Easy come, quickly gone

I had plans for the tax refund. They didn't include handing it over to the guys at Peak Auto Service to fix my car. Scotty had warned me he'd gouge me later. He was true to his word.

I had planned to get a tune-up and maybe a new battery, both of which would put a small dent in my windfall, but I didn't plan on handing over the whole amount, and yet that is what I did yesterday. Now my car fires as soon as I turn the key and I don't have to crank and hope the battery will last long enough and have enough power for the engine to fire. I'm looking on the bright side. I'll save gas and might not have to fill up for six months instead of every four. Then again, maybe not, since Scotty warned me that I have to start the car and let it run for a few minutes at least twice a week to keep the battery in good condition. Like Beanie said when I told her how much it would cost, "At least you had the money." There is that.

I walked over to Peak Auto after I finished work and drove the car home to pick up my wallet (I didn't want to carry a purse), got back into the car and drove over to Mountain Mama's to pick up a few things. I had originally planned to treat myself with a Subway sandwich, but thought better of it. Healthy organic food is what I needed, if not what I wanted. I really need to make a list before I go so I'm not so overwhelmed by all the choices. I wandered around the aisles, picked up some incense (no more rose-scented incense because it's a bit too cloying and sweet and makes me sneeze), some almonds and a piece of vegan black bottom banana cream pie. On the way home, I marveled at the smooth sound of the engine and the way the car started with the first turn of the key in the ignition. I still have a few dollars left and I get paid next week. Since I've already paid the rent and most of the bills, the outlook isn't too bleak and I can go back to Mountain Mama's with my list in hand and get the tahini I forgot last night to go with the garbanzo beans simmering on the stove this morning. I already have lemons and some roasted red peppers and garlic, but I should stock up on olive oil. The bottle on top of the refrigerator is almost gone. There's plenty of celery in the crisper and some homemade pita bread would just about hit the spot. Maybe I should get some oil cured olives and some walnuts and more garlic to make tapenade for a real Mediterranean feast. There were some lovely eggplants cooling under the lights in the produce section, smooth purple skins humped together next to the leeks and mushrooms.

Time to get showered and dressed. I'm hungry.

Apple pie memories

My grandmother was a great cook. She made egg noodles by hand and made the best peach cobbler with a double crust in a cast iron skillet. My brother does a good imitation, but it doesn't have the same warm sweet taste that my grandmother's did. He learned as I did, standing side by side with Gram, rolling out leftover spirals of dough, spreading on jam or jelly, rolling the dough into fat loafs and sprinkling the top with sugar before placing them carefully on the pan Gram placed in the oven alongside her pies and cobblers before hugging us and helping us clean the table where we worked.

After my divorce, I moved back to Ohio from Utah with my three young boys to live with my parents (joy, joy). There were some wrinkled apples in the refrigerator and I decided to make an apple pie. I felt adrift on a stormy sea of working two jobs, seeing little of my children and having no home of my own. Baking was my drug of choice.

Like my grandmother had taught me, I cut Crisco into a bowl of flour, added some ice water and turned the dough onto the floured surface of the counter, rolling the dough into a rough circle and fitting it into an old glass pie plate Gram had given Mom when she got married. Mom never baked pies, but Dad did. As the dough rested, I peeled and cored the apples, sliced them, added a little flour, salt, cinnamon and lemon juice to the apples, mixing slowly until they were all covered. I wished I had had a little red wine and some raisins, but that wouldn't have been welcome in my mother's house. After spooning the apples into the crust and draping the other circle of dough on top, crimping the edges and slashing the crust in four places, I brushed the top with milk and sprinkled sugar over it and popped it in the oven.

While I cleaned up the kitchen, the air filled with the sweet and comforting scent of baking apples and spices. Dad drifted through the kitchen, sniffing the air and nodding appreciatively. The boys, sweaty and red-faced from playing in the yard, descended en masse. "Will it be done soon?" For the first time in weeks, they seemed to feel more at home. Mom plopped her shopping bags down on the counter. "I hope you washed your hands." She rifled through the bags, eyeing the counter. "Give me the dish rag. This counter doesn't look clean." She wiped down the clean counter and threw the dishrag in the sink. "You didn't need to make such a mess." She grabbed her bags and went into the dining room to sort through her booty while I checked on the pie.

The pie crust was golden and cinnamon laced juices bubbled through the slits, filling the kitchen with the aroma of apples and cinnamon. I placed the pie on the counter just as the boys, drawn by the aroma, crowded around me. Eddie reached a finger toward the pie. "It's still hot," I said as I caught his grubby hand, "You'll get burned."

"When can we have some?"

"Later. Now go wash your hands and get ready for dinner."

Gram had promised to bring beef hash for dinner and she arrived shortly after. "Smells good," she said.

The boys were like tightly coiled springs held in place by crumbling rust all through dinner, barely tasting the food they shoveled into their usually chatty mouths, silent as the air before a storm. Quiet. Waiting. Barely held in check. Holding their breath, uncertain of the future.

I sliced the pie, serving my parents and Gram before I served the boys. Their forks pricked the edges, gathering up glittering crystals of sugar and placing them delicately on their tongues, their eyes closed as they focused on the taste, lingering over the first bit of crust, licking the tines of their fork of apple and cinammon-laced juices, making each morsel last as long as possible.

When dinner was over and I rinsed the dishes and put them into the dishwasher, Gram sat down at the counter and handed me the empty pie plate. "Your crust is better than mine," she said. I held the words carefully, afraid they would break and vanish, tears glittering in my eyes.

"Thank you, Gram."

