For Aunt Maredith: Christmas In Medicine Park

On Friday, November 18th, 2005, my Aunt Maredith passed away. Since I was in the midst of NaNoWriMo at the time, I decided to write about a memory I had of her and incorporate it into The Lost Child. Below is that memory (unfortunately the above pic is from a polar opposite summer day with Lou Ann posing out front. But at least this gives you a glimpse of the actual dwelling and you can see the outside ladder and the rooftop. Trust me - that December night was magical):


December 20th, 1994 – Christmas In Medicine Park

The old cobblestone house sat on a raised piece of land just above the main road and facing the fresh spring creek for which the little village was named. In the old days the place had been a popular resort and throes of people came from all over the region to relax in the natural waters which the local Indians had long favored as a healing source of vitality and improved health. Over time the founders left the area one by one and in recent years the village had fallen into disrepair with dilapidated buildings scattered all about and discarded trash bouncing along the streets.

But Bobby’s aunt had just returned from California to reclaim the old cobblestone house that her grandfather had built when he first helped establish Medicine Park and things were looking up. The creek had been cleaned of debris and a new sense of pride was surging right along with the revitalized spring waters. The arrival of Bobby’s aunt was a key development in this renewal as she brought with her the tradition of her family’s past involvement along with her very own unique energy. She was heartily welcomed by all those already there and committed to the great task of making Medicine Park the equal of its name.

Maredith had been living there for a few months and was excited to invite the entire extended family to a sort of Christmas housewarming in the old cobblestone home. This would be Bobby’s first visit to the dwelling and he was eager and a little curious to see what the place looked like. As with most of the original homes in Medicine Park, the house was built with native cobblestone and plaster. You entered through a front porch that had some time ago been enclosed, and once inside the living area you were immediately struck by the uniqueness of the structure. Of course it was all the original work inside, with a concrete floor and an old cobblestone fireplace. There was a very tight spiral staircase that twisted around itself and on up to the second floor. From there you could step outside onto a patio and then take an outside metal ladder that led to a flat roof and a vantage point that offered the most direct and clear vision to the heavens from this man's earth.

On that clear cold night just days before Christmas Bobby climbed up that ladder and stayed a while. As the smoke from the fire trickled up past him he gazed at the stars, the moon, the foggy strip of the milky way, and looked out beyond the denuded trees and saw the Christmas lights from the faraway homes shining upon the still creek. All was quiet. All was peaceful. Bobby could see that the Indians had been right, as usual. This was a holy place, a place for spiritual awakening and the nurturing of the body and soul. A place where you might meditate surrounded by the tranquility of the Wichita Mountains and the canyons and the lakes. He whispered a few words, a prayer really, and suddenly realized that he was starting to believe in God again, a fresh true faith growing from the shattered remains of an old false faith. A meaningful hard-earned faith. One that could last.

He stood at the edge of the roof and unzipped his trousers. Nature was calling and nature was beautiful and not to be ignored. There was no one else around, no movement outside and below, so he figured why not? He faced the back of the house and under the glow of a silvery moon he let go, a christening of sorts he reckoned, and he felt relief by its release.

A few minutes later he returned below to the party and told his aunt, “You know, I really like this place. In fact, I love it!”

She turned to him with warm glowing eyes and said in her big gorgeous voice, “Oh you do, do you?” and then she laughed and said, “it’s wonderful to have your official endorsement, but I might have to do something about that leak from the roof, don’t you think?” Then she smiled, winked, and walked away into the magic of the December night.

NaNoWriMo --- FINISHED!

50,000 words.

A lot of shitty sentences.

A few good ideas.

I'll come back to it in a month or so and start re-shaping.

The Lost Child is finally found!

Half Way There

November 15th ---- Half way there.

I'm on pace with 25,000 words and they're flowing rather freely.

A LINK to my NaNoWriMo page.

http://www.nanowrimo.org/userinfo.php?uid=79939

This Is Halloween

Only 5 Trick Or Treaters tonight.

That's five as in 1, 2, 3, 4, & 5.

I could count em on one hand.

Honestly.

Well, actually that's how many times the door bell rang. There were 2 or 3 at the door each time so I suppose we're safely into double figures.

But still... my jack-o-lantern frowns as its candle sadly burns out and the goodie bowl remains more than half-filled.

Don't know whether to blame the damp weather from earlier in the day (although the evening turned out to be a magical autumn delight) or all those bossy puritans and their sway over public sentiment. Maybe it was just the luck of the draw.

One thing for certain. There remains way too much candy for this poor satanist!

So that was Halloween.

The Lost Child

Looks like I'm gonna go with The Lost Child after all. I've had that one in the back of my mind for a long time and besides, CH seems more like one of those sordidTCB short stories.

So it all begins at midnight November 1st. The Lost Child. Here goes nothing.

