her, it's a cheep Swimming With Sharks knock off. The other chick has nice brown eyes, but that's about all you can say about the rest of the film. Meryl is this film and you should see it. There is a zen philosphy and a hard lesson to be learned in fashion and it was a nice twist to see that in this film.

Pirates of the Caribbean - I can not believe that this film was made or that Johnny I-am-the-hermaphrodite-that-every-bisexual-confused-lonely-female-wets-herself-over-
thinking-that-they-have-a-shot-at-getting-him Depp participated in it. He's usually a pretty safe bet for a film (The Libertine being one of a few exceptions) but not this time. This film was a two and a half hour mess. No understandable beginning, middle, or ending. In fact, it had no ending and just a bunch of middles that don't add up to anything close to a story. This film watches like a bunch of retellings of the same story but from the differing creative eyes of those involved.

Here are some things to remember. One - Keira Knightley, whom I tore apart in Domino, was awful in this film as well. She should stick to Merchant Ivory movies or kiddie porn. Everyone else you wanted to see from the first film is back in this film. Geoffery Rush is back for a brief cameo at the end which is meant to indicate that he will play a larger part in the third film. They got back Admiral Norrington, the quasi-bad guy/good guy in the first film. This time around, he has a new role as a bum hell-bent on seeking revenge. The film has a new British Snob bad guy. In a odd twist, the film makers want to make the East India Trading Company the bad guy and not England. I'm not sure why. It doesn't work in this film at all. The film is just shit. Don't even rent it. Wait until all three movies are out in a box DVD collection and then wait until they are available at a garage sale in a box marked "two for a nickel" and then buy them. Then wait until you're paralyzed and without any reason to live. Then watch this film... It should ease your passing.

So that's it. Those are the films as I see it. You can't always expect a movie to be great but if you have M&M's, there, it should make the film tolerable enough to sit through. At least until the M&M's are gone. In the case of Pirates of the Caribbean, you might need to bring a two pound bag.

i will abide

Have you ever closed your eyes and still been able to see it? Does your body cringe and roll around when you do? Have you just ever so lightly taken the softest of breaths in through your nose and been able to taste it? Can you run your hands just over the surface without touching it and still been able to feel it with every inch of your body? Do you take deep breaths when you just think of it? Do your hands start to touch you, the way they want to touch a lover, without you even noticing it?

It's been a while for me. Too long, some would say. I like to think of it as testing my resolve or slow dancing with my soul with the intentions of teaching myself patience and thus, a finer appreciation for the art. Most people like to call it a dry spell, a fasting, a rough spot or even the vulgar - impotence. What ever it's called, it's working wonders for me at the moment. (Yes, I can still get it up, but I am not using it, that's the difference)

Sex was always very important to me for most of my young life and I indulged my sexual thirst whenever possible, with whomever was convenient and I didn't hold back. I was quenching my thirst from a raging waterfall in large messy gulps that drenched my entire body. I wanted to bury myself in each and every occasion and I wanted to squeeze every drop of whatever was there, out of it. For years and years I felt successful, it's only now that I realize that I missed the mark entirely.

I found that I was engaging in so much sexual behavior because it was what was expected of me. My persona and my urge to seduce were one and the same and I didn't know life without it. Nymphomania, as I have said before, is not a joke, it's an affliction. I felt the need to dance with so many people just to satisfy a destructive side of my personality, but I had to do it in a pleasurable way. I can honestly say that 99% of the people I have had sex with I would never sleep with again. It's not that I don't like them or that I didn't enjoy myself, it's just that I didn't do it for the right reasons and I know better now. I have no regrets, without my prior behavior I would have never come to this place in my mind and body and the pleasure I get from the insight is far greater than ten thousand successful seductions or ten million orgasms. Perhaps this is why I stand down now.