Legislating poverty

"You cannot legislate the poor into freedom by legislating the wealthy out of freedom. What one person receives without working for, another person must work for without receiving. The government cannot give to anybody anything that the government does not first take from somebody else. When half of the people get the idea that they do not have to work because the other half is going to take care of them, and when the other half gets the idea that it does no good to work because somebody else is going to get what they work for, that my dear friend, is about the end of any nation. You cannot multiply wealth by dividing it."



~~~~~ Dr. Adrian Rogers, 1931

First impressions

A novice writer answered a message I sent her last month and asked me a question. She wanted to know how long a novel should be. She had looked for the answer but couldn't find anything concrete because there is no concrete answer. A novel is as long as it needs to be. There are some conventions, however. About 40-45K words is considered a novella (little novel), 50K words is an average novel and 60-75K is the usual length, while 75K and above are longer novels (super sized). Some publisher list their preferred length.

She had picked out a title for her novel and knew what the story was about but she was stuck. She had been told that the first sentence must be the best and brightest sentence of the novel if it is to have any chance getting out of the slush pile. Yes, a first sentence draws the reader in, but if the rest of the writing isn't just as good editors, publishers and readers will throw the book in the trash. Getting the story down, letting the characters live and breath and take on flesh and blood and bones is more important than not writing because you don't have the perfect, bright and glorious first sentence. It's an excuse for not moving forward.

The best thing about writing a story or a novel or novella is that when you're finished getting it all down on paper you can go back and polish the first sentence. You had better polish the rest of the novel while you're at it. Writing a novel is half the job. The rest of the job is editing, tightening plot points, tying up all the loose ends, clarifying, rewriting and polishing. You don't have to have the perfect first sentence until you send it out the door or out on the cyberwaves.

First impressions are important. People never forget first impressions. They do, however, remember what people do after that and there is always room for change. It is the one constant in the universe. People -- and impressions -- change.

Decadence, physics, walkabout

Getting hooked on Lost was not my idea, but I caved out of curiosity. I'm glad I did. It's a great show with a lot of subtle threads woven into its fabric that is just now becoming clearer, but I was hooked the moment the show opened with a shot of Jack's eyes opening. I've hung on through thick and thin and remain utterly entranced, which doesn't happen often. I usually figure out the killer or mystery early on and then spend the rest of the time bored and reading emails or cruising the net or just simply shut it off out of disgust. That is the case with Heroes.

One thing that was evident from the beginning is that Lost is based in quantum physics and that is one of my favorite things to read about and discuss. I'm working on the background for a series of novels based on quantum physics and the possibility of changing the past. Don't ask. I'm not going to say any more about it. Very hush hush.

In the meantime, I'm ordering some new books on physics and plan to spend as much of my upcoming vacation as possible with my nose buried in the books or my fingers busily typing out words for the new books. I've even decided to take myself to a secluded spot to perform these acts so that I won't be bothered by phones, visitors or my Internet addiction. Keep that in mind when I'm missing from March 19-30. I've decided that seeing the sun rise in Chaco Canyon, as I've been promising myself for four years, is the best plan for using my refund this year. My little retreat is on the way back in a wooded area along the banks of the Colorado River. Breakfast delivered to the door, followed by a walk along the river into the woods and back and right into writing and reading mode, although I will probably do the reading outside in the fresh air with the music of the river and the conversation of animals and trees as background. My car battery isn't the only battery that needs recharging.

I will still spend my nights sleeping with physicists, philosophers and authors of all sexes and persuasions; there are some habits I am unwilling to break.

That is all. Disperse.

Not snail mail, storage mail

When I went out to put something in the mailbox and bring in the mail the box was slightly open. I still hadn't received the latest shipment of books from Authorlink so I was worried. I live across the street from a middle school and have been warned by the post office that sometimes kids steal mail. That's why the mailbox should be on my porch and not all the way across the parking lot and down on the street where I can't keep an eye and both ears on things, but we must make sure that the mailman doesn't have to walk too far from his vehicle to deliver the mail. After all, he's not getting paid that much money. Right.

Worried that my review books, and thus my income, had gone astray, I called the post office this morning, asked if they would check for the package and see if the carrier remembers delivering the books. The post office left a message. The package was there and would be delivered today.

Not so long ago (in human time and not post office time), the books were sent from Ft. Worth, Texas, about a week ago. Last year it took about three days to get from Texas to Colorado. It now takes a week? When I emailed my supervisor at Authorlink to let her know the books were being delivered today I mentioned that the post office must be using real snails and the cold has made them slower and more sluggish than usual. She replied that she finally had an answer for why the postal rates are so high. They're charging for storage. I think she's right.

This morning I checked the status of an item I ordered from Amazon two weeks ago. I found out they sent it on the 25th from Coffeyville, Kansas and that it took four days to get to Denver -- where it still sits waiting to be delivered on the projected date of March 5th. Denver is now four days away from Colorado Springs evidently. I then checked the carrier. The United States Postal Service. Yep, the higher postal rates are for storage because they certainly are not for service or speed or anything approaching accuracy, except when it comes to delivering bills and junk mail.

When Lynn and I talked a couple of weeks ago she asked me if I remembered back when the mail was delivered twice a day -- morning and afternoon. Yes, I do. And the postage rate was three cents for a first class letter and it didn't take two weeks to get from one side of town to the other. Letters sent within the city were often delivered the same day they were posted if mailed in the morning and the very next morning if mailed in the afternoon. That was first class service. Now carriers will not pick up a package that weighs more than 13 ounces even if it has the proper amount of postage and you can't just drop it off in a local mailbox because there are none. You must drive or bike or walk to crawl to the local post office and mail it in person. What happened to service? What happened to the mail carrier's creed? What happened to the mail?

Being a bit cynical and unhappy with the lack of service, I'd have to say that when the post office was run by the government it was better run and the costs were lower. That was before the unionization of the postal service back in the day when service was customer oriented and no one slowed down because the highest prices weren't paid for overnight delivery. It's not a new concept. I came across mention of it in a book I recently reviewed: The Devils' Paintbox.

A young man, devastated by the death of his sister, buries himself in work at a logging camp. He knows nothing about logging, but he learns quickly and he throws himself wholeheartedly into the work, numbing his body and his mind. There are quotas to maintain in order to keep the job, but he exceeds the quotas as his body and mind adjust to the heavy labor. He wants to be too tired to think at the end of the day and the natural rhythm of the work lends itself to greater output. The other loggers, little more than indentured servants working for the company store, aren't happy with the young man's output, so they beat the hell out of him and tell him to slow down so he doesn't make the rest of the loggers look bad. Sound familiar?