Real Monsters

2005 has been the Year Of The Hurricane. Unprecedented quantity, unprecedented quality. Life changing (and ending) events for so many. Tragedies that will resonate for years.

And please consider the stigma forever attached to the names:

Katrina
Rita
Ophelia

My poor brother Andrew... can a south Floridian ever meet him without some preconceived association? They want nothing to do with the poor chap.

So maybe the time has come to lift this unnessecary burden off the unlucky few and name these natural storms after the monsters that they truly are. Like Frankenstein 2005 or maybe The Eternal Swirling Fog. Or the Cycloptic Piledriver. It Came From Barbados. The Were - is my - wolf, my car, my house? Or my personal favorite, That Great Big Asshole In The Sky.

Cerebral Hemorrhoid

I'm signed up for the National Novel Writing Month deal beginning November 1st. You're supposed to write 170 pages or about 50,000 words in thirty days. So that breaks down to just over 1500 words a day. I ought to be able to handle that.

It's all about quantity over quality. Don't worry about how good your novel is... just write! Not a bad idea at all, especially in order to help create a better writing work ethic.

I had planned on writing a story called The Lost Child. A story of one inter-generational family dealing with both Vietnam and Iraq. I've got some good ideas about it.

But then just the other day as I was picking up my laundry the title Cerebral Hemorrhoid popped into my head... my brain must be skewed by the TC Boyle collection I'm currently reading.

So I'm not sure which way I'll go just yet. CH might be easier, just spew whatever comes out with no predetermined direction. Yeah... that's the ticket!

Iraq-nam Part 1

When he found his God
He lost his soul.

George Bush made some tough decisions three years back. At the time I assumed that administration insiders had considered all possible scenarios: Best Case, Worst Case, Most Likely. Incredibly it now appears that they either did not consider the present state of affairs as a possible Worst Case scenario or did not formulate an essential Exit Strategy for this situation.

His choices have clearly not worked out.

He is not a bad man. Not evil nor is he stupid. But he has worked himself into a horribly tight corner and a stubborn belief that it is the right course (maybe just as stubborn as his silly belief that if you don't accept Jesus as your one and only saviour then you're destined for eternal hell) is subjecting our troops to empty sacrafice. Because not one thousand of their ignorant and violent insurgents is worth even one of our sons, daughters, fathers or mothers.

Not a one.

The righteous occupation of Iraq has degraded into the wallowing regret of Vietnam. Not even a generation removed and the lessons left unlearned and rotting in a rice paddie field just south of Thaun Yen.

The bottom line is you can't expect others to sacrafice if you are not willing to sacrafice yourself. So it's time for the Bush girls to don the camoflauge gear and join the troops. Tell them to bring plenty of their own sunscreen and flak jackets.

Boston

We recently returned from a family trip to Boston. Despite the fact that our journey got off to a dreadful start with plane delays and that my head did not touch pillow until 1:59 am on the day - night - morning? of our arrival, all in all we really had a great time. I hate thinking of myself as a tourist, much more preferring the label "traveller" as explained quite clearly in Bowles' "Sheltering Sky" (the one main idea I picked up from that book), yet the whole time I was there I really felt like a lowly dadgum tourist. Riding the crowded trolleys, stopped on side street corners reviewing the map for the 11th time that afternoon, ordering clam chowder with a decidedly Okie twang while the waitress smirks just a little... I'm sure you get the picture. In the end I was a stranger in a strange land. So be it.

I paid a shitload for crappy seats to watch a game at Fenway Park (the included picture should give you some idea as to our deep right field position). Which I wouldn't have done if Nick and Ben had not been there and it had just been Lou Ann and me. But they were there so there was no way I was going to let them down. Boy, those folks love their Red Sox, it felt like a college football crowd with the loud chants and everyone sitting on the edge of their seats on every pitch, and I couldn't help but be impressed by that. But the fact remains Manny Ramirez is a flat-out bum and the idea that the Sox fans turn a blind eye to that blatant truth kind of turns me off. Anything to beat the Yankees I guess.

I could spend a whole day just hanging out on the Boston Common. Walking a little, enjoying the sunshine and people watching, finding a peaceful spot on a park bench with a fresh view and just vegetating for a spell. What a wonderful place.

We walked The Freedom Trail and hung out at Faneuil Hall. I drank Sam Adams beer (a small nugget of trivia we heard was that the picture on the label is not that of the ever-abstinent Sam Adams at all but in fact that of a more rowdy Paul Revere). Saw all the sights or at least most of them. I think my favorite part of the trip was our trek to Little Italy and the Paul Revere House and the Old North Church. I have somewhat of a strange attachment to ol' Paul as I was born on the day of his "The British Are Coming!" ride, which is April 18th. What's more, when I was younger and thinner many people have commented on the fact that I resembled the man. So we have often joked that of course I am his reincarnated soul but I am sad to now report the existence of no real odd rememberances when I entered his abode. All the same I enjoyed the visit not to mention the cannoli at Mike's Bakery.