My behavior has allowed me a greater insight into our world that many people will never know and most people don't think possible. The amount of time I have spent having sex, pursuing sex or behaving in a manner associated with sex, equals the same amount of time it takes most people to achieve two PhDs. Which, by every standard in the world of education, makes me a PhD in the field twice over. Honorary, of course. (I could have a minor in Math too)

I know what makes people do what they do and I have seen the systematic behavior that people engage in subconsciously that they themselves do not see nor sense. I can see the single people acting out in modest sexual ways without them thinking it sexual at all. To say it was would be an act of flirting, name calling or blasphemy, so I hold my tongue. I have seen married people with the same sexual behavior, but they would think me crazy if I told them they were. I have seen people acting out knowingly and willingly and yet, still not having a clue why or to what end their actions will bring. I have seen parents prepare their children for a future of sexual behavior and not even know it. I have seen schools, religion and modern media preach the gospel of sex and I have seen the faithful sheep obey their shepherds without question. This is what I know from sleeping with so many. Without knowing it, I would never have been able to sleep with as many as I did. I tapped into their minds and I used it for my own ends. Their own minds gave themselves away. We are helpless when it comes to being participants to our own dreams. In reality, if we don't live our own dreams, we will be doomed to be the participants in the dreams of others. Either with or without our knowledge. Doubt me? How many people have you slept with that you can't explain why you did it? What made you do it at the time? I bet you have a real good explanation now... That's if you can remember it at all.

I do not claim to be the champion of sexual causes or the final word in sexual behavior. I do, however, claim to be rather knowledgeable when it comes to my own sexual attitudes. This is why I am presently; the calmed waters of a once formidable tempest. The sediments are slowly settling on the bottom and the water is finally finding it's clarity.

I drift along as only a drifter can - In a peaceful solitude.

BUT OOOOOOOOH how I miss it! The sensory explosion of two people engaged in a dance. The salty taste of skin. The ever changing contour of a warm body. The look of eyes closed in rapture as you violate their body. The power of every thrust and the intensity of gliding, swaying, slapping and teasing. The unbearable tension that builds as the orgasm approaches. Oh, the sins of the flesh in all their glory, how can I be so stalwart!?

I believe that what I miss the most is what I have never really appreciated during my time on the dance floor. I never took the time to notice the tiny measurements and now I am left without any recollection of them at all. This keeps any fantasy from being complete and it pains me to know this. I only barely remember what it's like to remove the clothes of another person, yet I recall it being an important aspect of the event. I barely remember removing my clothes or if I liked it when someone else removed them for me. I don't remember if I liked it when people seduced me. I have no chemical memory of where my hands were or what they were doing all that time. The same is true for my eyes, where were they during all this excitement? How come I can't fix an image in my mind of the grander parts, but I can recall the minor ones? I can remember what every lover preferred from me orally and what position was sure to make them have an orgasm, but I can't remember their names.

So for all the dancing, the stroking, the humping, the choking, the restraining, the name calling, the laughing, the moaning, the groaning, the sweating, the pleasing, the torturing, the awkwardness, the talking, the planning, the wooing, the hugging, the joking, the laughing, the seducing and the lying.... I am left where it all began before it started - Just a single man without any sex. Curious and frightened by the notion, that another human might possibility see me naked. Worried to the point of sickness that I will fail miserably in the art of pleasure. Confused and confounded by the intricate workings of the mind of a lover. Consumed with vanity and being cool. Unsure of whom to seek out for information, relief, and understanding.