The book is set in the years immediately after the Civil War, so this is not a new concept and it was before the advent of the labor unions. I've worked in businesses where some of the jobs were union and the attitude was -- and continues to be -- that anyone who is working harder and better has to be reined in so as not to get anything done too quickly. I've been on the receiving end of quota hatred because I worked in data processing where pay was based on output and minimum quotas had to be maintained. I made good money because I focused on the work and didn't spend all my time gossiping at the water cooler or going to the bathroom every 10 minutes or out for a smoke. I did not and do not smoke. I really don't care to take breaks. I want to focus on the work and get it done. Other employees didn't care for my attitude and made it plain that they were not happy with my resulting output. I've even had supervisors and bosses tell me to slow down, not because I was making mistakes or doing the jobs wrong, but because they wanted to squeeze more money out of the clients by taking more time to get the job finished. And that is the bottom line -- money.

If you get paid the same amount no matter how much work you get done, why rush? Why exert yourself? Why get the job done in half the time when you can take more time and relax while making the same money. It's not about the job. It's about the money and it stinks. It's the wrong attitude and we're paying for it. That's why the post office is jammed with lines out the door; mailmen are taking their time processing the mail because it's only going to go into storage for a few days before it's actually sent. Something's wrong with this picture and changing the frame isn't going to make it any better, but you can be sure the rates will go up again this year just like the past three years and the quality of service is going to go down, and the trend will continue until someone -- a whole bunch of someones -- stand up and say ENOUGH.

That is all. Disperse.

Splinter memories

I was fine until she called and asked me if I knew what day it was. "March 1st. Dad died two years ago today." There was no hesitation in the answer. It had been lurking under the surface of my day like a wooden splinter I was reluctant to dig out, silent, waiting, not painful unless I moved the wrong way. "It seems like yesterday and like it happened a long time ago," she said, and she was right. I moved the wrong way and the splinter reminded me it was there.

Dad's picture is on the end table. He's smiling and young and wearing his Army uniform. I see it every day and take a moment to smile with him no matter what is happening. It always makes me feel good the way he made me feel when he was telling me a story of his childhood or regaling me with his chickens' or pigeons' antics or telling me about the trees, flowers and plants he was growing. He sometimes gave me an update on the avocado pit I sprouted in a glass in the window of my apartment in Columbus about 30 years ago and how tall and leafy it is. Ohio is too cold for it to set fruit, but it's still alive and growing for him. He kept all the plants I started or sprouted, caring for them as he cared for me when I was a child, talking to them, singing, playing music and tending them with loving care. Those plants were his connection with me, his wandering daughter, as other plants were his connection to all of his children and grandchildren.

Every winter he'd tell me when the Christmas cactus bloomed, the one Eddie deflowered when Dad first got it. The flowers were yellow and my 18-month-old son made a bouquet for me out of them. Dad never forgot or forgave him for that and every year Dad was sure the cactus wouldn't bloom again, but it did. That cactus is over 30 years old and the blooms are still yellow.

I told John about the second anniversary of Dad's death and he reminded me that Dad loved me and that I loved him and, although the memories were sometimes painful, they would give way in time and all that would remain were happy memories of phone calls and conversations, letters and time spent together. He was wrong about one thing. Dad left a few holes in me, too. The holes aren't big ones, but they're there, holes Dad couldn't fill, failures and silences that I don't probe too often. They're like that splinter, quiescent and quiet unless I move the wrong way. They're not as big as the holes other fathers left in their children, holes so big they swallow up the good times and the smiles and happiness and holidays and vacations, holes so big they feel like a vast emptiness or hot needles searing memory into painful twisting scars. The holes Dad left are much smaller than that and beginning to fill with memories of love and caring and big callused hands twisting fine dark hair around into perfect curls on a little girl's head and dancing while holding those same hands in the golden light of California evenings before television and school work, boyfriends and dating were even distant thoughts.

In the bright morning sunshine, in a picture on the end table, Dad wears his Army uniform and smiles his eternal smile and the memories are good ones.

Kitchen diplomacy

I've been reading Honeymoon in Tehran and marveling at the conditions in Iran from an Iranian expatriate's point of view. The Iranian is a U.S. citizen and has been since her parents came to America on vacation just before the Shah was deposed and ended up settling in California. Azadeh Moaveni is a journalist working for Time and has been a correspondent to Iran since 1999. She lived for two years in Iran because she fell in love and married an Iranian whose family owned a textile manufacturing firm and her fiancé was working in the family business and going to university. The book covers the year or so before the marriage and two years after the marriage before she and her husband emigrated to Britain.

While an inside view of Iranian politics and society is interesting, and at times quite informative, it is the food that gave me an idea for a new kind of diplomacy. Cowboy diplomacy didn't work and shuttle diplomacy was eventually a failure, but kitchen diplomacy might be just the thing to break down the walls between religious and political ideologies and make it possible for people to find common ground.

When we understand a region's foods and methods of cooking, we can begin to understand the forces that create and maintain a society. Trace the origin of a food through any country and you will find more similarities than differences and begin to get an appreciation of the ingenuity and creativity that define a people regardless of their origins. Food can also help to trace the origin of race and show the economic health or disease of a country and its people. Trace the origin of any food brought overland or over the sea from distant lands and you will find its relationship to the knowledge, clothing, religion and government of any civilization, its rise, growth and eventually decline.

People show a different face when discussing their favorite dishes and the comfort food of their childhood. It's a softer, nostalgic face that shines with memory and delight. The politics of food are simple. Understand that and the key to any country's heart is yours for the taking.

I propose that instead of negotiations in conference rooms and hotels and the offices of officials, negotiations be carried on in kitchens where world leaders can cook and share their favorite foods. It would, of course, require an open mind to stomach some national dishes, but an open mind is a good thing in negotiations. I've also found that people are less violent and less likely to be violent when their stomachs are full. Wars are conducted on short rations or empty stomachs, which make combatants much more ferocious and blood thirsty. Anyone who has been on a diet can tell you that. Deprive people of their favorite foods and ration what little food is available and nastiness always ensues.

Preparing food in a kitchen full of knifes, fire and heavy pots and pans will also foster a sense of trust. It's difficult to prepare food if you hide all the heavy and sharp equipment and inevitably violence will follow.

Kitchen diplomacy is a sort of stone soup, as described in Grimm's Fairy Tales. Start with a big pot of water heating over a fire and add one stone. It's not very nutritious. If everyone adds a little of what they have to the pot, soon everyone will be feasting on a delectable stew that will leave them fully sated and unwilling (and unable if they're full enough) to fight. Add a bit of wine and the soporific and calming effects of a good meal and everyone becomes more tractable and willing to negotiate. Besides, it's just plain rude and bad manners to shed blood at the dinner table. Even Hannibal Lecter knew that.