I should say that I found the Bostonians to be a friendly bunch except for that waitress at The Bean Town Tavern. I ask you, Is it too much to ask for more water? Anyway, we later discussed the fact that we did not observe many obese people in Boston as compared to down here. Just one of those funny observations that hit you out of the blue. The reasons for that are not clear but I suspect it's a combination of a more active and informed populace, hereditary genetics, and cultural habits.

I look forward to returning to New England soon. Good folks and an incredible vibe to the city. But Manny is still a bum.

Hot As Hell & Highpointin'!

It's one of those summers... hot hot hot! The pool has been getting daily useage and the AC units are maxed out. And yet still I sweat.

I'm sweating now.

On Wednesday, the 20th of July, Nick, Ben, and I got a wild hair and journeyed to the Arkansas Ozarks and trekked to the top of Mount Magazine. Well, it wasn't much of a trek as we drove up the lion's share of the way and then found the Signal Hill trailhead. From there it took us about an hour to complete the round trip. It was a pleasant richly foliated hike with insects buzzing about as we trudged through the woods up towards a clearing on the plateau-like peak. Not much of a view from there but a very nice resting spot all the same.

So two down... forty-eight more to go. I may not make them all but it's something to shoot for. Who knows, maybe I can snag MA when we head to Boston next month.

For more information: HighPointers

Oh... and as for The Ruminator. True to its name its writer continues to ruminate. Not completed and I haven't really even looked at it in a month. Maybe I'll get a blast of energytivity and complete it in one fell swoop. However, I have worked a little on Baked Plain. That is where my attention must go right now as I need to finish it asap!

July! July!

Had an interesting 4th of July weekend... not.

Well, actually, Saturday the 2nd was eventful. Drove to the Tidal School Vineyard in Drumright for a Chet Baker Tribute concert (who was born and raised in nearby Yale) and a first-time inspection of the grounds.

Quite an establishment. An old elementary school built back in the 1920s by John D. Rockefeller for the children of his Tidal Oil Company workers in the active Drumright Field. Later abandoned and then taken over by a series of businesses etc until recently claimed by an engaging grape nurturing outfit.

Presently they get all their grapes from California and then create their wines on location. But they have the largest vineyard in Oklahoma and hope to be using their own grapes in the near future, perhaps even later this year. The American Chardonnay was quite good as was the Peach Chardonnay (a little sweet but okay in moderation). The merlot I tried seemed a little medicinal.

And now a brief summary of the Chet Baker tribute show. As mentioned before, the building was once a school and so there exists a nice auditorium with a raised stage. The live jazz was played inside this hall while some southern rock n roll was playing outside. Made for an interesting cast of characters milling about.

Around 6 pm a group of older gentleman took the stage and played quite a few Chet Baker standards. The band consisted of a trumpet player, a sax man, a comical figure absolutely getting down on the old upright bass, a smooth keyboard hound from the Dave Brubeck School of Cool, and a nervous younger guy trying his best to sing a la Chet. And he did a pretty damn good job I should add. Three of them had played with Baker at one time or another so there was a strong air of legitimacy given to the occasion. I just sat back and drank my vino and listened to the tunes in the unique enviroment. Not a bad way to spend a hot Saturday afternoon on the windswept and dusty outskirts of Drummond, OK.

One last note. A few of Chet Baker's family attended the affair. His son, brother, grandchildren... and they ALL looked just like him.

Enchanted

I recently returned from a quick trip to New Mexico. Having lived there for a couple of years in the early 80s it always feels good to rekindle the unique feel that only New Mexico can offer. I personally much prefer the New Mexico experience to that of the Colorado experience but that's just me. I know alot of people are uncomfortable with the Native American influence and all that adobe. But of course to me that is the source of the true charm of those rugged mountains and all together the elements seem to conjure up a kind of spiritual spell you inevitably fall under which is known, of course, as simple enchantment.

Although both Albuquerque and Denver lie at the base of the Rockies there is a drastic contrast to their atmospheres due to topographic chance. In Denver the city lies just to the east of the mountains providing for unobstructed sunrises but also shutting off direct sun by the late afternoon. In Albuquerque just the opposite occurs, where the Sandias border it on the east and the city just rolls away down the valley toward the Rio Grande in the west. So early morning is usually quiet and peaceful while the sun rises behind Sandia Peak and then at dusk the sun sets to the west beyond the distant mountains, plateaus and mesas.

Anyway, we spent a day or so in Albuquerque visiting the old haunts. La Placita in Old Town and the incredible Greek food at Yanni's on Central near UNM. We decided to take the Turquoise Trail to Santa Fe but first on a whim chose to drive up to the Sandia Crest. A storm was closing in as we neared the top and by the time we descended heading north the lightning and rain began. Quite mesmerizing.