Perhaps the second time around I will know better what I am looking for. Perhaps I will only find genuine lovers from this point forward. Perhaps. I know one thing for sure; I know that women under 25 can't fuck worth a damn. Thankfully (I think) none of them find me attractive, so I shouldn't have to worry about that in the future. Unless, of course Natalie Portman comes calling. I doubt that my resolve can withstand her charms.

the hardest rocks in the world

The past two days of the legit job have been mentally taxing, physically brutal and emotionally straining. It's all shoveling, all day and my body is feeling every single swing of the shovel as I sit here on the couch. In the quieter moments before I picked up my computer, I could feel my body still trying to go through the process of shoveling without actually moving. I can feel the resistance as I jab the blade of the shovel into the rock and then retract the blade, now full of rock and ten times heavier. I can feel my back and stomach muscles work in tandem to balance the load as I swing it around and hurtle it across the landscaping. Then my body twists back around and takes another jab. It's a ghostly reflex action and it's making it hard to just sit here and indulge in my one true passion - writing.

I got my first paycheck on Friday and the first thing I noticed was that the feds took a lot of my money. What irks me about paying the taxes isn't that it might go to some woman living on welfare or to some artist that is using the money to take nude photos of kids, but that it might be given to someone like Dick Cheney or someone just like him, in some government contract that is for better weapons or spyware which I won't be able to own, use or see myself. A welfare oompa loompa is tangible and so I know the money is at least being used philanthropic. Dick gets my cash and he builds a huge house in Wyoming. My only peace comes in the knowledge that there is someone shoveling rocks at Dick's house and is being paid with my tax money. That makes me feel a bit better, but not really.

I was none to happy about the huge chunk of change that I had to dish out to the feds, so I talked to my boss and now I work subcontract and I get all my money under the table, no taxes. Period. I'm not a fan of taxation without representation and a state senator isn't representation in my opinion.

For the past ten years, this has been the way it is with me - I'm an entertainer and that means I only work somewhere one night, one week and usually in a different state each time, which is way too much paperwork, so I get paid as an independent contractor. Comedy pays in a lump sum and it's up to me to pay the taxes on it four different times over the fiscal year. Entertainer's taxes are a bit higher than the average working stiff coming in at around forty percent of their income. Thankfully, the feds have found it in their hearts to allow deductions for such things as rent, cell phones, laundry, travel, food, condoms, golf clubs, Powerbooks and a whole lot of other things that the average citizen can't claim. So the forty percent that was once about to crush you has suddenly dwindled down to less than five percent or even to the point where the feds owe YOU money. I confess, the first time I did my own taxes and saw that I was due back a ton of money, I flipped. It would seem that the government meant to pay me to be a comic. BRILLIANT!

The next few years I had a tax lawyer prepare my taxes and he said to fudge the numbers to show so that I wouldn't get back that much and the feds wouldn't get wise. So this I've done for the past nine years and will continue to do until something better comes along.

You're allowed to only claim a loss in any business for five years before the feds want you to shut down the cash sink hole and do something else with your life that is more prosperous. Of course, this flies in the face of that whole; life, liberty, and blah, blah, blah. But the feds are "feds" because they want as much of your money as they can get and they have become feds to get it from you, in one way or another. They are slick little hustlers and they know the legal way to rape you. That's why they're there. Then they create laws to protect themselves from you and to keep you inline and fearful of them. They could care less about your life, liberty and the rest of that stuff. Just give them theirs and you'll be allowed to live... As long as you pay them for the right.

I don't pay taxes. I file every year, but I have to fudge the numbers to show a balance that favors me but nothing more than ten bucks. I don't ask for a return. I don't believe that I should get anything back. This is the same stubborn sentiment that I have about my native American heritage. I don't want that money from the feds in that regard either. When I did qualify for welfare, unemployment and other services, I balked at those offers too. Fuck the feds. I won't take money from them because I know that some stiff is getting it in the ass on his paycheck so they can pay me. He can't make rent, so I can get a little free cash... I would rather shovel rocks all day and not have to pay taxes instead. There is no guilt in earning a living in an ethical way. How politicians sleep is beyond me.

So I am laboring under the hot sun, shoveling rocks. 21 hours in two days. No lunch. No breaks. After work, I sleep so soundly that an earthquake would only feel as if my cradle was being gently rocked. It would only deepen my already incredible passionate slumber. The sun is still hot in my skin long after I have crawled into the cool shower. I take such a beating that I have nearly passed out twice during my drive home. I barely have enough energy to eat, write my beloved postings, or answer emails from friends and readers, but I am trying.