What's a few roasted termites or a dish of cold monkey brains between allies when the fate of the world hangs in the balance, especially when we're in no danger of running out of monkey brains any time soon?

That is all. Disperse.

The world is burning

There are a few movies that I enjoying watching again and again. One of the more recent movies is The Dark Knight, the sequel to Batman Begins. Of all the actors to play Batman, Christian Bale is by far the best and the closest to my idea of Batman, and I have had a love affair with the Dark Knight for many decades, starting when I read the comics. Don't get me wrong. I loved Superman, too, but Batman appealed to something dark and forbidden in me that I couldn't name or understand at that young age.

Batman is dark and dangerous, caught in the eternal dance between his own light and shadow selves and the movies starring Christian Bale capture that without camp or high gloss. Before Christian Bale's Batman, I found Tim Burton's Batman Returns to have just the right essence of darkness and light and Michelle Pfeiffer as Catwoman was superb, as was Danny Devito's Penguin.

What sets The Dark Knight and Batman Begins apart from the rest aren't the villains, although they have been as riveting and on target as Christian Bale's performance, or Inspector (now Chief) Gordon played to perfection by that chameleon actor, Gary Oldman, but Michael Caine who creates a new persona for the ultra British butler, Alfred, by giving him a Cockney accent and a fascinating and varied background. Heath Ledger's performance is as enduring as the movie itself, all the more so because Heath is now dead and his portray of the Joker is a high water mark unlikely to be matched or exceeded in this or any future time.

One of the most memorable lines of the movie is not from the Joker or Batman, but from Alfred when he tells Batman about a bandit he was hired to find and kill in Burma. The bandit had been stealing jewel shipments earmarked for bribes to local village chiefs and no one could find out what the bandit was doing with them until a young boy was seen playing with a huge ruby. The bandit had been throwing away the jewels and not selling them on the open or underground markets. He considered the thefts good fun. He wasn't interested in profit or wealth but in chaos.

When Bruce Wayne asked Alfred why the bandit stole the jewels, Alfred told him that "...some men just want to see the world burn."

"Alfred, how did you catch the bandit?"

"We burned down the forest."

Those lines have haunted me and they remain in my memory as the most prophetic. Nothing else comes close to describing the world in which we live with terrorists on every side and even within our own borders. They can't be reasoned with or bought and the only way they can be stopped is to burn down the forest. I wonder how long it will take before the powers that be realize that.

Waking thoughts

There are times when a book or characters or something I'm writing wakes me in the middle of the night and refuses to let me get back to sleep again. This morning was one of those times, only this time it was a philosophical question that troubled my sleep and set my brain in edge.

Do we choose to be miserable?

I think we do. That doesn't mean I think we should all be Pollyannas and forget that sometimes life is hard, but that we chose to be miserable when there are other options.

Yes, pain hurts and it colors everything in black and bloody red until the only thoughts that get through the morass of pain is getting hold of drugs to make it better. There are other options. You can choose biofeedback or focusing on something else to get through the pain or just pop a few pills. But it is a choice whether or not to let the pain rule your life.

Yes, the world is full of starving and oppressed and tyrannized people, and some of them live in the same town and state and country. Why is it people are more willing to help someone in another country than in their own back yard? Seeing the suffering is more difficult than reading it in a paper and knowing it is happening somewhere else in the world, but in the end, what can we do about it? Governments choose to throw money at it and open the doors to immigrants so they can come here and suffer without thinking how the money could have been used to educate people so they can help themselves. But we choose to allow whatever they do and those people choose to continue suffering. They could rise up and stop the people causing the suffering. They could choose to beg, borrow or steal food and seed and grow their own food. They could choose to leave. They choose.

It seems a harsh way of looking at things, but how is it any different than the way things were done when we didn't have immediate access to videos and films and pictures of the conditions in other countries? How is it any different than walking past a homeless mother and children on the street and choosing not to see them? Why does the idea of a foreigner suffering makes us feel more guilty or more compassionate than the people who share our city streets, highways and byways?

It's a choice. Everything is about choice.

I choose to help those in my path, but I am not going to work hard to spend it all on people in another country or even people in my own town and give everything I've worked for away. I earned it. I've had my trials and tribulations, but I always found a way to survive and to get what I needed. I'm willing to give anyone a hand up, but I'm not willing to give a hand out. If I work for what I have and then give everything away, what have I done but perpetuate the cycle? I haven't helped anyone, least of all myself. I haven't done anyone a service and I have beggared myself in the process. Only an idiot would give away everything they worked for to someone who can work and earn their own way.

I used to carry business cards for a day labor service. Every time someone came up to me and asked for money for coffee or food I gave them a card and told them they could earn enough for food and a place to stay. Most people tore up the cards and cursed me. Some of them waited until I drove or walked away to do so.

Everyone has options, some good and some bad, but there is no degradation unless a person chooses to feel degraded. There is no degradation in working for a temp or day labor service, and there is the satisfaction of knowing, at least when working for day labor, that you will be paid at the end of the day. It's not as lucrative as begging on the streets and expecting the world to take care of you, but it is honest. It is a choice.

A long time ago, someone told me that I chose to be unhappy or sad or angry. I told him he didn't know what he was talking about. I didn't choose to hurt myself or treat myself like dirt. But I did. Anyone can hurt me -- if I let them. Anyone can treat me like dirt -- but that doesn't make me dirt. Anyone can steal from me, but that doesn't make me poor. Anyone can lie to me, but I don't have to believe them. I have a choice. I choose to make the best of my situation and be happy that I can go on one more minute, one more hour, one more day, one more week, one more breath.

I choose.

Global warming debunked

My connection to the Internet went down at 3 p.m. yesterday. I went to bed early with Atlas Shrugged after spending a couple of hours on a Honeymoon in Tehran by Azadeh Moaveni. I recently read a review of Moaveni's previous investigative memoir, Lipstick Jihad, which seemed more about promoting herself than about real journalistic fervor and reporting. I'll reserve my judgment on this until I've finished and am ready to write my review. Nothing like a trip to Iran to make things more interesting.

I do find it interesting that in reading Atlas Shrugged I have come to the part where the scientific community, in this case a scientific institution funded and its policy dictated by the government, is in violation of scientific principles. Science is supposed to be politically neutral and yet it is being used as a political tool to drive the last remaining functioning engines of growth and change and prosperity out of business to fuel a socialist agenda. And then this morning I received an email about a stunning piece of environmental science news that Japanese scientists have broken with the IPCC and publicly stated that "...recent climate change is driven by natural cycles, not human industrial activity, as political activists argue.