We usually stop for at least a few hours in Santa Fe but this time being ensconced by a dreary rain we sped past and onward. I was relieved to escape the crowded streets of Santa Fe and by the time we made Espanola the rain had stopped. We visited the Black Mesa winery and bought a bottle of wine after tasting a few miserly samples... must say the salesman lacked friendliness (as reflected quite tidily in the size of his samples) and we probably shouldn't have bought a thing but what can I tell you?.. I guess I'm just a wino.

Taos was great! Although it is surrounded by large mountains to the east and north it opens up to a large rolling valley toward the west much like Albuquerque allowing for glorious sunsets. Ah, the morning air was cool and pure and tinged ever so lightly with pinon.

We drove the Enchanted Circle which is an eighty-mile scenic stretch that visits Angel Fire, Eagles Nest and Red River.

The first segment of the Enchanted Circle winds its way through a tight canyon with gurgling stream (and the streams were full this time of year with snow melt-off). After about twenty miles of this the road opens up and you descend into a valley and off in the distance you can see the ski trails of Angel Fire as the town sits at the bottom of the mountain.

Near Angel Fire is a very unique Vietnam War Veteran's Memorial that we visited. Having read the O'Brien books recently I have become quite informed and affected by the war that was fought when I was just a kid. Make no mistake about it, this country would have been very different IF we had not lost 55,000 men in that lost cause. Just take a look at some of the pictures of the men at this Memorial... they were bright and strong. They could have been leaders.

And right now we need leaders.

The Memorial is situated up on a small ridge just northwest of Angel Fire and features two small buildings: a museum with photos and memorabilia from the war and a very beautiful and unique chapel. While in the museum a television was playing a tape of one of Bob Hope's Christmas shows for the troops and you could hear the men singing "Silent Night." I teared up as I listened to that song of peace while looking at the photos of young men with big smiles on their faces who died in faraway country. Very very sad.

And then it was back out to a beautiful June morning on the Enchanted Drive and we quickly drove past Eagles Nest with its sparkling lake and headed towards Red River. This vacation spot rests only about twenty or so miles south of the Colorado border and it has more of that state's vibe as it looks like a mining community with its wooden old west architecture. We stopped to stretch our legs a bit and grab a little early lunch splitting a chicken salad sandwich and a healthy slice of tasty cherry pie (good for the gout wink wink).

On our way back toward Taos and the completion of the circle we stopped by a stream and just sat and listened awhile. The smell of pinon was strong and the water ran fast and clear.

Well... I have failed to mention Wheeler Mountain, the highest point in New Mexico. I have recently become interested in the HighToppers club (scaling the highest point in all fifty American states) and Wheeler is New Mexico's. I certainly didn't expect to scale it this day as it is a major undertaking. However, I had been told that a good look of the peak could be had if we drove a little off the beaten path and hiked a few miles.

So we drove to the Taos Ski Valley and eventually found Twining Road which was really just a narrow dirt trail that led almost straight up at times. To be honest now I felt a little nervous as we twisted around unguarded curves and lurched upward while a few other cars descended past us in a tight fit. Lou Ann was not very happy and let me know about it which of course only added to my own tension.

The road went on longer than either of us cared for but finally we reached the trail head. There were quite a few others cars there and hikers out and about. We soon joined them.

This Williams Lake Trail is a two-mile in two-mile out hike through a wooded canyon with gurgling streams and tall peaks sprouting all around you. Your destination is Williams Lake itself and then it is my understanding Wheeler Peak can be ascended from this base.

We never made it. The snow was too deep in places and we certainly didn't have the right hiking attire for that. The temperature was actually comfortable and not as cold as I had been previously warned. All the same, after about thirty minutes of trudging along (I wouldn't necassarily call it hiking) we turned back. Still, it was fun and good excercise.

Next time I plan on attacking Wheeler. Maybe August would be a good time when most if not all of the snow might be gone.

So we cruised down Twining Road feeling somewhat tired yet exhilerated and headed back to Taos. Enchanted and ready for supper!

Make mine with green chile'.

Shit Happens (And Then You Die)

Man.

I really gotta go.

Bad.

Stuck out here on the Lake Trails, blazing July, a couple of miles back my car bakes, no way I can make it back in time.

So I ponder my options. Which doesn't take long. Keep moving until you locate that special patch of earth, off in the shadows, hidden, and hopefully adequately foliated with large soft leaves of the non-itchy variety. Ah the abdomen pinches once more and my pace quickens.

Keep moving. Don't panic. This too will pass.

Ha! But this is NO time for jokes you dumbass... only a fool would be laughing now.

Ha! Ha!

So I'm a fool. So what?!

Ahhhh!...

The sun radiates. The grass crackles. The stomach cramps. Upon the horizon, where the paved path bends away from bleached sky, a watery mirage flickers. For a moment I consider the idea of drowning in concrete. Preposterous perhaps but no so unpleasant given the circumstances.