This work has a purpose for me and at the end of the 11 weeks, I shall be rewarded in many ways. One I should be ahead financially so I can walk into next spring without too much worry. Of course, this is only if I don't spend any of the money during this 11 week period, and that will be hard to do with that beautiful AGV dragon helmet calling to me every night. Then there is the BMW FS650 sitting just down the street that wants me to own her and ride her. And then there is the shiny little pistola that wants to live with me at the Perch. I hear its call late at night. What is a crippled worn down man to do?

The greatest reward from the work is really the labor itself. I love the dirt and the sky and the water and I love working with it to create things. It takes me back to the better days of the Ponderosa when things were much like this, but more isolated and personal. At end of the 11 weeks, I travel for three months and then I hope to seek out another labor intensive home to continue my Shaker ways.

Focus. Discipline. Adapt. Peace.

Keep your mind on the job and pay attention to the details so you can get the work done right. Thus working wisely and making it less "work" and more "life". (did you know that before the introduction of slavery, there was no such thing as a chore or work?) Train your mind to make it through and you'll discover a greatness that you didn't know existed inside you. This is good advice... Coming from someone that will probably see some jail time for his tax issues. Years in a federal prison where there are no AGV helmets, BMW's or shiny little pistolas, fields of flowers, glorious sunsets or chocolate cake, that would be some kind of challenge. But until that day that they decide to come for me, I shall be digging these rocks, fussing about my paycheck and trying to discipline myself to accept it all. Digging rocks all day and sleeping like one, all night.

red, white and bloom

There was a slow but steady wind blowing in across the bay. From I was on the top of the hill, I could see across the entire bay to the distant shores of Fife. The distant Fife coastline was gracefully illuminated by its fancy homes, quaint seaside restaurants, seedy biker bars and extravagant houseboats. Beyond the eastern shore of the bay, along the quickly darkening night sky are the silent mountains of the Cascades which are fading slowing into the night. It was indeed a great vantage point to see "splendor".

We all had gathered on a cliff that we all thought offered the most complete view. When I say, "we" I mean; me, my friend and a cast of dozens of immigrants from my neighborhood that aren't oompa loompas. They were Chinese, Russian, Polish, English, Mexican, Salvadoran, Canadian, North Dakotan and Japanese people, all of whom were gathered around this tiny cliff to see the heavenly lightly show which is supposed to represent American decadence and superiority. For many, I could tell this was going to be their first Fourth in America. Most of the onlookers couldn't even say, "firework" in it's proper American phonetic pronunciation as their native tongues didn't allow for the "r" sound or the "fff" or the "ire" or the "work" sounds. It was warming to the heart to see them trying.

Word on the street is that Tacoma supposedly offers the tenth largest fireworks display in the world. Having heard this, I decided to skip my traditional boycott and check it out. Some things just have to be experienced in life and I wasn't going to miss this because of my wacky little political beliefs.

I was surprised by the chill of the night. All day, the weather had been in the 80's but with the evening creeping in, the temperatures dropped into the mid-50's and a light jacket wasn't going to cut it. Everyone was freezing to death because they had been camping out since mid day when the weather was warmer and they had forgotten to bring their coats. Not that anyone would ever bring a coat to a Fourth of July fireworks display in the first place, but this is Washington state, we always wear coats here, regardless of the occasion.

I could tell that this evening was going to be a great Daniel Moment for the ages. (I have begun to call all my serendipitous, once in a lifetime, colorful moments; Daniel Moments. It just seems easier for me to remember them that way) I was so filled with excitement that I just couldn't contain myself. It was either that, or I was shivering because I was cold, I couldn't tell.