Choosing the link to the UK newspaper, The Guardian, is deliberate since many people will claim that it is a conservative agenda. I had many links to choose from but I doubt anyone will take the time to search them out and this news will likely be conspicuously absent from liberal news sources or soft pedaled.

In essence, the recent global warming "crisis" is due not to man made greenhouse gases but to the recovery of the earth from the mini ice age that spanned from 1400 to 1800, reaching its height in the 17th century, which was a direct result of a Maunder Minimum, a period of minimal, or near nonexistence, sunspot activity on the sun, something that we are about to experience once again. Sunspot activity has been diminishing since the end of 2008 and it shows no signs of cranking up with the new cycle.

What this all boils down to is that scientists with a political agenda, or co-opted by politicians and liberals, have lied. They knew their data was spotty and that they had not included all the factors that go into the warming and cooling cycles of the Earth, but they opted for half-baked ideas with no valid scientific proof and began scaring the world with their doom and gloom predictions. The three Japanese scientists who came forward and said it has all been a lie and that temperatures have been falling since 2000 instead of rising as current climate models indicate have just highlighted and underlined what Ayn Rand said in Atlas Shrugged. Science should be apolitical and not subject to political agendas. Scientists who use data for a political agenda or stand aside and allow their work to be used to further political ends are looters.

Say what you will about Ayn Rand and her objectivist theories, but she was right and the future she eerily predicted is happening before our very eyes. Increasing welfare states. Bailouts. Science being corrupted by politicians. Failing economy. Crumbling infrastructure. Taxing the engines of industry and a healthy economy out of existence. If the liberal left agenda is allowed to continue, we are going to see Atlas shrug in person and the results are going to be ugly and lasting. It's time to stand up and be counted, protest and throw the liberal Left's tea in the harbor or we will soon find our freedoms disappearing one by one and we, like the frog sitting in a pot of water on the stove, won't realize the heat has been rising all along.

That is all. Disperse.

Further adventures in plumbing

You really don't know how much you take something for granted until you lose it as I lost the toilet nearly a week ago. The ordeal is over. I have flush. It did not, however, happen easily or quickly.

After using the usual equipment, the team of plumbers finally decided to bring in the big guns, a pressure hose that blows clogs out with a combination of air and water pressure, and it worked. I don't know where the problem came out, just that it came out and the loud chugging and groaning and sound of mechanical muscle ended abruptly. All this happened after the plumbers once again pulled up my toilet and tried their massive snakes through the hole in the floor to no avail.

One of the younger plumbers came into my office and told me they found the problem and sketched in the details. There were roots growing in the line, but I at last had a working toilet. I went to see this marvelous miracle and tried the handle for myself while the grinning crew of grimy plumbers watched. I pushed the handle down and the water went bawhoosh and out with its usual dispatch, leaving the toilet bowl clean and free of debris. I had flush and life is good again.

They asked if I wanted to see what was stuck in the line and it turned out to be a rather large root ball, about 16-18 inches long. What compounded the problem is that the only way to get at it was -- I told them so -- through the vent on the roof. The line from the toilet, a solitary line not hooked into the rest of the plumbing, leaves the house under the deck and converges with the main line from the house about 20-30 feet beyond the house under the parking lot. To get to the line the plumbers would have needed a backhoe to dig down and excavate it. To fix the big hole would take a paver to lay more asphalt over the gaping wound once it was covered up again after the new plumbing was installed. Right now, there is still a gaping hole and several evergreen hedges drying out as they lie on their sides with their delicate and tenacious roots bare to the elements lying amidst piles of dirt and paving stones and bricks.

I don't know what the landlord has planned, but the lines should be cleared out about every 1-2 years because roots will get in the lines and will grow and create another clog. A new clean-out for the toilet line should be installed, but I have no idea what's going to happen at this point. I can only hope for the best, but I am much more optimistic than I was over the weekend since some normality has been restored inside the cottage.

One good thing about having the hedges torn out is that when the planter is refilled, I can plant rose bushes and flowers and maybe even some vegetables, herbs and tubers. I have options. Somehow the idea of the rain-washed and sun warmed scent of flowers and herbs and the prospect of fresh vegetables and provender makes me feel excited and anxious for spring. So many possibilities lay ahead.

In the meantime, I need to go enjoy the bawhoosh that comes with a fully functional toilet, a sound I doubt I will take for granted any time soon.

Resistance is futile

There are some movies I resist seeing on principle, that principle being that everyone is talking about it and tells me I should see it. It's what my grandfather called me being mule-headed, and he was right. I get that way on occasion, digging in my heels and refusing to do what is expected. When I finally do follow the herd to see what is so fascinating about the movie, I'm usually glad, as I was when I recently watched My Big Fat Greek Wedding.

The movie sounded like the usual fare of stereotypical immigrant jokes and a child appalled and embarrassed by her immigrant parents as they clung to old traditions and out-dated ideas, and I wasn't disappointed. There was the obligatory elder member of the family who had never been assimilated into American culture, clinging to her prejudices and language like a tick on a dog. The father of the clan was man of the house and his wife adept at thwarting his most antiquated plans for his children. American Romeo meets Greek Juliet and the Americans and Greeks try to find some common ground while failing to understand the others' cultural differences, like one very Greek aunt who invites American Romeo, who is a vegetarian, to dinner and saying, "It's okay. I fix lamb". Second City alumna do the usual ethnic jokes and caricatures and the main character, Toula, the Greek Juliet yearning to be more American, provides comic and wry narrative.

Toula, who looks like a 50-year-old spinster, undergoes the Ginger Grant makeover, changing her from frumpy woman old before her time into young and attractive date bait with the application of makeup, hair rollers and new clothes. It's amazing what waxing, plucking and contact lenses can accomplish.

The jokes are obvious and often funny. Greek Granny spying on the neighbors and spitting on the Turkeys is irritating at times and Greek dad's death hold cling on tradition, although it does not come close to Tevya's Jewish angst over seeing his daughters falling away from the tried and true rutted path, did make me laugh a few times. I do think the whole arranged marriage with the horrific and stereotypical bachelors for dinner was completely unfunny and done to death once again, but there were moments when the movie transcended genre and triteness.

We laugh at immigrants coming to America to find a balance between the ingrained traditions of their homeland and embracing the laissez faire attitude and new traditions of their new country, but I was especially touched by Greek dad's gift to Toula and her American Romeo (played by John Corbett who is great eye candy). Even though American Romeo came from a well-heeled family from the country club set, it was the generous gift of a house for the newlyweds from Greek Ma and Pa that left the most profound impact in this uneven and sometimes funny movie. It was an old world gesture and the embodiment of the American dream.

One thing is certain. I will never look at Windex in the same way again.

Adventures in plumbing

Yesterday was scheduled and planned. There was the usual morning house cleaning, vacuuming and dish washing, dying the roots of my Pepe le Pew do and taking a shower so I'd smell nice when my favorite Luddite came to visit at one. A plumber from Roto-Rooter was coming between 8 and 10 a.m. and he would probably get here early to unclog the stopped up toilet that resisted plunging, bleach and drain cleaner, but he'd come and go and I'd still get finished before company arrived.