And there, up ahead a ways, off that paved path and under a little clump of scrub oaks, sits the stuffy plastic box with flies bouncing inside of it, no mirage but burning plastic, and oh boy how it does smell, Holy Canoli! but nonetheless its existence slings an arrow of relief to my bowels.

Damn the stink! Let me in there!


Meanwhile,

Larry McAllister has had one long sweaty day. Pumping crap in hundred degree heat has a way of draining you. You start to drag your feet, daydream, cut corners, skip proper scum-removal protocol.

He paws at the clipboard, its papers soiled by his own sweaty fingers. The last order of the day states Pick up Unit #313 - Location south corner of Lake Trails - Bring in for repair. Simple. But Larry is tired. No one in their right mind could possibly be out here anyway at this time of day, and if anybody IS in there, then they're obviously dead, and Larry will let the boys back at the plant deal with that possibility. So he backs the truck up to Unit #313 without much thought. He's thinking Miller Time baby.


Oh shit! What's that truck doing out here? And it's getting closer. Damn. Sounds like it's right outside the door. Now somebody's getting out... don't move. Don't breathe. This is embarrassing.
What's that noise? Why, it sounds like a chain. Why would somebody need a chain way out here? I'm starting to get pissed. Can't a guy take a sweaty dump in peace? Please... leave me alone I must say! Please!..


Larry McAllister attaches the chain in accordance with the company's regulations and hops back inside the truck. Presses a lever and the hoist begins to move. Up up the plastic box goes and Larry is inside the truck cabin, air conditioner blasting and radio blaring, and of course there is no way he could ever hear the cries that rattle from within.

Soon enough the porta-potty is lowered into the back of the truck, and the automatic latch secures it in place, and Larry throws her into first.


Meanwhile,

Here comes William Bone III, driving his white Lexus down the boulevard, whiter than the clouds of heaven, whiter than the wings of angels, pure and untainted, and just washed that very morning. It sports a "Good Happens" bumper sticker across the shiny fender, because William Bone III is an optimist, a believer, and a reader of the scriptures on a daily basis while avoiding all those who don't. So of course "Good Happens", especially when you steer clear of all those bad folk, the malcontents, the wayward and socially-challenged, and to bloody hell with anybody who doesn't concur.

But what's this? That truck up ahead... there is something happening inside that porta-potty. Oh my God. It's shaking violently, wobbling, about to EXPLODE, and finally the door bursts open and that's a man that comes flying out into the bed of the truck. Good Lord! But oh no, that plastic box has become unsecured, the latch broken, and now the thing is toppling over onto its side.


Meanwhile,

Up above the clouds of heaven (which really aren't that white after all, more off-white if you ask me), floating on that eternal river of time, an omnipotent being watches all that brown stinky scum splashing out and onto the approaching white Lexus, SPLAT, and smiles. William Bones III screams to the heavens and that omnipotent being whispers back to our good William "shhhh.... it really does happen."

Vonnegut In February

I've been a fan of Kurt Vonnegut ever since our required reading days back in high school. I've always been attracted to his unique ability to seemingly reduce a situation, many times grave, into its barest of conditions. To simplify and state clearly what is actually happening.

Not The sweaty bombadier opened the metal hatch and dropped his lethal load into the cold German sky where it would soon greet its target with a mighty message. More like A man whistling a happy tune pulled a lever and a mile below a child soon died.

In February of 2003 a unique opportunity came my way. Mr. Vonnegut journeyed to Oklahoma City University for a public appearance on campus. He had been scheduled to appear earlier and apparently illness had forced him to cancel. But now he was really coming and I knew that this would in all likelihood be my only chance to bear witness to a true literary legend. I wasn't sure what he was going to talk about, but whatever the subject, I planned on hearing it.

It was a very cold and clear night, a Tuesday or maybe a Wednesday, and the gathering was to be held at the new OCU basketball arena. It's one of those facilities with a jogging track around the top so that you can gather round the rails and look down upon the action. After originally sitting in the bleachers I gravitated upstairs and onto the track and secured a spot with a decent railing view. I recall when I first spotted the esteemed gent, sitting among the commoners in the bleachers on the far side, and I couldn't help but smile to myself wondering if those sitting around him even knew that this was indeed the man. While those around him chatted and told jokes and laughed he just sat there with a somewhat quizzical look on his face as the introduction took place. Too much ass-kissing was what the arched brow announced to me and only me of course.

And then the time came for that older gent in the corduroy jacket and frazzled hair to rise on those old knees and lumber down the three or four rows to the podium.

I'm not much for public speaking, in fact I abhor it, so I'm always amazed when a person first ascends to that microphone while all breathlessly await and breaks the trance established by the previous speaker with their own tone, their own pace, their own style. Mr. Vonnegut began to speak and I at once felt like I already knew this man, this voice, a wise grandfather at last received by a new brood of needy earth children. His style was to talk to you in a direct manner, heartlfelt and simple. He seemed to be a man at ease with himself, to possess confidence in the rightness of his own obvious comfort. And if you happened to feel the comfort that's okay, and if not, well, that's okay too. But don't expect any changes.