To the north of our show was the Seattle show, which would assume would be bigger and better than Tacoma's. Everything Tacoma often lives in the huge shadow cast by Seattle's presence, but not tonight. This was literally and figuratively Tacoma's night to shine. Screw Seattle and their soybean, recycled fireworks display. Here in Tacoma, our fireworks are made of baby seals, oil, freshly cut trees, conflict diamonds and carbohydrates. Cause we're 'Merican here - except for the foreigners that have gathered where I'm sitting. (no 'Mericans have accents)

9:45. All along the distant shore, dozens of smaller displays have started filling the night sky just above the water. The brilliance of the explosions is doubled with the reflections in the bay. From my vantage point I can see four miles of coast line and twenty miles of horizon. For every inch inside my vision, there is a new display to be seen. It's hard to keep up with all the explosions, but like an eager dog seeking the ball in my master's hand, I keep turning my head. None of the displays are coordinated with another so there is a new explosion every half second. It's beautiful, but hard to keep up with.

10:00. Seattle sends up its first volley in to the night sky and from where we are sitting, we can all see the whole thing. There is an odd hush to the crowd which could be disappointment that we aren't closer to the Seattle display or it could be the cold again, I don't know. Seattle's rockets are unleashing their colorful energy just above the tree line on the distant horizon, but you can tell from their width of the blast that it must be pretty magically to be witnessing it from up close.

Just a thumb's width above the Seattle show, the Gods added a little somethin'-somethin' to the night's activities. Thunderclouds, that are just high enough to catch the setting sun and are just the faintest color of orange, have come to life with dazzling dry lightning and low roaring thunder. For every rocket that dances across the sky, a bolt of lightning illuminates the clouds above it. For every man-made explosive boom, there is an equally impressive rumble of lightning.

10:10 Tacoma unloads its volley and sadly, where I am sitting with the foreign contingency, we can barely see the show. Our vision is partially blocked by a small knoll. We can't walk over to the knoll and watch from there as there is a Hitler youth security guard standing at the ready, and she is waiting for one of us to cross the line, so she can thump one of us with her billyclub and then mace us. Cause nothing says, "Happy birthday America!" like a good clubbing and macing of a foreigner that just wants to watch fireworks. (Don't think I didn't try to convince a few of them to try and test Ava's resolve.)

We watch what we can, but really the show is on the faces of the people watching. Fireworks are fireworks and in the past two thousand years there hasn't been much progress in the development of new types of fireworks. They go up, the explode, the make a loud bang and that's about it. Two thousand years of the same theme. China invented them when Jesus was walking around turning water into wine and ever since, America has been able to link both inventions into one memorable event.

10:30. The show is just getting warmed up, but I have to leave. I have a day job and I have to get out of bed at 5 AM so it's time to go so I can get some sleep. It's a slow and happy walk back to the perch and I went to sleep that night thinking of just how cool it was to watch the show with all those foreigners. What I have taken for granted for so many years, they really appreciated. The vantage point I had chosen was supposed to show me the tenth best fireworks show in America and it only gave me a 110th best viewing of the fireworks, but it was the single greatest pleasure to sit among these people and gawk like a child.

The next day, I crawled to work and was pleasantly surprised to learn that we would be spending the day at the nursery buying up the last of our plants for the job. I only have nine more weeks, and I doubt that in that time I will be able to finish a project to the point where I can justify coming back to the nursery again. Knowing this, I took special care to noticing and appreciating all of the flowers and plants. As tired as I was, the first thing I was able to notice was how similar all the plants and flowers looks in both color and shape to the fireworks against the night sky. I'm sure the Chinese had these flowers in mind when they invented their burning metal projectiles.

I wonder if how we spend our fourth says something about what kind of patriot we are. I guess my Fourth says that I belong around people that don't understand a word I'm saying, on a cliff overlooking a bay, watching Americans make fire in the sky while freezing to death in their lawn chairs on the ground.