That's how it was supposed to go.

I got up early, cleaned the kitchen and started the dishwasher, vacuumed the rugs and sorted the laundry before the plumber got here, snaked the toilet and proclaimed he'd have to pull the toilet to the tune of $200. Not going to happen. I suggested the vent on the roof might be stuck and he climbed up onto the roof with his heavy duty electric snake and snaked the vent, pulling up tree roots. He's still going to have to pull the toilet. I called the landlord who told me he had a plumber on contract and to tell Roto-Rooter to go home. The plumber from Roto-Rooter took the news very well and didn't charge me for the work he'd done because he didn't unclog the drain. Now that is a nice guy. I thanked him and contemplated taking a shower just as the new plumber arrived.

He snaked the toilet and called the office who called the landlord who called the plumber and said he was coming over. When the landlord, Mark, got here the plumber told him the toilet had to come up and he quoted the price at $235. Mark signed off on the order, thus saving my meager bank account from rape and pillage, and left. The toilet came out, the snake went down and the toilet refused to flush. The plumber called in the big guns, a bigger electrical snake than the previous plumber lugged up onto the roof, and snaked the toilet. The machine made horrible sounds and so did the plumber. His snake was stuck. He called in reinforcements who arrived moments before my guest, who came over to give me a belated birthday gift, and they and the electric snake made horrible noises, conferred, and finally pulled the snake free (about 30 feet of which had been stuck in the drain somewhere down the line) by taking the screen out of the bathroom window and pulling from there. The head plumber called the landlord who came by again because the problem was bigger than expected and they would have to dig up the parking lot to replace the pipes and put in clean out vents outside so they wouldn't have to drag their heavy equipment through my house in the future.

The second plumber put my toilet back together and cleaned the bathroom so it was difficult to tell anyone had torn it apart. The toilet now has a brand new bright white band of caulking sealing it to the floor but is inoperable. The diggers aren't available until sometime late next week, but a compromise was reached. The landlord will hire two guys with shovels from Labor Ready on Monday and when they have uncovered the pipe, the plumbers will come back and replace them with new clean-out vents. On Monday.

I am now without a toilet. A Porta-A-Potty was suggested, but 2 o'clock on a Saturday is not the time to order one. Everyone was closed or had none available. Mark called and gave me the bad news and suggested I go to the grocery store, which is open 24 hours a day, when I need to go to the bathroom. I go to the bathroom about every hour. I'm saving the gas and the trips for more solid needs.

Through all of this circus of frustration, the Luddite was a rock of calm. He was sensitive, funny and caring throughout the whole ordeal even though he only witnessed the last hour of it (it started at 8:30 a.m.). He was worried that I was too stressed, but I have weathered more difficult storms and made like a bear in the woods when I was out in the wild. When you're hunting or hiking or just out for an autumn walk sometimes there are no other options. My Luddite was upset for me and thought Mark should have made some sort of alternative arrangements, but I was more sanguine about the situation. I usually am.

Once the plumbers were gone and my Luddite was calmer and relaxed, I took a shower and spent the rest of the afternoon feeling more relaxed, calmer and cleaner than earlier in the day. My Luddite helped with that, too, giving me the wonderful gift of his time and laughter. He also replaced two bulbs in the ceiling in the kitchen for me and jumped me just before he left (the car battery -- get your minds above the waistline).

Two more days of inconvenience -- well, 1-1/2 days -- and things will be back to normal. Mark, the landlord, is taking everything in stride, but, as he explained to me when he called about the Porta-A-Potty situation, mine is a relatively minor problem.

The only mystery, besides why the toilet decided to quit working without having to handle more than the usual traffic, is what the plumbers brought up when they snaked the drain: paper towels and feminine hygiene products (tampons). I don't use paper towels. I use linen towels that I wash and reuse because they create less waste and are less expensive. Since I had a hysterectomy about 12 years ago, I have no use for feminine hygiene products. The only thing I can figure is that Ms. Stilettos across the parking lot flushes her paper towels and tampons down the drain and they washed up in my broken drain. I don't want to know how the plumbers knew they were recently flushed, but it's obvious they didn't come from here. Since I do not plan to check Ms. Stilettos' garbage tomorrow morning (if she puts any out) for tampon boxes and paper towel rolls, this too will have to remain the mystery in this adventure in plumbing.

What's in a name?

Exotic names surprise me and I always ask, "What does your name mean?" I don't get the same question in return, as if my common non-exotic name doesn't have a meaning. Why is it that people from non-western civilizations know the meaning of their names and the rest of us usually don't?

My birth name is Jacklyn and it is Hebrew for supplanter. In other words, one who takes over, which is something I've done since birth. I don't go by that name and it is not on my driver's license or any of my legal papers. I go by Jackie, which is the feminine for John and John means "God is gracious". In my case, the gods have been very gracious with me. I've been through the wringer many times and I'm still here.

I've also been blessed with talent and intelligence (no heckling from the peanut gallery) and an easy disposition, as well as many good friends and a family that isn't too reprehensible most of the time. Once in a while they do surprise me, but that is a rare occurrence. Like most families, we are a strange mix of personalities, abilities and prejudices.

In checking the meanings of my brother and sisters' names, I found out that James's name is also Hebrew and means supplanter. He certainly supplanted his sisters in Mom's affections when he was born and he is still at the top of the heap. I guess it's only fair since I supplanted the rest of them as first born, even though I was brought in and not born into the family. Carol is next in birth order and her name is German and means "free man." I'll bet Carol wishes there was a free man in her life, or at least one with enough money to keep her in the style to which she has long been accustomed. James comes after Carol and then comes Tracy (otherwise known here as Beanie), and her name means "Thracius's place". It's Roman in origin and means "of Thracia," or Thrace, which was a region of Greece that is now divided between Turkey and Greece. Spartacus was Thracian and look what trouble he caused for Rome, not that he didn't have his reasons or good cause.

Carol was born in Germany, so it's probably fitting that she have a German name. I won't even begin to get into the middle names because they're all over the place and we don't go by our middle names unless Mom is upset with one of us and wants to give us no doubt as to her murderous intentions.

I find it interesting that my name is Hebrew because many people have asked me if I'm not Jewish, most of whom are Jewish, but I am neither Xian or Jew and am considered a heathen by my family, all of whom are Xians. It's all right. I'm used to being different. It's hard to supplant anyone and be noticed if you're just like everyone else. I'm definitely not like everyone else -- or anyone else for that matter.

In mythology and magic and the occult sciences, names have power, and everyone knows your protect your true name. Your true name changes as you change, evolve and grow and that is something Native Americans knew. They gave babies a name and when the babies grew to be adults they took another name, a name that defined who they were as adults, casting aside their baby names. It's hard to know the right name for someone until you get to know them and it's almost impossible to know a newborn babe whose drawn its first few breaths. Of course, a birth name that changes at the attainment of adult status would throw the IRS into a panic, especially if at some point people decided they needed a new name for every stage of their lives. However, I'm all for throwing the government, and especially the IRS, into a panic at every possible turn. They do, after all, work for us.