He began speaking from a lectern on the basketball court facing the crowd that sat in the bleachers from where he had just come. That left his back to the other side of the court and a crowd just as large not to mention all the spillover folks literally hanging from the rafters, including myself. He immediately quipped that this was a new experience for him and did not feel right, having his back to half of the crowd, and he asked a young man dressed in a suit and a tie who was obviously working for OCU to please remove the lectern and place it over underneath the basketball hoop. So the young man, who seemed more than a little self-conscious mind you, attempted to do as he was told while Mr. Vonnegut continued his speech, except that he came up short, very short, sliding the lectern only a few yards away from where it originally sat.

Mr. Vonnegut stopped in mid-sentence and stared at the young man, a look of perplexed curiosity overtaking his face, and he slowly approached the poor kid who just stood there without expression. "Don't you know what a hoop is?" he asked with honest concern, and the kid froze, did not move, did not say a thing, and as this old strange man approached him the crowd's voice rose together, as a crowd's voice is prone to do on such occasions, and cried "move the lectern to the hoop!" although all together it couldn't have sounded much like that and probably only added to his confusion. Still, he somehow got the message, the lectern was finally moved even beyond the hoop, and then the young fellow in the nice suit and tie faded off into the shadows, his stiff movements halted, his expression unbroken, his nerves unquestionably shattered.

Most of us found this small interaction quite comical and I was exhilerated with Mr. Vonnegut's use of the term "hoop" because that's the kind of guy I am (to answer Steve Forbert's long-ago inquiry).

Soon enough the topic turned more serious. War. When a man who has been there, has seen it, smelled it, survived it, talks, well... I listen. All of the opinions of those who have never fought should be respectfully listened to I suppose and then inspected for their inherent flaws formed by partisan perspective and individual motivation. And then tossed back into the dugout by an umpire like a bruised foul ball.

Mr. Vonnegut was firing fastballs at us. War is a horrible tragedy. We should not invade Iraq. Does this administration truly understand what it is about to do? They must be crazy!

I will admit that at the time I was probably in the camp of thinking that a proactive military option was acceptable, maybe even desirable, after 9-11. I had placed trust in the President of the United States of America and his cronies. They must know what is best. But Mr. Vonnegut's emotional plea was evough to provoke some thoughtful repose in me. And to this day I remain somewhat confused about my stance. Two things remain clear however: our freedom is precious and NOT to be taken for granted, and war is hell.

There you have it. Now... what to DO about it?

I recall that Mr. Vonnegut ended his speech on a much lighter note and I left the building satisfied and inspired. I was very happy that I had attended. Thank you Kurt Vonnegut.

Not The President ordered the military to begin air strikes at 0100 hour in a display of shock and awe. More like The man closed his Bible with a prayer and nodded to the other stiff man off in the shadows, a man who would jump through hoops if ordered to. A few hours later eleven sleeping children died while dreaming in their beds.

Pro-life indeed.

Where The F Is The Rain?

Still trying to finish The Ruminator. I hope to complete the first draft this week. Then I'll prune and mold for awhile.

I'm looking forward to starting the next story about Willie, the black man who as a young boy survived the Tulsa Race Riot. I have some ideas for that one and I feel like this is a story that I need to squeeze on out.

I'm still planning on finishing Baked Plain before summer's end.

And up there sunning on the horizon... gulp, The Lost Child.

Music: The new EELS is ok but there's really nothing new there. I say either cheer up or dig deeper. Maybe both. I'm warming to Springsteen's Devils & Dust, especially the title track, where Bruce ruminates (there's that word again) about fear being the root of all evil, which I have concluded myself for a while now. Nice falsetto boss. I received a wonderful surprise today from Jim Smart, an awesome homegrown effort called Mist, with an appealing sonic texture to it and a cool lyrical vibe. On order, Dwight Twilley's 47 Moons and the Ken Emerson disc featuring an appearance from that ukelele maniac todd rundgren.

ps: we're in a springtime drought around here. No storms or tornados or nothin'! I always like to break out a good bottle of wine when the Oklahoma skies start to boil. Bummer. Buy wheat futures now!

Bukowski, the EELS and Light

While working out at the YMCA this morning I was listening to the new EELS "Blinking Lights" CD and reading "Post Office" by Charles Bukowski. As I lunged up and down on the elliptical contraption it dawned on me that most of my sweaty brothers and sisters might think of me as one depraved son-of-a-bitch if they knew what I was listening to and reading. I don't believe these two works of art constitute standard fare among the soccer moms and cpa dads with all their suv's stamped "W" out in the parking lot.

And what might they do in retaliation if they were to find out? Stick me on a treadmill and turn it up to, say, 8.5 mph and as one wild mob surround me and never let me off until I either become flattened like George Jetson or repent?