So, what's in a name? I guess that depends on whether or not you feel like a Tom, Dick or Harry instead of a Sabu, Wolfram or Bob.

That is all. Disperse.

Lawyers and libertarians

I like the movies that have been made of Agatha Christie's mysteries, especially Death on the Nile. There's one scene where the heiress is getting ready to sign some legal papers but wants to read them over first. Her lawyer, Uncle Andrew, doesn't want her to read them because he has slipped a document in among the mergers and other legal papers that absolves him of stealing her money. He's been embezzling from the heiress's riches since her father died and now that she has come of age and married, she will be in control of her fortune and is going to notice that good old Uncle Andrew has been stealing her blind. She still has enough money to buy a country, but not five countries as she could have before Uncle Andrew's fingers got stuck to her money.

The heiress's new husband says he never reads what he signs and urges his wife to just sign the papers so they can continue having their honeymoon fun, at which point, Colonel Race, Hercule Poirot's best friend and sleuthing colleague, butts into the conversation to tell the heiress she is right and she should read all legal documents before she signs them. Colonel Race knows old Uncle Andrew is up to no good. Old Uncle Andrew tells the heiress she can look at the papers later. There's no rush, old Uncle Andrew, the shrew lawyer knows, because his time will come . . . very soon.

Let the murders begin.

If it isn't lawyers out to trick you into signing the papers before you have the time to read the small print, then some smart college student still wet behind the ears who knows how the world works gets a taste of her own medicine.

A young woman was about to finish her first year of college. Like so many others her age, she considered herself to be a very liberal Democrat, and was very much in favor of the redistribution of wealth.

She was deeply ashamed that her father was a rather staunch Republican, a feeling she openly expressed. Based on the lectures that she had participated in, and the occasional chat with a professor, she felt that her father had for years harbored an evil, selfish desire to keep what he thought should be his.

One day she was challenging her father on his opposition to higher taxes on the rich and the addition of more government welfare programs. The self-professed objectivity proclaimed by her professors had to be the truth and she indicated so to her father. He responded by asking how she was doing in school. Taken aback, she answered rather haughtily that she had a 4.0 GPA, and let him know that it was tough to maintain, insisting that she was taking a very difficult course load and was constantly studying, which left her no time to go out and party like other people she knew. She didn't even have time for a boyfriend, and didn't really have many college friends because she spent all her time studying.

Her father listened and then asked, "How is you friend Audrey doing?" She replied, "Audrey is barely getting by. All she takes are easy classes, she never studies, and she barely has a 2.0 GPA. She is so popular on campus, college for her is a blast. She's always invited to all the parties, and lots of times she doesn't even show up for classes because she's too hung over."

Her wise father asked his daughter, "Why don't you go to the Dean's office and ask him to deduct a 1.0 off your GPA and give it to your friend who only has a 2.0. That way you will both have a 3.0 GPA and certainly that would be a fair and equal distribution of GPA."

The daughter, visibly shocked by her father's suggestion, angrily fired back "That wouldn't be fair! I have worked really hard for my grades! I've invested a lot of time, and a lot of hard work! Audrey has done next to nothing toward her degree. She played while I worked my tail off!"

The father slowly smiled, winked and said gently, "Welcome to the Libertarian Party."

That is all. Disperse.

The power of the Internet

Last night I wrote a post about fan fiction and giving away writing for free because of a conversation I had with a friend. It was that conversation and talking about Chelle's talented writing that made me think about that long ago episode when I was naive and young and completely focused on a television show, in this case M*A*S*H. I had completely forgotten about the incident, although the letter is buried among a box full of correspondence I've kept over the years (decades), until yesterday.

The purpose of the post was to illustrate what happens when you play on someone else's playground, and also to share some advice about the writing world. There are opportunities out there and so many people waste their time on doing things for free because they don't know they have options.

There was no Internet in 1974 and people communicated by letters (paper covered with typewritten or handwritten words, placed in envelopes, addressed, stamped and sent). I lived in Tucson, Arizona at that time so it took very little time for my letter to get to California and back, but it still took time, not like the Internet where communication is almost instantaneous, as evidenced just a few moments ago when I received and email that someone left a comment on the post.

The comment came from a blog owner named Nick, ostensibly from Glendale, California and posting by means of an Apple computer, probably a MacBook, but it was signed Larry Gelbart and asked what year that was and what idea he had supposedly stolen. Obviously, Mr. Gelbart has Google Alerts, too, and, like me, keeps track of when his name or his projects are mentioned.

I was stunned, to say the least.

I responded with two lines: one with the basic idea of my long ago letter and the comment that the post wasn't about what I sent but how good writers of fan fiction can break into the very shows they love by writing a spec script (script on speculation). It's one way to play on someone else's playground, do it legitimately, and (if you're good enough) get a job as a full time paid writer.

Mr. Gelbart also asked me the year when it happened. It was in 1974, which I just remembered, 35 years ago. And he taught me some valuable lessons about writing. Protect your work. Learn the rules and guidelines and follow them to protect yourself and your work, especially when you want to play on someone else's playground. Anything you do well should be compensated. In other words, don't work for free. (I learned that one from Harlan Ellison.)

The Internet is a powerful tool. It connects people all over the world in a matter of cyberseconds. It grants access to words and ideas and opportunities few dreamed were possible when I was young and naive, but with that access comes responsibility for yourself, your words and the work you take the time to put out there. Don't sell yourself short simply because access to this cyberworld of connections at the speed of light over fiberoptics is quick and fairly easy. Make your hard work pay. You might not get through the door on the first try, but if you persevere and you work hard with the talents you've been given, there is nowhere you cannot go -- even into someone else's playground -- and create a world and a job of your own.

That is all. Disperse.

The wages of buried talents

I was wrong, Spike's Leman. I do understand what it's like to play in someone else's world. It's just been so long ago, I forgot about when it happened to me. Over 30 years ago, no one called it fan fiction. It was watching too much TV.

I was about 21 years old and I never missed an episode of M*A*S*H. I even saw the movie before it became a TV show and I really enjoyed it. I knew the characters inside and out and could tell you what was going to happen on any episode. I'm sure someone would have called me obsessed, but not to my face.

In the midst of one season I got an idea for the show. I wrote it all down, found out where to send it (and to whom) and I sent a rundown of the whole story line in a letter to Larry Gelbart. A few weeks later I received an answer from Mr. Gelbart thanking me for my letter and my idea. He also said he didn't accept unsolicited queries. The following year when the new season started, lo and behold, the story line I had outlined and sent to Mr. Gelbart showed up in the new season. I was furious and hurt. He told me he couldn't use what I sent and there it was on the screen, everything I had written. I learned a hard lesson that day and it has nothing to do with stealing ideas or copyrights. It has to do with playing on someone else's equipment in their playground.

It no longer matters to me whether or not Larry Gelbart took my idea and used it for his show or if we both had the same idea at the same time. What matters is learning from my mistake and sharing that information.

There are many people who write fan fiction and play on someone else's equipment on their playground. Many of those people relate to the characters and enjoy taking them in different directions. A few of those people take the time to carefully research story lines and the information, but they don't think what they write is worth anything so they post it in journals and on private websites for free with the disclaimer that they are not infringing on copyrighted characters, worlds or material. They don't think they have what it takes to create characters and worlds, so they borrow what they love and invest their time and talent in playing on someone else's playground, never realizing they are missing an opportunity that could change their lives. How? By getting paid to play on that playground.

Most television shows are created by a team of writers, overseen by producers, some of whom also write. Good shows sometimes go downhill for lack of creative talent and new directions, and the material they need might be posted on some obscure fan fiction website.

Maybe you don't have what it takes to create characters and situations and believable worlds, but you do know the playground where you spend so much time and talent. Why not take a chance? Do a little more research, find out how to put together a sample speculative script (spec script), where to send it and to whose attention, write the script and send it in. You have nothing to lose but your time and a bit of paper and ink (or electrons). How do you think most of those writers got their start? By learning the guidelines and taking a chance.

You have to begin somewhere, so why not with your favorite show. Even if your script is turned down, provided you followed the rules and guidelines, some bright enterprising producer might see what you can't -- that you have talent and can write. Writers are a commodity we can never have too much of -- as evidenced every time a network pays for a reality television show. So many good shows die from stagnation and lack of good writers.

If I had known what to do and how to approach Larry Gelbart when I was 19, I might have ended up living and working in Hollywood or moved on to writing novels sooner than I did. I had no one to tell me how to do it properly or that there was a proper way. I was married with one child and another on the way. In some parallel universe, the smarter me has been a paid writer for decades, starting with a spec script to Larry Gelbart that earned me a writing credit on M*A*S*H.

Remember the parable about the two servants whose master gave them ten talents? One servant buried his talents and when his master returned his wages for his careful protection of the master's wealth were zero. The wages for the other servant who invested the ten talents and earned many times over that were the profits of his daring. Although the parable doesn't say, I always believed that the smart servant ended up a free man while the other servant remained a servant. Fortune favors the bold.

In other words, take a chance. What do you have to lose? You might end up with nothing or you might end up with a credit on the show where you've buried your talents writing for free. You'll never know if you don't take a deep breath, close your eyes and take the plunge.

That is all. Disperse.

One wrinkle in a perfect seam

First, I'd like to thank all of you who took time out of your busy mornings to call me and wish me happy birthday this morning. It's all right that you forgot there are things called time zones that mean what was mid morning for you was barely past dawn for me. It's the thought that counts.

I'd also like to thank all of you who called to sing "Happy Birthday" to me. Your efforts, if not your vocal skills, are much appreciated. And to everyone who emailed, posted and otherwise offered birthday greetings, thank you all. You've made this a very special and memorable day and I appreciate all of you. Even my mother remembered my birthday; usually she only remembers my brother's birthday. Must be something about having a penis that makes it easier.

On another more somber note, it seems that the Authors Guild has decided to sue Amazon over the Kindle 2's new function: text to voice. I read about the flack over this new feature and how it affected the copyrights of audio books, but I never though it would get to this point. The Authors Guild didn't kick up nearly as much of a fuss when Amazon decided to disable the buttons for all books not published by their own in-house POD publisher and that was something they should have fought. Instead, the AG left it to POD publishers to stand their ground. It's nice to know that when it doesn't count the AG is willing to go to the mat to sue over a function that is no different than computers with functions that change text to audio for vision and other handicapped people so they can hear the text they cannot read. By suing Amazon over the Kindle 2 they are, if they win the suit, setting a precedent that will affect millions of handicapped people and people who read books aloud to their children, families and other people. What's next, suing Starbucks because you're so clumsy you dropped your hot latte in your lap while you were driving?

What amazes me the most is that this is obviously more about money and less about copyright infringement. Did they think intelligent people wouldn't notice or that the dollar signs would affect people's ability to see clearly? Probably. After all, in a world of entitlements and earmarks, it is, after all, all about the money.

It is a beautiful world and today many of my friends and family (and quite a few strangers) reminded me of how beautiful a world it is, so it's a bit difficult to be brought back to the hard earth with such a bone crunching stop, but into every life a little fly is bound to end up in the ointment if you leave the lid off long enough -- or some mouse will decided that your stash of Ghirardelli bittersweet chocolate is just what they need to round out their evening meal after stealing the bait out of the trap. No one said life would be easy -- or even make sense most of the time -- but it's a terminal disease that sometimes offers glimpses of breathtaking beauty and awe inspiring wonder that makes the journey mostly worthwhile if you ignore the idiots blocking the view.

That is all. Disperse.

Wild Hunt

Every once in a while I get stumped for something to write, so I sit down and let my fingers skip across the keys and see what comes out. It's going to be one of those nights tonight.

Maybe I have exhausted all the current subjects or maybe it's just the wild wind outside shaking the trees and sending garbage cans flying that has me on edge. It could also be the weight of work and things needing fixed and my car not cooperating when I want to go somewhere (a problem that will be fixed when my solar powered battery charger arrives). It could also be the approach of the solar return when the stars and planets are in the exact same alignment as the moment of my birth more than half a century ago that is throwing everything out of kilter. It's on nights like this when the Wild Hunt gallops past the door calling my name to join them as they whirl on the screaming winds past unsuspecting souls that something inside clamors for release and the urge to throw open the door and greet the night is too strong to resist.

It's at times like this I remember all the tales of the Wild Hunt and the dark serpentine forms of coursing hounds after prey and the Hunter moves from his quiet stance in the star crusted night to run down the night. I admit my imagination takes dark and shadowy forms on nights like this and I am anxious to throw open the doors of memory, let loose the guards and settle into sleep to follow my dreams wherever they lead. Tonight there will be no dreams of half naked men who clean rooms and whisk away the debris of the previous night's revelry or passions rising to be spent and spent again. Tonight there will be dreams of haunted feverish yearnings where desires are unveiled and fulfilled beneath the lash or riding crop or taunted, teased and stroked to the very edge of madness before the final shuddering release that is the prelude to excess and excitation brought again and again to the heights when muscles, nerves and flesh tremble in anticipation of orgasmic relief.

Spring is close and I feel the rising tide flowing warm and deep within.