No need. I repent here and now on my own free will. I'm not really depraved at all. Just a seeker of the Light, which may be easier to find once you've ventured through all that dark.

The Bald And The Brave

I’m bald and, although not exactly proud of it, have come to appreciate the positive subtleties thus provided by its uninvited arrival, none of which I will trouble you with at the moment. However, I will relate that my wife recently informed me that if I were to die she would probably marry another bald man, which is cool, except for the very fact that she’s actually been thinking about it. What’s more, she says I have a good head for it, it being bald, that I have not a pointed crown nor a regrettable scar, no odd ridges here or there, and that I ought to be thankful.

While I’m at it, I should note that I’m also thankful that I still have all twenty nails on toes and fingers, that my penis is still attached and receiving adequate blood flow and that a meteor didn’t come slashing out of the heavens last night scrambling my bald head like some speckled egg.

When I started losing my hair, and I can admit it freely now, sure, it bothered me. In fact, to ease the burden and pressure I wrote a poem about it, one that always brought smiles to those who listened, primarily the follically-aloof and bushy-headed. Off the top of my head (an unfortunate pun?) I can't seem to recall the entire thing, but I will never forget the climatic ending.

Here it is:

“Think I’m Goin’ Bald” (condensed to highly climatic ending)

...The fall-out continued but I tempered my mind,
When I’m an old codger not a gray hair shall you find.
The benefits are few but tend to appease,
The wind is no problem and washin’ it’s a breeze.
But all is not lost the dilemma is finally solved,
I’m not really losin’ it I’m just highly evolved.


Yep, clever don’t you think, but what else would you expect from a bald man?

One time a little kid on the street stopped and looked up at me and asked quite innocently, “hey… what happened to all your hair?” His mother stepped up and grabbed him by the tiny shoulders, offered a forced smile and some under-the-breath apology that didn’t quite register, and shuffled him on down the street in a huff. I was dumbfounded of course and didn’t say a word. But I didn’t smile either. You want to talk about the sheltered children of America? Well, they’re all still waiting on the damn tooth fairy but to them I’m a freak, and in my mind I pictured his stupid hairy neanderthal father and walked away with a satisfied grin below my unencumbered forehead.

Poor kid.

You might have noticed that I titled this little story, this essay, confession, whatever the hell you want to call it, The Bald And The Brave, which is only about half right. I’m really not that brave at all, except that it takes some courage to go out into public these days, what with the obsession on beauty and all that crazy hair, the legions of ashamed and desperate men signing up for the International Hair Club, the toupee of the month subscription from Hairy David, and if all else fails, spray this black shit all over your noggin and walk fast.

So yes, I still go out. I’m not that big of a chicken shit. Let me go fetch my hat and I’ll prove it to you.

The Darkest Day Of My Life

It began as a nice April morning and I remember performing a yoga routine and feeling good. I had just started doing yoga a few weeks earlier and in a small yet comforting way it was giving me a sense of peace. It felt good to be more limber and to feel more calm. Things were looking up.

I was taking a shower when it happened. Amazingly, with the water running and being a good twenty miles away the rumble still reached my ears. Something abnormal had clearly just happened. Some sort of strange sonic boom or maybe even a plane crash.

I don't recall exactly what I was thinking inbetween that moment and when I finally turned on the television. Did I rush through my shower or did I remain calm, perhaps believing that my ears had somehow deceived me, and continue with the normal routine? All I remember now is that I turned on that television as soon as I got out of the shower and a news helicopter was already hovering over the Alfred T. Murrah building, black smoke twisting into the air, and the first speculation I heard from the reporter was that a gas line must have exploded.

Within a minute the enormity of what happened had already sunk in. I knew, we ALL knew, that many lives had been instantly lost. Fifteen minutes later I was driving to my office down the Broadway Extension, heading south out of Edmond toward downtown Oklahoma City, listening to radio reports as I watched that cloud of smoke drifting away to the west. Suddenly a pick-up truck rushed past me, hellbent and well over 100 mph, and I could only speculate that the driver had a loved one down there. Of course, anybody that knew someone working down there was scared to death. At that point no one could know for sure which exact buildings had been involved so there is a chance that his loved one survived. I will never know.

The rest of that morning I watched news reports and it became obvious that there had been some kind of exterior explosion, possibly a bomb, and then reports surfaced that another bomb was about to go off. The cameras showed all kinds of people fleeing in panic, women with their dirty purses and their hair all messed up, wild-eyed policemen, reporters who decided that they didn't necessarily need to become a part of the story. But when that scare subsided soon thereafter the stories of the survivors began to surface, how the lucky had escaped, about the search and rescue that was being valiantly conducted, and then came the news of the day care center.

The children.

I picked up my dad for lunch that day. He knew nothing of the explosion and hadn't heard anything despite being located only a few miles north of the site but that's another story. We didn't eat anything. Instead, we drove towards the Murrah building and got as close as we could, maybe ten blocks away. From what really amounts to just a bump in the road we had a clear view of the north side and it looked like a monster had just taken a huge bite out of it. Tatters on the edge were still blowing in the wind. You could only look for a minute or so and then you felt a twinge of shame, understanding that there were dead bodies underneath all that debris. Maybe someone still alive and struggling to breathe. Right now. Only ten blocks away. We drove away slowly, helplessly, a vile sickness spreading deep inside our guts, and how can you really ever drive away from something like that? I went home around 3 pm and continued watching reports with Lou Ann, Nicholas and Benjamin. You thanked God for that. Your family safe. Simple yet so damn essential. The sky was darkening and threatening to rain. The gloom congregated above us, through the television, through our radios. On our faces, in our sad eyes that could not look away. Despair.

Nick had a baseball practice scheduled for later that afternoon. Seeking some kind of respite I took him. We played catch for about ten minutes and then it started to rain. No one else showed up and we went home. We had made an attempt at the comfort of routine but failed. That's okay... there would be other days for blue skies and baseball.

Despair. Nicholas had a two schoolmates who lost fathers that morning. A teacher who lost her brother. Gloom. More rain. This is real and tomorrow morning it will still be real.

Made him love death. Saw what that did to him. A bitter soldier with no war to fight... so he created one. Really, in the end, just a foolish coward. Loser. Maybe there is a place in this life for suicide?

We humans are always trying to find ways to turn the tide, flip it, make something bad into something good. It's part of our survival instinct. To feel the pain of hate if we must and then try to understand it's source and create a flag of hope from any of it that appears salvageable. So I thought about writing some songs about the bombing of the Alfred T. Murrah building and did so, about 6 or 7, most of them complete with the music stamped inside my head. Not very good I'll admit but the process helped me feel better. After ten years it's all still there.

And I do mean all of it.

Below I offer one verse from my own personal healing tonic... my very own little flag of hope.

Angels' descension

Unseen by the eyes of man,

Man's pretension

To believe that he can understand.

A decade later, the horror of 9-11 included, and I guess I still don't understand. But I believe that's okay... for now.

July July & A New Admitted Guilty Pleasure

I just finished reading Tim O'Brien's July July, a short novel revolving around the 30 year reunion of old friends at a small Minnesota college. As usual the story includes strong references to Vietnam as one young man went off to war, the other to Winnipeg, but that's just a small part of it. I enjoyed it as I suspect I will enjoy anything O'Brien writes... just something about his Minnesota roots and his affinity for baseball caps I guess. And it blows me away to think that as I played with my plastic army men on the sandy beach of Lake le Homme Dieu in the late 60s that not that far away a young Tim O'Brien was struggling with his very own decision. He decided to go to war, not out of courage but out of fear of not going, survived, and we're all fortunate that he did. Quite frankly high schools ought to make room for his The Things They Carried as required reading but I'm sure that would meet with some kind of kooky right-wing objection.

And I have to admit something right here and now... I'm in love with Karen Carpenter's voice. Funny, she considered herself a drummer but I'm thinking she had the most distinctive female vocal chords of the last 25 years or so. It can melt cold butter and maybe even the cholesterol in my veins. Of course I was far too cool to dig the Carpenters back in the 70s but if you live long enough you have the opportunity to reconsider a few things. Listening now with old tinnitus-y ears and a new perspective the sad tragedy of her death hits home and kindles a fresh appreciation.

Willie & The Fire In Beulah

I recently read Rilla Askew's wonderful historical novel "Fire In Beulah" which recounts a tragic event in the history of my home state (if not the nation... if not the world... if not the...), the Tulsa Race Riot of 1921. A very creative work that captures that oil boom opulence period distinctly and you really wind up caring about the characters, both black and white.

A minor character in her story is a young black boy named Willie. He was about ten at the time of the riot so that would put him in his mid sixties during the 1970s. I have an idea to write a short story about Willie as an old man living in Enid during the mid 70s, a story concerning his surviving the event and the emotional scars that he carried the rest of his life.

April Fool's Day

Well, I actually created a blog on December 31st, 2004, and subsequently destroyed it sometime in February. New Year's Eve was (is) a damn good time to start one but maybe April Fool's Day will be a more fitting beginning?

Looking back on it, I now realize that I had written quite a few nice little posts attempting insight, a couple of funny vignettes (one concerning the recent rehab of George Carlin), one recount of a near catastrophe that devolved into snivelling sentimentality, and one or two items that bordered on smug self-gratification that apparantly motivated me, on sober reflection, to delete it ALL into the netherworld along with my cure for cancer and the answer as to why we are all here.

But a few weeks ago I yearned to revisit my blog. So here I go again, with no true purpose or outline, other than to record some of my ideas for future consideration. And deletion?

I'll try to curb the smuggery this time.